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13002	----	Team WHAT I SAW IN CALIFORNIA A Description of Its Soil, Climate, Productions, and Gold Mines; with the Best Routes and Latest Information for Intending Emigrants. By EDWIN BRYANT Late Alcade of San Francisco. To which is annexed, an Appendix Containing official documents and letters authenticating the accounts of the quantities of gold found, with its actual value ascertained by chemical assay. Also late communications containing accounts of the highest interest and importance from the gold districts. With a Map. 1849 "All which I saw, and part of which I was." --_Dryden_. CHAPTER I. Geographical sketch of California Its political and social institutions Colorado River Valley and river of San Joaquin Former government Presidios Missions Ports and commerce. For the general information of the reader, it will be proper to give a brief geographical sketch of California, and some account of its political and social institutions, as they have heretofore existed. The district of country known geographically as Upper California is bounded on the north by Oregon, the forty-second degree of north latitude being the boundary line between the two territories; on the east by the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra de los Mimbres, a continuation of the same range; on the south by Sonora and Old or Lower California, and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. Its extent from north to south is about 700 miles, and from east to west from 600 to 800 miles, with an area of about 400,000 square miles. A small portion only of this extensive territory is fertile or inhabitable by civilized man, and this portion consists chiefly in the strip of country along the Pacific Ocean, about 700 miles in length, and from 100 to 150 in breadth, bounded on the east by the Sierra Nevada, and on the west by the Pacific. In speaking of Upper California this strip of country is what is generally referred to. The largest river of Upper California is the Colorado or Red, which has a course of about 1000 miles, and empties into the Gulf of California in latitude about 32 degrees north. But little is known of the region through which this stream flows. The report of trappers, however, is that the river is _canoned_ between high mountains and precipices a large portion of its course, and that its banks and the country generally through which it flows are arid, sandy, and barren. Green and Grand Rivers are its principal upper tributaries, both of which rise in the Rocky Mountains, and within the territories of the United States. The Gila is its lowest and largest branch, emptying into the Colorado, just above its mouth. Sevier and Virgin Rivers are also tributaries of the Colorado. Mary's River rises near latitude 42 degrees north, and has a course of about 400 miles, when its waters sink in the sands of the desert. This river is not laid down on any map which I have seen. The Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers have each a course of from 300 to 400 miles, the first flowing from the north and the last from the south, and both emptying into the Bay of St. Francisco at the same point. They water the large and fertile valley lying between the Sierra Nevada and the coast range of mountains. I subjoin a description of the valley and river San Joaquin, from the pen of a gentleman (Dr. Marsh) who has explored the river from its source to its mouth. "This noble valley is the first undoubtedly in California, and one of the most magnificent in the world. It is about 500 miles long, with an-average width of about fifty miles. It is bounded on the east by the great Snowy Mountains, and on the west by the low range, which in many places dwindles into insignificant hills, and has its northern terminus at the Strait of Carquines, on the Bay of San Francisco, and its southern near the Colorado River. "The river of San Joaquin flows through the middle of the valley for about half of its extent, and thence diverges towards the eastern mountain, in which it has its source. About sixty miles further south is the northern end of the Buena Vista Lake, which is about one hundred miles long, and from ten to twenty wide. Still farther south, and near the western side of the valley, is another and much smaller lake. "The great lake receives about a dozen tributaries on its eastern side, which all rise in the great range of the Snowy Mountains. Some of these streams flow through broad and fertile valleys within the mountain's range, and, from thence emerging, irrigate the plains of the great valley for the distance of twenty or thirty miles. The largest of these rivers is called by the Spanish inhabitants the river Reyes, and falls into the lake near its northern end; it is a well-timbered stream, and flows through a country of great fertility and beauty. The tributaries of the San Joaquin are all on the east side. "On ascending the stream we first meet with the Stanislaus, a clear rapid mountain stream, some forty or fifty yards wide, with a considerable depth of water in its lower portion. The Mormons have commenced a settlement, called New Hope, and built some two or three houses near the mouth. "There are considerable bodies of fertile land along the river, and the higher plains afford good pasturage. "Ten miles higher up is the river of the Tawalomes; it is about the size of the Stanislaus, which it greatly resembles, except that the soil is somewhat better, and that it particularly abounds with salmon. "Some thirty miles farther comes in the Merced, much the largest of the tributaries of the San Joaquin. The lands along and between the tributaries of the San Joaquin and the lake of Buena Vista form a fine pastoral region, with a good proportion of arable land, and a very inviting field for emigration. The whole of this region has been but imperfectly explored; enough, however, is known to make it certain that it is one of the most desirable regions on the continent. "In the valleys of the rivers which come down from the great Snowy Mountains are vast bodies of pine, and red-wood, or cedar timber, and the streams afford water power to any desirable amount. "The whole country east of the San Joaquin, and the water communication which connects it with the lakes, is considered, by the best judges, to be particularly adapted to the culture of the vine, which must necessarily become one of the principal agricultural resources of California." The Salinas River empties into the Pacific, about twelve miles above Monterey. Bear River empties into the Great Salt Lake. The other streams of California are all small. In addition to the Great Salt Lake and the Utah Lake there are numerous small lakes in the Sierra Nevada. The San Joaquin is connected with Tule Lake, or Lake Buena Vista, a sheet of water about eighty miles in length and fifteen in breadth. A lake, not laid down in any map, and known as the _Laguna_ among the Californians, is situated about sixty miles north of the Bay of San Francisco. It is between forty and sixty miles in length. The valleys in its vicinity are highly fertile, and romantically beautiful. In the vicinity of this lake there is a mountain of pure sulphur. There are also soda springs, and a great variety of other mineral waters, and minerals. The principal mountains west of the eastern boundary of California (the Rocky Mountains) are the Bear River, Wahsatch, Utah, the Sierra Nevada, and the Coast range. The Wahsatch Mountains form the eastern rim of the "great interior basin." There are numerous ranges in this desert basin, all of which run north and south, and are separated from each other by spacious and barren valleys and plains. The Sierra Nevada range is of greater elevation than the Rocky Mountains. The summits of the most elevated peaks are covered with perpetual snow. This and the coast range run nearly parallel with the shore of the Pacific. The first is from 100 to 200 miles from the Pacific, and the last from forty to sixty miles. The valley between them is the most fertile portion of California. Upper California was discovered in 1548, by Cabrillo, a Spanish navigator. In 1578, the northern portion of it was visited by Sir Francis Drake, who called it New Albion. It was first colonized by the Spaniards, in 1768, and formed a province of Mexico until after the revolution in that country. There have been numerous revolutions and civil wars in California within the last twenty years; but up to the conquest of the country by the United States in 1846, Mexican authority has generally been exercised over it. The following description of the political and social condition of Upper California in 1822 is extracted and translated from a Spanish writer of that date. I have thought that the extract would not be uninteresting:-- "_Government_.--Upper California, on account of its small population, not being able to become a state of the great Mexican republic, takes the character of territory, the government of which is under the charge of a commandant-general, who exercises the charge of a superior political chief, whose attributes depend entirely upon the president of the republic and the general congress. But, to amplify the legislation of its centre, it has a deputation made up of seven vocals, the half of these individuals being removed every two years. The superior political chief presides at their sessions. The inhabitants of the territory are divided amongst the presidios, missions, and towns. "_Presidios_.--The necessity of protecting the apostolic predication was the obligatory reason for forming the presidios, which were established according to circumstances. That of San Diego was the first; Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco were built afterwards. The form of all of them is nearly the same, and this is a square, containing about two hundred yards in each front, formed of a weak wall made of mud-bricks. Its height may be four yards in the interior of the square, and built on to the same wall. In its entire circumference are a chapel, storehouses, and houses for the commandant, officers, and troops, having at the entrance of the presidio quarters for a _corps-de-garde_. "These buildings in the presidios, at the first idea, appear to have been sufficient, the only object having been for a defence against a surprise from the gentiles, or wild Indians in the immediate vicinity. But this cause having ceased, I believe they ought to be demolished, as they are daily threatening a complete ruin, and, from the very limited spaces of habitation, must be very incommodious to those who inhabit them. As to the exterior of the presidios, several private individuals have built some very decent houses, and, having evinced great emulation in this branch of business, I have no doubt but in a short time we shall see very considerable towns in California. "At the distance of one, or at the most two miles from the presidio, and near to the anchoring-ground, is a fort, which has a few pieces of artillery of small calibre. The situation of most of them is very advantageous for the defence of the port, though the form of the walls, esplanades, and other imperfections which may be seen, make them very insignificant. "The battalion of each presidio is made up of eighty or more horse soldiers, called _cuera_; besides these, it has a number of auxiliary troops and a detachment of artillery. The commandant of each presidio is the captain of its respective company, and besides the intervention, military and political, he has charge of all things relating to the marine department. "_Missions_.--The missions contained in the territory are twenty-one. They were built at different epochs: that of San Diego, being the first, was built in 1769; its distance from the presidio of the same name is two leagues. The rest were built successively, according to circumstances and necessity. The last one was founded in the year 1822, under the name of San Francisco Dolores, and is the most northern of all. "The edifices in some of those missions are more extensive than in others, but in form they are all nearly equal. They are all fabricated of mud-bricks, and the divisions are according to necessity. In all of them may be found commodious habitations for the ministers, storehouses to keep their goods in, proportional granaries, offices for soap-makers, weavers, blacksmiths, and large parterres, and horse and cattle pens, independent apartments for Indian youths of each sex, and all such offices as were necessary at the time of its institution. Contiguous to and communicating with the former is a church, forming a part of the edifices of each mission; they are all very proportionable, and are adorned with profusion. "The Indians reside about two hundred yards distant from the above-mentioned edifice. This place is called the rancheria. Most of the missions are made up of very reduced quarters, built with mud-bricks, forming streets, while in others the Indians have been allowed to follow their primitive customs; their dwellings being a sort of huts, in a conical shape, which at the most do not exceed four yards in diameter, and the top of the cone may be elevated three yards. They are built of rough sticks, covered with bulrushes or grass, in such a manner as to completely protect the inhabitants from all the inclemencies of the weather. In my opinion, these rancherias are the most adequate to the natural uncleanliness of the Indians, as the families often renew them, burning the old ones, and immediately building others with the greatest facility. Opposite the rancherias, and near to the mission, is to be found a small garrison, with proportionate rooms, for a corporal and five soldiers with their families. This small garrison is quite sufficient to prevent any attempt of the Indians from taking effect, there having been some examples made, which causes the Indians to respect this small force. One of these pickets in a mission has a double object; besides keeping the Indians in subjection, they run post with a monthly correspondence, or with any extraordinaries that may be necessary for government. "All the missions in this California are under the charge of religious men of the order of San Francisco. At the present time their number is twenty-seven, most of them of an advanced age. Each mission has one of these fathers for its administrator, and he holds absolute authority. The tilling of the ground, the gathering of the harvest, the slaughtering of cattle, the weaving, and everything that concerns the mission, is under the direction of the fathers, without any other person interfering in any way whatever, so that, if any one mission has the good fortune to be superintended by an industrious and discreet padre, the Indians disfrute in abundance all the real necessaries of life; at the same time the nakedness and misery of any one mission are a palpable proof of the inactivity of its director. The missions extend their possessions from one extremity of the territory to the other, and have made the limits of one mission from those of another. Though they do not require all this land for their agriculture and the maintenance of their stock, they have appropriated the whole; always strongly opposing any individual who may wish to settle himself or his family on any piece of land between them. But it is to be hoped that the new system of illustration, and the necessity of augmenting private properly, and the people of reason, will cause the government to take such adequate measures as will conciliate the interests of all. Amongst all the missions there are from twenty-one to twenty-two thousand Catholic Indians; but each mission has not an equal or a proportionate part in its congregation. Some have three or four thousand, whilst others have scarcely four hundred; and at this difference may be computed the riches of the missions in proportion. Besides the number of Indians already spoken of, each mission has a considerable number of gentiles, who live chiefly on farms annexed to the missions. The number of these is undetermined. "The Indians are naturally filthy and careless, and their understanding is very limited. In the small arts they are not deficient in ideas of imitation but they never will be inventors. Their true character is that of being revengeful and timid, consequently they are very much addicted to treachery. They have no knowledge of benefits received, and ingratitude is common amongst them. The education they receive in their infancy is not the proper one to develope their reason, and, if it were, I do not believe them capable of any good impression. All these Indians, whether from the continual use of the sweat-house, or from their filthiness, or the little ventilation in their habitations, are weak and unvigorous; spasms and rheumatics, to which they are so much subject, are the consequences of their customs. But what most injures them, and prevents propagation, is the venereal disease, which most of them have very strongly, clearly proving that their humours are analogous to receiving the impressions of this contagion. From this reason may be deduced the enormous differences between the births and deaths, which, without doubt, is one-tenth per year in favour of the latter; but the missionaries do all in their power to prevent this, with respect to the catechumens situated near them. "The general productions of the missions are, the breed of the larger class of cattle, and sheep, horses, wheat, maize or Indian corn, beans, peas, and other vegetables; though the productions of the missions situated more to the southward are more extensive, these producing the grape and olive in abundance. Of all these articles of production, the most lucrative is the large cattle, their hides and tallow affording an active commerce with foreign vessels on this coast. This being the only means the inhabitants, missionaries, or private individuals have of supplying their actual necessities, for this reason they give this branch all the impulse they possibly can, and on it generally place all their attention. "It is now six years since they began to gather in hides and tallow for commerce. Formerly they merely took care of as many or as much as they required for their own private use, and the rest was thrown away as useless; but at this time the actual number of hides sold annually on board of foreign vessels amounts to thirty or forty thousand, and about the same amount of arrobas (twenty-five pounds) of tallow; and, in pursuing their present method, there is no doubt but in three or four years the amount of the exportation of each of these articles will be doubled. Flax, linen, wine, olive-oil, grain, and other agricultural productions, would be very extensive if there were stimulants to excite industry; but, this not being the case, there is just grain enough sown and reaped for the consumption of the inhabitants in the territory. "The towns contained in this district are three; the most populous being that of Angeles, which has about twelve hundred souls; that of St. Joseph's of Guadaloupe may contain six hundred, and the village of Branciforte two hundred; they are all formed imperfectly and without order, each person having built his own house on the spot he thought most convenient for himself. The first of these pueblos is governed by its corresponding body of magistrates, composed of an alcalde or judge, four regidores or municipal officers, a syndic, and secretary; the second, of an alcalde, two regidores, a syndic, and secretary; and the third, on account of the smallness of its population, is subject to the commandancia of Monterey. "The inhabitants of the towns are white, and, to distinguish them from the Indians, are vulgarly called _people of reason_. The number of these contained in the territory may be nearly five thousand. These families are divided amongst the pueblos and presidios. They are nearly all the descendants of a small number of individuals who came from the Mexican country, some as settlers, others in the service of the army, and accompanied by their wives. In the limited space of little more than fifty years the present generation has been formed. "The whites are in general robust, healthy, and well made. Some of them are occupied in breeding and raising cattle, and cultivating small quantities of wheat and beans; but for want of sufficient land, for which they cannot obtain a rightful ownership, their labours are very limited. Others dedicate themselves to the service of arms. All the presidial companies are composed of the natives of the country, but the most of them are entirely indolent, it being very rare for any individual to strive to augment his fortune. Dancing, horse-riding, and gambling occupy all their time. The arts are entirely unknown, and I am doubtful if there is one individual who exercises any trade; very few who understand the first rudiments of letters, and the other sciences are unknown amongst them. "The fecundity of the _people of reason_ is extreme. It is very rare to find a married couple with less than five or six children, while there are hundreds who have from twelve to fifteen. Very few of them die in their youth, and in reaching the age of puberty are sure to see their grand-children. The age of eighty and one hundred has always been common in this climate; most infirmities are unknown here, and the freshness and robustness of the people show the beneficial influence of the climate; the women in particular have always the roses stamped on their cheeks. This beautiful species is without doubt the most active and laborious, all their vigilance in duties of the house, the cleanliness of their children, and attention to their husbands, dedicating all their leisure moments to some kind of occupation that may be useful towards their maintenance. Their clothing is always clean and decent, nakedness being entirely unknown in either sex. "_Ports and Commerce_.--There are four ports, principal bays, in this territory, which take the names of the corresponding presidios. The best guarded is that of San Diego. That of San Francisco has many advantages. Santa Barbara is but middling in the best part of the season; at other times always bad. Besides the above-mentioned places, vessels sometimes anchor at Santa Cruz, San Luis Obispo, El Refugio, San Pedro, and San Juan, that they may obtain the productions of the missions nearest these last-mentioned places; but from an order sent by the minister of war, and circulated by the commandante-general, we are given to understand that no foreign vessel is permitted to anchor at any of these places, Monterey only excepted, notwithstanding the commandante-general has allowed the first three principal ports to remain open provisionally. Were it not so, there would undoubtedly be an end to all commerce with California, as I will quickly show. "The only motive that induces foreign vessels to visit this coast is for the hides and tallow which they barter for in the territory. It is well known, that at any of these parts there is no possibility of realizing any money, for here it does not circulate. The goods imported by foreign vessels are intended to facilitate the purchase of the aforesaid articles, well knowing that the missions have no interest in money, but rather such goods as are necessary for the Indians, so that several persons who have brought goods to sell for nothing but money have not been able to sell them. It will appear very extraordinary that money should not be appreciated in a country where its value is so well known; but the reason may be easily perceived by attending to the circumstances of the territory. "The quantity of hides gathered yearly is about thirty or forty thousand; and the arrobas of tallow, with very little difference, will be about the same. Averaging the price of each article at two dollars, we shall see that the intrinsic value in annual circulation in California is 140,000 dollars. This sum, divided between twenty-one missions, will give each one 6666 dollars. Supposing the only production of the country converted into money, with what would the Indians be clothed, and by what means would they be able to cover a thousand other necessaries? Money is useful in amplifying speculations; but in California, as yet, there are no speculations, and it productions are barely sufficient for the absolute necessary consumption. The same comparison may be made with respect to private individuals, who are able to gather a few hides and a few arrobas of tallow, these being in small quantities." CHAPTER II. Leave New Helvetia for San Francisco Cosçumne River Mickélemes River Ford of the San Joaquin Extensive plain Tule marshes Large droves of wild horses and elk Arrive at Dr. Marsh's Vineyard Californian grape Californian wine Aguardiénte Mormon settlements on the San Joaquin Californian beef Cattle Grasses of California Horses Breakfast Leave Dr. Marsh's Arrive at Mr. Livermore's Comforts of his dwelling Large herds of cattle Sheep Swine Californian senora Slaughtering of a bullock Fossil oyster-shells Skeleton of a whale on a high mountain Arrive at mission of San José Ruinous and desolate appearance of the mission Pedlars Landlady Filth Gardens of the mission Fruit orchards Empty warehouses and workshops Foul lodgings. _September 13th_.--We commenced to-day our journey from New Helvetia to San Francisco. Our party consisted, including myself, of Colonel Russell, Dr. McKee of Monterey, Mr. Pickett, a traveller in the country, recently from Oregon, and an Indian servant, who had been furnished us by Captain Sutter. Starting about 3 o'clock P.M., we travelled in a south course over a flat plain until sunset, and encamped near a small lake on the rancho of Mr. Murphy, near the Cosçumne River, a tributary of the Sacramento, which heads near the foot of the Sierra Nevada. The stream is small, but the bottom-lands are extensive and rich. Mr. Murphy has been settled in California about two years, and, with his wife and several children, has resided at this place sixteen months, during which time he has erected a comfortable dwelling-house, and other necessary buildings and conveniences. His wheat crop was abundant this year; and he presented us with as much milk and fresh butter as we desired. The grass on the upland plain over which we have travelled is brown and crisp from the annual drought. In the low bottom it is still green. Distance 18 miles. _September 14_.--We crossed the Cosçumne River about a mile from our camp, and travelled over a level plain covered with luxuriant grass, and timbered with the evergreen oak, until three o'clock, when we crossed the Mickélemes River, another tributary of the Sacramento, and encamped on its southern bank in a beautiful grove of live oaks. The Mickélemes, where we crossed it, is considerably larger than the Cosçumnes. The soil of the bottom appears to be very rich, and produces the finest qualities of grasses. The grass on the upland is also abundant, but at this time it is brown and dead. We passed through large tracts of wild oats during the day; the stalks are generally from three to five feet in length. Our Indian servant, or vaquero, feigned sickness this morning, and we discharged him. As soon as he obtained his discharge, he was entirely relieved from the excruciating agonies under which he had affected to be suffering for several hours. Eating his breakfast, and mounting his horse, he galloped off in the direction of the fort. We overtook this afternoon an English sailor, named Jack, who was travelling towards Monterey; and we employed him as cook and hostler for the remainder of the journey. A variety of autumnal flowers, generally of a brilliant yellow, are in bloom along the beautiful and romantic bunks of the rivulet. Distance 25 miles. _September 15_.--Our horses were frightened last night by bears, and this morning, with the exception of those which were picketed, had strayed so far that we did not recover them until ten o'clock. Our route has continued over a flat plain, generally covered with luxuriant grass, wild oats, and a variety of sparkling flowers. The soil is composed of a rich argillaceous loam. Large tracts of the land are evidently subject to annual inundations. About noon we reached a small lake surrounded by _tule_. There being no trail for our guidance, we experienced some difficulty in shaping our course so as to strike the San Joaquin River at the usual fording place. Our man Jack, by some neglect or mistake of his own, lost sight of us, and we were compelled to proceed without him. This afternoon we saw several large droves of antelope and deer. Game of all kinds appears to be very abundant in this rich valley. Passing through large tracts of _tule_, we reached the San Joaquin River at dark, and encamped on the eastern bank. Here we immediately made large fires, and discharged pistols as signals to our man Jack, but he did not come into camp. Distance 35 miles. _September 16_.--Jack came into camp while we were breakfasting, leading his tired horse. He had bivouacked on the plain, and, fearful that his horse would break loose if he tied him, he held the animal by the bridle all night. The ford of the San Joaquin is about forty or fifty miles from its mouth. At this season the water is at its lowest stage. The stream at the ford is probably one hundred yards in breadth, and our animals crossed it without much difficulty, the water reaching about midway of their bodies. Oak and small willows are the principal growth of wood skirting the river. Soon after we crossed the San Joaquin this morning we met two men, couriers, bearing despatches from Commodore Stockton, the governor and commander-in-chief in California, to Sutter's Fort. Entering upon the broad plain, we passed, in about three miles, a small lake, the water of which was so much impregnated with alkali as to be undrinkable. The grass is brown and crisp, but the seed upon it is evidence that it had fully matured before the drought affected it. The plain is furrowed with numerous deep trails, made by the droves of wild horses, elk, deer, and antelope, which roam over and graze upon it. The hunting sportsman can here enjoy his favourite pleasure to its fullest extent. Having determined to deviate from our direct course, in order to visit the rancho of Dr. Marsh, we parted from Messrs. McKee and Pickett about noon. We passed during the afternoon several _tule_ marshes, with which the plain of the San Joaquin is dotted. At a distance, the tule of these marshes presents the appearance of immense fields of ripened corn. The marshes are now nearly dry, and to shorten our journey we crossed several of them without difficulty. A month earlier, this would not have been practicable. I have but little doubt that these marshes would make fine rice plantations, and perhaps, if properly drained, they might produce the sugar-cane. While pursuing our journey we frequently saw large droves of wild horses and elk grazing quietly upon the plain. No spectacle of moving life can present a more animated and beautiful appearance than a herd of wild horses. They were divided into droves of some one or two hundred. When they noticed us, attracted by curiosity to discover what we were, they would start and run almost with the fleetness of the wind in the direction towards us. But, arriving within a distance of two hundred yards, they would suddenly halt, and after bowing their necks into graceful curves, and looking steadily at us a few moments, with loud snortings they would wheel about and bound away with the same lightning speed. These evolutions they would repeat several times, until, having satisfied their curiosity, they would bid us a final adieu, and disappear behind the undulations of the plain. The herds of elk were much more numerous. Some of them numbered at least two thousand, and with their immense antlers presented, when running, a very singular and picturesque appearance. We approached some of these herds within fifty yards before they took the alarm. Beef in California is so abundant, and of so fine a quality, that game is but little hunted, and not much prized, hence the elk, deer, and even antelope are comparatively very tame, and rarely run from the traveller, unless he rides very near them. Some of these elk are as large as a medium-sized Mexican mule. We arrived at the rancho of Dr. Marsh about 5 o'clock P.M., greatly fatigued with the day's ride. The residence of Dr. M. is romantically situated, near the foot of one of the most elevated mountains in the range separating the valley of the San Joaquin from the plain surrounding the Bay of San Francisco. It is called "Mount Diablo," and may be seen in clear weather a great distance. The dwelling of Dr. M. is a small one-story house, rudely constructed of adobes, and divided into two or three apartments. The flooring is of earth, like the walls. A table or two, and some benches and a bed, are all the furniture it contains. Such are the privations to which those who settle in new countries must submit. Dr. M. is a native of New England, a graduate of Harvard University, and a gentleman of fine natural abilities and extensive scientific and literary acquirements. He emigrated to California some seven or eight years since, after having travelled through most of the Mexican States. He speaks the Spanish language fluently and correctly, and his accurate knowledge of Mexican institutions, laws, and customs was fully displayed in his conversation in regard to them. He obtained the grant of land upon which he now resides, some ten or twelve miles square, four or fire years ago; and although he has been constantly harassed by the wild Indians, who have several times stolen all his horses, and sometimes numbers of his cattle, he has succeeded in permanently establishing himself. The present number of cattle on his rancho is about two thousand, and the increase of the present year he estimates at five hundred. I noticed near the house a vegetable garden, with the usual variety of vegetables. In another inclosure was the commencement of an extensive vineyard, the fruit of which (now ripe) exceeds in delicacy of flavour any grapes which I have ever tasted. This grape is not indigenous, but was introduced by _the padres_, when they first established themselves in the country. The soil and climate of California have probably improved it. Many of the clusters are eight and ten inches in length, and weigh several pounds. The fruit is of medium size, and in colour a dark purple. The rind is very thin, and when broken the pulp dissolves in the mouth immediately. Although Dr. M. has just commenced his vineyard, he has made several casks of wine this year, which is now in a stale of fermentation. I tasted here, for the first time, _aguardiénte_, or brandy distilled from the Californian grape. Its flavour is not unpleasant, and age, I do not doubt, would render it equal to the brandies of France. Large quantities of wine and _aguardiénte_ are made from the extensive vineyards farther south. Dr. M. informed me that his lands had produced a hundredfold of wheat without irrigation. This yield seems almost incredible; but, if we can believe the statements of men of unimpeached veracity, there have been numerous instances of reproduction of wheat in California equalling and even exceeding this. Some time in July, a vessel arrived at San Francisco from New York, which had been chartered and freighted principally by a party of Mormon emigrants, numbering between two and three hundred, women and children included. These Mormons are about making a settlement for agricultural purposes on the San Joaquin River, above the rancho of Dr. Marsh. Two of the women and one of the men are now here, waiting for the return of the main party, which has gone up the river to explore and select a suitable site for the settlement. The women are young, neatly dressed, and one of them may be called good-looking. Captain Gant, formerly of the U.S. Army, in very bad health, is also residing here. He has crossed the Rocky Mountains eight times, and, in various trapping excursions, has explored nearly every river between the settlements of the United States and the Pacific Ocean. The house of Dr. Marsh being fully occupied, we made our beds in a shed, a short distance from it. Suspended from one of the poles forming the frame of this shed was a portion of the carcass of a recently slaughtered beef. The meat was very fat, the muscular portions of it presenting that marbled appearance, produced by a mixture of the fat and lean, so agreeable to the sight and palate of the epicure. The horned cattle of California, which I have thus far seen, are the largest and the handsomest in shape which I ever saw. There is certainly no breed in the United States equalling them in size. They, as well as the horses, subsist entirely on the indigenous grasses, at all seasons of the year; and such are the nutritious qualities of the herbage, that the former are always in condition for slaughtering, and the latter have as much flesh upon them as is desirable, unless (which is often the case) they are kept up at hard work and denied the privilege of eating, or are broken down by hard riding. The varieties of grass are very numerous, and nearly all of them are heavily seeded when ripe, and are equal, if not superior, as food for animals, to corn and oats. The horses are not as large as the breeds of the United States, but in point of symmetrical proportions and in capacity for endurance they are fully equal to our best breeds. The distance we have travelled to-day I estimate at thirty-five miles. _September 17_.--The temperature of the mornings is most agreeable, and every other phenomenon accompanying it is correspondingly delightful to the senses. Our breakfast consisted of warm bread, made of unbolted flour, stewed beef, seasoned with _chile colorado_, a species of red pepper, and _frijoles_, a dark-coloured bean, with coffee. After breakfast I walked with Dr. Marsh to the summit of a conical hill, about a mile distant from his house, from which the view of the plain on the north, south, and east, and the more broken and mountainous country on the west, is very extensive and picturesque. The hills and the plain are ornamented with the evergreen oak, sometimes in clumps or groves, at others standing solitary. On the summits, and in the gorges of the mountains, the cedar, pine, and fir display their tall symmetrical shapes; and the San Joaquin, at a distance of about ten miles, is belted by a dense forest of oak, sycamore, and smaller timber and shrubbery. The herds of cattle are scattered over the plain,--some of them grazing upon the brown but nutritious grass; others sheltering themselves from the sun under the wide-spreading branches of the oaks. The _tout ensemble_ of the landscape is charming. Leaving Dr. Marsh's about three o'clock P.M., we travelled fifteen miles, over a rolling and well-watered country, covered generally with wild oats, and arrived at the residence of Mr. Robert Livermore just before dark. We were most kindly and hospitably received, and entertained by Mr. L. and his interesting family. After our mules and baggage had been cared for, we were introduced to the principal room in the house, which consisted of a number of small adobe buildings, erected apparently at different times, and connected together. Here we found chairs, and, for the first time in California, saw a side-board set out with glass tumblers and chinaware. A decanter of _aguardiénte_, a bowl of loaf sugar, and a pitcher of cold water from the spring, were set before us, and, being duly honoured, had a most reviving influence upon our spirits as well as our corporeal energies. Suspended from the walls of the room were numerous coarse engravings, highly coloured with green, blue, and crimson paints, representing the Virgin Mary, and many of the saints. These engravings are held in great veneration by the devout Catholics of this country. In the corners of the room were two comfortable-looking beds, with clean white sheets and pillow-cases, a sight with which my eyes have not been greeted for many months. The table was soon set out, and covered with a linen cloth of snowy whiteness, upon which were placed dishes of stewed beef, seasoned with _chile Colorado, frijoles_, and a plentiful supply of _tortillas_, with an excellent cup of tea, to the merits of which we did ample justice. Never were men blessed with better appetites than we are at the present time. Mr. Livermore has been a resident of California nearly thirty years, and, having married into one of the wealthy families of the country, is the proprietor of some of the best lands for tillage and grazing. An _arroyo_, or small rivulet fed by springs, runs through his rancho, in such a course that, if expedient, he could, without much expense, irrigate one or two thousand acres. Irrigation in this part of California, however, seems to be entirely unnecessary for the production of wheat or any of the small grains. To produce maize, potatoes, and garden vegetables, irrigation is indispensable. Mr. Livermore has on his rancho about 3500 head of cattle. His horses, during the late disturbances, have nearly all been driven off or stolen by the Indians. I saw in his corral a flock of sheep numbering several hundred. They are of good size, and the mutton is said to be of an excellent quality, but the wool is coarse. It is, however, well adapted to the only manufacture of wool that is carried on in the country,--coarse blankets and _serápes_. But little attention is paid to hogs here, although the breeds are as fine as I have ever seen elsewhere. Beef being so abundant, and of a quality so superior, pork is not prized by the native Californians. The Senora L. is the first Hispano-American lady I have seen since arriving in the country. She was dressed in a white cambric robe, loosely banded round the waist, and without ornament of any kind, except several rings on her small delicate fingers. Her complexion is that of a dark brunette, but lighter and more clear than the skin of most Californian women. The dark lustrous eye, the long black and glossy hair, the natural ease, grace, and vivacity of manners and conversation, characteristic of Spanish ladies, were fully displayed by her from the moment of our introduction. The children, especially two or three little _senoritas_, were very beautiful, and manifested a remarkable degree of sprightliness and intelligence. One of them presented me with a small basket wrought from a species of tough grass, and ornamented with the plumage of birds of a variety of brilliant colours. It was a beautiful specimen of Indian ingenuity. Retiring to bed about ten o'clock, I enjoyed, the first time for four months, the luxury of clean sheets, with a mattress and a soft pillow. My enjoyment, however, was not unmixed with regret, for I noticed that several members of the family, to accommodate us with lodgings in the house, slept in the piazza outside. To have objected to sleeping in the house, however, would have been considered discourteous and offensive. _September 18_.--Early this morning a bullock was brought up and slaughtered in front of the house. The process of slaughtering a beef is as follows: a _vaquero_, mounted on a trained horse, and provided with a lasso, proceeds to the place where the herd is grazing. Selecting an animal, he soon secures it by throwing the noose of the lasso over the horns, and fastening the other end around the pommel of the saddle. During the first struggles of the animal for liberty, which usually are very violent, the vaquero sits firmly in his seat, and keeps his horse in such a position that the fury and strength of the beast are wasted without producing any other result than his own exhaustion. The animal, soon ascertaining that he cannot release himself from the rope, submits to be pulled along to the place of execution. Arriving here, the vaquero winds the lasso round the legs of the doomed beast, and throws him to the ground, where he lies perfectly helpless and motionless. Dismounting from his horse, he then takes from his leggin the butcher-knife that he always carries with him, and sticks the animal in the throat. He soon bleeds to death, when, in an incredibly short space of time for such a performance, the carcass is flayed and quartered, and the meat is either roasting before the fire or simmering in the stew-pan. The _lassoing_ and slaughter of a bullock is one of the most exciting sports of the Californians; and the daring horsemanship and dexterous use of the lariat usually displayed on these occasions are worthy of admiration. I could not but notice the Golgotha-like aspect of the grounds surrounding the house. The bones of cattle were thickly strewn in all directions, showing a terrible slaughter of the four-footed tribe and a prodigious consumption of flesh. A _carretada_ of fossil oyster--shells was shown to me by Mr. Livermore, which had been hauled for the purpose of being manufactured into lime. Some of these shells were eight inches in length, and of corresponding breadth and thickness. They were dug from a hill two or three miles distant, which is composed almost entirely of this fossil. Several bones belonging to the skeleton of a whale, discovered by Mr. L. on the summit of one of the highest elevations in the vicinity of his residence, were shown to me. The skeleton when discovered was nearly perfect and entirely exposed, and its elevation above the level of the sea between one and two thousand feet. How the huge aquatic monster, of which this skeleton is the remains, managed to make his dry bed on the summit of an elevated mountain, more experienced geologists than myself will hereafter determine. I have an opinion on the subject, however; but it is so contrary in some respects to the received geological theories, that I will not now hazard it. Leaving Mr. Livermore's about nine o'clock A.M., we travelled three or four miles over a level plain, upon which immense herds of cattle were grazing. When we approached, they fled from us with as much alarm as herds of deer and elk. From this plain we entered a hilly country, covered to the summits of the elevations with wild oats and tufts or hunches of a species of grass, which remains green through the whole season. Cattle were scattered through these hills, and more sumptuous grazing they could not desire. Small streams of water, fed by springs, flow through the hollows and ravines, which, as well as the hill-sides, are timbered with the evergreen oak and a variety of smaller trees. About two o'clock, P.M., we crossed an _arroyo_ which runs through a narrow gorge of the hills, and struck an artificial wagon-road, excavated and embanked so as to afford a passage for wheeled vehicles along the steep hill-side. A little farther on we crossed a very rudely constructed bridge. These are the first signs of road-making I have seen in the country. Emerging from the hills, the southern arm of the Bay of San Francisco came in view, separated from us by a broad and fertile plain, some ten or twelve miles in width, sloping gradually down to the shore of the bay, and watered by several small creeks and estuaries. We soon entered through a narrow street the mission of San José, or St. Joseph. Passing the squares of one-story adobe buildings once inhabited by thousands of busy Indians, but now deserted, roofless, and crumbling into ruins, we reached the plaza in front of the church, and the massive two-story edifices occupied by the _padres_ during the flourishing epoch of the establishment. These were in good repair; but the doors and windows, with the exception of one, were closed, and nothing of moving life was visible except a donkey or two, standing near a fountain which gushed its waters into a capacious stone trough. Dismounting from our mules, we entered the open door, and here we found two Frenchmen dressed in sailor costume, with a quantity of coarse shirts, pantaloons, stockings, and other small articles, together with _aguardiénte_, which they designed retailing to such of the natives in the vicinity as chose to become their customers. They were itinerant merchants, or pedlars, and had opened their wares here for a day or two only, or so long as they could find purchasers. Having determined to remain here the residue of the day and the night, we inquired of the Frenchmen if there was any family in the place that could furnish us with food. They directed us to a house on the opposite side of the plaza, to which we immediately repaired. The senora, a dark-skinned and rather shrivelled and filthy specimen of the fair sex, but with a black, sparkling, and intelligent eye, met us at the door of the miserable hovel, and invited us in. In one corner of this wretched and foul abode was a pile of raw hides, and in another a heap of wheat. The only furniture it contained were two small benches, or stools, one of which, being higher than the other, appeared to have been constructed for a table. We informed the senora that we were travellers, and wished refreshment and lodgings for the night. "_Esta bueno, senores, esta bueno_," was her reply; and she immediately left us, and, opening the door of the kitchen, commenced the preparation of our dinner. The interior of the kitchen, of which I had a good view through the door, was more revolting in its filthiness than the room in which we were seated. In a short time, so industrious was our hostess, our dinner, consisting of two plates of jerked beef, stewed, and seasoned with _chile colorado_, a plate of _tortillas_, and a bowl of coffee, was set out upon the most elevated stool. There were no knives, forks, or spoons, on the table. Our amiable landlady apologized for this deficiency of table-furniture, saying that she was "_muy pobre_" (very poor), and possessed none of these table implements. "Fingers were made before forks," and in our recent travels we had learned to use them as substitutes, so that we found no difficulty in conveying the meat from the plates to our mouths. Belonging to the mission are two gardens, inclosed by high adobe walls. After dinner we visited one of these. The area of the inclosure contains fifteen or twenty acres of ground, the whole of which was planted with fruit trees and grape-vines. There are about six hundred pear trees, and a large number of apple and peach trees, all bearing fruit in great abundance and in full perfection. The quality of the pears is excellent, but the apples and peaches are indifferent. The grapes have been gathered, as I suppose, for I saw none upon the vines, which appeared healthy and vigorous. The gardens are irrigated with very little trouble, from large springs which flow from the hills a short distance above them. Numerous aqueducts, formerly conveying and distributing water over an extensive tract of land surrounding the mission, are still visible, but as the land is not now cultivated, they at present contain no water. The mission buildings cover fifty acres of ground, perhaps more, and are all constructed of adobes with tile roofs. Those houses or barracks which were occupied by the Indian families are built in compact squares, one story in height. They are generally partitioned into two rooms, one fronting on the street, the other upon a court or corral in the rear. The main buildings of the mission are two stories in height, with wide corridors in front and rear. The walls are massive, and, if protected from the winter rains, will stand for ages. But if exposed to the storms by the decay of the projecting roofs, or by leaks in the main roof, they will soon crumble, or sink into shapeless heaps of mud. I passed through extensive warehouses and immense rooms, once occupied for the manufacture of woollen blankets and other articles, with the rude machinery still standing in them, but unemployed. Filth and desolation have taken the place of cleanliness and busy life. The granary was very capacious, and its dimensions were an evidence of the exuberant fertility of the soil, when properly cultivated under the superintendence of the _padres_. The calaboose is a miserable dark room of two apartments, one with a small loop-hole in the wall, the other a dungeon without light or ventilation. The stocks, and several other inventions for the punishment of offenders, are still standing in this prison. I requested permission to examine the interior of the church, but it was locked up, and no person in the mission was in possession of the key. Its length I should suppose is from one hundred to one hundred and twenty feet, and its breadth between thirty and forty, with small exterior pretensions to architectural ornament or symmetry of proportions. Returning from our rambles about the mission, we found that our landlady had been reinforced by an elderly woman, whom she introduced as "_mi madre_," and two or three Indian _muchachas_, or girls, clad in a costume not differing much from that of our mother Eve. The latter were obese in their figures, and the mingled perspiration and filth standing upon their skins were any thing but agreeable to the eye. The two senoras, with these handmaids near them, were sitting in front of the house, busily engaged in executing some needlework. Supper being prepared and discussed, our landlady informed us that she had a husband, who was absent, but would return in the course of the night, and, if he found strange men in the house, he would be much offended with her. She had therefore directed her _muchachas_ to sweep out one of the deserted and half-ruined rooms on the opposite square, to which we could remove our baggage, and in which we could lodge during the night; and as soon as the necessary preparations were made, we retired to our dismal apartment. The "compound of villanous smells" which saluted our nostrils when we entered our dormitory for the night augured unfavourably for repose. The place had evidently been the abode of horses, cattle, pigs, and foul vermin of every description. But with the aid of a dark-coloured tallow-candle, which gave just light enough to display the murkiness and filth surrounding us, we spread our beds in the cleanest places, and laid down to rest. Distance travelled, 18 miles. CHAPTER III. Armies of fleas Leave the mission Clover Wild mustard A carreta Family travelling Arrive at Pueblo de San José Capt. Fisher Description of the Pueblo The embarcadero Beautiful and fertile valley of the Pueblo Absence of architectural taste in California Town squirrels Fruit garden Grapes Tropical fruits Gaming rooms Contrast between California and American gamesters Leave San José Beautiful avenue Mission of Santa Clara Rich but neglected lands Effects of a bad government A senora on the road-side Kindness of Californian women Fast riding Cruel treatment of horses Arrive at the mission of San Francisco A poor but hospitable family Arrive at the town of San Francisco W.A. Leidesdorff, Esq., American vice-consul First view of the bay of San Francisco Muchachos and Muchachas Capt. Montgomery U.S. sloop-of-war, Portsmouth Town of San Francisco; its situation, appearance, population Commerce of California Extortion of the government and traders. _September 19_.--Several Californians came into the mission during the night or early this morning; among them the husband of our hostess, who was very kind and cordial in his greetings. While our man Jack was saddling and packing the mules, they gathered around us to the number of a dozen or more, and were desirous of trading their horses for articles of clothing; articles which many of them appeared to stand greatly in need of, but which we had not to part from. Their pertinacity exceeded the bounds of civility, as I thought; but I was not in a good humour, for the fleas, bugs, and other vermin, which infested our miserable lodgings, had caused me a sleepless night, by goring my body until the blood oozed from the skin in countless places. These ruinous missions are prolific generators, and the nurseries of vermin of all kinds, as the hapless traveller who tarries in them a few hours will learn to his sorrow. When these bloodthirsty assailants once make a lodgment in the clothing or bedding of the unfortunate victim of their attacks, such are their courage and perseverance, that they never capitulate. "Blood or death" is their motto;--the war against them, to be successful, must be a war of extermination. Poor as our hostess was, she nevertheless was reluctant to receive any compensation for her hospitality. We, however, insisted upon her receiving a dollar from each of us (_dos pesos_), which she finally accepted; and after shaking us cordially by the hand she bade us an affectionate _adios_, and we proceeded on our journey. From the Mission of San José to the Pueblo of San José, the distance is fifteen miles, for the most part over a level and highly fertile plain, producing a variety of indigenous grasses, among which I noticed several species of clover and mustard, large tracts of which we rode through, the stalks varying from six to ten feet in height. The plain is watered by several _arroyos_, skirted with timber, generally the evergreen oak. We met this morning a Californian _carreta_, or travelling-cart, freighted with women and children, bound on a pleasure excursion. The _carreta_ is the rudest specimen of the wheeled vehicle I have seen. The wheels are transverse sections of a log, and are usually about 2-1/2 feet in diameter, and varying in thickness from the centre to the rim. These wheels are coupled together by an axletree, into which a tongue is inserted. On the axletree and tongue rests a frame, constructed of square pieces of timber, six or eight feet in length, and four or five in breadth, into which are inserted a number of stakes about, four feet in length. This frame-work being covered and floored with raw hides, the carriage is complete. The _carreta_ which we met was drawn by two yokes of oxen, driven by an Indian vaquero, mounted on a horse. In the rear were two _caballeros_, riding fine spirited horses, with gaudy trappings. They were dressed in steeple-crowned glazed _sombreros, serapes_ of fiery colours, velvet (cotton) _calzoneros_, white cambric _calzoncillos_, and leggins and shoes of undressed leather. Their spurs were of immense size. The party halted as soon as we met them, the men touching their heavy _sombreros_, and uttering the usual salutation of the morning, "_Buenos dios, senores_," and shaking hands with us very cordially. The same salutation was repeated by all the senoras and senoritas in the _carreta_. In dress and personal appearance the women of this party were much inferior to the men. Their skins were dark, sallow, and shrivelled; and their costume, a loose gown and _reboso_, were made of very common materials. The children, however, were all handsome, with sparkling eyes and ruddy complexions. Women and children were seated, _à la Turque_, on the bottom of the _carreta_, there being no raised seats in the vehicle. We arrived at the Pueblo do San José about twelve o'clock. There being no hotels in California, we were much at a loss where to apply for refreshments and lodgings for the night. Soon, however, we were met by Captain Fisher, a native of Massachusetts, but a resident of this country for twenty years or more, who invited us to his house. We were most civilly received by Senora F., who, although she did not speak English, seemed to understand it very well. She is a native of the southern Pacific coast of Mexico, and a lady of fine manners and personal appearance. Her oldest daughter, about thirteen years of age, is very beautiful. An excellent dinner was soon set out, with a variety of the native wines of California and other liquors. We could not have felt ourselves more happy and more at home, even at our own firesides and in the midst of our own families. The Pueblo de San José is a village containing some six or eight hundred inhabitants. It is situated in what is called the "Pueblo Valley," about fifteen miles south of the southern shore of the Bay of San Francisco. Through a navigable creek, vessels of considerable burden can approach the town within a distance of five or six miles. The _embarcadero_, or landing, I think, is six miles from the Pueblo. The fertile plain between this and the town, at certain seasons of the year, is sometimes inundated. The "Pueblo Valley," which is eighty or one hundred miles in length, varying from ten to twenty in breadth, is well watered by the Rio Santa Clara and numerous _arroyos_, and is one of the most fertile and picturesque plains in California. For pastoral charms, fertility of soil, variety of productions, and delicious voluptuousness of climate and scenery, it cannot be surpassed. This valley, if properly cultivated, would alone produce breadstuffs enough to supply millions of population. The buildings of the Pueblo, with few exceptions, are constructed of adobes, and none of them have even the smallest pretensions to architectural taste or beauty. The church, which is situated near the centre of the town, exteriorly resembles a huge Dutch barn. The streets are irregular, every man having erected his house in a position most convenient to him. Aqueducts convey water from the Santa Clara River to all parts of the town. In the main plaza hundreds, perhaps thousands, of squirrels, whose abodes are under ground, have their residences. They are of a brownish colour, and about the size of our common gray squirrel. Emerging from their subterraneous abodes, they skip and leap about over the plaza without the least concern, no one molesting them. The population of the place is composed chiefly of native Californian land-proprietors. Their ranchos are in the valley, but their residences and gardens are in the town. We visited this afternoon the garden of Senor Don Antonio Sugnol. He received us with much politeness, and conducted us through his garden. Apples, pears, peaches, figs, oranges, and grapes, with other fruits which I do not now recollect, were growing and ripening. The grape-vines were bowed to the ground with the luxuriance arid weight of the yield; and more delicious fruit I never tasted. From the garden we crossed over to a flouring-mill recently erected by a son-in-law of Don Antonio, a Frenchman by birth. The mill is a creditable enterprise to the proprietor, and he will coin money from its operations. The Pueblo de San José is one of the oldest settlements in Alta California. Captain Fisher pointed out to me a house built of adobes, which has been standing between 80 and 90 years, and no house in the place appeared to be more substantial or in better repair. A garrison, composed of marines from the United States' ships, and volunteers enlisted from the American settlers in the country, is now stationed here. The post is under the command of Purser Watmough, of the United States sloop-of-war Portsmouth, commanded by Captain Montgomery. During the evening I visited several public places (bar-rooms), where I saw men and women engaged promiscuously at the game of _monte_. Gambling is a universal vice in California. All classes and both sexes participate in its excitements to some extent. The games, however, while I was present, were conducted with great propriety and decorum so far as the native Californians were concerned. The loud swearing and other turbulent demonstrations generally proceeded from the unsuccessful foreigners. I could not but observe the contrast between the two races in this respect. The one bore their losses with stoical composure and indifference; the other announced each unsuccessful bet with profane imprecations and maledictions. Excitement prompted the hazards of the former, avarice the latter. _September 20_.--The morning was cloudy and cool; but the clouds broke away about nine o'clock, and the sun shone from a vapourless sky, as usual. We met, at the Pueblo, Mr. Grove Cook, a native of Gerrard county, Ky., but for many years a resident of California. He is the proprietor of a rancho in the vicinity. We determined to leave our mules in charge of Mr. Cook's vaquero, and proceed to San Francisco on hired horses. The distance from the Pueblo de San José to San Francisco is called sixty miles. The time occupied in performing the journey, on Californian horses at Californian speed, is generally six or seven hours. Procuring horses for the journey, and leaving our baggage, with the exception of a change of clothing, we left the Pueblo about eleven o'clock A.M. The mission of Santa Clara is situated about two and a half miles from the town. A broad _alameda_, shaded by stately trees (elms and willows), planted by the _padres_, extends nearly the entire distance, forming a most beautiful drive or walk for equestrians or pedestrians. The motive of the _padres_ in planting this avenue was to afford the devout senoras and senoritas a shade from the sun, when walking from the Pueblo to the church at the mission to attend mass. A few minutes over the smooth level road, at the rapid speed of our fresh Californian horses, brought us to the mission, where we halted to make our observations. This mission is not so extensive in its buildings as that of San José, but the houses are generally in better repair. They are constructed of adobes; the church was open, and, entering the interior, I found the walls hung with coarse paintings and engravings of the saints, etc., etc. The chancel decorated with numerous images, and symbolical ornaments used by the priests in their worship. Gold-paper, and tinsel, in barbaric taste, are plastered without stint upon nearly every object that meets the eye, so that, when on festive occasions the church is lighted, it must present a very glittering appearance. The rich lands surrounding the mission are entirely neglected. I did not notice a foot of ground under cultivation, except the garden inclosure, which contained a variety of fruits and plants of the temperate and tropical climates. From want of care these are fast decaying. Some excellent pears were furnished us by Mrs. Bennett, an American lady, of Amazonian proportions, who, with her family of sons, has taken up her residence in one of the buildings of the mission. The picture of decay and ruin presented by this once flourishing establishment, surrounded by a country so fertile and scenery so enchanting, is a most melancholy spectacle to the passing traveller, and speaks a language of loud condemnation against the government. Proceeding on our journey, we travelled fifteen miles over a flat plain, timbered with groves and parks of evergreen oaks, and covered with a great variety of grasses, wild oats, and mustard. So rank is the growth of mustard in many places, that it is with difficulty that a horse can penetrate through it. Numerous birds flitted from tree to tree, making the groves musical with their harmonious notes. The black-tailed deer bounded frequently across our path, and the lurking and stealthy _coyotes_ were continually in view. We halted at a small cabin, with a _corral_ near it, in order to breathe our horses, and refresh ourselves. Captain Fisher had kindly filled a small sack with bread, cheese, roasted beef, and a small jug of excellent schiedam. Entering the cabin, the interior of which was cleanly, we found a solitary woman, young, neatly dressed, and displaying many personal charms. With the characteristic ease and grace of a Spanish woman, she gave the usual salutation for the hour of the day, "_Buenas tardes, senores caballeros_;" to which we responded by a suitable salutation. We requested of our hostess some water, which she furnished us immediately, in an earthen bowl. Opening our sack of provisions, we spread them upon the table, and invited the senora to partake of them with us, which invitation she accepted without the slightest hesitation, and with much good-nature, vivacity, and even thankfulness for our politeness. There are no women in the world for whose manners nature has done so much, and for whom art and education, in this respect, have done so little, as these Hispano-American females on the coast of the Pacific. In their deportment towards strangers they are queens, when, in costume, they are peasants. None of them, according to our tastes, can be called beautiful; but what they want in complexion and regularity of feature is fully supplied by their kindliness, the soul and sympathy which beam from their dark eyes, and their grace and warmth of manners and expression. While enjoying the _pic-nic_ with our agreeable hostess, a _caballada_ was driven into the _corral_ by two _vaqueros_, and two gentlemen soon after came into the house. They were Messrs. Lightson and Murphy, from the Pueblo, bound for San Francisco, and had stopped to change their horses. We immediately made ready to accompany them, and were soon on the road again, travelling at racehorse speed; these gentlemen having furnished us with a change of horses, in order that we might be able to keep up with them. To account for the fast travelling in California on horseback, it is necessary to explain the mode by which it is accomplished. A gentleman who starts upon a journey of one hundred miles, and wishes to perform the trip in a day, will take with him ten fresh horses and a _vaquero_. The eight loose horses are placed under the charge of the _vaquero_, and are driven in front, at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour, according to the speed that is required for the journey. At the end of twenty miles, the horses which have been rode are discharged and turned into the _caballada_, and horses which have not been rode, but driven along without weight, are saddled and mounted and rode at the same speed, and so on to the end of the journey. If a horse gives out from inability to proceed at this gait, he is left on the road. The owner's brand is on him, and, if of any value, he can be recovered without difficulty. But in California no one thinks of stopping on the road, on account of the loss of a horse, or his inability to travel at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour. Horseflesh is cheap, and the animal must go as long as he can, and when he cannot travel longer he is left, and another horse is substituted. Twenty-five miles, at a rapid gait over a level and fertile plain, brought us to the rancho of Don Francisco Sanchez, where we halted to change horses. Breathing our animals a short time, we resumed our journey, and reached the mission of San Francisco Dolores, three miles from the town of San Francisco, just after sunset. Between the mission and the town the road is very sandy, and we determined to remain here for the night, _corraling_ the loose animals, and picketing those we rode. It was some time, however, before we could find a house to lodge in. The foreign occupants of the mission buildings, to whom we applied for accommodations for the night, gave us no satisfaction. After several applications, we were at last accommodated by an old and very poor Californian Spaniard, who inhabited a small house in one of the ruinous squares, formerly occupied by the operative Indians. All that he had (and it was but little) was at our disposal. A more miserable supper I never sat down to; but the spirit of genuine hospitality in which it was given imparted to the poor viands a flavour that rendered the entertainment almost sumptuous--in my imagination. A cup of water cheerfully given to the weary and thirsty traveller, by him who has no more to part with, is worth a cask of wine grudgingly bestowed by the stingy or the ostentatious churl. Notwithstanding we preferred sleeping on our own blankets, these poor people would not suffer us to do it, but spread their own pallets on the earth floor of their miserable hut, and insisted so strongly upon our occupying them, that we could not refuse. _September 21_.--We rose at daylight. The morning was clear, and our horses were shivering with the cold. The mission of San Francisco is situated at the northern terminus of the fertile plain over which we travelled yesterday, and at the foot, on the eastern side, of the coast range of mountains. These mountains are of considerable elevation. The shore of the Bay of San Francisco is about two miles distant from the mission. An _arroyo_ waters the mission lands, and empties into the bay. The church of the mission, and the main buildings contiguous, are in tolerable repair. In the latter, several Mormon families, which arrived in the ship Brooklyn from New York, are quartered. As in the other missions I have passed through, the Indian quarters are crumbling into shapeless heaps of mud. Our aged host, notwithstanding he is a pious Catholic, and considers us as heretics and heathens, gave us his benediction in a very impressive manner when we were about to start. Mounting our horses at sunrise, we travelled three miles over low ridges of sand-hills, with sufficient soil, however, to produce a thick growth of scrubby evergreen oak, and brambles of hawthorn, wild currant and gooseberry bushes, rose bushes, briers, etc. We reached the residence of Wm. A. Leidesdorff, Esq., late American vice-consul at San Francisco, when the sun was about an hour high. The morning was calm and beautiful. Not a ripple disturbed the placid and glassy surface of the magnificent bay and harbour, upon which rested at anchor thirty large vessels, consisting of whalemen, merchantmen, and the U.S. sloop-of-war Portsmouth, Captain Montgomery. Besides these, there were numerous small craft, giving to the harbour a commercial air, of which some of the large cities on the Atlantic coast would feel vain. The bay, from the town of San Francisco due east, is about twelve miles in breadth. An elevated range of hills bounds the view on the opposite side. These slope gradually down, and between them and the shore there is a broad and fertile plain, which is called the _Contra Costa_. There are several small islands in the bay, but they do not present a fertile appearance to the eye. We were received with every mark of respectful attention and cordial hospitality by Mr. Leidesdorff. Mr. L. is a native of Denmark; was for some years a resident of the United States; but subsequently the captain of a merchant vessel, and has been established at this place as a merchant some five or six years. The house in which he resides, now under the process of completion, is the largest private building in the town. Being shown to a well-furnished room, we changed our travel-soiled clothing for a more civilized costume, by which time breakfast was announced, and we were ushered into a large dining-hall. In the centre stood a table, upon which was spread a substantial breakfast of stewed and fried beef, fried onions, and potatoes, bread, butter, and coffee. Our appetites were very sharp, and we did full justice to the merits of the fare before us. The servants waiting upon the table were an Indian _muchachito_ and _muchachita_, about ten or twelve years of age. They had not been long from their wild _rancherias_, and knew but little of civilized life. Our host, however, who speaks, I believe, nearly every living language, whether of Christian, barbarian, or savage nations, seemed determined to impress upon their dull intellects the forms and customs of civilization. He scolded them with great vivacity, sometimes in their own tongue, sometimes in French, Spanish, Portuguese, Danish, German, and English, in accordance with the language in which he was thinking at the moment. It seemed to me that the little fat Indians were more confused than enlightened by his emphatic instructions. At the table, besides ourselves and host, was Lieutenant W.A. Bartlett, of the U.S. sloop-of-war Portsmouth, now acting as Alcalde of the town and district of San Francisco. The Portsmouth, Commander Montgomery, is the only United States vessel of war now lying in the harbour. She is regarded as the finest vessel of her class belonging to our navy. By invitation of Lieutenant Bartlett, I went on board of her between ten and eleven o'clock. The crew and officers were assembled on deck to attend Divine service. They were all dressed with great neatness, and seemed to listen with deep attention to the Episcopal service and a sermon, which were read by Commander Montgomery, who is a member of the church. In the afternoon I walked to the summit of one of the elevated hills in the vicinity of the town, from which I had a view of the entrance to the bay of San Francisco and of the Pacific Ocean. A thick fog hung over the ocean outside of the bay. The deep roar of the eternally restless waves, as they broke one after another upon the beach, or dashed against the rock-bound shore, could be heard with great distinctness, although some five or six miles distant. The entrance from the ocean into the bay is about a mile and half in breadth. The waters of the bay appear to have forced a passage through the elevated ridge of hills next to the shore of the Pacific. These rise abruptly on either side of the entrance. The water at the entrance and inside is of sufficient depth to admit the largest ship that was ever constructed; and so completely land-locked and protected from the winds is the harbour, that vessels can ride at anchor in perfect safety in all kinds of weather. The capacity of the harbour is sufficient for the accommodation of all the navies of the world. The town of San Francisco is situated on the south side of the entrance, fronting on the bay, and about six miles from the ocean. The flow and ebb of the tide are sufficient to bring a vessel to the anchorage in front of the town and carry it outside, without the aid of wind, or even against an unfavourable wind. A more approachable harbour, or one of greater security, is unknown to navigators. The permanent population of the town is at this time between one and two hundred,[1] and is composed almost exclusively of foreigners. There are but two or three native Californian families in the place. The transient population, and at present it is quite numerous, consists of the garrison of marines stationed here, and the officers and crews attached to the merchant and whale ships lying in the harbour. The houses, with a few exceptions, are small adobes and frames, constructed without regard to architectural taste, convenience, or comfort. Very few of them have either chimneys or fire-places. The inhabitants contrive to live the year round without fires, except for cooking. The position of San Francisco for commerce is, without doubt, superior to any other port on the Pacific coast of North America. The country contiguous and contributory to it cannot be surpassed in fertility, healthfulness of climate, and beauty of scenery. It is capable of producing whatever is necessary to the sustenance of man, and many of the luxuries of tropical climates, not taking into the account the mineral wealth of the surrounding hills and mountains, which there is reason to believe is very great. This place is, doubtless, destined to become one of the largest and most opulent commercial cities in the world, and under American authority it will rise with astonishing rapidity. The principal merchants now established here are Messrs. Leidesdorff, Grimes and Davis, and Frank Ward, a young gentleman recently from New York. These houses carry on an extensive and profitable commerce with the interior, the Sandwich Islands, Oregon, and the southern coast of the Pacific. The produce of Oregon for exportation is flour, lumber, salmon, and cheese; of the Sandwich Islands, sugar, coffee, and preserved tropical fruits. California, until recently, has had no commerce, in the broad signification of the term. A few commercial houses of Boston and New York have monopolized all the trade on this coast for a number of years. These houses have sent out ships freighted with cargoes of dry goods and a variety of _knick-knacks_ saleable in the country. The ships are fitted up for the retail sale of these articles, and trade from port to port, vending their wares on board to the rancheros at prices that would be astonishing at home. For instance, the price of common brown cotton cloth is one dollar per yard, and other articles in this and even greater proportion of advance upon home prices. They receive in payment for their wares, hides and tallow. The price of a dry hide is ordinarily one dollar and fifty cents. The price of tallow I do not know. When the ship has disposed of her cargo, she is loaded with hides, and returns to Boston, where the hides bring about four or five dollars, according to the fluctuations of the market. Immense fortunes have been made by this trade; and between the government of Mexico and the traders on the coast California has been literally _skinned_, annually, for the last thirty years. Of natural wealth the population of California possess a superabundance, and are immensely rich; still, such have been the extortionate prices that they have been compelled to pay for their commonest artificial luxuries and wearing-apparel, that generally they are but indifferently provided with the ordinary necessaries of civilized life. For a suit of clothes, which in New York or Boston would cost seventy-five dollars, the Californian has been compelled to pay five times that sum in hides at one dollar and fifty cents; so that a _caballero_, to clothe himself genteelly, has been obliged, as often as he renewed his dress, to sacrifice about two hundred of the cattle on his rancho. No people, whether males or females, are more fond of display; no people have paid more dearly to gratify this vanity; and yet no civilized people I have seen are so deficient in what they most covet. [1] This was in September, 1846. In June, 1847, when I left San Francisco, on my return to the United States, the population had increased to about twelve hundred, and houses were rising in all directions. CHAPTER IV. Climate of San Francisco Periodical winds Dine on board the Portsmouth A supper party on shore Arrival of Commodore Stockton at San Francisco Rumours of rebellion from the south Californian court Trial by jury Fandango Californian belles American pioneers of the Pacific Reception of Commodore Stockton Sitca Captain Fremont leaves San Francisco for the south Offer our services as volunteers. From the 21st of September to the 13th of October I remained at San Francisco. The weather during this period was uniformly clear. The climate of San Francisco is peculiar and local, from its position. During the summer and autumnal months, the wind on this coast blows from the west and northwest, directly from the ocean. The mornings here are usually calm and pleasantly warm. About twelve o'clock M., the wind blows strong from the ocean, through the entrance of the bay, rendering the temperature cool enough for woollen clothing in midsummer. About sunset the wind dies away, and the evenings and nights are comparatively calm. In the winter months the wind blows in soft and gentle breezes from the south-east, and the temperature is agreeable, the thermometer rarely sinking below 50 deg. When the winds blow from the ocean, it never rains; when they blow from the land, as they do during the winter and spring months, the weather is showery, and resembles that of the month of May in the same latitude on the Atlantic coast. The coolness of the climate and briskness of the air above described are confined to particular positions on the coast, and the description in this respect is not applicable to the interior of the country, nor even to other localities immediately on the coast. On the 21st, by invitation of Captain Montgomery, I dined on board of the sloop-of-war Portsmouth. The party, including myself, consisted of Colonel Russell, Mr. Jacob, Lieutenant Bartlett, and a son of Captain M. There are few if any officers in our navy more highly and universally esteemed, for their moral qualities and professional merits, than Captain M. He is a sincere Christian, a brave officer, and an accomplished gentleman. Under the orders of Commodore Sloat, he first raised the American flag in San Francisco. We spent the afternoon most agreeably, and the refined hospitality, courteous manners, and intelligent and interesting conversation of our host made us regret the rapidly fleeting moments. The wines on the table were the produce of the vine of California, and, having attained age, were of an excellent quality in substance and flavour. I attended a supper-party given this evening by Mr. Frank Ward. The party was composed of citizens of the town, and officers of the navy and the merchant and whale ships in the harbour. In such a company as was here assembled, it was very difficult for me to realize that I was many thousand miles from, home, in a strange and foreign country. All the faces about me were American, and there was nothing in scene or sentiment to remind the guests of their remoteness from their native shores. Indeed, it seems to be a settled opinion, that California is henceforth to compose a part of the United States, and every American who is now here considers himself as treading upon his own soil, as much as if he were in one of the old thirteen revolutionary states. Song, sentiment, story, and wit heightened the enjoyments of the excellent entertainment of our host, and the jovial party did not separate until a late hour of the night. The guests, as may be supposed, were composed chiefly of gentlemen who had, from their pursuits, travelled over most of the world--had seen developments of human character under every variety of circumstance, and observed society, civilized, barbarous, and savage, in all its phases. Their conversation, therefore, when around the convivial board, possessed an unhackneyed freshness and raciness highly entertaining and instructive. On the 27th of September, the U.S. frigate Congress, Captain Livingston, bearing the broad pennant of Commodore Stockton, and the U.S. frigate Savannah, Captain Mervine, anchored in the harbour, having sailed from Monterey a day or two previously. The arrival of these large men-of-war produced an increase of the bustle in the small town. Blue coats and bright buttons (the naval uniform) became the prevailing costume at the billiard-rooms and other public places, and the plain dress of a private citizen might be regarded as a badge of distinction. On the 1st of October a courier arrived from the south with intelligence that the Californians at Los Angeles had organized a force and rebelled against the authority of the Americans--that they had also captured an American merchant-vessel lying at San Pedro, the port of the city of Angels, about thirty miles distant, and robbed it of a quantity of merchandise and specie. Whether this latter report was or was not true, I do not know--the former was correct. The frigate Savannah sailed for Los Angeles immediately. Among those American naval officers whose agreeable acquaintance I made at San Francisco, was Mr. James F. Schenck, first-lieutenant of the frigate Congress, brother of the distinguished member of congress from Ohio of that name,--a native of Dayton, Ohio,--a gentleman of intelligence, keen wit, and a most accomplished officer. The officers of our navy are our representatives in foreign countries, and they are generally such representatives as their constituents have reason to feel proud of. Their chivalry, patriotism, gentlemanlike deportment, and professional skill cannot be too much admired and applauded by their countrymen. I shall ever feel grateful to the naval officers of the Pacific squadron for their numerous civilities during my sojourn on the Pacific coast. Among the novelties presented while at San Francisco was a trial by jury--the second tribunal of this kind which had been organized in California. The trial look place before Judge Bartlett, and the litigants were two Mormons. Counsel was employed on both sides. Some of the forms of American judicial proceedings were observed, and many of the legal technicalities and nice flaws, so often urged in common-law courts, were here argued by the learned counsel of the parties, with a vehemence of language and gesticulation with which I thought the legal learning and acumen displayed did not correspond. The proceedings were a mixture, made up of common law, equity, and a sprinkling of military despotism--which last ingredient the court was compelled to employ, when entangled in the intricate meshes woven by the counsel for the litigants, in order to extricate itself. The jury, after the case was referred to them, were what is called "hung;" they could not agree, and the matters in issue, therefore, remained exactly where they were before the proceedings were commenced. I attended one evening a _fandango_ given by Mr. Ridley, an English gentleman, whose wife is a Californian lady. Several of the senoras and senoritas from the ranchos of the vicinity were present. The Californian ladies dance with much ease and grace. The waltz appears to be a favourite with them. Smoking is not prohibited in these assemblies, nor is it confined to the gentlemen. The _cigarita_ is freely used by the senoras and senoritas, and they puff it with much gusto while threading the mazes of the cotillion or swinging in the waltz. I had the pleasure of being introduced, at the residence of Mr. Leidesdorff, to two young ladies, sisters and belles in Alta California. They are members of an old and numerous family on the Contra Costa. Their names are singular indeed, for, if I heard them correctly, one of them was called Donna Maria Jesus, and the other Donna Maria Conception. They were interesting and graceful young ladies, with regular features, symmetrical figures, and their dark eyes flashed with all the intelligence and passion characteristic of Spanish women. Among the gentlemen with whom I met soon after my arrival at San Francisco, and whoso acquaintance I afterwards cultivated, were Mr. E. Grimes and Mr. N. Spear, both natives of Massachusetts, but residents of this coast and of the Pacific Islands, for many years. They may be called the patriarchs of American pioneers on the Pacific. After forming an acquaintance with Mr. G., if any one were to say to me that "Old Grimes is dead, that good old man," I should not hesitate to contradict him with emphasis; for he is still living, and possesses all the charities and virtues which can adorn human nature, with some of the eccentricities of his name-sake in the song. By leading a life of peril and adventure on the Pacific Ocean for fifty years he has accumulated a large fortune, and is a man now proverbial for his integrity, candour, and charities. Both of these gentlemen have been largely engaged in the local commerce of the Pacific. Mr. S., some twenty-five or thirty years ago, colonized one of the Cannibal Islands, and remained upon it with the colony for nearly two years. The attempt to introduce agriculture into the island was a failure, and the enterprise was afterwards abandoned. On the evening of the third of October, it having been announced that Commodore Stockton would land on the fifth, a public meeting of the citizens was called by the alcalde, for the purpose of adopting suitable arrangements for his reception, in his civic capacity as governor. The meeting was convened in the _plaza_ (Portsmouth Square). Colonel Russell was appointed chairman, and on motion of E. Bryant a committee was appointed to make all necessary and suitable arrangements for the reception of his excellency, Governor Stockton. The following account of this pageant I extract from the "California" newspaper of October 24th, 1846. "Agreeable to public notice, a large number of the citizens of San Francisco and vicinity assembled in Portsmouth Square for the purpose of meeting his excellency Robert F. Stockton, to welcome his arrival, and offer him the hospitalities of the city. At ten o'clock, a procession was formed, led by the Chief Marshal of the day, supported on either hand by two aids, followed by an excellent band of music--a military escort, under command of Captain J. Zeilen, U.S.M.C.--Captain John B. Montgomery and suite--Magistracy of the District, and the Orator of the day--Foreign Consuls--Captain John Paty, Senior Captain of the Hawanian Navy--Lieutenant-Commanding Ruducoff, Russian Navy, and Lieutenant-Commanding Bonnett, French Navy. The procession was closed by the Committee of Arrangements, captains of ships in port, and a long line of citizens. "General Mariano Guadaloupe Valléjo, with several others who had held office under the late government, took their appropriate place in the line. "The procession moved in fine style down Portsmouth Street to the landing, and formed a line in Water Street. The Governor-General landed from his barge, and was met on the wharf by Captain John B. Montgomery, U.S.N., Judge W.A. Bartlett, and Marshal of the day (Frank Ward), who conducted him to the front of the line, and presented him to the procession, through the orator of the day, Colonel Russell, who addressed the commodore." When the governor and commander-in-chief had closed his reply, the procession moved through the principal streets, and halted in front of Captain Leidesdorff's residence, where the governor and suite entered, and was presented to a number of ladies, who welcomed him to the shores of California. After which a large portion of the procession accompanied the governor, on horseback, to the mission of San Francisco Dolores, several miles in the country, and returned to an excellent collation prepared by the committee of arrangements, at the house of Captain Leidesdorff. After the cloth was removed, the usual number of regular toasts, prepared by the committee of arrangements, and numerous volunteer sentiments by the members of the company, were drunk with many demonstrations of enthusiasm, and several speeches were made. In response to a complimentary toast, Commodore Stockton made an eloquent address of an hour's length. The toasts given in English were translated into Spanish, and those given in Spanish were translated into English. A ball in honour of the occasion was given by the committee of arrangements in the evening, which was attended by all the ladies, native and foreign, in the town and vicinity, the naval officers attached to the three ships of war, and the captains of the merchant vessels lying in the harbour. So seductive were the festivities of the day and the pleasures of the dance, that they were not closed until a late hour of the night, or rather until an early hour in the morning. Among the numerous vessels of many nations at anchor in the harbour is a Russian brig from Sitca, the central port of the Russian-American Fur Company, on the northwestern coast of this continent. She is commanded by Lieutenant Ruducoff of the Russian navy, and is here to be freighted with wheat to supply that settlement with breadstuff. Sitca is situated in a high northern latitude, and has a population of some four or five thousand inhabitants. A large portion of these, I conjecture, are christianized natives or Indians. Many of the crew of this vessel are the aborigines of the country to which she belongs, and from which she last sailed. I noticed, however, from an inscription, that the brig was built at Newburyport, Massachusetts, showing that the autocrat of all the Russias is tributary, to some extent, to the free Yankees of New England for his naval equipment. On the 11th of October, by invitation of Lieutenant Ruducoff, in company of Mr. Jacob and Captain Leidesdorff, I dined on board this vessel. The Russian customs are in some respects peculiar. Soon after we reached the vessel and were shown into the cabin, a lunch was served up. This consisted of a variety of dried and smoked fish, pickled fish-roe, and other hyperborean pickles, the nature of which, whether animal or vegetable, I could not determine. Various wines and liquors accompanied this lunch, the discussion of which lasted until an Indian servant, a native of the north-pole, or thereabouts, announced dinner. We were then shown into a handsomely furnished dining-cabin, where the table was spread. The dinner consisted of several courses, some of which were peculiarly Russian or Sitcan, and I regret that my culinary knowledge is not equal to the task of describing them, for the benefit of epicures of a more southern region than the place of their invention. They were certainly very delightful to the palate. The afternoon glided away most agreeably. On the 12th of October, Captain Fremont, with a number of volunteers destined for the south, to co-operate with Commodore Stockton in the suppression of the reported rebellion at Los Angeles, arrived at San Francisco from the Sacramento. I had previously offered my services, and Mr. Jacob had done the same, to Commodore Stockton, as volunteers in this expedition, if they were necessary or desirable. They were now repeated. Although travellers in the country, we were American citizens, and we felt under obligation to assist in defending the flag of our country wherever it had been planted by proper authority. At this time we were given to understand that a larger force than was already organised was not considered necessary for the expedition. CHAPTER V. Leave San Francisco for Sonoma Sonoma creek "Bear men." Islands in the bay Liberality of "Uncle Sam" to sailors Sonoma Beautiful country General Valléjo Senora Valléjo Thomas O. Larkin, U.S. Consul Signs of rain The seasons in California More warlike rumours from the south Mission of San Rafael An Irish ranchero Sausolito Return to San Francisco Meet Lippincott Discomfort of Californian houses. _October 13_.--This morning the United States frigate Congress, Commodore Stockton, and the merchant-ship Sterling, employed to transport the volunteers under the command of Captain Fremont (one hundred and eighty in number), sailed for the south. The destination of these vessels was understood to be San Pedro or San Diego. While those vessels were leaving the harbour, accompanied by Mr. Jacob, I took passage for Sonoma in a cutter belonging to the sloop-of-war Portsmouth. Sonoma is situated on the northern side of the Bay of San Francisco, about 15 miles from the shore, and about 45 miles from the town of San Francisco. Sonoma creek is navigable for vessels of considerable burden to within four miles of the town. Among the passengers in the boat were Mr. Ide, who acted so conspicuous a part in what is called the "Bear Revolution," and Messrs. Nash and Grigsby, who were likewise prominent in this movement. The boat was manned by six sailors and a cockswain. We passed Yerba Buena, Bird, and several other small islands in the bay. Some of these are white, as if covered with snow, from the deposit upon them of bird-manure. Tens of thousands of wild geese, ducks, gulls, and other water-fowls, were perched upon them, or sporting in the waters of the bay, making a prodigious cackling and clatter with their voices and wings. By the aid of oars and sails we reached the mouth of Sonoma creek about 9 o'clock at night, where we landed and encamped on the low marsh which borders the bay on this side. The marshes contiguous to the Bay of San Francisco are extensive, and with little trouble I believe they could be reclaimed and transformed into valuable and productive rice plantations. Having made our supper on raw salt pork and bread generously furnished by the sailors, as soon as we landed, we spread our blankets on the damp and rank vegetation and slept soundly until morning. _October 14_.--Wind and tide being favourable, at daylight we proceeded up the serpentine creek, which winds through a flat and fertile plain, sometimes marshy, at others more elevated and dry, to the _embarcadero_, ten or twelve miles from the bay. We landed here between nine and ten o'clock, A.M. All the passengers, except ourselves, proceeded immediately to the town. By them we sent for a cart to transport our saddles, bridles, blankets, and other baggage, which we had brought with us. While some of the sailors were preparing breakfast, others, with their muskets, shot wild geese, with which the plain was covered. An excellent breakfast was prepared in a short time by our sailor companions, of which we partook with them. No benevolent old gentleman provides more bountifully for his servants than "Uncle Sam." These sailors, from the regular rations served out to them from their ship, gave an excellent breakfast, of bread, butter, coffee, tea, fresh beefsteaks, fried salt pork, cheese, pickles, and a variety of other delicacies, to which we had been unaccustomed for several months, and which cannot be obtained at present in this country. They all said that their rations were more than ample in quantity, and excellent in quality, and that no government was so generous in supplying its sailors as the government of the United States. They appeared to be happy, and contented with their condition and service, and animated with a patriotic pride for the honour of their country, and the flag under which they sailed. The open frankness and honest patriotism of these single-hearted and weather-beaten tars gave a spice and flavour to our entertainment which I shall not soon forget. From the _embarcadero_ we walked, under the influence of the rays of an almost broiling sun, four miles to the town of Sonoma. The plain, which lies between the landing and Sonoma, is timbered sparsely with evergreen oaks. The luxuriant grass is now brown and crisp. The hills surrounding this beautiful valley or plain are gentle, sloping, highly picturesque, and covered to their tops with wild oats. Reaching Sonoma, we procured lodgings in a large and half-finished adobe house, erected by Don Salvador Valléjo, but now occupied by Mr. Griffith, an American emigrant, originally from North Carolina. Sonoma is one of the old mission establishments of California; but there is now scarcely a mission building standing, most of them having fallen into shapeless masses of mud; and a few years will prostrate the roofless walls which are now standing. The principal houses in the place are the residences of Gen. Don Mariano Guadaloupe Valléjo; his brother-in-law, Mr. J.P. Leese, an American; and his brother, Don Salvador Valléjo. The quartel, a barn-like adobe house, faces the public square. The town presents a most dull and ruinous appearance; but the country surrounding it is exuberantly fertile, and romantically picturesque, and Sonoma, under American authority, and with an American population, will very soon become a secondary commercial point, and a delightful residence. Most of the buildings are erected around a _plaza_, about two hundred yards square. The only ornaments in this square are numerous skulls and dislocated skeletons of slaughtered beeves, with which hideous remains the ground is strewn. Cold and warm springs gush from the hills near the town, and supply, at all seasons, a sufficiency of water to irrigate any required extent of ground on the plain below. I noticed outside of the square several groves of peach and other fruit trees, and vineyards, which were planted here by the _padres_; but the walls and fences that once surrounded them are now fallen, or have been consumed for fuel; and they are exposed to the _mercies_ of the immense herds of cattle which roam over and graze upon the plain. _October 15_.--I do not like to trouble the reader with a frequent reference to the myriads of fleas and other vermin which infest the rancherias and old mission establishments in California; but, if any sinning soul ever suffered the punishments of purgatory before leaving its tenement of clay, those torments were endured by myself last night. When I rose from my blankets this morning, after a sleepless night, I do not think there was an inch square of my body that did not exhibit the inflammation consequent upon a puncture by a flea, or some other equally rabid and poisonous insect. Small-pox, erysipelas, measles, and scarlet-fever combined, could not have imparted to my skin a more inflamed and sanguineous appearance. The multitudes of these insects, however, have been generated by Indian filthiness. They do not disturb the inmates of those _casas_ where cleanliness prevails. Having letters of introduction to General Valléjo and Mr. Leese, I delivered them this morning. General Valléjo is a native Californian, and a gentleman of intelligence and taste far superior to most of his countrymen. The interior of his house presented a different appearance from any house occupied by native Californians which I have entered since I have been in the country. Every apartment, even the main entrance-hall and corridors, were scrupulously clean, and presented an air of comfort which I have not elsewhere seen in California. The parlour was furnished with handsome chairs, sofas, mirrors, and tables, of mahogany framework, and a fine piano, the first I have seen in the country. Several paintings and some superior engravings ornamented the walls. Senora Valléjo is a lady of charming personal appearance, and possesses in the highest degree that natural grace, ease, and warmth of manner which render Spanish ladies so attractive and fascinating to the stranger. The children, some five or six in number, were all beautiful and interesting. General V. is, I believe, strongly desirous that the United States shall retain and annex California. He is thoroughly disgusted with Mexican sway, which is fast sending his country backwards, instead of forwards, in the scale of civilization, and for years he has been desirous of the change which has now taken place. In the afternoon we visited the house of Mr. Leese, which is also furnished in American style. Mr. L. is the proprietor of a vineyard in the vicinity of the town, and we were regaled upon grapes as luscious, I dare say, as the forbidden fruit that provoked the first transgression. Nothing of the fruit kind can exceed the delicious richness and flavour, of the California grape. This evening Thomas O. Larkin, Esq., late United States Consul for California, arrived here, having left San Francisco on the same morning that we did, travelling by land. Mr. L. resides in Monterey, but I had the pleasure of an introduction to him at San Francisco several days previously to my leaving that place. Mr. L. is a native of Boston, and has been a resident in California for about fifteen years, during which time he has amassed a large fortune, and from the changes now taking place he is rapidly increasing it. He will probably be the first American millionnaire of California. _October 17_.--The last two mornings have been cloudy and cool. The rainy season, it is thought by the weather-wise in this climate, will set in earlier this year than usual. The periodical rains ordinarily commence about the middle of November. It is now a month earlier, and the meteorological phenomena portend "falling weather." The rains during the winter, in California, are not continuous, as is generally supposed. It sometimes rains during an entire day, without cessation, but most generally the weather is showery, with intervals of bright sunshine and a delightful temperature. The first rains of the year fall usually in November, and the last about the middle of May. As soon as the ground becomes moistened, the grass, and other hardy vegetation, springs up, and by the middle of December the landscape is arrayed in a robe of fresh verdure. The grasses grow through the entire winter, and most of them mature by the first of May. The season for sowing wheat commences as soon as the ground is sufficiently softened by moisture to admit of ploughing, and continues until March or April. We had made preparations this morning to visit a rancho, belonging to General Valléjo, in company with the general and Mr. Larkin. This rancho contains about eleven leagues of land, bordering upon a portion of the Bay of San Francisco, twenty-five or thirty miles distant from Sonoma. Just as we were about mounting our horses, however, a courier arrived from San Francisco with despatches from Captain Montgomery, addressed to Lieutenant Revere, the military commandant at this post, giving such intelligence in regard to the insurrection at the south, that we determined to return to San Francisco forthwith. Procuring horses, and accompanied by Mr. Larkin, we left Sonoma about two o'clock in the afternoon, riding at the usual California speed. After leaving Sonoma plain we crossed a ridge of hills, and entered the fertile and picturesque valley of Petaluma creek, which empties into the bay. General Valléjo has an extensive rancho in this valley, upon which he has recently erected, at great expense, a very large house. Architecture, however, in this country is in its infancy. The money expended in erecting this house, which presents to the eye no tasteful architectural attractions, would, in the United States, have raised a palace of symmetrical proportions, and adorned it with every requisite ornament. Large herds of cattle were grazing in this valley. From Petaluma valley we crossed a high rolling country, and reached the mission of San Rafael (forty-five miles) between seven and eight o'clock in the evening. San Rafael is situated two or three miles from the shore of the bay, and commands an extensive view of the bay and its islands. The mission buildings are generally in the same ruinous condition I have before described. We put up at the house of a Mr. Murphy, a scholastic Irish bachelor, who has been a resident of California for a number of years. His _casa_, when we arrived, was closed, and it was with some difficulty that we could gain admission. When, however, the occupant of the house had ascertained, from one of the loopholes of the building, who we were, the doors were soon unbarred and we were admitted, but not without many sallies of Irish wit, sometimes good-natured, and sometimes keenly caustic and ironical. We found a table spread with cold mutton and cold beef upon it. A cup of coffee was soon prepared by the Indian muchachos and muchachas, and our host brought out some scheidam and _aguardiénte_. A draught or two of these liquids seemed to correct the acidity of his humour, and he entertained us with his jokes and conversation several hours. _October 18_.--From San Rafael to Sausolito, opposite San Francisco on the north side of the entrance to the bay, it is five leagues (fifteen miles), generally over elevated hills and through deep hollows, the ascents and descents being frequently steep and laborious to our animals. Starting at half-past seven o'clock, we reached the residence of Captain Richardson, the proprietor of Sausolito, about nine o'clock in the morning. In travelling this distance we passed some temporary houses, erected by American emigrants on the mission lands, and the rancho of Mrs. Reed, a widow. We immediately hired a whale-boat from one of the ships, lying here, at two dollars for each passenger, and between ten and eleven o'clock we landed in San Francisco. I met, soon after my arrival, Mr. Lippincott, heretofore mentioned, who accompanied us a portion of the distance over the mountains; and Mr. Hastings, who, with Mr. Hudspeth, conducted a party of the emigrants from fort Bridger by the new route, _via_ the south end of the Salt Lake, to Mary's River. From Mr. Lippincott I learned the particulars of an engagement between a party of the emigrants (Captain West's company) and the Indians on Mary's River, which resulted, as has before been stated, in the death of Mr. Sallee and a dangerous arrow wound to Mr. L. He had now, however, recovered from the effects of the wound. The emigrants, who accompanied Messrs. Hastings and Hudspeth, or followed their trail, had all reached the valley of the Sacramento without any material loss or disaster. I remained at San Francisco from the 18th to the 22d of October. The weather during this time was sufficiently cool to render fires necessary to comfort in the houses; but fireplaces or stoves are luxuries which but few of the San Franciscans have any knowledge of, except in their kitchens. This deficiency, however, will soon be remedied. American settlers here will not build houses without chimneys. They would as soon plan a house without a door, or with the entrance upon its roof, in imitation of the architecture of the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico. CHAPTER VI. Boat trip up the bay and the Sacramento to New Helvetia An appeal to the alcalde Kanackas Straits of San Pueblo and Pedro Straits of Carquinez Town of Francisca Feather-beds furnished by nature Mouth of the Sacramento Islands Delaware Tom A man who has forgotten his mother tongue Salmon of the Sacramento Indian fishermen Arrive at New Helvetia. _October 22_.--Having determined to make a trip to Nueva Helvetia by water, for the purpose of examining more particularly the upper portion of the bay and the Sacramento river, in conjunction with Mr. Larkin, we chartered a small open sail-boat for the excursion. The charter, to avoid disputes, was regularly drawn and signed, with all conditions specified. The price to be paid for a certain number of passengers was thirty-two dollars, and demurrage at the rate of twenty-five cents per hour for all delays ordered by the charter-party, on the trip upwards to Nueva Helvetia. The boat was to be ready at the most convenient landing at seven o'clock this morning, but when I called at the place appointed, with our baggage, the boat was not there. In an hour or two the skipper was found, but refused to comply with his contract. We immediately laid our grievance before the alcalde, who, after reading the papers and hearing the statements on both sides, ordered the skipper to perform what he had agreed to perform, to which decision he reluctantly assented. In order to facilitate matters, I paid the costs of the action myself, although the successful litigant in the suit. We left San Francisco about two o'clock P.M., and, crossing the mouth of the bay, boarded a Mexican schooner, a prize captured by the U.S. sloop-of-war Cyane, Captain Dupont, which had entered the bay this morning and anchored in front of Sausolito. The prize is commanded by Lieutenant Renshaw, a gallant officer of our navy. Our object in boarding the schooner was to learn the latest news, but she did not bring much. We met on board the schooner Lieutenant Hunter of the Portsmouth, a chivalrous officer, and Lieutenant Ruducoff, commanding the Russian brig previously mentioned, whose vessel, preparatory to sailing, was taking in water at Sausolito. Accepting of his pressing invitation, we visited the brig, and took a parting glass of wine with her gallant and gentlemanly commander. About five o'clock P.M., we proceeded on our voyage. At eight o'clock a dense fog hung over the bay, and, the ebb-tide being adverse to our progress, we were compelled to find a landing for our small and frail craft. This was not an easy matter, in the almost impenetrable darkness. As good-luck would have it, however, after we had groped about for some time, a light was discovered by our skipper. He rowed the boat towards it, but grounded. Hauling off, he made another attempt with better success, reaching within hailing distance of the shore. The light proceeded from a camp-fire of three Kanacka (Sandwich island) runaway sailors. As soon as they ascertained who we were and what we wanted, they stripped themselves naked, and, wading through the mud and water to the boat, took us on their shoulders, and carried us high and dry to the land. The boat, being thus lightened of her burden, was rowed farther up, and landed. The natives of the Sandwich islands (Kanackas, as they are called) are, without doubt, the most expert watermen in the world. Their performances in swimming and diving are so extraordinary, that they may almost be considered amphibious in their natures and instincts. Water appears to be as much their natural element as the land. They have straight black hair, good features, and an amiable and intelligent expression of countenance. Their complexion resembles that of a bright mulatto; and, in symmetrical proportions and muscular developments, they will advantageously compare with any race of men I have seen. The crews of many of the whale and merchant ships on this coast are partly composed of Kanackas, and they are justly esteemed as most valuable sailors. _October 23_.--The damp raw weather, auguring the near approach of the autumnal rains, continues. A drizzling mist fell on us during the night, and the clouds were not dissipated when we resumed our voyage this morning. Passing through the straits of San Pablo and San Pedro, we entered a division of the bay called the bay of San Pablo. Wind and tide being in our favour, we crossed this sheet of water, and afterwards entered and passed through the Straits of _Carquinez_. At these straits the waters of the bay are compressed within the breadth of a mile, for the distance of about two leagues. On the southern side the shore is hilly, and _canoned_ in some places. The northern shore is gentle, the hills and table-land sloping gradually down to the water. We landed at the bend of the Straits of _Carquinez_, and spent several hours in examining the country and soundings on the northern side. There is no timber here. The soil is covered with a growth of grass and white oats. The bend of the Straits of Carquinez, on the northern side, has been thought to be a favourable position for a commercial town. It has some advantages and some disadvantages, which it would be tedious for me now to detail. [Subsequently to this my first visit here, a town of extensive dimensions has been laid off by Gen. Valléjo and Mr. Semple, the proprietors, under the name of "Francisca." It fronts for two or three miles on the "_Soeson_," the upper division of the Bay of San Francisco, and the Straits of Carquinez. A ferry has also been established, which crosses regularly from shore to shore, conveying travellers over the bay. I crossed, myself and horses, here in June, 1847, when on my return to the United States. Lots had then been offered to settlers on favourable conditions, and preparations, I understand, were making for the erection of a number of houses.] About sunset we resumed our voyage. The Wind having lulled, we attempted to stem the adverse tide by the use of oars, but the ebb of the tide was stronger than the propelling force of our oars. Soon, in spite of all our exertions, we found ourselves drifting rapidly backwards, and, after two or three hours of hard labour in the dark, we were at last so fortunate as to effect a landing in a cove on the southern side of the straits, having retrograded several miles. In the cove there is a small sandy beach, upon which the waves have drifted, and deposited a large quantity of oat-straw, and feathers shed by the millions of water-fowls which sport upon the bay. On this downy deposit furnished by nature we spread our blankets, and slept soundly. _October 24_.--We proceeded on our voyage at daylight, coasting along the southern shore of the _Soeson_. About nine o'clock we landed on a marshy plain, and cooked breakfast. A range of mountains bounds this plain, the base of which is several miles from the shore of the bay. These mountains, although of considerable elevation, exhibit signs of fertility to their summits. On the plain, numerous herds of wild cattle were grazing. About two o'clock, P.M., we entered the mouth of the Sacramento. The Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers empty into the Bay of San Francisco at the same point, about sixty miles from the Pacific, and by numerous mouths or _sloughs_ as they are here called. These sloughs wind through an immense timbered swamp, and constitute a terraqueous labyrinth of such intricacy, that unskilful and inexperienced navigators have been lost for many days in it, and some, I have been told, have perished, never finding their way out. A range of low sloping hills approach the Sacramento a short distance above its mouth, on the left-hand side as you ascend, and run parallel with the stream several miles. The banks of the river, and several large islands which we passed during the day, are timbered with sycamore, oak, and a variety of smaller trees and shrubbery. Numerous grape-vines, climbing over the trees, and loaded down with a small and very acid fruit, give to the forest a tangled appearance. The islands of the Sacramento are all low, and subject to overflow in the spring of the year. The soil of the river bottom, including the islands, is covered with rank vegetation, a certain evidence of its fertility. The water, at this season, is perfectly limpid, and, although the tide ebbs and flows more than a hundred miles above the mouth of the river, it is fresh and sweet. The channel of the Sacramento is remarkably free from snags and other obstructions to navigation. A more beautiful and placid stream of water I never saw. At twelve o'clock at night, the ebb-tide being so strong that we found ourselves drifting backwards, with some difficulty we effected a landing on one of the islands, clearing a way through the tangled brush and vines with our hatchets and knives. Lighting a fire, we bivouacked until daylight. _October 25_.--Continuing our voyage, we landed, about nine o'clock, A.M., at an Indian _rancheria_, situated on the bank of the river. An old Indian, his wife, and two or three children, were all the present occupants of this _rancheria_. The woman was the most miserable and emaciated object I ever beheld. She was probably a victim of the "sweat-house." Surrounding the _rancheria_ were two or three acres of ground, planted with maize, beans, and melons. Purchasing a quantity of water and musk-melons, we re-embarked and pursued our voyage. As we ascended the stream, the banks became more elevated, the country on both sides opening into vast savannas, dotted occasionally with parks of evergreen oak. The tide turning against us again about eleven or twelve o'clock, we landed at an encampment of Walla-Walla Indians, a portion of the party previously referred to, and reported to have visited California for hostile purposes. Among them was a Delaware Indian, known as "Delaware Tom," who speaks English as fluently as any Anglo-Saxon, and is a most gallant and honourable Indian. Several of the party, a majority of whom were women and children, were sick with chills and fever. The men were engaged in hunting and jerking deer and elk meat. Throwing our hooks, baited with fresh meat, into the river, we soon drew out small fish enough for dinner. The specimens of Walla-Wallas at this encampment are far superior to the Indians of California in features, figure, and intelligence. Their complexion is much lighter, and their features more regular, expressive, and pleasing. Men and women were clothed in dressed skins. The men were armed with rifles. At sunset we put our little craft in motion again, and at one o'clock at night landed near the cabin of a German emigrant named Schwartz, six miles below the _embarcadero_ of New Helvetia. The cabin is about twenty feet in length by twelve in breadth, constructed of a light rude frame, shingled with _tule_. After gaining admission, we found a fire blazing in the centre of the dwelling on the earth-floor, and suspended over us were as many salmon, taken from the Sacramento, as could be placed in position to imbibe the preservative qualities of the smoke. Our host, Mr. Schwartz, is one of those eccentric human phenomena rarely met with, who, wandering from their own nation into foreign countries, forget their own language without acquiring any other. He speaks a tongue (language it cannot be called) peculiar to himself, and scarcely intelligible. It is a mixture, in about equal parts, of German, English, French, Spanish, and _rancheria_ Indian, a compounded polyglot or lingual _pi_--each syllable of a word sometimes being derived from a different language. Stretching ourselves on the benches surrounding the fire, so as to avoid the drippings from the pendent salmon, we slept until morning. _October 26_.--Mr. Schwartz provided us with a breakfast of fried salmon and some fresh milk. Coffee, sugar, and bread we brought with us, so that we enjoyed a luxurious repast. Near the house was a shed containing some forty or fifty barrels of pickled salmon, but the fish, from their having been badly put up, were spoiled. Mr. Schwartz attempted to explain the particular causes of this, but I could not understand him. The salmon are taken with seines dragged across the channel of the river by Indians in canoes. On the bank of the river the Indians were eating their breakfast, which consisted of a large fresh salmon, roasted in the ashes or embers, and a kettle of _atole_, made of acorn-meal. The salmon was four or five feet in length, and, when taken out of the fire and cut open, presented a most tempting appearance. The Indians were all nearly naked, and most of them, having been wading in the water at daylight to set their seines, were shivering with the cold whilst greedily devouring their morning meal. We reached the _embarcadero_ of New Helvetia about eleven o'clock, A.M., and, finding there a wagon, we placed our baggage in it, and walked to the fort, about two and a half miles. CHAPTER VII. Disastrous news from the south Return of Colonel Fremont to Monterey Call for volunteers Volunteer our services Leave New Helvetia Swimming the Sacramento First fall of rain Beautiful and romantic valley Precipitous mountains Deserted house Arable land of California Fattening qualities of the acorn Lost in the Coast Mountains Strange Indians Indian women gathering grass-seed for bread Indian guide Laguna Rough dialogue Hunters' camp "Old Greenwood" Grisly bear meat Greenwood's account of himself His opinion of the Indians and Spaniards Retrace our steps Severe storm Nappa valley Arrive at Sonoma More rain Arrive at San Francisco Return to New Helvetia. I remained at the fort from the 27th to the 30th of October. On the 28th, Mr. Reed, whom I have before mentioned as belonging to the rear emigrating party, arrived here. He left his party on Mary's River, and in company with one man crossed the desert and the mountains. He was several days without provisions, and, when he arrived at Johnson's, was so much emaciated and exhausted by fatigue and famine, that he could scarcely walk. His object was to procure provisions immediately, and to transport them with pack-mules over the mountains for the relief of the suffering emigrants behind. He had lost all of his cattle, and had been compelled to _cache_ two of his wagons and most of his property. Captain Sutter generously furnished the requisite quantity of mules and horses, with Indian vaqueros, and jerked meat and flour. This is the second expedition for the relief of the emigrants he has fitted out since our arrival in the country. Ex-governor Boggs and family reached Sutter's Fort to-day. On the evening of the 28th, a courier arrived with letters from Colonel Fremont, now at Monterey. The substance of the intelligence received by the courier was, that a large force of Californians (varying, according to different reports, from five to fifteen hundred strong) had met the marines and sailors, four hundred strong, under the command of Captain Mervine, of the U.S. frigate Savannah, who had landed at San Pedro for the purpose of marching to Los Angeles, and had driven Captain Mervine and his force back to the ship, with the loss, in killed, of six men. That the towns of Angeles and Santa Barbara had been taken by the insurgents, and the American garrisons there had either been captured or had made their escape by retreating. What had become of them was unknown.[2] Colonel Fremont, who I before mentioned had sailed with a party of one hundred and eighty volunteers from San Francisco to San Pedro, or San Diego, for the purpose of co-operating with Commodore Stockton, after having been some time at sea, had put into Monterey and landed his men, and his purpose now was to increase his force and mount them, and to proceed by land for Los Angeles. [2] The garrison under Captain Gillespie, at Los Angeles, capitulated. The garrison at Santa Barbara, under Lieutenant Talbot, marched out in defiance of the enemy, and after suffering many hardships arrived in safety at Monterey. On the receipt of this intelligence, I immediately drew up a paper, which was signed by myself, Messrs Reed, Jacob, Lippincott, and Grayson, offering our services as volunteers, and our exertions to raise a force of emigrants and Indians which would be a sufficient reinforcement to Colonel Fremont. This paper was addressed to Mr. Kern, the commandant of Fort Sacramento, and required his sanction. The next morning (29th) he accepted of our proposal, and the labour of raising the volunteers and of procuring the necessary clothing and supplies for them and the Indians was apportioned. It commenced raining on the night of the twenty-eighth, and the rain fell heavily and steadily until twelve o'clock, P.M., on the twenty-ninth. This is the first fall of rain since March last. About one o'clock, P.M., the clouds cleared away and the weather and temperature were delightful. About twelve o'clock, on the 30th, accompanied by Mr. Grayson, I left New Helvetia. We crossed the Sacramento at the _embarcadero_, swimming our horses, and passing ourselves over in a small canoe. The method of swimming horses over so broad a stream as the Sacramento is as follows. A light canoe or "dug-out" is manned by three persons, one at the bow one at the stern and one in the centre; those at the bow and stern have paddles, and propel and steer the craft. The man in the centre holds the horses one on each side, keeping their heads out of water. When the horses are first forced into the deep water, they struggle prodigiously, and sometimes upset the canoe; but, when the canoe gets fairly under way, they cease their resistance, but snort loudly at every breath to clear their mouths and nostrils of the water. Proceeding ten miles over a level plain, we overtook a company of emigrants bound for Nappa valley, and encamped with them for the night on Puta creek, a tributary of the Sacramento. Five of the seven or eight men belonging to the company enrolled their names as volunteers. The grass on the western side of the Sacramento is very rank and of an excellent quality. It commenced raining about two o'clock on the morning of the 31st, and continued to rain and mist all day. We crossed from Puta to Cache creek, reaching the residence of Mr. Gordon (25 miles) about three o'clock P.M. Here we enrolled several additional emigrants in our list of volunteers, and then travelled fifteen miles up the creek to a small log-house, occupied temporarily by some of the younger members of the family of Mr. Gordon, who emigrated from Jackson county, Mo., this year, and by Mrs. Grayson. Here we remained during the night, glad to find a shelter and a fire, for we were drenched to our skins. On the morning of the 1st of November the sun shone out warm and pleasant. The birds were singing, chattering, and flitting from tree to tree, through the romantic and picturesque valley where we had slept during the night. The scenery and its adjuncts were so charming and enticing that I recommenced my travels with reluctance. No scenery can be more beautiful than that of the small valleys of California. Ascending the range of elevated mountains which border the Cache creek, we had a most extensive view of the broad plain of the Sacramento, stretching with islands and bells of limber far away to the south as the eye could penetrate. The gorges and summits of these mountains are timbered with largo pines, firs, and cedars, with a smaller growth of magnolias, manzanitas, hawthorns, etc., etc. Travelling several miles over a level plateau, we descended into a beautiful valley, richly carpeted with grass and timbered with evergreen oak. Proceeding across this three or four miles, we rose another range of mountains, and, travelling a league along the summit ridge, we descended through a crevice in a sleep rocky precipice, just sufficient in breadth to admit the passage of our animals. Our horses were frequently compelled to slide or leap down nearly perpendicular rocks or stairs, until we finally, just after sunset, reached the bottom of the mountain, and found ourselves in another level and most fertile and picturesque valley. We knew that in this valley, of considerable extent, there was a house known as "Barnett's," where we expected to find quarters for the night. There were numerous trails of cattle, horses, deer, and other wild animals, crossing each other in every direction through the live oak-timber. We followed on the largest of the cattle trails until it became so blind that we could not see it. Taking another, we did the same, and the result was the same; another and another with no better success. We then shouted so loud that our voices were echoed and re-echoed by the surrounding mountains, hoping, if there were any inhabitants in the valley, that they would respond to us. There was no response--all was silent when the sound of our voices died away in the gorges and ravines; and at ten o'clock at night we encamped under the wide-spreading branches of an oak, having travelled about 40 miles. Striking a fire and heaping upon it a large quantity of wood, which blazed brightly, displaying the Gothic shapes of the surrounding oaks, we picketed our animals, spread our blankets, and slept soundly. It rained several hours during the night, and in the morning a dense fog filled the valley. Saddling our animals, we searched along the foot of the next range of mountains for a trail, but could find none. Returning to our camp, we proceeded up the valley, and struck a trail, by following which two miles, we came to the house (Barnett's). The door was ajar, and entering the dwelling we found it tenantless. The hearth was cold, and the ashes in the jambs of the large fire-place were baked. In the corners of the building there were some frames, upon which beds had been once spread. The house evidently had been abandoned by its former occupants for some time. The prolific mothers of several families of the swinish species, with their squealing progenies, gathered around us, in full expectation, doubtless, of the dispensation of an extra ration, which we had not to give. Having eaten nothing but a crust of bread for 24 hours, the inclination of our appetites was strong to draw upon them for a ration; but for old acquaintance' sake, and because they were the foreshadowing of the "manifest destiny," they were permitted to pass without molestation. There were two or three small inclosures near the house, where corn and wheat had been planted and harvested this year; but none of the product of the harvest could be found in the empty house, or on the place. Dismounting from our horses at a limpid spring-branch near the house, we slaked our thirst, and made our hydropathical breakfast from its cool and delicious water. Although the trail of the valley did not run in our course, still, under the expectation that it would soon take another direction, we followed it, passing over a fertile soil, sufficiently timbered and watered by several small streams. The quantity of arable land in California, I believe, is much greater than has generally been supposed from the accounts of the country given by travellers who have visited only the parts on the Pacific, and some few of the missions. Most of the mountain valleys between the Sierra Nevada and the coast are exuberantly fertile, and finely watered, and will produce crops of all kinds, while the hills are covered with oats and grass of the most nutritious qualities, for the sustenance of cattle, horses, and hogs. The acorns which fall from the oaks are, of themselves, a rich annual product for the fattening of hogs; and during the period of transition (four or five weeks after the rains commence falling) from the dry grass to the fresh growth, horses, mules, and even horned cattle mostly subsist and fatten upon these large and oleaginous nuts. We left the valley in a warm and genial sunshine, about 11 o'clock, and commenced ascending another high mountain, timbered as those I have previously described. When we reached the summit, we were enveloped in clouds, and the rain was falling copiously, and a wintry blast drove the cold element to our skins. Crossing this mountain three or four miles, we descended its sleep sides, and entered another beautiful and romantic hollow, divided as it were into various apartments by short ranges of low conical hills, covered to their summits with grass and wild oats. The grass and other vegetation on the level bottom are very rank, indicating a soil of the most prolific qualities. In winding through this valley, we met four Indians on foot, armed with long bows, and arrows of corresponding weight and length, weapons that I have not previously seen among the Indians. Their complexions were lighter than those of the _rancheria_ Indians of California. They evidently belonged to some more northern tribe. We stopped them to make inquiries, but they seemed to know nothing of the country, nor could we learn from them from whence they came or where they were going. They were clothed in dressed skins, and two of them were highly rouged. Ascending and descending gradually over some low hills, we entered another circular valley, through which flows a stream, the waters of which, judging from its channel, at certain seasons are broad and deep. The ground, from the rains that have recently fallen and are now falling, is very soft, and we had difficulty in urging our tired animals across this valley. We soon discovered fresh cattle signs, and afterwards a large herd grazing near the stream. Farther on, we saw five old and miserably emaciated Indian women, gathering grass-seed for bread. This process is performed with two baskets, one shaped like a round shield, and the other having a basin and handle. With the shield the lop of the grass is brushed, and the seed by the motion is thrown into the deep basket held in the other hand. The five women appeared at a distance like so many mowers cutting down the grass of a meadow. These women could give us no satisfaction in response to inquiries, but pointed over the river indicating that we should there find the _casa_ and _rancheria_. They then continued their work with as much zeal and industry as if their lives were dependent upon the proceeds of their labour, and I suppose they were. Crossing the river, we struck a trail which led us to the _casa_ and _rancheria_, about two miles distant. The _casa_ was a small adobe building, about twelve feet square, and was locked up. Finding that admission was not to be gained here, we hailed at the _rancheria_, and presently some dozen squalid and naked men, women, and children, made their appearance. We inquired for the _mayor domo_, or overseer. The chief speaker signified that he was absent, and that he did not expect hint to return until several suns rose and set. We then signified we were hungry, and very soon a loaf made of pulverized acorns, mingled with wild fruit of some kind, was brought to us with a basket of water. These Indians manufacture small baskets which are impervious to water, and they are used as basins to drink from, and for other purposes. I knew that we had been travelling out of our course all day, and it was now three o'clock, P.M. Rain and mist had succeeded each other, and the sun was hidden from us by dark and threatening masses of clouds. We had no compass with us, and could not determine the course to Nappa Valley or Sonoma. Believing that the Indian would have some knowledge of the latter place, we made him comprehend that we wished to go there, and inquired the route. He pointed in a direction which he signified would take us to Sonoma. We pointed in another course, which it seemed to us was the right one. But he persisted in asserting that he was right. After some further talk, for the shirt on my back he promised to guide us, and, placing a ragged skin on one of our horses, he mounted the animal and led the way over the next range of hills. The rain soon poured down so hard upon the poor fellow's bare skin, that he begged permission to return, to which we would not consent; but, out of compassion to him, I took off my over-coat, with which he covered his swarthy hide, and seemed highly delighted with the shelter from the pitiless storm it afforded him, or with the supposition that I intended to present it to him. Crossing several elevated and rocky hills, just before sunset, we had a view of a large timbered valley and a sheet of water, the extent of which we could not compass with the eye, on account of the thickness of the atmosphere. When we came in sight of the water, the Indian uttered various exclamations of pleasure; and, although I had felt but little faith in him as a pilot from the first, I began now to think that we were approaching the Bay of San Francisco. Descending into the valley, we travelled along a small stream two or three miles, and were continuing on in the twilight, when we heard the tinkling of a cow-bell on the opposite side of the stream. Certain, from this sound, that there must be an encampment near, I halted and hallooed at the top of my voice. The halloo called forth a similar response, with an interrogation in English, "Who the d----l are you--Spaniards or Americans?" "Americans." "Show yourselves, then, d----n you, and let us see the colour of your hide," was the answer. "Tell us where we can cross the stream, and you shall soon see us," was our reply. "Ride back and follow the sound of my voice, and be d----d to you, and you can cross the stream with a deer's jump." Accordingly, following the sound of the voice of this rough colloquist, who shouted repeatedly, we rode back in the dark several hundred yards, and, plunging into the stream, the channel of which was deep, we gained the other side, where we found three men standing ready to receive us. We soon discovered them to be a party of professional hunters, or trappers, at the head of which was Mr. Greenwood, a famed mountaineer, commonly known as "Old Greenwood." They invited us to their camp, situated across a small opening in the timber about half a mile distant. Having unsaddled our tired animals and turned them loose to graze for the night, we placed our baggage under the cover of a small tent, and, taking our seats by the huge camp fire, made known as far as was expedient our business. We soon ascertained that we had ridden the entire day (about 40 miles) directly out of our course to Nappa Valley and Sonoma, and that the Indian's information was all wrong. We were now near the shore of a large lake, called the _Laguna_ by Californians, some fifty or sixty miles in length, which lake is situated about sixty or seventy miles north of the Bay of San Francisco; consequently, to-morrow we shall be compelled to retrace our steps and find the trail that leads from Harriett's house to Nappa, which escaped us this morning. We received such directions, however, from Mr. Greenwood, that we could not fail to find it. We found in the camp, much to our gratification after a long fast, an abundance of fat grisly bear-meat and the most delicious and tender deer-meat. The camp looked like a butcher's stall. The pot filled with bear-flesh was boiled again and again, and the choice pieces of the tender venison were roasting, and disappearing with singular rapidity for a long time. Bread there was none of course. Such a delicacy is unknown to the mountain trappers, nor is it much desired by them. The hunting party consisted of Mr. Greenwood, Mr. Turner, Mr. Adams, and three sons of Mr. G., one grown, and the other two boys 10 or 12 years of age, half-bred Indians, the mother being a Crow. One of these boys is named "Governor Boggs," after ex-governor Boggs of Missouri, an old friend of the father. Mr. Greenwood, or "Old Greenwood," as he is familiarly called, according to his own statement, is 83 years of age, and has been a mountain trapper between 40 and 50 years. He lived among the Crow Indians, where he married his wife, between thirty and forty years. He is about six feet in height, raw-boned and spare in flesh, but muscular, and, notwithstanding his old age, walks with all the erectness and elasticity of youth. His dress was of tanned buckskin, and from its appearance one would suppose its antiquity to be nearly equal to the age of its wearer. It had probably never been off his body since he first put it on. "I am," said he, "an old man--eighty-three years--it is a long time to live;--eighty-three years last--. I have seen all the Injun varmints of the Rocky Mountains,--have fout them--lived with them. I have many children--I don't know how many, they are scattered; but my wife was a Crow. The Crows are a brave nation,--the bravest of all the Injuns; they fight like the white man; they don't kill you in the dark like the Black-foot varmint, and then take your scalp and run, the cowardly reptiles. Eighty-three years last----; and yet old Greenwood could handle the rifle as well as the best on 'em, but for this infernal humour in my eyes, caught three years ago in bringing the emigrators over the _de_-sart." (A circle of scarlet surrounded his weeping eyeballs.) "I can't see jist now as well as I did fifty years ago, but I can always bring the game or the slinking and skulking Injun. I have jist come over the mountains from Sweetwater with the emigrators as pilot, living upon bacon, bread, milk, and sich like mushy stuff. It don't agree with me; it never will agree with a man of my age, eighty-three last ----; that is a long time to live. I thought I would take a small hunt to get a little exercise for my old bones, and some good fresh meat. The grisly bear, fat deer, and poultry and fish--them are such things as a man should eat. I came up here, where I knew there was plenty. I was here twenty years ago, before any white man see this lake and the rich land about it. It's filled with big fish. That's beer-springs here, better than them in the Rocky Mountains; thar's a mountain of solid brimstone, and thar's mines of gold and silver, all of which I know'd many years ago, and I can show them to you if you will go with me in the morning. These black-skinned Spaniards have rebelled again. Wall, they can make a fuss, d--m 'em, and have revolutions every year, but they can't fight. It's no use to go after 'em, unless when you ketch 'em you kill 'em. They won't stand an' fight like men, an' when they can't fight longer give up; but the skared varmints run away and then make another fuss, d--m 'em." Such was the discourse of our host. The camp consisted of two small tents, which had probably been obtained from the emigrants. They were pitched so as to face each other, and between them there was a large pile of blazing logs. On the trees surrounding the camp were stretched the skins of various animals which had been killed in the hunt; some preserved for their hides, others for the fur. Bear-meat and venison enough for a winter's supply were hanging from the limbs. The swearing of Turner, a man of immense frame and muscular power, during our evening's conversation, was almost terrific. I had heard mountain swearing before, but his went far beyond all former examples. He could do all the swearing for our army in Mexico, and then have a surplus. The next morning (Nov. 3rd), after partaking of a hearty breakfast, and suspending from our saddles a sufficient supply of venison and bear-meat for two days' journey, we started back on our own trail. We left our miserable Indian pilot at his _rancheria_. I gave him the shirt from my back, out of compassion for his sufferings--he well deserved a _dressing_ of another kind. It rained all day, and, when we reached Barnett's (the empty house) after four o'clock, P.M., the black masses of clouds which hung over the valley portended a storm so furious, that we thought it prudent to take shelter under a roof for the night. Securing our animals in one of the inclosures, we encamped in the deserted dwelling. The storm soon commenced, and raged and roared with a fierceness and strength rarely witnessed. The hogs and pigs came squealing about the door for admission; and the cattle and horses in the valley, terrified by the violence of elemental battle, ran backwards and forwards, bellowing and snorting. In comfortable quarters, we roasted and enjoyed our bear-meat and venison, and left the wind, rain, lightning, and thunder to play their pranks as best suited them, which they did all night. On the morning of the fourth, we found the trail described to us by Mr. Greenwood, and, crossing a ridge of mountains, descended into the valley of Nappa creek, which empties into the Bay of San Francisco just below the Straits of Carquinez. This is a most beautiful and fertile valley, and is already occupied by several American settlers. Among the first who established themselves here is Mr. Yount, who soon after erected a flouring-mill and saw-mill. These have been in operation several years. Before reaching Mr. Yount's settlement we passed a saw-mill more recently erected, by Dr. Bale. There seems to be an abundance of pine and red-wood (a species of fir), in the _canadas_. No lumber can be superior for building purposes than that sawed from the red-wood. The trees are of immense size, straight, free from knots and twists, and the wood is soft, and easily cut with plane and saw. Arriving at the residence of Dr. Bale, in Nappa Valley, we were hospitably entertained by him with a late breakfast of coffee, boiled eggs, steaks, and _tortillas_, served up in American style. Leaving Nappa, after travelling down it some ten or twelve miles, we crossed another range of hills or mountains, and reached Sonoma after dark, our clothing thoroughly drenched with the rain, which, with intermissions, had fallen the whole day. I put up at the same quarters as when here before. The house was covered with a dilapidated thatch, and the rain dripped through it, not leaving a dry spot on the floor of the room where we slept. But there was an advantage in this--the inundation of water had completely discomfited the army of fleas that infested the building when we were here before. It rained incessantly on the fifth. Col. Russell arrived at Sonoma early in the morning, having arrived from San Francisco last night. Procuring a boat belonging to Messrs. Howard and Mellus, lying at the _embarcadero_, I left for San Francisco, but, owing to the storm and contrary winds, did not arrive there until the morning of the seventh, being two nights and a day in the creek, and _churning_ on the bay. Purchasing a quantity of clothing, and other supplies for volunteers, I sailed early on the morning of the eighth for New Helvetia, in a boat belonging to the sloop-of-war Portsmouth, manned by U.S. sailors, under the command of Midshipman Byres, a native of Maysville, Ky. We encamped that night at the head of "Soeson," having sailed about fifty miles in a severe storm of wind and rain. The waves frequently dashed entirely over our little craft. The rain continued during the ninth, and we encamped at night about the mouth of the Sacramento. On the night of the tenth we encamped at "Meritt's camp," the rain still falling, and the river rising rapidly, rendering navigation up-stream impossible, except with the aid of the tide. On the night of the eleventh we encamped fifteen miles below New Helvetia, still raining. On the morning of the twelfth the clouds cleared away, and the sun burst out warm and spring-like. After having been exposed to the rain for ten or twelve days, without having the clothing upon me once dry, the sight of the sun, and the influence of his beams, were cheering and most agreeable. We arrived at New Helvetia about twelve o'clock. CHAPTER VIII. Leave New Helvetia Pleasant weather Meet Indian volunteers Tule boats Engagement between a party of Americans and Californians Death of Capt. Burroughs and Capt. Foster Capture of Thomas O. Larkin Reconnaissance San Juan Bautista Neglect of the dead Large herds of Cattle Join Col. Fremont. On my arrival at New Helvetia, I found there Mr. Jacob. Mr. Reed had not yet returned from the mountains. Nothing had been heard from Mr. Lippincott, or Mr. Grayson, since I left the latter at Sonoma. An authorized agent of Col. Fremont had arrived at the fort the day that I left it, with power to take the _caballada_ of public horses, and to enroll volunteers for the expedition to the south. He had left two or three days before my arrival, taking with him all the horses and trappings suitable for service, and all the men who had previously _rendezvoused_ at the fort, numbering about sixty, as I understood. At my request messengers were sent by Mr. Kern, commandant of the fort, and by Captain Sutter, to the Indian chiefs on the San Joaquin River and its tributaries, to meet me at the most convenient points on the trail, with such warriors of their tribes as chose to volunteer as soldiers of the United States, and perform military service during the campaign. I believed that they would be useful as scouts and spies. On the 14th and 15th eight men (emigrants who had just arrived in the country, and had been enrolled at Johnson's settlement by Messrs. Reed and Jacob) arrived at the fort; and on the morning of the 16th, with these, we started to join Colonel Fremont, supposed to be at Monterey; and we encamped at night on the Cosçumne River. The weather is now pleasant. We are occasionally drenched with a shower of rain, after which the sun shines warm and bright; the fresh grass is springing up, and the birds sing and chatter in the groves and thickets as we pass through them. I rode forward, on the morning of the 17th, to the Mickelemes River (twenty-five miles from the Cosçumne), where I met Antonio, an Indian chief, with twelve warriors, who had assembled hero for the purpose of joining us. The names of the warriors were as follows;--Santiago, Masua, Kiubu, Tocoso, Nonelo, Michael, Weala, Arkell, Nicolas, Heel, Kasheano, Estephen. Our party coming up in the afternoon, we encamped here for the day, in order to give the Indians time to make further preparations for the march. On the 18th we met, at the ford of the San Joaquin River, another party of eighteen Indians, including their chiefs. Their names were--José Jesus, Filipe, Ray-mundo, and Carlos, chiefs; Huligario, Bonefasio, Francisco, Nicolas, Pablo, Feliciano, San Antonio, Polinario, Manuel, Graviano, Salinordio, Romero, and Merikeeldo, warriors. The chiefs and some of the warriors of these parties were partially clothed, but most of them were naked, except a small garment around the loins. They were armed with bows and arrows. We encamped with our sable companions on the east bank of the San Joaquin. The next morning (Nov. 19), the river being too high to ford, we constructed, by the aid of the Indians, tule-boats, upon which our baggage was ferried over the stream. The tule-boat consists of bundles of tule firmly hound together with willow withes. When completed, in shape it is not unlike a small keel-boat. The buoyancy of one of these craft is surprising. Six men, as many as could sit upon the deck, were passed over, in the largest of our three boats, at a time. The boats were towed backwards and forwards by Indian swimmers--one at the bow, and one at the stern as steersman, and two on each side as propellers. The poor fellows, when they came out of the cold water, trembled as if attacked with an ague. We encamped near the house of Mr. Livermore (previously described), where, after considerable difficulty, I obtained sufficient beef for supper, Mr. L. being absent. Most of the Indians did not get into camp until a late hour of the night, and some of them not until morning. They complained very much of sore feet, and wanted horses to ride, which I promised them as soon as they reached the Pueblo de San José. About ten o'clock on the morning of the 20th, we slaughtered a beef in the hills between Mr. Livermore's and the mission of San José; and, leaving the hungry party to regale themselves upon it and then follow on, I proceeded immediately to the Pueblo de San José to make further arrangements, reaching that place just after sunset. On the 21st I procured clothing for the Indians, which, when they arrived with Mr. Jacob in the afternoon, was distributed among them. On my arrival at the Pueblo, I found the American population there much excited by intelligence just received of the capture on the 15th, between Monterey and the mission of San Juan, of Thos. O. Larkin, Esq., late U.S. Consul in California, by a party of Californians, and of an engagement between the same Californians and a party of Americans escorting a _caballada_ of 400 horses to Colonel Fremont's camp in Monterey. In this affair three Americans were killed, viz.: Capt. Burroughs, Capt. Foster, and Mr. Eames, late of St. Louis, Mo. The mission of San Juan lies on the road between the Pueblo de San José and Monterey, about fifty miles from the former place, and thirty from the latter. The skirmish took place ten miles south of San Juan, near the Monterey road. I extract the following account of this affair from a journal of his captivity published by Mr. Larkin:-- "On the 10th of November, from information received of the sickness of my family in San Francisco, where they had gone to escape the expected revolutionary troubles in Monterey, and from letters from Captain Montgomery requesting my presence respecting some stores for the Portsmouth, I, with one servant, left Monterey for San Francisco, knowing that for one month no Californian forces had been within 100 miles of us. That night I put up at the house of Don Joaquin Gomez, sending my servant to San Juan, six miles beyond, to request Mr. J. Thompson to wait for me, as he was on the road for San Francisco. About midnight I was aroused from my bed by the noise made by ten Californians (unshaved and unwashed for months, being in the mountains) rushing into my chamber with guns, swords, pistols, and torches in their hands. I needed but a moment to be fully awake and know my exact situation; the first cry was, 'Como estamos, Senor Consul.' 'Vamos, Senor Larkin.' At my bedside were several letters that I had re-read before going to bed. On dressing myself, while my captors were saddling my horse, I assorted these letters, and put them into different pockets. After taking my own time to dress and arrange my valise, we started, and rode to a camp of seventy or eighty men on the banks of the Monterey River; there each officer and principal person passed the time of night with me, and a remark or two. The commandante took me on one side, and informed me that his people demanded that I should write to San Juan, to the American captain of volunteers, saying that I had left Monterey to visit the distressed families of the river, and request or demand that twenty men should meet me before daylight, that I could station them, before my return to town, in a manner to protect these families. The natives, he said, were determined on the act being accomplished. I at first endeavoured to reason with him on the infamy and the impossibility of the deed, but to no avail; he said my life depended on the letter; that he was willing, nay, anxious to preserve my life as an old acquaintance, but could not control his people in this affair. From argument I came to a refusal; he advised, urged, and demanded. At this period an officer called out * * * * (Come here, those who are named.) I then said, 'In this manner you may act and threaten night by night; my life on such condition is of no value or pleasure to me. I am by accident your prisoner--make the most of me--write, I will not; shoot as you see fit, and I am done talking on the subject.' I left him, and went to the camp fire. For a half-hour or more there was some commotion around me, when all disturbance subsided. "At daylight we started, with a flag flying and a drum beating, and travelled eight or ten miles, when we camped in a low valley or hollow. There they caught with the lasso three or four head of cattle belonging to the nearest rancho, and breakfasted. The whole day their outriders rode in every direction, on the look-out, to see if the American company left the mission of San Juan, or Lieutenant-Colonel Fremont left Monterey; they also rode to all the neighbouring ranches, and forced the rancheros to join them. At one o'clock, they began their march with one hundred and thirty men (and two or three hundred extra horses); they marched in four single files, occupying four positions, myself under charge of an officer and five or six men in the centre. Their plan of operation for the night was, to rush into San Juan ten or fifteen men, who were to retreat, under the expectation that the Americans would follow them, in which case the whole party outside was to cut them off. I was to be retained in the centre of the party. Ten miles south of the mission, they encountered eight or ten Americans, a part of whom retreated into a low ground covered with oaks, the others returned to the house of Senor Gomez, to alarm their companions. For over one hour the hundred and thirty Californians surrounded the six or eight Americans, occasionally giving and receiving shots. During this period, I was several times requested, then commanded, to go among the oaks and bring out my countrymen, and offer them their lives on giving up their rifles and persons. I at last offered to go and call them out, on condition that they should return to San Juan or go to Monterey, with their arms; this being refused, I told the commandante to go in and bring them out himself. While they were consulting how this could be done, fifty Americans came down on them, which caused an action of about twenty or thirty minutes. Thirty or forty of the natives leaving the field at the first fire, they remained drawn off by fives and tens until the Americans had the field to themselves. Both parties remained within a mile of each other until dark. Our countrymen lost Captain Burroughs of St. Louis, Missouri, Captain Foster, and two others, with two or three wounded. The Californians lost two of their countrymen, and José Garcia, of Val., Chili, with seven wounded." The following additional particulars I extract from the "Californian" newspaper of November 21, 1846, published at Monterey: "Burroughs and Foster were killed at the first onset. The Americans fired, and then charged on the enemy with their empty rifles, and ran them off. However, they still kept rallying, and firing now and then a musket at the Americans until about eleven o'clock at night, when one of the Walla-Walla Indians offered his services to come into Monterey and give Colonel Fremont notice of what was passing. Soon after he started he was pursued by a party of the enemy. The foremost in pursuit drove a lance at the Indian, who, trying to parry it, received the lance through his hand; he immediately, with his other hand, seized his tomahawk, and struck his opponent, splitting his head from the crown to the mouth. By this time the others had come up, and, with the most extraordinary dexterity and bravery, the Indian vanquished two more, and the rest ran away. He rode on towards this town as far as his horse was able to carry him, and then left his horse and saddle, and came in on foot. He arrived here about eight o'clock on Tuesday morning, December 17th." The Americans engaged in this affair were principally the volunteer emigrants just arrived in the country, and who had left New Helvetia a few days in advance of me. Colonel Fremont marched from Monterey as soon as he heard of this skirmish, in pursuit of the Californians, but did not meet with them. He then encamped at the mission of San Juan, waiting there the arrival of the remaining volunteers from above. Leaving the Pueblo on the afternoon of the 25th, in conjunction with a small force commanded by Captain Weber, we made an excursion into the hills, near a rancho owned by Captain W., where were herded some two or three hundred public horses. It had been rumoured that a party of Californians were hovering about here, intending to capture and drive off these horses. The next day (November 26th), without having met any hostile force, driving these horses before us, we encamped at Mr. Murphy's rancho. Mr. Murphy is the father of a large and respectable family, who emigrated to this country some three or four years since from, the United States, being originally from Canada. His daughter, Miss Helen, who did the honours of the rude cabin, in manners, conversation, and personal charms, would grace any drawing-room. On the 28th, we proceeded down the Pueblo valley, passing Gilroy's rancho, and reaching the mission of San Juan just before dark. The hills and valleys are becoming verdant with fresh grass and wild oats, the latter being, in places, two or three inches high. So tender is it, however, that it affords but little nourishment to our horses. The mission of San Juan Bautista has been one of the most extensive of these establishments. The principal buildings are more durably constructed than those of other missions I have visited, and they are in better condition. Square bricks are used in paving the corridors and the ground floors. During the twilight, I strayed accidentally through a half-opened gate into a cemetery, inclosed by a high wall in the rear of the church. The spectacle was ghastly enough. The exhumed skeletons of those who had been deposited here lay thickly strewn around, showing but little respect for the sanctity of the grave, or the rights of the dead from the living. The cool damp night-breeze sighed and moaned through the shrubbery and ruinous arches and corridors, planted and reared by those whose neglected bones were now exposed to the rude insults of man and beast. I could not but imagine that the voices of complaining spirits mingled with these dismal and mournful tones; and plucking a cluster of roses, the fragrance of which was delicious, I left the spot, to drive away the sadness and melancholy produced by the scene. The valley contiguous to the mission is extensive, well watered by a large _arroyo_, and highly fertile. The gardens and other lands for tillage are inclosed by willow hedges. Elevated hills, or mountains, bound this valley on the east and west. Large herds of cattle were scattered over the valley, greedily cropping the fresh green herbage, which now carpets mountain and plain. Colonel Fremont marched from San Juan this morning, and encamped, as we learned on our arrival, ten miles south. Proceeding up the _arroyo_ on the 29th, we reached the camp of Colonel F. about noon. I immediately reported, and delivered over to him the men and horses under my charge. The men were afterwards organized into a separate corps, of which Mr. R.T. Jacob, my travelling companion, was appointed the captain by Colonel Fremont. CHAPTER IX. California battalion Their appearance and costume List of the officers Commence our march to Los Angeles Appearance of the country in the vicinity of San Juan Slaughter of beeves Astonishing consumption of beef by the men Beautiful morning Ice Salinas river and valley Californian prisoners Horses giving out from fatigue Mission of San Miguel Sheep Mutton March on foot More prisoners taken Death of Mr. Stanley An execution Dark night Capture of the mission of San Luis Obispo Orderly conduct and good deportment of the California battalion. _November 30_.--The battalion of mounted riflemen, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Fremont, numbers, rank and file, including Indians, and servants, 428. With the exception of the exploring party, which left the United States with Colonel F., they are composed of volunteers from the American settlers, and the emigrants who have arrived in the country within a few weeks. The latter have generally furnished their own ammunition and other equipments for the expedition. Most of these are practised riflemen, men of undoubted courage, and capable of bearing any fatigue and privations endurable by veteran troops. The Indians are composed of a party of Walla-Wallas from Oregon, and a party of native Californians. Attached to the battalion are two pieces of artillery, under the command of Lieutenant McLane, of the navy. In the appearance of our small army there is presented but little of "the pomp and circumstance of glorious war." There are no plumes nodding over brazen helmets, nor coats of broadcloth spangled with lace and buttons. A broad-brimmed low-crowned hat, a shirt of blue flannel, or buckskin, with pantaloons and mocassins of the same, all generally much the worse for wear, and smeared with mud and dust, make up the costume of the party, officers as well as men. A leathern girdle surrounds the waist, from which are suspended a bowie and a hunter's knife, and sometimes a brace of pistols. These, with the rifle and holster-pistols, are the arms carried by officers and privates. A single bugle (and a sorry one it is) composes the band. Many an embryo Napoleon, in his own conceit, whose martial spirit has been excited to flaming intensity of heat by the peacock-plumage and gaudy trappings of our militia companies, when marching through the streets to the sound of drum, fife, and brass band, if he could have looked upon us, and then consulted the state of the military thermometer within him, would probably have discovered that the mercury of his heroism had fallen several degrees below zero. He might even have desired that we should not come "Between the wind and his nobility." War, stripped of its pageantry, possesses but few of the attractions with which poetry and painting have embellished it. The following is a list of the officers composing the California Battalion:--Lieut.-colonel J.G. Fremont, commanding; A.H. Gillespie, major; P.B. Reading, paymaster; H. King, commissary; J.R. Snyder, quartermaster, since appointed a land-surveyor by Colonel Mason; Wm. H. Russell, ordnance officer; T. Talbot, lieutenant and adjutant; J.J. Myers, sergeant-major, appointed lieutenant in January, 1847. _Company A_.--Richard Owens, captain; Wm. N. Loker, 1st lieutenant, appointed adjutant, Feb. 10th, 1847; B.M. Hudspeth, 2d lieutenant, appointed captain, Feb. 1847, Wm. Findlay, 2d lieutenant, appointed captain, Feb. 1847. _Company B_.--Henry Ford, captain; Andrew Copeland, 1st lieutenant. _Company C_.--Granville P. Swift, captain; Wm. Baldridge, 1st lieutenant; Wm. Hartgrove, 2d do. _Company D_.--John Sears, captain; Wm. Bradshaw, 1st lieutenant. _Company E_.--John Grigsby, captain; Archibald Jesse, 1st lieutenant. _Company F_.--L.W. Hastings, captain (author of a work on California); Wornbough, 1st lieutenant; J.M. Hudspeth, 2d do. _Company G_.--Thompson, captain; Davis 1st lieutenant; Rock, 2d do. _Company H_.--R.T. Jacobs, captain; Edwin Bryant, 1st lieutenant (afterwards alcalde at San Francisco); Geo. M. Lippincott, 2d do., of New York. _Artillery Company_.--Louis McLane, captain (afterwards major); John. K. Wilson, 1st lieutenant, appointed captain in January, 1847; Wm. Blackburn, 2d do. (now alcalde of Santa Cruz). _Officers on detached Service and doing Duty at the South_.--S. Hensley, captain; S. Gibson, do. (lanced through the body at San Pascual); Miguel Pedrorena, do., Spaniard (appointed by Stockton); Stgo. Arguello, do., Californian (appointed by do.); Bell, do. (appointed by do.), old resident of California (Los Angeles); H. Rhenshaw, 1st lieutenant, (appointed by do.); A. Godey, do. (appointed by do.); Jas. Barton, do. (appointed by do.); L. Arguello, do., Californian (appointed by do.). After a march of six or eight hours, up the valley of the _arroyo_, through a heavy rain, and mud so deep that several of our horses gave out from exhaustion, we encamped in a circular bottom, near a deserted adobe house. A _caballada_, of some 500 or 600 loose horses and mules is driven along with us, but many of them are miserable sore-backed skeletons, having been exhausted with hard usage and bad fare during the summer campaign. Besides these, we have a large number of pack-mules, upon which all our baggage and provisions are transported. Distance 10 miles. We did not move on the 1st and 2d of December. There being no cattle in the vicinity of our camp, a party was sent back to the mission, on the morning of the 1st, who in the afternoon returned, driving before them about 100 head, most of them in good condition. After a sufficient number were slaughtered to supply the camp with meat for the day, the remainder were confined in a _corral_ prepared for the purpose, to be driven along with us, and slaughtered from day to day. The rain has continued, with short intermissions, since we commenced our march on the 30th of November. The ground has become saturated with water, and the small branches are swollen into large streams. Notwithstanding these discomforts, the men are in good spirits, and enjoy themselves in singing, telling stories, and playing _monte_. _December 3_.--The rain ceased falling about 8 o'clock this morning; and, the clouds breaking away, the sun cheered us once more with his pleasant beams. The battalion was formed into a hollow square, and, the order of the day being read, we resumed our march. Our progress, through the deep mud, was very slow. The horses were constantly giving out, and many were left behind. The young and tender grass upon which they feed affords but little nourishment, and hard labour soon exhausts them. We encamped on a low bluff, near the _arroyo_, timbered with evergreen oak. Distance 8 miles. _December 4_.--I was ordered with a small party in advance this morning. Proceeding up the valley a few miles, we left it, crossing several steep hills sparsely timbered with oak, from which we descended into another small valley, down which we continued to the point of its termination, near some narrow and difficult mountain gorges. In exploring the gorges, we discovered the trail of a party of Californians, which had passed south several days before us, and found a horse which they had left in their march. This, doubtless, was a portion of the party which captured Mr. Larkin, and had the engagement between Monterey and St. Juan, on the 17th ult. The main body coming up, we encamped at three o'clock. The old grass around our camp is abundant; but having been so much washed by the rains, and consequently exhausted of its nutritious qualities, the animals refused to eat it. The country over which we have travelled to-day, and as far as I can see, is mountainous and broken, little of it being adapted to other agricultural purposes than grazing. Thirteen beeves are slaughtered every afternoon for the consumption of the battalion. These beeves are generally of good size, and in fair condition. Other provisions being entirely exhausted, beef constitutes the only subsistence for the men, and most of the officers. Under these circumstances, the consumption of beef is astonishing. I do not know that I shall be believed when I state a fact, derived from observation and calculation, that the average consumption per man of fresh beef is at least ten pounds per day. Many of them, I believe, consume much more, and some of them less. Nor does this quantity appear to be injurious to health, or fully to satisfy the appetite. I have seen some of the men roast their meat and devour it by the fire from the hour of encamping until late bed-time. They would then sleep until one or two o'clock in the morning, when, the cravings of hunger being greater than the desire for repose, the same occupation would be resumed, and continued until the order was given to march. The Californian beef is generally fat, juicy, and tender, and surpasses in flavour any which I ever tasted elsewhere. Distance 10 miles. _December 5_.--I rose before daylight. The moon shone brightly. The temperature was cold. The vapour in the atmosphere had congealed and fallen upon the ground in feathery flakes, covering it with a white semi-transparent veil, or crystal sheen, sparkling in the moonbeams. The smoke from the numerous camp-fires soon began to curl languidly up in graceful wreaths, settling upon the mountain summits. The scene was one for the pencil and brush of the artist; but, when the envious sun rose, he soon stripped Madam Earth of her gauzy holiday morning-gown, and exposed her every-day petticoat of mud. Our march to-day has been one of great difficulty, through a deep brushy mountain gorge, through which it was almost impossible to force the field-pieces. In one place they were lowered with ropes down a steep and nearly perpendicular precipice of great height and depth. We encamped about three o'clock, P.M., in a small valley. Many of the horses gave out on the march, and were left behind by the men, who came straggling into camp until a late hour of the evening, bringing their saddles and baggage upon their shoulders. I noticed, while crossing an elevated ridge of hills, flakes of snow flying in the air, but melting before they reached the ground. The small spring-branch on which we encamped empties into the Salinas River. The country surrounding us is elevated and broken, and the soil sandy, with but little timber or grass upon it. Distance 12 miles. _December 6_.--Morning clear and cool. Crossed an undulating country, destitute of timber and water, and encamped in a circular valley surrounded by elevated hills, through which flows a small tributary of the Salinas. The summits of the mountains in sight are covered with snow, but the temperature in the valleys is pleasant. Distance 15 miles. _December 7_.--Ice, the first I have seen since entering California, formed in the branch, of the thickness of window-glass. We reached the valley of the Salinas about eleven o'clock A.M., and encamped for the day. The river Salinas (laid down in some maps as Rio San Buenaventura) rises in the mountains to the south, and has a course of some sixty or eighty miles, emptying into the Pacific about twelve miles north of Monterey. The valley, as it approaches the ocean, is broad and fertile, and there are many fine ranchos upon it. But, higher up, the stream becomes dry in the summer, and the soil of the valley is arid and sandy. The width of the stream at this point is about thirty yards. Its banks are skirted by narrow belts of small timber. A range of elevated mountains rises between this valley and the coast. A court-martial was held to-day, for the trial of sundry offenders. Distance 8 miles. _December 8_.--Morning cool, clear, and pleasant. Two Californians were arrested by the rear-guard near a deserted rancho, and brought into camp. One of them turned out to be a person known to be friendly to the Americans. There has been but little variation in the soil or scenery. But few attempts appear to have been made to settle this portion of California. The thefts and hostilities of the Tular Indians are said to be one of the causes preventing its settlement. Distance 15 miles. _December 9_.--The mornings are cool, but the middle of the day is too warm to ride comfortably with our coats on. Our march has been fatiguing and difficult, through several brushy ravines and over steep and elevated hills. Many horses gave out as usual, and were left, from inability to travel. Our _caballada_ is diminishing rapidly. Distance 10 miles. _December 10_.--Our march has been on the main beaten trail, dry and hard, and over a comparatively level country. We passed the mission of San Miguel about three o'clock, and encamped in a grove of large oak timber, three or four miles south of it. This mission is situated on the upper waters of the Salinas, in an extensive plain. Under the administration of the _padres_ it was a wealthy establishment, and manufactures of various kinds were carried on. They raised immense numbers of sheep, the fleeces of which were manufactured by the Indians into blankets and coarse cloths. Their granaries were filled with an abundance of maize and frijoles, and their store-rooms with other necessaries of life, from the ranchos belonging to the mission lands in the vicinity. Now all the buildings, except the church and the principal range of houses contiguous, have fallen into ruins, and an Englishman, his wife, and one small child, with two or three Indian servants, are the sole inhabitants. The church is the largest I have seen in the country, and its interior is in good repair, although it has not probably been used for the purpose of public worship for many years. The Englishman professes to have purchased the mission and all the lands belonging to it for 300 dollars. Our stock of cattle being exhausted, we feasted on Californian mutton, sheep being more abundant than cattle at this mission. The wool, I noticed, was coarse, but the mutton was of an excellent quality. The country over which we have travelled to-day shows the marks of long drought previous to the recent rains. The soil is sandy and gravelly, and the dead vegetation upon it is thin and stunted. About eighty of our horses are reported to have given out and been left behind. Distance 20 miles. _December 12_.--To relieve our horses, which are constantly giving out from exhaustion, the grass being insufficient for their sustenance while performing labour, the entire battalion, officers and men, were ordered to march on foot, turning their horses, with the saddles and bridles upon them, into the general _caballada_, to be driven along by the horse-guard. The day has been drizzly, cold, and disagreeable. The country has a barren and naked appearance; but this, I believe, is attributable to the extreme drought that has prevailed in this region for one or two years past. We encamped near the rancho of a friendly Californian--the man who was taken prisoner the other day and set at large. An Indian, said to be the servant of Tortoria Pico, was captured here by the advance party. A letter was found upon him, but the contents of which I never learned. This being the first foot-march, there were, of course, many galled and blistered feet in the battalion. My servant obtained, with some difficulty, from the Indians at the rancho, a pint-cup of _pinole_, or parched corn-meal, and a quart or two of wheat, which, being boiled, furnished some variety in our viands at supper, fresh beef having been our only subsistence since the commencement of the march from San Juan. Distance 12 miles. _December 13_.--A rainy disagreeable morning. Mr. Stanley, one of the volunteers, and one of the gentlemen who so kindly supplied us with provisions on Mary's River, died last night. He has been suffering from an attack of typhoid fever since the commencement of our march, and unable most of the time to sit upon his horse. He was buried this morning in a small circular opening in the timber near our camp. The battalion was formed in a hollow square surrounding the grave which had been excavated for the final resting-place of our deceased friend and comrade. There was neither bier, nor coffin, nor pall-- "Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note." The cold earth was heaped upon his mortal remains in silent solemnity, and the ashes of a braver or a better man will never repose in the lonely hills of California. After the funeral the battalion was marched a short distance to witness another scene, not more mournful, but more harrowing than the last. The Indian captured at the rancho yesterday was condemned to die. He was brought from his place of confinement and tied to a tree. Here he stood some fifteen or twenty minutes, until the Indians from a neighbouring _rancheria_ could be brought to witness the execution. A file of soldiers were then ordered to fire upon him. He fell upon his knees, and remained in that position several minutes without uttering a groan, and then sank upon the earth. No human being could have met his fate with more composure, or with stronger manifestations of courage. It was a scene such as I desire never to witness again. A cold rain fell upon us during the entire day's march. We encamped at four o'clock, P.M.; but the rain poured down in such torrents that it was impossible to light our camp-fires and keep them burning. This continued nearly the whole night, and I have rarely passed a night more uncomfortably. A scouting party brought in two additional prisoners this evening. Another returned, and reported the capture of a number of horses, and the destruction of a rancho by fire. Distance 12 miles. _December 14_.--The battalion commenced its march on foot and in a heavy rain. The mud is very deep, and we have been compelled to wade several streams of considerable depth, being swollen by the recent rains. At one o'clock a halt was ordered, and beef slaughtered and cooked for dinner. The march was resumed late in the afternoon, and the plain surrounding the mission of San Luis Obispo was reached in the pitch darkness of the night, a family in the _canada_ having been taken prisoners by the advance party to prevent them from giving the alarm. The battalion was so disposed as to surround the mission and take prisoners all contained within it. The place was entered in great confusion, on account of the darkness, about nine o'clock. There was no military force at the mission, and the few inhabitants were greatly alarmed, as may well be supposed, by this sudden invasion. They made no resistance, and were all taken prisoners except one or two, who managed to escape and fled in great terror, no one knew where or how. It being ascertained that Tortoria Pico, a man who has figured conspicuously in most of the Californian revolutions, was in the neighbourhood, a party was despatched immediately to the place, and he was brought in a prisoner. The night was rainy and boisterous, and the soldiers were quartered to the best advantage in the miserable mud houses, and no acts of violence or outrage of any kind were committed. The men composing the Californian battalion, as I have before stated, have been drawn from many sources, and are roughly clad, and weather-beaten in their exterior appearance; but I feel it but justice here to state my belief, that no military party ever passed through an enemy's country and observed the same strict regard for the rights of its population. I never heard of an outrage, or even a trespass being committed by one of the American volunteers during our entire march. Every American appeared to understand perfectly the duty which he owed to himself and others in this respect, and the deportment of the battalion might be cited as a model for imitation. Distance 18 miles. CHAPTER X. Tremendous rain Mission of San Luis Obispo Gardens Various fruits Farm Cactus tuna Calinche Pumpkins Trial of Tortoria Pico Procession of women Pico's pardon Leave San Luis Surf of the Pacific Captain Dana Tempestuous night Mission of St. Ynes Effects of drought Horses exhausted St. Ynes Mountain View of the plain of Santa Barbara and the Pacific A wretched Christmas-day Descent of St. Ynes Mountain Terrible storm Frightful destruction of horses Dark night What we are fighting for Arrive at Santa Barbara Town deserted. _December 15_.--The rain fell in cataracts the entire day. The small streams which flow from the mountains through, and water the valley of, San Luis Obispo, are swollen by the deluge of water from the clouds into foaming unfordable torrents. In order not to trespass upon the population at the mission, in their miserable abodes of mud, the church was opened, and a large number of the soldiers were quartered in it. A guard, however, was set day and night, over the chancel and all other property contained in the building, to prevent its being injured or disturbed. The decorations of the church are much the same as I have before described. The edifice is large, and the interior in good repair. The floor is paved with square bricks. I noticed a common hand-organ in the church, which played the airs we usually hear from organ-grinders in the street. Besides the main large buildings connected with the church, there are standing, and partially occupied, several small squares of adobe houses, belonging to this mission. The heaps of mud, and crumbling walls outside of these, are evidence that the place was once of much greater extent, and probably one of the most opulent and prosperous establishments of the kind in the country. The lands surrounding the mission are finely situated for cultivation and irrigation if necessary. There are several large gardens, inclosed by high and substantial walls, which now contain a great variety of fruit-trees and shrubbery. I noticed the orange, fig, palm, olive, and grape. There are also large inclosures hedged in by the prickly-pear (cactus), which grows to an enormous size, and makes an impervious barrier against man or beast. The stalks of some of these plants are of the thickness of a man's body, and grow to the height of fifteen feet. A juicy fruit is produced by the prickly-pear, named _tuna_, from which a beverage is sometimes made, called _calinche_. It has a pleasant flavour, as has also the fruit, which, when ripe, is blood-red. A small quantity of pounded wheat was found here, which, being purchased, was served out to the troops, about a pound to the man. Frijoles and pumpkins were also obtained, delicacies of no common order. _December 16_.--A court-martial was convened this morning for the trial of Pico, the principal prisoner, on the charge, I understood, of the forfeiture of his parole which had been taken on a former occasion. The sentence of the court was, that he should be shot or hung, I do not know which. A rumour is current among the population here, that there has been an engagement between a party of Americans and Californians, near Los Angeles, in which the former were defeated with the loss of thirty men killed. _December 17_.--Cool, with a hazy sky. While standing in one of the corridors this morning, a procession of females passed by me, headed by a lady of fine appearance and dressed with remarkable taste and neatness, compared with those who followed her. Their _rebosos_ concealed the faces of most of them, except the leader, whose beautiful features, dare say, she thought (and justly) required no concealment. They proceeded to the quarters of Colonel Fremont, and their object, I understood, was to petition for the reprieve or pardon of Pico, who had been condemned to death by the court-martial yesterday, and whose execution was expected to take place this morning. Their intercession was successful, as no execution took place, and in a short time all the prisoners were discharged, and the order to saddle up and march given. We resumed our march at ten o'clock, and encamped just before sunset in a small but picturesque and fertile valley timbered with oak, so near the coast that the roar of the surf breaking against the shore could be heard distinctly. Distance seven miles. _December 18_.--Clear, with a delightful temperature. Before the sun rose the grass was covered with a white frost. The day throughout has been calm and beautiful. A march of four miles brought us to the shore of a small indentation in the coast of the Pacific, where vessels can anchor, and boats can land when the wind is not too fresh. The surf is now rolling and foaming with prodigious energy--breaking upon the beach in long lines one behind the other, and striking the shore like cataracts. The hills and plains are verdant with a carpet of fresh grass, and the scattered live-oaks on all sides, appearing like orchards of fruit-trees, give to the country an old and cultivated aspect. The mountains bench away on our left, the low hills rising in gentle conical forms, beyond which are the more elevated and precipitous peaks covered with snow. We encamped about three o'clock near the rancho of Captain Dana, in a large and handsome valley well watered by an _arroyo_. Captain Dana is a native of Massachusetts, and has resided in this country about thirty years. He is known and esteemed throughout California for his intelligence and private virtues, and his unbounded generosity and hospitality. I purchased here a few loaves of wheat bread, and distributed them among the men belonging to our company as far as they would go, a luxury which they have not indulged in since the commencement of the march. Distance 15 miles. _December 19_.--The night was cold and tempestuous, with a slight fall of rain. The clouds broke away after sunrise, and the day became warm and pleasant. We continued our march up the valley, and encamped near its head. The table-land and hills are generally gravelly, but appear to be productive of fine grass. The soil of the bottom is of the richest and most productive composition. We crossed in the course of the day a wide flat plain, upon which were grazing large herds of brood-mares (_manadas_) and cattle. In the distance they resembled large armies approaching us. The peaks of the elevated mountains in sight are covered with snow. A large number of horses gave out, strayed, and were left behind to-day, estimated at one hundred. The men came into camp bringing their saddles on their backs, and some of them arriving late in the evening. Distance 18 miles. _December 20_.--Parties were sent back this morning to gather up horses and baggage left on the march yesterday, and it was one o'clock before the rear-guard, waiting for the return of those, left camp. The main body made a short march and encamped early, in a small hollow near the rancho of Mr. Faxon, through which flows an _arroyo_, the surrounding hills being timbered with evergreen oaks. The men amused themselves during the afternoon in target-shooting. Many of the battalion are fine marksmen with the rifle, and the average of shots could not easily be surpassed. The camp spread over an undulating surface of half a mile in diameter, and at night, when the fires were lighted, illuminating the grove, with its drapery of drooping Spanish moss, it presented a most picturesque appearance. Distance 3 miles. _December 21_.--Clear and pleasant. A foot march was ordered, with the exception of the horse and baggage guard. We marched several miles through a winding hollow, passing a deserted rancho, and ascending with much labour a steep ridge of hills, descending which we entered a handsome valley, and encamped upon a small stream about four miles from the mission of St. Ynes. The banks of the _arroyo_ are strewn with dead and prostrate timber, the trees, large and small, having been overthrown by tornados. The plain has suffered, like much of the country we have passed through, by a long-continued drought, but the composition of the soil is such as indicates fertility, and from the effects of the late rains the grass is springing up with great luxuriance, from places which before were entirely denuded of vegetation. A party was sent from camp to inspect the mission, but returned without making any important discoveries. Our horses are so weak that many of them are unable to carry their saddles, and were left on the road as usual. A man had his leg broken on the march to-day, by the kick of a mule. He was sent back to the rancho of Mr. Faxon. Distance 15 miles. _December 22_.--Clear and pleasant. Being of the party which performed rear-guard duty to-day, with orders to bring in all stragglers, we did not leave camp until several hours after the main body had left. The horses of the _caballada_ and the pack-animals were continually giving out and refusing to proceed. Parties of men, exhausted, lay down upon the ground, and it was with much urging, and sometimes with peremptory commands only, that they could be prevailed upon to proceed. The country bears the same marks of drought heretofore described, but fresh vegetation is now springing up and appears vigorous. A large horse-trail loading into one of the _canadas_ of the mountains on our left was discovered by the scouts, and a party was dispatched to trace it. We passed one deserted rancho, and reached camp between nine and ten o'clock at night, having forced in all the men and most of the horses and pack-mules. Distance 15 miles. _December 23_.--Rain fell steadily and heavily the entire day. A small party of men was in advance. Discovering in a brushy valley two Indians armed with bows and arrows, they were taken prisoners. Learning from them that there was a _caballada_ of horses secreted in one of the _canadas_, they continued on about ten miles, and found about twenty-five fresh fat horses, belonging to a Californian now among the insurgents below. They were taken and delivered at the camp near the eastern base of the St. Ynes Mountain. Passed this morning a rancho inhabited by a foreigner, an Englishman. _December 24_.--Cloudy and cool, with an occasional sprinkling rain. Our route to-day lay directly over the St. Ynes Mountain, by an elevated and most difficult pass. The height of this mountain is several thousand feet. We reached the summit about twelve o'clock, and, our company composing the advance-guard, we encamped about a mile and a half in advance of the main body of the battalion, at a point which overlooks the beautiful plain of Santa Barbara, of which, and the ocean beyond, we had a most extended and interesting view. With the spy-glass, we could see, in the plain far below us, herds of cattle quietly grazing upon the green herbage that carpets its gentle undulations. The plain is dotted with groves, surrounding the springs and belting the small water-courses, of which there are many flowing from this range of mountains. Ranchos are scattered far up and down the plain, but not one human being could be seen stirring. About ten or twelve miles to the south, the white towers of the mission of Santa Barbara raise themselves. Beyond is the illimitable waste of waters. A more lovely and picturesque landscape I never beheld. On the summit of the mountain, and surrounding us, there is a growth of hawthorn, manzinita (in bloom), and other small shrubbery. The rock is soft sandstone and conglomerate, immense masses of which, piled one upon another, form a wall along the western brow of the mountain, through which there is a single pass or gateway about eight or ten feet in width. The descent on the western side is precipitous, and appears almost impassable. Distance 4 miles. _December 25_.--Christmas-day, and a memorable one to me. Owing to the difficulty in hauling the cannon up the steep acclivities of the mountain, the main body of the battalion did not come up with us until twelve o'clock, and before we commenced the descent of the mountain a furious storm commenced, raging with a violence rarely surpassed. The rain fell in torrents, and the wind blew almost with the force of a tornado. This fierce strife of the elements continued without abatement the entire afternoon, and until two o'clock at night. Driving our horses before us, we were compelled to slide down the steep and slippery rocks, or wade through deep gullies and ravines filled with mud and foaming torrents of water, that rushed downwards with such force as to carry along the loose rocks and tear up the trees and shrubbery by the roots. Many of the horses falling into the ravines refused to make an effort to extricate themselves, and were swept downwards and drowned. Others, bewildered by the fierceness and terrors of the storm, rushed or fell headlong over the steep precipices and were killed. Others obstinately refused to proceed, but stood quaking with fear or shivering with cold, and many of these perished in the night from the severity of the storm. The advance party did not reach the foot of the mountain and find a place to encamp until night--and a night of more impenetrable and terrific darkness I never witnessed. The ground upon which our camp was made, although sloping from the hills to a small stream, was so saturated with water that men as well as horses sunk deep at every step. The rain fell in such quantities, that fires with great difficulty could be lighted, and most of them were immediately extinguished. The officers and men belonging to the company having the cannon in charge laboured until nine or ten o'clock to bring them down the mountain, but they were finally compelled to leave them. Much of the baggage also remained on the side of the mountain, with the pack-mules and horses conveying them, all efforts to force the animals down being fruitless. The men continued to straggle into the camp until a late hour of the night;--some crept under the shelving rocks and did not come in until the next morning. We were so fortunate as to find our tent, and after much difficulty pitched it under an oak-tree. All efforts to light a fire and keep it blazing proving abortive, we spread our blankets upon the ground and endeavoured to sleep, although we could feel the cold streams of water running through the tent and between and around our bodies. In this condition we remained until about two o'clock in the morning, when the storm having abated I rose, and shaking from my garments the dripping water, after many unsuccessful efforts succeeded in kindling a fire. Near our tent I found three soldiers who had reached camp at a late hour. They were fast asleep on the ground, the water around them being two or three inches deep; but they had taken care to keep their heads above water, by using a log of wood for a pillow. The fire beginning to blaze freely, I dug a ditch with my hands and a sharp stick of wood, which drained off the pool surrounding the tent. One of the men, when he felt the sensation consequent upon being "high and dry," roused himself, and, sitting upright, looked around for some time with an expression of bewildered amazement. At length he seemed to realize the true state of the case, and exclaimed, in a tone of energetic soliloquy,-- "Well, who _wouldn't_ be a soldier and fight for California?" "You are mistaken," I replied. Rubbing his eyes, he gazed at me with astonishment, as if having been entirely unconscious of my presence; but, reassuring himself, he said: "How mistaken?" "Why," I answered, "you are not fighting for California." "What the d----l, then, am I fighting for?" he inquired. "For TEXAS." "Texas be d----d; but hurrah for General Jackson!" and with this exclamation he threw himself back again upon his wooden pillow, and was soon snoring in a profound slumber. Making a platform composed of sticks of wood upon the soft mud, I stripped myself to the skin, wringing the water from each garment as I proceeded. I then commenced drying them by the fire in the order that they were replaced upon my body, an employment that occupied me until daylight, which sign, above the high mountain to the east, down which we had rolled rather than marched yesterday, I was truly rejoiced to see. Distance 3 miles. _December 26_.--Parties were detailed early this morning, and despatched up the mountain to bring down the cannon, and collect the living horses and baggage. The destruction of horse-flesh, by those who witnessed the scene by daylight, is described as frightful. In some places large numbers of dead horses were piled together. In others, horses half buried in the mud of the ravines, or among the rocks, were gasping in the agonies of death. The number of dead animals is variously estimated at from seventy-five to one hundred and fifty, by different persons. The cannon, most of the missing baggage, and the living horses, were all brought in by noon. The day was busily employed in cleansing our rifles and pistols, and drying our drenched baggage. _December 27_.--Preparations were commenced early for the resumption of our march; but such was the condition of everything around us, that it was two o'clock, P.M., before the battalion was in readiness; and then so great had been the loss of horses in various ways, that the number remaining was insufficient to mount the men. One or two companies, and portions of others, were compelled to march on foot. We were visited during the forenoon by Mr. Sparks, an American, Dr. Den, an Irishman, and Mr. Burton, another American, residents of Santa Barbara. They had been suffered by the Californians to remain in the place. Their information communicated to us was, that the town was deserted of nearly all its population. A few houses only were occupied. Passing down a beautiful and fertile undulating plain, we encamped just before sunset in a live-oak grove, about half a mile from the town of Santa Barbara. Strict orders were issued by Col. Fremont, that the property and the persons of Californians, not found in arms, should be sacredly respected. To prevent all collisions, no soldier was allowed to pass the lines of the camp without special permission, or orders from his officers. I visited the town before dark, but found the houses, with few exceptions, closed, and the streets deserted. After hunting about some time, we discovered a miserable dwelling, occupied by a shoemaker and his family, open. Entering it, we were very kindly received by its occupants, who, with a princely supply of civility, possessed but a beggarly array of comforts. At our request they provided for us a supper of _tortillas, frijoles_, and stewed _carne_ seasoned with _chile colorado_, for which, paying them _dos pesos_ for four, we bade them good evening, all parties being well satisfied. The family consisted, exclusive of the shoemaker, of a dozen women and children, of all ages. The women, from the accounts they had received of the intentions of the Americans, were evidently unprepared for civil treatment from them. They expected to be dealt with in a very barbarous manner, _in all respects_; but they were disappointed, and invited us to visit them again. Distance 8 miles. CHAPTER XI. Santa Barbara Picturesque situation Fertility of the country Climate Population Society Leave Santa Barbara Rincon Grampus Mission of St. Buenaventura Fine gardens Meet a party of mounted Californians They retreat before us Abundance of maize Arrival of couriers from Com. Stockton Effects of war upon the country More of the enemy in sight News of the capture of Los Angeles, by Gen. Kearny and Com. Stockton Mission of San Fernando The Maguey Capitulation of the Californians Arrive at Los Angeles General reflections upon the march Meet with old acquaintances. The battalion remained encamped at Santa Barbara, from the 27th of December to the 3rd of January, 1847. The U.S. flag was raised in the public square of the town the day after our arrival. The town of Santa Barbara is beautifully situated for the picturesque, about one mile from the shore of a roadstead, which affords anchorage for vessels of any size, and a landing for boats in calm weather. During stormy weather, or the prevalence of strong winds from the south-east, vessels, for safety, are compelled to stand out to sea. A fertile plain extends some twenty or thirty miles up and down the coast, varying in breadth from two to ten miles, and bounded on the east by a range of high mountains. The population of the town I should judge, from the number of houses, to be about 1200 souls. Most of the houses are constructed of adobes, in the usual architectural style of Mexican buildings. Some of them, however, are more Americanized, and have some pretensions to tasteful architecture, and comfortable and convenient interior arrangement. Its commerce, I presume, is limited to the export of hides and tallow produced upon the surrounding plain; and the commodities received in exchange for these from the traders on the coast. Doubtless, new and yet undeveloped sources of wealth will be discovered hereafter that will render this town of much greater importance than it is at present. On the coast, a few miles above Santa Barbara, there are, I have been told, immense quantities of pure bitumen or mineral tar, which, rising in the ocean, has been thrown upon the shore by the waves, where in a concrete state, like resin, it has accumulated in inexhaustible masses. There are, doubtless, many valuable minerals in the neighbouring mountains, which, when developed by enterprise, will add greatly to the wealth and importance of the town. For intelligence, refinement, and civilization, the population, it is said, will compare advantageously with any in California. Some old and influential Spanish families are residents of this place; but their _casas_, with the exception of that of Senor Don José Noriega, the largest house in the place, are now closed and deserted. Senor N. is one of the oldest and most respectable citizens of California, having filled the highest offices in the government of the country. One of his daughters is a resident of New York, having married Alfred Robinson, Esq., of that city, author of "Life in California." The climate, judging from the indications while we remained here, must be delightful, even in winter. With the exception of one day, which was tempestuous, the temperature at night did not fall below 50°, and during the day the average was between 60° and 70°. The atmosphere was perfectly clear and serene, the weather resembling that of the pleasant days of April in the same latitude on the Atlantic side of the continent. It is a peculiarity of the Mexicans that they allow no shade or ornamental trees to grow near their houses. In none of the streets of the towns or missions through which I have passed has there been a solitary tree standing. I noticed very few horticultural attempts in Santa Barbara. At the mission, about two miles distant, which is an extensive establishment and in good preservation, I was told that there were fine gardens, producing most of the varieties of fruits of the tropical and temperate climates. Several Californians came into camp and offered to deliver themselves up. They were permitted to go at large. They represented that the Californian force at the south was daily growing weaker from dissensions and desertions. The United States prize-schooner Julia arrived on the 30th, from which was landed a cannon for the use of the battalion. It has, however, to be mounted on wheels, and the gear necessary for hauling it has to be made in the camp. Reports were current in camp on the 31st, that the Californians intended to meet and fight us at San Buenaventura, about thirty miles distant. On the 1st of January, the Indians of the mission and town celebrated new-year's day, by a procession, music, etc., etc. They marched from the mission to the town, and through most of the empty and otherwise silent streets. Among the airs they played was "Yankee Doodle." _January 3_.--A beautiful spring-like day. We resumed our march at 11 o'clock, and encamped in a live-oak grove about ten miles south of Santa-Barbara. Our route has been generally near the shore of the ocean. Timber is abundant, and the grass and other vegetation luxuriant. Distance 10 miles. _January 4_.--At the "Rincon," or passage between two points of land jutting into the ocean, so narrow that at high tides the surf dashes against the neatly perpendicular bases of the mountains which bound the shore, it has been supposed the hostile Californians would make a stand, the position being so advantageous to them. The road, if road it can be called, where all marks of hoofs or wheels are erased by each succeeding tide, runs along a hard sand-beach, with occasional projections of small points of level ground, ten or fifteen miles, and the surf, even when the tide has fallen considerably, frequently reaches to the bellies of the horses. Some demonstration has been confidently expected here, but we encamped in this pass the first day without meeting an enemy or seeing a sign of one. Our camp is close to the ocean, and the roar of the surf, as it dashes against the shore, is like that of an immense cataract. Hundreds of the grampus whale are sporting a mile or two distant from the land, spouting up water and spray to a great height, in columns resembling steam from the escape-pipes of steam-boats. Distance 6 miles. _January 5_.--The prize-schooner Julia was lying off in sight this morning, for the purpose of co-operating with us, should there be any attempt on the part of the enemy to interrupt the march of the battalion. We reached the mission of San Buenaventura, and encamped a short distance from it at two o'clock. Soon after, a small party of Californians exhibited themselves on an elevation just beyond the mission. The battalion was immediately called to arms, and marched out to meet them. But, after the discharge of the two field-pieces, they scampered away like a flock of antelopes, and the battalion returned to camp, with none killed or wounded on either side. Under the belief that there was a larger force of Californians encamped at a distance of some five or six miles, and that during the night they might attempt a surprise, or plant cannon on the summit of a hill about a mile from camp, so as to annoy us, a party, of which I was one, was detached, after dark, to occupy the hill secretly. We marched around the mission as privately as possible, and took our position on the hill, where we remained all night without the least disturbance, except by the tempestuous wind, which blew a blast so cold and piercing as almost to congeal the blood. When the sun rose in the morning, I could see, far out in the ocean, three vessels scudding before the gale like phantom ships. One of these was the little schooner that had been waiting upon us while marching along the "Rincon." Distance 14 miles. _January 6_.--The wind has blown a gale in our faces all day, and the clouds of dust have been almost blinding. The mission of San Buenaventura does not differ, in its general features, from those of other establishments of the same kind heretofore described. There is a large garden, inclosed by a high wall, attached to the mission, in which I noticed a great variety of fruit-trees and ornamental shrubbery. There are also numerous inclosures, for cultivation, by willow hedges. The soil, when properly tilled, appears to be highly productive. This mission is situated about two miles from the shore of a small bay or indentation of the coast, on the edge of a plain or valley watered by the Rio Santa Clara, which empties into the Pacific at this point. A chain of small islands, from ten to twenty miles from the shore, commences at Santa Barbara, and extends south along the coast, to the bay of San Pedro. These islands present to the eye a barren appearance. At present the only inhabitants of the mission are a few Indians, the white population having abandoned it on our approach, with the exception of one man, who met us yesterday and surrendered himself a prisoner. Proceeding up the valley about seven miles from the mission, we discovered at a distance a party of sixty or seventy mounted Californians, drawn up in order on the bank of the river. This, it was conjectured, might be only a portion of a much larger force stationed here, and concealed in a deep ravine which runs across the valley, or in the _canadas_ of the hills on our left. Scouting-parties mounted the hills, for the purpose of ascertaining if such was the case. In the mean time, the party of Californians on our right scattered themselves over the plain, prancing their horses, waving their swords, banners, and lances, and performing a great variety of equestrian feats. They were mounted on fine horses, and there are no better horsemen, if as good, in the world, than Californians. They took especial care, however, to keep beyond the reach of cannon-shot. The battalion wheeled to the left for the purpose of crossing a point of hills jutting into the plain, and taking the supposed concealed party of the enemy on their flank. It was, however, found impracticable to cross the hills with the cannon; and, returning to the plain, the march was continued, the Californians still prancing and performing their antics in our faces. Our horses were so poor and feeble that it was impossible to chase them with any hope of success. As we proceeded, they retreated. Some of the Indian scouts, among whom were a Delaware named Tom, who distinguished himself in the engagement near San Juan, and a Californian Indian named Gregorio, rode towards them; and two or three guns were discharged on both sides, but without any damage, the parties not being within dangerous gun-shot distance of each other. The Californians then formed themselves in a body, and soon disappeared behind some hills on our right. We encamped about four o'clock in the valley, the wind blowing almost a hurricane, and the dust flying so as nearly to blind us. Distance 9 miles. _January 7_.--Continuing our march up the valley, we encamped near the rancho of Carrillo, where we found an abundance of corn, wheat, and frijoles. The house was shut up, having been deserted by its proprietor, who is said to be connected with the rebellion. Californian scouts were seen occasionally to-day on the summits of the hills south of us. Distance 7 miles. _January 8_.--Another tempestuous day. I do not remember ever to have experienced such disagreeable effects from the wind and the clouds of dust in which we were constantly enveloped, driving into our faces without intermission. We encamped this afternoon in a grove of willows near a rancho, where, as yesterday, we found corn and beans in abundance. Our horses, consequently, fare well, and we fare better than we have done. One-fourth of the battalion, exclusive of the regular guard, is kept under arms during the night, to be prepared against surprises and night-attacks. Distance 12 miles. _January 9_.--Early this morning Captain Hamley, accompanied by a Californian as a guide, came into camp, with despatches from Commodore Stockton. The exact purport of these despatches I never learned, but it was understood that the commodore, in conjunction with General Kearny, was marching upon Los Angeles, and that, if they had not already reached and taken that town (the present capital of California), they were by this time in its neighbourhood. Captain Hamley passed, last night, the encampment of a party of Californians in our rear. He landed from a vessel at Santa Barbara, and from thence followed us to this place by land. We encamped this afternoon at a rancho, situated on the edge of a fertile and finely watered plain of considerable extent, where we found corn, wheat, and frijoles in great abundance. The rancho was owned and occupied by an aged Californian, of commanding and respectable appearance; I could not but feel compassion for the venerable old man, whose sons were now all absent and engaged in the war, while he, at home and unsupported, was suffering the unavoidable inconveniences and calamities resulting from an army being quartered upon him. As we march south there appears to be a larger supply of wheat, maize, beans, and barley in the granaries of the ranchos. More attention is evidently given to the cultivation of the soil here than farther north, although neither the soil nor climate is so well adapted to the raising of crops. The Californian spies have shown themselves at various times to-day, on the summits of the hills on our right. Distance 12 miles. _January 10_.--Crossing the plain, we encamped, about two o'clock P.M., in the mouth of a _canada_, through which we ascend over a difficult pass in a range of elevated hills between us and the plain of San Fernando, or Couenga. Some forty or fifty mounted Californians exhibited themselves on the summit of the pass during the afternoon. They were doubtless a portion of the same party that we met several days ago, just below San Buenaventura. A large number of cattle were collected in the plain and corralled, to be driven along to-morrow for subsistence. Distance 10 miles. _January 11_.--The battalion this morning was divided into two parties; the main body, on foot, marching over a ridge of hills to the right of the road or trail; and the artillery, horses and baggage, with an advance-guard and escort, marching by the direct route. We found the pass narrow, and easily to be defended by brave and determined men against a greatly superior force; but when we had mounted the summit of the ridge there was no enemy, nor the sign of one, in sight. Descending into a _canada_ on the other side, we halted until the main body came up to us, and then the whole force was again reunited, and the march continued. Emerging from the hills, the advance party to which I was attached met two Californians, bareheaded, riding in great haste. They stated that they were from the mission of San Fernando; that the Californian forces had met the American forces under the command of General Kearny and Commodore Stockton, and had been defeated after two days' fighting; and that the Americans had yesterday marched into Los Angeles. They requested to be conducted immediately to Colonel Fremont, which request was complied with. A little farther on we met a Frenchman, who stated that he was the bearer of a letter from General Kearny, at Los Angeles, to Colonel Fremont. He confirmed the statement we had just heard, and was permitted to pass. Continuing our march, we entered the mission of San Fernando at one o'clock, and in about two hours the main body arrived, and the whole battalion encamped in the mission buildings. The buildings and gardens belonging to this mission are in better condition than those of any of these establishments I have seen. There are two extensive gardens, surrounded by high walls; and a stroll through them afforded a most delightful contrast from the usually uncultivated landscape we have been travelling through for so long a time. Here were brought together most of the fruits and many of the plants of the temperate and tropical climates. Although not the season of flowers, still the roses were in bloom. Oranges, lemons, figs, and olives hung upon the trees, and the blood-red _tuna_, or prickly-pear, looked very tempting. Among the plants I noticed the American aloe (_argave Americana_), which is otherwise called _maguey_. From this plant, when it attains maturity, a saccharine liquor is extracted, which is manufactured into a beverage called _pulque_, and is much prized by Mexicans. The season of grapes has passed, but there are extensive vineyards at this mission. I drank, soon after my arrival, a glass of red wine manufactured here, of a good quality. The mission of San Fernando is situated at the head of an extensive and very fertile plain, judging from the luxuriance of the grass and other vegetation now springing up. I noticed in the granary from which our horses were supplied with food many thousand bushels of corn. The ear is smaller than that of the corn of the Southern States. It resembles the maize cultivated in the Northern States, the kernel being hard and polished. Large herds of cattle and sheep were grazing upon the plain in sight of the mission. _January 12_.--This morning two Californian officers, accompanied by Tortaria Pico, who marched with us from San Luis Obispo, came to the mission to treat for peace. A consultation was held and terms were suggested, and, as I understand, partly agreed upon, but not concluded. The officers left in the afternoon. _January 13_.--We continued our march, and encamped near a deserted rancho at the foot of Couenga plain. Soon after we halted, the Californian peace-commissioners appeared, and the terms of peace and capitulation were finally agreed upon and signed by the respective parties. They were as follows:-- ARTICLES OF CAPITULATION, Made and entered into at the Ranch of Couenga, this thirteenth day of January, eighteen hundred and forty-seven, between P.B. Reading, major; Louis McLane, junr., commanding 3rd Artillery; William H. Russell, ordnance officer--commissioners appointed by J.C. Fremont, Colonel United States Army, and Military Commandant of California; and José Antonio Carillo, commandant esquadron; Augustin Olivera, deputado--commissioners appointed by Don Andres Pico, Commander-in-chief of the Californian forces under the Mexican flag. Article 1st. The Commissioners on the part of the Californians agree that their entire force shall, on presentation of themselves to Lieutenant-Colonel Fremont, deliver up their artillery and public arms, and that they shall return peaceably to their homes, conforming to the laws and regulations of the United States, and not again take up arms during the war between the United States and Mexico, but will assist and aid in placing the country in a state of peace and tranquillity. Art. 2nd. The Commissioners on the part of Lieutenant-Colonel Fremont agree and bind themselves, on the fulfilment of the 1st Article by the Californians, that they shall be guaranteed protection of life and property, whether on parole or otherwise. Article 3rd. That until a Treaty of Peace be made and signed between the United States of North America and the Republic of Mexico, no Californian or other Mexican citizen shall be bound to take the oath of allegiance. Article 4th. That any Californian or citizen of Mexico, desiring, is permitted by this capitulation to leave the country without let or hinderance. Article 5th. That, in virtue of the aforesaid articles, equal rights and privileges are vouchsafed to every citizen of California, as are enjoyed by the citizens of the United States of North America. Article 6th. All officers, citizens, foreigners or others, shall receive the protection guaranteed by the 2nd Article. Article 7th. This capitulation is intended to be no bar in effecting such arrangements as may in future be in justice required by both parties. ADDITIONAL ARTICLE. Ciudad de Los Angeles, Jan. 16th, 1847. That the paroles of all officers, citizens and others, of the United States, and naturalized citizens of Mexico, are by this foregoing capitulation cancelled, and every condition of said paroles, from and after this date, are of no further force and effect, and all prisoners of both parties are hereby released. P.B. READING, Maj. Cal'a. Battalion. LOUIS McLANE, Com'd. Artillery. WM. H. RUSSELL, Ordnance Officer. JOSE ANTONIO CARILLO, Comd't. of Squadron. AUGUSTIN OLIVERA, Deputado. Approved, J.C. FREMONT, Lieut.-Col. U.S. Army, and Military Commandant of California. ANDRES PICO, Commandant of Squadron and Chief of the National Forces of California. The next morning a brass howitzer was brought into camp, and delivered. What other arms were given up I cannot say, for I saw none. Nor can I speak as to the number of Californians who were in the field under the command of Andres Pico when the articles of capitulation were signed, for they were never in sight of us after we reached San Fernando. Distance 12 miles. _January 14_.--It commenced raining heavily this morning. Crossing a ridge of hills, we entered the magnificent undulating plain surrounding the city of Angels, now verdant with a carpet of fresh vegetation. Among other plants I noticed the mustard, and an immense quantity of the common pepper-grass of our gardens. We passed several warm springs which throw up large quantities of bitumen or mineral tar. Urging our jaded animals through the mud and water, which in places was very deep, we reached the town about 3 o'clock. A more miserably clad, wretchedly provided, and unprepossessing military host, probably never entered a civilized city. In all, except our order, deportment, and arms, we might have been mistaken for a procession of tatterdemalions, or a tribe of Nomades from Tartary. There were not many of us so fortunate as to have in our possession an entire outside garment; and several were without hats or shoes, or a complete covering to their bodies. But that we had at last reached the terminus of a long and laborious march, attended with hardships, exposure, and privation rarely suffered, was a matter of such heartfelt congratulation, that these comparatively trifling inconveniences were not thought of. Men never, probably, in the entire history of military transactions, bore these privations with more fortitude or uttered fewer complaints. We had now arrived at the abode of the _celestials_, if the interpretation of the name of the place could be considered as indicative of the character of its population, and drenched with rain and plastered with mud, we entered the "City of the Angels," and marched through its principal street to our temporary quarters. We found the town, as we expected, in the possession of the United States naval and military forces under the command of Commodore Stockton and General Kearny, who, after two engagements with six hundred mounted Californians on the 8th and 9th, had marched into the city on the 10th. The town was almost entirely deserted by its inhabitants, and most of the houses, except those belonging to foreigners, or occupied as quarters for the troops, were closed. I met here many of the naval officers whose agreeable acquaintance I had made at San Francisco. Among others were Lieutenants Thompson, Hunter, Gray and Rhenshaw, and Captain Zeilin of the marines, all of whom had marched from San Diego. Distance 12 miles. CHAPTER XII. City of Angels Gardens Vineyards Produce of the vine in California General products of the country Reputed personal charms of the females of Los Angeles San Diego Gold and quicksilver mines Lower California Bituminous springs Wines A Kentuckian among the angels Missions of San Gabriel and San Luis Rey Gen. Kearny and Com. Stockton leave for San Diego Col. Fremont appointed Governor of California by Com. Stockton Com. Shubrick's arrival Insurrection in the northern part of California suppressed Arrival of Col. Cooke at San Diego. La Ciudad de los Angeles is the largest town in California, containing between fifteen hundred and two thousand inhabitants. Its streets are laid out without any regard to regularity. The buildings are generally constructed of adobes one and two stories high, with flat roofs. The public buildings are a church, quartel, and government house. Some of the dwelling-houses are frames, and large. Few of them, interiorly or exteriorly, have any pretensions to architectural taste, finish, or convenience of plan and arrangement. The town is situated about 20 miles from the ocean, in a extensive undulating plain, bounded on the north by a ridge of elevated hills, on the east by high mountains whose summits are now covered with snow, on the west by the ocean, and stretching to the south and the south-east as far as the eye can reach. The Rio St. Gabriel flows near the town. This stream is skirted with numerous vineyards and gardens, inclosed by willow-hedges. The gardens produce a great variety of tropical fruits and plants. The yield of the vineyards is very abundant; and a large quantity of wines of a good quality and flavour, and _aguardiénte_, are manufactured here. Some of the vineyards, I understand, contain as many as twenty thousand vines. The produce of the vine in California will, undoubtedly, in a short time form an important item, in its exports and commerce. The soil and climate, especially of the southern portion of the country, appear to be peculiarly adapted to the culture of the grape. We found in Los Angeles an abundance of maize, wheat, and _frijoles_, showing that the surrounding country is highly productive of these important articles of subsistence. There are no mills, however, in this vicinity, the universal practice of Californian families being to grind their corn by hand; and consequently flour and bread are very scarce, and not to be obtained in any considerable quantities. The only garden vegetables which I saw while here were onions, potatoes, and _chile colorado_, or red pepper, which enters very largely into the _cuisine_ of the country. I do not doubt, however, that every description of garden vegetables can be produced here, in perfection and abundance. While I remained at Los Angeles, I boarded with two or three other officers at the house of a Mexican Californian, the late alcalde of the town, whose political functions had ceased. He was a thin, delicate, amiable, and very polite gentleman, treating us with much courtesy, for which we paid him, when his bill was presented, a very liberal compensation. In the morning we were served, on a common deal table, with a cup of coffee and a plate of _tortillas_. At eleven o'clock, a more substantial meal was provided, consisting of stewed beef, seasoned with _chile colorado_, a rib of roasted beef, and a plate of _frijoles_ with _tortillas_, and a bottle of native wine. Our supper was a second edition of the eleven o'clock entertainment. The town being abandoned by most of its population, and especially by the better class of the female portion of it, those who remained, which I saw, could not, without injustice, be considered as fair specimens of _the angels_, which are reputed here to inhabit. I did not happen to see one beautiful or even comely-looking woman in the place; but, as the fair descendants of Eve at Los Angeles have an exalted reputation for personal charms, doubtless the reason of the invisibility of the examples of feminine attractions, so far-famed and so much looked for by the sojourner, is to be ascribed to their "unavoidable absence," on account of the dangers and casualties of war. At this time, of course, everything in regard to society, as it usually exists here, is in a state of confusion and disorganization, and no correct conclusions in reference to it can be drawn from observation under such circumstances. The bay of San Pedro, about twenty-five miles south of Los Angeles, is the port of the town. The bay affords a good anchorage for vessels of any size; but it is not a safe harbour at all times, as I have been informed by experienced nautical men on this coast. San Gabriel River empties into the bay. The mission of San Gabriel is about twelve miles east of Los Angeles. It is represented as an extensive establishment of this kind, the lands surrounding and belonging to it being highly fertile. The mission of San Luis Rey is situated to the south, about midway between Los Angeles and San Diego. This mission, according to the descriptions which I have received of it, is more substantial and tasteful in its construction than any other in the country; and the gardens and grounds belonging to it are now in a high state of cultivation. San Diego is the most southern town in Upper California. It is situated on the Bay of San Diego, in latitude 33° north. The country back of it is described by those who have travelled through it as sandy and arid, and incapable of supporting any considerable population. There are, however, it is reported on authority regarded as reliable, rich mines of quicksilver, copper, gold, and coal, in the neighbourhood, which, if such be the fact, will before long render the place one of considerable importance. The harbour, next to that of San Francisco, is the best on the Pacific coast of North America, between the Straits of Fuca and Acapulco. For the following interesting account of Lower California I am indebted to Rodman M. Price, Esq., purser of the U.S. sloop-of-war Cyane, who has been connected with most of the important events which have recently taken place in Upper and Lower California, and whose observations and opinions are valuable and reliable. It will be seen that the observations of Mr. Price differ materially from the generally received opinions in reference to Lower California. "Burlington, N.J., June 7, 1848. "Dear Sir,--It affords me pleasure to give you all the information I have about Lower California, derived from personal observation at several of its ports that I have visited, in the U.S. ship Cyane, in 1846-47. "Cape St. Lucas, the southern extremity of the peninsula of Lower California, is in lat. 22° 45' N., has a bay that affords a good harbour and anchorage, perfectly safe nine months in the year; but it is open to the eastward, and the hurricanes which sometimes occur during July, August, and September, blow the strongest from the southeast, so that vessels will not venture in the bay during the hurricane season. I have landed twice at the Cape in a small boat, and I think a breakwater can be built, at small cost, so as to make a safe harbour at all seasons. Stone can be obtained with great ease from three cones of rocks rising from the sea, and forming the extreme southerly point of the Cape, called the Frayles. Looking to the future trade and commerce of the Pacific Ocean, this great headland must become a most important point as a dépôt for coal and merchandise, and a most convenient location for vessels trading on that coast to get their supplies. Mr. Ritchie, now residing there, supplies a large number of whale-ships that cruise off the Cape, annually, with fresh provisions, fruits, and water. The supplies are drawn from the valley of San José twenty miles north of the Cape, as the land in its immediate vicinity is mountainous and sterile; but the valley of San José is extensive and well cultivated, producing the greatest variety of vegetables and fruits. The sweet and Irish potato, tomato, cabbage, lettuce, beans, peas, beets, and carrots are the vegetables; oranges, lemons, bananas, plantains, figs, dates, grapes, pomegranates, and olives are its fruits. Good beef and mutton are cheap. A large amount of sugar-cane is grown, from which is made _panoche_, a favourite sugar with the natives; it is the syrup from the cane boiled down, and run into cakes of a pound weight, and in appearance is like our maple-sugar. "_Panoche_, cheese, olives, raisins, dried figs, and dates, put up in _ceroons_ of hide, with the great staples of the Californians--hides and tallow--make the export of San José, which is carried to San Blas and Mazatlan, on the opposite coast. This commerce the presence of the Cyane interrupted, finding and capturing in the Bay of La Paz, just after the receipt of the news of war on that coast in September, 1846, sixteen small craft, laid up during the stormy season, engaged in this trade. "I cannot dismiss the valley of San José, from which the crew of the Cyane have drawn so many luxuries, without alluding to the never-failing stream of excellent water that runs through it (to which it owes its productiveness) and empties into the Gulf here, and is easily obtained for shipping when the surf is low. It is now frequented by some of our whale ships, and European vessels bound to Mazatlan with cargoes usually stop here to get instructions from their consignees before appearing off the port; but vessels do not anchor during the three hurricane months. The view from seaward, up this valley, is beautiful indeed, being surrounded by high barren mountains, which is the general appearance of the whole peninsula, and gives the impression that the whole country is without soil, and unproductive. When your eye gets a view of this beautiful, fertile, cultivated, rich, green valley, producing all the fruits and vegetables of the earth, Lower California stock rises. To one that has been at sea for months, on salt grub, the sight of this bright spot of cultivated acres, with the turkeys, ducks, chickens, eggs, vegetables, and fruit, makes him believe the country an _Eldorado_. Following up the coast on the Gulf side, after passing Cape Polmo, good anchorage is found between the peninsula and the island of Cerralbo. Immediately to the north of this island is the entrance to the great and beautiful bay of La Paz. It has two entrances, one to the north and one to the south of the island of Espiritu Santo. The northern one is the boldest and safest for all craft drawing over twelve feet. The town of La Paz is at the bottom or south side of the bay, about twenty miles from the mouth. The bay is a large and beautiful sheet of water. The harbour of Pichelinque, of perfect mill-pond stillness, is formed inside of this bay. The Cyane lay at this quiet anchorage several days. "Pearl-fishing is the chief employment of the inhabitants about the bay, and the pearls are said to be of superior quality. I was shown a necklace, valued at two thousand dollars, taken in this water. They are all found by diving. The _Yake_ Indians are the best divers, going down in eight-fathom water. The pearl shells are sent to China, and are worth, at La Paz, one dollar and a half the _arroba_, or twenty-five pounds. Why it is a submarine diving apparatus has not been employed in this fishery, with all its advantages over Indian diving, I cannot say. Yankee enterprise has not yet reached this new world. I cannot say this either, as a countryman of ours, Mr. Davis, living at Loretta, has been a most successful pearl-fisher, employing more Indians than any one else engaged in the business. I am sorry to add that he has suffered greatly by the war. The country about La Paz is a good grazing country, but very dry. The mountains in the vicinity are said to be very rich in minerals. Some silver mines near San Antonio, about forty miles south, are worked, and produce well. La Paz may export one hundred thousand dollars a-year of _platapina_. Gold-dust and virgin gold are brought to La Paz. The copper and lead mines are numerous and rich. To the north of La Paz are numerous safe and good harbours. Escondida, Loretta, and Muleje are all good harbours, formed by the islands in front of the main land. "The island of Carmen, lying in front of Loretta, has a large salt lake, which has a solid salt surface of several feet thickness. The salt is of good quality, is cut out like ice, and it could supply the world. It has heretofore been a monopoly to the governor of Lower California, who employed convicts to get out the salt and put it on the beach ready for shipping. It is carried about a quarter of a mile, and is sent to Mazatlan and San Blas. A large quantity of salt is used in producing silver. To the north of Muleje, which is nearly opposite Guymas, the gulf is so much narrower that it is a harbour itself. No accurate survey has ever been made of it--indeed, all the peninsula, as well as the coast of Upper California, is laid down wrong on the charts, being about twelve miles too far easterly. The English Government now have two naval ships engaged in surveying the Gulf of California. "On the Pacific coast of the peninsula there is the great Bay of Magdalena, which has fine harbours, but no water, provisions, or inhabitants. Its shores are high barren mountains, said to possess great mineral wealth. A fleet of whale-ships have been there during the winter months of the last two years, for a new species of whale that are found there, represented as rather a small whale, producing forty or fifty barrels of oil; and, what is most singular, I was assured, by most respectable whaling captains, that the oil is a good paint-oil (an entire new quality for fish-oil). Geographically and commercially, Lower California must become very valuable. It will be a constant source of regret to this country, that it is not included in the treaty of peace just made with Mexico. We have held and governed it during the war, and the boundary of Upper California cuts the head of the Gulf of California, so that Lower California is left entirely disconnected with the Mexican territory. "Cape St. Lucas is the great headland of the Pacific Ocean, and is destined to be the Gibraltar and entrepot of that coast, or perhaps La Paz may be preferred, on account of its superior harbour. As a possession to any foreign power, I think Lower California more valuable than the group of the Sandwich Islands. It has as many arable acres as that group of islands, with rich mines, pearl-fishing, fine bays and harbours, with equal health, and all their productions. As a country, it is dry, mountainous, and sterile, yet possessing many fine valleys like San José, as the old mission establishments indicate. I have heard Todas Santos, Commondee, Santa Guadalupe, and others, spoken of as being more extensive, and as productive as San José. "I am, most faithfully and truly, yours, "RODMAN M. PRICE." In the vicinity of Los Angeles there are a number of warm springs which throw out and deposit large quantities of bitumen or mineral tar. This substance, when it cools, becomes hard and brittle like resin. Around some of these springs many acres of ground are covered with this deposit to the depth of several feet. It is a principal material in the roofing of houses. When thrown upon the fire, it ignites immediately, emitting a smoke like that from turpentine, and an odour like that from bituminous coal. This mineral, so abundant in California, may one day become a valuable article of commerce. There are no reliable statistics in California. The traveller is obliged to form his estimate of matters and things chiefly from his own observation. You can place but little reliance upon information derived from the population, even when they choose to answer your questions; and most generally the response to your inquiries is--"_Quien sabe?_" (who knows?) No Californian troubles his brains about these matters. The quantity of wines and _aguardiénte_ produced by the vineyards and distilleries, at and near Los Angeles, must be considerable--basing my estimate upon the statement of Mr. Wolfskill, an American gentleman residing here, and whose house and vineyard I visited. Mr. W.'s vineyard is young, and covers about forty acres of ground, the number of vines being 4,000 or 5,000. From the produce of these, he told me, that last year he made 180 casks of wine, and the same quantity of _aguardiénte_. A cask here is sixteen gallons. When the vines mature, their produce will be greatly increased. Mr. W.'s vineyard is doubtless a model of its kind. It was a delightful recreation to stroll through it, and among the tropical fruit-trees bordering its walks. His house, too, exhibited an air of cleanliness and comfort, and a convenience of arrangement not often met with in this country. He set out for our refreshment three or four specimens of his wines, some of which would compare favourably with the best French and Madeira wines. The _aguardiénte_ and peach-brandy, which I tasted, of his manufacture, being mellowed by age, were of an excellent flavour. The quantity of wine and _aguardiénte_ produced in California, I would suppose, amounted to 100,000 casks of sixteen gallons, or 1,600,000 gallons. This quantity by culture can be increased indefinitely. It was not possible to obtain at Los Angeles a piece of woollen cloth sufficiently large for a pair of pantaloons, or a pair of shoes, which would last a week. I succeeded, after searching through all the shops of the town, in procuring some black cotton velvet, for four yards of which I paid the sum of 12 dollars. In the United States the same article would probably have cost 1.50 dollar. For four dollars more I succeeded in getting the pantaloons made up by an American tailor, who came into the country with General Kearny's forces. A Rocky Mountain trapper and trader (Mr. Goodyear), who has established himself near the Salt Lake since I passed there last year, fortunately arrived at Los Angeles, bringing with him a quantity of dressed deer and elk skins, which were purchased for clothing for the nearly naked soldiers. Among the houses I visited while here, was that of Mr. Pryor, an American, and a native of Louisville, Ky. He has been a resident of the country between twenty and thirty years, but his Kentucky manners, frankness, and hospitality still adhere to him. I remained at Los Angeles from the 14th to the 29th of January. During this time, with the exception of three days, the weather and temperature were pleasant. It rained one day, and during two days the winds blew strong and cold from the north-west. The nights are cool, but fires are not requisite to comfort. The snow-clad mountains, about twenty-five or thirty miles to the east of us, contrast singularly with the brilliant fresh verdure of the plain. On the 18th of January General Kearny, with the dragoons, left for San Diego. There was understood to be a difference between General Kearny and Commodore Stockton, and General Kearny and Colonel Fremont, in regard to their respective powers and duties; which, as the whole subject has subsequently undergone a thorough investigation, and the result made public, it is unnecessary for me to allude to more particularly. I did not converse with General Kearny while he was at Los Angeles, and consequently possessed no other knowledge of his views and intentions, or of the powers with which he had been invested by the President, than what I derived from report. On the 19th, Commodore Stockton and suite, with a small escort, left for San Diego. Soon after his departure the battalion was paraded, and the appointment of Colonel Fremont as governor of California, and Colonel W.H. Russell, as secretary of state, by Commodore Stockton, was read to them by Colonel Russell. It was announced, also, that, although Colonel Fremont had accepted the office of chief civil magistrate of California, he would still retain his military office, and command the battalion as heretofore. Commodore Shubrick, however, arrived at Monterey on the 23rd of January, in the U.S. ship Independence, and, ranking above Commodore Stockton, assumed the chief command, as appears by the date of a general order published at Monterey, and written on board the United States ship Independence, on February 1st, thanking the volunteers for their services, and announcing the restoration of order. For I should state that an insurrection, headed by Don Francisco Sanchez, had broken out in the upper portion of California some time towards the last of December, which had been put down by a detachment of marines and volunteers. The insurgents had committed some outrages, and among other acts had taken prisoner Lieutenant W.A. Bartlett, acting Alcalde of San Francisco, with some other Americans. An account of the suppression of this affair I find in the "Californian" newspaper of February 6th, 1847, from which it appears, "that a party of one hundred and one men, commanded by Captain Ward Marston, of the United States marines, marched from San Francisco on the 29th December in search of the enemy, whom they discovered on the 2nd of January, about one hundred in number, on the plains of Santa Clara, under the command of Francisco Sanchez. An attack was immediately ordered. The enemy was forced to retire, which they were able to do in safety, after some resistance, in consequence of their superior horses. The affair lasted about an hour, during which time we had one marine slightly wounded in the head, one volunteer of Captain Weber's command in the leg; and the enemy had one horse killed, and some of their forces supposed to be killed or wounded. In the evening the enemy sent in a flag of truce, with a communication, requesting an interview with the commanding officer of the expedition the next day, which was granted, when an armistice was entered into, preparatory to a settlement of the difficulties. On the 3rd, the expedition was reinforced by the mounted Monterey volunteers, fifty-five men, under the command of Captain W.A.T. Maddox, and on the 7th, by the arrival of Lieutenant Grayson with fifteen men, attached to Captain Maddox's company. On the 8th a treaty was concluded, by which the enemy surrendered Lieutenant Bartlett, and the other prisoners, as well as all their arms, including one small field-piece, their ammunition and accoutrements, and were permitted to return peaceably to their homes, and the expedition to their respective posts." A list of the expedition which marched from San Francisco is given as follows:--Captain Ward Marston, commandant; Assistant-surgeon J. Duval, aide-de-camp. A detachment of United States marines, under command of Lieutenant Tansil, thirty-four men; artillery, consisting of one field-piece, under the charge of Master William F. De Iongh, assisted by Mid. John M. Kell, ten men; Interpreter John Pray; mounted company of San José volunteers, under command of Captain C.M. Weber, Lieutenant John Murphy, and acting Lieutenant John Reed, thirty-three men; mounted company of Yerba Buena volunteers, under command of Captain William M. Smith, Lieutenant John Rose, with a small detachment under Captain J. Martin, twelve men. Thus ended the insurrections, if resistance against invasion can properly be so called, in Upper California. On the 20th January, the force of sailors and marines which had marched with Commodore Stockton and General Kearny left Los Angeles, to embark at San Pedro for San Diego. On the 21st a national salute was fired by the artillery company belonging to the battalion, in honour of Governor Fremont. On the 22nd, letters were received from San Diego, stating that Colonel Cooke, who followed General Kearny from Santa Fé with a force of four hundred Mormon volunteers, had reached the neighbourhood of that place. Having applied for my discharge from the battalion as soon as we reached Los Angeles, I received it on the 29th, on which day, in company with Captain Hastings, I set out on my return to San Francisco, designing to leave that place on the first favourable opportunity for the United States. CHAPTER XIII. Leave Los Angeles for San Francisco Don Andres Pico A Californian returning from the wars Domestic life at a rancho Women in favour of peace Hospitable treatment Fandango Singular custom Arrive at Santa Barbara Lost in a fog Valley of the Salinas Californians wanting Yankee wives High waters Arrive at San Francisco. We left Los Angeles late in the afternoon of the 29th of January, with two Indian vaqueros, on miserable broken-down horses (the best we could obtain), and encamped at the deserted rancho at the foot of Couenga plain, where the treaty of peace had been concluded. After we had been here some time, two Indians came to the house, who had been sent by the proprietor of the rancho to herd the cattle. Having nothing to eat with us, a tempting offer prevailed upon the Indians to milk one of the cows; and we made our supper and our breakfast next morning on milk. Both of our Indian vaqueros deserted in the night, carrying with them sundry articles of clothing placed in their charge. A few days have made a great change in the appearance of the country. The fresh grass is now several inches in height, and many flowers are in bloom. The sky is bright, and the temperature is delightful. On the 30th of January, leaving the mission of San Fernando on our right, at a distance of eight or ten miles, we followed the usually travelled trail next to the hills, on the western side of the plain. As we were passing near a rancho, a well-dressed Californian rode out to us, and, after examining the horses of our miserable _caballada_, politely claimed one of them as his property. He was told that the horse was drawn from the public _caballada_, at Los Angeles, and could not be given up. This seemed to satisfy him. After some further conversation, he informed us, that he was Don Andres Pico, the late leader and general of the Californians. The expression of his countenance is intelligent and prepossessing, and his address and manners courteous and pleasing. Shaking hands, and bidding us a very earnest _adios_, he put spurs to his horse and galloped away. We were soon after overtaken by a young Californian, who appeared at first rather doubtful whether or not he should make our acquaintance. The ice being broken, however, he became very loquacious and communicative. He stated that he was returning to his home near Santa Barbara, from the wars, in which he had been engaged against his will. The language that he used was, that he, with many others of his acquaintances, were forced to take up arms by the leading men of the country. He was in the two battles of the 8th and 9th of January, below Los Angeles; and he desired never to be in any more battles. He was heartily rejoiced that there was peace, and hoped that there would never be any more wars. He travelled along with us until afternoon, when he fell behind, and we did not see him again until the next day. After passing two or three deserted houses, we reached an inhabited rancho, situated at the extremity of a valley, and near a narrow gorge in the hills, about four o'clock, and, our jaded animals performing duty with reluctance, we determined to halt for the night, if the prospect of obtaining anything to eat (of which we stood in much need) was flattering. Riding up to the house, a small adobe, with one room, and a shed for a kitchen, the _ranchero_ and the _ranchera_ came out and greeted us with a hearty "_Buenas tardes, Senores, paisanos amigos_," shaking hands, and inviting us at the same time to alight and remain for the night, which invitation we accepted. The kind-hearted _ranchera_ immediately set about preparing supper for us. An Indian _muchacha_ was seated at the _metate_ (hand-mill), which is one of the most important articles of the Californian culinary apparatus. While the _muchacha_ ground, or rather crushed, the wheat between the stones, the _ranchera_, with a platter-shaped basket, cleansed it of dust, chaff, and all impure particles, by tossing the grain in the basket. The flour being manufactured and sifted through a _cedazo_, or coarse sieve, the labour of kneading the dough was performed by the _muchacha_. An iron plate was then placed over a rudely-constructed furnace, and the dough, being beaten by hand into _tortillas_ (thin cakes), was baked upon this. What would American housewives say to such a system as this? The viands being prepared, they were set out upon a small table, at which we were invited to seat ourselves. The meal consisted of _tortillas_, stewed jerk beef, with _chile_ seasoning, milk, and _quesadillas_, or cheesecakes, green and tough as leather. However, our appetites were excellent, and we enjoyed the repast with a high relish. Our host and hostess were very inquisitive in regard to the news from below, and as to what would be the effects of the conquest of the country by the Americans. The man stated that he and all his family had refused to join in the late insurrection. We told them that all was peaceable now; that there would be no more wars in California; that we were all Americans, all Californians--_hermanos, hermanas, amigos_. They expressed their delight at this information by numerous exclamations. We asked the woman how much the dress which she wore, a miserable calico, cost her? She answered, "Seis pesos" (six dollars). When we told her that in a short time, under the American government, she could purchase as good a one "_por un peso_," she threw up her hands in astonishment, expressing by her features at the same time the most unbounded delight. Her entire wardrobe was soon brought forth, and the price paid for every article named. She then inquired what would be the cost of similar clothing under the American government, which we told her. As we replied, exclamation followed upon exclamation, expressive of her surprise and pleasure, and the whole was concluded with "_Viva los Americanos--viva los Americanos!_" I wore a large coarse woollen pea-jacket, which the man was very desirous to obtain, offering for it a fine horse. I declined the trade. In the evening several of the brothers, sisters, and brothers and sisters-in-law of the family collected, and the guitar and violin, which were suspended from a beam in the house, were taken down, and we were entertained by a concert of instrumental and vocal music. Most of the tunes were such as are performed at fandangos. Some plaintive airs were played and sung with much pathos and expression, the whole party joining in the choruses. Although invited to occupy the only room in the house, we declined it, and spread our blankets on the outside. The next morning (January 31st), when we woke, the sun was shining bright and warm, and the birds were singing gayly in the grove of evergreen oaks near the house. Having made ready to resume our journey, as delicately as possible we offered our kind hostess compensation for the trouble we had given her, which she declined, saying, that although they were not rich, they nevertheless had enough and to spare. We however insisted, and she finally accepted, with the condition that we would also accept of some of her _quesadillas_ and _tortillas_ to carry along with us. The ranchero mounted his horse and rode with us about three or four miles, to place us on the right trail, when, after inviting us very earnestly to call and see him again, and bidding us an affectionate _adios_, he galloped away. Travelling over a hilly country, and passing the ruins of several deserted ranchos, the grounds surrounding which were strewn with the bones of slaughtered cattle, we reached, about five o'clock P.M., a cluster of houses in the valley of Santa Clara River, ten miles east of the mission of San Buenaventura. Here we stopped at the house of a man named Sanchez. Our arrival was thought to be worthy of notice, and it was accordingly celebrated in the evening by a fandango given at one of the houses, to which we were invited. The company, to the number of some thirty or forty persons, young and old, were assembled in the largest room of the house, the floor being hard clay. The only furniture contained in the room was a bed and some benches, upon which the company seated themselves when not engaged in dancing. Among the _senoritas_ assembled were two daughters of an American named Chapman, who has been a resident of the country for many years. They were fair-skinned, and might be called handsome. An elder and married sister was also present. They called themselves Americans, although they did not speak our language, and seemed to be more proud of their American than their Spanish blood. A singular custom prevails at these fandangos. It is this: during the intervals between the waltzes, quadrilles, and other dances, when the company is seated, a young lady takes the floor _solus_, and, after showing off her graces for general observation a few minutes, she approaches any gentleman she may select, and performs a variety of pirouettes and other Terpsichorean movements before him for his especial amusement and admiration, until he places on her head his hat or cap, as the case may be, when she dances away with it. The hat or cap has afterwards to be redeemed by some present, and this usually is in money. Not dancing ourselves, we were favoured with numerous special exhibitions of this kind, the cost of each of which was _un peso_. With a long journey before us, and with purses in a nearly collapsed condition, the drafts upon us became so frequent, that at an early hour, under a plea of fatigue and want of rest, we thought it prudent to beat a retreat, leaving our fair and partial _fandangueras_ to bestow their favours upon others better able to bear them. The motions of the Californian females of all classes in the dance are highly graceful. The waltz is their favourite measure, and in this they appear to excel as much as the men do in horsemanship. During the progress of the dance, the males and females improvise doggerel rhymes complimentary of the personal beauties and graces of those whom they admire, or expressive of their love and devotion, which are chanted with the music of the instruments, and the whole company join in the general chorus at the end of each verse. The din of voices is sometimes almost deafening. Our host accompanied us to our lodgings on the opposite side of the way. Beds were spread down under the small porch outside, and we laid our bodies upon them, but not to sleep, for the noise of the fandango dancers kept us awake until broad daylight, at which time it broke up. Hiring fresh horses here, and a vaquero to drive our tired animals after us, we started about 9 o'clock in the morning, and, passing through San Buenaventura, reached Santa Barbara, 45 miles, a little after two in the afternoon. We stopped at the house of Mr. Sparks, who received us with genuine hospitality. Santa Barbara presented a more lively appearance than when we passed here on our way down, most of its population having returned to their homes. Procuring fresh but miserably poor horses, we resumed our journey on the afternoon of the 2nd of February, and encamped at the rancho of Dr. Deu, situated on the plain of Santa Barbara, near the sea shore. The soil of this plain is of the most fertile composition. The fresh grass is now six or eight inches high, and the varieties are numerous. Many of the early flowers are in bloom. I noticed a large wheat field near the house, and its appearance was such as to promise a rich harvest. The rain fell heavily on the morning of the 3rd, but continuing our journey we crossed the St. Ynes Mountain, and, passing the mission by that name, reached the rancho of Mr. Faxon after dark, where we halted for the night. Around the mission of St. Ynes I noticed, as we passed, immense quantities of cattle bones thickly strewn in all directions. Acres of ground were white with these remains of the immense herds belonging to this mission in the days of its prosperity, slaughtered for their hides and tallow. We met two or three elegantly dressed Californians to-day, who accosted us with much civility and apparent friendliness. Mr. Faxon is an Englishman by birth, and has resided in California about thirty years. He is married to a Californian lady, and has a family of interesting and beautiful children. A large portion of the land belonging to his rancho is admirably adapted to agriculture, and he raises crops of corn and vegetables as well as wheat without irrigation. He informed me that the yield of wheat on his rancho was fully seventy bushels to the acre. Mr. F. showed me specimens of lead ore from which he moulds his bullets, taken from an inexhaustible mine in the Tular Valley, some fifty miles distant from this. It is certainly the richest ore that I have ever seen, appearing almost like the pure metal. He also showed me a caustic alkali, produced by burning a plant or shrub which grows in great abundance in the Tular Valley. This substance is used by him in the manufacture of soap. About noon on the 4th, we halted at the rancho of Captain Dana, where we procured fresh horses, leaving our wretchedly lean and tired animals, and, proceeding on, stopped for the night at the rancho of Mr. Branch, an intelligent American, originally from the state of New York, who has been settled in the country a number of years. His rancho is situated on what is called the _arroyo grande_, a small stream which empties into the Pacific some two or three miles from the house. The house is new, and constructed after American models of farm-houses, with neat and comfortable apartments, chimneys and fireplaces. The arable lands here are finely adapted to the culture of maize, wheat, and potatoes. Our horses straying, it was twelve o'clock on the 5th before we found them. The rain had fallen steadily and heavily all night, and during the forenoon, and was pouring down when we started. We passed through the mission of San Luis Obispo just before sunset, intending to halt at a rancho about three miles distant in a _canada_. But, the storm increasing in strength, it became suddenly so dark in the mountain-gorge, that we could not distinguish the trail, and, after wandering about some time, vainly attempting to find the house, we were compelled to bivouac, wet to our skins, without fire or shelter, and the rain pouring down in torrents. The next morning (Feb. 6.), in hunting up our loose horses, we discovered the house about half a mile distant from our camp. Continuing our journey, we halted about nine o'clock at a rancho near the ruins of Santa Margarita. A solitary Indian was the only occupant of the house, and only inhabitant of the place; and he could furnish us with no food. Passing two or three other deserted ranches, we reached the house of a Mexican about one o'clock, where we obtained a meal of fried eggs and _tortillas_, after having been without food thirty hours. Late in the afternoon we arrived at the mission of San Miguel, now occupied by an Englishman named Reed, his _mestiza_ wife, and one child, with two or three Indian vaqueros. Crossing the Salinas in the morning (Feb. 7), we continued down its eastern side, and encamped in a wide bottom under a large live oak. A _quesadilla_ was all we had to eat. This was divided, one-half being reserved for breakfast. The fresh vegetation has so much changed the face of the country on this river since we passed along here in December, that I scarcely recognise it. The grass is six or eight inches high in the bottom, the blades standing so thick as to present a matted appearance, and the hills are brilliant with flowers--pink, purple, blue, and yellow. On the 8th we continued down the eastern bank of the Salinas, passing through several large and fertile bottoms, and reaching the rancho of San Lorenzo about twelve o'clock. This rancho, as we learned from the proprietors, is owned by two bachelor brothers, one of whom told me that he had not been off his lands but once or twice for several years. Large herds of fat cattle and horses were grazing upon the luxuriant grasses of the plain, and there were several extensive inclosures sowed in wheat, which presented all the indications of an abundant harvest. But, with all these natural resources surrounding him the elder brother told us that he had nothing to eat in his house but fresh beef. A quantity of the choice pieces of a fat beef was roasted by an Indian boy, which we enjoyed with all the relish of hungry men. Our host, a gentleman of intelligence and politeness, made apology after apology for his rude style of living, a principal excuse being that he had no wife. He inquired, with apparent earnestness, if we could not send him two pretty accomplished and capable American women, whom they could marry; and then they would build a fine house, have bread, butter, cheese, and all the delicacies, luxuries, and elegancies of life in abundance. He appeared to be well pleased with the conquest of the country by the Americans, and desirous that they should not give it up. When we resumed our journey in the afternoon, he rode with us four or five miles to show us the way, and, on taking his leave, invited us to return again, when he said he hoped his accommodations would be much improved. Riding 15 miles, we halted at a tule-cabin, where we remained until two o'clock in the morning, when, the moon shining brightly, we mounted our horses, and continued our journey. We reached the Monterey road just at daylight. My intention had been to visit Monterey; but the Salinas being unfordable, and there being no ferry, it was not possible to do it without swimming the river, which I did not feel inclined to do. Monterey is situated on the bay by that name, about 90 miles by water south of San Francisco. The bay affords a good anchorage and landing in calm weather, being exposed only to the northers, which blow violently. The town contains about 1500 inhabitants, and is rapidly increasing in wealth and population. Arriving at the rancho of Don Joaquin Gomez, we found no one but a _mestiza_ servant at home, and could obtain nothing to eat but a _quesadilla_. All the streams, large and small, are much swollen by late heavy rains, and the travelling is consequently very laborious and difficult. Resting our horses a short time, we crossed the mountains, and reached the mission of San Juan Bautista about noon. At San Juan we met with Messrs. Grayson, Boggs, and a party of volunteers returning from Monterey to San Francisco, having been discharged since the suppression of the rebellion in this part of California, headed by Francisco Sanchez. Here we learned, for the first time, the arrival at Monterey of Commodore Shubrick in the ship Independence, and of the Lexington with Captain Tomkins's company of artillery, and freighted otherwise with munitions, stores, and tools necessary to the erection and defence of durable fortifications at Monterey and San Francisco. Seven or eight miles beyond San Juan, we found that the waters of the _arroyo_ had risen so as to inundate a wide valley which we were compelled to cross. After making several ineffectual attempts to reach the opposite side, wading through the water, and sometimes falling into deep holes from which it was difficult for either men or horses to extricate themselves, we encamped for the night on a small elevation in the valley, entirely surrounded by water. Our condition was miserable enough. Tired, wet, and hungry, we laid down for the night on the damp ground. The next day (Feb. 10), about eleven o'clock, we succeeded in finding a ford across the valley and stream, and procured dinner at a soap-factory on the opposite side, belonging to T.O. Larkin, Esq. Continuing on, we encamped at a rancho occupied by an Englishman as _mayor domo_. He was very glad to see us, and treated us with unbounded hospitality, furnishing a superabundance of beef and _frijoles_ for our consumption. On the 11th, about three P.M., we arrived at the Pueblo de San José, and, finding there a launch employed by Messrs. Howard and Mellus in collecting hides, bound for San Francisco, we embarked in her, and on the morning of the 13th arrived at that place. We found lying here the U.S. sloop Warren, and Lieutenant Radford politely furnished us with a boat to land. In the afternoon the Cyane, Commander Dupont, with Gen. Kearny on board, and the store-ship Erie, with Col. Mason on board, arrived in the harbour. Col. Mason is from the United States direct, via Panama, and brings late and interesting intelligence. The Cyane and Warren have just returned from a cruise on the southern Pacific coast of Mexico. The town of Guymas had been taken by bombardment. The Cyane had captured, during her cruize, fourteen prizes, besides several guns at San Blas. The boats of the Warren, under the command of Lieut. Radford, performed the gallant feat of cutting out of the harbour of Mazatlan the Mexican schooner Malek Abdel. Landing in San Francisco, I found my wardrobe, which I had deposited in the care of Capt. Leidesdorff, and the first time for nearly five months dressed myself in a civilized costume. Having been during that time almost constantly in motion, and exposed to many hardships and privations, it was, as may be supposed, no small satisfaction to find once more a place where I could repose for a short time at least. CHAPTER XIV. Progress of the town of San Francisco Capt. Dupont Gen. Kearny The presidio Appointed Alcalde Gen. Kearny's proclamation Arrival of Col. Stevenson's regiment Horse-thief Indians Administration of justice in California Sale of lots in San Francisco. Wherever the Anglo-Saxon race plant themselves, progress is certain to be displayed in some form or other. Such is their "go-ahead" energy, that things cannot stand still where they are, whatever may be the circumstances surrounding them. Notwithstanding the wars and insurrections, I found the town of San Francisco, on my arrival here, visibly improved. An American population had flowed into it; lots, which heretofore have been considered almost valueless, were selling at high prices; new houses had been built, and were in progress; new commercial houses had been established; hotels had been opened for the accommodation of the travelling and business public; and the publication of a newspaper had been commenced. The little village of two hundred souls, when I arrived here in September last, is fast becoming a town of importance. Ships freighted with full cargoes are entering the port, and landing their merchandise to be disposed of at wholesale and retail on shore, instead of the former mode of vending them afloat in the harbour. There is a prevailing air of activity, enterprise, and energy; and men, in view of the advantageous position of the town for commerce, are making large calculations upon the future; calculations which I believe will be fully realized. On the 15th I dined on board the sloop-of-war Cyane, with Commander Dupont, to whom I had the good fortune to be the bearer from home of a letter of introduction. I say "good fortune," because I conceive it to be one of the greatest of social blessings, as well as pleasures, to be made acquainted with a truly upright and honourable man--one whose integrity never bends to wrongful or pusillanimous expediency;--one who, armed intellectually with the panoply of justice, has courage to sustain it under any and all circumstances;--one whose ambition is, in a public capacity, to serve his country, and not to serve himself;--one who waits for his country to judge of his acts, and, if worthy, to place the laurel wreath upon his head, disdaining a self-wrought and self-assumed coronal. Capt. Dupont is a native of Delaware; and that gallant and patriotic state should feel proud of such a son. He is one of whom all men, on sea or on land, with whom his duties as an officer or citizen of our republic brings him in contact, speak well; and whose private virtues, as well as professional merits, are deserving of the warmest admiration and the highest honours. Although I have long known Gen. S.W. Kearny from reputation, and saw him at Los Angeles, I was here introduced to him for the first time. Gen. K. is a man rising fifty years of age. His height is about five feet ten or eleven inches. His figure is all that is required by symmetry. His features are regular, almost Grecian; his eye is blue, and has an eagle-like expression, when excited by stern or angry emotion; but, in ordinary social intercourse, the whole expression of his countenance is mild and pleasing, and his manners and conversation are unaffected, urbane, and conciliatory, without the slightest exhibition of vanity or egotism. He appears the cool, brave, and energetic soldier; the strict disciplinarian, without tyranny; the man, in short, determined to perform his duty, in whatever situation he may be placed, leaving consequences to follow in their natural course. These, my first impressions, were fully confirmed by subsequent intercourse, in situations and under circumstances which, by experience, I have found an unfailing alembic for the trial of character--a crucible wherein, if the metal be impure, the drossy substances are sure to display themselves. It is not my province to extol or pronounce judgment upon his acts; they are a part of the military and civil history of our country, and as such will be applauded or condemned, according to the estimate that may be placed upon them. But I may be allowed to express the opinion, that no man, placed under the same circumstances, ever aimed to perform his duty with more uprightness and more fidelity to the interests and honour of his country, or who, to shed lustre upon his country, ever braved greater dangers, or endured more hardships and privations, and all without vaunting his performances and sacrifices. On the 16th, in company of Gen. Kearny, Capt. Turner, and Lieuts. Warner and Hallock, of the U.S. Engineer Corps, I rode to the Presidio of San Francisco, and the old fortification at the mouth of the bay. The presidio is about three miles from the town, and consists of several blocks of adobe buildings, covered with files. The walls of most of the buildings are crumbling for the want of care in protecting them from the annual rains; and without this care they will soon become heaps of mud. The fort is erected upon a commanding position, about a mile and a half from the entrance to the bay. Its walls are substantially constructed of burnt brick, and are of sufficient thickness and strength to resist heavy battering. There are nine or ten embrasures. Like everything else in the country belonging to the public, the fort is fast falling into ruins. There has been no garrison here for several years; the guns are dismounted, and half decomposed by long exposure to the weather, and from want of care. Some of them have sunk into the ground. On the 20th I was waited upon by Gen. Kearny, and requested to accept the office of alcalde, or chief magistrate, of the district of San Francisco. There being no opportunity of returning to the United States immediately, I accepted of the proposed appointment, and on the 22d was sworn into office, my predecessor, Lieut. W.A. Bartlett, of the navy, being ordered to his ship by the commanding officer of the squadron. The annual salute in celebration of the birthday of the immortal and illustrious founder of our republic, required by law from all the ships of the navy in commission, in whatever part of the world they may be at the time, strikes us more forcibly when in a far-off country, as being a beautiful and appropriate tribute to the unapproachable virtues and heroism of that great benefactor of the human race, than when we are nearer home, or upon our own soil. The U.S. ships in the harbour, at twelve o'clock on the 22d, each fired a national salute; and the day being calm and beautiful, the reports bounded from hill to hill, and were echoed and re-echoed until the sound died away, apparently in the distant gorges of the Sierra Nevada. This was a voice from the soul of WASHINGTON, speaking in majestic and thunder-tones to the green and flowery valley, the gentle hills and lofty mountains of California, and consecrating them as the future abode of millions upon millions of the sons of liberty. The merchant and whale ships lying at anchor, catching the enthusiasm, joined in the salute; and for a time the harbour and bay in front of the town were enveloped in clouds of gunpowder smoke. General Kearny left San Francisco, in the frigate Savannah, Captain Mervine, on the 23d, for Monterey, and soon after his arrival at that place issued the following proclamation:-- PROCLAMATION TO THE PEOPLE OF CALIFORNIA. The President of the United States having instructed the undersigned to take charge of the civil government of California, he enters upon his duties with an ardent desire to promote, as far as he is able, the interests of the country and the welfare of its inhabitants. The undersigned has instructions from the President to respect and protect the religious institutions of California, and to see that the religious rights of the people are in the amplest manner preserved to them, the constitution of the United States allowing every man to worship his Creator in such a manner as his own conscience may dictate to him. The undersigned is also instructed to protect the persons and property of the quiet and peaceable inhabitants of the country against all or any of their enemies, whether from abroad or at home; and when he now assures the Californians that it will be his duty and his pleasure to comply with those instructions, he calls upon them all to exert themselves in preserving order and tranquillity, in promoting harmony and concord, and in maintaining the authority and efficiency of the laws. It is the wish and design of the United States to provide for California, with the least possible delay, a free government, similar to those in her other territories; and the people will soon be called upon to exercise their rights as freemen, in electing their own representatives, to make such laws as may be deemed best for their interest and welfare. But until this can be done, the laws now in existence, and not in conflict with the constitution of the United States, will be continued until changed by competent authority; and those persons who hold office will continue in the same for the present, provided they swear to support that constitution, and to faithfully perform their duty. The undersigned hereby absolves all the inhabitants of California from any further allegiance to the republic of Mexico, and will consider them as citizens of the United States; those who remain quiet and peaceable will be respected in their rights and protected in them. Should any take up arms against or oppose the government of this territory, or instigate others to do so, they will be considered as enemies, and treated accordingly. When Mexico forced a war upon the United States, time did not permit the latter to invite the Californians as friends to join her standard, but compelled her to take possession of the country to prevent any European power from seizing upon it, and, in doing so, some excesses and unauthorized acts were no doubt committed by persons employed in the service of the United States, by which a few of the inhabitants have met with a loss of property; such losses will be duly investigated, and those entitled to remuneration will receive it. California has for many years suffered greatly from domestic troubles; civil wars have been the poisoned fountains which have sent forth trouble and pestilence over her beautiful land. Now those fountains are dried up; the star-spangled banner floats over California, and as long as the sun continues to shine upon her, so long will it float there, over the natives of the land, as well as others who have found a home in her bosom; and under it agriculture must improve, and the arts and sciences flourish, as seed in a rich and fertile soil. The Americans and Californians are now but one people; let us cherish one wish, one hope, and let that be for the peace and quiet of our country. Let us, as a band of brothers, unite and emulate each other in our exertions to benefit and improve this our beautiful, and which soon must be our happy and prosperous, home. Done at Monterey, capital of California, this first day of March, A.D. 1847, and in the seventy-first year of independence of the United Suites. S.W. KEARNY Brig.-Gen., U.S.A., and Governor of California. The proclamation of General Kearny gave great satisfaction to the native as well as the emigrant population of the country. Several of the alcaldes of the district of my jurisdiction, as well as private individuals (natives of the country), expressed, by letter and orally, their approbation of the sentiments of the proclamation in the warmest terms. They said that they were heartily willing to become Americans upon these terms, and hoped that there would be the least possible delay in admitting them to the rights of American citizenship. There was a general expectation among natives as well as foreigners, that a representative form of territorial government would be immediately established by General Kearny. Why this was not done, is explained by the recent publication of General Scott's letter to General Kearny, dated November 3rd, 1846, of which Colonel Mason was the bearer, he having left the United States on the 7th November. In this letter General Scott says:-- "As a guide to the civil governor of Upper California, in our hands, see the letter of June 3rd (last), addressed to you by the Secretary of War. You will not, however, formally declare the province to be annexed. Permanent incorporation of the territory must depend on the government of the United States. "After occupying with our forces all necessary points in Upper California, and establishing a temporary civil government therein, as well as assuring yourself of its internal tranquillity, and the absence of any danger of reconquest on the part of Mexico, you may charge Colonel Mason, United States first dragoons, the bearer of this open letter, or land officer next in rank to your own, with your several duties, and return yourself, with a sufficient escort of troops, to St. Louis, Missouri; but the body of the United States dragoons that accompanied you to California will remain there until further orders." The transport ships Thomas H. Perkins, Loo Choo, Susan Drew, and Brutus, with Colonel Stevenson's regiment, arrived at San Francisco during the months of March and April. These vessels were freighted with a vast quantity of munitions, stores, tools, saw-mills, grist-mills, etc., etc., to be employed in the fortification of the principal harbours on the coast--San Francisco, Monterey, and San Diego. The regiment of Col. Stevenson was separated into different commands, portions of it being stationed at San Francisco, Sonoma, Monterey, Santa Barbara, and Los Angeles; and some companies employed against the horse-thief Indians of the Sierra Nevada and the Tulares. As good an account of these horse-thief Indians, and their depredations, as I have seen, I find in the "California Star," of March 28th, 1847, written by a gentleman who has been a resident of California for a number of years, and who has been a sufferer. It is subjoined:-- "During the Spanish regime, such a thing as a horse-thief was unknown in the country; but as soon as the Mexicans took possession, their characteristic anarchy began to prevail, and the Indians to desert from the missions. The first Indian horse-thief known in this part of the country was a neophyte of the mission of Santa Clara, George, who flourished about twenty years ago. He absconded from his mission to the river of Stanislaus, of which he was a native. From thence he returned to the settlements, and began to steal horses, which at that time were very numerous. After pursuing his depredations for some time, he was at last pursued and killed on his return from one of his forages. The mission of Santa Clara has been, from that time to the present day, the greatest nursery for horse thieves, as the Stanislaus river has been and is their principal rendezvous. I have taken some pains to inquire among some of the most intelligent and respectable of the native inhabitants, as to the probable number of horses that have been stolen between Monterey and San Francisco within the last twenty years, and the result has been that more than one hundred thousand can be distinctly enumerated, and that the total amount would probably be double that number. Nearly all these horses have been eaten! From the river of Stanislaus, as a central point, the evil has spread to the north and south, and at present extends from the vicinity of the Mickélemes River on the north, to the sources of the St. Joaquin on the south. These Indians inhabit all the western declivity of the great snowy mountains, within these limits, and have become so habituated to living on horseflesh, that it is now with them the principal means of subsistence. "In past time they have been repeatedly pursued, and many of them killed, and whole villages destroyed, but, so far from being deterred, they are continually becoming more bold and daring in their robberies, as horses become scarcer and more carefully guarded. About twenty persons have been killed by them within the knowledge of the writer. Among others, Mr. Lindsay and Mr. Wilson were killed by them not long ago. Only about one month since, they shot and dangerously wounded four persons employed on the farm of Mr. Weber, near the Pueblo of St. Joseph, and at the same time stole the horses of the farm, and those also from the farms of Captain Fisher and Mr. Burnal, in the same vicinity; in all, about two hundred head. Within the last ten days numerous parties of them have been committing depredations on many of the farms in the jurisdiction of the Contra Costa, and scarcely a night passes but we hear of their having stolen horses from some one. Three days ago, a party of them were met by some young men who had been out catching wild horses on the plains of the St. Joaquin, but as they were mounted on tired animals, they were only able to recapture the stolen horses, but could not overtake the thieves." It has not been within the scope of my design, in writing out those notes, to enter into the minute details of the conquest and occupation of California by the forces of the United States. To do so would require more space than I have allowed myself, and the matter would be more voluminous than interesting or important. My intention has been to give such a sketch of the military operations in California, during my residence and travels in the country, as to afford to the reader a general and correct idea of the events transpiring at the time. No important circumstance, I think, has escaped my attention. Among the officers of the army stationed at San Francisco, with whom I became acquainted, were Major Hardie, in command of the troops, Captain Folsom, acting quartermaster-general in California, and Lieutenant Warner, of the engineer corps. Lieutenant Warner marched with General Kearny from the United States, and was at the battle of San Pasqual. I have seen the coat which he wore on that occasion, pierced in seven different places by the lances of the enemy. He did not make this exhibition himself; and I never heard him refer to the subject but once, and then it was with the modesty of a veteran campaigner. The corps of topographical engineers accompanying General Kearny, under the command of Captain Emory, will, doubtless, furnish in their report much interesting and valuable information. Mr. Stanley, the artist Of the expedition, completed his sketches in oil, at San Francisco; and a more truthful, interesting, and valuable series of paintings, delineating mountain scenery, the floral exhibitions on the route, the savage tribes between Santa Fe and California--combined with camp-life and marches through the desert and wilderness--has never been, and probably never will be, exhibited. Mr. Stanley informed me that he was preparing a work on the savage tribes of North America and of the islands of the Pacific, which, when completed on his plan, will be the most comprehensive and descriptive of the subject of any that has been published. Legal proceedings are much less complex in California than in the United States. There is no written statute law in the country. The only law books I could find were a digested code entitled, "Laws of Spain and the Indies," published in Spain about a hundred years ago, and a small pamphlet defining the powers of various judicial officers, emanating from the Mexican government since the revolution. A late Mexican governor of California, on being required by a magistrate to instruct him as to the manner in which he should administer the law within his jurisdiction, replied, "_Administer it in accordance with the principles of natural right and justice_," and this is the foundation of Californian jurisprudence. The local _bandos_, or laws, are enacted, adjudicated, and executed by the local magistrates, or alcaldes. The alcalde has jurisdiction in all municipal matters, and in cases for minor offences, and for debt in sums not over one hundred dollars. In cases of heinous or capital offences, the alcalde has simply an examining power, the testimony being taken down in writing, and transmit-to the _juez de primera instancia_, or first judge of the district, before whom the case is tried. Civil actions, for sums over one hundred dollars, must also be tried before the _juez de primera instancia_, and from him there is an appeal to the prefect, or the governor of the province. The trial by _hombres buenos_, or good men, is one of the established legal tribunals when either of the parties demand it, and is similar to our trial by jury; the difference being in the number, the _hombres buenos_ usually consisting of three or five, as they may be ordered by the magistrate, or requested by the litigants, and our jury of twelve. With honest and intelligent magistrates, the system operates advantageously, as justice is speedy and certain; but the reverse of this, with corrupt and ignorant magistrates, too frequently in power, the consequences of the system are as bad as can well be imagined. The policy of the Mexican government has been to encourage in certain localities the erection of pueblos, or towns, and for this purpose they have made grants of land to the local authorities, or municipalities, within certain defined limits, to be regranted upon application, in lots of fifty or one hundred varass, as the case may be, to persons declaring their intention to settle and to do business in the town. For these grants to individuals a certain sum of money is paid, which goes into the treasury of the municipality. The magistrates, however, without special permission, have no power to grant lots of land within a certain number of feet of or below high-water mark. The power is reserved to be exercised by the governor of the province. It being necessary for the convenient landing of ships, and for the discharging and receiving of their cargoes, that the beach in front of the town of San Francisco should be improved with wharfs, etc., etc., and that titles should be granted to individuals who otherwise would make no durable improvements. As magistrate of the town, in compliance with the request of numerous citizens, I solicited from General Kearny, the acting governor, a relinquishment, on the part of the general government, of the beach lands in front of the town in favour of the municipality, under certain conditions. This was granted by the Governor, who issued a decree dated 10th March, permitting the sales by auction of all such grounds adjacent to the water-side as might be found adapted to commercial purposes, with the exception of such lots as might be selected for the use of the United States government, by its proper officers. The sales accordingly took place, the lots were eagerly purchased, and the port has already become a place of considerable commercial activity. CHAPTER XV. GENERAL OBSERVATIONS UPON THE COUNTRY. First settlement of the missionaries Population Characteristics of white population Employments Pleasures and amusements Position of women Soil Grasses Vegetable productions Agriculture Fruits Cattle Horses Wild animals Minerals Climate Flora Water-power Timber Religion. It was during the month of November, 1602, the sun just retiring behind the distant high land which forms the background of a spacious harbour at the southernmost point of Alta California, that a small fleet of vessels might have been seen directing their course as if in search of a place of anchorage; their light sails drawn up, while the larger ones, swelling now and then to the action of the breeze, bore them majestically along, forcing their way through the immense and almost impenetrable barrier of sea-weed, to a haven which, at the remote period stated, was considered the unexplored region of the North. The fleet referred to hauled their wind to the shore, and, passing a bluff point of land on their left, soon came to anchor; but not until the shades of night had cast a gloom over the scene so recently lighted up with the gorgeous rays of a setting sun. This was the commencement, or rather preliminary mark, of civilization in this country, by the Spaniards, (if so it can be called,) and on the following morning a detachment was landed, accompanied by a friar, to make careful investigation of the long ridge of high land which serves as a protection to the harbour from the heavy north-west gales. They found, as reported, an abundance of small oak and other trees, together with a great variety of useful and aromatic herbs; and from its summit they beheld the extent and beauty of the port, reaching, as they said, full three leagues from where the vessel lay at anchor. A large tent was erected on the sandy beach, to answer the purposes of a church, where the friar might perform mass, and by directions of the commanding officers, the boats were drawn up for repairing, wells were dug, parties were sent off to cut wood, while guards were placed at convenient distances to give notice of the approach of any hostile force. The latter precaution was hardly carried into effect, ere a large body of naked Indians were seen moving along the shore, armed with bows and arrows. A friar, protected by six soldiers, was dispatched to meet them, who, making signs of peace by exhibiting a white flag and throwing handfuls of sand high into the air, influenced them to lay aside their arms, when, affectionately embracing them, the good old friar distributed presents of beads and necklaces, with which they eagerly adorned their persons. This manifestation of good feeling induced them to draw near to where the commander had landed with his men, but perceiving so large a number, they retreated to a neighbouring knoll, and from thence sent forward to the Spaniards ten aged females, who, possessing apparently so much affability, were presented immediately with gifts, and instructed to go and inform their people of the friendly disposition cherished for them by the white strangers. This was sufficient to implant a free intercourse with the Indians, who daily visited the Spaniards, and bartered off their skins and furs in exchange for bread and trinkets. But at length the time arrived for the fleet to depart, and they proceeded northward, visiting in their course Monterey and Mendocino, where the same favourable result attended the enterprise as at other places, and they returned in safety to New Spain. So successful had been the character of this expedition throughout the entire period of its execution, that an enthusiasm prevailed in the minds of the Spaniards, which could only be assuaged by an attempt to conquer and christianize the inhabitants of that distant portion of the American continent. Many were the fruitless results of the Spanish adventurer--numerous were the statements of his toil and labour, till at length a formidable attempt, under the patronage and direction of Don Gaspar de Portala and Father Junipero Serra, successfully achieved the desired object for which it was planned and executed. At San Diego, where, a century and a half before, the primitive navigators under Cortez communed with the rude and unsophisticated native--there, where the zealous devotee erected his altar on the burning sand, and with offerings of incense and prayer hallowed it to God, as the birthplace of Christianity in that region--upon that sainted spot commenced the spiritual conquest, the cross was erected, and the holy missionaries who accompanied the expedition entered heart and soul upon their religious duties. Successful in all they undertook, their first establishment in a short time was completed, and drawing around it the converted Indians in large numbers, the rude and uncultivated fields gave place to agricultural improvement--the arts and sciences gradually obtained foundation where before all was darkness, and day after day hundreds were added to the folds of the holy and apostolic church. Thus triumphantly proceeded the labours of the Spanish conquerors! In course of time other institutions were founded at Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco, where at each place a military fortress was erected, which served for their protection, and to keep in check such of the natives who were disinclined to observe the regulations of the community. The natives formed an ardent and almost adorable attachment for their spiritual fathers, and were happy, quite happy, under their jurisdiction. Ever ready to obey them, the labour in the field and workshop met with ready compliance, and so prosperous were the institutions that many of them became wealthy, in the increase of their cattle and great abundance of their granaries. It was no unusual sight to behold the plains for leagues literally spotted with bullocks, and large fields of corn and wheat covering acres of ground. This state of things continued until the period when Mexico underwent a change in its political form of government, which so disheartened the feelings of the loyal missionaries, that they became regardless of their establishments, and suffered them to decline for want of attention to their interests. At length, civil discord and anarchy among the Californians prepared a more effective measure for their destruction, and they were left to the superintendence of individuals who plundered them of all that was desirable or capable of removal. Thus, the government commenced the robbery, and its hirelings carried it out to the letter, destroying and laying waste wherever they were placed. In order to give the inhabitants a share of the spoils, some of them were permitted to slaughter the cattle by contract, which was an equal division of the proceeds, and the contractors were careful, when they delivered one hide to a mission, to reserve _two_ for themselves, in this way following up the example of their superiors. This important revolution in the systematic order of the monastic institutions took place in 1836, at which period the most important of them possessed property, exclusive of their lands and tenements, to the value of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. At the present day they have but a little more than dilapidated walls and restricted boundaries of territory. Notwithstanding this wanton devastation of property, contrary to the opinion of many who were strongly in favour of supporting these religious institutions, the result proved beneficial to the country at large. Individual enterprise succeeded as the lands became distributed, so that the Californian beheld himself no longer dependent on the bounty of his spiritual directors, but, on the contrary, he was enabled to give support to them, from the increase and abundance of his own possessions. Subsequent to the expulsion of the Mexicans, numbers of new farms were created, and hundreds of Americans were scattered over the country. Previous to 1830, the actual possessions of horned cattle by the _rancheros_ did not exceed one hundred thousand; but in 1842, according to a fair estimate, made by one on the spot, the number had increased to four hundred thousand; so that the aggregate is equal to that held by the missions when in their most flourishing condition. The present number is not much, if any, short of one million. Presuming a statistical knowledge of this country, before and after the missionary institutions were secularized, may be interesting, I will insert the following returns of 1831 and 1842, to contrast the same with its present condition:-- 1st. In 1832 the white population throughout Alta-California did not exceed 4,500, while the Indians of the twenty-one missions amounted to 19,000; in 1842, the former had increased to 7,000, and the latter decreased to about 5,000. 2nd. In the former year, the number of horned cattle, including individual possessions, amounted to 500,000; in the latter, to 40,000. 3rd. At the same period, the number of sheep, goats, and pigs, was 321,000; at the latter, 32,000. 4th. In 1831 the number of horses, asses, mules, etc., was 64,000; in 1842 it was 30,000. 5th. The produce in corn, etc., had decreased in a much greater proportion--that of seventy to four. The amount of duties raised at the customhouse in Monterey, from 1839 to 1842, was as follows, viz.:-- 1839 85,613 dollars. 1840 72,308 dollars 1841 101,150 dollars 1842 73,729 dollars. The net amount of revenue seldom exceeding in any year eighty thousand dollars; so that, when a deficiency took place, to supply the expenditures of government, it had been usual to call upon the missions for aid. The value of the hides and tallow derived from the annual _matanzas_ may be estimated at 372,000 dollars. These two commodities, with the exception of some beaver, sea-otter, and other furs, comprise the most important part of the exportations, which in addition, would augment the value of exports to 400,000 dollars. The permanent population of that portion of Upper California situated between the Sierra Nevada and the Pacific, I estimate at 25,000. Of this number, 8,000 are Hispano-Americans, 5,000 foreigners, chiefly from the United States, and 12,000 christianized Indians. There are considerable numbers of wild or Gentile Indians, inhabiting the valley of the San Joaquin and the gorges of the Sierra, not included in this estimate. They are probably as numerous as the Christian Indians. The Indian population inhabiting the region of the Great Salt Lake, Mary's River, the oases of the Great Desert Basin, and the country bordering the Rio Colorado and its tributaries, being spread over a vast extent of territory, are scarcely seen, although the aggregate number is considerable. The Californians do not differ materially from the Mexicans, from whom they are descended, in other provinces of that country. Physically and intellectually, the men, probably, are superior to the same race farther south, and inhabiting the countries contiguous to the city of Mexico. The intermixture of blood with the Indian and negro races has been less, although it is very perceptible. The men, as a general fact, are well made, with pleasing sprightly countenances, and possessing much grace and ease of manners, and vivacity of conversation. But hitherto they have had little knowledge of the world and of events, beyond what they have heard through Mexico, and derived from the supercargoes of merchant-ships and whalemen touching upon the coast. There are no public schools in the country--at least I never heard of one. There are but few books. General Valléjo has a library with many valuable books, and this is the only one I saw, although there are others; but they are rare, and confined to a few families. The men are almost constantly on horseback, and as horsemen excel any I have seen in other parts of the world. From the nature of their pursuits and amusements, they have brought horsemanship to a perfection challenging admiration and exciting astonishment. They are trained to the horse and the use of the lasso (_riata_, as it is here called) from their infancy. The first act of a child, when he is able to stand alone, is to throw his toy lasso around the neck of a kitten; his next feat is performed on the dog; his next upon a goat or calf; and so on, until he mounts the horse, and demonstrates his skill upon horses and cattle. The crowning feat of dexterity with the _riata_, and of horsemanship, combined with daring courage, is the lassoing of the grisly bear. This feat is performed frequently upon this large and ferocious animal, but it is sometimes fatal to the performer and his horse. Well drilled, with experienced military leaders, such as would inspire them with confidence in their skill and prowess, the Californians ought to be the finest cavalry in the world. The Californian saddle is, I venture to assert, the best that has been invented, for the horse and the rider. Seated in one of these, it is scarcely possible to be unseated by any ordinary casualty. The bridle-bit is clumsily made, but so constructed that the horse is compelled to obey the rider upon the slightest intimation. The spurs are of immense size, but they answer to an experienced horseman the double purpose of exciting the horse, and of maintaining the rider in his seat under difficult circumstances. For the pleasures of the table they care but little. With his horse and trappings, his sarape and blanket, a piece of beef and a _tortilla_, the Californian is content, so far as his personal comforts are concerned. But he is ardent in his pursuit of amusement and pleasure, and these consist chiefly in the fandango, the game of monte, horse-racing, and bull and bear-baiting. They gamble freely and desperately, but pay their losses with the most strict punctuality, at any and every sacrifice, and manifest but little concern about them. They are obedient to their magistrates, and in all disputed cases decided by them, acquiesce without uttering a word of complaint. They have been accused of treachery and insincerity. Whatever may have been the grounds for these accusations in particular instances, I know not; but, judging from my own observation and experience, they are as free from these qualities as our own people. While the men are employed in attending to the herds of cattle and horses, and engaged in their other amusements, the women (I speak of the middle classes on the ranchos) superintend and perform most of the drudgery appertaining to housekeeping, and the cultivation of the gardens, from whence are drawn such vegetables as are consumed at the table. These are few, consisting of _frijoles_, potatoes, onions, and _chiles_. The assistants in these labours are the Indian men and women, legally reduced to servitude. The soil of that portion of California between the Sierra Nevada and the Pacific will compare, in point of fertility, with any that I have seen elsewhere. As I have already described such portions of it as have come under my observation, it is unnecessary for me here to descend to particulars. Wheat, barley, and other small grains, with hemp, flax, and tobacco, can be produced in all the valleys, without irrigation. To produce maize, potatoes, and other garden vegetables, irrigation is necessary. Oats and mustard grow spontaneously, with such rankness as to be considered nuisances upon the soil. I have forced my way through thousands of acres of these, higher than my head when mounted on a horse. The oats grow to the summits of the hills, but they are not here so tall and rank as in the valleys. The varieties of grasses are greater than on the Atlantic side of the continent, and far more nutritious. I have seen seven different kinds of clover, several of them in a dry state, depositing a seed upon the ground so abundant as to cover it, which is lapped up by the cattle and horses and other animals, as corn or oats, when threshed, would be with us. All the grasses, and they cover the entire country, are heavily seeded, and, when ripe, are as fattening to stock as the grains which we feed to our beef, horses, and hogs. Hence it is unnecessary to the sustenance or fattening of stock to raise corn for their consumption. Agriculture is in its rudest state. The farming implements which have been used by the Californians, with few exceptions, are the same as were used three hundred years ago, when Mexico was conquered by Cortez. A description of them would be tedious. The plough, however, which merely scratches the ground, is the fork of a small tree. It is the same pattern as the Roman plough, two thousand years ago. Other agricultural implements are of the same description. The Americans, and other foreigners, are, however, introducing the American plough, and other American farming tools, the consequence of which has already been, to some extent, to produce a revolution in agriculture. The crops of wheat and barley, which I saw about the 1st of June, while passing through the country on my journey to the United States, exceeded in promise any which I have seen in the United States. It was reported to me that Captain Sutter's crop of wheat, for 1847, would amount to 75,000 bushels. The natural vegetable productions of California have been sufficiently noticed in the course of this work, for the reader to form a correct estimate of the capabilities of the soil and climate. It is supposed by some, that cotton, sugar, and rice, could be produced here. I do not doubt but there are portions of the country where these crops would thrive; but I question whether, generally, they could be cultivated to advantage. Nearly all the fruits of the temperate and tropical climates are produced in perfection in California, as has before been stated. The principal product of the country has been its cattle and horses. The cattle are, I think, the largest and finest I ever saw, and the beef is more delicious. There are immense herds of these, to which I have previously referred; and their hides and tallow, when slaughtered, have hitherto composed the principal exports from the country. If I were to hazard an estimate of the number of hides annually exported, it would be conjectural, and not worth much. I would suppose, however, at this time (1847), that the number would not fall much short of 150,000, and a corresponding number of arrobas (25 pounds) of tallow. The average value of cattle is about five dollars per head. The horses and mules are correspondingly numerous with the cattle; and although the most of them are used in the country, considerable numbers are driven to Sonora, New Mexico, and other southern provinces, and some of them to the United States, for a market. They are smaller than American horses, and I do not think them equal for continuous hard service; but on short trips, for riding, their speed and endurance are not often, if ever, equalled by our breed of horses. The value of good horses is from ten to twenty-five dollars; of mares, five dollars. The prices have, however, since the Americans came into the country, become fluctuating, and the value of both horses and cattle is increasing rapidly. The wild animals of California are the wild-horse, the elk, the black-tailed deer, antelope, grizly bear, all in large numbers. Added to these are the beaver, otter, coyote, hare, squirrel, and the usual variety of other small animals. There is not so great a variety of small birds as I have seen elsewhere. I do not consider that the country presents strong attractions for the ornithologist. But what is wanting in variety is made up in numbers. The bays and indentations on the coast, as well as the rivers and lakes interior, swarm with myriads of wild geese, ducks, swans, and other water birds. The geese and ducks are a mongrel race, their plumage being variegated, the same as our barn-yard fowls. Some of the islands in the harbour, near San Francisco, are white with the _guano_ deposited by these birds; and boat-loads of eggs are taken from them. The pheasant and partridge are abundant in the mountains. In regard to the minerals of California, not much is yet known. It has been the policy of the owners of land upon which there existed minerals to conceal them as much as possible. A reason for this has been, that the law of Mexico is such, that if one man discovers a mine of any kind upon another man's land, and the proprietor does not work it, the former may _denounce_ the mine, and take possession of it, and hold it so long as he continues to work it. Hence the proprietors of land upon which there are valuable mineral ores conceal their existence as much as possible. While in California I saw quicksilver, silver, lead, and iron ores, and the specimens were taken from mines said to be inexhaustible. From good authority I learned the existence of gold and copper mines, the metals being combined; and I saw specimens of coal taken from two or three different points, but I do not know what the indications were as to quality. Brimstone, saltpetre, muriate and carbonate of soda, and bitumen, are abundant. There is little doubt that California is as rich in minerals of all kinds as any portion of Mexico. I have taken much pains to describe to the reader, from day to day, and at different points during my travels in California, the temperature and weather. It is rarely so cold in the settled portions of California as to congeal water. But twice only while here I saw ice, and then not thicker than window-glass. I saw no snow resting upon the ground. The annual rains commence in November, and continue, with intervals of pleasant springlike weather, until May. From May to November, usually, no rain falls. There are, however, exceptions. Rain sometimes falls in August. The thermometer, at any season of the year, rarely sinks below 50° or rises above 80°. In certain positions on the coast, and especially at San Francisco, the winds rise diurnally, and blowing fresh upon the shore render the temperature cool in midsummer. In the winter the wind blows from the land, and the temperature at these points is warmer. These local peculiarities of climate are not descriptive of the general climate of the interior. For salubrity I do not think there is any climate in the world superior to that of the coast of California. I was in the country nearly a year, exposed much of the time to great hardships and privations, sleeping, for the most part, in the open air, and I never felt while there the first pang of disease, or the slightest indication of bad health. On some portions of the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers, where vegetation is rank, and decays in the autumn, the malaria produces chills and fever, but generally the attacks are slight, and yield easily to medicine. The atmosphere is so pure and preservative along the coast, that I never saw putrified flesh, although I have seen, in midsummer, dead carcasses lying exposed to the sun and weather for months. They emitted no offensive smell. There is but little disease in the country arising from the climate. The botany and flora of California are rich, and will hereafter form a fruitful field of discovery to the naturalist. There are numerous plants reported to possess extraordinary medical virtues. The "soap-plant" (_amole_) is one which appears to be among the most serviceable. The root, which is the saponaceous portion of the plant, resembles the onion, but possesses the quality of cleansing linen equal to any "oleic soap" manufactured by my friends Cornwall and Brother, of Louisville, Ky. There is another plant in high estimation with the Californians, called _canchalagua_, which is held by them as an antidote for all the diseases to which they are subject, but in particular for cases of fever and ague. For purifying the blood, and regulating the system, I think it surpasses all the medicinal herbs that have been brought into notice, and it must become, in time, one of the most important articles in the practice of medicine. In the season for flowers, which is generally during the months of May and June, its pretty pink-coloured blossoms form a conspicuous display in the great variety which adorn the fields of California. The water-power in California is ample for any required mill purposes. Timber for lumber is not so convenient as is desirable. There is, however, a sufficiency of it, which, when improvements are made, will be more accessible. The timber on the Sierra Nevada, the most magnificent in the world, cannot be, at present, available. The evergreen oak, that grows generally in the valleys, is not valuable, except for fuel. But in the _canadas_ of the hills, and at several places on the coast, particularly at Santa Cruz and Bodega, there is an amount of pine and fir, adapted for lumber, that will not be consumed for a long time. The religion of the Californians is the Roman Catholic, and, like the people of all Roman Catholic countries, they appear to be devotedly attached to the forms of their religion. That there are some, I will not say how many, paganish grafts upon the laws, formalities, and ceremonies, as prescribed by the "Holy Church Universal" for its government and observance, is undeniable, but these probably do not materially affect the system. The females, I noticed, were nearly all devoutly attached to their religious institutions. I have seen, on festival or saint days, the entire floor of a church occupied by pious women, with their children, kneeling in devout worship, and chanting with much fervency some dismal hymn appertaining to the service. There are but few of the Jesuit fathers who established the missions now remaining in the country. The services are performed at several of the churches that I visited, by native Indians, educated by the _padres_ previous to their expulsion by the Mexican government. CHAPTER XVI. OFFICIAL REPORT ON THE GOLD MINES. The following is an official account of a visit paid to the gold region in July by Colonel Mason, who had been appointed to the military command in California, and made his report to the authorities at Washington. It is dated from head-quarters at Monterey, August 17, 1848. "Sir,--I have the honour to inform you that, accompanied by Lieut. W.T. Sherman, 3rd Artillery, A.A.A. General, I started on the 12th of June last to make a tour through the northern part of California. We reached San Francisco on the 20th, and found that all, or nearly all, its male inhabitants had gone to the mines. The town, which a few months before was so busy and thriving, was then almost deserted. Along the whole route mills were lying idle, fields of wheat were open to cattle and horses, houses vacant, and farms going to waste. "On the 5th we arrived in the neighbourhood of the mines, and proceeded twenty-five miles up the American Fork, to a point on it now known as the Lower Mines, or Mormon Diggings. The hill sides were thickly strewn with canvas tents and bush-harbours; a store was erected, and several boarding shanties in operation. The day was intensely hot, yet about 200 men were at work in the full glare of the sun, washing for gold--some with tin pans, some with close woven Indian baskets, but the greater part had a rude machine known as the cradle. This is on rockers, six or eight feet long, open at the foot, and its head had a coarse grate, or sieve; the bottom is rounded, with small cleets nailed across. Four men are required to work this machine; one digs the ground in the bank close by the stream; another carries it to the cradle, and empties it on the grate; a third gives a violent rocking motion to the machine, whilst a fourth dashes on water from the stream itself. The sieve keeps the coarse stones from entering the cradle, the current of water washes off the earthy matter, and the gravel is gradually carried out at the foot of the machine, leaving the gold mixed with a heavy fine black sand above the first cleets. The sand and gold mixed together are then drawn off through auger holes into a pan below, are dried in the sun, and afterwards separated by blowing off the sand. A party of four men, thus employed at the Lower Mines, average 100 dollars a-day. The Indians, and those who have nothing but pans or willow baskets, gradually wash out the earth, and separate the gravel by hand, leaving nothing but the gold mixed with sand, which is separated in the manner before described. The gold in the Lower Mines is in fine bright scales, of which I send several specimens. "As we ascended the south branch of the American fork, the country became more broken and mountainous, and twenty-five miles below the lower washings the hills rise to about 1000 feet above the level of the Sacramento Plain. Here a species of pine occurs, which led to the discovery of the gold. Captain Sutter, feeling the great want of lumber, contracted in September last with a Mr. Marshall to build a saw-mill at that place. It was erected in the course of the past winter and spring--a dam and race constructed; but when the water was let on the wheel, the tail race was found to be too narrow to permit the water to escape with sufficient rapidity. Mr. Marshall, to save labour, let the water directly into the race with a strong current, so as to wash it wider and deeper. He effected his purpose, and a large bed of mud and gravel was carried to the foot of the race. One day Mr. Marshall, as he was walking down the race to this deposit of mud, observed some glittering particles at its upper edge; he gathered a few, examined them, and became satisfied of their value. He then went to the fort, told Captain Sutter of his discovery, and they agreed to keep it secret until a certain grist-mill of Sutter's was finished. It, however, got out and spread like magic. Remarkable success attended the labours of the first explorers, and, in a few weeks, hundreds of men were drawn thither. At the time of my visit, but little more than three months after its first discovery, it was estimated that upwards of four thousand people were employed. At the mill there is a fine deposit or bank of gravel, which the people respect as the property of Captain Sutter, though he pretends to no right to it, and would be perfectly satisfied with the simple promise of a pre-emption on account of the mill which he has built there at a considerable cost. Mr. Marshall was living near the mill, and informed me that many persons were employed above and below him; that they used the same machines as at the lower washings, and that their success was about the same--ranging from one to three ounces of gold per man daily. This gold, too, is in scales a little coarser than those of the lower mines. From the mill Mr. Marshall guided me up the mountain on the opposite or north bank of the south fork, where in the bed of small streams or ravines, now dry, a great deal of coarse gold has been found. I there saw several parties at work, all of whom were doing very well; a great many specimens were shown me, some as heavy as four or five ounces in weight; and I send three pieces, labelled No. 5, presented by a Mr. Spence. You will perceive that some of the specimens accompanying this hold mechanically pieces of quartz--that the surface is rough, and evidently moulded in the crevice of a rock. This gold cannot have been carried far by water, but must have remained near where it was first deposited from the rock that once bound it. I inquired of many if they had encountered the metal in its matrix, but in every instance they said they had not; but that the gold was invariably mixed with wash-gravel, or lodged in the crevices of other rocks. All bore testimony that they had found gold in greater or less quantities in the numerous small gullies or ravines that occur in that mountainous region. On the 7th of July I left the mill, and crossed to a small stream emptying into the American fork, three or four miles below the saw-mill. I struck the stream (now known as Weber's Creek) at the washings of Sunol and Company. They had about thirty Indians employed, whom they pay in merchandise. They were getting gold of a character similar to that found in the main fork, and doubtless in sufficient quantities to satisfy them. I send you a small specimen, presented by this Company, of their gold. From this point we proceeded up the stream about eight miles, where we found a great many people and Indians, some engaged in the bed of the stream, and others in the small side valleys that put into it. These latter are exceedingly rich, two ounces being considered an ordinary yield for a day's work. A small gutter, not more than 100 yards long by four feet wide, and two or three deep, was pointed out to me as the one where two men (W. Daly and Percy McCoon) had a short time before obtained. 17,000 dollars' worth of gold. Captain Weber informed me, that he knew that these two men had employed four white men and about 100 Indians, and that, at the end of one week's work, they paid off their party, and had left 10,000 dollars' worth of this gold. Another small ravine was shown me, from which had been taken upwards of 12,000 dollars' worth of gold. Hundreds of similar ravines, to all appearances, are as yet untouched. I could not have credited these reports had I not seen, in the abundance of the precious metal, evidence of their truth. Mr. Neligh, an agent of Commodore Stockton, had been at work about three weeks in the neighbourhood, and showed me, in bags and bottles, 2000 dollars' worth of gold; and Mr. Lyman, a gentleman of education, and worthy of every credit, said he had been engaged with four others, with a machine, on the American fork, just below Sutter's Mill, that they worked eight days, and that his share was at the rate of fifty dollars a-day, but hearing that others were doing better at Weber's Place, they had removed there, and were then on the point of resuming operations. "The country on either side of Weber's Creek is much broken up by hills, and is intersected in every direction by small streams or ravines which contain more or less gold. Those that have been worked are barely scratched, and, although thousands of ounces have been carried away, I do not consider that a serious impression has been made upon the whole. Every day was developing new and richer deposits; and the only impression seemed to be, that the metal would be found in such abundance as seriously to depreciate in value. "On the 8th July I returned to the lower mines, and eventually to Monterey, where I arrived on the 17th of July. Before leaving Sutter's, I satisfied myself that gold existed in the bed of the Feather River, in the Yubah and Bear, and in many of the small streams that lie between the latter and the American fork; also, that it had been found in the Consummes, to the south of the American fork. In each of these streams the gold is found in small scales, whereas in the intervening mountains it occurs in coarser lumps. "Mr. Sinclair, whose rancho is three miles above Sutter's on the north side of the American, employs about fifty Indians on the north fork, not far from its junction with the main stream. He had been engaged about five weeks when I saw him, and up to that time his Indians had used simply closely-woven willow baskets. His net proceeds (which I saw) were about 16,000 dollars' worth of gold. He showed me the proceeds of his last week's work--14 lbs. avoirdupois of clean-washed gold. "The principal store at Sutter's fort, that of Brannan and Co., had received in payment for goods 36,000 dollars' worth of this gold from the 1st of May to the 10th of July. Other merchants had also made extensive sales. Large quantities of goods were daily sent forward to the mines, as the Indians, heretofore so poor and degraded, have suddenly become consumers of the luxuries of life. I before mentioned that the greater part of the farmers and rancheros had abandoned their fields to go to the mines. This is not the case with Captain Sutter, who was carefully gathering his wheat, estimated at 40,000 bushels. Flour is already worth, at Sutter's, 36 dollars a-barrel, and will soon be 50. Unless large quantities of breadstuffs reach the country much suffering will occur; but as each man is now able to pay a large price, it is believed the merchants will bring from Chili and the Oregon a plentiful supply for the coming winter. "The most moderate estimate I could obtain from men acquainted with the subject was, that upwards of 4,000 men were working in the gold district, of whom more than one-half were Indians, and that from 30,000 to 50,000 dollars' worth of gold, if not more, were daily obtained. The entire gold district, with very few exceptions of grants made some years ago by the Mexican authorities, is on land belonging to the United States. It was a matter of serious reflection to me, how I could secure to the Government certain rents or fees for the privilege of securing this gold; but upon considering the large extent of country, the character of the people engaged, and the small scattered force at my command, I resolved not to interfere, but permit all to work freely, unless broils and crimes should call for interference. "The discovery of these vast deposits of gold has entirely changed the character of Upper California. Its people, before engaged in cultivating their small patches of ground, and guarding their herds of cattle and horses, have all gone to the mines, or are on their way thither. Labourers of every trade have left their work-benches, and tradesmen their shops; sailors desert their ships as fast as they arrive on the coast; and several vessels have gone to sea with hardly enough hands to spread a sail. Two or three are now at anchor in San Francisco, with no crew on board. Many desertions, too, have taken place from the garrisons within the influence of these mines; twenty-six soldiers have deserted from the post of Sonoma, twenty-four from that of San Francisco, and twenty-four from Monterey. I have no hesitation now in saying, that there is more gold in the country drained by the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers than will pay the cost of the present war with Mexico a hundred times over. No capital is required to obtain this gold, as the labouring man wants nothing but his pick and shovel and tin pan, with which to dig and wash the gravel, and many frequently pick gold out of the crevices of rocks with their knives, in pieces of from one to six ounces. "Gold is also believed to exist on the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada; and, when at the mines, I was informed by an intelligent Mormon that it had been found near the Great Salt Lake by some of his fraternity. Nearly all the Mormons are leaving California to go to the Salt Lake; and this they surely would not do unless they were sure of finding gold there, in the same abundance as they now do on the Sacramento. "I have the honour to be, "Your most obedient Servant, "R.B. MASON, Colonel 1st Dragoons, commanding. "Brigadier-General R. Jones, Adjutant-General, U.S.A., Washington, D.C." CHAPTER XVII. Rate of Wages Mode of procuring the Gold Extent of Gold Region Price of Provisions. It will be seen, from the later accounts that each new report continues to realize the wildest expectation. The following letter dated Monterey, November 16th, is highly interesting-- "We can now call ourselves citizens of the United States. We have now only to go by law, as we formerly went by custom; that is, when Congress gives us a government and code. The old foreign residents of California, having done very well ten or twenty years without law, care but very little whether Congress pays early or late attention to the subject. Those who have emigrated from the Atlantic States within the last three or four years deem the subject an important one; I only call it difficult. The carrying out a code of laws, under existing circumstances, is far from being an easy task. The general Government may appoint governors, secretaries, and other public functionaries; and judges, marshals, collectors, etc., may accept offices with salaries of 3000 or 4000 dollars per annum; but how they are to obtain their petty officers, at half these sums, remains to be seen. The pay of a member of Congress will be accepted here by those alone who do not know enough to better themselves. Mechanics can now get 10 to 16 dollars per day; labourers on the wharfs or elsewhere, 5 to 10 dollars; clerks and storekeepers, 1000 to 3000 dollars per annum--some engage to keep store during their pleasure at 8 dollars per day, or 1 lb. or 1-1/2 lb. of gold per month; cooks and stewards, 60 to 100 dollars per month. In fact, labour of every description commands exorbitant prices. "The Sandwich Islands, Oregon, and Lower California are fast parting with their inhabitants, all bound for this coast, and thence to the great 'placer' of the Sacramento Valley, where the digging and washing of one man that does not produce 100 troy ounces of gold, 23 carats, from the size of a half spangle to one pound in a month, sets the digger to 'prospecting,' that is, looking for better grounds. Your 'Paisano' can point out many a man who has, for fifteen to twenty days in succession, bagged up five to ten ounces of gold a-day. Our placer, or gold region, now extends over 300 or 400 miles of country, embracing all the creeks and branches on the east side of the river Sacramento and one side of the San Joaquin. In my travels I have, when resting under a tree and grazing my horse, seen pieces of pure gold taken from crevices of the rocks or slate where we were stopping. On one occasion, nooning or refreshing on the side of a stream entirely unknown to diggers or 'prospectors,' or rather, if known not attended to, one of my companions, while rolling in the sand, said, 'Give me a tin pan; why should we not be cooking in gold sand?' He took a pan, filled it with sand, washed it out, and produced in five minutes two or three dollars' worth of gold, merely saying, as he threw both pan and gold on the sand, 'I thought so.' Perhaps it is fair that your readers should learn, that, however plenty the Sacramento Valley may afford gold, the obtaining of it has its disadvantages. From the 1st of July to the 1st of October, more or less, one half of the people will have fever and ague, or intermittent fever. In the winter, it is too cold to work in the water. Some work in the sand by washing from the surface in a wooden bowl, or tin pan; some gouge it out from the rocks or slate; the more lazy ones roll about and pick up the large pieces, leaving the small gold for the next emigration. The extent of the gold region on the San Joaquin and Sacramento rivers extends a distance of 800 miles in length by 100 in width. It embraces not only gold, but quantities of quicksilver in almost general abundance. It is estimated that a small population actively engaged in mining operations in that region could export 100,000,000 dollars in gold in every year, and that an increased population might increase that amount to 300,000,000 dollars annually. You may believe me when I say that for some time to come California will export, yearly, nearly or quite 500,000 ounces of gold, 22 to 24 carats fine; some pieces of that will weigh 16 lbs., very many 1 lb. Many men who began last June to dig gold with a capital of 50 dollars can now show 5000 to 15,000 dollars. I saw a man to-day making purchases of dry goods, etc., for his family, lay on the counter a bag of raw hide, well sewed up, containing 109 ounces. I observed, 'That is a good way to pack gold dust.' He very innocently replied, 'All the bags I brought down are that way; I like the size!' Five such bags in New York would bring nearly 10,000 dollars. This man left his family last August. Three months' digging and washing, producing four or five bags, of 100 ounces each, is better than being mate of a vessel at 40 dollars per month, as the man formerly was. His companion, a Mexican, who camped and worked with him, only had two or three cow-hide bags of gold. In this tough, but true, golden tale, you must not imagine that all men are equally successful. There are some who have done better, even to 4000 dollars in a month; many 1000 dollars during the summer; and others, who refused to join a company of gold-washers who had a cheap-made machine, and receive one ounce per day, that returned to the settlement with not a vest pocket-full of gold. Some left with only sufficient to pay for a horse and saddle, and pay the physician six ounces of gold for one ounce of quinine, calomel, and jalap in proportion. An ounce of gold for advice given, six ounces a visit, brings the fever and ague to be rather an expensive companion. A 'well' man has his proportionate heavy expenses also, to reduce his piles or bags of gold. Dry beef in the settlements, at 4 cents per lb., at the Placer, 1 to 2 dollars per lb.; salt beef and pork, 50 to 100 dollars per barrel; flour, 30 to 75 dollars per barrel; coffee, sugar, and rice, 50 cents to 1 dollar per lb. As washing is 50 cents to 1 dollar a garment, many prefer throwing away their used-up clothes to paying the washerwoman; that is, if they intend returning to the settlements soon, where they can purchase more. As to shaving, I have never seen a man at the Placer who had time to perform that operation. They do not work on Sundays, only brush up the tent, blow out the emery or fine black sand from the week's work. Horses that can travel only one day, and from that to a week, are from 100 to 300 dollars. Freight charge by launch owners for three days' run, 5 dollars per barrel. Wagoners charge 50 to 100 dollars per load, 20 to 50 miles, on good road. Corn, barley, peas, and beans, 10 dollars a-bushel. Common pistols, any price; powder and lead very dear. I know a physician who, in San Francisco, purchased a common made gold-washer at 20 or 30 dollars, made of 70 or 80 feet of boards. At a great expense he boated it up to the first landing on the Sacramento, and there met a wagoner bound to one of the diggings with an empty wagon, distant about 50 miles. The wagoner would not take up the machine under 100 dollars. The doctor had to consent, and bided his time. June passed over, rich in gold; all on that creek did wonders, when the wagoner fell sick, called on his friend the doctor, whose tent was in sight; the doctor came, but would not administer the first dose under the old sum of 100 dollars, which was agreed to, under a proviso that the following doses should be furnished more moderate. When a man's time is worth 100 dollars a-day, to use a spade and tin pan, neither doctors nor wagoners can think much of a pound of gold, and you may suppose merchants, traders, and pedlars are not slow to make their fortunes in these golden times. In San Francisco there is more merchandize sold now, monthly, than before in a year. Vessels after vessels arrive, land their cargoes, dispose of them, and bag up the dust and lay up the vessel, as the crew are soon among the missing. The cleanest clear out is where the captain follows the crew. There are many vessels in San Francisco that cannot weigh anchor, even with the assistance of three or four neighbouring vessels. Supercargoes must land cargo on arriving, or have no crew to do it for them. Some vessels continue to go to sea, with small crews, at 50 dollars per month for green hands. Old hands are too wise for them, and prefer digging an ounce or two a-day, and drinking hock and champagne at half an ounce a-bottle, and eating bad sea bread at 1 dollar per pound. I have seen a captain of a vessel, who, by his old contract in the port whence he sailed, was getting 60 dollars per month, paying his cook 75 dollars, and offering 100 dollars per month for a steward; his former crew, even to his mates, having gone a 'prospecting.' Uncle Sam's ships suffer a little the same way, although they offer from 200 to 500 dollars for the apprehension of a deserter. The Ohio, however, laid in the port of Monterey about a month, and lost only 20 or 30 men. Colonel Stevenson's regiment is disbanded, 99 out of 100 of whom have also gone 'prospecting,' including the colonel, who arrived in Monterey last month, from his last post, and was met by his men at the edge of the town, to escort and cheer him into the town. The captains, etc., have bought up country carts and oxen, turned drivers, and gone to the Placer. Our worthy governor, Colonel of the 1st Dragoons, etc., having plenty of carts, wagons, horses, and mules, with a few regulars left, has also gone, but under better advantages, for the second or third time, to see the Placer and the country, and have justice done to his countrymen or himself. Commodore Jones, lately arrived in Monterey, supposed it to be the capital, head-quarters, etc., but found not even the Governor left. Where head-quarters are may be uncertain, whether in Monterey, Sutter's Fort, or in a four-mule wagon travelling over the gold region. Now, whether headquarters are freighted with munitions of war, etc., or whether the cargo consists of blankets, shirts, etc., to clothe the suffering Indians, for the paltry consideration of gold, no one cares or knows; but the principle should be, that, if privates can or will be off making their thousands, those who are better able should not go goldless." The _Washington Union_ contains a letter from Lieutenant Larkin, dated Monterey, November 16, received at the State Department, containing further confirmation of the previous despatches, public and private, and far outstripping all other news in its exciting character. The gold was increasing in size and quality daily. Lumps were found weighing from one to two pounds. Several had been heard of weighing as high as 16 pounds, and one 25 pounds. Many men, who were poor in June, were worth 30,000 dollars, by digging and trading with the Indians. 100 dollars a-day is the average amount realized daily, from July to October. Half the diggers were sick with fevers, though not many deaths had occurred among them. The Indians would readily give an ounce of gold for a common calico shirt; others were selling for ten dollars each in specie. The gold region extends over a track of 300 miles, and it was not known that it did not extend 1000. A letter from Commodore Jones states that many of the petty officers and men had deserted and gone in search of the gold. He adds, the Indians were selling gold at 50 cents the ounce. Many vessels were deserted by captain, cook, and seamen. The ship _Isaac Walton_ offered discharged soldiers 50 dollars per month to go to Callao, which was refused. She was supplied by government sailors. All the naval vessels on the coast were short of hands. Nearly the whole of the 3rd Artillery had deserted. Provisions were scarce and high; board, 4 dollars a-day; washing, 6 dollars a-dozen. Merchants' clerks get from 2000 to 3000 dollars a-year. CHAPTER XVIII. Route by land Outfit, etc., and advice to intending Emigrants. The route via Independence or St. Joseph, Mo., to Fort Laramie, South Pass, Fort Hall, the Sink of Mary's River, etc., etc., the _old_ route. Let no emigrant, carrying his family with him, deviate from it, or imagine that he can find a better road. This road is the best that has yet been discovered, and to the Bay of San Francisco and the Gold Region it is much the shortest. The Indians, moreover, on this route, have, up to the present time, been so friendly as to commit no acts of hostility on the emigrants. The trail is plain and good where there are no physical obstructions, and the emigrant, by taking this route, will certainly reach his destination in good season and without disaster. From our information we would most earnestly advise all emigrants to take this trail, without deviation, if they would avoid the fatal calamities which almost invariably have attended those who have undertaken to explore new routes. The lightest wagon that can be constructed, of sufficient strength to carry 2500 pounds' weight, is the vehicle most desirable. No wagon should be loaded over this weight, or if it is, it will be certain to stall in the muddy sloughs and crossings on the prairie in the first part of the journey. This wagon can be hauled by three or four yokes of oxen or six mules. Oxen are usually employed by the emigrants for hauling their wagons. They travel about 15 miles per day, and, all things considered, are perhaps equal to mules for this service, although they cannot travel so fast. They are, however, less expensive, and there is not so much danger of their straying and of being stolen by the Indians. Pack-mules can only be employed by parties of men. It would be very difficult to transport a party of women and children on pack-mules, with the provisions, clothing, and other baggage necessary to their comfort. A party of men, however, with pack-mules, can make the journey in less time by one month than it can be done in wagons--carrying with them, however, nothing more than their provisions, clothing, and ammunition. For parties of _men_ going out, it would be well to haul their wagons, provisions, etc., as far as Fort Laramie, or Fort Hall, by mules, carrying with them pack-saddles and _alforjases_, or large saddle-bags, adapted to the pack-saddle, with ropes for packing, etc., when, if they saw proper, they could dispose of their wagons for Indian ponies, and pack into California, gaining perhaps two or three weeks' time. The provisions actually necessary per man are as follows:-- 150 lbs. of flour. 150 do. bacon. 25 do. coffee. 30 do. sugar. Added to these, the main items, there should be a small quantity of rice, 50 or 75 lbs. of crackers, dried peaches, etc., and a keg of lard, with salt, pepper, etc., and such other luxuries of light weight as the person outfitting chooses to purchase. He will think of them before he starts. Every man should be provided with a good rifle, and, if convenient, with a pair of pistols, five pounds of powder, and ten pounds of lead. A revolving belt-pistol may be found useful. With the wagon, there should be carried such carpenter's tools as a hand-saw, auger, gimlet, chisel, shaving-knife, etc., an axe, hammer, and hatchet. This last weapon every man should have in his belt, with a hunter's or a bowie-knife. From Independence to the first settlement in California, which is near the _gold region_, it is about 2050 miles--to San Francisco, 2290 miles. The accounts that have been received and published in regard to the wealth and productiveness of the gold mines, and other mines in California, are undoubtedly true. They are derived from the most authentic and reliable sources, and from individuals whose veracity may be undoubtingly believed. When a young man arrives there, he must turn his attention to whatever seems to promise the largest recompense for his labour. It is impossible in the new state of things produced by the late discoveries, and the influx of population, to foresee what this might be. The country is rich in agricultural resources, as well as in the precious metals, and, with proper enterprise and industry, he could scarcely fail to do well. Families, as well as parties going out, should carry with them good tents, to be used after their arrival as houses. The influx of population will probably be so great that it will be difficult, if not impossible, to obtain other shelter for some time after their arrival. The climate of the country, however, even in winter, is so mild that, with good tents, comfort is attainable. They should be careful, also, to carry as much _subsistence_ into the country as they can; as what they purchase there, after their arrival, they will be compelled to pay a high price for. The shortest route to California is unquestionably by the West India Mail Packets, which leave Southampton on the 17th of every month. The point to which they take passengers is Chagres. This voyage is usually accomplished in about 22 to 26 days. From thence passengers proceed across the Isthmus, a distance of about 52 miles (say three or four days' journey) to Panama, and thence 3500 miles by sea in the Pacific to St. Francisco. From the vast number of eager emigrants that it is expected will assemble at Panama, it is very probable that great delay will be occasioned from there not being sufficient number of vessels to convey them to their destination. Unless such adventurers are abundantly supplied with money, they will not be able to live in the hot desolation of the tropics, where life is but little valued, and where death is even less regarded. The entire route by sea (round Cape Horn) cannot be less than 18,500 miles, and generally occupies from five to six months, yet this route is much cheaper, safer, and in the end (from the delay that will occur at Panama) quite as _short_. This route, particularly to parties from England, is universally allowed to be the best many, dangers and difficulties that attend the route across the Isthmus of Panama (not noticing the probable delay) will be avoided, and many a one will bitterly regret that he was ever induced to attempt (as he perceives ship after ship sailing gallantly on to these favoured regions) what he considered a shorter route, from the want of the means of transit, while he is himself compelled idly to waste his time, a prey to pestilence and to the "hope deferred that maketh the heart sick." APPENDIX. The following are letters addressed to the Government at Washington, and other communications, all of which, it will be seen, are fully confirmatory of the accounts given in the preceding pages; with other details of interest relative to the state of the gold districts: _Extract from a Letter from Mr. Larkin, United States Consul at Monterey, to Mr. Buchanan, Secretary of State at Washington._ "San Francisco (Upper California), June 1, 1848. "Sir: * * * I have to report to the State Department one of the most astonishing excitements and state of affairs now existing in this country, that, perhaps, has ever been brought to the notice of the Government. On the American fork of the Sacramento and Feather River, another branch of the same, and the adjoining lands, there has been within the present year discovered a placer, a vast tract of land containing gold, in small particles. This gold, thus far, has been taken on the bank of the river, from the surface to eighteen inches in depth, and is supposed deeper, and to extend over the country. "On account of the inconvenience of washing, the people have, up to this time, only gathered the metal on the banks, which is done simply with a shovel, filling a shallow dish, bowl, basket, or tin pan, with a quantity of black sand, similar to the class used on paper, and washing out the sand by movement of the vessel. It is now two or three weeks since the men employed in those washings have appeared in this town with gold, to exchange for merchandise and provisions. I presume nearly 20,000 dollars of this gold has as yet been so exchanged. Some 200 or 300 men have remained up the river, or are gone to their homes, for the purpose of returning to the Placer, and washing immediately with shovels, picks, and baskets; many of them, for the first few weeks, depending on borrowing from others. I have seen the written statement of the work of one man for sixteen days, which averaged 25 dollars per day; others have, with a shovel and pan, or wooden bowl, washed out 10 dollars to even 50 dollars in a day. There are now some men yet washing who have 500 dollars to 1,000 dollars. As they have to stand two feet deep in the river, they work but a few hours in the day, and not every day in the week. "A few men have been down in boats to this port, spending twenty to thirty ounces of gold each--about 300 dollars. I am confident that this town (San Francisco) has one-half of its tenements empty, locked up with the furniture. The owners--storekeepers, lawyers, mechanics, and labourers--all gone to the Sacramento with their families. Small parties, of five to fifteen men, have sent to this town and offered cooks ten to fifteen dollars per day for a few weeks. Mechanics and teamsters, earning the year past five to eight dollars per day, have struck and gone. Several U.S. volunteers have deserted. U.S. barque Anita, belonging to the Army, now at anchor here, has but six men. One Sandwich Island vessel in port lost all her men; and was obliged to engaged another crew at 50 dollars for the run of fifteen days to the Islands. "One American captain having his men shipped on this coast in such a manner that they could leave at any time, had them all on the eve of quitting, when he agreed to continue their pay and food; leaving one on board, he took a boat and carried them to the gold regions--furnishing tools and giving his men one-third. They have been gone a week. Common spades and shovels, one month ago worth 1 dollar, will now bring 10 dollars, at the gold regions. I am informed 50 dollars has been offered for one. Should this gold continue as represented, this town and others would be depopulated. Clerks' wages have risen from 600 dollars to 1000 per annum, and board; cooks, 25 dollars to 30 dollars per month. This sum will not be any inducement a month longer, unless the fever and ague appears among the washers. The _Californian_, printed here, stopped this week. The _Star_ newspaper office, where the new laws of Governor Mason, for this country, are printing, has but one man left. A merchant, lately from China, has even lost his China servants. Should the excitement continue through the year, and the whale-ships visit San Francisco, I think they will lose most all their crews. How Col. Mason can retain his men, unless he puts a force on the spot, I know not. "I have seen several pounds of this gold, and consider it very pure, worth in New York 17 dollars to 18 dollars per ounce; 14 dollars to 16 dollars, in merchandise, is paid for it here. What good or bad effect this gold mania will have on California, I cannot foretell. It may end this year; but I am informed that it will continue many years. Mechanics now in this town are only wailing to finish some rude machinery, to enable them to obtain the gold more expeditiously, and free from working in the river. Up to this time, but few Californians have gone to the mines, being afraid the Americans will soon have trouble among themselves, and cause disturbance to all around. I have seen some of the black sand, as taken from the bottom of the river (I should think in the States it would bring 25 to 50 cents per pound), containing many pieces of gold; they are from the size of the head of a pin to the weight of the eighth of an ounce. I have seen some weighing one-quarter of an ounce (4 dollars). Although my statements are almost incredible, I believe I am within the statements believed by every one here. Ten days back, the excitement had not reached Monterey. I shall, within a few days, visit this gold mine, and will make another report to you. Inclosed you will have a specimen. "I have the honour to be, very respectfully, "THOMAS O. LARKIN. "P.S. This placer, or gold region, is situated on public land." "_Mr. Larkin to Mr. Buchanan._ "Monterey, California, June 28, 1848. "SIR: My last dispatch to the State Department was written in San Francisco, the 1st of this month. In that I had the honour to give some information respecting the new 'placer,' or gold regions lately discovered on the branches of the Sacramento River. Since the writing of that dispatch I have visited a part of the gold region, and found it all I had heard, and much more than I anticipated. The part that I visited was upon a fork of the American River, a branch of the Sacramento, joining the main river at Sutter's Fort. The place in which I found the people digging was about twenty-five miles from the fort by land. "I have reason to believe that gold will be found on many branches of the Sacramento and the Joaquin rivers. People are already scattered over one hundred miles of land, and it is supposed that the 'placer' extends from river to river. At present the workmen are employed within ten or twenty yards of the river, that they may be convenient to water. On Feather river there are several branches upon which the people are digging for gold. This is two or three days' ride from the place I visited. "At my camping place I found, on a surface of two or three miles on the banks of the river, some fifty tents, mostly owned by Americans. These had their families. There are no Californians who have taken their families as yet to the gold regions; but few or none will ever do it; some from New Mexico may do so next year, but no Californians. "I was two nights at a tent occupied by eight Americans, viz., two sailors, one clerk, two carpenters, and three daily workmen. These men were in company; had two machines, each made from one hundred feet of boards (worth there 150 dollars, in Monterey 15 dollars--being one day's work), made similar to a child's cradle, ten feet long, without the ends. "The two evenings I saw these eight men bring to their tents the labour of the day. I suppose they made each 50 dollars per day; their own calculation was two pounds of gold a-day--four ounces to a man--64 dollars. I saw two brothers that worked together, and only worked by washing the dirt in a tin pan, weigh the gold they obtained in one day; the result was 7 dollars to one, 82 dollars to the other. There were two reasons for this difference; one man worked less hours than the other, and by chance had ground less impregnated with gold. I give this statement as an extreme case. During my visit I was an interpreter for a native of Monterey, who was purchasing a machine or canoe. I first tried to purchase boards and hire a carpenter for him. There were but a few hundred feet of boards to be had; for these the owner asked me 50 dollars per hundred (500 dollars per thousand), and a carpenter washing gold dust demanded 50 dollars per day for working. I at last purchased a log dug out, with a riddle and sieve made of willow boughs on it, for 120 dollars, payable in gold dust at 14 dollars per ounce. The owner excused himself for the price, by saying he was two days making it, and even then demanded the use of it until sunset. My Californian has told me since, that himself, partner, and two Indians, obtained with this canoe eight ounces the first and five ounces the second day. "I am of the opinion that on the American fork, Feather River, and Copimes River, there are near two thousand people, nine-tenths of them foreigners. Perhaps there are one hundred families, who have their teams, wagons, and tents. Many persons are waiting to see whether the months of July and August will be sickly, before they leave their present business to go to the 'Placer.' The discovery of this gold was made by some Mormons, in January or February, who for a time kept it a secret; the majority of those who are working there began in May. In most every instance the men, after digging a few days, have been compelled to leave for the purpose of returning home to see their families, arrange their business, and purchase provisions. I feel confident in saying there are fifty men in this 'Placer' who have on an average 1,000 dollars each, obtained in May and June. I have not met with any person who had been fully employed in washing gold one month; most, however, appear to have averaged an ounce per day. I think there must, by this time, be over 1,000 men at work upon the different branches of the Sacramento; putting their gains at 10,000 dollars per day, for six days in the week, appears to me not overrated. "Should this news reach the emigration of California and Oregon, now on the road, connected with the Indian wars, now impoverishing the latter country, we should have a large addition to our population; and should the richness of the gold region continue, our emigration in 1849 will be many thousands, and in 1850 still more. If our countrymen in California, as clerks, mechanics, and workmen, will forsake employment at from 2 dollars to 6 dollars per day, how many more of the same class in the Atlantic States, earning much less, will leave for this country under such prospects? It is the opinion of many who have visited the gold regions the past and present months, that the ground will afford gold for many years, perhaps for a century. From my own examination of the rivers and their banks, I am of opinion that, at least for a few years, the golden products will equal the present year. However, as neither men of science, nor the labourers now at work, have made any explorations of consequence, it is a matter of impossibility to give any opinion as to the extent and richness of this part of California. Every Mexican who has seen the place says throughout their Republic there has never been any 'placer like this one.' "Could Mr. Polk and yourself see California as we now see it, you would think that a few thousand people, on 100 miles square of the Sacramento valley, would yearly turn out of this river the whole price our country pays for the acquired territory. When I finished my first letter I doubted my own writing, and, to be better satisfied, showed it to one of the principal merchants of San Francisco, and to Captain Fulsom, of the Quartermaster's Department, who decided at once I was far below the reality. You certainly will suppose, from my two letters, that I am, like others, led away by the excitement of the day. I think I am not. In my last I inclosed a small sample of the gold dust, and I find my only error was in putting a value to the sand. At that time I was not aware how the gold was found; I now can describe the mode of collecting it. "A person without a machine, after digging off one or two feet of the upper ground, near the water (in some cases they take the top earth), throws into a tin pan or wooden bowl a shovel full of loose dirt and stones; then placing the basin an inch or two under water, continues to stir up the dirt with his hand in such a manner that the running water will carry off the light earths, occasionally, with his hand, throwing out the stones; after an operation of this kind for twenty or thirty minutes, a spoonful of small black sand remains; this is on a handkerchief or cloth dried in the sun, the emerge is blown off, leaving the pure gold. I have the pleasure of inclosing a paper of this sand and gold, which I from a bucket of dirt and stones, in half-an-hour, standing at the edge of the water, washed out myself. The value of it may be 2 dollars or 3 dollars. "The size of the gold depends in some measure upon the river from which it is taken; the banks of one river having larger grains of gold than another. I presume more than one half of the gold put into pans or machines is washed out and goes down the stream; this is of no consequence to the washers, who care only for the present time. Some have formed companies of four or five men, and have a rough-made machine put together in a day, which worked to much advantage, yet many prefer to work alone, with a wooden bowl or tin pan, worth fifteen or twenty cents in the States, but eight to sixteen dollars at the gold region. As the workmen continue, and materials can be obtained, improvements will take place in the mode of obtaining gold; at present it is obtained by standing in the water, and with much severe labour, or such as is called here severe labour. "How long this gathering of gold by the handful will continue here, or the future effect it will have on California, I cannot say. Three-fourths of the houses in the town on the bay of San Francisco are deserted. Houses are sold at the price of the ground lots. The effects are this week showing themselves in Monterey. Almost every house I had hired out is given up. Every blacksmith, carpenter, and lawyer is leaving; brick-yards, saw-mills and ranches are left perfectly alone. A large number of the volunteers at San Francisco and Sonoma have deserted; some have been retaken and brought back; public and private vessels are losing their crews; my clerks have had 100 per cent. advance offered them on their wages to accept employment. A complete revolution in the ordinary state of affairs is taking place; both of our newspapers are discontinued from want of workmen and the loss of their agencies; the Alcaldes have left San Francisco, and I believe Sonoma likewise; the former place has not a Justice of the Peace left. "The second Alcalde of Monterey to-day joins the keepers of our principal hotel, who have closed their office and house, and will leave to-morrow for the golden rivers. I saw on the ground a lawyer who was last year Attorney-General of the King of the Sandwich Islands, digging and washing out his ounce and a half per day; near him can be found most all his brethren of the long robe, working in the same occupation. "To conclude; my letter is long, but I could not well describe what I have seen in less words, and I now can believe that my account may be doubted. If the affair proves a bubble, a mere excitement, I know not how we can all be deceived, as we are situated. Governor Mason and his staff have left Monterey to visit the place in question, and will, I suppose, soon forward to his department his views and opinions on this subject. Most of the land, where gold has been discovered, is public land; there are on different rivers some private grants. I have three such purchased in 1846 and 1847, but have not learned that any private lands have produced gold, though they may hereafter do so. I have the honour, dear sir, to be, very respectfully, your obedient servant, "THOMAS O. LARKIN." DESERTION FROM THE SHIPS.--We collate from other sources several other interesting letters and documents, and which will be found well worth perusal. "Monterey, Sept. 15, 1848. "Messrs. Grinnell, Minturn, and Co.: "Sirs--I embrace this opportunity to inform you of my new situation, which is bad enough. All hands have left me but two; they will stay till the cargo is landed and ballast in, then they will go. Both mates will leave in a few days, and then I will have only the two boys, and I am fearful that they will run. I have got all landed but 900 barrels; on Monday I shall get off ballast if the weather is good. There's no help to be got at any price. The store-ship that sailed from here ten days ago took three of my men at 100 dollars per month; there is nothing that anchors here but what loses their men. I have had a hard time in landing the cargo; I go in the boat every load. If I can get it on shore I shall save the freight. As for the ship she will lay here for a long time, for there's not the least chance of getting a crew. The coasters are giving 100 dollars per month. All the ships at San Francisco have stripped and laid up. The Flora, of New London, is at San Francisco; all left. You probably have heard of the situation of things here. A sailor will be up at the mines for two months, work on his own account, and come down with from two to three thousand dollars, and those that go in parties do much better. I have been offered 20 dollars per day to go, by one of the first men here, and work one year. It is impossible for me to give you any idea of the gold that is got here. Yours respectfully, "CHRISTOPHER ALLEN, Captain of the ship Isaac Walton." Another letter dated St. Francisco, September 1st, contains the following:-- "A day or two ago the Flora, Captain Potter, of New London, anchored in Whaleman's Harbour, on the opposite side of the Bay. Yesterday the captain, fearing he would lose all his men, weighed anchor, intending to go to sea. After getting under weigh, the crew, finding the ship was heading out, refused to do duty, and the captain was forced to return and anchor here. Last night nine of the crew gagged the watch, lowered one of the boats, and rowed off. They have not been heard of since, and are now probably half way to the gold region. The Flora is twenty-six months out, with only 750 bbls. of oil. Every vessel that comes in here now is sure to lose her crew, and this state of things must continue until the squadron arrives, when, if the men-o'-war-men do not run off too, merchant-men may retain their crews. "The whale-ship Euphrates, of New Bedford, left here a few weeks since, for the United States, to touch on the coast of Chili to recruit. The Minerva, Captain Perry, of New Bedford, has abandoned the whaling business, and is now on his way hence to Valparaiso for a cargo of merchandise. Although two large ships, four barks, and eight or ten brigs and schooners have arrived here since my return from the mineral country, about four weeks since, with large cargoes of merchandise, their entire invoices have been sold. Vessels are daily arriving from the islands and ports upon the coast, laden with goods and passengers, the latter destined for the gold-washings. "Much sickness prevails among the gold-diggers; many have left the ground sick, and many more have discontinued their labours for the present, and gone into more healthy portions of the country, intending to return after the sickly season has passed. From the best information I can obtain, there are from two to three thousand persons at work at the gold-washings with the same success as heretofore." THE DIGGINGS.--Extract of a letter from Monterey, Aug. 29. "At present the people are running over the country and picking it out of the earth here and there, just as a thousand hogs, let loose in a forest, would root up ground-nuts. Some get eight or ten ounces a-day, and the least active one or two. They make the most who employ the wild Indians to hunt it for them. There is one man who has sixty Indians in his employ; his profits are a dollar a-minute. The wild Indians know nothing of its value, and wonder what the pale-faces want to do with it; they will give an ounce of it for the same weight of coined silver, or a thimbleful of glass beads, or a glass of grog. And white men themselves often give an ounce of it, which is worth at our mint 18 dollars, or more, for a bottle of brandy, a bottle of soda-powders, or a plug of tobacco. "As to the quantity which the diggers get, take a few facts as evidence. I know seven men who worked seven weeks and two days, Sundays excepted, on Feather River; they employed on an average fifty Indians, and got out in these seven weeks and two days 275 pounds of pure gold. I know the men, and have seen the gold, and know what they state to be a fact--so stick a pin there. I know ten other men who worked ten days in company, employed no Indians, and averaged in these ten days 1500 dollars each; so stick another pin there. I know another man who got out of a basin in a rock, not larger than a wash-bowl, two pounds and a half of gold in fifteen minutes; so stick another pin there! Not one of these statements would I believe, did I not know the men personally, and know them to be plain matter-of-fact men--men who open a vein of gold just as coolly as you would a potato-hill." ASSAY OF THE GOLD.--Lieutenant Loeser having arrived at Washington with specimens of the gold from the diggings, the following account of its quality appeared in the "Washington Union," the government organ:-- "Understanding last evening that the lieutenant had arrived in this city, and had deposited in the War Office the precious specimens he had brought with him, we called to see them, and to free our mind from all hesitation as to the genuineness of the metal. We had seen doubts expressed in some of our exchange papers; and we readily admit that the accounts so nearly approached the miraculous, that we were relieved by the evidence of our own senses on the subject. The specimens have all the appearance of the native gold we had seen from the mines of North Carolina and Virginia, and we are informed that the Secretary would send the small chest, called a caddy, containing about 3,000 dollars' worth of gold, in lumps and scales, to the mint, to be melted into coins and bars. The specimens have come to Washington as they were extracted from the materials of the placer. The heaviest piece brought by Lieutenant Loeser weighs a little more than two ounces; but the varied contents of the casket (as described in Colonel Mason's schedule) will be sent off to-day, by special messenger, to the mint at Philadelphia for assay, and early next week we hope to have the pleasure of laying the result before our readers." The assay was subsequently made, and the result officially announced. The gold is declared to be from 3 to 8 per cent. purer than American standard gold coin. ANOTHER ASSAY.--The following is the report of an assay of Californian gold dust, received by Mr. T.O. Larkin, United States consul at Monterey. "New York, Dec. 8, 1848. "Sir,--I have assayed the portion of gold dust, or metal, from California, which you sent me, and the result shows that it is fully equal to any found in our Southern gold mines. I return you 10-3/4 grains out of the 12 which I have tested, the value of which is 45 cents. It is 21-1/2 carats fine--within half a carat of the quality of English sovereigns or American eagles--and is almost ready to go to the mint. The finest gold metal we get is from Africa, which is 22-1/2 to 23 carats fine. In Virginia we have mines where the quality of the gold is much inferior--some of it so low as 19 carats--and in Georgia the mines produce it nearly 22 carats fine. The gold of California, which I have now assayed, is fully equal to that of any, and much superior to some produced from the mines in our Southern States. "JOHN WARWICK, Smelter and refiner, 17, John-Street." INCONVENIENCES OF TOO MUCH GOLD.--The following letter (January 12) from Captain Fulsom, of the United States Service, writing from San Francisco, confirms the fact of the difficulty of procuring servants, or indeed manual assistance of any description:-- "All sorts of labour is got at enormous rates of compensation. Common clerks and salesmen in the stores about town often receive as high as 2500 dollars and their board. The principal waiter in the hotel where I board is paid 1700 dollars per year, and several others from 1200 to 1500 dollars! I fortunately have an Indian boy, or I should be forced to clean my own boots, for I could not employ a good body servant for the full amount of my salary as a government officer. I believe every army officer in California, with one or two exceptions, would have resigned last summer could they have done it, and been free at once to commence for themselves. But the war was not then terminated, and no one could hope to communicate with Washington correspondents, to get an answer in less than six, and perhaps ten, months. For some time last summer (August and July) the officers at Monterey were entirely without servants; and the governor (Colonel Mason) actually took his turn in cooking for his mess." EFFECTS OF THIS DISCOVERY ON THE UNITED STATES.--The following remarks upon the influence of this immense discovery, which appeared in a popular New York journal on the 23rd January, proves the extent of impression produced upon society in the States by the intelligence of this new source of natural wealth:-- "The news (February 12) from California will attract the observation of the whole community, A spirit is generated from those discoveries, which is more active, more intense, and more widely spread, than that which agitated Europe in the time of Columbus, Cortez, and Pizarro. There seems to be no doubt that, in a short time--probably less than two years--those mines can be made to produce 100,000,000 dollars per year. The region is the most extensive of the kind in the world, being 800 miles in length, and 100 in width, with every indication that gold exists in large native masses, in the rocks and mountains of the Sierra Nevada. But these vast gold mines are not the only mineral discoveries that have been made. The quicksilver in the same region seems to be as abundant as the gold, so that there are approximated to each other two metals, which will have a most important effect and utility in making the gold mines more valuable. Heretofore the gold and silver mines of Mexico and Peru have been valuable to Spain, because she possessed a monopoly of the quicksilver mines at Almaden in the Peninsula. This is surpassed by California. According to the last accounts now given to the public, emigrants were crowding in from every port in the Pacific to California--from Mexico, Peru, the Sandwich Islands, Oregon; and we have no doubt by this time the British possessions in the East, China, and everywhere else in that region, are furnishing emigrants to the wonderful regions of California. In less than a year there will probably be a population of 100,000 to 200,000 souls, all digging for gold, and capable of producing from 100,000,000 dollars to 300,000,000 dollars worth per annum of pure gold, to be thrown on the commerce of the world at one fell swoop. "What is to be the effect of such vast discoveries on the commerce of the world--on old communities, on New York, London, and other great commercial cities? Such a vast addition to the gold currency of the world will at once disturb the prices and value of all productions and merchandise to a similar extent to that which we see in Monterey and San Francisco. The prices of every commodity will therefore rise extravagantly during the next few years, according to the produce of gold from that region. Now, in a rising market everything prospers; every one gets rich, civilisation expands, industry increases, and all orders of society are benefited. As soon as the first crop of gold from California reaches New York, the impulse which it will give to commercial enterprise, and the advance in the price of everything which it will cause, will be tremendous. The bank currency will be expanded, for the basis will be abundant; real estate will increase in value, agricultural productions and agricultural labour will advance at once 10, 15, 20, 30, or 40 per cent., even to as great an extent, perhaps, as was witnessed when the demand came from Ireland for the food of this country to feed the starving Irish. New York and her sister cities will be the centre of all those revolutionary movements which are certain to spring from the gold productions of California, on the commerce of the whole civilized world. Ship-building will increase in value, steam-boats will be wanted, the railroads projected across the Isthmus in various places, in Mexico and Central America will be pushed to completion, and we should not be surprised to see an active attempt made, under the auspices of the Federal Government, to construct a railroad across the continent, through the South Pass, from St. Louis, or some other point on the Mississippi, to San Francisco. The discovery of these great gold mines will no doubt form the agent of the greatest revolution in the commercial centres of the world and on the civilisation of the human race that has ever taken place since the first dawn of history. New York will henceforth, from its position to the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, probably in less than a quarter of a century, present a population greater than that of Paris, and display evidences of wealth, grandeur, magnificence, and industry, in an equal if not greater degree than what we see in London at this day. We expect that, in the next twenty-five years, we shall make as rapid a march in this metropolis, and in the neighbouring cities, as any city has done during the last twenty-five centuries. There is no necessity for all going to California. Those who remain, and will raise produce, manufacture goods, build ships, construct steam-engines, and advance the Fine Arts, will enjoy the benefits of those discoveries to as great an extent as those who go to the Sacramento to dig for gold. All the results of the labours of those diggers must come to this metropolis, swell its magnificence, and increase the intensity of its action in commercial affairs. Even in a political point of view the discovery of these wonderful gold mines in California, under the Government of the United States, will have a wonderful and astounding effect. We should not be surprised to see, in a short time, all the old provinces of Mexico, as far as the Isthmus of Darien, knocking for admission into this union; while, on the other side, the British provinces of Canada, and even the Spanish island of Cuba, may be begging and praying to be let in at the same time, and be permitted to enjoy some of the vast advantages, and participate a little in the energy, which this vast confederacy will exhibit to the astonished world." DISORDERS IN THE GOLD DISTRICT.--Up to the close of the year the accounts were with few exceptions favourable to the morals and habits of the masses of adventurers congregated on the banks of the San Francisco and the vicinity; subsequently the statements on these points began to change, and every letter noticed some robbery or murder, generally both, as of frequent occurrence, and at length they became so common that there was neither protection for life nor property. The following ominous intelligence, which appeared in the _Washington Union_ (the organ of government), created an immense sensation. It was the substance of a letter from San Francisco, dated the end of December, addressed to Commodore Jones. "This letter (according to the _Union_) presents a desperate state of affairs as existing in California. Everything is getting worse as regards order and government. Murders and robberies were not only daily events, but occurring hourly. Within six days more than twenty murders had been perpetrated. The people were preparing to organise a provisional government in order to put a stop to these outrages. Within five days three men have been hung by Lynch Law. The United States revenue laws are now in force, and will yield 400,000 dollars the first year. The inhabitants are opposed to paying taxes." LATEST ACCOUNTS (_from the New York Press_.)--The desperate state of affairs in California is fully confirmed. Murders and robberies were occurring daily. The following are particulars supplied by Lieutenant Lanman, of the United States navy, who had returned to New York, after having acted for a year past as collector at Monterey:-- "Only about an hour before he left, he saw a man on board the flag-ship, just arrived from the mines, who confirmed the previous reports in regard to the discoveries on the river Staneslow, where he had seen a single lump of gold weighing nine pounds, and heard of one that weighed twenty pounds. The gold excitement in Monterey had entirely abated, the immense mineral wealth of the country being looked upon as an established fact. There was no disposition (except among the landholders) to exaggerate. For a year past Lieutenant Lanman has been performing the duties of collector at the port of Monterey; and, having seen every man who had returned from a visit to the mines, his opportunities for obtaining authentic information were better than if he had visited the mines in person. He informs us that no large amounts of gold dust or ore were selling at a sacrifice; he does not believe that one hundred ounces of the gold dust could have been purchased at the reported rate of eight dollars, the ordinary prices ranging from ten to twelve dollars per ounce. The weekly receipts of gold at San Francisco were estimated at from thirty to fifty thousand dollars, and Lieutenant Lanman knew of one individual who had in his possession thirty thousand dollars' worth of pure ore and dust. The current value of gold in trade was sixteen dollars per ounce. There was a scarcity of coin throughout the country; but when Lieutenant Lanman arrived at Panama, he was informed that 600,000 dollars had just been shipped for California by certain Mexican gentlemen, and that the American consul at Paita (Mr. Ruden) had in charge coin of the value of 118,000 dollars, which he intends to exchange for ore and dust. Peru and Chili are not behind the United States in regard to the gold excitement, no less than twenty vessels having sailed from these two countries within a short time bound to San Francisco. They were all well laden with provisions and other necessaries of life, and their arrival would probably reduce the prices, which have heretofore been so exorbitant. The whole amount of gold collected at the washings since the excitement first broke out is variously estimated--some put it down as high as 4,000,000 of dollars, but this I think is a little too high." A private letter says the produce of a vineyard of 1,000 vines brought 1,200 dollars; the vegetables of a garden of one acre, near San Francisco, 1,500 dollars. A snow-storm had covered the gold-diggings, and the people were leaving, on account of sickness, intending to return in the spring, which is said to be the best season for the gold harvest. Labourers, according to one letter-writer, demanded a dollar an hour! Adventurers continued to arrive at San Francisco from all parts of the world; and several persons, who were reported to be laden down with gold, were anxious to return to the United States, but could not very readily find a conveyance, as the sailors deserted the ships immediately on their arrival in port. CALIFORNIAN GOLD 250 YEARS AGO.--Pinkerton, in an account of Drake's discovery of a part of California, to which he gave the name of New Albion, states:--"The country, too, if we can depend upon what Sir Francis Drake or his chaplain say, may appear worth the seeking and the keeping, since they assert that _the land is so rich in gold and silver, that upon the slightest turning it up with a spade or pick-axe, these rich metals plainly appear mixed with the mould_. It may be objected that this looks a little fabulous; but to this two satisfactory answers may be given: the first is, that later discoveries on the same coast confirm the truth of it, which for anything I can see ought to put the fact out of question; but if any doubts should remain, my second answer should overturn these. For I say next, that the country of New Mexico lies directly behind New Albion, on the other side of a narrow bay, and in that country are the mines of Santa Fé, which are allowed to be the richest in the world; here, then, is a valuable country, to which we have a very fair title." EFFECTS OF THE CALIFORNIAN NEWS IN ENGLAND.--A glance at the advertisements in the daily papers (says the _Examiner_) will show that the public appetite for California is likely to be promptly met. The burden of the various vessels already announced as ready for immediate departure amounts to about 5,000 tons, distributed in ships ranging from 190 to 700 tons, to say nothing of the West India mail-steamer, which leaves on the 17th, carrying goods and passengers to Chagres, or of a "short and pleasant passage" advertised to Galveston, in Texas, as a cheap route to the Pacific. The rates range from £25 upwards to suit all classes. Thus far, however, we have only the arrangements for those who are able to move. The opportunities provided for those who wish to share the advantages of the new region without its dangers are still more ample. Indeed, so imposing are the plans for an extensive investment of capital for carrying on the trade in shares of £5 each, that it would seem as if the first effect of the affair would be to cause a scarcity of money rather than an abundance. About a million and a quarter sterling is already wanted, and the promoters stipulate for the power of doubling the proposed amounts as occasion may offer. There is a "California Gold-Coast Trading Association;" a "California Gold Mining, Streaming, and Washing Company;" a "California Steam Trading Company," a "California Gold and Trading Company;" and a "California Gold Mining, etc., Trading Company." The last of these alone will require £600,000 for its objects, but as half the shares are "to be reserved for the United States of America," the drain upon our resources will be lessened to that extent. Some of the concerns propose to limit their operations to trading on the coast, sending out at the same time "collecting and exploring parties" whenever the prospect may be tempting. Others intend at once to get a grant from the legislature at Washington of such lands "as they may deem necessary," while others intend to trust to chance, simply sending out a "practical" manager, accompanied by an adequate number of men "accustomed to the extraction of gold in all its forms." Along with these advertisements are some of a modified nature, to suit parties who may neither wish to go out with a batch of emigrants, nor to stay at home and wait the results of a public company. One "well-educated gentleman" seeks two others "to share expenses with him." Another wishes for a companion who would advance £200, "one half to leave his wife, and the other half for outfit;" a third tells where "any respectable individuals with small capital" may find persons willing to join them; a fourth states that respectable persons having not less than £100 are wanted to complete a party; and a fifth, that a "seafaring man is ready to go equal shares in purchasing a schooner to sail on speculation." What number may be found to answer those appeals it is impossible to conjecture. Common sense would say not one, but experience of what has been practised over and over again reminds us that the active parties on the present occasion are not calculating too largely upon the credulity of their countrymen. That the country will be a pandemonium long before any one can reach it from this side is hardly to be doubted, unless, indeed, the United States government shall have been able to establish a blockade and cordon, in which case the new arrivals will have to get back as well as they can. PROBABLE EFFECT ON THE CURRENCY IN EUROPE.--In the description of gold mines, and rivers flowing over golden sands, we must be prepared for a little over-colouring. Such discoveries have always excited sanguine hopes, and dreams of exhaustless wealth; but if the accounts--and they really appear well authenticated--of the golden treasures of California be true, quantities of the most precious of all metals are found--not buried in mines, but scattered on the surface of the earth, and the fortunate adventurer may enrich himself beyond the dreams of avarice, almost without labour, without capital, and with no care but that which cupidity generates. The principle that the value of the precious metals, like other products of industry, is determined primarily by the cost of production, and then by scarcity, ideas of utility, and convenience, seems to be neutralized by this new discovery; and it becomes a curious question, how far it may affect the value of gold and silver in Europe. If the abundance of gold flowing from America be such as to exceed the demand, the value of gold will fall, and the price of all other commodities relatively rise, and the relative proportion between gold and silver be disturbed so as to affect the standards of value in each country and the par of exchange between one and another. The productiveness of the silver mines, there is no doubt, is greater and more regular than those of gold; but the enormous increase of the silver currency on the Continent, in the United States, and even in India, and our own colonies, has kept the price of silver a little below five shillings an ounce. On the other hand the English standard of value being gold only, the drain of gold is generally towards England, while that of silver is towards the Continent. We do not doubt that the English Mint price of gold, £3 17s. 10-1/2d. an ounce, and the price at which the Bank of England are compelled to purchase, £3 17s. 9d. an ounce, are causes which not only regulate, but, within certain limits, determine, the price of gold throughout the world. Suppose, for a moment, the circulation of England, exceeding thirty millions and the Bank store of fifteen millions, to be thrown on the markets of Europe, by an alteration of the standard of value--how material would be the fall in price! It is equally obvious that England would be first and most materially affected by any large and sudden production of her standard of value; for though America would be enriched by the discovery of the precious metals within her own territories, it is only because she would possess a larger fund to exchange for more useful and necessary products of labour. The value of silver would not fall, assuming the supply and demand to be equalised, but gold would fall in relation to silver, and the existing proportion (about 15 to 1) could no longer be maintained. Then prices would rise of all articles now estimated in our currency--i.e. an ounce of gold would exchange for less than at present. And, assuming the price of silver to keep up as heretofore, about 5s. an ounce, our sovereign would be valued less in other countries, and all exchange operations would be sensibly affected. The only countervailing influence in the reduction of gold to, say, only double the price of silver, would be an increased consumption in articles of taste and manufacture, which, however, can only be speculative and uncertain. It is said by accounts from California that five hundred miles lie open to the avarice of gold-hunters, and that some adventurers have collected from 1,200 to 1,800 dollars a-day; the probable average of each man's earnings being from 8 to 10 dollars a-day, or, let us say, £2. The same authority avers there is room and verge enough for the profitable working, to that extent, of a hundred thousand persons. And it is likely enough before long that such a number may be tempted to seek their easily acquired fortune in the golden sands of El Sacramento and elsewhere. Now two pounds a-day for each man would amount to £200,000, which, multiplied by 300 working days, will give £60,000,000 a-year! That is, £600,000,000 in ten years! A fearful amount of gold dust, and far more than enough to disturb the equanimity of ten thousand political economists. The gold utensils found among the simple-minded and philosophic Peruvians (who wondered at the eager desire of Christians for what they scarcely valued), will be esteemed trifles with our golden palaces, and halls paved with gold, when California shall have poured this vast treasure into Europe. Assuming in round numbers each 2,000 lbs., or troy ton, to be equivalent to £100,000 sterling, the above amount in one year would represent _six hundred_ tons, and in ten years _six thousand_ tons of gold! The imagination of all-plodding industrious England is incapable of grasping so great an idea! Can there be any doubt, then, of a revolution in the value of the precious metals? PROHIBITION FROM THE GOVERNMENT.--It would seem that the government have at length taken measures to preserve the gold districts from the bands of foreign adventurers who are daily pouring in from every quarter. Towards the end of January we learn that General Smith had been sent out by the United States government, with orders to enforce the laws against all persons, not citizens of the States, who should be found trespassing on the public lands. Official notice to this effect was issued to the American consul at Panama and other places, in order that emigrants on their way to California might be made aware of the determination of the government previous to their arrival. The punishment for illegal trespassing is fine and imprisonment. It was not known, at the date of the last intelligence from California how this notification, which makes such an important change in the prospects of the numerous bodies now on their way thither, has been received by the population assembled at the land of promise. JOURNEY FROM ARKANSAS TO CALIFORNIA. The following general view of the nature of the country which divides the United States from California is taken from a narrative, published by Lieutenant Emory, of a journey from the Arkansas to the newly annexed territory of the United States. "The country," says the lieutenant, "from the Arkansas to the Colorado, a distance of over 1200 miles, in its adaptation to agriculture, has peculiarities which must for ever stamp itself upon the population which inhabits it. All North Mexico, embracing New Mexico, Chihuahua, Sonora, and the Californias, as far north as the Sacramento, is, as far as the best information goes, the same in the physical character of its surface, and differs but little in climate and products. In no part of this vast tract can the rains from heaven be relied upon, to any extent, for the cultivation of the soil. The earth is destitute of trees, and in great part also of any vegetation whatever. A few feeble streams flow in different directions from the great mountains, which in many places traverse this region. These streams are separated, sometimes by plains, and sometimes by mountains, without water and without vegetation, and may be called deserts, so far as they perform any useful part in the sustenance of animal life. "The whole extent of country, except on the margin of streams, is destitute of forest trees. The Apaches, a very numerous race, and the Navajoes, are the chief occupants, but there are many minor bands, who, unlike the Apaches and Navajoes, are not nomadic, but have fixed habitations. Amongst the most remarkable of these are the Soones, most of whom are said to be Albinoes. The latter cultivate the soil, and live in peace with their more numerous and savage neighbours. Departing from the ford of the Colorado in the direction of Sonora, there is a fearful desert to encounter. Alter, a small town, with a Mexican garrison, is the nearest settlement. All accounts concur in representing the journey as one of extreme hardship, and even peril. The distance is not exactly known, but it is variously represented at from four to seven days' journey. Persons bound for Sonora from California, who do not mind a circuitous route, should ascend the Gila as far as the Pimos village, and thence penetrate the province by way of Tucson. At the ford, the Colorado is 1,500 feet wide, and flows at the rate of a mile and a half per hour. Its greatest depth in the channel, at the ford where we crossed, is four feet. The banks are low, not more than four feet high, and, judging from indications, sometimes, though not frequently, overflowed. Its general appearance at this point is much like that of the Arkansas, with its turbid waters and shifting sand islands." The narrative of Lieut. Emory, of his journey from this point across the Desert of California, becomes highly interesting and characteristic. "_November 26_.--The dawn of day found every man on horseback, and a bunch of grass from the Colorado tied behind him on the cantle of his saddle. After getting well under way, the keen air at 26° Fahrenheit made it most comfortable to walk. We travelled four miles along the sand butte, in a southern direction; we mounted the buttes and found a firmer footing covered with fragments of lava, rounded by water, and many agates. We were now fairly on the desert. "Our course now inclined a few degrees more to the north, and at 10, A.M., we found a large patch of grama, where we halted for an hour, and then pursued our way over the plains covered with fragments of lava, traversed at intervals by sand buttes, until 4, P.M., when, after travelling 24 miles, we reached the Alamo or cotton-wood. At this point, the Spaniards informed us, that, failing to find water, they had gone a league to the west, in pursuit of their horses, where they found a running stream. We accordingly sent parties to search, but neither the water nor their trail could be found. Neither was there any cotton-wood at the Alamo, as its name would signify; but it was nevertheless the place, the tree having probably been covered by the encroachments of the sand, which here terminates in a bluff 40 feet high, making the arc of a great circle convexing to the north. Descending this bluff, we found in what had been the channel of a stream, now overgrown with a few ill-conditioned mesquite, a large hole where persons had evidently dug for water. It was necessary to halt to rest our animals, and the time was occupied in deepening this hole, which, after a strong struggle, showed signs of water. An old champagne basket, used by one of the officers as a pannier, was lowered in the hole, to prevent the crumbling of the sand. After many efforts to keep out the caving sand, a basket-work of willow twigs effected the object, and, much to the joy of all, the basket, which was now 15 or 20 feet below the surface, filled with water. The order was given for each mess to draw a kettle of water, and Captain Turner was placed in charge of the spring, to see fair distribution. "When the messes were supplied, the firmness of the banks gave hopes that the animals might be watered, and each party was notified to have their animals in waiting; the important business of watering then commenced, upon the success of which depended the possibility of their advancing with us a foot further. Two buckets for each animal were allowed. At 10, A.M., when my turn came, Captain Moore had succeeded, by great exertions, in opening another well, and the one already opened began to flow more freely, in consequence of which, we could afford to give each animal as much as it could drink. The poor brutes, none of which had tasted water in forty-eight hours, and some not for the last sixty, clustered round the well and scrambled for precedence. At 12 o'clock I had watered all my animals, thirty-seven in number, and turned over the well to Captain Moore. The animals still had an aching void to fill, and all night was heard the munching of sticks, and their piteous cries for more congenial food. "_November 27 and 28_.--To-day we started a few minutes after sunrise. Our course was a winding one, to avoid the sand-drifts. The Mexicans had informed us that the waters of the salt lake, some thirty or forty miles distant, were too salt to use, but other information led us to think the intelligence was wrong. We accordingly tried to reach it; about 3, P.M., we disengaged ourselves from the sand, and went due (magnetic) west, over an immense level of clay detritus, hard and smooth as a bowling-green. The desert was almost destitute of vegetation; now and then an Ephedra, Oenothera, or bunches of Aristida were seen, and occasionally the level was covered with a growth of Obione canescens, and a low bush with small oval plaited leaves, unknown. The heavy sand had proved too much for many horses and some mules, and all the efforts of their drivers could bring them no further than the middle of this desert. About 8 o'clock, as we approached the lake, the stench of dead animals confirmed the reports of the Mexicans, and put to flight all hopes of being able to use the water. "The basin of the lake, as well as I could judge at night, is about three-quarters of a mile long and half a mile wide. The water had receded to a pool, diminished to one half its size, and the approach to it, was through a thick soapy quagmire. It was wholly unfit for man or brute, and we studiously kept the latter from it, thinking that the use of it would but aggravate their thirst. One or two of the men came in late, and, rushing to the lake, threw themselves down and took many swallows before discovering their mistake; but the effect was not injurious except that it increased their thirst. A few mezquite trees and a chenopodiaceous shrub bordered the lake, and on these our mules munched till they had sufficiently refreshed themselves, when the call to saddle was sounded, and we groped silently our way in the dark. The stoutest animals now began to stagger, and when day dawned scarcely a man was seen mounted. "With the sun rose a heavy fog from the south-west, no doubt from the gulf, and, sweeping towards us, enveloped us for two or three hours, wetting our blankets and giving relief to the animals. Before it had disappeared we came to a patch of sun-burned grass. When the fog had entirely dispersed we found ourselves entering a gap in the mountains, which had been before us for four days. The plain was crossed, but we had not yet found water. The first valley we reached was dry, and it was not till 12 o'clock, M., that we struck the Cariso (cane) creek, within half a mile of one of its sources, and although so close to the source, the sands had already absorbed much of its water, and left but little running. A mile or two below, the creek entirely disappears. We halted, having made fifty-four miles in the two days, at the source, a magnificent spring, twenty or thirty feet in diameter, highly impregnated with sulphur, and medicinal in its properties. "The desert over which we had passed, ninety miles from water to water, is an immense triangular plain, bounded on one side by the Colorado, on the west by the Cordilleras of California, the coast chain of mountains which now encircles us, extending from the Sacramento river to the southern extremity of Lower California, and on the north-east by a chain of mountains, running southeast and northwest. It is chiefly covered with floating sand, the surface of which in various places is white, with diminutive spinelas, and everywhere over the whole surface is found the large and soft muscle shell. I have noted the only two patches of grass found during the 'jornada.' There were scattered, at wide intervals, the Palafoxia linearis, Atriplex, Encelia farinosa, Daleas, Euphorbias, and a Simsia, described by Dr. Torrey as a new species. "The southern termination of this desert is bounded by the Tecaté chain of mountains and the Colorado; but its northern and eastern boundaries are undefined, and I should suppose from the accounts of trappers, and others, who have attempted the passage from California to the Gila by a more northern route, that it extends many days' travel beyond the chain of barren mountains which bound the horizon in that direction. The portal to the mountains through which we passed was formed by immense buttes of yellow clay and sand, with large flakes of mica and seams of gypsum. Nothing could be more forlorn and desolate in appearance. The gypsum had given some consistency to the sand buttes, which were washed into fantastic figures. One ridge formed apparently a complete circle, giving it the appearance of a crater; and although some miles to the left, I should have gone to visit it, supposing it to be a crater, but my mule was sinking with thirst, and water was yet at some distance. Many animals were left on the road to die of thirst and hunger, in spite of the generous efforts of the men to bring them to the spring. More than one was brought up, by one man tugging at the halter and another pushing up the brute, by placing his shoulder against its buttocks. Our most serious loss, perhaps, was that of one or two fat mares and colts brought with us for food; for, before leaving camp, Major Swords found in a concealed place one of the best pack mules slaughtered, and the choice bits cut from his shoulders and flanks, stealthily done by some mess less provident than others. "_Nov. 29_.--The grass at the spring was anything but desirable for our horses, and there was scarcely a ration left for the men. This last consideration would not prevent our giving the horses a day's rest wherever grass could be found. We followed the dry sandy bed of the Cariso nearly all day, at a snail's pace, and at length reached the 'little pools' where the grass was luxuriant but very salt. The water strongly resembled that at the head of the Cariso creek, and the earth, which was very tremulous for many acres about the pools, was covered with salt. This valley is not more than half a mile wide, and on each side are mountains of grey granite and pure quartz, rising from 1,000 to 3,000 feet above it. "We rode for miles through thickets of the centennial plant, Agave Americana, and found one in full bloom. The sharp thorns terminating every leaf of this plant were a great annoyance to our dismounted and wearied men, whose legs were now almost bare. A number of these plants were cut by the soldiers, and the body of them used as food. The day was intensely hot, and the sand deep; the animals, inflated with water and rushes, gave way by scores; and although we advanced only sixteen miles, many did not arrive at camp until 10 o'clock at night. It was a feast day for the wolves, which followed in packs close on our track, seizing our deserted brutes, and making the air resound with their howls as they battled for the carcases. "_December 12_.--We followed the Solidad through a deep fertile valley in the shape of a cross. Here we ascended to the left a steep hill to the table lands, which, keeping for a few miles, we descended into a waterless valley, leading into False Bay at a point distant two or three miles from San Diego. At this place we were in view of the fort overlooking the town of San Diego and the barren waste which surrounds it. "The town consists of a few adobe houses, two or three of which only have plank floors. It is situated at the foot of a high hill on a sand flat, two miles wide, reaching from the head of San Diego Bay to False Bay. A high promontory, of nearly the same width, runs into the sea four or five miles, and is connected by the flat with the main land. The road to the hide-houses leads on the east side of this promontory, and abreast of them the frigate Congress and the sloop Portsmouth are at anchor. The hide-houses are a collection of store-houses where the hides of cattle are packed before being shipped, this article forming the only trade of the little town. "The bay is a narrow arm of the sea indenting the land some four or five miles, easily defended, and having twenty feet of water at the lowest tide. The rise is five feet, making the greatest water twenty-five feet. "Standing on the hill which overlooks the town, and looking to the north-east, I saw the mission of San Diego, a fine large building now deserted. The Rio San Diego runs under ground in a direct course from the mission to the town, and, sweeping around the hill, discharges itself into the bay. Its original debouche was into False bay, where, meeting the waters rolling in from the seaward, a bar was formed by the deposit of sand, making the entrance of False Bay impracticable. "_January 2_.--Six and a half miles' march brought us to the deserted mission of San Luis Rey. The keys of this mission were in charge of the alcalde of the Indian village, a mile distant. He was at the door to receive us and deliver up possession. There we halted for the day, to let the sailors, who suffered dreadfully from sore feet, recruit a little. This building is one which, for magnitude, convenience, and durability of architecture, would do honour to any country. "The walls are adobe, and the roofs of well-made tile. It was built about sixty years since by the Indians of the country, under the guidance of a zealous priest. At that time the Indians were very numerous, and under the absolute sway of the missionaries. These missionaries at one time bid fair to christianize the Indians of California. Under grants from the Mexican government, they collected them into missions, built immense houses, and began successfully to till the soil by the hands of the Indians for the benefit of the Indians. "The habits of the priests, and the avarice of the military rulers of the territory, however, soon converted these missions into instruments of oppression and slavery of the Indian race. "The revolution of 1836 saw the downfall of the priests, and most of these missions passed by fraud into the hands of private individuals, and with them the Indians were transferred as serfs of the land. "This race, which, in our country, has never been reduced to slavery, is in that degraded condition throughout California, and does the only labour performed in the country. Nothing can exceed their present degradation." The general closing remarks of Lieutenant Emory are as follow: "The region extending from the head of the Gulf of California to the parallel of the Pueblo, or Ciudad de los Angeles, is the only portion not heretofore covered by my own notes and journal, or by the notes and journals of other scientific expeditions fitted out by the United States. The journals and published accounts of these several expeditions combined will give definite ideas of all those portions of California susceptible of cultivation or settlement. From this remark is to be excepted the vast basin watered by the Colorado, and the country lying between that river and the range of Cordilleras, represented as running east of the Tulare lakes, and south of the parallel of 36°, and the country between the Colorado and Gila rivers. "Of these regions nothing is known except from the reports of trappers, and the speculations of geologists. As far as these accounts go, all concur in representing it as a waste of sand and rock, unadorned with vegetation, poorly watered, and unfit, it is believed, for any of the useful purposes of life. A glance at the map will show what an immense area is embraced in these boundaries; and, notwithstanding the oral accounts in regard to it, it is difficult to bring the mind to the belief in the existence of such a sea of waste and desert; when every other grand division of the earth presents some prominent feature in the economy of nature, administering to the wants of man. Possibly this unexplored region may be filled with valuable minerals. "Where irrigation can be had in this country, the produce of the soil is abundant beyond description. All the grains and fruits of the temperate zones, and many of those of the tropical, flourish luxuriantly. Descending from the heights of San Barnardo to the Pacific one meets every degree of temperature. Near the coast, the winds prevailing from the south-west in winter, and from the north-west in summer, produce a great uniformity of temperature, and the climate is perhaps unsurpassed in salubrity. With the exception of a very few cases of ague and fever of a mild type, sickness is unknown. "The season of the year at which we visited the country was unfavourable to obtaining a knowledge of its botany. The vegetation, mostly deciduous, had gone to decay, and no flowers nor seeds were collected. The country generally is entirely destitute of trees. Along the principal range of the mountains are a few live oaks, sycamore and pine; now and then, but very rarely, the sycamore and cotton-wood occur in the champaign country, immediately on the margins of the streams. Wild oats everywhere cover the surface of the hills, and these, with the wild mustard and carrots, furnish good pasturage to the immense herds of cattle which form the staple of California. Of the many fruits capable of being produced with success, by culture and irrigation, the grape is perhaps that which is brought nearest to perfection. Experienced wine-growers and Europeans, pronounce this portion of California unequalled for the quality of its wines." 
13384	----	[Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration: EMERSON HOUGH, THE AUTHOR, DRIVING A COVERED WAGON.] THE COVERED WAGON BY EMERSON HOUGH AUTHOR OF HEART'S DESIRE, ETC. ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES FROM THE PHOTOPLAY A PARAMOUNT PICTURE NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Made in the United States of America 1922 CONTENTS CHAPTER I.--YOUTH MARCHES II.--THE EDGE OF THE WORLD III.--THE RENDEZVOUS IV.--FEVER OF NEW FORTUNES V.--THE BLACK SPANIARD VI.--ISSUE JOINED VII.--THE JUMP-OFF VIII.--MAN AGAINST MAN IX.--THE BRUTE X.--OLE MISSOURY XI.--WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS YOUNG XII.--THE DEAD MEN'S TALE XIII.--WILD FIRE XIV.--THE KISS XV.--THE DIVISION XVI.--THE PLAINS XVII.--THE GREAT ENCAMPMENT XVIII.--ARROW AND PLOW XIX.--BANION OF DONIPHAN'S XX.--THE BUFFALO XXI.--THE QUICKSANDS XXII.--A SECRET OF TWO XXIII.--AN ARMISTICE XXIV.--THE ROAD WEST XXV.--OLD LARAMIE XXVI.--THE FIRST GOLD XXVII.--TWO WHO LOVED XXVIII.--WHEN A MAID MARRIES XXIX.--THE BROKEN WEDDING XXX.--THE DANCE IN THE DESERT XXXI.--HOW, COLA! XXXII.--THE FIGHT AT THE FORD XXXIII.--THE FAMILIES ARE COMING XXXIV.--A MATTER OF FRIENDSHIP XXXV.--GEE--WHOA--HAW! XXXVI.--TWO LOVE LETTERS XXXVII.--JIM BRIDGER FORGETS XXXVIII.--WHEN THE ROCKIES FELL XXXIX.--THE CROSSING XL.--OREGON! OREGON! XLI.--THE SECRETS OF THE SIERRAS XLII.--KIT CARSON RIDES XLIII.--THE KILLER KILLED XLIV.--YET IF LOVE LACK XLV.--THE LIGHT OF THE WHOLE WORLD _The_ COVERED WAGON CHAPTER I YOUTH MARCHES "Look at 'em come, Jesse! More and more! Must be forty or fifty families." Molly Wingate, middle-aged, portly, dark browed and strong, stood at the door of the rude tent which for the time made her home. She was pointing down the road which lay like an écru ribbon thrown down across the prairie grass, bordered beyond by the timber-grown bluffs of the Missouri. Jesse Wingate allowed his team of harness-marked horses to continue their eager drinking at the watering hole of the little stream near which the camp was pitched until, their thirst quenched, they began burying their muzzles and blowing into the water in sensuous enjoyment. He stood, a strong and tall man of perhaps forty-five years, of keen blue eye and short, close-matted, tawny beard. His garb was the loose dress of the outlying settler of the Western lands three-quarters of a century ago. A farmer he must have been back home. Could this encampment, on the very front of the American civilization, now be called a home? Beyond the prairie road could be seen a double furrow of jet-black glistening sod, framing the green grass and its spangling flowers, first browsing of the plow on virgin soil. It might have been the opening of a farm. But if so, why the crude bivouac? Why the gear of travelers? Why the massed arklike wagons, the scores of morning fires lifting lazy blue wreaths of smoke against the morning mists? The truth was that Jesse Wingate, earlier and impatient on the front, out of the very suppression of energy, had been trying his plow in the first white furrows beyond the Missouri in the great year of 1848. Four hundred other near-by plows alike were avid for the soil of Oregon; as witness this long line of newcomers, late at the frontier rendezvous. "It's the Liberty wagons from down river," said the campmaster at length. "Missouri movers and settlers from lower Illinois. It's time. We can't lie here much longer waiting for Missouri or Illinois, either. The grass is up." "Well, we'd have to wait for Molly to end her spring term, teaching in Clay School, in Liberty," rejoined his wife, "else why'd we send her there to graduate? Twelve dollars a month, cash money, ain't to be sneezed at." "No; nor is two thousand miles of trail between here and Oregon, before snow, to be sneezed at, either. If Molly ain't with those wagons I'll send Jed over for her to-day. If I'm going to be captain I can't hold the people here on the river any longer, with May already begun." "She'll be here to-day," asserted his wife. "She said she would. Besides, I think that's her riding a little one side the road now. Not that I know who all is with her. One young man--two. Well"--with maternal pride--"Molly ain't never lacked for beaus! "But look at the wagons come!" she added. "All the country's going West this spring, it certainly seems like." It was the spring gathering of the west-bound wagon-trains, stretching from old Independence to Westport Landing, the spot where that very year the new name of Kansas City was heard among the emigrants as the place of the jump-off. It was now an hour by sun, as these Western people would have said, and the low-lying valley mists had not yet fully risen, so that the atmosphere for a great picture did not lack. It was a great picture, a stirring panorama of an earlier day, which now unfolded. Slow, swaying, stately, the ox teams came on, as though impelled by and not compelling the fleet of white canvas sails. The teams did not hasten, did not abate their speed, but moved in an unagitated advance that gave the massed column something irresistibly epochal in look. The train, foreshortened to the watchers at the rendezvous, had a well-spaced formation--twenty wagons, thirty, forty, forty-seven--as Jesse Wingate mentally counted them. There were outriders; there were clumps of driven cattle. Along the flanks walked tall men, who flung over the low-headed cattle an admonitory lash whose keen report presently could be heard, still faint and far off. A dull dust cloud arose, softening the outlines of the prairie ships. The broad gestures of arm and trunk, the monotonous soothing of commands to the sophisticated kine as yet remained vague, so that still it was properly a picture done on a vast canvas--that of the frontier in '48; a picture of might, of inevitableness. Even the sober souls of these waiters rose to it, felt some thrill they themselves had never analyzed. A boy of twenty, tall, blond, tousled, rode up from the grove back of the encampment of the Wingate family. "You, Jed?" said his father. "Ride on out and see if Molly's there." "Sure she is!" commented the youth, finding a plug in the pocket of his jeans. "That's her. Two fellers, like usual." "Sam Woodhull, of course," said the mother, still hand over eye. "He hung around all winter, telling how him and Colonel Doniphan whipped all Mexico and won the war. If Molly ain't in a wagon of her own, it ain't his fault, anyways! I'll rest assured it's account of Molly's going out to Oregon that he's going too! Well!" And again, "Well!" "Who's the other fellow, though?" demanded Jed. "I can't place him this far." Jesse Wingate handed over his team to his son and stepped out into the open road, moved his hat in an impatient signal, half of welcome, half of command. It apparently was observed. To their surprise, it was the unidentified rider who now set spur to his horse and came on at a gallop ahead of the train. He rode carelessly well, a born horseman. In no more than a few minutes he could be seen as rather a gallant figure of the border cavalier--a border just then more martial than it had been before '46 and the days of "Fifty-Four Forty or Fight." A shrewed man might have guessed this young man--he was no more than twenty-eight--to have got some military air on a border opposite to that of Oregon; the far Southwest, where Taylor and Scott and the less known Doniphan and many another fighting man had been adding certain thousands of leagues to the soil of this republic. He rode a compact, short-coupled, cat-hammed steed, coal black and with a dashing forelock reaching almost to his red nostrils--a horse never reared on the fat Missouri corn lands. Neither did this heavy embossed saddle with its silver concho decorations then seem familiar so far north; nor yet the thin braided-leather bridle with its hair frontlet band and its mighty bit; nor again the great spurs with jingling rowel bells. This rider's mount and trappings spoke the far and new Southwest, just then coming into our national ken. The young man himself, however, was upon the face of his appearance nothing of the swashbuckler. True, in his close-cut leather trousers, his neat boots, his tidy gloves, his rather jaunty broad black hat of felted beaver, he made a somewhat raffish figure of a man as he rode up, weight on his under thigh, sidewise, and hand on his horse's quarters, carelessly; but his clean cut, unsmiling features, his direct and grave look out of dark eyes, spoke him a gentleman of his day and place, and no mere spectacular pretender assuming a virtue though he had it not. He swung easily out of saddle, his right hand on the tall, broad Spanish horn as easily as though rising from a chair at presence of a lady, and removed his beaver to this frontier woman before he accosted her husband. His bridle he flung down over his horse's head, which seemingly anchored the animal, spite of its loud whinnying challenge to these near-by stolid creatures which showed harness rubs and not whitened saddle hairs. "Good morning, madam," said he in a pleasant, quiet voice. "Good morning, sir. You are Mr. and Mrs. Jesse Wingate, I believe. Your daughter yonder told me so." "That's my name," said Jesse Wingate, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously, but advancing with ungloved hand. "You're from the Liberty train?" "Yes, sir. My name is Banion--William Banion. You may not know me. My family were Kentuckians before my father came out to Franklin. I started up in the law at old Liberty town yonder not so long ago, but I've been away a great deal." "The law, eh?" Jesse Wingate again looked disapproval of the young man's rather pronouncedly neat turnout. "Then you're not going West?" "Oh, yes, I am, if you please, sir. I've done little else all my life. Two years ago I marched with all the others, with Doniphan, for Mexico. Well, the war's over, and the treaty's likely signed. I thought it high time to march back home. But you know how it is--the long trail's in my blood now. I can't settle down." Wingate nodded. The young man smilingly went on: "I want to see how it is in Oregon. What with new titles and the like--and a lot of fighting men cast in together out yonder, too--there ought to be as much law out there as here, don't you think? So I'm going to seek my fortune in the Far West. It's too close and tame in here now. I'm"--he smiled just a bit more obviously and deprecatingly--"I'm leading yonder _caballad_ of our neighbors, with a bunch of Illinois and Indiana wagons. They call me Col. William Banion. It is not right--I was no more than Will Banion, major under Doniphan. I am not that now." A change, a shadow came over his face. He shook it off as though it were tangible. "So I'm at your service, sir. They tell me you've been elected captain of the Oregon train. I wanted to throw in with you if I might, sir. I know we're late--we should have been in last night. I rode in to explain that. May we pull in just beside you, on this water?" Molly Wingate, on whom the distinguished address of the stranger, his easy manner and his courtesy had not failed to leave their impression, answered before her husband. "You certainly can, Major Banion." "Mister Banion, please." "Well then, Mister Banion. The water and grass is free. The day's young. Drive in and light down. You said you saw our daughter, Molly--I know you did, for that's her now." The young man colored under his bronze of tan, suddenly shy. "I did," said he. "The fact is, I met her earlier this spring at Clay Seminary, where she taught. She told me you-all were moving West this spring--said this was her last day. She asked if she might ride out with our wagons to the rendezvous. Well--" "That's a fine horse you got there," interrupted young Jed Wingate. "Spanish?" "Yes, sir." "Wild?" "Oh, no, not now; only of rather good spirit. Ride him if you like. Gallop back, if you'd like to try him, and tell my people to come on and park in here. I'd like a word or so with Mr. Wingate." With a certain difficulty, yet insistent, Jed swung into the deep saddle, sitting the restive, rearing horse well enough withal, and soon was off at a fast pace down the trail. They saw him pull up at the head of the caravan and motion, wide armed, to the riders, the train not halting at all. He joined the two equestrian figures on ahead, the girl and the young man whom his mother had named as Sam Woodhull. They could see him shaking hands, then doing a curvet or so to show off his newly borrowed mount. "He takes well to riding, your son," said the newcomer approvingly. "He's been crazy to get West," assented the father. "Wants to get among the buffalo." "We all do," said Will Banion. "None left in Kentucky this generation back; none now in Missouri. The Plains!" His eye gleamed. "That's Sam Woodhull along," resumed Molly Wingate. "He was with Doniphan." "Yes." Banion spoke so shortly that the good dame, owner of a sought-for daughter, looked at him keenly. "He lived at Liberty, too. I've known Molly to write of him." "Yes?" suddenly and with vigor. "She knows him then?" "Why, yes." "So do I," said Banion simply. "He was in our regiment--captain and adjutant, paymaster and quartermaster-chief, too, sometimes. The Army Regulations never meant much with Doniphan's column. We did as we liked--and did the best we could, even with paymasters and quartermasters!" He colored suddenly, and checked, sensitive to a possible charge of jealousy before this keen-eyed mother of a girl whose beauty had been the talk of the settlement now for more than a year. The rumors of the charm of Molly Wingate--Little Molly, as her father always called her to distinguish her from her mother--now soon were to have actual and undeniable verification to the eye of any skeptic who mayhap had doubted mere rumors of a woman's beauty. The three advance figures--the girl, Woodhull, her brother Jed--broke away and raced over the remaining few hundred yards, coming up abreast, laughing in the glee of youth exhilarated by the feel of good horseflesh under knee and the breath of a vital morning air. As they flung off Will Banion scarce gave a look to his own excited steed. He was first with a hand to Molly Wingate as she sprang lightly down, anticipating her other cavalier, Woodhull, who frowned, none too well pleased, as he dismounted. Molly Wingate ran up and caught her mother in her strong young arms, kissing her roundly, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed in the excitement of the hour, the additional excitement of the presence of these young men. She must kiss someone. Yes, the rumors were true, and more than true. The young school-teacher could well carry her title as the belle of old Liberty town here on the far frontier. A lovely lass of eighteen years or so, she was, blue of eye and of abundant red-brown hair of that tint which ever has turned the eyes and heads of men. Her mouth, smiling to show white, even teeth, was wide enough for comfort in a kiss, and turned up strongly at the corners, so that her face seemed always sunny and carefree, were it not for the recurrent grave, almost somber look of the wide-set eyes in moments of repose. Above the middle height of woman's stature, she had none of the lank irregularity of the typical frontier woman of the early ague lands; but was round and well developed. Above the open collar of her brown riding costume stood the flawless column of a fair and tall white throat. New ripened into womanhood, wholly fit for love, gay of youth and its racing veins, what wonder Molly Wingate could have chosen not from two but twenty suitors of the best in all that countryside? Her conquests had been many since the time when, as a young girl, and fulfilling her parents' desire to educate their daughter, she had come all the way from the Sangamon country of Illinois to the best school then existent so far west--Clay Seminary, of quaint old Liberty. The touch of dignity gained of the ancient traditions of the South, never lost in two generations west of the Appalachians, remained about the young girl now, so that she rather might have classed above her parents. They, moving from Kentucky into Indiana, from Indiana into Illinois, and now on to Oregon, never in all their toiling days had forgotten their reverence for the gentlemen and ladies who once were their ancestors east of the Blue Ridge. They valued education--felt that it belonged to them, at least through their children. Education, betterment, progress, advance--those things perhaps lay in the vague ambitions of twice two hundred men who now lay in camp at the border of our unknown empire. They were all Americans--second, third, fourth generation Americans. Wild, uncouth, rude, unlettered, many or most of them, none the less there stood among them now and again some tall flower of that culture for which they ever hungered; for which they fought; for which they now adventured yet again. Surely American also were these two young men whose eyes now unconsciously followed Molly Wingate in hot craving even of a morning thus far breakfastless, for the young leader had ordered his wagons on to the rendezvous before crack of day. Of the two, young Woodhull, planter and man of means, mentioned by Molly's mother as open suitor, himself at first sight had not seemed so ill a figure, either. Tall, sinewy, well clad for the place and day, even more foppish than Banion in boot and glove, he would have passed well among the damsels of any courthouse day. The saddle and bridle of his mount also were a trace to the elegant, and the horse itself, a classy chestnut that showed Blue Grass blood, even then had cost a pretty penny somewhere, that was sure. Sam Woodhull, now moving with a half dozen wagons of his own out to Oregon, was reputed well to do; reputed also to be well skilled at cards, at weapons and at women. Townsmen accorded him first place with Molly Wingate, the beauty from east of the river, until Will Banion came back from the wars. Since then had been another manner of war, that as ancient as male and female. That Banion had known Woodhull in the field in Mexico he already had let slip. What had been the cause of his sudden pulling up of his starting tongue? Would he have spoken too much of that acquaintance? Perhaps a closer look at the loose lips, the high cheeks, the narrow, close-set eyes of young Woodhull, his rather assertive air, his slight, indefinable swagger, his slouch in standing, might have confirmed some skeptic disposed to analysis who would have guessed him less than strong of soul and character. For the most part, such skeptics lacked. By this time the last belated unit of the Oregon caravan was at hand. The feature of the dusty drivers could be seen. Unlike Wingate, the newly chosen master of the train, who had horses and mules about him, the young leader, Banion, captained only ox teams. They came now, slow footed, steady, low headed, irresistible, indomitable, the same locomotive power that carried the hordes of Asia into Eastern Europe long ago. And as in the days of that invasion the conquerors carried their households, their flocks and herds with them, so now did these half-savage Saxon folk have with them their all. Lean boys, brown, barefooted girls flanked the trail with driven stock. Chickens clucked in coops at wagon side. Uncounted children thrust out tousled heads from the openings of the canvas covers. Dogs beneath, jostling the tar buckets, barked in hostile salutation. Women in slatted sunbonnets turned impassive gaze from the high front seats, back of which, swung to the bows by leather loops, hung the inevitable family rifle in each wagon. And now, at the tail gate of every wagon, lashed fast for its last long journey, hung also the family plow. It was '48, and the grass was up. On to Oregon! The ark of our covenant with progress was passing out. Almost it might have been said to have held every living thing, like that other ark of old. Banion hastened to one side, where a grassy level beyond the little stream still offered stance. He raised a hand in gesture to the right. A sudden note of command came into his voice, lingering from late military days. "By the right and left flank--wheel! March!" With obvious training, the wagons broke apart, alternating right and left, until two long columns were formed. Each of these advanced, curving out, then drawing in, until a long ellipse, closed at front and rear, was formed methodically and without break or flaw. It was the barricade of the Plains, the moving fortresses of our soldiers of fortune, going West, across the Plains, across the Rockies, across the deserts that lay beyond. They did not know all these dangers, but they thus were ready for any that might come. "Look, mother!" Molly Wingate pointed with kindling eye to the wagon maneuver. "We trained them all day yesterday, and long before. Perfect!" Her gaze mayhap sought the tall figure of the young commander, chosen by older men above his fellow townsman, Sam Woodhull, as captain of the Liberty train. But he now had other duties in his own wagon group. Ceased now the straining creak of gear and came rattle of yokes as the pins were loosed. Cattle guards appeared and drove the work animals apart to graze. Women clambered down from wagon seats. Sober-faced children gathered their little arms full of wood for the belated breakfast fires; boys came down for water at the stream. The west-bound paused at the Missouri, as once they had paused at the Don. A voice arose, of some young man back among the wagons busy at his work, paraphrasing an ante-bellum air: _Oh, then, Susannah, Don't you cry fer me! I'm goin' out to Oregon, With my banjo on my knee!_ CHAPTER II THE EDGE OF THE WORLD More than two thousand men, women and children waited on the Missouri for the green fully to tinge the grasses of the prairies farther west. The waning town of Independence had quadrupled its population in thirty days. Boats discharged their customary western cargo at the newer landing on the river, not far above that town; but it all was not enough. Men of upper Missouri and lower Iowa had driven in herds of oxen, horses, mules; but there were not enough of these. Rumors came that a hundred wagons would take the Platte this year via the Council Bluffs, higher up the Missouri; others would join on from St. Jo and Leavenworth. March had come, when the wild turkey gobbled and strutted resplendent in the forest lands. April had passed, and the wild fowl had gone north. May, and the upland plovers now were nesting all across the prairies. But daily had more wagons come, and neighbors had waited for neighbors, tardy at the great rendezvous. The encampment, scattered up and down the river front, had become more and more congested. Men began to know one another, families became acquainted, the gradual sifting and shifting in social values began. Knots and groups began to talk of some sort of accepted government for the common good. They now were at the edge of the law. Organized society did not exist this side of the provisional government of Oregon, devised as a _modus vivendi_ during the joint occupancy of that vast region with Great Britain--an arrangement terminated not longer than two years before. There must be some sort of law and leadership between the Missouri and the Columbia. Amid much bickering of petty politics, Jesse Wingate had some four days ago been chosen for the thankless task of train captain. Though that office had small authority and less means of enforcing its commands, none the less the train leader must be a man of courage, resource and decision. Those of the earlier arrivals who passed by his well-organized camp of forty-odd wagons from the Sangamon country of Illinois said that Wingate seemed to know the business of the trail. His affairs ran smoothly, he was well equipped and seemed a man of means. Some said he had three thousand in gold at the bottom of his cargo. Moreover--and this appeared important among the Northern element, at that time predominant in the rendezvous--he was not a Calhoun Secesh, or even a Benton Democrat, but an out and out, antislavery, free-soil man. And the provisional constitution of Oregon, devised by thinking men of two great nations, had said that Oregon should be free soil forever. Already there were mutterings in 1848 of the coming conflict which a certain lank young lawyer of Springfield, in the Sangamon country--Lincoln, his name was--two years ago among his personal friends had predicted as inevitable. In a personnel made up of bold souls from both sides the Ohio, politics could not be avoided even on the trail; nor were these men the sort to avoid politics. Sometimes at their camp fire, after the caravan election, Wingate and his wife, their son Jed, would compare notes, in a day when personal politics and national geography meant more than they do to-day. "Listen, son," Wingate one time concluded. "All that talk of a railroad across this country to Oregon is silly, of course. But it's all going to be one country. The talk is that the treaty with Mexico must give us a slice of land from Texas to the Pacific, and a big one; all of it was taken for the sake of slavery. Not so Oregon--that's free forever. This talk of splitting this country, North and South, don't go with me. The Alleghanies didn't divide it. Burr couldn't divide it. The Mississippi hasn't divided it, or the Missouri, so rest assured the Ohio can't. No, nor the Rockies can't! A railroad? No, of course not. But all the same, a practical wagon road from free soil to free soil--I reckon that was my platform, like enough. It made me captain." "No, 'twasn't that, Jesse," said his wife. "That ain't what put you in for train captain. It was your blamed impatience. Some of them lower Ioway men, them that first nominated you in the train meeting--town meeting--what you call it, they seen where you'd been plowing along here just to keep your hand in. One of them says to me, 'Plowing, hey? Can't wait? Well, that's what we're going out for, ain't it--to plow?' says he. 'That's the clean quill,' says he. So they 'lected you, Jesse. And the Lord ha' mercy on your soul!" Now the arrival of so large a new contingent as this of the Liberty train under young Banion made some sort of post-election ratification necessary, so that Wingate felt it incumbent to call the head men of the late comers into consultation if for no better than reasons of courtesy. He dispatched his son Jed to the Banion park to ask the attendance of Banion, Woodhull and such of his associates as he liked to bring, at any suiting hour. Word came back that the Liberty men would join the Wingate conference around eleven of that morning, at which time the hour of the jump-off could be set. CHAPTER III THE RENDEZVOUS As to the start of the great wagon train, little time, indeed, remained. For days, in some instances for weeks, the units of the train had lain here on the border, and the men were growing restless. Some had come a thousand miles and now were keen to start out for more than two thousand miles additional. The grass was up. The men from Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Iowa, Missouri, Kentucky, Arkansas fretted on the leash. All along the crooked river front, on both sides from Independence to the river landing at Westport, the great spring caravan lay encamped, or housed in town. Now, on the last days of the rendezvous, a sort of hysteria seized the multitude. The sound of rifle fire was like that of a battle--every man was sighting-in his rifle. Singing and shouting went on everywhere. Someone fresh from the Mexican War had brought a drum, another a bugle. Without instructions, these began to sound their summons and continued all day long, at such times as the performers could spare from drink. The Indians of the friendly tribes--Otos, Kaws, Osages--come in to trade, looked on in wonder at the revelings of the whites. The straggling street of each of the near-by river towns was full of massed wagons. The treble line of white tops, end to end, lay like a vast serpent, curving, ahead to the West. Rivalry for the head of the column began. The sounds of the bugle set a thousand uncoördinated wheels spasmodically in motion. Organization, system were as yet unknown in this rude and dominant democracy. Need was therefore for this final meeting in the interest of law, order and authority. Already some wagons had broken camp and moved on out into the main traveled road, which lay plain enough on westward, among the groves and glades of the valley of the Kaw. Each man wanted to be first to Oregon, no man wished to take the dust of his neighbor's wagon. Wingate brought up all these matters at the train meeting of some three score men which assembled under the trees of his own encampment at eleven of the last morning. Most of the men he knew. Banion unobtrusively took a seat well to the rear of those who squatted on their heels or lolled full length on the grass. After the fashion of the immemorial American town meeting, the beginning of all our government, Wingate called the meeting to order and stated its purposes. He then set forth his own ideas of the best manner for handling the trail work. His plan, as he explained, was one long earlier perfected in the convoys of the old Santa Fé Trail. The wagons were to travel in close order. Four parallel columns, separated by not too great spaces, were to be maintained as much as possible, more especially toward nightfall. Of these, the outer two were to draw in together when camp was made, the other two to angle out, wagon lapping wagon, front and rear, thus making an oblong corral of the wagons, into which, through a gap, the work oxen were to be driven every night after they had fed. The tents and fires were to be outside of the corral unless in case of an Indian alarm, when the corral would represent a fortress. The transport animals were to be hobbled each night. A guard, posted entirely around the corral and camp, was to be put out each night. Each man and each boy above fourteen was to be subject to guard duty under the ancient common law of the Plains, and from this duty no man might hope excuse unless actually too ill to walk; nor could any man offer to procure any substitute for himself. The watches were to be set as eight, each to stand guard one-fourth part of alternate nights, so that each man would get every other night undisturbed. There were to be lieutenants, one for each of the four parallel divisions of the train; also eight sergeants of the guard, each of whom was to select and handle the men of the watch under him. No wagon might change its own place in the train after the start, dust or no dust. When Wingate ended his exposition and looked around for approval it was obvious that many of these regulations met with disfavor at the start. The democracy of the train was one in which each man wanted his own way. Leaning head to head, speaking low, men grumbled at all this fuss and feathers and Army stuff. Some of these were friends and backers in the late election. Nettled by their silence, or by their murmured comments, Wingate arose again. "Well, you have heard my plan, men," said he. "The Santa Fé men worked it up, and used it for years, as you all know. They always got through. If there's anyone here knows a better way, and one that's got more experience back of it, I'd like to have him get up and say so." Silence for a time greeted this also. The Northern men, Wingate's partisans, looked uncomfortably one to the other. It was young Woodhull, of the Liberty contingent, who rose at length. "What Cap'n Wingate has said sounds all right to me," said he. "He's a new friend of mine--I never saw him till two-three hours ago--but I know about him. What he says about the Santa Fé fashion I know for true. As some of you know, I was out that way, up the Arkansas, with Doniphan, for the Stars and Stripes. Talk about wagon travel--you got to have a regular system or you have everything in a mess. This here, now, is a lot like so many volunteers enlisting for war. There's always a sort of preliminary election of officers; sort of shaking down and shaping up. I wasn't here when Cap'n Wingate was elected--our wagons were some late--but speaking for our men, I'd move to ratify his choosing, and that means to ratify his regulations. I'm wondering if I don't get a second for that?" Some of the bewhiskered men who sat about him stirred, but cast their eyes toward their own captain, young Banion, whose function as their spokesman had thus been usurped by his defeated rival, Woodhull. Perhaps few of them suspected the _argumentum ad hominem_--or rather _ad feminam_--in Woodhull's speech. Banion alone knew this favor-currying when he saw it, and knew well enough the real reason. It was Molly! Rivals indeed they were, these two, and in more ways than one. But Banion held his peace until one quiet father of a family spoke up. "I reckon our own train captain, that we elected in case we didn't throw in with the big train, had ought to say what he thinks about it all." Will Banion now rose composedly and bowed to the leader. "I'm glad to second Mr. Woodhull's motion to throw our vote and our train for Captain Wingate and the big train," said he. "We'll ratify his captaincy, won't we?" The nods of his associates now showed assent, and Wingate needed no more confirmation. "In general, too, I would ratify Captain Wingate's scheme. But might I make a few suggestions?" "Surely--go on." Wingate half rose. "Well then, I'd like to point out that we've got twice as far to go as the Santa Fé traders, and over a very different country--more dangerous, less known, harder to travel. We've many times more wagons than any Santa Fé train ever had, and we've hundreds of loose cattle along. That means a sweeping off of the grass at every stop, and grass we've got to have or the train stops. "Besides our own call on grass, I know there'll be five thousand Mormons at least on the trail ahead of us this spring--they've crossed the river from here to the Bluffs, and they're out on the Platte right now. We take what grass they leave us. "What I'm trying to get at, captain, is this: We might have to break into smaller detachments now and again. We could not possibly always keep alignment in four columns." "And then we'd be open to any Indian attack," interrupted Woodhull. "We might have to fight some of the time, yes," rejoined Banion; "but we'll have to travel all the time, and we'll have to graze our stock all the time. On that one basic condition our safety rests--grass and plenty of it. We're on a long journey. "You see, gentlemen," he added, smiling, "I was with Doniphan also. We learned a good many things. For instance, I'd rather see each horse on a thirty-foot picket rope, anchored safe each night, than to trust to any hobbles. A homesick horse can travel miles, hobbled, in a night. Horses are a lot of trouble. "Now, I see that about a fourth of our people, including Captain Wingate, have horses and mules and not ox transport. I wish they all could trade for oxen before they start. Oxen last longer and fare better. They are easier to herd. They can be used for food in the hard first year out in Oregon. The Indians don't steal oxen--they like buffalo better--but they'll take any chance to run off horses or even mules. If they do, that means your women and children are on foot. You know the story of the Donner party, two years ago--on foot, in the snow. They died, and worse than died, just this side of California." Men of Iowa, of Illinois, Ohio, Indiana, began to nod to one another, approving the words of this young man. "He talks sense," said a voice aloud. "Well, I'm talking a whole lot, I know," said Banion gravely, "but this is the time and place for our talking. I'm for throwing in with the Wingate train, as I've said. But will Captain Wingate let me add even just a few words more? "For instance, I would suggest that we ought to have a record of all our personnel. Each man ought to be required to give his own name and late residence, and the names of all in his party. He should be obliged to show that his wagon is in good condition, with spare bolts, yokes, tires, bows and axles, and extra shoes for the stock. Each wagon ought to be required to carry anyhow half a side of rawhide, and the usual tools of the farm and the trail, as well as proper weapons and abundance of ammunition. "No man ought to be allowed to start with this caravan with less supplies, for each mouth of his wagon, than one hundred pounds of flour. One hundred and fifty or even two hundred would be much better--there is loss and shrinkage. At least half as much of bacon, twenty pounds of coffee, fifty of sugar would not be too much in my own belief. About double the pro rata of the Santa Fé caravans is little enough, and those whose transport power will let them carry more supplies ought to start full loaded, for no man can tell the actual duration of this journey, or what food may be needed before we get across. One may have to help another." Even Wingate joined in the outspoken approval of this, and Banion, encouraged, went on: "Some other things, men, since you have asked each man to speak freely. We're not hunters, but home makers. Each family, I suppose, has a plow and seed for the first crop. We ought, too, to find out all our blacksmiths, for I promise you we'll need them. We ought to have a half dozen forges and as many anvils, and a lot of irons for the wagons. "I suppose, too, you've located all your doctors; also all your preachers--you needn't camp them all together. Personally I believe in Sunday rest and Sunday services. We're taking church and state and home and law along with us, day by day, men, and we're not just trappers and adventurers. The fur trade's gone. "I even think we ought to find out our musicians--it's good to have a bugler, if you can. And at night, when the people are tired and disheartened, music is good to help them pull together." The bearded men who listened nodded yet again. "About schools, now--the other trains that went out, the Applegates in 1843, the Donners of 1846, each train, I believe, had regular schools along, with hours each day. "Do you think I'm right about all this? I'm sure I don't want Captain Wingate to be offended. I'm not dividing his power. I'm only trying to stiffen it." Woodhull arose, a sneer on his face, but a hand pushed him down. A tall Missourian stood before him. "Right ye air, Will!" said he. "Ye've an old head, an' we kin trust hit. Ef hit wasn't Cap'n Wingate is more older than you, an' already done elected, I'd be for choosin' ye fer cap'n o' this here hull train right now. Seein' hit's the way hit is, I move we vote to do what Will Banion has said is fitten. An' I move we-uns throw in with the big train, with Jess Wingate for cap'n. An' I move we allow one more day to git in supplies an' fixin's, an' trade hosses an' mules an' oxens, an' then we start day atter to-morrow mornin' when the bugle blows. Then hooray fer Oregon!" There were cheers and a general rising, as though after finished business, which greeted this. Jesse Wingate, somewhat crestfallen and chagrined over the forward ways of this young man, of whom he never had heard till that very morning, put a perfunctory motion or so, asked loyalty and allegiance, and so forth. But what they remembered was that he appointed as his wagon-column captains Sam Woodhull, of Missouri; Caleb Price, an Ohio man of substance; Simon Hall, an Indiana merchant, and a farmer by name of Kelsey, from Kentucky. To Will Banion the trainmaster assigned the most difficult and thankless task of the train, the captaincy of the cow column; that is to say, the leadership of the boys and men whose families were obliged to drive the loose stock of the train. There were sullen mutterings over this in the Liberty column. Men whispered they would not follow Woodhull. As for Banion, he made no complaint, but smiled and shook hands with Wingate and all his lieutenants and declared his own loyalty and that of his men; then left for his own little adventure of a half dozen wagons which he was freighting out to Laramie--bacon, flour and sugar, for the most part; each wagon driven by a neighbor or a neighbor's son. Among these already arose open murmurs of discontent over the way their own contingent had been treated. Banion had to mend a potential split before the first wheel had rolled westward up the Kaw. The men of the meeting passed back among their neighbors and families, and spoke with more seriousness than hitherto. The rifle firing ended, the hilarity lessened that afternoon. In the old times the keel-boatmen bound west started out singing. The pack-train men of the fur trade went shouting and shooting, and the confident hilarity of the Santa Fé wagon caravans was a proverb. But now, here in the great Oregon train, matters were quite otherwise. There were women and children along. An unsmiling gravity marked them all. When the dusky velvet of the prairie night settled on almost the last day of the rendezvous it brought a general feeling of anxiety, dread, uneasiness, fear. Now, indeed, and at last, all these realized what was the thing that they had undertaken. To add yet more to the natural apprehensions of men and women embarking on so stupendous an adventure, all manner of rumors now continually passed from one company to another. It was said that five thousand Mormons, armed to the teeth, had crossed the river at St. Joseph and were lying in wait on the Platte, determined to take revenge for the persecutions they had suffered in Missouri and Illinois. Another story said that the Kaw Indians, hitherto friendly, had banded together for robbery and were only waiting for the train to appear. A still more popular story had it that a party of several Englishmen had hurried ahead on the trail to excite all the savages to waylay and destroy the caravans, thus to wreak the vengeance of England upon the Yankees for the loss of Oregon. Much unrest arose over reports, hard to trace, to the effect that it was all a mistake about Oregon; that in reality it was a truly horrible country, unfit for human occupancy, and sure to prove the grave of any lucky enough to survive the horrors of the trail, which never yet had been truthfully reported. Some returned travelers from the West beyond the Rockies, who were hanging about the landing at the river, made it all worse by relating what purported to be actual experiences. "If you ever get through to Oregon," they said, "you'll be ten years older than you are now. Your hair will be white, but not by age." The Great Dipper showed clear and close that night, as if one might almost pick off by hand the familiar stars of the traveler's constellation. Overhead countless brilliant points of lesser light enameled the night mantle, matching the many camp fires of the great gathering. The wind blew soft and low. Night on the prairie is always solemn, and to-night the tense anxiety, the strained anticipation of more than two thousand souls invoked a brooding melancholy which it seemed even the stars must feel. A dog, ominous, lifted his voice in a long, mournful howl which made mothers put out their hands to their babes. In answer a coyote in the grass raised a high, quavering cry, wild and desolate, the voice of the Far West. CHAPTER IV FEVER OF NEW FORTUNES The notes of a bugle, high and clear, sang reveille at dawn. Now came hurried activities of those who had delayed. The streets of the two frontier settlements were packed with ox teams, horses, wagons, cattle driven through. The frontier stores were stripped of their last supplies. One more day, and then on to Oregon! Wingate broke his own camp early in the morning and moved out to the open country west of the landing, making a last bivouac at what would be the head of the train. He had asked his four lieutenants to join him there. Hall, Price, and Kelsey headed in with straggling wagons to form the nucleuses of their columns; but the morning wore on and the Missourians, now under Woodhull, had not yet broken park. Wingate waited moodily. Now at the edge of affairs human apprehensions began to assert themselves, especially among the womenfolk. Even stout Molly Wingate gave way to doubt and fears. Her husband caught her, apron to eyes, sitting on the wagon tongue at ten in the morning, with her pots and pans unpacked. "What?" he exclaimed. "You're not weakening? Haven't you as much courage as those Mormon women on ahead? Some of them pushing carts, I've heard." "They've done it for religion, Jess. Oregon ain't no religion for me." "Yet it has music for a man's ears, Molly." "Hush! I've heard it all for the last two years. What happened to the Donners two years back? And four years ago it was the Applegates left home in old Missouri to move to Oregon. Who will ever know where their bones are laid? Look at our land we left--rich--black and rich as any in the world. What corn, what wheat--why, everything grew well in Illinois!" "Yes, and cholera below us wiping out the people, and the trouble over slave-holding working up the river more and more, and the sun blazing in the summer, while in the wintertime we froze!" "Well, as for food, we never saw any part of Kentucky with half so much grass. We had no turkeys at all there, and where we left you could kill one any gobbling time. The pigeons roosted not four miles from us. In the woods along the river even a woman could kill coons and squirrels, all we'd need--no need for us to eat rabbits like the Mormons. Our chicken yard was fifty miles across. The young ones'd be flying by roasting-ear time--and in fall the sloughs was black with ducks and geese. Enough and to spare we had; and our land opening; and Molly teaching the school, with twelve dollars a month cash for it, and Ted learning his blacksmith trade before he was eighteen. How could we ask more? What better will we do in Oregon?" "You always throw the wet blanket on Oregon, Molly." "It is so far!" "How do we know it is far? We know men and women have crossed, and we know the land is rich. Wheat grows fifty bushels to the acre, the trees are big as the spires on meeting houses, the fish run by millions in the streams. Yet the winters have little snow. A man can live there and not slave out a life. "Besides"--and the frontier now spoke in him--"this country is too old, too long settled. My father killed his elk and his buffalo, too, in Kentucky; but that was before my day. I want the buffalo. I crave to see the Plains, Molly. What real American does not?" Mrs. Wingate threw her apron over her face. "The Oregon fever has witched you, Jesse!" she exclaimed between dry sobs. Wingate was silent for a time. "Corn ought to grow in Oregon," he said at last. "Yes, but does it?" "I never heard it didn't. The soil is rich, and you can file on six hundred and forty acres. There's your donation claim, four times bigger than any land you can file on here. We sold out at ten dollars an acre--more'n our land really was worth, or ever is going to be worth. It's just the speculators says any different. Let 'em have it, and us move on. That's the way money's made, and always has been made, all across the United States." "Huh! You talk like a land speculator your own self!" "Well, if it ain't the movers make a country, what does? If we don't settle Oregon, how long'll we hold it? The preachers went through to Oregon with horses. Like as not even the Applegates got their wagons across. Like enough they got through. I want to see the country before it gets too late for a good chance, Molly. First thing you know buffalo'll be getting scarce out West, too, like deer was getting scarcer on the Sangamon. We ought to give our children as good a chance as we had ourselves." "As good a chance! Haven't they had as good a chance as we ever had? Didn't our land more'n thribble, from a dollar and a quarter? It may thribble again, time they're old as we are now." "That's a long time to wait." "It's a long time to live a life-time, but everybody's got to live it." She stood, looking at him. "Look at all the good land right in here! Here we got walnut and hickory and oak--worlds of it. We got sassafras and pawpaw and hazel brush. We get all the hickory nuts and pecans we like any fall. The wild plums is better'n any in Kentucky; and as for grapes, they're big as your thumb, and thousands, on the river. Wait till you see the plum and grape jell I could make this fall!" "Women--always thinking of jell!" "But we got every herb here we need--boneset and sassafras and Injun physic and bark for the fever. There ain't nothing you can name we ain't got right here, or on the Sangamon, yet you talk of taking care of our children. Huh! We've moved five times since we was married. Now just as we got into a good country, where a woman could dry corn and put up jell, and where a man could raise some hogs, why, you wanted to move again--plumb out to Oregon! I tell you, Jesse Wingate, hogs is a blame sight better to tie to than buffalo! You talk like you had to settle Oregon!" "Well, haven't I got to? Somehow it seems a man ain't making up his own mind when he moves West. Pap moved twice in Kentucky, once in Tennessee, and then over to Missouri, after you and me was married and moved up into Indiana, before we moved over into Illinois. He said to me--and I know it for the truth--he couldn't hardly tell who it was or what it was hitched up the team. But first thing he knew, there the old wagon stood, front of the house, cover all on, plow hanging on behind, tar bucket under the wagon, and dog and all. All he had to do, pap said, was just to climb up on the front seat and speak to the team. My maw, she climb up on the seat with him. Then they moved--on West. You know, Molly. My maw, she climb up on the front seat--" His wife suddenly turned to him, the tears still in her eyes. "Yes, and Jesse Wingate, and you know it, your wife's as good a woman as your maw! When the wagon was a-standing, cover on, and you on the front seat, I climb up by you, Jess, same as I always have and always will. Haven't I always? You know that. But it's harder on women, moving is. They care more for a house that's rain tight in a storm." "I know you did, Molly," said her husband soberly. "I suppose I can pack my jells in a box and put in the wagon, anyways." She was drying her eyes. "Why, yes, I reckon so. And then a few sacks of dried corn will go mighty well on the road." "One thing"--she turned on him in wifely fury--"you shan't keep me from taking my bureau and my six chairs all the way across! No, nor my garden seeds, all I saved. No, nor yet my rose roots that I'm taking along. We got to have a home, Jess--we got to have a home! There's Jed and Molly coming on." "Where's Molly now?" suddenly asked her husband. "She'd ought to be helping you right now." "Oh, back at the camp, I s'pose--her and Jed, too. I told her to pick a mess of dandelion greens and bring over. Larking around with them young fellows, like enough. Huh! She'll have less time. If Jed has to ride herd, Molly's got to take care of that team of big mules, and drive 'em all day in the light wagon too. I reckon if she does that, and teaches night school right along, she won't be feeling so gay." "They tell me folks has got married going across," she added, "not to mention buried. One book we had said, up on the Platte, two years back, there was a wedding and a birth and a burying in one train, all inside of one hour, and all inside of one mile. That's Oregon!" "Well, I reckon it's life, ain't it?" rejoined her husband. "One thing, I'm not keen to have Molly pay too much notice to that young fellow Banion--him they said was a leader of the Liberty wagons. Huh, he ain't leader now!" "You like Sam Woodhull better for Molly, Jess?" "Some ways. He falls in along with my ideas. He ain't so apt to make trouble on the road. He sided in with me right along at the last meeting." "He done that? Well, his father was a sheriff once, and his uncle, Judge Henry D. Showalter, he got into Congress. Politics! But some folks said the Banions was the best family. Kentucky, they was. Well, comes to siding in, Jess, I reckon it's Molly herself'll count more in that than either o' them or either o' us. She's eighteen past. Another year and she'll be an old maid. If there's a wedding going across--" "There won't be," said her husband shortly. "If there is it won't be her and no William Banion, I'm saying that." CHAPTER V THE BLACK SPANIARD Meantime the younger persons referred to in the frank discussion of Wingate and his wife were occupying themselves in their own fashion their last day in camp. Molly, her basket full of dandelion leaves, was reluctant to leave the shade of the grove by the stream, and Jed had business with the team of great mules that Molly was to drive on the trail. As for the Liberty train, its oval remained unbroken, the men and women sitting in the shade of the wagons. Their outfitting had been done so carefully that little now remained for attention on the last day, but the substantial men of the contingent seemed far from eager to be on their way. Groups here and there spoke in monosyllables, sullenly. They wanted to join the great train, had voted to do so; but the cavalier deposing of their chosen man Banion--who before them all at the meeting had shown himself fit to lead--and the cool appointment of Woodhull in his place had on reflection seemed to them quite too high-handed a proposition. They said so now. "Where's Woodhull now?" demanded the bearded man who had championed Banion. "I see Will out rounding up his cows, but Sam Woodhull ain't turned a hand to hooking up to pull in west o' town with the others." "That's easy," smiled another. "Sam Woodhull is where he's always going to be--hanging around the Wingate girl. He's over at their camp now." "Well, I dunno's I blame him so much for that, neither. And he kin stay there fer all o' me. Fer one, I won't foller no Woodhull, least o' all Sam Woodhull, soldier or no soldier. I'll pull out when I git ready, and to-morrow mornin' is soon enough fer me. We kin jine on then, if so's we like." Someone turned on his elbow, nodded over shoulder. They heard hoof beats. Banion came up, fresh from his new work on the herd. He asked for Woodhull, and learning his whereabouts trotted across the intervening glade. "That's shore a hoss he rides," said one man. "An' a shore man a-ridin' of him," nodded another. "He may ride front o' the train an' not back o' hit, even yet." Molly Wingate sat on the grass in the little grove, curling a chain of dandelion stems. Near by Sam Woodhull, in his best, lay on the sward regarding her avidly, a dull fire in his dark eyes. He was so enamored of the girl as to be almost unfit for aught else. For weeks he had kept close to her. Not that Molly seemed over-much to notice or encourage him. Only, woman fashion, she ill liked to send away any attentive male. Just now she was uneasy. She guessed that if it were not for the presence of her brother Jed near by this man would declare himself unmistakably. If the safety of numbers made her main concern, perhaps that was what made Molly Wingate's eye light up when she heard the hoofs of Will Banion's horse splashing in the little stream. She sprang to her feet, waving a hand gayly. "Oh, so there you are!" she exclaimed. "I was wondering if you'd be over before Jed and I left for the prairie. Father and mother have moved on out west of town. We're all ready for the jump-off. Are you?" "Yes, to-morrow by sun," said Banion, swinging out of saddle and forgetting any errand he might have had. "Then it's on to Oregon!" He nodded to Woodhull, who little more than noticed him. Molly advanced to where Banion's horse stood, nodding and pawing restively as was his wont. She stroked his nose, patted his sweat-soaked neck. "What a pretty horse you have, major," she said. "What's his name?" "I call him Pronto," smiled Banion. "That means sudden." "He fits the name. May I ride him?" "What? You ride him?" "Yes, surely. I'd love to. I can ride anything. That funny saddle would do--see how big and high the horn is, good as the fork of a lady's saddle." "Yes, but the stirrup!" "I'd put my foot in between the flaps above the stirrup. Help me up, sir?" "I'd rather not." Molly pouted. "Stingy!" "But no woman ever rode that horse--not many men but me. I don't know what he'd do." "Only one way to find out." Jed, approaching, joined the conversation. "I rid him," said he. "He's a goer all right, but he ain't mean." "I don't know whether he would be bad or not with a lady," Banion still argued. "These Spanish horses are always wild. They never do get over it. You've got to be a rider." "You think I'm not a rider? I'll ride him now to show you! I'm not afraid of horses." "That's right," broke in Sam Woodhull. "But, Miss Molly, I wouldn't tackle that horse if I was you. Take mine." "But I will! I've not been horseback for a month. We've all got to ride or drive or walk a thousand miles. I can ride him, man saddle and all. Help me up, sir?" Banion walked to the horse, which flung a head against him, rubbing a soft muzzle up and down. "He seems gentle," said he. "I've pretty well topped him off this morning. If you're sure--" "Help me up, one of you?" It was Woodhull who sprang to her, caught her up under the arms and lifted her fully gracious weight to the saddle. Her left foot by fortune found the cleft in the stirrup fender, her right leg swung around the tall horn, hastily concealed by a clutch at her skirt even as she grasped the heavy knotted reins. It was then too late. She must ride. Banion caught at a cheek strap as he saw Woodhull's act, and the horse was the safer for an instant. But in terror or anger at his unusual burden, with flapping skirt and no grip on his flanks, the animal reared and broke away from them all. An instant and he was plunging across the stream for the open glade, his head low. He did not yet essay the short, stiff-legged action of the typical bucker, but made long, reaching, low-headed plunges, seeking his own freedom in that way, perhaps half in some equine wonder of his own. None the less the wrenching of the girl's back, the leverage on her flexed knee, unprotected, were unmistakable. The horse reared again and yet again, high, striking out as she checked him. He was getting in a fury now, for his rider still was in place. Then with one savage sidewise shake of his head after another he plunged this way and that, rail-fencing it for the open prairie. It looked like a bolt, which with a horse of his spirit and stamina meant but one thing, no matter how long delayed. It all happened in a flash. Banion caught at the rein too late, ran after--too slow, of course. The girl was silent, shaken, but still riding. No footman could aid her now. With a leap, Banion was in the saddle of Woodhull's horse, which had been left at hand, its bridle down. He drove in the spurs and headed across the flat at the top speed of the fast and racy chestnut--no match, perhaps, for the black Spaniard, were the latter once extended, but favored now by the angle of the two. Molly had not uttered a word or cry, either to her mount or in appeal for aid. In sooth she was too frightened to do so. But she heard the rush of hoofs and the high call of Banion's voice back of her: "Ho, Pronto! Pronto! _Vien' aqui!_" Something of a marvel it was, and showing companionship of man and horse on the trail; but suddenly the mad black ceased his plunging. Turning, he trotted whinnying as though for aid, obedient to his master's command, "Come here!" An instant and Banion had the cheek strap. Another and he was off, with Molly Wingate, in a white dead faint, in his arms. By now others had seen the affair from their places in the wagon park. Men and women came hurrying. Banion laid the girl down, sought to raise her head, drove back the two horses, ran with his hat to the stream for water. By that time Woodhull had joined him, in advance of the people from the park. "What do you mean, you damned fool, you, by riding my horse off without my consent!" he broke out. "If she ain't dead--that damned wild horse--you had the gall--" Will Banion's self-restraint at last was gone. He made one answer, voicing all his acquaintance with Sam Woodhull, all his opinion of him, all his future attitude in regard to him. He dropped his hat to the ground, caught off one wet glove, and with a long back-handed sweep struck the cuff of it full and hard across Sam Woodhull's face. CHAPTER VI ISSUE JOINED There were dragoon revolvers in the holsters at Woodhull's saddle. He made a rush for a weapon--indeed, the crack of the blow had been so sharp that the nearest men thought a shot had been fired--but swift as was his leap, it was not swift enough. The long, lean hand of the bearded Missourian gripped his wrist even as he caught at a pistol grip. He turned a livid face to gaze into a cold and small blue eye. "No, ye don't, Sam!" said the other, who was first of those who came up running. Even as a lank woman stooped to raise the head of Molly Wingate the sinewy arm back of the hand whirled Woodhull around so that he faced Banion, who had not made a move. "Will ain't got no weapon, an' ye know it," went on the same cool voice. "What ye mean--a murder, besides that?" He nodded toward the girl. By now the crowd surged between the two men, voices rose. "He struck me!" broke out Woodhull. "Let me go! He struck me!" "I know he did," said the intervener. "I heard it. I don't know why. But whether it was over the girl or not, we ain't goin' to see this other feller shot down till we know more about hit. Ye can meet--" "Of course, any time." Banion was drawing on his glove. The woman had lifted Molly, straightened her clothing. "All blood!" said one. "That saddle horn! What made her ride that critter?" The Spanish horse stood facing them now, ears forward, his eyes showing through his forelock not so much in anger as in curiosity. The men hustled the two antagonists apart. "Listen, Sam," went on the tall Missourian, still with his grip on Woodhull's wrist. "We'll see ye both fair. Ye've got to fight now, in course--that's the law, an' I ain't learned it in the fur trade o' the Rockies fer nothin', ner have you people here in the settlements. But I'll tell ye one thing, Sam Woodhull, ef ye make one move afore we-uns tell ye how an' when to make hit, I'll drop ye, shore's my name's Bill Jackson. Ye got to wait, both on ye. We're startin' out, an' we kain't start out like a mob. Take yer time." "Any time, any way," said Banion simply. "No man can abuse me." "How'd you gentlemen prefer fer to fight?" inquired the man who had described himself as Bill Jackson, one of the fur brigaders of the Rocky Mountain Company; a man with a reputation of his own in Plains and mountain adventures of hunting, trading and scouting. "Hit's yore ch'ice o' weapons, I reckon, Will. I reckon he challenged you-all." "I don't care. He'd have no chance on an even break with me, with any sort of weapon, and he knows that." Jackson cast free his man and ruminated over a chew of plug. "Hit's over a gal," said he at length, judicially. "Hit ain't usual; but seein' as a gal don't pick atween men because one's a quicker shot than another, but because he's maybe stronger, or something like that, why, how'd knuckle and skull suit you two roosters, best man win and us to see hit fair? Hit's one of ye fer the gal, like enough. But not right now. Wait till we're on the trail and clean o' the law. I heern there's a sheriff round yere some'rs." "I'll fight him any way he likes, or any way you say," said Banion. "It's not my seeking. I only slapped him because he abused me for doing what he ought to have done. Yes, I rode his horse. If I hadn't that girl would have been killed. It's not his fault she wasn't. I didn't want her to ride that horse." "I don't reckon hit's so much a matter about a hoss as hit is about a gal," remarked Bill Jackson sagely. "Ye'll hatter fight. Well then, seein' as hit's about a gal, knuckle an' skull, is that right?" He cast a glance around this group of other fighting men of a border day. They nodded gravely, but with glittering eyes. "Well then, gentle_men_"--and now he stood free of Woodhull--"ye both give word ye'll make no break till we tell ye? I'll say, two-three days out?" "Suits me," said Woodhull savagely. "I'll break his neck for him." "Any time that suits the gentleman to break my neck will please me," said Will Banion indifferently. "Say when, friends. Just now I've got to look after my cows. It seems to me our wagon master might very well look after his wagons." "That sounds!" commented Jackson. "That sounds! Sam, git on about yer business, er ye kain't travel in the Liberty train nohow! An' don't ye make no break, in the dark especial, fer we kin track ye anywhere's. Ye'll fight fair fer once--an' ye'll fight!" By now the group massed about these scenes had begun to relax, to spread. Women had Molly in hand as her eyes opened. Jed came up at a run with the mule team and the light wagon from the grove, and they got the girl into the seat with him, neither of them fully cognizant of what had gone on in the group of tight-mouthed men who now broke apart and sauntered silently back, each to his own wagon. CHAPTER VII THE JUMP-OFF With the first thin line of pink the coyotes hanging on the flanks of the great encampment raised their immemorial salutation to the dawn. Their clamorings were stilled by a new and sterner voice--the notes of the bugle summoning sleepers of the last night to the duties of the first day. Down the line from watch to watch passed the Plains command, "Catch up! Catch up!" It was morning of the jump-off. Little fires began at the wagon messes or family bivouacs. Men, boys, barefooted girls went out into the dew-wet grass to round up the transport stock. A vast confusion, a medley of unskilled endeavor marked the hour. But after an hour's wait, adjusted to the situation, the next order passed down the line: "Roll out! Roll out!" And now the march to Oregon was at last begun! The first dust cut by an ox hoof was set in motion by the whip crack of a barefooted boy in jeans who had no dream that he one day would rank high in the councils of his state, at the edge of an ocean which no prairie boy ever had envisioned. The compass finger of the trail, leading out from the timber groves, pointed into a sea of green along the valley of the Kaw. The grass, not yet tall enough fully to ripple as it would a half month later, stood waving over the black-burned ground which the semicivilized Indians had left the fall before. Flowers dotted it, sometimes white like bits of old ivory on the vast rug of spindrift--the pink verbena, the wild indigo, the larkspur and the wild geranium--all woven into a wondrous spangled carpet. At times also appeared the shy buds of the sweet wild rose, loveliest flower of the prairie. Tall rosinweeds began to thrust up rankly, banks of sunflowers prepared to fling their yellow banners miles wide. The opulent, inviting land lay in a ceaseless succession of easy undulations, stretching away illimitably to far horizons, "in such exchanging pictures of grace and charm as raised the admiration of even these simple folk to a pitch bordering upon exaltation." Here lay the West, barbaric, abounding, beautiful. Surely it could mean no harm to any man. The men lacked experience in column travel, the animals were unruly. The train formation--clumsily trying to conform to the orders of Wingate to travel in four parallel columns--soon lost order. At times the wagons halted to re-form. The leaders galloped back and forth, exhorting, adjuring and restoring little by little a certain system. But they dealt with independent men. On ahead the landscape seemed so wholly free of danger that to most of these the road to the Far West offered no more than a pleasure jaunt. Wingate and his immediate aids were well worn when at mid afternoon they halted, fifteen miles out from Westport. "What in hell you pulling up so soon for?" demanded Sam Woodhull surlily, riding up from his own column, far at the rear, and accosting the train leader. "We can go five miles further, anyhow, and maybe ten. We'll never get across in this way." "This is the very way we will get across," rejoined Wingate. "While I'm captain I'll say when to start and stop. But I've been counting on you, Woodhull, to throw in with me and help me get things shook down." "Well, hit looks to me ye're purty brash as usual," commented another voice. Bill Jackson came and stood at the captain's side. He had not been far from Woodhull all day long. "Ye're a nacherl damned fool, Sam Woodhull," said he. "Who 'lected ye fer train captain, an' when was it did? If ye don't like the way this train's run go on ahead an' make a train o' yer own, ef that's way ye feel. Pull on out to-night. What ye say, Cap?" "I can't really keep any man from going back or going ahead," replied Wingate. "But I've counted on Woodhull to hold those Liberty wagons together. Any plainsman knows that a little party takes big risks." "Since when did you come a plainsman?" scoffed the malcontent, for once forgetting his policy of favor-currying with Wingate in his own surly discontent. He had not been able to speak to Molly all day. "Well, if he ain't a plainsman yit he will be, and I'm one right now, Sam Woodhull." Jackson stood squarely in front of his superior. "I say he's talkin' sense to a man that ain't got no sense. I was with Doniphan too. We found ways, huh?" His straight gaze outfronted the other, who turned and rode back. But that very night eight men, covertly instigated or encouraged by Woodhull, their leader, came to the headquarters fire with a joint complaint. They demanded places at the head of the column, else would mutiny and go on ahead together. They said good mule teams ought not to take the dust of ox wagons. "What do you say, men?" asked the train captain of his aids helplessly. "I'm in favor of letting them go front." The others nodded silently, looking at one another significantly. Already cliques and factions were beginning. Woodhull, however, had too much at stake to risk any open friction with the captain of the train. His own seat at the officers' fire was dear to him, for it brought him close to the Wingate wagons, and in sight--if nothing else--of Molly Wingate. That young lady did not speak to him all day, but drew close the tilt of her own wagon early after the evening meal and denied herself to all. As for Banion, he was miles back, in camp with his own wagons, which Woodhull had abandoned, and on duty that night with the cattle guard--a herdsman and not a leader of men now. He himself was moody enough when he tied his cape behind his saddle and rode his black horse out into the shadows. He had no knowledge of the fact that the old mountain man, Jackson, wrapped in his blanket, that night instituted a solitary watch all his own. The hundreds of camp fires of the scattered train, stretched out over five miles of grove and glade at the end of the first undisciplined day, lowered, glowed and faded. They were one day out to Oregon, and weary withal. Soon the individual encampments were silent save for the champ or cough of tethered animals, or the whining howl of coyotes, prowling in. At the Missouri encampment, last of the train, and that heading the great cattle drove, the hardy frontier settlers, as was their wont, soon followed the sun to rest. The night wore on, incredibly slow to the novice watch for the first time now drafted under the prairie law. The sky was faint pink and the shadows lighter when suddenly the dark was streaked by a flash of fire and the silence broken by the crack of a border rifle. Then again and again came the heavier bark of a dragoon revolver, of the sort just then becoming known along the Western marches. The camp went into confusion. Will Banion, just riding in to take his own belated turn in his blankets, almost ran over the tall form of Bill Jackson, rifle in hand. "What was it, man?" demanded Banion. "You shooting at a mule?" "No, a man," whispered the other. "He ran this way. Reckon I must have missed. It's hard to draw down inter a hindsight in the dark, an' I jest chanced hit with the pistol. He was runnin' hard." "Who was he--some thief?" "Like enough. He was crawlin' up towards yore wagon, I halted him an' he run." "You don't know who he was?" "No. I'll see his tracks, come day. Go on to bed. I'll set out a whiles, boy." When dawn came, before he had broken his long vigil, Jackson was bending over footmarks in the moister portions of the soil. "Tall man, young an' tracked clean," he muttered to himself. "Fancy boots, with rather little heels. Shame I done missed him!" But he said nothing to Banion or anyone else. It was the twentieth time Bill Jackson, one of Sublette's men and a nephew of one of his partners, had crossed the Plains, and the lone hand pleased him best. He instituted his own government for the most part, and had thrown in with this train because that best suited his book, since the old pack trains of the fur trade were now no more. For himself, he planned settlement in Eastern Oregon, a country he once had glimpsed in long-gone beaver days, a dozen years ago. The Eastern settlements had held him long enough, the Army life had been too dull, even with Doniphan. "I must be gittin' old," he muttered to himself as he turned to a breakfast fire. "Missed--at seventy yard!" CHAPTER VIII MAN AGAINST MAN There were more than two thousand souls in the great caravan which reached over miles of springy turf and fat creek lands. There were more than a thousand children, more than a hundred babes in arm, more than fifty marriageable maids pursued by avid swains. There were bold souls and weak, strong teams and weak, heavy loads and light loads, neighbor groups and coteries of kindred blood or kindred spirits. The rank and file had reasons enough for shifting. There were a score of Helens driving wagons--reasons in plenty for the futility of all attempts to enforce an arbitrary rule of march. Human equations, human elements would shake themselves down into place, willy-nilly. The great caravan therefore was scantily less than a rabble for the first three or four days out. The four columns were abandoned the first half day. The loosely knit organization rolled on in a broken-crested wave, ten, fifteen, twenty miles a day, the horse-and-mule men now at the front. Far to the rear, heading only the cow column, came the lank men of Liberty, trudging alongside their swaying ox teams, with many a monotonous "Gee-whoa-haw! Git along thar, ye Buck an' Star!" So soon they passed the fork where the road to Oregon left the trail to Santa Fé; topped the divide that held them back from the greater valley of the Kaw. [Illustration: _A Paramount Picture._ _The Covered Wagon._ MOLLY COAXES SAM WOODHULL TO LET HER RIDE BANION'S HORSE.] Noon of the fifth day brought them to the swollen flood of the latter stream, at the crossing known as Papin's Ferry. Here the semicivilized Indians and traders had a single rude ferryboat, a scow operated in part by setting poles, in part by the power of the stream against a cable. The noncommittal Indians would give no counsel as to fording. They had ferry hire to gain. Word passed that there were other fords a few miles higher up. A general indecision existed, and now the train began to pile up on the south bank of the river. Late in the afternoon the scout, Jackson, came riding back to the herd where Banion was at work, jerking up his horse in no pleased frame of mind. "Will," said he, "leave the boys ride now an' come on up ahead. We need ye." "What's up?" demanded Banion. "Anything worse?" "Yes. The old fool's had a row over the ferryboat. Hit'd take two weeks to git us all over that way, anyhow. He's declared fer fordin' the hull outfit, lock, stock an' barrel. To save a few dollars, he's a goin' to lose a lot o' loads an' drownd a lot o' womern an' babies--that's what he's goin' to do. Some o' us called a halt an' stood out fer a council. We want you to come on up. "Woodhull's there," he added. "He sides with the old man, o' course. He rid on the same seat with that gal all day till now. Lord knows what he done or said. Ain't hit nigh about time now, Major?" "It's nigh about time," said Will Banion quietly. They rode side by side, past more than a mile of the covered wagons, now almost end to end, the columns continually closing up. At the bank of the river, at the ferry head, they found a group of fifty men. The ranks opened as Banion and Jackson approached, but Banion made no attempt to join a council to which he had not been bidden. A half dozen civilized Indians of the Kaws, owners or operators of the ferry, sat in a stolid line across the head of the scow at its landing stage, looking neither to the right nor the left and awaiting the white men's pleasure. Banion rode down to them. "How deep?" he asked. They understood but would not answer. "Out of the way!" he cried, and rode straight at them. They scattered. He spurred his horse, the black Spaniard, over the stage and on the deck of the scow, drove him its full length, snorting; set the spurs hard at the farther end and plunged deliberately off into the swift, muddy stream. The horse sank out of sight below the roily surface. They saw the rider go down to his armpits; saw him swing off saddle, upstream. The gallant horse headed for the center of the heavy current, but his master soon turned him downstream and inshore. A hundred yards down they landed on a bar and scrambled up the bank. Banion rode to the circle and sat dripping. He had brought not speech but action, not theory but facts, and he had not spoken a word. His eyes covered the council rapidly, resting on the figure of Sam Woodhull, squatting on his heels. As though to answer the challenge of his gaze, the latter rose. "Gentlemen," said he, "I'm not, myself, governed by any mere spirit of bravado. It's swimming water, yes--any fool knows that, outside of yon one. What I do say is that we can't afford to waste time here fooling with that boat. We've got to swim it. I agree with you, Wingate. This river's been forded by the trains for years, and I don't see as we need be any more chicken-hearted than those others that went through last year and earlier. This is the old fur-trader crossing, the Mormons crossed here, and so can we." Silence met his words. The older men looked at the swollen stream, turned to the horseman who had proved it. "What does Major Banion say?" spoke up a voice. "Nothing!" was Banion's reply. "I'm not in your council, am I?" "You are, as much as any man here," spoke up Caleb Price, and Hall and Kelsey added yea to that. "Get down. Come in." Banion threw his rein to Jackson and stepped into the ring, bowing to Jesse Wingate, who sat as presiding officer. "Of course we want to hear what Mr. Banion has to say," said he. "He's proved part of the question right now. I've always heard it's fording, part way, at Papin's Ferry. It don't look it now." "The river's high, Mr. Wingate," said Banion. "If you ask me, I'd rather ferry than ford. I'd send the women and children over by this boat. We can make some more out of the wagon boxes. If they leak we can cover them with hides. The sawmill at the mission has some lumber. Let's knock together another boat or two. I'd rather be safe than sorry, gentlemen; and believe me, she's heavy water yonder." "I've never seed the Kaw so full," asserted Jackson, "an' I've crossed her twenty times in spring flood. Do what ye like, you-all--ole Missoury's goin' to take her slow an' keerful." "Half of you Liberty men are a bunch of damned cowards!" sneered Woodhull. There was silence. An icy voice broke it. "I take it, that means me?" said Will Banion. "It does mean you, if you want to take it that way," rejoined his enemy. "I don't believe in one or two timid men holding up a whole train." "Never mind about holding up the train--we're not stopping any man from crossing right now. What I have in mind now is to ask you, do you classify me as a coward just because I counsel prudence here?" "You're the one is holding back." "Answer me! Do you call that to me?" "I do answer you, and I do call it to you then!" flared Woodhull. "I tell you, you're a liar, and you know it, Sam Woodhull! And if it pleases your friends and mine, I'd like to have the order now made on unfinished business." Not all present knew what this meant, for only a few knew of the affair at the rendezvous, the Missourians having held their counsel in the broken and extended train, where men might travel for days and not meet. But Woodhull knew, and sprang to his feet, hand on revolver. Banion's hand was likewise employed at his wet saddle holster, to which he sprang, and perhaps then one man would have been killed but for Bill Jackson, who spurred between. "Make one move an' I drop ye!" he called to Woodhull. "Ye've give yer promise." "All right then, I'll keep it," growled Woodhull. "Ye'd better! Now listen! Do ye see that tall cottingwood tree a half mile down--the one with the flat umbreller top, like a cypress? Ye kin? Well, in half a hour be thar with three o' yore friends, no more. I'll be thar with my man an' three o' his, no more, an' I'll be one o' them three. I allow our meanin' is to see hit fa'r. An' I allow that what has been unfinished business ain't goin' to be unfinished come sundown. "Does this suit ye, Will?" "It's our promise. Officers didn't usually fight that way, but you said it must be so, and we both agreed. I agree now." "You other folks all stay back," said Bill Jackson grimly. "This here is a little matter that us Missourians is goin' to settle in our own way an' in our own camp. Hit ain't none o' you-uns' business. Hit's plenty o' ourn." Men started to their feet over all the river front. The Indians rose, walked down the bank covertly. "Fight!" The word passed quickly. It was a day of personal encounters. This was an assemblage in large part of fighting men. But some sense of decency led the partisans to hurry away, out of sight and hearing of the womenfolk. The bell-top cottonwood stood in a little space which had been a dueling ground for thirty years. The grass was firm and even for a distance of fifty yards in any direction, and the light at that hour favored neither man. For Banion, who was prompt, Jackson brought with him two men. One of them was a planter by name of Dillon, the other none less than stout Caleb Price, one of Wingate's chosen captains. "I'll not see this made a thing of politics," said he. "I'm Northern, but I like the way that young man has acted. He hasn't had a fair deal from the officers of this train. He's going to have a fair deal now." "We allow he will," said Dillon grimly. He was fully armed, and so were all the seconds. For Woodhull showed the Kentuckian, Kelsey, young Jed Wingate--the latter by Woodhull's own urgent request--and the other train captain, Hall. So in its way the personal quarrel of these two hotheads did in a way involve the entire train. "Strip yore man," commanded the tall mountaineer. "We're ready. It's go till one hollers enough; fa'r stand up, heel an' toe, no buttin' er gougin'. Fust man ter break them rules gits shot. Is that yore understandin', gentlemen. "How we get it, yes," assented Kelsey. "See you enforce it then, fer we're a-goin' to," concluded Jackson. He stepped back. From the opposite sides the two antagonists stepped forward. There was no ring, there was no timekeeper, no single umpire. There were no rounds, no duration set. It was man to man, for cause the most ancient and most bitter of all causes--sex. CHAPTER IX THE BRUTE Between the two stalwart men who fronted one another, stripped to trousers and shoes, there was not so much to choose. Woodhull perhaps had the better of it by a few pounds in weight, and forsooth looked less slouchy out of his clothes than in them. His was the long and sinewy type of muscle. He was in hard condition. Banion, two years younger than his rival, himself was round and slender, thin of flank, a trace squarer and fuller of shoulder. His arms showed easily rippling bands of muscles, his body was hard in the natural vigor of youth and life in the open air. His eye was fixed all the time on his man. He did not speak or turn aside, but walked on in. There were no preliminaries, there was no delay. In a flash the Saxon ordeal of combat was joined. The two fighters met in a rush. At the center of the fighting space they hung, body to body, in a whirling _melée_. Neither had much skill in real boxing, and such fashion of fight was unknown in that region, the offensive being the main thing and defense remaining incidental. The thud of fist on face, the discoloration that rose under the savage blows, the blood that oozed and scattered, proved that the fighting blood of both these mad creatures was up, so that they felt no pain, even as they knew no fear. In their first fly, as witnesses would have termed it, there was no advantage to either, and both came out well marked. In the combat of the time and place there were no rules, no periods, no resting times. Once they were dispatched to it, the fight was the affair of the fighters, with no more than a very limited number of restrictions as to fouls. They met and broke, bloody, gasping, once, twice, a dozen times. Banion was fighting slowly, carefully. "I'll make it free, if you dare!" panted Woodhull at length. They broke apart once more by mutual need of breath. He meant he would bar nothing; he would go back to the days of Boone and Kenton and Girty, when hair, eye, any part of the body was fair aim. "You can't dare me!" rejoined Will Banion. "It's as my seconds say." Young Jed Wingate, suddenly pale, stood by and raised no protest. Kelsey's face was stony calm. The small eye of Hall narrowed, but he too held to the etiquette of non-interference in this matter of man and man, though what had passed here was a deadly thing. Mutilation, death might now ensue, and not mere defeat. But they all waited for the other side. "Air ye game to hit, Will?" demanded Jackson at length. "I don't fear him, anyway he comes," replied Will Banion. "I don't like it, but all of this was forced on me." "The hell it was!" exclaimed Kelsey. "I heard ye call my man a liar." "An' he called my man a coward!" cut in Jackson. "He is a coward," sneered Woodhull, panting, "or he'd not flicker now. He's afraid I'll take his eye out, damn him!" Will Banion turned to his friends. "Are we gentlemen at all?" said he. "Shall we go back a hundred years?" "If your man's afraid, we claim the fight!" exclaimed Kelsey. "Breast yore bird!" "So be it then!" said Will Banion. "Don't mind me, Jackson! I don't fear him and I think I can beat him. It's free! I bar nothing, nor can he! Get back!" Woodhull rushed first in the next assault, confident of his skill in rough-and-tumble. He felt at his throat the horizontal arm of his enemy. He caught away the wrist in his own hand, but sustained a heavy blow at the side of his head. The defense of his adversary angered him to blind rage. He forgot everything but contact, rushed, closed and caught his antagonist in the brawny grip of his arms. The battle at once resolved itself into the wrestling and battering match of the frontier. And it was free! Each might kill or maim if so he could. The wrestling grips of the frontiersmen were few and primitive, efficient when applied by masters; and no schoolboy but studied all the holds as matter of religion, in a time when physical prowess was the most admirable quality a man might have. Each fighter tried the forward jerk and trip which sometimes would do with an opponent not much skilled; but this primer work got results for neither. Banion evaded and swung into a hip lock, so swift that Woodhull left the ground. But his instinct gave him hold with one hand at his enemy's collar. He spread wide his feet and cast his weight aside, so that he came standing, after all. He well knew that a man must keep his feet. Woe to him who fell when it all was free! His own riposte was a snakelike glide close into his antagonist's arms, a swift thrust of his leg between the other's--the grapevine, which sometimes served if done swiftly. It was done swiftly, but it did not serve. The other spread his legs, leaned against him, and in a flash came back in the dreaded crotch lock of the frontier, which some men boasted no one could escape at their hands. Woodhull was flung fair, but he broke wide and rose and rushed back and joined again, grappling; so that they stood once more body to body, panting, red, savage as any animals that fight, and more cruel. The seconds all were on their feet, scarce breathing. They pushed in sheer test, and each found the other's stark strength. Yet Banion's breath still came even, his eye betokened no anxiety of the issue. Both were bloody now, clothing and all. Then in a flash the scales turned against the challenger _a l'outrance_. Banion caught his antagonist by the wrist, and swift as a flash stooped, turning his own back and drawing the arm of his enemy over his own shoulder, slightly turned, so that the elbow joint was in peril and so that the pain must be intense. It was one of the jiu jitsu holds, discovered independently perhaps at that instant; certainly a new hold for the wrestling school of the frontier. Woodhull's seconds saw the look of pain come on his face, saw him wince, saw him writhe, saw him rise on his toes. Then, with a sudden squatting heave, Banion cast him full length in front of him, upon his back! Before he had time to move he was upon him, pinning him down. A growl came from six observers. In an ordinary fall a man might have turned, might have escaped. But Woodhull had planned his own undoing when he had called it free. Eyeless men, usually old men, in this day brought up talk of the ancient and horrible warfare of a past generation, when destruction of the adversary was the one purpose and any means called fair when it was free. But the seconds of both men raised no hand when they saw the balls of Will Banion's thumbs pressed against the upper orbit edge of his enemy's eyes. "Do you say enough?" panted the victor. A groan from the helpless man beneath. "Am I the best man? Can I whip you?" demanded the voice above him, in the formula prescribed. "Go on--do it! Pull out his eye!" commanded Bill Jackson savagely. "He called it free to you! But don't wait!" But the victor sprang free, stood, dashed the blood from his own eyes, wavered on his feet. The hands of his fallen foe were across his eyes. But even as his men ran in, stooped and drew them away the conqueror exclaimed: "I'll not! I tell you I won't maim you, free or no free! Get up!" So Woodhull knew his eyes were spared, whatever might be the pain of the sore nerves along the socket bone. He rose to his knees, to his feet, his face ghastly in his own sudden sense of defeat, the worse for his victor's magnanimity, if such it might be called. Humiliation was worse than pain. He staggered, sobbing. "I won't take nothing for a gift from you!" But now the men stood between them, like and like. Young Jed Wingate pushed back his man. "It's done!" said he. "You shan't fight no more with the man that let you up. You're whipped, and by your own word it'd have been worse!" He himself handed Will Banion his coat. "Go get a pail of water," he said to Kelsey, and the latter departed. Banion stepped apart, battered and pale beneath his own wounds. "I didn't want to fight him this way," said he. "I left him his eyes so he can see me again. If so he wants, I'll meet him any way. I hope he won't rue back." "You fool!" said old Bill Jackson, drawing Banion to one side. "Do ye know what ye're a-sayin'? Whiles he was a-layin' thar I seen the bottoms o' his boots. Right fancy they was, with smallish heels! That skunk'll kill ye in the dark, Will. Ye'd orto hev put out'n both his two eyes!" A sudden sound made them all turn. Came crackling of down brush, the scream of a woman's voice. At the side of the great tree stood a figure that had no right there. They turned mute. It was Molly Wingate who faced them all now, turning from one bloody, naked figure to the other. She saw Sam Woodhull standing, his hands still at his face; caught some sense out of Jackson's words, overheard as she came into the clearing. "You!" she blazed at Will Banion. "You'd put out a man's eyes! You brute!" CHAPTER X OLE MISSOURY Molly Wingate looked from one to the other of the group of silent, shamefaced men. Puzzled, she turned again to the victor in the savage combat. "You!" Will Banion caught up his clothing, turned away. "You are right!" said he. "I have been a brute! Good-by!" An instant later Molly found herself alone with the exception of her brother. "You, Jed, what was this?" she demanded. Jed took a deep and heartfelt chew of plug. "Well, it was a little argument between them two," he said finally. "Like enough a little jealousy, like, you know--over place in the train, or something. This here was for men. You'd no business here." "But it was a shame!" "I reckon so." "Who started this?" "Both of them. All we was here for was to see fair. Men got to fight sometimes." "But not like animals, not worse than savages!" "Well, it was right savage, some of the time, sis." "They said--about eyes--oh!" The girl shivered, her hands at her own eyes. "Yes, they called it free. Anybody else, Sam Woodhull'd be sorry enough right now. T'other man throwed him clean and had him down, but he let him up. He didn't never hurt Sam's eyes, only pinched his head a little. He had a right, but didn't. It had to be settled and it was settled, fair and more'n fair, by him." "But, Jed"--the eternal female now--"then, which one really whipped?" "Will Banion did, ain't I told you? You insulted him, and he's gone. Having come in here where you wasn't no ways wanted, I reckon the best thing you can do is to go back to your own wagon and stay there. What with riding horses you hadn't ought, and seeing fights when you don't know a damned thing about nothing, I reckon you've made trouble about enough. Come on!" "Price," said Bill Jackson to the grave and silent man who walked with him toward the wagon train beyond the duelling ground, "this settles hit. Us Missoury wagons won't go on under no sech man as Sam Woodhull. We didn't no ways eleck him--he was app'inted. Mostly, elected is better'n app'inted. An' I seen afore now, no man can hold his place on the trail unless'n he's fitten. We'll eleck Will Banion our cap'n, an' you fellers kin go to hell. What us fellers started out to do was to go to Oregon." "But that'll mean the train's split!" "Shore hit will! Hit is split right now. But thar's enough o' the Liberty wagons to go through without no help. We kin whup all the rest o' this train, give we need ter, let alone a few Injuns now an' then. "To-night," he concluded, "we'll head up the river, an' leave you fellers the boat an' all o' Papin's Ferry to git acrost the way you want. Thar hain't no manner o' man, outfit, river er redskin that Ole Missoury kain't lick, take 'em as they come, them to name the holts an' the rules. We done showed you-all that. We're goin' to show you some more. So good-by." He held out his hand. "Ye helped see f'ar, an' ye're a f'ar man, an' we'll miss ye. Ef ye git in need o' help come to us. Ole Missoury won't need no help." "Well, Woodhull's one of you Missourians," remarked Price. "Yes, but he ain't bred true. Major Banion is. Hit was me that made him fight knuckle an' skull an' not with weapons. He didn't want to, but I had a reason. I'm content an' soothe jest the way she lies. Ef Will never sees the gal agin she ain't wuth the seein'. "Ye'll find Col. William Banion at the head o' his own train. He's fitten, an' he's fout an' proved hit" CHAPTER XI WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS YOUNG Molly Wingate kneeled by her cooking fire the following morning, her husband meantime awaiting the morning meal impatiently. All along the medley of crowded wagons rose confused sounds of activity at a hundred similar firesides. "Where's Little Molly?" demanded Wingate. "We got to be up and coming." "Her and Jed is off after the cattle. Well, you heard the news last night. You've got to get someone else to run the herd. If each family drives its own loose stock everything'll be all mixed up. The Liberty outfit pulled on by at dawn. Well, anyways they left us the sawmill and the boat. "Sam Woodhull, he's anxious to get on ahead of the Missourians," she added. "He says he'll take the boat anyhow, and not pay them Kaws any such hold-up price like they ask." "All I got to say is, I wish we were across," grumbled Wingate, stooping to the bacon spider. "Huh! So do I--me and my bureau and my hens. Yes, after you've fussed around a while you men'll maybe come to the same conclusion your head cow-guard had; you'll be making more boats and doing less swimming. I'm sorry he quit us." "It's the girl," said her husband sententiously. "Yes. But"--smiling grimly--"one furse don't make a parting." "She's same as promised Sam Woodhull, Molly, and you know that." "Before he got whipped by Colonel Banion." "Colonel! Fine business for an officer! Woodhull told me he tripped and this other man was on top of him and nigh gouged out his two eyes. And he told me other things too. Banion's a traitor, to split the train. We can spare all such." "Can we?" rejoined his wife. "I sort of thought--" "Never mind what you thought. He's one of the unruly, servigerous sort; can't take orders, and a trouble maker always. We'll show that outfit. I've ordered three more scows built and the seams calked in the wagon boxes." Surely enough, the Banion plan of crossing, after all, was carried out, and although the river dropped a foot meantime, the attempt to ford _en masse_ was abandoned. Little by little the wagon parks gathered on the north bank, each family assorting its own goods and joining in the general _sauve qui peut_. Nothing was seen of the Missouri column, but rumor said they were ferrying slowly, with one boat and their doubled wagon boxes, over which they had nailed hides. Woodhull was keen to get on north ahead of this body. He had personal reasons for that. None too well pleased at the smiles with which his explanations of his bruised face were received, he made a sudden resolution to take a band of his own immediate neighbors and adherents and get on ahead of the Missourians. He based his decision, as he announced it, on the necessity of a scouting party to locate grass and water. Most of the men who joined him were single men, of the more restless sort. There were no family wagons with them. They declared their intention of traveling fast and light until they got among the buffalo. This party left in advance of the main caravan, which had not yet completed the crossing of the Kaw. "Roll out! Ro-o-o-ll out!" came the mournful command at last, once more down the line. It fell on the ears of some who were unwilling to obey. The caravan was disintegrating at the start. The gloom cast by the long delay at the ford had now resolved itself in certain instances into fear amounting half to panic. Some companies of neighbors said the entire train should wait for the military escort; others declared they would not go further west, but would turn back and settle here, where the soil was so good. Still others said they all should lie here, with good grass and water, until further word came from the Platte Valley train and until they had more fully decided what to do. In spite of all the officers could do, the general advance was strung out over two or three miles. The rapid loss in order, these premature divisions of the train, augured ill enough. The natural discomforts of the trail now also began to have their effect. A plague of green-headed flies and flying ants assailed them by day, and at night the mosquitoes made an affliction well-nigh insufferable. The women and children could not sleep, the horses groaned all night under the clouds of tormentors which gathered on them. Early as it was, the sun at times blazed with intolerable fervor, or again the heat broke in savage storms of thunder, hail and rain. All the elements, all the circumstances seemed in league to warn them back before it was too late, for indeed they were not yet more than on the threshold of the Plains. The spring rains left the ground soft in places, so that in creek valleys stretches of corduroy sometimes had to be laid down. The high waters made even the lesser fords difficult and dangerous, and all knew that between them and the Platte ran several strong and capricious rivers, making in general to the southeast and necessarily transected by the great road to Oregon. They still were in the eastern part of what is now the state of Kansas, one of the most beautiful and exuberantly rich portions of the country, as all early travelers declared. The land lay in a succession of timber-lined valleys and open prairie ridges. Groves of walnut, oak, hickory, elm, ash at first were frequent, slowly changing, farther west, to larger proportions of poplar, willow and cottonwood. The white dogwood passed to make room for scattering thickets of wild plum. Wild tulips, yellow or of broken colors; the campanula, the wild honeysuckle, lupines--not yet quite in bloom--the sweetbrier and increasing quantities of the wild rose gave life to the always changing scene. Wild game of every sort was unspeakably abundant--deer and turkey in every bottom, thousands of grouse on the hills, vast flocks of snipe and plover, even numbers of the green parrakeets then so numerous along that latitude. The streams abounded in game fish. All Nature was easy and generous. Men and women grumbled at leaving so rich and beautiful a land lying waste. None had seen a country more supremely attractive. Emotions of tenderness, of sadness, also came to many. Nostalgia was not yet shaken off. This strained condition of nerves, combined with the trail hardships, produced the physical irritation which is inevitable in all amateur pioneer work. Confusions, discordances, arising over the most trifling circumstances, grew into petulance, incivility, wrangling and intrigue, as happened in so many other earlier caravans. In the Babel-like excitement of the morning catch-up, amid the bellowing and running of the cattle evading the yoke, more selfishness, less friendly accommodation now appeared, and men met without speaking, even this early on the road. The idea of four parallel columns had long since been discarded. They broke formation, and at times the long caravan, covering the depressions and eminences of the prairie, wound along in mile-long detachments, each of which hourly grew more surly and more independent. Overdriven oxen now began to drop. By the time the prairies proper were reached more than a score of oxen had died. They were repeating trail history as recorded by the travelers of that day. Personal and family problems also made divisions more natural. Many suffered from ague; fevers were very common. An old woman past seventy died one night and was buried by the wayside the next day. Ten days after the start twins were born to parents moving out to Oregon. There were numbers of young children, many of them in arms, who became ill. For one or other cause, wagons continually were dropping out. It was difficult for some wagons to keep up, the unseasoned oxen showing distress under loads too heavy for their draft. It was by no means a solid and compact army, after all, this west-bound wave of the first men with plows. All these things sat heavily on the soul of Jesse Wingate, who daily grew more morose and grim. As the train advanced bands of antelope began to appear. The striped prairie gophers gave place to the villages of countless barking prairie dogs, curious to the eyes of the newcomers. At night the howling and snarling of gray wolves now made regular additions to the coyote chorus and the voices of the owls and whippoorwills. Little by little, day by day, civilization was passing, the need for organization daily became more urgent. Yet the original caravan had split practically into three divisions within a hundred and fifty miles from the jump-off, although the bulk of the train hung to Wingate's company and began to shake down, at least into a sort of tolerance. Granted good weather, as other travelers had written, it was indeed impossible to evade the sense of exhilaration in the bold, free life. At evening encampment the scene was one worthy of any artist of all the world. The oblong of the wagon park, the white tents, the many fires, made a spectacle of marvelous charm and power. Perhaps within sight, at one time, under guard for the evening feed on the fresh young grass, there would be two thousand head of cattle. In the wagon village men, women and children would be engaged as though at home. There was little idleness in the train, and indeed there was much gravity and devoutness in the personnel. At one fireside the young men might be roaring "Old Grimes is dead, that good old man," or "Oh, then, Susannah"; but quite as likely close at hand some family group would be heard in sacred hymns. A strange envisagement it all made, in a strange environment, a new atmosphere, here on the threshold of the wilderness.[1] [Footnote 1: To get the local descriptions, the color, atmosphere, "feel" of a day and a country so long gone by, any writer of to-day must go to writers of another day. The Author would acknowledge free use of the works of Palmer, Bryant, Kelly and others who give us journals of the great transcontinental trail.] CHAPTER XII THE DEAD MEN'S TALE The wilderness, close at hand, soon was to make itself felt. Wingate's outriders moved out before noon of one day, intending to locate camp at the ford of the Big Vermilion. Four miles in advance they unexpectedly met the scout of the Missouri column, Bill Jackson, who had passed the Wingate train by a cut-off of his own on a solitary ride ahead for sake of information. He was at a gallop now, and what he said sent them all back at full speed to the head of the Wingate column. Jackson riding ahead, came up with his hand raised for a halt. "My God, Cap'n, stop the train!" he called. "Hit won't do for the womern and children to see what's on ahead yan!" "What's up--where?" demanded Wingate. "On three mile, on the water where they camped night afore last. Thar they air ten men, an' the rest's gone. Woodhull's wagons, but he ain't thar. Wagons burned, mules standing with arrers in them, rest all dead but a few. Hit's the Pawnees!" The column leaders all galloped forward, seeing first what later most of the entire train saw--the abominable phenomena of Indian warfare on the Plains. Scattered over a quarter of a mile, where the wagons had stood not grouped and perhaps not guarded, lay heaps of wreckage beside heaps of ashes. One by one the corpses were picked out, here, there, over more than a mile of ground. They had fought, yes, but fought each his own losing individual battle after what had been a night surprise. The swollen and blackened features of the dead men stared up, mutilated as savages alone mark the fallen. Two were staked out, hand and foot, and ashes lay near them, upon them. Arrows stood up between the ribs of the dead men, driven through and down into the ground. A dozen mules, as Jackson had said, drooped with low heads and hanging ears, arrow shafts standing out of their paunches, waiting for death to end their agony. "Finish them, Jackson." Wingate handed the hunter his own revolver, signaling for Kelsey and Hall to do the same. The methodical cracking of the hand arms began to end the suffering of the animals. They searched for scraps of clothing to cover the faces of the dead, the bodies of some dead. They motioned the women and children back when the head of the train came up. Jackson beckoned the leaders to the side of one wagon, partially burned. "Look," said he, pointing. A long stick, once a whipstock, rose from the front of the wagon bed. It had been sharpened and thrust under the wrist skin of a human hand--a dried hand, not of a white man, but a red. A half-corroded bracelet of copper still clung to the wrist. "If I read signs right, that's why!" commented Bill Jackson. "But how do you explain it?" queried Hall. "Why should they do that? And how could they, in so close a fight?" "They couldn't," said Jackson. "That hand's a day an' a half older than these killings. Hit's Sam Woodhull's wagon. Well, the Pawnees like enough counted 'coup on the man that swung that hand up for a sign, even if hit wasn't one o' their own people." "Listen, men," he concluded, "hit was Woodhull's fault. We met some friendlies--Kaws--from the mission, an' they was mournin'. A half dozen o' them follered Woodhull out above the ferry when he pulled out. They told him he hadn't paid them for their boat, asked him for more presents. He got mad, so they say, an' shot down one o' them an' stuck up his hand--fer a warnin', so he said. "The Kaws didn't do this killin'. This band of Pawnees was away down below their range. The Kaws said they was comin' fer a peace council, to git the Kaws an' Otoes to raise against us whites, comin' put so many, with plows and womernfolks--they savvy. Well, the Kaws has showed the Pawnees. The Pawnees has showed us." "Yes," said the deep voice of Caleb Price, property owner and head of a family; "they've showed us that Sam Woodhull was not fit to trust. There's one man that is." "Do you want him along with your wagons?" demanded Jackson. He turned to Wingate. "Well," said the train captain after a time, "we are striking the Indian country now." "Shall I bring up our wagons an' jine ye all here at the ford this evenin'?" "I can't keep you from coming on up the road if you want to. I'll not ask you." "All right! We'll not park with ye then. But we'll be on the same water. Hit's my own fault we split. We wouldn't take orders from Sam Woodhull, an' we never will." He nodded to the blackened ruins, to the grim dead hand pointing to the sky, left where it was by the superstitious blood avengers. Wingate turned away and led the wagon train a half mile up the stream, pitching camp above the ford where the massacre had occurred. The duties of the clergy and the appointed sextons were completed. Silence and sadness fell on the encampment. Jackson, the scout of the Missouri column, still lingered for some sort of word with Molly Wingate. Some odds and ends of brush lay about. Of the latter Molly began casting a handful on the fire and covering it against the wind with her shawl, which at times she quickly removed. As a result the confined smoke arose at more or less well defined intervals, in separate puffs or clouds. "Ef ye want to know how to give the smoke signal right an' proper, Miss Molly," said he at length, quietly, "I'll larn ye how." The girl looked up at him. "Well, I don't know much about it." "This way: Hit takes two to do hit best. You catch holt two corners o' the shawl now. Hist it on a stick in the middle. Draw it down all over the fire. Let her simmer under some green stuff. Now! Lift her clean off, sideways, so's not ter break the smoke ball. See 'em go up? That's how." He looked at the girl keenly under his bushy gray brows. "That's the Injun signal fer 'Enemy in the country.' S'pose you ever wanted to signal, say to white folks, 'Friend in the country,' you might remember--three short puffs an' one long one. That might bring up a friend. Sech a signal can be seed a long ways." Molly flushed to the eyes. "What do you mean?" "Nothin' at all, any more'n you do." Jackson rose and left her. CHAPTER XIII WILD FIRE The afternoon wore on, much occupied with duties connected with the sad scenes of the tragedy. No word came of Woodhull, or of two others who could not be identified as among the victims at the death camp. No word, either, came from the Missourians, and so cowed or dulled were most of the men of the caravan that they did not venture far, even to undertake trailing out after the survivors of the massacre. In sheer indecision the great aggregation of wagons, piled up along the stream, lay apathetic, and no order came for the advance. Jed and his cow guards were obliged to drive the cattle back into the ridges for better grazing, for the valley and adjacent country, which had not been burned over by the Indians the preceding fall, held a lower matting of heavy dry grass through which the green grass of springtime appeared only in sparser and more smothered growth. As many of the cattle and horses even now showed evil results from injudicious driving on the trail, it was at length decided to make a full day's stop so that they might feed up. Molly Wingate, now assured that the Pawnees no longer were in the vicinity, ventured out for pasturage with her team of mules, which she had kept tethered close to her own wagon. She now rapidly was becoming a good frontierswoman and thoughtful of her locomotive power. Taking the direction of the cattle herd, she drove from camp a mile or two, resolving to hobble and watch her mules while they grazed close to the cattle guards. She was alone. Around her, untouched by any civilization, lay a wild, free world. The ceaseless wind of the prairie swept old and new grass into a continuous undulating surface, silver crested, a wave always passing, never past. The sky was unspeakably fresh and blue, with its light clouds, darker edged toward the far horizon of the unbounded, unbroken expanse of alternating levels and low hills. Across the broken ridges passed the teeming bird life of the land. The Eskimo plover in vast bands circled and sought their nesting places. Came also the sweep of cinnamon wings as the giant sickle-billed curlews wheeled in vast aerial phalanx, with their eager cries, "Curlee! Curlee! Curlee!"--the wildest cry of the old prairies. Again, from some unknown, undiscoverable place, came the liquid, baffling, mysterious note of the nesting upland plover, sweet and clean as pure white honey. Now and again a band of antelope swept ghostlike across a ridge. A great gray wolf stood contemptuously near on a hillock, gazing speculatively at the strange new creature, the white woman, new come in his lands. It was the wilderness, rude, bold, yet sweet. Who shall say what thoughts the flowered wilderness of spring carried to the soul of a young woman beautiful and ripe for love, her heart as sweet and melting as that of the hidden plover telling her mate of happiness? Surely a strange spell, born of youth and all this free world of things beginning, fell on the soul of Molly Wingate. She sat and dreamed, her hands idle, her arms empty, her beating pulses full, her heart full of a maid's imaginings. How long she sat alone, miles apart, an unnoticed figure, she herself could not have said--surely the sun was past zenith--when, moved by some vague feeling of her own, she noticed the uneasiness of her feeding charges. The mules, hobbled and side-lined as Jed had shown her, turned face to the wind, down the valley, standing for a time studious and uncertain rather than alarmed. Then, their great ears pointed, they became uneasy; stirred, stamped, came back again to their position, gazing steadily in the one direction. The ancient desert instinct of the wild ass, brought down through thwarted generations, never had been lost to them. They had foreknowledge of danger long before horses or human beings could suspect it. Danger? What was it? Something, surely. Molly sprang to her feet. A band of antelope, running, had paused a hundred yards away, gazing back. Danger--yes; but what? The girl ran to the crest of the nearest hillock and looked back. Even as she did so, it seemed that she caught touch of the great wave of apprehension spreading swiftly over the land. Far off, low lying like a pale blue cloud, was a faint line of something that seemed to alter in look, to move, to rise and fall, to advance--down the wind. She never had seen it, but knew what it must be--the prairie fire! The lack of fall burning had left it fuel even now. Vast numbers of prairie grouse came by, hurtling through the silence, alighting, strutting with high heads, fearlessly close. Gray creatures came hopping, halting or running fully extended--the prairie hares, fleeing far ahead. Band after band of antelope came on, running easily, but looking back. A heavy line of large birds, black to the eye, beat on laboriously, alighted, and ran onward with incredible speed--the wild turkeys, fleeing the terror. Came also broken bands of white-tailed deer, easy, elastic, bounding irregularly, looking back at the miles-wide cloud, which now and then spun up, black as ink toward the sky, but always flattened and came onward with the wind. Danger? Yes! Worse than Indians, for yonder were the cattle; there lay the parked train, two hundred wagons, with the household goods that meant their life savings and their future hope in far-off Oregon. Women were there, and children--women with babes that could not walk. True, the water lay close, but it was narrow and deep and offered no salvation against the terror now coming on the wings of the wind. That the prairie fire would find in this strip fuel to carry it even at this green season of the grass the wily Pawnees had known. This was cheaper than assault by arms. They would wither and scatter the white nation here! Worse than plumed warriors was yonder broken undulating line of the prairie fire. Instinct told the white girl, gave her the same terror as that which inspired all these fleeing creatures. But what could she do? This was an elemental, gigantic wrath, and she but a frightened girl. She guessed rather than reasoned what it would mean when yonder line came closer, when it would sweep down, roaring, over the wagon train. The mules began to bray, to plunge, too wise to undertake flight. She would at least save them. She would mount one and ride with the alarm for the camp. The wise animals let her come close, did not plunge, knew that she meant help, allowed her trembling hands to loose one end of the hobble straps, but no more. As soon as each mule got its feet it whirled and was away. No chance to hold one of them now, and if she had mounted a hobbled animal it had meant nothing. But she saw them go toward the stream, toward the camp. She must run that way herself. It was so far! There was a faint smell of smoke and a mysterious low humming in the air. Was it too late? A swift, absurd, wholly useless memory came to her from the preceding day. Yes, it would be no more than a prayer, but she would send it out blindly into the air.... Some instinct--yes, quite likely. Molly ran to her abandoned wagonette, pushed in under the white tilt where her pallet bed lay rolled, her little personal plunder stored about. Fumbling, she found her sulphur matches. She would build her signal fire. It was, at least, all that she could do. It might at least alarm the camp. Trembling, she looked about her, tore her hands breaking off little faggots of tall dry weed stems, a very few bits of wild thorn and fragments of a plum thicket in the nearest shallow coulee. She ran to her hillock, stooped and broke a dozen matches, knowing too little of fire-making in the wind. But at last she caught a wisp of dry grass, a few dry stems--others, the bits of wild plum branches. She shielded her tiny blaze with her frock, looking back over her shoulder, where the black curtain was rising taller. Now and then, even in the blaze of full day, a red, dull gleam rose and passed swiftly. The entire country was afire. Fuel? Yes; and a wind. The humming in the air grew, the scent of fire came plainly. The plover rose around their nests and circled, crying piteously. The scattered hares became a great body of moving gray, like camouflage blots on the still undulating waves of green and silver, passing but not yet past--soon now to pass. The girl, her hands arrested, her arms out, in her terror, stood trying to remember. Yes, it was three short puffs and a long pillar. She caught her shawl from her shoulder, stooped, spread it with both hands, drove in her stiffest bough for a partial support, cast in under the edge, timidly, green grass enough to make smoke, she hoped. An instant and she sprang up, drawing the shawl swiftly aside, the next moment jealously cutting through the smoke with a side sweep of the covering. It worked! The cut-off column rose, bent over in a little detached cloud. Again, with a quick flirt, eager eyed, and again the detached irregular ball! A third time--Molly rose, and now cast on dry grass and green grass till a tall and moving pillar of cloud by day arose. At least she had made her prayer. She could do no more. With vague craving for any manner of refuge, she crawled to her wagon seat and covered her eyes. She knew that the wagon train was warned--they now would need but little warning, for the menace was written all across the world. She sat she knew not how long, but until she became conscious of a roaring in the air. The line of fire had come astonishingly soon, she reasoned. But she forgot that. All the vanguard and the full army of wild creatures had passed by now. She alone, the white woman, most helpless of the great creatures, stood before the terror. She sprang out of the wagon and looked about her. The smoke crest, black, red-shot, was coming close. The grass here would carry it. Perhaps yonder on the flint ridge where the cover was short--why had she not thought of that long ago? It was half a mile, and no sure haven then. She ran, her shawl drawn about her head--ran with long, free stride, her limbs envigored by fear, her full-bosomed body heaving chokingly. The smoke was now in the air, and up the unshorn valley came the fire remorselessly, licking up the under lying layer of sun-cured grass which a winter's snow had matted down. She could never reach the ridge now. Her overburdened lungs functioned but little. The world went black, with many points of red. Everywhere was the odor and feel of smoke. She fell and gasped, and knew little, cared little what might come. The elemental terror at last had caught its prey--soft, young, beautiful prey, this huddled form, a bit of brown and gray, edged with white of wind-blown skirt. It would be a sweet morsel for the flames. Along the knife-edged flint ridge which Molly had tried to reach there came the pounding of hoofs, heavier than any of these that had passed. The cattle were stampeding directly down wind and before the fire. Dully, Molly heard the lowing, heard the far shouts of human voices. Then, it seemed to her, she heard a rush of other hoofs coming toward her. Yes, something was pounding down the slope toward her wagon, toward her. Buffalo, she thought, not knowing the buffalo were gone from that region. But it was not the buffalo, nor yet the frightened herd, nor yet her mules. Out of the smoke curtain broke a rider, his horse flat; a black horse with flying frontlet--she knew what horse. She knew what man rode him, too, black with smoke as he was now. He swept close to the wagon and was off. Something flickered there, with smoke above it, beyond the wagon by some yards. Then he was in saddle and racing again, his eyes and teeth white in the black mask of his face. She heard no call and no command. But an arm reached down to hers, swept up--and she was going onward, the horn of a saddle under her, her body held to that of the rider, swung sidewise. The horse was guided not down but across the wind. Twice and three times, silent, he flung her off and was down, kindling his little back fires--the only defense against a wildfire. He breathed thickly, making sounds of rage. "Will they never start?" he broke out at last. "The fools--the fools!" But by now it was too late. A sudden accession in the force of the wind increased the speed of the fire. The little line near Molly's wagon spared it, but caught strength. Could she have seen through the veils of smoke she would have seen a half dozen fires this side the line of the great fire. But fire is fire. Again he was in saddle and had her against his thigh, his body, flung any way so she came with the horse. And now the horse swerved, till he drove in the steel again and again, heading him not away from the fire but straight into it! Molly felt a rush of hot air; surging, actual flame singed the ends of her hair. She felt his hand again and again sweep over her skirts, wiping out the fire as it caught. It was blackly hot, stifling--and then it was past! Before her lay a wide black world. Her wagon stood, even its white top spared by miracle of the back fire. But beyond came one more line of smoke and flame. The black horse neighed now in the agony of his hot hoofs. His rider swung him to a lower level, where under the tough cover had lain moist ground, on which uncovered water now glistened. He flung her into the mire of it, pulled up his horse there and himself lay down, full length, his blackened face in the moist mud above which still smoked stubbles of the flame-shorn grass. He had not spoken to her, nor she to him. His eyes rested on the singed ends of her blown hair, her charred garments, in a frowning sympathy which found no speech. At length he brought the reins of his horse to her, flirting up the singed ends of the long mane, further proof of their narrow escape. "I must try once more," he said. "The main fire might catch the wagon." He made off afoot. She saw him start a dozen nucleuses of fires; saw them advance till they halted at the edge of the burned ground, beyond the wagon, so that it stood safe in a vast black island. He came to her, drove his scorched boots deep as he could into the mud and sat looking up the valley toward the emigrant train. An additional curtain of smoke showed that the men there now were setting out back fires of their own. He heard her voice at last: "It is the second time you have saved me--saved my life, I think. Why did you come?" He turned to her as she sat in the edge of the wallow, her face streaked with smoke, her garments half burned off her limbs. She now saw his hands, which he was thrusting out on the mud to cool them, and sympathy was in her gaze also. "I don't know why I came," said he. "Didn't you signal for me? Jackson told me you could." "No, I had no hope. I meant no one. It was only a prayer." "It carried ten miles. We were all back-firing. It caught in the sloughs--all the strips of old grass. I thought of your camp, of you. At least your signal told me where to ride." At length he waved his hand. "They're safe over there," said he. "Think of the children!" "Yes, and you gave me my one chance. Why?" "I don't know. I suppose it was because I am a brute!" The bitterness of his voice was plain. "Come, we must go to the wagons," said Molly at length, and would have risen. "No, not yet. The burned ground must cool before we can walk on it. I would not even take my horse out on it again." He lifted a foot of the black Spaniard, whose muzzle quivered whimperingly. "All right, old boy!" he said, and stroked the head thrust down to him. "It might have been worse." His voice was so gentle that Molly Wingate felt a vague sort of jealousy. He might have taken her scorched hand in his, might at least have had some thought for her welfare. He did speak at last as to that. "What's in your wagon?" he asked. "We had better go there to wait. Have you anything along--oil, flour, anything to use on burns? You're burned. It hurts me to see a woman suffer." "Are not you burned too?" "Yes." "It pains you?" "Oh, yes, of course." He rose and led the way over the damper ground to the wagon, which stood smoke-stained but not charred, thanks to his own resourcefulness. Molly climbed up to the seat, and rummaging about found a jar of butter, a handful of flour. "Come up on the seat," said she. "This is better medicine than nothing." He climbed up and sat beside her. She frowned again as she now saw how badly scorched his hands were, his neck, his face. His eyebrows, caught by one wisp of flame, were rolled up at the ends, whitened. One cheek was a dull red. Gently, without asking his consent, she began to coat his burned skin as best she might with her makeshift of alleviation. His hand trembled under hers. "Now," she said, "hold still. I must fix your hand some more." She still bent over, gently, delicately touching his flesh with hers. And then all in one mad, unpremeditated instant it was done! His hand caught hers, regardless of the pain to either. His arm went about her, his lips would have sought hers. It was done! Now he might repent. A mad way of wooing, inopportune, fatal as any method he possibly could have found, moreover a cruel, unseemly thing to do, here and with her situated thus. But it was done. Till now he had never given her grounds for more than guessing. Yet now here was this! He came to his senses as she thrust him away; saw her cheeks whiten, her eyes grow wide. "Oh!" she said. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" "Oh!" whispered Will Banion to himself, hoarsely. He held his two scorched hands each side her face as she drew back, sought to look into her eyes, so that she might believe either his hope, his despair or his contrition. But she turned her eyes away. Only he could hear her outraged protest--"Oh! Oh! Oh!" CHAPTER XIV THE KISS "It was the wind!" Will Banion exclaimed. "It was the sky, the earth! It was the fire! I don't know what it was! I swear it was not I who did it! Don't forgive me, but don't blame me. Molly! Molly! "It had to be sometime," he went on, since she still drew away from him. "What chance have I had to ask you before now? It's little I have to offer but my love." "What do you mean? It will never be at any time!" said Molly Wingate slowly, her hand touching his no more. "What do you yourself mean?" He turned to her in agony of soul. "You will not let me repent? You will not give me some sort of chance?" "No," she said coldly. "You have had chance enough to be a gentleman--as much as you had when you were in Mexico with other women. But Major William Banion falsified the regimental accounts. I know that too. I didn't--I couldn't believe it--till now." He remained dumb under this. She went on mercilessly. "Oh, yes, Captain Woodhull told us. Yes, he showed us the very vouchers. My father believed it of you, but I didn't. Now I do. Oh, fine! And you an officer of our Army!" She blazed out at him now, her temper rising. "Chance? What more chance did you need? No wonder you couldn't love a girl--any other way than this. It would have to be sometime, you say. What do you mean? That I'd ever marry a thief?" Still he could not speak. The fire marks showed livid against a paling cheek. "Yes, I know you saved me--twice, this time at much risk," resumed the girl. "Did you want pay so soon? You'd--you'd--" "Oh! Oh! Oh!" It was his voice that now broke in. He could not speak at all beyond the exclamation under torture. "I didn't believe that story about you," she added after a long time. "But you are not what you looked, not what I thought you were. So what you say must be sometime is never going to be at all." "Did he tell you that about me?" demanded Will Banion savagely. "Woodhull--did he say that?" "I have told you, yes. My father knew. No wonder he didn't trust you. How could he?" She moved now as though to leave the wagon, but he raised a hand. "Wait!" said he. "Look yonder! You'd not have time now to reach camp." In the high country a great prairie fire usually or quite often was followed by a heavy rainstorm. What Banion now indicated was the approach of yet another of the epic phenomena of the prairies, as rapid, as colossal and as merciless as the fire itself. On the western horizon a low dark bank of clouds lay for miles, piled, serrated, steadily rising opposite to the course of the wind that had driven the fire. Along it more and more visibly played almost incessant sheet lightning, broken with ripping zigzag flames. A hush had fallen close at hand, for now even the frightened breeze of evening had fled. Now and then, at first doubtful, then unmistakable and continuous, came the mutter and rumble and at length the steady roll of thunder. They lay full in the course of one of the tremendous storms of the high country, and as the cloud bank rose and came on swiftly, spreading its flanking wings so that nothing might escape, the spectacle was terrifying almost as much as that of the fire, for, unprotected, as they were, they could make no counter battle against the storm. The air grew supercharged with electricity. It dripped, literally, from the barrel of Banion's pistol when he took it from its holster to carry it to the wagon. He fastened the reins of his horse to a wheel and hastened with other work. A pair of trail ropes lay in the wagon. He netted them over the wagon top and lashed the ends to the wheels to make the top securer, working rapidly, eyes on the advancing storm. There came a puff, then a gust of wind. The sky blackened. The storm caught the wagon train first. There was no interval at all between the rip of the lightning and the crash of thunder as it rolled down on the clustered wagons. The electricity at times came not in a sheet or a ragged bolt, but in a ball of fire, low down, close to the ground, exploding with giant detonations. Then came the rain, with a blanketing rush of level wind, sweeping away the last vestige of the wastrel fires of the emigrant encampment. An instant and every human being in the train, most of them ill defended by their clothing, was drenched by the icy flood. One moment and the battering of hail made climax of it all. The groaning animals plunged and fell at their picket ropes, or broke and fled into the open. The remaining cattle caught terror, and since there was no corral, most of the cows and oxen stampeded down the wind. The canvas of the covered wagons made ill defense. Many of them were stripped off, others leaked like sieves. Mothers sat huddled in their calicoes, bending over their tow-shirted young, some of them babes in arms. The single jeans garments of the boys gave them no comfort. Under the wagons and carts, wrapped in blankets or patched quilts whose colors dripped, they crawled and sat as the air grew strangely chill. Only wreckage remained when they saw the storm muttering its way across the prairies, having done what it could in its elemental wrath to bar the road to the white man. As for Banion and Molly, they sat it out in the light wagon, the girl wrapped in blankets, Banion much of the time out in the storm, swinging on the ropes to keep the wagon from overturning. He had no apparent fear. His calm assuaged her own new terrors. In spite of her bitter arraignment, she was glad that he was here, though he hardly spoke to her at all. "Look!" he exclaimed at last, drawing back the flap of the wagon cover. "Look at the rainbow!" Over the cloud banks of the rain-wet sky there indeed now was flung the bow of promise. But this titanic land did all things gigantically. This was no mere prismatic arch bridging the clouds. The colors all were there, yes, and of an unspeakable brilliance and individual distinctness in the scale; but they lay like a vast painted mist, a mural of some celestial artist flung _en masse_ against the curtain of the night. The entire clouded sky, miles on untold miles, was afire. All the opals of the universe were melted and cast into a tremendous picture painted by the Great Spirit of the Plains. "Oh, wonderful!" exclaimed the girl. "It might be the celestial city in the desert, promised by the Mormon prophet!" "It may be so to them. May it be so to us. Blessed be the name of the Lord God of Hosts!" said Will Banion. She looked at him suddenly, strangely. What sort of man was he, after all, so full of strange contradictions--a savage, a criminal, yet reverent and devout? "Come," he said, "we can get back now, and you must go. They will think you are lost." He stepped to the saddle of his shivering horse and drew off the poncho, which he had spread above the animal instead of using it himself. He was wet to the bone. With apology he cast the waterproof over Molly's shoulders, since she now had discarded her blankets. He led the way, his horse following them. They walked in silence in the deep twilight which began to creep across the blackened land. All through the storm he had scarcely spoken to her, and he spoke but rarely now. He was no more than guide. But as she approached safety Molly Wingate began to reflect how much she really owed this man. He had been a pillar of strength, elementally fit to combat all the elements, else she had perished. "Wait!" She had halted at the point of the last hill which lay between them and the wagons. They could hear the wailing of the children close at hand. He turned inquiringly. She handed back the poncho. "I am all right now. You're wet, you're tired, you're burned to pieces. Won't you come on in?" "Not to-night!" But still she hesitated. In her mind there were going on certain processes she could not have predicted an hour earlier. "I ought to thank you," she said. "I do thank you." His utter silence made it hard for her. He could see her hesitation, which made it hard for him, coveting sight of her always, loath to leave her. Now a sudden wave of something, a directness and frankness born in some way in this new world apart from civilization, like a wind-blown flame, irresponsible and irresistible, swept over Molly Wingate's soul as swiftly, as unpremeditatedly as it had over his. She was a young woman fit for love, disposed for love, at the age for love. Now, to her horror, the clasp of this man's arm, even when repelled in memory, returned, remained in memory! She was frightened that it still remained--frightened at her own great curiousness. "About--that"--he knew what she meant--"I don't want you to think anything but the truth of me. If you have deceived people, I don't want to deceive you." "What do you mean?" He was a man of not very many words. "About--that!" "You said it could never be." "No. If it could, I would not be stopping here now to say so much." He stepped closer, frowning. "What is it you are saying then--that a man's a worse brute when he goes mad, as I did?" "I expect not," said Molly Wingate queerly. "It is very far, out here. It's some other world, I believe. And I suppose men have kissed girls. I suppose no girl ever was married who was not ever kissed." "What are you saying?" "I said I wanted you to know the truth about a woman--about me. That's just because it's not ever going to be between us. It can't be, because of that other matter in Mexico. If it had not been for that, I suppose after a time I wouldn't have minded what you did back there. I might have kissed you. It must be terrible to feel as you feel now, so ashamed. But after all--" "It was criminal!" he broke out. "But even criminals are loved by women. They follow them to jail, to the gallows. They don't mind what the man is--they love him, they forgive him. They stand by him to the very end!" "Yes, I suppose many a girl loves a man she knows she never can marry. Usually she marries someone else. But kissing! That's terrible!" "Yes. But you will not let me make it splendid and not terrible. You say it never can be--that means we've got to part. Well, how can I forget?" "I don't suppose you can. I don't suppose that--that I can!" "What are you going to say? Don't! Oh, please don't!" But she still went on, strangely, not in the least understanding her own swift change of mood, her own intent with him, _vis-à-vis_, here in the wilderness. "While we were walking down here just now," said she, "somehow it all began to seem not so wrong. It only seemed to stay wrong for you to have deceived me about yourself--what you really were--when you were in the Army. I could maybe forgive you up to that far, for you did--for men are--well, men. But about that other--you knew all the time we couldn't--couldn't ever--I'd never marry a thief." The great and wistful regret of her voice was a thing not to be escaped. She stood, a very splendid figure, clean and marvelous of heart as she was begrimed and bedraggled of body now, her great vital force not abated by what she had gone through. She spread her hands just apart and looked at him in what she herself felt was to be the last meeting of their lives; in which she could afford to reveal all her soul for once to a man, and then go about a woman's business of living a life fed on the husks of love given her by some other man. He knew that he had seen one more miracle. But, chastened now, he could, he must, keep down his own eager arms. He heard her speak once more, her voice like some melancholy bell of vespers of a golden evening. "Oh, Will Banion, how could you take away a girl's heart and leave her miserable all her life?" The cry literally broke from her. It seemed in her own ears the sudden voice of some other woman speaking--some unaccountable, strange woman whom she never had seen or known in all her life. "Your--heart?" he whispered, now close to her in the dusk. "You were not--you did not--you--" But he choked. She nodded, not brazenly or crudely or coarsely, not even bravely, but in utter simplicity. For the time she was wholly free of woman coquetry. It was as though the elements had left her also elemental. Her words now were of the earth, the air, the fire, the floods of life. "Yes," she said, "I will tell you now, because of what you have done for me. If you gave me life, why shouldn't I give you love--if so I could?" "Love? Give me love?" "Yes! I believe I was going to love you, until now, although I had promised him--you know--Captain Woodhull. Oh, you see, I understand a little of what it was to you--what made you--" She spoke disconnectedly. "I believe--I believe I'd not have cared. I believe I could follow a man to the gallows. Now I will not, because you didn't tell me you were a thief. I can't trust you. But I'll kiss you once for good-by. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Being a man, he never fathomed her mind at all. But being a man, slowly, gently, he took her in his arms, drew her tight. Long, long it was till their lips met--and long then. But he heard her whisper "Good-by," saw her frank tears, felt her slowly, a little by a little, draw away from him. "Good-by," she said. "Good-by. I would not dare, any more, ever again. Oh, Will Banion, why did you take away my heart? I had but one!" "It is mine!" he cried savagely. "No other man in all the world shall ever have it! Molly!" But she now was gone. He did not know how long he stood alone, his head bowed on his saddle. The raucous howl of a great gray wolf near by spelled out the lonesome tragedy of his future life for him. Quaint and sweet philosopher, and bold as she but now had been in one great and final imparting of her real self, Molly Wingate was only a wet, weary and bedraggled maid when at length she entered the desolate encampment which stood for home. She found her mother sitting on a box under a crude awning, and cast herself on her knees, her head on that ample bosom that she had known as haven in her childhood. She wept now like a little child. "It's bad!" said stout Mrs. Wingate, not knowing. "But you're back and alive. It looks like we're wrecked and everything lost, and we come nigh about getting all burned up, but you're back alive to your ma! Now, now!" That night Molly turned on a sodden pallet which she had made down beside her mother in the great wagon. But she slept ill. Over and over to her lips rose the same question: "Oh, Will Banion, Will Banion, why did you take away my heart?" CHAPTER XV THE DIVISION The great wagon train of 1848 lay banked along the Vermilion in utter and abject confusion. Organization there now was none. But for Banion's work with the back fires the entire train would have been wiped out. The effects of the storm were not so capable of evasion. Sodden, wretched, miserable, chilled, their goods impaired, their cattle stampeded, all sense of gregarious self-reliance gone, two hundred wagons were no more than two hundred individual units of discontent and despair. So far as could be prophesied on facts apparent, the journey out to Oregon had ended in disaster almost before it was well begun. Bearded men at smoking fires looked at one another in silence, or would not look at all. Elan, morale, esprit de corps were gone utterly. Stout Caleb Price walked down the wagon lines, passing fourscore men shaking in their native agues, not yet conquered. Women, pale, gaunt, grim, looked at him from limp sunbonnets whose stays had been half dissolved. Children whimpered. Even the dogs, curled nose to tail under the wagons, growled surlily. But Caleb Price found at last the wagon of the bugler who had been at the wars and shook him out. "Sound, man!" said Caleb Price. "Play up Oh, Susannah! Then sound the Assembly. We've got to have a meeting." They did have a meeting. Jesse Wingate scented mutiny and remained away. "There's no use talking, men," said Caleb Price, "no use trying to fool ourselves. We're almost done, the way things are. I like Jess Wingate as well as any man I ever knew, but Jess Wingate's not the man. What shall we do?" He turned to Hall, but Hall shook his head; to Kelsey, but Kelsey only laughed. "I could get a dozen wagons through, maybe," said he. "Here's two hundred. Woodhull's the man, but Woodhull's gone--lost, I reckon, or maybe killed and lying out somewhere on these prairies. You take it, Cale." Price considered for a time. "No," said he at length. "It's no time for one of us to take on what may be done better by someone else, because our women and children are at stake. The very best man's none too good for this job, and the more experience he has the better. The man who thinks fastest and clearest at the right time is the man we want, and the man we'd follow--the only man. Who'll he be?" "Oh, I'll admit Banion had the best idea of crossing the Kaw," said Kelsey. "He got his own people over, too, somehow." "Yes, and they're together now ten miles below us. And Molly Wingate--she was caught out with her team by the fire--says it was Banion who started the back-fire. That saved his train and ours. Ideas that come too late are no good. We need some man with the right ideas at the right time." "You think it's Banion?" Hall spoke. "I do think it's Banion. I don't see how it can be anyone else." "Woodhull'd never stand for it." "He isn't here." "Wingate won't." "He'll have to." The chief of mutineers, a grave and bearded man, waited for a time. "This is a meeting of the train," said he. "In our government the majority rules. Is there any motion on this?" Silence. Then rose Hall of Ohio, slowly, a solid man, with three wagons of his own. "I've been against the Missouri outfit," said he. "They're a wild bunch, with no order or discipline to them. They're not all free-soilers, even if they're going out to Oregon. But if one man can handle them, he can handle us. An Army man with a Western experience--who'll it be unless it is their man? So. Mister Chairman, I move for a committee of three, yourself to be one, to ride down and ask the Missourians to join on again, all under Major Banion." "I'll have to second that," said a voice. Price saw a dozen nods. "You've heard it, men," said he. "All in favor rise up." They stood, with not many exceptions--rough-clad, hard-headed, hard-handed men of the nation's vanguard. Price looked them over soberly. "You see the vote, men," said he. "I wish Jess had come, but he didn't. Who'll be the man to ride down? Wingate?" "He wouldn't go," said Kelsey. "He's got something against Banion; says he's not right on his war record--something--" "He's right on his train record this far," commented Price. "We're not electing a Sabbath-school superintendent now, but a train captain who'll make these wagons cover twelve miles a day, average. "Hall, you and Kelsey saddle up and ride down with me. We'll see what we can do. One thing sure, something has got to be done, or we might as well turn back. For one, I'm not used to that." They did saddle and ride--to find the Missouri column coming up with intention of pitching below, at the very scene of the massacre, which was on the usual Big Vermilion ford, steep-banked on either side, but with hard bottom. Ahead of the train rode two men at a walk, the scout Jackson, and the man they sought. They spied him as the man on the black Spanish horse, found him a pale and tired young man, who apparently had slept as ill as they themselves. But in straight and manful fashion they told him their errand. The pale face of Will Banion flushed, even with the livid scorch marks got in the prairie fire the day before. He considered. "Gentlemen," he said after a time, "you don't know what you are asking of me. It would be painful for me to take that work on now." "It's painful for us to see our property lost and our families set afoot," rejoined Caleb Price. "It's not pleasant for me to do this. But it's no question, Major Banion, what you or I find painful or pleasant. The question is on the women and children. You know that very well." "I do know it--yes. But you have other men. Where's Woodhull?" "We don't know. We think the Pawnees got him among the others." "Jackson"--Banion turned to his companion--"we've got to make a look-around for him. He's probably across the river somewhere." "Like enough," rejoined the scout. "But the first thing is for all us folks to git acrost the river too. Let him go to hell." "We want you, Major," said Hall quietly, and even Kelsey nodded. "What shall I do, Jackson?" demanded Banion. "Fly inter hit, Will," replied that worthy. "Leastways, take hit on long enough so's to git them acrost an' help git their cattle together. Ye couldn't git Wingate to work under ye no ways. But mebbe-so we can show 'em fer a day er so how Old Missoury gits acrost a country. Uh-huh?" Again Banion considered, pondering many things of which none of these knew anything at all. At length he drew aside with the men of the main train. "Park our wagons here, Bill," he said. "See that they are well parked, too. Get out your guards. I'll go up and see what we can do. We'll all cross here. Have your men get all the trail ropes out and lay in a lot of dry cottonwood logs. We'll have to raft some of the stuff over. See if there's any wild grapevines along the bottoms. They'll help hold the logs. So long." He turned, and with the instinct of authority rode just a half length ahead of the others on the return. Jesse Wingate, a sullen and discredited Achilles, held to his tent, and Molly did as much, her stout-hearted and just-minded mother being the main source of Wingate news. Banion kept as far away from them as possible, but had Jed sent for. "Jed," said he, "first thing, you get your boys together and go after the cattle. Most of them went downstream with the wind. The hobbled stuff didn't come back down the trail and must be below there too. The cows wouldn't swim the big river on a run. If there's rough country, with any shelter, they'd like enough begin to mill--it might be five miles, ten--I can't guess. You go find out. "Now, you others, first thing, get your families all out in the sun. Spread out the bedclothes and get them dried. Build fires and cook your best right away--have the people eat. Get that bugle going and play something fast--Sweet Hour of Prayer is for evening, not now. Give 'em Reveille, and then the cavalry charge. Play Susannah. "I'm going to ride the edge of the burning to look for loose stock. You others get a meal into these people--coffee, quinine, more coffee. Then hook up all the teams you can and move down to the ford. We'll be on the Platte and among the buffalo in a week or ten days. Nothing can stop us. All you need is just a little more coffee and a little more system, and then a good deal more of both. "Now's a fine time for this train to shake into place," he added. "You, Price, take your men and go down the lines. Tell your kinfolk and families and friends and neighbors to make bands and hang together. Let 'em draw cuts for place if they like, but stick where they go. We can't tell how the grass will be on ahead, and we may have to break the train into sections on the Platte; but we'll break it ourselves, and not see it fall apart or fight apart. So?" He wheeled and went away at a trot. All he had given them was the one thing they lacked. The Wingate wagons came in groups and halted at the river bank, where the work of rafting and wagon boating went methodically forward. Scores of individual craft, tipsy and risky, two or three logs lashed together, angled across and landed far below. Horsemen swam across with lines and larger rafts were steadied fore and aft with ropes snubbed around tree trunks on either bank. Once started, the resourceful pioneer found a dozen ways to skin his cat, as one man phrased it, and presently the falling waters permitted swimming and fording the stock. It all seemed ridiculously simple and ridiculously cheerful. Toward evening a great jangling of bells and shouting of young captains announced the coming of a great band of the stampeded livestock--cattle, mules and horses mixed. Afar came the voice of Jed Wingate singing, "Oh, then Susannah," and urging Susannah to have no concern. But Banion, aloof and morose, made his bed that night apart even from his own train. He had not seen Wingate--did not see him till the next day, noon, when he rode up and saluted the former leader, who sat on his own wagon seat and not in saddle. "My people are all across, Mr. Wingate," he said, and the last of your wagons will be over by dark and straightened out. I'm parked a mile ahead." "You are parked? I thought you were elected--by my late friends--to lead this whole train." He spoke bitterly and with a certain contempt that made Banion color. "No. We can travel apart, though close. Do you want to go ahead, or shall I?" "As you like. The country's free." "It's not free for some things, Mr. Wingate," rejoined the younger man hotly. "You can lead or not, as you like; but I'll not train up with a man who thinks of me as you do. After this think what you like, but don't speak any more." "What do you mean by that?" "You know very well. You've believed another man's word about my personal character. It's gone far enough and too far." "The other man is not here. He can't face you." "No, not now. But if he's on earth he'll face me sometime." Unable to control himself further, Banion wheeled and galloped away to his own train. "You ask if we're to join in with the Yankees," he flared out to Jackson. "No! We'll camp apart and train apart. I won't go on with them." "Well," said the scout, "I didn't never think we would, er believe ye could; not till they git in trouble agin--er till a certain light wagon an' mules throws in with us, huh?" "You'll say no more of that, Jackson! But one thing: you and I have got to ride and see if we can get any trace of Woodhull." "Like looking for a needle in a haystack, an' a damn bad needle at that," was the old man's comment. CHAPTER XVI THE PLAINS "On to the Platte! The buffalo!" New cheer seemed to come to the hearts of the emigrants now, and they forgot bickering. The main train ground grimly ahead, getting back, if not all its egotism, at least more and more of its self-reliance. By courtesy, Wingate still rode ahead, though orders came now from a joint council of his leaders, since Banion would not take charge. The great road to Oregon was even now not a trail but a road, deep cut into the soil, though no wheeled traffic had marked it until within the past five years. A score of paralled paths it might be at times, of tentative location along a hillside or a marshy level; but it was for the most part a deep-cut, unmistakable road from which it had been impossible to wander. At times it lay worn into the sod a half foot, a foot in depth. Sometimes it followed the ancient buffalo trails to water--the first roads of the Far West, quickly seized on by hunters and engineers--or again it transected these, hanging to the ridges after frontier road fashion, heading out for the proved fords of the greater streams. Always the wheel marks of those who had gone ahead in previous years, the continuing thread of the trail itself, worn in by trader and trapper and Mormon and Oregon or California man, gave hope and cheer to these who followed with the plow. Stretching out, closing up, almost inch by inch, like some giant measuring worm in its slow progress, the train held on through a vast and stately landscape, which some travelers had called the Eden of America, such effect was given by the series of altering scenes. Small imagination, indeed, was needed to picture here a long-established civilization, although there was not a habitation. They were beyond organized society and beyond the law. Game became more abundant, wild turkeys still appeared in the timbered creek bottoms. Many elk were seen, more deer and very many antelope, packed in northward by the fires. A number of panthers and giant gray wolves beyond counting kept the hunters always excited. The wild abundance of an unexhausted Nature offered at every hand. The sufficiency of life brought daily growth in the self-reliance which had left them for a time. The wide timberlands, the broken low hills of the green prairie at length began to give place to a steadily rising inclined plane. The soil became less black and heavy, with more sandy ridges. The oak and hickory, stout trees of their forefathers, passed, and the cottonwoods appeared. After they had crossed the ford of the Big Blue--a hundred yards of racing water--they passed what is now the line between Kansas and Nebraska, and followed up the Little Blue, beyond whose ford the trail left these quieter river valleys and headed out over a high table-land in a keen straight flight over the great valley of the Platte, the highway to the Rockies. Now the soil was sandier; the grass changed yet again. They had rolled under wheel by now more than one hundred different varieties of wild grasses. The vegetation began to show the growing altitude. The cactus was seen now and then. On the far horizon the wavering mysteries of the mirage appeared, marvelous in deceptiveness, mystical, alluring, the very spirits of the Far West, appearing to move before their eyes in giant pantomime. They were passing from the Prairies to the Plains. Shouts and cheers arose as the word passed back that the sand hills known as the Coasts of the Platte were in sight. Some mothers told their children they were now almost to Oregon. The whips cracked more loudly, the tired teams, tongues lolling, quickened their pace as they struck the down-grade gap leading through the sand ridges. Two thousand Americans, some of them illiterate and ignorant, all of them strong, taking with them law, order, society, the church, the school, anew were staging the great drama of human life, act and scene and episode, as though upon some great moving platform drawn by invisible cables beyond the vast proscenium of the hills. CHAPTER XVII THE GREAT ENCAMPMENT As the long columns of the great wagon train broke through the screening sand hills there was disclosed a vast and splendid panorama. The valley of the Platte lay miles wide, green in the full covering of spring. A crooked and broken thread of timber growth appeared, marking the moister soil and outlining the general course of the shallow stream, whose giant cottonwoods were dwarfed now by the distances. In between, and for miles up and down the flat expanse, there rose the blue smokes of countless camp fires, each showing the location of some white-topped ship of the Plains. Black specks, grouped here and there, proved the presence of the livestock under herd. Over all shone a pleasant sun. Now and again the dark shadow of a moving cloud passed over the flat valley, softening its high lights for the time. At times, as the sun shone full and strong, the faint loom of the mirage added the last touch of mysticism, the figures of the wagons rising high, multiplied many-fold, with giant creatures passing between, so that the whole seemed, indeed, some wild phantasmagoria of the desert. "Look!" exclaimed Wingate, pulling up his horse. "Look, Caleb, the Northern train is in and waiting for us! A hundred wagons! They're camped over the whole bend." The sight of this vast re-enforcement brought heart to every man, woman and child in all the advancing train. Now, indeed, Oregon was sure. There would be, all told, four hundred--five hundred--above six hundred wagons. Nothing could withstand them. They were the same as arrived! As the great trains blended before the final emparkment men and women who had never met before shook hands, talked excitedly, embraced, even wept, such was their joy in meeting their own kind. Soon the vast valley at the foot of the Grand Island of the Platte--ninety miles in length it then was--became one vast bivouac whose parallel had not been seen in all the world. Even so, the Missouri column held back, an hour or two later on the trail. Banion, silent and morose, still rode ahead, but all the flavor of his adventure out to Oregon had left him--indeed, the very savor of life itself. He looked at his arms, empty; touched his lips, where once her kiss had been, so infinitely and ineradicably sweet. Why should he go on to Oregon now? As they came down through the gap in the Coasts, looking out over the Grand Island and the great encampment, Jackson pulled up his horse. "Look! Someone comin' out!" Banion sat his horse awaiting the arrival of the rider, who soon cut down the intervening distance until he could well be noted. A tall, spare man he was, middle-aged, of long lank hair and gray stubbled beard, and eyes overhung by bushy brows. He rode an Indian pad saddle, without stirrups, and was clad in the old costume of the hunter of the Far West--fringed shirt and leggings of buckskin. Moccasins made his foot-covering, though he wore a low, wide hat. As he came on at speed, guiding his wiry mount with a braided rope looped around the lower jaw, he easily might have been mistaken for a savage himself had he not come alone and from such company as that ahead. He jerked up his horse close at hand and sat looking at the newcomers, with no salutation beyond a short "How!" Banion met him. "We're the Westport train. Do you come from the Bluffs? Are you for Oregon?" "Yes. I seen ye comin'. Thought I'd projeck some. Who's that back of ye?" He extended an imperative skinny finger toward Jackson. "If it hain't Bill Jackson hit's his ghost!" "The same to you, Jim. How!" The two shook hands without dismounting. Jackson turned grinning to Banion. "Major," said he, "this is Jim Bridger, the oldest scout in the Rockies, an' that knows more West than ary man this side the Missoury. I never thought to see him agin, sartain not this far east." "Ner me," retorted the other, shaking hands with one man after another. "Jim Bridger? That's a name we know," said Banion. "I've heard of you back in Kentucky." "Whar I come from, gentlemen--whar I come from more'n forty year ago, near's I can figger. Leastways I was borned in Virginny an' must of crossed Kentucky sometime. I kain't tell right how old I am, but I rek'lect perfect when they turned the water inter the Missoury River." He looked at them solemnly. "I come back East to the new place, Kansas City. It didn't cut no mustard, an' I drifted to the Bluffs. This train was pullin' west, an' I hired on for guide. I've got a few wagons o' my own--iron, flour an' bacon for my post beyant the Rockies--ef we don't all git our ha'r lifted afore then! "We're in between the Sioux and the Pawnees now," he went on. "They're huntin' the bufflers not ten mile ahead. But when I tell these pilgrims, they laugh at me. The hull Sioux nation is on the spring hunt right now. I'll not have it said Jim Bridger led a wagon train into a massacree. If ye'll let me, I'm for leavin' 'em an' trainin' with you-all, especial since you got anyhow one good man along. I've knowed Bill Jackson many a year at the Rendyvous afore the fur trade petered. Damn the pilgrims! The hull world's broke loose this spring. There's five thousand Mormons on ahead, praisin' God every jump an' eatin' the grass below the roots. Womern an' children--so many of 'em, so many! I kain't talk about hit! Women don't belong out here! An' now here you come bringin' a thousand more! "There's a woman an' a baby layin' dead in our camp now," he concluded. "Died last night. The pilgrims is tryin' to make coffins fer 'em out'n cottonwood logs." "Lucky for all!" Jackson interrupted the garrulity of the other. "We buried men in blankets on the Vermilion a few days back. The Pawnees got a small camp o' our own folks." "Yes, I know all about that." "What's that?" cut in Banion. "How do you know?" "Well, we've got the survivors--three o' them, countin' Woodhull, their captain." "How did they get here?" "They came in with a small outfit o' Mormons that was north o' the Vermilion. They'd come out on the St. Jo road. They told me--" "Is Woodhull here--can you find him?" "Shore! Ye want to see him?" "Yes." "He told me all about hit--" "We know all about it, perhaps better than you do--after he's told you all about it." Bridger looked at him, curious. "Well, anyhow, hit's over," said he. "One of the men had a Pawnee arrer in his laig. Reckon hit hurt. I know, fer I carried a Blackfoot arrerhead under my shoulder blade fer sever'l years. "But come on down and help me make these pilgrims set guards. Do-ee mind, now, the hull Sioux nation's just in ahead o' us, other side the river! Yet these people didn't want to ford to the south side the Platte; they wanted to stick north o' the river. Ef we had, we'd have our ha'r dryin' by now. I tell ye, the tribes is out to stop the wagon trains this spring. They say too many womern and children is comin', an' that shows we want to take their land away fer keeps. "From now on to Oregon--look out! The Cayuses cleaned out the Whitman mission last spring in Oregon. Even the Shoshones is dancin'. The Crows is out, the Cheyennes is marchin', the Bannocks is east o' the Pass, an' ye kain't tell when ter expeck the Blackfoots an' Grow Vaws. Never was gladder to see a man than I am to see Bill Jackson." "Stretch out!" Banion gave the order. The Missouri wagons came on, filed through the gap in order and with military exactness wheeled into a perfect park at one side the main caravan. As the outer columns swung in, the inner spread out till the lapped wagons made a great oblong, Bridger watching them. Quickly the animals were outspanned, the picket ropes put down and the loose horses driven off to feed while the cattle were close herded. He nodded his approval. "Who's yer train boss, Bill?" he demanded. "That's good work." "Major Banion, of Doniphan's column in the war." "Will he fight?" "Try him!" News travels fast along a wagon train. Word passed now that there was a big Sioux village not far ahead, on the other side of the river, and that the caravan should be ready for a night attack. Men and women from the earlier train came into the Westport camp and the leaders formulated plans. More than four hundred families ate in sight of one another fires that evening. Again on the still air of the Plains that night rose the bugle summons, by now become familiar. In groups the wagon folk began to assemble at the council fire. They got instructions which left them serious. The camp fell into semi-silence. Each family returned to its own wagon. Out in the dark, flung around in a wide circle, a double watch stood guard. Wingate and his aids, Banion, Jackson, Bridger, the pick of the hardier men, went out for all the night. It was to Banion, Bridger and Jackson that most attention now was paid. Banion could not yet locate Woodhull in the train. The scouts crept out ahead of the last picket line, for though an attack in mass probably would not come before dawn, if the Sioux really should cross the river, some horse stealing or an attempted stampede might be expected before midnight or soon after. The night wore on. The fires of willow twigs and _bois des vaches_ fell into pale coals, into ashes. The chill of the Plains came, so that the sleepers in the great wagon corral drew their blankets closer about them as they lay. It was approaching midnight when the silence was ripped apart by the keen crack of a rifle--another and yet another. Then, in a ripple of red detonation, the rifle fire ran along the upper front of the entire encampment. "Turn out! Turn out, men!" called the high, clear voice of Banion, riding back. "Barricade! Fill in the wheels!" CHAPTER XVIII ARROW AND PLOW The night attack on the great emigrant encampment was a thing which had been preparing for years. The increasing number of the white men, the lessening numbers of the buffalo, meant inevitable combat with all the tribes sooner or later. Now the spring hunt of the northern Plains tribes was on. Five hundred lodges of the Sioux stood in one village on the north side of the Platte. The scaffolds were red with meat, everywhere the women were dressing hides and the camp was full of happiness. For a month the great Sioux nation had prospered, according to its lights. Two hundred stolen horses were under the wild herdsmen, and any who liked the meat of the spotted buffalo might kill it close to camp from the scores taken out of the first caravans up the Platte that year--the Mormons and other early trailers whom the Sioux despised because their horses were so few. But the Sioux, fat with _boudins_ and _dépouille_ and marrowbones, had waited long for the great Western train which should have appeared on the north side of the Platte, the emigrant road from the Council Bluffs. For some days now they had known the reason, as Jim Bridger had explained--the wagons had forded the river below the Big Island. The white men's medicine was strong. The Sioux did not know of the great rendezvous at the forks of the Great Medicine Road. Their watchmen, stationed daily at the eminences along the river bluffs of the north shore, brought back scoffing word of the carelessness of the whites. When they got ready they, too, would ford the river and take them in. They had not heeded the warning sent down the trail that no more whites should come into this country of the tribes. It was to be war. And now the smoke signals said yet more whites were coming in from the south! The head men rode out to meet their watchmen. News came back that the entire white nation now had come into the valley from the south and joined the first train. Here then was the chance to kill off the entire white nation, their women and their children, so there would be none left to come from toward the rising sun! Yes, this would end the race of the whites without doubt or question, because they all were here. After killing these it would be easy to send word west to the Arapahoes and Gros Ventres and Cheyennes, the Crows, the Blackfeet, the Shoshones, the Utes, to follow west on the Medicine Road and wipe out all who had gone on West that year and the year before. Then the Plains and the mountains would all belong to the red men again. The chiefs knew that the hour just before dawn is when an enemy's heart is like water, when his eyes are heavy, so they did not order the advance at once. But a band of the young men who always fought together, one of the inner secret societies or clans of the tribe, could not wait so long. First come, first served. Daylight would be time to look over the children and to keep those not desired for killing, and to select and distribute the young women of the white nation. But the night would be best for taking the elk-dogs and the spotted buffalo. Accordingly a band from this clan swam and forded the wide river, crossed the island, and in the early evening came downstream back of a shielding fringe of cottonwoods. Their scouts saw with amazement the village of tepees that moved on wheels. They heard the bugle, saw the white nation gather at the medicine fire, heard them chant their great medicine song; then saw them disperse; saw the fires fall low. They laughed. The white nation was strong, but they did not put out guards at night! For a week the Sioux had watched them, and they knew about that. It would be easy to run off all the herd and to kill a few whites even now, beginning the sport before the big battle of to-morrow, which was to wipe out the white nation altogether. But when at length, as the handle of the Great Dipper reached the point agreed, the line of the Sioux clansmen crawled away from the fringe of trees and out into the cover of a little slough that made toward the village of tepees on wheels, a quarter of a mile in front of the village men arose out of the ground and shot into them. Five of their warriors fell. Tall men in the dark came out and counted coup on them, took off their war bonnets; took off even more below the bonnets. And there was a warrior who rode this way and that, on a great black horse, and who had a strange war cry not heard before, and who seemed to have no fear. So said the clan leader when he told the story of the repulse. Taken aback, the attacking party found cover. But the Sioux would charge three times. So they scattered and crawled in again over a half circle. They found the wall of tepees solid; found that the white nation knew more of war than they had thought. They sped arrow after arrow, ball after ball, against the circle of the white tepees, but they did not break, and inside no one moved or cried out in terror; whereas outside, in the grass, men rose up and fired into them and did not run back, but came forward. Some had short rifles in their hands that did not need to be loaded, but kept on shooting. And none of the white nation ran away. And the elk-dogs with long ears, and the spotted buffalo, were no longer outside the village in the grass, but inside the village. What men could fight a nation whose warriors were so unfair as all this came to? The tribesmen drew back to the cottonwoods a half mile. "My heart is weak," said their clan leader. "I believe they are going to shoot us all. They have killed twenty of us now, and we have not taken a scalp." "I was close," said a young boy whom they called Bull Gets Up or The Sitting Bull. "I was close, and I heard the spotted buffalo running about inside the village; I heard the children. To-morrow we can run them away." "But to-night what man knows the gate into their village? They have got a new chief to-day. They are many as the grass leaves. Their medicine is strong. I believe they are going to kill us all if we stay here." Thus the partisan. So they did not stay there, but went away. And at dawn Banion and Bridger and Jackson and each of the column captains--others also--came into the corral carrying war bonnets, shields and bows; and some had things which had been once below war bonnets. The young men of this clan always fought on foot or on horse in full regalia of their secret order, day or night. The emigrants had plenty of this savage war gear now. "We've beat them off," said Bridger, "an' maybe they won't ring us now. Get the cookin' done, Cap'n Banion, an' let's roll out. But for your wagon park they'd have cleaned us." The whites had by no means escaped scathless. A dozen arrows stood sunk into the sides of the wagons inside the park, hundreds had thudded into the outer sides, nearest the enemy. One shaft was driven into the hard wood of a plow beam. Eight oxen staggered, legs wide apart, shafts fast in their bodies; four lay dead; two horses also; as many mules. This was not all. As the fighting men approached the wagons they saw a group of stern-faced women weeping around something which lay covered by a blanket on the ground. Molly Wingate stooped, drew it back to show them. Even Bridger winced. An arrow, driven by a buffalo bow, had glanced on the spokes of a wheel, risen in its flight and sped entirely across the inclosure of the corral. It had slipped through the canvas cover of a wagon on the opposite side as so much paper and caught fair a woman who was lying there, a nursing baby in her arms, shielding it, as she thought, with her body. But the missile had cut through one of her arms, pierced the head of the child and sunk into the bosom of the mother deep enough to kill her also. The two lay now, the shaft transfixing both; and they were buried there; and they lie there still, somewhere near the Grand Island, in one of a thousand unknown and unmarked graves along the Great Medicine Road. Under the ashes of a fire they left this grave, and drove six hundred wagons over it, and the Indians never knew. The leaders stood beside the dead woman, hats in hand. This was part of the price of empire--the life of a young woman, a bride of a year. The wagons all broke camp and went on in a vast caravan, the Missourians now at the front. Noon, and the train did not halt. Banion urged the teamsters. Bridger and Jackson were watching the many signal smokes. "I'm afeard o' the next bend," said Jackson at length. The fear was justified. Early in the afternoon they saw the outriders turn and come back to the train at full run. Behind them, riding out from the concealment of a clump of cottonwoods on the near side of the scattering river channels, there appeared rank after rank of the Sioux, more than two thousand warriors bedecked in all the savage finery of their war dress. They were after their revenge. They had left their village and, paralleling the white men's advance, had forded on ahead. They came out now, five hundred, eight hundred, a thousand, two thousand strong, and the ground shook under the thunder of the hoofs. They were after their revenge, eager to inflict the final blow upon the white nation. The spot was not ill chosen for their tactics. The alkali plain of the valley swung wide and flat, and the trail crossed it midway, far back from the water and not quite to the flanking sand hills. While a few dashed at the cattle, waving their blankets, the main body, with workman-like precision, strung out and swung wide, circling the train and riding in to arrow range. The quick orders of Banion and his scouts were obeyed as fully as time allowed. At a gallop, horse and ox transport alike were driven into a hurried park and some at least of the herd animals inclosed. The riflemen flanked the train on the danger side and fired continually at the long string of running horses, whose riders had flung themselves off-side so that only a heel showed above a pony's back, a face under his neck. Even at this range a half dozen ponies stumbled, figures crawled off for cover. The emigrants were stark men with rifles. But the circle went on until, at the running range selected, the crude wagon park was entirely surrounded by a thin racing ring of steel and fire stretched out over two or three miles. The Sioux had guns also, and though they rested most on the bow, their chance rifle fire was dangerous. As for the arrows, even from this disadvantageous station these peerless bowmen sent them up in a high arc so that they fell inside the inclosure and took their toll. Three men, two women lay wounded at the first ride, and the animals were plunging. The war chief led his warriors in the circle once more, chanting his own song to the continuous chorus of savage ululations. The entire fighting force of the Sioux village was in the circle. The ring ran closer. The Sioux were inside seventy-five yards, the dust streaming, the hideously painted faces of the riders showing through, red, saffron, yellow, as one after another warrior twanged a bow under his horse's neck as he ran. But this was easy range for the steady rifles of men who kneeled and fired with careful aim. Even the six-shooters, then new to the Sioux, could work. Pony after pony fell, until the line showed gaps; whereas now the wagon corral showed no gap at all, while through the wheels, and over the tongue spaces, from every crevice of the gray towering wall came the fire of more and more men. The medicine of the white men was strong. Three times the ring passed, and that was all. The third circuit was wide and ragged. The riders dared not come close enough to carry off their dead and wounded. Then the attack dwindled, the savages scattering and breaking back to the cover of the stream. "Now, men, come on!" called out Banion. "Ride them down! Give them a trimming they'll remember! Come on, boys!" Within a half hour fifty more Sioux were down, dead or very soon to die. Of the living not one remained in sight. "They wanted hit, an' they got hit!" exclaimed Bridger, when at length he rode back, four war bonnets across his saddle and scalps at his cantle. He raised his voice in a fierce yell of triumph, not much other than savage himself, dismounted and disdainfully cast his trophies across a wagon tongue. "I've et horse an' mule an' dog," said he, "an' wolf, wil'cat an' skunk, an' perrairy dog an' snake an' most ever'thing else that wears a hide, but I never could eat Sioux. But to-morrer we'll have ribs in camp. I've seed the buffler, an' we own this side the river now." Molly Wingate sat on a bed roll near by, knitting as calmly as though at home, but filled with wrath. "Them nasty, dirty critters!" she exclaimed. "I wish't the boys had killed them all. Even in daylight they don't stand up and fight fair like men. I lost a whole churnin' yesterday. Besides, they killed my best cow this mornin', that's what they done. And lookit this thing!" She held up an Indian arrow, its strap-iron head bent over at right angles. "They shot this into our plow beam. Looks like they got a spite at our plow." "Ma'am, they have got a spite at hit," said the old scout, seating himself on the ground near by. "They're scared o' hit. I've seed a bunch o' Sioux out at Laramie with a plow some Mormon left around when he died. They'd walk around and around that thing by the hour, talkin' low to theirselves. They couldn't figger hit out no ways a-tall. "That season they sent a runner down to the Pawnees to make a peace talk, an' to find out what this yere thing was the whites had brung out. Pawnees sent to the Otoes, an' the Otoes told them. They said hit was the white man's big medicine, an' that hit buried all the buffler under the ground wherever hit come, so no buffler ever could git out again. Nacherl, when the runners come back an' told what that thing really was, all the Injuns, every tribe, said if the white man was goin' to bury the buffler the white man had got to stay back. "Us trappers an' traders got along purty well with the Injuns--they could get things they wanted at the posts or the Rendyvous, an' that was all right. They had pelts to sell. But now these movers didn't buy nothin' an' didn't sell nothin'. They just went on through, a-carryin' this thing for buryin' the buffler. From now on the Injuns is goin' to fight the whites. Ye kain't blame 'em, ma'am; they only see their finish. "Five years ago nigh a thousand whites drops down in Oregon. Next year come fifteen hundred, an' in '45 twicet that many, an' so it has went, doublin, an' doublin'. Six or seven thousand whites go up the Platte this season, an' a right smart sprinklin' o' them'll git through to Oregon. Them 'at does'll carry plows. "Ma'am, if the brave that sunk a arrer in yore plow beam didn't kill yore plow hit warn't because he didn't want to. Hit's the truth--the plow does bury the buffler, an' fer keeps! Ye kain't kill a plow, ner neither kin yer scare hit away. Hit's the holdin'est thing ther is, ma'am--hit never does let go." "How long'll we wait here?" the older woman demanded. "Anyhow fer two-three days, ma'am. Thar's a lot has got to sort out stuff an' throw hit away here. One man has drug a pair o' millstones all the way to here from Ohio. He allowed to get rich startin' a gris'mill out in Oregon. An' then ther's chairs an' tables, an' God knows what--" "Well, anyhow," broke in Mrs. Wingate truculently, "no difference what you men say, I ain't going to leave my bureau, nor my table, nor my chairs! I'm going to keep my two churns and my feather bed too. We've had butter all the way so far, and I mean to have it all the way--and eggs. I mean to sleep at nights, too, if the pesky muskeeters'll let me. They most have et me up. And I'd give a dollar for a drink of real water now. It's all right to settle this water overnight, but that don't take the sody out of it. "Besides," she went on, "I got four quarts o' seed wheat in one of them bureau drawers, and six cuttings of my best rose-bush I'm taking out to plant in Oregon. And I got three pairs of Jed's socks in another bureau drawer. It's flat on its back, bottom of the load. I ain't going to dig it out for no man." "Well, hang on to them socks, ma'am. I've wintered many a time without none--only grass in my moccasins. There's outfits in this train that's low on flour an' side meat right now, let alone socks. We got to cure some meat. There's a million buffler just south in the breaks wantin' to move on north, but scared of us an' the Injuns. We'd orto make a good hunt inside o' ten mile to-morrer. We'll git enough meat to take us a week to jerk hit all, or else Jim Bridger's a liar--which no one never has said yit, ma'am." "Flowers?" he added. "You takin' flowers acrost? Flowers--do they go with the plow, too, as well as weeds? Well, well! Wimminfolks shore air a strange race o' people, hain't that the truth? Buryin' the buffler an' plantin' flowers on his grave! "But speakin' o' buryin' things," he suddenly resumed, "an' speakin' o' plows, 'minds me o' what's delayin' us all right now. Hit's a fool thing, too--buryin' Injuns!" "As which, Mr. Bridger? What you mean?" inquired Molly Wingate, looking over her spectacles. "This new man, Banion, that come in with the Missouri wagons--he taken hit on hisself to say, atter the fight was over, we orto stop an' bury all them Injuns! Well, I been on the Plains an' in the Rockies all my life, an' I never yit, before now, seed a Injun buried. Hit's onnatcherl. But this here man he, now, orders a ditch plowed an' them Injuns hauled in an' planted. Hit's wastin' time. That's what's keepin' him an' yore folks an' sever'l others. Yore husband an' yore son is both out yan with him. Hit beats hell, ma'am, these new-fangled ways!" "So that's where they are? I wanted them to fetch me something to make a fire." "I kain't do that, ma'am. Mostly my squaws--" "Your what? Do you mean to tell me you got squaws, you old heathen?" "Not many, ma'am--only two. Times is hard sence beaver went down. I kain't tell ye how hard this here depressin' has set on us folks out here." "Two squaws! My laws! Two--what's their names?" This last with feminine curiosity. "Well now, ma'am, I call one on 'em Blast Yore Hide--she's a Ute. The other is younger an' pertier. She's a Shoshone. I call her Dang Yore Eyes. Both them women is powerful fond o' me, ma'am. They both are right proud o' their names, too, because they air white names, ye see. Now when time comes fer a fire, Blast Yore Hide an' Dang Yore Eyes, they fight hit out between 'em which gits the wood. I don't study none over that, ma'am." Molly Wingate rose so ruffled that, like an angered hen, she seemed twice her size. "You old heathen!" she exclaimed. "You old murderin' lazy heathen man! How dare you talk like that to me?" "As what, ma'am? I hain't said nothin' out'n the way, have I? O' course, ef ye don't want to git the fire stuff, thar's yer darter--she's young an' strong. Yes, an' perty as a picter besides, though like enough triflin', like her maw. Where's she at now?" "None of your business where." "I could find her." "Oh, you could! How?" "I'd find that young feller Sam Woodhull that come in from below, renegadin' away from his train with that party o' Mormons--him that had his camp jumped by the Pawnees. I got a eye fer a womern, ma'am, but so's he--more'n fer Injuns, I'd say. I seed him with yore darter right constant, but I seemed to miss him in the ride. Whar was he at?" "I don't know as it's none of your business, anyways." "No? Well, I was just wonderin', ma'am, because I heerd Cap'n Banion ast that same question o' yore husband, Cap'n Wingate, an' Cap'n Wingate done said jest what ye said yerself--that hit wasn't none o' his business. Which makes things look shore hopeful an' pleasant in this yere train o' pilgrims, this bright and pleasant summer day, huh?" Grinning amicably, the incorrigible old mountaineer rose and went his way, and left the irate goodwife to gather her apron full of plains fuel for herself. CHAPTER XIX BANION OF DONIPHAN'S Molly Wingate was grumbing over her fire when at length her husband and son returned to their wagon. Jed was vastly proud over a bullet crease he had got in a shoulder. After his mother's alarm had taken the form of first aid he was all for showing his battle scars to a certain damsel in Caleb Price's wagon. Wingate remained dour and silent as was now his wont, and cursing his luck that he had had no horse to carry him up in the late pursuit of the Sioux. He also was bitter over the delay in making a burial trench. "Some ways, Jess," commented his spouse, "I'd a'most guess you ain't got much use for Will Banion." "Why should I have? Hasn't he done all he could to shoulder me out of my place as captain of this train? And wasn't I elected at Westport before we started?" "Mostly, a man has to stay elected, Jess." "Well, I'm going to! I had it out with that young man right now. I told him I knew why he wanted in our train--it was Molly." "What did he say?" "What could he say? He admitted it. And he had the gall to say I'd see it his way some day. Huh! That's a long day off, before I do. Well, at least he said he was going back to his own men, and they'd fall behind again. That suits me." "Did he say anything about finding Sam Woodhull?" "Yes. He said that would take its time, too." "Didn't say he wouldn't?" "No, I don't know as he did." "Didn't act scared of it?" "He didn't say much about it." "Sam does." "I reckon--and why shouldn't he? He'll play evens some day, of course. But now, Molly," he went on, with heat, "what's the use talking? We both know that Molly's made up her mind. She loves Sam and don't love this other man any more than I do. He's only a drift-about back from the war, and wandering out to Oregon. He'll maybe not have a cent when he gets there. He's got one horse and his clothes, and one or two wagons, maybe not paid for. Sam's got five wagons of goods to start a store with, and three thousand gold--so he says--as much as we have. The families are equal, and that's always a good thing. This man Banion can't offer Molly nothing, but Sam Woodhull can give her her place right from the start, out in Oregon. We got to think of all them things. "And I've got to think of a lot of other things, too. It's our girl. It's all right to say a man can go out to Oregon and live down his past, but it's a lot better not to have no past to live down. You know what Major Banion done, and how he left the Army--even if it wasn't why, it was how, and that's bad enough. Sam Woodhull has told us both all about Banion's record. If he'd steal in Mexico he'd steal in Oregon." "You didn't ever get so far along as to talk about that!" "We certainly did--right now, him and me, not half an hour ago, while we was riding back." "I shouldn't have thought he'd of stood it," said his wife, "him sort of fiery-like." "Well, it did gravel him. He got white, but wouldn't talk. Asked if Sam Woodhull had the proof, and I told him he had. That was when he said he'd go back to his own wagons. I could see he was avoiding Sam. But I don't see how, away out here, and no law nor nothing, we're ever going to keep the two apart." "They wasn't." "No. They did have it out, like schoolboys behind a barn. Do you suppose that'll ever do for a man of spirit like Sam Woodhull? No, there's other ways. And as I said, it's a far ways from the law out here, and getting farther every day, and wilder and wilder every day. It's only putting it off, Molly, but on the whole I was glad when Banion said he'd give up looking for Sam Woodhull this morning and go on back to his own men." "Did he say he'd give it up?" "Yes, he did. He said if I'd wait I'd see different. Said he could wait--said he was good at waiting." "But he didn't say he'd give it up?" "I don't know as he did in so many words." "He won't," said Molly Wingate. CHAPTER XX THE BUFFALO The emigrants had now arrived at the eastern edge of the great region of free and abundant meat. They now might count on at least six or seven hundred miles of buffalo to subsist them on their way to Oregon. The cry of "Buffalo! Buffalo!" went joyously down the lines of wagons, and every man who could muster a horse and a gun made ready for that chase which above all others meant most, whether in excitement or in profit. Of these hundreds of hunters, few had any experience on the Plains. It was arranged by the head men that the hunt should be strung out over several miles, the Missourians farthest down the river, the others to the westward, so that all might expect a fairer chance in an enterprise of so much general importance. Banion and Jackson, in accordance with the former's promise to Wingate, had retired to their own train shortly after the fight with the Sioux. The Wingate train leaders therefore looked to Bridger as their safest counsel in the matter of getting meat. That worthy headed a band of the best equipped men and played his own part in full character. A wild figure he made as he rode, hatless, naked to the waist, his legs in Indian leggings and his feet in moccasins. His mount, a compact cayuse from west of the Rockies, bore no saddle beyond a folded blanket cinched on with a rawhide band. For weapons Bridger carried no firearms at all, but bore a short buffalo bow of the Pawnees--double-curved, sinew-backed, made of the resilient _bois d'arc_, beloved bow wood of all the Plains tribes. A thick sheaf of arrows, newly sharpened, swung in the beaver quiver at his back. Lean, swart, lank of hair, he had small look of the white man left about him as he rode now, guiding his horse with a jaw rope of twisted hair and playing his bow with a half dozen arrows held along it with the fingers of his left hand. "For buffler the bow's the best," said he. "I'll show ye before long." They had not too far to go. At that time the short-grass country of the Platte Valley was the great center of the bison herds. The wallows lay in thousands, the white alkali showing in circles which almost touched edge to edge. The influx of emigrants had for the time driven the herds back from their ancient fords and watering places, to which their deep-cut trails led down, worn ineradicably into the soil. It was along one of the great buffalo trails that they now rode, breasting the line of hills that edged the Platte to the south. When they topped the flanking ridge a marvelous example of wild abundance greeted them. Bands of elk, yet more numerous bands of antelope, countless curious gray wolves, more than one grizzly bear made away before them, although by orders left unpursued. Of the feathered game they had now forgot all thought. The buffalo alone was of interest. The wild guide rode silent, save for a low Indian chant he hummed, his voice at times rising high, as though importunate. "Ye got to pray to the Great Speret when-all ye hunt, men," he explained. "An' ye got to have someone that can call the buffler, as the Injuns calls that when they hunt on foot. I kin call 'em, too, good as ary Injun. Why shouldn't I? "Thar now!" he exclaimed within the next quarter of an hour. "What did Jim Bridger tell ye? Lookee yonder! Do-ee say Jim Bridger can't make buffler medicine? Do-ee see 'em over yan ridge--thousands?" The others felt their nerves jump as they topped the ridge and saw fully the vast concourse of giant black-topped, beard-fronted creatures which covered the plateau in a body a mile and more across--a sight which never failed to thrill any who saw it. It was a rolling carpet of brown, like the prairie's endless wave of green. Dust clouds of combat rose here and there. A low muttering rumble of hoarse dull bellowing came audible even at that distance. The spectacle was to the novice not only thrilling--it was terrifying. The general movement of the great pack was toward the valley; closest to them a smaller body of some hundreds that stood, stupidly staring, not yet getting the wind of their assailants. Suddenly rose the high-pitched yell of the scout, sounding the charge. Snorting, swerving, the horses of the others followed his, terror smitten but driven in by men most of whom at least knew how to ride. Smoothly as a bird in flight, Bridger's trained buffalo horse closed the gap between him and a plunging bunch of the buffalo. The white savage proved himself peer of any savage of the world. His teeth bared as he threw his body into the bow with a short, savage jab of the left arm as he loosed the sinew cord. One after another feather showed, clinging to a heaving flank; one after another muzzle dripped red with the white foam of running; then one after another great animal began to slow; to stand braced, legs apart; soon to begin slowly kneeling down. The living swept ahead, the dying lay in the wake. The insatiate killer clung on, riding deep into the surging sea of rolling humps. At times, in savage sureness and cruelty, he did not ride abreast and drive the arrow into the lungs, but shot from the rear, quartering, into the thin hide back of the ribs, so that the shaft ranged forward into the intestines of the victim. If it did not bury, but hung free as the animal kicked at it convulsively, he rode up, and with his hand pushed the shaft deeper, feeling for the life, as the Indians called it, with short jabs of the imbedded missile. Master of an old trade he was, and stimulated by the proofs of his skill, his followers emulated him with their own weapons. The report of firearms, muffled by the rolling thunder of hoofs, was almost continuous so long as the horses could keep touch with the herd. Bridger paused only when his arrows were out, and grumbled to himself that he had no more, so could count only a dozen fallen buffalo for his product. That others, wounded, carried off arrows, he called bad luck and bad shooting. When he trotted back on his reeking horse, his quiver dancing empty, he saw other black spots than his own on the short grass. His followers had picked up the art not so ill. There was meat in sight now, certainly--as well as a half dozen unhorsed riders and three or four wounded buffalo disposed to fight. The old hunter showed his men how to butcher the buffalo, pulling them on their bellies, if they had not died thus, and splitting the hide down the back, to make a receptacle for the meat as it was dissected; showed them how to take out the tongue beneath the jaw, after slitting open the lower jaw. He besought them not to throw away the back fat, the hump, the boss ribs or the intestinal _boudins_; in short, gave them their essential buffalo-hunting lessons. Then he turned for camp, he himself having no relish for squaw's work, as he called it, and well assured the wagons would now have abundance. Banion and Jackson, with their followers, held their hunt some miles below the scene of Bridger's chase, and had no greater difficulty in getting among the herds. "How're ye ridin', Will?" asked Jackson before they mounted for the start from camp. Banion slapped the black stallion on the neck. "Not his first hunt!" said he. "I don't mean yore hoss, but yore shootin' irons. Whar's yore guns?" "I'll risk it with the dragoon revolvers," replied Banion, indicating his holsters. "Not the first time for them, either." "No? Well, maybe-so they'll do; but fer me, I want a hunk o' lead. Fer approachin' a buffler, still-huntin', the rifle's good, fer ye got time an' kin hold close. Plenty o' our men'll hunt thataway to-day, an' git meat; but fer me, give me a hunk o' lead. See here now, I got only a shotgun, cap an' ball, fourteen gauge, she is, an' many a hide she's stretched. I kerry my bullets in my mouth an' don't use no patchin'--ye hain't got time, when ye're runnin' in the herd. I let go a charge o' powder out'n my horn, clos't as I kin guess hit, spit in a bullet, and roll her home on top the powder with a jar o' the butt on top my saddle horn. That sots her down, an' she holds good enough to stay in till I ram the muzzle inter ha'r an' let go. She's the same as meat on the fire." "Well," laughed Banion, "you've another case of _de gustibus_, I suppose." "You're another, an' I call it back!" exclaimed the old man so truculently that his friend hastened to explain. "Well, I speak Blackfoot, Crow, Bannack, Grow Vaw, Snake an' Ute," grumbled the scout, "but I never run acrost no Latins out here. I allowed maybe-so ye was allowin' I couldn't kill buffler with Ole Sal. That's what I keep her fer--just buffler. I'll show ye afore long." And even as Bridger had promised for his favorite weapon, he did prove beyond cavil the efficiency of Old Sal. Time after time the roar or the double roar of his fusee was heard, audible even over the thunder of the hoofs; and quite usually the hunk of lead, driven into heart or lights, low down, soon brought down the game, stumbling in its stride. The old halfbreed style of loading, too, was rapid enough to give Jackson as many buffalo as Bridger's bow had claimed before his horse fell back and the dust cloud lessened in the distance. The great speed and bottom of Banion's horse, as well as the beast's savage courage and hunting instinct, kept him in longer touch with the running game. Banion was in no haste. From the sound of firing he knew his men would have meat. Once in the surge of the running herd, the rolling backs, low heads and lolling tongues, shaggy frontlets and gleaming eyes all about him, he dropped the reins on Pronto's neck and began his own work carefully, riding close and holding low, always ready for the sudden swerve of the horse away from the shot to avoid the usual rush of the buffalo when struck. Since he took few chances, his shot rarely failed. In a mile or so, using pains, he had exhausted all but two shots, one in each weapon, and of course no man could load the old cap-and-ball revolver while in the middle of a buffalo run. Now, out of sheer pride in his own skill with small arms, he resolved upon attempting a feat of which he once had heard but never had seen. Jackson, at a considerable distance to the rear, saw his leader riding back of two bulls which he had cut off and which were making frantic efforts to overtake the herd. After a time they drew close together, running parallel and at top speed. At the distance, what Jackson saw was a swift rush of the black horse between the two bulls. For an instant the three seemed to run neck and neck. Then the rider's arms seemed extended, each on its side. Two puffs of blue smoke stained the gray dust. The black horse sprang straight ahead, not swerving to either side. Two stumbling forms slowed, staggered and presently fell. Then the dust passed, and he saw the rider trot back, glancing here and there over the broad rolling plain at the work of himself and his men. "I seed ye do hit, boy!" exclaimed the grizzled old hunter when they met. "I seed ye plain, an' ef I hadn't, an' ye'd said ye'd did hit, I'd of said ye was a liar." "Oh, the double?" Banion colored, not ill pleased at praise from Sir Hubert, praise indeed. "Well, I'd heard it could be done." "Once is enough. Let 'em call ye a liar atter this! Ef ary one o' them bulls had hit ye ye'd have had no hoss; an' ary one was due to hit ye, or drive ye against the other, an' then he would. That's a trap I hain't ridin' inter noways, not me!" He looked at his own battered piece a trifle ruefully. "Well, Ole Sal," said he, "'pears like you an' me ain't newfangled enough for these times, not none! When I git to Oregon, ef I ever do, I'm a goin' to stay thar. Times back, five year ago, no one dreamed o' wagons, let alone plows. Fust thing, they'll be makin' plows with wheels, an' rifles that's six-shooters too!" He laughed loud and long at his own conceit. "Well, anyways," said he, "we got meat. We've licked one red nation an' got enough meat to feed the white nation, all in a couple o' days. Not so bad--not so bad." And that night, in the two separate encampments, the white nation, in bivouac, on its battle ground, sat around the fires of _bois des vaches_ till near morning, roasting boss ribs, breaking marrowbones, laughing, singing, boasting, shaking high their weapons of war, men making love to their women--the Americans, most terrible and most successful of all savages in history. But from one encampment two faces were missing until late--Banion and Jackson of the Missourians. Sam Woodhull, erstwhile column captain of the great train, of late more properly to be called unattached, also was absent. It was supposed by their friends that these men might be out late, superintending the butchering, or that at worst they were benighted far out and would find their way to camp the next morning. Neither of these guesses was correct. Any guess, to be correct, must have included in one solution the missing men of both encampments, who had hunted miles apart. CHAPTER XXI THE QUICKSANDS As Banion and Jackson ended their part in the buffalo running and gave instructions to the wagon men who followed to care for the meat, they found themselves at a distance of several miles from their starting point. They were deep into a high rolling plateau where the going was more difficult than in the level sunken valley of the Platte. Concluding that it would be easier to ride the two sides of the triangle than the one over which they had come out, they headed for the valley at a sharp angle. As they rode, the keen eye of Jackson caught sight of a black object apparently struggling on the ground at the bottom of a little swale which made down in a long ribbon of green. "Look-ee yan!" he exclaimed. "Some feller's lost his buffler, I expect. Let's ride down an' put him out'n his misery afore the wolves does." They swung off and rode for a time toward the strange object. Banion pulled up. "That's no buffalo! That's a man and his horse! He's bogged down!" "You're right, Will, an' bogged bad! I've knew that light-green slough grass to cover the wurst sort o' quicksand. She runs black sand under the mud, God knows how deep. Ye kain't run a buffler inter hit--he knows. Come on!" They spurred down a half mile of gentle slope, hard and firm under foot, and halted at the edge of one of the strange man-traps which sometimes were found in the undrained Plains--a slough of tall, coarse, waving grass which undoubtedly got its moisture from some lower stratum. In places a small expanse of glistening black mud appeared, although for the most part the mask of innocent-looking grass covered all signs of danger. It was, in effect, the dreaded quicksand, the octopus of the Plains, which covered from view more than one victim and left no discoverable trace. The rider had attempted to cross a narrow neck of the slough. His mount had begun to sink and flounder, had been urged forward until the danger was obvious. Then, too late, the rider had flung off and turned back, sinking until his feet and legs were gripped by the layer of deep soft sand below. It was one of the rarest but most terrible accidents of the savage wilderness. Blackened by the mud which lay on the surface, his hat half buried, his arms beating convulsively as he threw himself forward again and again, the victim must in all likelihood soon have exhausted himself. The chill of night on the high Plains soon would have done the rest, and by good fortune he might have died before meeting his entombment. His horse ere this had accepted fate, and ceasing to struggle lay almost buried, his head and neck supported by a trembling bit of floating grass roots. "Steady, friend!" called out Banion as he ran to the edge. "Don't fight it! Spread out your arms and lie still! We'll get you out!" "Quick! My lariat, Jackson, and yours!" he added. The scout was already freeing the saddle ropes. The two horses stood, reins down, snorting at the terror before them, whose menace they now could sense. "Take the horse!" called Banion. "I'll get the man!" He was coiling the thin, braided hide _reata_, soft as a glove and strong as steel, which always hung at the Spanish saddle. He cast, and cast again--yet again, the loop at forty feet gone to nothing. The very silence of the victim nerved him to haste, and he stepped in knee deep, finding only mud, the trickle of black sands being farther out. The rope sped once more, and fell within reach--was caught. A sob or groan came, the first sound. Even then from the imprisoned animal beyond him came that terrifying sound, the scream of a horse in mortal terror. Jackson's rope fell short. "Get the rope under your arms!" called Banion to the blackened, sodden figure before him. Slowly, feebly, his order was obeyed. With much effort the victim got the loop below one arm, across a shoulder, and then paused. "Your rope, quick, Bill!" Jackson hurried and they joined the ends of the two ropes. "Not my horse--he's wild. Dally on to your own saddle, Bill, and go slow or you'll tear his head off." The scout's pony, held by the head and backed slowly, squatted to its haunches, snorting, but heaving strongly. The head of the victim was drawn oddly toward his shoulder by the loop, but slowly, silently, his hands clutching at the rope, his body began to rise, to slip forward. Banion, deep as he dared, at last caught him by the collar, turned up his face. He was safe. Jackson heard the rescuer's deep exclamation, but was busy. "Cast free, Will, cast free quick, and I'll try for the horse!" He did try, with the lengthened rope, cast after cast, paying little attention to the work of Banion, who dragged out his man and bent over him as he lay motionless on the safe edge of the treacherous sunken sands which still half buried him. "No use!" exclaimed the older man. He ran to his saddle and got his deadly double barrel, then stepped as close as possible to the sinking animal as he could. There came a roar. The head of the horse dropped flat, began to sink. "Pore critter!" muttered the old man, capping his reloaded gun. He now hastened to aid Banion. The latter turned a set face toward him and pointed. The rescued man had opened his eyes. He reached now convulsively for a tuft of grass, paused, stared. "Hit's Sam Woodhull!" ejaculated the scout. Then, suddenly, "Git away, Will--move back!" Banion looked over his shoulder as he stood, his own hands and arms, his clothing, black with mire. The old man's gray eye was like a strange gem, gleaming at the far end of the deadly double tube, which was leveled direct at the prostrate man's forehead. "No!" Banion's call was quick and imperative. He flung up a hand, stepped between. "No! You'd kill him--now?" With a curse Jackson flung his gun from him, began to recoil the muddied ropes. At length, without a word, he came to Banion's side. He reached down, caught an arm and helped Banion drag the man out on the grass. He caught off a handful of herbage and thrust it out to Woodhull, who remained silent before what seemed his certain fate. "Wipe off yore face, you skunk!" said the scout. Then he seated himself, morosely, hands before knees. "Will Banion," said he, "ye're a fool--a nacherl-borned, congenual, ingrain damned fool! Ye're flyin' in the face o' Proverdence, which planted this critter right here fer us ter leave where no one'd ever be the wiser, an' where he couldn't never do no more devilment. Ye idjit, leave me kill him, ef ye're too chicken-hearted yoreself! Or leave us throw him back in again!" Banion would not speak at first, though his eyes never left Woodhull's streaked, ghastly face. "By God!" said he slowly, at length, "if we hadn't joined Scott and climbed Chapultepec together, I'd kill you like a dog, right here! Shall I give you one more chance to square things for me? You know what I mean! Will you promise?" "Promise?" broke in Jackson. "Ye damned fool, would ye believe ary promise he made, even now? I tell-ee, boy, he'll murder ye the fust chanct he gits! He's tried hit one night afore. Leave me cut his throat, Will! Ye'll never be safe ontel I do. Leave me cut his throat er kill him with a rock. Hit's only right." Banion shook his head. "No," he said slowly, "I couldn't, and you must not." "Do you promise?" he repeated to the helpless man. "Get up--stand up! Do you promise--will you swear?" "Swear? Hell!" Jackson also rose as Woodhull staggered to his feet. "Ye knew this man orto kill ye, an' ye sneaked hit, didn't ye? Whar's yer gun?" "There!" Woodhull nodded to the bog, over which no object now showed. "I'm helpless! I'll promise! I'll swear!" "Then we'll not sound the No-quarter charge that you and I have heard the Spanish trumpets blow. You will remember the shoulder of a man who fought with you? You'll do what you can now--at any cost?" "What cost?" demanded Woodhull thickly. Banion's own white teeth showed as he smiled. "What difference?" said he. "What odds?" "That's hit!" Again Jackson cut in, inexorable. "Hit's no difference to him what he sw'ars, yit he'd bargain even now. Hit's about the gal!" "Hush!" said Banion sternly. "Not another word!" "Figure on what it means to you." He turned to Woodhull. "I know what it means to me. I've got to have my own last chance, Woodhull, and I'm saving you for that only. Is your last chance now as good as mine? This isn't mercy--I'm trading now. You know what I mean." Woodhull had freed his face of the mud as well as he could. He walked away, stooped at a trickle of water to wash himself. Jackson quietly rose and kicked the shotgun back farther from the edge. Woodhull now was near to Banion's horse, which, after his fashion, always came and stood close to his master. The butts of the two dragoon revolvers showed in their holsters at the saddle. When he rose from the muddy margin, shaking his hands as to dry them, he walked toward the horse. With a sudden leap, without a word, he sprang beyond the horse, with a swift clutch at both revolvers, all done with a catlike quickness not to have been predicted. He stood clear of the plunging horse, both weapons leveled, covering his two rescuers. "Evener now!" His teeth bared. "Promise _me_!" Jackson's deep curse was his answer. Banion rose, his arms folded. "You're a liar and a coward, Sam!" said he. "Shoot, if you've got the nerve!" Incredible, yet the man was a natural murderer. His eye narrowed. There came a swift motion, a double empty click! "Try again, Sam!" said Banion, taunting him. "Bad luck--you landed on an empty!" He did try again. Swift as an adder, his hands flung first one and then the other weapon into action. Click after click, no more; Jackson sat dumb, expecting death. "They're all empty, Sam," said Banion at last as the murderer cast down the revolvers and stood with spread hands. "For the first time, I didn't reload. I didn't think I'd need them." "You can't blame me!" broke out Woodhull. "You said it was no quarter! Isn't a prisoner justified in trying to escape?" "You've not escaped," said Banion, coldly now. "Rope him, Jackson." The thin, soft hide cord fell around the man's neck, tightened. "Now," shrilled Jackson, "I'll give ye a dog's death!" He sprang to the side of the black Spaniard, who by training had settled back, tightening the rope. CHAPTER XXII A SECRET OF TWO Catching the intention of the maddened man, now bent only on swift revenge, Banion sprang to the head of his horse, flinging out an arm to keep Jackson out of the saddle. The horse, frightened at the stubborn struggle between the two, sprang away. Woodhull was pulled flat by the rope about his neck, nor could he loosen it now with his hands, for the horse kept steadily away. Any instant and he might be off in a mad flight, dragging the man to his death. "Ho! Pronto--_Vien aqui_!" Banion's command again quieted the animal. His ears forward, he came up, whickering his own query as to what really was asked of him. Banion caught the bridle rein once more and eased the rope. Jackson by now had his shotgun and was shouting, crazed with anger. Woodhull's life chance was not worth a bawbee. It was his enemy who saved it once again, for inscrutable but unaltered reasons of his own. "Drop that, Jackson!" called Banion. "Do as I tell you! This man's mine!" Cursing himself, his friend, their captive, the horse, his gun and all animate and inanimate Nature in his blood rage, the old man, livid in wrath, stalked away at length. "I'll kill him sometime, ef ye don't yerself!" he screamed, his beard trembling. "Ye damned fool!" "Get up, Woodhull!" commanded Banion. "You've tried once more to kill me. Of course, I'll not take any oath or promise from you now. You don't understand such things. The blood of a gentleman isn't anywhere in your strain. But I'll give you one more chance--give myself that chance too. There's only one thing you understand. That's fear. Yet I've seen you on a firing line, and you started with Doniphan's men. We didn't know we had a coward with us. But you are a coward. "Now I leave you to your fear! You know what I want--more than life it is to me; but your life is all I have to offer for it. I'm going to wait till then. "Come on, now! You'll have to walk. Jackson won't let you have his horse. My own never carried a woman but once, and he's never carried a coward at all. Jackson shall not have the rope. I'll not let him kill you." "What do you mean?" demanded the prisoner, not without his effrontery. The blood came back to Banion's face, his control breaking. "I mean for you to walk, trot, gallop, damn you! If you don't you'll strangle here instead of somewhere else in time." He swung up, and Jackson sullenly followed. "Give me that gun," ordered Banion, and took the shotgun and slung it in the pommel loop of his own saddle. The gentle amble of the black stallion kept the prisoner at a trot. At times Banion checked, never looking at the man following, his hands at the rope, panting. "Ye'll try him in the camp council, Will?" began Jackson once more. "Anyways that? He's a murderer. He tried to kill us both, an' he will yit. Boy, ye rid with Doniphan, an' don't know the _ley refugio_. Hasn't the prisoner tried to escape? Ain't that old as Mayheeco Veeayho? Take this skunk in on a good rope like that? Boy, ye're crazy!" "Almost," nodded Banion. "Almost. Come on. It's late." It was late when they rode down into the valley of the Platte. Below them twinkled hundreds of little fires of the white nation, feasting. Above, myriad stars shone in a sky unbelievably clear. On every hand rose the roaring howls of the great gray wolves, also feasting now; the lesser chorus of yapping coyotes. The savage night of the Plains was on. Through it passed three savage figures, one a staggering, stumbling man with a rope around his neck. They came into the guard circle, into the dog circle of the encampment; but when challenged answered, and were not stopped. "Here, Jackson," said Banion at length, "take the rope. I'm going to our camp. I'll not go into this train. Take this pistol--it's loaded now. Let off the _reata_, walk close to this man. If he runs, kill him. Find Molly Wingate. Tell her Will Banion has sent her husband to her--once more. It's the last time." He was gone in the dark. Bill Jackson, having first meticulously exhausted the entire vituperative resources of the English, the Spanish and all the Indian languages he knew, finally poked the muzzle of the pistol into Woodhull's back. "Git, damn ye!" he commanded. "Center, guide! Forrerd, march! Ye--" He improvised now, all known terms of contempt having been heretofore employed. Threading the way past many feast fires, he did find the Wingate wagons at length, did find Molly Wingate. But there his memory failed him. With a skinny hand at Sam Woodhull's collar, he flung him forward. "Here, Miss Molly," said he, "this thing is somethin' Major Banion sont in ter ye by me. We find hit stuck in the mud. He said ye're welcome." But neither he nor Molly really knew why that other man had spared Sam Woodhull's life, or what it was he awaited in return for Sam Woodhull's life. All that Jackson could do he did. As he turned in the dark he implanted a heartfelt kick which sent Sam Woodhull on his knees before Molly Wingate as she stood in wondering silence. Then arose sudden clamorings of those who had seen part of this--seen an armed man assault another, unarmed and defenseless, at their very firesides. Men came running up. Jesse Wingate came out from the side of his wagon. "What's all this?" he demanded. "Woodhull, what's up? What's wrong here?" CHAPTER XXIII AN ARMISTICE To the challenge of Wingate and his men Jackson made answer with a high-pitched fighting yell. Sweeping his pistol muzzle across and back again over the front of the closing line, he sprang into saddle and wheeled away. "Hit means we've brung ye back a murderer. Git yer own rope--ye kain't have mine! If ye-all want trouble with Old Missoury over this, er anything else, come runnin' in the mornin'. Ye'll find us sp'ilin' fer a fight!" He was off in the darkness. Men clustered around the draggled man, one of their, own men, recently one in authority. Their indignation rose, well grounded on the growing feeling between the two segments of the train. When Woodhull had told his own story, in his own way, some were for raiding the Missouri detachment forthwith. Soberer counsel prevailed. In the morning Price, Hall and Kelsey rode over to the Missouri encampment and asked for their leader. Banion met them while the work of breaking camp went on, the cattle herd being already driven in and held at the rear by lank, youthful riders, themselves sp'lin' fer a fight. "Major Banion," began Caleb Price, "we've come over to get some sort of understanding between your men and ours. It looks like trouble. I don't want trouble." "Nor do I," rejoined Banion. "We started out for Oregon as friends. It seems to me that should remain our purpose. No little things should alter that." "Precisely. But little things have altered it. I don't propose to pass on any quarrel between you and one of our people--a man from your own town, your own regiment. But that has now reached a point where it might mean open war between two parts of our train. That would mean ruin. That's wrong." "Yes," replied Banion, "surely it is. You see, to avoid that, I was just ordering my people to pull out. I doubt if we could go on together now. I don't want war with any friends. I reckon we can take care of any enemies. Will this please you?" Caleb Price held out his hand. "Major, I don't know the truth of any of the things I've heard, and I think those are matters that may be settled later on. But I am obliged to say that many of our people trust you and your leadership more than they do our own. I don't like to see you leave." "Well, then we won't leave. We'll hold back and follow you. Isn't that fair?" "It is more than fair, for you can go faster now than we can, like enough. But will you promise me one thing, sir?" "What is it?" "If we get in trouble and send back for you, will you come?" "Yes, we'll come. But pull on out now, at once. My men want to travel. We've got our meat slung on lines along the wagons to cure as we move. We'll wait till noon for you." "It is fair." Price turned to his associates. "Ride back, Kelsey, and tell Wingate we all think we should break camp at once. "You see," he added to Banion, "he wouldn't even ride over with us. I regret this break between you and him. Can't it be mended?" A sudden spasm passed across Will Banion's browned face. "It cannot," said he, "at least not here and now. But the women and children shall have no risk on that account. If we can ever help, we'll come." The two again shook hands, and the Wingate lieutenants rode away, so ratifying a formal division of the train. "What do you make of all this, Hall?" asked sober-going Caleb Price at last. "What's the real trouble? Is it about the girl?" "Oh, yes; but maybe more. You heard what Woodhull said. Even if Banion denied it, it would be one man's word against the other's. Well, it's wide out here, and no law." "They'll fight?" "Will two roosters that has been breasted?" CHAPTER XXIV THE ROAD WEST Came now once more the notes of the bugle in signal for the assembly. Word passed down the scattered Wingate lines, "Catch up! Catch up!" Riders went out to the day guards with orders to round up the cattle. Dark lines of the driven stock began to dribble in from the edge of the valley. One by one the corralled vehicles broke park, swung front or rear, until the columns again held on the beaten road up the valley in answer to the command, "Roll out! Roll out!" The Missourians, long aligned and ready, fell in far behind and pitched camp early. There were two trains, not one. Now, hour after hour and day by day, the toil of the trail through sand flats and dog towns, deadly in its monotony, held them all in apathy. The lightheartedness of the start in early spring was gone. By this time the spare spaces in the wagons were kept filled with meat, for always there were buffalo now. Lines along the sides of the wagons held loads of rudely made jerky--pieces of meat slightly salted and exposed to the clear dry air to finish curing. But as the people fed full there began a curious sloughing off of the social compact, a change in personal attitude. A dozen wagons, short of supplies or guided by faint hearts, had their fill of the Far West and sullenly started back east. Three dozen broke train and pulled out independently for the West, ahead of Wingate, mule and horse transport again rebelling against being held back by the ox teams. More and more community cleavages began to define. The curse of flies by day, of mosquitoes by night added increasing miseries for the travelers. The hot midday sun wore sore on them. Restless high spirits, grief over personal losses, fear of the future, alike combined to lessen the solidarity of the great train; but still it inched along on its way to Oregon, putting behind mile after mile of the great valley of the Platte. The grass now lay yellow in the blaze of the sun, the sandy dust was inches deep in the great road, cut by thousands of wheels. Flotsam and jetsam, wreckage, showed more and more. Skeletons of cattle, bodies not yet skeletons, aroused no more than a casual look. Furniture lay cast aside, even broken wagons, their wheels fallen apart, showing intimate disaster. The actual hardships of the great trek thrust themselves into evidence on every hand, at every hour. Often was passed a little cross, half buried in the sand, or the tail gate of a wagon served as head board for some ragged epitaph of some ragged man. It was decided to cross the South Fork at the upper ford, so called. Here was pause again for the Wingate train. The shallow and fickle stream, fed by the June rise in the mountains, now offered a score of channels, all treacherous. A long line of oxen, now wading and now swimming, dragging a long rope to which a chain was rigged--the latter to pull the wagon forward when the animals got footing on ahead--made a constant sight for hours at a time. One wagon after another was snaked through rapidly as possible. Once bogged down in a fast channel, the fluent sand so rapidly filled in the spokes that the settling wagon was held as though in a giant vise. It was new country, new work for them all; but they were Americans of the frontier. The men were in the water all day long, for four days, swimming, wading, digging. Perhaps the first plow furrow west of the Kaw was cast when some plows eased down the precipitous bank which fronted one of the fording places. Beyond that lay no mark of any plow for more than a thousand miles. They now had passed the Plains, as first they crossed the Prairie. The thin tongue of land between the two forks, known as the Highlands of the Platte, made vestibule to the mountains. The scenery began to change, to become rugged, semi-mountainous. They noted and held in sight for a day the Courthouse Rock, the Chimney Rock, long known to the fur traders, and opened up wide vistas of desert architecture new to their experiences. They were now amid great and varied abundance of game. A thousand buffalo, five, ten, might be in sight at one time, and the ambition of every man to kill his buffalo long since had been gratified. Black-tailed deer and antelope were common, and even the mysterious bighorn sheep of which some of them had read. Each tributary stream now had its delicious mountain trout. The fires at night had abundance of the best of food, cooked for the most part over the native fuel of the _bois des vaches_. The grass showed yet shorter, proving the late presence of the toiling Mormon caravan on ahead. The weather of late June was hot, the glare of the road blinding. The wagons began to fall apart in the dry, absorbent air of the high country. And always skeletons lay along the trail. An ox abandoned by its owners as too footsore for further travel might better have been shot than abandoned. The gray wolves would surely pull it down before another day. Continuously such tragedies of the wilderness went on before their wearying eyes. Breaking down from the highlands through the Ash Hollow gap, the train felt its way to the level of the North Fork of the great river which had led them for so long. Here some trapper once had built a cabin--the first work of the sort in six hundred miles--and by some strange concert this deserted cabin had years earlier been constituted a post office of the desert. Hundreds of letters, bundles of papers were addressed to people all over the world, east and west. No government recognized this office, no postage was employed in it. Only, in the hope that someone passing east or west would carry on the inclosures without price, folk here sent out their souls into the invisible. "How far'll we be out, at Laramie?" demanded Molly Wingate of the train scout, Bridger, whom Banion had sent on to Wingate in spite of his protest. "Nigh onto six hundred an' sixty-seven mile they call hit, ma'am, from Independence to Laramie, an' we'll be two months a-makin' hit, which everges around ten mile a day." "But it's most to Oregon, hain't it?" "Most to Oregon? Ma'am, it's nigh three hundred mile beyond Laramie to the South Pass, an' the South Pass hain't half-way to Oregon. Why, ma'am, we ain't well begun!" CHAPTER XXV OLD LARAMIE An old gray man in buckskins sat on the ground in the shade of the adobe stockade at old Fort Laramie, his knees high in front of him, his eyes fixed on the ground. His hair fell over his shoulders in long curls which had once been brown. His pointed beard fell on his breast. He sat silent and motionless, save that constantly he twisted a curl around a forefinger, over and over again. It was his way. He was a long-hair, a man of another day. He had seen the world change in six short years, since the first wagon crossed yonder ridges, where now showed yet one more wagon train approaching. He paid no attention to the débris and discard of this new day which lay all about him as he sat and dreamed of the days of trap and packet. Near at hand were pieces of furniture leaning against the walls, not bought or sold, but abandoned as useless here at Laramie. Wagon wheels, tireless, their fellies falling apart, lay on the ground, and other ruins of great wagons, dried and disjointed now. Dust lay on the ground. The grass near by was all cropped short. Far off, a village of the Cheyennes, come to trade, and sullen over the fact that little now could be had for robes or peltries, grazed their ponies aside from the white man's road. Six hundred lodges of the Sioux were on the tributary river a few miles distant. The old West was making a last gallant stand at Laramie. Inside the gate a mob of white men, some silent and businesslike, many drunken and boisterous, pushed here and there for access to the trading shelves, long since almost bare of goods. Six thousand emigrants passed that year. It was the Fourth of July in Old Laramie, and men in jeans and wool and buckskin were celebrating. Old Laramie had seen life--all of life, since the fur days of La Ramée in 1821. Having now superciliously sold out to these pilgrims, reserving only alcohol enough for its own consumption, Old Laramie was willing to let the world wag, and content to twiddle a man curl around a finger. But yet another detachment of the great army following the hegira of the Mormons was now approaching Laramie. In the warm sun of mid-morning, its worn wheels rattling, its cattle limping and with lolling tongues, this caravan forded and swung wide into corral below the crowded tepees of the sullen tribesmen. [Illustration: _A Paramount Picture. The Covered Wagon_. JUST BEFORE THE START OF THE WAGON TRAIN.] Ahead of it now dashed a horseman, swinging his rifle over his head and uttering Indian yells. He pulled up at the very door of the old adobe guard tower with its mounted swivel guns; swung off, pushed on into the honeycomb of the inner structure. The famous border fortress was built around a square, the living quarters on one side, the trading rooms on another. Few Indians were admitted at one time, other than the Indian wives of the _engagés_, the officials of the fur company or of the attached white or halfbreed hunters. Above some of the inner buildings were sleeping lofts. The inner open space served as a general meeting ground. Indolent but on guard, Old Laramie held her watch, a rear guard of the passing West in its wild days before the plow. All residents here knew Jim Bridger. He sought out the man in charge. "How, Bordeaux?" he began. "Whar's the bourgeois, Papin?" "Down river--h'east h'after goods." The trader, hands on his little counter, nodded to his shelves. "Nada!" he said in his polyglot speech. "Hi'll not got a damned thing lef'. How many loads you'll got for your h'own post, Jeem?" "Eight wagons. Iron, flour and bacon." "Hi'll pay ye double here what you'll kin git retail there, Jeem, and take it h'all h'off your hand. This h'emigrant, she'll beat the fur." "I'll give ye half," said Bridger. "Thar's people here needs supplies that ain't halfway acrost. But what's the news, Bordeaux? Air the Crows down?" "H'on the Sweetwater, h'awaitin' for the peelgrim. Hi'll heard of your beeg fight on the Platte. Plenty beeg fight on ahead, too, maybe-so. You'll bust h'up the trade, Jeem. My Sioux, she's scare to come h'on the post h'an' trade. He'll stay h'on the veelage, her." "Every dog to his own yard. Is that all the news?" "Five thousand Mormons, he'll gone by h'aready. H'womans pullin' the han'cart, _sacre Enfant_! News--you'll h'ought to know the news. You'll been h'on the settlement six mont'!" "Hit seemed six year. The hull white nation's movin'. So. That all?" "Well, go h'ask Keet. He's come h'up South Fork yesterdays. Maybe-so _quelq' cho' des nouvelles_ h'out West. I dunno, me." "Kit--Kit Carson, you mean? What's Kit doing here?" "_Oui._ I dunno, me." He nodded to a door. Bridger pushed past him. In an inner room a party of border men were playing cards at a table. Among these was a slight, sandy-haired man of middle age and mild, blue eye. It was indeed Carson, the redoubtable scout and guide, a better man even than Bridger in the work of the wilderness. "How are you, Jim?" he said quietly, reaching up a hand as he sat. "Haven't seen you for five years. What are you doing here?" He rose now and put down his cards. The game broke up. Others gathered around Bridger and greeted him. It was some time before the two mountain men got apart from the others. "What brung ye north, Kit?" demanded Bridger at length. "You was in Californy in '47, with the General." "Yes, I was in California this spring. The treaty's been signed with Mexico. We get the country from the Rio Grande west, including California. I'm carrying dispatches to General Kearny at Leavenworth. There's talk about taking over Laramie for an Army post. The tribes are up in arms. The trade's over, Jim." "What I know, an' have been sayin'! Let's have a drink, Kit, fer old times." Laughing, Carson turned his pockets inside out. As he did so something heavy fell from his pocket to the floor. In courtesy as much as curiosity Bridger stooped first to pick it up. As he rose he saw Carson's face change as he held out his hand. "What's this stone, Kit--yer medicine?" But Bridger's own face altered suddenly as he now guessed the truth. He looked about him suddenly, his mouth tight. Kit Carson rose and they passed from the room. "Only one thing heavy as that, Mister Kit!" said Bridger fiercely. "Where'd you git hit? My gran'pap had some o' that. Hit come from North Carliny years ago. I know what hit is--hit's gold! Kit Carson, damn ye, hit's the gold!" "Shut your mouth, you fool!" said Carson. "Yes, it's gold. But do you want me to be a liar to my General? That's part of my dispatches." "Hit" come from Californy?" "Curse me, yes, California! I was ordered to get the news to the Army first. You're loose-tongued, Jim. Can you keep this?" "Like a grave, Kit." "Then here!" Carson felt inside his shirt and pulled out a meager and ill-printed sheet which told the most epochal news that this or any country has known--the midwinter discovery of gold at Sutter's Mills. A flag was flying over Laramie stockade, and this flag the mountain men saw fit to salute with many libations, hearing now that it was to fly forever over California as over Oregon. Crowding the stockade inclosure full was a motley throng--border men in buckskins, _engagés_ swart as Indians, French breeds, full-blood Cheyennes and Sioux of the northern hills, all mingling with the curious emigrants who had come in from the wagon camps. Plump Indian girls, many of them very comely, some of them wives of the trappers who still hung about Laramie, ogled the newcomers, laughing, giggling together as young women of any color do, their black hair sleek with oil, their cheeks red with vermilion, their wrists heavy with brass or copper or pinchbeck circlets, their small moccasined feet peeping beneath gaudy calico given them by their white lords. Older squaws, envious but perforce resigned, muttered as their own stern-faced stolid red masters ordered them to keep close. Of the full-bloods, whether Sioux or Cheyennes, only those drunk were other than sullenly silent and resentful as they watched the white man's orgy at Old Laramie on the Fourth of July of 1848. Far flung along the pleasant valley lay a vast picture possible in no other land or day. The scattered covered wagons, the bands of cattle and horses, the white tents rising now in scores, the blue of many fires, all proved that now the white man had come to fly his flag over a new frontier. Bridger stood, chanting an Indian song. A group of men came out, all excited with patriotic drink. A tall man in moccasins led, his fringed shirt open over a naked breast, his young squaw following him. "Let me see one o' them damned things!" he was exclaiming. "That's why I left home fifty year ago. Pap wanted to make me plow! I ain't seed one since, but I'll bet a pony I kin run her right now! Go git yer plow things, boys, an' fotch on ary sort of cow critter suits ye. I'll bet I kin hook 'em up an' plow with 'em, too, right yere!" The old gray man at the gate sat and twisted his long curls. The sweet wind of the foothills blew aslant the smokes of a thousand fires. Over the vast landscape passed many moving figures. Young Indian men, mostly Sioux, some Cheyennes, a few Gros Ventres of the Prairie, all peaceable under the tacit truce of the trading post, rode out from their villages to their pony herds. From the post came the occasional note of an inharmonic drum, struck without rhythm by a hand gone lax. The singers no longer knew they sang. The border feast had lasted long. Keg after keg had been broached. The Indian drums were going. Came the sound of monotonous chants, broken with staccato yells as the border dance, two races still mingling, went on with aboriginal excesses on either side. On the slopes as dusk came twinkled countless tepee fires. Dogs barked mournfully a-distant. The heavy half roar of the buffalo wolves, superciliously confident, echoed from the broken country. Now and again a tall Indian, naked save where he clutched his robe to him unconsciously, came staggering to his tepee, his face distorted, yelling obscene words and not knowing what he said. Patient, his youngest squaw stood by his tepee, his spear held aloft to mark his door plate, waiting for her lord to come. Wolfish dogs lay along the tepee edges, noses in tails, eyeing the master cautiously. A grumbling old woman mended the fire at her own side of the room, nearest the door, spreading smooth robes where the man's medicine hung at the willow tripod, his slatted lazyback near by. In due time all would know whether at the game of "hands," while the feast went on, the little elusive bone had won or lost for him. Perhaps he had lost his horses, his robes, his weapons--his squaws. The white man's medicine was strong, and there was much of it on his feasting day. From the stockade a band of mounted Indians, brave in new finery, decked with eagle bonnets and gaudy in beaded shirts and leggings, rode out into the slopes, chanting maudlin songs. They were led by the most beautiful young woman of the tribe, carrying a wand topped by a gilded ball, and ornamented with bells, feathers, natural flowers. As the wild pageant passed the proud savages paid no attention to the white men. The old gray man at the gate sat and twisted his long curls. And none of them knew the news from California. CHAPTER XXVI THE FIRST GOLD The purple mantle of the mountain twilight was dropping on the hills when Bridger and Carson rode out together from the Laramie stockade to the Wingate encampment in the valley. The extraordinary capacity of Bridger in matters alcoholic left him still in fair possession of his faculties; but some new purpose, born of the exaltation of alcohol, now held his mind. "Let me see that little dingus ye had, Kit," said he--"that piece o' gold." Carson handed it to him. "Ye got any more o' hit, Kit?" "Plenty! You can have it if you'll promise not to tell where it came from, Jim." "If I do, Jim Bridger's a liar, Kit!" He slipped the nugget into his pocket. They rode to the head of the train, where Bridger found Wingate and his aids, and presented his friend. They all, of course, knew of Fremont's famous scout, then at the height of his reputation, and greeted him with enthusiasm. As they gathered around him Bridger slipped away. Searching among the wagons, he at last found Molly Wingate and beckoned her aside with portentous injunctions of secrecy. In point of fact, a sudden maudlin inspiration had seized Jim Bridger, so that a promise to Kit Carson seemed infinitely less important than a promise to this girl, whom, indeed, with an old man's inept infatuation, he had worshiped afar after the fashion of white men long gone from society of their kind. Liquor now made him bold. Suddenly he reached out a hand and placed in Molly's palm the first nugget of California gold that ever had come thus far eastward. Physically heavy it was; of what tremendous import none then could have known. "I'll give ye this!" he said. "An' I know whar's plenty more." She dropped the nugget because of the sudden weight in her hand; picked it up. "Gold!" she whispered, for there is no mistaking gold. "Yes, gold!" "Where did you get it?" She was looking over her shoulder instinctively. "Listen! Ye'll never tell? Ye mustn't! I swore to Kit Carson, that give hit to me, I'd never tell no one. But I'll set you ahead o' any livin' bein', so maybe some day ye'll remember old Jim Bridger. "Yes, hit's gold! Kit Carson brung it from Sutter's Fort, on the Sacramenty, in Californy. They've got it thar in wagonloads. Kit's on his way east now to tell the Army!" "Everyone will know!" "Yes, but not now! Ef ye breathe this to a soul, thar won't be two wagons left together in the train. Thar'll be bones o' womern from here to Californy!" Wide-eyed, the girl stood, weighing the nugget in her hands. "Keep hit, Miss Molly," said Bridger simply. "I don't want hit no more. I only got hit fer a bracelet fer ye, or something. Good-by. I've got to leave the train with my own wagons afore long an' head fer my fort. Ye'll maybe see me--old Jim Bridger--when ye come through. "Yes, Miss Molly, I ain't as old as I look, and I got a fort o' my own beyant the Green River. This year, what I'll take in for my cargo, what I'll make cash money fer work fer the immygrints, I'll salt down anyways ten thousand; next year maybe twicet that, or even more. I sartainly will do a good trade with them Mormons." "I suppose," said the girl, patient with what she knew was alcoholic garrulity. "An' out there's the purtiest spot west o' the Rockies, My valley is ever'thing a man er a womern can ask or want. And me, I'm a permanent man in these yere parts. It's me, Jim Bridger, that fust diskivered the Great Salt Lake. It's me, Jim Bridger, fust went through Colter's Hell up in the Yellowstone. Ain't a foot o' the Rockies I don't know. I eena-most built the Rocky Mountains, me." He spread out his hands. "And I've got to be eena'most all Injun myself." "I suppose." The girl's light laugh cut him. "But never so much as not to rever'nce the white woman, Miss Molly. Ye're all like angels to us wild men out yere. We--we never have forgot. And so I give ye this, the fust gold from Californy. There may be more. I don't know." "But you're going to leave us? What are you going to do?" A sudden kindness was in the girl's voice. "I'm a-goin' out to Fort Bridger, that's what I'm a-goin' to do; an' when I git thar I'm a-goin' to lick hell out o' both my squaws, that's what I'm a-goin' to do! One's named Blast Yore Hide, an' t'other Dang Yore Eyes. Which, ef ye ask me, is two names right an' fitten, way I feel now." All at once Jim Bridger was all Indian again. He turned and stalked away. She heard his voice rising in his Indian chant as she turned back to her own wagon fire. But now shouts were arising, cries coming up the line. A general movement was taking place toward the lower end of the camp, where a high quavering call rose again and again. "There's news!" said Carson to Jesse Wingate quietly. "That's old Bill Jackson's war cry, unless I am mistaken. Is he with you?" "He was," said Wingate bitterly. "He and his friends broke away from the train and have been flocking by themselves since then." Three men rode up to the Wingate wagon, and two flung off. Jackson was there, yes, and Jed Wingate, his son. The third man still sat his horse. Wingate straightened. "Mr. Banion! So you see fit to come into my camp?" For the time he had no answer. "How are you, Bill?" said Kit Carson quietly, as he now stepped forward from the shadows. The older man gave him a swift glance. "Kit! You here--why?" he demanded. "I've not seed ye, Kit, sence the last Rendyvous on the Green. Ye've been with the Army on the coast?" "Yes. Going east now." "Allus ridin' back and forerd acrost the hull country. I'd hate to keep ye in buckskin breeches, Kit. But ye're carryin' news?" "Yes," said Carson. "Dispatches about new Army posts--to General Kearny. Some other word for him, and some papers to the Adjutant General of the Army. Besides, some letters from Lieutenant Beale in Mexico, about war matters and the treaty, like enough. You know, we'll get all the southern country to the Coast?" "An' welcome ef we didn't! Not a beaver to the thousand miles, Kit. I'm goin' to Oregon--goin' to settle in the Nez Percé country, whar there's horses an' beaver." "But wait a bit afore you an' me gits too busy talkin'. Ye see, I'm with Major Banion, yan, an' the Missoury train. We're in camp ten mile below. We wouldn't mix with these people no more--only one way--but I reckon the Major's got some business o' his own that brung him up. I rid with him. We met the boy an' ast him to bring us in. We wasn't sure how friendly our friends is feelin' towards him an' me." He grinned grimly. As he spoke they both heard a woman's shrilling, half greeting, half terror. Wingate turned in time to see his daughter fall to the ground in a sheer faint. Will Banion slipped from his saddle and hurried forward. CHAPTER XXVII TWO WHO LOVED Jesse Wingate made a swift instinctive motion toward the revolver which swung at his hip. But Jed sprang between him and Banion. "No! Hold on, Pap--stop!" cried Jed. "It's all right. I brought him in. "As a prisoner?" "I am no man's prisoner, Captain Wingate," said Banion's deep voice. His eyes were fixed beyond the man to whom he spoke. He saw Molly, to whom her mother now ran, to take the white face in her own hands. Wingate looked from one to the other. "Why do you come here? What do I owe you that you should bring more trouble, as you always have? And what do you owe me?" "I owe you nothing!" said Banion. "You owe me nothing at all. I have not traveled in your train, and I shall not travel in it. I tell you once more, you're wrong in your beliefs; but till I can prove that I'll not risk any argument about it." "Then why do you come to my camp now?" "You should know." "I do know. It's Molly!" "It's Molly, yes. Here's a letter from her. I found it in the cabin at Ash Hollow. Your friend Woodhull could have killed me--we passed him just now. Jed could have killed me--you can now; it's easy. But that wouldn't change me. Perhaps it wouldn't change her." "You come here to face me down?" "No, sir. I know you for a brave man, at least. I don't believe I'm a coward--I never asked. But I came to see Molly, because here she's asked it. I don't know why. Do you want to shoot me like a coyote?" "No. But I ask you, what do I owe you?" "Nothing. But can we trade? If I promise to leave you with my train?" "You want to steal my girl!" "No! I want to earn her--some day." The old Roman before him was a man of quick and strong decisions. The very courage of the young man had its appeal. "At least you'll eat," said he. "I'd not turn even a black Secesh away hungry--not even a man with your record in the Army." "No, I'll not eat with you." "Wait then! I'll send the girl pretty soon, if you are here by her invitation. I'll see she never invites you again." Wingate walked toward his wagon. Banion kept out of the light circle and found his horse. He stood, leaning his head on his arms in the saddle, waiting, until after what seemed an age she slipped out of the darkness, almost into his arms, standing pale, her fingers lacing and unlacing--the girl who had kissed him once--to say good-by. "Will Banion!" she whispered. "Yes, I sent for you. I felt you'd find the letter." "Yes, Molly." It was long before he would look at her. "You're the same," said he. "Only you've grown more beautiful every day. It's hard to leave you--awfully hard. I couldn't, if I saw you often." He reached out again and took her in his arms, softly, kissed her tenderly on each cheek, whispered things that lovers do say. But for his arms she would have dropped again, she was so weak. She fought him off feebly. "No! No! It is not right! No! No!" "You're not going to be with us any more?" she said at last. He shook his head. They both looked at his horse, his rifle, swung in its sling strap at the saddle horn. She shook her head also. "Is this the real good-by, Will?" Her lips trembled. "It must be. I have given my word to your father. But why did you send for me? Only to torture me? I must keep my word to hold my train apart. I've promised my men to stick with them." "Yes, you mustn't break your word. And it was fine just to see you a minute, Will; just to tell you--oh, to say I love you, Will! But I didn't think that was why I sent. I sent to warn you--against him. It seems always to come to the same thing." She was trying not to sob. The man was in but little better case. The stars did not want them to part. All the somber wilderness world whispered for them to love and not to part at all. But after a time they knew that they again had parted, or now were able to do so. "Listen, Will," said the girl at last, putting back a lock of her fallen hair. "I'll have to tell you. We'll meet in Oregon? I'll be married then. I've promised. Oh, God help me! I think I'm the wickedest woman in all the world, and the most unhappy. Oh, Will Banion, I--I love a thief! Even as you are, I love you! I guess that's why I sent for you, after all. "Go find the scout--Jim Bridger!" she broke out suddenly. "He's going on ahead. Go on to his fort with him--he'll have wagons and horses. He knows the way. Go with Bridger, Will! Don't go to Oregon! I'm afraid for you. Go to California--and forget me! Tell Bridger--" "Why, where is it?" she exclaimed. She was feeling in the pocket of her apron, and it was empty. "I've lost it!" she repeated. "I lose everything!" "What was it, Molly?" She leaned her lips to his ear. "It was gold!" He stood, the magic name of that metal which shows the color in the shade electrifying even his ignorance of the truth. "Gold?" She told him then, breaking her own promise magnificently, as a woman will. "Go, ride with Bridger," she went on. "Don't tell him you ever knew me. He'll not be apt to speak of me. But they found it, in California, the middle of last winter--gold! Gold! Carson's here in our camp--Kit Carson. He's the first man to bring it to the Valley of the Platte. He was sworn to keep it secret; so was Bridger, and so am I. Not to Oregon, Will--California! You can live down your past. If we die, God bless the man I do love. That's you, Will! And I'm going to marry--him. Ten days! On the trail! And he'll kill you, Will! Oh, keep away!" She paused, breathless from her torrent of incoherent words, jealous of the passing moments. It was vague, it was desperate, it was crude. But they were in a world vague, desperate and crude. "I've promised my men I'd not leave them," he said at last. "A promise is a promise." "Then God help us both! But one thing--when I'm married, that's the end between us. So good-by." He leaned his head back on his saddle for a time, his tired horse turning back its head. He put out his hand blindly; but it was the muzzle of his horse that had touched his shoulder. The girl was gone. The Indian drums at Laramie thudded through the dark. The great wolf in the breaks lifted his hoarse, raucous roar once more. The wilderness was afoot or bedding down, according to its like. CHAPTER XXVIII WHEN A MAID MARRIES Carson, Bridger and Jackson, now reunited after years, must pour additional libations to Auld Lang Syne at Laramie, so soon were off together. The movers sat around their thrifty cooking fires outside the wagon corral. Wingate and his wife were talking heatedly, she in her nervousness not knowing that she fumbled over and over in her fingers the heavy bit of rock which Molly had picked up and which was in her handkerchief when it was requisitioned by her mother to bathe her face just now. After a time she tossed the nugget aside into the grass. It was trodden by a hundred feet ere long. But gold will not die. In three weeks a prowling Gros Ventre squaw found it and carried it to the trader, Bordeaux, asking, "Shoog?" "Non, non!" replied the Laramie trader. "Pas de shoog!" But he looked curiously at the thing, so heavy. "How, cola!" wheedled the squaw. "Shoog!" She made the sign for sugar, her finger from her palm to her lips. Bordeaux tossed the thing into the tin can on the shelf and gave her what sugar would cover a spoon. "Where?" He asked her, his fingers loosely shaken, meaning, "Where did you get it?" The Gros Ventre lied to him like a lady, and told him, on the South Fork, on the Creek of Bitter Cherries--near where Denver now is; and where placers once were. That was hundreds of miles away. The Gros Ventre woman had been there once in her wanderings and had seen some heavy metal. Years later, after Fort Laramie was taken over by the Government, Bordeaux as sutler sold much flour and bacon to men hurrying down the South Fork to the early Colorado diggings. Meantime in his cups he often had told the mythical tale of the Gros Ventre woman--long after California, Idaho, Nevada, Montana were all afire. But one of his halfbreed children very presently had commandeered the tin cup and its contents, so that to this day no man knows whether the child swallowed the nugget or threw it into the Laramie River or the Platte River or the sagebrush. Some depose that an emigrant bought it of the baby; but no one knows. What all men do know is that gold does not die; nay, nor the news of it. And this news now, like a multiplying germ, was in the wagon train that had started out for Oregon. As for Molly, she asked no questions at all about the lost nugget, but hurried to her own bed, supperless, pale and weeping. She told her father nothing of the nature of her meeting with Will Banion, then nor at any time for many weeks. "Molly, come here, I want to talk to you." Wingate beckoned to his daughter the second morning after Banion's visit. The order for the advance was given. The men had brought in the cattle and the yoking up was well forward. The rattle of pots and pans was dying down. Dogs had taken their places on flank or at the wagon rear, women were climbing up to the seats, children clinging to pieces of dried meat. The train was waiting for the word. The girl followed him calmly, high-headed. "Molly, see here," he began. "We're all ready to move on. I don't know where Will Banion went, but I want you to know, as I told him, that he can't travel in our train." "He'll not ask to, father. He's promised to stick to his own men." "He's left you at last! That's good. Now I want you to drop him from your thoughts. Hear that, and heed it. I tell you once more, you're not treating Sam Woodhull right." She made him no answer. "You're still young, Molly," he went on. "Once you're settled you'll find Oregon all right. Time you were marrying. You'll be twenty and an old maid first thing you know. Sam will make you a good husband. Heed what I say." But she did not heed, though she made no reply to him. Her eye, "scornful, threatening and young," looked yonder where she knew her lover was; not was it in her soul ever to return from following after him. The name of her intended husband left her cold as ice. "Roll out! Roll out! Ro-o-o-ll ou-t!" The call went down the line once more. The pistolry of the wagon whips made answer, the drone of the drivers rose as the sore-necked oxen bowed their heads again, with less strength even for the lightened loads. The old man who sat by the gate at Fort Laramie, twisting a curl around his finger, saw the plain clearing now, as the great train swung out and up the river trail. He perhaps knew that Jim Bridger, with his own freight wagons, going light and fast with mules, was on west, ahead of the main caravan. But he did not know the news Jim Bridger carried, the same news that Carson was carrying east. The three old mountain men, for a few hours meeting after years, now were passing far apart, never to meet again. Their chance encountering meant much to hundreds of men and women then on the road to Oregon; to untold thousands yet to come. As for one Samuel Woodhull, late column captain, it was to be admitted that for some time he had been conscious of certain buffetings of fate. But as all thoroughbred animals are thin-skinned, so are all the short-bred pachydermatous, whereby they endure and mayhap arrive at the manger well as the next. True, even Woodhull's vanity and self-content had everything asked of them in view of his late series of mishaps; but by now he had somewhat chirked up under rest and good food, and was once more the dandy and hail fellow. He felt assured that very presently bygones would be bygones. Moreover--so he reasoned--if he, Sam Woodhull, won the spoils, what matter who had won any sort of victory? He knew, as all these others knew and as all the world knows, that a beautiful woman is above all things _spolia opima_ of war. Well, in ten days he was to marry Molly Wingate, the most beautiful woman of the train and the belle of more than one community. Could he not afford to laugh best, in spite of all events, even if some of them had not been to his own liking? But the girl's open indifference was least of all to his liking. It enraged his vain, choleric nature to its inner core. Already he planned dominance; but willing to wait and to endure for ten days, meantime he employed innocence, reticence, dignity, attentiveness, so that he seemed a suitor misunderstood, misrepresented, unjustly used--to whose patient soul none the less presently must arrive justice and exoneration, after which all would be happier even than a marriage bell. After the wedding bells he, Samuel Woodhull, would show who was master. Possessed once more of horse, arms and personal equipment, and having told his own story of persecution to good effect throughout the train, Woodhull had been allowed to resume a nominal command over a part of the Wingate wagons. The real control lay in the triumvirate who once had usurped power, and who might do so again. Wingate himself really had not much more than nominal control of the general company, although he continued to give what Caleb Price called the easy orders. His wagons, now largely changed to ox transport, still traveled at the head of the train, Molly continuing to drive her own light wagon and Jed remaining on the cow column. The advance hardly had left Fort Laramie hidden by the rolling ridges before Woodhull rode up to Molly's wagon and made excuse to pass his horse to a boy while he himself climbed up on the seat with his fiancée. She made room for him in silence, her eyes straight ahead. The wagon cover made good screen behind, the herdsmen were far in the rear, and from the wagons ahead none could see them. Yet when, after a moment, her affianced husband dropped an arm about her waist the girl flung it off impatiently. "Don't!" she exclaimed. "I detest love-making in public. We see enough of it that can't be hid. It's getting worse, more open, the farther we get out." "The train knows we are to be married at the halfway stop, Molly. Then you'll change wagons and will not need to drive." "Wait till then." "I count the hours. Don't you, dearest?" She turned a pallid face to him at last, resentful of his endearments. "Yes, I do," she said. But he did not know what she meant, or why she was so pale. "I think we'll settle in Portland," he went on. "The travelers' stories say that place, at the head of navigation on the Willamette, has as good a chance as Oregon City, at the Falls. I'll practice law. The goods I am taking out will net us a good sum, I'm hoping. Oh, you'll see the day when you'll not regret that I held you to your promise! I'm not playing this Oregon game to lose it." "Do you play any game to lose it?" "No! Better to have than to explain have not--that's one of my mottoes." "No matter how?" "Why do you ask?" "I was only wondering." "About what?" "About men--and the differences." "My dear, as a school-teacher you have learned to use a map, a blackboard. Do you look on us men as ponderable, measurable, computable?" "A girl ought to if she's going to marry." "Well, haven't you?" "Have I?" She still was staring straight ahead, cold, making no silent call for a lover's arms or arts. Her silence was so long that at length even his thick hide was pierced. "Molly!" he broke out. "Listen to me! Do you want the engagement broken? Do you want to be released?" "What would they all think?" "Not the question. Answer me!" "No, I don't want it broken. I want it over with. Isn't that fair?" "Is it?" "Didn't you say you wanted me on any terms?" "Surely!" "Don't you now?" "Yes, I do, and I'm going to have you, too!" His eye, covetous, turned to the ripe young beauty of the maid beside him. He was willing to pay any price. "Then it all seems settled." "All but one part. You've never really and actually told me you loved me." A wry smile. "I'm planning to do that after I marry you. I suppose that's the tendency of a woman? Of course, it can't be true that only one man will do for a woman to marry, or one woman for a man? If anything went wrong on that basis--why, marrying would stop? That would be foolish, wouldn't it? I suppose women do adjust? Don't you think so?" His face grew hard under this cool reasoning. "Am I to understand that you are marrying me as a second choice, and so that you can forget some other man?" "Couldn't you leave a girl a secret if she had one? Couldn't you be happier if you did? Couldn't you take your chance and see if there's anything under the notion about more than one man and more than one woman in the world? Love? Why, what is love? Something to marry on? They say it passes. They tell me that marriage is more adjustable, means more interests than love; that the woman who marries with her eyes open is apt to be the happiest in the long run. Well, then you said you wanted me on any terms. Does not that include open eyes?" "You're making a hard bargain--the hardest a man can be obliged to take." "It was not of my seeking." "You said you loved me--at first." "No. Only a girl's in love with love--at first. I've not really lied to you. I'm trying to be honest before marriage. Don't fear I'll not be afterward. There's much in that, don't you think? Maybe there's something, too, in a woman's ability to adjust and compromise? I don't know. We ought to be as happy as the average married couple, don't you think? None of them are happy for so very long, they say. They say love doesn't last long. I hope not. One thing, I believe marriage is easier to beat than love is." "How old are you, really, Molly?" "I am just over nineteen, sir." "You are wise for that; you are old." "Yes--since we started for Oregon." He sat in sullen silence for a long time, all the venom of his nature gathering, all his savage jealousy. "You mean since you met that renegade, traitor and thief, Will Banion! Tell me, isn't that it?" "Yes, that's true. I'm older now. I know more." "And you'll marry me without love. You love him without marriage? Is that it?" "I'll never marry a thief." "But you love one?" "I thought I loved you." "But you do love him, that man!" Now at last she turned to him, gazing straight through the mist of her tears. "Sam, if you really loved me, would you ask that? Wouldn't you just try to be so gentle and good that there'd no longer be any place in my heart for any other sort of love, so I'd learn to think that our love was the only sort in the world? Wouldn't you take your chance and make good on it, believing that it must be in nature that a woman can love more than one man, or love men in more than one way? Isn't marriage broader and with more chance for both? If you love me and not just yourself alone, can't you take your chance as I am taking mine? And after all, doesn't a woman give the odds? If you do love, me--" "If I do, then my business is to try to make you forget Will Banion." "There is no other way you could. He may die. I promise you I'll never see him after I'm married. "And I'll promise you another thing"--her strained nerves now were speaking truth for her--"if by any means I ever learn--if I ever believe--that Major Banion is not what I now think him, I'll go on my knees to him. I'll know marriage was wrong and love was right all the time." "Fine, my dear! Much happiness! But unfortunately for Major Banion's passing romance, the official records of a military court-martial and a dishonorable discharge from the Army are facts which none of us can doubt or deny." "Yes, that's how it is. So that's why." "What do you really mean then, Molly--you say, that's why?" "That's why I'm going to marry you, Sam. Nine days from to-day, at the Independence Rock, if we are alive. And from now till then, and always, I'm going to be honest, and I'm going to pray God to give you power to make me forget every other man in all the world except my--my--" But she could not say the word "husband." "Your husband!" He said it for her, and perhaps then reached his zenith in approximately unselfish devotion, and in good resolves at least. The sun shone blinding hot. The white dust rose in clouds. The plague of flies increased. The rattle and creak of wheel, the monotone of the drivers, the cough of dust-afflicted kine made the only sounds for a long time. "You can't kiss me, Molly?" He spoke not in dominance but in diffidence. The girl awed him. "No, not till after, Sam; and I think I'd rather be left alone from now till then. After--Oh, be good to me, Sam! I'm trying to be honest as a woman can. If I were not that I'd not be worth marrying at all." Without suggestion or agreement on his part she drew tighter the reins on her mules. He sprang down over the wheel. The sun and the dust had their way again; the monotony of life, its drab discontent, its yearnings and its sense of failure once more resumed sway in part or all of the morose caravan. They all sought new fortunes, each of these. One day each must learn that, travel far as he likes, a man takes himself with him for better or for worse. CHAPTER XXIX THE BROKEN WEDDING Banion allowed the main caravan two days' start before he moved beyond Fort Laramie. Every reason bade him to cut entirely apart from that portion of the company. He talked with every man he knew who had any knowledge of the country on ahead, read all he could find, studied such maps as then existed, and kept an open ear for advice of old-time men who in hard experience had learned how to get across a country. Two things troubled him: The possibility of grass exhaustion near the trail and the menace of the Indians. Squaw men in from the north and west said that the Arapahoes were hunting on the Sweetwater, and sure to make trouble; that the Blackfeet were planning war; that the Bannacks were east of the Pass; that even the Crows were far down below their normal range and certain to harass the trains. These stories, not counting the hostility of the Sioux and Cheyennes of the Platte country, made it appear that there was a tacit suspense of intertribal hostility, and a general and joint uprising against the migrating whites. These facts Banion did not hesitate to make plain to all his men; but, descendants of pioneers, with blood of the wilderness in their veins, and each tempted by adventure as much as by gain, they laughed long and loud at the thought of danger from all the Indians of the Rockies. Had they not beaten the Sioux? Could they not in turn humble the pride of any other tribe? Had not their fathers worked with rifle lashed to the plow beam? Indians? Let them come! Founding his own future on this resolute spirit of his men, Banion next looked to the order of his own personal affairs. He found prices so high at Fort Laramie, and the stock of all manner of goods so low, that he felt it needless to carry his own trading wagons all the way to Oregon, when a profit of 400 per cent lay ready not a third of the way across and less the further risk and cost. He accordingly cut down his own stocks to one wagon, and sold off wagons and oxen as well, until he found himself possessed of considerably more funds than when he had started out. He really cared little for these matters. What need had he for a fortune or a future now? He was poorer than any jeans-clad ox driver with a sunbonnet on the seat beside him and tow-headed children on the flour and bacon sacks, with small belongings beyond the plow lashed at the tail gate, the ax leaning in the front corner of the box and the rifle swinging in its loops at the wagon bows. They were all beginning life again. He was done with it. The entire caravan now had passed in turn the Prairies and the Plains. In the vestibule of the mountains they had arrived in the most splendid out-of-doors country the world has ever offered. The climate was superb, the scenery was a constant succession of changing beauties new to the eyes of all. Game was at hand in such lavish abundance as none of them had dreamed possible. The buffalo ranged always within touch, great bands of elk now appeared, antelope always were in sight. The streams abounded in noble game fish, and the lesser life of the open was threaded across continually by the presence of the great predatory animals--the grizzly, the gray wolf, even an occasional mountain lion. The guarding of the cattle herds now required continual exertion, and if any weak or crippled draft animal fell out its bones were clean within the hour. The feeling of the wilderness now was distinct enough for the most adventurous. They fed fat, and daily grew more like savages in look and practice. Wingate's wagons kept well apace with the average schedule of a dozen miles a day, at times spurting to fifteen or twenty miles, and made the leap over the heights of land between the North Platte and the Sweetwater, which latter stream, often winding among defiles as well as pleasant meadows, was to lead them to the summit of the Rockies at the South Pass, beyond which they set foot on the soil of Oregon, reaching thence to the Pacific. Before them now lay the entry mark of the Sweetwater Valley, that strange oblong upthrust of rock, rising high above the surrounding plain, known for two thousand miles as Independence Rock. At this point, more than eight hundred miles out from the Missouri, a custom of unknown age seemed to have decreed a pause. The great rock was an unmistakable landmark, and time out of mind had been a register of the wilderness. It carried hundreds of names, including every prominent one ever known in the days of fur trade or the new day of the wagon trains. It became known as a resting place; indeed, many rested there forever, and never saw the soil of Oregon. Many an emigrant woman, sick well-nigh to death, held out so that she might be buried among the many other graves that clustered there. So, she felt, she had the final company of her kind. And to those weak or faint of heart the news that this was not halfway across often smote with despair and death, and they, too, laid themselves down here by the road to Oregon. But here also were many scenes of cheer. By this time the new life of the trail had been taken on, rude and simple. Frolics were promised when the wagons should reach the Rock. Neighbors made reunions there. Weddings, as well as burials, were postponed till the train got to Independence Rock. Here then, a sad-faced girl, true to her promise and true to some strange philosophy of her own devising, was to become the wife of a suitor whose persistency had brought him little comfort beyond the wedding date. All the train knew that Molly Wingate was to be married there to Sam Woodhull, now restored to trust and authority. Some said it was a good match, others shook their heads, liking well to see a maid either blush or smile in such case as Molly's, whereas she did neither. At all events, Mrs. Wingate was two days baking cakes at the train stops. Friends got together little presents for the bride. Jed, Molly's brother, himself a fiddler of parts, organized an orchestra of a dozen pieces. The Rev. Henry Doak, a Baptist divine of much nuptial diligence en route, made ready his best coat. They came into camp. In the open spaces of the valley hundreds of wagons were scattered, each to send representatives to Molly Wingate's wedding. Some insisted that the ceremony should be performed on the top of the Rock itself, so that no touch of romance should lack. Then approached the very hour--ten of the night, after duties of the day were done. A canopy was spread for the ceremony. A central camp fire set the place for the wedding feast. Within a half hour the bride would emerge from the secrecy of her wagon to meet at the canopy under the Rock the impatient groom, already clad in his best, already giving largess to the riotous musicians, who now attuned instruments, now broke out into rude jests or pertinent song. But Molly Wingate did not appear, nor her father, nor her mother. A hush fell on the rude assemblage. The minister of the gospel departed to the Wingate encampment to learn the cause of the delay. He found Jesse Wingate irate to open wrath, the girl's mother stony calm, the girl herself white but resolute. "She insists on seeing the marriage license, Mr. Doak," began Jesse Wingate. "As though we could have one! As though she should care more for that than her parents!" "Quite so," rejoined the reverend man. "That is something I have taken up with the happy groom. I have with all the couples I have joined in wedlock on the trail. Of course, being a lawyer, Mr. Woodhull knows that even if they stood before the meeting and acknowledged themselves man and wife it would be a lawful marriage before God and man. Of course, also we all know that since we left the Missouri River we have been in unorganized territory, with no courts and no form of government, no society as we understand it at home. Very well. Shall loving hearts be kept asunder for those reasons? Shall the natural course of life be thwarted until we get to Oregon? Why, sir, that is absurd! We do not even know much of the government of Oregon itself, except that it is provisional." The face of Molly Wingate appeared at the drawn curtains of her transient home. She stepped from her wagon and came forward. Beautiful, but not radiant, she was; cold and calm, but not blushing and uncertain. Her wedding gown was all in white, true enough to tradition, though but of delaine, pressed new from its packing trunk by her mother's hands. Her bodice, long and deep in front and at back, was plain entirely, save for a treasure of lace from her mother's trunk and her mother's wedding long ago. Her hands had no gloves, but white short-fingered mitts, also cherished remnants of days of schoolgirl belledom, did service. Over white stockings, below the long and full-bodied skirt, showed the crossed bands of long elastic tapes tied in an ankle bow to hold in place her little slippers of black high-finished leather. Had they seen her, all had said that Molly Wingate was the sweetest and the most richly clad bride of any on all the long, long trail across the land that had no law. And all she lacked for her wedding costume was the bride's bouquet, which her mother now held out to her, gathered with care that day of the mountain flowers--blue harebells, forget-me-nots of varied blues and the blossom of the gentian, bold and blue in the sunlight, though at night infolded and abashed, its petals turning in and waiting for the sun again to warm them. Molly Wingate, stout and stern, full bosomed, wet eyed, held out her one little present to her girl, her ewe lamb, whom she was now surrendering. But no hand of the bride was extended for the bride's bouquet. The voice of the bride was not low and diffident, but high pitched, insistent. "Provisional? Provisional? What is it you are saying, sir? Are you asking me to be married in a provisional wedding? Am I to give all I have provisionally? Is my oath provisional, or his?" "Now, now, my dear!" began the minister. Her father broke out into a half-stifled oath. "What do you mean?" Her mother's face went pale under its red bronze. "I mean this," broke out the girl, still in the strained high tones that betokened her mental state: "I'll marry no man in any halfway fashion! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't I think? How could I have forgotten? Law, organization, society, convention, form, custom--haven't I got even those things to back me? No? Then I've nothing! It was--it was those things--form, custom--that I was going to have to support me. I've got nothing else. Gone--they're gone, too! And you ask me to marry him--provisionally--provisionally! Oh, my God! what awful thing was this? I wasn't even to have that solid thing to rest on, back of me, after it all was over!" They stood looking at her for a time, trying to catch and weigh her real intent, to estimate what it might mean as to her actions. "Like images, you are!" she went on hysterically, her physical craving for one man, her physical loathing of another, driving her well-nigh mad. "You wouldn't protect your own daughter!"--to her stupefied parents. "Must I think for you at this hour of my life? How near--oh, how near! But not now--not this way! No! No!" "What do you mean, Molly?" demanded her father sternly. "Come now, we'll have no woman tantrums at this stage! This goes on! They're waiting! He's waiting!" "Let him wait!" cried the girl in sudden resolution. All her soul was in the cry, all her outraged, self-punished heart. Her philosophy fell from her swiftly at the crucial moment when she was to face the kiss, the embrace of another man. The great inarticulate voice of her woman nature suddenly sounded, imperative, terrifying, in her own ears--"Oh, Will Banion, Will Banion, why did you take away my heart?" And now she had been on the point of doing this thing! An act of God had intervened. Jesse Wingate nodded to the minister. They drew apart. The holy man nodded assent, hurried away--the girl sensed on what errand. "No use!" she said. "I'll not!" Stronger and stronger in her soul surged the yearning for the dominance of one man, not this man yonder--a yearning too strong now for her to resist. "But Molly, daughter," her mother's voice said to her, "girls has--girls does. And like he said, it's the promise, it's the agreement they both make, with witnesses." "Yes, of course," her father chimed in. "It's the consent in the contract when you stand before them all." "I'll not stand before them. I don't consent! There is no agreement!" Suddenly the girl reached out and caught from her mother the pitiful little bride's bouquet. "Look!" she laughed. "Look at these!" One by one, rapidly, she tore out and flung down the folded gentian flowers. "Closed, closed! When the night came, they closed! They couldn't! They couldn't! I'll not--I can't!" She had the hand's clasp of mountain blossoms stripped down to a few small flowers of varied blooms. They heard the coming of the groom, half running. A silence fell over all the great encampment. The girl's father made a half step forward, even as her mother sank down, cowering, her hands at her face. Then, without a word, with no plan or purpose, Molly Wingate turned, sprang away from them and fled out into a night that was black indeed. Truly she had but one thought, and that in negation only. Yonder came to claim her a man suddenly odious to her senses. It could not be. His kiss, his arms--if these were of this present time and place, then no place in all the world, even the world of savage blackness that lay about, could be so bad as this. At the test her philosophy had forsaken her, reason now almost as well, and sheer terrified flight remained her one reaction. She was gone, a white ghost in her wedding gown, her little slippers stumbling over the stones, her breath coming sobbingly as she ran. They followed her. Back of them, at the great fire whose illumination deepened the shadows here, rose a murmur, a rising of curious people, a pressing forward to the Wingate station. But of these none knew the truth, and it was curiosity that now sought answer for the delay in the anticipated divertisement. Molly Wingate ran for some moments, to some distance--she knew of neither. Then suddenly all her ghastly nightmare of terror found climax in a world of demons. Voices of the damned rose around her. There came a sudden shock, a blow. Before she could understand, before she could determine the shadowy form that rose before her in the dark, she fell forward like the stricken creature. CHAPTER XXX THE DANCE IN THE DESERT There was no wedding that night at the Independence Rock. The Arapahoes saw to that. But there were burials the day following, six of them--two women, a child, three men. The night attack had caught the company wholly off guard, and the bright fire gave good illumination for shaft and ball. "Put out the fires! Corral! Corral!" Voices of command arose. The wedding guests rushed for the shelter of their own wagons. Men caught up their weapons and a steady fire at the unseen foe held the latter at bay after the first attack. Indeed, a sort of panic seized the savages. A warrior ran back exclaiming that he had seen a spirit, all in white, not running away from the attack, but toward them as they lay in cover. He had shot an arrow at the spirit, which then had vanished. It would be better to fall back and take no more like chances. For this reason the family of Molly Wingate, pursuing her closely as they could, found her at last, lying face down in the grass, her arms outspread, her white wedding gown red with blood. An arrow, its shaft cracked by her fall, was imbedded in her shoulder, driven deep by the savage bowman who had fired in fear at an object he did not recognize. So they found her, still alive, still unmutilated, still no prisoner. They carried the girl back to her mother, who reached out her arms and laid her child down behind the barricaded wagon wheels. "Bring me a candle, you!" she called to the nearest man. It chanced to be Sam Woodhull. Soon a woman came with a light. "Go away now!" the mother commanded the disappointed man. He passed into the dark. The old woman opened the bodice over the girl's heart, stripped away the stained lace that had served in three weddings on two sides of the Appalachians, and so got to the wound. "It's in to the bone," she said. "It won't come out. Get me my scissors out of my bag. It's hanging right 'side the seat, our wagon." "Ain't there no doctor?" she demanded, her own heart weakening now. But none could tell. A few women grouped around her. "It won't come out of that little hole it went in," said stout Molly Wingate, not quite sobbing. "I got to cut it wider." Silence held them as she finished the shreds of the ashen shaft and pressed to one side the stub of it. So with what tools she knew best she cut into the fabric of her own weaving, out of her own blood and bone; cut mayhap in steady snippings at her own heart, pulling and wrenching until the flesh, now growing purple, was raised above the girl's white breast. Both arms, in their white sleeves, lay on the trodden grass motionless, and had not shock and strain left the victim unconscious the pain must now have done so. The sinew wrappings held the strap-iron head, wetted as they now were with blood. The sighing surgeon caught the base of the arrowhead in thumb and finger. There was no stanching of the blood. She wrenched it free at last, and the blood gushed from a jagged hole which would have meant death in any other air or in any patient but the vital young. Now they disrobed the bride that was no bride, even as the rifle fire died away in the darkness. Women brought frontier drafts of herbs held sovereign, and laid her upon the couch that was not to have been hers alone. She opened her eyes, moaning, held out her arms to her mother, not to any husband; and her mother, bloody, unnerved, weeping, caught her to her bosom. "My lamb! My little lamb! Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!" The wailing of others for their dead arose. The camp dogs kept up a continual barking, but there was no other sound. The guards now lay out in the dark. A figure came creeping toward the bridal tent. "Is she alive? May I come in? Speak to me, Molly!" "Go on away, Sam!" answered the voice of the older woman. "You can't come in." "But is she alive? Tell me!" His voice was at the door which he could not pass. "Yes, more's the pity!" he heard the same voice say. But from the girl who should then have been his, to have and to hold, he heard no sound at all, nor could he know her frightened gaze into her mother's face, her tight clutch on her mother's hand. This was no place for delay. They made graves for the dead, pallets for the wounded. At sunrise the train moved on, grim, grave, dignified and silent in its very suffering. There was no time for reprisal or revenge. The one idea as to safety was to move forward in hope of shaking off pursuit. But all that morning and all that day the mounted Arapahoes harassed them. At many bends of the Sweetwater they paused and made sorties; but the savages fell back, later to close in, sometimes under cover so near that their tauntings could be heard. Wingate, Woodhull, Price, Hall, Kelsey stationed themselves along the line of flankers, and as the country became flatter and more open they had better control of the pursuers, so that by nightfall the latter began to fall back. The end of the second day of forced marching found them at the Three Crossings of the Sweetwater, deep in a cheerless alkaline desert, and on one of the most depressing reaches of the entire journey. That night such gloom fell on their council as had not yet been known. "The Watkins boy died to-day," said Hall, joining his colleagues at the guarded fire. "His leg was black where it was broke. They're going to bury him just ahead, in the trail. It's not best to leave headboards here." Wingate had fallen into a sort of apathy. For a time Woodhull did not speak to him after he also came in. "How is she, Mr. Wingate?" he asked at last. "She'll live?" "I don't know," replied the other. "Fever. No one can tell. We found a doctor in one of the Iowa wagons. He don't know." Woodhull sat silent for a time, exclaimed at last, "But she will--she must! This shames me! We'll be married yet." "Better wait to see if she lives or dies," said Jesse Wingate succinctly. "I know what I wish," said Caleb Price at last as he stared moodily at the coals, "and I know it mighty well--I wish the other wagons were up. Yes, and--" He did not finish. A nod or so was all the answer he got. A general apprehension held them all. "If Bridger hadn't gone on ahead, damn him!" exclaimed Kelsey at last. "Or if Carson hadn't refused to come along, instead of going on east," assented Hall. "What made him so keen?" Kelsey spoke morosely. "Said he had papers to get through. Maybe Kit Carson'll sometime carry news of our being wiped out somewhere." "Or if we had Bill Jackson to trail for us," ventured the first speaker again. "If we could send back word--" "We can't, so what's the use?" interrupted Price. "We were all together, and had our chance--once." But buried as they were in their gloomy doubts, regrets, fears, they got through that night and the next in safety. They dared not hunt, though the buffalo and antelope were in swarms, and though they knew they now were near the western limit of the buffalo range. They urged on, mile after mile. The sick and the wounded must endure as they might. Finally they topped the gentle incline which marked the heights of land between the Sweetwater and the tributaries of the Green, and knew they had reached the South Pass, called halfway to Oregon. There was no timber here. The pass itself was no winding cañon, but only a flat, broad valley. Bolder views they had seen, but none of greater interest. Now they would set foot on Oregon, passing from one great series of waterways to another and even vaster, leading down to the western sea--the unknown South Sea marked as the limits of their possessions by the gallants of King Charles when, generations earlier, and careless of all these intervening generations of toil and danger, they had paused at the summit of Rockfish Gap in the Appalachians and waved a gay hand each toward the unknown continent that lay they knew not how far to the westward. But these, now arrived halfway of half that continent, made no merriment in their turn. Their wounded and their sick were with them. The blazing sun tried them sore. Before them also lay they knew not what. And now, coming in from the northeast in a vast braided tracing of travois poles and trampling hoofs, lay a trail which fear told them was that of yet another war party waiting for the white-topped wagons. It led on across the Pass. It could not be more than two days old. "It's the Crows!" exclaimed Sam Woodhull, studying the broad trail. "They've got their women and children with them." "We have ours with us," said Caleb Price simply. Every man who heard him looked back at the lines of gaunt cattle, at the dust-stained canvas coverings that housed their families. They were far afield from home or safety. "Call Wingate. Let's decide what to do," exclaimed Price again. "We'll have to vote." They voted to go on, fault of any better plan. Some said Bridger's post was not far ahead. A general impatience, fretful, querulous, manifested itself. Ignorant, many of these wanted to hurry on to Oregon, which for most meant the Williamette Valley, in touch with the sea, marked as the usual end of the great trek. Few knew that they now stood on the soil of the Oregon country. The maps and journals of Molly Wingate were no more forthcoming, for Molly Wingate no more taught the evening school, but lay delirious under the hothouse canvas cover that intensified the rays of the blazing sun. It was life or death, but by now life-and-death issue had become no unusual experience. It was August, midsummer, and only half the journey done. The heat was blinding, blistering. For days now, in the dry sage country, from the ford of the North Fork of the Platte, along the Sweetwater and down the Sandy, the white alkali dust had sifted in and over everything. Lips cracked open, hands and arms either were raw or black with tan. The wagons were ready to drop apart. A dull silence had fallen on the people; but fatuously following the great Indian trail they made camp at last at the ford of the Green River, the third day's march down the Pacific Slope. No three days of all the slow trail had been harder to endure than these. "Play for them, Jed," counseled Caleb Price, when that hardy youth, leaving his shrunken herd, came in for his lunch that day at the ford. "Yes, but keep that fiddle in the shade, Jed, or the sun certainly will pop it open." Jed's mother, her apron full of broken bits of sagebrush, turned to see that her admonishment was heeded before she began her midday coffee fire. As for Jed himself, with a wide grin he crouched down at the side of the wagon and leaned against a wheel as he struck up a lively air, roaring joyously to his accompaniment: _Git out o' the way, old Dan Tucker, You're too late to git yore supper!_ Unmindful of the sullen apathy of men and women, the wailing of children stifling under the wagon tops, the moans of the sick and wounded in their ghastly discomfort, Jed sang with his cracked lips as he swung from one jig to the next, the voice of the violin reaching all the wagons of the shortened train. "Choose yore pardners!" rang his voice in the joyous jesting of youth. And--marvel and miracle--then and there, those lean brown folk did take up the jest, and laughingly gathered on the sun-seared sands. They formed sets and danced--danced a dance of the indomitable, at high noon, the heat blinding, the sand hot under feet not all of which were shod. Molly Wingate, herself fifty and full-bodied, cast down her firewood, caught up her skirt with either hand and made good an old-time jig to the tune of the violin and the roaring accompaniment of many voices and of patted hands. She paused at length, dropping her calico from between her fingers, and hastened to a certain wagon side as she wiped her face with her apron. "Didn't you hear it, Molly?" she demanded, parting the curtain and looking in. "Yes, I did. I wanted--I almost wanted to join. Mother, I almost wanted to hope again. Am I to live? Where are we now?" "By a right pretty river, child, and eena'most to Oregon. Come, kiss your mother, Molly. Let's try." Whereupon, having issued her orders and set everyone to work at something after her practical fashion, the first lady of the train went frizzling her shaved buffalo meat with milk in the frying pan; grumbling that milk now was almost at the vanishing point, and that now they wouldn't see another buffalo; but always getting forward with her meal. This she at last amiably announced. "Well, come an' git it, people, or I'll throw it to the dogs." Flat on the sand, on blankets or odds and ends of hide, the emigrants sat and ate, with the thermometer--had they had one--perhaps a hundred and ten in the sun. The men were silent for the most part, with now and then a word about the ford, which they thought it would be wise to make at once, before the river perchance might rise, and while it still would not swim the cattle. "We can't wait for anyone, not even the Crows," said Wingate, rising and ending the mealtime talk. "Let's get across." Methodically they began the blocking up of the wagon bodies to the measurement established by a wet pole. "Thank the Lord," said Wingate, "they'll just clear now if the bottom is hard all the way." One by one the teams were urged into the ticklish crossing. The line of wagons was almost all at the farther side when all at once the rear guard came back, spurring. "Corral! Corral!" he called. He plunged into the stream as the last driver urged his wagon up the bank. A rapid dust cloud was approaching down the valley. "Indians!" called out a dozen voices. "Corral, men! For God's sake, quick--corral!" They had not much time or means to make defense, but with training now become second nature they circled and threw the dusty caravan into the wonted barricade, tongue to tail gate. The oxen could not all be driven within, the loose stock was scattered, the horses were not on picket lines at that time of day; but driving what stock they could, the boy herders came in at a run when they saw the wagons parking. There was no time to spare. The dust cloud swept on rapidly. It could not spell peace, for no men would urge their horses at such pace under such a sun save for one purpose--to overtake this party at the ford. "It's Bill Jackson!" exclaimed Caleb Price, rifle in hand, at the river's edge. "Look out, men! Don't shoot! Wait! There's fifty Indians back of him, but that's Jackson ahead. Now what's wrong?" The riddle was not solved even when the scout of the Missouri train, crowded ahead by the steady rush of the shouting and laughing savages, raised his voice as though in warning and shouted some word, unintelligible, which made them hold their fire. The wild cavalcade dashed into the stream, crowding their prisoner--he was no less--before them, bent bows back of him, guns ready. They were stalwart, naked men, wide of jaw, great of chest, not a woman or child among them, all painted and full armed. "My God, men!" called Wingate, hastening under cover. "Don't let them in! Don't let them in! It's the Crows!" CHAPTER XXXI HOW, COLA! "How, cola!" exclaimed the leader of the band of Indians, crowding up to the gap in the corral where a part of the stock had just been driven in. He grinned maliciously and made the sign for "Sioux"--the edge of the hand across the throat. But men, rifles crosswise, barred him back, while others were hurrying, strengthening the barricade. A half dozen rifles, thrust out through wheels or leveled across wagon togues, now covered the front rank of the Crows; but the savages, some forty or fifty in number, only sat their horses laughing. This was sport to them. They had no doubt at all that they would have their will of this party of the whites as soon as they got ready, and they planned further strategy. To drive a prisoner into camp before killing him was humorous from their point of view, and practical withal, like driving a buffalo close to the village before shooting it. But the white men were not deceived by the trading-post salutation. "He's a liar!" called out the voice of Jackson. "They're not Sioux--they're Crows, an' out for war! Don't let 'em in, boys! For God's sake, keep 'em out!" It was a brave man's deed. The wonder was his words were not his last, for though the Crows did not understand all his speech, they knew well enough what he meant. One brave near him struck him across the mouth with the heavy wooden stock of his Indian whip, so that his lips gushed blood. A half dozen arrows turned toward him, trembling on the strings. But the voice of their partisan rose in command. He preferred a parley, hoping a chance might offer to get inside the wagon ring. The loose stock he counted safe booty any time they liked. He did not relish the look of the rifle muzzles at a range of twenty feet. The riders were now piled in almost against the wheels. "Swap!" exclaimed the Crow leader ingratiatingly, and held out his hand. "How, cola!" "Don't believe him! Don't trust him, men!" Again Jackson's voice rose. As the savages drew apart from him, to hold him in even better bow range, one young brave, hideously barred in vermilion and yellow, all the time with an arrow at the prisoner's back, the men in the wagon corral now saw that Jackson's hands were tied behind his back, so that he was helpless. But still he sat his own horse, and still he had a chance left to take. "Look out!" he called high and clear. "Get away from the hole! I'm comin' in!" Before anyone fully caught his meaning he swung his horse with his legs, lifted him with his heels and made one straight, desperate plunge for the gap, jostling aside the nearest two or three of his oppressors. It was a desperate man's one hope--no hope at all, indeed, for the odds were fifty to one against him. Swift as was his movement, and unprepared as his tormentors were for it, just as the horse rose to his leap over the wagon tongue, and as the rider flung himself low on his neck to escape what he knew would come, a bow twanged back of him. They all heard the zhut! of the arrow as it struck. Then, in a stumbling heap, horse and rider fell, rolled over, as a sleet of arrows followed through. Jackson rolled to one side, rose to his knees. Molly Wingate chanced to be near. Her scissors, carefully guarded always, because priceless, hung at her neck. Swiftly she began to saw at the thong which held Jackson's wrists, bedded almost to the bone and twisted with a stick. She severed the cord somehow and the man staggered up. Then they saw the arrow standing out at both sides of his shoulder, driven through the muscles with the hasty snap of the painted bowman's shot. "Cut it--break it!" he demanded of her; for all the men now were at the edge, and there was no one else to aid. And staunch Molly Wingate, her eyes staring again in horror, took the bloody stem and tried to break it off, in her second case of like surgery that week. But the shaft was flexible, tough and would not break. "A knife--quick! Cut it off above the feather!" He himself caught the front of the shaft and pushed it back, close to the head. By chance she saw Jed's knife at his belt as he kneeled, and drew it. Clumsily but steadily she slashed into the shaft, weakened it, broke it, pushed the point forward. Jackson himself unhesitatingly pulled it through, a gush of blood following on either side the shoulder. There was no time to notice that. Crippled as he was, the man only looked for weapons. A pistol lay on the ground and he caught it up. But for the packs and bales that had been thrown against the wheels, the inmates of the corral would all have fallen under the rain of arrows that now slatted and thudded in. But they kept low, and the Indians were so close against the wagons that they could not see under the bodies or through the wheels. The chocks had not yet been taken out from under the boxes, so that they stood high. Against such a barricade cavalry was helpless. There was no warrior who wanted to follow Jackson's example of getting inside. For an instant there came no order to fire. The men were reaching into the wagons to unsling their rifles from the riding loops fastened to the bows. It all was a trample and a tumult and a whirl of dust under thudding hoofs outside and in, a phase which could last no more than an instant. Came the thin crack of a squirrel rifle from the far corner of the wagon park. The Crow partisan sat his horse just a moment, the expression on his face frozen there, his mouth slowly closing. Then he slid off his horse close to the gap, now piled high with goods and gear. A boy's high quaver rose. "You can't say nothing this time! You didn't shoot at all now!" An emigrant boy was jeering at his father. But by that time no one knew or cared who shot. The fight was on. Every rifle was emptied in the next instant, and at that range almost every shot was fatal or disabling. In sudden panic at the powder flare in their faces, the Crows broke and scattered, with no time to drag away their wounded. The fight, or this phase of it, was over almost before it was begun. It all was one more repetition of border history. Almost never did the Indians make a successful attack on a trading post, rarely on an emigrant train in full corral. The cunning of the Crow partisan in driving in a prisoner as a fence had brought him close, yes--too close. But the line was not yet broken. Firing with a steady aim, the emigrants added to the toll they took. The Crows bent low and flogged their horses. Only in the distant willow thickets did they pause. They even left their dead. There were no wounded, or not for long. Jackson, the pistol in his hand, his face gray with rage and pain, stepped outside the corral. The Crow chief, shot through the chest, turned over, looked up dully. "How, cola!" said his late prisoner, baring his teeth. And what he did with this brave he did with all the others of the wounded able to move a hand. The debt to savage treachery was paid, savagely enough, when he turned back to the wagons, and such was the rage of all at this last assault that no voice was raised to stay his hand. "There's nothing like tobacker," asserted Jackson coolly when he had reëntered the corral and it came to the question of caring for his arrow wound. "Jest tie on a good chaw o' tobacker on each side o' that hole an' 'twon't be long afore she's all right. I'm glad it went plumb through. I've knowed a arrerhead to pull off an' stay in when the sinew wroppin's got loose from soakin'. "Look at them wrists," he added, holding up his hands. "They twisted that rawhide clean to the bone, damn their skins! Pertendin' to be friends! They put me in front sos't you'd let 'em ride up clost--that's the Crow way, to come right inter camp if they can, git in close an' play friends. But, believe me, this ain't but the beginnin'. They'll be back, an' plenty with 'em. Them Crows ain't west of the Pass fer only one thing, an' that's this wagon train." They gathered around him now, plying him with questions. Sam Woodhull was among those who came, and him Jackson watched narrowly every moment, his own weapon handy, as he now described the events that had brought him hither. "Our train come inter the Sweetwater two days back o' you all," he said. "We seed you'd had a fight but had went on. We knowed some was hurt, fer we picked up some womern fixin's--tattin', hit were--with blood on hit. And we found buryin's, the dirt different color." They told him now of the first fight, of their losses, of the wounded; told him of the near escape of Molly Wingate, though out of courtesy to Woodhull, who stood near, they said nothing of the interrupted wedding. The old mountain man's face grew yet more stern. "That gal!" he said. "Her shot by a sneakin' Rapahoe? Ain't that a shame! But she's not bad--she's comin' through?" Molly Wingate, who stood ready now with bandages, told him how alike the two arrow wounds had been. "Take an' chaw tobacker, ma'am," said he. "Put a hunk on each side, do-ee mind, an' she'll be well." "Go on and tell us the rest," someone demanded. "Not much to tell that ye couldn't of knew, gentlemen," resumed the scout. "Ef ye'd sont back fer us we'd of jined ye, shore, but ye didn't send." "How could we send, man?" demanded Woodhull savagely. "How could we know where you were, or whether you'd come--or whether you'd have been of any use if you had?" "Well, we knew whar you-all was, 't any rate," rejoined Jackson. "We was two days back o' ye, then one day. Our captain wouldn't let us crowd in, fer he said he wasn't welcome an' we wasn't needed. "That was ontel we struck the big Crow trail, with you all a follerin' o' hit blind, a-chasin' trouble as hard as ye could. Then he sont me on ahead to warn ye an' to ask ef we should jine on. We knowed the Crows was down atter the train. "I laid down to sleep, I did, under a sagebrush, in the sun, like a fool. I was beat out an' needed sleep, an' I thought I was safe fer a leetle while. When I woke up it was a whoop that done hit. They was around me, laughin', twenty arrers p'inted, an' some shot inter the ground by my face. I taken my chance, an' shook hands. They grabbed me an' tied me. Then they made me guide them in, like ye seen. They maybe didn't know I come from the east an' not from the west. "Their village is on some creek above here. I think they're on a visit to the Shoshones. Eight hundred men they are, or more. Hit's more'n what it was with the Sioux on the Platte, fer ye're not so many now. An' any time now the main band may come. Git ready, men. Fer me, I must git back to my own train. They may be back twenty mile, or thirty. Would ary man want to ride with me? Would ye, Sam Woodhull?" The eyes of his associates rested on Woodhull. "I think one man would be safer than two," said he. "My own place is here if there's sure to be a fight." "Mebbe so," assented Jackson. "In fack, I don't know as more'n one'd git through if you an' me both started." His cold gray eye was fixed on Woodhull carelessly. "An' ef hit was the wrong man got through he'd never lead them Missouri men for'rerd to where this fight'll be. "An' hit'll be right here. Look yan!" he added. He nodded to the westward, where a great dust cloud arose. "More is comin'," said he. "Yan's Bannack's like as not, er even the Shoshones, all I know, though they're usual quiet. The runners is out atween all the tribes. I must be on my way." He hurried to find his own horse, looked to its welfare, for it, too, had an arrow wound. As he passed a certain wagon he heard a voice call to him, saw a hand at the curtained front. "Miss Molly! Hit's you! Ye're not dead no ways, then?" "Come," said the girl. He drew near, fell back at sight of her thin face, her pallor; but again she commanded him. "I know," said she. "He's--he's safe?" "Yes, Miss Molly, a lot safer'n any of us here." "You're going back to him?" "Yes. When he knows ye're hurt he'll come. Nothin'll stop him, oncet I tell him." "Wait!" she whispered. "I heard you talk. Take him this." She pushed into his hand a folded paper, unsealed, without address. "To him!" she said, and fell back on the blankets of her rude pallet. At that moment her mother was approaching, and at her side walked Woodhull, actuated by his own suspicions about Jackson. He saw the transaction of the passed note and guessed what he could not know. He tapped Jackson on the shoulder, drew him aside, his own face pale with anger. "I'm one of the officers of this train," said he. "I want to know what's in that note. We have no truck with Banion, and you know that. Give it to me." Jackson calmly tucked the paper into the fire bag that hung at his belt. "Come an' take it, Sam, damn ye!" said he. "I don't know what's in hit, an' won't know. Who it's to ain't none o' yore damn business!" "You're a cursed meddler!" broke out Woodhull. "You're a spy in our camp, that's all you are!" "So! Well, cussed meddler er not, I'm a cussed shore shot. An' I advise ye to give over on all this an' mind yore business. Ye'll have plenty to do by midnight, an' by that time all yore womern an' children, all yore old men an' all yore cowards'll be prayin' fer Banion an' his men to come. That there includes you somewhere's, Sam. Don't temp' me too much ner too long. I'll kill ye yit ef ye do! Git on away!" They parted, each with eye over shoulder. Their talk had been aside and none had heard it in full. But when Woodhull again joined Mrs. Wingate that lady conveyed to him Molly's refusal to see him or to set a time for seeing him. Bitterly angered, humiliated to the core, he turned back to the men who were completing the defenses of the wagon park. "I kain't start now afore dark," said Jackson to the train command. "They're a-goin' to jump the train. When they do come they'll surround ye an' try to keep ye back from the water till the stock goes crazy. Lay low an' don't let a Injun inside. Hit may be a hull day, er more, but when Banion's men come they'll come a-runnin'--allowin' I git through to tell 'em. "Dig in a trench all the way aroun'," he added finally. "Put the womern an' children in hit an' pile up all yer flour on top. Don't waste no powder--let 'em come up clost as they will. Hold on ontel we come." At dusk he slipped away, the splash of his horse's feet in the ford coming fainter and fainter, even as the hearts of some felt fainter as his wise and sturdy counsel left them. Naught to do now but to wait. They did wait--the women and children, the old, the ill and the wounded huddled shivering and crying in the scooped-out sand, hardest and coldest of beds; the men in line against the barricade, a circle of guards outside the wagon park. But midnight passed, and the cold hours of dawn, and still no sign came of an attack. Men began to believe the dust cloud of yesterday no more than a false alarm, and the leaders were of two minds, whether to take Jackson's counsel and wait for the Missourians, or to hook up and push on as fast as possible to Bridger's fort, scarce more than two hard days' journey on ahead. But before this breakfast-hour discussion had gone far events took the decision out of their hands. "Look!" cried a voice. "Open the gate!" The cattle guards and outposts who had just driven the herd to water were now spurring for shelter and hurrying on the loose stock ahead of them. And now, from the willow growth above them, from the trail that led to the ford and from the more open country to the westward there came, in three great detachments, not a band or a body, but an army of the savage tribesmen, converging steadily upon the wagon train. They came slowly, not in a wild charge, not yelling, but chanting. The upper and right-hand bodies were Crows. Their faces were painted black, for war and for revenge. The band on the left were wild men, on active half-broke horses, their weapons for the most part bows and arrows. They later found these to be Bannacks, belonging anywhere but here, and in any alliance rather than with the Crows from east of the Pass. Nor did the latter belong here to the south and west, far off their own great hunting range. Obviously what Carson, Bridger, Jackson had said was true. All the tribes were in league to stop the great invasion of the white nation, who now were bringing their women and children and this thing with which they buried the buffalo. They meant extermination now. They were taking their time and would take their revenge for the dead who lay piled before the white man's barricade. The emigrants rolled back a pair of wagons, and the cattle were crowded through, almost over the human occupants of the oblong. The gap was closed. All the remaining cargo packages were piled against the wheels, and the noncombatants sheltered in that way. Shovels deepened the trench here or there as men sought better to protect their families. And now in a sudden _melée_ of shouts and yells, of trampling hoofs and whirling colors, the first bands of the Crows came charging up in the attempt to carry away their dead of yesterday. Men stooped to grasp a stiffened wrist, a leg, a belt; the ponies squatted under ghastly dragging burdens. But this brought them within pistol range. The reports of the white men's weapons began, carefully, methodically, with deadly accuracy. There was no panic. The motionless or the struggling blotches ahead of the wagon park grew and grew. A few only of the Crows got off with bodies of their friend's or relatives. One warrior after another dropped. They were used to killing buffalo at ten yards. The white rifles killed their men now regularly at a hundred. They drew off, out of range. Meantime the band from the westward was rounding up and driving off every animal that had not been corralled. The emigrants saw themselves in fair way to be set on foot. Now the savage strategy became plain. The fight was to be a siege. "Look!" Again a leader pointed. Crouched now, advancing under cover of the shallow cut-bank, the headdresses of a score of the Western tribesmen could be seen. They sank down. The ford was held, the water was cut off! The last covering fringe of willows also was held. On every side the black-painted savages sat their ponies, out of range. There could be no more water or grass for the horses and cattle, no wood for the camp. There was no other concerted charge for a long time. Now and then some painted brave, chanting a death song, would ride slowly toward the wagon park, some dervish vow actuating him or some bravado impelling him. But usually he fell. It all became a quiet, steady, matter-of-fact performance on both sides. This very freedom from action and excitement, so different from the gallant riding of the Sioux, was more terrifying than direct attack _en masse_, so that when it came to a matter of shaken morale the whites were in as bad case as their foes, although thus far they had had no casualty at all. There lacked the one leader, cool, calm, skilled, experienced, although courage did not lack. Yet even the best courage suffers when a man hears the wailing of his children back of him, the groans of his wife. As the hours passed, with no more than an occasional rifle shot or the zhut! of an arrow ending its high arc, the tension on the nerves of the beleaguered began to manifest itself. At midday the children began to cry for water. They were appeased with milk from the few cows offering milk; but how long might that last, with the cattle themselves beginning to moan and low? "How far are they back?" It was Hall, leader of the Ohio wagons. But none could tell him where the Missouri train had paused. Wingate alone knew why Banion had not advanced. He doubted if he would come now. "And this all was over the quarrel between two men," said Caleb Price to his friend Wingate. "The other man is a thief, Cale," reiterated Wingate. "He was court-martialed and broke, dishonorably discharged from the Army. He was under Colonel Doniphan, and had control of subsistence in upper Mexico for some time. He had the regimental funds. Doniphan was irregular. He ran his regiment like a mess, and might order first this officer, then that, of the line or staff, to take on his free-for-all quartermaster trains. But he was honest. Banion was not. He had him broken. The charges were filed by Captain Woodhull. Well, is it any wonder there is no love lost? And is it any wonder I wouldn't train up with a thief, or allow him to visit in my family? By God! right now I wouldn't; and I didn't send for him to help us!" "So!" said Caleb Price. "So! And that was why the wedding--" "Yes! A foolish fancy of a girl. I don't know what passed between her and Banion. I felt it safer for my daughter to be married, as soon as could be, to another man, an honest man. You know how that came out. And now, when she's as apt to die as live, and we're all as apt to, you others send for that renegade to save us! I have no confidence that he will come. I hope he will not. I'd like his rifles, but I don't want him." "Well," said Caleb Price, "it is odd how his rifles depend on him and not on the other man. Yet they both lived in the same town." "Yes, one man may be more plausible than another." "Yes? I don't know that I ever saw a man more plausible with his fists than Major Banion was. Yes, I'll call him plausible. I wish some of us--say, Sam Woodhull, now--could be half as plausible with these Crows. Difference in men, Jess!" he concluded. "Woodhull was there--and now he's here. He's here--and now we're sending there for the other man." "You want that other man, thief and dishonest as he is?" "By God! yes! I want his rifles and him too. Women, children and all, the whole of us, will die if that thief doesn't come inside of another twenty-four hours." Wingate flung out his arms, walked away, hands clasped behind his back. He met Woodhull. "Sam, what shall we do?" he demanded. "You're sort of in charge now. You've been a soldier, and we haven't had much of that." "There are fifteen hundred or two thousand of them," said Woodhull slowly--"a hundred and fifty of us that can fight. Ten to one, and they mean no quarter." "But what shall we do?" "What can we but lie close and hold the wagons?" "And wait?" "Yes." "Which means only the Missouri men!" "There's no one else. We don't know that they're alive. We don't know that they will come." "But one thing I do know"--his dark face gathered in a scowl--"if he doesn't come it will not be because he was not asked! That fellow carried a letter from Molly to him. I know that. Well, what do you-all think of me? What's my standing in all this? If I've not been shamed and humiliated, how can a man be? And what am I to expect?" "If we get through, if Molly lives, you mean?" "Yes. I don't quit what I want. I'll never give her up. You give me leave to try again? Things may change. She may consider the wrong she's done me, an honest man. It's his hanging around all the time, keeping in her mind. And now we've sent for him--and so has she!" They walked apart, Wingate to his wagon. "How is she?" he asked of his wife, nodding to Molly's wagon. "Better some ways, but low," replied his stout helpmate, herself haggard, dark circles of fatigue about her eyes. "She won't eat, even with the fever down. If we was back home where we could get things! Jess, what made us start for Oregon?" "What made us leave Kentucky for Indiana, and Indiana for Illinois? I don't know. God help us now!" "It's bad, Jesse." "Yes, it's bad." Suddenly he took his wife's face in his hands and kissed her quietly. "Kiss Little Molly for me," he said. "I wish--I wish--" "I wish them other wagons'd come," said Molly Wingate. "Then we'd see!" CHAPTER XXXII THE FIGHT AT THE FORD Jackson, wounded and weary as he was, drove his crippled horse so hard all the night through that by dawn he had covered almost fifty miles, and was in sight of the long line of wagons, crawling like a serpent down the slopes west of the South Pass, a cloud of bitter alkali dust hanging like a blanket over them. No part of the way had been more cheerless than this gray, bare expanse of more than a hundred miles, and none offered less invitation for a bivouac. But now both man and horse were well-nigh spent. Knowing that he would be reached within an hour or so at best, Jackson used the last energies of his horse in riding back and forth at right angles across the trail, the Plains sign of "Come to me!" He hoped it would be seen. He flung himself down across the road, in the dust, his bridle tied to his wrist. His horse, now nearly gone, lay down beside him, nor ever rose again. And here, in the time a gallop could bring them up, Banion and three of his men found them, one dead, the other little better. "Bill! Bill!" The voice of Banion was anxious as he lightly shook the shoulder of the prone man, half afraid that he, too, had died. Stupid in sleep, the scout sprang up, rifle in hand. "Who's thar?" "Hold, Bill! Friends! Easy now!" The old man pulled together, rubbed his eyes. "I must of went to sleep agin," said he. "My horse--pshaw now, pore critter, do-ee look now!" In rapid words he now told his errand. They could see the train accelerating its speed. Jackson felt in the bag at his belt and handed Banion the folded paper. He opened the folds steadily, read the words again and again. "'Come to us,'" is what it says. He spoke to Jackson. "Ye're a damned liar, Will," remarked Jackson. "I'll read it all!" said Banion suddenly. "'Will Banion, come to me, or it may be too late. There never was any wedding. I am the most wicked and most unhappy woman in the world. You owe me nothing! But come! M.W.' "That's what it says. Now you know. Tell me--you heard of no wedding back at Independence Rock? They said nothing? He and she--" "Ef they was ever any weddin' hit was a damned pore sort, an' she says thar wasn't none. She'd orto know." "Can you ride, Jackson?" "Span in six fast mules for a supply wagon, such as kin gallop. I'll sleep in that a hour or so. Git yore men started, Will. We may be too late. It's nigh fifty mile to the ford o' the Green." It came near to mutiny when Banion ordered a third of his men to stay back with the ox teams and the families. Fifty were mounted and ready in five minutes. They were followed by two fast wagons. In one of these rolled Bill Jackson, unconscious of the roughness of the way. On the Sandy, twenty miles from the ford, they wakened him. "Now tell me how it lies," said Banion. "How's the country?" Jackson drew a sketch on the sand. "They'll surround, an' they'll cut off the water." "Can we ford above and come in behind them?" "We mout. Send half straight to the ford an' half come in behind, through the willers, huh? That'd put 'em atween three fires. Ef we driv' 'em on the wagons they'd get hell thar, an' ef they broke, the wagons could chase 'em inter us again. I allow we'd give 'em hell. Hit's the Crows I'm most a-skeered of. The Bannacks--ef that's who they was--'ll run easy." At sunset of that day the emigrants, now half mad of thirst, and half ready to despair of succor or success, heard the Indian drums sound and the shrilling of the eagle-bone whistles. The Crows were chanting again. Whoops arose along the river bank. "My God! they're coming!" called out a voice. There was a stir of uneasiness along the line, an ominous thing. And then the savage hosts broke from their cover, more than a thousand men, ready to take some loss in their hope that the whites were now more helpless. In other circumstances it must have been a stirring spectacle for any who had seen it. To these, cowering in the sand, it brought terror. But before the three ranks of the Crows had cleared the cover the last line began to yell, to whip, to break away. Scattering but continuous rifle fire followed them, war cries arose, not from savages, but white men. A line of riders emerged, coming straight through to the second rank of the Crow advance. Then the beleaguered knew that the Missourians were up. "Banion, by God!" said a voice which few stopped to recognize as Woodhull's. He held his fire, his rifle resting so long through the wagon wheel that Caleb Price in one swift motion caught it away from him. "No harm, friend," said he, "but you'll not need this just now!" His cold eye looked straight into that of the intending murderer. The men in the wagon park rose to their work again. The hidden Bannacks began to break away from their lodgment under the river bank. The sound of hoofs and of shouts came down the trail. The other wing of the Missourians flung off and cleared the ford before they undertook to cross, their slow, irregular, deadly rifle fire doing its work among the hidden Bannacks until they broke and ran for their horses in the cottonwoods below. This brought them partly into view, and the rifles of the emigrants on that side bore on them till they broke in sheer terror and fled in a scattered _sauve qui peut_. The Crows swerved under the enfilading fire of the men who now crossed the ford. Caught between three fires, and meeting for their first time the use of the revolver, then new to them, they lost heart and once more left their dead, breaking away into a mad flight west and north which did not end till they had forded the upper tributaries of the Green and Snake, and found their way back west of the Tetons to their own country far east and north of the Two-go-tee crossing of the Wind River Mountains; whence for many a year they did not emerge again to battle with the white nation on the Medicine Road. At one time there were forty Crow squaws, young and old, with gashed breasts and self-amputated fingers, given in mourning over the unreturning brave. What many men had not been able to do of their own resources, less than a fourth their number now had done. Side by side Banion, Jackson, a half dozen others, rode up to the wagon gap, now opened. They were met by a surge of the rescued. Women, girls threw themselves upon them, kissing them, embracing them hysterically. Where had been gloom, now was rejoicing, laughter, tears. The leaders of the emigrants came up to Banion and his men, Wingate in advance. Banion still sat his great black horse, coldly regarding them. "I have kept my promise, Captain Wingate," said he. "I have not come until you sent for me. Let me ask once more, do I owe you anything now?" "No, sir, you do not," replied the older man. "And do you owe me anything?" Wingate did not answer. "Name what you like, Major Banion," said a voice at his shoulder--Caleb Price. Banion turned to him slowly. "Some things have no price, sir," said he. "For other things I shall ask a high price in time. Captain Wingate, your daughter asked me to come. If I may see her a moment, and carry back to my men the hope of her recovery, we shall all feel well repaid." Wingate made way with the others. Banion rode straight through the gap, with no more than one unseeing glance at Woodhull, near whom sat Jackson, a pistol resting on his thigh. He came to the place under a wagon where they had made a hospital cot for Molly Wingate. It was her own father and mother who lifted her out as Will Banion sprang down, hat in hand, pale in his own terror at seeing her so pale. "No, don't go!" said the girl to her parents. "Be here with us--and God.'" She held out her arms and he bent above her, kissing her forehead gently and shyly as a boy. "Please get well, Molly Wingate," said he. "You are Molly Wingate?" "Yes. At the end--I couldn't! I ran away, all in my wedding clothes, Will. In the dark. Someone shot me. I've been sick, awfully sick, Will." "Please get well, Molly Wingate! I'm going away again. This time, I don't know where. Can't you forget me, Molly Wingate?" "I'm going to try, Will. I did try. Go on ahead, Will," she added. "You know what I mean. Do what I told you. I--why, Will!" "My poor lamb!" said the strong voice of her mother, who gathered her in her arms, looking over her shoulder at this man to whom her child had made no vows. But Banion, wet eyed, was gone once more. Jackson saw his leader out of the wagon gap, headed for a camping spot far apart. He stumbled up to the cot where Molly lay, her silent parents still close by. "Here, Miss Molly, gal," said he, holding out some object in his hand. "We both got a arrer through the shoulder, an' mine's a'most well a'ready. Ain't nothin' in the world like a good chaw o' tobackers to put on a arrer cut. Do-ee, now!" CHAPTER XXXIII THE FAMILIES ARE COMING! The Missourians camped proudly and coldly apart, the breach between the two factions by no means healed, but rather deepened, even if honorably so, and now well understood of all. Most men of both parties now knew of the feud between Banion and Woodhull, and the cause underlying it. Woman gossip did what it might. A half dozen determined men quietly watched Woodhull. As many continually were near Banion, although for quite a different reason. All knew that time alone must work out the answer to this implacable quarrel, and that the friends of the two men could not possibly train up together. After all, when in sheer courtesy the leaders of the Wingate train came over to the Missouri camp on the following day there came nearer to being a good understanding than there ever had been since the first break. It was agreed that all the wagons should go on together as far as Fort Bridger, and that beyond that point the train should split into two or perhaps three bodies--a third if enough Woodhull adherents could be found to make him up a train. First place, second and third were to be cast by lot. They all talked soberly, fairly, with the dignity of men used to good standing among men. These matters concluded, and it having been agreed that all should lie by for another day, they resolved the meeting into one of better fellowship. Old Bill Jackson, lying against his blanket roll, fell into reminiscence. "Times past," said he, "the Green River Rendyvous was helt right in here. I've seed this place spotted with tepees--hull valley full o' Company men an' free trappers an' pack-train people--time o' Ashley an' Sublette an' my Uncle Jackson an' all them traders. That was right here on the Green. Ever'body drunk an' happy, like I ain't now. Mounting men togged out, new leggin's an' moccasins their womern had made, warriors painted up a inch o' their lives, an' women with brass wire an' calico all they wanted--maybe two-three thousand people in the Rendyvous. "But I never seed the grass so short, an' I never seed so much fightin' afore in all my life as I have this trip. This is the third time we're jumped, an' this time we're lucky, shore as hell. Pull on through to Bridger an' fix yer wagons afore they tumble apart. Leave the grass fer them that follows, an' git on fur's you kin, every wagon. We ain't likely to have no more trouble now. Pile up them braves in one heap fer a warnin' to any other bunch o' reds that may come along to hide around the wagon ford. New times has come on the Green." "Can you travel, Jackson?" asked Hall of Ohio. "You've had a hard time." "Who? Me? Why shouldn't I? Give me time to pick up some o' them bows an' arrers an' I'm ready to start. I noticed a right fine horn bow one o' them devils had--the Crows allus had good bows. That's the yaller-an'-red brave that was itchin' so long to slap a arrer through my ribs from behind. I'd like to keep his bow fer him, him not needin' it now." Before the brazen sun had fully risen on the second day these late peaceful farmers of Ohio, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, were plodding along once more beside their sore-footed oxen; passing out unaided into a land which many leading men in the Government, North and South, and quite aside from political affiliations, did not value at five dollars for it all, though still a thousand miles of it lay ahead. "Oh, then, Susannah!" roared Jed Wingate, trudging along beside Molly's wagon in the sand. "Don't you cry fer me--I'm going through to Oregon, with my banjo on my knee!" Fair as a garden to the sun-seared eyes of the emigrants seemed the mountain post, Fort Bridger, when its rude stockade separated itself from the distortions of the desert mirage, whose citadels of silence, painted temples fronted with colossal columns, giant sphinxes, vast caryatids, lofty arches, fretwork façades, fantastically splendid castles and palaces now resolved themselves into groups of squat pole structures and a rude stock corral. The site of the post itself could not better have been chosen. Here the flattened and dividing waters of the Black's Fork, icy cold and fresh from the Uintah Mountains to the southward, supported a substantial growth of trees, green now and wonderfully refreshing to desert-weary eyes. "The families are coming!" Bridger's clerk, Chardon, raised the new cry of the trading post. "Broke an' hungry, I'll bet!" swore old Jim Bridger in his beard. But he retired into his tepee and issued orders to his Shoshone squaw, who was young and pretty. Her name, as he once had said, was Dang Yore Eyes--and she was very proud of it. Philosophical withal, though smarting under recent blows of her white lord, she now none the less went out and erected once more in front of the tepee the token Bridger had kicked down--the tufted lance, the hair-fringed bull-neck shield, the sacred medicine bundle which had stood in front of Jeem's tepee in the Rendezvous on Horse Creek, what time he had won her in a game of hands. Whereupon the older squaw, not young, pretty or jealous, abused him in Ute and went out after wood. Her name was Blast Your Hide, and she also was very proud of her white name. Whereafter both Dang Yore Eyes and Blast Yore Hide, female, and hence knowing the moods of man, wisely hid out for a while. They knew when Jeem had the long talk with the sick white squaw, who was young, but probably needed bitter bark of the cottonwood to cure her fever. Painted Utes and Shoshones stood about, no more silent than the few local mountaineers, bearded, beaded and fringed, who still after some mysterious fashion clung to the old life at the post. Against the newcomers, profitable as they were, still existed the ancient antipathy of the resident for the nonresident. "My land sakes alive!" commented stoical Molly Wingate after they had made some inquiries into the costs of staples here. "This store ain't no place to trade. They want fifty dollars a sack for flour--what do you think of that? We got it for two dollars back home. And sugar a dollar a tin cup, and just plain salt two bits a pound, and them to guess at the pound. Do they think we're Indians, or what?" "It's the tenth day of August, and a thousand miles ahead," commented Caleb Price. "And we're beyond the buffalo now." "And Sis is in trouble," added Jed Wingate. "The light wagon's got one hind spindle half in two, and I've spliced the hind ex for the last time." Jackson advanced an idea. "At Fort Hall," he said, "I've seed 'em cut a wagon in two an' make a two-wheel cart out'n hit. They're easier to git through mountains that way." "Now listen to that, Jesse!" Mrs. Wingate commented. "It's getting down to less and less every day. But I'm going to take my bureau through, and my wheat, and my rose plants, if I have to put wheels on my bureau." The men determined to saw down three wagons of the train which now seemed doubtful of survival as quadrupeds, and a general rearrangement of cargoes was agreed. Now they must jettison burden of every dispensable sort. Some of the sore-necked oxen were to be thrown into the loose herd and their places taken for a time by cows no longer offering milk. A new soberness began to sit on all. The wide reaches of desert with which they here were in touch appalled their hearts more than anything they yet had met. The grassy valley of the Platte, where the great fourfold tracks of the trail cut through a waving sea of green belly deep to the oxen, had seemed easy and inviting, and since then hardship had at least been spiced with novelty and change. But here was a new and forbidding land. This was the Far West itself; silent, inscrutable, unchanged, irreducible. The mightiness of its calm was a smiting thing. The awesomeness of its chill, indifferent nights, the unsparing ardors of its merciless noons, the measureless expanses of its levels, the cold barrenness of its hills--these things did not invite as to the bosom of a welcoming mother; they repelled, as with the chill gesture of a stranger turning away outcasts from the door. "Here resolution almost faints!" wrote one. A general requisition was made on the scant stores Bridger had hurried through. To their surprise, Bridger himself made no attempt at frontier profits. "Chardon," commanded the moody master of the post to his head clerk, "take down your tradin' bar an' let my people in. Sell them their flour an' meal at what it has cost us here--all they want, down to what the post will need till my partner Vasquez brings in more next fall, if he ever does. Sell 'em their flour at four dollars a sack, an' not at fifty, boy. Git out that flag I saved from Sublette's outfit, Chardon. Put it on a pole for these folks, an' give it to them so's they kin carry it on acrost to Oregon. God's got some use for them folks out yan or hit wouldn't be happenin' this way. I'm goin' to help 'em acrost. Ef I don't, old Jim Bridger is a liar!" That night Bridger sat in his lodge alone, moodily smoking. He heard a shaking at the pegs of the door flap. "Get out!" he exclaimed, thinking that it was his older associate, or else some intruding dog. His order was not obeyed. Will Banion pulled back the flap, stooped and entered. "How!" exclaimed Bridger, and with fist smitten on the blankets made the sign to "Sit!" Banion for a time also smoked in silence, knowing the moody ways of the old-time men. "Ye came to see me about her, Miss Molly, didn't ye?" began Bridger after a long time, kicking the embers of the tepee fire together with the toe of his moccasin. "How do you know that?" "I kin read signs." "Yes, she sent me." "When?" "That was at Laramie. She told me to come on with you then. I could not." "Pore child, they mout 'a' killed her! She told me she'd git well, though--told me so to-day. I had a talk with her." His wrinkled face broke into additional creases. "She told me more!" "I've no wonder." "Ner me. Ef I was more young and less Injun I'd love that gal! I do, anyhow, fer sake o' what I might of been ef I hadn't had to play my game the way the cards said fer me. "She told me she was shot on her weddin' night, in her weddin' clothes--right plum to the time an' minute o' marryin, then an' thar. She told me she thanked God the Injun shot her, an' she wished to God he'd killed her then an' thar. I'd like such fer a bride, huh? That's one hell of a weddin', huh? Why?" Banion sat silent, staring at the embers. "I know why, or part ways why. Kit an' me was drunk at Laramie. I kain't remember much. But I do ree-colleck Kit said something to me about you in the Army, with Donerphan in Mayheeco. Right then I gits patriotic. 'Hooray!' says I. Then we taken another drink. After that we fell to arguin' how much land we'd git out o' Mayheeco when the treaty was signed. He said hit war done signed now, or else hit warn't. I don't ree-colleck which, but hit was one or t'other. He had papers. Ef I see Kit agin ary time now I'll ast him what his papers was. I don't ree-colleck exact. "All that, ye see, boy," he resumed, "was atter I was over to the wagons at Laramie, when I seed Miss Molly to say good-by to her. I reckon maybe I was outside o' sever'l horns even then." "And that was when you gave her the California nugget that Kit Carson had given you!" Banion spoke at last. "Oh, ye spring no surprise, boy! She told me to-day she'd told you then; said she'd begged you to go on with me an' beat all the others to Californy; said she wanted you to git rich; said you an' her had parted, an' she wanted you to live things down. I was to tell ye that. "Boy, she loves ye--not me ner that other man. The Injun womern kin love a dozen men. The white womern kain't. I'm still fool white enough fer to believe that. Of course she'd break her promise not to tell about the gold. I might 'a' knowed she'd tell the man she loved. Well, she didn't wait long. How long was hit afore she done so--about ten minutes? Boy, she loves ye. Hit ain't no one else." "I think so. I'm afraid so." "Why don't ye marry her then, damn ye, right here? Ef a gal loves a man he orto marry her, ef only to cure her o' bein' a damn fool to love any man. Why don't you marry her right now?" "Because I love her!" Bridger sat in disgusted silence for some time. "Well," said he at last, "there's some kinds o' damned fools that kain't be cured noways. I expect you're one o' them. Me, I hain't so highfalutin'. Ef I love a womern, an' her me, somethin's goin' to happen. What's this here like? Nothin' happens. Son, it's when nothin' happens that somethin' else does happen. She marries another man--barrin' 'Rapahoes. A fool fer luck--that's you. But there mightn't always be a Injun hidin' to shoot her when she gits dressed up agin an' the minister is a-waitin' to pernounce 'em man an' wife. Then whar air ye?" He went on more kindly after a time, as he reached out a hard, sinewy hand. "Such as her is fer the young man that has a white man's full life to give her. She's purty as a doe fawn an' kind as a thoroughbred filly. In course ye loved her, boy. How could ye a-help hit? An' ye was willin' to go to Oregon--ye'd plow rather'n leave sight o' her? I don't blame ye, boy. Such as her is not supported by rifle an' trap. Hit's the home smoke, not the tepee fire, for her. I ask ye nothin' more, boy. I'll not ask ye what ye mean. Man an' boy, I've follered the tepee smokes--blue an' a-movin' an' a-beckonin' they was--an' I never set this hand to no plow in all my life. But in my heart two things never was wiped out--the sight o' the white womern's face an' the sight o' the flag with stars. I'll help ye all I can, an' good luck go with ye. Work hit out yore own way. She's worth more'n all the gold Californy's got buried!" This time it was Will Banion's hand that was suddenly extended. "Take her secret an' take her advice then," said Bridger after a time. "Ye must git in ahead to Californy. Fust come fust served, on any beaver water. Fer me 'tis easy. I kin hold my hat an' the immigrints'll throw money into hit. I've got my fortune here, boy. I can easy spare ye what ye need, ef ye do need a helpin' out'n my plate. Fer sake o' the finest gal that ever crossed the Plains, that's what we'll do! Ef I don't, Jim Bridger's a putrefied liar, so help me God!" Banion made no reply at once, but could not fail of understanding. "I'll not need much," said he. "My place is to go on ahead with my men. I don't think there'll be much danger now from Indians, from what I hear. At Fort Hall I intend to split off for California. Now I make you this proposition, not in payment for your secret, or for anything else: If I find gold I'll give you half of all I get, as soon as I get out or as soon as I can send it." "What do ye want o' me, son?" "Six mules and packs. All the shovels and picks you have or can get for me at Fort Hall. There's another thing." "An' what is that?" "I want you to find out what Kit Carson said and what Kit Carson had. If at any time you want to reach me--six months, a year--get word through by the wagon trains next year, in care of the District Court at Oregon City, on the Willamette." "Why, all right, all right, son! We're all maybe talkin' in the air, but I more'n half understand ye. One thing, ye ain't never really intendin' to give up Molly Wingate! Ye're a fool not to marry her now, but ye're reckonin' to marry her sometime--when the moon turns green, huh? When she's old an' shriveled up, then ye'll marry her, huh?" Banion only looked at him, silent. "Well, I'd like to go on to Californy with ye, son, ef I didn't know I'd make more here, an' easier, out'n the crazy fools that'll be pilin' in here next year. So good luck to ye." "Kit had more o' that stuff," he suddenly added. "He give me some more when I told him I'd lost that fust piece he give me. I'll give ye a piece fer sample, son. I've kep' hit close." He begun fumbling in the tobacco pouch which he found under the head of his blanket bed. He looked up blankly, slightly altering the name of his youngest squaw. "Well, damn her hide!" said he fervently. "Ye kain't keep nothin' from 'em! An' they kain't keep nothin' when they git hit." CHAPTER XXXIV A MATTER OF FRIENDSHIP Once more the train, now permanently divided into two, faced the desert, all the men and many women now afoot, the kine low-headed, stepping gingerly in their new rawhide shoes. Gray, grim work, toiling over the dust and sand. But at the head wagon, taking over an empire foot by foot, flew the great flag. Half fanatics? That may be. Fanatics, so called, also had prayed and sung and taught their children, all the way across to the Great Salt Lake. They, too, carried books. And within one hour after their halt near the Salt Lake they began to plow, began to build, began to work, began to grow and make a country. The men at the trading post saw the Missouri wagons pull out ahead. Two hours later the Wingate train followed, as the lot had determined. Woodhull remained with his friends in the Wingate group, regarded now with an increasing indifference, but biding his time. Bridger held back his old friend Jackson even after the last train pulled out. It was mid afternoon when the start was made. "Don't go just yet, Bill," said he. "Ride on an' overtake 'em. Nothin' but rattlers an' jack rabbits now fer a while. The Shoshones won't hurt 'em none. I'm powerful lonesome, somehow. Let's you an' me have one more drink." "That sounds reas'nble," said Jackson. "Shore that sounds reas'nble to me." They drank of a keg which the master of the post had hidden in his lodge, back of his blankets; drank again of high wines diluted but uncolored--the "likker" of the fur trade. They drank from tin cups, until Bridger began to chant, a deepening sense of his old melancholy on him. "Good-by!" he said again and again, waving his hand in general vagueness to the mountains. "We was friends, wasn't we, Bill?" he demanded again and again; and Jackson, drunk as he, nodded in like maudlin gravity. He himself began to chant. The two were savages again. "Well, we got to part, Bill. This is Jim Bridger's last Rendyvous. I've rid around an' said good-by to the mountings. Why don't we do it the way the big partisans allus done when the Rendyvous was over? 'Twas old Mike Fink an' his friend Carpenter begun hit, fifty year ago. Keel-boat men on the river, they was. There's as good shots left to-day as then, an' as good friends. You an' me has seed hit; we seed hit at the very last meetin' o' the Rocky Mountain Company men, before the families come. An 'nary a man spilled the whiskey on his partner's head." "That's the truth," assented Jackson. "Though some I wouldn't trust now." "Would ye trust me, Bill, like I do you, fer sake o' the old times, when friends was friends?" "Shore I would, no matter how come, Jim. My hand's stiddy as a rock, even though my shootin' shoulder's a leetle stiff from that Crow arrer." Each man held out his firing arm, steady as a bar. "I kin still see the nail heads on the door, yan. Kin ye, Bill?" "Plain! It's a waste o' likker, Jim, fer we'd both drill the cups." "Are ye a-skeered?" "I told ye not." "Chardon!" roared Bridger to his clerk. "You, Chardon, come here!" The clerk obeyed, though he and others had been discreet about remaining visible as this bout of old-timers at their cups went on. Liquor and gunpowder usually went together. "Chardon, git ye two fresh tin cups an' bring 'em here. Bring a piece o' charcoal to spot the cups. We're goin' to shoot 'em off each other's heads in the old way. You know what I mean" Chardon, trembling, brought the two tin cups, and Bridger with a burnt ember sought to mark plainly on each a black bull's-eye. Silence fell on the few observers, for all the emigrants had now gone and the open space before the rude trading building was vacant, although a few faces peered around corners. At the door of the tallest tepee two native women sat, a young and an old, their blankets drawn across their eyes, accepting fate, and not daring to make a protest. "How!" exclaimed Bridger as he filled both cups and put them on the ground. "Have ye wiped yer bar'l?" "Shore I have. Let's wipe agin." Each drew his ramrod from the pipes and attached the cleaning worm with its twist of tow, kept handy in belt pouch in muzzle-loading days. "Clean as a whistle!" said Jackson, holding out the end of the rod. "So's mine, pardner. Old Jim Bridger never disgraced hisself with a rifle." "Ner me," commented Jackson. "Hold a hair full, Jim, an' cut nigh the top o' the tin. That'll be safer fer my skelp, an' hit'll let less whisky out'n the hole. We got to drink what's left. S'pose'n we have a snort now?" "Atter we both shoot we kin drink," rejoined his friend, with a remaining trace of judgment. "Go take stand whar we marked the scratch. Chardon, damn ye, carry the cup down an' set hit on his head, an' ef ye spill a drop I'll drill ye, d'ye hear?" The _engagé's_ face went pale. "But Monsieur Jim--" he began. "Don't 'Monsieur Jim' me or I'll drill a hole in ye anyways! Do-ee-do what I tell ye, boy! Then if ye crave fer to see some ol'-time shootin' come on out, the hull o' ye, an' take a lesson, damn ye!" "Do-ee ye shoot first, Bill," demanded Bridger. "The light's soft, an' we'll swap atter the fust fire, to git hit squar for the hindsight, an' no shine on the side o' the front sight." "No, we'll toss fer fust," said Jackson, and drew out a Spanish dollar. "Tails fer me last!" he called as it fell. "An' I win! You go fust, Jim." "Shore I will ef the toss-up says so," rejoined his friend. "Step off the fifty yard. What sort o' iron ye carryin', Bill?" "Why do ye ask? Ye know ol' Mike Sheets in Virginia never bored a better. I've never changed." "Ner I from my old Hawken. Two good guns, an' two good men, Bill, o' the ol' times--the ol' times! We kain't say fairer'n this, can we, at our time o' life, fer favor o' the old times, Bill? We got to do somethin', so's to kind o' git rested up." "No man kin say fairer," said his friend. They shook hands solemnly and went onward with their devil-may-care test, devised in a historic keel-boat man's brain, as inflamed then by alcohol as their own were now. Followed by the terrified clerk, Bill Jackson, tall, thin and grizzled, stoical as an Indian, and too drunk to care much for consequences, so only he proved his skill and his courage, walked steadily down to the chosen spot and stood, his arms folded, after leaning his own rifle against the door of the trading room. He faced Bridger without a tremor, his head bare, and cursed Chardon for a coward when his hand trembled as he balanced the cup on Jackson's head. "Damn ye," he exclaimed, "there'll be plenty lost without any o' your spillin'!" "Air ye all ready, Bill?" called Bridger from his station, his rifle cocked and the delicate triggers set, so perfect in their mechanism that the lightest touch against the trigger edge would loose the hammer. "All ready!" answered Jackson. The two, jealous still of the ancient art of the rifle, which nowhere in the world obtained nicer development than among men such as these, faced each other in what always was considered the supreme test of nerve and skill; for naturally a man's hand might tremble, sighting three inches above his friend's eye, when it would not move a hair sighting center between the eyes of an enemy. Bridger spat out his tobacco chew and steadily raised his rifle. The man opposite him stood steady as a pillar, and did not close his eyes. The silence that fell on those who saw became so intense that it seemed veritably to radiate, reaching out over the valley to the mountains as in a hush of leagues. For an instant, which to the few observers seemed an hour, these two figures, from which motion seemed to have passed forever, stood frozen. Then there came a spurt of whitish-blue smoke and the thin dry crack of the border rifle. The hand and eye of Jim Bridger, in spite of advancing years, remained true to their long training. At the rifle crack the tin cup on the head of the statue-like figure opposite him was flung behind as though by the blow of an invisible hand. The spin of the bullet acting on the liquid contents, ripped apart the seams of the cup and flung the fluid wide. Then and not till then did Jackson move. He picked up the empty cup, bored center directly through the black spot, and turning walked with it in his hand toward Bridger, who was wiping out his rifle once more. "I call hit mighty careless shootin'," said he, irritated. "Now lookee what ye done to the likker! Ef ye'd held a leetle higher, above the level o' the likker, like I told ye, she wouldn't o' busted open thataway now. It's nacherl, thar warn't room in the cup fer both the likker an' the ball. That's wastin' likker, Jim, an' my mother told me when I was a boy, 'Willful waste makes woeful want!'" "I call hit a plum-center shot," grumbled Bridger. "Do-ee look now! Maybe ye think ye kin do better shoot'in yerself than old Jim Bridger!" "Shore I kin, an' I'll show ye! I'll bet my rifle aginst yourn--ef I wanted so sorry a piece as yourn--kin shoot that clost to the mark an' not spill no likker a-tall! An' ye can fill her two-thirds full an' put yer thumb in fer the balance ef ye like." "I'll just bet ye a new mule agin yer pony ye kain't do nothin' o' the sort!" retorted Bridger. "All right, I'll show ye. O' course, ye got to hold still." "Who said I wouldn't hold still?" "Nobody. Now you watch me." He stooped at the little water ditch which had been led in among the buildings from the stream and kneaded up a little ball of mud. This he forced into the handle of the tin cup, entirely filling it, then washed off the body of the cup. "I'll shoot the fillin' out'n the handle an' not out'n the cup!" said he. "Mud's cheap, an' all the diff'runce in holdin' is, ef I nicked the side o' yer haid it'd hurt ye 'bout the same as ef what I nicked the center o' hit. Ain't that so? We'd orto practice inderstry an' 'conomy, Jim. Like my mother said, 'Penny saved is er penny yearned.' 'Little drops o' water, little gains o' sand,' says she, 'a-makes the mighty o-o-ocean, an the plea-ea-sant land.'" "I never seed it tried," said Bridger, with interest, "but I don't see why hit hain't practical. Whang away, an ef ye spill the whisky shootin' to one side, or cut har shootin' too low, your _caballo_ is mine--an' he hain't much!" With no more argument, he in turn took up his place, the two changing positions so that the light would favor the rifleman. Again the fear-smitten Chardon adjusted the filled cup, this time on his master's bared head. "Do-ee turn her sideways now, boy," cautioned Bridger. "Set the han'le sideways squar', so she looks wide. Give him a fa'r shot now, fer I'm interested in this yere thing, either way she goes. Either I lose ha'r er a mule." But folding his arms he faced the rifle without batting an eye, as steady as had been the other in his turn. Jackson extended his long left arm, slowly and steadily raising the silver bead up from the chest, the throat, the chin, the forehead of his friend, then lowered it, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Tell him to turn that han'le squar' to me, Jim!" he called. "The damn fool has got her all squegeed eroun' to one side." Bridger reached up a hand and straightened the cup himself. "How's that?" he asked. "All right! Now hold stiddy a minute." Again the Indian women covered their faces, sitting motionless. And at last came again the puff of smoke, the faint crack of the rifle, never loud in the high, rarefied air. The straight figure of the scout never wavered. The cup still rested on his head. The rifleman calmly blew the smoke from his barrel, his eye on Bridger as the latter now raised a careful hand to his head. Chardon hastened to aid, with many ejaculations. The cup still was full, but the mud was gone from inside the handle as though poked out with a finger! "That's what I call shootin', Jim," said Jackson, "an' reas'nable shootin' too. Now spill half o' her where she'll do some good, an' give me the rest. I got to be goin' now. I don't want yer mule. I fust come away from Missouri to git shet o' mules." Chardon, cupbearer, stood regarding the two wild souls whom he never in his own more timid nature was to understand. The two mountain men shook hands. The alcohol had no more than steadied them in their rifle work, but the old exultation of their wild life came to them now once more. Bridger clapped hand to mouth and uttered his old war cry before he drained his share of the fiery fluid. "To the ol' days, friend!" said he once more; "the days that's gone, when men was men, an' a friend could trust a friend!" "To the ol' days!" said Jackson in turn. "An' I'll bet two better shots don't stand to-day on the soil o' Oregon! But I got to be goin', Jim. I'm goin' on to the Columby. I may not see ye soon. It's far." He swung into his saddle, the rifle in its loop at the horn. But Bridger came to him, a hand on his knee. "I hate to see ye go, Bill." "Shore!" said Jackson. "I hate to go. Take keer yerself, Jim." The two Indian women had uncovered their faces and gone inside the lodge. But old Jim Bridger sat down, back against a cottonwood, and watched the lopping figure of his friend jog slowly out into the desert. He himself was singing now, chanting monotonously an old Indian refrain that lingered in his soul from the days of the last Rendezvous. At length he arose, and animated by a sudden thought sought out his tepee once more. Dang Yore Eyes greeted him with shy smiles of pride. "Heap shoot, Jeem!" said she. "No kill-um. Why?" She was decked now in her finest, ready to use all her blandishments on her lord and master. Her cheeks were painted red, her wrists were heavy with copper. On a thong at her neck hung a piece of yellow stone which she had bored through with an awl, or rather with three or four awls, after much labor, that very day. Bridger picked up the ornament between thumb and finger. He said no word, but his fingers spoke. "Other pieces. Where?" "White man. Gone--out there." She answered in the same fashion. "How, cola!" she spoke aloud. "Him say, 'How, cola,' me." She smiled with much pride over her conquest, and showed two silver dollars. "Swap!" In silence Bridger went into the tepee and pulled the door flaps. CHAPTER XXXV GEE--WHOA--HAW! Midsummer in the desert. The road now, but for the shifting of the sands, would have been marked by the bodies of dead cattle, in death scarcely more bone and parchment than for days they had been while alive. The horned toad, the cactus, the rattlesnake long since had replaced the prairie dogs of the grassy floor of the eastern Plains. A scourge of great black crickets appeared, crackling loathsomely under the wheels. Sagebrush and sand took the place of trees and grass as they left the river valley and crossed a succession of ridges or plateaus. At last they reached vast black basaltic masses and lava fields, proof of former subterranean fires which seemingly had forever dried out the life of the earth's surface. The very vastness of the views might have had charm but for the tempering feeling of awe, of doubt, of fear. They had followed the trail over the immemorial tribal crossings over heights of land lying between the heads of streams. From the Green River, which finds the great cañons of the Colorado, they came into the vast horseshoe valley of the Bear, almost circumventing the Great Salt Lake, but unable to forsake it at last. West and south now rose bold mountains around whose northern extremity the river had felt its way, and back of these lay fold on fold of lofty ridges, now softened by the distances. Of all the splendid landscapes of the Oregon Trail, this one had few rivals. But they must leave this and cross to yet another though less inviting vast river valley of the series which led them across the continent. Out of the many wagons which Jesse Wingate originally had captained, now not one hundred remained in his detachment when it took the sagebrush plateaus below the great Snake River. They still were back of the Missouri train, no doubt several days, but no message left on a cleft stick at camp cheered them or enlightened them. And now still another defection had cut down the train. Woodhull, moody and irascible, feverish and excited by turns, ever since leaving Bridger had held secret conclaves with a few of his adherents, the nature of which he did not disclose. There was no great surprise and no extreme regret when, within safe reach of Fort Hall, he had announced his intention of going on ahead with a dozen wagons. He went without obtaining any private interview with Molly Wingate. [Illustration: _A Paramount Picture. The Covered Wagon_. CAMPED FOR THE NIGHT ALONG THE OLD TRAIL.] These matters none the less had their depressing effect. Few illusions remained to any of them now, and no romance. Yet they went on--ten miles, fifteen sometimes, though rarely twenty miles a day. Women fell asleep, babes in arms, jostling on the wagon seats; men almost slept as they walked, ox whip in hand; the cattle slept as they stumbled on, tongues dry and lolling. All the earth seemed strange, unreal. They advanced as though in a dream through some inferno of a crazed imagination. About them now often rose the wavering images of the mirage, offering water, trees, wide landscapes; beckoning in such desert deceits as they often now had seen. One day as the brazen sun mocked them from its zenith they saw that they were not alone on the trail. "Look, mother!" exclaimed Molly Wingate--she now rode with her mother on the seat of the family wagon, Jed driving her cart when not on the cow column. "See! There's a caravan!" Her cry was echoed or anticipated by scores of voices of others who had seen the same thing. They pointed west and south. Surely there was a caravan--a phantom caravan! Far off, gigantic, looming and lowering again, it paralleled the advance of their own train, which in numbers it seemed to equal. Slowly, steadily, irresistibly, awesomely, it kept pace with them, sending no sign to them, mockingly indifferent to them--mockingly so, indeed; for when the leaders of the Wingate wagons paused the riders of the ghostly train paused also, biding their time with no action to indicate their intent. When the advance was resumed the uncanny _pari passu_ again went on, the rival caravan going forward as fast, no faster than those who regarded it in a fascinated interest that began to become fear. Yonder caravan could bode no good. Without doubt it planned an ambush farther on, and this sinister indifference meant only its certainty of success. Or were there, then, other races of men out here in this unknown world of heat and sand? Was this a treasure train of old Spanish _cargadores_? Did ghosts live and move as men? If not, what caravan was this, moving alone, far from the beaten trail? What purpose had it here? "Look, mother!" The girl's voice rose eagerly again, but this time with a laugh in it. And her assurance passed down the line, others laughing in relief at the solution. "It's ourselves!" said Molly. "It's the Fata Morgana--but how marvelous! Who could believe it?" Indeed, the mirage had taken that rare and extraordinary form. The mirage of their own caravan, rising, was reflected, mirrored, by some freak of the desert sun and air, upon the fine sand blown in the air at a distance from the train. It was, indeed, themselves they saw, not knowing it, in a vast primordial mirror of the desert gods. Nor did the discovery of the truth lessen the feeling of discomfort, of apprehension. The laughter was at best uneasy until at last a turn in the trail, a shift in the wizardry of the heat waves, broke up the ghostly caravan and sent it, figure by figure, vehicle by vehicle, into the unknown whence it had come. "This country!" exclaimed Molly Wingate's mother. "It scares me! If Oregon's like this--" "It isn't, mother. It is rich and green, with rains. There are great trees, many mountains, beautiful rivers where we are going, and there are fields of grain. There are--why, there are homes!" The sudden pathos of her voice drew her mother's frowning gaze. "There, there, child!" said she. "Don't you mind. We'll always have a home for you, your paw and me." The girl shook her head. "I sometimes think I'd better teach school and live alone." "And leave your parents?" "How can I look my father in the face every day, knowing what he feels about me? Just now he accuses me of ruining Sam Woodhull's life--driving him away, out of the train. But what could I do? Marry him, after all? I can't--I can't! I'm glad he's gone, but I don't know why he went." "In my belief you haven't heard or seen the last of Sam Woodhull yet," mused her mother. "Sometimes a man gets sort of peeved--wants to marry a girl that jilts him more'n if she hadn't. And you certainly jilted him at the church door, if there'd been any church there. It was an awful thing, Molly. I don't know as I see how Sam stood it long as he did." "Haven't I paid for it, mother?" "Why, yes, one way of speaking. But that ain't the way men are going to call theirselves paid. Until he's married, a man's powerful set on having a woman. If he don't, he thinks he ain't paid, it don't scarcely make no difference what the woman does. No, I don't reckon he'll forget. About Will Banion--" "Don't let's mention him, mother. I'm trying to forget him." "Yes? Where do you reckon he is now--how far ahead?" "I don't know. I can't guess." The color on her cheek caught her mother's gaze. "Gee-whoa-haw! Git along Buck and Star!" commanded the buxom dame to the swaying ox team that now followed the road with no real need of guidance. They took up the heat and burden of the desert. CHAPTER XXXVI TWO LOVE LETTERS "The families are coming--again the families!" It was again the cry of the passing fur post, looking eastward at the caravan of the west-bound plows; much the same here at old Fort Hall, on the Snake River, as it was at Laramie on the North Platte, or Bridger on the waters tributary to the Green. The company clerks who looked out over the sandy plain saw miles away a dust cloud which meant but one thing. In time they saw the Wingate train come on, slowly, steadily, and deploy for encampment a mile away. The dusty wagons, their double covers stained, mildewed, torn, were scattered where each found the grass good. Then they saw scores of the emigrants, women as well as men, hastening into the post. It was now past midsummer, around the middle of the month of August, and the Wingate wagons had covered some twelve hundred and eighty miles since the start at mid-May of the last spring--more than three months of continuous travel; a trek before which the passage over the Appalachians, two generations earlier, wholly pales. What did they need, here at Fort Hall, on the Snake, third and last settlement of the two thousand miles of toil and danger and exhaustion? They needed everything. But one question first was asked by these travel-sick home-loving people: What was the news? News? How could there be news when almost a year would elapse before Fort Hall would know that on that very day--in that very month of August, 1848--Oregon was declared a territory of the Union? News? How could there be news, when these men could not know for much more than a year that, as they outspanned here in the sage, Abraham Lincoln had just declined the governorship of the new territory of Oregon? Why? He did not know. Why had these men come here? They did not know. But news--the news! The families must have the news. And here--always there was news! Just beyond branched off the trail to California. Here the supply trains from the Columbia brought news from the Oregon settlements. News? How slow it was, when it took a letter more than two years to go one way from edge to edge of the American continent! They told what news they knew--the news of the Mormons of 1847 and 1848; the latest mutterings over fugitive negro slaves; the growing feeling that the South would one day follow the teachings of secession. They heard in payment the full news of the Whitman massacre in Oregon that winter; they gave back in turn their own news of the battles with the Sioux and the Crows; the news of the new Army posts then moving west into the Plains to clear them for the whites. News? Why, yes, large news enough, and on either hand, so the trade was fair. But these matters of the outside world were not the only ones of interest, whether to the post traders or the newly arrived emigrants. Had others preceded them? How many? When? Why, yes, a week earlier fifty wagons of one train, Missouri men, led by a man on a great black horse and an old man, a hunter. Banion? Yes, that was the name, and the scout was Jackson--Bill Jackson, an old-time free trapper. Well, these two had split off for California, with six good pack mules, loaded light. The rest of the wagons had gone on to the Snake. But why these two had bought the last shovels and the only pick in all the supplies at old Fort Hall no man could tell. Crazy, of course; for who could pause to work on the trail with pick or shovel, with winter coming on at the Sierra crossing? But not crazier than the other band who had come in three days ago, also ahead of the main train. Woodhull? Yes, that was the name--Woodhull. He had twelve or fifteen wagons with him, and had bought supplies for California, though they all had started for Oregon. Well, they soon would know more about the Mary's River and the Humboldt Desert. Plenty of bones, there, sure! But even so, a third of the trains, these past five years, had split off at the Raft River and given up hope of Oregon. California was much better--easier to reach and better when you got there. The road to Oregon was horrible. The crossings of the Snake, especially the first crossing, to the north bank, was a gamble with death for the whole train. And beyond that, to the Blue Mountains, the trail was no trail at all. Few ever would get through, no one knew how many had perished. Three years ago Joe Meek had tried to find a better trail west of the Blues. All lost, so the story said. Why go to Oregon? Nothing there when you got there. California, now, had been settled and proved a hundred years and more. Every year men came this far east to wait at Fort Hall for the emigrant trains and to persuade them to go to California, not to Oregon. But what seemed strange to the men at the trading post was the fact that Banion had not stopped or asked a question. He appeared to have made up his mind long earlier, and beyond asking for shovels he had wanted nothing. The same way with Woodhull. He had come in fast and gone out fast, headed for the Raft River trail to California, the very next morning. Why? Usually men stopped here at Fort Hall, rested, traded, got new stock, wanted to know about the trail ahead. Both Banion and Woodhull struck Fort Hall with their minds already made up. They did not talk. Was there any new word about the California trail, down at Bridger? Had a new route over the Humboldt Basin been found, or something of that sort? How could that be? If so, it must be rough and needing work in places, else why the need for so many shovels? But maybe the emigrants themselves knew about these singular matters, or would when they had read their letters. Yes, of course, the Missouri movers had left a lot of letters, some for their folks back East next year maybe, but some for people in the train. Banion, Woodhull--had they left any word? Why, yes, both of them. The trader smiled. One each. To the same person, yes. Well, lucky girl! But that black horse now--the Nez Percés would give a hundred ponies for him. But he wouldn't trade. A sour young man. But Woodhull, now, the one with the wagons, talked more. And they each had left a letter for the same girl! And this was Miss Molly Wingate? Well, the trader did not blame them! These American girls! They were like roses to the old traders, cast away this lifetime out here in the desert. News? Why, yes, no train ever came through that did not bring news and get news at old Fort Hall--and so on. The inclosure of the old adobe fur-trading post was thronged by the men and women of the Wingate train. Molly Wingate at first was not among them. She sat, chin on her hand, on a wagon tongue in the encampment, looking out over the blue-gray desert to the red-and-gold glory of the sinking sun. Her mother came to her and placed in her lap the two letters, stood watching her. "One from each," said she sententiously, and turned away. The girl's face paled as she opened the one she had felt sure would find her again, somewhere, somehow. It said: DEAREST: I write to Molly Wingate, because and only because I know she still is Molly Wingate. It might be kinder to us both if I did not write at all but went my way and left it all to time and silence. I found I could not. There will be no other woman, in all my life, for me. I cannot lay any vow on you. If I could, if I dared, I would say: "Wait for a year, while I pray for a year--and God help us both." As you know, I now have taken your advice. Bridger and I are joined for the California adventure. If the gold is there, as Carson thinks, I may find more fortune than I have earned. More than I could earn you gave me--when I was young. That was two months ago. Now I am old. Keep the news of the gold, if it can be kept, as long as you can. No doubt it will spread from other sources, but so far as I know--and thanks only to you--I am well ahead of any other adventurer from the East this season, and, as you know, winter soon will seal the trails against followers. Next year, 1849, will be the big rush, if it all does not flatten. I can think of no one who can have shared our secret. Carson will be East by now, but he is a government man, and close of mouth with strangers. Bridger, I am sure--for the odd reason that he worships you--will tell no one else, especially since he shares profits with me, if I survive and succeed. One doubt only rests in my mind. At his post I talked with Bridger, and he told me he had a few other bits of gold that Carson had given him at Laramie. He looked for them but had lost them. He suspected his Indian women, but he knew nothing. Of course, it would be one chance in a thousand that any one would know the women had these things, and even so no one could tell where the gold came from, because not even the women would know that; not even Bridger does, exactly; not even I myself. In general I am headed for the valley of the Sacramento. I shall work north. Why? Because that will be toward Oregon! I write as though I expected to see you again, as though I had a right to expect or hope for that. It is only the dead young man, Will Banion, who unjustly and wrongly craves and calls out for the greatest of all fortune for a man--who unfairly and wrongly writes you now, when he ought to remember your word, to go to a land far from you, to forget you and to live down his past. Ah, if I could! Ah, if I did not love you! But being perhaps about to die, away from you, the truth only must be between you and me. And the truth is I never shall forget you. The truth is I love you more than anything else and everything else in all the world. If I were in other ways what the man of your choice should be, would this truth have any weight with you? I do not know and I dare not ask. Reason does tell me how selfish it would be to ask you to hold in your heart a memory and not a man. That is for me to do--to have a memory, and not you. But my memory never can content me. It seems as though time had been invented so that, through all its æons, our feet might run in search, one for the other--to meet, where? Well, we did meet--for one instant in the uncounted ages, there on the prairie. Well, if ever you do see me again you shall say whether I have been, indeed, tried by fire, and whether it has left me clean--whether I am a man and not a memory. That I perhaps have been a thief, stealing what never could be mine, is my great agony now. But I love you. Good-by. WILLIAM HAYS BANION. To MARGARET WINGATE, _Fort Hall_, in Oregon. For an hour Molly sat, and the sun sank. The light of the whole world died. * * * * * The other letter rested unopened until later, when she broke the seal and read by the light of a sagebrush fire, she frowned. Could it be that in the providence of God she once had been within one deliberate step of marrying Samuel Payson Woodhull? MY DARLING MOLLY: This I hope finds you well after the hard journey from Bridger to Hall. They call it Cruel to keep a Secret from a Woman. If so, I have been Cruel, though only in Poor pay for your Cruelty to me. I have had a Secret--and this is it: I have left for California from this Point and shall not go to Oregon. I have learned of Gold in the State of California, and have departed to that State in the hope of early Success in Achieving a Fortune. So far as I know, I am the First to have this news of Gold, unless a certain man whose name and thought I execrate has by his Usual dishonesty fallen on the same information. If so, we two may meet where none can Interfear. I do not know how long I may be in California, but be Sure I go for but the one purpose of amassing a Fortune for the Woman I love. I never have given you Up and never shall. Your promise is mine and our Engagement never has been Broken, and the Mere fact that accident for the time Prevented our Nuptials by no means shall ever mean that we shall not find Happy Consumation of our most Cherished Desire at some later Time. I confidently Hope to arrive in Oregon a rich man not later than one or two years from Now. Wait for me. I am mad without you and shall count the Minutes until then when I can take you in my Arms and Kiss you a thousand Times. Forgive me; I have not Heretofore told you of these Plans, but it was best not and it was for You. Indeed you are so much in my Thought, my Darling, that each and Everything I do is for You and You only. No more at present then, but should Opportunity offer I shall get word to you addressed to Oregon City which your father said was his general Desstination, it being my own present purpose Ultimately to engage in the Practise of law either at that Point or the settlement of Portland which I understand is not far Below. With my Means, we should soon be Handsomely Settled. May God guard you on the Way Thither and believe me, Darling, with more Love than I shall be ever able to Tell and a Thousand Kisses. Your Affianced and Impatient Lover, SAM'L. PAYSON WOODHULL. The little sagebrush fire flared up brightly for an instant as Molly Wingate dropped one of her letters on the embers. CHAPTER XXXVII JIM BRIDGER FORGETS "What's wrong with the people, Cale?" demanded Jesse Wingate of his stouthearted associate, Caleb Price. The sun was two hours high, but not all the breakfast fires were going. Men were moody, truculent, taciturn, as they went about their duties. Caleb Price bit into his yellow beard as he gazed down the irregular lines of the encampment. "Do you want me to tell you the truth, Jesse?" "Why, yes!" "Well, then, it seems to me the truth is that this train has lost focus." "I don't know what you mean." "I don't know that I'm right--don't know I can make my guess plain. Of course, every day we lay up, the whole train goes to pieces. The thing to do is to go a little way each day--get into the habit. You can't wear out a road as long as this one by spurts--it's steady does it. "But I don't think that's all. The main trouble is one that I don't like to hint to you, especially since none of us can help it." "Out with it, Cale!" "The trouble is, the people don't think they've got a leader." Jesse Wingate colored above his beard. "That's pretty hard," said he. "I know it's hard, but I guess it's the truth. You and I and Hall and Kelsey--we're accepted as the chief council. But there are four of us, and all this country is new to all of us. The men now are like a bunch of cattle ready to stampede. They're nervous, ready to jump at anything. Wrong way, Jesse. They ought to be as steady as any of the trains that have gone across; 1843, when the Applegates crossed; 1846, when the Donners went--every year since. Our folks--well, if you ask me, I really think they're scared." "That's hard, Cale!" "Yes, hard for me to say to you, with your wife sad and your girl just now able to sit up--yes, it's hard. Harder still since we both know it's your own personal matter--this quarrel of those two young men, which I don't need explain. That's at the bottom of the train's uneasiness." "Well, they've both gone now." "Yes, both. If half of the both were here now you'd see the people quiet. Oh, you can't explain leadership, Jesse! Some have it, most don't. He had. We know he had. I don't suppose many of those folks ever figured it out, or do now. But they'd fall in, not knowing why." "As it is, I'll admit, there seems to be something in the air. They say birds know when an earthquake is coming. I feel uneasy myself, and don't know why. I started for Oregon. I don't know why. Do you suppose--" The speculations of either man ceased as both caught sight of a little dust cloud far off across the sage, steadily advancing down the slope. "Hum! And who's that, Jesse?" commented the Ohio leader. "Get your big glass, Jesse." Wingate went to his wagon and returned with the great telescope he sometimes used, emblem of his authority. "One man, two packs," said he presently. "All alone so far as I can see. He's Western enough--some post-trapper, I suppose. Rides like an Indian and dressed like one, but he's white, because he has a beard." "Let me see." Price took the glass. "He looks familiar! See if you don't think it's Jim Bridger. What's he coming for--two hundred miles away from his own post?" It was Jim Bridger, as the next hour proved, and why he came he himself was willing to explain after he had eaten and smoked. "I camped twelve mile back," said he, "an' pushed in this mornin'. I jest had a idee I'd sornter over in here, see how ye was gittin' along. Is your hull train made here?" "No," Wingate answered. "The Missouri wagons are ahead." "Is Woodhull with ye?" "No." "Whar's he at?" "We don't know. Major Banion and Jackson, with a half dozen packs, no wagons, have given up the trip. They've split off for California--left their wagons." "An' so has Sam Woodhull, huh?" "We suppose so. That's the word. He took about fifteen wagons with him. That's why we look cut down." "Rest of ye goin' on through, huh?" "I am. I hope the others will." "Hit's three days on to whar the road leaves for Californy--on the Raft River. Mebbe more'll leave ye thar, huh?" "We don't know. We hope not. I hear the fords are bad, especially the crossing of the Snake. This is a big river. My people are uneasy about it." "Yes, hit's bad enough, right often. Thar's falls in them cañons hundreds o' feet high, makin' a roarin' ye kin hear forty mile, mebbe. The big ford's erroun' two hunderd mile ahead. That'd make me four hunderd mile away from home, an' four hunderd to ride back agin' huh? Is that fur enough fer a ol' man, with snow comin' on soon?" "You don't mean you'd guide us on that far? What charge?" "I come fer that, mainly. Charge ye? I won't charge ye nothin'. What do ye s'pose Jim Bridger'd care ef ye all was drownded in the Snake? Ain't thar plenty more pilgrims whar ye all come from? Won't they be out here next year, with money ter spend with my pardner Vasquez an' me?" "Then how could we pay you?" "Ye kain't. Whar's Miss Molly?" "You want to see her?" "Yes, else why'd I ask?" "Come," said Wingate, and led the way to Molly's little cart. The girl was startled when she saw the old scout, her wide eyes asking her question. "Mornin', Miss Molly!" he began, his leathery face wrinkling in a smile. "Ye didn't expect me, an' I didn't neither. I'm glad ye're about well o' that arrer wound. I kerried a arrerhead under my shoulder blade sever'l years oncet, ontel Preacher Whitman cut hit out. Hit felt right crawly all the time till then. "Yes, I jest sorntered up couple hundred mile this mornin', Miss Molly, ter see how ye all was gettin' along--one thing er another." Without much regard to others, he now led Molly a little apart and seated her on the sage beside him. "Will Banion and Bill Jackson has went on to Californy, Miss Molly," said he. "You know why." Mollie nodded. "Ye'd orto! Ye told him." "Yes, I did." "I know. Him an' me had a talk. Owin' you an' me all he'll ever make, he allowed to pay nothin'! Which is, admittin' he loves you, he don't take no advice, ter finish that weddin' with another man substertuted. No, says he, 'I kain't marry her, because I love her!' says he. Now, that's crazy. Somethin' deep under that, Miss Molly." "Let's not talk about it, please." "All right. Let's talk erbout Sam Woodhull, huh?" "No!" "Then mebbe I'd better be goin'. I know you don't want ter talk erbout me!" His wrinkling smile said he had more to tell. "Miss Molly," said he at last, "I mout as well tell ye. Sam Woodhull is on the way atter Will Banion. He's like enough picked out a fine bunch o' horse thiefs ter go erlong with him. He knows somethin' erbout the gold--I jest found out how. "Ye see, some men ain't above shinin' up to a Injun womern even, such bein' mebbe lonesome. Sam Woodhull wasn't. He seed one o' my fam'ly wearin' a shiny thing on her neck. Hit were a piece o' gold Kit give me atter I give you mine. He trades the womern out o' her necklace--fer all o' two pesos, Mexican. But she not talkin' Missoury, an' him not talkin' Shoshone, they don't git fur on whar the gold come from. "She done told him she got hit from me, but he don't say a word ter me erbout that; he's too wise. But she did tell him how Will Banion gits some mules an' packs o' me. From then, plain guessin', he allows ter watch Banion. "My womern keeps sayin'--not meanin' no harm--thet thar's plenty more necklaces in Cal'for; because she's heard me an' Banion say that word, 'Californy.' "Slim guessin' hit were, Miss Molly, but enough fer a man keen as Sam, that's not pertickler, neither. His plan was ter watch whar the packs went. He knowed ef Banion went ter Oregon he'd not use packs. "Huh! Fine time he'll have, follerin' that boy an' them mules with wagons! I'm easier when I think o' that. Because, Miss Molly, ef them two does meet away from friends o' both, thar's goin' to be trouble, an' trouble only o' one kind." Again Molly Wingate nodded, pale and silent. "Well, a man has ter take keer o' his own self," went on Bridger. "But that ain't all ner most what brung me here." "What was it then?" demanded Molly. "A long ride!" "Yeh. Eight hunderd mile out an' back, ef I see ye across the Snake, like I allow I'd better do. I'm doin' hit fer you, Miss Molly. I'm ol' an' ye're young; I'm a wild man an' ye're one o' God's wimern. But I had sisters oncet--white they was, like you. So the eight hunderd mile is light. But thet ain't why I come, neither, or all why, yit." "What is it then you want to tell me? Is it about--him?" Bridger nodded. "Yes. The only trouble is, I don't know what it is." "Now you're foolish!" "Shore I am! Ef I had a few drinks o' good likker mebbe I'd be foolisher--er wiser. Leastways, I'd be more like I was when I plumb forgot what 'twas Kit Carson said to me when we was spreein' at Laramie. He had somethin' ter do, somethin' he was goin' ter do, somethin' I was ter do fer him, er mebee-so, next season, atter he got East an' got things done he was goin' ter do. Ye see, Kit's in the Army." "Was it about--him?" "That's what I kain't tell. I jest sorntered over here a few hunderd mile ter ask ye what ye s'pose it is that I've plumb fergot, me not havin' the same kind o' likker right now. "When me an' Bill was havin' a few afore he left I was right on the p'int o' rememberin' what it was I was fergittin'. I don't make no doubt, ef Kit an' me er Bill an' me could only meet an' drink along day er so hit'd all come plain to me. But all by myself, an' sober, an' not sociable with Dang Yore Eyes jest now, I sw'ar, I kain't think o' nothin'. What's a girl's mind fer ef hit hain't to think o' things?" "It was about--him? It was about Kit Carson, something he had--was it about the gold news?" "Mebbe. I don't know." "Did he--Mr. Banion--say anything?" "Mostly erbout you, an' not much. He only said ef I ever got any mail to send it ter the Judge in the Willamette settlements." "He does expect to come back to Oregon!" "How can I tell? My belief, he'd better jump in the Percific Ocean. He's a damn fool, Miss Molly. Ef a man loves a womern, that's somethin' that never orto wait. Yit he goes teeterin' erroun' like he had from now ter doomsday ter marry the girl which he loves too much fer ter marry her. That makes me sick. Yit he has resemblances ter a man, too, some ways--faint resemblances, yes. Fer instance, I'll bet a gun flint these here people that's been hearin' erbout the ford o' the Snake'd be a hull lot gladder ef they knew Will Banion was erlong. Huh?" Molly Wingate was looking far away, pondering many things. "Well, anyways, hit's even-Stephen fer them both two now," went on Bridger, "an' may God perteck the right an' the devil take the him'mostest. They'll like enough both marry Injun wimern an' settle down in Californy. Out o' sight, out o' mind. Love me little, love me long. Lord Lovell, he's mounted his milk-white steed. Farewell, sweet sir, partin' is such sweet sorrer; like ol' Cap'n Bonneville uster say. But o' all the messes any fool bunch o' pilgrims ever got inter, this is the worstest, an' hit couldn't be no worser. "Now, Miss Molly, ye're a plumb diserpintment ter me. I jest drapped in ter see ef ye couldn't tell me what hit was Kit done told me. But ye kain't. Whar is yer boasted superiorness as a womern? "But now, me, havin' did forty mile a day over that country yan, I need sustenance, an' I'm goin' to see ef ol' Cap' Grant, the post trader, has ary bit o' Hundson Bay rum left. Ef he has hit's mine, an' ef not, Jim Bridger's a liar, an' that I say deliberate. I'm goin' to try to git inter normal condition enough fer to remember a few plain, simple truths, seein' as you all kain't. Way hit is, this train's in a hell of a fix, an' hit couldn't be no worser." CHAPTER XXXVIII WHEN THE ROCKIES FELL The news of Jim Bridger's arrival, and the swift rumor that he would serve as pilot for the train over the dangerous portion of the route ahead, spread an instantaneous feeling of relief throughout the hesitant encampment at this, the last touch with civilization east of the destination. He paused briefly at one or another wagon after he had made his own animals comfortable, laughing and jesting in his own independent way, _en route_ to fulfill his promise to himself regarding the trader's rum. In most ways the old scout's wide experience gave his dicta value. In one assertion, however, he was wide of the truth, or short of it. So far from things being as bad as they could be, the rapid events of that same morning proved that still more confusion was to ensue, and that speedily. There came riding into the post from the westward a little party of old-time mountain men, driving their near-spent mounts and packs at a speed unusual even in that land of vast distances. They were headed by a man well known in that vicinity who, though he had removed to California since the fur days, made annual pilgrimage to meet the emigrant trains at Fort Hall in order to do proselyting for California, extolling the virtues of that land and picturing in direst fashion the horrors of the road thence to Oregon and the worthlessness of Oregon if ever attained. "Old Greenwood" was the only name by which he was known. He was an old, old man, past eighty then, some said, with a deep blue eye, long white hair, a long and unkempt beard and a tongue of unparalleled profanity. He came in now, shouting and singing, as did the men of the mountains making the Rendezvous in the old days. "How, Greenwood! What brings ye here so late?" demanded his erstwhile crony, Jim Bridger, advancing, tin cup in hand, to meet him. "Light. Eat. Special, drink. How--to the old times!" "Old times be damned!" exclaimed Old Greenwood. "These is new times." He lifted from above the chafed hips of his trembling horse two sacks of something very heavy. "How much is this worth to ye?" he demanded of Bridger and the trader. "Have ye any shovels? Have ye any picks? Have ye flour, meal, sugar--anything?" "Gold!" exclaimed Jim Bridger. "Kit Carson did not lie! He never did!" And they did not know how much this was worth. They had no scales for raw gold, nor any system of valuation for it. And they had no shovels and no pickaxes; and since the families had come they now had very little flour at Fort Hall. But now they had the news! This was the greatest news that ever came to old Fort Hall--the greatest news America knew for many a year, or the world--the news of the great gold strikes in California. Old Greenwood suddenly broke out, "Have we left the mines an' come this fur fer nothin'? I tell ye, we must have supplies! A hundred dollars fer a pick! A hundred dollars fer a shovel! A hundred dollars fer a pair o' blankets! An ounce fer a box of sardines, damn ye! An ounce fer half a pound o' butter! A half ounce fer a aig! Anything ye like fer anything that's green! Three hundred fer a gallon o' likker! A ounce for a box o' pills! Eight hundred fer a barrel o' flour! Same fer pork, same fer sugar, same fer coffee! Damn yer picayune hides, we'll show ye what prices is! What's money to us? We can git the pure gold that money's made out of, an' git it all we want! Hooray fer Californy!" He broke into song. His comrades roared in Homeric chorus with him, passing from one to another of the current ditties of the mines. They declared in unison, "Old Grimes is dead, that good old man!" Then they swung off to yet another classic ballad: _There was an old woman who had three sons-- Joshua, James and John! Josh got shot, and Jim got drowned, And John got lost and never was found, And that was the end of the woman's three sons, Joshua, James and John_. Having finished the obsequies of the three sons, not once but many times, they went forward with yet another adaptation, following Old Greenwood, who stood with head thrown back and sang with tones of Bashan: _Oh, then Susannah, Don't you cry fer me! I'm goin' to Californuah, With my wash pan on my knee_. The news of the gold was out. Bridger forgot his cups, forgot his friends, hurried to Molly Wingate's cart again. "Hit's true, Miss Molly!" he cried--"truer'n true hitself! Yan's men just in from Californy, an' they've got two horseloads o' gold, an' they say hit's nothin'--they come out fer supplies. They tried to stop Will Banion--they did trade some with Woodhull. They're nigh to Humboldt by now an' goin' hard. Miss Molly, gal, he's in ahead o' the hull country, an' got six months by hisself! Lord give him luck! Hit'll be winter, afore the men back East kin know. He's one year ahead--thanks ter yer lie ter me, an ter Kit, and Kit's ter his General. "Gold! Ye kain't hide hit an' ye kain't find hit an' ye kain't dig hit up an' ye kain't keep hit down. Miss Molly, gal, I like ye, but how I do wish't ye was a man, so's you an' me could celerbrate this here fitten!" "Listen!" said the girl. "Our bugle! That's Assembly!" "Yes, they'll all be there. Come when ye kin. Hell's a-poppin' now!" The emigrants, indeed, deserted their wagons, gathering in front of the stockade, group after group. There was a strange scene on the far-flung, unknown, fateful borderlands of the country Senator McDuffie but now had not valued at five dollars for the whole. All these now, half-way across, and with the ice and snow of winter cutting off pursuit for a year, had the great news which did not reach publication in the press of New York and Baltimore until September of 1848. It did not attain notice of the floor of Congress until December fifth of that year, although this was news that went to the very foundation of this republic; which, indeed, was to prove the means of the perpetuity of this republic. The drunken hunters in their ragged wools, their stained skins, the emigrants in their motley garb--come this far they knew not why, since men will not admit of Destiny in nations--also knew not that they were joying over the death of slavery and the life of the Union. They did not know that now, in a flash, all the old arguments and citations over slavery and secession were ancient and of no avail. The wagoners of the Sangamon, in Illinois, gathered here, roistering, did not know that they were dancing on the martyr's grave of Lincoln, or weaving him his crown, or buying shot and shell for him to win his grievous ordeal, brother against brother. Yet all those things were settled then, beyond that range of the Rockies which senators had said they would not spend a dollar to remove, "were they no more than ten feet high." Even then the Rockies fell. Even then the great trains of the covered wagons, driven by men who never heard of Destiny, achieved their places on the unwritten scroll of Time. The newcomers from beyond the Sierras, crazed with their easy fortune, and now inflamed yet further by the fumes of alcohol, even magnified the truth, as it then seemed. They spent their dust by the handful. They asked for skillets, cooking pans, that they could wash more gold. They wanted saws, nails, axes, hammers, picks. They said they would use the wagon boxes for Long Toms. They said if men would unite in companies to dam and divert the California rivers they would lay bare ledges of broken gold which would need only scooping up. The miners would pay anything for labor in iron and wood. They would buy any food and all there was of it at a dollar a pound. They wanted pack horses to cross the Humboldt Desert loaded. They would pay any price for men to handle horses for a fast and steady flight. Because, they said, there was no longer any use in measuring life by the old standards of value. Wages at four bits a day, a dollar a day, two dollars, the old prices--why, no man would work for a half hour for such return when any minute he might lift twenty dollars in the hollow of an iron spoon. Old Greenwood had panned his five hundred in a day. Men had taken two thousand--three--in a week; in a week, men, not in a year! There could be no wage scale at all. Labor was a thing gone by. Wealth, success, ease, luxury was at hand for the taking. What a man had dreamed for himself he now could have. He could overleap all the confining limits of his life, and even if weak, witless, ignorant or in despair, throw all that aside in one vast bound into attainment and enjoyment. Rich? Why should any man remain poor? Work? Why should work be known, save the labor of picking up pure gold--done, finished, delivered at hand to waiting and weary humanity? Human cravings could no longer exist. Human disappointment was a thing no more to be known. In California, just yonder, was gold, gold, gold! Do you mind--can you think of it, men? Gold, gold, gold! The sun had arisen at last on the millennial day! Now might man be happy and grieve no more forever! Arguments such as these did not lack and were not needed with the emigrants. It took but a leap to the last conclusion. Go to California? Why should they not go? Had it not been foreordained that they should get the news here, before it was too late? Fifty miles more and they had lost it. A week earlier and they would not have known it for a year. Go to Oregon and plow? Why not go to California and dig in a day what a plow would earn in a year? Call it stubbornness or steadfastness, at least Jesse Wingate's strength of resolution now became manifest. At first almost alone, he stayed the stampede by holding out for Oregon in the council with his captains. They stood near the Wingate wagon, the same which had carried him into Indiana, thence into Illinois, now this far on the long way to Oregon. Old and gray was Mary Ann, as he called his wagon, by now, the paint ground from felly, spoke and hub, the sides dust covered, the tilt disfigured and discolored. He gazed at the time-worn, sturdy frame with something akin to affection. The spokes were wedged to hold them tight, the rims were bound with hide, worn away at the edges where the tire gave no covering, the tires had been reset again and again. He shook the nearest wheel to test it. "Yes," said he, "we all show wear. But I see little use in changing a plan once made in a man's best sober judgment. For me, I don't think all the world has been changed overnight." "Oh, well, now," demanded Kelsey, his nomad Kentucky blood dominant, "what use holding to any plan just for sake of doing it? If something better comes, why not take it? That stands to reason. We all came out here to better ourselves. These men have done in six months what you and I might not do in ten years in Oregon." "They'd guide us through to California, too," he went on. "We've no guide to Oregon." Even Caleb Price nodded. "They all say that the part from here on is the worst--drier and drier, and in places very rough. And the two fords of the Snake--well, I for one wish we were across them. That's a big river, and a bad one. And if we crossed the Blue Mountains all right, there's the Cascades, worse than the Blues, and no known trail for wagons." "I may have to leave my wagons," said Jesse Wingate, "but if I do I aim to leave them as close to the Willamette Valley as I can. I came out to farm. I don't know California. How about you, Hall? What do your neighbors say?" "Much as Price says. They're worn out and scared. They're been talking about the Snake crossings ever since we left the Soda Springs. Half want to switch for California. A good many others would like to go back home--if they thought they'd ever get there!" "But we've got to decide," urged Wingate. "Can we count on thirty wagons to go through? Others have got through in a season, and so can we if we stick. Price?" His hesitant glance at his staunch trail friend's face decided the latter. "I'll stick for Oregon!" said Caleb Price. "I've got my wife and children along. I want my donation lands." "You, Hall?" "I'll go with you," said Hall, the third column leader, slowly. "Like to try a whirl in California, but if there's so much gold there next year'll do. I want my lands." "Why, there's almost ten thousand people in Oregon by now, or will be next year," argued Wingate. "It may get to be a territory--maybe not a state, but anyways a territory, some time. And it's free! Not like Texas and all this new Mexican land just coming in by the treaty. What do you say, finally, Kelsey?" The latter chewed tobacco for some time. "You put it to me hard to answer," said he. "Any one of us'd like to try California. It will open faster than Oregon if all this gold news is true. Maybe ten thousand people will come out next year, for all we know." "Yes, with picks and shovels," said Jesse Wingate. "Did ever you see pick or shovel build a country? Did ever you see steel traps make or hold one? Oregon's ours because we went out five years ago with wagons and plows--we all know that. No, friends, waterways never held a country. No path ever held on a river--that's for exploring, not for farming. To hold a country you need wheels, you need a plow. I'm for Oregon!" "You put it strong," admitted Kelsey. "But the only thing that holds me back from California is the promise we four made to each other when we started. Our train's fallen apart little by little. I'm ole Kaintucky. We don't rue back, and we keep our word. We four said we'd go through. I'll stand by that, I'm a man of my word." Imperiously as though he were Pizarro's self, he drew a line in the dust of the trail. "Who's for Oregon?" he shouted; again demanded, as silence fell, "This side for Oregon!" And Kelsey of Kentucky, man of his word, turned the stampede definitely. Wingate, his three friends; a little group, augmenting, crossed for Oregon. The women and the children stood aloof,--sunbonneted women, brown, some with new-born trail babes in arms, silent as they always stood. Across from the Oregon band stood almost as many men, for the most part unmarried, who had not given hostages to fortune, and were resolved for California. A cheer arose from these. "Who wants my plow?" demanded a stalwart farmer, from Indiana, more than fifteen hundred miles from his last home. "I brung her this fur into this damned desert. I'll trade her fer a shovel and make one more try fer my folks back home." He loosed the wires which had bound the implement to the tail of his wagon all these weary miles. It fell to the ground and he left it there. "Do some thinking, men, before you count your gold and drop your plow. Gold don't last, but the soil does. Ahead of you is the Humboldt Desert. There's no good wagon road over the mountains if you get that far. The road down Mary's River is a real gamble with death. Men can go through and make roads--yes; but where are the women and the children to stay? Think twice, men, and more than twice!" Wingate spoke solemnly. "Roll out! Roll out!" mocked the man who had abandoned his plow. "This way for Californy!" The council ended in turmoil, where hitherto had been no more than a sedate daily system. Routine, become custom, gave way to restless movement, excited argument. Of all these hundreds now encamped on the sandy sagebrush plain in the high desert there was not an individual who was not affected in one way or another by the news from California, and in most cases it required some sort of a personal decision, made practically upon the moment. Men argued with their wives heatedly; women gathered in groups, talking, weeping. The stoic calm of the trail was swept away in a sort of hysteria which seemed to upset all their world and all its old values. Whether for Oregon or California, a revolution in prices was worked overnight for every purchase of supplies. Flour, horses, tools, everything merchantable, doubled and more than doubled. Some fifty wagons in all now formed train for California, which, in addition to the long line of pack animals, left the Sangamon caravan, so called, at best little more than half what it had been the day before. The men without families made up most of the California train. The agents for California, by force of habit, still went among the wagons and urged the old arguments against Oregon--the savage tribes on ahead, the forbidding desolation of the land, the vast and dangerous rivers, the certainty of starvation on the way, the risk of arriving after winter had set in on the Cascade Range--all matters of which they themselves spoke by hearsay. All the great West was then unknown. Moreover, Fort Hall was a natural division point, as quite often a third of the wagons of a train might be bound for California even before the discovery of gold. But Wingate and his associates felt that the Oregon immigration for that year, even handicapped as now, ultimately would run into thousands. It was mid-morning of the next blazing day when he beckoned his men to him. "Lets pull out," he said. "Why wait for the Californians to move? Bridger will go with us across the Snake. 'Twill only be the worse the longer we lie here, and our wagons are two weeks late now." The others agreed. But there was now little train organization. The old cheery call, "Catch up! Catch up!" was not heard. The group, the family, the individual now began to show again. True, after their leaders came, one after another, rattling, faded wagons, until the dusty trail that led out across the sage flats had a tenancy stretched out for over a half mile, with yet other vehicles falling in behind; but silent and grim were young and old now over this last defection. "About that old man Greenwood," said Molly Wingate to her daughter as they sat on the same jolting seat, "I don't know about him. I've saw elders in the church with whiskers as long and white as his'n, but you'd better watch your hog pen. For me, I believe he's a liar. It like enough is true he used to live back in the Rockies in Injun times, and he may be eighty-five years old, as he says, and California may have a wonderful climate, the way he says; but some things I can't believe. "He says, now, he knows a man out in California, a Spanish man, who was two hundred and fifty years old, and he had quite a lot of money, gold and silver, he'd dug out of the mountains. Greenwood says he's known of gold and silver for years, himself. Well, this Spanish man had relatives that wanted his property, and he'd made a will and left it to them; but he wouldn't die, the climate was so good. So his folks allowed maybe if they sent him to Spain on a journey he'd die and then they'd get the property legal. So he went, and he did die; but he left orders for his body to be sent back to California to be buried. So when his body came they buried him in California, the way he asked--so Greenwood says. "But did they get his property? Not at all! The old Spanish man, almost as soon as he was buried in California dirt, he came to life again! He's alive to-day out there, and this man Greenwood says he's a neighbor of his and he knows him well! Of course, if that's true you can believe almost anything about what a wonderful country California is. But for one, I ain't right sure. Maybe not everybody who goes to California is going to find a mountain of gold, or live to be three hundred years old! "But to think, Molly! Here you knew all this away back to Laramie! Well, if the hoorah had started there 'stead of here there'd be dead people now back of us more'n there is now. That old man Bridger told you--why? And how could you keep the secret?" "It was for Will," said Molly simply. "I had given him up. I told him to go to California and forget me, and to live things down. Don't chide me any more. I tried to marry the man you wanted me to marry. I'm tired. I'm going to Oregon--to forget. I'll teach school. I'll never, never marry--that's settled at last." "You got a letter from Sam Woodhull too." "Yes, I did." "Huh! Does he call that settled? Is he going to California to forget you and live things down?" "He says not. I don't care what he says." "He'll be back." "Spare his journey! It will do him no good. The Indian did me a kindness, I tell you!" "Well, anyways, they're both off on the same journey now, and who knows what or which? They both may be three hundred years old before they find a mountain of gold. But to think--I had your chunk of gold right in my own hands, but didn't know it! The same gold my mother's wedding ring was made of, that was mine. It's right thin now, child. You could of made a dozen out of that lump, like enough." "I'll never need one, mother," said Molly Wingate. The girl, weeping, threw her arms about her mother's neck. "You ask why I kept the secret, even then. He kissed me, mother--and he was a thief!" "Yes, I know. A man he just steals a girl's heart out through her lips. Yore paw done that way with me once. Git up, Dan! You, Daisy! "And from that time on," she added laughing, "I been trying to forget him and to live him down!" CHAPTER XXXIX THE CROSSING Three days out from Fort Hall the vanguard of the remnant of the train, less than a fourth of the original number, saw leaning against a gnarled sagebrush a box lid which had scrawled upon it in straggling letters one word--"California." Here now were to part the pick and the plow. Jim Bridger, sitting his gaunt horse, rifle across saddle horn, halted for the head of the train to pull even with him. "This here's Cassia Creek," said he. "Yan's the trail down Raft River ter the Humboldt and acrost the Sierrys ter Californy. A long, dry jump hit is, by all accounts. The Oregon road goes on down the Snake. Hit's longer, if not so dry." Small invitation offered in the physical aspect of either path. The journey had become interminable. The unspeakable monotony, whose only variant was peril, had smothered the spark of hope and interest. The allurement of mystery had wholly lost its charm. The train halted for some hours. Once more discussion rose. "Last chance for Californy, men," said old Jim Bridger calmly. "Do-ee see the tracks? Here's Greenwood come in. Yan's where Woodhull's wagons left the road. Below that, one side, is the tracks o' Banion's mules." "I wonder," he added, "why thar hain't ary letter left fer none o' us here at the forks o' the road." He did not know that, left in a tin at the foot of the board sign certain days earlier, there had rested a letter addressed to Miss Molly Wingate. It never was to reach her. Sam Woodhull knew the reason why. Having opened it and read it, he had possessed himself of exacter knowledge than ever before of the relations of Banion and Molly Wingate. Bitter as had been his hatred before, it now was venomous. He lived thenceforth no more in hope of gold than of revenge. The decision for or against California was something for serious weighing now at the last hour, and it affected the fortune and the future of every man, woman and child in all the train. Never a furrow was plowed in early Oregon but ran in bones and blood; and never a dollar was dug in gold in California--or ever gained in gold by any man--which did not cost two in something else but gold. Twelve wagons pulled out of the trail silently, one after another, and took the winding trail that led to the left, to the west and south. Others watched them, tears in their eyes, for some were friends. Alone on her cart seat, here at the fateful parting of the ways, Molly Wingate sat with a letter clasped in her hand, frank tears standing in her eyes. It was no new letter, but an old one. She pressed the pages to her heart, to her lips, held them out at arm's length before her in the direction of the far land which somewhere held its secrets. "Oh, God keep you, Will!" she said in her heart, and almost audibly. "Oh, God give you fortune, Will, and bring you back to me!" But the Oregon wagons closed up once more and held their way, the stop not being beyond one camp, for Bridger urged haste. The caravan course now lay along the great valley of the Snake. The giant deeds of the river in its cañons they could only guess. They heard of tremendous falls, of gorges through which no boat could pass, vague rumors of days of earlier exploration; but they kept to the high plateaus, dipping down to the crossings of many sharp streams, which in the first month of their journey they would have called impassable. It all took time. They were averaging now not twenty miles daily, but no more than half that, and the season was advancing. It was fall. Back home the wheat would be in stack, the edges of the corn would be seared with frost. The vast abundance of game they had found all along now lacked. Some rabbits, a few sage grouse, nightly coyotes--that made all. The savages who now hung on their flanks lacked the stature and the brave trappings of the buffalo plainsmen. They lived on horse meat and salmon, so the rumor came. Now their environment took hold of the Pacific. They had left the East wholly behind. On the salmon run they could count on food, not so good as the buffalo, but better than bacon grown soft and rusty. Changing, accepting, adjusting, prevailing, the wagons went on, day after day, fifty miles, a hundred, two hundred. But always a vague uneasiness pervaded. The crossing of the Snake lay on ahead. The moody river had cast upon them a feeling of awe. Around the sage fires at night the families talked of little else but the ford of the Snake, two days beyond the Salmon Falls. It was morning when the wagons, well drawn together now, at last turned down the precipitous decline which took them from the high plateau to the water level. Here a halt was called. Bridger took full charge. The formidable enterprise confronting them was one of the real dangers of the road. The strong green waters of the great river were divided at this ancient ford by two midstream islands, which accounted for the selection of the spot for the daring essay of a bridgeless and boatless crossing. There was something mockingly relentless in the strong rippling current, which cut off more than a guess at the actual depth. There was no ferry, no boat nor means of making one. It was not even possible to shore up the wagon beds so they might be dry. One thing sure was that if ever a wagon was swept below the crossing there could be no hope for it. But others had crossed here, and even now a certain rough chart existed, handed down from these. Time now for a leader, and men now were thankful for the presence of a man who had seen this crossing made. The old scout held back the company leaders and rode into the stream alone, step by step, scanning the bottom. He found it firm. He saw wheel marks on the first island. His horse, ears ahead, saw them also, and staggeringly felt out the way. Belly-deep and passable--yes. Bridger turned and moved a wide arm. The foremost wagons came on to the edge. The men now mounted the wagon seats, two to each wagon. Flankers drove up the loose cattle, ready for their turn later. Men rode on each side the lead yoke of oxen to hold them steady on their footing, Wingate, Price, Kelsey and Hall, bold men and well mounted, taking this work on themselves. The plunge once made, they got to the first island, all of them, without trouble. But a dizzying flood lay on ahead to the second wheel-marked island in the river. To look at the rapid surface was to lose all sense of direction. But again the gaunt horse of the scout fell out, the riders waded in, their devoted saddle animals trembling beneath them. Bridger, student of fast fords, followed the bar upstream, angling with it, till a deep channel offered between him and the island. Unable to evade this, he drove into it, and his gallant mount breasted up and held its feet all the way across. The thing could be done! Jim Bridger calmly turned and waved to the wagons to come on from the first island. "Keep them jest whar we was!" he called back to Hall and Kelsey, who had not passed the last stiff water. "Put the heavy cattle in fust! Hit maybe won't swim them. If the stuff gets wet we kain't help that. Tell the wimern hit's all right." He saw his friends turn back, their horses, deep in the flood, plunging through water broken by their knees; saw the first wagons lead off and crawl out upstream, slowly and safely, till within reach of his voice. Molly now was in the main wagon, and her brother Jed was driving. Between the lines of wading horsemen the draft oxen advanced, following the wagons, strung out, but all holding their footing in the green water that broke white on the upper side of the wagons. A vast murmuring roar came up from the water thus retarded. They made their way to the edge of the deep channel, where the cattle stood, breasts submerged. Bridger rose in his stirrups and shouted, "Git in thar! Come on through!" They plunged, wallowed, staggered; but the lead yokes saw where the ford climbed the bank, made for it, caught footing, dragged the others through! Wagon after wagon made it safe. It was desperate, but, being done, these matter-of-fact folk wasted no time in imaginings of what might have happened. They were safe, and the ford thus far was established so that the others need not fear. But on ahead lay what they all knew was the real danger--the last channel, three hundred yards of racing, heavy water which apparently no sane man ever would have faced. But there were wheel marks on the farther shore. Here ran the road to Oregon. The dauntless old scout rode in again, alone, bending to study the water and the footing. A gravel bar led off for a couple of rods, flanked by deep potholes. Ten rods out the bar turned. He followed it up, foot by foot, for twenty rods, quartering. Then he struck out for the shore. The bottom was hard, yes; but the bar was very crooked, with swimming water on either hand, with potholes ten feet deep and more all alongside. And worst of all, there was a vast sweep of heavy water below the ford, which meant destruction and death for any wagon carried down. Well had the crossing of the Snake earned its sinister reputation. Courage and care alone could give any man safe-conduct here. The women and children, crying, sat in the wagons, watching Bridger retrace the ford. Once his stumbling horse swam, but caught footing. He joined them, very serious. "Hit's fordin' men," said he, "but she's mean, she shore is mean. Double up all the teams, yoke in every loose ox an' put six yoke on each wagon, er they'll get swep' down, shore's hell. Some o' them will hold the others ef we have enough. I'll go ahead, an' I want riders all along the teams, above and below, ter hold them ter the line. Hit can be did--hit's wicked water, but hit can be did. Don't wait--always keep things movin'." By this time the island was packed with the loose cattle, which had followed the wagons, much of the time swimming. They were lowing meaningly, in terror--a gruesome thing to hear. The leader called to Price's oldest boy, driving Molly's cart, "Tie on behind the big wagon with a long rope, an' don't drive in tell you see the fust two yoke ahead holdin'. Then they'll drag you through anyhow. Hang onto the cart whatever happens, but if you do get in, keep upstream of any animile that's swimmin'." "All set, men? Come ahead!" He led off again at last, after the teams were doubled and the loads had been piled high as possible to keep them dry. Ten wagons were left behind, it being needful to drive back, over the roaring channel, some of the doubled heavy teams for them. They made it well, foot by foot, the cattle sometimes swimming gently, confidently, as the line curved down under the heavy current, but always enough holding to keep the team safe. The horsemen rode alongside, exhorting, assuring. It was a vast relief when at the last gravel stretch they saw the wet backs of the oxen rise high once more. "I'll go back, Jesse," said Kelsey, the man who had wanted to go to California. "I know her now." "I'll go with you," added young Jed Wingate, climbing down from his wagon seat and demanding his saddle horse, which he mounted bare-backed. It was they two who drove and led the spare yokes back to repeat the crossing with the remaining wagons. Those on the bank watched them anxiously, for they drove straighter across to save time, and were carried below the trail on the island. But they came out laughing, and the oxen were rounded up once more and doubled in, so that the last of the train was ready. "That's a fine mare of Kelsey's," said Wingate to Caleb Price, who with him was watching the daring Kentuckian at his work on the downstream and more dangerous side of the linked teams. "She'll go anywhere." Price nodded, anxiously regarding the laboring advance of the last wagons. "Too light," said he. "I started with a ton and a half on the National Pike across Ohio and Indiana. I doubt if we average five hundred now. They ford light." "Look!" he cried suddenly, and pointed. They all ran to the brink. The horsemen were trying to stay the drift of the line of cattle. They had worked low and missed footing. Many were swimming--the wagons were afloat! The tired lead cattle had not been able to withstand the pressure of the heavy water a second time. They were off the ford! But the riders from the shore, led by Jim Bridger, got to them, caught a rope around a horn, dragged them into line, dragged the whole gaunt team to the edge and saved the day for the lead wagon. The others caught and held their footing, labored through. But a shout arose. Persons ran down the bank, pointing. A hundred yards below the ford, in the full current of the Snake, the lean head of Kelsey's mare was flat, swimming hard and steadily, being swept downstream in a current which swung off shore below the ford. "He's all right!" called Jed, wet to the neck, sitting his own wet mount, safe ashore at last. "He's swimming too. They'll make it, sure! Come on!" He started off at a gallop downstream along the shore, his eyes fixed on the two black objects, now steadily losing distance out beyond. But old Jim Bridger put his hands across his eyes and turned away his face. He knew! It was now plain to all that yonder a gallant man and a gallant horse were making a fight for life. The grim river had them in its grip at last. In a moment the tremendous power of the heavy water had swept Kelsey and his horse far below the ford. The current there was swifter, noisier, as though exultant in the success of the scheme the river all along had proposed. As to the victims, the tragic struggle went on in silence. If the man called, no one could hear him above the rush and roar of the waters. None long had any hope as they saw the white rollers bury the two heads, of the horse and the man, while the set of the current steadily carried them away from the shore. It was only a miracle that the two bobbing black dots again and again came into view. They could see the mare's muzzle flat, extended toward the shore; back of it, upstream, the head of the man. Whichever brain had decided, it was evident that the animal was staking life to reach the shore from which it had been swept away. Far out in midstream some conformation of the bottom turned the current once more in a long slant shoreward. A murmur, a sob of hundreds of observers packed along the shore broke out as the two dots came closer, far below. More than a quarter of a mile downstream a sand point made out, offering a sort of beach where for some space a landing might be made. Could the gallant mare make this point? Men clenched their hands. Women began to sob, to moan gently. When with a shout Jed Wingate turned his horse and set off at top speed down the shore some followed him. The horses and oxen, left alone, fell into confusion, the wagons tangled. One or two teams made off at a run into the desert. But these things were nothing. Those behind hoped Jed would not try any rescue in that flood. Molly stood wringing her hands. The boy's mother began praying audibly. The voice of Jim Bridger rose in an Indian chant. It was for the dead! They saw the gallant mare plunge up, back and shoulders and body rising as her feet found bottom a few yards out from shore. She stood free of the water, safe on the bar; stood still, looking back of her and down. But no man rose to his height beside her. There was only one figure on the bar. They saw Jed fling off; saw him run and stoop, lifting something long and heavy from the water. Then the mare stumbled away. At length she lay down quietly. She never rose. "She was standing right here," said Jed as the others came, "He had hold of the reins so tight I couldn't hardly open his hand. He must have been dead before the mare hit bottom. He was laying all under water, hanging to the reins, and that was all that kept him from washing on down." They made some rude and unskilled attempt at resuscitation, but had neither knowledge nor confidence. Perhaps somewhere out yonder the strain had been too great; perhaps the sheer terror had broken the heart of both man and horse. The mare suddenly began to tremble as she lay, her nostrils shivering as though in fright. And she died, after bringing in the dead man whose hand still gripped her rein. They buried Kelsey of Kentucky--few knew him otherwise--on a hillock by the road at the first fording place of the Snake. They broke out the top board of another tail gate, and with a hot iron burned in one more record of the road: "Rob't. Kelsey, Ky. Drowned Sept. 7, 1848. A Brave Man." The sand long ago cut out the lettering, and long ago the ford passed to a ferry. But there lay, for a long time known, Kelsey of Kentucky, a brave man, who kept his promise and did not rue back, but who never saw either California or Oregon. "Catch up the stock, men," said Jesse Wingate dully, after a time. "Let's leave this place." Loads were repacked, broken gear adjusted. Inside the hour the silent gray wagon train held on, leaving the waters to give shriving. The voice of the river rose and fell mournfully behind them in the changing airs. "I knowed hit!" said old Jim Bridger, now falling back from the lead and breaking oft' his Indian dirge. "I knowed all along the Snake'd take somebody--she does every time. This mornin' I seed two ravens that flew acrost the trail ahead. Yesterday I seed a rabbit settin' squar' in the trail. I thought hit was me the river wanted, but she's done took a younger an' a better man." "Man, man," exclaimed stout-hearted Molly Wingate, "what for kind of a country have you brought us women to? One more thing like that and my nerve's gone. Tell me, is this the last bad river? And when will we get to Oregon?" "Don't be a-skeered, ma'am," rejoined Bridger. "A accident kin happen anywheres. Hit's a month on ter Oregon, whar ye're headed. Some fords on ahead, yes; we got ter cross back ter the south side the Snake again." "But you'll go on with us, won't you?" demanded young Molly Wingate. They had halted to breathe the cattle at the foot of lava dust slope. Bridger looked at the young girl for a time in silence. "I'm off my country, Miss Molly," said he. "Beyant the second ford, at Fort Boise, I ain't never been. I done aimed ter turn back here an' git back home afore the winter come. Ain't I did enough fer ye?" But he hesitated. There was a kindly light on the worn old face, in the sunken blue eye. "Ye want me ter go on, Miss Molly?" "If you could it would be a comfort to me, a protection to us all." "Is hit so! Miss Molly, ye kin talk a ol'-time man out'n his last pelt! But sence ye do want me, I'll sornter along a leetle ways furtherer with ye. Many a good fight is spoiled by wonderin' how hit's goin' to come out. An' many a long trail's lost by wonderin' whar hit runs. I hain't never yit been plumb to Californy er Oregon. But ef ye say I must, Miss Molly, why I must; an' ef I must, why here goes! I reckon my wimern kin keep my fire goin' ontel I git back next year." CHAPTER XL OREGON! OREGON! THE freakish resolves of the old-time trapper at least remained unchanged for many days, but at last one evening he came to Molly's wagon, his face grim and sad. "Miss Molly," he said, "I'm come to say good-by now. Hit's for keeps." "No? Then why? You are like an old friend to me. What don't I owe to you?" "Ye don't owe nothin' ter me yit, Miss Molly. But I want ye ter think kindly o' old Jim Bridger when he's gone. I allow the kindest thing I kin do fer ye is ter bring Will Banion ter ye." "You are a good man, James Bridger," said Molly Wingate. "But then?" "Ye see, Miss Molly, I had six quarts o' rum I got at Boise. Some folks says rum is wrong. Hit ain't. I'll tell ye why. Last night I drinked up my lastest bottle o' that Hundson's Bay rum. Hit war right good rum, an ez I lay lookin' up at the stars, all ter oncet hit come ter me that I was jest exactly, no more an' no less, jest ter the ha'r, ez drunk I was on the leetle spree with Kit at Laramie. Warn't that fine? An' warn't hit useful? Nach'erl, bein' jest even up, I done thought o' everything I been fergettin'. Hit all come ter me ez plain ez a streak o' lightnin'. What it was Kit Carson told me I know now, but no one else shall know. No, not even you, Miss Molly. I kain't tell ye, so don't ask. "Now I'm goin' on a long journey, an' a resky one; I kain't tell ye no more. I reckon I'll never see ye agin. So good-by." With a swift grasp of his hand he caught the dusty edge of the white woman's skirt to his bearded lips. "But, James--" Suddenly she reached out a hand. He was gone. * * * * * One winter day, rattling over the icy fords of the road winding down the Sandy from the white Cascades, crossing the Clackamas, threading the intervening fringe of forest, there broke into the clearing at Oregon City the head of the wagon train of 1848. A fourth of the wagons abandoned and broken, a half of the horses and cattle gone since they had left the banks of the Columbia east of the mountains, the cattle leaning one against the other when they halted, the oxen stumbling and limping, the calluses of their necks torn, raw and bleeding from the swaying of the yokes on the rocky trail, their tongues out, their eyes glassy with the unspeakable toil they so long had undergone; the loose wheels wabbling, the thin hounds rattling, the canvas sagged and stained, the bucket under each wagon empty, the plow at each tail gate thumping in its lashings of rope and hide--the train of the covered wagons now had, indeed, won through. Now may the picture of our own Ark of Empire never perish from our minds. On the front seat of the lead wagon sat stout Molly Wingate and her husband. Little Molly's cart came next. Alongside the Caleb Price wagon, wherein now sat on the seat--hugging a sore-footed dog whose rawhide boots had worn through--a long-legged, barefoot girl who had walked twelve hundred miles since spring, trudged Jed Wingate, now grown from a tousled boy into a lean, self-reliant young man. His long whip was used in baseless threatenings now, for any driver must spare cattle such as these, gaunt and hollow-eyed. Tobacco protuberant in cheek, his feet half bare, his trousers ragged and fringed to the knee, his sleeves rolled up over brown and brawny arms, Jed Wingate now was enrolled on the list of men. "Gee-whoa-haw! You Buck an' Star, git along there, damn ye!" So rose his voice, automatically but affectionately. Certain French Canadians, old-time _engagés_ of the fur posts, now become _habitants_, landowners, on their way home from Sunday chapel, hastened to summon others. "The families have come!" they called at the Falls, as they had at Portland town. But now, though safely enlarged at last of the confinement and the penalties of the wagon train, the emigrants, many of them almost destitute, none of them of great means, needed to cast about them at once for their locations and to determine what their occupations were to be. They scattered, each seeking his place, like new trout in a stream. CHAPTER XLI THE SECRETS OF THE SIERRAS Sam Woodhull carried in his pocket the letter which Will Banion had left for Molly Wingate at Cassia Creek in the Snake Valley, where the Oregon road forked for California. There was no post office there, yet Banion felt sure that his letter would find its way, and it had done so, save for the treachery of this one man. Naught had been sacred to him. He had read the letter without an instant's hesitation, feeling that anything was fair in his love for this woman, in his war with this man. Woodhull resolved that they should not both live. He was by nature not so much a coward as a man without principle or scruple. He did not expect to be killed by Banion. He intended to use such means as would give Banion no chance. In this he thought himself fully justified, as a criminal always does. But hurry as he might, his overdriven teams were no match for the tireless desert horse, the wiry mountain mount and the hardy mules of the tidy little pack train of Banion and his companion Jackson. These could go on steadily where wagons must wait. Their trail grew fainter as they gained. At last, at the edge of a waterless march of whose duration they could not guess, Woodhull and his party were obliged to halt. Here by great good fortune they were overtaken by the swift pack train of Greenwood and his men, hurrying back with fresh animals on their return march to California. The two companies joined forces. Woodhull now had a guide. Accordingly when, after such dangers and hardships as then must be inevitable to men covering the gruesome trail between the Snake and the Sacramento, he found himself late that fall arrived west of the Sierras and in the gentler climate of the central valley, he looked about him with a feeling of exultation. Now, surely, fate would give his enemy into his hand. Men were spilling south into the valley of the San Joaquin, coming north with proofs of the Stanislaus, the Tuolumne, the Merced. Greenwood insisted on working north into the country where he had found gold, along all the tributaries of the Sacramento. Even then, too, before the great year of '49 had dawned, prospectors were pushing to the head of the creeks making into the American Fork, the Feather River, all the larger and lesser streams heading on the west slopes of the Sierras; and Greenwood even heard of a band of men who had stolen away from the lower diggings and broken off to the north and east--some said, heading far up for the Trinity, though that was all unproved country so far as most knew. And now the hatred in Woodhull's sullen heart grew hotter still, for he heard that not fifty miles ahead there had passed a quiet dark young man, riding a black Spanish horse; with him a bearded man who drove a little band of loaded mules! Their progress, so came the story, was up a valley whose head was impassable. The trail could not be obliterated back of them. They were in a trap of their own choosing. All that he needed was patience and caution. Ships and wagon trains came in on the Willamette from the East. They met the coast news of gold. Men of Oregon also left in a mad stampede for California. News came that all the World now was in the mines of California. All over the East, as the later ships also brought in reiterated news, the mad craze of '49 even then was spreading. But the men of '48 were in ahead. From them, scattering like driven game among the broken country over hundreds of miles of forest, plain, bench land and valley lands, no word could come out to the waiting world. None might know the countless triumphs, the unnumbered tragedies--none ever did know. There, beyond the law, one man might trail another with murder stronger than avarice in his heart, and none ever be the wiser. To hide secrets such as these the unfathomed mountains reached out their shadowy arms. * * * * * Now the winter wore on with such calendar as altitude, latitude, longitude gave it, and the spring of '49 came, East and West, in Washington and New York; at Independence on the Missouri; at Deseret by the Great Salt Lake; in California; in Oregon. Above the land of the early Willamette settlements forty or fifty miles up the Yamhill Valley, so a letter from Mrs. Caleb Price to her relatives in Ohio said, the Wingates, leaders of the train, had a beautiful farm, near by the Cale Price Mill, as it was known. They had up a good house of five rooms, and their cattle were increasing now. They had forty acres in wheat, with what help the neighbors had given in housing and planting; and wheat would run fifty bushels to the acre there. They load bought young trees for an orchard. Her mother had planted roses; they now were fine. She believed they were as good as those she planted in Portland, when first she went through there--cuttings she had carried with her seed wheat in the bureau drawer, all the way across from the Saganon. Yes, Jesse Wingate and his wife had done well. Molly, their daughter, was still living with them and still unmarried, she believed. There were many things which Mrs. Caleb Price believed; also many things she did not mention. She said nothing, for she knew nothing, of a little scene between these two as they sat on their little sawn-board porch before their door one evening, looking out over the beautiful and varied landscape that lay spread before them. Their wheat was in the green now. Their hogs reveled in their little clover field. "We've done well, Jesse," at length said portly Molly Wingate. "Look at our place! A mile square, for nothing! We've done well, Jesse, I'll admit it." "For what?" answered Jesse Wingate. "What's it for? What has it come to? What's it all about?" He did not have any reply. When he turned he saw his wife wiping tears from her hard, lined face. "It's Molly," said she. CHAPTER XLII KIT CARSON RIDES Following the recession of the snow, men began to push westward up the Platte in the great spring gold rush of 1849. In the forefront of these, outpacing them in his tireless fashion, now passed westward the greatest traveler of his day, the hunter and scout, Kit Carson. The new post of Fort Kearny on the Platte; the old one, Fort Laramie in the foothills of the Rockies--he touched them soon as the grass was green; and as the sun warmed the bunch grass slopes of the North Platte and the Sweetwater, so that his horses could paw out a living, he crowded on westward. He was a month ahead of the date for the wagon trains at Fort Bridger. "How, Chardon!" said he as he drove in his two light packs, riding alone as was his usual way, evading Indian eyes as he of all men best knew how. "How, Kit! You're early. Why?" The trader's chief clerk turned to send a boy for Vasquez, Bridger's partner. "Light, Kit, and eat." "Where's Bridger?" demanded Carson. "I've come out of my country to see him. I have government mail--for Oregon." "For Oregon? _Mon Dieu_! But Jeem"--he spread out his hands--"Jeem he's dead, we'll think. We do not known. Now we know the gold news. Maybe-so we know why Jeem he's gone!" "Gone? When?" "Las' H'august-Settemb. H'all of an' at once he'll took the trail h'after the h'emigrant train las' year. He'll caught him h'on Fort Hall; we'll heard. But then he go h'on with those h'emigrant beyon' Hall, beyon' the fork for Californ'. He'll not come back. No one know what has become of Jeem. He'll been dead, maybe-so." "Yes? Maybe-so not! That old rat knows his way through the mountains, and he'll take his own time. You think he did not go on to California?" "We'll know he'll didn't." Carson stood and thought for a time. "Well, its bad for you, Chardon!" "How you mean, M'sieu Kit?" "Eat your last square meal. Saddle your best horse. Drive four packs and two saddle mounts along." "_Oui?_ And where?" "To Oregon!" "To Oregon? _Sacre 'Fan!'_ What you mean?" "By authority of the Government, I command you to carry this packet on to Oregon this season, as fast as safety may allow. Take a man with you--two; pick up any help you need. But go through. "I cannot go further west myself, for I must get back to Laramie. I had counted on Jim, and Jim's post must see me through. Make your own plans to start to-morrow morning. I'll arrange all that with Vasquez." "But, M'sieu Kit, I cannot!" "But you shall, you must, you will! If I had a better man I'd send him, but you are to do what Jim wants done." "_Mais, oui_, of course." "Yes. And you'll do what the President of the United States commands." "_Bon Dieu_, Kit!" "That packet is over the seal of the United States of America, Chardon. It carries the signature of the President. It was given to the Army to deliver. The Army has given it to me. I give it to you, and you must go. It is for Jim. He would know. It must be placed in the hands of the Circuit Judge acting under, the laws of Oregon, whoever he may be, and wherever. Find him in the Willamette country. Your pay will be more than you think, Chardon. Jim would know. Dead or alive, you do this for him. "You can do thirty miles a day. I know you as a mountain man. Ride! To-morrow I start east to Laramie--and you start west for Oregon!" And in the morning following two riders left Bridger's for the trail. They parted, each waving a hand to the other. CHAPTER XLIII THE KILLER KILLED A rough low cabin of logs, hastily thrown together, housed through the winter months of the Sierra foothills the two men who now, in the warm days of early June, sat by the primitive fireplace cooking a midday meal. The older man, thin, bearded, who now spun a side of venison ribs on a cord in front of the open fire, was the mountain man, Bill Jackson, as anyone might tell who ever had seen him, for he had changed but little. That his companion, younger, bearded, dressed also in buckskins, was Will Banion it would have taken closer scrutiny even of a friend to determine, so much had the passing of these few months altered him in appearance and in manner. Once light of mien, now he smiled never at all. For hours he would seem to go about his duties as an automaton. He spoke at last to his ancient and faithful friend, kindly as ever, and with his own alertness and decision. "Let's make it our last meal on the Trinity, Bill. What do you say?" "Why? What's eatin' ye, boy? Gittin' restless agin?" "Yes, I want to move." "Most does." "We've got enough, Bill. The last month has been a crime. The spring snows uncovered a fortune for us, and you know it!" "Oh, yes, eight hundred in one day ain't bad for two men that never had saw a gold pan a year ago. But she ain't petered yit. With what we've learned, an' what we know, we kin stay in here an' git so rich that hit shore makes me cry ter think o' trappin' beaver, even before 1836, when the beaver market busted. Why, rich? Will, hit's like you say, plumb wrong--we done hit so damned easy! I lay awake nights plannin' how ter spend my share o' this pile. We must have fifty-sixty thousand dollars o' dust buried under the floor, don't ye think?" "Yes, more. But if you'll agree, I'll sell this claim to the company below us and let them have the rest. They offer fifty thousand flat, and it's enough--more than enough. I want two things--to get Jim Bridger his share safe and sound; and I want to go to Oregon." The old man paused in the act of splitting off a deer rib from his roast. "Ye're one awful damn fool, ain't ye, Will? I did hope ter finish up here, a-brilin' my meat in a yaller-gold fireplace; but no matter how plain an' simple a man's tastes is, allus somethin' comes along ter bust 'em up." "Well, go on and finish your meal in this plain fireplace of ours, Bill. It has done us very well. I think I'll go down to the sluice a while." Banion rose and left the cabin, stooping at the low door. Moodily he walked along the side of the steep ravine to which the little structure clung. Below him lay the ripped-open slope where the little stream had been diverted. Below again lay the bared bed of the exploited water course, floored with bowlders set in deep gravel, at times with seamy dams of flat rock lying under and across the gravel stretches; the bed rock, ages old, holding in its hidden fingers the rich secrets of immemorial time. Here he and his partner had in a few months of strenuous labor taken from the narrow and unimportant rivulet more wealth than most could save in a lifetime of patient and thrifty toil. Yes, fortune had been kind. And it all had been so easy, so simple, so unagitating, so matter-of-fact! The hillside now looked like any other hillside, innocent as a woman's eyes, yet covering how much! Banion could not realize that now, young though he was, he was a rich man. He climbed down the side of the ravine, the little stones rattling under his feet, until he stood on the bared floor of the bed rock which had proved so unbelievably prolific in coarse gold. There was a sharp bend in the ravine, and here the unpaid toil of the little waterway had, ages long, carried and left especially deep strata of gold-shot gravel. As he stood, half musing, Will Banion heard, on the ravine side around the bend, the tinkle of a falling stone, lazily rolling from one impediment to another. It might be some deer or other animal, he thought. He hastened to get view of the cause, whatever it might be. And then fate, chance, the goddess of fortune which some men say does not exist, but which all wilderness-goers know does exist, for one instant paused, with Will Banion's life and wealth and happiness lightly a-balance in cold, disdainful fingers. He turned the corner. Almost level with his own, he looked into the eyes of a crawling man who--stooped, one hand steadying himself against the slant of the ravine, the other below, carrying a rifle--was peering frowningly ahead. It was an evil face, bearded, aquiline, not unhandsome; but evil in its plain meaning now. The eyes were narrowed, the full lips drawn close, as though some tense emotion now approached its climax. The appearance was that of strain, of nerves stretched in some purpose long sustained. And why not? When a man would do murder, when that has been his steady and premeditated purpose for a year, waiting only for opportunity to serve his purpose, that purpose itself changes his very lineaments, alters his whole cast of countenance. Other men avoid him, knowing unconsciously what is in his soul, because of what is written on his face. For months most men had avoided Woodhull. It was known that he was on a man hunt. His questions, his movements, his changes of locality showed that; and Woodhull was one of those who cannot avoid asseverance, needing it for their courage sake. Now morose and brooding, now loudly profane, now laughing or now aloof, his errand in these unknown hills was plain. Well, he was not alone among men whose depths were loosed. Some time his hour might come. It had come! He stared now full into the face of his enemy! He at last had found him. Here stood his enemy, unarmed, delivered into his hands. For one instant the two stood, staring into one another's eyes. Banion's advance had been silent. Woodhull was taken as much unawares as he. It had been Woodhull's purpose to get a stand above the sluices, hidden by the angle, where he could command the reach of the stream bed where Banion and Jackson last had been working. He had studied the place before, and meant to take no chances. His shot must be sure. But now, in his climbing on the steep hillside, his rifle was in his left hand, downhill, and his footing, caught as he was with one foot half raised, was insecure. At no time these last four hours had his opportunity been so close--or so poor--as precisely now! He saw Will Banion's eyes, suddenly startled, quickly estimating, looking into his own. He knew that behind his own eyes his whole foul soul lay bared--the soul of a murderer. Woodhull made a swift spring down the hill, scrambling, half erect, and caught some sort of stance for the work which now was his to do. He snarled, for he saw Banion stoop, unarmed. It would do his victim no good to run. There was time even to exult, and that was much better in a long-deferred matter such as this. "Now, damn you, I've got you!" He gave Banion that much chance to see that he was now to die. Half leaning, he raised the long rifle to its line and touched the trigger. The report came; and Banion fell. But even as he wheeled and fell, stumbling down the hillside, his flung arm apparently had gained a weapon. It was not more than the piece of rotten quartz he had picked up and planned to examine later. He flung it straight at Woodhull's face--an act of chance, of instinct. By a hair it saved him. Firing and missing at a distance of fifty feet, Woodhull remained not yet a murderer in deed. In a flash Banion gathered and sprang toward him as he stood in a half second of consternation at seeing his victim fall and rise again. The rifle carried but the one shot. He flung it down, reached for his heavy knife, raising an arm against the second piece of rock which Banion flung as he closed. He felt his wrist caught in an iron grip, felt the blood gush where his temple was cut by the last missile. And then once more, on the narrow bared floor that but now was patterned in parquetry traced in yellow, and soon must turn to red, it came to man and man between them--and it was free! They fell and stumbled so that neither could much damage the other at first. Banion knew he must keep the impounded hand back from the knife sheath or he was done. Thus close, he could make no escape. He fought fast and furiously, striving to throw, to bend, to beat back the body of a man almost as strong as himself, and now a maniac in rage and fear. * * * * * The sound of the rifle shot rang through the little defile. To Jackson, shaving off bits of sweet meat between thumb and knife blade, it meant the presence of a stranger, friend or foe, for he knew Banion had carried no weapon with him. His own long rifle he snatched from its pegs. At a long, easy lope he ran along the path which carried across the face of the ravine. His moccasined feet made no sound. He saw no one in the creek bed or at the long turn. But new, there came a loud, wordless cry which he knew was meant for him. It was Will Banion's voice. The two struggling men grappled below him had no notion of how long they had fought. It seemed an age, and the dénouement yet another age deferred. But to them came the sound of a voice: "Git away, Will! Stand back!" It was Jackson. They both, still gripped, looked up the bank. The long barrel of a rifle, foreshortened to a black point, above it a cold eye, fronted and followed them as they swayed. The crooked arm of the rifleman was motionless, save as it just moved that deadly circle an inch this way, an inch back again. Banion knew that this was murder, too, but he knew that naught on earth could stay it now. To guard as much as he could against a last desperate knife thrust even of a dying man, he broke free and sprang back as far as he could, falling prostrate on his back as he did so, tripped by an unseen stone. But Sam Woodhull was not upon him now, was not willing to lose his own life in order to kill. For just one instant he looked up at the death staring down on him, then turned to run. There was no place where he could run. The voice of the man above him called out sharp and hard. "Halt! Sam Woodhull, look at me!" He did turn, in horror, in fascination at sight of the Bright Angel. The rifle barrel to his last gaze became a small, round circle, large as a bottle top, and around it shone a fringed aura of red and purple light. That might have been the eye. Steadily as when he had held his friend's life in his hand, sighting five inches above his eyes, the old hunter drew now above the eyes of his enemy. When the dry report cut the confined air of the valley, the body of Sam Woodhull started forward. The small blue hole an inch above the eyes showed the murderer's man hunt done. CHAPTER XLIV YET IF LOVE LACK Winding down out of the hills into the grassy valley of the Upper Sacramento, the little pack train of Banion and Jackson, six hardy mules beside the black horse and Jackson's mountain pony, picked its way along a gashed and trampled creek bed. The kyacks which swung heavy on the strongest two mules might hold salt or lead or gold. It all was one to any who might have seen, and the two silent men, the younger ahead, the older behind, obviously were men able to hold their counsel or to defend their property. The smoke of a distant encampment caught the keen eye of Jackson as he rode, humming, care-free, the burden of a song. "Oh, then, Susannah!" admonished the old mountain man, and bade the said Susannah to be as free of care as he himself then and there was. "More men comin' in," said he presently. "Wonder who them people is, an' ef hit's peace er war." "Three men. A horse band. Two Indians. Go in easy, Bill." Banion slowed down his own gait. His companion had tied the six mules together, nose and tail, with the halter of the lead mule wrapped on his own saddle horn. Each man now drew his rifle from the swing loop. But they advanced with the appearance of confidence, for it was evident that they had been discovered by the men of the encampment. Apparently they were identified as well as discovered. A tall man in leggings and moccasions, a flat felt hat over his long gray hair, stood gazing at them, his rifle butt resting on the ground. Suddenly he emitted an unearthly yell, whether of defiance or of greeting, and springing to his own horse's picket pin gathered in the lariat, and mounting bareback came on, his rifle high above his head, and repeating again and again his war cry or salutation. Jackson rose in his stirrups, dropped his lead line and forsook more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars some two mule-pack loads of gold. His own yell rose high in answer. "I told ye all the world'd be here!" he shouted back over his shoulder. "Do-ee see that old thief Jim Bridger? Him I left drunk an' happy last summer? Now what in hell brung him here?" The two old mountain men flung off and stood hand in hand before Banion had rescued the precious lead line and brought on the little train. Bridger threw his hat on the ground, flung down his rifle and cast his stoic calm aside. Both his hands caught Banion's and his face beamed, breaking into a thousand lines. "Boy, hit's you, then! I knowed yer hoss--he has no like in these parts. I've traced ye by him this hundred miles below an' up agin, but I've had no word this two weeks. Mostly I've seed that, when ye ain't lookin' fer a b'ar, thar he is. Well, here we air, fine an' fatten, an' me with two bottles left o' somethin' they call coggnac down in Yerba Buena. Come on in an' we'll make medicine." They dismounted. The two Indians, short, deep-chested, bow-legged men, went to the packs. They gruntled as they unloaded the two larger mules. The kyacks were lined up and the mantas spread over them, the animals led away for feed and water. Bridger produced a ham of venison, some beans, a bannock and some coffee--not to mention his two bottles of fiery fluid--before any word was passed regarding future plans or past events. "Come here, Jim," said Jackson after a time, tin cup in hand. The other followed him, likewise equipped. "Heft this pannier, Jim." "Uh-huh? Well, what of hit? What's inter hit?" "Not much, Jim. Jest three-four hunderd pounds o' gold settin' there in them four packs. Hit hain't much, but hit'll help some." Bridger stooped and uncovered the kyacks, unbuckled the cover straps. "Hit's a true fack!" he exclaimed. "Gold! Ef hit hain't, I'm a putrified liar, an' that's all I got to say!" Now, little by little, they told, each to other, the story of the months since they had met, Bridger first explaining his own movements. "I left the Malheur at Boise, an' brung along yan two boys. Ye needn't be a-skeered they'll touch the cargo. The gold means nothin' ter 'em, but horses does. We've got a good band ter drive north now. Some we bought an' most they stole, but no rancher cares fer horses here an' now. "We come through the Klamaths, ye see, an' on south--the old horse trail up from the Spanish country, which only the Injuns knows. My boys say they kin take us ter the head o' the Willamette. "So ye did get the gold! Eh, sir?" said Bridger, his eyes narrowing. "The tip the gal give ye was a good one?" "Yes," rejoined Banion. "But we came near losing it and more. It was Woodhull, Jim. He followed us in." "Yes, I know. His wagons was not fur behind ye on the Humboldt. He left right atter ye did. He made trouble, huh? He'll make no more? Is that hit, huh?" Bill Jackson slapped the stock of his rifle in silence. Bridger nodded. He had been close to tragedies all his life. They told him now of this one. He nodded again, close lipped. "An' ye want courts an' the settlements, boys?" said he. "Fer me, when I kill a rattler, that's enough. Ef ye're touchy an' want yer ree-cord clean, why, we kin go below an' fix hit. Only thing is, I don't want ter waste no more time'n I kin help, fer some o' them horses has a ree-cord that ain't maybe so plumb clean their own selves. Ye ain't goin' out east--ye're goin' north. Hit's easier, an' a month er two closter, with plenty o' feed an' water--the old Cayuse trail, huh? "So Sam Woodhull got what he's been lookin' fer so long!" he added presently. "Well, that simples up things some." "He'd o' got hit long ago, on the Platte, ef my partner hadn't been a damned fool," confirmed Jackson. "He was where we could a' buried him nach'erl, in the sands. I told Will then that Woodhull'd murder him the fust chancet he got. Well, he did--er ef he didn't hit wasn't no credit ter either one o' them two." "What differ does hit make, Bill?" remarked Bridger indifferently. "Let bygones be bygones, huh? That's the pleasantest way, sence he's dead. "Now here we air, with all the gold there ever was molded, an' a hull two bottles o' coggnac left, which takes holt e'enamost better'n Hundson's Bay rum. Ain't it a perty leetle ol' world to play with, all with nice pink stripes erroun' hit?" He filled his tin and broke into a roaring song: _There was a ol' widder which had three sons-- Joshuway, James an' John. An' one got shot, an' one got drowned, An' th' last un got losted an' never was found_-- "Ain't hit funny, son," said he, turning to Banion with cup uplifted, "how stiff likker allus makes me remember what I done fergot? Now Kit told me, that at Laramie--" "Fer I'm goin' out to Oregon, with my wash pan on my knee!" chanted Bill Jackson, now solemnly oblivious of most of his surroundings and hence not consciously discourteous to his friends; "Susannah, don't ye cry!" They sat, the central figures of a scene wild enough, in a world still primitive and young. Only one of the three remained sober and silent, wondering, if one thing lacked, why the world was made. CHAPTER XLV THE LIGHT OF THE WHOLE WORLD At the new farm of Jesse Wingate on the Yamhill the wheat was in stack and ready for the flail, his deer-skin sacks made ready to carry it to market after the threshing. His grim and weather-beaten wagon stood, now unused, at the barnyard fence of rails. It was evening. Wingate and his wife again sat on their little stoop, gazing down the path that led to the valley road. A mounted man was opening the gate, someone they did not recognize. "Maybe from below," said Molly Wingate. "Jed's maybe sent up another letter. Leave it to him, he's going to marry the most wonderful girl! Well, I'll call it true, she's a wonderful walker. All the Prices was." "Or maybe it's for Molly," she added. "Ef she's ever heard a word from either Sam Woodhull or--" "Hush! I do not want to hear that name!" broke in her husband. "Trouble enough he has made for us!" His wife made no comment for a moment, still watching the stranger, who was now riding up the long approach, little noted by Wingate as he sat, moody and distrait. "Jess," said she, "let's be fair and shame the devil. Maybe we don't know all the truth about Will Banion. You go in the house. I'll tend to this man, whoever he may be." But she did not. With one more look at the advancing figure, she herself rose and followed her husband. As she passed she cast a swift glance at her daughter, who had not joined them for the twilight hour. Hers was the look of the mother--maternal, solicitious, yet wise and resolved withal; woman understanding woman. And now was the hour for her ewe lamb to be alone. Molly Wingate sat in her own little room, looking through her window at the far forest and the mountain peaks in their evening dress of many colors. She was no longer the tattered emigrant girl in fringed frock and mended moccasins. Ships from the world's great ports served the new market of the Columbia Valley. It was a trim and trig young woman in the habiliments of sophisticated lands who sat here now, her heavy hair, piled high, lighted warmly in the illumination of the window. Her skin, clear white, had lost its sunburn in the moister climate between the two ranges of mountains. Quiet, reticent, reserved--cold, some said; but all said Molly Wingate, teacher at the mission school, was beautiful, the most beautiful young woman in all the great Willamette settlements. Her hands were in her lap now, and her face as usual was grave. A sad young woman, her Oregon lovers all said of her. They did not know why she should be sad, so fit for love was she. She heard now a knock at the front door, to which, from her position, she could not have seen anyone approach. She called out, "Come!" but did not turn her head. A horse stamped, neighed near her door. Her face changed expression. Her eyes grew wide in some strange association of memories suddenly revived. She heard a footfall on the gallery floor, then on the floor of the hall. It stopped. Her heart almost stopped with it. Some undiscovered sense warned her, cried aloud to her. She faced the door, wide-eyed, as it was flung open. "Molly!" Will Banion's deep-toned voice told her all the rest. In terror, her hands to her face, she stood an instant, then sprang toward him, her voice almost a wail in its incredulous joy. "Will! Will! Oh, Will! Oh! Oh!" "Molly!" They both paused. "It can't be! Oh, you frightened me, Will! It can't be you!" But he had her in his arms now. At first he could only push back her hair, stroke her cheek, until at last the rush of life and youth came back to them both, and their lips met in the sealing kiss of years. Then both were young again. She put up a hand to caress his brown cheek. Tenderly he pushed back her hair. "Will! Oh, Will! It can't be!" she whispered again and again. "But it is! It had to be! Now I'm paid! Now I've found my fortune!" "And I've had my year to think it over, Will. As though the fortune mattered!" "Not so much as that one other thing that kept you and me apart. Now I must tell you--" "No, no, let be! Tell me nothing! Will, aren't you here?" "But I must! You must hear me! I've waited two years for this!" "Long, Will! You've let me get old!" "You old?" He kissed her in contempt of time. "But now wait, dear, for I must tell you. "You see, coming up the valley I met the Clerk of the Court of Oregon City, and he knew I was headed up for the Yamhill. He asked me to serve as his messenger. 'I've been sending up through all the valley settlements in search of one William Banion,' he said to me. Then I told him who I was. He gave me this." "What is it?" She turned to her lover. He held in his hands a long package, enfolded in an otter skin. "Is it a court summons for Will Banion? They can't have you, Will!" He smiled, her head held between his two hands. "'I have a very important document for Colonel William Banion,' the clerk said to me. 'It has been for some time in our charge, for delivery to him at once should he come into the Oregon settlements. It is from His Excellency, the President of the United States. Such messages do not wait. Seeing it of such importance, and knowing it to be military, Judge Lane opened it, since we could not trace the addressee. If you like--if you are, indeed, Colonel William Banion'--that was what he said." He broke off, choking. "Ah, Molly, at last and indeed I am again William Banion!" He took from the otter skin--which Chardon once had placed over the oilskin used by Carson to protect it--the long and formal envelope of heavy linen. His finger pointed--"On the Service of the United States." "Why, Will!" He caught the envelope swiftly to his lips, holding it there an instant before he could speak. "My pardon! From the President! Not guilty--oh, not guilty! And I never was!" "Oh, Will, Will! That makes you happy?" "Doesn't it you?" "Why, yes, yes! But I knew that always! And I know now that I'd have followed you to the gallows if that had had to be." "Though I were a thief?" "Yes! But I'd not believe it! I didn't! I never did! I could not!" "You'd take my word against all the world--just my word, if I told you it wasn't true? You'd want no proof at all? Will you always believe in me in that way? No proof?" "I want none now. You do tell me that? No, no! I'm afraid you'd give me proofs! I want none! I want to love you for what you are, for what we both are, Will! I'm afraid!" He put his hands on her shoulders, held her away arms' length, looked straight into her eyes. "Dear girl," said he, "you need never be afraid any more." She put her head down contentedly against his shoulder, her face nestling sidewise, her eyes closed, her arms again quite around his neck. "I don't care, Will," said she. "No, no, don't talk of things!" He did not talk. In the sweetness of the silence he kissed her tenderly again and again. And now the sun might sink. The light of the whole world by no means died with it. THE END 
14362	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 14362-h.htm or 14362-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/3/6/14362/14362-h/14362-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/3/6/14362/14362-h.zip) THE WAY OF A MAN by EMERSON HOUGH Author of _The Covered Wagon_, etc. Illustrated with Scenes from the Photoplay, _The Way of A Man_, A Pathé Picture Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York 1907 [Illustration: GRACE SHOWS A LACK OF SYMPATHY.] CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE KISSING OF MISS GRACE SHERATON II THE MEETING OF GORDON ORME III THE ART OF THE ORIENT IV WARS AND RUMORS OF WAR V THE MADNESS OF MUCH KISSING VI A SAD LOVER VII WHAT COMETH IN THE NIGHT VIII BEGINNING ADVENTURES IN NEW LANDS IX THE GIRL WITH THE HEART X THE SUPREME COURT XI THE MORNING AFTER XII THE WRECK ON THE RIVER XIII THE FACE IN THE FIRELIGHT XIV AU LARGE XV HER INFINITE VARIETY XVI BUFFALO XVII SIOUX! XVIII THE TEST XIX THE QUALITY OF MERCY XX GORDON ORME, MAGICIAN XXI TWO IN THE DESERT XXII MANDY MCGOVERN ON MARRIAGE XXIII ISSUE JOINED XXIV FORSAKING ALL OTHERS XXV CLEAVING ONLY UNTO HER XXVI IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH XXVII WITH ALL MY WORLDLY GOODS I THEE ENDOW XXVIII TILL DEATH DO PART XXIX THE GARDEN XXX THEY TWAIN XXXI THE BETROTHAL XXXII THE COVENANT XXXIII THE FLAMING SWORD XXXIV THE LOSS OF PARADISE XXXV THE YOKE XXXVI THE GOAD XXXVII THE FURROW XXXVIII HEARTS HYPOTHECATED XXXIX THE UNCOVERING OF GORDON ORME XL A CONFUSION IN COVENANTS XLI ELLEN OR GRACE XLII FACE TO FACE XLIII THE RECKONING XLIV THIS INDENTURE WITNESSETH XLV ELLEN CHAPTER I THE KISSING OF MISS GRACE SHERATON I admit I kissed her. Perhaps I should not have done so. Perhaps I would not do so again. Had I known what was to come I could not have done so. Nevertheless I did. After all, it was not strange. All things about us conspired to be accessory and incendiary. The air of the Virginia morning was so soft and warm, the honeysuckles along the wall were so languid sweet, the bees and the hollyhocks up to the walk so fat and lazy, the smell of the orchard was so rich, the south wind from the fields was so wanton! Moreover, I was only twenty-six. As it chances, I was this sort of a man: thick in the arm and neck, deep through, just short of six feet tall, and wide as a door, my mother said; strong as one man out of a thousand, my father said. And then--the girl was there. So this was how it happened that I threw the reins of Satan, my black horse, over the hooked iron of the gate at Dixiana Farm and strode up to the side of the stone pillar where Grace Sheraton stood, shading her eyes with her hand, watching me approach through the deep trough road that flattened there, near the Sheraton lane. So I laughed and strode up--and kept my promise. I had promised myself that I would kiss her the first time that seemed feasible. I had even promised her--when she came home from Philadelphia so lofty and superior for her stopping a brace of years with Miss Carey at her Allendale Academy for Young Ladies--that if she mitigated not something of her haughtiness, I would kiss her fair, as if she were but a girl of the country. Of these latter I may guiltily confess, though with no names, I had known many who rebelled little more than formally. She stood in the shade of the stone pillar, where the ivy made a deep green, and held back her light blue skirt daintily, in her high-bred way; for never was a girl Sheraton who was not high-bred or other than fair to look upon in the Sheraton way--slender, rather tall, long cheeked, with very much dark hair and a deep color under the skin, and something of long curves withal. They were ladies, every one, these Sheraton girls; and as Miss Grace presently advised me, no milkmaids wandering and waiting in lanes for lovers. When I sprang down from Satan Miss Grace was but a pace or so away. I put out a hand on either side of her as she stood in the shade, and so prisoned her against the pillar. She flushed at this, and caught at my arm with both hands, which made me smile, for few men in that country could have put away my arms from the stone until I liked. Then I bent and kissed her fair, and took what revenge was due our girls for her Philadelphia manners. When she boxed my ears I kissed her once more. Had she not at that smiled at me a little, I should have been a boor, I admit. As she did--and as I in my innocence supposed all girls did--I presume I may be called but a man as men go. Miss Grace grew very rosy for a Sheraton, but her eyes were bright. So I threw my hat on the grass by the side of the gate and bowed her to be seated. We sat and looked up the lane which wound on to the big Sheraton house, and up the red road which led from their farm over toward our lands, the John Cowles farm, which had been three generations in our family as against four on the part of the Sheratons' holdings; a fact which I think always ranked us in the Sheraton soul a trifle lower than themselves. We were neighbors, Miss Grace and I, and as I lazily looked out over the red road unoccupied at the time by even the wobbling wheel of some negro's cart, I said to her some word of our being neighbors, and of its being no sin for neighbors to exchange the courtesy of a greeting when they met upon such a morning. This seemed not to please her; indeed I opine that the best way of a man with a maid is to make no manner of speech whatever before or after any such incident as this. "I was just wandering down the lane," she said, "to see if Jerry had found my horse, Fanny." "Old Jerry's a mile back up the road," said I, "fast asleep under the hedge." "The black rascal!" "He is my friend," said I, smiling. "You do indeed take me for some common person," said she; "as though I had been looking for--" "No, I take you only for the sweetest Sheraton that ever came to meet a Cowles from the farm yonder." Which was coming rather close home, for our families, though neighbors, had once had trouble over some such meeting as this two generations back; though of that I do not now speak. "Cannot a girl walk down her own carriage road of a morning, after hollyhocks for the windows, without--" "She cannot!" I answered. I would have put out an arm for further mistreatment, but all at once I pulled up. What was I coming to, I, John Cowles, this morning when the bees droned fat and the flowers made fragrant all the air? I was no boy, but a man grown; and ruthless as I was, I had all the breeding the land could give me, full Virginia training as to what a gentleman should be. And a gentleman, unless he may travel all a road, does not set foot too far into it when he sees that he is taken at what seems his wish. So now I said how glad I was that she had come back from school, though a fine lady now, and no doubt forgetful of her friends, of myself, who once caught young rabbits and birds for her, and made pens for the little pink pigs at the orchard edge, and all of that. But she had no mind, it seemed to me, to talk of these old days; and though now some sort of wall seemed to me to arise between us as we sat there on the bank blowing at dandelions and pulling loose grass blades, and humming a bit of tune now and then as young persons will, still, thickheaded as I was, it was in some way made apparent to me that I was quite as willing the wall should be there as she herself was willing. My mother had mentioned Miss Grace Sheraton to me before. My father had never opposed my riding over now and then to the Sheraton gates. There were no better families in our county than these two. There was no reason why I should feel troubled. Yet as I looked out into the haze of the hilltops where the red road appeared to leap off sheer to meet the distant rim of the Blue Ridge, I seemed to hear some whispered warning. I was young, and wild as any deer in those hills beyond. Had it been any enterprise scorning settled ways; had it been merely a breaking of orders and a following of my own will, I suppose I might have gone on. But there are ever two things which govern an adventure for one of my sex. He may be a man; but he must also be a gentleman. I suppose books might be written about the war between those two things. He may be a gentleman sometimes and have credit for being a soft-headed fool, with no daring to approach the very woman who has contempt for him; whereas she may not know his reasons for restraint. So much for civilization, which at times I hated because it brought such problems. Yet these problems never cease, at least while youth lasts, and no community is free from them, even so quiet a one as ours there in the valley of the old Blue Ridge, before the wars had rolled across it and made all the young people old. I was of no mind to end my wildness and my roaming just yet; and still, seeing that I was, by gentleness of my Quaker mother and by sternness of my Virginia father, set in the class of gentlemen, I had no wish dishonorably to engage a woman's heart. Alas, I was not the first to learn that kissing is a most difficult art to practice! When one reflects, the matter seems most intricate. Life to the young is barren without kissing; yet a kiss with too much warmth may mean overmuch, whereas a kiss with no warmth to it is not worth the pains. The kiss which comes precisely at the moment when it should, in quite sufficient warmth and yet not of complicating fervor, working no harm and but joy to both involved--those kisses, now that one pauses to think it over, are relatively few. As for me, I thought it was time for me to be going. CHAPTER II THE MEETING OF GORDON ORME I had enough to do when it came to mounting my horse Satan. Few cared to ride Satan, since it meant a battle each time he was mounted. He was a splendid brute, black and clean, with abundant bone in the head and a brilliant eye--blood all over, that was easy to see. Yet he was a murderer at heart. I have known him to bite the backbone out of a yearling pig that came under his manger, and no other horse on our farm would stand before him a moment when he came on, mouth open and ears laid back. He would fight man, dog, or devil, and fear was not in him, nor any real submission. He was no harder to sit than many horses I have ridden. I have seen Arabians and Barbary horses and English hunters that would buck-jump now and then. Satan contented himself with rearing high and whirling sharply, and lunging with a low head; so that to ride him was a matter of strength as well as skill. The greatest danger was in coming near his mouth or heels. My father always told me that this horse was not fit to ride; but since my father rode him--as he would any horse that offered--nothing would serve me but I must ride Satan also, and so I made him my private saddler on occasion. I ought to speak of my father, that very brave and kindly gentleman from whom I got what daring I ever had, I suppose. He was a clean-cut man, five-eleven in his stockings, and few men in all that country had a handsomer body. His shoulders sloped--an excellent configuration for strength--as a study of no less a man than George Washington will prove--his arms were round, his skin white as milk, his hair, like my own, a sandy red, and his eyes blue and very quiet. There was a balance in his nature that I have ever lacked. I rejoice even now in his love of justice. Fair play meant with him something more than fair play for the sake of sport--it meant as well fair play for the sake of justice. Temperate to the point of caring always for his body's welfare, as regular in his habits as he was in his promises and their fulfillments, kindling readily enough at any risk, though never boasting--I always admired him, and trust I may be pardoned for saying so. I fear that at the time I mention now I admired him most for his strength and courage. Thus as I swung leg over Satan that morning I resolved to handle him as I had seen my father do, and I felt strong enough for that. I remembered, in the proud way a boy will have, the time when my father and I, riding through the muddy streets of Leesburg town together, saw a farmer's wagon stuck midway of a crossing. "Come, Jack," my father called me, "we must send Bill Yarnley home to his family." Then we two dismounted, and stooping in the mud got our two shoulders under the axle of the wagon, before we were done with it, our blood getting up at the laughter of the townsfolk. When we heaved together, out came Bill Yarnley's wagon from the mud, and the laughter ended. It was like him--he would not stop when once he started. Why, it was so he married my mother, that very sweet Quakeress from the foot of old Catoctin. He told me she said him no many times, not liking his wild ways, so contrary to the manner of the Society of Friends; and she only consented after binding him to go with her once each week to the little stone church at Wallingford village, near our farm, provided he should be at home and able to attend. My mother I think during her life had not missed a half dozen meetings at the little stone church. Twice a week, and once each Sunday, and once each month, and four times each year, and also annually, the Society of Friends met there at Wallingford, and have done so for over one hundred and thirty-five years. Thither went my mother, quiet, brown-haired, gentle, as good a soul as ever lived, and with her my father, tall, strong as a tree, keeping his promise until at length by sheer force of this kept promise, he himself became half Quaker and all gentle, since he saw what it meant to her. As I have paused in my horsemanship to speak thus of my father, I ought also to speak of my mother. It was she who in those troublous times just before the Civil War was the first to raise the voice in the Quaker Meeting which said that the Friends ought to free their slaves, law or no law; and so started what was called later the Unionist sentiment in that part of old Virginia. It was my mother did that. Then she asked my father to manumit all his slaves; and he thought for an hour, and then raised his head and said it should be done; after which the servants lived on as before, and gave less in return, at which my father made wry faces, but said nothing in regret. After us others also set free their people, and presently this part of Virginia was a sort of Mecca for escaped blacks. It was my mother did that; and I believe that it was her influence which had much to do with the position of East Virginia on the question of the war. And this also in time had much to do with this strange story of mine, and much to do with the presence thereabout of the man whom I was to meet that very morning; although when I started to mount my horse Satan I did not know that such a man as Gordon Orme existed in the world. When I approached Satan he lunged at me, but I caught him by the cheek strap of the bridle and swung his head close up, feeling for the saddle front as he reached for me with open mouth. Then as he reared I swung up with him into place, and so felt safe, for once I clamped a horse fair there was an end of his throwing me. I laughed when Miss Grace Sheraton called out in alarm, and so wheeled Satan around a few times and rode on down the road, past the fields where the blacks were busy as blacks ever are, and so on to our own red pillared-gates. Then, since the morning was still young, and since the air seemed to me like wine, and since I wanted something to subdue and Satan offered, I spurred him back from the gate and rode him hard down toward Wallingford. Of course he picked up a stone en route. Two of us held his head while Billings the blacksmith fished out the stone and tapped the shoe nails tight. After that I had time to look around. As I did so I saw approaching a gentleman who was looking with interest at my mount. He was one of the most striking men I have ever seen, a stranger as I could see, for I knew each family on both sides the Blue Ridge as far up the valley as White Sulphur. "A grand animal you have there, sir," said he, accosting Me. "I did not know his like existed in this country." "As well in this as in any country," said I tartly. He smiled at this. "You know his breeding?" "Klingwalla out of Bonnie Waters." "No wonder he's vicious," said the stranger, calmly. "Ah, you know something of the English strains," said I. He shrugged his shoulders. "As much as that," he commented indifferently. There was something about him I did not fancy, a sort of condescension, as though he were better than those about him. They say that we Virginians have a way of reserving that right to ourselves; and I suppose that a family of clean strain may perhaps become proud after generations of independence and comfort and freedom from care. None the less I was forced to admit this newcomer to the class of gentlemen. He stood as a gentleman, with no resting or bracing with an arm, or crossing of legs or hitching about, but balanced on his legs easily--like a fencer or boxer or fighting man, or gentleman, in short. His face, as I now perceived, was long and thin, his chin square, although somewhat narrow. His mouth, too, was narrow, and his teeth were narrow, one of the upper teeth at each side like the tooth of a carnivore, longer than its fellows. His hair was thick and close cut to his head, dark, and if the least bit gray about the edges, requiring close scrutiny to prove it so. In color his skin was dark, sunburned beyond tan, almost to parchment dryness. His eyes were gray, the most remarkable eyes that I have ever seen--calm, emotionless, direct, the most fearless eyes I have ever seen in mortal head, and I have looked into many men's eyes in my time. He was taller than most men, I think above the six feet line. His figure was thin, his limbs thin, his hands and feet slender. He did not look one-tenth his strength. He was simply dressed, dressed indeed as a gentleman. He stood as one, spoke as one, and assumed that all the world accepted him as one. His voice was warmer in accent than even our Virginia speech. I saw him to be an Englishman. "He is a bit nasty, that one"; he nodded his head toward Satan. I grinned. "I know of only two men in Fairfax County I'd back to ride him." "Yourself and--" "My father." "By Jove! How old is your father, my good fellow?" "Sixty, my good fellow," I replied. He laughed. "Well," said he, "there's a third in Fairfax can ride him." "Meaning yourself?" He nodded carelessly. I did not share his confidence. "He's not a saddler in any sense," said I. "We keep him for the farms." "Oh, I say, my friend," he rejoined--"my name's Orme, Gordon Orme--I'm just stopping here at the inn for a time, and I'm deucedly bored. I've not had leg over a decent mount since I've been here, and if I might ride this beggar, I'd be awfully obliged." My jaw may have dropped at his words; I am not sure. It was not that he called our little tavern an "inn." It was the name he gave me which caused me to start. "Orme," said I, "Mr. Gordon Orme? That was the name of the speaker the other evening here at the church of the Methodists." He nodded, smiling. "Don't let that trouble you," said he. None the less it did trouble me; for the truth was that word had gone about to the effect that a new minister from some place not stated had spoken from the pulpit on that evening upon no less a topic than the ever present one of Southern slavery. Now, I could not clear it to my mind how a minister of the gospel might take so keen and swift an interest in a stranger in the street, and that stranger's horse. I expressed to him something of my surprise. "It's of no importance," said he again. "What seems to me of most importance just at present is that here's a son of old Klingwalla, and that I want to ride him." "Just for the sake of saying you have done so?" I inquired. His face changed swiftly as he answered: "We owned Klingwalla ourselves back home. He broke a leg for my father, and was near killing him." "Sir," I said to him, catching his thought quickly, "we could not afford to have the horse injured, but if you wish to ride him fair or be beaten by him fair, you are welcome to the chance." His eye kindled at this. "You're a sportsman, sir," he exclaimed, and he advanced at once toward Satan. I saw in him something which awakened a responsive chord in my nature. He was a man to take a risk and welcome it for the risk's sake. Moreover, he was a horseman; as I saw by his quick glance over Satan's furniture. He caught the cheek strap of the bridle, and motioned us away as we would have helped him at the horse's head. Then ensued as pretty a fight between man and horse as one could ask to see. The black brute reared and fairly took him from the ground, fairly chased him about the street, as a great dog would a rat. But never did the iron hold on the bridle loosen, and the man was light on his feet as a boy. Finally he had his chance, and with the lightest spring I ever saw at a saddle skirt, up he went and nailed old Satan fair, with a grip which ridged his legs out. I saw then that he was a rider. His head was bare, his hat having fallen off; his hair was tumbled, but his color scarcely heightened. As the horse lunged and bolted about the street, Orme sat him in perfect confidence. He kept his hands low, his knees a little more up and forward than we use in our style of riding, and his weight a trifle further back; but I saw from the lines of his limbs that he had the horse in a steel grip. He gazed down contemplatively, with a half serious look, master of himself and of the horse as well. Then presently he turned him up the road and went off at a gallop, with the brute under perfect control. I do not know what art he used; all I can say is that in a half hour he brought Satan back in a canter. This was my first acquaintance with Gordon Orme, that strange personality with whom I was later to have much to do. This was my first witnessing of that half uncanny power by which he seemed to win all things to his purposes. I admired him, yet did not like him, when he swung carelessly down and handed me the reins. "He's a grand one," he said easily, "but not so difficult to ride as old Klingwalla. Not that I would discount your own skill in riding him, sir, for I doubt not you have taken a lot out of him before now." At least this was generous, and as I later learned, it was like him to give full credit to the performance of any able adversary. CHAPTER III THE ART OF THE ORIENT "Come," said Orme to me, "let us go into the shade, for I find your Virginia morning warm." We stepped over to the gallery of the little tavern, where the shade was deep and the chairs were wide and the honeysuckles sweet. I threw myself rather discontentedly into a chair. Orme seated himself quietly in another, his slender legs crossed easily, his hands meeting above his elbows supported on the chair rails, as he gazed somewhat meditatively at his finger tips. "So you did not hear my little effort the other night?" he remarked, smiling. "I was not so fortunate as to hear you speak. But I will only say I will back you against any minister of the gospel I ever knew when it comes to riding horses." "Oh, well," he deprecated, "I'm just passing through on my way to Albemarle County across the mountains. You couldn't blame me for wanting something to do--speaking or riding, or what not. One must be occupied, you know. But shall we not have them bring us one of these juleps of the country? I find them most agreeable, I declare." I did not criticise his conduct as a wearer of the cloth, but declined his hospitality on the ground that it was early in the day for me. He urged me so little and was so much the gentleman that I explained. "Awhile ago," I said, "my father came to me and said, 'I see, Jack, that thee is trying to do three things--to farm, hunt foxes, and drink juleps. Does thee think thee can handle all three of these activities in combination?' You see, my mother is a Quakeress, and when my father wished to reprove me he uses the plain speech. Well, sir, I thought it over, and for the most part I dropped the other two, and took up more farming." "Your father is Mr. John Cowles, of Cowles' Farms?" "The same." "No doubt your family know every one in this part of the country?" "Oh, yes, very well." "These are troublous times," he ventured, after a time. "I mean in regard to this talk of secession of the Southern States." I was studying this man. What was he doing here in our quiet country community? What was his errand? What business had a julep-drinking, horse-riding parson speaking in a Virginia pulpit where only the gospel was known, and that from exponents worth the name? "You are from Washington?" I said at length. He nodded. "The country is going into deep water one way or the other," said I. "Virginia is going to divide on slavery. It is not for me, nor for any of us, to hasten that time. Trouble will come fast enough without our help." "I infer you did not wholly approve of my little effort the other evening. I was simply looking at the matter from a logical standpoint. It is perfectly clear that the old world must have cotton, that the Southern States must supply that cotton, and that slavery alone makes cotton possible for the world. It is a question of geography rather than of politics; yet your Northern men make it a question of politics. Your Congress is full of rotten tariff legislation, which will make a few of your Northern men rich--and which will bring on this war quite as much as anything the South may do. Moreover, this tariff disgusts England, very naturally. Where will England side when the break comes? And what will be the result when the South, plus England, fights these tariff makers over here? I have no doubt that you, sir, know the complexion of all these neighborhood families in these matters. I should be most happy if you could find it possible for me to meet your father and his neighbors, for in truth I am interested in these matters, merely as a student. And I have heard much of the kindness of this country toward strangers." It was not our way in Virginia to allow persons of any breeding to put up at public taverns. We took them to our homes. I have seen a hundred horses around my father's barns during the Quarterly Meetings of the Society of Friends. Perhaps we did not scrutinize all our guests over-closely, but that was the way of the place. I had no hesitation in saying to Mr. Orme that we should be glad to entertain him at Cowles' Farms. He was just beginning to thank me for this when we were suddenly interrupted. We were sitting some paces from the room where landlord Sanderson kept his bar, so that we heard only occasionally the sound of loud talk which came through the windows. But now came footsteps and confused words in voices, one of which I seemed to know. There staggered through the door a friend of mine, Harry Singleton, a young planter of our neighborhood, who had not taken my father's advice, but continued to divide his favor between farming, hunting and drinking. He stood there leaning against the wall, his face more flushed than one likes to see a friend's face before midday. "Hullo, ol' fel," he croaked at me. "Hurrah for C'fedrate States of America!" "Very well," I said to him, "suppose we do hurrah for the Confederate States of America. But let us wait until there is such a thing." He glowered at me. "Also," he said, solemnly, "Hurrah for Miss Grace Sheraton, the pretties' girl in whole C'federate States America!" "Harry," I cried, "stop! You're drunk, man. Come on, I'll take you home." He waved at me an uncertain hand. "Go 'way, slight man!" he muttered. "Grace Sheraton pretties' girl in whole C'federate States America." According to our creed it was not permissible for a gentleman, drunk or sober, to mention a lady's name in a place like that. I rose and put my hand across Harry's mouth, unwilling that a stranger should hear a girl's name mentioned in the place. No doubt I should have done quite as much for any girl of our country whose name came up in that way. But to my surprise Harry Singleton was just sufficiently intoxicated to resent the act of his best friend. With no word of warning he drew back his hand and struck me in the face with all his force, the blow making a smart crack which brought all the others running from within. Still, I reflected, that this was not the act of Harry Singleton, but only that of a drunken man who to-morrow would not remember what had been done. "That will be quite enough, Harry," said I. "Come, now, I'll take you home. Sanderson, go get his horse or wagon, or whatever brought him here." "Not home!" cried Harry. "First inflict punishment on you for denyin' Miss Gracie Sheraton pretties' girl whole C'fedrate States America. Girls like John Cowles too much! Must mash John Cowles! Must mash John Cowles sake of Gracie Sheraton, pretties' girl in whole wide worl'!" He came toward me as best he might, his hands clenched. I caught him by the wrist, and as he stumbled past, I turned and had his arm over my shoulder. I admit I threw him rather cruelly hard, for I thought he needed it. He was entirely quiet when we carried him into the room and placed him on the leather lounge. "By Jove!" I heard a voice at my elbow. "That was handsomely done--handsomely done all around." I turned to meet the outstretched hand of my new friend, Gordon Orme. "Where did you learn the trick?" he asked. "The trick of being a gentleman," I answered him slowly, my face red with anger at Singleton's foolishness, "I never learned at all. But to toss a poor drunken fool like that over one's head any boy might learn at school." "No," said my quasi-minister of the gospel, emphatically, "I differ with you. Your time was perfect. You made him do the work, not yourself. Tell me, are you a skilled wrestler?" I was nettled now at all these things which were coming to puzzle and perturb an honest fellow out for a morning ride. "Yes," I answered him, "since you are anxious to know, I'll say I can throw any man in Fairfax except one." "And he?" "My father. He's sixty, as I told you, but he can always beat me." "There are two in Fairfax you cannot throw," said Orme, smiling. My blood was up just enough to resent this challenge. There came to me what old Dr. Hallowell at Alexandria calls the "_gaudium certaminis_." In a moment I was little more than a full-blooded fighting animal, and had forgotten all the influences of my Quaker home. "Sir," I said to him hotly, "I propose taking you home with me. But before I do that, and since you seem to wish it, I am going to lay you on your back here in the road. Frankly, there are some things about you I do not like, and if that will remedy your conceit, I'm going to do it for you--for any sort of wager you like." "Money against your horse?" he inquired, stripping to his ruffled shirt as he spoke. "A hundred guineas, five hundred?" "Yes, for the horse," I said. "He's worth ten thousand. But if you've two or three hundred to pay for my soiling the shoulders of your shirt, I'm willing to let the odds stand so." He smiled at me simply--I swear almost winningly, such was the quality of the man. "I like you," he said simply. "If all the men of this country resembled you, all the world could not beat it." I was stripped by this time myself, and so, without pausing to consider the propriety on either side of our meeting in this sudden encounter in a public street, we went at it as though we had made a rendezvous there for that express purpose, with no more hesitation and no more fitness than two game cocks which might fall fighting in a church in case they met there. Orme came to me with no hurry and no anxiety, light on his feet as a skilled fencer. As he passed he struck for my shoulder, and his grip, although it did not hold, was like the cutting of a hawk's talons. He branded me red with his fingers wherever he touched me, although the stroke of his hand was half tentative rather than aggressive. I went to him with head low, and he caught me at the back of the neck with a stroke like that of a smiting bar; but I flung him off, and so we stepped about, hands extended, waiting for a hold. He grew eager, and allowed me to catch him by the wrist. I drew him toward me, but he braced with his free arm bent against my throat, and the more I pulled, the more I choked. Then by sheer strength I drew his arm over my shoulder as I had that of Harry Singleton. He glided into this as though it had been his own purpose, and true as I speak I think he aided me in throwing him over my head, for he went light as a feather, and fell on his feet when I freed him. I was puzzled not a little, for the like of this I had not seen in all my meetings with good men. As we stepped about cautiously, seeking to engage again, his eye was fixed on mine curiously, half contemplatively, but utterly without concern or fear of any kind. I never saw an eye like his. It gave me not fear, but horror! The more I encountered him, the more uncanny he appeared. The lock of the arm at the back of the neck, those holds known as the Nelson and the half-Nelson, and the ancient "hip lock," and the ineffectual schoolboy "grapevine"--he would none of things so crude, and slipped out of them like a snake. Continually I felt his hands, and where he touched there was pain--on my forehead, at the edge of the eye sockets, at the sides of my neck, in the middle of my back--whenever we locked and broke I felt pain, and I knew that such assault upon the nerve centers of a man's body might well disable him, no matter how strong he was. But, as for him, he did not breathe the faster. It was system with him. I say, I felt not fear only but a horror of him. By chance I found myself with both hands on his arms, and I knew that no man could break that hold when once set, for vast strength of forearm and wrist was one of the inheritances of all men of the Cowles family. I drew him steadily to me, pulled his head against my chest, and upended him fair, throwing him this time at length across my shoulder. I was sure I had him then, for he fell on his side. But even as he fell he rose, and I felt a grip like steel on each ankle. Then there was a snake-like bend on his part, and before I had time to think I was on my face. His knees were astride my body, and gradually I felt them pushing my arms up toward my neck. I felt a slight blow on the back of my head, as though by the edge of the hand--light, delicate, gentle, but dreamy in its results. Then I was half conscious of a hand pushing down my head, of another hand reaching for my right wrist. It occurred to me in a distant way that I was about to be beaten, subdued--I, John Cowles! This had been done, as he had said of my own work with Singleton, as much by the momentum of my own fall as by any great effort on his part. As he had said regarding my own simple trick, the time of this was perfect, though how far more difficult than mine, only those who have wrestled with able men can understand. For the first time in my life I found myself about to be mastered by another man. Had he been more careful he certainly would have had the victory over me. But the morning was warm, and we had worked for some moments. My man stopped for a moment in his calm pinioning of my arms, and perhaps raised his hand to brush his face or push back his hair. At that moment luck came to my aid. He did not repeat the strange gentle blow at the back of my head--one which I think would have left unconscious a man with a neck less stiff--and as his pressure on my twisted arm relaxed, I suddenly got back my faculties. At once I used my whole body as a spring, and so straightened enough to turn and put my arm power against his own, which was all I wanted. He laughed when I turned, and with perfect good nature freed my arm and sprang to his feet, bowing with hand upreached to me. His eye had lost its peculiar stare, and shone now with what seemed genuine interest and admiration. He seemed ready to call me a sportsman, and a good rival, and much as I disliked to do so, I was obliged to say as much for him in my own heart. "By the Lord! sir," he said--with a certain looseness of speech, as it seemed to me, for a minister of the gospel to employ, "you're the first I ever knew to break it." "'Twas no credit to me," I owned. "You let go your hand. The horse is yours." "Not in the least," he responded, "not in the least. If I felt I had won him I'd take him, and not leave you feeling as though you had been given a present. But if you like I'll draw my own little wager as well. You're the best man I ever met in any country. By the Lord! man, you broke the hold that I once saw an ex-guardsman killed at Singapore for resisting--broke his arm short off, and he died on the table. I've seen it at Tokio and Nagasaki--why, man, it's the yellow policeman's hold, the secret trick of the Orient. Done in proper time, and the little gentleman is the match of any size, yellow or white." I did not understand him then, but later I knew that I had for my first time seen the Oriental art of wrestling put in practice. I do not want to meet a master in it again. I shook Orme by the hand. "If you like to call it a draw," said I, "it would suit me mighty well. You're the best man I ever took off coat to in my life. And I'll never wrestle you again unless"--I fear I blushed a little--"well, unless you want it." "Game! Game!" he cried, laughing, and dusting off his knees. "I swear you Virginians are fellows after my own heart. But come, I think your friend wants you now." We turned toward the room where poor Harry was mumbling to himself, and presently I loaded him into the wagon and told the negro man to drive him home. For myself, I mounted Satan and rode off up the street of Wallingford toward Cowles' Farms with my head dropped in thought; for certainly, when I came to review the incidents of the morning, I had had enough to give me reason for reflection. CHAPTER IV WARS AND RUMORS OF WAR We sent our carriage down to Wallingford that evening and had my new friend, Mr. Orme, out to Cowles' Farms for that night. He was a stranger in the land, and that was enough. I often think to-day how ready we were to welcome any who came, and how easily we might have been deceived as to the nature of such chance guests. Yet Orme so finely conducted himself that none might criticise him, and indeed both my father and mother appeared fairly to form a liking for him. This was the more surprising on the part of both, since they were fully advised of the nature of his recent speech, or sermon, or what you choose to call it, at the Methodist church, the sentiments of which scarce jumped with their own. Both my parents accepted Orme for what he purported to be, a minister of the gospel; and any singularity of his conduct which they may have noticed they ascribed to his education in communities different from our own quiet one. I remember no acrimonious speech during his visit with us, although the doctrine which he had pronounced and which now and again, in one form or another, he renewed, was not in accord with ours. I recall very well the discussions they had, and remember how formally my mother would begin her little arguments: "Friend, I am moved to say to thee"; and then she would go on to tell him gently that all men should be brothers, and that there should be peace on earth, and that no man should oppress his brother in any way, and that slavery ought not to exist. "What! madam," Orme would exclaim, "this manner of thought in a Southern family!" And so he in turn would go on repeating his old argument of geography, and saying how England must side with the South, and how the South must soon break with the North. "This man Lincoln, if elected," said he, "will confiscate every slave in the Southern States. He will cripple and ruin the South, mark my words. He will cost the South millions that never will be repaid. I cannot see how any Virginian can fail to stand with all his Southern brothers, front to front against the North on these vital questions." "I do not think the South would fight the North over slavery alone. The South loves the flag, because she helped create it as much or more than the North. She will not bear treason to the flag." Thus my father. "It would be no treason," affirmed Orme, "but duty, if that flag became the flag of oppression. The Anglo-Saxon has from King John down refused to be governed unjustly and oppressively." And so they went on, hour after hour, not bitterly, but hotly, as was the fashion all over the land at that time. My father remained a Whig, which put him in line, sometimes, with the Northern men then coming into prominence, such as Morrill of New England, and young Sherman from across the mountains, who believed in the tariff in spite of what England might say to us. This set him against the Jefferson clans of our state, who feared not a war with the North so much as one with Europe. Already England was pronouncing her course; yet those were not days of triumphant conclusions, but of doubtful weighing and hard judgment, as we in old Virginia could have told you, who saw neighbors set against each other, and even families divided among themselves. For six years the war talk had been growing stronger. Those of the South recoiled from the word treason--it had a hateful sound to them--nor have they to this day justified its application to themselves. I myself believe to-day that that war was much one of geography and of lack of transportation. Not all the common folk of the North or of the South then knew that it was never so much a war of principle, as they were taught to think, but rather a war of self-interest between two clashing commercial parties. We did not know that the unscrupulous kings of the cotton world, here and abroad, were making deliberate propaganda of secession all over the South; that secession was not a thing voluntary and spontaneous, but an idea nourished to wrong growth by a secret and shrewd commercial campaign, whose nature and extent few dreamed, either then or afterward. It was not these rich and arrogant planters of the South, even, men like our kin in the Carolinas, men like those of the Sheraton family, who were the pillars of the Confederacy, or rather, of the secession idea. Back of them, enshrouded forever in darkness--then in mystery, and now in oblivion which cannot be broken--were certain great figures of the commercial world in this land and in other lands. These made a victim of our country at that time, even as a few great commercial figures seek to do to-day, and we, poor innocent fools, flew at each other's throats, and fought, and slew, and laid waste a land, for no real principle and to no gain to ourselves. Nothing is so easy to deceive, to hoodwink, to blind and betray, as a great and innocent people that in its heart loves justice and fair play. I fear, however, that while much of this talk was going on upon the galleries at Cowles' Farms, I myself was busier with the training of my pointer than I was with matters of politics. I was not displeased when my mother came to me presently that afternoon and suggested that we should all make a visit to Dixiana Farm, to call upon our neighbors, the Sheratons. "Mr. Orme says he would like to meet Colonel Sheraton," she explained, "and thee knows that we have not been to see our neighbors for some time now. I thought that perhaps Colonel Sheraton might be moved to listen to me as well as to Mr. Orme, if I should speak of peace--not in argument, as thee knows, but as his neighbor." She looked at me a moment, her hand dusting at my coat. "Thee knows the Sheratons and the Cowles have sometimes been friends and sometimes enemies--I would rather we were friends. And, Jack, Miss Grace is quite thy equal--it any may be the equal of my boy. And some day thee must be thinking, thee knows--" "I was already thinking, mother," said I gravely; and so, indeed, I was, though perhaps not quite as she imagined. At least that is how we happened to ride to the Sheratons that afternoon, in our greater carriage, my father and Mr. Orme by the side of my mother, and I alongside on horseback. In some way the visit seemed to have a formal nature. Colonel Sheraton met us at his lawn, and as the day was somewhat warm, asked us to be seated in the chairs beneath the oaks. Here Miss Grace joined us presently, and Orme was presented to her, as well as to Mrs. Sheraton, tall, dark, and lace-draped, who also joined us in response to Colonel Sheraton's request. I could not fail to notice the quick glance with which Orme took in the face and figure of Grace Sheraton; and, indeed he had been a critical man who would not have called her fair to look upon. The elder members of the party fell to conversing in their rocking-chairs there on the lawn, and I was selfish enough to withdraw Miss Grace to the gallery steps, where we sat for a time, laughing and talking, while I pulled the ears of their hunting dog, and rolled under foot a puppy or two, which were my friends. I say, none could have failed to call Grace Sheraton fair. It pleased me better to sit there on the gallery steps and talk with her than to listen once more to the arguments over slavery and secession. I could hear Colonel Sheraton's deep voice every now and then emphatically coinciding with some statement made by Orme. I could see the clean-cut features of the latter, and his gestures, strongly but not flamboyantly made. As for us two, the language that goes without speech between a young man and a maid passed between us. I rejoiced to mock at her, always, and did so now, declaring again my purpose to treat her simply as my neighbor and not as a young lady finished at the best schools of Philadelphia. But presently in some way, I scarce can say by whose first motion, we arose and strolled together around the corner of the house and out into the orchard. CHAPTER V THE MADNESS OF MUCH KISSING "That was a very noble thing of you," Miss Grace Sheraton was saying to me, as we passed slowly among the big trees of the Sheraton apple orchard. Her eyes were rather soft and a slight color lay upon her cheeks, whose ivory hue was rarely heightened in this way. "I am in ignorance, Miss Grace," I said to her. "Fie! You know very well what I mean--about yesterday." "Oh, that," said I, and went rather red of the face, for I thought she meant my salutation at the gate. She, redder now than myself, needed no explanation as to what I meant. "No, not that," she began hastily, "that was not noble, but vile of you! I mean at the tavern, where you took my part--" So then I saw that word in some way had come to her of the little brawl between Harry Singleton and myself. Then indeed my face grew scarlet. "It was nothing," said I, "simply nothing at all." But to this she would not listen. "To protect an absent woman is always manly," she said. (It was the women of the South who set us all foolish about chivalry.) "I thank you for caring for my name." Now, I should have grown warmer in the face and in the heart at this, but the very truth is that I felt a chill come over me, as though I were getting deeper into cold water. I guessed her mind. Now, how was I, who had kissed her at the lane, who had defended her when absent, who called now in state with his father and mother in the family carriage--how was I to say I was not of the same mind as she? I pulled the ears of the hunting dog until he yelped in pain. We were deep in the great Sheraton orchard, across the fence which divided it from the house grounds, so far that only the great chimney of the house showed above the trees. The shade was gracious, the fragrance alluring. At a distance the voices of singing negroes came to us. Presently we came to a fallen apple tree, a giant perhaps planted there generations before. We seated ourselves here, and we should have been happy, for we were young, and all about us was sweet and comforting. Yet, on my honor, I would rather at that moment have been talking to my mother than to Grace Sheraton. I did not know why. For some time we sat there, pulling at apple blossoms and grass stems, and talking of many things quite beside the real question; but at last there came an interruption. I heard the sound of a low, rumbling bellow approaching through the trees, and as I looked up I saw, coming forward with a certain confidence, Sir Jonas, the red Sheraton bull, with a ring in his nose, and in his carriage an intense haughtiness for one so young. I knew all about Sir Jonas, for we had bred him on our farm, and sold him not long since to the Sheratons. Miss Grace gathered her skirts for instant flight, but I quickly pushed her down. I knew the nature of Sir Jonas very well, and saw that flight would mean disaster long before she could reach any place of safety. "Keep quiet," I said to her in a low voice. "Don't make any quick motions, or he'll charge. Come with me, slowly now." Very pale, and with eyes staring at the intruder, she arose as I bade her and slowly moved toward the tree which I had in mind. "Now--quick!" I said, and catching her beneath the arms I swung her up into the low branches. Her light lawn gown caught on a knotty limb, somewhat to her perturbation, and ere I could adjust it and get her safe aloft Sir Jonas had made up his mind. He came on with head down, in a short, savage rush, and his horn missed my trouser leg by no more than an inch as I dodged around the tree. At this I laughed, but Miss Grace screamed, until between my hasty actions I called to her to keep quiet. Sir Jonas seemed to have forgotten my voice, and though I commanded him to be gone, he only shook his curly front and came again with head low and short legs working very fast. Once more he nearly caught me with a side lunge of his wicked horns as he whirled. He tossed up his head then and bolted for the tree where Miss Grace had her refuge. Then I saw it was the red lining of her Parisian parasol which had enraged him. "Throw it down!" I called out to her. She could not find it in her heart to toss it straight down to Sir Jonas, who would have trampled it at once, so she cast it sidelong toward me, and inch by inch I beat Sir Jonas in the race to it. Then I resolved that he should not have it at all, and so tossed it into the branches of another tree as I ran. "Come," called the girl to me, "jump! Get up into a tree. He can't catch you there." But I was in no mind to take to a tree, and wait for some inglorious discovery by a rescue party from the house. I found my fighting blood rising, and became of the mind to show Sir Jonas who was his master, regardless of who might be his owner. His youth kept him in good wind still, and he charged me again and again, keeping me hard put to it to find trees enough, even in an orchard full of trees. Once he ripped the bark half off a big trunk as I sprang behind it, and he stood with his head still pressed there, not two feet from where I was, with my hand against the tree, braced for a sudden spring. His front foot dug in the sod, his eyes were red, and between his grumbles his breath came in puffs and snorts of anger. Evidently he meant me ill, and this thought offended me. Near by me on the ground lay a ragged limb, cut from some tree by the pruners, now dry, tough and not ill-shaped for a club. I reached back with my foot and pulled it within reach, then stooped quickly and got it in hand, breaking off a few of the lesser branches with one foot, as we still stood there eying each other. "Now, sir," said I to Sir Jonas at last, "I shall show you that no little bull two years old can make me a laughing stock." Then I sprang out and carried the war into Africa forthwith. Sir Jonas was surprised when I came from behind the tree and swung a hard blow to the side of his tender nose; and as I repeated this, he grunted, blew out his breath and turned his head to one side with closed eyes, raising his muzzle aloft in pain. Once more I struck him fair on the muzzle, and this time he bawled loudly in surprise and anguish, and so turned to run. This act of his offered me fair hold upon his tail, and so affixed to him, I followed smiting him upon the back with blows which I think cut through his hide where the pointed knots struck. Thus with loud orders and with a voice which he ought better to have remembered, I brought him to his senses and pursued him entirely out of the orchard, so that he had no mind whatever to return. After which, with what dignity I could summon, I returned to the tree where Grace Sheraton was still perched aloft. Drawing my riding gloves from my pocket I reached up my hands, somewhat soiled with the encounter, and so helped her down to earth once more. And once more her gaze, soft and not easily to be mistaken, rested upon me. "Tell me, Jack Cowles," she said, "is there anything in the world you are afraid to do?" "At least I'm not afraid to give a lesson to any little Sir Jonas that has forgot his manners," I replied. "But I hope you are not hurt in any way?" She shook her head, smoothing out her gown, and again raised her eyes to mine. We seated ourselves again upon our fallen apple tree. Her hand fell upon my coat sleeve. We raised our eyes. They met. Our lips met also--I do not know how. I do not hold myself either guilty or guiltless. I am only a man now. I was only a boy then. But even then I had my notions, right or wrong, as to what a gentleman should be and do. At least this is how Grace Sheraton and I became engaged. CHAPTER VI A SAD LOVER I shall never forget the scene there under the oak of the Sheraton front yard, which met my gaze when Miss Grace and I came about the corner of the house. Before us, and facing each other, stood my father and Colonel Sheraton, the former standing straight and tall, Colonel Sheraton with tightly clenched hand resting on his stick, his white hair thrown back, his shaggy brows contracted. My mother sat in the low rocker which had been brought to her, and opposite her, leaning forward, was Mrs. Sheraton, tall, thin, her black eyes fixed upon the men. Orme, also standing, his hands behind him, regarded the troubled men intently. Near at hand was the Sheratons' Jim, his face also fixed upon them; and such was his own emotion that he had tipped his silver tray and dropped one of the Sheraton cut glass julep glasses to the sod. It was mid-afternoon, or evening, as we call it in Virginia, and the light was still frank and strong, though the wind was softening among the great oaks, and the flowers were sweet all about. It was a scene of peace; but it was not peace which occupied those who made its central figures. "I tell you, Cowles," said Colonel Sheraton, grinding his stick into the turf, "you do not talk like a Virginian. If the North keeps on this course, then we Southerners must start a country of our own. Look, man--" He swept about him an arm which included his own wide acres and ours, lying there shimmering clear to the thin line of the old Blue Ridge--"We must fight for these homes!" My mother stirred in her chair, but she made no speech, only looked at my father. "You forget, Colonel," said my father in his low, deep voice, "that this man Lincoln has not yet been elected, and that even if elected he may prove a greater figure than we think. He has not yet had chance to learn the South." Orme had been standing silent, his face indifferent or faintly lighted with an habitual cynicism. Now he broke in. "He will never be elected," he said emphatically. "It would ruin the entire industry of the South. I tell you Lincoln is thinking of his own political advancement and caring nothing for this country. The South _must_ secede, gentlemen--if you will allow me as a stranger to venture an opinion." My mother turned her gaze to him, but it was Sheraton who spoke. "It goes back to the old Articles of Federation, our first compact," he said. "From the very first the makers of this country saw that by reason of diverse industries the South was separated from the North. This secession has been written in the sky from the beginning of the world." "Nay, brother Sheraton," broke in my mother eagerly "it was the union of brothership that was written first in the sky." He turned to her with the bow of a gentleman. "It is you ladies who knit the world together with kindness," he said. "Alas, that men must rend it with fighting." "Alas!" whispered she. Sheraton's own face was sad as he went on with the old justification. "Jefferson would turn over in his grave if he saw Virginia divided as it is. Why, Cowles, we've all the world we need here. We can live alone here, each on his own acres, a gentleman, and all he needs of government is protection and fair laws. Calhoun was right. Better give us two peaceful countries, each living happily and content, than one at war with itself. Clay was a great man, but both he and Webster were fighting against the inevitable." "That is true," interrupted Orme; "unquestionably true. Texas came near becoming a colony of England because this country would not take her. She declared for slavery, and had that right. The Spaniards had made California a slave state, but the gold seekers by vote declared her free. They had that right to govern themselves. As to the new lands coming in, it is their right also to vote upon the question of slavery, each new state for itself." "The war has already begun on the border," said my father. "My friend and partner, Colonel Meriwether of Albemarle, who is with the Army in the West, says that white men are killing white men all across the lands west of the Missouri." "At least, Cowles," said Colonel Sheraton, pacing a short way apart, his hands behind his back, "we can wait until after this election." "But if the Government takes action?" suggested Orme. Sheraton whirled quickly, "Then war! war!" he cried, "War till each Virginian is dead on his doorstep, and each woman starved at her fireside. John Cowles, you and I will fight--I _know_ that you will fight." "Yes," said my father, "I will fight." "And with us!" "No," said my father, sighing; "no, my friend, against you!" I saw my mother look at him and sink back in her chair. I saw Orme also gaze at him sharply, with a peculiar look upon his face. But so, at least, this argument ended for the time. The two men, old neighbors, took each other solemnly by the hand, and presently, after talk of more pleasant sort on lesser matters, the servants brought our carriage and we started back for Cowles' Farms. There had been no opportunity for me to mention to Colonel and Mrs. Sheraton something that was upon my mind. I had small chance for farewell to Miss Grace, and if I shall admit the truth, this pleased me quite as well as not. We rode in silence for a time, my father musing, my mother silent also. It was Orme who was the first I heard to speak. "By the way, Mr. Cowles," he said, "you spoke of Colonel Meriwether of Albemarle County. Is he away in the West? It chances that I have letters to him, and I was purposing going into that country before long." "Indeed, sir?" replied my father. "I am delighted to know that you are to meet my friend. As it chances, he is my associate in a considerable business enterprise--a splendid man, a splendid man, Meriwether. I will, if you do not mind, add my letter to others you may have, and I trust you will carry him our best wishes from this side of the mountains." That was like my father--innocent, unsuspicious, ever ready to accept other men as worthy of his trust, and ever ready to help a stranger as he might. For myself, I confess I was more suspicious. Something about Orme set me on edge, I knew not what. I heard them speaking further about Meriwether's being somewhere in the West, and heard Orme also say carelessly that he must in any case run over to Albemarle and call upon some men whom he was to meet at the University of Virginia. We did not ask his errand, and none of us suspected the purpose of his systematic visiting among the more influential centers of that country. But if you will go now to that white-domed building planned by Thomas Jefferson at Charlottesville, and read the names on the brazen tablets by the doors, names of boys who left school there to enter a harder school, then you will see the results of the visit there of Gordon Orme. My little personal affairs were at that time so close to me that they obscured clear vision of larger ones. I did not hear all the talk in the carriage, but pulled my horse in behind and so rode on moodily, gazing out across the pleasant lands to the foot of old Catoctin and the dim Blue Ridge. A sudden discontent assailed me. Must I live here always--must I settle down and be simply a farmer forever? I wanted to ride over there, over the Rock Fish Gap, where once King Charles' men broke a bottle in honor of the king, and took possession of all the lands west of the Pacific. The West--the word in some way thrilled in my blood--I knew not why. I was a boy. I had not learned to question any emotion, and introspection troubled me no more than it did my pointer dog. Before we had separated at the door of our house, I motioned to my mother, and we drew apart and seated ourselves beneath our own oaks in the front yard of Cowles' Farms. Then I told her what had happened between Miss Grace and myself, and asked her if she was pleased. "I am very content with thee," she answered, slowly, musingly. "Thee must think of settling, Jack, and Miss Grace is a worthy girl. I hope it will bring peace between our families always." I saw a film cross her clear, dark eye. "Peace!" she whispered to herself. "I wish that it might be." But peace was not in my heart. Leaving her presently, I once more swung leg over saddle and rode off across our fields, as sad a lover as ever closed the first day of his engagement to be wed. CHAPTER VII WHAT COMETH IN THE NIGHT When I rode up our lane in the dusk, I found my father and mother sitting in the cool of the front gallery, and giving my rein to one of our boys, I flung myself down on the steps near by, and now and again joined in their conversation. I was much surprised to learn that our whilom guest, Gordon Orme, had taken sudden departure during my absence, he having been summoned by a messenger from the village, who he stated brought him word that he must forthwith be on his way to Albemarle. He had asked my father if he cared to sell the black horse, Satan, to which he had taken a fancy, but this had been declined. Then it seems there had come up something of our late meeting at the village, and Orme, laughing, had told of our horse breaking and wrestling in a way which it seemed had not detracted from my standing in my parents' eyes. None of us three was willing to criticise our guest, yet I doubt if any one of us failed to entertain a certain wonder, not to say suspicion, regarding him. At least he was gone. Our talk now gradually resolved itself to one on business matters. I ought to have said that my father was an ambitious man and one of wide plans. I think that even then he foresaw the day when the half-patriarchial life of our State would pass away before one of wider horizons of commercial sort. He was anxious to hand down his family fortune much increased, and foreseeing troublous times ahead as to the institution of slavery in the South, he had of late been taking large risks to assure success in spite of any change of times. Now, moved by some strange reasons which he himself perhaps did not recognize, he began for the first time, contrary to his usual reticence, to explain to my mother and me something of these matters. He told us that in connection with his friend, Colonel William Meriwether, of Albemarle, he had invested heavily in coal lands in the western part of the State, in what is now West Virginia. This requiring very large sums of money, he for his part had encumbered not only the lands themselves, but these lands of Cowles' Farms to secure the payment. The holder of these mortgages was a banking firm in Fredericksburg. The interest was one which in these times would be considered a cruel one, and indeed the whole enterprise was one which required a sanguine courage, precisely as his; for I have said that risk he always held as challenge and invitation. "Does thee think that in these times thee should go so deeply in debt," asked my mother of him. "Elizabeth," he said, "that is why I have gone in debt. Two years from now, and the value of these lands here may have been cut in half. Ten years from now the coal lands yonder will be worth ten times what they are to-day." "John," she said to him suddenly, "sell those coal lands, or a part of them." "Now, that I could not do," he answered, "for half their value. The country now is fuller of war than of investment. But come peace, come war, there lies a fortune for us all. For my share there remains but one heavy payment; and to-morrow I ride to raise funds for that among our tenants and elsewhere. I admit that my bankers are shrewd and severe--in fact, I think they would rather see the payments forfeited than not. As Meriwether is away, it is with me to attend to this business now." And so, with this prelude, I may as well tell without more delay what evil fortune was in store for us. That coming day my father rode abroad as he had planned, taking black Satan for his mount, since he needed to travel far. He had collected from various sources, as his account book later showed, a sum of over five thousand dollars, which he must have had in gold and negotiable papers in his saddle-bags. During his return home, he came down the deep trough road which ran in front of the Sheraton farms and ours. He passed near to a certain clump of bushes at the roadside. And there that happened which brought to a sudden end all the peace and comfort of our lives, and which made me old before my time. I heard the horse Satan whinny at our lane gate, wildly, as though in fright; and even as I went out my heart stopped with sudden fear. He had leaped the gate at the lower end of the lane. His bridle rein was broken, and caught at his feet as he moved about, throwing up his head in fright as much as viciousness. I hastily looked at the saddle, but it bore no mark of anything unusual. Not pausing to look farther, I caught the broken reins in my hand, and sprung into the saddle, spurring the horse down the lane and over the gate again, and back up the road which I knew my father must have taken. There, at the side of the road, near the clump of blackberry vines and sumac growth, lay my father, a long dark blot, motionless, awesome, as I could see by the light of the moon, now just rising in a gap of the distant mountains. I sprang down and ran to him, lifted his head, called to him in a voice so hoarse I did not recognize it. I told him that it was his son had come to him, and that he must speak. So at last, as though by sheer will he had held on to this time, he turned his gray face toward me, and as a dead man, spoke. "Tell your mother," he said; "Tell Meriwether--must protect--good-by." Then he said "Lizzie!" and opened wide his arms. Presently he said, "Jack, lay my head down, please." I did so. He was dead, there in the moon. I straightened him, and put my coat across his face, and spurred back down the road again and over the gate. But my mother already knew. She met me at the hall, and her face was white. "Jack," she said, "I know!" Then the servants came, and we brought him home, and laid him in his own great room, as the master of the house should lie when the end comes, and arrayed him like the gentleman he was. Now came that old wire-hair, Doctor Bond, his mane standing stiff and gray over a gray face, down which tears rolled the first time known of any man. He sent my mother away and called me to him. And then he told me that in my father's back were three or four pierced wounds, no doubt received from the sharp stubs of underbrushes when he fell. But this, he said, could hardly have been the cause of death. He admitted that the matter seemed mysterious to him. Up to this time we had not thought of the cause of this disaster, nor pondered upon motives, were it worse than accident. Now we began to think. Doctor Bond felt in the pockets of my father's coat; and so for the first time we found his account book and his wallets. Doctor Bond and I at once went out and searched the saddle pockets my father had carried. They were quite empty. All this, of course, proved nothing to us. The most that we could argue was that the horse in some way had thrown his rider, and that the fall had proved fatal; and that perhaps some wandering negro had committed the theft. These conclusions were the next day bad for the horse Satan, whom I whipped and spurred, and rode till he trembled, meting out to him what had been given old Klingwalla, his sire, for another murdering deed like this. In my brutal rage I hated all the world. Like the savage I was, I must be avenged on something. I could not believe that my father was gone, the man who had been my model, my friend, my companion all my life. But in time we laid him away in the sunny little graveyard of the Society of Friends, back of the little stone church at Wallingford. We put a small, narrow, rough little slab of sandstone at his head, and cut into it his name and the dates of his birth and death; this being all that the simple manners of the Society of Friends thought fit. "His temple is in my heart," said my mother; and from that day to her death she offered tribute to him. Thus, I say, it was that I changed from a boy into a man. But not the man my father had been. Life and business matters had hitherto been much a sealed book for me. I was seized of consternation when a man came riding over from the little Wallingford bank, asking attention to word from Abrams & Halliday, bankers of Fredericksburg. I understood vaguely of notes overdue, and somewhat of mortgages on our lands, our house, our crops. I explained our present troubles and confusion; but the messenger shook his head with a coldness on his face I had not been accustomed to see worn by any at Cowles' Farms. Sweat stood on my face when I saw that we owed over fifteen thousand dollars--a large sum in those simple days--and that more would presently follow, remainder of a purchase price of over a hundred thousand dollars for lands I had never seen. I looked about me at the great house of Cowles' Farms, and a coldness came upon my heart as I realized for the first time that perhaps this home was not ours, but another's. Anger again possessed me at this thought, and with small adieu I ordered the man from the place, and told him I would horsewhip him if he lingered but a moment. Then, too late, I thought of more business-like action, and of following the advice my father had given me, at once to see his associate, Colonel Meriwether. Thereafter I consulted my mother. In the chaotic state of affairs then existing, with the excitement of a turbulent election approaching, it may be supposed that all commercial matters were much unsettled. None knew what might be the condition of the country after the fall elections; but all agreed that now was no time to advance money upon any sort of credit. As to further pledges, with a view to raising these sums now due, I found the matter hopeless. Colonel Sheraton might, perhaps, have aided us, but him I would not ask. Before this time I had acquainted him of my intentions in regard to his daughter; and now I went to him and placed the matter before him, explaining to him the nature of our affairs and announcing my intention to make a quick journey to the West, in order to obtain assistance from Colonel Meriwether, of whom I hoped to find instant solution of the financial problems, at least. It seemed wise for me to place before Miss Grace's father the question of advisability of allowing her to remain pledged to a man whose fortunes were in so sad a state. I asked him what was right for me to do. His face was very grave as he pondered, but he said, "If my girl's word has been passed, we will wait. We will wait, sir." And that was all I knew when I made my hurried preparations for the longest journey I had at that time ever known. CHAPTER VIII BEGINNING ADVENTURES IN NEW LANDS In those days travel was not so easy as it is now. I went by carriage to Washington, and thence by stage to the village of York in Pennsylvania, and again by stage thence to Carlisle Barracks, a good road offering thence into the western countries. In spite of all my grief I was a young man, and I was conscious of a keen exhilaration in these my earliest travels. I was to go toward that great West, which then was on the tongue of all the South, and indeed all the East. I found Pennsylvania old for a hundred years. The men of Western Pennsylvania, Ohio and New York were passing westward in swarms like feeding pigeons. Illinois and Iowa were filling up, and men from Kentucky were passing north across the Ohio. The great rivers of the West were then leading out their thousands of settlers. Presently I was to see those great trains of white-topped west-bound wagons which at that time made a distinguishing feature of American life. At this Army post, which then was used as a drilling ground for the cavalry arm, one caught the full flavor of the Western lands, heard the talk of officers who had been beyond the frontier, and saw troops passing out for the Western service. Here I heard also, and to my consternation, quiet conversation among some of the officers, regarding affairs at our National capital. Buchanan, it seems, was shipping arms and ordnance and supplies to all the posts in the South. Disaffection, fomented by some secret, unknown cause, was spreading among the officers of the Army. I was young; this was my first journey; yet none the less these matters left my mind uneasy. I was eager to be back in Virginia, for by every sign and token there certainly was trouble ahead for all who dwelt near the Potomac. Next I went on to Harrisburg, and thence took rail up the beautiful Susquehanna valley, deep into and over the mountains. At Pittsburg I, poor provincial, learned that all this country too was very old, and that adventures must be sought more than a thousand miles to the westward, yet a continual stir and bustle existed at this river point. A great military party was embarking here for the West--two companies of dragoons, their officers and mounts. I managed to get passage on this boat to Louisville, and thence to the city of St. Louis. Thus, finally, we pushed in at the vast busy levee of this western military capital. At that time Jefferson Barracks made the central depot of Army operations in the West. Here recruits and supplies were received and readjusted to the needs of the scattered outposts in the Indian lands. Still I was not in the West, for St. Louis also was old, almost as old as our pleasant valley back in Virginia. I heard of lands still more remote, a thousand miles still to the West, heard of great rivers leading to the mountains, and of the vast, mysterious plains, of which even yet men spoke in awe. Shall I admit it--in spite of grief and trouble, my heart leaped at these thoughts. I wished nothing so much as that I might properly and fitly join this eager, hurrying, keen-faced throng of the west-bound Americans. It seemed to me I heard the voice of youth and life beyond, and that youth was blotted out behind me in the blue Virginia hills. I inquired for Colonel Meriwether about my hotel in the city, but was unable to get definite word regarding his whereabouts, although the impression was that he was somewhere in the farther West. This made it necessary for me to ride at once to Jefferson Barracks. I had at least one acquaintance there, Captain Martin Stevenson of the Sixth Cavalry, a Maryland man whom we formerly met frequently when he was paying suit to Kitty Dillingham, of the Shenandoah country. After their marriage they had been stationed practically all of the time in Western posts. I made my compliments at Number 16 of Officers' Row, their present quarters at Jefferson. I found Kitty quite as she had been in her youth at home, as careless and wild, as disorderly and as full of good-heartedness. Even my story, sad as it was, failed to trouble her long, and as was her fashion, she set about comforting me, upon her usual principle that, whatever threatened, it were best be blithe to-day. "Come," she said, "we'll put you up with us, right here. Johnson, take Mr. Cowles' things; and go down to the city at once for his bags." "But, my dear Mrs. Kitty," I protested, "I can't. I really must be getting on. I'm here on business with Colonel Meriwether." "Never mind about Colonel Meriwether," rejoined my hostess, "we'll find him later--he's up the river somewhere. Always take care of the important things first. The most important thing in the whole world just now is the officers' ball to-night. Don't you see them fixing up the dancing platform on Parade? It's just as well the K.O.'s away, because to-night the mice certainly are going to play." It seemed good to hear the voice of friends again, and I was nothing loath to put aside business matters for the time and listen to Kitty Stevenson's chatter. So, while I hesitated, Johnson had my hat and stick. The city of St. Louis, I repeat, was then the richest and gayest capital of the West, the center of the commercial and social life of West and South alike. Some of the most beautiful women of the world dwelt there, and never, I imagine, had belles bolder suitors than these who passed through or tarried with the Army. What wonder the saying that no Army man ever passed St. Louis without leaving a heart, or taking one with him? What wonder that these gay young beauties emptied many an Army pocket for flowers and gems, and only filled many an Army heart with despondency in return? Sackcloth lay beyond, on the frontier. Ball followed ball, one packed reception another. Dinings and sendings of flowers, and evening love-makings--these for the time seemed the main business of Jefferson Barracks. Social exemptions are always made for Army men, ever more gallant than affluent, and St. Louis entertained these gentlemen mightily with no expectation of equivalent; yet occasionally the sons of Mars gave return entertainments to the limits, or more than the limits, of their purses. The officers' balls at these barracks were the envy of all the Army; and I doubt if any regimental bands in the service had reason for more proficiency in waltz time. Of some of these things my hostess advised me as we sat, for the sake of the shade, on the gallery of Number 16, where Stevenson's man of all work had brought a glass-topped table and some glasses. Here Captain Stevenson presently joined us, and after that escape was impossible. "Do you suppose Mr. Cowles is engaged?" asked Kitty of her husband impersonally, and apropos of nothing that I could see. "I don't think so. He looks too deuced comfortable," drawled Stevenson. I smiled. "If he isn't engaged he will be before morning," remarked Kitty, smiling at me. "Indeed, and to whom, pray?" I inquired. "How should I know? Indeed, how should you know? Any one of a dozen--first one you see--first one who sees you; because you are tall, and can dance." "I hardly think I should dance." "Of course you will dance. If you refuse you will be put in irons and taken out to-morrow and shot. It will do you no good to sit and think, poor boy." "I have no clothes," I protested. "Johnson will have your boxes out in time. But you don't want your own clothes. This is _bal masque_, of course, and you want some sort of disguise, I think you'd look well in one of Matt's uniforms." "That's so," said Stevenson, "we're about of a size. Good disguise, too, especially since you've never been here. They'll wonder who the new officer is, and where he comes from. I say, Kitty, what an awfully good joke it would be to put him up against two or three of those heartless flirts you call your friends--Ellen, for instance." "There won't be a button left on the uniform by morning," said Kitty contemplatively. "To-night the Army entertains." "And conquers," I suggested. "Sometimes. But at the officers' ball it mostly surrenders. The casualty list, after one of these balls, is something awful. After all, Jack, all these modern improvements in arms have not superceded the old bow and arrow." She smiled at me with white teeth and lazy eyes. A handsome woman, Kitty. "And who is that dangerous flirt you were talking about a moment ago?" I asked her, interested in spite of myself. "I lose my mess number if I dare to tell. Oh, they'll all be here to-night, both Army and civilians. There's Sadie Galloway of the Eighth, and Toodie Devlin of Kentucky, and the Evans girl from up North, and Mrs. Willie Weiland--" "And Mrs. Matthew Stevenson." "Yes, myself, of course; and then besides, Ellen." "Ellen who?" "Never mind. She is the most dangerous creature now at large in the Western country. Avoid her! Pass not by her! She stalketh by night. She'll get you sure, my son. She has a string of hearts at her will as long as from here to the red barn." "I shall dance to-night," I said. "If you please, I will dance with her, the first waltz." "Yes?" She raised her eyebrows. "You've a nice conceit, at least. But, then, I don't like modest men." "Listen to that," chuckled Stevenson, "and yet she married me! But what she says is true, Cowles. It will be worse than Chapultepec in the crowd anywhere around Ellen to-night. You might lose a leg or an arm in the crush, and if you got through, you'd only lose your heart. Better leave her alone." "Lord, what a night it'll be for the ball," said Kitty, sweeping an idle arm toward Parade, which was now filling up with strings of carriages from the city. We could see men now putting down the dancing floor. The sun was sinking. From somewhere came the faint sound of band music, muffled behind the buildings. "Evening gun!" said Stevenson presently, and we arose and saluted as the jet of smoke burst from a field piece and the roar of the report brought the flag fluttering down. Then came strains of a regimental band, breaking out into the national air; after which the music slid into a hurrying medley, and presently closed in the sweet refrain of "Robin Adair," crooning in brass and reeds as though miles away. Twilight began to fall, and the lamps winked out here and there. The sound of wheels and hoofs upon the gravel came more often. Here and there a bird twittered gently in the trees along the walks; and after a time music came again and again, for four bands now were stationed at the four corners of the Parade. (And always the music began of war and deeds, and always it ended in some soft love strain.) Groups gathered now upon the balconies near the marquees which rose upon the Parade. Couples strolled arm in arm. The scene spoke little enough of war's alarms or of life's battles and its sadness. A carriage passed with two gentlemen, and drew up at the Officers' Club. "Billy Williams, adjutant," commented Captain Stevenson lazily. "Who's the other?" "Yes, who's the tall one?" asked Kitty, as the gentlemen descended from the carriage. "Good figure, anyhow; wonder if he dances." "Coming over, I believe," said Stevenson, for now the two turned our way. Stevenson rose to greet his fellow officer, and as the latter approached our stoop, I caught a glance at his companion. It was Gordon Orme! Orme was as much surprised on his own part. After the presentations all around he turned to me with Kitty Stevenson. "My dear Madam," he said, "you have given me the great pleasure of meeting again my shadow, Mr. Cowles, of Virginia. There is where I supposed him now, back home in Virginia." "I should expect to meet Mr. Orme if I landed on the moon," I replied. "Er--Captain Orme," murmured Adjutant Williams to me gently. So then my preacher had turned captain since I saw him last! "You see, Stevenson," went on Williams easily, "Captain Orme was formerly with the British Army. He is traveling in this country for a little sport, but the old ways hang to him. He brings letters to our Colonel, who's off up river, and meantime. I'm trying to show him what I can of our service." "So good of you to bring Captain Orme here, Major. I'm sure he will join us to-night?" Kitty motioned toward the dancing pavilion, now well under way. Orme smiled and bowed, and declared himself most happy. Thus in a few moments he was of our party. I could not avoid the feeling that it was some strange fate which continually brought us two together. "The Army's rotten for want of service," grumbled Williams, following out his own pet hobby. "Nothing in the world to do for our fellows here. Sport? Why, Captain Orme, we couldn't show you a horse race where I'd advise you to bet a dollar. The fishing doesn't carry, and the shooting is pretty much gone, even if it were the season. Outside of a pigeon match or so, this Post is stagnant. We dance, and that's all. Bah!" "Why, Major, you old ingrate," reproved Kitty Stevenson. "If you talk that way we'll not let you on the floor to-night." "You spoke of pigeon shooting," said Orme lazily, "Blue rocks, I imagine?" "No," said Williams, "Natives--we use the wild birds. Thousands of them around here, you know. Ever do anything at it?" "Not in this country," replied Orme. "Sometimes I have taken on a match at Hurlingham; and we found the Egyptian pigeons around Cairo not bad." "Would you like to have a little match at our birds?" "I shouldn't mind." "Oh, you'll be welcome! We'll take your money away from you. There is Bardine--or say, Major Westover. Haskins of the Sixth got eighty-five out of his last hundred. Once he made it ninety-two, but that's above average, of course." "You interest me," said Orme, still lazily. "For the honor of my country I shouldn't mind a go with one of your gentlemen. Make it at a hundred, for what wagers you like." "And when?" "To-morrow afternoon, if you say; I'm not stopping long, I am afraid. I'm off up river soon." "Let's see," mused Williams. "Haskins is away, and I doubt if Westover could come, for he's Officer of the Day, also bottle-washer. And--" "How about my friend Mr. Cowles?" asked Orme. "My acquaintance with him makes me think he'd take on any sort of sporting proposition. Do you shoot, sir?" "All Virginians do," I answered. And so I did in the field, although I had never shot or seen a pigeon match in all my life. "Precisely. Mrs. Stevenson, will you allow this sort of talk?" "Go on, go on," said Kitty. "I'll have something up myself on Mr. Cowles." ("Don't let him scare you, Jack," she whispered to me aside.) That was a foolish speech of hers, and a foolish act of mine. But for my part, I continually found myself doing things I should not do. Orme passed his cigarette case. "In view of my possibly greater experience," he said, "I'd allow Mr. Cowles six in the hundred." "I am not looking for matches," said I, my blood kindling at his accustomed insolence; "but if I shot it would be both men at scratch." "Oh, very well," smiled Orme. "And should we make a little wager about it--I ask your consent, Mrs. Stevenson?" "America forever!" said Kitty. What could I do after that? But all at once I thought of my scanty purse and of the many troubles that beset me, and the strange unfitness in one of my present situation engaging in any such talk. In spite of that, my stubborn blood had its way as usual. "My war chest is light," I answered, "as I am farther away from home than I had planned. But you know my black horse, Mr. Orme, that you fancied?" "Oh, by Jove! I'll stake you anything you like against him--a thousand pounds, if you like." "The odds must be even," I said, "and the only question is as to the worth of the horse. That you may not think I overvalue him, however, make it half that sum, or less, if these gentlemen think the horse has not that value." "A son of old Klingwalla is worth three times that," insisted Orme. "If you don't mind, and care to close it, we'll shoot to-morrow, if Major Williams will arrange it." "Certainly," said that gentleman. "Very well," I said. "And we will be so discourteous to the stranger within our gates," said the vivacious Kitty, "as to give you a jolly good beating, Captain Orme. We'll turn out the Post to see the match. But now we must be making ready for the serious matters of the evening. Mr. Orme, you dance, of course. Are you a married man--but what a question for me to ask--of course you're not!" Orme smiled, showing his long, narrow teeth. "I've been a bit busy for that," he said; "but perhaps my time has come." "It surely has," said Kitty Stevenson. "I've offered to wager Mr. Cowles anything he liked that he'd be engaged before twelve o'clock. Look, isn't it nicely done?" We now turned toward the big square of the Parade, which had by this time wholly been taken over for the purposes of military occupation. A vast canopy covered the dancing floor. Innumerable tents for refreshments and wide flapped marquees with chairs were springing up, men were placing the decorations of flags, and roping about the dancing floor with braided ribbons and post rosettes. Throngs now filled the open spaces, and more carriages continually came. The quarters of every officer by this time were packed, and a babel of chatter came from every balcony party. Now and again breathed the soft music from the distant military bands. It was a gay scene, one for youth and life, and not for melancholy. "Now, I wonder who is this Ellen?" mused I to myself. [Illustration: GORDON ORME LAUGHS AT ELLEN'S ACCUSATION OF HIS TREACHERY] CHAPTER IX THE GIRL WITH THE HEART Captain Stevenson left us soon after dinner, he being one of the officers' committee on preparations for the ball, so that I spent a little time alone at his quarters, Orme and Major Williams having gone over to the Officers' Club at the conclusion of their call. I was aroused from the brown study into which I had fallen by the sound of a loud voice at the rear of Number 16, and presently heard also Kitty's summons for me to come. I found her undertaking to remove from the hands of Annie, her ponderous black cook, a musket which the latter was attempting to rest over the window sill of the kitchen. "Thar he goes now, the brack rascal!" cried Annie, down whose sable countenance large tears were coursing. "Lemme get one good shot at him. I can shore hit him that clost." "Be silent! Annie," commanded Kitty, "and give me this gun. If I hear of your shooting at Benjie any more I'll certainly discharge you. "You see," explained Kitty to me, "Annie used to be married to Benjie Martin, who works for Colonel Meriwether, at the house just beyond the trees there." "I'se married to him _yit_," said Annie, between sobs. "Heap more'n that taller-faced yaller girl he done taken up with now." "I think myself," said Kitty, judicially, "that Benjie might at least bow to his former wife when he passes by." "That'd be all I _wanted_," said Annie; "but I kaint stand them horty ways. Why, I mended the very shirt he's got on his back right now; and I _bought_ them shoes fer him." "Annie's _such_ a poor shot!" explained Kitty. "She has taken a pot-shot at Benjie I don't know how many times, but she always misses. Colonel Meriwether sent a file down to see what was going on, the first time, but when I explained it was my cook, he said it was all right, and that if she missed Benjie it harmed no one, and if she happened to kill him it would be only what he deserved. Annie's the best cook in the Army, and the Colonel knows it. Aren't you, Annie?" "Ef I could only shoot as good as I ken cook," remarked Annie, "it would be a powerful sight o' res' to my soul. I shorely will git that nigger yet." "Of course you will," said Kitty. "Just wait till to-morrow morning, Annie, and when he starts around in the yard, you take a rest over the window sill. You see," she resumed to me, "we try to do everything in the world to keep our servants happy and comfortable, Mr. Cowles. "But now, as to you, sir, it is time you were getting ready for the serious business of the evening. Go into Matt's room, there, and Johnson will bring you your disguise." So finally I got into Captain Stevenson's uniform, which I did not dislike, although the coat was a trifle tight across the back. At the domino mask they fetched I hesitated, for anything like mummery of this sort was always repugnant to me. Not to comply with the order of the day, however, would now have made me seem rather churlish, so presently, although with mental reservations, I placed myself in the hands of my hostess, who joined me in full ball costume, mask and all. "You may know me," said Kitty, "by the pink flowers on my gown. They're printed on the silk, I suspect. When Matt and I are a major, we'll have them hand embroidered; but a captain's pay day doesn't come half often enough for real hand embroidery." "I should know you anywhere, Mrs. Kitty," I said. "But now as to this Ellen? How shall I know _her_?" "You will not know her at all." "Couldn't you tell me something of how she will look?" "No, I've not the slightest idea. Ellen doesn't repeat herself. There'll be a row of a dozen beauties, the most dangerous girls in all St. Louis. You shall meet them all, and have your guess as to which is Ellen." "And shall I never know, in all the world?" "Never in all the world. But grieve not. To-night joy is to be unconfined, and there is no to-morrow." "And one may make mad love to any?" "To any whom one madly loves, of course; not to twelve at once. But we must go. See, isn't it fine?" Indeed the scene on Parade was now gayer than ever. Laughter and chatter came from the crowded galleries all about the square, whose houses seemed literally full to overflowing. Music mingled with the sound of merry voices, and forsooth now and again we heard the faint popping of corks along Officers' Row. The Army entertained. At once, from somewhere on Parade, there came the clear note of a bugle, which seemed to draw the attention of all. We could see, ascending the great flagstaff at the end of its halyard, the broad folds of the flag. Following this was hoisted a hoop or rim of torches, which paused in such position that the folds of the flag were well illuminated. A moment of silence came at that, and then a clapping of hands from all about the Parade as the banner floated out, and the voices of men, deep throated, greeting the flag. Again the bands broke into the strains of the national anthem; but immediately they swung into a rollicking cavalry air. As they played, all four of the bands marched toward the center of the Parade, and halted at the dancing pavilion, where the lighter instruments selected for the orchestra took their places at the head of the floor. The throngs at the galleries began to lessen, and from every available roof of the Post there poured out incredible numbers of gayly-dressed ladies and men in uniform or evening garb, each one masked, and all given over fully to the spirit of the hour. "To-night," said Kitty to me, "one may be faithless, and be shriven by the morning sun. Isn't it funny how these things go? Such a lot of fuss is made in the world by ignoring the great fact that man is by nature both gregarious and polygamous. Believe me, there is much in this doctrine of the Mormons, out there in the West!" "Yes, look at Benjie, for instance," I answered. "It is the spell of new faces." "You see a face on the street, in the church, passing you, to be gone the next instant forever," she mused. "Once I did myself. I was mad to follow the man. I saw him again, and was yet madder. I saw him yet again, and made love to him madly, and then--" "You married him," said I, knowing perfectly well the devotion of these two. "Yes," said Mrs. Kitty, sighing contentedly, "it was Matt, of course. There's something in that 'Whom God hath joined together.' But it ought to be God, and not man, that does the joining." "Suppose we talk philosophy rather than dance." "Not I! We are here to-night to be young. After all, Jack, you are young, and so is--" "Ellen?" "Yes, and so is Ellen." The floor now was beginning to fill with dancers. There moved before us a kaleidoscope of gay colors, over which breathed the fragrance of soft music. A subtle charm emanated from these surroundings. Music, the sight and odor of sweet flowers, the sound of pleasant waters, the presence of things beautiful--these have ever had their effect on me. So now I felt come upon me a sort of soft content, and I was no longer moved to talk philosophy. Sighing, I said to myself that I was young. I turned to speak to my hostess, but she was gone on business of her own. So there I stood for half an hour, biting my thumb. I had as yet seen nothing of the mysterious Ellen, although many a score of eyes, in license of the carnival, had flashed through their masks at me, and many others as their owners passed by in the dance or promenade near where I stood. Presently I felt a tug at my sleeve. "Come with me," whispered a voice. It was Kitty. We passed to the opposite side of the dancing floor, and halted at the front of a wide marquee, whose flaps were spread to cover a long row of seats. "Count them," whispered Kitty hoarsely. "There are twelve!" And so indeed there were, twelve beautiful young girls, as one might pronounce, even though all were masked with half-face dominos. Half of them were dressed in white and half in black, and thus they alternated down the row. Twelve hands handled divers fans. Twelve pairs of eyes looked out, eyes merry, or challenging, or mysterious, one could not tell. About these young belles gathered the densest throng of all the crowd. Some gentlemen appeared to know certain of the beauties, but these had hard work to keep their places, for continually others came, and one after another was introduced in turn, all down the line, as presently it was to be my fortune to be. "Is she here, Mrs. Kitty?" I whispered. "You shall guess. Come." And so, as occasion offered, I was put through this ordeal, by no means an easy one. At each fair charmer, as I bowed, I looked with what directness I dared, to see if I might penetrate the mask and so foil Kitty in her amiable intentions. This occupation caused me promptly to forget most of the names which I heard, and which I doubt not were all fictitious. As we passed out at the foot of the row I recalled that I had not heard the name of Ellen. "Now then, which one is she?" I queried of my hostess. "Silly, do you want me to put your hand in hers? You are now on your own resources. Play the game." And the next moment she again was gone. I had opportunity, without rudeness, the crowd so pressing in behind me, to glance once more up the line. I saw, or thought I saw, just a chance glance toward where I stood, near the foot of the Row of Mystery, as they called it. I looked a second time, and then all doubt whatever vanished. If this girl in the black laces, with the gold comb in her hair, and the gold-shot little shoes just showing at the edge of her gown, and the red rose at her hair, held down by the comb--half hidden by the pile of locks caught up by the ribbon of the mask--if this girl were not the mysterious Ellen, then indeed must Ellen look well to her laurels, for here, indeed, was a rival for her! I began to edge through the ranks of young men who gathered there, laughing, beseeching, imploring, claiming. The sparkle of the scene was in my veins. The breath of the human herd assembled, sex and sex, each challenging the other, gregarious, polygamous. I did not walk; the music carried me before her. And so I bowed and murmured, "I have waited hours for my hostess to present me to Miss Ellen." (I mumbled the rest of some imaginary name, since I had heard none.) The girl pressed the tip of her fan against her teeth and looked at me meditatively. "And ours, of course, is _this_ dance," I went on. "If I could only remember all the names--" she began hesitatingly. "I was introduced as Jack C., of Virginia." "Yes? And in what arm?" "Cavalry," I replied promptly. "Do you not see the yellow?" I gestured toward the facings. "You who belong to the Army ought to know." "Why do you think I belong to the Army?" she asked, in a voice whose low sweetness was enough to impel any man to catch the mask from her face and throw it down the nearest well. "You belong to the Army, and to Virginia," I said, "because you asked me what is my arm of the service; and because your voice could come from nowhere but Virginia. Now since I have come so far to see you and have found you out so soon, why do you not confess that you are Miss Ellen? Tell me your name, so that I may not be awkward!" "We have no names to-night," she answered. "But I was just thinking; there is no Jack C. in the _Gazette_ who comes from Virginia and who wears a captain's straps. I do not know who you are." "At least the game then is fair," said I, disappointed. "But I promise you that some time I shall see you face to face, and without masks. To-morrow--" "Tut, tut!" she reproved. "There is no to-morrow!" I looked down on her as I stood, and a certain madness of youth seized hold upon me. I knew that when she rose she would be just tall enough; that she would be round, full, perfect woman in every line of her figure; that her hair would be some sort of dark brown in the daylight; that her eyes would also be of some sort of darkness, I knew not what, for I could not see them fully through the domino. I could see the hair piled back from the nape of as lovely a neck as ever caught a kiss. I could see at the edge of the mask that her ear was small and close to the head; could see that her nose must be straight, and that it sprang from the brow strongly, with no weak indentation. The sweep of a strong, clean chin was not to be disguised, and at the edge of the mask I caught now and then the gleam of white, even teeth, and the mocking smile of red, strongly curved lips, hid by her fan at the very moment when I was about to fix them in my memory, so that I might see them again and know. I suspect she hid a smile, but her eyes looked up at me grandly and darkly. Nineteen, perhaps twenty, I considered her age to be; gentle, and yet strong, with character and yet with tenderness, I made estimate that she must be; and that she had more brains than to be merely a lay figure I held sure, because there was something, that indefinable magnetism, what you like to call it, which is not to be denied, which assured me that here indeed was a woman not lightly to accept, nor lightly to be forgotten. Ah, now I was seized and swept on in a swift madness. Still the music sang on. "My hostess said it would be a lottery to-night in this Row of Mystery," I went on, "but I do not find it so." "All life is lottery," she said in answer. "And lotteries are lawful when one wins the capital prize. One stretches out his hand in the dark. But some one must win. I win now. The game of masks is a fine one. I am vastly pleased with it. Some day I shall see you without any mask. Come. We must dance. I could talk better if we were more alone." As I live, she rose and put her hand upon my arm with no further argument; why, I cannot say, perhaps because I had allowed no other man to stand thus near her. We stepped out upon the crowded floor. I was swept away by it all, by the waltz, by the stars above, by the moon, by the breath of women and the scent of their hair, and the perfume of roses, by the passion of living, by youth, youth! Ah, God! ah, God!--I say to you, it was sweet. Whatever life brings to us of age and sorrow, let us remember our youth, and say it was worth the while. Had I never lived but that one night, it had been worth while. She danced as she stood, with the grace of a perfect young creature, and the ease of a perfect culture as well. I was of no mind to look further. If this was not Ellen, then there was no Ellen there for me! Around and around we passed, borne on the limpid shining stream of the waltz music, as melancholy as it was joyous; music that was young; for youth is ever full of melancholy and wonder and mystery. We danced. Now and again I saw her little feet peep out. I felt her weight rest light against my arm. I caught the indescribable fragrance of her hair. A gem in the gold comb now and then flashed out; and now and again I saw her eyes half raised, less often now, as though the music made her dream. But yet I could have sworn I saw a dimple in her cheek through the mask, and a smile of mockery on her lips. I have said that her gown was dark, black laces draping over a close fitted under bodice; and there was no relief to this somberness excepting that in the front of the bodice were many folds of lacy lawn, falling in many sheer pleats, edge to edge, gathered at the waist by a girdle confined by a simple buckle of gold. Now as I danced, myself absorbed so fully that I sought little analysis of impressions so pleasing, I became conscious dimly of a faint outline of some figure in color, deep in these folds of lacy lawn, an evanescent spot or blur of red, which, to my imagination, assumed the outline of a veritable heart, as though indeed the girl's heart quite shone through! If this were a trick I could not say, but for a long time I resisted it. Meantime, as chance offered in the dance--to which she resigned herself utterly--I went on with such foolish words as men employ. "Ah, nonsense!" she flashed back at me at last. "Discover something new. If men but knew how utterly transparent they are! I say that to-night we girls are but spirits, to be forgot to-morrow. Do not teach us to forget before to-morrow comes." "I shall not forget," I insisted. "Then so much the worse." "I cannot." "But you must." "I will not. I shall not allow--" "How obstinate a brute a man can be," she remonstrated. "If you are not nice I shall go at once." "I dreamed I saw a red heart," said I. "But that cannot have been, for I see you have no heart." "No," she laughed. "It was only a dream." "To-night, then, we only dream." She was silent at this. "I knew you from the very first," I reiterated. "What, has Kitty talked?" It was my turn to laugh. "Ah, ha!" I said. "I thought no names were to be mentioned! At least, if Kitty has talked, I shall not betray her. But I knew you directly, as the most beautiful girl in all the city. Kitty said that much." "Oh, thank thee, kind sir!" "Then you knew I was a Quaker? Kitty has talked again? I had forgotten it to-night, and indeed forgotten that Quakers do not dance. I said I ought not to come here to-night, but now I see Fate said I must. I would not have lived all my life otherwise. To-night I hardly know who I am." "Officer and gentleman," she smiled. The chance compliment came to me like a blow. I was not an officer. I was masking, mumming, I, John Cowles, who had no right. Once more, whither was my folly carrying me? Suddenly I felt saddened. "I shall call you The Sorrowful Knight," chided my fair companion." "Quite as well as any name, my very good friend." "I am not your friend." "No, and indeed, perhaps, never may be." Her spirit caught the chill of this, and at once she motioned the edge of the floor. "Now I must go," she said. "There are very many to whom I am promised." I looked at her and could very well believe the truth of that. Many things revolved in my mind. I wondered whether if after all Kitty had had her way; wondered if this was the mysterious Ellen, and if after all she had also had her way! Ah, I had fallen easily! "Sir Sorrowful," she said, "take me back." She extended a little hand and a round arm, whose beauty I could fully catch. The long mousquetaires of later days were then not known, but her hands stood perfectly the trying test of white kids that ended short at the wrist. Reluctantly I moved away with her from the merry throng upon the pavilion floor. At the edge of the better lighted circle she paused for a moment, standing straight and drawing a full, deep breath. If that were coquetry it was perfect. I swear that now I caught the full outline of a red, red heart upon her corsage! "Mademoiselle," I said, as I left her, "you are Ellen, and you have a heart! At half past ten I shall come again. Some day I shall take away your mask and your heart." "Oh, thank thee!" she mocked again. At half past ten I had kept my word, and I stood once more at the Row of Mystery. The chairs were vacant, for the blue coats had wrought havoc there! A little apart sat a blonde beauty of petite figure, who talked in a deep contralto voice, astonishing for one so slight, with a young lieutenant who leaned close to her. I selected her for Tudie Devlin of Kentucky. She whom I fancied to be the "Evans girl from up North," was just promenading away with a young man in evening dress. A brunette whom I imagined to be Sadie Galloway of the Ninth was leaning on the back of a chair and conversing with a man whom I could not see, hidden in the shade of a tent fold. I looked behind me and saw a row of disgruntled gentlemen, nervously pacing up and down. At least there were others disappointed! I searched the dancing floor and presently wished I had not done so. I saw her once more--dancing with a tall, slender man in uniform. At least he offered no disguise to me. In my heart I resented seeing him wear the blue of our government. And certainly it gave me some pang to which I was not entitled, which I did not stop to analyze, some feeling of wretchedness, to see this girl dancing with none less than Gordon Orme, minister of the Gospel, captain of the English Army, and what other inconsistent things I knew not! "Buck up, Jack," I heard a voice at my side. "Did she run away from you?" I feigned ignorance to Kitty. "They are all alike," said I, indifferently. "All dressed alike--" "And I doubt not all acted alike." "I saw but one," I admitted, "the one with a red heart on her corsage." Kitty laughed a merry peal. "There were twelve red hearts," she said. "All there, and all offered to any who might take them. Silly, silly! Now, I wonder if indeed you did meet Ellen? Come, I'll introduce you to a hundred more, the nicest girls you ever saw." "Then it was Ellen?" "How should I know? I did not see you. I was too busy flirting with my husband--for after awhile I found that it was Matt, of course! It seems some sort of fate that I never see a handsome man who doesn't turn out to be Matt." "I must have one more dance," I said. "Then select some other partner. It is too late to find Ellen now, or to get a word with her if we did. The last I saw of her she was simply persecuted by Larry Belknap of the Ninth Dragoons--all the Army knows that he's awfully gone over Ellen." "But we'll find her somewhere--" "No, Jack, you'd better banish Ellen, and all the rest. Take my advice and run over home and go to bed. You forget you've the match on for to-morrow; and I must say, not wanting to disturb you in the least, I believe you're going to need all your nerve. There's Scotch on the sideboard, but don't drink champagne." The scene had lost interest to me. The lights had paled, the music was less sweet. Presently I strolled over to Number 16 and got Johnson to show me my little room. But I did very little at the business of sleeping; and when at last I slept I saw a long row of figures in alternate black and white; and of these one wore a red rose and a gold comb with a jewel in it, and her hair was very fragrant. I did not see Grace Sheraton in my dreams. Clearly I reasoned it out to myself as I lay awake, that if I had seen Ellen once, then indeed it were best for me I should never see Ellen again! CHAPTER X THE SUPREME COURT If remorse, mental or physical, affected any of the dwellers at Jefferson Barracks on the morning following the officers' ball, at least neither was in evidence. By noon all traces of the late festivities had been removed from the parade ground, and the routine of the Post went on with the usual mechanical precision. The Army had entertained, it now labored. In a few hours it would again be ready to be entertained; the next little event of interest being the pigeon match between Orme and myself, which swift rumor seemed to have magnified into an importance not wholly welcome to myself. We had a late breakfast at Number 16, and my friend Stevenson, who was to handle me in the match, saw to it that I had a hard tubbing before breakfast and a good run afterward, and later a hearty luncheon with no heavy wines. I was surprised at these business-like proceedings, which were all new to me, and I reflected with no satisfaction that my hot-headedness in accepting Orme's challenge might result in no glory to myself, and worse than that, let in my friends for loss; for Stevenson informed me that in spite of the fact that I had never shot in a race, a number of wagers were backing me against the Englishman. I reasoned, however, that these responsibilities should not be considered by one who needed perfect command of himself. Moreover, although I had never shot at trapped birds, I reasoned that a bird in the air was a flying bird after all, whether from trap or tree. Then, again, I was offended at Orme's air of superiority. Lastly, though it might be the fault of the Cowles' blood to accept any sort of challenge, it was not our way to regret that so soon as the day following. The grounds for the match had been arranged at the usual place, near to the edge of the military reservation, and here, a half hour before the time set, there began to gather practically all of the young officers about the Post, all the enlisted men who could get leave, with cooks, strikers, laundresses, and other scattered personnel of the barracks. There came as well many civilians from the city, and I was surprised to see a line of carriages, with many ladies, drawn up back of the score. Evidently our little matter was to be made a semi-fashionable affair, and used as another expedient to while away ennui-ridden Army time. My opponent, accompanied by Major Williams, arrived at about the same time that our party reached the grounds. Orme shook hands with me, and declared that he was feeling well, although Williams laughingly announced that he had not been able to make his man go to bed for more than an hour that morning, or to keep him from eating and drinking everything he could lay his hands upon. Yet now his eye was bright, his skin firm, his step light and easy. That the man had a superb constitution was evident, and I knew that my work was cut out for me, for Orme, whatever his profession, was an old one at the game of speedy going. As a man I disliked and now suspected him. As an opponent at any game one was obliged to take account of him. "What boundary do we use, gentlemen?" Orme asked, as he looked out over the field. This question showed his acquaintance, but none the less his confidence and his courtesy as well, for in closely made matches all details are carefully weighed before the issue is joined. "I am more used to the Monaco bounds of eighteen yards," he added, "but whatever is your custom here will please me. I only want to have a notion of your sport." "Our races here have usually been shot at fifty yards bounds," said Stevenson. "As you like," said Orme, "if that pleases Mr. Cowles." "Perfectly," said I, who indeed knew little about the matter. Orme stepped over to the coops where the birds were kept--splendid, iridescent creatures, with long tails, clean, gamy heads and all the colors of the rainbow on their breasts. "By Jove!" he said, "they're rippers for looks, and they should fly a bit, I'm thinking. I have never seen them before, much less shot a race at them." "Still your advantage," said I, laughing, "for I never shot a race at any sort in my life." "And yet you match against me? My dear fellow, I hardly like--" "The match is made, Captain Orme, and I am sure Mr. Cowles would not ask for any readjustment," commented Stevenson stiffly. "Don't understand me to wish to urge anything," said Orme. "I only wish it so we shall all have a chance at revenge. Is there any one who wishes to back me, perhaps, or to back Mr. Cowles? Sometimes in England we shoot at a guinea a bird or five, or ten." Stevenson shook his head. "Too gaited for me at this time of the month," he said; "but I'll lay you a hundred dollars on the issue." "Five if you like, on the Virginian, sir," said young Belknap of the Ninth to Orme. "Done, and done, gentlemen. Let it be dollars and not guineas if you like. Would any one else like to lay a little something? You see, I'm a stranger here, but I wish to do what will make it interesting for any of you who care to wager something." A few more wagers were laid, and the civilian element began to plunge a bit on Orme, word having passed that he was an old hand at the game, whereas I was but a novice. Orme took some of these wagers carelessly. "Now as to our referee, Captain," said Stevenson. "You are, as you say, something of a stranger among us, and we wish your acquaintance were greater, so that you might name some one who would suit you." "I'm indifferent," said Orme politely. "Any one Mr. Cowles may name will please me." His conduct was handsome throughout, and his sporting attitude made him many friends among us. I suspect some Army money went on him, quietly, although little betting was now done in our presence. "I see Judge Reeves, of the Supreme Court of the State, over there in a carriage," suggested Major Williams. "I've very much a notion to go and ask him to act as our referee." "God bless my soul!" said Orme, "this is an extraordinary country! What--a judge of the Supreme Court?" Williams laughed. "You don't know this country, Captain, and you don't know Judge Reeves. He's a trifle old, but game as a fighting cock, and not to mention a few duels in his time, he knows more even about guns and dogs to-day than he does about law. He'll not be offended if I ask him, and here goes." He edged off through the crowd, and we saw him engaged in earnest conversation with the judge. To our surprise and amusement we observed the judge climb hastily down out of his carriage and take Major Williams' arm. Judge Reeves was a tall, thin man, whose long hair and beard were silvery white, yet his stature was erect and vigorous. It was always said of him that he was the most dignified man in the State of Missouri, and that he carried this formality into every detail of his daily life. The story ran that each night, when he and his aged consort retired, they stood, each with candle in hand, on either side of the great bed which all their married life they had occupied in harmony. She, formally bowing to him across the bed, said "Good-night, Judge Reeves"; whereat he, bowing with yet greater formality, replied, "Good-night, Mrs. Reeves." Each then blew out the candle, and so retired! I cannot vouch as to the truth of this story, or of the further report that they carried out their ceremony when seating themselves at table, each meal of the day; but I will say that the appearance of this gentleman would have given such stories likelihood. We uncovered as the judge approached us, and he shook hands with us in the most solemn way, his own wide black hat in his hand. "A--a--hem, gentlemen," he said, "a somewhat unusual situation for one on the bench--most unusual, I may say. But the Court can see no harm in it, since no law of the land is violated. Neither does the Court hold it beneath the dignity of its office to witness this little trial of skill between gentlemen. Further speaking, the Court does not here pass upon questions of law, but sits rather as jury in matters of ocular evidence, with the simple duty of determining whether certain flying objects fall upon this or the other side of that certain line marked out as the boundaries. Gentlemen, I am, a--hem, yours with great pleasure." If there was a twinkle in his eye it was a very solemn one. I venture to say he would have lost no votes at the next election were he up for office. "Is the case ready for argument?" presently asked the judge, benignly. Williams and Stevenson both replied "All ready." "I suggest that the gentlemen place their ammunition and loading tools upon the head of the cask at my right," said the judge. "I presume it to be understood that each may employ such charge as he prefers, and that each shall load his own piece?" The seconds assented to this. Of course, in those days only muzzle loaders were used, although we had cut-felt wads and all the improvements in gunnery known at that time. My weapon was supplied me by Captain Stevenson--a good Manton, somewhat battered up from much use, but of excellent even pattern. Orme shot a Pope-made gun of London, with the customary straight hand and slight drop of the English makes. I think he had brought this with him on his travels. "Shall the firing be with the single barrel, or with both barrels?" inquired our referee. In those days many American matches were shot from plunge traps, and with the single barrel. "I'm more used to the use of both barrels," suggested Orme, "but I do not insist." "It is the same to me," I said. So finally we decided that the rise should be at twenty-eight yards, the use of both barrels allowed, and the boundary at fifty yards--such rules as came to be later more generally accepted in this country. "Gentlemen, I suggest that you agree each bird to be gathered fairly by the hand, each of you to select a gatherer. Each gentleman may remunerate his gatherer, but the said remuneration shall in each case remain the same. Is that satisfactory?" We agreed, and each tossed a silver dollar to a grinning darky boy. "Now, then, gentlemen, the Court is informed that this match is to be for the sum of twenty-five hundred dollars, wagered by Captain Orme, against a certain black stallion horse, the same not introduced in evidence, but stated by Mr. Cowles to be of the value of twenty-five hundred dollars in the open market. As the match is stated to be on even terms, the said John Cowles guarantees this certain horse to be of such value, or agrees to make good any deficit in that value. Is that understood, gentlemen?" "I did not ask any guarantee," said Orme. "I know the horse, and he is worth more than twice that sum. You are using me very handsomely, gentlemen." "Judge Reeves is right," said I. "The match is to be even." We bowed to each other. The judge felt in his pockets. "Ahem, gentlemen," he resumed. "The Court being, as it were, broke, will some one be so good as to lend the Court a silver coin? Thank you," to Williams, "and now, gentlemen, will you toss for the order of precedence?" We threw the coin, and I lost the toss. Orme sent me to the score first, with the purpose, as I knew, of studying his man. I loaded at the open bowls, and adjusted the caps as I stepped to the score. I was perhaps a bit too tense and eager, although my health and youth had never allowed me to be a victim of what is known as nervousness. Our birds were to be flown by hand from behind a screen, and my first bird started off a trifle low, but fast, and I knew I was not on with the first barrel, the hang of Stevenson's gun being not quite the same as my own. I killed it with the second, but it struggled over the tape. "Lost bird!" called out Judge Reeves sharply and distinctly; and it was evident that now he would be as decisive as he had hitherto been deliberate. Under the etiquette of the game no comment was made on my mishap, and my second, Stevenson, did not make the mistake of commiserating me. No one spoke a word as Orme stepped to the score. He killed his bird as clean as though he had done nothing else all his life, and indeed, I think he was half turned about from the score before the bird was down. "Dead bird!" called the referee, with jaw closing like a steel trap. Stevenson whispered to me this time. "Get full on with your first," he said. "They're lead-packers--old ones, every one, and a picked lot." I was a trifle angry with myself by this time, but it only left me well keyed. My bird fell dead inside of Orme's. A murmur of applause ran down the line. "Silence in the court," thundered Judge Reeves. We shot along for ten birds, and Orme was straight, to my nine killed. Stevenson whispered to me once more. "Take it easy, and don't be worried about it. It's a long road to a hundred. Don't think about your next bird, and don't worry whether he kills his or not. Just you kill 'em one at a time and kill each one dead. You mustn't think of anything on earth but that one bird before you." This was excellent advice in the game, and I nodded to him. Whatever the cause, I was by this time perfectly calm. I was now accustomed to my gun, and had confidence in it. I knew I could shoot to the top of my skill, and if I were beaten it would be through no fault of my own nerves and muscles, but through the luck of the birds or the greater skill of the other man. Orme went on as though he could kill a hundred straight. His time was perfect, and his style at the trap beautiful. He shot carelessly, but with absolute confidence, and more than half the time he did not use his second barrel. "Old Virginia never tires," whispered Stevenson. "He'll come back to you before long, never fear." But Orme made it twenty straight before he came back. Then he caught a strong right-quarterer, which escaped altogether, apparently very lightly hit. No one spoke a word of sympathy or exultation, but I caught the glint of Stevenson's eye. Orme seemed not in the least disturbed. We were now tied, but luck ran against us both for a time, since out of the next five I missed three and Orme two, and the odds again were against me. It stood the same at thirty, and at thirty-five. At forty the fortune of war once more favored me, for although Orme shot like a machine, with a grace and beauty of delivery I have never seen surpassed, he lost one bird stone dead over the line, carried out by a slant of the rising wind, which blew from left to right across the field. Five birds farther on, yet another struggled over for him, and at sixty-five I had him back of me two birds. The interest all along the line was now intense. Stevenson later told me that they had never seen such shooting as we were doing. For myself, it did not seem that I could miss. I doubt not that eventually I must have won, for fate does not so favor two men at the same hour. We went on slowly, as such a match must, occasionally pausing to cool our barrels, and taking full time with the loading. Following my second's instructions perfectly, I looked neither to the right nor to the left, not even watching Orme. I heard the confusion of low talk back of us, and knew that a large crowd had assembled, but I did not look toward the row of carriages, nor pay attention to the new arrivals which constantly came in. We shot on steadily, and presently I lost a bird, which came in sharply to the left. The heap of dead birds, some of them still fluttering in their last gasps, now grew larger at the side of the referee, and the negro boys were perhaps less careful to wring the necks of the birds as they gathered them. Occasionally a bird was tossed in such a way as to leave a fluttering wing. Wild pigeons decoy readily to any such sign, and I noticed that several birds, rising in such position that they headed toward the score, were incomers, and very fast. My seventieth bird was such, and it came straight and swift as an arrow, swooping down and curving about with the great speed of these birds when fairly on the wing. I covered it, lost sight of it, then suddenly realized that I must fire quickly if I was to reach it before it crossed the score. It was so close when I fired that the charge cut away the quills of a wing. It fell, just inside the line, with its head up, and my gatherer pounced upon it like a cat. The decision of the referee was prompt, but even so, it was almost lost in the sudden stir and murmur which arose behind us. Some one came pushing through the crowd, evidently having sprung down from one of the carriages. I turned to see a young girl, clad in white lawn, a thin silver-gray veil drawn tight under her chin, who now pushed forward through the men, and ran up to the black boy who stood with the bird in his hand, hanging by one wing. She caught it from him, and held it against her breast, where its blood drabbled her gown and hands. I remember I saw one drop of blood at its beak, and remember how glad I was that the bird was in effect dead, so that a trying scene would soon be ended. "Stop this at once!" cried the girl, raising an imperative hand. "Aren't you ashamed, all of you? Look, look at this!" She held out the dying bird in her hand. "Judge Reeves," she cried, "what are you doing there?" Our decisive referee grew suddenly abashed. "Ah--ah, my dear young lady--my very dear young lady," he began. "Captain Stevenson," exclaimed the girl, whirling suddenly on my second, "stop this at once! I'm ashamed of you." "Now, now, my dear Miss Ellen," began Stevenson, "can't you be a good fellow and run back home? We're off the reservation, and really--this, you see, is a judge of the Supreme Court! We're doing nothing unlawful." He motioned toward Judge Reeves, who looked suddenly uncomfortable. Major Williams added his counsel. "It is a little sport between Captain Orme and Mr. Cowles, Miss Ellen." "Sport, great sport, isn't it?" cried the girl, holding out her drabbled hands. "Look there"--she pointed toward the pile of dead birds--"hundreds of these killed, for money, for sport. It _isn't_ sport. You had all these birds once, you owned them." And there she hit a large truth, with a woman's guess, although none of us had paused to consider it so before. "The law, Miss Ellen," began Judge Reeves, clearing his throat, "allows the reducing to possession of animals _feroe naturoe_, that is to say, of wild nature, and ancient custom sanctions it." "They were already _reduced_" she flashed. "The sport was in getting them the first time, not in butchering them afterward." Stevenson and Williams rubbed their chins and looked at each other. As for me, I was looking at the girl; for it seemed to me that never in my life had I seen one so beautiful. Her hair, reddish brown in the sunlight, was massed up by the binding veil, which she pushed back now from her face. Her eyes, wide and dark, were as sad as they were angry. Tears streamed from them down her cheek, which she did not dry. Fearless, eager, she had, without thought, intruded where the average woman would not have ventured, and she stood now courageously intent only upon having the way of what she felt was right and justice. There came to me as I looked at her a curious sense that I and all my friends were very insignificant creatures; and it was so, I think, in sooth, she held us. "Captain Orme," said I to my opponent, "you observe the actual Supreme Court of America!" He bowed to me, with a questioning raising of his eyebrows, as though he did not like to go on under the circumstances. "I am unfortunate to lead by a bird," said I, tentatively. For some reason the sport had lost its zest to me. "And I being the loser as it stands," replied Orme, "do not see how I can beg off." Yet I thought him as little eager to go on as I myself. "Miss Ellen," said Judge Reeves, removing the hat from his white hair, "these gentlemen desire to be sportsmen as among themselves, but of course always gentlemen as regards the wish of ladies. Certain financial considerations are involved, so that both feel a delicacy in regard to making any motion looking to the altering of the original conditions of this contract. Under these circumstances, then, appeal is taken from this lower Court"--and he bowed very low--"to what my young friend very justly calls the Supreme Court of the United States. Miss Ellen, it is for you to say whether we shall resume or discontinue." The girl bowed to Judge Reeves, and then swept a sudden hand toward Stevenson and Williams. "Go home, all of you!" she said. And so, in sooth, much shamefaced, we did go home, Judge of the Supreme Court, officers of the Army, and all, vaguely feeling we had been caught doing some ignoble thing. For my part, although I hope mawkishness no more marks me than another, and although I made neither then nor at any time a resolution to discontinue sports of the field, I have never since then shot in a pigeon match, nor cared to see others do so, for it has never again seemed to me as actual sport. I think the intuitive dictum of the Army girl was right. "Now _wasn't_ that like Ellen!" exclaimed Kitty, when finally we found ourselves at her carriage--"just _like_ that girl. Just _wasn't_ it _like_ that _girl_! To fly in the face of the Supreme Court of the State, and all the laws of sport as well! Jack, I was keeping count," she held out her ivory tablets. "You'd have beaten him sure, and I wanted to see you do it. You were one ahead, and would have made it better in the next twenty-five. Oh, won't I talk to that girl when I see her!" "So that was Ellen!" I said to Kitty. "The very same. Now you've seen her. What you think I don't know, but what she thinks of you is pretty evident." "You were right, Mrs. Kitty," said I. "She's desperately good looking. But that isn't the girl I danced with last night. In the name of Providence, let me get away from this country, for I know not what may happen to me! No man is safe in this neighborhood of beauties." "Let's all go home and get a bite to eat," said Stevenson, with much common sense. "You've got glory enough just the way it stands." So that was Ellen! And it moreover was none less than Ellen Meriwether, daughter of my father's friend and business associate, whom I had traveled thus far to see, and whom, as I now determined, I must meet at the very first possible opportunity. Perhaps, then, it might very naturally come about that--but I dismissed this very rational supposition as swiftly as I was able. CHAPTER XI THE MORNING AFTER Events had somewhat hurried me in the two days since my arrival at Jefferson Barracks, but on the morning following the awkward ending of my match with Orme I had both opportunity and occasion to take stock of myself and of my plans. The mails brought me two letters, posted at Wallingford soon after my departure; one from Grace Sheraton and one from my mother. The first one was--what shall I say? Better perhaps that I should say nothing, save that it was like Grace Sheraton herself, formal, correct and cold. It was the first written word I had ever received from my fiancée, and I had expected--I do not know what. At least I had thought to be warmed, comforted, consoled in these times of my adversity. It seemed to my judgment, perhaps warped by sudden misfortune, that possibly my fiancée regretted her hasty promise, rued an engagement to one whose affairs had suddenly taken an attitude of so little promise. I was a poor man now, and worse than poor, because lately I had been rich, as things went in my surroundings. In this letter, I say, I had expected--I do not know what. But certainly I had not expected to see sitting on the page written in my fiancée's hand, the face of another woman. I hated myself for it. The second letter was from my mother, and it left me still more disconcerted and sad. "Jack," it said, "I grieve unspeakably. I am sad beyond all imaginings of sadness. I need thee. Come back the first day thee can to thy mother." There was indeed need for me at home. Yet here was I with my errand not yet well begun; for Captain Stevenson told me this morning that the Post Adjutant had received word from Colonel Meriwether saying that he would be gone for some days or weeks on the upper frontier. Rumor passed about that a new man, Sherman, was possibly to come on to assume charge of Jefferson, a man reported to be a martinet fit to stamp out any demonstration in a locality where secession sentiment was waxing strong. Meriwether, a Virginian, and hence suspected of Southern sympathy, was like many other Army officers at the time, shifted to points where his influence would be less felt, President Buchanan to the contrary notwithstanding. The sum of all which was that if I wished to meet Colonel Meriwether and lay before him my own personal request, I would be obliged to seek for him far to the West, in all likelihood at Fort Leavenworth, if not at the lower settlements around the old town of Independence. Therefore I wrote at once both to my fiancée and to my mother that it would be impossible for me to return at the time, nor at any positive future time then determinable. I bade a hasty good-by to my host and hostess, and before noon was off for the city. That night I took passage on the _River Belle_, a boat bound up the Missouri. Thus, somewhat against my will, I found myself a part of that motley throng of keen-faced, fearless American life then pushing out over the frontiers. About me were men bound for Oregon, for California, for the Plains, and not a few whose purpose I took to be partisanship in the border fighting between slavery and free soil. It was in the West, and on the new soils, that the question of slavery was really to be debated and settled finally. The intenseness, the eagerness, the compelling confidence of all this west-bound population did not fail to make the utmost impression upon my own heart, hitherto limited by the horizon of our Virginia hills. I say that I had entered upon this journey against my will. Our churning wheels had hardly reached the turbid flood of the Missouri before the spell of the frontier had caught me. In spite of sadness, trouble, doubt, I would now only with reluctance have resigned my advance into that country which offered to all men, young and old, a zest of deeds bold enough to banish sadness, doubt and grief. CHAPTER XII THE WRECK ON THE RIVER I made friends with many of these strange travelers, and was attracted especially by one, a reticent man of perhaps sixty odd years, in Western garb, full of beard and with long hair reaching to his shoulders. He had the face of an old Teuton war chief I had once seen depicted in a canvas showing a raid in some European forest in years long before a Christian civilization was known--a face fierce and eager, aquiline in nose, blue of eye; a figure stalwart, muscular, whose every movement spoke courage and self-confidence. Auberry was his name, and as I talked with him he told me of days passed with my heroes--Fremont, Carson, Ashley, Bill Williams, Jim Bridger, even the negro ruffian Beckwourth--all men of the border of whose deeds I had read. Auberry had trapped from the St. Mary's to the sources of the Red, and his tales, told in simple and matter-of-fact terms, set my very blood atingle. He was bound, as he informed me, for Laramie; always provided that the Sioux, now grown exceedingly restless over the many wagon-trains pushing up the Platte to all the swiftly-opening West, had not by this time swooped down and closed all the trails entirely. I wished nothing then so much as that occasion might permit me to join him in a journey across the Plains. Among all these west-bound travelers the savage and the half-civilized seemed to me to preponderate; this not to say that they were so much coarse and crude as they were fierce, absorbed, self-centered. Each man depended upon himself and needed to do so. The crew on the decks were relics from keel-boat days, surly and ugly of temper. The captain was an ex-pilot of the lower river, taciturn and surly of disposition. Our pilot had been drunk for a week at the levee of St. Louis and I misdoubt that all snags and sandbars looked alike to him. Among the skin-clad trappers, hunters and long-haired plainsmen, I saw but one woman, and she certainly was fit to bear them company. I should say that she was at least sixty years of age, and nearly six feet in height, thin, angular, wrinkled and sinewy. She wore a sunbonnet of enormous projection, dipped snuff vigorously each few moments, and never allowed from her hands the long squirrel rifle which made a part of her equipage. She was accompanied by her son, a tall, thin, ague-smitten youth of perhaps seventeen years and of a height about as great as her own. Of the two the mother was evidently the controlling spirit, and in her case all motherly love seemed to have been replaced by a vast contempt for the inefficiency and general lack of male qualities in her offspring. When I first saw them she was driving her son before her to a spot where an opening offered near the bow of the boat, in full sight of all the passengers, of whose attention she was quite oblivious. "Git up, there, Andy Jackson!" she said. "Stan' up!" The boy, his long legs braiding under him, and his peaked face still more pale, did as he was bid. He had no sooner taken his position than to my surprise I saw his mother cover him with the long barrel of a dragoon revolver. "Pull your gun, you low-down coward," she commanded, in tones that might have been heard half the length of the boat. Reluctantly the boy complied, his own revolver trembling in his unready hand. "Now, whut'd you do if a man was to kivver you like I'm a-doin' now?" demanded his mother. "G-g-g-Gawd, Maw, I dunno! I think I'd j-j-j-jump off in the river," confessed the boy. "Shore you would, and good luck if you'd git plumb drownded, you white-livered son of misery. Whatever in Gawd A'mighty's world you was borned for certainly is more'n I can tell--and I your Maw at that, that orto know if anybody could." "Madam," I interrupted, astonished at this discourse, "what do you mean by such talk to your son--for I presume he is your son. Why do you abuse him in this way?" I was sorry for the shivering wretch whom she had made the object of her wrath. "Shut up, and mind yore own business," answered the virago, swiftly turning the barrel of her weapon upon me. "Whut business is this here of yores?" "None, madam," I bowed, "but I was only curious." "You keep your own cur'osity to yourself ef you'r goin' to travel in these parts. That's a mighty good thing for you to learn." "Very true, madam," said I, gently disengaging the revolver barrel from the line of my waist, "but won't you tell me why you do these things with your son?" "It's none of your damned business," she answered, "but I don't mind tellin' you. I'm tryin' to make a man out'n him." "Ah, and this is part of the drill?" "Part of it. You, Andrew Jackson, stick yore pistol up agin your head the way I tol' you. Now snap it, damn you! Keep _on_ a-snappin'! Quit that jumpin', I tell you! Snap, it till you git through bein' scared of it. Do it now, or by Gawd, I'll chase you over the side of the boat and feed you to the catfish, you low-down imertation of a he-thing. Mister," she turned to me again, "will you please tell me how come me to be the mother of a thing like this--me, a woman of ole Missoury; and me a cousin of ole Simon Kenton of Kentucky beside?" "My good woman," said I, somewhat amused by her methods of action and speech, "do you mind telling me what is your name?" "Name's Mandy McGovern; and I come from Pike," she answered, almost before the words were out of my mouth. "I've been merried three times and my first two husbands died a-fightin, like gentlemen, in diffikilties with friends. Then along come this Danny Calkins, that taken up some land nigh to me in the bottoms--low-downest coward of a, man that ever disgraced the sile of yearth--and then I merried _him_." "Is he dead, too, my dear woman?" I asked. "Don't you 'dear woman' me--I ain't free to merry agin yit," said she. "Naw, he ain't dead, and I ain't deevorced either. I just done left him. Why, every man in Pike has whupped Danny Calkins one time or other. When a man couldn't git no reputation any other way, he'd come erlong and whupped my husband. I got right tired of it." "I should think you might." "Yes, and me the wife of two real men befo' then. If ever a woman had hard luck the same is me," she went on. "I had eight chillen by my two husbands that was real men, and every one of them died, or got killed like a man, or went West like a man--exceptin' this thing here, the son of that there Danny Calkins. Why, he's afraid to go coon huntin' at night for fear the cats'll get him. He don't like to melk a keow for fear she'll kick him. He's afraid to court a gal. He kaint shoot, he kaint chop, he kaint do nothin'. I'm takin' him out West to begin over again where the plowin's easier; and whiles we go along, I'm givin' him a 'casional dose of immanuel trainin', to see if I can't make him part way intoe a man. I dunno!" Mrs. McGovern dipped snuff vigorously. Thereafter she looked at me carefully. "Say, mister," said she, "how tall are you?" "About six feet, I think." "Hum! That's just about how tall my first husband was. You look some like him in the face, too. Say, he was the fightin'est man in Pike. How come him to get killed was a diffikilty with his brother-in-law, a Dutchman that kept a saloon and couldn't talk English. Jim, he went in there to get a bite to eat and asked this Dutchman what he could set up. Paul--that was the Dutchman's name--he says, 'Well, we got dawg--mallard dawg, and red head dawg, and canvas back dawg--what's the kind of dawg you like, Chim?' "My husband thought he was pokin' fun at him, talkin' about eatin' dawg--not knowin' the Dutchman was tryin' to say 'duck,' and couldn't. 'I might have a piece of duck,' said Jim, 'bit I ain't eatin' no dawg.' "'I _said_ dawg,' says Paul, still a-tryin' to say 'duck.' "'I know you did,' says Jim, and then they clinched. Jim He broke his knife off, and the Dutchman soaked him with a beer mallet. 'But Mandy,' says Jim to me, jest before he shet his eyes, 'I die content. That there fellow was the sweetest cuttin' man I ever did cut in all my life--he was jest like a ripe pumpkin.' Say, there was a man for you, was Jim--you look some like him." She dipped snuff again vigorously. "You compliment me very much, Mrs. McGovern," I said. "Say," she responded, "I got two thousand head o' hawgs runnin' around in the timber down there in Pike." At the moment I did not see the veiled tenderness of this speech, but thought of nothing better than to tell her that I was going no further up the river than Fort Leavenworth. "Um-hum!" she said. "Say, mister, mebbe that's yore wife back there in the kebbin in the middle of the boat?" "No, indeed. In fact I did not know there was any other lady on the boat besides yourself. I am not much interested in young ladies, as it happens." "You lie," said Mrs. McGovern promptly, "there ain't nothin' in the whole world you are ez much interested in as young wimmin. I'm a merried woman, and I know the signs. If I had a deevorce I might be a leetle jealous o' that gal in there. She's the best lookin' gal I ever did see in all my time. If I was merried to you I dunno but I'd be a leetle bit jealous o' you. Say, I may be a widder almost any day now. Somebody'll shore kill Danny Calkins 'fore long." "And, according to you, I may be a married man almost any day," I replied, smiling. "But you ain't merried yit." "No, not yet," I answered. "Well, if you git a chanct you take a look at that gal back there in the kebbin." Opportunity did not offer, however, to accept Mrs. McGovern's kindly counsel, and, occupied with my own somewhat unhappy reflections, I resigned myself to the monotony of the voyage up the Missouri River. We plowed along steadily, although laboriously, all night, all the next day and the next night, passing through regions rich in forest growth, marked here and there by the many clearings of the advancing settlers. We were by this time far above the junction of the Missouri River with the Mississippi--a point traceable by a long line of discolored water stained with the erosion of the mountains and plains far up the Missouri. As the boat advanced, hour after hour, finally approaching the prairie country beyond the Missouri forests, I found little in the surroundings to occupy my mind; and so far as my communings with myself were concerned, they offered little satisfaction. A sort of shuddering self-reproach overcame me. I wondered whether or not I was less coarse, less a thing polygamous than these crowding Mormons hurrying out to their sodden temples in the West, because now (since I have volunteered in these pages to tell the truth regarding one man's heart), I must admit that in the hours of dusk I found myself dreaming not of my fiancée back in old Virginia, but of other women seen more recently. As to the girl of the masked ball, I admitted that she was becoming a fading memory; but this young girl who had thrust through the crowd and broken up our proceedings the other day--the girl with the white lawn gown and the silver gray veil and the tear-stained eyes--in some way, as I was angrily obliged to admit, her face seemed annoyingly to thrust itself again into my consciousness. I sat near a deck lamp. Grace Sheraton's letter was in my pocket. I did not draw it out to read it and re-read it. I contented myself with watching the masked shadows on the shores. I contented myself with dreams, dreams which I stigmatized as unwarranted and wrong. We were running that night in the dark, before the rising of the moon, a thing which cautious steamboat men would not have ventured, although our pilot was confident that no harm could come to him. Against assurance such as this the dangerous Missouri with its bars and snags purposed a present revenge. Our whistle awakened the echoes along the shores as we plowed on up the yellow flood, hour after hour. Then, some time toward midnight, while most of the passengers were attempting some sort of rest, wrapped in their blankets along the deck, there came a slight shock, a grating slide, and a rasping crash of wood. With a forward churning of her paddles which sent water high along the rail, the _River Belle_ shuddered and lay still, her engines throbbing and groaning. In an instant every one on the boat was on his feet and running to the side. I joined the rush to the bows, and leaning over, saw that we were hard aground at the lower end of a sand bar. Imbedded in this bar was a long white snag, a tree trunk whose naked arms, thrusting far down stream, had literally impaled us. The upper woodwork of the boat was pierced quite through; and for all that one could tell at the moment, the hull below the line was in all likelihood similarly crushed. We hung and gently swung, apparently at the mercy of the tawny flood of old Missouri. CHAPTER XIII THE FACE IN THE FIRELIGHT Sudden disaster usually brings sudden calm, the pause before resolution or resignation. For the first instant after the shock of the boat upon the impaling snag I stood irresolute; the next, I was busy with plans for escape. Running down the companionway, I found myself among a crowd of excited deck hands, most of whom, with many of the passengers, were pushing toward the starboard rail, whence could be seen the gloom of the forest along shore. The gangway door on the opposite side of the boat was open, and as I looked out I could see the long white arms of the giant snag reaching alongside. Without much plan or premeditation I sprang out, and making good my hold upon the nearest limb as I plunged, found myself, to my surprise, standing in not more than four feet of water, the foot of the bar evidently running down well under the boat. Just as I turned to call to others I saw the tall figure of my plainsman, Auberry, appear at the doorway, and he also, with scarcely a moment's deliberation, took a flying leap and joined me on the snag. "It's better here than there," he said, "if she sinks or busts, and they're allus likely to do both." As we pulled ourselves up into the fork of the long naked branch we heard a voice, and saw the face of a woman leaning over the rail of the upper deck. I recognized my whilom friend, Mandy McGovern. "Whut you all doin' down there?" she called. "Wait a minute; I'm comin', too." A moment later she appeared at the opening of the lower deck and craned out her long neck. I then saw at her side the figure of a young woman, her hair fallen from its coils, her feet bare, her body wrapped apparently only in some light silken dressing to be thrown above her nightwear. She, too, looked out into the darkness, but shrank back. "Here, you," called out Mandy McGovern, "git hold of the end of this rope." She tossed to me the end of the gang-plank rope, by which the sliding stage was drawn out and in at the boat landings. I caught this and passed it over a projection on the snag. "Now, haul it out," commanded she; and as we pulled, she pushed, so that presently indeed we found that the end reached the edge of the limb on which we sat. Without any concern, Mrs. McGovern stepped out on the swaying bridge, sunbonnet hanging down her back, her long rifle under one arm, while by the other hand she dragged her tall son, Andrew Jackson, who was blubbering in terror. This bridge, however, proved insecure, for as Mandy gave Andrew Jackson a final yank at its farther end, the latter stumbled, and in his struggles to lay hold upon the snag, pushed the end of the planks off their support. His mother's sinewy arm thrust him into safety, and she herself clambered up, very wet and very voluble in her imprecations on his clumsiness. "Thar, now, look what ye did, ye low-down coward," she said. "Like to 'a' drownded both of us, and left the gal back there on the boat!" The gang plank, confined by the rope, swung in the current alongside the snag, but it seemed useless to undertake to restore it to its position. The girl cowered against the side of the deck opening, undecided. "Wait," I called out to her; and slipping down into the water again, I waded as close as I could to the door, the water then catching me close to the shoulders. "Jump!" I said to her, holding out my arms. "I can't--I'm afraid," she said, in a voice hardly above a whisper. "Do as I tell you!" I roared, in no gentle tones, I fear. "Jump at once!" She stooped, and sprang, and as I caught her weight with my arms under hers, she was for the moment almost immersed; but I staggered backwards and managed to hold my footing till Auberry's arms reached us from the snag, up which we clambered, the girl dripping wet and catching her breath in terror. "That's right," said Mandy McGovern, calmly, "now here we be, all of us. Now, you men, git hold of this here rope an' haul up them boards, an' make a seat for us." Auberry and I found it difficult to execute this order, for the current of old Missouri, thrusting against so large an object, was incredibly strong; but at last, little by little edging the heavy staging up over the limb of the snag, we got its end upon another fork and so made a ticklish support, half in and half out of the water. "That's better," said Mandy, climbing upon it. "Now come here, you pore child. You're powerful cold." She gathered the girl between her knees as she sat. "Here, you man, give me your coat," she said to me; and I complied, wishing it were not so wet. None on the boat seemed to have any notion of what was going on upon our side of the vessel. We heard many shouts and orders, much trampling of feet, but for the most part on the opposite part of the boat. Then at once we heard the engines reverse, and were nearly swept from our insecure hold upon the snag by the surges kicked up under the wheel. The current caught the long underbody of the boat as she swung. We heard something rip and splinter and grate; and then the boat, backing free from the snag, gradually slipped down from the bar and swept into the current under steam again. Not so lucky ourselves, for this wrenching free of the boat had torn loose the long imbedded roots of the giant snag, and the plowing current getting under the vast flat back of matted roots, now slowly forced it, grinding and shuddering, down from the toe of the bar. With a sullen roll it settled down into new lines as it reached the deeper water. Then the hiss of the water among the branches ceased. Rolling and swaying, we were going with the current, fully afloat on the yellow flood of the Missouri! I held my breath for a moment, fearing lest the snag might roll over entirely; but no concern seemed to reach the mind of our friend Mrs. McGovern. "It's all right," said she, calmly. "No use gittin' skeered till the time comes. Boat's left us, so I reckon we'd better be gittin' somewhere for ourselves. You, Andrew Jackson, dem yer fool soul, if you don't quit snivelin' I'll throw you off into the worter." Looking across the stream I could see the lights of the _River Belle_ swing gradually into a longer line, and presently heard the clanging of her bells as she came to a full stop, apparently tied up along shore. From that direction the current seemed to come toward us with a long slant, so that as we dropped down stream, we also edged away. We had traveled perhaps three quarters of a mile, when I noticed the dim loom of trees on our side of the stream, and saw that we were approaching a long point which ran out below us. This should have been the deep side of the river, but no one can account for the vagaries of the Missouri. When we were within a hundred yards or so of the point, we felt a long shuddering scrape under us, and after a series of slips and jerks, our old snag came to anchor again, its roots having once more laid hold upon a bar. The sand-wash seemed to have been deflected by the projecting mass of a heap of driftwood which I now saw opposite to us, its long white arms reaching out toward those of our floating craft. Once more the hissing of the water began among the buried limbs, and once more the snag rolled ominously, and then lay still, its giant, naked trunk, white and half submerged, reaching up stream fifty feet above us. We were apparently as far from safety as ever, although almost within touch of shore. It occurred to me that as I had been able to touch bottom on the other bar, I might do so here. I crawled back along the trunk of the snag to a place as near the roots as I could reach, and letting myself down gently, found that I could keep my footing on the sand. "Look out there! boy," cried Auberry to me. "This river's dangerous. If it takes you down, swim for the shore. Don't try to get back here." We could see that the set of the current below ran close inshore, although doubtless the water there was very deep. Little by little I edged up the stream, and found presently that the water shoaled toward the heap of driftwood. It dropped off, I know not how deep, between the edge of the bar and the piled drift; but standing no more than waist deep; I could reach the outer limbs of the drift and saw that they would support my weight. After that I waded back to the snag carefully, and once more ordered the young woman to come to me. She came back along the naked and slippery trunk of the snag, pulling herself along by her hands, her bare feet and limbs deep in the water alongside. I could hear the sob of her intaken breath, and saw that she trembled in fright. "Come," I said, as she finally reached the mass of the roots. And more dead than alive, it seemed to me, she fell once more into my arms. I felt her grasp tighten about my neck, and her firm body crowd against me as we both sank down for an instant. Then I caught my feet and straightened, and was really the steadier for the added weight, as any one knows who has waded in fast water. Little by little I edged up on the bar, quite conscious of her very gracious weight, but sure we should thus reach safety. "Put me down," she said at length, as she saw the water shoaling. It was hip deep to me, but waist deep to her; and I felt her shudder as she caught its chill. Her little hand gripped tight to mine. By this time the others had also descended from the snag. I saw old Auberry plunging methodically along, at his side Mrs. McGovern, clasping the hand of her son. "Come on here, you boy," she said. "What ye skeered of? Tall as you air, you could wade the whole Missouri without your hair gettin' wet. Come along!" "Get up, Auberry," I said to him as he approached, and motioned to the long, overhanging branches from the driftwood. He swung up, breaking off the more insecure boughs, and was of the belief that we could get across in that way. As he reached down, I swung the young woman up to him, and she clambered on as best she could. Thus, I scarce know how, we all managed to reach the solid drift, and so presently found ourselves ashore, on a narrow, sandy beach, hedged on the back by a heavy growth of willows. "Now then, you men," ordered Mandy McGovern, "get some wood out and start a fire, right away. This here girl is shaking the teeth plumb out'n her head." Auberry and I had dragged some wood from the edge of the drift and pulled it into a heap near by, before we realized that neither of us had matches. "Humph!" snorted our leader, feeling in her pockets. She drew forth two flasks, each stoppered with a bit of corncob. The one held sulphur matches, thus kept quite dry, and this she passed to me. The other she handed to the young woman. "Here," said she, "take a drink of that. It'll do you good." I heard the girl gasp and choke as she obeyed this injunction; and then Mandy applied the bottle gurglingly to her own lips. "I've got a gallon of that back there on the boat," said Auberry ruefully. "Heap of good it'll do you there," remarked Mandy. "Looks to me like you all never did travel much. Fer me, I always go heeled. Wherever I gits throwed, there my rifle, and my matches, and my licker gits throwed _too_! Now I'll show you how to, light a fire." Presently we had a roaring blaze started, which added much to the comfort of all, for the chill of night was over the river, despite the fact that this was in the springtime. Mandy seated herself comfortably upon a log, and producing a corncob pipe and a quantity of natural leaf tobacco, proceeded to enjoy herself in her own fashion. "This here's all right," she remarked. "We might be a heap worse off'n we air." I could not help pitying the young woman who crouched near her at the fireside, still shivering; she seemed so young and helpless and so out of place in such surroundings. As presently the heat of the flame made her more comfortable, she began to tuck back the tumbled locks of her hair, which I could see was thick and dark. The firelight showed in silhouette the outlines of her face. It seemed to me I had never seen one more beautiful. I remembered the round firmness of her body in my arms, the clasp of her hands about my neck, her hair blown across my cheek, and I reflected that since fortune had elected me to be a rescuer, it was not ill that so fair an object had been there for the rescuing. Perhaps she felt my gaze, for presently she turned and said to me, in as pleasant a speaking voice as I had ever heard, "Indeed, it might be worse. I thank you so much. It was very brave of you." "Listen at that!" grunted Mandy McGovern. "What'd them men have to do with it? Where'd you all be now if it wasn't for me?" "You'd be much better off," I ventured, "if I hadn't done any rescuing at all, and if we'd all stayed over there on the boat." I pointed to the lights of the _River Belle_, lying on the opposite shore, something like a mile above us. "We're all right now," said old Auberry after a time. "If we can't get across to the boat, it's only four or five miles up to the settlements on this side, opposite the old Independence landing." "I couldn't walk," said the girl. She shyly looked down at the edge of her thin wrapper, and I saw the outline of an uncovered toe. "Here, ma'am," said Auberry, unknotting from his neck a heavy bandana. "This is the best I can do. You and the woman see if you can tie up your feet somehow." The girl hesitated, laughed, and took the kerchief. She and Mandy bent apart, and I heard the ripping of the handkerchief torn across. The girl turned back to the fire and put out a little foot for us to see, muffled now in the red folds of the kerchief. Her thin garments by this time were becoming dry, and her spirits now became more gay. She fell into a ready comradeship with us. As she stood at the fire, innocent of its defining light, I saw that she was a beautiful creature, apparently about twenty years of age. Given proper surroundings, I fancied, here was a girl who might make trouble for a man. Eyes like hers, I imagined, had before this set some man's heart astir; and one so fair as she never waited long in this world for admirers. She stooped and spread out her hands before the flames. I could see that her hands were small and well formed, could see the firelight shine pink at the inner edges of her fingers. On one finger, as I could not avoid noticing, was a curious ring of plain gold. The setting, also of gold, was deeply cut into the figure of a rose. I recalled that I had never seen a ring just similar. Indeed, it seemed to me, as I stole a furtive glance at her now and then, I had never seen a girl just similar. [Illustration: THEY FOUGHT FURIOUSLY THE YELLING CHARGING REDSKIN WARRIORS] [Illustration: THE WAGONS DRAW INTO A DEFENSIVE CIRCLE] We had waited perhaps not over an hour at our fireside, undecided what to do, when Auberry raised a hand. "Listen," he said. "There's a boat coming"; and presently we all heard the splash of oars. Our fire had been seen by one of the boats of the _River Belle_, out picking up such stragglers as could be found. "Hello, there!" called a rough voice to us, as the boat grated at our beach. Auberry and I walked over and found that it was the mate of the boat, with a pair of oarsmen in a narrow river skiff. "How many's there of you?" asked the mate--"Five?--I can't take you all." "All right," said Auberry, "this gentleman and I will walk up to the town on this side. You take the women and the boy. We'll send down for our things in the morning, if you don't come up." So our little bivouac on the beach came to an end. A moment later the passengers were embarked, and Auberry and I, standing at the bow, were about to push off the boat for them. "A moment, sir," exclaimed our friend of the fireside, rising and stepping toward me as I stood alongside the boat. "You are forgetting your coat." She would have taken it from her shoulders, but I forbade it. She hesitated, and finally said, "I thank you so much"; holding out her hand. I took it. It was a small hand, with round fingers, firm of clasp. I hate a hard-handed woman, or one with mushy fingers, but this, as it seemed to me, was a hand excellently good to clasp--warm now, and no longer trembling in the terrors of the night. "I do not know your name, sir," she said, "but I should like my father to thank you some day." "All ready!" cried the mate. "My name is Cowles," I began, "and sometime, perhaps--" "All aboard!" cried the mate; and so the oars gave way. So I did not get the name of the girl I had seen there in the firelight. What did remain--and that not wholly to my pleasure, so distinct it seemed--was the picture of her high-bred profile, shown in chiaroscuro at the fireside, the line of her chin and neck, the tumbled masses of her hair. These were things I did not care to remember; and I hated myself as a soft-hearted fool, seeing that I did so. "Son," said old Auberry to me, after a time, as we trudged along up the bank, stumbling over roots and braided grasses, "that was a almighty fine lookin' gal we brung along with us there." "I didn't notice," said I. "No," said Auberry, solemnly, "I noticed you didn't take no notice; so you can just take my judgment on it, which I allow is safe. Are you a married man?" "Not yet," I said. "You might do a heap worse than that gal," said Auberry. "I suppose you're married yourself," I suggested. "Some," said Auberry, chuckling in the dark. "In fact, a good deal, I reckon. My present woman's a Shoshone--we're livin' up Horse Creek, below Laramie. Them Shoshones make about the best dressers of 'em all." "I don't quite understand--" "I meant hides. They can make the best buckskin of any tribe I know." He walked on ahead in the dark for some time, before he added irrelevantly, "Well, after all, in some ways, women is women, my son, and men is men; that bein' the way this world is made just at these here present times. As I was sayin', that's a powerful nice lookin' gal." I shuddered in my soul. I glanced up at the heavens, studded thick with stars. It seemed to me that I saw gazing down directly at me one cold, bright, reproving star, staring straight into my soul, and accusing me of being nothing more than a savage, nothing better than a man. CHAPTER XIV AU LARGE At our little village on the following morning, Auberry and I learned that the _River Bell_ would lie up indefinitely for repairs, and that at least one, perhaps several days would elapse before she resumed her journey up stream. This suited neither of us, so we sent a negro down with a skiff, and had him bring up our rifles, Auberry's bedding, my portmanteaus, etc., it being our intention to take the stage up to Leavenworth. By noon our plans were changed again, for a young Army officer came down from that Post with the information that Colonel Meriwether was not there. He had been ordered out to the Posts up the Platte River, had been gone for three weeks; and no one could tell what time he would return. The Indians were reported very bad along the Platte. Possibly Colonel Meriwether might be back at Leavenworth within the week, possibly not for a month or more! This was desperate news for me, for I knew that I ought to be starting home at that very time. Still, since I had come hither as a last resort, it would do no good for me to go back unsuccessful. Should I wait here, or at Leavenworth; or should I go on still farther west? Auberry decided that for me. "I tell you what we can do," he said. "We can outfit here, and take the Cut-off trail to the Platte, across the Kaw and the Big and Little Blue--that'll bring us in far enough east to catch the Colonel if he's comin' down the valley. You'd just as well be travelin' as loafin', and that's like enough the quickest way to find him." The counsel seemed good. I sat down and wrote two more letters home, once more stating that I was not starting east, but going still farther west. This done, I tried to persuade myself to feel no further uneasiness, and to content my mind with the sense of duty done. Auberry, as it chanced, fell in with a party bound for Denver, five men who had two wagons, a heavy Conestoga freight wagon, or prairie schooner, and a lighter vehicle without a cover. We arranged with these men, and their cook as to our share in the mess box, and so threw in our dunnage with theirs, Auberry and I purchasing us a good horse apiece. By noon of the next day we were on our way westward, Auberry himself now much content. "The settlements for them that likes 'em," said he. "For me, there's nothing like the time when I start west, with a horse under me, and run _au large_, as the French traders say. You'll get a chance now to see the Plains, my son." At first we saw rather the prairies than the Plains proper. We were following a plainly marked trail, which wound in and out among low rolling hills; and for two days we remained in touch with the scattered huts of the squalid, half-civilized Indians and squaw men who still hung around the upper reservations. Bleached bones of the buffalo we saw here and there, but there was no game. The buffalo had long years since been driven far to the westward. We took some fine fish in the clear waters of the forks of the Blue, which with some difficulty we were able to ford. Gradually shaking down into better organization, we fared on and on day after day, until the grass grew shorter and the hills flatter. At last we approached the valley of the Platte. We were coming now indeed into the great Plains, of which I had heard all my youth. A new atmosphere seemed to invest the world. The talk of my companions was of things new and wild and strange to me. All my old life seemed to be slipping back of me, into a far oblivion. A feeling of rest, of confidence and of uplift came to me. It was difficult to be sad. The days were calm, the nights were full of peace. Nature seemed to be loftily above all notice of small frettings. Many things became more clear to me, as I rode and reflected. In some way, I know not how, it seemed to me that I was growing older. We had been out more than two weeks when finally we reached the great valley along which lay the western highway of the old Oregon trail, now worn deep and dusty by countless wheels. Our progress had not been very rapid, and we had lost time on two occasions in hunting up strayed animals. But, here at last, I saw the road of the old fur traders, of Ashley and Sublette and Bridger, of Carson and Fremont, later of Kearney, Sibley, Marcy, one knew not how many Army men, who had for years been fighting back the tribes and making ready this country for white occupation. As I looked at this wild, wide region, treeless, fruitless, it seemed to me that none could want it. The next thought was the impression that, no matter how many might covet it, it was exhaustless, and would last forever. This land, this West, seemed to all then unbelievably large and limitless. We pushed up the main trail of the Platte but a short distance that night, keeping out an eye for grazing ground for our horses. Auberry knew the country perfectly. "About five or six miles above here," he said, "there's a stage station, if the company's still running through here now. Used to be two or three fellers and some horses stayed there." We looked forward to meeting human faces with some pleasure; but an hour or so later, as we rode on, I saw Auberry pull up his horse, with a strange tightening of his lips. "Boys," said he, "there's where it _was!_" His pointing finger showed nothing more than a low line of ruins, bits of broken fencing, a heap of half-charred timbers. "They've been here," said Auberry, grimly. "Who'd have thought the Sioux would be this far east?" He circled his horse out across the valley, riding with his head bent down. "Four days ago at least," he said, "and a bunch of fifty or more of them. Come on, men." We rode up to the station, guessing what we would see. The buildings lay waste and white in ashes. The front of the dugout was torn down, the wood of its doors and windows burned. The door of the larger dugout, where the horses had been stabled, was also torn away. Five dead horses lay near by, a part of the stage stock kept there. We kept our eyes as long as we could from what we knew must next be seen--the bodies of the agent and his two stablemen, mutilated and half consumed, under the burned-out timbers. I say the bodies, for the lower limbs of all three had been dismembered and cast in a heap near where the bodies of the horses lay. We were on the scene of one of the brutal massacres of the savage Indian tribes. It seemed strange these things should be in a spot so silent and peaceful, under a sky so blue and gentle. "Sioux!" said Auberry, looking down as he leaned on his long rifle. "Not a wheel has crossed their trail, and I reckon the trail's blocked both east and west. But the boys put up a fight." He led us here and there and showed dried blotches on the soil, half buried now in the shifting sand; showed us the bodies of a half-dozen ponies, killed a couple of hundred yards from the door of the dugout. "They must have shot in at the front till they killed the boys," he added. "And they was so mad they stabbed the horses for revenge, the way they do sometimes. Yes, the boys paid their way when they went, I reckon." We stood now in a silent group, and what was best to be done none at first could tell. Two of our party were for turning back down the valley, but Auberry said he could see no advantage in that. "Which way they've gone above here no one can tell," he said. "They're less likely to come here now, so it seems to me the best thing we can do is to lay up here and wait for some teams comin' west. There'll be news of some kind along one way or the other, before so very long." So now we, the living, took up our places almost upon the bodies of the dead, after giving these the best interment possible. We hobbled and side-lined our horses, and kept our guards both day and night; and so we lay here for three days. The third day passed until the sun sank toward the sand dunes, and cast a long path of light across the rippling shallows among the sand bars of the Platte; but still we saw no signs of newcomers. Evening was approaching when we heard the sound of a distant shot, and turning saw our horse-guard, who had been stationed at the top of a bluff near by, start down the slope, running toward the camp. As he approached he pointed, and we looked down the valley toward the east. Surely enough, we saw a faint cloud of dust coming toward us, whether of vehicles or horsemen we could not tell. Auberry thought that it was perhaps some west-bound emigrant or freight wagon, or perhaps a stage with belated mails. "Stay here, boys," he said, "and I'll ride down and see." He galloped off, half a mile or so, and then we saw him pause, throw up his hand, and ride forward at full speed. By that time the travelers were topping a slight rise in the floor of the valley, and we could see that they were horsemen, perhaps thirty or forty in all. Following them came the dust-whitened top of an Army ambulance, and several camp wagons, to the best of our figuring at that distance. We hesitated no longer and quickly mounting our horses rode full speed toward them. Auberry met us, coming back. "Troop of dragoons, bound for Laramie," he said. "No Indians back of them, but orders are out for all of the wagons and stages to hole up till further orders. This party's going through. I told them to camp down there," he said to me aside, "because they've got women with 'em, and I didn't want them to see what's happened up here. We'll move our camp down to theirs to-night, and like enough go on with them to-morrow." By the time I was ready to approach these new arrivals, they had their plans for encampment under way with the celerity of old campaigners. Their horses were hobbled, their cook-fires of buffalo "chips" were lit, their wagons backed into a rude stockade. Guards were moving out with the horses to the grazing ground. They were a seasoned lot of Harney's frontier fighters, grimed and grizzled, their hats, boots and clothing gray with dust, but their weapons bright. Their leader was a young lieutenant, who approached me when I rode up. It seemed to me I remembered his blue eyes and his light mustaches, curled upward at the points. "Lieutenant Belknap!" I exclaimed. "Do you remember meeting me down at Jefferson?" "Why, Mr. Cowles!" he exclaimed. "How on earth did you get here? Of course I remember you." "Yes, but how did you get here yourself--you were not on my boat?" "I was ordered up the day after you left Jefferson Barracks," he said, "and took the _Asia_. We got into St. Joe the same day with the _River Belle_, and heard about your accident down river. I suppose you came out on the old Cut-off trail." "Yes; and of course you took the main trail west from Leavenworth." He nodded. "Orders to take this detachment out to Laramie," he said, "and meet Colonel Meriwether there." "He'll not be back?" I exclaimed in consternation. "I was hoping to meet him coming east." "No," said Belknap, "you'll have to go on with us if you wish to see him. I'm afraid the Sioux are bad on beyond. Horrible thing your man tells me about up there," he motioned toward the ruined station. "I'm taking his advice and going into camp here, for I imagine it isn't a nice thing for a woman to see." He turned toward the ambulance, and I glanced that way. There stood near it a tall, angular figure, head enshrouded in an enormous sunbonnet; a personality which it seemed to me I recognized. "Why, that's my friend, Mandy McGovern," said I. "I met her on the boat. Came out from Leavenworth with you, I suppose?" "That isn't the one," said Belknap. "No, I don't fancy that sister McGovern would cut up much worse than the rest of us over that matter up there; but the other one--" At that moment, descending at the rear of the ambulance, I saw the other one. CHAPTER XV HER INFINITE VARIETY It was a young woman who left the step of the ambulance and stood for a moment shading her eyes with her hand and looking out over the shimmering expanse of the broad river. All at once the entire landscape was changed. It was not the desert, but civilization which swept about us. A transfiguration had been wrought by one figure, fair to look upon. I could see that this was no newcomer in the world of the out-of-doors, however. She was turned out in what one might have called workmanlike fashion, although neat and wholly feminine. Her skirt was short, of good gray cloth, and she wore a rather mannish coat over a blue woolen shirt or blouse. Her hands were covered with long gauntlets, and her hat was a soft gray felt, tied under the chin with a leather string, while a soft gray veil was knotted carelessly about her neck as kerchief. Her face for the time was turned from us, but I could see that her hair was dark and heavy, could see, in spite of its loose garb, that her figure was straight, round and slender. The swift versatility of my soul was upon the point of calling this as fine a figure of young womanhood as I had ever seen. Now, indeed, the gray desert had blossomed as a rose. I was about to ask some questions of Belknap, when all at once I saw something which utterly changed my pleasant frame of mind. The tall figure of a man came from beyond the line of wagons--a man clad in well-fitting tweeds cut for riding. His gloves seemed neat, his boots equally neat, his general appearance immaculate as that of the young lady whom he approached. I imagine it was the same swift male jealousy which affected both Belknap and myself as we saw Gordon Orme! "Yes, there is your friend, the Englishman," said Belknap rather bitterly. "I meet him everywhere," I answered. "The thing is simply uncanny. What is he doing out here?" "We are taking him out to Laramie with us. He has letters to Colonel Meriwether, it seems. Cowles, what do you know about that man?" "Nothing," said I, "except that he purports to come from the English Army." "I wish that he had stayed in the English Army, and not come bothering about ours. He's prowling about every military Post he can get into." "With a special reference to Army officers born in the South?" I looked Belknap full in the eye. "There's something in that," he replied. "I don't like the look of it. These are good times for every man to attend to his own business." As Orme stood chatting with the young woman, both Belknap and I turned away. A moment later I ran across my former friend, Mandy McGovern. In her surprise she stopped chewing tobacco, when her eyes fell on me, but she quickly came to shake me by the hand. "Well, I dee-clare to gracious!" she began, "if here ain't the man I met on the boat! How'd you git away out here ahead of us? Have you saw airy buffeler? I'm gettin' plumb wolfish fer something to shoot at. Where all you goin', anyhow? An' whut you doin' out here?" What I was doing at that precise moment, as I must confess, was taking a half unconscious look once more toward the tail of the ambulance, where Orme and the young woman stood chatting. But it was at this time that Orme first saw or seemed to see me. He left the ambulance and came rapidly forward. "By Jove!" he said, "here you are again! Am I your shadow, Mr. Cowles, or are you mine? It is really singular how we meet. I'm awfully glad to meet you, although I don't in the least see how you've managed to get here ahead of us." Belknap by this time had turned away about his duties, and Orme and I spoke for a few minutes. I explained to him the changes of my plans which had been brought about by the accident to the _River Belle_. "Lieutenant Belknap tells me that you are going through to Laramie with him," I added. "As it chances, we have the same errand--it is my purpose also to call on Colonel Meriwether there, in case we do not meet him coming down." "How extraordinary! Then we'll be fellow travelers for a time, and I hope have a little sport together. Fine young fellow, Belknap. And I must say that his men, although an uncommonly ragged looking lot and very far from smart as soldiers, have rather a workmanlike way about them, after all." "Yes, I think they would fight," I remarked, coolly. "And from the look of things, they may have need to." I told him then of what he had discovered at the station house near by, and added the caution not to mention it about the camp. Orme's eyes merely brightened with interest. Anything like danger or adventure had appeal to him. I said to him that he seemed to me more soldier than preacher, but he only laughed and evaded. "You'll eat at our mess to-night, of course" said he. "That's our fire just over there, and I'm thinking the cook is nearly ready. There comes Belknap now." Thus, it may be seen, the confusion of these varied meetings had kept me from learning the name or identity of the late passenger of the ambulance. I presume both Orme and Belknap supposed that the young lady and I had met before we took our places on the ground at the edge of the blanket which served as a table. She was seated as I finally approached, and her face was turned aside as she spoke to the camp cook, with whom she seemed on the best of terms. "Hurry, Daniels," she called out. "I'm absolutely starved to death!" There was something in her voice which sounded familiar to me, and I sought a glance at her face, which the next instant was hid by the rim of her hat as she looked down, removing her long gloves. At least I saw her hands--small hands, sun-browned now. On one finger was a plain gold ring, with a peculiar setting--the figure of a rose, carved deep into the gold! "After all," thought I to myself, "there are some things which can not be duplicated. Among these, hair like this, a profile like this, a figure like this." I gazed in wonder, then in certainty. No there was no escaping the conclusion. This was not another girl, but the same girl seen again. A moment's reflection showed how possible and indeed natural this might be. My chance companion in the river accident had simply gone on up the river a little farther and then started west precisely as Mandy McGovern had explained. Belknap caught the slight restraint as the girl and I both raised our eyes. "Oh, I say, why--what in the world--Mr. Cowles, didn't you--that is, haven't you--" "No," said I, "I haven't and didn't, I think. But I think also--" The girl's face was a trifle flushed, but her eyes were merry. "Yes," said she, "I think Mr. Cowles and I have met once before." She slightly emphasized the word "once," as I noticed. "But still I may remind you all, gentlemen," said I, "that I have not yet heard this lady's name, and am only guessing, of course, that it is Miss Meriwether, whom you are taking out to Laramie." "Why, of course," said Belknap, and "of course," echoed everybody else. My fair _vis-a-vis_ looked me now full in the face and smiled, so that a dimple in her right cheek was plainly visible. "Yes," said she, "I'm going on out to join my father on the front. This is my second time across, though. Is it your first, Mr. Cowles?" "My first; and I am very lucky. You know, I also am going out to meet your father, Miss Meriwether." "How singular!" She put down her tin cup of coffee on the blanket. "My father was an associate of Colonel Meriwether in some business matters back in Virginia--" "Oh, I know--it's about the coal lands, that are going to make us all rich some day. Yes, I know about that; though I think your father rarely came over into Albemarle." Under the circumstances I did not care to intrude my personal matters, so I did not mention the cause or explain the nature of my mission in the West. "I suppose that you rarely came into our county either, but went down the Shenandoah when you journeyed to Washington?" I said simply, "I myself have never met Colonel Meriwether." All this sudden acquaintance and somewhat intimate relation between us two seemed to afford no real pleasure either to Belknap or Orme. For my part, with no clear reason in the world, it seemed to me that both Belknap and Orme were very detestable persons. Had the framing of this scene been left utterly to me, I should have had none present at the fireside save myself and Ellen Meriwether. All these wide gray plains, faintly tinged in the hollows with green, and all this sweeping sky of blue, and all this sparkling river, should have been just for ourselves and no one else. But my opportunity came in due course, after all. As we rose from the ground at the conclusion of our meal, the girl dropped one of her gloves. I hastened to pick it up, walking with her a few paces afterward. "The next time we are shipwrecked together," said I, "I shall leave you on the boat. You do not know your friends!" "Why do you say that?" "And yet I knew you at once. I saw the ring on your hand, and recognized it--it is the same I saw in the firelight on the river bank, the night we left the _Belle_." "How brilliant of you! At least you can remember a ring." "I remember seeing the veil you wear once before--at a certain little meeting between Mr. Orme and myself." "You seem to have been a haberdasher in your time, Mr. Cowles! Your memory of a lady's wearing apparel is very exact. I should feel very much nattered." None the less I saw the dimple come in her cheek. She was pulling on her glove as she spoke. I saw embroidered on the gauntlet the figure of a red heart. "My memory is still more exact in the matter of apparel," said I. "Miss Meriwether, is this your emblem indeed--this red heart? It seems to me I have also seen _it_ somewhere before!" The dimple deepened. "When Columbus found America," she answered, "it is said that the savages looked up and remarked to him, 'Ah, we see we are discovered!'" "Yes," said I, "you are fully discovered--each of you--all of you, all three or four of you, Miss _Ellen Meriwether_." "But you did not know it until now--until this very moment. You did not know me--could not remember me--not even when the masks were off! Ah, it was good as a play!" "I have done nothing else but remember you." "How much I should value your acquaintance, Mr. Cowles of Virginia! How rare an opportunity you have given me of seeing on the inside of a man's heart." She spoke half bitterly, and I saw that in one way or other she meant revenge. "I do not understand you," I rejoined. "No, I suppose you men are all alike--that any one of you would do the same. It is only the last girl, the nearest girl, that is remembered. Is it not so?" "It is not so," I answered. "How long will you remember me this time--me or my clothes, Mr. Cowles? Until you meet another?" "All my life," I said; "and until I meet you again, in some other infinite variety. Each last time that I see you makes me forget all the others; but never once have I forgotten _you_." "In my experience," commented the girl, sagely, "all men talk very much alike." "Yes, I told you at the masked ball," said I, "that sometime I would see you, masks off. Was it not true? I did not at first know you when you broke up my match with Orme, but I swore that sometime I would know you. And when I saw you that night on the river, it seemed to me I certainly must have met you before--have known you always--and now--" "You had to study my rings and clothing to identify me with myself!" "But you flatter me when you say that you knew me each time," I ventured. "I am glad that I have given you no occasion to prove the truth of your own statement, that I, like other men, am interested only in the last girl, the nearest girl. You have had no reason--" "My experience with men," went on this sage young person, "leads me to believe that they are the stupidest of all created creatures. There was never once, there is never once, when a girl does not notice a man who is--well, who is taking notice!" "Very well, then," I broke out, "I admit it! I did take notice of four different girls, one after the other--but it was because each of them was fit to wipe out the image of all the others--and of all the others in the world." This was going far. I was a young man. I urge no more excuse. I am setting down simply the truth, as I have promised. The girl looked about, gladly, I thought, at the sound of a shuffling step approaching. "You, Aunt Mandy?" she called out. And to me, "I must say good-night, sir." I turned away moodily, and found the embers of the fire at my own camp. Not far away I could hear the stamp of horses, the occasional sound of low voices and of laughter, where some of the enlisted men were grouped upon the ground. The black blur made by the wagon stockade and a tent or so was visible against the lighter line of the waterway of the Platte. Night came down, brooding with its million stars. I could hear the voices of the wolves calling here and there. It was a scene wild and appealing. I was indeed, it seemed to me, in a strange new world, where all was young, where everything was beginning. Where was the old world I had left behind me? I rolled into my blankets, but I could not sleep. The stars were too bright, the wind too full of words, the sweep of the sky too strong. I shifted the saddle under my head, and turned and turned, but I could not rest. I looked up again into the eye of my cold, reproving star. But now, to my surprise and horror, when I looked into the eye of my monitor, my own eye would not waver nor admit subjection! I rebelled at my own conscience. I, John Cowles, had all my life been a strong man. I had wrestled with any who came, fought with any who asked it, matched with any man on any terms he named. Conflict was in my blood, and always I had fought blithely. But never with sweat like this on my forehead! Never with fear catching at my heart! Never with the agony of self-reproach assailing me! Now, to-night, I was meeting the strongest antagonist of all my life, the only one I had ever feared. It was none other than I myself, that other John Cowles, young man, and now loose in the vast, free, garden of living. Yet I fought with myself. I tried to banish her face from my heart--with all my might, and all my conscience, and all my remaining principles, I did try. I called up to mind my promises, my duties, my honor. But none of these would put her face away. I tried to forget the softness of her voice, the fragrance of her hair, the sweetness of her body once held in my arms, all the vague charm of woman, the enigma, the sphinx, the mystery-magnet of the world, the charm that has no analysis, that knows no formula; but I could not forget. A rage filled me against all the other men in the world. I have said I would set down the truth. The truth is that I longed to rise and roar in my throat, challenging all the other men in the world. In truth it was my wish to stride over there, just beyond, into the darkness, to take this woman by the shoulders and tell her what was in my blood and in my heart--even though I must tell her even in bitterness and self-reproach. It was not the girl to whom I was pledged and plighted, not she to whom I was bound in honor--that was not the one with the fragrant hair and the eyes of night, and the clear-cut face, and the graciously deep-bosomed figure--that was not the one. It was another, of infinite variety, one more irresistible with each change, that had set on this combat between me and my own self. I beat my fists upon the earth. All that I could say to myself was that she was sweet, sweet, and wonderful--here in the mystery of this wide, calm, inscrutable desert that lay all about, in a world young and strong and full of the primeval lusts of man. CHAPTER XVI BUFFALO! Before dawn had broken, the clear bugle notes of reveille sounded and set the camp astir. Presently the smokes of the cook fires arose, and in the gray light we could see the horse-guards bringing in the mounts. By the time the sun was faintly tinging the edge of the valley we were drawn up for hot coffee and the plain fare of the prairies. A half hour later the wagon masters called "Roll out! Roll out!" The bugles again sounded for the troopers to take saddle, and we were under way once more. Thus far we had seen very little game in our westward journeying, a few antelope and occasional wolves, but none of the herds of buffalo which then roamed the Western plains. The monotony of our travel was to be broken now. We had hardly gone five miles beyond the ruined station house--which we passed at a trot, so that none might know what had happened there--when we saw our advance men pull up and raise their hands. We caught it also--the sound of approaching hoofs, and all joined in the cry, "Buffalo! Buffalo!" In an instant every horseman was pressing forward. The thunderous rolling sound approached, heavy as that of artillery going into action. We saw dust arise from the mouth of a little draw on the left, running down toward the valley, and even as we turned there came rolling from its mouth, with the noise of a tornado and the might of a mountain torrent, a vast, confused, dark mass, which rapidly spilled out across the valley ahead of us. Half hid in the dust of their going, we could see great dark bulks rolling and tossing. Thus it was, and close at hand, that I saw for the first time in my life these huge creatures whose mission seemed to have been to support an uncivilized people, and to make possible the holding by another race of those lands late held as savage harvest grounds. We were almost at the flanks of the herd before they reached the river bank. We were among them when they paused stupidly, for some reason not wishing to cross the stream. The front ranks rolled back upon those behind, which, crowded from the rear, resisted. The whole front of the mass wrinkled up mightily, dark humps arising in some places two or three deep. Then the entire mass sensed the danger all at once, and with as much unanimity as they had lacked concert in their late confusion, they wheeled front and rear, and rolled off up the valley, still enveloped in a cloud of white, biting dust. In such a chase speed and courage of one's horse are the main essentials. My horse, luckily for me, was able to lay me alongside my game within a few hundred yards. I coursed close to a big black bull and, obeying injunctions old Auberry had often given me, did not touch the trigger until I found I was holding well forward and rather low. I could scarcely hear the crack of the rifle, such was the noise of hoofs, but I saw the bull switch his tail and push on as though unhurt, in spite of the trickle of red which sprung on his flank. As I followed on, fumbling for a pistol at my holster, the bull suddenly turned, head down and tail stiffly erect, his mane bristling. My horse sprang aside, and the herd passed on. The old bull, his head lowered, presently stopped, deliberately eying us, and a moment later he deliberately lay down, presently sinking lower, and at length rolled over dead. I got down, fastening my horse to one of the horns of the dead bull. As I looked up the valley, I could see others dismounted, and many vast dark blotches on the gray. Here and there, where the pursuers still hung on, blue smoke was cutting through the white. Certainly we would have meat that day, enough and far more than enough. The valley was full of carcasses, product of the wasteful white man's hunting. Later I learned that old Mandy, riding a mule astride, had made the run and killed a buffalo with her own rifle! I found the great weight of the bull difficult to turn, but at length I hooked one horn into the ground, and laying hold of the lower hind leg, I actually turned the carcass on its back. I was busy skinning when my old friend Auberry rode up. "That's the first time I ever saw a bull die on his back," said he. "He did not die on his back," I replied. "I turned him over." "You did--and alone? It's rarely a single man could do that, nor have I seen it done in all my life with so big a bull." I laughed at him. "It was easy. My father and I once lifted a loaded wagon out of the mud." "The Indians," said Auberry, "don't bother to turn a bull over. They split the hide down the back, and skin both ways. The best meat is on top, anyhow"; and then he gave me lessons in buffalo values, which later I remembered. We had taken some meat from my bull, since I insisted upon it in spite of better beef from a young cow Auberry had killed not far above, when suddenly I heard the sound of a bugle, sharp and clear, and recognized the notes of the "recall." The sergeant of our troop, with a small number who did not care to hunt, had been left behind by Belknap's hurried orders. Again and again we heard the bugle call, and now at once saw coming down the valley the men of our little command. "What's up?" inquired Auberry, as we pulled up our galloping horses near the wagon line. "Indians!" was the answer. "Fall in!" In a moment most of our men were gathered at the wagon line, and like magic the scene changed. We could all now see coming down from a little flattened coulee to the left, a head of a line of mounted men, who doubtless had been the cause of the buffalo stampede which had crossed in front of us. The shouts of teamsters and the crack of whips punctuated the crunch of wheels as our wagons swiftly swung again into stockade. The ambulance was hurriedly driven into the center of the heavier wagons, which formed in a rude half circle. After all, there seemed no immediate danger. The column of the tribesmen came on toward us fearlessly, as though they neither dreaded us nor indeed recognized us. They made a long calvacade, two hundred horses or more, with many travaux and dogs trailing on behind. They were all clad in their native finery, seemingly hearty and well fed, and each as arrogant as a king. They passed us contemptuously, with not a sidelong glance. In advance of the head men who rode foremost in the column were three or four young women, bearing long lance shafts decorated with feathers and locks of human hair, the steel tips shining gray in the sun. These young women, perhaps not squires or heralds of the tribe, but wives of one or more of the head men, were decorated with brass and beads and shining things, their hair covered with gauds, their black eyes shining too, though directed straight ahead. Their garb was of tanned leather, the tunics or dresses were of elk skin, and the white leggins of antelope hide or that of mountain sheep. Their buffalo hide moccasins were handsomely beaded and stained. As they passed, followed by the long train of stalwart savage figures, they made a spectacle strange and savage, but surely not less than impressive. Not a word was spoken on either side. The course of their column took them to the edge of the water a short distance above us. They drove their horses down to drink scrambled up the bank again, and then presently, in answer to some sort of signal, quietly rode on a quarter of a mile or so and pulled up at the side of the valley. They saw abundance of meat lying there already killed, and perhaps guessed that we could not use all of it. "Auberry," said Belknap, "we must go talk to these people, and see what's up." "They're Sioux!" said Auberry. "Like enough the very devils that cleaned out the station down there. But come on; they don't mean fight right now." Belknap and Auberry took with them the sergeant and a dozen troopers. I pushed in with these, and saw Orme at my side; and Belknap did not send us back. We four rode on together presently. Two or three hundred yards from the place where the Indians halted, Auberry told Belknap to halt his men. We four, with one private to hold our horses, rode forward a hundred yards farther, halted and raised our hands in sign of peace. There rode out to us four of the head men of the Sioux, beautifully dressed, each a stalwart man. We dismounted, laid down our weapons on the ground, and approached each other. "Watch them close, boys," whispered Auberry. "They've got plenty of irons around them somewhere, and plenty of scalps, too, maybe." "Talk to them, Auberry," said Belknap; and as the former was the only one of us who understood the Sioux tongue, he acted as interpreter. "What are the Sioux doing so far east?" he asked of their spokesman, sternly. "Hunting," answered the Sioux, as Auberry informed us. "The white soldiers drive away our buffalo. The white men kill too many. Let them go. This is our country." It seemed to me I could see the black eyes of the Sioux boring straight through every one of us, glittering, not in the least afraid. "Go back to the north and west, where you belong," said Auberry. "You have no business here on the wagon trails." "The Sioux hunt where they please," was the grim answer. "But you see we have our women and children with us, the same as you have--and he pointed toward our camp, doubtless knowing the personnel of our party as well as we did ourselves. "Where are you going?" asked our interpreter. The Sioux waved his arm vaguely. "Heap hunt," he said, in broken English now. "Where you go?" he asked, in return. Auberry was also a diplomat, and answered that we were going a half sleep to the west, to meet a big war party coming down the Platte, the white men from Laramie. The Indian looked grave at this. "Is that so?" he asked, calmly. "I had not any word from my young men about a war party coming down the river. Many white tepees on wheels going up the river; no soldiers coming down this way." "We are going on up to meet our soldiers," said Auberry, sternly. "The Sioux have killed some of our men below here. We shall meet our soldiers and come and wipe the Sioux off the land if they come into the valley where our great road runs west." "That is good," said the Sioux. "As for us, we harm no white man. We hunt where we please. White men go!" Auberry now turned to us. "I don't think they mean trouble, Lieutenant," he said, "and I think the best thing we can do is to let them alone and go on up the valley. Let's go on and pull on straight by them, the way they did us, and call it a draw all around." Belknap nodded, and Auberry turned again to the four Sioux, who stood tall and motionless, looking at us with the same fixed, glittering eyes. I shall remember the actors in that little scene so long as I live. "We have spoken," said Auberry. "That is all we have to say." Both parties turned and went back to their companions. Belknap, Auberry and I had nearly reached our waiting troopers, when we missed Orme, and turned back to see where he was. He was standing close to the four chiefs, who had by this time reached their horses. Orme was leading by the bridle his own horse, which was slightly lame from a strain received in the hunt. "Some buck'll slip an arrer into him, if he don't look out," said Auberry. "He's got no business out there." We saw Orme making some sort of gestures, pointing to his horse and the others. "Wonder if he wants to trade horses!" mused Auberry, chuckling. Then in the same breath he called, "Look out! By God! Look!" We all saw it. Orme's arm shot out straight, tipped by a blue puff of smoke, and we heard the crack of the dragoon pistol. One of the Sioux, the chief who by this time had mounted his horse, threw his hand against his chest and leaned slightly back, then straightened up slightly as he sat. As he fell, or before he fell, Orme pushed his body clear from the saddle, and with a leap was in the dead man's place and riding swiftly toward us, leading his own horse by the rein! It seemed that it was the Sioux who had kept faith after all; for none of the remaining three could find a weapon. Orme rode up laughing and unconcerned. "The beggar wouldn't trade with me at all," he said. "By Jove, I believe he'd have got me if he'd had any sort of tools for it." "You broke treaty!" ejaculated Belknap--"you broke the council word." "Did that man make the first break at you?" Auberry blazed at him. "How can I tell?" answered Orme, coolly. "It's well to be a trifle ahead in such matters." He seemed utterly unconcerned. He could kill a man as lightly as a rabbit, and think no more about it. Within the instant the entire party of the Sioux was in confusion. We saw them running about, mounting, heard them shouting and wailing. "It's fight now!" said Auberry. "Back to the wagons now and get your men ready, Lieutenant. As soon as the Sioux can get shut of their women, they'll come on, and come a boilin', too. You damned fool!" he said to Orme. "You murdered that man!" "What's that, my good fellow?" said Orme, sharply. "Now I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head, or I'll teach you some manners." Even as we swung and rode back, Auberry pushed alongside Orme, his rifle at ready. "By God! man, if you want to teach _me_ any manners, begin it now. You make your break," he cried. Belknap spurred in between them. "Here, you men," he commanded with swift sternness. "Into your places. I'm in command here, and I'll shoot the first man who raises a hand. Mr. Orme, take your place at the wagons. Auberry, keep with me. We'll have fighting enough without anything of this." "He murdered that Sioux, Lieutenant," reiterated Auberry. "Damn it, sir, I know he did, but this is no time to argue about that. Look there!" A long, ragged, parti-colored line, made up of the squaws and children of the party, was whipping up the sides of the rough bluffs on the left of the valley. We heard wailing, the barking of dogs, the crying of children. We saw the Sioux separate thus into two bands, the men remaining behind riding back and forth, whooping and holding aloft their weapons. We heard the note of a dull war drum beating the clacking of their rattles and the shrill notes of their war whistles. "They'll fight," said Auberry. "Look at 'em!" "Here they come," said Belknap, coolly. "Get down, men." [Illustration: AT EVERY TURN FORCED TO HIDE THEIR TRACKS] CHAPTER XVII SIOUX! The record of this part of my life comes to me sometimes as a series of vivid pictures. I can see this picture now--the wide gray of the flat valley, edged with green at the coulee mouths; the sandy spots where the wind had worked at the foot of the banks; the dotted islands out in the shimmering, shallow river. I can see again, under the clear, sweet, quiet sky, the picture of those painted men--their waving lances, their swaying bodies as they reached for the quivers across their shoulders. I can see the loose ropes trailing at the horses' noses, and see the light leaning forward of the red and yellow and ghastly white-striped and black-stained bodies, and the barred black of the war paint on their faces. I feel again, so much almost that my body swings in unison, the gathering stride of the ponies cutting the dust into clouds. I see the color and the swiftness of it all, and feel its thrill, the strength and tenseness of it all. And again I feel, as though it were to-day, the high, keen, pleasant resolution which came to me. We had women with us. Whether this young woman was now to die or not, none of us men would see it happen. They came on, massed as I have said, to within about two hundred and fifty yards, then swung out around us, their horse line rippling up over the broken ground apparently as easily as it had gone on the level floor of the valley. Still we made no volley fire. I rejoiced to see the cool pallor of Belknap's face, and saw him brave and angry to the core. Our plainsmen, too, were grim, though eager; and our little band of cavalry, hired fighters, rose above that station and became not mongrel private soldiers, but Anglo-Saxons each. They lay or knelt or stood back of the wagon line, imperturbable as wooden men, and waited for the order to fire, though meantime two of them dropped, hit by chance bullets from the wavering line of horsemen that now encircled us. "Tell us when to fire, Auberry," I heard Belknap say, for he had practically given over the situation to the old plainsman. At last I heard the voice of Auberry, changed from that of an old man into the quick, clear accents of youth, sounding hard and clear. "Ready now! Each fellow pick his own man, and kill him, d'ye hear, _kill_ him!" We had no further tactics. Our fire began to patter and crackle. Our troopers were armed with the worthless old Spencer carbines, and I doubt if these did much execution; but there were some good old Hawkin rifles and old big-bored Yagers and more modern Sharps' rifles and other buffalo guns of one sort or another with us, among the plainsmen and teamsters; and when these spoke there came breaks in the flaunting line that sought to hedge us. The Sioux dropped behind their horses' bodies, firing as they rode, some with rifles, more with bows and arrows. Most of our work was done as they topped the rough ground close on our left, and we saw here a half-dozen bodies lying limp, flat and ragged, though presently other riders came and dragged them away. The bow and arrow is no match for the rifle behind barricades; but when the Sioux got behind us they saw that our barricade was open in the rear, and at this they whooped and rode in closer. At a hundred yards their arrows fell extraordinarily close to the mark, and time and again they spiked our mules and horses with these hissing shafts that quivered where they struck. They came near breaking our rear in this way, for our men fell into confusion, the horses and mules plunging and trying to break away. There were now men leaning on their elbows, blood dripping from their mouths. There were cries, sounding far away, inconsequent to us still standing. The whir of many arrows came, and we could hear them chuck into the woodwork of the wagons, into the leather of saddle and harness, and now and again into something that gave out a softer, different sound. I was crowding a ball down my rifle with its hickory rod when I felt a shove at my arm and heard a voice at my ear. "Git out of the way, man--how can I see how to shoot if you bob your head acrost my sights all the time?" There stood old Mandy McGovern, her long brown rifle half raised, her finger lying sophisticatedly along the trigger guard, that she might not touch the hair trigger. She was as cool as any man in the line, and as deadly. As I finished reloading, I saw her hard, gray face drop as she crooked her elbow and settled to the sights--saw her swing as though she were following a running deer; and then at the crack of her piece I saw a Sioux drop out of his high-peaked saddle. Mandy turned to the rear. "Git in here, git in here, son!" I heard her cry. And to my wonder now I saw the long, lean figure of Andrew Jackson McGovern come forward, a carbine clutched in his hand, while from his mouth came some sort of eerie screech of incipient courage, which seemed to give wondrous comfort to his fierce dam. At about this moment one of the Sioux, mortally wounded by our fire, turned his horse and ran straight toward us hard as he could go. He knew that he must die, and this was his way--ah, those red men knew how to die. He got within forty yards, reeling and swaying, but still trying to fit an arrow to the string, and as none of us would fire on him now, seeing that he was dying, for a moment it looked as though he would ride directly into us, and perhaps do some harm. Then I heard the boom of the boy's carbine, and almost at the instant, whether by accident or not I could not tell, I saw the red man drop out of the forks of his saddle and roll on the ground with his arms spread out. Perhaps never was metamorphosis more complete than that which now took place. Shaking off detaining hands, Andrew Jackson sprang from our line, ran up to the fallen foe and in a frenzy of rage began to belabor and kick his body, winding up by catching him by the hair and actually dragging him some paces toward our firing line! An expression of absolute beatitude spread over the countenance of Mandy McGovern. She called out as though he were a young dog at his first fight. "Whoopee! Git to him, boy, git to him! Take him, boy! Whoopee!" We got Andrew Jackson back into the ranks. His mother stepped to him and took him by the hand, as though for the first time she recognized him as a man. "Now, boy, _that's_ somethin' _like_." Presently she turned to me. "Some says it's in the Paw," she remarked. "I reckon it's some in the Maw; an' a leetle in the trainin'." Cut up badly by our fire, the Sioux scattered and hugged the shelter of the river bank, beyond which they rode along the sand or in the shallow water, scrambling up the bank after they had gotten out of fire. Our men were firing less, frequently at the last of the line, who came swiftly down from the bluff and charged across behind us, sending in a scattering flight of arrows as they rode. I looked about me now at the interior of our barricade. I saw Ellen Meriwether on her knees, lifting the shoulders of a wounded man who lay back, his hair dropping from his forehead, now gone bluish gray. She pulled him to the shelter of a wagon, where there had been drawn four others of the wounded. I saw tears falling from her eyes--saw the same pity on her face which I had noted once before when a wounded creature lay in her hands. I had been proud of Mandy McGovern. I was proud of Ellen Meriwether now. They were two generations of our women, the women of America, whom may God ever have in his keeping. I say I had turned my head; but almost as I did so I felt a sudden jar as though some one had taken a board and struck me over the head with all his might. Then, as I slowly became aware, my head was utterly and entirely detached from my body, and went sailing off, deliberately, in front of me. I could see it going distinctly, and yet, oddly enough, I could also see a sudden change come on the face of the girl who was stooping before me, and who at the moment raised her eyes. "It is strange," thought I, "but my head, thus detached, is going to pass directly above her, right there!" Then I ceased to take interest in anything, and sank back into the arms of that from which we come, calmly taking bold of the hand of Mystery. CHAPTER XVIII THE TEST I awoke, I knew not how much later, into a world which at first had a certain warm comfort and languid luxury about it. Then I felt a sharp wrenching and a great pain in my neck, to which it seemed my departed head had, after all, returned. Stimulated by this pain, I turned and looked up into the face of Auberry. He stood frowning, holding in his hand a feathered arrow shaft of willow, grooved along its sides to let the blood run free, sinew-wrapped to hold its feathers tight--a typical arrow of the buffalo tribes. But, as I joined Auberry's gaze, I saw the arrow was headless! Dully I argued that, therefore, this head must be somewhere in my neck. I also saw that the sun was bright. I realized that there must have been a fight of some sort, but did not trouble to know whence the arrow had come to me, for my mind could grasp nothing more than simple things. Thus I felt that my head was not uncomfortable, after all. I looked again, and saw that it rested on Ellen Meriwether's knees. She sat on the sand, gently stroking my forehead, pushing back the hair. She had turned my head so that the wound would not be pressed. It seemed to me that her voice sounded very far away and quiet. "We are thinking," said she to me. I nodded as best I could. "Has anything happened?" I asked. "They have gone," said she. "We whipped them." Her hand again lightly pressed my forehead. I heard some one else say, behind me, "But we have nothing in the world--not even opium." "True," said another voice, which I recognized as that of Orme; "but that's his one chance." "What do you know about surgery?" asked the first voice, which I knew now was Belknap's. "More than most doctors," was the answer, with a laugh. Their voices grew less distinguishable, but presently I heard Orme say, "Yes, I'm game to do it, if the man says so." Then he came and stooped down beside me. "Mr. Cowles," said he, "you're rather badly off. That arrow head ought to come out, but the risk of going after it is very great. I am willing to do what you say. If you decide that you would like me to operate for it, I will do so. It's only right for me to tell you that it lies very close to the carotid artery, and that it will be an extraordinarily nice operation to get it out without--well, you know--" I looked up into his face, that strange face which I was now beginning so well to know--the face of my enemy. I knew it was the face of a murderer, a man who would have no compunction at taking a human life. My mind then was strangely clear. I saw his glance at the girl. I saw, as clearly as though he had told me, that this man was as deeply in love with Ellen Meriwether as I myself; that he would win her if he could; that his chance was as good as mine, even if we were both at our best. I knew there was nothing at which he would hesitate, unless some strange freak in his nature might influence him, such freaks as come to the lightning, to the wild beast slaying, changes for no reason ever known. Remorse, mercy, pity, I knew did not exist for him. But with a flash it came to my mind that this was all the better, if he must now serve as my surgeon. He looked into my eye, and I returned his gaze, scorning to ask him not to take advantage of me, now that I was fallen. His own eye changed. It asked of me, as though he spoke: "Are you, then, game to the core? Shall I admire you and give you another chance, or shall I kill you now?" I say that I saw, felt, read all this in his mind. I looked up into his face, and said: "You cannot kill me. I am not going to die. Go on. Soon, then." A sort of sigh broke from his lips, as though he felt content. I do not think it was because he found his foe a worthy one. I do not think he considered me either as his foe or his friend or his patient. He was simply about to do something which would test his own nerve, his own resources, something which, if successful, would allow him to approve his own belief in himself. I say that this was merely sport for him. I knew he would not turn his hand to save my life; but also I knew that he would not cost it if that could be avoided, for that would mean disappointment to himself. What he did he did well. I said then to myself that I would pay him if he brought me through--pay him in some way. Presently I heard them on the sand again, and I saw him come again and bend over me. All the instruments they could find had been a razor and a keen penknife; and all they could secure to staunch the blood was some water, nearly boiling. For forceps Orme had a pair of bullet molds, and these he cleansed as best he could by dipping them into the hot water. "Cowles," he said, in a matter-of-fact voice, "I'm going after it. But now I tell you one thing frankly, it's life or death, and if you move your head it may mean death at once. That iron's lying against the big carotid artery. If it hasn't broken the artery wall, there's a ghost of a chance we can get it out safely, in which case you would probably pull through. I've got to open the neck and reach in. I'll do it as fast as I can. Now, I'm not going to think of you, and, gad!--if you can help it--please don't think of me." Ellen Meriwether had not spoken. She still held my head in her lap. "Are you game--can you do this, Miss Meriwether?" I heard Orme ask. She made no answer that I could hear, but must have nodded. I felt her hands press my head more tightly. I turned my face down and kissed her hand. "I will not move," I said. I saw Orme's slender, naked wrist pass to my face and gently turn me into the position desired, with my face down and a little at one side, resting in her lap above her knees. Her skirt was already wet with the blood of the wound, and where my head lay it was damp with blood. Belknap took my hands and pulled them above my head, squatting beyond me. Between Orme's legs as he stooped I could see the dead body of a mule, I remember, and back of that the blue sky I and the sand dunes. Unknown to her, I kissed the hem of her garment; and then I said a short appeal to the Mystery. I felt the entrance of the knife or razor blade, felt keenly the pain when the edge lifted and stretched the skin tight before the tough hide of my neck parted smoothly in a long line. Then I felt something warm settle under my cheek as I lay, and I felt a low shiver, whether of my body or that of the girl who held me I could not tell; but her hands were steady. I felt about me an infinite kindness and carefulness and pitying--oh, then I learned that life, after all, is not wholly war--that there is such a thing as fellow-suffering and loving kindness and a wish to aid others to survive in this hard fight of living; I knew that very well. But I did not gain it from the touch of my surgeon's hands. The immediate pain of this long cutting which laid open my neck for some inches through the side muscles was less after the point of the blade went through and ceased to push forward. Deeper down I did not feel so much, until finally a gentle searching movement produced a jar strangely large, something which grated, and nearly sent all the world black again. I knew then that the knife was on the base of the arrow head; then I could feel it move softly and gently along the side of the arrow head--I could almost see it creep along in this delicate part of the work. Then, all at once, I felt one hand removed from my neck. Orme, half rising from his stooping posture, but with the fingers of his left hand still at the wound, said: "Belknap, let go one of his hands. Just put your hand on this knife-blade, and feel that artery throb! Isn't it curious?" I heard some muttered answer, but the grasp at my wrists did not relax. "Oh, it's all right now," calmly went on Orme, again stooping. "I thought you might be interested. It's all over now but pulling out the head." I felt again a shiver run through the limbs of the girl. Perhaps she turned away her head, I do not know. I felt Orme's fingers spreading widely the sides of the wound along the neck, and the boring of the big headed bullet molds as they went down after a grip, their impact softened by the finger extended along the blade knife. The throbbing artery whose location this man knew so well was protected. Gently feeling down, the tips of the mold got their grip at last, and an instant later I felt release from a certain stiff pressure which I had experienced in my neck. Relief came, then a dizziness and much pain. A hand patted me twice on the back of the neck. "All right, my man," said Orme. "All over; and jolly well done, too, if I do say it myself!" Belknap put his arm about me and helped me to sit up. I saw Orme holding out the stained arrow head, long and thin, in his fingers. "Would you like it?" he said. "Yes," said I, grinning. And I confess I have it now somewhere about my house. I doubt if few souvenirs exist to remind one of a scene exactly similar. The girl now kept cloths wrung from the hot water on my neck. I thanked them all as best I could. "I say, you men," remarked Mandy McGovern, coming up with a cob-stoppered flask in her hand, half filled with a pale yellow-white fluid, "ain't it about time for some of that thar anarthestic I heerd you all talking about a while ago?" "I shouldn't wonder," said Orme. "The stitching hurts about as much as anything. Auberry, can't you find me a bit of sinew somewhere, and perhaps a needle of some sort?" CHAPTER XIX THE QUALITY OF MERCY A vast dizziness and a throbbing of the head remained after they were quite done with me, but something of this left me when finally I sat leaning back against the wagon body and looked about me. There were straight, motionless figures lying under the blankets in the shade, and under other blankets were men who writhed and moaned. Belknap passed about the place, graver and apparently years older than at the beginning of this, his first experience in the field. He put out burial parties at once. A few of the Sioux, including the one on whom Andrew Jackson McGovern had vented his new-found spleen, were covered scantily where they lay. Our own dead were removed to the edge of the bluff; and so more headstones, simple and rude, went to line the great pathway into the West. Again Ellen Meriwether came and sat by me. She had now removed the gray traveling gown, for reasons which I could guess, and her costume might have been taken from a collector's chest rather than a woman's wardrobe. All at once we seemed, all of us, to be blending with these surroundings, becoming savage as these other savages. It might almost have been a savage woman who came to me. Her skirt was short; made of white tanned antelope leather. Above it fell the ragged edges of a native tunic or shirt of yellow buck, ornamented with elk teeth, embroidered in stained quills. Her feet still wore a white woman's shoes, although the short skirt was enforced by native leggins, beaded and becylindered in metals so that she tinkled as the walked. Her hair, now becoming yellower and more sunburned at the ends, was piled under her felt hat, and the modishness of long cylindrical curls was quite forgot. The brown of her cheeks, already strongly sunburned, showed in strange contrast to the snowy white of her neck, now exposed by the low neck aperture of the Indian tunic. Her gloves, still fairly fresh, she wore tucked through her belt, army fashion. I could see the red heart still, embroidered on the cuff! She came and sat down beside me on the ground, I say, and spoke to me. I could not help reflecting how she was reverting, becoming savage. I thought this--but in my heart I knew she was not savage as myself. "How are you coming on?" she said. "You sit up nicely--" "Yes, and can stand, or walk, or ride," I added. Her brown eyes were turned full on me. In the sunlight I could see the dark specks in their depths. I could see every shade of tan on her face. "You are not to be foolish," she said. "You stand all this nobly," I commented presently. "Ah, you men--I love you, you men!" She said it suddenly and with perfect sincerity. "I love you all--you are so strong, so full of the desire to live, to win. It is wonderful, wonderful! Just look at those poor boys there--some of them are dying, almost, but they won't whimper. It is wonderful." "It is the Plains," I said. "They have simply learned how little a thing is life." "Yet it is sweet," she said. "But for you, I see that you have changed again." She spread her leather skirt down with her hands, as though to make it longer, and looked contemplatively at the fringed leggins below. "You were four different women," I mused, "and now you are another, quite another." At this she frowned a bit, and rose. "You are not to talk," she said, "nor to think that you are well; because you are not. I must go and see the others." I lay back against the wagon bed, wondering in which garb she had been most beautiful--the filmy ball dress and the mocking mask, the gray gown and veil of the day after, the thin drapery of her hasty flight in the night, her half conventional costume of the day before--or this, the garb of some primeval woman. I knew I could never forget her again. The thought gave me pain, and perhaps this showed on my face, for my eyes followed her so that presently she turned and came back to me. "Does the wound hurt you?" she asked. "Are you in pain?" "Yes, Ellen Meriwether," I said, "I am in pain. I am in very great pain." "Oh," she cried, "I am sorry! What can we do? What do you wish? But perhaps it will not be so bad after a while--it will be over soon." "No, Ellen Meriwether," I said, "it will not be over soon. It will not go away at all." CHAPTER XX GORDON ORME, MAGICIAN We lay in our hot camp on the sandy valley for some days, and buried two more of our men who finally succumbed to their wounds. Gloom sat on us all, for fever now raged among our wounded. Pests of flies by day and mosquitoes by night became almost unbearable. The sun blistered us, the night froze us. Still not a sign of any white-topped wagon from the east, nor any dust-cloud of troopers from the west served to break the monotony of the shimmering waste that lay about us on every hand. We were growing gaunt now and haggard; but still we lay, waiting for our men to grow strong enough to travel, or to lose all strength and so be laid away. We had no touch with the civilization of the outer world. At that time the first threads of the white man's occupancy were just beginning to cross the midway deserts. Near by our camp ran the recently erected line of telegraph, its shining cedar poles, stripped of their bark, offering wonder for savage and civilized man alike, for hundreds of miles across an uninhabited country. We could see the poles rubbed smooth at their base by the shoulders of the buffalo. Here and there a little tuft of hair clung to some untrimmed knot. High up in some of the naked poles we could see still sticking, the iron shod arrows of contemptuous tribesmen, who had thus sought to assail the "great medicine" of the white man. We heard the wires above us humming mysteriously in the wind, but if they bore messages east or west, we might not read them, nor might we send any message of our own. At times old Auberry growled at this new feature of the landscape. "That was not here when I first came West," he said, "and I don't like its looks. The old ways were good enough. Now they are even talkin' of runnin' a railroad up the valley--as though horses couldn't carry in everything the West needs or bring out everything the East may want. No, the old ways were good enough for me." Orme smiled at the old man. "None the less," said he, "you will see the day before long, when not one railroad, but many, will cross these plains. As for the telegraph, if only we had a way of tapping these wires, we might find it extremely useful to us all right now." "The old ways were good enough," insisted Auberry. "As fur telegraphin', it ain't new on these plains. The Injuns could always telegraph, and they didn't need no poles nor wires. The Sioux may be at both ends of this bend, for all we know. They may have cleaned up all the wagons coming west. They have planned for a general wipin' out of the whites, and you can be plumb certain that what has happened here is knowed all acrost this country to-day, clean to the big bend of the Missouri, and on the Yellowstone, and west to the Rockies." "How could that be?" asked Orme, suddenly, with interest. "You talk as if there were something in this country like the old 'secret mail' of East India, where I once lived." "I don't know what you mean by that," said Auberry, "but I do know that the Injuns in this country have ways of talkin' at long range. Why, onct a bunch of us had five men killed up on the Powder River by the Crows. That was ten o'clock in the morning. By two in the afternoon everyone in the Crow village, two hundred miles away, knowed all about the fight--how many whites was killed, how many Injuns--the whole shootin'-match. How they done it, I don't know, but they shore done it. Any Western man knows that much about Injun ways." "That is rather extraordinary," commented Orme. "Nothin' extraordinary about it," said Auberry, "it's just common. Maybe they done it by lookin'-glasses and smokes--fact is, I know that's one way they use a heap. But they've got other ways of talkin'. Looks like a Injun could set right down on a hill, and think good and hard, and some other Injun a hundred miles away'd know what he was thinkin' about. You talk about a prairie fire runnin' fast--it ain't nothin' to the way news travels amongst the tribes." Belknap expressed his contempt for all this sort of thing, but the old man assured him he would know more of this sort of thing when he had been longer in the West. "I know they do telegraph," reiterated the plainsman. "I can well believe that," remarked Orme, quietly. "Whether you do or not," said Auberry, "Injuns is strange critters. A few of us has married among Injuns and lived among them, and we have seen things you wouldn't believe if I told you." "Tell some of them," said Orme. "I, for one, might believe them." "Well, now," said the plainsman, "I will tell you some things I have seen their medicine men do, and ye can believe me or not, the way ye feel about it." "I have seen 'em hold a pow-wow for two or three days at a time, some of 'em settin' 'round, dreamin', as they call it all of 'em starvin', whole camp howlin', everybody eatin' medicine herbs. Then after while, they all come and set down just like it was right out here in the open. Somebody pulls a naked Injun boy right out in the middle of them. Old Mr. Medicine Man, he stands up in the plain daylight, and he draws his bow and shoots a arrer plum through that boy. Boy squirms a heap and Mr. Medicine Man socks another arrer through him, cool as you please--I have seen that done. Then the medicine man steps up, cuts off the boy's head with his knife--holds it up plain, so everybody can see it. That looked pretty hard to me first time I ever seen it. But now the old medicine man takes a blanket and throws it over this dead boy. He lifts up a corner of the blanket, chucks the boy's head under it, and pulls down the edges of the blanket and puts rocks on them. Then he begins to sing, and the whole bunch gets up and dances 'round the blanket. After while, say a few minutes, medicine man pulls off the blanket--and thar gets up the boy, good as new, his head growed on good and tight as ever, and not a sign of an arrer on him 'cept the scars where the wounds has plumb healed up!" Belknap laughed long and hard at this old trapper's yarn, and weak as I was myself, I was disposed to join him. Orme was the only one who did not ridicule the story. Auberry himself was disgusted at the merriment. "I knowed you wouldn't believe it," he said. "There is no use tellin' a passel of tenderfeet anything they hain't seed for theirselves. But I could tell you a heap more things. Why, I have seen their buffalo callers call a thousand buffalo right in from the plains, and over the edge of a cut bank, where they'd pitch down and bust theirselves to pieces. I can show you bones Of a hundred such places. Buffalo don't do that when they are alone--thay have got to be _called_, I tell you. "Injuns can talk with other animals--they can call them others, too. I have seed an old medicine man, right out on the plain ground in the middle of the village, go to dancin', and I have seed him call three full-sized beavers right up out'n the ground--seed them with my own _eyes_, I tell you! Yes, and I have seed them three old beavers standin' right there, turn into full-growed old men, gray haired. I have seed 'em sit down at a fire and smoke, too, and finally get up when they got through, and clean out--just disappear back into the ground. Now, how you all explain them there things, I don't pretend to say; but there can't no man call me a liar, fur I seed 'em and seed 'em unmistakable." Belknap and the others only smiled, but Orme turned soberly toward Auberry. "I don't call you a liar, my man," said he. "On the contrary, what you say is very interesting. I quite believe it, although I never knew before that your natives in this country were possessed of these powers." "It ain't all of 'em can do it," said Auberry, "only a few men of a few tribes can do them things; but them that can shore can, and that's all I know about it." "Quite so," said Orme. "Now, as it chances, I have traveled a bit in my time in the old countries of the East. I have seen some wonderful things done there." "I have read about the East Indian jugglers," said Belknap, interested. "Tell me, have you seen those feats? are they feats, or simply lies?" "They are actual occurrences," said Orme. "I have seen them with my own eyes, just as Auberry has seen the things he describes; and it is no more right to accuse the one than the other of us of untruthfulness. "For instance, I have seen an Indian juggler take a plain bowl, such as they use for rice, and hold it out in his hand in the open sunlight; and then I have seen a little bamboo tree start in it and grow two feet high, right in the middle of the bowl, within the space of a minute or so. "You talk about the old story of 'Jack and the Bean Stalk'; I have seen an old fakir take a bamboo stick, no thicker than his finger, and thrust it down in the ground and start and climb up it, as if it were a tree, and keep on climbing till he was out of sight; and then there would come falling down out of the sky, legs and arms, his head, pieces of his body. When these struck the ground, they would reassemble and make the man all over again--just like Auberry's dead boy, you know. "These tricks are so common in Asia that they do not excite any wonder. As to tribal telegraph, they have got it there. Time and again, when our forces were marching against the hill tribes of northwestern India, we found they knew all of our plans a hundred miles ahead of us--how, none of us could tell--only the fact was there, plain and unmistakable." "They never do tell," broke in Auberry. "You couldn't get a red to explain any of this to you--not even a squaw you have lived with for years. They certainly do stand pat for keeps." "Yet once in a while," smiled Orme, in his easy way, "a white man does pick up some of these tricks. I believe I could do a few of them myself, if I liked--in fact, I have sometimes learned some of the simpler ones for my own amusement." General exclamations of surprise and doubt greeted him from our little circle, and this seemed to nettle him somewhat. "By Jove!" he went on, "if you doubt it, I don't mind trying a hand at it right now. Perhaps I have forgotten something of my old skill, but we'll see. Come, hen." All arose now and gathered about him on the ground there in the full sunlight. He evinced no uneasiness or surprise, and he employed no mechanism or deception which we could detect. "My good man," said he to Auberry, "let me take your knife." Auberry loosed the long hunting-knife at his belt and handed it to him. Taking it, Orme seated himself cross-legged on a white blanket, which he spread out on the sandy soil. All at once Orme looked up with an expression of surprise on his face. "This was not the knife I wanted," he said. "I asked for a plain American hunting-knife, not this one. See, you have given me a Malay kris! I have not the slightest idea where you got it." We all looked intently at him. There, held up in his hand, was full proof of what he had said--a long blade of wavy steel, with a little crooked, carved handle. From what I had read, I saw this to be a kris, a wavy bladed knife of the Malays. It did not shine or gleam in the sun, but threw back a dull reflection from its gray steel, as though lead and silver mingled in its make. The blade was about thirty inches long, whereas that of Auberry's knife could not have exceeded eight inches at the most. "We did not know you had that thing around you!" exclaimed Belknap. "That is only sleight of hand." "Is it, indeed?" said Orme, smiling. "I tell you, I did not have it with me. After all, you see it is the same knife." We all gaped curiously, and there, as I am a living man, we saw that wavy kris, extended in his hand, turn back into the form of the plainsman's hunting-knife! A gasp of wonder and half terror came from the circle. Some of the men drew back. I heard an Irish private swear and saw him cross himself. I do not explain these things, I only say I saw them. "I was mistaken," said Orme, politely, "in offering so simple a test as this; but now, if you still think I had the kris in my clothing--how that could be, I don't know, I'm sure--and if you still wish to call my little performance sleight of hand, then I'll do something to prove what I have said, and make it quite plain that all my friend here has said is true and more than true. Watch now, and you will see blood drip from the point of this blade--every drop of blood it ever drew, of man or animal. Look, now--watch it closely." We looked, and again, as I am a living man, and an honest one, I hope, I saw, as the others did, running from the point of the steel blade, a little trickling stream of red blood! It dropped in a stream, I say, and fell on the white blanket upon which Orme was sitting. It stained the blanket entirely red. At this sight the entire group broke apart, only a few remaining to witness the rest of the scene. I do not attempt to explain this illusion, or whatever it was. I do not know how long it lasted; but presently, as I may testify, I saw Orme rise and kick at the wetted, bloodstained blanket. He lifted it, heavy with dripping blood. I saw the blood fall from its corners upon the ground. "Ah," he remarked, calmly, "it's getting dry now. Here is your knife, my good fellow." I looked about me, almost disposed to rub my eyes, as were, perhaps, the others of our party. The same great plains were there, the same wide shimmering stream, rippling in the sunlight, the same groups of animals grazing on the bluff, the same sentinels outlined against the sky. Over all shone the blinding light of the Western mid-day sun. Yet, as Orme straightened out this blanket, it was white as it had been before! Auberry looked at his knife blade as though he would have preferred to throw it away, but he sheathed it and it fitted the sheath as before. Orme smiled at us all pleasantly. "Do you believe in the Indian telegraph now?" he inquired. I have told you many things of this strange man, Gordon Orme, and I shall need to tell yet others. Sometimes my friends smile at me even yet over these things. But since that day, I have not doubted the tales old Auberry told me of our own Indians. Since then, too, I have better understood Gordon Orme and his strange personality, the like of which I never knew in any land. CHAPTER XXI TWO IN THE DESERT How long it was I hardly knew, for I had slink into a sort of dull apathy in which one day was much like another; but at last we gathered our crippled party together and broke camp, our wounded men in the wagons, and so slowly passed on westward, up the trail. We supposed, what later proved to be true, that the Sioux had raided in the valley on both sides of us, and that the scattered portions of the army had all they could do, while the freight trains were held back until the road was clear. I wearied of the monotony of wagon travel, and without council with any, finally, weak as I was, called for my horse and rode on slowly with the walking teams. I had gone for some distance before I heard hoofs on the sand behind me. "Guess who it is," called a voice. "Don't turn your head." "I can't turn," I answered; "but I know who it is." She rode up alongside, where I could see her; and fair enough she was to look upon, and glad enough I was to look. She was thinner now with this prairie life, and browner, and the ends of her hair were still yellowing, like that of outdoors men. She still was booted and gloved after the fashion of civilization, and still elsewise garbed in the aboriginal costume, which she filled and honored graciously. The metal cylinders on her leggins rattled as she rode. "You ought not to ride," she said. "You are pale." "You are beautiful," said I; "and I ride because you are beautiful." Her eyes were busy with her gloves, but I saw a sidelong glance. "I do not understand you," she said, demurely. "I could not sit back there in the wagon and think," said I. "I knew that you would be riding before long, and I guessed I might, perhaps, talk with you." She bit her lip and half pulled up her horse as if to fall back. "That will depend," was her comment. But we rode on, side by side, knee to knee. Many things I had studied before then, for certain mysteries had come to me, as to many men, who wish logically to know the causes of great phenomena. From boyhood I had pondered many things. I had lain on my back and looked up at the stars and wondered how far they were, and how far the farthest thing beyond them was. I had wondered at that indeterminate quotient in my sums, where the same figure came, always the same, running on and on. I used to wonder what was my soul, and I fancied that it was a pale, blue flaming oblate, somewhere near my back and in the middle of my body--such was my boyish guess of what they told me was a real thing. I had pondered on that compass of the skies by which the wild fowl guide themselves. I had wondered, as a child, how far the mountains ran. As I had grown older I had read the law, read of the birth of civilization, pondered on laws and customs. Declaring that I must know their reasons, I had read of marriages in many lands, and many times had studied into the questions of dowry and bride-price, and consent of parents, and consent of the bride--studied marriage as a covenant, a contract, as a human and a so-called divine thing. I had questioned the cause of the old myth that makes Cupid blind. I had delved deep as I might in law, and history and literature, seeking to solve, as I might--what? Ah, witless! it was to solve this very riddle that rode by my side now, to answer the question of the Sphinx. What had come of all my studies? Not so much as I was learning now, here in the open, with this sweet savage woman whose leggins tinkled as she rode, whose tunic swelled softly, whose jaw was clean and brown. How weak the precepts of the social covenant seemed. How feeble and far away the old world we too had known. And how infinitely sweet, how compellingly necessary now seemed to me this new, sweet world that swept around us now. We rode on, side by side, knee to knee. Her garments rustled and tinkled. Her voice awoke me from my brooding. "I wish, Mr. Cowles," said she, "that if you are strong enough and can do so without discomfort, you would ride with me each day when I ride." "Why?" I asked. That was the wish in my own mind; but I knew her reason was not the same as mine. "Because," she said. She looked at me, but would not answer farther. "You ought to tell me," I said quietly. "Because it is prescribed for you." "Not by my doctor." I shook my head. "Why, then?" "Stupid--oh, very stupid officer and gentleman!" she aid, smiling slowly. "Lieutenant Belknap has his duties to look after; and as for Mr. Orme, I am not sure he is either officer or gentleman." She spoke quietly but positively. I looked on straight up the valley and pondered. Then I put out a hand and touched the fringe of her sleeve. "I am going to try to be a gentleman," said I. "But I wish some fate would tell me why it is a gentleman can be made from nothing but a man." CHAPTER XXII MANDY McGOVERN ON MARRIAGE Our slow travel finally brought us near to the historic forks of the Platte where that shallow stream stretches out two arms, one running to the mountains far to the south, the other still reaching westward for a time. Between these two ran the Oregon Trail, pointing the way to the Pacific, and on this trail, somewhere to the west, lay Laramie. Before us now lay two alternatives. We could go up the beaten road to Laramie, or we could cross here and take an old trail on the north side of the river for a time. Auberry thought this latter would give better feed and water, and perhaps be safer as to Indians, so we held a little council over it. The Platte even here was a wide, treacherous stream, its sandy bottom continuously shifting. At night the melted floods from the mountains came down and rendered it deeper than during the day, when for the most part it was scarcely more than knee deep. Yet here and there at any time, undiscoverable to the eye, were watery pitfalls where the sand was washed out, and in places there was shifting quicksand, dangerous for man or animal. "We'll have to boat across," said Auberry finally. "We couldn't get the wagons over loaded." Wherefore we presently resorted to the old Plains makeshift of calking the wagon bodies and turning them into boats, it being thought probable that two or three days would be required to make the crossing in this way. By noon of the following day our rude boats were ready and our work began. I was not yet strong enough to be of much assistance, so I sat on the bank watching the busy scene. Our men were stripped to the skin, some of the mountaineers brown almost as Indians, for even in those days white hunters often rode with no covering but the blanket, and not that when the sun was warm. They were now in, now out of the water, straining at the lines which steadied the rude boxes that bore our goods, pulling at the heads of the horses and mules, shouting, steadying, encouraging, always getting forward. It took them nearly an hour to make the first crossing, and presently we could see the fire of their farther camp, now occupied by some of those not engaged in the work. As I sat thus I was joined by Mandy McGovern, who pulled out her contemplative pipe. "Did you see my boy, Andy Jackson?" she asked. "He went acrost with the first bunch--nary stitch of clothes on to him. He ain't much thicker'n a straw, but say--he was a-rastlin' them mules and a-swearin' like a full-growed man! I certainly have got hopes that boy's goin' to come out all right. Say, I heerd him tell the cook this mornin' he wasn't goin' to take no more sass off n him. I has hopes--I certainly has hopes, that Andrew Jackson '11 kill a man some time yit; and like enough it'll be right soon." I gave my assent to this amiable hope, and presently Mandy went on. "But say, man, you and me has got to get that girl acrost somehow, between us. You know her and me--and sometimes that Englishman--travels along in the amberlanch. She's allowed to me quiet that when the time come for her to go acrost, she'd ruther you and me went along. She's all ready now, if you air." "Very good," said I, "we'll go now--they've got a fire there, and are cooking, I suppose." Mandy left me, and I went for my own horse. Presently we three, all mounted, met at the bank. Taking the girl between us, Mandy and I started, and the three horses plunged down the bank. As it chanced, we struck a deep channel at the send-off, and the horses were at once separated. The girl was swept out of her saddle, but before I could render any assistance she called out not to be alarmed. I saw that she was swimming, down stream from the horse, with one hand on the pommel. Without much concern, she reached footing on the bar at which the horse scrambled up. "Now I'm good and wet," laughed she. "It won't make any difference after this. I see now how the squaws do." We plunged on across the stream, keeping our saddles for most of the way, sometimes in shallow water, sometimes on dry, sandy bars, and now and again in swift, swirling channels; but at last we got over and fell upon the steaks of buffalo and the hot coffee which we found at the fire. The girl presently left us to make such changes in her apparel as she might. Mandy and I were left alone once more. "It seems to me like it certainly is too bad," said she bitterly, over her pipe stem, "that there don't seem to be no real man around nowhere fittin' to marry a real woman. That gal's good enough for a real man, like my first husband was." "What could he do?" I asked her, smiling. "Snuff a candle at fifty yards, or drive a nail at forty. He nach'elly scorned to bring home a squirrel shot back of the ears. He killed four men in fair knife fightin', an' each time come free in co'te. He was six foot in the clean, could hug like a bar, and he wa'n't skeered of anything that drawed the breath of life." "Tell me, Aunt Mandy," I said, "tell me how he came courting you, anyway." "He never did no great at co'tin'," said she, grinning. "He just come along, an' he sot eyes on me. Then he sot eyes on me again. I sot eyes on him, too." "Yes?" "One evenin', says he, 'Mandy, gal, I'm goin' to marry you all right soon.' "Says I, '_No_, you ain't!' "Says he, '_Yes_, I air!' I jest laughed at him then and started to run away, but he jumped and ketched me--I told you he could hug like a bar. Mebbe I wasn't hard to ketch. Then he holds me right tight, an' says he,' Gal, quit this here foolin'. I'm goin' to marry you, you hear!--then maybe he kisses me--law! I dunno! Whut business is it o' yourn, anyhow? That's about all there was to it. I didn't seem to keer. But that," she concluded, "was a real _man_. He shore had my other two men plumb faded." "What became of your last husband, Mandy?" I asked, willing to be amused for a time. "Did he die?" "Nope, didn't die." "Divorced, eh?" "Deevorced, hell! No, I tole you, I up an' left him." "Didn't God join you in holy wedlock, Mandy?" "No, it was the Jestice of the Peace." "Ah?" "Yep. And them ain't holy none--leastways in Missouri. But say, man, look yere, it ain't God that marries folks, and it ain't Jestices of the Peace--it's _theirselves_." I pondered for a moment. "But your vow--your promise?" "My promise? Whut's the word of a woman to a man? Whut's the word of a man to a woman? It ain't words, man, it's _feelin's_." "In sickness or in health?" I quoted. "That's all right, if your _feelin's_ is all right. The Church is all right, too. I ain't got no kick. All I'm sayin' to you is, folks marries _theirselves_." I pondered yet further. "Mandy," said I, "suppose you were a man, and your word was given to a girl, and you met another girl and couldn't get her out of your head, or out of your heart--you loved the new one most and knew you always would--what would you do?" But the Sphinx of womanhood may lie under linsey-woolsey as well as silk. "Man," said she, rising and knocking her pipe against her bony knee, "you talk like a fool. If my first husband was alive, he might maybe answer that for you." CHAPTER XXIII ISSUE JOINED Later in the evening, Mandy McGovern having left me, perhaps for the purpose of assisting her protégée in the somewhat difficult art of drying buckskin clothing, I was again alone on the river bank, idly watching the men out on the bars, struggling with their teams and box boats. Orme had crossed the river some time earlier, and now he joined me at the edge of our disordered camp. "How is the patient getting along?" he inquired. I replied, somewhat surlily, I fear, that I was doing very well, and thenceforth intended to ride horseback and to comport myself as though nothing had happened. "I am somewhat sorry to hear that," said he, still smiling in his own way. "I was in hopes that you would be disposed to turn back down the river, if Belknap would spare you an escort east." I looked at him in surprise. "I don't in the least understand why I should be going east, when my business lies in precisely the opposite direction," I remarked, coolly. "Very well, then, I will make myself plain," he went on, seating himself beside me. "Granted that you will get well directly--which is very likely, for the equal of this Plains air for surgery does not exist in the world--I may perhaps point out to you that at least your injury might serve as an explanation--as an excuse--you might put it that way--for your going back home. I thought perhaps that your duty lay there as well." "You become somewhat interested in my affairs, Mr. Orme?" "Very much so, if you force me to say it." "I think they need trouble you no farther." "I thought that possibly you might be sensible of a certain obligation to me," he began. "I am deeply sensible of it. Are you pleased to tell me what will settle this debt between us?" He turned squarely toward me and looked me keenly in the eye. "I have told you. Turn about and go home. That is all." "I do not understand you." "But I understand your position perfectly." "Meaning?" "That your affections are engaged with a highly respectable young lady back at your home in Virginia. Wait--" he raised his hand as I turned toward him. "Meaning also," he went on, "that your affections are apparently also somewhat engaged with an equally respectable young lady who is not back home in Virginia. Therefore--" He caught my wrist in a grip of steel as I would have struck him. I saw then that I still was weak. "Wait," he said, smiling coldly. "Wait till you are stronger." "You are right," I said, "but we shall settle these matters." "That, of course. But in the meantime, I have only suggested to you that could you agree with me in my point of view our obligation as it stands would be settled." "Orme," said I, suddenly, "your love is a disgrace to any woman." "Usually," he admitted, calmly, "but not in this case. I propose to marry Miss Meriwether; and I tell you frankly, I do not propose to have anything stand in my way." "Then, by God!" I cried, "take her. Why barter and dicker over any woman with another man? The field is open. Do what you can. I know that is the way I'd do." "Oh, certainly; but one needs all his chances even in an open field, in a matter so doubtful as this. I thought that I would place it before you--knowing your situation back in Virginia--and ask you--" "Orme," said I, "one question--Why did you not kill me the other day when you could? Your tracks would have been covered. As it is, I may later have to uncover some tracks for you." "I preferred it the other way," he remarked, still smiling his inscrutable smile. "You surely had no scruples about it." "Not in the least. I'd as soon have killed you as to have taken a drink of water. But I simply love to play any kind of game that tests me, tries me, puts me to my utmost mettle. I played that game in my own way." "I was never very subtle," I said to him simply. "No, on the contrary, you are rather dull. I dared not kill you--it would have been a mistake in the game. It would have cost me her sympathy at once. Since I did not, and since, therefore, you owe me something for that fact, what do you say about it yourself, my friend?" I thought for a long time, my head between my hands, before I answered him. "That I shall pay you some day Orme, but not in any such way as you suggest." "Then it is to be war?" he asked, quietly. I shrugged my shoulders. "You heard me." "Very well!" he replied, calmly, after a while. "But listen. I don't forget. If I do not have my pay voluntarily in the way I ask, I shall some day collect it in my own fashion." "As you like. But we Cowles men borrow no fears very far in advance." Orme rose and stood beside me, his slender figure resembling less that of a man than of some fierce creature, animated by some uncanny spirit, whose motives did not parallel those of human beings. "Then, Mr. Cowles, you do not care to go back down the valley, and to return to the girl in Virginia?" "You are a coward to make any such request." His long white teeth showed as he answered. "Very well," he said. "It is the game. Let the best man win. Shall it then be war?" "Let the best man win," I answered. "It is war." We both smiled, each into the other's face. CHAPTER XXIV FORSAKING ALL OTHERS When finally our entire party had been gotten across the Platte, and we had resumed our westward journey, the routine of travel was, for the time, broken, and our line of march became somewhat scattered across the low, hilly country to which we presently came. For my own part, our progress seemed too slow, and mounting my horse, I pushed on in advance of the column, careless of what risk this might mean in an Indian country. I wished to be alone; and yet I wished to be not alone. I hoped that might occur which presently actually did happen. It was early in the afternoon when I heard her horse's feet coming up behind me as I rode. She passed me at a gallop; laughing back as though in challenge, and so we raced on for a time, until we quite left out of sight behind us the remainder of our party. Ellen Meriwether was a Virginia girl with Western experience, and it goes without saying that she rode well--of course in the cavalry saddle and with the cross seat. Her costume still was composed of the somewhat shriveled and wrinkled buckskins which had been so thoroughly wetted in crossing the river. I noticed that she had now even discarded her shoes, and wore the aboriginal costume almost in full, moccasins and all, her gloves and hat alone remaining to distinguish her in appearance at a distance from a native woman of the Plains. The voluminous and beruffled skirts of the period, and that feminine monstrosity of the day, the wide spreading crinoline, she had left far behind her at the Missouri River. Again the long curls, which civilization at that time decreed, had been forgotten. Her hair at the front and sides half-waved naturally, but now, instead of neck curls or the low dressing of the hair which in those days partly covered the fashionable forehead, she had, like a native woman, arranged her hair in two long braids. Her hat, no longer the flat straw or the flaring, rose-laden bonnet of the city, was now simply a man's cavalry hat, and almost her only mark of coquetry was the rakish cockade which confined it at one side. Long, heavy-hooped earrings such as women at that time wore, and which heretofore I had never known her to employ, she now disported. Brown as her face was now becoming, one might indeed, at a little distance, have suspected her to be rather a daughter of the Plains than a belle of civilization. I made some comment on this. She responded by sitting the more erect in her saddle and drawing a long, deep breath. "I think I shall throw away my gloves," she said, "and hunt up some brass bracelets. I grow more Indian every day. Isn't it glorious, here on the Plains? Isn't it _glorious_!" It so seemed to me, and I so advised her, saying I wished the western journey might be twice as long. "But Mr. Orme was saying that he rather thought you might take an escort and go back down the river." "I wish Mr. Orme no disrespect," I answered, "but neither he nor any one else regulates my travel. I have already told you how necessary it was for me to see your father, Colonel Meriwether." "Yes, I remember. But tell me, why did not your father himself come out?" I did not answer her for a time. "My father is dead," I replied finally. I saw her face flush in quick trouble and embarrassment. "Why did you not tell me? I am so sorry! I beg your pardon." "No," I answered quietly, "we Quakers never wish to intrude our own griefs, or make any show of them. I should have told you, but there were many other things that prevented for the time." Then, briefly, I reviewed the happenings that had led to my journey into the West. Her sympathy was sweet to me. "So now, you see, I ought indeed to return," I concluded, "but I can not. We shall be at Laramie now very soon. After that errand I shall go back to Virginia." "And that will be your home?" "Yes," I said bitterly. "I shall settle down and become a staid old farmer. I shall be utterly cheerless." "You must not speak so. You are young." "But you," I ventured, "will always live with the Army?" "Why, our home is in Virginia, too, over in old Albemarle, though we don't often see it. I have been West since I came out of school, pretty much all the time, and unless there should be a war I suppose I shall stay always out here with my father. My mother died when I was very young." "And you will never come back to quiet old Virginia, where plodding farmers go on as their fathers did a hundred years ago?" She made no immediate answer, and when she did, apparently mused on other things. "The Plains," she said, "how big--how endless they are! Is it not all wild and free?" Always she came back to that same word "free." Always she spoke of wildness, of freedom. "For all one could tell, there might be lions and tigers and camels and gazelles out there." She gestured vaguely toward the wide horizon. "It is the desert." We rode on for a time, silent, and I began to hum to myself the rest of the words of an old song, then commonly heard: "O come with me, and be my love, For thee the jungle's depths I'll rove. I'll chase the antelope over the plain, And the tiger's cub I'll bind with a chain, And the wild gazelle with the silvery feet I'll give to thee for a playmate sweet." "Poets," said I, "can very well sing about such things, but perhaps they could not practice all they sing. They always--" "Hush!" she whispered, drawing her horse gently down to a walk, and finally to a pause. "Look! Over there is one of the wild gazelles." I followed the direction of her eyes and saw, peering curiously down at us from beyond the top of a little ridge, something like a hundred yards away, the head, horns, and neck of a prong-horn buck, standing facing us, and seeming not much thicker than a knife blade. Her keen eyes caught this first; my own, I fancy, being busy elsewhere. At once I slipped out of my saddle and freed the long, heavy rifle from its sling. I heard her voice, hard now with eagerness. I caught a glance at her face, brown between her braids. She was a savage woman! "Quick!" she whispered. "He'll run." Eager as she, but deliberately, I raised the long barrel to line and touched the trigger. I heard the thud of the ball against the antelope's shoulder, and had no doubt that we should pick it up dead, for it disappeared, apparently end over end, at the moment of the shot. Springing into the saddle, I raced with my companion to the top of the ridge. But, lo! there was the antelope two hundred yards away, and going as fast on three legs as our horses were on four. "Ride!" she called. "Hurry!" And she spurred off at breakneck speed in pursuit, myself following, both of us now forgetting poesy, and quite become creatures of the chase. The prong-horn, carrying lead as only the prong-horn can, kept ahead of us, ridge after ridge, farther and farther away, mile after mile, until our horses began to blow heavily, and our own faces were covered with perspiration. Still we raced on, neck and neck, she riding with hands low and weight slightly forward, workmanlike as a jockey. Now and again I heard her call out in eagerness. We should perhaps have continued this chase until one or the other of the horses dropped, but now her horse picked up a pebble and went somewhat lame. She pulled up and told me to ride on alone. After a pause I slowly approached the top of the next ridge, and there, as I more than half suspected, I saw the antelope lying down, its head turned back. Eager to finish the chase, I sprang down, carelessly neglecting to throw the bridle rein over my horse's head. Dropping flat, I rested on my elbow and fired carefully once more. This time the animal rolled over dead. I rose, throwing up my hat with a shout of victory, and I heard, shrilling to me across the distance, her own cry of exultation, as that of some native woman applauding a red hunter. Alas for our joy of victory! Our success was our undoing. The very motion of my throwing up my hat, boyish as it was, gave fright to my horse, already startled by the shot. He flung up his head high, snorted, and was off, fast as he could go. I followed him on foot, rapidly as I could, but he would none of that, and was all for keeping away from me at a safe distance. This the girl saw, and she rode up now, springing down and offering me her horse. "Stay here," I called to her as I mounted. "I'll be back directly"; and then with such speed as I could spur out of my new mount, I started again after the fugitive. It was useless. Her horse, already lame and weary, and further handicapped by my weight, could not close with the free animal, and without a rope to aid me in the capture, it would have been almost impossible to have stopped him, even had I been able to come alongside. I headed him time and again, and turned him, but it was to no purpose. At last I suddenly realized that I had no idea how far I had gone or in what direction. I must now think of my companion. Never was more welcome sight than when I saw her on a distant ridge, waving her hat. I gave up the chase and returned to her, finding that in her fatigue she had sunk to the ground exhausted. She herself had run far away from the spot where I had left 'her. "I was afraid," she panted. "I followed. Can't you catch him?" "No," said I, "he's gone. He probably will go back to the trail." "No," she said, "they run wild, sometimes. But now what shall we do?" I looked at her in anxiety. I had read all my life of being afoot on the Plains. Here was the reality. "But you are hurt," she cried. "Look, your wound is bleeding." I had not known it, but my neck was wet with blood. "Get up and ride," she said. "We must be going." But I held the stirrup for her instead, smiling. "Mount!" I said, and so I put her up. "Shall we go back to camp?" she asked in some perturbation, apparently forgetting that there was no camp, and that by this time the wagons would be far to the west. For reasons of my own I thought it better to go back to the dead antelope, and so I told her. "It is over there," she said, pointing in the direction from which she thought she had come. I differed with her, remembering I had ridden with the sun in my face when following it, and remembering the shape of the hilltop near by. Finally my guess proved correct, and we found the dead animal, nearly a mile from where she had waited for me. I hurried with the butchering, cutting the loin well forward, and rolling it all tight in the hide, bound the meat behind the saddle. "Now, shall we go back?" she asked. "If we rode opposite to the sun, we might strike the trail. These hills look all alike." "The river runs east and west," I said, "so we might perhaps better strike to the southward." "But I heard them say that the river bends far to the south not far from where we crossed. We might parallel the river if we went straight south." "But does not the trail cut off the bend, and run straight west?" I rejoined. Neither of us knew that the course of the north fork ran thence far to the northwest and quite away from the trail to Laramie. Evidently our council was of little avail. We started southwest as nearly as we could determine it, and I admit that grave anxiety had now settled upon me. In that monotonous country only the sun and the stars might guide one. Now, hard as it was to admit the thought, I realized that we would be most fortunate if we saw the wagons again that night. I had my watch with me, and with this I made the traveler's compass, using the dial and the noon mark to orient myself; but this was of small assistance, for we were not certain of the direction of the compass in which the trail lay. As a matter of fact, it is probable that we went rather west than southwest, and so paralleled both the trail and the river for more than a dozen miles that afternoon. The girl's face was very grave, and now and again she watched me walking or trotting alongside at such speed as I could muster. My clothing was covered with blood from my wound. I looked always for some little rivulet which I knew must lead us to the Platte, but we struck no running water until late that evening, and then could not be sure that we had found an actual water course. There were some pools of water standing in a coulee, at whose head grew a clump of wild plum trees and other straggly growth. At least here was water and some sort of shelter. I dared go no farther. Over in the west I saw rising a low, black bank of clouds. A film was coming across the sky. Any way I looked I could see no break, no landmark, no trend of the land which could offer any sort of guidance. I wished myself all places in the world but there, and reproached myself bitterly that through my clumsiness I had brought the girl into such a situation. "Miss Meriwether," I said to her finally, putting my hand on the pommel of her saddle as we halted, "it's no use. We might as well admit it; we are lost." CHAPTER XXV CLEAVING ONLY UNTO HER. She made no great outcry. I saw her bend her face forward into her hands. "What shall we do?" she asked at length. "I do not know," said I to her soberly; "but since there is water here and a little shelter, it is my belief that we ought to stop here for the night." She looked out across the gray monotony that surrounded us, toward the horizon now grown implacable and ominous. Her eyes were wide, and evidently she was pondering matters in her mind. At last she turned to me and held out her hands for me to assist her in dismounting. "John Cowles, _of Virginia_," she said, "I am sorry we are lost." I could make no answer, save to vow silently that if I lived she must be returned safely to her home, unhurt body and soul. I dared not ponder on conventions in a case so desperate as I knew ours yet might be. Silently I unsaddled the horse and hobbled it securely as I might with the bridle rein. Then I spread the saddle blanket for her to sit upon, and hurried about for Plains fuel. Water we drank from my hat, and were somewhat refreshed. Now we had food and water. We needed fire. But this, when I came to fumble in my pockets, seemed at first impossible, for I found not a match. "I was afraid of that," she said, catching the meaning of my look. "What shall we do? We shall starve!" "Not in the least," said I, stoutly. "We are good Indians enough to make a fire, I hope." In my sheath was a heavy hunting knife; and now, searching about us on the side of the coulee bank, I found several flints, hard and white. Then I tore out a bit of my coat lining and moistened it a trifle, and saturated it with powder from my flask, rubbed in until it all was dry. This niter-soaked fabric I thought might serve as tinder for the spark. So then I struck flint and steel, and got the strange spark, hidden in the cold stone ages and ages there on the Plains; and presently the spark was a little flame, and then a good fire, and so we were more comfortable. We roasted meat now, flat on the coals, the best we might, and so we ate, with no salt to aid us. The girl became a trifle more cheerful, though still distant and quiet. If I rose to leave the fire for an instant, I saw her eyes following me all the time. I knew her fears, though she did not complain. Man is the most needful of all the animals, albeit the most resourceful. We needed shelter, and we had none. Night came on. The great gray wolves, haunters of the buffalo herds, roared their wild salute to us, savage enough to strike terror to any woman's soul. The girl edged close to me as the dark came down. We spoke but little. Our dangers had not yet made us other than conventional. Now, worst of all, the dark bank of cloud arose and blotted out all the map of the stars. The sun scarce had sunk before a cold breath, silent, with no motion in its coming, swept across or settled down upon the Plains. The little grasses no longer stirred in the wind. The temperature mysteriously fell more and more, until it was cold, very cold. And those pale, heatless flames, icy as serpent tongues played along the darkening heavens, and mocked at us who craved warmth and shelter. I felt my own body shiver. She looked at me startled. "You are cold," said she. "No," I answered, "only angry because I am so weak." We sat silent for very long intervals. At length she raised her hand and pointed. Even as dusk sank upon us, all the lower sky went black. An advancing roar came upon our ears. And then a blinding wave of rain drove across the surface of the earth, wiping out the day, beating down with remorseless strength and volume as though it would smother and drown us twain in its deluge--us, the last two human creatures of the world! It caught us, that wave of damp and darkness, and rolled over us and crushed us down as we cowered. I caught up the blanket from the ground and pulled it around the girl's shoulders. I drew her tight to me as I lay with my own back to the storm, and pulled the saddle over her head, with this and my own body keeping out the tempest from her as much as I could. There was no other fence for her, and but for this she might perhaps have died; I do not know. I felt her strain at my arms first, then settle back and sink her head under the saddle flap and cower close like some little schoolfellow, all the curves of her body craving shelter, comfort, warmth. She shivered terribly. I heard her gasp and sob. Ah, how I pitied her that hour! [Illustration: COLONEL MERIWEATHER EXPRESSES HIS THANKS FOR THE RESCUE OF HIS DAUGHTER] [Illustration: ORME TESTIFIES THAT HE HEARD JOHN AND THE COLONEL QUARRELING] Our fire was gone at the first sweep of the storm, which raged thunderously by, with heavy feet, over the echoing floor of the world. There came other fires, such blazes and explosions of pale balls of electricity as I had never dreamed might be, with these detonations of pent-up elemental wrath such as I never conceived might have existence under any sky. Night, death, storm, the strength of the elements, all the primeval factors of the world and life were upon us, testing us, seeking to destroy us, beating upon us, freezing, choking, blinding us, leaving us scarce animate. Yet not destroying us. Still, somewhere under the huddle and draggle of it all burned on the human soul. The steel in my belt was cold, but it had held its fire. The ice in the flints about us held fire also in its depths. Fire was in our bodies, the fire of life--indomitable, yearning--in our two bodies. So that which made the storm test us and try us and seek to slay us, must perhaps have smiled grimly as it howled on and at length disappeared, baffled by the final success of the immutable and imperishable scheme. The fire in our two bodies still was there. As the rain lessened, and the cold increased, I knew that rigors would soon come upon us. "We must walk," I said. "You shiver, you freeze." "You tremble," she said. "You are cold. You are very cold." "Walk, or we die," I gasped; and so I led her at last lower down the side of the ravine, where the wind was not so strong. "We must run," I said, "or we shall die." I staggered as I ran. With all my soul I challenged my weakness, summoning to my aid that reserve of strength I had always known each hour in my life. Strangely I felt--how I cannot explain--that she must be saved, that she was I. Strange phrases ran through my brain. I remembered only one, "Cleaving only unto her"; and this, in my weakened frame of body and mind, I could not separate from my stern prayer to my own strength, once so ready, now so strangely departed from me. We ran as we might, back and forward on the slippery mud, scrambled up and down, panting, until at length our hearts began to beat more quickly, and the love of life came back strongly, and the unknown, mysterious fire deep down somewhere, inscrutable, elemental, began to flicker up once more, and we were saved--saved, we two savages, we two primitive human beings, the only ones left alive after the deluge which had flooded all the earth--left alive to begin the world all over again. CHAPTER XXVI IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH To the delirious or the perishing man, time has no measuring. I do not know how we spent the night, or how long it was. Some time it became morning, if morning might be called this gray and cheerless lifting of the gloom, revealing to us the sodden landscape, overcast with still drizzling skies which blotted out each ray of sunlight. Search what way I might, I could find nothing to relieve our plight. I knew that Auberry would before this time have gone back to follow our trail, perhaps starting after us even before night had approached; but now the rain had blotted out all manner of trails, so rescue from that source was not to be expected. Not even we ourselves could tell where we had wandered, nor could we, using the best of our wits as we then had them, do more than vaguely guess where our fellow travelers by that time might be. Neither did we know distance nor direction of any settlement. What geography we thought right was altogether wrong. The desert, the wilderness, had us in its grip. We sat, draggled and weary, at the shoulder of the little ravine, haggard and worn by the long strain. Her skin garments, again wet through, clung tight to her figure, uncomfortably. Now and again I could see a tremor running through her body from the chill. Yet as I looked at her I could not withhold my homage to her spirit. She was a splendid creature, so my soul swore to me, thoroughbred as any in all the world. Her chin was high, not drawn down in defeat. I caught sight of her small ear, flat to the head, pink with cold, but the ear of a game creature. Her nose, not aquiline, not masculine, still was not weak. Her chin, as I remember I noted even then, was strong, but lean and not over-laden with flesh. Her mouth, not thin-lipped and cold, yet not too loose and easy, was now plaintive as it was sweet in its full, red Cupid bow. Round and soft and gentle she seemed, yet all the lines of her figure, all the features of her face, betokened bone and breeding. The low-cut Indian shirt left her neck bare. I could see the brick red line of the sunburn creeping down; but most I noted, since ever it was my delight to trace good lineage in any creature, the splendid curve of her neck, not long and weak, not short and animal, but round and strong--perfect, I was willing to call that and every other thing about her. She turned to me after a time and smiled wanly. "I am hungry," she said. "We shall make a fire," I answered. "But first I must wait until my coat dries. The lining is wet, and we have no tinder. The bark is wet on the little trees; each spear of grass is wet." Then I bethought me of an old expedient my father had once shown me. At the bandolier across my shoulder swung my bullet pouch and powder flask, in the former also some bits of tow along with the cleaning worm. I made a loose wad of the tow kept thus dry in the shelter of the pouch, and pushed this down the rifle barrel, after I had with some difficulty discharged the load already there. Then I rubbed a little more powder into another loose wad of tow, and fired the rifle into this. As luck would have it, some sparks still smoldered in the tow, and thus I was able once more to nurse up a tiny flame. I never knew before how comforting a fire might be. So now again we ate, and once more, as the hours advanced, we felt strength coming to us. Yet, in spite of the food, I was obliged to admit a strange aching in my head, and a hot fever burning in my bones. "See the poor horse," she said, and pointed to our single steed, humped up in the wind, one hip high, his head low, all dejection. "He must eat," said I, and so started to loosen his hobble. Thus engaged I thought to push on toward the top of the next ridge to see what might be beyond. What I saw was the worst thing that could have met my eyes. I sank down almost in despair. There, on a flat valley nearly a mile away in its slow descent, stood the peaked tops of more than a score of Indian tepees. Horses were scattered all about. From the tops of the lodges little dribbles of smoke were coming. The wet of the morning kept the occupants within, but here and there a robed figure stalked among the horses. I gazed through the fringe of grasses at the top of the ridge, feeling that now indeed our cup of danger well-nigh was full. For some moments I lay examining the camp, seeking to divine the intent of these people, whom I supposed to be Sioux. The size of the encampment disposed me to think that it was a hunting party and not an expedition out for war. I saw meat scaffolds, as I supposed, and strips of meat hanging over ropes strung here and there; although of this I could not be sure. I turned as I heard a whisper at my shoulder. "What is it?" she asked me; and then the next moment, gazing as I did over the ridge, she saw. I felt her cower close to me in her instant terror. "My God!" she murmured, "what shall we do? They will find us; they will kill us!" "Wait, now," said I. "They have not yet seen us. They may go away in quite the other direction. Do not be alarmed." We lay there looking at this unwelcome sight for some moments, but at last I saw something which pleased me better. The men among the horses stopped, looked, and began to hurry about, began to lead up their horses, to gesticulate. Then, far off upon the other side, I saw a blanket waving. "It is the buffalo signal," I said to her. "They are going to hunt, and their hunt will be in the opposite direction from us. That is good." We crept back from the top of the ridge, and I asked her to bring me the saddle blanket while I held the horse. This I bound fast around the horse's head. "Why do you blind the poor fellow?" she inquired, "He cannot eat, he will starve. Besides, we ought to be getting away from here as fast as we can." "I tie up his head so that he cannot see, or smell, and so fall to neighing to the other horses," I explained to her. "As to getting away, our trail would show plainly on this wet ground. All the trail we left yesterday has been wiped out; so that here is our very safest place, if they do not happen to run across the head of this little draw. Besides, we can still eat; and besides again--" perhaps I staggered a little as I stood. "You are weak!" she exclaimed. "You are ill!" "I must admit," said I, "that I could probably not travel far. If I dared tell you to go on alone and leave me, I would command you to do so." Her face was pale. "What is wrong?" she asked. "Is it a fever? Is it your wound again?" "It is fever," I answered thickly. "My head is bad. I do not see distinctly. If you please, I think I will lie down for a time." I staggered blindly now as I walked. I felt her arm under mine. She led me to our little fireside, knelt on the wet ground beside me as I sat, my head hanging dully. I remember that her hands were clasped. I recall the agony on her face. The day grew warmer as the sun arose. The clouds hung low and moved rapidly under the rising airs. Now and again I heard faint sounds, muffled, far off. "They are firing," I muttered. "They are among the buffalo. That is good. Soon they will go away." I do not remember much of what I said after that, and recall only that my head throbbed heavily, and that I wanted to lie down and rest. And so, some time during that morning, I suppose, I did lie down, and once more laid hold upon the hand of Mystery. I do not wish to speak of what followed after that. For me, a, merciful ignorance came; but what that poor girl must have suffered, hour after hour, night after night, day after day, alone, without shelter, almost without food, in such agony of terror as might have been natural even had her solitary protector been possessed of all his faculties--I say I cannot dwell upon that, because it makes the cold sweat stand on my face even now to think of it. So I will say only that one time I awoke. She told me later that she did not know whether it was two or three days we had been there thus. She told me that now and then she left me and crept to the top of the ridge to watch the Indian camp. She saw them come in from the chase, their horses loaded with meat. Then, as the sun came out, they went to drying meat, and the squaws began to scrape the hides. As they had abundant food they did not hunt more than that one day, and no one rode in our direction. Our horse she kept concealed and blindfolded until dark, when she allowed him to feed. This morning she had removed the blanket from his head, because now, as she told me with exultation, the Indians had broken camp, mounted and driven away, all of them, far off toward the west. She had cut and dried the remainder of our antelope meat, taking this hint from what we saw the Indians doing, and so most of our remaining meat had been saved. I looked at her now, idly, dully. I saw that her belt was drawn tighter about a thinner waist. Her face was much thinner and browner, her eyes more sunken. The white strip of her lower neck was now brick red. I dared not ask her how she had gotten through the nights, because she had used the blanket to blindfold the horse. She had hollowed out a place for my hips to lie more easily, and pulled grasses for my bed. In all ways thoughtfulness and unselfishness had been hers. As I realized this, I put my hands over my face and groaned aloud. Then I felt her hand on my head. "How did you eat?" I asked her. "You have no fire." "Once I had a fire," she said. "I made it with flint and steel as I saw you do. See," she added, and pointed to a ring of ashes, where there were bits of twigs and other fuel. "Now you must eat," she said. "You are like a shadow. See, I have made you broth." "Broth?" said I. "How?" "In your hat," she said. "My father told me how the Indians boil water with hot stones. I tried it in my own hat first, but it is gone. A hot stone burned it through." Then I noticed that she was bareheaded. I lay still for a time, pondering feebly, as best I could, on the courage and resource of this girl, who now no doubt had saved my life, unworthy as it seemed to me. At last I looked up to her. "After all, I may get well," I said. "Go now to the thicket at the head of the ravine, and see if there are any little cotton-wood trees. Auberry told me that the inner bark is bitter. It may act like quinine, and break the fever." So presently she came back with my knife and her hands full of soft green bark which she had found. "It is bitter," said she, "but if I boil it it will spoil your broth." I drank of the crude preparation as best I might, and ate feebly as I might at some of the more tender meat thus softened. And then we boiled the bitter bark, and I drank that water, the only medicine we might have. Alas! it was our last use of my hat as a kettle, for now it, too, gave way. "Now," she said to me, "I must leave you for a time. I am going over to the Indian camp to see what I can find." She put my head in the saddle for a pillow, and gave me the remnant of her hat for a shade. I saw her go away, clad like an Indian woman, her long braids down her back, her head bare, her face brown, her moccasined feet slipping softly over the grasses, the metals of her leggins tinkling. My eyes followed her as long as she remained visible, and it seemed to me hours before she returned. I missed her. She came back laughing and joyful. "See!" she exclaimed. "Many things! I have found a knife, and I have found a broken kettle; and here is an awl made from a bone; and here is something which I think their women use in scraping hides." She showed me all these things, last the saw-edged bone, or scraping hoe of the squaws, used for dressing hides, as she had thought. "Now I am a squaw," she said, smiling oddly. She stood thoughtfully looking at these things for a time. "Yes," she said, "we are savages now." I looked at her, but could see no despair on her face. "I do not believe you are afraid," I said to her. "You are a splendid creature. You are brave." She looked down at me at length as I lay. "Have courage, John Cowles," she said. "Get well now soon, so that we may go and hunt. Our meat is nearly gone." "But you do not despair," said I, wondering. She shook her head. "Not yet. Are we not as well off as those?" she pointed toward the old encampment of the Indians. A faint tinge came to her cheeks. "It is strange," said she, "I feel as if the world had absolutely come to an end, and yet--" "It is just beginning," said I to her. "We are alone. This is the first garden of the world. You are the first woman; I am the first cave man, and all the world depends on us. See," I said--perhaps still a trifle confused in my mind--"all the arts and letters of the future, all the paintings, all the money and goods of all the world; all the peace and war, and all the happiness and content of the world rest with us, just us two. We are the world, you and I." She sat thoughtful and silent for a time, a faint pink, as I said, just showing on her cheeks. "John Cowles, of Virginia," she said simply, "now tell me, how shall I mend this broken kettle?" CHAPTER XXVII WITH ALL MY WORLDLY GOODS I THEE ENDOW Poor, indeed, in worldly goods must be those to whom the discarded refuse of an abandoned Indian camp seems wealth. Yet such was the case with us, two representatives of the higher civilization, thus removed from that civilization by no more than a few days' span. As soon as I was able to stand we removed our little encampment to the ground lately occupied by the Indian village. We must have food, and I could not yet hunt. Here at the camp we found some bits of dried meat. We found a ragged and half-hairless robe, discarded by some squaw, and to us it seemed priceless, for now we had a house by day and a bed by night. A half-dozen broken lodge poles seemed riches to us. We hoarded some broken moccasins which had been thrown away. Like jackals we prowled around the filth and refuse of this savage encampment---we, so lately used to all the comforts that civilization could give. In the minds of us both came a thought new to both--a desire for food. Never before had we known how urgent is this desire. How few, indeed, ever really know what hunger is! If our great men, those who shape the destinies of a people, could know what hunger means, how different would be their acts! The trail of the lodge poles of these departing savages showed where they had gone farther in their own senseless pursuit of food, food. We also must eat. After that might begin all the deeds of the world. The surplus beyond the necessary provender of the hour is what constitutes the world's progress, its philosophy, its art, all its stored material gains. We who sat there under the shade of our ragged hide, gaunt, browned by the sun, hatless, ill-clad, animals freed from the yoke of society, none the less were not free from the yet more perpetual yoke of savagery. For myself, weakened by sickness, such food as we had was of little service. I knew that I was starving, and feared that she was doing little better. I looked at her that morning, after we had propped up our little canopy of hide to break the sun. Her face was clean drawn now into hard lines of muscle. Her limbs lay straight and clean before her as she sat, her hands lying in her lap as she looked out across the plains. Her eyes were still brown and clear, her figure still was that of woman; she was still sweet to look upon, but her cheeks were growing hollow. I said to myself that she suffered, that she needed food. Upon us rested the fate of the earth, as it seemed to me. Unless presently I could arise and kill meat for her, then must the world roll void through the ether, unpeopled ever more. It was at that time useless for us to think of making our way to any settlements or any human aid. The immediate burden of life was first to be supported. And yet we were unable to go out in search of food. I know not what thoughts came to her mind as we sat looking out on the pictures o; the mirage which the sun was painting on the desert landscape. But, finally, as we gazed, there seemed, among these weird images, one colossal tragic shape which moved, advanced, changed definitely. Now It stood in giant stature, and now dwindled, but always it came nearer. At last it darkened and denned and so disappeared beyond a blue ridge not half a mile away from us. We realized at last that it was a solitary buffalo bull, no doubt coming down to water at a little coulee just beyond us. I turned to look at her, and saw her eyes growing fierce. She reached back for my rifle, and I arose. "Come," I said, and so we started. We dared not use the horse in stalking our game. I could stand, I could walk a short way, but the weight of this great rifle, sixteen pounds or more, which I had never felt before, now seemed to crush me down. I saw that I was starved, that the sap was gone from my muscles. I could stagger but a few yards before I was obliged to stop and put down the rifle. She came and put her arm about me firmly, her face frowning and eager. But a tall man can ill be aided by a woman of her stature. "Can you go?" she said. "No," said I, "I cannot; but I must and I shall." I put away her arm from me, but in turn she caught up the rifle. Even for this I was still too proud. "No," said I, "I have always carried my own weapons thus far." "Come, then," she said, "this way"; and so caught the muzzle of the heavy barrel and walked on, leaving me the stock to support for my share of the weight. Thus we carried the great rifle between us, and so stumbled on, until at length the sun grew too warm for me, and I dropped, overcome with fatigue. Patiently she waited for me, and so we two, partners, mates, a man and a woman, primitive, the first, went on little by little. I knew that the bull would in all likelihood stop near the rivulet, for his progress seemed to indicate that he was very old or else wounded. Finally I could see his huge black hump standing less than a quarter of a mile away from the ridge where I last paused. I motioned to her, and she crept to my side, like some desert creature. We were hunting animals now, the two sexes of Man--nothing more. "Go," said I, motioning toward the rifle. "I am too weak. I might miss. I can get no farther." She caught up the rifle barrel at its balancing point, looked to the lock as a man might have done, and leaned forward, eager as any man for the chase. There was no fear in her eye. "Where shall I shoot it?" she whispered to me, as though it might overhear her. "At the life, at the bare spot where his shoulder rubs, very low down," I said to her. "And when you shoot, drop and He still. He will soon lie down." Lithe, brown, sinuous, she crept rapidly away, and presently was hid where the grass grew taller in the flat beyond. The bull moved forward a little also, and I lost sight of both for what seemed to me an unconscionable time. She told me later that she crept close to the water hole and waited there for the bull to come, but that he stood back and stared ahead stupidly and would not move. She said she trembled when at last he approached, so savage was his look. Even a man might be smitten with terror at the fierce aspect of one of these animals. But at last I heard the bitter crack of the rifle and, raising my head, I saw her spring up and then drop down again. Then, staggering a short way up the opposite slope, I saw the slow bulk of the great black bull. He turned and looked back, his head low, his eyes straight ahead. Then slowly he kneeled down, and so died, with his forefeet doubled under him. She came running back to me, full of savage joy at her Success, and put her arm under my shoulder and told me to come. Slowly, fast as I could, I went with her to our prey. We butchered our buffalo as Auberry had showed me, from the backbone down, as he sat dead on his forearms, splitting the skin along the spine, and laying it out for the meat to rest upon. Again I made a fire by shooting a tow wad into such tinder as we could arrange from my coat lining, having dried this almost into flame by a burning-glass I made out of a watch crystal filled with water, not in the least a weak sort of lens. She ran for fuel, and for water, and now we cooked and ate, the fresh meat seeming excellent to me. Once more now we moved our camp, the girl returning for the horse and our scanty belongings. Always now we ate, haggling out the hump ribs, the tongue, the rich back fat; so almost immediately we began to gain In strength. All the next day we worked as we could at drying the meat, and taking the things we needed from the carcass. We got loose one horn, drying one side of the head in the fire. I saved carefully all the sinews of the back, knowing we might need them. Then between us we scraped At the two halves of the hide, drying it in the sun, fleshing it with our little Indian hoe, and presently rubbing into it brains from the head of the carcass, as the hide grew drier in the sun. We were not yet skilled in tanning as the Indian women are, but we saw that now we would have a house and a bed apiece, and food, food. We broiled the ribs at our fire, boiled the broken leg bones in our little kettle. We made fillets of hide to shade our eyes, she thus binding back the long braids of her hair. We rested and were comforted. Each hour, it seemed to me, she rounded and became more beautiful, supple, young, strong--there, in the beginning of the world. We were rich in these, our belongings, which we shared. CHAPTER XXVIII TILL DEATH DO PART Hitherto, while I was weak, exhausted, and unable to reason beyond the vague factors of anxiety and dread, she had cared for me simply, as though she were a young boy and I an older man. The small details of our daily life she had assumed, because she still was the stronger. Without plot or plan, and simply through the stern command of necessity, our interests had been identical, our plans covered us both as one. At night, for the sake of warmth, we had slept closely, side by side, both too weary and worn out to reason regarding that or any other thing. Once, in the night, I know I felt her arm across my face, upon my head her hand--she still sleeping, and millions of miles away among the stars. I would not have waked her. But now, behold the strange story of man's advance in what he calls civilization. Behold what property means in regard to what we call laws. We were rich now. We had two pieces of robe instead of one. We might be two creatures now, a man and a woman, a wall between, instead of two suffering, perishing animals, with but one common need, that of self-preservation. There were two houses now, two beds; because this might be and still allow us to survive. Our table was common, and that was all. I grew stronger rapidly. In spite of my wish, my eyes rested upon her; and thus I noticed that she had changed. My little boy was no longer a little boy, but some strange creature--I knew hot what--like to nothing I had ever seen or known; like no woman of the towns, and no savage of the plains, but better than both and different from either, inscrutable, sweet, yes, and very sad. Often I saw tears in her eyes. During that first night when we slept apart, the wolves came very close to our meat heaps and set up their usual roaring chorus. The terror of this she could not endure, and so she came creeping with her half robe to my side where I lay. That was necessary. Later that night when she awoke under the shelter of her half hide, she found me sitting awake, near the opening. But she would not have me put over her my portion of the robe. She made of our party two individuals, and that I must understand. I must understand now that society was beginning again, and law, and custom. My playfellow was gone. I liked scarce so well this new creature, with the face of a Sphinx, the form of a woman, the eyes of something hurt, that wept--that wept, because of these results of my own awkwardness and misfortunes. I say that I was growing stronger. At night, in front of her poor shelter, I sat and thought, and looked out at the stars. The stars said to me that life and desire were one, that the world must go on, that all the future of the world rested with us two. But at this I rebelled. "Ah, prurient stars!" I cried, "and evil of mind! What matters it that you suffer or that I suffer? Let the world end, yes, let the world end before this strange new companion, gained in want, and poverty, and suffering, and now lost by reason of comforts and health, shall shed one tear of suffering!" But sometimes, worn out by watching, I, too, must lie down. Again, in her sleep, I felt her arm rest upon my neck. Now, God give me what He listeth, but may not this thing come to me again. For now, day by day, night by night, against all my will and wish, against all my mind and resolution, I knew that I was loving this new being with all my heart and all my soul, forsaking all others, and that this would be until death should us part. I knew that neither here nor elsewhere in the world was anything which could make me whole of this--no principles of duty or honor, no wish nor inclination nor resolve! I had eaten. I loved. I saw what life is. I saw the great deceit of Nature. I saw her plan, her wish, her merciless, pitiless desire; and seeing this, I smiled slowly in the dark at the mockery of what we call civilization, its fuss and flurry, its pretense, its misery. Indeed, we are small, but life is not small. We are small, but love is very large and strong, born as it is of the great necessity that man shall not forget the world, that woman shall not rob the race. For myself, I accepted my station in this plan, saying nothing beyond my own soul. None the less, I said there to my own soul, that this must be now, till death should come to part us twain. CHAPTER XXIX THE GARDEN Soon now we would be able to travel; but whither, and for what purpose? I began to shrink from the thought of change. This wild world was enough for me. So long as we might eat and sleep thus, and so long as I might not lose sight of her, it seemed to me I could not anywhere gain in happiness and content. Elsewhere I must lose both. None the less we must travel. We had been absent now from civilization some three weeks, and must have been given up long since. Our party must have passed far to the westward, and by this time our story was known at Laramie and elsewhere. Parties were no doubt in search of us at that time. But where should these search in that wilderness of the unknown Plains. How should it be known that we were almost within touch of the great highway of the West, now again thronging with wagon trains? By force of these strange circumstances which I have related we were utterly gone, blotted out; our old world no longer existed for us, nor we for it. As I argued to myself again and again, the laws and customs of that forgotten world no longer belonged to us. We must build laws again, laws for the good of the greatest number. I can promise, who have been in place to know, that in one month's time civilization shall utterly fade away from the human heart, that a new state of life shall within that space enforce itself, so close lies the savage in us always to the skin. This vast scheme of organized selfishness, which is called civilization, shall within three weeks be forgot and found useless, be rescinded as a contract between remaining units of society. This vast fabric of waste and ruin known as wealth shall be swept away at a breath within one month. Then shall endure only the great things of life. Above those shall stand two things--a woman and a man. Without these society is not, these two, a woman and a man. So I would sit at night, nodding under the stars, and vaguely dreaming of these matters, and things came to me sweetly, things unknown in our ignorance and evil of mind, as we live in what we call civilization. They would become clear underneath the stars; and then the dawn would come, and she would come and sit by me, looking out over the Plains at the shimmering pictures. "What do you see?" she would ask of me. "I see the ruins of that dome known as the capitol of our nation," I said to her, "where they make laws. See, it is in ruins, and what I see beyond is better." "Then what more do you see," she would ask. "I see the ruins of tall buildings of brick and iron, prisons where souls are racked, and deeds of evil are done, and iron sunk into human hearts, and vice and crime, and oppression and wrong of life and love are wrought. These are in ruins, and what I see beyond is better." Humoring me, she would ask that I would tell her further what I saw. "I see the ruins of tall spires, where the truth was offered by bold assertion. I see the ruins of religion, corrupt because done for gain. "I see houses also, much crowded, where much traffic and bartering and evil was done, much sale of flesh and blood and love and happiness, ruin, unhappiness. And what I see now is far better than all that." "And then--" she whispered faintly, her hand upon my sleeve, and looking out with me over the Plains, where the mirage was wavering. "I see there," I said, and pointed it out to her, "only a Garden, a vast, sweet Garden. And there arises a Tree---one Tree." This was my world. But she, looking out over the Plains, still saw with the eye of yesterday. Upon woman the artificial imprint of heredity is set more deeply than with man. The commands of society are wrought into her soul. CHAPTER XXX THEY TWAIN Even as we were putting together our small belongings for the resumption of our journey, I looked up and saw what I took to be a wolf, stalking along in the grass near the edge of our encampment. I would have shot it, but reflected that I must not waste a shot on wolves. Advancing closer toward it, as something about its motions attracted me, I saw it was a dog. It would not allow me to approach, but as Ellen came it lay down in the grass, and she got close to it. "It is sick," she said, "or hurt," and she tossed it a bone. "Quick," I called out to her, "get it! Tame it. It is worth more than riches to us, that dog." So she, coaxing it, at last got her hands upon its head, though it would not wag its tail or make any sign of friendship. It was a wolfish mongrel Indian dog. One side of its head was cut or crushed, and it seemed that possibly some squaw had struck it, with intent perhaps to put it into the kettle, but with aim so bad that the victim had escaped. To savage man, a dog is of nearly as much use as a horse. Now we had a horse and a dog, and food, and weapons, and shelter. It was time we should depart, and we now were well equipped to travel. But whither? "It seems to me," said I, "that our safest plan is to keep away from the Platte, where the Indians are more apt to be. If we keep west until we reach the mountains, we certainly will be above Laramie, and then if we follow south along the mountains, we must strike the Platte again, and so find Laramie, if we do not meet any one before that time." It may be seen how vague was my geography in regard to a region then little known to any. "My father will have out the whole Army looking for us," said Ellen Meriwether to me. "We may be found any day." But for many a day we were not found. We traveled westward day after day, she upon the horse, I walking with the dog. We had a rude travois, which we forced our horse to draw, and our little belongings we carried in a leathern bag, slung between two lodge poles. The dog we did not yet load, although the rubbed hair on his shoulders showed that he was used to harness. At times on these high rolling plains we saw the buffalo, and when our dried meat ran low I paused for food, not daring to risk waste of our scanty ammunition at such hard game as antelope. Once I lay at a path near a water hole in the pocket of a half-dried stream, and killed two buffalo cows. Here was abundant work for more than two days, cutting, drying, scraping, feasting. Life began to run keen in our veins, in spite of all. I heard her sing, that day, saw her smile. Now our worldly goods were increasing, so I cut down two lodge poles and made a little travois for the dog. We had hides enough now for a small tent, needing only sufficient poles. "Soon," said she to me, "we will be at Laramie." "Pray God," said I to myself, "that we never may see Laramie!" I have said that I would set down the truth. And this is the truth; I was becoming a savage. I truly wanted nothing better. I think this might happen to many a man, at least of that day. We forded several streams, one a large one, which I now think must have been the North Platte; but no river ran as we fancied the Platte must run. So we kept on, until we came one day to a spot whence we saw something low and unmoving and purple, far off in the northwest. This we studied, and so at length saw that it was the mountains. At last our journeying would change, at least, perhaps terminate ere long. A few more days would bring us within touch of this distant range, which, as I suppose now, might possibly have been a spur of what then were still called the Black Hills, a name which applied to several ranges far to the west and south of the mountains now so called. Or perhaps these were peaks of the mountains later called the Laramie Range. Then came a thing hard for us to bear. Our horse, hobbled as usual for the night, and, moreover, picketed on a long rope I had made from buffalo hides, managed some time in the night to break his hobbles and in some way to pull loose the picket pin. When we saw that he was gone we looked at each other blankly. "What shall we do?" she asked me in horror. For the first time I saw her sit down in despair. "We are lost! What shall we do?" she wailed. I trailed the missing horse for many miles, but could only tell he was going steadily, lined out for some distant point. I dared not pursue him farther and leave her behind. An hour after noon I returned and sullenly threw myself on the ground beside her at our little bivouac. I could not bear to think of her being reduced to foot travel over all these cruel miles. Yet, indeed, it now must come to that. "We have the dog," said I at length. "We can carry a robe and a little meat, and walk slowly. I can carry a hundred pound pack if need be, and the dog can take twenty-five--" "And I can carry something," she said, rising with her old courage. "It is my part." I made her a pack of ten pounds, and soon seeing that it was too heavy, I took it from her and threw it on my own. "At least I shall carry the belt," she said. And so she took my belt, with its flask and bullet pouch, the latter now all too scantily filled. Thus, sore at heart, and somewhat weary, we struggled on through that afternoon, and sank down beside a little water hole. And that night, when I reached to her for my belt that we might again make our fire, she went pale and cried aloud that she had lost it, and that now indeed we must die! I could hardly comfort her by telling her that on the morrow I would certainly find it. I knew that in case I did not our plight indeed was serious. She wept that night, wept like a child, starting and moaning often in her sleep. That night, for the first time, I took her in my arms and tried to comfort her. I, being now a savage, prayed to the Great Spirit, the Mystery, that my own blood might not be as water, that my heart might be strong--the old savage prayers of primitive man brought face to face with nature. When morning came I told her I must go back on the trail. "See, now, what this dog has done for us," I said. "The scratches on the ground of his little travois poles will make a trail easy to be followed. I must take him with me and run back the trail. For you, stay here by the water and no matter what your fears, do not move from here in any case, even if I should not be back by night." "But what if you should not come back!" she said, her terror showing in her eyes. "But I will come back," I replied. "I will never leave you. I would rise from my grave to come back to you. But the time has not yet come to lie down and die. Be strong. We shall yet be safe." So I was obliged to turn and leave her sitting alone there, the gray sweep of the merciless Plains all about her. Another woman would have gone mad. But it was as I said. This dog was our savior. Without his nose I could not have traced out the little travois trail; but he, seeing what was needed, and finding me nosing along and doubling back and seeking on the hard ground, seemed to know what was required, or perhaps himself thought to go back to some old camp for food. So presently he trotted along, his ears up, his nose straight ahead; and I, a savage, depended upon a creature still a little lower in the order of life, and that creature proved a faithful servant. We went on at a swinging walk, or trot, or lope, as the ground said, and ate up the distance at twice the speed we had used the day before. In a couple of hours I was close to where she had taken the belt, and so at last I saw the dog drop his nose and sniff. There were the missing riches, priceless beyond gold--the little leaden balls, the powder, dry in its horn, the little rolls of tow, the knife swung at the girdle! I knelt down there on the sand, I, John Cowles, once civilized and now heathen, and I raised my frayed and ragged hands toward the Mystery, and begged that I might be forever free of the great crime of thanklessness. Then, laughing at the dog, and loping on tireless as when I was a boy, I ran as though sickness and weakness had never been mine, and presently came back to the place where I had left her. She saw me coming. She ran out to meet me, holding out her arms.... I say she came, holding out her arms to me. "Sit down here by my side," I commanded her. "I must talk to you. I will--I will." "Do not," she implored of me, seeing what was in my mind. "Ah, what shall I do! You are not fair!" But I took her hands in mine. "I can endure it no longer," I said. "I will not endure it." She looked at me with her eyes wide--looked me full in the face with such a gaze as I have never seen on any woman's face. "I love you," I said to her. "I have never loved any one else. I can never love any one again but you." I say that I, John Cowles, had at that moment utterly forgotten all of life and all of the world except this, then and there. "I love you!" I said, over and over again to her. She pushed away my arm. "They are all the same," she said, as though to herself. "Yes, all the same," I said. "There is no man who would not love you, here or anywhere." "To how many have you said that?" she asked me, frowning, as though absorbed, studious, intent on some problem. "To some," I said to her, honestly. "But it was never thus." She curled her lip, scorning the truth which she had asked now that she had it. "And if any other woman were here it would be the same. It is because I am here, because we are alone, because I am a woman--ah, that is neither wise nor brave nor good of you!" "That is not true! Were it any other woman, yes, what you say might be true in one way. But I love you not because you are a woman. It is because you are Ellen. You would be the only woman in the world, no matter where we were nor how many were about us. Though I could choose from all the world, it would be the same!" She listened with her eyes far away, thinking, thinking. "It is the old story," she sighed. "Yes, the old story," I said. "It is the same story, the old one. There are the witnesses, the hills, the sky." "You seem to have thought of such things," she said to me, slowly. "I have not thought. I have simply lived along, enjoying life, not thinking. Do we love because we are but creatures? I cannot be loved so--I will not be! I will not submit that what I have sometimes dreamed shall be so narrow as this. John Cowles, a woman must be loved for herself, not for her sex, by some one who is a man, but who is beside--" "Oh, I have said all that. I loved you the first time I saw you--the first time, there at the dance." "And forgot, and cared for another girl the next day.' She argued that all over again. "That other girl was you," I once more reiterated. "And again you forgot me." "And again what made me forget you was yourself! Each time you were that other girl, that other woman. Each time I have seen you you have been different, and each time I have loved you over again. Each day I see you now you are different, Ellen, and each day I love you more. How many times shall I solve this same problem, and come to the same answer. I tell you, the thing is ended and done for me." "It is easy to think so here, with only the hills and skies to see and hear." "No, it would be the same," I said. "It is not because of that." "It is not because I am in your power?" she said. She turned and faced me, her hands on my shoulders, looking me full in the eye. The act a brave one. "Because I am in your power, John Cowles?" she asked. "Because by accident you have learned that I am a comely woman, as you are a strong man, normal, because I am fit to love, not ill to look at? Because a cruel accident has put me where my name is jeopardized forever--in a situation out of which I can never, never come clean again--is _that_ why? Do you figure that I am a woman because you are a man? Is that why? Is it because you know I am human, and young, and fit for love? Ah, I know that as well as you. But I am in your hands--I am in your power. That is why I say, John Cowles, that you must try to think, that you must do nothing which shall make me hate you or make you hate yourself." "I thought you missed me when I was gone," I murmured faintly. "I did miss you," she said. "The world seemed ended for me. I needed you, I wanted you--" I turned toward her swiftly. "Wanted me?" "I was glad to see you come back. While you were gone I thought. Yes, you have been brave and you have been kind, and you have been strong. Now I am only asking you still to be brave, and kind, and strong." "But do you love me, will you love me--can you--" "Because we are here," she said, "I will not answer. What is right, John Cowles, that we should do." Woman is strongest when armored in her own weakness. My hands fell to the ground beside me. The heats vanished from my blood. I shuddered. I could not smile without my mouth going crooked, I fear. But at last I smiled as best I could, and I said to her, "Ellen! Ellen!" That was all I could find to say. CHAPTER XXXI THE BETROTHAL Strength came to us as we had need, and gradually even the weaker of us two became able to complete the day's journey without the exhaustion it at first had cost her. Summer was now upon us, and the heat at midday was intense, although the nights, as usual, were cold. Deprived of all pack animals, except our dog, we were perforce reduced to the lightest of gear, and discomfort was our continual lot. Food, however, we could still secure, abundant meat, and sometimes the roots of plants which I dug up and tested, though I scarce knew what they were. We moved steadily on toward the west and northwest, but although we crossed many old Indian trails, we saw no more of these travelers of the Plains. At that time the country which we were traversing had no white population, although the valley of the Platte had long been part of a dusty transcontinental highway. It was on this highway that the savages were that summer hanging, and even had we been certain of its exact location, I should have feared to enter the Platte valley, lest we should meet red men rather than white. At times we lost the buffalo for days, more especially as we approached the foothills of the mountains, and although antelope became more numerous there, they were far more difficult to kill, and apt to cost us more of our precious ammunition. I planned to myself that if we did not presently escape I would see what might be done toward making a bow and arrows for use on small game, which we could not afford to purchase at the cost of precious powder and ball. I was glad, therefore, when we saw the first timber of the foothills; still gladder, for many reasons, when I found that we were entering the winding course of a flattened, broken stream, which presently ran back into a shingly valley, hedged in by ranks of noble mountains, snow white on their peaks. Here life should prove easier to us for the time, the country offering abundant shelter and fuel, perhaps game, and certainly change from the monotony of the Plains. Here, I said to myself, our westward journey must end. It would be bootless to pass beyond Laramie into the mountains, and our next course, I thought, must be toward the south. I did not know that we were then perhaps a hundred miles or more northwest of Laramie, deep in a mountain range far north of the transcontinental trail. For the time, however, it seemed wise to tarry here for rest and recruiting. I threw down the pack. "Now," said I to her, "we rest." "Yes," she replied, turning her face to the south, "Laramie is that way now. If we stop here my father will come and find us. But then, how could he find us, little as we are, in this big country? Our trail would not be different from that of Indians, even if they found it fresh enough to read. Suppose they _never_ found us!" "Then," said I, "we should have to live here, forever and ever." She looked at me curiously. "Could we?" she asked. "Until I was too old to hunt, you too weak to sew the robes or cook the food." "What would happen then?" "We would die," said I. "The world would end, would have to begin all over again and wait twice ten million years until man again was evolved from the amoeba, the reptile, the ape. When we died, this dog here would be the only hope of the world." She looked at the eternal hills in their snow, and made no answer. Presently we turned to our duties about the camp. It was understood that we should stay here for at least two days, to mend our clothing and prepare food for the southern journey. I have said I was not happy at the thought of turning toward that world which I had missed so little. Could the wild freedom of this life have worked a similar spell on her? The next day she came to me as I sat by our meager fireside. Without leading of mine she began a manner of speech until now foreign to her. "What is marriage, John Cowles?" she asked of me, abruptly, with no preface. "It is the Plan," I answered, apathetically. She pondered for a time. "Are we, then, only creatures, puppets, toys?" "Yes," I said to her. "A man is a toy. Love was born before man was created, before animals or plants. Atom, ran to atom, seeking. It was love." She pondered yet a while. "And what is it, then, John Cowles, that women call 'wrong'?" "Very often what is right," I said to her, apathetically. "When two love the crime is that they shall not wed. When they do not love, the crime is when they do wed." "But without marriage," she hesitated, "the home--" "It is the old question," I said. "The home is built on woman's virtue; but virtue is not the same where there is no tome, no property, where there is no society--it is an artificial thing, born of compromise, and grown stronger by custom of the ages of property-owning man." I saw a horror come across her eyes. "What do you say to me, John Cowles? That what a woman prizes is not right, is not good? No, that I shall _not_ think!" She drew apart from me. "Because you think just as you do, I love you," I said. "Yet you say so many things. I have taken life as it came, just as other girls do, not thinking. It is not nice, it is not _clean_, that girls should study over these things. That is not right." "No, that is not right," said I, dully. "Then tell me, what is marriage--that one thing a girl dreams of all her life. Is it of the church?" "It is not of the church," I said. "Then it is the law." "It is not the law," I said. "Then what is it?" she asked. "John Cowles, tell me, what makes a wedding between two who really and truly love. Can marriage be of but two?" "Yes," said I. "But there must be witnesses--there must be ceremony--else there is no marriage," she went on. Her woman's brain clung to the safe, sane groove which alone can guide progress and civilization and society--that great, cruel, kind, imperative compromise of marriage, without which all the advancement of the world would be as naught. I loved her for it. But for me, I say I had gone savage. I was at the beginning of all this, whereas it remained with her as she had left it. "Witnesses?" I said. "Look at those!" I pointed to the mountains. "Marriages, many of them, have been made with no better witnesses than those." My heart stopped when I saw how far she had jumped to her next speech. "Then we two are all the people left in the world, John Cowles? When I am old, will you cast me off? When another woman comes into this valley, when I am bent and old, and cannot see, will you cast me off, and, being stronger than I am, will you go and leave me?" I could not speak at first. "We have talked too much," I said to her presently. But now it was she who would not desist. "You see, with a woman it is for better, for worse--but with a man--" "With a Saxon man," I said, "it is also for better, for worse. It is one woman." She sat and thought for a long time. "Suppose," she said, "that no one ever came." Now with swift remorse I could see that in her own courage she was feeling her way, haltingly, slowly, toward solution of problems which most women take ready solved from others. But, as I thank God, a filmy veil, softening, refining, always lay between her and reality. In her intentness she laid hold upon my arm, her two hands clasping. "Suppose two were here, a man and a woman, and he swore before those eternal witnesses that he would not go away any time until she was dead and laid away up in the trees, to dry away and blow off into the air, and go back--" "Into the flowers," I added, choking. "Yes, into the trees and the flowers--so that when she was dead and he was dead, and they were both gone back into the flowers, they would still know each other for ever and ever and never be ashamed--would that be a marriage before God, John Cowles?" What had I brought to this girl's creed of life, heretofore always so sweet and usual? I did not answer. She shook at my arm. "Tell me!" she said. But I would not tell her. "Suppose they did not come," she said once more. "It is true, they may not find us. Suppose we two were to live here alone, all this winter--just as we are now--none of my people or yours near us. Could we go on?" "God! Woman, have you no mercy!" She sat and pondered for yet a time, as though seriously weighing some question in her mind. "But you have taught me to think, John Cowles. It is you who have begun my thinking, so now I must think. I know we cannot tell what may happen. I ask you, 'John Cowles, if we were brought to that state which we both know might happen--if we were here all alone and no one came, and if you loved me--ah, then would you promise, forever and forever, to love me till death did us part--till I was gone back into the flowers? I remember what they say at weddings. They cling one to the other, forsaking all others, till death do them part. Could you promise me--in that way? Could you promise me, clean and solemn? Because, I would not promise you unless it was solemn, and clean, and unless it was forever." Strange, indeed, these few days in the desert, which had so drawn apart the veil of things and left us both ready to see so far. She had not seen so far as I, but, womanlike, had reasoned more quickly. As for me, it seemed that I saw into her heart. I dropped my hands from my eyes and looked at her strangely, my own brain in a whirl, my logic gone. All I knew was that then or elsewhere, whether or not rescue ever came for us, whether we died now or later, there or anywhere in all the world, I would, indeed, love her and her only, forsaking all others until, indeed, we were gone back into the sky and flowers, until we whispered again in the trees, one unto the other! Marriage or no marriage, together or apart, in sickness or in health--so there came to me the stern conviction--love could knock no more at my heart, where once she had stood in her courage and her cleanness. Reverence, I say, was now the one thing left in my heart. Still we sat, and watched the sun shine on the distant white-topped peaks. I turned to her slowly at length. "Ellen," I said, "do you indeed love me?" "How can I help it, John Cowles," she answered bravely. My heart stopped short, then raced on, bursting all control. It was long before I could be calm as she. "You have helped it very long," I said at last, quietly. "But now I must know--would you love me anywhere, in any circumstances, in spite of all? I love you because you are You, not because you are here. I must be loved in the same way, always." She looked at me now silently, and I leaned and kissed her full on the mouth. CHAPTER XXXII THE COVENANT She did not rebel or draw away, but there was that on her face, I say, which left me only reverent. Her hand fell into mine. We sat there, plighted, plighted in our rags and misery and want and solitude. Though I should live twice the allotted span of man, never should I forget what came into my soul that hour. After a time I turned from her, and from the hills, and from the sky, and looked about us at the poor belongings with which we were to begin our world. All at once my eye fell upon one of our lighter robes, now fairly white with much working. I drew it toward me, and with her still leaning against my shoulder, I took up a charred stick, and so, laboriously, I wrote upon the surface of the hide, these words of our covenant: "_I, John Cowles, take thee, Ellen Meriwether, to be my lawful, wedded wife, in sickness, and in health, for better of for worse, till death do us part._" And I signed it; and made a seal after my name. "Write," said I to her. "Write as I have written." She took a fresh brand, blackened at the end, and in lesser characters wrote slowly, letter by letter: "_I, Ellen Meriwether, take thee, John Cowles, to be my lawful, wedded husband_--" She paused, but I would not urge her, and it was moments before she resumed--"_in sickness and in health, for better or for worse_--" Again she paused, thinking, thinking--and so concluded, "_till death do us part_." "It means," she said to me, simply as a child, "until we have both gone back into the flowers and the trees." I took her hand in mine. Mayhap book and bell and organ peal and vestured choir and high ceremony of the church may be more solemn; but I, who speak the truth from this very knowledge, think it could not be. "When you have signed that, Ellen," I said to her at last, "we two are man and wife, now and forever, here and any place in the world. That is a binding ceremony, and it endows you with your share of all my property, small or large as that may be. It is a legal wedding, and it holds us with all the powers the law can have. It is a contract." "Do not talk to me of contracts," she said. "I am thinking of nothing but our--wedding." Still mystical, still enigma, still woman, she would have it that the stars, the mountains---the witnesses--and not ourselves, made the wedding. I left it so, sure of nothing so much as that, whatever her way of thought might be, it was better than my own. "But if I do not sign this?" she asked at length. "Then we are not married." She sighed and laid down the pen. "Then I shall not sign it--yet," she said. I caught up her hand as though I would write for her. "No," she said, "it shall be only our engagement, our troth between us. This will be our way. I have not yet been sufficiently wooed, John Cowles!" I looked into her eyes and it seemed to me I saw there something of the same light I had seen when she was the masked coquette of the Army ball--the yearning, the melancholy, the mysticism, the challenge, the invitation and the doubting--ah, who shall say what there is in a woman's eye! But I saw also what had been in her eyes each time I had seen her since that hour. I left it so, knowing that her way would be best. "When we have escaped," she went on, "if ever we do escape, then this will still be our troth, will it not, John Cowles?" "Yes, and our marriage, when you have signed, now or any other time." "But if you had ever signed words like these with any _other_ woman, then it would not be our marriage nor our troth, would it, John Cowles?" "No," I said. _And, then I felt my face grow ashy cold and pale in one sudden breath!_ "But why do you look so sad?" she asked of me, suddenly. "Is it not well to wait?" "Yes, it is well to wait," I said. She was so absorbed that she did not look at me closely at that instant. Again she took up the charred stick in her little hand, and hesitated. "See," she said, "I shall sign one letter of my name each week, until all my name is written! Till that last letter we shall be engaged. After the last letter, when I have signed it of my own free will, and clean, and solemn--clean and solemn, John Cowles--then we will be--Oh, take me home--take me to my father, John Cowles! This is a hard place for a girl to be." Suddenly she dropped her face into her hands, sobbing. She hid her head on my breast, sore distressed now. She was glad that she might now be more free, needing some manner of friend; but she was still--what? Still woman! Poor Saxon I must have been had I not sworn to love her fiercely and singly all my life. But yet-- I looked at the robe, now fallen loose upon the ground, and saw that she had affixed one letter of her name and stopped. She smiled wanly. "Your name would be shorter to sign a little at a time," she said; "but a girl must have time. She must wait. And see," she said, "I have no ring. A girl always has a ring." This lack I could not solve, for I had none. "Take mine," she said, removing the ring with the rose seal. "Put it on the other finger--the--the right one." I did so; and I kissed her. But yet-- She was weary and strained now. A pathetic droop came to the corners of her mouth. The palm of her little hand turned up loosely, as though she had been tired and now was resting. "We must wait," she said, as though to herself. But what of me that night? When I had taken my own house and bed beyond a little thicket, that she might be alone, that night I found myself breathing hard in terror and dread, gazing up at the stars in agony, beating my hands on the ground at the thought of the ruin I had wrought, the crime that I had done in gaining this I had sought. I had written covenants before! I have said that I would tell simply the truth in these pages, and this is the truth, the only extenuation I may claim. The strength and sweetness of all this strange new life with her had utterly wiped out my past, had put away, as though forever, the world I once had known. Until the moment Ellen Meriwether began the signing of her name, I swear I had forgotten that ever in the world was another by name of Grace Sheraton! I may not be believed--I ought not to be believed; but this is the truth and the truth by what measure my love for Ellen Meriwether was bright and fixed, as much as my promise to the other had been ill-advised and wrong. A forsworn man, I lay there, thinking of her, sweet, simple, serious and trusting, who had promised to love me, an utterly unworthy man, until we two should go back into the flowers. Far rather had I been beneath the sod that moment; for I knew, since I loved Ellen Meriwether, _she must not complete the signing of her name upon the scroll of our covenant!_ CHAPTER XXXIII THE FLAMING SWORD The question of food ever arose for settlement, and early the next morning I set out upon a short exploring expedition through our new country, to learn what I might of its resources. There were trout in our little mountain stream, and although we had no hooks or lines I managed to take a few of these in my hands, chasing them under the stones. Also I found many berries now beginning to ripen, and as the forest growth offered us new supplies, I gathered certain barks, thinking that we might make some sort of drink, medicinal if not pleasant. Tracks of deer were abundant; I saw a few antelope, and supposed that possibly these bolder slopes might hold mountain sheep. None of these smaller animals was so useful to us as the buffalo, for each would cost as much expenditure of precious ammunition, and yield less return in bulk. I shook the bullet pouch at my belt, and found it light. We had barely two dozen bullets left; and few hunters would promise themselves over a dozen head of big game for twice as many shots. I cast about me in search of red cedar that I might make a bow. I searched the willow thicket for arrow shafts, and prowled among little flints and pointed stones on the shores of our stream, seeking arrow points. It finally appeared to me that we might rest here for a time and be fairly safe to make a living in some way. Then, as I was obliged to admit, we would need to hurry on to the southward. But again fate had its way with us, setting aside all plans. When I returned to our encampment, instead of seeing Ellen come out to meet me as I expected, I found her lying in the shade of the little tepee. "You are hurt!" I cried. "What has happened?" "My foot," said she, "I think it is broken!" She was unable to stand. As she could, catching her breath, she told me how this accident had happened. Walking along the stony creek bank, she had slipped, and her moccasined foot, caught in the narrow crack between two rocks, had been held fast as she fell forward. It pained her now almost unbearably. Tears stood in her eyes. So now it was my term to be surgeon. Tenderly as I might, I examined the foot, now badly swollen and rapidly becoming discolored. In spite of her protest--although I know it hurt me more than herself--I flexed the joints and found the ankle at least safe. Alas! a little grating in the smaller bones, just below the instep, told me of a fracture. "Ellen," said I to her, "the foot is broken here--two bones, I think, are gone." She sank back upon her robe with an exclamation as much of horror as pain. "What shall we do!" she murmured. "I shall be crippled! I cannot walk--we shall perish!" "No," I said to her, "we shall mend it. In time you will not know it has happened." Thus we gave courage to each other. All that morning I poured water from a little height upon the bared foot, so that presently the inflammation and the pain lessened. Then I set out to secure flat splints and some soft bark, and so presently splintered and bound the foot, skillfully as I knew how; and this must have brought the broken bones in good juxtaposition, for at least I know that eventually nature was kind enough to heal this hurt and leave no trace of it. Now, when she was thus helpless and suffering, needing all her strength, how could I find it in my heart to tell her that secret which it was my duty to tell? How could I inflict upon her a still more poignant suffering than this physical one? Each morning I said to myself, "To-day, if she is better, I will tell her of Grace Sheraton; she must know." But each time I saw her face I could not tell her. Each day she placed a clean white pebble in a little pile at her side. Presently there were seven. "John Cowles," she said to me that morning, "bring me our writing, and bring me my pen. To-day I must sign another letter." And, smiling, she did so, looking up into my face with love showing on her own. Had the charcoal been living flame, and had she written on my bare heart, she could not have hurt me more. Of course, all the simple duties of our life now devolved upon myself. I must hunt, and keep the camp, and cook, and bring the fuel; so that much of the time I was by necessity away from her. Feverishly I explored all our little valley and exulted that here nature was so kind to us. I trapped hares in little runways. I made me a bow and some arrows, and very often I killed stupid grouse with these or even with stones or sticks, as they sat in the trees; and in bark baskets that I made I brought home many berries, now beginning to ripen fully. Roots and bulbs as I found them I experimented with, though not with much success. Occasionally I found fungi which made food. Flowers also I brought to her, flowers of the early autumn, because now the snows were beginning to come down lower on the mountains. In two months winter would be upon us. In one month we would have snow in the valley. The little pile of white stones at her side again grew, slowly, slowly. Letter by letter her name grew invisible form on the scroll of our covenant--her name, already written, and more deeply, on my heart. On the fifth week she called once more for her charcoal pen, and signed the last letter of her Christian name! "See, there," she said, "it is all my girl name, E-l-l-e-n." I looked at it, her hand in mine. "'Ellen!'" I murmured. "It is signature enough, because you are the only Ellen in the world." But she put away my hand gently and said, "Wait." She asked me now to get her some sort of cut branch for a crutch, saying she was going to walk. And walk she did, though resting her foot very little on the ground. After that, daily she went farther and farther, watched me as I guddled for trout in the stream, aided me as I picked berries in the thickets, helped me with the deer I brought into camp. "You are very good to me," she said, "and you hunt well. You work. You are a man, John Cowles. I love you." [Illustration: 'OUT THAR IN CALIFORNY THE HILLS ARE FULL OF GOLD'] But hearing words so sweet as these to me, still I did not tell her what secret was in my soul. Each day I said to myself that presently she would be strong enough to bear it, and that then I would tell her. Each day that other world seemed vaguer and farther away. But each day passed and I could not speak. Each day it seemed less worth while to speak. Now I could not endure the thought of losing her. I say that I could not. Let none judge me too harshly who have not known the full measure of this world and that. There was much sign of bears in our thickets, and I warned her not to go out alone after berries where these long-footed beasts now fed regularly. Sometimes we went there together, with our vessels of bark, and filled them slowly, as she hobbled along. Our little dog was now always with us, having become far more tamed and docile with us than is ever the case of an Indian dog in savagery. One day we wandered in a dense berry thicket, out of which rose here and there chokecherry trees, and we began to gather some of these sour fruits for use in the pemmican which we planned to manufacture. All at once we came to a spot where the cherry trees were torn down, pulled over, ripped up by the roots. The torn earth was very fresh, and I knew that the bear that had done the work could not be far away. All at once our dog began to growl and erect his hair, sniffing not at the foot scent, but looking directly into the thicket just ahead. He began then to bark, and as he did so there rose, with a sullen sort of grunt and a champing of jaws like a great hog, a vast yellow-gray object, whose head topped the bushes that grew densely all about. The girl at my side uttered a cry of terror and turned to run as best she might, but she fell, and lay there cowering. The grizzly stood looking at me vindictively with little eyes, its ears back, its jaws working, its paws swinging loosely at its side, the claws white at the lower end, as though newly sharpened for slaughtering. I saw then that it was angered by the sight of the dog, and would not leave us. Each moment I expected to hear it crash through the bush in its charge. Once down in the brush, there would be small chance of delivering a fatal shot; whereas now, as it swung its broad head slightly to one side, the best possible opportunity for killing it presented itself immediately. Without hesitation I swung up the heavy barrel, and drew the small silver bead directly on the base of the ear, where the side bones of a bear's head are flatter and thinner, directly alongside the brain. The vicious crack of the rifle sounded loud there in the thicket; but there came no answer in response to it save a crashing and slipping and a breaking down of the bushes as the vast carcass fell at full length. The little ball had done its work and found the brain. I knew the bear was dead, but for a time did not venture closely. I looked about and saw the girl slowly rising on her elbow, her face uncovered now, but white in terror. I motioned for her to lie still, and having reloaded, I pushed quietly through the undergrowth. I saw a vast gray, grizzled heap lying there, shapeless, motionless. Then I shouted aloud and went back and picked her up and carried her through the broken thicket, and placed her on the dead body of the grizzly, seating myself at her side. We were two savages, successful now in the chase--successful, indeed, in winning the capital prize of all savages; for few Indians will attack the grizzly if it can be avoided. She laid her hand wonderingly upon the barrel of the rifle, looking at it curiously, that it had been so deadly as to slay a creature so vast as this. Then she leaned contentedly against my side, and so we sat there for a time. "John Cowles," she said, "you are brave. You are very much a man. I am not afraid when you are with me." I put my arm about her. The world seemed wild and fair and sweet to me. Life, savage, stern, swept through all my veins. The skinning of the bear was a task of some moment, and as we did this we exulted that we would now have so fine a robe. The coarse meat we could not use, but the fat I took off in flakes and strips, and hung upon the bushes around us for later carrying into camp. In this work she assisted me, hobbling about as best she might. We were busy at this, both of us greasy and bloody to our elbows, when all at once we stopped and looked at each other in silence. We had heard a sound. To me it sounded like a rifle shot. We listened. It came again, with others. There was a volley of several shots, sounds certain beyond any manner of question. My heart stopped. She looked at me, some strange thought written upon her face. It was not joy, nor exultation, nor relief. Her eyes were large and startled. There was no smile on her face. These things I noted. I caught her bloody hand in my bloody one, and for an instant I believed we both meditated flight deeper into the wilderness. Yet I reasoned that since these shots were fired on our trail, we must be in all likelihood found in any case, even were these chance hunters coming into our valley, and not a party searching for us. "It may not be any one we know," I said. "It may be Indians." "No," said she, "it is my father. They have found us. We must go! John"--she turned toward me and put her hands on my breast--"John!" I saw terror, and regret, and resolve look out of her eyes, but not joy at this deliverance. No, it was not joy that shone in her eyes. None the less, the ancient yoke of society being offered, we bowed our necks again, fools and slaves, surrendering freedom, joy, content, as though that were our duty. CHAPTER XXXIV THE LOSS OF PARADISE Silently we made our way toward the edge of the thicket where it faced upon the open valley. All about me I could hear the tinkling and crashing of fairy crystal walls, the ruins of that vision house I had builded in my soul. At the edge of the thicket we crouched low, waiting and looking out over the valley, two savages, laired, suspicious. Almost as we paused I saw coming forward the stooping figure of an Indian trailer, half naked, beleggined, moccasined, following our fresh tracks at a trot. I covered him with the little silver bead, minded to end his quest. But before I could estimate his errand, or prepare to receive him, closely in case he proved an enemy, I saw approaching around a little point of timber other men, white men, a half dozen of them, one a tall man in dusty garments, with boots, and hat, and gloves. And then I saw her, my promised wife, leave my side, and limp and stagger forward, her arms outstretched. I saw the yoke of submission, the covenant of society, once more accepted. "Father!" she cried. They gathered about us. I saw him look down at her with half horror on his face. Then I noticed that she was, clad in fringed skins, that her head covering was a bit of hide, that her hair was burned yellow at the ends, that her foot coverings were uncouth, that her hands and arms were brown, where not stained red by the blood in which they had dabbled. I looked down also at myself, and saw then that I was tall, brown, gaunt, bearded, ragged, my clothing of wool well-nigh gone, my limbs wound in puttee bands of hide, my hands large, horny, blackened, rough. I reeked with grime. I was a savage new drawn from my cave. I dragged behind me the great grizzled hide of the dead bear, clutched in one hairy hand. And somber and sullen as any savage, brutal and silent in resentment at being disturbed, I stared at them. "Who are you?" demanded the tall man of me sternly; but still I did not answer. The girl's hands tugged at his shoulders. "It is my friend," she said. "He saved me. It is Mr. John Cowles, father, of the Virginia Cowles family. He has come to see you--" But he did not hear her, or show that he heard. His arm about her, supporting her as she limped, he turned back down the valley, and we others followed slowly. Presently he came to the rude shelter which had been our home. Without speaking he walked about the camp, pushed open the door of the little ragged tepee and looked within. The floor was very narrow. There was one meager bed of hides. There was one fire. "Come with me," he said at length to me. And so I followed him apart, where a little thicket gave us more privacy. His was a strong face, keen under heavy gray brows, with hair that rose stiff and gray over a high forehead, so that he seemed like some Osage chief, taller by a third than most men, and naturally a commander among others. "You are John Cowles, sir, then?" he said to me at length, quietly. "Lieutenant Belknap told me something of this when he came in with his men from the East." I nodded and waited. "Are you aware, sir, of the seriousness of what you have done?" he broke out. "Why did you not come on to the settlements? What reason was there for you not coming back at once to the valley of the Platte--here you are, a hundred miles out of your way, where a man of any intelligence, it seems to me, would naturally have turned back to the great trail. Hundreds of wagons pass there every day. There is a stage line with daily coaches, stations, houses. A telegraph line runs from one end of the valley to the other. You could not have missed all this had you struck south. A fool would have known that. But you took my girl--" he choked up, and pointed to me, ragged and uncouth. "Good God! Colonel Meriwether," I cried out at length, "you are not regretting that I brought her through?" "Almost, sir," he said, setting his lips together. "Almost!" "Do you regret then that she brought me through--that I owe my life to her?" "Almost, sir," he repeated. "I almost regret it." "Then go back--leave us--report us dead!" I broke out, savagely. It was moments before I could accept this old life again offered me. "She is a splendid girl, a noble being," I said to him, slowly, at last. "She saved me when I was sick and unable to travel. There is nothing I could do that would pay the debt I owe to her. She is a noble woman, a princess among women, body and soul." "She is like her mother," said he, quietly. "She was too good for this. Sir, you have done my family a grievous wrong. You have ruined my daughter's life." Now at last I could talk. I struck my hand hard on his shoulder and looked him full in the eye. "Colonel Meriwether," I said to him, "I am ashamed of you." "What do you mean?" He frowned sternly and shook off my hand. "I brought her through," I said, "and if it would do any good, I would lie down here and die for her. If what I say is not true, draw up your men for a firing squad and let us end it. I don't care to go back to Laramie." "What good would that do?" said he. "It's the girl's _name_ that's compromised, man! Why, the news of this is all over the country--the wires have carried it both sides of the mountains; the papers are full of it in the East. You have been gone nearly three months together, and all the world knows it. Don't you suppose all the world will _talk_? Did I not see--" he motioned his hand toward our encampment. He babbled of such things, small, unimportant, to me, late from large things in life. I interrupted long enough to tell him briefly of our journey, of our hardships, of what we had gone through, of how my sickness had rendered it impossible for us to return at once, of how we had wandered, with what little judgment remained to us, how we had lived in the meantime. He shook his head. "I know men," said he. "Yes," said I, "I would have been no man worth the name had I not loved your daughter. And I admit to you that I shall never love another woman, not in all my life." In answer he flung down on the ground in front of me something that he carried--the scroll of our covenant, signed by my name and in part by hers. "What does this mean?" he asked. "It means," said I, "what it says; that here or anywhere, in sickness or in health, in adversity or prosperity, until I lie down to die and she beside me in her time, we two are in the eye of God married; and in the eye of man would have been, here or wherever else we might be." I saw his face pale; but a somber flame came into his eyes. "And you say this--you, _after all I know regarding you_!" Again I felt that old chill of terror and self-reproach strike to my heart. I saw my guilt once more, horrible as though an actual presence. I remembered what Ellen Meriwether had said to me regarding any other or earlier covenant. I recalled my troth, plighted earlier, before I had ever seen her,--my faith, pledged in another world. So, seeing myself utterly ruined in my own sight and his and hers, I turned to him at length, with no pride in my bearing. "So I presume Gordon Orme has told you," I said to him. "You know of Grace Sheraton, back there?" His lips but closed the tighter. "Have you told her--have you told this to my girl?" he asked, finally. "Draw up your file!" I cried, springing to my feet. "Execute me! I deserve it. No, I have not told her. I planned to do so--I should never have allowed her to sign her name there before I had told her everything--been fair to her as I could. But her accident left her weak--I could not tell her--a thousand things delayed it. Yes, it was my fault." He looked me over with contempt. "You are not fit to touch the shoe on my girl's foot," he said slowly. "But now, since this thing has begun, since you have thus involved her and compromised her, and as I imagine in some foul way have engaged her affections--now, I say, it must go on. When we get to Laramie, by God! sir, you shall marry that girl. And then out you go, and never see her face again. She is too good for you, but where you can be of use to her, for this reason, you shall be used." I seated myself, my head in my hands, and pondered. He was commanding me to do that which was my dearest wish in life. But he was commanding me to complete my own folly. "Colonel Meriwether," said I to him, finally, "if it would do her any good I would give up my life for her. But her father can neither tell me how nor when my marriage ceremony runs; nor can he tell me when to leave the side of the woman who is my wife. I am subject to the orders of no man in the world." "You refuse to do what you have planned to do? Sir, that shows you as you are. You proposed to--to live with her here, but not be bound to her elsewhere!" "It is not true!" I said to him in somber anger. "I proposed to put before her the fact of my own weakness, of my own self-deception, which also was deception of her. I propose to do that now." "If you did, she would refuse to look at you again." "I know it, but it must be done. I must take my chances." "And your chances mean this alternative--either that my girl's reputation shall be ruined all over the country--all through the Army, where she is known and loved--or else that her heart must be broken. This is what it means, Mr. Cowles. This is what you have brought to my family." "Yes," I said to him, slowly, "this is what I have brought." "Then which do you choose, sir?" he demanded of me. "I choose to break her heart!" I answered. "Because that is the truth, and that is right. I only know one way to ride, and that is straight." He smiled at me coldly in his frosty beard. "That sounds well from you!" he said bitterly. "Ellen!" he raised his voice. "Ellen, I say, come here at once!" It was my ear which first heard the rustling of her footsteps at the edge of the thicket as she approached. She came before us slowly, halting, leaning on her crutch. A soft flush shone through the brown upon her cheeks. I shall not forget in all my life the picture of her as she stood. Neither shall I forget the change which came across her face as she saw us sitting there silent, cold, staring at her. Then, lovable in her rags, beautiful in her savagery, the gentleness of generations of culture in all her mien in spite of her rude surroundings, she stepped up and laid her hand upon her father's shoulder, one finger half pointing at the ragged scroll of hide which lay upon the ground before us. I loved her--ah, how I loved her then! "I signed that, father," she said gently. "I was going to sign it, little by little, a letter each week. We were engaged--nothing more. But here or anywhere, some time, I intend to marry Mr. Cowles. This I have promised of my own free will. He has been both man and gentleman, father. I love him." I heard the groan which came from his throat. She sprang back. "What is it?" she said. The old fire of her disposition again broke out. "What!" she cried. "You object? Listen, I will sign my name now--I will finish it--give me--give me--" She sought about on the ground for something which would leave a mark. "I say I have not been his, but will be, father--as I like, when I like--now, this very night if I choose--forever! He has done everything for me--I trust him--I know he is a man of honor, that he--" Her voice broke as she looked at my face. "But what--what _is_ it?" she demanded, brokenly, in her own eyes something of the horror which sat in mine. I say I see her picture now, tall, straight, sweet, her hands on her lifting bosom, eagerness and anxiety fighting on her face. "Ellen, child, Mr. Cowles has something to tell you." Then some one, in a voice which sounded like mine, but was not mine, told her--told her the truth, which sounded so like a lie. Some one, myself, yet not myself, went on, cruelly, blackening all the sweet blue sky for her. Some one--I suppose it was myself, late free--felt the damp of an iron yoke upon his neck. I saw her knees sink beneath her, but she shrank back when I would have reached out an arm as of old. "I hate that woman!" she blazed. "Suppose she does love you--do I not love you more? Let her lose--some one must lose!" But at the next moment her anger had changed to doubt, to horror. I saw her face change, saw her hand drop to her side. "It is not that you loved another girl," she whispered, "but that you have deceived _me_--here, when I was in your power. Oh, it was not right! How could you! Oh, how could you!" Then once more she changed. The flame of her thoroughbred soul came back to her. Her courage saved her from shame. Her face flushed, she stood straight. "I hate _you!_" she cried to me. "Go! I will never see you any more." Still the bright sun shone on. A little bird trilled in the thicket near. CHAPTER XXXV THE YOKE When we started to the south on the following morning, I rode far at the rear, under guard. I recall little of our journey toward Laramie, save that after a day or two we swung out from the foothills into a short grass country, and so finally struck the steady upward sweep of a valley along which lay the great transcontinental trail. I do not know whether we traveled two days, or three, or four, since all the days seemed night to me, and all the nights were uniform in torture. Finally, we drove down into a dusty plain, and so presently came to the old frontier fort. Here, then, was civilization--the stage coach, the new telegraph wire, men and women, weekly or daily touch with the world, that prying curiosity regarding the affairs of others which we call news. To me it seemed tawdry, sordid, worthless, after that which I had left. The noise seemed insupportable, the food distasteful. I could tolerate no roof, and in my own ragged robes slept on the ground within the old stockade. I was still guarded as a prisoner; I was approached by none and had conversation with none until evening of the day after my arrival. When I ate, it was at no gentleman's table, but in the barracks. I resented judgment, sentence and punishment, thus executed in one. Evening gun had sounded, and the flag had been furled on my second day at Laramie, when finally Colonel Meriwether sent for me to come to his office quarters. He got swiftly enough to the matters on his mind. "Mr. Cowles," said he, "it is time now that you and I had a talk. Presently you will be leaving Laramie. I can not try you by court martial, for you are a civilian. In short, all I can say to you is to go, with the hope that you may never again cross our lives." I looked at him a time, silently, hating not him personally as much as I hated all the world. But presently I asked him, "Have you no word for me from her?" "Miss Meriwether has no word for you," he answered, sternly, "nor ever will have. You are no longer necessary in her plans." "Ah, then," said I, "you have changed your own mind mightily." He set his lips together in his grim fashion. "Yes," said he, "I have changed my mind absolutely. I have just come from a very trying interview. It is not necessary for me to explain to you the full nature of it--" "Then she has sent for me?" "She will never send for you, I have said." "But listen. At least, I have brought her back to you safe and sound. Setting aside all my own acts in other matters, why can you not remember at least so much as that? Yet you treat me like a dog. I tell you, I shall not leave without word from her, and when I leave I shall make no promises as to when I shall or shall not come back. So long as one chance remains--" "I tell you that there is no longer any chance, no longer the ghost of a chance. It is my duty to inform you, sir, that a proper suitor long ago applied for my daughter's hand, that he has renewed his suit, and that now she has accepted him." For a time I sat staring stupidly at him. "You need speak nothing but the truth with me," I said at last. "Colonel Meriwether, I have never given bonds to be gentle when abused." "I am telling you the truth," he said. "By God, sir! Miss Meriwether is engaged to Lieutenant Lawrence Belknap of the Ninth Dragoons! You feel your honor too deeply touched? Perhaps at a later time Lieutenant Belknap will do himself the disgrace of accommodating you." All these things seemed to dull and stupefy me rather than excite. I could not understand. "If I killed him," said I, finally, "how would it better her case? Moreover, before I could take any more risk, I must go back to Virginia. My mother needs me there most sadly." "Yes, and Miss Grace Sheraton needs you there sadly, as well," he retorted. "Go back, then, and mend your promises, and do some of those duties which you now begin to remember. You have proved yourself a man of no honor. I stigmatize you now as a coward." There seemed no tinder left in my spirit to flame at this spark. "You speak freely to your prisoner, Colonel Meriwether," I said, slowly, at length. "There is time yet for many risks--chances for many things. But now I think you owe it to me to tell me how this matter was arranged." "Very well, then. Belknap asked me for permission to try his chance long ago--before I came west to Laramie. I assigned him to bring her through to me. He was distracted at his failure to do so. He has been out with parties all the summer, searching for you both, and has not been back at Laramie more than ten days. Oh, we all knew why you did not come back to the settlements. When we came in he guessed all that you know. He knew that all the world would talk. And like a man he asked the right to silence all that talk forever." "And she agreed? Ellen Meriwether accepted him on such terms?" "It is arranged," said he, not answering me directly, "and it removes at once all necessity for any other arrangement. As for you, you disappear. It will be announced all through the Army that she and Lieutenant Belknap were married at Leavenworth before they started West, and that it was they two, and not you and my daughter, who were lost." "And Belknap was content to do this?" I mused. "He would do this after Ellen told him that she loved me--" "Stop!" thundered Colonel Meriwether. "I have told you all that is necessary. I will add that he said to me, like the gentleman he is, that in case my daughter asked it, _he_ would marry her and leave her at once, until she of her own free will asked him to return. There is abundant opportunity for swift changes in the Army. What seems to you absurd will work out in perfectly practical fashion." "Yes," said I, "in fashion perfectly practical for the ruin of her life. You may leave mine out of the question." "I do, sir," was his icy reply. "She told you to your face, and in my hearing, that you had deceived her, that you must go." "Yes," I said, dully, "I did deceive her, and there is no punishment on earth great enough to give me for that--except to have no word from her!" "You are to go at once. I put it beyond you to understand Belknap's conduct in this matter." "He is a gentleman," I said, "and fit to love her. I think none of us needs praise or blame for that." He choked up. "She's my girl," he said. "Yes, all my boys in the Army love her--there isn't one of them that wouldn't be proud to marry her on any terms she would lay down. And there isn't a man in the Army, married or single, that wouldn't challenge you if you breathed a word of what has gone between you and her." I looked at him and made no motion. It seemed to me go unspeakably sad, so incredible, that one should be so unbelievably underestimated. "Now, finally," resumed Colonel Meriwether, after a time, ceasing his walking up and down, "I must close up what remains between you and me. My daughter said to me that you wanted to see me on some business matter. Of course you had some reason for coming out here." "That was my only reason for coming," I rejoined. "I wanted to see you upon an important business matter. I was sent here by the last message my father gave any one--by the last words he spoke in his life. He told me I should come to you." "Well, well, if you have any favor to ask of me, out with it, and let us end it all at one sitting." "Sir," I said, "I would see you damned in hell before I would ask a crust or a cup of water of you, though I were starving and burning. I have heard enough." "Orderly!" he called out. "Show this man to the gate." CHAPTER XXXVI THE GOAD It was at last borne in upon me that I must leave without any word from Ellen. She was hedged about by all the stern and cold machinery of an Army Post, out of whose calculations I was left as much as though I belonged to a different world. I cannot express what this meant for me. For weeks now, for months, indeed, we two had been together each hour of the day. I had come to expect her greeting in the morning, to turn to her a thousand times in the day with some query or answer. I had made no plan from which she was absent. I had come to accept myself, with her, as fit part of an appointed and happy scheme. Now, in a twinkling, all that had been subverted. I was robbed of her exquisite dependence upon me, of those tender defects of nature that rendered her most dear. I was to miss now her fineness, her weakness and trustfulness, which had been a continual delight. I could no longer see her eyes nor touch her hands, nor sit silent at her feet, dreaming of days to come. Her voice was gone from my listening ears. Always I waited to hear her footstep, but it came no longer, rustling in the grasses. It seemed to me that by some hard decree I had been deprived of all my senses; for not one was left which did not crave and cry aloud for her. It was thus that I, dulled, bereft; I, having lived, now dead; I, late free, now bound again, turned away sullenly, and began my journey back to the life I had known before I met her. As I passed East by the Denver stage, I met hurrying throngs always coming westward, a wavelike migration of population now even denser than it had been the preceding spring. It was as Colonel Meriwether said, the wagons almost touched from the Platte to the Rockies. They came on, a vast, continuous stream of hope, confidence and youth. I, who stemmed that current, alone was unlike it in all ways. One thing only quickened my laggard heart, and that was the all prevalent talk of war. The debates of Lincoln and Douglas, the consequences of Lincoln's possible election, the growing dissensions in the Army over Buchanan's practically overt acts of war--these made the sole topics of conversation. I heard my own section, my own State, criticised bitterly, and all Southerners called traitors to that flag I had seen flying over the frontiers of the West. At times, I say, these things caused my blood to stir once more, though perhaps it was not all through patriotism. At last, after weeks of travel across a disturbed country, I finally reached the angry hive of political dissension at Washington. Here I was near home, but did not tarry, and passed thence by stage to Leesburg, in Virginia; and so finally came back into our little valley and the quiet town of Wallingford. I had gone away the victim of misfortune; I returned home with a broken word and an unfinished promise and a shaken heart. That was my return. I got me a horse at Wallingford barns, and rode out to Cowles' Farms. At the gate I halted and looked in over the wide lawns. It seemed to me I noted a change in them as in myself. The grass was unkempt, the flower beds showed little attention. The very seats upon the distant gallery seemed unfamiliar, as though arranged by some careless hand. I opened the gate for myself, rode up to the old stoop and dismounted, for the first time in my life there without a boy to take my horse. I walked slowly up the steps to the great front door of the old house. No servant came to meet me, grinning. I, grandson of the man who built that house, my father's home and mine, lifted the brazen knocker of the door and heard no footstep anticipate my knock. The place sounded empty. Finally there came a shuffling footfall and the door was opened, but there stood before me no one that I recognized. It was a smallish, oldish, grayish man who opened the door and smiled in query at me. "I am John Cowles, sir," I said, hesitating. "Yourself I do not seem to know--" "My name is Halliday, Mr. Cowles," he replied. A flush of humiliation came to my face. "I should know you. You were my father's creditor." "Yes, sir, my firm was the holder of certain obligations at the time of your father's death. You have been gone very long without word to us. Meantime, pending any action--" "You have moved in!" "I have ventured to take possession, Mr. Cowles. That was as your mother wished. She waived all her rights and surrendered everything, said all the debts must be paid--" "Of course--" "And all we could prevail upon her to do was to take up her quarters there in one of the little houses." He pointed with this euphemism toward our old servants' quarters. So there was my mother, a woman gently reared, tenderly cared for all her life, living in a cabin where once slaves had lived. And I had come back to her, to tell a story such as mine! "I hope," said he, hesitating, "that all these matters may presently be adjusted. But first I ask you to influence your mother to come back into the place and take up her residence." I smiled slowly. "You hardly understand her," I said. "I doubt if my influence will suffice for that. But I shall meet you again." I was turning away. "Your mother, I believe, is not here--she went over to Wallingford. I think it is the day when she goes to the little church--" "Yes, I know. If you will excuse me I shall ride over to see if I can find her." He bowed. Presently I was hurrying down the road again. It seemed to me that I could never tolerate the sight of a stranger as master at Cowles' Farms. CHAPTER XXXVII THE FURROW I Found her at the churchyard of the old meetinghouse. She was just turning toward the gate in the low sandstone wall which surrounded the burying ground and separated it from the space immediately about the little stone church. It was a beautiful spot, here where the sun came through the great oaks that had never known an ax, resting upon blue grass that had never known a plow--a spot virgin as it was before old Lord Fairfax ever claimed it hi his loose ownership. Everything about it spoke of quiet and gentleness. I knew what it was that she looked upon as she turned back toward that spot--it was one more low mound, simple, unpretentious, added to the many which had been placed there this last century and a half; one more little gray sandstone head-mark, cut simply with the name and dates of him who rested there, last in a long roll of our others. The slight figure in the dove-colored gown looked back lingeringly. It gave a new ache to my heart to see her there. She did not notice me as I slipped down from my saddle and fastened my horse at the long rack. But when I called she turned and came to me with open arms. "Jack!" she cried. "My son, how I have missed thee! Now thee has come back to thy mother." She put her forehead on my shoulder, but presently took up a mother's scrutiny. Her hand stroked my hair, my unshaven beard, took in each line of my face. "Thee has a button from thy coat," she said, reprovingly. "And what is this scar on thy neck--thee did not tell me when thee wrote, Jack, what ails thee?" She looked at me closely. "Thee is changed. Thee is older--what has come to thee, my son?" "Come," I said to her at length, and led her toward the steps of the little church. Then I broke out bitterly and railed against our ill-fortune, and cursed at the man who would allow her to live in servants' quarters--indeed, railed at all of life. "Thee must learn to subdue thyself, my son," she said. "It is only so that strength comes to us--when we bend the back to the furrow God sets for us. I am quite content in my little rooms. I have made them very clean; and I have with me a few things of my own--a few, not many." "But your neighbors, mother, the Sheratons--" "Oh, certainly, they asked me to live with them. But I was not moved to do that. You see, I know each rose bush and each apple tree on our old place. I did not like to leave them. "Besides, as to the Sheratons, Jack," she began again--"I do not wish to say one word to hurt thy feelings, but Miss Grace--" "What about Miss Grace?" "Mr. Orme, the gentleman who once stopped with us a few days--" "Oh, Orme! Is he here again? He was all through the West with me--I met him everywhere there. Now I meet him here!" "He returned last summer, and for most of his time has been living at the Sheratons'. He and Colonel Sheraton agree very well. And he and Miss Grace--I do not like to say these things to thee, my son, but they also seem to agree." "Go on," I demanded, bitterly. "Whether Miss Grace's fancy has changed, I do not know, but thy mother ought to tell thee this, so that if she should jilt thee, why, then--" "Yes," said I, slowly, "it would be hard for me to speak the first word as to a release." "But if she does not love thee, surely she will speak that word. So then say good-by to her and set about thy business." I could not at that moment find it in my heart to speak further. We rose and walked down to the street of the little town, and at the tavern barn I secured a conveyance which took us both back to what had once been our home. It was my mother's hands which, at a blackened old fireplace, in a former slave's cabin, prepared what we ate that evening. Then, as the sun sank in a warm glow beyond the old Blue Ridge, and our little valley lay there warm and peaceful as of old, I drew her to the rude porch of the whitewashed cabin, and we looked out, and talked of things which must be mentioned. I told her--told her all my sad and bitter story, from end to end. "This, then," I concluded, more than an hour after I had begun, "is what I have brought back to you--failure, failure, nothing but failure." We sat in silence, looking out into the starry night, how long I do not know. Then I heard her pray, openly, as was not the custom of her people. "Lord, this is not my will. Is this Thy will?" After a time she put her hand upon mine. "My son, now let us reason what is the law. From the law no man may escape. Let us see who is the criminal. And if that be thee, then let my son have his punishment." I allowed the edge of her gentle words to bite into my soul, but I could not speak. "But one thing I know," she concluded, "thee is John Cowles, the son of my husband, John; and thee at the last will do what is right, what thy heart says to thee is right." She kissed me on the cheek and so arose. All that night I felt her prayers. CHAPTER XXXVIII HEARTS HYPOTHECATED The next morning at the proper hour I started for the Sheraton mansion. This time it was not my old horse Satan that I rode. My mother told me that Satan had been given over under the blanket chattel mortgage, and sold at the town livery stable to some purchaser, whom she did not know, who had taken the horse out of the country. I reflected bitterly upon the changes in my fortunes since the last time I rode this way. At least I was not so much coward as to turn about. So presently I rode up the little pitch from the trough road and pulled the gate latch with my riding crop. And then, as though it were by appointment, precisely as I saw her that morning last spring--a hundred years ago it seemed to me--I saw Grace Sheraton coming down the walk toward me, tall, thin. Alas! she did not fill my eye. She was elegantly clad, as usual. I had liefer seen dress of skins. Her dainty boots clicked on the gravel. A moccasin would not. I threw my rein over the hook at the iron arm of the stone gate pillar and, hat in hand, I went to meet her. I was an older man now. I was done with roystering and fighting, and the kissing of country girls all across the land. I did not prison Grace Sheraton against the stone gate pillar now, and kiss her against her will until she became willing. All I did was to lift her hand and kiss her finger tips. She was changed. I felt that rather than saw it. If anything, she was thinner, her face had a deeper olive tint, her eyes were darker. Her expression was gay, feverish, yet not natural, as she approached. What was it that sat upon her face--melancholy, or fear, or sorrow, or resentment? I was never very bright of mind. I do not know. "I am glad to see you," she said to me at length, awkwardly. "And I to see you, of course." I misdoubt we both lied. "It is very sad, your home-coming thus," she added; at which clue I caught gladly. "Yes, matters could hardly be worse for us." "Your mother would not come to us. We asked her. We feel deeply mortified. But now--we hope you both will come." "We are beggars now, Miss Grace," I said. "I need time to look around, to hit upon some plan of life. I must make another home for myself, and for--" "For me?" She faced me squarely now, eye to eye. A smile was on her lips, and it seemed to me a bitter one, but I could not guess what was hidden in her mind. I saw her cheek flush slowly, deeper than was usual with a Sheraton girl. "For my wife, as soon as that may be," I answered, as red as she. "I learn that you did not see Colonel Meriwether," she went on politely. "How did you know it?" "Through Captain Orme." "Yes," said I, quietly, "I have heard of Captain Orme--much of him--very much." Still I could not read her face. "He was with us a long time this summer," she resumed, presently. "Some two weeks ago he left, for Charleston, I think. He has much business about the country." "Much business," I assented, "in many parts of the country. But most of all with men of the Army. So Captain Orme--since we must call him Captain and not minister--was so good as to inform you of my private matters." "Yes." Again she looked at me squarely, with defiance. "I know all about it. I know all about that girl." So there it was! But I kept myself under whip hand still. "I am very glad. It will save me telling you of myself. It is not always that one has the good fortune of such early messengers." "Go on," she said bitterly, "tell me about her." "I have no praises to sound for her. I do not wish to speak of this, if you prefer to hear it from others than myself." She only smiled enigmatically, her mouth crooking in some confidence she held with herself, but not with me. "It was natural," she said at last, slowly. "Doubtless I would have done as she did. Doubtless any other man would have done precisely as you did. That is the way with men. After all, I suppose the world is the world, and that we are as we are. The girl who is closest to a man has the best chance with him. Opportunity is much, very much. Secrecy is everything." I found nothing which suited me to say; but presently she went on, again leaning on the ivy-covered stone pillar of the gate, her hat held by its strings at her side, her body not imprisoned by my arms. "Why should you not both have done so?" she resumed, bitterly. "We are all human." "Why should we not have done what--what is it that you mean?" I demanded of her. "Why, there was she, engaged to Mr. Belknap, as I am told; and there were you, engaged to a certain young lady by the name of Grace Sheraton, very far away. And you were conveniently lost--very conveniently--and you found each other's society agreeable. You kept away for some weeks or months, both of you forgetting. It was idyllic--ideal. You were not precisely babes in the woods. You were a man and a woman. I presume you enjoyed yourselves, after a very possible little fashion--I do not blame you--I say I might have done the same. I should like to know it for a time myself--freedom! I do not blame you. Only," she said slowly, "in society we do not have freedom. Here it is different. I suppose different laws apply, different customs!" "Miss Grace," said I, "I do not in the least understand you. You are not the same girl I left." "No, I am not. But that is not my fault. Can not a woman be free as much as a man? Have I not right as much as you? Have you not been free?" "One thing only I want to say," I rejoined, "and it is this, which I ought not to say at all. If you mean anything regarding Ellen Meriwether, I have to tell you, or any one, that she is clean--mind, body, soul, heart--as clean as when I saw her first." "Do you know, I like you for saying that!" she retorted. "I would never marry a man who knew nothing of other women--I don't want a milksop; and I would not marry a man who would not lie for the sake of a sweetheart. You lie beautifully! Do you know, Jack, I believe you are a bit of a gentleman, after all! "But tell me, when is the wedding to be?" This last with obvious effort. "You have not advised me." "Oh, I beg your pardon. I meant your marriage with Ellen Meriwether. I supposed of course you had quite forgotten me!" "Ellen Meriwether is already married," I said to her, with a calmness which surprised myself. But what surprised me most was the change which came upon her face at the words--the flush--the gleam of triumph, of satisfaction. I guessed this much and no more--that she had had certain plans, and that now she had other plans, changed with lightning swiftness, and by reason of my words. "Lieutenant Lawrence Belknap and Miss Ellen Meriwether were married, I presume, some time after I started for the East," I went on. "But they were never engaged before our return to the settlements. It was all very suddenly arranged." "How like a story-book! So he forgot her little incidents with you--all summer--side by side--day and night! How romantic! I don't know that I could have done so much, had I been a man, and myself not guilty of the same incidents. At least, he kept his promise." "There had never been any promise at all between them." "Then Captain Orme was quite mistaken?" "Captain Orme does not trouble himself always to be accurate." "At least, then, you are unmarried, Jack?" "Yes, and likely to be for some years." Now her face changed once more. Whether by plan of her own or not, I cannot say, but it softened to a more gentle--shall I say a more beseeching look? Was it that I again was at her side, that old associations awakened? Or was it because she was keen, shrewd and in control of herself, able to make plans to her own advantage? I cannot tell as to that. But I saw her face soften, and her voice was gentle when she spoke. "What do you mean, Jack?" she asked. If there was not love and caress in her tones, then I could not detect the counterfeit. I reiterate, if I should live a thousand years, I should know nothing of women, nothing. We men are but toys with them. As in life and in sex man is in nature's plan no master, no chooser, but merely an incident; so, indeed, I believe that he is thus always with a woman--only an incident. With women we are toys. They play with us. We never read them. They are the mystery of the world. When they would deceive us it is beyond all our art to read them. Never shall man, even the wisest, fathom the shallowest depths of a woman's heart. Their superiors? God! we are their slaves, and the stronger we are as men, the more are we enslaved. Had it been left to my judgment to pronounce, I should have called her emotion now a genuine one. Mocking, cynical, contemptuous she might have been, and it would have suited my own mood. But what was it now on the face of Grace Sheraton, girl of a proud family, woman I once had kissed here at this very place until she blushed--kissed until she warmed--until she-- But now I know she changed once again, and I know that this time I read her look aright. It was pathos on her face, and terror. Her eye was that of the stricken antelope in dread of the pursuer. "Jack," she whispered, "don't leave me! Jack, _I shall need you!_" Before I could resolve any questions in my mind, I heard behind us the sound of approaching hoofs, and there rode up to the gate her brother, Harry Sheraton, who dismounted and hitched his horse near mine, saluting me as he pushed open the great gate. It was the first time I had seen him since my return. "Am I intruding?" he asked. "I'm awfully glad to see you, Cowles--I heard below you were home. You've had a long journey." "Yes," I answered, "longer than I had planned, by many weeks. And now I am glad to be back once more. No--" in answer to his turning toward his horse as though he would leave us. "You are looking well, Harry. Indeed, everything in old Virginia is good to see again." "Wish I could be as polite with you. Have you been sick? And, I say, you did meet the savages, didn't you?" I knew he meant the scar on the side of my neck, which still was rather evident, but I did not care to repeat the old story again. "Yes," I answered a bit shortly, "rather a near thing of it. I presume Captain Orme told you?" I turned to Miss Grace, who then admitted that she had heard something of the surgery which had thus left its mark. Harry seemed puzzled, so I saw it was news to him. Miss Grace relieved the situation somewhat by turning toward the house. "I am sure you will want to talk with Jack," she said to him. "And listen, Harry, you must have him and Mrs. Cowles over here this very evening--we cannot think of her living alone at the old place. I shall send Cato down with, the carriage directly, and you may drive over after Mrs. Cowles." She held out her hand to me. "At dinner to-night, then?" I bowed, saying that we would be very happy, by which I meant that we would be very miserable. This, then, was all that had been determined by my visit. I was still an engaged man. Evidently nothing otherwise had been discussed in the Sheraton family councils, if any such had been held. If never suitor in Old Virginia rode up in sorrier case than mine that morning, as I came to call upon my fiancée, certainly did never one depart in more uncertain frame of mind than mine at this very moment. I presume that young Sheraton felt something of this, for he began awkwardly to speak of matters related thereto. "It's awfully hard," he began, "to see strangers there in your own house--I know it must be hard. But I say, your father must have plunged heavily on those lands over West in the mountains. I've heard they're very rich in coal, and that all that was necessary was simply cash or credit enough to tide the deal over till next year's crops." "My father always said there was a great fortune in the lands," I replied. "Yes, I think another year would have seen him through; but that year was not to come for him." "But couldn't funds be raised somehow, even yet?" I shook my head. "It is going to be hard in these times to raise funds in any way. Values are bad now, and if the Republican party elects Lincoln next month, there will be no such things as values left in Virginia. I don't see how anything can save our property." "Well, I'm not so sure," he went on, embarrassed. "My father and I have been talking over these matters, and we concluded to ask you if we might not take a hand in this. At least, we have agreed all along that--in this case you know--you and my sister--we have planned definitely that you should live in your old place. We're going to take that over. The redemption time has plenty of margin, and we can't allow those people to come in here and steal one of the old Virginia places in that way. We are going to arrange to hold that for you and my sister, and we thought that perhaps in time something could be worked out of the rest of the property in the same way. That is, unless Colonel Meriwether, your father's partner, shall offer some better solution. I suppose you talked it over with him?" "I did not talk with him about it at all," said I, dully. For many reasons I did not care to repeat all of my story to him. I had told it often enough already. "None the less, it seems very generous of you and your father to take this interest in me. It would be very churlish of me if I did not appreciate it. But I trust nothing has been done as yet--" "You trust not? Why, Cowles, you speak as though you did not want us to do it." "I do not," said I. "Oh, then--" "You know our family well enough." "That's true. But you won't be offended if I suggest to you that there are two sides to this, and two prides. All the country knows of your engagement, and now that you have returned, it will be expected that my sister will set the day before long. Of course, we shouldn't want my sister to begin too far down--oh, damn it, Cowles, you know what I mean." "I presume so," said I to him, slowly. "But suppose that your sister should offer to her friends the explanation that the change in my fortunes no longer leaves desirable this alliance with my family?" "Do you suggest that?" "I have not done so." "Has she suggested it?" "We have not talked of it, yet it might be hard for your sister to share a lot so humble and so uncertain." "That I presume will be for her to decide," he said slowly. "I admit it is a hard question all around. But, of course, in a matter of this kind, the man has to carry the heavy end of the log if there is one. If that falls to you, we know you will not complain." "No," said I, "I hope not." His forehead still remained furrowed with the old Sheraton wrinkles. He seemed uneasy. "By Jove," he broke out at length, flushing as he turned to me, "it is hard for a fellow to tell sometimes what's right, isn't it? Jack, you remember Jennie Williams, across under Catoctin?" I nodded. "I thought you two were going to make a match of it sometime," I said. "Prettiest girl in the valley," he assented; "but her family is hardly what we would call the best, you know." I looked at him very hard. "Then why did you go there so often all last year?" I asked him. "Might she not think--" He flushed still more, his mouth twitching now. "Jack," he said, "it's all through. I want to ask you. I ought to marry Jennie Williams, but--" Now I looked at him full and hard, and guessed. Perhaps my face was grave. I was beginning to wonder whether there was one clean thing in all the world. "Oh, she can marry," went on Harry. "No difficulty about that. She has another beau who loves her to distraction, and who doesn't in the least suspect--a decent sort of a fellow, a young farmer of her own class." "And, in your belief, that wedding should go on?" He shifted uneasily. "When is this wedding to be?" I asked. "Oh, naturally, very soon," he answered. "I am doing as handsome a thing as I know how by her. Sometimes it's mighty hard to do the handsome thing--even mighty hard to know what is the handsome thing itself." "Yes," said I. But who was I that I should judge him? "If you were just where I am," asked Harry Sheraton, slowly, "what would you do? I'd like to do what is right, you know." "Oh no, you don't, Harry," I broke out. "You want to do what is easiest. If you wanted to do what is right, you'd never ask me nor any one else. Don't ask me, because I don't know. Suppose you were in the case of that other young man who loves her? Suppose he did not know--or suppose he _did_ know. What would be right for him?" "Heavy end of the log for him," admitted he, grimly. "That's true, sure as you're born." "When one does not love a girl, and sees no happiness in the thought of living with her all his life, what squares that, Harry, in your opinion?" "I've just asked you," he rejoined. "Why do you ask me? You say one ought to know what is right in his own case without any such asking, and I say that isn't always true. Oh, damn it all, anyway. Why are we made the way we are?" "If only the girl in each case would be content by having the handsome thing done by her!" said I, bitterly. CHAPTER XXXIX THE UNCOVERING OF GORDON ORME It is not necessary for me to state that dinner in the Sheraton hall, with its dull mahogany and its shining silver and glass, was barely better than a nightmare to me, who should have been most happy. At least there remained the topic of politics and war; and never was I more glad to plunge into such matters than upon that evening. In some way the dinner hour passed. Miss Grace pleaded a headache and left us; my mother asked leave; and presently our hostess and host departed. Harry and I remained to stare at each other moodily. I admit I was glad when finally he announced his intention of retiring. A servant showed me my own room, and some time before midnight I went up, hoping that I might sleep. My long life in the open air had made all rooms and roofs seem confining and distasteful to me, and I slept badly in the best of beds. Now my restlessness so grew upon me that, some time past midnight, not having made any attempt to prepare for sleep, I arose, went quietly down the stair and out at the front door, to see if I could find more peace in the open air. I sat down on the grass with my back against one of the big oaks, and so continued brooding moodily over my affairs, confused as they had now become. By this time every one of the household had retired. I was surprised, therefore, when I saw a faint streak of light from one of the windows flash out across the lawn. Not wishing to intrude, I rose quietly and changed my position, passing around the tree. Almost at that instant I saw the figure of a man appear from the shrubbery and walk directly toward the house, apparently headed for the window from which emerged the light. I watched him advance, and when I saw him reach the heavily barred trellis which ran up to the second gallery, I felt confirmed in my suspicion that he was a burglar. Approaching carefully in the shadow, I made a rapid run at him, and as his head was turned at the time, managed to catch him about the neck by an arm. His face, thus thrown back, was illuminated by the flare of light. I saw him plainly. It was Gordon Orme! The light disappeared. There was no cry from above. The great house, lying dark and silent, heard no alarm. I did not stop to reason about this, but tightened my grip upon him in so fell a fashion that all his arts in wrestling could avail him nothing. I had caught him from behind, and now I held him with a hand on each of his arms above the elbow. No man could escape me when I had that hold. He did not speak, but struggled silently with all his power. At length he relaxed a trifle. I stood close to him, slipped my left arm under his left along his back, and caught his right arm in my left hand. Then I took from his pocket a pistol, which I put into my own. I felt in his clothing, and finally discovered a knife, hidden in a scabbard at the back of his neck. I drew it out--a long-bladed, ivory thing I found it later, with gold let into the hilt and woven into the steel. He eased himself in my grip as much as he could, waiting; as I knew, for his chance to twist and grapple with me. I could feel him breathing deeply and easily, resting, waiting for his time, using his brains to aid his body with perfect deliberation. "It's no use, Orme," I said to him, finally. "I can wring your neck, or break your back, or twist your arms off, and by God! I've a notion to do them all. If you make any attempt to get away I'm going to kill you. Now come along." I shoved him ahead of me, his arms pinioned, until we found a seat far away in a dark portion of the great front yard. Here I pushed him down and took the other end of the seat, covering him with his own pistol. "Now," I demanded, "tell me what you are doing here." "You have your privilege at guessing," he sneered, in his easy, mocking way. "Have you never taken a little adventure of this sort yourself?" "Ah, some servant girl--at your host's house. Excellent adventure. But this is your last one," I said to him. "Is it so," he sneered. "Then let me make my prayers!" He mocked at me, and had no fear of me whatever. "In Virginia we keep the shotgun for men who prowl around houses at night. What are you doing here?" "You have no right to ask. It is not your house." "There was a light," said I. "For that reason I have a right to ask. I am a guest, and a guest has duties as well as a host." A certain change in mood seized him. "If I give you parole," he asked, "will you believe me, and let us talk freely?" "Yes," said I at length, slowly. "You are a liar; but I do not think you will break parole." "You gauge me with perfect accuracy," he answered. "That is why I wish to talk." I threw the pistol on the seat between us. "What is it you want to know," I asked. "And again I ask you, why are you here, when you are supposed to be in South Carolina?" "I have business here. You cost me my chance out there in the West," he answered, slowly. "In turn I cost you your chance there. I shall cost you other things here. I said you should pay my debt." He motioned toward my neck with his slim finger. "Yes, you saved my life," I said, "and I have hated you for that ever since." "Will you make me one promise?" he asked. "Perhaps, but not in advance." "And will you keep it?" "If I make it." "Will you promise me to do one thing you have already promised to do?" "Orme, I am in no mood to sit here and gossip like an old woman." "Oh, don't cut up ugly. You're done out of it all around, in any case. Belknap, it seems, was to beat both you and me. Then why should not you and I try to forget? But now as to this little promise. I was only going to ask you to do as much as Belknap, or less." "Very well, then." "I want you to promise to marry Grace Sheraton." I laughed in his face. "I thought you knew me better than that, Orme. I'll attend to my own matters for myself. I shall not even ask you why you want so puerile a promise. I am much of a mind to shoot you. Tell me, who are you, and what are you, and what are you doing in this country?" "Do you really want to know?" he smiled. "Assuredly I do. I demand it." "I believe I will tell you, then," he said quietly. He mused for a time before he raised his head and went on. "I am Charles Gordon Orme, Marquis of Bute and Rayne. Once I lived in England. For good reasons I have since lived elsewhere. I am what is known as a black sheep--a very, very black one." "Yes, you are a retrograde, a renegade, a blackguard and a murderer," I said to him, calmly. "All of those things, and much more," he admitted, cheerfully and calmly. "I am two persons, or more than two. I can't in the least make all this plain to you in your grade of intelligence. Perhaps you have heard of exchangeable personalities?" "I have heard of double personalities, and double lives," I said, "but I have never admired them." "We will waive your admiration. Let me say that I can exchange my personality. The Jews used to say that men of certain mentality were possessed of a devil. I only say that I was a student in India. One phrase is good as another. The Swami Hamadata was my teacher." "It would have been far better for you had you never known him, and better for many others," was my answer to his astonishing discourse. "Perhaps; but I am only explaining as you have requested. I am a Raja Yogi. I have taken the eight mystic steps. For years, even here in this country, I have kept up the sacred exercises of breath, of posture, of thought." "All that means nothing to me," I admitted simply. "No, it means nothing for me to tell you that I have learned Yama, Niyama, Asana, Pranayama, Pratyahara, Dharana, Dyhana and Samadhi! Yes, I was something of an adept once. I learned calm, meditation, contemplation, introspection, super-conscious reasoning--how to cast my own mind to a distance, how to bring other minds close up to me. But,"--he smiled with all his old mockery--"mostly I failed on Pratyahara, which says the senses must be quelled, subdued and set aside! All religions are alike to me, but they must not intrude on my own religion. I'd liefer die than not enjoy. My religion, I say, is to play the great games--to adventure, and above all, to enjoy! That is why I am in this country, also why I am in these grounds to-night." "You are playing some deeper game than I know?" "I always am! How could you be expected to understand what it took me years to learn? But I suppose in your case you need a few practical and concrete proofs. Let me show you a few things. Here, put your hand on my heart." I obeyed. "You feel it beat?" he said. "Now it stops beating, does it not?" And as I live, it _had slopped_! "Feel on the opposite side," he commanded. I did so, and there was his heart, clear across his body, and beating as before! "Now I shall stop it again," he remarked, calmly. And I swear it did stop, and resumed when he liked! "Put your hand upon my abdomen," he said. I did so. All at once his body seemed thin and empty, as a spent cocoon. "I draw all the organs into the thorax," he explained. "When one has studied under the Swami, as I have, he gains control over all his different muscles, voluntary and involuntary. He can, to a great extent, cut off or increase the nerve force in any muscle. Simple tricks in magic become easy to him. He gains, as you may suppose, a certain influence over men, and more especially over women, if that be a part of his religion. It was not with the Swami. It is with me!" "You are a strange man, Orme," I said, drawing a long breath. "The most dangerous man, the most singular, the most immoral I ever knew." "No," he said, reaching for his cigar case, "I was only born without what you call morals. They are not necessary in abstruse thought. Yet in some ways I retain the old influences of my own country. For instance, I lie as readily as I speak the truth, because it is more convenient; but though I am a liar, I do not break my word of honor. I am a renegade, but I am still an English officer! You have caught that distinction." "Yes, I would trust you," I said, "if you gave me your word of honor." He turned full upon me. "By Jove, old chap," he said, with a queer note in his voice, "you touch me awfully close. You're like men of my own family--you stir something in me that I used to know. The word of a fighting man--that's the same for yours and mine; and that's why I've always admired you. That's the sort of man that wins with the best sort of women." "You were not worth the best sort of woman," I said to him. "You had no chance with Ellen Meriwether." "No, but at least every fellow is worth his own fight with himself. I wanted to be a gentleman once more. Oh, a man may mate with a woman of any color--he does, all over the world. He may find a mistress in any nationality of his own color, or a wife in any class similar to his own--he does, all over the world. But a sweetheart, and a wife, and a woman--when a fellow even like myself finds himself honestly gone like that--when he begins to fight inside himself, old India against old England, renegade against gentleman--say, that's awfully bitter--when he sees the other fellow win. You won--" "No," said I, "I did not win. You know that perfectly well. There is no way in the world that I can win. All I can do is to keep parole--well, with myself, I suppose." "You touch me awfully close," he mused again. "You play big and fair. You're a fighting man and a gentleman and--excuse me, but it's true--an awful ass all in one. You're such an ass I almost hesitate to play the game with you." "Thank you," said I. "But now take a very stupid fellow's advice. Leave this country, and don't be seen about here again, for if so, you will be killed." "Precisely," he admitted. "In fact, I was just intending to arrange a permanent departure. That was why I was asking you to promise me to--in short, to keep your own promise. There's going to be war next spring. The dreams of this strange new man Lincoln, out in the West, are going to come true--there will be catastrophies here. That is why I am here. War, one of the great games, is something that one must sometimes cross the globe to play. I will be here to have a hand in this one." "You have had much of a hand in it already," I hazarded. He smiled frankly. "Yes," he said, "one must live. I admit I have been what you call a secret agent. There is much money behind me, big politics, big commercial interests. I love the big games, and my game and my task--my duty to my masters, has been to split this country along a clean line from east to west, from ocean to ocean--to make two countries of it! You will see that happen, my friend." "No one will ever see it happen," I said to him, soberly. "Under which flag, then, for you?" he asked quickly. "The flag you saw on the frontier, Orme," I answered him. "That is the flag of America, and will be. The frontier is free. It will make America free forever." "Oh, well," he said, "the argument will be obvious enough by next spring--in April, I should guess. And whatever you or I may think, the game will be big, very big--the biggest until you have your real war between black and white, and your yet bigger one between yellow and white. I imagine old England will be in that with you, or with one of you, if you make two countries here. But I may be a wandering Jew on some other planet before that time." He sat for a time, his chin dropped on his breast. Finally he reached me his hand. "Let me go," he said. "I promise you to leave." "To leave the State?" "No, I will not promise that." "To leave the County?" "Yes, unless war should bring me here in the course of my duty. But I will promise to leave this town, this residence--this girl--in short, I must do that. And you are such an ass that I was going to ask you to promise to keep your promise--up there." He motioned toward the window where the light lately had been. "You do not ask that now?" I queried. "You are a fighting man," he said, suddenly. "Let all these questions answer themselves when their time comes. After all, I suppose a woman is a woman in the greatest of the Barnes, and one takes one's chances. Suppose we leave the debt unsettled until we meet some time? You know, you may be claiming debt of me." "Will you be ready?" I asked him. "Always. You know that. Now, may I go? Is my parole ended?" "It ends at the gate," I said to him, and handed him his pistol. The knife I retained, forgetfully; but when I turned to offer it to him he was gone. CHAPTER XL A CONFUSION IN COVENANTS During the next morning Harry Sheraton galloped down to the village after the morning's mail. On his return he handed me two letters. One was from Captain Matthew Stevenson, dated at Fort Henry, and informed me that he had been transferred to the East from Jefferson Barracks, in company with other officers. He hinted at many changes in the disposition of the Army of late. His present purpose in writing, as he explained, was to promise us that, in case he came our way, he would certainly look us up. This letter I put aside quickly, for the other seemed to me to have a more immediate importance. I glanced it over, and presently found occasion to request a word or so with Colonel Sheraton. We withdrew to his library, and then I handed him the letter. "This," I explained, "is from Jennings & Jennings, my father's agents at Huntington, on whose advice he went into his coal speculations." "I see. Their advice seems to have been rather disastrous." "At first it seemed so," I answered, "but now they advise me by no means to allow foreclosure to be completed if it can be avoided. The lands are worth many times the price paid for them." "I see--and they have some sort of an offer as well--eh?" "A half loaf is better than no bread," I assented. "I think I ought to go out there and examine all this in detail." "But one thing I don't understand about this," began Colonel Sheraton, "your father's partner, Colonel Meriwether, was on joint paper with him. What did he say to you when you saw him?" "Nothing," I replied. "We did not discuss the matter." "What? That was the sole reason why you went out to see him!" "Other matters came up," said I. "This was not brought up at all between us." Colonel Sheraton looked at me keenly. "I must admit, Mr. Cowles," said he, slowly weighing his words, that of late certain things have seemed more than a little strange to me. If you will allow me so to express myself, there is in my own house, since you came, a sort of atmosphere of indefiniteness. Now, why was it you did not take up these matters with Colonel Meriwether? Certainly they were important to you; and under the circumstances they have a certain interest to myself. What are you trying to cover up?" "Nothing from you of a business nature, sir; and nothing from Miss Grace of any nature which I think she ought to know." He turned on me swiftly. "Young man, what do you propose to do in regard to my daughter? I confess I have contemplated certain plans in your benefit. I feel it is time to mention these matters with you." [Illustration: ON HIS WAY BACK HOME JOHN FINDS HIS MOTHER AND GRACE, WHO HAVE COME TO MEET HIM] [Illustration: JOHN'S MOTHER HEARS THAT HIS MISSION HAS BEEN A FAILURE "I'VE FAILED. MOTHER!"] "It is time," I answered. "But if you please, it seems to me Miss Grace and I should first take them up together. Has she spoken to you in any way that might lead you to think she would prefer our engagement to be broken?" "No, sir. There has only been a vagueness and indefiniteness which I did not like." "Had my affairs not mended, Colonel Sheraton, I could not have blamed any of you for breaking the engagement. If conditions prove to be practically the same now as then, it is she who must decide her course and mine." "That is perfectly honorable. I have no criticism to offer. I have only her happiness at heart." "Then, if you please, sir, since I am rather awkwardly situated here, I should like very much to see Miss Grace this morning." He bowed in his lofty way and left me. Within a half hour a servant brought me word that Miss Grace would see me in the drawing-room. She was seated in a wide, low chair near the sunny window, half hid by the leafy plants that grew in the boxes there. She was clad in loose morning wear over ample crinoline, her dark hair drawn in broad bands over the temples, half confined by a broad gold comb, save two long curls which hung down her neck at either side. It seemed to me she was very thin--thinner and darker than ever. Under her wide eyes were heavy circles. She held out her hand to me, and it lay cold and lifeless in my own. I made some pleasant talk of small matters as I might, and soon as I could arrived at the business of the letter I had received. "Perhaps I have been a little hurried, after all, in classing myself as an absolute pauper," I explained as she read. "You see, I must go out there and look into these things." "Going away again?" She looked up at me, startled. "For a couple of weeks. And when I come back, Miss Grace--" So now I was up to the verge of that same old, definite question. She sat up in the chair as though pulling herself together in some sudden resolve, and looked me straight in the face. "Jack," she said, "why should we wait?" "To be sure," said I. "Only I do not want you to marry a pauper if any act of my own can make him better than a pauper in the meantime." "You temporize," she said, bitterly. "You are not glad. Yet you came to me only last spring, and you--" "I come to you now, Miss Grace," I said. "Ah, what a difference between then and now!" she sighed. For a time we could find nothing fit to say. At last I was forced to bring up one thing I did not like to mention. "Miss Grace," said I, seating myself beside her, "last night, or rather this morning, after midnight, I found a man prowling around in the yard." She sprang up as though shocked, her face gray, her eyes full of terror. "You have told!" she exclaimed, "My father knows that Captain Orme--" It was my own turn to feel surprise, which perhaps I showed. "I have told no one. It seemed to me that first I ought to come to you and ask you about this. Why was Orme there?" She stared at me. "He told me he would come back some time," she admitted at length. All the while she was fighting with herself, striving, exactly as Orme had done, to husband her powers for an impending struggle. "You see," she added, "he has secret business all over the country--I will own I believe him to be in the secret service of the inner circle of a number of Southern congressmen and business men. He is in with the Southern circle--of New Orleans, of Charleston--Washington. For this reason he could not always choose his hours of going and coming." "Does your father know of his peculiar hours?" "I presume so, of course." "I saw a light at a window," I began, "whose window I do not know, doubtless some servant's. It could not have been a signal?" "A _signal_? What do you mean? Do you suspect me of putting out a beacon light for a cheap night adventure with some man? Do you expect me to tolerate that sort of thing from you?" "I ask you to tolerate nothing," I said. "I am not in the habit of suspecting ladies. But I ask you if you can explain the light on that side of the house." "Jack," she said, flinging out a hand, "forgive me. I admit that Captain Orme and I carried on a bit of a flirtation, after he came back--after he had told me about you. But why should that--why, he did not know you were here." "No," said I, dryly, "I don't think he did. I am glad to know that you found something to amuse you in my absence." "Let us not speak of amusements in the absence of each other," she said bitterly. "Think of your own. But when you came back, it was all as it was last spring. I could love no other man but you, Jack, and you know it. After all, if we are quits, let us stay quits, and forgive, and forget--let us forget, Jack." I sat looking at her as she turned to me, pleading, imploring in her face, her gesture. "Jack," she went on, "a woman needs some one to take care of her, to love her. I want you to take care of me--you wouldn't throw me over for just a little thing--when all the time you yourself--" "The light shone for miles across the valley," said I. "Precisely, and that was how he happened to come up, I do not doubt. He thought we were still up about the place. My father has always told him to make this his home, and not to go to the tavern. They are friends politically, in many ways, as you know." "The light then was that of some servant?" "Certainly it was. I know nothing of it. It was an accident, and yet you blame me as though--why, it was all accident that you met Captain Orme. Tell me, Jack, did you quarrel? What did he tell you?" "Many things. He is no fit man for you to know, nor for any woman." "Do I not know that? I will never see him again." "No, he will never come back here again, that is fairly sure. He has promised that; and he asked me to promise one thing, by the way." "What was that?" "To keep my promise with you. He asked me to marry you! Why?" Infinite wit of woman! What chance have we men against such weapons? It was coquetry she forced to her face, and nothing else, when she answered: "So, then, he was hard hit, after all! I did not know that. How tender of him, to wish me married to another than himself! The conceit of you men is something wondrous." "Mr. Orme was so kind as to inform me that I was a gentleman, and likewise a very great ass." "Did you promise him to keep your promise, Jack?" She put both her hands on mine as it lay on the chair arm. Her eyes looked into mine straight and full. It would have taken more imagination than mine to suspect the slightest flickering in their lids. "Jack," she murmured over and over again. "I love you! I have never loved any other man." "So now," I resumed, "I have come to you to tell you of all these things, and to decide definitely and finally in regard to our next plans." "But you believe me, Jack? You do promise to keep your promise? You do love me?" "I doubt no woman whom I wed," I answered. "I shall be gone for two or three weeks. As matters are at this moment it would be folly for either of us to do more than let everything stand precisely as it is until we have had time to think. I shall come back, Miss Grace, and I shall ask your answer." "Jack, I'm sure of that," she murmured. "It is a grand thing for a woman to have the promise of a man who knows what a promise is." I winced at this, as I had winced a thousand times at similar thrusts unconsciously delivered by so many. "No," said I, "I think Orme is right. I am only a very stupid ass." She reached out her hand. I felt her fingers close cold and hard on mine, as though loth to let me go. I kissed her fingers and withdrew, myself at least very glad to be away. I retired presently to my room to arrange my portmanteaus for an early journey. And there, filling up one-half of the greater valise, was a roll of hide, ragged about its edge. I drew it out, and spread it flat upon the bed before me, whitened and roughened with bone, reddened with blood, written on with rude stylus, bearing certain words which all the time, day and night, rang, yes, and sang, in my brain. "_I, John Cowles--I, Ellen Meriwether--take thee, for better, for worse--till death--_" I saw her name, _E-l-l-e-n._ CHAPTER XLI ELLEN OR GRACE Presently once more I departed. My mother also ended her visit at Dixiana, preferring to return to the quiet of her two little whitewashed rooms, and the old fireplace, and the sooty pot-hooks which our people's slaves had used for two generations in the past. As to what I learned at Huntington, which place I reached after some days of travel, I need say no more than that I began to see fully verified my father's daring and his foresight. The matter of the coal land speculation was proved perfectly feasible. Indeed, my conference with our agents made it clear that little remained excepting the questions of a partition of interests, or of joint action between Colonel Meriwether and my father's estate. The right of redemption still remained, and there offered a definite alternative of selling a part of the lands and retaining the remainder clear of incumbrance. We wrote Colonel Meriwether all these facts from Huntington, requesting his immediate attention. After this, I set out for home, not ill-pleased with the outlook of my material affairs. All these details of surveying and locating lands, of measuring shafts and drifts, and estimating cubic yards in coal, and determining the status of tenures and fees, had occupied me longer than I had anticipated. I had been gone two days beyond a month, when finally, somewhat wearied with stage travel, I pulled up at Wallingford. As I approached the little tavern I heard much laughing, talking, footfalls, hurrying, as men came or went on one errand or another. A large party had evidently arrived on a conveyance earlier than my own. I leaned against the front rail of the tavern gallery and waited for some stable-boy to come. The postmaster carried away his mail sack, the loungers at the stoop gradually disappeared, and so presently I began to look about me. I found my eyes resting upon a long figure at the farther end of the gallery, sitting in the shade of the steep hill which came down, almost sharp as a house roof, back of the tavern, and so cut off the evening sun. It was apparently a woman, tall and thin, clad in a loose, stayless gown, her face hid in an extraordinarily long, green sun-bonnet. Her arms were folded, and she was motionless. But now and then there came a puff of smoke from within the caverns of the sun-bonnet, accompanied with the fragrant odor of natural leaf, whose presence brooked no debate by the human nose. I looked at this stranger again and yet again, then slowly walked up and held out my hand. No one in all the world who could counterfeit Mandy McGovern, even so far away, and under conditions seemingly impossible for her presence! Mandy's pipe well-nigh fell from her lips. "Well, good God A'mighty! If it ain't you, son!" she exclaimed. "Yes," I smiled. "They told me you-all lived somewheres around here." "Aunt Mandy," I interrupted. "Tell me, what in the world are you doing here?" "Why, me and the folks just come down to look around. Her and her Pa was comin', and I come, too." "_Who_ came with you, Aunt Mandy?" "Still askin' fool questions like you didn't know! Why, you know who it was. The Colonel's ordered to jine his rigiment at Fort Henry. Gal come along o' him, o' course. I come along with the gal, o' course. My boy and my husband come along with me, o' course." "Your son, Andrew Jackson?" "Uh-huh. He's somewheres 'round, I reckon. I see him lickin' a nigger a few minutes ago. Say, that boy's come out to be the fightenest feller I ever did see. Him allowin' he got that there Injun, day we had the fight down on the Platte, it just made a new man out'n him. 'Fore long he whupped a teamster that got sassy with him. Then he taken a rock and lammed the cook 'cause he looked like he was laffin' at him. Not long atter that, he killed a Injun he 'lowed was crawlin' 'round our place--done kilt him and taken his skulp 'fore I had time to explain to him that like enough that Injun was plum peaceful, and only comin' in to get a loaf o' bread." "Bread? Aunt Mandy, where was all this?" "Where d'ye suppose it was unlessen at our _ho_tel? My man and me seen there was a good openin' there on the trail this side o' the south fork, and we set up a hotel in a dugout. Them _emigrants_ would give you anything you aste for a piece o' pie, or a real baked loaf o' bread. We may go back there some time. We could make our pile in a couple o' years. I got over three hundred dollars right here in my pocket." "But I don't quite understand about the man--your husband--" "Yep, my lastest one. Didn't you know I married ole man Auberry? He's 'round here somewheres, lookin' fer a drink o' licker, I reckon. Colonel Meriwether 'lowed there'd be some fightin' 'round these parts afore long. My man and my son 'lowed the West was gettin' right quiet for them, and they'd just take a chanct down here, to see a little life in other parts." "I hadn't heard of this last marriage of yours, Aunt Mandy," I ventured. "Oh, yes, me and him hooked up right soon atter you and the gal got lost. Don't see how you missed our place when you come East. We done took at least six bits off'n every other man, woman or child that come through there, east or west, all summer long. You see I was tired of that lazy husband o' mine back home, and Auberry he couldn't see nothin' to that woman o' his'n atter he found out how I could bake pie and bread. So we both seem' the chanct there was there on the trail, we done set up in business. Say, I didn't know there was so many people in the whole world as they was of them emi_grants_. Preacher come along in a wagon one day--broke, like most preachers is. We kep' him overnight, free, and he merried us next mornin' for nothin'. Turn about's fair play, I reckon." I scarcely heard her querulous confidences. "Where is Colonel Meriwether?" I asked her at last. "Inside," she motioned with her pipe. "Him and the gal, too. But say, who's that a-comin' down the street there in that little sawed-off wagon?" I looked. It was my fiancée, Grace Sheraton! By her side was my friend, Captain Stevenson, and at the other end of the seat was a fluttering and animated figure that could be no one else but Kitty. So then I guessed that Stevenson and his wife had come on during my absence and were visiting at Dixiana. No doubt they had driven down now for the evening mail. Could anything have lacked now to set in worse snarl my already tangled skein of evil fortune! Out of all the thousand ways in which we several actors in this human comedy might have gone without crossing each other's paths, why should Fate have chosen the only one to bring us thus together? Kitty seemed first to spy me, and greeted me with an enthusiastic waving of her gloves, parasol, veil and handkerchief, all held confusedly, after her fashion, in one hand. "P-r-r-r-t!" she trilled, school-girl-like, to attract my attention meanwhile. "Howdy, you man! If it isn't John Cowles I'm a sinner. Matt, look at him, isn't he old, and sour, and solemn?" Stevenson jumped out and came up to me, smiling, as I passed down the steps. I assisted his vivacious helpmeet to alight. I knew that all this tangle would presently force itself one way or the other. So I only smiled, and urged her and her husband rapidly as I might up the steps and in at the door, where I knew they would immediately be surprised and fully occupied. Then again I approached Grace Sheraton where she still sat, somewhat discomfited at not being included in these plans, yet not unwilling to have a word with me alone. "You sent me no word," began she, hurriedly. "I was not expecting you to-day; but you have been gone more than two weeks longer than you said you would be." The reproach of her voice was not lost to me. Stevenson had run on into the tavern after his first greeting to me, and presently I heard his voice raised in surprise, and Kitty's excited chatter. I heard Colonel Meriwether's voice answering. I heard another voice. "Who is in there?" asked Grace Sheraton of me, curiously. I looked her slowly and fully in the face. "It is Colonel Meriwether," I answered. "He has come on unexpectedly from the West. His daughter is there also, I think. I have not yet seen her." "That woman!" breathed Grace Sheraton, sinking back upon her seat. Her eye glittered as she turned to me. "Oh, I see it all now--you have been with them--_you have met her again!_ My God! I could kill you both--I could--I say I could!" "Listen," I whispered to her, putting a hand on her wrist firmly. "You are out of your head. Pull up at once. I have not seen or heard from either of them. I did not know they were coming, I tell you." "Oh, I say, Cowles," sang out Stevenson, at that moment running out, flushed and laughing. "What do you think, here's my Colonel come and caught me at my leave of absence! He's going across the mountains, over to his home in Albemarle. We're all to be at Henry together. But I suppose you met them--" "No, not yet," I said. "I've just got in myself." We both turned to the girl sitting pale and limp upon the seat of the wagonette. I was glad for her sake that the twilight was coming. The courage of her family did not forsake Grace Sheraton. I saw her force her lips to smile, compel her face to brighten as she spoke to Captain Stevenson. "I have never met any of the Meriwethers. Will you gentlemen present me?" I assisted her to alight, and at that time a servant came and stood at the horse's head. Stevenson stepped back to the door, not having as yet mentioned my presence there. There came out upon the gallery as he entered that other whose presence I had for some moments known, whom I knew within the moment I must meet--Ellen! Her eyes fell upon me. She stepped back with a faint exclamation, leaning against the wall, her hands at her cheeks as she stared. I do not know after that who or what our spectators were. I presume Stevenson went on into the house to talk with Colonel Meriwether, whom I did not see at all at that time. The first to speak was Grace Sheraton. Tall, thin, darker than ever, it seemed to me, and now with eyes which flickered and glittered as I had never seen them, she approached the girl who stood there shrinking. "It is Miss Meriwether? I believe I should know you," she began, holding out her hand. "This is Miss Grace Sheraton," I said to Ellen, and stopped. Then I drew them both away from the door and from the gallery, walking to the shadows of the long row of elms which shaded the street, where we would be less observed. For the first time in my life I saw the two together and might compare them. Without my will or wish I found my eyes resting upon Ellen. Without my will or wish, fate, nature, love, I know not what, made selection. Ellen had not as yet spoken. "Miss Sheraton," I repeated to her finally, "is the lady to whom I am engaged to be married." The vicious Sheraton temper broke bounds. There was more than half a sneer on my fiancée's face. "I should easily know who this lady is," she said. Ellen, flushed, perturbed, would have returned to the gallery, but I raised my hand. Grace Sheraton went on. "An engagement is little. You and he, I am advised, lived as man and wife, forgetting that he and I were already pledged as man and wife." "That is not true!" broke in Ellen, her voice low and even. She at least had herself in hand and would tolerate no vulgar scene. "I could not blame either of you for denying it." "It was Gordon Orme that told her," I said to Ellen. She would not speak or commit herself, except to shake her head, and to beat her hands softly together as I had seen her do before when in distress. "A gentleman must lie like a gentleman," went on Grace Sheraton, mercilessly. "I am here to congratulate you both." I saw a drop of blood spring from Ellen's bitten lip. "What she says is true," I went on to Ellen. "It is just as Gordon Orme told your father, and as I admitted to you. I was engaged to be married to Miss Sheraton, and I am still so engaged." Still her small hands beat together softly, but she would not cry out, she would not exclaim, protest, accuse. I went on with the accusation against myself. "I did not tell you. I had and have no excuse except that I loved you. I am here now for my punishment. You two shall decide it." At last Ellen spoke to my fiancée. "It is true," said she. "I thought myself engaged to Mr. Cowles. I did not know of you--did not know that he had deceived me, too. But fortunately, my father found us before it was too late." "Let us spare ourselves details," rejoined Grace Sheraton. "He has wronged both of us." "Yes, he has done wrong," I heard Ellen say. "Perhaps all men do--I do not want to know. Perhaps they are not always to blame--I do not want to know." The measure of the two women was there in those words, and I felt it. "Could you want such a man?" asked Grace Sheraton, bitterly. I saw Ellen shake her head slowly. I heard her lips answer slowly. "No," she said. "Could you?" I looked to Grace Sheraton for her answer, and as I looked I saw a strange and ghastly change come over her face. "My God!" she exclaimed, reaching out a hand against a tree trunk to steady herself, "Your leavings? No! But what is to become of me!" "You wish him?" asked Ellen. "You are entirely free. But now, if you please, I see no reason why I should trouble you both. Please, now, I shall go." But Grace Sheraton sprang to her side as she turned. I was amazed at her look. It was entreaty on her face, not anger! She held out her hands to Ellen, her face strangely distorted. And then I saw Ellen's face also change. She put out her hand in turn. "There," she said, "time mends very much. Let us hope--" Then I saw her throat work oddly, and her words stop. No man may know the speech with which women exchange thought. I saw the two pass a few paces apart, saw Grace Sheraton stoop and whisper something. It was her last desperate resource, a hazard handsomely taken. It won, as courage should, or at least as much as a lie may win at any time; for it was a bitter, daring, desperate shaming lie she whispered to Ellen. As Ellen's face turned toward me again I saw a slow, deep scorn invade it. "If I were free," she said to me, "if you were the last man on earth, I would not look at you again. You deceived me--but that was only a broken word, and not a broken life! This girl--indeed she may ask what will become of her!" "I am tired of all these riddles," I broke out, my own anger now arising, and myself not caring to be made thus sport of petticoats. "Your duty is clear," went on my new accuser, flashing out at me. "If you have a trace of manhood left, then let the marriage be at once--to-morrow. How dare you delay so long!" She choked in her own anger, humiliation, scorn--I know not what, blushed in her own shame. Orme was right. I have always been a stupid ass. It took me moments to grasp the amazing truth, to understand the daring stroke by which Grace Sheraton had won her game. It had cost her much. I saw her standing there trembling, tearful, suffering, her eyes wet. She turned to me, waiting for me to save her or leave her damned. I would not do it. All the world will say that I was a fool, that I was in no way bound to any abhorrent compact, that last that any man could tolerate. Most will say that I should have turned and walked away from both. But I, who have always been simple and slow of wit, I fear, and perhaps foolish as to certain principles, now felt ice pass through all my veins as my resolution came to me. I could not declare against the woman who had thus sworn against me. With horror I saw what grotesque injustice was done to me. I broke out into a horrible laughter. I had said that I had come for my punishment, and here it was for me to take. I had told Orme that one day I would pay him for my life. Here now was Orme's price to be paid! If this girl had not sinned with me, she had done so by reason of me. It was my fault; and a gentleman pays for his fault in one way or another. There seemed to me, I say, but one way in which I could pay, I being ever simple and slow of wit. I, John Cowles, without thinking so far as the swift consequences, must now act as the shield of the girl who stood there trembling, the girl who had confessed to her rival her own bitter sin, but who had lied as to her accomplice in her sin! "It is true," I said, turning to Ellen. "I am guilty. I told you I deserved no mercy, and I ask none. I have not asked Miss Sheraton to release me from my engagement. I shall feel honored if she will now accept my hand. I shall be glad if she will set the date early as may be." Night was now coming swiftly from the hills. Ellen turned to pass back toward the door. "Your pardon!" I exclaimed to Grace Sheraton, and sprang after Ellen. "Good-by," I said, and held out my hand to her. "Let us end all these heroics, and do our best. Where is your husband? I want to congratulate him." "My husband!" she said in wonder. "What do you mean?" Night, I say, was dropping quickly, like a shroud spread by a mighty hand. "Belknap--" I began. "Ah," she said bitterly. "You rate me low--as low as I do you!" "But your father told me himself you two were to be married," I broke out, surprise, wonder, dread, rebellion now in every fiber of my body and soul. "My father loves me dearly," she replied slowly. "But he cannot marry me until I wish. No, I am not married, and I never will be. Good-by." Again I heard my own horrible laughter. Night had fallen thick and heavy from the mountains, like a dark, black shroud. CHAPTER XLII FACE TO FACE I did not see Colonel Meriwether. He passed on through to his seat in Albemarle without stopping in our valley longer than over night. Part of the next morning I spent in writing a letter to my agents at Huntington, with the request that they should inform Colonel Meriwether at once on the business situation, since now he was in touch by mail. The alternative was offered him of taking over my father's interests through these creditors, accepting them as partners, or purchasing their rights; or of doing what my father had planned to do for him, which was to care individually for the joint account, and then to allot each partner a dividend interest, carrying a clear title. All these matters I explained to my mother. Then I told her fully what had occurred at the village the night previous between Ellen Meriwether and my fiancée. She sat silent. "In any case," I concluded, "it would suit me better if you and I could leave this place forever, and begin again somewhere else." She looked out of the little window across our pleasant valley to its edge, where lay the little church of the Society of Friends. Then she turned to me slowly, with a smile upon her face. "Whatever thee says," was her answer. "I shall not ask thee to try to mend what cannot be mended. Thee is like thy father," she said. "I shall not try to change thee. Go, then, thy own way. Only hear me, thee cannot mend the unmendable by such a wrongful marriage." But I went; and under my arm I bore a certain roll of crinkled, hairy parchment. This was on the morning of Wednesday, in November, the day following the national election in the year 1860. News traveled more slowly then, but we in our valley might expect word from Washington by noon of that day. If Lincoln won, then the South would secede. Two nations would inevitably be formed, and if necessary, issue would be joined between them as soon as the leaders could formulate their plans for war. This much was generally conceded; and it was conceded also that the South would start in, if war should come, with an army well supplied with munitions of war and led by the ablest men who ever served under the old flag--men such as Lee, Jackson, Early, Smith, Stuart--scores and hundreds trained in arms at West Point or at the Virginia Military Institute at Lexington--men who would be loyal to their States and to the South at any cost. Our State was divided, our valley especially so, peace sentiment there being strong. The entire country was a magazine needing but a spark to cause explosion. It was conceded that by noon we should know whether or not this explosion was to come. Few of us there, whether Unionists or not, had much better than contempt for the uncouth man from the West, Lincoln, that most pathetic figure of our history, later loved by North and South alike as greatest of our great men. We did not know him in our valley. All of us there, Unionists or Secessionists, for peace or for war, dreaded to hear of his election. Colonel Sheraton met me at the door, his face flushed, his brow frowning. He was all politics. "Have you any news?" he demanded. "Have you heard from Leesburg, Washington?" "Not as yet," I answered, "but there should be messages from Leesburg within the next few hours." We had no telegraph in our valley at that time. "I have arranged with the postmaster to let us all know up here, the instant he gets word," said Sheraton. "If that black abolitionist, Lincoln, wins, they're going to fire one anvil shot in the street, and we can hear it up this valley this far. If the South wins, then two anvils, as fast as they can load. So, Mr. Cowles, if we hear a single shot, it is war--_war_, I tell you! "But come in," he added hastily. "I keep you waiting. I am glad to see you this morning, sir. From my daughter I learn that you have returned from a somewhat successful journey--that matters seem to mend for you. We are all pleased to learn it. I offer you my hand, sir. My daughter has advised me of her decision and your own. Your conduct throughout, Mr. Cowles, has been most manly, quite above reproach. I could want no better son to join my family." His words, spoken in ignorance, cut me unbearably. "Colonel Sheraton," I said to him, "there is but one way for a man to ride, and that is straight. I say to you; my conduct has not been in the least above reproach, and your daughter has not told you all that she ought to have told." We had entered the great dining room as we talked, and he was drawing me to his great sideboard, with hospitable intent to which at that moment I could not yield. Now, however, we were interrupted. A door opened at the side of the room, where a narrow stairway ran down from the second floor, and there appeared the short, stocky figure, the iron gray mane, of our friend, Dr. Samuel Bond, physician for two counties thereabout, bachelor, benefactor, man of charity, despite his lancet, his quinine and his calomel. "Ah, Doctor," began Colonel Sheraton, "here is our young friend back from his travels again. I'm going to tell you now, as I think I may without much risk, that there is every hope the Cowles family will win in this legal tangle which has threatened them lately--win handsomely, too. We shall not lose our neighbors, after all, nor have any strangers breaking in where they don't belong. Old Virginia, as she was, and forever, gentlemen! Join us, Doctor. You see, Mr. Cowles," he added to me, "Doctor Bond has stopped in as he passed by, for a look at my daughter. Miss Grace seems just a trifle indisposed this morning--nothing in the least serious, of course." We all turned again, as the front door opened. Harry Sheraton entered. "Come, son," exclaimed his father. "Draw up, draw up with us. Pour us a drink around, son, for the success of our two families. You, Doctor, are glad as I am, that I know." We stood now where we had slowly advanced toward the sideboard. But Doctor Bond did not seem glad. He paused, looking strangely at me and at our host. "Harry," said he, "suppose you go look in the hall for my saddle-bags--I have left my medicine case." The young man turned, but for no reason apparently, stopped at the door, and presently joined us again. "May I ask for Miss Grace this morning, Doctor," I began, politely. "Yes," interjected Colonel Sheraton. "How's the girl? She ought to be with us this minute--a moment like this, you know." Doctor Bond looked at us still gravely. He turned from me to Colonel Sheraton, and again to Harry Sheraton. "Harry," said he, sternly. "Didn't you hear me? Get out!" We three were left alone. "Jack, I must see you a moment alone," said Doctor Bond to me. "What's up," demanded Colonel Sheraton. "What's the mystery? It seems to me I'm interested in everything proper here. What's wrong, Doctor? Is my girl sick?" "Yes," said the physician. "What's wrong?" "She needs aid," said the old wire-hair slowly. "Can you not give it, then? Isn't that your business?" "No, sir. It belongs to another profession," said Doctor. Bond, dryly, taking snuff and brushing his nose with his immense red kerchief. Colonel Sheraton looked at him for the space of a full minute, but got no further word. "Damn your soul, sir!" he thundered, "explain yourself, or I'll make you wish you had. What do you mean?" He turned fiercely upon me. "By God, sir, there's only one meaning that I can guess. You, sir, what's wrong? _Are you to blame_?" I faced him fairly now. "I am so accused by her," I answered slowly. "What! _What_!" He stood as though frozen. "I shall not lie about it. It is not necessary for me to accuse a girl of falsehood. I only say, let us have this wedding, and have it soon. I so agreed with Miss Grace last night." The old man sprang at me like a maddened tiger now, his eyes glaring about the room for a weapon. He saw it--a long knife with ivory handle and inlaid blade, lying on the ledge where I myself had placed it when I last was there. Doctor Bond sprang between him and the knife. I also caught Colonel Sheraton and held him fast. "Wait," I said. "Wait! Let us have it all understood plainly. Then let us take it up in any way you Sheratons prefer." "Stop, I say," cried the stern-faced doctor--as honest a man, I think, as ever drew the breath of life. He hurled his sinewy form against Colonel Sheraton again as I released him. "That boy is lying to us both, I tell you. I say he's not to blame, and I know it. I _know_ it, I say. I'm her physician. Listen, you, Sheraton--you shall not harm a man who has lied like this, like a gentleman, to _save_ you and your girl." "Damn you both," sobbed the struggling man. "Let me go! Let me alone! Didn't I _hear_ him--didn't you hear him _admit_ it?" He broke free and stood panting in the center of the room, we between him and the weapon. "Harry!" he called out sharply. The door burst open. "A gun--my pistol--get me something, boy! Arm yourself--we'll kill these--" "Harry," I called out to him in turn. "Do nothing of the sort! You'll have me to handle in this. Some things I'll endure, but not all things always--I swear I'll stand this no longer, from all of you or any of you. Listen to me. Listen I say--it is as Doctor Bond says." So now they did listen, silently. "I am guiltless of any harm or wish of harm to any woman of this family," I went on. "Search your own hearts. Put blame where it belongs. But don't think you can crowd me, or force me to do what I do not freely offer." "It is true," said Doctor Bond. "I tell you, what he says could not by any possibility be anything else but true. He's just back home. _He has been gone all summer._" Colonel Sheraton felt about him for a chair and sank down, his gray face dropped in his hands. He was a proud man, and one of courage. It irked him sore that revenge must wait. "Now," said I, "I have something to add to the record. I hoped that a part of my story could be hid forever, except for Miss Grace and me alone. I have not been blameless. For that reason, I was willing, freely--not through force--to do what I could in the way of punishment to myself and salvation for her. But now as this thing comes up, I can no longer shield her, or myself, or any of you. We'll have to go to the bottom now." I flung out on the table the roll which I had brought with me to show that morning to Grace Sheraton--the ragged hide, holding writings placed there by my hand and that of another. "This," I said, "must be shown to you all. Colonel Sheraton, I have been very gravely at fault. I was alone for some months in the wilderness with another woman. I loved her very much. I forgot your daughter at that time, because I found I loved her less. Through force of circumstances I lived with this other woman very closely for some months. We foresaw no immediate release. I loved her, and she loved me--the only time I knew what love really meant, I admit it. We made this contract of marriage between us. It was never enforced. We never were married, because that contract was never signed by us both. Here it is. Examine it." It lay there before us. I saw its words again stare up at me. I saw again the old pictures of the great mountains; and the cloudless sky, and the cities of peace wavering on the far horizon. I gazed once more upon that different and more happy world, when I saw, blurring before my eyes, the words--_"I, John Cowles--I, Ellen Meriwether--take thee--take thee--for better, for worse--till death do us part."_ I saw her name, "_E-l-l-e-n_." "Harry," said I, turning on him swiftly. "Your father is old. This is for you and me, I think. I shall be at your service soon." His face paled. But that of his father was now gray, very old and gray. "Treachery!" he murmured. "Treachery! You slighted my girl. My God, sir, she should not marry you though she died! This--" he put out his hand toward the hide scroll. "No," I said to him. "This is mine. The record of my fault belongs to me. The question for you is only in regard to the punishment. "We are four men here," I added, presently, "and it seems to me that first of all we owe protection to the woman who needs it. Moreover, I repeat, that though her error is not mine, it was perhaps pride or sorrow or anger with me which led her to her own fault. It was Gordon Orme who told her that I was false to her, and added lies about me and this other woman. It was Gordon Orme, Colonel Sheraton, I do not doubt--sir, _I found him in your yard, here, at midnight_, when I last was here. And, sir, there was a light--a light--" I tried to smile, though I fear my face was only distorted. "I agreed with your daughter that it was without question a light that some servant had left by chance at a window." I wish never to hear again such a groan as broke from that old man's lips. He was sunken and broken when he put out his hand to me. "Boy," said he, "have mercy. Forgive. Can you--could you--" "Can you yourself forgive this?" I answered, pointing to the scroll. "I admit to you I love Ellen Meriwether yet, and always will. Sir, if I married your daughter, it could only be to leave her within the hour." Silence fell upon all of us. Harry set down his glass, and the clink on the silver tray sounded loud. None moved but Doctor Bond, who, glasses upon nose, bent over the blurred hide, studying it. "Colonel Sheraton," said he at length, "it seems to me that we have no quarrel here among ourselves. We all want to do what is best done now to make amends for what has not always been best done. Mr. Cowles has given every proof we could ask--we could not ask more of any man--you have no right to ask so much. He wishes, at great cost to himself, I think, to do what he can to save your girl's happiness and honor. He admits his own fault." He looked at me, savagely shaking a finger, but went on. "Perhaps I, a physician, unfortunately condemned to see much of the inner side of human nature, am as well equipped as any to call him more guiltless than society might call him. I say with him, let him who is without guilt first cast a stone. Few of us are all we ought to be, but why? We speak of double lives--why, we all lead double lives--the entire world leads a double life; that of sex and of society, that of nature and of property. I say to you, gentlemen, that all the world is double. So let us be careful how we adjudge punishment; and let us be as fair to our neighbor as we are to ourselves. This is only the old, old question of love and the law. "But wait a minute--" he raised a hand as Colonel Sheraton stirred. "I have something else to say. As it chances, I am curious in other professions than my own sometimes--I read in the law sometimes, again in theology, literature. I wish to be an educated man so far as I may be, since a university education was denied me. Now, I say to you, from my reading in the law, a strong question arises whether the two who wrote this covenant of marriage are not at this moment _man and wife_!" He rapped a finger on the parchment. A sigh broke in concert from all within that room. The next moment, I know not how, we were all four of us bending above the scroll. "See there," went on the old doctor. "There is a definite, mutual promise, a consideration moving from each side, the same consideration in each case, the promise from each bearing the same intent and value, and having the same qualifying clauses. The contract is definite; it is dated. It is evidently the record of a unanimous intent, an identical frame of mind between the two making it at that time. It is signed and sealed in full by one party, no doubt in his own hand. It is written and acknowledged by the other party in her own hand--" "But not _signed_!" I broke in. "See, it is not _signed_. She said she would sign it one letter each week--weeks and weeks--until at last, this, which was only our engagement, should with the last letter make our marriage. Gentlemen," I said to them, "it was an honest contract. It was all the formality we could have, all the ceremony we could have. It was all that we could do. I stand before you promised to two women. Before God I was promised to one. I loved her. I could do no more--" "It was enough," said Doctor Bond, dryly, taking snuff. "It was a wedding." "Impossible!" declared Colonel Sheraton. "Impossible? Not in the least," said the doctor. "It can be invalid only upon one ground. It might be urged that the marriage was not consummated. But in the courts that would be a matter of proof. Whatever our young friend here might say, a court would say that consummation was very probable. "I say, as this stands, the contract is a definite one, agreeing to do a definite thing, namely, to enter into the state of marriage. The question of the uncompleted signature does not invalidate it, nor indeed come into the matter at all. It is only a question whether the signature, so far as it goes, means the identity of the Ellen Meriwether who wrote the clause preceding it. It is a question of identification solely. Nothing appears on this contract stipulating that she must sign her full name before the marriage can take place. That verbal agreement, which Mr. Cowles mentions, of signing it letter by letter, does not in law affect a written agreement. This written contract must, in the law, be construed just as It stands, and under its own phrasing, by its own inherent evidence. The obvious and apparent evidence is that the person beginning this signature was Ellen Meriwether--the same who wrote the last clause of the contract. The handwriting is the same--the supposition is that it is the same, and the burden of proof would lie on the one denying it. "Gentlemen," he went on, taking a turn, hands behind back, his big red kerchief hanging from his coat tails, "I take Mr. Cowles' word as to acts before and after this contract. I think he has shown to us that he is a gentleman. In that world, very different from this world, he acted like a gentleman. In that life he was for the time freed of the covenant of society. Now, in this life, thrown again under the laws of society, he again shows to us that he is a gentleman, here as much as there. We cannot reason from that world to this. I say--yes, I hope I am big enough man to say--that we cannot blame him, arguing from that world to this. We can exact of a man that he shall be a gentleman in either one of those worlds; but we cannot exact it of him to be the _same_ gentleman in _both_! "Now, the question comes, to which of these worlds belongs John Cowles? The court will say that this bit of hide is a wedding ceremony. Gentlemen," he smiled grimly, "we need all the professions here to-day--medicine, ministry and law! At least, Colonel Sheraton, I think we need legal counsel before we go on with any more weddings for this young man here." "But there is no record of this," I said. "There is no execution in duplicate." "No," said the doctor. "It is only a question of which world you elect." I looked at him, and he added, "It is also only a question of morals. If this record here should be destroyed, you would leave the other party with no proof on her side of the case." He brushed off his nose again, and took another short turn from the table, his head dropped in thought. "It is customary," he said as he turned to me, "to give the wife the wedding certificate. The law, the ministry, and the profession of medicine, all unite in their estimate of the relative value of marital faithfulness as between the sexes. It is the _woman_ who needs the proof. All nature shields the woman's sex. She is the apple of Nature's eye, and even the law knows that." I walked to the mantel and took up the knife that lay there. I returned to the table, and with a long stroke I ripped the hide in two. I threw the two pieces into the grate. "That is my proof," said I, "that Ellen Meriwether needs no marriage certificate! I am the certificate for that, and for her!" Colonel Sheraton staggered to me, his hand trembling, outstretched. "You're free to marry my poor girl--" he began. "It is proof also," I went on, "that I shall never see Ellen Meriwether again, any more than I shall see Grace Sheraton again after I have married her. What happens after that is not my business. It is my business, Colonel Sheraton, and yours--possibly even your son's"--I smiled at Harry--"to find Gordon Orme. I claim him first. If I do not kill him, then you--and you last, Harry, because you are least fit." "Gentlemen, is it all agreed?" I asked. I tossed the knife back on the mantel, and turned my back to it and them. "Jack," said my old wire-hair, Doctor Bond, "I pray God I may never see this done again to any man. I thank God the woman I loved died years ago. She was too good--they're all too good--I, a physician, say they are all too good. Only in that gap between them and us lies any margin which permits you to lie to yourself at the altar. To care for them--to shield them--they, the apple of the Eye--that is why we men are here." He turned away, his face working. "Is it agreed?" I asked of Colonel Sheraton, sternly. His trembling hand sought mine. "Yes," he said. "Our quarrel is discharged, and more than so. Harry, shake hands with Mr. Cowles. By God! men, our quarrel now runs to Gordon Orme. To-morrow we start for Carolina, where we had his last address. Mr. Cowles, my heart bleeds, it bleeds, sir, for you. But for her also--for her up there. The courts shall free you quickly and quietly, as soon as it can be done. It is you who have freed us all. You have been tried hard. You have proved yourself a man." But it was not the courts that freed us. None of us ever sought actual knowledge of what agency really freed us. Indeed, the time came swiftly for us all to draw the cloak of secrecy about one figure of this story, and to shield her in it forever. Again we were interrupted. The door at the stair burst open. A black maid, breathless, broke into the room. [Illustration: WHEN THE WAY OF WOMEN PASSETH A MAN'S UNDERSTANDING] "She's a-settin' there--Miss Grace just a-settin' there--" she began, and choked and stammered. "What is it?" cried Doctor Bond, sharply, and sprang at the door. I heard him go up the stairs lightly as though he were a boy. We all followed, plying the girl with questions. "I went in to make up the room," blubbered she, "an' she was just settin' there, an' I spoke to her an' she didn't answer--an' I called to her, an' she didn't answer--she's just a-settin' there right _now_." As a cloud sweeps over a gray, broken moor, so now horror swept upon us in our distress and grief. We paused one moment to listen, then went on to see what we knew we must see. I say that we men of Virginia were slow to suspect a woman. I hope we are still slower to gossip regarding one. Not one of us ever asked Doctor Bond a question, fearing lest we might learn what perhaps he knew. He stood beyond her now, his head bowed, his hand touching her wrist, feeling for the pulse that was no longer there. The solemnity of his face was louder than speech. It seemed to me that I heard his silent demand that we should all hold our peace forever. Grace Sheraton, her lips just parted in a little crooked smile, such as she might have worn when she was a child, sat at a low dressing table, staring directly into the wide mirror which swung before her at its back. Her left arm lay at length along the table. Her right, with its hand under her cheek and chin, supported her head, which leaned but slightly to one side. She gazed into her own face, into her own heart, into the mystery of human life and its double worlds, I doubt not. She could not tell us what she had learned. Her father stepped to her side, opposite the old doctor. I heard sobs as they placed her upon her little white bed, still with that little crooked smile upon her face, as though, she were young, very young again. I went to the window, and Harry, I think, was close behind me. Before me lay the long reaches of our valley, shimmering in the midday autumn sun. It seemed a scene of peace and not of tragedy. But even as I looked, there came rolling up our valley, slowly, almost as though visible, the low, deep boom of the signal gun from the village below. It carried news, the news from America! We started, all of us. I saw Colonel Sheraton half look up as he stood, bent over the bed. Thus, stunned by horror as we were, we waited. It was a long time, an interminable time, moments, minutes, it seemed to me, until there must have been thrice time for the repetition of the signal, if there was to be one. There was no second sound. The signal was alone, single; ominous. "Thank God! Thank God!" cried Colonel Sheraton; swinging his hands aloft, tears rolling down his old gray cheeks. "_It is war_! Now we may find forgetfulness!" CHAPTER XLIII THE RECKONING So it was war. We drew apart into hostile camps. By midwinter South Carolina, Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Louisiana, Texas, had withdrawn from the Union. There arose two capitals, each claiming a government, each planning war: Washington and Richmond. As for me, I had seen the flag on our far frontiers, in wide, free lands. It was a time when each must choose for himself. I knew with whom my own lot must be cast. I pledged myself to follow the flag of the frontier, wherever it might go. During the winter I busied myself, and when the gun of Sumpter came on that sad day of April, I was ready with a company of volunteers who had known some months of drill, at least, and who had been good enough to elect me for their captain. Most of my men came from the mountains of Western Virginia, where geography made loyalty, and loyalty later made a State. I heard, remotely, that Colonel Meriwether would not join the Confederacy. Some men of Western Virginia and Eastern Kentucky remained with the older flag. Both the Sheratons, the old Colonel and his son Harry, were of course for the South, and early in January they both left home for Richmond. On the other hand, again, our friend Captain Stevenson stood for the Federal government; and so I heard, also indirectly, did young Belknap of the Ninth Dragoons, Regulars, a gallant boy who swiftly reached distinction, and died a gallant man's death at Shiloh later on. My mother, all for peace, was gray and silent over these hurrying events. She wept when she saw me in uniform and belt. "See," she said, "we freed our slaves long ago. We thought as the North thinks. This war is not for the Society of Friends." But she saw my father's blood in me again, and sighed. "Go, then," she said. All over the country, North and South, came the same sighed consent of the women, "Go, then." And so we went out to kill each other, we who should all have been brothers. None of us would listen. The armies formed, facing each other on Virginia soil. Soon in our trampled fields, and broken herds, and ruined crops, in our desolated homes and hearts, we, brothers in America, learned the significance of war. They crossed our little valley, passing through Alexandria, coming from Harper's Ferry, these raw ninety-day men of McDowell and Patterson, who thought to end the Confederacy that spring. Northern politics drove them into battle before they had learned arms. By midsummer all the world knew that they would presently encounter, somewhere near Manassas, to the south and west, the forces of Beauregard and Johnston, then lying within practical touch of each other by rail. My men, most of them young fellows used to horse and arms, were brigaded as infantry with one of the four divisions of McDowell's men, who converged along different lines toward Fairfax. For nearly a week we lay near the front of the advance, moving on in snail-like fashion, which ill-suited most of us Virginians, who saw no virtue in postponing fight, since we were there for fighting. We scattered our forces, we did not unite, we did not entrench, we did not advance; we made all the mistakes a young army could, worst of all the mistake of hesitancy. It was not until the twentieth of July that our leaders determined upon a flanking movement to our right, which was to cross Bull Run at the Sudley Ford. Even so, we dallied along until every one knew our plans. Back of us, the battle opened on the following day, a regiment at a time, with no concert, no _plan_. My men were with this right wing, which made the turning movement, but four brigades in all. Four other brigades, those of Howard, Burnside, Keyes and Schenck, were lost somewhere to the rear of us. Finally, we crossed and reached the left flank of the Confederates under Beauregard, and swung south along Bull Run. Our attack was scattering and ill-planned, but by three o'clock of the next day we were in the thickest of the fighting around the slopes which led up to the Henry House, back of which lay the Confederate headquarters. I saw the batteries of Rickett and Griffin of our Regulars advance and take this height against the steadily thickening line of the Confederates, who had now had full time to concentrate. There came a hot cavalry charge upon the Zouave regiment on my left, and I saw the Zouaves lie down in the woods and melt the line of that charge with their fire, and save the battery for a time. Then in turn I saw that blunder by which the battery commander allowed Cummings' men--the Thirty-third Virginia, I think it was--deliberately to march within stone's throw of them, mistaken for Federal troops. I saw them pour a volley at short range into the guns, which wiped out their handlers, and let through the charging lines now converging rapidly upon us. Then, though it was but my first battle, I knew that our movement must fail, that our extended line, lying upon nothing, supported by nothing, must roll back in retreat along a trough road, where the horses and guns would mow us down. Stuart's men came on, riding through us as we broke and scattered. Wheat's Louisiana Tigers came through our remnants as well. We had no support. We did not know that back of the hill the Confederate recruits were breaking badly as ourselves, and running to the rear. We were all new in war. We of the invading forces caught the full terror of that awful panic which the next day set the North in mourning, and the South aflame with a red exultation. All around us our lines wavered, turned and fled. But to some, who knew the danger of the country back of us, it seemed safer to stay than to run. To that fact I owe my life, and at least a little satisfaction that some of us Virginians held our line for a time, even against those other Virginians who came on at us. We were scattered in a thin line in cover of heavy timber, and when the pursuit came over us we killed a score of their men after they had passed. Such was the confusion and the madness of the pursuit, that they rolled beyond our broken line like a wave, scarce knowing we were there. Why I escaped I do not know, for I was now easily visible, mounted on a horse which I had caught as it came through the wood riderless. I was passing along our little front, up and down, as best I could in the tangle. The pursuit went through us strung out, scattered, as disorganized as our own flight. They were practically over us and gone when, as I rode to the right flank of the remaining splinter of my little company, I saw, riding down upon us, a splendid soldier, almost alone, and apparently endeavoring to reach his command after some delay at the rear. He was mounted on a fine horse--a great black animal. His tall figure was clad in the gray uniform of the Confederates, with a black hat sweeping back from his forehead. He wore cavalry boots and deep gauntleted gloves, and in all made a gallant martial figure as he rode. A few of our men, half witless with their terror, crossed his path. I saw him half rise, once, twice, four times, standing in the stirrups to enforce his saber cuts, each one of which dropped a man. He and his horse moved together, a splendid engine of ruthless, butchery. "Look out, Cap!" I heard a squeaking voice behind me call, and looking down, I saw one of my men, his left arm hanging loose, resting his gun across a log with his right. "Git out 'o the way," he repeated. "I'm goin' to kill him." It was that new-made warrior, Andrew Jackson McGovern, who had drifted back into our valley from some place, and joined my company soon after its organization. I ordered the boy now to drop his gun. "Leave him alone!" I cried. "He belongs to me." It was Gordon Orme. At last, fate had relented for me. My enemy was at hand. No man but Orme could thus ride my old horse, Satan. Now I saw where the horse had gone, and who it was that owned him, and why Orme was here. I rode out to meet him. The keenness of the coming, encounter for the time almost caused me to forget my anger. I seem never to have thought but that fate had brought me there for that one purpose. He saw me advance, and whirled in my direction, eager as myself; and presently I saw also that he recognized me, as I did him. This is to be said of Gordon Orme, that he feared no man or thing on earth. He smiled at me now, showing his long, narrow teeth, as he came, lightly twirling his long blade. Two pistols lay in my holsters, and both were freshly loaded, but without thought I had drawn my sword for a weapon, I suppose because he was using his. He was a master of the sword, I but a beginner with it. We rode straight in, and I heard the whistle of his blade as he circled it about his head like a band of light. As we joined he made a cut to the left, easily, gently, as he leaned forward; but it came with such swiftness that had it landed I doubt not my neck would have been shorn like a robin's. But at least I could ride as well as he or any other man. I dropped and swerved, pulling out of line a few inches as we passed. My own blow, back-handed, was fruitless as his. We wheeled and came on again, and yet again, and each time he put me on defense, and each time I learned more of what was before me to do. My old servant, Satan, was now his servant, and the great black horse was savage against me as was his rider. Wishing nothing so much as to kill his own rival, he came each time with his ears back and his mouth open, wicked in the old blood lust that I knew. It was the fury of his horse that saved me, I suppose, for as that mad beast bored in, striving to overthrow my own horse, the latter would flinch away in spite of all I could do, so that I needed to give him small attention when we met in these short, desperate charges. I escaped with nothing more than a rip across the shoulder, a touch on the cheek, on the arm, where his point reached me lightly, as my horse swerved away from the encounters. I could not reach Orme at all. At last, I know not how, we clashed front on, and his horse bore mine back, with a scream fastening his teeth in the crest of my mount, as a dog seizes his prey. I saw Orme's sword turn lightly, easily again around his head, saw his wrist turn gently, smoothly down and extend in a cut which was aimed to catch me full across the head. There was no parry I could think, but the full counter in kind. My blade met his with a shock that jarred my arm to the shoulder. I saw him give back, pull off his mad horse and look at his hand, where his own sword was broken off, a foot above the hilt. Smiling, he saluted with it, reigning back his horse, and no more afraid of me than if I were a child. He did not speak, nor did I. I pulled up my own horse, not wishing to take the advantage that now was mine, but knowing that he would not yield--that I must kill him. He did so at his own peril who took Orme for a dullard. I watched him closely. He saluted again with his broken sword, and made as though to toss it from him, as indeed he did. Then like a flash his hand dropped to his holster. I read his thought, I presume, when he made his second salute. His motion of tossing away the sword hilt gave me the fraction of time which sometimes is the difference between life and death. Our fire was almost at the same instant, but not quite. His bullet cut the epaulet clean from my left shoulder; but he did not fire again, nor did I. I saw him straighten up in his saddle, precisely as I had once seen an Indian chieftain do under Orme's own fire. He looked at me with a startled expression on his face. At that moment there came from the edge of the woods the crack of a musket. The great horse Satan pitched his head forward and dropped limp, sinking to his knees. As he rolled he caught his rider under him. I myself sprung down, shouting out some command toward the edge of the wood, that they should leave this man to me. Whether my men heard me or not I do not know. Perhaps they heard rather the hoarse shouts of a fresh column in gray which came up in the pursuit, fagged with its own running. When these new men passed me all they saw was a bit of wood torn with shot and ball, and in the open two figures, both dusty and gray, one helping the other from what seemed to be a fall of his horse. Scenes like that were common. We were not disturbed by the men of either side. We were alone presently, Gordon Orme and I. I stooped and caught hold of the hind leg of the great black horse, and even as I had once turned a dead bull, so now I turned this carcass on its back. I picked up the fallen rider and carried him to the woods, and there I propped his body against a tree. Slowly he opened his eyes, even pulled himself up more fully against the support. "Thank you, old man," he said. "The horse was deucedly heavy--spoiled that leg, I think." He pointed to his boot, where his foot lay turned to one side. "I suffer badly. Be a good fellow and end it." I answered him by tossing down one of his own pistols, both of which I had secured against need. He looked at it, but shook his head. "Let's talk it over a bit first," he said. "I'm done. I'll not make any trouble. Did you ever know me to break parole?" "No," said I, and I threw down the other weapon on the ground. "In mercy to us both, Orme, die. I do not want to kill you now; and you shall not live." "I'm safe enough," he said. "It's through the liver and stomach. I can't possibly get over it." He stared straight ahead of him, as though summoning his will. "_Swami_!" I heard him mutter, as though addressing some one. "There, that's better," he said finally. He sat almost erect, smiling at me. "It is _Asana_, the art of posture," he said. "I rest my body on my ribs, my soul on the air. Feel my heart." I did so, and drew away my hand almost in terror. It stopped beating at his will, and began again! His uncanny art was still under his control! "I shall be master here for a little while," he said. "So--I move those hurt organs to ease the flow. But I can't stop the holes, nor mend them. We can't get at the tissues to sew them fast. After a while I shall die." He spoke clearly, with utter calmness, dispassionately. I never saw his like among men. I stood by him silently. He put his own hand on his chest. "Poor old heart," he said. "Feel it work! Enormous pumping engine, tremendous thing, the heart. Think what it does in seventy years--and all for what--that we may live and enjoy, and so maybe die. What few minutes I have now I owe to having trained what most folk call an involuntary muscle. I command my heart to beat, and so it does." I looked down at a strange, fascinating soul, a fearsome personality, whose like I never knew in all my life. "Will you make me a promise?" he said, smiling at me, mocking at me. "No," I answered. "I was going to ask you, after my death to take my heart and send it back to my people at Orme Castle, Gordon Arms, in England--you know where. It would be a kindness to the family." I gazed at him in a sort of horror, but he smiled and went on. "We're mediaeval to-day as ever we were. Some of us are always making trouble, one corner or the other of the world, and until the last Gordon heart comes home to rest, there's no peace for that generation. Hundreds of years, they've traveled all over the world, and been lost, and stolen, and hidden. My father's is lost now, somewhere. Had it come back home to rest, my own life might have been different. I say, Cowles, couldn't you do that for me? We've nearly always had some last friend that would--we Gordons." "I would do nothing for you as a favor," I answered. "Then do it because it is right. I'd rather it should be you. You've a wrist like steel, and a mind like steel when you set yourself to do a thing." "I say, old man," he went on, a trifle weary now, "you've won. I'm jolly well accounted for, and it was fair. I hope they'll not bag you when you try to get out of this. But won't you promise what I've asked? Won't you promise?" It is not for me to say whether or not I made a promise to Gordon Orme, or to say whether or not things mediaeval or occult belong with us to-day. Neither do I expect many to believe the strange truth about Gordon Orme. I only say it is hard to deny those about to die. "Orme," I said, "I wish you had laid out your life differently. You are a wonderful man." "The great games," he smiled--"sport, love, war!" Then his face saddened. "I say, have you kept your other promise to me?" he asked. "Did you marry that girl--what was her name--Miss Sheraton?" "Miss Sheraton is dead." "Married?" he asked. "No. She died within two months after the night I caught you in the yard. I should have killed you then, Orme." He nodded. "Yes, but at least I showed some sort of remorse--the first time, I think. Not a bad sort, that girl, but madly jealous. Fighting blood, I imagine, in that family!" "Yes," I said, "her father and brother and I, all three, swore the same oath." "The same spirit was in the girl," he said, nodding again. "Revenge--that was what she wanted. That's why it all happened. It was what _I_ wanted, too! You blocked me with the only woman--" "Do not speak her name," I said to him, quietly. "The nails on your fingers are growing blue, Orme. Go with some sort of squaring of your own accounts. Try to think." He shrugged a shoulder. "My Swami said we do not die--we only change worlds or forms. What! I, Gordon Orme, to be blotted out--to lose my mind and soul and body and senses--not to be able to _enjoy_. No, Cowles, somewhere there are other worlds, with women in them. I do not die--I transfer." But sweat stood on his forehead. "As to going, no ways are better than this," he mused, presently. "I swear I'm rather comfortable now; a trifle numb--but we--I say, we must all--all go some time, you know. Did you hear me?" he repeated, smiling. "I was just saying that we must all go, one way or another, you know." "I heard you," I said. "You are going now." "Yes," he admitted, "one can't hold together forever under a pull like this. You're an awfully decent sort. Give me a bit of paper. I want to write." I found him a pencil and some pages of my notebook. "To please you, I'll try to square some things," he said. "You've been so deuced square and straight with me, all along. I'm--I'm Gordon, now, I'm English. Word of a fighting man, my--my _friend_." He leaned forward, peering down at the paper as though he did not clearly see; but he wrote slowly for a time, absorbed in thought. In all the death scenes which our country knew in thousands during those years, I doubt if any more unbelievable than this ever had occurrence. I saw the blood soaking all his garments, lying black on the ground about him. I saw his face grow gray and his nails grow blue, his pallor deepen as the veins lost their contents. I saw him die. But I swear that he still sat there, calm as though he did not suffer, and forced his body to do his will. And--though I ask a rough man's pardon for intruding my own beliefs--since he used his last superb reserves to leave the truth behind him, I myself thought that there must be somewhere an undying instinct of truth and justice, governing even such as Gordon Orme; yes, I hope, governing such as myself as well. Since then I have felt that somewhere there must be a great religion written on the earth and in the sky. As to what this could offer in peace to Gordon Orme I do not say. His was a vast debt. Perhaps Truth never accepted it as paid. I do not know. There he sat, at last smiling again as he looked up. "Fingers getting dreadfully stiff. Tongue will go next. Muscles still under the power for a little time. Here, take this. You're going to live, and this is the only thing--it'll make you miserable, but happy, too. Good-by. I'll not stop longer, I think." Like a flash his hand shot out to the weapon that lay near him on the ground. I shrank back, expecting the ball full in my face. Instead, it passed through his own brain! His will was broken as that physical instrument, the brain, wonder seat of the mysteries of the mind, was rent apart. His splendid mind no longer ruled his splendid body. His body itself, relaxing, sank forward, his head at one side, his hand dropping limp. A smile drew down the corner of his mouth--a smile horrible in its pathos; mocking, and yet beseeching. * * * * * At last I rubbed the blood from my own face and stooped to read what he had written. Then I thanked God that he was dead, knowing how impossible it would have been elsewise for me to stay my hand. These were the words: "I, Gordon Orme, dying July 21, 1861, confess that I killed John Cowles, Senior, in the month of April, 1860, at the road near Wallingford. I wanted the horse, but had to kill Cowles. Later took the money. I was a secret agent, detailed for work among U.S. Army men. "I, Gordon Orme, having seduced Grace Sheraton, asked John Cowles to marry her to cover up that act. "I, Gordon Orme, appoint John Cowles my executor. I ask him to fulfill last request. I give him what property I have on my person for his own. Further, I say not; and being long ago held as dead, I make no bequests as to other property whatsoever.--Gordon Orme. In Virginia, U.S.A." It was he, then, who had in cold blood killed my father! That horrid riddle at last was read. In that confession I saw only his intent to give me his last touch of misery and pain. It was some moments before I could read all the puzzle of his speech, half of which had promised me wretchedness, and half happiness. Then slowly I realized what I held in my hand. It was the proof of his guilt, of my innocence. He had robbed me of my father. He had given me--what? At least he had given me a chance. Perhaps Ellen Meriwether would believe! * * * * * It was my duty to care for the personal belongings of Gordon Orme; but regarding these matters a soldier does not care to speak. I took from his coat a long, folded leather book. It was hours later, indeed late the following morning, before I looked into it. During the night I was busy making my escape from that fated field. As I came from the rear, mounted, I was supposed to be of the Confederate forces, and so I got through the weary and scattered columns of pursuit, already overloaded with prisoners. By morning I was far on my way toward the Potomac. Then I felt in my pockets, and opened the wallet I had found en Orme's body. It held various memoranda, certain writings in cipher, others in foreign characters, pieces of drawings, maps and the like, all of which I destroyed. It contained also, in thin foreign notes, a sum large beyond the belief of what an ordinary officer would carry into battle; and this money, for the time, I felt justified in retaining. Orme was no ordinary officer. He had his own ways, and his own errand. His secret, however great it was--and at different times I have had reason to believe that men high in power on both sides knew how great it was, and how important to be kept a secret--never became fully known. In all likelihood it was not his business actually to join in the fighting ranks. But so at least it happened that his secret went into the unknown with himself. He was lost as utterly as though he were a dark vision passing into a darker and engulfing night. If I learned more than most regarding him, I am not free to speak. He named no heirs beyond myself. I doubt not it was his wish that he should indeed be held as one who long ago had died. Should Gordon Orme arise from his grave and front me now, I should hardly feel surprise, for mortal conditions scarce seem to give his dimensions. But should I see him now, I should fear him no more than when I saw him last. His page then was closed in my life forever. It was not for me to understand him. It is not for me to judge him. CHAPTER XLIV THIS INDENTURE WITNESSETH Within the few days following the battle, the newspapers paused in their warnings and rebukes on the one side, their paeans of victory on the other, and turned to the sober business of printing the long lists of the dead. Then, presently, each section but the more resolved, the North and South again joined issue, and the war went on. As for myself, I was busy with my work, for now my superiors were good enough to advance me for what they called valor on the field. Before autumn ended I was one of the youngest colonels of volunteers in the Federal Army. Thus it was easy for me to find a brief furlough when we passed near Leesburg on our way to the Blue Ridge Gap, and I then ran down for a look at our little valley. The women now were taking ranks steadfastly as the men. My mother greeted me, and in spite of all her sorrow, in spite of all the ruin that lay around us there, I think she felt a certain pride. I doubt if she would have suffered me to lay aside my uniform. It hung in our home long after the war was ended, and my Quaker mother, bless her! kept it whole and clean. There were some business matters to be attended to with our friend Dr. Samuel Bond, who had been charged to handle our estate matters during my absence. He himself, too old and too busy to serve in either army, had remained at home, where certainly he had enough to do before the end of the war, as first one army and then the other swept across Wallingford. I found Doctor Bond in his little brick office at the top of the hill overlooking the village. It was he who first showed me the Richmond papers with lists of the Confederate dead. Colonel Sheraton's name was among the first I saw. He had been with Cumming's forces, closely opposed to my own position at Bull Run. He himself was instantly killed, and his son Harry, practically at his side, seriously, possibly fatally wounded, was now in hospital at Richmond. Even by this time we were learning the dullness to surprise and shock which war always brings. We had not time to grieve. I showed Doctor Bond the last writing of Gordon Orme, and put before him the Bank of England notes which I had found on Orme's person, and which, by the terms of his testament, I thought might perhaps belong to me. "Could I use any of this money with clean conscience?" I asked. "Could it honorably be employed in the discharging of the debt Orme left on my family?" "A part of that debt you have already caused him to discharge," the old doctor answered, slowly. "You would be doing a wrong if you did not oblige him to discharge the rest." I counted out and laid on the desk before him the amount of the funds which my father's memoranda showed had been taken from him by Orme that fatal night more than a year ago. The balance of the notes I tossed into the little grate, and with no more ado we burned them there. We concluded our conference in regard to my business matters. I learned that the coal lands had been redeemed from foreclosure, Colonel Meriwether having advanced the necessary funds; and as this now left our debt running to him, I instructed Doctor Bond to take steps to cancel it immediately, and to have the property partitioned as Colonel Meriwether should determine. "And now, Jack," said my wire-haired old friend to me at last, "when do you ride to Albemarle? There is something in this slip of paper"--he pointed to Orme's last will and confession--"which a certain person ought to see." "My duties do not permit me to go and come as I like these days," I answered evasively. But Dr. Samuel Bond was a hard man to evade. "Jack," said he, fumbling in his dusty desk, "here's something _you_ ought to see. I saved it for you, over there, the morning you threw it into the fireplace." He spread out on the top of the desk a folded bit of hide. Familiar enough it was to me. "You saved but half," I said. "The other half is gone!" He pushed a flake of snuff far up his long nose. "Yes," said he quietly. "I sent it to her some three months ago." "What did she say?" "Nothing, you fool. What did you expect?" "Listen," he went on presently. "Your brain is dull. What say the words of the law? 'This Indenture Witnesseth!' Now what is an 'indenture'? The old Romans and the old English knew. They wrote a contract on parchment, and cut it in two with an indented line, and they gave each party a half. When the court saw that these two halves fitted--as no other portions could--then indeed the indenture witnessed. It was its own proof. "Now, my son," he concluded savagely, "if you ever dreamed of marrying any other woman, damn me if I wouldn't come into court and make this indenture witness for you _both_--for her as well as you! Go on away now, and don't bother me any more." CHAPTER XLV ELLEN Our forces passed up the valley of Virginia and rolled through the old Rockfish Gap--where once the Knights of the Golden Horn paused and took possession, in the name of King Charles, of all the land thence to the South Sea. We overspread all the Piedmont Valley and passed down to the old town of Charlottesville. It was nearly deserted now. The gay Southern boys who in the past rode there with their negro servants, and set at naught good Thomas Jefferson's intent of simplicity in the narrow little chambers of the old University of Virginia, now were gone with their horses and their servants. To-day you may see their names in bronze on the tablets at the University doors. I quartered my men about the quiet old place, and myself hunted up an office-room on one of the rambling streets that wandered beneath the trees. I was well toward the finish of my morning's work when I heard the voice of my sentry challenge, and caught an answering word of indignation in a woman's voice. I stepped to the door. A low, single-seated cart was halted near the curb, and one of its occupants was apparently much angered. I saw heir clutch the long brown rifle barrel which extended out at the rear over the top of the seat. "You git out'n the road, man," repeated she, "or I'll take a shot at you for luck! We done come this fur, and I reckon we c'n go the rest the way." That could be no one but old Mandy McGovern! For the sake of amusement I should have left her to make her own argument with the guard, had I not in the same glance caught sight of her companion, a trim figure in close fitting corduroy of golden brown, a wide hat of russet straw shading her face, wide gauntlet gloves drawn over her little hands. Women were not usual within the Army lines. Women such as this were not usual anywhere. It was Ellen! Her face went rosy red as I hastened to the side of the cart and put down Mandy's arm. She stammered, unable to speak more connectedly than I myself. Mandy could not forget her anger, and insisted that she wanted to see the "boss." "I am the Colonel in command right here, Aunt Mandy," I said. "Won't I do?" "You a kunnel?" she retorted. "Looks to me like kunnels is mighty easy made if you'll do. No, we're atter Ginral Meriwether, who's comin' here to be the real boss of all you folks. Say, man, you taken away my man and my boy. Where they at?" "With me here," I was glad to answer, "safe, and somewhere not far away. The boy is wounded, but his arm is nearly well." "Ain't got his bellyful o' fightin' yit?" "No, both he and Auberry seem to be just beginning." "Humph! Reackon they're happy, then. If a man's gettin' three squares a day and plenty o' fightin', don't see whut more he kin ask." "Corporal," I called to my sentry, who was now pacing back and forth before the door, hiding his mouth behind his hand, "put this woman under arrest, and hold her until I return. She's looking for privates Auberry and McGovern, G Company, First Virginia Volunteers. Keep her in my office while they're sent for. Bring me my bag from the table." It was really a pretty fight, that between Mandy and the corporal. The latter was obliged to call out the guard for aid. "Sick 'em, Pete!" cried Mandy, when she found her arms pinioned; and at once there darted out from under the cart a hairy little demon of a dog, mute, mongrelish, pink-eared, which began silent havoc with the corporal's legs. I looked again at that dog. I was ready to take it in my arms and cry out that it was my friend! It was the little Indian dog that Ellen and I had tamed! Why, then, had she kept it, why had she brought it home with her? I doubt which way the contest would have gone, had not Mandy seen me climb into her vacated seat and take up the reins. "Pete" then stolidly took up his place under the cart. We turned and drove back up the shady street, Ellen and I. I saw her fingers twisting together in her lap, but as yet she had not spoken. The flush on her cheek was deeper now. She beat her hands together softly, confused, half frightened; but she did not beg me to leave her. "If you could get away," she began at last, "I would ask you to drive me back home. Aunt Mandy and I are living there together. Kitty Stevenson's visiting me--you'll--you'll want to call on Kitty. My father has been in East Kentucky, but I understand he's ordered here this week. Major Stevenson is with him. We thought we might get word, and so came on through the lines." "You had no right to do so. The pickets should have stopped you," I said. "At the same time, I am very glad they didn't." "So you are a Colonel," she said after a time, with an Army girl's nice reading of insignia. "Yes," I answered, "I am an officer. Now if I could only be a gentleman!" "Don't!" she whispered. "Don't talk in that way, please." "Do you think I could be?" "I think you have been," she whispered, all her face rosy now. We were now near the line of our own pickets on this edge of the town. Making myself known, I passed through and drove out into the country roads, along the edge of the hills, now glorious in their autumn hues. It was a scene fair as Paradise to me. Presently Ellen pointed to a mansion house on a far off hill--such a house as can be found nowhere in America but in this very valley; an old family seat, lying, reserved and full of dignity, at a hilltop shielded with great oaks. I bethought me again of the cities of peace I had seen on the far horizons of another land than this. "That is our home," she said. "We have not often been here since grandfather died, and then my mother. But this is the place that we Meriwethers all call home." Then I saw again what appeal the profession of arms makes to a man--how strong is its fascination. It had taken the master of a home like this from a life like this, and plunged him into the hardships and dangers of frontier war, again into the still more difficult and dangerous conflicts between great armies. Not for months, for years, had he set foot on his own sod--sod like ours in Loudoun, never broken by a plow. As we approached the gate I heard behind us the sound of galloping horses. There came up the road a mounted officer, with his personal escort, an orderly, several troopers, and a grinning body servant. "Look--there he comes--it is my father!" exclaimed Ellen; and in a moment she was out of the cart and running down the road to meet him, taking his hand, resting her cheek against his dusty thigh, as he sat in saddle. The officer saluted me sharply. "You are outside the lines," said he. "Have you leave?" I saluted also, and caught the twinkle in his eye as I looked into his face. "On detached service this morning, General," I said. "If you please, I shall report to you within the hour." He wheeled his horse and spurred on up along his own grounds, fit master for their stateliness. But he entered, leaving the gate wide open for us to pass. "Shut the gate, Benjie," said Ellen as I tossed down a coin to the grinning black. And then to me, "You don't know Benjie? Yes, he's married again to Kitty's old cook, Annie. They're both here." An orderly took our horse when finally we drove up; but at the time I did not go into the house. I did not ask for Mrs. Kitty Stevenson. A wide seat lay beneath one of the oaks. We wandered thither, Ellen and I. The little dog, mute, watchful, kept close at her side. "Ellen," said I to her, "the time has come now. I am not going to wait any longer. Read this." I put into her hand Gordon Orme's confession. She read, with horror starting on her face. "What a scoundrel--what a criminal!" she said. "The man was a demon. He killed your father!" "Yes, and in turn I killed him," I said, slowly. Her eyes flashed. She was savage again, as I had seen her. My soul leaped out to see her fierce, relentless, exulting that I had fought and won, careless that I had slain. "Orme did all he could to ruin me in every way," I added. "Read on." Then I saw her face change to pity as she came to the next clause. So now she knew the truth about Grace Sheraton, and, I hoped, the truth about John Cowles. "Can you forgive me?" she said, brokenly, her dark eyes swimming in tears, as she turned toward me. "That is not the question," I answered, slowly. "It is, can _you_ forgive _me_?" Her hand fell on my arm imploringly. "I have no doubt that I was much to blame for that poor girl's act," I continued. "The question only is, has my punishment been enough, or can it be enough? Do you forgive me? We all make mistakes. Am I good enough for you, Ellen? answer me." But she would not yet answer. So I went on. "I killed Gordon Orme myself, in fair fight; but he wrote this of his own free will. He himself told me it would be proof. Is it proof?" She put the paper gently to one side of her on the long seat. "I do not need it," she said. "If it came to question of proof, we have learned much of these matters, my father and I, since we last met you. But I have never needed it; not even that night we said good-by. Ah! how I wanted you back after you had gone!" "And your father?" I asked of her, my hand falling on hers. "He knows as much as I. Lately he has heard from your friend, Doctor Bond--we have both learned a great many things. We are sorry. I am sorry. I have _always_ been sorry." "But what more?" I asked. "Ellen!" She put out her hands in a sort of terror. "Don't," she said. "I have put all this away for so long that now--I can't begin again. I can't! I can't! I am afraid. Do not ask me. Do not. No--no!" She started from the seat as though she would have fled in a swift panic. But now I caught her. "Stop!" I exclaimed, rage in all my heart. "I've been a fool long enough, and now I will have no more of foolishness. I will try no more to figure niceties. I'll not try to understand a woman. But gentleman or not, I swear by God! if we were alone again, we two, out there--then I'd not use you the same the second time whatever you said, or asked, or pleaded, or argued, I would not listen--not a word would I listen to--you should do as I said, as I desired. And I say now you _must_, you _shall_!" Anger may have been in my face--I do not know. I crushed her back into the seat. And she--Ellen--the girl I had seen and loved in the desert silences? She sank back against the rail with a little sigh as of content, a little smile as of a child caught in mischief and barred from escape. Oh, though I lived a thousand years, never would I say I understood a woman! "Now we will end all this," I said, frowning. I caught her by the arm and led her to the gallery, where I picked up the bag I had left at the driveway. I myself rang at the door, not allowing her to lead me in. The orderly came. "My compliments to General Meriwether," I said, "and Colonel Cowles would like to speak with him." He came, that tall man, master of the mansion, dusty with his travel, stern of face, maned like a gray bear of the hills; but he smiled and reached out his hand. "Come in, sir," he said. And now we entered. "It seems you have brought back my girl again. I hope my welcome will be warmer than it was at Laramie!" He looked at us, from one to the other, the brown skin about his keen eyes wrinkling. "I have certain things to say, General," I began. We were walking into the hall. As soon as I might, I handed to him the confession of Gordon Orme. He read it with shut lips. "Part of this I knew already," he said, finally, "but not this as to your father. You have my sympathy--and, sir, my congratulations on your accounting for such a fiend. There, at least, justice has been served." He hesitated before continuing. "As to some details, I regret that my daughter has been brought into such matters," he said, slowly. "I regret also that I have made many other matters worse; but I am very glad that they have now been made plain. Dr. Samuel Bond, of Wallingford, your father's friend, has cleared up much of all this. I infer that he has advised you of the condition of our joint business matters?" "Our estate is in your debt General," I said, "but I can now adjust that. We shall pay our share. After that, the lands shall be divided, or held jointly as yourself shall say." "Why could they not remain as they are?" He smiled at me. "Let me hope so." I turned to Ellen. "Please," I said, "bring me the other half of this." I flung open my bag and spread upon the nearest table my half of the record of our covenant, done, as it had seemed to me, long years ago. Colonel Meriwether and I bent over the half rigid parchment. I saw that Ellen had gone; but presently she came again, hesitating, flushing red, and put into my hands the other half of our indenture. She carried Pete, the little dog, under her arm, his legs projecting stiffly; and now a wail of protest broke from Pete, squeezed too tightly in her unconscious clasp. I placed the pieces edge to edge upon the table. The old familiar words looked up at me again, solemnly. Again I felt my heart choke my throat as I read: "_I, John Cowles--I, Ellen Meriwether--take thee--take thee--until death do us part_." I handed her a pencil. She wrote slowly, freakishly, having her maiden will; and it seemed to me still a week to a letter as she signed. But at last her name stood in full--_E-l-l-e-n M-e-r-i-w-e-t-h-e-r_. "General," I said, "this indenture witnesseth! We two are bound by it. We have 'consented together in holy wedlock.' We have 'witnessed the same before God.' We have 'pledged our faith, either to other.'" He dashed his hand across his eyes; then, with a swift motion, he placed our hands together. "My boy," said he, "I've always wanted my girl to be taken by an Army man--an officer and a gentleman. Damn it, sir! I beg your pardon, Ellen--give me that pencil. I'll sign my own name--I'll witness this myself! There's a regimental chaplain with our command--if we can't find a preacher left in Charlottesville." "Orderly!" I called, with a gesture asking permission of my superior. "Yes, orderly," he finished for me, "get ready to ride to town. We have an errand there." He turned to us and motioned us as though to ownership, bowing with grave courtesy as he himself left the room. I heard the chatter of Mrs. Kitty greet him. I was conscious of a grinning black face peering in at a window--Annie, perhaps. They all loved Ellen. But Ellen and I, as though by instinct, stepped toward the open door, so that we might again see the mountain tops. I admit I kissed her! 
26858	----	[Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook.] CROSSING THE PLAINS DAYS OF '57 A NARRATIVE OF EARLY EMIGRANT TRAVEL TO CALIFORNIA BY THE OX-TEAM METHOD BY WM. AUDLEY MAXWELL COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY WM AUDLEY MAXWELL SUNSET PUBLISHING HOUSE SAN FRANCISCO MCMXV [Illustration: "They started flight" (See page 119.)] CONTENTS PAGE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VI FOREWORD VII CHAPTER I. Forsaking the Old, in Quest of the New. First Camp. Fording the Platte 1 CHAPTER II. Laramie Fashions and Sioux Etiquette. A Trophy. Chimney Rock. A Solitary Emigrant. Jests and Jingles 13 CHAPTER III. Lost in the Black Hills. Devil's Gate. Why a Mountain Sheep Did Not Wink. Green River Ferry 31 CHAPTER IV. Disquieting Rumors of Redmen. Consolidation for Safety. The Poisonous Humboldt 49 CHAPTER V. The Holloway Massacre 62 CHAPTER VI. Origin of "Piker." Before the Era of Canned Good and Kodaks. Morning Routine. Typical Bivouac. Sociability Entrained. The Flooded Camp. Hope Sustains Patience 76 CHAPTER VII. Tangled by a Tornado. Lost the Pace but Kept the Cow. Human Oddities. Night Guards. Wolf Serenades. Awe of the Wilderness. A Stampede 97 CHAPTER VIII. Disaster Overtakes the Wood Family 116 CHAPTER IX. Mysterious Visitors. Extra Sentinels. An Anxious Night 123 CHAPTER X. Challenge to Battle 133 CHAPTER XI. Sagebrush Justice 144 CHAPTER XII. Night Travel. Arid Wastes to Limpid Waters 160 CHAPTER XIII. Into the Settlements. Halt 170 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "They started flight" Frontispiece "Fording the Platte consumed one entire day" 11 "Wo-haw-Buck" 14 "From our coign of vantage we continued to shoot" 21 Chimney Rock 22 "One melody that he sang from the heart" 27 "Hauled the delinquent out" 30 "The wagons were lowered through the crevice" 38 Bone-writing 57 "With hand upraised in supplication, yielded to the impulse to flee" 67 Jerry Bush, 1914 72 Nancy Holloway, 1857 74 The Author, twenty years after 100 A Coyote Serenade 109 "Van Diveer's advantage was slight but sufficient" 136 "A sip from the barrel cost fifty cents" 146 "'Stop,' shouted the Judge" 156 "'Melican man dig gold" 173 Pack-mule route to placer diggings 175 FOREWORD Diligent inquiry has failed to disclose the existence of an authentic and comprehensive narrative of a _pioneer_ journey across the plains. With the exception of some improbable yarns and disconnected incidents relating to the earlier experiences, the subject has been treated mainly from the standpoint of people who traveled westward at a time when the real hardships and perils of the trip were much less than those encountered in the fifties. A very large proportion of the people now residing in the Far West are descendants of emigrants who came by the precarious means afforded by ox-team conveyances. For some three-score years the younger generations have heard from the lips of their ancestors enough of that wonderful pilgrimage to create among them a widespread demand for a complete and typical narrative. This story consists of facts, with the real names of the actors in the drama. The events, gay, grave and tragic, are according to indelible recollections of eye-witnesses, including those of THE AUTHOR. W. A. M., _Ukiah, California, 1915._ CROSSING THE PLAINS DAYS OF '57 CHAPTER I. FORSAKING THE OLD IN QUEST OF THE NEW. FIRST CAMP. FORDING THE PLATTE. We left the west bank of the Missouri River on May 17, 1857. Our objective point was Sonoma County, California. The company consisted of thirty-seven persons, including several families, and some others; the individuals ranging in years from middle age to babies: eleven men, ten women and sixteen minors; the eldest of the party forty-nine, the most youthful, a boy two months old the day we started. Most of these were persons who had resided for a time at least not far from the starting point, but not all were natives of that section, some having emigrated from Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia. We were outfitted with eight wagons, about thirty yoke of oxen, fifty head of extra steers and cows, and ten or twelve saddle ponies and mules. The vehicles were light, well-built farm wagons, arranged and fitted for economy of space and weight. Most of the wagons were without brakes, seats or springs. The axles were of wood, which, in case of their breaking, could be repaired en route. Chains were used for deadlocking the wheels while moving down steep places. No lines or halters of any kind were used on the oxen for guiding them, these animals being managed entirely by use of the ox-whip and the "ox-word." The whip was a braided leathern lash, six to eight feet long, the most approved stock for which was a hickory sapling, as long as the lash, and on the extremity of the lash was a strip of buckskin, for a "cracker," which, when snapped by a practiced driver, produced a sound like the report of a pistol. The purpose of the whip was well understood by the trained oxen, and that implement enabled a skillful driver to regulate the course of a wagon almost as accurately as if the team were of horses, with the reins in the hands of an expert jehu. An emigrant wagon such as described, provided with an oval top cover of white ducking, with "flaps" in front and a "puckering-string" at the rear, came to be known in those days as a "prairie schooner;" and a string of them, drawn out in single file in the daily travel, was a "train." Trains following one another along the same new pathway were sometimes strung out for hundreds of miles, with spaces of a few hundred yards to several miles between, and were many weeks passing a given point. Our commissary wagon was supplied with flour, bacon, coffee, tea, sugar, rice, salt, and so forth; rations estimated to last for five or six months, if necessary; also medical supplies, and whatever else we could carry to meet the probable necessities and the possible casualties of the journey; with the view of traveling tediously but patiently over a country of roadless plains and mountains, crossing deserts and fording rivers; meanwhile cooking, eating and sleeping on the ground as we should find it from day to day. The culinary implements occupied a compartment of their own in a wagon, consisting of such kettles, long-handled frying-pans and sheet-iron coffee pots as could be used on a camp-fire, with table articles almost all of tin. Those who attempted to carry the more friable articles, owing to the thumps and falls to which these were subjected, found themselves short in supply of utensils long before the journey ended. I have seen a man and wife drinking coffee from one small tin pan, their china and delftware having been left in fragments to decorate the desert wayside. We had some tents, but they were little used, after we learned how to do without them, excepting in cases of inclement weather, of which there was very little, especially in the latter part of the trip. During the great rush of immigration into California subsequent to 1849, from soon after the discovery of gold until this time, the usual date at which the annual emigrants started from the settlement borders along the Missouri River was April 15th to May 1st. The Spring of 1857 was late, and we did not pull out until May 17th, when the prairie grass was grown sufficiently to afford feed for the stock, and summer weather was assured. At that time the boundary line between the "States" and the "Plains" was the Missouri River. We crossed that river at a point about half-way between St. Joseph and Council Bluffs, where the village of Brownville was the nucleus of a first settlement of white people on the Nebraska side. There the river was a half-mile wide. The crossing was effected by means of an old-fashioned ferryboat or scow, propelled by a small, stern-wheeled steamer. Two days were consumed in transporting our party and equipment across the stream; but one wagon and a few of the people and animals being taken at each trip of the ferryboat and steamer. From the landing we passed up the west shore twenty miles, seeing occasionally a rude cabin or a foundation of logs, indicating the intention of pre-empters. This brought us to the town of Nebraska City, then a beginning of a dozen or twenty houses, on the west bank. Omaha was not yet on the map; although where that thriving city now stands there existed then a settlement of something over one hundred persons. From Nebraska City we bore off northwesterly, separating ourselves from civilization, and thereafter saw no more evidence of the white man's purpose to occupy the country over which we traveled. There was before us the sky-bound stretch of undulating prairie, spreading far and wide, like a vast field of young, growing grain, its monotony relieved only by occasional clumps of small trees, indicating the presence of springs or small water-courses. Other companies or trains, from many parts of the country, especially the Middle States, were crossing the Missouri at various points between St. Louis and Council Bluffs; most of them converging eventually into one general route, as they got out on the journey. It is perhaps impossible to convey a clear understanding of the emotions experienced by one starting on such a trip; leaving friends and the familiar surroundings of what had been home, to face a siege of travel over thousands of miles of wilderness, so little known and fraught with so much of hardship and peril. The earlier emigrants, gold-hunters, men only--men of such stuff as pioneers usually are made of--carried visions of picking up fortunes in the California gold mines and soon returning to their former haunts. But those who were going now felt that they were burning all bridges behind them; that all they had was with them, and they were going to stay. Formerly we had heard that California was good only for its gold mines; that it was a country of rocks, crags and deserts; where it rained ceaselessly during half of the year and not at all in the other half.[1] But later we had been told that in the valleys there was land on which crops of wheat could be grown, and that cattle raising was good, on the broad acres of wild oats everywhere in the "cow counties." It was told us also that there were strips of redwood forest along the coast, and these trees, a hundred to several hundred feet in height, could be split into boards ten to twenty feet long, for building purposes; and that this material was to be had by anybody for the taking. Some said that the Spanish padres, at their missions in several localities near the Pacific shore, had planted small vineyards of what had come to be known as the "Mission" grape, which produced enormous crops. Another report told us that other fruits, including the orange and lemon varieties, so far as tried, gave promise of being valuable products of the valley and foothill soils. Such stories gave rise to a malady called "California fever." It was contagious, and carried off many people. Our first camp was on the open prairie, where grass grew about four inches high, and a small spring furnished an ample supply of water. Firewood we had brought with us for that night. The weather was very fine, and all were joyous at the novelty of "camping out." On or about the eighth day we came to the Platte River; broad, muddy stream, at some points a mile or more in width; shallow, but running rapidly, between low banks; its many small islands wholly covered by growths of cottonwood trees and small willows. From these islands we obtained from time to time the fuel needed for the camp, as we took our course along the river's southerly shore; and occasionally added to the contents of the "grub" wagon by capturing an elk or deer that had sought covert in the cool shade of these island groves. Antelope also were there, but too wary for our huntsmen. [Illustration: "Fording the Platte consumed one entire day"] We forded the Platte at a point something like one hundred and fifty miles westward from its confluence with the Missouri. There was no road leading into the river, nor any evidence of its having been crossed by any one, at that place. We were informed that the bottom was of quicksand, and fording, therefore, dangerous. We tested it, by riding horses across. Contrary to our expectations, the bottom was found to be a surface of smooth sand, packed hard enough to bear up the wagons, when the movement was quick and continuous. A cut was made in the bank, to form a runway for passage of the wagons to the water's edge; and the whole train crossed the stream safely, with no further mishap than the wetting of a driver and the dipping of a wagon into a place deep enough to let water into the box. Fording the Platte consumed one entire day. We camped that night on the north shore. The train continued along the general course of the river about four hundred miles, as far as Fort Laramie, through open country, in which there was an abundance of feed for the animals, but where wood for fuel was scarce. FOOTNOTES: [1] As late as March, 1850, Daniel Webster said in the United States Senate: "California is Asiatic in formation and scenery; composed of vast mountains of enormous height, with broken ridges and deep valleys. The sides of these mountains are barren--entirely barren--their tops capped by perennial snow." CHAPTER II. LARAMIE FASHIONS AND SIOUX ETIQUETTE. A TROPHY. CHIMNEY ROCK. A SOLITARY EMIGRANT. JESTS AND JINGLES The Laramie and Sioux Indians were in those days the lords of that portion of the plains over which we traveled during the first several weeks. They were fine specimens of physical manhood. Tall, erect, well proportioned, they carried themselves with a distinct air of personal importance and dignity. They had not taken to the white man's mode of dress. Each had, in addition to his buckskin breeches and moccasins, a five-point Mackinaw blanket, these comprising for him a complete suit. The blanket he used as an outer garment, when needed, and for his cover at night. Many of the more important "big injins" owned also a buffalo robe. This was the whole hide of the buffalo, with the hair on it, the inner side tanned to a soft, pliable leather, and the irregularities of its natural shape neatly cut away. It furnished the owner an excellent storm robe, sufficient protection, head to foot, in the severest weather. [Illustration: "Wo-haw-Buck"] The Indians of these tribes that we met were friendly, even to familiarity. One of them would approach an emigrant with a "glad-to-meet-you" air, extending a hand in what was intended to be "white-man" fashion. But "Mr. Lo" was a novice in the art of handshaking, and his awkwardness and mimicking attempts in the effort were as amusing to us as satisfactory, apparently, to him. His vocal greeting, with slight variation from time to time, was in such words--with little regard for their meaning--as he had caught from the ox-driving dialect of the passing emigrants: "Wo-haw-buck," "Hello, John, got tobac?" If he added "Gimme biskit," and "Pappoose heap sick," he had about reached the limit of his English vocabulary. Large game was common along some parts of the way: buffalo, elk, antelope, deer, on the plains and hills; bear, mountain lions, wildcats and other species in the mountainous sections. They were shy and not easy to take, but we captured a few of some varieties. Some members of the party demonstrated that fishing was good in the Rocky Mountain streams. Naturally the men were hopeful of securing specimens of the larger game, but our lack of experience and scarcity of proper equipment for the purpose were against the chance, though not to the extent of our entire disappointment. Only persons of much experience on the plains could form even an approximate estimate of the great number of buffaloes sometimes seen together. It has been stated that there were herds numbering more than fifty thousand. Such an aggregation would consume days in passing a given point, and in case of a stampede, all other animals in its path were doomed to destruction. A herd of buffaloes quietly grazing was sometimes difficult to distinguish, when viewed from a considerable distance, from a low forest; their rounded bodies and the neutral tint of their shaggy coats giving them the appearance of bushes. When the train was nearing the fork of the Platte River a herd of buffaloes was seen, quietly grazing on the plain, a mile or more to the right, beyond a small water-course. Deciding we would try our prowess, Captain Maxwell and this narrator rode to the creek, at a point some distance below the position of the herd, where we tied our horses, then crept along, under cover of the creek bank, till we had gone as near as possible, without being seen by the herd, distant from us not much more than a hundred yards. Cautiously peering above the edge of the bank, we selected a choice buffalo among those nearest us, and both fired. The entire herd galloped wildly away, continuing till all passed from view over a hill some miles northward. Not one showed sign of having been hit. As we were about to leave the place, what should we see but a lonely buffalo, coming down the slope toward where we were, moving with leisurely tread and manner perfectly unconcerned. Notwithstanding our recent firing, this animal evidently had no suspicion of our presence. We remained and awaited his coming. He walked a few steps, then browsed a little, as if in no hurry about anything. Captain John and I felt our hope rise; we laid our plans and waited patiently. Just where the buffalo trail led down the bank of the creek, there were, as in many places near the stream, some scattered cottonwood and other trees. One of these that once stood on the brink had fallen till its top caught in the fork of another tree, and rested at a gentle incline upward from where it had grown. At the roots of this fallen tree we concealed ourselves, to wait, hoping that the big animal would come down to the water, but a few yards from us; for we guessed that he was one that had not yet had his drink from the brook that day, and was determined not to leave until he slaked his thirst. It was an anxious while of waiting, but not long. I was fearful that my hard-thumping heart-beats would be audible and frighten him away. Could it be true that I had an attack of "buck-ague"? Perish the thought. Finally his bovine majesty came lazily over the top of the bank, with a heavy, slow motion; grunting and puffing, as if he were almost too heavy for his legs. When he got to the bottom of the bank and was about to drink, Captain John whispered our agreed signal: "One, two, three;" we fired, simultaneously, and repeated. The big fellow stood still for a moment after the shots and looked about, with a slow movement and stolid gaze, turning his head questioningly from side to side, as if he would say, "I thought I heard something pop." Somehow we knew we had hit him, and we wondered why he did not fall. His little, black eyes rolled and glinted under his shaggy foretop. Then he seemed to swell; crouching slightly, as does a beast of prey when about to spring; lowered his head, pawed the earth and shook his mane. His whole body became vibrant with the obvious desire to fight,--and no antagonist in sight. Uttering a tremendous grunt, he arched his back again, stamping with all four feet, somewhat like the capers of a Mexican "broncho" when preparing to buck"; then he snorted once more, with such explosive force as seemed to shake the tree beside which we were hidden, as he looked about for something to pitch into. [Illustration: "From our coign of vantage we continued to shoot"] By this time we thought we understood why a kind Providence had caused that cottonwood tree to lodge at such an angle that a buffalo could not climb it, but we could--and we did. Getting ourselves safely into the fork of the tree, we continued to shoot from our coign of vantage till the big fellow dropped. When he ceased to kick or give any sign of belligerency, we came down and approached him, carefully. Then we dressed him, or as much of him as we could carry in two bags that we had strapped behind our saddles, and rejoined the train after our people had gone into camp for the night. [Illustration: Chimney Rock] We had our first buffalo steak for supper that night. We also had the satisfaction of observing signs of jealousy on the part of the other men who had never killed a buffalo. One of the first natural curiosities we saw was Chimney Rock; a vertical column of sandstone something like forty feet high, with a rugged stone bluff rising abruptly near it. Its appearance, from our distant view, resembled a stone chimney from which the building had been burned away, as it stood, solitary on the flat earth at the south side of the Platte River, we traveling up the north shore. Such a time-chiseled monument was a novelty to us then. To the early emigrants it was the first notable landmark. While some distance farther west, as we scaled the higher slopes, we could see to the southward the snow-capped peaks of that region which long afterward was taken from western Nebraska to become the Territory of Colorado, and later still, the State of that name. Looking over and past the locality where, more than a year thereafter, the town of Denver was laid out, we saw, during several weeks, the summit of Pike's Peak, hundreds of miles away. One evening when we were going into camp we were overtaken by a man trundling a push-cart. This vehicle had between its wheels a box containing the man's supplies of food and camp articles, with the blankets, which were in a roll, placed on top; all strapped down under an oilcloth cover. With this simple outfit, pushed in front of him, this man was making his way from one of the Eastern States to California, a distance of more than three thousand miles. He was of medium size, athletic appearance, with a cheerful face. He visited us overnight. The next morning he was invited to tie his cart behind one of our wagons and ride with us. He replied that he would be pleased to do so, but was anxious to make all possible speed, and felt that he could not wait on the progress of our train, which was somewhat slower than the pace he maintained. It was said that he was the first man who made the entire trip on foot and alone, from coast to coast, as we were afterwards informed he succeeded in doing. From time to time the tedium was dispelled by varied incidents; many that were entertaining and instructive, some ludicrous, some pathetic, and others profoundly tragic. Agreeable happenings predominated largely during the early stages, and those involving difficulties and of grave import were mainly a part of our experiences toward the close of the long pilgrimage. Such an order of events might be presumed as a natural sequence, as the route led first over a territory not generally difficult to travel, but farther and farther from established civilization, into rougher lands, and toward those regions where outlawry, common to all pioneer conditions, was prevalent. With our company were four or five boys and young men, eighteen to twenty-one years of age, also a kindly and unpretentious but droll young fellow, named John C. Aston, whose age was about twenty-five. This younger element was responsible for most of the occurrences of lighter vein, which became a feature of our daily progress. Aston's intimate friends called him "Jack," and some of the more facetious ones shortened the cognomen "Jack Aston" by dropping the "ton," inconsiderately declaring that the briefer appellation fitted the man, even better than did his coat, which always was loose about the shoulders and too long in the sleeves. But all knew "Jack" to be an excellent fellow. His principal fault, if it could be so termed, was a superabundance of good-nature, a willingness at all times to joke and be joked. He had a fund of stories--in some of which he pictured himself the hero--with which he was wont to relieve the tedium of the evening hours. A violin was among his effects, which he played to accompany his singing of entertaining countryside songs. Most of these were melodious, and highly descriptive. "Jack" had much music in his soul, and sang with good effect. [Illustration: "One melody that he sang from the heart"] There was one melody that he sang oftenest, and sang from the heart--one that was rendered nightly, regardless of any variation in the program; a composition that embraced seventeen verses, each followed by a soothing lullaby refrain; a song which, every time he sang it, carried "Jack" again to his old home in the Sunny South, and seemed to give him surcease from all the ills of life. Of that song a single verse is here reproduced, with deep regret that the other sixteen are lost, with all except a small fraction of the tune. Yet, cold, inanimate music notes on the paper would convey, to one who never heard him sing them, only the skeleton; the life, sympathy and soul of the song would be lacking. We needed no other soporific. Here it is: Oh, the days of bygone joys, They never will come back to me; When I was with the girls and boys, A-courting, down in Tennessee. Ulee, ilee, aloo, ee-- Courting, down in Tennessee. It was "Jack's" habit to allow his head to hang to the left, due, presumably, to much practice in holding down the large end of his violin with his chin. He was prone to sleep a great deal, and even as he sat in the driver's seat of a "prairie-schoner," or astride a mule, the attitude described often resulted in his being accused of napping while on duty. The climatic conditions peculiar to the plains, and the slow, steady movement of the conveyances, were conducive to drowsiness, in consequence of which everybody was all the time sleepy. But "Jack" was born that way, and the very frequent evidences of it in his case led to a general understanding that, whenever he was not in sight, he was hidden away somewhere asleep. "Jack's" amiability, too, was a permanent condition. Apparently no one could make him angry or resentful. For this reason, he was the target for many pranks perpetrated by the boys. Like this: One evening "Jack" took his blanket and located for the night at a spot apart from the others of the company, under a convenient sage bush. The next morning he was overlooked until after breakfast. When the time came for hitching the teams, he was not at his post. A search finally revealed him, still rolled in his bedding, fast asleep. When several calls failed to arouse him, one of the boys tied an end of a rope around "Jack's" feet, hitched a pair of oxen to the other end, and hauled the delinquent out some distance on the sand. "Jack" sat up, unconcernedly rubbed his eyes, then began untying the rope that bound his feet, his only comment being-- "Ulee, ilee, aloo, ee; Courting, down in Tennessee." [Illustration: "Hauled the delinquent out"] CHAPTER III. LOST IN THE BLACK HILLS. DEVIL'S GATE. WHY A MOUNTAIN SHEEP DID NOT WINK. GREEN RIVER FERRY. At Fort Laramie we left the Platte River, and, bearing northwesterly, entered the Black Hills, a region of low, rolling uplands, sparsely grown with scrubby pine trees; the soil black, very dry; where little animal life was visible, excepting prairie dogs. There may be readers who, at the mention of prairie dogs, see mentally a wolf or other specimen of the _genus canis_, of ordinary kind and size. The prairie dog, however, is not of the dog species. It bears some resemblance to a squirrel and a rat, but is larger than either. It may be likened to the canine only in that it barks, somewhat as do small dogs. Prairie dogs live in holes, dug by themselves. Twenty to fifty of these holes may be seen within a radius of a few yards, and such communities are known to plains people as "towns." On the approach of anything they fear the little fellows sit erect, look defiant and chatter saucily. If the intruder comes too near, the commanding individual of the group, the mayor of the town, so to speak, gives an alarm, plainly interpreted as, "Beware; make safe; each man for himself;" and instantly each one turns an exquisite somersault and disappears, as he drops, head downward, into the hole beside him. John L. Maxwell had made the trip over the plains from the Missouri River to California in 1854, returning, via Panama, in 1856, to take his family to the West, accompanying the train of his elder brother, Dr. Kennedy Maxwell. He was of great service to us now, by reason of his experience and consequent knowledge of the country traversed. He was therefore elected to act as pilot of the company, with the title "Captain John," which clung to him for many years. The emigrant trail in some parts of the way was well marked. In other places there was none, and we had to find our way as best we could, not always without difficulty. Often Captain John and others would ride ahead of the train a considerable distance, select routes for passage through places where travel was hard or risky, choose camp-sites, and, returning, pilot the train accordingly. At various times, despite every care in selecting the route, the train went on a wrong course, and at least once was completely astray. This was one morning as the company was passing out of the Black Hills country. Information had been received that at this place a short-cut could be made which would save fifteen or twenty miles. There were no marks on the ground indicating that any train ahead had gone that way, but the leaders decided to try it. This venture led the company into a situation not unlike the proverbial "jumping-off place." Directly in our course was a declivity which dropped an estimated depth of sixty to one hundred feet below the narrow, stony flat on which we stood, down into a depressed valley. Abrupt ridges of broken stone formation were on our right and left, inclosing us in a small space of barren, waste earth. The elements had crumbled the rocks down for ages, until what perhaps had been once a deep canyon was now a narrow flat, a mass of debris, terminating at the top of the steep, ragged cliff that pitched downward before us. The high, rocky ridges on both sides were wholly impassable, at least for the teams. A search finally disclosed, at the base of the ridge on our right, a single possible passage. It was narrow, slightly wider than a wagon, and led downward at a steep incline, into the valley below, with rocks protruding from both its side walls, its bottom strewn with stones such as our vehicles could not pass over in an ordinary way. We were confronted with the problem how to get the wagons down that yawning fissure; the alternative being to retrace our steps many miles. At the bottom of this cliff or wall that barred our way could be seen a beautiful valley, stretching far and wide away to the northwest; a scene of enchanting loveliness, a refreshing contrast to the dry and nearly barren hills over which we had traveled during the many days last past. A short distance from the foot of the wall was a small stream of clear water, running over the meadow-flat. Rich pasture extended along the line of trees that marked the serpentine course of the brook which zigzagged its way toward the southwest. Every man, woman and child of our company expressed in some way the declaration, "We _must_ get into that beautiful oasis." It looked like field, park and orchard, in one landscape; all fenced off from the desolate surroundings by this wall of stone. Like Moses viewing Canaan from Nebo's top, we looked down and yearned to be amidst its freshness. It was not decreed that we should not enter in. A little distance to the south, near the other ridge, we discovered another opening, through which the animals could be driven down, but through which the wagons could not pass. This was a narrow, crooked ravine, and very steep; running diagonally down through the cliff; a sort of dry water-way, entirely bridged over in one part by an arch of stone, making it there a natural tunnel or open-ended cave; terminating at the base of the cliff in an immense doorway, opening into the valley. The teams were unhitched from the wagons, the yokes taken off the oxen, and all the cattle, horses and mules were driven through the inclined tunnel into the coveted valley. The women and children clambered down, taking with them what they could of the camp things, for immediate use, and soon were quite "at home" in the valley, making free use of the little creek, for whatever purposes a little creek of pure, cold, fresh water is good, for a lot of thirsty, dust-covered wayfarers. The puzzle of getting the wagons down next engrossed the attention of our best engineers. The proposition to unpack the lading, take the wagons apart, and carry all down by hand, appeared for a time to be the only feasible plan. Captain John, however, suggested procuring rope or chain about one hundred feet in length, for use in lowering the wagons, one at a time, through the first-mentioned passage. Sufficient rope was brought, one end fastened to the rear axle of a wagon, the other end turned around a dwarf pine tree at the top of the bluff; two men managed the rope, preventing too rapid descent at the steeper places, while others guided the wheels over the stones, and the wagon was lowered through the crevice, with little damage. Thus, one by one, all the wagons were taken into the valley before the sun set. [Illustration: "The wagons were lowered through the crevice"] It was a happy camp we had that night; though every man was tired. There was wood for fire, and a supply of good water and pasture sufficient for dozens of camps. Some one ventured the opinion that the Mormon pioneers had overlooked that spot when seeking a new location for Zion. Except that it was very pleasant to inhabit, we knew little of the place we had ventured into, or its location. How we were to get out did not appear, nor for the time being did this greatly concern us; and soon after supper the camp was wrapped in slumber, undisturbed by any coyote duet, or, on this occasion, even the twitter of a night bird. We did not hurry the next morning, the inclination being to linger awhile in the shady grove by the brookside. With a late start, the day's travel took us some twelve miles, through and out of the valley, to a point where we made the best of a poor camping place, on a rough, rocky hillside. The following day there was no road to follow, nor even a buffalo trail or bear path; but by evening we somehow found our way back into the course usually followed by emigrants, not knowing whether the recent detour had lessened or increased the miles of travel, but delighted with the comfort and diversion afforded by the side-ride. Thinking that others, seeing our tracks, might be led into similar difficulties, and be less fortunate perhaps in overcoming them, two of our young men rode back to the place of divergence, and erected a notice to all comers, advising them to "Keep to the right." Another freak of Nature in which we were much interested was the "Devil's Gate," or "Independence Rock," where we first came to the Sweetwater River, in Wyoming. This is a granite ridge, some two hundred feet in length, irregular in formation and height, resembling a huge molehill, extending down from the Rocky Mountain heights and being across the river's course; the "Gate" being a vertical section, the width of the stream, cut out of a spur of Rattlesnake Mountain. If his Satanic majesty, whose name it bears, had charge of the construction, apparently he intended it only as a passage-way for the river, the cut being the exact width of the river as it flows through. The greater part of the two walls stand two hundred and fifty feet high, above the river level, perpendicular to the earth's plane, facing each other, the river between them at the base. Many names had been cut in the surface of the rock, by passing emigrants. We stopped for half a day to view this extraordinary scene. Some of the boys went to the apex, to see if the downward view made the rock walls appear as high as did the upward view: and naturally they found the distance viewed downward seemed much greater. Our intention was to stand on the brink and experience the sensation of looking down from that great height at the river. The face of the wall where it terminates at the top forms an almost square corner, as if hewn stone. A few bushes grew a short distance from the edge, and as we approached the brink there was a sense of greater safety in holding onto these bushes. But while holding on we could not see quite over to the water below. We formed a chain of three persons, by joining hands, one grasping a large bush, that the outer man might look over the edge--if he would. But he felt shaky. He was not quite sure that the bush would not pull up by the roots, or one of the other fellows let go. For sometime no one was willing to make a real effort to look over the edge, but finally "Jack" said he would save the party's reputation for bravery, by assuming the role of end-man. He made several bold approaches toward the edge, but each time recoiled, and soon admitted defeat. "Boys," said he, "I'm dizzy. I know that 'distance lends enchantment'; I'll get back farther, take the best view I can get, and preserve the enchantment." To cover his discomfiture, he started for camp, whistling: "Ulee, ilee, aloo, ee." The next excursion off the route in search of novelty was on a clear afternoon a few days after passing the "Devil's Gate," when three young fellows decided to take a tramp to the rock ridge lying to our right. We hoped to find some mountain sheep. From the Sweetwater River to the ridge was apparently half a mile, across a grassy flat. We knew that the rare atmosphere of that high altitude often made distances deceiving, and determined to make due allowances. Having crossed the river and being ready for a sprint, each made a guess of the distance to the foot of the rock ridge. The estimates varied from two hundred yards to three hundred. Off we went, counting paces. At the end of three hundred we appeared to be no nearer the goal than when we started. The guesses were repeated, and when we were about completing the second course of stepping, making nearly six hundred yards in all, one of the boys espied a mountain sheep on the top of the ridge, keeping lookout, probably, for the benefit of his fellows, feeding on the other side, as is the habit of these wary creatures. With head and great horns clearly outlined on the background of blue sky, he was a tempting target. Without a word, the three of us leveled guns and fired. Mr. Mountain Sheep stood perfectly still, looking down at us. We could not see so much as the winking of an eye. Making ready for another volley, we thought best to get nearer; but as we started the head and horns and sheep disappeared behind the top of the ridge. Further stepping proved that we had shot at the animal from a distance of at least half a mile. Our guns were good for a range of two hundred yards, at most. Much of the time, especially while in the higher mountains, we were in possession of little knowledge of our position. There were no marks that we observed to indicate geographical divisions, and we had no means for determining many exact locations, though some important rivers and prominent mountain peaks and ridges were identified. We knew little, if anything, then of territorial boundaries, and thought of the country traversed as being so remote from centers of civilization--at that time but little explored, even--that we could not conceive any object in attempting to determine our location with reference to geographical lines; nor could we have done so except on rare occasions. Our chief concern was to know that we were on the best route to California. We crossed the summit of the Rocky Mountains by the South Pass. Though it was July, the jagged peaks of the Wind River Mountains bore a thick blanket of snow. Sometime after leaving the "Devil's Gate" we passed Pacific Springs. There we gained first knowledge that we had passed the summit, on observing that the streams flowed westerly. Patient plodding had now taken us a distance of actual travel amounting to much more than one thousand miles and, from time to time, into very high altitudes. About four miles west of Pacific Springs we passed the junction of the California and Oregon trails, at the Big Bend of the Bear River. Green River, where we first came to it, was in a level bit of country. There this stream was about sixty yards wide; the water clear and deep, flowing in a gentle current. For the accommodation of emigrants, three men were there, operating a ferry. Whence they came I do not remember, if they told us. We saw no signs of a habitation in which they might have lived. The ferrying was done with what was really a raft of logs, rather than a boat. It was sustained against the current by means of a tackle attached to a block, rove on a large rope that was drawn taut, from bank to bank, and was propelled by a windlass on each bank. When a wagon had been taken aboard this cable ferry, the windlass on the farther side was turned by one of the men, drawing the raft across. After unloading, the raft was drawn back, by operation of the windlass on the opposite shore, where it took on another load. The third man acted as conductor, collecting a toll of three dollars per wagon. All the horses, mules and cattle were driven into the river, and swam across. The company passed along the shore of the Green River, down the Big Sandy River and Slate Creek, over Bear River Divide, then southwestward into Utah Territory. CHAPTER IV. DISQUIETING RUMORS OF REDMEN. CONSOLIDATION FOR SAFETY. THE POISONOUS HUMBOLDT. Soon after passing the summit of the Rocky Mountains there were rumors of a hostile attitude toward emigrants on the part of certain Indian tribes farther west. For a time such information seemed vague as to origin and reliability, but in time the rumors became persistent, and there developed a feeling of much concern, first for the safety of our stock, later for our own protection. Measures of precaution were discussed. Men of our train visited those of others, ahead and behind us, and exchanged views regarding the probability of danger and the best means for protection and defense. We were forced to the conclusion that the situation was grave; and the interests of the several trains were mutual. As the members of the different parties, most of whom previously had been strangers to one another, met and talked of the peril which all believed to be imminent, they became as brothers; and mutual protection was the theme that came up oftenest and was listened to with the most absorbing interest. By the time we had crossed the Green River these consultations had matured into a plan for consolidation of trains, for greater concentration of strength. A. J. Drennan's company of four or five wagons, immediately ahead of us, and the Dr. Kidd train, of three wagons, next behind us, closed up the space between, and all three traveled as one train. Thus combined, a considerable number of able-bodied men were brought together, making a rather formidable array for an ordinary band of Indians to attack. Every man primed his gun and thenceforth took care to see that his powder was dry. Still the youthful element occasionally managed to extract some humor out of the very circumstances which the older and more serious members held to be grounds for forebodings of evil. One morning after we had left camp, a favorite cow was missing from the drove. "Jack" Aston and Major Crewdson, both young fellows, rode back in search of the stray. From a little hill-top they saw, in a ravine below, some half dozen Indians busily engaged in skinning the cow. "Jack" and the Major returned and merely reported what they had seen. They were asked why they had not demanded of those "rascally" Indians that they explain why they were skinning a cow that did not belong to them. "Jack" promptly answered that, as for himself, he had never been introduced to this particular party of Indians, and was not on speaking terms with them; furthermore, neither he nor the Major had sufficient knowledge of the Indian language properly to discuss the matter with them. The route pursued led to the north of Great Salt Lake, thence northwesterly. Our line of travel did not therefore bring us within view of the Mormon settlements which had already been established at the southerly end of the great inland sea. We camped one night approximately where the city of Ogden now stands, then a desolate expanse of sand-dunes. A group of our men sat around the camp-fire that evening, discussing the probability of a railroad ever being constructed over the route we were traveling. All of them were natives or recent residents of the Middle West, and it is probable that not one had ever seen a railroad. The unanimous opinion was that such a project as the building of a railroad through territory like that over which we had thus far traveled would be a task so stupendous as to baffle all human ingenuity and skill. Yet, some twelve years later, the ceremony of driving the famous "last spike," completing the railroad connection between the Atlantic and Pacific, was performed on a sand flat very near the spot where we camped that night. The intervening period saw the establishment of the "pony express," which greatly facilitated the mail service (incidentally reducing letter postage to Pacific Coast points from twenty-five to ten cents). That service continued from the early sixties until through railroad connection was made. After the consolidation of trains as described, our next neighbor to the rear was Smith Holloway, whose "outfit" consisted of three wagons, with a complement of yokewise oxen and some horses and mules; also a large drove of stock cattle, intended for the market in California, where it was known they would be salable at high prices. He had with him his wife, a little daughter, and Jerry Bush, Mrs. Holloway's brother, a young man of twenty-one years; also two hired men, Joe Blevens and Bird Lawles. Holloway kept his party some distance behind us, he having declined to join the consolidation of trains in order to avoid the inconvenience that the mingling of his stock with ours would entail, with reference to pasture, and camping facilities. A mile or two behind Holloway were the trains of Captain Rountree, the Giles company, Simpson Fennell, Mr. Russell, and others, equipped with several wagons each, and accompanied by some loose stock. All these were traveling along, a sort of moving neighborhood; incidentally getting acquainted with one another, visiting on the road by day and in the camp at evening time; talking of the journey, of the country for which we were en route, and our hopes of prosperity and happiness in the new El Dorado--but most of all, just then, of the probable danger of attack by savage tribes. More than ever rumors of impending trouble were flying from train to train. Some of these were to the effect that white bandits were in league with Indians in robbing and murdering emigrants. The well-known treachery of the savages, and the stories we heard of emigrants having been slaughtered also by whites--the real facts of which we knew little of--were quite enough to beget fear and suggest the need of plans for the best possible resistance. Up to this time there was frequent communication between trains, a considerable distance ahead and behind. As at home, neighbor would visit neighbor, and discuss the topics of the day; so, from time to time we met persons in other trains who gave out information obtained before leaving home, or from mountaineers, trappers or explorers, occasionally met while we were yet on the eastern slope of the Rockies; men who were familiar with Indian dialects and at peace with the tribes, enabling them to learn much that was of importance to the emigrants. Dissemination of news among the people of the various trains near us was accomplished not only during visits by members of one train to those of another, but sometimes by other methods. One of these, which was frequently employed in communicating generally or in signaling individuals known to be somewhere in the line behind us, was by a system of "_bone-writing_." [Illustration: Bone-writing] There were along the line of travel many bare, bleached bones of animals that had died in previous years, many of them doubtless the animals of earlier emigrants. Some of these, as for example, the frontal or the jaw-bone, whitened by the elements, and having some plain, smooth surface, were excellent tablets for pencil writing. An emigrant desiring to communicate with another, or with a company, to the rear, would write the message on one of these bones and place the relic on a heap of stones by the roadside, or suspend it in the branches of a sage bush, so conspicuously displayed that all coming after would see it and read. Those for general information, intended for all comers, were allowed to remain; others, after being read by the person addressed, were usually removed. Sometimes when passing such messages, placed by those ahead of us, we added postscripts to the bulletins, giving names and dates, for the edification of whomever might care to read them. It was in this way that some of the developments regarding the Indian situation were made known by one train to another. Thus we progressed, counting off the average of about eighteen miles a day from the long part of the journey that still lay before us, when we reached Thousand Springs, adjacent to the present boundary line between Utah and Nevada. This, we were told, was the source of the Humboldt River. We were told, too, that the four hundred miles down the course of that peculiar stream--which we could not hope to traverse in much less than one month--we would find to be the most desert-like portion of the entire trip, the most disagreeable and arduous, for man and beast. Such was to be expected by reason of the character of that region and the greater danger there of Indian depredations; also because the passage through that section was to be undertaken after our teams had become greatly worn, therefore more likely to fail under hard conditions. Furthermore, scarcity of feed for the stock was predicted, and, along much of the way, uncertainty as to water supply, other than that from the Humboldt River, which was, especially at that time of the year, so strongly impregnated with alkali as to be dangerous to life. Nearly all the face of the country was covered with alkali dust, which, in a light, pulverulent state, rose and filled the air at the slightest breeze or other disturbance. It was impossible to avoid inhaling this powder to some extent, and it created intense thirst, tending toward exhaustion and great suffering. We knew that sometimes delirium was induced by this cause, and even death resulted from it in cases of very long exposure under the worst conditions. Sometimes for miles the only vegetable growth we found along the river was a string of willow bushes, fringing its course, and scattered, stunted sagebrush, growing feebly in gravel and dry sand, the leaves of which were partly withered and of a pale, ashy tint. Feed for the animals was very scarce. It was not possible, over much of the way, to get sufficient fresh water for the stock, therefore difficult to restrain them from drinking the river water. Some did drink from that stream, despite all efforts to prevent it, the result being that many of them died while we made our way along the sluggish Humboldt. CHAPTER V. THE HOLLOWAY MASSACRE. It was decided that while in this region we would, whenever possible, make our camp some distance from the river, in order that the stock might be prevented from drinking the dangerous river water, also for the reason that the clumps of willows by the stream could be used as a cover by Indians bent on mischief: and they, we now believed, were watching for a favorable opportunity to surprise us. It transpired that the Holloway party neglected this precaution, at least on one occasion, sometime after passing the head of the Humboldt River. Their train was next behind ours when, on the evening of August 13th, after rounding up their stock for the night, a short distance from the wagons, they stopped near the willows by the river and made what proved to be their last camp. Behind them, but not within sight, were several emigrant camps at points varying from a few rods to half a mile apart. The Holloway party retired as usual for the night; Mr. and Mrs. Holloway and their child, a girl of two years, in a small tent near the wagons; Jerry Bush, Mrs. Holloway's brother, and one of the hired men, Joe Blevens, in their blankets on the ground; while Bird Lawles, the other hired man, being ill with a fever, slept in a wagon. There were others with this party that night; Mr. and Mrs. Callum, Mr. Hattlebaugh, and a man whose name is now unknown. These four had been traveling near the Holloway party, and joined it for camping on that occasion. The following morning Mr. Holloway was the first to arise. While making the camp-fire, he called to the others to get up, saying cheerfully: "Well, we've got through one more night without a call from the Redskins." "Bang, bang," rang out a volley of rifle shots, fired from the willows along the river, less than a hundred yards away. Mr. Holloway fell, fatally shot, and died without a word or a struggle. As other members of the emigrant party sprang to their feet and came within view of the assailants, the firing continued, killing Joe Blevens, Mrs. Callum, and the man whose name is not recalled; while Bird Lawles, being discovered on his sick bed in a wagon, was instantly put to death. Meanwhile Jerry Bush grasped his rifle and joined battle against the assassins. Thus far the savages remained hidden in the bushes, and Jerry's shots were fired merely at places where he saw the tall weeds and willows shaken by the motions of the Indians, therefore he has never known whether his bullets struck one of the enemy. While thus fighting alone, for his life and that of his people, he received a gunshot in his side and fell. Knowing that he was unable to continue the fight, and, though doubting that he could rise, he endeavored to shield himself from the bullets and arrows of the Indian band. He succeeded in dragging himself to the river bank, when, seizing a willow branch, he lowered himself to the foot of the steep cliff, some ten feet, reaching the water's edge. He then attempted to swim to the opposite shore. The effort caused him to lose his gun, in deep water. Owing to weakness due to his wound, he was unable to cross the stream. Jerry Bush's parting view of the camp had revealed the apparent destruction of his entire party, except himself. Observing the body of at least one woman, among the victims on the ground, he believed that his sister also had been slain. But Mrs. Holloway and the little girl were still in the tent, for the time unhurt, and just awakened from their morning slumber. Having realized that the camp was being attacked, Mrs. Holloway emerged from the tent to find no living member of her party in sight, other than herself and her child. For a moment she was partially shielded by the wagons. The first object that drew her attention was her husband's form, lying still in death, near the fire he had just kindled. Next beyond was the dead body of Blevens, and a little farther away were the remains of the others who had been slain. Her brother she did not see, but supposed he had met the same fate as the others whom she saw on the ground. Jerry was an experienced hunter; she knew that he always owned a fine gun, and had full confidence that, if he were alive and not disabled, he would defend his people to the last. [Illustration: "With hand upraised, in supplication, yielded to the impulse to flee"] She saw some of the Indians coming from their ambush by the river. They approached for a time with caution, looking furtively about, as if to be sure there was no man left to defend the camp. As they drew nearer Mrs. Holloway realized that she and her child were facing an awful fate--death or captivity. On came the savages, now more boldly, and in greater numbers. The terrified woman, clothed only in her night robe, barefooted; not knowing whether to take flight or stand and plead for mercy; with the child on one arm, one hand raised in supplication, yielded finally to the impulse to flee. As she started the attacking band resumed firing; she was struck, by arrows and at least one bullet, and dropped headlong to the ground. Though conscious, she remained motionless, in the hope that, by feigning death she might escape further wounds and torture. But the Indians came, and taking the arrows from her body, punctured her flesh with the jagged instruments, as a test whether physical sensation would disclose a sign of life remaining. She lay with eyes closed; not a muscle twitched nor a finger moved, while those demons proceeded, in no delicate manner, to cut the skin around the head at the edge of the hair, then tear the scalp from the skull, leaving the bare and bleeding head on the ground. Horrible as all this was, it did not prove to be the last nor the most revolting exhibition of wanton lust for blood. The little girl, who it is hoped had been rendered insensible at sight of the cruelties perpetrated upon her mother, was taken by the feet and her brains dashed out on the wheels of a wagon. To this last act in the fiendish drama there was probably no witness other than the actors in it; but the child's body, mangled too terribly for description, and the bloody marks on the wagon, gave evidence so convincing that there could not be a moment's doubt of what had occurred. The marauders now began a general looting of the wagons. Some of their number were rounding up the stock, preparing to drive the cattle away, when the trains of emigrants next in the rear appeared, less than half a mile distant. This caused the Indian band to retreat. They crossed the river, and then placing themselves behind the willows, hurried away, making their escape into the mountain fastnesses. Owing to their precipitous departure, much of the plunder they were preparing to take was left behind them. Among the articles thus dropped by them was the scalp of Mrs. Holloway, and the rescuing party found and took possession of it. Those emigrants who first came upon the scene found Mrs. Holloway apparently dead; but, on taking her up, they saw that she was alive. Though returning to semi-consciousness some time later, her condition was such that she was unable to tell the story then; but there were evidences showing plainer than words could have told of the awful events of that morning, which had converted the quiet camp of this happy, hopeful company into a scene of death and destruction. Before noon a large number of people of the great emigrant procession had arrived. They united in giving to the dead the best interment that the circumstances permitted. Then the broken and scattered effects of the Holloway company were gathered up, and the now mournful trains took position in the line of pilgrimage and again moved forward towards the Pacific. Mr. Fennell, aided by Captain Rountree's company and others, attempted to save such of the Holloway property as had not been carried off or destroyed. They were successful in recovering about one hundred of the one hundred and fifty head of stock which the Indians had endeavored to drive away. Two mules that were being led off by ropes broke away from the savage band and returned, but the emigrants did not recover any of the stolen horses. Jerry Bush found his way back to the scene. His injury, though apparently of a dangerous character, did not delay the relief parties more than a day after the attack, and the wound healed within a few weeks. It was reported that Callum and Hattlebaugh had escaped, but their further whereabouts was not known. Captain Rountree took charge of Mrs. Holloway and her brother and brought them, with such of their stock and other belongings as remained, to The Meadows, on the Feather River. After partially recuperating there, an uncle, Mr. Perry Durban, came to their aid, and they were taken to Suisun. After full recovery from his wound, Jerry Bush located in Ukiah, and resided there some years. He still survives, now a resident of Hulett, Wyoming, at the ripe age of eighty years. The slaughter of the Holloway party occurred at a point on the Humboldt River some thirty miles east of where Winnemucca is located, a few miles west of Battle Mountain. This becomes apparent by careful estimates of distance traveled per day, rather than by landmarks noted at the time, there being no settlements there, nor elsewhere along the route, at that time. [Illustration: Jerry Bush, 1914] It was perhaps a year later when I went to a camp-meeting one Sunday, at Mark West Creek, in Sonoma County, California. The people attending a service were in a small opening among trees. Standing back of those who were seated, I saw among them a woman whose profile seemed familiar, and later I recognized her as Mrs. Holloway. My interest in her career, due to her extraordinary part in the Indian massacre on the plains, was heightened by the fact that I had known her previously, as the daughter of Mr. Bush, a prosperous farmer, and had been present when she married Mr. Holloway, in a little schoolhouse, near Rockport, Atchison County, Missouri. It seemed a natural impulse which prompted me to ask her for particulars of the tragedy, so disastrous to herself and her family; though later there were misgivings regarding the propriety of doing so. Mrs. Holloway appeared at that time to be in good health, and was cheerful, possessing perfect control of her faculties. Her head was covered by a wig, made of her own hair, taken from the scalp that was recovered at the scene of the massacre. All the heartrending experiences that she had endured were imprinted upon her mind in minutest detail, and she related them in the exact order of their occurrence. The recalling of the terrible ordeal, however, so wrought upon her emotions that she wept, to the limit of mild hysteria, which brought our conversation to a close, and soon thereafter she left the place. I saw her no more; but learned sometime afterwards that her health failed, then of the giving away of her mental powers, and still later of her death, at Napa City; caused primarily by shock, and brooding over the misfortunes she had met on the bank of the Humboldt River. [Illustration: Mrs. Nancy Holloway, 1857] It is difficult to believe that a woman, any woman--or any man--could, in a state of consciousness, endure such torture as was inflicted upon Mrs. Holloway, and refrain from disclosing to her tormentors that she was alive. But that she did so endure was her positive statement, and this was indisputably corroborated by evidences found by those who arrived at the scene less than an hour after the event. Through the kindness of Mr. William Holloway, of Fairfax, Missouri, there is presented here a picture of Mrs. Nancy Holloway, wife of Smith Holloway. The photograph was taken in California, shortly after the attack described. CHAPTER VI. ORIGIN OF "PIKER." BEFORE THE ERA OF CANNED GOODS AND KODAKS. MORNING ROUTINE. TYPICAL BIVOUAC. SOCIABILITY ENTRAINED. THE FLOODED CAMP. HOPE SUSTAINS PATIENCE. The appellation "Piker," much used in the West in early days, synonymous of "Missourian," had its origin on these plains. At first it was applied to a particular type of Missourian, but later came to be used generally. There was among the emigrants a considerable number of persons from Pike County, Missouri. Some of these had the sign, "From Pike Co., Mo.," painted on their wagon covers. Others, when asked whence they came, promptly answered, "From Pike County, Missouri, by gosh, sir;" often said with a shrug implying that the speaker arrogated to himself much superiority by reason of the fact stated. The display of such signs, and announcements like that just mentioned, were of such frequent occurrence that the substance was soon abbreviated to "Piker," and became a by-word. It was often, perhaps always, spoken with a tinge of odium. Possibly this was due to the fact that many of the people referred to were of a "backwoods" class, rather short in culture, and in personal makeup, manner and language, bearing a general air of the extremely rural. Though only persons of that description hailing from Pike County were those who at first had to bear the opprobrium generally implied by "Piker," later it was applied to all persons of that type in the Far West, regardless of their origin. Many years' of mingling of California's cosmopolitan population has changed all that; producing her present homogeneous, sterling, virile, and somewhat distinct type of "Californian"; so the "Piker," as such, is no longer in the land. A later application of the same word, descriptive of a person who does business in a small way, has nothing in common with the "Piker" of early days. Fifty-eight years ago, the time of the events here narrated, was before the era of canned goods. Nearly all of the foodstuffs carried by the emigrants were in crude form, and bulky; but substantial, pure, and such as would keep in any climate. During the first few weeks of the trip we milked some of the cows, and also made butter, the churning operation being effected mainly by the motion of the wagons, in the regular course. That this did not last long was due to reduction of milk supply. After a time there was not sufficient even for use in the coffee, or for making gravy, that convenient substitute for butter. Such delicacies as may now be found in first-class canned meats, vegetables and milk would have filled an often-felt want. The occasional supply that we had en route of fresh meat and fish were obtained largely by chance; we having no knowledge of localities where hunting and fishing were likely to be successful, and it being deemed unsafe for members of the party to wander far or remain long away from the train. It seems regrettable that the invention of hermetically-sealed and easily portable foods, and the inducement to cross the plains to California, did not occur in reversed sequence. Neither had the kodak arrived. Had it been with us then, this narrative might be illustrated with snap-shots of camp scenes, characteristic roadside views, and incidents of travel generally, which would do more for realism than can any word-picture. We often see specimens of artists' work purporting to represent a "'49er" emigrant train on the overland journey--some of them very clever; but seldom are they at all realistic to the man who was there. The man with a camera could have perpetuated, for example, the striking scene presented to us one day of a party, consisting of two men and their wives, with two or three children, sitting on a rocky hillside, woefully scanning their team of done-out oxen and one wagon with a broken axle; no means at hand for recuperation and repair. In the scorching sun of a July day they waited, utterly helpless, hopeless, forlorn, confused; and a thousand miles from "anywhere." Such a grouping would not have made a cheerful picture, but would have assisted immensely in recording a historical fact. But no emigrant ever found another in distress and "passed by on the other side." We were early risers, and the camp was each morning a scene of life with the rising of the sun. By sunset all were sufficiently fatigued to wish for making camp again. Therefore, from the morning start till the evening stop was usually about twelve hours, with variations from time to time, according to necessity or exceptional conditions. Breaking camp in the morning became routine, and proceeded like clockwork. Each patient ox voluntarily drew near, and stood, waiting to be yoked with his fellow and chained to his daily task. So well did each know his place by the side of his mate that the driver had only to place one end of the yoke on the neck of the "off" ox, known, for example, as "Bright," and hold the other end toward the "nigh" ox, saying, "Come under here, Buck," and the obedient fellow placed himself in position. Then the bows were placed and keyed, and "Bright" and "Buck" were hitched for duty. It required but a few minutes to put three or four yoke of oxen in working order. As the result of much repetition, the packing of the camp articles onto the wagons was done dexterously and quickly. Each box, roll and bundle had a designated place; all being arranged usually to facilitate sitting or reclining positions for those who rode in the "schooners," that they might be as comfortable as possible, and read, sleep, or, as the women often did, sew and knit, or play games. During some parts of the trip such means of whiling away the hours was very desirable, if not a necessity. If there ever was a time or condition in which it could be pardonable to "kill time," these circumstances were there, during many long days. The bivouac was always a scene of bustle and orderly disorder, especially if the camp-site was a good one: wood, water and grass being the desiderata. Obedient to habit, every person and animal dropped into place and action. With the wagons drawn to position for the night's sojourn, teams were quickly unhitched, the yokes, chains, harness and saddles falling to the ground where the animals stood. Relieved of their trappings, the oxen, horses and mules were turned to pasture, plentiful or scant. Cooking utensils came rattling from boxes; rolls of bedding tumbled out and were spread on the smoothest spots of sand or grass. Eager hands gathered such fuel as was available, and the camp-fire blazed. Buckets of water were brought from the spring or stream; and in an incredibly short time the scene of animation had wrought full preparation for the night, while the odor of steaming coffee and frying bacon rendered the astonished air redolent of appetizing cookery. Some families used a folding table, on which to serve meals; but more spread an oilcloth on the ground and gathered around that; or individuals, taking a plate and a portion, sat on a wagon-tongue or a convenient stone. Camp-stools and "split-bottomed" chairs were among the luxuries that some carried, in limited numbers; but these were not useful especially as seats while partaking of a meal spread on the ground. Appetites were seldom at fault; and the meals, though plain and of little variety, were never slighted. It is hardly necessary to add that bacon and coffee were easy staples. Bread was mainly in the form of quick-fire biscuits, baked in a skillet or similar utensil, or the ever-ready and always-welcome "flap-jack," sometimes supplemented with soda-crackers, as a delicacy. Nearly all the nights were pleasant--mild temperature, and very little dew. This gave much relief, the daytime heat being generally irksome and often distressingly hot. Many of the men came to prefer sleeping wholly in the open, with the heavens unobscured; often requiring no more than a pair of blankets and a small pillow. Early evening was devoted to social gatherings. If the night was pleasant groups would assemble, for conversation, singing and story-telling; varied with dancing by the young people of some companies. The more religious sang hymns and read the Bible sometimes, in lieu of attendance at any church service. When wood was plentiful, a bonfire added to the cheerfulness and comfort of the occasion. Often neighboring trains camped quite near, when much enjoyment was found in visits by the members of one company among those of another. In such ways many agreeable acquaintances were met and even lasting friendships formed, some of which have endured throughout the nearly three-score years since passed. But we were not always favored with clear and pleasant weather. No one who was there can have forgotten one night at the Platte River, when we had a most dismal experience. Rain began falling in the afternoon, and for that reason we made camp early. The tents were set up on a bit of flat ground near the river bank. There were some large trees, but little dry wood available for fuel for the camp fire except on an island, which was separated from us by a branch of the river, about twenty yards wide and a foot deep. Some of us waded over, getting our clothes soaked; others crossed on horseback, and carried back from the island enough wood to make a fire. But, time after time, the fire was quenched by the rain, which now was falling in torrents; so we had much difficulty in preparing our supper. The people huddled into the tents and wagons, half hungry, more than half wet, and uncomfortable altogether. With the exception of one or two cots, the bedding was spread on the ground in the tents, and all turned in--but not for long. Some one said, "water is running under my bed." Then another and another made the same complaint. Soon we learned the deplorable fact that the large tent had been pitched in a basin-like place, and that the water, as the rain increased, was coming in from all sides, the volume growing rapidly greater. We succeeded then in lighting one lantern, when the water was found to be something like two inches deep over nearly all parts of the large tent's floor. The beds were taken up and placed in soaked heaps, on camp stools and boxes; and the rain continued pouring in steady, relentless disregard of our misery. Except where lighted by the single lantern the darkness was, of course, absolute. Relief was impossible. There appearing to be nothing else to do, everybody abandoned the tents and huddled in the wagons; the lantern was blown out, and there was little sleep, while we waited and wished for daylight. Some of the days were warm and some hot. Some were very hot. Discomforts were common; and yet not much was said, and apparently little thought, of them. Having become inured to the conditions as we found them from time to time, discomforts, such as under other circumstances would have been considered intolerable, were passed without comment. There were times and situations in which hardships were unavoidable, some of them almost unendurable; but these, having been anticipated, were perhaps less poignant in the enduring than in the expectation. Let us for a moment raise the curtain of more than half a century, while we look back on one of those ox-drawn trains of "prairie-schooners," as it appeared to an observer on the ground at the time; about the middle of August, and beyond the middle of the journey. Permit the imagination to place the scene alongside that of the present-day modes of traversing the same territory, when the distance is covered in a less number of days than it required of months then. Perhaps such a comparison may help to form some faint conception of what the overland pioneers did, and what they felt, and saw, and were. There they are as we see them, on a long stretch of sage-brush plateau. The surface of the plain is only sand and gravel, as far as the eye can reach. The atmosphere is hazy, with dust and vibrating waves of heat arising from the ground. Far away to the northwest is the outline of some mountains, just visible in the dim distance. In the opposite direction, whence we have come, there is nothing above the ground but hot space, and dust. Not a living thing in sight but ourselves and ours. The animals appear fatigued, jaded. The people appear--well, as to physical condition, like the animals: generally all look alike. Yet the people seem hopeful. And why hopeful? The inherent and indomitable trait of the race which makes it possible for humanity to look over and past present difficulties, however great, and see some good beyond. That is why the world "do move." Often, as it was with us, progress may be slow, but every day counts for a little. Just here twelve or fifteen miles a day is doing well--very well. From a slight eminence at one side of the way we may stand and see the slowly creeping line of wagons and stock, for many miles fore and aft, as they bend their way in and out, around and over the surface of knolls and flats, hillocks and gullies. From a distant view they seem not to be moving at all. The hour of mid-day arrives, and they stop for the "nooning." There is nothing growing in the vicinity that the horses and cattle can eat, and no water except the little in the keg and canteens; so the carrying animals stand in their yokes and harness, or under saddles, and the loose stock wait in groups, their thirst unslaked. As the people come out of the wagons and go about the business of the hour we see the marks of the elements upon them. The women wear "poke" bonnets and gingham dresses. The men are unshaven. All are sunburnt to a rich, leathern brown. Some are thin, and at this particular time, wearing a serious expression. They are not as unhappy as they look, their principal trouble of the moment being merely anxiety to satisfy prodigious and healthy appetites. There, under the stress of the midsummer sun, now in the zenith, no shade, no protection from the flying dust, they proceed cheerfully to build a fire, of sticks and dry weeds; they fry bacon and bake biscuits, prepare large pots of coffee, and they eat, from tin plates, and drink from tin cups. No one says, "This is awful!" They laugh as they eat, saying, "Good; ain't it?" This is not a cheerful view altogether of the retrospective; but a sketch true to life, as life was there. It was not all like that. A good deal of it was. Some will say that these overland travelers were over-zealous, even foolhardy. One of the earliest pioneers, Mr. Daniel B. Miller, who reached Oregon by the plains route in 1852, wrote later to relatives in Illinois, "I would not bring a family across for all that is contained in Oregon and California." Himself single, he had come with a train composed almost wholly of men, but learned incidentally what risks there were in escorting women and children through the wilds. But the enduring of all this toil, exposure and hardship had for its inspiration the buoyant hope of something good just beyond, something that was believed to be worthy of the privation and effort it was costing. The ardor of that hope was too intense to be discouraged by anything that human strength could overcome. The memories of those strenuous experiences are held as all but sacred, and you never meet one of these early overland emigrants who does not like to sit by your fireside and tell you about it. He forgets, for the moment, how hard it was, and dwells upon it, telling it over and over again, with the same pride and sense of noble achievement that the old soldier feels when recounting the battles and the camp life and the hard marches of the war, when he was young, away back in the sixties. One crossing this country by present-day conveyances, in richly appointed railroad trains, with all the comforts obtainable in modern sleeping, dining and parlor cars, can hardly be expected to conceive what it was to cover the same course under the conditions described; when there was not even a poor wagon road, and the utmost speed did not equal in a day the distance traveled in half an hour by the present mode. Any person who rides in a cumbrous and heavily laden wagon, behind a team whose pace never exceeds a slow walk; over dusty ground, in hot weather, will, before one day is passed, feel that endurance requires utmost fortitude. Consider what patience must be his if the journey continues for four, five or six long months! It is worthy of mention that there was no dissension among our people, nor even unpleasantness, during the entire trip, nor did we observe any among others. We were fortunate in having no "grouches" among us. Harmony, cheerfulness, a disposition to be jolly, even to the degree of hilarity, was the prevailing spirit. That, too, under circumstances often so trying that they might have thrown a sensitive disposition out of balance. All this in the wilds of an unorganized territory, where there was no law to govern, other than the character and natural bent of individuals. Such lack of established authority we had thought might lead to recklessness or aggressive conduct, but it did not. Present residents in the fields and valleys, and the prosperous towns along much of the line of travel described, will find it difficult to reconcile the accounts here given with conditions as they see them now. Leagues of territory now bearing a network of railroads and splendid highways, which carry rich harvests from the well-tilled farms, and connect numerous cities, was thought of ordinarily by the emigrants in early days only as it appeared to them, and then was, the stamping ground of savage tribes and the home of wild beasts, untouched by the transforming hand of civilization. To the keen observer, however, it was evident that we were passing through a great deal of fine country. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that part of that journey was through lands naturally barren, some desert wastes, much of which is still unreclaimed, some unreclaimable. CHAPTER VII. TANGLED BY A TORNADO. LOST THE PACE BUT KEPT THE COW. HUMAN ODDITIES. NIGHT-GUARDS. WOLF SERENADES. AWE OF THE WILDERNESS. A STAMPEDE. Few readers need peruse these pages to learn what a thunder-storm is like, but many may not know what it is to encounter a fierce electrical disturbance while surrounded by a herd of uncontrollable cattle on the prairie. On an occasion after having stopped for a "nooning," there loomed up suddenly in the northwest a black, ominous cloud, revolving swiftly and threateningly, as might the vapors from some gigantic cauldron; variegated in black, blue and green, bespangled with red streaks of lightning. This display of the angry elements was making a broadening sweep onward directly towards where we were. The air turned black and murky, and was vibrant with electric tension. Flocks of buzzards flew low to the earth about us, as if to be ready for the carrion of the impending catastrophe. The fear instinct of the brute seized the cattle, and they hovered together, bellowing, distraught with apprehension of evil. The whirlpool of atmospheric chaos grew more intense and rapidly larger as it approached. Globules of water began to "spat! spat!" on the ground, here and there, as the storm-cloud opened its batteries of liquid balls. There was only such protection as the wagons afforded. Whatever preparation we could make must be effected at once. Knowing that if the cattle should take fright and run, it would be better that they leave the wagons, I dropped the wagon-tongue to which I was hitching a team, and called to a boy who was hooking up the next wagon, telling him not to do so. He had, however, already attached to that wagon the team consisting of three yoke of oxen. The big drops of water were in a moment followed by hailstones, at first very large and scattering, striking the ground each with a vicious thud--a subdued "whack"; growing more frequent and presently mingled with lesser ones; until, in the shortest moment, there was a cloud-burst of hail and rain pouring upon us, a storm such as none of us had ever witnessed. The oxen, chained together in strings of three and four pairs, pelted by the hail, were mutinous and altogether uncontrollable. My own string, having turned crosswise of the front end of the wagon, were pushing it backward, down the hillside. The team in charge of the boy, being attached to their wagon and heading away from the storm, were turning the wagon over. Knowing that the boy's mother was in the "schooner," on a sick bed, I left my wagon and ran to that. As the oxen, in trying to shield themselves from the hail, were forcing the front wheels around under the wagon-box, I was fortunate enough to get a shoulder under one corner of the box and exert sufficient force to prevent the wagon upsetting. All this took little more than a minute. The storm passed away as suddenly as it had come. Then I saw the wagon which was my special charge lying on its side, at the bottom of the slope; the bows of the cover fitting snugly into a sort of natural gutter, with a swift current of muddy water and hailstones flowing through the cover, as if it were a sluice-pipe. Everything in the wagon was topsy-turvy; and, half buried in the heap were two little girls, who had been riding in the vehicle. They were more frightened than hurt, but complained loudly at being placed in a cold-storage of hailstones. [Illustration: The Author--Twenty years after] Meantime, the sun beamed again, clear and hot, and we saw the storm-cloud pursuing its course over the plain to the southeast, leaving in its wake a wet path a few rods wide. The other men had their hands full in caring for endangered members of the party and the equipment. The loose stock had stampeded and were far away, with some of the mounted men in desperate pursuit. They eventually brought the cattle to a halt, about five miles away, where the wagons overtook them when it was time to make camp. Continuous travel over rough ground and through deep sand, and ascending steep mountains, proved too great a strain for the endurance of some outfits. From time to time we were obliged to witness instances of extreme privation and hardship, usually the result of inadequate preparation for the arduous journey. Some started with only enough oxen to carry them in case all should remain serviceable; and carried provisions for no more than the shortest limit of time estimated; so that the mishap of losing an ox or two, or any delay, worked a calamity. Some trains started so late, or were so much delayed, that they were compelled to negotiate passage of the higher mountains after the time when enormous snow-drifts had to be encountered; further delay resulting, with exhaustion of strength and depletion of supplies, in consequence of which many members of some trains failed to reach their destination. A notable experience of this kind was that of the Donner party, in 1846. It was in one of the higher mountain regions that we overtook one Eben Darby and his family. Darby had been with one of the trains in advance of us, but being unable to keep the pace, he was obliged to fall behind. He had one small wagon, two yoke of oxen, and a cow; the latter led by a rope behind the wagon. His wife, with a young baby, and the wife's brother, Danny Worley, were the only persons with Darby. The wife was a weak, inexperienced girl; the child sickly. Mrs. Darby's brother was a large, fat youth of nineteen, whose distinguishing and inconvenient characteristic was an abnormal appetite. Their provisions were nearly exhausted. The cow was to them the real fountain of life. She was doing nobly--supplying them a quart of milk a day, which was wonderful, considering the circumstances. This milk fed the baby, and afforded a good substitute for butter, in the form of milk gravy--on which Danny fared sumptuously every day. Later their oxen drank of the alkali water of the Humboldt River, and three of the four died in one night. Then the cow was yoked with the remaining ox, two steers were loaned them by "good Samaritans" in our company, and they were with us to the Sink of the Humboldt. Meantime the milk supply grew less, and Mrs. Darby was compelled to substitute water for milk in the gravy. This sop was not satisfactory to Danny. One evening at meal time he was overheard by some of our boys, saying, "I want milk in my gravy." Though reminded there was only enough milk for the baby, he of the phenomenal appetite reiterated, "I don't care, I want milk in my gravy." Thereafter "Gravy" was the name by which he was known, so long as he traveled with us. This narrative would not do justice to the variety of individuals and events without mention of another singular personage, a young fellow who was "working his passage"; a sort of disconnected unit, whose place became everywhere in the train, and who belonged to nobody. How he got smuggled into the company no one has since been able to recall. He was a sort of desert stowaway; tolerated because, though eccentric and quite alarming in appearance, he was always in good humor, and often useful, having a willingness to do as many of the chores as others would trust him to perform. He was notable as a physical curiosity, though not actually deformed. Low of stature, he came to be known as "Shorty," the only name we ever had for him. As he stood, his abnormally long arms enabled him to take his hat from the ground without stooping. His legs were not mates in length, causing him as he moved, with a quick, rocking gait, to create the impression that he might topple backward; but somehow the longer leg always got underneath at the critical instant, and restored the balance. His head was large, and perfectly round; hair porcupinesque, each bristle standing nearly perpendicular to the plane on which it grew. He had no neck. Mouth small, and so round that it opened not unlike a bored hole in a flesh-colored pumpkin. "Shorty" asserted that he was a singer. He and "Jack" never sang together, however--that is, they never did so any more, after trying it once. "Shorty" and "Gravy" Worley became chums inseparable, except on one occasion, when their friendship was temporarily ruptured by a dispute over the ownership of a fishing hook. Anger grew hot, but when they were about to come to blows, "Shorty" suddenly dropped on "all-fours" and essayed to butt his adversary with his head, which surprising mode of combat so disconcerted "Gravy" that he ran for his quarters, wildly yelling, "Take him off, take him off." For a time during the early part of the journey the horses and mules were picketed at night, on the best pasture available; and before we retired, all the animals were brought near the wagons, the loose cattle bunched with them, and guards were placed, to prevent straying of the stock or surprise by Indians. Later, for awhile, these precautions were deemed unnecessary, though still later they had to be resumed. The stock became accustomed to the daily routine, and after the all-day travel, were quite willing, when they had finished their evening grazing, to assemble near the camp and lie down for the night, usually remaining comparatively quiet till morning. As if having some realization of the lonely nature of the surroundings, the animals were not disposed to stray off, except on rare occasions; but rather to keep within sight of the people and the wagons. There was proof of the theory that in some circumstances domestic animals acquire some of that feeling that human creatures know, when far from the habitations of man. There is a peculiar sensation in the great and boundless contiguity of empty silence which works the senses up to a feeling that is somewhat alike in man and beast--that there is most comfort and protection near the center of the settlement or camp. In this stillness of the night--and night on these plains was often very still--any slight noise outside the camp startled and thrilled the taut nerves. Not only was the night still; usually it was silent, too. But occasionally, when the silence was absolute, a couple or more of prairie-wolves lurking in the vicinity, without the faintest note of prelude, would startle the calm of night with their peculiar commingling of barks, howls and wails,--a racket all their own. It was the habit of these night prowlers of the desert to come as near to the camp as their acute sense of safety permitted, and there, sitting on their haunches, their noses pointed to the moon, render a serenade that was truly thrilling. Two prairie-wolves, in a fugued duet, can emit more disquieting noise, with a less proportion of harmony, than any aggregation of several times their equal in numbers, not excepting Indians on the war-path or a "gutter" band. [Illustration: A coyote serenade] That awe of the wilderness to which reference has been made, and its effect on the nerves, may explain the stampede of cattle, often not otherwise accounted for; which occurs sometimes in these hollow solitudes. It occurs nowhere else that I have known. Several times we experienced this strange exhibition of sudden panic; the snapping, as it were, of the nerves, from undue tension, when, instantly, from cause then to us unknown and unguessed, the whole band of cattle, teams as well as loose stock, made a sudden, wild, furious dash, in a compact mass; seeming instinctively to follow in whatever direction the leader's impulse led him; drifting together and forward as naturally as water flows to the current; with heads and tails high in air; blindly trampling to the earth whatever chanced to be in their path. These were not in any sense wild stock. The cattle, horses and mules were all animals that had been raised on the quiet farms of the Middle West, well domesticated. In the light of certain modern theories it might be said by some that these otherwise docile animals stampeded on the unpeopled plains because they heard the "call of the wild." There were, however, occasions when the cause could be readily assigned for this temporary casting off of restraint. In one instance, already mentioned, a sudden, pelting hailstorm was the undoubted cause; when, taking the stampede temper, they ran five or six miles before the man, mounted on one of our fleetest saddle-horses, got in front of the foremost of them and checked their running. On all such occasions control could be regained in only one way. Speeding his horse till he overtook and passed the leader of the drove the rider made his horse the leader; and as each loose animal always followed whatever was in front, the horseman, by making a circuit and gradually slackening the pace, led the drove around and back to place in the line of travel. Naturally one source of uneasiness was the thought of what our situation would be if, on one of these occasions, we should fail to regain control of these animals, so necessary to us in continuing the westward journey. A stampede when some of the oxen were yoked to the wagons was, of course, more serious in its immediate consequences than when it happened while all were detached from the equipment. A stampede occurred one day in a level stretch of country, open in every direction; nothing in sight to cause alarm. There the emigrant road showed plainly before us. The wagons were in open single file, the loose stock drawn out in line at the rear. Men on horseback, hats over their eyes, some of them with one leg curled over the pommel of the saddle; lazily droning away the slow hours and the humdrum miles. The women and children were stowed away on bundles of baggage and camp stuff in the wagons, some of them asleep perhaps, rocked in their "schooner" cradles. A few of the men and boys perchance were strolling off the way, in the hope of starting a sage grouse or rabbit from some sheltering clump of brush. During a specially quiet routine like this; the cattle lolling behind the wagons, mostly unattended, keeping the snail pace set by the patient teams; a steer now and again turning aside to appropriate a tuft of bunch-grass; their white horns rising and falling in the brilliant sunlight, with the swaying motion of their bodies as they walked, shimmered like waves of a lake at noonday before a gentle breeze: quickly as a clap of the hands, every loose beast in the band, in the wildest fashion of terror, started, straight in the course of the moving line--pell-mell, they went, veering for nothing that they could run over; sweeping on, with a roaring tramp, like muffled thunder, they passed along both sides of the train. The teams, catching the frenzy, took up the race, as best they could with their heavy impedimenta; all beyond control of their drivers or the herders, who, startled from the reverie of the moment, could do no better than dodge to such place of safety as they found, and stand aghast at the spectacle. Fortunately the draft oxen usually were forced to stop running before they went far, owing to the weight of the wagons they hauled and their inability to break the yokes. In this particular instance the most serious casualty was the death of a boy, about eight years of age, the son of Dr. Kidd. The child was probably asleep in a wagon, and being aroused by the unusual commotion, may have attempted to look out, when a jolt of the wagon threw him to the ground, and he was trampled to death. The body was kept in camp overnight, and the next morning wrapped in a sheet and buried by the roadside. This was in a vast stretch of lonely plain. As we journeyed through it, viewing the trackless hills and rockribbed mountains not far away on either side, mostly barren and uninviting, it was difficult to conceive of that territory ever becoming the permanent homes of men. Yet it is possible, and probable, that the grave of Dr. Kidd's little boy is today within the limits of a populous community, or even beneath a noisy thoroughfare of some busy town. CHAPTER VIII. DISASTER OVERTAKES THE WOOD FAMILY. Our consolidated train continued its creeping pace down the meandering Humboldt; crossing the stream occasionally, to gain the advantage of a shorter or better road. Soon again there were other proofs of the wisdom we had shown in taking every possible precaution against attack. Next ahead of us was a family from England, a Mr. Wood, his wife and one child, with two men employed as drivers. They were outfitted with three vehicles, two of them drawn by ox teams, in charge of the hired men, and a lighter, spring-wagon, drawn by four mules, the family conveyance, driven by Mr. Wood. We had not known them before. One very hot day in the latter part of August, after having moved along for a time with no train in sight ahead of us, we came upon Mr. Wood in a most pitiable plight, the result of an attack and slaughter, not differing greatly from the Holloway case, and its parallel in atrocity. Mr. Wood's party had spent the preceding night undisturbed, and were up early in the morning, preparing to resume their journey. The ox teams had been made ready and moved on, while Mr. Wood proceeded in a leisurely way with harnessing the four mules and attaching them to the smaller wagon. All the articles of their equipment had been gathered up and placed in proper order in the wagon. When Mr. Wood had nearly completed hitching the team, Mrs. Wood and the baby being already in the wagon, some men, apparently all Indians, twenty or more of them, were seen coming on horseback, galloping rapidly from the hills to the northward, about half a mile away. Mr. Wood, fearing that he and his family were about to be attacked, in this lonely situation, hurriedly sprang to the wagon seat and whipped up the mules, hoping that before the attack they could come within sight of the ox wagons, which had rounded the point of a hill but a few minutes before, and have such aid as his hired men could give. He had no more than got the team under way when a wheel came off the wagon--he having probably overlooked replacing the nut after oiling the axle. Notwithstanding this he lost no time in making the best of the circumstances. Jumping to the ground, he hurriedly placed Mrs. Wood on one of the mules, cutting the harness to release the animal from the wagon; then, with the baby in his arms, he mounted another mule, and they started flight. But the Indians had by this time come within gun-shot range and fired upon them. Mrs. Wood fell from the mule, fatally shot. Mr. Wood's mule was shot under him, and dropped; next Mr. Wood received a bullet in the right arm, that opened the flesh from wrist to elbow. That or another shot killed the child. Amidst a shower of bullets, Mr. Wood ran in the direction taken by his ox wagons. Getting past the point of the low hill that lay just before him without being struck again, he was then beyond range of the firing, and soon overtook his wagons. His men, with all the guns they had, returned, to find the woman and child dead on the ground. One of the mules was dead, one wounded, the other two gone. The wagon had been ransacked of its contents, and the band of assassins were making their way back into the hills whence they had come. This small wagon, Mr. Wood said, had contained the family effects; and among them were several articles of considerable value, all of which had been taken. Among his property were pieces of English gold coin, the equivalent of fifteen hundred dollars. It had been concealed in the bottom of the wagon-box, and he had supposed the band would overlook it; but that, too, was gone. Such was the plight in which our company found the man, soon after this tragedy was so swiftly enacted, and which so effectually bereft him of all, his family and his property, leaving him wounded, and dependent on the mercy of strangers. The dead were placed in mummy-form wrappings and buried, mother and child in one, unmarked grave. When the manuscript of this narrative was first made ready for the printer, the description of the calamity which befell Mr. Wood and his family ended here. There were other details, as clearly recalled as those already recited, but so atrocious and devoid of motive, that it was a matter of grave doubt whether the facts should be given. It seemed too deplorable that such an occurrence could be recorded as the act of human beings; furthermore, would it be credible? It has been intimated that the present endeavor is to give a complete history of events as they occurred: no material item suppressed, nothing imaginary included; therefore the remaining details are given. Incredible as it may sound to civilized ears, after the bodies of Mrs. Wood and her child had been interred, hardly had those who performed this service gone from the spot when a part of the savage band that had murdered those innocent victims, rushed wildly back to the place, disinterred the bodies from the shallow grave, taking the sheets in which the bodies had been wrapped, and which were their only covering, and carrying those articles away. When the Indians had gone a second time, the grief-stricken Mr. Wood returned and reinterred the remains of his wife and child. Mr. Wood's wounded arm was dressed by Dr. Maxwell and Dr. Kidd, his wagons were placed in the lead of our train, and again we moved westward. CHAPTER IX. MYSTERIOUS VISITORS. EXTRA SENTRIES. AN ANXIOUS NIGHT. The next following day, as we wended our way among the sand dunes, alkali flats and faded sagebrush, there came to us--whence we knew not--three men, equipped with a small wagon, covered with white ducking, arched over bows, similar to the covering on most of the emigrant wagons; drawn by two large, handsome, well-harnessed horses; all having a well-to-do appearance, that made our dusty, travel-worn outfits look very cheap and inferior. They told us that they were mountaineers, of long experience on the plains; well acquainted with the Indians and familiar with their habits and savage proclivities. They said that the Shoshone Indians were very angry at the white people who were passing through their lands; that this hostility recently had been further aroused by certain alleged acts of the whites along the emigrant road; and that the feeling was now so intense that even they, our informants, were alarmed, notwithstanding their long, intimate and friendly intercourse with these Indians; and, believing themselves no longer safe among the tribe, they were anxious to get out of the Shoshone country; therefore they requested the privilege of placing themselves under the protection of our large train until we should have passed out of the Shoshone lands and into those of the Pah-Utes, which tribe they said was known to be friendly toward the white race. One of these men was a specially picturesque figure; weighty, with large, square shoulders; well-formed head; full, brown beard, cropped short. He wore a deer-skin blouse, leathern breeches; broad, stiff-brimmed hat, low crown, flat top, decorated with a tasseled leather band; a fully-loaded ammunition belt--a combination make-up of cowboy, mountaineer and highwayman. The three men spoke plain English, with a free use of "frontier adjectives." Having received permission to take temporary protection by traveling near us, they placed themselves at the rear of our train, and that night pitched camp slightly apart from our circle of wagons. Some of our men visited them during the evening, eager to hear their tales of adventure; and listened, open-mouthed, to descriptions of life among savage associations, in the mountain wilds, jungles and the desert plains. The visitors dwelt with emphasis on the threatening attitude of the Shoshone Indians towards the emigrants; warning us that our position was hazardous, with caution that there was special risk incurred by individuals who wandered away from the train, thus inviting a chance of being shot by Redskins, ambushed among the bunches of sagebrush. They were especially earnest as they assured us of the peril there would be in loitering away from the body of the company, as they had noticed some of our boys doing, that day, while hunting for sage fowls. After awhile, he of the big hat inquired--and seemed almost to tremble with solicitude as he spoke: "Are you prepared to defend yourselves, in case of an attack?" Here unpleasant surmises gave place to distinct suspicions in the minds of some of our older men. They regarded that question as a "Give-away." All the day, since these three joined us, we had felt that they might be spies, and in league with the Indians. So now not a few of us were giving closest attention, both with ears and eyes. An answer was ready: That we were prepared, and waiting for the encounter; with a hundred and twenty-five shots for the first round; that we could reload as rapidly as could the Indians; and had ammunition in store for a long siege. The actual fact was that, although every man of us had some sort of a "shooting-iron," they were not formidable. In kind, these varied well through the entire range of infantry, from a four-inch six-shooter to a four-foot muzzle-loader, and from a single-barreled shotgun on up to a Sharp's repeating rifle. The weapon last mentioned carried a rotating cylinder, for five shells, and was the latest thing in quick-fire repeating arms of that time: but there was only one of that class in the train. Had we been seen on muster, standing at "present arms," the array would have been less terrifying than comical. Just how our visitors received our bluff with reference to preparedness for battle we could not know. The next morning these mysterious strangers took position in the rear of our train once more, carrying a small white flag, mounted on a pole fastened to their wagon. Upon being asked the purpose of the flag they replied that it served as a signal to any one of their number who might go beyond view, enabling him to determine the location of the wagon. Captain John reminded them that, according to their statements, wandering out of sight was too hazardous to be done or considered; adding that therefore there did not seem to be any need of the flag, and he wanted it to be taken down. It came down. During the noon-hour stop that day, while the doctors were dressing Mr. Wood's wounded arm, he obtained a first look at our three protegés. He at once indicated the man wearing the big, brown hat, and stated, excitedly but confidentially, to those of our company who were near him: "I believe that man was with the Indians who killed my wife and child." That statement naturally created a much greater feeling of uneasiness among us. The assertion was whispered around; and every man of us became a detective. The leading men of our party put their heads together in council. The situation was more than ever grave and the suspense distinctly painful. We feared something tragic would happen any hour. Mr. Wood was asked to obtain another view of the man and endeavor to make his statement more definite, if he could. His wound, and the terrible shock he had sustained two days previously, had so prostrated him that he was unable to make haste. Arrangements were made to disguise him and have him go where he could obtain a good view of the three men, but his condition prevented it. Later in the afternoon the three-men-afraid-of-Indians announced that we had passed out of the territory of the savage Shoshones; they felt it would be safe for them to dispense with our kind escort, therefore, after camping near us that night, they would withdraw and bid us a thankful good-bye. We camped that night on a level place, where there was sage-brush three or four feet high, and thick enough to make good cover for an enemy. Our people, having become thoroughly distrustful of the three men who had made themselves appendages of our train, feared an attack would be made on our camp that night. Suspicion had developed into a fixed belief that the trio were confederates of the Shoshones, and had come to us under a pretense of fear on their part, in order to spy out the fighting strength of our company. The place where they halted their wagon and prepared to spend the night was not more than a hundred yards from where our vehicles were arranged, in the usual hollow circle, with the camp-fire and the people inclosed. When darkness set in, guards of our best men, armed with the most effective guns we had, were quietly distributed about the camp, the chosen men crawling on their hands and knees to their allotted positions, in order that the three strangers should not know our arrangements. There was an understanding that, if there should be an attack during the night, the first thing to do was, if possible, to shoot those three men; for, under the circumstances, any attack occurring that night would be deemed completion of proof that they were responsible for it and for any atrocity that might follow or be attempted. The night passed without notable happening--except that at the break of day the three men and their wagon silently stole away. There was a feeling of great relief on being rid of them; but there remained some apprehension of their turning up at some unguarded moment and unpleasant place, to make us trouble; for their absence did not remove the impression that they had come among us to gauge our desirability as prey and the feasibility of overpowering our entire train. CHAPTER X. CHALLENGE TO BATTLE. We divided our long train into two parts, leaving a short space between the sections. Mr. Wood's two wagons headed the forward part. Toward the close of the day on which this change of arrangement was made, the forward section turned off the road a short distance before stopping to make camp, and the rear section passed slightly beyond the first, left the road and halted, so that a double camp was formed, with the two sections thus placed for the night in relative positions the reverse of the order they had maintained during the day. At night-fall, when supper was over and everything at rest, we saw three horsemen going westward on the emigrant road. When they were opposite the Maxwell, or forward, camp, as the train sections had been placed, these men turned from the road and came toward us. We soon recognized them as our late guests on the way: he of the big hat and his two companions. Riding into our camp, one of them remarked that they now observed the change made in arrangement of our train, explaining that they had intended to call on the Englishman, whose place had been in the lead. They apologized for their mistake. The first speaker added that they had heard it stated that this English gentleman had charged one of their number with being in company with the Indians who killed his wife, at the time of the tragedy, a few days before. He of the big, brown hat then assumed the role of spokesman, and said: "I understand that he indicated me, by description; and if that man says I was with the Indians who killed his wife, I will kill him. Let him say it, and I will shoot him down like a dog, that he is. I am here to demand of him if he said it." Another of the three said, in a tone of conciliation: "We are honest men. We came out here from Stockton, California, where we live, to meet the emigrants as they come over from the States. We buy their weak and disabled stock, such as cannot finish the trip to the Coast; take the animals onto range that we know of, and in the fall, when they are recuperated, we drive them in for the California market." The man under the large hat resumed: "My name is James Tooly. My partners here, are two brothers, named Hawes. And now, if that Englishman, or any one among you, says I was with the Indians who killed his wife, I will shoot him who says it, right here before you all." This was said with much vehemence, and punctuated with many oaths. [Illustration: Van Diveer's advantage was slight, but sufficient] Mr. Drennan, of our combined company, replied: "If you want to talk like that, go where the man is. We don't want that kind of language used here, in the presence of our women and children." Tooly, standing erect, high in his stirrups, drew a large pistol from its holster and swung it above his head. "I will say what I please, where I please; and I don't care who likes it," roared Tooly, waving his pistol in air. W. J. Van Diveer, a young man of the Drennan company, who had been sitting on a wagon-tongue near the speaker, leaped to his feet, with a pistol leveled at the big horseman's head, and with a manner that left no doubt that he meant what he said, shouted: "I'll be damned if you can do that here. Now, you put down your gun, and go." The muzzle of Van Diveer's pistol was within an arm's-length of Tooly, aiming steadily at his head. Tooly was yet with pistol in hand but not quite in position for use of it on his adversary. Van Diveer's advantage was slight, but sufficient for the occasion. Tooly's companions did not act, appearing to await his orders, and, in the suddenness of this phase of the scene, Tooly found no voice for commands. Others of our men made ready on the instant, believing that a battle was on. It was averted, however. Tooly replaced his pistol in the holster, saying: "Well, of course--as you say, my pie is over yonder. I don't want to kill _you_ fellows." And he didn't. The three rode over to the other group of our men, among whom was Mr. Wood. All of these had overheard what had just been said, and felt sure they knew what was coming. Mr. Wood, grief-stricken, disabled, stood, pale and fearful, amongst the party of timid emigrants, all strangers to him; he the only man probably in the camp without a weapon on his person, his torn arm in a sling across his chest. The big fellow made his statement again, as he had made it to us; with the same emphatic threat to kill, if he could induce Wood or any one to speak out and affirm the charge of Tooly's complicity with the Indians. Tooly got off his horse and, pistol in hand, walked among the party; many of whom surely did tremble in their boots. He declared again, as he stalked about, that he would shoot the hapless Wood, "like a dog", or any one who would repeat the charge. There were but a few men in that part of the camp when Tooly commenced this second tirade, in the presence of Wood; but soon more came from the other part of the train. Mr. Wood, in a condition as helpless as if with hands and feet bound, realizing his situation, and his responsibility, maintained silence: a silence more eloquent than speech, since a single word from him in confirmation of the charge he had made would have precipitated a battle, in which he, most certainly, and probably others, including some of his benefactors, would have been killed. Then Tooly saw that a goodly number of men had arrived from the other section of the camp, and were watching to see what would happen; some of these viewing the scene with attitude and looks that boded no good for the man who held the center of the arena. Tooly's threatening talk ceased. Still Wood said nothing. In silence, Tooly mounted his horse, and with his fellows rode away, leaving the party of emigrants--most of them terror-stricken, some angry--standing dumb, looking at one another, and at the retreating three until they went out of sight, in the dusk of the desert night-fall: stood there on the sage-brush sward, a tableau of silent dumbfoundedness; for how long none knew; each waiting for something to break the spell. "I feel like a fool," exclaimed Van Diveer. "But," spoke Drennan, the older and more conservative leader of their party, "we couldn't start an open battle with those fellows without some of us being killed. They are gone; we should be glad that they are. It is better to bear the insult than have even one of our people shot." "I'm glad they left no bullets in me-- Ulee, ilee, aloo, ee; Courting, down in Tennessee." This paraphrasing of his favorite ditty was, of course, perpetrated by "Jack." But we all wished we knew. Was it true that these men were conspirators with the Indians who had been ravaging the emigrant trains? If so, doubtless they would be concerned in other and possibly much more disastrous assaults, and perhaps soon. If so, who would be the next victims? But Mr. Wood was still too indefinite in his identification of the man Tooly--at least in his statement of it--to clear away all doubt, or even, as yet, to induce the majority of our men to act on the judgment of some: that we should follow these plainsmen, learn more, and have it out with them. There were many circumstances pointing not only to the connection of these men with the assault on Mr. Wood's family, but to the probability of their having been responsible for the slaughter of the Holloway party. It seemed improbable that there were two bands of Indians operating along that part of the Humboldt River in the looting of emigrant trains. If it could be proved that white men co-operated with the savages in the Wood case, the inference would be strong that the same white men had been accessories in the Holloway massacre. The use of guns in those attacks, and the evident abundance of ammunition in the hands of the Indians, went far toward proving the connection of white men with both these cases. CHAPTER XI. SAGEBRUSH JUSTICE. The Sink of the Humboldt is a lake of strong, brackish water, where the river empties into the natural basin, formed by the slant of the surrounding district of mountains, plain and desert, and where some of the water sinks into the ground and much of it evaporates, there being no surface outlet. In the latter part of the summer the water is at a very low stage, and stronger in mineral constituents. There we found the daytime heat most intense. The land that is exposed by the receding water during the hottest period of the fall season becomes a dry, crackling waste of incrusted slime, curling up in the fierce sunshine, and readily crushed under foot, like frozen snow. The yellowish-white scales reflect the sunlight, producing a painful effect on the eyes. Not many feet wander to this forbidding sea of desolation. At the border of this desert lake, a few feet higher than the water, is a plateau of sand, covered with sage-brush and stones. We were there in the last week of August. Fresh water was not to be had except at a place a half-mile from our camp, where there was a seepage spring. There we filled our canteens and buckets with enough for supper and breakfast. The animals had to endure the night without water. Not far from the spring was situated a rude shack, known as "Black's Trading Post." This establishment was constructed of scraps of rough lumber, sticks, stones and cow-hides. With Mr. Black were two men, said to be his helpers--helpers in what, did not appear. The principal stock in trade was a barrel of whisky--reported to be of very bad quality--some plug tobacco, and--not much else. Black's prices were high. A sip from the barrel cost fifty cents. It was said to be an antidote for alkali poisoning. [Illustration: "A sip from the barrel cost fifty cents"] Some of our men visited this emporium of the desert, and there they found "Jim" Tooly. The barrel had been tapped in his behalf, and he was loquacious; appearing also to be quite "at home" about the Post. His two companions of our recent acquaintance were not there. The "antidote" was working; Tooly was in good spirits, and eloquent. He did not appear to recognize those of our people who were visiting the place; but they knew him. There were other persons present from the camps of two or three companies of emigrants, but strangers to us, who were also stopping for the night at the margin of the Sink. Tooly assumed an air of comradeship toward all, addressing various individuals as "Partner" and "Neighbor"; but his obvious willingness to hold the center of the stage made it clear that he deemed himself the important personage of the community. Some things he said were self-incriminating. He boasted of having "done up a lot of Pikers, up the creek," declaring his intention to "look up another lot of suckers" the following day. When our men thought that they had heard enough they returned to camp and reported. Recollections of the last time we had seen Mr. Tooly made the present occasion seem opportune. An impromptu "court" was organized: judge, sheriff and deputies; and these, with a few chosen men of the company, went to the trading post to convene an afternoon session. The members of this "court" dropped in quietly, one or two at a time, looked over the place, asked questions--about the country; the prices of Mr. Black's "goods"; how far it might be to Sacramento; anything to be sociable: but none offered to tap the barrel. The stranger emigrants had heard of the Indian raids up the river. Seeming to have inferred something of pending events, they had gone to the trading post in considerable numbers. Tooly was still there. Black and his two men seemed to be persons who ordinarily would be classed as honest. Still, they appeared to listen to Tooly's tales of prowess in the looting of emigrant trains as if they regarded such proceedings as acts of exceptional valor; exhibiting as much interest in the recital as did the "tenderfoot" emigrants--who held a different opinion regarding those adventures. When enough had been heard to warrant the finding of an indictment, the newly-appointed judge issued a verbal order of arrest, and the sheriff and his deputies quickly surrounded the accused, before he suspected anything inimical to his personal welfare. With revolver in hand, the sheriff commanded, "Hands up, 'Jim' Tooly!" To the astonishment of all, the big man raised both hands, without protest; this, however, in mock obedience, as was evident by his laughing at the supposed fun. "This is not a joke, sir," came in harsh tones from the judge. "When we saw you last, about sixteen days ago, you came to our camp to deny a charge made against you by a man of our company. You overawed, browbeat and insulted the man and those who were assisting and protecting him in his distress. You denied the accusation made against you, with vehemence and much profanity. Giving you the benefit of a doubt, we permitted you to go. Now we are here to take the full statement of the prosecuting witness, and examine such other evidence as there may be. We will clear you if we can, or find you guilty if we must." In whatever direction the culprit looked he gazed into the open end of a gun or pistol. The sheriff said: "Now, Tooly, any motion of resistance will cost you your life." A disinterested onlooker at the moment would have cringed, lest the unaccustomed duty of some deputy should so unnerve his hand that he would inadvertently and prematurely pull the trigger of his weapon. But all held sufficiently steady, as they looked through the sights. The prisoner slowly grasped the situation, and knew that temporary safety lay in obedience. The sheriff's demand for Tooly's weapons created more surprise, when it was revealed that, in his feeling of security while at the Post, he had relieved himself of those encumbering articles and deposited them with the landlord, that he might have freedom from their weight while enjoying the hospitality of the place. Thus his captors had him as a tiger with teeth and claws drawn. His weapons, when brought out from the hut for examination, were found to be two pistols, of the largest size and most dangerous appearance, in a leathern holster, the latter made to carry on the pommel of a saddle, in front of the rider. These, also his saddle and other trappings, were searched for evidence; but, except the pistols, nothing was found that tended to throw any further light on the question of his guilt or innocence. Tooly was then taken, under a heavy guard, to a spot some distance from the Post, where the court reconvened, for the purpose of completing the trial. His captors had, with good reason, reckoned Tooly as like a beast of the jungle, who, when put at bay, would resort to desperate fighting; but, having been caught thus unawares and unarmed, violence on his part or resistance of any kind, was useless. He was doubtless feigning meekness, hoping for an opportunity to escape. A jury was selected, mostly from the stranger emigrants. The improvised court sat on an alkali flat near the margin of the lake, where there were some large stones and clumps of sage-brush. There Tooly was confronted by Mr. Wood, still with bandaged arm. Tooly declared he had never before seen the Englishman, but Wood said he had seen Tooly, and now reaffirmed his belief that the prisoner was one of the persons who, some weeks previously, had ridden with the Indians who killed Mrs. Wood and the child, also wounded and robbed the witness. Still the evidence was not deemed sufficiently positive or complete, the identity being in some doubt. The jury would not convict without conclusive proof. With the view of procuring further evidence, the judge ordered that the person of the prisoner be searched. Hearing this mandate, Tooly first made some sign of an intention to resist--only a slight start, as if possibly contemplating an effort to break through the cordon of untrained guards. "Gentlemen," ordered the sheriff, "keep, every man, his eye on this fellow, and his finger on the trigger." Then to the prisoner, "Stand, sir, or you will be reduced to the condition of a 'good Indian'!" Escape as yet appeared impossible, and Tooly must have finally come to a definite realization that he was in the hands of men who meant business, most earnestly. Bravado had ceased to figure in his conduct. It was apparent that the search for evidence was narrowing its field; the erstwhile minions of frontier justice were on the right scent. Tooly grew pallid of feature and his cheeks hollowed perceptibly, in a moment. There was a wild glare in his eyes, as they turned from side to side; fear, hatred, viciousness, mingled in every glance. He crouched, not designedly, but as if an involuntary action of the muscles drew him together. His fists were clenched; his mouth partly opened, as if he would speak, but could not. Thus he stood, half erect, while the officer searched his clothing. The examination disclosed that, secured in a buckskin belt, worn under his outer garments, there was English gold coin, to the value of five hundred dollars; just one-third of the amount that Mr. Wood declared he had lost at the time of the robbery. What became of the other two-thirds of Mr. Wood's money was readily inferred, but full proof of it was not necessary to this case. Tooly's trial was closed. The only instruction the court gave the jury was, "Gentlemen, you have heard the testimony and seen the evidence; what is your verdict?" The answer came, as the voice of one man, "Guilty." During the entire proceeding, at the post and down by the lake, the judge sat astride his mule. Addressing the prisoner once more from his elevated "bench," he said: "Mr. Tooly, you are found guilty of the murder of Mrs. Wood and her child, the wounding of Mr. Wood, and robbery of his wagon. Mr. Wood has from the first stated his belief that you were with, and the leader of, the band of Indians which attacked his party. You afterwards denied it; but now, in addition to his almost positive identification, and many circumstances pointing to your guilt, you are found with the fruits of that robbery on your person. Have you anything to say?" [Illustration: "'Stop,' shouted the Judge"] Tooly was ashy pale, and speechless. Absolute silence reigned for a time, as the court awaited the prisoner's reply, if by any means he could offer some explanation, some possible extenuating circumstance, that might affect the judgment to be pronounced. None came, and the judge continued: "You can have your choice, to be shot, or hanged to the uplifted tongue of a wagon. Which do you choose?" Tooly took the risk of immediate death, in seeking one last, desperate chance for life. Instantly he turned half around, crouched for a spring, and, seemingly by one single leap, went nearly past the rock-pile, so that it partly covered his retreat. Quick as his movements were, they were not swifter than those of the men whose duty was to prevent his escape. "Stop, Tooly," shouted the judge, sitting astride his mule, as his long right arm went out to a level, aiming his big Colt's revolver at the fleeing man. "Shoot, boys," commanded the sheriff at the same instant; a chorus of shots sounded, and the court's sentence was executed. Complying with the request of the judge, the sheriff had a hole dug near where the body lay, and the dead man was buried, _sans ceremonie_. The court returned to the trading post and requested the proprietor to state what he knew of Tooly. Mr. Black declared he only knew that the accused plainsman came to the post that day; that he bought and drank a considerable quantity of whisky, and offered to treat several passing emigrants, all of whom declined. The English gold found upon the prisoner was returned to Mr. Wood, and the incident was closed. The trial had been as orderly and impartial as the proceedings in any court established by constitutional authority. All those concerned in it realized that they were performing a duty of grave importance. There was nothing of vindictiveness, nothing of rashness. It was without "due process," and it was swift; a proceeding without the delays commonly due to technicalities observed in a legal tribunal; but it was justice conscientiously administered, without law--an action necessary under the circumstances. Its justification was fully equal to that of similar services performed by the Vigilance Committee, in San Francisco, within a year preceding. It was a matter the necessity of which was deplorable, but the execution of which was imposed upon those who were on the spot and uncovered the convincing facts. CHAPTER XII. NIGHT TRAVEL, FROM ARID WASTES TO LIMPID WATERS. From the Sink of the Humboldt the little Darby party wished to complete the trip by the Carson Route, thus separating from the majority, but their supplies were exhausted and they had now but one ox and one cow to draw their wagon. A suggestion, that those who could spare articles of food should divide with the needy, was no sooner made than acted upon. Sides of bacon, sacks of flour and other substantials were piled into their little vehicle, and the owners of the two oxen which had been loaned Darby simply said, "Take them along; you need them more than we do." Danny, alias "Gravy" Worley, being of that party, showed his delight, by sparkling eyes and beaming fat face, when he saw the abundance of edibles turned over to his people. Mr. Darby shed genuine tears of gratitude, as we bade them good-bye and drove away by another route. The combination train was further divided, each party shaping its farther course according to the location of its final stop. The Drennans took the Carson Route, the Maxwell train proceeding by the more northerly, Truckee, trail. The associations of the plains, closer cemented by the sharing of many hardships and some pleasures, had created feelings almost equal to kinship, more binding than those of many a life-long neighborhood relation. So there were deep regrets at parting. On leaving the Sink of the Humboldt there was before us a wholly desert section, forty miles wide. The course led southwesterly, over flat, barren lands, with a line of low hills, absolutely devoid of vegetation, on our right. This was known to be one of the hard drives of our long journey; but hearsay knowledge was also to the effect that, at its farther border, we would reach the Truckee River, and soon thereafter ascend the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The prospect of seeing again a river of _pure_ water, and fresh, green trees, had a buoyant effect on our lagging hopes; and these were further stimulated by the information that not long after entering these forest shades we would cross the State line into California. While crossing the forty miles of desert, the sun-baked silt, at the beginning, and later the deep, dry sand, made heavy going. To avoid the almost intolerable heat of day as much as possible, and it being known that water was not obtainable, during this much-dreaded bit of travel, we deferred the start until mid-afternoon, and traveled all night. The impressions of that night ride were most extraordinary. As the sun sank, and twilight shaded into night, the atmosphere was filled with a hazy dimness; not merely fog, nor smoke, nor yet a pall of suspended dust, but rather what one might expect in a blending of those three. Only a tinge of moonlight from above softened the dull hue. It was not darkness as night usually is dark. It was an impenetrable, opaque narrowing of the horizon, and closing in of the heavens above us; which, as we advanced, constantly shifted its boundary, retaining us still in the center of the great amphitheater of half-night. We could see one another, but beyond or above the encompassing veil all was mystery, even greater mystery than mere darkness. No moon nor stars visible; nothing visible but just part of ourselves, and ours. As the night merged into morning, the sunlight gradually dispelled the mantle of gloom from our immediate presence; but still we could not see out. As if inclosed in a great moving pavilion, on we went, guided only by the tracks of those who had gone before. In the after part of the night the loose cattle, having been for two nights and a day without water, and instinctively expecting an opportunity to drink, quickened their pace, passing the wagons; the stronger ones outgoing the weaker, till the drove was strung out two or three miles in length along the sandy trail. Some of the wise-heads in the company were fearful that the cattle, on reaching the Truckee River, would drink too much. They detailed Luke Kidd and me to ride on our mules ahead of the foremost of the stock, and on reaching the river, permit none of the animals to drink more than a little water at a time. We went ahead during all that long morning, following what was surely, to us, the longest night that ever happened, before or since. Most of the other members of our party were in the wagons, and they, except the drivers, slept soundly; rocked gently, very gently, by the slow grinding of the wheels in the soft, deep sand. But Luke and I, on our little mules, must keep awake, and alert as possible, in readiness to hold back the cattle from taking too much water. From midnight to daybreak seemed a period amounting to entire days and nights; from dawn till sunrise, an epoch; and from sunrise to the time of reaching the river, as a period that would have no end. As the sun finally rose behind us, the faintest adumbration of the nearest ridges of the Sierras was discerned, in a dim, blue scroll across the western horizon, far ahead--how far it was useless to guess; and later, patches of snow about the peaks. The minutes were as hours; and their passing tantalized us: noting how the dim view grew so very slowly into hazy outlines of mountains, and finally of tree-tops. On we labored, overcoming distance inch by inch; nodding in our saddles; occasionally dismounting, to shake off the almost overpowering grasp of sleep. Half awake, we dreamed of water, green trees, and fragrant flowers. Rising hope, anon, took the place of long-deferred fruition, and we forgot for a moment how hard the pull was; till, with returning consciousness of thirst and painful drowsiness, we saw the landscape ahead presented still another, and another line of sand-dunes yet to be overcome. Luke and I reached the Truckee at nine o'clock in the forenoon, just ahead of the vanguard of cattle, and about three miles in advance of the foremost wagon. We tried to regulate the cattle's consumption of water, but did not prevent their drinking all they could hold. Ten men, on ten mules, could not have stopped one cow from plunging into that river, once she got sight of it, and remaining as long as she desired. We could not even prevent the mules we rode from rushing into it--that cold, rippling Truckee. Yet our elders had sent us two boys to hold back a hundred cattle, and make them drink in installments--in homeopathic doses, for their stomachs' sake. They dashed into the stream _en masse_; and seeing the futility of interfering, we gladly joined the cattle, in the first good, long, cool swallow of clear, clean water, within a period of six weeks. Our little mules did not stop till they reached the middle of the river, and stuck their heads, ears and all, under the water. Luke's diminutive, snuff-colored beast was so overcome by the sight and feel of water that she lay down in it, with him astride, giving herself and her master the first real bath since the time that she did the same thing, in the Platte River, some three months previously. To us, the long-time sun-dried, thirsty emigrants; covered from head to foot with dust from the Black Hills, overlaid with alkali powder from the Humboldt, veneered with ashes of the desert; all ingrained by weeks of dermatic absorption, rubbed in by the wear of travel, polished by the friction of the wind--to us said the Truckee, flowing a hundred feet wide, transparent, deep, cool; rattling and singing and splashing over the rocks; and the sparkle of its crystal purity, the music of its flow and the joy of its song, repeated, "Come and take a drink." We filled our canteens and went back to meet the others. We found them in a line three miles long; and it was well into the afternoon when the last wagon reached the river. The train crossed to the farther shore, into the grateful shade of the pine forest and there made camp. What an enchanting spectacle was that scene of wooded hills, with its varying lights and shades, all about us! From as far as we could see, up the heights and down to the river bank, where their roots were washed in the cool water, the great trees grew. We were still within the confines of Nevada, but two men were there with a wagon-load of fresh garden stuff, brought over from the foothills of California to sell to the emigrants: potatoes, at fifty cents a pound, pickles, eight dollars a keg, and so on. We bought, and feasted. The camp that night by the Truckee River was the happiest of all. We had reached a place where green things grew in limitless profusion, where water flowed pure and free; and we were out of the desert and beyond the reach of the savage Redman. CHAPTER XIII. INTO THE SETTLEMENTS. HALT. Having begun the ascent of the lofty and precipitous east slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, one night about the first of September the camp-site selected was at a spot said to be directly on the boundary line between Nevada and California. Lounging after supper about a huge bonfire of balsam pine, the travelers debated the question whether we were really at last within the limits of the Mecca toward which we had journeyed so patiently throughout the summer. While so engaged, the stillness, theretofore disturbed only by the murmur of our voices and occasional popping of the burning logs, was further dispelled for a few seconds by sounds as of shifting pebbles on the adjacent banks, accompanied by rustling of the foliage, waving of tall branches and tree-tops, and a gentle oscillation of the ground on which we rested. These manifestations were new to our experience; but we had heard and read enough about the western country to hazard a guess as to the significance of the disturbance. "Jack," aroused from his first early slumber of that particular evening, raised himself on an elbow, and asserted, confidently: "That settles it; we _are_ in California: that was an earthquake." Appearing already to have caught the universal feeling of western people regarding the matter of "quakes," he chuckled, in contemplation of his own perspicacity, and calmly resumed his recumbent attitude, and his nap. The summit of the Sierras was reached within about two days from the commencement of the ascent. We met no people in these mountains until we had proceeded some distance down the westerly slope, and reached a mining camp, near a small, gushing stream, that poured itself over and between rocks in a tortuous gorge. The camp was a small cluster of rough shacks, built of logs, split boards and shakes. As if dropped there by accident, they were located without regard for any sort of uniformity. These were the bunk cabins of the miners; some of the diminutive structures being only of size sufficient to accommodate a cot, a camp-stool and a wash-basin. A larger cabin stood at about the center of the group, the joint kitchen and dining-room. As we drove into the "town," the only person within view was a Chinaman, standing at the door. For most of us this was a first introduction to one of the yellow race. He was evidently the camp cook. Major Crewdson approached the Celestial with the salutation: "Hello, John." "Belly good," was the reply. [Illustration: "'Melican man dig gold"] Having already heard it said that the invariable result of an untutored Chinaman's effort to pronounce any word containing an "r" produced the sound of "l" instead, we thought little of that error in the attempt of this one to say "Very," but believed that his substitution for the initial letter of that word was inexcusable. "What is the name of this place?" continued Crewdson. "'Melican man dig gold." "Yes, I know that; but, this town, what do you call it?" "Yu-ba Dam," the Chinaman answered. This response was intended to be civil. Near by the Yuba River was spanned by a dam, for mining purposes, known as Yuba Dam, which gave the mining camp its name. Further on we came to the first house that we saw in California; and it was the first real house within our view since the few primitive structures at Nebraska City, on the west shore of the Missouri River, faded from our sight, the preceding spring. During a period of about four months our company had traveled thousands of miles, through varying wilds, in all of which not one habitation, in form common to civilization, had been encountered. Seldom has civilized man journeyed a greater distance elsewhere, even in darkest Africa, without passing the conventional domicile of some member of his own race. Long ago such an experience became impossible in the United States. [Illustration: Pack-mule route to placer diggings] This house was a small wayside inn, situated where a miners' trail crossed the emigrant route; a roughly-made, two-story, frame building, with a corral adjoining; at which mule pack-trains stopped overnight, when carrying supplies from Sacramento and Marysville for miners working the gold placer diggings along the American and Yuba rivers. We camped beside the little hotel, and the next morning were for the first time permitted to enjoy a sample of the proverbially generous California hospitality, when the landlord invited our entire company into his hostelry for breakfast. Our entrance into California was in Nevada County, thence through Placer, Sacramento, Solano and Napa, and into Sonoma. Over the last one hundred miles we saw evidences that the valleys, great and small, were rapidly filling with settlers. The last stream forded was the Russian River, flowing southwesterly through Alexander Valley, to the sea. Having crossed to the western shore, our motley throng found itself in the settlement embracing the village of Healdsburg, an aggregation of perhaps a dozen or twenty houses. There our worn and weather-stained troop made its final halt; and the jaded oxen, on whose endurance and patient service so much--even our lives--had depended, were unyoked the last time, on September seventeenth, just four months after the departure from the Missouri River. Considering all the circumstances of the journey, through two thousand miles of diversified wilderness, during which we rested each night in a different spot; it seems providential that, on every occasion when the time came for making camp, a supply of water and fuel was obtainable. Without these essentials there would have been much additional suffering. Sometimes the supply was limited or inferior, sometimes both; especially during those trying times in the westerly portion of the Humboldt region; but we were never without potable water nor fire, at least for the preparation of our evening meal. Nature had prepared the country for this great overland exodus from the populous East; a most important factor in the upbuilding of the rich western empire, theretofore so little known, but whose development of resources and accession of inhabitants since have been the world's greatest marvel for more than half a hundred years. As I look back, through the lapse of nearly sixty years, upon that toilsome and perilous journey, notwithstanding its numerous harrowing events, memory presents it to me as an itinerary of almost continuous excitement and wholesome enjoyment; a panorama that never grows stale; many of the incidents standing out to view on recollection's landscape as clear and sharp as the things of yesterday. That which was worst seems to have softened and lapsed into the half-forgotten, while the good and happy features have grown brighter and better with the passing of the years. Whether pioneers in the most technical sense, we were early Californians, who learned full well what was meant by "Crossing the Plains." END. [Transcriber's Notes: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. The transcriber made changes as indicated to the text to correct obvious errors: 1. p. 15, awkardness --> awkwardness 2. p. 44, we though best --> we thought best 3. p. 45, knowldege --> knowledge 4. p. 68, maner --> manner 5. p. 74, consciouses --> consciousness 6. p. 103, characteristc --> characteristic 7. p. 114, unusal --> unusual 8. p. 149, "tenderfoot' --> "tenderfoot" 9. p. 153, "good Indian' --> 'good Indian' Several occurrences of mismatched quotes remain as published. Also, some illustrations have been repositioned to appear between paragraphs, causing some to move to a different page, but page numbers in the Contents remain as published. End of Transcriber's Notes] 
11146	----	[Illustration: S.O. HOUGHTON] THE EXPEDITION OF THE DONNER PARTY AND ITS TRAGIC FATE BY ELIZA P. DONNER HOUGHTON [Illustration: Eliza P. Donner Houghton] PREFACE Out of the sunshine and shadows of sixty-eight years come these personal recollections of California--of the period when American civilization first crossed its mountain heights and entered its overland gateways. I seem to hear the tread of many feet, the lowing of many herds, and know they are the re-echoing sounds of the sturdy pioneer home-seekers. Travel-stained and weary, yet triumphant and happy, most of them reach their various destinations, and their trying experiences and valorous deeds are quietly interwoven with the general history of the State. Not so, however, the "Donner Party," of which my father was captain. Like fated trains of other epochs whose privations, sufferings, and self-sacrifices have added renown to colonization movements and served as danger signals to later wayfarers, that party began its journey with song of hope, and within the first milestone of the promised land ended it with a prayer for help. "Help for the helpless in the storms of the Sierra Nevada Mountains!" And I, a child then, scarcely four years of age, was too young to do more than watch and suffer with other children the lesser privations of our snow-beleaguered camp; and with them survive, because the fathers and mothers hungered in order that the children might live. Scenes of loving care and tenderness were emblazoned on my mind. Scenes of anguish, pain, and dire distress were branded on my brain during days, weeks, and months of famine,--famine which reduced the party from eighty-one souls to forty-five survivors, before the heroic relief men from the settlements could accomplish their mission of humanity. Who better than survivors knew the heart-rending circumstances of life and death in those mountain camps? Yet who can wonder that tenderest recollections and keenest heartaches silenced their quivering lips for many years; and left opportunities for false and sensational details to be spread by morbid collectors of food for excitable brains, and for prolific historians who too readily accepted exaggerated and unauthentic versions as true statements? Who can wonder at my indignation and grief in little girlhood, when I was told of acts of brutality, inhumanity, and cannibalism, attributed to those starved parents, who in life had shared their last morsels of food with helpless companions? Who can wonder that I then resolved that, "When I grow to be a woman I shall tell the story of my party so clearly that no one can doubt its truth"? Who can doubt that my resolve has been ever kept fresh in mind, by eager research for verification and by diligent communication with older survivors, and rescuers sent to our relief, who answered my many questions and cleared my obscure points? And now, when blessed with the sunshine of peace and happiness, I am finishing my work of filial love and duty to my party and the State of my adoption, who can wonder that I find on my chain of remembrance countless names marked, "forget me not"? Among the many to whom I became greatly indebted in my young womanhood for valuable data and gracious encouragement in my researches are General William Tecumseh Sherman, General John A. Sutter, Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant, Mrs. Jessie Benton Frémont, Honorable Allen Francis, and C.F. McGlashan, author of the "History of the Donner Party." My fondest affection must ever cling to the dear, quaint old pioneer men and women, whose hand-clasps were warmth and cheer, and whose givings were like milk and honey to my desolate childhood. For each and all of them I have full measure of gratitude, often pressed down, and now overflowing to their sons and daughters, for, with keenest appreciation I learned that, on June 10, 1910, the order of Native Sons of the Golden West laid the corner stone of "Donner Monument," on the old emigrant trail near the beautiful lake which bears the party's name. There the Native Sons of the Golden West, aided by the Native Daughters of the Golden West, propose to erect a memorial to all overland California pioneers. In a letter to me from Dr. C.W. Chapman, chairman of that monument committee, is the following forceful paragraph: "The Donner Party has been selected by us as the most typical and as the most varied and comprehensive in its experiences of all the trains that made these wonderful journeys of thousands of miles, so unique in their daring, so brave, so worthy of the admiration of man." ELIZA P. DONNER HOUGHTON. Los Angeles, California, _September, 1911_. CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE PACIFIC COAST IN 1845--SPEECHES OF SENATOR BENTON AND REPORT OF CAPT. FRÉMONT--MY FATHER AND HIS FAMILY--INTEREST AWAKENED IN THE NEW TERRITORY--FORMATION OF THE FIRST EMIGRANT PARTY FROM ILLINOIS TO CALIFORNIA--PREPARATIONS FOR THE JOURNEY--THE START--ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF CIVILIZATION CHAPTER II IN THE TERRITORY OF KANSAS--PRAIRIE SCHOONERS FROM SANTA FÉ TO INDEPENDENCE, MO.--LIFE _en route_--THE BIG BLUE--CAMP GOVERNMENT--THE _Blue Rover_ CHAPTER III IN THE HAUNTS OF THE PAWNEES--LETTERS OF MRS. GEORGE DONNER--HALT AT FORT BERNARD--SIOUX INDIANS AT FORT LARAMIE CHAPTER IV FOURTH OF JULY IN AN EMIGRANT PARTY--OPEN LETTER OF LANSFORD HASTINGS--GEORGE DONNER ELECTED CAPTAIN OF PARTY BOUND FOR CALIFORNIA--ENTERING THE GREAT DESERT--INSUFFICIENT SUPPLY OF FOOD--VOLUNTEERS COMMISSIONED BY MY FATHER TO HASTEN TO SUTTER'S FORT FOR RELIEF CHAPTER V BEWILDERING GUIDE BOARD--SOUL-TRYING STRUGGLES--FIRST SNOW--REED-SNYDER TRAGEDY--HARDCOOP'S FATE CHAPTER VI INDIAN DEPREDATIONS--WOLFINGER'S DISAPPEARANCE--STANTON RETURNS WITH SUPPLIES FURNISHED BY CAPT. SUTTER--DONNER WAGONS SEPARATED FROM TRAIN FOREVER--TERRIBLE PIECE OF NEWS--FORCED INTO SHELTER AT DONNER LAKE--DONNER CAMP ON PROSSER CREEK. CHAPTER VII SNOWBOUND--SCARCITY OF FOOD AT BOTH CAMPS--WATCHING FOR RETURN OF MCCUTCHEN AND REED CHAPTER VIII ANOTHER STORM--FOUR DEATHS IN DONNER CAMP--FIELD MICE USED FOR FOOD--CHANGED APPEARANCE OF THE STARVING--SUNSHINE--DEPARTURE OF THE "FORLORN HOPE"--WATCHING FOR RELIEF--IMPOSSIBLE TO DISTURB THE BODIES OF THE DEAD IN DONNER CAMP--ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE OF FIRST RELIEF PARTY CHAPTER IX SUFFERINGS OF THE "FORLORN HOPE"--RESORT TO HUMAN FLESH--"CAMP OF DEATH"--BOOTS CRISPED AND EATEN--DEER KILLED--INDIAN _Rancheria_--THE "WHITE MAN'S HOME" AT LAST CHAPTER X RELIEF MEASURES INAUGURATED IN CALIFORNIA--DISTURBED CONDITIONS BECAUSE OF MEXICAN WAR--GENEROUS SUBSCRIPTIONS--THREE PARTIES ORGANIZE--"FIRST RELIEF," UNDER RACINE TUCKER; "SECOND RELIEF," UNDER REED AND GREENWOOD; AND RELAY CAMP UNDER WOODWORTH--FIRST RELIEF PARTY CROSSES SNOW-BELT AND REACHES DONNER LAKE CHAPTER XI WATCHING FOR THE SECOND RELIEF PARTY--"OLD NAVAJO"--LAST FOOD IN CAMP CHAPTER XII ARRIVAL OF SECOND RELIEF, OR REED-GREENWOOD PARTY--FEW SURVIVORS STRONG ENOUGH TO TRAVEL--WIFE'S CHOICE--PARTINGS AT DONNER CAMP--MY TWO SISTERS AND I DESERTED--DEPARTURE OF SECOND RELIEF PARTY CHAPTER XIII A FATEFUL CABIN--MRS. MURPHY GIVES MOTHERLY COMFORT--THE GREAT STORM--HALF A BISCUIT--ARRIVAL OF THIRD RELIEF--"WHERE IS MY BOY?" CHAPTER XIV THE QUEST OF TWO FATHERS--SECOND RELIEF IN DISTRESS--THIRD RELIEF ORGANIZED AT WOODWORTH'S RELAY CAMP--DIVIDES AND ONE HALF GOES TO SUCCOR SECOND RELIEF AND ITS REFUGEES; AND THE OTHER HALF PROCEEDS TO DONNER LAKE--A LAST FAREWELL--A WOMAN'S SACRIFICE CHAPTER XV SIMON MURPHY, FRANCES, GEORGIA, AND I TAKEN FROM THE LAKE CABINS BY THE THIRD RELIEF--NO FOOD TO LEAVE--CROSSING THE SNOW--REMNANT OF THE SECOND RELIEF OVERTAKEN--OUT OF THE SNOW--INCIDENTS OF THE JOURNEY--JOHNSON'S RANCH--THE SINCLAIR HOME--SUTTER'S FORT CHAPTER XVI ELITHA AND LEANNA--LIFE AT THE FORT--WATCHING THE COW PATH--RETURN OF THE FALLON PARTY--KESEBERG BROUGHT IN BY THEM--FATHER AND MOTHER DID NOT COME CHAPTER XVII ORPHANS--KESEBERG AND HIS ACCUSERS--SENSATIONAL ACCOUNTS OF THE TRAGEDY AT DONNER LAKE--PROPERTY SOLD AND GUARDIAN APPOINTED--KINDLY INDIANS--"GRANDPA"--MARRIAGE OF ELITHA CHAPTER XVIII "GRANDMA"--HAPPY VISITS--A NEW HOME--AM PERSUADED TO LEAVE IT CHAPTER XIX ON A CATTLE RANCH NEAR THE COSUMNE RIVER--"NAME BILLY"--INDIAN GRUB FEAST CHAPTER XX I RETURN TO GRANDMA--WAR RUMORS AT THE FORT--LINGERING HOPE THAT MY MOTHER MIGHT BE LIVING--AN INDIAN CONVOY--THE BRUNNERS AND THEIR HOME CHAPTER XXI MORAL DISCIPLINE--THE HISTORICAL PUEBLO OF SONOMA--SUGAR PLUMS CHAPTER XXII GOLD DISCOVERED--"CALIFORNIA IS OURS"--NURSING THE SICK--THE U.S. MILITARY POST--BURIAL OF AN OFFICER CHAPTER XXIII REAPING AND THRESHING--A PIONEER FUNERAL--THE HOMELESS AND WAYFARING APPEAL TO MRS. BRUNNER--RETURN OF THE MINERS--SOCIAL GATHERINGS--OUR DAILY ROUTINE--STOLEN PLEASURES--A LITTLE DAIRYMAID--MY DOGSKIN SHOES CHAPTER XXIV MEXICAN METHODS OF CULTIVATION--FIRST STEAMSHIP THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE--"THE ARGONAUTS" OR "BOYS OF '49"--A LETTER FROM THE STATES--JOHN BAPTISTE--JAKIE LEAVES US--THE FIRST AMERICAN SCHOOL IN SONOMA CHAPTER XXV FEVER PATIENTS FROM THE MINES--UNMARKED GRAVES--THE TALES AND TAUNTS THAT WOUNDED MY YOUNG HEART CHAPTER XXVI THANK OFFERINGS--MISS DOTY'S SCHOOL--THE BOND OF KINDRED--IN JACKET AND TROUSERS--CHUM CHARLIE CHAPTER XXVII CAPT. FRISBIE--WEDDING FESTIVITIES--THE MASTERPIECE OF GRANDMA'S YOUTH--SEÑORA VALLEJO--JAKIE'S RETURN--HIS DEATH--A CHEROKEE INDIAN WHO HAD STOOD BY MY FATHER'S GRAVE CHAPTER XXVIII ELITHA, FRANCES, AND MR. MILLER VISIT US--MRS. BRUNNER CLAIMS US AS HER CHILDREN--THE DAGUERREOTYPE CHAPTER XXIX GREAT SMALLPOX EPIDEMIC--ST. MARY'S HALL--THANKSGIVING DAY IN CALIFORNIA--ANOTHER BROTHER-IN-LAW CHAPTER XXX IDEALS AND LONGINGS--THE FUTURE--CHRISTMAS CHAPTER XXXI THE WIDOW STEIN AND LITTLE JOHNNIE--"DAUGHTERS OF A SAINTED MOTHER"--ESTRANGEMENT AND DESOLATION--A RESOLUTION AND A VOW--MY PEOPLE ARRIVE AND PLAN TO BEAR ME AWAY CHAPTER XXXII GRANDMA'S RETURN--GOOD-BYE TO THE DUMB CREATURES--GEORGIA AND I ARE OFF FOR SACRAMENTO CHAPTER XXXIII THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF SACRAMENTO--A GLIMPSE OF GRANDPA--THE RANCHO DE LOS CAZADORES--MY SWEETEST PRIVILEGE--LETTERS FROM THE BRUNNERS CHAPTER XXXIV TRAGEDY IN SONOMA--CHRISTIAN BRUNNER IN A PRISON CELL--ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT AT BENICIA--ROMANCE OF SPANISH CALIFORNIA--THE BEAUTIFUL ANGEL IN BLACK--THE PRAYER OF DONA CONCEPCION ARGUELLO REALIZED--MONASTIC RITES CHAPTER XXXV THE CHAMBERLAIN FAMILY, COUSINS OF DANIEL WEBSTER--JEFFERSON GRAMMAR SCHOOL--FURTHER CONFLICTING ACCOUNTS OF THE DONNER PARTY--PATERNAL ANCESTRY--S.O. HOUGHTON--DEATH TAKES ONE OF THE SEVEN SURVIVING DONNERS CHAPTER XXXVI NEWS OF THE BRUNNERS--LETTERS FROM GRANDPA CHAPTER XXXVII ARRIVAL OF THE FIRST PONY EXPRESS CHAPTER XXXVIII WAR AND RUMORS OF WAR--MARRIAGE--SONOMA REVISITED APPENDIX I ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN _The California Star_--STATISTICS OF THE PARTY--NOTES OF AGUILLA GLOVER--EXTRACT FROM THORNTON--RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN BAPTISTE TRUBODE II THE REED-GREENWOOD PARTY, OR SECOND RELIEF--REMINISCENCES OF WILLIAM G. MURPHY--CONCERNING NICHOLAS CLARK AND JOHN BAPTISTE III THE REPORT OF THOMAS FALLON--DEDUCTIONS--STATEMENT OF EDWIN BRYANT--PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES IV LEWIS KESEBERG INDEX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS S.O. Houghton Eliza P. Donner Houghton The Camp Attacked by Indians Our Stealthy Foes Governor L.W. Boggs Corral Such as was Formed by Each Section for the Protection of its Cattle Fort Laramie as it Appeared When Visited by the Donner Party Chimney Rock John Baptiste Trubode Frances Donner (Mrs. Wm. R. Wilder) Georgia Ann Donner (Mrs. W.A. Babcock) March of the Caravan United States Troops Crossing the Desert Pass in the Sierra Nevadas of California Camp at Donner Lake, November, 1846 Bear Valley, from Emigrant Gap The Trackless Mountains Sutter's Fort Sam Brannan's Store at Sutter's Fort Arrival of Relief Party, February 18, 1847 Donner Lake Arrival of the Caravan at Santa Fé On the Banks of the Sacramento River Elitha Donner (Mrs. Benjamin Wilder) Leanna Donner (Mrs. John App) Mary Donner George Donner, Nephew of Capt. Donner Papooses in Bickooses Sutter's Mill, Where Marshall Discovered Gold, January 19, 1848 Plaza and Barracks of Sonoma One of the Oldest Buildings in Sonoma Old Mexican Carreta Residence of Judge A.L. Rhodes, a Typical California House of the Better Class in 1849 Mission San Francisco Solano, Last of the Historic Missions of California Ruins of the Mission at Sonoma Gold Rocker, Washing Pan, and Gold Borer Scene During the Rush to the Gold Mines from San Francisco, in 1848 Post Office, Corner of Clay and Pike Streets, San Francisco 1849 Old City Hotel, 1846, Corner of Kearney and Clay Streets, The First Hotel in San Francisco Mrs. Brunner, Georgia and Eliza Donner S.O. Houghton, Member of Col. J.D. Stevenson's First Regiment of N.Y. Volunteers Eliza P. Donner Sacramento City in the Early Fifties Front Street, Sacramento City, 1850 Pines of the Sierras Col. J.D. Stevenson General John A. Sutter St. Catherine's Convent at Benicia, California Chapel, St. Catherine's Convent The Cross at Donner Lake General Vallejo's Carriage, Built in England in 1832 General Vallejo's Old Jail Alder Creek Dennison's Exchange and the Parker House, San Francisco View in the Grounds of the Houghton Home in San Jose The Houghton Residence in San Jose, California NOTE I wish to express my appreciation of the courtesies and assistance kindly extended me by the following, in the preparation of the illustrations for this book: Mr. Lynwood Abbott, "Burr-McIntosh Magazine," Mr. J.A. Munk, donor of the Munk Library of Arizoniana to the Southwest Museum, Mr. Hector Alliot, Curator of the Southwest Museum, the officers and attendants of the Los Angeles Public Library, Miss Meta C. Stofen, City Librarian, Sonoma, Cal., Miss Elizabeth Benton Frémont, Mr. C.M. Hunt, Editor "Grizzly Bear," the Dominican Sisters of St. Catherine's Convent at Benicia, Cal., and Mrs. C.C. Maynard. E.P.D.H. THE EXPEDITION OF THE DONNER PARTY CHAPTER I THE PACIFIC COAST IN 1845--SPEECHES OF SENATOR BENTON AND REPORT OF CAPT. FRÉMONT--MY FATHER AND HIS FAMILY--INTEREST AWAKENED IN THE NEW TERRITORY--FORMATION OF THE FIRST EMIGRANT PARTY FROM ILLINOIS TO CALIFORNIA--PREPARATIONS FOR THE JOURNEY--THE START--ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF CIVILIZATION. Prior to the year 1845, that great domain lying west of the Rocky Mountains and extending to the Pacific Ocean was practically unknown. About that time, however, the spirit of inquiry was awakening. The powerful voice of Senator Thomas H. Benton was heard, both in public address and in the halls of Congress, calling attention to Oregon and California. Captain John C. Frémont's famous topographical report and maps had been accepted by Congress, and ten thousand copies ordered to be printed and distributed to the people throughout the United States. The commercial world was not slow to appreciate the value of those distant and hitherto unfrequented harbors. Tales of the equable climate and the marvellous fertility of the soil spread rapidly, and it followed that before the close of 1845, pioneers on the western frontier of our ever expanding republic were preparing to open a wagon route to the Pacific coast. After careful investigation and consideration, my father, George Donner, and his elder brother, Jacob, decided to join the westward migration, selecting California as their destination. My mother was in accord with my father's wishes, and helped him to carry out his plan. At this time he was sixty-two years of age, large, fine-looking, and in perfect health. He was of German parentage, born of Revolutionary stock just after the close of the war. The spirit of adventure, with which he was strongly imbued, had led him in his youth from North Carolina, his native State, to the land of Daniel Boone, thence to Indiana, to Illinois, to Texas, and ultimately back to Illinois, while still in manhood's prime. By reason of his geniality and integrity, he was widely known as "Uncle George" in Sangamon County, Illinois, where he had broken the virgin soil two and a half miles from Springfield, when that place was a small village. There he built a home, acquired wealth, and took an active part in the development of the country round about. Twice had he been married, and twice bereft by death when he met my mother, Tamsen Eustis Dozier, then a widow, whom he married May 24, 1839. She was a native of Newburyport, Massachusetts. She was cultured, and had been a successful teacher and writer. Their home became the local literary centre after she was installed as its mistress. My father had two sons and eight daughters when she became his wife; but their immediate family circle consisted only of his aged parents, and Elitha and Leanna, young daughters of his second marriage, until July 8, 1840, when blue-eyed Frances Eustis was born to them. On the fourth of December, 1841, brown-eyed Georgia Ann was added to the number; and on the eighth of March, 1843, I came into this world. I grew to be a healthy, self-reliant child, a staff to my sister Georgia, who, on account of a painful accident and long illness during her first year, did not learn to walk steadily until after I was strong enough to help her to rise, and lead her to a sand pile near the orchard, where we played away the bright days of two uneventful years. With the approaching Winter of 1845 popular interest in the great territory to the west of us spread to our community. Maps and reports were eagerly studied. The few old letters which had been received from traders and trappers along the Pacific coast were brought forth for general perusal. The course of the reading society which met weekly at our home was changed, in order that my mother might read to those assembled the publications which had kindled in my father and uncle the desire to migrate to the land so alluringly described. Prominent among these works were "Travels Among the Rocky Mountains, Through Oregon and California," by Lansford W. Hastings, and also the "Topographical Report, with Maps Attached," by Captain Frémont, which has been already mentioned. _The Springfield Journal_, published by Mr. Allen Francis, appeared with glowing editorials, strongly advocating emigration to the Pacific coast, and its columns contained notices of companies forming in Southern and Southwestern States, each striving to be ready to join the "Great Overland Caravan," scheduled to leave Independence, Missouri, for Oregon, early in May, 1846. Mr. James F. Reed, a well-known resident of Springfield, was among those who urged the formation of a company to go directly from Sangamon County to California. Intense interest was manifested; and had it not been for the widespread financial depression of that year, a large number would have gone from that vicinity. The great cost of equipment, however, kept back many who desired to make the long journey. As it was, James F. Reed, his wife and four children, and Mrs. Keyes, the mother of Mrs. Reed; Jacob Donner, his wife, and seven children; and George Donner, his wife, and five children; also their teamsters and camp assistants,--thirty-two persons all told,--constituted the first emigrant party from Illinois to California. The plan was to join the Oregon caravan at Independence, Missouri, continue with it to Fort Hall, and thence follow Frémont's route to the Bay of San Francisco. The preparations made for the journey by my parents were practical. Strong, commodious emigrant wagons were constructed especially for the purpose. The oxen to draw them were hardy, well trained, and rapid walkers. Three extra yoke were provided for emergencies. Cows were selected to furnish milk on the way. A few young beef cattle, five saddle-horses, and a good watch-dog completed the list of live stock. After carefully calculating the requisite amount of provisions, father stored in his wagons a quantity that was deemed more than sufficient to last until we should reach California. Seed and implements for use on the prospective farms in the new country also constituted an important part of our outfit. Nor was that all. There were bolts of cheap cotton prints, red and yellow flannels, bright-bordered handkerchiefs, glass beads, necklaces, chains, brass finger rings, earrings, pocket looking-glasses and divers other knickknacks dear to the hearts of aborigines. These were intended for distribution as peace offerings among the Indians. Lastly, there were rich stores of laces, muslins, silks, satins, velvets and like cherished fabrics, destined to be used in exchange for Mexican land-grants in that far land to which we were bound. My mother was energetic in all these preparations, but her special province was to make and otherwise get in readiness a bountiful supply of clothing. She also superintended the purchase of materials for women's handiwork, apparatus for preserving botanical specimens, water colors and oil paints, books and school supplies; these latter being selected for use in the young ladies' seminary which she hoped to establish in California. A liberal sum of money for meeting incidental expenses and replenishing supplies on the journey, if need be, was stored in the compartments of two wide buckskin girdles, to be worn in concealment about the person. An additional sum of ten thousand dollars, cash, was stitched between the folds of a quilt for safe transportation. This was a large amount for those days, and few knew that my parents were carrying it with them. I gained my information concerning it in later years from Mr. Francis, to whom they showed it. To each of his grown children my father deeded a fair share of his landed estate, reserving one hundred and ten acres near the homestead for us five younger children, who in course of time might choose to return to our native State. As time went on, our preparations were frequently interrupted by social obligations, farewell visits, dinners, and other merrymakings with friends and kindred far and near. Thursday, April 15, 1846, was the day fixed for our departure, and the members of our household were at work before the rosy dawn. We children were dressed early in our new linsey travelling suits; and as the final packing progressed, we often peeped out of the window at the three big white covered wagons that stood in our yard. In the first were stored the merchandise and articles not to be handled until they should reach their destination; in the second, provisions, clothing, camp tools, and other necessaries of camp life. The third was our family home on wheels, with feed boxes attached to the back of the wagon-bed for Fanny and Margaret, the favorite saddle-horses, which were to be kept ever close at hand for emergencies. Early in the day, the first two wagons started, each drawn by three yoke of powerful oxen, whose great moist eyes looked as though they too had parting tears to shed. The loose cattle quickly followed, but it was well on toward noon before the family wagon was ready. Then came a pause fraught with anguish to the dear ones gathered about the homestead to say farewell. Each tried to be courageous, but not one was so brave as father when he bade good-bye to his friends, to his children, and to his children's children. I sat beside my mother with my hand clasped in hers, as we slowly moved away from that quaint old house on its grassy knoll, from the orchard, the corn land, and the meadow; as we passed through the last pair of bars, her clasp tightened, and I, glancing up, saw tears in her eyes and sorrow in her face. I was grieved at her pain, and in sympathy nestled closer to her side and sat so quiet that I soon fell asleep. When I awoke, the sun still shone, but we had encamped for the night on the ground where the State House of Illinois now stands. Mr. Reed and family, and my uncle Jacob and family, with their travelling equipments and cattle, were already settled there. Under father's direction, our own encampment was soon accomplished. By nightfall, the duties of the day were ended, and the members of our party gathered around one fire to spend a social hour. Presently, the clatter of galloping horses was heard, and shortly thereafter eight horsemen alighted, and with merry greetings joined our circle. They were part of the reading society, and had come to hold its last reunion beside our first camp-fire. Mr. Francis was among them, and took an inventory of the company's outfit for the benefit of the readers of _The Springfield Journal_. They piled more wood on the blazing fire, making it a beacon light to those who were watching from afar; they sang songs, told tales, and for the time being drove homesickness from our hearts. Then they rode away in the moonlight, and our past was a sweet memory, our future a beautiful dream. William Donner, my half-brother, came to camp early next morning to help us to get the cattle started, and to accompany us as far as the outskirts of civilization. We reached Independence, Missouri, on the eleventh of May, with our wagons and cattle in prime condition, and our people in the best of spirits. Our party encamped near that bustling frontier town, and were soon a part of the busy crowds, making ready for the great prairie on the morrow. Teams thronged the highways; troops of men, women, and children hurried nervously about seeking information and replenishing supplies. Jobbers on the street were crying their wares, anxious to sell anything or everything required, from a shoestring to a complete outfit for a four months' journey across the plains. Beads of sweat clung to the merchants' faces as they rushed to and fro, filling orders. Brawny blacksmiths, with breasts bared and sleeves rolled high, hammered and twisted red hot metal into the divers forms necessary to repair yokes and wagons. Good fellowship prevailed as strangers met, each anxious to learn something of those who might by chance become his neighbors in line. Among the pleasant acquaintances made that day, was Mr. J.Q. Thornton, a young attorney from Quincy, Illinois, who, with his invalid wife, was emigrating to Oregon. He informed us that himself and wife and ex-Governor Boggs and family, of Missouri, were hourly expecting Alphonso Boone, grandson of Daniel Boone; and that as soon as Boone and his family should arrive from Kentucky, they would all hasten on to join Colonel Russell's California company, which was already on the way, but had promised to await them somewhere on the Kansas River. It was then believed that at least seven thousand emigrant wagons would go West, through Independence, that season. Obviously the journey should be made while pasturage and water continued plentiful along the route. Our little party at once determined to overtake Colonel Russell and apply for admission to his train, and for that purpose we resumed travel early on the morning of May twelfth. As we drove up Main Street, delayed emigrants waved us a light-hearted good-bye, and as we approached the building of the American Tract Society, its agent came to our wagons and put into the hand of each child a New Testament, and gave to each adult a Bible, and also tracts to distribute among the heathen in the benighted land to which we were going. Near the outskirts of town we parted from William Donner, took a last look at Independence, turned our backs to the morning sun, and became pioneers indeed to the Far West. [Illustration: THE CAMP ATTACKED BY INDIANS] [Illustration: OUR STEALTHY FOES] CHAPTER II IN THE TERRITORY OF KANSAS--PRAIRIE SCHOONERS FROM SANTA FÉ TO INDEPENDENCE, MO.--LIFE _en route_--THE BIG BLUE--CAMP GOVERNMENT--THE _Blue Rover_. During our first few days in the Territory of Kansas we passed over good roads, and through fields of May blossoms musical with the hum of bees and the songs of birds. Some of the party rode horseback; others walked in advance of the train; but each father drove his own family team. We little folk sat in the wagons with our dolls, watching the huge white-covered "prairie schooners" coming from Santa Fé to Independence for merchandise. We could hear them from afar, for the great wagons were drawn by four or five span of travel-worn horses or mules, and above the hames of each poor beast was an arch hung with from three to five clear-toned bells, that jingled merrily as their carriers moved along, guided by a happy-go-lucky driver, usually singing or whistling a gleeful tune. Both man and beast looked longingly toward the town, which promised companionship and revelry to the one, and rest and fodder to the other. We overtook similar wagons, heavily laden with goods bound for Santa Fé. Most of the drivers were shrewd; all of them civil. They were of various nationalities; some comfortably clad, others in tatters, and a few in picturesque threadbare costumes of Spanish finery. Those hardy wayfarers gave us much valuable information regarding the route before us, and the Indian tribes we should encounter. We were now averaging a distance of about two and a half miles an hour, and encamping nights where fuel and water could be obtained. Early on the nineteenth of May we reached Colonel Russel's camp on Soldiers' Creek, a tributary of the Kansas River. The following account of the meeting held by the company after our arrival is from the journal of Mr. Edwin Bryant, author of "What I Saw in California": May 19, 1846. A new census of our party was taken this morning; and it was found to consist of 98 fighting men, 50 women, 46 wagons, and 350 cattle. Two divisions were made for convenience in travelling. We were joined to-day by nine wagons from Illinois belonging to Mr. Reed and Messrs. Donner, highly respectable and intelligent gentlemen with interesting families. They were received into the company by a unanimous vote. Our cattle were allowed to rest that day; and while the men were hunting and fishing, the women spread the family washings on the boughs and bushes of that well-wooded stream. We children, who had been confined to the wagon so many hours each day, stretched our limbs, and scampered off on Mayday frolics. We waded the creek, made mud pies, and gathered posies in the narrow glades between the cottonwood, beech, and alder trees. Colonel Russell was courteous to all; visited the new members, and secured their cheerful indorsement of his carefully prepared plan of travel. He was at the head of a representative body of pioneers, including lawyers, journalists, teachers, students, farmers, and day-laborers, also a minister of the gospel, a carriage-maker, a cabinet-maker, a stonemason, a jeweller, a blacksmith, and women versed in all branches of woman's work. The government of these emigrant trains was essentially democratic and characteristically American. A captain was chosen, and all plans of action and rules and regulations were proposed at a general assembly, and accepted or rejected by majority vote. Consequently, Colonel Russell's function was to preside over meetings, lead the train, locate camping ground, select crossings over fordable streams, and direct the construction of rafts and other expedients for transportation over deep waters. A trumpet call aroused the camp at dawn the following morning; by seven o'clock breakfast had been cooked and served, and the company was in marching order. The weather was fine, and we followed the trail of the Kansas Indians, toward the Big Blue. At nooning our teams stood in line on the road chewing the cud and taking their breathing spell, while families lunched on the grass in restful picnic style. Suddenly a gust of wind swept by; the sky turned a greenish gray; black clouds drifted over the face of the sun; ominous sounds came rumbling from distant hills, and before our effects could be collected and returned to cover, a terrific thunderstorm was upon us. We were three hours' distance from our evening camp-ground and our drivers had to walk and face that buffeting storm in order to keep control of the nervous cattle. It was still raining when we reached the knoll where we could spend the night. Our men were tired and drenched, some of them cross; fires were out of the question until fuel could be cut and brought from the edge of a swamp a mile from camp. When brought, the green wood smoked so badly that suppers were late and rather cheerless; still there was spirit enough left in those stalwart hearts to start some mirth-provoking ditty, or indulge in good-natured raillery over the joys and comforts of pioneering. Indians had followed our train all day, and as we had been warned against leaving temptation within reach, the cattle were corralled early and their guards doubled. Happily, the night passed without alarm or losses. The following day we were joined by ex-Governor Boggs and companions, and lost Mr. Jordan and friends of Jackson, Missouri, who drew their thirteen wagons out of line, saying that their force was strong enough to travel alone, and that Captain Russell's company had become too large for rapid or convenient handling. We covered fourteen miles that day over a beautiful rolling prairie, dotted with Indian lodges. Frequently their owners walked or rode beside our wagons, asking for presents. Mrs. Kehi-go-wa-chuck-ee was made happy by the gift of a dozen strings of glass beads, and the chief also kindly accepted a few trinkets and a contribution of tobacco, and provisions, after which he made the company understand that for a consideration payable in cotton prints, tobacco, salt pork, and flour, he himself and his trusted braves would become escort to the train in order to protect its cattle from harm, and its wagons from the pilfering hands of his tribesmen. His offer was accepted, with the condition that he should not receive any of the promised goods until the last wagon was safe beyond his territory. This bargain was faithfully kept, and when we parted from the Indians, they proceeded to immediate and hilarious enjoyment of the unwonted luxuries thus earned. We were now in line with spring storms, which made us victims of frequent downpours and cyclonic winds. The roads were heavy, and the banks of streams so steep that often the wagons had to be lowered by aid of rope and chain. Fortunately our people were able to take these trying situations philosophically, and were ever ready to enjoy the novelties of intervening hours of calm and sunshine. The staid and elderly matrons spent most of their time in their wagons, knitting or patching designs for quilts. The younger ones and the girls passed theirs in the saddle. They would scatter in groups over the plains to investigate distant objects, then race back, and with song and banter join husband and brother, driving the loose cattle in the rear. The wild, free spirit of the plain often prompted them to invite us little ones to seats behind them, and away we would canter with the breeze playing through our hair and giving a ruddy glow to our cheeks. Mr. Edwin Bryant, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, and my mother were enthusiastic searchers for botanical and geological specimens. They delved into the ground, turning over stones and scraping out the crevices, and zealously penetrated the woods to gather mosses, roots, and flowering plants. Of the rare floral specimens and perishable tints, my mother made pencil and water-color studies, having in view the book she was preparing for publication. On ascending the bluff overlooking the Big Blue, early on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of May, we found the river booming, and the water still rising. Driftwood and good sized logs were floating by on a current so strong that all hope of fording it vanished even before its depth was measured. We encamped on the slope of the prairie, near a timber of cottonwood, oak, beech, and sycamore trees, where a clear brook rushed over its stony bed to join the Big Blue. Captain Russell, with my father and other sub-leaders, examined the river banks for marks of a ford. By sunset the river had risen twenty inches and the water at the ford was two hundred yards in width. A general meeting was called to discuss the situation. Many insisted that the company, being comfortably settled, should wait until the waters receded; but the majority agreeing with the Captain, voted to construct a raft suitable to carry everything except the live stock, which could be forced to swim. The assembly was also called upon to settle a difference between two members of our Oregon contingent, friendly intervention having induced the disputants to suspend hostilities until their rights should be thus determined. The assembly, however, instead of passing upon the matter, appointed a committee to devise a way out of the difficulty. J.Q. Thornton's work, "Oregon and California," has this reference to that committee, whose work was significant as developed by later events: Ex-Governor Boggs, Mr. James F. Reed, Mr. George Donner, and others, myself included, convened in a tent according to appointment of a general assembly of the emigrants, with the design of preparing a system of laws for the purpose of preserving order, etc. We proposed a few laws without, however, believing that they would possess much authority. Provision was made for the appointment of a court of arbitrators to hear and decide disputes, and to try offenders against the peace and good order of the company. The fiercest thunderstorm that we had yet experienced raged throughout that night, and had we not been protected by the bluff on one side, and the timber on the other, our tents would have been carried away by the gale. The Big Blue had become so turbulent that work on the prospective craft was postponed, and our people proceeded to make the most of the unexpected holiday. Messrs. Grayson and Branham found a bee tree, and brought several buckets of delicious honey into camp. Mr. Bryant gathered a quantity of wild peas, and distributed them among the friends who had spices to turn them into sweet pickles. The evening was devoted to friendly intercourse, and the camp was merry with song and melodies dear to loved ones around the old hearthstones. Meanwhile, Captain Russell had drawn a plan of the craft that should be built, and had marked the cottonwood trees on the river bank, half a mile above camp, that would furnish the necessary materials. Bright and early the following morning, volunteer boat-builders went to work with a will, and by the close of day had felled two trees about three and a half feet in diameter, had hollowed out the trunks, and made of them a pair of canoes twenty-five feet in length. In addition to this, they had also prepared timbers for the frames to hold them parallel, and insure the wagon wheels a steady place while being ferried across the river. The workers were well satisfied with their accomplishment. There was, however, sorrow instead of rejoicing in camp, for Mrs. Reed's aged mother, who had been failing for some days, died that night. At two o'clock the next afternoon, she was buried at the foot of a monarch oak, in a neat cottonwood coffin, made by men of the party, and her grave was marked by a headstone. [Illustration: GOVERNOR L.W. BOGGS] [Illustration: CORRAL SUCH AS WAS FORMED BY EACH SECTION FOR THE PROTECTION OF ITS CATTLE] The craft being finished on the morning of the thirtieth of May, was christened _Blue Rover_, and launched amid cheers of the company. Though not a thing of beauty, she was destined to fulfil the expectations of our worthy Captain. One set of guide-ropes held her in place at the point of embarkation, while swimmers on horseback carried another set of ropes across the river and quickly made them fast. Only one wagon at a time could cross, and great difficulty was experienced in getting the vehicles on and off the boat. Those working near the bank stood in water up to their arm-pits, and frequently were in grave peril. By the time the ninth wagon was safely landed, darkness fell. The only unforeseen delay that had occurred was occasioned by an awkward slip of the third wagon while being landed. The _Blue Rover_ groaned under the shock, leaned to one side and swamped one of the canoes. However, the damage was slight and easily repaired. The next day was Sunday; but the work had to go on, and the Rev. Mr. Cornwall was as ready for it as the rest of the toilers. Much anxiety was experienced when the cattle were forced into the water, and they had a desperate struggle in crossing the current; but they finally reached the opposite bank without accident. Each family embarked in its own wagon, and the last was ferried over in the rain at nine o'clock that night. The ropes were then detached from the _Blue Rover_, and she drifted away in the darkness. Captain Russell had despatched matters vigorously and tactfully, and when the labors of that day were completed, still had a word of cheer for the shivering, hungry travellers, whom he led into camp one mile west of the memorable Big Blue. Despite stiff joints and severe colds, all were anxious to resume travel at the usual hour next day, June the first. CHAPTER III IN THE HAUNTS OF THE PAWNEES--LETTERS OF MRS. GEORGE DONNER--HALT AT FORT BERNARD--SIOUX INDIANS AT FORT LARAMIE. We were now near the haunts of the Pawnee Indians, reported to be "vicious savages and daring thieves." Before us also stretched the summer range of the antelope, deer, elk, and buffalo. The effort to keep out of the way of the Pawnees, and the desire to catch sight of the big game, urged us on at a good rate of speed, but not fast enough to keep our belligerents on good behavior. Before night they had not only renewed their former troubles, but come to blows, and insulted our Captain, who had tried to separate them. How the company was relieved of them is thus told in Mr. Bryant's Journal: June 2, 1846, the two individuals at variance about their oxen and wagon were emigrants to Oregon, and some eighteen or twenty wagons now travelling with us were bound to the same place. It was proposed in order to relieve ourselves from consequences of dispute in which we had no interest, that all Oregon emigrants should, in respectful manner and friendly spirit, be requested to separate themselves from the California, and start on in advance of us. The proposition was unanimously carried; and the spirit in which it was made prevented any bad feeling which otherwise might have resulted from it. The Oregon emigrants immediately drew their wagons from the corrals and proceeded on their way. The Oregon company was never so far in advance that we could not hear from it, and on various occasions, some of its members sent to us for medicines and other necessaries. Our fear of the Pawnees diminished as we proceeded, and met in their haunts only friendly Indians returning from the hunt, with ponies heavily laden with packs of jerked meats and dried buffalo tongues. At least one brave in each party could make himself understood by word or sign. Many could pronounce the one word "hogmeat," and would show what they had to exchange for the coveted luxury. Others also begged for "tobac," and sugar, and generally got a little. A surprising number of trappers and traders, returning to the United States with their stocks of peltry, camped near us from time to time. They were glad to exchange information, and kept us posted in regard to the condition of the migrants, and the number of wagons on the road in advance. These rough-looking fellows courteously offered to carry the company's mail to the nearest post-office. Mr. Bryant and my mother availed themselves of the kindness, and sent letters to the respective journals of which they were correspondents. Another means of keeping in touch with travelling parties in advance was the accounts that were frequently found written on the bleaching skulls of animals, or on trunks of trees from which the bark had been stripped, or yet again, on pieces of paper stuck in the clefts of sticks driven into the ground close to the trail. Thus each company left greetings and words of cheer to those who were following. Lost cattle were also advertised by that means, and many strays or convalescents were found and driven forward to their owners. Early June afforded rarest sport to lovers of the chase, and our company was kept bountifully supplied with choicest cuts of antelope, deer, and elk meat, also juicy buffalo steak. By the middle of the month, however, our surroundings were less favorable. We entered a region of oppressive heat. Clouds of dust enveloped the train. Wood became scarce, and water had to be stored in casks and carried between supply points. We passed many dead oxen, also a number of poor cripples that had been abandoned by their unfeeling owners. Our people, heeding these warnings, gave our cattle extra care, and lost but few. Through the kindness of the Hon. Allen Francis, U.S. Consul at Victoria, British Columbia, for a long term of years, and in his earlier career editor of _The Springfield Journal_, I have in my possession two letters written by my mother for this paper. They give a glimpse of the party _en route_. The interval of time which elapsed between the date of writing and that of publication indicates how much faster our trapper letter-carriers must have travelled on horseback than we had by ox train. The following was published on the twenty-third of July: NEAR THE JUNCTION OF THE NORTH AND SOUTH PLATTE, _June 16, 1846_ MY OLD FRIEND: We are now on the Platte, two hundred miles from Fort Laramie. Our journey so far has been pleasant, the roads have been good, and food plentiful. The water for part of the way has been indifferent, but at no time have our cattle suffered for it. Wood is now very scarce, but "buffalo chips" are excellent; they kindle quickly and retain heat surprisingly. We had this morning buffalo steaks broiled upon them that had the same flavor they would have had upon hickory coals. We feel no fear of Indians, our cattle graze quietly around our encampment unmolested. Two or three men will go hunting twenty miles from camp; and last night two of our men lay out in the wilderness rather than ride their horses after a hard chase. Indeed, if I do not experience something far worse than I have yet done, I shall say the trouble is all in getting started. Our wagons have not needed much repair, and I can not yet tell in what respects they could be improved. Certain it is, they can not be too strong. Our preparations for the journey might have been in some respects bettered. Bread has been the principal article of food in our camp. We laid in 150 pounds of flour and 75 pounds of meat for each individual, and I fear bread will be scarce. Meat is abundant. Rice and beans are good articles on the road; cornmeal, too, is acceptable. Linsey dresses are the most suitable for children. Indeed, if I had one, it would be acceptable. There is so cool a breeze at all times on the plains that the sun does not feel so hot as one would suppose. We are now four hundred and fifty miles from Independence. Our route at first was rough, and through a timbered country, which appeared to be fertile. After striking the prairie, we found a first-rate road, and the only difficulty we have had, has been in crossing the creeks. In that, however, there has been no danger. I never could have believed we could have travelled so far with so little difficulty. The prairie between the Blue and the Platte rivers is beautiful beyond description. Never have I seen so varied a country, so suitable for cultivation. Everything was new and pleasing; the Indians frequently come to see us, and the chiefs of a tribe breakfasted at our tent this morning. All are so friendly that I can not help feeling sympathy and friendship for them. But on one sheet what can I say? Since we have been on the Platte, we have had the river on one side and the ever varying mounds on the other, and have travelled through the bottom lands from one to two miles wide, with little or no timber. The soil is sandy, and last year, on account of the dry season, the emigrants found grass here scarce. Our cattle are in good order, and when proper care has been taken, none have been lost. Our milch cows have been of great service, indeed. They have been of more advantage than our meat. We have plenty of butter and milk. We are commanded by Captain Russell, an amiable man. George Donner is himself yet. He crows in the morning and shouts out, "Chain up, boys! chain up!" with as much authority as though he was "something in particular." John Denton is still with us. We find him useful in the camp. Hiram Miller and Noah James are in good health and doing well. We have of the best people in our company, and some, too, that are not so good. Buffaloes show themselves frequently. We have found the wild tulip, the primrose, the lupine, the eardrop, the larkspur, and creeping hollyhock, and a beautiful flower resembling the blossom of the beech tree, but in bunches as large as a small sugar loaf, and of every variety of shade, to red and green. I botanize and read some, but cook "heaps" more. There are four hundred and twenty wagons, as far as we have heard, on the road between here and Oregon and California. Give our love to all inquiring friends. God bless them. Yours truly, MRS. GEORGE DONNER. The following extract is part of a letter which appeared in _The Springfield Journal_ of July 30, 1846[1]: SOUTH FORK OF THE NEBRASKA, TEN MILES FROM THE CROSSING, _Tuesday, June 16, 1846_ DEAR FRIEND: To-day, at nooning, there passed, going to the States, seven men from Oregon, who went out last year. One of them was well acquainted with Messrs. Ide and Cadden Keyes, the latter of whom, he says, went to California. They met the advance Oregon caravan about 150 miles west of Fort Laramie, and counted in all, for Oregon and California (excepting ours), 478 wagons. There are in our company over 40 wagons, making 518 in all; and there are said to be yet 20 behind. To-morrow we cross the river, and, by reckoning, will be over 200 miles from Fort Laramie, where we intend to stop and repair our wagon wheels. They are nearly all loose, and I am afraid we will have to stop sooner, if there can be found wood suitable to heat the tires. There is no wood here, and our women and children are out now gathering "buffalo chips" to burn, in order to do the cooking. These chips burn well. MRS. GEORGE DONNER. On the eighteenth of June, Captain Russell, who had been stricken with bilious fever, resigned his office of leader. My father and other subordinate officers also resigned their positions. The assembly tendered the retiring officials a vote of thanks for faithful service; and by common consent, ex-Governor Boggs moved at the head of the train and gave it his name. [Illustration: FORT LARAMIE AS IT APPEARED WHEN VISITED BY THE DONNER PARTY] [Illustration: CHIMNEY ROCK] We had expected to push on to Fort Laramie without stopping elsewhere, but when we reached Fort Bernard, a small fur-trading post ten miles east of Fort Laramie, we learned that the Sioux Indians were gathering on Laramie Plain, preparing for war with the Crows, and their allies, the Snakes; also that the emigrants already encamped there found pasturage very short. Consequently, our train halted at this more advantageous point, where our cattle could be sent in charge of herders to browse along the Platte River, and where the necessary materials could be obtained to repair the great damage which had been done to our wagon wheels by the intense heat of the preceding weeks. Meanwhile, Messrs. Russell and Bryant, with six young bachelor friends, found an opportunity to finish their journey with pack animals. They exchanged with traders from New Mexico their wagons and teams for the requisite number of saddle-horses, mules, pack-saddles, and other equipment, which would enable them to reach California a month earlier than by wagon route. Both parties broke camp at the same hour on the last day of June, they taking the bridle trail to the right, and we turning to the left across the ridge to Fort Laramie. Not an emigrant tent was to be seen as we approached the fort, but bands of horses were grazing on the plain, and Indians smeared with war-paint, and armed with hunting knives, tomahawks, bows and arrows, were moving about excitedly. They did not appear to notice us as we drove to the entrance of the strongly fortified walls, surrounding the buildings of the American Fur Company, yet by the time we were ready to depart, large crowds were standing close to our wagons to receive the presents which our people had to distribute among them. Many of the squaws and papooses were gorgeous in white doe skin suits, gaudily trimmed with beads, and bows of bright ribbons. They formed a striking contrast to us, travel-stained wayfarers in linsey dresses and sun-bonnets. Most of the white men connected with the fort had taken Indian wives and many little children played around their doors. Mr. Bourdeau, the general manager at the fort, explained to us that the emigrants who had remained there up to the previous Saturday were on that day advised by several of the Sioux chiefs, for whom he acted as spokesman, "to resume their journey before the coming Tuesday, and to unite in strong companies, because their people were in large force in the hills, preparing to go out on the war-path in the country through which the travellers had yet to pass; that they were not pleased with the whites; that many of their warriors were cross and sulky in anticipation of the work before them; and that any white persons found outside the fort upon their arrival might be subject to robbery and other bad treatment." This advice of the chiefs had awakened such fear in the travellers that every camp-fire was deserted before sunrise the ensuing morning. We, in turn, were filled with apprehension, and immediately hurried onward in the ruts made by the fleeing wagons of the previous day. Before we got out of the country of the Sioux, we were overtaken by about three hundred mounted warriors. They came in stately procession, two abreast; rode on in advance of our train; halted, and opened ranks; and as our wagons passed between their lines, the warriors took from between their teeth, green twigs, and tossed them toward us in pledge of friendship, then turned and as quietly and solemnly as they had come to us, rode toward the hills. A great sigh of relief expressed the company's satisfaction at being again alone; still no one could feel sure that we should escape a night attack. Our trail led up into the hills, and we travelled late into the night, and were again on the way by morning starlight. We heard wolf yelps and owl hoots in the distance, but were not approached by prowlers of any kind. [Footnote 1: When Mr. Francis was appointed U.S. Consul by President Lincoln, he stored his flies of _The Springfield, Illinois, Journal_, and upon his return from Victoria, B.C., found the files almost destroyed by attic rodents, and my mother's earlier contributions in verse and prose, as well as her letters while _en route_ to California were practically illegible.] CHAPTER IV FOURTH OF JULY IN AN EMIGRANT PARTY--OPEN LETTER OF LANSFORD HASTINGS--GEORGE DONNER ELECTED CAPTAIN OF PARTY BOUND FOR CALIFORNIA--ENTERING THE GREAT DESERT--INSUFFICIENT SUPPLY OF FOOD--VOLUNTEERS COMMISSIONED BY MY FATHER TO HASTEN TO SUTTER'S FORT FOR RELIEF. On the second of July we met Mr. Bryant returning to prevail on some man of our company to take the place of Mr. Kendall of the bridle party, who had heard such evil reports of California from returning trappers that his courage had failed, and he had deserted his companions and joined the Oregon company. Hiram Miller, who had driven one of my father's wagons from Springfield, took advantage of this opportunity for a faster method of travel and left with Mr. Bryant. The following evening we encamped near the re-enforced bridle party, and on the morning of the Fourth Messrs. Russell and Bryant came over to help us to celebrate our national holiday. A salute was fired at sunrise, and later a platform of boxes was arranged in a grove close by, and by half-past nine o'clock every one in camp was in holiday attire, and ready to join the procession which marched around the camp and to the adjacent grove. There, patriotic songs were sung, the Declaration of Independence was read, and Colonel Russell delivered an address. After enjoying a feast prepared by the women of the company, and drinking to the health and happiness of friends and kindred in reverent silence, with faces toward the east, our guests bade us a final good-bye and godspeed. We had on many occasions entertained eastward-bound rovers whose varied experiences on the Pacific coast made them interesting talkers. Those who favored California extolled its excellence, and had scant praise for Oregon. Those who loved Oregon described its marvellous advantages over California, and urged home-seekers to select it as the wiser choice; consequently, as we neared the parting of the ways, some of our people were in perplexity which to choose. On the nineteenth of July we reached the Little Sandy River and there found four distinct companies encamped in neighborly groups, among them our friends, the Thorntons and Rev. Mr. Cornwall. Most of them were listed for Oregon, and were resting their cattle preparatory to entering upon the long, dry drive of forty miles, known as "Greenwood's Cut-off." There my father and others deliberated over a new route to California. They were led to do so by "An Open Letter," which had been delivered to our company on the seventeenth by special messenger on horseback. The letter was written by Lansford W. Hastings, author of "Travel Among the Rocky Mountains, Through Oregon and California." It was dated and addressed, "At the Headwaters of the Sweetwater: To all California Emigrants now on the Road," and intimated that, on account of war between Mexico and the United States, the Government of California would probably oppose the entrance of American emigrants to its territory; and urged those on the way to California to concentrate their numbers and strength, and to take the new and better route which he had explored from Fort Bridger, by way of the south end of Salt Lake. It emphasized the statement that this new route was nearly two hundred miles shorter than the old one by way of Fort Hall and the headwaters of Ogden's River, and that he himself would remain at Fort Bridger to give further information, and to conduct the emigrants through to the settlement. The proposition seemed so feasible, that after cool deliberation and discussion, a party was formed to take the new route. My father was elected captain of this company, and from that time on it was known as the "Donner Party." It included our original Sangamon County folks (except Mrs. Keyes and Hiram Miller), and the following additional members: Patrick Breen, wife, and seven children; Lewis Keseberg, wife, and two children; Mrs. Lavina Murphy (a widow) and five children; William Eddy, wife, and two children; William Pike, wife, and two children; William Foster, wife, and child; William McCutchen, wife, and child; Mr. Wolfinger and wife; Patrick Dolan, Charles Stanton, Samuel Shoemaker, ---- Hardcoop, ---- Spitzer, Joseph Rhinehart, James Smith, Walter Herron, and Luke Halloran. While we were preparing to break camp, the last named had begged my father for a place in our wagon. He was a stranger to our family, afflicted with consumption, too ill to make the journey on horseback, and the family with whom he had travelled thus far could no longer accommodate him. His forlorn condition appealed to my parents and they granted his request. All the companies broke camp and left the Little Sandy on the twentieth of July. The Oregon division with a section for California took the right-hand trail for Fort Hall; and the Donner Party, the left-hand trail to Fort Bridger. After parting from us, Mr. Thornton made the following note in his journal: July 20, 1846. The Californians were much elated and in fine spirits, with the prospect of better and nearer road to the country of their destination. Mrs. George Donner, however, was an exception. She was gloomy, sad, and dispirited in view of the fact that her husband and others could think of leaving the old road, and confide in the statement of a man of whom they knew nothing, but was probably some selfish adventurer. Five days later the Donner Party reached Fort Bridger, and were informed by Hastings's agent that he had gone forward as pilot to a large emigrant train, but had left instructions that all later arrivals should follow his trail. Further, that they would find "an abundant supply of wood, water, and pasturage along the whole line of road, except one dry drive of thirty miles, or forty at most; that they would have no difficult cañons to pass; and that the road was generally smooth, level, and hard." At Fort Bridger, my father took as driver for one of his wagons, John Baptiste Trubode, a sturdy young mountaineer, the offspring of a French father--a trapper--and a Mexican mother. John claimed to have a knowledge of the languages and customs of various Indian tribes through whose country we should have to pass, and urged that this knowledge might prove helpful to the company. The trail from the fort was all that could be desired, and on the third of August, we reached the crossing of Webber River, where it breaks through the mountains into the cañon. There we found a letter from Hastings stuck in the cleft of a projecting stick near the roadside. It advised all parties to encamp and await his return for the purpose of showing them a better way than through the cañon of Webber River, stating that he had found the road over which he was then piloting a train very bad, and feared other parties might not be able to get their wagons through the cañon leading to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. [Illustration: JOHN BAPTISTE TRUBODE] [Illustration: FRANCES DONNER (MRS. WM. R. WILDER)] [Illustration: GEORGIA ANN DONNER (MRS. W.A. BABCOCK)] He referred, however, to another route which he declared to be much better, as it avoided the cañon altogether. To prevent unnecessary delays, Messrs. Reed, Pike, and Stanton volunteered to ride over the new route, and, if advisable, bring Hastings back to conduct us to the open valley. After eight days Mr. Reed returned alone, and reported that he and his companions overtook Hastings with his train near the south end of Salt Lake; that Hastings refused to leave his train, but was finally induced to go with them to the summit of a ridge of the Wahsatch Mountains and from there point out as best he could, the directions to be followed. While exploring on the way back, Mr. Reed had become separated from Messrs. Pike and Stanton and now feared they might be lost. He himself had located landmarks and blazed trees and felt confident that, by making occasional short clearings, we could get our wagons over the new route as outlined by Hastings. Searchers were sent ahead to look up the missing men, and we immediately broke camp and resumed travel. The following evening we were stopped by a thicket of quaking ash, through which it required a full day's hard work to open a passageway. Thence our course lay through a wilderness of rugged peaks and rock-bound cañons until a heavily obstructed gulch confronted us. Believing that it would lead out to the Utah River Valley, our men again took their tools and became roadmakers. They had toiled six days, when W.F. Graves, wife, and eight children; J. Fosdick, wife, and child, and John Snyder, with their teams and cattle, overtook and joined our train. With the assistance of these three fresh men, the road, eight miles in length, was completed two days later. It carried us out into a pretty mountain dell, not the opening we had expected. Fortunately, we here met the searchers returning with Messrs. Pike and Stanton. The latter informed us that we must turn back over our newly made road and cross a farther range of peaks in order to strike the outlet to the valley. Sudden fear of being lost in the trackless mountains almost precipitated a panic, and it was with difficulty that my father and other cool-headed persons kept excited families from scattering rashly into greater dangers. We retraced our way, and after five days of alternate travelling and road-making, ascended a mountain so steep that six and eight yoke of oxen were required to draw each vehicle up the grade, and most careful handling of the teams was necessary to keep the wagons from toppling over as the straining cattle zigzaged to the summit. Fortunately, the slope on the opposite side was gradual and the last wagon descended to camp before darkness obscured the way. The following morning, we crossed the river which flows from Utah Lake to Great Salt Lake and found the trail of the Hastings party. We had been thirty days in reaching that point, which we had hoped to make in ten or twelve. The tedious delays and high altitude wrought distressing changes in Mr. Halloran's condition, and my father and mother watched over him with increasing solicitude. But despite my mother's unwearying ministrations, death came on the fourth of September. Suitable timber for a coffin could not be obtained, so his body was wrapped in sheets and carefully enclosed in a buffalo robe, then reverently laid to rest in a grave on the shore of Great Salt Lake, near that of a stranger, who had been buried by the Hastings party a few weeks earlier. Mr. Halloran had appreciated the tender care bestowed upon him by my parents, and had told members of our company that in the event of his death on the way, his trunk and its contents, and his horse and its equipments should belong to Captain Donner. When the trunk was opened, it was found to contain clothing, keepsakes, a Masonic emblem, and fifteen hundred dollars in coin. A new inventory, taken about this time, disclosed the fact that the company's stock of supplies was insufficient to carry it through to California. A call was made for volunteers who should hasten on horseback to Sutter's Fort, procure supplies and, returning, meet the train _en route_. Mr. Stanton, who was without family, and Mr. McCutchen, whose wife and child were in the company, heroically responded. They were furnished with necessaries for their personal needs, and with letters to Captain Sutter, explaining the company's situation, and petitioning for supplies which would enable it to reach the settlement. As the two men rode away, many anxious eyes watched them pass out of sight, and many heartfelt prayers were offered for their personal safety, and the success of their mission. In addressing this letter to Captain Sutter, my father followed the general example of emigrants to California in those days, for Sutter, great-hearted and generous, was the man to whom all turned in distress or emergencies. He himself had emigrated to the United States at an early age, and after a few years spent in St. Louis, Missouri, had pushed his way westward to California. There he negotiated with the Russian Government for its holdings on the Pacific coast, and took them over when Russia evacuated the country. He then established himself on the vast estates so acquired, which, in memory of his parentage, he called New Helvetia. The Mexican Government, however, soon assumed his liabilities to the Russian Government, and exercised sovereignty over the territory. Sutter's position, nevertheless, was practically that of a potentate. He constructed the well-known fort near the present site of the city of Sacramento, as protection against Indian depredations, and it became a trading centre and rendezvous for incoming emigrants. CHAPTER V BEWILDERING GUIDE BOARD--SOUL-TRYING STRUGGLES--FIRST SNOW--REED-SNYDER TRAGEDY--HARDCOOP'S FATE. Our next memorable camp was in a fertile valley where we found twenty natural wells, some very deep and full to the brim of pure, cold water. "They varied from six inches to several feet in diameter, the soil around the edges was dry and hard, and as fast as water was dipped out, a new supply rose to the surface."[2] Grass was plentiful and wood easily obtained. Our people made much of a brief stay, for though the weather was a little sharp, the surroundings were restful. Then came a long, dreary pull over a low range of hills, which brought us to another beautiful valley where the pasturage was abundant, and more wells marked the site of good camping grounds. Close by the largest well stood a rueful spectacle,--a bewildering guide board, flecked with bits of white paper, showing that the notice or message which had recently been pasted and tacked thereon had since been stripped off in irregular bits. In surprise and consternation, the emigrants gazed at its blank face, then toward the dreary waste beyond. Presently, my mother knelt before it and began searching for fragments of paper, which she believed crows had wantonly pecked off and dropped to the ground. Spurred by her zeal, others also were soon on their knees, scratching among the grasses and sifting the loose soil through their fingers. What they found, they brought to her, and after the search ended she took the guide board, laid it across her lap, and thoughtfully, began fitting the ragged edges of paper together and matching the scraps to marks on the board. The tedious process was watched with spell-bound interest by the anxious group around her. The writing was that of Hastings, and her patchwork brought out the following words: "2 days--2 nights--hard driving--cross--desert--reach water." This would be a heavy strain on our cattle, and to fit them for the ordeal they were granted thirty-six hours' indulgence near the bubbling waters, amid good pasturage. Meanwhile, grass was cut and stored, water casks were filled, and rations were prepared for desert use. We left camp on the morning of September 9, following dimly marked wagon-tracks courageously, and entered upon the "dry drive," which Hastings and his agent at Fort Bridger had represented as being thirty-five miles, or forty at most. After two days and two nights of continuous travel, over a waste of alkali and sand, we were still surrounded as far as eye could see by a region of fearful desolation. The supply of feed for our cattle was gone, the water casks were empty, and a pitiless sun was turning its burning rays upon the glaring earth over which we still had to go. Mr. Reed now rode ahead to prospect for water, while the rest followed with the teams. All who could walk did so, mothers carrying their babes in their arms, and fathers with weaklings across their shoulders moved slowly as they urged the famishing cattle forward. Suddenly an outcry of joy gave hope to those whose courage waned. A lake of shimmering water appeared before us in the near distance, we could see the wavy grasses and a caravan of people moving toward it. "It may be Hastings!" was the eager shout. Alas, as we advanced, the scene vanished! A cruel mirage, in its mysterious way, had outlined the lake and cast our shadows near its shore. Disappointment intensified our burning thirst, and my good mother gave her own and other suffering children wee lumps of sugar, moistened with a drop of peppermint, and later put a flattened bullet in each child's mouth to engage its attention and help keep the salivary glands in action. Then followed soul-trying hours. Oxen, footsore and weary, stumbled under their yokes. Women, heartsick and exhausted, could walk no farther. As a last resort, the men hung the water pails on their arms, unhooked the oxen from the wagons, and by persuasion and force, drove them onward, leaving the women and children to await their return. Messrs. Eddy and Graves got their animals to water on the night of the twelfth, and the others later. As soon as the poor beasts were refreshed, they were brought back with water for the suffering, and also that they might draw the wagons on to camp. My father's wagons were the last taken out. They reached camp the morning of the fifteenth. Thirty-six head of cattle were left on that desert, some dead, some lost. Among the lost were all Mr. Reed's herd, except an ox and a cow. His poor beasts had become frenzied in the night, as they were being driven toward water, and with the strength that comes with madness, had rushed away in the darkness. Meanwhile, Mr. Reed, unconscious of his misfortune, was returning to his family, which he found by his wagon, some distance in the rear. At daylight, he, with his wife and children, on foot, overtook my Uncle Jacob's wagons and were carried forward in them until their own were brought up. After hurriedly making camp, all the men turned out to hunt the Reed cattle. In every direction they searched, but found no clue. Those who rode onward, however, discovered that we had reached only an oasis in the desert, and that six miles ahead of us lay another pitiless barren stretch. Anguish and dismay now filled all hearts. Husbands bowed their heads, appalled at the situation of their families. Some cursed Hastings for the false statements in his open letter and for his broken pledge at Fort Bridger. They cursed him also for his misrepresentation of the distance across this cruel desert, traversing which had wrought such suffering and loss. Mothers in tearless agony clasped their children to their bosoms, with the old, old cry, "Father, Thy will, not mine, be done." It was plain that, try as we might, we could not get back to Fort Bridger. We must proceed regardless of the fearful outlook. After earnest consultation, it was deemed best to dig a trench and cache all Mr. Reed's effects, except such as could be packed into one wagon, and were essential for daily use. This accomplished, Messrs. Graves and Breen each loaned him an ox, and these in addition to his own ox and cow yoked together, formed his team. Upon examination, it was found that the woodwork of all the wagons had been shrunk and cracked by the dry atmosphere. One of Mr. Keseberg's and one of my father's were in such bad condition that they were abandoned, left standing near those of Mr. Reed, as we passed out of camp. The first snow of the season fell as we were crossing the narrow strip of land upon which we had rested and when we encamped for the night on its boundary, the waste before us was as cheerless, cold, and white as the winding sheet which enfolds the dead. At dawn we resumed our toilful march, and travelled until four o'clock the following morning, when we reached an extensive valley, where grass and water were plentiful. Several oxen had died during the night, and it was with a caress of pity that the surviving were relieved of their yokes for the day. The next sunrise saw us on our way over a range of hills sloping down to a valley luxuriant with grass and springs of delicious water, where antelope and mountain sheep were grazing, and where we saw Indians who seemed never to have met white men before. We were three days in crossing this magnificent stretch of country, which we called, "Valley of Fifty Springs." In it, several wagons and large cases of goods were cached by our company, and secret marks were put on trees near by, so that they could be recovered, should their owners return for them. While on the desert, my father's wagons had travelled last in the train, in order that no one should stray, or be left to die alone. But as soon as we reached the mountainous country, he took the lead to open the way. Uncle Jacob's wagons were always close to ours, for the two brothers worked together, one responding when the other called for help; and with the assistance of their teamsters, they were able to free the trail of many obstructions and prevent unnecessary delays. From the Valley of Fifty Springs, we pursued a southerly course over more hills, and through fertile valleys, where we saw Indians in a state of nudity, who looked at us from a distance, but never approached our wagons, nor molested any one. On the twenty-fourth of September, we turned due north and found the tracks of wagon wheels, which guided us to the valley of "Mary's River," or "Ogden's River," and on the thirtieth, put us on the old emigrant road leading from Fort Hall. This welcome landmark inspired us with renewed trust; and the energizing hope that Stanton and McCutchen would soon appear, strengthened our sorely tried courage. This day was also memorable, because it brought us a number of Indians who must have been Frémont's guides, for they could give information, and understand a little English. They went into camp with us, and by word and sign explained that we were still far from the sink of Mary's River, but on the right trail to it. After another long day's drive, we stopped on a mountain-side close to a spring of cold, sweet water. While supper was being prepared, one of the fires crept beyond bounds, spread rapidly, and threatened destruction to part of our train. At the critical moment two strange Indians rushed upon the scene and rendered good service. After the fire was extinguished, the Indians were rewarded, and were also given a generous meal at the tent of Mr. Graves. Later, they settled themselves in friendly fashion beside his fire and were soon fast asleep. Next morning, the Indians were gone, and had taken with them a new shirt and a yoke of good oxen belonging to their host. Within the week, Indians again sneaked up to camp, and stole one of Mr. Graves's saddle-horses. These were trials which made men swear vengeance, yet no one felt that it would be safe to follow the marauders. Who could know that the train was not being stealthily followed by cunning plunderers who would await their chance to get away with the wagons, if left weakly guarded? Conditions now were such that it seemed best to divide the train into sections and put each section under a sub-leader. Our men were well equipped with side arms, rifles, and ammunition; nevertheless, anxious moments were common, as the wagons moved slowly and singly through dense thickets, narrow defiles, and rugged mountain gorges, one section often being out of sight of the others, and each man realizing that there could be no concerted action in the event of a general attack; that each must stay by his own wagon and defend as best he could the lives committed to his care. No one rode horseback now, except the leaders, and those in charge of the loose cattle. When darkness obscured the way, and after feeding-time, each section formed its wagons into a circle to serve as cattle corral, and night watches were keenly alert to give a still alarm if anything unusual came within sight or sound. Day after day, from dawn to twilight, we moved onward, never stopping, except to give the oxen the necessary nooning, or to give them drink when water was available. Gradually, the distance between sections lengthened, and so it happened that the wagons of my father and my uncle were two days in advance of the others, on the eighth of October, when Mr. Reed, on horseback, overtook us. He was haggard and in great tribulation. His lips quivered as he gave substantially the following account of circumstances which had made him the slayer of his friend, and a lone wanderer in the wilderness. On the morning of October 5, when Mr. Reed's section broke camp, he and Mr. Eddy ventured off to hunt antelope, and were shot at a number of times by Indians with bows and arrows. Empty-handed and disappointed, the two followed and overtook their companions about noon, at the foot of a steep hill near "Gravelly Ford," where the teams had to be doubled for the ascent. All the wagons, except Pike's and Reed's, and one of Graves's in charge of John Snyder, had already been taken to the top. Snyder was in the act of starting his team, when Milton Elliot, driving Reed's oxen, with Eddy's in the lead, also started. Suddenly, the Reed and Eddy cattle became unmanageable, and in some way got mixed up with Snyder's team. This provoked both drivers, and fierce words passed between them. Snyder declared that the Reed team ought to be made to drag its wagon up without help. Then he began to beat his own cattle about the head to get them out of the way. Mr. Reed attempted to remonstrate with him for his cruelty, at which Snyder became more enraged, and threatened to strike both Reed and Elliot with his whip for interfering. Mr. Reed replied sharply that they would settle the matter later. This, Synder took as a threat, and retorted, "No, we'll settle it right here," and struck Reed over the head with the butt end of his whip, cutting an ugly scalp wound. Mrs. Reed, who rushed between the two men for the purpose of separating them, caught the force of the second blow from Snyder's whip on her shoulder. While dodging the third blow, Reed drew his hunting knife and stabbed Snyder in the left breast. Fifteen minutes later, John Snyder, with his head resting on the arm of William Graves, died, and Mr. Reed stood beside the corpse, dazed and sorrowful. Near-by sections were immediately called into camp, and gloom, consternation, and anger pervaded it. Mr. Reed and family were taken to their tent some distance from the others and guarded by their friends. Later, an assembly was convened to decide what should be done. The majority declared the deed murder, and demanded retribution. Mr. Eddy and others pleaded extenuating circumstances and proposed that the accused should leave the camp. After heated discussion this compromise was adopted, the assembly voting that Mr. Reed should be banished from the company. Mr. Reed maintained that the deed was not prompted by malice, that he had acted in self-defence and in defence of his wife; and that he would not be driven from his helpless, dependent family. The assembly promised that the company would care for his family, and limited his stay in camp. His wife, fearing the consequence of noncompliance with the sentence, begged him to abide by it, and to push on to the settlement, procure food and assistance, and return for her and their children. The following morning, after participating in the funeral rites over the lamented dead, Mr. Reed took leave of his friends and sorrowing family and left the camp. The group around my father's wagon were deeply touched by Mr. Reed's narrative. Its members were friends of the slain and of the slayer. Their sympathies clustered around the memory of the dead, and clung to the living. They deplored the death of a fellow traveller, who had manfully faced many hardships, and was young, genial, and full of promise. They regretted the act which took from the company a member who had been prominent in its organization, had helped to formulate its rules, and had, up to that unfortunate hour, been a co-worker with the other leading spirits for its best interests. It was plain that the hardships and misfortunes of the journey had sharpened the tempers of both men, and the vexations of the morning had been too much for the overstrained nerves. Mr. Reed breakfasted at our tent, but did not continue his journey alone. Walter Herron, one of my father's helpers, decided to accompany him, and after hurried preparations, they went away together, bearing an urgent appeal from my father to Captain Sutter for necessary teams and provisions to carry the company through to California, also his personal pledge in writing that he would be responsible for the payment of the debt as soon as he should reach the settlement. My father believed the two men would reach their destination long before the slowly moving train. Immediately after the departure of Messrs. Reed and Herron, our wagons moved onward. Night overtook us at a gruesome place where wood and feed were scarce and every drop of water was browned by alkali. There, hungry wolves howled, and there we found and buried the bleaching bones of Mr. Sallé, a member of the Hastings train, who had been shot by Indians. After his companions had left his grave, the savages had returned, dug up the body, robbed it of its clothing, and left it to the wolves. At four o'clock the following morning, October 10, the rest of the company, having travelled all night, drove into camp. Many were in a state of great excitement, and some almost frenzied by the physical and mental suffering they had endured. Accounts of the Reed-Snyder tragedy differed somewhat from that we had already heard. The majority held that the assembly had been lenient with Mr. Reed and considerate for his family; that the action taken had been largely influenced by rules which Messrs. Reed, Donner, Thornton, and others had suggested for the government of Colonel Russell's train, and that there was no occasion for criticism, since the sentence was for the transgression, and not for the individual. The loss of aged Mr. Hardcoop, whose fate was sealed soon after the death of John Synder, was the subject of bitter contention. The old man was travelling with the Keseberg family, and, in the heavy sand, when that family walked to lighten the load, he was required to do likewise. The first night after leaving Gravelly Ford, he did not come into camp with the rest. The company, fearing something amiss, sent a man on horseback to bring him in. He was found five miles from camp, completely exhausted and his feet in a terrible condition. The following morning, he again started with Keseberg, and when the section had been under way only a short time, the old man approached Mr. Eddy and begged for a place in some other wagon, saying he was sick and exhausted, and that Keseberg had put him out to die. The road was still through deep, loose sand, and Mr. Eddy told him if he would only manage to go forward until the road should be easier on the oxen, he himself would take him in. Hardcoop promised to try, yet the roads became so heavy that progress was yet slower and even the small children were forced to walk, nor did any one see when Mr. Hardcoop dropped behind. Mr. Eddy had the first watch that night, and kept a bright fire burning on the hillside in hopes that it would guide the belated into camp. Milton Elliot went on guard at midnight, and kept the fire till morning, yet neither sign nor sound of the missing came over that desolate trail. In vain the watchers now besought Keseberg to return for Hardcoop. Next they applied to Messrs. Graves and Breen, who alone had saddle horses able to carry the helpless man, but neither of them would risk his animals again on that perilous road. In desperation, Messrs. William Pike, Milton Elliot, and William Eddy proposed to go out afoot and carry him in, if the wagons would wait. Messrs. Graves and Breen, however, in language so plain and homely that it seemed heartless, declared that it was neither the voice of common sense, nor of humanity that asked the wagons to wait there in the face of danger, while three foolhardy men rushed back to look for a helpless one, whom they had been unable to succor on the previous day, and for whom they could make no provision in the future, even if they should succeed then in snatching him from the jaws of death. This exposition of undeniable facts defeated the plans of the would-be rescuers, yet did not quiet their consciences. When the section halted at noon, they again begged, though in vain, for horses which might enable them to do something for their deserted companion. My father listened thoughtfully to the accounts of that harrowing incident, and although he realized that death must have ended the old man's sufferings within a few hours after he dropped by the wayside, he could not but feel deeply the bitterness of such a fate. Who could peer into the near future and read between its lines the greater suffering which Mr. Hardcoop had escaped, or the trials in store for us? We were in close range of ambushed savages, lying in wait for spoils. While the company were hurrying to get into marching order, Indians stole a milch cow and several horses belonging to Mr. Graves. Emboldened by success, they made a raid on our next camp and stampeded a bunch of eighteen horned cattle belonging to Mr. Wolfinger and my father and Uncle Jacob, and also flesh-wounded several poor beasts with arrows. These were more serious hindrances than we had yet experienced. Still, undaunted by the alarming prospects before us, we immediately resumed travel with cows under yoke in place of the freshly injured oxen. [Footnote 2: Thornton.] CHAPTER VI INDIAN DEPREDATIONS--WOLFINGER'S DISAPPEARANCE--STANTON RETURNS WITH SUPPLIES FURNISHED BY CAPTAIN SUTTER--DONNER WAGONS SEPARATED FROM TRAIN FOREVER--TERRIBLE PIECE OF NEWS--FORCED INTO SHELTER AT DONNER LAKE--DONNER CAMP ON PROSSER CREEK. All who managed to get beyond the sink of Ogden's River before midnight of October 12, reached Geyser Springs without further molestation, but the belated, who encamped at the sink were surprised at daylight by the Indians, who, while the herders were hurriedly taking a cup of coffee, swooped down and killed twenty-one head of cattle. Among the number were all of Mr. Eddy's stock, except an ox and a cow that would not work together. Maddened by his appalling situation, Eddy called for vengeance on his despoilers, and would have rushed to certain death, if the breaking of the lock of his rifle at the start had not stopped him. Sullen and dejected, he cached the contents of his wagons, and with a meagre supply of food in a pack on his back, he and his wife, each carrying a child, set forth to finish the journey on foot. To add to their discomfort, they saw Indians on adjacent hills dancing and gesticulating in savage delight. In relating the above occurrence after the journey was finished, Mr. Eddy declared that no language could portray the desolation and heartsick feeling, nor the physical and mental torture which he and his wife experienced while travelling between the sink of Ogden's River and the Geyser Springs.[3] It was during that trying week that Mr. Wolfinger mysteriously disappeared. At the time, he and Keseberg, with their wagons, were at the rear of the train, and their wives were walking in advance with other members of the company. When camp was made, those two wagons were not in sight, and after dark the alarmed wives prevailed on friends to go in search of their missing husbands. The searchers shortly found Keseberg leisurely driving toward camp. He assured them that Wolfinger was not far behind him, so they returned without further search. All night the frantic wife listened for the sound of the coming of her husband, and so poignant was her grief that at break of day, William Graves, Jr., and two companions went again in search of Mr. Wolfinger. Five or six miles from camp, they came upon his tenantless wagon, with the oxen unhooked and feeding on the trail near-by. Nothing in the wagon had been disturbed, nor did they find any sign of struggle, or of Indians. After a diligent search for the missing man, his wagon and team was brought to camp and restored to Mrs. Wolfinger, and she was permitted to believe that her husband had been murdered by Indians and his body carried off. Nevertheless, some suspected Keseberg of having had a hand in his disappearance, as he knew that Mr. Wolfinger carried a large sum of money on his person. Three days later Rhinehart and Spitzer, who had not been missed, came into camp, and Mrs. Wolfinger was startled to recognize her husband's gun in their possession. They explained that they were in the wagon with Mr. Wolfinger when the Indians rushed upon them, drove them off, killed Wolfinger and burned the wagon. My father made a note of this conflicting statement to help future investigation of the case. At Geyser Springs, the company cached valuable goods, among them several large cases of books and other heavy articles belonging to my father. As will be seen later, the load in our family wagon thus lightened through pity for our oxen, also lessened the severity of an accident which otherwise might have been fatal to Georgia and me. On the nineteenth of October, near the present site of Wadsworth, Nevada, we met Mr. Stanton returning from Sutter's Fort with two Indian herders driving seven mules, laden with flour and jerked beef. Their arrival was hailed with great joy, and after a brief consultation with my father, Stanton and his Indians continued toward the rear, in order to distribute first to those most in need of provisions, also that the pack animals might be the sooner set apart to the use of those whose teams had given out, or had been destroyed by Indians. [Illustration: MARCH OF THE CARAVAN] [Illustration: UNITED STATES TROOPS CROSSING THE DESERT] Mr. Stanton had left Mr. McCutchen sick at Sutter's Fort. He brought information also concerning Messrs. Reed and Herron, whom he had met in the Sacramento valley. At the time of meeting, they were quite a distance from the settlement, had been without food three days, and Mr. Reed's horse was completely worn out. Mr. Stanton had furnished Mr. Reed with a fresh mount, and provisions enough to carry both men to Sutter's Fort. In camp that night, Mr. Stanton outlined our course to the settlement, and in compliance with my father's earnest wish, consented to lead the train across the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Frost in the air and snow on the distant peaks warned us against delays; yet, notwithstanding the need of haste, we were obliged to rest our jaded teams. Three yoke of oxen had died from exhaustion within a week, and several of those remaining were not in condition to ascend the heavy grades before them. On the twentieth, Mr. Pike met death in his own tent by the accidental discharge of a six-shooter in the hands of Mr. Foster, his brother-in-law. He left a young wife, and two small children, Naomi, three years of age, and Catherine, a babe in arms. His loss was keenly felt by the company, for he was highly esteemed. We broke camp on the twenty-second, and my father and uncle took our wagons to the rear of the train in order to favor our cattle, and also to be near families whose teams might need help in getting up the mountains. That day we crossed the Truckee River for the forty-ninth and last time in eighty miles, and encamped for the night at the top of a high hill, where we received our last experience of Indian cruelty. The perpetrator was concealed behind a willow, and with savage vim and well trained hand, sent nineteen arrows whizzing through the air, and each arrow struck a different ox. Mr. Eddy caught him in the act; and as he turned to flee, the white man's rifle ball struck him between the shoulders and pierced his body. With a spring into the air and an agonizing shriek, he dropped lifeless into the bushes below. Strange, but true, not an ox was seriously hurt! The train took the trail early next morning, expecting to cross the summit of the Sierras and reach California in less than two weeks. The following circumstances, which parted us forever from the train which father had led through so many difficulties, were told me by my sister, Mrs. Elitha C. Wilder, now of Bruceville, California: Our five Donner wagons, and Mrs. Wolfinger's wagon, were a day or more behind the train, and between twelve and sixteen miles from the spot where we later made our winter camp, when an accident happened which nearly cost us your life, and indirectly prevented our rejoining the train. Your mother and Frances were walking on ahead; you and Georgia were asleep in the wagon; and father was walking beside it, down a steep hill. It had almost reached the base of the incline when the axle to the fore wheels broke, and the wagon tipped over on the side, tumbling its contents upon you two children. Father and uncle, in great alarm, rushed to your rescue. Georgia was soon hauled out safely through the opening in the back of the wagon sheets, but you were nowhere in sight, and father was sure you were smothering because you did not answer his call. They worked breathlessly getting things out, and finally uncle came to your limp form. You could not have lasted much longer, they said. How thankful we all were that our heaviest boxes had been cached at Geyser Springs! Much as we felt the shock, there was little time for self-indulgence. Never were moments of greater importance; for while father and uncle were hewing a new axle, two men came from the head of the company to tell about the snow. It was a terrible piece of news! Those men reported that on the twenty-eighth of that month the larger part of the train had reached a deserted cabin near Truckee Lake (the sheet of water now known as Donner Lake) at the foot of Frémont's Pass in the main chain of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The following morning they had proceeded to within three miles of the summit; but finding snow there five feet in depth, the trail obliterated, and no place for making camp, they were obliged to return to the spot they had left early in the day. There, they said, the company had assembled to discuss the next move, and great confusion prevailed as the excited members gave voice to their bitterest fears. Some proposed to abandon the wagons and make the oxen carry out the children and provisions; some wanted to take the children and rations and start out on foot; and some sat brooding in dazed silence through the long night. The messengers further stated that on the thirtieth, with Stanton as leader, and despite the falling sleet and snow, the forward section of the party united in another desperate effort to cross the summit, but encountered deeper drifts and greater difficulties. As darkness crept over the whitened waste, wagons became separated and lodged in the snow; and all had to cling to the mountain-side until break of day, when the train again returned to its twice abandoned camp, having been compelled, however, to leave several of the wagons where they had become stalled. The report concluded with the statement that the men at once began log-cutting for cabins in which the company might have to pass the winter. After the messengers left, and as father and Uncle Jacob were hastening preparations for our own departure, new troubles beset us. Uncle was giving the finishing touches to the axle, when the chisel he was using slipped from his grasp, and its keen edge struck and made a serious wound across the back of father's right hand which was steadying the timber. The crippled hand was carefully dressed, and to quiet uncle's fears and discomfort, father made light of the accident, declaring that they had weightier matters for consideration than cuts and bruises. The consequences of that accident, however, were far more wide-reaching than could have been anticipated. Up and up we toiled until we reached an altitude of six thousand feet, and were within about ten miles of our companions at the lake, when the intense cold drove us into camp on Prosser Creek in Alder Creek Valley, a picturesque and sheltered nook two and a half miles in length and three-quarters of a mile in width. But no one observed the picturesque grandeur of the forest-covered mountains which hem it in on the north and west; nor that eastward and southward it looks out across plateaus to the Washoe Mountains twenty miles away. A piercing wind was driving storm-clouds toward us, and those who understood their threatening aspect realized that twenty-one persons, eight of them helpless children, were there at the mercy of the pitiless storm-king. The teams were hurriedly unhooked, the tents pitched, and the men and the women began collecting material for more suitable quarters. Some felled trees, some lopped off the branches, and some, with oxen, dragged the logs into position. There was enough building material on the ground for a good sized foundation four logs deep, when night stopped the work. The moon and stars came out before we went to bed, yet the following morning the ground was covered with snow two or three feet in depth, which had to be shovelled from the exposed beds before their occupants could rise. I remember well that new day. All plans for log cabins had to be abandoned. There was no sheltered nook for shivering children, so father lifted Georgia and me on to a log, and mother tucked a buffalo robe around us, saying, "Sit here until we have a better place for you." There we sat snug and dry, chatting and twisting our heads about, watching the hurrying, anxious workers. Those not busy at the wagons were helping the builders to construct a permanent camp. They cleared a space under a tall pine tree and reset the tent a few feet south of its trunk, facing the sunrise. Then, following the Indian method as described by John Baptiste, a rude semi-circular hut of poles was added to the tent, the tree-trunk forming part of its north wall, and its needled boughs, the rafters and cross-pieces to the roof. The structure was overlaid so far as possible with pieces of cloth, old quilts, and buffalo robes, then with boughs and branches of pine and tamarack. A hollow was scooped in the ground near the tree for a fireplace, and an opening in the top served as chimney and ventilator. One opening led into the tent and another served as an outer door. To keep the beds off the wet earth, two rows of short posts were driven along the sides in the tent, and poles were laid across the tops, thus forming racks to support the pine boughs upon which the beds should be made. While this was being done, Elitha, Leanna, and Mrs. Wolfinger were bringing poles and brush with which to strengthen and sheath the tent walls against wind and weather. Even Sister Frances looked tall and helpful as she trudged by with her little loads. The combination of tent and hut was designed for my father and family and Mrs. Wolfinger. The teamsters, Samuel Shoemaker, Joseph Rhinehart, James Smith, and John Baptiste, built their hut in Indian wigwam fashion. Not far from us, across the stream, braced against a log, was reared a mixed structure of brush and tent for use of Uncle Jacob, Aunt Betsy, and William and Solomon Hook (Aunt Betsy's sons by a former husband), and their five small children, George, Mary, Isaac, Lewis, and Samuel Donner. Before we two could leave our perch, the snow was falling faster and in larger flakes. It made pictures for Georgia and me upon the branches of big and little trees; it gathered in a ridge beside us upon the log; it nestled in piles upon our buffalo robe; and by the time our quarters were finished, it was veiling Uncle Jacob's from view. Everything within was cold, damp, and dreary, until our tired mother and elder sisters built the fire, prepared our supper, and sent us to bed, each with a lump of loaf sugar as comforter. [Footnote 3: Thornton.] CHAPTER VII SNOWBOUND--SCARCITY OF FOOD AT BOTH CAMPS--WATCHING FOR RETURN OF M'CUTCHEN AND REED. When we awoke the following morning, little heaps of snow lay here and there upon the floor. No threshold could be seen, only a snow-bank reaching up to the white plain beyond, where every sound was muffled, and every object was blurred by falling flakes. Father's face was very grave. His morning caress had all its wonted tenderness, but the merry twinkle was gone from his eye, and the gladsome note from his voice. For eight consecutive days, the fatal snow fell with but few short intermissions. Eight days, in which there was nothing to break the monotony of torturing, inactive endurance, except the necessity of gathering wood, keeping the fires, and cutting anew the steps which led upward, as the snow increased in depth. Hope well-nigh died within us. All in camp fared alike, and all were on short rations. Three of our men became dispirited, said that they were too weak and hungry to gather wood, and did not care how soon death should put an end to their miseries. The out-of-door duties would have fallen wholly upon my Aunt Betsy's two sons and on John Baptiste and on my crippled father, had the women lost their fortitude. They, however, hid their fears from their children, even from each other, and helped to gather fuel, hunt cattle, and keep camp. Axes were dull, green wood was hard to cut, and harder to carry, whether through loose, dry snow, or over crusts made slippery by sleet and frost. Cattle tracks were covered over. Some of the poor creatures had perished under bushes where they sought shelter. A few had become bewildered and strayed; others were found under trees in snow pits, which they themselves had made by walking round and round the trunks to keep from being snowed under. These starvelings were shot to end their sufferings, and also with the hope that their hides and fleshless bones might save the lives of our snow-beleaguered party. Every part of the animals was saved for food. The locations of the carcasses were marked so that they could be brought piece by piece into camp; and even the green hides were spread against the huts to serve in case of need. After the storm broke, John Baptiste was sent with a letter from my mother to the camp near the lake. He was absent a number of days, for upon his arrival there, he found a party of fourteen ready to start next morning, on foot, across the summit. He joined it, but after two days of vain effort, the party returned to camp, and he came back to us with an answer to the letter he had delivered. We then learned that most of those at the lake were better housed than we. Some in huts, and the rest in three log structures, which came to be known respectively as the Murphy, Graves, and Breen cabins. The last mentioned was the relic of earlier travellers[4] and had been grizzled by the storms of several winters. Yet, despite their better accommodations, our companions at the lake were harassed by fears like ours. They too were short of supplies. The game had left the mountains, and the fish in the lake would not bite. Different parties, both with and without children, had repeatedly endeavored to force their way out of that wilderness of snow, but each in turn had become confused, and unconsciously moved in a circle back to camp. Several persons had become snow-blind. Every landmark was lost, even to Stanton, who had twice crossed the range. All now looked to the coming of McCutchen and Reed for deliverance. We had every reason to expect them soon, for each had left his family with the company, and had promised to return with succor. Moreover, Stanton had brought tidings that the timely assistance of himself and comrade had enabled Reed to reach Sutter's Fort in safety; and that McCutchen would have accompanied him back, had he not been detained by illness. Well, indeed, was it that we could not know that at the very time we were so anxiously awaiting their arrival, those two men, after struggling desperately to cross the snows, were finally compelled to abandon the attempt, bury the precious food they had striven to bring us, and return to the settlement. It was also well that we were unaware of their baffling fears, when the vigorous efforts incited by the memorial presented by Reed to Commodore Stockton, the military Governor of California, were likewise frustrated by mountain storms. [Footnote 4: Built by Townsend party in 1844. See McGlashan's "History of the Donner Party."] CHAPTER VIII ANOTHER STORM--FOUR DEATHS IN DONNER CAMP--FIELD MICE USED FOR FOOD--CHANGED APPEARANCE OF THE STARVING--SUNSHINE--DEPARTURE OF THE "FORLORN HOPE"--WATCHING FOR RELIEF--IMPOSSIBLE TO DISTURB THE BODIES OF THE DEAD IN DONNER CAMP--ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE OF THE FIRST RELIEF PARTY. Meanwhile with us in the Sierras, November ended with four days and nights of continuous snow, and December rushed in with a wild, shrieking storm of wind, sleet, and rain, which ceased on the third. The weather remained clear and cold until the ninth, when Milton Elliot and Noah James came on snowshoes to Donner's camp, from the lake cabins, to ascertain if their captain was still alive, and to report the condition of the rest of the company. Before morning, another terrific storm came swirling and whistling down our snowy stairway, making fires unsafe, freezing every drop of water about the camp, and shutting us in from the light of heaven. Ten days later Milton Elliot alone fought his way back to the lake camp with these tidings: "Jacob Donner, Samuel Shoemaker, Joseph Rhinehart, and James Smith are dead, and the others in a low condition."[5] Uncle Jacob, the first to die, was older than my father, and had been in miserable health for years before we left Illinois. He had gained surprisingly on the journey, yet quickly felt the influence of impending fate, foreshadowed by the first storm at camp. His courage failed. Complete prostration followed. My father and mother watched with him during the last night, and the following afternoon helped to lay his body in a cave dug in the mountain side, beneath the snow. That snow had scarcely resettled when Samuel Shoemaker's life ebbed away in happy delirium. He imagined himself a boy again in his father's house and thought his mother had built a fire and set before him the food of which he was fondest. But when Joseph Rhinehart's end drew near, his mind wandered, and his whitening lips confessed a part in Mr. Wolfinger's death; and my father, listening, knew not how to comfort that troubled soul. He could not judge whether the self-condemning words were the promptings of a guilty conscience, or the ravings of an unbalanced mind. Like a tired child falling asleep, was James Smith's death; and Milton Elliot, who helped to bury the four victims and then carried the distressing report to the lake camp, little knew that he would soon be among those later called to render a final accounting. Yet it was even so. Our camp having been thus depleted by death, Noah James, who had been one of my father's drivers, from Springfield until we passed out of the desert, now cast his lot again with ours, and helped John Baptiste to dig for the carcasses of the cattle. It was weary work, for the snow was higher than the level of the guide marks, and at times they searched day after day and found no trace of hoof or horn. The little field mice that had crept into camp were caught then and used to ease the pangs of hunger. Also pieces of beef hide were cut into strips, singed, scraped, boiled to the consistency of glue, and swallowed with an effort; for no degree of hunger could make the saltless, sticky substance palatable. Marrowless bones which had already been boiled and scraped, were now burned and eaten, even the bark and twigs of pine were chewed in the vain effort to soothe the gnawings which made one cry for bread and meat. During the bitterest weather we little ones were kept in bed, and my place was always in the middle where Frances and Georgia, snuggling up close, gave me of their warmth, and from them I learned many things which I could neither have understood nor remembered had they not made them plain. [Illustration: PASS IN THE SIERRA NEVADAS OF CALIFORNIA] [Illustration: From an old drawing made from description furnished by Wm. G. Murphy. CAMP AT DONNER LAKE, NOVEMBER, 1846] Just one happy play is impressed upon my mind. It must have been after the first storm, for the snow bank in front of the cabin door was not high enough to keep out a little sunbeam that stole down the steps and made a bright spot upon our floor. I saw it, and sat down under it, held it on my lap, passed my hand up and down in its brightness, and found that I could break its ray in two. In fact, we had quite a frolic. I fancied that it moved when I did, for it warmed the top of my head, kissed first one cheek and then the other, and seemed to run up and down my arm. Finally I gathered up a piece of it in my apron and ran to my mother. Great was my surprise when I carefully opened the folds and found that I had nothing to show, and the sunbeam I had left seemed shorter. After mother explained its nature, I watched it creep back slowly up the steps and disappear. Snowy Christmas brought us no "glad tidings," and New Year's Day no happiness. Yet, each bright day that followed a storm was one of thanksgiving, on which we all crept up the flight of snow steps and huddled about on the surface in the blessed sunshine, but with our eyes closed against its painful and blinding glare. Once my mother took me to a hole where I saw smoke coming up, and she told me that its steps led down to Uncle Jacob's tent, and that we would go down there to see Aunt Betsy and my little cousins. I stooped low and peered into the dark depths. Then I called to my cousins to come to me, because I was afraid to go where they were. I had not seen them since the day we encamped. At that time they were chubby and playful, carrying water from the creek to their tent in small tin pails. Now, they were so changed in looks that I scarcely knew them, and they stared at me as at a stranger. So I was glad when my mother came up and took me back to our own tent, which seemed less dreary because I knew the things that were in it, and the faces about me. Father's hand became worse. The swelling and inflammation extending up the arm to the shoulder produced suffering which he could not conceal. Each day that we had a fire, I watched mother sitting by his side, with a basin of warm water upon her lap, laving the wounded and inflamed parts very tenderly, with a strip of frayed linen wrapped around a little stick. I remember well the look of comfort that swept over his worn features as she laid the soothed arm back into place. By the middle of January the snow measured twelve and fourteen feet in depth. Nothing could be seen of our abode except the coils of smoke that found their way up through the opening. There was a dearth of water. Prosser Creek was frozen over and covered with snow. Icicles hung from the branches of every tree. The stock of pine cones that had been gathered for lights was almost consumed. Wood was so scarce that we could not have fire enough to cook our strips of rawhide, and Georgia heard mother say that we children had not had a dry garment on in more than a week, and that she did not know what to do about it. Then like a smile from God, came another sunny day which not only warmed and dried us thoroughly but furnished a supply of water from dripping snowbanks. The twenty-first was also bright, and John Baptiste went on snowshoes with messages to the lake camp. He found its inmates in a more pitiable condition than we were. Only one death had occurred there since our last communication, but he saw several of the starving who could not survive many days. The number to consume the slender stock of food had been lessened, however, on the sixteenth of December, some six weeks previously, by the departure of William Eddy, Patrick Dolan, Lemuel Murphy, William Foster, Mrs. Sarah Foster, Jay Fosdick, Mrs. Sarah Fosdick, Mrs. William McCutchen, Mrs. Harriet Pike, Miss Mary Graves, Franklin Graves, Sr., C.T. Stanton, Antonio, Lewis, and Salvador. This party, which called itself "The Forlorn Hope," had a most memorable experience, as will be shown later. In some instances husband had parted from wife, and father from children. Three young mothers had left their babes in the arms of grandmothers. It was a dire resort, a last desperate attempt, in face of death, to save those dependent upon them. Staff in hand, they had set forth on snowshoes, each carrying a pack containing little save a quilt and light rations for six days' journeying. One had a rifle, ammunition, flint, and hatchet for camp use. William Murphy and Charles Burger, who had originally been of the number, gave out before the close of the first day, and crept back to camp. The others continued under the leadership of the intrepid Eddy and brave Stanton. John Baptiste remained there a short time and returned to us, saying, "Those at the other camp believe the promised relief is close at hand!" This rekindled hope in us, even as it had revived courage and prolonged lives in the lake cabins, and we prayed, as they were praying, that the relief might come before its coming should be too late. Oh, how we watched, hour after hour, and how often each day John Baptiste climbed to the topmost bough of a tall pine tree and, with straining eyes, scanned the desolate expanse for one moving speck in the distance, for one ruffled track on the snow which should ease our awful suspense. Days passed. No food in camp except an unsavory beef hide--pinching hunger called for more. Again John Baptiste and Noah James went forth in anxious search for marks of our buried cattle. They made excavations, then forced their hand-poles deep, deeper into the snow, but in vain their efforts--the nail and hook at the points brought up no sign of blood, hair, or hide. In dread unspeakable they returned, and said: "We shall go mad; we shall die! It is useless to hunt for the cattle; but the _dead_, if they could be reached, their bodies might keep us alive." "No," replied father and mother, speaking for themselves. "No, part of a hide still remains. When it is gone we will perish, if that be the alternative." The fact was, our dead could not have been disturbed even had the attempt been made, for the many snowfalls of winter were banked about them firm as granite walls, and in that camp was neither implement nor arm strong enough to reach their resting-places. It was a long, weary waiting, on starvation rations until the nineteenth of February. I did not see any one coming that morning; but I remember that, suddenly, there was an unusual stir and excitement in the camp. Three strangers were there, and one was talking with father. The others took packs from their backs and measured out small quantities of flour and jerked beef and two small biscuits for each of us. Then they went up to fell the sheltering pine tree over our tent for fuel; while Noah James, Mrs. Wolfinger, my two half-sisters, and mother kept moving about hunting for things. Finally Elitha and Leanna came and kissed me, then father, "good-bye," and went up the steps, and out of sight. Mother stood on the snow where she could see all go forth. They moved in single file,--the leaders on snowshoes, the weak stepping in the tracks made by the strong. Leanna, the last in line, was scarcely able to keep up. It was not until after mother came back with Frances and Georgia that I was made to understand that this was the long-hoped-for relief party. It had come and gone, and had taken Noah James, Mrs. Wolfinger, and my two half-sisters from us; then had stopped at Aunt Betsy's for William Hook, her eldest son, and my Cousin George, and all were now on the way to the lake cabins to join others who were able to walk over the snow without assistance. The rescuers, seven in number, who had followed instructions given them at the settlement, professed to have no knowledge of the Forlorn Hope, except that this first relief expedition had been outfitted by Captain Sutter and Alcalde Sinclair in response to Mr. Eddy's appeal, and that other rescue parties were being organized in California, and would soon come prepared to carry out the remaining children and helpless grown folk. By this we knew that Mr. Eddy, at least, had succeeded in reaching the settlement. [Footnote 5: Patrick Breen's Diary.] CHAPTER IX SUFFERINGS OF THE "FORLORN HOPE"--RESORT TO HUMAN FLESH--"CAMP OF DEATH"--BOOTS CRISPED AND EATEN--DEER KILLED--INDIAN _Rancheria_--THE "WHITE MAN'S HOME" AT LAST. Although we were so meagrely informed, it is well that my readers should, at this point, become familiar with the experiences of the expedition known as the Forlorn Hope,[6] and also the various measures taken for our relief when our precarious condition was made known to the good people of California. It will be remembered that the Forlorn Hope was the party of fifteen which, as John Baptiste reported to us, made the last unaided attempt to cross the mountains. Words cannot picture, nor mind conceive, more torturing hardships and privations than were endured by that little band on its way to the settlement. It left the camp on the sixteenth of December, with scant rations for six days, hoping in that time to force its way to Bear Valley and there find game. But the storms which had been so pitiless at the mountain camps followed the unprotected refugees with seemingly fiendish fury. After the first day from camp, its members could no longer keep together on their marches. The stronger broke the trail, and the rest followed to night-camp as best they could. On the third day, Stanton's sight failed, and he begged piteously to be led; but, soon realizing the heart-rending plight of his companions, he uncomplainingly submitted to his fate. Three successive nights, he staggered into camp long after the others had finished their stinted meal. Always he was shivering from cold, sometimes wet with sleet and rain. It is recorded that at no time had the party allowed more than an ounce of food per meal to the individual, yet the rations gave out on the night of the twenty-second, while they were still in a wilderness of snow-peaks. Mr. Eddy only was better provided. In looking over his pack that morning for the purpose of throwing away any useless article, he unexpectedly found a small bag containing about a half-pound of dried bear-meat.[7] Fastened to the meat was a pencilled note from his wife, begging him to save the hidden treasure until his hour of direst need, since it might then be the means of saving his life. The note was signed, "Your own dear Elinor." With tenderest emotion, he slipped the food back, resolving to do the dear one's bidding, trusting that she and their children might live until he should return for them. [Illustration: BEAR VALLEY, FROM EMIGRANT GAP] [Illustration: THE TRACKLESS MOUNTAINS] The following morning, while the others were preparing to leave camp, Stanton sat beside the smouldering fire smoking his pipe. When ready to go forth, they asked him if he was coming, and he replied, "Yes, I am coming soon." Those were his parting words to his friends, and his greeting to the Angel of Death.[8] He never left that fireside, and his companions were too feeble to return for him when they found he did not come into camp. Twenty-four hours later, the members of that hapless little band threw themselves upon the desolate waste of snow to ponder the problems of life and death; to search each the other's face for answer to the question their lips durst not frame. Fathers who had left their families, and mothers who had left their babes, wanted to go back and die with them, if die they must; but Mr. Eddy and the Indians--those who had crossed the range with Stanton--declared that they would push on to the settlement. Then Mary Graves, in whose young heart were still whisperings of hope, courageously said: "I, too, will go on, for to go back and hear the cries of hunger from my little brothers and sisters is more than I can stand. I shall go as far as I can, let the consequences be what they may." W.F. Graves, her father, would not let his daughter proceed alone, and finally all decided to make a final, supreme effort. Yet--think of it--they were without one morsel of food! Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as the suggestion was made that, "were one to die, the rest might live." Then the suggestion was made that lots be cast, and whoever drew the longest slip should be the sacrifice. Mr. Eddy endorsed the plan. Despite opposition from Mr. Foster and others, the slips of paper were prepared, and great-hearted Patrick Dolan drew the fatal slip. Patrick Dolan, who had come away from camp that his famishing friends might prolong their lives by means of the small stock of food which he had to leave! Harm a hair of that good man's head? Not a soul of that starving band would do it. Mr. Eddy then proposed that they resume their journey as best they could until death should claim a victim. All acquiesced. Slowly rising to their feet, they managed to stagger and to crawl forward about three miles to a tree which furnished fuel for their Christmas fire. It was kindled with great difficulty, for in cutting the boughs, the hatchet blade flew off the handle and for a time was lost in deep snow. Meanwhile, every puff of wind was laden with killing frost, and in sight of that glowing fire, Antonio froze to death. Mr. Graves, who was also breathing heavily, when told by Mr. Eddy that he was dying, replied that he did not care. He, however, called his daughters, Mrs. Fosdick and Mary Graves, to him, and by his parting injunctions, showed that he was still able to realize keenly the dangers that beset them. Remembering how their faces had paled at the suggestion of using human flesh for food, he admonished them to put aside the natural repugnance which stood between them and the possibility of life. He commanded them to banish sentiment and instinctive loathing, and think only of their starving mother, brothers, and sisters whom they had left in camp, and avail themselves of every means in their power to rescue them. He begged that his body be used to sustain the famishing, and bidding each farewell, his spirit left its bruised and worn tenement before half the troubles of the night were passed. About ten o'clock, pelting hail, followed by snow on the wings of a tornado, swept every spark of fire from those shivering mortals, whose voices now mingled with the shrieking wind, calling to heaven for relief. Mr. Eddy, knowing that all would freeze to death in the darkness if allowed to remain exposed, succeeded after many efforts in getting them close together between their blankets where the snow covered them. With the early morning, Patrick Dolan became delirious and left camp. He was brought back with difficulty and forcibly kept under cover until late in the day, when he sank into a stupor, whence he passed quietly into that sleep which knows no waking. The crucial hour had come. Food lay before the starving, yet every eye turned from it and every hand dropped irresolute. Another night of agony passed, during which Lemuel Murphy became delirious and called long and loud for food; but the cold was so intense that it kept all under their blankets until four o'clock in the afternoon, when Mr. Eddy succeeded in getting a fire in the trunk of a large pine tree. Whereupon, his companions, instead of seeking food, crept forth and broke off low branches, put them down before the fire and laid their attenuated forms upon them. The flames leaped up the trunk, and burned off dead boughs so that they dropped on the snow about them, but the unfortunates were too weak and too indifferent to fear the burning brands. Mr. Eddy now fed his waning strength on shreds of his concealed bear-meat, hoping that he might survive to save the giver. The rest in camp could scarcely walk, by the twenty-eighth, and their sensations of hunger were deminishing. This condition forebode delirium and death, unless stayed by the only means at hand. It was in very truth a pitiful alternative offered to the sufferers. With sickening anguish the first morsels were prepared and given to Lemuel Murphy, but for him they were too late. Not one touched flesh of kindred body. Nor was there need of restraining hand, or warning voice to gauge the small quantity which safety prescribed to break the fast of the starving. Death would have been preferable to that awful meal, had relentless fate not said: "Take, eat that ye may live. Eat, lest ye go mad and leave your work undone!" All but the Indians obeyed the mandate, and were strengthened and reconciled to prepare the remaining flesh to sustain them a few days longer on their journey. Hitherto, the wanderers had been guided partly by the fitful sun, partly by Lewis and Salvador, the Indians who had come with Stanton from Sutter's Fort. In the morning, however, when they were ready to leave that spot, which was thereafter known as the "Camp of Death," Salvador, who could speak a little English, insisted that he and Lewis were lost, and, therefore, unable to guide them farther. Nevertheless, the party at once set out and travelled instinctively until evening. The following morning they wrapped pieces of blanket around their cracked and swollen feet and again struggled onward until late in the afternoon, when they encamped upon a high ridge. There they saw beyond, in the distance, a wide plain which they believed to be the Sacramento Valley. This imaginary glimpse of distant lowland gave them a peaceful sleep. The entire day of December 31 was spent in crossing a cañon, and every footstep left its trace of blood in the snow. When they next encamped, Mr. Eddy saw that poor Jay Fosdick was failing, and he begged him to summon up all his courage and energy in order to reach the promised land, now so near. They were again without food; and William Foster, whose mind had become unbalanced by the long fast, was ready to kill Mrs. McCutchen or Miss Graves. Mr. Eddy confronted and intimidated the crazed sufferer, who next threatened the Indian guides, and would have carried out his threat then, had Mr. Eddy not secretly warned them against danger and urged them to flee. But nothing could save the Indians from Foster's insane passion later, when he found them on the trail in an unconscious and dying condition. January 1, 1847, was, to the little band of eight, a day of less distressing trials; its members resumed travel early, braced by unswerving will-power. They stopped at midday and revived strength by eating the toasted strings of their snowshoes. Mr. Eddy also ate his worn out moccasins, and all felt a renewal of hope upon seeing before them an easier grade which led to night-camp where the snow was only six feet in depth. Soothed by a milder temperature, they resumed their march earlier next morning and descended to where the snow was but three feet deep. There they built their camp-fire and slightly crisped the leather of a pair of old boots and a pair of shoes which constituted their evening meal, and was the last of their effects available as food. An extraordinary effort on the third day of the new year brought them to bare ground between patches of snow. They were still astray among the western foothills of the Sierras, and sat by a fire under an oak tree all night, enduring hunger that was almost maddening. Jay Fosdick was sinking rapidly, and Mr. Eddy resolved to take the gun and steal away from camp at dawn. But his conscience smote him, and he finally gave the others a hint of his intention of going in search of game, and of not returning unless successful. Not a moving creature nor a creeping thing had crossed the trail on their journey thither; but the open country before them, and minor marks well known to hunters, had caught Mr. Eddy's eye and strengthened his determination. Mrs. Pike, in dread and fear of the result, threw her arms about Mr. Eddy's neck and implored him not to leave them, and the others mingled their entreaties and protestations with hers. In silence he took his gun to go alone. Then Mary Graves declared that she would keep up with him, and without heeding further opposition the two set out. A short distance from camp they stopped at a place where a deer had recently lain. With a thrill of emotion too intense for words, with a prayer in his heart too fervent for utterance, Mr. Eddy turned his tearful eyes toward Mary and saw her weeping like a child. A moment later, that man and that woman who had once said that they knew not how to pray, were kneeling beside that newly found track pleading in broken accents to the Giver of all life, for a manifestation of His power to save their starving band. Long restrained tears were still streaming down the cheeks of both, and soothing their anxious hearts as they arose to go in pursuit of the deer. J.Q. Thornton says: They had not proceeded far before they saw a large buck about eighty yards distant. Mr. Eddy raised his rifle and for some time tried to bring it to bear upon the deer, but such was his extreme weakness that he could not. He breathed a little, changed his manner of holding the gun, and made another effort. Again his weakness prevented him from being able to hold upon it. He heard a low, suppressed sobbing behind him, and, turning around, saw Mary Graves weeping and in great agitation, her head bowed, and her hands upon her face. Alarmed lest she should cause the deer to run, Mr. Eddy begged her to be quiet, which she was, after exclaiming, "Oh, I am afraid you will not kill it." He brought the gun to his face the third time, and elevated the muzzle above the deer, let it descend until he saw the animal through the sight, when the rifle cracked. Mary immediately wept aloud, exclaiming, "Oh, merciful God, you have missed it!" Mr. Eddy assured her that he had not; that the rifle was upon it the moment of firing; and that, in addition to this, the animal had dropped its tail between its legs, which this animal always does when wounded. His belief was speedily confirmed. The deer ran a short distance, then fell, and the two eager watchers hastened to it as fast as their weakened condition would allow. Mr. Eddy cut the throat of the expiring beast with his pocket-knife, and he and his companion knelt down and drank the warm blood that flowed from the wound. The excitement of getting that blessed food, and the strength it imparted, produced a helpful reaction, and enabled them to sit down in peace to rest a while, before attempting to roll their treasure to the tree near-by, where they built a fire and prepared the entrails. Mr. Eddy fired several shots after dark, so that the others might know that he had not abandoned them. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Foster, Mrs. McCutchen, and Mrs. Pike had moved forward and made their camp half-way between Mr. Eddy's new one and that of the previous night. Mr. Fosdick, however, being too weak to rise, remained at the first camp. His devoted wife pillowed his head upon her lap, and prayed that death would call them away together. Mr. Thornton continues: The sufferer had heard the crack of Mr. Eddy's rifle at the time he killed the deer, and said, feebly, "There! Eddy has killed a deer! Now, if I can only get to him I shall live!" But in the stillness of that cold, dark night, Jay Fosdick's spirit fled alone. His wife wrapped their only blanket about his body, and lay down on the ground beside him, hoping to freeze to death. The morning dawned bright, the sun came out, and the lone widow rose, kissed the face of her dead, and, with a small bundle in her hand, started to join Mr. Eddy. She passed a hunger-crazed man on the way from the middle camp, going to hers, and her heart grew sick, for she knew that her loved one's body would not be spared for burial rites. She found Mr. Eddy drying his deer meat before the fire, and later saw him divide it so that each of his companions in the camps should have an equal share. The seven survivors, each with his portion of venison, resumed travel on the sixth and continued in the foothills a number of days, crawling up the ascents, sliding down the steeps; often harassed by fears of becoming lost near the goal, yet unaware that they were astray. The venison had been consumed. Hope had almost died in the heart of the bravest, when at the close of day on the tenth of January, twenty-five days from the date of leaving Donner Lake, they saw an Indian village at the edge of a thicket they were approaching. As the sufferers staggered forward, the Indians were overwhelmed at sight of their misery. The warriors gazed in stolid silence. The squaws wrung their hands and wept aloud. The larger children hid themselves, and the little ones clung to their mothers in fear. The first sense of horror having passed, those dusky mothers fed the unfortunates. Some brought them unground acorns to eat, while others mixed the meal into cakes and offered them as fast as they could cook them on the heated stones. All except Mr. Eddy were strengthened by the food. It sickened him, and he resorted to green grass boiled in water. The following morning the chief sent his runners to other _rancherias, en route_ to the settlement, telling his people of the distress of the pale-faces who were coming toward them, and who would need food. When the Forlorn Hope was ready to move on, the chief led the way, and an Indian walked on either side of each sufferer supporting and helping the unsteady feet. At each _rancheria_ the party was put in charge of a new leader and fresh supporters. On the seventeenth, the chief with much difficulty procured, for Mr. Eddy, a gill of pine nuts which the latter found so nutritious that the following morning, on resuming travel, he was able to walk without support. They had proceeded less than a mile when his companions sank to the ground completely unnerved. They had suddenly given up and were willing to die. The Indians appeared greatly perplexed, and Mr. Eddy shook with sickening fear. Was his great effort to come to naught? Should his wife and babes die while he stood guard over those who would no longer help themselves? No, he would push ahead and see what he yet could do! The old chief sent an Indian with him as a guide and support. Relieved of the sight and personal responsibility of his enfeebled companions, Mr. Eddy felt a renewal of strength and determination. He pressed onward, scarcely heeding his dusky guide. At the end of five miles they met another Indian, and Mr. Eddy, now conscious that his feet were giving out, promised the stranger tobacco, if he would go with them and help to lead him to the "white man's house." And so that long, desperate struggle for life, and for the sake of loved ones, ended an hour before sunset, when Mr. Eddy, leaning heavily upon the Indians, halted before the door of Colonel M.D. Richey's home, thirty-five miles from Sutter's Fort. The first to meet him was the daughter of the house, whom he asked for bread. Thornton says: She looked at him, burst out crying, and took hold of him to assist him into the room. He was immediately placed in bed, in which he lay unable to turn his body during four days. In a very short time he had food brought to him by Mrs. Richey, who sobbed as she fed the miserable and frightful being before her. Shortly, Harriet, the daughter, had carried the news from house to house in the neighborhood, and horses were running at full speed from place to place until all preparations were made for taking relief to those whom Mr. Eddy had left in the morning. William Johnson, John Howell, John Rhodes, Mr. Keiser, Mr. Sagur, Racine Tucker, and Joseph Varro assembled at Mr. Richey's immediately. The females collected the bread they had, with tea, sugar, and coffee, amounting to as much as four men could carry. Howell, Rhodes, Sagur, and Tucker started at once, on foot, with the Indians as guides, and arrived at camp, between fifteen and eighteen miles distant, at midnight. Mr. Eddy had warned the outgoing party against giving the sufferers as much food as they might want, but, on seeing them, the tender-hearted men could not deny their tearful begging for "more." One of the relief was kept busy until dawn preparing food which the rest gave to the enfeebled emigrants. This overdose of kindness made its victims temporarily very ill, but caused no lasting harm. Early on the morning of January 18, Messrs. Richey, Johnson, Varro, and Keiser, equipped with horses and other necessaries, hurried away to bring in the refugees, together with their comrades who had gone on before. By ten o'clock that night the whole of the Forlorn Hope were safe in the homes of their benefactors. Mr. Richey declared that he and his party had retraced Mr. Eddy's track six miles, by the blood from his feet; and that they could not have believed that he had travelled that eighteen miles, if they themselves had not passed over the ground in going to his discouraged companions. [Footnote 6: The experiences of the Donner Party, to which he refers in a footnote, suggested to Bret Harte the opening chapters of "Gabriel Conroy"; but he has followed the sensational accounts circulated by the newspapers, and the survivors find his work a mere travesty of the facts. The narrative, however, does not purport to set forth the truth, but is confessedly imaginative.] [Footnote 7: Mr. Eddy had killed the bear and dried the meat early in the winter.] [Footnote 8: His body was found there later by the First Relief Party.] CHAPTER X RELIEF MEASURES INAUGURATED IN CALIFORNIA--DISTURBED CONDITIONS BECAUSE OF MEXICAN WAR--GENEROUS SUBSCRIPTIONS--THREE PARTIES ORGANIZE--"FIRST RELIEF," UNDER RACINE TUCKER; "SECOND RELIEF" UNDER REED AND GREENWOOD; AND RELAY CAMP UNDER WOODWORTH--FIRST RELIEF PARTY CROSSES SNOW-BELT AND REACHES DONNER LAKE. The kindness and sympathy shown Mr. Eddy by the good people in the neighborhood of the Richey and Johnson ranches encouraged his efforts in behalf of his fellow-sufferers in the mountains. While the early sunlight of January 19 was flooding his room with cheer and warmth, he dictated a letter to Mr. John Sinclair, Alcalde of the Upper District of California, living near Sutter's Fort, in which he stated as briefly as possible the conditions and perils surrounding the snow-bound travellers, and begged him to use every means in his power toward their immediate rescue. Bear River was running high, and the plain between it and Sutter's Fort seemed a vast quagmire, but John Rhodes volunteered to deliver the letter. He was ferried over the river on a raft formed of two logs lashed together with strips of rawhide. Then he rolled his trousers above the knee and with his shoes in his hand, started on his mission. He saw no white faces until he reached Sinclair's, where the letter created a painful interest and won ready promises of help. It was dark when he reached Sutter's Fort, nevertheless from house to house he spread the startling report: "Men, women, and little children are snow-bound in the Sierras, and starving to death!" Captain Kerns in charge at the Fort, pledged his aid, and influence to the cause of relief. Captain Sutter, who had already twice sent supplies, first by Stanton and again by McCutchen and Reed, in their unsuccessful attempt to cross the mountains, at once agreed to coöperate with Alcalde Sinclair. While Captain Kerns at Sutter's Fort was sending messengers to different points, and Mrs. Sinclair was collecting clothing to replace the tattered garments of the members of the Forlorn Hope, her husband despatched an open letter to the people of San Francisco, describing the arrival of the survivors of the Forlorn Hope, and the heart-rending condition of those remaining in the mountains. He urged immediate action, and offered his services for individual work, or to coöperate with Government relief, or any parties that might be preparing to go out with Messrs. Reed and McCutchen, who were known to be endeavoring to raise a second expedition. [Illustration: SUTTER'S FORT] [Illustration: SAM BRANNAN'S STORE AT SUTTER'S FORT] The letter was taken to the City Hotel in San Francisco, and read aloud in the dining-room. Its contents aroused all the tender emotions known to human nature. Some of the listeners had parted from members of the Donner Party at the Little Sandy, when its prospects appeared so bright, and the misfortunes which had since befallen the party seemed incredible. Women left the room sobbing, and men called those passing, in from the street, to join the knots of earnest talkers. All were ready and willing to do; but, alas, the obstacles which had prevented Mr. Reed getting men for the mountain work still remained to be overcome. Existing war between Mexico and the United States was keeping California in a disturbed condition. Most of the able-bodied male emigrants had enlisted under Captain Frémont as soon as they reached the country, and were still on duty in the southern part of the province; and the non-enlisted were deemed necessary for the protection of the colonies of American women and children encamped on the soil of the enemy. Moreover, all felt that each man who should attempt to cross the snow belt would do so at the peril of his life. Mr. Reed, who in the late Autumn had sent petitions to the Military Governor and to Lieutenant Washington A. Bartlett of the United States Navy, Alcalde of the town and district of San Francisco, but as yet had obtained nothing, now appeared before each in person, and was promised assistance. Captain Mervine of the United States Navy, and Mr. Richardson, United States Collector, each subscribed fifty dollars to the cause on his own account. As a result of these appeals, Alcalde Bartlett called a public meeting; and so intense was the feeling that Mr. Dunleary, "the first speaker, had scarcely taken his seat on the platform when the people rushed to the chairman's table from all parts of the house with their hands full of silver dollars," and could hardly be induced to stay their generosity until the meeting was organized. A treasurer and two committees were appointed; the one to solicit subscriptions, and the other to purchase supplies. The Alcalde was requested to act with both committees. Seven hundred dollars was subscribed before the meeting adjourned. Seven hundred dollars, in an isolated Spanish province, among newly arrived immigrants, was a princely sum to gather. Messrs. Ward and Smith, in addition to a generous subscription, offered their launch _Dice mi Nana_, to transport the expedition to Feather River, and Mr. John Fuller volunteered to pilot the launch. It was decided to fit out an expedition, under charge of Past Midshipman Woodworth, who had tendered his services for the purpose, he to act under instructions of the Military Governor and coöperate with the committee aiding Reed. Soon thereafter "Old Trapper Greenwood" appeared in San Francisco, asking for assistance in fitting out a following to go to the mountains with himself and McCutchen, Mr. George Yount and others in and around Sonoma and Napa having recommended him as leader. Donations of horses, mules, beef, and flour had already been sent to his camp in Napa Valley. Furthermore, Lieut. William L. Maury, U.S.N., Commander at the port; Don Mariano G. Vallejo, Ex-Commandante-General of California; Mr. George Yount, and others subscribed the sum of five hundred dollars in specie toward outfitting Greenwood and the men he should select to cross the mountains. Greenwood urged that he should have ten or twelve men on whom he could rely after reaching deep snow. These, he said, he could secure if he had the ready money to make advances and to procure the necessary warm clothing and blankets. He had crossed the Sierras before, when the snow lay deep on the summit, and now proposed to drive over horses and kill them at the camps as provisions for the sufferers. If this scheme should fail, he and his sons with others would get food to the camp on snowshoes. Thornton says: The Governor-General of California, after due form, and trusting to the generosity and humanity of the Government which he represented, appropriated four hundred dollars on Government account toward outfitting this relief party. Furthermore, in compliance with an application from Alcalde Bartlett (for the committee), Captain Mervine, of the U.S. frigate _Savannah_, furnished from the ship's stores ten days' full rations for ten men. The crews of the _Savannah_ and the sloop _Warren_, and the marines in garrison at San Francisco, increased the relief fund to thirteen hundred dollars. Messrs. Mellus and Howard tendered their launch to carry the party up the bay to Sonoma, and Captain Sutter proffered his launch _Sacramento_ for river use. It was now settled that the "Reed-Greenwood party" should go to Johnson's ranch by way of Sonoma and Napa, and Woodworth with his men and supplies, including clothing for the destitute, should go by boat to Sutter's Landing; there procure pack animals, buy beef cattle, and hurry on to the snow-belt; establish a relay camp, slaughter the cattle, and render all possible aid toward the immediate rescue of the snow-bound. Meanwhile, before Alcalde Sinclair's letter had time to reach San Francisco, he and Captain Sutter began outfitting the men destined to become the "First Relief." Aguilla Glover and R.S. Moutrey volunteered their services, declaring their willingness to undertake the hazardous journey for the sake of the lives they might save. To hasten recruits for service, Captain Sutter and Alcalde Sinclair promised that in case the Government should fail to grant the sum, they themselves would become responsible for the payment of three dollars per day to each man who would get food through to the snow-bound camps. Accordingly, Aguilla Glover and R.S. Moutrey, driving pack animals well laden with warm clothing, blankets, and food supplies, left the Fort at sunrise on the morning of February the first, and on the third reached Johnson's ranch, where they joined Messrs. Tucker, Johnson, Richey and others, who, being anxious to assist in the good work, had killed, and were fire-drying, beef to take up the mountains. Here two days were spent making pack-saddles, driving in horses, and getting supplies in shape. Indians were kept at the handmill grinding wheat. Part of the flour was sacked, and part converted into bread by the women in the vicinity. On the morning of the fifth of February, Alcalde Sinclair rode to Johnson's ranch, and all things being ready, he appointed Racine Tucker Captain of the company, and in touching words commended the heroic work of its members, and bade them godspeed on their errand of mercy. When ready to mount, he shook hands with each man, and recorded the names in a note-book as follows: Racine Tucker, Aguilla Glover, R.S. Moutrey, John Rhodes, Daniel Rhodes, Edward Coffemeir, D. Richey, James Curtis, William Eddy,[9] William Coon, George Tucker, Adolph Brenheim, and John Foster.[9] This party is generally known as the "First Relief." Their route to the snow-belt lay through sections of country which had become so soft and oozy that the horses often sank in mire, flank deep; and the streams were so swollen that progress was alarmingly slow. On the second day they were driven into camp early by heavy rains which drenched clothing, blankets, and even the provisions carefully stored under the saddles and leather saddle-covers. This caused a delay of thirty-six hours, for everything had to be sun or fire dried before the party could resume travel. Upon reaching Mule Springs, the party found the snow from three to four feet deep, and, contrary to expectations, saw that it would be impossible to proceed farther with the horses. Mr. Eddy was now ill of fever, and unfit to continue the climb; whereupon his companions promised to bring out his loved ones if he would return with Joe Varro, whom Mr. Johnson had sent along to bring the pack animals home after they should cease to be of use. At Mule Springs, the party built a brush store-house for the extra supplies and appointed George Tucker and William Coon camp-keepers. Then they prepared packs containing jerked beef, flour, and bread, each weighing between forty and seventy-five pounds, according to the temperament and strength of the respective carriers. The following morning ten men started on their toilsome march to Bear Valley, where they arrived on the thirteenth, and at once began searching for the abandoned wagon and provisions which Reed and McCutchen had cached the previous Autumn, after their fruitless attempt to scale the mountains. The wagon was found under snow ten feet in depth; but its supplies had been destroyed by wild beasts. Warned by this catastrophe, the First Relief decided to preserve its supplies for the return trip by hanging them in parcels from ropes tied to the boughs of trees. The ten kept together courageously until the fifteenth; then Mr. M.D. Richey, James Curtis, and Adolph Brenheim gave up and turned back. Mr. Tucker, fearing that others might become disheartened and do likewise, guaranteed each man who would persevere to the end, five dollars per diem, dating from the time the party entered the snow. The remaining seven pushed ahead, and on the eighteenth, encamped on the summit overlooking the lake, where the snow was said to be forty feet in depth. The following morning Aguilla Glover and Daniel Rhodes were so oppressed by the altitude that their companions had to relieve them of their packs and help them on to the cabins, which, as chronicled in a previous chapter, the party reached on the nineteenth of February, 1847. [Footnote 9: Of the Forlorn Hope.] CHAPTER XI WATCHING FOR THE SECOND RELIEF PARTY--"OLD NAVAJO"--LAST FOOD IN CAMP. After the departure of the First Relief we who were left in the mountains began to watch and pray for the coming of the Second Relief, as we had before watched and prayed for the coming of the First. Sixteen-year-old John Baptiste was disappointed and in ill humor when Messrs. Tucker and Rhodes insisted that he, being the only able-bodied man in the Donner camp, should stay and cut wood for the enfeebled, until the arrival of other rescuers. The little half-breed was a sturdy fellow, but he was starving too, and thought that he should be allowed to save himself. After he had had a talk with father, however, and the first company of refugees had gone, he became reconciled to his lot, and served us faithfully. He would take us little ones up to exercise upon the snow, saying that we should learn to keep our feet on the slick, frozen surface, as well as to wade through slush and loose drifts. Frequently, when at work and lonesome, he would call Georgia and me up to keep him company, and when the weather was frosty, he would bring "Old Navajo," his long Indian blanket, and roll her in it from one end, and me from the other, until we would come together in the middle, like the folds of a paper of pins, with a face peeping above each fold. Then he would set us upon the stump of the pine tree while he chopped the trunk and boughs for fuel. He told us that he had promised father to stay until we children should be taken from camp, also that his home was to be with our family forever. One of his amusements was to rake the coals together nights, then cover them with ashes, and put the large camp kettle over the pile for a drum, so that we could spread our hands around it, "to get just a little warm before going to bed." For the time, he lived at Aunt Betsy's tent, because Solomon Hook was snow-blind and demented, and at times restless and difficult to control. The poor boy, some weeks earlier, had set out alone to reach the settlement, and after an absence of forty-eight hours was found close to camp, blind, and with his mind unbalanced. He, like other wanderers on that desolate waste, had become bewildered, and, unconsciously, circled back near to the starting-point. Aunt Betsy came often to our tent, and mother frequently went to hers, and they knelt together and asked for strength to bear their burdens. Once, when mother came back, she reported to father that she had discovered bear tracks quite close to camp, and was solicitous that the beast be secured, as its flesh might sustain us until rescued. As father grew weaker, we children spent more time upon the snow above camp. Often, after his wound was dressed and he fell into a quiet slumber, our ever-busy, thoughtful mother would come to us and sit on the tree trunk. Sometimes she brought paper and wrote; sometimes she sketched the mountains and the tall tree-tops, which now looked like small trees growing up through the snow. And often, while knitting or sewing, she held us spell-bound with wondrous tales of "Joseph in Egypt," of "Daniel in the den of lions," of "Elijah healing the widow's son," of dear little Samuel, who said, "Speak Lord, for Thy servant heareth," and of the tender, loving Master, who took young children in his arms and blessed them. With me sitting on her lap, and Frances and Georgia at either side, she referred to father's illness and lonely condition, and said that when the next "Relief" came, we little ones might be taken to the settlement, without either parent, but, God willing, both would follow later. Who could be braver or tenderer than she, as she prepared us to go forth with strangers and live without her? While she, without medicine, without lights, would remain and care for our suffering father, in hunger and in cold, and without her little girls to kiss good-morning and good-night. She taught us how to gain friends among those whom we should meet, and what to answer when asked whose children we were. Often her eyes gazed wistfully to westward, where sky and mountains seemed to meet, and she told us that beyond those snowy peaks lay California, our land of food and safety, our promised land of happiness, where God would care for us. Oh, it was painfully quiet some days in those great mountains, and lonesome upon the snow. The pines had a whispering homesick murmur, and we children had lost all inclination to play. The last food which I remember seeing in our camp before the arrival of the Second Relief was a thin mould of tallow, which mother had tried out of the trimmings of the jerked beef brought us by the First Relief. She had let it harden in a pan, and after all other rations had given out, she cut daily from it three small white squares for each of us, and we nibbled off the four corners very slowly, and then around and around the edges of the precious pieces until they became too small for us to hold between our fingers. CHAPTER XII ARRIVAL OF SECOND RELIEF, OR REED-GREENWOOD PARTY--FEW SURVIVORS STRONG ENOUGH TO TRAVEL--WIFE'S CHOICE--PARTINGS AT DONNER CAMP--MY TWO SISTERS AND I DESERTED--DEPARTURE OF SECOND RELIEF PARTY. It was the first of March, about ten days after the arrival of the First Relief, before James Reed and William McCutchen succeeded in reaching the party they had left long months before. They, together with Brit Greenwood, Hiram Miller, Joseph Jondro, Charles Stone, John Turner, Matthew Dofar, Charles Cady, and Nicholas Clark constituted the Second Relief. They reported having met the First Relief with eighteen refugees at the head of Bear Valley, three having died _en route_ from the cabins. Among the survivors Mr. Reed found his wife, his daughter Virginia, and his son James F. Reed, Jr. He learned there from his anxious wife that their two younger children, Martha J. and Thomas K. Reed, had also left the cabin with her, but had soon given out and been carried back and left at the mountain camp by Messrs. Glover and Moutrey, who then retraced their steps and rejoined the party. Consequently this Reed-Greenwood party, realizing that this was no time for tarrying, had hurried on to the lake cabins, where Mr. Reed had the happiness of finding his children still alive. There he and five companions encamped upon the snow and fed and soothed the unfortunates. Two members continued on to Aunt Betsy's abode, and Messrs. Cady and Clark came to ours. This Relief had followed the example of its predecessor in leaving supplies at marked caches along the trail for the return trip. Therefore, it reached camp with a frugal amount for distribution. The first rations were doled out with careful hand, lest harm should come to the famishing through overeating, still, the rescuers administered sufficient to satisfy the fiercest cravings and to give strength for the prospective journey. While crossing Alder Creek Valley to our tent that first afternoon, Messrs. Cady and Clark had seen fresh tracks of a bear and cubs, and in the evening the latter took one of our guns and went in pursuit of the game which would have been a godsend to us. It was dark when he returned and told my mother that he had wounded the old bear near the camp, but that she had escaped with her young through the pines into a clump of tamarack, and that he would be able to follow her in the morning by the blood-stains on the snow. Meanwhile, the two men who had come to Aunt Betsy's with food thought it best not to tell her that her son William had died _en route_ to the settlement with the First Relief. They selected from among her children in camp, Solomon, Mary, and Isaac, as able to follow a leader to the lake cabins, and thence to go with the outgoing Second Relief, across the mountains. Hopefully, that mother kissed her three children good-bye, and then wistfully watched them depart with their rescuers on snowshoes. She herself was strong enough to make the journey, but remained because there was no one to help to carry out her two youngest children. Thirty-one of the company were still in the camps when this party arrived, nearly all of them children, unable to travel without assistance, and the adults were too feeble to give much aid to the little ones upon the snow. Consequently, when my father learned that the Second Relief comprised only ten men, he felt that he himself would never reach the settlement. He was willing to be left alone, and entreated mother to leave him and try to save herself and us children. He reminded her that his life was almost spent, that she could do little for him were she to remain, and that in caring for us children she would be carrying on his work. She who had to choose between the sacred duties of wife and mother, thought not of self. She looked first at her helpless little children, then into the face of her suffering and helpless husband, and tenderly, unhesitatingly, announced her determination to remain and care for him until both should be rescued, or death should part them. [Illustration: From an old drawing made from description furnished by Wm. G. Murphy. ARRIVAL OF RELIEF PARTY, FEBRUARY 18, 1847] [Illustration: Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. DONNER LAKE] Perplexities and heartaches multiplied with the morning hours of the following day. Mr. Clark, being anxious to provide more food, started early to hunt the wounded bear. He had not been gone long, when Mr. Stone arrived from the lake cabins and told Mr. Cady that the other members of the Relief had become alarmed at gathering storm clouds, and had resolved to select at once the ablest among the emigrants and hasten with them across the summit, and to leave Clark, Cady, and himself to cut the necessary fuel for the camps, and otherwise assist the sufferers until the Third Relief should reach them. Cady and Stone, without waiting to inform Clark, promptly decided upon their course of action. They knew the scarcity of provisions in camp, the condition of the trail over the mountains, the probability of long, fierce March storms, and other obstacles which might delay future promised relief, and, terror-stricken, determined to rejoin their party, regardless of opposition, and return to the settlement. Mother, fearing that we children might not survive another storm in camp, begged Messrs. Cady and Stone to take us with them, offering them five hundred dollars in coin, to deliver us to Elitha and Leanna at Sutter's Fort. The agreement was made, and she collected a few keepsakes and other light articles, which she wished us to have, and which the men seemed more than willing to carry out of the mountains. Then, lovingly, she combed our hair and helped us to dress quickly for the journey. When we were ready, except cloak and hood, she led us to the bedside, and we took leave of father. The men helped us up the steps and stood us up on the snow. She came, put on our cloaks and hoods, saying, as if talking to herself, "I may never see you again, but God will take care of you." Frances was six years and eight months old and could trudge along quite bravely, but Georgia, who was little more than five, and I, lacking a week of four years, could not do well on the heavy trail, and we were soon taken up and carried. After travelling some distance, the men left us sitting on a blanket upon the snow, and went ahead a short distance where they stopped and talked earnestly with many gesticulations. We watched them, trembling lest they leave us there to freeze. Then Frances said, "Don't feel afraid. If they go off and leave us, I can lead you back to mother by our foot tracks on the snow." After a seemingly long time, they returned, picked us up and took us on to one of the lake cabins, where without a parting word, they left us. The Second Relief Party, of which these men were members, left camp on the third of March. They took with them seventeen refugees--the Breen and Graves families, Solomon Hook, Isaac and Mary Donner, and Martha and Thomas, Mr. Reed's two youngest children. CHAPTER XIII A FATEFUL CABIN--MRS. MURPHY GIVES MOTHERLY COMFORT--THE GREAT STORM--HALF A BISCUIT--ARRIVAL OF THIRD RELIEF--"WHERE IS MY BOY?" How can I describe that fateful cabin, which was dark as night to us who had come in from the glare of day? We heard no word of greeting and met no sign of welcome, but were given a dreary resting-place near the foot of the steps, just inside the open doorway, with a bed of branches to lie upon, and a blanket to cover us. After we had been there a short time, we could distinguish persons on other beds of branches, and a man with bushy hair reclining beside a smouldering fire. Soon a child began to cry, "Give me some bread. Oh, give me some meat!" Then another took up the same pitiful wail. It continued so long that I wept in sympathy, and fastened my arms tightly around my sister Frances' neck and hid my eyes against her shoulder. Still I heard that hungry cry, until a husky voice shouted, "Be quiet, you crying children, or I'll shoot you." But the silence was again and again broken by that heart-rending plea, and again and again were the voices hushed by the same terrifying threat. And we three, fresh from our loving mother's embrace, believed the awful menace no vain threat. We were cold, and too frightened to feel hungry, nor were we offered food that night, but next morning Mr. Reed's little daughter Mattie appeared carrying in her apron a number of newly baked biscuits which her father had just taken from the hot ashes of his camp fire. Joyfully she handed one to each inmate of the cabin, then departed to join those ready to set forth on the journey to the settlement. Few can know how delicious those biscuits tasted, and how carefully we caught each dropping crumb. The place seemed drearier after their giver left us, yet we were glad that her father was taking her to her mother in California. Soon the great storm which had been lowering broke upon us. We were not exposed to its fury as were those who had just gone from us, but we knew when it came, for snow drifted down upon our bed and had to be scraped off before we could rise. We were not allowed near the fire and spent most of our time on our bed of branches. Dear, kind Mrs. Murphy, who for months had taken care of her own son Simon, and her grandson George Foster, and little James Eddy, gave us a share of her motherly attention, and tried to feed and comfort us. Affliction and famine, however, had well nigh sapped her strength and by the time those plaintive voices ceased to cry for bread and meat, her willing hands were too weakened to do much for us. I remember being awakened while there by two little arms clasped suddenly and tightly about me, and I heard Frances say, "No, she shall not go with you. You want to kill her!" Near us stood Keseberg, the man with the bushy hair. In limping past our sleeping place, he had stopped and said something about taking me away with him, which so frightened my sisters that they believed my life in danger, and would not let me move beyond their reach while we remained in that dungeon. We spoke in whispers, suffered as much as the starving children in Joseph's time, and were more afraid than Daniel in the den of lions. How long the storm had lasted, we did not know, nor how many days we had been there. We were forlorn as children can possibly be, when Simon Murphy, who was older than Frances, climbed to his usual "look out" on the snow above the cabin to see if any help were coming. He returned to us, stammering in his eagerness: "I seen--a woman--on snow shoes--coming from the other camp! She's a little woman--like Mrs. Donner. She is not looking this way--and may pass!" Hardly had he spoken her name, before we had gathered around him and were imploring him to hurry back and call our mother. We were too excited to follow him up the steps. She came to us quickly, with all the tenderness and courage needed to lessen our troubles and soften our fears. Oh, how glad we were to see her, and how thankful she appeared to be with us once more! We heard it in her voice and saw it in her face; and when we begged her not to leave us, she could not answer, but clasped us closer to her bosom, kissed us anew for father's sake, then told how the storm had distressed them. Often had they hoped that we had reached the cabins too late to join the Relief--then in grieving anguish felt that we had, and might not live to cross the summit. She had watched the fall of snow, and measured its depth; had seen it drift between the two camps making the way so treacherous that no one had dared to cross it until the day before her own coming; then she induced Mr. Clark to try to ascertain if Messrs. Cady and Stone had really got us to the cabins in time to go with the Second Relief. We did not see Mr. Clark, but he had peered in, taken observations, and returned by nightfall and described to her our condition. John Baptiste had promised to care for father in her absence. She left our tent in the morning as early as she could see the way. She must have stayed with us over night, for I went to sleep in her arms, and they were still around me when I awoke; and it seemed like a new day, for we had time for many cherished talks. She veiled from us the ghastliness of death, telling us Aunt Betsy and both our little cousins had gone to heaven. She said Lewis had been first to go, and his mother had soon followed; that she herself had carried little Sammie from his sick mother's tent to ours the very day we three were taken away; and in order to keep him warm while the storm raged, she had laid him close to father's side, and that he had stayed with them until "day before yesterday." I asked her if Sammie had cried for bread. She replied, "No, he was not hungry, for your mother saved two of those little biscuits which the relief party brought, and every day she soaked a tiny piece in water and fed him all he would eat, and there is still half a biscuit left." How big that half-biscuit seemed to me! I wondered why she had not brought at least a part of it to us. While she was talking with Mrs. Murphy, I could not get it out of my mind. I could see that broken half-biscuit, with its ragged edges, and knew that if I had a piece, I would nibble off the rough points first. The longer I waited, the more I wanted it. Finally, I slipped my arm around mother's neck, drew her face close to mine and whispered, "What are you going to do with the half-biscuit you saved?" "I am keeping it for your sick father," she answered, drawing me closer to her side, laying her comforting cheek against mine, letting my arm keep its place, and my fingers stroke her hair. The two women were still talking in subdued tones, pouring the oil of sympathy into each others' gaping wounds. Neither heard the sound of feet on the snow above; neither knew that the Third Relief Party was at hand, until Mr. Eddy and Mr. Foster came down the steps, and each asked anxiously of Mrs. Murphy, "Where is my boy?" Each received the same sorrowful answer--"Dead." CHAPTER XIV THE QUEST OF TWO FATHERS--SECOND RELIEF IN DISTRESS--THIRD RELIEF ORGANIZED AT WOODWORTH'S RELAY CAMP--DIVIDES AND ONE HALF GOES TO SUCCOR SECOND RELIEF AND ITS REFUGEES; AND THE OTHER HALF PROCEEDS TO DONNER LAKE--A LAST FAREWELL--A WOMAN'S SACRIFICE. It will be remembered that Mr. Eddy, being ill, was dropped out of the First Relief at Mule Springs in February, and sent back to Johnson's Ranch to await the return of this party, which had promised to bring out his family. Who can realize his distress when it returned with eighteen refugees, and informed him that his wife and little Maggie had perished before it reached the camps, and that it had been obliged to leave his baby there in care of Mrs. Murphy? Disappointed and aggrieved, the afflicted father immediately set out on horseback, hoping that he would meet his child on the trail in charge of the Second Relief, which it seemed reasonable to expect would follow closely in the footsteps of the first. He was accompanied by Mr. Foster, of the Forlorn Hope, who had been forced to leave his own little son at the camp in charge of Mrs. Murphy, its grandmother. On the evening of the second day, the two reached Woodworth's camp, established as a relay station pursuant to the general plan of rescue originally adopted. They found the midshipman in snug quarters with several men to do his bidding. He explained that the lack of competent guides had prevented his venturing among the snow peaks. Whereupon, Mr. Eddy earnestly assured him that the trail of those who had already gone up outlined the way. After much deliberation, Woodworth and his men agreed to start out next morning for the mountain camps, but tried to dissuade Mr. Eddy from accompanying them on account of his apparent depleted condition. Nevertheless both he and Mr. Foster remained firm, and with the party, left the relay camp, crossed the low foothills and encamped for the night on the Yuba River. At dusk, Woodworth was surprised by the arrival of two forlorn-looking individuals, whom he recognized as members of the Reed-Greenwood Relief, which had gone up the mountain late in February and was overdue. The two implored food for themselves, also for their seven companions and three refugees, a mile back on the trail, unable to come farther. When somewhat refreshed, they were able to go more into detail, and the following explanation of their plight was elicited: "One of our men, Clark, is at Donner's Camp, and the other nine of us left the cabins near the lake on the third of March, with seventeen of the starving emigrants. The storm caught us as we crossed the summit, and ten miles below, drove us into camp. It got so bad and lasted so long that our provisions gave out, and we almost froze to death cutting wood. We all worked at keeping the fires until we were completely exhausted, then seeing no prospects of help coming to us, we left, and made our way down here, bringing Reed's two children and Solomon Hook, who said he could and would walk. The other fourteen that we brought over the summit are up there at what we call Starved Camp. Some are dead, the rest without food." Woodworth and two followers went at once with provisions to the near-by sufferers, and later brought them down to camp. Messrs. Reed and Greenwood stated that every available means had been tried by them to get the seventeen unfortunates well over the summit before the great storm reached its height. They said the physical condition of the refugees was such, from the very start, that no persuasion, nor warnings, nor threats could quicken their feeble steps. All but three of the number were children, with their hands and feet more or less frozen. Worse still, the caches on which the party had relied for sustenance had been robbed by wild animals, and the severity of the storm had forced all into camp, with nothing more than a breastwork of brush to shelter them. Mrs. Elisabeth Graves died the first night, leaving to the party the hopeless task of caring for her emaciated babe in arms, and her three other children between the ages of nine and five years. Soon, however, the five-year-old followed his mother, and the number of starving was again lessened on the third night when Isaac Donner went to sleep beside his sister and did not waken. The storm had continued so furiously that it was impossible to bury the dead. Days and nights were spent in steadfast struggling against the threatening inevitable, before the party gave up; and Greenwood and Reed, taking the two Reed children and also Solomon Hook, who walked, started down the mountain, hoping to save their own lives and perhaps get fresh men to complete the pitiful work which they had been forced to abandon. When Messrs. Reed and Greenwood closed their account of the terrible physical and mental strain their party had undergone, "Mr. Woodworth asked his own men of the relay camp, if they would go with him to rescue those unfortunates at 'Starved Camp,' and received an answer in the negative."[10] The following morning there was an earnest consultation, and so hazardous seemed the trail and the work to be done that for a time all except Eddy and Foster refused to go farther. Finally, John Stark stepped forward, saying, "Gentlemen, I am ready to go and do what I can for those sufferers, without promise of pay." [Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE CARAVAN AT SANTA FÉ] [Illustration: ON THE BANKS OF THE SACRAMENTO RIVER] By guaranteeing three dollars per day to any man who would get supplies to the mountain camps, and fifty dollars in addition to each man who should carry a helpless child, not his own, back to the settlement, Mr. Eddy[11] secured the services of Hiram Miller, who had just come down with the Second Relief; and Mr. Foster hired, on the same terms, Mr. Thompson from the relay camp. Mr. Woodworth offered like inducements, on Government account, to the rest of his men, and before the morning was far advanced, with William H. Eddy acting as leader, William Foster, Hiram Miller, Mr. Thompson, John Stark, Howard Oakley, and Charles Stone (who had left us little ones at the lake camp) shouldered their packs and began the ascent. Meanwhile how fared it at Starved Camp? Mr. and Mrs. Breen being left there with their own five suffering children and the four other poor, moaning little waifs, were tortured by situations too heart-rending for description, too pitiful to seem true. Suffice it to relate that Mrs. Breen shared with baby Graves the last lump of loaf sugar and the last drops of tea, of that which she had denied herself and had hoarded for her own babe. When this was gone, with quivering lips she and her husband repeated the litany and prayed for strength to meet the ordeal,--then, turning to the unburied dead, they resorted to the only means left to save the nine helpless little ones. When Mr. Eddy and party reached them, they found much suffering from cold and crying for "something to eat," but not the wail which precedes delirium and death. This Third Relief Party settled for the night upon the snow near these refugees, who had twice been in the shadow of doom; and after giving them food and fire, Mr. Eddy divided his force into two sections. Messrs. Stark, Oakley, and Stone were to remain there and nurture the refugees a few hours longer, then carry the small children, and conduct those able to walk to Mule Springs, while Eddy and three companions should hasten on to the cabins across the summit.[12] Section Two, spurred on by paternal solicitude, resumed travel at four o'clock the following morning, and crossed the summit soon after sunrise. The nearer they approached camp, the more anxious Messrs. Eddy and Foster became to reach the children they hoped to find alive. Finally, they rushed ahead, as we have seen, to the Murphy cabin. Alas! only disappointment met them there. Even after Mrs. Murphy had repeated her pitiful answer, "Dead," the afflicted fathers stood dazed and silent, as if waiting for the loved ones to return. Mr. Eddy was the first to recover sufficiently for action. Presently Simon Murphy and we three little girls were standing on the snow under a clear blue sky, and saw Hiram Miller and Mr. Thompson coming toward camp. The change was so sudden it was difficult to understand what had happened. How could we realize that we had passed out of that loathsome cabin, never to return; or that Mrs. Murphy, too ill to leave her bed, and Keseberg, too lame to walk, by reason of a deep cleft in his heel, made by an axe, would have to stay alone in that abode of wretchedness? Nor could we know our mother's anguish, as she stepped aside to arrange with Mr. Eddy for our departure. She had told us at our own camp why she would remain. She had parted from us there and put us in charge of men who had risked much and come far to do a heroic deed. Later she had found us, abandoned by them, in time of direst need, and in danger of an awful death, and had warmed and cheered us back to hope and confidence. Now, she was about to confide us to the care of a party whose leader swore either to save us or die with us on the trail. We listened to the sound of her voice, felt her good-bye kisses, and watched her hasten away to father, over the snow, through the pines, and out of sight, and knew that we must not follow. But the influence of her last caress, last yearning look of love and abiding faith will go with us through life. The ordeal through which she passed is thus told by Colonel Thornton, after a personal interview with Mr. Eddy: Mrs. George Donner was able to travel. But her husband was in a helpless condition, and she would not consent to leave him while he survived. She expressed her solemn and unalterable purpose, which no danger or peril could change, to remain and perform for him the last sad office of duty and affection. She manifested, however, the greatest solicitude for her children, and informed Mr. Eddy that she had fifteen hundred dollars in silver, all of which she would give him, if he would save the lives of the children. He informed her that he would not carry out one hundred dollars of all she had, but that he would save her children or die in the effort. The party had no provisions to leave for the sustenance of these unhappy, unfortunate beings. After remaining about two hours, Mr. Eddy informed Mrs. Donner that he was constrained by force of circumstances to depart. It was certain that George Donner would never rise from the miserable bed upon which he had lain down, worn by toil and wasted by famine. A woman was probably never before placed in circumstances of greater or more peculiar trial; but her duty and affection as a wife triumphed over all her instincts of reason. The parting scene between parent and children is represented as being one that will never be forgotten, so long as life remains or memory performs its functions. My own emotions will not permit me to attempt a description which language, indeed, has not power to delineate. It is sufficient to say that it was affecting beyond measure; and that the last words uttered by Mrs. Donner in tears and sobs to Mr. Eddy were, "Oh, save, save my children!" [Footnote 10: Extract from Thornton's work.] [Footnote 11: Thornton saw Eddy pay Hiram Miller the promised fifty dollars after the Third Relief reached the settlement.] [Footnote 12: See McGlashan's "History of the Donner Party."] CHAPTER XV SIMON MURPHY, FRANCES, GEORGIA, AND I TAKEN FROM THE LAKE CABINS BY THE THIRD RELIEF--NO FOOD TO LEAVE--CROSSING THE SNOW--REMNANT OF THE SECOND RELIEF OVERTAKEN--OUT OF THE SNOW--INCIDENTS OF THE JOURNEY--JOHNSON'S RANCH--THE SINCLAIR HOME--SUTTER'S FORT. When we left the lake cabin, we still wore the clothing we had on when we came from our tent with Messrs. Cady and Stone. Georgia and I were clad in quilted petticoats, linsey dresses, woollen stockings, and well-worn shoes. Our cloaks were of a twilled material, garnet, with a white thread interwoven, and we had knitted hoods to match. Frances' clothing was as warm; instead of cloak, however, she wore a shawl, and her hood was blue. Her shoes had been eaten by our starving dog before he disappeared, and as all others were buried out of reach, mother had substituted a pair of her own in their stead. Mr. Foster took charge of Simon Murphy, his wife's brother, and Messrs. Eddy and Miller carried Georgia and me. Mr. Eddy always called Georgia "my girl," and she found great favor in his eyes, because in size and looks she reminded him of his little daughter who had perished in that storm-bound camp. Our first stop was on the mountain-side overlooking the lake, where we were given a light meal of bread and meat and a drink of water. When we reached the head of the lake, we overtook Nicholas Clark and John Baptiste who had deserted father in his tent and were hurrying toward the settlement. Our coming was a surprise to them, yet they were glad to join our party. After our evening allowance of food we were stowed snugly between blankets in a snow trench near the summit of the Sierras, but were so hungry that we could hardly get to sleep, even after being told that more food would do us harm. Early next morning we were again on the trail. I could not walk at all, and Georgia only a short distance at a time. So treacherous was the way that our rescuers often stumbled into unseen pits, struggled among snow drifts, and climbed icy ridges where to slip or fall might mean death in the yawning depth below. Near the close of this most trying day, Hiram M. Miller put me down, saying wearily, "I am tired of carrying you. If you will walk to that dark thing on the mountain-side ahead of us, you shall have a nice lump of loaf sugar with your supper." My position in the blanket had been so cramped that my limbs were stiff and the jostling of the march had made my body ache. I looked toward the object to which he pointed. It seemed a long way off; yet I wanted the sugar so much that I agreed to walk. The wind was sharp. I shivered, and at times could hardly lift my feet; often I stumbled and would have fallen had he not held my hand tightly, as he half led, half drew me onward. I did my part, however, in glad expectation of the promised bit of sweetness. The sun had set before we reached our landmark, which was a felled and blackened tree, selected to furnish fuel for our night fire. When we children were given our evening allowance of food, I asked for my lump of sugar, and cried bitterly on being harshly told there was none for me. Too disappointed and fretted to care for anything else, I sobbed myself to sleep. Nor did I waken happy next morning. I had not forgotten the broken promise, and was lonesome for mother. When Mr. Miller told me that I should walk that day as far as Frances and Georgia did, I refused to go forward, and cried to go back. The result was that he used rough means before I promised to be good and do as he commanded. His act made my sister Frances rush to my defence, and also, touched a chord in the fatherly natures of the other two men, who summarily brought about a more comfortable state of affairs. When we proceeded on our journey, I was again carried by Mr. Miller in a blanket on his back as young children are carried by Indians on long journeys. My head above the blanket folds bobbed uncomfortably at every lurch. The trail led up and down and around snow peaks, and under overhanging banks that seemed ready to give way and crush us. At one turn our rescuers stopped, picked up a bundle, and carefully noted the fresh human foot prints in the snow which indicated that a number of persons were moving in advance. By our fire that night, Mr. Eddy opened the bundle that we had found upon the snow, and to the surprise of all, Frances at once recognized in it the three silk dresses, silver spoons, small keepsakes, and articles of children's clothing which mother had intrusted to the care of Messrs. Cady and Stone. The spoons and smaller articles were now stowed away in the pockets of our rescuers for safekeeping on the journey; and while we little girls dressed ourselves in the fresh underwear, and watched our discarded garments disappear in the fire, the dresses, which mother had planned should come to us later in life, were remodelled for immediate use. Mr. Thompson pulled out the same sharp pocket-knife, coarse black thread, and big-eyed needle, which he had used the previous evening, while making Frances a pair of moccasins out of his own gauntlet gloves. With the help of Mr. Eddy, he then ripped out the sleeves, cut off the waists about an inch above the skirt gathers, cut slits in the skirts for arm-holes, and tacked in the sleeves. Then, with mother's wish in mind, they put the dove-colored silk on Frances, the light brown on Georgia, and the dark coffee-brown on me. Pleats and laps in the skirt bands were necessary to fit them to our necks. Strings were tied around our waists, and the skirts tacked up until they were of walking length. These ample robes served for cloaks as well as dresses for we could easily draw our hands back through the sleeves and keep our arms warm beneath the folds. Thus comfortably clad, we began another day's journey. Before noon we overtook and passed Messrs. Oakley, Stone, and Stark, having in charge the following refugees from Starved Camp: Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Breen and their five children; Mary Donner, Jonathan Graves, Nancy Graves, and baby Graves. Messrs. Oakley and Stone were in advance, the former carrying Mary Donner over his shoulder; and the latter baby Graves in his arms. Great-hearted John Stark had the care of all the rest. He was broad-shouldered and powerful, and would stride ahead with two weaklings at a time, deposit them on the trail and go back for others who could not keep up. These were the remnant of the hopeful seventeen who had started out on the third of March with the Second Relief, and with whom mother had hoped we children would cross the mountains. It was after dark when our own little party encamped at the crossing of the Yuba River. The following morning Lieutenant Woodworth and attendants were found near-by. He commended the work done by the Third Relief; yet, to Mr. Eddy's dismay, he declared that he would not go to the rescue of those who were still in the mountains, because the warmer weather was melting the snow so rapidly that the lives of his men would be endangered should he attempt to lead them up the trail which we had just followed down. He gave our party rations, and said that he would at once proceed to Johnson's Ranch and from there send to Mule Springs the requisite number of horses to carry to the settlement the persons now on the trail. Our party did not resume travel until ten o'clock that morning; nevertheless, we crossed the snow line and made our next camp at Mule Springs. There we caught the first breath of spring-tide, touched the warm, dry earth, and saw green fields far beyond the foot of that cold, cruel mountain range. Our rescuers exclaimed joyfully, "Thank God, we are at last out of the snow, and you shall soon see Elitha and Leanna, and have all you want to eat." Our allowance of food had been gradually increased and our improved condition bore evidence of the good care and kind treatment we had received. We remained several days at Mule Springs, and were comparatively happy until the arrival of the unfortunates from Starved Camp, who stretched forth their gaunt hands and piteously begged for food which would have caused death had it been given to them in sufficient quantities to satisfy their cravings. When I went among them I found my little cousin Mary sitting on a blanket near Mr. Oakley, who had carried her thither, and who was gently trying to engage her thoughts. Her wan face was wet with tears, and her hands were clasped around her knee as she rocked from side to side in great pain. A large woollen stocking covered her swollen leg and frozen foot which had become numb and fallen into the fire one night at Starved Camp and been badly maimed before she awakened to feel the pain. I wanted to speak to her, but when I saw how lonesome and ill she looked, something like pain choked off my words. Her brother Isaac had died at that awful camp and she herself would not have lived had Mr. Oakley not been so good to her. He was now comforting her with the assurance that he would have the foot cared for by a doctor as soon as they should reach the settlement; and she, believing him, was trying to be brave and patient. We all resumed travel on horseback and reached Johnson's Ranch about the same hour in the day. As we approached, the little colony of emigrants which had settled in the neighborhood the previous Autumn crowded in and about the two-roomed adobe house which Mr. Johnson had kindly set apart as a stopping place for the several relief parties on their way to and from the mountains. All were anxious to see the sufferers for whose rescue they had helped to provide. Survivors of the Forlorn Hope and of the First Relief were also there awaiting the arrival of expected loved ones. There Simon Murphy, who came with us, met his sisters and brother; Mary Graves took from the arms of Charles Stone, her slowly dying baby sister; she received from the hands of John Stark her brother Jonathan and her sister Nancy, and heard of the death of her mother and of her brother Franklin at Starved Camp. That house of welcome became a house of mourning when Messrs. Eddy and Foster repeated the names of those who had perished in the snows. The scenes were so heart-rending that I slipped out of doors and sat in the sunshine waiting for Frances and Georgia, and thinking of her who had intrusted us to the care of God. Before our short stay at the Johnson Ranch ended, we little girls had a peculiar experience. While standing in a doorway, the door closed with a bang upon two of my fingers. My piercing cry brought several persons to the spot, and one among them sat down and soothed me in a motherly way. After I was myself again, she examined the dress into which Messrs. Thompson and Eddy had stitched so much good-will, and she said: "Let me take off this clumsy thing, and give you a little blue dress with white flowers on it." She made the change, and after she had fastened it in the back she got a needle and white thread and bade me stand closer to her so that she might sew up the tear which exposed my knees. She asked why I looked so hard at her sewing, and I replied, "My mother always makes little stitches when she sews my dresses." No amount of pulling down of the sleeves or straightening out of the skirt could conceal the fact that I was too large for the garment. As I was leaving her, I heard her say to a companion, "That is just as good for her, and this will make two for my little girl." Later in the day Frances and Georgia parted with their silks and looked as forlorn as I in calico substitutes. Oh, the balm and beauty of that early morning when Messrs. Eddy, Thompson, and Miller took us on horseback down the Sacramento Valley. Under the leafy trees and over the budding blossoms we rode. Not rapidly, but steadily, we neared our journey's end. Toward night, when the birds had stopped their singing and were hiding themselves among bush and bough, we reached the home of Mr. and Mrs. John Sinclair on the American River, thirty-five miles from Johnson's Ranch and only two and a half from Sutter's Fort. That hospitable house was over-crowded with earlier arrivals, but as it was too late for us to cross the river, sympathetic Mrs. Sinclair said that she would find a place for us. Having no bed to offer, she loosened the rag-carpet from one corner of the room, had fresh straw put on the floor, and after supper, tucked us away on it, drawing the carpet over us in place of quilts. We had bread and milk for supper that night, and the same good food next day. In the afternoon we were taken across the river in an Indian canoe. Then we followed the winding path through the tules to Sutter's Fort, where we were given over to our half-sisters by those heroic men who had kept their pledge to our mother and saved our lives. CHAPTER XVI ELITHA AND LEANNA--LIFE AT THE FORT--WATCHING THE COW PATH--RETURN OF THE FALLON PARTY--KESEBERG BROUGHT IN BY THEM--FATHER AND MOTHER DID NOT COME. The room in which Elitha and Leanna were staying when we arrived at Sutter's Fort was part of a long, low, single-story adobe building outside the fortification walls, and like others that were occupied by belated travellers, was the barest and crudest structure imaginable. It had an earthen floor, a thatched roof, a batten door, and an opening in the rear wall to serve as window. We little ones were oblivious of discomfort, however. The tenderness with which we were received, and the bewildering sense of safety that we felt, blinded us even to the anguish and fear which crept over our two sisters, when they saw us come to them alone. How they suffered I learned many years later from Elitha, who said, in referring to those pitiful experiences: After Sister Leanna and I reached the Fort with the First Relief, we were put in different families to await our parents; but as soon as the Second Relief was expected, we went to housekeeping, gathered wood, and had everything ready. No one came. Then we waited and watched anxiously for the Third Relief, and it was a sad sight to see you three and no more. I went in, kindled the fire, and gave you supper. I had a bed of shavings hemmed in with poles for father and mother. They did not come. We five lay down upon it, and Sister Leanna and I talked long after you three were asleep, wondering what we should do. You had no clothes, except those you wore, so the next day I got a little cotton stuff and commenced making you some. Sister Leanna did the cooking and looked after you, which took all her time. The United States Army officer at the Port had left orders at Captain Sutter's store, that we should be furnished with the necessaries of life, and that was how we were able to get the food and few things we had when you arrived. Messrs. Eddy and Thompson did not tell my sisters that they had no expectation of father's getting through, and considered mother's chance very slight, but went directly to the Fort to report to Colonel McKinstrey and to Mr. Kerns what their party had accomplished, and to inform them that Lieutenant Woodworth was about to break camp and return to the settlement instead of trying to get relief to the four unfortunates still at the mountain camp. Very soon thereafter, a messenger on horseback from the Fort delivered a letter to Lieutenant Woodworth, and a fourth party was organized, "consisting of John Stark, John Rhodes, E Coffeymier, John Del, Daniel Tucker, Wm. Foster, and Wm. Graves. But this party proceeded no farther than Bear Valley on account of the rapidly melting snows."[13] The return of the party after its fruitless efforts was not made known to Elitha and Leanna; nor were they aware that Thomas Fallon, with six companions, had set out for the mountain camps on the tenth of April. Neither fear nor misgivings troubled us little ones the morning we started out, hand in hand, to explore our new surroundings. We had rested, been washed, combed, and fed, and we believed that father and mother would soon come to us. Everything was beautiful to our eyes. We did not care if "the houses did look as if they were made of dry dirt and hadn't anything but holes for windows." We watched the mothers sitting on the door sills or on chairs near them laughing as they talked and sewed, and it seemed good to see the little children at play and hear them singing their dolls to sleep. The big gate to the adobe wall around Captain Sutter's home was open, and we could look in and see many white-washed huts built against the back and side walls, and a flag waving from a pole in front of the large house, which stood in the middle of the ground. Cannons like those we had seen at Fort Laramie were also peeping out of holes in these walls, and an Indian soldier and a white soldier were marching to and fro, each holding a gun against his shoulder, and it pointing straight up in the air. [Illustration: ELITHA DONNER (MRS. BENJAMIN WILDER)] [Illustration: LEANNA DONNER (MRS. JOHN APP)] [Illustration: MARY DONNER] [Illustration: GEORGE DONNER, NEPHEW OF CAPT. DONNER] Often we looked at each other and exclaimed, "How good to be here instead of up in the snow." It was hard to go back to the house when sisters called us. I do not remember the looks or the taste of anything they gave us to eat. We were so eager to stay out in the sunshine. Before long, we went to that dreary, bare room only to sleep. Many of the women at the Fort were kind to us; gave us bread from their scant loaves not only because we were destitute, but because they had grateful recollection of those whose name we bore. Once a tall, freckle-faced boy, with very red hair, edged up to where I was watching others at play, and whispered: "See here, little gal, you run get that little tin cup of yourn, and when you see me come out of Mrs. Wimmer's house with the milk pail on my arm, you go round yonder to the tother side of the cow-pen, where you'll find a hole big enough to put the cup through. Then you can watch me milk it full of the nicest milk you ever tasted. You needn't say nothing to nobody about it. I give your little sister some last time, and I want to do the same for you. I hain't got no mother neither, and I know how it is." When I got there he took the cup and, as he sat down under old Bossy, smilingly asked if I liked lots of foam. I told him I did. He milked a faster, stronger stream, then handed me the cup, full as he could carry it, and a white cap of foam stood above its rim. I tasted it and told him it was too good to drink fast, but he watched me until it was all gone. Then, saying he didn't want thanks, he hurried me back to the children. I never saw that boy again, but have ever been grateful for his act of pure kindness. Every day or two a horse all white with lather and dripping with sweat would rush by, and the Indian or white man on his back would guide him straight to Captain Kerns' quarters, where he would hand out papers and letters. The women and children would flock thither to see if it meant news for them. Often they were disappointed and talked a great deal about the tediousness of the Mexican War and the delays of Captain Frémont's company. They wanted the war to end, and their men folk back so that they could move and get to farming before it should be too late to grow garden truck for family use. While they thus anxiously awaited the return of their soldiers, we kept watch of the cow-path by which we had reached the Fort; for Elitha had told us that we might "pretty soon see the relief coming." She did not say, "with father and mother"; but we did, and she replied, "I hope so." We were very proud of the new clothes she had made us; but the first time she washed and hung them out to dry, they were stolen, and we were again destitute. Sister Elitha thought perhaps strange Indians took them. In May, the Fallon party arrived with horses laden with many packs of goods, but their only refugee was Lewis Keseberg, from the cabin near the lake. It was evening, and some one came to our door, spoke to Elitha and Leanna in low tones and went away. My sisters turned, put their arms about us and wept bitterly. Then, gently, compassionately, the cruel, desolating truth was told. Ah, how could we believe it? No anxious watching, no weary waiting would ever bring father and mother to us again! [Footnote 13: Thornton.] CHAPTER XVII ORPHANS--KESEBERG AND HIS ACCUSERS--SENSATIONAL ACCOUNTS OF THE TRAGEDY AT DONNER LAKE--PROPERTY SOLD AND GUARDIAN APPOINTED--KINDLY INDIANS--"GRANDPA"--MARRIAGE OF ELITHA. The report of our affliction spread rapidly, and the well-meaning, tender-hearted women at the Fort came to condole and weep with us, and made their children weep also by urging, "Now, do say something comforting to these poor little girls, who were frozen and starved up in the mountains, and are now orphans in a strange land, without any home or any one to care for them." Such ordeals were too overwhelming. I would rush off alone among the wild flowers to get away from the torturing sympathy. Even there, I met those who would look at me with great serious eyes, shake their heads, and mournfully say, "You poor little mite, how much better it would be if you had died in the mountains with your dear mother, instead of being left alone to struggle in this wicked world!" This would but increase my distress, for I did not want to be dead and buried up there under the cold, deep snow, and I knew that mother did not want me to be there either. Had she not sent me away to save me, and asked God, our Heavenly Father, to take care of me? Intense excitement and indignation prevailed at the Fort after Captain Fallon and other members of his party gave their account of the conditions found at the mountain camps, and of interviews had with Keseberg, whom they now called, "cannibal, robber, and murderer." The wretched man was accused by this party, not only of having needlessly partaken of human flesh, and of having appropriated coin and other property which should have come to us orphaned children, but also of having wantonly taken the life of Mrs. Murphy and of my mother. Some declared him crazy, others called him a monster. Keseberg denied these charges and repeatedly accused Fallon and his party of making false statements. He sadly acknowledged that he had used human flesh to keep himself from starving, but swore that he was guiltless of taking human life. He stated that Mrs. Murphy had died of starvation soon after the departure of the "Third Relief," and that my mother had watched by father's bedside until he died. After preparing his body for burial, she had started out on the trail to go to her children. In attempting to cross the distance from her camp to his, she had strayed and wandered about far into the night, and finally reached his cabin wet, shivering, and grief-stricken, yet determined to push onward. She had brought nothing with her, but told him where to find money to take to her children in the event of her not reaching them. He stated that he offered her food, which she refused. He then attempted to persuade her to wait until morning, and while they were talking, she sank upon the floor completely exhausted, and he covered her with blankets and made a fire to warm her. In the morning he found her cold in death. Keseberg's vehement and steadfast denial of the crimes of which he stood accused saved him from personal violence, but not from suspicion and ill-will. Women shunned him, and children stoned him as he walked about the fort. _The California Star_ printed in full the account of the Fallon party, and blood-curdling editorials increased public sentiment against Keseberg, stamping him with the mark of Cain, and closing the door of every home against him.[14] Elitha and Leanna tried to keep us little ones in ignorance of the report that our father's body was mutilated, also of what was said about the alleged murder of our mother. Still we did hear fragments of conversations which greatly disturbed us, and our sisters found it difficult to answer some of our questions. Meanwhile, more disappointments for us were brewing at the fort. Fallon's party demanded an immediate settlement of its claim. It had gone up the mountains under promise that its members should have not only a _per diem_ as rescuers, but also one half of all the property that they might bring to the settlement, and they had brought valuable packs from the camps of the Donners. Captain Fallon also had two hundred and twenty-five dollars in gold coin taken from concealment on Keseberg's person, and two hundred and seventy-five dollars additional taken from a cache that Keseberg had disclosed after the Captain had partially strangled him, and otherwise brutally treated him, to extort information of hidden treasure. Keseberg did not deny that this money belonged to the Donners, but asserted that it was his intention and desire to take it to the Donner children himself as he had promised their mother. Eventually, it was agreed that the Donner properties should be sold at auction, and that "one half of the proceeds should be handed over to Captain Fallon to satisfy the claims of his party, and the other half should be put into the hands of a guardian for the support of the Donner children." Hiram Miller was appointed guardian by Alcalde Sinclair. Notwithstanding these plans for our well-being, unaccountable delays followed, making our situation daily more trying. Elitha was not yet fifteen years of age, and Leanna was two years younger. They had not fully recovered from the effects of their long privations and physical sufferings in the mountains; and the loss of parents and means of support placed upon them responsibilities greater than they could carry, no matter how bravely they strove to meet the situation. "How can we provide for ourselves and these little sisters?" was a question which haunted them by night and perplexed them by day. They had no way of communicating with our friends in Eastern States, and the women at the Fort could ill afford to provide longer for us, since their bread winners were still with Frémont, and their own supplies were limited. Finally, my two eldest sisters were given employment by different families in exchange for food, which they shared with us; but it was often insufficient, and we little ones drifted along forlornly. Sometimes home was where night overtook us. Often, we trudged to the _rancheria_ beyond the pond, made by the adobe-moulders who had built the houses and wall surrounding the fort. There the Indian mothers were good to us. They gave us shreds of smoked fish and dried acorns to eat; lowered from their backs the queer little baby-beds, called "bickooses," and made the chubby faces in them laugh for our amusement. They also let us pet the dogs that perked up their ears and wagged their tails as our own Uno used to do when he wanted to frolic. Sometimes they stroked our hair and rubbed the locks between their fingers, then felt their own as if to note the difference. They seemed sorry because we could not understand their speech. The pond also, with its banks of flowers, winding path, and dimpling waters, had charms for us until one day's experience drove us from it forever. We three were playing near it when a joyous Indian girl with a bundle of clothes on her head ran down the bank to the water's edge. We, following, watched her drop her bundle near a board that sloped from a rock into nature's tub, then kneel upon the upper end and souse the clothes merrily up and down in the clear water. She lathered them with a freshly gathered soap-root and cleansed them according to the ways of the Spanish mission teachers. As she tied the wet garments in a bundle and turned to carry them to the drying ground, Frances espied some loose yellow poppies floating near the end of the board and lay down upon it for the purpose of catching them. Georgia and I saw her lean over and stretch out her hand as far as she could reach; saw the poppies drift just beyond her finger tips; saw her lean a little farther, then slip, head first, into the deep water. Such shrieks as terrified children give, brought the Indian girl quickly to our aid. Like a flash, she tossed the bundle from her head, sprang into the water, snatched Frances as she rose to the surface, and restored her to us without a word. Before we had recovered sufficiently to speak, she was gone. Not a soul was in sight when we started toward the Fort, all unconscious of what the inevitable "is to be" was weaving into our lives. We were too young to keep track of time by calendar, but counted it by happenings. Some were marked with tears, some with smiles, and some stole unawares upon us, just as on that bright June evening, when we did not find our sisters, and aimlessly followed others to the little shop where a friendly-appearing elderly man was cutting slices of meat and handing them to customers. We did not know his name, nor did we realize that he was selling the meat he handed out, only that we wanted some. So, after all the others had gone, we addressed him, asking, "Grandpa, please give us a little piece of meat." He looked at us, and inquired whose children we were, and where we lived. Upon learning, he turned about, lifted a liver from a wooden peg and cut for each, a generous slice. On our way out, a neighbor intercepted us and said that we should sleep at her house that night and see our sisters in the morning. She also gave us permission to cook our pieces of liver over her bed of live coals. Frances offered to cook them all on her stick, but Georgia and I insisted that it would be fun for each to broil her own. I, being the smallest child, was given the shortest stick, and allowed to stand nearest the fire. Soon the three slices were sizzling and browning from the ends of three willow rods, and smelled so good that we could hardly wait for them to be done. Presently, however, the heat began to burn my cheeks and also the hand that held the stick. The more I wiggled about, the hotter the fire seemed, and it ended in Frances having to fish my piece of liver from among the coals, burned in patches, curled over bits of dying embers, and pretty well covered with ashes, but she knew how to scrape them away, and my supper was not spoiled. Our neighbor gave us breakfast next morning and spruced us up a bit, then led us to the house where a number of persons had gathered, most of them sitting at table laughing and talking, and among them, Elitha and Leanna. Upon our entrance, the merriment ceased and all eyes were turned inquiringly toward us. Some one pointed to him who sat beside our eldest sister and gayly said, "Look at your new brother." Another asked, "How do you like him?" We gazed around in silent amazement until a third continued teasingly, "She is no longer Elitha Donner, but Mrs. Perry McCoon. You have lost your sister, for her husband will take her away with him." "Lost your sister!" Those harrowing words stirred our pent feelings to anguish so keen that he who had uttered them in sport was touched with pity by the pain they caused. Tears came also to the child-wife's eyes as she clasped her arms about us soothingly, assuring us that she was still our sister, and would care for us. Nevertheless, she and her husband slipped away soon on horseback, and we were told that we were to stay at our neighbor's until they returned for us. This marriage, which was solemnized by Alcalde John Sinclair on the fourth of June, 1847, was approved by the people at the Fort. Children were anxious to play with us because we had "a married sister and a new brother." Women hurried through noon chores to meet outside, and some in their eagerness forgot to roll down their sleeves before they began to talk. One triumphantly repeated to each newcomer the motherly advice which she gave the young couple when she "first noticed his affection for that sorrowing girl, who is too pretty to be in this new country without a protector." They also recalled how Perry McCoon's launch had brought supplies up the river for the Second Relief to take over the mountains; and how finally, he himself had carried to the bereaved daughter the last accounts from Donner Camp. Then the speakers wondered how soon Elitha would be back. Would she take us three to live with her on that cattle ranch twenty-five miles by bridle trail from the Fort? And would peace and happiness come to us there? [Footnote 14: See Appendix for account of the Fallon party, quoted from Thornton's work.] CHAPTER XVIII "GRANDMA"--HAPPY VISITS--A NEW HOME--AM PERSUADED TO LEAVE IT. We were still without Elitha, when up the road and toward the Fort came a stout little old woman in brown. On one arm she carried a basket, and from the hand of the other hung a small covered tin pail. Her apron was almost as long as her dress skirt, which reached below her ankles, yet was short enough to show brown stockings above her low shoes. Two ends of the bright kerchief which covered her neck and crossed her bosom were pinned on opposite sides at the waist-line. A brown quilted hood of the same shade and material as her dress and apron concealed all but the white lace frill of a "grandma cap," which fastened under her chin with a bow. Her dark hair drawn down plain to each temple was coiled there into tiny wheels, and a brass pin stuck through crosswise to hold each coil in place. Her bright, speaking eyes, more brown than gray, gave charm to a face which might have been pretty had disease not marred it in youth. As she drew near, her wonderful eyes looked into our faces and won from our lips a timid "Good morning, grandma." That title, which we had been taught to use when speaking to the aged, was new and sweet to her, who had never been blessed with child. She set the basket on the ground, put the pail beside it, and caressed us in a cheery way, then let us peep in and see what she had brought especially for us. How did it happen? That is something we were to learn later. Such luxuries,--eggs, bread, butter, cheese, and milk in the dear little tin pail! Seeing how thin and hungry we looked she gave each a piece of buttered bread before going with us to our neighbor's house, where she left the food, with instructions, in broken English, that it was for us three little girls who had called her "grandma," and that we must not be given too much at a time. When next grandma came she took puny Georgia home with her, and left me hugging the promise that I also should have a visit, if I would await my turn patiently. Who can picture my delight when Georgia got back and told me of all she had seen? Cows, horses, pigs, and chickens, but most thrilling of all was about the cross old sheep, which would not let her pass if she did not carry a big stick in sight. Still, I should not have been so eager to go, nor so gleeful on the way, had I known that the "good-bye" kiss I gave my sister Frances at parting that day, would be the last kiss in five long years. Grandma was as happy as I. She could understand English better than she could speak it, and in answering my questions, explained largely by signs. "Courage," her gray poodle, left deep footprints in the dust, as he trotted ahead over the well-known road, and I felt an increasing affection for him upon learning that he, too, had crossed the plains in an emigrant wagon and had reached the Fort at about the same time I had reached the snow. He was so small that I imagined he must have been a wee baby dog when he started, and that he was not yet half grown. My surprise and admiration quickened beyond expression when grandma assured me that he could do many tricks, understood French and German, and was learning English. Then she laughed, and explained that he was thus accomplished because she and Christian Brunner, her husband, and Jacob, her brother-in-law, had come from a place far away across lands and big waters where most of the people spoke both French and German and that they had always talked to Courage in one or the other of these languages. As soon as we got into the house she opened the back door and called "Jacob!" Then turning, she took a small cup of rennet clabber from the shelf, poured a little cream over it, put a spoon in it, and set it on the table before me. While I was eating, a pleasant elderly man came in and by nods, motions, and words, partly English and partly something else, convinced me that he liked little girls, and was glad to see me. Then of a sudden, he clasped his hands about my waist and tossed me in the air as father did before his hand was hurt, and when he wanted to startle me, and then hear me laugh. This act, which brought back loving memories, made Jacob seem nearer to me; nearer still when he told me I must not call him anything but Jakie. Everything about the house was as Georgia had described. Even the big stick she had used to keep the old sheep from butting her over was behind the door where she had left it. When Christian Brunner got home from the Fort, grandma had supper nearly ready, and he and I were friends the instant we looked into each other's face; for he was "grandpa" who had given us the liver the evening we did not find our sisters. He had gone home that night and said: "Mary, at the Fort are three hungry little orphan girls. Take them something as soon as you can. One child is fair, two are dark. You will know them by the way they speak to you." Grandpa had now hastened home to hold me on his lap and to hear me say that I was glad to be at his house and intended to help grandma all I could for being so good as to bring me there. After I told how we had cooked the liver and how good it tasted, he wiped his eyes and said: "Mine child, when you little ones thanked me for that liver, it made me not so much your friend as when you called me 'grandpa.'" As time went on, grandma declared that I helped her a great deal because I kept her chip-box full, shooed the hens out of the house, brought in the eggs, and drove the little chicks to bed, nights. I don't recollect that I was ever tired or sleepy, yet I know that the night must have sped, between the time of my last nod at the funny shadow picture of a rabbit which Jakie made hop across the wall behind the lighted candle, and Courage's barking near my pillow, which grandma said meant, "Good-morning, little girl!" It was after one of these reminders of a new day that I saw Leanna. I don't know when or how she came, but I missed Frances and Georgia the more because I wanted them to share our comforts. Nevertheless a strange feeling of uneasiness crept over me as I noticed, later, that grandpa lingered and that the three spoke long in their own tongue, and glanced often toward me. Finally grandpa and Jakie went off in the wagon and grandma also disappeared, but soon returned, dressed for a trip to the Fort, and explained that she had heard that Georgia was sick and she would take me back and bring her in my place. I had known from the beginning that I was to stay only a little while, yet I was woefully disturbed at having my enjoyment so abruptly terminated. My first impulse was to cry, but somehow, the influence of her who under the soughing pines of the Sierras had told me that "friends do not come quickly to a cry-baby child" gave me courage, and I looked up into the dear old face before me and with the earnestness of an anxious child asked, "Grandma, why can't you keep two of us?" She looked at me, hesitated, then replied, "I will see." She kissed away my fears and rode off on old Lisa. I did not know that she would ride farther than the fort and imagined she had gone on horseback so that she might the easier bring back my little sister. Leanna washed the dishes and did the other work before she joined me in watching for grandma's return. At last she came in sight and I ran up the road craning my neck to see if Georgia were really behind on old Lisa's back, and when I saw her pinched face aglow with smiles that were all for me, I had but one wish, and that was to get my arms around her. One chair was large enough to hold us both when we got into the house, and the big clock on the wall with long weights reaching almost to the floor and red roses painted around its white face, did not tick long before we were deaf to its sound, telling each other about the doings of the day. She knew more than I, who listened intently as she excitedly went on: "Me and Frances started to find you this morning, but we wasn't far when we met Jacob in the wagon, and he stopped and asked us where we was going. We told him. Then he told us to get in by him. But he didn't come this way, just drove down to the river and some men lifted us out and set us in a boat and commenced to paddle across the water. I knew that wasn't the way, and I cried and cried as loud as I could cry, and told them I wanted to go to my little sister Eliza, and that I'd tip the boat over if they did not take me back; and one man said, 'It's too bad! It ain't right to part the two littlest ones.' And they told me if I'd sit still and stop crying they would bring me back with them by and by, and that I should come to you. And I minded. "Then they taked us to that house where we sleeped under the carpet the night we didn't get to the Fort. Don't you remember? Well, lots of people was there and talked about us and about father and mother, and waited for grandma to come. Pretty soon grandma come, and everybody talked, and talked. And grandma told them she was sorry for us, and would take you and me if she could keep Leanna to help her do the work. When I was coming away with grandma, Frances cried like everything. She said she wanted to see you, and told the people mother said we should always stay together. But they wouldn't let her come. They've gived her to somebody else, and now she is their little girl." We both felt sorry for Frances, and wished we could know where she was and what she was doing. While we were talking, grandma kept busily at work, and sometimes she wiped her face with the corner of her apron, yet we did not think of her as listening, nor of watching us, nor would we ever have known it, had we not learned it later from her own lips, as she told others the circumstances which had brought us into her life. Some days later Georgia and I were playing in the back yard when Leanna appeared at the door and called out in quick, jubilant tones: "Children, run around to the front and see who has come!" True enough, hitched to a stake near the front door was a bay horse with white spots on his body and a white stripe down his face, and tied to the pommel of his saddle was another horse with a side saddle on its back. It did not take us long to get into the house where we found Elitha and our new brother, who had come to arrange about taking us away with them. While Elitha was talking to grandma and Leanna, Georgia stood listening, but I sat on my new brother's knee and heard all about his beautiful spotted horse and a colt of the same colors. Elitha could not persuade Leanna or Georgia to go with her, nor was I inclined to do so when she and grandma first urged me. But I began to yield as the former told me she was lonesome; wanted at least one little sister to live with her, and that if I would be that one, I should have a new dress and a doll with a face. Then my new brother settled the matter by saying: "Listen to me. If you'll go, you shall have the pinto colt that I told you about, a little side saddle of your own, and whenever you feel like it, you can get on it and ride down to see all the folks." The prospects were so alluring that I went at once with Leanna, who was to get me ready for the journey. Leanna did not share my enthusiasm. She said I was a foolish little thing, and declared I would get lonesome on such a big place so far away; that the colt would kick me if I tried to go near it, and that no one ever made saddles for colts. She was not so gentle as usual when she combed my hair and gave my face a right hard scrubbing with a cloth and whey, which grandma bade her use, "because it makes the skin so nice and soft." Notwithstanding these discouragements, I took my clothes, which were tied up in a colored handkerchief, kissed them all good-bye, and rode away sitting behind my new brother on the spotted horse, really believing that I should be back in a few days on a visit. CHAPTER XIX ON A CATTLE RANCH NEAR THE COSUMNE RIVER--"NAME BILLY"--INDIAN GRUB FEAST. We left the Fort and grandma's house far behind, and still rode on and on. The day was warm, the wild flowers were gone, and the plain was yellow with ripening oats which rustled noisily as we passed through, crowding and bumping their neighborly heads together. Yet it was not a lonesome way, for we passed elk, antelope, and deer feeding, with pretty little fawns standing close to their mothers' sides. There were also sleek fat cattle resting under the shade of live oak trees, and great birds that soared around overhead casting their shadows on the ground. As we neared the river, smaller birds of brighter colors could be heard and seen in the trees along the banks where the water flowed between, clear and cold. All these things my sister pointed out to me as we passed onward. It was almost dark before we came in sight of the adobe ranch house. We were met on the road by a pack of Indian dogs, whose fierce looks and savage yelping made me tremble, until I got into the house where they could not follow. The first weeks of my stay on the ranch passed quickly. Elitha and I were together most of the time. She made my new dress and a doll which, was perfection in my eyes, though its face was crooked, and its pencilled hair was more like pothooks than curls. I did not see much of her husband, because in the mornings he rode away early to direct his Indian cattle-herders at the _rodeos_, or to oversee other ranch work, and I was often asleep when he returned nights. The pinto colt he had promised me was, as Leanna had said, "big enough to kick, but too small to ride," and I at once realized that my anticipated visits could not be made as planned. Occasionally, men came on horseback to stay a day or two, and before the summer was over, a young couple with a small baby moved into one part of our house. We called them Mr. and Mrs. Packwood and Baby Packwood. The mother and child were company for my sister, while the husbands talked continually of ranches, cattle, hides, and tallow, so I was free to roam around by myself. In one of my wanderings I met a sprightly little Indian lad, whose face was almost as white as my own. He was clad in a blue and white shirt that reached below his knees. Several strings of beads were around his neck, and a small bow and arrow in his hand. We stopped and looked at each other; were pleased, yet shy about moving onward or speaking. I, being the larger, finally asked, "What's your name?" To my great delight, he answered, "Name, Billy." While we were slowly getting accustomed to each other, a good-natured elderly squaw passed. She wore a tattered petticoat, and buttons, pieces of shell, and beads of bird bones dangled from a string around her neck. A band of buckskin covered her forehead and was attached to strips of rawhide, which held in place the water-tight basket hanging down her back. Billy now left me for her, and I followed the two to that part of our yard where the tall ash-hopper stood, which ever after was like a story book to me. The squaw set the basket on the ground, reached up, and carefully lifted from a board laid across the top of the hopper, several pans of clabbered milk, which she poured into the basket. Instead of putting the pans back, she tilted them up against the hopper, squatted down in front and with her slim forefinger, scraped down the sides and bottom of each pan so that she and Billy could scoop up and convey to their mouths, by means of their three crooked fingers, all that had not gone into the basket. Then she licked her improvised spoon clean and dry; turned her back to her burden; replaced the band on her forehead; and with the help of her stick, slowly raised herself to her feet and quietly walked away, Billy after her. Next day I was on watch early. My kind friend, the choreman, let me go with him when he carried the lye from the hopper to the soap fat barrel. Then he put more ashes on the hopper and set the pans of milk in place for the evening call of Billy and his companion. [Illustration: PAPOOSES IN BICKOOSES] [Illustration: SUTTER'S MILL, WHERE MARSHALL DISCOVERED GOLD, JANUARY 19, 1848] He pointed out the _rancheria_ by the river where the Indian herders lived with others of their tribe, among them, Billy and his mother. He also informed me that the squaws took turns in coming for the milk, and that Billy came as often as he got the chance; that he was a nice little fellow, who had learned a few English words from his white papa, who had gone off and left him. Billy and I might never have played together as we did, if my brother-in-law had not taken his wife to San Francisco and left me in the care of Mr. and Mrs. Packwood. Their chief aim in life was to please their baby. She was a dear little thing when awake, but the house had to be kept very still while she slept, and they would raise a hand and say, "Hu-sh!" as they left me, and together tip-toed to the cradle to watch her smile in her sleep. I had their assurance that they would like to let me hold her if her little bones were not so soft that I might break them. They were never unkind or cross to me. I had plenty to eat, and clean clothes to wear, but they did not seem to realize how I yearned for some one to love. So I went to Mr. Choreman. He told me about the antelope that raced across the ranch before I was up; of the elk, deer, bear, and buffalo he had shot in his day; and of beaver, otter, and other animals that he had trapped along the rivers. Entranced with his tales I became as excited as he, while listening to the dangers he had escaped. One day he showed me a little chair which I declared was the cunningest thing I had ever seen. It had a high, straight back, just like those in the house, only that it was smaller. The seat was made of strips of rawhide woven in and out so that it looked like patchwork squares. He let me sit on it and say how beautiful it was, before telling me that he had made it all for me. I was so delighted that I jumped up, clasped it in my arms and looked at him in silent admiration. I do not believe that he could understand how rich and grateful I felt, although he shook his head saying, "You are not a bit happier than I was while making it for you, nor can you know how much good it does me to have you around." Gradually, Billy spent more time near the ranch house, and learned many of my kind of words, and I picked up some of his. Before long, he discovered that he could climb up on the hopper, and then he helped me up. But I could not crook my fingers into as good a spoon as he did his, and he got more milk out of the pan than I. We did not think any one saw us, yet the next time we climbed up, we found two old spoons stuck in a crack, in plain sight. After we got through using them, I wiped them on my dress skirt and put them back. Later, I met Mr. Choreman, who told me that he had put the spoons there because I was too nice a little girl to eat as Billy did, or to dip out of the same pan. I was ashamed and promised not to do so again, nor to climb up there with him. As time passed, I watched wistfully for my sister's return, and thought a great deal about the folks at grandma's. I tried to remember all that had happened while I was there, and felt sure they were waiting for me to pay the promised visit. A great longing often made me rush out behind a large tree near the river, where no one could see or hear me feel sorry for myself, and where I would wonder if God was taking care of the others and did not know where I lived. I still feel the wondrous thrill, and bid my throbbing heart beat slower, when I recall the joy that tingled through every part of my being on that evening when, unexpectedly, Leanna and Georgia came to the door. Yet, so short-lived was that joy that the event has always seemed more like a disquieting dream than a reality; for they came at night and were gone in the morning, and left me sorrowing. A few months ago, I wrote to Georgia (now Mrs. Babcock), who lives in the State of Washington, for her recollections of that brief reunion, and she replied: Before we went to Sonoma with Grandma Brunner in the Fall of 1847, Leanna and I paid you a visit. We reached your home at dusk. Mr. McCoon and Elitha were not there. We were so glad to meet, but our visit was too short. You and I were given a cup of bread and milk and sent to bed. Leanna ate with the grown folks, who, upon learning that we had only come to say good-bye, told her we must for your sake get away before you awoke next morning. We arose and got started early, but had only gone a short distance when we heard your pitiful cry, begging us to take you with us. Leanna hid her face in her apron, while a man caught you and carried you back. I think she cried all the way home. It was so hard to part from you. Mr. Packwood carried me into the house, and both he and his wife felt sorry for me. My head ached and the tears would come as often as any one looked at me. Mrs. Packwood wet a piece of brown paper, laid it on my forehead, and bade me lie on my bed until I should feel better. I could not eat or play, and even Mr. Choreman's bright stories had lost their charm. "Come look, see squaw, papoose! Me go, you go?" exclaimed Billy excitedly one soft gray morning after I had regained my spirits. I turned in the direction he pointed and saw quite a number of squaws trudging across an open flat with babies in bickooses, and larger children scampering along at various paces, most of them carrying baskets. With Mrs. Packwood's permission, Billy and I sped away to join the line. I had never been granted such a privilege before, and had no idea what it all meant. As we approached the edge of the marsh, the squaws walked more slowly, with their eyes fixed upon the ground. Every other moment some of them would be down, digging in the earth with forefinger or a little stick, and I soon learned they were gathering bulbs about a quarter of an inch in thickness and as large around as the smaller end of a woman's thimble. I had seen the plants growing near the pond at the fort, but now the bulbs were ripe, and were being gathered for winter use. In accordance with the tribal custom, not a bulb was eaten during harvest time. They grew so far apart and were so small that it took a long while to make a fair showing in the baskets. When no more bulbs could be found, the baskets were put on the ground in groups, and the mothers carefully leaned their bickooses against them in such positions that the wide awake papooses could look out from under their shades and smile and sputter at each other in quaint Indian baby-talk; and the sleeping could sleep on undisturbed. That done, the squaws built a roaring fire, and one of them untied a bundle of hardwood sticks which she had brought for the purpose, and stuck them around under the fuel in touch with the hottest parts of the burning mass. When the ends glowed like long-lasting coals, the waiting crowd snatched them from their bed and rushed into the low thicket which grew in the marsh. I followed with my fire-brand, but, not knowing what to do with it, simply watched the Indians stick theirs into the bushes, sometimes high up, sometimes low down. I saw them dodge about, and heard their shouts of warning and their peals of laughter. Then myriads of hornets came buzzing and swarming about. This frightened me so that I ran back to where the brown babies were cooing in safety. Empty-handed, but happy, they at length returned, and though I could not understand anything they were saying, their looks and actions betokened what a good time they had had. Years later, I described the scene to Elitha, who assured me that I had been highly favored by those Indians for they had permitted me to witness their annual "Grub Feast." The Piutes always use burning fagots to drive hornets and other stinging insects from their nests, and they also use heat in opening the comb cells so that they can easily remove the larvae, which they eat without further preparation. With the first cold snaps of winter, my feet felt the effect of former frost bites, and I was obliged to spend most of my time within doors. Fortunately Baby Packwood had grown to be quite a frolicsome child. She was fond of me, and her bones had hardened so that there was no longer danger of my breaking them when I lifted her or held her on my lap. Her mother had also discovered that I was anxious to be helpful, pleased when given something to do, and proud when my work was praised. I was quite satisfied with my surroundings, when, unexpectedly, Mr. McCoon brought my sister back, and once more we had happy times together. CHAPTER XX I RETURN TO GRANDMA--WAR RUMORS AT THE FORT--LINGERING HOPE THAT MY MOTHER MIGHT BE LIVING--AN INDIAN CONVOY--THE BRUNNERS AND THEIR HOME. The Spring of 1848 was at hand when my brother-in-law said to me, "Grandma Brunner wants you to come back to her; and if, you would like to go, I'll take you to the Fort, as soon as the weather changes, and leave you with the people who are getting ready to move north and are willing to take you with them to Sonoma, where grandma now lives." The storm was not over, but the day was promising, when my bundle of clothes was again on the pommel of the saddle, and I ready to begin my journey. I was so excited that I could hardly get around to say good-bye to those who had gathered to see me off. We returned by the same route that we had followed out on that warm June day, but everything seemed different. The catkins on the willows were forming and the plain was green with young grass. As we neared the Fort we passed a large camp of fine-looking Indians who, I was told, were the friendly Walla-Wallas, that came every spring to trade ponies, and otter, and beaver-skins with Captain Sutter for provisions, blankets, beads, gun caps, shot, and powder. A large emigrant wagon stood near the adobe house where my new brother-in-law drew rein. Before dismounting, he reached back, took me by the arm and carefully supported me as I slid from the horse to the ground. I was so stiff that I could hardly stand, but he led me to the door where we were welcomed by a good-natured woman, to whom he said, "Well, Mrs. Lennox, you see I've brought the little girl. I don't think she'll be much trouble, unless she talks you to death." Then he told her that I had, during the ride, asked him more questions than a man six times his size could answer. But she laughed, and "'lowed" that I couldn't match either of her three boys in asking questions, and then informed him that she did not "calculate on making the move until the roads be dryer and the weather settled." She promised, however, that I should have good care until I could be handed over to the Brunners. After a few words with her in private Perry McCoon bade me good-bye, and passed out of my life forever. I was now again with emigrants who had crossed the plains in 1846, but who had followed the Fort Hall route and so escaped the misfortunes that befell the Donner Party. Supper over, Mrs. Lennox made me a bed on the floor in the far corner of the room. I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, for I remember nothing more until I was awakened by voices, and saw the candle still burning and Mrs. Lennox and two men and a woman sitting near the table. The man speaking had a shrill voice, and his words were so terrifying that I shook all over; my hair felt as though it were trying to pull itself out by its roots; a cold sweat dampened my clothes. I was afraid to move or to turn my eyes. Listening, I tried to remember how many Indians he was talking about. I knew it must be a great many, for it was such a long word. After they went away and the house was dark, I still seemed to see his excited manner and to hear him say: "Mrs. Lennox, we've got to get out of here right away, for I heard tell at the store before I come up that there's bound to be an Injun outbreak. Them savages from Sonora are already on their way up, and they'll kill and scalp every man, woman, and child they can ketch, and there's nothing to keep them from ketching us, if we stay at this here little fort any longer." I lay awake a long while. I did not dare call out because I imagined some of those Indians might have got ahead of the rest and be sneaking up to our house at that very moment. I wondered where I could hide if they should climb through the window, and I felt that Georgia would never know what had become of me, if they should kill and scalp me. As soon as Mrs. Lennox stirred in the morning, I ran to her and had a good cry. She threatened all sorts of things for the man who had caused me such torture, and declared that he believed everything he heard. He did not seem to remember how many hundred miles away Sonora was, nor how many loaded cannon there were at the Fort. I felt better satisfied, however, when she told me that she had made up her mind to start for Sonoma the next day. After breakfast her younger boys wanted to see the Walla-Wallas, and took me along. A cold breath from the Sierra Nevadas made me look up and shiver. Soon Captains Sutter and Kern passed us, the former on his favorite white horse, and the latter on a dark bay. I was delighted to catch a glimpse of those two good friends, but they did not know it. They had been to see the Indian ponies, and before we got to the big gate, they had gone in and the Walla-Wallas were forming in line on both sides of the road between the gate and the front of the store. Only two Indians at a time were allowed to enter the building, and as they were slow in making their trades, we had a good chance to see them all. The men, the boys, and most of the women were dressed in fringed buckskin suits and their hands and faces were painted red, as the Sioux warriors of Fort Laramie painted their cheeks. The Lennox boys took greatest interest in the little fellows with the bows and arrows, but I could not keep my eyes from the young princess, who stood beside her father, the chief. She was all shimmering with beads. They formed flowers on her moccasins; fringed the outer seams of her doeskin trousers and the hem of her tunic; formed a stripe around her arm holes and her belt; glittered on a band which held in place the eagle plume in her hair; dangled from her ears; and encircled her neck and arms. Yet she did not seem to wear one too many. She looked so winsome and picturesque that I have never forgotten the laughing, pretty picture. We started back over ground where my little sisters and I had wandered the previous Spring. The people whom I remembered had since gone to other settlements, and strangers lived in the old huts. I could not help looking in as we passed, for I still felt that mother might not be dead. She might have come down the mountain alone and perhaps I could find her. The boys, not knowing why I lagged behind, tried to hurry me along; and finally left me to go home by myself. This, not from unkindness, but rather love of teasing, and also oblivion of the vain hope I cherished. Mrs. Lennox let me dry the dishes for her after the noon meal, then sent me to visit the neighbor in the next house, while she should stow her things in the wagon and get ready for the journey. I loved this lady[15] in the next house as soon as she spoke to me, and I was delighted with her baby, who reached out his little arms to have me take him, and raised his head for me to kiss his lips. While he slept, his mother sewed and talked with me. She had known my parents on the plains, and now let me sit at her feet, giving me her workbox, that I might look at its bobbins of different-colored thread and the pretty needle-book. When I told her that the things looked a little like mother's and that sometimes mother let me take the tiniest bit of her wax, she gave me permission to take a tiny taste of that which I held in my hand to see if it was like that which I remembered. Only she, the baby, and I sat down to tea, yet she said that she was glad she had company, for baby's papa was away with Captain Frémont, and she was lonesome. After I learned that she would have to stay until he came back, I was troubled, and told what I had heard in the night. She assured me that those in charge of the Fort heard every day all that was going on for miles and miles around, and that if they should learn that fighting Indians were coming, they would take all the white people and the good Indians into the fort, and then shoot the bad ones with the cannon that peeped through its embrasures. The dainty meal and her motherly talk kept me a happy child until I heard the footsteps of the Lennox boys. I knew they were coming for me, and that I should have to sleep in that dark room where I had been so afraid. Quickly slipping from my chair, under the table, and hiding behind my new friend's dress skirt, I begged her not to let them know where I was, and please, to let me stay with her all night. I listened as she sent the boys back to tell their mother that she would keep me until morning, adding that she would step in and explain matters after she put her baby to bed. Before I went to sleep she heard me say my prayers and kissed me good-night. When I awoke next morning, I was not in her house, but in Mrs. Lennox's wagon, on the way to Sonoma. The distance between the Fort and Sonoma was only about eighty miles, yet the heavy roads and the frequent showers kept us on the journey more than a week. It was still drizzling when we reached the town and Mrs. Lennox learned where the Brunners lived. I had been told that they would be looking for me, and I expected to go to them at once. As we approached the west bank of the creek, which winds south past the town, we could see the branches on the trees in grandma's dooryard swaying. Yet we could not reach there, because a heavy mountain storm had turned a torrent into the creek channel, washed away the foot bridge, and overflowed the low land. Disappointed, we encamped on high ground to wait for the waters to recede. Toward evening, Jakie gathering his cows on the opposite side, noticed our emigrant wagon, and oxen, and as he drew nearer recognized Mrs. Lennox. Both signalled from where they stood, and soon he descried me, anxious to go to him. He, also, was disappointed at the enforced delay, and returned often to cheer us, and to note the height of the water. It seemed to me that we had been there days and days, when a Mission Indian on a gray pony happened to come our way, and upon learning what was wanted, signalled that he would carry me over for a Mexican silver dollar. Jakie immediately drew the coin from his pocket and held it between thumb and forefinger, high above his head in the sunshine, to show the native that his price would be paid. Quickly the Indian dismounted, looked his pony over carefully, cinched the blanket on tighter, led him to the water's edge, and turned to me. I shuddered, and when all was ready, drew near the deep flowing current tremblingly, yet did not hesitate; for my loved ones were beyond, and to reach them I was willing to venture. The Indian mounted and I was placed behind him. By sign, he warned me not to loosen my hold, lest I, like the passing branches, should become the water's prey. With my arms clasped tightly about his dusky form, and his elbows clamped over them, we entered the stream. I saw the water surge up around us, felt it splash over me! Oh, how cold it was! I held my breath as we reached the deepest part, and in dread clung closer to the form before me. We were going down stream, drifting past where Jakie stood! How could I know that we were heading for the safe slope up the bank where we landed? The Indian took his dollar with a grunt of satisfaction, and Jakie bade me wave to the friends I had left behind, as he put me on old Lisa's back and hurried off to grandma, Leanna, and Georgia, waiting at the gate to welcome me home. Georgia had a number of patches of calico and other trinkets which she had collected for me, and offered them as soon as we had exchanged greetings, then eagerly conducted me about the place. Grandma was more energetic and busier than at the Fort, and I could only talk with her as she worked, but there was so much to see and hear that before nightfall my feet were heavy and my brain was weary. However, a good sleep under the roof of those whom I loved was all the tonic I needed to prepare me for a fair start in the new career, and grandma's assurance, "This be your home so long as you be good," filled me with such gladness that, childlike, I promised to be good always and to do everything that should be required of me. Most of the emigrants in and around the Pueblo of Sonoma were Americans from the western frontiers of the United States. They had reached the province in the Summer or early Autumn of 1846, and for safety had settled near this United States Army post. Here they had bought land and made homes within neighboring distance of each other and begun life anew in simple, happy, pioneer fashion. The Brunners were a different type. They had immigrated from Switzerland and settled in New Orleans, Louisiana, when young, and by toil and economy had saved the snug sum of money which they brought to invest in California enterprises. They could speak and read French and German, and had some knowledge of figures. Being skilled in the preparation of all the delicacies of the meat market, and the products of the dairy, they had brought across the plains the necessary equipment for both branches of business, and had already established a butcher shop in the town and a dairy on the farm, less than a mile from it. Jakie was busy and useful at both places, but grandpa was owner of the shop, and grandma of the dairy. Her hand had the cunning of the Swiss cheese-maker, and the deftness of the artist in butter moulding. She was also an experienced cook, and had many household commodities usually unknown to pioneer homes. They were thus eminently fitted for life in a crude new settlement, and occupied an important place in the community. A public road cut their land into two unequal parts. The cattle corrals and sheds were grouped on one side of the road, and the family accommodations on the other. Three magnificent oaks and a weird, blackened tree-trunk added picturesqueness to the ground upon which the log cabin and outbuildings stood. The trim live oak shaded the adobe milk-room and smoke-house, while the grand old white oak spread its far-reaching boughs over the curbed well and front dooryard. [Illustration: PLAZA AND BARRACKS OF SONOMA] [Illustration: ONE OF THE OLDEST BUILDINGS IN SONOMA] The log cabin was a substantial three-roomed structure. Its two outer doors opened with latch strings and were sawed across just above the middle, so that the lower sections might be kept closed against the straying pigs and fowls, while the upper part remained open to help the windows opposite give light and ventilation. The east end formed the ample store-room with shelves for many stages of ripening cheese. The west end served as sleeping apartment for all except Jakie. The large middle room was set apart as kitchen and general living room. Against its wall were braced the dear old clock and conveniences for holding dishes, and the few keepsakes which had shared the wanderings of their owners on two continents. The adobe chimney, which formed part of the partition between the living and the sleeping apartment, gave a huge fireplace to each. From the side of the one that cheered the living room, swung a crane worthy of the great copper cheese kettle that hung on its arm. In tidy rows on the chimney shelf stood bottles and boxes of medicine, two small brass kettles, and six bright candlesticks with hoods, trays, and snuffers to match. On the wide hearth beneath were ranged the old-fashioned three-legged iron pots, dominated by the large round one, used as a bake oven. Hovering over the fire sat the iron tea-kettle, with its slender throat and pointed lips, now warmed to song by the blazing logs, now rattling its lid with increasing fervor. A long table with rough redwood benches around it, a few straight-backed chairs against the wall, and Jakie's half-concealed bed, in the far corner, constituted the visible furnishings of this memorable room, which was so spick and span in German order and cleanliness, that even its clay floor had to be sprinkled in regular spots and rings before being swept. It was under the great oaks that most of the morning work was done. There the pails and pans were washed and sunned, the meats chopped, the sausage made, head-cheese moulded, ham and bacon salted, and the lard tried out over the out-door fires. Among those busy scenes, Georgia and I spent many happy hours, and learned some of our hardest lessons; for to us were assigned regular tasks, and we were also expected to do the countless little errands which save steps to grown people, and are supposed not to tire the feet of children. Grandma, stimulated by the success of her mixing and moulding, and elated by the profit she saw in it, was often too happy and bustling to remember how young we were, or that we got tired, or had worries of our own to bear. Our small troubles, however, were soon forgotten, when we could slip away for a while to the lovely playhouse which Leanna had secretly made for us in an excavation in the back yard. There we forgot work, used our own language, and played we were like other children; for we owned the beautiful cupboard dug in the wall, and the pieces of Delft and broken glass set in rows upon the shelves, also the furniture, made of stumps and blocks of wood, and the two bottles standing behind the brush barricade to act as sentries in case of danger during our absence. One stolen visit to that playhouse led me into such disgrace, that grandma did not speak to me the rest of the day, and told Jakie all about it. In the evening, when no one else was near, he called me to him. I obeyed with downcast head. Putting his hand under my chin, and turning my face up, he made me look straight into his eyes, as he asked, "Who broke dat glass cup vat grandma left on die dinner table full of milk, and telled you watch it bis Hendrik come to his dinner, or bis she be done mit her nap?" I tried to turn my eyes down, but he would not let me, and I faltered, "The chicken knocked it off,--but he left the door open so it could get in." Then, he raised his other hand, shook his finger, and in awe-inspiring tone continued: "Yes, I be sure die chicken do dat, but vot for you tell grandma dat Heinrick do dat? Der debil makes peoples tell lies, and den he ketch sie for his fire, und he vill ketch you, if you do dat some more. Gott, who you mutter telled you 'bout, will not love you. I will not love you, if you do dat some more. I be sorry for you, because I tought you vas His little girl, and mine little girl." Jakie must have spent much time in collecting so many English words, and they were effective, for before he got through repeating them to me, I was as heart-sore and penitent as a child could be. After he had forgiven me, he sent me to grandma, later to acknowledge my wrong to Hendrik, and before I slept, I had to tell God what a bad child I had been, and ask Him to make me good. I had promised to be very careful and to try never to tell another lie, and I had been unhappy enough to want to keep the promise. But, alas, my sympathy for Jakie led me into more trouble, and it must have been on Sunday too, for he was not working, but sitting reverently under the tree with his elbows upon a table, and his cheeks resting in the hollows of his hands. Before him lay the Holy Scriptures from which he was slowly reading aloud in solemn tones. Georgia and I standing a short distance from him, listened very intently. Not hearing a single English word, and not understanding many of the German, I became deeply concerned and turning to her asked, "Aren't you awful sorry for poor Jakie? There he is, reading to God in German, and God can't understand him. I'm afraid Jakie won't go to heaven when he dies." My wise little sister turned upon me indignantly, assuring me that "God sees everybody and understands everybody's talk." To prove the truth of her statement, she rushed to the kitchen and appealed to grandma, who not only confirmed Georgia's words, but asked me what right I had to believe that God was American only, and could not understand good German people when they read and spoke to Him? She wanted to know if I was not ashamed to think that they, who had loved me, and been kind to me would not go to Heaven as well as I who had come to them a beggar? Then she sent me away by myself to think of my many sins; and I, weeping, accepted banishment from Georgia, lest she should learn wickedness from me. Georgia was greatly disturbed on my account, because she believed I had wilfully misrepresented God, and that He might not forgive me. When Jakie learned what had happened, he declared that I had spoken like a child, and needed instruction more than punishment. So for the purpose of broadening my religious views, and keeping before me the fact that "God can do all things and knows all languages," grandma taught me the Lord's Prayer in French and German, and heard me repeat it each night in both languages, after I had said it as taught me by my mother. It was about this time, that Leanna confided to me that she was homesick for Elitha, and she would go to her very soon. She said that I must not object when the time came, for she loved her own sister just as much as I did mine, and was as anxious to go to Elitha as I had been to come to Georgia. She had been planning several weeks, and knew of a family with which she could travel to Sutter's Fort. Later, when she collected her things to go away, she left with us a pair of beautifully knit black silk stockings, marked near the top in fine cross-stitch in white, "D," and under that "5." The stockings had been our mother's. She had knit them herself and worn them. Georgia gave one to me and kept the other. We both felt that they were almost too sacred to handle. They were our only keepsakes. Later, Georgia found a small tin box in which mother had kept important papers. Recently, when referring to that circumstance, Georgia said: "Grandma for a long time had used it for a white-sugar box, and kept it on a shelf so high that we could see it only when she lifted it down; and I don't think we took our eyes from it until it was put back. We felt that it was too valuable for us ever to own. One day, I found it thrown away. One side had become unsoldered from the ends and the bottom also was hanging loose. With a full heart, I grasped the treasure and put it where we could often see it. Long afterwards, Harry Huff kindly offered to repair it; and the solder that still holds it together is also regarded as a keepsake from a dear friend." [Footnote 15: Mrs. Andrew J. Grayson, wife of the well-known ornithologist, frequently referred to as the "Audubon of the West."] CHAPTER XXI MORAL DISCIPLINE--THE HISTORICAL PUEBLO OF SONOMA--SUGAR PLUMS. Grandma often declared that she loved me, and did not want to be too severe; but, for fear that I had learned much wickedness from the little Indians with whom I had played after I left her at the Fort, she should watch me very closely herself, and also have Georgia tell her whenever she should see me do wrong. Consequently, for a while after I reached Sonoma, I was frequently on the penitential bench, and was as often punished for fancied misdoings as for real ones. Yet, I grant that grandma was warranted in being severe the day that she got back from town before I was ready for her. She had left us with the promise that she would bring us something nice if we would be good children and do certain work that she had planned. After we had finished the task, we both became restless, wondered how soon she would come back, and what we could do next to keep from being lonesome. Then I espied on the upper shelf the cream-colored sugar bowl, with the old-fashioned red roses and black foliage on its cover and sides. Grandma had occasionally given us lumps of sugar out of it; and I now asked Georgia if I hadn't better get it down, so that we could each have a lump of sugar. Hesitatingly, she said, "No, I am afraid you will break it." I assured her that I would be very careful, and at once set a chair in place and climbed up. It was quite a strain to reach the bowl, so I lifted it down and rested it on the lower shelf, expecting to turn and put it into Georgia's hands. But, somehow, before I could do this, the lid slipped off and lay in two pieces upon the floor. Georgia cried out reproachfully, "There, you know I didn't want you to do it, and now you will get a good whipping for breaking grandma's best sugar bowl!" I replied loftily that I was not afraid, because I would ask God to mend it for me. She did not think He would do it, but I did. So I matched the broken edges and put it on the chair, knelt down before it and said "Please" when I made my request. I touched the pieces very carefully, and pleaded more earnestly each time that I found them unchanged. Finally, Georgia, watching at the door, said excitedly, "Here comes grandma!" I arose, so disappointed and chagrined that I scarcely heard her as she entered and spoke to me. I fully believed that He would have mended that cover if she had remained away a little longer; nevertheless, I was so indignant at Him for being so slow about it, that I stood unabashed while Georgia told all that had happened. The whipping I got did not make much impression, but the after talks and the banishment from "good company" were terrible. Later, when I was called from my hiding-place, grandma saw that I had been very miserable, and she insisted upon knowing what I had been thinking about. Then I told her, reluctantly, that I had talked to God and told Him I did not think that He was a very good Heavenly Father, or He would not let me get into so much trouble; that I was mad at Him, and didn't believe He knew how to mend dishes. She covered her face with her apron and told me, sobbingly, that she had expected me to be sorry for getting down her sugar bowl and for breaking its cover; that I was so bad that I would "surely put poor old grandma's gray hair in her grave, who had got one foot there already and the other on the brink." This increased my wretchedness, and I begged her to live just a little longer so that I might show her that I would be good. She agreed to give me another trial and ended by telling me about the "beautiful, wicked angel who had been driven out of paradise, and spends his time coaxing people to be bad, and then remembers them, and after they die, takes them on his fork and pitches them back and forth in his fire." Jakie had told me his name and also the name of his home. Toward evening, my head ached, and I felt so ill that I crept close to grandma and asked sorrowfully if she thought the devil meant to have me die that night, and then take me to his hell. At a glance, she saw that I suffered, and drew me to her, pillowed my head against her bosom and soothingly assured me that I would be forgiven if I would make friends with God and remember the lesson that I had learned that day. She told me, later, I must never say "devil," or "hell," because it was not nice in little girls, but that, instead, I might use the words, "blackman," and "blackman's fires." At first, I did not like to say it that way, because I was afraid that the beautiful devil might think that I was calling him nicknames and get angry with me. Notwithstanding my shortcomings, the Brunners were very willing to keep me, and strove to make a "Schweitzer child" of me, dressed me in clothes modelled after those which grandma wore when she was small, and by verse and legend filled my thoughts with pictures of their Alpine country. I liked the German language, learned it rapidly and soon could help to translate orders. Those which pleased grandma best were from the homes of Mr. Jacob Leese, Captain Fitch, Major Prudon, and General Vallejo; for their patronage influenced other distinguished Spanish families at a distance to send for her excellent cheese and fancy pats of butter. Yet, with equal nicety, she filled the orders that came from the mess-room of the officers of our own brave boys in blue, and always tried to have a better kerchief and apron on the evenings that officers and orderly rode out to pay the bills. Visitors felt more than a passing interest in us two little ones, for accounts of the sufferings of the Donner Party had been carried to all the settlements on the Pacific coast and had been sent in print or writings to all parts of the United States as a warning against further emigration to California by way of Hastings Cut-Off. Thus the name we bore awakened sympathy for us, and in the huts of the lowly natives as well as in the homes of the rulers of the province, we found welcome and were greeted with words of tenderness, which were often followed by prayers for the repose of the souls of our precious dead. Marked attentions were also shown us by officers and soldiers from the post. The latter gathered in the evenings at the Brunner home for social intercourse. Some played cards, checkers, and dominoes, or talked and sang about "_des Deutschen Vaterland_." Others reviewed happenings in our own country, recalled battles fought and victories won. And we, sitting between our foster grandparents, or beside Jakie, listening to their thrilling tales, were, unwittingly, crammed with crumbs of truth and fiction that made lasting impressions upon our minds. Nor were these odd bits of knowledge all we gained from those soldier friends. They taught us the alphabet, how to spell easy words, and then to form letters with pencil. They explained the meaning of fife and drum calls which we heard during the day, and in mischievous earnestness, declared that they, the best fighters of Colonel Stephenson's famous regiment of New York Volunteers, had pledged their arms and legs to our defence, and had only come to see if we were worth the price they might have to, pay. Yet they made grim faces when, all too soon, the retreat call from the barracks sounded, and away they would have to go on the double quick, to be at post by the time of roll call, and in bed at sound of taps. On those evenings when grandma visited the sick, or went from home on errands, we children were tucked away early in our trundle bed. There, and by ourselves, we spoke of mother and the mountains. Not infrequently, however, our thoughts would be recalled to the present by loud, wailing squeak-squawk, squeak-squawks. As the sound drew nearer and became shriller, we would put our fingers in our ears to muffle the dismal tones, which we knew were only the creakings of the two wooden wheels of some Mexican _carreta_, laboriously bringing passengers to town, or perhaps a cruder one carrying hides to the _embarcadero_, or possibly supplies to adjacent _ranchos_. We wondered how old people and mothers with sick children could travel in such uncomfortable vehicles and not become distracted by their nerve-piercing noises. Then, like a bird-song, pleasanter scenes would steal in upon our musings, of gay horseback parties on their way to church feasts, or fandangos, preceded or followed by servants in charge of pack animals laden with luggage. We rarely stayed awake long enough to say all we wished about the Spanish people. Their methods of travel, modes of dress, and fascinating manners were sources of never-ending discussion and interest. [Illustration: OLD MEXICAN CARRETA] [Illustration: RESIDENCE OF JUDGE A.L. RHODES, A TYPICAL CALIFORNIA HOUSE OF THE BETTER CLASS IN 1849] We had seen princely dons of many leagues ride by in state; dashing _caballeros_ resplendent in costumes of satin and velvet, on their way to sing beneath the windows of dark-eyed _señoritas;_ and had stood close enough to the wearers of embroidered and lace-bedecked small clothes, to count the scallops which closed the seams of their outer garments, and to hear the faint tinkle of the tiny silver bells which dangled from them. We had feasted our eyes on magnificently robed _señoras_ and _señoritas_; caught the scent of the roses twined in their hair, and the flash of jewels on their persons. Such frequent object-lessons made the names and surroundings of those grandees easy to remember. Some lived leagues distant, some were near neighbors in that typical Mexican Pueblo of Sonoma, whose adobe walls and red-tiled roofs nestled close to the foot of the dimpled hills overlooking the valley from the north, and whose historic and romantic associations were connected with distinguished families who still called it home. Foremost among the men was General Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo, by whom Sonoma was founded in 1834, upon ground which had twice been consecrated to Mission use. First by Padre Altemera, who had, in 1823, established there the church and mission building of San Francisco Solano. And four years later, after hostile Indians had destroyed the sacred structures, Padre Fortune, under protection of Presidio Golden Gate, blessed the ashes and rebuilt the church and the parochial houses named last on the list of the historic Missions of California. The Vallejo home covered the largest plot of ground on the north side of the plaza, and its great house had a hospitable air, despite its lofty watchtower, begrimed by sentry holes, overlooking every part of the valley. During the period that its owner was _commandante_ of the northern frontier, the Vallejo home was headquarters for high officials of the province. But after Commodore Sloat raised the Stars and Stripes at Monterey, General Vallejo espoused the cause of the United States, put aside much of his Spanish exclusiveness, and opened his doors to Americans as graciously as to friends of his own nationality. A historic souvenir greatly prized by Americans in town and valley was the flag pole, which in Sonoma's infancy had been hewn from the distant mountain forest, and brought down on pack animals by mission Indians under General Vallejo's direction. It originally stood in the centre of the plaza, where it was planted with sacred ceremonials, and where amid ringing cheers of "_Viva Mexico!_" it first flung to the breeze that country's symbolical banner of green, white, and red. Through ten fitful years it loyally waved those colors; then followed its brief humiliation by the Bear Flag episode, and early redemption by order of Commodore Sloat, who sent thither an American flag-bearer to invest it with the Stars and Stripes. Thereafter, a patriotic impulse suggested its removal to the parade ground of the United States Army post, and as Spanish residents looked upon it as a thornful reminder of lost power they felt no regret when Uncle Sam's boys transplanted it to new environments and made it an American feature by adoption. But the Mexican landmark which appealed to me most pathetically was the quaint rustic belfry which stood solitary in the open space in front of the Mission buildings. Its strong columns were the trunks of trees that looked as though they might have grown there for the purpose of shouldering the heavy cross-beams from which the chimes hung. Its smooth timbers had been laboriously hewn by hand, as must be the case in a land where there are no saw mills. The parts that were not bound together with thongs of rawhide, were held in place by wooden pegs. The strips of rawhide attached to the clappers dropped low enough for me to reach, and often tempted me to make the bells speak. Mission padres no longer dwelt in the buildings, but shepherds from distant folds came monthly to administer to the needs of this consecrated flock. Then the many bells would call the faithful to mass, and to vespers, or chime for the wedding of favored sons and daughters. Part of them would jingle merrily for notable christenings; but one only would toll when death whitened the lips of some distinguished victim; and again, while the blessed body was being borne to its last resting-place. During one of my first trips to town, Jakie and I were standing by grandpa's shop on the east side of the plaza, when suddenly those bells rang out clear and sweet, and we saw the believing glide out of their homes in every direction and wend their way to the church. The high-born ladies had put aside their jewels, their gorgeous silks and satins, and donned the simpler garb prescribed for the season of fasts and prayer. Those to the manor born wore the picturesque _rebosa_ of fine lace or gauzy silk, draped over the head and about the shoulders; while those of humbler station made the shawl serve in place of the _rebosa_. The Indian servants, who with mats and kneeling cushions followed their mistresses, wore white chemises, bright-colored petticoats, and handkerchiefs folded three-cornerwise over the head and knotted under the chin. The costumes of the young girls were modelled after those of their mothers; and the little ladies appeared as demure and walked as stately as their elders. The gentlemen also were garbed in plainer costumes than their wont, and, for custom's sake, rode on horseback even the short distances which little children walked. The town seemed deserted, and the church filled, as we started homeward, I skipping ahead until we reached a shop window where I waited for Jakie and asked him if he knew what those pretty little things were that I saw on a shelf, in big short-necked glass jars. Some were round and had little "stickers" all over them, and others looked like birds' eggs, pink, yellow, white, and violet. He told me the round ones were sugar plums, and the egg-shaped had each an almond nut under its bright crust; that they were candies that had come from France in the ships that had brought the Spanish people their fine clothes; and that they were only for the rich, and would make poor little girls' teeth ache, if they should eat them. Yet, after I confided to him how mother had given me a lump of loaf sugar each night as long as it lasted, and how sorry we both felt when there was no more, he led me into the shop and let me choose two of each kind and color from the jars. We walked faster as I carried them home. Jakie and grandma would not take any, but she gave Georgia and me each a sugar plum and an egg, and saved the rest for other days when we should be good children. CHAPTER XXII GOLD DISCOVERED--"CALIFORNIA IS OURS"--NURSING THE SICK THE U.S. MILITARY POST--BURIAL OF AN OFFICER. In the year 1848, while the settlers and their families were contentedly at work developing the resources of the country, the astounding cry, "Gold discovered!" came through the valley like a blight, stopping every industry in its wake. Excited men, women, and children rushed to town in quest of information. It was furnished by Alcalde Boggs and General Vallejo, who had been called away privately two weeks earlier, and had just returned in a state of great enthusiasm, declaring that gold, "in dust, grains, and chunks had been discovered at Coloma, not more than a day's journey from Sutter's Fort." "How soon can we get there?" became the all-absorbing problem of eager listeners. The only hotel-keeper in the town sold his kettles and pans, closed his house, and departed. Shopkeepers packed most of their supplies for immediate shipment, and raised the price of those left for home trade. Men and half-grown boys hardly took time to collect a meagre outfit before they were off with shovel and pan and "something big to hold the gold." A few families packed their effects into emigrant wagons and deserted house and lands for the luring gold fields. Crowds from San Francisco came hurrying through, some stopping barely long enough to repeat the maddening tales that had started them off to the diggings with pick and shovel. Each new rumor increased the exodus of gold-seekers; and by the end of the first week in August, when the messenger arrived with the long-hoped-for report of the ratification of the treaty of peace, and General Mason's proclamation officially announcing it, there were not enough men left in the valley, outside of the barracks, to give a decent round of cheers for the blessing of peace. Grandpa brought the news home, "California is ours. There will be no more war, no more trouble, and no more need of soldiers." Yet the women felt that their battles and trials had just begun, since they had suddenly become the sole home-keepers, with limited ways and means to provide for the children and care for the stock and farms. Discouragement would have rendered the burdens of many too heavy to carry, had not "work together," and "help your neighbor," become the watchwords of the day. No one was allowed to suffer through lack of practical sympathy. From house to house, by turns, went the strong to help the weak to bridge their troubles. They went, not with cheering words only, but with something in store for the empty cupboards and with ready hands to help to milk, wash, cook, or sew. Grandma was in such demand that she had little time to rest; for there was not a doctor nor a "medicine shop" in the valley, and her parcels of herbs and knowledge of their uses had to serve for both. Nights, she set her shoes handy, so that she could dress quickly when summoned to the sick; and dawn of day often marked her home-coming. Georgia and I were led into her work early, for we were sent with broths and appetizers to the sick on clearings within walking distances; and she would bid us stay a while at different houses where we could be helpful, but to be sure and bring careful reports from each home we entered. Under such training, we learned much about diseases and the care of the suffering. Anon, we would find in the plain wooden cradle, a dainty bundle of sweetness, all done up in white, which its happy owner declared grandma had brought her, and we felt quite repaid for our tiresome walk if permitted to hold it a wee while and learn its name. [Illustration: MISSION SAN FRANCISCO SOLANO, LAST OF THE HISTORIC MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA] [Illustration: RUINS OF THE MISSION AT SONOMA] We were sent together on these missions, in order that we might help each other to remember all that was told us; yet grandma had us take turns, and the one whom she commissioned to make the inquiries was expected to bring the fuller answers. Sometimes, we played on the way and made mistakes. Then she would mete out to us that hardest of punishments, namely, that we were not to speak with each other until she should forgive our offence. Forgiveness usually came before time to drive up the cows, for she knew that we were nimbler-footed when she started us off in happy mood. Each cow wore a bell of different tone and knew her own name; yet it was not an easy task, even in pleasant weather, to collect the various strings and get them home on time. They mixed, and fed with neighbors' cattle on the range, and hid themselves behind clumps of trees and other convenient obstructions. Often grandma would get her string in by the main trail and have them milked before we could bring up the laggards that provokingly dawdled along, nibbling stray bunches of grass. When late on the road, we saw coyotes sneaking out for their evening meal and heard the far-away cry of the panther. But we were not much afraid when it was light enough, so that imagination could not picture them creeping stealthily behind us. Our gallant Company C, officered by Captain Bartlett and Lieutenants Stoneman and Stone, was ordered to another post early in August; and its departure caused such universal regret that no one supposed Company H, under Captain Frisbie, could fill its place. Nevertheless, that handsome young officer soon found his way to the good-will of the people, and when Captain Joe Hooker brought him out to visit grandma's dairy, she, too, was greatly pleased by his soldierly bearing. After he mentioned that he had heard of her interest in the company which had been called away, and that he believed she would find Company H equally deserving of her consideration, she readily extended to the new men the homelike privileges which the others had enjoyed. Thus more friends came among us. Notable among mine was the old darkey cook at headquarters, from whom Georgia and I tried to hide, the first time she waddled out to our house. She searched us out, saying: "Now, honeys, don't yo be so scared of dis ole Aunt Lucy, 'cos she's done heared Captain Hooker tell lots 'bout yos, and has come to see yos." Her face was one great smile, and her voice was so coaxing that she had little difficulty in gaining our favor, the more so, as upon leaving, she called back, "I's surely g'wine ter make dat little pie and cake I's promised yos, so yos mustn't forgit to come git it." On one occasion, when I was sent to the post on an errand, she had no pie or cake; but she brought out a primer and said thoughtfully, "I's g'wine ter give yo dis A-B-C book, 'cos I want yo should grow up like quality folks." Its worn leaves showed that its owner had studied its first few pages only; and when I replied, "Grandma says that I must not take everything that is offered me," she chuckled and continued: "Lawd, honey, yo needn't have no 'punctions 'bout takin' dis yer book, 'cos I couldn't learn to read nohow when I was a gal, and I's too ole to now. Now, I wants yo to be nice; and yo can't, lessen yo can read and talk like de Captain done tole me yo mudder done." I was delighted with the book, and told her so, and hugged it all the way home; for it had a beautiful picture near the back, showing a little girl with a sprinkling pot, watering her garden of stocks, sweet-williams, and hollyhocks. Her hair was in four long curls, and she had trimming on her dress, apron, and long pantalets. I was also impressed by the new words which I had heard Aunt Lucy use, "'punctions," and "quality folks." I repeated them over and over to myself, so that I should be able to tell them to Georgia. Our last visit to Aunt Lucy must have been prearranged, for as she admitted us, she said, "I's mighty glad yos done come so soon, 'cos I been 'specting yos, and mus' take yos right in to de General." I had never seen a general, and was shy about meeting one, until after she assured me that only cowards and bad men feared him. We walked down the corridor and entered a large room, where an elderly gentleman in uniform sat writing at a table. Aunt Lucy stopped beside him, and still holding each by the hand, bowed low, saying, "General Smith, I's brung der two little Donner gals in to see yo, sah"; then she slipped out. He was as courteous to us as though we were grown ladies, shook hands, asked how we felt, begged us to be seated, and then stepped to a door and called, "Susan! Susan!" I liked the name. A sweet voice answered, "Coming!" Presently, a pretty dark-eyed Southern lady appeared, who called us "honeys," and "dear little girls." She sat between us, joining with her husband in earnest inquiries about our stay in the mountains and our home with grandma. Georgia did most of the talking. I was satisfied just to look at them and hear them speak. At the close of our visit, with a knowing look, she took us to see what Aunt Lucy had baked. The General and she had recently come to pay a last visit to a sick officer, who had been sent from San Francisco with the hope that our milder climate would prolong his life. They themselves stayed only a short time, and their friend never left our valley. The day he died, the flag swung lower on the staff. Soldiers dug his grave on the hillside north of town, and word came from army headquarters that he would be buried on the morrow at midday, with military honors. Georgia and I wanted to know what military honors were, and as it came time for the funeral, we gathered with others on the plaza, where the procession formed. We were deeply impressed. The emigrants uncovered and bowed their heads reverently, but the soldiers in line, with guns reversed, stood erect and motionless as figures in stone, while the bier of the dead was being carried through open ranks to the waiting caisson. The coffin was covered with a flag, and upon it lay his chapeau, gauntlets, sash, and sword. His boots, with their toes reversed, hung over the saddle of a riderless horse, led behind the caisson. The solemn tones of fife and muffled drum led the way through the town, past the old Mission bells and up the hillside. Only soldiers stood close around the grave and heard what was read by the officer who stood at its head, with an open book in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. Three times the file of soldiers fired a volley over the grave, then the muffled drum sounded its farewell taps, and the officers, with their men and the funeral caisson, returned to their quarters in silent order. CHAPTER XXIII REAPING AND THRESHING--A PIONEER FUNERAL--THE HOMELESS AND WAYFARING APPEAL TO MRS. BRUNNER--RETURN OF THE MINERS--SOCIAL GATHERINGS--OUR DAILY ROUTINE--STOLEN PLEASURES--A LITTLE DAIRYMAID--MY DOGSKIN SHOES. Reaping and threshing were interesting events to us that summer. Mission Indians, scantily clothed, came and cut the grain with long knives and sickles, bound it in small sheaves, and stacked it in the back yard opposite grandma's lookout window, then encircled it with a rustic fence, leaving a wide bare space between the stack and the fence, which they swept clean with green branches from live oak trees. After many days, Mexican drivers brought a band of wild mares to help with the work. A thick layer of unthreshed grain was pitched on to the bare space surrounding the stack and the mares were driven around and around upon it. From time to time, fresh material was supplied to meet the needs of the threshers. And, at given signals from the men on the stack, the mares were turned out for a short rest, also in order to allow the Indians a chance to throw out the waste straw and to heap the loose grain on the winnowing ground. So they did again and again, until the last sheaf had been trodden under foot. When the threshing was finished, the Indians rested; then prepared their fires, and feasted on the head, feet, and offal of a bullock which grandpa had slaughtered. Like buzzards came the squaws and papooses to take what was left of the food, and to claim a share from the pile of worn-out clothes which grandma brought out for distribution. Amid shouts of pleasure, gesticulations, and all manner of begging, the distribution began, and when it ended, our front yard looked as though it were stocked with prize scarecrows. One big fellow was resplendent in a battered silk hat and a tattered army coat; another was well dressed in a pair of cast-off boots and one of grandma's ragged aprons. Georgia and I tried to help to sort the things as they should be worn, but our efforts were in vain. Wrong hands would reach around and get the articles, and both sexes interchanged suits with apparent satisfaction. Grandma got quite out of patience with one great fellow who was trying to put on a petticoat that his squaw needed, and rushed up to him, jerked it off, gave him a vigorous push, and had the garment on his squaw, before he could do more than grunt. In the end they went away caring more for the clothes that had been given them than for the money they had earned. Before the summer waned, death claimed one of our own brave women, and immigrants from far and near gathered to do her honor. I do not recollect her name, but know that she was tall and fair, and that grandma, who had watched with her through her last hours, told Georgia and me that when we saw the procession leave the house, we might creep through our back fence and reach the grave before those who should walk around by the road. We were glad to go, for we had watched the growth of the fresh ridge under a large oak tree, not far from our house, and had heard a friend say that it would be "a heavenly resting place for the freed sufferer." Her family and nearest neighbors left the house afoot, behind the wagon which carried the plain redwood coffin. At the cross-road several fell in line, and at the grave was quite a gathering. A number came in their ox wagons, others on horseback; among them, a father afoot, leading a horse upon whose back sat his wife with an infant in arms and a child behind clinging to her waist; and several old nags, freighted with children, were led by one parent, while the other walked alongside to see that none should lose their balance and fall off. No minister of the Gospel was within call, so, after the coffin was placed upon the bars above the open grave, and the lid removed, a friend who had crossed the plains with the dead, offered a prayer, and all the listeners said, "Amen." I might not have remembered all these things, if Georgia and I had not watched over that grave, when all others seemed to have forgotten it. As we brought brush to cover it, in order to keep the cattle from dusting themselves in the loose earth, we talked matters over, and felt as though that mother's grave had been bequeathed to us. Grandma had instructed us that the graveyard is "God's acre," and that it is a sin to live near and not tend it. Still, no matter how often we chased the cattle away, they would return. We could not make them understand that their old resting-place had become sacred ground. About the middle of October, 1848, the last of the volunteers were mustered out of service, and shortly thereafter the excess of army stores were condemned and sold. Ex-soldiers had preference over settlers, and could buy the goods at Government rates, plus a small cost of transportation to the Pacific coast. Grandma profited by the good-will of those whom she had befriended. They stocked her store-room with salt pork, flour, rice, coffee, sugar, ship-bread, dried fruit, and camp condiments at a nominal figure above what they themselves paid for them. This was fortunate, for the hotel was still closed, and the homeless and wayfaring appealing to grandma, easily persuaded her to make room for them at her table. The greater the number, the harder she worked, and the more she expected of us. Although we rose at dawn, and rolled our sleeves high as she rolled hers, and like her, turned up our dress skirts and pinned them behind under our long belt aprons, we could not keep pace with her work. Nevertheless, we were pleasing reminders of little girls whom she had known in her native village, and she was proud of us, and had two little white dresses fashioned to be worn on very special occasions. After they were finished, we also were proud, and made many trips into the room to see how beautiful they looked hanging against the wall under the curtain. Marvellous accounts of the extent and richness of the gold-diggings were now brought to town by traffickers in provisions for mining-camps. This good news inspired our home-keepers with renewed courage. They worked faster while planning the comfort they should enjoy after the return of the absent. The first to come were the unfortunate, who sought to shake off rheumatism, lung trouble, or the stubborn low-grade fever brought on by working in the water, sleeping on damp ground, eating poorly cooked food, or wearing clothing insufficient to guard against the morning and evening chill. Few had much to show for their toil and privation; yet, not disheartened, even in delirium, they clamored to hasten back for the precious treasure which seemed ever beckoning them onward. When wind and weather drove them home, the robust came with bags of gold rolled in their snug packs. They called each other "lucky dogs," yet looked like grimy beggars, with faces so bewhiskered, and clothing so ragged, or so wonderfully patched, that little children cried when they drew near, and wives threw up their hands, exclaiming, "For the land's sake! can it be?" Yet each home-comer found glad welcome, and messengers were quick to spread the news, and friends gathered to rejoice with the returned. Now each home-cooked dish was a feast for the camp-fed to contrast with their fare at Coloma, Wood's Camp,[16] and sundry other places, where flour, rice, ship-bread, and coffee were three dollars a pound; salt pork and white beans, two dollars a pound; jerked beef, eight dollars a pound; saleratus, sixteen dollars an ounce; and salt, sugar, and raisins were put on the scales to balance their weight in gold dust; where liquor was fifty cents a tablespoonful, and candles five dollars each. It was not the prices at which they complained, but at the dearth of these staples, which had forced them home to wait until spring should again open the road to supply-trains. The homeless, who in the evenings found comfort and cheer around grandma's table, would take out their treasure bags and boxes and pour their dust and grains of gold in separate piles, to show the quality and quantity, then pass the nuggets around that all might see what strange figures nature had moulded in secret up among the rocks and ravines of the Sierras. One Roman Catholic claimed as his choicest prize a perfectly shaped cross of free gold, which he had cradled from the sands in the bed of a creek. Another had an image of the Virgin and Child. A slight stretch of the imagination turned many of the beautifully fretted pieces into miniature birds and other admirable designs for sweetheart brooches. The exhibition over, each would scrape his hoard back into its receptacle, blow the remaining yellow particles on to the floor so that the table should not show stain, and then settle himself to take his part in relating amusing and thrilling incidents of life in the mining camps. Not a window was closed, nor a door locked, nor a wink of sleep lost in those days, guarding bags of gold. "Hands off" was the miners' law, and all knew that death awaited him who should venture to break it. Heavy purses made willing spenders, and generous impulses were untrammelled. Nothing could be more gratifying or touching than the respect shown by those homeless men to the pioneer women and children. They would walk long distances and suffer delays and inconveniences for the privilege of passing a few hours under home influences, and were ever ready to contribute toward pleasures in which all might participate. There were so few young girls in the community, and their presence was so greatly desired, that in the early winter, Georgia and I attended as welcome guests some of the social gatherings which began at early candle-light, and we wore the little white dresses that were so precious in our eyes. [Illustration: GOLD ROCKER, WASHING PAN AND GOLD BORER] [Illustration: SCENE DURING THE RUSH TO THE GOLD MINES FROM SAN FRANCISCO IN 1848] Before the season was half over, heavy rain was followed by such bitter cold that all the ground and still waters were frozen stiff. Although we were well muffled, and grandma warmed us up with a drink of hot water and sweetened cream before starting us out after the cows, the frost nipped at our feet until the old scars became so angry and painful that we could scarcely hobble about the house. Many remedies were tried, to no purpose, the most severe being the early foot bath with floats of ice in the water. It chilled us through and through, and also made grandma keep us from the fire, lest the heat should undo the benefit expected from the cold. So, while we sat with shivering forms and chattering teeth looking across the room at the blazing logs under the breakfast pots and kettles, our string of cows was coming home in care of a new driver. We were glad to be together, even in misery, and all things considered, were perhaps as useful in our crippled condition as before, for there was enough to keep our hands busy while our feet rested. Grandma thought she made our work lighter by bringing it to us, yet she came too often for it to seem easy to us. First, the six brass candlesticks, with hoods, snuffers, and trays had to be brightened; and next, there were the small brass kettles in which she boiled the milk for coffee, to be polished inside and out. However, we did not dread the kettles much, unless burned, for there was always a spoon in the bottom to help to gather the scrapings, of which we were very fond. But when she would come with a large pan of dried beans or peas to be picked over quickly, so that she could get them soaked for early cooking, we would measure its contents with critical eyes to make sure that it was not more than we had had the previous day. By the time we would get to the bottom of the pan, she would be ready to put before us a discouraging pile of iron knives, forks, and pewter spoons to scour with wood ashes. How we did hate those old black knives and forks! She said her sight was poor--but she could always see when we slighted any. The redeeming work of the day was sorting the dried fruit for sauce or pies. We could take little nibbles as we handled it, and knew that we should get an extra taste when it was ready for use. And after she had put the upper crust on the pies, she would generally permit us to make the fancy print around the edges with a fork, and then prick a figure in the centre to let the steam escape while baking. Sometimes she received a dollar apiece for these pies; and she had so many customers for them and for such loaves of bread as she could spare, that she often declared the farm was as good as a gold mine. We were supposed not to play with dolls, consequently we durst not ask any one to step around and see how our little house in the back yard was weathering the storms, nor how the beloved nine in it were getting along. Though only bottles of different sizes, to us they were dear children, named after great personages whom the soldiers had taught us to honor. The most distinguished had cork stoppers for heads, with faces marked on the sides, the rest, only wads of paper or cloth fastened on the ends of sticks that reached down into the bodies. A strip of cloth tied around each neck, below the bulge, served as make-believe arms, suitable for all ordinary purposes, and, with a little assistance, capable of saluting an officer or waving to a comrade. We worried because they were clothed in fragments of cloth and paper too thin for the season; and the very first chance we got, we slipped out and found our darlings in a pitiable plight. Generals Washington and Jackson, and little Van Buren were mired at the foot of a land slide from the overhanging bank. Taylor, Webster, Clay, and Benton had been knocked down and buried almost out of sight. Martha Washington's white shawl and the chicken plumes in her hat were ruined; and Dandy Jim from North Carolina lay at her feet with a broken neck! Such a shock! Not until we realized that everything could be restored was our grief assuaged--that is, everything but Dandy Jim. He was a serious loss, for he was our only black bottle and had always been kept to wait on Martha Washington. We worked fast, and had accomplished so much before being called into the house that we might have put everything in order next day, had Georgia not waked up toward morning with a severe cold, and had grandma not found out how she caught it. The outcome was that our treasures were taken to the store-room to become medicine and vinegar bottles, and we mourned like birds robbed of their young. New duties were opened to me as soon as I could wear my shoes, and by the time Georgia was out again, I was a busy little dairymaid, and quite at home in the corrals. I had been decorated with the regulation salt bag, which hung close to my left side, like a fisherman's basket. I owned a quart cup and could milk with either hand, also knew how to administer the pinch of salt which each cow expected. After a little practice I became able to do all the "stripping." In some cases it amounted to not more than half a pint from each animal. However, much or little, the strippings were of importance, and were kept separate, because grandma considered them "good as cream in the cheese kettle." When I could sit on the one-legged stool, which Jakie had made me, hold a pail between my knees and milk one or more cows, without help, they both praised my cleverness--a cleverness which fixed more outside responsibilities upon me, and kept me from Georgia a longer while each day. My work was hard, still I remained noticeably taller and stronger than she, who was assigned to lighter household duties. I felt that I had no reason to complain of my tasks, because everybody about me was busy, and the work had to be done. If I was more helpful than my little sister, I was also a source of greater trouble, for I wore out my clothes faster, and they were difficult to replace, especially shoes. There was but one shoemaker in the town, and he was kept so busy that he took a generous measure of children's feet and then allowed a size or more, to guard against the shoes being too small by the time he should get them finished. When my little stogies began to leak, he shook his head thoughtfully, and declared that he had so many orders for men's boots that he could not possibly work for women or children until those orders were filled. Consequently, grandma kept her eye on my shoes, and as they got worse and worse, she became sorely perplexed. She would not let me go barefooted, because she was afraid of "snags" and ensuing lockjaw; she could not loan me her own, because she was saving them for special occasions, and wearing instead the heavy sabots she had brought from her native land. She tried the effect of continually reminding me to pick my way and save my shoes, which made life miserable for us both. Finally she upbraided me harshly for a playful run across the yard with Courage, and I lost my temper, and grumbled. "I would rather go barefooted and get snags in my feet than have so much bother about old shoes that are worn out and no good anyway!" I was still crying when Hendrik, a roly-poly Hollander, came along and asked the cause of my distress. Grandma told him that I was out of humor, because she was trying to keep shoes on my feet, while I was determined to run them off. He laughed, bade me cheer up, sang the rollicking sailor song with which he used to drive away storms at sea, then showed me a hole in the heel of the dogskin boots he wore, and told me that, out of their tops, he would make me a beautiful pair of shoes. No clouds darkened my sky the morning that Hendrik came, wearing a pair of new cowhide boots then squeaked as though singing crickets were between the heavy soles; for he had his workbox and the dogskins under his arm, and we took seats under the oak tree, where he laid out his tools and went to work without more ado. He had brought a piece of tanned cowhide for the soles of my shoes, an awl, a sailor's thimble, needles, coarse thread, a ball of wax, and a sharp knife. The hair on the inside of the boot legs was thick and smooth, and the colors showed that one of the skins had been taken from the body of a black and white dog, and the other from that of a tawny brindle. As Hendrik modelled and sewed, he told me a wondrous tale of the great North Polar Sea, where he had gone in a whaling vessel, and had stayed all winter among mountains of ice and snow. There his boots had worn out. So he had bought these skins from queer little people there, who live in snow huts, and instead of horses or oxen, use dogs to draw their sleds. I liked the black and white skin better than the brindle, so he cut that for the right foot, and told me always to make it start first. And when I put the shoes on they felt so soft and warm that I knew I could never forget Hendrik's generosity and kindness. The longer I wore them the more I became attached to them, and the better I understood the story he had told me; for in my musings they were not shoes, but "Spot" and "Brindle," live Eskimo dogs, that had drawn families of queer little people in sleds over the frozen sea, and had always been hungry and ready to fight over their scanty meals. At times I imagined that they wanted to race and scamper about as happy dogs do, and I would run myself out of breath to keep them going, and always stop with Spot in the lead. When I needed shoestrings, I was sent to the shoemaker, who only glanced up and replied, "Come to-morrow, and I'll have a piece of leather big enough." The next day, he made the same answer, "Come to-morrow," and kept pegging away as fast as he could on a boot sole. The third time I appeared before him, he looked up with the ejaculation, "Well, I'll be damned, if she ain't here again!" I was well aware that he should not have used that evil word, yet was not alarmed, for I had heard grandpa and others use worse, and mean no harm, nor yet intend to be cross. So I stood quietly, and in a trice he was up, had rushed across the shop, brought back two round pieces of leather not larger than cookies, and before I knew what he was about, had turned them into good straight shoestrings. He waxed them, and handed them to me with the remark, "Tell your grandma that since you had to wait so long, I charge her only twenty-five cents for them." [Footnote 16: Now Jamestown.] CHAPTER XXIV MEXICAN METHODS OF CULTIVATION--FIRST STEAMSHIP THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE--"THE ARGONAUTS" OR "BOYS OF '49"--A LETTER FROM THE STATES--JOHN BAPTISTE--JAKIE LEAVES US--THE FIRST AMERICAN SCHOOL IN SONOMA. By the first of March, 1849, carpenters had the frame of grandma's fine new two-story house enclosed, and the floors partly laid. Neighbors were hurrying to get their fields ploughed and planted, those without farming implements following the Mexican's crude method of ploughing the ground with wooden prongs and harrowing in the seed by dragging heavy brush over it. They gladly turned to any tool that would complete the work by the time the roads to the mountains should be passable, and the diggings clear of snow. Their expectations might have been realized sooner, if a bluff old launch captain, with an eye to business for himself and San Francisco, had not appeared on the scene, shouting, "Ahoy" to everybody. "I say, a steamship anchored in the Bay of San Francisco two days ago. She's the _California_. Steamed out of New York Harbor with merchandise. Stopped at Panama; there took aboard three hundred and fifty waiting passengers that had cut across country--a mixture of men from all parts of the United States, who have come to carry off the gold diggings, root and branch! Others are coming in shiploads as fast as they can. Now mark my words, and mark them well: provisions is going to run mighty short, and if this valley wants any, it had better send for them pretty damn quick!" By return boat, farmers, shopkeepers, and carpenters hastened to San Francisco. All were eager for supplies from the first steamship that had entered the Golden Gate--the first, it may be added, that most of them, even those of a sea-going past, had ever seen. During the absence of husbands, we little girls were loaned separately nights to timid wives who had no children to keep them company. Georgia went earlier and stayed later than I, because grandma could not spare me in the evenings until after the cows were turned out, and she needed me in the mornings before sunrise. Those who borrowed us made our stays so pleasant that we felt at home in many different houses. Once, however, I encountered danger on my early homeward trip. I had turned the bend in the road, could see the smoke curling out of grandma's chimney, and knew that every nearer house was closed. In order to avoid attracting the attention of a suspicious-looking cow on the road, I was running stealthily along a rail fence, when, unexpectedly, I came upon a family of sleeping swine, and before I was aware of danger from that direction was set upon and felled to the ground by a vicious beast. Impelled, I know not how, but quick as thought, I rolled over and over and over, and when I opened my eyes I was on the other side of the fence, and an angry, noisy, bristling creature was glaring at me through the rails. Quivering like a leaf and for a time unable to rise, I lay upon the green earth facing the morning sky. With strange sensations and wonderment, I tried to think what might have happened, if I had not rolled. What if that space between fence and ground had been too narrow to let my body through; what if, on the other hand, it had been wide enough for that enraged brute to follow? Too frightened to cry, and still trembling, I made my way to the end of the field and climbed back over the fence near home. Grandma was greatly startled by my blanched face, and the rumpled and soiled condition of my clothes. After I related my frightful experience, she also felt that had it not been for that fence, I should have been torn to pieces. She explained, however, that I probably would not have been attacked had I not startled the old mother so suddenly that she believed her young in danger. When our menfolk returned from San Francisco, they were accompanied by many excited treasure-seekers, anxious to secure pack animals to carry their effects to the mines. They were made welcome, and in turn furnished us news of the outer world, and distributed worn copies of American and foreign newspapers, which our hungry-minded pioneers read and re-read so long as the lines held together. Those light-hearted newcomers, who danced and gayly sang, O Susannah, don't you cry for me! I'm bound to Californy with a tin pan on my knee, were the first we saw of that vast throng of gold-seekers, who flocked to our shores within a twelvemonth, and who have since become idealized in song and story as the "Argonauts," "the Boys of '49." They were unlike either our pioneer or our soldier friends in style of dress and manner. Nor had they come to build homes or develop the country. They wanted gold to carry back to other lands. Some had expected to find it near the Bay of San Francisco; some, to scoop it up out of the river beds that crossed the valleys; and others, to shovel it from ravines and mountain-sides. When told of the difficulties before them, their impatience grew to be off, that they might prove to Western plodders what could be done by Eastern pluck and muscle. Such packing as those men did! Mother's Bible, and wife and baby's daguerreotype not infrequently started to the mines in the coffee pot, or in the miner's boots, hanging across the mule's pack. The sweetheart's lock of hair, affectionately concealed beneath the hat lining of its faithful wearer, caught the scent of the old clay pipe stuck in the hat-band. With the opening season all available Indians of both sexes were hired as gold-diggers, and trudged along behind their employers, and our town was again reduced to a settlement of white women and children. But what a difference in the feeling of our people! We now heard regularly from the Bay City, and entertained transients from nearly every part of the globe; and these would loan us books and newspapers, and frequently store unnecessary possessions with us until they should return from the mines. San Francisco had a regular post office. One day its postmaster forwarded a letter, addressed to ex-Governor Boggs, which the latter brought out and read to grandma. She did not, as usual, put her head out of the window and call us, but came from the house wiping her eyes, and asked if we wanted to be put in a big ship and sent away from her and grandma and Jakie. Greatly alarmed, we exclaimed, "No, no, grandma, no!" Taking us by the hand, she led us into the house, seated herself and drew one of us to each side, then requested the Governor to read the letter again. We two did not understand all it said, but enough to know that it had been written by our own dear aunt, Elizabeth Poor, who wanted Governor Boggs to find her sister's three little orphaned girls and send them back to her by ship to Massachusetts. It contained the necessary directions for carrying out her wish. [Illustration: POST OFFICE, CORNER OF CLAY AND PIKE STREETS, SAN FRANCISCO, 1849] [Illustration: OLD CITY HOTEL, 1846, CORNER OF KEARNEY AND CLAY STREETS, THE FIRST HOTEL IN SAN FRANCISCO] Grandma assured the Governor that we did not want to leave her, nor would she give us up. She said she and her husband and Jakie had befriended us when we were poor and useless, and that we were now beginning to be helpful. Moreover, that they had prospered greatly since we had come into their home, and that their luck might change if they should part from us. She further stated that she already had riches in her own right, which we should inherit at her death. The Governor spoke of schools and divers matters pertaining to our welfare, then promised to explain by letter to Aunt Elizabeth how fortunately we were situated. This event created quite a flutter of excitement among friends. Grandpa and Jakie felt just as grandma did about keeping us. Georgia and I were assured that in not being allowed to go across the water, we had escaped great suffering, and, perhaps, drowning by shipwreck. Still, we did wish that it were possible for us to see Aunt Elizabeth, whom mother had taught us to love, and who now wanted us to come to her. I told Georgia that I would learn to write as fast as I could, and send her a letter, so she would know all about us. We now imagined that we were quite large girls, for grandma usually said before going away, "Children, you know what there is to do and I leave everything in your care." We did not realize that this was her little scheme, in part, to keep us out of mischief; but we knew that upon her return she would see, and call attention to what was left undone. Once, when we were at home alone and talking about "endless work and aching bones," as we had heard grown-up folks complain of theirs, we were interrupted by a bareback rider who did not "tie up" under the live oak, but came to the shade of the white oak in front of us at the kitchen door. After a cheery "Howdy do" and a hand shake, he exclaimed, "I heard at Napa that you lived here, and my pony has made a hard run to give me this sight of you." We were surprised and delighted, for the speaker was John Baptiste who had wintered with us in the Sierras. We asked him to dismount, take a seat under the tree, and let us bring him a glass of milk. He declined graciously, then with a pleased expression, drew a small brown-paper parcel from his trousers pocket and handed it to us, leaned forward, clasped his arms about his pony, rested his head on its neck, and smilingly watched Georgia unwrap it, and two beautiful bunches of raisins come to view,--one for each. He would not touch a single berry, nor let us save any. He asked us to eat them then and there so that he could witness our enjoyment of the luxury he had provided for this, our first meeting in the settlement. Never had we seen raisins so large, translucent, and delicious. They seemed far too choice for us to have, and John was so poorly dressed and pinched in features that we hesitated about eating them. But he would have his way, and in simple language told us that he wanted them to soften the recollection of the hungry time when he came into camp empty-handed and discouraged. Also to fulfil his assurance to our mother that he would try to keep us in sight, and give us of the best that he could procure. His last injunctions were, "Be good little girls; always remember your mother and father; and don't forget John Baptiste." He was gone when grandma got back; and she was very serious when told what had occurred in her absence. She rarely spoke to us of our mother, and feared it might lessen our affection for herself, if others kept the memory of the dead fresh in our minds. There were many other happenings before the year closed, that caused me to think a great deal. Grandpa spent less time at the shop; he bought himself a fleet-footed horse which he named Antelope, and came home oftener to talk to grandma about money they had loaned Major Prudon to send to China for merchandise, also about a bar-room which he was fitting up near the butcher-shop, for a partner. Next, he bought faithful Charlie, a large bay horse, with friendly eyes, and long black mane and tail; also a small blue farm wagon in which Georgia and I were to drive about the fields, when sent to gather loose bark and dry branches for baking fires. We were out for that purpose the day that we saw grandpa ride away to the mines, but we missed seeing Jakie steal off, with his bunch of cows. He felt too badly to say good-bye to us. I was almost heart-broken when I learned that he was not coming back. He had been my comforter in most of my troubles, had taught me to ride and drive the horse, shown me the wood duck's nest in the hollow of our white oak tree, and the orioles' pretty home swinging from a twig in the live oak, also where the big white-faced owls lived. He had helped me to gather wild flowers, made me whistles from branches cut from the pussy willows, and had yodeled for me as joyfully as for loved ones in his Alpine home. Everything that he had said and done meant a great deal more to me now, and kept him in mind, as I went about alone, or with grandma, doing the things that had been his to do. She now moulded her cheeses in smaller forms, and we had fewer cows to milk. When the season for collecting and drying herbs came, Georgia and I had opportunity to be together considerably. It was after we had picked the first drying of sage and were pricking our fingers on the saffron pods, that grandma, in passing, with her apron full of Castilian rose petals, stopped and announced that if we would promise to work well, and gather the sage leaves and saffron tufts as often as necessary, she would let us go to a "real school" which was about to open in town. Oh, dear! to go to school, to have books and slate and pencil! What more could be wished? Yes, we would get up earlier, work faster before time to go, and hurry home after lessons were over. And I would carry the book Aunt Lucy had given me. It was all arranged, and grandma went to town to buy slates, pencils, speller, and a stick of wine-colored ribbon to tie up our hair. When the anticipated hour came, there were great preparations that we might be neat and clean and ready on time. Our hair was parted in four equal divisions; the front braids, tied with ribbon, formed a U at the back of the neck; and we wore new calico dresses and sun-bonnets, and carried lunch for two in a curious little basket, which grandma must have brought with her from Switzerland. Joyfully we started forth to the first American school opened in Sonoma. Alas! it was not what our anticipations had pictured. The schoolroom was a dreary adobe, containing two rows of benches so high that, when seated, we could barely touch the earthen floor with our toes. The schoolmaster told us that we must hold our slates on our laps, and our open books in the right hand, and not look at the pictures, but study all the time, and not speak, even to each other, without permission. His face was so severe, his eyes so keen, and his voice so sharp that I was afraid of him. He had a chair with a back to it, and a table to hold his books; yet he spent most of his time walking about with a narrow strap of rawhide in his hand, and was ever finding some one whose book drooped, or who was whispering; and the stinging bite of that strap would call the erring to order. The Misses Boggs, Lewis, Smith, and Bone were pretty young ladies, and brought their own chairs and a table to sit around; and when they whispered, the master never saw them; and when they missed in lessons, he didn't keep them in, nor make them stand on the floor. I learned my lessons well enough, but grandma was terribly shocked because I got strapped nearly every day. But then, I sat between Georgia and the other little girls in our row, and had to deliver messages from those on both sides of me, as well as to whisper a little on my own account. Finally, grandma declared that if I got a whipping next day, she would give me a second one after reaching home. So I started in the morning with the intention of being the best girl in school; but we had hardly settled in line for our first lesson, when Georgia whispered behind her book, "Eliza, see! Mary Jane Johnson has got my nice French card, with the double queens on it, and I can't get it." Forgotten were my good resolutions. I leaned out of line, and whispered louder than I meant, "Mary Jane Johnson, that is my sister's card, and you must give it back to her." She saw the master watching, but I did not, until he called me to hold out my hand. For once, I begged, "Please excuse me; I won't do it again." But he wouldn't, and I felt greatly humiliated, because I knew the large girls had heard me and were smiling. After recess, a new boy arrived, little Willie McCracken, whom we had seen on the plains, and known at Sutter's Fort, and he knew us as soon as he reached his seat and looked around. In a short time, I nudged Georgia, and asked her if I hadn't better roll him the little knot of dried apples that grandma had put in the basket for my lunch. She said, yes, if I wanted to. So I wiggled the basket from under the seat with my foot, and soon thereafter, my bit of hospitality was on its way to the friend I was glad to see again. Instead of his getting it, however, the master stepped down and picked it up, with the hand that didn't have the strap in it. So, instead of being the best, I was the worst child in school, for not one had ever before received two strappings in a forenoon. It must have been our bad day, for Georgia felt her very first bite from the strap that afternoon, and on the way home volunteered not to tell on me, if grandma did not ask. Yet grandma did, the first thing. And when Georgia reluctantly said, "Yes," grandma looked at me and shook her head despairingly; but when I announced that I had already had two strappings, and Georgia one, she burst out laughing, and said she thought I had had enough for one day. A few weeks later, the large boys drove the master out of school on account of his cruelty to a little fellow who had played truant. In that dingy schoolroom, Georgia and I later attended the first Protestant Sunday school and church service held in Sonoma. CHAPTER XXV FEVER PATIENTS FROM THE MINES--UNMARKED GRAVES--THE TALES AND TAUNTS THAT WOUNDED MY YOUNG HEART. A short experience in the mines cured grandpa's "mining fever," but increased his rheumatism. The accounts he brought of sufferings he had witnessed in the camps prepared us for the approaching autumn's work, when many of the happy fellows who had started to the gold-fields in vigorous health and with great expectations returned haggard, sick, and out of luck. Then was noble work done by the pioneer women. No door was closed against the needy. However small the house might be, its inmates had some comfort to offer the stranger. Many came to grandma, saying they had places to sleep but begging that she would give them food and medicine until they should be able to proceed to San Francisco. Weary mortals dragged their aching limbs to the benches under her white oak tree, dropped upon them, with blankets still across their shoulders, declaring they could not go another rod. Often, she turned her face aside and murmured, "God help the poor wanderers"; but to them she would say encouragingly, "You be not very sick, you will soon be rested. There be straw in the stack that we will bring for your bed, and me and the children will let you not go hungry." Ere long, beds had to be made on the floor of the unfinished house. More were needed, and they were spread under the great white oak. On a block beside each fever patient stood a tin cup, which Georgia and I were charged to keep full of cold water, and it was pitiful to see the eyes of the sick watch the cooling stream we poured. Our patients eagerly grasped the cup with unsteady hands, so that part of its contents did not reach the parched lips. Often, we heard the fervid prayer, "God bless the women of this land, and bless the children too!" Soon we learned to detect signs of improvement, and were rejoiced when the convalescents smiled and asked for more to eat. Grandma carried most of the food to them and sent us later for the empty dishes. Of the many who came to us that season, there was but one who never proceeded on his way. He was a young German, fair of face, but terribly wasted by disease. His gentle, boyish manner at once made him a favorite, and we not only gave him our best care, but when a physician drifted into town, grandma sent for him and followed his directions. I remember well the day that John seemed almost convalescent, relished his breakfast, wanted to talk a while, and before we left him, had us bring him a basin of warm water and his beflowered carpet bag, from which he took a change of clothing and his shaving outfit. When we saw him later, his hair was smoothly combed; he looked neat and felt encouraged, and was sure that he should soon be up and doing for himself. At nightfall, grandma bade us wipe the dishes quickly as possible, at which Georgia proposed a race to see whether she could wash fast enough to keep us busy, and we got into a frolicsome mood, which grandma put an end to with the sobering remark: "Oh, be not so worldly-minded. John ist very bad to-night. I be in a hurry to go back to him, and you must hold the candle." We passed out into the clear cold starlight, with the burning candle sheltered by a milk pan, and picked our way between the lumber to the unfinished room where John lay. I was the last to enter, and saw grandma hurriedly give the candle to Georgia, drop upon her knees beside the bed, touch his forehead, lift his hand, and call him by name. The damp of death was on his brow, the organs of speech had lost their power. One long upward look, a slight quivering of the muscles of the face, and we were alone with the dead. I was so awed that I could scarcely move, but grandma wept over him, as she prepared his body for burial. The next afternoon, we three and grandpa and a few friends followed him to his final resting-place. After he was gone, grandma remembered that she did not know his name in full, the land of his birth, nor the address of his people. Expecting his recovery, she had not troubled him with questions, and the few trinkets in his carpet bag yielded no identifying clue. So he lies in a nameless grave, like countless other youth of that period. We had patients of every type, those who were appreciative and grateful, and those who rebelled against confinement, and swore at the pain which kept sleep from their eyes, and hurled their things about regardless of consequences. The most trying were the chronic grumblers, who did not know what they wanted, nor what they ought to have, and adopted the moody refrain: But the happy times are over, I've only grief and pain, For I shall never, never see Susannah dear again. The entrance of Georgia and myself would occasionally turn their thoughts into homeward channels, and make them reminiscent of their little children and loved ones "back in the States." Then, again, our coming would set them to talking about our early disaster and such horrible recounts of happenings in the snow-bound camps that we would rush away, and poor Georgia would have distressing crying spells over what we had heard. At first no tears dimmed my eyes, for I felt, with keen indignation, that those wounding tales were false; but there came hours of suffering for me later, when an unsympathetic soldier, nicknamed "Picayune Butler," engaged me in conversation and set me to thinking. He was a great big man with eyes piercing as a hawk's, and lips so thin that they looked like red lines on his face, parting and snapping together as he repeated the horrible things he had read in _The California Star._ He insisted that the Donner Party was responsible for its own misfortune; that parents killed their babies and ate their bodies to keep themselves alive; cut off the heads of companions and called them good soup bones; and were as thievish as sneaking Indians, even stealing the strings from the snowshoes of those who had come to their rescue. He maintained that Keseberg had murdered my mother and mutilated my dead father's body; and that he himself felt that the miserable wretches brought from starvation were not worth the price it had cost to save them. Too young, too ignorant, and too distressed to disprove the accusations or resent his individual view, I could only take refuge behind what I had heard and seen in camp, and declare, "I know it is not true; they were good people, and loved their babies, and were sorry for everybody." How could I believe his cruel words? While I had come from the mountains remembering most clearly the sufferings from cold, hunger, thirst, and pitiful surroundings, I had also brought from there a child's mental picture of tenderest sympathies and bravest self-denials, evinced by the snow-bound in my father's camp, and of Mrs. Murphy's earnest effort to soothe and care for us three little sisters after we had been deserted at the lake cabins by Cady and Stone; also her motherly watchfulness over Jimmie Eddy, Georgia Foster, and her own son Simon, and of Mr. Eddy's constant solicitude for our safety on the journey over the mountains to Sutter's Fort. Vain, however, my efforts to speak in behalf of either the dead or the absent; every attempt was met by the ready assertion, "You can't prove anything; you were not old enough to remember or understand what happened." Oh, how I longed to be grown, to have opportunities to talk with those of the party who were considered old enough to remember facts, and would answer the questions I wanted to ask; and how firmly I resolved that when I grew to be a woman I would tell the story of my party so clearly that no one could doubt its truth! CHAPTER XXVI THANK OFFERINGS--MISS DOTY'S SCHOOL--THE BOND OF KINDRED--IN JACKET AND TROUSERS--CHUM CHARLIE. Grandma had a fixed price for table board, but would not take pay for medicines, nor for attendance on the sick; consequently, many of her patients, after reaching San Francisco, sent thank offerings of articles useful and pleasing to her. Thus, also, Sister Georgia and I came into possession of pretty calico, Swiss, and delaine dresses, and shoes that filled our hearts with pride, for they were of Morocco leather, a red and a green pair for each. We had seen finely dressed Spanish children wear such shoes, but never supposed that we should be so favored. After the first dresses were finished, there came a Sunday when I was allowed to go to the Mission Church with Kitty Purcell, the baker's little daughter, and I felt wonderfully fine in my pink calico frock, flecked with a bird's-eye of white, a sun-bonnet to match, and green shoes. The brilliantly lighted altar, decked with flowers, the priests in gorgeous vestments, the acolyte with the swinging censer, and the intoned service in foreign tongue, were bewildering to me. My eyes wandered from the clergy to the benches upon which sat the rich and the great, then back to the poor, among whom I was kneeling. Each humble worshipper had spread a bright-bordered handkerchief upon the bare floor as a kneeling mat. I observed the striking effect, then recollecting my shoes, put my hand back and drew up the hem of my dress, that my two green beauties might be seen by the children behind me. No seven-year-old child ever enjoyed finery more than I did those little shoes. Gifts which grandma considered quite unsuitable came one day in two neat wooden boxes about thirty inches in length, and eight in width and depth. They were addressed to us individually, but in grandma's care. When she removed the cover and a layer of cotton batting from Georgia's, a beautiful French lady-doll was revealed, exquisitely dressed, with a spray of flowers in her hair, and another that looped one side of her lovely pink skirt sufficiently high to display an elaborately trimmed petticoat. She was so fine in lace and ribbons, yes, even watch and chain, that grandma was loath to let us touch her, and insisted she should be handled in the box. My gift was a pretty young Swiss matron in holiday attire, really more picturesque, and quite as costly as Georgia's, but lacking that daintiness which made the lady-doll untouchable. I had her to hug and look at only a few moments; then both boxes with their precious contents were put away for safe keeping, and brought forth only on state occasions, for the inspection of special visitors. Grandma did not want any nonsense put into our heads. She wished us to be practical, and often quoted maxims to the effect that, "As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined"; "All work is ennobling if well done"; "Much book-learning for girls is not conducive to happiness or success"; and "The highest aim of a girl should be honesty, chastity, and industry." Still, she was so pleased when I could write a little with ink and quill, that she dictated several letters to Jakie, who was in the dairy business near Stockton; and in an unguarded moment she agreed that I should attend Miss Doty's school. Then she hesitated. She wished to treat us exactly alike, yet could not spare both at the same time. Finally, as a way out of the difficulty, she decided that we should attend school alternate months, during the summer; and that my sister, being the elder, should begin the course. It seemed to me that Georgia's month at school would never end. My own sped faster than I wished. Miss Doty helped me with my lessons during part of the noon hour, and encouragingly said, "Be patient, keep trying, and you will gain your reward." While still her pupil, I wrote my long-planned letter to Aunt Elizabeth. Georgia helped to compose it, and when finished, we carried it to our friend, the postmaster. He banteringly held it in his hand, until we told its contents and begged that it go to Aunt Elizabeth as fast as possible. He must have seen that it was incorrectly addressed, yet he readily promised that if an answer should come addressed to "Miss Georgia Ann Donner," or to "Miss Eliza Poor Donner," he would carefully save it for us. After many fruitless trips to the post-office, we were one day handed a letter for grandma. It was not from our aunt, however, but from our sister Elitha, and bore the sad news that her husband, while on the range, had been thrown from his horse, and lived but a few moments after she reached him. She also stated that her little daughter Elisabeth and her sister Leanna were with her on the ranch, and that she was anxious to learn how Georgia and I were getting on. By advice of short-sighted friends, grandma sent a very formal reply to the letter, and told us that she did not want Elitha to write again. Moreover, that we, in gratitude for what she had done for us, should take her name and call her "mother." This endeavor to destroy personal identity and family connection, met with pathetic opposition. Of our own accord, we had called her grandma. But "mother"--that name was sacred to her who had taught our infant lips to give it utterance! We would bestow it on no other. Under no circumstance was there difficulty in finding some one ready to advise or help to plan our duties. With the best of intentions? Yes, but often, oh, how trying to us, poor little waifs of misfortune! One, like a thorn in the flesh, was apportioned to me at the approach of the Winter of 1849 and 1850. We needed more help in the dairy, but could get no one except Mr. Marsh, who lived in bachelor quarters half a mile south on the creek bank. He drove in the bunch of cows found in the mornings grazing on their homeward way, but was too old to follow after those on the range. Moreover, he did not know how to milk. Grandma, therefore, was obliged to give up going after the cows herself. She hesitated about sending us alone, for of late many stragglers had been seen crossing the valley, and also Indians loitering about. Furthermore, Georgia was again coughing badly. At a loss what to do, she discussed the situation with a neighbor, who after reflection asked, "Why not dress Eliza in boy's clothes and put her on old Charlie?" Grandma threw up her hands at the bare suggestion. It was scandalous, improper! Why, she had even taught me to shun the boys of the village. However, she felt differently later in the day when she called me to her. But in vain was coaxing, in vain was scolding, I refused positively to don boy's clothing. Then she told in strictest confidence that Georgia was very frail, would probably die young, certainly would not reach twenty-five; and I ought not to hesitate at what would make her life easier. Still, if I had no regard for my sister's comfort, she would be compelled to send us together afoot after the cows, and the exposure might be very bad for Georgia. This was enough. I would wear the hated clothes and my little sister should never learn from me the seriousness of her condition, lest it should hasten her death. My suit of brown twill, red flannel shirt, boots, and sou'wester, with ear muffs attached, were ready for me before the heaviest winter storm. The jacket and trousers were modelled for a boy of nine, instead of a girl not yet eight, but grandma assured me that being all wool, the rain would soon shrink them to my size, also that the boots, which were too wide in the heel and hurt my toes, would shape themselves to my feet and prevent the old frost bites from returning. I was very unhappy while she helped me to dress, and pinned up my braids, and hid them under my storm hat; and I was absolutely wretched when she kissed me and said, "It would be hard to find a prettier little boy than you are." After again admonishing me to let no one on the range know I was a girl, and to answer all questions civilly and ride on quickly after my string of cows, she promised that if I helped her thus through the short days of the rainy season, she would give back my "girl clothes" in the Spring, and never again ask me to wear others. She led me to where Charlie was tied to a tree. I stepped on to a block, from there to a stump, put my foot into the stirrup, and clumsily raised myself into the seat of an old dragoon saddle. My eyes were too full of tears to see, but grandma put the reins in my hand and started me away. Away where? To drive up the cows? Yes,--and into wider fields of thought than she recked. After I got beyond our road, I stopped Charlie, and made him turn his face toward mine, and told him all that had happened, and just how I felt. The good old horse seemed to understand, for no friend could be more faithful than Charlie thenceforth proved to me. He learned to separate our cows from the many strange ones on the plain; to move faster when it rained; to choose the crossings that were safe; and to avoid the branches that might scrape me from his back. Grandma was pleased to learn that drivers on the range, when inquiring about strays, addressed me as "Bubbie." My humiliation, however, was so great that, though Georgia and I were room-mates, and had secret day meetings, I never went near her when others were by. She was allowed to play oftener with neighbors' children, and occasionally spent a week or more with Mrs. Bergwald, helping her to care for her little daughter. While away, she learned fine needlework, had fewer crying spells, and was more contented than at home with grandma. This happiness in her life added much to mine, and it came to pass that the duty which had seemed such a bitter task, became a pleasure. As the days lengthened, chum Charlie and I kept earlier hours, and crept closer to the heart of nature. We read the signs of the day in the dawn tints; watched the coyotes and other night prowlers slink back to their lairs; saw where the various birds went to housekeeping, and how they cared for their young; knew them also by their call and song. We could show where Johnnie-jump-ups and baby-blue-eyes grew thickest; where the cream cups were largest; and where the wild forget-me-nots blossomed. We explored each nook and corner for miles around, and felt that everything that God had made and man had not put his mark upon was ours. The aged boughs heaped by the wind in wild confusion about the maimed and storm-beaten tree-trunks seemed to assume fantastic shapes and expressions as we approached from different directions, or viewed them under light and shadow of changing weather. Gnarled and twisted, they became elves and goblins, and the huge piles of storm wreckage were transformed into weird old ruins and deserted castles like those which grandma had described to me in legends of the Rhine. At twilight I was often afraid to pass, lest giants and ghosts should show themselves between uncanny arches. Then all that was needed was a low cluck to Charlie, and off he would start on a run past imaginary dangers. It was late in the Spring when grandma gave back my "girl clothes" and wearily told me she had hired a boy to drive in the cows, and a man to help to milk; and that Georgia was to look after the house, and I to take her own place in the corrals, because she was sick and would have to be cupped and bled before she could be better. Grandpa came home early next day and everything was ready for the treatment immediately after the noon meal. Grandma looked so grave, and gave so many instructions about household and dairy matters, that Georgia and I feared that we might lose her. I verily believe we would have slipped away during the operation, had grandpa not commanded us to stay near, as he might need assistance. In dread we watched every movement, saw what made grandma's face pale, and where the sore spots were. Indeed our sympathies were so strained, our fingers fumbled awkwardly as we adjusted the covers about her weakened form. As soon as her illness became known, neighbors came from far and near to help with the dairy work or nursing; and keen was their disappointment when she replied, "I thank you for your kind offers, but the children are handy and know my ways." Regularly she asked me about the cows, and if the goats had been milked, the eggs gathered, and the pigs fed. She remembered and planned the work, but did not regain strength as rapidly as she wished; nor did she resume her place in the corrals, even after she was up and around, but had a way of coming unexpectedly to see if her instructions were being carried out. One day she became quite angry on finding me talking with a stranger. He was well dressed and spoke like a gentleman, touched his hat as she drew near and remarked, "This little girl tells me she is an orphan, and that you have been very kind to her." Grandma was uncivil in her reply, and he went away. Then she warned me, "Beware of wolves in sheep's clothing," and insisted that no man wearing such fine clothes and having such soft hands could earn an honest living. I did not repeat what he had told me of his little daughter, who lived in a beautiful home in New York, and was about my age, and had no sister; and his wish that I were there with her. I could not understand what harm there was in his questions or my answers. Did I not remind him of his own little girl? And had I not heard lonely miners tell of times when they gladly would have walked ten miles to shake hands and talk a few moments with a child? CHAPTER XXVII CAPT. FRISBIE--WEDDING FESTIVITIES--THE MASTERPIECE OF GRANDMA'S YOUTH--SEÑORA VALLEJO--JAKIE'S RETURN--HIS DEATH--A CHEROKEE INDIAN WHO HAD STOOD BY MY FATHER'S GRAVE. Captain Frisbie spent much time in Sonoma after Company H was disbanded, and observing ones remarked that the attraction was Miss Fannie Vallejo. Yet, not until 1851 did the General consent to part with his first-born daughter. Weeks before the marriage day, friends began arriving at the bride's home, and large orders came to grandma for dairy supplies. She anticipated the coming event with interest and pleasure, because the prolonged and brilliant festivities would afford her an opportunity to display her fancy and talent in butter modelling. For the work, she did not charge, but simply weighed the butter for the designs and put it into crocks standing in cold water in the adobe store-house where, in the evenings, after candle-light, we three gathered. Her implements were a circular hardwood board, a paddle, a set of small, well pointed sticks, a thin-bladed knife, and squares of white muslin of various degrees of fineness. She talked and modelled, and we listening watched the fascinating process; saw her take the plastic substance, fashion a duck with ducklings on a pond, a lamb curled up asleep, and a couched lion with shaggy head resting upon his fore-paws. We watched her press beads of proper size and color into the eye sockets; skilfully finish the base upon which each figure lay; then twist a lump of butter into a square of fine muslin, and deftly squeeze, until it crinkled through the meshes in form of fleece for the lamb's coat, then use a different mesh to produce the strands for the lion's mane and the tuft for the end of his tail. In exuberant delight we exclaimed, "Oh, grandma, how did you learn to make such wonderful things?" "I did not learn, it is a gift," she replied. Then she spoke of her modelling in childhood, and her subsequent masterpiece, which had won the commendation of Napoleon and Empress Josephine. At that auspicious time, she was but eighteen years of age, and second cook in the principal tavern of Neuchatel, Switzerland. Georgia and I sat entranced, as with animated words and gestures she pictured the appearance of the buglers and heralds who came weeks in advance to announce the date on which the Emperor and Empress would arrive in that town and dine at the tavern; then the excitement and enthusiastic preparations which followed. She described the consultations between the _Herr Wirth_ and the _Frau Wirthin_ and their maids; and how, finally, Marie's butter-piece for the christening feast of the child of the Herr Graf was remembered; and she, the lowly second cook, was told that a corner in the cellar would be set apart for her especial use, and that she should have her evenings to devote to the work, and three _groschen_ (seven and a half cents) added to her week's wages, if she would produce a fitting centrepiece for the Emperor's table. Five consecutive nights, she designed and modelled until the watchman's midnight cry drove her from work, and at three o'clock in the morning of the sixth day, she finished. And what a centrepiece it was! It required the careful handling of no less than three persons to get it in place on the table, where the Emperor might see at a glance the groups of figures along the splendid highway, which was spanned by arches and terminated with a magnificently wrought gateway, surmounted by His Majesty's coat of arms. We scarcely winked as we listened to the rest of the happenings on that memorable day. She recounted how she had dropped everything at the sound of martial music and from the tiny open space at the window caught glimpses of the passing pageant--of the royal coaches, of the maids of honor, of Josephine in gorgeous attire, of the snow-white poodle snuggled close in the Empress's arms. Then she told how she heard a heavy thud by the kitchen fire, which made her rush back, only to discover that the head cook had fallen to the floor in a faint! She gave the quick call which brought the Frau Wirthin to the scene of confusion, where in mute agony, she looked from servant to servant, until, with hands clasped, and eyes full of tears, she implored, "Marie, take the higher place for the day, and with God's help, make no mistake." Then she went on to say that while the dinner was being served, the Emperor admired the butter-piece, and on hearing that it was the work of a young maidservant in the house, commanded that she be brought in to receive commendation of himself and the Empress. Again the Frau Wirthin rushed to the kitchen in great excitement, and--knowing that Marie's face was red from heat of the fire, that she was nervous from added responsibilities, and not dressed for presentation--cried with quivering lips: "Ah, Marie! the butter-piece is so grand, it brings us into trouble. The great Emperor asks to see thee, and thou must come!" She told how poor, red-faced, bewildered Marie dropped her ladle and stared at the speaker, then rolled down her sleeves while the Frau Wirthin tied her own best white apron around her waist, at the same time instructing her in the manner in which she must hold her dress at the sides, between thumb and forefinger, and spread the skirt wide, in making a low, reverential bow. But Marie was so upset that she realized only that her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, and her form shaking like an aspen leaf, while being led before those august personages. Yet, after it was all over, she was informed that the Emperor and Empress had spoken kindly to her, and that she, herself, had made her bow and backed out of the room admirably for one in her position, and ought to feel that the great honor conferred upon her had covered with glory all the ills and embarrassments she had suffered. To impress us more fully with the importance of that event, grandma had Georgia and me stand up on our cellar floor and learn to make that deferential bow, she by turns, taking the parts of the Frau Wirthin, the Emperor, and the Empress. She now finished her modelling with a dainty centrepiece for the bride's table, and let me go with her when she carried it to the Vallejo mansion. It gave great satisfaction; and while the family and guests were admiring it, Señora Vallejo took me by the hand, saying in her own musical tongue, "Come, little daughter, and play while you wait." She led me to a room that had pictures on the walls, and left me surrounded by toys. But I could not play. My eyes wandered about until they became riveted on one corner of the room, where stood a child's crib which looked like gold. Its head and foot boards were embellished with figures of angels; and a canopy of lace like a fleecy cloud hovered over them. The bed was white, but the pillows were covered with pink silk and encased in slips of linen lawn, exquisite with rare needlework. I touched it before I left the room, wondering what the little girl dreamed in that beautiful bed; and on the way home, grandma and I discussed all these things. The linen pillow-slips were as fine as those Señorita Isabella Fitch showed me, when she gave me the few highly prized lessons in simple drawn-work; and her cousin, Señorita Leese, had taught me hemming. These young ladies were related to the Vallejos and also lived in large houses facing the plaza, and were always kind to Georgia and me. In fact, some of my sweetest memories of Sonoma are associated with these three Spanish homes. Their people never asked unfeeling questions, nor repeated harrowing tales; and I did not learn until I was grown that they had been among the large contributors to the fund for the relief of our party. I have a faint recollection of listening to the chimes of the wedding bells, and later, of hearing that Captain Frisbie had taken his bride away; but that is all, for about that time dear old Jakie returned to us in ill health, and our thoughts and care turned to him. He was so feeble and wasted that grandma sent for the French physician who had recently come among us. Even he said that he feared that Jakie had stayed away too long. After months of treatment, the doctor shook his head saying: "I have done my best with the medicines at hand. The only thing that remains to be tried is a tea steeped from the nettle root. That may give relief." As soon as we could get ready after the doctor uttered those words, Georgia and I, equipped with hoe, large knife, and basket were on our way to the Sonoma River. We had a full two miles and a half to walk, but did not mind that, because we were going for something that might take Jakie's pains away. Georgia was to press down the nettle stems with a stick, while I cut them off and hoed up the roots. The plants towered luxuriantly above our heads, making the task extremely painful. No sooner would I commence operations than the branches, slipping from under the stick, would brush Georgia's face, and strike my hands and arms with stinging force, and by the time we had secured the required number of roots, we were covered with fiery welts. We took off our shoes and stockings, waded into the stream and bathed our faces, hands, and arms, then rested and ate the lunch we had brought with us. As we turned homeward, we observed several Indians approaching by the bushy path, the one in front staggering, and his squaw behind, making frantic motions to us to hurry over the snake fence near-by. This we did as speedily as possible, and succeeded none too soon; for as we reached the ground on the safe side, he stopped us, and angrily demanded the contents of our basket. We opened it, and when he saw what it contained he stamped his wabbling foot and motioned us to be off. We obeyed with alacrity, for it was our first experience with a drunken Indian, and greatly alarmed us. The tea may have eased Jakie's pain, but it did not accomplish what we had hoped. One morning late in Summer, he asked grandpa to bring a lawyer and witnesses so that he could make his will. This request made us all move about very quietly and feel very serious. After the lawyer went away, grandma told us that Jakie had willed us each fifty dollars in gold, and the rest of his property to grandpa and herself. A few weeks later, when the sap ceased flowing to the branches of the trees, and the yellow leaves were falling, we laid Jakie beside other friends in the oak grove within sight of our house. Grandma put on deep mourning, but Georgia and I had only black sun-bonnets, which we wore with heartfelt grief. The following Spring grandpa had the grave enclosed with a white paling; and we children planted Castilian rose bushes at the head and foot of the mound, and carried water to them from the house, and in time their branches met and the grave was a bed of fragrant blossoms. One day as I was returning from it with my empty pail, a tidy, black-eyed woman came up to me and said, "I'm a Cherokee Indian, the wife of one of the three drovers that sold the Brunners them long-horned cattle that was delivered the other day. I know who you are, and if you'll sit on that log by me, I'll tell you something." We took the seats shaded by the fence and she continued with unmistakable pride: "I can read and write quite a little, and me and the men belong to the same tribe. We drove our band of cattle across the plains and over the Sierras, and have sold them for more than we expected to get. We are going back the same road, but first I wanted to see you little girls. I heard lots about your father's party, and how you all suffered in the mountains, and that no one seems to remember what became of his body. Now, child, I tell the truth. I stood by your father's grave and read his name writ on the headboard, and come to tell you that he was buried in a long grave near his own camp in the mountains. I'm glad at seeing you, but am going away, wishing you wasn't so cut off from your own people." So earnest was she, that I believed what she told me, and was sorry that I could not answer all her questions. We parted as most people did in those days, feeling that the meeting was good, and the parting might be forever. CHAPTER XXVIII ELITHA, FRANCES, AND MR. MILLER VISIT US--MRS. BRUNNER CLAIMS US AS HER CHILDREN--THE DAGUERREOTYPE. The spring-tide of 1852 was bewitchingly beautiful; hills and plain were covered with wild flowers in countless shapes and hues. They were so friendly that they sprang up in dainty clusters close to the house doors, or wherever an inch of ground would give them foothold. They seemed to call to me, and I looked into their bright faces, threw myself among them, and hugged as many as my arms could encircle, then laid my ear close to the ground to catch the low sound of moving leaf and stem, or of the mysterious ticking in the earth, which foretells the coming of later plants. Sometimes in my ecstasy, I would shut my eyes and lie still for a while, then open them inquiringly, to assure myself that all my favorites were around me still, and that it was not all a day-dream. This lovely season mellowed into the Summer which brought a most unexpected letter from our sister Frances, who had been living all these years with the family of Mr. James F. Reed, in San Jose. Childlike, she wrote: I am happy, but there has not been a day since I left Sutter's Fort that I haven't thought of my little sisters and wanted to see them. Hiram Miller, our guardian, says he will take me to see you soon, and Elitha is going too. After the first few days of wondering, grandma rarely mentioned our prospective visitors, nor did she show Georgia or me the letter she herself had received from Elitha, but we re-read ours until we knew it by heart, and were filled with delightful anticipations. We imagined that our blue-eyed sister with the golden curls would look as she did when we parted, and recalled many things that we had said and done together at the Fort. I asked grandma what "guardian" meant, and after she explained, I was not pleased with mine, and dreaded his coming, for I had not forgotten how Mr. Miller had promised me a lump of sugar that night in the Sierras, and then did not have it for me after I had walked the required distance; nor could I quite forgive the severe punishment he administered next morning because I refused to go forward and cried to return to mother when he told me that I must walk as far as Georgia and Frances did that day. Autumn was well advanced before the lumbering old passenger coach brought our long-expected guests from the _embarcadero_, and after the excitement of the meeting was over, I stealthily scanned each face and figure. Mr. Miller's stocky form in coarse, dark clothes, his cold gray eyes, uneven locks, stubby beard, and teeth and lips browned by tobacco, chewing, were not unfamiliar; but he looked less tired, more patient, and was a kindlier spoken man than I had remembered. Elitha, well dressed, tall, slender, and regular of feature, had the complexion and sparkling black eyes which mark the handsome brunette. I was more surprised than disappointed, however, to see that the girl of twelve, who slipped one arm around Georgia and the other around me in a long, loving embrace, had nothing about her that resembled our little sister Frances, except her blue eyes and motherly touch. The week of their visit was joyous indeed. Many courtesies were extended by friends with whom we had travelled from time to time on the plains. One never-to-be-forgotten afternoon was spent with the Boggs family at their beautiful home amid orchard and vineyard near the foothills. On Sunday, the bell of the South Methodist Church called us to service. In those days, the men occupied the benches on one side of the building, and the women and children on the other; and I noticed that several of the young men found difficulty in keeping their eyes from straying in our direction, and after service, more than one came to inquire after grandma's health. Mr. Miller passed so little time in our company that I remember only his arrival and his one serious talk with grandma, when he asked her the amount due her on account of the trouble and expense we two children had been since she had taken us in charge. She told him significantly that there was nothing to pay, because we were her children, and that she was abundantly able to take care of us. In proof, she handed him a daguerreotype taken the previous year. It pictured herself comfortably seated, and one of us standing at either side with an elbow resting upon her shoulder, and a chubby face leaning against the uplifted hand. She was arrayed in her best cap, handsome embroidered black satin dress and apron, lace sleeve ruffs, kerchief, watch and chain. We were twin-like in lace-trimmed dresses of light blue dimity, striped with a tan-colored vine, blue sashes and hair ribbons; and each held a bunch of flowers in her hand. It was a costly trinket, in a case inlaid with pink roses, in mother of pearl, and she was very proud of it. Grandma's answer to Mr. Miller was a death-knell to Elitha's hopes and plans in our behalf. Her little daughter had been dead more than a year. Sister Leanna had recently married and gone to a home of her own, and the previous week the place made vacant by the marriage had been given to Frances, with the ready approval of Hiram Miller and Mr. and Mrs. Reed. She had now come to Sonoma hoping that if Mr. Miller should pay grandma for the care we had been to her, she would consent to give us up in order that we four sisters might be reunited in one home. Elitha now foresaw that such a suggestion would not only result in failure, but arouse grandma's antagonism, and cut off future communication between us. CHAPTER XXIX GREAT SMALLPOX EPIDEMIC--ST. MARY'S HALL--THANKSGIVING DAY IN CALIFORNIA--ANOTHER BROTHER-IN-LAW. "Mrs. Brunner has become too childish to have the responsibility of young girls," had been frequently remarked before Elitha's visit; and after her departure, the same friends expressed regret that she had not taken us away with her. These whispered comments, which did not improve our situation, suddenly ceased, for the smallpox made its appearance in Sonoma, and helpers were needed to care for the afflicted. Grandma had had the disease in infancy and could go among the patients without fear. In fact, she had such confidence in her method of treating it, that she would not have Georgia and me vaccinated while the epidemic prevailed, insisting that if we should take the disease she could nurse us through it without disfigurement, and we would thenceforth be immune. She did not expose us during what she termed the "catching-stage," but after that had passed, she called us to share her work and become familiar with its details, and taught us how to brew the teas, make the ointments, and apply them. I do not remember a death among her patients, and only two who were badly disfigured. One was our pretty Miss Sallie Lewis, who had the dread disease in confluent form. Grandma was called hurriedly in the night, because the afflicted girl, in delirium, had loosened the straps which held her upon her bed, and while her attendant was out of the room had rushed from the house into the rain, and was not found until after she had become thoroughly drenched. Grandma had never before treated such serious conditions, yet strove heroically, and helped to restore Miss Sallie to health, but could not keep the cruel imprints from her face. The other was our arch-enemy, Castle, who seemed so near death that one night as grandma was peering into the darkness for signal lights from the homes of the sick, she exclaimed impulsively, "Hark, children! there goes the Catholic bell. Count its strokes. Castle is a Catholic, and was very low when I saw him to-day." Together we slowly counted the knells until she stopped us, saying, "It's for somebody else; Castle is not so old." She was right. Later he came to us to recuperate, and was the most exacting and profane man we ever waited on. He conceived a special grudge against Georgia, whom he had caught slyly laughing when she first observed the change in his appearance. Yet months previous, he had laid the foundation for her mirth. [Illustration: MRS. BRUNNER, GEORGIA AND ELIZA DONNER] [Illustration: S.O. HOUGHTON, Member of Col. J.D. Stevenson's First Regiment of N.Y. Volunteers] [Illustration: ELIZA P. DONNER] He was then a handsome, rugged fellow, and particularly proud of the shape of his nose. Frequently had he twitted my sensitive sister about her little nose, and had once made her very angry in the presence of others, by offering to tell her a story, then continuing: "God and the devil take turns in shaping noses. Now, look at mine, large and finely shaped. This is God's work; but when yours was growing, it was the devil's turn, and he shaped that little dab on your face and called it a nose." Georgia fled, and cried in anger over this indignity, declaring that she hated Castle and would not be sorry if something should happen to spoil his fine nose. So when he came to us from the sick-room, soured and crestfallen because disease had deeply pitted and seamed that feature which had formerly been his pride, she laughingly whispered, "Well, I don't care, my nose could never look like his, even if I had the smallpox, for there is not so much of it to spoil." Our dislike of the man became intense; and later, when we discovered that he was to be bartender at grandpa's bar, and board at our house, we held an indignation meeting in the back yard. This was more satisfaction to Georgia than to me, for she had the pleasure of declaring that if grandma took that man to board, she would be a Schweitzer child no longer, she would stop speaking German, make her clothes like American children's; and that she knew her friend Mrs. Bergwald would give her a home, if grandma should send her away. Here the meeting was suddenly interrupted by the discovery that grandma was standing behind us. We did not know how long she had been there nor how much she had overheard, nor which she meant to strike with the switch she had in her hand. However, we were sitting close together and my left arm felt the sting, and it aroused in me the spirit of rebellion. I felt that I had outgrown such correction, nor had I deserved it; and I told her that she should never, never strike me again. Then I walked to the house alone. A few moments later Georgia came up to our room, and found me dressing myself with greatest care. In amazement she asked, "Eliza, where are you going?" and was dumbfounded when I answered, "To find another home for us." In the lower hall I encountered grandma, whose anger had cooled, and she asked the question Georgia had. I raised my sleeve, showed the welt on my arm, and replied, "I am going to see if I can't find a home where they will treat me kindly." Poor grandma was conscience-stricken, drew me into her own room, and did not let me leave it until after she had soothed my hurts and we had become friends again. Georgia went to Mrs. Bergwald's, and remained quite a while. When she came back speaking English, and insisting that she was an American, grandma became very angry, and threatened to send her away among strangers; then hesitated, as if realizing how fully Georgia belonged to me and I to her, and that we would cling together whatever might happen. In her perplexity, she besought Mrs. Bergwald's advice. Now, Mrs. Bergwald was a native of Stockholm, a lady of rare culture, and used the French language in conversing with grandma. She spoke feelingly of my little sister, said that she was companionable, willing, and helpful; anxious to learn the nicer ways of work, and ladylike accomplishments. She could see no harm in Georgia wishing to remain an American, since to love one's own people and country was natural. Thereafter grandma changed her methods. She gave us our dolls to look at, and keep among our possessions, likewise most of our keepsakes. She also unlocked her carefully tended parlor and we three spent pleasant evenings there. Sometimes she would let us bring her, from under the sofa, her gorgeous prints, illustrating "Wilhelm Tell," and would repeat the text relating to the scenes as we examined each picture with eager interest. We were also allowed to go to Sunday school oftener, and later, she sent me part of the term to the select school for girls recently established by Dr. Ver Mehr, an Episcopalian clergyman. In fact, my tuition was expected to offset the school's milk bill, yet that did not lessen my enthusiasm. I was eager for knowledge. I also expected to meet familiar faces in that great building, which had been the home of Mr. Jacob Leese. But upon entering I saw only finely dressed young ladies from other parts of the State promenading in the halls, and small girls flitting about in the yard like bright-winged butterflies. Some had received letters from home and were calling out the news; others were engaged in games that were strange to me. The bell rang, I followed to the recitation hall, and was assigned a seat below the rest, because I was the only small Sonoma girl yet enrolled. I made several life-long friends at that institute; still it was easy to see that "St. Mary's Hall" was established for pupils who had been reared in the lap of wealth and ease; not for those whose hands were rough like mine. Nor was there a class for me. I seemed to be between grades, and had the discouragement of trying to keep up with girls older and farther advanced. My educational advantages in Sonoma closed with my half term at St. Mary's Hall, grandma believing that I had gone to school long enough to be able to finish my studies without teachers. Georgia was more fortunate. When Miss Hutchinson opened "The Young Ladies' Seminary" in the Fall, grandma decided to lend it a helping hand by sending her a term as a day scholar. My delighted sister was soon in touch with a crowd of other little girls, and brought home many of their bright sayings for my edification. One evening she rushed into the house bubbling over with excitement and joyously proclaimed: "Oh, Eliza, Miss Hutchinson is going to give a great dinner to her pupils on Thanksgiving Day; and I am to go, and you also, as her guest." Grandma was pleased that I was invited, and declared that she would send a liberal donation of milk and cheese as a mark of appreciation. I caught much of Georgia's spirit of delight, for I had a vivid recollection of the grand dinner given in commemoration of our very first legally appointed Thanksgiving Day in California; I had only to close my eyes, and in thought would reappear the longest and most bountifully spread table I had ever seen. Turkey, chicken, and wild duck, at the ends; a whole roasted pig in the centre, and more than enough delicious accompaniments to cover the spaces between. Then the grown folk dining first, and the flock of hungry children coming later; the speaking, laughing, and clapping of hands, with which the old home customs were introduced in the new land. There, I wore a dark calico dress and sun-bonnet, both made by poor Mrs. McCutchen of the Donner Party, who had to take in sewing for a livelihood; but to the Seminary, I should wear grandpa's gift, a costly alpaca, changeable in the sunlight to soft mingling bluish and greenish colors of the peacock. Its wide skirt reached to my shoetops, and the gathers to its full waist were gauged to a sharp peak in front. A wide open V from the shoulder down to the peak displayed an embroidered white Swiss chemisette. The sleeves, small at the wrist, were trimmed with folds of the material and a quilling of white lace at the hand. On the all-important morning, grandma was anxious that I should look well; and after she had looped my braids with bows of blue ribbon and fastened my dress, she brought forth my dainty bonnet, her own gift. Deft fingers had shirred the pale-blue silk over a frame which had been cut down from ladies' size, arranged an exquisite spray of Maréchal Niel rosebuds and foliage on the outside, and quilled a soft white ruching around the face, which emphasized the Frenchy style and finish so pleasing to grandma. Did I look old fashioned? Yes, for grandma said, "Thou art like a picture I saw somewhere long ago." Then she continued brightly, "Here are thy mits, and thy little embroidered handkerchief folded in a square. Carry it carefully so it won't get mussed before the company see it, and come not back late for milking." The Seminary playground was so noisy with chatter and screams of joy, that it was impossible to remember all the games we played; and later the dining-room and its offerings were so surprising and so beautifully decorated that the sight nearly deprived me of my appetite. "Mumps. Bite a pickle and see if it ain't so!" exclaimed a neighbor to whom Georgia was showing her painful and swollen face. True enough, the least taste of anything sour produced the tell-tale shock. But the most aggravating feature of the illness was that it developed the week that sister Elitha and Mr. Benjamin W. Wilder were married in Sacramento; and when they reached Sonoma on their wedding tour, we could not visit with them, because neither had had the disease. They came to our house, and we had a hurried little talk with a closed window between us, and were favorably impressed by our tall "Brother Ben," who had very blue eyes and soft brown hair. He was the second of the three Wilder brothers, who had been among the early gold-seekers, and tried roughing it in the mines. Though a native of Rhode Island, and of Puritan ancestry, he was quite Western in appearance. Though not a wealthy man, he had a competency, for he and his elder brother were owners of an undivided half of Ranchos de los Cazadores (three leagues of land in Sacramento Valley), which was well stocked with horned cattle and good horses. He was also interested in a stage line running between Sacramento and the gold regions. He encouraged Elitha in her wish to make us members of their household, and the home they had to offer us was convenient to public schools; yet for obvious reasons they were now silent on the subject. CHAPTER XXX IDEALS AND LONGINGS--THE FUTURE--CHRISTMAS. At the time of which I now speak, I was in my eleventh year, but older in feeling and thought. I had ideals and wanted to live up to them, and my way was blocked by difficulties. Often, in the cowyard, I would say to the dumb creatures before me, "I shall milk you dry, and be kind to you as long as I stay; but I shall not always be here doing this kind of work." These feelings had been growing since the beginning of grandpa's partnership in that bar-room. Neither he nor grandma saw harm in the business. They regarded it as a convenient place where men could meet and spend a social evening, and where strangers might feel at home. Yet, who could say that harm did not emanate from that bar? I could not but wish that grandpa had no interest in it. I did not want to blame him, for he was kind by nature, and had been more than benefactor to Georgia and me. Fond recollection was ever bringing to mind joys he had woven into our early childhood. Especially tender and precious thoughts were associated with that night long ago when he hurried home to inspect a daguerreotype that had just been taken. Grandma handed it to him with the complaisant remark, "Mine and Georgia's sind fine; but Eliza's shows that she forgot herself and ist watching how the thing ist being made." Grandpa looked at it in silence, observing that grandma's likeness was natural, and Georgia's perfect, in fact, pretty as could be; while I, not being tall enough to rest my elbow comfortably upon grandma's shoulder, stood awkwardly with my flowers drooping and eyes turned, intently watching in the direction of the operator. Regretfully, I explained: "Grandpa, mine was best two times, for Georgia moved in the first one, and grandma in the next, and the pictureman said after each, 'We must try again.' And he would have tried yet again, for me, but the sun was low, and grandma said she was sorry but this would have to do." Lovingly, he then drew me to his side, saying, "Never mind, _mein Schatz_ (my treasure); let grandma and Georgia keep this, and when that pictureman comes back, grandpa will sit for his picture, and thou shalt stand at his knee. He'll buy thee a long gold chain to wear around thy neck, and thou shalt be dressed all in white and look like an angel." Being younger than grandma, and more fond of amusements, he had taken us to many entertainments; notably, Odd Fellows' picnics and dinners, where he wore the little white linen apron, which we thought would be cute for our dolls. He often reminded grandma that she should teach us to speak the high German, so that we might appear well among gentlefolk; and my cherished keepsakes included two wee gold dollars and a fifty-cent piece of the same bright metal, which he had given me after fortunate sales from the herds. But dearest of all is remembrance of the evening long ago when he befriended us at Sutter's Fort. Still, not even those tender recollections could longer hold in check my resentment against the influences and associations which were filtering through that bar-room, and robbing me of companions and privileges that I valued. More than once had I determined to run away, and then desisted, knowing that I should leave two lonely old people grieving over my seeming ingratitude. This question of duty to self and to those who had befriended me haunted my working hours, went with me to church and Sunday school, and troubled my mind when I was supposed to be asleep. Strange, indeed, would it have seemed to me, could I then have known that before my thirtieth year, I should be welcomed in the home of the military chief of our nation. Strange, also, that the young Lieutenant, William Tecumseh Sherman, who when visiting in Sonoma, came with his fellow-officers to the Brunner farm, should have attained that dignity. Equally impossible would it have been then to conceive that in so short a time, I, a happy mother and the wife of a Congressional Representative, should be a guest at the brilliant receptions of the foreign diplomats and at the Executive Mansion in the city of Washington. Is it any wonder that in later years when my mind reverted to those days, I almost questioned my identity? Georgia's return from Mrs. Bergwald's before Christmas gave me a chance to talk matters over with her, and we decided that we must leave our present surroundings. Yet, how to get away, and when, puzzled us. Our only hope of escape seemed to be to slip off together some moonlight night. "But," my sister remarked gravely, "we can't do it before Christmas! You forget the white flannel skirt that I am embroidering for grandma, the pillow-slips that you are hemstitching and trimming with lace for her; and the beautiful white shirt that you have for grandpa." She was sure that not to stay and give them as we had planned, would be as bad as breaking a promise. So, we took out our work and hid ourselves to sew a while. My undertaking was not so large or elaborate as hers, and when I finished, she still had quite a piece to do, and was out of floss. She had pin-pricked from an embroidered silk shawl on to strips of white paper, the outline of a vine representing foliage, buds, and blossoms; then basted the paper in place around the skirt. The colors were shaded green and pink. Unable to get the floss for the blossoms, she had bought narrow pink silk braid and outlined each rose and bud, then embroidered the foliage in green. Some might have thought it a trifle gaudy, but to me it seemed beautiful, and I was proud of her handiwork. I washed, starched, and ironed the pillow-slips while grandma was from home, and they did look well, for I had taken great pains in doing my work. Several days before the appointed time, grandma, in great good humor, showed us the dresses she had been hiding from us; and then and there, like three children unable to keep their secrets longer, we exchanged gifts, and were as pleased as if we had waited until Christmas morning. CHAPTER XXXI THE WIDOW STEIN AND LITTLE JOHNNIE--"DAUGHTERS OF A SAINTED MOTHER"--ESTRANGEMENT AND DESOLATION--A RESOLUTION AND A VOW--MY PEOPLE ARRIVE AND PLAN TO BEAR ME AWAY. On the first of September, 1855, a widow, whom I shall call Stein, and her little son Johnnie, came to visit grandma. She considered herself a friend by reason of the fact that she and her five children had been hospitably entertained in our home two years earlier, upon their arrival in California. For grandpa in particular she professed a high regard, because her husband had been his bartender, and as such had earned money enough to bring his family from Europe, and also to pay for the farm which had come to her at his death. Mother and son felt quite at home, and in humor to enjoy their self-appointed stay of two weeks. Despite her restless eye and sinister smile, she could be affable; and although, at first, I felt an indescribable misgiving in her presence, it wore away, and I often amused Johnnie while she and grandma talked. As if to hasten events, Mrs. Bergwald had sent for Georgia almost at the beginning of the visit of the Steins; and after her departure, Mrs. Stein insisted on helping me with the chores, and then on my sitting with her during grandma's busiest hour. She seemed deeply interested in California's early history, and when I would stop talking, she would ply me with questions. So I told her how poor everybody was before the discovery of gold; how mothers would send their boys to grandma's early morning fire for live coals, because they had no matches or tinder boxes; how neighbors brought their coffee and spices to grind in her mills; how the women gathered in the afternoons under her great oak tree, to talk, sew, and eagerly listen to the reading of extracts from letters and papers that had come from friends away back in the States. I told her how, in case of sickness, one neighbor would slip over and cook the family breakfast for the sick woman, others would drop in later, wash the dishes, and put the house in order; and so by turns and shares, the washing, ironing, and mending would be done, and by the time the sick woman would be up and around, she would have no neglected work to discourage her. Also we talked of how flags were used for day signals and lights by night, in calls for help. Our last talk was on Saturday morning between work. She questioned me in regard to the amount, and location of the property of the Brunners, then wanted to hear all about my sisters in Sacramento, and wondered that we did not go to live with them. I explained that Elitha had written us several times asking us to come, but, knowing that grandma would be displeased, we had not read her those parts of the letters, lest she forbid our correspondence entirely. I added that we were very sorry that she could not like those who were dear to us. Finally, having exhausted information on several subjects, Mrs. Stein gave me a searching glance, and after a marked silence, continued: "I don't wonder that you love grandpa and grandma as much as you tell me, and it is a pity about these other things that aren't pleasant. Don't you think it would be better for you to live with your sister, and grandma could have some real German children to live here? She is old, and can't help liking her own kind of people best." I did not have an unkind thought in mind, yet I did confess that I should like to live well and grow up to be like my mother. In thoughtless chatter I continued, that more nice people came to visit grandma and to talk with us before the town filled with strangers, and before Americans lived in the good old Spanish houses, and before the new churches and homes were built. She led me to speak of mother, then wondered at my vivid recollections, since I had parted from her so young. She was very attentive as I told how Georgia and I spoke of her when we were by ourselves, and that friends did not let us forget her. I even cited a recent instance, when the teacher had invited us, and two other young girls, to go to the Vallejo pear orchard for all the fruit we wished to eat, and when he offered the money in payment, the old Spanish gentleman in charge said, "Pay for three." "But we are five," said the teacher. Then the Don blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and pointing to Georgia and me, replied, "Those two are daughters of a sainted mother, and are always welcome!" At noon grandma told me that she and the Steins would be ready to go down town immediately after dinner, and that I must wash the dishes and finish baking the bread in the round oven. We parted in best of humor, and I went to work. The dishes and bread received first attention. Then I scrubbed the brick floor in the milk-house; swept the store-room and front yard; gathered the eggs, fed the chickens, and rebuilt the fire for supper. I fancied grandma would be pleased with all I had accomplished, and laughed to myself as I saw the three coming home leaning close to each other in earnest conversation. To my surprise, the Steins went directly to their own room; and grandma did not speak, but closed her eyes as she passed me. That was her way, and I knew that it would be useless to ask what had offended her. So I took my milk pails, and, wondering, went to the cow corrals. I could not imagine what had happened, yet felt hurt and uncomfortable. Returning with the milk, I saw Johnnie playing by the tree, too near the horse's feet, and warned him. As he moved, grandma stepped forward and stood in front of me, her face white with rage. I set my buckets down and standing between them listened as she said in German: "Oh, false one, thou didst not think this morning that I would so soon find thee out. Thou wast not smart enough to see that my friend, Mrs. Stein, was studying thee, so that she could let me know what kind of children I had around me. And thou, like a snake in the grass, hast been sticking out thy tongue behind my back. Thou pretendest that thou art not staying here to get my money and property, yet thou couldst tell her all I had. Thou wouldst not read all in the letters from thy fine sisters? Thou wouldst rather stay here until I die and then be rich and spend it with them!" She stopped as if to catch her breath, and I could only answer, "Grandma, I have not done what thou sayest." She continued: "I have invited people to come here this night, and thou shalt stand before them and listen while I tell what I have done for thee, and how thou hast thanked me. Now, go, finish thy work, eat thy supper, and come when I call thee." I heard her call, but don't know how I got into the room, nor before how many I stood. I know that my head throbbed and my feet almost refused to support my body, as I listened to grandma, who in forceful language declared that she had taken me, a starveling, and reared me until I was almost as tall as she herself; that she had loved and trusted me, and taught me everything I knew, and that I had that day blackened the home that had sheltered me, wounded the hand that had fed me, and proved myself unworthy the love that had been showered upon me. Mrs. Stein helped her through an account of our morning chat, misconstruing all that had passed between us. I remained silent until the latter had announced that almost the first thing that she had noticed was that we children were of a selfish, jealous disposition, and that Georgia was very cross when her little Johnnie came home wearing a hat that grandpa had bought him. Then I turned upon her saying, "Mrs. Stein, you forget that Georgia has not seen that hat. You know that grandma bought it after Georgia went away." She sprang toward me, then turned to grandma, and asked if she was going to let an underling insult a guest in her house. I did not wait for the reply. I fled out into the dark and made my way to the weird old tree-trunk in the back yard. Thence, I could see the lights from the windows, and at times hear the sound of voices. There, I could stand in the starlight and look up to the heavens. I had been there before, but never in such a heartsick and forlorn condition. I was too overwrought to think, yet had to do something to ease the tension. I moved around and looked toward Jakie's grave, then returned to the side of the tree-trunk which had escaped the ravages of fire, and ran my finger up and down, feeling the holes which the red-headed woodpecker had bored and filled with acorns. A flutter in the air aroused me. It was the old white-faced owl leaving the hollow in the live oak for the night's hunt. I faced about and saw her mate fly after her. Then in the stillness that followed, I stretched both arms toward heaven and cried aloud, "O God, I'm all alone; take care of me!" The spell was broken. I grew calmer and began to think and to plan. I pictured Georgia asleep in a pretty house two miles away, wondered how I could get word to her and what she would say when told that we would go away together from Sonoma, and not take anything that grandpa or grandma had given us. I remembered that of the fund which we had started by hemming new, and washing soiled handkerchiefs for the miners, there still remained in her trunk seven dollars and eighty-five cents, and in mine seven dollars and fifty cents. If this was not enough to take us to Sacramento, we might get a chance as Sister Leanna had, to work our way. I was still leaning against the tree-trunk when the moon began to peep over the eastern mountains, and I vowed by its rising that before it came up in its full, Georgia and I should be in Sacramento. I heard grandma's call from the door, which she opened and quickly closed, and I knew by experience that I should find a lighted candle on the table, and that no one would be in the room to say good-night. I slept little, but when I arose in the morning I was no longer trouble tossed. I knew what I would say to grandma if she should give me the chance. Grandpa, who had come home very late, did not know what had happened, and he and I breakfasted with the men, and grandma and the Steins came after we left the room. No one offered to help me that morning, still I got through my duties before grandma called me to her. She seemed more hurt than angry, and began by saying: "On account of thy bad conduct, Mrs. Stein is going to shorten her stay. She is going to leave on Tuesday, and wants me to go with her. She says that she has kept back the worst things that thou hast told about me, but will tell them to me on the road." Trembling with indignation, I exclaimed, "Oh, grandma, thou hast always told us that it is wrong to speak of the faults of a guest in the house, but what dost thou think of one who hath done what Mrs. Stein hath done? I did say some of the things she told thee, but I did not say them in that way. I didn't give them that meaning. I didn't utter one unkind word against thee or grandpa. I have not been false to thee. To prove it, I promise to stay and take care of everything while thou goest and hearest what more she hath to tell, but after the home-coming, I leave. Nothing that thou canst say will make me change my mind. I am thankful for the home I have had, but will not be a burden to thee longer. I came to thee poor, and I will go away poor." The Brunner conveyance was at the door on Tuesday morning when grandma and her guest came out to begin their journey. Grandpa helped grandma and the widow on to the back seat. While he was putting Johnnie in front with the driver, I stepped close to the vehicle, and extended my hand to grandma, saying, "Good-bye, don't worry about the dairy while thou art gone, for everything will be attended to until thy return; but remember--then I go." On the way back to the house grandpa asked why I did not treat the widow more friendly, and I answered, "Because I don't believe in her." To my surprise, he replied, "I don't either, but grandma is like a little child in her hands." I felt that I ought to tell him I should soon go away, but I had never gone to him with home troubles, and knew that it would not be right to speak of them in grandma's absence; so he quietly went to his duties and I to mine. Yet I could not help wondering how grandma could leave me in full charge of her possessions if she believed the stories that had been told her. I felt so sure that the guilty one would be found out that it made me light-hearted. Mrs. Blake came and spent the night with me, and the following morning helped to get the breakfast and talked over the cleaning that I wished to do before grandma's return on the coming Saturday morning. But God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform, and unseen hands were shaping a different course for me! I had the milk skimmed, and a long row of clean pans in the sunshine before time to hurry the dinner for grandpa and the three men. I was tired, for I had carried most of the milk to the pig troughs after having finished work which grandma and I had always done together; so I sat down under the tree to rest and meditate. My thoughts followed the travellers with many questions, and the wish that I might hear what Mrs. Stein had to say. I might have overstayed my time, if the flock of goats had not come up and smelled my hands, nibbled at the hem of my apron, and tried to chew the cape of my sun-bonnet. I sprang up and with a shout and clap of my hands, scattered them, and entered the log kitchen, reclosing the lower section of the divided door, to keep them from following me within. I prepared the dinner, and if it lacked the flavor of grandma's cooking, those who ate it did not tell me. Grandpa lingered a moment to bestow a meed of praise on my work, then went off to the back corral to slaughter a beef for the shop. I began clearing the table, and was turning from it with a vegetable dish in each hand when I caught sight of the shadow of a tall silk hat in the open space above the closed half door. Then the hat and its wearer appeared. Leaning over the edge of the door, he gazed at me standing there as if I were nailed to the floor. I was speechless with amazement, and it seemed a long while before he remarked lightly, "You don't seem to know me." "Yes, you are Mr. Wilder, my brother-in-law," I stammered. "Where is Elitha?" [Illustration: SACRAMENTO CITY IN THE EARLY FIFTIES] [Illustration: FRONT STREET, SACRAMENTO CITY, 1850] He informed me that she and their little daughter were at the hotel in town, where they had arrived about noon, and that she wanted Georgia and me to be prompt in coming to her at four o'clock. I told him that we could not do so, because Georgia was at Mrs. Bergwald's, grandma on a journey beyond Bodego, and I at home in charge of the work. In surprise he listened, then asked, "But aren't you at all anxious to see your sister and little niece?" Most earnestly, I replied that I was. Nevertheless, as grandma was away, I could not leave the place until after the day's work was done. Then I enumerated what was before me. He agreed that there was quite enough to keep me busy, yet insisted that I ought to keep the appointment for four o'clock. After his departure, I rushed out to grandpa, told him who had come and gone, and what had passed between us. He too, regretted the situation, but promised that I should spend the evening at the hotel. I fairly flew about my work that afternoon, and my brain was as active as my hands and feet. I was certain that brother and sister had come for us, and the absorbing query was, "How did they happen to arrive at this particular time?" I also feared there was more trouble before me, and remembered my promise to grandma with twinges of regret. At half-past four, I was feeding the hens in the yard, and, looking up, saw a strange carriage approaching. Instantly, I guessed who was in it, and was at the gate before it stopped. Elitha greeted me kindly, but not cordially. She asked why I had not come as requested, and then said, "Go, bring the silver thimble Frances left here, and the coral necklace I gave you." In my nervous haste I could not find the thimble, but carried out the necklace. She next bade me take the seat beside her, thus disclosing her intention of carrying me on, picking up Georgia and proceeding to Sacramento. She was annoyed by my answer and disappointed in what she termed my lack of pride. Calling my attention to my peculiar style of dress and surroundings, to my stooped shoulders and callous hands, she bade me think twice before I refused the comfortable home she had to offer. When assured that I would gladly go on Saturday, but was unwilling to leave in grandma's absence, she did not urge further, simply inquired the way to Georgia, and left me. I was nursing my disappointment and watching the disappearing carriage, when Mr. Knipp, the brewer, with his load of empty kegs drew up, and asked what I was thinking about so hard. It was a relief to see his jolly, good-natured face, and I told him briefly that our people were in town and wished to take us home with them. He got down from his wagon to say confidentially: "Thou must not leave grandpa and grandma, because the old man is always kind to thee, and though she may sometimes wag a sharp tongue, she means well. Be patient, by-and-by thou wilt have a nice property, the country will have more people for hire, and thou wilt not have so hard to work." When I told him that I did not want the property, and that there were other things I did care for, he continued persuasively: "Women need not so much learning from books. Grandma would not know how to scold so grandly if she remembered not so many fine words from 'Wilhelm Tell' and the other books that she knoweth by heart." And he climbed back and drove off, believing that he had done me a good turn. To my great satisfaction, Georgia arrived about dark, saying that Benjamin had brought her and would call for us later to spend the evening with them. When we reached the hotel, Elitha received us affectionately, and did not refer to the disappointments of the afternoon. The time was given up to talk about plans for our future, and that night when we two crept into bed, I felt that I had been eased of a heavy burden, for Benjamin was willing to await grandma's return. He also told us that early next morning he would go to Santa Rosa, the county seat, and apply to be made our guardian in place of Hiram Miller, and would also satisfy any claim grandma might have to us, or against us, adding that we need not take anything away with us, except our keepsakes. CHAPTER XXXII GRANDMA'S RETURN--GOOD-BYE TO THE DUMB CREATURES--GEORGIA AND I ARE OFF FOR SACRAMENTO. Meanwhile, grandma and her friends had reached Bodego and spent the night there. She had not learned anything more terrible that I had said about her, and at breakfast told Mrs. Stein that she had had a dream foreboding trouble, and would not continue the journey to the Stein home. The widow coaxed and insisted that she go the few remaining miles to see her children. Then she waxed indignant and let slip the fact that she considered it an outrage that American, instead of European born children should inherit the Brunner property, and that she had hoped that grandma would select two of her daughters to fill the places from which Georgia and I should be expelled. Grandma took a different view of the matter, and started homeward immediately after breakfast. That very afternoon, on the Santa Rosa road, whom should she pass but our brother Ben. They recognized each other, but were too astonished to speak. Grandma ordered her driver to whip up, saying that she had just seen the red-whiskered imp of darkness who had troubled her sleep, and she must get to town as fast as possible. She stopped first at the butcher shop. Before grandpa could express surprise at her unexpected return, she showered him with questions in regard to happenings at home, and being informed, took him to task for having permitted us to visit our people at the hotel. He innocently remarked that he knew of no reason why we should not see our relatives; that Georgia was spending the day with them; and that we both had his permission to go again in the evening. In conclusion he said that I had been a faithful, hard working little housekeeper, and she would find everything in order at home. Grandma arrived at home before sunset, too excited to be interested in dairy matters. She told me all about her trip, even to the name she had called my brother-in-law, adding that she knew he was "not red-whiskered, but he was next door to it." Later, when he came, she did not receive him pleasantly, nor would she let us go to Elitha. Brusquely, she demanded to know if I had written to him to come for us, and would not believe him when he assured her that neither he nor our sisters had received letter or message from us in months. After his departure, I could see that she was no longer angry, and I dreaded the ensuing day, which was destined to be my last on that farm. It came with a rosy dawn, and I was up to meet it, and to say good-bye to the many dumb creatures that I had cared for. The tension I was under lent me strength to work faster than usual. When the breakfast call sounded, I had finished in the corrals, and was busy in the hen houses, having taken care to keep out of grandpa's sight; for I knew how he would miss me, and I did not want to say the parting words. After he and the men were gone, grandma came, and watched me finish my task, then said kindly, "Come, Eliza, and eat thy breakfast." I looked up and replied, "Grandma, I ate my last meal in thy house last night. Dost thou not remember, I told thee that I would take care of everything until thy return, and then would not be a burden to thee longer? I have kept my word, and am going away this morning." "Thou are mine, and canst not go; but if thou wilt not eat, come and help me with the dishes," she replied nervously. I had planned to slip off and change my dress before meeting her, but now, after a breath of hesitation, I went to dry the dishes, hoping that our talk would soon be over. I knew it would be hard for both of us, for dear, childish grandma was ready to forgive and forget what she termed our little troubles. I, however, smarting under the wrong and injustice that had been done me, felt she had nothing to forgive, and that matters between us had reached the breaking-point. She was still insisting on her right to keep me, when a slight sound caused us both to turn, and meeting Georgia's anxious, listening gaze, grandma appealed to her, saying, "Thou hast heard thy sister's talk, but thou hast not been in this fuss, and surely wilt not leave me?" "Yes, I am going with Eliza," was the prompt answer, which had no sooner left her lips, than grandma resorted to her last expedient: she ordered us both to our room, and forbade us to leave it until she should hear from grandpa. What message she sent him by the milker we never learned. Georgia, being already dressed for the journey, and her trunk containing most of her possessions being at Mrs. Bergwald's, had nothing to do but await results. I quickly changed my working suit for a better one, which had been given me by a German friend from San Francisco. Then I laid out my treasured keepsakes. In my nervous energy, nothing was forgotten. I took pains that my clothes against the wall should hang in straight rows, that the folded ones should lie in neat piles in my pretty Chinese trunk, and that the bunch of artificial flowers which I had always kept for a top centre mark, should be exactly in the middle; finally, that the gray gauze veil used as a fancy covering of the whole should be smoothly tucked in around the clothing. This done, I gave a parting glance at the dainty effect, dropped the cover, snapped the queer little brass padlock in place, put the key on the table, and covered the trunk so that its embossed figures of birds and flowers should be protected from harm. We had not remembered to tell Elitha about the hundred dollars which Jakie had willed us, so decided to let grandma keep it to cover some of the expense we had been to her, also not to ask for our little trinkets stored in her closet. With the bundle containing my keepsakes, I now sat down by Georgia and listened with bated breath to the sound of grandma's approaching footsteps. She entered and hastily began, "Grandpa says, if you want to go, and your people are here to take you, we have no right to keep you; but that I am not to part with you bad friends. So I came to shake hands and say good-bye. But I don't forgive you for going away, and I never want to see you or hear from you again!" She did not ask to see what we were taking away, nor did her good-bye seem like parting. The fear that something might yet arise to prevent our reaching brother and sister impelled us to run the greater part of the distance to the hotel, and in less than an hour thereafter, we were in the carriage with them on the way to Mrs. Bergwald's, prior to taking the road to Sacramento. Off at last, without a soul in the town knowing it! Georgia, who had neither said nor done anything to anger grandma, was easier in mind and more comfortable in body, than I, who, fasting, had borne the trials of the morning. I could conceal the cause, but not the faint and ill feeling which oppressed me during the morning drive and continued until I had had something to eat at the wayside inn, and a rest, while the horses were enjoying their nooning. I had also been too miserable to feel any interest in what occurred at Mrs. Bergwald's after we stopped to let Georgia get her keepsakes. But when the day's travel was over, and we were comfortably housed for the night, Georgia and I left our brother and sister to their happy hour with their child, and sat close together on the outer doorsteps to review the events of the day. Our world during that solemn hour was circumscribed, reaching back only to the busy scenes of the morning, and forward to the little home that should open to us on the morrow. When we resumed travel, we did not follow the pioneers' trail, once marked by hoof of deer, elk, and antelope, nor the winding way of the Spanish _cabellero,_ but took the short route which the eager tradesman and miner had hewn and tramped into shape. On reaching the ferry across the Sacramento River, I gazed at the surrounding country in silent amazement. Seven and a half years with their marvellous influx of brawn and brain, and their output of gold, had indeed changed every familiar scene, except the snow-capped Sierras, wrapped in their misty cloak of autumnal blue. The broad, deep river had given up both its crystal floods and the wild, free song which had accompanied it to the sea, and become a turbid waterway, encumbered with busy craft bringing daily supplies to countless homes, and carrying afar the long hidden wealth of ages. The tule flat between the water front and Sutter's Fort had become a bustling city. The streets running north and south were numbered from first to twenty-eighth, and those east and west lettered from A to Z, and thriving, light-hearted throngs were pursuing their various occupations upon ground which had once seemed like a Noah's ark to me. Yes, this was the very spot where with wondering eyes I had watched nature's untamed herds winding through the reedy paths to the river bank, to quench their morning and evening thirst. As we crossed from J Street to K, brother remarked, "Our journey will end on this street; which of you girls will pick out the house before we come to it?" Elitha would not help us, but smiled, when, after several guesses, I said that I wished it to be a white house with brownish steps and a dark door with a white knob. Hence, great was my satisfaction when near the southeast corner of Eighteenth and K streets, we halted in front of a cottage of that description; and it was regarded as a lucky omen for me, that my first wish amid new scenes should be realized. The meeting with Sister Frances and the novelty of the new situation kept up a pleasurable excitement until bed-time. Then in the stillness of the night, in the darkness of the new chamber, came the recollection that at about that hour one week ago, I, sorrowing and alone, had stood by a weird old tree-trunk in Sonoma, and vowed by the rising moon that before it should come up again in its full, Georgia and I would be in Sacramento. I did not sleep until I had thanked the good Father for sending help to me in my time of need. CHAPTER XXXIII THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF SACRAMENTO--A GLIMPSE OF GRANDPA--THE RANCHO DE LOS CAZADORES--MY SWEETEST PRIVILEGE--LETTERS FROM THE BRUNNERS. It is needless to say that we were grateful for our new home, and tried to express our appreciation in words and by sharing the household duties, and by helping to make the neat clothing provided for us. The first Monday in October was a veritable red-letter day. Aglow with bright anticipations, we hurried off to public school with Frances. Not since our short attendance at the pioneer school in Sonoma had Georgia and I been schoolmates, and never before had we three sisters started out together with books in hand; nor did our expectations overreach the sum of happiness which the day had in store for us. The supposition that grandpa and grandma had passed out of our lives was soon disproved; for as I was crossing our back yard on the Saturday of that first week of school, I happened to look toward Seventeenth Street, and saw a string of wagons bringing exhibits from the fair grounds. Beside the driver of a truck carrying a closed cage marked, "Buffalo," stood grandpa. He had risen from his seat, leaned back against the front of the cage, folded his arms and was looking at me. My long black braids had been cut off, and my style of dress changed, still he had recognized me. I fled into the house, and told Elitha what I had seen. She, too, was somewhat disquieted, and replied musingly, "The old gentleman is lonely, and may have come to take you girls back with him." His presence in Sacramento so soon after our reaching there did seem significant, because he had bought that buffalo in 1851, before she was weaned from the emigrant cow that had suckled and led her in from the great buffalo range, and he had never before thought of exhibiting her. The following afternoon, as we were returning from Sunday school, a hand suddenly reached out of the crowd on J Street and touched Georgia's shoulder, then stopped me. A startled backward glance rested on Castle, our old enemy, who said, "Come. Grandpa is in town, and wants to see you." We shook our heads. Then he looked at Frances, saying, "All of you, come and see the large seal and other things at the fair." But she replied, emphatically, "We have not permission," and grasping a hand of each, hurried us homeward. For days thereafter, we were on the alert guarding against what we feared might happen. [Illustration: Photographs by Lynwood Abbott. PINES OF THE SIERRAS] [Illustration: GENERAL JOHN A. SUTTER] [Illustration: COL. J.D. STEVENSON] Our alarm over, life moved along smoothly. Elitha admonished us to forget the past, and prepare for the future. She forbade Georgia and me to use the German language in speaking with each other, giving as a reason that we should take Frances into our confidence and thoughts as closely as we took one another. I was never a morbid child, and the days that I did not find a sunbeam in life, I was apt to hunt for a rainbow. But there, in sight of the Sierras, the feeling again haunted me that perhaps my mother did not die, but had strayed from the trail and later reached the settlement and could not find us. Each middle-aged woman that I saw ahead of me on the street would thrill me with expectation, and I would quicken my steps in order to get a view of her face. When I gave up this illusion, I still prayed that Keseberg would send for me some day, and let me know her end, and give me a last message. I wanted his call to me to be voluntary, so that I might know that his words were true. These hopes and prayers were sacred, even from Georgia. On the twenty-fourth of March, 1856, brother Ben took us all to pioneer quarters on Rancho de los Cazadores, where their growing interests required the personal attention of the three brothers. There we became familiar with the pleasures, and also the inconveniences and hardships of life on a cattle ranch. We were twenty miles from town, church, and school; ten miles from the post office; and close scrutiny far and wide disclosed but one house in range. Our supply of books was meagre, and for knowledge of current events, we relied on _The Sacramento Union_, and on the friends who came to enjoy the cattleman's hospitality. My sweetest privilege was an occasional visit to cousin Frances Bond, my mother's niece, who, with her husband and child, had settled on a farm about twelve miles from us. She also had grown up a motherless girl, but had spent a part of her young ladyhood at our home in Illinois. She had helped my mother to prepare for our long journey and would have crossed the plains with us had her father granted her wish. She was particularly fond of us "three little ones" whom she had caressed in babyhood. She related many pleasing incidents connected with those days, and spoke feelingly, yet guardedly, of our experiences in the mountains. Like Elitha, she hoped we would forget them, and as she watched me cheerfully adapting myself to new surroundings, she imagined that time and circumstances were dimming the past from my memory. She did not understand me. I was light-hearted because I was old enough to appreciate the blessings that had come to me; old enough to look ahead and see the pure, intelligent womanhood opening to me; and trustful enough to believe that my expectations in life would be realized. So I gathered counsel and comfort from the lips of that sympathetic cousin, and loved her word pictures of the home where I was born. Nor could change of circumstances wean my grateful thoughts from Grandpa and Grandma Brunner. At times, I seemed to listen for the sound of his voice, and to hear hers so near and clear that in the night, I often started up out of sleep in answer to her dream calls. Finally I determined to disregard her parting words, and write her. Georgia was sure that I would get a severe answer, but Elitha's ready permission made the letter easier to write. Weeks elapsed without a reply, and I had about given up looking for it, when late in August, William, the youngest Wilder brother, saddled his horse, and upon mounting, called out, "I'm off to Sacramento, Eliza, to bring you that long-expected letter. It was misdirected, and is advertised in _The Sacramento Union's_ list of uncalled-for mail." He left me in a speculative mood, wondering if it was from grandma; which of her many friends had written it for her; and if it was severe, as predicted by Georgia. Great was my delight when the letter was handed me, and I opened it and read: SONOMA, _July 3, 1856_ To Miss ELIZA P. DONNER: CASADOR RANCHO, COSUMNE RIVER NEAR SACRAMENTO CITY. DEAR ELIZA: Your letter of the fifteenth of June came duly to hand, giving me great satisfaction in regard to your health, as well as keeping me and grandfather in good memory. I have perused the contents of your letter with great interest. I am glad to learn that you enjoy a country life. We have sold lately twelve cows, and are milking fifteen at present. You want to know how Flower is coming on: had you not better come and see for yourself? Hard feelings or ill will we have none against you; and why should I not forgive little troubles that are past and gone by? I know that you saw grandfather in Sacramento; he saw you and knew you well too. Why did you not go and speak to him? The roses you planted on Jacob's grave are growing beautifully, and our garden looks well. Grandfather and myself enjoy good health, and we wish you the same for all time to come. We give you our love, and remain, In parental affection, MARY AND CHRISTIAN BRUNNER. (Give our love also to Georgia.) Georgia was as much gratified by the contents of the letter as I, and we each sent an immediate answer, addressed to grandpa and grandma, expressing our appreciation of their forgiving words, regret for trouble and annoyances we had caused them, thanks for their past kindness, and the hope that they would write to us again when convenient. We referred to our contentment in our new home, and avoided any words which they might construe as a wish to return. There was no long waiting for the second letter, nor mistake in address. It was dated just three days prior to the first anniversary of our leaving Sonoma, and here speaks for itself: SONOMA, _Sept. 11, 1856_ GEORGIA AND ELIZA DONNER. MY DEAR CHILDREN: Your two letters dated August thirty-first reached us in due season. We were glad to hear from you, and it is our wish that you do well. Whenever you are disposed to come to us again our doors shall be open to you, and we will rejoice to see you. We are glad to see that you acknowledge your errors, for it shows good hearts, and the right kind of principles; for you should always remember that in showing respect to old age you are doing yourself honor, and those who know you will respect you. All your cows are doing well. I am inclined to think that the last letter we wrote you, you did not get. We mention this to show you that we always write to you. Your mother desires to know if you have forgotten the time when she used to have you sleep with her, each in one arm, showing the great love and care she had for you; she remembers, and can't forget. Your grandfather informs you that he still keeps the butcher shop, and bar-room, and that scarcely a day passes without his thinking of you. He still feels very bad that you did not, before going away, come to him and say "Good-bye grandfather." He forgives you, however, and hopes you will come and see him. When you get this letter you must write. Yours affectionately, CHRISTIAN BRUNNER, MARY BRUNNER. Letters following the foregoing assured us that grandma had become fully satisfied that the stories told her by Mrs. Stein were untrue. She freely acknowledged that she was miserable and forlorn without us, and begged us to return to the love and trust which awaited us at our old home. This, however, we could not do. Before the close of the Winter, Frances and Georgia began preparations for boarding school in Sacramento, and I being promised like opportunities for myself later, wrote all about them to grandma, trusting that this course would convince her that we were permanently separated from her, and that Elitha and her husband had definite plans for our future. I received no response to this, but Georgia's first communication from school contained the following paragraph: I saw Sallie Keiberg last week, who told me that her mother had a letter from the old lady (Grandma Brunner) five weeks ago. A man brought it. And that the old lady had sent us by him some jewellery, gold breast-pins, earrings, and wristlets. He stopped at the William Tell Hotel. And that is all they know about him and the presents. CHAPTER XXXIV TRAGEDY IN SONOMA--CHRISTIAN BRUNNER IN A PRISON CELL--ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT AT BENICIA--ROMANCE OF SPANISH CALIFORNIA--THE BEAUTIFUL ANGEL IN BLACK--THE PRAYER OF DONA CONCEPCION ARGUELLO REALIZED--MONASTIC BITES. Time passed. Not a word had come to me from Sonoma in months, when Benjamin handed me the _Union_, and with horror I read the headlines to which he pointed: "TRAGEDY IN SONOMA. CHRISTIAN BRUNNER, AN OLD RESIDENT, SLAYS HIS OWN NEPHEW!" From the lurid details published, I learned that the Brunners had asked this nephew to come to them, and had sent him money to defray his expenses from Switzerland to California. Upon his arrival in Sonoma, he had settled himself in the proffered home, and at once begun a life of extravagance, at the expense of his relatives. He was repeatedly warned against trifling with their affection, and wasting their hard-earned riches. Then patience ceased, and he was forbidden the house of his uncle. Meanwhile, his aunt became seriously ill, and the young man visited her secretly, and prevailed upon her to give him, in the event of her death, certain cattle and other property which stood in her name. She, however, recovered health; and he in the presence of his uncle, insisted that she had given him the property outright, and he wanted possession. This made trouble between the old couple, and the wife took refuge with friends in San Francisco. The night after her departure, the husband entered his own room and found the nephew in his bed. Thoroughly enraged, he ordered him up and out of his sight, and was insolently told by the young man that he was owner of that property and in rightful possession of the same. At this, his uncle snatched his pistol from the table at the bedside, and fired the fatal shot. This almost incredible news was so harrowing that I could scarcely think of anything, except grandpa chained in a prison cell, grandma in hiding away from home, and excited groups of people gathering about the thoroughfares of Sonoma discussing the tragedy. I was not sorry that at this time an epidemic of measles broke out in Sacramento, and Georgia became one of its early victims. This brought both girls back to the ranch, and during Georgia's convalescence, we had many serious talks about the Brunners' troubles. We wrote to grandma, but received no answer, and could only wait to learn what would be done with grandpa. He was arraigned and held; but the date set for trial was not fixed before Benjamin took Frances and Georgia to Benicia, to enter the September term of St. Catherine's Convent School. Upon Ben's return, I observed that he and Elitha were keeping from me some mysterious but pleasurable secret. It came out a few days later when Elitha began making a black and a white uniform which would fit no one except me. When ready to try them on, she informed me that we would have to sew early and late, that I might be ready to enter the convent by the first of October, and thereby reap the benefit of the institution's established custom--"That when more than two of a family become pupils the same term, the third one shall be received free of charge (except incidentals) with the understanding that the family thus favored shall exert its influence toward bringing an additional pupil into the school." Friends who had religious prejudices advised Ben against putting us under Catholic influence, but he replied good-naturedly: "The school is excellent, the girls are Protestants, and I am not afraid. Besides, I have told them all the horrible and uncanny stories that I have heard about convents, and they will not care to meddle with anything outside of the prescribed course of study." He was twenty years older than I, and had such conservative and dignified ways, that I often stood in awe of him. So when he let the convent gate close behind us with a loud click and said, "Now, you are a goner," I scanned his face apprehensively, but seeing nothing very alarming, silently followed him through the massive door which was in charge of a white-robed nun of the Dominican order. [Illustration: ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT AT BENICIA, CALIFORNIA] [Illustration: CHAPEL, ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT] Presently Mother Mary Superior and my two sisters came to us in the reception room and my brother deposited the fund for my school incidentals, and after a brief conversation, departed. The preparations in connection with my coming had been so rapidly carried out that I had had little time in which to question or anticipate what my reception at the convent might be. Now, however, Mother Mary, with open watch in hand, stood before me, saying, "Your sister Georgia cried twice as long as expected when she came; still I will allow you the regular five minutes." "I don't wish to cry," was my timid response. "But," she insisted, "you must shed a few entrance tears to--" Before she finished her sentence, and without thinking that it would be overreaching a stranger's privilege, I impulsively threw my arms around her neck, laid my cheek against hers, and whispered, "Please don't make me cry." She drew me closer to her, and her lips touched my forehead, and she said, "No, child, you need not." Then she bade me go with my sisters and become acquainted with my new surroundings. I was at once made to feel that I was welcome to every advantage and privilege accorded to Frances and Georgia. The following Monday, soon after breakfast, I slipped unobserved from the recreation room and made my way to the children's dormitory, where Sister Mary Joseph was busily engaged. I told her that I had come to help make beds and that I hoped she would also let me wash or wipe the silverware used at the noon and evening meals. She would not accept my services until she became thoroughly satisfied that I had not offered them because I felt that I was expected to do so, but because I earnestly desired to do whatever I could in return for the educational and cultural advantages so freely tendered me by the convent. By the end of the week I knew the way to parts of the buildings not usually open to pupils. Up in the clothes room, I found Sister Mary Frances, and on assuring her that I only wanted occupation for part of my leisure time, she let me help her to sort and distribute the clothing of the small girls, on Saturdays. Sister Rose let me come to her in the kitchen an hour on Sundays, and other light tasks were assigned me at my request. Then did I eat the bread of independence, take a wholesome interest in my studies, and enjoy the friends I gained! My seat in the refectory was between my sister Georgia and Miss Cayitana Payñe, a wealthy Spanish girl. Near neighbors were the two Estudillo sisters, who were prouder of their Castilian lineage than of the princely estate which they had inherited through it. To them I was in a measure indebted for pleasing conversation at table. My abundant glossy black hair and brunette type had first attracted their attention, and suggested the probability of Spanish blood in my veins. After they had learned otherwise, those points of resemblance still awoke in them an unobtrusive interest in my welfare. I became aware of its depth one evening in the recreation room while Georgia was home for a month on sick leave. I was near Miss Dolores Estudillo, and overheard her say quietly to her sister, in Spanish, "Magdalena, see how care-free the young girl at my side seems tonight. The far-away look so often in her eyes leads me to think that our dear Lord has given her many crosses to bear. Her hands show marks of hard work and her clothing is inexpensive, yet she appears of good birth and when I can throw pleasure in her way, I mean to do it." Whereupon Miss Magdalena turned to me and asked, "Do you live in Sacramento, Miss Donner?" "No, I live on a ranch twenty miles from the city." "Do your parents like it there?" "I have no parents, they died when I was four years old." She did not ask another question, nor did she know that I had caught the note of sympathy in her apology as she turned away. From that time on, she and her coterie of young friends showed me many delicate attentions. While still a new pupil, I not infrequently met Sister Dominica resting at the foot of the steps after her walk in the sunshine, and with a gracious, "Thank you," she would permit me to assist her up the flight of stairs leading to her apartment. Bowed by age, and wasted by disease, she was patiently awaiting the final summons. I became deeply interested in her before I learned that this wan bit of humanity was the once winsome daughter of Commandante Arguello, and the heroine of a pathetic romance of Spanish California's day.[17] The hero was Rezanoff, an officer of high repute, sent by Russia in 1806 to inspect its establishment at the port of Sitka, Alaska. Finding the colony there in almost destitute condition, he had embarked on the first voyage of a Russian vessel to the port of San Francisco, California. There being no commercial treaty between the two ports, Rezanoff made personal appeal for help to Governor Arrillago, and later to Commandante Arguello. After many difficulties and delays, he succeeded in obtaining the sorely needed supplies. Meanwhile, the young officer frequently met in her father's house the vivacious Doña Concepcion Arguello, and Cupid soon joined their hearts with an immortal chain. After their betrothal, Rezanoff hastened back to the destitute colony with supplies. Then he sped on toward St. Petersburg, buoyant with a lover's hope of obtaining his sovereign's sanction to his marriage, and perhaps an appointment to Spain, which would enable him to give his bride a distinguished position in the country of her proud ancestors. Alas, death overtook the lover _en route_ across the snows of Siberia. When Doña Concepcion learned of her bereavement, her lamentations were tearless, her sorrow inconsolable. She turned from social duties and honors, and, clad in mourning weeds, devoted her time and means to the poor and the afflicted, among whom she became known and idolized as "the beautiful angel in black." After the death of her parents, she endowed St. Catherine's Convent with her inheritance, took the vows of the Dominican nun, and the world saw her no more. Early in her sorrow, she had prayed that death might come to her in the season when the snow lay deep on Siberia's plain; and her prayer was realized, for it was on a bleak winter morning that we pupils gathered in silence around the breakfast table, knowing that Sister Dominica lay upon her bier in the chapel. The meal was nearly finished when Sister Amelda entered, and spoke to a couple of the Spanish young ladies, who bowed and immediately withdrew. As she came down the line selecting other Spanish friends of the dead, she stopped beside me long enough to say: "You also may go to her. You comforted her in life, and it is fitting that you should be among those who keep the last watch, and that your prayers mingle with theirs." After her burial, which was consecrated by monastic rites, I returned to the schoolroom with reverential memories of Sister Dominica, the once "beautiful angel in black." The school year closed in July, 1858, and I left the convent with regret. The gentle, self-sacrificing conduct of the nuns had destroyed the effect of the prejudicial stories I had heard against conventual life. The tender, ennobling influences which had surrounded me had been more impressive than any I had experienced during orphanhood, and I dreaded what the noisy world might again have in store for me. My sister Frances and William R. Wilder, who had been betrothed for more than a year, and had kept their secret until we three returned from the convent, were married November 24, 1858, and soon thereafter moved to a pleasant home of their own on a farm adjoining Rancho de los Cazadores. The following January, Georgia and I entered public school in Sacramento, where we spent a year and a half in earnest and arduous study. [Footnote 17: The subject of a poem by Bret Harte, and of a novel by Mrs. Gertrude Atherton.] CHAPTER XXXV THE CHAMBERLAIN FAMILY, COUSINS OF DANIEL WEBSTER--JEFFERSON GRAMMAR SCHOOL--FURTHER CONFLICTING ACCOUNTS OF THE DONNER PARTY--PATERNAL ANCESTRY--S.O. HOUGHTON--DEATH TAKES ONE OF THE SEVEN SURVIVING DONNERS. Our school home in Sacramento was with friends who not only encouraged our desire for knowledge, but made the acquirement pleasant. The head of the house was Mr. William E. Chamberlain, cashier of D.O. Mills's bank. His wife, Charlotte, was a contributor to _The Sacramento Union_ and leading magazines. Their daughter, Miss Florence, taught in the public schools; and their son, William E., Jr., was a high-school student, preparing for Harvard. In addition to their superior personal attainments, Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, each--for they were cousins--had the distinction of being first cousins to Daniel Webster, and this fact also served to bring to their home guests of note and culture. Georgia and I were too closely occupied with lessons to venture often beyond the school-girl precinct, but the intellectual atmosphere which pervaded the house, and the books to which we had access, were of inestimable advantage. Furthermore, the tuition fees required of non-resident pupils entitled them to choice of district, and we fortunately had selected Jefferson Grammar School, No. 4, in charge of Mr. Henry A. White, one of the ablest educators in the city. Several resident families had also taken advantage of this privilege, and elected to pay tuition and place their children under his instruction, thus bringing together forty-nine energetic boys and girls to whet each other's ambition and incite class rivalry. Among the number were the five clever children of the Hon. Tod Robinson; three sons of Judge Robert Robinson; Colonel Zabriskie's pretty daughter Annie; Banker Swift's stately Margaret; General Redding's two sons; Dr. Oatman's son Eugene; beloved Nelly Upton, daughter of the editor of _The Sacramento Union_; Daniel Yost; Agnes Toll, the sweet singer; and Eliza Denison, my chum. At the end of the term, _The Daily Union_ closed its account of the public examination of Jefferson Grammar School with the following statement: "Among Mr. White's pupils are two young ladies, survivors of the terrible disaster which befell the emigration of 1846 among the snows of the California mountains." Even this cursory reference was a matter of regret to Georgia and me. We had entered school silent in regard to personal history, and did not wish public attention turned toward ourselves even in an indirect way, fearing it might lead to a revival of the false and sensational accounts of the past, and we were not prepared to correct them, nor willing they should be spread. Pursued by these fears, we returned to the ranch, where Elitha and her three black-eyed little daughters welcomed our home-coming and brightened our vacation. Almost coincident, however, with the foregoing circumstance, Georgia came into possession of "What I Saw in California," by Edwin Bryant; and we found that the book did contain many facts in connection with our party's disaster, but they were so interwoven with wild rumors, and the false and sensational statements quoted from _The California Star_, that they proved nothing, yet gave to the untrue that appearance of truth which is so difficult to correct. The language employed in description seemed to us so coarse and brutal that we could not forgive its injustice to the living, and to the memory of the dead. We could but feel that had simple facts been stated, there would have been no harrowing criticism on account of long unburied corpses found in the lake cabins. Nor would the sight of mutilated dead have suggested that the starving survivors had become "gloating cannibals, preying on the bodies of their companions." Bare facts would have shown that the living had become too emaciated, too weak, to dig graves, or to lift or drag the dead up the narrow snow steps, even had open graves awaited their coming. Aye, more, would have shown conclusively that mutilation of the bodies of those who had perished was never from choice, never cannibalistic, but dire necessity's last resort to ease torturing hunger, to prevent loss of reason, to save life. Loss of reason was more dreaded than death by the starving protectors of the helpless. Fair statements would also have shown that the First Relief reached the camps with insufficient provision to meet the pressing needs of the unfortunate. Consequently, it felt the urgency of haste to get as many refugees as possible to Bear Valley before storms should gather and delays defeat the purpose of its coming; that it divided what it could conscientiously spare among those whom it was obliged to leave, cut wood for the fires, and endeavored to give encouragement and hope to the desponding, but did not remain long enough to remove or bury the dead. Each succeeding party actuated by like anxieties and precautions, departed with its charges, leaving pitiable destitution behind; leaving mournful conditions in camp,--conditions attributable as much to the work of time and atmospheric agencies as to the deplorable expedients to which the starving were again and again reduced. With trembling hand Georgia turned the pages, from the sickening details of the _Star_[18] to the personal observations of Edwin Bryant, who in returning to the United States in the Summer of 1847, crossed the Sierra Nevadas with General Kearney and escort, reached the lake cabins June 22, and wrote as follows: A halt was called for the purpose of interring the remains. Near the principal lake cabin I saw two bodies entire, except the abdomens had been cut open and entrails extracted. Their flesh had been either wasted by famine or evaporated by exposure to dry atmosphere, and presented the appearance of mummies. Strewn around the cabins were dislocated and broken skulls (in some instances sawed asunder with care for the purpose of extracting the brains). Human skeletons, in short, in every variety of mutilation. A more appalling spectacle I never witnessed. The remains were, by order of General Kearney, collected and buried under supervision of Major Sword. They were interred in a pit dug in the centre of one of the cabins for a cache. These melancholy duties to the dead being performed, the cabins, by order of Major Sword, were fired and, with everything surrounding them connected with the horrible and melancholy tragedy, consumed. The body of (Captain) George Donner was found in his camp about eight miles distant. He had been carefully laid out by his wife, and a sheet was wrapped around the corpse. This sad office was probably the last act she performed before visiting the camp of Keseberg. He was buried by a party of men detailed for that purpose. I knew the Donners well; their means in money and merchandise which they had brought with them were abundant. Mr. Donner was a man of about sixty, and was at the time of leaving the United States a highly respectable citizen of Illinois, a farmer of independent means. Mrs. Donner was considerably younger than her husband, an energetic woman of refined education. After Georgia left me, I reopened the book, and pondered its revelations, many of them new to us both; and most of them I marked for later investigation. Bryant found no human bones at Donner's camp. His description of that camp was all-important, proving that my father's body had not been mutilated, but lay in his mountain hut three long months, sacred as when left by my little mother, who had watched over him to the pitiful end, had closed his eyes, folded his arms across his breast, and wrapped the burial sheet about his precious form. There, too, was proof of his last resting-place, just as had been told me in sight of Jakie's grave, by the Cherokee woman in Sonoma. The book had also a copy of Colonel McKinstrey's letter to the General Relief Committee in San Francisco, reporting the return of the first rescuers with refugees. In speaking of the destitution of the unfortunates in camp, he used the following words sympathically: When the party arrived at camp, it was obliged to guard the little stock of provisions it had carried over the mountains on its back on foot, for the relief of the poor beings, as they were in such a starving condition that they would have immediately used up all the little store. They even stole the buckskin strings from the party's snowshoes and ate them. I at once recognized this friendly paragraph as the one which had had its kindness extracted, and been abbreviated and twisted into that cruel taunt which I had heard in my childhood from the lips of "Picayune Butler." A careful study of Bryant's work increased my desire to sift that of Thornton, for I had been told that it not only contained the "Fallon Diary," but lengthier extracts from the _Star_, and I wanted to compare and analyze those details which had been published as "Thrilling Events in California History." I was unable to procure the book then, but resolved to do so when opportunity should occur. Naturally, we who see history made, are solicitous that it be accurately recorded, especially when it vitally concerns those near to us. [Illustration: Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. THE CROSS AT DONNER LAKE] Shortly before school reopened, Georgia and I spent the day with cousin Frances E. Bond; and in relating to her various incidents of our life, we spoke of the embarrassment we had felt in class the day that Mr. White asked every pupil whose ancestors had fought in the war of the American Revolution to rise, and Georgia and I were the only ones who remained seated. My cousin regarded us a moment and then said: "Your Grandfather Eustis, although a widow's only son, and not yet sixteen years of age, enlisted when the Revolutionary War began. He was a sentinel at Old South Church, and finally, a prisoner aboard the _Count d'Estang_." She would have stopped there, but we begged for all she knew about our mother's people, so she continued, mingling advice with information: "I would rather that you should not know the difference between their position in life and your own; yet, if you must know it, the Eustis and the Wheelwright families, from whom you are descended, are among the most substantial and influential of New England. Their reputation, however, is not a prop for you to lean on. They are on the Atlantic coast, you on the Pacific; so your future depends upon your own merit and exertions." This revelation of lineage, nevertheless, was an added incentive to strive for higher things; an inheritance more enduring than our little tin box and black silk stockings which had belonged to mother. An almost indescribable joy was mine when, at a gathering of the school children to do honor to the citizens who had inaugurated the system of public instruction in Sacramento, I beheld on the platform Captain John A. Sutter. Memories both painful and grateful were evoked. It was he who had first sent food to the starving travellers in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was he who had laid his hand on my head, when a forlorn little waif at the Fort, tenderly saying, "Poor little girl, I wish I could give back what you have lost!" To me, Captain Sutter had long been the embodiment of all that was good and grand; and now I longed to touch his hand and whisper to him gratitude too sacred for strangers' ears. But the opportunity was withheld until riper years. During our last term at school, Georgia's health was so improved that my life was more free of cares and aglow with fairer promises. Miss Kate Robinson and I were rivals for school honors, and I studied as I never had studied before, for in the history, physiology, and rhetoric classes, she pressed me hard. At the close of the session the record showed a tie. Neither of us would accept determination by lot, and we respectfully asked the Honorable Board of Education to withhold the medal for that year. About this time Georgia and I enjoyed a rare surprise. On his return from business one day, Mr. Chamberlain announced that a distinguished-appearing young lawyer, S.O. Houghton by name, had stopped at the bank that afternoon, to learn our address and say that he would call in the evening. We, knowing that he was the husband of our "little cousin Mary," were anxious to meet him and to hear of her, whom we had not seen since our journey across the snow. He came that evening, and told us of the cozy home in San Jose to which he had taken his young wife, and of her wish that we visit them the coming July or August. Although letters had passed between us, up to this time we had known little of Mary's girlhood life. After we parted, in 1847, she was carried through to San Francisco, then called Yerba Buena, where her maimed foot was successfully treated by the surgeon of the United States ship _Portsmouth_. The citizens of that place purchased and presented to her the one hundred _vara_ lot Number 38, and the lot adjoining to her brother George. Mr. Reed was appointed her guardian and given charge of her apportionment of funds realized from the sale of goods brought from her father's tents. She became a member of the Reed household in San Jose, and her life must have been cast in pleasant lines, for she always spoke of Mr. and Mrs. Reed with filial affection. Moreover, her brother had been industrious and prosperous, and had contributed generously to her comfort and happiness. Some weeks later, we took Mr. Houghton's report home to Elitha. We also showed her a recent letter from Mary, sparkling with bright anticipations--anticipations never to be realized; for we girls were hardly settled on the ranch before a letter came from cousin George Donner, dated Sacramento, June 20, 1860. From this we learned that he had on that day been summoned to the bedside of his dying sister, and had come from his home on Putah Creek as fast as horse could carry him, yet had failed to catch the bay steamer; and while waiting for the next boat, was writing to us who could best understand his state of mind. Next, a note from San Jose informed us that Mrs. Mary M. Houghton died June 21, 1860, leaving a namesake, a daughter two weeks old, and that her brother had reached there in time for the funeral. Of the seven Donners who had survived the disaster, she was the first called by death, and we deeply mourned her loss, and grieved because another little Mary was motherless. The following August, Mr. Houghton made his first visit to Rancho de los Cazadores, and with fatherly pride, showed the likeness of his little girl, and promised to keep us all in touch with her by letter. Mr. Houghton was closely identified with pioneer affairs, and we had many friends in common, especially among officers and soldiers of the Mexican War. He had enlisted in Company A of Stevenson's Regiment of New York Volunteers when barely eighteen years of age; and sailed with it from his native State on the twenty-sixth of September, 1846. After an eventful voyage by way of Cape Horn, the good ship _Loo Choo_, which bore him hither, cast anchor in the Bay of San Francisco, March 26, 1847, about the time the Third Relief was bringing us little girls over the mountains. His company being part of the detachment ordered to Mexico under Colonel Burton, he went at once into active service, was promoted through intermediate grades, and appointed lieutenant, and adjutant on the staff of Colonel Burton, before his twentieth year. Following an honorable discharge at the close of the war, and a year's exciting experiences in the gold fields, he settled in San Jose in November, 1849, then the capital city. His knowledge of the Spanish and French languages fitting him specially therefor, he turned his attention to legislative and municipal matters. As clerk of the Senate Judiciary Committee of the first session of the California Legislature, he helped to formulate statutes for enactment, they being promulgated in Spanish as well as English at that time. During the period between 1851 and 1860 he held several official positions, among them that of president of the City Council; and on his twenty-fifth birthday he was elected Mayor of San Jose. Meanwhile he had organized the Eagle Guard, one of the first independent military companies in the State, and had also been successively promoted from adjutant to ordnance officer, with the rank of lieutenant-colonel, on Major-General Halleck's staff of the State Militia. Moreover, he had completed the study of law in the office of Judge W.T. Wallace, been admitted to the bar, and was now actively engaged in the practice of his profession. [Footnote 18: See Appendix for extract from _The California Star_.] CHAPTER XXXVI NEWS OF THE BRUNNERS--LETTERS FROM GRANDPA. More than two years had elapsed since we had heard directly from Sonoma, when, on the day before Thanksgiving, 1860, Judge Robert Robinson and wife, of Sacramento, came to the ranch, and he, in his pleasing way, announced that he and Mrs. Robinson had a little story to tell, and a message to deliver, which would explain why they had arrived unexpectedly to spend the national holiday with us. Then seating himself, he bowed to his wife, and listened in corroborative silence while she related the following incident: "Last Summer when the Judge went on his circuit, he took the carriage, and I accompanied him on his travels. One day we stopped for dinner at the stage station between Sonoma and Santa Rosa. After we had registered, the proprietor approached us, saying: 'I see you are from Sacramento, and wonder if you know anything about a couple of young girls by the name of Downie, who spent some time there in the public school?' He seemed disappointed when we replied, 'We know Donners, but not Downies.' 'Well,' he continued, 'they are strangers to me; but I am interested in them on account of their former connection with an unfortunate little old German woman who frequently comes in on the stage that runs between Sonoma and Santa Rosa. She carries their pictures in her hand-bag and tells a touching story about her happiness when they lived with her.' Just then the stage stopped before the door, and he, looking out, exclaimed, 'Why, she is among the passengers to-day! With your permission, I'll bring her to you.' "He introduced her as Mrs. Brunner, told her where we were from, and asked her to show us the picture of her little girls. After shaking hands with us, she took the seat offered, and nervously drew from her reticule a handsomely inlaid case, which she opened and handed to us. An expression of pride and tenderness lighted her worn features as Judge and I at once exclaimed, pointing to one and then the other, 'Why, this is Georgia, and this, Eliza Donner. We know them well and call them "our girls" in Sacramento!'" "She sprang from her seat, and stood with one hand on Judge's shoulder, and the other on mine, saying earnestly, "'Yes! You do know my children? Be they well, and doing well?' "We had to talk fast in order to answer all her questions, and a number of listeners drew nearer and were considerably affected as the poor old soul said, 'Please shake hands with me again for them, and tell them that you talked with their old Grandma Brunner, that loves them now just the same as when they was little.' "Judge and I assured her that we would deliver her messages in person, as soon as we should get time to look you up. After dinner we saw her reseated in the stage, and the black silk reticule containing the picture was upon her lap as the stage carried her homeward." We learned from them further that grandpa had been convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to San Quentin Prison for a term of eleven years, and that grandma had been granted a divorce, and awarded all the property, but was having great trouble because it had since become involved and was being frittered away in litigation. The information given by the Robinsons increased our uneasiness for our trouble-worn friends. Since the tragedy, Georgia and I had often spoken of them to one another, but to no one else. We knew that few could understand them as we did, and we refrained from exposing them to unnecessary criticism. Anxious as we were to comfort them, it was not in our power to do more than endeavor again to reach them by letter. The first was despatched to grandma at Sonoma, the day after the departure of our guests; and shortly before Christmas I posted one to grandpa. The former was answered quickly, and so pathetically that brother Ben offered to take us to Sonoma for a visit in the early Spring and then to see what could be done for grandma. The letter to grandpa did not reach him until January 27, 1861, but his reply left San Quentin by Wells-Fargo Express on the twenty-eighth of January. It was a brave letter, closing with the following mystifying paragraph: Though I may be confined by prison walls, I wish those dear to me to be happy and joyous as they can, and I trust in God to open a way for me out of here, when I can see you all; which will make us all very happy. Your affectionate grandfather, CHRISTIAN BRUNNER. His next communication contained a thrilling surprise which cleared the lurking mystery of his former letter, and expressed such joyous appreciation of his regained privileges that I once more quote his own words, from the letter yellowed by age, which lies before me. SONOMA, _March 25, 1861_ DEAR ELIZA AND GEORGIA: Your kind and friendly letter reached me about ten days ago, and I would have responded to the same right away, but waited a few days, so that I could give you some good news, over which you, my dear little girls, will surely rejoice, as you take so much interest in everything which myself concerns. This news is that I am free again. Last Tuesday I received, through the influence of friends, from the Governor of the State of California, a full pardon, and am again in Sonoma; and as soon as I have my business affairs in such a way settled that I can leave for a week or two, I will come up and see you. I have much to tell you which you will better understand through a personal interview than by writing. Yours friendly, C. BRUNNER Georgia and I felt this news was almost too good to be true. We wondered how soon he would come to see us; wondered also, if he and grandma had met, and were glad that we had not taken the side of either against the other. "What next?" was the pertinent question uppermost in our minds. We found the answer in _The Sacramento Daily Union_, early in April, under title of "Romance in Real Life." After a brief review of the troubles of the Brunners, and reference to their divorcement, the article announced their recent remarriage. This gratifying circumstance made our long intended trip to Sonoma unnecessary, especially since the reunited couple seemed to have retained the sympathy and loyalty of those who had known them in their days of prosperity and usefulness. CHAPTER XXXVII ARRIVAL OF THE FIRST PONY EXPRESS. I happened to be in Sacramento on the thirteenth day of April, 1861, and found the city full of irrepressible excitement. Men on gayly caparisoned horses galloping hither and thither, unfurled flags, and a general air of expectancy on eager faces everywhere betokened an occasion of rare moment. At times hats were swung aloft and cheers rang out tumultuously, only to be hushed by the disappointing murmur, "Not yet." But an instant's quiet, and there was a mad rush of the populace toward Sutter's Fort; then again enthusiasm died, and the crowds ebbed back up J Street, which, some eight or ten feet higher than any other street in the city, extended straight as an arrow from the fort to where the bay steamer lightly hugged the water front, puffing and impatient to be off to San Francisco. So the anxious waiting continued until the day was well on to its close, when suddenly, vociferous cheers again rent the air, and this time knew no cessation. What a din! With leap and outcry, all faced Sutter's Fort. That was a spectacle to be remembered. Pony! The pony, hurrah, hurrah! We see a dark speck in the distance. It grows, as up J Street it comes. Now, the pony foams before us; now, swift as the wind, it is gone. It passes reception committee, passes escort. It reaches the water front; down the gang-plank it dashes; the band plays, the whistle blows, the bell rings, the steamer catches the middle of the stream and is off, leaving a trail of sparks and smoke in the twilight, and bearing away the first "Pony Express," memorable in history. The baffling problem is solved; the dream of years is realized; expeditious mail service with the East is an accomplished fact. No wonder the people cheered! It was a gigantic scheme, well conceived, magnificently executed. Think of it, a stretch of two thousand miles of mountain wild and desert plain covered in twelve days! How was it done? Horses were tested and riders selected by weight and power of endurance. The latter were boys in years--Bill Cody, the youngest, said to be only fourteen years of age. The pouch was light, its contents were limited--but how gladly five dollars per letter was paid for those precious missives. Every detail was carefully arranged. The first mount left St. Joseph, Missouri, April 2; relay camps were established ten miles apart, with a horse ever in readiness for instantaneous exchange, and a fresh rider, mounted for the next run, was waiting at each successive hundred-mile station along the entire route. Small wonder those pioneers were beside themselves with enthusiastic excitement. The minds of many reverted to personal experiences with ox team, or jogtrot of horses or mule train. Here was the Overland Stage outdone; even the speed with which Monk Hanks brought Horace Greeley over the mountains was at discount. CHAPTER XXXVIII WAR AND RUMORS OF WAR--MARRIAGE--SONOMA REVISITED. The Summer of 1861, now well advanced, was rife with war and rumors of war, and foreshadowings of coming events. The old and the young were flushed with patriotism, each eager to help his country's cause. I, remembering grandma's training, was ready to give my services to hospital work. Earnest as was this desire, however, I was dissuaded from taking definite steps in that direction by those who knew that my slender physique and girlish appearance would defeat my purpose before the board of appointing physicians. Moreover, Mr. Houghton's visits and frequent letters were changing my earlier plans for the future, and finally led to my naming the tenth of October, 1861, as our wedding day. The ceremony was solemnized by the Rev. J.A. Benton, of Sacramento. The event is also noteworthy as being the occasion of the first reunion of the five Donner sisters since their parting at Sutter's Fort in June, 1847. Georgia's place was by my side, while Elitha, Leanna, and Frances each grouped with husband and children in front among friends, who had come to witness the plighting of vows between my hero and me. Not until I had donned my travelling suit, and my little white Swiss wedding dress was being packed, did I fully realize that the days of inseparable companionship between Georgia and me were past; She had long been assured that in my new home a welcome would be ever ready for her, yet she had thoughtfully answered, "No, I am not needed there, and I feel that I am needed here." Nature's wedding gift to us was a week of glorious weather, and its first five days we passed in San Francisco, the bustling, historic city, which I knew so well, yet had never seen before. Then we boarded the afternoon boat up the bay, expecting to spend the evening and following morning in Sonoma with Grandpa and Grandma Brunner, but the vessel failed to reach Lakeside Landing in time to connect with the northbound coach. This mischance necessitated our staying overnight at the only hostelry in the place. The cry, "All aboard for Sonoma!" hurried us from the table next morning, and on reaching the sidewalk, we learned that the proprietor of the hotel had bespoken the two best seats in the coach for us. I was too happy to talk until after we crossed the Sonoma River, shaded by grand old oak, sycamore, and laurel trees, and then onward, I was too happy to remain silent. Before us lay the valley which brought back memories of my childhood, and I was in a mood to recall only the brightest, as we sped on to our destination. My companion shared my delight and gave heed to each scene I called to his attention. The coach stopped in front of the hotel, and we alighted upon almost the same spot from which I had climbed into the carriage to leave Sonoma six years earlier. But, oh, how changed was everything! One sweeping glance at the little town revealed the fact that it had passed its romantic age and lost its quickening spirit. Closed were the homes of the old Spanish families; gone were the _caballeros_ and the bright-eyed _señoritas_; grass-grown was the highway to the mines; the flagstaff alone remained flushed with its old-time dignity and importance. In subdued mood, I stepped into the parlor until our names should be registered. When my husband returned, I said, "The carpet on this floor, the chairs in this room, and the pictures on these walls were in place in grandma's home when I left her--perhaps she is no longer living." He left me again to make inquiry concerning those whom we had come to see, and ascertained that the Brunners had remarried for the purpose of facilitating the readjustment of their property rights, and of rescuing them from the hands of a scheming manager, who, with his family, was now living on the estate, and caring for grandma, but would not permit grandpa to enter the house. After sending a messenger to find grandpa, I led the way to the open door of the old home, then slipped aside to let my husband seek admission. He rapped. [Illustration: GENERAL VALLEJO'S CARRIAGE, BUILT IN ENGLAND IN 1832] [Illustration: GENERAL VALLEJO'S OLD JAIL] I heard a side door open, uneven footsteps in the hall, and him saying quietly, "I think the old lady herself is coming, and you had better meet her alone." I crossed the threshold, opened my arms, and uttered the one word, "Grandma!" She came and rested her head against my bosom and I folded my arms about her just as she had enfolded me when I went to her a lonely child yearning for love. She stirred, then drew back, looked up into my face and asked, "Who be you?" Touched by her wistful gaze, I exclaimed, "Grandma, don't you know me?" "Be you Eliza?" she asked, and when I had given answer, she turned from me in deepest emotion, murmuring, "No, no, it can't be my little Eliza!" She would have tottered away had I not supported her to a seat in the well-remembered living room and caressed her until she looked up through her tears, saying, "When you smile, you be my little Eliza, but when you look serious, I don't know you." She inquired about Georgia, and how I came to be there without her. Then she bade me call my husband, and thanked him for bringing me to her. Forgetting all the faults and shortcomings that once had troubled her sorely, she spoke of my busy childhood and the place I had won in the affections of all who knew me. A tender impulse took her from us a moment. She returned, saying, "Now, you must not feel bad when you see what I have in the hand behind me," and drawing it forth continued, "This white lace veil which I bought at Sutter's Fort when your mother's things were sold at auction, is to cover my face when I am dead; and this picture of us three is to be buried in the coffin with me. I want your husband to see how you looked when you was little." She appeared proudly happy; but a flame of embarrassment burned my cheeks, as she handed him the picture wherein I showed to such disadvantage, with the question, "Now, doesn't she look lovely?" and heard his affirmative reply. Upon the clock lay a broken toy which had been mine, and in childlike ecstasy she spoke of it and of others which she had kept ever near her. When invited to go to luncheon with us, she brought first her bonnet, next her shawl, for me to hold while she should don her best apparel for the occasion. Instead of going directly, she insisted on choosing the longer road to town, that we might stop at Mrs. Lewis's to see if she and her daughter Sallie would recognize me. Frequently as we walked along, she hastened in advance, and then faced about on the road to watch us draw near. When we reached Mrs. Lewis's door, she charged me not to smile, and clapped her hands when both ladies appeared and called me by name. As we were taking leave, an aged horseman drew rein at the gate and dismounted, and Mrs. Lewis looking up, exclaimed, "Why, there is Mr. Brunner!" It did not take me long to meet him part way down the walk, nor did I shrink from the caress he gave me, nor know how much joy and pain that meeting evoked in him, even after he turned to Mr. Houghton saying fervently, "Do not be angry because I kiss your wife and put my arms around her, for she is my child come back to me. I helped raise her, and we learned her to do all kinds of work, what is useful, and she was my comfort child in my troubles." My husband's reply seemed to dispel the recollections which had made the reunion distressing, and grandpa led his horse and walked and talked with us until we reached the turn where he bade us leave him while he disposed of Antelope preparatory to joining us at luncheon. Proceeding, we observed an increasing crowd in front of the hotel, massed together as if in waiting. As we drew nearer, a way was opened for our passage, and friends and acquaintances stepped forth, shook hands with me and desired to be introduced to my husband. It was apparent that the message which we had sent to grandpa early in the day, stating the hour we would be at the hotel, had spread among the people, who were now assembled for the purpose of meeting us. Strangers also were among them, for I heard the whispered answer many times, "Why, that is little Eliza Donner, who used to live with the Brunners, and that is Mr. Houghton, her husband--they can only stay until two o'clock." The hotel table, usually more than ample to accommodate its guests, was not nearly large enough for all who followed to the dining-room, so the smiling host placed another table across the end for many who had intended to lunch at home that day. Meantime, our little party was seated, with Mr. Houghton at the head of the table, I at his right; grandpa opposite me, and grandma at my right. She was supremely happy, would fold her hands in her lap and say, "If you please," and "Thank you," as I served her; and I was grateful that she claimed my attention, for grandpa's lips were mute. He strove for calm, endeavoring to eat that he might the better conceal the unbidden tears which coursed down his cheeks. Not until we reached a secluded retreat for our farewell talk, did his emotion express itself in words. Grasping my husband's hand he said: "My friend, I must leave you. I broke bread and tasted salt with you, but I am too heartsick to visit, or to say good-bye. You bring back my child, a bride, and I have no home to welcome her in, no wedding feast, or happiness to offer. I must see and talk with her in the house of strangers, and it makes me suffer more than I can bear! But before I go, I want you both to make me the promise that you will always work together, and have but one home, one purse, one wish in life, so that when you be old, you will not have to walk separately like we do. You will not have bitter thoughts and blame one another." Here grandma interrupted meekly, "I know I did wrong, but I did not mean to, and I be sorry." The pause which followed our given promise afforded me the opportunity to clasp their withered hands together between mine, and gain from grandpa an earnest pledge that he would watch over and be kind to her, who had married him when he was poor and in ill health; who had toiled for him through the long years of his convalescence; who had been the power behind the throne, his best aid and counsellor, until time had turned her back in its tide, and made her a child again. My husband followed him from the room to bestow the sympathy and encouragement which a strong man can give to a desponding one. When the carriage was announced, which would take us to Benicia in time to catch the Sacramento steamer to San Francisco, I tied on grandma's bonnet, pinned her shawl around her shoulders, and told her that we would take her home before proceeding on our way, but she crossed her hands in front and artlessly whispered: "No; I'd like to stay in town a while to talk with friends; but I thank you just the same, and shall not forget that I am to go to you, after you be settled in the new home, and his little daughter has learned to call you 'mother.'" We left her standing on the hotel piazza, smiling and important among the friends who had waited to see us off; but grandpa was nowhere in sight. The steamer was at the landing when we reached Benicia so we hurriedly embarked and found seats upon the deck overlooking the town. As the moonlight glistened on the white spray which encircled our departing boat, the sound of the Angelus came softly, sweetly, prayerfully over the water; and I looking up and beyond, saw the glimmering lights of Saint Catherine's Convent, fitting close to scenes of my childhood, its silver-toned bells cheering my way to long life, honors, and many blessings! APPENDIX Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all. FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU. I ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN _The California Star_--STATISTICS OF THE PARTY--NOTES OF AGUILLA GLOVER--EXTRACT FROM THORNTON--RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN BAPTISTE TRUBODE. In honor to the State that cherishes the landmark; in justice to history which is entitled to the truth; in sympathetic fellowship with those who survived the disaster; and in reverent memory of those who suffered and died in the snow-bound camps of the Sierra Nevadas, I refute the charges of cruelty, selfishness, and inhumanity which have been ascribed to the Donner Party. In this Appendix I set forth some of the unwarranted statements to which frequent reference has been made in the foregoing pages, that they may be examined and analyzed, and their utter unreliability demonstrated by comparison with established facts and figures. These latter data, for the sake of brevity, are in somewhat statistical form. A few further incidents, which I did not learn of or understand until long after they occurred, are also related. The accounts of weather conditions, of scarcity of food and fuel, also the number of deaths in the camps before the first of March, 1847, are verified by the carefully kept "Diary of Patrick Breen, One of the Donner Party," which has recently been published by the Academy of Pacific Coast History. The following article, which originally appeared in _The California Star_, April 10, 1847, is here quoted from "The Life and Days of General John A. Sutter," by T.J. Schoonover: A more shocking scene cannot be imagined than was witnessed by the party of men who went to the relief of the unfortunate emigrants in the California Mountains. The bones of those who had died and been devoured by the miserable ones that still survived were around their tents and cabins; bodies of men, women, and children with half the flesh torn from them lay on every side. A woman sat by the side of the body of her dead husband cutting out his tongue; the heart she had already taken out, broiled, and eaten. The daughter was seen eating the father; and the mother, that [_viz._ body] of her children; children, that of father and mother. The emaciated, wild, and ghastly appearance of the survivors added to the horror of it. Language can not describe the awful change that a few weeks of dire suffering had wrought in the minds of the wretched and pitiable beings. Those who one month before would have shuddered and sickened at the thought of eating human flesh, or of killing their companions and relatives to preserve their own lives, now looked upon the opportunity the acts afforded them of escaping the most dreadful of deaths as providential interference in their behalf. Calculations were coldly made, as they sat around their gloomy camp fires, for the next succeeding meals. Various expedients were devised to prevent the dreadful crime of murder, but they finally resolved to kill those who had least claims to longer existence. Just at this moment some of them died, which afforded the rest temporary relief. Some sank into the arms of death cursing God for their miserable fate, while the last whisperings of others were prayers and songs of praise to the Almighty. After the first few deaths, but the one all-absorbing thought of individual self-preservation prevailed. The fountains of natural affection were dried up. The chords that once vibrated with connubial, parental, and filial affection were torn asunder, and each one seemed resolved, without regard to the fate of others, to escape from impending calamity. So changed had the emigrants become that when the rescuing party arrived with food, some of them cast it aside, and seemed to prefer the putrid human flesh that still remained. The day before the party arrived, one emigrant took the body of a child about four years of age in bed with him and devoured the whole before morning; and the next day he ate another about the same age, before noon. This article, one of the most harrowing to be found in print, spread through the early mining-camps, and has since been quoted by historians and authors as an authentic account of scenes and conduct witnessed by the first relief corps to Donner Lake. It has since furnished style and suggestion for other nerve-racking stories on the subject, causing keener mental suffering to those vitally concerned than words can tell. Yet it is easily proved to be nothing more or less than a perniciously sensational newspaper production, too utterly false, too cruelly misleading, to merit credence. Evidently, it was written without malice, but in ignorance, and by some warmly clad, well nourished person, who did not know the humanizing effect of suffering and sorrow, and who may not have talked with either a survivor or a rescuer of the Donner Party. When the Donner Party ascended the Sierra Nevadas on the last day of October, 1846, it comprised eighty-one souls; namely, Charles Berger,[19] Patrick Breen, Margaret Breen (his wife), John Breen, Edward Breen, Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon Breen, James Breen, Peter Breen, Isabella Breen, Jacob Donner,[19] Elizabeth Donner[19] (his wife), William Hook,[20] Solomon Hook, George Donner, Jr., Mary Donner, Isaac Donner,[20] Lewis Donner,[19] Samuel Donner,[19] George Donner, Sr.,[19] Tamsen Donner[19] (his wife), Elitha Donner, Leanna C. Donner, Frances Eustis Donner, Georgia Anna Donner, Eliza Poor Donner, Patrick Dolan,[20] John Denton,[20] Milton Elliot,[19] William Eddy, Eleanor Eddy (his wife), Margaret Eddy,[19] and James Eddy,[19] Jay Fosdick[20] and Sarah Fosdick (his wife), William Foster, Sarah Foster (his wife) and George Foster,[19] Franklin W. Graves, Sr.,[20] Elisabeth Graves[20] (his wife), Mary Graves, William C. Graves, Eleanor Graves, Lovina Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B. Graves, Franklin W. Graves, Jr.,[20] and Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Noah James, Lewis S. Keseberg, Philippine Keseberg (his wife), Ada Keseberg[20] and Lewis S. Keseberg, Jr.,[19] Mrs. Lovina Murphy[19] (a widow), John Landrum Murphy,[19] Lemuel Murphy,[20] Mary Murphy, William G. Murphy and Simon Murphy, Mrs. Amanda McCutchen and Harriet McCutchen,[19] Mrs. Harriet Pike (widow), Nioma Pike and Catherine Pike,[19] Mrs. Margaret Reed, Virginia Reed, Martha J. Reed, James F. Reed, Jr., and Thomas K. Reed, Joseph Rhinehart,[19] Charles Stanton,[20] John Baptiste Trubode, August Spitzer,[19] James Smith,[19] Samuel Shoemaker, Bailis Williams[19] and Eliza Williams (his sister), Mrs. Woolfinger (widow), Antonio (a Mexican) and Lewis and Salvador (the two Indians sent with Stanton by General Sutter). Stated in brief, the result of the disaster to the party in the mountains was as follows: The total number of deaths was thirty-six, as follows: fourteen in the mountains while _en route_ to the settlement; fourteen at camp near Donner Lake; and eight at Donner's Camp. The total number who reached the settlement was forty-five; of whom five were men, eight were women, and thirty-two were children. The family of James F. Reed and that of Patrick Breen survived in unbroken numbers. The only other family in which all the children reached the settlement was that of Captain George Donner. Fourteen of the eighty-one souls constituting the Donner Party were boys and girls between the ages of nineteen and twelve years; twenty-six ranged from twelve years to a year and a half; and seven were nursing babes. There were only thirty-four adults,--twenty-two men and twelve women. Of the first-named group, eleven survived the disaster. One youth died _en route_ with the Forlorn Hope; one at the Lake Camp; and one at Bear Valley in charge of the First Relief. Twenty of the second-named group also reached the settlements. One died _en route_ with the First Relief; two at Donner's Camp (in March, 1847); two at Starved Camp, in charge of the Second Relief; and one at the Lake Camp (in March). Two of the seven babes lived, and five perished at the Lake Camp. They hungered and slowly perished after famine had dried the natural flow, and infant lips had drawn blood from maternal breasts. The first nursling's life to ebb was that of Lewis Keseberg, Jr., on January 24, 1847.[21] His grief-stricken mother could not be comforted. She hugged his wasted form to her heart and carried it far from camp, where she dug a grave and buried it in the snow. Harriet McCutchen, whose mother had struggled on with the Forlorn Hope in search of succor, breathed her last on the second of February, while lying upon the lap of Mrs. Graves; and the snow being deep and hard frozen, Mrs. Graves bade her son William make the necessary excavation near the wall within their cabin, and they buried the body there, where the mother should find it upon her return. Catherine Pike died in the Murphy cabin a few hours before the arrival of food from the settlement and was buried on the morning of February 22.[22] [Illustration: Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. ALDER CREEK] [Illustration: DENNISON'S EXCHANGE AND THE PARKER HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO] Those were the only babes that perished before relief came. Does not the fact that so many young children survived the disaster refute the charges of parental selfishness and inhumanity, and emphasize the immeasurable self-sacrifice, love, and care that kept so many of the little ones alive through that long, bitter siege of starvation? Mrs. Elinor Eddy, who passed away in the Murphy cabin on the seventh of February, was the only wife and mother called by death, in either camp, before the arrival of the First Relief. Both Patrick Breen's diary and William G. Murphy, then a lad of eleven years, assert that Mrs. Eddy and little Margaret, her only daughter, were buried in the snow near the Murphy cabin on the ninth of February. Furthermore, the Breen Diary and the death-list of the Donner Party show that not a husband or father died at the Lake Camp during the entire period of the party's imprisonment in the mountains.[23] How, then, could that First Relief, or either of the other relief parties see--how could they even have imagined that they saw--"wife sitting at the side of her husband who had just died, mutilating his body," or "the daughter eating her father," or "mother that of her children," or "children that of father and mother"? The same questions might be asked regarding the other revolting scenes pictured by the _Star_. The seven men who first braved the dangers of the icy trail in the work of rescue came over a trackless, ragged waste of snow, varying from ten to forty feet in depth,[24] and approached the camp-site near the lake at sunset. They halloed, and up the snow steps came those able to drag themselves to the surface. When they descended into those cabins, they found no cheering lights. Through the smoky atmosphere, they saw smouldering fires, and faced conditions so appalling that words forsook them; their very souls were racked with agonizing sympathy. There were the famine-stricken and the perishing, almost as wasted and helpless as those whose sufferings had ceased. Too weak to show rejoicing, they could only beg with quivering lips and trembling hands, "Oh, give us something to eat! Give us something to drink! We are starving!" True, their hands were grimy, their clothing tattered, and the floors were bestrewn with hair from hides and bits of broken bullock bones; but of connubial, parental, or filial inhumanity, there were no signs. With what deep emotion those seven heroic men contemplated the conditions in camp may be gathered from Mr. Aguilla Glover's own notes, published in Thornton's work: Feb. 19, 1847. The unhappy survivors were, in short, in a condition most deplorable, and beyond power of language to describe, or imagination to conceive. The emigrants had not yet commenced eating the dead. Many of the sufferers had been living on bullock hides for weeks and even that sort of food was so nearly exhausted that they were about to dig up from the snow the bodies of their companions for the purpose of prolonging their wretched lives. Thornton's work contains the following statement by a member of one of the relief corps: On the morning of February 20,[25] Racine Tucker, John Rhodes, and Riley Moutrey went to the camp of George Donner eight miles distant, taking a little jerked beef. These sufferers (eighteen) had but one hide remaining. They had determined that upon consuming this they would dig from the snow the bodies of those who had died from starvation. Mr. Donner was helpless, Mrs. Donner was weak but in good health, and might have come to the settlement with this party; yet she solemnly but calmly determined to remain with her husband and perform for him the last sad offices of affection and humanity. And this she did in full view that she must necessarily perish by remaining behind. The three men returned the same day with seven refugees[26] from Donner Camp. John Baptiste Trubode has distinct recollections of the arrival and departure of Tucker's party, and of the amount of food left by it. He said to me in that connection: "To each of us who had to stay in camp, one of the First Relief Party measured a teacupful of flour, two small biscuits, and thin pieces of jerked beef, each piece as long as his first finger, and as many pieces as he could encircle with that first finger and thumb brought together, end to end. This was all that could be spared, and was to last until the next party could reach us. "Our outlook was dreary and often hopeless. I don't know what I would have done sometimes without the comforting talks and prayers of those two women, your mother and Aunt Elizabeth. Then evenings after you children went to sleep, Mrs. George Donner would read to me from the book[27] she wrote in every day. If that book had been saved, every one would know the truth of what went on in camp, and not spread these false tales. "I dug in the snow for the dead cattle, but found none, and we had to go back to our saltless old bullock hide, days before the Second Relief got to us, on the first of March." [Footnote 19: Died while in the mountain camps.] [Footnote 20: Died _en route_ over the mountains to the settlements in California.] [Footnote 21: Report brought by John Baptiste to Donner's Camp, after one of his trips to the lake.] [Footnote 22: Incident related by William C. Graves, after he reached the settlement.] [Footnote 23: Franklin W. Graves and Jay Fosdick perished in December, 1846, while _en route_ to the settlement with the Forlorn Hope.] [Footnote 24: One of the stumps near the Breen-Graves cabin, cut for fuel while the snow was deepest, was found by actual measurement to be twenty-two feet in height. It is still standing.] [Footnote 25: Thornton's dates are one day later than those in the Breen Diary. Breen must have lost a day _en route_.] [Footnote 26: The First Relief Corps took six, instead of seven, refugees from Donner Camp, and set out from the lake cabins with twenty-three, instead of twenty-four, refugees.] [Footnote 27: The journal, herbarium, manuscript, and drawings of Mrs. George Donner were not among the goods delivered at the Fort by the Fallon Party, and no trace of them was ever found.] II THE REED-GREENWOOD PARTY, OR SECOND RELIEF--REMINISCENCES OF WILLIAM G. MURPHY--CONCERNING NICHOLAS CLARK AND JOHN BAPTISTE. On the third of March, 1847, the Reed-Greenwood, or Second Relief Corps (excepting Nicholas Clark) left camp with the following refugees: Patrick Breen, Margaret Breen (his wife), Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon Breen, James Breen, Peter Breen, Isabella Breen, Solomon Hook, Mary Donner, Isaac Donner, Mrs. Elizabeth Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B. Graves, Franklin W. Graves, Jr., Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Martha J. Reed, and Thomas K. Reed. The whole party, as has been already told, were forced into camp about ten miles below the summit on the west side of the Sierras, by one of the fiercest snow-storms of the season. All credit is due Mr. and Mrs. Breen for keeping the nine helpless waifs left with them at Starved Camp alive until food was brought them by members of the Third Relief Party. Mr. Breen's much prized diary does not cover the experiences of that little band in their struggle across the mountains, but concludes two days before they started. After he and his family succeeded in reaching the Sacramento Valley, he gave his diary (kept at Donner Lake) to Colonel George McKinstrey for the purpose of assisting him in making out his report to Captain Hall, U.S.N., Sloop of War _Warren_, Commander Northern District of California. James F. Reed of the Reed-Greenwood Party, the second to reach the emigrants, has been adversely criticised from time to time, because he and six of his men returned to Sutter's Fort in March with no more than his own two children and Solomon Hook, a lad of twelve years, who had said that he could and would walk, and did. Careful investigation, however, proves the criticism hasty and unfair. True, Mr. Reed went over the mountains with the largest and best equipped party sent out, ten well furnished, able-bodied men. But returning he left one man at camp to assist the needy emigrants. The seventeen refugees whom he and nine companions brought over the summit comprised three weak, wasted adults, and fourteen emaciated young children. The prospect of getting them all to the settlement, even under favorable circumstances, had seemed doubtful at the beginning of the journey. Alas, one of the heaviest snow-storms of the season overtook them on the bleak mountain-side ten miles from the tops of the Sierra Nevadas. It continued many days. Food gave out, death took toll. The combined efforts of the men could not do more than provide fuel and keep the fires. All became exhausted. Rescuers and refugees might have perished there together had the nine men not followed what seemed their only alternative. Who would not have done what Reed did? With almost superhuman effort, he saved his two children. No one felt keener regret than he over the fact that he had been obliged to abandon at Starved Camp the eleven refugees he had heroically endeavored to save. In those days of affliction, it were well nigh impossible to say who was most afflicted; still, it would seem that no greater destitution and sorrow could have been meted to any one than fell to the lot of Mrs. Murphy at the lake camp. The following incidents were related by her son, William G. Murphy, in an address to a concourse of people assembled on the shore of Donner Lake in February, 1896: I was a little more than eleven years of age when we all reached these mountains, and that one-roomed shanty was built, where so many of us lived, ate, and slept. No!--Where so many of us slept, starved, and died! It was constructed for my mother and seven children (two being married) and her three grandchildren, and William Foster, husband of her daughter Sarah. Early in December when the Forlorn Hope was planned, we were almost out of provisions; and my mother took the babes from the arms of Sarah and Harriet (Mrs. Pike) and told them that she would care for their little ones, and they being young might with William (Foster) and their brother Lemuel reach the settlement and return with food. And the four became members of that hapless band of fifteen. Mr. Eddy being its leader, his wife and her two children came to live with us during his absence. When my eldest brother, on whom my mother depended, was very weak and almost at death's door, my mother went to the Breens and begged a little meat, just a few mouthfuls--I remember well that little piece of meat! My mother gave half of it to my dying brother; he ate it, fell asleep with a hollow death gurgle. When it ceased I went to him--he was dead--starved to death in our presence. Although starving herself, my mother said that if she had known that Landrum was going to die she would have given him the balance of the meat. Little Margaret Eddy lingered until February 4, and her mother until the seventh. Their bodies lay two days and nights longer in the room with us before we could find assistance able to bury them in the snow. Some days earlier Milton Elliot, weak and wandering around, had taken up his abode with us. We shared with him the remnant of our beef hides. We had had a lot of that glue-making material. But mark, it would not sustain life. Elliot soon starved to death, and neighbors removed and interred the body in the snow beside others. Catherine Pike, my absent sister's baby, died on the eighteenth of February, only a few hours before the arrival of the First Relief. Thus the inmates of our shanty had been reduced to my mother, my sister Mary, brother Simon, Nioma Pike, Georgie Foster, myself, and little Jimmy Eddy. When the rescuers decided they would carry out Nioma Pike, and that my sister Mary and I should follow, stepping in the tracks made by those who had snowshoes, strength seemed to come, so that I was able to cut and carry to my mother's shanty what appeared to me a huge pile of wood. It was green, but it was all I could get. We left mother there with three helpless little ones to feed on almost nothing, yet in the hope that she might keep them alive until the arrival of the next relief. Many of the survivors remember that after having again eaten food seasoned with salt, the boiled, saltless hides produced nausea and could not be retained by adult or child. I say with deep reverence that flesh of the dead was used to sustain the living in more than one cabin near the lake. But it was not used until after the pittance of food left by the First Relief had long been consumed; not until after the wolves had dug the snow from the graves. Perhaps God sent the wolves to show Mrs. Murphy and also Mrs. Graves where to get sustenance for their dependent little ones. Both were widows; the one had three, and the other four helpless children to save. Was it culpable, or cannibalistic to seek and use the only life-saving means left them? Were the acts and purposes of their unsteady hands and aching hearts less tender, less humane than those of the lauded surgeons of to-day, who infuse human blood from living bodies into the arteries of those whom naught else can save, or who strip skin from bodies that feel pain, to cover wounds which would otherwise prove fatal? John Baptiste Trubode and Nicholas Clark, of the Second Relief, were the last men who saw my father alive. In August, 1883, the latter came to my home in San Jose. This was our second meeting since that memorable morning of March 2, 1847, when he went in pursuit of the wounded mother bear, and was left behind by the relief party. We spoke long and earnestly of our experience in the mountains, and he wished me to deny the statement frequently made that, "Clark carried a pack of plunder and a heavy shotgun from Donner's Camp and left a child there to die." This I can do positively, for when the Third Relief Party took Simon Murphy and us "three little Donner girls" from the mountain camp, not a living being remained, except Mrs. Murphy and Keseberg at the lake camp, and my father and mother at Donner's Camp. All were helpless except my mother. The Spring following my interview with Nicholas Clark, John Baptiste came to San Jose, and Mr. McCutchen brought him to talk with me. John, always a picturesque character, had become a hop picker in hop season, and a fisherman the rest of the year. He could not restrain the tears which coursed down his bronzed cheeks as he spoke of the destitution and suffering in the snow-bound camps; of the young unmarried men who had been so light-hearted on the plains and brave when first they faced the snows. His voice trembled as he told how often they had tried to break through the great barriers, and failed; hunted, and found nothing; fished, and caught nothing; and when rations dwindled to strips of beef hide, their strength waned, and death found them ready victims. He declared, The hair and bones found around the Donner fires were those of cattle. No human flesh was used by either Donner family. This I know, for I was there all winter and helped get all the wood and food we had, after starvation threatened us. I was about sixteen years old at the time. Our four men died early in December and were buried in excavations in the side of the mountain. Their bodies were never disturbed. As the snows deepened to ten and twelve feet, we lost track of their location. When saying good-bye, he looked at me wistfully and exclaimed: "Oh, little Eliza, sister mine, how I suffered and worked to help keep you alive. Do you think there was ever colder, stronger winds than them that whistled and howled around our camp in the Sierras?" He returned the next day, and in his quaint, earnest way expressed keenest regret that he and Clark had not remained longer in camp with my father and mother. "I did not feel it so much at first; but after I got married and had children of my own, I often fished and cried, as I thought of what I done, for if we two men had stayed, perhaps we might have saved that little woman." His careworn features lightened as I bade him grieve no more, for I realized that he was but a boy, overburdened with a man's responsibilities, and had done his best, and that nobly. Then I added what I have always believed, that no one was to blame for the misfortunes which overtook us in the mountains. The dangers and difficulties encountered by reason of taking the Hastings Cut-off had all been surmounted--two weeks more and we should have reached our destination in safety. Then came the snow! Who could foresee that it would come earlier, fall deeper, and linger longer, that season than for thirty years before? Everything that a party could do to save itself was done by the Donner Party; and certainly everything that a generous, sympathizing people could do to save the snow-bound was done by the people of California. III THE REPORT OF THOMAS FALLON--DEDUCTIONS--STATEMENT OF EDWIN BRYANT--PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES. The following is the report of Thomas Fallon, leader of the fourth party to the camps near Donner Lake: Left Johnson's on the evening of April 13, and arrived at the lower end of Bear River Valley on the fifteenth. Hung our saddles upon trees, and sent the horses back, to be returned again in ten days to bring us in again. Started on foot, with provisions for ten days and travelled to head of the valley, and camped for the night; snow from two to three feet deep. Started early in the morning of April 15 and travelled twenty-three miles. Snow ten feet deep. April 17. Reached the cabins between twelve and one o'clock. Expected to find some of the sufferers alive. Mrs. Donner and Keseberg[28] in particular. Entered the cabins, and a horrible scene presented itself. Human bodies terribly mutilated, legs, arms, and skulls scattered in every direction. One body supposed to be that of Mrs. Eddy lay near the entrance, the limbs severed off, and a frightful gash in the skull. The flesh was nearly consumed from the bones, and a painful stillness pervaded the place. The supposition was, that all were dead, when a sudden shout revived our hopes, and we flew in the direction of the sound. Three Indians who had been hitherto concealed, started from the ground, fled at our approach, leaving behind their bows and arrows. We delayed two hours in searching the cabins, during which we were obliged to witness sights from which we would have fain turned away, and which are too dreadful to put on record. We next started for Donner's camp, eight miles distant over the mountains. After travelling about half-way, we came upon a track in the snow which excited our suspicion, and we determined to pursue. It brought us to the camp of Jacob Donner, where it had evidently left that morning. There we found property of every description, books, calicoes, tea, coffee, shoes, percussion caps, household and kitchen furniture, scattered in every direction, and mostly in water. At the mouth of the tent stood a large iron kettle, filled with human flesh cut up. It was from the body of George Donner. The head had been split open, and the brain extracted therefrom; and to the appearance he had not been long dead--not over three or four days, at most. Near-by the kettle stood a chair, and thereupon three legs of a bullock that had been shot down in the early part of winter, and snowed upon before it could be dressed. The meat was found sound and good, and with the exception of a small piece out of the shoulder, whole, untouched. We gathered up some property, and camped for the night. April 18. Commenced gathering the most valuable property, suitable for our packs; the greater portion had to be dried. We then made them up, and camped for the night. April 19. This morning Foster, Rhodes, and J. Foster started, with small packs, for the first cabins, intending from thence to follow the trail of the person that had left the morning previous. The other three remained behind to cache and secure the goods necessarily left there. Knowing the Donners had a considerable sum of money we searched diligently but were unsuccessful. The party for the cabins were unable to keep the trail of the mysterious personage, owing to the rapid melting of the snow; they therefore went directly to the cabins and upon entering discovered Keseberg lying down amid the human bones, and beside him a large pan full of fresh liver and lights. They asked him what had become of his companions; whether they were alive, and what had become of Mrs. Donner. He answered them by stating that they were all dead. Mrs. Donner, he said, had, in attempting to cross from one cabin to another, missed the trail and slept out one night; that she came to his camp the next night very much fatigued. He made her a cup of coffee, placed her in bed, and rolled her well in the blankets; but next morning she was dead. He ate her body and found her flesh the best he had ever tasted. He further stated that he obtained from her body at least four pounds of fat. No trace of her body was found, nor of the body of Mrs. Murphy either. When the last company left the camp, three weeks previous, Mrs. Donner was in perfect health, though unwilling to leave her husband there, and offered $500.00 to any person or persons who would come out and bring them in, saying this in the presence of Keseberg, and that she had plenty of tea and coffee. We suspected that it was she who had taken the piece from the shoulder of beef on the chair before mentioned. In the cabin with Keseberg were found two kettles of human blood, in all, supposed to be over two gallons. Rhodes asked him where he had got the blood. He answered, "There is blood in dead bodies." They asked him numerous questions, but he appeared embarrassed, and equivocated a great deal; and in reply to their asking him where Mrs. Donner's money was, he evinced confusion, and answered that he knew nothing about it, that she must have cached it before she died. "I haven't it," said he, "nor money nor property of any person, living or dead." They then examined his bundle, and found silks and jewellery, which had been taken from the camp of Donners, amounting in value to about $200.00. On his person they discovered a brace of pistols recognized to be those of George Donner; and while taking them from him, discovered something concealed in his waistcoat, which on being opened was found to be $225.00 in gold. Before leaving the settlement, the wife of Keseberg had told us that we would find but little money about him; the men therefore said to him that they knew he was lying to them, and that he was well aware of the place of concealment of the Donners' money. He declared before Heaven he knew nothing concerning it, and that he had not the property of any one in his possession. They told him that to lie to them would effect nothing; that there were others back at the cabins who unless informed of the spot where the treasure was hidden would not hesitate to hang him upon the first tree. Their threats were of no avail. He still affirmed his ignorance and innocence. Rhodes took him aside and talked to him kindly, telling him that if he would give the information desired, he should receive from their hands the best of treatment, and be in every way assisted; otherwise, the party back at Donner's Camp would, upon arrival, and his refusal to discover to them the place where he had deposited this money, immediately put him to death. It was all to no purpose, however, and they prepared to return to us, leaving him in charge of the packs, and assuring him of their determination to visit him in the morning; and that he must make up his mind during the night. They started back and joined us at Donner's Camp. April 20. We all started for Bear River Valley, with packs of one hundred pounds each; our provisions being nearly consumed, we were obliged to make haste away. Came within a few hundred yards of the cabins and halted to prepare breakfast, after which we proceeded to the cabin. I now asked Keseberg if he was willing to disclose to me where he had concealed that money. He turned somewhat pale and again protested his innocence. I said to him, "Keseberg, you know well where Donner's money is, and damn you, you shall tell me! I am not going to multiply words with you or say but little about it. Bring me that rope!" He then arose from his hot soup and human flesh, and begged me not to harm him; he had not the money nor goods; the silk clothing and money which were found upon him the previous day and which he then declared belonged to his wife, he now said were the property of others in California. I told him I did not wish to hear more from him, unless he at once informed us where he had concealed the money of those orphan children; then producing the rope I approached him. He became frightened, but I bent the rope around his neck and as I tightened the cord, and choked him, he cried out that he would confess all upon release. I then permitted him to arise. He still seemed inclined to be obstinate and made much delay in talking. Finally, but without evident reluctance, he led the way back to Donner's Camp, about ten miles distant, accompanied by Rhodes and Tucker. While they were absent we moved all our packs over the lower end of the lake, and made all ready for a start when they should return. Mr. Foster went down to the cabin of Mrs. Murphy, his mother-in-law, to see if any property remained there worth collecting and securing; he found the body of young Murphy who had been dead about three months with his breast and skull cut open, and the brains, liver, and lights taken out; and this accounted for the contents of the pan which stood beside Keseberg when he was found. It appeared that he had left at the other camp the dead bullock and horse, and on visiting this camp and finding the body thawed out, took therefrom the brains, liver, and lights. Tucker and Rhodes came back the next morning, bringing $273.00 that had been cached by Keseberg, who after disclosing to them the spot, returned to the cabin. The money had been hidden directly underneath the projecting limb of a large tree, the end of which seemed to point precisely to the treasure buried in the earth. On their return and passing the cabin, they saw the unfortunate man within devouring the remaining brains and liver left from his morning repast. They hurried him away, but before leaving, he gathered together the bones and heaped them all in a box he used for the purpose, blessed them and the cabin and said, "I hope God will forgive me what I have done. I could not help it; and I hope I may get to heaven yet!" We asked Keseberg why he did not use the meat of the bullock and horse instead of human flesh. He replied he had not seen them. We then told him we knew better, and asked him why the meat on the chair had not been consumed. He said, "Oh, it is too dry eating; the liver and lights were a great deal better, and brains made good soup!" We then moved on and camped by the lake for the night. April 21. Started for Bear River Valley this morning. Found the snow from six to eight feet deep; camped at Yuma River for the night. On the twenty-second travelled down Yuma about eighteen miles, and camped at the head of Bear River Valley. On the twenty-fifth moved down to lower end of the valley, met our horses, and came in. The account by Fallon regarding the fate of the last of the Donners in their mountain camp was the same as that which Elitha and Leanna had heard and had endeavored to keep from us little ones at Sutter's Fort. [Illustration: VIEW IN THE GROUNDS OF THE HOUGHTON HOME IN SAN JOSE] [Illustration: THE HOUGHTON RESIDENCE IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA] It is self-evident, however, that the author of those statements did not contemplate that reliable parties[29] would see the Donner camps before prowling beasts, or time and elements, had destroyed all proof of his own and his party's wanton falsity. It is also plain that the Fallon Party did not set out expecting to find any one alive in the mountains, otherwise would it not have taken more provisions than just enough to sustain its own men ten days? Would it not have ordered more horses to meet it at the lower end of Bear Valley for the return trip? Had it planned to find and succor survivors would it have taken it for granted that all had perished, simply because there was no one in the lake cabins, and would it have delayed two precious hours in searching the lake camp for valuables before proceeding to Donner's Camp? Had the desire to rescue been uppermost in mind, would not the sight of human foot-tracks on the snow half way between the two camps have excited hope, instead of "suspicion," and prompted some of the party to pursue the lone wanderer with kindly intent? Does not each succeeding day's entry in that journal disclose the party's forgetfulness of its declared mission to the mountains? Can any palliating excuse be urged why those men did not share with Keseberg the food they had brought, instead of permitting him to continue that which famine had forced upon him, and which later they so righteously condemned? Is there a single strain of humanity, pathos, or reverence in that diary, save that reflected from Keseberg's last act before being hurried away from that desolate cabin? Or could there be a falser, crueler, or more heartless account brought to bereaved children than Fallon's purported description of the father's body found in Donner's Camp? Here is the statement of Edwin Bryant, who with General Kearney and escort, _en route_ to the United States, halted at the deserted cabins on June 22, 1847, and wrote: The body of (Captain) George Donner was found in his own camp about eight miles distant. He had been carefully laid out by his wife, and a sheet was wrapped around the corpse. This sad office was probably the last act she performed before visiting the camp of Keseberg.[30] After considering what had been published by _The California Star_, by Bryant, Thornton, Mrs. Farnham, and others, I could not but realize Keseberg's peculiarly helpless situation. Without a chance to speak in his own defence, he had been charged, tried, and adjudged guilty by his accusers; and an excited people had accepted the verdict without question. Later, at Captain Sutter's suggestion, Keseberg brought action for slander against Captain Fallon and party. The case was tried before Alcalde Sinclair,[31] and the jury gave Keseberg a verdict of one dollar damages. This verdict, however, was not given wide circulation, and prejudice remained unchecked. There were other peculiar circumstances connected with this much accused man which were worthy of consideration, notably the following: If, as reported, Keseberg was in condition to walk to the settlement, why did the First Relief permit him to remain in camp consuming rations that might have saved others? Messrs. Reed and McCutchen of the Second Relief knew the man on the plains, and had they regarded him as able to travel, or a menace to life in camp, would they have left him there to prey on women and little children, like a wolf in the fold? Messrs. Eddy and Foster of the Third Relief had travelled with him on the plains, starved with him in camp, and had had opportunities of talking with him upon their return to the cabins too late to rescue Jimmy Eddy and Georgia Foster. Had they believed that he had murdered the children, would those two fathers and the rest of their party have taken Simon Murphy and the three little Donner girls and left Keseberg _alive_ in camp with lone, sick, and helpless Mrs. Murphy--Mrs. Murphy who was grandmother of Georgia Foster, and had sole charge of Jimmy Eddy? [Footnote 28: Should be spelled Keseberg.] [Footnote 29: General Kearney and escort, accompanied by Edwin Bryant.] [Footnote 30: McGlashan's "History of the Donner Party" (1879).] [Footnote 31: The old Alcalde records are not in existence, but some of the survivors of the party remember the circumstance; and Mrs. Samuel Kybert, now of Clarkville, Eldorado County, was a witness at the trial. C.F. McGlashan, 1879.] IV LEWIS KESEBERG In March, 1879, while collecting material for his "History of the Donner Party," Mr. C.F. McGlashan, of Truckee, California, visited survivors at San Jose, and coming to me, said: "Mrs. Houghton, I am sorry that I must look to you and your sisters for answers to the most delicate and trying questions relating to this history. I refer to the death of your mother at the hand of Keseberg." He was so surprised and shocked as I replied, "I do not believe that Keseberg was responsible for my mother's death," that he interrupted me, lost for a moment the manner of the impartial historian, and with the directness of a cross-questioning attorney asked: "Is it possible that Mrs. George Donner's daughter defends the murderer of her mother?" And when I replied, "We have no proofs. My mother's body was never found," he continued earnestly, "Why, I have enough evidence in this note book to convict that monster, and I can do it, or at least arouse such public sentiment against him that he will have to leave the State." Very closely he followed my answering words, "Mr. McGlashan, from little girlhood I have prayed that Lewis Keseberg some day would send for me and tell me of my mother's last hours, and perhaps give a last message left for her children, and I firmly believe that my prayer will be granted, and I would not like you to destroy my opportunity. You have a ready pen, but it will not be used in exact justice to all the survivors, as you have promised, if you finish your work without giving Keseberg also a chance to speak for himself." After a moment's reflection, he replied, "I am amazed; but your wish in this matter shall be respected." The following evening he wrote from San Francisco: You will be glad to know that I have put Harry N. Morse's detective agency of Oakland upon the track of Keseberg, and if found, I mean to take steps to obtain his confession. In less than a week after the foregoing, came a note from him which tells its own story. SACRAMENTO, _Midnight, April 4, 1879_ MRS. E.P. HOUGHTON, DEAR MADAM:-- Late as it is, I feel that I ought to tell you that I have spent the evening with Keseberg. I have just got back, and return early to-morrow to complete my interview. By merest accident, while tracing, as I supposed, the record of his death, I found a clue to his whereabouts. After dark I drove six miles and found him. At first he declined to tell me anything, but somehow I melted the mood with which he seemed enwrapped, and he talked freely. He swears to me that he did not murder your mother. He declares it so earnestly that I cannot doubt his veracity. To-morrow I intend plying him closely with questions, and by a rigid system of cross examination will detect the false-hood, if there is one, in his statement. He gives chapter after chapter that others never knew. I cannot say more to-night, but desire that you write me (at the Cosmopolitan) any questions you might wish me to ask Keseberg, and if I have not already asked them, I will do so on my return from San Francisco. C.F. MCGLASHAN. After his second interview with Keseberg and in response to my urgent appeal for full details of everything relating to my parents, Mr. McGlashan wrote: I wish you could see him. He will talk to either you or me at any time, unless other influences are brought to bear upon him. If I send word for him to come to Sacramento, he will meet me on my return. If you and your husband could be there on Thursday or Friday of this week, I could arrange an interview at the hotel that would be all you could wish. I asked him especially if he would talk to you, and he said, "Yes." I dared not tell you about my interview until I had your permission. Even now, I approach the task tremblingly. Your mother was not murdered. Your father died, Keseberg thinks, about two weeks after you left. Your mother remained with him until the last and laid him out tenderly, as you know. The days--to Keseberg--were perfect blanks. Mrs. Murphy died soon after your departure with Eddy, and he was left alone--alone in his cabin--alone with the dead bodies which he could not have lifted from the floor, because of his weakness, even had he desired. The man sighs and shudders, and great drops of agony gather upon his brows as he endeavors to relate the details of those terrible days, or recall their horrors. Loneliness, desolation was the chief element of horror. Alone with the mutilated dead! One night he sprang up in affright at the sound of something moving or scratching at a log outside his cabin. It was some time before he could understand that it was wolves trying to get in. One night, about two weeks after you left, a knock came at his door, and your mother entered. To this lonely wretch her coming seemed like an angel's. She was cold and wet and freezing, yet her first words were, that she must see her children. Keseberg understood that she intended to start out that very night, and soon found that she was slightly demented. She kept saying, "O God! I must see my children. I must go to my children!" She finally consented to wait until the morning, but was determined that nothing should then prevent her lonely journey. She told Keseberg where her money was concealed, she made him solemnly promise that he would get the money and take it to her children. She would not taste the food he had to offer. She had not tasted human flesh, and would hardly consent to remain in his foul and hideous den. Too weak and Chilled to move, she finally sank down on the floor, and he covered her as best he could with blankets and feather bed, and made a fire to warm her; but it was of no avail, she had received her death-chill, and in the morning her spirit had passed heavenward. I believe Keseberg tells the truth. Your mother watched day and night by your father's bedside until the end. At nightfall he ceased to breathe, and she was alone in the desolate camp, where she performed the last sad ministrations, and then her duty in the mountains was accomplished. All the smothered yearnings of maternal love now burst forth with full power. Out into the darkness and night she rushed, without waiting for the morning. "My children, I must see my children!" She arrived at Keseberg's cabin, overwrought mentally, overtaxed physically, and chilled by the freezing night air. She was eager to set forth on her desperate journey without resting a moment. I can see her as he described her, wringing her hands and exclaiming over and over again, "I must see my children!" The story told by Mrs. Farnham and others about finding your mother's remains, and that of Thornton concerning the pail of blood, are unquestionably false. She had been dead weeks, and Keseberg confessed to me that no part of her body was found by the relief (Fallon) party. My friend, I have attempted to comply with your request. More than once during this evening I have burst into tears. I am sorry almost that I attempted so mournful a task, but you will pardon the pain I have caused. Keseberg is a powerful man, six feet in height, with full bushy beard, thin brown locks, and high forehead. He has blue eyes that look squarely at you while he talks. He is sometimes absent-minded and at times seems almost carried away with the intensity of his misery and desolation. He speaks and writes German, French, Spanish, and English; and his selection of words proves him a scholar. When I first asked him to make a statement which I could reduce to writing he urged: "What is the use of making a statement? People incline to believe the most horrible reports concerning a man; they will not credit what I say in my own defence. My conscience is clear. I am an old man, and am calmly awaiting my death. God is my judge, and it long ago ceased to trouble me that people shunned and slandered me." He finally consented to make the desired statement, and in speaking of your family he continued: "Some time after Mrs. George Donner's death, I thought I had gained sufficient strength to redeem the pledge I had made her before her death. I went to Alder Creek Camp to get the money. I had a difficult journey. The wagons of the Donners were loaded with tobacco, powder, caps, school-books, shoes, and dry goods. This stock was very valuable. I spent the night there, searched carefully among the bales and bundles of goods, and found five hundred and thirty-one dollars. Part of this sum was gold, part silver. The silver I buried at the foot of a pine tree, a little way from camp. One of the lower branches of another tree reached down close to the ground, and appeared to point to the spot. I put the gold in my pocket, and started back to my cabin; got lost, and in crossing a little flat the snow suddenly gave way, and I sank down almost to my arm-pits. After great exertion I raised myself out of a snow-covered stream, and went round on a hillside and continued my journey. At dark, and completely exhausted, and almost dead, I came in sight of the Graves's cabin, and sometime after dark staggered into my own. My clothes were wet, and the night was so cold that my garments were frozen stiff. I did not build a fire nor get anything to eat, just rolled myself up in the bed-clothes, and shivered; finally fell asleep, and did not waken until late in the morning. Then I saw my camp was in most inexplicable confusion; everything about the cabin was torn up and scattered about, trunks broken open; and my wife's jewellery, my cloak, my pistol and ammunition was missing. I thought Indians had been there. Suddenly I heard human voices. I hurried up to the surface of the snow, and saw white men approaching. I was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. I had suffered so much and so long, that I could scarcely believe my senses. Imagine my astonishment upon their arrival to be greeted, not with a 'Good-morning' or a kind word, but with a gruff, insolent demand, 'Where is Donner's money?' "I told them they ought to give me something to eat, and that I would talk with them afterwards; but no, they insisted that I should tell them about Donner's money. I asked who they were, and where they came from, but they replied by threatening to kill me if I did not give up the money. They threatened to hang or shoot me. At last I told them that I had promised Mrs. Donner that I would carry her money to her children, and I proposed to do so, unless shown some authority by which they had a better claim. This so exasperated them that they acted as though they were going to kill me. I offered to let them bind me as a prisoner, and take me before Alcalde Sinclair at Sutter's Fort, and I promised that I would then tell all I knew about the money. They would listen to nothing, however, and finally I told them where they would find the silver, and gave them the gold. After I had done this they showed me a document from Alcalde Sinclair, by which they were to receive a certain proportion of all moneys and properties which they rescued. Those men treated me with great unkindness. Mr. Tucker was the only one who took my part or befriended me. When they started over the mountains, each man carried two bales of goods. They had silks, calicoes, and delaines from the Donners, and other articles of great value. Each man would carry one bundle a little way, lay it down, and come back and get the other bundle. In this way they passed over the snow three times. I could not keep up with them, because I was so weak, but managed to come up to their camp every night." Upon receipt of this communication I wrote Mr. McGlashan from San Jose that I was nerved for the ordeal, but that he should not permit me to start on that momentous journey if his proposed arrangements were at all doubtful, and that he should telegraph me at once. Alas! my note miscarried; and, believing that his proposal had not met my approval, Mr. and Mrs. McGlashan returned to Truckee a day earlier than expected. Two weeks later he returned the envelope, its postmarks showing what had happened. It was not easy to gain the consent of my husband to a meeting with Keseberg. He dreaded its effect on me. He feared the outcome of the interview. However, on May 16, 1879, he and I, by invitation, joined Mr. and Mrs. McGlashan at the Golden Eagle Hotel in Sacramento. The former then announced that although Keseberg had agreed by letter to meet us there, he had that morning begged to be spared the mortification of coming to the city hotel, where some one might recognize him, and as of old, point the finger of scorn at him. After some deliberation as to how I would accept the change, Mr. McGlashan had aceeded to the old man's wish, that we drive to the neat little boarding house at Brighton next morning, where we could have the use of the parlor for a private interview. In compliance with this arrangement we four were at the Brighton hotel at the appointed time. Mr. McGlashan and my husband went in search of Keseberg, and after some delay returned, saying: "Keseberg cannot overcome his strong feeling against a meeting in a public house. He has tidied up a vacant room in the brewery adjoining the house where he lives with his afflicted children. It being Sunday, he knows that no one will be about to disturb us. Will you go there?" I could only reply, "I am ready." My husband, seeing my lips tremble and knowing the intensity of my suppressed emotion, hastened to assure me that he had talked with the man, and been impressed by his straightforward answers, and that I need have no dread of meeting or talking with him. When we met at his door, Mr. McGlashan introduced us. We bowed, not as strangers, not as friends, nor did we shake hands. Our thoughts were fixed solely on the purpose that had brought us together. He invited us to enter, led the way to that room which I had been told he had swept and furnished for the occasion with seats for five. His first sentence made us both forget that others were present. It opened the way at once. "Mr. McGlashan has told me that you have questions you wish to ask me yourself about what happened in the mountain cabin." Still standing, and looking up into his face, I replied: "Yes, for the eye of God and your eyes witnessed my mother's last hours, and I have come to ask you, in the presence of that other Witness, when, where, and how she died. I want you to tell me all, and so truly that there shall be no disappointment for me, nor remorse and denials for you in your last hour. Tell it now, so that you will not need to send for me to hear a different story then." I took the chair he proffered, and he placed his own opposite and having gently reminded me of the love and respect the members of the Donner Party bore their captain and his wife, earnestly and feelingly, he told me the story as he had related it to Mr. McGlashan. Then, before I understood his movement, he had sunk upon his knees, saying solemnly, "On my knees before you, and in the sight of God, I want to assert my innocence." I could not have it thus. I bade him rise, and stand with me in the presence of the all-seeing Father. Extending my upturned hand, I bade him lay his own right hand upon it, then covering it with my left, I bade him speak. Slowly, but unhesitatingly, he spoke: "Mrs. Houghton, if I had murdered your mother, would I stand here with my hand between your hands, look into your pale face, see the tear-marks on your cheeks, and the quiver of your lips as you ask the question? No, God Almighty is my witness, I am innocent of your mother's death! I have given you the facts as I gave them to the Fallon Party, as I told them at Sutter's Fort, and as I repeated them to Mr. McGlashan. You will hear no change from my death-bed, for what I have told you is true." There, with a man's honor and soul to uncover, I had scarcely breathed while he spoke. I watched the expression of his face, his words, his hands. His eyes did not turn from my face; his hand between mine lay as untrembling as that of a child in peaceful sleep; and so, unflinchingly Lewis Keseberg passed the ordeal which would have made a guilty man quake. I felt the truth of his assertion, and told him that if it would be any comfort to him at that late day to know that Tamsen Donner's daughter believed him innocent of her murder, he had that assurance in my words, and that I would maintain that belief so long as my lips retained their power of speech. Tears glistened in his eyes as he uttered a heartfelt "Thank you!" and spoke of the comfort the recollection of this meeting would be to him during the remaining years of his life. Before our departure, Mr. McGlashan asked Keseberg to step aside and show my husband the scars left by the wound which had prevented his going to the settlement with the earlier refugees. There was a mark of a fearful gash which had almost severed the heel from the foot and left a troublesome deformity. One could easily realize how slow and tedious its healing must have been, and Keseberg assured us that walking caused excruciating pain even at the time the Third Relief Corps left camp. His clothing was threadbare, but neat and clean. One could not but feel that he was poor, yet he courteously but positively declined the assistance which, privately, I offered him. In bidding him good-bye, I remarked that we might not see one another again on earth, and he replied pathetically, "Don't say that, for I hope this may not be our last meeting." I did not see Keseberg again. Years later, I learned that he had passed away; and in answer to inquiries I received the following personal note from Dr. G.A. White, Medical Superintendent of the Sacramento County Hospital: Lewis Keseberg died here on September 3, 1895; aged 81 years. He left no special message to any one. His death was peaceful. THE END INDEX Academy of Pacific Coast History Altemera, Padre American Fur Company American Tract Society Arguello, Doña Concepcion Bartlett, Washington A. Benton, Rev. J.A. Benton, Thomas H. Boggs, ex-Governor of Missouri Bond, Frances Boone, Alphonso Breen, Patrick diary of Brenheim, Adolph Brunner, Christian Brunner, "Grandma" and Napoleon Bryant, Edwin Cady, Charles _California Star_ Camp of Death Chamberlain, Charlotte (Mrs. Wm. E.) Chamberlain, William E. Church, Mission service Civil War Clark, Nicholas, Cody, Bill Coffemeir, Edward Coon, William Curtis, James Del, John Denison, Eliza "Diary of Patrick Breen, One of the Donner Party" Dofar, Matthew Dolan, Patrick Donner, Elitha Donner, Frances Donner, George Donner, Mrs. George letters Donner, Georgia Donner, Jacob Donner, Leanna Donner, Mary Donner Party Dozier, Tamsen Eustis _see_ Donner, Mrs. George. Eddy, William Fallon, Thomas diary Fitch, Capt. "Forlorn Hope" Party Fortune, Padre Fosdick, Jay Foster, John Foster, William Francis, Allen Frémont, John C. Frisbie, Capt. marriage of Fuller, John Glover, Aguilla Gold, discovery early minings seekers Graves, W.F. Grayson, Mrs. Andrew J. Great Overland Caravan Greenwood, "Old Trapper" Halloran, Luke Hardcoop, ---- Hastings, Lansford W. Herron, Walter Hook, Solomon Hooker, Capt. Joe Houghton, S.O. Independence, Mo. Indians as guides Sioux on raids as saviours at "grub-feast" James, Noah Jondro, Joseph Josephine, Empress Kerns, Capt. Keseberg, Lewis Land-grants, Mexican Leese, Jacob "Life and Days of General John A. Sutter" Maps of territory Maury, William L. McCoon, Perry McCutchen, William McGlashan, C.F. McKinstrey, Col. George Mervine, Capt. Mexican War Miller, Hiram Moutrey, R.S. Murphy, Mrs. Lavina Murphy, William G. Napoleon Oakley, Howard Oatman, Eugene "Oregon and California" Packwood, Mr. and Mrs. Pike, William Pony Express, first Poor, Elizabeth letter to Prudon, Major Reed, James F. Relief Party, First Relief Party, Fourth Relief Party, Second Relief Party, Third Rhinehart, Joseph Rhodes, Daniel Rhodes, John Richardson, ---- Richey, D. Richer, Col. M.D. Robinson, Kate Robinson, Judge Robert Robinson, Hon. Tod Russell, Col. Sacramento _Sacramento Union_ School, first in California Miss Doty's St. Mary's Hall Miss Hutchinson's St. Catherine's Jefferson Grammar Schoonover, T.J. Sherman, Gen. Wm. T. Shoemaker, Samuel Sinclair, John Sloat, Commodore Smallpox Smith, General Smith, James Snyder, John Sonoma, last visit to, _Springfield Journal_ Stanton, Charles Stark, John Starved Camp Stone, Charles Sutter, Captain John A. Sutter's Fort Swift, Margaret Thanksgiving celebration Thornton, J.Q., extracts from journal "Thrilling Events in California History" Toll, Agnes "Topographical Report, with Maps Attached" "Travels Among the Rocky Mountains, Through Oregon and California" Trubode, John Baptiste Tucker, Daniel Tucker, George Tucker, Racine Turner, John Upton, Nellie Vallejo, Mariano G. Webster, Daniel "What I Saw in California" White, Dr. G.A. White, Henry A. Wolfinger, ---- Woodworth, Midshipman Yost, Daniel Yount, George Zabriskie, Annie 
12236	----	DEATH VALLEY IN '49. * * * * * IMPORTANT CHAPTER OF California Pioneer History. * * * * * --THE-- AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PIONEER, DETAILING HIS LIFE FROM A HUMBLE HOME IN THE GREEN MOUNTAINS TO THE GOLD MINES OF CALIFORNIA; AND PARTICULARLY RECITING THE SUFFERINGS OF THE BAND OF MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN WHO GAVE "DEATH VALLEY" ITS NAME. BY WILLIAM LEWIS MANLY. 1894. * * * * * Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1894, by WM. L. MANLEY, In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C. * * * * * TO THE PIONEERS OF CALIFORNIA, THEIR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN, THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED, WITH THAT HIGH RESPECT AND REGARD SO OFTEN EXPRESSED IN ITS PAGES, BY THE AUTHOR. * * * * * CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Birth, Parentage.--Early Life in Vermont.--Sucking Cider through a Straw. CHAPTER II. The Western Fever.--On the Road to Ohio.--The Outfit.--The Erie Canal.--In the Maumee Swamp. CHAPTER III. At Detroit and Westward.--Government Land.--Killing Deer.--"Fever 'N Agur." CHAPTER IV. The Lost Filley Boy.--Never Was Found. CHAPTER V. Sickness.--Rather Catch Chipmonks in the Rocky Mountains than Live in Michigan.--Building the Michigan Central R.R.--Building a Boat.--Floating down Grand River.--Black Bear.--Indians Catching Mullet.--Across the Lake to Southport.--Lead Mining at Mineral Point.--Decides to go Farther West.--Return to Michigan. CHAPTER VI. Wisconsin.--Indian Physic.--Dressed for a Winter Hunting Campaign.--Hunting and Trapping in the Woods.--Catching Otter and Marten. CHAPTER VII. Lead Mining.--Hears about Gold in California.--Gets the Gold Fever.--Nothing will cure it but California.--Mr. Bennett and the Author Prepare to Start.--The Winnebago Pony.--Agrees to Meet Bennett at Missouri River.--Delayed and Fails to Find Him.--Left with only a Gun and Pony.--Goes as a Driver for Charles Dallas.--Stopped by a Herd of Buffaloes.--Buffalo Meat.--Indians.--U.S. Troops.--The Captain and the Lieutenant.--Arrive at South Pass.--The Waters Run toward the Pacific.--They Find a Boat and Seven of them Decide to Float down the Green River. CHAPTER VIII. Floating down the River.--It begins to roar.--Thirty Miles a Day.--Brown's Hole.--Lose the Boat and make two Canoes.--Elk.--The Cañons get Deeper.--Floundering in the Water.--The Indian Camp.--Chief Walker proves a Friend.--Describes the Terrible Cañon below Them.--Advises Them to go no farther down.--Decide to go Overland.--Dangerous Route to Salt Lake.--Meets Bennett near there.--Organize the Sand Walking Company. CHAPTER IX. The Southern Route.--Off in Fine Style.--A Cut-off Proposed.--Most of Them Try it and Fail.--The Jayhawkers.--A New Organization.--Men with Families not Admitted.--Capture an Indian Who Gives Them the Slip.--An Indian Woman and Her Children.--Grass Begins to Fail.--A High Peak to the West.--No Water.--An Indian Hut.--Reach the Warm Spring.--Desert Everywhere.--Some One Steals Food.--The Water Acts Like a Dose of Salts.--Christmas Day.--Rev. J.W. Brier Delivers a Lecture to His Sons.--Nearly Starving and Choking.--An Indian in a Mound.--Indians Shoot the Oxen.--Camp at Furnace Creek. CHAPTER X. A Long, Narrow Valley.--Beds and Blocks of Salt.--An Ox Killed.--Blood, Hide and Intestines Eaten.--Crossing Death Valley.--The Wagons can go no farther.--Manley and Rogers Volunteer to go for Assistance.--They Set out on Foot.--Find the Dead Body of Mr. Fish.--Mr. Isham Dies.--Bones along the Road.--Cabbage Trees.--Eating Crow and Hawk.--After Sore Trials They Reach a Fertile Land.--Kindly Treated.--Returning with Food and Animals.--The Little Mule Climbs a Precipice, the Horses are Left Behind.--Finding the Body of Captain Culverwell.--They Reach Their Friends just as all Hope has Left Them.--Leaving the Wagons.--Packs on the Oxen.--Sacks for the Children.--Old Crump.--Old Brigham and Mrs. Arcane.--A Stampede [Illustrated.]--Once more Moving Westward.--"Good-bye, Death Valley." CHAPTER XI. Struggling Along.--Pulling the Oxen Down the Precipice [Illustrated.]--Making Raw-hide Moccasins.--Old Brigham Lost and Found.--Dry Camps.--Nearly Starving.--Melancholy and Blue.--The Feet of the Women Bare and Blistered.--"One Cannot form an Idea How Poor an Ox Will Get."--Young Charlie Arcane very Sick.--Skulls of Cattle.--Crossing the Snow Belt.--Old Dog Cuff.--Water Dancing over the Rocks.--Drink, Ye Thirsty Ones.--Killing a Yearling.--- See the Fat.--Eating Makes Them Sick.--Going down Soledad Cañon--A Beautiful Meadow.--Hospitable Spanish People.--They Furnish Shelter and Food.--The San Fernando Mission.--Reaching Los Angeles.--They Meet Moody and Skinner.--Soap and Water for the First Time in Months.--Clean Dresses for the Women.--Real Bread to Eat.--A Picture of Los Angeles.--Black-eyed Women.--The Author Works in a Boarding-house.--Bennett and Others go up the Coast.--Life in Los Angeles.--The Author Prepares to go North. CHAPTER XII. Dr. McMahon's Story.--McMahon and Field, Left behind with Chief Walker, Determine to go down the River.--Change Their Minds and go with the Indians.--Change again and go by themselves.--Eating Wolf Meat.--After much Suffering they reach Salt Lake.--John Taylor's Pretty Wife.--Field falls in Love with her.--They Separate.--Incidents of Wonderful Escapes from Death. CHAPTER XIII. Story of the Jayhawkers.--Ceremonies of Initiation--Rev. J.W. Brier.--His Wife the best Man of the Two.--Story of the Road across Death Valley.--Burning the Wagons.--Narrow Escape of Tom Shannon.--Capt. Ed Doty was Brave and True.--They reach the Sea by way of Santa Clara River.--Capt. Haynes before the Alcalde.--List of Jayhawkers. CHAPTER XIV. Alexander Erkson's Statement.--Works for Brigham Young at Salt Lake.--Mormon Gold Coin.--Mt. Misery.--The Virgin River and Yucca Trees.--A Child Born to Mr, and Mrs. Rynierson.--Arrive at Cucamonga.--Find some good Wine which is good for Scurvy.--San Francisco and the Mines.--Settles in San Jose.--Experience of Edward Coker.--Death of Culverwell, Fish and Isham.--Goes through Walker's Pass and down Kern River.--Living in Fresno in 1892. CHAPTER XV. The Author again takes up the History.--Working in a Boarding House, but makes Arrangements to go North.--Mission San Bueno Ventura.--First Sight of the Pacific Ocean.--Santa Barbara in 1850.--Paradise and Desolation.--San Miguel, Santa Ynez and San Luis Obispo.--California Carriages and how they were used.--Arrives in San Jose and Camps in the edge of Town.--Description of the place.--Meets John Rogers, Bennett, Moody and Skinner.--On the road to the Mines.--They find some of the Yellow Stuff and go Prospecting for more--Experience with _Piojos_--Life and Times in the Mines--Sights and Scenes along the Road, at Sea, on the Isthmus, Cuba, New Orleans, and up the Mississippi--A few Months Amid Old Scenes, then away to the Golden State again. CHAPTER XVI St. Louis to New Orleans, New Orleans to San Francisco--Off to the Mines Again--Life in the Mines and Incidents of Mining Times and Men--Vigilance Committee--Death of Mrs. Bennett. CHAPTER XVII Mines and Mining--Adventures and Incidents of the Early Days--The Pioneers, their Character and Influence--- Conclusion. * * * * * DEATH VALLEY IN '49 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PIONEER CHAPTER I. St. Albans, Vermont is near the eastern shore of Lake Champlain, and only a short distance south of "Five-and-forty north degrees" which separates the United States from Canada, and some sixty or seventy miles from the great St. Lawrence River and the city of Montreal. Near here it was, on April 6th, 1820, I was born, so the record says, and from this point with wondering eyes of childhood I looked across the waters of the narrow lake to the slopes of the Adirondack mountains in New York, green as the hills of my own Green Mountain State. The parents of my father were English people and lived near Hartford, Connecticut, where he was born. While still a little boy he came with his parents to Vermont. My mother's maiden name was Ph�be Calkins, born near St. Albans of Welch parents, and, being left an orphan while yet in very tender years, she was given away to be reared by people who provided food and clothes, but permitted her to grow up to womanhood without knowing how to read or write. After her marriage she learned to do both, and acquired the rudiments of an education. Grandfather and his boys, four in all, fairly carved a farm out of the big forest that covered the cold rocky hills. Giant work it was for them in such heavy timber--pine, hemlock, maple, beech and birch--the clearing of a single acre being a man's work for a year. The place where the maples were thickest was reserved for a sugar grove, and from it was made all of the sweet material they needed, and some besides. Economy of the very strictest kind had to be used in every direction. Main strength and muscle were the only things dispensed in plenty. The crops raised consisted of a small flint corn, rye oats, potatoes and turnips. Three cows, ten or twelve sheep, a few pigs and a yoke of strong oxen comprised the live stock--horses, they had none for many years. A great ox-cart was the only wheeled vehicle on the place, and this, in winter, gave place to a heavy sled, the runners cut from a tree having a natural crook and roughly, but strongly, made. In summer there were plenty of strawberries, raspberries, whortleberries and blackberries growing wild, but all the cultivated fruit was apples. As these ripened many were peeled by hand, cut in quarters, strung on long strings of twine and dried before the kitchen fire for winter use. They had a way of burying up some of the best keepers in the ground, and opening the apple hole was quite an event of early spring. The children were taught to work as soon as large enough. I remember they furnished me with a little wooden fork to spread the heavy swath of grass my father cut with easy swings of the scythe, and when it was dry and being loaded on the great ox-cart I followed closely with a rake gathering every scattering spear. The barn was built so that every animal was housed comfortably in winter, and the house was such as all settlers built, not considered handsome, but capable of being made very warm in winter and the great piles of hard wood in the yard enough to last as fuel for a year, not only helped to clear the land, but kept us comfortable. Mother and the girls washed, carded, spun, and wove the wool from our own sheep into good strong cloth. Flax was also raised, and I remember how they pulled it, rotted it by spreading on the green meadow, then broke and dressed it, and then the women made linen cloth of various degrees of fineness, quality, and beauty. Thus, by the labor of both men and women, we were clothed. If an extra fine Sunday dress was desired, part of the yarn was colored and from this they managed to get up a very nice plaid goods for the purpose. In clearing the land the hemlock bark was peeled and traded off at the tannery for leather, or used to pay for tanning and dressing the hide of an ox or cow which they managed to fat and kill about every year. Stores for the family were either made by a neighboring shoe-maker, or by a traveling one who went from house to house, making up a supply for the family--whipping the cat, they called it then. They paid him in something or other produced upon the farm, and no money was asked or expected. Wood was one thing plenty, and the fireplace was made large enough to take in sticks four feet long or more, for the more they could burn the better, to get it out of the way. In an outhouse, also provided with a fireplace and chimney, they made shingles during the long winter evenings, the shavings making plenty of fire and light by which to work. The shingles sold for about a dollar a thousand. Just beside the fireplace in the house was a large brick oven where mother baked great loaves of bread, big pots of pork and beans, mince pies and loaf cake, a big turkey or a young pig on grand occasions. Many of the dishes used were of tin or pewter; the milk pans were of earthenware, but most things about the house in the line of furniture were of domestic manufacture. The store bills were very light. A little tea for father and mother, a few spices and odd luxuries were about all, and they were paid for with surplus eggs. My father and my uncle had a sawmill, and in winter they hauled logs to it, and could sell timber for $8 per thousand feet. The school was taught in winter by a man named Bowen, who managed forty scholars and considered sixteen dollars a month, boarding himself, was pretty fair pay. In summer some smart girl would teach the small scholars and board round among the families. When the proper time came the property holder would send off to the collector an itemized list of all his property, and at another the taxes fell due. A farmer who would value his property at two thousand or three thousand dollars would find he had to pay about six or seven dollars. All the money in use then seemed to be silver, and not very much of that. The whole plan seemed to be to have every family and farm self-supporting as far as possible. I have heard of a note being given payable in a good cow to be delivered at a certain time, say October 1, and on that day it would pass from house to house in payment of a debt, and at night only the last man in the list would have a cow more than his neighbor. Yet those were the days of real independence, after all. Every man worked hard from early youth to a good old age. There were no millionaires, no tramps, and the poorhouse had only a few inmates. I have very pleasant recollections of the neighborhood cider mill. There were two rollers formed of logs carefully rounded and four or five feet long, set closely together in an upright position in a rough frame, a long crooked sweep coming from one of them to which a horse was hitched and pulled it round and round, One roller had mortices in it, and projecting wooden teeth on the other fitted into these, so that, as they both slowly turned together, the apples were crushed, A huge box of coarse slats, notched and locked together at the corners, held a vast pile of the crushed apples while clean rye straw was added to strain the flowing juice and keep the cheese from spreading too much; then the ponderous screw and streams of delicious cider. Sucking cider through a long rye straw inserted in the bung-hole of a barrel was just the best of fun, and cider taken that way "awful" good while it was new and sweet. The winter ashes, made from burning so much fuel and gathered from the brush-heaps and log-heaps, were carefully saved and traded with the potash men for potash or sold for a small price. Nearly every one went barefoot in summer, and in winter wore heavy leather moccasins made by the Canadian French who lived near by. CHAPTER II. About 1828 people began to talk about the far West. Ohio was the place we heard most about, and the most we knew was, that it was a long way off and no way to get there except over a long and tedious road, with oxen or horses and a cart or wagon. More than one got the Western fever, as they called it, my uncle James Webster and my father among the rest, when they heard some traveler tell about the fine country he had seen; so they sold their farms and decided to go to Ohio, Uncle James was to go ahead, in the fall of 1829 and get a farm to rent, if he could, and father and his family were to come on the next spring. Uncle fitted out with two good horses and a wagon; goods were packed in a large box made to fit, and under the wagon seat was the commissary chest for food and bedding for daily use, all snugly arranged. Father had, shortly before, bought a fine Morgan mare and a light wagon which served as a family carriage, having wooden axles and a seat arranged on wooden springs, and they finally decided they would let me take the horse and wagon and go on with uncle, and father and mother would come by water, either by way of the St. Lawrence river and the lakes or by way of the new canal recently built, which would take them as far as Buffalo. So they loaded up the little wagon with some of the mentioned things and articles in the house, among which I remember a fine brass kettle, considered almost indispensable in housekeeping. There was a good lot of bedding and blankets, and a quilt nicely folded was placed on the spring seat as a cushion. As may be imagined I was the object of a great deal of attention about this time, for a boy not yet ten years old just setting out into a region almost unknown was a little unusual. When I was ready they all gathered round to say good bye and my good mother seemed most concerned. She said--"Now you must be a good boy till we come in the spring. Mind uncle and aunt and take good care of the horse, and remember us. May God protect you." She embraced me and kissed me and held me till she was exhausted. Then they lifted me up into the spring seat, put the lines in my hand and handed me my little whip with a leather strip for a lash. Just at the last moment father handed me a purse containing about a dollar, all in copper cents--pennies we called them then. Uncle had started on they had kept me so long, but I started up and they all followed me along the road for a mile or so before we finally separated and they turned back. They waved hats and handkerchiefs till out of sight as they returned, and I wondered if we should ever meet again. I was up with uncle very soon and we rolled down through St. Albans and took our road southerly along in sight of Lake Champlain. Uncle and aunt often looked back to talk to me, "See what a nice cornfield!" or, "What nice apples on those trees," seeming to think they must do all they could to cheer me up, that I might not think too much of the playmates and home I was leaving behind. I had never driven very far before, but I found the horse knew more than I did how to get around the big stones and stumps that were found in the road, so that as long as I held the lines and the whip in hand I was an excellent driver. We had made plans and preparations to board ourselves on the journey. We always stopped at the farm houses over night, and they were so hospitable that they gave us all we wanted free. Our supper was generally of bread and milk, the latter always furnished gratuitously, and I do not recollect that we were ever turned away from any house where we asked shelter. There were no hotels, or taverns as they called them, outside of the towns. In due time we reached Whitehall, at the head of Lake Champlain, and the big box in Uncle's wagon proved so heavy over the muddy roads that he put it in a canal boat to be sent on to Cleveland, and we found it much easier after this for there were too many mud-holes, stumps and stones and log bridges for so heavy a load as he had. Our road many times after this led along near the canal, the Champlain or the Erie, and I had a chance to see something of the canal boys' life. The boy who drove the horses that drew the packet boat was a well dressed fellow and always rode at a full trot or a gallop, but the freight driver was generally ragged and barefoot, and walked when it was too cold to ride, threw stones or clubs at his team, and cursed and abused the packet-boy who passed as long as he was in hearing. Reared as I had been I thought it was a pretty wicked part of the world we were coming to. We passed one village of low cheap houses near the canal. The men about were very vulgar and talked rough and loud, nearly every one with a pipe, and poorly dressed, loafing around the saloon, apparently the worse for whisky. The children were barefoot, bare headed and scantly dressed, and it seemed awfully dirty about the doors of the shanties. Pigs, ducks and geese were at the very door, and the women I saw wore dresses that did not come down very near the mud and big brogan shoes, and their talk was saucy and different from what I had ever heard women use before. They told me they were Irish people--the first I had ever seen. It was along here somewhere that I lost my little whip and to get another one made sad inroads into the little purse of pennies my father gave me. We traveled slowly on day after day. There was no use to hurry for we could not do it. The roads were muddy, the log ways very rough and the only way was to take a moderate gait and keep it. We never traveled on Sunday. One Saturday evening my uncle secured the privilege of staying at a well-to do farmer's house until Monday. We had our own food and bedding, but were glad to get some privileges in the kitchen, and some fresh milk or vegetables. After all had taken supper that night they all sat down and made themselves quiet with their books, and the children were as still as mice till an early bed time when all retired. When Sunday evening came the women got out their work--their sewing and their knitting, and the children romped and played and made as much noise as they could, seeming as anxious to break the Sabbath as they had been to have a pious Saturday night. I had never seen that way before and asked my uncle who said he guessed they were Seventh Day Baptists. After many days of travel which became to me quite monotonous we came to Cleveland, on Lake Erie, and here my uncle found his box of goods, loaded it into the wagon again, and traveled on through rain and mud, making very slow headway, for two or three days after, when we stopped at a four-corners in Medina county they told us we were only 21 miles from Cleveland. Here was a small town consisting of a hotel, store, church, schoolhouse and blacksmith shop, and as it was getting cold and bad, uncle decided to go no farther now, and rented a room for himself and aunt, and found a place for me to lodge with Daniel Stevens' boy close by. We got good stables for our horses. I went to the district school here, and studied reading, spelling and Colburn's mental arithmetic, which I mastered. It began very easy--"How many thumbs on your right hand?" "How many on your left?" "How many altogether?" but it grew harder further on. Uncle took employment at anything he could find to do. Chopping was his principal occupation. When the snow began to go off he looked around for a farm to rent for us and father to live on when he came, but he found none such as he needed. He now got a letter from father telling him that he had good news from a friend named Cornish who said that good land nearly clear of timber could be bought of the Government in Michigan Territory, some sixty or seventy miles beyond Detroit, and this being an opportunity to get land they needed with their small capital, they would start for that place as soon as the water-ways were thawed out, probably in April. We then gave up the idea of staying here and prepared to go to Michigan as soon as the frost was out of the ground. Starting, we reached Huron River to find it swollen and out of its bank, giving us much trouble to get across, the road along the bottom lands being partly covered with logs and rails, but once across we were in the town and when we enquired about the road around to Detroit, they said the country was all a swamp and 30 miles wide and in Spring impassible. They called it the Maumee or Black Swamp, We were advised to go by water, when a steamboat came up the river bound for Detroit we put our wagons and horses on board, and camped on the lower deck ourselves. We had our own food and were very comfortable, and glad to have escaped the great mudhole. CHAPTER III. We arrived in Detroit safely, and a few minutes answered to land our wagons and goods, when we rolled outward in a westerly direction. We found a very muddy roads, stumps and log bridges plenty, making our rate of travel very slow. When out upon our road about 30 miles, near Ypsilanti, the thick forest we had been passing through grew thinner, and the trees soon dwindled down into what they called oak openings, and the road became more sandy. When we reached McCracken's Tavern we began to enquire for Ebenezer Manley and family, and were soon directed to a large house near by where he was stopping for a time. We drove up to the door and they all came out to see who the new comers were. Mother saw me first and ran to the wagon and pulled me off and hugged and kissed me over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, Then she would hold me off at arm's length, and look me in the eye and say--"I am so glad to have you again"; and then she embraced me again and again. "You are our little man," said she, "You have come over this long road, and brought us our good horse and our little wagon." My sister Polly two years older than I, stood patiently by, and when mother turned to speak to uncle and aunt, she locked arms with me and took me away with her. We had never been separated before in all our lives and we had loved each other as good children should, who have been brought up in good and moral principles. We loved each other and our home and respected our good father and mother who had made it so happy for us. We all sat down by the side of the house and talked pretty fast telling our experience on our long journey by land and water, and when the sun went down we were called to supper, and went hand in hand to surround the bountiful table as a family again. During the conversation at supper father said to me--"Lewis, I have bought you a smooth bore rifle, suitable for either ball or shot." This, I thought was good enough for any one, and I thanked him heartily. We spent the greater part of the night in talking over our adventures since we left Vermont, and sleep was forgotten by young and old. Next morning father and uncle took the horse and little wagon and went out in search of Government land. They found an old acquaintance in Jackson county and Government land all around him, and, searching till they found the section corner, they found the number of the lots they wanted to locate on--200 acres in all. They then went to the Detroit land office and secured the pieces they had chosen. Father now bought a yoke of oxen, a wagon and a cow, and as soon as we could get loaded up our little emigrant train started west to our future home, where we arrived safely in a few days and secured a house to live in about a mile away from our land. We now worked with a will and built two log houses and also hired 10 acres broken, which was done with three or four yoke of oxen and a strong plow. The trees were scattered over the ground and some small brush and old limbs, and logs which we cleared away as we plowed. Our houses went up very fast--all rough oak logs, with oak puncheons, or hewed planks for a floor, and oak shakes for a roof, all of our own make. The shakes were held down upon the roof by heavy poles, for we had no nails, the door of split stuff hung with wooden hinges, and the fire place of stone laid up with the logs, and from the loft floor upward the chimney was built of split stuff plastered heavily with mud. We have a small four-paned window in the house. We then built a log barn for our oxen, cow and horse and got pigs, sheep and chickens as fast as a chance offered. As fast as possible we fenced in the cultivated land, father and uncle splitting out the rails, while a younger brother and myself, by each getting hold of an end of one of them managed to lay up a fence four rails high, all we small men could do. Thus working on, we had a pretty well cultivated farm in the course of two or three years, on which we produced wheat, corn and potatoes, and had an excellent garden. We found plenty of wild cranberries and whortleberries, which we dried for winter use. The lakes were full of good fish, black bass and pickerel, and the woods had deer, turkeys, pheasants, pigeons, and other things, and I became quite an expert in the capture of small game for the table with my new gun. Father and uncle would occasionally kill a deer, and the Indians came along and sold venison at times. One fall after work was done and preparations were made for the winter, father said to me:--"Now Lewis, I want you to hunt every day--come home nights--but keep on till you kill a deer." So with his permission I started with my gun on my shoulder, and with feelings of considerable pride. Before night I started two deer in a brushy place, and they leaped high over the oak bushes in the most affrighted way. I brought my gun to my shoulder and fired at the bounding animal when in most plain sight. Loading then quickly, I hurried up the trail as fast as I could and soon came to my deer, dead, with a bullet hole in its head. I was really surprised myself, for I had fired so hastily at the almost flying animal that it was little more than a random shot. As the deer was not very heavy I dressed it and packed it home myself, about as proud a boy as the State of Michigan contained. I really began to think I was a capital hunter, though I afterward knew it was a bit of good luck and not a bit of skill about it. It was some time after this before I made another lucky shot. Father would once in a while ask me:--"Well can't you kill us another deer?" I told him that when I had crawled a long time toward a sleeping deer, that I got so trembly that I could not hit an ox in short range. "O," said he, "You get the buck fever--don't be so timid--they won't attack you." But after awhile this fever wore off, and I got so steady that I could hit anything I could get in reach of. We were now quite contented and happy. Father could plainly show us the difference between this country and Vermont and the advantages we had here. There the land was poor and stony and the winters terribly severe. Here there were no stones to plow over, and the land was otherwise easy to till. We could raise almost anything, and have nice wheat bread to eat, far superior to the "Rye-and-Indian" we used to have. The nice white bread was good enough to eat without butter, and in comparison this country seemed a real paradise. The supply of clothing we brought with us had lasted until now--more than two years--and we had sowed some flax and raised sheep so that we began to get material of our own raising, from which to manufacture some more. Mother and sister spun some nice yarn, both woolen and linen, and father had a loom made on which mother wove it up into cloth, and we were soon dressed up in bran new clothes again. Domestic economy of this kind was as necessary here as it was in Vermont, and we knew well how to practice it. About this time the emigrants began to come in very fast, and every piece of Government land any where about was taken. So much land was ploughed, and so much vegetable matter turned under and decaying that there came a regular epidemic of fever and ague and bilious fever, and a large majority of the people were sick. At our house father was the first one attacked, and when the fever was at its height he was quite out of his head and talked and acted like a crazy man. We had never seen any one so sick before, and we thought he must surely die, but when the doctor came he said:--"Don't be alarmed. It is only 'fever 'n' agur,' and no one was ever known to die of that." Others of us were sick too, and most of the neighbors, and it made us all feel rather sorrowful. The doctor's medicines consisted of calomel, jalap and quinine, all used pretty freely, by some with benefit, and by others to no visible purpose, for they had to suffer until the cold weather came and froze the disease out. At one time I was the only one that remained well, and I had to nurse and cook, besides all the out-door work that fell to me. My sister married a man near by with a good farm and moved there with him, a mile or two away. When she went away I lost my real bosom companion and felt very lonesome, but I went to see her once in a while, and that was pretty often, I think. There was not much going on as a general thing. Some little neighborhood society and news was about all. There was, however, one incident which occurred in 1837, I never shall forget, and which I will relate in the next chapter. CHAPTER IV. About two miles west father's farm in Jackson county Mich., lived Ami Filley, who moved here from Connecticut and settled about two and a half miles from the town of Jackson, then a small village with plenty of stumps and mudholes in its streets. Many of the roads leading thereto had been paved with tamarac poles, making what is now known as corduroy roads. The country was still new and the farm houses far between. Mr. Filley secured Government land in the oak openings, and settled there with his wife and two or three children, the oldest of which was a boy named Willie. The children were getting old enough to go to school, but there being none, Mr. Filley hired one of the neighbor's daughters to come to his house and teach the children there, so they might be prepared for usefulness in life or ready to proceed further with their education--to college, perhaps in some future day. The young woman he engaged lived about a mile a half away--Miss Mary Mount--and she came over and began her duties as private school ma'am, not a very difficult task in those days. One day after she had been teaching some time Miss Mount desired to go to her father's on a visit, and as she would pass a huckleberry swamp on the way she took a small pail to fill with berries as she went, and by consent of Willie's mother, the little boy went with her for company. Reaching the berries she began to pick, and the little boy found this dull business, got tired and homesick and wanted to go home. They were about a mile from Mr. Filley's and as there was a pretty good foot trail over which they had come, the young woman took the boy to it, and turning him toward home told him to follow it carefully and he would soon see his mother. She then filled her pail with berries, went on to her own home, and remained there till nearly sundown, when she set out to return to Mr. Filley's, reaching there yet in the early twilight. Not seeing Willie, she inquired for him and was told that he had not returned, and that they supposed he was safe with her. She then hastily related how it happened that he had started back toward home, and that she supposed he had safely arrived. Mr. Filley then started back on the trail, keeping close watch on each side of the way, for he expected he would soon come across Master Willie fast asleep. He called his name every few rods, but got no answer nor could he discover him, and so returned home again, still calling and searching, but no boy was discovered. Then he built a large fire and put lighted candles in all the windows, then took his lantern and wont out in the woods calling and looking for the boy. Sometimes he thought he heard him, but on going where the sound came from nothing could be found. So he looked and called all night, along the trail and all about the woods, with no success. Mr. Mount's home was situated not far from the shore of Fitch's Lake, and the trail went along the margin, and in some places the ground was quite a boggy marsh, and the trail had been fixed up to make it passably good walking. Next day the neighbors were notified, and asked to assist, and although they were in the midst of wheat harvest, a great many laid down the cradle and rake and went out to help search. On the third day the whole county became excited and quite an army of searchers turned out, coming from the whole country miles around. Mr. Filley was much excited and quite worn out an beside himself with fatigue and loss of sleep. He could not eat. Yielding to entreaty he would sit at the table, and suddenly rise up, saying he heard Willie calling, and go out to search for the supposed voice, but it was all fruitless, and the whole people were sorry indeed for the poor father and mother. The people then formed a plan for a thorough search. They were to form in a line so near each other that they could touch hands and were to march thus turning out for nothing except in passable lakes, and thus we marched, fairly sweeping the county in search of a sign. I was with this party and we marched south and kept close watch for a bit of clothing, a foot print or even bones, or anything which would indicate that he had been destroyed by some wild animal. Thus we marched all day with no success, and the next went north in the same careful manner, but with no better result. Most of the people now abandoned the search, but some of the neighbors kept it up for a long time. Some expressed themselves quite strongly that Miss Mount knew where the boy was, saying that she might have had some trouble with him and in seeking to correct him had accidentally killed him and then hidden the body away--perhaps in the deep mire of the swamp or in the muddy waters on the margin of the lake. Search was made with this idea foremost, but nothing was discovered. Rain now set in, and the grain, from neglect grew in the head as it stood, and many a settler ate poor bread all winter in consequence of his neighborly kindness in the midst of harvest. The bread would not rise, and to make it into pancakes was the best way it could be used. Still no tidings ever came of the lost boy. Many things were whispered, about Mr. Mount's dishonesty of character and there were many suspicions about him, but no real facts could be shown to account for the boy. The neighbors said he never worked like the rest of them, and that his patch of cultivated land was altogether too small to support his family, a wife and two daughters, grown. He was a very smooth and affable talker, and had lots of acquaintances. A few years afterwards Mr. Mount was convicted of a crime which sent him to the Jackson State Prison, where he died before his term expired. I visited the Filley family in 1870, and from them heard the facts anew and that no trace of the lost boy had ever been discovered. CHAPTER V. The second year of sickness and I was affected with the rest, though it was not generally so bad as the first year. I suffered a great deal and felt so miserable that I began to think I had rather live on the top of the Rocky Mountains and catch chipmuncks for a living than to live here and be sick, and I began to have very serious thoughts of trying some other country. In the winter of 1839 and 1840 I went to a neighboring school for three months, where I studied reading, writing and spelling, getting as far as Rule of Three in Daboll's arithmetic. When school was out I chopped and split rails for Wm. Hanna till I had paid my winter's board. After this, myself and a young man named Orrin Henry, with whom I had become acquainted, worked awhile scoring timber to be used in building the Michigan Central Railroad which had just then begun to be built. They laid down the ties first (sometimes a mudsill under them) and then put down four by eight wooden rails with a strips of band iron half an inch thick spiked on top. I scored the timber and Henry used the broad axe after me. It was pretty hard work and the hours as long as we could see, our wages being $13 per month, half cash. In thinking over our prospect it seemed more and more as if I had better look out for my own fortune in some other place. The farm was pretty small for all of us. There were three brothers younger than I, and only 200 acres in the whole, and as they were growing up to be men it seemed as if it would be best for me, the oldest, to start out first and see what could be done to make my own living. I talked to father and mother about my plans, and they did not seriously object, but gave me some good advice, which I remember to this day--"Weigh well every thing you do; shun bad company; be honest and deal fair; be truthful and never fear when you know you are right." But, said he, "Our little peach trees will bear this year, and if you go away you must come back and help us eat them; they will be the first we ever raised or ever saw." I could not promise. Henry and I drew our pay for our work. I had five dollars in cash and the rest in pay from the company's store. We purchased three nice whitewood boards, eighteen inches wide, from which we made us a boat and a good sized chest which we filled with provisions and some clothing and quilts. This, with our guns and ammunition, composed the cargo of our boat. When all was ready, we put the boat on a wagon and were to haul it to the river some eight miles away for embarkation. After getting the wagon loaded, father said to me;--"Now my son, you are starting out in life alone, no one to watch or look after you. You will have to depend upon yourself in all things. You have a wide, wide world to operate in--you will meet all kinds of people and you must not expect to find them all honest or true friends. You are limited in money, and all I can do for you in that way is to let you have what ready money I have." He handed me three dollars as he spoke, which added to my own gave me seven dollars as my money capital with which to start out into the world among perfect strangers, and no acquaintances in prospect on our Western course. When ready to start, mother and sister Poll came out to see us off and to give us their best wishes, hoping we would have good health, and find pleasant paths to follow. Mother said to me:--"You must be a good boy, honest and law-abiding. Remember our advice, and honor us for we have striven to make you a good and honest man, and you must follow our teachings, and your conscience will be clear. Do nothing to be ashamed of; be industrious, and you have no fear of punishment." We were given a great many "Good byes" and "God bless you's" as with hands, hats and handkerchiefs they waved us off as far as we could see them. In the course of an hour or so we were at the water's edge, and on a beautiful morning in early spring of 1840 we found ourselves floating down the Grand River below Jackson. The stream ran west, that we knew, and it was west we thought we wanted to go, so all things suited us. The stream was small with tall timber on both sides, and so many trees had fallen into the river that our navigation was at times seriously obstructed. When night came we hauled our boat on shore, turned it partly over, so as to shelter us, built a fire in front, and made a bed on a loose board which we carried in the bottom of the boat. We talked till pretty late and then lay down to sleep, but for my part my eyes would not stay shut, and I lay till break of day and the little birds began to sing faintly. I thought of many things that night which seemed so long. I had left a good dear home, where I had good warm meals and a soft and comfortable bed. Here I had reposed on a board with a very hard pillow and none too many blankets, and I turned from side to side on my hard bed, to which I had gone with all my clothes on. It seemed the beginning of another chapter in my pioneer life and a rather tough experience. I arose, kindled a big fire and sat looking at the glowing coals in still further meditation. Neither of us felt very gleeful as we got our breakfast and made an early start down the river again. Neither of us talked very much, and no doubt my companion had similar thoughts to mine, and wondered what was before us. But I think that as a pair we were at that moment pretty lonesome. Henry had rested better than I but probably felt no less keenly the separation from our homes and friends. We saw plenty of squirrels and pigeons on the trees which overhung the river, and we shot and picked up as many as we thought we could use for food. When we fired our guns the echoes rolled up and down the river for miles making the feeling of loneliness still more keen, as the sound died faintly away. We floated along generally very quietly. We could see the fish dart under our boat from their feeding places along the bank, and now and then some tall crane would spread his broad wings to get out of our way. We saw no houses for several days, and seldom went on shore. The forest was all hard wood, such as oak, ash, walnut, maple, elm and beech. Farther down we occasionally passed the house of some pioneer hunter or trapper, with a small patch cleared. At one of these a big green boy came down to the bank to see who we were. We said "How d'you do," to him, and, getting no response, Henry asked him how far is was to Michigan, at which a look of supreme disgust came over his features as he replied--"'Taint no far at all." The stream grew wider as we advanced along its downward course, for smaller streams came pouring in to swell its tide. The banks were still covered with heavy timber, and in some places with quite thick undergrowth. One day we saw a black bear in the river washing himself, but he went ashore before we were near enough to get a sure shot at him. Many deer tracks were seen along the shore, but as we saw very few of the animals themselves, they were probably night visitors. One day we overtook some canoes containing Indians, men, women and children. They were poling their craft around in all directions spearing fish. They caught many large mullet and then went on shore and made camp, and the red ladies began scaling the fish. As soon as their lords and masters had unloaded the canoes, a party started out with four of the boats, two men in a boat, to try their luck again. They ranged all abreast, and moved slowly down the stream in the still deep water, continually beating the surface with their spear handles, till they came to a place so shallow that they could see the bottom easily, when they suddenly turned the canoes head up stream, and while one held the craft steady by sticking his spear handle down on the bottom, the other stood erect, with a foot on either gunwale so he could see whatever came down on either side. Soon the big fish would try to pass, but Mr. Indian had too sharp an eye to let him escape unobserved, and when he came within his reach he would turn his spear and throw it like a dart, seldom missing his aim. The poor fish would struggle desperately, but soon came to the surface, when he would be drawn in and knocked in the head with a tomahawk to quiet him, when the spear was cut out and the process repeated. We watched them about an hour, and during that time some one of the boats was continually hauling in a fish. They were sturgeon and very large. This was the first time we had ever seen the Indian's way of catching fish and it was a new way of getting grub for us. When the canoes had full loads they paddled up toward their camp, and we drifted on again. When we came to Grand Rapids we had to go on shore and tow our boat carefully along over the many rocks to prevent accident. Here was a small cheap looking town. On the west bank of the river a water wheel was driving a drill boring for salt water, it seemed through solid rock. Up to this time the current was slow, and its course through a dense forest. We occasionally saw an Indian gliding around in his canoe, but no houses or clearings. Occasionally we saw some pine logs which had been floated down some of the streams of the north. One of these small rivers they called the "Looking-glass," and seemed to be the largest of them. Passing on we began to see some pine timber, and realized that we were near the mouth of the river where it emptied into Lake Michigan. There were some steam saw mills here, not then in operation, and some houses for the mill hands to live in when they were at work. This prospective city was called Grand Haven. There was one schooner in the river loaded with lumber, ready to sail for the west side of the lake as soon as the wind should change and become favorable, and we engaged passage for a dollar and a half each. While waiting for the wind we visited the woods in search of game, but found none. All the surface of the soil was clear lake sand, and some quite large pine and hemlock trees were half buried in it. We were not pleased with this place for it looked as if folks must get their grub from somewhere else or live on fish. Next morning we were off early, as the wind had changed, but the lake was very rough and a heavy choppy sea was running. Before we were half way across the lake nearly all were sea-sick, passengers and sailors. The poor fellow at the helm stuck to his post casting up his accounts at the same time, putting on an air of terrible misery. This, I thought was pretty hard usage for a land-lubber like myself who had never been on such rough water before. The effect of this sea-sickness was to cure me of a slight fever and ague, and in fact the cure was so thorough that I have never had it since. As we neared the western shore a few houses could be seen, and the captain said it was Southport. As there was no wharf our schooner put out into the lake again for an hour or so and then ran back again, lying off and on in this manner all night. In the morning it was quite calm and we went on shore in the schooner's yawl, landing on a sandy beach. We left our chest of clothes and other things in a warehouse and shouldered our packs and guns for a march across what seemed an endless prairie stretching to the west. We had spent all our lives thus far in a country where all the clearing had to be made with an axe, and such a broad field was to us an entirely new feature. We laid our course westward and tramped on. The houses were very far apart, and we tried at every one of them for a chance to work, but could get none, not even if we would work for our board. The people all seemed to be new settlers, and very poor, compelled to do their own work until a better day could be reached. The coarse meals we got were very reasonable, generally only ten cents, but sometimes a little more. As we travelled westward the prairies seemed smaller with now and then some oak openings between. Some of the farms seemed to be three or four years old, and what had been laid out as towns consisted of from three to six houses, small and cheap, with plenty of vacant lots. The soil looked rich, as though it might be very productive. We passed several small lakes that had nice fish in them, and plenty of ducks on the surface. Walking began to get pretty tiresome. Great blisters would come on our feet, and, tender as they were, it was a great relief to take off our boots and go barefoot for a while when the ground was favorable. We crossed a wide prairie and came down to the Rock river where there were a few houses on the east side but no signs of habitation on the west bank. We crossed the river in a canoe and then walked seven miles before we came to a house where we staid all night and inquired for work. None was to be had and so we tramped on again. The next day we met a real live Yankee with a one-horse wagon, peddling tin ware in regular Eastern style, We inquired of him about the road and prospects, and he gave us an encouraging idea--said all was good. He told us where to stop the next night at a small town called Sugar Creek. It had but a few houses and was being built up as a mining town, for some lead ore had been found there. There were as many Irish as English miners here, a rough class of people. We put up at the house where we had been directed, a low log cabin, rough and dirty, kept by Bridget & Co. Supper was had after dark and the light on the table was just the right one for the place, a saucer of grease, with a rag in it lighted and burning at the edge of the saucer. It at least served to made the darkness apparent and to prevent the dirt being visible. We had potatoes, beans and tea, and probably dirt too, if we could have seen it. When the meal was nearly done Bridget brought in and deposited on each plate a good thick pancake as a dessert. It smelled pretty good, but when I drew my knife across it to cut it in two, all the center was uncooked batter, which ran out upon my plate, and spoiled my supper. We went to bed and soon found it had other occupants beside ourselves, which, if they were small were lively and spoiled our sleeping. We left before breakfast, and a few miles out on the prairie we came to a house occupied by a woman and one child, and we were told we could have breakfast if we could wait to have it cooked. Everything looked cheap but cheery, and after waiting a little while outside we were called in to eat. The meal consisted of corn bread, bacon, potatoes and coffee. It was well cooked and looked better than things did at Bridget's. I enjoyed all but the coffee, which had a rich brown color, but when I sipped it there was such a bitter taste I surely thought there must be quinine in it, and it made me shiver. I tried two or three times to drink but it was too much for me and I left it. We shouldered our loads and went on again. I asked Henry what kind of a drink it was. "Coffee," said he, but I had never seen any that tasted like that and never knew my father to buy any such coffee as that. We labored along and in time came to another small place called Hamilton's Diggings where some lead mines were being worked. We stopped at a long, low log house with a porch the entire length, and called for bread and milk, which was soon set before us. The lady was washing and the man was playing with a child on the porch. The little thing was trying to walk, the man would swear terribly at it--not in an angry way, but in a sort of careless, blasphemous style that was terribly shocking. I thought of the child being reared in the midst of such bad language and reflected on the kind of people we were meeting in this far away place. They seemed more wicked and profane the farther west we walked. I had always lived in a more moral and temperate atmosphere, and I was learning more of some things in the world than I had ever known before. I had little to say and much to see and listen to and my early precepts were not forgotten. No work was to be had here and we set out across the prairie toward Mineral Point, twenty miles away. When within four miles of that place we stopped at the house of Daniel Parkinson, a fine looking two-story building, and after the meal was over Mr. Henry hired out to him for $16 per month, and went to work that day. I heard of a job of cutting cordwood six miles away and went after it, for our money was getting very scarce, but when I reached the place I found a man had been there half an hour before and secured the job. The proprietor, Mr. Crow, gave me my dinner which I accepted with many thanks, for it saved my coin to pay for the next meal. I now went to Mineral Point, and searched the town over for work. My purse contained thirty-five cents only and I slept in an unoccupied out house without supper. I bought crackers and dried beef for ten cents in the morning and made my first meal since the day before, felt pretty low-spirited. I then went to Vivian's smelting furnace where they bought lead ore, smelted it, and run it into pigs of about 70 pounds each. He said he had a job for me if I could do it. The furnace was propelled by water and they had a small buzz saw for cutting four-foot wood into blocks about a foot long. These blocks they wanted split up in pieces about an inch square to mix in with charcoal in smelting ore. He said he would board me with the other men, and give me a dollar and a quarter a cord for splitting the wood. I felt awfully poor, and a stranger, and this was a beginning for me at any rate, so I went to work with a will and never lost a minute of daylight till I had split up all the wood and filled his woodhouse completely up. The board was very coarse--bacon, potatoes, and bread--a man cook, and bread mixed up with salt and water. The old log house where we lodged was well infested with troublesome insects which worked nights at any rate, whether they rested days or not, and the beds had a mild odor of pole cat. The house was long, low and without windows. In one end was a fireplace, and there were two tiers of bunks on each side, supplied with straw only. In the space between the bunks was a stationary table, with stools for seats. I was the only American who boarded there and I could not well become very familiar with the boarders. The country was rolling, and there were many beautiful brooks and clear springs of water, with fertile soil. The Cornish miners were in the majority and governed the locality politically. My health was excellent, and so long as I had my gun and ammunition I could kill game enough to live on, for prairie chickens and deer could be easily killed, and meat alone would sustain life, so I had no special fears of starvation. I was now paid off, and went back to see my companion, Mr. Henry. I did not hear of any more work, so I concluded I would start back toward my old home in Michigan, and shouldered my bundle and gun, turning my face eastward for a long tramp across the prairie. I knew I had a long tramp before me, but I thought best to head that way, for my capital was only ten dollars, and I might be compelled to walk the whole distance. I walked till about noon and then sat down in the shade of a tree to rest for this was June and pretty warm. I was now alone in a big territory, thinly settled, and thought of my father's home, the well set table, all happy and well fed at any rate, and here was my venture, a sort of forlorn hope. Prospects were surely very gloomy for me here away out west in Wisconsin Territory, without a relative, friend or acquaintance to call upon, and very small means to travel two hundred and fifty miles of lonely road--perhaps all the way on foot. There were no laborers required, hardly any money in sight, and no chance for business. I knew it would be a safe course to proceed toward home, for I had no fear of starving, the weather was warm and I could easily walk home long before winter should come again. Still the outlook was not very pleasing to one in my circumstances. I chose a route which led me some distance north of the one we travelled when we came west, but it was about the same. Every house was a new settler, and hardly one who had yet produced anything to live upon. In due time I came to the Rock River, and the only house in sight was upon the east bank. I could see a boat over there and so I called for it, and a young girl came over with a canoe for me. I took a paddle and helped her hold the boat against the current, and we made the landing safely. I paid her ten cents for ferriage and went on again. The country was now level, with burr-oak openings. Near sundown I came to a small prairie of about 500 acres surrounded by scattering burr-oak timber, with not a hill in sight, and it seemed to me to be the most beautiful spot on earth. This I found to belong to a man named Meachem, who had an octagon concrete house built on one side of the opening. The house had a hollow column in the center, and the roof was so constructed that all the rain water went down this central column into a cistern below for house use. The stairs wound around this central column, and the whole affair was quite different from the most of settlers' houses. I staid here all night, had supper and breakfast, and paid my bill of thirty-five cents. He had no work for me so I went on again. I crossed Heart Prairie, passed through a strip of woods, and out at Round Prairie. It was level as a floor with a slight rise in one corner, and on it were five or six settlers. Here fortune favored me, for here I found a man whom I knew, who once lived in Michigan, and was one of our neighbors there for some time. His name was Nelson Cornish. I rested here a few days, and made a bargain to work for him two or three days every week for my board as long as I wished to stay. As I got acquainted I found some work to do and many of my leisure hours I spent in the woods with my gun, killing some deer, some of the meat of which I sold. In haying and harvest I got some work at fifty cents to one dollar per day, and as I had no clothes to buy, I spent no money, saving up about fifty dollars by fall. I then got a letter from Henry saying that I could get work with him for the winter and I thought I would go back there again. Before thinking of going west again I had to go to Southport on the lake and get our clothes we had left in our box when we passed in the spring. So I started one morning at break of day, with a long cane in each hand to help me along, for I had nothing to carry, not even wearing a coat. This was a new road, thinly settled, and a few log houses building. I got a bowl of bread and milk at noon and then hurried on again. The last twenty miles was clear prairie, and houses were very far apart, but little more thickly settled as I neared Lake Michigan. I arrived at the town just after dark, and went to a tavern and inquired about the things. I was told that the warehouse had been broken into and robbed, and the proprietor had fled for parts unknown. This robbed me of all my good clothes, and I could now go back as lightly loaded as when I came. I found I had walked sixty miles in that one day, and also found myself very stiff and sore so that I did not start back next day, and I took three days for the return trip--a very unprofitable journey. I was now ready to go west, and coming across a pet deer which I had tamed, I knew if I left it it would wander away with the first wild ones that came along, and so I killed it and made my friends a present of some venison. I chose still a new route this time, that I could see all that was possible of this big territory when I could do it so easily. I was always a great admirer of Nature and things which remained as they were created, and to the extent of my observation, I thought this the most beautiful and perfect country I had seen between Vermont and the Mississippi River. The country was nearly level, the land rich, the prairies small with oak openings surrounding them, very little marsh land and streams of clear water. Rock River was the largest of these, running south. Next west was Sugar River, then the Picatonica. Through the mining region the country was rolling and abundantly watered with babbling brooks and health-giving springs. In point of health it seemed to me to be far better than Michigan. In Mr. Henry's letter to me he had said that he had taken a timber claim in "Kentuck Grove," and had all the four-foot wood engaged to cut at thirty-seven cents a cord. He said we could board ourselves and save a little money and that in the spring he would go back to Michigan with me. This had decided me to go back to Mineral Point. I stopped a week or two with a man named Webb, hunting with him, and sold game enough to bring me in some six or seven dollars, and then resumed my journey. On my way I found a log house ten miles from a neighbor just before I got to the Picatonica River. It belonged to a Mr. Shook who, with his wife and three children, lived on the edge of a small prairie, and had a good crop of corn. He invited me to stay with him a few days, and as I was tired I accepted his offer and we went out together and brought in a deer. We had plenty of corn bread, venison and coffee, and lived well. After a few days he wanted to kill a steer and he led it to a proper place while I shot it in the head. We had no way to hang it up so he rolled the intestines out, and I sat down with my side against the steer and helped him to pull the tallow off. It was now getting nearly dark and while he was splitting the back bone with an axe, it slipped in his greasy hands and glancing, cut a gash in my leg six inches above the knee. I was now laid up for two or three weeks, but was well cared for at his house. Before I could resume my journey snow had fallen to the depth of about six inches, which made it rather unpleasant walking, but in a few days I reached Mr. Henry's camp in "Kentuck Grove," when after comparing notes, we both began swinging our axes and piling up cordwood, cooking potatoes, bread, bacon, coffee and flapjacks ourselves, which we enjoyed with a relish. I now went to work for Peter Parkinson, who paid me thirteen dollars per month, and I remained with him till spring. While with him a very sad affliction came to him in the loss of his wife. He was presented by her with his first heir, and during her illness she was cared for by her mother, Mrs. Cullany, who had come to live with them during the winter. When the little babe was two or three weeks old the mother was feeling in such good spirits that she was left alone a little while, as Mrs. Cullany was attending to some duties which called her elsewhere. When she returned she was surprised to see that both Mrs. Parkinson and the babe were gone. Everyone turned out to search for her. I ran to the smokehouse, the barn, the stable in quick order, and not finding her a search was made for tracks, and we soon discovered that she had passed over a few steps leading over a fence and down an incline toward the spring house, and there fallen, face downward, on the floor of the house which was covered only a few inches deep with water lay the unfortunate woman and her child, both dead. This was doubly distressing to Mr. Parkinson and saddened the whole community. Both were buried in one grave, not far from the house, and a more impressive funeral I never beheld. I now worked awhile again with Mr. Henry and we sold our wood to Bill Park, a collier, who made and sold charcoal to the smelters of lead ore. When the ice was gone in the streams, Henry and I shouldered our guns and bundles, and made our way to Milwaukee, where we arrived in the course of a few days. The town was small and cheaply built, and had no wharf, so that when the steamboat came we had to go out to it in a small boat. The stream which came in here was too shallow for the steamer to enter. When near the lower end of the lake we stopped at an island to take on food and several cords of white birch wood. The next stopping place was at Michilamackanac, afterward called Mackinaw. Here was a short wharf, and a little way back a hill, which seemed to me to be a thousand feet high, on which a fort had been built. On the wharf was a mixed lot of people--Americans, Canadians, Irish, Indians, squaws and papooses. I saw there some of the most beautiful fish I had ever seen. They would weigh twenty pounds or more, and had bright red and yellow spots all over them. They called them trout, and they were beauties, really. At the shore near by the Indians were loading a large white birch bark canoe, putting their luggage along the middle lengthways, and the papooses on top. One man took a stern seat to steer, and four or five more had seats along the gunwale as paddlers and, as they moved away, their strokes were as even and regular as the motions of an engine, and their crafts danced as lightly on the water as an egg shell. They were starting for the Michigan shore some eight or ten miles away. This was the first birch bark canoe I had ever seen and was a great curiosity in my eyes. We crossed Lake Huron during the night, and through its outlet, so shallow that the wheels stirred up the mud from the bottom; then through Lake St. Clair and landed safety at Detroit next day. Here we took the cars on the Michigan Central Railroad, and on our way westward stopped at the very place where we had worked, helping to build the road, a year or more before. After getting off the train a walk of two and one half miles brought me to my father's house, where I had a right royal welcome, and the questions they asked me about the wild country I had traveled over, how it looked, and how I got along--were numbered by the thousand. I remained at home until fall, getting some work to do by which I saved some money, but in August was attacked with bilious fever, which held me down for several weeks, but nursed by a tender and loving mother with untiring care, I recovered, quite slowly, but surely. I felt that I had been close to death, and that this country was not to be compared to Wisconsin with its clear and bubbling springs of health-giving water. Feeling thus, I determined to go back there again. CHAPTER VI. With the idea of returning to Wisconsin I made plans for my movements. I purchased a good outfit of steel traps of several kinds and sizes, thirty or forty in all, made me a pine chest, with a false bottom to separate the traps from my clothing when it was packed in traveling order, the clothes at the top. My former experience had taught me not to expect to get work there during winter, but I was pretty sure something could be earned by trapping and hunting at this season, and in summer I was pretty sure of something to do. I had about forty dollars to travel on this time, and quite a stock of experience. The second parting from home was not so hard as the first one. I went to Huron, took the steamer to Chicago, then a small, cheaply built town, with rough sidewalks and terribly muddy streets, and the people seemed pretty rough, for sailors and lake captains were numerous, and knock downs quite frequent. The country for a long way west of town seemed a low, wet marsh or prairie. Finding a man going west with a wagon and two horses without a load, I hired him to take me and my baggage to my friend Nelson Cornish, at Round Prairie. They were glad to see me, and as I had not yet got strong from my fever, they persuaded me to stay a while with them and take some medicine, for he was a sort of a doctor. I think he must have given me a dose of calomel, for I had a terribly sore mouth and could not eat any for two or three weeks. As soon as I was able to travel I had myself and chest taken to the stage station on the line for the lake to Mineral Point. I think this place was called Geneva. On the stage I got along pretty fast, and part of the time on a new road. The first place of note was Madison the capital of the territory, situated on a block of land nearly surrounded by four lakes, all plainly seen from the big house. Further on at the Blue Mounds I left the stage, putting my chest in the landlord's keeping till I should come or send for it. I walked about ten miles to the house of a friend named A. Bennett, who was a hunter and lived on the bank of the Picatonica River with his wife and two children. I had to take many a rest on the way, for I was very weak. Resting the first few days, Mrs. Bennett's father, Mr. J.P. Dilly, took us out about six miles and left us to hunt and camp for a few days. We were quite successful, and killed five nice, fat deer, which we dressed and took to Mineral Point, selling them rapidly to the Cornish miners for twenty-five cents a quarter for the meat. We followed this business till about January first, when the game began to get poor, when we hung up our guns for a while. I had a little money left yet. The only money in circulation was American silver and British sovereigns. They would not sell lead ore for paper money nor on credit. During the spring I used my traps successfully, so that I saved something over board and expenses. In summer I worked in the mines with Edwin Buck of Bucksport, Maine, but only found lead ore enough to pay our expenses in getting it. Next winter I chopped wood for thirty-five cents per cord and boarded myself. This was poor business; poorer than hunting. In summer I found work at various things, but in the fall Mr. Buck and myself concluded that as we were both hunters and trappers, we would go northward toward Lake Superior on a hunting expedition, and, perhaps remain all winter. We replenished our outfit, and engaged Mr. Bennett to take us well up into the north country. We crossed the Wisconsin River near Muscoda, went then to Prairie du Chien, where we found a large stone fur trading house, owned by Mr. Brisbois, a Frenchman, from whom we obtained some information of the country further on. He assured us there was no danger from the Indians if we let them alone and treated them fairly. We bought fifty pounds of flour for each of us, and then started up the divide between the Wisconsin and Mississippi Rivers. On one side flowed the Bad River, and on the other the Kickapoo. We traveled on this divide about three days, when Mr. Bennett became afraid to go any further, as he had to return alone and the Indians might capture him before he could get back to the settlement. We camped early one night and went out hunting to get some game for him. I killed a large, black bear and Mr. Bennett took what he wanted of it, including the skin, and started back next morning. We now cachéd our things in various places, scattering them well. Some went in hollow logs, and some under heaps of brush or other places, where the Indians could not find them. We then built a small cabin about six by eight feet in size and four feet high, in shape like a A. We were not thoroughly pleased with this location and started out to explore the country to the north of us, for we had an idea that it would be better hunting there. The first day we started north we killed a bear, and filled our stomachs with the fat, sweet meat. The next night we killed another bear after a little struggling. The dog made him climb a tree and we shot at him; he would fall to the ground as if dead, but would be on his feet again in an instant, when, after the dog had fastened to his ham, he would climb the tree again. In the third trial he lay in the fork and had a good chance to look square at his tormentor. I shot him in the head, and as he lay perfectly still, Buck said:--"Now you have done it--we can't get him." But in a moment he began to struggle, and soon came down, lifeless. Here we camped on the edge of the pine forest, ate all the fat bear meat we could, and in the morning took separate routes, agreeing to meet again a mile or so farther up a small brook. I soon saw a small bear walking on a log and shot him dead. His mate got away, but I set my dog on him and he soon had to climb a tree. When I came up to where the dog was barking I saw Mr. Bear and fired a ball in him that brought him down. Just then I heard Mr. Buck shoot close by, and I went to him and found he had killed another and larger bear. We stayed here another night, dressed our game and sunk the meat in the brook and fastened it down, thinking we might want to get some of it another time. We were so well pleased with this hunting ground that we took the bear skins and went back to camp. When we got there our clothes were pretty well saturated with bear's oil, and we jokingly said it must have soaked through our bodies, we had eaten so much bear meat. I began to feel quite sick, and had a bad headache. I felt as if something must be done, but we had no medicine. Mr. Buck went down by the creek and dug some roots he called Indian Physic, then steeped them until the infusion seemed as black as molasses, and, when cool told me to take a swallow every fifteen minutes for an hour, then half as much for another hour as long as I could keep it down. I followed directions and vomited freely and for a long time, but felt better afterward, and soon got well. It reminded me some of the feelings I had when I was seasick on Lake Michigan. It may be interesting to describe how we were dressed to enter on this winter campaign. We wore moccasins of our own make. I had a buckskin jumper, and leggins that came up to my hips. On my head a drab hat that fitted close and had a rim about two inches wide. In fair weather I went bare-headed, Indian fashion. I carried a tomahawk which I had made. The blade was two inches wide and three inches long--the poll two inches long and about as large round as a dime; handle eighteen or twenty inches long with a knob on the end so it would not easily slip from the hand. Oiled patches for our rifle balls on a string, a firing wire, a charger to measure the powder, and a small piece of leather with four nipples on it for caps--all on my breast, so that I could load very rapidly. My bed was a comfort I made myself, a little larger than usual. I lay down on one side of the bed and with my gun close to me, turned the blanket over me. When out of camp I never left my gun out of my reach. We had to be real Indians in custom and actions in order to be considered their equals. We got our food in the same way they did, and so they had nothing to ask us for. They considered themselves the real kings of the forest. We now determined to move camp, which proved quite a job as we had to pack everything on our backs; which we did for ten or fifteen miles to the bank of a small stream where there were three pine trees, the only ones to be found in many miles. We made us a canoe of one of them. While we were making the canoe three Indians came along, and after they had eaten some of our good venison, they left us. These were the first we had seen, and we began to be more cautious and keep everything well hid away from camp and make them think we were as poor as they were, so they might not be tempted to molest us. We soon had the canoe done and loaded, and embarked on the brook down stream. We found it rather difficult work, but the stream grew larger and we got along very well. We came to one place where otter signs seemed fresh, and stopped to set a trap for them. Our dog sat on the bank and watched the operation, and when we started on we could not get him to ride or follow. Soon we heard him cry and went back to find he had the trap on his fore foot. To get it off we had to put a forked stick over his neck and hold him down, he was so excited over his mishap. When he was released he left at full speed and was never seen by us after. When we got well into the pine woods we camped and cached our traps and provisions on an island, and made our camp further down the stream and some little distance from the shore. We soon found this was very near a logging camp, and as no one had been living there for a year, we moved camp down there and occupied one of the empty cabins. We began to set dead-fall traps in long lines in many different directions, blazing the trees so we could find them if the snow came on. West of this about ten miles, where we had killed some deer earlier, we made a A-shaped cabin and made dead falls many miles around to catch fishes, foxes, mink and raccoons. We made weekly journeys to the places and generally staid about two nights. One day when going over my trap lines I came to a trap which I had set where I had killed a deer, and saw by the snow that an eagle had been caught in the trap and had broken the chain and gone away. I followed on the trail he made and soon found him. He tried to fly but the trap was too heavy, and he could only go slowly and a little way. I fired and put a ball in him and he fell and rolled under a large log on the hillside. As I took the trap off I saw an Indian coming down the hill and brought my gun to bear on him. He stopped suddenly and made signs not to shoot, and I let him come up. He made signs that he wanted the feathers of the bird which I told him to take, and then he wanted to know where we slept. I pointed out the way and made him go ahead of me there, for I did not want him behind me. At camp he made signs for something to eat, but when I showed him meat he shook his head. However he took a leg of deer and started on, I following at a good distance till satisfied that he would not come back. We had not taken pains to keep track of the day of the week or month; the rising and setting of the sun and the changes of the moon were all the almanacs we had. Then snow came about a foot deep, and some days were so cold we could not leave our camp fire at all. As no Indians appeared we were quite successful and kept our bundle of furs in a hollow standing tree some distance from camp, and when we went that way we never stopped or left any sign that we had a deposit there. Some time after it was all frozen up solid, some men with two yoke of oxen came up to cut and put logs in the river to raft down when the ice went out. With them came a shingle weaver, with a pony and a small sled, and some Indians also. We now had to take up all of our steel traps, and rob all our dead-falls and quit business generally--even then they got some of our traps before we could get them gathered in. We were now comparatively idle. Until these loggers came we did not know exactly where we were situated, but they told us we were on the Lemonai river, a branch of the Wisconsin, and that we could get out by going west till we found the Mississippi river and then home. We hired the shengle man with his pony to take us to Black River, farther north which we reached in three days, and found a saw mill there in charge of a keeper. Up the river farther we found another mill looked after by Sam Ferguson. Both mills were frozen up. The Indians had been here all winter. They come from Lake Superior when the swamps froze up there, to hunt deer, till the weather gets warm, then they returned to the Lake to fish. Of course the presence of the Indians made game scarce, but the mill men told us if we would go up farther into the marten country they thought we would do well. We therefore made us a hand sled, put some provisions and traps on board, and started up the river on the ice. As we went the snow grew deeper and we had to cut hemlock boughs for a bed on top of the snow. It took about a half a cord of wood to last us all night, and it was a trouble to cut holes in the ice to water, for it was more than two feet thick. Our fire kindled on the snow, would be two or three feet below on the ground, by morning. This country was heavily timbered with cedar, or spruce and apparently very level. One day we saw two otters coming toward us on the ice. We shot one, but as the other gun missed fire, the other one escaped, for I could not overtake it in the woods. We kept on up the river till we began to hear the Indians' guns, and then we camped and did not fire a gun for two days, for we were afraid we might be discovered and robbed, and we knew we could not stay long after our grub was gone. All the game we could catch was the marten or sable, which the Indians called _Waubusash_. The males were snuff color and the female much darker. Mink were scarce, and the beaver, living in the river bank, could not be got at till the ice went out in the spring. We now began to make marten traps or dead-falls, and set them for this small game. There were many cedar and tamarack swamps, indeed that was the principal feature, but there were some ridges a little higher where some small pines and beech grew. Now our camp was one place where there was no large timber caused by the stream being dammed by the beaver. Here were some of the real Russian Balsam trees, the most beautiful in shape I had ever seen. They were very dark green, the boughs very thick, and the tree in shape like an inverted top. Our lines of trips led for miles in every direction marked by blazed trees. We made a trap of two poles, and chips which we split from the trees. These were set in the snow and covered with brush, We sometimes found a porcupine in the top of a pine tree. The only signs of his presence were the chips he made in gnawing the bark for food. They never came down to the ground as we saw. They were about all the game that was good to eat. I would kill one, skin it and drag the carcass after me all day as I set traps, cutting off bits for bait, and cooking the rest for ourselves to eat. We tried to eat the marten but it was pretty musky and it was only by putting on plenty of salt and pepper that we managed to eat them. We were really forced to do it if we remained here. We secured a good many of these little fellows which have about the the best fur that is found in America. We were here about three weeks, and our provisions giving out and the ice becoming tender in the swamp were two pretty strong reasons for our getting out, so we shouldered our packs of fur and our guns and, getting our course from a pocket-compass, we started out. As we pushed on we came to some old windfalls that were troublesome to get through. The dense timber seemed to be six feet deep, and we would sometimes climb over and sometimes crawl under, the fallen trees were so thickly mixed and tangled. Mr. Buck got so completely tired that he threw away his traps. We reached our starting place at O'Neil's saw-mill after many days of the hardest work, and nearly starved, for we had seen no game on our trip. We found our traps and furs all safe here and as this stream was one of the tributaries of the Mississippi, we decided to make us a boat and float down toward that noted stream. We secured four good boards and built the boat in which we started down the river setting traps and moving at our leisure. We found plenty of fine ducks, two bee trees, and caught some cat-fish with a hook and line we got at the mill. We also caught some otter, and, on a little branch of the river killed two bears, the skin of one of them weighing five pounds. We met a keel boat being poled up the river, and with the last cent of money we possessed bought a little flour of them. About the first of May we reached Prairie du Chien. Here we were met with some surprise, for Mr. Brisbois said he had heard we were killed or lost. He showed us through his warehouses and pointed out to us the many bales of different kinds of furs he had on hand. He told us we were the best fur handlers he had seen, and paid us two hundred dollars in American gold for what we had. We then stored our traps in the garret of one of his warehouses, which was of stone, two stories and an attic, as we thought of making another trip to this country if all went well. We now entered our skiff again and went on down the great river till we came to a place nearly opposite Mineral Point, when we gave our boat to a poor settler, and with guns and bundles on our backs took a straight shoot for home on foot. The second day about dark we came in the edge of the town and were seen by a lot of boys who eyed us closely and with much curiosity, for we were dressed in our trapping suits. They followed us, and as we went along the crowd increased so that when we got to Crum. Lloyd's tavern the door was full of boys' heads looking at us as if we were a circus. Here we were heartily welcomed, and every body was glad to see us, as they were about to start a company to go in search of their reported murdered friends. It seems a missionary got lost on his way to Prairie La Crosse and had come across our deserted cabin, and when he came in he reported us as no doubt murdered. I invested all of my hundred dollars in buying eighty acres of good Government land. This was the first $100 I ever had and I felt very proud to be a land owner. I felt a little more like a man now than I had ever felt before, for the money was hard earned and all mine. CHAPTER VII. Mr. Buck and myself concluded we would try our luck at lead mining for the summer and purchased some mining tools for the purpose. We camped out and dug holes around all summer, getting just about enough to pay our expenses--not a very encouraging venture, for we had lived in a tent and had picked and shoveled and blasted and twisted a windlass hard enough to have earned a good bit of money. In the fall we concluded to try another trapping tour, and set out for Prairie du Chien. We knew it was a poor place to spend money up in the woods, and when we got our money it was all in a lump and seemed to amount to something. Mr. Brisbois said that the prospects were very poor indeed, for the price of fur was very low and no prospect of a better market. So we left our traps still on storage at his place and went back again. This was in 1847, and before Spring the war was being pushed in Mexico. I tried to enlist for this service, but there were so many ahead of me I could not get a chance. I still worked in the settlement and made a living, but had no chance to improve my land. The next winter I lived with Mr A. Bennett, hunted deer and sold them at Mineral Point, and in this way made and saved a few dollars. There had been from time to time rumors of a better country to the west of us and a sort of a pioneer, or western fever would break out among the people occasionally. Thus in 1845 I had a slight touch of the disease on account of the stories they told us about Oregon. It was reported that the Government would give a man a good farm if he would go and settle, and make some specified improvement. They said it was in a territory of rich soil, with plenty of timber, fish and game and some Indians, just to give a little spice of adventure to the whole thing. The climate was very mild in winter, as they reported, and I concluded it would suit me exactly. I began at once to think about an outfit and a journey, and I found that it would take me at least two years to get ready. A trip to California was not thought of in those days, for it did not belong to the United States. In the winter of 1848-49 news began to come that there was gold in California, but not generally believed till it came through a U.S. officer, and then, as the people were used to mines and mining, a regular gold fever spread as if by swift contagion. Mr. Bennett was aroused and sold his farm, and I felt a change in my Oregon desires and had dreams at might of digging up the yellow dust. Nothing would cure us then but a trip, and that was quickly decided on. As it would be some weeks yet before grass would start, I concluded to haul my canoe and a few traps over to a branch of the Wisconsin, and make my way to Prairie du Chien, do a little trapping, get me an Indian pony on which to ride to California. There were no ponies to be had at Mineral Point. Getting a ride up the river on a passing steamboat I reached Prairie La Crosse, where the only house was that of a Dutch trader from whom I bought a Winnebago pony, which he had wintered on a little brushy island, and I thought if he could winter on brush and rushes he must be tough enough to take me across the plains. He cost me $30, and I found him to be a poor, lazy little fellow. However, I thought that when he got some good grass, and a little fat on his ribs he might have more life, and so I hitched a rope to him and drove him ahead down the river. When I came to the Bad Axe river I found it swimming full, but had no trouble in crossing, as the pony was as good as a dog in the water. Before leaving Bennett's I had my gun altered over to a pill lock and secured ammunition to last for two years. I had tanned some nice buckskin and had a good outfit of clothes made of it, or rather cut and made it myself. Where I crossed the Bad Axe was a the battle ground where Gen. Dodge fought the Winnebago Indians. At Prairie du Chien I found a letter from Mr. Bennett, saying that the grass was so backward he would not start up for two or three weeks, and I had better come back and start with them; but as the letter bore no date I could only guess at the exact time. I had intended to strike directly west from here to Council Bluffs and meet them there, but now thought perhaps I had better go back to Mineral Point and start out with them there, or follow on rapidly after them if by any chance they had already started. On my way back I found the Kickapoo river too high to ford, so I pulled some basswood bark and made a raft of a couple of logs, on which to carry my gun and blanket; starting the pony across I followed after. He swam across quickly, but did not seem to like it on the other side, so before I got across, back he came again, not paying the least attention to my scolding. I went back with the raft, which drifted a good way down stream, and caught the rascal and started him over again, but when I got half way across he jumped and played the same joke on me again. I began to think of the old puzzle of the story of the man with the fox, the goose and a peck of corn, but I solved it by making a basswood rope to which I tied a stone and threw across, then sending the pony over with the other end. He staid this time, and after three days of swimming streams and pretty hard travel reached Mineral Point, to find Bennett had been gone two weeks and had taken my outfit with him as we first planned. I was a little troubled, but set out light loaded for Dubuque, crossed the river there and then alone across Iowa, over wet and muddy roads, till I fell in with some wagons west of the Desmoines River. They were from Milwaukee, owned by a Mr. Blodgett, and I camped with them a few nights, till we got to the Missouri River. I rushed ahead the last day or two and got there before them. There were a few California wagons here, and some campers, so I put my pony out to grass and looked around. I waded across the low bottom to a strip of dry land next to the river, where there was a post office, store, and a few cabins. I looked first for a letter, but there was none. Then I began to look over the cards in the trading places and saloons, and read the names written on the logs of the houses, and everywhere I thought there might be a trace of the friends I sought. No one had seen or knew them. After looking half a day I waded back again to the pony--pretty blue. I thought first I would go back and wait another year, but there was a small train near where I left the pony, and it was not considered very safe to go beyond there except with a pretty good train. I sat down in camp and turned the matter over in my mind, and talked with Chas. Dallas of Lynn, Iowa, who owned the train. Bennett had my outfit and gun, while I had his light gun, a small, light tent, a frying pan, a tin cup, one woolen shirt and the clothes on my back. Having no money to get another outfit, I about concluded to turn back when Dallas said that if I would drive one of his teams through, he would board me, and I could turn my pony in with his loose horses; I thought it over, and finally put my things in the wagon and took the ox whip to go on. Dallas intended to get provision here, but could not, so we went down to St. Jo, following the river near the bluff. We camped near town and walked in, finding a small train on the main emigrant road to the west. My team was one yoke of oxen and one yoke of cows. I knew how to drive, but had a little trouble with the strange animals till they found I was kind to them, and then they were all right. This was in a slave state, and here I saw the first negro auction. One side of the street had a platform such as we build for a political speaker. The auctioneer mounted this with a black boy about 18 years old, and after he had told all his good qualities and had the boy stand up bold and straight, he called for bids, and they started him at $500. He rattled away as if he were selling a steer, and when Mr. Rubideaux, the founder of St. Jo bid $800, he went no higher and the boy was sold. With my New England notions it made quite an impression on me. Here Dallas got his supplies, and when the flour and bacon was loaded up the ferryman wanted $50 to take the train across. This Dallas thought too high and went back up the river a day's drive, where he got across for $30. From this crossing we went across the country without much of a road till we struck the road from St. Jo, and were soon on the Platte bottom. We found some fine strawberries at one of the camps across the country. We found some hills, but now the country was all one vast prairie, not a tree in sight till we reached the Platte, there some cottonwood and willow. At the first camp on the Platte I rolled up in my blanket under the wagon and thought more than I slept, but I was in for it and no other way but to go on. I had heard that there were two forts, new Ft. Kearny and Ft. Laramie, on the south side of the river, which we must pass before we reached the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, and beyond there there would be no place to buy medicine or food. Our little train of five wagons, ten men, one woman and three children would not be a formidable force against the Indians if they were disposed to molest us, and it looked to me very hazardous, and that a larger train would be more safe, for Government troops were seldom molested on their marches. If I should not please Mr. Dallas and get turned off with only my gun and pony I should be in a pretty bad shape, but I decided to keep right on and take the chances on the savages, who would get only my hair and my gun as my contribution to them if they should be hostile. I must confess, however, that the trail ahead did not look either straight or bright to me, but hoped it might be better than I thought. So I yoked my oxen and cows to the wagon and drove on. All the other teams had two drivers each, who took turns, and thus had every other day off for hunting if they chose, but I had to carry the whip every day and leave my gun in the wagon. When we crossed Salt Creek the banks were high and we had to tie a strong rope to the wagons and with a few turns around a post, lower them down easily, while we had to double the teams to get them up the other side. Night came on before half the wagons were over, and though it did not rain the water rose before morning so it was ten feet deep. We made a boat of one of the wagon beds, and had a regular ferry, and when they pulled the wagons over they sank below the surface but came out all right. We came to Pawnee Village, on the Platte, a collection of mud huts, oval in shape, and an entrance low down to crawl in at. A ground owl and some prairie dogs were in one of them, and we suspected they might be winter quarters for the Indians. Dallas and his family rode in the two-horse wagon. Dick Field was cook, and the rest of us drove the oxen. We put out a small guard at night to watch for Indians and keep the stock together so there might be no delay in searching for them. When several miles from Ft. Kearney I think on July 3rd, we camped near the river where there was a slough and much cottonwood and willow. Just after sundown a horse came galloping from the west and went in with our horses that were feeding a little farther down. In the morning two soldiers came from the fort, inquiring after the stray horse, but Dallas said he had seen none, and they did not hunt around among the willows for the lost animal. Probably it would be the easiest way to report back to the fort--"Indians got him." When we hitched up in the morning he put the horse on the off side of his own, and when near the fort, he went ahead on foot and entertained the officers while the men drove by, and the horse was not discovered. I did not like this much, for if we were discovered, we might be roughly handled, and perhaps the property of the innocent even confiscated. Really my New England ideas of honesty were somewhat shocked. Reaching the South Platte, it took us all day to ford the sandy stream, as we had first to sound out a good crossing by wading through ourselves, and when we started our teams across we dare not stop a moment for fear the wagons would sink deep into the quicksands. We had no mishaps in crossing, and when well camped on the other side a solitary buffalo made his appearance about 200 yards away and all hands started after him, some on foot. The horsemen soon got ahead of him, but he did not seem inclined to get out of their way, so they opened fire on him. He still kept his feet and they went nearer, Mr. Rogers, being on a horse with a blind bridle, getting near enough to fire his Colt's revolver at him, when he turned, and the horse, being unable to see the animal quick enough to get out of the way, suffered the force of a sudden attack of the old fellow's horns, and came out with a gash in his thigh six inches long, while Rogers went on a flying expedition over the horse's head, and did some lively scrambling when he reached the ground. The rest of them worried him along for about half a mile, and finally, after about forty shots he lay down but held his head up defiantly, receiving shot after shot with an angry shake, till a side shot laid him out. This game gave us plenty of meat, which though tough, was a pleasant change from bacon. I took no part in this battle except as an observer. On examination it was found that the balls had been many of them stopped by the matted hair about the old fellow's head and none of them had reached the skull. A few days after this we were stopped entirely by a herd of buffaloes crossing our road. They came up from the river and were moving south. The smaller animals seemed to be in the lead, and the rear was brought up by the old cows and the shaggy, burly bulls. All were moving at a smart trot, with tongues hanging out, and seemed to take no notice of us, though we stood within a hundred yards of them. We had to stand by our teams and stock to prevent a stampede, for they all seemed to have a great wonder, and somewhat of fear at their relatives of the plains. After this we often saw large droves of them in the distance. Sometimes we could see what in the distance seemed a great patch of brush, but by watching closely we could see it was a great drove of these animals. Those who had leisure to go up to the bluffs often reported large droves in sight. Antelopes were also seen, but these occupied the higher ground, and it was very hard to get near enough to them to shoot successfully. Still we managed to get a good deal of game which was very acceptable as food. One prominent land mark along the route was what they called Court House Rock, standing to the south from the trail and much resembled an immense square building, standing high above surrounding country. The farther we went on the more plentiful became the large game, and also wolves and prairie dogs, the first of which seemed to follow the buffaloes closely. About this time we met a odd looking train going east, consisting of five or six Mormons from Salt Lake, all mounted on small Spanish mules. They were dressed in buckskin and moccasins, with long spurs jingling at their heels, the rowels fully four inches long, and each one carried a gun, a pistol and a big knife. They were rough looking fellows with long, matted hair, long beards, old slouch hats and a generally back woods get-up air in every way. They had an extra pack mule, but the baggage and provisions were very light. I had heard much about the Mormons, both at Nauvoo and Salt Lake, and some way or other I could not separate the idea of horse thieves from this party, and I am sure I would not like to meet them if I had a desirable mule that they wanted, or any money, or a good looking wife. We talked with them half an hour or so and then moved on. We occasionally passed by a grave along the road, and often a small head board would state that the poor unfortunate had died of cholera. Many of these had been torn open by wolves and the blanket encircling the corpse partly pulled away. Our route led a few miles north of Chimney Rock, standing on an elevated point like a tall column, so perfect and regular on all sides, that from our point it looked as if it might be the work of the stone cutters. Some of the party went to see it and reported there was no way to ascend it, and that as far as a man could reach, the rocks were inscribed with the names of visitors and travelers who passed that way. At Scott's Bluffs, the bluffs came close to the river, so there was considerable hill climbing to get along, the road in other places finding ample room in the bottom. Here we found a large camp of the Sioux Indians on the bank of a ravine, on both sides of which were some large cottonwood trees. Away up in the large limbs platforms had been made of poles, on which were laid the bodies of their dead, wrapped in blankets and fastened down to the platform by a sort of a network of smaller poles tightly lashed so that they could not be dragged away or disturbed by wild animals. This seemed a strange sort of cemetery, but when we saw the desecrated earth-made graves we felt that perhaps this was the best way, even if it was a savage custom. These Indians were fair-sized men, and pretty good looking for red men. Some of our men went over to their camp, and some of their youths came down to ours, and when we started on they seemed quite proud that they had learned a little of the English language, but the extent of their knowledge seemed to be a little learned of the ox-drivers, for they would swing their hands at the cattle and cry out "Whoa! haw, g--d d--n." Whether they knew what was meant, I have my doubts. They seemed pretty well provided for and begged very little, as they are apt to do when they are hard pressed. We saw also some bands of Pawnee Indians on the move across the prairies. They would hitch a long, light pole on each side of a pony, with the ends dragging behind on the ground, and on a little platform at the hind end the children sat and were dragged along. As we passed on beyond Scott's Bluff the game began to be perceptibly scarcer, and what we did find was back from the traveled road, from which it had apparently been driven by the passing hunters. In time we reached Ft. Laramie, a trading post, where there were some Indian lodges, and we noticed that some of the occupants had lighter complexions than any of the other Indians we had seen. They had cords of dried buffalo meat, and we purchased some. It was very fat, but was so perfectly cured that the clear tallow tasted as sweet as a nut. I thought it was the best dried meat I had ever tasted, but perhaps a good appetite had something to do with it. As we passed Ft. Laramie we fell in company with some U.S. soldiers who were going to Ft. Hall and thence to Oregon. We considered them pretty safe to travel with and kept with them for some time, though their rate of travel was less than ours. Among them were some Mormons, employed as teamsters, and in other ways, and they told us there were some Missourians on the road who would never live to see California. There had been some contests between the Missourians and the Mormons, and I felt rather glad that none of us hailed from Pike county. We turned into what they called the Black Hills, leaving the Platte to the north of us. The first night on this road we had the hardest rain I ever experienced, and the only one of any account on our journey. Our camp was on a level piece of ground on the bank of a dry creek, which soon became a very wet creek indeed, for by morning it was one hundred yards wide and absolutely impassible. It went down, however, as quickly as it rose, and by ten o'clock it was so low that we easily crossed and went on our way. We crossed one stream where there were great drifts or piles of hail which had been brought down by a heavy storm from higher up the hills. At one place we found some rounded boulders from six to eight inches in diameter, which were partly hollow, and broken open were found to contain most beautiful crystals of quartz, clear as purest ice. The inside was certainly very pretty, and it was a mystery how it came there. I have since learned that such stones are found at many points, and that they are called geodes. We came out at the river again at the mouth of Deer Creek, and as there was some pretty good coal there quite easy to get, we made camp one day to try to tighten our wagon tires, John Rogers acting as blacksmith. This was my first chance to reconnoiter, and so I took my gun and went up the creek, a wide, treeless bottom. In the ravines on the south side were beautiful groves of small fir trees and some thick brush, wild rose bushes I think. I found here a good many heads and horns of elk, and I could not decide whether they had been killed in winter during the deep snow, or had starved to death. There was a ferry here to cross the river and go up along north side. Mr. Dallas bought the whole outfit for a small sum and when we were safely over he took with him such ropes as he wanted and tied the boat to the bank The road on this side was very sandy and led over and among some rolling hills. In talking with the men of the U.S. troops in whose company we still were, I gathered much information concerning our road further west. They said we were entirely too late to get through to California, on account of crossing the Sierra Nevada mountains, which, they said would be covered with snow by November, or even earlier, and that we would be compelled to winter at Salt Lake. Some of the drivers overheard Mr. Dallas telling his family the same thing, and that if he should winter at Salt Lake, he would discharge his drivers as soon as he arrived, as he could not afford to board them all winter. This was bad news for me, for I had known of the history of them at Nauvoo and in Missouri, and the prospect of being thrown among them with no money to buy bread was a very sorry prospect for me. From all I could learn we could not get a chance to work, even for our board there, and the other drivers shared my fears and disappointment. In this dilemma we called a council, and invited the gentleman in to have an understanding. He came and our spokesman stated the case to him, and our fears, and asked him what he had to say to us about it. He flew quite angry at us, and talked some and swore a great deal more, and the burden of his speech was:--"This train belongs to me and I propose to do with it just as I have a mind to, and I don't care a d--n what you fellows do or say. I am not going to board you fellows all winter for nothing, and when we get to Salt Lake you can go where you please, for I shall not want you any longer." We talked a little to him and under the circumstances to talk was about all we could do. He gave us no satisfaction and left us apparently much offended that we had any care for ourselves. Then we had some talk among ourselves, at the time, and from day to day as we moved along. We began to think that the only way to get along at all in Salt Lake would be to turn Mormons, and none of us had any belief or desire that way and could not make up our minds to stop our journey and lose so much time, and if we were not very favored travelers our lot might be cast among the sinners for all time. We were now on the Sweetwater River, and began to see the snow on the Rocky Mountains ahead of us, another reminder that there was a winter coming and only a little more than half our journey was done. We did not feel very happy over it, and yet we had to laugh once in a while at some of the funny things that would happen. The Government party we were with had among them a German mule driver who had a deal of trouble with his team, but who had a very little knowledge of the English language. When the officers tried to instruct him a little he seemed to get out of patience and would say something very like _Sacramento_. We did not know exactly what this meant. We had heard there was a river of that name or something very near like that; and then again some said that was the Dutch for swearing. If this latter was the truth then he was a very profane mule driver when he got mad. The Captain of the company had a very nice looking lady with him, and they carried a fine wall tent which they occupied when they went into camp. The company cook served their meals to them in the privacy of their tent, and they seemed to enjoy themselves very nicely. Everybody thought the Captain was very lucky in having such an accomplished companion, and journey along quietly to the gold fields at government expense. There seemed to be just a little jealousy between the Captain and the Lieutenant, and one day I saw them both standing in angry attitude before the Captain's quarters, both mounted, with their carbines lying across their saddles before them. They had some pretty sharp, hot words, and it looked as if they both were pretty nearly warmed up to the shooting point. Once the Lieutenant moved his right hand a little, and the Captain was quick to see it, shouting;--"Let your gun alone or I will make a hole through you," at the same time grasping his own and pointing it straight at the other officer. During all this time the Captain's lady stood in the tent door, and when she saw her favorite had the drop on the Lieutenant she clapped her delicate, little hands in a gleeful manner:--"Just look at the Captain! Ain't he spunky?" and then she laughed long and loud to see her lord show so much military courage. She seemed more pleased at the affair than any one else. I don't know exactly what the others thought, but I never could believe that the lady and the Captain were ever married. The Lieutenant was no coward, but probably thinking that prudence was the better part of valor, refrained from handling his gun, and the two soon rode away in opposite directions. We passed a lone rock standing in the river bottom on the Sweetwater, which they named Independence Rock. It was covered with the names of thousands of people who had gone by on that road. Some were pretty neatly chiseled in, some very rudely scrawled, and some put on with paint. I spent all the time I could hunting Mr. Bennett's name, but I could not find it anywhere. To have found his name, and thus to know that he had safely passed this point would have been a little re-assuring in those rather doubtful days. Some had named the date of their passing, and some of them were probably pretty near the gold fields at this time. All along in this section we found alkali water near the road, some very strong and dangerous for man or beast to use. We traveled on up the Sweetwater for some time, and at last came to a place where the road left the river, and we had a long, hard hill to pull up. When we reached the top of this we were in the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, the backbone of the American continent. To the north of us were some very high peaks white with snow, and to the south were some lower hills and valleys. The summit of the mountains was not quite as imposing as I expected, but it was the summit, and we were soon surely moving down the western side, for at Pacific Springs the water ran to the westward, toward the Pacific coast. The next day we came to the nearly dry bed of the river--the Big Sandy. The country round about seemed volcanic, with no timber, but plenty of sage brush, in which we were able to shoot an occasional sage hen. The river bed itself was nothing but sand, and where there was water enough to wet it, it was very miry and hard traveling over it. There are two streams, the Big Sandy and Little Sandy, both tributaries to Green River, which we soon reached and crossed. It was a remarkable clear and rapid stream and was now low enough to ford. One of the Government teams set out to make the crossing at a point where it looked shallow enough, but before the lead mules reached the opposite shore, they lost their footing and were forced to swim. Of course the wagon stopped and the team swung round and tangled up in a bad shape. They were unhitched and the wagon pulled back, the load was somewhat dampened, for the water came into the wagon box about a foot. We camped here and laid by one day, having thus quite a little chance to look around. When we came to the first water that flowed toward the Pacific Coast at Pacific Springs, we drivers had quite a little talk about a new scheme. We put a great many "ifs" together and they amounted to about this:--If this stream were large enough; if we had a boat; if we knew the way: if there were no falls or bad places; if we had plenty of provisions; if we were bold enough set out on such a trip, etc., we might come out at some point or other on the Pacific Ocean. And now when we came to the first of the "ifs," a stream large enough to float a small boat; we began to think more strongly about the other "ifs". In the course of our rambles we actually did run across the second "if" in the shape of a small ferry boat filled up with sand upon a bar, and it did not take very long to dig it out and put it into shape to use, for it was just large enough to hold one wagon at a time. Our military escort intended to leave us at this point, as their route now bore off to the north of ours. I had a long talk with the surgeon who seemed well informed about the country, and asked him about the prospects. He did not give the Mormons a very good name. He said to me:--"If you go to Salt Lake City, do not let them know you are from Missouri, for I tell you that many of those from that State will never see California. You know they were driven from Missouri, and will get revenge if they can." Both the surgeon and the captain said the stream came out on the Pacific Coast and that we had no obstacles except cataracts, which they had heard were pretty bad. I then went to Dallas and told him what we proposed doing and to our surprise he did not offer any objections, and offered me $60 for my pony. He said he would sell us some flour and bacon for provisions also. We helped them in crossing the river, which was somewhat difficult, being swift, with boulders in the bottom but we got all safely over and then made the trade we had spoken of. Dallas paid me for my pony and we took what flour and bacon he would let go. He gave us some ropes for head and stern lines to our boat and a couple of axes, and we laid these, and our provisions in a pile by the roadside. Six of us then gave up our whips. Mr. S. McMahon, a driver, hesitated for some time, but being pressed by Dallas for a decision, at last threw down his whip and said:--"I will go with the boys." This left Dallas with only one driver, but he took a whip himself, and with the aid of the children and his wife who drove the two-horse wagon, they got along very well. I paid for such provisions as we had taken, as the rest of the fellows had almost no money. So we parted company, the little train slowly moving on its way westward. Our military captain, the soldier boys, and the gay young lady taking the route to Oregon, and we sitting on the bank of the river whose waters flowed to the great Pacific. Each company wished the other good luck, we took a few long breaths and then set to work in earnest to carry out our plans. CHAPTER VIII. About the first thing we did was to organize and select a captain, and, very much against my wishes, I was chosen to this important position. Six of us had guns of some sort, Richard Field, Dallas's cook, was not armed at all. We had one regular axe and a large camp hatchet, which was about the same as an axe, and several very small hatchets owned by the men. All our worldly goods were piled up on the bank, and we were alone. An examination of the old ferry boat showed it to be in pretty good condition, the sand with which it had been filled keeping it very perfectly. We found two oars in the sand under the boat, and looked up some poles to assist us in navigation. Our cordage was rather scant but the best we could get and all we could muster. The boat was about twelve feet long and six or seven feet wide, not a very well proportioned craft, but having the ability to carry a pretty good load. We swung it up to the bank and loaded up our goods and then ourselves. It was not a heavy load for the craft, and it looked as if we were taking the most sensible way to get to the Pacific, and almost wondered that everybody was so blind as not to see it as we did. This party was composed of W.L. Manley, M.S. McMahon, Charles and Joseph Hazelrig, Richard Field, Alfred Walton and John Rogers. We untied the ropes, gave the boat a push and commenced to move down the river with ease and comfort, feeling much happier than we would had we been going toward Salt Lake with the prospect of wintering there. At the mouth of Ham's Fork we passed a camp of Indians, but we kept close to the opposite shore to avoid being boarded by them. They beckoned very urgently for us to come ashore, but I acted as if I did not understand them, and gave them the go-by. As we were floating down the rapid stream it became more and more a rapid, roaring river, and the bed contained many dangerous rocks that were difficult to shun. Each of us had a setting-pole, and we ranged ourselves along the sides of the boat and tried to keep ourselves clear from the rocks and dangers. The water was not very deep and made such a dashing noise as the current rushed among the rocks that one had to talk pretty loud to be heard. As we were gliding along quite swiftly, I set my pole on the bottom and gave the boat a sudden push to avoid a boulder, when the pole stuck in the crevice between two rocks, and instead of losing the pole by the sudden jerk I gave, I was the one who was very suddenly yanked from the boat by the spring of the pole, and landed in the middle of the river. I struck pretty squarely on my back, and so got thoroughly wet, but swam for shore amid the shouts of the boys, who waved their hats and hurrahed for the captain when they saw he was not hurt. I told them that was nothing as we were on our way to California by water any way, and such things must be expected. The next day after this I went on shore and sighted a couple of antelope, one of which I shot, which gave us good grub, and good appetites we already had. As near as we could estimate we floated about thirty miles a day, which beat the pace of tired oxen considerably. In one place there was a fringe of thick willows along the bank, and a little farther back a perpendicular bluff, while between the two was a strip of fine green grass. As we were passing this we scared up a band of elk in this grass meadow, and they all took a run down the river like a band of horses. One of them turned up a small ravine with walls so steep he could not get out, so we posted a guard at the entrance, and three of us went up the cañon after him, and after the others had each fired a shot, I fired the third and brought him down. This was about the finest piece of Rocky Mountain beef that one could see. We took the carcass on board and floated on again. Thus far we had a very pleasant time, each taking his turn in working the boat while the others rested or slept. About the fifth day when we were floating along in very gently running water, I had lay down to take a rest and a little sleep. The mountains here on both sides of the river were not very steep, but ran gradually for a mile or so. While I was sleeping the boat came around a small angle in the stream, and all at once there seemed to be a higher, steeper range of mountains right across the valley. The boys thought the river was coming to a rather sudden end and hastily awoke me, and for the life of me I could not say they were not right, for there was no way in sight for it to go to. I remembered while looking over a map the military men had I found a place named Brown's Hole, and I told the boys I guessed we were elected to go on foot to California after all, for I did not propose to follow the river down any sort of a hole into any mountain. We were floating directly toward a perpendicular cliff, and I could not see any hole any where, nor any other place where it could go. Just as we were within a stone's throw of the cliff, the river turned sharply to the right and went behind a high point of the mountain that seemed to stand squarely on edge. This was really an immense crack or crevice, certainly 2000 feet deep and perhaps much more, and seemed much wider at the bottom than it did at the top, 2000 feet or more above our heads. Each wall seemed to lean in toward the water as it rose. We were now for some time between two rocky walls between which the river ran very rapidly, and we often had to get out and work our boat over the rocks, sometimes lifting it off when it caught. Fortunately we had a good tow line, and one would take this and follow along the edge when it was so he could walk. The mountains seemed to get higher and higher on both sides as we advanced, and in places we could see quite a number of trees overhanging the river, and away up on the rocks we could see the wild mountain sheep looking down at us. They were so high that they seemed a mile away, and consequently safe enough. This was their home, and they seemed very independent, as if they dared us fellows to come and see them. There was an old cottonwood tree on bank with marks of an axe on it, but this was all the sign we saw that any one had ever been here before us. We got no game while passing through this deep cañon and began to feel the need of some fresh provisions very sorely. We passed many deep, dark cañons coming into the main stream, and at one place, where the rock hung a little over the river and had a smooth wall, I climbed up above the high water mark which we could clearly see, and with a mixture of gunpowder and grease for paint, and a bit of cloth tied to a stick for a brush, I painted in fair sized letters on the rock, CAPT. W.L. MANLEY, U.S.A. We did not know whether we were within the bounds of the United States or not, and we put on all the majesty we could under the circumstances. I don't think the sun ever shone down to the bottom of the cañon, for the sides were literally sky-high, for the sky, and a very small portion of that was all we could see. Just before night we came to a place where some huge rocks as large as cabins had fallen down from the mountain, completely filling up the river bed, and making it completely impassible for our boat. We unloaded it and while the boys held the stern line, I took off my clothes and pushed the boat out into the torrent which ran around the rocks, letting them pay the line out slowly till it was just right. Then I sang out to--"Let go"--and away it dashed. I grasped the bow line, and at the first chance jumped overboard and got to shore, when I held the boat and brought it in below the obstructions. There was some deep water below the rocks; and we went into camp. While some loaded the boat, others with a hook and line caught some good fish, which resembled mackerel. While I was looking up toward the mountain top, and along down the rocky wall, I saw a smooth place about fifty feet above where the great rocks had broken out, and there, painted in large black letters, were the words "ASHLEY, 1824." This was the first real evidence we had of the presence of a white man in this wild place, and from this record it seems that twenty-five years before some venturesome man had here inscribed his name. I have since heard there were some persons in St. Louis of this name, and of some circumstances which may link them with this early traveler. When we came to look around we found that another big rock blocked the channel 300 yards below, and the water rushed around it with a terrible swirl. So we unloaded the boat again and made the attempt to get around it as we did the other rocks. We tried to get across the river but failed. We now, all but one, got on the great rock with our poles, and the one man was to ease the boat down with the rope as far as he could, then let go and we would stop it with our poles and push it out into the stream and let it go over, but the current was so strong that when the boat struck the rock we could not stop it, and the gunwale next to us rose, and the other went down, so that in a second the boat stood edgewise in the water and the bottom tight against the big rock, and the strong current pinned it there so tight that we could no more move it than we could move the rock itself. This seemed a very sudden ending to our voyage and there were some very rapid thoughts as to whether we would not safer among the Mormons than out in this wild country, afoot and alone. Our boat was surely lost beyond hope, and something must be done. I saw two pine trees, about two feet through, growing on a level place just below, and I said to them that we must decide between going afoot and making some canoes out of these pine trees. Canoes were decided on, and we never let the axes rest, night or day till we had them completed. While my working shift was off, I took an hour or two, for a little hunting, and on a low divide partly grown over with small pines and juniper I found signs, old and new, of many elk, and so concluded the country was well stocked with noble game. The two canoes, when completed were about fifteen feet long and two feet wide, and we lashed them together for greater security. When we tried them we found they were too small to carry our load and us, and we landed half a mile below, where there were two other pine trees--white pine--about two feet through, and much taller than the ones we had used. We set at work making a large canoe of these. I had to direct the work for I was the only one who had ever done such work. We worked night and day at these canoes, keeping a big fire at night and changing off to keep the axes busy. This canoe we made twenty-five or thirty feet long, and when completed they made me captain of it and into it loaded the most valuable things, such as provisions, ammunition, and cooking utensils. I had to take the lead for I was the only skillful canoeist in the party. We agreed upon signals to give when danger was seen, or game in sight, and leading off with my big canoe we set sail again, and went flying down stream. This rapid rate soon brought us out of the high mountains and into a narrow valley when the stream became more moderate in its speed and we floated along easily enough. In a little while after we struck this slack water, as we were rounding a point, I saw on a sand bar in the river, five or six elk, standing and looking at us with much curiosity. I signaled for those behind to go to shore, while I did the same, and two or three of us took our guns and went carefully down along the bank, the thick brush hiding us from them, till we were in fair range, then selecting our game we fired on them. A fine doe fell on the opposite bank, and a magnificent buck which Rogers and I selected, went below and crossed the river on our side. We followed him down along the bank which was here a flat meadow with thick bunches of willows, and soon came pretty near to Mr. Elk who started off on a high and lofty trot. As he passed an opening in the bushes I put a ball through his head and he fell. He was a monster. Rogers, who was a butcher, said it would weigh five hundred or six hundred pounds. The horns were fully six feet long, and by placing the horns on the ground, point downwards, one could walk under the skull between them. We packed the meat to our canoes, and staid up all night cutting the meat in strips and drying it, to reduce bulk and preserve it, and it made the finest kind of food, fit for an epicure. Starting on again, the river lost more and more of of its rapidity as it came out into a still wider valley, and became quite sluggish. We picked red berries that grew on bushes that overhung the water. They were sour and might have been high cranberries. One day I killed an otter, and afterward hearing a wild goose on shore, I went for the game and killed it on a small pond on which there were also some mallard duck. I killed two of these. When I fired, the ones not killed did not fly away, but rather swam toward me. I suppose they never before had seen a man or heard the report of a gun. On the shore around the place I saw a small bear track, but I did not have time to look for his bearship, and left, with the game already killed, and passed on down through this beautiful valley. We saw one place where a large band of horses had crossed, and as the men with them must have had a raft, we were pretty sure that the men in charge of them were white men. Another day we passed the mouth of a swollen stream which came in from the west side. The water was thick with mud, and the fish, about a foot long, came to the top, with their noses out of water. We tried to catch some, but could not hold them. One night we camped on an island, and I took my gun and went over toward the west side where I killed a deer. The boys hearing me shoot, came out, guns in hand, thinking I might need help, and I was very glad of their assistance. To make our flour go as far as possible we ate very freely of meat, and having excellent appetites it disappeared very fast. It took us two or three days to pass this beautiful valley, and then we began to get into a rougher country again, the cañons deeper and the water more tumultuous. McMahon and I had the lead always, in the big canoe. The mountains seemed to change into bare rocks and get higher and higher as we floated along. After the first day of this the river became so full of boulders that many times the only way we could do was to unload the canoes and haul them over, load up and go ahead, only to repeat the same tactics in a very short time again. At one place where the river was more than usually obstructed we found a deserted camp, a skiff and some heavy cooking utensils, with a notice posted up on an alder tree saying that they had found the river route impracticable, and being satisfied that the river was so full of rocks and boulders that it could not be safely navigated, they had abandoned the undertaking and were about to start overland to make their way to Salt Lake. I took down the names of the parties at the time in my diary, which has since been burned, but have now forgotten them entirely. They were all strangers to me. They had taken left such heavy articles as could not be carried on foot. This notice rather disconcerted us, but we thought we had better keep on and see for ourselves, so we did not follow them, but kept on down the rocky river. We found generally more boulders than water, and the down grade of the river bed was heavy. Some alders and willows grew upon the bank and up quite high on the mountains we could see a little timber. Some days we did not go more than four or five miles, and that was serious work, loading and unloading our canoes, and packing them over the boulders, with only small streams of water curling around between them. We went barefoot most of the time, for we were more than half of the time in the water which roared and dashed so loud that we could hardly heard each other speak. We kept getting more and more venturesome and skillful, and managed to run some very dangerous rapids in safety. On the high peaks above our heads we could see the Rocky Mountain sheep looking defiantly at us from their mountain fastnesses, so far away they looked no larger than jack rabbits. They were too far off to try to shoot at, and we had no time to try to steal up any nearer for at the rate we were making, food would be the one thing needful, for we were consuming it very fast. Sometimes we could ride a little ways, and then would come the rough-and-tumble with the rocks again. One afternoon we came to a sudden turn in the river, more than a right angle, and, just below, a fall of two feet or more. This I ran in safety, as did the rest who followed and we cheered at our pluck and skill. Just after this the river swung back the other way at a right angle or more, and I quickly saw there was danger below and signaled them to go on shore at once, and lead the canoes over the dangerous rapids. I ran my own canoe near shore and got by the rapid safely, waiting for the others to come also. They did not obey my signals but thought to run the rapid the same as I did. The channel here was straight for 200 yards, without a boulder in it, but the stream was so swift that it caused great, rolling waves in the center, of a kind I have never seen anywhere else. The boys were not skillful enough to navigate this stream, and the suction drew them to the center where the great waves rolled them over and over, bottom side up and every way. The occupants of our canoe let go and swam to shore. Fields had always been afraid of water and had worn a life preserver every day since we left the wagons. He threw up his hands and splashed and kicked at a terrible rate, for he could not swim, and at last made solid ground. One of the canoes came down into the eddy below, where it lodged close to the shore, bottom up. Alfred Walton in the other canoe could not swim, but held on to the gunwale with a death grip, and it went on down through the rapids. Sometimes we could see the man and sometimes not, and he and the canoe took turns in disappearing. Walton had very black hair, and as he clung fast to his canoe his black head looked like a crow on the end of a log. Sometimes he would be under so long that we thought he must be lost, when up he would come again still clinging manfully. McMahon and I threw everything out of the big canoe and pushed out after him. I told Mc. to kneel down so I could see over him to keep the craft off the rocks, and by changing his paddle from side to side as ordered, he enabled me to make quick moves and avoid being dashed to pieces. We fairly flew, the boys said, but I stood up in the stern and kept it clear of danger till we ran into a clear piece of river and overtook Walton clinging to the overturned boat; McMahon seized the boat and I paddled all to shore, but Walton was nearly dead and could hardly keep his grasp on the canoe. We took him to a sandy place and worked over him and warmed him in the sun till he came to life again, then built a fire and laid him up near to it to get dry and warm. If the canoe had gone on 20 yards farther with him before we caught it, he would have gone into another long rapid and been drowned. We left Walton by the fire and crossing the river in the slack water, went up to where the other boys were standing, wet and sorry-looking, say-that all was gone and lost. Rogers put his hand in his pocket and pulled out three half dollars and said sadly:--"Boys, this is all I am worth in the world." All the clothes he had were a pair of overalls and a shirt. If he had been possessed of a thousand in gold he would have been no richer, for there was no one to buy from and nothing to buy. I said to them: "Boys, we can't help what has happened, we'll do the best we can. Right your canoe, get the water out, and we'll go down and see how Walton is." They did as I told them, and lo and behold when the canoe rolled right side up, there were their clothes and blankets safe and sound. These light things had floated in the canoe and were safe. We now tried by joining hands to reach out far enough to recover some of the guns, but by feeling with their feet they found the bottom smooth as glass and the property all swept on below, no one knew where. The current was so powerful that no one could stand in it where it came up above his knees. The eddy which enabled us to save the first canoe with the bedding and clothes was caused by a great boulder as large as a house which had fallen from above and partly blocked the stream. Everything that would sink was lost. We all got into the two canoes and went down to Walton, where we camped and staid all night for Walton's benefit. While we were waiting I took my gun and tried to climb up high enough to see how much longer this horrible cañon was going to last, but after many attempts, I could not get high enough to see in any direction. The mountain was all bare rocks in terraces, but it was impossible to climb from one to the other, and the benches were all filled with broken rocks that had fallen from above. By the time I got back to camp, Walton was dry and warm and could talk. He said he felt better, and pretty good over his rescue. When he was going under the water, it seemed sometimes as if he never would come to the top again, but he held on and eventually came out all right. He never knew how he got to shore, he was so nearly dead when rescued. The next morning Walton was so well we started on. We were now very poorly armed. My rifle and McMahon's shotgun were all the arms we had for seven of us, and we could make but a poor defence if attacked by man or beast, to say nothing of providing ourselves with food. The mountains on each side were very bare of timber, those on the east side particularly so, and very high and barren. Toward night we were floating along in a piece of slack water, the river below made a short turn around a high and rocky point almost perpendicular from the water. There was a terrace along the side of this point about fifty feet up, and the bench grew narrower as it approached the river. As I was coming down quite close under this bank I saw three mountain sheep on the bench above, and, motioning to the boys, I ran on shore and, with my gun in hand, crept down toward them, keeping a small pine tree between myself and the sheep. There were some cedar bushes on the point, and the pines grew about half way up the bank. I got in as good a range as possible and fired at one of them which staggered around and fell down to the bottom of the cliff. I loaded and took the next largest one which came down the same way. The third one tried to escape by going down the bend and then creeping up a crevice, but it could not get away and turned back, cautiously, which gave me time to load again and put a ball through it. I hit it a little too far back for instant death, but I followed it up and found it down and helpless, and soon secured it. I hauled this one down the mountain, and the other boys had the two others secure by this time. McMahon was so elated at my success that he said: "Manley, if I could shoot as you do I would never want any better business." And the other fellows said they guessed we were having better luck with one gun than with six, so we had a merry time after all. These animals were of a bluish color, with hair much finer than deer, and resembled a goat more than a sheep. These three were all females and their horns were quite straight, not curved like the big males. We cut the meat from the bones and broke them up, making a fine soup which tasted pretty good. They were in pretty good order, and the meat like very good mutton. We kept pushing on down the river. The rapids were still dangerous in many places, but not so frequent nor so bad as the part we had gone over, and we could see that the river gradually grew smoother as we progressed. After a day or two we began to get out of the cañons, but the mountains and hills on each side were barren and of a pale yellow caste, with no chance for us to climb up and take a look to see if there were any chances for us further along. We had now been obliged to follow the cañon for many miles, for the only way to get out was to get out endwise, climbing the banks being utterly out of the question. But these mountains soon came to an end, and there was some cottonwood and willows on the bank of the river, which was now so smooth we could ride along without the continual loading and unloading we had been forced to practice for so long. We had begun to get a little desperate at the lack of game, but the new valley, which grew wider all the time, gave us hope again, if it was quite barren everywhere except back of the willow trees. We were floating along very silently one day, for none of us felt very much in the mood for talking, when we heard a distant sound which we thought was very much like the firing of a gun. We kept still, and in a short time a similar sound was heard, plainer and evidently some ways down the stream. Again and again we heard it, and decided that it must be a gun shot, and yet we were puzzled to know how it could be. We were pretty sure there were no white people ahead of us, and we did not suppose the Indians in this far-off land had any firearms. It might be barely possible that we were coming now to some wagon train taking a southern course, for we had never heard that there were any settlements in this direction and the barren country would preclude any such thing, as we viewed it now. If it was a hostile band we could not do much with a rifle and a shot gun toward defending ourselves or taking the aggressive. Some of the boys spoke of our scalps ornamenting a spear handle, and indulged in such like cheerful talk which comforted us wonderfully. Finally we concluded we did not come out into that wild country to be afraid of a few gunshots, and determined to put on a bold front, fight if we had to, run away if we could not do any better, and take our chances on getting scalped or roasted. Just then we came in sight of three Indian lodges just a little back from the river, and now we knew for certain who had the guns. McMahon and I were in the lead as usual, and it was only a moment before one of the Indians appeared, gun in hand, and made motions for us to come on shore. A cottonwood tree lay nearly across the river, and I had gone so far that I had to go around it and land below, but the other boys behind were afraid to do otherwise than to land right there as the Indian kept his gun lying across his arm. I ran our canoe below to a patch of willows, where we landed and crawled through the brush till we came in sight of the other boys, where we stood and waited a moment to see how they fared, and whether our red men were friends or enemies. There were no suspicious movements on their part, so we came out and walked right up to them. There was some little talk, but I am sure we did not understand one another's language, and so we made motions and they made motions, and we got along better. We went with them down to the tepee, and there we heard the first word that was at all like English and that was "Mormonee," with a sort of questioning tone. Pretty soon one said "Buffalo," and then we concluded they were on a big hunt of some sort. They took us into their lodges and showed us blankets, knives, and guns, and then, with a suggestive motion, said all was "Mormonee," by which we understood they had got them from the Mormons. The Indian in the back part of the lodge looked very pleasant and his countenance showed a good deal of intelligence for a man of the mountains. I now told the boys that we were in a position where we were dependent on some one, and that I had seen enough to convince me that these Indians were perfectly friendly with the Mormons, and that for our own benefit we had better pass ourselves off for Mormons, also. So we put our right hand to our breast and said "Mormonee," with a cheerful countenance, and that act conveyed to them the belief that we were chosen disciples of the great and only Brigham and we became friends at once, as all acknowledged. The fine-looking Indian who sat as king in the lodge now, by motions and a word or two, made himself known as Chief Walker, and when I knew this I took great pains to cultivate his acquaintance. I was quite familiar with the sign language used by all the Indians, and found I could get along pretty well in making him understand and knowing what he said. I asked him first how many "sleeps" or days it was from there to "Mormonee." In answer he put out his left hand and then put two fingers of his right astride of it, making both go up and down with the same motion of a man riding a horse. Then he shut his eyes and laid his head on his hand three times, by which I understood that a man could ride to the Mormon settlement in three sleeps or four days. He then wanted to know where we were going, and I made signs that we were wishing to go toward the setting sun and to the big water, and I said "California." The country off to the west of us now seemed an open, barren plain, which grew wider as it extended west. The mountains on the north side seemed to get lower and smaller as they extended west, but on the south or east side they were all high and rough. It seemed as if we could see one hundred miles down the river, and up to the time we met the Indians we thought we had got through all our troublesome navigation and could now sail on, quietly and safely to the great Pacific Ocean and land of gold. When I told Chief Walker this he seemed very much astonished, as if wondering why we were going down the river when we wanted to get west across the country. I asked him how many sleeps it was to the big water, and he shook his head, pointed out across the country and then to the river and shook his head again; by which I understood that water was scarce, out the way he pointed. He then led me down to a smooth sand bar on the river and then, with a crooked stick, began to make a map in the sand. First he made a long crooked mark, ten feet long or so, and pointing to the river to let me know that the mark in the sand was made to represent it. He then made a straight mark across near the north end of the stream, and showed the other streams which came into the Green river which I saw at once was exactly correct. Then he laid some small stones on each side of the cross mark, and making a small hoop of a willow twig, he rolled it in the mark he had made across the river, then flourished his stick as if he were driving oxen. Thus he represented the emigrant road. He traced the branches off to the north where the soldiers had gone, and the road to California, which the emigrants took, all of which we could see was correct. Then he began to describe the river down which we had come. A short distance below the road he put some small stones on each side of the river to represent mountains. He then put down his hands, one on each side of the crooked mark and then raised them up again saying e-e-e-e-e-e as he raised them, to say that the mountains there were very high. Then he traced down the stream to a place below where we made our canoes; when he placed the stone back from the river farther, to show that there was a valley there; then he drew them in close again farther down, and piled them up again two or three tiers high, then placing both fists on them he raised them higher than the top of his head, saying e-e-e-e-e-e and looking still higher and shaking his head as if to say:--"Awful bad cañon", and thus he went on describing the river till we understood that we were near the place where we now were, and then pointed to his tepee, showing that I understood him all right. It was all correct, as I very well knew and assured me that he knew all about the country. I became much interested in my new found friend, and had him continue his map down the river. He showed two streams coming in on the east side and then he began piling up stones on each side of the river and then got longer ones and piled them higher and higher yet. Then he stood with one foot on each side of his river and put his hands on the stones and then raised them as high as he could, making a continued e-e-e-e-e-e as long as his breath would last, pointed to the canoe and made signs with his hands how it would roll and pitch in the rapids and finely capsize and throw us all out. He then made signs of death to show us that it was a fatal place. I understood perfectly plain from this that below the valley where we now were was a terrible cañon, much higher than any we had passed, and the rapids were not navigable with safety. Then Walker shook his head more than once and looked very sober, and said "Indiano" and reaching for his bow and arrows, he drew the bow back to its utmost length and put the arrow close to my breast, showing how I would get shot. Then he would draw his hand across his throat and shut his eyes as if in death to make us understand that this was a hostile country before us, as well as rough and dangerous. I now had a description of the country ahead and believed it to be reliable. As soon as I could conveniently after this, I had a council with the boys, who had looked on in silence while I was holding the silent confab with the chief. I told them where we were and what chances there were of getting to California by this route, and that for my part I had as soon be killed by Mormans as by savage Indians, and that I believed the best way for us to do was to make the best of our way to Salt Lake. "Now" I said, "Those of you who agree with me can follow--and I hope all will." McMahon said that we could not understand a word the old Indian said, and as to following his trails, I don't believe a word of it, and it don't seem right. He said he had a map of the country, and it looked just as safe to him to go on down the river as to go wandering across a dry and desolate country which we knew nothing of. I said to McMahon--"I know this sign language pretty well. It is used by almost all the Indians and is just as plain and certain to me as my talk is to you. Chief Walker and his forefathers were borne here and know the country as well as you know your father's farm, and for my part, I think I shall take one of his trails and go to Salt Lake and take the chances that way. I have no objections to you going some other way if you wish to and think it is best". McMahon and Fields concluded they would not follow me any farther. I then went to Chief Walker and had him point out the trail to "Mormonie" as well as he could. He told me where to enter the mountains leading north, and when we got part way he told me we would come to an Indian camp, when I must follow some horse tracks newly made; he made me know this by using his hands like horse's forefeet, and pointed the way. Some of the young men motioned for me to come out and shoot at a mark with them, and as I saw it would please them I did so and took good care to beat them every time too. Then they wanted to swap (narawaup) guns with me which I declined doing. After this the Chief came to me and wanted me to go and hunt buffalo with them. I told him I had no horse, and then he went and had a nice gray one brought up and told me I could ride him if I would go. He took his bow and arrow and showed me how he could shoot an arrow straight through a buffalo just back of his short ribs and that the arrow would go clear through and come out on the other side without touching a bone. Those fellows were in fine spirit, on a big hunt, and when Walker pointed out his route to me he swung his hand around to Salt Lake. They all spoke the word buffalo quite plainly. I took his strong bow and found I could hardly pull it half way out, but I have no doubt he could do as he said he could. I hardly knew how to refuse going with him. I asked him how long it would be before he would get around his long circuit and get to Salt Lake, to which he replied by pulverizing some leaves in his hands and scattering them in the air to represent snow, which would fall by the time he got to "Mormonee". I shivered as he said this and by his actions I saw that I understood him right. I told him I could not go with him for the other boys would depend on me to get them something to eat, and I put my finger into my open mouth to tell him this. I think if I had been alone I should have accepted his offer and should have had a good time. I gave them to understand that we would swap (narawaup) with them for some horses so he brought up a pair of nice two year-old colts for us. I offered him some money for them, he did not want that, but would take clothing of almost any kind. We let them have some that we could get along without, and some one let Walker have a coat. He put it on, and being more warmly dressed than ever before, the sweat ran down his face in streams. We let them have some needles and thread and some odd notions we had to spare. We saw that Walker had some three or four head of cattle with him which he could kill if they did not secure game at the time they expected. McMahon and Field still persisted they would not go with us and so we divided our little stock of flour and dried meat with them as fairly as possible and decided we would try the trail. When our plans were settled we felt in pretty good spirits again, and one of the boys got up a sort of corn-stalk fiddle which made a squeaking noise and in a little while there was a sort of mixed American and Indian dance going on in which the squaws joined in and we had a pretty jolly time till quite late at night. We were well pleased that these wild folks had proved themselves to be true friends to us. The morning we were to start I told the boys a dream I had in which I had seen that the course we had decided on was the correct one, but McMahon and Field thought we were foolish and said they had rather take the chances of going with the Indians, or going on down the river. He seemed to place great stress on the fact that he could not understand the Indians. Said he:--"This Indian may be all right, and maybe he will lead us all into a dreadful trap. They are treacherous and revengeful, and for some merely fancied wrong done by us, or by some one else of whom we have no control or knowledge, they may take our scalps, wipe us out of existence and no one will ever know what became of us. Now this map of mine don't show any bad places on this river, and I believe we can get down easily enough, and get to California some time. Field and I cannot make up our minds so easily as you fellows. I believe your chances are very poor." The boys now had our few things loaded on the two colts, for they had fully decided to go with me, and I was not in the least put back by McMahon's dire forebodings. We shook hands with quivering lips as we each hoped the other would meet good luck, and find enough to eat and all such sort of friendly talk, and then with my little party on the one side and McMahon and Field, whom we were to leave behind, on the other, we bowed to each other with bared heads, and then we started out of the little young cottonwoods into the broad plain that seemed to get wider and wider as we went west. The mountains on the northern side grew smaller and less steep as we went west, and on the other hand reached down the river as far as we could see. The plain itself was black and barren and for a hundred miles at least ahead of us it seemed to have no end. Walker had explained to us that we must follow some horse tracks and enter a cañon some miles to the northwest. He had made his hands work like horses' feet, placing then near the ground as if following a trail, We were not much more than a mile away when on looking back, we saw Chief Walker coming towards us on a horse at full speed; and motioning for us to stop. This we did, though some of the boys said we would surely be marched back and scalped. But it was not for that he came. He had been watching us and saw that we had failed to notice the tracks of the horses he told us about so he rode after us, and now took us off some little distance to the right, got off his horse and showed us the faint horse tracks which we were to follow and said "Mormonie". He pointed out to us the exact cañon we were to enter when we reached the hills; and said after three "sleeps" we would find an Indian camp on top of the mountain. He then bade us good bye again and galloped back to his own camp. We now resumed our journey, keeping watch of the tracks more closely, and as we came near the spurs of the mountain which projected out into the barren valley we crossed several well marked trails running along the foot hills, at right angles to our own. This we afterwards learned was the regular trail from Santa Fé to Los Angeles. At some big rocks further on we camped for the night, and found water in some pools or holes in the flat rocks which held the rain. Reading people of to-day, who know so well the geography of the American continent, may need to stop and think that in 1849 the whole region west of the Missouri River was very little known, the only men venturesome enough to dare to travel over it were hunters and trappers who, by a wild life had been used to all the privations of such a journey, and shrewd as the Indians themselves in the mysterious ways of the trail and the chase. Even these fellows had only investigated certain portions best suited to their purpose. The Indians here have the reputation of being blood thirsty savages who took delight in murder and torture, but here, in the very midst of this wild and desolate country we found a Chief and his tribe, Walker and his followers who were as humane and kind to white people as could be expected of any one. I have often wondered at the knowledge of this man respecting the country, of which he was able to make us a good map in the sand, point out to us the impassable cañon, locate the hostile indians, and many points which were not accurately known by our own explorers for many years afterward. He undoubtedly saved our little band from a watery grave, for without his advice we had gone on and on, far into the great Colorado cañon, from which escape would have been impossible and securing food another impossibility, while destruction by hostile indians was among the strong probabilities of the case. So in a threefold way I have for these more than forty years credited the lives of myself and comrades to the thoughtful interest and humane consideration of old Chief Walker. In another pool or pond near the one where we were camped I shot a small duck. Big sage was plenty here for fuel and we had duck for supper. Our party consisted of five men and two small ponies only two years old, with a stock of provisions very small including that the old chief had given us. We started on in the morning, following our faint trail till we came to the cañon we had in view, and up this we turned as we had been directed, finding in the bottom a little running stream. Timber began to appear as we ascended, and grass also. There were signs of deer and grouse but we had no time to stop to hunt, for I had the only gun and while I hunted the others must lie idly by. We reached the summit at a low pass, and just above, on the north side of the higher mountains were considerable banks of snow. Following the Chief's instructions we left the trail and followed some horse tracks over rolling hills, high on the mountain side. We found the Indian camp exactly as the Chief had described, consisting of two or three lodges. The men were all absent hunting, but the women were gathering and baking some sort of a root which looked like a carrot. They made a pile of several bushels and covered it with earth, then made a fire, treating the pile some as a charcoal burner does his pit of coal. When sufficiently cooked they beat them up and made the material into small cakes which were dried in the sun. The dried cakes were as black as coal and intended for winter use. These roots before roasting were unfit for food, as they contained a sort of acrid juice that would make the tongue smart and very sore but there was a very good rich taste when cooked. The woman pointed to our horses and said "Walker", so we knew they were aware that we got them of him, and might have taken us for horse thieves for aught I know. As it was not yet night when we came to the camp, we passed on and camped on a clear mountain brook where grew some pine trees. After a little some of the Indians belonging to the camp we had passed came in, bringing some venison, for which we traded by giving them some needles and a few other trinkets. I beat these fellows shooting at a mark, and then they wanted to trade guns, which I declined. This piece of meat helped us along considerably with our provisions, for game was very scarce and only some sage hens had come across our trail. One day I scared a hawk off the ground, and we took the sage hen he had caught and was eating, and made some soup of it. After being on this trail six or seven days we began to think of killing one of our colts for food, for we had put ourselves on two meals a day and the work was very hard; so that hunger was all the time increasing. We thought this was a pretty long road for Walker to ride over in three sleeps as he said he could, and we began also to think there might be some mistake somewhere, although it had otherwise turned out just as he said. On the eighth day our horse-tracks came out into a large trail which was on a down grade leading in a northward direction. On the ninth day we came into a large valley, and near night came in sight of a few covered wagons, a part of a train that intended going on a little later over the southern route to Los Angeles but were waiting for the weather to get a little cooler, for a large part of the route was over almost barren deserts. We were very glad to find these wagons, for they seemed to have plenty of food and the bountiful supper they treated us to was the very thing we needed. We camped here and told them of the hardships we had passed through. They had hired a guide, each wagon paying him ten dollars for his service. Our little party talked over the situation among ourselves, and concluded that as we were good walkers we must allow ourselves to be used in any way so that we had grub and concluded as many of us as possible would try to get some service to do for our board and walk along with the party. John Rogers had a dollar and a half and I had thirty dollars, which was all the money we had in our camp. We found out we were about 60 miles south of Salt Lake City. Some of the boys next day arranged to work for their board, and the others would be taken along if they would furnish themselves with flour and bacon. This part of the proposition fell to me and two others, and so Hazelrig and I took the two colts and started for the city, where they told us we could get all we needed with our little purse of money. We reached Hobble Creek before night, near Salt Lake where there was a Mormon fort, and were also a number of wagons belonging to some prospecting train. There seemed to be no men about and we were looking about among the wagons for some one to inquire of, when a woman came to the front of the last wagon and looked out at us, and to my surprise it was Mrs. Bennett, wife of the man I had been trying to overtake ever since my start on this long trip. Bennett had my entire outfit with him on this trip and was all the time wondering whether I would ever catch up with them. We stayed till the men came in with their cattle towards night, and Bennett was glad enough to see me, I assure you. We had a good substantial supper and then sat around the campfire nearly all night telling of our experience since leaving Wisconsin. I had missed Bennett at the Missouri River. I knew of no place where people crossed the river except Council Bluff, here I had searched faithfully, finding no trace of him, but it seems they had crossed farther up at a place called Kanesville, a Mormon crossing, and followed up the Platte river on the north side. Their only bad luck had been to lose a fine black horse, which was staked out, and when a herd of buffaloes came along he broke his rope and followed after them. He was looked for with other horses, but never found and doubtless became a prize for some enterprising Mr. Lo. who was fortunate enough to capture him. Hazelrig and I told of our experience on the south side of the Platte; why we went down Green River; what a rough time we had; how we were stopped by the Indians and how we had come across from the river, arriving the day before and were now on our way to Salt Lake to get some flour and bacon so we could go on with the train when it started as they had offered to haul our grub for our service if we could carry ourselves on foot. Mr. Bennett would not hear of my going on to Salt Lake City, for he said there must be provisions enough in the party and in the morning we were able to buy flour and bacon of John Philips of Mineral Point Wis. and of Wm. Philips his brother. I think we got a hundred pounds of flour and a quantity of bacon and some other things. I had some money which I had received for my horse sold to Dallas, but as the others had none I paid for it all, and told Hazelrig to take the ponies and go back to camp with a share of the provisions and do the best he could. I had now my own gun and ammunition, with some clothing and other items which I had prepared in Wisconsin before I started after my Winnebago pony, and I felt I ought to share the money I had with the other boys to help them as best I could. I felt that I was pretty well fixed and had nothing to fear. Mr. Bennett told me much of the trip on the north side of the Platte. He said they had some cholera, of which a few people died, and related how the outer if not the inner nature of the men changed as they left civilization, law and the courts behind them. Some who had been raised together, and lived together all their lives without discord or trouble, who were considered model men at home and just the right people to be connected with in such an expedition, seemed to change their character entirely out on these wild wastes. When anything excited their displeasure their blood boiled over, and only the interference of older and wiser heads on many occasions prevented bloodshed. Some dissolved the solemn contract they had made to travel together systematically and in order and to stand, by, even unto death, and when they reached the upper Platte, the journey only half over, talked of going back, or splitting up the outfit and join others they had taken a fancy to. Some who could not agree upon a just division of a joint outfit, thinking one party was trying to cheat, would not yield but would cut their wagons in two lengthwise just for spite so that no carts could be made and the whole vehicle spoiled for both parties. The ugly disagreements were many and the cloven foot was shown in many ways. Guns were often drawn and pointed but some one would generally interfere and prevent bloodshed. Others were honest and law abiding to the last degree beyond law and churches, and would act as harmoniously as at home, obeying their chosen captain in the smallest particular without any grumbling or dissension, doing to every one as they would be done by. These were the pride of the train. The trains were most of them organized, and all along the river bottom one was hardly ever out of sight of some of the wagons, all going west. Buffalo and antelope were plenty and in great droves, followed always by wolves great and small, who were on the lookout for crippled or dead animals with which to fill their hungry stomachs. Buffalo meat was plenty and much enjoyed while passing this section of the road and this opportunity of replenishing, enabled the stock to last them over more desolate regions where game was scarce. After Bennett had told his stories, and I had related more of our own close escapes I began to ask him why he went this way which seemed to be very circuitous and much longer than the way they had first intended to go. He said that it was too late in the season to go the straight-road safely, for there was yet 700 miles of bad country to cross and do the best they could it would be at the commencement of the rainy season before the Sierra Nevada mountains could be reached and in those mountains there was often a snow fall of 20 feet or more, and anyone caught in it would surely perish. If they tried to winter at the base of the mountains it was a long way to get provisions, and no assurance of wild game, and this course was considered very hazardous for any one to undertake. This they had learned after consulting mountaineers and others who knew about the regions, and as there was nothing doing among the Latter Day Saints to give employment to any one, it was decided best to keep moving and go the southern route by way of Los Angeles. No wagons were reported as ever getting through that way, but a trail had been traveled through that barren desert country for perhaps a hundred years, and the same could be easily broadened into a wagon road. After days of argument and camp-fire talks, this Southern route was agreed upon, and Capt. Hunt was chosen as guide. Capt. Hunt was a Mormon, and had more than one wife, but he had convinced them that he knew something about the road. Each agreed to give him ten dollars to pilot the train to San Bernardino where the Mormon Church had bought a Spanish grant of land, and no doubt they thought a wagon road to that place would benefit them greatly, and probably gave much encouragement for the parties to travel this way. It was undoubtedly safer than the northern mountain route at this season of the year. It seemed at least to be a new venture for west-bound emigrant trains, at least as to ultimate success, for we had no knowledge of any that had gone through safely. Some western people remembered the history of the Mormons in Illinois and Missouri, and their doings there, feared somewhat for their own safety now that they were so completely under their power, for they knew the Mormons to be revengeful and it was considered very unsafe for any traveler to acknowledge he was from Missouri. Many a one who had been born there, and lived there all his life, would promptly claim some other state as his native place. I heard one Mormon say that there were some Missourians on the plains that would never reach California. "They used us bad," said he, and his face took on a really murderous look. These Mormons at Salt Lake were situated as if on an island in the sea, and no enemy could reach any adjoining state or territory if Brigham Young's band of destroying angels were only warned to look after them. At a late hour that night we lay down to sleep, and morning came clear and bright. After breakfast Mr. Bennett said to me:--"Now Lewis I want you to go with me; I have two wagons and two drivers and four yoke of good oxen and plenty of provisions. I have your outfit yet, your gun and ammunition and your two good hickory shirts which are just in time for your present needs. You need not do any work. You just look around and kill what game you can for us, and this will help as much as anything, you can do." I was, of course glad to accept this offer, and thanks to Mr. Bennett's kind care of my outfit, was better fixed then any of the other boys. We inquired around among the other wagons as to their supply of flour and bacon; and succeeded to getting flour from Mr. Philips and bacon from some of the others, as much as we supposed the other boys would need, which I paid for, and when this was loaded on the two colts Hazelrig started back alone to the boys in camp. As I was so well provided for I gave him all my money for they might need some, and I did not. The wagons which composed the intended train were very much scattered about, having moved out from Salt Lake at pleasure, and it was said to be too early to make the start on the southern route, for the weather on the hot, barren desert was said to grow cooler a little later in the season, and it was only at this cool season that the south west part of the desert could be crossed in safety. The scattering members of the train began to congregate, and Capt. Hunt said it was necessary to have some sort of system about the move, and that before they moved they must organize and adopt rules and laws which must be obeyed. He said they must move like an army, and that he was to be a dictator in all things except that in case of necessity a majority of the train could rule otherwise. It was thought best to get together and try a march out one day, then go in camp and organize. This they did, and at the camp there was gathered one hundred and seven wagons, a big drove of horses and cattle, perhaps five hundred in all. The train was divided into seven divisions and each division was to elect its own captain. Division No. 1 should lead the march the first day, and their men should take charge of the stock and deliver them to the wagons in the morning, and then No. 1 should take the rear, with No. 2 in the lead to break the road. The rear division would not turn a wheel before 10 o'clock the next day, and it would be about that time at night before they were in camp and unyoked. The numbers of animals cleaned out the feed for a mile or two each side of the camp and a general meeting was called for the organization of the whole. Mr. L. Granger got up so he could look over the audience and proceeded to explain the plan and to read a preamble and resolutions which had been prepared as the basis for government. I remember that it begun thus:--"This Organization shall be known and designated as the Sand Walking Company, and shall consist of seven divisions etc," detailing the manner of marching as we have recited. Capt J. Hunt was chosen commander and guide, and his orders must be obeyed. All possible trouble that we could imagine might come was provided against in our written agreement, and all promised to live up to it. CHAPTER IX. We moved off in good style from this camp. After a day or two and before we reached what is called Little Salt Lake, an attempt was made to make a short cut, to save distance. The train only went on this cut off a day or two when Capt. Hunt came back from the front and said they had better turn back to the old trail again, which all did. This was a bad move, the train much broken and not easy to get them into regular working order again. We were now approaching what they called the Rim of the Basin. Within the basin the water all ran to the north or toward Great Salt Lake, but when we crossed the rim, all was toward the Colorado River, through which it reached the Pacific Ocean. About this time we were overtaken by another train commanded by Capt. Smith. They had a map with them made by one Williams of Salt Lake a mountaineer who was represented to know all the routes through all the mountains of Utah, and this map showed a way to turn off from the southern route not far from the divide which separated the waters of the basin from those which flowed toward the Colorado, and pass over the mountains, coming out in what they called Tulare valley, much nearer than by Los Angeles. This map was quite frequently exhibited and the matter freely discussed in camp, indeed speeches were made in the interest of the cut-off route which was to be so much shorter. A clergyman, the Rev. J.W. Brier, was very enthusiastic about this matter and discoursed learnedly and plausibly about it. The more the matter was talked about the more there were who were converted to the belief that the short road would be the best. The map showed every camp on the road and showed where there was water and grass, and as to obstacles to the wagons it was thought they could easily be overcome. A general meeting was called for better consideration of the question. Capt. Hunt said: "You all know I was hired to go by way of Los Angeles, but if you all wish to go and follow Smith I will go also. But if even one wagon decides to go the original route, I shall feel bound to go with that wagon." A great many were anxious to get the opinion of Capt. Hunt on the feasibility of the new route for he was a mountain man and could probably give us some good advice. He finally consented to talk of it, and said he really knew no more then the others about this particular route, but he very much doubted if a white man ever went over it, and that he did not consider it at all safe for those who had wives and children in their company to take the unknown road. Young men who had no family could possibly get through, and save time even if the road was not as good as Los Angeles road. But said he "If you decide to follow Smith I will go will go with you, even if the road leads to Hell." On the route from near Salt Lake to this point we found the country to grow more barren as we progressed. The grass was thinner, and sage brush took the place of timber. Our road took us in sight of Sevier Lake, and also, while going through the low hills, passed Little Salt Lake, which was almost dry, with a beach around it almost as white as snow. It might have had a little more the dignity of a lake in wet weather, but it was a rather dry affair as we saw it. At one point on this route we came into a long narrow valley, well covered with sage brush, and before we had gone very far we discovered that this was a great place for long eared rabbits, we would call them Jack Rabbits now. Every one who had a gun put it into service on this occasion, and there was much popping and shooting on every side. Great clouds of smoke rolled up as the hunters advanced and the rabbits ran in every direction to get away. Many ran right among the horses, and under the feet of the cattle and under the wagons, so that the teamsters even killed some with a whip. At the end of the valley we went into camp, and on counting up the game found we had over 500, or about one for every person in camp. This gave us a feast of fresh meat not often found. It was on this trip that one of Mr. Bennett's ox drivers was taken with a serious bowel difficulty, and for many days we thought he would die, but he eventually recovered. His name was Silas Helmer. It was really a serious moment when the front of the train reached the Smith trail. Team after team turned to the right while now and then one would keep straight ahead as was at first intended. Capt. Hunt came over to the larger party after the division was made, and wished them all a hearty farewell and a pleasant happy journey. My friend Bennett whose fortune I shared was among the seceders who followed the Smith party. This point, when our paths diverged was very near the place afterward made notorious as Mountain Meadows, where the famous massacre took place under the direction of the Mormon generals. Our route from here up to the mountain was a very pleasant one, steadily up grade, over rolling hills, with wood, water and grass in plenty. We came at last to what seemed the summit of a great mountain, about three days journey on the new trail. Juniper trees grew about in bunches, and my experience with this timber taught me that we were on elevated ground. Immediately in front of us was a cañon, impassible for wagons, and down into this the trail descended. Men could go, horses and mules, perhaps, but wagons could no longer follow that trail, and we proposed to camp while explorers were sent out to search a pass across this steep and rocky cañon. Wood and bunch grass were plenty, but water was a long way down the trail and had to be packed up to the camp. Two days passed, and the parties sent out began to come in, all reporting no way to go farther with the wagons. Some said the trail on the west side of the cañon could be ascended on foot by both men and mules, but that it would take years to make it fit for wheels. The enthusiasm about the Smith cut-off had begun to die and now the talk began of going back to follow Hunt. On the third morning a lone traveler with a small wagon and one yoke of oxen, died. He seemed to be on this journey to seek to regain his health. He was from Kentucky, but I have forgotten his name. Some were very active about his wagon and, some thought too much attention was paid to a stranger. He was decently buried by the men of the company. This very morning a Mr. Rynierson called the attention of the crowd and made some remarks upon the situation. He said: "My family is near and dear to me. I can see by the growth of the timber that we are in a very elevated place. This is now the seventh of November, it being the fourth at the time of our turning off on this trail. We are evidently in a country where snow is liable to fall at any time in the winter season, and if we were to remain here and be caught in a severe storm we should all probably perish. I, for one, feel in duty bound to seek a safer way than this. I shall hitch up my oxen and return at once to the old trail. Boys (to his teamsters) get the cattle and we'll return." This was decisive, and Mr. Rynierson would tarry no longer. Many others now proceeded to get ready and follow, and as Mr. Rynierson drove out of camp quite a respectable train fell in behind him. As fast as the hunters came in and reported no road available, they also yoked up their oxen and rolled out. Some waited awhile for companions yet in the fields, and all were about ready to move, when a party came in with news that the pass was found and no trouble could be seen ahead. About twenty-seven wagons remained when this news came, and as their proprietors had brought good news they agreed to travel on westward and not go back to the old trail. Mr. Bennett had gone only a short distance out when he had the misfortune to break the axle of his wagon and he then went back to camp and took an axle out of the dead man's wagon and by night had it fitted into his own. He had to stay until morning, and there were still a few others who were late in getting a start, who camped there also. Among these were J.B. Arcane, wife and child; two Earhart brothers and sons and some two or three other wagons. When all was ready we followed the others who had gone ahead. The route led at first directly to the north and a pass was said to be in that direction. Of the Green River party only Rodgers and myself remained with this train. After the wagons straightened out nicely, a meeting was called to organize, so as to travel systematically. A feeling was very manifest that those without any families did not care to bind themselves to stand by and assist those who had wives and children in their party and there was considerable debate, which resulted in all the family wagons being left out of the arrangements. A party who called themselves "The Jayhawkers" passed us, and we followed along in the rear, over rolling hills covered with juniper timber, and small grassy valleys between where there was plenty of water and went well, for those before us had broken out the road so we could roll along very pleasantly. At the organization Jim Martin was chosen captain. Those who were rejected were Rev. J.W. Brier and, his family, J.B. Arcane and family, and Mr. A. Bennett and family, Mr. Brier would not stay put out, but forced himself in, and said he was going with the rest, and so he did. But the other families remained behind. I attended the meeting and heard what was said, but Mr. Bennett was my friend and had been faithful to me and my property when he knew not where I was, and so I decided to stand by him and his wife at all hazards. As I had no team to drive I took every opportunity to climb the mountains along the route, reaching the highest elevations even if they were several miles from the trail. I sometimes remained out all night. I took Mr. Arcane's field glass with me and was thus able to see all there was of the country. I soon became satisfied that going north was not taking us in the direction we ought to go. I frequently told them so, but they still persisted in following on. I went to the leaders and told them we were going back toward Salt Lake again, not making any headway toward California. They insisted they were following the directions of Williams, the mountaineer; and they had not yet got as far north as he indicated. I told them, and Mr. Bennett and others, that we must either turn west, or retrace our steps and get back into the regular Los Angeles road again. In the morning we held another consultation and decided to turn west here, and leave the track we had been following. Off we turned at nearly right angles to our former course, to the west now, over a piece of table land that gave us little trouble in breaking our own road. When we camped, the oxen seemed very fond of a white weed that was very plenty, and some borrowed a good deal of trouble thinking that perhaps it might be poison. I learned afterwards that this plant was the nutritious white sage, which cattle eat freely, with good results. We now crossed a low range and a small creek running south, and here were also some springs. Some corn had been grown here by the Indians. Pillars of sand stone, fifteen feet high and very slim were round about in several places and looked strange enough. The next piece of table land sloped to the east, and among the sage grew also a bunch grass a foot high, which had seeds like broom-corn seeds. The Indians had gathered the grass and made it in piles of one hundred pounds or so, and used it for food as I found by examining their camps. One day I climbed a high mountain where some pine grew, in order to get a view of the country. As I neared its base I came to a flat rock, perhaps fifty feet square. I heard some pounding noise as I came near, but what ever it was, it ceased on my approach. There were many signs of the rock being used as a camp, such as pine burrs, bones of various kinds of animals, and other remains of food which lay every where about and on the rock. Near the center was a small oblong stone fitted into a hole. I took it out and found it covered a fine well of water about three feet deep and was thus protected against any small animal being drowned in it. I went on up the mountain and from the top I saw that the land west of us looked more and more barren. The second night the brave Jayhawkers who had been so firm in going north hove in sight in our rear. They had at last concluded to accept my advice and had came over our road quite rapidly. We all camped together that night, and next morning they took the lead again. After crossing a small range they came to a basin which seemed to have no outlet, and was very barren. Some of the boys in advance of the teams had passed over this elevation and were going quite rapidly over the almost level plain which sloped into the basin, when they saw among the bunches of sage brush behind them a small party of Indians following their road, not very far off, but still out of bow and arrow range. The boys were suddenly able to take much longer steps than usual and a little more rapidly too, and swinging round toward the teams as soon as possible, for they already had some fears that an arrow might be sticking in their backs in an unpleasantly short space of time, for the Indians were good travelers. When they came in sight of the wagons, the Indians vanished as quickly as if they had gone into a hole, with no sign remaining, except a small dog which greatly resembled a prairie wolf, and kept a safe distance away. No one could imagine where the fellows went so suddenly. We drove to the west side of this basin and camped near the foot of a low mountain. The cattle were driven down into the basin where there was some grass, but at camp we had only the water in our kegs. Some of the boys climbed the mountain on the north but found no springs: Coming down a cañon they found some rain water in a basin in the rocks and all took a good drink. Lew West lay down and swallowed all he could and then told the boys to kill him for he never would feel so good again. They finished the pool, it was so small, before they left it. In going on down the cañon they saw an Indian dodge behind some big rocks, and searching, they found him in a cave as still as a dead man. They pulled him out and made him go with them, and tried every way to find out from him where they were and where Owen's Lake was, as they had been told the lake was on their route. But he proved to be no wiser than a man of mud, and they led him along to camp, put a red flannel shirt on him to cover his nakedness, and made him sleep between two white men so he could not get away easily. In the morning they were more successful, and he showed us a small ravine four miles away which had water in it, enough for our use, and we moved up and camped there, while the boys and the Indian started over a barren, rocky mountain, and when over on the western slope they were led to a water hole on a steep rocky cliff where no one but an Indian would ever think of looking for water. They took out their cups and had a good drink all around, then offered the Indian some, but he disdained the civilized way, and laying down his bow and arrows took a long drink directly out of the pool. He was so long in getting a good supply that the boys almost forgot him as they were gazing over the distant mountain and discussing prospects, till attracted by a slight noise they looked and saw Mr. Indian going down over the cliffs after the fashion of a mountain sheep, and in a few bounds he was out of sight. They could not have killed him if they had tried, the move so sudden and unlooked for. They had expected the fellow to show them the way to Owen's lake, but now their guide was gone, and left nothing to remember him by except his bow and arrows. So they returned to their wagons not much wiser than before. All kinds of game was now very scarce, and so seldom seen that the men got tired of carrying their guns, and grew fearless of enemies. A heavy rifle was indeed burdensome over so long a road when there was no frequent use for it. The party kept rolling along as fast as possible but the mountains and valleys grew more barren and water more scarce all the time. When found, the water would be in hole at the outlet of some cañon, or in little pools which had filled up with rain that had fallen on the higher ground. Not a drop of rain had fallen on us since we started on this cut-off, and every night was clear and warm. The elevated parts of the country seemed to be isolated buttes, with no running streams between them but instead, dry lakes with a smooth clay bed, very light in color and so hard that the track of an ox could not be seen on its glittering surface. At a distance those clay beds looked like water shining in the sun and were generally about three times as far as any one would judge, the air was so clear. This mirage, or resemblance to water was so perfect as often to deceive us, and almost to our ruin on one or two occasions. I took Arcane's field glass and took pains to ascend all the high buttes within a day's walk of the road, and this enabled me to get a good survey of the country north and west. I would sometimes be gone two or three days with no luggage but my canteen and gun. I was very cautious in regard to Indians, and tried to keep on the safe side of surprises. I would build a fire about dark and then travel on till I came to a small washed place and lie down and stay till morning, so if Mr. Indian did come to my fire he would not find any one to kill. One day I was going up a wide ravine leading to the summit, and before I reached the highest part I saw a smoke curl up before me. I took a side ravine and went cautiously, bowed down pretty low so no one could see me, and when near the top of the ridge and about one hundred yards of the fire I ventured to raise slowly up and take a look to see how many there were in camp: I could see but two and as I looked across the ravine an Indian woman seemed looking at me also, but I was so low she could only see the top of my head, and I sank down again out of sight. I crawled further up so as to get a better view, and when I straightened up again she got a full view of me. She instantly caught her infant off its little pallet made of a small piece of thin wood covered with a rabbit skin, and putting the baby under one arm, and giving a smart jerk to a small girl that was crying to the top of her voice, she bounded off and fairly flew up the gentle slope toward the summit, the girl following after very close. The woman's long black hair stood out as she rushed along, looking over her shoulder every instant as if she expected to be slain. The mother flying with her children, untrammeled with any of the arts of fashion was the best natural picture I ever looked upon, and wild in the extreme. No living artist could do justice to the scene as the lady of the desert, her little daughter and her babe, passed over the summit out of sight. I followed, but when I reached the highest summit, no living person could be seen. I looked the country over with my glass. The region to the north was black rocky, and very mountainous. I looked some time and then concluded I had better not go any further that way, for I might be waylaid and filled with arrows at some unsuspected moment. We saw Indian signs almost every day, but as none of them ever came to our camp it was safe to say they were not friendly. I now turned back and examined the Indian woman's camp. She had only fire enough to make a smoke. Her conical shaped basket left behind, contained a few poor arrows and some cactus leaves, from which the spines had been burned, and there lay the little pallet where the baby was sleeping. It was a bare looking kitchen for hungry folks. I now went to the top of a high butte and scanned the country very carefully, especially to the west and north, and found it very barren. There were no trees, no fertile valleys nor anything green. Away to the west some mountains stood out clear and plain, their summits covered white with snow. This I decided was our objective point: Very little snow could be seen elsewhere, and between me and the snowy mountains lay a low, black rocky range, and a wide level plain, that had no signs of water, as I had learned them in our trip thus far across the country. The black range seemed to run nearly north and south, and to the north and northwest the country looked volcanic, black and desolate. As I looked and thought, I believed that we were much farther from a fertile region then most of our party had any idea of. Such of them as had read Fremont's travels, and most of them going to California had fortified themselves before starting by reading Fremont; said that the mountains were near California and were fertile from their very summits down to the sea, but that to the east of the mountains it was a desert region for hundred of miles. As I explained it to them, and so they soon saw for themselves, they believed that the snowy range ahead of us was the last range to cross before we entered the long-sought California, and it seemed not far off, and prospect quite encouraging. Our road had been winding around among the buttes which looked like the Indian baskets turned upside down on the great barren plain. What water we found was in small pools in the wash-out places near the foothills at the edge of the valley, probably running down the ravines after some storm. There were dry lake beds scattered around over the plain, but it did not seem as if there had ever been volume of water enough lately to force itself out so far into the plain as these lakes were. All the lakes appeared about the same, the bed white and glistening in the sun, which made it very hard for the eyes, and so that a man in passing over it made no visible track. It looked as if it one time might have been a smooth bed of plastic mortar, and had hardened in the sun. It looked as if there must have been water there sometime, but we had not seen a drop, or a single cloud; every day was clear and sunny, and very warm, and at night no stars forgot to shine. Our oxen began to look bad, for they had poor food. Grass had been very scarce, and now when we unyoked them and turned them out they did not care to look around much for something to eat. They moved slowly and cropped disdainfully the dry scattering shrubs and bunches of grass from six inches to a foot high. Spending many nights and days on such dry food and without water they suffered fearfully, and though fat and sleek when we started from Salt Lake, they now looked gaunt and poor, and dragged themselves slowly along, poor faithful servants of mankind. No one knew how long before we might have to kill some of them to get food to save our own lives. We now traveled several days down the bed of a broad ravine, which led to a southwest direction. There seemed to be a continuous range of mountains on the south, but to the north was the level plain with scattered buttes, and what we had all along called dry lakes, for up to this time we had seen no water in any of them. I had carried my rifle with me every day since we took this route, and though I was an experienced hunter, a professional one if there be such a thing, I had killed only one rabbit, and where no game lived I got as hungry as other folks. Our line soon brought us in sight of a high butte which stood apparently about 20 miles south of our route, and I determined to visit and climb it to get a better view of things ahead. I walked steadily all day and reached the summit about dusk. I wandered around among the big rocks, and found a projecting cliff where I would be protected from enemies, wind or storm, and here I made my camp. While the light lasted I gathered a small stock of fuel, which consisted of a stunted growth of sage and other small shrubs, dry but not dead, and with this I built a little fire Indian fashion and sat down close to it. Here was a good chance for undisturbed meditation and someway I could not get around doing a little meditating as I added a new bit of fuel now and then to the small fire burning at my side. I thought it looked dark and troublesome before us. I took a stone for a pillow with my hat on it for a cushion, and lying down close under the shelving rock I went to sleep, for I was very tired, I woke soon from being cold, for the butte was pretty high, and so I busied myself the remainder of the night in adding little sticks to the fire, which gave me some warmth, and thus in solitude I spent the night. I was glad enough to see the day break over the eastern mountains, and light up the vast barren country I could see on every hand around me. When the sun was fairly up I took a good survey of the situation, and it seemed as if pretty near all creation was in sight. North and west was a level plain, fully one hundred miles wide it seemed, and from anything I could see it would not afford a traveler a single drink in the whole distance or give a poor ox many mouthfuls of grass. On the western edge it was bounded by a low, black and rocky range extending nearly north and south for a long distance and no pass though it which I could see, and beyond this range still another one apparently parallel to it. In a due west course from me was the high peak we had been looking at for a month, and lowest place was on the north side, which we had named Martin's Pass and had been trying so long to reach. This high peak, covered with snow, glistened to the morning sun, and as the air was clear from clouds or fog, and no dust or haze to obscure the view, it seemed very near. I had learned by experience that objects a day's walk distant seemed close by in such a light, and that when clear lakes appeared only a little distance in our front, we might search and search and never find them. We had to learn how to look for water in this peculiar way. In my Wisconsin travel I had learned that when I struck a ravine I must go down to look for living water, but here we must invariably travel upward for the water was only found in the high mountains. Prospects now seemed to me so hopeless, that I heartily wished I was not in duty bound to stand by the women and small children who could never reach a land of bread without assistance. If I was in the position that some of them were who had only themselves to look after, I could pick up my knapsack and gun and go off, feeling I had no dependent ones to leave behind. But as it was I felt I should be morally guilty of murder if I should forsake Mr. Bennett's wife and children, and the family of Mr. Arcane with whom I had been thus far associated. It was a dark line of thought but I always felt better when I got around to the determination, as I always did, to stand by my friends, their wives and children let come what might. I could see with my glass the train of wagons moving slowly over the plain toward what looked to me like a large lake. I made a guess of the point they would reach by night, and then took a straight course for it all day long in steady travel. It was some time after dark, and I was still a quarter of a mile from the camp fires, where in the bed of a cañon I stepped into some mud, which was a sign of water. I poked around in the dark for a while and soon found a little pool of it, and having been without a drop of it for two days I lay down and took a hasty drink. It did not seem to be very clear or clean, but it was certainly wet, which was the main thing just then. The next morning I went to the pond of water, and found the oxen had been watered there. They stirred up the mud a good deal and had drank off about all the clean part, which seemed to refresh them very much. I found the people in the camp on the edge of the lake I had seen from the mountain, and fortunately it contained about a quarter of an inch of water. They had dug some holes here, which filled up, and they were using this water in the camp. The ambitious mountain-climbers of our party had by this, time, abandoned that sort of work, and I was left alone to look about and try to ascertain the character of the road they were to follow. It was a great deal to do to look out for food for the oxen and for water for the camp, and besides all this it was plain there were Indians about even if we did not see them. There were many signs, and I had to be always on the lookout to outgeneral them. When the people found I was in camp this night they came around to our wagons to know what I had seen and found, and what the prospects were ahead. Above all they wanted to know how far it was, in my opinion to the end of our journey. I listened to all their inquiries and told them plainly what I had seen, and what I thought of the prospect. I did not like telling the whole truth about it for fear it might dampen their spirits, but being pressed for an opinion I told them in plain words that it would at least be another month before their journey would be ended. They seemed to think I ought to be pretty good authority, and if I was not mistaken, the oxen would get very poor and provisions very scarce before we could pull through so long. I was up at day break and found Mr. Bennett sitting by the fire. About the first thing he said:--"Lewis, if you please I don't want you hereafter to express your views so openly and emphatically as you did last night about our prospects. Last night when I went to bed I found Sarah (his wife) crying and when pressed for the cause, she said she had heard your remarks on the situation, and that if Lewis said so it must be correct, for he knows more about it than all of you. She felt that she and the children must starve." In the morning Jayhawkers, and others of the train that were not considered strictly of our own party, yoked up and started due west across the level plain which I had predicted as having no water, and I really thought they would never live to get across to the western border. Mr. Culverwell and Mr. Fish stayed with us, making another wagon in our train. We talked about the matter carefully, I did not think it possible to get across that plain in less than four or six days, and I did not believe there was a drop of water on the route. To the south of us was a mountain that now had considerable snow upon its summit, and some small pine trees also. Doubtless we could find plenty of water at the base, but being due south, it was quite off our course. The prospects for reaching water were so much better in that way that we finally decided to go there rather than follow the Jayhawkers on their desolate tramp over the dry plain. So we turned up a cañon leading toward the mountain and had a pretty heavy up grade and a rough bed for a road. Part way up we came to a high cliff and in its face were niches or cavities as large as a barrel or larger, and in some of them we found balls of a glistening substance looking something like pieces of varigated candy stuck together. The balls were as large as small pumpkins. It was evidently food of some sort, and we found it sweet but sickish, and those who were so hungry as to break up one of the balls and divide it among the others, making a good meal of it, were a little troubled with nausea afterwards. I considered it bad policy to rob the Indians of any of their food, for they must be pretty smart people to live in this desolate country and find enough to keep them alive, and I was pretty sure we might count them as hostiles as they never came near our camp. Like other Indians they were probably revengeful, and might seek to have revenge on us for the injury. We considered it prudent to keep careful watch for them, so they might not surprise us with a volley of arrows. The second night we camped near the head of the cañon we had been following, but thus far there had been no water, and only some stunted sage brush for the oxen, which they did not like, and only ate it when near the point of starvation. They stood around the camp looking as sorry as oxen can. During the night a stray and crazy looking cloud passed over us and left its moisture on the mountain to the shape of a coat of snow several inches deep. When daylight came the oxen crowded around the wagons, shivering with cold, and licking up the snow to quench their thirst. We took pattern after them and melted snow to get water for ourselves. By the looks of our cattle it did not seem as if they could pull much, and light loads were advisable on this up grade. Mr. Bennett was a carpenter and had brought along some good tools in his wagon. These he reluctantly unloaded, and almost everything else except bedding and provisions, and leaving them upon the ground, we rolled up the hills slowly, with loads as light as possible. Rogers and I went ahead with our guns to look out the way and find a good camping place. After a few miles we got out of the snow and out upon an incline, and in the bright clear morning air the foot of the snowy part of the mountain seemed near by and we were sure we could reach it before night. From here no guide was needed and Rogers and I, with our guns and canteens hurried on as fast as possible, when a camp was found we were to raise a signal smoke to tell them where it was. We were here, as before badly deceived as to the distance, and we marched steadily and swiftly till nearly night before we reached the foot of the mountain. Here was a flat place in a table land and on it a low brush hut, with a small smoke near by, which we could plainly see as we were in the shade of the mountain, and that place lighted up by the nearly setting sun. We looked carefully and satisfied ourselves there was but one hut, and consequently but few people could be expected. We approached carefully and cautiously, making a circuit around so as to get between the hut and the hill in case that the occupants should retreat in that direction. It was a long time before we could see any entrance to this wickiup, but we found it at last and approached directly in front, very cautiously indeed: We could see no one, and thought perhaps they were in ambush for us, but hardly probable, as we had kept closely out of sight. We consulted a moment and concluded to make an advance and if possible capture some one who could tell us about the country, as we felt we were completely lost. When within thirty yards a man poked out his head out of a doorway and drew it back again quick as a flash. We kept out our guns at full cock and ready for use, and told Rogers to look out for arrows, for they would come now if ever. But they did not pull a bow on us, and the red-man, almost naked came out and beckoned for us to come on which we did. We tried to talk with the fellow in the sign language but he could understand about as much as an oyster. I made a little basin in the ground and filled it with water from our canteens to represent a lake, then pointed in an inquiring way west and north, made signs of ducks and geese flying and squawking, but I did no seem to be able to get an idea into his head of what we wanted. I got thoroughly provoked at him and may have shown some signs of anger. During all this time a child or two in the hut squalled terribly, fearing I suppose they would all be murdered. We might have lost our scalps under some circumstances, but we appeared to be fully the strangest party, and had no fear, for the Indian had no weapon about him and we had both guns and knives. The poor fellow was shivering with cold, and with signs of friendship we fired off one of the guns which waked him up a little and he pointed to the gun and said "Walker," probably meaning the same good Chief Walker who had so fortunately stopped us in our journey down Green River. I understood from the Indian that he was not friendly to Walker, but to show that he was all right with us he went into the hut and brought out a handful of corn for us to eat. By the aid of a warm spring near by they had raised some corn here, and the dry stalks were standing around. As we were about to leave I told him we would come back, next day and bring him some clothes if we could find any to spare, and then we shouldered our guns and went back toward the wagons, looking over our shoulders occasionally to see if we were followed. We walked fast down the hill and reached the camp about dark to find it a most unhappy one indeed. Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. Arcane were in heart-rending distress. The four children were crying for water but there was not a drop to give them, and none could be reached before some time next day. The mothers were nearly crazy, for they expected the children would choke with thirst and die in their arms, and would rather perish themselves than suffer the agony of seeing their little ones gasp and slowly die. They reproached themselves as being the cause of all this trouble. For the love of gold they had left homes where hunger had never come, and often in sleep dreamed of the bounteous tables of their old homes only to be woefully disappointed in the morning. There was great gladness when John Rogers and I appeared in the camp and gave the mothers full canteens of water for themselves and little ones, and there was tears of joy and thankfulness upon their cheeks as they blessed us over and over again. The oxen fared very hard. The ground was made up of broken stone, and all that grew was a dry and stunted brush not more than six inches high, of which the poor animals took an occasional dainty bite, and seemed hardly able to drag along. It was only seven or eight miles to the warm spring and all felt better to know for a certainty that we would soon be safe again. We started early, even the women walked, so as to favor the poor oxen all we could. When within two miles of the water some of the oxen lay down and refused to rise again, so we had to leave them and a wagon, while the rest pushed on and reached the spring soon after noon. We took water and went back to the oxen left behind, and gave them some to drink. They were somewhat rested and got up, and we tried to drive them in without the wagons, but they were not inclined to travel without the yoke, so we put it on them and hitched to the wagon again. The yoke and the wagon seemed to brace them up a good deal, and they went along thus much better than when alone and scattered about, with nothing to lean upon. The warm spring was quite large and ran a hundred yards or more before the water sank down into the dry and thirsty desert. The dry cornstalks of last years crop, some small willows, sagebrush, weeds and grass suited our animals very well, and they ate better than for a long time, and we thought it best to remain two or three days to give them a chance to get rest. The Indian we left here the evening before had gone and left nothing behind but a chunk of crystallized rock salt. He seemed to be afraid of his friends. The range we had been traveling nearly parallel with seemed to come to an end here where this snow peak stood, and immediately north and south of this peak there seemed to be a lower pass. The continuous range north was too low to hold snow. In the morning I concluded to go to the summit of that pass and with my glass have an extensive view. Two other boys started with me, and as we moved along the snow line we saw tracks of our runaway Indian in the snow, passing over a low ridge. As we went on up hill our boys began to fall behind, and long before night I could see nothing of them. The ground was quite soft, and I saw many tracks of Indians which put me on my guard. I reached the summit and as the shade of its mountain began to make it a little dark, I built a fire of sage brush, ate my grub, and when it was fairly dark, renewed the fire and passed on a mile, where in a small ravine with banks two feet high I lay down sheltered from the wind and slept till morning. I did this to beat the Indian in his own cunning. Next morning I reached the summit about nine o'clock, and had the grandest view I ever saw. I could see north and south almost forever. The surrounding region seemed lower, but much of it black, mountainous and barren. On the west the snow peak shut out the view in that direction. To the south the mountains seemed to descend for more than twenty miles, and near the base, perhaps ten miles away, were several smokes, apparently from camp fires, and as I could see no animals or camp wagons anywhere I presumed them to be Indians. A few miles to the north and east of where I stood, and somewhat higher, was the roughest piece of ground I ever saw. It stood in sharp peaks and was of many colors, some of them so red that the mountain looked red hot, I imagined it to be a true volcanic point, and had never been so near one before, and the most wonderful picture of grand desolation one could ever see. Toward the north I could see the desert the Jayhawkers and their comrades had under taken to cross, and if their journey was as troublesome as ours and very much longer, they might by this time be all dead of thirst. I remained on this summit an hour or so bringing my glass to bear on all points within my view, and scanning closely for everything that might help us or prove an obstacle to our progress. The more I looked the more I satisfied myself that we were yet a long way from California and the serious question of our ever living to get there presented itself to me as I tramped along down the grade to camp. I put down at least another month of heavy weary travel before we could hope to make the land of gold, and our stock of strength and provisions were both pretty small for so great a tax upon them. I thought so little about anything else that the Indians might have captured me easily, for I jogged along without a thought of them. I thought of the bounteous stock of bread and beans upon my father's table, to say nothing about all the other good things, and here was I, the oldest son, away out in the center of the Great American Desert, with an empty stomach and a dry and parched throat, and clothes fast wearing out with constant wear. And perhaps I had not yet seen the worst of it. I might be forced to see men, and the women and children of our party, choke and die, powerless to help them. It was a darker, gloomier day than I had ever known could be, and alone I wept aloud, for I believed I could see the future, and the results were bitter to contemplate. I hope no reader of this history may ever be placed in a position to be thus tried for I am not ashamed to say that I have a weak point to show under such circumstances. It is not in my power to tell how much I suffered in my lonely trips, lasting sometimes days and nights that I might give the best advice to those of my party. I believed that I could escape at any time myself, but all must be brought through or perish, and with this all I knew I must not discourage the others. I could tell them the truth, but I must keep my worst apprehensions to myself lest they loose heart and hope and faith needlessly. I reached the camp on the third day where I found the boys who went part way with me and whom I had out-walked. I related to the whole camp what I had seen, and when all was told it appeared that the route from the mountains westerly was the only route that could be taken, they told me of a discovery they had made of a pile of squashes probably raised upon the place, and sufficient in number so that every person could have one. I did not approve of this for we had no title to this produce, and might be depriving the rightful owner of the means of life. I told them not only was it wrong to rob them of their food, but they could easily revenge themselves on us by shooting our cattle, or scalp us, by gathering a company of their own people together. They had no experience with red men and were slow to see the results I spoke of as possible. During my absence an ox had been killed, for some were nearly out of provisions, and flesh was the only means to prevent starvation. The meat was distributed amongst the entire camp, with the understanding that when it became necessary to kill another it should be divided in the same way. Some one of the wagons would have to be left for lack of animals to draw it. Our animals were so poor that one would not last long as food. No fat could be found on the entire carcass, and the marrow of the great bones was a thick liquid, streaked with blood resembling corruption. Our road led us around the base of the mountain; There were many large rocks in our way, some as large as houses, but we wound around among them in a very crooked way and managed to get along. The feet of the oxen became so sore that we made moccasins for them from the hide of the ox that was killed, and with this protection they got along very well. Our trains now consisted of seven wagons. Bennett had two; Arcane two; Earhart Bros. one. Culverwell, Fish and others one; and there was one other, the owners of which I have forgotten. The second night we had a fair camp with water and pretty fair grass and brush for the oxen. We were not very far from the snow line and this had some effect on the country. When Bennett retired that night he put on a camp kettle of the fresh beef and so arranged the fire that it would cook slowly and be done by daylight for breakfast. After an hour or so Mr. Bennett went out to replenish the fire and see how the cooking was coming on, and when I went to put more water in the kettle, he found that to his disappointment, the most of the meat was gone. I was rolled up in my blanket under his wagon and awoke when he came to the fire and saw him stand and look around as if to fasten the crime on the right party if possible, but soon he came to me, and in a whisper said: "Did you see anyone around the fire after we went to bed?" I assured him I did not, and then he told me some one had taken his meat. "Do you think," said he "that any one is so near out of food as to be starving?" "I know the meat is poor, and who ever took it must be nearly starving." After a whispered conversation we went to bed, but we both rose at daylight and, as we sat by the fire, kept watch of those who got up and came around. We thought we knew the right man, but were not sure, and could not imagine what might happen if stealing grub should begin and continue. It is a sort of unwritten law that in parties such as ours, he who steals provisions forfeits his life. We knew we must keep watch and if the offense was repeated the guilty one might be compelled to suffer. Bennett watched closely and for a few days I kept closely with the wagons for fear there might be trouble. It was really the most critical point in our experience. After three or four days all hope of detecting the criminal had passed, and all danger was over out of any difficulty. One night we had a fair camp, as we were close to the base of the snow butte, and found a hole of clear or what seemed to be living water. There were a few minnows in it not much more than an inch long. This was among a big pile of rocks, and around these the oxen found some grass. There now appeared to be a pass away to the south as a sort of outlet to the great plain which lay to the north of us, but immediately west and across the desert waste, extending to the foot of a low black range of mountains, through which there seemed to be no pass, the distant snowy peak lay still farther on, with Martin's pass over it still a long way off though we had been steering toward it for a month. Now as we were compelled to go west this impassable barrier was in our way and if no pass could be found in it we would be compelled to go south and make no progress in a westerly direction. Our trail was now descending to the bottom of what seemed to be the narrowest part of the plain, the same one the Jayhawkers had started across, further north, ten days before. When we reached the lowest part of this valley we came to a running stream, and, as dead grass could be seen in the bed where the water ran very slowly, I concluded it only had water in it after hard rains in the mountains, perhaps a hundred miles, to the north. This water was not pure; it had a bitter taste, and no doubt in dry weather was a rank poison. Those who partook of it were affected about as if they had taken a big dose of salts. A short distance above this we found the trail of the Jayhawkers going west, and thus we knew they had got safely across the great plain and then turned southward. I hurried along their trail for several miles and looked the country over with field glass becoming fully satisfied we should find no water till we reached the summit, of the next range, and then fearing the party had not taken the precaution to bring along some water I went back to them and found they had none. I told them they would not see a drop for the next forty miles, and they unloaded the lightest wagon and drove back with everything they had which would hold water, to get a good supply. I turned back again on the Jayhawker's road, and followed it so rapidly that well toward night I was pretty near the summit, where a pass through this rocky range had been found and on this mountain not a tree a shrub or spear of grass could be found--desolation beyond conception. I carried my gun along every day, but for the want of a chance to kill any game a single load would remain in my gun for a month. Very seldom a rabbit could be seen, but not a bird of any kind, not even a hawk buzzard or crow made their appearance here. When near the steep part of the mountain, I found a dead ox the Jayhawkers had left, as no camp could be made here for lack of water and grass, the meat could not be saved. I found the body of the animal badly shrunken, but in condition, as far as putrefaction was concerned, as perfect as when alive. A big gash had been cut in the ham clear to the bone and the sun had dried the flesh in this. I was so awful hungry that I took my sheath knife and cut a big steak which I devoured as I walked along, without cooking or salt. Some may say they would starve before eating such meat, but if they have ever experienced hunger till it begins to draw down the life itself, they will find the impulse of self preservation something not to be controlled by mere reason. It is an instinct that takes possession of one in spite of himself. I went down a narrow, dark cañon high on both sides and perpendicular, and quite so in many places. In one of the perpendicular portions it seemed to be a varigated clay formation, and a little water seeped down its face. Here the Indians had made a clay bowl and fastened it to the wall so that it would collect and retain about a quart of water, and I had a good drink of water, the first one since leaving the running stream. Near here I staid all night, for fear of Indians who I firmly believe would have taken my scalp had a good opportunity offered. I slept without a fire, and my supply of meat just obtained drove hunger away. In the morning I started down the cañon which descended rapidly and had a bed of sharp, volcanic, broken rock. I could sometimes see an Indian track, and kept a sharp lookout at every turn, for fear of revenge on account of the store of squashes which had been taken. I felt I was in constant danger, but could do nothing else but go on and keep eyes open trusting to circumstances to get out of any sudden emergency that might arise. As I recollect this was Christmas day and about dusk I came upon the camp of one man with his wife and family, the Rev. J.W. Brier, Mrs. Brier and two sons. I inquired for others of his party and he told me they were somewhere ahead. When I arrived at his camp I found the reverend gentleman very cooly delivering a lecture to his boys on education. It seemed very strange to me to hear a solemn discourse on the benefits of early education when, it seemed to me, starvation was staring us all in the face, and the barren desolation all around gave small promise of the need of any education higher than the natural impulses of nature. None of us knew exactly where we were, nor when the journey would be ended, nor when substantial relief would come. Provisions were wasting away, and some had been reduced to the last alternative of subsisting on the oxen alone. I slept by the fire that night, without a blanket, as I had done on many nights before and after they hitched up and drove on in the morning I searched the camp carefully, finding some bacon rinds they had thrown away. As I chewed these and could taste the rich grease they contained, I thought they were the sweetest morsels I ever tasted. Here on the north side of the cañon were some rolling hills and some small weak springs, the water of which when gathered together made a small stream which ran a few yards down the cañon before it lost itself in the rocks and sand. On the side there stood what seemed to be one half of a butte, with the perpendicular face toward the cañon. Away on the summit of the butte I saw an Indian, so far away he looked no taller than my finger, and when he went out of sight I knew pretty well he was the very fellow who grew the squashes. I thought it might be he, at any rate. I now turned back to meet the teams and found them seven or eight miles up the cañon, and although it was a down grade the oxen were barely able to walk slowly with their loads which were light, as wagons were almost empty except the women and children. When night came on it seemed to be cloudy and we could hear the cries of the wild geese passing east. We regarded this as a very good sign and no doubt Owen's Lake, which we expected to pass on this route, was not very far off. Around in those small hills and damp places was some coarse grass and other growths, but those who had gone before devoured the best, so our oxen had a hard time to get anything to eat. Next morning I shouldered my gun and followed down the cañon keeping the wagon road, and when half a mile down, at the sink of the sickly stream, I killed a wild goose. This had undoubtedly been attracted here the night before by the light of our camp fire. When I got near the lower end of the cañon, there was a cliff on the north or right hand side which was perpendicular or perhaps a little overhanging, and at the base a cave which had the appearance of being continuously occupied by Indians. As I went on down I saw a very strange looking track upon the ground. There were hand and foot prints as if a human being had crawled upon all fours. As this track reached the valley where the sand had been clean swept by the wind, the tracks became more plain, and the sand had been blown into small hills not over three or four feet high. I followed the track till it led to the top of one of these small hills where a small well-like hole had been dug and in this excavation was a kind of Indian mummy curled up like a dog. He was not dead for I could see him move as he breathed, but his skin looked very much like the surface of a well dried venison ham. I should think by his looks he must be 200 or 300 years old, indeed he might be Adam's brother and not look any older than he did. He was evidently crippled. A climate which would preserve for many days or weeks the carcass of an ox so that an eatable round stake could be cut from it, might perhaps preserve a live man for a longer period than would be believed. I took a good long look at the wild creature and during all the time he never moved a muscle, though he must have known some one was in the well looking down at him. He was probably practicing on one of the directions for a successful political career looking wise and saying nothing. At any rate he was not going to let his talk get him into any trouble. He probably had a friend around somewhere who supplied his wants. I now left him and went farther out into the lowest part of the valley. I could look to the north for fifty miles and it seemed to rise gradually in that direction. To the south the view was equally extended, and down that way a lake could be seen. The valley was here quite narrow, and the lofty snow-capped peak we had tried so hard to reach for the past two months now stood before me. Its east side was almost perpendicular and seemed to reach the sky, and the snow was drifting over it, while here the day sun was shining uncomfortably hot. I believe this mountain was really miles from its base to its summit, and that nothing could climb it on the eastern side except a bird and the only bird I had seen for two months was the goose I shot. I looked every day for some sort of game but had not seen any. As I reached the lower part of the valley I walked over what seemed to be boulders of various sizes, and as I stepped from one to another the tops were covered with dirt and they grew larger as I went along. I could see behind them and they looked clear like ice, but on closer inspection proved to be immense blocks of rock salt while the water which stood at their bases was the strongest brine. After this discovery I took my way back to the road made by the Jayhawkers and found it quite level, but sandy. Following this I came to a campfire soon after dark at which E. Doty and mess were camped. As I was better acquainted I camped with them. They said the water there was brackish and I soon found out the same thing for myself. It was a poor camp; no grass, poor water and scattering, bitter sage brush for food for the cattle. It would not do to wait long here, and so they hurried on. I inquired of them about Martin's Pass, as they were now quite near it, and they said it was no pass at all, only the mountain was a little lower than the one holding the snow. No wagon could get over it, and the party had made up their minds to go on foot, and were actually burning their wagons as fuel with which to dry the meat of some of the oxen which they had killed. They selected those which were weakest and least likely to stand the journey, and by drying it the food was much concentrated. They were to divide the provisions equally and it was agreed thereafter every one must lookout for himself and not expect any help from anyone. If he used up his own provisions, he had no right to expect anyone else to divide with him. Rice, tea and coffee were measured out by the spoonful and the small amount of flour and bacon which remained was divided out as evenly as possible. Everything was to be left behind but blankets and provisions for the men were too weak to carry heavy packs and the oxen could not be relied on as beasts of burden and it was thought best not to load them so as to needlessly break them down. When these fellows started out they were full of spirit, and the frolic and fun along the Platte river was something worth laughing at but now they were very melancholy and talked in the lowest kind of low spirits. One fellow said he knew this was the Creator's dumping place where he had left the worthless dregs after making a world, and the devil had scraped these together a little. Another said this must be the very place where Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt, and the pillar been broken up and spread around the country. He said if a man was to die he would never decay on account of the salt. Thus the talk went on, and it seemed as if there were not bad words enough in the language to properly express their contempt and bad opinion of such a country as this. They treated me to some of their meat, a little better than mine, and before daylight in the morning I was headed back on the trail to report the bad news I had learned of the Jayhawkers. About noon I met two of our camp companions with packs on their backs following the wagon trail, and we stopped and had a short talk. They were oldish men perhaps 50 years old, one a Mr. Fish of Indiana and another named Gould. They said they could perhaps do as well on foot as to follow the slow ox teams, but when I told them what those ahead of them were doing, and how they must go, they did not seem to be entirely satisfied, as what they had on their backs would need to be replenished, and no such chance could be expected. They had an idea that the end of the journey was not as far off as I predicted. Mr. Fish had a long nicely made, whiplash wound around his waist, and when I asked him why he carried such a useless thing, which he could not eat, he said perhaps he could trade it off for something to eat. After we had set on a sand hill and talked for awhile, we rose and shook each other by the hand, and bade each other good bye with quivering lips. There was with me a sort of expression I could not repel that I should never see the middle aged men again. As my road was now out and away from the mountains, and level, I had no fear of being surprised by enemies, so walked on with eyes downcast, thinking over the situation, and wondering what would be the final outcome. If I were alone, with no one to expect me to help them, I would be out before any other man, but with women and children in the party, to go and leave them would be to pile everlasting infamy on my head. The thought almost made me crazy but I thought it would be better to stay and die with them, bravely struggling to escape than to forsake them in their weakness. It was almost night before I reached our camp, and sitting around our little fire I told, in the most easy way I could the unfavorable news of the party in advance. They seemed to look to me as a guide and adviser, I presume because I took much pains to inform myself on every point and my judgment was accepted with very little opposing opinion, they moved as I thought best. During my absence from camp for the two days the Indians had shot arrows into three of our oxen, and one still had an arrow in his side forward of the hip which was a dangerous place. To be sure and save him for ourselves we killed him. Some were a little afraid to eat the meat thinking perhaps the arrow might be poisoned, but I agreed that they wanted meat themselves and would not do that. I told them if they got a shot themselves it would be very likely to be a poisoned arrow and they must take the most instant measures to cut it out before it went into the blood. So we ventured to dry the meat and take it with us. Now I said to the whole camp "You can see how you have displeased the red men, taking their little squashes, and when we get into a place that suits them for that purpose, they may meet us with a superior force and massacre us, not only for revenge but to get our oxen and clothing." I told them we must ever be on guard against a surprise, as the chances were greatly against us. We pulled the arrows out of the other oxen, and they seemed to sustain no great injury from the wounds. This little faint stream where we camped has since been named as Furnace Creek and is still known as such. It was named in 1862 by some prospectors who built what was called an air furnace on a small scale to reduce some ore found near by, which they supposed to contain silver, but I believe it turned out to be lead and too far from transportations to be available. CHAPTER X. Bennett and Arcane now concluded not to wait for me to go ahead and explore out a way for them to follow, as I had done for a long time, but to go ahead as it was evidently the best way to turn south and make our own road, and find the water and passes all for ourselves. So they hitched up and rolled down the cañon, and out into the valley and then turned due south. We had not gone long on this course before we saw that we must cross the valley and get over to the west side. To do this we must cross through some water, and for fear the ground might be miry, I went to a sand hill near by and got a mesquite stick about three feet long with which to sound out our way. I rolled up my pants pulled off my moccasins and waded in, having the teams stand still till I could find out whether it was safe for them to follow or not by ascertaining the depth of the water and the character of the bottom. The water was very clear and the bottom seemed uneven, there being some deep holes. Striking my stick on the bottom it seemed solid as a rock, and breaking off a small projecting point I found it to be solid rock salt. As the teams rolled along they scarcely roiled the water. It looked to me as if the whole valley which might be a hundred miles long might have been a solid bed of rock salt. Before we reached this water there were many solid blocks of salt lying around covered with a little dirt on the top. The second night we found a good spring of fresh water coming out from the bottom of the snow peak almost over our heads. The small flow from it spread out over the sand and sank in a very short distance and there was some quite good grass growing around. This was a temporary relief, but brought us face to face with stranger difficulties and a more hopeless outlook. There was no possible way to cross this high steep range of mountains anywhere to the north and the Jayhawkers had abandoned their wagons and burned them, and we could no longer follow on the trail they made. It seemed that there was no other alternative but for us to keep along the edge of the mountain to the south and search for another pass. Some who had read Fremont's travels said that the range immediately west of us must be the one he described, on the west side of which was a beautiful country, of rich soil and having plenty of cattle, and horses, and containing some settlers, but on the east all was barren, dry, rocky, sandy desert as far as could be seen. We knew this eastern side answered well the description and believed that this was really the range described, or at least it was close by. We had to look over the matter very carefully and consider all the conditions and circumstances of the case. We could see the mountains were lower to the south, but they held no snow and seemed only barren rocks piled up in lofty peaks, and as we looked it seemed the most God-forsaken country in the world. We had been in the region long enough to know the higher mountains contained most water, and that the valleys had bad water or none at all, so that while the lower altitudes to the south gave some promise of easier crossing it gave us no promise of water or grass, without which we must certainly perish. In a certain sense we were lost. The clear night and days furnished us with the mean of telling the points of compass as the sun rose and set, but not a sign of life in nature's wide domain had been seen for a month or more. A vest pocketful of powder and shot would last a good hunter till he starved to death for there was not a living thing to shoot great or small. We talked over our present position pretty freely, and every one was asked to speak his unbiased mind, for we knew not who might be right or who might be wrong, and some one might make a suggestion of the utmost value. We all felt pretty much downhearted. Our civilized provisions were getting so scarce that all must be saved for the women and children, and the men must get along some way on ox meat alone. It was decided not a scrap of anything that would sustain life must go to waste. The blood, hide and intestines were all prepared in some way for food. This meeting lasted till late at night. If some of them had lost their minds I should not have been surprised, for hunger swallows all other feelings. A man in a starving condition is a savage. He may be as blood-shed and selfish as a wild beast, as docile and gentle as a lamb, or as wild and crazy as a terrified animal, devoid of affection, reason or thought of justice. We were none of us as bad as this, and yet there was a strange look in the eyes of some of us sometimes, as I saw by looking round, and as others no doubt realized for I saw them making mysterious glances even in my direction. Morning came and all were silent. The dim prospect of the future seemed to check every tongue. When one left a water hole he went away as if in doubt whether he would ever enjoy the pleasure of another drop. Every camp was sad beyond description, and no one can guide the pen to make it tell the tale as it seemed to us. When our morning meal of soup and meat was finished, Bennett's two teams, and the two of Arcane's concluded their chances of life were better if they could take some provisions and strike out on foot, and so they were given what they could carry, and they arranged their packs and bade us a sorrowful good bye hoping to meet again on the Pacific Coast. There were genuine tears shed at the parting and I believe neither party ever expected to see each other in this life again. Bennett's two men were named Silas Helmer and S.S. or C.C. Abbott, but I have forgotten the names of Arcane's men. Mr. Abbott was from New York, a harness maker by trade, and he took his circular cutting knife with him, saying it was light to carry and the weapon he should need. One of them had a gun. They took the trail taken by the Jayhawkers. All the provisions they could carry besides their blankets could not last them to exceed 10 days, and I well knew they could hardly get off the desert in that time. Mr. Abbott was a man I loved fondly. He was good company in camp, and happy and sociable. He had shown no despondency at any time until the night of the last meeting and the morning of the parting. His chances seemed to me to be much poorer than my own, but I hardly think he realized it. When in bed I could not keep my thoughts back from the old home I had left, where good water and a bountiful spread were always ready at the proper hour. I know I dreamed of taking a draft of cool, sweet water from a full pitcher and then woke up with my mouth and throat as dry as dust. The good home I left behind was a favorite theme about the campfire, and many a one told of the dream pictures, natural as life, that came to him of the happy Eastern home with comfort and happiness surrounding it, even if wealth was lacking. The home of the poorest man on earth was preferable to this place. Wealth was of no value here. A hoard of twenty dollar gold pieces could now stand before us the whole day long with no temptation to touch a single coin, for its very weight would drag us nearer death. We could purchase nothing with it and we would have cared no more for it as a thing of value than we did the desert sands. We would have given much more for some of the snow which we could see drifting over the peak of the great snow mountains over our heads like a dusty cloud. Deeming it best to spare the strength as much as possible, I threw away everything I could, retaining only my glass, some ammunition, sheath knife and tin cup. No unnecessary burden could be put on any man or beast, lest he lie down under it, never to rise again. Life and strength were sought to be husbanded in every possible way. Leaving this camp where the water was appreciated we went over a road for perhaps 8 miles and came to the mouth of a rocky cañon leading up west to the summit of the range. This cañon was too rough for wagons to pass over. Out in the valley near its mouth was a mound about four feet high and in the top of this a little well that held about a pailful of water that was quite strong of sulphur. When stirred it would look quite black. About the mouth of the well was a wire grass that seemed to prevent it caving in. It seems the drifting sand had slowly built this little mound about the little well of water in a curious way. We spent the night here and kept a man at the well all night to keep the water dipped out as fast as it flowed, in order to get enough for ourselves and cattle. The oxen drank this water better than they did the brackish water of the former camp. The plain was thinly scattered with sage brush, and up near the base of the mountain some greasewood grew in little bunches like currant bushes. The men with wagons decided they would take this cañon and follow it up to try to get over the range, and not wait for me to go ahead and explore, as they said it took too much time and the provisions, consisting now of only ox meat were getting more precarious every day. To help them all I could and if possible to be forewarned a little of danger, I shouldered my gun and pushed on ahead as fast as I could. The bottom was of sharp broken rock, which would be very hard for the feet of the oxen, although we had rawhide moccasins for them for some time, and this was the kind of foot-gear I wore myself. I walked on as rapidly as I could, and after a time came to where the cañon spread out into a kind of basin enclosed on all sides but the entrance, with a wall of high, steep rock, possible to ascend on foot but which would apparently bar the further progress of the wagons, and I turned back utterly disappointed. I got on an elevation where I could look over the country east and south, and it looked as if there was not a drop of water in its whole extent, and there was no snow on the dark mountains that stretched away to the southward and it seemed to me as if difficulties beset me on every hand. I hurried back down the cañon, but it was nearly dark before I met the wagons. By a mishap I fell and broke the stock of my gun, over which I was very sorry, for it was an excellent one, the best I ever owned. I carried it in two pieces to the camp and told them the way was barred, at which they could hardly endure their disappointment. They turned in the morning, as the cattle had nothing to eat here and no water, and not much of any food since leaving the spring; they looked terribly bad, and the rough road coming up had nearly finished them. They were yoked up and the wagons turned about for the return. They went better down hill, but it was not long before one of Bennett's oxen lay down, and could not be persuaded to rise again. This was no place to tarry in the hot sun, so the ox was killed and the carcass distributed among the wagons. So little draft was required that the remaining oxen took the wagon down. When within two or three miles of the water hole one of Arcane's oxen also failed and lay down, so they turned him out and when he had rested a little he came on again for a while, but soon lay down again. Arcane took a bucket of water back from camp and after drinking it and resting awhile the ox was driven down to the spring. This night we had another meeting to decide upon our course and determine what to do. At this meeting no one was wiser than another, for no one had explored the country and knew what to expect. The questions that now arose were "How long can we endure this work in this situation? How long will our oxen be able to endure the great hardship on the small nourishment they receive? How long can we provide ourselves with food?" We had a few small pieces of dry bread. This was kept for the children giving them a little now and then. Our only food was in the flesh of the oxen, and when they failed to carry themselves along we must begin to starve. It began to look as if the chances of leaving our bones to bleach upon the desert were the most prominent ones. One thing was certain we must move somewhere at once. If we stay here we can live as long as the oxen do, and no longer, and if we go on it is uncertain where to go, to get a better place. We had guns and ammunition to be sure, but of late we had seen no living creature in this desert wild. Finally Mr. Bennett spoke and said:-- "Now I will make you a proposition. I propose that we select two of our youngest, strongest men and ask them to take some food and go ahead on foot to try to seek a settlement, and food, and we will go back to the good spring we have just left and wait for their return. It will surely not take them more than ten days for the trip, and when they get back we shall know all about the road and its character and how long it will take us to travel it. They can secure some other kind of food that will make us feel better, and when the oxen have rested a little at the spring we can get out with our wagons and animals and be safe. I think this is the best and safest way." "Now what do you all say?" After a little discussion all seemed to agree that this was the best, and now it remained to find the men to go. No one offered to accept the position of advance messengers. Finally Mr. Bennett said he knew one man well enough to know that he would come back if he lived, and he was sure he would push his way through. "I will take Lewis (myself) if he will consent to go." I consented, though I knew it was a hazardous journey, exposed to all sorts of things, Indians, climate and probable lack of water, but I thought I could do it and would not refuse. John Rogers a large strong Tennessee, man was then chosen as the other one and he consented also. Now preparations began, Mr. Arcane killed the ox which had so nearly failed, and all the men went to drying and preparing meat. Others made us some new mocassins out of rawhide, and the women made us each a knapsack. Our meat was closely packed, and one can form an idea how poor our cattle were from the fact that John and I actually packed seven-eighths of all the flesh of an ox into our knapsacks and carried it away. They put in a couple of spoonfuls of rice and about as much tea. This seemed like robbery to the children, but the good women said that in case of sickness even that little bit might save our lives. I wore no coat or vest, but took half of a light blanket, while Rogers wore a thin summer coat and took no blanket. We each had a small tin cup and a small camp kettle holding a quart. Bennett had me take his seven-shooter rifle, and Rogers had a good double barreled shot gun. We each had a sheath knife, and our hats were small brimmed, drab affairs fitting close to the head and not very conspicuous to an enemy as we might rise up from behind a hill into possible views. We tried on our packs and fitted the straps a little so they would carry easy. They collected all the money there was in camp and gave it to us. Mr. Arcane had about $30 and others threw in small amounts from forty cents upward. We received all sorts of advice. Capt. Culverwell was an old sea faring man and was going to tell us how to find our way back, but Mr. Bennett told the captain that he had known Lewis as a hunter for many years, and that if he went over a place in the daytime he could find his way back at night every time. Others cautioned us about the Indians and told us how to manage. Others told us not to get caught in deep snow which we might find on the mountains. This advice we received in all the kindness in which it was given, and then we bade them all good bye. Some turned away, too much affected to approach us and others, shook our hands with deep feeling, grasping them firmly and heartily hoping we would be successful and be able to pilot them out of this dreary place into a better land. Every one felt that a little food to make a change from the poor dried meat would be acceptable. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett and J.B. Arcane and wife were the last to remain when the others had turned away. They had most faith in the plan and felt deeply. Mrs. Bennett was the last, and she asked God to bless us and bring some food to her starving children. We were so much affected that we could not speak and silently turned away and took our course again up the canyon we had descended the night before. After a while we looked back and when they saw us turn around, all the hats and bonnets waved us a final parting. Those left in the camp were Asabel, Bennett and Sarah his wife, with three children, George, Melissa, and Martha; J.B. Arcane and wife with son Charles. The youngest children were not more than two years old. There were also the two Earhart brothers, and a grown son, Capt. Culverwell, and some others I cannot recall; eleven grown people in all, besides a Mr. Wade, his wife and three children who did not mingle with our party, but usually camped a little distance off, followed our trail, but seemed to shun company. We soon passed round a bend of the cañon, and then walked on in silence. We both of us meditated some over the homes of our fathers, but took new courage in view of the importance of our mission and passed on as fast as we could. By night we were far up the mountain, near the perpendicular rough peak, and far above us on a slope we could see some bunches of grass and sage brush. We went to this and found some small water holes. No water ran from them they were so small. Here we staid all night. It did not seem very far to the snowy peak to the north of us. Just where we were seemed the lowest pass, for to the south were higher peaks and the rocks looked as if they were too steep to be got over. Through this gap came a cold breeze, and we had to look round to get a sheltered place in which to sleep. We lay down close together, spoon fashion, and made the little blanket do as cover for the both of us. In the morning we filled our canteens, which we had made by binding two powder cans together with strips of cloth, and started for the summit near by. From this was the grandest sight we ever beheld. Looking east we could see the country we had been crawling over since November 4th. "Just look at the cursed country we have come over!" said Rogers as he pointed over it. To the north was the biggest mountain we ever saw, peaks on peaks and towering far above our heads, and covered with snow which was apparently everlasting. This mountain seemed to have very few trees on it, and in extent, as it reached away to the north seemed interminable. South was a nearly level plain, and to the west I thought I could dimly see a range of mountains that held a little snow upon their summits, but on the main range to the south there was none. It seemed to me the dim snowy mountains must be as far as 200 miles away, but of course I could not judge accurately. After looking at this grand, but worthless landscape long enough to take in its principal features we asked each other what we supposed the people we left behind would think to see mountains so far ahead. We knew that they had an idea that the coast range was not very far ahead, but we saw at once to go over all these mountains and return within the limits of fifteen days which had been agreed upon between us, would probably be impossible, but we must try as best we could, so down the rocky steep we clambered and hurried on our way. In places the way was so steep that we had to help each other down, and the hard work made us perspire freely so that the water was a prime necessity. In one place near here, we found a little water and filled our canteens, besides drinking a good present supply. There were two low, black rocky ranges directly ahead of us which we must cross. When part way down the mountain a valley or depression opened up in that direction up which it seemed as if we could look a hundred miles. Near by and a short distance north was a lake of water and when we reached the valley we crossed a clear stream of water flowing slowly toward the lake. Being in need of water, we rushed eagerly to it and prepared to take a big drink, but the tempting fluid was as salt as brine and made our thirst all the more intolerable. Nothing grew on the bank of this stream and the bed was of hard clay, which glistened in the sun. We now began the ascent of the next ridge, keeping a westernly course, and walked as fast as we could up the rough mountain side. We crossed the head of a cañon near the summit about dark, and here we found a trail, which from indications we knew to be that of the Jayhawkers, who had evidently been forced to the southward of the course they intended to take. They had camped here and had dug holes in the sand in search of water, but had found none. We staid all night here and dug around in some other places in the bottom of the cañon, in the hope to have better luck than they did, but we got no water anywhere. We seemed almost perishing for want of water, the hard exercise made us perspire so freely. In the morning we started on, and near the summit we came to the dead body of Mr. Fish, laying in the hot sun, as there was no material near here with which his friends could cover the remains. This Mr. Fish was the man who left camp some two weeks before in company with another and who carried the long whiplash wound about his body, in hope he could somewhere be able to trade it for bread. No doubt in this very place where he breathed his last, his bones still lie. As we came in sight of the next valley, we could see a lake of water some distance south of our western course. We had followed the Jayhawkers trail thus far, but as we found no water in small holes in the rocks as we were likely to do when we were the first to pass, we decided to take a new route in the hope to find a little water in this way, for we had no hope of finding it in any other. This valley we now crossed seemed to come to an end about ten miles to the north of us. To the south it widened out, enclosing the lake spoken of. This valley was very sandy and hard to walk over. When about halfway across we saw some ox tracks leading toward the lake, and in the hope we might find the water drinkable we turned off at right angles to our course and went that way also. Long before we reached the water of the lake, the bottom became a thin, slimy mud which was very hard on our mocassins. When we reached the water we found it to be of a wine color, and so strongly alkaline as to feel slippery to the touch, and under our feet. This side trip, had cost us much exertion and made us feel more thirsty than ever. We turned now west again, making for a cañon, up which we passed in the hope we should at some turn find a little basin of rain water in some rock. We traveled in it miles and miles, and our mouths became so dry we had to put a bullet or a small smooth stone in and chew it and turn it around with the tongue to induce a flow of saliva. If we saw a spear of green grass on the north side of a rock, it was quickly pulled and eaten to obtain the little moisture it contained. Thus we traveled along for hours, never speaking, for we found it much better for our thirst to keep our mouths closed as much as possible, and prevent the evaporation. The dry air of that region took up water as a sponge does. We passed the summit of this ridge without finding any water, and on our way down the western side we came to a flat place where there was an Indian hut made of small brush. We now thought there surely must be some water near and we began a thorough search. The great snow mountain did not seem far off, but to the south and southwest a level or inclined plain extended for a long distance. Our thirst began to be something terrible to endure, and in the warm weather and hard walking we had secured only two drinks since leaving camp. We were so sure that there must be water near here that we laid our knapsacks down by the little hut and looked around in every possible place we could think of. Soon it got dark and then we made a little fire as a guide and looked again. Soon the moon arose and helped us some, and we shouted frequently to each other so as not to get lost. We were so nearly worn out that we tried to eat a little meat, but after chewing a long time, the mouth would not moisten it enough so we could swallow, and we had to reject it. It seemed as if we were going to die with plenty of food in our hand, because we could not eat it. We tried to sleep but could not, but after a little rest we noticed a bright star two hours above the horizon, and from the course of the moon we saw the star must be pretty truly west of us. We talked a little, and the burden of it was a fear that we could not endure the terrible thirst a while longer. The thought of the women and children waiting for our return made us feel more desperate than if we were the only ones concerned. We thought we could fight to the death over a water hole if we could only secure a little of the precious fluid. No one who has ever felt the extreme of thirst can imagine the distress, the dispair, which it brings. I can find no words, no way to express it so others can understand. The moon gave us so much light that we decided we would start on our course, and get as far as we could before the hot sun came out, and so we went on slowly and carefully in the partial darkness, the only hope left to us being that our strength would hold out till we could get to the shining snow on the great mountain before us. We reached the foot of the range we were descending about sunrise. There was here a wide wash from the snow mountain, down which some water had sometime run after a big storm, and had divided into little rivulets only reaching out a little way before they had sunk into the sand. We had no idea we could now find any water till we at least got very near the snow, and as the best way to reach it we turned up the wash although the course was nearly to the north. The course was up a gentle grade and seemed quite sandy and not easy to travel. It looked as if there was an all day walk before us, and it was quite a question if we could live long enough to make the distance. There were quite strong indications that the water had run here not so very long ago, and we could trace the course of the little streams round among little sandy islands. A little stunted brush grew here but it was so brittle that the stems would break as easy as an icicle. In order to not miss a possible bit of water we separated and agreed upon a general course, and that if either one found water he should fire his gun as a signal. After about a mile or so had been gone over I heard Roger's gun and went in his direction. He had found a little ice that had frozen under the clear sky. It was not thicker than window glass. After putting a piece in our mouths we gathered all we could and put it into the little quart camp kettle to melt. We gathered just a kettle full, besides what we ate as we were gathering, and kindled a little fire and melted it. I can but think how providential it was that we started in the night for in an hour after the sun had risen that little sheet of ice would have melted and the water sank into the sand. Having quenched our thirst we could now eat, and found that we were nearly starved also. In making this meal we used up all our little store of water, but we felt refreshed and our lives renewed so that we had better courage to go on. We now took our course west again taking a bee line for a bluff that lay a little to the south of the big snow mountain. On and on we walked till the dark shadow of the great mountain in the setting sun was thrown about us, and still we did not seem more than half way to the bluff before us. All the way had been hill and very tiresome walking. There was considerable small brush scattered about, here and there, over this steeply inclined plain. We were still several miles from the base of this largest of the mountains and we could now see that it extended west for many miles. The buttes to the south were low, black and barren, and to the west as far as we could see there were no mountains with any snow. As the sun got further down we could see a small smoke curling up near the base of the mountain, and we thought it must be some signal made by the Indians, as we had often seen them signal in that way, but we stopped and talked the matter over, and as we were yet a long way from the bluff which had been our objective point, we concluded we would investigate the smoke signal a little closer. So we set off toward it in the dusk and darkness and when within about a mile we found we were in a tract that had been somewhat beaten. Feeling with my fingers I was quite sure I could distinguish ox tracks, and then was quite sure that we had overtaken the Jayhawkers, or at least were on their trail. And then I thought perhaps they had fallen among the Indians, who now might be feasting on their oxen and it became necessary to use great caution in approaching the little smoke. We took a circuitous route and soon saw that the persons were on a little bench above us and we kept very cautious and quiet, listening for any sounds that might tell us who they were. If they were Indians we should probably hear some of their dogs, but we heard none, and kept creeping closer and closer, till we were within fifty yards without hearing a sound to give us any idea of who they were. We decided to get our guns at full cock and then hail the camp, feeling that we had a little the advantage of position. We hailed and were answered in English. "Don't Shoot" said we and they assured us they had no idea of such a thing, and asked us to come in. We found here to our surprise, Ed Doty, Tom Shannon, L.D. Stevens, and others whom I do not recollect, the real Jayhawkers. They gave us some fresh meat for supper, and near the camp were some water holes that answered well for camp purposes. Here an ox had given out and they had stopped long enough to dry the meat, while the others had gone on a day ahead. Coming around the mountain from the north was quite a well defined trail, leading to the west and they said they were satisfied some one lived at the end of it, and they were going to follow it if it lead to Mexico or anywhere else. They said that Mr. Brier and his family were still on behind, and alone. Every one must look out for himself here, and we could not do much for another in any way. We inquired of them about the trail over which they had come, and where they had found water, and we told them of our experience in this respect. We then related how our train could not go over the mountains with wagons, how they had returned to the best spring, and that we started to go through to the settlements to obtain relief while they waited for our return. We explained to them how they must perish without assistance. If we failed to get through, they could probably live as long as the oxen lasted and would then perish of starvation. We told them how nearly we came to the point of perishing that very morning, of thirst, and how we were saved by finding a little patch of ice in an unexpected place, and were thus enabled to come on another days travel. These men were not as cheerful as they used to be and their situation and prospects constantly occupied their minds. They said to us that if the present trail bore away from the mountain and crossed the level plain, that there were some of them who could not possibly get along safely to the other side. Some were completely discouraged, and some were completely out of provisions and dependent on those who had either provisions or oxen yet on hand. An ox was frequently killed, they said, and no part of it was wasted. At a camp where there was no water, for stewing, a piece or hide would be prepared for eating by singeing off the hair and then roasting in the fire. The small intestines were drawn through the fingers to clean them, and these when roasted made very fair food. They said they had been without water for four or five days at a time and came near starving to death, for it was impossible to swallow food when one became so thirsty. They described the pangs of hunger as something terrible and not to be described. They were willing to give us any information we desired and we anxiously received all we could, for on our return we desired to take the best possible route, and we thus had the experience of two parties instead of one. They told us about the death of Mr. Fish and Mr. Isham, and where we would find their bodies if we went over their trail. In the morning we shouldered our packs again and took the trail leading to the west, and by night we had overtaken the advance party of the Jayhawkers, camped in a cañon where there was a little water, barely sufficient for their use. We inquired why they did not take the trail leading more directly west at the forks, and they said they feared it would lead them into deep snow which would be impassible. They said they considered the trail they had taken as altogether the safest one. We met Bennett and Arcane's teamsters, and as we expected they were already out of grub and no way to get anymore. When the party killed an ox they had humbly begged for some of the poorest parts, and thus far were alive. They came to us and very pitifully told us they were entirely out, and although an ox had been killed that day they had not been able to get a mouthful. We divided up our meat and gave them some although we did not know how long it would be before we would ourselves be in the same situation. Thus far we had not seen anything to shoot, big or little although we kept a sharp lookout. The whole camp was silent, and all seemed to realize their situation. Before them was a level plain which had the appearance of being so broad as to take five or six days to cross. Judging by the look from the top of the mountain as we came over, there was little to hope for in the way of water. We thought it over very seriously. All the water we could carry would be our canteens full, perhaps two drinks apiece and the poor meat had so little nourishment that we were weak and unable to endure what we once could. We were alone, Rogers and I, in interest at any rate, even if there were other men about. For the time it really seemed as if there was very little hope for us and I have often repeated the following lines as very closely describing my own feelings at that time. Oh hands, whose loving, gentle grasp I loosed. When first this weary journey was begun. If I could feel your touch as once I could. How gladly would I wish my work undone. _Harriet Keynon_. During the evening, I had a talk with Capt. Asa Haines, in which he said he left a good home in Illinois, where he had everything he could wish to eat, and every necessary comfort, and even some to spare, and now he felt so nearly worn out that he had many doubts whether he could live to reach the mountains, on the other side. He was so deeply impressed that he made me promise to let his wife and family know how I found him and how he died, for he felt sure he would never see the California mines. I said I might not get through myself, but he thought we were so young and strong that we would struggle through. He said if he could only be home once more he would be content to stay. This was the general tenor of the conversation. There was no mirth, no jokes, and every one seemed to feel that he was very near the end of his life, and such a death as stood before them, choking, starving in a desert was the most dreary outlook I ever saw. This camp of trouble, of forlorn hope, on the edge of a desert stretching out before us like a small sea, with no hope for relief except at the end of a struggle which seemed almost hopeless, is more than any pen can paint, or at all describe. The writer had tried it often. Picture to yourself, dear reader the situation and let your own imagination do the rest. It can never come up to the reality. In the morning, as Rogers and I were about to start, several of the oldest men came to us with their addresses and wished us to forward them to their families if we ever got within the reach of mails. These men shed tears, and we did also as we parted. We turned silently away and again took up our march. As we went down the cañon we came to one place where it was so narrow, that a man or a poor ox could barely squeeze through between the rocks, and in a few miles more reached the open level plain. When three or four miles out on the trail and not far from the hills we came to a bunch of quite tall willows. The center of the bunch had been cut out and the branches woven in so as to make a sort of corral. In the center of this was a spring of good water and some good grass growing around. This was pretty good evidence that some one had been here before. We took a good drink and filled our canteens anew, for we did not expect to get another drink for two or three days at least. We took the trail again and hurried on as the good water made us feel quite fresh. After a few miles we began to find the bones of animals, some badly decayed and some well preserved. All the heads were those of horses, and it puzzled us to know where they came from. As we passed along we noticed the trail was on a slight up grade and somewhat crooked. If we stepped off from it the foot sank in about two inches in dirt finer than the finest flour. The bones were scattered all along, sometimes the bones of several animals together. Was it the long drive, poison water, or what? It was evident they had not been killed but had dropped along the way. It was a dreary trail at best, and these evidences of death did not help to brighten it in the least. We wondered often where it led to and what new things would be our experience. After walking fast all day we came to quite an elevation, where we could stand and look in all directions. The low black range where we left the Jayhawkers was in sight, and this spur of the great snowy mountains extended a long way to the south, and seemed to get lower and lower, finally ending in low rocky buttes, a hundred miles away. Some may think this distance very far to see, but those who have ever seen the clear atmosphere of that region will bear me out in these magnificent distances. Generally a mountain or other object seen at a distance would be three or four times as far off as one would judge at first sight, so deceptive are appearances there. The broad south end of the great mountain which we first saw the next morning after we left the wagons, was now plain in sight, and peak after peak extending away to the north, all of them white with snow. Standing thus out in the plain we could see the breadth of the mountain east and west, and it seemed as though it must have been nearly a hundred miles. The south end was very abrupt and sank as one into a great plain in which we stood, twenty miles from the mountain's base. To the northwest we could see a clay lake, or at least that was what we called it, and a line of low hills seemed to be an extension of the mountain in a direction swinging around to the south to enclose this thirsty, barren plain before us, which was bounded by mountains or hills on these sides. To the south this range seemed to get higher, and we could see some snow capped mountains to the south of our westerly course. The low mountains as those seen in the northwest direction is the same place now crossed by the Southern Pacific Railroad, and known as the Tehachipi pass, the noted loop, in which the railroad crosses itself, being on the west slope and Ft. Tejon being on the same range a little further south where the Sierra Nevada mountains and the Coast Range join. The first mountain bearing snow, south of our course was probably what is known as Wilson's peak, and the high mountains still farther south, the San Bernardino mountains. There were no names there known to us nor did we know anything of the topography of the country except that we supposed a range of mountains was all that separated us from California. We were yet in the desert, and if we kept our due west course, we must cross some of the snow before us which if steep gave us some doubts whether we could get through or not. We did not know exactly what the people left behind would do if we were gone longer than we intended, but if they started on it was quite plain to us they would be lost, and as seven days had already passed we were in serious trouble for fear we could not complete the trip in the time allotted to us. We surveyed the plain and mountains to learn its situation and then started, on following our trail. As we went on we seemed to be coming to lower ground, and near our road stood a tree of a kind we had not seen before. The trunk was about six or eight inches through and six or eight feet high with arms at the top quite as large as the body, and at the end of the arms a bunch of long, stiff bayonet shaped leaves. It was a brave little tree to live in such a barren country. As we walked on these trees were more plenty and some were much larger than the first. As we came to the lowest part of the valley there seemed to be little faint water ways running around little clouds of stunted shrubs, but there was no signs that very much water ever run in them. We thought that these were the outlet of the big sandy lake which might get full of water and overflow through these channels after some great storm. As this low ground was quite wide we lost our trail in crossing it, and we separated as we went along, looking to find it again, till nearly dark when we looked for a camping place. Fortunately we found a little pond of rain water, and some of our strange trees that were dead gave us good material for a fire, so that we were very comfortable indeed, having both drink and fire. Starting on again our course was now ascending slightly, and we came across more and more of the trees, and larger ones than at first. We saw some that seemed to have broken down with their own weight. The bayonet shaped leaves seemed to fall off when old and the stalk looked so much like an old overgrown cabbage stump that we name them "Cabbage trees," but afterward learned they were a species of Yucca. We were much worried at loosing our trail and felt that it would be quite unsafe to try to cross the mountain without finding it again, so we separated, Rogers going northwest, and I southwest, agreeing to swing round so as to meet again about noon, but when we met, neither of us had found a trail, and we were still about 10 miles from the foothills. Rogers said he had heard some of the people say that the trail leading from Salt Lake to Los Angeles crossed such a mountain in a low pass, with very high mountains on each side, and he supposed that the high mountain to the south must be the one where the trail crossed, but as this would take us fully fifty miles south of our course as we supposed it was we hesitated about going there, and concluded we would try the lowest place in the mountain first, and if we failed we could then go and try Roger's route, more to the south. So we pushed on, still keeping a distance apart to look out for the trail, and before night, in the rolling hills, we saw here and there faint traces of it, which grew plainer as we went along, and about sundown we reached some water holes and from some old skulls of oxen lying around the ground showing that it had at some previous time been a camping ground. We found some good large sage brush which made a pretty good fire, and if we could have had a little fresh meat to roast we thought we were in a good position for supper. But that poor meat was pretty dry food. However it kept us alive, and we curled up together and slept, for the night was cool, and we had to make the little blanket do its best. We thought we ought to find a little game, but we had not seen any to shoot since we started. In the morning the trail led us toward the snow, and as we went along, a brave old crow surprised us by lighting on a bush near the trail, and we surprised him by killing him with a charge of shot. "Here's your fresh meat," said Rogers as he put it into his knapsack to cook for supper, and marched on. As we approached the summit we could see, on the high mountains south of us, some trees, and when we came near the highest part of our road there were some juniper trees near it, which was very encouraging. We crossed over several miles of hard snow, but it moistened up our moccassins and made them soft and uncomfortable. After we had turned down the western slope we killed a small hawk. "Here's your meat" said I, as the poor thin fellow was stowed away for future grub, to cook with the crow. When we got out of the snow we had lost the trail again but the hills on the sides were covered with large brush, and on a higher part of the mountain south, were some big trees, and we began to think the country would change for the better pretty soon. We followed down the ravine for many miles, and when this came out into a larger one, we were greatly pleased at the prospect, for down the latter came a beautiful little running brook of clear pure water, singing as it danced over the stones, a happy song and telling us to drink and drink again, and you may be sure we did drink, for it had been months and months since we had had such water, pure, sweet, free from the terrible alkali and stagnant taste that had been in almost every drop we had seen. Rogers leveled his shot gun at some birds and killed a beautiful one with a top knot on his head, and colors bright all down his neck. It was a California quail. We said birds always lived where human beings did, and we had great hopes born to us of a better land. I told John that if the folks were only there now I could kill game enough for them. We dressed our three birds and got them boiling in the camp kettle, and while they were cooking talked over the outlook which was so flattering that our tongues got loose and we rattled away in strange contrast to the ominous silence of a week ago. While eating our stew of crow and hawk, we could see willows alders and big sage brush around and we had noticed what seemed to be cottonwoods farther down the cañon, and green trees on the slope of the mountain. We were sure we were on the edge of the promised land and were quite light hearted, till we began to tell of plans to get the good people out who were waiting for us beside the little spring in the desert. We talked of going back at once, but our meat was too near gone, and we must take them something to encourage them a little and make them strong for the fearful trip. As to these birds--the quail was as superb a morsel as ever a man did eat; the hawk was pretty fair and quite good eating; but that abominable crow! His flesh was about as black as his feathers and full of tough and bony sinews. We concluded we did not want any more of that kind of bird, and ever since that day, when I have heard people talk of "eating crow" as a bitter pill, I think I know all about it from experience. There seemed to be no other way for us but to push on in the morning and try to obtain some relief for the poor women and children and then get back to them as fast as ever we could, so we shouldered our packs and went on down the cañon as fast as we could. We came soon to evergreen oaks and tall cottonwoods, and the creek bottom widened out to two hundred yards. There were trees on the south side and the brush kept getting larger and larger. There was a trail down this cañon, but as it passed under fallen trees we knew it could not have been the same one we had been following on the other side of the summit, and when we discovered a bear track in a soft place we knew very well it was not a trail intended for human beings, and we might be ordered out almost any moment. On the high bold grassy point about four hundred yards we saw two horses that held their heads aloft and gave a snort, then galloped away out of sight. About 10 o'clock I felt a sudden pain in my left knee, keen and sharp, and as we went along it kept growing worse. I had to stop often to rest, and it was quite plain that if this increased or continued I was sure enough disabled, and would be kept from helping those whom we had left. Nerved with the idea we must get help to them, and that right soon, I hobbled along as well as I could, but soon had to say to Rogers that he had better go on ahead and get help and let me come on as best I could, for every moment of delay was a danger of death to our party who trusted us to get them help. Rogers refused to do this, he said he would stay with me and see me out, and that he could not do much alone, and had better wait till I got better. So we worked along through the tangled brush, being many times compelled to wade the stream to get along, and this made our moccasins soft and very uncomfortable to wear. I endured the pain all day, and we must have advanced quite a little distance in spite of my lameness, but I was glad when night came and we camped in the dark brushy cañon, having a big fire which made me quite comfortable all night, though it was quite cold, and we had to keep close together so as to use the blanket. I felt a little better in the morning and after eating some of our poor dried meat, which was about as poor as crow, and I don't know but a little worse, we continued on our way. The tangle got worse and worse as we descended, and at times we walked in the bed of the stream in order to make more headway, but my lameness increased and we had to go very slow indeed. About noon we came to what looked like an excavation, a hole four feet square or more it looked to be, and on the dirt thrown out some cottonwood trees had grown, and one of the largest of these had been cut down sometime before. This was the first sign of white men we had seen and it was evidently an attempt at mining, no one knows how long ago. It encouraged us at any rate, and we pushed on through brush and briers, tangles of wild rose bushes and bushes of every sort, till all of a sudden we came out into an open sandy valley, well covered with sage brush and perhaps a hundred yards wide; probably more. The hills on the south side had on them some oak trees and grassy spots, but the north side was thickly covered with brush. Our beautiful little brook that had kept us company soon sank into the dry sand out of sight, and we moved rather slowly along every little while we spoke of the chances of wagons ever getting through the road we had come, and the hope that my lameness might not continue to retard our progress in getting back to the place of our starting, that the poor waiting people might begin to get out of the terrible country they were in and enjoy as we had done, the beautiful running stream of this side of the mountain. If I did not get better the chances were that they would perish, for they never could come through alone, as the distance had proved much greater than we had anticipated, and long dry stretches of the desert were more than they would be prepared for. As it was we feared greatly that we had consumed so much time they would get impatient and start out and be lost. I continued to hobble along down the barren valley as well as I could and here and there some tracks of animals were discovered, but we could not make out whether they were those of domestic cattle or elk. Soon, on the side of a hill, rather high up a pack of prairie wolves were snarling around the carcass of some dead animal, and this was regarded as another sign that more and better meat could be found, for these animals only live where some sort of game can be found, and they knew better than we that it was not for their health to go into the barren desert. Before us now was a spur from the hills that reached nearly across our little valley and shut out further sight in that direction and when we came to it we climbed up over it to shorten the distance. When the summit was reached a most pleasing sight filled our sick hearts with a most indescribable joy. I shall never have the ability to adequately describe the beauty of the scene as it appeared to us, and so long as I live that landscape will be impressed upon the canvas of my memory as the most cheering in the world. There before us was a beautiful meadow of a thousand acres, green as a thick carpet of grass could make it, and shaded with oaks, wide branching and symmetrical, equal to those of an old English park, while all over the low mountains that bordered it on the south and over the broad acres of luxuriant grass was a herd of cattle numbering many hundreds if not thousands. They were of all colors shades and sizes. Some were calmly lying down in happy rumination, others rapidly cropping the sweet grass, while the gay calves worked off their superfluous life and spirit in vigorous exercise or drew rich nourishment in the abundant mother's milk. All seemed happy and content, and such a scene of abundance and rich plenty and comfort bursting thus upon our eyes which for months had seen only the desolation and sadness of the desert, was like getting a glimpse of Paradise, and tears of joy ran down our faces. If ever a poor mortal escapes from this world where so many trials come, and joys of a happy Heaven are opened up to him, the change cannot be much more that this which was suddenly opened to us on that bright day which was either one of the very last of December 1849 or the first of January 1850, I am inclined to think it was the very day of the new year, but in our troubles, the accuracy of the calendar was among the least of our troubles. If it was, as I believe the beginning of the year, it was certainly a most auspicious one and one of the most hopeful of my life. And _now if the others were only here_, was the burden of our thought, and a serious awakening from the dream of beauty and rich plenty spread out before us. This ring-streaked and speckled herd might be descended directly from Jacob's famous herd, blessed of the Lord, and while we could not keep our thoughts from some sad doubts as to the fate of those whom we had left behind, we tried to be generally hopeful and courageous and brightened up our steps to prepare for a relief and return to the hot dry plain beyond the mountains where they were awaiting us, no doubt with much tribulation. I now thought of myself and my failing knee and we sat down under the shade of an oak to rest, and after a little, better feeling seemed to come. Down by a deep gully cut by the rains a yearling steer was feeding, and I took the rifle and crawled down near him and put first one ball through him, and then another, before he fell dead on the other side of the wash, when we sprang with all the agility of a deer. We quickly got some good meat and had it roasted and eaten almost quicker than can be told. We hardly realized how near starved we were till we had plenty before us again. We ate till we were satisfied for once, and for the first time in many long dreary weeks. We kindled a fire and commenced drying the meat, one sleeping while the other kept the fire, and changing off every few hours. What a rest that was! One who has never been nearly worn out and starved, down nearly to the point of death can never know what it is to rest in comfort. No one can tell. It was like a dream, a sweet, restful dream where troubles would drown themselves in sleep. How we felt the strength come back to us with that food and the long draughts of pure clear water. The miserable dried meat in our knapsacks was put away and this splendid jerked beef put in its place. The wolves came to our camp and howled in dreadful disappointment at not getting a meal. Rogers wanted me to shoot the miserable howlers, but I let them have their concert out, and thought going without their breakfast must be punishment enough for them. As our moccasins were worn out we carefully prepared some sinews from the steer and made new foot gear from the green hide which placed us in shape for two or three week's walking. The morning was clear and pleasant. We had our knapsacks filled with good food we had prepared, and were enjoying the cool breeze which came up the valley, when we heard faintly the bark of a dog, or at least we thought we did. If this were true there must be some one living not very far away and we felt better. I was still very lame and as we started along the walking seemed to make it worse again, so that it was all I could do to follow John on the trail down the valley. As we went along a man and woman passed us some distance on the left, and they did not seem to notice us, though we were in plain sight. They were curiously dressed. The woman had no hoops nor shoes, and a shawl wound about her neck and one end thrown over her head, was a substitute bonnet. The man had sandals on his feet, with white cotton pants, a calico shirt, and a wide rimmed, comical, snuff-colored hat. We at once put them down as Spaniards, or then descendants of Mexico, and if what we had read about them in books was true, we were in a set of land pirates, and blood thirsty men whom we might have occasion to be aware of. We had never heard a word of Spanish spoken, except perhaps a word or two upon the plains which some fellow knew, and how we could make ourselves known and explain who we were was a puzzle to us. Difficulties began to arise in our minds now we were in an apparent land of plenty, but in spite of all we went along as fast as my lame knee would permit me to do. A house on higher ground soon appeared in sight. It was low, of one story with a flat roof, gray in color, and of a different style of architecture from any we had ever seen before. There was no fence around it, and no animals or wagons in sight, nor person to be seen. As we walked up the hill toward it I told John our moccasins made of green hide would betray us as having recently killed an animal, and as these people might be the owners and detain us by having us arrested for the crime, and this would be especially bad for us just now. We determined to face the people, and let the fact of our close necessities be a sufficient excuse for us, if we could make them understand our circumstances. As we came near the house no person was seen, but a mule tied to a post told us there was some one about, and a man soon made an appearance, dressed about the same style as the one we had passed a short time before. As we came near we saluted him, bidding him good morning, and he in turn touched his hat politely, saying something in reply which we were not able to understand. I showed him that I was lame, and taking out some money pointed to the mule, but he only shook his head and said something I could not comprehend. Rogers now began looking around the house, which was built of sun-dried bricks about one by two feet in size, and one end was used as a storehouse. As he looked in, a man came to him and wanted a black, patent leather belt which Rogers wore, having a watch-pocket attached to it. He offered a quart or more of coarse corn meal, and Rogers made the trade. We tried to inquire where we were or where ought to go, but could get no satisfactory answer from the man, although when we spoke San Francisco he pointed to the north. This was not very satisfactory to us and we seemed as badly lost as ever, and where or which way to go we did not seem very successful in finding out. So we concluded to go on a little way at least, and I hobbled off in the direction he pointed, which was down the hill and past a small, poorly fenced field which was sometimes cultivated, and across the stream which followed down the valley. Passing on a mile or two we stopped on a big patch of sand to rest. I told Rogers I did not think this course would lead us to any place in a month, and just now a delay was ruinous to us and to those who were waiting for us, and it would not do for us to go off to the north to find a settlement. While I was expressing my opinion on matters and things, Rogers had wet up a part of his meal with water and put it to bake on the cover of his camp kettle. There was a fair sized cake for each of us, and it was the first bread of any kind we had eaten for months, being a very acceptable change from an exclusively meat diet. Looking up the valley we could see a cloud of dust, thick and high, and soon several men on horseback who came at a rushing gallop. I told Rogers they were after us, and believed them to be a murderous set who might make trouble for us. I hastily buried our little store of money in the sand, telling him that if they got us, they would not get our money. Putting our guns across our laps in an easy position we had them cocked and ready for business, and our knives where we could get them handy, and awaited their arrival. They came on with a rush until within a short distance and halted for consultation just across the creek, after which one of them advanced toward us and as he came near us we could see he was a white man, who wished us good evening in our own language. We answered him rather cooly, still sitting in the sand and he no doubt saw that we were a little suspicious of the crowd. He asked us where we were from, and we told him our circumstances and condition and that we would like to secure some means of relief for the people we had left in the desert, but our means were very limited and we wanted to do the best we could. He said we were about 500 miles from San Francisco, not far from 100 miles from the coast and thirty miles from Los Angeles. We were much afraid we would not be able to get anything here, but he told us to go across the valley to a large live oak tree which he pointed out, and said we would find an American there, and we should wait there till morning. He said he would go back and stay at the house we had passed, and would do what he could to assist us to go to Los Angeles where we could get some supplies. Then he rode away, and as we talked it over we saw no way but to follow the directions of our newfound friend. It seemed now that my lameness had indeed been a blessing. If I had been able to walk we would now have been well on toward the seashore, where we could have found no such friend as this who had appeared to us. The way seemed clearer to us, but the time for our return was almost up and there was no way of getting back in fifteen days as we had agreed upon, so there was great danger to our people yet. It seemed very likely to take us twenty four or thirty days at best, and while they probably had oxen enough to provide them food for so long a time they might take a notion to move on, which would be fatal. At the big live oak tree we found an American camper, who was on his way to the gold mines. He was going a new route and said the mines could be reached much quicker than by going up the coast by way of San Francisco. A new company with wagons was soon to start out to break the road, and when they crossed the east end of the valley he would follow them. I think this man's name was Springer. He had come by way of the Santa Fe route, and the people of Los Angeles had told him this route was an easy one being often traveled by saddle horses, and if the company could make it possible for wagons they could have all the cattle they wanted to kill along the road as their pay for doing the work. Our new friend lay down early, and as he saw we were scant in blankets he brought some to us for our use, which were most thankfully received. As soon as we were alone Rogers mixed up some more of the meal which we baked in our friend's frying pan, and we baked and ate and baked and ate again, for our appetites were ravenous, and the demand of our stomachs got the better of the judgment of our brains. It was hard to find time to sleep, we were so full of the plans about the way, which we must manage to get relief for the people. We had many doubts if animals could ever come over the route we had come over, from deliberation we decided that by selecting a route with that idea in our minds, we could get mules and perhaps horses over the country. We perhaps could go more to the north and take the Jayhawkers trail, but this would take us fully a hundred miles farther and four or five days longer, at the best, and every moment of delay was to be carefully avoided as a moment of danger to our friends. Thus again, our sleep was troubled from another cause. Being so long unaccustomed to vegetable food, and helped on, no doubt, by our poor judgment in gauging the quantity of our food, we were attacked by severe pains in the stomach and bowels, from which we suffered intensely. We arose very early and with a very light breakfast, for the sickness admonished us, we started back for the house we had first passed, at which our friend on horseback, said he would spend the night and where we were to meet him this morning. He said he could talk Spanish all right and would do all he could to help us. Our suffering and trouble caused us to move very slowly, so that it was nine or ten o'clock before we reached the house, and we found they had two horses all ready for us to go to Los Angeles. There were no saddles for us, but we thought this would be a good way to cure my lameness. The people seemed to be friends to us in every way. We mounted, having our packs on our backs, and our guns before us, and with a friendly parting to the people who did not go, all four of us started on a trip of thirty miles to the town of Los Angeles. When we reached the foot of the mountain which was very steep but not rocky, John and I dismounted and led our animals to the top, where we could see a long way west, and south, and it looked supremely beautiful. We could not help comparing it to the long wide, desert we had crossed, and John and myself said many times how we wished the folks were here to enjoy the pleasant sight, the beautiful fertile picture. There appeared to be one quite large house in sight, and not far off, which the man told us was the Mission of San Fernando, a Roman Catholic Church and residence for priests and followers. The downward slope of the mountain was as steep as the other side and larger, and John and I did not attempt to mount till we were well down on the level ground again, but the other two men rode up and down without any trouble. We would let our leaders get half a mile or so ahead of us and then mount and put our horses to a gallop till we overtook them again. We had walked so long that riding was very tiresome to us, and for comfort alone we would have preferred the way on foot, but we could get along a little faster, and the frequent dismounting kept us from becoming too lame from riding. We passed the Mission about noon or a little after, and a few miles beyond met a man on horseback who lived up to the north about a hundred miles. His name was French and he had a cattle range at a place called Tejon (Tahone). Our friends told him who we were, and what assistance we needed. Mr. French said he was well acquainted in Los Angeles and had been there some time, and that all the travelers who would take the Coast route had gone, those who had come by way of Salt Lake had got in from two to four weeks before, and a small train which had come the Santa Fe Route was still upon the road. He said Los Angeles was so clear of emigrants that he did not think we could get any help there at the present time. "Now," said Mr. French--"You boys can't talk Spanish and it is not very likely you will be able to get any help. Now I say, you boys turn back and go with me and I will give you the best I have, I will let you have a yoke of gentle oxen, or more if you need them, and plenty of beans, which are good food for I live on them; besides this I can give an Indian guide to help you back. Will that do?" After a moment we said we doubted if oxen could be got over the road, and if they were fat now they would soon get poor, and perhaps not stand it as well as the oxen which had became used to that kind of life, and of those they had in camp all they needed. We wanted to get something for the women and children to ride, for we knew they must abandon the wagons, and could not walk so far over that dry, rough country. "Well," said Mr. French:--"I will stop at the place you were this morning--I know them well--and they are good folks, and I am sure when I tell them what you want they will help you if they possibly can. This looks to me to be the most sensible course." After talking an hour our two companions advised us that the proposition of Mr. French seemed the most reasonable one that appeared. But for us to go clear back to his range would take up so much valuable time that we were almost afraid of the delay which might mean the destruction of our friends. French said he had a pack saddle, with him taking it home, and we could put it on one of our horses, and when we came back to Los Angeles could leave it at a certain saloon or place he named and tell them it belonged to him and to keep it for him. I have forgotten the name of the man who kept the saloon. We agreed to this, and bidding our two companions farewell, we turned back again with Mr. French. When night came we were again at the Mission we had passed on the way down. We were kindly treated here, for I believe Mr. French told them about us. They sent an Indian to take our horses, and we sat down beside the great house. There were many smaller houses, and quite a large piece of ground fenced in by an adobe wall. The roof of the buildings was like that of our own buildings in having eaves on both, sides, but the covering was of semi circular tiles made and burned like brick. Rows of these were placed close together, the hollow sides up, and then another course over the joints, placed with the round side up, which made a roof that was perfectly waterproof, but must have been very heavy. These tiles were about two feet long. All the surroundings, and general make up of the place were new to us and very wonderful. They gave us good dried meat to eat and let us sleep in the big house on the floor, which was as hard as granite, and we turned over a great many times before daylight, and were glad when morning came. We offered to pay them, but they would take nothing from us, and we left leading our horses over the steep mountain, and reaching the house again late in the day. They turned our horses loose and seemed disposed to be very friendly and disposed to do for us what they could. We were very tired and sat down by the side of the house and rested, wondering how we would come out with our preparations. They were talking together, but we could not understand a word. A dark woman came out and gave each of us a piece of cooked squash. It seemed to have been roasted in the ashes and was very sweet and good. These were all signs of friendship and we were glad of the good feeling. We were given a place to sleep in the house, in a store room on a floor which was not soft. This was the second house we had slept in since leaving Wisconsin, and it seemed rather pent-up to us. In the morning we were shown a kind of mill like a coffee mill, and by putting in a handful of wheat from a pile and giving the mill a few turns we were given to understand we should grind some flour for ourselves. We went to work with a will, but found it, hard, slow work. After a little, our dark woman came and gave us each a pancake and a piece of meat, also another piece of roasted squash, for our breakfast, and this, we thought, was the best meal we had ever eaten. The lady tried to talk to us but we could not understand the words, and I could convey ideas to her better by the sign language than any other way. She pointed out the way from which we came and wanted to know how many day's travel it might be away, and I answered by putting my hand to my head and closing my eyes, which was repeated as many times as there had been nights on our journey, at which she was much surprised that the folks were so far away. She then place her hand upon her breast and then held it up, to ask how many women there were, and I answered her by holding up three fingers, at which she shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. Then pointing to a child by her side, four or five years old, and in the same way asked how many children, I answered by holding up four fingers, and she almost cried, opening her mouth in great surprise, and turned away. I said to Rogers that she was a kind, well meaning woman, and that Mr. French had no doubt told her something of our story. Aside from her dark complexion her features reminded me of my mother, and at first sight of her I thought of the best woman on earth my own far off mother, who little knew the hardships we had endured. We went to work again at the mill and after a while the woman came again and tried to talk and to teach us some words of her own language. She place her finger on me and said _ombre_ and I took out my little book and wrote down _ombre_ as meaning man, and in the same way she taught me that _mujer_, was woman; _trigo_, wheat; _frijoles_, beans; _carne_, meat; _calazasa_, pumpkin; _caballo_, horse; _vaca_, cow; _muchacho_, boy, and several other words in this way. I got hold of many words thus to study, so that if I ever came back I could talk a little and make myself understood as to some of the common objects and things of necessary use. Such friendly, human acts shown to us strangers, were evidences of the kindest disposition. I shall never forget the kindness of those original Californians. When in Walker's camp and finding he was friendly to Mormonism we could claim that we were also Mormons, but the good people though well known Catholics, did not so much as mention the fact nor inquire whether we favored that sect or not. We were human beings in distress and we represented others who were worse even than we, and those kind acts and great good will, were given freely because we were fellow human beings. The provisions we prepared were, a sack of small yellow beans; a small sack of wheat, a quantity of good dried meat, and some of the coarse, unbolted flour we had made at the mills. They showed us how to properly pack the horse, which was a kind of work we had not been use to, and we were soon ready for a start. I took what money we had and put it on a block, making signs for them to take what the things were worth. They took $30, and we were quite surprised to get two horses, provisions, pack-saddles and ropes, some of the latter made of rawhide and some of hair, so cheaply, but we afterward learned that the mares furnished were not considered of much value, and we had really paid a good fair price for everything. To make it easy for us they had also fixed our knapsacks on the horses. The good lady with the child, came out with four oranges and pointed to her own child and then to the East, put them in the pack meaning we should carry them to the children. With a hearty good bye from them, and a polite lifting of our hats to them we started on our return, down toward the gentle decline of the creek bottom, and then up the valley, the way we came. Toward night we came to a wagon road crossing the valley, and as we well knew we could not go up the tangled creek bed with horses we took this road to the north, which took a dry ravine for its direction, and in which there was a pack trail, and this the wagons were following. We kept on the trail for a few miles, and overtook them in their camp, and camped with them over night. We told them we considered our outfit entirely too small for the purpose intended, which was to bring two women and four children out of the desert, but that being the best we could get, we were taking this help to them and hoped to save their lives. Our mission became well known and one man offered to sell us a poor little one-eyed mule, its back all bare of covering from the effect of a great saddle sore that had very recently healed. He had picked it up somewhere in Arizona where it had been turned out to die, but it seemed the beast had enough of the good Santa Ana stock in it to bring it through and it had no notion of dying at the present time, though it was scarcely more than a good fair skeleton, even then. The beast became mine at the price of $15, and the people expressed great sympathy with us and the dear friends we were going to try to save. Another man offered a little snow-white mare, as fat as butter, for $15, which I paid, though it took the last cent of money I had. This little beauty of a beast was broken to lead at halter, but had not been broken in any other way. Rogers said he would ride her where he could, and before she got to the wagons she would be as gentle as a lamb. He got a bridle and tried her at once, and then there was a scene of rearing, jumping and kicking that would have made a good Buffalo Bill circus in these days. No use, the man could not be thrown off, and the crowd cheered and shouted to Rogers to--"Hold her level." After some bucking and backing on the part of the mare and a good deal of whipping and kicking on the part of the man, and a good many furious clashes in lively, but very awkward ways, the little beast yielded the point, and carried her load without further trouble. The people gave us a good supper and breakfast, and one man came and presented us with 25 pounds of unbolted wheat flour. They were of great assistance to us in showing us how to pack and sack our load, which was not heavy and could be easily carried by our two animals which we had at first. However we arranged a pack on the mule and this gave me a horse to ride and a mule to lead, while Rogers rode his milk-white steed and led the other horse. Thus we went along and following the trail soon reached the summit from which we could see off to the East a wonderful distance, probably 200 miles, of the dry and barren desert of hill and desolate valley over which we had come. The trail bearing still to the north from this point, we left and turned due east across the country, and soon came to a beautiful lake of sweet fresh water situated well up toward the top of the mountain. This lake is now called Elizabeth Lake. Here we watered our animals and filled our canteens, then steered a little south of east among the Cabbage trees, aiming to strike the rain water hole where we had camped as we came over. We reached the water hole about noon and here found the Jayhawkers trail, which we took. They had evidently followed us and passed down the same brushy cañon while we having taken a circuitous route to the north, had gone around there. Getting water here for ourselves and horses, we went back to the trail and pushed on as fast as the animals could walk, and as we now knew where we could get water, we kept on till after dark, one of us walking to keep the trail, and some time in the night reached the Willow corral I have spoken of before. There was good water here, but the Jayhawker's oxen had eaten all the grass that grew in the little moist place around, and our animals were short of feed. One of us agreed to stand guard the fore part of the night and the other later, so that we might not be surprised by Indians and lose our animals. I took the first watch and let the blaze of the fire go out so as not to attract attention and as I sat by the dull coals and hot ashes I fell asleep. Rogers happened to wake and see the situation, and arose and waked me again saying that we must be more careful or the Indians would get our horses. You may be sure I kept awake the rest of my watch. Next day we passed the water holes at the place where we had so stealthily crawled up to Doty's camp when coming out. These holes held about two pails of water each, but no stream run away from them. Our horses seemed to want water badly for when they drank they put their head in up to their eyes and drank ravenously. Thirty miles from here to the next water, Doty had told us, and night overtook us before we could reach it, so a dry camp was made. Our horses began now to walk with drooping heads and slow, tired steps, so we divided the load among them all and walked ourselves. The water, when reached proved so salt the horses would not drink it, and as Doty had told us the most water was over the mountain ahead of us, we still followed their trail which went up a very rocky cañon in which it was hard work for the horses to travel. The horses were all very gentle now and needed some urging to make them go. Roger's fat horse no longer tried to unseat its rider or its pack, but seemed to be the most downhearted of the train. The little mule was the liveliest, sharpest witted animal of the whole. She had probably traveled on the desert before and knew better how to get along. She had learned to crop every spear of grass she came to, and every bit of sage brush that offered a green leaf was given a nip. She would sometimes leave the trail and go out to one side to get a little bunch of dry grass, and come back and take her place again as if she knew her duty. The other animals never tried to do this. The mule was evidently better versed in the art of getting a living than the horses. Above the rough bed of the cañon the bottom was gravelly and narrow, and the walls on each side nearly perpendicular. Our horses now poked slowly along and as we passed the steep wall of the cañon the white animal left the trail and walked with full force, head first, against the solid rock. She seemed to be blind, and though we went quickly to her and took off the load she carried, she had stopped breathing by the time we had it done. Not knowing how far it was to water, nor how soon some of our other horses might fall, we did not tarry, but pushed on as well as we could, finding no water. We reached the summit and turned down a ravine, following the trail, and about dark came to the water they had told us about, a faint running stream which came out of a rocky ravine and sank almost immediately in the dry sand. There was water enough for us, but no grass. It seemed as if the horses were not strong enough to carry a load, and as we wanted to get them through if possible, we concluded to bury the wheat and get it on our return. We dug a hole and lined it with fine sticks, then put in the little bag and covered it with dry brush, and sand making the surface as smooth as if it had never been touched, then made our bed on it. The whole work was done after dark so the deposit could not be seen by the red men and we thought we had done it pretty carefully. Next morning the little mule carried all the remaining load, the horses bearing only their saddles, and seemed hardly strong enough for that. There was now seven or eight miles of clean loose sand to go over, across a little valley which came to an end about ten miles north of us, and extended south to the lake where we went for water on our outward journey and found it red alkali. Near the Eastern edge of the valley we turned aside to visit the grave of Mr. Isham, which they had told us of. They had covered his remains with their hands as best they could, piling up a little mound of sand over it. Our next camp was to be on the summit of the range just before us, and we passed the dead body of Mr. Fish, we had seen before, and go on a little to a level sandy spot in the ravine just large enough to sleep on. This whole range is a black mass rocky piece of earth, so barren that not a spear of grass can grow, and not a drop of water in any place. We tied our horses to rocks and there they staid all night, for if turned loose there was not a mouthful of food for them to get. In the morning an important question was to be decided, and that was whether we should continue to follow the Jayhawker's trail which led far to the north to cross the mountain, which stood before us, a mass of piled-up rocks so steep that it seemed as if a dog could hardly climb it. Our wagons were nearly due east from this point over the range, and not more than fifty miles away, while to go around to the north was fully a hundred miles, and would take us four or five days to make. As we had already gone so long we expected to meet them any day trying to get out, and if we went around we might miss them. They might have all been killed by Indians or they might have already gone. We had great fears on their account. If they had gone north they might have perished in the snow. The range was before us, and we must get to the other side in some way. We could see the range for a hundred miles to the north and along the base some lakes of water that must be salt. To the south it got some lower, but very barren and ending in black, dry buttes. The horses must have food and water by night or we must leave them to die, and all things considered it seemed to be the quickest way to camp to try and get up a rough looking cañon which was nearly opposite us on the other side. So we loaded the mule and made our way down the rocky road to the ridge, and then left the Jayhawker's trail, taking our course more south so as to get around a salt lake which lay directly before us. On our way we had to go close to a steep bluff, and cross a piece of ground that looked like a well dried mortar bed, hard and smooth as ice, and thus got around the head of a small stream of clear water, salt as brine. We now went directly to the mouth of the cañon we had decided to take, and traveled up its gravelly bed. The horses now had to be urged along constantly to keep them moving and they held their heads low down as they crept along seemingly so discouraged that they would much rather lie down and rest forever than take another step. We knew they would do this soon in spite of all our urging, if we could not get water for them. The cañon was rough enough where we entered it, and a heavy up grade too, and this grew more and more difficult as we advanced, and the rough yellowish, rocky walls closed in nearer and nearer together as we ascended. A perpendicular wall, or rather rise, in the rocks was approached, and there was a great difficulty to persuade the horses to take exertion to get up and over the small obstruction, but the little mule skipped over as nimbly as a well-fed goat, and rather seemed to enjoy a little variety in the proceedings. After some coaxing and urging the horses took courage to try the extra step and succeeded all right, when we all moved on again, over a path that grew more and more narrow, more and more rocky under foot at every moment. We wound around among and between the great rocks, and had not advanced very far before another obstruction, that would have been a fall of about three feet had water been flowing in the cañon, opposed our way. A small pile of lone rocks enabled the mule to go over all right, and she went on looking for every spear of grass, and smelling eagerly for water, but all our efforts were not enough to get the horses along another foot. It was getting nearly night and every minute without water seemed an age. We had to leave the horses and go on. We had deemed them indispensable to us, or rather to the extrication of the women and children, and yet the hope came to us that the oxen might help some of them out as a last resort. We were sure the wagons must be abandoned, and such a thing as women riding on the backs of oxen we had never seen, still it occurred to us as not impossible and although leaving the horses here was like deciding to abandon all for the feeble ones, we saw we must do it, and the new hope arose to sustain us for farther effort. We removed the saddles and placed them on a rock, and after a few moments hesitation, moments in which were crowded torrents of wild ideas, and desperate thoughts, that were enough to drive reason from its throne, we left the poor animals to their fate and moved along. Just as we were passing out of sight the poor creatures neighed pitifully after us, and one who has never heard the last despairing, pleading neigh of a horse left to die can form no idea of its almost human appeal. We both burst into tears, but it was no use, to try to save them we must run the danger of sacrificing ourselves, and the little party we were trying so hard to save. We found the little mule stopped by a still higher precipice or perpendicular rise of fully ten feet. Our hearts sank within us and we said that we should return to our friends as we went away, with our knapsacks on our backs, and the hope grew very small. The little mule was nipping some stray blades of grass and as we came in sight she looked around to us and then up the steep rocks before her with such a knowing, intelligent look of confidence, that it gave us new courage. It was a strange wild place. The north wall of the cañon leaned far over the channel, overhanging considerably, while the south wall sloped back about the same, making the wall nearly parallel, and like a huge crevice descending into the mountain from above in a sloping direction. We decided to try to get the confident little mule over this obstruction, Gathering all the loose rocks we could we piled them up against the south wall, beginning some distance below, putting up all those in the bed of the stream and throwing down others from narrow shelves above we built a sort of inclined plane along the walls gradually rising till we were nearly as high as the crest of the fall. Here was a narrow shelf scarcely four inches wide and a space of from twelve to fifteen feet to cross to reach the level of the crest. It was all I could do to cross this space, and there was no foundation to enable us to widen it so as to make a path for an animal. It was forlorn hope but we made the most of it. We unpacked the mule and getting all our ropes together, made a leading line of it. Then we loosened and threw down all the projecting points of rocks we could above the narrow shelf, and every piece that was likely to come loose in the shelf itself. We fastened the leading line to her and with one above and one below we thought we could help her to keep her balance, and if she did not make a misstep on that narrow way she might get over safely. Without a moments hesitation the brave animal tried the pass. Carefully and steadily she went along, selecting a place before putting down a foot, and when she came to the narrow ledge leaned gently on the rope, never making a sudden start or jump, but cautiously as a cat moved slowly along. There was now no turning back for her. She must cross this narrow place over which I had to creep on hands and knees, or be dashed down fifty feet to a certain death. When the worst place was reached she stopped and hesitated, looking back as well as she could. I was ahead with the rope, and I called encouragingly to her and talked to her a little. Rogers wanted to get all ready and he said, "holler" at her as loud as he could and frighten her across, but I thought the best way to talk to her gently and let her move steadily. I tell you, friends, it was a trying moment. It seemed to be weighed down with all the trails and hardships of many months. It seemed to be the time when helpless women and innocent children hung on the trembling balance between life and death. Our own lives we could save by going back, and sometimes it seemed as if we would perhaps save ourselves the additional sorrow of finding them all dead to do so at once. I was so nearly in despair that I could not help bursting in tears, and I was not ashamed of the weakness. Finally Rogers said, "Come Lewis" and I gently pulled the rope, calling the little animal, to make a trial. She smelled all around and looked over every inch of the strong ledge, then took one careful step after another over the dangerous place. Looking back I saw Rogers with a very large stone in his hand, ready to "holler" and perhaps kill the poor beast if she stopped. But she crept along trusting to the rope to balance, till she was half way across, then another step or two, when calculating the distance closely she made a spring and landed on a smooth bit of sloping rock below, that led up to the highest crest of the precipice, and safely climbed to the top, safe and sound above the falls. The mule had no shoes and it was wonderful how her little hoofs clung to the smooth rock. We felt relieved. We would push on and carry food to the people; we would get them through some way; there could be no more hopeless moment than the one just past, and we would save them all. It was the work of a little while to transfer the load up the precipice, and pack the mule again, when we proceeded. Around behind some rocks only a little distance beyond this place we found a small willow bush and enough good water for a camp. This was a strange cañon. The sun never shown down to the bottom in the fearful place where the little mule climbed up, and the rocks had a peculiar yellow color. In getting our provisions up the precipice, Rogers went below and fastened the rope while I pulled them up. Rogers wished many times we had the horses up safely where the mule was, but a dog could hardly cross the narrow path and there was no hope. Poor brutes, they had been faithful servants, and we felt sorrowful enough at their terrible fate. We had walked two days without water, and we were wonderfully refreshed as we found it here. The way up this cañon was very rough and the bed full of sharp broken rocks in loose pieces which cut through the bottoms of our moccasins and left us with bare feet upon the acute points and edges. I took off one of my buckskin leggins, and gave it to Rogers, and with the other one for myself we fixed the moccasins with them as well as we could, which enabled us to go ahead, but I think if our feet had been shod with steel those sharp rocks would have cut through. Starting early we made the summit about noon, and from here we could see the place where we found a water hole and camped the first night after we left the wagons. Down the steep cañon we turned, the same one in which we had turned back with the wagons, and over the sharp broken pieces of volcanic rock that formed our only footing we hobbled along with sore and tender feet. We had to watch for the smoothest place for every step, and then moved only with the greatest difficulty. The Indians could have caught us easily if they had been around for we must keep our eyes on the ground constantly and stop if we looked up and around. But we at last got down and camped on some spot where we had set out twenty-five days before to seek the settlements. Here was the same little water hole in the sand plain, and the same strong sulphur water which we had to drink the day we left. The mule was turned loose dragging the same piece of rawhide she had attached to her when we purchased her, and she ranged and searched faithfully for food finding little except the very scattering bunches of sage brush. She was industrious and walked around rapidly picking here and there, but at dark came into camp and lay down close to us to sleep. There was no sign that any one had been here during our absence, and if the people had gone to hunt a way out, they must either have followed the Jayhawker's trail or some other one. We were much afraid that they might have fallen victims to the Indians. Remaining in camp so long it was quite likely they had been discovered by them and it was quite likely they had been murdered for the sake of the oxen and camp equipage. It might be that we should find the hostiles waiting for us when we reached the appointed camping place, and it was small show for two against a party. Our mule and her load would be a great capture for them. We talked a great deal and said a great many things at that camp fire for we knew we were in great danger, and we had many doubts about the safety of our people, that would soon be decided, and whether for joy or sorrow we could not tell. From this place, as we walked along, we had a wagon road to follow, in soft sand, but not a sign of a human footstep could we see, as we marched toward this, the camp of the last hope. We had the greatest fears the people had given up our return and started out for themselves and that we should follow on, only to find them dead or dying. My pen fails me as I try to tell the feelings and thoughts of this trying hour. I can never hope to do so, but if the reader can place himself in my place, his imagination cannot form a picture that shall go beyond reality. We were some seven or eight miles along the road when I stopped to fix my moccasin while Rogers went slowly along. The little mule went on ahead of both of us, searching all around for little bunches of dry grass, but always came back to the trail again and gave us no trouble. When I had started up again I saw Rogers ahead leaning on his gun and waiting for me, apparently looking at something on the ground. As I came near enough to speak I asked what he had found and he said--"Here is Capt. Culverwell, dead." He did not look much like a dead man. He lay upon his back with arms extended wide, and his little canteen, made of two powder flasks, lying by his side. This looked indeed as if some of our saddest forebodings were coming true. How many more bodies should we find? Or should we find the camp deserted, and never find a trace of the former occupants. We marched toward camp like two Indians, silent and alert, looking out for dead bodies and live Indians, for really we more expected to find the camp devastated by those rascals than to find that it still contained our friends. To the east we could plainly see what seemed to be a large salt lake with a bed that looked as if of the finest, whitest sand, but really a wonder of salt crystal. We put the dreary steps steadily one forward of another, the little mule the only unconcerned one of the party, ever looking for an odd blade of grass, dried in the hot dry wind, but yet retaining nourishment, which she preferred. About noon we came in sight of the wagons, still a long way off, but in the clear air we could make them out, and tell what they were, without being able to see anything more. Half a mile was the distance between us and the camp before we could see very plainly, as they were in a little depression. We could see the covers had been taken off, and this was an ominous sort of circumstance to us, for we feared the depredations of the Indians in retaliation for the capture of their squashes. They had shot our oxen before we left and they have slain them this time and the people too. We surely left seven wagons. Now we could see only four and nowhere the sign of an ox. They must have gone ahead with a small train, and left these four standing, after dismantling them. No signs of life were anywhere about, and the thought of our hard struggles between life and death to go out and return, with the fruitless results that now seemed apparent was almost more than human heart could bear. When should we know their fate? When should we find their remains, and how learn of their sad history if we ourselves should live to get back again to settlements and life? If ever two men were troubled, Rogers and I surely passed through the furnace. We kept as low and as much out of sight as possible, trusting very much to the little mule that was ahead, for we felt sure she would detect danger in the air sooner than we, and we watched her closely to see how she acted. She slowly walked along looking out for food, and we followed a little way behind, but still no decisive sign to settle the awful suspense in which we lived and suffered. We became more and more convinced that they had taken the trail of the Jayhawkers, and we had missed them on the road, or they had perished before reaching the place where we turned from their trail. One hundred yards now to the wagons and still no sign of life, no positive sign of death, though we looked carefully for both. We fear that perhaps there are Indians in ambush, and with nervous irregular breathing we counsel what to do. Finally Rogers suggested that he had two charges in his shot gun and I seven in the Coll's rifle, and that I fire one of mine and await results before we ventured any nearer, and if there are any of the red devils there we can kill some of them before they get to us. And now both closely watching the wagons I fired the shot. Still as death and not a move for a moment, and then as if by magic a man came out from under a wagon and stood up looking all around, for he did not see us. Then he threw up his arms high over his head and shouted--"The boys have come. The boys have come!" Then other bare heads appeared, and Mr. Bennett and wife and Mr. Arcane came toward us as fast as ever they could. The great suspense was over and our hearts were first in our mouths, and then the blood all went away and left us almost fainting as we stood and tried to step. Some were safe perhaps all of those nearest us, and the dark shadow of death that had hovered over us, and cast what seemed a pall upon every thought and action, was lifted and fell away a heavy oppression gone. Bennett and Arcane caught us in their arms and embraced us with all their strength, and Mrs. Bennett when she came fell down on her knees and clung to me like a maniac in the great emotion that came to her, and not a word was spoken. If they had been strong enough they would have carried us to camp upon their shoulders. As it was they stopped two or three times, and turned as if to speak, but there was too much feeling for words, convulsive weeping would choke the voice. All were a little calmer soon, and Bennett soon found voice to say:--"I know you have found some place, for you have a mule," and Mrs. Bennett through her tears, looked staringly at us as she could hardly believe our coming back was a reality, and then exclaimed:--"Good boys! O, you have saved us all! God bless you forever! Such boys should never die!" It was some time before they could talk without weeping. Hope almost died within them, and now when the first bright ray came it almost turned reason from its throne. A brighter happier look came to them than we had seen, and then they plied us with questions the first of which was:--"Where were you?" We told them it must be 250 miles yet to any part of California where we could live. Then came the question;--"Can we take our wagons?" "You will have to walk," was our answer, for no wagons could go over that unbroken road that we had traveled. As rapidly and carefully as we could we told them of our journey, and the long distance between the water holes; that we had lost no time and yet had been twenty six days on the road; that for a long distance the country was about as dry and desolate as the region we had crossed east of this camp. We told them of the scarcity of grass, and all the reasons that had kept us so long away from them. We inquired after the others whom we had left in camp when we went away, and we were told all they knew about them. Hardly were we gone before they began to talk about the state of affairs which existed. They said that as they had nothing to live on but their oxen it would be certain death to wait here and eat them up, and that it would be much better to move on a little every day and get nearer and nearer the goal before the food failed. Bennett told them they would know surely about the way when the boys returned, and knowing the road would know how to manage and what to expect and work for, and could get out successfully. But the general opinion of all but Mr. Bennett and Mr. Arcane and their families was, as expressed by one of them:--"If those boys ever get out of this cussed hole, they are d----d fools if they ever come back to help anybody." Some did not stay more than a week after we were gone, but took their oxen and blankets and started on. They could not be content to stay idly in camp with nothing to occupy their minds or bodies. They could see that an ox when killed would feed them only a few days, and that they could not live long on them, and it stood them in hand to get nearer the western shore as the less distance the more hope while the meat lasted. Bennett implored them to stay as he was sure we would come back, and if the most of them deserted him he would be exposed to the danger of the Indians, with no hope of a successful resistance against them. But the most seemed to think that to stay was to die, and it would be better to die trying to escape than to set idly down to perish. These men seemed to think their first duty was to save themselves, and if fortunate, help others afterward, so they packed their oxen and left in separate parties, the last some two weeks before. They said that Capt. Culverwell went with the last party. I afterward learned that he could not keep up with them and turned to go back to the wagons again, and perished, stretched out upon the sand as we saw him, dying all alone, with no one to transmit his last words to family or friends. Not a morsel to eat, and the little canteen by his side empty. A sad and lonely death indeed! There was no end to the questions about the road we had to answer, for this was uppermost on their minds, and we tried to tell them and show them how we must get along on our return. We told them of the great snow mountains we had seen all to the north of our road, and how deep the snow appeared to be, and how far west it extended. We told them of the black and desolate ranges and buttes to the south, and of the great dry plains in the same direction. We told them of the Jayhawkers trail; of Fish's dead body; of the salt lake and slippery alkali water to which we walked, only to turn away in disappointment; of the little sheets of ice which saved our lives; of Doty's camp and what we knew of those gone before; of the discouraged ones who gave us their names to send back to friends; of the hawk and crow diet; of my lameness; of the final coming out into a beautiful valley, in the midst of fat cattle and green meadows, and the trouble to get the help arranged on account of not knowing the language to tell the people what we needed. They were deeply impressed that my lameness had been a blessing in disguise, or we would have gone on to the coast and consumed more time than we did in walking slowly to favor the cripple knee. Our sad adventures and loss of the horses in returning was sorrowfully told and we spoke of the provisions we had been able to bring on the little mule which had clambered over the rocks like a cat; that we had a little flour and beans, and some good dried meat with fat on it which we hoped would help to eke out the poorer fare and get them through at last. They were so full of compliments that we really began to think we had been brought into the world on purpose to assist some one, and the one who could forecast all things had directed us, and all our ways, so that we should save those people and bring them to a better part of God's footstool, where plenty might be enjoyed, and the sorrows of the desert forgotten. It was midnight before we could get them all satisfied with their knowledge of our experience. [Illustation: Leaving Death Valley.--The Manly Party on Foot After Leaving Their Wagons.] It was quite a treat to us to sleep again between good blankets, arranged by a woman's hand, and it was much better resting than the curled up, cramped position we had slept in while away, with only the poor protection of the half blanket for both of us, in nights that were pretty chilly. We had plenty of water here, and there being no fear of the mule going astray we turned her loose. As the party had seen no Indians during our absence we did not concern ourselves much about them. At breakfast we cautioned them about eating too much bread, remembering, our own experience in that way. They said they had about given up our coming back a week before, and had set about getting ready to try to move on themselves. Bennett said he was satisfied that they never could have got through alone after what we had told them of the route and its dangers. He said he knew it now that not one of them would have lived if they had undertaken the journey alone without knowledge of the way. They had taken off the covers of the wagons to make them into houses for the oxen, so they could be used as pack animals. The strong cloth had been cut into narrow strips and well made into breast straps and breeching, for the cattle were so poor and their hide so loose it was almost impossible to keep anything on their backs. They had emptied the feathers out of the beds to get the cloth to use, and had tried to do everything that seemed best to do to get along without wagons. The oxen came up for water, and the mule with them. They looked better than when we left, but were still poor. They had rested for some time and might feel able to go along willingly for a few days at least. I was handy with the needle, and helped them to complete the harness for the oxen, while Bennett and John went to the lake to get a supply of salt to take along, a most necessary article with our fresh meat. I looked around a little at our surroundings, and could see the snow still drifting over the peak of the snowy mountain as we had seen it farther east, where we were ourselves under the burning sun. This was now pretty near February first, or midwinter. The eastern side of this great mountain was too steep to be ascended, and no sign of a tree could be seen on the whole eastern slope. The range of mountains on the east side of this narrow valley were nearly all the volcanic, barren in the extreme, and the roughest of all the mountains we had ever seen. I had now looked pretty thoroughly, and found it to be pretty nearly a hundred miles long, and this was the only camp I had seen where water could be had. When Mrs. Bennet was ready to show me what to do on the cloth harness, we took a seat under the wagon, the only shady place and began work. The great mountain, I have spoken of as the snow mountain has since been known as Telescope Peak, reported to be 11,000 feet high. It is in the range running north and south and has no other peak so high. Mrs. Bennett questioned me closely about the trip, and particularly if I had left anything out which I did not want her to know. She said she saw her chance to ride was very slim, and she spoke particularly of the children, and that it was impossible for them to walk. She said little Martha had been very sick since we had been gone, and that for many days they had expected her to die. They had no medicine to relieve her and the best they could do was to select the best of the ox meat, and make a little soup of it and feed her, they had watched her carefully for many days and nights, expecting they would have to part with her any time and bury her little body in the sands. Sometimes it seemed as if her breath would stop, but they had never failed in their attentions, and were at last rewarded by seeing her improve slowly, and even to relish a little food, so that if no relapse set in they had hopes to bring her through. They brought the little one and showed her to me, and she seemed so different from what she was when we went away. Then she could run about camp climb out and in the wagons, and move about so spry that she reminded one of a quail. Now she was strangely misshapen. Her limbs had lost all the flesh and seemed nothing but skin and bones, while her body had grown corpulent and distended, and her face had a starved pinched and suffering look, with no healthy color in it. She told me of their sufferings while we were gone, and said she often dreamed she saw us suffering fearfully for water, and lack of food and could only picture to herself as their own fate, that they must leave the children by the trail side, dead, and one by one drop out themselves in the same way. She said she dreamed often of her old home where bread was plenty, and then to awake to find her husband and children starving was a severe trial indeed, and the contrast terrible. She was anxious to get me to express an opinion as to whether I thought we could get the oxen down the falls where we had so much trouble. I talked to her as encouragingly as I could, but she did not cheer up much and sobbed and wept over her work most all the time. It was not possible to encourage her much, the outlook seemed so dark. Mrs. Arcane sat under another wagon and said nothing, but she probably heard all we had to say, and did not look as if her hopes were any brighter. Bennett and Rogers soon returned with a supply of salt and said the whole shore of the lake was a winrow of it, that could be shoveled up in enormous quantities. We now in a counsel of the whole, talked over the matter, and the way which seemed most promising. If we went by the Jayhawkers trail, there was a week of solid travel to get over the range and back south again as far as a point directly opposite our camp, and this had taken us only three days to come over as we had come. The only obstacle in the way was the falls, and when we explained that there was some sand at the bottom of them, Bennett said he thought we could get them over without killing them, and that, as we knew exactly where the water was, this was the best trail to take. Arcane was quite of the same opinion, the saving of a week of hard and tiresome travel being in each case the deciding reason. They then explained to me what they had decided on doing if we had not come back. They had selected two oxen for the women to ride one to carry water and one to carry the four children. There were no saddles but blankets enough to make a soft seat, and they proposed to put a band or belt around the animals for them to hold on by, and the blankets would be retained in place by breast and breeching straps which we had made. They had found out that it was very difficult to keep a load of any kind upon an ox, and had devised all this harness to meet the trouble. Bennett had one old bridle ox called Old Crump, which had been selected to carry the children, because he was slow and steady. How in the world do you expect it to keep the children on?--said I. "Well"--said Bennett, with a sort of comical air, about the first relief from the sad line of thought that had possessed us all--"We have taken two strong hickory shirts, turned the sleeves inside, sewed up the necks, then sewed the two shirts together by the tail, and when these are placed on the ox they will make two pockets for the youngest children, and we think the two others will be able to cling to his back with the help of a band around the body of the ox to which they can cling to, with their hands." Now if Old Crump went steady and did not kick up and scatter things, he thought this plan would operate first rate. Now as to the mule they proposed as we knew how to pack the animal, that we should use her to pack our provisions so they would go safe. From a piece of hide yet remaining John and I made ourselves some new moccasins, and were all ready to try the trip over our old trail for now the third time, and the last, we hoped. Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. Arcane had taken our advice, and in cooking had not put too much of the flour or beans into the soup for the children and they had gotten along nicely, and even began to smile a little with satisfaction after a full meal. They got along better than John and I did when we got hold of the first nutritions after our arrival on the other side. We must leave everything here we can get along without. No clothing except that on our backs. Only a camp kettle in which to make soup, a tin cup for each one, and some knives and spoons which each happen to have. Each one had some sort of a canteen for water, which we must fill up at every opportunity, and we decided to carry a shovel along, so we might bury the body of Capt. Culverwell, and shovel up a pile of sand at the falls to enable us to get the oxen over. Every ox had a cloth halter on his head, so he might be led, or tied up at night when we had a dry camp, and they would most assuredly wander off if not secured. Old Crump was chosen to lead the train, and Rogers was to lead him. We had made an extra halter for this old fellow, and quite a long strip of bed ticking sewed into a strap to lead him by. This packing business was a new idea, and a hard matter to get anything firmly fixed on their backs. We had made shoulder straps, hip straps, breast straps and breeching as the correct idea for a harness. The only way we could fasten the band around the animals was for one to get on each side and pull it as tight as possible then tie a knot, as we had no buckles or ring in our harness. The loads of the oxen consisted of blankets and bedding and a small, light tent of their sheeting about four by six feet in size. We rose early and worked hard till about the middle of the forenoon getting all things ready. They had been in a state of masterly inactivity so long in this one camp that they were anxious to leave it now forever. Only in progress was there hope, and this was our last and only chance. We must succeed or perish. We loaded the animals from the wagons, and some of the oxen seemed quite afraid at this new way of carrying loads. Old Crump was pretty steady, and so was the one with the two water kegs one on each side but the other oxen did not seem to think they needed any blankets on these warm days. Mrs. Arcane was from a city, and had fondly conveyed thus far some articles of finery, of considerable value and much prized. She could not be persuaded to leave them here to deck the red man's wife, and have her go flirting over the mountains with, and as they had little weight she concluded she would wear them and this perhaps would preserve them. So she got out her best hat and trimmed it up with extra ribbon leaving some with quite long ends to stream out behind. Arcane brought up his ox Old Brigham, for he had been purchased at Salt Lake and named in honor of the great Mormon Saint. Mrs. Arcane also dressed her little boy Charlie up In his best suit of clothes, for she thought they might as well wear them out as to throw them away. She made one think of a fairy in gay and flying apparel. In the same way all selected their best and most serviceable garments, for it was not considered prudent to carry any load, and poor clothes were good enough to leave for Indians. We set it down as a principle that we must save ourselves all we could, for it would be a close contested struggle with us and death, at the very best, and we wanted to get all the advantage for ourselves we could. As we were making the preparations the women grew more hopeful, as it seemed as if something was really going to be accomplished. Bennett and Arcane were emphatic in their belief and expressions that we would succeed, "I know it--Don't you Sally?" said Bennett very cheerfully, but after all Mrs. Bennett could not answer quite as positively, but said "I hope so."--Mrs. Bennett's maiden name was Sarah Dilley, which I mention here as I may otherwise forget it afterward. She realized that hers was no easy place to ride, that they would have hard fare at best, and that it must be nearly or quite a month before they could reach a fertile spot on which to place her feet. One could easily see that the future looked quite a little dark to her, on account of her children, as a mother naturally would. High overhead was the sun, and very warm indeed on that day in the fore part of February 1850, when the two children were put on Old Crump to see if he would let them ride. The two small children were placed in the pockets on each side, face outward, and they could stand or sit as they should choose. George and Melissa were placed on top and given hold of the strap that was to steady them in their place. I now led up Mrs. Bennett's ox and Mr. Bennett helped his wife to mount the animal, on whose back as soft a seat as possible had been constructed. Mrs. Arcane in her ribbons was now helped to her seat on the back of Old Brigham and she carefully adjusted herself to position, and arranged her dress and ornaments to suit, then took hold of the strap that served to hold on by as there were no bridles on these two. Rogers led the march with his ox; Bennett and I started the others along, and Arcane followed with Old Crump and the children. Bennett and Arcane took off their hats and bade the old camp good bye. The whole procession moved, and we were once more going toward our journey's end we hoped. The road was sandy and soft, the grade practically level, and everything went well for about four miles, when the pack on one of the oxen near the lead got loose and and turned over to one side, which he no sooner saw thus out of position, then he tried to get away from it by moving sidewise. Not getting clear of the objectionable load in this way he tried to kick it off, and thus really got his foot in it, making matters worse instead of better. Then he began a regular waltz and bawled at the top of his voice in terror. Rogers tried to catch him but his own animal was so frisky that he could not hold him and do much else, and the spirit of fear soon began to be communicated to the others and soon the whole train seemed to be taken crazy. They would jump up high and then come down, sticking their fore feet as far as possible into the sand after which, with elevated tails, and terrible plunges would kick and thrash and run till the packs came off, when they stopped apparently quite satisfied. Mrs. Bennett slipped off her ox as quick as she could, grabbed her baby from the pocket on Old Crump, and shouting to Melissa and George to jump, got her family into safe position in pretty short order. Arcane took his Charley from the other pocket and laid him on the ground, while he devoted his own attention to the animals. Mrs. Arcane's ox followed suit, and waltzed around in the sand, bawled at every turn, fully as bad as any of the others, but Mrs. Arcane proved to be a good rider, and hard to unseat, clinging desperately to her strap as she was tossed up and down, and whirled about at a rate enough to to make any one dizzy. Her many fine ribbons flew out behind like the streamers from a mast-head, and the many fancy fixin's she had donned fluttered in the air in gayest mockery. Eventually she was thrown however, but without the least injury to herself, but somewhat disordered in raiment. When I saw Bennett he was standing half bent over laughing in almost hysterical convulsion at the entirely impromptu circus which had so suddenly performed an act not on the program. Arcane was much pleased and laughed heartily when he saw no one was hurt. We did not think the cattle had so much life and so little sense as to waste their energies so uselessly. The little mule stepped out one side and looked on in amazement, with out disarranging any article of her load. Mrs. Bennett, carrying her baby and walking around to keep out of the way, got very much exhausted, and sat down on the sand, her face as red as if the blood were about to burst through the skin, and perspiring freely. We carried a blanket and spread down for her while we gathered in the scattered baggage. Then the oxen were got together again, and submitted to being loaded up again as quietly as if nothing had happened. Myself and the women had to mend the harness considerably, and Arcane and his ox went back for some water, while Rogers and Bennett took the shovel and went ahead about a mile to cover up the body of Capt. Culverwell, for some of the party feared the cattle might be terrified at seeing it. All this took so much time that we had to make a camp of it right here. We put the camp kettle on two stones, built a fire, put in some beans and dried meat cut very fine, which cooked till Arcane came with more water, which was added, and thickened with a little of the unbolted flour, making a pretty good and nutritious soup which we all enjoyed. We had to secure the animals, for there was neither grass nor water for them, and we thought they might not be in so good spirits another day. We had little trouble in packing up again in the morning, and concluded to take a nearer route to the summit, so as to more quickly reach the water holes where Rogers and I camped on our first trip over the country. This would be a hard rocky road on its course leading up a small rocky cañon, hard on the feet of the oxen, so they had to be constantly urged on, as they seemed very tender footed. They showed no disposition to go on a spree again and so far as keeping the loads on, behaved very well indeed. The women did not attempt to ride but followed on, close after Old Crump and the children who required almost constant attention, for in their cramped position they made many cries and complaints. To think of it, two children cramped up in narrow pockets, in which they could not turn around, jolted and pitched around over the rough road, made them objects of great suffering to themselves and anxiety and labor on the part of the mothers. Mrs. Bennett said she would carry her baby if she could, but her own body was so heavy for her strength that she could not do it. Bennett, Rogers and myself hurried the oxen all we could, so that we could reach the water, and let Bennett go back with some to meet the rest and refresh them for the end of the day's march, and he could take poor little Martha from the pocket and carry her in his arms, which would be a great relief to her. Arcane also took his child when he met them, throwing away his double barrel gun, saying:--"I have no use for you." When the women reached camp we had blankets already spread down for them, on which they cast themselves, so tired as to be nearly dead. They were so tired and discouraged they were ready to die, for they felt they could not endure many days like this. We told them this was the first day and they were not used to exercise therefore more easily tired than after they became a little used to it. We told them not to be discouraged, for we knew every water hole, and all the road over which we would pilot them safely. They would not consent to try riding again, after their circus experience, and Mrs. Arcane said her limbs ached so much she did not think she could even go on the next day. They had climbed over the rocks all day, and were lame and sore, and truly thought they could not endure such another day. The trail had been more like stairs than a road in its steep ascent, and our camp was at a narrow pass in the range. The sky was clear and cloudless, as it had been for so long for thus far upon this route no rain had fallen, and only once a little snow, that came to us like manna in the desert. For many days we had been obliged to go without water both we and our cattle, and over the route we had come we had not seen any signs of a white man's presence older than our own. I have no doubt we were the first to cross the valley in this location, a visible sink hole in the desert. The women did not recover sufficient energy to remove their clothing, but slept as they were, and sat up and looked around with uncombed hair in the morning, perfect pictures of dejection. We let them rest as long as we could, for their swollen eyes and stiffened joints told how sadly unprepared they were to go forward at once. The sun came out early and made it comfortable, while a cool and tonic breeze, came down from the great snow mountain the very thing to brace them up after a thorough rest. The slope to the east was soon met by a high ridge and between this and the main mountain was a gentle slope scattered over with sage brush, and a few little stools of bunch grass here and there between. This gave our oxen a little food and by dipping out the water from the holes and letting them fill up again we managed to get water for camp use and to give the animals nearly all they wanted. While waiting for the women Bennett and Arcane wanted to go out and get a good view of the great snowy mountain I had told them so much about. The best point of view was near our camp, perhaps three or four hundred yards away, and I went with them. This place where we now stood was lower than the mountains either north or south, but were difficult to climb, and gave a good view in almost every direction, and there, on the back bone of the ridge we had a grand outlook, but some parts of it brought back doleful recollections. They said they had traveled in sight of that mountain for months and seen many strange formations, but never one like this, as developed from this point. It looked to be seventy-five miles to its base, and to the north and west there was a succession of snowy peaks that seemed to have no end. Bennett and Arcane said they never before supposed America contained mountains so grand with peaks that so nearly seemed to pierce the sky. Nothing except a bird could ever cross such steep ranges as that one. West and south it seemed level, and low, dark and barren buttes rose from the plain, but never high enough to carry snow, even at this season of the year. I pointed out to them the route we were to follow, noting the prominent points, and it could be traced for fully one hundred and twenty-five miles from the point on which we stood. This plain, with its barren ranges and buttes is now known as the Mojave Desert. This part of the view they seemed to study over, as if to fix every point and water hole upon their memory. We turned to go to camp, but no one looked back on the country we had come over since we first made out the distant snow peak, now so near us, on November 4th 1849. The only butte in this direction that carried snow was the one where we captured the Indian and where the squashes were found. The range next east of us across the low valley was barren to look upon as a naked, single rock. There were peaks of various heights and colors, yellow, blue firery red and nearly black. It looked as if it might sometime have been the center of a mammoth furnace. I believe this range is known as the Coffin's Mountains. It would be difficult to find earth enough in the whole of it to cover a coffin. Just as we were ready to leave and return to camp we took off our hats, and then overlooking the scene of so much trial, suffering and death spoke the thought uppermost saying:--"_Good bye Death Valley!"_ then faced away and made our steps toward camp. Even after this in speaking of this long and narrow valley over which we had crossed into its nearly central part, and on the edge of which the lone camp was made, for so many days, it was called Death Valley. Many accounts have been given to the world as to the origin of the name and by whom it was thus designated but ours were the first visible footsteps, and we the party which named it the saddest and most dreadful name that came to us first from its memories. CHAPTER XI. Out of Death Valley we surely were. To Rogers and I, the case seemed hopeful, for we had confidence in the road and believed all would have power to weather difficulties, but the poor women--it is hard to say what complaints and sorrows were not theirs. They seemed to think they stood at death's door, and would about as soon enter, as to take up a farther march over the black, desolate mountains and dry plains before them, which they considered only a dreary vestibule to the dark door after all. They even had an idea that the road was longer than we told them, and they never could live to march so far over the sandy, rocky roads. The first day nearly satisfied them that it was no use to try, Rogers and I counted up the camps we ought to reach each day and in this way could pretty near convince them of time that would be consumed in the trip. We encouraged them in every way we could; told them we had better get along a little every day and make ourselves a little nearer the promised land, and the very exercise would soon make them stronger and able to make a full day's march. John and I told them we felt in much better spirits now than we did when we set out alone, and now that nothing but the arrows of an Indian could stop us. We said to them. "We are not going to leave you two ladies out here to die for there is not a sign of a grave to put you in,--" and it was a pretty tough place to think of making one. We told them of the beautiful flowery hillsides over the other side and begged them to go over there to die, as it would be so much better and easier to perform the last sad rites there instead of here on the top of the dismal mountain. It seemed quite like a grim joke, but it produced a reaction that turned the tide of thoughts and brought more courage. We only laid out the march for this day as far as the falls and after a little prepared to move. The cattle seemed to have quit their foolishness, and they were loaded without trouble. The children fitted into the pockets better than usual, and the mothers with full canteens strapped across their shoulders picked out soft places on which to place their poor blistered feet at every step. They walked as if they were troubled with corns on every toe and on their heels into the bargain, and each foot was so badly affected, that they did not know on which one to limp. But still they moved, and we were once more on our way westward. They often stopped to rest, and Arcane waited for them with Old Crump, while they breathed and complained awhile and then passed on again. [Illustration: The Oxen Get Frisky.] The route was first along the foot of the high peak, over bare rocks and we soon turned south somewhat so as to enter the cañon leading down to the falls. The bottom of this was thick with broken rock, and the oxen limped and picked out soft places about as bad as the women did. A pair of moccasins would not last long in such rocks and we hoped to get out of them very soon. Rogers and I hurried along, assisting Arcane and his party as much as we could, while Bennett staid behind and assisted the women as much as possible, taking their arms, and by this means they also reached camp an hour behind the rest. A kettle of hot steaming soup, and blankets all spread out on which to rest, was the work Rogers and I had done to prepare for them, and they sank down on the beds completely exhausted. The children cried some but were soon pacified and were contented to lie still. A good supper of hot soup made them feel much better all around. The first thing Bennett and Arcane did was to look round and see the situation at the falls, and see if the obstacle was enough to stop our progress, or if we must turn back and look for a better way. They were in some doubt about it, but concluded to try and get the animals over rather than to take the time to seek another pass, which might take a week of time. We men all went down to the foot of the fall, and threw out all the large rocks, then piled up all the sand we could scrape together with the shovel, till we had quite a pile of material that would tend to break a fall. We arranged everything possible for a forced passage in the morning, and the animals found a few willows to browse and a few bunches of grass here and there, which gave them a little food, while the spring supplied them with enough water to keep them from suffering with thirst. Early in the morning we took our soup hastily and with ropes lowered our luggage over the small precipice, then the children, and finally all the ropes were combined to make a single strong one about thirty feet long. They urged one of the oxen up to the edge of the falls, put the rope around his horns, and threw down the end to me, whom they had stationed below. I was told to pull hard when he started so that he might not light on his head and break his neck. We felt this was a desperate undertaking, and we fully expected to lose some of our animals, but our case was critical and we must take some chances. Bennett stood on one side of the ox, and Arcane on the other, while big Rogers was placed in the rear to give a regular Tennessee boost when the word was given. "Now for it," said Bennett, and as I braced out on the rope those above gave a push and the ox came over, sprawling, but landed safely, cut only a little by some angular stones in the sand pile. "Good enough," said some one and I threw the rope back for another ox. "We'll get 'em all over safely" said Arcane, "if Lewis down there, will keep them from getting their necks broken." Lewis pulled hard every time, and not a neck was broken. The sand pile was renewed every time and made as high and soft as possible, and very soon all our animals were below the falls. The little mule gave a jump when they pushed her and lighted squarely on her feet all right. With the exception of one or two slight cuts, which bled some, the oxen were all right and we began loading them at once. Bennett and Arcane assisted their wives down along the little narrow ledge which we used in getting up, keeping their faces toward the rocky wall, and feeling carefully for every footstep. Thus they worked along and landed safely by the time we had the animals ready for a march. We had passed without disaster, the obstacle we most feared, and started down the rough cañon, hope revived, and we felt we should get through. After winding around among the great boulders for a little while we came to the two horses we had left behind, both dead and near together. We pointed to the carcasses, and told them those were the horses we brought for the women to ride, and that is the way they were cheated out of their passage. The bodies of the animals had not been touched by bird or beast. The cañon was too deep and dark for either wolves or buzzards to enter, and nothing alive had been seen by us in the shape of wild game of any sort. Firearms were useless here except for defence against Indians, and we expected no real trouble from them. From what we could see, it was my opinion that no general rain ever fell in that region. There was some evidence that water had at times flowed down them freely after cloud bursts, or some sudden tempest, but the gravel was so little worn that it gave no evidence of much of a stream. We hurried on as rapidly as possible so as to get into the Jayhawker's beaten trail which would be a little easier to follow. When we reached the lowest part of the valley we had to turn south to get around a little, slow running stream of salt water, that moved north and emptied into a Salt Lake. No source of the stream could be seen from this point, but when we reached a point where we could cross, we had a smooth, hard clay bed to march over. It seemed to have been, some day, a bed of mortar, but now baked hard, and the hoofs of the oxen dented into it no more than half an inch. On our left hand was a perpendicular cliff, along which we traveled for quite a little way. The range of mountains now before us to cross was black, nothing but rocks, and extremely barren, having no water in it that we knew of, so when we reached the summit we camped, tied all our animals to rocks, where they lay down and did not rise till morning. The women were so tired they were over two hours late, and we had the fire built, the soup cooked and the beds made. As we did not stop at noon all were very hungry, and ate with a relish. The poor animals had to go without either grass or water. When Old Crump and the party came in the men were carrying the babies, and their wives were clinging to their arms, scarcely able to stand. When they reached the beds they fell at full length on them, saying their feet and limbs ached like the tooth ache. It seemed to be best for them to rest a little before eating. Mrs. Bennett said that the only consolation was that the road was getting shorter every day, but were it not for the children she would sooner die than follow the trail any farther. Their soup was carried to them in the bed, and they were covered up as they lay, and slept till morning. This day's walk was the hardest one yet, and probably the longest one of the whole journey, but there was no other place where we could find a place large enough to make a camp and free enough of rocks so that a bed could be made. Rogers and I had the kettle boiling early, and put in the last of the meat, and nearly all that was left of the flour. At the next camp an ox must be killed. Just as it was fairly light I went about 200 yards south where the dead body of Mr. Fish lay, just as he died more than a month before. The body had not been disturbed and looked quite natural. He was from Oscaloosa, Iowa. The folks arose very reluctantly this morning, and appeared with swollen eyes and uncombed hair, for there was no means of making a toilet, without a drop of water, except what we had used in getting breakfast. We set the soup kettle near the foot of the bed so the women could feed the children and themselves. Now as we loaded the oxen, it was agreed that Rogers and I should go ahead with all but Old Crump, and get in camp as soon as possible, and they were to follow on as best they could. There was a little water left in the canteens of Bennett and Arcane, to be given only to the children, who would cry when thirsty, the very thing to make them feel the worst. We were to kill an ox when we reached camp, and as each of the men had an equal number on the start each was to furnish one alternately and no disputing about whose were better or stronger, in any emergency. Our road now led down the western slope of the mountain, and loose, hard, broken rocks were harder on the feet of our animals than coming up, and our own moccasins were wearing through. The cattle needed shoes as well as we. Any one who has never tried it can imagine how hard it is to walk with tender feet over broken rock. It was very slow getting along at the best, and the oxen stumbled dreadfully in trying to protect their sore feet. At the foot of the mountain we had several miles of soft and sandy road. The sun shone very hot, and with no water we suffered fearfully. A short way out in the sandy valley we pass again the grave of Mr. Isham, where he had been buried by his friends. He was from Rochester, N.Y. He was a cheerful, pleasant man, and during the forepart of the journey used his fiddle at the evening camps to increase the merriment of his jolly companions. In those days we got no rain, see no living animals of any kind except those of our train, see not a bird nor insect, see nothing green except a very stunted sage, and some dwarf bushes. We now know that the winter of 1849-50 was one of the wettest ever seen in California, but for some reason or other none of the wet clouds ever came to this portion of the State to deposit the most scattering drops of moisture. Quite a long way from the expected camp the oxen snuffed the moisture, and began to hurry towards it with increased speed. A little while before it did not seem as if they had ambition enough left to make a quick move, but as we approached the water those which had no packs fairly trotted in their haste to get a drink. This stream was a very small one, seeping out from a great pile of rocks, and maintaining itself till it reached the sands, where it disappeared completely. A few tufts of grass grew along the banks, otherwise everything surrounding was desolate in the extreme. As soon as we could get the harness off the oxen, we went to look for our little buried sack of wheat, which we were compelled to leave and hide on our way out. We had hidden it so completely, that it took us quite a little while to strike its bed but after scratching with our hands awhile, we hit the spot, and found it untouched. Although the sand in which it was buried seemed quite dry, yet the grain had absorbed so much moisture from it, that the sack was nearly bursting. It was emptied on a blanket, and proved to be still sound and sweet. Our first work now was to kill an ox and get some meat to cook for those who were coming later. We got the kettle over boiling with some of the wheat in it, for the beans were all gone. We killed the ox saving the blood to cook. Cutting the meat all off the bones, we had it drying over a fire as soon as possible, except what we needed for this meal and the next. Then we made a smooth place in the soft sand on which to spread the blankets, the first good place we had found to sleep since leaving Death Valley. The next job was to make moccassins for ourselves and for the oxen, for it was plain they could not go on another day barefooted. We kept busy indeed, attending the fires under the meat and under the kettle, besides our shoemaking, and were getting along nicely about sundown, when Old Christian Crump appeared in sight followed by the women and the rest of the party. The women were just as tired as ever and dropped down on the blankets the first thing. "How many such days as this can we endure?"--they said. We had them count the days gone by, and look around to see the roughest part of the road was now behind them. They said that only five days had passed, and that two thirds of the distance still remained untraveled, and they knew they could never endure even another five day's work like the last. We told them to be brave, and be encouraged, for we had been over the road and knew what it was, and that we felt sure of being able to do it nicely. They were fed in bed as usual, and there they lay till morning. We men went to making moccasins from the green hide, and when we had cut out those for the men and women the balance of the hide was used in preparing some also for the oxen, particularly the worst ones, for if I remember correctly there was not enough to go round. The morning came, bright and pleasant, as all of them were, and just warm enough for comfort in the part of the day. The women were as usual, and their appearance would remind one quite strongly of half-drowned hens which had not been long out of trouble. Hair snarled, eyes red, nose swollen, and out of fix generally. They did not sleep well so much fatigued, for they said they lived over their hard days in dreams at night, and when they would close their eyes and try to go to sleep, the visions would seem to come to them half waking and they could not rest. There was now before us a particularly bad stretch of the country as it would probably take us four or five days to get over it, and there was only one water hole in the entire distance. This one was quite salt, so much so that on our return trip the horses refused to drink it, and the little white one died next day. Only water for one day's camp could be carried with us, and that was for ourselves alone and not for the animals. When the moccasins were finished in the morning we began to get our cattle together when it was discovered that Old Brigham was gone, and the general belief was that the Indians had made a quiet raid on us and got away with the old fellow. We circled around till we found his track and then Arcane followed it while we made ready the others. Arcane came in with the stray namesake of the polygamous saint about this time shouting:--"I've got him--No Indians." The ox had got into the wash ravine below camp and passed out of sight behind, in a short time. He had been as easily tracked as if he walked in snow. There was larger sage brush in the wash than elsewhere, and no doubt Brigham had thought this a good place to seek for some extra blades of grass. Immediately south of this camp now known as Providence Springs, is the salt lake to which Rogers and I went on the first trip and were so sadly disappointed in finding the water unfit to use. As soon as ready we started up the cañon, following the trail made by the Jayhawkers who had proceeded us, and by night had reached the summit, but passed beyond, a short distance down the western slope, where we camped in a valley that gave us good large sage brush for our fires, and quite a range for the oxen without their getting out of sight. This being at quite a high elevation we could see the foot as well as the top, of the great snow mountain, and had a general good view of the country. This proved to be the easiest day's march we had experienced, and the women complained less than on any other night since our departure. Their path had been comparatively smooth, and with the new moccasins their feet had been well protected, they had come through pretty nicely. We told them they looked better, and if they would only keep up good courage they would succeed and come out all right to the land where there was plenty of bread and water, and when safely out, they might make good resolutions never to get in such a trap again. Mrs. Bennett said such a trip could never be done over again, and but for the fact that Rogers and I had been over the road, and that she believed all we had said about it; she never would have had the courage to come thus far. Now, for the children's sake, she wished to live, and would put forth any effort to come through all right. The next day we had a long cañon to go down, and in it passed the dead body of the beautiful white mare Rogers had taken such a fancy to. The body had not decomposed, nor had it been disturbed by any bird or beast. Below this point the bed of the cañon was filled with great boulders, over which it was very difficult to get the oxen along. Some of them had lost their moccasins and had to suffer terribly over the rocks. Camp was made at the salt water hole, and our wheat and meat boiled in it did not soften and get tender as it did in fresh water. There was plenty of salt grass above; but the oxen did not eat it any more than the horses did, and wandered around cropping a bite of the bitter brush once in awhile, and looking very sorry. This was near the place where Rogers and I found the piece of ice which saved our lives. The women did not seriously complain when we reached this camp, but little Charley Arcane broke out with a bad looking rash all over his body and as he cried most of the time it no doubt smarted and pained him like a mild burn. Neither his mother nor any one else could do anything for him to give him any relief. We had no medicines, and if he or any one should die, all we could do would be to roll the body in a blanket and cover it with a light covering of sand. From this camp to the next water holes at the base of the great snow mountain, it was at least 30 miles, level as to surface, and with a light ascending grade. The Jayhawkers had made a well marked trail, and it it was quite good walking. The next camp was a dry one, both for ourselves and the oxen, nothing but dry brush for them, and a little dried meat for ourselves, but for all this the women did not complain so very much. They were getting use to the work and grew stronger with the exercise. They had followed Old Crump and the children every day with the canteens of water and a little dried meat to give them if they cried too much with hunger, and Arcane had led his ox day after day with a patience that was remarkable, and there was no bad temper shown by any one. This was the way to do, for if there were any differences, there was no tribunal to settle them by. In all this desert travel I did not hear any discontent and serious complaint, except in one case, and that was at the Jayhawker's camp, where they burned their wagons at the end of the wagon road, in Death Valley. Some could not say words bad enough to express their contempt, and laid all the trouble of salt water to Lot's wife. Perhaps she was in a better position to stand the cursing than any of the party present. The next day we reached the water holes at the place where Rogers and I stole up to camp fire in the evening, supposing it to be Indians, but finding there Capt. Doty and his mess, a part of the Jayhawker's band. By dipping carefully from these holes they filled again, and thus, although there was no flow from them we gradually secured what water we needed for the camp, which was a small amount after so long a time without. There was some low brush here called greasewood, which grew about as high as currant bushes, and some distance up the mountain the oxen could find some scattery bunch grass, which, on the whole, made this camp a pretty good one. The women, however, were pretty nearly exhausted, and little Charley Arcane cried bitterly all day and almost all night. All began to talk more and feel more hopeful of getting through. The women began to say that every step brought them so much nearer to the house we had told them about on the other side and often said the work was not so very hard after all. Really it was not so bad travelling as we had at first. We were now nine days from the wagons. "Are we half way?" was the question they began to ask. We had to answer them that more than one half the hard days were over, if one half the distance had not been traveled, and with the better walking and getting hardened to the work, they would get over the last half better than the first. One thing was a little hard. All of our beans and flour had been used up, and now the wheat was about gone also. We had cooked it, and it seemed best, trying to build up our strength, where it was most needed for the greatest trials, and now we thought they would be able to get along on the meat. We had reached the base of the great snow mountain. It seems strange with the mass of snow resting above, and which must be continually thawing more or less, no ravines or large streams of water were produced flowing down this side. It seemed dry all around its base, which is is very singular, with the snow so near. We had now our barren cañon to go down, and right here was the big trail coming down from the north, which we took and followed. We said all these good things about the road, and encouraged the people all we could to keep in good spirits and keep moving. We told them we thought we knew how to manage to get them safe over the road if they only fully endeavored to do it. We were all quite young, and not in the decline of life as were most of them who had perished by the way. No reader can fully realize how much we had to say and do to keep up courage, and it is to this more than anything else that we did which kept up the lagging energies and inspired the best exertion. I don't know but we painted some things a little brighter than they were, and tried to hide some of the most disheartening points of the prospects ahead, for we found the mind had most to do with it after all. We have no doubt that if we had not done all we could to keep up good courage, the women would have pined away and died before reaching this far. Whenever we stopped talking encouragingly, they seemed to get melancholy and blue. There was some pretty good management to be exercised still. The oxen were gradually growing weaker, and we had to kill the weakest one every time, for if the transportation of our food failed, we should yet be open to the danger of starvation. As it was, the meat on their frames was very scarce, and we had to use the greatest economy to make it last and waste nothing. We should now have to kill one of our oxen every few days, as our other means of subsistence had been so completely used up. The women contracted a strange dislike to this region and said they never wanted to see any part of it again. As the sun showed its face over the great sea of mountains away to the east of Death Valley, and it seemed to rise very early for winter season we packed up and started west on the big trail. Rogers and I took the oxen and mule and went on, leaving the others to accompany Old Crump and his little charges. Arcane had found it best to carry Charley on his back, as it relieved the burning sensation, caused by the eruption on his skin, which was aggravated by the close quarters of the pockets. Thus leaving the pockets unbalanced, Bennett had to carry his baby also. This made it harder for them, but every one tried to be just as accommodating as they could and each one would put himself to trouble to accommodate or relieve others. Rogers and I made camp when we reached the proper place which was some distance from the mountain, on a perfectly level plain where there was no water, no grass, nothing but sage brush would grow on the dry and worthless soil. We let the oxen go and eat as much of this as they chose, which was very little and only enough to keep them from absolute starvation. The great trail had a branch near here that turned north, and went up a ravine that would seem to reach the snow in a little while. This was believed to be impassable at this time of year. This route is known as Walker's Pass, leading over a comparatively low ridge, and coming out the south fork of the Kern River. We made our camp here because it was as long a march as the women could make, and, for a dry one, was as good a location as we could find. The cool breeze came down from the snow to the north of us, not so very many miles away, and after a little it became uncomfortably cold. We gathered greasewood bushes and piled them up to make a wind-break for our heads. The oxen, even, would come and stand around the fire, seeming greatly to enjoy the warm smoke, which came from burning the greasewood brush, which by the way, burns about the best of any green wood. When we were ready to lie down we tied the animals to bunches of brush, and they lay contentedly till morning. To the north of us, a few miles away we could see some standing, columns of rock, much reminding one of the great stone chimney of the boiler house at Stanford Jr., University; not quite so trim and regular in exterior appearance, but something in that order. We reckon the only students in the vicinity would be lizards. When the women arrived in camp they were very tired, but encouraged themselves that they were much nearer the promised land than they were in the morning. Mrs. Bennett said she was very careful never to take a step backward, and to make every forward one count as much as possible. "That's a good resolution, Sally," said Mr Bennett. "Stick to it and we will come out by and bye." From near this camp we have a low range of mountains to cross, a sort of spur or offshoot of the great snow mountain that reaches out twenty miles or more to the southeast, and its extremity divides away into what seems from our point of view a level plain. We had attained quite an elevation without realizing it, so gradual had been the ascent, and our course was now down a steep hillside and into a deep cañon. In its very bottom we found a small stream of water only a few yards long, and then it sank into the sands. Not a spear of grass grew there, and if any had grown it had been eaten by the cattle which had gone before. This was the same place, where Rogers and I had overtaken the advance portion of the Jayhawkers when we were on our outward trip in search of relief, and where some of the older men were so discouraged that they gave us their home addresses in Illinois so that we could notify their friends of their precarious situation, and if they were never otherwise heard from they could be pretty sure they had perished from thirst and starvation when almost at their journey's end. The scenes of this camp on that occasion made so strong an impression on my memory that I can never forget it. There were poor dependent fellows without a morsel to eat except such bits of poor meat as they could beg from those who were fortunate enough to own oxen. Their tearful pleadings would soften a heart of stone. We shared with some of them even when we did not know the little store upon our backs would last us through. Our oxen here had water to drink, but nothing more. It might be a little more comfortable to drink and starve, than both choke and starve, but these are no very pleasant prospects in either one. Both ourselves and the oxen were getting barefoot and our feet very tender. The hill we had just come down was very rough and rocky and our progress very slow, every step made in a selected spot. We could not stop here to kill an ox and let the remainder of them starve, but must push on to where the living ones could get a little food. We fastened the oxen and the mule to keep them from wandering, and slept as best we could. The women and children looked worse than for some time, and could not help complaining. One of the women held up her foot and the sole was bare and blistered. She said they ached like toothache. The women had left their combs in the wagons, and their hair was getting seriously tangled. Their dresses were getting worn off pretty nearly to their knees, and showed the contact with the ground that sometimes could not be avoided. They were in a sad condition so far as toilet and raiment were concerned. Life was in the balance, however, and instead of talking over sad things, we talked of the time when we would reach the little babbling brook where Rogers and I took such long draughts of clear, sweet water and the waiter at our dinner gave us the choice of _Crow_, _Hawk_ or _Quail_, and where we took a little of all three. [Illustation: Pulling the Oxen Down the Precipice.] In the morning we were off again down the cañon, limping some as we trod its coarse gravelly bed with our tender feet and stiffened joints, but getting limbered up a little after a bit, and enduring it pretty well. We set out to try to reach the bunch of willows out on the level plain, where the cattle could get some water and grass, but night overtook us at the mouth of the cañon, and we were forced to go into camp. This cañon is now called Red Cañon. This was on an elevated plain, with a lake near by, but as we had been so often deceived by going to the lake for water, and finding them salt in every instance, or poison on account of strong alkali, we did not take the trouble to go and try this one. Near us was some coarse grass and wet ground where we found water enough for our moderate use, and the oxen, by perseverance, could get something to eat and drink. After supper we were out of meat and we would have to kill an ox to get some food for breakfast. In the night a storm came on, much to our surprise, for we had seen none since the night on the mountain east of Death Valley more than two months before. We tried to fix up a shelter to protect the children and ourselves, but were not very successful. We tried to use our guns for tent poles, but could not keep them in place. We laid down as close as pigs in cold weather, and covered up as best we could, but did not keep dry, and morning found us wet to the skin, cold and shivering. We gathered big sage brush for a fire in the morning, and the tracks of our nearly bare feet could be plainly seen in the snow which lay like a blanket awhile over the ground, about two inches deep. Some lay in bed and we warmed blankets before the fire and put over them to keep them comfortable till the sun should rise and warm the air. We selected an ox and brought him up before the fire where I shot him, and soon there was meat roasting over the fire and blood cooking in the camp kettle. We had nothing to season the blood pudding with but salt, and it was not very good, but answered to sustain life. We ate a hasty meal, then packed our animals and started for the willow patch about four miles away. The snow was about gone. I staid in camp to keep it till they could get through to the willows and some one to come back with the mule to carry forward the portion of meat that could not be taken at first. We intended to dry it at the willows, and then we could carry it along as daily food over the wide plain we had yet to cross. Having carried the meat forward, we made a rack of willows and dried it over the fire, making up a lot of moccasins for the barefooted ones while we waited. We were over most of the rocky road, we calculated that our shoemaking would last us through. This was a very pleasant camp. The tired ones were taking a rest. No one needed it more than our women and children, who were tired nearly out. They were in much better condition to endure their daily hardships than when they started out, and a little rest would make them feel quite fresh again. They understood that this was almost on the western edge of this desert country and this gave them good hope and courage. This wonderful spot in the level plain, with a spring of pure water making an oasis of green willows and grass has been previously spoken of as:--"A spring of good water, and a little willow patch in a level desert away from any hill." In all our wanderings we had never seen the like before. No mountaineer would ever think of looking here for water, much less ever dream of finding a lone spring away out in the desert, several miles from the mountain's base. Where the range we just came through leaves the mother mountain stands a peak, seemingly alone, and built up of many colored rocks, in belts, and the whole looks as if tipped with steel. Arcane's boy Charley still suffered from his bogus measles or whatever else his disorder might be, and Bennett's little Martha grew more quiet and improved considerably in health, though still unable to walk, and still abdominally corpulent. The other two children George and Melissa seemed to bear up well and loved to get off and walk in places where the trail was smooth and level. Bennett, Arcane and Old Crump usually traveled with the same party as the women, and as each of them had a small canteen to carry water, they could attend to the wants of the children and keep them from worrying and getting sick from fretfulness. They often carried the two younger ones on their backs to relieve and rest them from their cramped position on the ox. Arcane used to say he expected the boys--meaning Rogers and I--would try to surprise the party by letting them get very near the house before they knew how near they were. "Be patient Mr. Arcane," said we, "we can tell you just how many camps there must be before we reach it, and we won't fool you or surprise you in any way." "Well," said he. "I was almost in hopes you would, for I like to be disappointed in that way." "What do you think the folks will say when we tell them that our little mule packed most of the meat of an ox four miles from one camp to another?" "What will they say when we tell them that the oxen were so poor that there was no marrow in the great thigh bones?" Instead of marrow there was a thick dark liquid something like molasses in consistency, but streaked with different colors which made it look very unwholesome. Arcane said the whole story was so incredible, that he never should fight anyone, even if he should tell him he lied when he related the strange sad truth. He said he had no doubt many a one would doubt their story, it was so much beyond what people had ever seen or heard of before, and they might be accused of very strong romancing in the matter. They all felt more like talking; for we were thus far safe and sound, and though there was a desperate struggle of seventy-five miles or more, from this place to the next water in the foot-hills. Possibly the snow storms had left a little in some of the pools, but we made no calculations on any. The promised land we had so steadily been approaching, and now comparatively so near, gave us great hope, which was better than food and drink to give us strength. There were surely two camps between this and the little pond John and I found, among the Cabbage trees, and not more than six by ten feet square. As we worked away at our foot-wear we talked more in an hour than we had in a whole day before. We were slowly leaving Death Valley behind us with its sad memories and sufferings. We were leaving behind the dead bodies of several who had traveled with us and been just as strong and hopeful as we. We had left behind us all in our possession in that terrible spot, and simply with our lives we hoped to escape, and trust to Providence and humanity on the other side. Arcane now admitted that they could not have got along half as well, if we had not gone ahead and looked out the land. It was such a gain to know exactly where the next water hole was, so it could be steered for and struggled toward. He even went so far as to say they would have no chance alone, and that as he now saw the road, he was sure they have would all perished even before reaching as far as this. We had strong hopes of the morrow, when we would be all rested, all were shod, and would make every footstep count in our western progress. It seems quite a strange occurrence that the only two storms we had had since we turned westward on this route, Nov. 4th, were snow storms, and that both had come while we were asleep, so that all our days were cloudless. Sometimes the sun was uncomfortably warm even in the heart of the winter. One would have naturally expected that the great rainfall all over the California coast in the winter of 1849-50, and the deep snows that came in the Sierra Nevada mountains the same winter, would have extended southerly the few hundred miles that separated the two places. Modern science has shown the tracks of the storms and partially explains the reasons for this dry and barren nature of this region. When rains do come they are so out of the regular order, that they are called cloud-bursts or waterspouts, and the washes in the cañons and their mouths show how great has been the volume of water that sometimes rushed down the slope. If clouds at a warm or moderate temperature float against these snow peaks all the water they contain is suddenly precipitated. The country is an arid one and unless wealth should appear in the shape of mines, the country can never be inhabited. We considered ourselves very fortunate in finding the little pools and holes of water which kept us alive. It was not very good drinking water, but to us thirsty folks it was a blessing and we never passed it by on account of any little stagnant bitter taste. Salt water we could not drink of course, though we sometimes used it to cook with. We were as well prepared next morning as possible for a move, and the long walk before us, the last one between us and the fertile land. They all talked of how delighted they would be to see once more a running brook, green grass and trees, and such signs of life as they had seen and been used to in the good land they had left behind. The women said they could endure the march of four or five days, if when all over, they could sleep off the terrible fatigue and for once drink all the pure sweet water they could desire. No more forced marches. No more grey road, stretching out its dusty miles as far as the eye could reach. The ladies thought the oxen would be as happy as themselves, and the little mule, the most patient one of the whole train deserved a life of ease for her valuable services. This little black, one-eyed lady wandered here and there at will seeking for grass, but never going astray or getting far enough from the track to alarm us in the least. She seldom drank much water, was always ready, never got foot-sore, and seemed made expressly for such a life and for such a desert. A good kettleful of soup for breakfast, dried meat fixed in packages, kegs and canteens filled with water, and we were ready for an advance. There is one less ox to lead, and very little load for those we have, still the load is all such poor weak fellows ought to bear. Old Crump was not thus favored by a gradually lightened load. He bore the same four children every day, faithfully, carefully, with never a stumble nor fall, as though fully aware of the precious nature of his burden. In this new march John and I took the oxen and pushed on as usual, leaving the families to follow on, at a slower pace, the trail we made. The trail was slightly inclined. The bushes stunted at the best, getting smaller as we proceeded, and the horse bones, new and ancient are now thickly scattered along the way. The soil is different from that we have had. We can see the trail, winding gently here and there, swept clean by the wind, and the surface is hard and good; but when the mule gets the least bit off of it she sinks six inches deep into the soft sand, and the labor of walking is immense. I stepped out to examine the peculiar soil, and found it finer than superfine flour. It was evident that a strong wind would lift it in vast clouds which might even darken the sky, but we were fortunate in this respect, for during all the time we were on this peculiar soil, there was no wind at all, and we escaped a sand-storm, a sort of storm as peculiar to this region as are blizzards to some of the states of the great west. Our first night's camp was out on the barren waterless plain, now known as the Mojave Desert. There were no shrubs large enough to make a fire of, and nothing to tie our cattle to, so we fastened all our animals together to keep them from scattering and getting lost. We ate a little dry meat and drank sparingly of the water, for our scanty stock was to last us another day, when we might reach prospective water holes. Starting early, John and I took all but Old Crump and the other travelers, and hurried on to try and find the water holes as early as possible. We, as well as the oxen were very dry, for we left all the water we had with the party, for the children, for they cannot endure the thirst as the older people can. We reached the camping place before night. Quite a time before we reached it, the cattle seemed to scent the water and quickened their pace, so we were confident it had not dried up. We got ahead of the oxen and kept there until we reached the little pond and then guarded it to keep them from wading into it, in their eagerness to reach some drink. They all satisfied their thirst, and then we removed the harness, built a fire of the dead cabbage trees which we found round about, laid down the beds and arranged them neatly, and had all nicely done before the rear guard came up, in charge of Captain Crump. The party was eager for water and all secured it. It was rain water and no doubt did not quench thirst as readily as water from some living spring or brook. There was evidence that there had been a recent shower or snow to fill this depression up for our benefit. The Jayhawkers had passed not more than a half mile north of this spot, but no sign appeared that they had found it, and it was left to sustain the lives of the women and children. It often occurs to me that many may read incredulously when I speak of our party eating the entire flesh of an ox in four or five days. To such I will say that one cannot form an idea how poor an ox will get when nearly starved so long. Months had passed since they had eaten a stomachful of good nutritious food. The animals walked slowly with heads down nearly tripping themselves up with their long, swinging legs. The skin loosely covered the bones, but all the flesh and muscles had shrunk down to the smallest space. The meat was tough and stringy as basswood bark, and tasted strongly of bitter sage brush the cattle had eaten at almost every camp. At a dry camp the oxen would lie down and grate their teeth, but they had no cud to chew. It looked almost merciless to shoot one down for food, but there was no alternative. We killed our poor brute servants to save ourselves. Our cattle found a few bunches out among the trees at this camp and looked some better in the morning. They had secured plenty of water and some grass. Young Charlie Arcane seemed to grow worse rather than better. His whole body was red as fire, and he screamed with the pain and torment of the severe itching. Nothing could be done to relieve him, and if his strength lasted till we could get better air, water and food he might recover, but his chances were very poor. Not much rest at this camp for in the morning we aimed to start early and reach the water in the foothills. We thought we could do it if we started early, walked rapidly and took no resting spell at noon. Such a poor soil as this we were anxious to get away from, and walk once more on a soil that would grow something besides stunted sage brush. From all appearances the Jayhawkers were here in about the same predicament Rogers and I were when we lost the trail. By their tracks we could see they had scattered wide and there was no road left for us to follow, and they had evidently tried to follow our former tracks. Having no trail to follow we passed on as best we could and came to a wide piece of land on which were growing a great many cabbage trees. The soil was of the finest dust with no grit in it, and not long before a light shower had fallen, making it very soft and hard to get along in with the moccasins. The women had to stop to rest frequently, so our progress was very slow. Rogers and I had feet about as hard as those of the oxen, so we removed our moccasins and went barefoot, finding we could get along much easier in that way, but the others had such tender feet they could not endure the rough contact with the brush and mud. Only a few miles had been made before the women were so completely tired out that we had to stop and eat our little bit of dried meat and wait till morning. The little mule now carried all our stock of food, and the precious burden lightened every day. This delay was not expected, but we had to endure it and bear it patiently, for there was a limit to strength of the feeble ones of our party. We had therefore to make another barren camp. Relief seemed so near at hand we kept good courage and talked freely of the happy ending which would soon come. If we had any way to set a good table we would feast and be merry like the prodigal son, but at any rate we shall be safe if we can reach the fertile shore. When the sun went down we tied the mule and oxen to cabbage trees, and shortly after dusk lay down ourselves, for we had enjoyed a good fire made of the trunks of cabbage trees, the first really comfortable one in a long time. The air was cooler here, for we were on higher ground, and there was some snow on the range of mountains before us, which sent these cool breezes down to us, a change of climate quite pleasing. For breakfast in the morning we had only dried meat roasted before the fire, without water, and when we started each one put a piece in his or her pocket to chew on during the day as we walked along. As we went ahead the ground grew dryer and the walking much improved. The morning overhead was perfectly lovely, as away east, across the desert the sun early showed his face to us. Not a cloud anywhere, not even over the tops of the high peaks where great white masses sometimes cluster but dissolve as soon as they float away, and there was not wind enough to be perceptible. We remarked the same lack of animal life which we had noticed on our first passage over this section, seeing not a rabbit, bird, or living thing we could use for food. Bennett had the same load in his gun he put there when we left the wagons, and all the powder I had burned was that used in killing the oxen we had slain whenever it became necessary to provide for our barren kitchen. As we approached the low foot-hills the trail became better travelled and better to walk in, for the Jayhawkers who had scattered, every one for himself apparently, in crossing the plain, seemed here to have drawn together and their path was quite a beaten one. We saw from this that they followed the tracks made by Rogers and myself as we made our first trip westward in search of bread. Quite a little before the sun went out of sight in the west we reached our camping place in the lower hills at the eastern slope of a range we must soon cross. Here was some standing water in several large holes, that proved enough for our oxen, and they found some large sage brush and small bushes round about, on which they browsed and among which they found a few bunches of grass. Lying about were some old skulls of cattle which had sometime been killed, or died. These were the first signs of the sort we had seen along this route. They might have been killed by Indians who doubtless used this trail. The next day in crossing the range before us, we reached the edge of the snow, which the sun had softened, and we dare not attempt to cross. Early in the morning, when it was frozen hard the cattle could travel it very well. The snow belt was five or six miles wide, and the snow two or three feet deep. This was a very good camping place except that we had to melt snow for all our water, but this being coarse and icy it was not a great job as we found enough dry juniper trees and twigs to make a very good fire. Here we also had to kill another ox. This one in its turn was Arcane's, and left him only two, and Bennett three, but we think that if we have no accident we shall get them along with us till we can get other food, as they have very light loads to pack. When the ox is killed and the meat prepared the mule has, for a time, a larger load than all the oxen have, but seems content and nips a bite of food whenever it can see a chance anywhere along the road, giving us no more trouble than a dog. And by the way, I think I have not mentioned our faithful camp dog, a worthy member of our party who stood watch always and gave us a sure alarm if anything unusual happened anywhere about. He was perhaps only one of a hundred that tried to cross the plains and had to be abandoned when they reached the upper Platte, where the alkali dust made their feet so sore they could not travel, and as they could not be hauled on wagons they were left behind. But this dog Cuff did not propose to be left behind to starve, and crippled along after us, we doing all we could for him, and proved as tough as the best of us. Bennett and I had trained him as a hunting dog in the East, and he was very knowing and handy in every particular. We were out of this camp at daylight. Very little rest for some of us, but we must make the best of the cool morning while the snow is hard, and so move on as soon as we can see the way. As it gets lighter and the sun comes up red and hot out of the desert we have a grand view of the great spread of the country to south and of the great snow mountain to the north and east, the peak standing over the place where we left our wagons nineteen days before, on the edge of Death Valley. The glare of the snow on the sun makes us nearly blind, but we hurry on to try to cross it before it becomes so soft as to slump under our feet. It is two or three feet in the deepest places, and probably has been three times as deep when freshly fallen, but it is now solid and icy. Our rawhide moccasins protect our feet from cold, and both we and the animals got along fairly well, the oxen breaking through occasionally as the snow softened up, but generally walking on the top as we did ourselves. The snow field reached much farther down the western slope than we had hoped, much farther than on the eastern side. Before we got out of it, we saw the track of some animal which had crossed our route, but as it had been made some days before and now could be seen only as some holes in the surface, we could not determine what sort of an animal it was. A mile or two down the hill we were at last out of the snow, and a little farther on we came to the little babbling brook Rogers and I had so long painted in the most refreshing colors to the tired women, with water, wood and grass on every hand, the three greatest blessings of a camper's life. Here was where Rogers and I had cooked and eaten our meat of crow, quail and hawk, pretty hard food, but then, the blessed water! There it danced and jumped over the rocks singing the merriest song one ever heard, as it said--Drink, drink ye thirsty ones your fill--the happiest sweetest music to the poor starved, thirsty souls, wasted down almost to haggard skeletons. O! if some poet of wildest imagination could only place himself in the position of those poor tired travelers to whom water in thick muddy pools had been a blessing, who had eagerly drank the fluid even when so salt and bitter us to be repulsive, and now to see the clear, pure liquid, distilled from the crystal snow, abundant, free, filled with life and health--and write it in words--the song of that joyous brook and set it to the music that it made as it echoed in gentle waves from the rocks and lofty walls, and with the gentle accompaniment of rustling trees--a soft singing hush, telling of rest, and peace, and happiness. New life seemed to come to the dear women. "O! What a beautiful stream!" say they, and they dip in a tin cup and drink, then watch in dreaming admiration the water as it goes hurrying down; then dip and drink again, and again watch the jolly rollicking brook as if it were the most entertaining thing in the whole wide earth. "Why can't such a stream as that run out of the great Snow Mountain in the dry Death Valley?" say they--"so we could get water on the way." The men have felt as glad as any of them, but have gathered wood and made a fire, and now a camp kettle of cut up meat is boiling for our supper. It was not yet night, but we must camp in so beautiful a place as this, and though the food was poor, we were better off than we had been before. Bennett proposed that I take the mule and go back to where we saw the track of the animal in the snow and follow it in hope that we might get some game for we had an idea it might be an elk or bear or some large game, good to kill and give us better meat: So I saddled the mule and took the trail back till I came to the track, then followed it as best I could, for it was very dull and gave me no idea what it was. I traced out of the snow and then in a blind way through bushes as high as the mule's back--Chaparral we called it now--among which I made my way with difficulty. I could now see that the track was made by an ox or cow--perhaps an elk--I could not tell for sure it was so faint. This chaparral covered a large piece of table land, and I made my way through it, following the track for a mile or two, till I came to the top of a steep hill sloping down into a deep cañon and a creek, on the bank of which grew sycamore and alder trees, with large willows. I stopped here some minutes to see if I could see or hear the movement of of anything. Across the creek I could see a small piece of perhaps half an acre of natural meadow, and in it some small bunches of sycamore trees. After a little I discovered some sort of a horned animal there, and I reckoned this was good enough game for me to try and capture, so led the mule out to one side and down the hill near the creek, then tied her, and crept along the bank, about four feet high, toward the little meadow. When about right, as I thought, I climbed up behind a bunch of sycamores, and when I slowly and cautiously raised up I was within fifty yards of a cow or steer of some sort which I could dimly see. I put a ball square in its forehead and it fell without a struggle. I loaded again quick as possible, and there saw two other smaller cattle stepping very high as though terrified, but not aware of the nature or location of the danger. I gave a low whistle and one of them looked toward me long enough for me to put a ball in it. The third one was now behind a clump of sycamores, and I soon saw its face through a little opening not more than three inches wide. I made a shot, and wounded it, and then rushed up and gave it a fatal one. I examined my game and found the first one was a poor old cow, but the others were yearlings, one of them very fat and nice, and I soon had the hind quarters skinned out, and all the fat I could find, which made a big load for the mule. It was now almost dark, and the next problem was to get back to camp again. The brushy hills would be terrible to cross with a load of meat, and by the way the ground lay I concluded our camp was on this same creek farther down. The only way that seemed at all feasible was to follow the course of the stream if possible, rather than return the course over which I had come. There were so many bushes and trees along the bank that I had to take to the bed and follow in the water, and as it was rocky and rough, and so dark I could not see well how to step, I stumbled into holes and pools up to my waist, wet as a rat. Coming to a small open place I decided I had better camp for the night and not attempt further progress in the darkness, and the decision was hastened by dark clouds, which began to gather and a few sprinkles of rain began to come. There was a good patch of grass for the mule, but all was uncomfortable for me, with the prospect for a rainy night, but as wood was plenty I decided to make a fire and take the chances. I looked for matches and scratched one. No go--they were damp, and scratch as careful and quickly as I could, there was no answering spark or flame, and darkness reigned supreme. A camp without a fire in this wet place was not to be thought of, so I concluded I might as well be slowly working my way down along the stream, through thick brush and cold water, as to sit here in the cold and wait. So the little mule and I started on, wading the creek in thick darkness, getting only the most dim reflected light from the sky through now and then an opening in the trees. I did not know then how easy it was for a grizzly to capture myself, the mule and meat and have quite a variety for supper. But the grizzly stayed at home and we followed on through brambles and hard brush, through which it was almost impossible to force one's way. As it turned out, I was not in the track of the storm and did not suffer much from it. Soon the cañon grew wider, and I could make out on the right hand a piece of table land covered with brush that seemed easier to get through than the creek bed. The hill up to the table land was very steep, but not more than fifty yards high, and when the mule tried to get up she got along very well till near the top, when she slipped in the wet earth and never stopped till she reached the bottom and lay down. She was helped up to her feet again and we tried it in another place, I holding her from slipping when she stopped to rest, and at last we reached the top. The mule started on, seeming to follow a trail, but I could not see whether there was a trail or not, so thick was the darkness, but there was evidently something of the kind, for the brush was two or three feet high and very thick. After proceeding some distance the mule stopped and did not seem to wish to go any farther. I was pretty sure there was something in front of her that blocked the way, and so worked my way through the brush and carefully past her. I could partly see and partly hear something just ahead, and in a moment found it was our good faithful Cuff, and no frightful spook at all. The good fellow had discovered our approach and came out to meet us, and I am sure the mule was as glad as I was to see him. He crawled through the brush and smelled at the mule's load and then went forward in the trail, which we followed. It was a long time after midnight when we reached camp. There was a good fire burning, but all were asleep till I led the mule up to the fire and called out--"Wake Up," when they were most of them on their feet in a minute without stopping to dress, for all had slept a long time without taking off their clothes. John took charge of the mule and unloaded it, telling me to get into his warm bed. I took off my wet clothes and told him to dry them, and then got between the dry, warm blankets in greatest comfort. Daylight came very quickly, it seemed to me, and before I finally rose, the sun had been up some hours before me. Before I fell asleep I could hear the women say, as they cut off the pieces of meat to roast--"See the fat! Only see how nice it is!" Quickly roasted on the coals they ate the delicate morsels with a relish and, most of all, praised the sweet fat. "We like to have it all fat," said they, showing how their system craved the nourishment the poor starved beef could not give. No one went to bed after I came, but all sat and roasted meat and ate till they were satisfied. This sporting trip was quite different from deer hunting in Wisconsin, and nothing like looking for game in Death Valley where nothing lived. It was the hardest night's work that ever came to me in many a day, and not the wild sport I generally looked for when on the chase. I felt pretty well when I got up, and a chunk of my last night's prize which had been toasted for me was eaten with a relish, for it was the best of meat and I, of course, had a first class appetite. I had to tell them my last hunting story, and was much praised as a lucky boy. We would not be compelled to kill any more of our poor oxen in order to live. So far we had killed six of them, and there were five left. Our present situation was much appreciated, compared with that of a few days ago when we were crawling slowly over the desert, hungry, sore-footed and dry, when to lie was far easier than to take steps forward. We felt like rejoicing at our deliverance and there was no mourning now for us. The surrounding hills and higher mountains seemed more beautiful to us. They were covered with green trees and brush, not a desert place in sight. The clear little singing brook ran merrily on its way, the happiest, brightest stream in all my memory. Wild birds came near us without fear, and seemed very friendly. All was calm, and the bright sunshine exactly warm enough so that no one could complain of heat or cold. When ready to move it was announced that I had lost my saddle blanket in my adventure, so they substituted another one and I took the back track to the place where the mule slipped down the bank, and there I found it. I soon overtook them again just as they were going to camp on Mrs. Bennett's account, as she had been suddenly taken sick with severe pain and vomiting, something as Rogers and I had been after eating our first California corn meal. The rich, fat meat was too strong for her weak stomach. Arcane all along had an idea that Rogers and I meant to surprise them by leading them to believe the house we had visited was quite a distance off, and then to so manage it that it should appear upon their sight suddenly. We assured them it would take two or more camps before we could get there, and if Mrs. Bennett did not soon recover, even more than that. Our camp here was under a great live oak, the ground deep covered with dry leaves, and near by a beautiful meadow where our cattle and mule ate, drank and rested, the oxen chewing their cud with such an air of comfort as had not come to them since leaving their far-off eastern pastures. They seemed as much pleased as any one. They would lie down and rest and eat at the same time in perfectly enjoyable laziness. Here we all rested and washed such clothes as we could do without long enough to dry, and washed our faces and hands over and over again to remove the dirt which had been burned and sweated in so completely as not to come off readily. We sat on the bank of the brook with our feet dangling in the water, a most refreshing bath, and they too began to look clean again. We often saw tracks of the grizzly bear about, but in our ignorance had no fear of them, for we did not know they were a dangerous animal. An owl came and hooted in the night, but that was the only challenge any wild beast or bird gave to our peaceful and restful camp. We were out of the dreadful sands and shadows of Death Valley, its exhausting phantoms, its salty columns, bitter lakes and wild, dreary sunken desolation. If the waves of the sea could flow in and cover its barren nakedness, as we now know they might if a few sandy barriers were swept away, it would be indeed, a blessing, for in it there is naught of good, comfort or satisfaction, but ever in the minds of those who braved its heat and sands, a thought of a horrid Charnel house, a corner of the earth so dreary that it requires an exercise of strongest faith to believe that the great Creator ever smiled upon it as a portion of his work and pronounced it "Very good." We had crossed the great North American Continent, from a land of plenty, over great barren hills and plains, to another mild and beautiful region, where, though still in winter months, we were basking in the warmth and luxuriance of early summer. We thought not of the gold we had come to win. We were dead almost, and now we lived. We were parched with thirst, and now the brightest of crystal streams invited us to stoop and drink. We were starved so that we had looked at each other with maniac thoughts, and now we placed in our mouth the very fat of the land. We had seen our cattle almost perishing; seen them grow gaunt and tottering; seen them slowly plod along with hanging heads and only the supremacy of human will over animal instinct had kept them from lying down never to rise again. Now they were in pastures of sweet grass, chewing the cud of content and satisfaction. Life which had been a burden grew sweet to us, and though it may be that our words of praise to Him, whose will was to deliver us out of the jaws of death, were not set nor formal, yet His all-seeing eye saw the truth in our hearts, and saw there the fullest expression of our gratitude and thankfulness. Who shall say the thanks that arose were less acceptable, because not given on bended knees before gilded altars? Though across the desert and evidently in the long promised land our troubles and trials were not through by any means, but evidently we were out of danger. Our lives seemed to be secure, and we were soon to meet with settlers who would no doubt extend to us the hand of human sympathy. Many long miles yet remained between us and the rivers in whose sands were hidden the tiny grains of gold we came to seek. The rest in the lovely camp had answered to cause Mrs. Bennett to feel quite well again by the next morning, and we made ready to proceed. We had the trail of the Jayhawkers to follow, so the vines, brambles and tangles which had perplexed Rogers and myself in our first passage were now somewhat broken down, and we could get along very well without further clearing of the road until the hills came down so close on both sides that there was no room except in the very bed of the stream. There was no other way, so we waded among after the oxen as best we could. Sometimes the women fell down, for a rawhide moccasin soaked soft in water was not a very comfortable or convenient shoe, however it might be adapted to hot, dry sands. The creek was shaded and the water quite cool. The trail, such as it was, crossed the creek often and generally was nothing else than the stream itself. The constant wading, and wet, cold clothing caused the women to give out soon and we selected the first dry suitable place which offered food for the oxen, as a place to camp. Wood was plenty and dry, so a good fire was soon burning, and the poor women, wet to the waist and even higher, were standing before it, turning round and round to get warm and dry. Someone remarked that they resembled geese hanging before the fire to roast, as they slowly revolved, and it was all owing to their fatigue that the suggester did not receive merited punishment then and there at their hands. As they got a little dry and comfortable they remarked that even an excess of water like this was better than the desert where there was none at all, and as to their looks, there were no society people about to point their fingers at them, and when they reached a settled country they hoped to have a chance to change their clothes, and get two dresses apiece, and that these would be long enough to hide their knees which these poor tatters quite failed to do. One remarked that she was sure she had been down in the brook a dozen times and that she did not consider cold water baths so frequently repeated were good for the health. Young Charley Arcane had been getting better for some days. No medicine had been given him, and it was no doubt the change of air and water that had begun to effect a cure. Arcane had a hard time of it to keep the brush from pulling George and Melissa off of Old Crump into the water. It was indeed one of the hardest day's work of the whole journey, but no one was low spirited, and all felt very well. The camping place was in a deep cañon, surrounded by thick brush, so that no wind came in to chill us. Everybody was cook and nobody was boss. Not a cent of money among us, nor any chance to use any if we had possessed it. We had nice, sweet, fat meat, cooked rare or well done as each one preferred, and no complaints about the waiters. The conditions were so favorable, compared with the terrible Death Valley and its surroundings that every one remarked about it, and no one felt in the least like finding fault with the little inconveniences we were forced to put up with. It might cure an inveterate fault-finder to take a course of training in the desert. The next day we did not wade half as much, and after a few hours of travel we suddenly emerged from the brush into a creek bottom which was much wider, with not a tree to obstruct our way. The soil was sandy and covered more or less with sage brush, and the stream which had been strong and deep enough to make us very wet now sank entirely out of sight in the sandy bottom. The hills were thinly timbered on the left side but quite brushy on the right, and we could see the track of cattle in the sand. No signs of other animals, but some small birds came near, and meadow larks whistled their tune, quite familiar to us, but still sounding slightly different from the song of the same bird in the East. High in the air could be seen a large sailing hawk or buzzard. We stopped to rest at noon and noticed that the water ran a little in the creek bed; but, by the time we were ready to start we found none with which to fill our canteens. No doubt this water was poured into the cañon somewhere near the place where we killed the three cattle, and we had got out of it before the flood came down. It was astonishing to see how the thirsty sand drank up the quite abundant flow. The next day we came down to the point of hill that nearly crossed the valley, and we crossed the low ridge rather than make a longer trip to get around by way of the valley. As we reached the summit there appeared before us as beautiful a rural picture as one ever looked upon. A large green meadow, of a thousand acres, more or less; its southwest side bounded by low mountains, at the base of which oak trees were plenty, but no brush or undergrowth. It was like a grand old park, such as we read of in English tales. All over the meadow cattle of all sorts and sizes grazed, the "Ring-streaked and speckled" of old Jacob's breed being very prominent. Some lazily cropped the grass; some still more lazily reclined and chewed their cud; while frisky calves exercised their muscles in swift races and then secured their dinner from anxious mothers. We camped at once and took the loads from all the animals that they might feed in comfort on the sweet grass that lay before them. We tarried here perhaps two hours, till the cattle stopped eating, and amply enjoyed the scene. Never again would any one of the party go back over that dreary desert, they said, and everyone wondered why all places could not be as green and beautiful as this one. I cannot half tell how we felt and acted, nor what we said in our delight over this picture of plenty. The strong contrasts created strong impressions, and the tongues so long silent in our dry and dreary trouble were loosened to say everything the heart inspired. Think as much as you can; you cannot think it all. We felt much better after our rest, and the oxen seemed stronger and better able, as well as more willing to carry their loads, so we soon prepared to move on down the valley, toward the house we had spoken of as the goal we were to reach. It was now the 7th day of March 1850, and this date, as well as the 4th day of November 1849 will always remain an important one in memory. On the last named day we left the trail to take the unfortunate cut-off, and for four long months we had wandered and struggled in terrible hardship. Every point of that terrible journey is indelibly fixed upon my memory and though seventy-three years of age on April 6th 1893 I can locate every camp, and if strong enough could follow that weary trail from Death Valley to Los Angeles with unerring accuracy. The brushy cañon we have just described is now occupied by the Southern Pacific Railroad, and the steep and narrow ridge pierced by a tunnel, through which the trains pass. The beautiful meadow we so much admired has now upon its border a railroad station, Newhall, and at the proper season some portion of it is covered with thousands of trays of golden apricots, grown in the luxuriant orchards just beyond the hills toward the coast, and here drying in the bright summer sun. The cattle in the parti-colored coats are gone, but one who knows the ground can see our picture. Loaded up again we start down the beautiful grassy valley, the women each with a staff in hand, and everything is new and strange to us. Rogers and I know that we will soon meet people who are strangers to us; who speak a strange language of which we know nothing, and how we, without a dollar, are to proceed to get our food and things we need, are questions we cannot answer nor devise any easy way to overcome. The mines are yet five hundred miles away, and we know not of any work for us to do nearer. Our lives have been given back to us, and now comes the problem of how to sustain them manfully and independently as soon as possible. If worse comes to worst we can walk to San Francisco, probably kill enough game on the way and possibly reach the gold mines at last, but the way was not clear. We must trust much to luck and fortune and the ever faithful Providence which rarely fails those who truly try to help themselves. We began to think some very independent thoughts. We had a mule to carry our camp kettle and meat. Our cattle were now beginning to improve and would soon get fat; these could carry our blankets and odd loads, while Old Crump the christian could still carry the children; Bennett and I knew how to hunt, and had good rifles; so we could still proceed, and we determined that, come what may, _we will be victorious_. These were some of the plans we talked over at our camps and resting places, and as we walked along. If we could get the two families fixed in some way so they could do without Rogers and I, we could strike for the mines quite rapidly and no doubt soon get ourselves on good footing. We were younger than the rest and could endure more hardship. We decide to remain together till we get to Los Angeles, and then see what is best. We reached our camping place at the foot of the hill, about a hundred yards from the house we have so long striven to reach. Here we unloaded in the shade of a large willow tree, and scarcely had we removed the harness from the oxen when the good lady of the house and her little child came down to see us. She stood for a moment and looked around her and at the two small children on the blankets, and we could hear her murmur _mucha pobre_ (very poor.) She could see our ragged clothes and dirty faces and everything told her of our extreme destitution. After seeing our oxen and mule which were so poor she said to herself "_flaco, flaco_" (so thin.) She then turned to us, Rogers and I, whom she had seen before, and as her lively little youngster clung to her dress, as if in fear of such queer looking people as we were, she took an orange from her pocket and pointing to the children of our party, wanted to know if we had given them the four oranges she sent to them by us. We made signs that we had done as she requested, when she smiled and said "_Buenos Muchachos_" (good boys.) In all this talk neither could say a word the other could understand, and the conversation was carried on by signs. Arcane said to her--"Me Catholic" which she seemed partly to comprehend and seemed more friendly. About this time two men rode up and took a look at us. Arcane, who was a mason, gave the masonic sign, as he told me afterward, but neither of them recognized it. We used such words of Spanish as I had taken down in my pass book and committed to memory and by motions in addition to these made them understand something of the state of affairs and that Mr. French who had assisted us before had told us we could get some meat (_carne_) from them. These men were finely mounted, wore long leggins made of hide, dressed with the hair on, which reached to their hips, stiff hats with a broad rim, and great spurs at their heels. Each had a coil of braided rawhide rope on the pommel of the saddle, and all these arrangements together made a very dashing outfit. They seemed to understand what we had said to them, for they rode off with a rush and came back in a short time, leading a fine, fat two-year-old heifer. When near our camp the rider who was behind threw his _riata_ and caught both hind feet of the animal when by a sudden movement of the horses the heifer was thrown. One of them dismounted, and at the command the horse backed up and kept the rope tight while the man went up to the prostrate beast and cut its throat. As soon as it had ceased struggling, they loosened their ropes and coiled them up: they came to us and pointed to the dead heifer in a way which said--"Help yourselves." We were much gratified at the generosity of the people, and at once dressed the animal as it lay, cutting off some good fat pieces which we roasted over the fire and ate with a relish. It seemed as if meat never tasted so good as that did sweet, fragrant, and juicy. If some French cook could only cook a steak that would smell and taste to his customers as that meal tasted to us, his art would be perfect. We separated a hind quarter and hung it to a tree, and when the lady came back we told her that the piece we had selected was enough for our present use, so she caused the remainder with the hide to be taken to the house. Toward night they drove up a lot of cows and calves and other cattle into their cattle yard or corral, as it is called all over California, a stockade of strong oak posts set deep in the ground and close together, enclosing a space of about half an acre. The horsemen now rode in and began to catch the calves with their ropes. It seemed as if they were able to throw a rope over a calf's head or around either leg they desired, with better aim, and at as great a distance as one could shoot a Colt's revolver, and we saw at once that a good raw-hide rope, in the hands of an experienced man and well-trained horse, was a weapon in many respects superior to firearms of any kind. A man near the gate loosened the ropes and pushed the calves into a separate corral till they had as many as they desired. Rogers watched the circus till it was over and then returned to camp, meeting on the way Bennett and Arcane, with their wives and children, carrying some blankets, for the good lady had invited them to come up to the house and sleep. They said we could go down and keep camp if old dog Cuff was willing, for they had left him guarding the property. He was pleased enough to have us come and keep him company, and we slept nicely, disturbed only a little by the barking of the house dogs and the hooting of an owl that came to visit our tree. The people came back to camp in the morning and had their experience to relate. Their hosts first baked some kind of flapjacks and divided them among their guests; then gave them beans seasoned hot with pepper: also great pieces of squash cooked before the fire, which they said was delicious and sweet--more than good. Then came a dish of dried meat pounded fine, mixed with green peppers and well fried in beef tallow. This seemed to be the favorite dish of the proprietors, but was a little too hot for our people. They called it _chili cum carne_--meat with pepper--and we soon found this to be one of the best dishes cooked by the Californians. The children were carefully waited on and given special attention to by these good people, and it was nearly ten o'clock before the feast was over: then the household had evening worship by meeting in silence, except a few set words repeated by some in turn, the ceremony lasting half an hour or more. Then they came and wished them _buenos noches_ in the most polite manner and left them to arrange their blankets on the floor and go to sleep. The unaccustomed shelter of a roof and the restless worrying of the children, who required much attention, for the change of diet had about the same effect on them as on Rogers and myself when we first partook of the California food, gave them little sleep, but still they rested and were truly grateful for the most perfect hospitality of these kind hearted people. In the morning the two horsemen and two Indians went to the corral, when the riders would catch a cow with their ropes and draw her head up to a post, binding it fast, while an Indian took a short piece of rope and closely tied the hind legs together above the gambrel joint, making the tail fast also. They had a large bucket and several gourds. The Indians then milked the cows they had made fast, getting from a pint to two quarts from each one, milking into a gourd and pouring into the bucket till they had all they desired. The calves were separated the night before so they could secure some milk. Cows were not trained to stand and be milked as they were at home. Setting down the bucket of milk before us, with some small gourds for dippers, we were invited to drink all we wished. This was a regular banquet to us, for our famished condition and good appetites made food relish wonderfully. When we made a sign of wishing to pay them for their great kindness they shook their heads and utterly refused. It was genuine sympathy and hospitality on their part, and none of us ever forgot it; the sight of a native Californian has always brought out thoughts of these good people, and respect and thankfulness to the race. This rancho, at which we were so kindly entertained was called San Francisquito, or Little San Francisco Rancho. This morning Mr. Arcane, with our assistance, made an arrangement with these people to give them his two oxen; and they were to take him and his wife and child, to the sea-shore, at a place called San Pedro, from which place he hoped, in some way, to get passage to San Francisco in a sailing vessel. He had no money, and no property to sell, except perhaps his spy-glass, worth about ten dollars. With this poor prospect before him he started for the sea. He bade Bennett's folks good-bye, then came to me and put a light gold ring on my finger, saying that it and his interest in the little mule were mine. Then he gave his silver watch to Rogers and said it was all he had to give him, but if he had a million dollars, he would divide, and still think it a small compensation for the faithful services we had rendered him. "I can never repay you," said he, "for I owe you a debt that is beyond compensation. You have saved our lives, and have done it when you knew you could get nothing for it. I hope we will meet again, and when we do you will be welcome. If you hear of me anywhere, come and see me, for I want to tell my friends who Manly and Rogers are, and how you helped us. Good Bye!" There were tears in his eyes, voice full of emotion, and the firm clasp of his hand told how earnest he was, and that he felt more than he could speak. He helped Mrs. Arcane on her horse, then gave Charlie to her, and, amid waving hands and many _adios_ from our new-found friends, with repeated "good byes" from the old ones, they rode away. Mrs. Arcane could hardly speak when she bade us farewell, she was so much affected. They had about sixty miles to ride to reach the sea, and as she rode on a man's saddle, and was unused to riding, I knew she would be sadly wearied before she reached the coast. Our little train now seemed much smaller. Three oxen and a mule were all our animals, and the adults must still walk, as they had done on our desert route. But we were comparatively happy, for we had plenty of good meat to eat, plenty of sweet water to drink, and our animals were contented and improving every day; grass and water seemed plenty everywhere. We put our luggage on the oxen and the mule, loaded the children on Old Crump as we had done before, and were ready to move again. Our good friends stood around and smiled good-naturedly at our queer arrangements, and we, not knowing how to say what our hearts would prompt us to, shook their hands and said good bye in answer to their "_adios amigos_" as we moved away, waving hands to each other. The men then detained me a little while to ask me more about the road we had come over, how far it was, and how bad the Indians were, and other particulars. I told him by signs that we had been twenty-two days on the road, and that the _Indianos_, as they called them, had not troubled us, but that there was very little grass or water in all that land. He made a sort of map on the ground and made me understand he would like to go back and try to bring out the wagons we had left behind, and he wanted me to go back with him and help him. I explained to him by the map he had made, and one which I made myself, that I considered it impossible to bring them over. He seemed much disappointed, and with a shrug of his shoulders said "_mucho malo_" (very bad) and seemed to abandon the idea of getting a Yankee wagon. They very much admired an American wagon, for their own vehicles were rude affairs, as I shall bye-and-bye describe. We bade each other many _adios_, and I went on my way, soon catching up with the little party. We had been informed that it was ten leagues, or thirty miles to Los Angeles, whither we were now headed. We had now been a whole year on the road between Wisconsin and California, much of the time with the ground for a bed, and though our meals had been sometimes scanty and long between, very few of us had missed one on account of sickness. Some, less strong than we, had lain down to perish, and had been left behind, without coffin or grave; but we were here, and so far had found food to nourish us in some degree with prospects now of game in the future if nothing better offered. We still talked of going to the gold mines on foot, for with good food and rest our courage had returned, and we wanted to succeed. Our camp this night was in a nice watering place, where dry oak wood was plenty and grass abundant. It was at the foot of the San Fernando Mountain, not rocky, as we had found our road some time before, but smooth and covered with grass. It was rather steep to climb, but an infant compared with the great mountains so rough and barren, we had climbed on our way from Death Valley. Our present condition and state of mind was an anomalous one. We were happy, encouraged, grateful and quite contented in the plenty which surrounded us, and still there was a sort of puzzling uncertainty as to our future, the way to which seemed very obscure. In the past we had pushed on our very best and a kind Providence had kept us. This we did now, but still revolved the best plans and the most fortunate possibilities in our minds. We talked of the time when we should be able to show hospitality to our friends, and to strangers who might need our open hand as we had needed the favors which strangers had shown us in the last few days. We ate our supper of good meat, with a dessert of good beans our kind friends had given us, and enjoyed it greatly. As we sat in silence a flock of the prettiest, most graceful birds came marching along, and halted as if to get a better view of our party. We admired them so much that we made not a move, but waited, and they fearlessly walked on again. We could see that there were two which were larger than the rest, and from twelve to twenty smaller ones. The little top-knot on the head and their symmetrical forms made them specially attractive, and Mrs. Bennett and the children were much pleased. The beauty of the California quail is especially striking to one who sees them for the first time. In the morning we began to climb the hill, getting along very well indeed, for our raw-hide moccasins were now dry and hard and fitted the foot perfectly. We did not try to make great speed, but kept steadily on, and as we were used to climbing, we reached the summit easily. From this elevation we could get a fine view of the big grassy plain that seemed to extend as far as the eye could reach and, not far from us, the buildings and gardens of the San Fernando Mission. If we could shut out the mountains the landscape would remind us of a great Western prairie. We never could get over comparing this country with the desolate Death Valley, for it seemed as if such strange and striking opposites could hardly exist. We rested here a little while and then wound our way down the hill to the level land. A few miles brought us to the mission houses and the church of San Fernando. There was not much life about them, in fact they seemed comparatively deserted, for we saw only one man and a few Indians. The man brought some oranges and gave the children one each. After a little rest we moved on over our road which was now quite smooth and gently descending. Night overtook us in a place where there was no water, but we camped and suffered no inconvenience. A stream was passed next day, and a house near by unoccupied. The road now began to enter gently rolling hills covered with big grass and clover, which indicated rich soil, and we never get tired of talking about it. At the top of these hills we had another beautiful view as far south and west as the eye could reach. Small objects, probably horses and cattle, were scattered about the plain, grazing in the midst of plenty. Our own animals were given frequent opportunities to eat, and again and again we rejoiced over the beauty. Of course it was not such a surprise and wonder as it was when such a view first burst upon our sight, but it pleased and delighted us ever. On the east was a snow-capped peak, and here we were in the midst of green fields of grass and wild flowers, in the softest climate of an early spring. These strong contrasts beat anything we had ever seen. Perhaps the contrast between the great snow mountain and the hot Death Valley was greater in point of temperature, but there the heat brought only barrenness, and of the two the snow seemed the more cheerful. Here the vegetation of all sorts was in full balance with the balmy air, and in comparison the snow seemed a strange neighbor. It was quite a contrast to our cold, windy March in Wisconsin, and we wonder if it is always summer here. We were satisfied that even if we could get no further we could live in such a land as this. The broad prairie doubtless belonged to the United States, and we could have our share and own a little piece of it on very easy terms, and raise our own cattle and corn. If the people were all as kind as those we had met we were sure at least of neighborly treatment. I have endeavored to write this just as it seemed to us then and not clothe the impressions with the cover of later experience. The impressions we then daily received and the sights we saw were stranger than the wildest fiction, and if it so strikes you, my friendly reader, do not wonder. As we came over the hills we could see a village near the southern base and it seemed quite near us. It was a new and strange sight to us as we approached. The houses were only one story high and seemed built of mud of a gray color, the roofs flat, and the streets almost deserted. Occasionally a man could be seen, sometimes a dog, and now and then an Indian, sitting with his back to the house. The whole view indicated a thinly populated place, and the entire absence of wagons or animals was a rather strange circumstance to us. It occurred to us at first that if all the emigrants were gone our reception might be a cool one in this city of mud. One thing was in its favor and that was its buildings were about fire proof for they had earthen floors and flat roofs. We rested half an hour or so just outside, and then ventured down the hill into the street. We met an American almost the first man, and when we asked about a suitable camping place, he pointed out the way and we marched on. Our strange appearance attracted the attention of the children and they kept coming out of the houses to see the curious little train with Old Crump carrying the children and our poor selves following along, dirty and ragged. Mrs. Bennett's dress hardly reached below her knees, and although her skirts were fringed about the bottom it was of a kind that had not been adopted as yet in general circle of either Spanish-American or good United States society. The shortness of the dress made the curious raw-hide moccasins only the more prominent, and the whole make-up of the party was a curious sight. We went down the hill a little further to the lower bottom to camp, while the barefooted, bareheaded urchins followed after to get a further look at the strangers. Before we selected a suitable place, we saw two tents and some wagons which looked like those of overland travelers, and we went toward them. When within fifty yards two men suddenly came to their feet and looked at our little party approaching as if in wonder, but at twenty steps they recognized Bennett and came rushing forward. "My God! It's Bennett" said they, and they clasped hands in silence while one greeted Mrs. Bennett warmly. The meeting was so unexpected they shed tears and quietly led the way back to camp. This was the camp of R.G. Moody and H.C. Skinner, with their families. They had traveled together on the Platte and became well acquainted, the warmest of friends, and knowing that Bennett had taken the cut off, they more than suspected he and his party had been lost, as no sight of them had come to their eyes. They had been waiting here six weeks in order to get some reliable news, and now Mr. Bennet answered for himself. Rogers and I, belonging to another party, were of course strangers. Leaving them to compare notes, Rogers and I took charge of Old Crump, the oxen, and the mule, unpacked them, and arranged camp under a monstrous willow tree. Bennett and his wife were taken into Mr. Moody's tent, and an hour or so later when Mrs. Bennett appeared again, she had her face washed clean, her hair combed, and a new clean dress. It was the first time we had found soap, and the improvement in her looks and feelings was surprising. Bennett looked considerably cleaned up too, and appeared bright and fresh. The children had also been taken in hand and appeared in new clothes selected from the wardrobe of the other children, and the old dirty clothes were put in process of washing as soon as possible. Supper came, and it was so inviting. There was real bread and it looked so nice we smiled when it was offered to us. Mrs. Bennett broke pieces for the children and cautioned them not to eat too much. It did seem so good to be among friends we could talk with and be understood. After supper was over and the things cleared away we all sat down in a circle and Bennett told the story of where he had been these many days on the cut off that was to shorten the trail. Mr. Moody said he had about given the party up and intended to start up the coast to-morrow. The story was so long that they talked till they were sleepy and then began again after breakfast, keeping it up till they had a good outline of all our travels and tribulations. This Mr. R.G. Moody, his wife and daughter, Mrs. Quinby, and son Charles, all lived in San Jose and are now dead. H.C. Skinner was a brother-in-law of Moody and also lived a long time in San Jose, but himself, son and one daughter, are now dead. Rogers and I now took the pack-saddle we had borrowed of Mr. French to use on our trip to Death Valley and return, and carried it to the saloon on the east side of the plaza, where we were to place it if we got back safely, and delivered it to the man in charge, with many thanks to Mr. French for his favors to us, and sent him word that we would always remember him and be ready to do him a similar or equal favor if ever we were able. We considered him a good benevolent man, and such he proved to be when he offered us fat oxen, good beans, and any other thing we needed. He told the people in the house who we were, which no doubt influenced them kindly in our favor when we arrived. At the saloon there was a large room with tables in it and gambling going on actively. Money changed hands very rapidly, drinks at the bar were frequent, and the whole affair moved forward with the same regularity as any mercantile business. The door stood wide open and any one could come and go at his pleasure. Quite a number of black-eyed, fair looking women circulated among the crowd, and this, to us, seemed quite out of place, for we had never seen women in saloons before. We watched the game awhile to see some losing and some gaining, the result being quite exciting; but as neither of us had any money, we could not have joined in the game had we been so disposed; so we looked on awhile and then took a seat on the ground outside of the house. Here we talked over our chances of getting to the mines. All the clothes we had were on our backs and feet and those were the poorest of the poor. We had no money. I had the little black-eyed mule, and Rogers had the watch Arcane had given him. Mr. Moody had said it was 500 miles to San Francisco, and 150 miles further to the mines, so that after the hard travel of a year we were still a long way off from the place we started for. We could not see any way to make a living here. There was no land cultivated, not a fence, nothing to require labor of any kind. The valley was rich enough and produced great crops of grass, and the cattle and horses we had seen grazing seemed to be about all the use they put it to. It looked as if the people must live principally on meat. I thought if we could manage to get a little provision together, such as flour and beans, that I could pack there on the mule, and I was pretty sure I could find game that would be better meat than we had lived on during the last two months on the desert. We looked around to see if we could find something to do to earn a little for a start, but were not successful. In our walk about this city of mud we saw many things that seemed strange to us. There were more women than men, and more children than grown-up people, while the dogs were plenty. At the edge of the town, near the river were some grape vines fenced in with living willows, interlaced in some places with dry vines. The Indians moved very moderately around and no doubt had plenty of beef to eat, with very few wants to provide for. We noticed some few people paying for small things at the stores with small money. The women all dressed much alike. The dress was of some cheap material, sandals on feet, and a kind of long shawl worn over the head and thrown over the shoulder. There seemed to be neither hoops nor corsets in their fashions. The men wore trousers of white cotton or linen, with a calico shirt, sandals, and a broad rimmed snuff colored hat. The Indians and their wives went bareheaded. Near the end of the street we came to a boarding house and went in and sat down in the empty room. Soon a man came in, better dressed than ourselves, and much to our surprise it was one of the old Death Valley travelers, the Rev. J.W. Brier whom I last saw in his lone camp in the desert, discoursing to his young sons on the benefits of an early education. I know the situation struck me very strangely, with death staring them in the face and he preaching! We had a long talk about the hard journey we had each experienced. As his party had not waited they had come through ahead of us. He said himself and Mr. Granger had started a boarding house when they arrived, and had been doing a good business. He said that as long as the emigrants continued to come he could get along very well. We asked him if there was any chance for us to work and get money to get some provisions to help us on the way to the mines. He said he could give work to one of us hauling water for the house with oxen and cart, and the one who could manage oxen was the man. I was an ox driver and so told him I would take his team and cart and set out with the work. He said he could pay fifty dollars a month, and I accepted the offer quickly as I saw it was a good chance to build up my exhausted strength and flesh. I turned the little mule out in the hills near by, and began my work. It was not hard, for the boarders were thinning out. The natives did not patronize this hotel very much, but grub disappeared pretty fast at my corner of the table, for my appetite began to be ravenous. There was not much variety to the food and very few luxuries or delicacies, which were hard to obtain on such a bare market, but all seemed satisfied with the food, and to me it tasted extra good. Rogers went back to the old camp and helped them there, and I often went over after dark, when my work was done. Moody and Skinner had been active in trying to get Mr. Bennett ready to go up the coast with them. Bennett had sold his repeating rifle and with the proceeds and the help of his friends had got another ox, making two yoke for him. They fixed up a wagon for him, and yokes enough could be found where people had traded off their oxen for horses. Provisions enough had been gathered by Moody and Skinner for them all, and Rogers would go along with the party to help them with the teams. I was left alone after they started, and it was my idea to quit when I had worked a month, and if my mule staid with me, to start for the mines even if I went alone. The majority of the male inhabitants of this town had gone to the mines, and this accounted for the unusual proportion of women. We learned that they would return in November, and then the gambling houses would start up in full blast, for these native Californians seemed to have a great natural desire to indulge in games of chance, and while playing their favorite game of monte would lay down their last reale (12-1/2 cents) in the hope of winning the money in sight before them on the table. As the boarding house business got dull I was taken over to a vineyard and set to work, in place of hauling water. The entire patch was as green as a meadow with weeds, and I was expected to clean them out. I inquired of Brier how he came to get hold of this nice property, and he said that during the war the soldiers had taken possession of this piece of ground, and had their camp here, so he considered it was government land, and therefore had squatted on it and was going to hold it, and pay for it as regular government land, and that he already considered it his own, for said he, "I am an American, and this is a part of the public domain." "All right," said I, "I will kill weeds for you, if you wish, when I have time to spare, and you don't want the oxen worked at any other work ". I could see every day that I was improving in health and weight and would soon become myself again, able to take the road to the mines. When about two weeks of my time had expired two oldish men came to the house to stop for a few days and reported themselves as from Sacramento, buying up some horses for that market. Thus far they had purchased only six or eight, as they had found the price too high to buy and then drive so far to a market to sell again. They had about decided to go back with what they had and undertake some other kind of business. I thought this would be a pretty good chance for me to go, as I would have company, and so went to Brier and Granger and told them what I would like to do, and that with their permission I would quit and go on with them. They readily consented, for their money was coming in rather slow, and they paid me twenty five dollars for half a month's work. This made me feel pretty rich and I thought this would give me food enough to reach the mines. Having two or three days to get ready in, I began doing the best I could. I found an old saddle tree which had been thrown away, and managed to fix it up so I could use it. I also found an old gun some traveler had left, and with a little work I fitted the breech of that to my own gun which was broken, and had been roughly tied together with strips of raw-hide. I now had a good sound gun if it was not very handsome. I bought a Spanish blanket, not so wide as ours, but coarse and strong, and having a hole in the center through which to put the head and wear it as a garment in case of storm, or at night. I went to a native store and bought a supply of carné seca (dried beef) and some crackers, put some salt in my pocket and was now provisioned for another trip. I found my mule in the hills back of town, not far from where I left her, and the rest and good feed had made her look better and feel better, as well as myself. The drovers had found two other men who wanted to go with them and help drive the horses for their board. I put my blanket on under the saddle, packed my little sack of meat and crackers on behind, and when I was in the saddle with my gun before me I considered I was pretty well fixed and able to make my way against almost anything. I said to myself that the only way now to keep me from getting to the gold mines was to kill me. I felt that there was not a mountain so high I could not climb, and no desert so wide and dry that I could not cross it. I had walked and starved and choked and lived through it, and now I felt so strong and brave I could do it again--any way to reach the gold mines and get some of the "dust." I had not much idea how the gold from the mines looked. Everybody called it gold dust, and that conveyed an idea to me that it was fine as flour, but how to catch it I did not know. I knew other people found a way to get it, and I knew I could learn if any body could. It was a great longing that came to me to see some of the yellow dust in its native state, before it had been through the mint. At the last meal I took at the house there were only a few at the table. Among them was a well dressed Californian who evidently did not greatly fancy American cooking, but got along very well till Mrs. Brier brought around the dessert, a sort of duff. This the Californian tasted a few times and then laid down his spoon saying it was no bueno, and some other words I did not then understand, but afterward learned that they meant "too much grease." The fellow left the table not well pleased with what we generally consider the best end of a Yankee dinner, the last plate. While here I had slept in a small store room, where I made my pallet out of old rags and blankets. While I was looking round for material to make my bed I came across a bag partly full of sugar, brought from Chili. It was in very coarse crystals, some as large as corn. There were some other treasures end luxuries there that perhaps I was expected guard. I however had a sweet tooth and a handful or so of the sweet crystals found their way into my pocket. I bade Mr. Brier and the rest good bye and rode away to join my company. CHAPTER XII. Leaving the little party whose wanderings we have followed so closely, safely arrived in Los Angeles, their further history in California will be taken up later on, and this narrative will go back to points when the original party was broken up and trace the little bands in their varied experience. It will be remembered that the author and his friends, after a perilous voyage down Green River, halted at the camp of the Indian chief, Walker, and there separated, the Author and four companions striking for Salt Lake, while McMahon and Field remained behind, fully determined to go on down the river. The story of these two men is told by McMahon in the following interesting letter. * * * * * Dear Manley:-- Yours requesting me to give you a synopsis of the history of incidents, experience, and observations of our mutual friend, Richard Field and myself, from the time you, John Rogers, Alfred Walton, and the Hazelrig brothers left us at the camp of the generous old chief Walker on the west bank of the river near the mouth of the "great seven days cañon" is at hand. You no doubt distinctly, and with pleasure, remember that unbroken friendship which existed among us up to the time of our separation and that we parted warm and tried friends. Well, after you and your companions had left us we set to work to prepare the canvas for the continuation of the voyage down the river. We drilled holes through the sides of the "Pilot"--you, I have no doubt remember which that was, yours and mine, in which we took so many fearful risks, and "No. 2," so that we might in case of necessity lash the two together. After a day or two Field lost courage and finally determined to go no further down the river. Walker in the meantime had repeated his friendly warnings appertaining to the great danger in going further down the river. You will remember what he had told us about it before you left us. You know that I was the biggest coward of the whole seven; but I assumed courage and told Field that I would go down the river alone; and, for a time, I thought I would do so; but after some reflection I concluded that, perhaps, discretion was the better part of valor, and reluctantly gave it up. We now decided to follow you, or to take some other unknown route and try to make our escape out of this most perilous condition. We then set about, as you had done, to trade with Walker for a pony or two, and after much dickering Field succeeded in getting the, afterwards famous, big, old, sore-backed mule. You may not remember him, but I do; and, notwithstanding his sore back, he made pretty good beef. I, with pins, needles, thread, a pocket-knife, a handkerchief, etc., succeeded in getting a very nice, round, three-year-old, iron-gray pony. After making pack-saddles, and getting almost ready to start, we were, through Walker's kindness and persuasiveness, overcome, and consented to go with him, feeling confident that we would not starve to death while with him. We did not now have Manley with his long experience, and his old rusty, but always trusty, rifle as a sure defence against possible hunger and starvation. The old chief, and, in fact, the whole tribe, seemed pleased when we consented to go with them. Preparations were now made, and all except the horses and four head of cattle, was conveyed across the river in the two canoes which were lashed together, while the horses and cattle were forced to swim to the other side where we camped for the night. Next morning the clever old chief had two good horses fitted up in good style for Field and I, which we rode all of the nine days that we remained with the band, while our own run with the herd. Our baggage was carried on some of the chief's pack-horses. We were, in fact, his honored guests, as will hereafter appear. All were soon mounted and off to the buffalo fields, Walker having informed us that he intended going up into the buffalo country on the head-waters of Grand River where he would remain until snow fell, when he would go to Salt Lake City, or vicinity. Leaving the river, we set out across a not entirely barren plain, for there was much sage-brush, and several varieties of cactus. Towards evening we came close up to the foot of a range of rugged, rocky mountains, where we found water and camped for the night. Field and I usually pitched our little muslin tent somewhere near our friends where we could sleep without fear of man or beast, for I think some one of the reds was always on guard. All went well for four or five days, when we all got entirely out of food except a few ounces of flour which we had hidden away for a possible emergency. During the following two days and nights all were entirely without food except the two little children, whom you no doubt remember. We gave their mother a little flour now and then which she mixed with a little milk which one of the cows afforded, for the little ones. These Indians did not seem to suffer for want of food; even when we were starving, they appeared happy and contented; and one young fellow would sing all day long while we were starving. Daring the second day of starvation and hard traveling over hot and barren deserts, the Indians killed a wild-cat and two small rabbits. We got nothing. You will remember that all the arms of the seven men were lost in the river when the canoes were sunk, except your rifle and my double barreled shot-gun and revolver, so that Field and I had only the one gun, and neither of us knew anything about hunting. When we camped, one of the boys brought over to our tent a quarter of the cat, which was more than a fair share of the whole supply, as twenty-two of them had only the two little rabbits and three quarters of the unfortunate cat. We boiled and boiled and boiled that cat's hind leg, but never got it done. We waited as long as we possibly could, gave up in despair and put a little flour into the broth to thicken it, and drank it. It was not good, but much better the meat of the cat. That cat and the rabbits were all the twenty-four of us had to eat, after fasting two days, until late in the evening of the next day. My people were religious, and when I was young the family was wont to observe fast days, but never did we have any such long fasts as these were. In the afternoon of the next day the old chief left the caravan and went on ahead of the train toward a chain of mountains, first giving some directions to the band, and taking one son with him. When we arrived in a small cañon in the edge of the mountains we found them with a fine mountain sheep which they had killed and brought down to the dim, little-used trail where we camped; and after we had set up our little tent as usual, a short distance away from our friends, one of the young men brought to us about one fourth of the sheep, while the twenty-two Indians had the rest. You know that a good-sized mountain sheep would make a fair supper for twenty-four people, even though they had been starving three or four days; but this was a small one, and I think Field and I ate about half of the quarter. The twenty-two Indians soon devoured the three-fourths and all of the soft viscera, including the stomach and intestines, after which some of the boys came to our tent while we were stuffing our, what had been for several days empty, stomachs. We offered them part of our bounteous supply of mutton, having much more than we could eat; but no, they would not touch it until we were filled full, when they accepted what was left, and soon stowed it away. All were now pretty well filled up once more. The next day was spent without food, traveling over rough mountains. Within a pass, late in the afternoon, we crossed the fresh trail of some other band of roving red-skins, and Walker suspected who they were, and went into camp early. The Indians had killed nothing that day, but I had killed a small rabbit which, unfortunately for it, came in my way during the day. This we offered to the women for themselves and the little children; but they positively refused to accept it, insisting that they did not want it or need it, and that the small supply of milk from the cow was quite sufficient for the little ones, and the others spurned the offer to divide so little a thing, so we had it all to ourselves. It appeared that these people were accustomed to go for long periods without food, and with little apparent inconvenience; but Field and I began to feel as I suppose Dr. Tanner felt after a few days' fasting, and began to wish that the old chief would get hungry and kill one of his large, fat steers, but he still held them in reserve. Early the next morning, now nine days from the time we had left the river, the old chief took two of the young men and left camp, as we afterwards learned, to go in search of the Indians whose trail we had crossed the evening before. Some time in the early part of the night, one of the young men returned and informed us that they had found the wandering tribe, and that we were to go back to their trail and follow it to their camp up in a Southeast direction, Walker and one of the young men having remained with their new-found friends. Field and I both felt greatly disappointed in not being able to proceed north; and in the meantime we had become very tired of the society of these people, notwithstanding the fact that they were exceedingly clever; but we were almost starved to death, and had about come to the conclusion that we would be obliged to make some change. We were still on the east side of, and considerable distance from the river, and probably not more than one hundred, or one hundred and twenty miles from the place where we parted from you. The chief had sent particular instructions for us to go with the tribe; but, after canvassing the whole situation, we decided to part company with our good friends, proceed northward, and try to reach Fort Bridger or some other settlement in the northwest, and so informed them, and requested the boys to bring in our mule and horse, which they did after failing to induce us to go with them. Bright and early the next morning, they all, even the polygamous wives and little children, in apparent sorrow, bade us good-bye, and were off, leaving us alone with our two poor, lonely, four-footed companions, who were very anxious to follow the band of horses. After the rather melancholy parting we arranged our packs, and about ten o'clock started out on what then seemed, and afterwards proved, to be a perilous voyage through deserts, and over rough mountains. To avoid a high range of mountains, our course was for a time northeast but, after passing that range we bore to the northwest. The days were quite warm, but the nights were cold. During the first day we killed and ate one small rabbit, and this, with a few seed buds gathered from wild rose bushes, constituted two days' rations. On the third we did not have even the rabbit or rose seed buds, but late in the afternoon we found some small red berries, similar in appearance to what I, in my childhood, knew and relished as Solomon's seal berries. I being a natural coward, and fearing that they might poison me, did not eat any of them, but generously allowed my good friend to eat them all. We had now been almost entirely without water for two days and nights. When night came on we picketed our animals in a grass plot and lay down near them to see that they did not get tangled in the ropes and hurt, or that some red skin, not having the fear of the Lord in his heart, did not come and take them away. About ten o'clock my companion began to complain of pain in his stomach and bowels, and was soon vomiting at a fearful rate; so violently, indeed, that I was apprehensive that he might die. If I had had an emetic I would have given it to him to have assisted nature in pumping those devilish little red berries out of him, for I felt quite sure that they were the cause of his illness. Perhaps it was fortunate that there was no medecine at hand, for if there had been I might have killed him with it. He suffered most intensely, and soon became very thirsty, and, there being no water within many miles of us, he appealed to me to bleed one of the animals and let him drink the blood; I refused: he insisted; I again refused: he commanded; I still refused. He swore, and called me almost everything except a good Christian; he even expressed the wish that I, his friend, might be sent to a certain place where the heat is most intense, and the fire is never quenched. At about eleven o'clock, when his pains were most severe, a dark cloud, the first we had seen for months, came over us, and a little rain began to fall, when I at once opened our little camp kettle and turned the lid upside down, and into both kettle and lid there fell perhaps two or three teaspoonfuls of pure water, every drop of which I gave to the sufferer, whereupon he expressed thanks for another God-send, and at once apologized for bestowing unmerited abuse on me. He afterwards often asserted that he believed that the little rain-cloud was sent by God for his special benefit, and that the water caught from that cloud was the sweetest and best that he had ever tasted. I did not doubt the latter half of the above statement, but I did have some doubt about the truth of the former half when I called to mind the scene which followed my refusal to bleed the horse. Whether the small quantity of water gave him much relief, or not, I do not know, but I do know that he soon became better and slept some while I watched. He was quite feeble next morning when I put him on the old sore-backed mule, where he rode most of the time for the next four days, while the little horse carried our baggage, and I led the way as usual, on foot. For four days from the time Field ate the little red berries we did not have a drop of water except the two or three teaspoonfuls which the stingy cloud left to save the life of the "berry-eater." We were still on the desert, or in the mountains east of the river, traveling hard during the day, and burning up with fever in the night. There was plenty of drying grass in places, but our poor animals could not eat it any longer, for they, too, were burning up for want of water. Oh, how much I did wish that we had some camels from Arabia, which could have gone so much longer without water, and traveled so much faster. On the morning of the third day of starvation, we determined to change our course, and, if possible, reach the river once more. Bearing to the left over a high, barren range of rocky mountains, and down into a plain of sand, sage brush, and cactus. During the afternoon I shot a small rabbit, not much larger than a rat, which we carried until night, then broiled and tried to eat it, not because our appetites craved it, but hoping that it might strengthen and sustain us, at least a little while longer. We were, however, so nearly burned up that there was not a sufficient flow of saliva to moisten the little bits of broiled meat in the mouth. Late that afternoon we fancied that our fast failing brute companions scented water, or that they instinctively knew that it was not far away. They would raise their heads, and extend their noses as if smelling, while their physical force and energy seemed renewed, and they certainly traveled faster. That night we ate the little, as before stated, more as a duty than as a pleasure. There was some green grass round about where we camped, or, more properly speaking, where we lay, for we did not erect our little tent,--but the poor starving animals did not eat a bite of it, but stood over us as if in sympathy with us in our deplorable condition. We rose before the sun, being somewhat rested and refreshed, for the night had been cool, and took up our line of march, I, as usual, in the lead, then came the old mule guided by its precious owner, and lastly, the faithful little horse with the pack on his still quite round back;--on over the still dry and barren plain we went, without a Moses, cloud, or pillar of fire to lead us. About ten o'clock, through the hot glimmer of the down-pouring rays of the sun, we saw what appeared, and afterwards proved, to be a clump of cottonwood trees. Our hopes and courage were renewed, for we well knew the cottonwood usually grows near flowing water. There was no beaten pathway, no signs of animal life, no quails, no manna in that desert; but on we went, almost without a halt, and at one o'clock reached the cottonwood grove, immediately on the bank of the great river down which we had floated in our canoes more than a month before. On reaching the bank of the river we recognized objects which we had seen while on our way down. We remembered that both men and horses might be water-foundered, and that self-preservation is said to be the first law of nature; but it was difficult to prevent the famishing brutes from plunging into the river. We allowed them to take only a small quantity at first, and each of us took only a small cupful; then after a little time all took more, and the thirst was soon quenched. We were surprised to find how little water it took to satisfy the raging thirst of four days of continued fasting. The animals, after taking comparatively small quantities, seemed satisfied, and went off in search of grass. We now had an abundance of water, but we well knew that water alone would not sustain life very long: therefore our next, and most serious business was to determine how to prolong our lives. According to our map, our recollections of different objects, and present appearances we were now a little above the mouth of the Uinta river which comes in from the northwest, all of which proved true. Our little map pictured Fort Uinta on the Uinta river about one hundred miles from where we were; but whether or not there were any human beings there, we did not know, and in order to determine we must cross this great river and travel a hundred miles, and this seemed a perilous undertaking for us in our present starving condition; but after being refreshed by plenty of good water we determined to undertake it, hoping that good fortune might attend us. After a little rest, the animals with grass, we packed up, and after Field had put on his, once serviceable, life preserver he mounted the old mule behind the small pack and started to swim across the river. He took the lead in this instance for three reasons: first, we thought that the mule, being much older than the horse, had probably had more experience and therefore might be a much better swimmer; then Field had the advantage in having the life preserver; but the last, and most potent, reason was my fear of getting drowned. It was understood that I was to remain on shore and be ready to assist him if necessary, or until he had safely landed on the other side. In he went, and the trusty old mule was swimming faithfully, and had reached the middle of the river, when Field, as he afterwards told me, to hurry the mule, gave a gentle jerk on the bridle, when, to his utter astonishment, the mule made a complete somerset backwards plunging Field, the pack, and himself entirely under the water, except his heels which appeared above the water as his head went under. In a moment Field popped up and, after shaking his head as a swimmer will do after taking a plunge, cast about to take his bearings, or to determine just where he was, and began to paddle with his hands, much as he did when the canoes were upset on the river, or somewhat after the style of a swimming dog. On coming to the surface, the mule cast a glance at the still living, but unloaded portion of his cargo, then made a bee line for the shore which he had so recently left. While Field continued to paddle and float down the river, I dismounted and followed along the bank, trying to encourage him to renewed efforts to float ashore. Finally he passed behind a clump of willows out of sight; but soon I heard him call for help and on going a little further down, found him stuck fast in the mud. I waded waist deep into that mud, and literally dragged him out, almost a mile below his starting point. As we were struggling in this muddy swamp, Field said he wondered why some of this superfluous water was not distributed over those dry deserts from which we had so recently come. I told him, politely, that I thought that a man of his age, ability, opportunities, and nationality, (you know he was quite proud of being an Englishman) ought to know why the moisture was not so distributed, and that I was too illiterate to enlighten him on that point, but that, when opportunity offered, he might consult some one who knew more of natural science than I did. I informed him that I had an idea that if any considerable portion of the water of that river had been distributed over that desert that we would not have had the experience of the last fifteen days, whereupon he very plainly intimated that I did not have much sense, or, in other words, he called me a d--d fool. After reaching solid ground and resting for a little while, we returned to the place from which he had started out on his perilous voyage, and where I had hastily left my horse. We found the horse and mule quietly grazing with their packs on their backs. The faithful old mule had the appearance of having been wet, but was now almost dry, yet not so dry, internally, as he had been several days before. What shall we do now? We are perhaps two hundred or more miles from any white settlement. We do not know that Fort Uinta is occupied. Shall we make another attempt to cross the river? I asked my brave friend if he was willing to again mount the mule and make another attempt, when he again exclaimed, "You must be a d--d fool!" I then, pretending to have a little courage, asked him if he would follow provided I would lead, whereupon he declared most emphatically that under no conditions would he again attempt to swim across that river. I had not had his experience, but fear of being drowned was quite sufficient to prevent me from undertaking the perilous task, more especially after witnessing his failure. Well, what next? We could not depend upon fishing and hunting, for we had no fish-hooks, nor means of catching fish, and not more than a dozen loads of shot, and a little powder; so the matter of slaying one of our animal friends was now seriously debated, and, after thoroughly canvassing the whole situation, it was most reluctantly determined that, however hard, this must be done. No doubt our starving condition at that particular time had some weight in making this decision. Then the question was, which of the animals shall be sacrificed? The mule was quite thin, and probably tough, while the little horse was young, and, notwithstanding the many days it had, with all of us, starved and traveled without water, was still quite plump and round, and probably tender, or, at the worst, not so tough as the poor old docile mule; so, at length we decided to kill the innocent little creature, jerk his flesh, pack it on the mule, and thereby try to save our own lives, for a time at least, and endeavor to reach some place of safety. The matter of slaying the horse was determined by casting lots, neither being willing to perform that melancholy, but now absolutely necessary, act. It fell to my lot, and that was one of, if not the most revolting act in my whole life's experience, for I had, probably, become as strongly attached to that little horse as man ever becomes attached to animal. I most reluctantly took the bridle in my left hand, my revolver in my right, stood directly in front of the poor, unsuspecting, innocent creature with the murderous pistol close to, and a little above a line extending from eye to eye, and fired. When the smoke of the powder had cleared off a little, I saw at my feet the quivering, dying body. I staggered off a few steps and sat down, sick at heart. Field walked several steps away, and turned his back upon the scene until after the fatal shot had been fired; then, after some little time, he entered upon his share of the enforced duty, and, after having removed a portion of the skin, cut off some slices of flesh and brought them to a fire I had started. We broiled and ate a little of it, not through desire or relish for it, but from a sense of duty, knowing that our lives depended upon it. It is said that for many years Dr. Franklin refrained from eating flesh, having an idea that it was wrong to slay and eat the flesh of other creatures; but that he changed his mind, and his diet, too, after having seen large fish devour small ones. I strongly suspect that if the doctor had been with us, or in a like condition, even before his conversion, he would, more than likely have taken a little flesh, even though it had been a piece of his own favorite horse. I said we only ate a little at first: I only ate a little for two reason; first, I did not relish the food; second, I had heard of persons being killed by eating too much after fasting for a long time, and I had no desire to commit suicide just then. Field ate too much. Night came on, work was suspended, and we retired. The poor old lone, and, no doubt, now lonely, mule, having filled himself with grass, came up near the now terribly-mutilated remains of his late companion, and looked on as Field continued his bloody work. Field, with an expression of sorrow, said, "If that mule could reason and look forward to the time when his body might be in a like condition as that of this horse, he would, no doubt, take to his heels, bid us a final farewell, and seek other society." But, fortunately for us, he did not know that he was to be held in reserve for our future security. He was securely tied up every night from that time until the day he was slain for our salvation. Early in the night following that eventful day, my companion began to complain much as he had done on the night after he had eaten the little red berries; but there was no lack of water now, no need of a special rain-cloud. I got up, heated water in our little camp kettle, applied hot cloths to his aching belly, and did everything else that either of us could think of for his relief. The pain was intense, and we feared that he would surely die, and earnestly prayed all the rest of the night that he might be relieved, and get well. Towards morning most violent vomiting came on, which continued for thirty hours, or more. He was not able to walk for three days, and during that time I nursed him, finished jerking the meat, and built a raft of some partly rotten logs, which I found in the vicinity, on which we floated across the river, on the fourth day after our arrival here. I also looked to the welfare of the mule, and prepared some bags in which to carry our jerk. Manley, I am sure that you know the meaning of the term "jerk" so that a definition of the word is not at all necessary. The old logs of which the raft was made were remnants of log cabins, a number of which had been built and occupied more than half a century before, but by whom I do not know. Field remarked that the finding of these old rotting logs there was another "God send," as we then had neither ax, hammer, nor any tool of iron with which to cut down a tree. I bound these logs together with long strips cut from the hide of the dead horse. Paddles and poles were also provided. The mule was with difficulty driven across the river. When the raft was landed on the west bank, the mule packed, and all about ready to start, I took the long strip of raw-hide from the raft and tied one end of it around the mule's neck, mounted Field on the mule behind the large pack, which made the whole outfit look quite comical indeed. Before leaving the other side of the river I had discovered that the saddle girth was not very strong, so I cut a wide belt from the hide of the lately slaughtered horse and fitted it to the saddle as a girth, knowing that the pack, now containing all of our goods and a supply of more than a bushel of jerk, would be quite bulky, if not heavy, and more difficult to keep on the back of a mule than it is for the camel to maintain his hump on his back. This girth afterwards made us two or three pretty substantial meals, as did also the long strip of green, wet hide, one end of which I had tied round the mule's neck, allowing it to drag for a long distance through the hot dry sand. All being ready, I, as usual, took the lead with my shot gun, which I always carried, but with which I seldom killed anything, on my shoulder. The old mule followed with his high, towering pack, and Field almost hidden behind. It was noon, but we did not stop for dinner, but simply reached into one of the great bulging sacks, took out a piece of jerk and ate it as we went marching on; no more trouble now about cooking. Late in the afternoon we reached Uinta river, and, as my two-legged companion had grown very tired of the back of the four-legged one, we went into camp early. Our objective point was Fort Uinta, where we hoped to find military. We could not risk turning the mule loose at night, and the long strip of raw-hide was designed and used to secure him, and yet to afford him liberty to graze while we slept. As you will see a little further on, both girth and lariat were used for a purpose not anticipated. The second, third, fourth, and fifth days came and went, and we were trudging on, up the Uinta, through a mostly very barren country, with some little rich and fertile land. We saw signs of Indians often, but no Indians. There was much cottonwood, but little other timber. We saw some fish in the river which we coveted, but could not get. The main course of this river is from north-west to south-east. We traveled most of the way to the fort on Indian trails, some of which were much worn, but mostly at some much earlier period. Of course we had plenty of good water, and food, such as it was. Field did not walk two miles during those five days, but seemed to be fattening fast. I sometimes thought he might be just a little lazy, but I never told him so, for I realized that he had recently had a severe tussle with death. Early in the morning of the sixth day we arrived at the abandoned old fort. There were only three log buildings, and they were in the shape of three sides of a hollow square, with port-holes on the outer faces of the buildings, and doors entering each of them from the hollow square or court. Facing the vacant side of the court, the port-hole from which I shot the wolf on the night after we had killed the mule, would be on right hand side. We were unable to determine whether this fort had been constructed and occupied by Americans or Mexicans, but, from its apparent age, we were inclined to the opinion that it was Mexicans. It had not been occupied for, probably, three or four years. Some little farming had been done immediately around the fort. Surrounding the fort is a large body of fine, fertile land which I have no doubt has long since been occupied by mormons, or other enterprising people. Having no means of subsistence here we soon decided to push on towards Fort Bridger, and, after resting a few hours set out following the larger fork of the river which comes almost directly from the north. We now believed that we were almost, if not exactly, due south of Fort Bridger. The river is small, and very crooked; we crossed it many times within three days, and, at the end of that time, found ourselves in the mouth of a rocky cañon, and after struggling for one whole day, we came to where the steep, high, stone walls closed the little river in on both sides, rendering it impossible for us to proceed any further. We were now nearly out of food; the jerk was almost gone. A council was held, and it was decided that we should return to the fort and take chances of being rescued, or scalped by some roving band of reds, or starving to death. We at once set out on our return, full of disappointment and melancholy forebodings. The next day found us without food: and now came into use the long, narrow strip of raw-hide which first bound together the old, rotting logs of which the raft was made, then to secure the mule of nights. It was now almost as hard as bone, and nearly round, having been dragged through the hot sand while it was yet green and wet, closed up like a hollow tube with sand inside. Two or three yards of it at a time, was cut into pieces about five inches long, the hair singed off, the sand scratched out, and these pieces were dropped into our camp kettle and cooked until the whole formed one mass of jelly or gluten which was, to us, quite palatable. When the lasso had all been thus prepared and eaten, the broad girth which had served so well in holding the pack-saddle on the mule's back, was cleaned, cooked, and eaten. These substitutes for jerk sustained us very well till we again arrived at the fort. Another consultation was now held, and the question was--what shall we do now? We were again, apparently, at the starting point of another long, enforced fast. Our path seemed hedged in. The prospect was, indeed, very gloomy. Our only reasonable hope for even the temporary prolongation of our lives was centered in our ever faithful, and always reliable old mule. We revolted at the idea of killing and eating him, but the last bit of the girth was gone. After canvassing the whole situation over and over, again and again, we finally, but most reluctantly decided to kill the mule, and preserve all the soft parts, even the skin with all of its old scars, and then gather in whatever else we could find, and stay here until spring, or until good fortune might afford us some means escape; till some Moses might come and lead us out of this wilderness, notwithstanding the fact that we had not borrowed any jewelry which we had failed to return. There were signs of wolves in that vicinity, and it was decided that the mule be slain about ten paces distant and directly in front of one of the port-holes of the fort, with the idea that wolves might smell the blood and come there and subject themselves to being shot, and thereby afford us a chance to increase our stock of winter supplies in the form of wolf steak, or jerk. Accordingly the victim was lead to the spot indicated, and there slain in the same manner, and with quite as much reluctance on the part of the slayer, as on the occasion of the sacrifice of the little horse, more than three weeks before. The body was skinned, cut up, and all taken within the building, nothing being left except the blood which had been spilled on the ground, and which was intended to attract wolves or, possibly, bears or other animals. My now only living associate ridiculed the idea of killing wolves, and insisted that the flesh could not be eaten, stating the fact that even hogs would not eat the dead body of a dog, and insisted that a dog was only a tamed wolf. I reminded him of a cat which had been eaten. He finally agreed that, if I killed a wolf, he would get up and dress it, but said most emphatically that he would not sit up and watch for it; so he went to bed, that is, rolled himself up in a blanket on the ground in front of a good fire inside of the fort, and went to sleep, while I sat with my rather untrustworthy double barreled shot-gun protruding through the port-hole in full view of the spot before indicated. The night was clear, and the moon was shining in full splendor. It was probably eleven o'clock; Field had been snoring for a long time, when I heard something in the tall, dry grass, and soon a large, brownish-gray wolf came into full view, with head up, apparently sniffing, or smelling, and cautiously approaching the fatal spot. When he reached it, and began to lick up the blood which was still on the surface of the ground, standing with his left side toward the fort, and in full view, I took deliberate aim, and fired, and he fell upon the ground without making any considerable noise. The tired, sleeping man was aroused by the report of the gun, and rushed into the room where I was in great excitement, thinking, perhaps, that some enemy had appeared, and had just then commenced to bombard the fort; but when I explained to him that I had simply killed a wolf, he ran out towards it, and, arriving close to it, the wounded creature rose up on its hind feet and growled quite vigorously, which seemed to frighten Field as much as did the noise of the gun. He dashed back to the fort, and, after having time to recover from his speechless condition, abused me most fearfully for having told him that I had killed a wolf. I then went out and put a load of shot into the wolf's head, and found that my first charge had passed through and broke both of its fore legs near the body. Field was so thoroughly frightened that I could not induce him to approach the dead animal for some time, and I do believe that that wolf haunted him as long as I knew him, for he seemed never to forget it. After dressing it by the light of the moon assisted by a torch, we retired. On viewing the plump body next morning Field exclaimed, "That's another God-send!" and notwithstanding his opinion that wolf could not be eaten, he found that wolf to be the best food we had eaten since we had assisted Walker and his tribe in eating the mountain sheep. The French may eat their horses, but I do not want more horse flesh. The old mule made fair but quite coarse beef. While out on this little pleasure excursion we ate horse, mule, wolf, wild-cat, mountain sheep, rose seed buds, raw-hide, a squirrel, fatty matter from the sockets of the mule's eyes and the marrow from his bones; but that ham of wild-cat was certainly the most detestable thing that I ever undertook to eat. The marrow from the mule's bones was a real luxury. We now had a pretty good stock of food, such as it was, but not enough to carry us through the winter on full rations; therefore we determined to try to add to it by hunting. One was to go out and hunt while the other would remain at home: we now had undisputed possession of the fort and it was our home. Field took the first day's outing while I occupied my time in drying and smoking meat. Late in the evening he returned, tired and worn out, having seen nothing worth shooting. Next day came my turn to hunt. I took a lunch, as he had done, consisting of jerked mule. I did not tell him so, but I had determined to make an excursion up the river to a point where we had seen some fresh trails and deer tracks some days before. When I was putting up my lunch my friend intimated that I was taking a very large amount for one lunch, but I told him that I might stay out late and that I did not intend to starve. I went, stayed all day, all night, and part of the next day, and returned as he had done, tired and discouraged, not having seen anything worth bringing in. In the evening of the first day out I found a trail which appeared to have been used daily by deer going to and from the river. It occurred to me that they might go out early in the morning, so I secreted myself within gun shot of the trail behind an old, moss-covered log where I slept comfortably; and when it was light enough in the morning to see a deer, I leveled my gun across the log in a position commanding the trail and waited and watched until nine o'clock, but nothing came upon that pathway that morning. After getting tired of watching and waiting I went down to the trail where, to my astonishment, I found the fresh tracks of a large bear which must have passed by that way while I was sleeping. As a rule I do not like to be treated discourteously, but in this instance I felt glad that this stranger had passed me by. On arriving at the fort late in the evening I found my friend in a terrible state of mental excitement. He said that he had not slept a minute during the whole of the night before. He had filled the door of his room with rails, and sharpened one end of a long stick, which he intended to use if necessary as a weapon of defence. When I arrived he was again filling the door with rails. I had the gun, pistol and big knife with me so this was his only means of defence. He said he would not stay alone another night for all the gold in California. I was much discouraged by our failures in hunting, and after a lengthy discussion we decided to make another attempt to cross the mountains and escape from what then seemed to us certain starvation. This was Thursday night and we set Monday as the time for starting. By Saturday night everything was in readiness for the start and Sunday we devoted to Bible reading, for we each still had a pocket Bible. As much of the flesh of the wolf and the lamented mule as we thought we could carry had been thoroughly jerked, and finding that we would not be overburdened by it, we economized by roasting and eating little scraps of flesh, the marrow from the bones, and even the head of the mule was roasted, the fragments of flesh scraped off and eaten, and Field found a rich fatty substance in behind the eyes, which he ate. We had a canteen in which our powder was carried, but the powder was nearly all gone so we emptied it and used the canteen to carry water in. Early Monday morning we loaded ourselves, mostly with jerked mule and wolf, leaving many useful things behind, bid adieu to Fort Uinta and took up our line of march rather reluctantly. My companion was not strong and we soon found it expedient for me to take on part of his burden. We rested often and yet long before night he became so tired that we had to go into camp. Most of the day we had traveled on an old deserted trail. The nights being cold we were under the necessity of keeping up a fire as we had left our blankets at the fort. The next morning we made an early start and rested often. At about noon we found good shade and water, and the sun being quite hot we stopped and rested in the shade for more than three hours, then trudged on till nearly night when we found water, and plenty of old dry timber for fuel and camped. Field expressed a wish that he had his old mule again, and I reminded him that he had a portion of it left in his knapsack, and that turn about was fair play: as the mule had carried him for a long time when he was unable to walk he should not object to carrying a portion of the mule now; whereupon he again plainly intimated that he thought I was a d--- d fool. I kept up the fire and he slept until morning. Another day was passed without any unusual occurrence; we traveled and ate at the same time as usual. Another day of pretty hard travel over sandy plains and rocky hills brought us to the foot of the mountain where we had plenty of good water and an abundance of fuel. A little sprinkle of rain early in the evening was the first we had seen since the memorable night after Field had eaten the little red berries. Early Saturday morning we filled our canteen with water and started up the mountain. I had been carrying most of the jerk, but the stock was running down quite rapidly. My companions bag now being almost empty, and as he had little else to carry while I had the gun and some other things, including his heavy overcoat, I divided the jerk, putting about half of it into his sack. All day long we were climbing the mountain. Late in the afternoon I was several rods ahead of Field when he called to me to stop: I did so and when he came up he appeared to be a little cross and insisted that we were not traveling in the direction formerly agreed upon. I requested him to let me see the little compass which he had in his pocket, and on examining it he found that he was mistaken; whereupon he muttered something which I thought was "swear words," and then we went marching on. In a little while we were within the old snow limits where we found large bodies of old icy looking snow in places shaded by trees and rocks, and a little before dark went into camp. We gathered some old dry timber and made a large fire, then some green fir limbs for a bed. When I began to prepare our bed on one side of the flaming logs, to my surprise Field began to prepare one on the other side of the fire. Neither had spoken since the occurrence of the little unpleasantness in the afternoon about the course of travel. Mutely each took his side of the fire. We had always slept together except when he was sick and the night I had left him alone at the fort. Some time in the night I became thirsty and got up and procured some snow, put it in our only tin cup and set it on some live coals to melt and went to sleep. The snow melted, the water evaporated, the solder melted and left the tin. While I slept, my dumb friend woke up thirsty, took the tin cup, filled it with snow and put it on coals. The snow melted and the water run out on the coals; his tongue let loose and he then denounced me as a knave, an ass, a fool, an unregenerate heathen, and what else I don't want to remember. I woke up alarmed and did not at first fully understand what had created the storm, but after having the bottomless cup dashed at my head I realized the situation, and began to try to apologize and explain the unavoidable and unfortunate circumstance; but no explanation would satisfy his now thoroughly "Johnny Bull" temper. After this little nocturnal disturbance had subsided, I, on my bed of fir branches with my feet towards the fire, soon fell into a sound sleep and knew nothing more of the world until the sun was shining. Whether or not my friend had cooled off I did not inquire; but I do know that there was an unusual coldness between us, for neither spoke to the other until about twelve o'clock and then, as will appear, our conversation was very short. As we did not rise until late no delay was made, but when each had his bag on his back and a nugget of jerk in his hand we started up the side of the mountain as quiet as two deaf mutes. There was no water to be had; our camp kettle had been left at the fort, and through my stupidity the cup had become useless, therefore we were obliged to eat the icy snow or endure the thirst. No new snow had yet fallen in this high altitude although it was now nearing the end of October. These mountains were then heavily covered with pine and fir but the timber was not large. In some places where the snow had melted away, short green grass was found quite close to great banks of snow. At about twelve o'clock we reached the summit of the great Uinta range, and I, being a little in advance of my still mute companion, halted to take a survey of the field before me. The top of the range here is bare of timber and there was no snow. When Field came up I broke the silence which had lasted since the little unpleasantness of the night before, by suggesting that we attempt to cross the snow-covered range of mountains which now appeared north of us and probably fifty miles away, through what appeared to be a gap or low place in the great range of mountains. He replied, "You may go that way if you want to, but I am going this way," pointing in another direction and quickly started off at an angle of about 45 degrees to the right, or directly north-east. I also started immediately, and when we were a few rods apart I said, "Good-by; we may not meet again very soon." He replied "Good-by," and within a few minutes we were out of sight, and in a very short time beyond hailing distance. This was the last I saw or heard of him until after each of us had undergone many more hardships, so I will now drop my friend but will hereafter devote a chapter to him, and give you an account of his experience as he afterwards gave it to me, detailing an account of many most interesting incidents. Fortunately we had divided the jerk, for nothing was said at this sudden and unexpected parting about anything which either had in his possession. I had an idea when I bade him good-by that he would soon turn about and follow me. After the unceremonious parting I immediately began to descend the north side of the mountain which was very rough, rocky and steep; but down, down, down I went into a deep, dark cañon where I slept on the leaves under a fir tree, after having taken some landmarks. When it was light enough to see the objects I had noted to guide me, I set out and spent the day in crossing over hills and through deep cañons. In the evening I arrived at the foot of the range of mountains which I had seen from the point of our parting. The sun disappeared, dark clouds began to float over the mountains and it was evident that a storm was approaching. While it was yet light enough I took some landmarks or guiding points; and it was well I did so, for on the following morning when I woke I found it snowing quietly but heavily, and before it was light enough for me to see my guiding objects there must have been six or more inches of new snow on the ground beyond my snug retreat under a sheltering pine. When it was light enough I rose from my comfortable bed, took my bearings as best I could without a compass and started up the mountain through the rapidly accumulating bed of snow. The snow continued to fall nearly all day, and before night it was more than a foot deep. All day long I struggled through a dense forest. Some time in the forenoon I crossed the fresh trail of a large herd of elk which forcibly reminded me that my sack was almost empty, and I vainly wished that one of these wild creatures might come in my way, but I did not dare to follow the herd with the uncertainty of killing one, and the certainty of losing my way this dark, snowy day. In order to maintain my course during such dark days I was under the necessity of looking ahead and observing trees or other objects in my line of travel. That night I, as usual, slept under a pine tree where there was no snow. I saw no sign of fire in either of these ranges of mountains, nor did I see any signs of Indians on my trip over these two ranges. The next day as I approached the top of the mountain I found the timber much smaller, and mostly pine. There is much fertile land in some of the valleys between the two great ranges of mountains. Early on the following morning I arrived at the bald, snow-covered summit. On my right and on my left were high, untimbered, snow-covered peaks. From this point I could overlook a vast territory extending over many hills, valleys, and smaller mountains where there was no snow; in fact, the snow only extended a few miles down the steep sides of the great range. As a rule there is more timber on the north than on the south side of mountains west of the Rockies; but it was the reverse here, for there was little timber on the north side of this range. One more day's tramping brought me down into a large barren plain where I gathered some dry weeds for a bed, and slept, without food or water; the last bit of the mule or wolf, I know not which, I had eaten during the afternoon. I had had very little jerk for the last two or three days, and began to wish that I had another horse, mule, or even a wolf. For many days I had seen no living thing except when I looked into a small glass which I carried in my pocket, and then only saw a familiar shadow. I spent another day without food, but had plenty of water; another night on a bed of green brush beside a good fire. The next day was bright and sunny, quite a contrast to the gloomy days I had spent in the mountains. For want of food I was becoming quite weak and was not able to travel as fast as usual. During the early part of the day I saw some tracks of an unshod horse, which renewed my courage and hope of redemption; and at about two o'clock in the afternoon I saw some dark spots on the plain a long distance away, but almost in the direction I was going. Hoping that these objects might be living creatures, I hurried on for a time, then sat down and after having watched them for a time I found that they changed positions and that satisfied me to a moral certainty that they were living creatures, but what I could not tell. They might be horses, cattle, elk, deer, antelope or buffalo; but no matter what, I must hurry on and try to reach them before night. Late in the evening I determined that they were horses but could not yet tell whether they belonged to whites or Indians, or were wild. As I approached them they stopped grazing and started toward me, but soon disappeared in a deep gulch between us which I had not noticed before. On arriving at the edge of the gulch or narrow valley I saw the horses in the vicinity of about fifteen or twenty wigwams which were all in a row on the bank of a little creek that ran through the gulch. Many Indians were sitting outside of their lodges, the weather being warm. On first sight of the village, being not more than 200 yards away, my heart fluttered just a little, not knowing whether the savages would scalp me or not; but, notwithstanding my natural cowardice, I at once determined to "beard the lion in his den," and walked as boldly as I could up to the lower end of the row of wigwams. Within a few feet of the nearest one three young bucks met me and seemed to be anxious to know whence I came and whither I was going; whether right down from Heaven, and if so what was my mission. They seemed as much surprised at my sudden appearance as I was on coming so suddenly upon them. My first and most important business was to determine whether they would give me something to eat, or eat me. As the men, women, and children began to gather around me I heard some one half way up the line of lodges call out saying something which I did not understand, but on looking that way saw a man beckoning to me, as I thought, when the young men motioned for me to move on up the line. On arriving at the place indicated I found myself in the presence of one whom I then suspected, and afterwards found to be the chief, who extended to his royal right hand and greeted me in a most courteous and polite manner, and then with a graceful wave of his hand and a slight bow indicated that I should precede him at the low open door into his Royal Palace where he very politely introduced me to his wife who proved to be a sensible, clever, courteous woman. She soon prepared some thing for me to eat, and after I had finished my supper an Indian brought in two pistols and wanted me to take the cap tube from one and put it into the other, which I soon accomplished. He was much pleased, went out, and soon returned with ten or more pounds of elk meat which he tendered to me as compensation for my work, but the chief objected, and insisted, as I understood him, that he had plenty and that I was his guest, but finally consented for me to accept part of the meat. I gave him to understand that I wanted to go to Fort Bridger. A case of nice new blankets was opened, as it appeared to me, for my especial benefit. The chief, his lady, two sons almost grown, two or three wolfish looking dogs which forcibly reminded me of Field's terrible scare, and myself made up the number of lodgers in that mansion that night. Late that night some warriors who had been out on a campaign came home, and learning that there was a stranger within the gates came to the king's palace to see him, and also to report that they had discovered some white barbarians in the vicinity who had dared to enter his domain without a special permit, and that they had sent a message to his highness informing him that they had a good assortment of blankets, cutlery, pins, needles, beads, etc., which his people might need or desire, and also a limited amount of "fire-water," and that they would be pleased to receive his order for anything he might desire. The fact of the presence of these pale-faces in the vicinity was at once communicated to me, and early on the following morning I was informed that if it was my desire to cut short my stay at the palace, the king would take great pleasure in furnishing me means of conveyance, a proper escort, and a reliable guide who would safely conduct me to the camp of the accommodating merchants or Indian traders, (but, in fact, Indian robbers.) Notwithstanding my reluctance in leaving the society of the noble ruler and his people I most readily accepted his generous offer, and after breakfast, which consisted of elk meat and tobacco root in a combination stew which was very palatable, a fine steed with a good Mexican saddle and bridle was at the door. My escort, consisting of four mounted warriors, was ready, and after bidding my good friends farewell, I with some assistance mounted my charger and we were all off on a full run, up and down hill and across valley, at what seemed to me a fearful rate. In less than two hours we entered the camp of the traders at full speed, dismounted, and found one man, a long Jake from Illinois, who could speak English. He had two wives, (squaws,) and several children which he claimed, but some of them were quite dark. His name was John Smith; not a very uncommon one. He was a very clever man, about 35 years old, was not a Mormon, but had taken the women in order to become popular with the Indians and to improve his opportunities for trade. After getting something to eat, and learning something, through Smith, of my adventures, my escort made ready to return to their camp. Their trip, as Smith told me, was made solely for my accommodation and now I had nothing with which to compensate them; but as they were about to leave I took a large "bandanna," the only one I had left, and tied it around the neck of the chief's son, he being one of the clever escorts. He at first refused to accept it, but when Smith told him that I desired him to take it as a token of regard, he accepted it with an expression of thanks, and after I had bidden them all good-bye, they rode away as rapidly as we had come. I will always hold that chief and his people in kindly remembrance. All of the other white men with Smith were French, and all had plenty of wives (squaws) and numerous slaves. The wives were not slaves, but they had slaves all around them. The whole tribe traveled about and lived much as other tribes did, only much better, for they lived by trading while the others lived by hunting and fishing. In this camp I ate bread for the first time in many weeks. At the end of three days after my arrival here a caravan was ready to start for Fort Bridger for winter supplies for the traders. I was furnished with a good horse and saddle, and Smith, one of the Frenchmen, five slaves, 20 horses, and myself made up the caravan, and on the evening of the third day we reached the fort where I was very kindly received. Smith was a large man, had a good head, and some cultivation and apparent refinement, and treated his women and children well. He said he had been to his old home in Illinois since he had entered upon this kind of life, but was not contented there and soon returned to his Indian friends. He and those Frenchmen were as generous and hospitable as old Southern planters, and their kindness to me will not be forgotten while my memory lasts. I was well treated at the fort which is 116 miles from the point where the seven dug up the little flat-boat from its sandy bed on the fifth day of August, just three mouths before, since which I had undergone many hardships, took many fearful risks, and traveled more than a thousand miles, far enough to have taken me from Green River to San Francisco. On the morning of the seventh day of November I started with a Government train for Salt Lake City where I arrived on the fifteenth. I soon found a home with a prominent Mormon, a Scotchman named Archie Gardner, living in the fifth ward, on Mill Creek, one of the many small streams coming down from the mountains east of the city. Mr. Gardner was a clever gentleman about 45 years old, had a saw-mill up in, the mountains, and was then building a flour mill only a few rods from his dwelling. I assisted him in completing the little flour mill and in attending it during the winter. Mr. Gardner had three wives, all living in one house, but occupying separate rooms at night. I usually attended the little mill until midnight, and Gardner made it part of my duty to go to his house and call him. He usually told me where I could find him, but not always, so at times I was under the necessity of rapping at more than one door before I found him. He had the largest house in the ward, and the religious services were held there by Bishop Johnson who also acted as Justice of the Peace in that ward. Gardner's family all ate at the same table over which the first wife presided. She was, indeed, mistress of the house, the other wives treating her with great respect, and all were, to all outward appearance, quite friendly. Gardner bestowed much attention on his first wife, though I always suspected that he was just a little more fond of the youngest one, and I did not blame him much for she manifested strong affection for him even in the presence of the others, and yet there was no outward manifestation of jealousy. The second, or the one I will call the second because she was in age between the others, and was the mother of the third or youngest, a widowed mother and her daughter having been sealed to Gardner at the same time, the first wife having given her consent and standing with them at the triple matrimonial altar, and then and there joining in the sacred ceremony. As I was about to say, the second wife seemed to be pleased at the manifestation of affection for the common husband by the youngest wife, and No. 1 would in a good-humored way say:--"My, Annie, don't be so demonstrative in the presence of other people," when the husband would laugh and go and kiss No. 1. Gardner spent most of his leisure time, particularly during the day and evening, in his first wife's apartments with her and her children. He was a very religious man, and always had family prayers before retiring at night, and all persons about the house were expected to join, at least formally, in this service. The use of profane language was not allowed in or about the house. Many of the higher church officers were entertained at Gardner's house and table, among whom were Brigham Young, George A. Smith, Heber C. Kimble, George Taylor, and Parley P. Pratt, with all of whom I formed some acquaintance. Brigham was a dignified, clever gentleman, not austere but kind and affable. Kimble was also a nice, genteel, genial, redheaded gentleman. Smith was a heavy man with a very large abdomen, dark hair full beard, exceedingly jovial and apparently always happy. Pratt was a small, rather slim, quick and athletic man, rather austere, refined, active and energetic. Taylor was a large man, highly intellectual, and rather unsocial. Kimble was my favorite notwithstanding the fact that he had fifteen wives, mostly young and handsome, all in one house, and my impression is that none of them had any children. I think it was conceded that his was the finest harem in Utah. He called me his young Gentile, was very kind and affable, but he never invited me to inspect his harem. About the first of December, 1849, Field arrived in Salt Lake City, and I will allude to a little matter in which he was concerned, after which I will give you a short account of his trip from the time we parted company until he arrived in Salt Lake as he afterwards gave it to me. Soon after he arrived in the City of the Saints he heard of another who had recently arrived from the south and that he was located in the fifth ward on Mill creek at the house of one Gardner, and at which house he soon arrived. After staying with me for two or three days he found employment in the family of the Apostle John Taylor. The family consisted of seven wives living in seven different houses. How many children there were I never knew, but there was one wife who did not have any. She was a fine specimen of English beauty. Taylor's women were nearly all English. It was the business of my friend to cut wood, and do chores generally for the Taylor family living in seven different places at the same time. Taylor was in Europe that winter looking after the interest of the church, and possibly after a few more wives, and consequently could not, in person, attend to all of the necessities of the seven branches of his family. In his daily rounds looking after the seven wood-piles and other little matters appertaining to the comfort of the family in so many places Field happened to come in contact with the English beauty, and the result was, mutual love at first sight, notwithstanding the fact that this woman had passed, and taken all of the solemn vows of the Lym house with the Apostle and his six other wives. I do not think that my English friend had lost one iota of the fond recollection of his long since dead English wife, the picture of whom he still carried near his heart; but, nevertheless, he and this seventh wife of the noted Apostle fell heels over head in love. Field, as you know, was a well developed, good-looking, intelligent man of forty. The woman was well developed, good-looking, and as smart as a steel-trap, and both being English I was not at all surprised at their mutual admiration and infatuation, nor did I blame them much. I was entrusted with many closely-sealed envelopes which I carried from one to the other. With my feeble assistance they tried to devise some method by which they might escape from the city before the Apostle should return home; but the Danites were always on the alert, and they well knew that detection by the Danites of an attempt to get away together would lead to certain death to him, and if not to her she would certainly have been returned to her polygamous state of bondage. Spring came with little hope of escape, and they reluctantly parted with the mutual understanding that, if possible, she would make her escape and go to Sacramento where he promised to keep his address. Ten months after the parting they had not met yet, and if they ever did it was after I had lost all further knowledge of him. Mormon morals, exclusive of polygamy, are very good. I never saw a drunken man in Salt Lake City, and heard very little profane language there. The people were industrious and seemed happy. Their hospitality rivaled that of the old Southern planters, and their charity was equal to that of other Christians. I will now go back to the place where Field and I separated on the mountain top and give you a short statement as he gave it to me, and while some things may border on the miraculous, and seem somewhat incredible, I do not question the truth of his statements. When we parted so unexpectedly he had about half of the jerked wolf and mule combined. I went north while he bore off in a northeasterly direction, and after traveling for three days came to the river at a point above where we lost our flat-boat. He struggled on up the river without road or trail, and nothing to guide him except the little compass which he still carried in his pocket. Two days more and his last bit of jerk was gone, starvation began to stare him in the face once more. He saw signs of Indians having crossed his pathless course which gave him renewed courage. Soon after starting out next morning he was delighted to see a pony in the distance grazing, and on coming up to it found one of its front legs broken. This, he said was another God-send. The poor pony seemed to fear him. It was probably an Indian pony, had its leg broken and was left to die. He followed it for some time and finally got close to it and fired his revolver at its chest and wounded it, but it then left him with the blood flowing from its wound. After resting for a time he followed on and soon found it lying down, but not dead. He told me how innocent and helpless it appeared, and looked at him as if pleading with him not to inflict any more pain; but he felt that his life was in a balance with its, and after a little meditation he put the revolver to its forehead and ended its life and suffering. Then came the usual process of skinning, cutting up and jerking which took the balance of that day and part of the next. Eight days more and he was again starving. On the ninth he arrived at the spot where we had dug up the little ferry-boat which carried the seven adventurers far down the river more than three very long dreary months before. Snow now covered the entire country, and all emigrants had long since gone by. His strength was failing fast but it would not do to linger there, so he arose and was about to start when he saw a poor old ox slowly coming towards him, and when it had come up near to him he discovered a wolf not far behind which seemed to be following the ox, but it soon turned and went away. Night was coming on and he was very hungry. Something must be done. The last cartridge had been exploded in killing the poor, broken legged Indian pony, and the revolver was no longer of use. The ox, though feeble, was probably yet stronger than the starving man. Field feared that he was not able to catch the ox by the horns and hold it until he could cut its throat, so the next plan was to get hold of the animal's tail with one hand, and with the big knife in the other cut his hamstrings so as to disable him, and then cut his throat. The ox seemed fond of being rubbed and petted, so after a little time a firm hold on the tail was secured, and the big knife vigorously applied, but it was so very dull that he could not sever the tough old tendons. After sawing with the dull knife and being literally dragged for some distance, he became so much exhausted that he was obliged to relinquish his hold and see the excited old ox disappear. In almost complete despair Field spent the night beside a fire under one of those large cottonwoods which I have no doubt you will remember even though it is now more than forty years since you saw them. He rose early next morning and started out on the well beaten road towards the Golden West, but had only gone a few hundred yards when he was agreeably surprised to again behold the old ox approaching him, but so much exhausted that it could scarcely walk. The same, or some other, wolf was near by, and had probably followed the poor old ox all night. When the ox came close to Field the wolf growled and again turned away as on the evening before. After the wolf had left the ox seemed to be relieved. It then occurred to the starving emigrant that he had a sharp razor in his "kitt" with which he knew he could cut those tough tendons, provided he could get another hold on that tail. Field, as you probably remember, always kept his face cleanly shaved. Even while we were starving he would shave almost every day. The ox was tired and worn out and so was Field; but he got the razor ready and soon had hold of that tail again. Off went the ox, the keen razor was applied, soon the tendons parted and down went the ox. But only half the victory was won, for the ox would raise up on his front feet and show fight; but after resting awhile the would-be victor rushed up, caught the poor beast by the horns, pushed him over on his side, held him down and cut his throat. After a long, much needed rest he cut out a piece of the poor beef, broiled and ate it, and then spent the remainder of the day in hunting out the small, lean muscles that still remained between the skin and bones of the poor old ox. The poor beef was jerked and put into the sack which on the following morning was thrown upon the back of its owner, and from which he fed for the next six days, at the end of which he arrived at Fort Bridger. From there he soon obtained a passage for Salt Lake City, arriving there on the second day of December, seventeen days after I had reached there, and finding me as before stated. Some time in the winter we formed an acquaintance of a gentleman named Jesse Morgan, a Gentile, who had left Illinois in the spring of 1849 for California, but for some cause had been delayed and obliged to winter in the city of the Latter Day Saints. Morgan had a wife, a little child, a wagon and two yoke of oxen, but no food nor money. Field and I arranged to furnish food for all for the trip from there to Sacramento, and assist in camp duties, drive the team, &c. We made the trip together and arrived in Sacramento in good condition on the fourth day of July, 1850, and pitched our tent under a large oak tree where the State Capitol now stands. I spent five months with a wholesale grocery and miners supply firm, Elder and Smith, Fourth and J streets, Sacramento, and three months in the mines as a drummer, or solicitor and collector for the same firm. I returned to Sacramento and was almost ready to start home when the Scots River excitement broke out. I then went to the mines on Trinity River and associated myself in mining with Hiram Gould, a young Presbyterian clergyman who had laid aside the "cloth" for the time and engaged in mining. I remained in the mines until July fourth, 1851, exactly one year from the time I entered Sacramento, when I started home by way of Nicaragua. In due time, after an interesting trip, I arrived home and again entered upon the study of my chosen profession, graduated from an honorable college, and am now, as you know, practicing my profession on the sea shore. M.S. MCMAHON. CHAPTER XIII. STORY OF THE JAYHAWKERS. In the foregoing chapters describing the trip across the deserts and mountains, the author has had occasion many times to refer to the "Jayhawkers." Their history is in many respects no less remarkable and intensely interesting than that of his own party. The author has therefore collected many notes and interviews with prominent members and presents herewith the only written history of their travels. The little train afterward known by this name was made up in the state of Illinois in 1849, of industrious, enterprising young men who were eager to see and explore the new country then promising gold to those who sought. The young men were from Knoxville, Galesburg and other towns. Not all were influenced by the desire for gold. It was said that California had a milder climate and that pleasant homes could there be made, and the long, cold winter avoided. They placed some of the best men in position to manage for the whole. The outfit was placed on a steam-boat and transported to Kanesville, on the Missouri River above Council Bluffs. Some of the company went with the goods while others bought teams and wagons in Western Missouri and drove to the appointed place. Kanesville was a small Mormon camp, while Council Bluffs was a trading post of a few log cabins on the river bank, inhabited mostly by Indians. There was no regular ferry at either place, and our party secured a log raft which they used to get their wagons and provisions across, making the oxen swim. They asked all the questions they could think of from everyone who pretended to know anything about the great country to the west of them, for it seemed a great undertaking to set out into the land they could see stretching out before them across the river. Other parties bound the same way, also arrived and joined them. They chose a guide who claimed to have been over the road before. When all were gathered together the guide told them that they were about to enter an Indian country, and that the dusky residents did not always fancy the idea of strangers richer than themselves passing through, and sometimes showed out some of the bad traits the Indians had been said to possess. It would therefore be better to organize and travel systematically. He would divide the company into divisions and have each division choose a captain, and the whole company unite in adopting some rules and laws which they would all agree to observe. This arrangement was satisfactorily accomplished, and they moved out in a sort of military style. And then they launched out on the almost endless western prairie, said then to be a thousand miles wide, containing few trees, and generally unknown. These Illinois boys were young and full of mirth and fun which was continually overflowing. They seemed to think they were to be on a sort of every day picnic and bound to make life as merry and happy as it could be. One of the boys was Ed Doty who was a sort of model traveler in this line. A camp life suited him; he could drive an ox team, cook a meal of victuals, turn a pan of flap-jacks with a flop, and possessed many other frontier accomplishments. One day when Doty was engaged in the duty of cooking flap-jacks another frolicsome fellow came up and took off the cook's hat and commenced going through the motions of a barber giving his customer a vigorous shampoo, saying:--"_I am going to make a Jayhawker out of you, old boy_." Now it happened at the election for captain in this division that Ed Doty was chosen captain, and no sooner was the choice declared than the boys took the newly elected captain on their shoulders and carried him around the camp introducing him as the _King Bird of the Jayhawkers_. So their division was afterwards known as The Jayhawkers, but whether the word originated with them, and John Brown forgot to give them credit, or whether it was some old frontier word used in sport on the occasion is more than I will undertake to say; however the boys felt proud of their title and the organization has been kept up to this day by the survivors, as will be related further on. The first few days they got along finely and began to lose all feeling of danger and to become rather careless in their guard duty. When the cattle had eaten enough and lain down, the guards would sometimes come into camp and go to sleep, always finding the stock all right in the morning and no enemy or suspicious persons in sight. But one bright morning no cattle were in sight, which was rather strange as the country was all prairie. They went out to look, making a big circuit and found no traces till they came to the river, when they found tracks upon the bank and saw some camps across the river, a mile or so away. Doty had a small spy glass and by rigging up a tripod of small sticks to hold it steady they scanned the camps pretty closely and decided that there were too many oxen for the wagons in sight. Some of the smartest of them stripped off their clothes and started to swim the stream, but landed on the same side they started from. Captain Doty studied the matter a little and then set out himself, being a good swimmer, and by a little shrewd management and swimming up stream when the current was strongest, soon got across to where he could touch bottom and shouted to the others to do the same. Soon all the swimmers were across. They could now see that there were two trains on that side and that the farther one had already begun to move and was about a mile in advance of the nearest one, Doty said something must be done, and although they only were clothed in undershirts they approached the nearest camp and were handed some overalls for temporary use. The men in this camp on hearing about the missing oxen said the fellows in the forward train went over and got them, for, as they said there were no wagons in sight and they must be strays. He said the forward train was from Tennessee, and that they had some occasion to doubt their honesty and had refused to travel with them any further. They said they were all old Missourians, and did not want other people's property and if the boys found their cattle with the Tenneseans, and wanted any help to get them back again to call on them, and putting in some good strong swear words for emphasis. The boys, barefooted and with only overalls and shirts, started after the moving train which they called to a halt when overtaken. The coarse grass was pretty hard to hurry through, clothed as they were. The train men were pretty gruff and wanted to know what was wanted. Capt. Doty very emphatically told them he could see some of his oxen in their train, and others in the herd, and he proposed to have them all back again. The Jayhawker boys were unarmed but were in a fighting mood and determined to have the stock at all hazards, and if not peaceably, war might commence. The boys saw that the two trains were of about equal strength, and if worse came to worst they could go back and get their guns and men and come over in full force after their property, and they were assured the Missourians would help them and a combination of forces would give them a majority and they could not be beaten by the Tennessee crowd. There was a good deal of talk, but finally when Doty demanded that their cattle be unyoked and the others separated from the herd, they yielded and gave them all their stock, some seventy head. The Missourians had come up and heard the talk, and some of them went back and helped drive the cattle to the river, and deal out some double shotted thunder against the biggest scamps they had come across. It was quite a job to get the cattle across the river. They would go in a little way and then circle round and round like a circus, making no progress. They finally put a rope on one of them and a man led him as far as he could, which was more than half way, and although they landed a good ways down stream, they got them all across safely, left their borrowed overalls in the hands of their friends, with a thousand thanks for valuable assistance, and plunged into the swift running Platte, and swam back again to the northern side. They drove the straggling oxen back to camp with a sense of great satisfaction, and in turn received the praise of their friends who said that Ed Doty was the best Jayhawker of the border. This was the first unpleasantness and they were afterwards more cautious and stood guard all night, watching closely all the time, both night and day, for for any signs of danger. Thus in time they reached Salt Lake, rather late in the season, but safe and sound, having escaped cholera or other disease, and in good spirits to surmount any further difficulties which might be met. When the Jayhawkers reached Salt Lake it was found that it was not safe to try to go the regular northern route to California, as they were advised by those who seemed to know, as they might be snowed in on the Sierra Nevada Mountains and perish. The Mormons told them that the snow often fell there twenty feet deep, and some other stories likely to deter them from making the attempt. They also told them of a route farther south by which they could come into California at Los Angeles, or they could remain in Salt Lake until May when it would be safe to try the mountain route again. After listening to the talk of the mountaineers who claimed to have been over the route and to know all about it, and camping some time to rest and learn all they could, they finally decided on taking the southern route. One Mormon told them of a place where they could make a cut-off and save five hundred miles, and, if they would follow his instructions, they would find the route fully as good as the one usually traveled which was not much better than a trail. The cut-off was so instilled into their minds that they had great confidence in the report and talked very favorably of taking it. The man Williams made for them a map of the proposed route and explained it to them and others who had gathered at Salt Lake, and from the map they could see how much was to be gained in time and distance by taking that route. A month or two of travel was indeed something to gain, and as the roads seemed similar in quality the reasoning was very plausible The map explained all the watering places and favorable things but said nothing about a desert, and as there was no one to tell them any unfavorable side to this plan there were many who quite concluded to go this way, and among those who did so were the Jayhawkers, and the "Williams Short Route" was freely talked about as a settled thing by them. They now set about preparing to move. They sold, traded, and bought oxen till they had the best and fattest teams in Salt Lake Valley; selected good provisions, and plenty of them so as to be safe in case of delay, and contended that nothing could stop them in a country where but little snow could be, and water was as plentiful as shown on the map. They wanted to reach the gold mines and this was the shortest route and even if it was still considerably longer than the northern way they said they would rather be moving along and thus gain time than to so long in camp with nothing to do by which they could earn a cent. There were here in Salt Lake ten times as many men as could find employment, and Brigham's saints would be pretty sure to get all of the odd jobs to the exclusion of the heretics. To bring the matter to a determination a paper was drawn up for those to sign who wanted to go the southern route and it was pretty generally signed. The Mormon elder, John Hunt, was consulted, and as he seemed to know the general southern route better than any one else, he was prevailed upon to guide the train through on the old Spanish Trail. This had never been used as a wagon road, but he thought it could be without much difficulty, and he said if they could secure him a fair sized train he would go and conduct them through for ten dollars a wagon. This proposition was accepted after some consideration, and all who wished to do so were given permission to join the train. In a few days there were one hundred and seven wagons enlisted for this route, including seven Mormons bound for San Bernardino. Preparations for the trip now began in good earnest, and the Saints were liberally patronized in purchase of flour and meat which were the principal things they had to sell. As their several wagons were loaded they moved out in small lots to the south to keep in good fresh feed for their animals, and to move on slowly till all were ready, when they would join in one large body and proceed. The guide was in no special haste as he said he wanted to wait a little later so the weather in the south would be cooler than they would be likely to find it if they pressed on at once. He said that in summer it was so hot that no white man could endure the heat. He said they could work slowly along the trail, and when the right time came he would move out himself, and that they might be assured that it would then be the coolest and best time in which to travel down there. So the company dallied along, and it was October before the whole train was made up at a point about a hundred miles south of Salt Lake. The complete organization was divided into seven divisions, each with its captain, and division No. 1 was to lead the march the first day and then fall to the rear while No. 2 took the advance, and so continued till all had taken their turn. The leading party was to guard and care for the cattle and deliver them in the morning. The regulations were read aloud to the captains, and this rather large army of men, women and children, with about five hundred head of stock, moved out very systematically. It would sometimes be fully ten o'clock before the rear division could make a start, and correspondingly late before they could get up with the main camp at night. They got along very well, but cleaned the country of grass for some distance each side of the trail, as they swept along. About the first of November Capt. Smith overtook us with the pack train, and camped with us at night. He formed many acquaintances and told them he was going to take a shorter route and save five hundred miles, rather than take the long route by way of Los Angeles. He had a map of his proposed route, and it was very much like the one we had. He also stated that it could probably be as easily traveled as the one by way of Los Angeles, and as a consequence of his talk, cut-off fever began to rage in camp again. Some got very enthusiastic in the matter and spoke publicly in favor of following Capt. Smith when he should come to the place when his short route turned away from the other trail. His plan grew so much in favor that when the place was reached a hundred wagons turned out into the Smith trail, leaving Capt. Hunt only the seven Mormon wagon bound for San Bernardino, Hunt stood at the forks of the road as the wagons went by and said to them;--"Good-bye, friends. I cannot, according to my agreement go with you, for I was hired for this road, and no other was mentioned. I am in duty bound to go even if only one wagon decides to go." When the last wagon had passed him he still stood talking with several who had chosen the new way and told them they were taking a big risk, for they did not know very much about the route, and he had been thinking that they might find it pretty rough and hard to get over the first time. He said that if all decided to go that way he would go and help them, even if they went to h-ll, but as it was he could not. He wished them luck and the two trains parted company. At the end of three days of travel on the Smith trail they came to the top of a long steep hill. The trail went down and down, and they see no way of crossing the terribly deep cañon that was before them. So they went into camp and sent explorers out to investigate and find a crossing if possible. On the second day the explorers began to return with very unfavorable reports, and many who found their progress thus blocked turned about and started to follow Hunt. Most of the wagons which remained had each one or more of their men out exploring and could not turn back until their return. Several of the Jayhawkers having once started on this route were very anxious to get through on it if a way could be found for them to do it, and therefore searched farther and with greater determination than the others. When they returned they reported they had found a way around the head of the cañon and they believed it to be the right way. The map Williams had given them did not show this cañon and they believed it to be correct, and that the real road led around at the place which they had found, and no further trouble would be met. Acting on this report about twenty wagons, including the Jayhawkers, concluded to go ahead. "We can beat the other fellows a month," said they, and so they hitched up and pulled out in a northerly direction, feeling in good spirits and hopeful of success. They named this place Mt. Misery. While camped here a lone and seemingly friendless man died and was buried. None seem now to remember his name, but think he was from Kentucky. He was low with consumption and not strong enough to endure the hardships of the journey. About the third night the Jayhawkers were overtaken by seven more wagons owned by A. Bennett and friends, J.B. Arcane and family, two men named Earhart and a son of one of them, and one or two other wagons. The Jayhawker's train was made up of men from many states, but seemed well united and was as complete as when they first started. The Author was with the party that came up in the rear, which had started later but traveled faster on account of having a road broken for them. He visited the leaders in camp when they were discussing the necessity of forming a new travelling compact to help and protect each other on the road. Those who had no families were objecting to being bound to those who had women and children with them. They argued that the road would be hard and difficult and those wagons with women and children would require more assistance than they would be able to render in return. They said they could go back and follow Hunt who was on a better road and they could proceed with more safely. Among those with this train was Rev. J.W. Brier, his wife and three children. He objected to being turned back and said he did not want to be assisted, but would go with them and do his part and take care of himself. The Author listened to the various speeches without speaking and became satisfied that it would end in every one looking out for himself in case of hard times. He went over to their camp again the next night and wished to ask them why they were steering so nearly due north. He said to them that they were going toward Salt Lake rather than California, and that the Bennet party did not feel inclined to follow them any farther in that direction. They replied that their map told them to go north a day or more and then they would find the route as represented. They would then turn west and reach Owen's Lake and from there there would be no more trouble. The Jayhawker crowd seemed to think they could go anywhere and no difficulty could happen which they couldn't overcome. Bennett's little train turned west from this point and the Jayhawkers went on north, but before night they changed their minds and came following on after Bennett whom they overtook and passed, again taking the lead. Thus far the country had been well watered and furnished plenty of grass, and most of them talked and believed that this kind of rolling country would last all the way through. The men at leisure scattered around over the hills on each side of the route taken by the train, and in advance of it, hunting camping places and making a regular picnic of it. There were no hardships, and one man had a fiddle which he tuned up evenings and gave plenty of fine music. Joy and happiness seemed the rule, and all of the train were certainly having a good time of it. But gradually there came a change as the wagon wheels rolled westward. The valleys seemed to have no streams in them, and the mountain ranges grew more and more broken, and in the lower ground a dry lake could be found, and water and grass grew scarce--so much so that both men and oxen suffered. These dry lake beds deceived them many times. They seemed as if containing plenty of water, and off the men would go to explore. They usually found the distance to them about three times as far as they at first supposed, and when at last they reached them they found no water, but a dry, shining bed, smooth as glass, but just clay, hard as a rock. Most of these dry lakes showed no outlet, nor any inlet for that matter, though at some period in the past they must have been full of water. Nothing grew in the shape of vegetables or plants except a small, stunted, bitter brush. Away to the west and north there was much broken country, the mountain ranges higher and rougher and more barren, and from almost every sightly elevation there appeared one or more of these dry lake beds. One night after about three days of travel the whole of the train of twenty seven wagons was camped along the bank of one of these lakes, this one with a very little water in it not more than one fourth or one half an inch in depth, and yet spread out to the width of a mile or more. It was truly providential, for by digging holes along the border the water would run into them and prove abundant for all, both oxen and men. If it had proved dry, as so many before had proved, or if we had been a few days earlier or later we might not have found a drop. This proved to be the last time the whole twenty seven wagons were gathered in one camp together. The Author came into camp about nine o'clock in the evening after climbing many peaks and taking a survey of the surrounding country with a field glass. Men from nearly every mess came to him to inquire what he had seen. They asked all sorts of questions and wanted an opinion as to the advisability of trailing across the prairie directly west, which then seemed easy. They were told that from what could be seen from the summit of buttes both north and south of the camp, ranging a hundred or so miles in almost every direction, it was believed no water could be found, between the present camp and a range of mountains which could be seen crossing the route far to the west. "Well," said Capt. Doty of the Jayhawkers, "I don't like to hear such discouraging talk from Manley, but I think we will have to steer straight ahead. The prospect for water seems to be about the same, west or south, and I cannot see that we would better ourselves, by going north." When morning came Capt. Doty and his party yoked up and set out straight across the desert, leaving seven wagons of the Bennett party still in camp. For some time all of us had seen in the range ahead an appearance of a pass, or lower place in the mountain, and we had got to calling it Martin's Pass, naming it after Jim Martin. There was a snow-capped peak just to the south of it and the pass, now apparently exactly west of the lake camp, seemed to the Jayhawkers easy to reach. Their wills were strong enough and they were running over with determination and energy enough to carry them over any plain, no matter how dry or barren, or over any mountain no matter how rugged and steep. Five days they traveled, without finding water, and small supply they took along had been consumed. For lack of water they could not eat or sleep. The oxen gathered round the little fire and seemed to beg for water, they had no cud to chew unless it was the cud of disappointment. The range of mountains they had been aiming for still seemed far away and the possible show for reaching it seemed very poor indeed, and the prospect of any water hole between them and the mountains poorer yet. Hope was pretty near gone. Martins mess unyoked their oxen from the wagons, put some small packs on their own backs, and loaded some upon the backs of the oxen, and turned south toward the nearest snowy mountain they could see, the same one towards which the Bennett party steered from the lake camp. The Doty party kept their courage longer and kept on straight ahead for another day, and then camped, almost without hope. No rest came to them, nor sleep. Towards morning as they stood around the fire a stray cloud appeared and hid the stars, and shortly after began to unload a cargo of snow it carried. They spread out every blanket, and brushed up every bit they could from the smooth places, kindled a little fire of brush under the camp kettles and melted all the snow all of them could gather, besides filling their mouths as fast as ever they could, hoping that it would full in sufficient quantities to satisfy themselves and the oxen, and quench their dreadful thirst. Slowly the cloud moved scattering the snowflakes till they felt relieved. The last time the Author conversed with a member of this party was in 1892, and it was conceded that this storm saved the lives of both man and beast in that little band of Jayhawkers. It was like manna falling from Heaven, and as surely saved their lives as did the manna of the Bible save the lives of the tribes of Israel. They had no reason to expect a storm of rain or snow, but came to them just as they were perishing. A little further on they came to a small stream of water, and as the bed showed only a recent flow it must also have come from the little local storm further up the mountain. They used this water freely, even though it was not very good, and it acted on them very much like a solution of Glanber Salts. They decided at first that they had better follow the stream southward, but after a little time, feeling the sickness caused by the water, they saw it was no advantage and turned west again, bearing to the north toward a sort of pass they could now see in the mountains in that direction. This stream is now known as the Amargosa, or bitter, river. The new direction in which they marched gave them an up-hill route for thirty or forty miles, rough and barren, with no water or grass. There was no road or trail to follow, the oxen were as weak as their owners from drinking the bitter water, and the road needed some clearing and breaking in places before the wagons could pass. They moved quite slowly and reached the summit on the second night with the loss of a single ox. The Author would say here that this was the last ox which was allowed to die without using the flesh for food, and it was from this same one he cut a steak to eat on Christmas eve, 1849. From the summit they took a way down a dark, deep cañon having a steep slope, and very rocky and bad, but down which the oxen drew their loads much easier than when they came up, reaching water on the third day, where there were many springs, and a sort of coarse grass for the oxen. The place is now known as Furnace Creek. The Jayhawkers passed on, and here at these very springs was where the Author overtook the Rev. J.W. Brier delivering a lecture to his children on the benefits of an early education, as referred to in his narrative. As the Jayhawkers drove out of this Furnace Creek Cañon the valley into which they came was very narrow, the high, snow-capped mountain before them seemed steeper and rougher than ever, so steep in fact that it could not be ascended by a man on foot. A short distance below could be seen a lake containing water, and the pass toward which they had been directing their course seemed to the north of them. They therefore turned their course in that direction. The road was sandy, and the brush that grew on it was only a few inches high. On their way they came to an abandoned Indian camp occupied by one poor old blind red man. He would hold his mouth open like a young bird begging for something to eat. One man dropped kernels of parched corn into his mouth, but instead of eating them he quickly spit them out; it seemed that he had been left to die and could not or would not. His hair was white as snow. His skin looked about the color of a smoked ham, and so crippled was he that he crawled about like a beast, on all fours. It was barely possible that he had been left to watch, and that his great infirmities were only pretended, but they seemed genuine enough, and were doubtless true. They left him in peaceable possession of the spot and traveled on. They approached the base of the mountain in front of what they had all along supposed to be a pass, and found, as they had lately begun to suspect, that there was no pass that their wagons could be taken through, and they must be abandoned. The camp was poor. What little water there was had a salty taste, and they could only find here and there a bunch of the poorest grass. The oxen stood around as if utterly dispirited, and would sometimes make a faint effort to pick up and eat some of the dry brush that grew around the desolate camp. This camp is now known to be in the northern part of Death Valley, but then they knew no names for anything, but if dreariness and absence of life, and threatened danger all around were any indication, they might well have named it Death Valley as was afterwards done by the party with whom the Author traveled. The party had been brave till now, but when they realized that they must make pack animals of themselves, and trudge on, they knew not where, perhaps to only a lingering death, the keen edge of disappointment cut close, and they realized how desolate they were. They felt much inclined to attribute all their troubles to the advice of the Mormons. Some said that the plan was thus to wipe so many more hated Gentiles out of the way, and wishes were deep and loud that the Mormons might all be buried out of sight in the Great Salt Lake. They thought Lot's wife must have been turned to salt in the neighborhood, everything was so impregnated with saline substances, and the same result might come to them. But the inherent manhood of the little band came to their relief and they determined not to die without a struggle for escape and life. They killed some of their oxen, and took the wood of their wagons and kindled fires to dry and smoke the flesh so it would be light and easy to carry with them. They scattered all surplus baggage around the ground, carefully storing and saving the bit of bread that yet remained and dividing it equally among the party. They also divided the tea, coffee, rice and some such things, and each one agreed that he could not ask aught of his neighbor more. Knapsacks were improvised from parts of the wagon canvas, and long strips of canvas were made into a sort of pack harness for the oxen. It was a sad sight to see the strong and vigorous young men of a few days ago reduced to such straits; almost skeletons now, with no hope of nourishment to invigorate them. They made canteens by sewing a couple of small powder cans in cloth, with a band to go over the shoulders. The Jayhawkers were still making their preparations when the Martin party and Rev. J.W. Brier and family came up to their camp, having taken a circuit around farther to the south. The Martin party was already in marching order and this camp was so poor that they did not wait, but gave all their oxen they had left to Mr. Brier and said they could get on faster without them. They took a straight course over the hills and up the mountain, saying they believed they had provisions enough upon their backs to last them through, and that nothing should check their progress till they reached the other side, where they said were fertile valleys and plenty of chance to live. The Doty party, or Jayhawkers, when they were ready started first a northerly course to find a more favorable place to cross the range and drove their oxen with them, each with a small pack. They soon came to some good water, and after refreshing themselves turned westward to cross the great mountain before them. Both men and oxen were shod with moccasins made of raw-hide to protect the feet against sharp rocks. They could see no trail but merely picked out the best way to go. While climbing the steep mountain side they came across a dead ox left by some party that had gone before them. They cut out the tongue and some of the best meat and ate it to eke out their own small stock, and carried some pieces with them, but soon threw it all away but enough for a roast for supper. When it was getting dark they were almost at the summit, but there was no good camping place, and they saw a small fire light at a little distance and went to it, finding a poor lone camper taking care of himself. They camped here also. It seemed as if there were many men from the various parties scattered all around the country, each one seeking out the path which seemed to suit best his tender feet or present fancy, steering west as well as mountains and cañon would permit, some farther north, some farther south and generally demoralized, each thinking that as a last resort he would be able to save his own life. It seemed to be a question of will and endurance, strong hearts and keeping the body in motion. The weak and faint must fail, and the strong said to the weak;--"Stand up; be a man; don't fall down;" and so the strong spurred on the weak and kept them up as best they could. Down the mountain they went, on the west side and instead of Los Angeles, which some of them expected to see, they saw only a salt lake in the midst of a barren desert valley and their route lay directly across it. They traveled in several directions as they went across. One went across the valley on a strip of dried mud between two small lakes. Others followed down along the east side of the lake near the foot of the mountain, where they found some good water and an old Indian camp. They found some mosquite beans, which they did not know were of much use, but really, if they had known how to fix them up a little they would have been good food. Capt. Doty's mess crossed between the lakes on the strip of dry mud while others went on where it was still soft and left marks of their foot-steps. Both parties turned up a small cañon on the west side and began the ascent of a black and barren range, containing no water, but in the bed of the ravine near the summit they found some damp sand and tried to dig with their hands to find some of the precious fluid. But no water came, and in the morning one of their number Mr. Fish died and was left unburied on the barren rocks. No doubt his bones could be found there to-day. Turning west again, they had a down grade over a most barren and rocky road for many miles. The prospect from this point was any thing but cheering. To the left a large lake could be seen, and from their previous experience they concluded it to be salt, and the valley they were coming to was very sandy, and the hardest sort of footing for men and animals as weak as those of the party were. It must be crossed before there was any possibility of water, and when across it was quite uncertain whether they could obtain any. One of their number had already died of thirst and fatigue and all were suffering terribly. The valley seemed about eight miles across, and before they were half way over Mr. Ischam, one of their party sat down, perfectly exhausted, and said he could not take another step. No one was able to assist him or give him a drink of water, and they could not tarry to see if rest would refresh him. They could only look sadly at him and pass on in silence, for he seemed fast wasting away. The thought came to everyone that perhaps it would be his turn next to sit down and see the others pass on. In fact the probability of any more of them living another day was very poor, for they all grew weaker and weaker with every hour, and no one knew how many hours must pass before they could hope for water. There was not moisture enough in their poor bodies to make tears, and no one dare open his mouth, lest all the moisture suddenly evaporate and respiration cease. Those who had no cattle took different courses to reach the hills and mountains on the west side of this valley, hoping there to find water and signal to the others if they were successful. All except the two men managed to get across, and finding no water the packs were taken from the oxen and they were driven to the lake which appeared on the left. Reaching the lake they found the water red in color and so strong of alkali that no man or beast could take a single swallow. They drove the cattle back again with sad hearts, and almost despondent, for in the rough, dry rocks of the mountains there seemed no signs of water. But they were saved again. Those who bore farthest to the right in their course to the mountains, steering toward a pile of tremendous rocks, found a little stream of good water which flowed only a short distance and then sank into the sand. This good news spread rapidly, and all soon gathered at the little streamlet. It was slow work getting water for them all, but by being patient they were all filled up. Some took two canteens of water and hurried back to Mr. Ischam, whom they found still alive but his mouth and throat so dry and parched, and his strength so small that he was unable to swallow a single drop, and while they waited he breathed his last. With their hands and feet they dug away the sand for a shallow grave, placed the body in it, covered it with his blankets, and then scraped the sand back over again to make a little mound over their dead comrade. Perhaps if he could have walked a mile farther he might have lived, and but for the little trickling stream of water from the rocks they might all be dead, so slight were the circumstances that turned the scale to balance toward life or death. There was so little feed for oxen that they could gain no strength, but were much refreshed by the water and could still travel. One was killed here, and the meat, poor as it was, gave the men new strength. They all guessed it to be at least fifty miles to the base of the great snow mountain before them, and what there was between no one could tell, for there were hills and valleys between. Leaving the little spring their course led first up a small cañon, and when they reached the summit of the ridge a small valley covered with sage brush was before them, the most fertile spot they had seen for a long time. The descent to this valley was through another cañon which was filled with large boulders for much of the way, and over these it seemed almost impossible to get the cattle. They had seen no water since leaving the little stream, and the plain they were now approaching seemed thirty miles wide, with no signs of streams or springs. However just at the foot of the cañon they found a small water hole, but the water was so salt that even the oxen refused to drink it. They decided to make a push across the plain and endeavor to reach the other side in two days, and they knew there could be no water on its even expanse. The plain seemed quite an up grade from where they were to the base of the mountain. On the second day they all reached the point they were aiming for except Rev. J.W. Brier and family, and they came in one day behind. Every one looked out for himself and had no time nor strength to spare to help others. Here on a small bench overlooking the country to the south and east but still a long distance from the snow, they found some holes of water, and some bunch grass a little farther up the hill. Here was a large trail coming from the north and leading from this point westward. There were no signs of recent use, but there were many indications that it was quite ancient and had been considerably traveled in time past. This was quite encouraging to many of them and they declared they would follow this trail which would surely lead to some place well known, in a better country. They cared not whether it led to California, Mexico, or Texas, only that they might get out of this country which seemed accursed. Any place where they could get something to eat and drink would be better than this. Mr. and Mrs. Brier had some pretty hard struggles to get along, and everyone of this party has ever been loud in praise of the energy and determination of the brave little woman of the Brier mess. All agreed that she was by far the best man of the party. She was the one who put the packs on the oxen in the morning. She it was who took them off at night, built the fires, cooked the food, helped the children, and did all sorts of work when the father of the family was too tired, which was almost all of the time. They all said that he, like other ministers, had fallen out with any work but that of the tongue, and seemed perfectly willing for some one else to do the work. Mrs. Brier had the sympathy of everyone, and many would have helped her if they could. She waited on her big husband with untiring zeal, and still had time to care for the children with all of a mother's love. It seemed almost impossible that one little woman could do so much. It was entirely to her untiring devotion that her husband and children lived. Mr. Brier had but little sympathy or help from any one but her. Some were quite sarcastic in their remarks about the invalid preacher who never earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, and by their actions showed that they did not care very much whether he ever got through or not. They thought he ought to have asserted his manliness and taken the burden on himself, and not lean upon his delicate and trusting wife as he seemed to do. All are sure that it is to his faithful wife the Rev. J.W. Brier owed his succor from the sands of that desert. Looking back on the scenes of that day, the way the selfish dispositions of people were made manifest is almost incredible. Every one seemed to think only of saving his own life, and every spark of human sympathy and kindness seemed extinguished. A man would drink the last cup of water even if his neighbor choked. This camp was the same one which the Author mentions in his narrative, to which Rogers and himself crept so silently and carefully at night to ascertain whether the occupants were friends or foes. They were much pleased to find it was Capt. Doty of the Jayhawkers and his mess who had remained behind to dry the flesh of an ox they had killed when it could travel no longer. The others had gone on ahead, following the trail, leaving these to follow. They staid here two days, and it was while waiting here that the Rev. J.W. Brier came up as before related, and they all went on together when they moved. Nearly every man had carried a gun in the early days of the expedition, hoping to kill game, and to be well armed in case of attack by Indians or enemies, but they began to find that they were useless encumbrances, and first one and then another would throw away his fire-arms as a burden too great for a weary man to bear. There was no game, and the poor weak men hardly deemed their own lives worth defending against an enemy when a day or two of lack of water would end the matter of life at any rate. As they slept they dreamed the most tantalizing dreams of clear, rippling brooks of water; of wading knee deep in the most beautiful of ponds; of hoisting the old moss-covered bucket from some deep old well; of breaking and eating great white loaves of bread; of surrounding the home table with its load of steaming beans and bacon, fragrant coffee and delicious fried cakes. With such dreams of comfort, they awoke to realize more fully the terrors of their dry and swollen throats, the discomfort of empty stomachs. Water and food were the great riches of life to them then. Had piles of twenty-dollars pieces been on the one hand and a bucket of cold water on the other there is no doubt of the choice that would have been made. Seven or eight miles from this place were two branches to the trail. One led into the mountains toward the snow, and the other still bore southerly. They could see that some other party who had no oxen to drive had taken the more northerly route, which seemed to lead more directly in the direction of the mines of California. Those who came later, with animals thought it would be folly to try to cross the deep snow they could see on the mountains before them and concluded that it would be safer to the south of the snow line, braving the danger of scarcity of water, rather than to perish in the snow. Capt. Doty was willing to attempt the northern branch of the trail if the others so decided, but the general feeling was in favor of the more plain and open trail which led away from the snows. It is known that this Northern branch led over what is known as Walker's Pass, coming out at the Kern River. Taking then the southern branch, the party passed through a range of low mountains, and then the country before them seemed quite level for a hundred miles. They expected they would find much difficulty on account of water, as their experience had taught them that it was very scarce in such locations, but this trail when they came to follow it led them for eight or ten miles over a level piece of high land that looked as if it might have slid down from the high mountain at some day long past, and this easily traveled road brought them at last to the top of a steep hill, down which they went and found near the bottom, a small weak stream of water, but no grass, and but little fuel of any kind. (This was the same camp at which Rogers and the Author overtook the advance party.) Here they killed an ox, which made a good meal for all, and not much remained over, for many had no oxen and were getting out of all sorts of provisions. They depended much on the generosity of their fellow travelers. Many of them stood back, and waited till those who owned the food were satisfied, and were very grateful when they were invited to take even the poorest morsels. They could count the oxen and make a pretty close guess of how many days they could live in this way, even with the best probable fortune favoring them, and to the best of them there was but little hope, and to those who were dependent it seemed as if the fate of Fish and Ischam might be theirs almost any day. When the Author conversed with them at this camp he found them the first really heart-broken men he had ever seen. Some were men of middle age who had left good farms that gave them every need, and these they had left to seek a yellow phantom, and now there were yellow phantoms of a different sort rearing their dreadful forms all about them. They called themselves foolish gold hunters to forsake a land of plenty for a chance to leave their bones in a hot desert. More eyes than one filled with tears, and hopes in more than one breast vanished to almost nothing. More than one would gladly have placed himself back where he could have been assured of the poorest fare he ever saw upon his farm, for bread and water would have been an assurance of life, of which there seemed to be really but little expectation here. When they left this camp in the cañon the trail was between two high rocks, rising like walls on each side. In one place they were so near together that an ox could hardly squeeze through. In a very short time they came to a bunch of willows growing out in the open ground. The little bunch or grove was forty or fifty feet in diameter, and in the center was a spring of water. The center of the clump had been cleared out, making a sort of corral of bushes, enclosing the spring. On the outside there was quite a little growth of grass, which was a fortunate thing for their poor beasts. Away in the distance, rising up a little against the western sky they could see mountains with snow on them, and it seemed as if it were a journey of five or six days to reach them, but the good water and the grass bolstered up their spirits wonderfully for there was present relief and rather better prospects ahead. They were pretty sure that the wide plain held no water. Everything that would hold the precious drink was filled, and the best preparations made for what they believed was to be the final struggle for life. They rested one day and prepared for the very worst that might before them. Early in the morning when they could see plainest, they looked across the expanse before them and really it did not seem quite so barren, hot and desolate as the region they had passed, and they talked and hoped that this would be the last desert they must cross and that Los Angeles lay just beyond the sunny ridge they could dimly see ahead. There were some tears that more than one would not live to answer roll call on the other side, but it was the last hope, and worth an earnest, active trial. Early in the morning, much refreshed, they started on again with rather sober faces. That night one man insisted on sleeping with his clothes and boots all on, for he said if he died he wanted to die in full dress. Another day and some thought they could see trees on the mountains ahead of them, and this renewed their courage greatly. In the middle of the day they suffered greatly with the heat and the dry air seemed to drink up every bit of moisture from everybody. When they killed an ox they saved the blood and ate it. The intestines, cleaned with the fingers, made food when roasted on the fire, and pieces of hide, singed and roasted, helped to sustain life. The water was nearly all gone. Only power of will and strength of body had kept any. Capt. Asa Haines sat down one day and said he could go no farther, but his comrade, L.D. Stephens, who had kept a little rice, a little tea, and a dry crust of bread for time of need, took a little water in a cup and made some soup which he forced his friend to eat and soon he revived and was able to move on again. That was true friendship. The next night Stevens himself awoke and seemed perishing with thirst. He crawled over to Doty's bed and begged for just one sup of water, Doty in the goodness of his heart, took his canteen from under his head divided the last few drops with him and the death which threatened him was held off. Capt. Doty found it necessary to talk very seriously to those who mourned and talked of failing. He never gave up in the least. He encouraged all to make every step they could and know no such word as fail. When they said that death would be easier than life, he told them so, but that life was possible if they only willed it, and a better life than had been theirs. And so he kept them encouraged and kept them putting one foot before the other, pointing out the ever lessening distance to the mountain before them. He appealed to their manhood. "Be men," said he, "Be brave and courageous, and you have more strength than you believe." Thus by example and words he proved to be a true captain to his little band. Their water was all gone, every drop, and still the foot-hills seemed far away. The supply of meat ran out. Tom Shannon killed an ox, and when those who had cattle had taken some, the others who had none were told to divide the rest. There was no water to dress or cook it, but it helped to sustain life. Entrails, bones, sinews, bits of hide and everything was used. One man was seen with an ox horn, burning the end in the fire and gnawing away at the softened portion. It was something terrible to see human beings eating what the dogs would cast aside. One man saw some moist looking earth on the shady side of a bunch of brush and he dug down and got a handful of it, from which he tried to suck the moisture. He failed, and the bad taste of the earth made him suffer more than before. Many bones of horses and cattle now appeared along the trail. They seemed to have been there a long time, and some were partly decayed. On this waterless stretch one of their number, a Frenchman, wandered off, searching for water in little hollows or puddles, and never came back to camp. He was supposed to be dead, but ten years afterward some surveyors found him in a Digger Indian camp. An idea how selfish men will get under such circumstances may be gained by relating that on one occasion when an ox was killed the liver was carried to the brave little Mrs. Brier for herself and children, and she laid it aside for a few moments till she could attend to some other duties before cooking it. Darkness coming on meanwhile, some unprincipled, ungallant thief stole it, and only bits of offal and almost uneatable pieces were left to sustain their lives. That any one could steal the last morsel from a woman and her children surpasses belief, but yet it was plain that there was at least one man in the party who could do it. No one can fully understand or describe such scenes as this unless he has looked into just such hungry looking, haggard eyes and faces, a mixture of determination and despair, the human expression almost vanishing, and the face of a starving wolf or jackal taking its place, There are no words to paint such a state of things to him who has never seen and known. But there were true men, true, charitable hearts in that little band. Though death stared them in the face they never forgot their fellow men. As they slowly crawled along many would wander here and there beside the trail and fall behind, especially the weaker ones, and many were the predictions that such and such a one would never come up again, or reach the camp. Then it was that these noble souls, tired almost beyond recovery themselves, would take water and go back to seek the wandering ones and give them drink and help them on. More than one would thus have perished in the sands but for the little canteen of water carried back by some friend. Only a swallow or two would often revive their failing strength and courage, and with slow step they would move on again. How much good a crust of bread would have done such a poor creature. Bread there was none--nothing but the flesh of their poor oxen, wasted and consumed by days of travel and lack of food till it had no goodness in it. Even the poor oxen, every night seemed to be the end of their walking; every morning it was feared that that would be the last time they would be able to rise upon their feet. Already five or six days had passed since they left the camp at the willows where they had their last supply of water, and still they were on the desert. The journey was longer than they had expected, partly owing to the slow progress they had made for there were frequent stops to rest or they could not move at all. The mountains seemed nearer every day, and the trees were outlined more plainly each morning as they started out. Capt. Doty used every circumstance to encourage them. He would remark upon the favorable signs of water in the hills before them, and the hope that there might be some game to provide better meat than that of starving oxen. Thus he renewed their hope and kept alive their courage. He must have had a great deal of fortitude to hide his own sad feelings, for they must as surely have come to him as to any one, and to keep up always an air of hope, courage, and determination to succeed. If he had been a man of less spirit and good judgment it is very probable that many more would have been left by the wayside to die. About this point the trail which had been growing fainter and fainter, seemed to vanish entirely. One could move in almost any direction to right or left as he chose, and because of this, previous travel had doubtless scattered and thus left no trail. It was thought best that this company should spread out and approach the mountains in as broad a front as possible so as to multiply the chances of finding water, and so they started out in pairs, some to the right and some to the left, each selecting the point where water seemed most probable. Tom Shannon and a companion were one of these pairs. Tom was one of the few who still stuck to his gun, for he felt that it might save his life sometime. He and his companion separated about a mile, each looking at all points that showed the least sign of water. Suddenly a jack rabbit started from a bush, the first game Shannon had seen for more than a month. He pulled the rifle on him as he was making some big bound and had the good luck to nearly split his head open. Rushing up to his game he put his mouth to the wound and sucked the warm blood as it flowed, for it was the first liquid he had seen; but instead of allaying his fearful thirst it seemed to make it worse and he seemed delirious. A little way up the gulch he saw a rock and a green bush and steered for it, but found no water. He sat down with his back to the rock, his rifle leaning up near by, pulled his old worn hat over his eyes, and suffered an agony of sickness. He realized that life was leaving his body, and there he sat with no power to move and no desire to make an effort. It seemed as if he could see plain before him all the trail from where he sat, back over all the deserts, mountains and rivers to the old place in Illinois. He entirely forgot the present, and seemed unconscious of everything but the pictures of the past. The mind seemed growing freer from its attachment to the body and at liberty to take in his whole past life, and bright scenes that had gone before. How long he sat thus he knows not. His companion was fortunate in finding water, and when he had refreshed himself he set out to find poor Tom of whom he could see nothing. Going toward where he heard the shot he followed on till he saw him at the rock, almost doubled up, with his face concealed by his hat. "O! Tom!" said he, but there came no answering motion, and going nearer he called again and still no answer and no sign. Poor Tom had surely passed on to the better land, thought he, and salvation was so near. He approached and lifted the hat rim. There was a movement of the eyes, a quivering of the muscles of the face, and a sort of semi-unconscious stare such as precedes approaching dissolution. Quickly holding back his head he poured water between his lips from his canteen and it was swallowed. Then a little more, and then some more, and life seemed coming back again into a troublesome world, bringing pain with it, and the consciousness of a suffering body. After a time he felt better and was helped to his feet, and together they went to the water hole where they made a fire and cooked the rabbit which was the first savory meat they had tasted for a long time. Tom felt better and told his companion how he felt after tasting the warm rabbit's blood, and how he had nearly gone off into the sleep of death. "If you had been a little longer finding me," said Tom, "I should soon have been out of this sad world." They fired a signal gun, looked down at the bones of the rabbit, drank more water, and gradually felt new life coming to them. The mountains seemed more fertile, and there was brush and grass near by, timber farther up, and still higher a cap of snow extending far along the range, both north and south. Towards night on this eventful day the scattered travelers began to come slowly into camp attracted by the guns and the smoke of the fire made by those who first found the water. Some were nearly as far gone as Tom Shannon was, and great caution had to used in giving them water on their empty stomach. One man named Robinson became so weak before he got near camp that his companions placed him on the back of one of the animals and a man walked on either side to catch him if he fell off. When they got within a mile of the water he insisted that he was strong enough to take care of himself and not be watched every minute, and they relaxed their vigilance. He soon fell off, and when they went to him he refused to be put back on the animal again or to walk any farther. "Just spread my blankets down," said he, "and I will lie down and rest a little and after a while I will come along into camp." So they left him and pushed on to water, and when they were a little refreshed went back to him with water, and to help him to come in, but when they came to him they found him dead. He did not seem to have moved after he had lain down. He did not seem so bad off as Shannon was when he lay down, and probably a few swallows of water at that time would have saved his life. It seemed sad indeed, after so much suffering and striving to get along, that he should die within a mile of water that would have saved his life. If he had possessed a little more strength so that the spark of life could have remained a little longer, the cooling moisture from the canteen would have revived it, and a little rest would have placed him on his feet again. They had no tools to dig a grave, not even a knife for they had left every weight in camp, so they covered him closely in his blankets and sadly returned to their friends. They had all along hoped that the Frenchman who had wandered away would come in, but he never came. There were several water holes scattered around at this point which seemed to be a sort of sunken place in the hills, and quite large brush could be obtained for fire, and grass for the oxen. Those who had been good hunters and had thrown away their rifles as useless burdens, now began to look at hills before them and think that game might be found in them, as well as water. There were only one or two guns in the whole party, They thought that this must surely be the edge of the great desert they had crossed, and only the snow range before them could be the obstacle that separated them from Los Angeles. One day from here would bring them to the edge of the snow, and they debated as to the best course to pursue. Some of them were fearful they could not cross the snow with the oxen, for it seemed to be quite deep. The best place to cross seemed directly west of them. South was a higher peak, and to the north it was surely impassible. There seemed to be a faint sign of a trail from this point towards the lowest point in the snow mountains. There were some bones of cattle around the springs which they thought was an indication that in years gone by there had been some traveling on this trail. There surely would be water in the snow which could be got by melting it, and on the whole it seemed best to make the attempt to cross at the lowest place. There were no signs of travel except the trail which had not been used in years, not signs of civilization except the bones. Starting from the water holes which showed no signs of having been used for several years, their next camp was, as they had calculated, on the edge of the snow where they found plenty of dry juniper trees for fire. and of course plenty of water. Here they killed an ox and fed the hungry so that they were pretty well refreshed. This was an elevated place and they could look back over the trail across the desert for, what seemed to them, a hundred miles, and the great dangers of their journey were discussed. Said one of them to Tom Shannon:--"Tom, you killed the first game we have come across in two months. Even the buzzards and coyotes knew better than to go out in into the country where the cursed Mormon saint sent us numbskulls." Another said that while they had been seeking a heaven on earth they had passed through purgatory, or perhaps a worse place still nearer the one from which sulphurous fumes arise, and now they hoped that there might be a somewhat more heavenly place beyond the snow. One who had been silent seemed awakened by inspiration and spoke in impromptu lines somewhat as follows, as he pointed out to the dim distance:-- "Yonder in mountains' gray beauty, Wealth and fame decay. Yonder, the sands of the desert, Yonder, the salt of the sea, Yonder, a fiery furnace, Yonder, the bones of our friends, Yonder the old and the young Lie scattered along the way." Some even confessed the desperate thoughts that had come to their minds when they were choking and starving. We have mentioned four of the train who had perished beside the trail and it will be remembered that one party of eleven started out on foot before the wagons were abandoned by the rest of the party. Nothing was heard of these for seven years, but long afterward nine skeletons were found at the remains of a camp, and the other two were afterward seen in the gold fields. When spoken to about this party, they burst into tears and could not talk of it. So it is known that at least thirteen men perished in the country which has well been named Death Valley. People who have always been well fed, and have never suffered from thirst till every drop of moisture seemed gone from the body, so they dare not open their mouth lest they dry up and cease to breathe, can never understand, nor is there language to convey the horrors of such a situation. The story of these parties may seem like fairy fables, but to those who experienced it all, the strongest statements come far short of the reality. No one could believe how some men, when they are starving take on the wild aspect of savage beasts, and that one could never feel safe in their presence. Some proved true and kind and charitable even with death staring them in the face, and never forgot their fellow men. Some that seemed weakest proved strongest in the final struggle for existence. Early next morning before the sun rose they started to cross the snow, leaving their comrade Robinson behind, rolled up in his blankets, taking his everlasting sleep so far as the troubles of this world are concerned. What the day would bring forth very few could have any idea. Go on they must, and this direction seemed most promising. If the snow should prove hard enough to hold up the oxen they could probably cross before night, but if compelled to camp in the snow it was a doubtful case for them. The snow held them as they advanced on it, but grew a little softer as the sun got higher. The tracks of both men and animals were stained with blood from their worn-out feet. When they turned the summit they found more timber and the ravine they followed was so shaded that the force of the sun was broken, and they really did not suffer very much from slumping through the snow, and so got safely over. Not far below the snow they found a running brook of clear, sweet water, with willows along the banks and trees on the hills, the first really good water for a month or two. This is the same camp where Rogers and his companion ate their meal of quail, hawk and crow a few days before, and these travelers knew by the remains of the little camp fire that they were following on the trail of the two men who had gone before. This place was so great an improvement on the camps of the past that all hands began to talk and act more rational as hope dawned more brightly on them. Those who had guns branched off to search for game, but found they were too weak for that kind of work, and had to sit down very often to rest. When they tried to run they stumbled down and made very poor progress. Capt. Doty, Tom Shannon and Bill Rude sat down to rest on a bold point above the creek. While there three wild horses came along within easy range, and thinking they would form better meat than the oxen each man picked his animal and all fired simultaneously, bringing them all to the ground. This seemed a piece of glorious luck, and all rushed in like wolves lifter a wounded animal. It was not very long before each had a chunk of meat in his hand, and many a one did not stop from eating because it was not cooked. Such declared they never ate anything so delicious in all their lives before, and wondered why horses were not used as food instead of hogs and cattle. As they satisfied their ravenous appetites they ate more like beasts than like men, so nearly were they starved, and so nearly had their starving condition made them fall from their lofty estate. As they passed on down this cañon they found it very brushy and on the dry leaves under the wide-spreading trees they saw signs of bear and perhaps other animals. There were some swampy places where it was grassy, and into these the cattle rushed with great eagerness for the food they had so long suffered for. Some of Mr. Brier's cattle went in, and in tramping around for food sank deep into the mud and could not be coaxed out again. Mrs. Brier threw clubs at them but they did not seem inclined to pay much attention to her attacks so she was forced to go in after them herself, and in so doing also sank into the mud and could not get out without assistance. All this time her reverend husband sat outside on the hard ground at a safe distance, but did not offer any help. Probably if an extended and learned lecture on the effects of gravitation would have done any good he would have been ready with prompt and extended service to one whom he had promised to love and cherish. About this time L.D. Stevens came along and seeing the condition of the unfortunate woman, at once went to her assistance and helped her to dry land. Brier himself never made a move nor said a word. Stevens looked terribly cross at him and remarked to his companions that if the preacher himself had been the one stuck in the mud he would have been quite inclined to leave him there for all of helping him. The cañon grew narrow as they descended, and the brush thicker, so that to follow the bed of the stream was the only way to get along. The cattle seemed to scent a bear and stampeded in terror through the brush in various directions, all except one which was being led by a rope. They tried to follow the animals in a desperate effort to recover them and a few blankets they had upon their backs, but could only make slow progress. Tom Shannon and two others found a fresh bear track and determined to follow it awhile in the hope of having revenge on the cause of their mishap with the oxen. They took their blankets and kept the trail till night when they camped, but were at so great an elevation that a snowstorm came with six inches of snow so they could no longer follow the track. They were very hungry and on the way back came across some wild cherries which had dried perfectly dry as they hung on the bushes. These they picked and ate, cracking the seeds with their teeth, and declaring them to be the best of fruit. Good appetites made almost anything taste good then. They got back to the creek next day pretty nearly starved, and with neither a bear nor runaway oxen to reward them for their two days' hard work. Wood and water were plenty, but grass was scarce and their ox had to live on brush and leaves, but this was infinitely better than the stunted and bitter shrubs of the desert. They came out of the brush at last into the open bottom land where the brook sank out of sight in the sand, and sage brush appeared all about. From this on, over the elevated point which projected out nearly across the valley, their experience and emotions in coming in sight of vast herds of cattle feeding on rolling grassy hills, or reclining under great oak trees scattered over the more level lands, were much the same as came to the Author and his party when the same scene was suddenly opened to them. Signs of civilization and of plenty so suddenly appearing after so many weeks of suffering and desolation was almost enough to turn their heads, and more than one of the stout-hearted pioneers shed tears of joy. Only a few days before and they could scarcely have believed it possible to find a spot so lovely. But to hungry, more than half starved men, points of artistic beauty and sober reflections over the terrors of the past found little place, and their first thought was to satisfy the cravings of hunger which were assuredly none the less when they beheld the numerous fat cattle all around them. There was no one to ask or to buy from and to kill and eat without permission might be wrong and might get them into difficulty, but one might as well ask a starving wolf to get permission to slay and eat when a fat lamb came across his path as to expect these men to take very much time to hunt up owners. When life or death are the questions that present themselves men are not so apt to discuss the right or wrong of any matter. Tom Shannon and a couple of others did not wait long at any rate, but crawled down the creek bed till they were opposite a few fine animals and then crept up the bank very near to them. Two or three shots rang out and as many fine cattle were brought down. The live cattle ran away and the hungry men soon had the field to themselves. Much quicker than can be told the men had fat pieces of meat in their hands which they devoured without cooking. The men acted like crazy creatures at a barbacue--each one cut for himself with very little respect for anyone. The boldest got in first and the more retiring came in later, but all had enough and gradually resumed more human actions and appearance. They had hardly finished their bloody feast when they saw a small squad of men on horseback advancing toward them, and as they came near it was quite plain that they were all armed in some way. All had lassoes at their saddles, some had old-fashioned blunderbusses, and nearly every one had a _macheta_ or long bladed Spanish knife. As the horsemen drew near they formed into something like military order and advanced slowly and carefully. It was pretty evident they thought they were about to encounter a band of thieving Indians, but as they came closer they recognized the strangers as Americans and passed the compliments with them in a rather friendly manner. Some of the Jayhawkers had been in the Mexican War and understood a few words of Spanish, and by a liberal use of signs were able to communicate with the armed party and tell them who they were, where they were going, and the unfortunate condition in which they found themselves. The men did not seem angry at losing so few of their cattle, and doubtless considered themselves fortunate in not suffering to the extent of some hundreds as they did sometimes by Indian raids, and invited the whole party down to the ranch house of the San Francisquito Rancho of which this was a part. Arrived at the house the ranch men brought in a good fat steer which they killed and told the poor Americans to help themselves and be welcome. This was on the fourth day of February, 1850. The whole party remained here to rest themselves and their oxen for several days, and were royally entertained by the people at the ranch. They talked over the plans for the future, and considered the best course to pursue. They thought it would be wise to keep their oxen for these would now improve in flesh, and as they had no money with which to buy food they might still rely on them in further travels. The best oxen had survived, for the failing ones were selected to be killed when they were forced to have food. The weaker of their comrades had perished in the desert, and the remainder of the train consisted of the strongest men and the strongest oxen, and there seemed to be no question but that they could all live in this country where grass and water were both abundant, and every sign of more or less wild game. Those of the company who had no cattle made their way directly to Los Angeles, and from thence to the coast from which most of them reached San Francisco by sailing vessel. Those who had no money were given a passage on credit, and it is believed that all such debts were afterwards honestly paid. Capt. Doty made a proposition to buy out the oxen of some who had only one or two, giving his note for them payable in San Francisco or anywhere up north they might chance to meet, and many of them accepted and went to the coast. In this way Doty secured oxen enough to supply one for each of those who decided to go with him. They decided to use them for pack animals to carry their blankets, and to proceed slowly toward the mines, killing game, if possible, and permitting their animals to graze and improve in condition as they moved. There must have been from twenty-five to forty people gathered at the ranch. Among them was the Rev. J.W. Brier who seemed to want to impress it on the new California friends that he was the man of all others to be honored. The ranchman was a good Catholic, and Brier tried to make him understand that he, also, was very devout. He said, and repeated to him very often--"Me preacher," but he did not succeed very well in impressing the good Californian with the dignity of his profession, for he could talk no Spanish and was not highly gifted in sign language. When they went away they had no way to reward their good friends who had been friends indeed to them. They could only look their thanks and express themselves in a very few words of Spanish. "_Adios Amigos_," said they to the scantily clothed travelers as they set out on their way to the mines. They followed down the course of the river that flowed through the valley, the Santa Clara River, and knew that it would take them to the sea at last. Before they reached the mission of San Buena Ventura, near the sea, they ran out of meat again, for they had failed to find game as they had expected, and Capt. Asa Haynes took the chances of killing a Spanish cow that looked nice and fat. They camped around the carcass and ate, and smoked the meat that was left. While thus engaged two horsemen approached, and after taking a good look at the proceedings, galloped off again. When the party arrived at the Mission they were arrested and taken before the alcalde to give an account of their misdeeds. They realized that they were now in a bad fix, and either horn of the dilemma was bad enough. They could not talk Spanish; they had no money; they had killed somebody's cow; they were very hungry; they might be willing to pay, but had no way of doing it; they did not want to languish in jail, and how to get out of it they could not understand. Luck came to them, however, in the shape of a man who could speak both English and Spanish, to whom they told their story and who repeated it to the alcalde, telling him of their misfortunes and unfortunate condition, and when that officer found out all the circumstances he promptly released them as he did not consider them as criminals. The cow was probably worth no more than ten dollars. At Santa Barbara they found a chance to trade off some of their oxen for mares, which were not considered worth much, and managed the barter so well that they came out with a horse apiece and a few dollars besides, with which to buy grub along the road. They depended mostly on their guns for supplying them with food. They supposed they were about three hundred miles from San Francisco, and expected to meet with but few people except at the Missions, of which they had learned there were a few along the road. At these there was not much to be had except dried beef. However, they managed to use the guns with fair success, and at last arrived safely at Stockton where they sold some of their horses for more than double what they cost, and with a small number of horses they packed on to the gold mines. Those of the party who went to Los Angeles managed in one way or another to get through on schooners, and many of them, after a year or two of hard work, made some money and returned to their homes in Illinois. It is hardly necessary to add that they did not return via Death Valley. Some years afterward the members of this party who had returned to their Eastern homes formed themselves into an organization which they called the Jayhawkers' Union, appointed a chairman and secretary, and each year every one whose name and residence could be obtained was notified to be present at some designated place on the fourth day of February which was the date on which they considered they passed from impending death into a richly promising life. They always had as good a dinner as Illinois could produce, cooked by the wives and daughters of the pioneers, and the old tales were told over again. One part of the program was the calling of the roll, and such reports and letters as had come to hand. The following is a list of the members of the party so far as can be ascertained, as gathered from recollections and from the reports of the meetings of the reunions. LIST OF JAYHAWKERS. The following named were living, so far as known, in 1893:--John B. Colton and Alonzo C. Clay, of Galesburg, Ill., Luther A. Richards, of Woodhull, Ill., Chas. B. Mecum, of Ripley, Iowa, John W. Plummer, of Tulon, Ill., Edward Bartholomew, Urban P. Davidson, John Crosscup and L. Dow Stephens, of San Jose, California, Harrison Frans and Thomas Shannon, of Los Gatos, Cal., J.W. Brier and wife, Lodi, Cal., three children of Mr. Brier. The following are supposed to be dead:--Ann Haines, Knoxville, Ill., Sidney P. Edgerton, formerly of Blair, Nebraska, Thomas McGrew, John Cole, Wm. B. Rude, Wm. Robinson and Alex. Palmer, of Knoxville, Ill., Marshall B. Edgerton, late of Galesburg, Ill. Wm. Ischam, of Rochester, N.Y., Mr. ---- Fish, of Oskaloosa, Iowa, John L. West, Aaron Larkin, Capt. Edwin Doty and Brien Byram, of Knoxville, Ill., Mr. ---- Carter, of Wisconsin, Geo. Allen, Leander Woolsey and Chas. Clark, of Henderson, Ill., Mr. ---- Gretzinger, of Oskaloosa, Iowa, and a Frenchman whose name is unknown. There were some others connected more or less with the party at some part of the trip, but not coming in with the Jayhawker organization. So far as learned, their names are as follows:--John Galler, Jim Woods and Jim Martin of Miss., Ed Croker of N.Y., David Funk, Mr. Town, Henry Wade, wife and three children, Nat Ward, John D. Martin, of Texas, Old Francis, a Frenchman, Fred Carr and Negro "Joe," from Miss. There were a great many reports about finding rich mines about this time, and these stories have been magnified and told in all sorts of ways since then, and parties have returned to try to find the great riches. Among the Jayhawkers were two Germans who could speak but little English and probably for this reason, kept apart from the remainder of the party. One day, after the wagons were abandoned these German fellows were marching along alone with their packs on their backs in the warm sun, suffering very much for want of water and food, when one of them sat down on a hill-side in pretty nearly absolute despair, while the other man went down into a ravine hoping to find a puddle of water in the rocky bottom somewhere, though it was almost a forlorn hope. All at once he called out to his partner on the hill--"John, come down here and get some of this gold. There is a lot of it." To this poor John Galler only replied:--"No, I won't come. I don't want any gold, but I would like very much to have some water and some bread." And so they left the valuable find and slowly walked on, pulling through at last with the rest of them, and reaching Los Angeles. The man who found the gold went to the Mission of San Luis Rey and started a small clothing store, and some time afterward was killed. John Galler settled in Los Angeles and established a wagon shop in which he did a successful business. He was an honest, industrious man and the people had great confidence in him. He often told them about what his partner had said about finding the gold in the desert, and the people gave him an outfit on two or three occasions to go back and re-locate the find, but he did not seem to have much idea of location, and when he got back into the desert again things looked so different to him that he was not able to identify the place, or to be really certain they were on the same trail where his companion found the gold. The Author saw him in 1862 and heard what he had to say about it, and is convinced that it was not gold at all which they saw. I told him that I more than suspected that what he saw was mica instead of gold and that both he and his partner had been deceived, for more than one man not used to gold had been deceived before now. "No sir!" said he, "I saw lots of gold in Germany, and when I saw that I knew what it was." The Author went back over that trail in 1862 and sought out the German on purpose to get information about the gold. He could not give the name of a single man who was in the party at that time, but insisted that it was gold he saw and that he knew the trail. The Author was able to identify with reasonable certainty the trails followed by the different parties, but found no signs of gold formation except some barren quartz, and this after an experience of several years in both placer and quartz mines. So honest John Galler's famous placer mine still remains in the great list of lost mines, like the Gunsight Lead and other noted mines for which men have since prospected in vain. CHAPTER XIV. Alexander Combs Erkson was one of the pioneers of 1849, having left the state of Iowa in the month of May, when he assisted in organizing a company known as the "Badger Company" at Kanesville, the object being mutual assistance and protection. This company joined the Bennett party mentioned so prominently in this history, at the Missouri, and traveled with them or near them to the rendezvous near Salt Lake where the new company was organized for the southern trip taken by the Death Valley party, the Jayhawkers and others. As the experience of Mr. Erkson was in some respects different to that of the parties mentioned, he having taken a different route for a part of the way, it was thought best to embody it in this history. The following was dictated to the editor of this book, and as Mr. Erkson died before the written account could be revised by him, it is the best that can possibly be obtained. * * * * * MR. ERKSON'S STATEMENT. "We arrived at the Mormon camp near Salt Lake, Salt Lake City, in the month of August. Several of us went to work getting out lumber for Brigham Young while we were waiting and resting. The mormons all advised us not to undertake to go on by the northern route, and as the travelers gathered at this point they canvassed the situation. We used our teams when we were at work for Brigham and assisted in building a dam across a cañon where he intended to build a woolen mill. I earned about a hundred dollars by my work, which was paid to me in ten-dollar pieces of a gold coin made by the Mormons. They were not like the U.S. coins. I remember one side had an eye and the words--'Holiness to the Lord.' We entered into an agreement with Capt. Hunt, a Mormon, to pilot us through, and turned all our gold into that company, thus bringing none of the Mormon gold with us. We went on with the company as has been related in the foregoing pages, till we arrived at Mt. Misery, so named by us, when we took the back track, while Mr. Manley and the others went on as they have related. We had meetings by the light of a greenwood fire, and the matter was talked up in little knots of people, and then some one would get up and speak. One J.W. Brier, a preacher, was the principal blower. 'You are going wrong!' said he, We should go west, and in six weeks we will be loaded with gold!' Hunt got a little confused at a place called Beaver Meadows, or Mountain Meadows, and thought perhaps he could find a new road. Several men were sent out to look, and some of us in camp played ball for amusement while we were waiting. Hunt's men came back and said there were no prospects of a new road, and he said he knew the southern route and believed it would be safe to go that way. He told us that we must decide the next day. When we came to the road where we were to separate he filed off on his road and the others filed off on their road and then came back with their whips in their hands. I had filed in after Hunt, and they tried to convince me that I was very wrong. A Mr. Norton of Adrian, Mich., promised Mrs. Erkson a horse to ride if she would go, and so I left Hunt and turned in on the other road, the hindmost wagon. This is going back a little with the history and bringing it up to Mt. Misery. On my way back from Mt. Misery I climbed up on a big rock and inscribed the date--Nov. 10, 1849. In our journey we came to what is called 'The rim of the Basin,' and traveled along on that a distance till we came to the Santa Clara River and saw where the Indians had raised corn and melons. We followed on down that stream and found our teams gradually failing. Noting this we decided to overhaul our loads and reject a lot of things not strictly necessary to preserve life. I know I threw out a good many valuable and pretty things by the roadside. I remember six volumes of Rollin's Ancient History, nicely bound, with my name on the back, that were piled up and left. We followed along near the Santa Clara River till it emptied into the Virgin River. It was somewhere along here that we first saw some Yucca trees. The boys often set fire to them to see them burn. The Virgin River was a small stream running on about the course we wanted to travel, and we followed this course for thirty or forty miles. We found plenty of wood and water and mesquite. After awhile the river turned off to the left, while we wanted to keep to the right, so we parted company there. We heard of a river beyond which they called the 'Big Muddy' and we went up a little arroyo, then over a divide to some table land that led us down to the Big Muddy. We made our wagons as light as possible, taking off all the boards and stakes we could possibly get along without. Wm. Philipps and others were placed on short allowance. They had an idea that I had more provisions in my wagon than I ought to have, but I told them that it was clothing that we used to sleep on. I divided among them once or twice. When we reached the Muddy we stopped two or three days for there was plenty of feed. It was a narrow stream that seemed as if it must come from springs. It was narrow between banks, but ran pretty deep, and a streak of fog marked its course in the morning. We understood it was not very far from where we left the Virgin River to the Colorado, some said not more than fourteen miles and that the Colorado turned sharply to the south at that point. Mr. Rhynierson and wife had a child born to them on the Virgin River, and it was named Virginia. It was a gloomy trip the whole time on the Muddy. I lost three or four head of cattle, all within a day and a night. Mrs. Erkson walked to lighten the load, and would pick all the bunches of grass she saw and put them on the wagon to feed the oxen when we stopped. I let them pass me and stopped and fed the cattle, and slept ourselves. It was said that we ran great risks from Indians, but we did not see any. I had at this time only two yoke of oxen left. We overtook the party next morning at nine o'clock, having met some of them who were coming back after us. All were rejoiced that we had come on safely. Here I met Elisha Bennett and told him my story. He said he could sell me a yoke of oxen. He had a yoke in J.A. Philipps' team and was going to take them out. He said nothing in particular as to price. I said that I wanted to see Mr. Philipps and talk with him about the matter, for he had said Bennett should not have the cattle. I went over to see him and spoke to him about Bennett's cattle and he told me they had quarreled and I could have them, and so we made a bargain. I gave twenty dollars for the cattle, the last money I had, and as much provisions as he could carry on his back. They were making up a party to reach the settlements at the Williams ranch, and I made arrangements for them to send back provisions for us. About thirty started that way--young men and men with no families with them. I got along very well with my new team after that. It was about forty miles from water to water, and I think we camped three times. At one place we found that provisions had been left, with a notice that the material was for us, but the red-skins got the provisions. We struck a spring called-----, a small spring of water, and a child of some of the party died there and was buried. We then went more nearly south to find the Mojave River, for we hoped to find water there. It was very scarce with us then, We had one pretty cold day, but generally fine weather, and to get along we traveled at night and a party struck the Mojave. Here there was some grass, and the mustard was beginning to start up and some elder bushes to put forth leaves. I picked some of the mustard and chewed it to try to get back my natural taste. Here the party divided, a part going to the left to San Bernardino and the remainder to the right to Cucamunga. I was with the latter party and we got there before night. Rhynierson said to one of the party--'Charlie, you had better hurry on ahead and try to get some meat before the crowd comes up.' Charlie went on ahead and we drove along at the regular gait which was not very fast about these times. We saw nothing of Charlie and so I went to the house to look for him and found him dead drunk on wine. He had not said a word to them about provisions. That wine wrecked us all. All had a little touch of scurvy, and it seemed to be just what we craved. I bought a big tumbler of it for two bits and carried it to my wife. She lasted it at first rather gingerly, then took a little larger sup of it, and then put it to her lips and never slopped drinking till the last drop was gone. I looked a little bit surprised and she looked at me and innocently asked--'Why! Haven't you had any?' I was afraid she would be the next one to be dead drunk, but it never affected her in that way at all. We bought a cow here to kill, and used the meat either fresh or dried, and then went on to the Williams, or Chino ranch. Col. Williams was glad to see us, and said we could have everything we wanted. We wanted to get wheat, for we had lived so long on meat that we craved such food. He told us about the journey before us and where we would find places to camp. Here we found one of the Gruwells. We camped here a week, meeting many emigrants who came by way of Santa Fe. We went on from here to San Gabriel where we staid six weeks to rest and recuperate the cattle. In the good grass we found here they all became about as fat as ever in a little while. Here the party all broke up and no sort of an organization was kept up beyond here. Some went to Los Angeles, some went on north, trading off their cattle for horses, and some went directly to the coast. We went to the Mission of San Fernando where we got some oranges which were very good for us. There is a long, tedious hill there to get over. We made up ten wagons. By the time we reached the San Francisquito Ranch I had lost my cattle. I went down to this ranch and there met Mr. and Mrs. Arcane getting ready to go to San Pedro. We came north by way of Tejon pass and the Kern River, not far from quite a large lake, and reached the mines at last. I remember we killed a very fat bear and tried out the grease, and with this grease and some flour and dried apples Mrs. Erkson made some pretty good pies which the miners were glad to get at a dollar and even two dollars apiece." Mr. Erkson followed mining for about a year and then went into other business until he came to Santa Clara Valley and began farming near Alviso. He has been a highly respected citizen and progressive man, He died in San Jose in the spring of 1893. * * * * * THE EXPERIENCE OF EDWARD COKER. Edward Coker was one of a party of twenty-one men who left their wagons, being impatient of the slow progress made by the ox train, and organized a pack train in which they were themselves the burden carriers. They discarded everything not absolutely necessary to sustain life, packed all their provisions into knapsacks, bravely shouldered them and started off on foot from the desert to reach California by the shortest way. Among those whom Mr. Coker can recollect are Capt. Nat. Ward, Jim Woods, Jim Martin of Missouri, John D. Martin of Texas, "Old Francis," a French Canadian, Fred Carr, Negro "Joe" and some others from Coffeeville, Miss., with others from other states. Mr. Coker related his experience to the Author somewhat as follows:-- "One other of the party was a colored man who joined us at the camp when we left the families, he being the only remaining member of a small party who had followed our wagon tracks after we had tried to proceed south. This party was made up of a Mr. Culverwell who had formerly been a writer in a Government office at Washington, D.C., a man named Fish claiming to be a relative of Hamilton Fish of New York, and another man whose name I never knew. He, poor fellow, arrived at our camp in a starving condition and died before our departure. The other two unfortunates ones died on the desert, and the colored man reported that he simply covered their remains with their blankets. I well remember that last night in camp before we started with our knapsacks and left the families, for it was plain the women and children must go very slow, and we felt we could go over rougher and shorter roads on foot and get through sooner by going straight across the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Our condition was certainly appalling. We were without water, all on the verge of starvation, and the three poor cattle which yet remained alive were objects of pity. It seemed almost a crime to kill the poor beasts, so little real food was there left on their skeleton frames. They had been so faithful and had plodded along when there seemed no hope for them. They might still serve to keep the party from starvation. It was at this camp that Mr. Ischam died. The night before our departure he came wandering into camp and presented such an awful appearance, simply a living skeleton of a once grand and powerful man. He must have suffered untold agony as he struggled on to overtake the party, starving and alone, with the knowledge that two of his companions had perished miserably of starvation in that unknown wilderness of rocks and alkali. Our journey on foot through the mountains was full of adventure and suffering. On our arrival at the shores of Owen's Lake not a man of the party had a mouthful of food left in his pack, and to add to our difficulties we had several encounters with the hostile Indians. There was a fearful snow storm falling at Owen's Lake on the evening that we arrived there, and we could make no fire. The Indians gathered around us and we did not know exactly what to make of them, nor could we determine whether their intentions were good or bad. We examined the lake and determined to try to ford it, and thus set out by the light of the moon that occasionally peeped out from behind the clouds, while the red devils stood howling on the shore. The following morning we found what was then known as the Fremont Trail, and by the advice of some friendly Indians who came into our camp, we kept the "big trail" for three days and came to Walker's Pass. While on this trail we were followed at night by a number of wild Indians, but we prudently avoided any collisions with them and kept moving on. Going on through the pass we followed the right hand branch of the trail, the left hand branch leading more to the south and across a wide plain. We soon came to a fair-sized stream, now known to be the south fork of the Kern River, which we followed until we came to its junction with a larger river, the two making the Kern River. Here we were taken across by some friendly Indians who left the Missions farther west during the Mexican war and took to their own village located at the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. At this village we were on exhibition for several hours with an audience of five hundred people or more, of the red men, and on the following morning we commenced the ascent of the mountains again, the Indians furnishing us with a guide in the person of an old Pi-Ute. He brought us over the range, through the snow and over the bleak ridges, in the month of December, 1849, and we made our first camp at an Indian village in Tulare Valley, a few miles south of where Porterville now stands. From this Indian village we walked on until we arrived at the present site of Millerton on the south bank of the San Joaquin River. Our sufferings were terrible from hunger, cold, and wet, for the rains were almost continual at this elevation, and we had been forced several times to swim. The sudden change from the dried-up desert to a rainy region was pretty severe on us. On our arrival at the San Joaquin River we found a camp of wealthy Mexicans who gave us a small amount of food, and seemed to want us to pass on that they might be rid of us. I can well believe that a company of twenty-one starving men was the cause of some disquietude to them. They gave us some hides taken from some of the cattle they had recently slain, and from these we constructed a boat and ferry rope in which we crossed the river, and then continued our journey to the mining camp on Aqua Frio, in Mariposa county. It is very strange to think that since that time I have never met a single man of that party of twenty-one. I had kept quite full notes of the whole trip from the state of New York to the mines, and including my early mining experience up to the year 1851. Unfortunately this manuscript was burned at the Russ House fire in Fresno, where I also lost many personal effects." In the year 1892 Mr. Coker was living in Fresno, or near that city, in fairly comfortable health, and it is to be hoped that the evening of his days, to which all the old pioneers are rapidly approaching, may be to him all that his brightest hopes pictured. CHAPTER XV. Having followed the various little parties into which the great train had resolved itself when it began to feel the pressure of suffering and trouble which came with contact with the desert, followed them in their various ways till they came through to the Pacific Slope, the travels and experiences of the Author are again resumed. It will be remembered that he had rested at Los Angeles, working for Mr. Brier who had temporarily turned boarding house keeper, and finally made arrangements with some drovers to assist in taking a small stock of horses north to the mines. His story is thus continued:-- We followed the wagon road which the companies that had gone on before had made, and got along very well. At night I acted independently--staked out my mule and ate my meal of dried meat and crackers--then joined the others around a large fire, and all seemed to enjoy the company. After a few days the two men who owned the horses proposed to me to let my mule carry the provisions, and they wanted me to ride one of their horses that was not carrying a pack, as they said it would keep it more gentle to ride it. To please the old gentleman from Sacramento I agreed to the proposition, for I thought perhaps by being accommodating I could get along more pleasantly. Thus we traveled on, over rolling hills covered with grass and wild flowers, and I was much pleased with all that I could see. For the first two days we did not pass a house, which shows how thinly settled the country was. Cattle were often seen, and sometimes horses, but people were very scarce. In time we went down a long, steep hill, then across a wide valley that supported a rank growth of vegetation, and came to a Mission called San Buena Ventura (good luck.) Here the men seemed scarce, but Indians and dogs plenty. The houses were of the same sort as at Los Angeles, except the church, all made of dried mud, and never more than one story high. As we journeyed along we came to the sea shore, the grandest sight in the world to me, for I had never before seen the ocean. What a wide piece of water it was! Far out I could see small waves coming toward the shore, and the nearer they came the faster they seemed to rush and at last turned into great rollers and breakers which dashed upon the rocks or washed far up the sandy shore with a force that made the ground tremble. There was no wind and I could not see what it could be that so strangely agitated the water. Here the waves kept coming, one after another, with as much regularity as the slow strokes of a clock. This was the first puzzle the great sea propounded to me, and there under the clear blue sky and soft air I studied over the ceaseless, restless motion and the great power that was always beating on the shore. I tasted the water and found it exceedingly salt, and I did not see how anything could live in it and not become in the condition of pickled pork or fish. Where was the salt to make this mighty brine pond, and why did it keep so when the great rivers kept pouring in their torrents of fresh waters? I did not understand, and these are some of the thoughts that came to the boy who had been raised upon the prairie, and to whom the great ocean was indeed an unknown sea. We followed along the road and in time came to another village and Mission called Santa Barbara. The village was near the shore, and the church farther back upon an elevated piece of ground near the foot of the mountain, overlooking the town and sea and much of the country to the south, west and east. The mountain was high and rough, and a point ran out into the sea making a sort of harbor. This town was built much as the others had been except perhaps the Mission which seemed better. The roofs were as flat as the floors and were covered with a sort of tar which made them water-proof. The material of the houses was sun-dried bricks, two feet long by one foot wide and four to six inches thick. There was no lime in the mortar of this mason work, and the openings in the walls had iron bars across them instead of sash and glass. Dried hides were spread upon the floors, and there was a large earthen jar for water, but not a table, bedstead or chair could be seen in the rooms we saw. A man came along, rode right in at the door, turned around and rode out again. The floor was so hard that the horse's feet made no impression on it. Very few men, quite a number of Indians, more women, and a still larger quantity of dogs made up the inhabitants. Leaving here the road led back from the sea shore and over quite a level table land, covered with a big growth of grass and some timber, and then down to the sandy shore again where the mountain comes so close that we were crowded down to the very water's edge. Here the never-tiring waves were still following each other to the shore and dashing themselves to pieces with such a noise that I felt awed to silence. What a strange difference in two parts of the earth so little distance from each other! Here was a waste of waters, there was a waste of sands that may some time have been the bottom of just such a dashing, rolling sea as this. And here, between the two, was a fertile region covered with trees, grass and flowers, and watered with brooks of fresh, sweet water. Paradise and Desolation! They surely were not far apart. Here I saw some of the queer things that wash on shore, for we camped close to the beach. It was a circumstance of great interest to me to see the sun slowly go down into the great ocean. Slowly and steadily it went, getting redder and redder as it went down, then it just touched the distant water and the waves dashed over more and more of its face till all was covered. Were it not for the strong, bright rays that still shot up across the sky one might think it was drowned forever, but in the morning it came up over the mountain top, having apparently made half the circuit of the globe. Soon after this the road left the shore and turned into the mountains. Another Mission was on this road, Santa Ynez, situated in a beautiful place but apparently in decay, for the men had gone to the mines, leaving the Indians, women, and dogs as in other places. San Luis Obispo was another Mission similarly inhabited, but the surroundings did not seem so pleasant as those we had seen before, although it bore signs that considerable had been done. From here our road bore still more north and we had a long mountain to work over, very rocky, and in some places barren. San Miguel was a Mission situated on the bank of a dry stream that evidently had seen plenty of water earlier in the season. The surrounding country was covered with scattering timber. Soledad was another place where there were some improvements, located on a small river, but nearly deserted like the other places. Prospects at the gold mines were so favorable that every man felt an irresistible desire to enrich himself, and so they left their families at the Missions and in the towns and rushed off to the mines. Nearly all of them expected to return by winter. I think I must stop right here and tell about the California carriages of which I had seen several at Los Angeles and at the Missions along our road. The first time I saw one it was a great curiosity, I assure you. The wheels were cut off the end of a sycamore log a little over two feet in diameter and each section about a foot long. The axle was a piece of wood eight inches square with a tongue fastened to it long enough to be used with a yoke of oxen, and the ends of the axle were roughly rounded, leaving something of a shoulder. The wheels were retained in place by a big lynch-pin. On the axle and tongue was a strong frame of square hewed timbers answering for bed pieces, and the bottom was of raw-hide tightly stretched, which covered the whole frame. Tall stakes at each corner of the frame held up an awning in hot weather. The yoke was fastened to the horns of the oxen by strong, narrow strips of raw-hide, and the tongue was fastened to the yoke in the same way. The driver was generally an Indian, armed with a small pole six or eight feet long, who marched on before, the oxen following after. I saw many a wagon like this, the platform well filled up with women and children, and a pack of dogs following along behind, slowly rolling over the country, and this is the way they traveled when they went visiting friends who lived a few miles in the country. Sometimes the wheels gave perfectly agonizing shrieks as they revolved, and when they made so much noise that their strong Spanish nerves could stand it no longer, if there was any green grass to be found the drivers would crowd in a quantity around the axle, and there was generally room for a good lot of it, to answer for a lubricator. We passed on from Soledad and shortly rose into the table land we had seen for some time before us. From here we could look north for a long way with no hill or mountain in sight; but our road led along on the east side of this treeless plain, so thickly covered with grass that we recalled some of the old tales of the grassy plains. We passed a landholder's house on the road, then crossed a range of low mountains and came to the Mission of San Juan (St. John) situated near the foot-hills, overlooking a level, rich appearing extent of valley land with a big vegetable growth all over it; in some places wild mustard which stood thickly and was from four to ten feet high. I thought what a splendid place it would be for the Yankees who are fond of greens. This was the first place since we left Los Angeles where we could buy any kind of breadstuff, and we were here enabled to get a change of diet, including greens. This seemed to be one end or side of another valley, and as we went along it seemed to widen away to the east; but our course was to the north, and we followed the road. The architecture of all the buildings except the churches was all the same, being built of the sun dried adobes or bricks made by mixing up a clay mud with tough grass and letting it get dry and hard. We saw the same kind of roof material as before, a sort of mineral tar which I supposed they must find somewhere about. I could imagine why the houses were built in this way, for when the Jesuit missionaries first came in they found the country occupied by Indians who used their arrows to good effect, as they were jealous of all outside occupation. The early settlers evidently made the walls of their dwellings thick and strong enough to resist all kinds of weapons used by Indians. They could not set fire to them for they were fire proof and arrow proof, and the hostile Indian could dance on the roof without being able to get in or do any injury. Thus the poor Indian was fairly beat and eventually became a better Indian. The Indians of what is now Nevada and Arizona used to come over into these rich valleys and clandestinely capture a band of a hundred or more head of cattle or horses and make their escape. They were often followed by the herders, but if they did not overtake the thieves before they got into the deep cañons of the mountains, they would usually turn back and let them go rather than be led into ambush in some strange narrow place where escape would be impossible and they might be filled with arrows. No doubt the trail we had followed across the plains, where there were so many horses' bones, was one of these trails along which the thieving Indians took their booty which died upon the trip. Our road from here was near the foot-hills on the west side of a level, grassy, thinly timbered valley, and as we advanced we noticed that the timber grew more plentiful and the trees larger, without much underbrush. We also noticed that the vegetation was ranker and no doubt the soil was very rich. We then came to a point where the mountain reaches out almost across the valley to meet the mountain on the east side. Here we found a gravelly creek with but little water, but as soon as we passed this point we saw the valley suddenly widening out, and beautiful groves of live oak trees scattered all around. The vegetation here was very rank, the mustard ten feet high in places, making it difficult to see out of the road. This was perhaps the strongest contrast to the arid desert that we had seen. As we went on down the valley the hills seemed to stand farther and farther back as if to make more room for those who would soon settle in this fertile place, and we soon came in sight of the village or pueblo of San Jose (St. Joseph) where we camped. Here we learned that the two owners of the horses intended to go to San Francisco instead of Sacramento, and as we considered the former place a very poor one for a penniless person to go we concluded to break up the company camp and each do the best he could for himself, for our objective point was the gold mines, and the sooner we reached them the better. The drovers who had been anxious to have us go with them and help them now began to talk about a settlement with us, as if they had done us great favors, and called on the other fellows to help pay for their board upon the way. When they came to me they said my share would be an ounce. This struck me hard, but they said I had ridden their horse all the way and the charge was very low. I told them I had furnished the most of the provisions I had eaten, and my mule had packed a good load all the way, which I considered worth as much as the use of the horse. But they refused to allow me anything for the use of the mule and became very urgent in their demand for money. These men were evidently of the tribe of Skinflint, who had no souls, or they would not have attempted to rob an almost penniless emigrant in this way of the last few dollars he had, and all the hope he had of reaching the mines. I did not desire to give up to such narrow principles as this and hesitated, but they were bound to have the money or make a quarrel, and talked pretty loud of the way they collected debts in Sacramento, so that to avoid trouble and get out of the clutches of such mean scoundrels as these I counted out sixteen dollars, almost every cent I had, and reluctantly gave them to my enemy. I immediately mounted my mule, and without stopping to say goodbye rode off. I may have quoted a part of the speech Capt Hunt made when the party wanted to leave the trail and take the cut-off, especially that part where he alluded to their going to h--l. I very much fear the little piety my mother taught me was badly strained on that occasion, and I thought of a good many swear words if I did not say them, which I suppose is about as bad. I could see how cunningly they had managed to get me to ride their horse that it might serve as the foundation for a claim on me for about all the money I had in the world. I hitched my mule in the edge of the town and went in to look at the place. The houses were situated very much as in other places we had come through--scattered around over much ground and built low, but had a different style of roof, a peaked or sloping one, and covered with half round tile two feet or more long and an inch thick. One course of these would be laid with the hollow side up, and then a course with the hollow side down, covering the joints of the lower course. This allowed the air to circulate freely and was proof against rain. I saw no flat roofs such as I had seen down along the coast. I saw one gambling house and about all the men in town were gathered there, and some women, too. This was the busiest place in town and situated near the plaza. This was the largest town I had yet been in. There seemed to be plenty of women and lots of dogs, but the men were as scarce as they had been in any of the towns--gone to the gold mines to make a stake. I took in the sights pretty well, and there were a great many new things for me to see, and when pretty well satisfied concluded I would go back to my mule and camp in some place just out of town for the night. Before I reached my animal whom should I meet but my old traveling companion John Rogers whom I thought to be a hundred miles away by this time. We shook hands heartily and he told me that Bennett, Moody and Skinner were camped not far off, and he was still with them. He wore a pair of blue overalls, a blue woolen shirt and the same little narrow rimmed hat he had worn so long. I observed, too, that he was barefoot, and told him I had a dollar or two which he could take and get some shoes. He said it was no use for there was not a pair of shoes in the town to buy, and he had not found any material of which he could make himself a pair of moccasins. I told him how I had been swindled coming up, and he was about as angry as I had been. I think if I had known that my friend John Rogers had been so near I should have bidden the rascals an unceremonious good-bye and we would have been able to hold our own on a claim for the services of myself and mule. We went up to the place where our people were camped, perhaps a mile above town on the bank of a river, nearly dry, but where plenty of wood, water and grass were at hand; such a place as we had looked for in vain for many a weary day upon the desert. This was as far above Death Valley as a king above a pauper, and we hoped never to see such a country again. In camp we talked about moving on to the mines. Rogers said he was going to start next day, and in answer to exclamations of surprise that he should start off alone, he said that some fellows camped a little way down the river were going to start and he had made arrangements to go with them, as the Bennett party would not go yet for a week. In the morning he shook hands and bade us good-bye and good luck, and started off down the river bank, lost to us, as it proved, for many years. The next day as we were all sitting on the ground I felt a sort of moving of the earth under me and heard a rumbling sound that seemed very queer. It seemed there was a motion also to the trees around us. We all started and looked a little frightened, and Skinner said he believed it was an earthquake, for he said he could see the motion in a sort of wave. It was gone in half a minute. Moody said:--"How do you like California now?" I said I thought this part of it was a pretty good place for there was plenty of wood, water and grass, and that was better than we had seen in some places. He then went on to say that he had heard Mr. Bennett's story of their sufferings and narrow escape from death, and it was the most wonderful story he had ever heard. He said the idea of Mrs. Bennett walking over such a country for twenty-two days was almost beyond belief, for he would not have thought her able to walk one-third the distance. He never knew before how much women could do when they were called to do it, and they proved in emergencies to be as tough as any body. He said if he ever got back home he should move to give them all the rights and privileges of men for sure. One day I mounted my mule for a ride to the eastern foothills, and sat down on a little incline and overlooked the valley, a beautiful landscape, while my mule cropped the rich grasses in a circle described by the rope which confined him. I was always a great admirer of nature, and as I sat there alone I could see miles on miles of mammoth mustard waving in the strong breeze which came down over the San Francisco Bay just visible to the northward, and on the mountain summits to the west could see tall timber reaching up into the deep blue of the sky. It was a real contented comfort to be thus in the midst of luxuriance and beauty, and I enjoyed it, coming as it did at the end of the long and dreary road I had been traveling for the past twelve months. Up the Platte; across the Rockies; down the Green River cañons in my canoe; across the mountains to Salt Lake; out over the "Rim of the Basin," and across the desert, guided only by the fact that we knew the Pacific Ocean was to the west of us, and choosing our road as best we could in view of the lofty, snow-clad, impassible mountains; seeing thirteen of our comrades lie down never to rise again, and, when hope and strength were almost gone, to suddenly come out into a fertile region on the seventh of March, 1850. How I wished the fellows who slept in Death Valley could have seen this view. The change from all that barrenness and desolation to this beautiful, fertile country, covered with wild flowers and luxuriant live oaks, was as strong a contrast as one could imagine a sudden coming from purgatory to paradise in the space of a single hour. I waked up from my dreamy thoughts, mounted my mule and rode to camp. As I rode along the nimble ground squirrel, with his keen black eye, would climb to the top of the high mustard stalks to get a better view and, suspicious of an enemy within his almost undisputed territory, disappear in a wink to his safe underground fortress. Fat cattle and horses would appear before me a moment, and then, with a wild look and high heads, dash through the tall mustard out of sight. Next day my trip was toward the western hills, and before I came to them was confronted with an extensive stretch of chaparral brush, absolutely impenetrable, which I must go around or stop my progress in this direction. These thickets were a regular paradise for grizzly bears, for within the protection of this matted and thorny growth he is as safe as is the soldier in the rocky fort of Gibraltar. I soon found a way around the brush and rose high enough so that a backward look over the valley was charming, quite as much so as the eastern side. I wandered over the grassy hills covered with great scattering oaks, and came to a grove of mammoth trees, six feet or more in diameter, with tops reaching two hundred or three hundred feet toward the blue sky. They seemed to me to be a kind of cedar, and were far larger and taller than any trees I had ever seen in the forests of Vermont, Michigan or Wisconsin, and in my long journey from the East the route had been principally through a country devoid of good timber. A stranger in a strange land, everything was new and wonderful. After satisfying my inquiring mind I returned to camp again, and soon learned that my newly discovered trees were the famous redwoods, so greatly prized for their valuable qualities. Taking the most direct course to camp I came, when within two or three miles of San Jose, to a large extent of willows so thick, and so thickly woven together with wild blackberry vines, wild roses and other thorny plants, that it appeared at first as if I never could get through. But I found a winding trail made by the cattle through the bushes and mustard, and this I followed, being nearly scared occasionally by some wild steers as they rushed off through the thickets. I got through safely, though it would have been difficult to escape a wild, enraged steer, or a grizzly had I met him face to face even with a rifle in hand. I could see nowhere but by looking straight up, for the willows were in places fifty feet high and a foot in diameter. The willows where I came from were mere bushes, and these astonished me. This bit of brush is still locally known as "The Willows," but the trees are all gone, and the ground thickly covered with orchards and fine residences, the land selling at from one thousand to two thousand dollars per acre. The sun rose without a cloud, and a little later the sea breeze from the bay blew gently over the valley, making the climate perfectly delightful in its temperate coolness, a true paradise on earth it seemed to me, if I was able to judge or set a value upon so beautiful a spot; and surely I had seen all sorts, good and poor, desert and valley, mountain and plain. But I was poor in purse, and resolved I would seek first the gold mines and secure gold enough to buy a piece of this valley afterward. When I had seen what was to be seen about San Jose I had a talk with my friends and found that Mr. Bennett favored going on to the mines at once and that Moody and Skinner thought they would remain a little while at least. I went along in company with Bennett, and when we got a little way from San Jose, on the road to the Mission, the road seemed walled in on both sides with growing mustard ten or twelve feet high and all in blossom. How so much mustard could grow, and grow so large, I could not understand. I had seen a few plants in the gardens or fields which people used for greens, and here seemed to be enough to feed the nation, if they liked mustard greens. The second day out we passed the big church at Mission San Jose and soon left the valley and turned into the mountains and when part way over we came to a stream which we followed up and came out into Livermore valley, where we found a road to follow. Houses were scarce, and we camped a mile or so before we got to the Livermore ranch buildings. There was very little sign of life about the place, and we soon went out of the valley and into the mountains again. The first sign of settlement we saw when part way through the mountains was a stone corral, but no house or other improvements. The next place was a small house made of willow poles set in the ground and plastered over with mud. This rejoiced in the name of "Mountain House." This wayside inn looked like a horse thief's glory; only one or two men, a quarter of an elk hanging on a pole, and no accommodations for man or beast. There was very little water, nothing to sell as well as nothing wanted. On the summits of the mountains as we passed through we saw, standing like guards, many large buck elks. It was now fifteen miles to the San Joaquin river, and a level plain lay before us. When our road turned into the river bottom we found the water too deep to get through safely, so we concluded to go on and try to find some place where we could cross. On our way droves of antelopes could be seen frolicking over the broad plains, while in the distance were herds of elk winding their way from the mountains towards the river for water. When far away their horns were the first things visible, and they much resembled the dry tops of dead pine trees, but a nearer view showed them to us as the proud monarchs of the plain. When we came up opposite the mouth of the Merced river we concluded to try again to cross. The river here, as below, was out of its banks, and the overflowed part was quite wide which we had to pass through before we could reach the river proper. I waded in ahead of the team and sounded the depth of the river so as not to get in too deep water, and avoid if possible such accidents as might otherwise occur. Sometimes the water was up to the wagon bed and it looked a little doubtful of our getting through in safety, but we made it at last. We found a narrow strip of dry land along the river bank. A town was on the east side of the San Joaquin. river, just below where the Merced river came in. I think this place was called Merced City. This so-called city contained but one residence, a tent occupied by the ferryman. We crossed the sluggish stream and for the privilege paid the ferryman, ten dollars for toll. The road was not much used and the ferry business seemed lonesome. Here we camped for the night. The mosquitoes soon found us, and they were all very hungry and had good teeth. They annoyed me so that I moved my lodgings to the ferryboat, but here they quickly found me and troubled me all night. These insects were the first I had seen since I left the lower Platte river, and I thought them as bad as on the Mississippi. From here the road led up the Merced river near the bottom, and as we came near groves of willows, big, stately elk would start out and trot off proudly into the open plains to avoid danger. These proud, big-horned monarchs of the plains could be seen in bunches scattered over the broad meadows, as well as an equal amount of antelope. They all seemed to fear us, which was wise on their part, and kept out of rifle shot. As were not starving as we were once, I did not follow them out on the open plain, for I thought I could get meat when we were more in need. We followed up the river bottom and saw not a single house until we reached the road leading from Stockton to the Mariposa mines, where we found a ferry and a small store. Here we learned that some men were mining a few miles up the river, so we drove on until we found a little work being done in a dry gulch near the river bank. We made our camp at this spot and had plenty of wood, water and grass. We found there was something to be learned in the art of gold mining. We had no tools nor money, and had never seen a speck of native gold and did not know how to separate it from the dirt nor where to search for it. We were poor, ignorant emigrants. There were two or three men camped here. One of them was more social than the rest and we soon got acquainted. His name was Williams, from Missouri. He came down to the river with a pan of dirt, and seeing me in my ignorance trying to wash some as well, he took the pan from me and very kindly showed me how to work so as to let the dirt go and save the gold. When he had the pan finished a few small, bright scales remained. These to me were curious little follows and I examined them closely and concluded there was a vast difference between gold and lead mining. Williams became more friendly and we told him something about our journey across the plains, and he seemed to think that we deserved a good claim. He went to a dry gulch where a Spaniard was working and told him that all of California, now that the war was over, belonged to Americans and he must leave. Williams had his gun in his hand and war might follow, so Mr. Spaniard left and his claim was presented to Bennett and myself. Williams had been twice to Santa Fe from Missouri and had learned the Spanish language and could swear at them by note if necessary. We now began work almost without tools, but our ground we had to work was quite shallow and Williams helped us out by loaning us some of his tools at times. We soon succeeded in scratching together some of the yellow stuff and I went down to the store and bought a pan for five dollars, a shovel for ten dollars, and a poor pick cost me ten dollars more. This took about two ounces of my money. We now worked harder than ever for about three weeks, but we could not save much and pay such high prices as were charged. Our gulch claim was soon worked out, and as the river had fallen some we tried the bar, but we could only make four or five dollars a day, and the gold was very fine and hard to save. We bought a hind quarter of an elk and hung it up in a tree and it kept fresh till all of it was eaten. Some others came and took up claims on the bar, and as the prospects were not as good as was wished, three of us concluded to go and try to find a better place. The next day was Sunday and all lay in bed late. Before I rose I felt something crawling on my breast, and when I looked I found it to be an insect, slow in motion, resembling a louse, but larger. He was a new emigrant to me and I wondered what he was. I now took off my pants and found many of his kind in the seams. I murdered all I could find, and when I got up I told Williams what I had found. He said they hurt nobody and were called _piojos_, more commonly known as body lice. We started on our prospecting tour and went northeast to a place now called Big Oak Flat. This was at the head of a small stream and there were several small gulches that emptied into it that paid well. This flat was all taken up and a ditch was cut through to drain it. A ship load of gold was expected to be found when it was worked. A small town of tents had been pitched on both sides of the flat. One side was occupied by gamblers, and many games were constantly carried on and were well patronized. On the opposite side of the flat were many small tents, and around on the hillside some mules and jacks were feeding. One of the little long-eared donkeys came down among the tents and went in one and commenced eating flour from the sack. The owner of the flour ran to the tent, took his shot gun and fired a load of buck-shot into the donkey's hams. The animal reeled and seemed shot fatally. I now looked for a battle to commence, but the parties were more reasonable. The price of the animal was fully paid, and no blood shed as I expected there surely would be. We now prospected further east, but nothing good enough was found. The place we looked over was where the town of Garota now stands. We concluded to go back, have a council, and go somewhere else. On our way back we stopped to get dinner. While I was around the fire, barefooted, I felt something crawl up my instep, and it proved to be another of those _piojos_ of Williams'. I now thought these torments must be all over this country. Gold dust was used to transact all business; all the coin was in the hands of the gentlemen gamblers. Most miners found it necessary to have a small pair of scales in the breast pocket to weigh the dust so as not to have to trust some one who carried lead weights and often got more than his just dues. Gold dust was valued at sixteen dollars an ounce. We now thought it would be best for two of us to take our mules and go down in the small hills and try to get some elk meat to take with us, as our route would be mostly through the unsettled part of the country, and no provisions could likely be procured, so Mr. Bradford of New Orleans and myself took our mules and went down where the hills were low and the game plenty. We camped in a low ravine, staked out our mules and staid all night without a fire, believing that when we woke in the early morning some of the many herd of elk then in sight would be near us at daylight, and we could easily kill all we wanted without leaving camp; but we were disappointed. Hundreds of the big-horned fellows were in sight, but none in rifle shot, and there was no chance for us to get any nearer to them. We got near a couple of antelope and Mr. Bradford, who was a brag shot and had the best gun, proposed to kill them as we stood. The larger of the two was on his side and much nearer than the smaller one, but we fired together just as we stood. Bradford's antelope ran off unhurt: mine fell dead in its tracks. Bradford bragged no more about his fine gun and superior marksmanship. We went back to camp with the little we had killed and soon got ready to start north. Bennett was to go with his team to Sacramento and wait there until he heard from us. Four of us, mounted on mules, now started on our journey along the foothills without a road. We struck the Tuolumne river at a ferry. The stream was high and rapid and could not be forded, so we had to patronize the ferryman, and give him half an ounce apiece. We thought such charges on poor and almost penniless emigrants were unjust. The point we were seeking to reach was a new discovery called Gold Lake on Feather River, where many rich gulches that emptied into it had been worked, and the lake was believed to have at least a ship load of gold in it. It was located high in the mountains and could be easily drained and a fortune soon obtained if we got there in time and said nothing to anyone we might meet on the road. We might succeed in getting a claim before they were all taken up. We followed along the foothills without a road, and when we came to the Stanislaus River we had to patronize a ferry and pay half an ounce each again. We thought their scale weights were rather heavy and their ferrymen well paid. We continued along the foothills without any trail until we struck the road from Sacramento to Hangtown. This sounded like a bad name for a good village, but we found it was fittingly named after some ugly devils who were hanged there. The first house that we came to on this road was the Mormon Tavern. Here were some men playing cards for money, and two boys, twelve or fourteen years old, playing poker for the same and trying in every way to ape the older gamblers and bet their money as freely and swear as loud as the old sports. All I saw was new and strange to me and became indelibly fixed on my mind. I had never before seen such wicked boys, and the men paid no attention to these fast American boys. I began to wonder if all the people in California were like these, bad and wicked. Here we learned that Gold Lake was not as rich as reported, so we concluded to take the road and go to Coloma, the place where gold was first found on the American River. We camped at Coloma all night. Mr. Bradford got his mule shod and paid sixteen dollars, or in the mining phrase, an ounce of gold dust. I visited the small town and found that the only lively business place in it was a large gambling house, and I saw money (gold dust) liberally used--sometimes hundreds of dollars bet on a single card. When a few hundred or thousand were lost more would be brought on. The purse would be set in the center of the table and the owners would take perhaps twenty silver dollars or checks, and when they were lost the deposited purse would be handed to the barkeeper, the amount weighed out and the purse returned. When the purse was empty a friend of the better would bring another, and so the game went on almost in silence. The game called Monte seemed to be the favorite. How long these sacks of gold lasted or who eventually got the whole I never knew. This was a new country with new people, and many seemed to be engaged in a business that was new, strange and hazardous. The final result of all this was what puzzled me. We now followed the road up the mountain to Georgetown. Here was a small village on the summit of the ridge and it seemed to be in a prosperous mining section. After some inquiry about a good place to work we concluded to go down a couple of miles northeast of town on Cañon creek and go to work if vacant ground could be found. There was a piece of creek bottom here that had not been much worked. Georgia Flat above had been worked and paid well, and the Illinois and Oregon cañons that emptied into the bottom here were rich, so we concluded to locate in the bottom. Claims here in the flat were only fifteen feet square. I located one and my notice told others that I would go to work on it as soon my partner came from Sacramento. I sent my partner, Mr. Bennett a note telling him to come up. While waiting for Mr. Bennett I took my pan and butcher knife and went into a dry gulch out of sight of the other campers and began work. As the ground was mostly bare bed rock by scratching around I succeeded in getting three or four pans of dirt a day. The few days I had to wait for Bennett I made eight dollars a day until my claim was worked out. I then went to Georgetown to meet Bennett and family, and soon after my arrival they came well and safe. All of them, even to the faithful camp dog, Cuff, were glad to see me. Old Cuff followed me all around town, but when we got ready to start for camp the dog was gone and could not be found. Some one had hidden him away knowing he could not be gotten any other way, for six ounces would not have bought him. We had raised him in Wisconsin, made him a good deer dog, and with us he had crossed the dry and sandy deserts. He had been a great protection to Bennett's children on the plains, and company for us all. We now located claims on the creek bottom. The channel of the creek was claimed by Holman of Alabama and the Helms brothers of Missouri. They had turned the stream into a ditch in order to work the bed of the stream, believing that their claims had all the gold in them. Our claims joined theirs. Mr. W.M. Stockton, who left his family in Los Angeles, came with Mr. Bennett and went to work with us. As everything here was very high we concluded to let Mr. Stockton take the team and go to Sacramento for provisions for our own use. Flour and meat were each fifty cents a pound, potatoes twenty-five cents a pound and onions one dollar and twenty-five cents each. Onions and potatoes eaten raw were considered very necessary to prevent and cure scurvy, which was quite a common complaint. Whiskey, if not watered, cost one dollar a drink. Our claims were about ten feet deep. The bottom was wet and a pump needed, so we went to a whip saw-mill and got four narrow strips one by three and one by five and twelve feet long, paying for them by weight, the price being twelve cents a pound. Out of these strips we made a good pump by fixing a valve at the end and nailing a piece of green rawhide on a pole, which answered for a plunger, and with the pump set at forty-five degrees it worked easily and well. One man could easily keep the water out and we made fair wages. In the creek bottom Mr. Bush of Missouri had a saloon. The building was made mainly of brush, with a split piece for a counter, and another one for a shelf for his whiskey keg, a box of cigars, a few decks of cards and half a dozen glasses, which made up the entire stock of trade for the shop. In front was a table made of two puncheons with a blanket thrown over all, and a few rough seats around. There was no roof except the brush, and through the dry season none was needed except for shade. There was also at this place five brothers by the name of Helms, also from Missouri. Their names were Jim, Davenport, Wade, Chet and Daunt. These men, with Mr. Holman, owned the bed of the stream, and their ground proved to be quite wet and disagreeable to work. Mr. Holman could not well stand to work in the cold water, so he asked the privilege of putting in a hired man in his place, which was agreed to. He then took up a claim for himself outside of the other claims, and this proved to be on higher bed rock and dry, and paid even better than the low claims where the Helms brothers were at work. This was not what the Helms boys considered exactly fair, as Holman seemed to be getting rich the fastest, and as there was no law to govern them they held a free country court of their own, and decided the case to suit themselves; so they ordered Holman to come back and do his own work. No fault was found with the hired man but what he did his work well enough, but they were jealous and would not be bound by their agreement. But this decision did not satisfy all parties, and it was agreed to submit the case to three men, and I was chosen one of them. We held Court on the ground and heard both sides of the story, after which we retired to the shade of a bunch of willows to hold council over the matter with the result that we soon came to a decision in favor of Mr. Holman. About this time one of the Helms boys began to quarrel with Holman and grew terribly mad, swearing all kinds of vengeance, and making the cañon ring with the loudest kind of Missouri oaths. Finally he picked up a rock to kill Holman, but the latter was quick with his pistol, a single shot duelling piece, and as they were not more than ten feet apart Helms would have had a hole in him large enough for daylight to shine through if the pistol had not missed fire. We stopped the quarrel and made known our decision, whereupon Helms went off muttering vengeance. We now went back to our work again at our claims, mine being between Helms' cabin and the saloon. Holman stopped to talk a little while on my claim, while I was down below at work, and soon Helms came back again in a terrible rage, stopping on the opposite side of the hole from Holman, swearing long and loud, and flourishing a big pistol with which he threatened to blow Holman into purgatory. He was so much enraged that he fairly frothed at the mouth like a rabid dog. The men were about twenty feet apart, and I at the bottom of the hole ten feet below, but exactly between them. It seemed to me that I was in some little danger for Helms had his big pistol at full cock, and as it pointed at me quite as often as it did at anybody, I expect I dodged around a little to keep out of range. Helms was terribly nervous, and trembled as he cursed, but Holman was cool and drew his weapon deliberately, daring Helms to raise his hand or he would kill him on the instant. Helms now began to back off, but carefully kept his eye on Holman and continued his abuse as he went on to the saloon to get something to replenish his courage. Holman, during the whole affair, talked very calmly and put considerable emphasis into his words when he dared Helms to make a hostile motion. He was a true Alabamian and could be neither scared nor driven. He soon sold out, however, and went to a more congenial camp for he said these people were cowardly enough to waylay and kill him unawares. Soon after this unpleasantness a man and wife who lived in Georgetown came into notice, and while the man made some money mining his wife did a good stroke of business washing for the boys who paid her a dollar a shirt as laundry fees. As she began to make considerable money the bigger, if not better, half of this couple began to feel quite rich and went off on a drunk, and when his own money was spent he went to his wife for more, but she refused him, and he, in his drunken rage, picked up a gun near by and shot her dead. All of a sudden the Helms boys and others gathered at the saloon, took drinks all around, and did a good deal of swearing, which was the biggest portion of the proceedings of the meeting; and then they all started off toward town, swearing and yelling as they struggled up the steep mountain side--a pack of reckless, back-woods Missourians who seemed to smell something bloody. It was near night when they all came back and gathered around the saloon again. They were all in unusual good humor as they related the adventures of the afternoon, and bragged of their bravery and skill in performing the little job they had just completed, which consisted in taking the murderer out to the first convenient oak tree, and with the assistance of some sailors in handling the ropes, hoisting the fellow from the ground with a noose around his neck, and to the "Heave, yo heave" of the sailor boys, pulling the rope that had been passed over an elevated limb. They watched the suspended body till the last spark of life went out, and then went back to town leaving the corpse hanging for somebody else to cut down and bury. They whooped and yelled at the top of their voices as they came down along the mountain trail, and at the saloon they related to the crowd that had gathered there how they had helped to hang the ---- who had killed his wife. They said justice must be done if there was no law, and that no man could kill a woman and live in California. They imagined they were very important individuals, and veritable lords of Creation. These miners, many of them, were inveterate gamblers and played every night till near day-light, with no roof over them, and their only clothes a woolen shirt and overalls which must have been a little scanty in the cool nights which settled down over the mountain camp; but they bore it all in their great desire for card playing. Near by there were three men who worked and slept together, every night dividing the dust which each put into a purse at the head of his bed. One day the news came to the saloon that one of the purses had been stolen. The Helms boys talked it over and concluded that as one of the men had gone to town, he might know something about the lost dust; so they went to town and there, after a little search, found their man in a gambling house. After a little while they invited him to return to camp with them, and all started together down the mountain; but when about half way down they halted suddenly under an oak tree and accused their man of knowing where his partner's money was. This he strongly denied, and was very positive in his denial till he felt the surprise of a rope around his neck, with the end over a limb, and beginning to haul pretty taut in a direction that would soon elevate his body from the ground, when he weakened at their earnestness and asked them to hold on a minute. As the rope slackened he owned up he had the dust and would give it up if they would not send the news to his folks in Missouri. This was agreed to and the thief was advised to leave at once for some distant camp, or they might yet expose him. He was not seen afterward. The boys bragged a good deal of their detective ability after this, and said that a little hanging would make a ---- thief tell the truth even if it did not make an honest man of him, and that a thief would be lucky if he got through with them and saved his life. Their law was "Hanging for stealing." The Helms brothers were said to be from western Missouri, and in early days were somewhat of the border ruffian order, and of course preferred to live on the frontier rather than in any well regulated society. As the country became settled and improved around them they moved on. A school house was an indication that the country was getting too far advanced for them. They crossed the plains in 1849 and began mining operations near Georgetown in Placer county. It was well known that they were foremost in all gambling, and in taking a hand in any excitement that came up, and as a better class of miners came in they moved on, keeping ahead with the prospectors, and just out of reach of law and order. If anyone else committed a crime they were always quite eager to be on the vigilance committee, and were remarkably happy when punishing a wrong-doer. When any of their number was suspected it was generally the case that they moved quickly on and so escaped. It was reported, however, that one of their number was in the hands of the vigilance committee and hanged in Montana. After a time, it is said, they went down to southern California and settled on the border of the Colorado desert, about seventy-five miles east of San Diego, in a mountainous and desert region. Here they found a small tribe of Indians, and by each marrying a squaw they secured rights equal to any of them in the occupation of the land. This was considered pretty sharp practice, but it suited them and they became big chiefs and midecine men, and numerous dusky descendants grew up around them. It is said that their property consists of extensive pasture lands on which they raise cattle, and that they always go well armed with pistol, rifle and riata. It is said that some of the Indians undertook to claim that the Helms brothers were intruders, but that in some mysterious way accidents happened to most of them and they were left without any serious opposition. They are very hospitable and entertaining to people who visit them, provided they do not know too much about the men or their former deeds or history. In this case ignorance is bliss and it is folly, if not dangerous, to be too wise. They have made no improvements, but live in about the same style as the Indians and about on a level with them morally and intellectually. There may be those who know them well, but the writer only knows them by hearsay and introduces them as a certain type of character found in the early days. As I was now about barefoot I went to town to look for boots or shoes. There were no shoes, and a pair of the cheapest boots I found hanging at the door were priced to me at two ounces. This seemed a wonderful sum for a pair of coarse cow-hide boots that would sell in the state for two dollars and fifty cents; but I had to buy them at the price or go barefoot. While rambling around town I went into a round tent used as a gambling saloon. The occupants were mostly men, and one or two nice appearing ladies, but perhaps of doubtful reputation. The men were of all classes--lawyer, doctors, preachers and such others as wanted to make money without work. The miners, especially sailors, were eager to try to beat the games. While I was here the table was only occupied by a sailor lying upon it and covered with a green blanket. All at once the fellow noticed a large _piojo_ walking slowly across the table, and drawing his sheath knife made a desperate stab at him, saying "You kind of a deck hand can't play at this game." Our claims, by this time were nearly worked out, and I thought that I had upward of two thousand dollars in gold, and the pile looked pretty big to me. It seemed to me that these mines were very shallow and would soon be worked out, at least in a year or two. I could not see that the land would be good for much for farming when no irrigation could be easily got, and the Spanish people seemed to own all the best land as well as the water; so that a poor fellow like myself would never get rich at farming here. Seeing the matter in this light I thought it would be best to take my money and go back to Wisconsin where government land was good and plenty, and with even my little pile I could soon be master of a good farm in a healthy country, and I would there be rich enough. Thus reasoning I decided to return to Wisconsin, for I could not see how a man could ever be a successful farmer in a country where there were only two seasons, one wet and the other long and dry. I went out and hunted up my mule which I had turned out to pasture for herself, and found her entirely alone. After a little coaxing I caught her and brought her with me to camp, where I offered her for sale. She was sleek and fat and looked so well that Helms said that if I could beat him shooting he would buy both mule and gun; so three or four of us tried our skill. My opponents boasted a good deal of their superior marksmanship, but on the trial, which began at short range, I beat them all pretty badly. Helms was as good as his word and offered me twelve ounces for my gun and mule, which I took. I thought a great deal of my fat little one-eyed mule, and I thought then, as I think now, how well she did her part on the fearful road to and from Death Valley. Helms was now going to the valley to have a winter's hunt, for here the snow would fall four feet deep and no mining work could be done till spring, when he would return and work his claim again. I now had all in my pocket, and when I got ready to go Mrs. Bennett was much affected at knowing that I would now leave them, perhaps never to return to them again. She clasped me in her arms, embraced me as she would her own son, and said "Good luck to you--God bless you, for I know that you saved all our lives. I don't suppose you will ever come back, but we may come back to Wisconsin sometime and we will try to find a better road than the one we came over. Give my best regards to all who inquire after us." She shook my hand again and again with earnest pressure, and cried and sobbed bitterly. As I climbed the mountain she stood and watched me so long as I was in sight, and with her handkerchief waved a final adieu. I was myself much affected at this parting, for with Mr. and Mrs. Bennett had been really a home to me; she had been to me as a mother, and it was like leaving a home fireside to go away from them. I was now starting out among strangers, and those I should meet might be the same good friends as those whom I had left behind. Mr. Bennett and I had for many years been hunting companions; I had lived at his house in the East, and we never disagreed but had always been good friends. I had now a traveling companion whose home was in Iowa Co., Wis., where I had lived for several years, and we went along together by way of Greenwood where there was a small mining town built of tents, many of which were used as gambling places. These places were occupied by gentlemen, some of whom wore white shirts to distinguish them, I presume, from the common herd of miners from whom they won their dust. We crossed the American River at Salmon Falls, and walked thence on to Sacramento City, which was the largest town we had seen on the coast. The houses were all small wooden ones, but business seemed to be brisk, and whiskey shops and gambling houses plenty. One game played with three cards, called three card Monte, was played openly on the streets, with goods boxes for tables. Every one who came along was urged to bet by the dealer who would lay out his cards face up so all could see them, then turn them over and shuffle them and say "I'll bet six ounces that no one can put his finger on the queen." I watched this a while and saw that the dealer won much oftener than he lost, and it seemed to be a simple and easy way to make a living when money was plenty. We strolled around town looking at the sights, and the different business places, the most lively of which had plenty of music inside, lots of tables with plenty of money on them, and many questionable lady occupants. These business places were liberally patronized and every department flourishing, especially the bar. Oaths and vulgar language were the favorite style of speech, and very many of the people had all the whiskey down them that they could conveniently carry. We got through the town safely and at the river we found a steamboat bound for San Francisco and the fare was two ounces. The runners were calling loudly for passengers, and we were told we could never make the trip any cheaper for they had received a telegram from below saying that no boat would come up again for two days. I said to him "I can't see your telegram. Where is it?" At this he turned and left us. He had thought, no doubt, that miners were green enough to believe anything. In the course of an hour the smoke of a steamer was seen down the river, and this beat out the runners who now offered passage for half an ounce. At this time there was no telegraph and the delay was a lucky one for us. We took passage and went to San Francisco that night, where we put up at a cheap tavern near where the Custom House now stands. Here we learned that we would have to wait two days before a ship would sail for Panama, and during this time we surveyed the town from the hill-tops and walked all over the principal streets. It was really a small, poorly built, dirty looking place, with few wharves, poor, cheap hotels, and very rough inhabitants. There were lots of gambling houses full of tables holding money, and the rooms filled with pretty rough looking people, except the card dealers, most of whom wore white shirts, and a few sported plug hats. There was also a "right smart sprinkling" of ladies present who were well dressed and adorned with rich jewelry, and their position seemed to be that of paying teller at the gambling tables. The buildings seemed to be rather cheap, although material was very expensive, as well as labor, mechanics of all sorts getting as much as ten or twelve dollars per day for work. Coin seemed to be scarce, and a great deal of the money needed on the gambling tables was represented by iron washers, each of which represented an ounce of gold. I noticed some places in the streets where it was muddy and a narrow walk had been made out of boxes of tobacco, and sometimes even bacon was used for the same purpose. Transportation from the city to the mines was very slow and made by schooner. Ship loads of merchandise had arrived and been unloaded, and the sailors having run away to the mines, everything except whiskey and cards was neglected. Whiskey sold at this place for fifty cents a drink. A man at the tavern where we stopped tried hard to sell me a fifty-vara lot there in the edge of the mud (near where the Custom House now stands) for six hundred dollars. I thought this a pretty high price and besides such a lot was no use to me, for I had never lived in town and could not so easily see the uses to which such property could be put. It seemed very doubtful to me that this place would ever be much larger or amount to much, for it evidently depended on the mines for a support, and these were so shallow that it looked as if they would be worked out in a short time and the country and town both be deserted. And I was not alone in thinking that the country would soon be deserted, for accustomed as we all had been to a showery summer, these dry seasons would seem entirely to prevent extensive farming. Some cursed the country and said they were on their way to "good old Missouri, God's own country." Hearing so much I concluded it would be wise not to invest, but to get me back to Wisconsin again. The steamer we took passage in was the Northerner, advertised to sail on the twenty-ninth day of November, 1850. The cabin room was all engaged, and they charged us nine ounces for steerage passage; but I did not care as much about their good rooms and clean sheets as I would have done at one time, for I had been a long time without either and did not care to pay the difference. When we were at the ship's office we had to take our turns to get tickets. One man weighed out the dust, and another filled out certificates. When the callers began to get a little scarce I looked under the counter where I saw a whole panful of dust to which they added mine to make the pile a little higher. They gave out no berths with these tickets, but such little things as that did not trouble us in the least. It was far better fare than we used to have in and about Death Valley, and we thought we could live through anything that promised better than the desert. The passenger list footed up four hundred and forty, and when all got on board, at about ten o'clock in the morning, there was hardly room for all to stand up comfortably. It seemed to me to be a very much over-crowded boat in which to put to sea, but we floated out into the current, with all the faces toward the shore, and hats and handkerchiefs waving goodbye to those who had come down to see the home-goers safely off. As we passed out through the wonderful Golden Gate and the out going current met the solid sea, each seemed wrestling for the mastery, and the waves beat and dashed themselves into foam all around us, while the spray came over the bows quite lively, frightening some who did not expect such treatment. When we had passed this scene of watery commotion and got out into the deeper water, the sea smoothed down a great deal; but sea-sickness began to claim its victims, at first a few, then more and more, till the greater part were quite badly affected. I had a touch of it myself, but managed to keep my feet by bracing out pretty wide, and hugging everything I could get hold of that seemed to offer a steady support, and I did not lie down until after I had thrown my breakfast overboard. By the time dark came nearly every one was on his back, mostly on deck, and no one asleep. All were retching and moaning bitterly. Some who had a few hours before cursed California now cursed the sea, and declared that if they could induce the Captain to turn about and put them back on shore again, they would rather creep on their hands and knees clear back to old Missouri over rocks and sand, than to ride any further on such a miserable old boat as this one was. Next morning the decks looked pretty filthy, and about all the food the passengers had eaten was now spread about the decks in a half digested condition. Most of the passengers were very sick. With the early daylight the sailors coupled the hose to the big steam pump, and began the work of washing and scrubbing off the decks, and though many begged hard to be left alone as they were, with all the filth, a good flood of salt water was the only answer they received to their pleading, and they were compelled to move, for the sailors said they could not change their orders without the Captain, and he would not be out of bed till ten o'clock or later. So the cursing and swearing went for naught, and the decks were clean again. There were no deaths to report, but there were very few to do duty at the tables in eating the food prepared for them. After a few days the tables filled up again, and now it took them so long to eat that there had to be an order for only two meals a day or there would not have been a chance for all to get something. They were terribly hungry now, and every one seemed to try his best to take in provisions enough to last him for at least twelve hours. As the fellows began to get their sea legs on, they began to talk as if they were still in California, and could easily manage any little boat like this, and could run things as they did when they crossed the plains, where no sheriff, court or judge had anything to say about matters, and all law was left behind. They began to act as if they were lords over all they could see, and as many of them were from the Southern states, they seemed to take an especial pride in boasting of how they did as they pleased, about like the Helms brothers. They talked as if they could run the world, or the universe even, themselves without assistance. One morning at breakfast, when the table was full and the waiters scarce, some of these fellows swore and talked pretty rough, and as a waiter was passing a blue-blood from New Orleans rose in his seat and called for sugar, holding the empty bowl in his hand, but the waiter passed on and paid no attention, and when a mulatto waiter came along behind him the angry man damned him the worst he could, ordering him to bring a bowl of sugar, quick. This waiter did not stop and the Louisiana man threw the bowl at the waiter's head, but missed it, and the bowl went crashing against the side of the ship. I expected surely the Captain and his men would come and put the unruly fellow in irons, and there might be a fight or a riot, so I cut my meal short and went on deck about as soon as I could do so, thinking that would be a safer place. But the Captain seemed to know about how to manage such fellows, and never left his stateroom, which I think was a wise move. The darky did not make his appearance at table afterwards, and the man who threw the bowl said that colored folks had to mind a gentleman when he spoke to them, or fare worse. The Captain now got out his passenger list, and we all had to pass through a narrow space near the wheel-house and every one answer to his name and show his ticket. This made work for about one day. Some stowaways were found and put down into the hole to heave coal. One day the Captain and mate were out taking an observation on the sun when a young Missourian stepped up to see what was being done, and said to the Captain:--"Captain, don't you think I could learn how to do that kind of business?" The Captain took the young man's hand and looked at his nails which were very rough and dirty and said:--"No my lad; boys with such finger nails can't learn navigation." This made a big laugh at the brave lubber's expense. Many of the sea-sick ones did not get up so soon, and some died of that, or something else, and their bodies were sewed up in blankets with a bushel of coal at their feet to sink them, and thrown overboard. The bodies were laid out on a plank at the ship's side, the Captain would read a very brief service, and the sailors would, at the appropriate time, raise the end of the plank so that the body slid off and went down out of sight in a moment. In due time we went into the harbor of Acapulco for water and coal. Here nearly every one went on shore, and as there was no wharf for the vessel to lie to, the native canoes had many passengers at a dollar apiece for passage money. Out back of town there was a small stream of clear water which was warm and nice to bathe in, and some places three or four feet deep, so that a great many stripped off for a good wash which was said to be very healthful in this climate. Many native women were on hand with soap and towels ready to give any one a good scrubbing for _dos reales_, (twenty-five cents) and those who employed them said they did a good, satisfactory job. As I returned to town the streets seemed to be deserted, and I saw one man come out on an adjoining street, and after running a few steps, fall down on his face. Hearing the report of a gun at the same time, I hurried on to get out of danger, but I afterward learned that the man was a travelling gambler who had come across the country from Mexico, and that he was killed as he fell. No one seemed to care for him. Near the beach were some large trees, and under them dancing was going on to the music of the guitar. There were plenty of pretty Spanish girls for partners, and these and our boys made up an interesting party. The girls did not seem at all bashful or afraid of the boys, and though they could not talk together very much they got along with the sign language, and the ladies seemed very fond of the _Americanos_. There was a fort here, a regular moss-backed old concern, and the soldiers were bare footed and did not need much clothing. The cattle that were taken on board here were made to swim out to the ship, and then, with a rope around their horns, hoisted on deck, a distance of perhaps forty feet above the water. The maddened brutes were put into a secure stall ready for the ship's butcher. The small boys came around the ship in canoes, and begged the passengers to throw them out a dime, and when the coin struck the water they would dive for it, never losing a single one. One man dropped a bright bullet and the boy who dove for it was so enraged that he called him a d----d Gringo (Englishman.) None of these boys wore any clothes. This town, like all Spanish towns, was composed of one-story houses, with dry mud, fire-proof walls. The country around looked very mountainous and barren, and comfortably warm. After two days we were called on board, and soon set sail for sea again; and now, as we approached the equator, it became uncomfortably warm and an awning was put over the upper deck. All heavy clothing was laid aside, and anyone who had any amount of money on his person was unable to conceal it; but no one seemed to have any fear of theft, for a thief could not conceal anything he should steal, and no one reported anything lost. There was occasionally a dead body to be consigned to a watery grave. A few days out from here and we were again mustered as before to show our tickets, which were carefully examined. It seemed strange to me that the water was the poorest fare we had. It was sickish tasting stuff, and so warm it would do very well for dish-water. There were many interesting things to see. Sometimes it would be spouting whales; sometimes great black masses rolling on the water, looking like a ship bottom upward, which some said were black-fish. Some fish seemed to be at play, and would jump ten feet or more out of the water. The flying fish would skim over the waves as the ship's wheels seemed to frighten them; and we went through a hundred acres of porpoises, all going the same way. The ship plowed right through them, but none seemed to get hurt by the wheels. Perhaps they were emigrants like ourselves in search of a better place. It now became terribly hot, and the sun was nearly overhead at noon. Sometimes a shark could be seen along-side, and though he seemed to make no effort, easily kept up with the moving ship. Occasionally we saw a sea snake navigating the ocean all by himself. I did not understand how these fellows went to sea and lived so far from land. The flying fish seemed to be more plentiful as we went along, and would leave the water and scud along before us. We had evening concerts on the forecastle, managed by the sailors. Their songs were not sacred songs by any means, and many of them hardly fit to be heard by delicate ears. We again had to run the gauntlet of the narrow passage and have our tickets looked over, and this time a new stowaway was found, and he straightway made application for a job. "Go below, sir" was all the Captain said. Several died and had their sea burial, and some who had been so sick all the way as not to get out of bed, proved tough enough to stand the climate pretty well. As we were nearing Panama the doctor posted a notice to the mast cautioning us against eating much fruit while on shore, as it was very dangerous when eaten to excess. We anchored some little distance from the shore and had to land in small boats managed by the natives. I went in one, and when the boat grounded at the beach the boatman took me on his back and set me on shore, demanding two dollars for the job, which I paid, and he served the whole crowd in the same way. The water here was blood warm, and they told me the tide ran very high. This was a strange old town to me, walled in on all sides, a small plaza in the center with a Catholic church on one side, and the other houses were mostly two story. On the side next to the beach was a high, thick wall which contained cells that were used for a jail, and on top were some dismounted cannon, long and old fashioned. The soldiers were poor, lazy fellows, barefooted, and had very poor looking guns. Going out and in all had to pass through a large gateway, but they asked no questions. The streets were very narrow and dirty and the sleeping rooms in the second story of the houses seemed to be inhabited by cats. For bed clothes was needed only a single sheet. On the roofs all around sat turkey buzzards, and anything that fell in the streets that was possible for them to eat, was gobbled up very quickly. They were as tame as chickens, and walked around as fearless and lordly as tame turkeys. In consideration of their cleaning up the streets without pay, they were protected by law. One of the passengers could not resist the temptation to shoot one, and a small squad of soldiers were soon after him, and came into a room where there were fifty of us, but could not find their man. He would have been sent to jail if he had been caught. We had to pay one dollar a night for beds in these rooms, and they counted money at the rate of eight dimes to the dollar. The old town of Panama lies a little south in the edge of the sea, and was destroyed by an earthquake long ago I was told. To me, raised in the north, everything was very new and strange in way of living, style of building and kind of produce. There were donkeys, parrots and all kinds of monkeys in plenty. Most of the women were of very dark complexion, and not dressed very stylishly, while the younger population did not have even a fig leaf, or anything to take its place. The adults dressed very economically, for the days are summer days all the year round, and the clothing is scanty and cheap for either sex. The cattle were small, pale red creatures, and not inclined to be very fat, and the birds mostly of the parrot kind. The market plaza is outside the walls, and a small stream runs through it, with the banks pretty thickly occupied by washerwomen. All the washing was done without the aid of a fire. On the plaza there were plenty of donkeys loaded with truck of all sorts, from wood, green grass, cocoa-nuts and sugar-cane to parrots, monkeys and all kinds of tropical fruits. Outside the walls the houses were made of stakes interwoven with palm leaves, and everything was green as well as the grass and trees. Very little of the ground seemed to be cultivated, and the people were lazy and idle, for they could live so easily on the wild products of the country. A white man here would soon sweat out all his ambition and enterprise, and would be almost certain to catch the Panama yellow fever. The common class of the people here, I should say, were Spanish and negro mixed, and they seem to get along pretty well; but the country is not suitable for white people. It seems to have been made on purpose for donkeys, parrots and long-heeled negroes. The cabin passengers engaged all the horses and mules the country afforded on which to ride across the Chagres River, so it fell to the lot of myself and companion to transfer ourselves on foot, which was pretty hard work in the hot and sultry weather. My gold dust began to grow pretty heavy as I went along, and though I had only about two thousand dollars, weighing about ten pounds, it seemed to me that it weighed fifty pounds by the way that it bore down upon my shoulders and wore sore places on them. It really was burdensome. I had worn it on my person night and day ever since leaving the mines, and I had some little fear of being robbed when off the ship. Our road had been some day paved with cobble stones. At the outskirts of the town we met a native coming in with a big green lizard, about two feet long, which he was hauling and driving along with a string around its neck. I wondered if this was not a Panama butcher bringing in a fresh supply of meat. When we reached the hills on our way from Panama, the paved road ended and we had only a mule trail to follow. The whole country was so densely timbered that no man could go very far without a cleared road. In some places we passed over hills of solid rock, but it was of a soft nature so that the trail was worn down very deep, and we had to take the same regular steps that the mules did, for their tracks were worn down a foot or more. On the road we would occasionally meet a native with a heavy pack on his back, a long staff in each hand, and a solid half-length sword by his side. He, like the burro, grunted every step he took. They seemed to carry unreasonably heavy loads on their backs, such as boxes and trunks, but there was no other way of getting either freight or baggage across the isthmus at that time. It looked to me as if this trail might be just such a one as one would expect robbers to frequent, for it would of course be expected that Californians would carry considerable money with them, and we might reasonably look out for this sort of gentry at any turn of the trail. We were generally without weapons, and we should have to deliver on demand, and if any one was killed the body could easily be concealed in the thick brush on either side of the trail, and no special search for anyone missing would occur. About noon one day we came to a native hut, and saw growing on a tree near by something that looked like oranges, and we made very straight tracks with the idea of picking some and having a feast, but some of the people in the shanty called out to us and made motions for us not to pick them for they were no good; so we missed our treat of oranges and contented ourselves with a big drink of water and walked on. After a little more travel we came to another shanty made of poles and palm leaves, occupied by an American. He was a tall, raw-boned, cadaverous looking way-side renegade who looked as if the blood had all been pumped out of his veins, and he claimed to be sick. He said he was one of the Texas royal sons. We applied for some dinner and he lazily told us there were flour, tea and bacon and that we could help ourselves. I wet up some flour and baked some cakes, made some poor tea, and fried some bacon. We all got a sort of dinner out of his pantry stuff, and left him a dollar apiece for the accommodation. As we walked on my companion gave out and could carry his bundle no longer, so I took it, along with my own, and we got on as fast as we could, but darkness came on us before we reached the Chagres River and we had to stay all night at a native hut. We had some supper consisting of some very poor coffee, crackers, and a couple of eggs apiece, and had to sleep out under a tree where we knew we might find lizards, snakes, and other poisonous reptiles, and perhaps a thieving monkey might pick our pockets while we slept. Before it was entirely dark many who rode horses came along, many of them ladies, and following the custom of the country, they all rode astride. Among this crowd was one middle-aged and somewhat corpulent old fellow, by profession a sea-captain, who put on many airs. The old fellow put on his cool white coat--in fact, a white suit throughout--and in this tropical climate he looked very comfortable, indeed, thus attired. He filled his breast pocket with fine cigars, and put in the other pocket a flask with some medicine in it which was good for snake bites, and also tending to produce courage in case the man, not used to horse-back riding, should find his natural spirits failing. The rest of his luggage was placed on pack animals, and in fact the only way luggage was carried in those days was either on the backs of donkeys or men. All was ready for a start, and the captain in his snow-white suit was mounted on a mule so small that his feet nearly touched the ground. The little animal had a mind of his own, and at first did not seem inclined to start out readily, but after a bit concluded to follow his fellow animals, and all went well. The rider was much amused at what he saw; sometimes a very lively monkey, sometimes a flock: of paroquets or a high-colored lizard--and so he rode along with a very happy air, holding his head up, and smoking a fragrant Havana with much grace. The road was rough and rocky, with a mud-hole now and then of rather uncertain depth. At every one of these mud-holes the Captain's mule would stop, put down his head, blow his nose and look wise, and then carefully sound the miniature sea with his fore-feet, being altogether too cautious to suit his rider who had never been accustomed to a craft that was afraid of water. At one of these performances the mule evidently concluded the sea before him was not safe, for when the captain tried to persuade him to cross his persuasions had no effect. Then he coaxed him with voice gentle, soft and low, with the result that the little animal took a few very short steps and then came to anchor again. Then the captain began to get slightly roiled in temper, and the voice was not so gentle, sweet and low, but it had no greater effect upon his craft. He began to get anxious, for the others had gone on, and he thought perhaps he might be left. Now, this sea-faring man had armed his heels with the large Spanish spurs so common in the country, and bringing them in contact with the force due to considerable impatience, Mr. Mule was quite suddenly and painfully aware of the result. This was harsher treatment than he could peaceably submit to, and at the second application of the spurs a pair of small hoofs were very high in the air and the captain very low on his back in the mud and water, having been blown from the hurricane deck of his craft in a very sudden and lively style. The philosophical mule stood very still and looked on while the white coat and pantaloons were changing to a dirty brown, and watched the captain as he waded out, to the accompaniment of some very vigorous swear words. Both the man and beast looked very doubtful of each other's future actions, but the man shook the water off and bestowed some lively kicks on his muleship which made him bounce into and through the mud-hole, and the captain, still holding the bridle, followed after. Once across the pool the captain set his marine eye on the only craft that had been too much for his navigation and said "Vengeance should be mine," and in this doubtful state of mind he cautiously mounted his beast again and fully resolved to stick to the deck, hereafter, at all hazards, he hurried on and soon overtook the train again, looking quite like a half drowned rooster. The others laughed at him and told him they could find better water a little way ahead, at the river, and they would see him safely in. The captain was over his pet, and made as much fun as any of them, declaring that he could not navigate such a bloody craft as that in such limited sea room, for it was dangerous even when there was no gale to speak of. The ladies did not blush at the new and convenient costumes which they saw in this country, and laughed a good deal over the way of traveling they had to adopt. Any who were sick were carried in a kind of chair strapped to the back of a native. Passengers were strung along the road for miles, going and coming. We would occasionally sit down awhile and let the sweat run off while a party of them passed us. Some were mounted on horses, some on mules, and some on donkeys, and they had to pay twelve dollars for the use of an animal for the trip. Our night at this wayside deadfall was not much better than some of the nights about Death Valley, but as I was used to low fare, I did not complain as some did. This seemed a wonderful country to a northern raised boy. The trail was lined on both sides with all kinds of palms and various other kinds of trees and shrubs, and they were woven together in a compact mass with trailing and running vines. The trees were not tall, and the bark was as smooth as a young hickory. The roots would start out of the tree three feet above the ground and stand out at an angle, and looked like big planks placed edgewise. It seemed as if there were too many plants for the ground to support, and so they grew on the big limbs of the trees all around, the same as the mistletoe on the oak, only there were ever so many different kinds. The weather was very clear, and the sun so hot that many of the travelers began to wilt and sit down by the roadside to rest. Many walked along very slowly and wore long faces. The road from Panama to Crucez, on the Chagres River, was eighteen miles long, and all were glad when they were on the last end of it. The climate here seems to take all the starch and energy out of a man's body, and in this condition he must be very cautious or some disease will overtake him and he will be left to die without burial for his body if he has no personal friends with him. We started on the next morning, and on our way stepped over a large ship anchor that lay across the trail. I suppose the natives had undertaken to pack it across the isthmus and found it too heavy for them. Perhaps it was for Capt. Kidd, the great pirate, for it is said that he often visited Panama in the course of his cruising about in search of treasures. Passing along a sandy place in the trail, a snake crossed and left his track, big as a stovepipe it seemed to be, and after this we kept a sharp watch for big snakes that might be in waiting to waylay us for game. There were plenty of monkeys and parrots climbing and chattering around in the trees. The forest is here so dense that the wind never blows, and consequently it never gets cool. The sun, ever since we got down near the equator, was nearly overhead, and the moon seemed to be even north of us. When we reached the Chagres River we hired a boat of an Irishman for the trip down. I wondered if there was a place on earth so desolate that the "Paddy" would not find it. The boat for the journey cost two hundred dollars, and would hold passengers enough so that it would cost us ten dollars each, at any rate, and perhaps a little more. Two natives had charge of the boat and did the navigating. There were two ladies among the passengers, and when the two natives, who I suppose were the captain and mate of the craft, came on board, clad very coolly in Panama hats, the ladies looked at them a little out of the corners of their eyes and made the best of it. Our two navigators took the oars and pulled slowly down the stream. Nothing but water and evergreen trees could we see, for the shore on either hand was completely hidden by the dense growth that hung over and touched the water. On a mud bar that we passed a huge alligator lay, taking a sun bath, and though many shots were fired at him he moved away very leisurely. No one could get on shore without first clearing a road through the thick brushes and vines along the bank. On the way one of our boatmen lost his hat, his only garment, into the river, and overboard he went, like a dog, and soon had it and climbed on board again. I wondered why some of the big alligators did not make a snap at him. The water in the run looked very roily and dirty, and no doubt had fever in it. The only animals we saw were monkeys and alligators, and there were parrots in the trees. The farther we went down the stream the wider it became, and the current slacker so that we moved more slowly with the same amount of rowing. At a place called Dos Hermanos (two brothers) we could see a little cleared spot near the bank, which seemed to be three or four feet above the water. There were no mountains nor hills in sight, and the whole country seemed to be an extensive swamp. It was near night that we came to a small native village of palm huts, and here our boatmen landed and hid themselves, and not being able to find them we were compelled to stay all night, for we dare not go on alone. The place looked like a regular robbers' roost, and being forced to sleep outside the huts, we considered it safest to sleep with one eye open. We would have gone on with the boat only that we were afraid the river might have more than one outlet, and if we should take the wrong one we might be too late for the steamer, which even now we were afraid would not wait for us, and getting left would be a very serious matter in this country. We had very little to eat, and all we could buy was sugar cane, bananas, monkeys and parrots. We kept a sharp eye out for robbers, keeping together as much as we could, for we knew that all returning Californians would be suspected of having money. Most all of them were ready for war except myself who had no weapon of any kind. All of these people had a bad name, and every one of them carried a long bladed knife called a Macheta, with which they could kill a man at a single blow. But with all our fears we got through the night safely, and in the morning found our boatmen who had hidden away. We waited not for breakfast, but sailed away as soon as we could, and reached Chagres, near the mouth of the river, before night. The river banks here are not more than three feet high, and farther back the land fell off again into a wet swamp of timber and dense vegetable growth. The town was small and poorly built, on the immediate bank, and the houses were little brush and palm affairs except the boarding house which was "T" shaped, the front two stories high, with a long dining room running back, having holes for windows, but no glass in them. Before the bell rung for meals a long string of hungry men would form in line, and at the first tap would make a rush for the table like a flock of sheep. After all were seated a waiter came around and collected a dollar from each one, and we thought this paid pretty well for the very poor grub they served afterwards. No ship had as yet been in sight to take us away from this lowest, dirtiest, most unhealthful place on earth, and the prospect of remaining here had nothing very charming about it. The river was full of alligators, so the bathing was dangerous, and the whole country was about fit for its inhabitants, which were snakes, alligators, monkeys, parrots and lazy negroes. It could not have been more filthy if the dregs of the whole earth had been dumped here, and cholera and yellow fever were easy for a decent man to catch. My companion and I went out on the beach a mile or two to get the salt water breeze, and leave the stinking malaria for those who chose to stay in the hot, suffocating village, and here we would stay until nearly night. Across a small neck of water was what was called a fort. It could hardly be seen it was so covered with moss and vines, but near the top could be seen something that looked like old walls. There was no sign of life about it, and I should judge it was built at some very early day. Surely there was nothing here to protect, for the whole country did not seem able to support even a few barefooted soldiers. Some men who wandered along up the river bank, following a path, said they had seen some dead human bodies thrown into the swamp and left, probably because it was easier than putting them under ground. For a bedroom I hired a little platform which a store keeper had placed before his store, where I slept, and paid a dollar for the privilege. Some one walked around near me all night, and I dared not close more than one eye at a time for fear of losing a little bag of gold dust. This little bag of gold was getting to be a great burden to me in this sickly climate, and the vigilant guard I had to keep over so small a treasure was very tiresome. The second night no steamer came, but on the third morning the steamer was riding at anchor three or four miles out, and soon after a ship came in from the Atlantic end of the Nicaragua route with one thousand passengers, there being no steamer there for them to take a passage home on, and so they had to come here for a start. This filled the little town to overflowing, but as the ship that had arrived was the Georga, one of the largest afloat, all could go if they only could endure the fare. We now had to go in small boats from the shore to the ship, and the trip cost two dollars and a half. I waited till I had seen some of the boats make a trip or two, and then choosing one that had a sober skipper, I made the venture. It was said that one drunken boatman allowed his boat to drift into some breakers and all were lost. I tell you I was over anxious to get out of this country, for I well knew that if I stayed very long I should stay forever, for one like myself raised in a healthful climate, could not remain long without taking some of the fatal diseases the country was full of. We made the trip to the vessel safely, and as our boat lay under the ship's quarter, the men holding the ropes, I looked up, and when I saw the swinging rope ladder on which I was expected to climb up to the ship's deck, it seemed a pretty dangerous job; but I mustered up courage and made the attempt. The sea was pretty rough out here for the small boats, and the ship rolled some, so that when persons tried to get hold of the ladder they were thrown down and sometimes hurt a little. A man held on to the lower end of the ladder so that the one who was climbing might not get banged against the side of the ship and have his breath knocked out of him, I mounted the ladder safely and climbed away like a monkey, reaching the deck all right. Ladies and weak people were hauled up in a sort of chair with a block and rope. It took the most of two days to get the people on board, and when they were counted up there were one thousand four hundred and forty, all told. This steamer had a very long upper deck and a comparatively short keel, and rolled very badly; and as for me, I had swallowed so much of the deadly malaria of the isthmus that I soon got very seasick, and the first day or two were very unpleasant. I went to the bar and paid two bits for a glass of wine to help my appetite, but it staid with me no longer than time enough to reach the ship's side. When night came the decks were covered with sleepy men, and if the weather had been rough and all sick, as was the case when we left San Francisco, we should have had more filthy decks than we had even on that occasion. Approaching the harbor at Havana, Cuba, we seemed to be going head foremost against a wall of solid rock, but when within speaking distance an officer came in sight on the fort right before us, and shouted through his speaking trumpet, saying:--"Why don't you salute us?" Our officer said, "You know us well enough without." Our ship had a small cannon on the forecastle, but did not choose to use it, and I suppose the Cuban officer felt slighted. We now turned short to the right and entered the beautiful harbor, which is perfectly landlocked and as still as a pond. The city is all on the right side of the bay and our coal yard was on the left at a short wharf at which we landed. A lot of armed soldiers were placed a short distance back on the high ground and no one was allowed to go beyond them. We now had a port officer on board who had entire charge of the ship, and if anyone wanted to go to the city, across the bay two or three miles, he had to pay a dollar for a pass. This pass business made the blue bloods terribly angry, and they swore long and loud, and the longer they talked the madder they got, and more bitter in their feelings, so that they were ready to fight (not with sugar-bowls this time.) The weather here was very warm and the heat powerful, and as these fellows saw there was only one course to be pursued if they wanted to get on shore, they slowly took passes good for all day and paid their dollar for them, and also another dollar each to the canoe men to take them to the city. Myself and companion also took passes and went over. Arriving at the city we walked a short distance and came to the plaza, which is not a very large one. Here was a single grave nicely fenced in, and across the plaza were some large two-story houses in front of which was stationed a squad of cavalry standing as motionless as if every man of them was a marble statue. We kept on the opposite side of the street, and chancing to meet a man whom we rightly supposed to be an Englishman, we inquired about the grave on the plaza and were informed that it was that of Christopher Columbus, the discoverer of America. Just then we noticed the cavalry moving up the street at a slow gallop, and so formed that a close carriage was in the center of the squad. As they rushed by and we gazed at them with purely American curiousity, our new English friend raised our hats for us and held them till the cavalcade had passed, merely remarking that the Governor General was within the carriage. We spoke perhaps a bit unpleasantly when we asked him why he was so ungentlemanly in his treatment of us as to remove our hats, but he said:--"My friends, if I had not taken off your hats for you as a friend, some of those other fellows would have knocked them off, so I did for you an act of greatest kindness, for every one removes his hat when the Governor General passes." He also informed us that the special occasion for this rather pompous parade was the execution of some criminals at a park or prison not far away, and that this was done by beheading them. Our friend proposed that we also walk out in that direction, and we went with him to the edge of the city, but when he turned into a by path that did not seem much frequented, we declined to follow farther, and turned back along the open road. The path looked to us a sort of robber's route, and not exactly safe for unarmed men like us in a strange country. The man followed us back and took us into a large, airy saloon, in the center of which a big fountain was playing, and the great basin in which the water fell was filled with beautiful fish. Our friend called for an iced drink for each of us, and as we sat at the table we tasted it and found it rather intoxicating. For this they charged us one dollar each, but we noticed that our friend paid nothing, and we set him down as a sort of capper, after the style we had seen at the gold mines. We sat a few minutes and then so coolly bade our friend good-bye that he had not the face to follow us further, and continued our walk about the streets which seemed to us very narrow, and the houses generally two stories high. A chaise passed us, containing two young ladies with complexions white and fair, and eyes and hair black, in striking contrast. The carriage was drawn by two horses tandem, the horse in the shafts being mounted by a big negro of very dignified appearance, dressed in livery and having top boots that came to his knees. This was the only vehicle of the kind we saw on the streets. We did not dare to go very far alone, for with our ignorance of the Spanish language we might go astray and not get back to the ship within the lifetime of our passes, and not knowing how much trouble that might cause us, we were naturally a little timid; so we took a boat back to the ship, and when on board again we felt safe. We had only about four dollars cash left. A big gang of darkies were coaling the ship. Each one carried a large tub full of coal upon his head and poured it down into the ship's hold. All the clothes these fellows wore was a strip of cloth about their middle. When they were let off for dinner they skimmed off all they could get from the ship's slop barrel which stood on the wharf alongside, to help out their very scanty food. The overseer stood by them all the time with a big whip and made them hurry up as fast as possible, talking Spanish pretty vigorously, and though we could not understand, we made up our minds that a good part of it was swearing. The next morning the steamship Prometheus came in and tied up near us, and soon word was brought that she would take the New Orleans passengers on board and sail immediately for that port. It now occurred to me that I could get nearer home by going up the Mississippi River than by way of New York, so I went on board the Prometheus, and we soon sailed out of the harbor, passing under the gate of the fortress called, I think, San Juan de Ulloa. Nothing special occurred during our passage till we were near the mouth of the Mississippi River, when, in the absence of a pilot boat or tug, our Captain thought he would try to get in alone, and as a consequence we were soon fast in the mud. The Captain now made all the passengers go aft, and worked the engine hard but could not move her at all. The tide was now low, and there was a prospect that we should have to wait full six hours to get away. We worked on, however, and after a few hours a tug came to our assistance and pulled us out of the mud and towed us into the right channel, up which we steamed on our way to New Orleans, one-hundred-twenty miles away. The country on both sides of us was an immense marsh--no hills in sight, no timber, nothing but the same level marsh or prairie. When we were nearer the Crescent City some houses came in sight; then we passed General Jackson's battle-field, and in due time reached the city. On board this ship I became acquainted with Dick Evans who lived in the same county that I used to in Wisconsin, near Mineral Point, so the three of us now concluded to travel together. New Orleans seemed to be a very large city. Near the levee a large government building was in course of construction for a Custom House. It was all of stone, and the walls were up about two stories. We put up at a private boarding house, and the first business was to try and sell our gold dust. So we went to the mint and were told we would have to wait ten days to run it through the mill, and we did not like to wait so long. We were shown all through the mint and saw all the wonders of coin making. Every thing seemed perfect here. Beautiful machinery was in operation making all sizes of gold coins, from a twenty dollar piece down. Strips of gold bands about six feet long and of the proper thickness for twenty dollar pieces are run through a machine which cuts out the pieces, and when these are cut they can stamp out the pieces as fast as one can count. This was the most ingenious work I ever saw, and very wonderful and astonishing to a backwoodsman like myself, for I supposed that money was run in moulds like bullets. As we could not wait we went to a bank and sold our dust, getting only sixteen dollars per ounce, the same price they paid in California. We now took the cars and rode out to Lake Ponchartrain--most of the way over a trestle work. We found a wharf and warehouse at the lake, and a steamer lay there all ready to go across to the other side. The country all about looked low, with no hills in sight. When we returned to the city we looked all about, and in the course of our travels came to a slave market. Here there were all sorts of black folks for sale; big and little, old and young and all sorts. They all seemed good-natured, and were clean, and seemed to think they were worth a good deal of money. Looking at them a few minutes sent my mind back to St. Joseph, Missouri, where I saw a black sold at auction. From my standpoint of education I did not approve of this way of trading in colored people. We continued our stroll about the city, coming to a cemetery, where I looked into a newly dug grave to find it half full of water. On one side were many brick vaults above ground. The ground here is very low and wet, and seemed to be all swamp. The drainage was in surface gutters, and in them the water stood nearly still. It seemed to me such water must have yellow fever in it. For a long way along the levee the steamboats lay thick and close together, unloading cotton, hemp, sugar, hoop poles, bacon and other products, mostly the product of negro labor. Here our friend Evans was taken sick, and as he got no better after a day or two, we called a doctor to examine him. He pronounced it a mild case of yellow fever. His skin was yellow in places, and he looked very badly. The doctor advised us to go on up the river, saying it was very dangerous staying here with him. Evans gave me most of his money and all of his gold specimens to take to his wife, and when he got well he would follow us. We bade him good-bye, and with many wishes for his speedy recovery, we took passage on a steamer for St. Louis. This steamer, the Atlantic, proved to be a real floating palace in all respects. The table was supplied with everything the country afforded, and polite and well-dressed darkies were numerous as table waiters. This was the most pleasant trip I had ever taken, and I could not help comparing the luxuriance of my coming home to the hardships of the outward journey across the plains, and our starvation fare. Our boat was rather large for the stage of water this time of year, and we proceeded rather slowly, but I cared little for speed as bed and board were extra good, and a first cabin passage in the company of friends, many of whom were going to the same part of Wisconsin as myself, was not a tedious affair by any means. At night gambling was carried on very extensively, and money changed hands freely as the result of sundry games of poker, which was the popular game. We reached St. Louis in time, and here was the end of our boat's run. The river had some ice floating on its surface, and this plainly told us that we were likely to meet more ice and colder weather as we went north. We concluded to take the Illinois River boat from here to Peoria, and paid our passage and stepped on board. We were no more than half way through this trip when the ice began to form on the surface of the water, and soon became so thick and strong that the boat finally came to a perfect standstill, frozen in solid. We now engaged a farm wagon to take us to Peoria, from which place we took regular stages for Galena. Our driver was inclined to be very merciful to his horses, so we were two days in reaching that town, but perhaps it was best, for the roads were icy and slippery, and the weather of the real winter sort. From here we hired a team to take four of us to Plattville, and then an eighteen-mile walk brought me to Mineral Point, the place from which I started with my Winnebago pony in 1849. I had now finished my circle and brought both ends of the long belt together. I now went to a drug store and weighed Mr. Evans' specimens, wrapping each in a separate piece of paper, with the value marked on each, and took them to his wife, to whom I told the news about her husband. In two week's time he came home sound and well. I was quite disappointed in regard to the looks and business appearance of the country. It looked thinly settled, people scarce, and business dull. I could not get a day's work to do, and I could not go much farther on foot, for the snow was eight or ten inches deep, and I was still several hundred miles from my parents in Michigan. So my journey farther east was delayed until spring. The hunting season was over, and when I came into Mineral Point without a gun, and wore good clothes, making a better appearance than I used to, they seemed to think I must be rich and showed me marked attention, and made many inquiries about their neighbors who started for California about the same time I did. The young ladies smiled pleasantly when near me, and put on their best white aprons, looking very tidy and bright, far superior to any of the ladies I had seen in my crooked route from San Francisco through Acapulco, Panama, the West Indies and along the Mississippi. After a few days in town I went out into the neighborhood where I used to live and stopped with Mr. E.A. Hall, who used to be a neighbor of Mr. Bennett, as he had invited me to stay with himself and wife, who were the only occupants of a good house, and all was pleasant. But notwithstanding all the comfort in which I was placed, I grew lonesome, for the enforced idleness, on account of the stormy weather, was a new feature in my life, and grew terribly monotonous. After some delay I concluded to write to my parents in Michigan and give them a long letter with something of a history of my travels, and to refresh my memory I got out my memorandum I had kept through all my journey. As my letter was liable to be quite lengthy I bought a quantity of foolscap paper and begun. I took my diary as my guide, and filled out the ideas suggested in it so they would understand them. I soon ran through with my paper and bought more, and kept on writing. The weather was cold and stormy, and I found it the best occupation I could have to prevent my being lonesome; so I worked away, day after day, for about a month, and I was really quite tired of this sort of work before I had all the facts recorded which I found noted down in my diary. My notes began in March, 1849, in Wisconsin, and ended in February, 1852, on my return to Mineral Point. I found, as the result of my elaboration, over three hundred pages of closely written foolscap paper, and I felt very much relieved when it was done. By the aid of my notes I could very easily remember everything that had taken place during my absence, and it was recorded in regular form, with day and date, not an incident of any importance left out, and every word as true as gospel. I had neither exaggerated nor detracted from any event so far as I could recollect. I now loaned Mr. Hall, with whom I lived, six hundred dollars to enable him to cross the plains to California and try to make his fortune. To secure this I took a mortgage on his eighty-acre farm, and he set out to make the journey. I had another eighty acres of land near here which I bought at government price before going to California, but I could not now sell it for what it cost me. When I went away I had left my chest and contents with my friend Samuel Zollinger, and he had kept it safely, so I now made him my lawful agent. I placed my narrative and some other papers in the chest and gave the key into his charge, while I went north, across the Wisconsin River, to visit my old hunting and trapping friend, Robert McCloud. Here I made a very pleasant visit of perhaps a week, and the common prospects of the country were freely talked over. It seemed to us as if the good times were still far off; every day was like Sunday so far as anything going on; no money in circulation, many places abandoned, and, like myself, many had gone to California to seek gold instead of lead. (The mines at Mineral Point are mostly of lead, with some copper.) Looking at matters in this light it did not need a great deal of McCloud's persuasion to induce me to go back with him to California, all the more so as my little pile seemed to look smaller every day, while three or four years ago it would have seemed quite large. Deciding to go, I wrote to Mr. Zollinger to send the account I had written to my parents in Michigan, reading it first himself, and admonishing him not to lend it. I also wrote to my parents telling them what they might look for in the mails, and cautioning them never to have it printed, for the writing was so ungrammatical and the spelling so incorrect that it would be no credit to me. I afterward learned that in time they received the bundle of paper and read it through and through, and circulated it around the neighborhood till it was badly worn, and laid it away for future perusal when their minds should incline that way. But the farm house soon after took fire and burned, my labor going up in smoke. When the news of this reached me I resolved to try to forget all the trials, troubles and hardships I had gone through, and which I had almost lived over again as I wrote them down, and I said to myself that I would not talk about them more than I could help, the sooner to have them vanish, and never write them down again, but a few years ago an accident befell me so that I could not work, and I back-slid from my determination when I was persuaded so earnestly by many friends to write the account which appeared a few years ago in the Santa Clara Valley now the Pacific Tree and Vine, edited by H.A. Brainard, at San Jose, California. The diary was lost, and from memory alone the facts have been rehearsed, and it is but fair to tell the reader that the hardest and worst of it has never been told nor will it ever be. CHAPTER XVI. McCloud and I now took his skiff, and for two days floated down the Wisconsin River till we reached the Mississippi, boarded the first steamboat we could hail, and let our own little craft adrift. In due time we reached St. Louis and boarded another steamer for New Orleans. At a wood-yard, about dark, a lot of negroes, little and big, came on board to sell brooms. The boat's clerk seemed to know negro character pretty well, so he got out his violin and played for them. For a while the young colored gentry listened in silence, but pretty soon he struck a tune that suited them, and they began to dance in their own wild style. In seven days from St. Louis we landed in New Orleans, and found the government steamer, Falcon, advertised to sail in two days. We went together to one of the slave warehouses. Outside and in all was neat end clean, and any day you could see men, women and children standing under the shed as a sign of what they had within, and the painted signs "For Sale" displayed conspicuously. We were very civilly treated, and invited to examine the goods offered for sale. There were those of all ages and all colors, for some were nearly white and some intensely black, with all the shades between. All were to be sold, separately, or in families, or in groups as buyers might desire. All were made to keep themselves clean and neatly dressed, and to behave well, with a smile to all the visitors whether they felt like smiling or not. Some seemed really anxious to get a good master, and when a kind, pleasant looking man came along they would do their utmost to be agreeable to him and inquire if he did not want to buy them. We talked it over some between ourselves, and when we thought of the market and the human chattels for sale there, McCloud spoke up and said:--"I am almost persuaded to be an abolitionist." I now went on board the steamer Falcon, in command of a government officer, to try to learn something about the family of Capt. Culverwell who perished alone in Death Valley. He told me he had once belonged to the Navy and had his life insured, and as I was an important witness for his family I wanted to learn where they lived. The Captain looked over a list of officers, but Culverwell's name was not there. I then wrote a letter to Washington stating the facts of his death, and my own address in Sacramento, California. I also stated that I would assist the widow if I could, but I never received an answer. We soon started down the river, having on board about one hundred passengers, men going to work on the Panama Railroad. At Chagres we found a small stern wheeled river steamer and took passage on it for Gorgona, as far as the steamer could well go up the river. While going up we met a similar boat coming down, and being near a short bend they crashed together, breaking down our guards severely, but fortunately with no damage to our wheel. A few miles above this a dark passing cloud gave us rain in streams, and we had to drift in near shore to wait for the storm to pass. I never before saw water fall so fast, and yet in half an hour the sun was out and burning hot. Before we reached Gorgona we got acquainted with a man named John Briggs from Wisconsin, and Lyman Ross from Rhode Island, and concluded to travel in company. Our fare thus far was ten dollars, and two horses to Panama for which we paid twelve dollars each. We now rode and walked turn about, and when we inquired about the road we were told that being once in it we could not possibly get out except at the other end, and would need no guide, and at the end of a very disagreeable day's work we reached the big gate at Panama and entered the ancient city. We waited but little here before taking the steamer Southerner, bound for San Francisco. Three days after we sailed away one of our passengers went overboard, a corpse, and three or four more died and were buried alongside before we reached Acapulco. Here we took on water and coal and were soon at sea again. McCloud soon had to take his place in the sick ward, and I attended him most of the time, but was not allowed to give him anything without a permit from the doctor, and the long delays between the administrations of medicine made the sickness hard to endure. The sick could see the dead sewed up in blankets with a bucket of coal for a weight; then resting on a plank with sailors on each side, the mate would read the brief services appropriate to a burial at sea, the plank was tilted, and the lifeless body slid down into the depths. Such scenes were no benefit to the suffering, for each might think his turn was next, when a bright hope and prospect would be better for his recovery. One forenoon the fire gong rang out sharply, and all was in confusion, supposing the ship to be on fire, but nothing could be seen but a dense fog, except as a gentle wind lifted it a little and there, dead ahead, was a rocky island, against which it seemed we must dash to destruction, for there was no beach and very little chance for any one to be saved. Ten minutes more in this direction and we were lost, but the officers quickly changed the course, and we passed the pile of rocks scarcely a rifle shot away. Whose fault it was, this danger so miraculously avoided, we did not know, the captain's or the imperfect chart, and opinions were freely given both ways. About those days the air felt cooler the fog less dense, and the foggy rain-bows we had seen so much when the sun tried to shine, were scarce, while a more northern wind created a coolness that made sick folks feel refreshed and hopeful. It gave me a chance to cheer up my sick friend who was still in bed, and tell him it would continue to be cooler as we went. On the Fourth of July the officers produced the ship's full supply of flags, and the sailors climbed high and low, fastening them to every rope till we had a very gay Independence day appearance. In this gay dress we steamed into San Diego harbor to leave the mail for a few soldiers stationed there, and get their letters in return. I could see no town in San Diego, but a beautiful harbor, and some poor looking mustard wigwams some way off seemed to contain the good people of that place. A boat with a small crew pulled out and came alongside to get the mail and deliver theirs, and then we turned to sea again. The country all around this beautiful little harbor looked mountainous and extremely barren, and no one wanted to go on shore. About dark we had made sufficient offing and turned northward, plowing through large fields of kelp. The next morning the forward watch announced land ahead, which could dimly be seen as the fog rose. The officers rushed on deck and could see not far ahead a sandy beach, and a moment more showed that we were headed directly for it, and that it was not more than a quarter of a mile away. Quickly the helmsman was given orders to steer almost west instead of the north course he had been following. He was asked why he kept on his north course when he saw danger ahead, and answered:--"It is my business to steer according to orders, even if the ship goes ashore, and I can not change course unless ordered to." The Captain now examined his chart and decided he was in San Pedro harbor, off Los Angeles. The sun came out bright and clear a little later, and I got McCloud out of his bed and gave him a seat at the ship's side where he could see the green grassy hills near the beach, and larger hills and mountains farther back. We could see cattle feeding in the nearest pastures, and the whole scene was a pleasant one; and as we sat on the eastern side of the ship and snuffed the cool breeze which came from the north, we thought we were comparatively happy people, and hoped that, if no accident befell, we would soon be at the end of our voyage. On the seventh day of July, 1851, we entered the Golden Gate, this being my second arrival in California. On our trip from Panama seven or more had died and been buried at sea, but the remainder of us were quite safe and sound. We found the heart of the city still smoking, for a fire had broken out on July fourth and burned extensively, and these broad, blackened ruins were the result. Some said the work had been done by the Sidney "ducks" and their numerous helpers, who were really the rulers of the city. The place now looked much worse than it did when I left in November before. These Sidney "ducks" were English convicts from Australia, and other thieves and robbers joined them as agreeable companion, making a large class that seemed to glory in destruction and a chance for booty. I walked around over the hills where I could see the burned district and the destruction of so much valuable property, and when I thought the civil law was not strong enough to govern, it seemed to me it would be a good place for such men as the Helms brothers of Georgetown to come down and do a little hanging business, for they could here find plenty to do, and they could carry out their plan of letting no guilty man escape. About four o'clock one afternoon we went aboard the Sacramento steamer, Antelope, paying our passage with half an ounce apiece, and were soon on our way past the islands and up the bay. When we were beyond Benicia, where the river banks were close, McCloud sat watching the shore, and remarked that the boat ran like a greyhound, and it seemed to him, beat the old ocean steamer pretty bad. He seemed to be nearly well again, and complimented me as the best doctor he ever saw. Since he had been sick I had paid him all the attention I could, and he gave me all the praise I deserved, now that he was getting to feel himself again. At Sacramento we changed to another boat bound for Marysville, which place we reached without special incident. Here we invested in a four-ounce donkey, that is, we paid four ounces of gold for him, just an ounce apiece for four of us--W.L. Manley, Robert McCloud, Lyman Ross and John Briggs. We piled our blankets in a pack upon the gentle, four-ounce donkey, and added a little tea and coffee, dried beef and bread, then started for the Yuba River, ourselves on foot. We crossed the river at Park's Bar, then went up the ridge by way of Nigger Tent, came down to the river again at Goodyear Bar, then up the stream to Downieville. This town was named after John Downie, a worthless drunkard. I remember that he once reformed, but again back-slid and died a drunkard's death. We found this a lively mining town about sixty miles above Marysville, on the north fork of the Yuba River, and only reached by a pack trail, but everything was flush here, even four aces. The location was a veritable Hole-in-the-Ground, for the mountains around were very high, and some of them wore their caps of snow all summer, particularly those on the east. The gold dust we found here was coarser than it was where I worked before, down south on the Merced River. Before I came to California I always supposed that gold dust was really dust, and about as fine as flour. We went up the North Fork about a mile or two above town and camped on Wisconsin Flat to begin our mining operations. Our luck was poor at first, and all except myself were out of money, and more or less in debt to me. We made expenses, however, and a little more, and as soon as Mr. Ross got his small debt paid he said he was discouraged mining, and with blankets on his shoulders started up the trail towards Galloway's ranch, on the summit south of town. Mr. Ross said the work was too hard for him, for he was not strong enough to handle pick and shovel, and he believed he could go down to Sacramento and make more by his wits than he could here. I went with him to town and saw him start off with a fair load on his back, and watched him as he toiled up the steep mountain trail for about two miles, when he went out of sight. The rest of us kept on mining. Our luck was not very good, but we persevered, for there was nothing to be gained by fainting by the way. I went into an old abandoned shaft about ten feet deep and found the bottom filled with a big quartz boulder, and as I had been a lead miner in Wisconsin, I began drifting, and soon found bed rock, when I picked up a piece of pure gold that weighed four ounces. This was what I called a pretty big find, and not exactly what I called gold dust. It was quite a surprise to me, for the gravel on the bed rock was only about three or four inches thick. We kept on drifting for some time, sometimes making good wages, and on the whole so satisfactory that we concluded to stay. We now located some claims back in the flat where the ground would be thirty feet deep, and would have to be drifted. These we managed to hold until winter, and in the meantime we worked along the river and could make something all the time. We put in a flume between two falls on the Middle Fork, but made only wages, and I got my arm nearly broken, and had to work with one hand for nearly a month. One afternoon I went crevicing up the river, and found a crevice at the water's edge about half an inch wide, and the next day we worked it out getting forty ounces, and many of the pieces were about an inch long and as large around as a pipe-stem. Winter was now near by, and we set to work to build a cabin and lay in a stock of grub, which cost quite a good deal, for the self-raising flour which we bought was worth twenty cents a pound, and all kinds of hog meat fifty cents, with other supplies in proportion. Our new claims now paid very well. Snow came down to the depth of about four feet around our cabin, but as our work was under ground, we had a comfortable place all winter. In the spring McCloud and I went to Sacramento and sold our chunks of gold (it was all very coarse) to Page, Bacon & Co. who were themselves surprised at the coarseness of the whole lot. When our savings were weighed up we found we had made half an ounce a day, clear of all expenses, for the entire year. We now took a little run down to San Francisco, also to Santa Clara where we staid a night or two with Mr. McCloud's friend, Mr. Otterson, and then went back to our claims again. In taking care of our money we had to be our own bankers, and the usual way was to put the slugs we received for pay into a gallon pickle jar, and bury this in some place known only to our particular selves, and these vaults we considered perfectly safe. The slugs were fifty dollar pieces, coined for convenience, and were eight-sided, heavy pieces. In the western counties the people called them "Adobies," but among the miners they were universally known as "Slugs." The winter proved a little lonesome, the miners mostly staid at home and worked. During the year we had been here I had not seen a respectable woman in this mining country. There were few females here, and they were said to be of very doubtful character. As a general thing people were very patient with their wickedness, but not always. Twice only in the history of California were women made the victims of mob violence, once at Los Angeles and once at Downieville. The affair at the last-named place occurred in 1851, and the victim was a pretty little Spanish woman named Juanita. She and her husband, like many another couple at that time, kept a monte game for the delectation of the miners who had more money than sense, but beyond this fact absolutely nothing was said against her character. There was an English miner named Cannon living in town, who was very popular among a large number of gamblers and others. He got drunk one night and about midnight went to the house occupied by the Spanish woman and her husband and kicked the door down. Early the following morning he told his comrades that he was going to apologize to the woman for what he had done. He went alone to the house, and, while talking with the husband and wife, the woman suddenly drew a knife and stabbed Cannon to the heart. What had been said that provoked the deed was never known, further than that Juanita claimed she had been grossly insulted. She was given a mock trial, but the facts of the case were not brought out, as the men who were with Cannon were too drunk to remember what had happened the previous night. It was a foregone conclusion that the poor woman was to be hanged, and the leaders of the mob would brook no interference. A physician examined Juanita and announced to the mob that she was in a condition that demanded the highest sympathy of every man, but he was forced to flee from town to save his life. A prominent citizen made an appeal for mercy, but he was driven down the main street and across the river by a mob with drawn revolvers, and with threats of instant death. The well-known John B. Weller was in town at the time, and was asked to reason with the mob, but refused to do so. The execution was promptly carried out. A plank was put across the supports of the bridge over the Yuba, and a rope fastened to a beam overhead. Juanita went calmly to her death. She wore a Panama hat, and after mounting the platform she removed it, tossed it to a friend in the crowd, whose nickname was "Oregon," with the remark, "Adios amigo." Then she adjusted the noose to her own neck, raising her long, loose tresses carefully in order to fix the rope firmly in its place, and then, with a smile and wave of her hand to the bloodthirsty crowd present, she stepped calmly from the plank into eternity. Singular enough, her body rests side by side, in the cemetery on the hill, with that of the man whose life she had taken. On Sundays Downieville was full of men, none very old, and none very young, but almost every one of middle age. Nearly every man was coarsely dressed, with beard unshaved and many with long hair, but on any occasion of excitement it was not at all strange to see the coarsest, roughest looking one of all the party mount a stump and deliver as eloquent an address as one could wish to hear. On Sunday it was not at all unusual for some preacher to address the moving crowd, while a few feet behind him would be a saloon in full blast, and drinking, gambling, swearing and vulgar language could be plainly seen and heard at the same time, and this class of people seemed to respect the Sunday preacher very little. The big saloon was owned by John Craycroft, formerly a mate on a Mississippi River steamboat, who gained most of his money by marrying a Spanish woman and making her a silent partner. One enterprising man who was anxious to make money easily, took a notion to try his luck in trade, so, as rats and mice were troublesome in shops and stores, he went down to the valley and brought up a cargo of cats which he disposed of at prices varying from fifty to one hundred dollars each, according to the buyer's fancy. During the summer Kelley the fiddler came up in the mines to make a raise, and Craycroft made him a pulpit about ten feet above the floor in his saloon, having him to play nights and Sundays at twenty dollars per day. He was a big uneducated Irishman, who could neither read nor write, but he played and sang and talked the rich Irish brogue, all of which brought many customers to the bar. In the saloon could be seen all sorts of people dealing different games, and some were said to be preachers. Kelley staid here as long as he could live on his salary, and left town much in debt, for whiskey and cards got all his money. One of the grocers kept out a sign, "CHEAP JOHN, THE PACKER," and kept a mule to deliver goods, which no other merchant did, and in this way gained many friends, and many now may praise the enterprise of Cheap John, the Packer. Prices were pretty high in those days. Sharpening picks cost fifty cents, a drink of whiskey one dollar, and all kinds of pork, fifty cents per pound. You could get meals at the McNutty house for one dollar. The faro and monte banks absorbed so much of the small change that on one occasion I had to pay five dollars for a two dollar pair of pants in order to get a fifty dollar slug changed. No white shirts were worn by honest men, and if any man appeared in such a garment he was at once set down as a gambler, and with very little chance of a mistake. One Langdon had the only express office, and brought letters and packages from Sacramento. I paid one dollar simply to get my name on his letter list, and when a letter came I had to pay one dollar for bringing it up, as there was no Post Office at Downieville. Newspapers were eagerly sought for, such was the hunger for reading. The Western folks bought the St. Louis papers, while Eastern people found the New York Tribune a favorite. One dollar each for such papers was the regular price. It may seem strange, but aside from the news we got from an occasional newspaper, I did not hear a word from the East during the two years I remained on Yuba river. Our evenings were spent in playing cards for amusement, for no reading could be got. The snow between Marysville and Downieville was deep and impassable in winter, but we could work our drifting claims very comfortably, having laid in a stock of provisions early in the season, before snowfall. The nights seemed tediously long and lonesome, for when the snow was deep no one came to visit us, and we could go nowhere, being completely hemmed in. All the miners who did not have claims they could work underground, went down below the winter snow-line to find work, and when the snow went off came back again and took possession of the old claims they had left. After the snow went off three German sailors came up and took a river claim a short distance above us on a north fork of the north fork of the stream, where one side of the cañon was perpendicular and the other sloped back only slightly. Here they put logs across the river, laid stringers on these, and covered the bottom with fir boughs. Then they put stakes at the sides and rigged a canvas flume over their bridge through which they turned the whole current of the river, leaving a nearly dry bed beneath. This we called pretty good engineering and management on the part of the sailor boys, for no lumber was to be had, and they had made themselves masters of the situation with the material on hand. They went to work under their log aqueduct, and found the claim very rich in coarse gold. They went to town every Saturday night with good big bags of dust, and as they were open-hearted fellows, believing that a sailor always has the best of luck, they played cards freely, always betting on the Jack and Queen, and spent their money more easily than they earned it. They were quite partial to the ladies, and patronizing the bar and card tables as liberally as they did, usually returned to camp on Monday or Tuesday with a mule load of grub and whiskey as all the visible proceeds of a week's successful mining; but when Saturday night came around again we were pretty sure to see the jolly sailors going past with heavy bags of gold. They left one nearly pure piece of gold at Langdon's Express office that weighed five pounds, and another as large as a man's hand, of the shape of a prickly pear leaf. They worked their claim with good success until the snow water came down and forced them out. I went one day to see them, and they took a pan of dirt from behind a big rock and washed it out, getting as much as two teacupfuls of nuggets, worth perhaps a thousand dollars. When they went away they said they would go to Germany to see their poor relatives and friends, and one of them really went home, but the other two had spent all their money before they were ready to leave San Francisco. These men were, without doubt, the inventors of the canvas flume which was afterward used so successfully in various places. While I was still here the now famous Downieville Butte quartz mine was discovered, but there was no way then of working quartz successfully, and just at that time very little was done with it, but afterward, when it was learned how to work it, and the proper machinery introduced, it yielded large sums of bullion. The miners had a queer way of calling every man by some nickname or other instead of his true name, and no one seemed offended at it, but answered to his new name as readily as to any. It was nearly fall when we found we had worked our claims out, and there were no new ones we could locate here, so we concluded to go prospecting for a new locality. I bought a donkey in town of a Mr. Hawley, a merchant, for which I paid sixty dollars, and gave the little fellow his old master's name. We now had two animals, and we packed on them our worldly goods, and started south up the mountain trail by way of the city of six, where some half dozen men had located claims, but the ground was dry and deep, so we went on. We still went south, down toward the middle Yuba River and when about half way down the mountain side came to a sort of level bench where some miners were at work, but hardly any water could be had. They called this Minnesota. We stayed here a day or two, but as there seemed to be no possible further development of water, concluded to go on further. Across the river we could see a little flat, very similar to the one we were on, and a little prospecting seemed to have been done on the side of the mountain. We had a terribly steep cañon to cross, and a river also, with no trail to follow, but our donkeys were as good climbers as any of us, so we started down the mountain in the morning, and arrived at the river about noon. Here we rested an hour or two and then began climbing the brushy mountain side. The hill was very steep, and the sun beat down on us with all his heat, so that with our hard labor and the absence of any wind we found it a pretty hot place. It was pretty risky traveling in some places, and we had to help the donkeys to keep them from rolling down the hill, pack and all. It took us four hours to make a mile and a half or two miles in that dense brush, and we were nearly choked when we reached the little flat. Here we found some water, but no one lived here. From here we could see a large flat across a deep cañon to the west, and made up our minds to try to go to it. We went around the head of the cañon, and worked through the brush and fallen timber, reaching our objective point just as night was coming on. This flat, like the one we had left, was quite level, and contained, perhaps, nearly one hundred acres. Here we found two men at work with a "long tom"--a Mr. Fernay and a Mr. Bloat. They had brought the water of a small spring to their claim and were making five or six dollars per day. We now prospected around the edge of this flat, and getting pretty fair prospects concluded we would locate here if we could get water. We then began our search for water and found a spring about three quarters of a mile away, to which we laid claim, and with a triangle level began to survey out a route for our ditch. The survey was satisfactory, and we found we could bring the water out high on the flat, so we set to work digging at it, and turned the water in. The ground was so very dry that all the water soaked up within two hundred yards of the spring. By this time we were out of grub, and some one must go for a new supply, and as we knew the trail to Downieville was terribly rough, I was chosen as the one to try to find Nevada City, which we thought would be nearer and more easily reached. So I started south with the donkeys, up the mountain toward the ridge which lies between the middle and south Yuba Rivers, and when I got well on the ridge I found a trail used some by wagons, which I followed till I came to a place where the ridge was only wide enough for a wagon, and at the west end a faint trail turned off south into the rolling hills. I thought this went about the course I wanted to go, so I followed it, and after two or three miles came to the south Yuba river. This seemed to be an Indian trail, no other signs on it. I climbed the mountain here, and when I reached the top I found a large tent made of blue drilling, and here I found I was four or five miles from Nevada City with a good trail to follow. The rolling hills I then passed through are now called North Bloomfield, and at one time were known as "Humbug." I started along the trail and soon reached the city where I drove my donkeys up to a store which had out the sign "Davis & Co.." I entered and inquiring the prices of various sorts of provisions such as flour, bacon, beans, butter, etc., soon had selected enough for two donkey loads. They assisted me in putting them in pack, and when it was ready I asked the amount of my bill, which was one hundred and fifty dollars. This I paid at once, and they gave me some crackers and dried beef for lunch on the way. Davis said--"That is the quickest sale I ever made, and here the man is ready to go. I defy any one to beat it." Before sun down I was two or three miles on my way back where I found some grass and camped for the night, picketed the animals, ate some of Mr. Davis' grub for supper, and arranged a bed of saddle blankets. I arrived at camp the next day about sun down. Next day I went on up the divide and found a house on the trail leading farther east, where two men lived, but they seemed to be doing nothing. There were no mines and miners near there, and there seemed to be very little travel on the trail. The fellows looked rough, and I suspected they might be bad characters. The stream they lived near was afterward called Bloody Run, and there were stories current that blood had been shed there. Here was a section of comparatively level land, for the mountain divide, and a fine spring of good cold water, all surrounded by several hundred acres of the most magnificent sugar pines California ever raised, very large, straight as a candle, and one hundred feet or more to the lowest limbs. This place was afterward called Snow Tent, and S.W. Churchill built a sawmill at the spring, and had all this fine timber at the mercy of his ax and saw, without anyone to dispute his right. He furnished lumber to the miners at fifty dollars or more per thousand feet. Bloody Run no doubt well deserves its name, for there was much talk of killing done there. I, however, went up and talked to the men and told them I wished to hire a cross cut saw for a few days to get out stuff for a cabin, and agreed to pay two dollars a day for the use of it till it came back. We cut down a large sugar pine, cut off four six feet cuts, one twelve feet, and one sixteen feet cut, and from these we split out a lot of boards which we used to make a V-shaped flume which we placed in our ditch, and thus got the water through. We split the longer cuts into two inch plank for sluice boxes, and made a small reservoir, so that we succeeded in working the ground. We paid wages to the two men who worked, and two other men who were with us went and built a cabin. I now went and got another load of provisions, and as the snow could be seen on the high mountains to the east, I thought the deer must be crowded down to our country, so I went out hunting and killed a big fat buck, and the next day three more, so fresh meat was plenty. About this time a man came down the mountain with his oxen and wagon, wife and three or four children, the eldest a young lady of fifteen years. The man's name was H. M. Moore. We had posted notices, according to custom, to make mining laws, and had quite a discussion about a name for the place. Some of the fellows wanted to name it after the young lady, "Minda's Flat," but we finally chose "Moore's Flat" instead, which I believe is the name it still goes by. Our laws were soon completed, and a recorder chosen to record claims. We gave Mr. Moore the honor of having a prospecting town named after him because he was the first man to be on hand with a wife. I became satisfied after a little that this place would be a very snowy place, and that from all appearances it would fall from two to four feet deep, and not a very pleasant place to winter in. An honest acquaintance of mine came along, Samuel Tyler and to him I let my claim to work on shares and made McCloud my agent, verbally, while I took my blankets and started for the valley. The first town I passed through was a newly discovered mining town called French Corral. Here I found an old Wisconsin friend Wm. Sublet, the foster father of the accomplishen wife of Mayor S.W. Boring of San Jose. From here I went to Marysville. The storm had been raging high in the mountains for some days, and the Yuba river rising fast, overflowing its banks as I walked into town, and the next day the merchants were very busy piling their goods above high water mark. I went to a hotel and called for a bed. "Yes," says the landlord "Is your name John or Peter?" I told him William, which he set down in his book and we went up stairs to the best room which was fitted up with berths three tiers high on each side, and only one or two empty ones. He looked around for covers, but none could be found unoccupied, but one fellow who was sound asleep and snoring awfully, so he took the blanket off from him saying: "He wont know a thing about it till morning, be jabers, so don't say a word." Next morning the river was booming, its surface covered with all sorts of mining outfit such as flume timber, rockers, various qualities of lumber, pieces of trees as well as whole ones, water wheels and other traps. The river between Downieville and here must have been swept clean of all material that would float, including "long Toms." The water continued to rise till it covered the Plaza, and in two days a steamer came up and sailed across the public square. This looked like a wet season to me, and when the boat was ready to go down the river I went on board, bound for Sacramento. Here it was also getting terrible wet and muddy, and the rain kept pouring down. In the morning I worked my way up J street and saw a six-mule team wading up the streets the driver on foot, tramping through the sloppy mud, occasionally stepping in a hole and falling his whole length in the mud. On the street where so much trouble was met by the teamsters, a lot of idlers stood on the sidewalk, and when a driver would fall and go nearly out of sight, they would, like a set of loafers, laugh at him and blackguard him with much noise, and as they were numerous they feared nothing. Suddenly a miner, who had lately arrived from the mountains, raised his room window in the second story of a house, put out one leg and then his body, as far as he could, and having nothing on but his night clothes, shouted to the noisy crowd below:--"Say can't you d----d farmers plow now?" At this he dodged back quickly into his window as if he expected something might be thrown at him. The rain continued, and the water rose gradually till it began to run slowly through the streets, and all the business stopped except gambling and drinking whisky, which were freely carried on in the saloons day and night. While here in Sacramento I was sufficiently prompted by curiosity to go around to the place on J street where the Legislature was in session. I stood sometime outside the enclosure listening to the members who were in earnest debate over a question concerning the size of mining claims. They wanted them uniform in size all over the state, but there was some opposition, and the debate on this occasion was between the members from the mining counties on one side and the "cow" counties on the other. The miners took the ground that the claims were of different richness in the different mining localities and that the miners themselves were the best judges of the proper size of claims, and were abundantly able to make their own laws as they had done under the present mining customs, and their laws had always been respected, making any further legislative action unnecessary. While this wrangle was going on. Capt. Hunt, of San Bernardino (our guide from Salt Lake in 1849), came along and stopped where I stood, shaking me heartily by the hand, inquiring where I was from, and when I told him I was from the mines he said he thought the cow county fellows were trying to make the miners some trouble. I told him the present mining regulations suited us very well, and after he had talked with me a little he went inside and whispered to some of the silent members that the miners wanted no change, for he had just consulted a miner to that effect. When occasion offered he called for a vote which resulted in the defeat of the cow counties and a postponement of the measure indefinitely. My next move was to try to find a dryer place so I took a boat for Benicia, then for Stockton, where I found a sea of mud, so that a man needed stilts or a boat to cross the street. Here in a livery stable I found my old Platte River boss, Chas. Dallas, for whom I drove in 1849, but he did not seem to know me and took no notice of me, but talked "horse" and horse-racing to the bystanders very loudly. I suppose that Dallas had made money and did not care for a poor ox driver, and on my part I did not care very much for his friendship, so I walked away and left him without a word. Every way I looked was a sea of black, sticky mud; dogs mired in the streets and died, and teams and animals had forsaken the usual route of travel. The gambling houses and saloons were crowded, gum boots in demand, and the only way to get out of town was by water. I took this way out, and on the same boat by which I came, going to San Francisco. This was high and dry enough to be above the highest floods of Yuba, Sacramento or San Joaquin, but all business except the saloons was dull. Fronting on Portsmouth Square was the Hall of Corruption. Inside was a magnificently furnished bar, more than one keeper and various gambling tables, most of them with soiled doves in attendance. The room was thronged with players and spectators, and coin and dust were plenty. The dealers drew off their cards carefully, and seemed to have the largest pile of coin on their side. I climbed Russian Hill and to take a look over the city. It seemed poorly built, but the portion that had been burned in July 1852, had been built up again. The business part was near the beach and north of Market street. I had never lived in a town and did not know its ways, so I strolled around alone, for without acquaintance I did not know where to go nor what to look for. I therefore thought I would see some other part of the country. I found that a schooner was about to sail for San Pedro, near Los Angeles. I took hold of a rope to help myself on board, when it gave way and I found myself floundering in the water. They helped me out and the Captain gave me a dry suit to put on, I was profoundly grateful for the favor, and found him a generous man. We sailed away and stopped at Monterey for 24 hours which gave me a good chance for a good look at the old Capitol houses, which were of adobe, and to find that this city was also liberally supplied with gambling, card and billiard tables. The majority of the people were Spanish and fond of gaming, and the general appearance of the place was old and without good improvements, though there were more two-story houses than in most places in California. Some houses were of stone, but more of adobe, and there seemed to be no fertile country round, and the hills about had small pines on them. Some of the sailors went out and gathered a large bag of mussels and clams, from which they made a liberal allowance of chowder for the table. After seven or eight days we arrived in San Pedro, and found the town to consist of one long adobe house. The beach was low and sandy, and we were wet somewhat in wading through a light surf to get on shore. We had on board a Mr. Baylis, who we afterward learned came down with Capt. Lackey on a big speculation which was to capture all the wild goats they could on Catalina Island, and take them to San Francisco for slaughtering. The goats were easily captured and taken on board the schooner, and thence to shore but many were drowned in the transit, and when driven to San Francisco the dead were scattered all along the route. Although wild they seemed to lack the vitality that tame goats possess. The speculation proved a disappointment to the projectors. At the adobe house, kept by a Spaniard we had breakfast, then shouldered our packs for the march of ten leagues to Los Angeles for there was no chance to ride. It was night before we reached the City of Angels, and here I staid a day to take a look at the first city I saw in California in March 1850. I inquired for my mining companion, W.M. Stockton who worked with Bennett and myself near Georgetown in 1850, and found he lived near the old mission of San Gabriel nine miles away, whither I walked and found him and family well and glad to see me. He had jumped an old pear orchard which was not claimed by the Mission Fathers, although it was only three-fourths of a mile away. The trees were all seedlings and very large, probably 50 or more years old. Some of the Mission buildings were falling down since they had been abandoned, and the Americans would go to these houses and remove the tile flooring from the porches and from the pillars that supported them. These tiles were of hard burned clay, in pieces about a foot square, and were very convenient to make fire places and pavements before the doors of their new houses. Out-side the enclosed orange and fig orchard at this place were some large olive and fig trees, apparently as old as the mission, being a foot or more in diameter and about 50 feet high. I had never seen olives, and when I saw these trees covered with plenty of fruit about the size of damson plums I took the liberty of tasting it and found it very disagreeable, and wondered of what use such fruit could be. Mr. Stockton fenced his orchard by setting posts and tying sycamore poles to them to keep the stock away, built an adobe house on the claim and called the property his. I went to work for him at once, pruning the trees, which improved their appearance, and then turned on a little stream of water which ran through the place, and on down to the mission. With this treatment the trees did well without cultivation. I bought one half the stock consisting of some Spanish cows, one yoke of oxen and some horses, worked enough to pay my board, watched the stock and still had plenty of time to ride around over the adjoining country. When the pears were ripe the Spanish men, women and children eagerly bought them at 25 cents per dozen and some Sundays the receipts for fruit sold would be as high as $100. That taken to town would bring from $5. to $8. per box, the boxes being a little larger than those in present use. An Indian woman, widow of a Mr. Reed, claimed a vineyard near the orchard, and laid claim to the whole property, so Stockton gave her $1000 for a quit claim deed. Near by was a small artificial lake made by a dam of cobble stones, laid in cement across a ravine, which was built perhaps 50 years before, and yet the tracks of a child who had walked across before the cement was dry, were plainly seen. Stockton and I visited Mr. Roland, an old settler who lived south of San Gabriel river, and staid all night with him, finding him very sociable and hospitable. All his work was done by Indians who lived near by, and had been there as long as he. He had a small vineyard, and raised corn, squashes, melons and all that are necessary for his table, having also a small mill near by for grinding corn and wheat without bolting. The Indians made his wine by tramping the grapes with their feet in a rawhide vat hung between four poles set in the ground. The workmen were paid off every Saturday night, and during Sunday he would generally sell them wine enough to get about all the money back again. This had been his practice for many years, and no doubt suited Mr. Roland as well as the red men. Roland was an old Rocky Mountain trapper who came to California long before gold was discovered, and during the evening the talk naturally ran to the subject of early days. Mr. Roland related that while his party were in camp in the upper Colorado they were visited by a small band of Indians who professed friendship and seated themselves around the fire. Suddenly they made an attack and each trapper had an Indian to contend with, except Mr. Roland who was left to be dispatched afterwards. But as he ran, a squaw among them followed him, and after a while overtook him and showed friendship. He had neither gun or knife and so concluded to put faith in the woman who safely guided him in a long tramp across the desert where they both came near starving, but finally reached Los Angeles Valley, when the brave squaw mingled with her own people and he lost sight of her forever. No white man could alone have traversed that desert waste and found food enough to last him half the journey. He gradually learned to speak Spanish, and was granted the piece of land he applied for, and where he then lived; married a Spanish girl, with whom he had a happy home and raised a large family, and grew rich, for they were both industrious and economical. The first wife died, and he was persuaded to marry a Texas widow, and now had to buy the first carriage he ever owned, and furnish a fine turn-out and driver for the lady, who wore much jewelry and fine clothes, and spent money freely. Roland was not a society man, his thoughts and habits were different from his wife, and he staid at home, better contented there. There were many other pioneers in the neighborhood, Dan Sexton, Col. Williams, of Chino ranch, Workman, B.D. Wilson, Abel Stearns, Temple, Wolfskill and many others, Scott and Granger were lawyers. Granger was the same man who read the preamble and resolutions that were to govern our big train as we were about to start from Utah Lake. Scott was quite a noted member of the bar, and when Gen. Winfield Scott ran for President, some wide awake politicians caused the uneducated Spaniards to vote for their favorite lawyer instead of the redoubtable general, and they did this with a good will for they thought the famous avocado was the best man, and thus the manipulators lost many votes to the real candidate. Scott was afterward retained by many of the Spaniards to present their claims for their land to the U.S. Government and was considered a very able man. Mr. Stockton related that when he left his family here to go to the mines he rented one half a house of Michael Blanco who had a Spanish wife and children, and these and his own were of course constant playmates. When he returned in the fall he found his children had learned to speak Spanish and nearly forgotten English, so that he had to coax them a great deal to get them to talk to him at all, and he could not understand a word they said. I now tried to learn the language myself. I had money to loan, and the borrowers were Spanish who gave good security and paid from 5 to 25 per cent interest per month, on short time. Mrs. Stockton assisted me very much as an interpreter. I bought young steers for $8. each and gradually added to my herd. I got along well until next spring when the beef eating population began to steal my fat cattle, and seemed determined I should get no richer. The country was over-stocked with desperate and lawless renegades in Los Angeles and from one to four dead men was about the number picked up in the streets each morning. They were of low class, and there was no investigation, simply a burial at public expense. The permanent Spanish population seemed honest and benevolent, but there were many bad ones from Chili, Sonora, Mexico, Texas, Utah and Europe, who seemed always on an errand of mischief a murder, thieving or robbery. Three or four suspicious looking men came on horseback and made their camp near the Mission under an oak tree, where they staid sometime. They always left someone in camp while the others went away every day on their horses, and acted so strangely that the report soon became current that they were stealing horses and running them off to some safe place in the mountains till a quantity could be accumulated to take to the mines to sell. On this information the Vigilance Committee arrested the man in camp and brought him to a private room, where he was tried by twelve men, who found him guilty of horse stealing, and sentenced to be hung at once, for horse stealing was a capital offence in those days. To carry out the sentence they procured a cart, put a box on it for a seat, and with a rope around his neck and seated on the box, the condemned man was dragged off by hand to an oak tree not far away, whither he was followed by all the men, women and children of the place, who where nearly all natives. While preparations were being made under the tree some one called out that men were riding rapidly from the direction of Los Angeles, and from the dust they raised seemed to be more than usually in haste. So it was proposed to wait till they came up. It was soon known that an Indian had been sent to Los Angeles to give news to the man's friends there, and they had come with all the speed of their horses to try to save his life. They talked and inquired around a little and then proposed the question whether to hang him or to turn him over to the lawful authorities for regular trial. This was put to a vote and it was decided to spare him now. So the rope was taken off his neck, and he was turned over to Mr. Mallard the Mission Justice of the Peace, much to the relief of the fellow who saw death staring him in the face. The Santa Anita ranch, now owned by E.J. Baldwin, was owned by Henry Dalton, an Englishman, who came with a stock of goods worth $75,000, years before, but now had only the ranch left. The Azuza, a short distance south was occupied by his brother. I became well acquainted with many of these old California natives, and found them honest in their dealings, good to the needy and in all my travels never found more willing hands to bestow upon relatives, friends or strangers ready relief than I saw among these simple natives. Their kindness to our party when we came starving on the desert in 1850, can never be praised enough, and as long as I shall live my best wishes shall go with them. I was one day riding with Vincent Duarte down toward Anaheim when he suddenly dismounted to kill a large tarantula by pelting him with stones. It was the first one I had seen, and seemed an over-grown spider. I asked him if the thing was harmful, and he replied with considerable warmth, "Mucho malo por Christianos" and I wondered if the insect knew saints from sinners. This spring we concluded to go to the Mormon settlement at San Bernardino and secure some American bulls to improve our stock, and starting late one day I rode as far as the Azuza Rancho where I staid all night with Mr. Dalton, reaching the holy city, a branch of Brigham Young's harem next day. Here I found a town of log houses in a circle, enclosing a plaza. There was a passage between the houses. I stopped at the principal hotel kept by a vigorous and enthusiastic Mormon woman, who delighted to preach the doctrine. Walking around on the outside of the fortifications I came across Capt. Hunt, the man who was hired in the fall of 1849 to bring the big train from Salt Lake to San Bernardino. I told him who I was, and what I wanted, and he seemed to know me, inviting me in the most friendly and social manner to take supper with him, which I did. He sat at the head of the table and introduced me to his three wives. The furnishing of the house was cheap and common, but the table was fairly provided for. He said he would help me to find the animals I wanted, and in the morning showed me two which he had, that were young and suitable, and a larger one which he said I could have if I could drive him. I soon found out that I had better move or sell my cattle, for with all my watching I could do they gradually disappeared, and hungry thieves who could live on beef alone, visited my little band of cattle too often and took what they wanted, and I could not detect them. I soon sold to four buyers from the north, L.D. Stevens, David Grant, Sam Craig and Mr. Wilson, and hired out with my two horses to help them drive the band north, at a salary of $100 per month. Disposing most of my money with Palmer, Cook & Co., I went to see my mine at Moore's Flat. There were two boats leaving at about the same time, one for Stockton, and one for Sacramento, the latter of which I took, and Rogers the other. Both landed at Benecia, and when we swung away from that wharf Rogers and I saluted each other with raised and swinging hats, shouted a good bye, and I have never seen him since. At Moore's Flat I found my mine well and profitably worked by Mr. Tyler and as his lease was not out I returned to San Jose, as I had learned from Rogers that Mr. A. Bennett was at Watsonville, and Mr. Arcane at Santa Cruz, and I desired to visit them. I rode back across the country and found Mr. Bennett and family at the point where the Salinas river enters Monterey Bay. They were all well, and were glad to see me for they did not know I was in California. Mrs. Bennett was greatly affected at our meeting and shed tears of joy as she shook hands. Bennett had a nice Whitehall boat and we had a genuine happy time hunting, fishing and gathering clams, and also in social visits among the neighbors and old acquaintances, among them one Jacob Rhodehouse of Wisconsin. While here I rode my horse around to Monterey and to Carmel Mission, where I staid two or three days, with Mr. Gourley, a brother of Mrs. William M. Stockton, who was here engaged in raising potatoes. I walked along the beach near some rocky islands near the shore, and on these rocks were more sea lions and seals than I supposed the whole ocean contained--the most wonderful show of sea life on the California coast. Returning I staid all night at the crossing of the Salinas with a colored family who gave me good accommodations for self and horse. I heard afterward that this family was attacked by robbers and all but one murdered. Mrs. Bennett's father D.J. Dilley lived near here also, and I had not seen him since the time in Wisconsin, when he hauled my canoe over to the river in 1849. One day while fishing on the beach we found the body of a man, which we carried above the tide and buried in the sand. I gave one of my horses to Geo. Bennett, and went over to Santa Cruz, where I found Mr. and Mrs. J.B. Arcane and son Charles in a comfortable home, well situated, and overjoyed to see me. He knew everyone in town, and as we went about he never missed to introduce me to every one we met, as the man who helped himself and family out of Death Valley, and saved their lives. Arcane was a very polite Frenchman and knew how to manage such things very gracefully, but with all his grace and heartiness it made me feel quite a little embarrassed to be made so much of publicly and among strangers. He took me in his buggy and we drove along the beach, and to the lime-kiln of Cowel & Jordan, also to the court house when court was in session. Upon the hill I met Judge Watson, the father of Watsonville, and a Mr. Graham, an old settler and land owner, and on this occasion he pulled a sheet of ancient, smoky looking paper from beneath his arm, pointed to a dozen or so of written lines in Spanish and then with a flourish of the precious document in Watson's face dared him to beat that, or get him off his land. I must say that never in my life was I better entertained than here. From Santa Cruz I crossed the mountain on a lonely and romantic trail to San Jose again, finding very few houses on the road. Here I went to work for R. G. Moody building a gristmill on the banks of the Coyote Creek, to be run by water from artesian wells. When the mill was done I went for my horse, and on my return I ran very unexpectedly upon Davenport Helms, to whom I had sold my little black mule in 1850. Our talk was short but he told me he had killed a man in Georgetown, and the sheriff was looking for him. He was now venturing to town for tobacco, and would hurry back to the hills again where he was herding cattle. He said he kept them off at one time by getting in a piece of chaparral and presenting his gun to them when they came near, they dare not advance on him. Then he laughed and said--"And all the time my gun was empty, for I did not have a d----d thing to put into it." "I tell you they don't catch old Davenport. Now don't you tell on me. Good-bye." I saw him no more after that. The town of San Jose was now more of a town than it was a few years before. The "Forty Thieves," and others, commenced building a city hall of brick on the top of old adobe walls, and this was the principal improvement, except the Moody mill near the Sutter house, one street north of Julian. After finishing work on the mill I drew my money from the bank in San Francisco and started for the mines on horseback. Near French Camp, on the east side of the San Joaquin Valley, many cattle were feeding on the plains, and among them, much to my surprise I found "Old Crump," the ox that brought Bennett's and Arcane's children safe through from Death Valley in February, 1850. He was now fat and sleek and as kind and gentle as when so poor upon the terrible journey. I got off my horse and went up to him, and patted my old friend. I was glad to find him so contented and happy, and I doubt not that he too was glad. I met a man near by and asked him about the ox, and he said that the owner would not sell him nor allow him to be worked, for he knew of the faithful part he performed in the world, and respected him for it. At Sacramento I deposited my money with Page, Bacon & Co., a branch of the St. Louis firm of the same name, considered the safest bank in the United States. Their bills were taken in payment of Government land. Some rascals had some counterfeit bills on their bank, and traded them off for gold with the Missourians who were going home, and the poor fellows found themselves poor on arrival. Going to my mine, where I left only a cabin or two, I found quite a village with two hotels and a post office. News soon came that the banks had closed their door, and Page and Bacon also, so I concluded that I was broke. The "Pikers" said Page and Bacon could not, nor would not fail, but news was against them. The boys now tried to persuade me to go to Sacramento, and try to get my money and if I succeeded, to bring up a good stock of goods and they would buy of me in preference to any one else. On this showing I went down, and finding my old friend Lyman Ross (well known in San Jose) who was keeping a fruit store. I told him my business and he took me to L.A. Booth, Carrol & Co., and I stated to him the facts about my money in the bank and the doors closed. I told him if he would assist me I would buy $2000 worth of his goods, and send them to Moore's Flat. I endorsed the certificate over to him, and in half an hour he came back with the coin. How he got it I never knew, but he did me a great favor, and we have been good friends ever since. I was no merchant, nor had I any mercantile education, so I took lessons from Mr. Booth, and allowed him to make out for me a bill of goods such as he well knew I needed. With these we loaded up two 6 mule teams, and started for the mountain. I had about $700 left besides paying for the goods, but I felt a very little troubled as to my prospect for success, for it was a new business to me. Mr. Booth in a business way was a true father to me, and the much needed points in trade which he gave me were stored away for the use I knew I would make of them. Of all those whom I bear in grateful remembrance none stand higher than this worthy man. I went first direct to Nevada City to take out a license that I might best protect myself against oppositions and from there I had a walk of 18 miles over a rough mountain trail to my selected place of business. Climbing the great hill of the S. Yuba river I often tired and sat down to rest, and I used this time to study my bill of goods, and add the freight and profit to the cost, so as to be well posted, and able to answer all questions readily when I unloaded the stock. The new trade seemed quite a task to learn, but I felt that I was compelled to succeed, and I worked manfully at it. When I reached Moore's Flat I found that the boys had rented a store for me, and their welcome was very hearty when they found how lucky I had been in securing my money and starting out as their "grub supplier." Four of us now located some mining claims, and began a tunnel both to drain the ground, and to work through the bed-rock. This we named The Paradise, and we expected that three or four months would elapse before we made it pay, but there was in truth two years of solid rock-work before we got under the ground, but it paid well in the end. The largest nugget of gold ever found before this time was a quartz boulder from the Buckeye sluice, about 8 by 10 inches in size, and when cleaned up at the San Francisco mint the value was about $10,000. Two of my partners in the work, L.J. Hanchett, and Jas. Clark ran out of funds at the end of the first year, and I took as much of the expense as I could upon my own shoulders. About this time learning by a letter from her father that Mrs. Bennett was lying at the point of death at Mr. L.C. Bostic's in San Jose, I left H. Hanchett in charge of my business, and in four days I stood beside the bedside of my friend, endeared through the trials when death by thirst, starvation and the desert sands, stared us in the face with all its ghastliness. She reached out her arms and drew me down to her, and embraced me and said in a faint whisper--"God bless you:--you saved us all till now, and I hope you will always be happy and live long." She would have said more, but her voice was so weak she could not be heard. She was very low with consumption, and easily exhausted. I sat with her much of the time at her request and though for her sake I would have kept back the tears I could not always do it. Two doctors came, one of them Dr. Spencer, and as I sat with my face partly turned away I over heard Dr. S. say to his assistant--"He is a manly man." This presence and the circumstances brought back the trying Death Valley struggles, when this woman and her companions, and the poor children, so nearly starved they could not stand alone, were only prevented from sitting down to die in sheer despair by the encouraging words of Rogers and myself who had passed over the road, and used every way to sustain their courage. She died the following day; with Mr. Bennett, I followed her remains to Oak Hill cemetery, where she was buried near the foot of the hill, and a board marked in large letters, "S.B." (Sarah Bennett) placed to mark the mound. The grave cannot now be found, and no records being then kept it is probably lost. I went home with Mr. Bennett to his home near Watsonville, and spent several days, meeting several of our old Death Valley party, and Mr. D.J. Dilley, Mrs. Bennett's father. Mrs. Bennett left surviving her a young babe. I returned to Moore's Flat, and soon sold out my store, taking up the business of purchasing gold dust direct from the miners, which I followed for about two years, and in the fall of 1859 sold out the business to Marks & Powers. I looked about through Napa and Sonoma Counties, and finally came to San Jose, where I purchased the farm I now own, near Hillsdale, of Bodley & McCabe, for which I paid $4,000. In the fall of the same year my old friend W.M. Stockton of Los Angeles Co. persuaded me to come down and pay him a visit. His wife had died and he felt very lonely. I had been there but a few days when my old friend A. Bennett and his children also came to Stockton's. The children had grown so much I hardly knew them, but I was glad indeed to meet them. I found Mr. Bennett to be a poor man. He had been persuaded to go to Utah, being told that a fortune awaited his coming there, or could be accumulated in a short time. He gave away the little babe left by his wife to Mrs. Scott, of Scott's Valley, in Santa Cruz Co. and sold his farm near the mouth of the Salinas River. With what money he had accumulated he loaded two 4 mule teams with dry goods, put his four children into his wagon, and went to Cedar City, Utah. He gave a thrilling account of passing through Mountain Meadows, where he saw, here and there little groups of skeletons of the unhappy victims of the great massacre at that place of men, women and children, by J.D. Lee, and his Mormon followers and told me the terrible story, which I here omit. Smarting under the terrible taxation of one tenth of everything, Bennett grew poorer and poorer and at last resolved that he must go away, but his wife could not leave her own people, and so he set off with his children, somewhat afraid he might be shot down, but he reached Los Angeles Co. in safety. One daughter married a lawyer in San Bernardino, and died a few years afterwards. The other married a Capt. Johnson of Wilmington, and Bennett and two sons went to Idaho. A few years ago in passing from San Jose to the Coast, my wife and I spent Sunday at Scott's Valley. Mrs. Scott invited us to visit them in the evening at the house when all would be at home. Mrs. Scott was the lady to whom Bennett gave his girl baby when he started away for Utah, and I felt very anxious to see her now she was grown up. Mrs. Scott introduced us, and I sat and looked at the little woman quite a long time, but could not see that she resembled either father or mother. My mind ran back over the terrible road we came and I pictured to myself the woman as she then appeared. I studied over our early trials, crossing the plains over the deserts and our trying scenes out of Death Valley and turned all over in my mind for some time and finally all came to me like a flash and I could clearly see that the little lady was a true picture of her mother; I now began to ask questions about her folks, she said her father lived near Belmont, Nevada, and her grand-father died at the Monte, Los Angeles county Cal.. Our visit now became very interesting and we kept a late hour. CHAPTER XVII. Since writing the connected story which has thus far appeared, I turn back to give some incidents of life in the mines, and some description of those pioneer gold days. I have spoken of Moore's Flat, Orleans Flat and Woolsey's Flat, all similarly situated on different points of the mountain, on the north side of the ridge between the South and Middle Yuba River, and all at about the same altitude. A very deep cañon lies between each of them, but a good mountain road was built around the head of each cañon, connecting the towns. When the snow got to be three or four feet deep the roads must be broken out and communication opened, and the boys used to turn out _en masse_ and each one would take his turn in leading the army of road breakers. When the leader got tired out some one would take his place, for it was terrible hard work to wade through snow up to one's hips, and the progress very slow. But the boys went at it as if they were going to a picnic, and a sort of picnic it was when they reached the next town, for whisky was free and grub plenty to such a party, and jollity and fun the uppermost thoughts. On one such occasion when the crowd came through Orleans Flat to Moore's Flat, Sid Hunt, the butcher, was in the lead as they came in sight of the latter place, and both he and his followers talked pretty loud and rough to the Moore's Flat fellows calling them "lazy pups" for not getting their road clear. Hunt's helper was a big stout, loud talking young man named Williams, and he shouted to the leader--"Sid Hunt, toot your horn if you don't sell a clam." This seemed to put both sides in good humor, and the Orleans fellows joined in a plenty to eat and drink, rested and went home. Next day, both camps joined forces and broke the road over to Woolsey's Flat, and the third day crowded on toward Nevada City, and when out and across Bloody Run, a stream called thus because some dead men had been found at the head of the stream by the early settlers, and it was suspected the guilty murderers lived not far off, they turned down into Humbug, a town now called Bloomfield, and as they went down the snow was not so deep. They soon met Sam Henry, the express man, working through with letters and papers, and all turned home again. A young doctor came to Moore's Flat and soon became quite popular, and after a little while purchased a small drug store at Orleans Flat. In this town there lived a man and his family and among them a little curly headed girl perhaps one or two years old. She was sick and died and buried while the ground was covered thick with snow. A little time after, it was discovered that the grave had been disturbed, and on examination no body was found in the grave. Then it was a searching party was organized, and threats of vengeance made against the grave robber if he should be caught. No tracks were found leading out of town so they began to look about inside, and there began to be some talk about this Dr. Kittridge as the culprit. He was the very man, and he went to his drug store and told his clerk to get a saddle horse and take the dead child's body in a sack to his cabin at Moore's Flat, and conceal it in a back room. The clerk obeyed, and with the little corpse before him on the horse started from the back door and rode furiously to Moore's Flat, and concealed the body as he had been directed. Some noticed that he had ridden unusually fast, and having a suspicion that all was not right, told their belief to the Orleans Flat people, who visited the Doctor at his store and accused him of the crime, and talked about hanging him on the spot without a trial. At this the Doctor began to be greatly frightened and begged piteously for them to spare his life, confessing to the deed, but pleading in extenuation that it was for the purpose of confirming a question in his profession, and wholly in the interest of science that he did it, and really to spare the feelings of the parents that he did it secretly. He argued that no real harm had been done, and some of his friends sided with him in this view. But the controversy grew warmer, and the house filled up with people. Some were bloodthirsty and needed no urging to proceed to buy a rope and use it. Others argued, and finally the Doctor said that the body had not been dissected, and if they would allow him, and appoint a committee to go with him, he would produce the body, and they could decently bury it again and there it might remain forever. This he promised to do, and all agreed to it, and he kept his word, thus ending the matter satisfactorily and the Doctor was released. But the feeling never died out. The Doctor's friends deserted him, and no one seemed to like to converse with him. At the saloon he would sit like a perfect stranger, no one noticing him, and he soon left for new fields. The first tunnel run at Moore's Flat was called the Paradise, and had to be started low on the side of the mountain in order to drain the ground, and had to be blasted through the bed rock for about 200 feet. Four of us secured ground enough by purchase so we could afford to undertake this expensive job and we worked on it day and night. Jerry Clark and Len Redfield worked the day shifts, and Sam King and Wm. Quirk the night shift. When the tunnel was completed about 100 feet, the night shift had driven forward the top of the tunnel as a heading, leaving the bottom, which was about a foot thick, or more, to be taken out by the day shift. They drilled a hole about two feet horizontally to blast out this bench. King would sit and hold the drill between his feet, while Quirk would strike with a heavy sledge. When the hole was loaded they tramped down the charge very hard so as to be sure it would not blow out, but lift the whole bench. One day when they were loading a hole, King told Quirk to come down pretty heavy on the tamping, so as to make all sure, and after a few blows given as directed, there was an explosion, and Quirk was forced some distance out of the tunnel, his eyes nearly put out with dirt blown into them, and his face and body cut with flying pieces of rock. He was at first completely stunned, but after awhile recovered so as to crawl out, and was slowly making his way up the hill on hands and knees when he was discovered and helped to his cabin where his wounds were washed and dressed. Then a party with lighted candles entered the tunnel to learn the fate of King, and they found him lying on the mass of rock the blast had lifted, dead. On a piece of board they bore the body to his cabin. There was hardly a whole bone remaining. A cut diagonally across his face, made by a sharp stone, had nearly cut his head in two. He had been thrown so violently against the roof of the tunnel, about 6 feet high, that he was completely mashed. He had a wife in Mass. and as I had often heard him talk of her, and of sending her money, I bought a $100 check and sent it in the same letter which bore the melancholy news. King had a claim at Chip's Flat which he believed would be very rich in time, so I kept his interest up in it till it amounted to $500 and then abandoned the claim and pocketed the loss. We made a pine box, and putting his body in it, laid it away with respect. I had often heard him say that if he suffered an accident, he wished to be killed outright and not be left a cripple, and his wish came true. After this accident the blacksmith working for the Paradise Co., was making some repairs about the surface of the air shaft, and among his tools was a bar of steel an inch square, and 8 or 10 feet long, which was thrown across the shaft, and while working at the whim wheel he slipped and struck this bar which fell to the bottom of the shaft, 100 feet deep and the blacksmith followed. When the other workmen went down to his assistance they found that the bar of steel had stuck upright in the bottom of the shaft, and when the man came down it pierced his body from hip to neck, killing him instantly. He was a young man, and I have forgotten his name. Those who came to California these later years will not many of them see the old apparatus and appliances which were used in saving the gold in those primitive days. Among them was the old "Rocker." This had a bottom about 5 feet long and 16 inches wide, with the sides about 8 inches high for half the length, and then sloped off to two inches at the end. There was a bar about an inch high across the end to serve as a riffle, and on the higher end of this box is a stationary box 14 inches square, with sides 4 inches high and having a sheet iron bottom perforated with half inch holes. On the bottom of the box are fastened two rockers like those on the baby cradle, and the whole had a piece of board or other solid foundation to stand on, the whole being set at an angle to allow the gravel to work off at the lower end with the water. A cleat was fastened across the bottom to catch the gold, and this was frequently examined to see how the work was paying, and taking out such coarse pieces as could be readily seen. To work the rocker a pan of dirt would be placed in the square screen box, and then with one hand the miner would rock the cradle while he poured water with the other from a dipper to wash the earth. After he had poured on enough water and shaken the box sufficiently to pass all the small stuff through he would stir over what remained in the screen box, examining carefully for a nugget too large to pass through the half inch holes. If the miner found that the dirt did not pay he took his rocker on his back and went on in search of a better claim. Another way to work the dirt was to get a small head of water running in a ditch, and then run the water and gravel through a series of boxes a foot square and twelve feet long, using from one to ten boxes as circumstances seemed to indicate. At the lower end of these boxes was placed the "Long Tom" which was about two feet wide at the lower end, and having sides six inches high at the same point. The side pieces extend out about 3 feet longer than the wooden bottom, and are turned up to a point, some like a sled runner, and this turned up part has a bottom of sheet iron punched full of holes, the size of the sheet iron being about 3 feet by 16 inches. The miners shovel dirt into the upper end of the boxes slowly, and regulate the water so that it dissolves the lumps and chunks very thoroughly before it reaches the long tom where a man stands and stirs the gravel over, and if nothing yellow is seen throws the washed gravel away, and lets the rest go through the screen. Immediately below this screen was placed what was called a "riffle box," 2 by 4 feet in size with bars 4 inches high across the bottom and sides, and this box is set at the proper angle. Now when the water comes through the screen it falls perpendicularly in this box with force enough to keep the contents continually in motion, and as the gold is much heavier than any other mineral likely to be found in the dirt, it settles to the bottom, and all the lighter stuff is carried away by the water. The gold would be found behind the bars in the riffle box. These methods of working were very crude, and we gradually became aware that the finest dust was not saved, and many improvements were brought into use. In my own mine the tailings that we let go down the mountain side would lodge in large piles in different places, and after lying a year, more gold could be washed out of it than was first obtained, and some of it coarser, so that it was plainly seen that a better way of working would be more profitable. There was plenty of ground called poor ground that had much gold in it but could not be profitably worked with the rocker and long tom. The bed rock was nearly level and as the land had a gradual rise, the banks kept getting higher and higher as they dug farther in. Now it was really good ground only down close to the bed rock, but all the dirt had some gold in it, and if a way could be invented to work it fast enough, such ground would pay. So the plan of hydraulic mining was experimented upon. The water was brought in a ditch or flume to the top of a high bank, and then terminated in a tight box. To this box was attached a large hose made by hand out of canvas, and a pipe and nozzle attached to the lower end of the hose. Now as the bank was often 100 feet or more high the water at this head, when directed through the nozzle against the bank, fairly melted it away into liquid mud. Imagine us located a mile above the river on the side of a mountain. We dug at first sluices in the rock to carry off the mud and water, and after it had flowed in these a little way a sluice box was put in to pass it through. These were made on a slope of one in twelve, and the bottom paved with blocks, 3 inches thick, so laid as to make a cavity or pocket at the corner of the blocks. After passing the first sluice box the water and gravel would be run in a bed rock sluice again, and then into another sluice box and so on for a mile, passing through several sluice boxes on the way. Quicksilver was placed in the upper sluice boxes, and when the particles of gold were polished up by tumbling about in the gravel, they combined with the quicksilver making an amalgam. The most gold would be left in the first sluice boxes but some would go on down to the very last, where the water and dirt was run off into the river. They cleaned up the first sluices every week, a little farther down every month, while the lower ones would only be cleaned up at the end of the season. In cleaning up, the blocks would be taken out of the boxes, and every little crevice or pocket in the whole length of the sluice cleaned out, from the bottom to the top, using little hooks and iron spoons made for the purpose. The amalgam thus collected was heated in a retort which expelled the quicksilver in vapor, which was condensed and used again. When they first tried hydraulic work a tinsmith made a nozzle out of sheet iron, but when put in practice, instead of throwing a solid stream, it scattered like an shotgun, and up at Moore's Flat they called the claims where they used it the "shotgun" claims. From that time great improvements were made in hydraulic apparatus until the work done by them was really wonderful. In 1850 there lived at Orleans Flat and Moore's Flat, in Nevada County a few young, energetic and very stirring pioneers in the persons of lads from 10 to 15 years of age, always on the search for a few dimes to spend, or add to an already hoarded store, and the mountain air, with the wild surroundings, seemed to inspire them always with lively vigor, and especially when there was a prospect of a two-bit piece not far ahead. In winter when the deep snow cut off all communication with the valley, our busy tinner ran short of solder, and seeing a limited supply in the tin cans that lay thick about, he engaged the boys to gather in a supply and showed them how they could be melted down to secure the solder with which they had been fastened, and thus provide for his immediate wants. So the boys ransacked every spot where they had been thrown, under the saloon and houses, and in old dump holes everywhere, till they had gathered a pretty large pile which they fired as he had told them, and then panned out the ashes to secure the drops of metal which had melted down and cooled in small drops and bits below. This was re-melted and cast into a mould made in a pine block, and the solder made into regular form. About one-third was made up thus in good and honest shape. But the boys soon developed a shrewdness that if more fully expanded might make them millionaires, but in the present small way they hoped to put to account in getting a few extra dimes. They put a big chunk of iron in the mould and poured in the melted solder which enclosed it completely, so that when they presented the bright silvery bar to the old tinker he paid the price agreed upon and they divided the money between them, and then, in a secure place, they laughed till their sides ached at the good joke on the tinman. In due time the man found out the iron core in his bar of solder, and thought the joke such a good one that he told of it in the saloon, and had to spend at least $5 in drinks to ease off the laugh they had on him as the victim of the young California pioneers. And these young fellows--some have paddled their own canoe successfully into quiet waters and are now in the fullness of life, happy in their possessions, while some have been swamped on the great rushing stream of business, and dwell in memory on the happy times gone by. The older pioneers in these mining towns were, in many respects a peculiar class of men. Most of them were sober and industrious, fearless and venturesome, jolly and happy when good luck came to them, and in misfortune stood up with brave, strong, manly hearts, without a tear or murmur. They let the world roll merrily by, were ever ready with joke, mirth and fun to make their surroundings cheerful. Fortunes came and went; they made money easily, and spent it just as freely, and in their generosity and kindly charity the old expression--"He has a heart like an ox" fitted well the character of most of them. When luck turned against them they worked the harder, for the next turn might fill their big pockets with a fortune, and then the dream of capturing a wife and building up a home could be realized, and they would move out into the world on a wave of happiness and plenty. This kind of talk was freely carried on around the camp fire in the long evenings, and who knows how many of these royal good fellows realized those bright hopes and glorious anticipations? Who knows? The names come back in memory of some of them, and others have been forgotten. I recall Washington Work, H. J. Kingman, A. J. Henderson, L. J. Hanchett, Jack Hays, Seth Bishop, Burr Blakeslee, Jim Tyler, who was the loudest laugher in the town, and as he lived at the Clifton House he was called "The Clifton House Calf." These and many others might be mentioned as typical good fellows of the mining days. The biggest kind of practical joke would be settled amicably at the saloon after the usual style. One day Jack Hays bought a pair of new boots, set them down in the store and went to turn off the miners supply of water. When he returned he found his boots well filled with refuse crackers and water. This he discovered when he took them up to go to dinner, and as he poured out the contents at the door, a half dozen boys across the street raised a big laugh at him, and hooted at his discomfiture. Jack scowled an awful scowl, and if he called them "pukes" with a few swear words added, it was a mild way of pouring out his anger. But after dinner the boys surrounded him and fairly laughed him into a good humor, so that he set up drinks for the crowd. Foot races were a great Sunday sport, and dog fights were not uncommon. One dog in our camp was champion of the ridge, and though other camps brought in their pet canines to eat him up, he was always the top dog at the end of the scrimmage, and he had a winning grip on the fore foot of his antagonist. A big "husky" who answered to the name of Cherokee Bob came our way and stopped awhile. He announced himself a foot racer, and a contest was soon arranged with Soda Bill of Nevada City, and each went into a course of training at his own camp. Bob found some way to get the best time that Bill could make, and comparing it with his own, said he could beat in that race. So when it came off our boys gathered up their money, and loaded down the stage, inside and out, departing with swinging hats and flying colors, and screaming in wild delight at the sure prospect of doubling their dust. In a few days they all came back after the style of half drowned roosters. Bob had 'thrown' the race and skipped with his money before they could catch him. Had he been found he would have been urgently hoisted to the first projecting limb, but he was never seen again. The boys were sad and silent for a day or two, but a look of cheerful resignation soon came upon their faces as they handled pick and shovel, and the world rolled on as before. One fall we had a county election, and among the candidates for office was our townsman, H.M. Moore, from whom Moore's Flat secured its name. He was the Democratic nominee for County Judge, and on the other side was David Belden, he whom Santa Clara County felt proud to honor as its Superior Judge, and when death claimed him, never was man more sincerely mourned by every citizen. The votes were counted, and Belden was one ahead. Moore claimed another count, and this time a mistake was discovered in the former count, but unfortunately it gave Belden a larger majority than before, and his adversary was forced to abandon the political fight. In the fifties I traveled from the North Yuba River to San Bernardino on different roads, and made many acquaintances and friends. I can truly say that I found many of these early comers who were the most noble men and women of the earth. They were brave else they had never taken the journey through unknown deserts, and through lands where wild Indians had their homes. They were just and true to friends, and to real enemies, terribly bitter and uncompromising. Money was borrowed and loaned without a note or written obligation, and there was no mention made of statute laws as a rule of action. When a real murderer or horsethief was caught no lawyers were needed nor employed, but if the community was satisfied as to the guilt and identity of the prisoner, the punishment was speedily meted out, and the nearest tree was soon ornamented with his swinging carcass. Many of these worthy men broke the trail on the rough way that led to the Pacific Coast, drove away all dangers, and made it safer for those who dared not at first risk life and fortune in the journey, but, encouraged by the success of the earliest pioneers, ventured later on the eventful trip to the new gold fields. I cannot praise these noble men too much; they deserve all I can say, and much more, too; and if a word I can say shall teach our new citizens to regard with reverent respect the early pioneers who laid the foundations of the glory, prosperity and beauty of the California of to-day, I shall have done all I hope to, and the historian of another half century may do them justice, and give to them their full need of praise. As long as I have lived in California I have never carried a weapon of defense, and never could see much danger. I tried to follow the right trail so as to shun bad men, and never found much difficulty in doing so. We hear much of the Vigilance Committee of early days. It was an actual necessity of former times. The gold fields not only attracted the good and brave, but also the worst and most lawless desperadoes of the world at large. England's banished convicts came here from the penal colonies of Australia and Van Diemen's Land. They had wonderful ideas of freedom. In their own land the stern laws and numerous constabulary had not been able to keep them from crime. A colony of criminals did not improve in moral tone, and when the most reckless and daring of all these were turned loose in a country like California, where the machinery of laws and officers to execute them was not yet in order, these lawless "Sidney Ducks," as they were called, felt free to rob and murder, and human life or blood was not allowed to stand between them and their desires. Others of the same general stripe came from Mexico and Chili, and Texas and Western Missouri furnished another class almost as bad. The Vigilance Committee of San Francisco was composed of the best men in the world. They endured all that was heaped upon them by these lawless men, and the law of self protection forced them to organize for the swift apprehension and punishment of crime, and the preservation of their property and lives. No one was punished unjustly, but there was no delay, and the evil-doer met his fate swiftly and surely. Justice was strict, and the circumstances were generally unfavorable to thoughts of mercy. I was in San Francisco the day after Casey and Cory were hung by the Vigilance Committee. Things looked quite military. Fort Gunny-bags seemed well protected, and no innocent man in any danger. I was then a customer of G.W. Badger and Lindenberger, clothiers, and was present one day in their store when some of the clerks came in from general duty, and their comrades shouldered the same guns and took their places on guard. The Committee was so truly vigilant that these fire-bugs, robbers and cut-throats had to hide for safety. Those who came early to this coast were, mostly, brave, venturesome, enduring fellows, who felt they could outlive any hardship and overcome all difficulties; they were of no ordinary type of character or habits. They thought they saw success before them, and were determined to win it at almost any cost. They had pictured in their minds the size of the "pile" that would satisfy them, and brought their buckskin bags with them, in various sizes, to hold the snug sum they hoped to win in the wonderful gold fields of the then unknown California. These California pioneers were restless fellows, but those who came by the overland trail were not without education and refinement; they were, indeed, many of them, the very cream of Americans. The new scenes and associations, the escape from the influence of home and friends, of wife and children, led some off the dim track, and their restlessness could not well be put down. Reasonable men could not expect all persons under these circumstances to be models of virtue. Then the Missouri River seemed to be the western boundary of all civilization, and as these gold hunters launched out on the almost trackless prairies that lay westward of that mighty stream, many considered themselves as entering a country of peculiar freedom, and it was often said that "Law and morality never crossed the Missouri River." Passing this great stream was like the crossing of the Rubicon in earlier history, a step that could not be retraced, a launching to victory or death. Under this state of feeling many showed the cloven foot, and tried to make trouble, but in any emergency good and honest men seemed always in the majority, and those who had thoughts or desires of evil were compelled to submit to honorable and just conclusions. There were some strange developments of character among these travelers. Some who had in long attendance at school and church, listened all their lives to teachings of morality and justice, and at home seemed to be fairly wedded to ideas of even rights between man and man, seemed to experience a change of character as they neared the Pacific Coast. Amiable dispositions became soured, moral ideas sadly blunted, and their whole make-up seemed changed, while others who at home seemed to be of rougher mould, developed principles of justice and humanity, affection almost unbounded, and were true men in every trial and in all places. A majority of all were thus fair-minded and true. Men from every state from New Hampshire to Texas gathered on the banks of the Missouri to set out together across the plains. These men reared in different climates, amid different ways and customs, taught by different teachers in schools of religion and politics, made up a strange mass when thus thrown together; but the good and true came to the surface, and the turbulent and bad were always in a hopeless minority. Laws seemed to grow out of the very circumstances, and though not in print, flagrant violations would be surely punished. Some left civilization with all the luxuries money could buy--fine, well-equipped trains of their own, and riding a fat and prancing steed, which they guided with gloved hands, and seemed to think that water and grass and pleasant camping places would always be found wherever they wished to stop for rest, and that the great El Dorado would be a grand pleasure excursion, ending in a pile of gold large enough to fill their big leather purse. But the sleek, fat horse grew poor; the gloves with embroidered gauntlet wrists were cast aside; the trains grew small, and the luxuries vanished, and perhaps the plucky owner made the last few hundred miles on foot, with blistered soles and scanty pack, almost alone. Many of these gay trains never reached California, and many a pioneer who started with high hopes died upon the way, some rudely buried, some left where they fell upon the sands or rocks. Those who got through found a splendid climate and promising prospects before them of filling empty stomachs and empty pockets, and were soon searching eagerly for yellow treasure. When fortunate they recovered rapidly their exhausted bodies to health and strength, and gained new energy as they saw prosperity. Prospectors wandered through the mountains in search of new and suitable gold diggings, and when they came to a miner's cabin the door was always open, and whether the owner was present or absent they could go in, and if hungry, help themselves to anything they found in shape of food, and go away again without fear of offense, for under such circumstances the unwritten law said that grub was free. By the same unwritten law, stealing and robbery, as well as murder, were capital offences, and lawless characters were put down. Favors were freely granted, and written obligations were never asked or given, and business was governed by the rules of strictest honor. The great majority of these pioneers were the bone and sinew of the nation, and possessed a fair share of the brains. In a personal experience with them extending from early days to the present time I have found them always just and honorable, and I regret that it is not within my ability to give the praise they deserve. When a stranger and hungry I was never turned away without food, and my entertainment was free, and given without thought of compensation or reward. In the chambers of my mind are stored up the most pleasant recollections of these noble men whose good deeds in days gone by have earned for them the right to a crown of glory of greatest splendor. These noble souls who came here 40 years ago are fast passing away across the Mystic River, and those who trod on foot the hot and dusty trail are giving way to those who come in swiftly rolling palace cars, and who hardly seem to give a thought to the difference between then and now. Those who came early cleared the way and started the great stream of gold that has made America one of the richest nations of the world. I have a suggestion to make to the descendants of these noble pioneers, that to perpetuate the memory of their fathers, and do reverence to their good and noble deeds in the early history of this grand State, there should be erected upon the highest mountain top a memorial building wherein may be inscribed the names and histories of the brave pioneers, so they may never be blotted out. THE JAYHAWKERS. The most perfect organization of the pioneers who participated more or less in the scenes depicted in this volume, is that of the Jayhawkers, and, strange to say, this organization is in the East, and has its annual meetings there, although the living members are about equally divided between the East and the Pacific Coast. As related elsewhere, February 4th is the day of the annual meeting, for on that day they reached the Santa Clara Valley. It is greatly regretted that a more direct and complete account of the Death Valley experience of the Jayhawkers could not have been obtained for this work. To be sure it was from the lips of a living witness told in many conversations, but no doubt many striking incidents were left out. It is, however, a settled thing that these, and other individuals with whom he was immediately connected, were more intimately connected with the horrors of the sunken valley which was given its name by them, than were any other persons who ever crossed that desert region. It will be considered that this was the most favorable time of year possible, and that during the spring or summer not one would have lived to tell the tale. The Author, to his best, has done his duty to all, and concludes with the hope that this mite may authenticate one of the saddest chapters in the history of the Golden State. CONCLUSION. This story is not meant to be sensational, but a plain, unvarnished tale of truth--some parts hard and very sad. It is a narrative of my personal experience, and being in no sense a literary man or making any pretense as a writer, I hope the errors may be overlooked, for it has been to me a difficult story to tell, arousing as it did sad recollections of the past. I have told it in the plainest, briefest way, with nothing exaggerated or overdone. Those who traveled over the same or similar routes are capable of passing a just opinion of the story. Looking back over more than 40 years, I was then a great lover of liberty, as well as health and happiness, and I possessed a great desire to see a new country never yet trod by civilized man, so that I easily caught the gold fever of 1849, and naught but a trip to that land of fabled wealth could cure me. Geography has wonderfully changed since then. Where Omaha now stands there was not a house in 1849. Six hundred miles of treeless prairie without a house brought us to the adobe dwellings at Fort Laramie, and 400, more or less, were the long miles to Mormondom, still more than 700 miles from the Pacific Coast. Passing over this wilderness was like going to sea without a compass. Hence it will be seen that when we crossed a stream that was said to flow to the Pacific Ocean, myself and comrades were ready to adopt floating down its current as an easier road than the heated trail, and for three weeks, over rocks and rapids, we floated and tumbled down the deep cañon of Green River till we emerged into an open plain and were compelled to come on shore by the Indians there encamped. We had believed the Indians to be a war-like and cruel people, but when we made them understand where we wanted to go, they warned us of the great impassable Colorado Cañon only two days ahead of us, and pointed out the road to "Mormonie" with their advice to take it. This was Chief Walker, a good, well meaning red man, and to him we owed our lives. Out of this trouble we were once again on the safe road from Salt Lake to Los Angeles, and again made error in taking a cutoff route, and striking across a trackless country because it seemed to promise a shorter distance, and where thirteen of our party lie unburied on the sands of the terribly dry valley. Those who lived were saved by the little puddles of rain water that had fallen from the small rain clouds that had been forced over the great Sierra Nevada Mountains in one of the wettest winters ever known. In an ordinary year we should have all died of thirst, so that we were lucky in our misfortune. When we came out to the fertile coast near Los Angeles, we found good friends in the native Californians who, like good Samaritans, gave us food and took us in, poor, nearly starved creatures that we were, without money or property from which they could expect to be rewarded. Their deeds stand out whiter in our memories than all the rest, notwithstanding their skins were dark. It seems to me such people do not live in this age of the world which we are pleased to call advanced. I was much with these old Californians, and found them honest and truthful, willing to divide the last bit of food with a needy stranger or a friend. Their good deeds have never been praised enough, and I feel it in my heart to do them ample justice while I live. The work that was laid out for me to do, to tell when and where I went, is done. Perhaps in days to come it may be of even more interest than now, and I shall be glad I have turned over the scenes in my memory and recorded them, and on some rolling stone you may inscribe the name of WILLIAM LEWIS MANLEY, born near St. Albans, Vermont, April 20th, 1820, who went to Michigan while yet it was a territory, as an early pioneer; then onward to Wisconsin before it became a state, and for twelve long, weary months traveled across the wild western prairies, the lofty mountains and sunken deserts of Death Valley, to this land which is now so pleasant and so fair, wherein, after over 40 years of earnest toil, I rest in the midst of family and friends, and can truly say I am content. THE END. [Transcriber's Note: Several variant spellings of, for example, "medecine" and "Mormon", have been retained from the original.] 
19113	----	[Frontispiece: He gathered her in his arms, and bending low carried her back into the darkened cavern.] THE EMIGRANT TRAIL BY GERALDINE BONNER NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY Published, April, 1910 CONTENTS PART I THE PRAIRIE PART II THE RIVER PART III THE MOUNTAINS PART IV THE DESERT PART V THE PROMISED LAND THE EMIGRANT TRAIL PART I The Prairie CHAPTER I It had rained steadily for three days, the straight, relentless rain of early May on the Missouri frontier. The emigrants, whose hooded wagons had been rolling into Independence for the past month and whose tents gleamed through the spring foliage, lounged about in one another's camps cursing the weather and swapping bits of useful information. The year was 1848 and the great California emigration was still twelve months distant. The flakes of gold had already been found in the race of Sutter's mill, and the thin scattering of men, which made the population of California, had left their plows in the furrow and their ships in the cove and gone to the yellow rivers that drain the Sierra's mighty flanks. But the rest of the world knew nothing of this yet. They were not to hear till November when a ship brought the news to New York, and from city and town, from village and cottage, a march of men would turn their faces to the setting sun and start for the land of gold. Those now bound for California knew it only as the recently acquired strip of territory that lay along the continent's Western rim, a place of perpetual sunshine, where everybody had a chance and there was no malaria. That was what they told each other as they lay under the wagons or sat on saddles in the wet tents. The story of old Roubadoux, the French fur trader from St. Joseph, circulated cheeringly from mouth to mouth--a man in Monterey had had chills and people came from miles around to see him shake, so novel was the spectacle. That was the country for the men and women of the Mississippi Valley, who shook half the year and spent the other half getting over it. The call of the West was a siren song in the ears of these waiting companies. The blood of pioneers urged them forward. Their forefathers had moved from the old countries across the seas, from the elm-shaded towns of New England, from the unkempt villages that advanced into the virgin lands by the Great Lakes, from the peace and plenty of the splendid South. Year by year they had pushed the frontier westward, pricked onward by a ceaseless unrest, "the old land hunger" that never was appeased. The forests rang to the stroke of their ax, the slow, untroubled rivers of the wilderness parted to the plowing wheels of their unwieldy wagons, their voices went before them into places where Nature had kept unbroken her vast and pondering silence. The distant country by the Pacific was still to explore and they yoked their oxen, and with a woman and a child on the seat started out again, responsive to the cry of "Westward, Ho!" As many were bound for Oregon as for California. Marcus Whitman and the missionaries had brought alluring stories of that great domain once held so cheaply the country almost lost it. It was said to be of a wonderful fertility and league-long stretches of idle land awaited the settler. The roads ran together more than half the way, parting at Green River, where the Oregon trail turned to Fort Hall and the California dipped southward and wound, a white and spindling thread, across what men then called "The Great American Desert." Two days' journey from Independence this road branched from the Santa Fé Trail and bent northward across the prairie. A signboard on a stake pointed the way and bore the legend, "Road to Oregon." It was the starting point of one of the historic highways of the world. The Indians called it "The Great Medicine Way of the Pale-face." Checked in the act of what they called "jumping off" the emigrants wore away the days in telling stories of the rival countries, and in separating from old companies and joining new ones. It was an important matter, this of traveling partnerships. A trip of two thousand miles on unknown roads beset with dangers was not to be lightly undertaken. Small parties, frightened on the edge of the enterprise, joined themselves to stronger ones. The mountain men and trappers delighted to augment the tremors of the fearful, and round the camp fires listening groups hung on the words of long-haired men clad in dirty buckskins, whose moccasined feet had trod the trails of the fur trader and his red brother. This year was one of special peril for, to the accustomed dangers from heat, hunger, and Indians, was added a new one--the Mormons. They were still moving westward in their emigration from Nauvoo to the new Zion beside the Great Salt Lake. It was a time and a place to hear the black side of Mormonism. A Missourian hated a Latter Day Saint as a Puritan hated a Papist. Hawn's mill was fresh in the minds of the frontiersmen, and the murder of Joseph Smith was accounted a righteous act. The emigrant had many warnings to lay to heart--against Indian surprises in the mountains, against mosquitoes on the plains, against quicksands in the Platte, against stampedes among the cattle, against alkaline springs and the desert's parching heats. And quite as important as any of these was that against the Latter Day Saint with the Book of Mormon in his saddlebag and his long-barreled rifle across the pommel. So they waited, full of ill words and impatience, while the rain fell. Independence, the focusing point of the frontier life, housing unexpected hundreds, dripped from all its gables and swam in mud. And in the camps that spread through the fresh, wet woods and the oozy uplands, still other hundreds cowered under soaked tent walls and in damp wagon boxes, listening to the rush of the continuous showers. CHAPTER II On the afternoon of the fourth day the clouds lifted. A band of yellow light broke out along the horizon, and at the crossings of the town and in the rutted country roads men and women stood staring at it with its light and their own hope brightening their faces. David Crystal, as he walked through the woods, saw it behind a veining of black branches. Though a camper and impatient to be off like the rest, he did not feel the elation that shone on their watching faces. His was held in a somber abstraction. Just behind him, in an opening under the straight, white blossoming of dogwood trees, was a new-made grave. The raw earth about it showed the prints of his feet, for he had been standing by it thinking of the man who lay beneath. Four days before his friend, Joe Linley, had died of cholera. Three of them--Joe, himself, and George Leffingwell, Joe's cousin--had been in camp less than a week when it had happened. Until then their life had been like a picnic there in the clearing by the roadside, with the thrill of the great journey stirring in their blood. And then Joe had been smitten with such suddenness, such awful suddenness! He had been talking to them when David had seen a suspension of something, a stoppage of a vital inner spring, and with it a whiteness had passed across his face like a running tide. The awe of that moment, the hush when it seemed to David the liberated spirit had paused beside him in its outward flight, was with him now as he walked through the rustling freshness of the wood. The rain had begun to lessen, its downfall thinning into a soft patter among the leaves. The young man took off his hat and let the damp air play over his hair. It was thick hair, black and straight, already longer than city fashions dictated, and a first stubble of black beard was hiding the lines of a chin perhaps a trifle too sensitive and pointed. Romantic good looks and an almost poetic refinement were the characteristics of the face, an unusual type for the frontier. With thoughtful gray eyes set deep under a jut of brows and a nose as finely cut as a woman's, it was of a type that, in more sophisticated localities, men would have said had risen to meet the Byronic ideal of which the world was just then enamored. But there was nothing Byronic or self-conscious about David Crystal. He had been born and bred in what was then the Far West, and that he should read poetry and regard life as an undertaking that a man must face with all honor and resoluteness was not so surprising for the time and place. The West, with its loneliness, its questioning silences, its solemn sweep of prairie and roll of slow, majestic rivers, held spiritual communion with those of its young men who had eyes to see and ears to hear. The trees grew thinner and he saw the sky pure as amber beneath the storm pall. The light from it twinkled over wet twigs and glazed the water in the crumplings of new leaves. Across the glow the last raindrops fell in slanting dashes. David's spirits rose. The weather was clearing and they could start--start on the trail, the long trail, the Emigrant Trail, two thousand miles to California! He was close to the camp. Through the branches he saw the filmy, diffused blueness of smoke and smelled the sharp odor of burning wood. He quickened his pace and was about to give forth a cheerful hail when he heard a sound that made him stop, listen with fixed eye, and then advance cautiously, sending a questing glance through the screen of leaves. The sound was a woman's voice detached in clear sweetness from the deeper tones of men. There was no especial novelty in this. Their camp was just off the road and the emigrant women were wont to pause there and pass the time of day. Most of them were the lean and leathern-skinned mates of the frontiersmen, shapeless and haggard as if toil had drawn from their bodies all the softness of feminine beauty, as malaria had sucked from their skins freshness and color. But there were young, pretty ones, too, who often strolled by, looking sideways from the shelter of jealous sunbonnets. This voice was not like theirs. It had a quality David had only heard a few times in his life--cultivation. Experience would have characterized it as "a lady voice." David, with none, thought it an angel's. Very shy, very curious, he came out from the trees ready at once and forever to worship anyone who could set their words to such dulcet cadences. The clearing, green as an emerald and shining with rain, showed the hood of the wagon and the new, clean tent, white as sails on a summer sea, against the trees' young bloom. In the middle the fire burned and beside it stood Leff, a skillet in his hand. He was a curly-headed, powerful country lad, twenty-four years old, who, two months before, had come from an Illinois farm to join the expedition. The frontier was to him a place of varied diversion, Independence a stimulating center. So diffident that the bashful David seemed by contrast a man of cultured ease, he was now blushing till the back of his neck was red. On the other side of the fire a lady and gentleman stood arm in arm under an umbrella. The two faces, bent upon Leff with grave attention, were alike, not in feature, but in the subtly similar play of expression that speaks the blood tie. A father and daughter, David thought. Against the rough background of the camp, with its litter at their feet, they had an air of being applied upon an alien surface, of not belonging to the picture, but standing out from it in sharp and incongruous contrast. The gentleman was thin and tall, fifty or thereabouts, very pale, especially to one accustomed to the tanned skins of the farm and the country town. His face held so frank a kindliness, especially the eyes which looked tired and a little sad, that David felt its expression like a friendly greeting or a strong handclasp. The lady did not have this, perhaps because she was a great deal younger. She was yet in the bud, far from the tempering touch of experience, still in the state of looking forward and anticipating things. She was dark, of medium height, and inclined to be plump. Many delightful curves went to her making, and her waist tapered elegantly, as was the fashion of the time. Thinking it over afterwards, the young man decided that she did not belong in the picture with a prairie schooner and camp kettles, because she looked so like an illustration in a book of beauty. And David knew something of these matters, for had he not been twice to St. Louis and there seen the glories of the earth and the kingdoms thereof? But life in camp outside Independence had evidently blunted his perceptions. The small waist, a round, bare throat rising from a narrow band of lace, and a flat, yellow straw hat were the young woman's only points of resemblance to the beauty-book heroines. She was not in the least beautiful, only fresh and healthy, the flat straw hat shading a girlish face, smooth and firmly modeled as a ripe fruit. Her skin was a glossy brown, softened with a peach's bloom, warming through deepening shades of rose to lips that were so deeply colored no one noticed how firmly they could come together, how their curving, crimson edges could shut tight, straighten out, and become a line of forceful suggestions, of doggedness, maybe--who knows?--perhaps of obstinacy. It was her physical exuberance, her downy glow, that made David think her good looking; her serene, brunette richness, with its high lights of coral and scarlet, that made her radiate an aura of warmth, startling in that woodland clearing, as the luster of a firefly in a garden's glooming dusk. She stopped speaking as he emerged from the trees, and Leff's stammering answer held her in a riveted stare of attention. Then she looked up and saw David. "Oh," she said, and transferred the stare to him. "Is this he?" Leff was obviously relieved: "Oh, David, I ain't known what to say to this lady and her father. They think some of joining us. They've been waiting for quite a spell to see you. They're goin' to California, too." The gentleman lifted his hat. Now that he smiled his face was even kindlier, and he, too, had a pleasant, mellowed utterance that linked him with the world of superior quality of which David had had those two glimpses. "I am Dr. Gillespie," he said, "and this is my daughter Susan." David bowed awkwardly, a bow that was supposed to include father and daughter. He did not know whether this was a regular introduction, and even if it had been he would not have known what to do. The young woman made no attempt to return the salutation, not that she was rude, but she had the air of regarding it as a frivolous interruption to weighty matters. She fixed David with eyes, small, black, and bright as a squirrel's, so devoid of any recognition that he was a member of the rival sex--or, in fact, of the human family--that his self-consciousness sunk down abashed as if before reproof. "My father and I are going to California and the train we were going with has gone on. We've come from Rochester, New York, and everywhere we've been delayed and kept back. Even that boat up from St. Louis was five days behind time. It's been nothing but disappointments and delays since we left home. And when we got here the people we were going with--a big train from Northern New York--had gone on and left us." She said all this rapidly, poured it out as if she were so full of the injury and annoyance of it, that she had to ease her indignation by letting it run over into the first pair of sympathetic ears. David's were a very good pair. Any woman with a tale of trouble would have found him a champion. How much more a fresh-faced young creature with a melodious voice and anxious eyes. "A good many trains have gone on," he said. And then, by way of consolation for her manner demanded, that, "But they'll be stalled at the fords with this rain. They'll have to wait till the rivers fall. All the men who know say that." "So we've heard," said the father, "but we hoped that we'd catch them up. Our outfit is very light, only one wagon, and our driver is a thoroughly capable and experienced man. What we want are some companions with whom we can travel till we overhaul the others. I'd start alone, but with my daughter----" She cut in at once, giving his arm a little, irritated shake: "Of course you couldn't do that." Then to the young men: "My father's been sick for quite a long time, all last winter. It's for his health we're going to California, and, of course, he couldn't start without some other men in the party. Indians might attack us, and at the hotel they said the Mormons were scattered all along the road and thought nothing of shooting a Gentile." Her father gave the fingers crooked on his arm a little squeeze with his elbow. It was evident the pair were very good friends. "You'll make these young men think I'm a helpless invalid, who'll lie in the wagon all day. They won't want us to go with them." This made her again uneasy and let loose another flow of authoritative words. "No, my father isn't really an invalid. He doesn't have to lie in the wagon. He's going to ride most of the time. He and I expect to ride all the way, and the old man who goes with us will drive the mules. What's been really bad for my father was living in that dreadful hotel at Independence with everything damp and uncomfortable. We want to get off just as soon as we can, and this gentleman," indicating Leff, "says you want to go, too." "We'll start to-morrow morning, if it's clear." "Now, father," giving the arm she held a renewed clutch and sharper shake, "there's our chance. We must go with them." The father's smile would have shown something of deprecation, or even apology, if it had not been all pride and tenderness. "These young men will be very kind if they permit us to join them," was what his lips said. His eyes added: "This is a spoiled child, but even so, there is no other like her in the world." The young men sprang at the suggestion. The spring was internal, of the spirit, for they were too overwhelmed by the imminent presence of beauty to show a spark of spontaneity on the outside. They muttered their agreement, kicked the ground, and avoided the eyes of Miss Gillespie. "The people at the hotel," the doctor went on, "advised us to join one of the ox trains. But it seemed such a slow mode of progress. They don't make much more than fifteen to twenty miles a day." "And then," said the girl, "there might be people we didn't like in the train and we'd be with them all the time." It is not probable that she intended to suggest to her listeners that she could stand them as traveling companions. Whether she did or not they scented the compliment, looked stupid, and hung their heads, silent in the intoxication of this first subtle whiff of incense. Even Leff, uncouth and unlettered, extracted all that was possible from the words, and felt a delicate elation at the thought that so fine a creature could endure his society. "We expect to go a great deal faster than the long trains," she continued. "We have no oxen, only six mules and two extra horses and a cow." Her father laughed outright. "Don't let my daughter frighten you. We've really got a very small amount of baggage. Our little caravan has been made up on the advice of Dr. Marcus Whitman, an old friend of mine. Five years ago when he was in Washington he gave me a list of what was needed for the journey across the plains. I suppose he's the best authority on that subject. We all know how successfully the Oregon emigration was carried through." David was glad to show he knew something of that. A boy friend of his had gone to Oregon with this, the first large body of emigrants that had ventured on the great enterprise. Whitman was to him a national hero, his ride in the dead of winter from the far Northwest to Washington, as patriotically inspiring as Paul Revere's. There was more talk, standing round the fire, while the agreements for the start were being made. No one thought the arrangement hasty, for it was a place and time of quick decisions. Men starting on the emigrant trail were not for wasting time on preliminaries. Friendships sprang up like the grass and were mown down like it. Standing on the edge of the unknown was not the propitious moment for caution and hesitation. Only the bold dared it and the bold took each other without question, reading what was on the surface, not bothering about what might be hidden. It was agreed, the weather being fair, that they would start at seven the next morning, Dr. Gillespie's party joining David's at the camp. With their mules and horses they should make good time and within a month overhaul the train that had left the Gillespies behind. As the doctor and his daughter walked away the shyness of the young men returned upon them in a heavy backwash. They were so whelmed by it that they did not even speak to one another. But both glanced with cautious stealth at the receding backs, the doctor in front, his daughter walking daintily on the edge of grass by the roadside, holding her skirts away from the wet weeds. When she was out of sight Leff said with an embarrassed laugh: "Well, we got some one to go along with us now." David did not laugh. He pondered frowningly. He was the elder by two years and he felt his responsibilities. "They'll do all right. With two more men we'll make a strong enough train." Leff was cook that night, and he set the coffee on and began cutting the bacon. Occupied in this congenial work, the joints of his tongue were loosened, and as the skillet gave forth grease and odors, he gave forth bits of information gleaned from the earlier part of the interview: "I guess they got a first rate outfit. The old gentleman said they'd been getting it together since last autumn. They must be pretty well fixed." David nodded. Being "well fixed" or being poor did not count on the edge of the prairie. They were frivolous outside matters that had weight in cities. Leff went on, "He's consumpted. That's why he's going. He says he expects to be cured before he gets to California." A sudden zephyr irritated the tree tops, which bent away from its touch and scattered moisture on the fire and the frying pan. There was a sputter and sizzle and Leff muttered profanely before he took up the dropped thread: "The man that drives the mules, he's a hired man that the old gentleman's had for twenty years. He was out on the frontier once and knows all about it, and there ain't nothing he can't drive"--turning of the bacon here, Leff absorbed beyond explanatory speech--"They got four horses, two to ride and two extra ones, and a cow. I don't see how they're goin' to keep up the pace with the cow along. The old gentleman says they can do twenty to twenty-five miles a day when the road's good. But I don't seem to see how the cow can keep up such a lick." "A hired man, a cow, and an outfit that it took all winter to get together," said David thoughtfully. "It sounds more like a pleasure trip than going across the plains." He sat as if uneasily debating the possible drawbacks of so elaborate an escort, but he was really ruminating upon the princess, who moved upon the wilderness with such pomp and circumstance. As they set out their tin cups and plates they continued to discuss the doctor, his caravan, his mules, his servant, and his cow, in fact, everything but his daughter. It was noticeable that no mention of her was made till supper was over and the night fell. Then their comments on her were brief. Leff seemed afraid of her even a mile away in the damp hotel at Independence, seemed to fear that she might in some way know he'd had her name upon his tongue, and would come to-morrow with angry, accusing looks like an offended goddess. David did not want to talk about her, he did not quite know why. Before the thought of traveling a month in her society his mind fell back reeling, baffled by the sudden entrance of such a dazzling intruder. A month beside this glowing figure, a month under the impersonal interrogation of those cool, demanding eyes! It was as if the President or General Zachary Taylor had suddenly joined them. But of course she figured larger in their thoughts than any other part or all the combined parts of Dr. Gillespie's outfit. In their imaginations--the hungry imaginations of lonely young men--she represented all the grace, beauty, and mystery of the Eternal Feminine. They did not reason about her, they only felt, and what they felt--unconsciously to themselves--was that she had introduced the last, wildest, and most disturbing thrill into the adventure of the great journey. CHAPTER III The next day broke still and clear. The dawn was yet a pale promise in the East when from Independence, out through the dripping woods and clearings, rose the tumult of breaking camps. The rattle of the yoke chains and the raucous cry of "Catch up! Catch up!" sounded under the trees and out and away over valley and upland as the lumbering wagons, freighted deep for the long trail, swung into the road. David's camp was astir long before the sun was up. The great hour had come. They were going! They sung and shouted as they harnessed Bess and Ben, a pair of sturdy roans bought from an emigrant discouraged before the start, while the saddle horses nosed about the tree roots for a last cropping of the sweet, thick grass. Inside the wagon the provisions were packed in sacks and the rifles hung on hooks on the canvas walls. At the back, on a supporting step, the mess chest was strapped. It was a businesslike wagon. Its contents included only one deviation from the practical and necessary--three books of David's. Joe had laughed at him about them. What did a man want with Byron's poems and Milton and Bacon's "Essays" crossing the plains? Neither Joe nor Leff could understand such devotion to the printed page. Their kits were of the compactest, not a useless article or an unnecessary pound, unless you counted the box of flower seeds that belonged to Joe, who had heard that California, though a dry country, could be coaxed into productiveness along the rivers. Dr. Gillespie and his daughter were punctual. David's silver watch, large as the circle of a cup and possessed of a tick so loud it interrupted conversation, registered five minutes before seven, when the doctor and his daughter appeared at the head of their caravan. Two handsome figures, well mounted and clad with taste as well as suitability, they looked as gallantly unfitted for the road as armored knights in a modern battlefield. Good looks, physical delicacy, and becoming clothes had as yet no recognized place on the trail. The Gillespies were boldly and blithely bringing them, and unlike most innovators, romance came with them. Nobody had gone out of Independence with so confident and debonair an air. Now advancing through a spattering of leaf shadows and sunspots, they seemed to the young men to be issuing from the first pages of a story, and the watchers secretly hoped that they would go riding on into the heart of it with the white arch of the prairie schooner and the pricked ears of the six mules as a movable background. There was no umbrella this morning to obscure Miss Gillespie's vivid tints, and in the same flat, straw hat, with her cheeks framed in little black curls, she looked a freshly wholesome young girl, who might be dangerous to the peace of mind of men even less lonely and susceptible than the two who bid her a flushed and bashful good morning. She had the appearance, however, of being entirely oblivious to any embarrassment they might show. There was not a suggestion of coquetry in her manner as she returned their greetings. Instead, it was marked by a businesslike gravity. Her eyes touched their faces with the slightest welcoming light and then left them to rove, sharply inspecting, over their wagon and animals. When she had scrutinized these, she turned in her saddle, and said abruptly to the driver of the six mules: "Daddy John, do you see--horses?" The person thus addressed nodded and said in a thin, old voice, "I do, and if they want them they're welcome to them." He was a small, shriveled man, who might have been anywhere from sixty to seventy-five. A battered felt hat, gray-green with wind and sun, was pulled well down to his ears, pressing against his forehead and neck thin locks of gray hair. A grizzle of beard edged his chin, a poor and scanty growth that showed the withered skin through its sparseness. His face, small and wedge-shaped, was full of ruddy color, the cheeks above the ragged hair smooth and red as apples. Though his mouth was deficient in teeth, his neck, rising bare from the band of his shirt, corrugated with the starting sinews of old age, he had a shrewd vivacity of glance, an alertness of poise, that suggested an unimpaired spiritual vitality. He seemed at home behind the mules, and here, for the first time, David felt was some one who did not look outside the picture. In fact, he had an air of tranquil acceptance of the occasion, of adjustment without effort, that made him fit into the frame better than anyone else of the party. It was a glorious morning, and as they fared forward through the checkered shade their spirits ran high. The sun, curious and determined, pried and slid through every crack in the leafage, turned the flaked lichen to gold, lay in clotted light on the pools around the fern roots. They were delicate spring woods, streaked with the white dashes of the dogwood, and hung with the tassels of the maple. The foliage was still unfolding, patterned with fresh creases, the prey of a continuous, frail unrest. Little streams chuckled through the underbrush, and from the fusion of woodland whisperings bird notes detached themselves, soft flutings and liquid runs, that gave another expression to the morning's blithe mood. Between the woods there were stretches of open country, velvet smooth, with the trees slipped down to where the rivers ran. The grass was as green as sprouting grain, and a sweet smell of wet earth and seedling growths came from it. Cloud shadows trailed across it, blue blotches moving languidly. It was the young earth in its blushing promise, fragrant, rain-washed, budding, with the sound of running water in the grass and bird voices dropping from the sky. With their lighter wagons they passed the ox trains plowing stolidly through the mud, barefoot children running at the wheel, and women knitting on the front seat. The driver's whip lash curled in the air, and his nasal "Gee haw" swung the yoked beasts slowly to one side. Then came detachments of Santa Fé traders, dark men in striped serapes with silver trimmings round their high-peaked hats. Behind them stretched the long line of wagons, the ponderous freighters of the Santa Fé Trail, rolling into Independence from the Spanish towns that lay beyond the burning deserts of the Cimarron. They filed by in slow procession, a vision of faded colors and swarthy faces, jingle of spur and mule bell mingling with salutations in sonorous Spanish. As the day grew warmer, the doctor complained of the heat and went back to the wagon. David and the young girl rode on together through the green thickness of the wood. They had talked a little while the doctor was there, and now, left to themselves, they suddenly began to talk a good deal. In fact, Miss Gillespie revealed herself as a somewhat garrulous and quite friendly person. David felt his awed admiration settling into a much more comfortable feeling, still wholly admiring but relieved of the cramping consciousness that he had entertained an angel unawares. She was so natural and girlish that he began to cherish hopes of addressing her as "Miss Susan," even let vaulting ambition carry him to the point where he could think of some day calling himself her friend. She was communicative, and he was still too dazzled by her to realize that she was not above asking questions. In the course of a half hour she knew all about him, and he, without the courage to be thus flatteringly curious, knew the main points of her own history. Her father had been a practicing physician in Rochester for the past fifteen years. Before that he had lived in New York, where she had been born twenty years ago. Her mother had been a Canadian, a French woman from the Province of Quebec, whom her father had met there one summer when he had gone to fish in Lake St. John. Her mother had been very beautiful--David nodded at that, he had already decided it--and had always spoken English with an accent. She, the daughter, when she was little, spoke French before she did English; in fact, did not Mr. Crystal notice there was still something a little queer about her _r_'s? Mr. Crystal had noticed it, noticed it to the extent of thinking it very pretty. The young lady dismissed the compliment as one who does not hear, and went on with her narrative: "After my mother's death my father left New York. He couldn't bear to live there any more. He'd been so happy. So he moved away, though he had a fine practice." The listener gave forth a murmur of sympathetic understanding. Devotion to a beautiful woman was matter of immediate appeal to him. His respect for the doctor rose in proportion, especially when the devotion was weighed in the balance against a fine practice. Looking at the girl's profile with prim black curls against the cheek, he saw the French-Canadian mother, and said not gallantly, but rather timidly: "And you're like your mother, I suppose? You're dark like a French woman." She answered this with a brusque denial. Extracting compliments from the talk of a shy young Westerner was evidently not her strong point. "Oh, no! not at all. My mother was pale and tall, with very large black eyes. I am short and dark and my eyes are only just big enough to see out of. She was delicate and I am very strong. My father says I've never been sick since I got my first teeth." She looked at him and laughed, and he realized it was the first time he had seen her do it. It brightened her face delightfully, making the eyes she had spoken of so disparagingly narrow into dancing slits. When she laughed men who had not lost the nicety of their standards by a sojourn on the frontier would have called her a pretty girl. "My mother was of the French _noblesse_," she said, a dark eye upon him to see how he would take this dignified piece of information. "She was a descendant of the Baron de Poutrincourt, who founded Port Royal." David was as impressed as anyone could have desired. He did not know what the French _noblesse_ was, but by its sound he judged it to be some high and honorable estate. He was equally ignorant of the identity of the Baron de Poutrincourt, but the name alone was impressive, especially as Miss Gillespie pronounced it. "That's fine, isn't it?" he said, as being the only comment he could think of which at once showed admiration and concealed ignorance. The young woman seemed to find it adequate and went on with her family history. Five years ago in Washington her father had seen his old friend, Marcus Whitman, and since then had been restless with the longing to move West. His health demanded the change. His labors as a physician had exhausted him. His daughter spoke feelingly of the impossibility of restraining his charitable zeal. He attended the poor for nothing. He rose at any hour and went forth in any weather in response to the call of suffering. "That's what he says a doctor's duties are," she said. "It isn't a profession to make money with, it's a profession for helping people and curing them. You yourself don't count, it's only what you do that does. Why, my father had a very large practice, but he made only just enough to keep us." Of all she had said this seemed to the listener the best worth hearing. The doctor now mounted to the top of the highest pedestal David's admiration could supply. Here was one of the compensations with which life keeps the balances even. Joe had died and left him friendless, and while the ache was still sharp, this stranger and his daughter had come to soothe his pain, perhaps, in the course of time, to conjure it quite away. Early in the preceding winter the doctor had been forced to decide on the step he had been long contemplating. An attack of congestion of the lungs developed consumption in his weakened constitution. A warm climate and an open-air life were prescribed. And how better combine them than by emigrating to California? "And so," said the doctor's daughter, "father made up his mind to go and sold out his practice. People thought he was crazy to start on such a trip when he was sick, but he knows more than they do. Besides, it's not going to be such hard work for him. Daddy John, the old man who drives the mules, knows all about this Western country. He was here a long time ago when Indiana and Illinois were wild and full of Indians. He got wounded out here fighting and thought he was going to die, and came back to New York. My father found him there, poor and lonely and sick, and took care of him and cured him. He's been with us ever since, more than twenty years, and he manages everything and takes care of everything. He and father'll tell you I rule them, but that's just teasing. It's really Daddy John who rules." The mules were just behind them, and she looked back at the old man and called in her clear voice: "I'm talking about you, Daddy John. I'm telling all about your wickedness." Daddy John's answer came back, slow and amused: "Wait till I get the young feller alone and I'll do some talking." Laughing, she settled herself in her saddle and dropped her voice for David's ear: "I think Daddy John was quite pleased we missed the New York train. It was a big company, and he couldn't have managed everything the way he can now. But we'll soon catch it up and then"--she lifted her eyebrows and smiled with charming malice at the thought of Daddy John's coming subjugation. "We ought to overtake it in three or four weeks they said in Independence." Her companion made no answer. The cheerful conversation had suddenly taken a depressing turn. Under the spell of Miss Gillespie's loquacity and black eyes he had quite forgotten that he was only a temporary escort, to be superseded by an entire ox train, of which even now they were in pursuit. David was a dreamer, and while the young woman talked, he had seen them both in diminishing perspective, passing sociably across the plains, over the mountains, into the desert, to where California edged with a prismatic gleam the verge of the world. They were to go riding, and talking on, their acquaintance ripening gradually and delightfully, while the enormous panorama of the continent unrolled behind them. And it might end in three or four weeks! The Emigrant Trail looked overwhelmingly long when he could only see himself and Leff riding over it, and California lost its color and grew as gray as a line of sea fog. That evening's camp was pitched in a clearing near the road. The woods pressed about them, whispering and curious, thrown out and then blotted as the fires leaped or died. It was the first night's bivouac, and much noise and bustle went to its accomplishment. The young men covertly watched the Gillespie Camp. How would this ornamental party cope with such unfamiliar labors? With its combination of a feminine element which must be helpless by virtue of a rare and dainty fineness and a masculine element which could hardly be otherwise because of ill health, it would seem that all the work must devolve upon the old man. Nothing, however, was further from the fact. The Gillespies rose to the occasion with the same dauntless buoyancy that they had shown in ever attempting the undertaking, and then blithely defying public opinion with a servant and a cow. The sense of their unfitness which had made the young men uneasy now gave way to secret wonder as the doctor pitched the tent like a backwoodsman, and his daughter showed a skilled acquaintance with campers' biscuit making. She did it so well, so without hurry and with knowledge, that it was worth while watching her, if David's own cooking could have spared him. He did find time once to offer her assistance and that she refused, politely but curtly. With sleeves rolled to the elbow, her hat off, showing a roll of hair on the crown of her head separated by a neat parting from the curls that hung against her cheeks, she was absorbed in the business in hand. Evidently she was one of those persons to whom the matter of the moment is the only matter. When her biscuits were done, puffy and brown, she volunteered a preoccupied explanation: "I've been learning to do this all winter, and I'm going to do it right." And even then it was less an excuse for her abruptness than the announcement of a compact with herself, steadfast, almost grim. After supper they sat by the fire, silent with fatigue, the scent of the men's tobacco on the air, the girl, with her hands clasping her knees, looking into the flames. In the shadows behind the old servant moved about. They could hear him crooning to the mules, and then catch a glimpse of his gnomelike figure bearing blankets from the wagon to the tent. There came a point where his labors seemed ended, but his activity had merely changed its direction. He came forward and said to the girl, "Missy, your bed's ready. You'd better be going." She gave a groan and a movement of protest under which was the hopeless acquiescence of the conquered: "Not yet, Daddy John. I'm so comfortable sitting here." "There's two thousand miles before you. Mustn't get tired this early. Come now, get up." His manner held less of urgence than of quiet command. He was not dictatorial, but he was determined. The girl looked at him, sighed, rose to her knees, and then made a last appeal to her father: "Father, _do_ take my part. Daddy John's too interfering for words!" But her father would only laugh at her discomfiture. "All right," she said as she bent down to kiss him. "It'll be your turn in just about five minutes." It was an accurate prophecy. The tent flaps had hardly closed on her when Daddy John attacked his employer. "Goin' now?" he said, sternly. The doctor knew his fate, and like his daughter offered a spiritless and intimidated resistance. "Just let me finish this pipe," he pleaded. Daddy John was inexorable: "It's no way to get cured settin' round the fire puffin' on a pipe." "Ten minutes longer?" "We'll roll out to-morrer at seven." "Daddy John, go to bed!" "I got to see you both tucked in for the night before I do. Can't trust either of you." The doctor, beaten, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and rose with resignation. "This is the family skeleton," he said to the young men who watched the performance with curiosity. "We're ground under the heel of Daddy John." Then he thrust his hand through the old servant's arm and they walked toward the wagon, their heads together, laughing like a pair of boys. A few minutes later the camp had sunk to silence. The doctor was stowed away in the wagon and Miss Gillespie had drawn the tent flaps round the mystery of her retirement. David and Leff, too tired to pitch theirs, were dropping to sleep by the fire, when the girl's voice, low, but penetrating, roused them. "Daddy John," it hissed in the tone children employ in their games of hide-and-seek, "Daddy John, are you awake?" The old man, who had been stretched before the fire, rose to a sitting posture, wakeful and alert. "Yes, Missy, what's the matter? Can't you sleep?" "It's not that, but it's so hard to fix anything. There's no light." Here it became evident to the watchers that Miss Gillespie's head was thrust out through the tent opening, the canvas held together below her chin. Against the pale background, it was like the vision of a decapitated head hung on a white wall. "What is it you want to fix?" queried the old man. "My hair," she hissed back. "I want to put it up in papers, and I can't see." Then the secret of Daddy John's power was revealed. He who had so remorselessly driven her to bed now showed no surprise or disapprobation at her frivolity. It was as if her wish to beautify herself received his recognition as an accepted vagary of human nature. "Just wait a minute," he said, scrambling out of his blanket, "and I'll get you a light." The young men could not but look on all agape with curiosity to see what the resourceful old man intended getting. Could the elaborately complete Gillespie outfit include candles? Daddy John soon ended their uncertainty. He drew from the fire a thick brand, brilliantly aflame, and carried it to the tent. Miss Gillespie's immovable head eyed it with some uneasiness. "I've nothing to put it in," she objected, "and I can't hold it while I'm doing up my hair." "I will," said the old man. "Get in the tent now and get your papers ready." The head withdrew, its retirement to be immediately followed by her voice slightly muffled by the intervening canvas: "Now I'm ready." Daddy John cautiously parted the opening, inserted the torch, and stood outside, the canvas flaps carefully closed round his hand. With the intrusion of the flaming brand the tent suddenly became a rosy transparency. The young' girl's figure moved in the midst of the glow, a shape of nebulous darkness, its outlines lost in the mist of enfolding draperies. Leff, softly lifting himself on his elbows, gazed fascinated upon this discreet vision. Then looking at David he saw that he had turned over and was lying with his face on his arms. Leff leaned from the blankets and kicked him, a gentle but meaning kick on the leg. To his surprise David lifted a wakeful face, the brow furrowed with an angry frown. "Can't you go to sleep," he muttered crossly. "Let that girl curl her hair, and go to sleep like a man." He dropped his face once more on his arms. Leff felt unjustly snubbed, but that did not prevent him from watching the faintly defined aura of shadow which he knew to be the dark young woman he was too shy to look at when he met her face to face. He continued watching till the brand died down to a spark and Daddy John withdrew it and went back to his fire. CHAPTER IV In their division of labor David and Leff had decided that one was to drive the wagon in the morning, the other in the afternoon. This morning it was David's turn, and as he "rolled out" at the head of the column he wondered if Leff would now ride beside Miss Gillespie and lend attentive ear to her family chronicles. But Leff was evidently not for dallying by the side of beauty. He galloped off alone, vanishing through the thin mists that hung like a fairy's draperies among the trees. The Gillespies rode at the end of the train. Even if he could not see them David felt their nearness, and it added to the contentment that always came upon him from a fair prospect lying under a smiling sky. At harmony with the moment and the larger life outside it, he leaned back against the canvas hood and let a dreamy gaze roam over the serene and opulent landscape. Nature had always soothed and uplifted him, been like an opiate to anger or pain. As a boy his troubles had lost their sting in the consoling largeness of the open, under the shade of trees, within sight of the bowing wheat fields with the wind making patterns on the seeded grain. Now his thoughts, drifting aimless as thistle fluff, went back to those childish days of country freedom, when he had spent his vacations at his uncle's farm. He used to go with his widowed mother, a forlorn, soured woman who rarely smiled. He remembered his irritated wonder as she sat complaining in the ox cart, while he sent his eager glance ahead over the sprouting acres to where the log farmhouse--the haven of fulfilled dreams--stretched in its squat ugliness. He could feel again the inward lift, the flying out of his spirit in a rush of welcoming ecstasy, as he saw the woods hanging misty on the horizon and the clay bluffs, below which the slow, quiet river uncoiled its yellow length. The days at the farm had been the happiest of his life--wonderful days of fishing and swimming, of sitting in gnarled tree boughs so still the nesting birds lost their fear and came back to their eggs. For hours he had lain in patches of shade watching the cloud shadows on the fields, and the great up-pilings when storms were coming, rising black-bosomed against the blue. There had been some dark moments to throw out these brighter ones--when chickens were killed and he had tried to stand by and look swaggeringly unconcerned as a boy should, while he sickened internally and shut his lips over pleadings for mercy. And there was an awful day when pigs were slaughtered, and no one knew that he stole away to the elder thickets by the river, burrowed deep into them, and stopped his ears against the shrill, agonized cries. He knew such weakness was shameful and hid it with a child's subtlety. At supper he told skillful lies to account for his pale cheeks and lost appetite. His uncle, a kindly generous man, without children of his own, had been fond of him and sympathized with his wish for an education. It was he who had made it possible for the boy to go to a good school at Springfield and afterwards to study law. How hard he had worked in those school years, and what realms of wonder had been opened to him through books, the first books he had known, reverently handled, passionately read, that led him into unknown worlds, pointed the way to ideals that could be realized! With the law books he was not in so good an accord. But it was his chosen profession, and he approached it with zeal and high enthusiasm, a young apostle who would sell his services only for the right. Now he smiled, looking back at his disillusion. The young apostle was jostled out of sight in the bustle of the growing town. There was no room in it for idealists who were diffident and sensitive and stood on the outside of its self-absorbed activity bewildered by the noises of life. The stream of events was very different from the pages of books. David saw men and women struggling toward strange goals, fighting for soiled and sordid prizes, and felt as he had done on the farm when the pigs were killed. And as he had fled from that ugly scene to the solacing quiet of Nature, he turned from the tumult of the little town to the West, upon whose edge he stood. It called him like a voice in the night. The spell of its borderless solitudes, its vast horizons, its benign silences, grew stronger as he felt himself powerless and baffled among the fighting energies of men. He dreamed of a life there, moving in unobstructed harmony. A man could begin in a fresh, clean world, and be what he wanted, be a young apostle in his own way. His boy friend who had gone to Oregon fired his imagination with stories of Marcus Whitman and his brother missionaries. David did not want to be a missionary, but he wanted, with a young man's solemn seriousness, to make his life of profit to mankind, to do the great thing without self-interest. So he had yearned and chafed while he read law and waited for clients and been as a man should to his mother, until in the summer of 1847 both his mother and his uncle had died, the latter leaving him a little fortune of four thousand dollars. Then the Emigrant Trail lay straight before him, stretching to California. The reins lay loose on the backs of Bess and Ben and the driver's gaze was fixed on the line of trees that marked the course of an unseen river. The dream was realized, he was on the trail. He lifted his eyes to the sky where massed clouds slowly sailed and birds flew, shaking notes of song down upon him. Joe was dead, but the world was still beautiful, with the sun on the leaves and the wind on the grass, with the kindliness of honest men and the gracious presence of women. Dr. Gillespie was the first dweller in that unknown world east of the Alleghenies whom David had met. For this reason alone it would be a privilege to travel with him. How great the privilege was, the young man did not know till he rode by the doctor's side that afternoon and they talked together on the burning questions of the day; or the doctor talked and David hungrily listened to the voice of education and experience. The war with Mexico was one of the first subjects. The doctor regarded it as a discreditable performance, unworthy a great and generous nation. The Mormon question followed, and on this he had much curious information. Living in the interior of New York State, he had heard Joseph Smith's history from its beginning, when he posed as "a money digger" and a seer who could read the future through "a peek stone." The recent polygamous teachings of the prophet were a matter to mention with lowered voice. Miss Gillespie, riding on the other side, was not supposed to hear, and certainly appeared to take no interest in Mexico, or Texas, or Joseph Smith and his unholy doctrines. She made no attempt to enter into the conversation, and it seemed to David, who now and then stole a shy look at her to see if she was impressed by his intelligent comments, that she did not listen. Once or twice, when the talk was at its acutest point of interest, she struck her horse and left them, dashing on ahead at a gallop. At another time she dropped behind, and his ear, trained in her direction, heard her voice in alternation with Daddy John's. When she joined them after this withdrawal she was bright eyed and excited. "Father," she called as she came up at a sharp trot, "Daddy John says the prairie's not far beyond. He says we'll see it soon--the prairie that I've been thinking of all winter!" Her enthusiasm leaped to David and he forgot the Mexican boundaries and the polygamous Mormons, and felt like a discoverer on the prow of a ship whose keel cuts unknown seas. For the prairie was still a word of wonder. It called up visions of huge unpeopled spaces, of the flare of far flung sunsets, of the plain blackening with the buffalo, of the smoke wreath rising from the painted tepee, and the Indian, bronzed and splendid, beneath his feathered crest. "It's there," she cried, pointing with her whip. "I can't wait. I'm going on." David longed to go with her, but the doctor was deep in the extension of slavery and of all the subjects this burned deepest. The prairie was interesting but not when the repeal of the Missouri Compromise was on the carpet. Watching the girl's receding shape, David listened respectfully and heard of the dangers and difficulties that were sure to follow on the acquisition of the great strip of Mexican territory. All afternoon they had been passing through woods, the remnant of that mighty forest which had once stretched from the Missouri to the Alleghenies. Now its compact growth had become scattered and the sky, flaming toward sunset, shone between the tree trunks. The road ascended a slight hill and at the top of this Miss Gillespie appeared and beckoned to them. As they drew near she turned and made a sweeping gesture toward the prospect. The open prairie lay before them. No one spoke. In mute wonderment they gazed at a country that was like a map unrolled at their feet. Still as a vision it stretched to where sky and earth fused in a golden haze. No sound or motion broke its dreaming quiet, vast, brooding, self-absorbed, a land of abundance and accomplishment, its serenity flowing to the faint horizon blur. Lines of trees, showing like veins, followed the wandering of streams, or gathered in clusters to suck the moisture of springs. Nearby a pool gleamed, a skin of gold linked by the thread of a rivulet to other pools. They shone, a line of glistening disks, imbedded in the green. Space that seemed to stretch to the edges of the world, the verdure of Eden, the silence of the unpolluted, unconquered earth were here. So must it have looked when the beaked Viking ships nosed along the fretted shores of Rhode Island, when Columbus took the sea in his high-pooped caravals, when the Pilgrims saw the rocks and naked boughs of the New England coast. So it had been for centuries, roamed by wild men who had perished from its face and left no trace, their habitation as a shadow in the sun, their work as dew upon the grass, their lives as the lives of the mayfly against its immemorial antiquity. The young man felt his spirit mount in a rush of exaltation like a prayer. Some fine and exquisite thing in himself leaped out in wild response. The vision and the dream were for a moment his. And in that moment life, all possible, all perfect, stretched before him, to end in a triumphant glory like the sunset. The doctor took off his hat. "The heavens declare the glory of God. All the earth doth magnify his name," he said in a low voice. CHAPTER V A broken line of moving dots, the little company trailed a slow way across this ocean of green. Nothing on its face was more insignificant than they. The birds in the trees and the bees in the flowers had a more important place in its economy. One afternoon David riding in the rear crested a ridge and saw them a mile in advance, the road stretching before and behind them in a curving thread. The tops of the wagons were like the backs of creeping insects, the mounted figures, specks of life that raised a slight tarnish of dust on the golden clearness. He wondered at their lack of consequence, unregarded particles of matter toiling across the face of the world. This was what they suggested viewed largely from the distance. Close at hand--one of them--and it was a very different matter. They enjoyed it. If they were losing their significance as man in the aggregate, the tamer, and master, they were gaining a new importance as distinct and separate units. Convention no longer pressed on them. What law there was they carried with them, bore it before them into the wilderness like the Ark of the Covenant. But nobody wanted to be unlawful. There was no temptation to be so. Envy, hatred and malice and all uncharitableness had been left behind in the cities. They were a very cheerful company, suffering a little from fatigue, and with now and then a faint brush of bad temper to put leaven into the dough. There was a Biblical simplicity in their life. They had gone back to the era when man was a nomad, at night pitching his tent by the water hole, and sleeping on skins beside the fire. When the sun rose over the rim of the prairie the camp was astir. When the stars came out in the deep blue night they sat by the cone of embers, not saying much, for in the open, spoken words lose their force and the human creature becomes a silent animal. Each day's march was a slow, dogged, progression, broken by fierce work at the fords. The dawn was the beautiful time when the dew was caught in frosted webs on the grass. The wings of the morning were theirs as they rode over the long green swells where the dog roses grew and the leaves of the sage palpitated to silver like a woman's body quivering to the brushing of a beloved hand. Sometimes they walked, dipped into hollows where the wattled huts of the Indians edged a creek, noted the passage of earlier trains in the cropped grass at the spring mouth and the circles of dead fires. In the afternoons it grew hot. The train, deliberate and determined as a tortoise, moved through a shimmer of light. The drone of insect voices rose in a sleepy chorus and the men drowsed in the wagons. Even the buoyant life of the young girl seemed to feel the stupefying weight of the prairie's deep repose. She rode at a foot pace, her hat hanging by its strings to the pommel, her hair pushed back from her beaded forehead, not bothering about her curls now. Then came the wild blaze of the sunset and the pitching of the camp, and after supper the rest by the fire with pipe smoke in the air, and overhead the blossoming of the stars. They were wonderful stars, troops and troops of them, dust of myriad, unnumbered worlds, and the white lights of great, bold planets staring at ours. David wondered what it looked like from up there. Was it as large, or were we just a tiny, twinkling point too? From city streets the stars had always chilled him by their awful suggestion of worlds beyond worlds circling through gulfs of space. But here in the primordial solitudes, under the solemn cope of the sky, the thought lost its terror. He seemed in harmony with the universe, part of it as was each speck of star dust. Without question or understanding he felt secure, convinced of his oneness with the great design, cradled in its infinite care. One evening while thus dreaming he caught Susan's eye full of curious interest like a watching child's. "What are you thinking of?" she asked. "The stars," he answered. "They used to frighten me." She looked from him to the firmament as if to read a reason for his fear: "Frighten you? Why?" "There were so many of them, thousands and millions, wandering about up there. It was so awful to think of them, how they'd been swinging round forever and would keep on forever. And maybe there were people on some of them, and what it all was for." She continued to look up and then said indifferently: "It doesn't seem to me to matter much." "It used to make me feel that nothing was any use. As if I was just a grain of dust." Her eyes came slowly down and rested on him in a musing gaze. "A grain of dust. I never felt that way. I shouldn't think you'd like it, but I don't see why you were afraid." David felt uncomfortable. She was so exceedingly practical and direct that he had an unpleasant feeling she would set him down as a coward, who went about under the fear that a meteor might fall on him and strike him dead. He tried to explain: "Not afraid actually, just sort of frozen by the idea of it all. It's so--immense, so--so crushing and terrible." Her gaze continued, a questioning quality entering it. This gained in force by a slight tilting of her head to one side. David began to fear her next question. It might show that she regarded him not only as a coward but also as a fool. "Perhaps you don't understand," he hazarded timidly. "I don't think I do," she answered, then dropped her eyes and added after a moment of pondering, "I can't remember ever being really afraid of anything." Had it been daylight she would have noticed that the young man colored. He thought guiltily of certain haunting fears of his childhood, ghosts in the attic, a banshee of which he had once heard a fearsome story, a cow that had chased him on the farm. She unconsciously assisted him from this slough of shame by saying suddenly: "Oh, yes, I can. I remember now. I'm afraid of mad dogs." It was not very comforting for, after all, everybody was afraid of mad dogs. "And there was a reason for that," she went on. "I was frightened by a mad dog when I was a little girl eight years old. I was going out to spend some of my allowance. I got twenty cents a month and I had it all in pennies. And suddenly there was a great commotion in the street, everybody running and screaming and rushing into doorways. I didn't know what was the matter but I was startled and dropped my pennies. And just as I stooped to pick them up I saw the dog coming toward me, tearing, with its tongue hanging out. And, would you believe it, I gathered up all those pennies before I ran and just had time to scramble over a fence." It was impossible not to laugh, especially with her laughter leading, her eyes narrowed to cracks through which light and humor sparkled at him. He was beginning to know Miss Gillespie--"Miss Susan" he called her--very well. It was just like his dream, riding beside her every day, and growing more friendly, the spell of her youth, and her dark bloom, and her attentive eyes--for she was an admirable listener if her answers sometimes lacked point--drawing from him secret thoughts and hopes and aspirations he had never dared to tell before. If she did not understand him she did not laugh at him, which was enough for David with the sleepy whisperings of the prairie around him, and new, strange matter stirring in his heart and making him bold. There was only one thing about her that was disappointing. He did not admit it to himself but it kept falling on their interviews with a depressive effect. To the call of beauty she remained unmoved. If he drew up his horse to gaze on the wonders of the sunset the waiting made her impatient. He had noticed that heat and mosquitoes would distract her attention from the hazy distances drowsing in the clear yellow of noon. The sky could flush and deepen in majestic splendors, but if she was busy over the fire and her skillets she never raised her head to look. And so it was with poetry. She did not know and did not care anything about the fine frenzies of the masters. Byron?--wrinkling up her forehead--yes, she thought she'd read something in school. Shelley?--"The Ode to the West Wind?" No, she'd never read that. What was an ode anyway? Once he recited the "Lines to an Indian Air," his voice trembling a little, for the words were almost sacred. She pondered for a space and then said: "What are champak odors?" David didn't know. He had never thought of inquiring. "Isn't that odd," she murmured. "That would have been the first thing I would have wanted to know. Champak? I suppose it's some kind of a flower--something like a magnolia. It has a sound like a magnolia." A lively imagination was evidently not one of Miss Gillespie's possessions. Late one afternoon, riding some distance in front of the train, she and David had seen an Indian loping by on his pony. It was not an unusual sight. Many Indians had visited their camp and at the crossing of the Kaw they had come upon an entire village in transit to the summer hunting grounds. But there was something in this lone figure, moving solitary through the evening glow, that put him in accord with the landscape's solemn beauty, retouched him with his lost magnificence. In buckskins black with filth, his blanket a tattered rag, an ancient rifle across his saddle, the undying picturesqueness of the red man was his. "Look," said David, his imagination fired. "Look at that Indian." The savage saw them and turned a face of melancholy dignity upon them, giving forth a deep "How, How." "He's a very dirty Indian," said Susan, sweeping him with a glance of disfavor. David did not hear her. He looked back to watch the lonely figure as it rode away over the swells. It seemed to him to be riding into the past, the lordly past, when the red man owned the land and the fruits thereof. "Look at him as he rides away," he said. "Can't you seem to see him coming home from a battle with his face streaked with vermilion and his war bonnet on? He'd be solemn and grand with the wet scalps dripping at his belt. When they saw him coming his squaws would come out in front of the lodges and begin to sing the war chant." "Squaws!" in a tone of disgust. "That's as bad as the Mormons." The muse had possession of David and a regard for monogamy was not sufficient to stay his noble rage. "And think how he felt! All this was his, the pale face hadn't come. He'd fought his enemies for it and driven them back. In the cool of the evening when he was riding home he could look out for miles and miles, clear to the horizon, and know he was the King of it all. Just think what it was to feel like that! And far away he could see the smoke of his village and know that they were waiting for the return of the chief." "Chief!" with even greater emphasis, "that poor dirty creature a _chief_!" The muse relinquished her hold. The young man explained, not with impatience, but as one mortified by a betrayal into foolish enthusiasm: "I didn't mean that _he_ was a chief. I was just imagining." "Oh," with the falling inflexion of comprehension. "You often imagine, don't you? Let's ride on to where the road goes down into that hollow." They rode on in silence, both slightly chagrined, for if David found it trying to have his fine flights checked, Susan was annoyed when she said things that made him wear a look of forbearing patience. She may not have had much imagination, but she had a very observing eye, and could have startled not only David, but her father by the shrewdness with which she read faces. The road sloped to a hollow where the mottled trunks of cotton woods stood in a group round the dimpling face of a spring. With well-moistened roots the grass grew long and rich. Here was the place for the night's camp. They would wait till the train came up. And even as they rested on this comfortable thought they saw between the leaves the canvas top of a wagon. The meeting of trains was one of the excitements of life on the Emigrant Trail. Sometimes they were acquaintances made in the wet days at Independence, sometimes strangers who had come by way of St. Joseph. Then the encountering parties eyed one another with candid curiosity and from each came the greeting of the plains, "Be you for Oregon or California?" The present party was for Oregon from Missouri, six weeks on the road. They were a family, traveling alone, having dropped out of the company with which they had started. The man, a gaunt and grizzled creature, with long hair and ragged beard, was unyoking his oxen, while the woman bent over the fire which crackled beneath her hands. She was as lean as he, shapeless, saffron-skinned and wrinkled, but evidently younger than she looked. The brood of tow-headed children round her ran from a girl of fourteen to a baby, just toddling, a fat, solemn-eyed cherub, almost naked, with a golden fluff of hair. At sight of him Susan drew up, the unthinking serenity of her face suddenly concentrated into a hunger of admiration, a look which changed her, focused her careless happiness into a pointed delight. "Look at the baby," she said quickly, "a lovely fat baby with curls," then slid off her horse and went toward them. The woman drew back staring. The children ran to her, frightened as young rabbits, and hid behind her skirts. Only the baby, grave and unalarmed, stood his ground and Susan snatched him up. Then the mother smiled, gratified and reassured. She had no upper front teeth, and the wide toothless grin gave her a look of old age that had in it a curious suggestion of debasement. David stood by his horse, making no move to come forward. The party repelled him. They were not only uncouth and uncomely, but they were dirty. Dirt on an Indian was, so to speak, dirt in its place--but unwashed women and children--! His gorge rose at it. And Susan, always dainty as a pink, seemed entirely indifferent to it. The children, with unkempt hair and legs caked in mud, crowded about her, and as she held the baby against her chest, her glance dwelt on the woman's face, with no more consciousness of its ugliness than when she looked over the prairie there was consciousness of Nature's supreme perfection. On the way back to camp he asked her about it. Why, if she objected to the Indian's dirt, had she been oblivious to that of the women and the children? He put it judicially, with impersonal clearness as became a lawyer. She looked puzzled, then laughed, her fresh, unusual laugh: "I'm sure I don't know. I don't know why I do everything or why I like this thing and don't like that. I don't always have a reason, or if I do I don't stop to think what it is. I just do things because I want to and feel them because I can't help it. I like children and so I wanted to talk to them and hear about them from their mother." "But would your liking for them make you blind to such a thing as dirt?" "I don't know. Maybe it would. When you're interested in anything or anybody small things don't matter." "Small things! Those children were a sight!" "Yes, poor little brats! No one had washed the baby for weeks. The woman said she was too tired to bother and it wouldn't bathe in the creeks with the other children, so they let it go. If we kept near them I could wash it for her. I could borrow it and wash it every morning. But there's no use thinking about it as we'll pass them to-morrow. Wasn't it a darling with little golden rings of hair and eyes like pieces of blue glass?" She sighed, relinquishing the thought of the baby's morning bath with pensive regret. David could not understand it, but decided as Susan felt that way it must be the right way for a woman to feel. He was falling in love, but he was certainly not falling in love--as students of a later date have put it--with "a projection of his own personality." CHAPTER VI They had passed the Kaw River and were now bearing on toward the Vermilion. Beyond that would be the Big and then the Little Blue and soon after the Platte where "The Great Medicine way of the Pale Face" bent straight to the westward. The country continued the same and over its suave undulations the long trail wound, sinking to the hollows, threading clumps of cotton-wood and alder, lying white along the spine of bolder ridges. Each day they grew more accustomed to their gypsy life. The prairie had begun to absorb them, cut them off from the influences of the old setting, break them to its will. They were going back over the footsteps of the race, returning to aboriginal conditions, with their backs to the social life of communities and their faces to the wild. Independence seemed a long way behind, California so remote that it was like thinking of Heaven when one was on earth, well fed and well faring. Their immediate surroundings began to make their world, they subsided into the encompassing immensity, unconsciously eliminating thoughts, words, habits, that did not harmonize with its uncomplicated design. On Sundays they halted and "lay off" all day. This was Dr. Gillespie's wish. He had told the young men at the start and they had agreed. It would be a good thing to have a day off for washing and general "redding up." But the doctor had other intentions. In his own words, he "kept the Sabbath," and each Sunday morning read the service of the Episcopal Church. Early in their acquaintance David had discovered that his new friend was religious; "a God-fearing man" was the term the doctor had used to describe himself. David, who had only seen the hysterical, fanaticism of frontier revivals now for the first time encountered the sincere, unquestioning piety of a spiritual nature. The doctor's God was an all-pervading presence, who went before him as pillar of fire or cloud. Once speaking to the young man of the security of his belief in the Divine protection, he had quoted a line which recurred to David over and over--in the freshness of the morning, in the hot hush of midday, and in the night when the stars were out: "Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep." Overcome by shyness the young men had stayed away from the first Sunday's service. David had gone hunting, feeling that to sit near by and not attend would offer a slight to the doctor. No such scruples restrained Leff, who squatted on his heels at the edge of the creek, washing his linen and listening over his shoulder. By the second Sunday they had mastered their bashfulness and both came shuffling their hats in awkward hands and sitting side by side on a log. Leff, who had never been to church in his life, was inclined to treat the occasion as one for furtive amusement, at intervals casting a sidelong look at his companion, which, on encouragement, would have developed into a wink. David had no desire to exchange glances of derisive comment. He was profoundly moved. The sonorous words, the solemn appeal for strength under temptation, the pleading for mercy with that stern, avenging presence who had said, "I, the Lord thy God am a jealous God," awed him, touched the same chord that Nature touched and caused an exaltation less exquisite but more inspiring. The light fell flickering through the leaves of the cotton-woods on the doctor's gray head. He looked up from his book, for he knew the words by heart, and his quiet eyes dwelt on the distance swimming in morning light. His friend, the old servant, stood behind him, a picturesque figure in fringed buckskin shirt and moccasined feet. He held his battered hat in his hand, and his head with its spare locks of grizzled hair was reverently bowed. He neither spoke nor moved. It was Susan's voice who repeated the creed and breathed out a low "We beseech thee to hear us, Good Lord." The tents and the wagons were behind her and back of them the long green splendors of the prairie. Flecks of sun danced over her figure, shot back and forth from her skirt to her hair as whiffs of wind caught the upper branches of the cotton woods. She had been sitting on the mess chest, but when the reading of the Litany began she slipped to her knees, and with head inclined answered the responses, her hands lightly clasped resting against her breast. David, who had been looking at her, dropped his eyes as from a sight no man should see. To admire her at this moment, shut away in the sanctuary of holy thoughts, was a sacrilege. Men and their passions should stand outside in that sacred hour when a woman is at prayer. Leff had no such high fancies. He only knew the sight of Susan made him dumb and drove away all the wits he had. Now she looked so aloof, so far removed from all accustomed things, that the sense of her remoteness added gloom to his embarrassment. He twisted a blade of grass in his freckled hands and wished that the service would soon end. The cotton-wood leaves made a light, dry pattering as if rain drops were falling. From the picketed animals, looping their trail ropes over the grass, came a sound of low, continuous cropping. The hum of insects swelled and sank, full of sudden life, then drowsily dying away as though the spurt of energy had faded in the hour's discouraging languor. The doctor's voice detached itself from this pastoral chorus intoning the laws that God gave Moses when he was conducting a stiff-necked and rebellious people through a wilderness: "Thou shalt do no murder. "Thou shalt not commit adultery. "Thou shalt not steal." And to each command Susan's was the only voice that answered, falling sweet and delicately clear on the silence: "Lord have mercy upon us and incline our hearts to keep this law." Susan praying for power to resist such scarlet sins! It was fantastic and David wished he dared join his voice to hers and not let her kneel there alone as if hers was the only soul that needed strengthening. Susan, the young, the innocent-eyed, the pure. He had come again the next Sunday--Leff went hunting that morning--and felt that some day, not so far distant, he would dare to kneel too and respond. He thought of it when alone, another port that his dreams were taking him to--his voice and Susan's, the bass and the treble, strength and sweetness, symbol of the male and the female, united in one harmonious strain that would stream upward to the throne of the God who, watching over them, neither slumbered nor slept. It was on the afternoon of this Sunday, that David started out to walk to an Indian village, of which a passing emigrant had told him, lying in a hollow a mile to the westward. He left the camp sunk in the somnolence of its seventh-day rest, Susan not to be seen anywhere, Leff asleep under the wagon, the doctor writing his diary in the shade of the cotton-woods, and Daddy John lying on the grass among the whiteness of the week's wash. The hour was hot and breathless, the middle distance quivering through a heat haze, and the remoter reaches of the prairie an opalescent blur. The Indian village was deserted and he wandered through its scattered lodges of saplings wattled with the peeled bark of willows. The Indians had not long departed. The ash of their fires was still warm, tufts of buffalo hair and bright scraps of calico were caught on the bushes, yet it already had an air of desolation, the bleakness of the human habitation when the dweller has crossed the threshold and gone. Shadows were filling the hollow like a thin cold wine rising on the edges of a cup, when he left it and gained the upper levels. Doubtful of his course he stood for a moment looking about, conscious of a curious change in the prospect, a deepening of its colors, a stillness no longer dreamy, but heavy with suspense. The sky was sapphire clear, but on the western horizon a rampart of cloud edged up, gray and ominous, against the blue. As he looked it mounted, unrolled and expanded, swelling into forms of monstrous aggression. A faint air, fresh and damp, passed across the grass, and the clouds swept, like smoke from a world on fire, over the sun. With the sudden darkening, dread fell on the face of the land. It came first in a hush, like a holding of the breath, attentive, listening, expectant. Then this broke and a quiver, the goose-flesh thrill of fear, stirred across the long ridges. The small, close growing leafage cowered, a frightened trembling seized the trees. David saw the sweep of the landscape growing black under the blackness above. He began to run, the sky sinking lower like a lid shutting down on the earth. He thought that it was hard to get it on right, for in front of him a line of blue still shone over which the lid had not yet been pressed down. The ground was pale with the whitened terror of upturned leaves, the high branches of the cotton-woods whipping back and forth in wild agitation. He felt the first large drops, far apart, falling with a reluctant splash, and he ran, a tiny figure in the tragic and tremendous scene. When he reached the camp the rush of the rain had begun. Through a network of boughs he caught the red eye of the fire and beyond had a vision of stampeding mules with the men in pursuit. Then crashing through the bushes he saw why the fire still burned--Susan was holding an umbrella over it, the rain spitting in the hot ash, a pan of biscuits balanced in the middle. Behind her the tent, one side concave, the other bellying out from restraining pegs, leaped and jerked at its moorings. A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky and the rain came at them in a slanting wall. "We're going to have biscuits for supper if the skies fall," Susan shouted at him, and he had a glimpse of her face, touched with firelight, laughing under the roof of the umbrella. A furious burst of wind cut off his answer, the blue glare of lightning suddenly drenched them, and the crackling of thunder tore a path across the sky. The umbrella was wrenched from Susan and her wail as the biscuits fell pierced the tumult with the thin, futile note of human dole. He had no time to help her, for the tent with an exultant wrench tore itself free on one side, a canvas wing boisterously leaping, while the water dived in at the blankets. As he sped to its rescue he had an impression of the umbrella, handle up, filling with water like a large black bowl and Susan groveling in the ashes for her biscuits. "The tent's going," he cried back; "all your things will be soaked. Never mind the supper, come and help me." And it seemed in this moment of tumult, that Susan ceased to be a woman to be cared for and protected and became his equal, fighting with him against the forces of the primitive world. The traditions of her helplessness were stripped from her, and he called her to his aid as the cave man called his woman when the storm fell on their bivouac. They seized on the leaping canvas, he feeling in the water for the tent pegs, she snatching at the ropes. He tried to direct her, shouting orders, which were beaten down in the stuttering explosion of the thunder. Once a furious gust sent her against him. The wind wrapped her damp skirts round him and he felt her body soft and pliable. The grasp of her hands was tight on his arms and close to his ear he heard her laughing. For a second the quick pulse of the lightning showed her to him, her hair glued to her cheeks, her wet bodice like a thin web molding her shoulders, and as the darkness shut her out he again heard her laughter broken by panting breaths. "Isn't it glorious," she cried, struggling away from him. "That nearly took me off my feet. My skirts are all twined round you." They got the tent down, writhing and leaping like a live thing frantic to escape. Conquered, a soaked mass on the ground, he pulled the bedding from beneath it and she grasped the blankets in her arms and ran for the wagon. She went against the rain, leaning forward on it, her skirts torn back and whipped up by the wind into curling eddies. Her head, the hair pressed flat to it, was sleek and wet as a seal's, and as she ran she turned and looked at him over her shoulder, a wild, radiant look that he never forgot. They sat in the wagon and watched the storm. Soaked and tired they curled up by the rear opening while the rain threshed against the canvas and driblets of water came running down the sides. The noise made talking difficult and they drew close together exclaiming as the livid lightning saturated the scene, and holding their breaths when the thunder broke and split its furious way over their heads. They watched it, conscious each in the other of an increased comforting friendliness, a gracious reassurance where Nature's transports made man seem so small. CHAPTER VII The Vermilion was swollen. With a bluff on one side and a wide bottom on the other it ran a prosperous, busy stream, brown and ripple-ridged. The trail lay like a line of tape along the high land, then down the slope, and across the bottom to the river. Here it seemed to slip under the current and come up on the other side where it climbed a steep bank, and thence went on, thin and pale, rising and dropping to the ridges till the tape became a thread. They had been waiting a day for the water to fall. Camped in the bottom under a scattering of trees with the animals grazing on the juicy river grass and the song of the stream in their ears, it had been a welcome break in the monotony of the march. There was always a choice of occupation in these breathing spells. On the first afternoon everybody had sat on the grass at the tent doors mending. To-day the men had revolted and wandered off but Susan continued industriously intent over patches and darns. She sat on a log, her spools and scissors beside her, billows of homespun and calico about her feet. As she sewed she sung in a low undervoice, not looking up. Beyond her in the shade Daddy John mended a piece of harness. Daddy John was not a garrulous person and when she paused in her sewing to speak to him, he answered with a monosyllable. It was one of the old man's self-appointed duties to watch over her when the others were absent. If he did not talk much to his "Missy" he kept a vigilant eye upon her, and to-day he squatted in the shade beside her because the doctor and David had gone after antelope and Leff was off somewhere on an excursion of his own. Susan, sewing, her face grave above her work, was not as pretty as Susan smiling. She drew her eyebrows, thick and black, low over her eyes with her habitual concentration in the occupation of the moment, and her lips, pressed together, pouted, but not the disarming baby pout which, when she was angry, made one forget the sullenness of her brows. Her looks however, were of that fortunate kind which lose nothing from the open air and large backgrounds. Dress added but little to such attractions as she had. Fineness and elegance were not hers, but her healthy, ripe brownness fitted into this sylvan setting where the city beauty would have soon become a pale and draggled thing. The robust blood of her French Canadian forebears was quickening to the call of the trail. Was it the spirit of her adventurous ancestors that made her feel a kinship with the wild, an indifference to its privations, a joy in its rude liberty? She was thinner, but stronger and more vigorous than when the train had started. She talked less and yet her whole being seemed more vibrantly alive, her glance to have gained the gleaming quietness of those whose eyes scan vague horizons. She who had been heavy on her feet now stepped with a light noiselessness, and her body showed its full woman's outlines straightened and lengthened to the litheness of a boy. Her father noticed that the Gallic strain in her seemed to be crowding out the other. In Rochester, under city roofs, she had been at least half his. On the trail, with the arch of the sky above and the illimitable earth around her, she was throwing back to her mother's people. Susan herself had no interest in these atavistic developments. She was a healthy, uncomplicated, young animal, and she was enjoying herself as she had never done before. Behind her the life of Rochester stretched in a tranquil perspective of dull and colorless routine. Nothing had ever happened. From her seventh year her father and Daddy John had brought her up, made her the pet and plaything of their lonely lives, rejoiced in her, wondered at her, delighted in the imperious ways she had learned from their spoiling. There had been teachers to educate her, but it was an open secret that they had not taught her much. Susan did not take kindly to books. No one had ever been able to teach her how to cipher and learning the piano had been a fruitless effort abandoned in her fifteenth year. It is only just to her to say that she had her little talents. She was an excellent housekeeper, and she could cook certain dishes better, the doctor said, than the chefs in some of the fine restaurants in New York City. But what were the sober pleasures of housekeeping and cooking beside the rough, deep-living exhilaration of gypsy life on the plains! She looked back pityingly at those days of stagnant peace, compared the entertainment to be extracted from embroidering a petticoat frill to the exultant joy of a ride in the morning over the green swells. Who would sip tea in the close curtained primness of the parlor when they could crouch by the camp fire and eat a corn cake baked on the ashes or drink brown coffee from a tin cup? And her buffalo robe on the ground, the blanket tucked round her shoulder, the rustling of furtive animal life in the grass outside the tent wall--was there any comparison between its comfort and that of her narrow white bed at home, between the clean sheets of which she had snuggled so luxuriously? There were other matters of charm and interest in the wilderness, matters that Susan did not speak about--hardly admitted to herself, for she was a modest maid. She had never yet had a lover; no man had ever kissed her or held her hand longer than a cool, impersonal respect dictated. In Rochester no one had turned to look at the doctor's daughter as she walked by, for, in truth, there were many girls much prettier and more piquant than Susan Gillespie. But, nevertheless, she had had her dreams about the lover that some day was to come and carry her off under a wreath of orange blossoms and a white veil. She did not aspire to a struggling hoard of suitors, but she thought it would be only fair and entirely within the realm of the possible if she had two; most girls had two. Now she felt the secret elation that follows on the dream realized. She did not tell herself that David and Leff were in love with her. She would have regarded all speculations on such a sacred subject as low and unmaidenly. But the consciousness of it permeated her being with a gratified sense of her worth as a woman. It made her feel her value. Like all girls of her primitive kind she estimated herself not by her own measure, but by the measure of a man's love for her. Now that men admired her she felt that she was taking her place as a unit of importance. Her sense of achievement in this advent of the desiring male was not alone pleased vanity, it went back through the ages to the time when woman won her food and clothing, her right to exist, through the power of her sex, when she whose attraction was strongest had the best corner by the fire, the choicest titbit from the hunt, and the strongest man to fight off rivals and keep her for himself. Her perceptions, never before exercised on these subjects, were singularly keen. Neither of the young men had spoken a word of love to her, yet she intuitively knew that they were both under her spell. The young girl so stupid at her books, who could never learn arithmetic and found history a bore, had a deeper intelligence in the reading of the human heart than anyone of the party. More than the doctor who was a man of education, more than David who thought so much and loved to read, more than Leff who, if his brain was not sharp, might be supposed to have accumulated some slight store of experience, more than Daddy John who was old and had the hoar of worldly knowledge upon him. Compared to her they were as novices to a nun who has made an excursion into the world and taken a bite from the apple Eve threw away. She had no especial liking for Leff. It amused her to torment him, to look at him with an artless, inquiring stare when he was overwhelmed by confusion and did not know what to say. When she felt that he had endured sufficiently she would become merciful, drop her eyes, and end what was to her an encounter that added a new zest to her sense of growing power. With David it was different. Here, too, she felt her mastery, but the slave was of another fiber. He acknowledged her rule, but he was neither clumsy nor dumb before her. She respected his intelligence and felt a secret jealousy of it, as of a part of him which must always be beyond her influence. His devotion was a very dear and gracious thing and she was proud that he should care for her. Love had not awakened in her, but sometimes when she was with him, her admiration softened to a warm, invading gentleness, a sense of weakness glad of itself, happy to acknowledge his greater strength. Had David's intuitions been as true as hers he would have known when these moments came and spoken the words. But on such matters he had no intuitions, was a mere, unenlightened male trying to win a woman by standing at a distance and kneeling in timid worship. Now sitting, sewing on the log, Susan heard a step on the gravel, and without looking up gave it a moment's attention and knew it was Leff's. She began to sing softly, with an air of abstraction. The steps drew near her, she noted that they lagged as they approached, finally stopped. She gave her work a last, lingering glance and raised her eyes slowly as if politeness warred with disinclination, Leff was standing before her, scowling at her as at an object of especial enmity. He carried a small tin pail full of wild strawberries. She saw it at once, but forebore looking at it, keeping her eyes on his face, up which the red color ran. "Oh, Leff," she said with careless amiability, "so you've got back." Leff grunted an agreeing monosyllable and moved the strawberries to a position where they intruded into the conversation like a punctuation mark in the middle of a sentence. Her glance dropped to the pail, and she looked at it saying nothing, amused to thus tease him and covertly note his hopeless and impotent writhings. He thrust the pail almost against her knee and she was forced to say: "What fine strawberries, a whole pail full. Can I have one?" He nodded and she made a careful choice, giving the pail a little shake to stir its contents. Leff glared at the top of her head where her hair was twisted into a rough knot. "Thank you," she said. "I've found a beauty. You must have been all afternoon getting so many," and she put the strawberry in her mouth and picked up her sewing as though that ended the matter. Leff stood shifting from foot to foot, hoping that she might extend a helping hand. "The river's falling," he said at length. "It's gone down two feet. We can cross this evening." "Then I must hurry and finish my mending." She evidently was not going to extend so much as the tip of a finger. In his bashful misery his mind worked suddenly and unexpectedly. "I've got to go and get the horses," he said, and, setting the pail on the log beside her, turned and ran. But Susan was prepared for this move. It was what she expected. "Oh, Leff," she called, lazily. "Come back, you've forgotten your strawberries." And he had to come back, furious and helpless, he had to come back. He had not courage for a word, did not dare even to meet her gaze lifted mildly to his. He snatched up the pail and lurched off and Susan returned to her sewing, smiling to herself. "He wanted you to take the berries," said Daddy John, who had been watching. "Did he?" she queried with the raised brows of innocent surprise. "Why didn't he say so?" "Too bashful!" "He couldn't expect me to take them unless he offered them." "I should think you'd have guessed it." She laughed at this, dropping her sewing and looking at the old man with eyes almost shut. "Oh, Daddy John," she gurgled. "How clever you are!" An hour later they began the crossing. The ford of the Vermilion was one of the most difficult between the Kaw and the Platte Valley. After threading the swift, brown current, the trail zigzagged up a clay bank, channeled into deep ruts by the spring's fleet of prairie schooners. It would be a hard pull to get the doctor's wagon up and David rode over with Bess and Ben to double up with the mules. It was late afternoon and the bottom lay below the sunshine steeped in a still transparent light, where every tint had its own pure value. The air was growing cool after a noon of blistering heat and from an unseen backwater frogs had already begun a hoarse, tentative chanting. The big wagon had already crossed when David on Bess, with Ben at the end of a trail rope, started into the stream. Susan watched him go, his tall, high-shouldered figure astride the mare's broad back, one arm flung outward with the rope dipping to the current. As the water rose round his feet, he gave a wild, jubilant shout and went forward, plowing deeper with every step, his cries swelling over the river's low song. Susan, left on the near bank to wait till the wagons were drawn up, lifted herself into the crotch of a cottonwood tree. The pastoral simplicity of the scene, the men and animals moving through the silver-threaded water with the wagons waiting and after the work the camp to be pitched, exhilarated her with a conviction of true living, of existence flowing naturally as the stream. And for the moment David seemed the great figure in hers. With a thrill at her heart she watched him receding through the open wash of air and water, shouting in the jubilance of his manhood. The mischievous pleasure of her coquetries was forgotten, and in a rush of glad confidence she felt a woman's pride in him. This was the way she should see the man who was to win her, not in stuffy rooms, not dressed in stiff, ungainly clothes, not saying unmeaning things to fill the time. This tale of laborious days bounded by the fires of sunrise and sunset, this struggle with the primal forces of storm and flood, this passage across a panorama unrolling in ever wilder majesty, was the setting for her love idyl. The joy of her mounting spirit broke out in an answering cry that flew across the river to David like the call of an animal to its mate. She watched them yoking on Bess and Ben and men and animals bracing their energies for the start. David drove the horses, walking beside them, the reins held loose in hands that made upward, urging gestures as the team breasted the ascent. It was a savage pull. The valiant little mules bent their necks, the horses straining, iron muscled, hoofs grinding down to the solid clay. The first charge carried them half way up, then there was a moment of slackened effort, a relaxing, recuperative breath, and the wagon came to a standstill. Leff ran for the back, shouting a warning. The branch he thrust under the wheel was ground to splinters and the animals grew rigid in their effort to resist the backward drag. Leff gripped the wheel, cursing, his hands knotted round the spokes, his back taut and muscle-ridged under the thin shirt. The cracked voice of Daddy John came from beyond the canvas hood and David's urgent cries filled the air. The mules, necks outstretched, almost squatting in the agony of their endeavor, held their ground, but could do no more. Bess and Ben began to plunge in a welter of slapping harness as the wheels ground slowly downward. Susan watched, her neck craned, her eyes staring. Her sentimental thoughts had vanished. She was one with the struggling men and beasts, lending her vigor to theirs. Her eyes were on David, waiting to see him dominate them like a general carrying his troops to victory. She could see him, arms outstretched, haranguing his horses as if they were human beings, but not using the whip. A burst of astonishing profanity came from Leff and she heard him cry: "Lay it on to 'em, David. What's the matter with you? Beat 'em like hell." The mule drivers used a long-lashed whip which could raise a welt on the thickest hide. David flung the lash afar and brought it down on Ben's back. The horse leaped as if he had been burned, jerking ahead of his mate, and rearing in a madness of unaccustomed pain. With a passionate gesture David threw the whip down. Susan saw that it was not accidental. She gave a sound of angry astonishment and stood up in the crotch of the tree. "David!" she screamed, but he did not hear, and then louder: "Daddy John, quick, the whip, he's dropped it." The old man came running round the back of the wagon, quick and eager as a gnome. He snatched up the whip and let the lash curl outward with a hissing rush. It flashed like the flickering dart of a snake's tongue, struck, and the horses sprang forward. It curled again, hung suspended for the fraction of a moment, then licked along the sweating flanks, and horses and mules, bowed in a supreme effort, wrenched the wagon upward. Susan slid from her perch, feeling a sudden apathy, not only as from a tension snapped, but as the result of a backwash of disillusion. David was no longer the proud conqueror, the driver of man and brute. The tide of pride had ebbed. Later, when the camp was pitched and she was building the fire, he came to offer her some wood which was scarce on this side of the river. He knelt to help her, and, his face close to hers, she said in a low voice: "Why did you throw the whip down?" He reddened consciously and looked quickly at her, a look that was apprehensive as if ready to meet an accusation. "I saw you do it," she said, expecting a denial. "Yes, I did it," he answered. "I wasn't going to say I didn't." "Why did you?" she repeated. "I can't beat a dumb brute when it's doing its best," he said, looking away from her, shy and ashamed. "But the wagon would have gone down to the bottom of the hill. It was going." "What would that have mattered? We could have taken some of the things out and carried them up afterwards. When a horse does his best for you, what's the sense of beating the life out of him when the load's too heavy. I can't do that." "Was that why you threw it down?" He nodded. "You'd rather have carried the things up?" "Yes." She laid the sticks one on the other without replying and he said with a touch of pleading in his tone: "You understand that, don't you?" She answered quickly: "Oh, of course, perfectly." But nevertheless she did not quite. Daddy John's action was the one she really did understand, and she even understood why Leff swore so violently. CHAPTER VIII It was Sunday again and they lay encamped near the Little Blue. The country was changing, the trees growing thin and scattered and sandy areas were cropping up through the trail. At night they unfolded the maps and holding them to the firelight measured the distance to the valley of the Platte. Once there the first stage of the journey would be over. When they started from Independence the Platte had shone to the eyes of their imaginations as a threadlike streak almost as far away as California. Now they would soon be there. At sunset they stood on eminences and pointed in its direction, let their mental vision conjure up Grand Island and sweep forward to the buffalo-darkened plains and the river sunk in its league-wide bottom, even peered still further and saw Fort Laramie, a faint, white dot against the cloudy peaks of mountains. The afternoon was hot and the camp drowsed. Susan moving away from it was the one point of animation in the encircling quietude. She was not in spirit with its lethargy, stepping rapidly in a stirring of light skirts, her hat held by one string, fanning back and forth from her hanging hand. Her goal was a spring hidden in a small arroyo that made a twisted crease in the land's level face. It was a little dell in which the beauty they were leaving had taken a last stand, decked the ground with a pied growth of flowers, spread a checkered roof of boughs against the sun. From a shelf on one side the spring bubbled, clear as glass, its waters caught and held quivering in a natural basin of rock. As she slipped over the margin, the scents imprisoned in the sheltered depths rose to meet her, a sweet, cool tide of fragrance into which she sank. After the glaring heat above it was like stepping into a perfumed bath. She lay by the spring, her hands clasped behind her head, looking up at the trees. The segments of sky between the boughs were as blue as a turquoise and in this thick intense color the little leaves seemed as if inlaid. Then a breeze came and the bits of inlaying shook loose and trembled into silvery confusion. Small secretive noises came from them as if minute confidences were passing from bough to bough, and through their murmurous undertone the drip of the spring fell with a thin, musical tinkle. Nature was dreaming and Susan dreamed with it. But her dreaming had a certain definiteness, a distinct thought sustained its diffused content. She was not self-consciously thinking of her lovers, not congratulating herself on their acquirement, but the consciousness that she had achieved them lay graciously round her heart, gave the soft satisfaction to her musings that comes to one who has accomplished a duty. With all modesty she felt the gratification of the being who approaches his Destiny. She had advanced a step in her journey as a woman. A hail from the bank above broke upon her reverie, but when she saw it was David, she sat up smiling. That he should find out her hiding place without word or sign from her was an action right and fitting. It was a move in the prehistoric game of flight and pursuit, in which they had engaged without comprehension and with the intense earnestness of children at their play. David dropped down beside her, a spray of wild roses in his hand, and began at once to chide her for thus stealing away. Did she not remember they were in the country of the Pawnees, the greatest thieves on the plains? It was not safe to stray alone from the camp. Susan smiled: "The Pawnees steal horses, but I never heard anyone say they stole girls." "They steal anything they can get," said the simple young man. "Oh, David,"--now she was laughing--"so they might steal me if they couldn't get a horse, or a blanket, or a side of bacon! Next time I go wandering I'll take the bacon with me and then I'll be perfectly safe." "Your father wouldn't like it. I've heard him tell you not to go off this way alone." "Well, who could I take? I don't like to ask father to go out into the sun and Daddy John was asleep, and Leff--I didn't see Leff anywhere." "I was there," he said, dropping his eyes. "You were under the wagon reading Byron. I wouldn't for the world take you away from Byron." She looked at him with a candid smile, her eyes above it dancing with delighted relish in her teasing. "I would have come in a minute," he said low, sweeping the surface of the spring with the spray of roses. Susan's look dwelt on him, gently thoughtful in its expression in case he should look up and catch it. "Leave Byron," she said, "leave the Isles of Greece where that lady, whose name I've forgotten, 'loved and sung,' and walk in the sun with me just because I wanted to see this spring! Oh, David, I would never ask it of you." "You know I would have loved to do it." "You would have been polite enough to do it. You're always polite." "I would have done it because I wanted to," said the victim with the note of exasperation in his voice. She stretched her hand forward and very gently took the branch of roses from him. "Don't tell stories," she said in the cajoling voice used to children. "This is Sunday." "I never tell stories," he answered, goaded to open irritation, "on Sunday or any other day. You know I would have liked to come with you and Byron could have--have----" "What?" the branch upright in her hand. "Gone to the devil!" "David!" in horror, "I never thought _you'd_ talk that way." She gave the branch a shake and a shower of drops fell on him. "There, that's to cool your anger. For I see you're angry though I haven't got the least idea what it's about." He made no answer, wounded by her lack of understanding. She moved the rose spray against her face, inhaling its fragrance, and watching him through the leaves. After a moment she said with a questioning inflection: "You were angry?" He gave her a quick glance, met her eyes, shining between the duller luster of the leaves, and suddenly dumb before their innocent provocation, turned his head away. The sense of his disturbance trembled on the air and Susan's smile died. She dropped the branch, trailing it lightly across the water, and wondering at the confusion that had so abruptly upset her self-confident gayety. Held in inexplicable embarrassment she could think of nothing to say. It was he who broke the silence with a change of subject: "In a few days more we'll be at the Platte. When we started that seemed as if it was half the journey, didn't it?" "We'll get there just about a month from the time we left Independence. Before we started I thought a month out of doors this way would be like a year. But it really hasn't seemed long at all. I suppose it's because I've enjoyed it so." This again stirred him. Was there any hope that his presence might have been the cause of some small fraction of that enjoyment? He put out a timid feeler: "I wonder why you enjoyed it. Perhaps Leff and I amused you a little." It was certainly a humble enough remark, but it caused a slight stiffening and withdrawal in the young girl. She instinctively felt the pleading for commendation and resented it. It was as if a slave, upon whose neck her foot rested, were to squirm round and recommend himself to her tolerance. David, trying to extort from her flattering admissions, roused a determination to keep the slave with his face in the dust. "I just like being out of doors," she said carelessly. "And it's all the more odd as I was always wanting to hurry on and catch up the large train." This was a grinding in of the heel. The large train into which the Gillespies were to be absorbed and an end brought to their independent journeying, had at first loomed gloomily before David's vision. But of late it had faded from the conversation and his mind. The present was so good it must continue, and he had come to accept that first bright dream of his in which he and Susan were to go riding side by side across the continent as a permanent reality. His timidity was swept away in a rush of stronger feeling and he sat erect, looking sharply at her: "I thought you'd given up the idea of joining with that train?" Susan raised the eyebrows of mild surprise: "Why did you think that?" "You've not spoken of it for days." "That doesn't prove anything. There are lots of important things I don't speak of." "You ought to have spoken of that." The virile note of authority was faint in his words, the first time Susan had ever heard it. Her foot was in a fair way to be withdrawn from the slave's neck. The color in her cheeks deepened and it was she who now dropped her eyes. "We had arranged to join the train long before we left Rochester," she answered. "Everybody said it was dangerous to travel in a small party. Dr. Whitman told my father that." "There's been nothing dangerous so far." "No, it's later when we get into the country of the Sioux and the Black-feet. They often attack small parties. It's a great risk that people oughtn't to run. They told us that in Independence, too." He made no answer and she eyed him with stealthy curiosity. He was looking on the ground, his depression apparent. At this evidence of her ability to bring joy or sorrow to her slave she relented. "You'll join it, too, won't you?" she said gently. "I don't know. The big trains move so slowly." "Oh, you must. It would be dreadfully dreary to separate our parties after we'd traveled so long together." "Maybe I will. I haven't thought about it." "But you _must_ think about it. There's no knowing now when we may come upon them--almost any day. You don't want to go on and leave us behind, do you?" He again made no answer and she stole another quick look at him. This mastery of a fellow creature was by far the most engrossing pastime life had offered her. There was something about him, a suggestion of depths hidden and shut away from her that filled her with the venturesome curiosity of Fatima opening the cupboards in Bluebeard's castle. "We'd feel so lonely if you went on and left us behind with a lot of strange people," she said, with increasing softness. "We'd miss you so." The young man turned quickly on her, leaned nearer, and said huskily: "Would you?" The movement brought his face close to hers, and she shrank back sharply, her hand ready to hold him at a distance. Her laughing expression changed into one of offended dignity, almost aversion. At the same time his agitation, which had paled his cheeks and burst through his shy reserve, filled her with repulsion. For the moment she disliked him. If he had tried to put his hand upon her she would have struck him in quick rage at his presumption. He had not the slightest intention of doing so, but the sudden rush of feeling that her words had evoked, made him oblivious to the startled withdrawal of her manner. "Answer me," he said. "Would you miss me? Am I anything to you?" She leaped to her feet, laughing not quite naturally, for her heart was beating hard and she had suddenly shrunk within herself, her spirit alert and angrily defensive in its maiden stronghold. "Miss you," she said in a matter-of-fact tone that laid sentiment dead at a blow, "of course I'd miss you," then backed away from him, brushing off her skirt. He rose and stood watching her with a lover's hang-dog look. She glanced at him, read his face and once more felt secure in her ascendency. Her debonair self-assurance came back with a lowering of her pulse and a remounting to her old position of condescending command. But a parting lesson would not be amiss and she turned from him, saying with a carefully tempered indifference: "And Leff, too. I'd miss Leff dreadfully. Come, it's time to go." Before he could answer she was climbing the bank, not looking back, moving confidently as one who had no need of his aid. He followed her slowly, sore and angry, his eyes on her figure which flitted in advance clean-cut against the pale, enormous sky. He had just caught up with her when from a hollow near the roadside Leff came into view. He had been after antelope and carried his rifle and a hunting knife in his belt. During the chase he had come upon a deserted Pawnee settlement in a depression of the prairie. Susan was instantly interested and wanted to see it and David stood by, listening in sulky silence while Leff pointed out the way. The sun was sinking and they faced it, the young man's indicating finger moving back and forth across the vagaries of the route. The prairie was cut by long undulations, naked of verdure, save a spot in the foreground where, beside a round greenish pool, a single tree lifted thinly clad boughs. Something of bleakness had crept into the prospect, its gay greenness was giving place to an austere pallor of tint, a dry economy of vegetation. The summits of the swells were bare, the streams shrunk in sandy channels. It was like a face from which youth is withdrawing. The Indian encampment lay in a hollow, the small wattled huts gathered on both sides of a runlet that oozed from the slope and slipped between a line of stepping stones. The hollow was deep for the level country, the grassed sides sweeping abruptly to the higher reaches above. They walked through it, examining the neatly made huts and speculating on the length of time the Indians had left. David remembered that the day before, the trail had been crossed by the tracks of a village in transit, long lines graven in the dust by the dragging poles of the _travaux_. He felt uneasy. The Indians might not be far and they themselves were at least a mile from the camp, and but one of them armed. The others laughed and Susan brought the blood into his face by asking him if he was afraid. He turned from her, frankly angry and then stood rigid with fixed glance. On the summit of the opposite slope, black against the yellow west, were a group of mounted figures. They were massed together in a solid darkness, but the outlines of the heads were clear, heads across which bristled an upright crest of hair like the comb of a rooster. For a long, silent moment the two parties remained immovable, eying each other across the hollow. Then David edged closer to the girl. He felt his heart thumping, but his first throttling grip of fear loosened as his mind realized their helplessness. Leff was the only one with arms. They must get in front of Susan and tell her to run and the camp was a mile off! He felt for her hand and heard her whisper: "Indians--there are six of them." As she spoke the opposite group broke and figures detached themselves. Three, hunched in shapeless sack-forms, were squaws. They made no movement, resting immobile as statues, the sunset shining between the legs of their ponies. The men spoke together, their heads turning from the trio below to one another. David gripped the hand he held and leaned forward to ask Leff for his knife. "Don't be frightened," he said to Susan. "It's all right." "I'm not frightened," she answered quietly. "Your knife," he said to Leff and then stopped, staring. Leff very slowly, step pressing stealthily behind step, was creeping backward up the slope. His face was chalk white, his eyes fixed on the Indians. In his hand he held his rifle ready, and the long knife gleamed in his belt. For a moment David had no voice wherewith to arrest him, but Susan had. "Where are you going?" she said loudly. It stopped him like a blow. His terrified eyes shifted to her face. "I wasn't going," he faltered. "Come back," she said. "You have the rifle and the knife." He wavered, his loosened lips shaking. "Back here to us," she commanded, "and give David the rifle." He crept downward to them, his glance always on the Indians. They had begun to move forward, leaving the squaws on the ridge. Their approach was prowlingly sinister, the ponies stepping gingerly down the slope, the snapping of twigs beneath their hoofs clear in the waiting silence. As they dipped below the blazing sunset the rider's figures developed in detail, their bodies bare and bronzed in the subdued light. Each face, held high on a craning neck, was daubed with vermilion, the high crest of hair bristling across the shaven crowns. Grimly impassive they came nearer, not speaking nor moving their eyes from the three whites. One of them, a young man, naked save for a breech clout and moccasins, was in the lead. As he approached David saw that his eyelids were painted scarlet and that a spot of silver on his breast was a medal hanging from a leathern thong. At the bottom of the slope they reined up, standing in a group, with lifted heads staring. The trio opposite stared as fixedly. Behind Susan's back Leff had passed David the rifle. He held it in one hand, Susan by the other. He was conscious of her rigidity and also of her fearlessness. The hand he held was firm. Once, breathing a phrase of encouragement, he met her eyes, steady and unafraid. All his own fear had passed. The sense of danger was thrillingly acute, but he felt it only in its relation to her. Dropping her hand he stepped a pace forward and said loudly: "How!" The Indian with the medal answered him, a deep, gutteral note. "Pawnee?" David asked. The same man replied with a word that none of them understood. "My camp is just here," said David, with a backward jerk of his head. "There are many men there." There was no response to this and he stepped back and said to Susan: "Go slowly up the hill backward and keep your eyes on them. Don't look afraid." She immediately began to retreat with slow, short steps. Leff, gasping with fear, moved with her, his speed accelerating with each moment. David a few paces in advance followed them. The Indians watched in a tranced intentness of observation. At the top of the slope the three squaws sat as motionless as carven images. The silence was profound. Into it, dropping through it like a plummet through space, came the report of a rifle. It was distant but clear, and as if the bullet had struck a taut string and severed it, it cut the tension sharp and life flowed back. A movement, like a resumed quiver of vitality, stirred the bronze stillness of the squaws. The Indians spoke together--a low murmur. David thought he saw indecision in their colloquy, then decision. "They're going," he heard Susan say a little hoarse. "Oh, God, they're going!" Leff gasped, as one reprieved of the death sentence. Suddenly they wheeled, and a rush of wild figures, galloped up the slope. The group of squaws broke and fled with them. The light struck the bare backs, and sent splinters from the gun barrels and the noise of breaking bushes was loud under the ponies' feet. Once again on the road David and Susan stood looking at one another. Each was pale and short of breath, and it was difficult for the young girl to force her stiffened lips into a smile. The sunset struck with fierce brilliancy across the endless plain, and against it, the Indians bending low, fled in a streak of broken color. In the other direction Leff's running figure sped toward the camp. From the distance a rifle shot again sundered the quiet. After silence had reclosed over the rift a puff of smoke rose in the air. They knew now it was Daddy John, fearing they had lost the way, showing them the location of the camp. Spontaneously, without words, they joined hands and started to where the trail of smoke still hung, dissolving to a thread. The fleeing figure of Leff brought no comments to their lips. They did not think about him, his cowardice was as unimportant to them in their mutual engrossment as his body was to the indifferent self-sufficiency of the landscape. They knew he was hastening that he might be first in the camp to tell his own story and set himself right with the others before they came. They did not care. They did not even laugh at it. They would do that later when they had returned to the plane where life had regained its familiar aspect. Silently, hand in hand, they walked between the low bushes and across the whitened patches of sandy soil. When the smoke was gone the pool with the lone tree guided them, the surface now covered with a glaze of gold. A deep content lay upon them. The shared peril had torn away a veil that hung between them and through which they had been dodging to catch glimpses of one another. Susan's pride in her ascendency was gone. She walked docilely beside the man who, in the great moment, had not failed. She was subdued, not by the recent peril, but by the fact that the slave had shown himself the master. David's chance had come, but the moment was too completely beautiful, the sudden sense of understanding too lovely for him to break it with words. He wanted to savor it, to take joy of its delicate sweetness. It was his voluptuousness to delight in it, not brush its bloom away with a lover's avowal. He was the idealist, moving in an unexpectedly realized dream, too exquisite for words to intrude upon. So they walked onward, looking across the long land, hand clasped in hand. END OF PART I PART II The River CHAPTER I The Emigrant Trail struck the Platte at Grand Island. From the bluffs that walled in the river valley the pioneers could look down on the great waterway, a wide, thin current, hardly more than a glistening veil, stretched over the sandy bottom. Sometimes the veil was split by islands, its transparent tissue passing between them in sparkling strands as if it were sewn with silver threads. These separated streams slipped along so quietly, so without noise or hurry, they seemed to share in the large unconcern of the landscape. It was a still, unpeopled, spacious landscape, where there was no work and no time and the morning and the evening made the day. Many years ago the Frenchmen had given the river its name, Platte, because of its lack of depths. There were places where a man could walk across it and not be wet above the middle; and, to make up for this, there were quicksands stirring beneath it where the same man would sink in above his waist, above his shoulders, above his head. The islands that broke its languid currents were close grown with small trees, riding low in the water like little ships freighted deep with greenery. Toward evening, looking to the West, with the dazzle of the sun on the water, they were a fairy fleet drifting on the silver tide of dreams. The wide, slow stream ran in the middle of a wide, flat valley. Then came a line of broken hills, yellowish and sandy, cleft apart by sharp indentations, and dry, winding arroyos, down which the buffalo trooped, thirsty, to the river. When the sun sloped westward, shadows lay clear in the hollows, violet and amethyst and sapphire blue, transparent washes of color as pure as the rays of the prism. The hills rolled back in a turbulence of cone and bluff and then subsided, fell away as if all disturbance must cease before the infinite, subduing calm of The Great Plains. Magic words, invoking the romance of the unconquered West, of the earth's virgin spaces, of the buffalo and the Indian. In their idle silence, treeless, waterless, clothed as with a dry pale hair with the feathered yellow grasses, they looked as if the monstrous creatures of dead epochs might still haunt them, might still sun their horny sides among the sand hills, and wallow in the shallows of the river. It was a bit of the early world, as yet beyond the limit of the young nation's energies, the earth as man knew it when his eye was focused for far horizons, when his soul did not shrink before vast solitudes. Against this sweeping background the Indian loomed, ruler of a kingdom whose borders faded into the sky. He stood, a blanketed figure, watching the flight of birds across the blue; he rode, a painted savage, where the cloud shadows blotted the plain, and the smoke of his lodge rose over the curve of the earth. Here tribe had fought with tribe, old scores had been wiped out till the grass was damp with blood, wars of extermination had raged. Here the migrating villages made a moving streak of color like a bright patch on a map where there were no boundaries, no mountains, and but one gleaming thread of water. In the quietness of evening the pointed tops of the tepees showed dark against the sky, the blur of smoke tarnishing the glow in the West. When the darkness came the stars shone on this spot of life in the wilderness, circled with the howling of wolves. The buffalo, driven from the East by the white man's advance and from the West by the red man's pursuit, had congregated in these pasture lands. The herds numbered thousands upon thousands, diminishing in the distance to black dots on the fawn-colored face of the prairie. Twice a day they went to the river to drink. Solemnly, in Indian file, they passed down the trails among the sand hills, worn into gutters by their continuous hoofs. From the wall of the bluffs they emerged into the bottom, line after line, moving slowly to the water. Then to the river edge the valley was black with them, a mass of huge, primordial forms, from which came bellowings and a faint, sharp smell of musk. The valley was the highway to the West--the far West, the West of the great fur companies. It led from the Missouri, whose turbid current was the boundary between the frontier and the wild, to the second great barrier, the mountains which blocked the entrance to the unknown distance, where the lakes were salt and there were deserts rimed with alkali. It stretched a straight, plain path, from the river behind it to the peaked white summits in front. Along it had come a march of men, first a scattered few, then a broken line, then a phalanx--the winners of the West. They were bold men, hard men, men who held life lightly and knew no fear. In the van were the trappers and fur traders with their beaver traps and their long-barreled rifles. They went far up into the mountains where the rivers rose snow-chilled and the beavers built their dams. There were mountain men in fringed and beaded buckskins, long haired, gaunt and weather scarred; men whose pasts were unknown and unasked, who trapped and hunted and lived in the lodges with their squaws. There were black-eyed Canadian voyageurs in otter-skin caps and coats made of blankets, hardy as Indian ponies, gay and light of heart, who poled the keel boats up the rivers to the chanting of old French songs. There were swarthy half-breeds, still of tongue, stolid and eagle-featured, wearing their blankets as the Indians did, noiseless in their moccasins as the lynx creeping on its prey. And then came the emigrants, the first white-covered wagons, the first white women, looking out from the shade of their sunbonnets. The squaw wives wondered at their pale faces and bright hair. They came at intervals, a few wagons crawling down the valley and then the long, bare road with the buffaloes crossing it to the river and the occasional red spark of a trapper's camp fire. In '43 came the first great emigration, when 1,000 people went to Oregon. The Indians, awed and uneasy, watched the white line of wagon tops. "Were there so many pale faces as this in the Great Father's country?" one of the chiefs asked. Four years later the Mormons emigrated. It was like the moving of a nation, an exodus of angry fanatics, sullen, determined men burning with rage at the murder of their prophet, cursing his enemies and quoting his texts. The faces of women and children peered from the wagons, the dust of moving flocks and herds rose like a column at the end of the caravan. Their camps at night were like the camps of the patriarchs, many women to work for each man, thousands of cattle grazing in the grass. From the hills above the Indians watched the red circle of their fires and in the gray dawn saw the tents struck and the trains "roll out." There were more people from the Great Father's country, more people each year, till the great year, '49, when the cry of gold went forth across the land like a trumpet call. Then the faces on the Emigrant Trail were as the faces on the populous streets of cities. The trains of wagons were unbroken, one behind the other, straight to the sunset. A cloud of dust moved with them, showed their coming far away as they wheeled downward at Grand Island, hid their departure as they doubled up for the fording of the Platte. All the faces were set westward, all the eyes were strained to that distant goal where the rivers flowed over golden beds and the flakes lay yellow in the prospector's pan. The Indians watched them, cold at the heart, for the people in the Great Father's Country were numerous as the sands of the sea, terrible as an army with banners. CHAPTER II The days were very hot. Brilliant, dewless mornings, blinding middays, afternoons held breathless in the remorseless torrent of light. The caravan crawled along the river's edge at a footspace, the early shadows shooting far ahead of it, then dwindling to a blot beneath each moving body, then slanting out behind. There was speech in the morning which died as the day advanced, all thought sinking into torpor in the monotonous glare. In the late afternoon the sun, slipping down the sky, peered through each wagon's puckered canvas opening smiting the drivers into lethargy. Propped against the roof supports, hats drawn low over their brows they slept, the riders pacing on ahead stooped and silent on their sweating horses. There was no sound but the creaking of the wheels, and the low whisperings of the river into which, now and then, an undermined length of sand dropped with a splash. But in the evening life returned. When the dusk stole out of the hill rifts and the river flowed thick gold from bank to bank, when the bluffs grew black against the sunset fires, the little party shook off its apathy and animation revived. Coolness came with the twilight, sharpening into coldness as the West burned from scarlet and gold to a clear rose. The fire, a mound of buffalo chips into which glowing tunnels wormed, was good. Overcoats and blankets were shaken out and the fragrance of tobacco was on the air. The recrudescence of ideas and the need to interchange them came on the wanderers. Hemmed in by Nature's immensity, unconsciously oppressed by it, they felt the want of each other, of speech, of sympathy, and crouched about the fire telling anecdotes of their life "back home," that sounded trivial but drew them closer in the bond of a nostalgic wistfulness. One night they heard a drum beat. It came out of the distance faint but distinct, throbbing across the darkness like a frightened heart terrified by its own loneliness. The hand of man was impelling it, an unseen hand, only telling of its presence by the thin tattoo it sent through the silence. Words died and they sat rigid in the sudden alarm that comes upon men in the wilderness. The doctor clutched his daughter's arm, Daddy John reached for his rifle. Then, abruptly as it had come, it stopped and they broke into suggestions--emigrants on the road beyond them, an Indian war drum on the opposite bank. But they were startled, their apprehensions roused. They sat uneasy, and half an hour later the pad of horses' hoofs and approaching voices made each man grip his gun and leap to his feet. They sent a hail through the darkness and an answering voice came back: "It's all right. Friends." The figures that advanced into the firelight were those of four men with a shadowy train of pack mules extending behind them. In fringed and greasy buckskins, with long hair and swarthy faces, their feet noiseless in moccasins, they were so much of the wild, that it needed the words, "Trappers from Laramie," to reassure the doctor and make Leff put down his rifle. The leader, a lean giant, bearded to the cheek bones and with lank locks of hair falling from a coon-skin cap, gave his introduction briefly. They were a party of trappers en route from Fort Laramie to St. Louis with the winter's catch of skins. In skirted, leather hunting shirt and leggings, knife and pistols in the belt and powder horn, bullet mold, screw and awl hanging from a strap across his chest, he was the typical "mountain man." While he made his greetings, with as easy an assurance as though he had dropped in upon a party of friends, his companions picketed the animals which moved on the outskirts of the light in a spectral band of drooping forms. The three other men, were an ancient trapper with a white froth of hair framing a face, brown and wrinkled as a nut, a Mexican, Indian-dark, who crouched in his serape, rolled a cigarette and then fell asleep, and a French Canadian voyageur in a coat made of blanketing and with a scarlet handkerchief tied smooth over his head. He had a round ruddy face, and when he smiled, which he did all the time, his teeth gleamed square and white from the curly blackness of his beard. He got out his pans and buffalo meat, and was dropping pieces of hardtack into the spitting tallow when Susan addressed him in his own tongue, the patois of the province of Quebec. He gave a joyous child's laugh and a rattling fire of French followed, and then he must pick out for her the daintiest morsel and gallantly present it on a tin plate, wiped clean on the grass. They ate first and then smoked and over the pipes engaged in the bartering which was part of the plainsman's business. The strangers were short of tobacco and the doctor's party wanted buffalo skins. Fresh meat and bacon changed hands. David threw in a measure of corn meal and the old man--they called him Joe--bid for it with a hind quarter of antelope. Then, business over, they talked of themselves, their work, the season's catch, and the life far away across the mountains where the beaver streams are. They had come from the distant Northwest, threaded with ice-cold rivers and where lakes, sunk between rocky bulwarks, mirrored the whitened peaks. There the three Tetons raised their giant heads and the hollows were spread with a grassy carpet that ran up the slopes like a stretched green cloth. There had once been the trapper's paradise where the annual "rendezvous" was held and the men of the mountains gathered from creek and river and spent a year's earnings in a wild week. But the streams were almost empty now and the great days over. There was a market but no furs. Old Joe could tell what it had once been like, old Joe who years ago had been one of General Ashley's men. The old man took his pipe out of his mouth and shook his head. "The times is dead," he said, with the regret of great days gone, softened by age which softens all things. "There ain't anything in it now. When Ashley and the Sublettes and Campbell ran the big companies it was a fine trade. The rivers was swarmin' with beaver and if the Indians 'ud let us alone every man of us 'ud come down to rendezvous with each mule carrying two hundred pound of skins. Them was the times." The quick, laughing patter of the voyageur's French broke in on his voice, but old Joe, casting a dim eye back over the splendid past, was too preoccupied to mind. "I've knowed the time when the Powder River country and the rivers that ran into Jackson's Hole was as thick with beaver as the buffalo range is now with buffalo. We'd follow up a new stream and where the ground was marshy we'd know the beaver was there, for they'd throw dams across till the water'd soak each side, squeezin' through the willow roots. Then we'd cut a tree and scoop out a canoe, and when the shadders began to stretch go nosin' along the bank, keen and cold and the sun settin' red and not a sound but the dip of the paddle. We'd set the traps--seven to a man--and at sun-up out again in the canoe, clear and still in the gray of the morning, and find a beaver in every trap." "Nothin' but buffalo now to count on," said the other man. "And what's in that?" David said timidly, as became so extravagant a suggestion, that a mountain man he had met in Independence told him he thought the buffalo would be eventually exterminated. The trappers looked at one another, and exchanged satiric smiles. Even the Canadian stopped in his chatter with Susan to exclaim in amaze: "Sacré Tonnerre!" Old Joe gave a lazy cast of his eye at David. "Why, boy," he said, "if they'd been killin' them varmints since Bunker Hill they couldn't do no more with 'em than you could with your little popgun out here on the plains. The Indians has druv 'em from the West and the white man's druv 'em from the East and it don't make no difference. I knowed Captain Bonneville and he's told me how he stood on the top of Scotts Bluffs and seen the country black with 'em--millions of 'em. That's twenty-five years ago and he ain't seen no more than I have on these plains not two seasons back. Out as far as your eye could reach, crawlin' with buffalo, till you couldn't see cow nor bull, but just a black mass of 'em, solid to the horizon." David felt abashed and the doctor came to his rescue with a question about Captain Bonneville and Joe forgot his scorn of foolish young men in reminiscences of that hardy pathfinder. The old trapper seemed to have known everyone of note in the history of the plains and the fur trade, or if he didn't know them he said he did which was just as good. Lying on a buffalo skin, the firelight gilding the bony ridges of his face, a stub of black pipe gripped between his broken teeth, he told stories of the men who had found civilization too cramped and taken to the wilderness. Some had lived and died there, others come back, old and broken, to rest in a corner of the towns they had known as frontier settlements. Here they could look out to the West they loved, strain their dim eyes over the prairie, where the farmer's plow was tracing its furrow, to the Medicine Way of The Pale Face that led across the plains and up the long bright river and over the mountains to the place of the trapper's rendezvous. He had known Jim Beckwourth, the mulatto who was chief of the Crows, fought their battles and lived in their villages with a Crow wife. Joe described him as "a powerful liar," but a man without fear. Under his leadership the Crows had become a great nation and the frontiersmen laid it to his door that no Crow had ever attacked a white man except in self-defense. Some said he was still living in California. Joe remembered him well--a tall man, strong and fleet-footed as an Indian, with mighty muscles and a skin like bronze. He always wore round his neck a charm of a perforated bullet set between two glass beads hanging from a thread of sinew. He had known Rose, another white chief of the Crows, an educated man who kept his past secret and of whom it was said that the lonely places and the Indian trails were safer for him than the populous ways of towns. The old man had been one of the garrison in Fort Union when the terrible Alexander Harvey had killed Isidore, the Mexican, and standing in the courtyard cried to the assembled men: "I, Alexander Harvey, have killed the Spaniard. If there are any of his friends who want to take it up let them come on"; and not a man in the fort dared to go. He had been with Jim Bridger, when, on a wager, he went down Bear River in a skin boat and came out on the waters of the Great Salt Lake. Susan, who had stopped her talk with the voyageur to listen to this minstrel of the plains, now said: "Aren't you lonely in those quiet places where there's no one else?" The old man nodded, a gravely assenting eye on hers: "Powerful lonely, sometimes. There ain't a mountain man that ain't felt it, some of 'em often, others of 'em once and so scairt that time they won't take the risk again. It comes down suddint, like a darkness--then everything round that was so good and fine, the sound of the pines and the bubble of the spring and the wind blowing over the grass, seems like they'd set you crazy. You'd give a year's peltries for the sound of a man's voice. Just like when some one's dead that you set a heap on and you feel you'd give most everything you got to see 'em again for a minute. There ain't nothin' you wouldn't promise if by doin' it you could hear a feller hail you--just one shout--as he comes ridin' up the trail." "That was how Jim Cockrell felt when he prayed for the dog," said the tall man. "Did he get the dog?" He nodded. "That's what he said anyway. He was took with just such a lonesome spell once when he was trapping in the Mandans country. He was a pious critter, great on prayer and communing with the Lord. And he felt--I've heard him tell about it--just as if he'd go wild if he didn't get something for company. What he wanted was a dog and you might just as well want an angel out there with nothin' but the Indian villages breakin' the dazzle of the snow and you as far away from them as you could get. But that didn't stop Jim. He just got down and prayed, and then he waited and prayed some more and 'ud look around for the dog, as certain he'd come as that the sun 'ud set. Bimeby he fell asleep and when he woke there was the dog, a little brown varmint, curled up beside him on the blanket. Jim used to say an angel brought it. I'm not contradictin', but----" "Wal," said old Joe, "he most certainly come back into the fort with a dog. I was there and seen him." Leff snickered, even the doctor's voice showed the incredulous note when he asked: "Where could it have come from?" The tall man shrugged. "Don't ask me. All I know is that Jim Cockrell swore to it and I've heard him tell it drunk and sober and always the same way. He held out for the angel. I'm not saying anything against that, but whatever it was it must have had a pretty powerful pull to get a dog out to a trapper in the dead o' winter." They wondered over the story, offering explanations, and as they talked the fire died low and the moon, a hemisphere clean-halved as though sliced by a sword, rose serene from a cloud bank. Its coming silenced them and for a space they watched the headlands of the solemn landscape blackening against the sky, and the river breaking into silvery disquiet. Separating the current, which girdled it with a sparkling belt, was the dark blue of an island, thick plumed with trees, a black and mysterious oblong. Old Joe pointed to it with his pipe. "Brady's Island," he said. "Ask Hy to tell you about that. He knew Brady." The tall man looked thoughtfully at the crested shape. "That's it," he said. "That's where Brady was murdered." And then he told the story: "It was quite a while back in the 30's, and the free trappers and mountain men brought their pelts down in bull boats and mackinaws to St. Louis. There were a bunch of men workin' down the river and when they got to Brady's Island, that's out there in the stream, the water was so shallow the boats wouldn't float, so they camped on the island. Brady was one of 'em, a cross-tempered man, and he and another feller'd been pick-in' at each other day by day since leavin' the mountains. They'd got so they couldn't get on at all. Men do that sometimes on the trail, get to hate the sight and sound of each other. You can't tell why. "One day the others went after buffalo and left Brady and the man that hated him alone on the island. When the hunters come home at night Brady was dead by the camp fire, shot through the head and lyin' stiff in his blood. The other one had a slick story to tell how Brady cleanin' his gun, discharged it by accident and the bullet struck up and killed him. They didn't believe it, but it weren't their business. So they buried Brady there on the island and the next day each man shouldered his pack and struck out to foot it to the Missouri. "It was somethin' of a walk and the ones that couldn't keep up the stride fell behind. They was all strung out along the river bank and some of 'em turned off for ways they thought was shorter, and first thing you know the party was scattered, and the man that hated Brady was left alone, lopin' along on a side trail that slanted across the prairie to the country of the Loup Fork Pawnees. "That was the last they saw of him and it was a long time--news traveled slow on the plains in them days--before anybody heard of him for he never come to St. Louis to tell. Some weeks later a party of trappers passin' near the Pawnee villages on the Loup Fork was hailed by some Indians and told they had a paleface sick in the chief's tent. The trappers went there and in the tent found a white man, clear headed, but dyin' fast. "It was the man that killed Brady. Lyin' there on the buffalo skin, he told them all about it--how he done it and the lie he fixed up. Death was comin', and the way he'd hated so he couldn't keep his hand from murder was all one now. He wanted to get it off his mind and sorter square himself. When he'd struck out alone he went on for a spell, killin' enough game and always hopin' for the sight of the river. Then one day he caught his gun in a willow tree and it went off, sending the charge into his thigh and breaking the bone. He was stunned for a while and then tried to move on, tried to crawl. He crawled for six days and at the end of the sixth found a place with water and knowed he'd come to the end of his rope. He tore a strip off his blanket and tied it to the barrel of his rifle and stuck it end up. The Pawnees found him there and treated him kind, as them Indians will do sometimes. They took him to their village and cared for him, but it was too late. He wanted to see a white man and tell and then die peaceful, and that's what he done. While the trappers was with him he died and they buried him there decent outside the village." The speaker's voice ceased and in the silence the others turned to look at the black shape of the island riding the gleaming waters like a funeral barge. In its dark isolation, cut off from the land by the quiet current, it seemed a fitting theater for the grim tragedy. They gazed at it, chilled into dumbness, thinking of the murderer moving to freedom under the protection of his lie, then overtaken, and in his anguish, alone in the silence, meeting the question of his conscience. Once more the words came back to David: "Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep." Susan pressed against her father, awed and cold, and from old Joe, stretched in his blanket, came a deep and peaceful snore. CHAPTER III Susan was riding alone on the top of the bluffs. The evening before, three men returning from the Oregon country to the States, had bivouacked with them and told them that the New York Company was a day's march ahead, so she had gone to the highlands to reconnoiter. Just here the bluffs swept inward toward the river, contracting the bottom to a valley only a few miles in width. Through it the road lay, a well-worn path crossed as with black stripes by the buffalo runs. Susan's glance, questing ahead for the New York train, ran to the distance where the crystal glaze of the stream shrunk to a silver thread imbedded in green velvet. There was a final point where green and silver converged in a blinding dazzle, and over this the sun hung, emerging from a nebulous glare to a slowly defining sphere. Turning to the left her gaze lost itself in the endlessness of the plains. It was like looking over the sea, especially at the horizon where the land was drawn in a straight, purplish line. She could almost see sails there, small sails dark against a sky that was so remote its color had faded to an aerial pallor. As the journey had advanced the influence of these spacious areas had crept upon her. In the beginning there had been times when they woke in her an unexplained sadness. Now that was gone and she loved to ride onward, the one item of life in the silence, held in a new correspondence with the solemn immensity. It affected her as prayer does the devotee. Under its inspiration she wondered at old worries and felt herself impervious to new ones. With eyes on the purple horizon her thoughts went back to her home in Rochester with the green shutters and the brasses on the door. How far away it seemed! Incidents in its peaceful routine were like the resurgences of memory from a previous incarnation. There was no tenderness in her thoughts of the past, no sentiment clung to her recollections of what was now a dead phase of her life. She was slightly impatient of its contented smallness, of her satisfaction with such things as her sewing, her cake making, her childish conferences with girl friends on the vine-grown porch. They seemed strangely trivial and unmeaning compared to the exhilarating present. She was living now, feeling the force of a rising growth, her horizon widening to suit that which her eyes sought, the dependence of her sheltered girlhood gone from her as the great adventure called upon untouched energies and untried forces. It was like looking back on another girl, or like a woman looking back on a child. She had often spoken to David of these past days, and saw that her descriptions charmed him. He had asked her questions about it and been surprised that she did not miss the old existence more. To him it had seemed ideal, and he told her that that was the way he should like to live and some day would, with just such a servant as Daddy John, and a few real friends, and a library of good books. His enthusiasm made her dimly realize the gulf between them--the gulf between the idealist and the materialist--that neither had yet recognized and that only she, of the two, instinctively felt. The roughness of the journey irked David. The toil of the days wore on his nerves. She could see that it pained him to urge the tired animals forward, to lash them up the stream banks and drive them past the springs. And only half understanding his character--fine where she was obtuse, sensitive where she was invulnerable, she felt the continued withdrawal from him, the instinctive shrinking from the man who was not her mate. She had silently acquiesced in the idea, entertained by all the train, that she would marry him. The doctor had intimated to her that he wished it and from her childhood her only real religion had been to please her father. Yet half a dozen times she had stopped the proposal on the lover's lips. And not from coquetry either. Loth and reluctant she clung to her independence. A rival might have warmed her to a more coming-on mood, but there was no rival. When by silence or raillery she had shut off the avowal she was relieved and yet half despised him for permitting her to take the lead. Why had he not forced her to listen? Why had he not seized her and even if she struggled, held her and made her hear him? She knew little of men, nothing of love, but she felt, without putting her thoughts even to herself, that to a man who showed her he was master she would have listened and surrendered. Riding back to the camp she felt a trifle remorseful about her behavior. Some day she would marry him--she had got far enough to admit that--and perhaps it was unkind of her not to let the matter be settled. And at that she gave a petulant wriggle of her shoulders under her cotton blouse. Wasn't that his business? Wasn't he the one to end it, not wait on her pleasure? Were all men so easily governed, she wondered. Looking ahead across the grassed bottom land, she saw that the train had halted and the camp was pitched. She could see David's tall stooping figure, moving with long strides between the tents and the wagons. She laid a wager with herself that he would do certain things and brought her horse to a walk that she might come upon him noiselessly and watch. Of course he did them, built up her fire and kindled it, arranged her skillets beside it and had a fresh pail of water standing close by. It only remained for him to turn as he heard the sound of her horse's hoofs and run to help her dismount. This, for some reason, he did not do and she was forced to attract his attention by saying in a loud voice: "There was nothing to be seen. Not a sign of a wagon from here to the horizon." He looked up from his cooking and said: "Oh, you're back, Susan," and returned to the pan of buffalo tallow. This was a strange remissness in the slave and she was piqued. Contrary to precedent it was her father who helped her off. She slid into his arms laughing, trying to kiss him as she slipped down, then standing with her hands on his shoulders told him of her ride. She was very pretty just then, her hair loose on her sunburned brow, her face all love and smiles. But David bent over his fire, did not raise his eyes to the charming tableau, that had its own delightfulness to the two participants, and that one of the participants intended should show him how sweet Susan Gillespie could be when she wanted. All of which trivial matter combined to the making of momentous matter, momentous in the future for Susan and David. Shaken in her confidence in the subjugation of her slave, Susan agreed to his suggestion to ride to the bluffs after supper and see the plains under the full moon. So salutary had been his momentary neglect of her that she went in a chastened spirit, a tamed and gentle maiden. They had orders not to pass out of sight of the twin fires whose light followed them like the beams of two, watchful, unwinking eyes. They rode across the bottom to where the bluffs rose, a broken bulwark. That afternoon Susan had found a ravine up which they could pass. She knew it by a dwarfed tree, a landmark in the naked country. The moonlight lay white on the barrier indented with gulfs of darkness, from each of which ran the narrow path of the buffalo. The line of hills, silver-washed and black-caverned, was like a rampart thrown across the entrance to the land of mystery, and they like the pygmy men of fairyland come to gain an entry. It was David who thought of this. It reminded him of Jack and the Beanstalk, where Jack, reaching the top of the vine, found himself in a strange country. Susan did not remember much about Jack. She was engrossed in recognizing the ravine, scanning the darkling hollows for the dwarf tree. It was a steep, winding cut, the tree, halfway up its length, spreading skeleton arms against a sky clear as a blue diamond. They turned into it and began a scrambling ascent, the horses' hoofs slipping into the gutter that the buffaloes had trodden out. It was black dark in the depths with the moonlight slanting white on the walls. "We're going now to find the giants," David called over his shoulder. "Doesn't this seem as if it ought to lead us up right in front of Blunderbore's Castle?" "The buffalo runs are like trenches," she answered. "If you don't look out your horse may fall." They tied their horses to the tree and climbed on foot to the levels above. On the earth's floor, unbroken by tree or elevation, there was not a shadow. It lay silver frosted in the foreground, darkening as it receded. In the arch above no cloud filmed the clearness, the moon, huge and mottled, dominating the sky. The silence was penetrating; not a breath or sound disturbed it. It was the night of the primitive world, which stirred the savage to a sense of the infinite and made him, from shell or clay or stone, carve out a God. Without speaking they walked forward to a jutting point and looked down on the river. The current sparkled like a dancer's veil spread on the grass. They could not hear its murmur or see the shifting disturbance of its shallows, only received the larger impression of the flat, gleaming tide split by the black shapes of islands. David pointed to the two sparks of the camp fires. "See, they're looking after us as if they were alive and knew they mustn't lose sight of us." "They look quite red in the moonlight," she answered, interested. "As if they belonged to man and a drop of human blood had colored them." "What a queer idea. Let's walk on along the bluffs." They turned and moved away from the lights, slipping down into the darkness of the channeled ravines and emerging onto the luminous highlands. The solemnity of the night, its brooding aloofness in which they held so small a part, chilled the girl's high self-reliance. Among her fellows, in a setting of light and action, she was all proud independence. Deprived of them she suffered a diminution of confidence and became if not clinging, at least a feminine creature who might some day be won. Feeling small and lonely she insensibly drew closer to the man beside her, at that moment the only connecting link between her and the living world with which her liens were so close. The lover felt the change in her, knew that the barrier she had so persistently raised was down. They were no longer mistress and slave, but man and maid. The consciousness of it gave him a new boldness. The desperate daring of the suitor carried him beyond his familiar tremors, his dread of defeat. He thrust his hand inside her arm, timidly, it is true, ready to snatch it back at the first rebuff. But there was none, so he kept it there and they walked on. Their talk was fragmentary, murmured sentences that they forgot to finish, phrases trailing off into silence as if they had not clear enough wits to fit words together, or as if words were not necessary when at last their spirits communed. Responding to the instigation of the romantic hour the young girl felt an almost sleepy content. The arm on which she leaned spoke of strength, it symbolized a protection she would have repudiated in the practical, sustaining sunshine, but that now was very sweet. David walked in a vision. Was it Susan, this soft and docile being, close against his side, her head moving slowly as her eyes ranged over the magical prospect? He was afraid to speak for fear the spell would break. He did not know which way his feet bore him, but blindly went on, looking down at the profile almost against his shoulder, at the hand under which his had slid, small and white in the transforming light. His silence was not like hers, the expression of a temporary, lulled tranquility. He had passed the stage when he could delay to rejoice in lovely moments. He was no longer the man fearful of the hazards of his fate, but a vessel of sense ready to overflow at the slightest touch. It came when a ravine opened at their feet and she drew herself from him to gather up her skirts for the descent. Then the tension broke with a tremulous "Susan, wait!" She knew what was coming and braced herself to meet it. The mystical hour, the silver-bathed wonder of the night, a girl's frightened curiosity, combined to win her to a listening mood. She felt on the eve of a painful but necessary ordeal, and clasped her hands together to bear it creditably. Through the perturbation of her mind the question flashed--Did all women feel this way? and then the comment, How much they had to endure that they never told! It was the first time any man had made the great demand of her. She had read of it in novels and other girls had told her. From this data she had gathered that it was a happy if disturbing experience. She felt only the disturbance. Seldom in her life had she experienced so distracting a sense of discomfort. When David was half way through she would have given anything to have stopped him, or to have run away. But she was determined now to stand it, to go through with it and be engaged as other girls were and as her father wished her to be. Besides there was nowhere to run to and she could not have stopped him if she had tried. He was launched, the hour had come, the, to him, supreme and awful hour, and all the smothered passion and hope and yearning of the past month burst out. Once she looked at him and immediately looked away, alarmed and abashed by his appearance. Even in the faint light she could see his pallor, the drops on his brow, the drawn desperation of his face. She had never in her life seen anyone so moved and she began to share his agitation and wish that anything might happen to bring the interview to an end. "Do you care? Do you care?" he urged, trying to look into her face. She held it down, not so much from modesty as from an aversion to seeing him so beyond himself, and stammered: "Of course I care. I always have. Quite a great deal. You know it." "I never knew," he cried. "I never was sure. Sometimes I thought so and the next day you were all different. Say you do. Oh, Susan, say you do." He was as close to her as he could get without touching her, which, the question now fairly put, he carefully avoided doing. Taller than she he loomed over her, bending for her answer, quivering and sweating in his anxiety. The young girl was completely subdued by him. She was frightened, not of the man, but of the sudden revelation of forces which she did not in the least comprehend and which made him another person. Though she vaguely understood that she still dominated him, she saw that her dominion came from something much more subtle than verbal command and imperious bearing. All confusion and bewildered meekness, she melted, partly because she had meant to, partly because his vehemence overpowered her, and partly because she wanted to end the most trying scene she had ever been through. "Will you say yes? Oh, you must say yes," she heard him imploring, and she emitted the monosyllable on a caught breath and then held her head even lower and felt an aggrieved amazement that it was all so different from what she had thought it would be. He gave an exclamation, a sound almost of pain, and drew away from her. She glanced up at him, her eyes full of scared curiosity, not knowing what extraordinary thing was going to happen next. He had dropped his face into his hands, and stood thus for a moment without moving. She peered at him uneasily, like a child at some one suffering from an unknown complaint and giving evidence of the suffering in strange ways. He let his hands fall, closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and came toward her with his face beatified. Delicately, almost reverently, he bent down and touched her cheek with his lips. The lover's first kiss! This, too, Susan had heard about, and from what she had heard she had imagined that it was a wonderful experience causing unprecedented joy. She was nearly as agitated as he, but through her agitation, she realized with keen disappointment that she had felt nothing in the least resembling joy. An inward shrinking as the bearded lips came in contact with her skin was all she was conscious of. There was no rapture, no up-gush of anything lovely or unusual. In fact, it left her with the feeling that it was a duty duly discharged and accepted--this that she had heard was one of life's crises, that you looked back on from the heights of old age and told your grandchildren about. They were silent for a moment, the man so filled and charged with feeling that he had no breath to speak, no words, if he had had breath, to express the passion that was in him. Inexperienced as she, he thought it sweet and beautiful that she should stand away from him with averted face. He gazed at her tenderly, wonderingly, won, but still a thing too sacred for his touch. Susan, not knowing what to do and feeling blankly that something momentous had happened and that she had not risen to it, continued to look on the ground. She wished he would say something simple and natural and break the intolerable silence. Finally, she felt that she could endure it no longer, and putting her hand to her forehead, pushed back her hair and heaved a deep sigh. He instantly moved to her all brooding, possessive inquiry. She became alarmed lest he meant to kiss her again and edged away from him, exclaiming hastily: "Shall we go back? We've been a long time away." Without speech he slid his hand into the crook of her arm and they began to retrace their steps. She could feel his heart beating and the warm, sinewy grasp of his fingers clasped about hers. The plain was a silver floor for their feet, in the starless sky the great orb soared. The girl's embarrassment left her and she felt herself peacefully settling into a contented acquiescence. She looked up at him, a tall shape, black between her and the moon. Her glance called his and he gazed down into her eyes, a faint smile on his lips. His arm was strong, the way was strangely beautiful, and in the white light and the stillness, romance walked with them. There was no talk between them till they reached the horses. In the darkness of the cleft, hidden from the searching radiance, he drew her to him, pressing her head with a trembling hand against his heart. She endured it patiently but was glad when he let her go and she was in the saddle, a place where she felt more at home than in a man's arms with her face crushed against his shirt, turning to avoid its rough texture and uncomfortably conscious of the hardness of his lean breast. She decided not to speak to him again, for she was afraid he might break forth into those protestations of love that so embarrassed her. At the camp Daddy John was up, sitting by the fire, waiting for them. Of this, too, she was glad. Good-bys between lovers, even if only to be separated by a night, were apt to contain more of that distressful talk. She called a quick "Good night" to him, and then dove into her tent and sat down on the blankets. The firelight shone a nebulous blotch through the canvas and she stared at it, trying to concentrate her thoughts and realize that the great event had happened. "I'm engaged," she kept saying to herself, and waited for the rapture, which, even if belated, ought surely to come. But it did not. The words obstinately refused to convey any meaning, brought nothing to her but a mortifying sensation of being inadequate to a crisis. She heard David's voice exchanging a low good night with the old man, and she hearkened anxiously, still hopeful of the thrill. But again there was none, and she could only gaze at the blurred blot of light and whisper "I'm engaged to be married," and wonder what was the matter with her that she should feel just the same as she did before. CHAPTER IV The dawn was gray when Susan woke the next morning. It was cold and she cowered under her blankets, watching the walls of the tent grow light, and the splinter between the flaps turn from white to yellow. She came to consciousness quickly, waking to an unaccustomed depression. At first it had no central point of cause, but was reasonless and all-permeating like the depression that comes from an unlocated physical ill. Her body lay limp under the blankets as her mind lay limp under the unfamiliar cloud. Then the memory of last night took form, her gloom suddenly concentrated on a reason, and she sunk beneath it, staring fixedly at the crack of growing light. When she heard the camp stirring and sat up, her heart felt so heavy that she pressed on it with her finger tips as if half expecting they might encounter a strange, new hardness through the soft envelope of her body. She did not know that this lowering of her crest, hitherto held so high and carried so proudly, was the first move of her surrender. Her liberty was over, she was almost in the snare. The strong feminine principle in her impelled her like an inexorable fate toward marriage and the man. The children that were to be, urged her toward their creator. And the unconquered maidenhood that was still hers, recoiled with trembling reluctance from its demanded death. Love had not yet come to lead her into a new and wonderful world. She only felt the sense of strangeness and fear, of leaving the familiar ways to enter new ones that led through shadows to the unknown. When she rode out beside her father in the red splendors of the morning, a new gravity marked her. Already the first suggestion of the woman--like the first breath of the season's change--was on her face. The humility of the great abdication was in her eyes. David left them together and rode away to the bluffs. She followed his figure with a clouded glance as she told her father her news. Her depression lessened when he turned upon her with a radiant face. "If you had searched the world over you couldn't have found a man to please me better. Seeing David this way, day by day, I've come to know him through and through and he's true, straight down to the core." "Of course he is," she answered, tilting her chin with the old sauciness that this morning looked a little forlorn. "I wouldn't have liked him if he hadn't been." "Oh, Missy, you're such a wise little woman." She glanced at him quickly, recognizing the tone, and to-day, with her new heavy heart, dreading it. "Now, father, don't laugh at me. This is all very serious." "Serious! It's the most serious thing that ever happened in the world, in our world. And if I was smiling--I'll lay a wager I wasn't laughing--it was because I'm so happy. You don't know what this means to me. I've wanted it so much that I've been afraid it wasn't coming off. And then I thought it must, for it's my girl's happiness and David's and back of theirs mine." "Well, then, if you're happy, I'm happy." This time his smile was not bantering, only loving and tender. He did not dream that her spirit might not be as glad as his looking from the height of middle-age to a secured future. He had been a man of a single love, ignorant save of that one woman, and she so worshiped and wondered at that there had been no time to understand her. Insulated in the circle of his own experience he did not guess that to an unawakened girl the engagement morn might be dark with clouds. "Love and youth," he said dreamily, "oh, Susan, it's so beautiful! It's Eden come again when God walked in the garden. And it's so short. _Eheu Fugaces_! You've just begun to realize how wonderful it is, just said to yourself 'This is life--this is what I was born for,' when it's over. And then you begin to understand, to look back, and see that it was not what you were born for. It was only the beginning that was to give you strength for the rest--the prairie all trees and flowers, with the sunlight and the breeze on the grass." "It sounds like this journey, like the Emigrant Trail." "That's what I was thinking. The beautiful start gives you courage for the mountains. The memory of it carries you over the rough places, gives you life in your heart when you come to the desert where it's all parched and bare. And you and your companion go on, fighting against the hardships, bound closer and closer by the struggle. You learn to give up, to think of the other one, and then you say, '_This_ is what I was born for,' and you know you're getting near the truth. To have some one to go through the fight for, to do the hard work for--that's the reality after the vision and the dream." The doctor, thinking of the vanished years of his married life, and his daughter, of the unknown ones coming, were not looking at the subject from the same points of view. "I don't think you make it sound very pleasant," she said, from returning waves of melancholy. "It's nothing but hardships and danger." "California's at the end of it, dearie, and they say that's the most beautiful country in the world." "It will be a strange country," she said wistfully, not thinking alone of California. "Not for long." "Do you think we'll ever feel at home in it?" The question came in a faint voice. Why did California, once the goal of her dreams, now seem an alien land in which she always would be a stranger? "We're bringing our home with us--carrying some of it on our backs like snails and the rest in our hearts like all pioneers. Soon it will cease being strange, when there are children in it. Where there's a camp fire and a blanket and a child, that's home, Missy." He leaned toward her and laid his hand on hers as it rested on the pommel. "You'll be so happy in it," he said softly. A sudden surge of feeling, more poignant than anything she had yet felt, sent a pricking of tears to her eyes. She turned her face away, longing in sudden misery for some one to whom she could speak plainly, some one who once had felt as she did now. For the first time she wished that there was another woman in the train. Her instinct told her that men could not understand. Unable to bear her father's glad assurance she said a hasty word about going back and telling Daddy John and wheeled her horse toward the prairie schooner behind them. Daddy John welcomed her by pushing up against the roof prop and giving her two thirds of the driver's seat. With her hands clipped between her knees she eyed him sideways. "What do you think's going to happen?" she said, trying to compose her spirits by teasing him. "It's going to rain," he answered. This was not helpful or suggestive of future sympathy, but at any rate, it was not emotional. "Now, Daddy John, don't be silly. Would I get off my horse and climb up beside you to ask you about the weather?" "I don't know what you'd do, Missy, you've got that wild out here on the plains--just like a little buffalo calf." He glimpsed obliquely at her, his old face full of whimsical tenderness. She smiled bravely and he saw above the smile, her eyes, untouched by it. He instantly became grave. "Well, what's goin' to happen?" he asked soberly. "I'm going to be married." He raised his eyebrows and gave a whistle. "That is somethin'! And which is it?" "What a question! David, of course. Who else could it be?" "Well, he's the best," he spoke slowly, with considering phlegm. "He's a first-rate boy as far as he goes." "I don't think that's a very nice way to speak of him. Can't you say something better?" The old man looked over the mules' backs for a moment of inward cogitation. He was not surprised at the news but he was surprised at something in his Missy's manner, a lack of the joyfulness, that he, too, had thought an attribute of all intending brides. "He's a good boy," he said thoughtfully. "No one can say he ain't. But some way or other, I'd rather have had a bigger man for you, Missy." "Bigger!" she exclaimed indignantly. "He's nearly six feet. And girls don't pick out their husbands because of their height." "I ain't meant it that way. Bigger in what's in him--can get hold o' more, got a bigger reach." "I don't know what you mean. If you're trying to say he's not got a big mind you're all wrong. He knows more than anybody I ever met except father. He's read hundreds and hundreds of books." "That's it--too many books. Books is good enough but they ain't the right sort 'er meat for a feller that's got to hit out for himself in a new country. They're all right in the city where you got the butcher and the police and a kerosene lamp to read 'em by. David 'ud be a fine boy in the town just as his books is suitable in the town. But this ain't the town. And the men that are the right kind out here ain't particularly set on books. I'd 'a' chose a harder feller for you, Missy, that could have stood up to anything and didn't have no soft feelings to hamper him." "Rubbish," she snapped. "Why don't you encourage me?" Her tone drew his eyes, sharp as a squirrel's and charged with quick concern. Her face was partly turned away. The curve of her cheek was devoid of its usual dusky color, her fingers played on her under lip as if it were a little flute. "What do you want to be encouraged for?" he said low, as if afraid of being overheard. She did not move her head, but looked at the bluffs. "I don't know," she answered, then hearing her--voice hoarse cleared her throat. "It's all--so--so--sort of new. I--I--feel--I don't know just how--I think it's homesick." Her voice broke in a bursting sob. Her control gone, her pride fell with it. Wheeling on the seat she cast upon him a look of despairing appeal. "Oh, Daddy John," was all she could gasp, and then bent her head so that her hat might hide the shame of her tears. He looked at her for a nonplused moment, at her brown arms bent over her shaken bosom, at the shield of her broken hat. He was thoroughly discomfited for he had not the least idea what was the matter. Then he shifted the reins to his left hand and edging near her laid his right on her knee. "Don't you want to marry him?" he said gently. "It isn't that, it's something else." "What else? You can say anything you like to me. Ain't I carried you when you were a baby?" "I don't know what it is." Her voice came cut by sobbing breaths. "I don't understand. It's like being terribly lonesome." The old frontiersman had no remedy ready for this complaint. He, too, did not understand. "Don't you marry him if you don't like him," he said. "If you want to tell him so and you're afraid, I'll do it for you." "I do like him. It's not that." "Well, then, what's making you cry?" "Something else, something way down deep that makes everything seem so far away and strange." He leaned forward and spat over the wheel, then subsided against the roof prop. "Are you well?" he said, his imagination exhausted. "Yes, very." Daddy John looked at the backs of the mules. The off leader was a capricious female by name Julia who required more management and coaxing than the other five put together, and whom he loved beyond them all. In his bewildered anxiety the thought passed through his mind that all creatures of the feminine gender, animal or human, were governed by laws inscrutable to the male, who might never aspire to comprehension and could only strive to please and placate. A footfall struck on his ear and, thrusting his head beyond the canvas hood, he saw Leff loafing up from the rear. "Saw her come in here," thought the old man, drawing his head in, "and wants to hang round and snoop." Since the Indian episode he despised Leff. His contempt was unveiled, for the country lout who had shown himself a coward had dared to raise his eyes to the one star in Daddy John's firmament. He would not have hidden his dislike if he could. Leff was of the outer world to which he relegated all men who showed fear or lied. He turned to Susan: "Go back in the wagon and lie down. Here comes Leff and I don't want him to see you." The young girl thought no better of Leff than he did. The thought of being viewed in her abandonment by the despised youth made her scramble into the back of the wagon where she lay concealed on a pile of sacks. In the forward opening where the canvas was drawn in a circle round a segment of sky, Daddy John's figure fitted like a picture in a circular frame. As a step paused at the wheel she saw him lean forward and heard his rough tones. "Yes, she's here, asleep in the back of the wagon." Then Leff's voice, surprised: "Asleep? Why, it ain't an hour since we started." "Well, can't she go to sleep in the morning if she wants? Don't you go to sleep every Sunday under the wagon?" "Yes, but that's afternoon." "Mebbe, but everybody's not as slow as you at getting at what they want." This appeared to put Susan's retirement in a light that gave rise to pondering. There was a pause, then came the young man's heavy footsteps slouching back to his wagon. Daddy John settled down on the seat. "I'm almighty glad it weren't him, Missy," he said, over his shoulder. "I'd 'a' known then why you cried." CHAPTER V Late the same day Leff, who had been riding on the bluffs, came down to report a large train a few miles ahead of them. It was undoubtedly the long-looked-for New York Company. The news was as a tonic to their slackened energies. A cheering excitement ran through the train. There was stir and loud talking. Its contagion lifted Susan's spirits and with her father she rode on in advance, straining her eyes against the glare of the glittering river. Men and women, who daily crowded by them unnoted on city streets, now loomed in the perspective as objective points of avid interest. No party Susan had ever been to called forth such hopeful anticipation. To see her fellows, to talk with women over trivial things, to demand and give out the human sympathies she wanted and that had lain withering within herself, drew her from the gloom under which she had lain weeping in the back of Daddy John's wagon. They were nearing the Forks of the Platte where the air was dryly transparent and sound carried far. While yet the encamped train was a congeries of broken white dots on the river's edge, they could hear the bark of a dog and then singing, a thin thread of melody sent aloft by a woman's voice. It was like a handclasp across space. Drawing nearer the sounds of men and life reached forward to meet them--laughter, the neighing of horses, the high, broken cry of a child. They felt as if they were returning to a home they had left and that sometimes, in the stillness of the night or when vision lost itself in the vague distances, they still longed for. The train had shaped itself into its night form, the circular coil in which it slept, like a thick, pale serpent resting after the day's labors. The white arched prairie schooners were drawn up in a ring, the defensive bulwark of the plains. The wheels, linked together by the yoke chains, formed a barrier against Indian attacks. Outside this interlocked rampart was a girdle of fires, that gleamed through the twilight like a chain of jewels flung round the night's bivouac. It shone bright on the darkness of the grass, a cordon of flame that some kindly magician had drawn about the resting place of the tired camp. With the night pressing on its edges it was a tiny nucleus of life dropped down between the immemorial plains and the ancient river. Home was here in the pitched tents, a hearthstone in the flame lapping on the singed grass, humanity in the loud welcome that rose to meet the newcomers. The doctor had known but one member of the Company, its organizer, a farmer from the Mohawk Valley. But the men, dropping their ox yokes and water pails, crowded forward, laughing deep-mouthed greetings from the bush of their beards, and extending hands as hard as the road they had traveled. The women were cooking. Like goddesses of the waste places they stood around the fires, a line of half-defined shapes. Films of smoke blew across them, obscured and revealed them, and round about them savory odors rose. Fat spit in the pans, coffee bubbled in blackened pots, and strips of buffalo meat impaled on sticks sent a dribble of flame to the heat. The light was strong on their faces, lifted in greeting, lips smiling, eyes full of friendly curiosity. But they did not move from their posts for they were women and the men and the children were waiting to be fed. Most of them were middle-aged, or the trail had made them look middle-aged. A few were very old. Susan saw a face carved with seventy years of wrinkles mumbling in the framing folds of a shawl. Nearby, sitting on the dropped tongue of a wagon, a girl of perhaps sixteen, sat ruminant, nursing a baby. Children were everywhere, helping, fighting, rolling on the grass. Babies lay on spread blankets with older babies sitting by to watch. It was the woman's hour. The day's march was over, but the intimate domestic toil was at its height. The home makers were concentrated upon their share of the activities--cooking food, making the shelter habitable, putting their young to bed. Separated from Susan by a pile of scarlet embers stood a young girl, a large spoon in her hand. The light shot upward along the front of her body, painting with an even red glow her breast, her chin, the under side of her nose and finally transforming into a coppery cloud the bright confusion of her hair. She smiled across the fire and said: "I'm glad you've come. We've been watching for you ever since we struck the Platte. There aren't any girls in the train. I and my sister are the youngest except Mrs. Peebles over there," with a nod in the direction of the girl on the wagon tongue, "and she's married." The woman beside her, who had been too busy over the bacon pan to raise her head, now straightened herself, presenting to Susan's eye a face more buxom and mature but so like that of the speaker that it was evident they were sisters. A band of gold gleamed on her wedding finger and her short skirt and loose calico jacket made no attempt to hide the fact that another baby was soon to be added to the already well-supplied train. She smiled a placid greeting and her eye, lazily sweeping Susan, showed a healthy curiosity tempered by the self-engrossed indifference of the married woman to whom the outsider, even in the heart of the wilderness, is forever the outsider. "Lucy'll be real glad to have a friend," she said. "She's lonesome. Turn the bacon, Lucy, it makes my back ache to bend"; and as the sister bowed over the frying pan, "move, children, you're in the way." This was directed to two children who lay on the grass by the fire, with blinking eyes, already half asleep. As they did not immediately obey she assisted them with a large foot, clad in a man's shoe. The movement though peremptory was not rough. It had something of the quality of the mother tiger's admonishing pats to her cubs, a certain gentleness showing through force. The foot propelled the children into a murmurous drowsy heap. One of them, a little girl with a shock of white hair and a bunch of faded flowers wilting in her tight baby grasp, looked at her mother with eyes glazed with sleep, a deep look as though her soul was gazing back from the mysteries of unconsciousness. "Now lie there till you get your supper," said the mother, having by gradual pressure pried them out of the way. "And you," to Susan, "better bring your things over and camp here and use our fire. We've nearly finished with it." In the desolation of the morning Susan had wished for a member of her own sex, not to confide in but to feel that there was some one near, who, if she did know, could understand. Now here were two. Their fresh, simple faces on which an artless interest was so naïvely displayed, their pleasant voices, not cultured as hers was but women's voices for all that, gave her spirits a lift. Her depression quite dropped away, the awful lonely feeling, all the more whelming because nobody could understand it, departed from her. She ran back to the camp singing and for the first time that day looked at David, whose presence she had shunned, with her old, brilliant smile. An hour later and the big camp rested, relaxed in the fading twilight that lay a yellow thread of separation between the day's high colors and the dewless darkness of the night. It was like a scene from the migrations of the ancient peoples when man wandered with a woman, a tent, and a herd. The barrier of the wagons, with its girdle of fire sparks, incased a grassy oval green as a lawn. Here they sat in little groups, collecting in tent openings as they were wont to collect on summer nights at front gates and piazza steps. The crooning of women putting babies to sleep fell in with the babblings of the river. The men smoked in silence. Nature had taught them something of her large reticence in their day-long companionship. Some few lounged across the grass to have speech of the pilot, a grizzled mountain man, who had been one of the Sublette's trappers, and had wise words to say of the day's travel and the promise of the weather. But most of them lay on the grass by the tents where they could see the stars through their pipe smoke and hear the talk of their wives and the breathing of the children curled in the blankets. A youth brought an accordion from his stores and, sitting cross-legged on the ground, began to play. He played "Annie Laurie," and a woman's voice, her head a black outline against the west, sang the words. Then there was a clamor of applause, sounding thin and futile in the evening's suave quietness, and the player began a Scotch reel in the production of which the accordion uttered asthmatic gasps as though unable to keep up with its own proud pace. The tune was sufficiently good to inspire a couple of dancers. The young girl called Lucy rose with a partner--her brother-in-law some one told Susan--and facing one another, hand on hip, heads high, they began to foot it lightly over the blackening grass. Seen thus Lucy was handsome, a tall, long-limbed sapling of a girl, with a flaming crest of copper-colored hair and movements as lithe and supple as a cat's. She danced buoyantly, without losing breath, advancing and retreating with mincing steps, her face grave as though the performance had its own dignity and was not to be taken lightly. Her partner, a tanned and long-haired man, took his part in a livelier spirit, laughing at her, bending his body grotesquely and growing red with his caperings. Meanwhile from the tent door the wife looked on and Susan heard her say to the doctor with whom she had been conferring: "And when will it be my turn to dance the reel again? There wasn't a girl in the town could dance it with me." Her voice was weighted with the wistfulness of the woman whose endless patience battles with her unwillingness to be laid by. Susan saw David's fingers feeling in the grass for her hand. She gave it, felt the hard stress of his grip, and conquered her desire to draw the hand away. All her coquetry was gone. She was cold and subdued. The passionate hunger of his gaze made her feel uncomfortable. She endured it for a space and then said with an edge of irritation on her voice: "What are you staring at me for? Is there something on my face?" He breathed in a roughened voice: "No, I love you." Her discomfort increased. Tumult and coldness make uncongenial neighbors. The man, all passion, and the woman, who has no answering spark, grope toward each other through devious and unillumined ways. He whispered again: "I love you so. You don't understand." She did not and looked at him inquiringly, hoping to learn something from his face. His eyes, meeting hers, were full of tears. It surprised her so that she stared speechlessly at him, her head thrown back, her lips parted. He looked down, ashamed of his emotion, murmuring: "You don't understand. It's so sacred. Some day you will." She did not speak to him again, but she let him hold her hand because she thought she ought to and because she was sorry. CHAPTER VI The next morning the rain was pouring. The train rolled out without picturesque circumstance, the men cursing, the oxen, with great heads swinging under the yokes, plodding doggedly through lakes fretted with the downpour. Breakfast was a farce; nobody's fire would burn and the women were wet through before they had the coffee pots out. One or two provident parties had stoves fitted up in their wagons with a joint of pipe coming out through holes in the canvas. From these, wafts of smoke issued with jaunty assurance, to be beaten down by the rain, which swept them fiercely out of the landscape. There was no perspective, the distance invisible, nearer outlines blurred. The world was a uniform tint, walls of gray marching in a slant across a foreground embroidered with pools. Water ran, or dripped, or stood everywhere. The river, its surface roughened by the spit of angry drops, ran swollen among its islands, plumed shapes seen mistily through the veil. The road emerged in oases of mud from long, inundated spaces. Down the gullies in the hills, following the beaten buffalo tracks, streams percolated through the grass of the bottom, feeling their way to the river. Notwithstanding the weather a goodly company of mounted men rode at the head of the train. They were wet to the skin and quite indifferent to it. They had already come to regard the vagaries of the weather as matters of no import. Mosquitoes and Indians were all they feared. On such nights many of them slept in the open under a tarpaulin, and when the water grew deep about them scooped out a drainage canal with a hand that sleep made heavy. When the disorder of the camping ground was still in sight, Susan, with the desire of social intercourse strong upon her, climbed into the wagon of her new friends. They were practical, thrifty people, and were as comfortable as they could be under a roof of soaked canvas in a heavily weighted prairie schooner that every now and then bumped to the bottom of a chuck hole. The married sister sat on a pile of sacks disposed in a form that made a comfortable seat. A blanket was spread behind her, and thus enthroned she knitted at a stocking of gray yarn. Seen in the daylight she was young, fresh-skinned, and not uncomely. Placidity seemed to be the dominating note of her personality. It found physical expression in the bland parting of her hair, drawn back from her smooth brow, her large plump hands with their deliberate movements and dimples where more turbulent souls had knuckles, and her quiet eyes, which turned upon anyone who addressed her a long ruminating look before she answered. She had an air of almost oracular profundity but she was merely in the quiescent state of the woman whose faculties and strength are concentrated upon the coming child. Her sister called her Bella and the people in the train addressed her as Mrs. McMurdo. Lucy was beside her also knitting a stocking, and the husband, Glen McMurdo, sat in the front driving, his legs in the rain, his upper half leaning back under the shelter of the roof. He looked sleepy, gave a grunt of greeting to Susan, and then lapsed against the saddle propped behind him, his hat pulled low on his forehead hiding his eyes. In this position, without moving or evincing any sign of life, he now and then appeared to be roused to the obligations of his position and shouted a drowsy "Gee Haw," at the oxen. He did not interfere with the women and they broke into the talk of their sex, how they cooked, which of their clothes had worn best, what was the right way of jerking buffalo meat. And then on to personal matters: where they came from, what they were at home, whither they were bound. The two sisters were Scotch girls, had come from Scotland twenty years ago when Lucy was a baby. Their home was Cooperstown where Glen was a carpenter. He had heard wonderful stories of California, how there were no carpenters there and people were flocking in, so he'd decided to emigrate. "And once he'd got his mind set on it, he had to start," said his wife. "Couldn't wait for anything but must be off then and there. That's the way men are." "It's a hard trip for you," said Susan, wondering at Mrs. McMurdo's serenity. "Well, I suppose it is," said Bella, as if she did not really think it was, but was too lazy to disagree. "I hope I'll last till we get to Fort Bridger." "What's at Fort Bridger?" "It's a big place with lots of trains coming and going and there'll probably be a doctor among them. And they say it's a good place for the animals--plenty of grass--so it'll be all right if I'm laid up for long. But I have my children very easily." It seemed to the doctor's daughter a desperate outlook and she eyed, with a combination of pity and awe, the untroubled Bella reclining on the throne of sacks. The wagon gave a creaking lurch and Bella nearly lost count of her stitches which made her frown as she was turning the heel. The lurch woke her husband who pushed back his hat, shouted "Gee Haw" at the oxen, and then said to his wife: "You got to cut my hair, Bella. These long tags hanging down round my ears worry me." "Yes, dear, as soon as the weather's fine. I'll borrow a bowl from Mrs. Peeble's mother so that it'll be cut evenly all the way round." Here there was an interruption, a breathless, baby voice at the wheel, and Glen leaned down and dragged up his son Bob, wet, wriggling, and muddy. The little fellow, four years old, had on a homespun shirt and drawers, both dripping. His hair was a wet mop, hanging in rat tails to his eyes. Under its thatch his face, pink and smiling, was as fresh as a dew-washed rose. Tightly gripped in a dirty paw were two wild flowers, and it was to give these to his mother that he had come. He staggered toward her, the wagon gave a jolt, and he fell, clasping her knees and filling the air with the sweetness of his laughter. Then holding to her arm and shoulder, he drew himself higher and pressed the flowers close against her nose. "Is it a bu'full smell?" he inquired, watching her face with eyes of bright inquiry. "Beautiful," she said, trying to see the knitting. "Aren't you glad I brought them?" still anxiously inquiring. "Very"--she pushed them away. "You're soaked. Take off your things." And little Bob, still holding his flowers, was stripped to his skin. "Now lie down," said his mother. "I'm turning the heel." He obeyed, but turbulently, and with much pretense, making believe to fall and rolling on the sacks, a naked cherub writhing with laughter. Finally, his mother had to stop her heel-turning to seize him by one leg, drag him toward her, roll him up in the end of the blanket and with a silencing slap say, "There, lie still." This quieted him. He lay subdued save for a waving hand in which the flowers were still imbedded and with which he made passes at the two girls, murmuring with the thick utterance of rising sleep "Bu'full flowers." And in a moment he slept, curled against his mother, his face angelic beneath the wet hair. When Susan came to the giving of her personal data--the few facts necessary to locate and introduce her--her engagement was the item of most interest. A love story even on the plains, with the rain dribbling in through the cracks of the canvas, possessed the old, deathless charm. The doctor and his philanthropies, on which she would have liked to dilate, were given the perfunctory attention that politeness demanded. By himself the good man is dull, he has to have a woman on his arm to carry weight. David, the lover, and Susan, the object of his love, were the hero and heroine of the story. Even the married woman forgot the turning of the heel and fastened her mild gaze on the young girl. "And such a handsome fellow," she said. "I said to Lucy--she'll tell you if I didn't--that there wasn't a man to compare with him in our train. And so gallant and polite. Last night, when I was heating the water to wash the children, he carried the pails for me. None of the men with us do that. They'd never think of offering to carry our buckets." Her husband who had appeared to be asleep said: "Why should they?" and then shouted "Gee Haw" and made a futile kick toward the nearest ox. Nobody paid any attention to him and Lucy said: "Yes, he's very fine looking. And you'd never met till you started on the trail? Isn't that romantic?" Susan was gratified. To hear David thus commended by other women increased his value. If it did not make her love him more, it made her feel the pride of ownership in a desirable possession. There was complacence in her voice as she cited his other gifts. "He's very learned. He's read all kinds of books. My father says it's wonderful how much he's read. And he can recite poetry, verses and verses, Byron and Milton and Shakespeare. He often recites to me when we're riding together." This acquirement of the lover's did not elicit any enthusiasm from Bella. "Well, did you ever!" she murmured absently, counting stitches under her breath and then pulling a needle out of the heel, "Reciting poetry on horseback!" But it impressed Lucy, who, still in the virgin state with fancy free to range, was evidently inclined to romance: "When you have a little log house in California and live in it with him he'll recite poetry to you in the evening after the work's done. Won't that be lovely?" Susan made no response. Instead she swallowed silently, looking out on the rain. The picture of herself and David, alone in a log cabin somewhere on the other side of the world, caused a sudden return of yesterday's dejection. It rushed back upon her in a flood under which her heart declined into bottomless depths. She felt as if actually sinking into some dark abyss of loneliness and that she must clutch at her father and Daddy John to stay her fall. "We won't be alone," with a note of protest making her voice plaintive. "My father and Daddy John will be there. I couldn't be separated from them. I'd never get over missing them. They've been with me always." Bella did not notice the tone, or maybe saw beyond it. "You won't miss them when you're married," she said with her benign content. "Your husband will be enough." Lucy, with romance instead of a husband, agreed to this, and arranged the programme for the future as she would have had it: "They'll probably live near you in tents. And you'll see them often; ride over every few days. But you'll want your own log house just for yourselves." This time Susan did not answer, for she was afraid to trust her voice. She pretended a sudden interest in the prospect while the unbearable picture rose before her mind--she and David alone, while her father and Daddy John were somewhere else in tents, somewhere away from her, out of reach of her hands and her kisses, not there to laugh with her and tease her and tell her she was a tyrant, only David loving her in an unintelligible, discomforting way and wanting to read poetry and admire sunsets. The misery of it gripped down into her soul. It was as the thought of being marooned on a lone sand bar to a free buccaneer. They never could leave her so; they never could have the heart to do it. And anger against David, the cause of it, swelled in her. It was he who had done it all, trying to steal her away from the dear, familiar ways and the people with whom she had been so happy. Lucy looked at her with curious eyes, in which there was admiration and a touch of envy. "You must be awfully happy?" she said. "Awfully," answered Susan, swallowing and looking at the rain. When she went back to her own wagon she found a consultation in progress. Daddy John, streaming from every fold, had just returned from the head of the caravan, where he had been riding with the pilot. From him he had heard that the New York Company on good roads, in fair weather, made twenty miles a day, and that in the mountains, where the fodder was scarce and the trail hard, would fall to a slower pace. The doctor's party, the cow long since sacrificed to the exigencies of speed, had been making from twenty-five to thirty. Even with a drop from this in the barer regions ahead of them they could look forward to reaching California a month or six weeks before the New York Company. There was nothing to be gained by staying with them, and, so far, the small two-wagon caravan had moved with a speed and absence of accident, which gave its members confidence in their luck and generalship. It was agreed that they should leave the big train the next morning and move on as rapidly as they could, stopping at Fort Laramie to repair the wagons which the heat had warped, shoe the horses, and lay in the supplies they needed. Susan heard it with regret. The comfort of dropping back into the feminine atmosphere, where obvious things did not need explanation, and all sorts of important communications were made by mental telepathy, was hard to relinquish. She would once again have to adjust herself to the dull male perceptions which saw and heard nothing that was not visible and audible. She would have to shut herself in with her own problems, getting no support or sympathy unless she asked for it, and then, before its sources could be tapped, she would have to explain why she wanted it and demonstrate that she was a deserving object. And it was hard to break the budding friendship with Lucy and Bella, for friendships were not long making on the Emigrant Trail. One day's companionship in the creaking prairie schooner had made the three women more intimate than a year of city visiting would have done. They made promises of meeting again in California. Neither party knew its exact point of destination--somewhere on that strip of prismatic color, not too crowded and not too wild but that wanderers of the same blood and birth might always find each other. In the evening the two girls sat in Susan's tent enjoying a last exchange of low-toned talk. The rain had stopped. The thick, bluish wool of clouds that stretched from horizon to horizon was here and there rent apart, showing strips of lemon-colored sky. The ground was soaked, the footprints round the wagons filled with water, the ruts brimming with it. There was a glow of low fires round the camp, for the mosquitoes were bad and the brown smudge of smoldering buffalo chips kept them away. Susan gave the guest the seat of honor--her saddle spread with a blanket--and herself sat on a pile of skins. The tent had been pitched on a rise of ground and already the water was draining off. Through the looped entrance they could see the regular lights of the fires, spotted on the twilight like the lamps of huge, sedentary glow worms, and the figures of men recumbent near where the slow smoke spirals wound languidly up. Above the sweet, moist odor of the rain, the tang of the burning dung rose, pungent and biting. Here as the evening deepened they comfortably gossiped, their voices dropping lower as the camp sunk to rest. They exchanged vows of the friendship that was to be renewed in California, and then, drawing closer together, watching the fires die down to sulky red sparks and the sentinel's figure coming and going on its lonely beat, came to an exchange of opinions on love and marriage. Susan was supposed to know most, her proprietorship of David giving her words the value of experience, but Lucy had most to say. Her tongue loosened by the hour and a pair of listening ears, she revealed herself as much preoccupied with all matters of sentiment, and it was only natural that a love story of her own should be confessed. It was back in Cooperstown, and he had been an apprentice of Glen's. She hadn't cared for him at all, judging by excerpts from the scenes of his courtship he had been treated with unmitigated harshness. But her words and tones--still entirely scornful with half a continent between her and the adorer--gave evidence of a regret, of self-accusing, uneasy doubt, as of one who looks back on lost opportunities. The listener's ear was caught by it, indicating a state of mind so different from her own. "Then you did like him?" "I didn't like him at all. I couldn't bear him." "But you seem sorry you didn't marry him." "Well-- No, I'm not sorry. But"--it was the hour for truth, the still indifference of the night made a lie seem too trivial for the effort of telling--"I don't know out here in the wilds whether I'll ever get anyone else." CHAPTER VII By noon the next day the doctor's train had left the New York Company far behind. Looking back they could see it in gradual stages of diminishment--a white serpent with a bristling head of scattered horsemen, then a white worm, its head a collection of dark particles, then a white thread with a head too insignificant to be deciphered. Finally it was gone, absorbed into the detailless distance where the river coiled through the green. Twenty-four hours later they reached the Forks of the Platte. Here the trail crossed the South Fork, slanted over the plateau that lay between the two branches, and gained the North Fork. Up this it passed, looping round the creviced backs of mighty bluffs, and bearing northwestward to Fort Laramie. The easy faring of the grassed bottom was over. The turn to the North Fork was the turn to the mountains. The slow stream with its fleet of islands would lose its dreamy deliberateness and become a narrowed rushing current, sweeping round the bases of sandstone walls as the pioneers followed it up and on toward the whitened crests of the Wind River Mountains, where the snows never melted and the lakes lay in the hollows green as jade. It was afternoon when they reached the ford. The hills had sunk away to low up-sweepings of gray soil, no longer hiding the plain which lay yellow against a cobalt sky. As the wagons rolled up on creaking wheels the distance began to darken with the buffalo. The prospect was like a bright-colored map over which a black liquid has been spilled, here in drops, there in creeping streams. Long files flowed from the rifts between the dwarfed bluffs, unbroken herds swept in a wave over the low barrier, advanced to the river, crusted its surface, passed across, and surged up the opposite bank. Finally all sides showed the moving mass, blackening the plateau, lining the water's edge in an endless undulation of backs and heads, foaming down the faces of the sand slopes. Where the train moved they divided giving it right of way, streaming by, bulls, cows, and calves intent on their own business, the earth tremulous under their tread. Through breaks in their ranks the blue and purple of the hills shone startlingly vivid and beyond the prairie lay like a fawn-colored sea across which dark shadows trailed. The ford was nearly a mile wide, a shallow current, in some places only a glaze, but with shifting sands stirring beneath it. Through the thin, glass-like spread of water the backs of sand bars emerged, smooth as the bodies of recumbent monsters. On the far side the plateau stretched, lilac with the lupine flowers, the broken rear line of the herd receding across it. The doctor, feeling the way, was to ride in the lead, his wagon following with Susan and Daddy John on the driver's seat. It seemed an easy matter, the water chuckling round the wheels, the mules not wet above the knees. Half way across, grown unduly confident, the doctor turned in his saddle to address his daughter when his horse walked into a quicksand and unseated him. It took them half an hour to drag it out, Susan imploring that her father come back to the wagon and change his clothes. He only laughed at her which made her angry. With frowning brows she saw him mount again, and a dripping, white-haired figure, set out debonairly for the opposite bank. The sun was low, the night chill coming on when they reached it. Their wet clothes were cold upon them and the camp pitching was hurried. Susan bending over her fire, blowing at it with expanded cheeks and, between her puffs, scolding at her father, first, for having got wet, then for having stayed wet, and now for being still wet, was to David just as charming as any of the other and milder apotheoses of the Susan he had come to know so well. It merely added a new tang, a fresh spice of variety, to a personality a less ravished observer might have thought unattractively masterful for a woman. Her fire kindled, the camp in shape, she lay down by the little blaze with her head under a lupine plant. Her wrath had simmered to appeasement by the retirement of the doctor into his wagon, and David, glimpsing at her, saw that her eyes, a thread of observation between black-fringed lids, dwelt musingly on the sky. She looked as if she might be dreaming a maiden's dream of love. He hazarded a tentative remark. Her eyes moved, touched him indifferently, and passed back to the sky, and an unformed murmur, interrogation, acquiescence, casual response, anything he pleased to think it, escaped her lips. He watched her as he could when she was not looking at him. A loosened strand of her hair lay among the lupine roots, one of her hands rested, brown and upcurled, on a tiny weed its weight had broken. She turned her head with a nestling movement, drew a deep, soft breath and her eyelids drooped. "David," she said in a drowsy voice, "I'm going to sleep. Wake me at supper time." He became rigidly quiet. When she had sunk deep into sleep, only her breast moving with the ebb and flow of her quiet breath, he crept nearer and drew a blanket over her, careful not to touch her. He looked at the unconscious face for a moment, then softly dropped the blanket and stole back to his place ready to turn at the first foot fall and lift a silencing hand. It was one of the beautiful moments that had come to him in his wooing. He sat in still reverie, feeling the dear responsibilities of his ownership. That she might sleep, sweet and soft, he would work as no man ever worked before. To guard, to comfort, to protect her--that would be his life. He turned and looked at her, his sensitive face softening like a woman's watching the sleep of her child. Susan, all unconscious, with her rich young body showing in faint curves under the defining blanket, and her hair lying loose among the roots of the lupine bush, was so devoid of that imperious quality that marked her when awake, was so completely a tender feminine thing, with peaceful eyelids and innocent lips, that it seemed a desecration to look upon her in such a moment of abandonment. Love might transform her into this--in her waking hours when her body and heart had yielded themselves to their master. David turned away. The sacred thought that some day he would be the owner of this complex creation of flesh and spirit, so rich, so fine, with depths unknown to his groping intelligence, made a rush of supplication, a prayer to be worthy, rise in his heart. He looked at the sunset through half-shut eyes, sending his desire up to that unknown God, who, in these wild solitudes, seemed leaning down to listen: "Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep." The sun, falling to the horizon like a spinning copper disk, was as a sign of promise and help. The beauty of the hour stretched into the future. His glance, shifting to the distance, saw the scattered dots of the disappearing buffalo, the shadows sloping across the sand hills, and the long expanse of lupines blotting into a thick foam of lilac blue. Susan stirred, and he woke from his musings with a start. She sat up, the blanket falling from her shoulders, and looking at him with sleep-filled eyes, smiled the sweet, meaningless smile of a half-awakened child. Her consciousness had not yet fully returned, and her glance, curiously clear and liquid, rested on his without intelligence. The woman in her was never more apparent, her seduction never more potent. Her will dormant, her bounding energies at low ebb, she looked a thing to nestle, soft and yielding, against a man's heart. "Have I slept long?" she said stretching, and then, "Isn't it cold." "Come near the fire," he answered. "I've built it up while you were asleep." She came, trailing the blanket in a languid hand, and sat beside him. He drew it up about her shoulders and looked into her face. Meeting his eyes she broke into low laughter, and leaning nearer to him murmured in words only half articulated: "Oh, David, I'm so sleepy." He took her hand, and it stayed unresisting against his palm. She laughed again, and then yawned, lifting her shoulders with a supple movement that shook off the blanket. "It takes such a long time to wake up," she murmured apologetically. David made no answer, and for a space they sat silent looking at the sunset. As the mists of sleep dispersed she became aware of his hand pressure, and the contentment that marked her awakening was marred. But she felt in a kindly mood and did not withdraw her hand. Instead, she wanted to please him, to be as she thought he would like her to be, so she made a gallant effort and said: "What a wonderful sunset--all yellow to the middle of the sky." He nodded, looking at the flaming west. She went on: "And there are little bits of gold cloud floating over it, like the melted lead that you pour through a key on all Hallowe'en." He again made no answer, and leaning nearer to spy into his face, she asked naïvely: "Don't you think it beautiful?" He turned upon her sharply, and she drew back discomposed by his look. "Let me kiss you," he said, his voice a little husky. He was her betrothed and had never kissed her but once in the moonlight. It was his right, and after all, conquering the inevitable repugnance, it did not take long. Caught thus in a yielding mood she resolved to submit. She had a comforting sense that it was a rite to which in time one became accustomed. With a determination to perform her part graciously she lowered her eyelids and presented a dusky cheek. As his shoulder touched hers she felt that he trembled and was instantly seized with the antipathy that his emotion woke in her. But it was too late to withdraw. His arms closed round her and he crushed her against his chest. When she felt their strength and the beating of his heart against the unstirred calm of her own, her good resolutions were swept away in a surge of abhorrence. She struggled for freedom, repelling him with violent, pushing hands, and exclaiming breathlessly: "Don't, David! Stop! I won't have it! Don't!" He instantly released her, and she shrunk away, brushing off the bosom of her blouse as if he had left dust there. Her face was flushed and frowning. "Don't. You mustn't," she repeated, with heated reproof. "I don't want you to." David smiled a sheepish smile, looking foolish, and not knowing what to say. At the sight of his crestfallen expression she averted her eyes, sorry that she had hurt him but not sufficiently sorry to risk a repetition of the unpleasant experience. He, too, turned his glance from her, biting his lip to hide the insincerity of his smile, irritated at her unmanageableness, and in his heart valuing her more highly that she was so hard to win. Both were exceedingly conscious, and with deepened color sat gazing in opposite directions like children who have had a quarrel. A step behind them broke upon their embarrassment, saving them from the necessity of speech. Daddy John's voice came with it: "Missy, do you know if the keg of whisky was moved? It ain't where I put it." She turned with a lightning quickness. "Whisky! Who wants whisky?" Daddy John looked uncomfortable. "Well, the doctor's took sort of cold, got a shiver on him like the ague, and he thought a nip o' whisky'd warm him up." She jumped to her feet. "There!" flinging out the word with the rage of a disregarded prophet, "a chill! I knew it!" In a moment all the self-engrossment of her bashfulness was gone. Her mind had turned on another subject with such speed and completeness that David's kiss and her anger might have taken place in another world in a previous age. Her faculties leaped to the sudden call like a liberated spring, and her orders burst on Daddy John: "In the back of the wagon, under the corn meal. It was moved when we crossed the Big Blue. Take out the extra blankets and the medicine chest. That's in the front corner, near my clothes, under the seat. A chill--out here in the wilderness!" David turned to soothe her: "Don't be worried. A chill's natural enough after such a wetting." She shot a quick, hard glance at him, and he felt ignominiously repulsed. In its preoccupation her face had no recognition of him, not only as a lover but as a human being. Her eyes, under low-drawn brows, stared for a second into his with the unseeing intentness of inward thought. Her struggles to avoid his kiss were not half so chilling. Further solacing words died on his lips. "It's the worst possible thing that could happen to him. Everybody knows that"--then she looked after Daddy John. "Get the whisky at once," she called. "I'll find the medicines." "Can't I help?" the young man implored. Without answering she started for the wagon, and midway between it and the fire paused to cry back over her shoulder: "Heat water, or if you can find stones heat them. We must get him warm." And she ran on. David looked about for the stones. The "we" consoled him a little, but he felt as if he were excluded into outer darkness, and at a moment when she should have turned to him for the aid he yearned to give. He could not get over the suddenness of it, and watched them forlornly, gazing enviously at their conferences over the medicine chest, once straightening himself from his search for stones to call longingly: "Can't I do something for you over there?" "Have you the stones?" she answered without raising her head, and he went back to his task. In distress she had turned from the outside world, broken every lien of interest with it, and gone back to her own. The little circle in which her life had always moved snapped tight upon her, leaving the lover outside, as completely shut out from her and her concerns as if he had been a stranger camped by her fire. CHAPTER VIII The doctor was ill. The next day he lay in the wagon, his chest oppressed, fever burning him to the dryness of an autumn leaf. To the heads that looked upon him through the circular opening with a succession of queries as to his ailment, he invariably answered that it was nothing, a bronchial cold, sent to him as a punishment for disobeying his daughter. But the young men remembered that the journey had been undertaken for his health, and Daddy John, in the confidential hour of the evening smoke, told them that the year before an attack of congestion of the lungs had been almost fatal. Even if they had not known this, Susan's demeanor would have told them it was a serious matter. She was evidently wracked by anxiety which transformed her into a being so distant, and at times so cross, that only Daddy John had the temerity to maintain his usual attitude toward her. She would hardly speak to Leff, and to David, the slighting coldness that she had shown in the beginning continued, holding him at arm's length, freezing him into stammering confusion. When he tried to offer her help or cheer her she made him feel like a foolish and tactless intruder, forcing his way into the place that was hers alone. He did not know whether she was prompted by a cruel perversity, or held in an absorption so intense she had no warmth of interest left for anybody. He tried to explain her conduct, but he could only feel its effect, wonder if she had grown to dislike him, review the last week in a search for a cause. In the daytime he hung about the doctor's wagon, miserably anxious for a word from her. He was grateful if she asked him to hunt for medicine in the small, wooden chest, or to spread the blankets to air on the tops of the lupine bushes. And while she thus relegated him to the outer places where strangers hovered, a sweetness, so gentle, so caressing, so all pervading that it made of her a new and lovely creature, marked her manner to the sick man. There had always been love in her bearing to her father, but this new tenderness was as though some hidden well of it, sunk deep in the recesses of her being, had suddenly overflowed. David saw the hardness of the face she turned toward him transmute into a brooding passion of affection as she bent over the doctor's bed. The fingers he did not dare to touch lifted the sick man's hand to her cheek and held it there while she smiled down at him, her eyes softening with a light that stirred the lover's soul. The mystery of this feminine complexity awed him. Would she ever look at him like that? What could he do to make her? He knew of no other way than by serving her, trying unobtrusively to lighten her burden, effacing himself, as that seemed to be what she wanted. And in the night as he lay near the wagon, ready to start at her call, he thought with exalted hope that some day he might win such a look for himself. The doctor was for going on. There was no necessity to stay in camp because one man happened to wheeze and cough, he said, and anyway, he could do that just as well when they were moving. So they started out and crossed the plateau to where the road dropped into the cleft of Ash Hollow. Here they stopped and held a conference. The doctor was worse. The interior of the wagon, the sun beating on the canvas roof, was like a furnace, where he lay sweltering, tossed this way and that by the jolting wheels. Their dust moved with them, breezes lifting it and carrying it careening back to them where it mingled with new dust, hanging dense like a segment of fog in the scene's raw brilliancy. Ash Hollow looked a darkling descent, the thin pulsations of the little leaves of ash trees flickering along its sides. The road bent downward in sharp zigzags, and somewhere below the North Fork ran. The plain was free, blue clothed and blue vaulted, with "the wonderful winds of God" flowing between. The conference resulted in a unanimous decision to halt where they were, and stay in camp till the doctor improved, moving him from the wagon to a tent. For four days he lay parched with fever, each breath drawn with a stifled inner rustling, numerous fine wrinkles traced in a network on his dried cheeks. Then good care, the open air, and the medicine chest prevailed. He improved, and Susan turned her face again to the world and smiled. Such was the changefulness of her mood that her smiles were as radiant and generously bestowed as her previous demeanor had been repelling. Even Leff got some of them, and they fell on David prodigal and warming as the sunshine. Words to match went with them. On the morning of the day when the doctor's temperature fell and he could breathe with ease, she said to her betrothed: "Oh, David, you've been so good, you've made me so fond of you." It was the nearest she had yet come to the language of lovers. It made him dizzy; the wonderful look was in his mind. "You wouldn't let me be good," was all he could stammer. "You didn't seem as if you wanted me at all." "Stupid!" she retorted with a glance of beaming reproach, "I'm always like that when my father's sick." It was noon of the fifth day that a white spot on the plain told them the New York Company was in sight. The afternoon was yet young when the dust of the moving column tarnished the blue-streaked distance. Then the first wagons came into view, creeping along the winding ribbon of road. As soon as the advance guard of horsemen saw the camp, pieces of it broke away and were deflected toward the little group of tents from which a tiny spiral of smoke went up in an uncoiling, milky skein. Susan had many questions to answer, and had some ado to keep the inquirers away from the doctor, who was still too weak to be disturbed. She was sharp and not very friendly in her efforts to preserve him from their sympathizing curiosity. Part of the train had gone by when she heard from a woman who rode up on a foot-sore nag that the McMurdo's were some distance behind. A bull boat in which the children were crossing the river had upset, and Mrs. McMurdo had been frightened and "took faint." The children were all right--only a wetting--but it was a bad time for their mother to get such a scare. "I'm not with the women who think it's all right to take such risks. Stay at home _then_," she said, giving Susan a sage nod out of the depths of her sunbonnet. The news made the young girl uneasy. A new reticence, the "grown-up" sense of the wisdom of silence that she had learned on the trail, made her keep her own council. Also, there was no one to tell but her father, and he was the last person who ought to know. The call of unaided suffering would have brought him as quickly from his buffalo skins in the tent as from his bed in the old home in Rochester. Susan resolved to keep it from him, if she had to stand guard over him and fight them off. Her philosophy was primitive--her own first, and if, to save her own, others must be sacrificed, then she would aid in the sacrifice and weep over its victims, weep, but not yield. When the train had disappeared into the shadows of Ash Hollow, curses, shouts, and the cracking of whips rising stormily over its descent, the white dot of the McMurdo's wagon was moving over the blue and green distance. As it drew near they could see that Glen walked beside the oxen, and the small figure of Bob ran by the wheel. Neither of the women were to be seen. "Lazy and riding," Daddy John commented, spying at them with his far-sighted old eyes. "Tired out and gone to sleep," David suggested. Susan's heart sank and she said nothing. It looked as if something was the matter, and she nerved herself for a struggle. When Glen saw them, his shout came through the clear air, keen-edged as a bird's cry. They answered, and he raised a hand in a gesture that might have been a beckoning or merely a hail. David leaped on a horse and went galloping through the bending heads of the lupines to meet them. Susan watched him draw up at Glen's side, lean from his saddle for a moment's parley, then turn back. The gravity of his face increased her dread. He dismounted, looking with scared eyes from one to the other. Mrs. McMurdo was sick. Glen was glad--he couldn't say how glad--that it was their camp. He'd camp there with them. His wife wasn't able to go on. Susan edged up to him, caught his eye and said stealthily: "Don't tell my father." He hesitated. "They--they--seemed to want him." "I'll see to that," she answered. "Don't you let him know that anything's the matter, or I'll never forgive you." It was a command, and the glance that went with it accented its authority. The prairie schooner was now close at hand, and they straggled forward to meet it, one behind the other, through the brushing of the knee-high bushes. The child recognizing them ran screaming toward them, his hands out-stretched, crying out their names. Lucy appeared at the front of the wagon, climbed on the tongue and jumped down. She was pale, the freckles on her fair skin showing like a spattering of brown paint, her flaming hair slipped in a tousled coil to one side of her head. "It's you!" she cried. "Glen didn't know whose camp it was till he saw David. Oh, I'm so glad!" and she ran to Susan, clutched her arm and said in a hurried lower key, "Bella's sick. She feels terribly bad, out here in this place with nothing. Isn't it dreadful?" "I'll speak to her," said Susan. "You stay here." The oxen, now at the outskirts of the camp, had come to a standstill. Susan stepping on the wheel drew herself up to the driver's seat. Bella sat within on a pile of sacks, her elbows on her knees, her forehead in her hands. By her side, leaning against her, stood the little girl, blooming and thoughtful, her thumb in her mouth. She withdrew it and stared fixedly at Susan, then smiled a slow, shy smile, full of meaning, as if her mind held a mischievous secret. At Susan's greeting the mother lifted her head. "Oh, Susan, isn't it a mercy we've found you?" she exclaimed. "We saw the camp hours ago, but we didn't know it was yours. It's as if God had delayed you. Yes, my dear, it's come. But I'm not going to be afraid. With your father it'll be all right." The young girl said a few consolatory words and jumped down from the wheel. She was torn both ways. Bella's plight was piteous, but to make her father rise in his present state of health and attend such a case, hours long, in the chill, night breath of the open--it might kill him! She turned toward the camp, vaguely conscious of the men standing in awkward attitudes and looking thoroughly uncomfortable as though they felt a vicarious sense of guilt--that the entire male sex had something to answer for in Bella's tragic predicament. Behind them stood the doctor's tent, and as her eyes fell on it she saw Lucy's body standing in the opening, the head and shoulders hidden within the inclosure. Lucy was speaking with the doctor. Susan gave a sharp exclamation and stopped. It was too late to interfere. Lucy withdrew her head and came running back, crying triumphantly: "Your father's coming. He says he's not sick at all. He's putting on his coat." Following close on her words came the doctor, emerging slowly, for he was weak and unsteady. In the garish light of the afternoon he looked singularly white and bleached, like a man whose warm, red-veined life is dried into a sere grayness of blood and tissue. He was out of harmony with the glad living colors around him, ghostlike amid the brightness of the flowering earth and the deep-dyed heaven. He met his daughter's eyes and smiled. "Your prisoner has escaped you, Missy." She tried to control herself, to beat down the surge of anger that shook her. Meeting him she implored with low-toned urgence: "Father, you can't do it. Go back. You're too sick." He pushed her gently away, his smile gone. "Go back, Missy? The woman is suffering, dear." "I know it, and I don't care. You're suffering, you're sick. She should have known better than to come. It's her fault, not ours. Because she was so foolhardy is no reason why you should be victimized." His gravity was crossed by a look of cold, displeased surprise, a look she had not seen directed upon her since once in her childhood when she had told him a lie. "I don't want to feel ashamed of you, Missy," he said quietly, and putting her aside went on to the wagon. She turned away blinded with rage and tears. She had a dim vision of David and fled from it, then felt relief at the sight of Daddy John. He saw her plight, and hooking his hand in her arm took her behind the tent, where she burst into furious words and a gush of stifled weeping. "No good," was the old man's consolation. "Do you expect the doctor to lie comfortable in his blanket when there's some one around with a pain?" "Why did she come? Why didn't she stay at home?" "That ain't in the question," he said, patting her arm; "she's here, and she's got the pain, and you and I know the doctor." The McMurdo's prairie schooner rolled off to a place where the lupines were high, and Glen pitched the tent. The men, not knowing what else to do to show their sympathy, laid the fires and cleaned the camp. Then the two younger ones shouldered their rifles and wandered away to try and get some fresh buffalo meat, they said; but it was obvious that they felt out of place and alarmed in a situation where those of their sex could only assume an apologetic attitude and admit the blame. The children were left to Susan's care. She drew them to the cleared space about the fires, and as she began the preparations for supper asked them to help. They took the request very seriously, and she found a solace in watching them as they trotted up with useless pans, bending down to see the smile of thanks to which they were accustomed, and which made them feel proud and important. Once she heard Bob, in the masterful voice of the male, tell his sister the spoon she was so triumphantly bringing was not wanted. The baby's joy was stricken from her, she bowed to the higher intelligence, and the spoon slid from her limp hand to the ground, while she stood a figure of blank disappointment. Susan had to set down her pan and call her over, and kneeling with the soft body clasped close, and the little knees pressing against her breast, felt some of the anger there melting away. After that they gathered broken twigs of lupine, and standing afar threw them at the flames. There was a moment of suspense when they watched hopefully, and then a sad awakening when the twigs fell about their feet. They shuffled back, staring down at the scattered leaves in a stupor of surprise. Sunset came and supper was ready. Daddy John loomed up above the lip of Ash Hollow with a load of roots and branches for the night. Lucy emerged from the tent and sat down by her cup and plate, harrassed and silent. Glen said he wanted no supper. He had been sitting for an hour on the pole of David's wagon, mute and round-shouldered in his dusty homespuns. No one had offered to speak to him. It was he who had induced the patient woman to follow him on the long journey. They all knew this was now the matter of his thoughts. His ragged figure and down-drooped, miserable face were dignified with the tragedy of a useless remorse. As Lucy passed him he raised his eyes, but said nothing. Then, as the others drew together round the circle of tin cups and plates, a groan came suddenly from the tent. He leaped up, made a gesture of repelling something unendurable, and ran away, scudding across the plain not looking back. The group round the fire were silent. But the two children did not heed. With their blond heads touching, they held their cups close together and argued as to which one had the most coffee in it. When the twilight came there was no one left by the fire but Susan and the children. She gathered them on a buffalo robe and tucked a blanket round them watching as sleep flowed over them, invaded and subdued them even while their lips moved with belated, broken murmurings. The little girl's hand, waving dreamily in the air, brushed her cheek with a velvet touch, and sank languidly, up-curled like a rose petal. With heads together and bodies nestled close they slept, exhaling the fragrance of healthy childhood, two sparks of matter incased in an envelope of exquisite flesh, pearly tissue upon which life would trace a pattern not yet selected. Darkness closed down on the camp, pressing on the edges of the firelight like a curious intruder. There was no wind, and the mound of charring wood sent up a line of smoke straight as a thread, which somewhere aloft widened and dissolved. The stillness of the wilderness brooded close and deep, stifling the noises of the day. When the sounds of suffering from the tent tore the airy veil apart, it shuddered full of the pain, then the torn edges delicately adhered, and it was whole again. Once Lucy came, haggard and tight-lipped, and asked Susan to put on water to heat. Bella was terribly sick, the doctor wouldn't leave her. The other children were nothing to this. But the Emigrant Trail was molding Lucy. She made no complaints, and her nerves were steady as a taut string. It was one of the hazards of the great adventure to be taken as it came. After she had gone, and the iron kettle was balanced on a bed of heat, Susan lay down on her blanket. Fear and loathing were on her. For the first time a shrinking from life and its requirements came coldly over her, for the first time her glad expectancy knew a check, fell back before tremendous things blocking the path. Her dread for her father was submerged in a larger dread--of the future and what it might bring, of what might be expected of her, of pains and perils once so far away they seemed as if she would never reach them, now suddenly close to her, laying a gripping hand on her heart. Her face was toward the camp, and she could not see on the plain behind her a moving shadow bearing down on the fire's glow, visible for miles in that level country. It advanced noiselessly through the swaying bushes, till, entering the limits of the light, it detached itself from the darkness, taking the form of a mounted man followed by a pack animal. The projected rays of red played along the barrel of a rifle held across the saddle, and struck answering gleams from touches of metal on the bridle. So soundless was the approach that Susan heard nothing till a lupine stalk snapped under the horse's hoof. She sat up and turned. Over the horse's ears she saw a long swarthy face framed in hanging hair, and the glint of narrowed eyes looking curiously at her. She leaped to her feet with a smothered cry, Indians in her mind. The man raised a quick hand, and said: "It's all right. It's a white man." He slid off his horse and came toward her. He was so like an Indian, clad in a fringed hunting shirt and leggings, his movements lithe and light, his step noiseless, his skin copper dark, that she stood alert, ready to raise a warning cry. Then coming into the brighter light she saw he was white, with long red hair hanging from the edge of his cap, and light-colored eyes that searched her face with a hard look. He was as wild a figure as any the plains had yet given up, and she drew away looking fearfully at him. "Don't be afraid," he said in a deep voice. "I'm the same kind as you." "Who are you?" she faltered. "A mountain man. I'll camp with you." Then glancing about, "Where are the rest of them?" "They're round somewhere," she answered. "We have sickness here." "Cholera?" quickly. She shook her head. Without more words he went back and picketed his horses, and took the pack and saddle off. She could see his long, pale-colored figure moving from darkness into light, and the animals drooping with stretched necks as their bonds were loosened. When he came back to the fire he dropped a blanket and laid his gun close to it, then threw himself down. The rattle of the powder horn and bullet mold he wore hanging from his shoulder came with the movement. He slipped the strap off and threw it beside the gun. Then drew one foot up and unfastened a large spur attached to his moccasined heel. He wore a ragged otter-skin cap, the animal's tail hanging down on one side. This he took off too, showing his thick red hair, damp and matted from the heat of the fur. With a knotted hand he pushed back the locks pressed down on his forehead. The skin there was untanned and lay like a white band above the darkness of his face, thin, edged with a fringe of red beard and with blue eyes set high above prominent cheek bones. He threw his spur on the other things, and looking up met Susan's eyes staring at him across the fire. "Where are you going?" he asked. "To California." "So am I." She made no answer. "Were you asleep when I came?" "No, I was thinking." A sound of anguish came from the tent, and Susan set her teeth on her underlip stiffening. He looked in its direction, then back at her. "What's the matter there?" he asked. "A child is being born." He made no comment, swept the background of tents and wagon roofs with an investigating eye that finally came to a stop on the sleeping children. "Are these yours?" "No, they belong to the woman who is sick." His glance left them as if uninterested, and he leaned backward to pull his blanket out more fully. His body, in the sleekly pliant buckskins, was lean and supple. As he twisted, stretching an arm to draw out the crumpled folds, the lines of his long back and powerful shoulders showed the sinuous grace of a cat. He relaxed into easeful full length, propped on an elbow, his red hair coiling against his neck. Susan stole a stealthy glance at him. As if she had spoken, he instantly raised his head and looked into her eyes. His were clear and light with a singularly penetrating gaze, not bold but intent, eyes not used to the detailed observation of the peopled ways, but trained to unimpeded distances and to search the faces of primitive men. They held hers, seeming to pierce the acquired veneer of reserve to the guarded places beneath. She felt a slow stir of antagonism, a defensive gathering of her spirit as against an intruder. Her pride and self-sufficiency responded, answering to a hurried summons. She was conscious of a withdrawal, a closing of doors, a shutting down of her defenses in face of aggression and menace. And while she rallied to this sudden call-to-arms the strange man held her glance across the fire. It was she who spoke slowly in a low voice: "Where do you come from?" "From Taos, and after that Bent's Fort." "What is your name?" "Low Courant." Then with an effort she turned away and bent over the children. When she looked back at him he was rolled in his blanket, and with his face to the fire was asleep. Lucy came presently for the hot water with a bulletin of progress growing each moment more direful. Her eyes fell on the sleeping man, and she said, peering through the steam of the bubbling water: "Who's that?" "A strange man." "From where?" "Taos, and after that Bent's Fort," Susan repeated, and Lucy forgot him and ran back to the tent. There was a gray line in the east when she returned to say the child was born dying as it entered the world, and Bella was in desperate case. She fell beside her friend, quivering and sobbing, burying her face in Susan's bosom. Shaken and sickened by the dreadful night they clung together holding to each other, as if in a world where love claimed such a heavy due, where joy realized itself at such exceeding cost, nothing was left but the bond of a common martyrdom. Yet each of them, knowing the measure of her pain, would move to the head of her destiny and take up her heavy engagement without fear, obeying the universal law. But now, caught in the terror of the moment, they bowed their heads and wept together while the strange man slept by the fire. END OF PART II PART III The Mountains CHAPTER I Fort Laramie stood where the eastern roots of the mountains start in toothed reef and low, premonitory sweep from the level of the plains. Broken chains and spurs edged up toward it. Far beyond, in a faint aerial distance, the soaring solidity of vast ranges hung on the horizon, cloudy crests painted on the sky. Laramie Peak loomed closer, a bold, bare point, gold in the morning, purple at twilight. And the Black Hills, rock-ribbed and somber, dwarf pines clutching their lodges, rose in frowning ramparts to the North and West. It was a naked country, bleak and bitter. In winter it slept under a snow blanket, the lights of the fort encircled by the binding, breathless cold. Then the wandering men that trapped and traded with the Indians came seeking shelter behind the white walls, where the furs were stacked in storerooms, and the bourgeois' table was hospitable with jerked meat and meal cakes. When the streams began to stir under the ice, and a thin green showed along the bottoms, it opened its gates and the men of the mountains went forth with their traps rattling at the saddle horn. Later, when the spring was in waking bloom, and each evening the light stayed longer on Laramie Peak, the Indians came in migrating villages moving to the summer hunting grounds, and in painted war parties, for there was a season when the red man, like the Hebrew kings, went forth to battle. It was midsummer now, the chalk-white walls of the fort were bathed in a scorching sunshine, and the nomads of the wilderness met and picked up dropped threads in its courtyard. It stood up warlike on a rise of ground with the brown swiftness of a stream hurrying below it. Once the factors had tried to cultivate the land, but had given it up, as the Indians carried off the maize and corn as it ripened. So the short-haired grass grew to the stockade. At this season the surrounding plain was thick with grazing animals, the fort's own supply, the ponies of the Indians, and the cattle of the emigrants. Encampments were on every side, clustering close under the walls, whence a cannon poked its nose protectingly from the bastion above the gate. There was no need to make the ring of wagons here. White man and red camped together, the canvas peaks of the tents showing beside the frames of lodge poles, covered with dried skins. The pale face treated his red brother to coffee and rice cakes, and the red brother offered in return a feast of boiled dog. Just now the fort was a scene of ceaseless animation. Its courtyard was a kaleidoscopic whirl of color, shifting as the sun shifted and the shadow of the walls offered shade. Indians with bodies bare above the dropped blankets, moved stately or squatted on their heels watching the emigrants as they bartered for supplies. Trappers in fringed and beaded leather played cards with the plainsmen in shady corners or lounged in the cool arch of the gateway looking aslant at the emigrant girls. Their squaws, patches of color against the walls, sat docile, with the swarthy, half-breed children playing about their feet. There were French Canadians, bearded like pirates, full of good humor, filling the air with their patois, and a few Mexicans, who passed the days sprawled on serapes and smoking sleepily. Over all the bourgeois ruled, kindly or crabbedly, according to his make, but always absolutely the monarch of a little principality. The doctor's train had reached the fort by slow stages, and now lay camped outside the walls. Bella's condition had been serious, and they had crawled up the valley of the North Platte at a snail's pace. The gradual change in the country told them of their advance--the intrusion of giant bluffs along the river's edge, the disappearance of the many lovely flower forms, the first glimpses of parched areas dotted with sage. From the top of Scotts Bluffs they saw the mountains, and stood, a way-worn company, looking at those faint and formidable shapes that blocked their path to the Promised Land. It was a sight to daunt the most high-hearted, and they stared, dropping ejaculations that told of the first decline of spirit. Only the sick woman said nothing. Her languid eye swept the prospect indifferently, her spark of life burning too feebly to permit of any useless expenditure. It was the strange man who encouraged them. They would pass the mountains without effort, the ascent was gradual, South Pass a plain. The strange man had stayed with them, and all being well, would go on to Fort Bridger, probably to California, in their company. It was good news. He was what they needed, versed in the lore of the wilderness, conversant with an environment of which they were ignorant. The train had not passed Ash Hollow when he fell into command, chose the camping grounds, went ahead in search of springs, and hunted with Daddy John, bringing back enough game to keep them supplied with fresh meat. They began to rely upon him, to defer to him, to feel a new security when they saw his light, lean-flanked figure at the head of the caravan. One morning, as the doctor rode silently beside him, he broke into a low-toned singing. His voice was a mellow baritone, and the words he sung, each verse ending with a plaintive burden, were French: "Il y a longtemps que je t'ai aimé jamais je ne t'oublierai." Long ago the doctor had heard his wife sing the same words, and he turned with a start: "Where did you learn that song?" "From some voyageur over yonder," nodding toward the mountains. "It's one of their songs." "You have an excellent accent, better than the Canadians." The stranger laughed and addressed his companion in pure and fluent French. "Then you're a Frenchman?" said the elder man, surprised. "Not I, but my people were. They came from New Orleans and went up the river and settled in St. Louis. My grandfather couldn't speak a sentence in English when he first went there." When the doctor told his daughter this he was a little triumphant. They had talked over Courant and his antecedents, and had some argument about them, the doctor maintaining that the strange man was a gentleman, Susan quite sure that he was not. Dr. Gillespie used the word in its old-fashioned sense, as a term having reference as much to birth and breeding as to manners and certain, ineradicable instincts. The gentleman adventurer was not unknown on the plains. Sometimes he had fled from a dark past, sometimes taken to the wild because the restraints of civilization pressed too hard upon the elbows of his liberty. "He's evidently of French Creole blood," said the doctor. "Many of those people who came up from New Orleans and settled in St. Louis were of high family and station." "Then why should he be out here, dressed like an Indian and wandering round with all sorts of waifs and strays? I believe he's just the same kind of person as old Joe, only younger. Or, if he does come from educated people, there's something wrong about him, and he's had to come out here and hide." "Oh, what a suspicious little Missy! Nothing would make me believe that. He may be rough, but he's not crooked. Those steady, straight-looking eyes never belonged to any but an honest man. No, my dear, there's no discreditable past behind him, and he's a gentleman." "Rubbish!" she said pettishly. "You'll be saying Leff's a gentleman next." From which it will be seen that Low Courant had not been communicative about himself. Such broken scraps of information as he had dropped, when pieced together made a scanty narrative. His grandfather had been one of the early French settlers of St. Louis, and his father a prosperous fur trader there. But why he had cut loose from them he did not vouchsafe to explain. Though he was still young--thirty perhaps--it was evident that he had wandered far and for many years. He knew the Indian trails of the distant Northwest, and spoke the language of the Black Feet and Crows. He had passed a winter in the old Spanish town of Santa Fé, and from there joined a regiment of United States troops and done his share of fighting in the Mexican War. Now the wanderlust was on him, he was going to California. "Maybe to settle," he told the doctor. "If I don't wake up some morning and feel the need to move once more." When they reached the fort he was hailed joyously by the bourgeois himself. The men clustered about him, and there were loud-voiced greetings and much questioning, a rumor having filtered to his old stamping ground that he had been killed in the siege of the Alamo. The doctor told the bourgeois that Courant was to go with his train to California, and the apple-cheeked factor grinned and raised his eyebrows: "Vous avez de la chance! He's a good guide. Even Kit Carson, who conducted the General Fremont, is no better." The general satisfaction did not extend to Susan. The faint thrill of antagonism that the man had roused in her persisted. She knew he was a gain to the party, and said nothing. She was growing rapidly in this new, toughening life, and could set her own small prejudices aside in the wider view that each day's experience was teaching her. The presence of such a man would lighten the burden of work and responsibility that lay on her father, and whatever was beneficial to the doctor was accepted by his daughter. But she did not like Low Courant. Had anyone asked her why she could have given no reason. He took little notice of any of the women, treating them alike with a brusque indifference that was not discourteous, but seemed to lump them as necessary but useless units in an important whole. The train was the focus of his interest. The acceleration of its speed, the condition of the cattle, the combination of lightness and completeness in its make-up were the matters that occupied him. In the evening hour of rest these were the subjects he talked of, and she noticed that Daddy John was the person to whom he talked most. With averted eyes, her head bent to David's murmurings, she was really listening to the older men. Her admiration was reluctantly evoked by the stranger's dominance and vigor of will, his devotion to the work he had undertaken. She felt her own insignificance and David's also, and chafed under the unfamiliar sensation. The night after leaving Ash Hollow, as they sat by the fire, David at her side, the doctor had told Courant of the betrothal. His glance passed quickly over the two conscious faces, he gave a short nod of comprehension, and turning to Daddy John, inquired about the condition of the mules' shoes. Susan reddened. She saw something of disparagement, of the slightest gleam of mockery, in that short look, which touched both faces and then turned from them as from the faces of children playing at a game. Yes, she disliked him, disliked his manner to Lucy and herself, which set them aside as beings of a lower order, that had to go with them and be taken care of like the stock, only much less important and necessary. Even to Bella he was off-hand and unsympathetic, unmoved by her weakness, as he had been by her sufferings the night he came. Susan had an idea that he thought Bella's illness a misfortune, not so much for Bella as for the welfare of the train. They had been at the fort now for four days and were ready to move on. The wagons were repaired, the mules and horses shod, and Bella was mending, though still unable to walk. The doctor had promised to keep beside the McMurdos till she was well, then his company would forge ahead. In the heat of the afternoon, comfortable in a rim of shade in the courtyard, the men were arranging for the start the next morning. The sun beat fiercely on the square opening roofed by the blue of the sky and cut by the black shadow of walls. In the cooling shade the motley company lay sprawling on the ground or propped against the doors of the store rooms. The open space was brilliant with the blankets of Indians, the bare limbs of brown children, and the bright serapes of the Mexicans, who were too lazy to move out of the sun. In a corner the squaws played a game with polished cherry stones which they tossed in a shallow, saucerlike basket and let drop on the ground. Susan, half asleep on a buffalo skin, watched them idly. The game reminded her of the jack-stones of her childhood. Then her eye slanted to where Lucy stood by the gate talking with a trapper called Zavier Leroux. The sun made Lucy's splendid hair shine like a flaming nimbus, and the dark men of the mountains and the plain watched her with immovable looks. She was laughing, her head drooped sideways. Above the collar of her blouse a strip of neck, untouched by tan, showed in a milk-white band. Conscious of the admiring observation, she instinctively relaxed her muscles into lines of flowing grace, and lowered her eyes till her lashes shone in golden points against her freckled cheeks. With entire innocence she spread her little lure, following an elemental instinct, that, in the normal surroundings of her present life, released from artificial restraints, was growing stronger. Her companion was a voyageur, a half-breed, with coarse black hair hanging from a scarlet handkerchief bound smooth over his head. He was of a sinewy, muscular build, his coppery skin, hard black eyes, and high cheek bones showing the blood of his mother, a Crow squaw. His father, long forgotten in the obscurity of mountain history, had evidently bequeathed him the French Canadian's good-humored gayety. Zavier was a light-hearted and merry fellow, and where he came laughter sprang up. He spoke English well, and could sing French songs that were brought to his father's country by the adventurers who crossed the seas with Jacques Cartier. The bourgeois, who was aloft on the bastion sweeping the distance with a field glass, suddenly threw an announcement down on the courtyard: "Red Feather's village is coming and an emigrant train." The space between the four walls immediately seethed into a whirlpool of excitement. It eddied there for a moment, then poured through the gateway into the long drainlike entrance passage and spread over the grass outside. Down the face of the opposite hill, separated from the fort by a narrow river, came the Indian village, streaming forward in a broken torrent. Over its barbaric brightness, beads and glass caught the sun, and the nervous fluttering of eagle feathers that fringed the upheld lances played above its shifting pattern of brown and scarlet. It descended the slope in a broken rush, spreading out fanwise, scattered, disorderly, horse and foot together. On the river bank it paused, the web of color thickening, then rolled over the edge and plunged in. The current, beaten into sudden whiteness, eddied round the legs of horses, the throats of swimming dogs, and pressed up to the edges of the travaux where frightened children sat among litters of puppies. Ponies bestrode by naked boys struck up showers of spray, squaws with lifted blankets waded stolidly in, mounted warriors, feathers quivering in their inky hair, indifferently splashing them. Here a dog, caught by the current, was seized by a sinewy hand; there a horse, struggling under the weight of a travaux packed with puppies and old women, was grasped by a lusty brave and dragged to shore. The water round them frothing into silvery turmoil, the air above rent with their cries, they climbed the bank and made for the camping ground near the fort. Among the first came a young squaw. Her white doeskin dress was as clean as snow, barbarically splendid with cut fringes and work of bead and porcupine quills. Her mien was sedate, and she swayed to her horse lightly and flexibly as a boy, holding aloft a lance edged with a flutter of feathers, and bearing a round shield of painted skins. Beside her rode the old chief, his blanket falling away from his withered body, his face expressionless and graven deep with wrinkles. "That's Red Feather and his favorite squaw," said the voice of Courant at Susan's elbow. She made no answer, staring at the Indian girl, who was handsome and young, younger than she. "And look," came the voice again, "there are the emigrants." A long column of wagons had crested the summit and was rolling down the slope. They were in single file, hood behind hood, the drivers, bearded as cave men, walking by the oxen. The line moved steadily, without sound or hurry, as if directed by a single intelligence possessed of a single idea. It was not a congeries of separated particles, but a connected whole. As it wound down the face of the hill, it suggested a vast Silurian monster, each wagon top a vertebra, crawling forward with definite purpose. "That's the way they're coming," said the voice of the strange man. "Slow but steady, an endless line of them." "Who?" said Susan, answering him for the first time. "The white men. They're creeping along out of their country into this, pushing the frontier forward every year, and going on ahead of it with their tents and their cattle and their women. Watch the way that train comes after Red Feather's village. That was all scattered and broken, going every way like a lot of glass beads rolling down the hill. This comes slow, but it's steady and sure as fate." She thought for a moment, watching the emigrants, and then said: "It moves like soldiers." "Conquerors. That's what they are. They're going to roll over everything--crush them out." "Over the Indians?" "That's it. Drive 'em away into the cracks of the mountains, wipe them out the way the trappers are wiping out the beaver." "Cruel!" she said hotly. "I don't believe it." "Cruel?" he gave her a look of half-contemptuous amusement. "Maybe so, but why should you blame them for that? Aren't you cruel when you kill an antelope or a deer for supper? They're not doing you any harm, but you just happen to be hungry. Well, those fellers are hungry--land hungry--and they've come for the Indian's land. The whole world's cruel. You know it, but you don't like to think so, so you say it isn't. You're just lying because you're afraid of the truth." She looked angrily at him and met the gray eyes. In the center of each iris was a dot of pupil so clearly defined and hard that they looked to Susan like the heads of black pins. "That's exactly what he'd say," she thought; "he's no better than a savage." What she said was: "I don't agree with you at all." "I don't expect you to," he answered, and making an ironical bow turned on his heel and swung off. The next morning, in the pallor of the dawn, they started, rolling out into a gray country with the keen-edged cold of early day in the air, and Laramie Peak, gold tipped, before them. As the sky brightened and the prospect began to take on warmer hues, they looked ahead toward the profiles of the mountains and thought of the journey to come. At this hour of low vitality it seemed enormous, and they paced forward a silent, lifeless caravan, the hoof beats sounding hollow on the beaten track. Then from behind them came a sound of singing, a man's voice caroling in the dawn. Both girls wheeled and saw Zavier Leroux ambling after them on his rough-haired pony, the pack horse behind. He waved his hand and shouted across the silence: "I come to go with you as far as South Pass," and then he broke out again into his singing. It was the song Courant had sung, and as he heard it he lifted up his voice at the head of the train, and the two strains blending, the old French chanson swept out over the barren land: "A la claire fontaine! M'en allant promener J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle Que je me suis baigné!" Susan waved a beckoning hand to the voyageur, then turned to Lucy and said joyously: "What fun to have Zavier! He'll keep us laughing all the time. Aren't you glad he's coming?" Lucy gave an unenthusiastic "Yes." After the first glance backward she had bent over her horse smoothing its mane her face suddenly dyed with a flood of red. CHAPTER II Everybody was glad Zavier had come. He brought a spirit of good cheer into the party which had begun to feel the pressure of the long march behind them, and the still heavier burden that was to come. His gayety was irrepressible, his high spirits unflagging. When the others rode silent in the lifeless hours of the afternoon or drooped in the midday heats, Zavier, a dust-clouded outline on his shaggy pony, lifted up his voice in song. Then the chanted melody of French verses issued from the dust cloud, rising above the rattling of the beaver traps and the creaking of the slow wheels. He had one especial favorite that he was wont to sing when he rode between the two girls. It recounted the adventures of _trois cavalières_, and had so many verses that Zavier assured them neither he nor any other man had ever arrived at the end of them. Should he go to California with them and sing a verse each day, he thought there would still be some left over to give away when he got there. Susan learned the first two stanzas, and Lucy picked up the air and a few words. When the shadows began to slant and the crisp breath of the mountains came cool on their faces, they sang, first Zavier and Susan, then Lucy joining in in a faint, uncertain treble, and finally from the front of the train the strange man, not turning his head, sitting straight and square, and booming out the burden in his deep baritone: "Dans mon chemin j'ai recontré Trois cavalières bien montées, L'on, ton laridon danée L'on, ton laridon dai. "Trois cavalières bien montées L'une a cheval, l'autre a pied L'on, ton, laridon danée L'on ton laridon dai." Zavier furnished another diversion in the monotony of the days, injected into the weary routine, a coloring drop of romance, for, as he himself would have said, he was _diablement épris_ with Lucy. This was regarded as one of the best of Zavier's jokes. He himself laughed at it, and his extravagant compliments and gallantries were well within the pale of the burlesque. Lucy laughed at them, too. The only one that took the matter seriously was Bella. She was not entirely pleased. "Talk about it's being just a joke," she said to Susan in the bedtime hour of confidences. "You can joke too much about some things. Zavier's a man just the same as the others, and Lucy's a nice-looking girl when she gets rested up and the freckles go off. But he's an Indian if he does speak French, and make good money with his beaver trapping." "He's not _all_ Indian," Susan said soothingly. "He's half white. There are only a few Indian things about him, his dark skin and something high and flat about his cheek bones and the way he turns in his toes when he walks." "Indian enough," Bella fumed. "And nobody knows anything about his father. We're respectable people and don't want a man with no name hanging round. I've no doubt he was born in a lodge or under a pine tree. What right's that kind of man to come ogling after a decent white girl whose father and mother were married in the Presbyterian Church?" Susan did not take it so much to heart. What was the good when Lucy obviously didn't care? As for Zavier, she felt sorry for him, for those keen observing faculties of hers had told her that the voyageur's raillery hid a real feeling. Poor Zavier was in love. Susan was pensive in the contemplation of his hopeless passion. He was to leave the train near South Pass and go back into the mountains, and there, alone, camp on the streams that drained the Powder River country. In all probability he would never see one of them again. His trapping did not take him West to the great deserts, and he hated the civilization where man became a luxurious animal of many needs. Like the buffalo and the red man he was restricted to the wild lands that sloped away on either side of the continent's mighty spine. His case was sad, and Susan held forth on the subject to Lucy, whom she thought callous and unkind. "It's terrible to think you'll never see him again," she said, looking for signs of compassion. "Don't you feel sorry?" Lucy looked down. She had been complaining to her friend of Zavier's follies of devotion. "There are lots of other men in the world," she said indifferently. Susan fired up. If not yet the authorized owner of a man, she felt her responsibilities as a coming proprietor. The woman's passion for interference in matters of sentiment was developing in her. "Lucy, you're the most hard-hearted girl! Poor Zavier, who's going off into the mountains and may be killed by the Indians. Don't you feel any pity for him? And he's in love with you--truly in love. I've watched him and I know." She could not refrain from letting a hint of superior wisdom, of an advantage over the unengaged Lucy, give solemnity to her tone. Lucy's face flushed. "He's half an Indian," she said with an edge on her voice. "Doesn't everyone in the train keep saying that every ten minutes? Do you want me to fall in love with a man like that?" "Why no, of course not. You couldn't. That's the sad part of it. He seems as much like other men as those trappers in the fort who were all white. Just because he had a Crow mother it seems unjust that he should be so sort of on the outside of everything. But of course you couldn't marry him. Nobody ever heard of a girl marrying a half-breed." Lucy bent over the piece of deer meat that she was cutting apart. They were preparing supper at the flaring end of a hot day, when the wagons had crawled through a loose alkaline soil and over myriads of crickets that crushed sickeningly under the wheels. Both girls were tired, their throats parched, their hair as dry as hemp, and Lucy was irritable, her face unsmiling, her movement quick and nervous. "What's it matter what a man's parents are if he's kind to you?" she said, cutting viciously into the meat. "It's a lot to have some one fill the kettles for you and help you get the firewood, and when you're tired tell you to go back in the wagon and go to sleep. Nobody does that for me but Zavier." It was the first time she had shown any appreciation of her swain's attentions. She expressed the normal, feminine point of view that her friend had been looking for, and as soon as she heard it Susan adroitly vaulted to the other side: "But, Lucy, you _can't_ marry him!" "Who says I'm going to?" snapped Lucy. "Do I have to marry every Indian that makes eyes at me? All the men in the fort were doing it. They hadn't a look for anyone else." Susan took this with reservations. A good many of the men in the fort had made eyes at her. It was rather grasping of Lucy to take it all to herself, and in her surprise at the extent of her friend's claims she was silent. "As for me," Lucy went on, "I'm dead sick of this journey. I wish we could stop or go back or do something. But we've got to keep on and on to the end of nowhere. It seems as if we were going forever in these tiresome old wagons or on horses that get lame every other day, and then you have to walk. I don't mind living in a tent. I like it. But I hate always going on, never having a minute to rest, getting up in the morning when I'm only half awake, and having to cook at night when I'm so tired I'd just like to lie down on the ground without taking my clothes off and go to sleep there. I wish I'd never come. I wish I'd married the man in Cooperstown that I wouldn't have wiped my feet on then." She slapped the frying pan on the fire and threw the meat into it. Her voice and lips were trembling. With a quick, backward bend she stooped to pick up a fork, and Susan saw her face puckered and quivering like a child's about to cry. "Oh, Lucy," she cried in a burst of sympathy. "I didn't know you felt like that," and she tried to clasp the lithe uncorseted waist that flinched from her touch. Lucy's elbow, thrown suddenly out, kept her at a distance, and she fell back repulsed, but with consolations still ready to be offered. "Let me alone," said Lucy, her face averted. "I'm that tired I don't know what I'm saying. Go and get the children for supper, and don't let them stand round staring at me or they'll be asking questions." She snatched the coffee pot and shook it upside down, driblets of coffee running out. With her other hand she brushed the tears off her cheeks. "Don't stand there as if you never saw a girl cry before," she said, savagely. "I don't do it often, and it isn't such a wonderful sight. Get the children, and if you tell anyone that I feel this way I'll murder you." The children were at some distance lying on the ground. Such unpromising materials as dust and sage brush had not quenched their inventive power or hampered their imaginations. They played with as an absorbed an industry here as in their own garden at home. They had scraped the earth into mounded shapes marked with the print of baby fingers and furrowed with paths. One led to a central mound crowned with a wild sunflower blossom. Up the path to this Bob conducted twigs of sage, murmuring the adventures that attended their progress. When they reached the sunflower house he laid them carefully against its sides, continuing the unseen happenings that befell them on their entrance. The little girl lay beside him, her cheek resting on an outflung arm, her eyes fixed wistfully on the personally conducted party. Her creative genius had not risen to the heights of his, and her fat little hands were awkward and had pushed the sunflower from its perch. So she had been excluded from active participation, and now looked on, acquiescing in her exclusion, a patient and humble spectator. "Look," Bob cried as he saw Susan approaching. "I've builded a house and a garden, and these are the people," holding up one of the sage twigs, "they walk fru the garden an' then go into the house and have coffee and buf'lo meat." Susan admired it and then looked at the baby, who was pensively surveying her brother's creation. "And did the baby play, too?" she asked. "Oh, no, she couldn't. She doesn't know nuffing, she's too small," with the scorn of one year's superiority. The baby raised her solemn eyes to the young girl and made no attempt to vindicate herself. Her expression was that of subdued humility, of one who admits her short-comings. She rose and thrust a soft hand into Susan's, and maintained her silence as they walked toward the camp. The only object that seemed to have power to rouse her from her dejected reverie were the broken sage stalks in the trail. At each of these she halted, hanging from Susan's sustaining grasp, and stubbed her toe accurately and carefully against the protruding root. They would have been silent that evening if it had not been for Zavier. His mood was less merry than usual, but a stream of frontier anecdote and story flowed from him, that held them listening with charmed attention. His foreign speech interlarded with French words added to the picturesqueness of his narratives, and he himself sitting crosslegged on his blanket, his hair hanging dense to his shoulders, his supple body leaning forward in the tension of a thrilling climax, was a fitting minstrel for these lays of the wild. His final story was that of Antoine Godin, one of the classics of mountain history. Godin was the son of an Iroquois hunter who had been brutally murdered by the Blackfeet. He had become a trapper of the Sublette brothers, then mighty men of the fur trade, and in the expedition of Milton Sublette against the Blackfeet in 1832 joined the troop. When the two bands met, Godin volunteered to hold a conference with the Blackfeet chief. He chose as his companion an Indian of the Flathead tribe, once a powerful nation, but almost exterminated by wars with the Blackfeet. From the massed ranks of his warriors the chief rode out for the parley, a pipe of peace in his hand. As Godin and the Flathead started to meet him, the former asked the Indian if his piece was charged, and when the Flathead answered in the affirmative told him to cock it and ride alongside. Midway between the two bands they met. Godin clasped the chief's hand, and as he did so told the Flathead to fire. The Indian levelled his gun, fired, and the Blackfeet chief rolled off his horse. Godin snatched off his blanket and in a rain of bullets fled to the Sublette camp. "And so," said the voyageur with a note of exultation in his voice, "Godin got revenge on those men who had killed his father." For a moment his listeners were silent, suffering from a sense of bewilderment, not so much at the story, as at Zavier's evident approval of Godin's act. It was Susan who first said in a low tone, "What an awful thing to do!" This loosened Bella's tongue, who lying in the opening of her tent had been listening and now felt emboldened to express her opinion, especially as Glen, stretched on his face nearby, had emitted a snort of indignation. "Well, of all the wicked things I've heard since I came out here that's the worst." Zavier shot a glance at them in which for one unguarded moment, race antagonism gleamed. "Why is it wicked?" he said gently. David answered heatedly, the words bursting out: "Why, the treachery of it, the meanness. The chief carried the pipe of peace. That's like our flag of truce. You never heard of any civilized man shooting another under the flag of truce." Zavier looked stolid. It was impossible to tell whether he comprehended their point of view and pretended ignorance, or whether he was so restricted to his own that he could see no other. "The Blackfeet had killed his father," he answered. "They were treacherous too. Should he wait to be murdered? It was his chance and he took it." Sounds of dissent broke out round the circle. All the eyes were trained on him, some with a wide, expectant fixity, others bright with combative fire. Even Glen sat up, scratching his head, and remarking sotto voce to his wife: "Ain't I always said he was an Indian?" "But the Blackfeet chief wasn't the man who killed his father," said the doctor. "No, he was chief of the tribe who did." "But why kill an innocent man who probably had nothing to do with it?" "It was for vengeance," said Zavier with unmoved patience and careful English. "Vengeance for his father's death." Several pairs of eyes sought the ground giving up the problem. Others continued to gaze at him either with wonder, or hopeful of extracting from his face some clew to his involved and incomprehensible moral attitude. They suddenly felt as if he had confessed himself of an alien species, a creature as remote from them and their ideals as a dweller in the moon. "He had waited long for vengeance," Zavier further explained, moving his glittering glance about the circle, "and if he could not find the right man, he must take such man as he could. The chief is the biggest man, and he comes where Godin has him. 'My father is avenged at last,' he says, and bang!"--Zavier levelled an imaginary engine of destruction at the shadows--"it is done and Godin gets the blanket." The silence that greeted this was one of hopelessness; the blanket had added the final complication. It was impossible to make Zavier see, and this new development in what had seemed a boyish and light-hearted being, full to the brim with the milk of human kindness, was a thing to sink before in puzzled speechlessness. Courant tried to explain: "You can't see it Zavier's way because it's a different way from yours. It comes out of the past when there weren't any laws, or you had to make 'em yourself. You've come from where the courthouse and the police take care of you, and if a feller kills your father, sees to it that he's caught and strung up. It's not your business to do it, and so you've got to thinking that the man that takes it into his own hands is a desperate kind of criminal. Out here in those days you wiped out such scores yourself or no one did. It seems to you that Godin did a pretty low down thing, but he thought he was doing the right thing for him. He'd had a wrong done him and he'd got to square it. And it didn't matter to him that the chief wasn't the man. Kill an Indian and it's the tribe's business to settle the account. The Blackfeet killed his father and it was Godin's business to kill a Blackfeet whenever he got the chance. I guess when he saw the chief riding out to meet him what he felt most was, that it was the best chance he'd ever get." The faces turned toward Courant--a white man like themselves! So deep was their disapproving astonishment that nobody could say anything. For a space they could only stare at him as though he, too, were suddenly dropping veils that had hidden unsuspected, baleful depths. Then argument broke out and the clamor of voices was loud on the night. Courant bore the brunt of the attack, Zavier's ideas being scanty, his mode of procedure a persistent, reiteration of his original proposition. Interruptions were furnished in a sudden, cracked laugh from Daddy John, and phrases of dissent or approval from Glen and Bella stretching their ears from the front of the tent. Only Lucy said nothing, her head wrapped in a shawl, her face down-drooped and pale. Late that night Susan was waked by whispering sounds which wound stealthily through her sleep feeling for her consciousness. At first she lay with her eyes shut, breathing softly, till the sounds percolated through the stupor of her fatigue and she woke, disentangling them from dreams. She threw back her blankets and sat alert thinking of Indians. The moon was full, silver tides lapping in below the tent's rim. She stole to the flap listening, then drew it softly open. Her tent had been pitched beneath a group of trees which made a splash of shadow broken with mottlings of moonlight. In the depths of this shadow she discerned two figures, the white flecks and slivers sliding along the dark oblong of their shapes as they strayed with loitering steps or stood whispering. The straight edge of their outline, the unbroken solidity of their bulk, told her they were wrapped in the same blanket, a custom in the Indian lover's courtship. Their backs were toward her, the two heads rising from the blanket's folds, showing as a rounded pyramidal finish. As she looked they paced beyond the shadow into the full unobscured light, and she saw that the higher head was dark, the other fair, crowned with a circlet of shining hair. Her heart gave an astounded leap. Her first instinct was to draw back, her second to stand where she was, seemly traditions overwhelmed in amazement. The whispering ceased, the heads inclined to each other, the light one drooping backward, the dark one leaning toward it, till they rested together for a long, still moment. Then they separated, the woman drawing herself from the blanket and with a whispered word stealing away, a furtive figure flitting through light and shade to the McMurdo tents. The man turned and walked to the fire, and Susan saw it was Zavier. He threw on a brand and in its leaping ray stood motionless, looking at the flame, a slight, fixed smile on his lips. She crept back to her bed and lay there with her heart throbbing and her eyes on the edges of moonlight that slipped in over the trampled sage leaves. Zavier was on sentry duty that night, and she could hear the padding of his step as he moved back and forth through the sleeping camp. On the dark walls of the tent the vision she had seen kept repeating itself, and as it returned upon her mental sight, new questions surged into her mind. A veil had been raised, and she had caught a glimpse of something in life, a new factor in the world, she had never known of. The first faint comprehension of it, the first stir of sympathy with it, crept toward her understanding and tried to force an entrance. She pushed it out, feeling frightened, feeling as if it were an intruder, that once admitted would grow dominant and masterful, and she would never be her own again. CHAPTER III The next morning Susan could not help stealing inquiring looks at Lucy. Surely the participant in such a nocturnal adventure must bear some signs of it upon her face. Lucy had suddenly become a disturbing and incomprehensible problem. In trying to readjust her conception of the practical and energetic girl, Susan found herself confronted with the artifices of a world-old, feminine duplicity that she had never before encountered, and knew no more of than she did of the tumult that had possession of poor Lucy's tormented soul. Here was the heroine of a midnight rendezvous going about her work with her habitual nervous capability, dressing the children, preparing the breakfast, seeing that Bella was comfortably disposed on her mattress in the wagon. She had not a glance for Zavier. Could a girl steal out to meet and kiss a man in the moonlight and the next morning look at him with a limpid, undrooping eye as devoid of consciousness as the eye of a preoccupied cat? The standards of the doctor's daughter were comparative and their range limited. All she had to measure by was herself. Her imagination in trying to compass such a situation with Susan Gillespie as the heroine, could picture nothing as her portion but complete abasement and, of course, a confession to her father. And how dreadful that would have been! She could feel humiliation stealing on her at the thought of the doctor's frowning displeasure. But Lucy had evidently told no one. Why had she not? Why had she pretended not to like Zavier? Why? Why? Susan found her thoughts trailing off into a perspective of questions that brought up against a wall of incomprehension above which Lucy's clear eyes looked at her with baffling secretiveness. It was a warm morning, and the two girls sat in the doctor's wagon. Lucy was knitting one of the everlasting stockings. In the heat she had unfastened the neck of her blouse and turned the edges in, a triangle of snowy skin visible below her sunburned throat. She looked thin, her arms showing no curve from wrist to elbow, the lines of her body delicately angular under the skimpy dress of faded lilac cotton. The sun blazing through the canvas cast a tempered yellow light over her that toned harmoniously with the brown coating of freckles and the copper burnish of her hair. Her hands, vibrating over her work with little hovering movements like birds about to light, now and then flashing out a needle which she stabbed into her coiffure, were large-boned and dexterous, the strong, unresting hands of the frontierswoman. Susan was lazy, leaning back on the up-piled sacks, watching the quick, competent movements and the darts of light that leaped along the needles. Before they had entered the wagon she had decided to speak to Lucy of what she had overseen. In the first place she felt guilty and wanted to confess. Besides that the need to give advice was strong upon her, and the natural desire to interfere in a matter of the heart was another impelling impulse. So she had determined to speak for conscience, for friendship, for duty, and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility, for curiosity. But it was a hard subject to approach, and she was uncomfortable. Diplomacy had not been one of the gifts the fairies gave her when they gathered at her cradle. Looking at the quivering needles she tried to think of a good beginning, and like most direct and candid people concluded there was no better one than that of the initial fact, before the complicating intrusion of inference: "I woke up in the middle of the night last night." Lucy knit unmoved. "The moonlight was as bright as day. Out beyond the shadow where my tent was I could see the weeds and little bunches of grass." "How could you see them when you were in your tent?" This without stopping her work or raising her head. Susan, feeling more uncomfortable than ever, answered, her voice instinctively dropping, "I got up and looked out of my tent." She kept her eyes on the busy hands and saw that the speed of their movements slackened. "Got up and looked out? What did you do that for?" The time for revelation had come. Susan was a little breathless. "I heard people whispering," she said. The hands came to a stop. But the knitter continued to hold them in the same position, a suspended, waiting expectancy in their attitude. "Whispering?" she said. "Who was it?" "Oh, Lucy, you know." There was a pause. Then Lucy dropped her knitting and, raising her head, looked at the anxious face opposite. Her eyes were quiet and steady, but their look was changed from its usual frankness by a new defiance, hard and wary. "No, I don't know. How should I?" "Why, why"--Susan now was not only breathless but pleading--"it was you." "Who was me?" "The woman--Lucy don't look at me like that, as if you didn't understand. I saw you, you and Zavier, wrapped in the blanket. You walked out into the moonlight and I _saw_." Lucy's gaze continued unfaltering and growing harder. Under the freckles she paled, but she stood her ground. "What do you mean? Saw me and Zavier? Where?" "Under the trees first and then you went out into the moonlight with the blanket wrapped round your shoulders." "You didn't see me," the hardness was now in her voice. "It was some one else." A feeling of alarm rose in the other girl. It was not the lie alone, it was the force behind it, the force that made it possible, that gave the teller will to hold her glance steady and deny the truth. A scaring sense of desperate powers in Lucy that were carrying her outside the familiar and established, seized her friend. It was all different from her expectations. Her personal repugnance and fastidiousness were swept aside in the menace of larger things. She leaned forward and clasped Lucy's knee. "Don't say that. I saw you. Lucy, don't say I didn't. Don't bother to tell me a lie. What did it mean? Why did you meet him? What are you doing?" Lucy jerked her knee away. Her hands were trembling. She took up the knitting, tried to direct the needles, but they shook and she dropped them. She made a sharp movement with her head in an effort to avert her face, but the light was merciless, there was no shade to hide in. "Oh, don't bother me," she said angrily. "It's not your affair." Susan's dread rose higher. In a flash of vision she had a glimpse into the storm-driven depths. It was as if a child brought up in a garden had unexpectedly looked into a darkling mountain abyss. "What are you going to do?" she almost whispered. "You mustn't. You must stop. I thought you didn't care about him. You only laughed and everybody thought it was a joke. Don't go on that way. Something dreadful will happen." Lucy did not answer. With her back pressed against the roof arch and her hands clinched in her lap--she sat rigid, looking down. She seemed gripped in a pain that stiffened her body and made her face pinched and haggard. Under the light cotton covering her breast rose and fell. She was an embodiment of tortured indecision. Susan urged: "Let me tell my father and he'll send Zavier away." Lucy raised her eyes and tried to laugh. The unnatural sound fell with a metallic harshness on the silence. Her mouth quivered, and putting an unsteady hand against it, she said brokenly, "Oh, Missy, don't torment me. I feel bad enough already." There was a longer pause. Susan broke it in a low voice: "Then you're going to marry him?" "No," loudly, "no. What a question!" She made a grab at her knitting and started feverishly to work, the needles clicking, stitches dropping, the stocking leg trembling as it hung. "Why, he's an Indian," she cried suddenly in a high, derisive key. "But"--the questioner had lost her moment of vision and was once again floundering between ignorance and intuition--"Why did you kiss him then?" "I didn't. He kissed me." "You let him. Isn't that the same thing?" "No, no. You're so silly. You don't know anything." She gave a hysterical laugh and the bonds of her pride broke in a smothered cry: "I couldn't help it. I didn't want to. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to go out and meet him and I went. I--" she gathered up the stocking and, needles and all, buried her face in it. It was the only thing she could find to hide behind. "I'm so miserable," she sobbed. "You don't know. It's such a terrible thing first feeling one way and then the other. I'm so mixed up I don't know what I feel. I wish I was dead." There was a sound of men's voices outside, and the wagon came to a jolting halt. Daddy John, on the driver's seat, silhouetted against the circle of sky, slipped the whip into its ring of leather and turned toward the girls. Lucy threw herself backward and lay with her face on the sacks, stifling her tears. "What are you two girls jawing about in there?" he asked, squinting blindly from the sun dazzle into the clear, amber light of the canvas cavern. "We're just telling stories and things," said Susan. The old man peered at Lucy's recumbent figure. "Ain't she well?" he queried. "Thought I heard crying." "Her head aches, it's so hot." "Let her stay there. We'll do her cooking for her. Just stay where you are, Lucy, and don't worrit about your work." But the voices outside demanded her. It was the noon halt and Lucy was an important factor in the machinery of the train. Glen's call for her was mingled with the fresh treble of Bob's and Bella's at a farther distance, rose in a plaintive, bovine lowing. She stretched a hand sideways and gripped Susan's skirt. "I can't go," she gasped in a strangled whisper. "I can't seem to get a hold on myself. Ask Zavier to build the fire and cook. He'll do it, and Courant will help him. And tell the others I'm sick." Lucy's headache lasted all through the dinner hour, and when the train started she still lay in the back of the doctor's wagon. For once she seemed indifferent to the comfort of her relatives. The clamor that rose about their disorderly fire and unsavory meal came to her ears through the canvas walls, and she remained deaf and unconcerned. When Susan crept in beside her and laid a cool cheek on hers, and asked her if she wanted anything, she said no, she wanted to rest that was all. Daddy John turned his head in profile and said: "Let her alone, Missy. She's all tuckered out. They've put too much work on her sence her sister took sick. You let her lie there and I'll keep an eye to her." Then he turned away and spat, as was his wont when thoughtful. He had seen much of the world, and in his way was a wise old man, but he did not guess the secret springs of Lucy's trouble. Women on the trail should be taken care of as his Missy was. Glen McMurdo was the kind of man who let the women take care of him, and between him and the children and the sick woman they'd half killed the girl with work. Daddy John had his opinion of Glen, but like most of his opinions he kept it to himself. Susan had no desire for talk that afternoon. She wanted to be alone to muse on things. As the train took the road for the second stage, she drew her horse back among the sage and let the file of wagons pass her. She saw hope gleaming in Leff's eye, and killed it with a stony glance, then called to her father that she was going to ride behind. David was hunting in the hills with Courant, Zavier driving in his stead. The little caravan passed her with the dust hovering dense around it and the slouching forms of the pack horses hanging fringe-like in its rear. They were nearing the end of their passage by the river, shrunk to a clear, wild stream which they came upon and lost as the trail bore westward. Their route lay through an interminable sequence of plains held together by channels of communication that filtered through the gaps in hills. The road was crossed by small streams, chuckling at the bottom of gullies, the sides of which were cracked open like pale, parched lips gasping for air. The limpid transparency of the prospect was blotted by the caravan's moving dust cloud. Beyond this the plain stretched, empty as the sky, a brown butte rising here and there. Susan heard hoof beats behind her and turned. Courant was riding toward her, his rifle across his saddle. She made a motion of recognition with her hand and turned away thinking how well he matched the surroundings, his buckskins melting into the fawn-colored shading of the earth, his red hair and bronzed face toning with the umber buttes and rustlike stains across the distance. He was of a piece with it, even in its suggestion of an unfeeling, confidant hardness. He joined her and they paced forward. It was the first time he had ever sought any conversation with her and she was conscious and secretly shy. Heretofore it had been his wont to speak little to her, to sweep an indifferent eye over her which seemed to include her in the unimportant baggage that went to the making of the train. Now, though his manner was brusque, he spoke simply and not discourteously of the hunt in the hills. He had got nothing, but David had killed a black-tailed deer, and possessed by the passion of the chase, was following the tracks of a second. The girl flushed with pleasure. "David's a very good shot," she said complacently, not at all sure of her statement, for David did not excel in the role of Nimrod. "He kept us supplied with buffalo meat all the way up the Platte." This was a falsehood. Daddy John and Leff had been the hunters of the party. But Susan did not care. Courant had never said a word in her hearing derogatory to David, but she had her suspicions that the romantic nature of her betrothed was not of the stuff the mountain man respected. "First rate," he said heartily. "I didn't know it. I thought he generally rode with you or drove the wagon." To an outsider the tone would have seemed all that was frank and open. But Susan read irony into it. She sat her horse a little squarer and allowed the muse to still further possess her: "David can shoot anything, an antelope even. He constantly brought them in when we were on the Platte. It was quite easy for him. Daddy John, who's been in all sorts of wild places, says he's never seen a better shot." A slight uneasiness disturbed the proud flow of her imagination at the thought that Daddy John, questioned on this point, might show a tendency to contradict her testimony. But it didn't matter. The joy of proving David's superiority compensated. And she was setting Courant in his place which had a separate and even rarer charm. His answer showed no consciousness of the humbling process: "You think a lot of David, don't you?" Susan felt her color rising. This time she not only sat squarer in her saddle, but raised her shoulders and chin a trifle. "Yes. I am engaged to be married to him." "When will you be married?" said the uncrushable man. She inclined her head from its haughty pose just so far that she could command his face from an austere eye. Words were ready to go with the quelling glance, but they died unspoken. The man was regarding her with grave, respectful attention. It is difficult to suddenly smite a proud crest when the owner of the crest shows no consciousness of its elevation. "When we get to California," she said shortly. "Not till then? Oh, I supposed you were going to marry him at Bridger or along the road if we happened to meet a missionary." The suggestion amazed, almost appalled her. It pierced through her foolish little play of pride like a stab, jabbing down to her secret, sentient core. Her anger grew stronger, but she told herself she was talking to one of an inferior, untutored order, and it was her part to hold herself in hand. "We will be married when we get to California," she said, seeing to it that her profile was calm and carried high. "Sometime after we get there and have a home and are settled." "That's a long time off." "I suppose so--a year or two." "A year or two!" he laughed with a careless jovial note. "Oh, you belong to the old towns back there," with a jerk of his head toward the rear. "In the wilderness we don't have such long courtships." "We? Who are we?" "The mountain men, the trappers, the voyageurs." "Yes," she said, her tone flashing into sudden scorn, "they marry squaws." At this the man threw back his head and burst into a laugh, so deep, so rich, so exuberantly joyous, that it fell upon the plain's grim silence with the incongruous contrast of sunshine on the dust of a dungeon. She sat upright with her anger boiling toward expression. Before she realized it he had leaned forward and laid his hand on the pommel of her saddle, his face still red and wrinkled with laughter. "That's all right, little lady, but you don't know quite all about us." "I know enough," she answered. "Before you get to California you'll know more. There's a mountain man and a voyageur now in the train. Do you think Zavier and I have squaw wives?" With the knowledge that Zavier was just then so far from contemplating union with a squaw, she could not say the contemptuous "yes" that was on her tongue. As for the strange man--she shot a glance at him and met the gray eyes still twinkling with amusement. "Savage!" she thought, "I've no doubt he has"--and she secretly felt a great desire to know. What she said was, "I've never thought of it, and I haven't the least curiosity about it." They rode on in silence, then he said, "What's made you mad?" "Mad? I'm not mad." "Not at all?" "No. Why should I be?" "That's what I want to know. You don't like me, little lady, is that it?" "I neither like nor dislike you. I don't think of you." She immediately regretted the words. She was so completely a woman, so dowered with the instinct of attraction, that she realized they were not the words of indifference. "My thoughts are full of other people," she said hastily, trying to amend the mistake, and that was spoiled by a rush of color that suddenly dyed her face. She looked over the horse's head, her anger now turned upon herself. The man made no answer, but she knew that he was watching her. They paced on for a silent moment then he said: "Why are you blushing?" "I am not," she cried, feeling the color deepening. "You've told two lies," he answered. "You said you weren't angry, and you're mad all through, and now you say you're not blushing, and your face is as pink as one of those little flat roses that grow on the prairie. It's all right to get mad and blush, but I'd like to know why you do it. I made you mad someway or other, I don't know how. Have _I_ made you blush, too?" he leaned nearer trying to look at her. "How'd I do that?" She had a sidelong glimpse of his face, quizzical, astonished, full of piqued interest. She struggled with the mortification of a petted child, suddenly confronted by a stranger who finds its caprices only ridiculous and displeasing. Under the new sting of humiliation she writhed, burning to retaliate and make him see the height of her pedestal. "Yes, I _have_ told two lies," she said. "I was angry and I _am_ blushing, and it's because I'm in a rage with you." The last touch was given when she saw that his surprise contained the bitter and disconcerting element of amusement. "Isn't that just what I said, and you denied it?" he exclaimed. "Now _why_ are you in a rage with me?" "Because--because--well, if you're too stupid to know why, or are just pretending, I won't explain. I don't intend to ride with you any more. Please don't try and keep up with me." She gave her reins a shake and her horse started on a brisk canter. As she sped away she listened for his following hoof beats, for she made no doubt he would pursue her, explain his conduct, and ask her pardon. The request not to keep up with her he would, of course, set aside. David would have obeyed it, but this man of the mountains, at once domineering and stupid, would take no command from any woman. She kept her ear trained for the rhythmic beat in the distance and decided when she heard it she would increase her speed and not let him catch her till she was up with the train. Then she would coldly listen to his words of apology and have the satisfaction of seeing him look small, and probably not know what to say. Only it didn't happen that way. He made no attempt to follow. As she galloped across the plain he drew his horse to a walk, his face dark and frowning. Her scorn and blush had left his blood hot. Her last words had fired his anger. He had known her antagonism, seen it in her face on the night when Bella was sick, felt its sting when she turned from him to laugh with the others. And it had stirred him to a secret irritation. For he told himself she was only a baby, but a pretty baby, on whose brown and rosy face and merry slits of eyes a man might like to look. Now he gazed after her swearing softly through his beard and holding his horse to its slowest step. As her figure receded he kept his eyes upon it. They were long-sighted eyes, used to great distances, and they watched, intent and steady, to see if she would turn her head. "Damn her," he said, when the dust of the train absorbed her. "Does she think she's the only woman in the world?" After supper that evening Susan called David over to sit on the edge of her blanket. This was a rare favor. He came hurrying, all alight with smiles, cast himself down beside her and twined his fingers in her warm grasp. She answered his hungry glance with a sidelong look, glowingly tender, and David drew the hand against his cheek. Nobody was near except Daddy John and Courant, smoking pipes on the other side of the fire. "Do you love me?" he whispered, that lover's text for every sermon which the unloving find so irksome to answer, almost to bear. But now she smiled and whispered, "Of course, silly David." "Ah, Susan, you're awakening," he breathed in a shaken undertone. She again let the soft look touch his face, sweet as a caress. From the other side of the fire Courant saw it, and through the film of pipe smoke, watched. David thought no one was looking, leaned nearer, and kissed her cheek. She gave a furtive glance at the man opposite, saw the watching eyes, and with a quick breath like a runner, turned her face to her lover and let him kiss her lips. She looked back at the fire, quiet, unflurried, then slowly raised her lids. Courant had moved his pipe and the obscuring film of smoke was gone. Across the red patch of embers his eyes gazed steadily at her with the familiar gleam of derision. Her tenderness died as a flame under a souse of water, and an upwelling of feeling that was almost hatred, rose in her against the strange man. CHAPTER IV The last fording of the river had been made, and from the summit of the Red Buttes they looked down on the long level, specked with sage and flecked with alkaline incrustings, that lay between them and the Sweetwater. Across the horizon the Wind River mountains stretched a chain of majestic, snowy shapes. Desolation ringed them round, the swimming distances fusing with the pallor of ever-receding horizons, the white road losing itself in the blotting of sage, red elevations rising lonely in extending circles of stillness. The air was so clear that a tiny noise broke it, crystal-sharp like the ring of a smitten glass. And the sense of isolation was intensified as there was no sound from anywhere, only a brooding, primordial silence that seemed to have remained unbroken since the first floods drained away. Below in the plain the white dots of an encampment showed like a growth of mushrooms. Near this, as they crawled down upon it, the enormous form of Independence Rock detached itself from the faded browns and grays to develop into a sleeping leviathan, lost from its herd and fallen exhausted in a sterile land. Courant was curious about the encampment, and after the night halt rode forward to inspect it. He returned in the small hours reporting it a train of Mormons stopped for sickness. A boy of fifteen had broken his leg ten days before and was now in a desperate condition. The train had kept camp hoping for his recovery, or for the advent of help in one of the caravans that overhauled them. Courant thought the boy beyond hope, but in the gray of the dawn the doctor mounted, and with Susan, David, and Courant, rode off with his case of instruments strapped to his saddle. The sun was well up when they reached the Mormon camp. Scattered about a spring mouth in the litter of a three days' halt, its flocks and herds spread wide around it, it was hushed in a sullen dejection. The boy was a likely lad for the new Zion, and his mother, one of the wives of an elder, had forgotten her stern training, and fallen to a common despair. Long-haired men lolled in tent doors cleaning their rifles, and women moved between the wagons and the fires, or sat in rims of shade sewing and talking low. Children were everywhere, their spirits undimmed by disaster, their voices calling from the sage, little, light, half-naked figures circling and bending in games that babies played when men lived in cliffs and caves. At sight of the mounted figures they fled, wild as rabbits, scurrying behind tent flaps and women's skirts, to peep out in bright-eyed curiosity at the strangers. The mother met them and almost dragged the doctor from his horse. She was a toil-worn woman of middle age, a Mater Dolorosa now in her hour of anguish. She led them to where the boy lay in a clearing in the sage. The brush was so high that a blanket had been fastened to the tops of the tallest blushes, and under its roof he was stretched, gray-faced and with sharpened nose. The broken leg had been bound between rough splints of board, and he had traveled a week in the wagons in uncomplaining agony. Now, spent and silent, he awaited death, looking at the newcomers with the slow, indifferent glance of those whose ties with life are loosening. But the mother, in the ruthless unbearableness of her pain, wanted something done, anything. An Irishman in the company, who had served six months as a helper in a New York hospital, had told her he could amputate the leg, as he had seen the operation performed. Now she clamored for a doctor--a real doctor--to do it. He tried to persuade her of its uselessness, covering the leg in which gangrene was far advanced, and telling her death was at hand. But her despair insisted on action, her own suffering made her remorseless. The clamor of their arguing voices surrounded the moribund figure lying motionless with listless eyes as though already half initiated into new and profound mysteries. Once, his mother's voice rising strident, he asked her to let him rest in peace, he had suffered enough. Unable to endure the scene Susan left them and joined a woman whom she found sewing in the shade of a wagon. The woman seemed unmoved, chatting as she stitched on the happenings of the journey and the accident that had caused the delay. Here presently David joined them, his face pallid, his lips loose and quivering. Nothing could be done with the mother. She had insisted on the operation, and the Irishman had undertaken it. The doctor and Courant would stay by them; Courant was to hold the leg. He, David, couldn't stand it. It was like an execution--barbarous--with a hunting knife and a saw. In a half hour Courant came walking round the back of the wagon and threw himself on the ground beside them. The leg had been amputated and the boy was dying. Intense silence fell on the camp, only the laughter and voices of the children rising clear on the thin air. Then a wail arose, a penetrating, fearful cry, Rachel mourning for her child. Courant raised his head and said with an unemotional air of relief, "he's dead." The Mormon woman dropped her sewing, gave a low exclamation, and sat listening with bitten lip. Susan leaned against the wagon wheel full of horror and feeling sick, her eyes on David, who, drawing up his knees, pressed his forehead on them. He rested thus, his face hidden, while the keening of the mother, the cries of an animal in pain, fell through the hot brightness of the morning like the dropping of agonized tears down blooming cheeks. When they ceased and the quiet had resettled, the Mormon woman rose and put away her sewing. "I don't seem to have no more ambition to work," she said and walked away. "She's another of his wives," said Courant. "She and the woman whose son is dead, wives of the same man?" He nodded. "And there's a younger one, about sixteen. She was up there helping with water and rags--a strong, nervy girl. She had whisky all ready in a tin cup to give to the mother. When she saw it was all up with him she went round collecting stones to cover the grave with and keep the wolves off." "Before he was dead?" "Yes. They've got to move on at once. They can't lose any more time. When we were arguing with that half-crazy woman, I could see the girl picking up the stones and wiping off her tears with her apron." "What dreadful people," she breathed. "Dreadful? What's dreadful in having some sense? Too bad about the boy. He set his teeth and didn't make a sound when that fool of an Irishman was sawing at him as if he was a log. I never saw such grit. If they've got many like him they'll be a great people some day." David gave a gasping moan, his arms relaxed, and he fell limply backward on the ground. They sprang toward him and Susan seeing his peaked white face, the eyes half open, thought he was dead, and dropped beside him, a crouched and staring shape of terror. "What is it? What's the matter?" she cried, raising wild eyes to Courant. "Nothing at all," said that unmoved person, squatting down on his heels and thrusting his hand inside David's shirt. "Only a faint. Why, where's your nerve? You're nearly as white as he is." His eyes were full of curiosity as he looked across the outstretched figure at her frightened face. "I--I--thought for a moment he was dead," she faltered. "And so you were going to follow his example and die on his body?" He got up. "Stay here and I'll go and get some water." As he turned away he paused and, looking back, said, "Why didn't you do the fainting? That's more your business than his," gave a sardonic grin and walked off. Susan raised the unconscious head and held it to her bosom. Alone, with no eye looking, she pressed her lips on his forehead. Courant's callousness roused a fierce, perverse tenderness in her. He might sneer at David's lack of force, but she understood. She crooned over him, moved his hair back with caressing fingers, pressing him against herself as if the strength of her hold would assure her of the love she did not feel and wanted to believe in. Her arms were close round him, his head on her shoulder when Courant came back with a dipper of water. "Get away," he said, standing over them. "I don't want to wet you." But she curled round her lover, her body like a protecting shield between him and danger. "Leave go of him," said Courant impatiently. "Do you think I'm going to hurt him with a cup full of water?" "Let me alone," she answered sullenly. "He'll be all right in a minute." "You can be any kind of a fool you like, but you can't make me one. Come, move." He set the dipper on the ground. He leaned gently over her and grasped her wrists. The power of his grip amazed her; she was like a mouse in the paws of a lion. Her puny strength matched against his was conquered in a moment of futile resistance. "Don't be a fool," he said softly in her ear. "Don't act like a silly baby," and the iron hands unclasped her arms and drew her back till David's head slid from her knees to the ground. "There! We're all right now." He let her go, snatched up the dipper and sent a splash of water into David's face. "Poor David," he said. "This'll spoil his good looks." "Stop," she almost screamed. "I'd rather have him lie in a faint for an hour than have you speak so about him." Without noticing her, he threw another jet of water and David stirred, drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. They touched the sky, the wagon, the nearby sage, and then Susan's face. There they rested, recognition slowly suffusing them. "What happened?" he said in a husky voice. "Fainted, that was all," said Courant. David closed his eyes. "Oh, yes, I remember now." Susan bent over him. "You frightened me so!" "I'm sorry, Missy, but it made me sick--the leg and those awful cries." Courant emptied the dipper on the ground. "I'll see if they've got any whisky. You'll have to get your grit up, David, for the rest of the trail," and he left them. A half hour later the cry of "Roll out" sounded, and the Mormon camp broke. The rattling of chains and ox yokes, and the cursing of men ruptured the stillness that had gathered round the moment of death. Life was a matter of more immediate importance. Tents were struck, the pots and pans thrown into the wagons, the children collected, the stock driven in. With ponderous strain and movement the great train formed and took the road. As it drew away the circle of its bivouac showed in trampled sage and grass bitten to the roots. In the clearing where the boy had lain was the earth of a new-made grave, a piece of wood thrust in at the head, the mound covered with stones gathered by the elder's young wife. The mountain tragedy was over. By the fire that evening Zavier employed himself scraping the dust from a buffalo skull. He wiped the frontal bone clean and white, and when asked why he was expending so much care on a useless relic, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Then he explained with a jerk of his head in the direction of the vanished Mormons that they used buffalo skulls to write their letters on. In the great emigration of the year before their route was marked by the skulls set up in prominent places and bearing messages for the trains behind. "And are you going to write a letter on that one?" Susan asked. "No; I do not write English good, and French very bad. But maybe some one else will use it," and he laughed boyishly and laid the skull by the fire. In the depth of the night Susan was wakened by a hand on her shoulder that shook her from a dreamless sleep. She started up with a cry and felt another hand, small and cold on her mouth, and heard a whispering voice at her ear, "Hush. Don't make a sound. It's Lucy." She gripped at the figure, felt the clasp of trembling arms, and a cheek chill with the night cold, against her own. "Lucy," she gasped, "what's the matter?" "I want to speak to you. Be quiet." "Has anything happened? Is some one sick?" "No. It's not that. I'm going." "Going? Going where--" She was not yet fully awake, filaments of sleep clouded her clearness. "Into the mountains with Zavier." The filaments were brushed away in a rough sweep. But her brain refused to accept the message. In the dark, she clutched at the body against her, felt the beat of pulses distinct through the clothing, the trembling of the hands going down through her flesh and muscle to her heart. "What do you mean? Where?" "I don't know, into the mountains somewhere." "With Zavier? Why?" "Because he wants me to and I must." "But-- Oh, Lucy--" she struggled from the blanket to her knees--"Oh, Lucy!" Her voice rose high and the hand felt for her mouth. She caught it and held it off, her head bent back straining her eyes for the face above her. "Running away with him?" "Yes. I couldn't go without telling you. I had to say good-by." "Going with him forever, not coming back?" "No, never!" "But where--where to?" "I don't know. In the mountains somewhere. There's a trail here he knows. It branches off to the north and goes up to the places where they get the skins." "I don't believe you." "It's true. The horses are waiting outside." "Lucy, you've gone crazy. Don't--don't"-- She clung to the hand she held, grasped upward at the arm. Both were cold and resistant. Her pleading struck back from the hardness of the mind made up, the irrevocable resolution. "But he's not your husband." Even at this moment, keyed to an act of lawlessness that in the sheltered past would have been as impossible as murder, the great tradition held fast. Lucy's answer came with a sudden flare of shocked repudiation: "He will be. There are priests and missionaries up there among the Indians. The first one we meet will marry us. It's all right. He loves me and he's promised." Nothing of her wild courage came to the other girl, no echo of the call of life and passion. It was a dark and dreadful fate, and Susan strained her closer as if to hold her back from it. "It's been fixed for two days. We had to wait till we got here and crossed the trail. We're going right into the mountains and it's summer, and there's plenty of game." "The Indians?" "We'll be in the Crow's country, and Zavier's mother was a Crow." The words proved the completeness of her estrangement--the acceptance of the alien race as no longer alien. "Oh, Lucy, don't, don't. Wait till we get to Fort Bridger and marry him there. Make him come to California with us. Don't do such an awful thing--run away into the mountains with a half-breed." "I don't care what he is. There's no one else for me but him. He's my man and I'll go with him wherever he wants to take me." "Wait and tell Bella." "She wouldn't let me go. There'd be nothing but fighting and misery. When you've made up your mind to do a thing you've got to do it yourself, not go by what other people think." There was a silence and they hung upon each other. Then Lucy put her face against her friend's and kissed her. "Good-by," she whispered, loosening her arms. "I can't let you go. I won't. It'll kill you." "I must. He's waiting." She struggled from the embrace, pulling away the clasping hands noiselessly, but with purpose. There was something of coldness, of the semblance but not the soul of affection, in the determined softness with which she sought release. She stole to the tent flap and peered out. Her thoughts were already outside, flown to the shape hiding in the shadow like birds darting from a cage. She did not turn at Susan's strangled whisper. "We'll never see you again, Bella, nor I, nor the children." "Perhaps, some day, in California. He's there. I must go." "Lucy!" She leaped after her. In the tent opening they once more clasped each other. "I can't let you go," Susan moaned. But Lucy's kiss had not the fervor of hers. The strength of her being had gone to her lover. Friendship, home, family, all other claims hung loose about her, the broken trappings of her maidenhood. The great primal tie had claimed her. A black figure against the pallor of the night, she turned for a last word. "If you tell them and they come after us, Zavier'll fight them. He'll fight if he kills them. They'll know to-morrow. Good-by," and she was gone, a noiseless shadow, flitting toward the denser group of shadow where her heart was. Susan, crouched at the tent flap, saw her melt into the waiting blackness, and then heard the muffled hoof beats growing thinner and fainter as the silence absorbed them. She sat thus till the dawn came. Once or twice she started up to give the alarm, but fell back. Under the tumult of her thoughts a conviction lay that Lucy must follow her own wild way. In the welter of confused emotion it was all that was clear. It may have come from that sense of Lucy's detachment, that consciousness of cords and feelers stretching out to a new life which commanded and held closer than the old had ever done. All she knew was that Lucy was obeying some instinct that was law to her, that was true for her to obey. If they caught her and brought her back it would twist her life into a broken form. Was it love? Was that what had drawn her over all obstacles, away from the established joys and comforts, drawn her like a magnet to such a desperate course? With wide eyes the girl saw the whiteness of the dawn, and sat gripped in her resolution of silence, fearful at the thought of what that mighty force must be. CHAPTER V The cross, drowsy bustle of the camp's uprising was suddenly broken by a piercing cry. It came from Bella, who, standing by the mess chest, was revealed to her astonished companions with a buffalo skull in her hands, uttering as dolorous sounds as ever were emitted by that animal in the agony of its death throes. Her words were unintelligible, but on taking the skull from her the cause of her disturbance was made known. Upon the frontal bone were a few words scrawled in pencil--Lucy's farewell. It came upon them like a thunderbolt, and they took it in different ways--amazed silence, curses, angry questionings. The skull passed from hand to hand till Courant dropped it and kicked it to one side where Leff went after it, lifted it by the horns and stood spelling out the words with a grin. The children, at first rejoicing in the new excitement, soon recognized the note of dole, lifted up their voices and filled the air with cries for Lucy upon whom, in times at tribulation, they had come to look. Glen broke into savage anger, called down curses on his sister-in-law, applying to her certain terms of a scriptural simplicity till the doctor asked him to go afield and vent his passion in the seclusion of the sage. Bella, sunk in heavy, uncorseted despair upon the mess chest, gripped her children to her knees as though an army of ravishers menaced the house of McMurdo. Her words flowed with her tears, both together in a choked and bitter flood of wrath, sorrow, and self-pity. She bewailed Lucy, not only as a vanished relative but as a necessary member of the McMurdo escort. And doubts of Zavier's lawful intentions shook her from the abandon of her grief, to furious invective against the red man of all places and tribes whereso'er he be. "The dirty French-Indian," she wailed, "to take her off where he knows fast enough there's no way of marrying her." Courant tried to console her by telling her there was a good chance of the fugitives meeting a Catholic missionary, but that, instead of assuaging, intensified her woe. "A Catholic!" she cried, raising a drenched face from her apron. "And ain't that just as bad? My parents and hers were decent Presbyterians. Does their daughter have to stand up before a priest? Why don't you say a Mormon elder at once?" The McMurdos' condition of grief and rage was so violent, that the doctor suggested following the runaways. Bella rose in glad assent to this. Catch Lucy and bring her back! She was cheered at the thought and shouted it to Glen, who had gone off in a sulky passion and stood by his oxen swearing to himself and kicking their hoofs. The men talked it over. They could lay off for a day and Courant, who knew the trails, could lead the search party. He was much against it, and Daddy John was with him. Too much time had been lost. Zavier was an experienced mountain man and his horses were good. Besides, what was the use of bringing them back? They'd chosen each other, they'd taken their own course. It wasn't such a bad lookout for Lucy. Zavier was a first-rate fellow and he'd treat her well. What was the sense of interfering? Bella was furious, and shouted, "The sense is to get her back here and keep her where it's civilized, since she don't seem to know enough to keep there herself." Daddy John, who had been listening, flashed out: "It don't seem to me so d--d civilized to half kill her with work." Then Bella wept and Glen swore, and the men had pulled up the picket stakes, cinched their girths tight and started off in Indian file toward the distant spurs of the hills. Susan had said little. If it did not violate her conscience to keep silent, it did to pretend a surprise that was not hers. She sat at her tent door most of the day watching for the return of the search party. She was getting supper when she looked up and saw them, gave a low exclamation, and ran to the outskirts of the camp. Here she stood watching, heard Daddy John lounge up behind her and, turning, caught his hand. "Is she there?" she said in an eager whisper. "I can't see her." They both scrutinized the figures, small as toy horsemen, loping over the leathern distance. "Ain't there only four?" he said. "You can see better'n I." "Yes," she cried. "Four. I can count them. She isn't there. Oh, I'm glad!" The old man looked surprised: "Glad! Why?" "I don't know. Oh, don't tell, Daddy John, but I wanted her to get away. I don't know why, I suppose it's very wicked. But--but--it seemed so--so--as if she was a slave--so unfair to drag her away from her own life and make her lead some one else's." Lucy gone, lost as by shipwreck in the gulfs and windings of the mountains, was a fact that had to be accepted. The train moved on, for on the Emigrant Trail there was no leisure for fruitless repining. Only immediate happenings could fill the minds of wanderers struggling across the world, their energies matched against its primal forces. The way was growing harder, the animals less vigorous, and the strain of the journey beginning to tell. Tempers that had been easy in the long, bright days on the Platte now were showing sharp edges. Leff had become surly, Glen quarrelsome. One evening Susan saw him strike Bob a blow so savage that the child fell screaming in pain and terror. Bella rushed to her first born, gathered him in her arms and turned a crimsoned face of battle on her spouse. For a moment the storm was furious, and Susan was afraid that the blow would be repeated on the mother. She tried to pacify the enraged woman, and David and the doctor coaxed Glen away. The child had struck against an edge of stone and was bleeding, and after supper the father rocked him to sleep crooning over him in remorseful tenderness. But the incident left an ugly impression. They were passing up the Sweetwater, a mountain stream of busy importance with a current that was snow-cold and snow-pure. It wound its hurrying way between rock walls, and then relaxed in lazy coils through meadows where the grass was thick and juicy and the air musical with the cool sound of water. These were the pleasant places. Where the rocks crowded close about the stream the road left it and sought the plain again, splinding away into the arid desolation. The wheels ground over myriads of crickets that caked in the loose soil. There was nothing to break the eye-sweep but the cones of rusted buttes, the nearer ones showing every crease and shadow thread, the farther floating detached in the faint, opal shimmer of the mirage. One afternoon, in a deep-grassed meadow they came upon an encamped train outflung on the stream bank in wearied disarray. It was from Ohio, bound for California, and Glen and Bella decided to join it. This was what the doctor's party had been hoping for, as the slow pace of the McMurdo oxen held them back. Bella was well and the doctor could conscientiously leave her. It was time to part. Early in the morning the two trains rolled out under a heavy drizzle. Rain fell within the wagons even as it did without, Susan weeping among the sacks behind Daddy John and Bella with her children whimpering against her sides, stopping in her knitting to wipe away her tears with the long strip of stocking leg. They were to meet again in California--that everyone said. But California looked a long way off, and now.--For some reason or other it did not gleam so magically bright at the limit of their vision. Their minds had grown tired of dwelling on it and sank down wearied to each day's hard setting. By midday the doctor's wagons had left the others far behind. The rain fell ceaselessly, a cold and penetrating flood. The crowding crowns and crests about them loomed through the blur, pale and slowly whitening with falling snow. Beyond, the greater masses veiled themselves in cloud. The road skirted the river, creeping through a series of gorges with black walls down which the moisture spread in a ripple-edged, glassy glaze. Twice masses of fallen rock blocked the way, and the horses had to be unhitched and the wagons dragged into the stream bed. It was heavy work, and when they camped, ferociously hungry, no fire could be kindled, and there was nothing for it but to eat the hard-tack damp and bacon raw. Leff cursed and threw his piece away. He had been unusually morose and ill-humored for the last week, and once, when obliged to do sentry duty on a wet night, had flown into a passion and threatened to leave them. No one would have been sorry. Under the stress of mountain faring, the farm boy was not developing well. In the afternoon the rain increased to a deluge. The steady beat on the wagon hoods filled the interior with a hollow drumming vibration. Against the dimmed perspective the flanks of the horses undulated under a sleek coating of moisture. Back of the train, the horsemen rode, heads lowered against the vicious slant, shadowy forms like drooping, dispirited ghosts. The road wound into a gorge where the walls rose straight, the black and silver of the river curbed between them in glossy outspreadings and crisp, bubbling flashes. The place was full of echoes, held there and buffeted from wall to wall as if flying back and forth in a distracted effort to escape. David was driving in the lead, Susan under cover beside him. The morning's work had exhausted him and he felt ill, so she had promised to stay with him. She sat close at his back, a blanket drawn over her knees against the intruding wet, peering out at the darkling cleft. The wagon, creaking like a ship at sea, threw her this way and that. Once, as she struck against him he heard her low laugh at his ear. "It's like a little earthquake," she said, steadying herself with a grab at his coat. "There must have been a big earthquake here once," he answered. "Look at the rocks. They've been split as if a great force came up from underneath and burst them open." She craned her head forward to see and he looked back at her. Her face was close to his shoulder, glowing with the dampness. It shone against the shadowed interior rosily fresh as a child's. Her eyes, clear black and white, were the one sharp note in its downy softness. He could see the clean upspringing of her dark lashes, the little whisps of hair against her temple and ear. He could not look away from her. The grinding and slipping of the horses' hoofs did not reach his senses, held captive in a passionate observation. "You don't curl your hair any more?" he said, and the intimacy of this personal query added to his entrancement. She glanced quickly at him and broke into shamefaced laughter. A sudden lurch threw her against him and she clutched his arm. "Oh, David," she said, gurgling at the memory. "Did _you_ know that? I curled it for three nights on bits of paper that I tore out of the back of father's diary. And now I don't care what it looks like. See how I've changed!" And she leaned against him, holding the arm and laughing at her past frivolity. His eyes slid back to the horses, but he did not see them. With a slight, listening smile he gave himself up to the intoxication of the moment, feeling the pressure of her body soft against his arm. The reins which hung loose suddenly jerked through his fingers and the mare fell crashing to her knees. She was down before he knew it, head forward, and then with a quivering subsidence, prone in a tangle of torn harness. He urged her up with a jerked rein, she made a struggling effort, but fell back, and a groan, singularly human in its pain, burst from her. The wagon behind pounded almost on them, the mules crowding against each other. Daddy John's voice rising in a cracked hail. Courant and Leff came up from the rear, splashing through the river. "What's happened?" said the former. "It's Bess," said David, his face pallid with contrition. "I hope to God she's not hurt. Up, Bess, there! Up on your feet, old girl!" At her master's voice the docile brute made a second attempt to rise, but again sank down, her sides panting, her head strained up. Leff leaped off his horse. "Damn her, I'll make her get up," he said, and gave her a violent kick on the ribs. The mare rolled an agonized eye upon him, and with a sudden burst of fury he rained kick after kick on her face. David gave a strange sound, a pinched, thin cry, as if wrung from him by unbearable suffering, and leaped over the wheel. He struck Leff on the chest, a blow so savage and unexpected that it sent him staggering back into the stream, where, his feet slipping among the stones, he fell sprawling. "Do that again and I'll kill you," David cried, and moving to the horse stood over it with legs spread and fists clinched for battle. Leff scrambled to his knees, his face ominous, and Courant, who had been looking at the mare, apparently indifferent to the quarrel, now slipped to the ground. "Let that hound alone," he said. "I'm afraid it's all up with Bess." David turned and knelt beside her, touching her with hands so tremulous he could hardly direct them. His breath came in gasps, he was shaken and blinded with passion, high-pitched and nerve-wracking as a woman's. Leff rose, volleying curses. "Here you," Courant shifted a hard eye on him, "get out. Get on your horse and go," then turning to Bess, "Damn bad luck if we got to lose her." Leff stood irresolute, his curses dying away in smothered mutterings. His skin was gray, a trickle of blood ran down from a cut on his neck, his face showed an animal ferocity, dark and lowering as the front of an angry bull. With a slow lift of his head he looked at Susan, who was still in the wagon. She met the glance stonily with eyes in which her dislike had suddenly crystallized into open abhorrence. She gave a jerk of her head toward his horse, a movement of contemptuous command, and obeying it he mounted and rode away. She joined the two men, who were examining Bess, now stretched motionless and uttering pitiful sounds. David had the head, bruised and torn by Leff's kicks, on his knees, while Courant with expert hands searched for her hurt. It was not hard to find. The left foreleg had been broken at the knee, splinters of bone penetrating the skin. There was nothing to do with Bess but shoot her, and Courant went back for his pistols, while Daddy John and the doctor came up to listen with long faces. It was the first serious loss of the trip. Later in the day the rain stopped and the clouds that had sagged low with its weight, began to dissolve into vaporous lightness, float airily and disperse. The train debouched from the gorge into one of the circular meadows and here found Leff lying on a high spot on the ground, his horse cropping the grass near him. He made no remark, and as they came to a halt and began the work of camping, he continued to lie without moving or speaking, his eyes fixed on the mountains. These slowly unveiled themselves, showing in patches of brilliant color through rents in the mist which drew off lingeringly, leaving filaments caught delicately in the heights. The sky broke blue behind them, and clarified by the rain, the shadows brimmed high in the clefts. The low sun shot its beams across the meadow, leaving it untouched, and glittering on the remote, immaculate summits. In exhaustion the camp lay resting, tents unpitched, the animals nosing over the grass. David and Daddy John slept a dead sleep rolled in blankets on the teeming ground. Courant built a fire, called Susan to it, and bade her dry her wet skirts. He lay near it, not noticing her, his glance ranging the distance. The line of whitened peaks began to take on a golden glaze, and the shadows in the hollow mounted till the camp seemed to be at the bottom of a lake in which a tide of some gray, transparent essence was rising. "That's where Lucy's gone," he said suddenly without moving his head. Susan's eyes followed his. "Poor Lucy!" she sighed. "Why is she poor?" "Why?" indignantly. "What a question!" "But why do you call her poor? Is it because she has no money?" "Of course not. Who was thinking of money? I meant she was unfortunate to run away to such a life with a half-breed." "She's gone out into the mountains with her lover. I don't call that unfortunate, and I'll bet you she doesn't. She was brave enough to take her life when it came. She was a gallant girl, that Lucy." "I suppose that's what you'd think." And in scorn of more words she gave her attention to her skirt, spreading its sodden folds to the heat. Courant clasped his hands behind his head and gazed ruminantly before him. "Do you know how she'll live, that 'poor Lucy'?" "Like a squaw." He was unshaken by her contempt, did not seem to notice it. "They'll go by ways that wind deep into the mountains. It's wonderful there, peaks and peaks and peaks, and down the gorges and up over the passes, the trails go that only the trappers and the Indians know. They'll pass lakes as smooth as glass and green as this hollow we're in. You never saw such lakes, everything's reflected in them like a mirror. And after a while they'll come to the beaver streams and Zavier'll set his traps. At night they'll sleep under the stars, great big stars. Did you ever see the stars at night through the branches of the pine trees? They look like lanterns. It'll seem to be silent, but the night will be full of noises, the sounds that come in those wild places, a wolf howling in the distance, the little secret bubbling of the spring, and the wind in the pine trees. That's a sad sound, as if it was coming through a dream." The girl stirred and forgot her skirt. The solemn beauty that his words conjured up called her from her petty irritation. She looked at the mountains, her face full of a wistful disquiet. "And it'll seem as if there was no one else but them in the world. Two lovers and no one else, between the sunrise and the sunset. There won't be anybody else to matter, or to look for, or to think about. Just those two alone, all day by the river where the traps are set and at night under the blanket in the dark of the trees." Susan said nothing. For some inexplicable reason her spirits sank and she felt a bleak loneliness. A sense of insignificance fell heavily upon her, bearing down her high sufficiency, making her feel that she was a purposeless spectator on the outside of life. She struggled against it, struggled back toward cheer and self-assertion, and in her effort to get back, found herself seeking news of less picturesque moments in Lucy's lot. "But the winter," she said in a small voice like a pleading child's, "the winter won't be like that?" "When the winter comes Zavier'll build a hut. He'll make it out of small trees, long and thin, bent round with their tops stuck in the ground, and he'll thatch it with skins, and spread buffalo robes on the floor of it. There'll be a hole for the smoke to get out, and near the door'll be his graining block and stretching frame to cure his skins. On a tree nearby he'll hang his traps, and there'll be a brace of elkhorns fastened to another tree that they'll use for a rack to hang the meat and maybe their clothes on. They'll have some coffee and sugar and salt. That's all they'll need in the way of eatables, for he'll shoot all the game they want, _les aliments du pays_, as the fur men call it. It'll be cold, and maybe for months they'll see no one. But what will it matter? They'll have each other, snug and warm way off there in the heart of the mountains, with the big peaks looking down at them. Isn't that a good life for a man and a woman?" She did not answer, but sat as if contemplating the picture with fixed, far-seeing gaze. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at her. "Could you do that, little lady?" he said. "No," she answered, beating down rebellious inner whisperings. "Wouldn't you follow David that way?" "David wouldn't ask it. No civilized man would." "No, David wouldn't," he said quietly. She glanced quickly at him. Did she hear the note of mockery which she sensed whenever he alluded to her lover? She was ready at once to take up arms for David, but the face opposite was devoid of any expression save an intent, expectant interest. She dropped her eyes to her dress, perturbed by the closeness of her escape from a foolish exhibition which would have made her ridiculous. She always felt with Courant that she would be swept aside as a trivial thing if she lost her dignity. He watched her and she grew nervous, plucking at her skirt with an uncertain hand. "I wonder if you could?" he said after a pause. "Of course not," she snapped. "Aren't you enough of a woman?" "I'm not enough of a fool." "Aren't all women in love fools--anyway for a while?" She made no answer, and presently he said, his voice lowered: "Not enough of a woman to know how to love a man. Doesn't even for a moment understand it. It's 'poor Susan.'" Fury seized her, for she had not guessed where he was leading her, and now saw herself not only shorn of her dignity but shorn of her woman's prerogative of being able to experience a mad and unreasonable passion. "You're a liar," she burst out before she knew what words were coming. "Then you think you could?" he asked without the slightest show of surprise at her violence, apparently only curious. "Don't I?" she cried, ready to proclaim that she would follow David to destruction and death. "I don't know," he answered. "I've been wondering." "What business have you got to wonder about me?" "None--but," he leaned toward her, "you can't stop me doing that, little lady; that's one of the things you _can't_ control." For a moment they eyed each other, glance held glance in a smoldering challenge. The quizzical patronage had gone from his, the gleam of a subdued defiance taken its place. Hers was defiant too, but it was openly so, a surface thing that she had raised like a defense in haste and tremor to hide weakness. David moved in his blanket, yawned and threw out a languid hand. She leaped to her feet and ran to him. "David, are you better?" she cried, kneeling beside him. "Are you better, dear?" He opened his eyes, blinking, saw the beloved face, and smiled. "All right," he said sleepily. "I was only tired." She lifted one of the limp hands and pressed it to her cheek. "I've been so worried about you," she purred. "I couldn't put my mind on anything else. I haven't known what I was saying, I've been so worried." CHAPTER VI South Pass, that had been pictured in their thoughts as a cleft between snow-crusted summits, was a wide, gentle incline with low hills sweeping up on either side. From here the waters ran westward, following the sun. Pacific Spring seeped into the ground in an oasis of green whence whispering threads felt their way into the tawny silence and subdued by its weight lost heart and sank into the unrecording earth. Here they found the New York Company and a Mormon train filling up their water casks and growing neighborly in talk of Sublette's cut off and the route by the Big and Little Sandy. A man was a man even if he was a Mormon, and in a country so intent on its own destiny, so rapt in the calm of contemplation, he took his place as a human unit on whom his creed hung like an unnoticed tag. They filled their casks, visited in the two camps, and then moved on. Plain opened out of plain in endless rotation, rings of sun-scorched earth brushed up about the horizon in a low ridge like the raised rim on a plate. In the distance the thin skein of a water course drew an intricate pattern that made them think of the thread of slime left by a wandering snail. In depressions where the soil was webbed with cracks, a livid scurf broke out as if the face of the earth were scarred with the traces of inextinguishable foulness. An even subdual of tint marked it all. White had been mixed on the palette whence the colors were drawn. The sky was opaque with it; it had thickened the red-browns and yellows to ocher and pale shades of putty. Nothing moved and there were no sounds, only the wheeling sun changed the course of the shadows. In the morning they slanted from the hills behind, eagerly stretching after the train, straining to overtake and hold it, a living plaything in this abandoned land. At midday a blot of black lay at the root of every sage brush. At evening each filigreed ridge, each solitary cone rising detached in the sealike circle of its loneliness, showed a slant of amethyst at its base, growing longer and finer, tapering prodigiously, and turning purple as the earth turned orange. There was little speech in the moving caravan. With each day their words grew fewer, their laughter and light talk dwindled. Gradual changes had crept into the spirit of the party. Accumulations of habit and custom that had collected upon them in the dense life of towns were dropping away. As the surface refinements of language were dying, so their faces had lost a certain facile play of expression. Delicate nuances of feeling no longer showed, for they no longer existed. Smiles had grown rarer, and harder characteristics were molding their features into sterner lines. The acquired deceptiveness of the world of men was leaving them. Ugly things that they once would have hidden cropped out unchecked by pride or fear of censure. They did not care. There was no standard, there was no public opinion. Life was resolving itself into a few great needs that drove out all lesser and more delicate desires. Beings of a ruder make were usurping their bodies. The primitive man in them was rising to meet the primitive world. In the young girl the process of elimination was as rapid if not as radical as in the case of the men. She was unconsciously ridding herself of all that hampered and made her unfit. From the soft feminine tissue, intricacies of mood and fancy were being obliterated. Rudimentary instincts were developing, positive and barbaric as a child's. In the old days she had been dainty about her food. Now she cooked it in blackened pans and ate with the hunger of the men. Sleep, that once had been an irksome and unwelcome break between the pleasures of well-ordered days, was a craving that she satisfied, unwashed, often half-clad. In Rochester she had spent thought and time upon her looks, had stood before her mirror matching ribbons to her complexion, wound and curled her hair in becoming ways. Now her hands, hardened and callous as a boy's, were coarse-skinned with broken nails, sometimes dirty, and her hair hung rough from the confining teeth of a comb and a few bent pins. When in flashes of retrospect she saw her old self, this pampered self of crisp fresh frocks and thoughts moving demurely in the narrow circle of her experience, it did not seem as if it could be the same Susan Gillespie. All that made up the little parcel of her personality seemed gone. In those days she had liked this and wanted that and forgotten and wanted something else. Rainy weather had sent its ashen sheen over her spirit, and her gladness had risen to meet the sun. She remembered the sudden sweeps of depression that had clouded her horizon when she had drooped in an unintelligible and not entirely disagreeable melancholy, and the contrasting bursts of gayety when she laughed at anything and loved everybody. Hours of flitting fancies flying this way and that, hovering over chance incidents that were big by contrast with the surrounding uneventfulness, the idleness of dropped hands and dreaming eyes, the charmed peerings into the future--all were gone. Life had seized her in a mighty grip, shaken her free of it all, and set her down where she felt only a few imperious sensations, hunger, fatigue, fear of danger, love of her father, and-- She pulled her thoughts to obedience with a sharp jerk and added--love of David and hatred of Courant. These two latter facts stood out sentinel-wise in the foreground. In the long hours on horseback she went over them like a lesson she was trying to learn. She reviewed David's good points, dwelt on them, held them up for her admiration, and told herself no girl had ever had a finer or more gallant lover. She was convinced of it and was quite ready to convince anybody who denied it. Only when her mental vision--pressed on by some inward urge of obscure self-distrust--carried her forward to that future with David in the cabin in California, something in her shrank and failed. Her thought leaped back as from an abhorrent contact, and her body, caught by some mysterious internal qualm, felt limp and faintly sickened. She dwelt even more persistently on Courant's hatefulness, impressed upon herself his faults. He was hard and she had seen him brutal, a man without feeling, as he had shown when the Mormon boy died, a harsh and remorseless leader urging them on, grudging them even their seventh day rest, deaf to their protests, lashing them forward with contempt of their weakness. This was above and apart from his manner to her. That she tried to feel was a small, personal matter, but, nevertheless, it stung, did not cease to sting, and left an unhealed sore to rankle in her pride. He did not care to hide that he held her cheaply, as a useless futile thing. Once she had heard him say to Daddy John, "It's the women in the train that make the trouble. They're always in the way." And she was the only woman. She would like to see him conquered, beaten, some of his heady confidence stricken out of him, and when he was humbled have stood by and smiled at his humiliation. So she passed over the empty land under the empty sky, a particle of matter carrying its problem with it. It was late afternoon when they encamped by the Big Sandy. The march had been distressful, bitter in their mouths with the clinging clouds of powdered alkali, their heads bowed under the glaring ball of the sun. All day the circling rim of sky line had weaved up and down, undulating in the uncertainty of the mirage, the sage had blotted into indistinct seas that swam before their strained vision. When the river cleft showed in black tracings across the distance, they stiffened and took heart, coolness and water were ahead. It was all they had hope or desire for just then. At the edge of the clay bluff, they dipped and poured down a corrugated gully, the dust sizzling beneath the braked wheels, the animals, the smell of water in their nostrils, past control. The impetus of the descent carried them into the chill, purling current. Man and beast plunged in, laved in it, drank it, and then lay by it resting, spent and inert. They camped where a grove of alders twinkled in answer to the swift, telegraphic flashes of the stream. Under these the doctor pitched his tents, the hammering of the pegs driving through the sounds of man's occupation into the quietude that lapped them like sleeping tides. The others hung about the center of things where wagons and mess chests, pans and fires, made the nucleus of the human habitation. Susan, sitting on a box, with a treasure of dead branches at her feet, waited yet a space before setting them in the fire form. She was sunk in the apathy of the body surrendered to restoring processes. The men's voices entered the channels of her ears and got no farther. Her vision acknowledged the figure of Leff nearby sewing up a rent in his coat, but her brain refused to accept the impression. Her eye held him in a heavy vacuity, watched with a trancelike fixity his careful stitches and the armlong stretch of the drawn thread. Had she shifted it a fraction, it would have encountered David squatting on the bank washing himself. His long back, the red shirt drawn taut across its bowed outline, showed the course of his spine in small regular excrescences. The water that he raised in his hands and rinsed over his face and neck made a pleasant, clean sound, that her ear noted with the other sounds. Somewhere behind her Daddy John and Courant made a noise with skillets and picket pins and spoke a little, a sentence mutteringly dropped and monosyllabically answered. David turned a streaming face over his shoulder, blinking through the water. The group he looked at was as idyllically peaceful as wayfarers might be after the heat and burden of the day. Rest, fellowship, a healthy simplicity of food and housing were all in the picture either visibly or by implication. "Throw me the soap, Leff," he called, "I forgot it." The soap lay on the top of a meal sack, a yellow square, placed there by David on his way to the water. It shone between Susan and Leff, standing forth as a survival of a pampered past. Susan's eye shifted toward it, fastened on it, waiting for Leff's hand to come and bear it away. But the hand executed no such expected maneuver. It planted the needle deliberately, pushed it through, drew it out with its long tail of thread. Surprise began to dispel her lethargy. Her eye left the soap, traveled at a more sprightly speed back to Leff, lit on his face with a questioning intelligence. David called again. "Hurry up. I want to light the fire." Leff took another considered stitch. "I don't know where it is," he answered without looking up. The questioning of Susan's glance became accusative. "It's there beside you on the meal sack," she said. "Throw it to him." Leff raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were curiously pale and wide. She could see the white round the fixed pupil. "Do it yourself," he answered, his tone the lowest that could reach her. "Do it or go to Hell." She rested without movement, her mouth falling slightly open. For the moment there was a stoppage of all feeling but amazement, which invaded her till she seemed to hold nothing else. David's voice came from a far distance, as if she had floated away from him and it was a cord jerking her back to her accustomed place. "Hurry up," it called. "It's right there beside you." Leff threw down his sewing and leaped to his feet. Leaning against the bank behind him was his gun, newly cleaned and primed. "Get it yourself and be d--d to you!" he roared. The machinery of action stopped as though by the breaking of a spring. Their watches ticked off a few seconds of mind paralysis in which there was no expectancy or motive power, all action inhibited. Sight was all they used for those seconds. Leff spoke first, the only one among them whose thinking process had not been snapped: "If you keep on shouting for me to do your errands, I'll show you"--he snatched up the gun and brought it to his shoulder with a lightning movement--"I'll send you where you can't order me round--you and this d--d ------ here." The inhibition was lifted and the three men rushed toward him. Daddy John struck up the gun barrel with a tent pole. The charge passed over David's head, spat in the water beyond, the report crackling sharp in the narrow ravine. David staggered, the projection of smoke reaching out toward him, his hands raised to ward it off, not knowing whether he was hurt or not. "That's a great thing to do," he cried, dazed, and stubbing his foot on a stone stumbled to his knees. The two others fell on Leff. Susan saw the gun ground into the dust under their trampling feet and Leff go down on top of it. Daddy John's tent pole battered at him, and Courant on him, a writhing body, grappled and wrung at his throat. The doctor came running from the trees, the hammer in his hand, and Susan grabbed at the descending pole, screaming: "You're killing him. Father, stop them. They'll murder him." The sight of his Missy clinging to the pole brought the old man to his senses, but it took David and the doctor to drag Courant away. For a moment they were a knot of struggling bodies, from which oaths and sobbing breaths broke. Upright he shook them off and backed toward the bank, leaving them looking at him, all expectant. He growled a few broken words, his face white under the tan, the whole man shaken by a passion so transforming that they forgot the supine figure and stood alert, ready to spring upon him. He made a movement of his head toward Leff. "Why didn't you let me kill him?" he said huskily. It broke the tension. Their eyes dropped to Leff, who lay motionless and unconscious, blood on his lips, a slip of white showing under his eyelids. The doctor dropped on his knees beside him and opened his shirt. Daddy John gave him an investigating push with the tent pole, and David eyed him with an impersonal, humane concern. Only Susan's glance remained on Courant, unfaltering as the beam of a fixed star. His savage excitement was on the ebb. He pulled his hunting shirt into place and felt along his belt for his knife, while his broad breast rose like a wave coming to its breakage then dropped as the wave drops into its hollow. The hand he put to his throat to unfasten the band of his shirt shook, it had difficulty in manipulating the button, and he ran his tongue along his dried lips. She watched every movement, to the outward eye like a child fascinated by an unusual and terrifying spectacle. But her gaze carried deeper than the perturbed envelope. She looked through to the man beneath, felt an exultation in his might, knew herself kindred with him, fed by the same wild strain. His glance moved, touched the unconscious man at his feet, then lifting met hers. Eye held eye. In each a spark leaped, ran to meet its opposing spark and flashed into union. When she looked down again the group of figures was dim. Their talk came vaguely to her, like the talk of men in a dream. David was explaining. Daddy John made a grimace at him which was a caution to silence. The doctor had not heard and was not to hear the epithet that had been applied to his daughter. "He's sun mad," the old man said. "Half crazy. I've seen 'em go that way before. How'll he get through the desert I'm asking you?" There were some contusions on the head that looked bad, the doctor said, but nothing seemed to be broken. He'd been half strangled; they'd have to get him into the wagon. "Leave him at Fort Bridger," came Courant's voice through the haze. "Leave him there to rot." The doctor answered in the cold tones of authority: "We'll take him with us as we agreed in the beginning. Because he happens not to be able to stand it, it's not for us to abandon him. It's a physical matter--sun and hard work and irritated nerves. Take a hand and help me lift him into the wagon." They hoisted him in and disposed him on a bed of buffalo robes spread on sacks. He groaned once or twice, then settled on the softness of the skins, gazing at them with blood-shot eyes of hate. When the doctor offered him medicine, he struck the tin, sending its contents flying. However serious his hurts were they had evidently not mitigated the ferocity of his mood. For the three succeeding days he remained in the wagon, stiff with bruises and refusing to speak. Daddy John was detailed to take him his meals, and the doctor dressed his wounds and tried to find the cause of his murderous outburst. But Leff was obdurate. He would express no regret for his action, and would give no reason for it. Once when the questioner asked him if he hated David, he said "Yes." But to the succeeding, "Why did he?" he offered no explanation, said he "didn't know why." "Hate never came without a reason," said the physician, curious and puzzled. "Has David wronged you in any way?" "What's that to you?" answered the farm boy. "I can hate him if I like, can't I?" "Not in my train." "Well there are other trains where the men aren't all fools, and the women----" He stopped. The doctor's eye held him with a warning gleam. "I don't know what's the matter with that boy," he said afterwards in the evening conference. "I can't get at him." "Sun mad," Daddy John insisted. Courant gave a grunt that conveyed disdain of a question of such small import. David couldn't account for it at all. Susan said nothing. At Green River the Oregon Trail broke from the parent road and slanted off to the northwest. Here the Oregon companies mended their wagons and braced their yokes for the long pull across the broken teeth of mountains to Fort Hall, and from there onward to the new country of great rivers and virgin forests. A large train was starting as the doctor's wagons came down the slope. There was some talk, and a little bartering between the two companies, but time was precious, and the head of the Oregon caravan had begun to roll out when the California party were raising their tents on the river bank. It was a sere and sterile prospect. Drab hills rolled in lazy waves toward the river where they reared themselves into bolder forms, a line of ramparts guarding the precious thread of water. The sleek, greenish current ate at the roots of lofty bluffs, striped by bands of umber and orange, and topped with out-croppings of rock as though a vanished race had crowned them with now crumbling fortresses. At their feet, sucking life from the stream, a fringe of alder and willows decked the sallow landscape with a trimming of green. Here the doctor's party camped for the night, rising in the morning to find a new defection in their ranks. Leff had gone. Nailed to the mess chest was a slip of paper on which he had traced a few words announcing his happiness to be rid of them, his general dislike of one and all, and his intention to catch up the departed train and go to the Oregon country. This was just what they wanted, the desired had been accomplished without their intervention. But when they discovered that, beside his own saddle horse, he had taken David's, their gladness suffered a check. It was a bad situation, for it left the young man with but one horse, the faithful Ben. There was nothing for it but to abandon the wagon, and give David the doctor's extra mount for a pack animal. With silent pangs the student saw his books thrown on the banks of the river while his keg of whisky, sugar and coffee were stored among the Gillespies' effects. Then they started, a much diminished train--one wagon, a girl, and three mounted men. CHAPTER VII It was Sunday afternoon, and the doctor and his daughter were sitting by a group of alders on the banks of the little river called Ham's Fork. On the uplands above, the shadows were lengthening, and at intervals a light air caught up swirls of dust and carried them careening away in staggering spirals. The doctor was tired and lay stretched on the ground. He looked bloodless and wan, the grizzled beard not able to hide the thinness of his face. The healthful vigor he had found on the prairie had left him, each day's march claiming a dole from his hoarded store of strength. He knew--no one else--that he had never recovered the vitality expended at the time of Bella's illness. The call then had been too strenuous, the depleted reservoir had filled slowly, and now the demands of unremitting toil were draining it of what was left. He said nothing of this, but thought much in his feverish nights, and in the long afternoons when his knees felt weak against the horse's sides. As the silence of each member of the little train was a veil over secret trouble, his had hidden the darkest, the most sinister. Susan, sitting beside him, watching him with an anxious eye, noted the languor of his long, dry hands, the network of lines, etched deep on the loose skin of his cheeks. Of late she had been shut in with her own preoccupations, but never too close for the old love and the old habit to force a way through. She had seen a lessening of energy and spirit, asked about it, and received the accustomed answers that came with the quick, brisk cheeriness that now had to be whipped up. She had never seen his dauntless belief in life shaken. Faith and a debonair courage were his message. They were still there, but the effort of the unbroken spirit to maintain them against the body's weakness was suddenly revealed to her and the pathos of it caught at her throat. She leaned forward and passed her hand over his hair, her eyes on his face in a long gaze of almost solemn tenderness. "You're worn out," she said. "Not a bit of it," he answered stoutly. "You're the most uncomplimentary person I know. I was just thinking what a hardy pioneer I'd become, and that's the way you dash me to the ground." She looked at the silvery meshes through which her fingers were laced. "It's quite white and there were lots of brown hairs left when we started." "That's the Emigrant Trail," he smothered a sigh, and his trouble found words: "It's not for old men, Missy." "Old!" scornfully; "you're fifty-three. That's only thirty-two years older than I am. When I'm fifty-three you'll be eighty-five. Then we'll begin to talk about your being old." "My little Susan fifty-three!" He moved his head so that he could command her face and dwell upon its blended bloom of olive and clear rose, "With wrinkles here and here," an indicating finger helped him, "and gray hairs all round here, and thick eyebrows, and--" he dropped the hand and his smile softened to reminiscence, "It was only yesterday you were a baby, a little, fat, crowing thing all creases and dimples. Your mother and I used to think everything about you so wonderful that we each secretly believed--and we'd tell each other so when nobody was round--that there _had_ been other babies in the world, but never before one like ours. I don't know but what I think that yet." "Silly old doctor-man!" she murmured. "And now my baby's a woman with all of life before her. From where you are it seems as if it was never going to end, but when you get where I am and begin to look back, you see that it's just a little journey over before you've got used to the road and struck your gait. We ought to have more time. The first half's just learning and the second's where we put the learning into practice. And we're busy over that when we have to go. It's too short." "Our life's going to be long. Out in California we're going to come into a sort of second childhood, be perennials like those larkspurs I had in the garden at home." They were silent, thinking of the garden behind the old house in Rochester with walks outlined by shells and edged by long flower beds. The girl looked back on it with a detached interest as an unregretted feature of a past existence in which she had once played her part and that was cut from the present by a chasm never to be bridged. The man held it cherishingly as one of many lovely memories that stretched from this river bank in a strange land back through the years, a link in the long chain. "Wasn't it pretty!" she said dreamily, "with the line of hollyhocks against the red brick wall, and the big, bushy pine tree in the corner. Everything was bright except that tree." His eyes narrowed in wistful retrospect: "It was as if all the shadows in the garden had concentrated there--huddled together in one place so that the rest could be full of color and sunshine. And when Daddy John and I wanted to cut it down you wouldn't let us, cried and stamped, and so, of course, we gave it up. I actually believe you had a sentiment about that tree." "I suppose I had, though I don't know exactly what you mean by a sentiment. I loved it because I'd once had such a perfect time up there among the branches. The top had been cut off and a ring of boughs was left round the place, and it made the most comfortable seat, almost like a cradle. One day you went to New York and when you came back you brought me a box of candy. Do you remember it--burnt almonds and chocolate drops with a dog painted on the cover? Well, I wanted to get them at their very best, enjoy them as much as I could, so I climbed to the seat in the top of the pine and ate them there. I can remember distinctly how lovely it was. They tasted better than any candies I've ever had before or since, and I leaned back on the boughs, rocking and eating and looking at the clouds and feeling the wind swaying the trunk. I can shut my eyes and feel again the sense of being entirely happy, sort of limp and forgetful and _so_ contented. I don't know whether it was only the candies, or a combination of things that were just right that day and never combined the same way again. For I tried it often afterwards, with cake and fruit tart and other candies, but it was no good. But I couldn't have the tree cut down, for there was always a hope that I might get the combination right and have that perfectly delightful time once more." The doctor's laughter echoed between the banks, and hers fell in with it, though she had told her story with the utmost sedateness. "Was there ever such a materialist?" he chuckled. "It all rose from a box of New York candy, and I thought it was sentiment. Twenty-one years old and the same baby, only not quite so fat." "Well, it was the truth," she said defensively. "I suppose if I'd left the candy out it would have sounded better." "Don't leave the candy out. It was the candy and the truth that made it all Susan's." She picked up a stone and threw it in the river, then as she watched its splash: "Doesn't it seem long ago when we were in Rochester?" "We left there in April and this is June." "Yes, a short time in weeks, but some way or other it seems like ages. When I think of it I feel as if it was at the other side of the world, and I'd grown years and years older since we left. If I go on this way I'll be fully fifty-three when we get to California." "What's made you feel so old?" "I don't exactly know. I don't think it's because we've gone over so much space, but that has something to do with it. It seems as if the change was more in me." "How have you changed?" She gathered up the loose stones near her and dropped them from palm to palm, frowning a little in an effort to find words to clothe her vague thought. "I don't know that either, or I can't express it. I liked things there that I don't care for any more. They were such babyish things and amounted to nothing, but they seemed important then. Now nothing seems important but things that are--the things that would be on a desert island. And in getting to think that way, in getting so far from what you once were, a person seems to squeeze a good many years into a few weeks." She looked sideways at him, the stones dropping from a slanting palm. "Do you understand me?" He nodded: "'When I was a child I thought as a child--now I have put away childish things.' Is that it?" "Yes, exactly." "Then you wouldn't like to go back to the old life?" She scattered the stones with an impatient gesture: "I couldn't. I'd hate it. I wouldn't squeeze back into the same shape. I'd be all cramped and crowded up. You see every day out here I've been growing wider and wider," she stretched her arms to their length, "widening out to fit these huge, enormous places." "The new life will be wide enough for you. You'll grow like a tree, a beautiful, tall, straight tree that has plenty of room for its branches to spread and plenty of sun and air to nourish it. There'll be no crowding or cramping out there. It's good to know you'll be happy in California. In the beginning I had fears." She picked up a stone and with its pointed edge drew lines on the dust which seemed to interest her, for she followed them with intent eyes, not answering. He waited for a moment, then said with an undernote of pleading in his voice, "You think you will be happy, dearie?" "I--I--don't--know," she stammered. "Nobody can tell. We're not there yet." "I can tell." He raised himself on his elbow to watch her face. She knew that he expected to see the maiden's bashful happiness upon it, and the difference between his fond imaginings and the actual facts sickened her with an intolerable sense of deception. She could never tell him, never strike out of him his glad conviction of her contentment. "We're going back to the Golden Age, you and I, and David. We'll live as we want, not the way other people want us to. When we get to California we'll build a house somewhere by a river and we'll plant our seeds and have vines growing over it and a garden in the front, and Daddy John will break Julia's spirit and harness her to the plow. Then when the house gets too small--houses have a way of doing that--I'll build a little cabin by the edge of the river, and you and David will have the house to yourselves where the old, white-headed doctor won't be in the way." He smiled for the joy of his picture, and she turned her head from him, seeing the prospect through clouded eyes. "You'll never go out of my house," she said in a low voice. "Other spirits will come into it and fill it up." A wish that anything might stop the slow advance to this roseate future choked her. She sat with averted face wrestling with her sick distaste, and heard him say: "You don't know how happy you're going to be, my little Missy." She could find no answer, and he went on: "You have everything for it, health and youth and a pure heart and David for your mate." She had to speak now and said with urgence, trying to encourage herself, since no one else could do it for her, "But that's all in the future, a long time from now." "Not so very long. We ought to be in California in five or six weeks." To have the dreaded reality suddenly brought so close, set at the limit of a few short weeks, grimly waiting at a definite point in the distance, made her repugnance break loose in alarmed words. "Longer than that," she cried. "The desert's the hardest place, and we'll go slow, very slow, there." "You sound as if you wanted to go slow," he answered, his smile indulgently quizzical, as completely shut away from her, in his man's ignorance, as though no bond of love and blood held them together. "No, no, of course not," she faltered. "But I'm not at all sure we'll get through it so easily. I'm making allowance for delays. There are always delays." "Yes, there may be delays, but we'll hope to be one of the lucky trains and get through on time." She swallowed dryly, her heart gone down too far to be plucked up by futile contradition [Transcriber's note: contradiction?]. He mused a moment, seeking the best method of broaching a subject that had been growing in his mind for the past week. Frankness seemed the most simple, and he said: "I've something to suggest to you. I've been thinking of it since we left the Pass. Bridger is a large post. They say there are trains there from all over the West and people of all sorts, and quite often there are missionaries." "Missionaries?" in a faint voice. "Yes, coming in and going out to the tribes of the Northwest. Suppose we found one there when we arrived?" He stopped, watching her. "Well?" her eyes slanted sideways in a fixity of attention. "Would you marry David? Then we could all go on together." Her breath left her and she turned a frightened face on him. "Why?" she gasped. "What for?" He laid his hand on hers and said quietly: "Because, as you say, the hardest part of the journey is yet to come, and I am--well--not a strong man any more. The trip hasn't done for me what I hoped. If by some mischance--if anything should happen to me--then I'd know you'd be taken care of, protected and watched over by some one who could be trusted, whose right it was to do that." "Oh, no. Oh, no," she cried in a piercing note of protest. "I couldn't, I couldn't." She made as if to rise, then sank back, drawn down by his grasping hand. He thought her reluctance natural, a girl's shrinking at the sudden intrusion of marriage into the pretty comedy of courtship. "Susan, I would like it," he pleaded. "No," she tried to pull her hand away, as if wishing to draw every particle of self together and shut it all within her own protecting shell. "Why not?" "It's--it's--I don't want to be married out here in the wilds. I want to wait and marry as other girls do, and have a real wedding and a house to go to. I should hate it. I couldn't. It's like a squaw. You oughtn't to ask it." Her terror lent her an unaccustomed subtlety. She eluded the main issue, seizing on objections that did not betray her, but that were reasonable, what might have been expected by the most unsuspicious of men: "And as for your being afraid of falling sick in these dreadful places, isn't that all the more reason why I should be free to give all my time and thought to you? If you don't feel so strong, then marrying is the last thing I'd think of doing. I'm going to be with you all the time, closer than I ever was before. No man's going to come between us. Marry David and push you off into the background when you're not well and want me most--that's perfectly ridiculous." She meant all she said. It was the truth, but it was the truth reinforced, given a fourfold strength by her own unwillingness. The thought that she had successfully defeated him, pushed the marriage away into an indefinite future, relieved her so that the dread usually evoked by his ill health was swept aside. She turned on him a face, once again bright, all clouds withdrawn, softened into dimpling reassurance. "What an idea!" she said. "Men have no sense." "Very well, spoiled girl. I suppose we'll have to put it off till we get to California." She dropped back full length on the ground, and in the expansion of her relief laid her cheek against the hand that clasped hers. "And until we get the house built," she cried, beginning to laugh. "And the garden laid out and planted, I suppose?" "Of course. And the vines growing over the front porch." "Why not over the second story? We'll have a second story by that time." "Over the whole house, up to the chimneys." They both laughed, a cheerful bass and a gay treble, sweeping out across the unquiet water. "It's going to be the Golden Age," she said, in the joy of her respite pressing her lips on the hand she held. "A cottage covered with vines to the roof and you and I and Daddy John inside it." "And David, don't forget David." "Of course, David," she assented lightly, for David's occupancy was removed to a comfortable distance. After supper she and David climbed to the top of the bank to see the sunset. The breeze had dropped, the dust devils died with it. The silence of evening lay like a cool hand on the heated earth. Dusk was softening the hard, bright colors, wiping out the sharpness of stretching shadows the baked reflection of sun on clay. The West blazed above the mountains, but the rest of the sky was a thick, pure blue. Against it to the South, a single peak rose, snow-enameled on a turquoise background. Susan felt at peace with the moment and her own soul. She radiated the good humor of one who has faced peril and escaped. Having postponed the event that was to make her David's forever, she felt bound to offer recompense. Her conscience went through one of those processes by which the consciences of women seek ease through atonement, prompting them to actions of a baleful kindliness. Contrition made her tender to the man she did not love. The thought that she had been unfair added a cruel sweetness to her manner. He lay on the edge of the bluff beside her, not saying much, for it was happiness to feel her within touch of his hand, amiable and gentle as she had been of late. It would have taken an eye shrewder than David's to have seen into the secret springs of her conduct. He only knew that she had been kinder, friendlier, less withdrawn into the sanctuary of her virgin coldness, round which in the beginning he had hovered. His heart was high, swelled by the promise of her beaming looks and ready smiles. At last, in this drama of slow winning she was drawing closer, shyly melting, her whims and perversities mellowing to the rich, sweet yielding of the ultimate surrender. "We ought to be at Fort Bridger now in a few days," he said. "Courant says if all goes well we can make it by Thursday and of course he knows." "Courant!" she exclaimed with the familiar note of scorn. "He knows a little of everything, doesn't he?" "Why don't you like him, Missy? He's a fine man for the trail." "Yes, I dare say he is. But that's not everything." "Why don't you like him? Come, tell the truth." They had spoken before of her dislike of Courant. She had revealed it more frankly to David than to anyone else. It was one of the subjects over which she could become animated in the weariest hour. She liked to talk to her betrothed about it, to impress it upon him, warming to an eloquence that allayed her own unrest. "I don't know why I don't like him. You can't always tell why you like or dislike a person. It's just something that comes and you don't know why." "But it seems so childish and unfair. I don't like my girl to be unfair. Has he ever done anything or said anything to you that offended you?" She gave a petulant movement: "No, but he thinks so much of himself, and he's hard and has no feeling, and-- Oh, I don't know--it's just that I don't like him." David laughed: "It's all prejudice. You can't give any real reason." "Of course I can't. Those things don't always have reasons. You're always asking for reasons and I never have any to give you." "I'll have to teach you to have them." She looked slantwise at him smiling. "I'm afraid that will be a great undertaking. I'm very stupid about learning things. You ask father and Daddy John what a terrible task it was getting me educated. The only person that didn't bother about it was this one"--she laid a finger on her chest-- "She never cared in the least." "Well I'll begin a second education. When we get settled I'll teach you to reason." "Begin now." She folded her hands demurely in her lap and lifting her head back laughed: "Here I am waiting to learn." "No. We want more time. I'll wait till we're married." Her laughter diminished to a smile that lay on her lips, looking stiff and uncomfortable below the fixity of her eyes. "That's such a long way off," she said faintly. "Not so very long." "Oh, California's hundreds of miles away yet. And then when we get there we've got to find a place to settle, and till the land, and lay out the garden and build a house, quite a nice house; I don't want to live in a cabin. Father and I have just been talking about it. Why it's months and months off yet." He did not answer. She had spoken this way to him before, wafting the subject away with evasive words. After a pause he said slowly: "Why need we wait so long?" "We must. I'm not going to begin my married life the way the emigrant women do. I want to live decently and be comfortable." He broke a sprig off a sage bush and began to pluck it apart. She had receded to her defenses and peeped nervously at him from behind them. "Fort Bridger," he said, his eyes on the twig, "is a big place, a sort of rendezvous for all kinds of people." She stared at him, her face alert with apprehension, ready to dart into her citadel and lower the drawbridge. "Sometimes there are missionaries stopping there." "Missionaries?" she exclaimed in a high key. "I hate missionaries!" This was a surprising statement. David knew the doctor to be a supporter and believer in the Indian missions, and had often heard his daughter acquiesce in his opinions. "Why do you hate them?" "I don't know. There's another thing you want a reason for. It's getting cold up here--let's go down by the fire." She gathered herself together to rise, but he turned quickly upon her, and his face, while it made her shrink, also arrested her. She had come to dread that expression, persuasion hardened into desperate pleading. It woke in her a shocked repugnance, as though something had been revealed to her that she had no right to see. She felt shame for him, that he must beg where a man should conquer and subdue. "Wait a moment," he said. "Why can't one of those missionaries marry us there?" She had scrambled to her knees, and snatched at her skirt preparatory to the jump to her feet. "No," she said vehemently. "No. What's the matter with you all talking about marriages and missionaries when we're in the middle of the wilds?" "Susan," he cried, catching at her dress, "just listen a moment. I could take care of you then, take care of you properly. You'd be my own, to look after and work for. It's seemed to me lately you loved me enough. I wouldn't have suggested such a thing if you were as you were in the beginning. But you seem to care now. You seem as if--as if--it wouldn't be so hard for you to live with me and let me love you." She jerked her skirt away and leaped to her feet crying again, "No, David, no. Not for a minute." He rose too, very pale, the piece of sage in his hand shaking. They looked at each other, the yellow light clear on both faces. Hers was hard and combative, as if his suggestion had outraged her and she was ready to fight it. Its expression sent a shaft of terror to his soul, for with all his unselfishness he was selfish in his man's longing for her, hungered for her till his hunger had made him blind. Now in a flash of clairvoyance he saw truly, and feeling the joy of life slipping from him, faltered: "Have I made a mistake? Don't you care?" It was her opportunity, she was master of her fate. But her promise was still a thing that held, the moment had not come when she saw nothing but her own desire, and to gain it would have sacrificed all that stood between. His stricken look, his expression of nerving himself for a blow, pierced her, and her words rushed out in a burst of contrition. "Of course, of course, I do. Don't doubt me. Don't. But-- Oh, David, don't torment me. Don't ask anything like that now. I can't, I can't. I'm not ready--not yet." Her voice broke and she put her hand to her mouth to hide its trembling. Over it, her eyes, suddenly brimming with tears, looked imploringly into his. It was a heart-tearing sight to the lover. He forgot himself and, without knowing what he did, opened his arms to inclose her in an embrace of pity and remorse. "Oh, dearest, I'll never ask it till you're willing to come to me," he cried, and saw her back away, with upheld shoulders raised in defense against his hands. "I won't touch you," he said, quickly dropping his arms. "Don't draw back from me. If you don't want it I'll never lay a finger on you." The rigidity of her attitude relaxed. She turned away her head and wiped her tears on the end of the kerchief knotted round her neck. He stood watching her, struggling with passion and foreboding, reassured and yet with the memory of the seeing moment, chill at his heart. Presently she shot a timid glance at him, and met his eyes resting questioningly upon her. Her face was tear stained, a slight, frightened smile on the lips. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Susan, do you truly care for me?" "Yes," she said, looking down. "Yes--but--let me wait a little while longer." "As long as you like. I'll never ask you to marry me till you say you're willing." She held out her hand shyly, as if fearing a repulse. He took it, and feeling it relinquished to his with trust and confidence, swore that never again would he disturb her, never demand of her till she was ready to give. CHAPTER VIII Fort Bridger was like a giant magnet perpetually revolving and sweeping the western half of the country with its rays. They wheeled from the west across the north over the east and down to the south. Ox teams, prairie schooners, pack trains, horsemen came to it from the barren lands that guarded the gates of California, from the tumultuous rivers and fragrant forests of the Oregon country, from the trapper's paths and the thin, icy streams of the Rockies, from the plains where the Platte sung round its sand bars, from the sun-drenched Spanish deserts. All roads led to it, and down each one came the slow coil of the long trains and the pacing files of mounted men. Under its walls they rested and repaired their waste, ere they took the trail again intent on the nation's work of conquest. The fort's centripetal attraction had caught the doctor's party, and was drawing it to the focus. They reckoned the days on their fingers and pressed forward with a feverish hurry. They were like wayworn mariners who sight the lights of a port. Dead desires, revived, blew into a glow extinguished vanities. They looked at each other, and for the first time realized how ragged and unkempt they were, then dragged out best clothes from the bottom of their chests and hung their looking-glasses to the limbs of trees. They were coming to the surface after a period of submersion. Susan fastened her mirror to the twig on an alder trunk and ransacked her store of finery. It yielded up a new red merino bodice, and the occasion was great enough to warrant breaking into her reserve of hairpins. Then she experimented with her hair, parted and rolled it in the form that had been the fashion in that long dead past--was it twenty years ago?--when she had been a girl in Rochester. She inspected her reflected image with a fearful curiosity, as if expecting to find gray hairs and wrinkles. It was pleasant to see that she looked the same--a trifle thinner may be. And as she noted that her cheeks were not as roundly curved, the fullness of her throat had melted to a more muscular, less creased and creamy firmness, she felt a glow of satisfaction. For in those distant days--twenty-five years ago it must be--she had worried because she was a little _too_ fat. No one could say that now. She stole a look over her shoulder to make sure she was not watched--it seemed an absurdly vain thing to do--and turned back the neck of her blouse. The faintest rise of collar bone showed under the satiny skin, fine as a magnolia petal, the color of faintly tinted meerschaum. She ran her hand across it and it was smooth as curds yielding with an elastic resistance over its bedding of firm flesh. The young girl's pride in her beauty rose, bringing with it a sense of surprise. She had thought it gone forever, and now it still held, the one surviving sensation that connected her with that other Susan Gillespie who had lived a half century ago in Rochester. It was the day after this recrudescence of old coquetry that the first tragedy of the trail, the tragedy that was hers alone, smote her. The march that morning had been over a high level across which they headed for a small river they would follow to the Fort. Early in the afternoon they saw its course traced in intricate embroidery across the earth's leathern carpet. The road dropped into it, the trail grooved deep between ramparts of clay. On the lip of the descent the wayward Julia, maddened with thirst, plunged forward, her obedient mates followed, and the wagon went hurling down the slant, dust rising like the smoke of an explosion. The men struggled for control and, seized by the contagion of their excitement, the doctor laid hold of a wheel. It jerked him from his feet and flung him sprawling, stunned by the impact, a thin trickle of blood issuing from his lips. The others saw nothing, in the tumult did not hear Susan's cry. When they came back the doctor was lying where he had fallen, and she was sitting beside him wiping his lips with the kerchief she had torn from her neck. She looked up at them and said: "It's a hemorrhage." Her face shocked them into an understanding of the gravity of the accident. It was swept clean of its dauntless, rosy youth, had stiffened into an unelastic skin surface, taut over rigid muscles. But her eyes were loopholes through which anguish escaped. Bending them on her father a hungry solicitude suffused them, too all-pervading to be denied exit. Turned to the men an agonized questioning took its place. It spoke to them like a cry, a cry of weakness, a cry for succor. It was the first admission of their strength she had ever made, the first look upon them which had said, "You are men, I am a woman. Help me." They carried the doctor to the banks of the stream and laid him on a spread robe. He protested that it was nothing, it had happened before, several times. Missy would remember it, last winter in Rochester? Her answering smile was pitiable, a grimace of the lips that went no farther. She felt its failure and turned away plucking at a weed near her. Courant saw the trembling of her hand and the swallowing movement of her throat, bared of its sheltering kerchief. She glanced up with a stealthy side look, fearful that her moment of weakness was spied upon, and saw him, the pity surging from his heart shining on his face like a softening light. She shrank from it, and, as he made an involuntary step toward her, warned him off with a quick gesture. He turned to the camp and set furiously to work, his hands shaking as he drove in the picket pins, his throat dry. He did not dare to look at her again. The desire to snatch her in his arms, to hold her close till he crushed her in a passion of protecting tenderness, made him fear to look at her, to hear her voice, to let the air of her moving body touch him. The next morning, while lifting the doctor into the wagon, there was a second hemorrhage. Even the sick man found it difficult to maintain his cheery insouciance. Susan looked pinched, her tongue seemed hardened to the consistency of leather that could not flex for the ready utterance of words. The entire sum of her consciousness was focused on her father. "Breakfast?"--with a blank glance at the speaker--"is it breakfast time?" The men cooked for her and brought her a cup of coffee and her plate of food. She set them on the driver's seat, and when the doctor, keeping his head immovable, and turning smiling eyes upon her, told her to eat she felt for them like a blind woman. It was hard to swallow the coffee, took effort to force it down a channel that was suddenly narrowed to a parched, resistent tube. She would answer no one, seemed to have undergone an ossifying of all faculties turned to the sounds and sights of life. David remembered her state when the doctor had been ill on the Platte. But the exclusion of the outer world was then an obsession of worry, a jealous distraction, as if she resented the well-being of others when hers were forced to suffer. This was different. She did not draw away from him now. She did not seem to see or hear him. Her glance lit unknowing on his face, her hand lay in his, passive as a thing of stone. Sometimes he thought she did not know who he was. "Can't we do anything to cheer her or take her mind off it?" he said to Daddy John behind the wagon. The old man gave him a glance of tolerant scorn. "You can't take a person's mind off the only thing that's in it. She's got nothing inside her but worry. She's filled up with it, level to the top. You might as well try and stop a pail from overflowing that's too full of water." They fared on for two interminable, broiling days. The pace was of the slowest, for a jolt or wrench of the wagon might cause another hemorrhage. With a cautious observance of stones and chuck holes they crawled down the road that edged the river. The sun was blinding, beating on the canvas hood till the girl's face was beaded with sweat, and the sick man's blankets were hot against the intenser heat of his body. Outside the world held its breath spellbound in a white dazzle. The river sparkled like a coat of mail, the only unquiet thing on the earth's incandescent surface. When the afternoon declined, shadows crept from the opposite bluffs, slanted across the water, slipped toward the little caravan and engulfed it. Through the front opening Susan watched the road. There was a time when each dust ridge showed a side of bright blue. To half-shut eyes they were like painted stripes weaving toward the distance. Following them to where the trail bent round a buttress, her glance brought up on Courant's mounted figure. He seemed the vanishing point of these converging stripes, the object they were striving toward, the end they aimed for. Reaching him they ceased as though they had accomplished their purpose, led the woman's eyes to him as to a symbolical figure that piloted the train to succor. With every hour weakness grew on the doctor, his words were fewer. By the ending of the first day, he lay silent looking out at the vista of bluffs and river, his eyes shining in sunken orbits. As dusk fell Courant dropped back to the wagon and asked Daddy John if the mules could hold the pace all night. Susan heard the whispered conference, and in a moment was kneeling on the seat, her hand clutched like a spread starfish on the old man's shoulder. Courant leaned from his saddle to catch the driver's ear with his lowered tones. "With a forced march we can get there to-morrow afternoon. The animals can rest up and we can make him comfortable and maybe find a doctor." Her face, lifted to him, was like a transparent medium through which anxiety and hope that was almost pain, shone. She hung on his words and breathed back quick agreement. It would have been the same if he had suggested the impossible, if the angel of the Lord had appeared and barred the way with a flaming sword. "Of course they can go all night. They must. We'll walk and ride by turns. That'll lighten the wagon. I'll go and get my horse," and she was out and gone to the back of the train where David rode at the head of the pack animals. The night was of a clear blue darkness, suffused with the misty light of stars. Looking back, Courant could see her upright slenderness topping the horse's black shape. When the road lay pale and unshaded behind her he could decipher the curves of her head and shoulders. Then he turned to the trail in front, and her face, as it had been when he first saw her and as it was now, came back to his memory. Once, toward midnight, he drew up till they reached him, her horse's muzzle nosing soft against his pony's flank. He could see the gleam of her eyes, fastened on him, wide and anxious. "Get into the wagon and ride," he commanded. "Why? He's no worse! He's sleeping." "I was thinking of you. This is too hard for you. It'll wear you out." "Oh, I'm all right," she said with a slight movement of impatience. "Don't worry about me. Go on." He returned to his post and she paced slowly on, keeping level with the wheels. It was very still, only the creaking of the wagon and the hoof beats on the dust. She kept her eyes on his receding shape, watched it disappear in dark turns, then emerge into faintly illumined stretches. It moved steadily, without quickening of gait, a lonely shadow that they followed through the unknown to hope. Her glance hung to it, her ear strained for the thud of his pony's feet, sight and sound of him came to her like a promise of help. He was the one strong human thing in this place of remote skies and dumb unfeeling earth. It was late afternoon when the Fort came in sight. A flicker of animation burst up in them as they saw the square of its long, low walls, crowning an eminence above the stream. The bottom lay wide at its feet, the river slipping bright through green meadows sprinkled with an army of cattle. In a vast, irregular circle, a wheel of life with the fort as its hub, spread an engirdling encampment. It was scattered over plain and bottom in dottings of white, here drawn close in clustering agglomerations, there detached in separate spatterings. Coming nearer the white spots grew to wagon hoods and tent roofs, and among them, less easy to discern, were the pointed summits of the lodges with the bunched poles bristling through the top. The air was very still, and into it rose the straight threads of smoke from countless fires, aspiring upwards in slender blue lines to the bluer sky. They lifted and dispersed the smell of burning wood that comes to the wanderer with a message of home, a message that has lain in his blood since the first man struck fire and turned the dry heap of sticks to an altar to be forever fixed as the soul of his habitation. They camped in the bottom withdrawn from the closer herding of tents. It was a slow settling, as noiseless as might be, for two at least of their number knew that the doctor was dying. That afternoon Daddy John and Courant had seen the shadow of the great change. Whether Susan saw it they neither knew. She was full of a determined, cold energy, urging them at once to go among the camps and search for a doctor. They went in different directions, leaving her sitting by her father's feet at the raised flap of the tent. Looking back through the gathering dusk Courant could see her, a dark shape, her body drooping in relaxed lines. He thought that she knew. When they came back with the word that there was no doctor to be found, darkness was closing in. Night came with noises of men and the twinkling of innumerable lights. The sky, pricked with stars, looked down on an earth alive with answering gleams, as though a segment of its spark-set shield had fallen and lay beneath it, winking back messages in an aerial telegraphy. The fires leaped high or glowed in smoldering mounds, painting the sides of tents, the flanks of ruminating animals, the wheels of wagons, the faces of men and women. Coolness, rest, peace brooded over the great bivouac, with the guardian shape of the Fort above it and the murmur of the river at its feet. A lantern, standing on a box by the doctor's side, lit the tent. Through the opening the light from the fire outside poured in, sending shadows scurrying up the canvas walls. Close within call David sat by it, his chin on his knees, his eyes staring at the tongues of flames as they licked the fresh wood. There was nothing now for him to do. He had cooked the supper, and then to ease the pain of his unclaimed sympathies, cleaned the pans, and from a neighboring camp brought a piece of deer meat for Susan. It was the only way he could serve her, and he sat disconsolately looking now at the meat on a tin plate, then toward the tent where she and Daddy John were talking. He could hear the murmur of their voices, see their silhouettes moving on the canvas, gigantic and grotesque. Presently she appeared in the opening, paused there for a last word, and then came toward him. "He wants to speak to Daddy John for a moment," she said and dropping on the ground beside him, stared at the fire. David looked at her longingly, but he dared not intrude upon her somber abstraction. The voices in the tent rose and fell. Once at a louder phrase from Daddy John she turned her head quickly and listened, a sheaf of strained nerves. The voices dropped again, her eye came back to the light and touched the young man's face. It contained no recognition of him, but he leaped at the chance, making stammering proffer of such aid as he could give. "I've got you some supper." He lifted the plate, but she shook her head. "Let me cook it for you," he pleaded. "You haven't eaten anything since morning." "I can't eat," she said, and fell back to her fire-gazing, slipping away from him into the forbidding dumbness of her thoughts. He could only watch her, hoping for a word, an expressed wish. When it came it was, alas! outside his power to gratify: "If there had only been a doctor here! That was what I was hoping for." And so when she asked for the help he yearned to give, it was his fate that he should meet her longing with a hopeless silence. When Daddy John emerged from the tent she leaped to her feet. "Well?" she said with low eagerness. "Go back to him. He wants you," answered the old man. "I've got something to do for him." He made no attempt to touch her, his words and voice were brusque, yet David saw that she responded, softened, showed the ragged wound of her pain to him as she did to no one else. It was an understanding that went beneath all externals. Words were unnecessary between them, heart spoke to heart. She returned to the tent and sunk on the skin beside her father. He smiled faintly and stretched a hand for hers, and her fingers slipped between his, cool and strong against the lifeless dryness of his palm. She gave back his smile bravely, her eyes steadfast. She had no desire for tears, no acuteness of sensation. A weight as heavy as the world lay on her, crushing out struggle and resistance. She knew that he was dying. When they told her there was no doctor in the camp her flickering hope had gone out. Now she was prepared to sit by him and wait with a lethargic patience beyond which was nothing. He pressed her hand and said: "I've sent Daddy John on a hunt. Do you guess what for?" She shook her head feeling no curiosity. "The time is short, Missy." The living's instinct to fight against the acquiescence of the dying prompted her to the utterance of a sharp "No." "I want it all arranged and settled before it's too late. I sent him to see if there was a missionary here." She was leaning against the couch of robes, resting on the piled support of the skins. In the pause after his words she slowly drew herself upright, and with her mouth slightly open inhaled a deep breath. Her eyes remained fixed on him, gleaming from the shadow of her brows, and their expression, combined with the amaze of the dropped underlip, gave her a look of wild attention. "Why?" she said. The word came obstructed and she repeated it. "I want you to marry David here to-night." The doctor's watch on a box at the bed head ticked loudly in the silence. They looked at each other unconscious of the length of the pause. Death on the one hand, life pressing for its due on the other, were the only facts they recognized. Hostility, not to the man but to the idea, drove the amazement from her face and hardened its softness to stone. "Here, to-night?" she said, her comprehension stimulated by an automatic repetition of his words. "Yes. I may not be able to understand tomorrow." She moved her head, her glance touching the watch, the lantern, then dropping to the hand curled round her own. It seemed symbolic of the will against which hers was rising in combat. She made an involuntary effort to withdraw her fingers but his closed tighter on them. "Why?" she whispered again. "Some one must take care of you. I can't leave you alone." She answered with stiffened lips: "There's Daddy John." "Some one closer than Daddy John. I want to leave you with David." Her antagonism rose higher, sweeping over her wretchedness. Worn and strained she had difficulty to keep her lips shut on it, to prevent herself from crying out her outraged protests. All her dormant womanhood, stirring to wakefulness in the last few weeks, broke into life, gathering itself in a passion of revolt, abhorrent of the indignity, ready to flare into vehement refusal. To the dim eyes fastened on her she was merely the girl, reluctant still. He watched her down-drooped face and said: "Then I could go in peace. Am I asking too much?" She made a negative movement with her head and turned her face away from him. "You'll do this for my happiness now?" "Anything," she murmured. "It will be also for your own." He moved his free hand and clasped it on the mound made by their locked fingers. Through the stillness a man's voice singing Zavier's Canadian song came to them. It stopped at the girl's outer ear, but, like a hail from a fading land, penetrated to the man's brain and he stirred. "Hist!" he said raising his brows, "there's that French song your mother used to sing." The distant voice rose to the plaintive burden and he lay motionless, his eyes filmed with memories. As the present dimmed the past grew clearer. His hold on the moment relaxed and he slipped away from it on a tide of recollection, muttering the words. The girl sat mute, her hand cold under his, her being passing in an agonized birth throe from unconsciousness to self-recognition. Her will--its strength till now unguessed--rose resistant, a thing of iron. Love was too strong in her for open opposition, but the instinct to fight, blindly but with caution, for the right to herself was stronger. His murmuring died into silence and she looked at him. His eyes were closed, the pressure of his fingers loosened. A light sleep held him, and under its truce she softly withdrew her hand, then stole to the tent door and stood there a waiting moment, stifling her hurried breathing. She saw David lying by the fire, gazing into its smoldering heart. With noiseless feet she skirted the encircling ropes and pegs, and stood, out of range of his eye, on the farther side. Here she stopped, withdrawn from the light that came amber soft through the canvas walls, slipping into shadow when a figure passed, searching the darkness with peering eyes. Around her the noises of the camp rose, less sharp than an hour earlier, the night silence gradually hushing them. The sparks and shooting gleams of fires still quivered, imbued with a tenacious life. She had a momentary glimpse of a naked Indian boy flinging loose his blanket, a bronze statue glistening in a leap of flame. Nearer by a woman's figure bent over a kettle black on a bed of embers, then a girl's fire-touched form, with raised arms, shaking down a snake of hair, which broke and grew cloudy under her disturbing hands. A resounding smack sounded on a horse's flank, a low ripple of laughter came tangled with a child's querulous crying, and through the walls of tents and the thickness of smoke the notes of a flute filtered. Her ear caught the pad of a footstep on the grass, and her eyes seized on a shadow that grew from dusky uncertainty to a small, bent shape. She waited, suffocated with heartbeats, then made a noiseless pounce on it. "Daddy John," she gasped, clutching at him. The old man staggered, almost taken off his feet. "Is he worse?" he said. "He's told me. Did you find anyone?" "Yes--two. One's Episcopal--in a train from St. Louis." A sound came from her that he did not understand. She gripped at his shoulders as if she were drowning. He thought she was about to swoon and put his arm around her saying: "Come back to the tent. You're all on a shake as if you had ague." "I can't go back. Don't bring him. Don't bring him. Don't tell father. Not now. I will later, some other time. When we get to California, but not now--not to-night." The sentences were cut apart by breaths that broke from her as if she had been running. He was frightened and tried to draw her to the light and see her face. "Why, Missy!" he said with scared helplessness, "Why, Missy! What's got you?" "Don't get the clergyman. Tell him there isn't any. Tell him you've looked all over. Tell him a lie." He guessed the trouble was something more than the grief of the moment, and urged in a whisper: "What's the matter now? Go ahead and tell me. I'll stick by you." She bent her head back to look into his face. "I don't want to marry him now. I can't. I can't. I _can't_." Her hands on his shoulders shook him with each repetition. The force of the words was heightened by the suppressed tone. They should have been screamed. In these whispered breaths they burst from her like blood from a wound. With the last one her head bowed forward on his shoulder with a movement of burrowing as though she would have crawled up and hidden under his skin, and tears, the most violent he had ever seen her shed, broke from her. They came in bursting sobs, a succession of rending throes that she struggled to stifle, swaying and quivering under their stress. He thought of nothing now but this new pain added to the hour's tragedy, and stroked her shoulder with a low "Keep quiet--keep quiet," then leaned his face against her hair and breathed through its tangles. "It's all right, I'll do it. I'll say I couldn't find anyone. I'll lie for you, Missy." She released him at once, dropped back a step and, lifting a distorted face, gave a nod. He passed on, and she fell on the grass, close to the tent ropes and lay there, hidden by the darkness. She did not hear a step approaching from the herded tents. Had she been listening it would have been hard to discern, for the feet were moccasin shod, falling noiseless on the muffling grass. A man's figure with fringes wavering along its outline came round the tent wall. The head was thrust forward, the ear alert for voices. Faring softly his foot struck her and he bent, stretching down a feeling hand. It touched her shoulder, slipped along her side, and gripped at her arm. "What's the matter?" came a deep voice, and feeling the pull on her arm she got to her knees with a strangled whisper for silence. When the light fell across her, he gave a smothered cry, jerked her to her feet and thrust his hand into her hair, drawing her head back till her face was uplifted to his. There was no one to see, and he let his eyes feed full upon it, a thief with the coveted treasure in his hands. She seemed unconscious of him, a broken thing without sense or volition, till a stir came from the tent. Then he felt her resist his grasp. She put a hand on his breast and pressed herself back from him. "Hush," she breathed. "Daddy John's in there." A shadow ran up the canvas wall, bobbing on it, huge and wavering. She turned her head toward it, the tears on her cheeks glazed by the light. He watched her with widened nostrils and immovable eyes. In the mutual suspension of action that held them he could feel her heart beating. "Well?" came the doctor's voice. The old servant answered: "There weren't no parsons anywhere, I've been all over and there's not one." "Parsons?" Courant breathed. She drew in the fingers spread on his breast with a clawing movement and emitted an inarticulate sound that meant "Hush." "Not a clergyman or missionary among all these people?" "Not one." "We must wait till to-morrow, then." "Yes--mebbe there'll be one to-morrow." "I hope so." Then silence fell and the shadow flickered again on the canvas. She made a struggle against Courant's hold, which for a moment he tried to resist, but her fingers plucked against his hand, and she tore herself free and ran to the tent opening. She entered without speaking, threw herself at the foot of the couch, and laid her head against her father's knees. "Is that you, Missy?" he said, feeling for her with a groping hand. "Daddy John couldn't find a clergyman." "I know," she answered, and lay without moving, her face buried in the folds of the blanket. They said no more, and Daddy John stole out of the tent. The next day the doctor was too ill to ask for a clergyman, to know or to care. At nightfall he died. The Emigrant Trail had levied its first tribute on them, taken its toll. END OF PART III PART IV The Desert CHAPTER I They were camped on the edges of that harsh land which lay between the Great Salt Lake and the Sierra. Behind them the still, heavy reach of water stretched, reflecting in mirrored clearness the mountains crowding on its southern rim. Before them the sage reached out to dim infinities of distance. The Humboldt ran nearby, sunk in a stony bed, its banks matted with growths of alder and willow. The afternoon was drawing to the magical sunset hour. Susan, lying by the door of her tent, could see below the growing western blaze the bowl of the earth filling with the first, liquid oozings of twilight. A week ago they had left the Fort. To her it had been a blank space of time, upon which no outer interest had intruded. She had presented an invulnerable surface to all that went on about her, the men's care, the day's incidents, the setting of the way. Cold-eyed and dumb she had moved with them, an inanimate idol, unresponsive to the observances of their worship, aloof from them in somber uncommunicated musings. The men respected her sorrow, did her work for her, and let her alone. To them she was set apart in the sanctuary of her mourning, and that her grief should express itself by hours of drooping silence was a thing they accepted without striving to understand. Once or twice David tried to speak to her of her father, but it seemed to rouse in her an irritated and despairing pain. She begged him to desist and got away from him as quickly as she could, climbing into the wagon and lying on the sacks, with bright, unwinking eyes fastened on Daddy John's back. But she did not rest stunned under an unexpected blow as they thought. She was acutely alive, bewildered, but with senses keen, as if the world had taken a dizzying revolution and she had come up panting and clutching among the fragments of what had been her life. If there had been some one to whom she could have turned, relieving herself by confession, she might have found solace and set her feet in safer ways. But among the three men she was virtually alone, guarding her secret with that most stubborn of all silences, a girl's in the first wakening of sex. She had a superstitious hope that she could regain peace and self-respect by an act of reparation, and at such moments turned with expiatory passion to the thought of David. She would go to California, live as her father had wished, marry her betrothed, and be as good a wife to him as man could have. And for a space these thoughts brought her ease, consoled her as a compensating act of martyrdom. She shunned Courant, rarely addressing him, keeping her horse to the rear of the train where the wagon hood hid him from her. But when his foot fell on the dust beside her, or he dropped back for a word with Daddy John, a stealthy, observant quietude held her frame. She turned her eyes from him as from an unholy sight, but it was useless, for her mental vision called up his figure, painted in yellow and red upon the background of the sage. She knew the expression of the lithe body as it leaned from the saddle, the gnarled hand from which the rein hung loose, the eyes, diamond hard and clear, living sparks set in leathery skin wrinkled against the glare of the waste. She did not lie to herself any more. No delusions could live in this land stripped of all conciliatory deception. The night before they left the Fort the men had had a consultation. Sitting apart by the tent she had watched them, David and Daddy John between her and the fire, Courant beyond it. His face, red lit between the hanging locks of hair, his quick eyes, shifting from one man to the other, was keen with a furtive anxiety. At a point in the murmured interview, he had looked beyond them to the darkened spot where she sat. Then Daddy John and David had come to her and told her that if she wished they would turn back, take her home to Rochester, and stay there with her always. There was money enough they said. The doctor had left seven thousand dollars in his chest, and David had three to add to it. It would be ample to live on till the men could set to work and earn a maintenance for them. No word was spoken of her marriage, but it lay in the offing of their argument as the happy finale that the long toil of the return journey and the combination of resources were to prelude. The thought of going back had never occurred to her, and shocked her into abrupt refusal. It would be an impossible adaptation to outgrown conditions. She could not conjure up the idea of herself refitted into the broken frame of her girlhood. She told them she would go on, there was nothing now to go back for. Their only course was to keep to the original plan, emigrate to California and settle there. They returned to the fire and told Courant. She could see him with eager gaze listening. Then he smiled and, rising to his feet, sent a bold, exultant glance through the darkness to her. She drew her shawl over her head to shut it out, for she was afraid. They rested now on the lip of the desert, gathering their forces for the last lap of the march. There had been no abatement in the pressure of their pace, and Courant had told them it must be kept up. He had heard the story of the Donner party two years before, and the first of September must see them across the Sierra. In the evenings he conferred with Daddy John on these matters and kept a vigilant watch on the animals upon whose condition the success of the journey depended. David was not included in these consultations. Both men now realized that he was useless when it came to the rigors of the trail. Of late he had felt a physical and spiritual impairment, that showed in a slighted observance of his share of the labor. He had never learned to cord his pack, and day after day it turned under his horse's belly, discharging its cargo on the ground. The men, growling with irritation, finally took the work from him, not from any pitying consideration, but to prevent further delay. He was, in fact, coming to that Valley of Desolation where the body faints and only the spirit's dauntlessness can keep it up and doing. What dauntlessness his spirit once had was gone. He moved wearily, automatically doing his work and doing it ill. The very movements of his hands, slack and fumbling, were an exasperation to the other men, setting their strength to a herculean measure, and giving of it without begrudgment. David saw their anger and did not care. Fatigue made him indifferent, ate into his pride, brought down his self-respect. He plodded on doggedly, the alkali acrid on his lips and burning in his eyeballs, thinking of California, not as the haven of love and dreams, but as a place where there was coolness, water, and rest. When in the dawn he staggered up to the call of "Catch up," and felt for the buckle of his saddle girth, he had a vision of a place under trees by a river where he could sleep and wake and turn to sleep again, and go on repeating the performance all day with no one to shout at him if he was stupid and forgot things. Never having had the fine physical endowment of the others all the fires of his being were dying down to smoldering ashes. His love for Susan faded, if not from his heart, from his eyes and lips. She was as dear to him as ever, but now with a devitalized, undemanding affection in which there was something of a child's fretful dependence. He rode beside her not looking at her, contented that she should be there, but with the thought of marriage buried out of sight under the weight of his weariness. It did not figure at all in his mind, which, when roused from apathy, reached forward into the future to gloat upon the dream of sleep. She was grateful for his silence, and they rode side by side, detached from one another, moving in separated worlds of sensation. This evening he came across to where she sat, dragging a blanket in an indolent hand. He dropped it beside her and threw himself upon it with a sigh. He was too empty of thought to speak, and lay outstretched, looking at the plain where dusk gathered in shadowless softness. In contrast with his, her state was one of inner tension, strained to the breaking point. Torturings of conscience, fears of herself, the unaccustomed bitterness of condemnation, melted her, and she was ripe for confession. A few understanding words and she would have poured her trouble out to him, less in hope of sympathy than in a craving for relief. The widening gulf would have been bridged and he would have gained the closest hold upon her he had yet had. But if she were more a woman than ever before, dependent, asking for aid, he was less a man, wanting himself to rest on her and have his discomforts made bearable by her consolations. She looked at him tentatively. His eyes were closed, the lids curiously dark, and fringed with long lashes like a girl's. "Are you asleep?" she asked. "No," he answered without raising them. "Only tired." She considered for a moment, then said: "Have you ever told a lie?" "A lie? I don't know. I guess so. Everybody tells lies sometime or other." "Not little lies. Serious ones, sinful ones, to people you love." "No. I never told that kind. That's a pretty low-down thing to do." "Mightn't a person do it--to--to--escape from something they didn't want, something they suddenly--at that particular moment--dreaded and shrank from?" "Why couldn't they speak out, say they didn't want to do it? Why did they have to lie?" "Perhaps they didn't have time to think, and didn't want to hurt the person who asked it. And--and--if they were willing to do the thing later, sometime in the future, wouldn't that make up for it?" "I can't tell. I don't know enough about it. I don't understand what you mean." He turned, trying to make himself more comfortable. "Lord, how hard this ground is! I believe it's solid iron underneath." He stretched and curled on the blanket, elongating his body in a mighty yawn which subsided into the solaced note of a groan. "There, that's better. I ache all over to-night." She made no answer, looking at the prospect from morose brows. More at ease he returned to the subject and asked, "Who's been telling lies?" "I," she answered. He gave a short laugh, that drew from her a look of quick protest. He was lying on his side, one arm crooked under his head, his eyes on her in a languid glance where incredulity shone through amusement. "Your father told me once you were the most truthful woman he'd ever known, and I agree with him." "It was to my father I lied," she answered. She began to tremble, for part at least of the story was on her lips. She clasped her shaking hands round her knees, and, not looking at him, said "David," and then stopped, stifled by the difficulties and the longing to speak. David answered by laughing outright, a pleasant sound, not guiltless of a suggestion of sleep, a laugh of good nature that refuses to abdicate. It brushed her back into herself as if he had taken her by the shoulders, pushed her into her prison, and slammed the door. "That's all imagination," he said. "When some one we love dies we're always thinking things like that--that we neglected them, or slighted them, or told them what wasn't true. They stand out in our memories bigger than all the good things we did. Don't you worry about any lies you ever told your father. You've got nothing to accuse yourself of where he's concerned--or anybody else, either." Her heart, that had throbbed wildly as she thought to begin her confession, sunk back to a forlorn beat. He noticed her dejected air, and said comfortingly: "Don't be downhearted, Missy. It's been terribly hard for you, but you'll feel better when we get to California, and can live like Christians again." "California!" Her intonation told of the changed mind with which she now looked forward to the Promised Land. His consolatory intentions died before his own sense of grievance at the toil yet before them. "Good Lord, it does seem far--farther than it did in the beginning. I used to be thinking of it all the time then, and how I'd get to work the first moment we arrived. And now I don't care what it's like or think of what I'm going to do. All I want to get there for is to stop this eternal traveling and rest." She, too, craved rest, but of the spirit. Her outlook was blacker than his, for it offered none and drew together to a point where her tribulations focused in a final act of self-immolation. There was a pause, and he said, drowsiness now plain in his voice: "But we'll be there some day unless we die on the road, and then we can take it easy. The first thing I'm going to do is to get a mattress to sleep on. No more blankets on the ground for me. Do you ever think what it'll be like to sleep in a room again under a roof, a good, waterproof roof, that the sun and the rain can't come through? The way I feel now that's my idea of Paradise." She murmured a low response, her thoughts far from the flesh pots of his wearied longing. "I think just at this moment," he went on dreamily, "I'd rather have a good sleep and a good meal than anything else in the world. I often dream of 'em, and then Daddy John's kicking me and it's morning and I got to crawl out of the blanket and light the fire. I don't know whether I feel worse at that time or in the evening when we're making the last lap for the camping ground." His voice dropped as if exhausted before the memory of these unendurable moments, then came again with a note of cheer: "Thank God, Courant's with us or I don't believe we'd ever get there." She had no reply to make to this. Neither spoke for a space, and then she cautiously stole a glance at him and was relieved to see that he was asleep. Careful to be noiseless she rose, took up a tin water pail and walked to the river. The Humboldt rushed through a deep-cut bed, nosing its way between strewings of rock. Up the banks alders and willows grew thick, thrusting roots, hungry for the lean deposits of soil, into cracks and over stony ledges. By the edge the current crisped about a flat rock, and Susan, kneeling on this, dipped in her pail. The water slipped in in a silvery gush which, suddenly seething and bubbling, churned in the hollowed tin, nearly wrenching it from her. She leaned forward, dragging it awkwardly toward her, clutching at an alder stem with her free hand. Her head was bent, but she raised it with a jerk when she heard Courant's voice call, "Wait, I'll do it for you." He was on the opposite bank, the trees he had broken through swishing together behind him. She lowered her head without answering, her face suddenly charged with color. Seized by an overmastering desire to escape him, she dragged at the pail, which, caught in the force of the current, leaped and swayed in her hand. She took a hurried upward glimpse, hopeful of his delayed progress, and saw him jump from the bank to a stone in mid-stream. His moccasined feet clung to its slippery surface, and for a moment he oscillated unsteadily, then gained his balance and, laughing, looked at her. For a breathing space each rested motionless, she with strained, outstretched arm, he on the rock, a film of water covering his feet. It was a moment of physical mastery without conscious thought. To each the personality of the other was so perturbing, that without words or touch, the heart beats of both grew harder, and their glances held in a gaze fixed and gleaming. The woman gained her self-possession first, and with it an animal instinct to fly from him, swiftly through the bushes. But her flight was delayed. A stick, whirling in the current, caught between the pail's rim and handle and ground against her fingers. With an angry cry she loosed her hold, and the bucket went careening into midstream. That she had come back to harmony with her surroundings was attested by the wail of chagrin with which she greeted the accident. It was the last pail she had left. She watched Courant wade into the water after it, and forgot to run in her anxiety to see if he would get it. "Oh, good!" came from her in a gasp as he caught the handle. But when he came splashing back and set it on the rock beside her, it suddenly lost its importance, and as suddenly she became a prey to low-voiced, down-looking discomfort. A muttered "thank you," was all the words she had for him, and she got to her feet with looks directed to the arrangement of her skirt. He stood knee-high in the water watching her, glad of her down-drooped lids, for he could dwell on the bloom that deepened under his eye. "You haven't learned the force of running water yet," he said. "It can be very strong sometimes, so strong that a little woman's hand like yours has no power against it." "It was because the stick caught in the handle," she muttered, bending for the pail. "It hurt my fingers." "You've never guessed that I was called 'Running Water,' have you?" "You?" she paused with look arrested in sudden interest. "Who calls you that?" "Everybody--you. _L'eau courante_ means running water, doesn't it? That's what you call me." In the surprise of the revelation she forgot her unease and looked at him, repeating slowly, "L'eau courante, running water. Why, of course. But it's like an Indian's name." "It is an Indian's name. The Blackfeet gave it to me because they said I could run so fast. They were after me once and a man makes the best time he can then. It was a fine race and I won it, and after that they called me, 'The man that goes like Running Water.' The voyageurs and coureurs des bois put it into their lingo and it stuck." "But your real name?" she asked, the pail forgotten. "Just a common French one, Duchesney, Napoleon Duchesney, if you want to know both ends of it. It was my father's. He was called after the emperor whom my grandfather knew years ago in France. He and Napoleon were students together in the military school at Brienne. In the Revolution they confiscated his lands, and he came out to Louisiana and never wanted to go back." He splashed to the stone and took up the bucket. She stood absorbed in the discovery, her child's mind busy over this new conception of him as a man whose birth and station had evidently been so different to the present conditions of his life. When she spoke her mental attitude was naïvely displayed. "Why didn't you tell before?" He shrugged. "What was there to tell? The mountain men don't always use their own names." The bucket, swayed by the movement, threw a jet of water on her foot. He moved back from her and said, "I like the Indian name best." "It is pretty," and in a lower key, as though trying its sound, she repeated softly, "_L'eau Courante_, Running Water." "It's something clear and strong, sometimes shallow and then again deeper than you can guess. And when there's anything in the way, it gathers all its strength and sweeps over it. It's a mighty force. You have to be stronger than it is--and more cunning too--to stop it in the way it wants to go." Above their heads the sky glowed in red bars, but down in the stream's hollow the dusk had come, cool and gray. She was suddenly aware of it, noticed the diminished light, and the thickening purplish tones that had robbed the trees and rocks of color. Her warm vitality was invaded by chill that crept inward and touched her spirit with an eerie dread. She turned quickly and ran through the bushes calling back to him, "I must hurry and get supper. They'll be waiting. Bring the pail." Courant followed slowly, watching her as she climbed the bank. CHAPTER II For some days their route followed the river, then they would leave it and strike due west, making marches from spring to spring. The country was as arid as the face of a dead planet, save where the water's course was marked by a line of green. Here and there the sage was broken by bare spaces where the alkali cropped out in a white encrusting. Low mountains edged up about the horizon, thrusting out pointed scarps like capes protruding into slumbrous, gray-green seas. These capes were objects upon which they could fix their eyes, goals to reach and pass. In the blank monotony they offered an interest, something to strive for, something that marked an advance. The mountains never seemed to retreat or come nearer. They encircled the plain in a crumpled wall, the same day after day, a low girdle of volcanic shapes, cleft with moving shadows. The sun was the sun of August. It reeled across a sky paled by its ardor, at midday seeming to pause and hang vindictive over the little caravan. Under its fury all color left the blanched earth, all shadows shrunk away to nothing. The train alone, as if in desperate defiance, showed a black blot beneath the wagon, an inky snake sliding over the ground under each horse's sweating belly. The air was like a stretched tissue, strained to the limit of its elasticity, in places parting in delicate, glassy tremblings. Sometimes in the distance the mirage hung brilliant, a blue lake with waves crisping on a yellow shore. They watched it with hungry eyes, a piece of illusion framed by the bleached and bitter reality. When evening came the great transformation began. With the first deepening of color the desert's silent heart began to beat in expectation of its hour of beauty. Its bleak detail was lost in shrouding veils and fiery reflection. The earth floor became a golden sea from which the capes reared themselves in shapes of bronze and copper. The ring of mountains in the east flushed to the pink of the topaz, then bending westward shaded from rosy lilac to mauve, and where the sunset backed them, darkened to black. As the hour progressed the stillness grew more profound, the naked levels swept out in wilder glory, inundated by pools of light, lines of fire eating a glowing way through sinks where twilight gathered. With each moment it became a more tremendous spectacle. The solemnity attendant on the passage of a miracle held it. From the sun's mouth the voice of God seemed calling the dead land to life. Each night the travelers gazed upon it, ragged forms gilded by its radiance, awed and dumb. Its splendors crushed them, filling them with nostalgic longings. They bore on with eyes that were sick for a sight of some homely, familiar thing that would tell them they were still human, still denizens of a world they knew. The life into which they fitted and had uses was as though perished from the face of the earth. The weak man sunk beneath the burden of its strangeness. Its beauty made no appeal to him. He felt lost and dazed in its iron-ringed ruthlessness, dry as a skeleton by daylight, at night transformed by witchfires of enchantment. The man and woman, in whom vitality was strong, combatted its blighting force, refused to be broken by its power. They desired with vehemence to assert themselves, to rebel, not to submit to the sense of their nothingness. They turned to one another hungry for the life that now was only within themselves. They had passed beyond the limits of the accustomed, were like detached particles gone outside the law of gravity, floating undirected through spaces where they were nothing and had nothing but their bodies, their passions, themselves. To a surface observation they would have appeared as stolid as savages, but their nerves were taut as drawn violin strings. Strange self-assertions, violences of temper, were under the skin ready to break out at a jar in the methodical routine. Had the train been larger, its solidarity less complete, furious quarrels would have taken place. With an acknowledged leader whom they believed in and obeyed, the chances of friction were lessened. Three of them could meet the physical demands of the struggle. It was David's fate that, unable to do this, he should fall to a position of feeble uselessness, endurable in a woman, but difficult to put up with in a man. One morning Susan was waked by angry voices. An oath shook sleep from her, and thrusting her head out of the wagon where she now slept, she saw the three men standing in a group, rage on Courant's face, disgust on Daddy John's, and on David's an abstraction of aghast dismay that was not unlike despair. To her question Daddy John gave a short answer. David's horses, insecurely picketed, had pulled up their stakes in the night and gone. A memory of the young man's exhaustion the evening before, told the girl the story; David had forgotten to picket them and immediately after supper had fallen asleep. He had evidently been afraid to tell and invented the explanation of dragged picket pins. She did not know whether the men believed it, but she saw by their faces they were in no mood to admit extenuating circumstances. The oath had been Courant's. When he heard her voice he shut his lips on others, but they welled up in his eyes, glowering furiously on the culprit from the jut of drawn brows. "What am I to do?" said the unfortunate young man, sending a despairing glance over the prospect. Under his weak misery, rebellious ill humor was visible. "Go after them and bring them back." Susan saw the leader had difficulty in confining himself to such brief phrases. Dragging a blanket round her shoulders she leaned over the seat. She felt like a woman who enters a quarrel to protect a child. "Couldn't we let them go?" she cried. "We've still my father's horse. David can ride it and we can put his things in the wagon." "Not another ounce in the wagon," said Daddy John. "The mules are doing their limit now." The wagon was his kingdom over which he ruled an absolute monarch. Courant looked at her and spoke curtly, ignoring David. "We can't lose a horse now. We need every one of them. It's not here. It's beyond in the mountains. We've got to get over by the first of September, and we want every animal we have to do it. _He's_ not able to walk." He shot a contemptuous glance at David that in less bitter times would have made the young man's blood boil. But David was too far from his normal self to care. He was not able to walk and was glad that Courant understood it. "I've got to go after them, I suppose," he said sullenly and turned to where the animals looked on with expectant eyes. "But it's the last time I'll do it. If they go again they'll stay gone." There was a mutter from the other men. Susan, full of alarm, scrambled into the back of the wagon and pulled on her clothes. When she emerged David had the doctor's horse saddled and was about to mount. His face, heavy-eyed and unwashed, bore an expression of morose anger, but fatigue spoke pathetically in his slow, lifeless movements, the droop of his thin, high shoulders. "David," she called, jumping out over the wheel, "wait." He did not look at her or answer, but climbed into the saddle and gathered his rein. She ran toward him crying, "Wait and have some breakfast. I'll get it for you." He continued to pay no attention to her, glancing down at his foot as it felt for the stirrup. She stopped short, repulsed by his manner, watching him as he sent a forward look over the tracks of the lost horses. They wound into the distance fading amid the sweep of motionless sage. It would be a long search and the day was already hot. Pity rose above all other feelings, and she said: "Have they told you what they're going to do? Whether we'll wait here or go on and have you catch us up?" "I don't know what they're going to do and don't care," he answered, and touching the horse with his spur rode away between the brushing bushes. She turned to Daddy John, her eyes full of alarmed question. "He knows all about it," said the old man with slow phlegm, "I told him myself. There's food and water for him packed on behind the saddle, I done that too. He'd have gone without it just to spite himself. We'll rest here this morning, and if he ain't back by noon move on slow till he catches us up. Don't you worry. He done the wrong thing and he's got to learn." No more was said about David, and after breakfast they waited doing the odd tasks that accumulated for their few periods of rest. Susan sat sewing where the wagon cast a cooling slant of shade. Daddy John was beyond her in the sun, his sere old body, from which time had stripped the flesh, leaving only a tenuous bark of muscle, was impervious to the heat. In the growing glare he worked over a broken saddle, the whitening reaches stretching out beyond him to where the mountains waved in a clear blue line as if laid on with one wash of a saturated paint brush. Courant was near him in the shadow of his horse, cleaning a gun, sharp clicks of metal now and then breaking into the stillness. As the hours passed the shadow of the wagon shrunk and the girl moved with it till her back was pressed against the wheel. She was making a calico jacket, and as she moved it the crisp material emitted low cracklings. Each rustle was subdued and stealthy, dying quickly away as if it were in conspiracy with the silence and did not want to disturb it. Courant's back was toward her. He had purposely set his face away, but he could hear the furtive whisperings of the stirred calico. He was full of the consciousness of her, and this sound, which carried a picture of her drooped head and moving hands, came with a stealing unquiet, urgently intrusive and persistent. He tried to hold his mind on his work, but his movements slackened, grew intermittent, his ear attentive for the low rustling that crept toward him at intervals like the effervescent approach of waves. Each time he heard it the waves washed deeper to his inner senses and stole something from his restraining will. For days the desert had been stealing from it too. He knew it and was guarded and fearful of it, but this morning he forgot to watch, forgot to care. His reason was drugged by the sound, the stifled, whispering sound that her hands made moving the material from which she fashioned a covering for her body. He sat with his back turned to her, his hands loose on the gun, his eyes fixed in an unseeing stare. He did not know what he looked at or that the shadow of the horse had slipped beyond him. When he heard her move his quietness increased to a trancelike suspension of movement, the inner concentration holding every muscle in spellbound rigidness. Suddenly she tore the calico with a keen, rending noise, and it was as if her hands had seized upon and so torn the tension that held him. His fists clinched on the gun barrel, and for a moment the mountain line undulated to his gaze. Had they been alone, speech would have burst from him, but the presence of the old man kept him silent. He bowed his head over the gun, making a pretense of giving it a last inspection, then, surer of himself, leaped to his feet and said gruffly: "Let's move on. There's no good waiting here." The other two demurred. Susan rose and walked into the glare sweeping the way David had gone. Against the pale background she stood out a vital figure, made up of glowing tints that reached their brightest note in the heated rose of her cheeks and lips. Her dark head with its curly crest of hair was defined as if painted on the opaque blue of the sky. She stood motionless, only her eyes moving as they searched the distance. All of life that remained in the famished land seemed to have flowed into her and found a beautified expression in the rich vitality of her upright form, the flushed bloom of her face. Daddy John bent to pick up the saddle, and the mountain man, safe from espial, looked at her with burning eyes. "David's not in sight," she said. "Do you think we'd better go on?" "Whether we'd better or not we will," he answered roughly. "Catch up, Daddy John." They were accustomed to obeying him like children their master. So without more parley they pulled up stakes, loaded the wagon, and started. As Susan fell back to her place at the rear, she called to Courant: "We'll go as slowly as we can. We mustn't get too far ahead. David can't ride hard the way he is now." The man growled an answer that she did not hear, and without looking at her took the road. They made their evening halt by the river. It had dwindled to a fragile stream which, wandering away into the dryness, would creep feebly to its sink and there disappear, sucked into secret subways that no man knew. To-morrow they would start across the desert, where they could see the road leading straight in a white seam to the west. David had not come. The mules stood stripped of their harness, the wagon rested with dropped tongue, the mess chest was open and pans shone in mingled fire and sunset gleams, but the mysteries of the distance, over which twilight veils were thickening, gave no sign of him. Daddy John built up the desert fire as a beacon--a pile of sage that burned like tinder. It shot high, tossed exultant flames toward the dimmed stars and sent long jets of light into the encircling darkness. Its wavering radiance, red and dancing, touched the scattered objects of the camp, revealing and then losing them as new flame ran along the leaves or charred branches dropped. Outside the night hung, deep and silent. Susan hovered on the outskirts of the glow. Darkness was thickening, creeping from the hills that lay inky-edged against the scarlet of the sky. Once she sent up a high cry of David's name. Courant, busy with his horses, lifted his head and looked at her, scowling over his shoulder. "Why are you calling?" he said. "He can see the fire." She came back and stood near him, her eyes on him in uneasy scrutiny: "We shouldn't have gone on. We should have waited for him." There was questioning and also a suggestion of condemnation in her voice. She was anxious and her tone and manner showed she thought it his fault. He bent to loosen a girth. "Are you afraid he's lost?" he said, his face against the horse. "No. But if he was?" "Well! And if he was?" The girth was uncinched and he swept saddle and blanket to the ground. "We'd have to go back for him, and you say we must lose no time." He kicked the things aside and made no answer. Then as he groped for the picket pins he was conscious that she turned again with the nervous movement of worry and swept the plain. "He was sick. We oughtn't to have gone on," she repeated, and the note of blame was stronger. "Oh, I wish he'd come!" Their conversation had been carried on in a low key. Suddenly Courant, wheeling round on her, spoke in the raised tone of anger. "And am I to stop the train because that fool don't know enough or care enough to picket his horses? Is it always to be him? Excuses made and things done for him as if he was a sick girl or a baby. Let him be lost, and stay lost, and be damned to him." Daddy John looked up from the sheaf of newly gathered sage with the alertness of a scared monkey. Susan stepped back, feeling suddenly breathless. Courant made a movement as if to follow her, then stopped, his face rived with lines and red with rage. He was shaken by what to her was entirely inexplicable anger, and in her amazement she stared vacantly at him. "What's that, what's that?" chirped Daddy John, scrambling to his feet and coming toward them with chin thrust belligerently forward and blinking eyes full of fight. Neither spoke to him and he added sharply: "Didn't I hear swearing? Who's swearing now?" as if he had his doubts that it might be Susan. Courant with a stifled phrase turned from them, picked up his hammer and began driving in the stakes. "What was it?" whispered the old man. "What's the matter with him? Is he mad at David?" She shook her head, putting a finger on her lip in sign of silence, and moving away to the other side of the fire. She felt the strain in the men and knew it was her place to try and keep the peace. But a sense of forlorn helplessness amid these warring spirits lay heavily on her and she beckoned to the old servant, wanting him near her as one who, no matter how dire the circumstances, would never fail her. "Yes, he's angry," she said when they were out of earshot. "I suppose it's about David. But what can we do? We can't make David over into another man, and we can't leave him behind just because he's not as strong as the rest of us. I feel as if we were getting to be savages." The old man gave a grunt that had a note of cynical acquiescence, then held up his hand in a signal for quiet. The thud of a horse's hoofs came from the outside night. With a quick word to get the supper ready, she ran forward and stood in the farthest rim of the light waiting for her betrothed. David was a pitiable spectacle. The dust lay thick on his face, save round his eyes, whence he had rubbed it, leaving the sockets looking unnaturally sunken and black. His collar was open and his neck rose bare and roped with sinews. There was but one horse at the end of the trail rope. As he slid out of the saddle, he dropped the rope on the ground, saying that the other animal was sick, he had left it dying he thought. He had found them miles off, miles and miles--with a weak wave of his hand toward the south--near an alkaline spring where he supposed they had been drinking. The other couldn't move, this one he had dragged along with him. The men turned their attention to the horse, which, with swollen body and drooping head, looked as if it might soon follow its mate. They touched it, and spoke together, brows knit over the trouble, not paying any attention to David, who, back in the flesh, was sufficiently accounted for. Susan was horrified by his appearance. She had never seen him look so much a haggard stranger to himself. He was prostrate with fatigue, and throughout the day he had nursed a sense of bitter injury. Now back among them, seeing the outspread signs of their rest, and with the good smell of their food in his nostrils, this rose to the pitch of hysterical rage, ready to vent itself at the first excuse. The sight of the girl, fresh-skinned from a wash in the river, instead of soothing, further inflamed him. Her glowing well-being seemed bought at his expense. Her words of concern spoke to his sick ear with a note of smug, unfeeling complacence. "David, you're half dead. Every thing'll be ready in a minute. Sit down and rest. Here, take my blanket." She spread her blanket for him, but he stood still, not answering, staring at her with dull, accusing eyes. Then, with a dazed movement, he pushed his hand over the crown of his head throwing off his hat. The hand was unsteady, and it fell, the hooked forefinger catching in the opening of his shirt, dragging it down and showing his bony breast. If he had been nothing to her she would have pitied him. Sense of wrongs done him made the pity passionate. She went to him, the consoling woman in her eyes, and laid her hand on the one that rested on his chest. "David, sit down and rest. Don't move again. I'll get you everything. I never saw you look as you do to-night." With an angry movement he threw her hand off. "You don't care," he said. "What does it matter to you when you've been comfortable all day? So long as you and the others are all right I don't matter." It was so unlike him, his face was so changed and charged with a childish wretchedness, that she felt no check upon her sympathy. She knew it was not David that spoke, but a usurping spirit born of evil days. The other men pricked their ears and listened, but she was indifferent to their watch, and tried again to take his hand, saying, pleadingly: "Sit down. When I get your supper you'll be better. I'll have it ready in a few minutes." This time he threw her hand off with violence. His face, under its dust mask, flamed with the anger that had been accumulating through the day. "Let me alone," he cried, his voice strangled like a wrathful child's. "I don't want anything to do with you. Eat your supper. When I'm ready I'll get mine without any help from you. Let me be." He turned from her, and moving over the blanket, stumbled on its folds. The jar was the breaking touch to his overwrought nerves. He staggered, caught his breath with a hiccoughing gasp, and dropping his face into his hands burst into hysterical tears. Then in a sudden abandonment of misery he threw himself on the blanket, buried his head in his folded arms and rending sobs broke from him. For a moment they were absolutely still, staring at him in stupefied surprise. Daddy John, his neck craned round the blaze, surveyed him with bright, sharp eyes of unemotional query, then flopped the bacon pan on the embers, and said: "He's all done." Courant advanced a step, looked down on him and threw a sidelong glance at Susan, bold with meaning. After her first moment of amazement, she moved to David's side, drew the edge of the blanket over him, touched his head with a light caress, and turned back to the fire. The plates and cups were lying there and she quietly set them out, her eye now and then straying for a needed object, her hand hanging in suspended search then dropping upon it, and noiselessly putting it in its place. Unconsciously they maintained an awed silence, as if they were sitting by the dead. Daddy John turned the bacon with stealthy care, the scrape of his knife on the pan sounding a rude and unseemly intrusion. Upon this scrupulously maintained quietude the man's weeping broke insistent, the stifled regular beat of sobs hammering on it as if determined to drive their complacency away and reduce them to the low ebb of misery in which he lay. They had almost finished their meal when the sounds lessened, dwindling to spasmodic, staggering gasps with lengthening pauses that broke suddenly in a quivering intake of breath and a vibration of the recumbent frame. The hysterical paroxysm was over. He lay limp and turned his head on his arms, too exhausted to feel shame for the shine of tears on his cheek. Susan took a plate of food and a coffee cup and stole toward him, the two men watching her under their eyelids. She knelt beside him and spoke very gently, "Will you take this, David? You'll feel stronger after you've eaten." "Put it down," he said hoarsely, without moving. "Shall I give you the coffee?" She hung over him looking into his face. "I can hold the cup and you can drink it." "By and by," he muttered. She bent lower and laid her hand on his hair. "David, I'm so sorry," she breathed. Courant leaped to his feet and walked to where his horses stood. He struck one of them a blow on the flank that after the silence and the low tones of the girl's crooning voice sounded as violent as a pistol shot. They all started, even David lifted his head. "What's the matter now?" said Daddy John, alert for any outbreak of man or beast. But Courant made no answer, and moved away into the plain. It was some time before he came back, emerging from the darkness as noiselessly as he had gone. David had eaten his supper and was asleep, the girl sitting beyond him withdrawn from the fire glow. Daddy John was examining the sick horse, and Courant joined him, walking round the beast and listening to the old man's opinions as to its condition. They were not encouraging. It seemed likely that David's carelessness would cost the train two valuable animals. To the outward eye peace had again settled on the camp. The low conferrings of the two men, the dying snaps of the charred twigs, were the only sounds. The night brooded serene about the bivouac, the large stars showing clear now that the central glare had sunk to a red heap of ruin. Far away, on the hills, the sparks of Indian fires gleamed. They had followed the train for days, watching it like the eyes of hungry animals, too timid to come nearer. But there was no cause for alarm, for the desert Indians were a feeble race, averse to bloodshed, thieves at their worst, descending upon the deserted camping grounds to carry away what the emigrants left. Nevertheless, when the sound of hoof beats came from the trail both men made a quick snatch for their rifles, and Susan jumped to her feet with a cry of "Some one's coming." They could see nothing, the darkness hanging like a curtain across their vision. Courant, with his rifle in the hollow of his arm, moved toward the sounds, his hail reaching clear and deep into the night. An answer came in a man's voice, the hoof beats grew louder, and the reaching light defined approaching shapes. Daddy John threw a bunch of sage on the fire, and in the rush of flame that flew along its branches, two mounted men were visible. They dropped to the ground and came forward. "From California to the States," the foremost said to Susan, seeing a woman with fears to be allayed. He was tall and angular with a frank, copper-tanned face, overtopped by a wide spread of hat, and bearded to the eyes. He wore a loose hickory shirt and buckskin breeches tucked into long boots, already broken from the soles. The other was a small and comical figure with an upstanding crest of sunburned blond hair, tight curled and thick as a sheep's fleece. When he saw Susan he delayed his advance to put on a ragged army overcoat that hung to his heels, and evidently hid discrepancies in his costume not meet for a lady's eye. Both men were powdered with dust, and announced themselves as hungry enough to eat their horses. Out came pans and supplies, and the snapping of bacon fat and smell of coffee rose pungent. Though, by their own account, they had ridden hard and far, there was a feverish energy of life in each of them that roused the drooping spirits of the others like an electrifying current. They ate ravenously, pausing between mouthfuls to put quick questions on the condition of the eastward trail, its grazing grounds, what supplies could be had at the Forts. It was evident they were new to journeying on the great bare highways of the wilderness, but that fact seemed to have no blighting effect on their zeal. What and who they were came out in the talk that gushed in the intervals of feeding. The fair-haired man was a sailor, shipped from Boston round the Horn for California eight months before. The fact that he was a deserter dropped out with others. He was safe here--with a side-long laugh at Susan--no more of the sea for him. He was going back for money, money and men. It was too late to get through to the States now? Well he'd wait and winter at Fort Laramie if he had to, but he guessed he'd make a pretty vigorous effort to get to St. Louis. His companion was from Philadelphia, and was going back for his wife and children, also money. He'd bring them out next spring, collect a big train, stock it well, and carry them across with him. "And start early, not waste any time dawdling round and talking. Start with the first of 'em and get to California before the rush begins." "Rush?" said Courant. "Are you looking for a rush next year?" The man leaned forward with upraised, arresting hand, "The biggest rush in the history of this country. Friends, there's gold in California." Gold! The word came in different keys, their flaccid bodies stiffened into upright eagerness-- Gold in the Promised Land! Then came the great story, the discovery of California's treasure told by wanderers to wanderers under the desert stars. Six months before gold had been found in the race of Sutter's mill in the foothills. The streams that sucked their life from the snow crests of the Sierras were yellow with it. It lay, a dusty sediment, in the prospector's pan. It spread through the rock cracks in sparkling seams. The strangers capped story with story, chanted the tales of fantastic exaggeration that had already gone forth, and up and down California were calling men from ranch and seaboard. They were coming down from Oregon along the wild spine of the coast ranges and up from the Mission towns strung on highways beaten out by Spanish soldier and padre. The news was now en route to the outer world carried by ships. It would fly from port to port, run like fire up the eastern coast and leap to the inland cities and the frontier villages. And next spring, when the roads were open, would come the men, the regiments of men, on foot, mounted, in long caravans, hastening to California for the gold that was there for anyone who had the strength and hardihood to go. The bearded man got up, went to his horse and brought back his pack. He opened it, pulled off the outer blanketing, and from a piece of dirty calico drew a black sock, bulging and heavy. From this in turn he shook a small buckskin sack. He smoothed the calico, untied a shoestring from the sack's mouth, and let a stream of dun-colored dust run out. It shone in the firelight in a slow sifting rivulet, here and there a bright flake like a spangle sending out a yellow spark. Several times a solid particle obstructed the lazy flow, which broke upon it like water on a rock, dividing and sinking in two heavy streams. It poured with unctious deliberation till the sack was empty, and the man held it up to show the powdered dust of dust clinging to the inside. "That's three weeks' washing on the river across the valley beyond Sacramento," he said, "and it's worth four thousand dollars in the United States mint." The pile shone yellow in the fire's even glow, and they stared at it, wonderstruck, each face showing a sudden kindling of greed, the longing to possess, to know the power and peace of wealth. It came with added sharpness in the midst of their bare distress. Even the girl felt it, leaning forward to gloat with brightened eyes on the little pyramid. David forgot his injuries and craned his neck to listen, dreams once more astir. California became suddenly a radiant vision. No longer a faint line of color, vaguely lovely, but a place where fortune waited them, gold to fill their coffers, to bring them ease, to give their aspirations definite shape, to repay them for their bitter pilgrimage. They were seized with the lust of it, and their attentive faces sharpened with the strain of the growing desire. They felt the onward urge to be up and moving, to get there and lay their hands on the waiting treasure. The night grew old and still they talked, their fatigue forgotten. They heard the tale of Marshall's discovery and how it flew right and left through the spacious, idle land. There were few to answer the call, ranches scattered wide over the unpeopled valleys, small traders in the little towns along the coast. In the settlement of Yerba Buena, fringing the edge of San Francisco Bay, men were leaving their goods at their shop doors and going inland. Ships were lying idle in the tide water, every sailor gone to find the golden river. The fair-haired man laughed and told how he'd swam naked in the darkness, his money in his mouth, and crawled up the long, shoal shore, waist high in mud. The small hours had come when one by one they dropped to sleep as they lay. A twist of the blanket, a squirming into deeper comfort, and rest was on them. They sprawled in the caked dust like dead men fallen in battle and left as they had dropped. Even the girl forgot the habits of a life-long observance and sunk to sleep among them, her head on a saddle, the old servant curled at her feet. CHAPTER III In the even dawn light the strangers left. It was hail and farewell in desert meetings. They trotted off into the ghostlike stillness of the plain which for a space threw back their hoof beats, and then closed round them. The departure of the westward band was not so prompt. With unbound packs and unharnessed animals, they stood, a dismayed group, gathered round a center of disturbance. David was ill. The exertions of the day before had drained his last reserve of strength. He could hardly stand, complained of pain, and a fever painted his drawn face with a dry flush. Under their concerned looks, he climbed on his horse, swayed there weakly, then slid off and dropped on the ground. "I'm too sick to go on," he said in the final collapse of misery. "You can leave me here to die." He lay flat, looking up at the sky, his long hair raying like a mourning halo from the outline of his skull, his arms outspread as if his soul had submitted to its crucifixion and his body was in agreement. That he was ill was beyond question. The men had their suspicions that he, like the horses, had drunk of the alkaline spring. Susan was for remaining where they were till he recovered, the others wanted to go on. He gave no ear to their debate, interrupting it once to announce his intention of dying where he lay. This called forth a look of compassion from the girl, a movement of exasperation from the mountain man. Daddy John merely spat and lifted his hat to the faint dawn air. It was finally agreed that David should be placed in the wagon, his belongings packed on his horse, while the sick animal must follow as best it could. During the morning's march no one spoke. They might have been a picture moving across a picture for all the animation they showed. The exaltation of the evening before had died down to a spark, alight and warming still, but pitifully shrunk from last night's high-flaming buoyancy. It was hard to keep up hopes in these distressful hours. California had again receded. The desert and the mountains were yet to pass. The immediate moment hemmed them in so closely that it was an effort to look through it and feel the thrill of joys that lay so far beyond. It was better to focus their attention on the lone promontories that cut the distance and gradually grew from flat surfaces applied on the plain to solid shapes, thick-based and shadow cloven. They made their noon camp at a spring, bubbling from a rim of white-rooted grass. David refused to take anything but water, groaning as he sat up in the wagon and stretching a hot hand for the cup that Susan brought. The men paid no attention to him. They showed more concern for the sick horse, which when not incapacitated did its part with good will, giving the full measure of its strength. That they refrained from open anger and upbraiding was the only concession they made to the conventions they had learned in easier times. Whether David cared or not he said nothing, lying fever-flushed, his wandering glance held to attention when Susan's face appeared at the canvas opening. He hung upon her presence, querulously exacting in his unfamiliar pain. Making ready for the start their eyes swept a prospect that showed no spot of green, and they filled their casks neck high and rolled out into the dazzling shimmer of the afternoon. The desert was widening, the hills receding, shrinking away to a crenelated edge that fretted a horizon drawn as straight as a ruled line. The plain unrolled more spacious and grimmer, not a growth in sight save sage, not a trickle of water or leaf murmur, even the mirage had vanished leaving the distance bare and mottled with a leprous white. At intervals, outstretched like a pointing finger, the toothed summit of a ridge projected, its base uplifted in clear, mirrored reflection. The second half of the day was as unbroken by speech or incident as the morning. They had nothing to say, as dry of thought as they were despoiled of energy. The shadows were beginning to lengthen when they came to a fork in the trail. One branch bore straight westward, the other slanted toward the south, and both showed signs of recent travel. Following them to the distance was like following the tracks of creeping things traced on a sandy shore. Neither led to anything--sage, dust, the up-standing combs of rocky reefs were all the searching eye could see till sight lost itself in the earth's curve. The girl and the two men stood in the van of the train consulting. The region was new to Courant, but they left it to him, and he decided for the southern route. For the rest of the afternoon they followed it. The day deepened to evening and they bore across a flaming level, striped with gigantic shadows. Looking forward they saw a lake of gold that lapped the roots of rose and lilac hills. The road swept downward to a crimsoned butte, cleft apart, and holding in its knees a gleam of water. The animals, smelling it, broke for it, tearing the wagon over sand hummocks and crackling twigs. It was a feeble upwelling, exhausted by a single draught. Each beast, desperately nosing in its coolness, drained it, and there was a long wait ere the tiny depression filled again. Finally, it was dried of its last drop, and the reluctant ooze stopped. The animals, their thirst half slaked, drooped about it, looking with mournful inquiry at the disturbed faces of their masters. It was a bad sign. The men knew there were waterless tracts in the desert that the emigrant must skirt. They mounted to the summit of the butte and scanned their surroundings. The world shone a radiant floor out of which each sage brush rose a floating, feathered tuft, but of gleam or trickle of water there was none. When they came down David lay beside the spring his eyes on its basin, now a muddied hole, the rim patterned with hoof prints. When he heard them coming he rose on his elbow awaiting them with a haggard glance, then seeing their blank looks sank back groaning. To Susan's command that a cask be broached, Courant gave a sullen consent. She drew off the first cupful and gave it to the sick man, his lean hands straining for it, his fingers fumbling in a search for the handle. The leader, after watching her for a moment, turned away and swung off, muttering. David dropped back on the ground, his eyes closed, his body curved about the damp depression. The evening burned to night, the encampment growing black against the scarlet sky. The brush fire sent a line of smoke straight up, a long milky thread, that slowly disentangled itself and mounted to a final outspreading. Each member of the group was still, the girl lying a dark oblong under her blanket, her face upturned to the stars which blossomed slowly in the huge, unclouded heaven. At the root of the butte, hidden against its shadowy base, the mountain man lay motionless, but his eyes were open and they rested on her, not closing or straying. When no one saw him he kept this stealthy watch. In the daytime, with the others about, he still was careful to preserve his brusque indifference, to avoid her, to hide his passion with a jealous subtlety. But beneath the imposed bonds it grew with each day, stronger and more savage as the way waxed fiercer. It was not an obsession of occasional moments, it was always with him. As pilot her image moved across the waste before him. When he fell back for words with Daddy John, he was listening through the old man's speech, for the fall of her horse's hoofs. Her voice made his heart stop, the rustle of her garments dried his throat. When his lowered eyes saw her hand on the plate's edge, he grew rigid, unable to eat. If she brushed by him in the bustle of camp pitching, his hands lost their strength and he was sick with the sense of her. Love, courtship, marriage, were words that no longer had any meaning for him. All the tenderness and humanity he had felt for her in the days of her father's sickness were gone. They were burned away, as the water and the grass were. When he saw her solicitude for David, his contempt for the weak man hardened into hatred. He told himself that he hated them both, and he told himself he would crush and kill them both before David should get her. The desire to keep her from David was stronger than the desire to have her for himself. He did not think or care what he felt. She was the prey to be won by cunning or daring, whose taste or wishes had no place in the struggle. He no longer looked ahead, thought, or reasoned. The elemental in him was developing to fit a scene in which only the elemental survived. They broke camp at four the next morning. For the last few days the heat had been unbearable, and they decided to start while the air was still cool and prolong the noon halt. The landscape grew barer. There were open areas where the soil was soft and sifted from the wheels like sand, and dried stretches where the alkali lay in a caked, white crust. In one place the earth humped into long, wavelike swells each crest topped with a fringe of brush, fine and feathery as petrified spray. At mid-day there was no water in sight. Courant, standing on his saddle, saw no promise of it, nothing but the level distance streaked with white mountain rims, and far to the south a patch of yellow--bare sand, he said, as he pointed a horny finger to where it lay. They camped in the glare and opened the casks. After the meal they tried to rest, but the sun was merciless. The girl crawled under the wagon and lay there on the dust, sleeping with one arm thrown across her face. The two men sat near by, their hats drawn low over their brows. There was not a sound. The silence seemed transmuted to a slowly thickening essence solidifying round them. It pressed upon them till speech was as impossible as it would be under water. A broken group in the landscape's immensity, they were like a new expression of its somber vitality, motionless yet full of life, in consonance with its bare and brutal verity. Courant left them to reconnoiter, and at mid afternoon came back to announce that farther on the trail bent to an outcropping of red rock where he thought there might be water. It was the hottest hour of the day. The animals strained at their harness with lolling tongues and white-rimmed eyeballs, their sweat making tracks on the dust. To lighten the wagon Daddy John walked beside it, plodding on in his broken moccasins, now and then chirruping to Julia. The girl rode behind him, her blouse open at the neck, her hair clinging in a black veining to her bedewed temples. Several times he turned back to look at her as the only other female of the party to be encouraged. When she caught his eye she nodded as though acknowledging the salutation of a passerby, her dumbness an instinctive hoarding of physical force. The red rock came in sight, a nicked edge across the distance. As they approached, it drew up from the plain in a series of crumpled points like the comb of a rooster. The detail of the intervening space was lost in the first crepuscular softness, and they saw nothing but a stretch of darkening purple from which rose the scalloped crest painted in strange colors. Courant trotted forward crying a word of hope, and they pricked after him to where the low bulwark loomed above the plain's swimming mystery. When they reached it he was standing at the edge of a caverned indentation. Dead grasses dropped against the walls, withered weeds thickened toward the apex in a tangled carpet. There had once been water there, but it was gone, dried, or sunk to some hidden channel in the rock's heart. They stood staring at the scorched herbage and the basin where the earth was cracked apart in its last gasping throes of thirst. David's voice broke the silence. He had climbed to the front seat, and his face, gilded with the sunlight, looked like the face of a dead man painted yellow. "Is there water?" he said, then saw the dead grass and dried basin, and met the blank looks of his companions. Susan's laconic "The spring's dry," was not necessary. He fell forward on the seat with a moan, his head propped in his hands, his fingers buried in his hair. Courant sent a look of furious contempt over his abject figure, then gave a laugh that fell on the silence bitter as a curse. Daddy John without a word moved off and began unhitching the mules. Even in Susan pity was, for the moment, choked by a swell of disgust. Had she not had the other men to measure him by, had she not within her own sturdy frame felt the spirit still strong for conflict, she might still have known only the woman's sympathy for the feebler creature. But they were a trio steeled and braced for invincible effort, and this weakling, without the body and the spirit for the enterprise, was an alien among them. She went to the back of the wagon and opened the mess chest. As she picked out the supper things she began to repent. The lean, bent figure and sunken head kept recurring to her. She saw him not as David but as a suffering outsider, and for a second, motionless, with a blackened skillet in her hand, had a faint, clairvoyant understanding of his soul's desolation amid the close-knit unity of their endeavor. She dropped the tin and went back to the front of the wagon. He was climbing out, hanging tremulous to the roof support, a haggard spectacle, with wearied eyes and skin drawn into fine puckerings across the temples. Pity came back in a remorseful wave, and she ran to him and lifted his arm to her shoulder. It clasped her hard and they walked to where at the rock's base the sage grew high. Here she laid a blanket for him and spread another on the top of the bushes, fastening it to the tallest ones till it stretched, a sheltering canopy, over him. She tried to cheer him with assurances that water would be found at the next halting place. He was listless at first, seeming not to listen, then the life in her voice roused his sluggish faculties, his cheeks took color, and his dull glance lit on point after point in its passage to her face, like the needle flickering toward the pole. "If I could get water enough to drink, I'd be all right," he said. "The pains are gone." "They _must_ find it soon," she answered, lifting the weight of his fallen courage, heavy as his body might have been to her arms. "This is a traveled road. There _must_ be a spring somewhere along it." And she continued prying up the despairing spirit till the man began to respond, showing returning hope in the eagerness with which he hung on her words. When he lay sinking into drowsy quiet, she stole away from him to where the camp was spread about the unlit pyre of Daddy John's sage brush. It was too early for supper, and the old man, with the accouterments of the hunt slung upon his person and his rifle in his hand, was about to go afield after jack rabbit. "It's a bad business this," he said in answer to the worry she dared not express. "The animals can't hold out much longer." "What are we to do? There's only a little water left in one of the casks." "Low's goin' to strike across for the other trail. He's goin' after supper, and he says he'll ride all night till he gets it. He thinks if he goes due that way," pointing northward, "he can strike it sooner than by goin' back." They looked in the direction he pointed. Each bush was sending a phenomenally long shadow from its intersection with the ground. There was no butte or hummock to break the expanse between them and the faint, far silhouette of mountains. Her heart sank, a sinking that fatigue and dread of thirst had never given her. "He may lose us," she said. The old man jerked his head toward the rock. "He'll steer by that, and I'll keep the fire going till morning." "But how can he ride all night? He must be half dead now." "A man like him don't die easy. It's not the muscle and the bones, it's the grit. He says it's him that made the mistake and it's him that's goin' to get us back on the right road." "What will he do for water?" "Take an empty cask behind the saddle and trust to God." "But there's water in one of our casks yet." "Yes, he knows it, but he's goin' to leave that for us. And we got to hang on to it, Missy. Do you understand that?" She nodded, frowning and biting her underlip. "Are you feelin' bad?" said the old man uneasily. "Not a bit," she answered. "Don't worry about me." He laid a hand on her shoulder and looked into her face with eyes that said more than his tongue could. "You're as good a man as any of us. When we get to California we'll have fun laughing over this." He gave the shoulder a shake, then drew back and picked up his rifle. "I'll get you a rabbit for supper if I can," he said with his cackling laugh. "That's about the best I can do." He left her trailing off into the reddened reaches of the sage, and she went back to the rock, thinking that in some overlooked hollow, water might linger. She passed the mouth of the dead spring, then skirted the spot where David lay, a motionless shape under the canopy of the blanket. A few paces beyond him a buttress extended and, rounding it, she found a triangular opening inclosed on three sides by walls, their summits orange with the last sunlight. There had once been water here for the grasses, and thin-leafed plants grew rank about the rock's base, then outlined in sere decay what had evidently been the path of a streamlet. She knelt among them, thrusting her hands between their rustling stalks, jerking them up and casting them away, the friable soil spattering from their roots. The heat was torrid, the noon ardors still imprisoned between the slanting walls. Presently she sat back on her heels, and with an earthy hand pushed the moist hair from her forehead. The movement brought her head up, and her wandering eyes, roving in morose inspection, turned to the cleft's opening. Courant was standing there, watching her. His hands hung loose at his sides, his head was drooped forward, his chin lowered toward his throat. The position lent to his gaze a suggestion of animal ruminance and concentration. "Why don't you get David to do that?" he said slowly. The air in the little cleft seemed to her suddenly heavy and hard to breathe. She caught it into her lungs with a quick inhalation. Dropping her eyes to the weeds she said sharply, "David's sick. He can't do anything. You know that." "He that ought to be out in the desert there looking for water's lying asleep under a blanket. That's your man." He did not move or divert his gaze. There was something singularly sinister in the fixed and gleaming look and the rigidity of his watching face. She plucked at a weed, saw her hand's trembling and to hide it struck her palms together shaking off the dust. The sound filled the silent place. To her ears it was hardly louder than the terrified beating of her heart. "That's the man you've chosen," he went on. "A feller that gives out when the road's hard, who hasn't enough backbone to stand a few days' heat and thirst. A poor, useless rag." He spoke in a low voice, very slowly, each word dropping distinct and separate. His lowering expression, his steady gaze, his deliberate speech, spoke of mental forces in abeyance. It was another man, not the Courant she knew. She tried to quell her tremors by simulating indignation. If her breathing shook her breast into an agitation he could see, the look she kept on him was bold and defiant. "Don't speak of him that way," she cried scrambling to her feet. "Keep what you think to yourself." "And what do _you_ think?" he said and moved forward toward her. She made no answer, and it was very silent in the cleft. As he came nearer the grasses crackling under his soft tread were the only sound. She saw that his face was pale under the tan, the nostrils slightly dilated. Stepping with a careful lightness, his movements suggested a carefully maintained adjustment, a being quivering in a breathless balance. She backed away till she stood pressed against the rock. She felt her thoughts scattering and made an effort to hold them as though grasping at tangible, escaping things. He stopped close to her, and neither spoke for a moment, eye hard on eye, then hers shifted and dropped. "You think about him as I do," said the man. "No," she answered, "no," but her voice showed uncertainty. "Why don't you tell the truth? Why do you lie?" "No," this time the word was hardly audible, and she tried to impress it by shaking her head. He made a step toward her and seized one of her hands. She tried to tear it away and flattened herself against the rock, panting, her face gone white as the alkaline patches of the desert. "You don't love him. You never did." She shook her head again, gasping. "Let me out of here. Let go of me." "You liar," he whispered. "You love me." She could not answer, her knees shaking, the place blurring on her sight. Through a sick dizziness she saw nothing but his altered face. He reached for the other hand, spread flat against the stone, and as she felt his grasp upon it, her words came in broken pleading: "Yes, yes, it's true. I do. But I've promised. Let me go." "Then come to me," he said huskily and tried to wrench her forward into his arms. She held herself rigid, braced against the wall, and tearing one hand free, raised it, palm out, between his face and hers. "No, no! My father--I promised him. I can't tell David now. I will later. Don't hold me. Let me go." The voice of Daddy John came clear from outside. "Missy! Hullo, Missy! Where are you?" She sent up the old man's name in a quavering cry and the mountain man dropped her arm and stepped back. She ran past him, and at the mouth of the opening, stopped and leaned on a ledge, getting her breath and trying to control her trembling. Daddy John was coming through the sage, a jack rabbit held up in one hand. "Here's your supper," he cried jubilant. "Ain't I told you I'd get it?" She moved forward to meet him, walking slowly. When he saw her face, concern supplanted his triumph. "We got to get you out of this," he said. "You're as peaked as one of them frontier women in sunbonnets," and he tried to hook a compassionate hand in her arm. But she edged away from him, fearful that he would feel her trembling, and answered: "It's the heat. It seems to draw the strength all out of me." "The rabbit'll put some of it back. I'll go and get things started. You sit by David and rest up," and he skurried away to the camp. She went to David, lying now with opened eyes and hands clasped beneath his head. When her shadow fell across him he turned a brightened face on her. "I'm better," he said. "If I could get some water I think I'd soon be all right." She stood looking down on him with a clouded, almost sullen, expression. "Did you sleep long?" she asked for something to say. "I don't know how long. A little while ago I woke up and looked for you, but you weren't anywhere round, so I just lay here and looked out across to the mountains and began to think of California. I haven't thought about it for a long while." She sat down by him and listened as he told her his thoughts. With a renewal of strength the old dreams had come back--the cabin by the river, the garden seeds to be planted, and now added to them was the gold they were to find. She hearkened with unresponsive apathy. The repugnance to this mutually shared future which had once made her recoil from it was a trivial thing to the abhorrence of it that was now hers. Dislikes had become loathings, a girl's whims, a woman's passions. As David babbled on she kept her eyes averted, for she knew that in them her final withdrawal shone coldly. Her thoughts kept reverting to the scene in the cleft, and when she tore them from it and forced them back on him, her conscience awoke and gnawed. She could no more tell this man, returning to life and love of her, than she could kill him as he lay there defenseless and trusting. At supper they measured out the water, half a cup for each. There still remained a few inches in the cask. This was to be hoarded against the next day. If Courant on his night journey could not strike the upper trail and a spring they would have to retrace their steps, and by this route, with the animals exhausted and their own strength diminished, the first water was a twelve hours' march off. Susan and Courant were silent, avoiding each other's eyes, torpid to the outward observation. But the old man was unusually garrulous, evidently attempting to raise their lowered spirits. He had much to say about California and the gold there, speculated on their chances of fortune, and then carried his speculations on to the joys of wealth and a future in which Susan was to say with the Biblical millionaire, "Now soul take thine ease." She rewarded him with a quick smile, then tipped her cup till the bottom faced the sky, and let the last drop run into her mouth. The night was falling when Courant rode out. She passed him as he was mounting, the canteen strapped to the back of his saddle. "Good-by, and good luck," she said in a low voice as she brushed by. His "good-by" came back to her instilled with a new meaning. The reserve between them was gone. Separated as the poles, they had suddenly entered within the circle of an intimacy that had snapped round them and shut them in. Her surroundings fell into far perspective, losing their menace. She did not care where she was or how she fared. An indifference to all that had seemed unbearable, uplifted her. It was like an emergence from cramped confines to wide, inspiring spaces. He and she were there--the rest was nothing. Sitting beside David she could see the rider's figure grow small, as it receded across the plain. The night had come and the great level brooded solemn under the light of the first, serene stars. In the middle of the camp Daddy John's fire flared, the central point of illumination in a ring of fluctuant yellow. Touched and lost by its waverings the old man's figure came and went, absorbed in outer darkness, then revealed his arms extended round sheaves of brush. David turned and lay on his side looking at her. Her knees were drawn up, her hands clasped round her ankles. With the ragged detail of her dress obscured, the line of her profile and throat sharp in clear silhouette against the saffron glow, she was like a statue carved in black marble. He could not see what her glance followed, only felt the consolation of her presence, the one thing to which he could turn and meet a human response. He was feverish again, his thirst returned in an insatiable craving. Moving restlessly he flung out a hand toward her and said querulously: "How long will Low be gone?" "Till the morning unless he finds water by the way." Silence fell on him and her eyes strained through the darkness for the last glimpse of the rider. He sighed deeply, the hot hand stirring till it lay spread, with separated fingers on the hem of her dress. He moved each finger, their brushing on the cloth the only sound. "Are you in pain?" she asked and shrunk before the coldness of her voice. "No, but I am dying with thirst." She made no answer, resting in her graven quietness. The night had closed upon the rider's figure, but she watched where it had been. Over a blackened peak a large star soared up like a bright eye spying on the waste. Suddenly the hand clinched and he struck down at the earth with it. "I can't go without water till the morning." "Try to sleep," she said. "We must stand it the best way we can." "I can't sleep." He moaned and turned over on his face and lying thus rolled from side to side as if in anguish that movement assuaged. For the first time she looked at him, turning upon him a glance of questioning anxiety. She could see his narrow, angular shape, the legs twisted, the arms bent for a pillow, upon which his head moved in restless pain. "David, we've got to wait." "The night through? Stay this way till morning? I'll be dead. I wish I was now." She looked away from him seized by temptation that rose from contrition not pity. "If you cared for me you could get it. Low's certain to find a spring." "Very well. I will," she said and rose to her feet. She moved softly to the camp the darkness hiding her. Daddy John was taking a cat nap by the fire, a barrier of garnered sage behind him. She knew his sleep was light and stole with a tiptoe tread to the back of the wagon where the water cask stood. She drew off a cupful, then, her eye alert on the old man, crept back to David. When he saw her coming he sat up with a sharp breath of satisfaction, and she knelt beside him and held the cup to his lips. He drained it and sank back in a collapse of relief, muttering thanks that she hushed, fearful of the old man. Then she again took her seat beside him. She saw Daddy John get up and pile the fire high, and watched its leaping flame throw out tongues toward the stars. Midnight was past when David woke and again begged for water. This time she went for it without urging. When he had settled into rest she continued her watch peaceful at the thought that she had given him what was hers and Courant's. Reparation of a sort had been made. Her mind could fly without hindrance into the wilderness with the lonely horseman. It was a luxury like dearly bought freedom, and she sat on lost in it, abandoned to a reverie as deep and solemn as the night. CHAPTER IV She woke when the sun shot its first rays into her eyes. David lay near by, breathing lightly, his face like a pale carven mask against the blanket's folds. Down below in the camp the fire burned low, its flame looking ineffectual and tawdry in the flushed splendor of the sunrise. Daddy John was astir, moving about among the animals and pausing to rub Julia's nose and hearten her up with hopeful words. Susan mounted to a ledge and scanned the distance. Her figure caught the old man's eye and he hailed her for news. Nothing yet, she signaled back, then far on the plain's rose-brown limit saw a dust blur and gave a cry that brought him running and carried him in nimble ascent to her side. His old eyes could see nothing. She had to point the direction with a finger that shook. "There, there. It's moving--far away, as if a drop of water had been spilled on a picture and made a tiny blot." They watched till a horseman grew from the nebulous spot. Then they climbed down and ran to the camp, got out the breakfast things and threw brush on the fire, speaking nothing but the essential word, for hope and fear racked them. When he was within hail Daddy John ran to meet him, but she stayed where she was, her hands making useless darts among the pans, moistening her lips that they might frame speech easily when he came. With down-bent head she heard his voice hoarse from a dust-dried throat: he had found the trail and near it a spring, the cask he carried was full, it would last them for twelve hours. But the way was heavy and the animals were too spent for a day's march in such heat. They would not start till evening and would journey through the night. She heard his feet brushing toward her through the sage, and smelled the dust and sweat upon him as he drew up beside her. She was forced to raise her eyes and murmur a greeting. It was short and cold, and Daddy John marveled at the ways of women, who welcomed a man from such labors as if he had been to the creek and brought up a pail of water. His face, gaunt and grooved with lines, made her heart swell with the pity she had so freely given David, and the passion that had never been his. There was no maternal softness in her now. The man beside her was no helpless creature claiming her aid, but a conqueror upon whom she leaned and in whom she gloried. After he had eaten he drew a saddle back into the rock's shade, spread a blanket and threw himself on it. Almost before he had composed his body in comfort he was asleep, one arm thrown over his head, his sinewy neck outstretched, his chest rising and falling in even breaths. At noon Daddy John in broaching the cask discovered the deficit in the water supply. She came upon the old man with the half-filled coffee-pot in his hand staring down at its contents with a puzzled face. She stood watching him, guilty as a thievish child, the color mounting to her forehead. He looked up and in his eyes she read the shock of his suspicions. Delicacy kept him silent, and as he rinsed the water round in the pot his own face reddened in a blush for the girl he had thought strong in honor and self-denial as he was. "I took it," she said slowly. He had to make allowances, not only to her, but to himself. He felt that he must reassure her, keep her from feeling shame for the first underhand act he had ever known her commit. So he spoke with all the cheeriness he could command: "I guess you needed it pretty bad. Turning out as it has I'm glad you done it." She saw he thought she had taken it for herself, and experienced relief in the consciousness of unjust punishment. "You were asleep," she said, "and I came down and took it twice." He did not look at her for he could not bear to see her humiliation. It was his affair to lighten her self-reproach. "Well, that was all right. You're the only woman among us, and you've got to be kept up." "I--I--couldn't stand it any longer," she faltered now, wanting to justify herself. "It was too much to bear." "Don't say no more," he said tenderly. "Ain't you only a little girl put up against things that 'ud break the spirit of a strong man?" The pathos of his efforts to excuse her shook her guarded self-control. She suddenly put her face against his shoulder in a lonely dreariness. He made a backward gesture with his head that he might toss off his hat and lay his cheek on her hair. "There, there," he muttered comfortingly. "Don't go worrying about that. You ain't done no harm. It's just as natural for you to have taken it as for you to go to sleep when you're tired. And there's not a soul but you and me'll ever know it, and we'll forget by to-night." His simple words, reminiscent of gentler days, when tragic problems lay beyond the confines of imagination, loosed the tension of her mood, and she clasped her arms about him, trembling and shaken. He patted her with his free hand, the coffee-pot in the other, thinking her agitation merely an expression of fatigue, with no more knowledge of its complex provocation than he had of the mighty throes that had once shaken the blighted land on which they stood. David was better, much better, he declared, and proved it by helping clear the camp and pack the wagon for the night march. He was kneeling by Daddy John, who was folding the blankets, when he said suddenly: "If I hadn't got water I think I'd have died last night." The old man, stopped in his folding to turn a hardening face on him. "Water?" he said. "How'd you get it?" "Susan did. I told her I couldn't stand it, and she went down twice to the wagon and brought it to me. I was at the end of my rope." Daddy John said nothing. His ideas were readjusting themselves to a new point of view. When they were established his Missy was back upon her pedestal, a taller one than ever before, and David was once and for all in the dust at its feet. "There's no one like Susan," the lover went on, now with returning forces, anxious to give the mead of praise where it was due. "She tried to talk me out of it, and then when she saw I couldn't stand it she just went quietly off and got it." "I guess you could have held out till the morning if you'd put your mind to it," said the old man dryly, rising with the blankets. For the moment he despised David almost as bitterly as Courant did. It was not alone the weakness so frankly admitted; it was that his action had made Daddy John harbor secret censure of the being dearest to him. The old man could have spat upon him. He moved away for fear of the words that trembled on his tongue. And another and deeper pain tormented him--that his darling should so love this feeble creature that she could steal for him and take the blame of his misdeeds. This was the man to whom she had given her heart! He found himself wishing that David had never come back from his search for the lost horses. Then the other man, the real man that was her fitting mate, could have won her. At sunset the train was ready. Every article that could be dispensed with was left, a rich find for the Indians whose watch fires winked from the hills. To the cry of "Roll out," and the snap of the long whip, the wagon lurched into motion, the thirst-racked animals straining doggedly as it crunched over sage stalks and dragged through powdery hummocks. The old man walked by the wheel, the long lash of his whip thrown afar, flashing in the upper light and descending in a lick of flame on the mules' gray flanks. With each blow fell a phrase of encouragement, the words of a friend who wounds and wounding himself suffers. David rode at the rear with Susan. The two men had told him he must ride if he died for it, and met his offended answer that he intended to do so with sullen silence. In advance, Courant's figure brushed between the bushes, his hair a moving patch of copper color in the last light. Darkness quickly gathered round them. The bowl of sky became an intense Prussian blue that the earth reflected. In this clear, deep color the wagon hood showed a pallid arch, and the shapes of man and beast were defined in shadowless black. In the west a band of lemon-color lingered, and above the stars began to prick through, great scintillant sparks, that looked, for all their size, much farther away than the stars of the peopled places. Their light seemed caught and held in aerial gulfs above the earth, making the heavens clear, while the night clung close and undisturbed to the plain's face. Once from afar the cry of an animal arose, a long, swelling howl, but around the train all was still save for the crackling of the crushed sage stalks, and the pad of hoofs. It was near midnight when Susan's voice summoned Daddy John. The wagon halted, and she beckoned him with a summoning arm. He ran to her, circling the bushes with a youth's alertness, and stretched up to hear her as she bent from the saddle. David must go in the wagon, he was unable to ride longer. The old man swept him with a look of inspection. The starlight showed a drooping figure, the face hidden by the shadow of his hat brim. The mules were at the limit of their strength, and the old man demurred, swearing under his breath and biting his nails. "You've got to take him," she said, "if it kills them. He would have fallen off a minute ago if I hadn't put my arm around him." "Come on, then," he answered with a surly look at David. "Come on and ride, while the rest of us get along the best way we can." "He can't help it," she urged in an angry whisper. "You talk as if he was doing it on purpose." David slid off his horse and made for the wagon with reeling steps. The other man followed muttering. "Help him," she called. "Don't you see he can hardly stand?" At the wagon wheel Daddy John hoisted him in with vigorous and ungentle hands. Crawling into the back the sick man fell prone with a groan. Courant, who had heard them and turned to watch, came riding up. "What is it?" he said sharply. "The mules given out?" "Not they," snorted Daddy John, at once all belligerent loyalty to Julia and her mates, "it's this d--d cry baby again," and he picked up the reins exclaiming in tones of fond urgence: "Come now, off again. Keep up your hearts There's water and grass ahead. Up there, Julia, honey!" The long team, crouching in the effort to start the wagon, heaved it forward, and the old man, leaping over the broken sage, kept the pace beside them. Courant, a few feet in advance, said over his shoulder: "What's wrong with him now?" "Oh, played out, I guess. She," with a backward jerk of his head, "won't have it any other way. No good telling her it's nerve not body that he ain't got." The mountain man looked back toward the pathway between the slashed and broken bushes. He could see Susan's solitary figure, David's horse following. "What's _she_ mind for?" he said. "Because she's a woman and they're made that way. She's more set on that chump than she'd be on the finest man you could bring her if you hunted the world over for him." They fared on in silence, the soft soil muffling their steps. The wagon lurched on a hummock and David groaned. "Are you meaning she cares for him?" asked Courant. "All her might," answered the old man. "Ain't she goin' to marry the varmint?" It was an hour for understanding, no matter how bitter. Daddy John's own dejection made him unsparing. He offered his next words as confirmation of a condition that he thought would kill all hope in the heart of the leader. "Last night he made her get him water--the store we had left if you hadn't found any. Twict in the night while I was asleep she took and gave it to him. Then when I found it out she let me think she took it for herself," he spat despondently. "She the same as lied for him. I don't want to hear no more after that." The mountain man rode with downdrooped head. Daddy John, who did not know what he did, might well come to such conclusions. _He_ knew the secret of the girl's contradictory actions. He looked into her perturbed spirit and saw how desperately she clung to the letter of her obligation, while she repudiated the spirit. Understanding her solicitude for David, he knew that it was strengthened by the consciousness of her disloyalty. But he felt no tenderness for these distracted feminine waverings. It exhilarated him to think that while she held to the betrothed of her father's choice and the bond of her given word, her hold would loosen at his wish. As he had felt toward enemies that he had conquered--crushed and subjected by his will--he felt toward her. It was a crowning joy to know that he could make her break her promise, turn her from her course of desperate fidelity, and make her his own, not against her inclination, but against her pity, her honor, her conscience. The spoor left by his horse the night before was clear in the starlight. He told Daddy John to follow it and drew up beside the track to let the wagon pass him. Motionless he watched the girl's approaching figure, and saw her rein her horse to a standstill. "Come on," he said softly. "I want to speak to you." She touched the horse and it started toward him. As she came nearer he could see the troubled shine of her eyes. "Why are you afraid?" he said, as he fell into place beside her. "We're friends now." She made no answer, her head bent till her face was hidden by her hat. He laid his hand on her rein and brought the animal to a halt. "Let the wagon get on ahead," he whispered. "We'll follow at a distance." The whisper, so low that the silence was unbroken by it, came to her, a clear sound carrying with it a thrill of understanding. She trembled and--his arm against hers as his hand held her rein--he felt the subdued vibration like the quivering of a frightened animal. The wagon lumbered away with the sifting dust gushing from the wheels. A stirred cloud rose upon its wake and they could feel it thick and stifling in their nostrils. She watched the receding arch cut down the back by the crack in the closed canvas, while he watched her. The sound of crushed twigs and straining wheels lessened, the stillness gathered between these noises of laboring life and the two mounted figures. As it settled each could hear the other's breathing and feel a mutual throb, as though the same leaping artery fed them both. In the blue night encircled by the waste, they were as still as vessels balanced to a hair in which passion brimmed to the edge. "Come on," she said huskily, and twitched her reins from his hold. The horses started, walking slowly. A strip of mangled sage lay in front, back of them the heavens hung, a star-strewn curtain. It seemed to the man and woman that they were the only living things in the world, its people, its sounds, its interests, were in some undescried distance where life progressed with languid pulses. How long the silence lasted neither knew. He broke it with a whisper: "Why did you get David the water last night?" Her answer came so low he had to bend to hear it. "He wanted it. I had to." "Why do you give him all he asks for? David is nothing to you." This time no answer came, and he stretched his hand and clasped the pommel of her saddle. The horses, feeling the pull of the powerful arm, drew together. His knee pressed on the shoulder of her pony, and feeling him almost against her she bent sideways, flinching from the contact. "Why do you shrink from me, Missy?" "I'm afraid," she whispered. They paced on for a moment in silence. When he tried to speak his lips were stiff, and he moistened them to murmur: "Of what?" She shrunk still further and raised a hand between them. He snatched at it, pulling it down, saying hoarsely: "Of me?" "Of something--I don't know what. Of something terrible and strange." She tried to strike at her horse with the reins, but the man's hand dropped like a hawk on the pommel and drew the tired animal back to the foot pace. "If you love me there's no need of fear," he said, then waited, the sound of her terrified breathing like the beating of waves in his ears, and murmured lower than before, "And you love me. I know it." Her face showed in dark profile against the deep sky. He stared at it, then suddenly set his teeth and gave the pommel a violent jerk that made the horse stagger and grind against its companion. The creaking of the wagon came faint from a wake of shadowy trail. "You've done it for weeks. Before you knew. Before you lied to your father when he tried to make you marry David." She dropped the reins and clinched her hands against her breast, a movement of repression and also of pleading to anything that would protect her, any force that would give her strength to fight, not the man alone, but herself. But the will was not within her. The desert grew dim, the faint sounds from the wagon faded. Like a charmed bird, staring straight before it, mute and enthralled, she rocked lightly to left and right, and then swayed toward him. The horse, feeling the dropped rein, stopped, jerking its neck forward in the luxury of rest, its companion coming to a standstill beside it. Courant raised himself in his saddle and gathered her in an embrace that crushed her against his bony frame, then pressed against her face with his, till he pushed it upward and could see it, white, with closed eyes, on his shoulder. He bent till his long hair mingled with hers and laid his lips on her mouth with the clutch of a bee on a flower. They stood a compact silhouette, clear in the luminous starlight. The crack in the canvas that covered the wagon back widened and the eye that had been watching them, stared bright and wide, as if all the life of the feeble body had concentrated in that one organ of sense. The hands, damp and trembling, drew the canvas edges closer, but left space enough for the eye to dwell on this vision of a shattered world. It continued to gaze as Susan slid from the encircling arms, dropped from her horse, and came running forward, stumbling on the fallen bushes, as she ran panting out the old servant's name. Then it went back to the mountain man, a black shape in the loneliness of the night. CHAPTER V A slowly lightening sky, beneath it the transparent sapphire of the desert wakening to the dawn, and cutting the blue expanse the line of the new trail. A long butte, a bristling outline on the paling north, ran out from a crumpled clustering of hills, and the road bent to meet it. The air came from it touched with a cooling freshness, and as they pressed toward it they saw the small, swift shine of water, a little pool, grass-ringed, with silver threads creeping to the sands. They drank and then slept, sinking to oblivion as they dropped on the ground, not waiting to undo their blankets or pick out comfortable spots. The sun, lifting a bright eye above the earth's rim, shot its long beams over their motionless figures, "bundles of life," alone in a lifeless world. David alone could not rest. Withdrawn from the others he lay in the shadow of the wagon, watching small points in the distance with a glance that saw nothing. All sense of pain and weakness had left him. Physically he felt strangely light and free of sensation. With his brain endowed with an abnormal activity he suffered an agony of spirit so poignant that there were moments when he drew back and looked at himself wondering how he endured it. He was suddenly broken away from everything cherished and desirable in life. The bare and heart-rending earth about him was as the expression of his ruined hopes. And after these submergences in despair a tide of questions carried him to livelier torment: Why had she done it? What had changed her? When had she ceased to care? All his deadened manhood revived. He wanted her, he owned her, she was his. Sick and unable to fight for her she had been stolen from him, and he writhed in spasms of self pity at the thought of the cruelty of it. How could he, disabled, broken by unaccustomed hardships, cope with the iron-fibered man whose body and spirit were at one with these harsh settings? _He_ was unfitted for it, for the heroic struggle, for the battle man to man for a woman as men had fought in the world's dawn into which they had retraced their steps. He could not make himself over, become another being to appeal to a sense in her he had never touched. He could only plead with her, beg mercy of her, and he saw that these were not the means that won women grown half savage in correspondence with a savage environment. Then came moments of exhaustion when he could not believe it. Closing his eyes he called up the placid life that was to have been his and Susan's, and could not think but that it still must be. Like a child he clung to his hope, to the belief that something would intervene and give her back to him; not he, he was unable to, but something that stood for justice and mercy. All his life he had abided by the law, walked uprightly, done his best. Was he to be smitten now through no fault of his own? It was all a horrible dream, and presently there would be an awakening with Susan beside him as she had been in the first calm weeks of their betrothal. The sweetness of those days returned to him with the intolerable pang of a fair time, long past and never to come again. He threw his head back as if in a paroxysm of pain. It could not be and yet in his heart he knew it was true. In the grip of his torment he thought of the God that watching over Israel slumbered not nor slept. With his eyes on the implacable sky he tried to pray, tried to drag down from the empty gulf of air the help that would bring back his lost happiness. At Susan's first waking movement he started and turned his head toward her. She saw him, averted her face, and began the preparations for the meal. He lay watching her and he knew that her avoidance of his glance was intentional. He also saw that her manner of preoccupied bustle was affected. She was pale, her face set in hard lines. When she spoke once to Daddy John her voice was unlike itself, hoarse and throaty, its mellow music gone. They gathered and took their places in silence, save for the old man, who tried to talk, but meeting no response gave it up. Between the three others not a word was exchanged. A stifling oppression lay on them, and they did not dare to look at one another. The girl found it impossible to swallow and taking a piece of biscuit from her mouth threw it into the sand. The air was sultry, light whisps of mist lying low over the plain. The weight of these vaporous films seemed to rest on them heavy as the weight of water, and before the meal was finished, Susan, overborne by a growing dread and premonition of tragedy, rose and left her place, disappearing round a buttress of the rock. Courant stopped eating and looked after her, his head slowly moving as his eye followed her. To anyone watching it would have been easy to read this pursuing glance, the look of the hunter on his quarry. David saw it and rose to his knees. A rifle lay within arm's reach, and for one furious moment he felt an impulse to snatch it and kill the man. But a rush of inhibiting instinct checked him. Had death or violence menaced her he could have done it, but without the incentive of the immediate horror he could never rise so far beyond himself. Susan climbed the rock's side to a plateau on its western face. The sun beat on her like a furnace mouth. Here and there black filigrees of shade shrank to the bases of splintered ledges. Below the plain lay outflung in the stupor of midday. On its verge the mountains stretched, a bright blue, shadowless film. A mirage trembled to the south, a glassy vision, crystal clear amid the chalky streakings and the rings of parched and blanching sinks. Across the prospect the faint, unfamiliar mist hung as if, in the torrid temperature, the earth was steaming. She sat down on a shelf of rock not feeling the burning sunshine or the heat that the baked ledges threw back upon her. The life within her was so intense that no impressions from the outside could enter, even her eyes took in no image of the prospect they dwelt on. Courant's kiss had brought her to a place toward which, she now realized, she had been moving for a long time, advancing upon it, unknowing, but impelled like a somnambulist willed toward a given goal. What was to happen she did not know. She felt a dread so heavy that it crushed all else from her mind. They had reached a crisis where everything had stopped, a dark and baleful focus to which all that had gone before had been slowly converging. The whole journey had been leading to this climax of suspended breath and fearful, inner waiting. She heard the scraping of ascending feet, and when she saw David stared at him, her eyes unblinking in stony expectancy. He came and stood before her, and she knew that at last he had guessed, and felt no fear, no resistance against the explanation that must come. He suddenly had lost all significance, was hardly a human organism, or if a human organism, one that had no relation to her. Neither spoke for some minutes. He was afraid, and she waited, knowing what he was going to say, wishing it was said, and the hampering persistence of his claim was ended. At length he said tremulously: "Susan, I saw you last night. What did you do it for? What am I to think?" That he had had proof of her disloyalty relieved her. There would be less to say in this settling of accounts. "Well," she answered, looking into his eyes. "You saw!" He cried desperately, "I saw him kiss you. You let him. What did it mean?" "Why do you ask? If you saw you know." "I don't know. I want to know. Tell me, explain to me." He paused, and then cried with a pitiful note of pleading, "Tell me it wasn't so. Tell me I made a mistake." He was willing, anxious, for her to lie. Against the evidence of his own senses he would have made himself believe her, drugged his pain with her falsehoods. What remnant of consideration she had vanished. "You made no mistake," she answered. "It was as you saw." "I don't believe it. I can't. You wouldn't have done it. It's I you're promised to. Haven't I your word? Haven't you been kind as an angel to me when the others would have let me die out here like a dog? What did you do it for if you didn't care?" "I was sorry," and then with cold, measured slowness, "and I felt guilty." "That's it--you felt guilty. It's not your doing. You've been led away. While I've been sick that devil's been poisoning you against me. He's tried to steal you from me. But you're not the girl to let him do that. You'll come back to me--the man that you belong to, that's loved you since the day we started." To her at this naked hour, where nothing lived but the truth, the thought that he would take her back with the other man's kisses on her lips, made her unsparing. She drew back from him, stiffening in shocked repugnance, and speaking with the same chill deliberation. "I'll never come back to you. It's all over, that love with you. I didn't know. I didn't feel. I was a child with no sense of what she was doing. Now everything's different. It's he I must go with and be with as long as I live." The hideousness of the discovery had been made the night before. Had her words been his first intimation they might have shocked him into stupefied dumbness and made him seem the hero who meets his fate with closed lips. But hours long he had brooded and knew her severance from him had taken place. With the mad insistance of a thought whirling on in fevered repetition he had told himself that he must win her back, urge, struggle, plead, till he had got her where she was before or lose her forever. "You can't. You can't do it. It's a temporary thing. It's the desert and the wildness and because he could ride and get water and find the trail. In California it will be different. Out there it'll be the same as it used to be back in the States. You'll think of this as something unreal that never happened and your feeling for him--it'll all go. When we get where it's civilized you'll be like you were when we started. You couldn't have loved a savage like that then. Well, you won't when you get where you belong. It's horrible. It's unnatural." She shook her head, glanced at him and glanced away. The sweat was pouring off his face and his lips quivered like a weeping child's. "Oh, David," she said with a deep breath like a groan, "_this_ is natural for me. The other was not." "You don't know what you're saying. And how about your promise? _You_ gave that of your own free will. Was it a thing you give and take back whenever you please? What would your father think of your breaking your word--throwing me off for a man no better than a half-blood Indian? Is that your honor?" Then he was suddenly fearful that he had said too much and hurt his case, and he dropped to a wild pleading: "Oh, Susan, you can't, you can't. You haven't got the heart to treat me so." She looked down not answering, but her silence gave no indication of a softened response. He seemed to throw himself upon its hardness in hopeless desperation. "Send him away. He needn't go on with us. Tell him to go back to the Fort." "Where would we be now without him?" she said and smiled grimly at the thought of their recent perils with the leader absent. "We're on the main trail. We don't need him now. I heard him say yesterday to Daddy John we'd be in Humboldt in three or four days. We can go on without him, there's no more danger." She smiled again, a slight flicker of one corner of her mouth. The dangers were over and Courant could be safely dispensed with. "He'll go on with us," she said. "It's not necessary. We don't want him. I'll guide. I'll help. If he was gone I'd be all right again. Daddy John and I are enough. If I can get you back as you were before, we'll be happy again, and I _can_ get you back if he goes." "You'll never get me back," she answered, and rising moved away from him, aloof and hostile in the deepest of all aversions, the woman to the unloved and urgent suitor. He followed her and caught at her dress. "Don't go. Don't leave me this way. I can't believe it. I can't stand it. If I hadn't grown into thinking you were going to be my wife maybe I could. But it's just unbearable when I'd got used to looking upon you as mine, almost as good as married to me. You can't do it. You can't make me suffer this way." His complete abandonment filled her with pain, the first relenting she had had. She could not look at him and longed to escape. She tried to draw her dress from his hands, saying: "Oh, David, don't say any more. There's no good. It's over. It's ended. I can't help it. It's something stronger than I am." He saw the repugnance in her face and loosened his hold, dropping back from her. "It's the end of my life," he said in a muffled voice. "I feel as if it was the end of the world," she answered, and going to the pathway disappeared over its edge. She walked back skirting the rock's bulk till she found a break in its side, a small gorge shadowed by high walls. The cleft penetrated deep, its mouth open to the sky, its apex a chamber over which the cloven walls slanted like hands with finger tips touching in prayer. It was dark in this interior space, the floor mottled with gleaming sun-spots. Across the wider opening, unroofed to the pale blue of the zenith, the first slow shade was stretching, a creeping gray coolness, encroaching on the burning ground. Here she threw herself down, looking out through the entrance at the desert shimmering through the heat haze. The mist wreaths were dissolving, every line and color glassily clear. Her eyes rested vacantly on it, her body inert, her heart as heavy as a stone. David made no movement to follow her. He had clung to his hope with the desperation of a weak nature, but it was ended now. No interference, no miracle, could restore her to him. He saw--he had to see--that she was lost to him as completely as if death had claimed her. More completely, for death would have made her a stranger. Now it was the Susan he had loved who had looked at him with eyes not even indifferent but charged with a hard hostility. She was the same and yet how different! Hopeless!--Hopeless! He wondered if the word had ever before voiced so abject a despair. He turned to the back of the plateau and saw the faint semblance of a path leading upward to higher levels, a trail worn by the feet of other emigrants who had climbed to scan with longing eyes the weary way to the land of their desire. As he walked up it and the prospect widened on his sight, its message came, clearer with every mounting step. Thus forever would he look out on a blasted world uncheered by sound or color. The stillness that lapped him round was as the stillness of his own dead heart. The mirage quivered brilliant in the distance, and he paused, a solitary shape against the exhausted sky, to think that his dream of love had had no more reality. Beautiful and alluring it had floated in his mind, an illusion without truth or substance. He reached the higher elevation, barren and iron hard, the stone hot to his feet. On three sides the desert swept out to the horizon, held in its awful silence. Across it, a white seam, the Emigrant Trail wound, splindling away into the west, a line of tortuous curves, a loop, a straight streak, and then a tiny thread always pressing on to that wonderful land which he had once seen as a glowing rim on the world's remotest verge. It typified the dauntless effort of man, never flagging, never broken, persisting to its goal. He had not been able to thus persist, the spirit had not reached far enough to know its aim and grasp it. He knew his weakness, his incapacity to cope with the larger odds of life, a watcher not an actor in the battle, and understanding that his failure had come from his own inadequacy he wished that he might die. On one side the eminence broke away in a sheer fall to the earth below. At its base a scattering of sundered bowlders and fragments lay, veiled by a growth of small, bushy shrubs to which a spring gave nourishment. Behind this the long spine of the rock tapered back to the parent ridge that ran, a bristling rampart, east and west. He sat down on the edge of the precipice watching the trail. He had no idea how long he remained thus. A shadow falling across him brought him back to life. He turned and saw Courant standing a few feet from him. Without speech or movement they eyed one another. In his heart each hated the other, but in David the hate had come suddenly, the hysteric growth of a night's anguish. The mountain man's was tempered by a process of slow-firing to a steely inflexibility. He hated David that he had ever been his rival, that he had ever thought to lay claim to the woman who was his, that he had ever aspired to her, touched her, desired her. He hated him when he saw that, all unconsciously, he had still a power to hold her from the way her passion led. And back of all was the ancient hatred, the heritage from ages lost in the beginnings of the race, man's of man in the struggle for a woman. David rose from his crouching posture to his knees. The other, all his savage instincts primed for onslaught, saw menace in the movement, and stood braced and ready. Like Susan he understood that David had guessed the secret. He could judge him only by his own measure, and he knew the settling of the score had come. There was no right or justice in his claim, only the right of the stronger to win what he wanted, but that to him was the supreme right. David's sick fury shot up into living flame. He judged Susan innocent, a tool in ruthless hands. He saw the destroyer of their lives, a devil who had worked subtly for his despoilment. The air grew dark and in the center of the darkness, his hate concentrated on the watching face, and an impulse, the strongest of his life, nerved him with the force to kill. For once he broke beyond himself, rose outside the restrictions that had held him cowering within his sensitive shell. His rage had the vehemence of a distracted woman's, and he threw himself upon his enemy, inadequate now as always, but at last unaware and unconscious. They clutched and rocked together. From the moment of the grapple it was unequal--a sick and wounded creature struggling in arms that were as iron bands about his puny frame. But as a furious child fights for a moment successfully with its enraged elder, he tore and beat at his opponent, striking blindly at the face he loathed, writhing in the grip that bent his body and sent the air in sobbing gasps from his lungs. Their trampling was muffled on the stone, their shadows leaped in contorted waverings out from their feet and back again. Broken and twisted in Courant's arms, David felt no pain only the blind hate, saw the livid plain heaving about him, the white ball of the sun, and twisting through the reeling distance the pale thread of the Emigrant Trail, glancing across his ensanguined vision like a shuttle weaving through a blood-red loom. They staggered to the edge of the plateau and there hung. It was only for a moment, a last moment of strained and swaying balance. Courant felt the body against his weaken, wrenched himself free, and with a driving blow sent it outward over the precipice. It fell with the arms flung wide, the head dropped backward, and from the open mouth a cry broke, a shrill and dreadful sound that struck sharp on the plain's abstracted silence, spread and quivered across its surface like widening rings on the waters of a pool. The mountain man threw himself on the edge and looked down. The figure lay limp among the bushes thirty feet below. He watched it, his body still as a panther's crouched for a spring. He saw one of the hands twitch, a loosened sliver of slate slide from the wall, and cannoning on projections, leap down and bury itself in the outflung hair. The face looking up at him with half-shut eyes that did not wink as the rock dust sifted into them, was terrible, but he felt no sensation save a grim curiosity. He stole down a narrow gulley and crept with stealthy feet and steadying hands toward the still shape. The shadows were cool down there, and as he touched the face its warmth shocked him. It should have been cold to have matched its look and the hush of the place. He thrust his hand inside the shirt and felt at the heart. No throb rose under his palm, and he sent it sliding over the upper part of the body, limp now, but which he knew would soon be stiffening. The man was dead. Courant straightened himself and sent a rapid glance about him. The bushes among which the body lay were close matted in a thick screen. Through their roots the small trickle of the spring percolated, stealing its way to the parched sands outside. It made a continuous murmuring, as if nature was lifting a voice of low, insistent protest against the desecration of her peace. The man standing with stilled breath and rigid muscles listened for other sounds. Reassured that there were none, his look swept right and left for a spot wherein to hide the thing that lay at his feet. At its base the rock wall slanted outward leaving a hollow beneath its eave where the thin veneer of water gleamed from the shadows. He took the dead man under the arms and dragged him to it, careful of branches that might snap under his foot, pausing to let the echoes of rolling stones die away--a figure of fierce vitality with the long, limp body hanging from his hands. At the rock he crouched and thrust his burden under the wall's protecting cope, the trickle of the water dying into a sudden, scared silence. Stepping back he brushed the bushes into shape, hiding their breakage, and bent to gather the scattered leaves and crush them into crevices. When it was done the place showed no sign of the intruder, only the whispering of the streamlet told that its course was changed and it was feeling for a new channel. Then he crept softly out to the plain's edge where the sunlight lay long and bright. It touched his face and showed it white, with lips close set and eyes gleaming like crystals. He skirted the rock, making a soft, quick way to where the camp lay. Here the animals stood, heads drooped as they cropped the herbage round the spring. Daddy John sat in the shade of the wagon, tranquilly cleaning a gun. The mountain man's passage was so soundless that he did not hear it. The animals raised slow eyes to the moving figure, then dropped them indifferently. He passed them, his step growing lighter, changing as he withdrew from the old man's line of vision, to a long, rapid glide. His blood-shot eyes nursed the extending buttresses, and as he came round them, with craned neck and body reaching forward, they sent a glance into each recess that leaped round it like a flame. Susan had remained in the same place. She made no note of the passage of time, but the sky between the walls was growing deeper in color, the shadows lengthening along the ground. She was lying on her side looking out through the rift's opening when Courant stood there. He made an instant's pause, a moment when his breath caught deep, and, seeing him, she started to her knees with a blanching face. As he came upon her she held out her hands, crying in uprising notes of terror, "No! No! No!" But he gathered her in his arms, stilled her cries with his kisses, and bending low carried her back into the darkened cavern over which the rocks closed like hands uplifted in prayer. CHAPTER VI Till the afternoon of the next day they held the train for David. When evening fell and he did not come Daddy John climbed the plateau and kindled a beacon fire that threw its flames against the stars. Then he took his rifle and skirted the rock's looming bulk, shattering the stillness with reports that let loose a shivering flight of echoes. All night they sat by the fire listening and waiting. As the hours passed their alarm grew and their speculations became gloomier and more sinister. Courant was the only one who had a plausible theory. The moving sparks on the mountains showed that the Indians were still following them and it was his opinion that David had strayed afar and been caught by a foraging party. It was not a matter for desperate alarm as the Diggers were harmless and David would no doubt escape from them and join a later train. This view offered the only possible explanation. It was Courant's opinion and so it carried with the other two. Early in the evening the girl had shown no interest. Sitting back from the firelight, a shawl over her head, she seemed untouched by the anxiety that prompted the old man's restless rovings. As the night deepened Daddy John had come back to Courant who was near her. He spoke his fears low, for he did not want to worry her. Glancing to see if she had heard him, he was struck by the brooding expression of her face, white between the shawl folds. He nodded cheerily at her but her eyes showed no responsive gleam, dwelling on him wide and unseeing. As he moved away he heard her burst into sudden tears, such tears as she had shed at the Fort, and turning back with arms ready for her comforting, saw her throw herself against Courant's knees, her face buried in the folds of her shawl. He stood arrested, amazed not so much by the outburst as by the fact that it was to Courant she had turned and not to him. But when he spoke to her she drew the shawl tighter over her head and pressed her face against the mountain man's knees. Daddy John had no explanation of her conduct but that she had been secretly fearful about David and had turned for consolation to the human being nearest her. The next day her anxiety was so sharp that she could not eat and the men grew accustomed to the sight of her mounted on the rock's summit, or walking slowly along the trail searching with untiring eyes. When alone with her lover he kissed and caressed her fears into abeyance. As he soothed her, clasped close against him, her terrors gradually subsided, sinking to a quiescence that came, not alone from his calm and practical reassurances, but from the power of his presence to drug her reason and banish all thoughts save those of him. He wanted her mind free of the dead man, wanted him eliminated from her imagination. The spiritual image of David must fade from her thoughts as his corporeal part would soon fade in the desiccating desert airs. Alone by the spring, held against Courant's side by an arm that trembled with a passion she still only half understood, she told him of her last interview with David. In an agony of self-accusation she whispered: "Oh, Low, could he have killed himself?" "Where?" said the man. "Haven't we searched every hole and corner of the place? He couldn't have hidden his own body." The only evidence that some mishap had befallen David was Daddy John's, who, on the afternoon of the day of the disappearance had heard a cry, a single sound, long and wild. It had seemed to come from the crest of the rock, and the old man had listened and hearing no more had thought it the yell of some animal far on the mountains. This gave color to Courant's theory that the lost man had been seized by the Diggers. Borne away along the summit of the ridge he would have shouted to them and in that dry air the sound would have carried far. He could have been overpowered without difficulty, weakened by illness and carrying no arms. They spent the morning in a fruitless search and in the afternoon Courant insisted on the train moving on. They cached provisions by the spring and scratched an arrow on the rock pointing their way, and underneath it the first letters of their names. It was useless, the leader said, to leave anything in the form of a letter. As soon as their dust was moving on the trail the Diggers would sweep down on the camp and carry away every scrap of rag and bone that was there. This was why he overrode Susan's plea to leave David's horse. Why present to the Indians a horse when they had only sufficient for themselves? She wrung her hands at the grewsome picture of David escaping and stealing back to find a deserted camp. But Courant was inexorable and the catching-up went forward with grim speed. She and the old man were dumb with depression as the train rolled out. To them the desertion seemed an act of appalling heartlessness. But the mountain man had overcome Daddy John's scruples by a picture of their own fate if they delayed and were caught in the early snows of the Sierras. The girl could do nothing but trust in the word that was already law to her. He rode beside her murmuring reassurances and watching her pale profile. Her head hung low on her breast, her hat casting a slant of shadow to her chin. Her eyes looked gloomily forward, sometimes as his words touched a latent chord of hope, turning quickly upon him and enveloping him in a look of pathetic trust. At the evening halt she ate nothing, sitting in a muse against the wagon wheel. Presently she put her plate down and, mounting on the axle, scanned the way they had come. She could see the rock, rising like the clumsy form of a dismantled galleon from the waters of a darkling sea. For a space she stood, her hand arched above her eyes, then snatched the kerchief from her neck and, straining an arm aloft, waved it. The white and scarlet rag flapped with a languid motion, an infinitesimal flutter between the blaze of the sky and the purpling levels of the earth. Her arm dropped, her signal fallen futile on the plain's ironic indifference. During the next day's march she constantly looked back, and several times halted, her hand demanding silence as if she were listening for pursuing footsteps. Courant hid a growing irritation, which once escaped him in a query as to whether she thought David, if he got away from the Indians, could possibly catch them up. She answered that if he had escaped with a horse he might, and fell again to her listening and watching. At the night camp she ordered Daddy John to build the beacon fire higher than ever, and taking a rifle moved along the outskirts of the light firing into the darkness. Finally, standing with the gun caught in the crook of her arm, she sent up a shrill call of "David." The cry fell into the silence, cleaving it with a note of wild and haunting appeal. Courant went after her and brought her back. When they returned to the fire the old man, who was busy with the cooking, looked up to speak but instead gazed in silence, caught by something unusual in their aspect, revivifying, illuminating, like the radiance of an inner glow. It glorified the squalor of their clothing, the drawn fatigue of their faces. It gave them the fleeting glamour of spiritual beauty that comes to those in whom being has reached its highest expression, the perfect moment of completion caught amid life's incompleteness. In the following days she moved as if the dust cloud that inclosed her was an impenetrable medium that interposed itself between her and the weird setting of the way. She was drugged with the wine of a new life. She did not think of sin, of herself in relation to her past, of the breaking with every tie that held her to her old self. All her background was gone. Her conscience that, in her dealings with David, had been so persistently lively, now, when it came to herself, was dead. Question of right or wrong, secret communings, self judgment, had no place in the exaltation of her mood. To look at her conduct and reason of it, to do anything but feel, was as impossible for her as it would have been to disengage her senses from their tranced concentration and restore them to the composed serenity of the past. It was not the sudden crumbling of a character, the collapse of a structure reared on a foundation of careful training. It was a logical growth, forced by the developing process of an environment with which that character was in harmony. Before she reached the level where she could surrender herself, forgetful of the rites imposed by law, unshocked by her lover's brutality, she had been losing every ingrafted and inherited modification that had united her with the world in which she had been an exotic. The trials of the trail that would have dried the soul and broken the mettle of a girl whose womanhood was less rich, drew from hers the full measure of its strength. Every day had made her less a being of calculated, artificial reserves, of inculcated modesties, and more a human animal, governed by instincts that belonged to her age and sex. She was normal and chaste and her chastity had made her shrink from the man whose touch left her cold, and yield to the one to whom her first antagonism had been first response. When she had given Courant her kiss she had given herself. There was no need for intermediary courtship. After that vacillations of doubt and conscience ended. The law of her being was all that remained. She moved on with the men, dust-grimed, her rags held together with pins and lacings of deer hide. She performed her share of the work with automatic thoroughness, eating when the hour came, sleeping on the ground under the stars, staggering up in the deep-blue dawn and buckling her horse's harness with fingers that fatigue made clumsy. She was more silent than ever before, often when the old man addressed her making no reply. He set down her abstraction to grief over David. When he tried to cheer her, her absorbed preoccupation gave place to the old restlessness, and once again she watched and listened. These were her only moods--periods of musing when she rode in front of the wagon with vacant eyes fixed on the winding seam of the trail, and periods of nervous agitation when she turned in her saddle to sweep the road behind her and ordered him to build the night fire high and bright. The old servant was puzzled. Something foreign in her, an inner vividness of life, a deeper current of vitality, told him that this was not a woman preyed upon by a gnawing grief. He noted, without understanding, a change in her bearing to Courant and his to her. Without words to give it expression he saw in her attitude to the leader a pliant, docile softness, a surreptitious leap of light in the glance that fell upon him in quick welcome before her lids shut it in. With Courant the change showed in a possessive tenderness, a brooding concern. When, at the morning start, he waited as she rode toward him, his face was irradiated with a look that made the old man remember the dead loves of his youth. It was going to be all right Daddy John thought. David gone, whether forever or for an unknown period, the mountain man might yet win her. And then again the old man fell a wondering at something in them that did not suggest the unassured beginnings of courtship, a settled security of relation as of complete unity in a mutual enterprise. One afternoon a faint spot of green rose and lingered on the horizon. They thought it a mirage and watched it with eyes grown weary of the desert's delusions. But as the road bore toward it, it steadied to their anxious gaze, expanded into a patch that lay a living touch on the earth's dead face. By the time that dusk gathered they saw that it was trees and knew that Humboldt was in sight. At nightfall they reached it, the first outpost sent into the wilderness by the new country. The red light of fires came through the dusk like a welcoming hail from that unknown land which was to be theirs. After supper Daddy John and Courant left the girl and went to the mud house round which the camps clustered. The darkness was diluted by the red glow of fires and astir with dusky figures. There were trains for California and Oregon and men from the waste lands to the eastward and the south, flotsam and jetsam thrown up on the desert's shore. Inside, where the air was thick with smoke and the reek of raw liquors, they heard again the great news from California. The old man, determined to get all the information he could, moved from group to group, an observant listener in the hubbub. Presently his ear was caught by a man who declared he had been on the gold river and was holding a circle in thrall by his tales. Daddy John turned to beckon to Courant and, not seeing him, elbowed his way through the throng spying to right and left. But the mountain man had gone. Daddy John went back to the gold seeker and drew him dry of information, then foregathered with a thin individual who had a humorous eye and was looking on from a corner. This stranger introduced himself as a clergyman, returning from the East to Oregon by way of California. They talked together. Daddy John finding his new acquaintance a tolerant cheery person versed in the lore of the trail. The man gave him many useful suggestions for the last lap of the journey and he decided to go after Courant, to whom the route over the Sierra was unknown ground. The camps had sunk to silence, the women and children asleep. He skirted their tents, bending his course to where he saw the hood of his own wagon and the shadowy forms of Julia and her mates. The fire still burned bright and on its farther side he could make out the figures of Susan and Courant seated on the ground. They were quiet, the girl sitting with her feet tucked under her, idly throwing scraps of sage on the blaze. He was about to hail Courant when he saw him suddenly drop to a reclining posture beside her, draw himself along the earth and curl about her, his elbow on the ground, his head propped on a sustaining hand. With the other he reached forward, caught Susan's and drawing it toward him pressed it against his cheek. Daddy John watched the sacrilegious act with starting eyes. He would have burst in upon them had he not seen the girl's shy smile, and her body gently droop forward till her lips rested on the mountain man's. When she drew back the old servant came forward into the light. Its reflection hid his pallor, but his heart was thumping like a hammer and his throat was dry, for suddenly he understood. At his step Susan drew away from her companion and looked at the advancing shape with eyes darkly soft as those of an antelope. "Where have you been?" she said. "You were a long time away." "In the mud house," said Daddy John. "Did you find anyone interesting there?" "Yes. When I was talkin' with him I didn't know he was so powerful interestin', but sence I come out o' there I've decided he was." They both looked at him without much show of curiosity, merely, he guessed, that they might not look at each other and reveal their secret. "What was he?" asked Courant. "A clergyman." This time they both started, the girl into sudden erectness, then held her head down as if in shame. For a sickened moment, he thought she was afraid to look at her lover for fear of seeing refusal in his face. Courant leaned near her and laid his hand on hers. "If there's a clergyman here we can be married," he said quietly. She drew her hand away and with its fellow covered her face. Courant looked across the fire and said: "Go and get him, Daddy John. He can do the reading over us now." END OF PART IV PART V The Promised Land CHAPTER I In the light of a clear September sun they stood and looked down on it--the Promised Land. For days they had been creeping up through defiles in the mountain wall, crawling along ledges with murmurous seas of pine below and the snow lying crisp in the hollows. On the western slope the great bulwark dropped from granite heights to wooded ridges along the spines of which the road wound. Through breaks in the pine's close ranks they saw blue, vaporous distances, and on the far side of aerial chasms the swell of other mountains, clothed to their summits, shape undulating beyond shape. Then on this bright September afternoon a sun-filled pallor of empty space shone between the tree trunks, and they had hurried to the summit of a knoll and seen it spread beneath them--California! The long spurs, broken apart by ravines, wound downward to where a flat stretch of valley ran out to a luminous horizon. It was a yellow floor, dotted with the dark domes of trees and veined with a line of water. The trail, a red thread, was plain along the naked ridges, and then lost itself in the dusk of forests. Right and left summit and slope swelled and dropped, sun-tipped, shadow filled. Slants of light, rifts of shade, touched the crowded pine tops to gold, darkened them to sweeps of unstirred olive. The air, softly clear, was impregnated with a powerful aromatic scent, the strong, rich odor of the earth and its teeming growths. It lay placid and indolent before the way-worn trio, a new world waiting for their conquering feet. The girl, with a deep sigh, dropped her head upon her husband's shoulder and closed her eyes. She weakened with the sudden promise of rest. It was in the air, soft as a caress, in the mild, beneficent sun, in the stillness which had nothing of the desert's sinister quiet. Courant put his arm about her, and looking into her face, saw it drawn and pinched, all beauty gone. Her closed eyelids were dark and seamed with fine folds, the cheek bones showed under her skin, tanned to a dry brown, its rich bloom withered. Round her forehead and ears her hair hung in ragged locks, its black gloss hidden under the trail's red dust. Even her youth had left her, she seemed double her age. It was as if he looked at the woman she would be twenty years from now. Something in the sight of her, unbeautiful, enfeebled, her high spirit dimmed, stirred in him a new, strange tenderness. His arm tightened about her, his look lost its jealous ardor and wandering over her blighted face, melted to a passionate concern. The appeal of her beauty gave place to a stronger, more gripping appeal, never felt by him before. She was no longer the creature he owned and ruled, no longer the girl he had broken to an abject submission, but the woman he loved. Uplifted in the sudden realization he felt the world widen around him and saw himself another man. Then through the wonder of the revelation came the thought of what he had done to win her. It astonished him as a dart of pain would have done. Why had he remembered it? Why at this rich moment should the past send out this eerie reminder? He pushed it from him, and bending toward her murmured a lover's phrase. She opened her eyes and they met an expression in his that she had felt the need of, hoped and waited for, an answer to what she had offered and he had not seen or wanted. It was completion, arrival at the goal, so longed for and despaired of, and she turned her face against his shoulder, her happiness too sacred even for his eyes. He did not understand the action, thought her spirit languished and, pointing outward, cried in his mounting gladness: "Look--that's where our home will be." She lifted her head and followed the directing finger. The old man stood beside them also gazing down. "It's a grand sight," he said. "But it's as yellow as the desert. Must be almighty dry." "There's plenty of water," said Courant. "Rivers come out of these mountains and go down there into the plain. And they carry the gold, the gold that's going to make us rich." He pressed her shoulder with his encircling arm and she answered dreamily: "We are rich enough." He thought she alluded to the Doctor's money that was hidden in the wagon. "But we'll be richer. We've got here before the rest of 'em. We're the first comers and it's ours. You'll be queen here, Susan. I'll make you one." His glance ranged over the splendid prospect, eager with the man's desire to fight and win for his own. She thought little of what he said, lost in her perfect content. "When we've got the gold we'll take up land and I'll build a house for you, a good house, my wife won't live in a tent. It'll be of logs, strong and water tight, and as soon as they bring things in--and the ships will be coming soon--we'll furnish it well. And that'll be only the beginning." "Where will we build it?" she said, catching his enthusiasm and straining her eyes as if then and there to pick out the spot. "By the river under a pine." "With a place for Daddy John," she cried, stretching a hand toward the old man. "He must be there too." He took it and stood linked to the embracing pair by the girl's warm grasp. "I'll stick by the tent," he said; "no four walls for me." "And you two," she looked from one to the other, "will wash for the gold and I'll take care of you. I'll keep everything clean and comfortable. It'll be a cozy little home--our log house under the pine." She laughed, the first time in many weeks, and the clear sound rang joyously. "And when we've got all the dust we want," Courant went on, his spirit expanding on the music of her laughter, "we'll go down to the coast. They'll have a town there soon for the shipping. We'll grow up with it, build it into a city, and as it gets richer so will we. It's going to be a new empire, out here by the Pacific, with the gold rivers back of it and the ocean in front. And it's going to be ours." She looked over the foreground of hill and vale to the shimmering sweep of the rich still land. Her imagination, wakened by his words, passed from the log house to the busy rush of a city where the sea shone between the masts of ships. It was a glowing future they were to march on together, with no cloud to mar it now that she had seen the new look in his eyes. A few days later they were in the Sacramento Valley camped near the walls of Sutter's Fort. The plain, clad with a drab grass, stretched to where the low-lying Sacramento slipped between oozy banks. Here were the beginnings of a town, shacks and tents dumped down in a helter skelter of slovenly hurry. Beyond, the American river crept from the mountains and threaded the parched land. Between the valley and the white sky-line of the Sierra, the foot hills swelled, indented with ravines and swathed in the matted robe of the chaparral. While renewing their supplies at the fort they camped under a live oak. It was a mighty growth, its domed outline fretted with the fineness of horny leaves, its vast boughs outflung in contorted curves. The river sucked about its roots. Outside its shade the plain grew dryer under unclouded suns, huge trees casting black blots of shadow in which the Fort's cattle gathered. Sometimes vaqueros came from the gates in the adobe walls, riding light and with the long spiral leap of the lasso rising from an upraised hand. Sometimes groups of half-naked Indians trailed through the glare, winding a way to the spot of color that was their camp. To the girl it was all wonderful, the beauty, the peace, the cessation of labor. When the men were at the Fort she lay beneath the great tree watching the faint, white chain of the mountains, or the tawny valley burning to orange in the long afternoons. For once she was idle, come at last to the end of all her journeyings. Only the present, the tranquil, perfect present, existed. What did not touch upon it, fit in and have some purpose in her life with the man of whom she was a part, was waste matter. She who had once been unable to endure the thought of separation from her father could now look back on his death and say, "How I suffered then," and know no reminiscent pang. She would have wondered at herself if, in the happiness in which she was lapped, she could have drawn her mind from its contemplation to wonder at anything. There was no world beyond the camp, no interest in what did not focus on Courant, no people except those who added to his trials or his welfare. The men spent much of their time at the Fort, conferring with others en route to the river bed below Sutter's mill. When they came back to the camp there was lively talk under the old tree. The silence of the trail was at an end. The pendulum swung far, and now they were garrulous, carried away by the fever of speculation. The evening came and found them with scattered stores and uncleaned camp, their voices loud against the low whisperings of leaves and water. Courant returned from these absences aglow with fortified purpose. Reestablished contact with the world brightened and humanized him, acting with an eroding effect on a surface hardened by years of lawless roving. In his voluntary exile he had not looked for or wanted the company of his fellows. Now he began to soften under it, shift his viewpoint from that of the all-sufficing individual to that of the bonded mass from which he had so long been an alien. The girl's influence had revivified a side almost atrophied by disuse. Men's were aiding it. As her sympathies narrowed under the obsession of her happiness, his expanded, awaked by a reversion to forgotten conditions. One night, lying beside her under the tent's roof, he found himself wakeful. It was starless and still, the song of the river fusing in a continuous flow of low sound with the secret, self-communings of the tree. The girl's light breathing was at his ear, a reminder of his ownership and its responsibilities. In the idleness of the unoccupied mind he mused on the future they were to share till death should come between. It was pleasant thinking, or so it began. Then, gradually, something in the darkness and the lowered vitality of night caused it to lose its joy, become suffused by a curious, doubting uneasiness. He lay without moving, given up to the strange feeling, not knowing what induced it or from whence it came. It grew in poignancy, clearer and stronger, till it led him like a clew to the body of David. For the first time that savage act came back to him with a surge of repudiation, of scared denial. He had a realizing sense of how it would look to other men--the men he had met at the Fort. Distinctly, as if their mental attitude were substituted for his, he saw it as they would see it, as the world he was about to enter would see it. His heart began to thump with something like terror and the palms of his hands grew moist. Turning stealthily that he might not wake her, he stared at the triangle of paler darkness that showed through the tent's raised flap. He had no fear that Susan would find out. Even if she did, he knew her securely his, till the end of time, her thoughts to take their color from him, her fears to be lulled at his wish. But the others--the active, busy, practical throng into which he would be absorbed. His action, in the heat of a brutal passion, had made him an outsider from the close-drawn ranks of his fellows. He had been able to do without them, defied their laws, scorned their truckling to public opinion--but now? The girl turned in her sleep, pressing her head against his shoulder and murmuring drowsily. He edged away from her, flinching from the contact, feeling a grievance against her. She was the link between him and them. Hers was the influence that was sapping the foundations of his independence. She was drawing him back to the place of lost liberty outside which he had roamed in barbarous content. His love was riveting bonds upon him, making his spirit as water. He felt a revolt, a resistance against her power, which was gently impelling him toward home, hearth, neighbors--the life in which he felt his place was gone. The next day the strange mood seemed an ugly dream. It was not he who had lain wakeful and questioned his right to bend Fate to his own demands. He rode beside his wife at the head of the train as they rolled out in the bright, dry morning on the road to the river. There were men behind them, and in front the dust rose thick on the rear of pack trains. They filed across the valley, watching the foot hills come nearer and the muffling robe of the chaparral separate into checkered shadings where the manzanita glittered and the faint, bluish domes of small pines rose above the woven greenery. Men were already before them, scattered along the river's bars, waist high in the pits. Here and there a tent showed white, but a blanket under a tree, a pile of pans by a blackened heap of fire marked most of the camps. Some of the gold-hunters had not waited to undo their packs which lay as they had been dropped, and the owners, squatting by the stream's lip, bent over their pans round which the water sprayed in a silver fringe. There were hails and inquiries, answering cries of good or ill luck. Many did not raise their eyes, too absorbed by the hope of fortune to waste one golden moment. These were the vanguard, the forerunners of next year's thousands, scratching the surface of the lower bars. The sound of their voices was soon left behind and the river ran free of them. Pack trains dropped from the line, spreading themselves along the rim of earth between the trail and the shrunken current. Courant's party moved on, going higher, veiled in a cloud of brick-colored dust. The hills swept up into bolder lines, the pines mounted in sentinel files crowding out the lighter leafage. At each turn the vista showed a loftier uprise, crest peering above crest, and far beyond, high and snow-touched, the summits of the Sierra. The shadows slanted cool from wall to wall, the air was fresh and scented with the forest's resinous breath. Across the tree tops, dense as the matted texture of moss, the winged shadows of hawks floated, and paused, and floated again. Here on a knoll under a great pine they pitched the tent. At its base the river ran, dwindled to a languid current, the bared mud banks waiting for their picks. The walls of the cañon drew close, a drop of naked granite opposite, and on the slopes beyond were dark-aisled depths, golden-moted, and stirred to pensive melodies. The girl started to help, then kicked aside the up-piled blankets, dropped the skillets into the mess chest, and cried: "Oh, I can't, I want to look and listen. Keep still--" The men stopped their work, and the music of the murmurous boughs and the gliding water filled the silence. She turned her head, sniffing the forest's scents, her glance lighting on the blue shoulders of distant hills. "And look at the river, yellow, yellow with gold! I can't work now, I want to see it all--and feel it too," and she ran to the water's edge where she sat down on a rock and gazed up and down the cañon. When the camp was ready Courant joined her. The rock was wide enough for two and he sat beside her. "So you like it, Missy?" he said, sending a side-long glance at her flushed face. "Like it!" though there was plenty of room she edged nearer to him, "I'm wondering if it really is so beautiful or if I just think it so after the trail." "You'll be content to stay here with me till we've made our pile?" She looked at him and nodded, then slipped her fingers between his and whispered, though there was no one by to hear, "I'd be content to stay anywhere with you." He was growing accustomed to this sort of reply. Deprived of it he would have noticed the omission, but it had of late become so common a feature in the conversation he felt no necessity to answer in kind. He glanced at the pine trunks about them and said: "If the claim's good, we'll cut some of those and build a cabin. You'll see how comfortable I can make you, the way they do on the frontier." She pressed his fingers for answer and he went on: "When the winter comes we can move farther down. Up here we may get snow. But there'll be time between now and then to put up something warm and waterproof." "Why should we move down? With a good cabin we can be comfortable here. The snow won't be heavy this far up. They told Daddy John all about it at the Fort. And you and he can ride in there sometimes when we want things." These simple words gratified him more than she guessed. It was as if she had seen into the secret springs of his thought and said what he was fearful she would not say. That was why--in a spirit of testing a granted boon to prove its genuineness--he asked with tentative questioning: "You won't be lonely? There are no people here." She made the bride's answer and his contentment increased, for again it was what he would have wished her to say. When he answered he spoke almost sheepishly, with something of uneasy confession in his look: "I'd like to live in places like this always. I feel choked and stifled where there are walls shutting out the air and streets full of people. Even in the Fort I felt like a trapped animal. I want to be where there's room to move about and nobody bothering with different kinds of ideas. It's only in the open, in places without men, that I'm myself." For the first time he had dared to give expression to the mood of the wakeful night. Though it was dim in the busy brightness of the present--a black spot on the luster of cheerful days--he dreaded that it might come again with its scaring suggestions. With a nerve that had never known a tremor at any menace from man, he was frightened of a thought, a temporary mental state. In speaking thus to her, he recognized her as a help-meet to whom he could make a shamed admission of weakness and fear no condemnation or diminution of love. This time, however, she made the wrong reply: "But we'll go down to the coast after a while, if our claim's good and we get enough dust out of it. I think of it often. It will be so nice to live in a house again, and have some one to do the cooking, and wear pretty clothes. It will be such fun living where there are people and going about among them, going to parties and maybe having parties of our own." He withdrew his hand from hers and pushed the hair back from his forehead. Though he said nothing she was conscious of a drop in his mood. She bent forward to peer into his face and queried with bright, observing eyes: "You don't seem to like the thought of it." "Oh, it's not me," he answered. "I was just wondering at the queer way women talk. A few minutes ago you said you'd be content anywhere with me. Now you say you think it would be such fun living in a city and going to parties." "With you, too," she laughed, pressing against his shoulder. "I don't want to go to the parties alone." "Well, I guess if you ever go it'll have to be alone," he said roughly. She understood now that she had said something that annoyed him, and not knowing how she had come to do it, felt aggrieved and sought to justify herself: "But we can't live here always. If we make money we'll want to go back some day where there are people, and comforts and things going on. We'll want friends, everybody has friends. You don't mean for us always to stay far away from everything in these wild, uncivilized places?" "Why not?" he said, not looking at her, noting her rueful tone and resenting it. "But we're not that kind of people. You're not a real mountain man. You're not like Zavier or the men at Fort Laramie. You're Napoleon Duchesney just as I'm Susan Gillespie. Your people in St. Louis and New Orleans were ladies and gentlemen. It was just a wild freak that made you run off into the mountains. You don't want to go on living that way. That part of your life's over. The rest will be with me." "And you'll want the cities and the parties?" "I'll want to live the way Mrs. Duchesney should live, and you'll want to, too." He did not answer, and she gave his arm a little shake and said, "Won't you?" "I'm more Low Courant than I am Napoleon Duchesney," was his answer. "Well, maybe so, but whichever you are, you've got a wife now and _that_ makes a great difference." She tried to infuse some of her old coquetry into the words, but the eyes, looking sideways at him, were troubled, for she did not yet see where she had erred. "I guess it does," he said low, more as if speaking to himself than her. This time she said nothing, feeling dashed and repulsed. They continued to sit close together on the rock, the man lost in morose reverie, the girl afraid to move or touch him lest he should show further annoyance. The voice of Daddy John calling them to supper came to both with relief. They walked to the camp side by side, Low with head drooped, the girl at his elbow stealing furtive looks at him. As they approached the fire she slid her hand inside his arm and, glancing down, he saw the timid questioning of her face and was immediately contrite. He laid his hand on hers and smiled, and she caught her breath in a deep sigh and felt happiness come rushing back. Whatever it was she had said that displeased him she would be careful not to say it again, for she had already learned that the lion in love is still the lion. CHAPTER II Their claim was rich and they buckled down to work, the old man constructing a rocker after a model of his own, and Courant digging in the pits. Everything was with them, rivals were few, the ground uncrowded, the season dry. It was the American River before the Forty-niners swarmed along its edges, and there was gold in its sands, sunk in a sediment below its muddy deposit, caked in cracks through the rocks round which its currents had swept for undisturbed ages. They worked feverishly, the threat of the winter rains urging them on. The girl helped, leaving her kettle settled firm on a bed of embers while the water heated for dish washing, to join them on the shore, heaped with their earth piles. She kept the rocker in motion while the old man dipped up the water in a tin ladle and sent it running over the sifting bed of sand and pebbles. The heavier labor of digging was Courant's. Before September was over the shore was honeycombed with his excavations, driven down to the rock bed. The diminishing stream shrunk with each day and he stood in it knee high, the sun beating on his head, his clothes pasted to his skin by perspiration, and the thud of his pick falling with regular stroke on the monotonous rattle of the rocker. Sometimes she was tired and they ordered her to leave them and rest in the shade of the camp. She loitered about under the spread of the pine boughs, cleaning and tidying up, and patching the ragged remnants of their clothes. Often, as she sat propped against the trunk, her sewing fell to her lap and she looked out with shining, spell-bound eyes. The men were shapes of dark importance against the glancing veil of water, the soaked sands and the low brushwood yellowing in the autumn's soft, transforming breath. Far away the film of whitened summits dreamed against the blue. In the midwash of air, aloft and dreaming, too, the hawk's winged form poised, its shadow moving below it across the sea of tree tops. She would sit thus, motionless and idle, as the long afternoon wore away, and deep-colored veils of twilight gathered in the cañon. She told the men the continuous sounds of their toil made her drowsy. But her stillness was the outward sign of an inner concentration. If delight in rest had replaced her old bodily energy, her mind had gained a new activity. She wondered a little at it, not yet at the heart of her own mystery. Her thoughts reached forward into the future, busied themselves with details of the next twelve months, dwelt anxiously on questions of finance. The nest-building instinct was astir in her and she pondered on the house they were to build, how they must arrange something for a table, and maybe fashion armchairs of barrels and red flannel. Finally, in a last voluptuous flight of ecstasy, she saw herself riding into Sacramento with a sack of dust and abandoning herself to an orgie of bartering. One afternoon three men, two Mexicans and an Australian sailor from a ship in San Francisco cove, stopped at the camp for food. The Australian was a loquacious fellow, with faculties sharpened by glimpses of life in many ports. He told them of the two emigrant convoys he had just seen arrive in Sacramento, worn and wasted by the last forced marches over the mountains. Susan, who had been busy over her cooking, according him scant attention, at his description of the trains, suddenly lifted intent eyes and leaned toward him: "Did you see a man among them, a young man, tall and thin, with black hair and beard?" "All the men were tall and thin, or any ways thin," said the sailor, laughing. "How tall was he?" "Six feet," she replied, her face devoid of any answering smile, "with high shoulders and walking with a stoop. He had a fine, handsome face, and long black hair to his shoulders and gray eyes." "Have you lost your sweetheart?" said the man, who did not know the relations of the party. "No," she said gravely, "my friend." Courant explained: "She's my wife. The man she's speaking of was a member of our company that we lost on the desert. We thought Indians had got him and hoped he'd get away and join with a later westbound train. His name was David." The sailor shook his head. "Ain't seen no one answering to that name, nor to that description. There wasn't a handsome-featured one in the lot, nor a David. But if you're expecting him along, why don't you take her in and let her look 'em over? They told me at the Fort the trains was mostly all in or ought to be. Any time now the snow on the summit will be too deep for 'em. If they get caught up there they can't be got out, so they're coming over hot foot and are dumped down round Hock Farm. Not much to see, but if you're looking for a friend it's worth trying." That night Courant was again wakeful. Susan's face, as she had questioned the sailor, floated before him on the darkness. With it came the thought of the dead man. In the silence David called upon him from the sepulcher beneath the rock, sent a message through the night which said that, though he was hidden from mortal vision, the memory of him was still alive, imbued with an unquenchable vitality. His unwinking eyes, with the rock crumbs sifting on them, looked at those of his triumphant enemy and spoke through their dusted films. In the moment of death they had said nothing to him, now they shone--not angrily accusing as they had been in life--but stern with a vindictive purpose. Courant began to have a fearful understanding of their meaning. Though dead to the rest of the world, David would maintain an intense and secret life in his murderer's conscience. He had never fought such a subtle and implacable foe, and he lay thinking of how he could create conditions that would give him escape, push the phantom from him, make him forget, and be as he had been when no one had disputed his sovereignty over himself. He tried to think that time would mitigate this haunting discomfort. His sense of guilt, his fear of his wife, would die when the novelty of once again being one with the crowd had worn away. It was not possible that he, defiant of man and God, could languish under this dread of a midnight visitation or a discovery that never would be made. It was the reentering into the communal life that had upset his poise--or was it the influence of the woman, the softly pervasive, enervating influence? He came up against this thought with a dizzying impact and felt himself droop and sicken as one who is faced with a task for which his strength is inadequate. He turned stealthily and lay on his back, his face beaded with sweat. The girl beside him waked and sat up casting a side glance at him. By the starlight, slanting in through the raised tent door, she saw his opened eyes and, leaning toward him, a black shape against the faintly blue triangle, said: "Low, are you awake?" He answered without moving, glad to hear her speak, to know that sleep had left her and her voice might conjure away his black imaginings. "Why aren't you sleeping?" she asked. "You must be half dead after such work as you did today." "I was thinking--" then hastily, for he was afraid that she might sense his mood and ply him with sympathetic queries: "Sometimes people are too tired to sleep. I am, and so I was lying here just thinking of nothing." His fears were unnecessary. She was as healthily oblivious of his disturbance as he was morbidly conscious of it. She sat still, her hands clasped round her knees, about which the blanket draped blackly. "I was thinking, too," she said. "Of what?" "Of what that man was saying of David." There was a silence. He lay motionless, his trouble coming back upon him. He wished that he might dare to impose upon her a silence on that one subject. David, given a place in her mind, would sit at every feast, walk beside them, lie between them in their marriage bed. "Why do you think of him?" he asked. "Because--" her tone showed surprise. "It's natural, isn't it? Don't you? I'm sure you do. I do often, much oftener than you think. I'm always hoping that he'll come." "You never loved him," he said, in a voice from which all spring was gone. "No, but he was my friend, and I would like to keep him so for always. I think of his kindness, his gentleness, all the good part of him before the trail broke him down. And, I think, too, how cruel I was to him." The darkness hid her face, but her voice told that she, too, had her little load of guilt where David was concerned. The man moved uneasily. "That's foolishness. You only told the truth. If it was cruel, that's not your affair." "He loved me. A woman doesn't forget that." "That's over and done with. He's probably here somewhere, come through with a train that's scattered. And, anyway, you can't do any good by thinking about him." This time the false reassurances came with the pang that the dead man was rousing in tardy retribution. "I should like to know it," she said wistfully, "to feel sure. It's the only thing that mars our happiness. If I knew he was safe and well somewhere there'd be nothing in the world for me but perfect joy." Her egotism of satisfied body and spirit jarred upon him. The passion she had evoked had found no peace in its fulfillment. She had got what he had hoped for. All that he had anticipated was destroyed by the unexpected intrusion of a part of himself that had lain dead till she had quickened it, and quickening it she had killed his joy. In a flash of divination he saw that, if she persisted in her worry over David, she would rouse in him an antagonism that would eventually drive him from her. He spoke with irritation: "Put him out of your mind. Don't worry about him. You can't do any good, and it spoils our love." After a pause, she said with a hesitating attempt at cajolery: "Let me and Daddy John drive into the valley and try and get news of him. We need supplies and we'll be gone only two or three days. We can inquire at the Fort and maybe go on to Sacramento, and if he's been there we'll hear of it. If we could only hear, just hear, he was safe, it would be such a relief. It would take away this dreary feeling of anxiety, and guilt too, Low. For I feel guilty when I think of how we left him." "Where was the guilt? You've no right to say that. You understood we had to go. I could take no risks with you and the old man." "Yes," she said, slowly, tempering her agreement with a self-soothing reluctance, "but even so, it seemed terrible. I often tell myself we couldn't have done anything else, but----" Her voice dropped to silence and she sat staring out at the quiet night, her head blurred with the filaments of loosened hair. He did not speak, gripped by his internal torment, aggravated now by torment from without. He wondered, if he told her the truth, would she understand and help him to peace. But he knew that such knowledge would set her in a new attitude toward him, an attitude of secret judgment, of distracted pity, of an agonized partisanship built on loyalty and the despairing passion of the disillusioned. He could never tell her, for he could never support the loss of her devoted belief, which was now the food of his life. "Can I go?" she said, turning to look at him, smiling confidently as one who knows the formal demand unnecessary. "If you want," he answered. "Then we'll start to-morrow," she said, and, leaning down, kissed him. He was unresponsive to the touch of her lips, lay inert as she nestled down into soft-breathing, child-like sleep. He watched the tent opening pale into a glimmering triangle wondering what their life would be with the specter of David standing in the path, an angel with a flaming sword barring the way to Paradise. Two days later she and Daddy John, sitting on the front seat of the wagon, saw the low drab outlines of the Fort rising from the plain. Under their tree was a new encampment, one tent with the hood of a wagon behind it, and oxen grazing in the sun. As they drew near they could see the crouched forms of two children, the light filtering through the leafage on the silky flax of their heads. They were occupied over a game, evidently a serious business, its floor of operations the smooth ground worn bare about the camp fire. One of them lay flat with a careful hand patting the dust into mounds, the other squatted near by watching, a slant of white hair falling across a rounded cheek. They did not heed the creak of the wagon wheels, but as a woman's voice called from the tent, raised their heads listening, but not answering, evidently deeming silence the best safeguard against interruption. Susan laid a clutching hand on Daddy John's arm. "It's the children," she cried in a choked voice. "Stop, stop!" and before he could rein the mules to order she was out and running toward them, calling their names. They made a clamor of welcome, Bob running to her and making delighted leaps up at her face, the little girl standing aloof for the first bashful moment, then sidling nearer with mouth upheld for kisses. Bella heard them and came to the tent door, gave a great cry, and ran to them. There were tears on her cheeks as she clasped Susan, held her oft and clutched her again, with panted ejaculations of "Deary me!" and "Oh, Lord, Missy, is it you?" It was like a meeting on the other side of the grave. They babbled their news, both talking at once, not stopping to finish sentences, or wait for the answer to questions of the marches they had not shared. Over the clamor they looked at each other with faces that smiled and quivered, the tie between them strengthened by the separation when each had longed for the other, closer in understanding by the younger's added experience, both now women. Glen was at the Fort and Daddy John rolled off to meet him there. The novelty of the moment over, the children returned sedately to their play, and the women sat together under the canopy of the tree. Bella's adventures had been few and tame, Susan's was the great story. She was not discursive about her marriage. She was still shy on the subject and sensitively aware of the disappointment that Bella was too artlessly amazed to conceal. She passed over it quickly, pretending that she did not hear Bella's astonished: "But why did you get married at Humboldt? Why didn't you wait till you got here?" It was the loss of David that she made the point of her narrative, anxiously impressing on her listener their need of going on. She stole quick looks at Bella, watchful for the first shade of disapprobation, with all Low's arguments ready to sweep it aside. But Bella, with maternal instincts in place of a comprehensive humanity, agreed that Low had done right. Nature, in the beginning, combined with the needs of the trail, had given her a viewpoint where expediency counted for more than altruism. She with two children and a helpless man would have gone on and left anyone to his fate. She did not say this, but Susan, with intelligence sharpened by a jealous passion, felt that there was no need to defend her husband's action. As for the rest of the world--deep in her heart she had already decided it should never know. "You couldn't have done anything else," said Bella. "I've learned that when you're doing that sort of thing, you can't have the same feelings you can back in the States, with everything handy and comfortable. You can be fair, but you got to fight for your own. They got to come first." She had neither seen nor heard anything of David. No rumor of a man held captive by the Indians had reached their train. She tried not to let Susan see that she believed the worst. But her melancholy headshake and murmured "Poor David--and him such a kind, whole-hearted man" was as an obituary on the dead. "Well," she said in pensive comment when Susan had got to the end of her history, "you can't get through a journey like that without some one coming to grief. It's not in human nature. But your father--that grand man! And then the young feller that would have made you such a good husband--" Susan moved warningly--"Not but what I'm sure you've got as good a one as it is. And we've got to take what we can get in this world," she added, spoiling it all by the philosophical acceptance of what she evidently regarded as a make-shift adjusting to Nature's needs. When the men came back Glen had heard all about the gold in the river and was athirst to get there. Work at his trade could wait, and, anyway, he had been in Sacramento and found, while his services were in demand on every side, the materials wherewith he was to help raise a weatherproof city were not to be had. Men were content to live in tents and cloth shacks until the day of lumber and sawmills dawned, and why wait for this millennium when the river called from its golden sands? No one had news of David. Daddy John had questioned the captains of two recently arrived convoys, but learned nothing. The men thought it likely he was dead. They agreed as to the possibility of the Indian abduction and his future reappearance. Such things had happened. But it was too late now to do anything. No search party could be sent out at this season when at any day the mountain trails might be neck high in snow. There was nothing to do but wait till the spring. Susan listened with lowered brows. It was heavy news. She did not know how she had hoped till she heard that all hope must lie in abeyance for at least six months. It was a long time to be patient. She was selfishly desirous to have her anxieties at rest, for, as she had told her husband, they were the only cloud on her happiness, and she wanted that happiness complete. It was not necessary for her peace to see David again. To know he was safe somewhere would have satisfied her. The fifth day after leaving the camp they sighted the pitted shores of their own diggings. Sitting in the McMurdos' wagon they had speculated gayly on Low's surprise. Susan, on the seat beside Glen, had been joyously full of the anticipation of it, wondered what he would say, and then fell to imagining it with closed lips and dancing eyes. When the road reached the last concealing buttress she climbed down and mounted beside Daddy John, whose wagon was some distance in advance. "It's going to be a surprise for Low," she said in the voice of a mischievous child. "You mustn't say anything. Let me tell him." The old man, squinting sideways at her, gave his wry smile. It was good to see his Missy this way again, in bloom like a refreshed flower. "Look," she cried, as her husband's figure came into view kneeling by the rocker. "There he is, and he doesn't see us. Stop!" Courant heard their wheels and, turning, started to his feet and came forward, the light in his face leaping to hers. She sprang down and ran toward him, her arms out. Daddy John, slashing the wayside bushes with his whip, looked reflectively at the bending twigs while the embrace lasted. The McMurdos' curiosity was not restrained by any such inconvenient delicacy. They peeped from under the wagon hood, grinning appreciatively, Bella the while maintaining a silent fight with the children, who struggled for an exit. None of them could hear what the girl said, but they saw Courant suddenly look with a changed face, its light extinguished, at the second wagon. "He don't seem so terrible glad to see us," said Glen. "I guess he wanted to keep the place for himself." Bella noted the look and snorted. "He's a cross-grained thing," she said; "I don't see what got into her to marry him when she could have had David." "She can't have him when he ain't round to be had," her husband answered. "Low's better than a man that's either a prisoner with the Indians or dead somewhere. David was a good boy, but I don't seem to see he'd be much use to her now." Bella sniffed again, and let the squirming children go to get what good they could out of the unpromising moment of the surprise. What Low had said to Susan was an angry, "Why did you bring them?" She fell back from him not so crestfallen at his words as at his dark frown of disapproval. "Why, I wanted them," she faltered, bewildered by his obvious displeasure at what she thought would be welcome news, "and I thought you would." "I'd rather you hadn't. Aren't we enough by ourselves?" "Yes, of course. But they're our friends. We traveled with them for days and weeks, and it's made them like relations. I was so glad to see them I cried when I saw Bella. Oh, do try and seem more as if you liked it. They're here and I've brought them." He slouched forward to greet them. She was relieved to see that he made an effort to banish his annoyance and put some warmth of welcome into his voice. But the subtlety with which he could conceal his emotions when it behooved him had deserted him, and Bella and Glen saw the husband did not stand toward them as the wife did. It was Susan who infused into the meeting a fevered and fictitious friendliness, chattering over the pauses that threatened to fall upon it, leaving them a reunited company only in name. She presently swept Bella to the camp, continuing her nervous prattle as she showed her the tent and the spring behind it, and told of the log house they were to raise before the rains came. Bella was placated. After all, it was a lovely spot, good for the children, and if Glen could do as well on a lower bend of the river as they had done here, it looked as if they had at last found the Promised Land. After supper they sat by Daddy John's fire, which shot an eddying column of sparks into the plumed darkness of the pine. It was like old times only--with a glance outward toward the water and the star-strewn sky--so much more--what was the word? Not quiet; they could never forget the desert silence. "Homelike," Susan suggested, and they decided that was the right word. "You feel as if you could stay here and not want to move on," Bella opined. Glen thought perhaps you felt that way because you knew you'd come to the end and couldn't move much farther. But the others argued him down. They all agreed there was something in the sun maybe, or the mellow warmth of the air, or the richness of wooded slope and plain, that made them feel they had found a place where they could stay, not for a few days' rest, but forever. Susan had hit upon the word "homelike," the spot on earth that seemed to you the one best fitted for a home. The talk swung back to days on the trail and finally brought up on David. They rehearsed the tragic story, conned over the details that had begun to form into narrative sequence as in the time-worn lay of a minstrel. Bella and Glen asked all the old questions that had once been asked by Susan and Daddy John, and heard the same answers, leaning to catch them while the firelight played on the strained attention of their faces. With the night pressing close around them, and the melancholy, sea-like song sweeping low from the forest, a chill crept upon them, and their lost comrade became invested with the unreality of a spirit. Dead in that bleak and God-forgotten land, or captive in some Indian stronghold, he loomed a tragic phantom remote from them and their homely interests like a historical figure round which legend has begun to accumulate. The awed silence that had fallen was broken by Courant rising and walking away toward the diggings. This brought their somber pondering to an end. Bella and Glen picked up the sleeping children and went to their tent, and Susan, peering beyond the light, saw her man sitting on a stone, dark against the broken silver of the stream. She stole down to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. He started as if her touch scared him, then saw who it was and turned away with a gruff murmur. The sound was not encouraging, but the wife, already so completely part of him that his moods were communicated to her through the hidden subways of instinct, understood that he was in some unconfessed trouble. "What's the matter, Low?" she asked, bending to see his face. He turned it toward her, met the penetrating inquiry of her look, and realized his dependence on her, feeling his weakness but not caring just then that he should be weak. "Nothing," he answered. "Why do they harp so on David?" "Don't you like them to?" she asked in some surprise. He took a splinter from the stone and threw it into the water, a small silvery disturbance marking its fall. "There's nothing more to be said. It's all useless talk. We can do no more than we've done." "Shall I tell them you don't like the subject, not to speak of it again?" He glanced at her with sudden suspicion: "No, no, of course not. They've a right to say anything they please. But it's a waste of time, there's nothing but guessing now. What's the use of guessing and wondering all through the winter. Are they going to keep on that way till the spring?" "I'll tell them not to," she said as a simple solution of the difficulty. "I'll tell them it worries you." "Don't," he said sharply. "Do you hear? Don't. Do you want to act like a fool and make me angry with you?" He got up and moved away, leaving her staring blankly at his back. He had been rough to her often, but never before spoken with this note of peremptory, peevish displeasure. She felt an obscure sense of trouble, a premonition of disaster. She went to him and, standing close, put her hand inside his arm. "Low," she pleaded, "what's wrong with you? You were angry that they came. Now you're angry at what they say. I don't understand. Tell me the reason of it. If there's something that I don't know let me hear it, and I'll try and straighten things out." For a tempted moment he longed to tell her, to gain ease by letting her share his burden. The hand upon his arm was a symbol of her hold upon him that no action of his could ever loose. If he could admit her within the circle of his isolation he would have enough. He would lose the baleful consciousness of forever walking apart, separated from his kind, a spiritual Ishmaelite. She had strength enough. For the moment he felt that she was the stronger of the two, able to bear more than he, able to fortify him and give him courage for the future. He had a right to claim such a dole of her love, and once the knowledge hers, they two would stand, banished from the rest of the world, knit together by the bond of their mutual knowledge. The temptation clutched him and his breast contracted in the rising struggle. His pain clamored for relief, his weakness for support. The lion man, broken and tamed by the first pure passion of his life, would have cast the weight of his sin upon the girl he had thought to bear through life like a pampered mistress. With the words on his lips he looked at her. She met the look with a smile that she tried to make brave, but that was only a surface grimace, her spirit's disturbance plain beneath it. There was pathos in its courage and its failure. He averted his eyes, shook his arm free of her hand, and, moving toward the water, said: "Go back to the tent and go to bed." "What are you going to do?" she called after him, her voice sounding plaintive. Its wistful note gave him strength: "Walk for a while. I'm not tired. I'll be back in an hour," and he walked away, down the edge of the current, past the pits and into the darkness. She watched him, not understanding, vaguely alarmed, then turned and went back to the tent. CHAPTER III The stretch of the river where the McMurdos had settled was richer than Courant's location. Had Glen been as mighty a man with the pick, even in the short season left to him, he might have accumulated a goodly store. But he was a slack worker. His training as a carpenter made him useful, finding expression in an improvement on Daddy John's rocker, so they overlooked his inclination to lie off in the sun with his ragged hat pulled over his eyes. In Courant's camp Bella was regarded as the best man of the two. To her multiform duties she added that of assistant in the diggings, squatting beside her husband in the mud, keeping the rocker going, and when Glen was worked out, not above taking a hand at the shovel. Her camp showed a comfortable neatness, and the children's nakedness was covered with garments fashioned by the firelight from old flour sacks. There was no crisp coming of autumn. A yellowing of the leafage along the river's edge was all that denoted the season's change. Nature seemed loth to lay a desecrating hand on the region's tranquil beauty. They had been told at the Fort that they might look for the first rains in November. When October was upon them they left the pits and set to work felling trees for two log huts. Susan saw her home rising on the knoll, a square of logs, log roofed, with a door of woven saplings over which canvas was nailed. They built a chimney of stones rounded by the water's action, and for a hearth found a slab of granite which they sunk in the earth before the fireplace. The bunk was a frame of young pines with canvas stretched across, and cushioned with spruce boughs and buffalo robes. She watched as they nailed up shelves of small, split trunks and sawed the larger ones into sections for seats. The bottom of the wagon came out and, poised on four log supports, made the table. Her housewife's instincts rose jubilant as the shell took form, and she sang to herself as she stitched her flour sacks together for towels. No princess decked her palace with a blither spirit. All the little treasures that had not been jettisoned in the last stern march across the desert came from their hiding places for the adornment of the first home of her married life. The square of mirror stood on the shelf near the door where the light could fall on it, and the French gilt clock that had been her mother's ticked beside it. The men laughed as she set out on the table the silver mug of her baby days and a two-handled tankard bearing on its side a worn coat of arms, a heritage from the adventurous Poutrincourt, a drop of whose blood had given boldness and courage to hers. It was her home--very different from the home she had dreamed of--but so was her life different from the life she and her father had planned together in the dead days of the trail. She delighted in it, gloated over it. Long before the day of installation she moved in her primitive furnishings, disposed the few pans with an eye to their effect as other brides arrange their silver and crystal, hung her flour-sack towels on the pegs with as careful a hand as though they had been tapestries, and folded her clothes neat and seemly in her father's chest. Then came a night when the air was sharp, and they kindled the first fire in the wide chimney mouth. It leaped exultant, revealing the mud-filled cracks, playing on the pans, and licking the bosses of the old tankard. The hearthstone shone red with its light, and they sat drawn back on the seats of pine looking into its roaring depths--housed, sheltered, cozily content. When Glen and Bella retired to their tent a new romance seemed to have budded in the girl's heart. It was her bridal night--beneath a roof, beside a hearth, with a door to close against the world, and shut her away with her lover. In these days she had many secret conferrings with Bella. They kept their heads together and whispered, and Bella crooned and fussed over her and pushed the men into the background in a masterful, aggressive manner. Susan knew now what had waked the nest-building instinct. The knowledge came with a thrilling, frightened joy. She sat apart adjusting herself to the new outlook, sometimes fearful, then uplifted in a rapt, still elation. All the charm she had once held over the hearts of men was gone. Glen told Bella she was getting stupid, even Daddy John wondered at her dull, self-centered air. She would not have cared what they had said or thought of her. Her interest in men as creatures to snare and beguile was gone with her lost maidenhood. All that she had of charm and beauty she hoarded, stored up and jealously guarded, for her husband and her child. "It'll be best for you to go down to the town," Bella had said to her, reveling discreetly in her position as high priestess of these mysteries, "there'll be doctors in Sacramento, some kind of doctors." "I'll stay here," Susan answered. "You're here and my husband and Daddy John. I'd die if I was sent off among strangers. I can't live except with the people I'm fond of. I'm not afraid." And the older woman decided that maybe she was right. She could see enough to know that this girl of a higher stock and culture, plucked from a home of sheltered ease to be cast down in the rude life of the pioneer, was only a woman like all the rest, having no existence outside her own small world. So the bright, monotonous days filed by, always sunny, always warm, till it seemed as if they were to go on thus forever, glide into a winter which was still spring. An excursion to Sacramento, a big day's clean up, were their excitements. They taught little Bob to help at the rocker, and the women sat by the cabin door sewing, long periods of silence broken by moments of desultory talk. Susan had grown much quieter. She would sit with idle hands watching the shifting lights and the remoter hills turning from the afternoon's blue to the rich purple of twilight. Bella said she was lazy, and urged industry and the need of speed in the preparation of the new wardrobe. She laughed indolently and said, time enough later on. She had grown indifferent about her looks--her hair hanging elfish round her ears, her blouse unfastened at the throat, the new boots Low had brought her from Sacramento unworn in the cabin corner, her feet clothed in the ragged moccasins he had taught her to make. In the evening she sat on a blanket on the cabin floor, blinking sleepily at the flames. Internally she brimmed with a level content. Life was coming to the flood with her, her being gathering itself for its ultimate expression. All the curiosity and interest she had once turned out to the multiple forms and claims of the world were now concentrated on the two lives between which hers stood. She was the primitive woman, a mechanism of elemental instincts, moving up an incline of progressive passions. The love of her father had filled her youth, and that had given way to the love of her mate, which in time would dim before the love of her child. Outside these phases of a governing prepossession--filial, conjugal, maternal--she knew nothing, felt nothing, and could see nothing. Low, at first, had brooded over her with an almost ferocious tenderness. Had she demanded a removal to the town he would have given way. He would have acceded to anything she asked, but she asked nothing. As the time passed her demands of him, even to his help in small matters of the household, grew less. A slight, inscrutable change had come over her: she was less responsive, often held him with an eye whose blankness told of inner imaginings, when he spoke made no answer, concentrated in her reverie. When he watched her withdrawn in these dreams, or in a sudden attack of industry, fashioning small garments from her hoarded store of best clothes, he felt an alienation in her, and he realized with a start of alarmed divination that the child would take a part of what had been his, steal from him something of that blind devotion in the eternal possession of which he had thought to find solace. It was a shock that roused him to a scared scrutiny of the future. He put questions to her for the purpose of drawing out her ideas, and her answers showed that all her thoughts and plans were gathering round the welfare of her baby. Her desire for its good was to end her unresisting subservience to him. She was thinking already of better things. Ambitions were awakened that would carry her out of the solitudes, where he felt himself at rest, back to the world where she would struggle to make a place for the child she had never wanted for herself. "We'll take him to San Francisco soon"--it was always "him" in her speculations--"We can't keep him here." "Why not?" he asked. "Look at Bella's children. Could anything be healthier and happier?" "Bella's children are different. Bella's different. She doesn't know anything better, she doesn't care. To have them well fed and healthy is enough for her. _We're_ not like that. _Our_ child's going to have everything." "You're content enough here by yourself and you're a different sort to Bella." "For myself!" she gave a shrug. "I don't care any more than Bella does. But for my child--my son--I want everything. Want him a gentleman like his ancestors, French and American"--she gave his arm a propitiating squeeze for she knew he disliked this kind of talk--"want him to be educated like my father, and know everything, and have a profession." "You're looking far ahead." "Years and years ahead," and then with deprecating eyes and irrepressible laughter, "Now don't say I'm foolish, but sometimes I think of him getting married and the kind of girl I'll choose for him--not stupid like me, but one who's good and beautiful and knows all about literature and geography and science. The finest girl in the world, and I'll find her for him." He didn't laugh, instead he looked sulkily thoughtful: "And where will we get the money to do all this?" "We'll make it. We have a good deal now. Daddy John told me the other day he thought we had nearly ten thousand dollars in dust beside what my father left. That will be plenty to begin on, and you can go into business down on the coast. They told Daddy John at the Fort there would be hundreds and thousands of people coming in next spring. They'll build towns, make Sacramento and San Francisco big places with lots going on. We can settle in whichever seems the most thriving and get back into the kind of life where we belong." It was her old song, the swan song of his hopes. He felt a loneliness more bitter than he had ever before conceived of. In the jarring tumult of a growing city he saw himself marked in his own eyes, aloof in the street and the market place, a stranger by his own fireside. In his fear he swore that he would thwart her, keep her in the wild places, crush her maternal ambitions and force her to share his chosen life, the life of the outcast. He knew that it would mean conflict, the subduing of a woman nerved by a mother's passion. And as he worked in the ditches he thought about it, arranging the process by which he would gradually break her to his will, beat down her aspirations till she was reduced to the abject docility of a squaw. Then he would hold her forever under his hand and eye, broken as a dog to his word, content to wander with him on those lonely paths where he would tread out the measure of his days. Toward the end of November the rains came. First in hesitant showers, then in steadier downpourings, finally, as December advanced, in torrential fury. Veils of water descended upon them, swept round their knoll till it stood marooned amid yellow eddies. The river rose boisterous, swirled into the pits, ate its way across the honey-combed reach of mud and fingered along the bottom of their hillock. They had never seen such rain. The pines bowed and wailed under its assault, and the slopes were musical with the voices of liberated streams. Moss and mud had to be pressed into the cabin's cracks, and when they sat by the fire in the evening their voices fell before the angry lashings on the roof and the groaning of the tormented forest. Daddy John and Courant tried to work but gave it up, and the younger man, harassed by the secession of the toil that kept his body wearied and gave him sleep, went abroad on the hills, roaming free in the dripping darkness. Bella saw cause for surprise that he should absent himself willingly from their company. She grumbled about it to Glen, and noted Susan's acquiescence with the amaze of the woman who holds absolute sway over her man. One night Courant came back, drenched and staggering, on his shoulders a small bear that he had shot on the heights above. The fresh bear meat placated Bella, but she shook her head over the mountain man's morose caprices, and in the bedtime hour made dismal prophecies as to the outcome of her friend's strange marriage. The bear hunt had evil consequences that she did not foresee. It left Courant, the iron man, stricken by an ailment marked by shiverings, when he sat crouched over the fire, and fevered burnings when their combined entreaties could not keep him from the open door and the cool, wet air. When the clouds broke and the landscape emerged from its mourning, dappled with transparent tints, every twig and leaf washed clean, his malady grew worse and he lay on the bed of spruce boughs tossing in a sickness none of them understood. They were uneasy, came in and out with disturbed looks and murmured inquiries. He refused to answer them, but on one splendid morning, blaring life like a trumpet call, he told them he was better and was going back to work. He got down to the river bank, fumbled over his spade, and then Daddy John had to help him back to the cabin. With gray face and filmed eyes he lay on the bunk while they stood round him, and the children came peeping fearfully through the doorway. They were thoroughly frightened, Bella standing by with her chin caught in her hand and her eyes fastened on him, and Susan on the ground beside him, trying to say heartening phrases with lips that were stiff. The men did not know what to do. They pushed the children from the door roughly, as if it were their desire to hurt and abuse them. In some obscure way it seemed to relieve their feelings. The rains came back more heavily than ever. For three days the heavens descended in a downpour that made the river a roaring torrent and isled the two log houses on their hillocks. The walls of the cabin trickled with water. The buffets of the wind ripped the canvas covering from the door, and Susan and Daddy John had to take a buffalo robe from the bed and nail it over the rent. They kept the place warm with the fire, but the earth floor was damp to their feet, and the tinkle of drops falling from the roof into the standing pans came clear through the outside tumult. The night when the storm was at its fiercest the girl begged the old man to stay with her. Courant had fallen into a state of lethargy from which it was hard to rouse him. Her anxiety gave place to anguish, and Daddy John was ready for the worst when she shook him into wakefulness, her voice at his ear: "You must go somewhere and get a doctor. I'm afraid." He blinked at her without answering, wondering where he could find a doctor and not wanting to speak till he had a hope to offer. She read his thoughts and cried as she snatched his hat and coat from a peg: "There must be one somewhere. Go to the Fort, and if there's none there go to Sacramento. I'd go with you but I'm afraid to leave him." Daddy John went. She stood in the doorway and saw him lead the horse from the brush shed and, with his head low against the downpour, vault into the saddle. The moaning of the disturbed trees mingled with the triumphant roar of the river. There was a shouted good-by, and she heard the clatter of the hoofs for a moment sharp and distinct, then swallowed in the storm's high clamor. In three days he was back with a ship's doctor, an Englishman, who described himself as just arrived from Australia. Daddy John had searched the valley, and finally run his quarry to earth at the Porter Ranch, one of a motley crew waiting to swarm inland to the rivers. The man, a ruddy animal with some rudimentary knowledge of his profession, pronounced the ailment "mountain fever." He looked over the doctor's medicine chest with an air of wisdom and at Susan with subdued gallantry. "Better get the wife down to Sacramento," he said to Daddy John. "The man's not going to last and you can't keep her up here." "Is he going to die?" said the old man. The doctor pursed his lips. "He oughtn't to. He's a Hercules. But the strongest of 'em go this way with the work and exposure. Think they can do anything and don't last as well sometimes as the weak ones." "Work and exposure oughtn't to hurt him. He's bred upon it. Why should he cave in and the others of us keep up?" "Can't say. But he's all burned out--hollow. There's no rebound. He's half gone now. Doesn't seem to have the spirit that you'd expect in such a body." "Would it do any good to get him out of here, down to the valley or the coast?" "It might--change of air sometimes knocks out these fevers. You could try the coast or Hock Farm. But if you want my opinion I don't think there's much use." Then on the first fine day the doctor rode away with some of their dust in his saddlebags, spying on the foaming river for good spots to locate when the rains should cease and he, with the rest of the world, could try his luck. His visit had done no good, had given no heart to the anguished woman or roused no flicker of life in the failing man. Through the weakness of his wasting faculties Courant realized the approach of death and welcomed it. In his forest roamings, before his illness struck him, he had thought of it as the one way out. Then it had come to him vaguely terrible as a specter in dreams. Now bereft of the sustaining power of his strength the burden of the days to come had grown insupportable. To live without telling her, to live beside her and remain a partial stranger, to live divorcing her from all she would desire, had been the only course he saw, and in it he recognized nothing but misery. Death was the solution for both, and he relinquished himself to it with less grief at parting from her than relief at the withdrawal from an existence that would destroy their mutual dream. What remained to him of his mighty forces went to keep his lips shut on the secret she must never know. Even as his brain grew clouded, and his senses feeble, he retained the resolution to leave her her belief in him. This would be his legacy. His last gift of love would be the memory of an undimmed happiness. But Susan, unknowing, fought on. The doctor had not got back to the Porter Ranch before she began arranging to move Low to Sacramento and from there to the Coast. He would get better care, they would find more competent doctors, the change of air would strengthen him. She had it out with Bella, refusing to listen to the older woman's objections, pushing aside all references to her own health. Bella was distracted. "For," as she said afterwards to Glen, "what's the sense of having her go? She can't do anything for him, and it's like as not the three of them'll die instead of one." There was no reasoning with Susan. The old willfulness was strengthened to a blind determination. She plodded back through the rain to Daddy John and laid the matter before him. As of old he did not dispute with her, only stipulated that he be permitted to go on ahead, make arrangements, and then come back for her. He, too, felt there was no hope, but unlike the others he felt the best hope for his Missy was in letting her do all she could for her husband. In the evening, sitting by the fire, they talked it over--the stage down the river, the stop at the Fort, then on to Sacramento, and the long journey to the seaport settlement of San Francisco. The sick man seemed asleep, and their voices unconsciously rose, suddenly dropping to silence as he stirred and spoke: "Are you talking of moving me? Don't. I've had twelve years of it. Let me rest now." Susan went to him and sat at his feet. "But we must get you well," she said, trying to smile. "They'll want you in the pits. You must be back there working with them by the spring." He looked at her with a wide, cold gaze, and said: "The spring. We're all waiting for the spring. Everything's going to happen then." A silence fell. The wife sat with drooped head, unable to speak. Daddy John looked into the fire. To them both the Angel of Death seemed to have paused outside the door, and in the stillness they waited for his knock. Only Courant was indifferent, staring at the wall with eyes full of an unfathomable unconcern. The next day Daddy John left. He was to find the accommodations, get together such comforts as could be had, and return for them. He took a sack of dust and the fleetest horse, and calculated to be back inside two days. As he clattered away he turned for a last look at her, standing in the sunshine, her hand over her eyes. Man or devil would not stop him, he thought, as he buckled to his task, and his seventy years sat as light as a boy's twenty, the one passion of his heart beating life through him. Two days later, at sundown, he came back. She heard the ringing of hoofs along the trail and ran forward to meet him, catching the bridle as the horse, a white lather of sweat, came to a panting halt. She did not notice the lined exhaustion of the old man's face, had no care for anything but his news. "I've got everything fixed," he cried, and then slid off holding to the saddle for he was stiff and spent. "The place is ready and I've found a doctor and got him nailed. It'll be all clean and shipshape for you. How's Low?" An answer was unnecessary. He could see there were no good tidings. "Weaker a little," she said. "But if it's fine we can start to-morrow." He thought of the road he had traveled and felt they were in God's hands. Then he stretched a gnarled and tremulous claw and laid it on her shoulder. "And there's other news, Missy. Great news. I'm thinking that it may help you." There was no news that could help her but news of Low. She was so fixed in her preoccupation that her eye was void of interest, as his, bright and expectant, held it: "I seen David." He was rewarded. Her face flashed into excitement and she grabbed at him with a wild hand: "David! Where?" "In Sacramento. I seen him and talked to him." "Oh, Daddy John, how wonderful! Was he well?" "Well and hearty, same as he used to be. Plumped up considerable." "How had he got there?" "A train behind us picked him up, found him lyin' by the spring where he'd crawled lookin' for us." "Then, it wasn't Indians? Had he got lost?" "That's what I says to him first-off--'Well, gol darn yer, what happened to yer?' and before he answers me he says quick, 'How's Susan?' It ain't no use settin' on bad news that's bound to come out so I give it to him straight that you and Low was married at Humboldt. And he took it very quiet, whitened up a bit, and says no words for a spell, walkin' off a few steps. Then he turns back and says, 'Is she happy?'" Memory broke through the shell of absorption and gave voice to a forgotten sense of guilt: "Oh, poor David! He always thought of me first." "I told him you was. That you and Low was almighty sot on each other and that Low was sick. And he was quiet for another spell, and I could see his thoughts was troublesome. So to get his mind off it I asked him how it all happened. He didn't answer for a bit, standin' thinkin' with his eyes lookin' out same as he used to look at the sunsets before he got broke down. And then he tells me it was a fall, that he clum up to the top of the rock and thinks he got a touch o' sun up there. For first thing he knew he was all dizzy and staggerin' round, goin' this side and that, till he got to the edge where the rock broke off and over he went. He come to himself lying under a ledge alongside some bushes, with a spring tricklin' over him. He guessed he rolled there and that's why we couldn't find him. He don't know how long it was, or how long it took him to crawl round to the camp--maybe a day, he thinks, for he was 'bout two thirds dead. But he got there and saw we was gone. The Indians hadn't come down on the place, and he seen the writing on the rock and found the cache. The food and the water kep' him alive, and after a bit a big train come along, the finest train he even seen--eighteen wagons and an old Ashley man for pilot. They was almighty good to him; the women nursed him like Christians, and he rid in the wagons and come back slow to his strength. The reason we didn't hear of him before was because they come by a southern route that took 'em weeks longer, moving slow for the cattle. They was fine people, he says, and he's thick with one of the men who's a lawyer, and him and David's goin' to the coast to set up a law business there." The flicker of outside interest was dying. "Thank Heaven," she said on a rising breath, then cast a look at the cabin and added quickly: "I'll go and tell Low. Maybe it'll cheer him up. He was always so worried about David. You tell Bella and then come to the cabin and see how you think he is." There was light in the cabin, a leaping radiance from the logs on the hearth, and a thin, pale twilight from the uncovered doorway. She paused there for a moment, making her step light and composing her features into serener lines. The gaunt form under the blanket was motionless. The face, sunk away to skin clinging on sharp-set bones, was turned in profile. He might have been sleeping but for the glint of light between the eyelids. She was accustomed to seeing him thus, to sitting beside the inanimate shape, her hand curled round his, her eyes on the face that took no note of her impassioned scrutiny. Would her tidings of David rouse him? She left herself no time to wonder, hungrily expectant. "Low," she said, bending over him, "Daddy John's been to Sacramento and has brought back wonderful news." He turned his head with an effort and looked at her. His glance was vacant as if he had only half heard, as if her words had caught the outer edges of his senses and penetrated no farther. "He has seen David." Into the dull eyes a slow light dawned, struggling through their apathy till they became the eyes of a live man, hanging on hers, charged with a staring intelligence. He made an attempt to move, lifted a wavering hand and groped for her shoulder. "David!" he whispered. The news had touched an inner nerve that thrilled to it. She crouched on the edge of the bunk, her heart beating thickly: "David, alive and well." The fumbling hand gripped on her shoulder. She felt the fingers pressing in stronger than she had dreamed they could be. It pulled her down toward him, the eyes fixed on hers, searching her face, glaring fearfully from blackened hollows, riveted in a desperate questioning. "What happened to him?" came the husky whisper. "He fell from the rock; thinks he had a sunstroke up there and then lost his balance and fell over and rolled under a ledge. And after a few days a train came by and found him." "Is that what he said?" Her answering voice began to tremble, for the animation of his look grew wilder and stranger. It was as if all the life in his body was burning in those hungry eyes. The hand on her shoulder clutched like a talon, the muscles informed with an unnatural force. Was it the end coming with a last influx of strength and fire? Her tears began to fall upon his face, and she saw it through them, ravaged and fearful, with new life struggling under the ghastliness of dissolution. There was an awfulness in this rekindling of the spirit where death had set its stamp that broke her fortitude, and she forgot the legend of her courage and cried in her agony: "Oh, Low, don't die, don't die! I can't bear it. Stay with me!" The hand left her shoulder and fumblingly touched her face, feeling blindly over its tear-washed surface. "I'm not going to die," came the feeble whisper. "I can live now." Half an hour later when Daddy John came in he found her sitting on the side of the bunk, a hunched, dim figure against the firelight. She held up a warning hand, and the old man tiptoed to her side and leaned over her to look. Courant was sleeping, his head thrown back, his chest rising in even breaths. Daddy John gazed for a moment, then bent till his cheek was almost against hers. "Pick up your heart, Missy," he whispered. "He looks to me better." CHAPTER IV From the day of the good news Courant rallied. At first they hardly dared to hope. Bella and Daddy John talked about it together and wondered if it were only a pause in the progress of his ailment. But Susan was confident, nursing her man with a high cheerfulness that defied their anxious faces. She had none of their fear of believing. She saw their doubts and angrily scouted them. "Low will be all right soon," she said, in answer to their gloomily observing looks. In her heart she called them cowards, ready to join hands with death, not rise up and fight till the final breath. Her resolute hope seemed to fill the cabin with light and life. It transformed her haggardness, made her a beaming presence, with eyes bright under tangled locks of hair, and lips that hummed snatches of song. He was coming back to her like a child staggering to its mother's outheld hands. While they were yet unconvinced "when Low gets well" became a constant phrase on her tongue. She began to plan again, filled their ears with speculations of the time when she and her husband would move to the coast. They marveled at her, at the dauntlessness of her spirit, at the desperate courage that made her grip her happiness and wrench it back from the enemy. They marveled more when they saw she had been right--Susan who had been a child so short a time before, knowing more than they, wiser and stronger in the wisdom and strength of her love. There was a great day when Low crept out to the door and sat on the bench in the sun with his wife beside him. To the prosperous passerby they would have seemed a sorry pair--a skeleton man with uncertain feet and powerless hands, a worn woman, ragged and unkempt. To them it was the halcyon hour, the highest point of their mutual adventure. The cabin was their palace, the soaked prospect a pleasance decked for their delight. And from this rude and ravaged outlook their minds reached forward in undefined and unrestricted visioning to all the world that lay before them, which they would soon advance on and together win. Nature was with them in their growing gladness. The spring was coming. The river began to fall, and Courant's eyes dwelt longingly on the expanding line of mud that waited for his pick. April came with a procession of cloudless days, with the tinkling of streams shrinking under the triumphant sun, with the pines exhaling scented breaths, and a first, faint sprouting of new green. The great refreshed landscape unveiled itself, serenely brooding in a vast, internal energy of germination. The earth was coming to life as they were, gathering itself for the expression of its ultimate purpose. It was rising to the rite of rebirth and they rose with it, with faces uplifted to its kindling glory and hearts in which joy was touched by awe. On a May evening, when the shadows were congregating in the cañon, Susan lay on the bunk with her son in the hollow of her arm. The children came in and peeped fearfully at the little hairless head, pulling down the coverings with careful fingers and eying the newcomer dubiously, not sure that they liked him. Bella looked over their shoulders radiating proud content. Then she shooed them out and went about her work of "redding up," pacing the earthen floor with the proud tread of victory. Courant was sitting outside on the log bench. She moved to the door and smiled down at him over the tin plate she was scouring. "Come in and sit with her while I get the supper," she said. "Don't talk, just sit where she can see you." He came and sat beside her, and she drew the blanket down from the tiny, crumpled face. They were silent, wondering at it, looking back over the time when it had cried in their blood, inexorably drawn them together, till out of the heat of their passion the spark of its being had been struck. Both saw in it their excuse and their pardon. She recovered rapidly, all her being revivified and reinforced, coming back glowingly to a mature beauty. Glimpses of the Susan of old began to reappear. She wanted her looking-glass, and, sitting up in the bunk with the baby against her side, arranged her hair in the becoming knot and twisted the locks on her temples into artful tendrils. She would sew soon, and kept Bella busy digging into the trunks and bringing out what was left of her best things. They held weighty conferences over these, the foot of the bunk littered with wrinkled skirts and jackets that had fitted a slimmer and more elegant Susan. A trip to Sacramento was talked of, in which Daddy John was to shop for a lady and baby, and buy all manner of strange articles of which he knew nothing. "Calico, that's a pretty color," he exclaimed testily. "How am I to know what's a pretty color? Now if it was a sack of flour or a spade--but I'll do my best, Missy," he added meekly, catching her eye in which the familiar imperiousness gleamed through softening laughter. Soon the day came when she walked to the door and sat on the bench. The river was settling decorously into its bed, and in the sunlight the drenched shores shone under a tracery of pools and rillets as though a silvery gauze had been rudely torn back from them, catching and tearing here and there. The men were starting the spring work. The rocker was up, and the spades and picks stood propped against the rock upon which she and Low had sat on that first evening. He sat there now, watching the preparations soon to take part again. His lean hand fingered among the picks, found his own, and he walked to the untouched shore and struck a tentative blow. Then he dropped the pick, laughing, and came back to her. "I'll be at it in a week," he said, sitting down on the bench. "It'll be good to be in the pits again and feel my muscles once more." "It'll be good to see you," she answered. In a week he was back, in two weeks he was himself again--the mightiest of those mighty men who, sixty years ago, measured their strength along the American River. The diggings ran farther upstream and were richer than the old ones. The day's takings were large, sometimes so large that the men's elation beat like a fever in their blood. At night they figured on their wealth, and Susan listened startled to the sums that fell so readily from their lips. They were rich, rich enough to go to the coast and for Courant to start in business there. It was he who wanted this. The old shrinking and fear of the city were gone. Now, with a wife and child, he turned his face that way. He was longing to enter the fight for them, to create and acquire for them, to set them as high as the labor of his hands and work of his brain could compass. New ambitions possessed him. As Susan planned for a home and its comforts, he did for his work in the market place in competition with those who had once been his silent accusers. But there was also a strange humbleness in him. It did not weaken his confidence or clog his aspiration, but it took something from the hard arrogance that had recognized in his own will the only law. He had heard from Daddy John of that interview with David, and he knew the reason of David's lie. He knew, too, that David would stand to that lie forever. Of the two great passions that the woman had inspired the one she had relinquished was the finer. He had stolen her from David, and David had shown that for love of her he could forego vengeance. Once such an act would have been inexplicable to the mountain man. Now he understood, and in his humility he vowed to make the life she had chosen as perfect as the one that might have been. Through this last, and to him, supremest sacrifice, David ceased to be the puny weakling and became the hero, the thought of whom would make Courant "go softly all his days." The summer marched upon them, with the men doing giant labor on the banks and the women under the pine at work beside their children. The peace of the valley was broken by the influx of the Forty-niners, who stormed its solitudes, and changed the broken trail to a crowded highway echoing with the noises of life. The river yielded up its treasure to their eager hands, fortunes were made, and friendships begun that were to make the history of the new state. These bronzed and bearded men, these strong-thewed women, were waking from her sleep the virgin California. Sometimes in the crowded hours Susan dropped her work and, with her baby in her arms, walked along the teeming river trail or back into the shadows of the forest. All about her was the stir of a fecund earth, growth, expansion, promise. From beneath the pines she looked up and saw the aspiration of their proud up-springing. At her feet the ground was bright with flower faces completing themselves in the sunshine. Wherever her glance fell there was a busyness of development, a progression toward fulfillment, a combined, harmonious striving in which each separate particle had its purpose and its meaning. The shell of her old self-engrossment cracked, and the call of a wider life came to her. It pierced clear and arresting through the fairy flutings of "the horns of elfland" that were all she had heretofore heard. The desire to live as an experiment in happiness, to extract from life all there was for her own enjoying, left her. Slowly she began to see it as a vast concerted enterprise in which she was called to play her part. The days when the world was made for her pleasure were over. The days had begun when she saw her obligation, not alone to the man and child who were part of her, but out and beyond these to the diminishing circles of existences that had never touched hers. Her love that had met so generous a response, full measure, pressed down and running over, must be paid out without the stipulation of recompense. Her vision widened, dimly descried horizons limitless as the prairies, saw faintly how this unasked giving would transform a gray and narrow world as the desert's sunsets had done. So gradually the struggling soul came into being and possessed the fragile tissue that had once been a girl and was now a woman. They left the river on a morning in September, the sacks of dust making the trunk heavy. The old wagon was ready, the mess chest strapped to the back, Julia in her place. Bella and the children were to follow as soon as the rains began, so the parting was not sad. The valley steeped in crystal shadow, the hills dark against the flush of dawn, held Susan's glance for a lingering minute as she thought of the days in the tent under the pine. She looked at her husband and met his eyes in which she saw the same memory. Then the child, rosy with life, leaped in her arms, bending to snatch with dimpled hands at its playmates, chuckling baby sounds as they pressed close to give him their kisses. Daddy John, mounting to his seat, cried: "There's the sun coming up to wish us God-speed." She turned and saw it rising huge and red over the hill's shoulder, and held up her son to see. The great ball caught his eyes and he stared in tranced delight. Then he leaped against the restraint of her arm, kicking on her breast with his heels, stretching a grasping hand toward the crimson ball, a bright and shining toy to play with. Its light fell red on the three faces--the child's waiting for life to mold its unformed softness, the woman's stamped with the gravity of deep experience, the man's stern with concentrated purpose. They watched in silence till the baby gave a cry, a thin, sweet sound of wondering joy that called them back to it. Again they looked at one another, but this time their eyes held no memories. The thoughts of both reached forward to the coming years, and they saw themselves shaping from this offspring of their lawless passion what should be a man, a molder of the new Empire, a builder of the Promised Land. FINIS 
21459	----	Dick Onslow; or The Adventures of Dick Onslow among the Redskins, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ This story takes place mainly in or near the Rocky Mountains of North America, as we follow the adventures of a member of an emigrant party during their move to California. Rattle-snakes, bears, rock-slides, avalanches, steep descents, and many other hazards, to say nothing of numerous attacks by unfriendly tribes of Red Indians, fill the pages of this book with terrifying and perilous situations. Not a long book, but very good value. ________________________________________________________________________ DICK ONSLOW; or THE ADVENTURES OF DICK ONSLOW AMONG THE REDSKINS, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. MY FRIENDS THE RAGGETS--OUR PROPOSED MIGRATION--JOURNEY COMMENCED-- ATTACK OF THE INDIANS--A SHOT THROUGH MY LEG--HORRIBLE ANTICIPATIONS-- HIDE IN A BUSH--CLIMB A TREE--MY THOUGHTS IN MY CONCEALMENT--LISTEN IN EXPECTATION OF AN ATTACK--STARVING IN THE MIDST OF PLENTY--SOME ONE APPROACHES--I PREPARE TO FIRE. In few countries can more exciting adventures be met with than in Mexico and the southern and western portions of North America; in consequence of the constantly disturbed state of the country, the savage disposition of the Red Indians, and the numbers of wild animals, buffaloes, bears, wolves, panthers, jaguars, not to speak of alligators, rattlesnakes, and a few other creatures of like gentle nature. My old school-fellow, Dick Onslow, has just come back from those regions; and among numerous incidents by flood and field sufficient to make a timid man's hair stand on end for the rest of his days, he recounted to me the following:-- After spending some time among those ill-conditioned cut-throat fellows, the Mexicans, I returned to the States. Having run over all the settled parts, of which I got a tolerable bird's-eye view, I took it into my head that I should like to see something of real backwoodsman's life. Soon getting beyond railways, I pushed right through the State of Missouri till I took up my abode on the very outskirts of civilisation, in a log-house, with a rough honest settler, Laban Ragget by name. He had a wife and several daughters and small children, and five tall sons, Simri, Joab, Othni, Elihu, and Obed, besides two sisters of his wife's and a brother of his own, Edom Ragget by name. I never met a finer set of people, both men and women. It was a pleasure to see the lads walk up to a forest, and a wonder to watch how the tall trees went down like corn stalks before the blows of their gleaming axes. They had no idea I was a gentleman by birth. They thought I was the son of a blacksmith, and they liked me the better for it. Some months passed away; I had learned to use my axe as well as any of them, and a fine large clearing had been made, when the newspapers, of which we occasionally had one, told us all about the wonderful gold-diggings in California. At last we talked of little else as we sat round the big fire in the stone chimney during the evenings of winter. Neighbours dropped in and talked over the matter also. There was no doubt money was to be made, and quickly too, by men with strong arms and iron constitutions. We all agreed that if any men were fit for the work, we were. I was the weakest of the party, do ye see? (Dick stands five feet ten in his shoes, and is as broad-shouldered as a dray man.) Just then, an oldish man with only two stout sons and a small family drove into the forest with a light wagon and a strong team of horses, to look about him, as he said, for a location. He came to our house, and Laban and he had a long talk. "Well, stranger," said Laban, "I guess you couldn't do better than take my farm, and give me your team and three hundred dollars; I've a mind to go further westward." The offer was too good to be refused. The bargain was struck, and in two days, several other settlers having got rid of their farms, a large party of us were on our way to cross the Rocky Mountains for California. The women, children, and stuff were in Laban's two wagons. Other settlers had their wagons also. The older men rode; I, with the younger, walked, with our rifles at our backs, and our axes and knives in our belts. I had, besides, a trusty revolver, which had often stood me in good stead. We were not over-delicate when we started, and we soon got accustomed to the hard life we had to lead, till camping-out became a real pleasure rather than an inconvenience. We had skin tents for the older men, and plenty of provisions, and as we kept along the banks of the rivers, we had abundance of grass and water for the horses. At last we had to leave the forks of the Missouri river, and to follow a track across the desolate Nebraska country, over which the wild Pawnees, Dacotahs, Omahas, and many other tribes of red men rove in considerable numbers. We little feared them, however, and thought much more of the herds of wild buffaloes we expected soon to have the pleasure both of shooting and eating. We had encamped one night close to a wood near Little Bear Creek, which runs into the Nebraska river. The following morning broke with wet and foggy weather. It would have been pleasant to have remained in camp, but the season was advancing, and it was necessary to push on. All the other families had packed up and were on the move; Laban's, for a wonder, was the last. The women and children were already seated in the lighter wagon, and Obed Ragget and I were lifting the last load into the other, and looking round to see that nothing was left behind, when our ears were saluted with the wildest and most unearthly shrieks and shouts, and a shower of arrows came whistling about our ears. "Shove on! shove on!" we shouted to Simri and Joab, who were at the horses' heads; "never mind the tent." They lashed the horses with their whips. The animals plunged forward with terror and pain, for all of them were more or less wounded. We were sweeping round close to the edge of the wood, and for a moment lost sight of the rest of the party. Then, in another instant, I saw them again surrounded by Indian warriors, with plumes of feathers, uplifted hatchets, and red paint, looking very terrible. The women were standing up in the wagon with axes in their hands, defending themselves bravely. A savage had seized one of the children and was dragging it off, when Mrs Ragget struck with all her might at the red-skin's arm, and cut it clean through; the savage drew back howling with pain and rage. Old Laban in the meantime, with his brother and two others, kept in front, firing away as fast as they could load while they ran on: for they saw if once the redskins could get hold of the horses' heads, they would be completely in their power. All this time several of the things were tumbling out of the wagon, but we could not stop to pick them up. Why the rest of the party, who were ahead, did not come back to our assistance, I could not tell. I thought that they also were probably attacked. We four ran on for some way, keeping the Indians at a respectful distance, for they are cowardly rascals-- notwithstanding all the praise bestowed on them--if courageously opposed. I was loading my rifle, and then taking aim at four mounted Indians who appeared on the right with rifles in their hands. They fired, but missed me, as I meantime was dodging them behind the wagon. During this, I did not see where Obed was. I hit one of them, and either Simri or Joab, who fired at the same time, hit another. The other two wheeled round, and with some companions, hovered about us at some little distance. Just then, not hearing Obed's voice, I looked round. He was nowhere to be seen. I was shouting to his brothers to stop and go back with me to look for him, when half-a-dozen more Indians, joining the others, galloped up at the same moment to attack the headmost wagon. Simri and Joab, lashing their horses, rushed on to the assistance of their family. The savages fired. I was springing on when I felt myself brought to the ground, grasping my rifle, which was loaded. A shot had gone right through both my legs. I tried with desperate struggles to get up, but could not lift myself from the ground. All the horror of my condition crowded into my mind. To be killed and scalped was the best fate I could expect. Just as I was about to give way to despair, I thought I would make an attempt to save my life. From my companions I could expect no help, for even if they succeeded in preserving their own lives they would scarcely be in a condition to come back and rescue me. Poor Obed I felt pretty sure must have been killed. A small stream with some bushes growing on its banks was near at hand. I dragged myself towards it, and found a pretty close place of concealment behind one of the bushes. Thence I could look out. The wagons were still driving along furiously across the prairie with the Indians hovering about them on either side, evidently waiting for a favourable moment to renew the attack. Thus the whole party, friends and foes, vanished from my sight in the fog. To stay where I was would only lead to my certain destruction, for when the Indians returned, as I knew they would, to carry off my scalp, the trail to my hiding-place would at once be discovered. I felt, too, that if I allowed my wounds to grow stiff, I might not be able to move at all. Suffering intense agony, therefore, I dragged myself down into the stream. It was barely deep enough to allow me to swim had I had strength for the purpose, and crawl I thought I could not. So I threw myself on my back, and holding my rifle, my powder-flask, and revolver above my breast, floated down till I reached the wood we had just passed. The branches of the trees hung over the stream. I seized one which I judged would bear my weight, and lifting myself up by immense exertion, of which, had it not been for the cooling effects of the water, I should not have been capable, I crawled along the bough. I had carefully avoided as much as possible disturbing the leaves, lest the redskins should discover my retreat. I worked my way up, holding my rifle in my teeth, to the fork of the branch, and then up to where several of the higher boughs branched off and formed a nest where I could remain without fear of falling off. I was completely concealed by the thickness of the leaves from being seen by any one passing below, and I trusted, from the precautions I had taken, that the Indians would not discover my trail. Still, such cunning rogues are they, that it is almost impossible to deceive them. My great hope was that they might not find out that I had fallen, and so would not come to look for me. As I lay in my nest, I listened attentively, and thought that I could still hear distant shots, as if my friends had at all events not given in. Still it might only have been fancy. My wounds, when I had time to think about them, were very painful. I bound them up as well as I could--the water had washed away the blood and tended to stop inflammation. The sun rose high in the heavens. Not a sound was heard except the wild cry of the eagle or kite, blending with the song of the thrush and the mocking-bird, interrupted every now and then by the impudent observation of a stray parrot and the ominous rattle of a huge snake as it wound its way among the leaves. Every moment I expected to hear the grunts and cries of the redskins, as with tomahawk in hand they came eagerly searching about for me. I durst not move to look around. They might come talking carelessly, or they might steal about in dead silence, if they suspected that I was still alive. I thus passed the day. I did sometimes think that I should have been wiser had I remained within the bounds of civilisation, instead of wandering about the world without any adequate motive. The reflection, too, that the end of my days was approaching, came suddenly upon me with painful force. How had I spent those days? I asked myself. What good had I done in the world? How had I employed the talents committed to me? I remembered a great many things I had been told as a child by my mother, and which had never occurred to me since. The more I thought, the more painful, the more full of regrets, grew my thoughts. I am bound to tell you all this. I am not ashamed of my feelings. I believe those thoughts did me a great deal of good. I blessed my mother for all she had taught me, and I prayed as I had never prayed before. After this I felt much comforted and better prepared for death than I had been till then. The day passed slowly away. Darkness came on. I grew very hungry and faint, for I had no food in my pocket, and had taken nothing since the morning. Had I not been wounded, that would have been a trifle; I had often gone a whole day without eating, with, perhaps, a lap of water every now and then from a cool stream. I could not sleep a wink during the whole night. At times I hoped that if my friends were victorious they might return to learn what had become of poor Obed and me. In vain was the hope. The night wore on, the dawn returned. I tried to stretch my legs; I found that I could not move them. The hours of the next day passed slowly by; I thought I heard the cries and shrieks of the redskins in the distance--they seemed to draw nearer and nearer--they were entering the wood--yes, I was certain of it--they got close up to my tree--as I looked down, I saw their hideous, malicious faces gazing up at me, eager for my destruction. Then suddenly I became aware that they were only creatures of my imagination, conjured up through weakness and hunger. All was again silent. "If this state of things continues, I shall certainly drop from my hold," I thought. Then suddenly I remembered that I had some tobacco in my pocket. Edom Ragget had handed it to me to cut up for him. I put a piece in my mouth, and chewed away at it. I felt much better. The evening came; my apprehensions about the Indians decreased. Still I knew that if I once got down the tree, I might not be able to ascend it again, and might become a prey to wild beasts or rattlesnakes, as I felt that I could not stand for a moment, much less walk a yard. Having fastened my rifle to a branch, I secured one of my arms round another, that I might not drop off, and at last fell into a deep sleep. Next morning I awoke, feeling much better, though very hungry. As I lay without moving, I observed a racoon playing about a branch close to me. "Although there may be a hundred red-skins in the neighbourhood, I must have that fellow for my breakfast," I said to myself. I released my rifle and fired. Down fell the racoon at the foot of the tree. "He is of no use to me unless I can get hold of him, and even could I pick him up, I must eat him raw, as I have no means of lighting a fire where I am," said I to myself. While this thought passed rapidly through my mind, I heard a sound at some distance. It was, I felt sure, that of a human voice. I quickly reloaded my rifle, and, with my finger on the trigger, sat in readiness for whatever might occur. CHAPTER TWO. A FRIEND IN NEED--HOW TWO PEOPLE MAY LIVE WHILE ONE WILL STARVE--OBED GOES IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURES, AND I AWAKE TO FIND A RATTLESNAKE CLOSE TO MY NOSE--I AM SAVED--OBED RETURNS, BUT FOLLOWED BY A GENTLEMAN WHOSE ROOM WOULD BE MORE PLEASANT THAN HIS COMPANY--OBED CANNOT FIRE, AND I CANNOT RUN, BUT I SAVE HIM BY SITTING STILL--WE ANTICIPATE THE PLEASURE OF DINING ON BEAR'S FLESH--OBED FETCHES AND CARRIES LIKE A DOG, AND WE FARE SUMPTUOUSLY--I TAKE TO CRUTCHES--WE COLLECT STORES AND MAKE A TENT--A RED-SKIN VISITOR. I kept, as I was saying, my finger on the trigger, and my eye along the barrel of my rifle, fully expecting to see a Pawnee's red visage appear through the bushes. I knew that the dead racoon would betray me; so I resolved to fight it out to the last, and to sell my life dearly. I heard footsteps approaching--slowly and watchfully I thought: I peered down out of my leafy cover; the branches of the surrounding shrubs were pushed aside, and there, instead of the feathers and red face of an Indian, I saw the honest countenance of young Obed Ragget, looking cautiously about him on every side. "Obed! Obed! I am here," I sung out; "come and help me, lad." He sprang on when he heard my voice. "What, Dick! is that you? Well, I am glad you have escaped, that I am," he exclaimed, looking up into the tree. "So am I to see you," I cried; "but help me down, lad, for I cannot help myself, I fear." "That is more than I can do," said he. "Look; the red-skins have shot me through both arms, and I can no more use them than I can fly." I now observed that he looked very pale and weak, and that both his arms hung down uselessly by his side. One thing also I saw, that as he could not manage to get up to me, I must contrive to descend the tree to meet him. Tearing, therefore, a neck-kerchief up into strips, I lowered my gun and pistols down by it, and then prepared to descend myself. I made it secure, as close to the trunk as I could, and grasping the short boughs which grew out from the trunk, I threw my chief weight upon them, while I steadied myself with the line I had made; keeping my useless legs stretched out, lest I should fall on them, I gradually lowered myself to the foot of the tree. We could not shake hands, but we greeted each other most warmly. Obed complained bitterly of thirst, for he had not moved out of the first shelter into which he had crawled, and did not know how near the stream was. I accordingly put my hat into his mouth, and told him to stoop down where the stream was deepest, and to ladle up some water. This he did, and then kneeling down I held the hat to his mouth, while he drank. I took a draught myself, and never have I enjoyed so much the choicest beverage in my father's house as I did that cool draught.--I now pointed to the racoon, and asked him if he was hungry. "Very," was his answer; "I could eat that brute raw." "No need of that," said I; "just collect materials, and we will quickly have a fire." Obed understood me, and with his feet soon kicked together a pile of sticks and leaves sufficient to make a good fire. I had a flint and steel, and we speedily had the bacon spitted and roasting on some forked sticks before it in proper woodman's style. The food revived us both, and restored our spirits. We neither of us were inclined to despondency; still we could not help thinking, with sad feelings, of what might have befallen our friends, and what might too probably be our own fate. As Obed could not help himself, he had to sit down close to me while I fed him; and when we had done, he assisted me to remove myself away from the fire. I then dressed his wounds as well as I could, bathing them freely in cold water. Some sinews were cut through, I suspected, which prevented him from moving his arms, but no bones were broken; and, in consequence of his fine constitution and temperate habits, I trusted that he would recover the use of them. I was in a worse condition, for both my legs were so much hurt that I could not hope to walk on them for many weeks to come. However, my upper limbs were in good case; and we agreed that, with a pair of strong arms and stout legs between us, we might both get on very well. Obed had left his gun in the thicket into which he had dragged it when he fell. It was discharged, and so he went for it, bringing it to me in his teeth, that I might clean and reload it. As he could not use it, he left it by my side; and we had now our two rifles, and his and my revolver pistols; so that I felt, with my back to a tree, cripple as I was, I might prove a formidable adversary either to man or beast. While Obed and I sat near the fire, talking over our prospects, we remembered that a number of things had dropped from the wagons; so he volunteered to set out in order to discover whether they had been carried off by the Indians. "Farewell, Dick," said he, as he rose to go. "If I don't come back you'll know those varmint redskins have got my scalp; but though I can't use my arms, they'll find I can use my legs before they catch me." With many misgivings I saw him make his way out from the thicket. When he was gone I lay back with my head on my arm, thinking over many of the events of my past life, and contrasting them with my present condition, till at length my eyes closed, and I forgot all recent events in sleep. I believe that I slept very soundly without stirring my legs or arms. At last my eyes slowly opened, and horrible indeed was the spectacle which met them. The embers of the fire were before me, and close to it, as if to enjoy its warmth, lay coiled up a huge rattlesnake not two yards from me. In an instant of time I felt that its deadly fangs might be fixed in my throat. What use to me now were my fire-arms? I dared not move my hand to reach my revolver. I knew that I must not wink even an eyelid, or the deadly spring might be made. The snake was, I dare say, nearly six feet long. It had a body almost as thick as my leg--of a yellowish-brown colour, with some dark-brown spots reaching from one end to the other; and oh, that head, as it slowly raised it with its vicious eyes to have a look at me! It was of large size, flat, and covered with scales. I gazed at the rattlesnake, and the rattlesnake gazed at me. What he thought of me I do not know; I thought him a most hideous monster, and wished him anywhere but where he was. It seemed an age that I thus lay, not daring even to draw a breath. I felt at last that I must give up the contest. I prayed for mercy. The oppression on my chest became almost insupportable. Still I dared not move. The deadly reptile stretched out its head--slowly it began to uncoil itself--the dread sound of its rattle struck my ear. I felt that now I must muster all my nerve and resolution, or be lost; the huge reptile stretched itself out and slowly crawled on--oh, horror!--it passed directly over my wounded legs! Not a muscle quivered. I dared not look up to ascertain whether it was gone. A minute must have elapsed--it seemed to me a much longer time--and then, and not till then, a shout reached my ear. It was the voice of Obed. Probably the snake had heard it, and it was that, I have no doubt, which made him move away under the belief that I was a dead person, who at all events could do him no harm. My first impulse was to look round to discover what had become of the snake. He was nowhere to be seen! My next was to turn my eyes in the direction whence the shouting proceeded. There I saw Obed rushing along as fast as his legs could carry him among the trees. "Be ready with your rifle, Dick," he shouted out at the top of his voice; "not a moment to lose, man." I fully expected to see half a dozen red-skins following close at his heels, and resolved to defend him to the last, and to sell my own life dearly, although I had to fight on my stumps, when the boughs of the trees were torn away behind him, and a huge bear appeared, grinning horribly, in a great rage, and evidently prepared to do mischief to somebody or something. Had Obed been able to use his arms, he was the last person to have placed another in danger for the sake of trying to save himself. Now, however, he had no choice but to run behind me and the fire. Bruin trotted on, growling angrily. He was one of those long-headed, small-eyed fellows, with pointed nose, clumsy body, and smooth, glossy, black hair, which have a fancy for pork and ham, and will put their paws into a corn bin if they find it open. When he got near, as he reared up on his hind paws ready for a fight, and came on towards me, I grasped my rifle and aimed at his head. If I missed him, I should scarcely have had time, I feared, to seize Obed's rifle before he would have been upon me. I knew that his body was so encased with fat that it would be difficult to wound him vitally through that. I fired: the bullet hit him in the head, but still he came on, gnashing his teeth. I lifted my second rifle. I could not well have missed him had I been standing up or kneeling, but sitting, as I was, it was difficult to take a steady aim. He was about ten paces off: again I fired. I felt sure that I had not missed, but with a terrific growl he bounded on towards me. I had barely time to grasp a revolver when he was close up to me. Already I felt his hot breath in my face; his huge claws had hold of my limbs; he was trying to clasp me round the body: his muzzle, with its sharp teeth, touched on my shoulder. Poor Obed, who was standing behind me, unable to render me assistance, literally shrieked with fear, not for himself, but for me. In another moment I felt that I must be torn to pieces. I mustered all my nerve. It was much wanted. I waited a moment till I could aim steadily at his head. I fired. He gave me a terrific hug. It was his death grapple. As it was, it very nearly squeezed the breath out of my body. Then he rolled over and lay motionless. I did not roll after him, but lest he should only be shamming 'coon, I dragged myself as far-off as I could to reload my weapons. "No fear, Dick, he's dead," cried Obed joyfully. "Well, you're a friend at a pinch, as I always thought you." It would not have been in his way to express his thanks by more than this, still I knew by his looks that he was grateful to me. In reality I had only fought in self-defence, so I do not know that he had anything to thank me for. "Old Bruin will afford us many a good dinner, at all events, I hope," said I. "And do you know, Obed, you and the bear saved my life just now between you." And then I told him how his shouts had, I believed, scared away the rattlesnake. "So you see, old fellow, we are quits." Obed having ascertained by a hearty kick that Bruin was really dead, I attached my rope to his waist and then to the bear, and by its means we dragged the carcass a little way from our camping-ground. He then came back and helped me along that I might cut some steaks for our supper. We cooked them in the same way we had done the racoon. While the operation was going forward he gave me an account of his adventures. He had found a number of things which had fallen from the wagon, and, wonderful to relate, they were untouched. There was the skin tent which we had not put into the wagon, and a cask of flour and one of beef, and, what we thought of still more value, a bag of bullets and some small shot, and a keg of powder, besides another rifle and an axe; while farther on, he said that there were several other smaller articles along the road the wagon had gone. It was close to the cask of flour he had encountered Bruin, who had undoubtedly been attracted to the spot with the hope of appropriating it. One prize Obed brought in his mouth; it was a tin saucepan, and very valuable we found it. Our difficulty was now to collect all these things. Obed offered to try and drag them together to one spot, if he could but manage to hook himself on to them. That day we could do nothing; so that after he had collected a large supply of firewood, we placed our backs to a tree and commended ourselves to the care of that great God who had so mercifully preserved our lives. We agreed that one should watch while the other slept, and most faithfully did we keep our pledge to each other. Several days passed without any great variation in our mode of proceeding. We cut the bear up into thin slices, and dried them in the sun. Obed also went round about the wood and drove in the wild turkeys, racoons, squirrels, and other small game, which I shot. We were thus supplied with meat. There were also plenty of herbs, the nature of which both he and I knew, and which, though not of delicate flavour, were wholesome, and helped to keep us in health. The weather also was very fine, and thus several days passed away. At last I bethought me that if I could make a pair of crutches, I might, with Obed's help, get over the ground. Two young saplings, towards which I dragged myself, were soon cut down, and in a couple of days I was once more upright. I could only at first move very slowly, and with great dread of falling; but by constant practice, in the course of a week I thought I might venture out of the wood. Obed's arms were also gaining strength, and one of them he could already use a little, and was thus enabled to help me. I slung the rifles over his back, and, sticking the revolvers in my belt, off we set together. We moved slowly, but still we went ahead. At last we reached the tent. It struck us at once that it would be well to pitch it where it lay on our old camping-ground. Wherever we might be Indians would find us out, so that it would make no difference whether we were in or out of the wood, and we might see either emigrants to California moving west, or the post to one of the forts, and thus obtain assistance. Obed and I soon got up the tent. I sat down, and he made his shoulders serve as a prop while I stuck in the pole, and thus in a few minutes we had a comfortable roof over our heads. While we were at work, it struck me that if I could make a sort of sleigh, it would facilitate the operation of bringing in our goods. I set to work immediately, and in the course of two days, manufactured a machine which answered our purpose. The season was advancing, the nights were getting cold, and there was no time to be lost in collecting the articles which we might require to preserve our lives through the winter, should no one, before it set in, pass that way to rescue us. Accordingly, we once more proceeded on our expedition. Sometimes I walked on my crutches, and at others Obed dragged me along on the sleigh. Certainly we were a notable example of the advantage of two people working in concert. Alone we must have perished; together, though injured so severely, we were able to live and comfort each other. We never had even the slightest dispute; and though surrounded by difficulties and dangers, and anxious about our friends, we were far from unhappy. I have often thought that if people who are living in the midst of all sorts luxuries and advantages would but follow the example of Obed Ragget and me, they would be very much the happier. Our first care was to get the kegs of powder and shot, for our stock was almost exhausted; and with those, and a bundle of blankets, we returned to our tent. To make a long story short, in the course of a week we had collected everything to be seen; and had settled ourselves very comfortably in our new home. We also surrounded our tent with stacks of firewood, which would serve as a barricade should we be attacked, at any time, by the red-skins. The exertion we went through, however, had fatigued us excessively, and opened our wounds afresh; so that for some days we were unable to quit the precincts of our tent. We had made ourselves beds by placing sticks close together on the ground, and covering them with leaves, over which we spread our blankets; and we agreed, as we lay stretched out on them, that we were much better off than many poor fellows who had not beds to lie on. I crawled out occasionally to light the fire, and to cook our food, while Obed had to go to the river to get water. To prevent the necessity of doing this so frequently, after we were both a little rested, we emptied our beef cask, and carried it down on the sleigh to the river, that we might fill it with water. This being done, we found that we had over-calculated our strength, and had once more to take to our beds. Several days more passed away, during which we scarcely moved. Obed, too, had become very silent. I saw that something was passing in his mind. After a time I asked him what it was. "Why, Dick," said he, "I'm thinking that though we seem to have a good supply of food, it won't last two hungry fellows all the winter, even if we were to put ourselves on half allowance. Now my arms will soon be well, and if I could make my way to one of the forts, I might bring you assistance. I'll take a supply of powder and shot, and keep my eyes open to look out for the red-skins. What do you say to it?" I told him that I did not like the idea of his running so great a risk for my sake. "Oh, don't fear for me," he replied; "it's right that it should be done, I'm certain of that, so I'll do it." I said nothing more. I knew when Obed thus expressed himself, he was in earnest. Several more days rolled slowly by. We slept a good deal in the daytime; perhaps under our circumstances it was the best thing we could do. One afternoon I had been asleep some time, and Obed was snoring away on the other side of the tent, when I opened my eyes, and then I saw, glaring at me through the doorway of the tent, the hideous countenance of a red-skin warrior, horribly covered with paint and decked with coloured feathers. While with his left hand he lifted up the curtain, in his right he grasped his tomahawk, which quivered with _his_ eagerness to take possession of our scalps. CHAPTER THREE. THE RED-SKIN PROVES TO BE A FRIEND--HE AND OBED LEAVE ME ALONE IN MY GLORY--I FORTIFY MYSELF FOR THE WINTER--VISITED BY WOLVES--A TERRIFIC STORM--THE WOLVES MY NIGHTLY VISITORS--I KILL SOME AND EAT THEN, BUT FIND THEM O'ER TEUCH--AN OBJECT MOVING IN THE DISTANCE--RED-SKINS AND ENEMIES--I PREPARE FOR THEIR RECEPTION--I KILL ONE OF THEM--A FEARFUL STRUGGLE--I ENDEAVOUR TO OBLITERATE THE SIGNS OF THIS VISIT--MY TERRIBLE SOLITUDE--MORE WOLVES AND MORE INDIANS--I PREPARE A BANQUET FOR THEM-- THE SUSPICIONS OF MY GUESTS AROUSED--THE UNPLEASANT TERMINATION TO OUR FEAST. Obed and I were not easily taken by surprise. Our hands instinctively clutched our rifles, and in a moment the breast of the Indian was covered by their muzzles. The eye of the red-skin did not quail--not a limb trembled. He gazed on us calmly, and his hand continued to hold aside the skin which formed the door of our tent, while he spoke a few words in a low, quiet voice. I did not understand them, but Obed did. "Don't fire, Dick," said Obed; "he is a Delaware, a friend to the white men. Come in, friend Delaware, take your seat by our fire, and tell us what has brought you here," continued Obed, addressing the Indian. The Delaware, letting drop the skin door, came in, and, stirring up the embers of our almost extinguished fire, sat himself down on a log of wood placed before it. He spoke a jargon which he thought was English, and which both Obed and I understood, but which I cannot now repeat, any more than I could convey an idea of the deep guttural tones of his voice. They seemed to come from the very depths of his inside. "I travel alone," said the red-skin. "I have a long journey to perform, to carry a letter I have undertaken to deliver at Fort Grattan. I was beginning to despair of accomplishing it, for my powder has been destroyed, and thus food was difficult to obtain. When I first saw the smoke of your fire, I thought it might come from the wigwams of some Pawnees, and my heart bounded when I saw from its appearance that your tent must belong to white men." From this hint given, Obed at once placed a supply of food before the Indian, who did ample justice to it. We then lighted our pipes, and all three sat smoking over the fire. The Delaware urgently advised us not to attempt to spend the approaching winter in that place, but to accompany him to the fort. I saw the soundness of his council, but assured him that I could not attempt to walk half a dozen miles, much less could I hope to make so long a journey. "Then it is better that one should come and bring back succour to the other than that both should perish," urged the Delaware. To this I agreed, and told Obed he must go. He had been ready to go alone when the risk was greater; but now he did not like to leave me. I met all his arguments, and telling him that if he wished to save my life, as well as his own, he must go. I ultimately made him consent to accompany the Indians. Before starting, they took every means to increase my comforts. They filled the water-casks, collected a quantity of herbs, and a supply of firewood, and shot as much game as I could consume while it was fresh. The Delaware lay down to sleep that night in our tent. I was convinced from his manner and mode of speaking that he was honest. I never saw a man sleep more soundly--not a limb stirred the whole night through; he looked more like a dead person, or a lay figure, than a being with life. Suddenly, as the morning light broke through the tent, he sprang up, and, shaking himself, in a moment was all energy and activity. "Ugh! I have not slept so soundly for many a night, and may not sleep so soundly for many a night more!" he exclaimed, in his peculiar dialect. We lighted our fire, boiled our kettle, and then all three sat down to a hearty breakfast. It was the last I should probably take in company for many a weary day; still I resolved not to be down-hearted, and especially to preserve a serene and contented countenance. The Delaware replenished his powder-flask, and taking a small supply of provisions, he and Obed bade me farewell. I could only wring the latter's hand; I don't think we exchanged a word at parting. I watched them as their figures grew less and less, and finally disappeared in the distance, and then indeed I felt very lonely. Perhaps there was not a human being within a hundred miles of me except the two who had just gone away; or should there be, he was very likely to prove an enemy. The idea of being thus alone in a wilderness was grand, but it was somewhat appalling and trying to the nerves. How long would Obed be absent? I thought to myself. Three weeks or a month at shortest. Could I manage to preserve existence for that length of time? I was still weak and ill, and could scarcely crawl about, so I spent the greater portion of my time on my couch. I placed my firearms close at hand around me, so that I might seize them in a moment. My fire-place was a hole in the middle of the tent, almost within reach of my skin-covered couch; there were no linen sheets to catch fire; my tub of water was near it, and my stock of provisions hung overhead. The sky I saw when I looked out had for some days been giving indications of a snow-storm. It came at last, and winter set in. The drifting snow quickly found its way through the minutest hole in the tent skins. To prevent this, I beat it down firmly all round the edge, stopping every crevice, and I raised a pile of logs before the door. "I don't think I should mind a fight with a dozen red-skins," I thought to myself; "but those wolves--I don't like them." The wolves I dreaded (and not without reason) found me out at last. The wind was roaring and whistling among the leafless trees, the snow was beating against my tent, and the night was as dark as Erebus, when a low, distant howl saluted my ears--heard even above the tempest. It continued increasing, till it broke into a wild chorus of hideous shrieks. I had no dread of ghostly visitors. I would rather have faced a whole array of the most monstrous hobgoblins, than have felt that I was surrounded, as I knew I was, by a herd of those brutes--the wolves. Till almost morning they continued their ugly concert; but they have a natural fear of man, and it is only when pressed by hunger that they will attack him. The ground, however, was now completely covered with snow, and I knew that they would find but little food. As I could not venture out, most of the day passed away in a half-unconscious dreamy state; part of it I slept. The next night I was awoke soon after dark by the wolfish chorus; it was much nearer than before. The sounds formed themselves into words to my disordered senses. "We'll eat you up; we'll eat you up ere long," they appeared to say. A third night came. The pack seemed increased in numbers, as if they had been collecting from every quarter. I fancied that I could hear their feet crackling on the crisp snow as they scampered round and round the tent. That night they brought their circle closer and closer, till I fully expected that they would commence their attack. Still they held off, and with the morning light took their departure. I watched the next night setting in with a nervous dread. As soon as darkness spread over the snow-covered face of the country, on the horrid pack came, scampering up from all quarters. Nearer and nearer approached the cries and howls. They commenced as before, scampering round the tent, and every time it seemed narrowing the circle. I knew that they must be closer to me. I stirred up my fire with a long stick I kept by me for that purpose, and I felt sure I saw the impression of their noses as, having smelled me out, they pressed them against the sides of the tent in their endeavours to find an entrance. I looked for the biggest bump, and took aim with my revolver. There was a loud snarl and cry, and then a shrieking and howling as the horrid pack scampered off into the distance. I had to get up and patch the hole made by my bullet, but I did not look out to see what had become of the wolf I had hit. I heard the animals howling away the livelong night in the distance. They did not, however, venture back again that night. I had now been ten days alone, as I knew by a small bag I kept, into which I every day, when I awoke, put a bean. I should completely have lost all count of time without some such contrivance. The cold was becoming very bitter; still my health was improving, and I felt myself stronger than I had been since I was wounded. The perfect rest had tended to cure me. I thought that I would get up and walk about, to recover more completely the use of my limbs. It was necessary to replenish my stock of water before the stream was completely frozen over, as snow-water is not considered wholesome for a continuance. I had plenty of clothes and skins, and I required them, for a piercing wind blew across the wild prairie, which, unless thus protected, I could not have faced. The exercise did me good. I now went out every day, constantly returning to feed my fire and to warm myself. I replenished my stock of water, and got a further supply of wood, that I might not run short of that necessary article. I was most concerned about my provisions, which were diminishing sadly. I therefore always took my rifle out with me, in the hopes of getting a shot at a stray buffalo or deer going south, but all had gone; none passed near me. The woods, too, were now deserted; not a bird was to be seen; even the snakes and the 'coons had hid themselves in their winter habitations. A dead silence reigned over the whole country during the day. I wish it had equally reigned during the night. Daylight and the smoke of my fire kept the wolves away, but night after night they came back and howled as before. I used at last to sleep some hours every day, and sit up all night with my pistols by my side, ready to shoot them. Now and then the grinning jaws of one of them would force its way in at the entrance of the tent. I seldom passed a night without killing one or two of these intruders. I every morning cut off what I thought would prove the tenderest portion, and dragged the rest of the carcass away. I would not, however, advise anybody to feed upon wolf's flesh if they can get anything better. More tough and nauseous morsels I never attempted to swallow; but it was necessary to economise the rest of my provisions. I one day went out as usual to exercise my limbs and look for a chance shot. There was a fine clear sky overhead, not a breath of air was stirring, and my blood was soon in circulation. I felt more up to anything than I had done for a long time. I reached the only elevation in the neighbourhood, near the bank of the creek, when, turning my glance round on every side, I saw in the far distance towards the north-west, two specks on the surface of the dazzling expanse of white spread out before me. I watched--the specks were moving, they might be deer, or they might be wolves, but from the way they progressed I had little doubt they were men. They came from a quarter I did not like, inhabited by Dacotahs and Pawnees--treacherous, thievish rascals, who will take the scalp of an old woman if they can catch her asleep, and make as much boast of it as if they had killed a warrior in open fight. Still it was necessary to be on my guard against them. I waited till I ascertained without doubt that they were human beings, and then hastened back to my tent, made up my fire so that the smoke might be seen coming out at the top, put a buffalo robe inside my bed to personate myself, and loaded myself with all my fire-arms. I then carefully closed the entrance of the tent, and stepped back over the marks I had previously made, till I reached the bank of the stream, where I found ample shelter behind a clump of thick bushes. I there lay between two heaps of snow with my rifle ready, perfectly concealed, but having a clear view of my tent and the country beyond. If the strangers should prove to be friends, as the precautions had given me but little trouble it was wiser to take them, but if enemies they were very necessary. When they were still a long way off, I made out that the strangers were red-skins. Their costume showed me that they belonged to the tribes I have mentioned, and I had no doubt that they had come with hostile intent. They stopped, and I saw by their gestures that they were forming their plan of proceeding. One was an oldish man, the other was a tall, active lad; either would give me considerable difficulty to manage if it came to a hand-to-hand struggle. They were armed only with bows and arrows and spears. They pointed to the smoke, and the elder signified that I was asleep within, or cooking my dinner. He then fixed an arrow in his bow, and by his gestures I suspected that he was saying he would shoot me through the tent covering before I had time to seize my fire-arms or see my enemies. "I'm much obliged to you for your good intentions, but I will try and frustrate them, my friends," said I to myself. The elder of the two red-skins now approached the tent with his bow drawn, ready to send an arrow into the inmate should he appear at the entrance; the other searched carefully round the tent, and examined the traces of my feet in the snow. He seemed apparently satisfied that the owner had gone to the stream and returned, and was within. The two now got still nearer to the tent, with their bows drawn; so cautiously did they tread that not a sound could be heard. They stopped, and eagerly shot several arrows through the covering, one after the other, as rapidly as they could fix them to the strings of their bows. "And so you think that you have killed your prey," said I to myself; but at the same time a sickening sensation came over my heart. I had never shot at a human being with the intention of taking away life; I must do so now or become the victim myself. The savages listened. Of course no sound from within reached their ears. The elder stooped forward to draw aside the curtain to look in, while the other stood ready with his spear to transfix the person who they might expect would attempt to spring out if he had not been killed. Now I thought I must fire. I took aim at the older Indian. In doing so the barrel of my rifle touched a twig. The younger savage in a moment detected the sound; he turned round full on me. His quick eye caught sight of my rifle as I instantly brought it to bear on him. He uttered an exclamation of astonishment. It was his last. I fired, and he fell with his face forward. His companion sprang up, and was about to rush towards me, but I pulled the trigger of my second barrel, and he too fell writhing in agony on the snow. Oh! how wretched I felt at what stern necessity had compelled me to do. How must Cain have felt when he had killed his brother? I rushed up to my tent. The younger savage was quite dead: the elder glared at me fiercely. Though badly wounded, still he might live. I leaned over him, and made signs that I would take him into my tent and try and heal him. A gleam of satisfaction came over his countenance--I thought it was from gratitude at my mercy. I was preparing to drag him into the tent, and to place him on my own couch. I felt that I was doing what was right. I should gain a companion in my solitude, perhaps make a friend, who would enable me to escape from my perilous position. His eye followed me as I moved about making the necessary preparations. He beckoned me to come and lift him up. I was putting my arm behind him, when his right hand drew a long knife with a flash from his belt, and before I could spring back he had struck twice with all his force at my breast, wounding me severely. It was not his fault that he did not pierce me to the heart. So firm a grasp did his other hand retain of my collar that I could not escape him. I had my own hunting-knife beneath my buffalo robe, my fingers clutched it, and, as catching his right arm I pressed it to the ground, I struck two or three blows with all my might at his throat and chest; I felt his fingers relaxing; his arm fell back--he too was dead. I would rather not dwell on that awful moment. The horrors of my solitude were increased ten-fold. Still. I was obliged to rouse myself to action. I knew not how many of the tribe to which the dead men belonged might be in the neighbourhood. That evening, however, I could do nothing. Night was coming on, and the blood which trickled down my breast reminded me that I must attend to my own wounds. If my former nights had been full of horrors, this was far more dreadful. The wolves howled louder than ever, and came round me in great numbers, and though I was continually firing my pistols out into the darkness, I could scarcely keep them at bay. I will not dwell on that dreadful time. The morning did come at last. The first thing I did was to drag the bodies of the savages down to the river, and to force them through a hole in the ice whence I had been accustomed to draw water. The current quickly carried them down into far-off regions. Then I made a fire over the spot where their blood had been spilt, and, happily, during the day a heavy fall of snow coming on obliterated all the remaining traces of their fatal visit to my tent. Still for many a day I could not drive the picture of their hideous countenances out of my head, as they lay stark and stiff on the ground, killed by my hand-- yet never was homicide more justifiable. I had, as I believed, got rid of all the traces of the savages outside the tent. When I found the arrows sticking inside it in my bed, it did not occur to me that it would be equally necessary to get rid of them. The whim seized me of keeping them as a memorial of my escape. Instead, however, of concealing them under the bed, I arranged them in the form of a star on the tent covering just above my head, and every time I looked at them I felt grateful that they were not sticking in my body. I have a dislike to dwell on the horrible sensations which came over me during those long winter nights and scarcely less dreary days. Had I possessed any books they would have served me as companions, and helped me to pass the time; but I had none. My own thoughts and feelings were my only associates, and they often were far from pleasant ones. I had a great temptation also, which, had I given way to it, would have made matters worse. Among the articles which had fallen from the wagon, and which Obed and I afterwards picked up, was a small cask of brandy. We were both of us very abstemious, or we should not have been the strong, hearty fellows we were. The cask, therefore, had not even been broached. The tempter, however, now came suggesting to me that I might soon forget all my miseries if I would but occasionally take a taste of the fire-water. I resisted him, however. I knew that if I once began I might go on, and not know when to stop. I was sure that I was better and stronger without liquor of any sort, so I let the cask remain as it was in a corner of the tent. I had a pipe and a small quantity of tobacco, which I mixed with sumach leaves and willow bark to make it go further. Smoking this was my greatest animal pleasure. My usual dinner, eked out with fried wolf's flesh, indeed required a smoke to make it digest properly. After this adventure with the Indians, I found my nerves much shaken. I stayed in bed for a couple of days, but whenever I dropped asleep I found myself acting the whole scene over and over again. At night I had, as usual, to sit up, wrapped in my buffalo robes, with my feet at the fire, and my pistols in my hands, keeping the wolves at bay. Oh, how I wished they would cease their horrid serenade. The old year passed away, and the new year began, but there was no change in my condition. I was growing seriously alarmed about Obed. He ought to have been back by this time, I thought. I was afraid some accident might have befallen him, for I was very certain that he would not have deserted me. By degrees I recovered my composure, and took my exercise with my rifle in my hand as usual. My tent also, by being almost covered up with snow, had become a very warm and comparatively comfortable habitation, as I could always keep up a good fire within it. When I returned from my walks I had a cup of warm tea ready, which tended to keep up the circulation which the exercise had established. Thus I soon got into very good health again. My chief occupation when out was looking for game. What was my delight one morning to see a flight of prairie-hens sitting on some boughs not far from my tent. I stopped like a pointer. I knew that the slightest movement might scare them away; and lifting my rifle to my shoulder, I selected a fine cock. I fired, and over he tumbled. I ran forward, and securing him to my belt, I marked where the others settled, and followed them up. Thus I went on. I had killed three, I think, which would prove a most satisfactory addition to my larder. When I looked about me I found that I had got a long way from my tent. I walked briskly back. When I got to the top of the bank near the river, what was my dismay, on looking northward, to see several persons approaching my tent! They could not have failed to have discovered me. I watched them with intense interest. They were red-skins--Dacotahs probably; I could not possibly avoid encountering them. I felt that my only prospect of safety was to put a bold face on the matter, and go and meet them frankly. Hurrying to my tent, I loaded myself with all my fire-arms, resolving to sell my life dearly, and then walked forward towards them. I counted the strangers. There were ten of them, all painted and dressed for war; and a very ferocious set they looked. They seemed very much astonished and puzzled at seeing me. In an instant they all had their arrows fixed in their bows, and, forming a line, they thus advanced slowly and cautiously, keeping an eye on the tent, and evidently expecting to see a number of people emerge from it. Their demonstrations were so hostile that I now began to repent that I had not made an attempt to defend myself; at the same time I felt that a contest with ten cunning savages would have been a very hopeless one. Flight, too, over the snow, with little knowledge of the country, was not to be thought of. As the savages advanced I retreated, resolving to make a stand at my tent door. At the same time I tried to show by signs that I could, if I liked, kill two or three of them, but that I was ready for peace if they were. At last I lowered my rifle from my shoulder, and they unstrung their bows and advanced with outstretched hands towards me. Knowing their treacherous character, however, of course I could not depend on them. I bethought me that the best way to win their friendship was to offer them food, as is practised in civilised communities with some success; so I showed them the birds I had just killed, and intimated that I was going to dress them for their entertainment. I produced several other dainties, and my dried wolf's flesh. I also brought out some of my mixed tobacco, though it was with intense reluctance I parted with it. They expressed their satisfaction by several loud grunts, and then squatted round in a circle outside the door of my tent. I made up my fire, and soon had the prairie-hens and several pieces of meat roasting on sticks before it, and a savoury stew cooking in my pot. I trusted that I might be able to replenish my scanty stock of provisions, but I knew, that, had I not given them with a good grace, my guests would probably have taken them by force. I had begun to serve the banquet, at which the red-skins were smacking their lips, and they were casting approving and kindly glances at me, when I remembered my cask of brandy. I knew that this would completely cement our friendship, but I intended to give them only a little at a time to run no risk of intoxicating them. I retired, therefore, to the back of the tent for the purpose of drawing off a little in a bottle. While I was thus employed, one of them put his head into the tent to see what I was about. As he did so, his eye fell on the star of arrows over the head of my couch. A loud exclamation made me turn round. I saw where his glance was directed. My folly and want of forethought in a moment flashed across my mind. All was lost, I perceived. The savages sprang up, and seizing me, pointed to the arrows. I had nothing to say. Perhaps the expression of my countenance betrayed me. Several held me tight while the others spoke. Though I did not understand a word of their language, I could not fail to comprehend the tenor of their speeches. Their action, the intonation of their voices, their angry glances, showed it. "Our friends came here, and this man killed them. We came to look for them, and by the same arts with which he destroyed them he had endeavoured to destroy us. There are the proofs of his guilt. How else did he become possessed of those arrows?" Such, I have no doubt, is a very concise abridgment of their harangues. They continued speaking for an hour or more, till they worked each other up into a perfect fury. Their eyes gleamed at me with malignant hatred. They foamed at the mouth; they gnashed their teeth at me. I thought they would have torn me limb from limb; but they were reserving me for a far more refined system of torture. Having condemned me to death, they lashed my hands behind me, and my feet together, and placed me in a sitting position on my bed, there to await my doom, while they all crouched down round the fire, where, stern and grim, they finished the repast I had prepared for them in horrible silence. CHAPTER FOUR. THE INDIANS PROPOSE TO KILL ME--I AM BOUND READY FOR THE TORTURE--MY GUESTS FIND THE FIRE-WATER, AND I FIND THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING ABSTAINED FROM IT--A FEARFUL CONFERENCE--A TOMAHAWK SENT AT MY HEAD--THE SPIRITS TAKE EFFECT--I WORK MY LIMBS FREE--SHALL I KILL MY ENEMIES?--I FLY--A RUN FOR LIFE--MY TERRIBLE JOURNEY--I SINK EXHAUSTED--A FRIENDLY INDIAN-- A KIND RECEPTION--I HAVE CAUSE TO REJOICE THAT I DID NOT REDDEN MY HANDS WITH BLOOD. The Indians sat round the fire, devouring with dreadful composure the remainder of my scanty stock of provisions. I could not withdraw my eyes from them. I felt as if I was in a horrid dream, and yet I was too certain of the reality of what had occurred to doubt it. "Even were they to spare my life, I must starve," I thought to myself, "so it matters little what they do to me." They ate up all their own food and all mine, till nothing remained. The Red man, although he can go a long time without food, is a complete glutton when he gets a quantity, and is utterly regardless of what may be his future exigencies. When they had eaten up all the food exposed to view, they began to hunt about the tent for more. I watched them anxiously, for I was afraid that they would get hold of the gunpowder, and still more did I dread their finding the brandy. The chief, a villainous-looking old warrior, was the most active in the search. He went round and round the tent, poking his fingers into every package, and sniffing up with his nose, till at last his keen scent enabled him to discover the existence of the spirit cask, which I had already broached. With a grunt of satisfaction, in which the whole party joined, he dragged it forward, and made signs to his followers that all should share in the much-prized fire-water. I trembled at what would be the consequences. "They would have treated me badly enough while they were sober, but with all their evil passions inflamed by liquor, they will be perfect demons," I thought to myself. "How wrong I was not to have let the dangerous spirit run out long ago." How brightly their eyes glared, how eagerly they pressed forward to get a share of the coveted fire-water, which the old chief was serving out. I observed that he took care to help himself more largely than he did anybody else. Scarcely had they drunk off what was first distributed to them than they put forward their leathern drinking-cups to ask for more. The old chief having helped himself, gave some to his followers. Then their eyes began to glitter; the calm, sedate bearing of the Indian was thrown off; they talked rapidly and vehemently, and laughed loudly, and their fingers began to play with the handles of their tomahawks and scalping-knives in a way that made my blood run cold. The red-skins, when they take a captive for whom for any reason they have an especial hatred, generally wait two or three days, that they may have the satisfaction of tormenting him before they commence actually to torture him to death. As I watched them, however, I felt that any moment they might spring up and begin to torture me. It is difficult to describe the horrible ingenuity they exhibit in tormenting their victims. Talk of the virtues of the savage--I do not believe in them. He may have some good qualities, but he is generally the cruel, remorseless monster sin has made him. Civilisation has its vices--I know that full well--and bad enough they are, but they are mild compared to those of the true unadulterated savage, who prides himself on his art in making his victims writhe under his tortures, and kills merely that he may boast of the number of those he has slaughtered, and may exhibit their scalps as trophies of his victories. It is a convincing proof to me that the same spirit of evil, influenced by the most intense hatred to the human race, is going continually about to incite men to crime. The Dyak of Borneo, the Fijian of the Pacific, and the red savage of North America, are much alike; and identically the same change is wrought in all when the light of truth is brought among them, and the Christian's faith sheds its softening influence over their hearts. Many such ideas as those I have alluded to passed through my mind as I sat, unable to move, watching the proceedings of the savages, and I felt with a pang of intense remorse how utterly I had neglected doing anything towards sending the gospel of salvation in which I believed and thought I trusted, to them or any other of the heathen nations of the world. The red-skins went on talking fast and furiously; then they put out their hands, and called on the old chief to serve them out further draughts of their loved fire-water. He dared not deny them. He helped himself, and his eyes began to roll round and round with a frightful glare, and every now and then they turned upon me, and I thought my last moment had come; but one of his companions, in a tone which had lost all respect for him, called off his attention for a moment, and I had a reprieve. It was but for a few minutes. I became once more the subject of conversation. Again the cups were filled and quaffed. I sat as motionless as a statue. A sign of fear, or even of consciousness, would only tend to enrage my captors. The countenance of the old chief grew more terrific. He grasped his deadly tomahawk, and, drawing it from his belt, lifted his arm to hurl it at my head. I expected that instant to feel the horrible crash as the sharp weapon entered my skull. I, notwithstanding, fixed my eye steadily on him. He bent back his arm; the tomahawk flew across the tent, but the spirits he had swallowed had unnerved his limbs and confused his sight, and, unconscious apparently of what he had done, he rolled over on his side. His companions were too far gone to take notice of his state. They rather seemed to rejoice at it, that now they could help themselves to as much liquor as was to be got. As the savages went on drinking, and I saw the condition to which they were reducing themselves, hope once more revived in my breast. I might work my way out of the leather thongs which bound me, and get clear of my captors; but then where was I to go? I was again tolerably strong, and I could run some miles, but in what direction should I bend my steps? I could scrape together a little food from that left by the Indians; but had I any chance of reaching any fort or settlement in the depth of winter? I should, too probably, be frozen to death, or be devoured by wolves, or be scalped by hostile Indians. The prospect was not cheering. Still all risks were far preferable to being tormented to death by my present captors. I was beginning to indulge in a prospect of escaping, remote though it might be, when two more of the Indians all of a sudden took it into their heads to hurl their hatchets at me. It was the last effort of expiring intelligence, and they both fell back overpowered by liquor. In a very short time, one by one, the rest of their companions yielded to its influences, and the whole band of Indians lay perfectly drunk and helpless at my feet. No time was to be lost; how long they might continue in that state I could not tell. At all events it was important to get a long start of them. I found that I might in time gnaw away the thongs which bound my wrists. I set to work; they were very tough, but by perseverance I got through one, and then the other, and my hands were free. Still I had a tough thong round my neck, secured to one of the posts of the bed, and another round my ankles fastened to another below me. If I attempted to stoop down, I tightened the thong round my neck, nor could I draw my feet up to meet my hands. The savages had taken my own knife from me. I struggled, and pulled, and tugged, to get my feet clear, till I almost cut through my ankles to the bone. At last I thought of the tomahawks the savages had thrown at me. I leaned back and felt about behind me. To my great joy my fingers clutched the handle of one, the blade of which was sticking deep into the frame of the bed. I dragged it out, and very soon cut through the thong round my neck. To clear my feet was a work of less trouble: I was free. I can scarcely describe my sensations as I stood among my now helpless enemies. My first thought was to make preparations for my flight. I collected all the food of every description and packed it away in a bag, which I fastened round my waist. I took my rifle and filled my powder-flask, with a further supply in a leathern case which had been Obed's, and all the percussion-caps, and as much shot as I could carry. I took the precaution also of collecting all the bows and arrows, and other weapons, of the Indians, and of piling them upon the fire, where they were quickly consumed. Then I threw over my shoulder my buffalo-skin coat, and stood prepared for flight. "Whither shall I fly? How can I escape from my swift-heeled enemies with all this weight of things to carry? Need I fly?" A dreadful thought came into my head. "They intended to kill me. There they lie utterly helpless. A few well-directed blows from one of their own tomahawks which they hurled at my head, and not one of them can harm me more. I may dispose of them as I disposed of their two brethren who tried to kill me. I have a right to do so. Surely I have a right to destroy them." If I did not say, I thought all these things. Whence did the suggestion come? "Oh, may I be guided to do what is right," I mentally ejaculated. I gazed at the helpless beings scattered around. "They are human. `Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against us.' What does that mean?" I asked myself. "Oh, no, I dare not injure them. Never mind what the rough backwoodsman would say to my conduct. I am sure it is braver to refrain than to kill. Certainly, as a Christian, I cannot kill them--I dare not. To His guidance and protection who formed the world and all living creatures, I commit myself." With these words, not daring to look behind me, I rushed from the tent. I took a westerly course, for I thought that I should more likely fall in with Obed in that direction, should he have reached a fort in safety, and succeeded in obtaining help to come and rescue me. On I went as fast as I could move, but my limbs were stiff, and the weight I carried was considerable. I tried to turn my thoughts from the savages, but I could not help calculating how long they might continue in their state of stupor. There was still some brandy left in the cask; when they recovered their senses, rather than pursue me they might be tempted to drink again. It was a question which was the strongest passion, whether the love of drink or the desire for revenge would prevail. On I went, the snow was now tolerably hard, so I made pretty good progress, yet the red-skins would go twice as fast when once they began to pursue me. I went a mile before I stopped. Then, on reaching an elevation, whence I could have a clear view over the white glittering plain, I looked back at the spot where I had spent so many days and nights of pain and suffering, and where also I owned that I had been most mercifully preserved from so many dangers. The tent stood where it had been for many months, the smoke was curling out of the top into the calm sky, and all around looked so unchanged that I could scarcely persuade myself that in the interior was collected a band of malignant foes, who would rejoice in my destruction. I looked but a few seconds, and then away I went on my course. I walked on, sometimes breaking into a run where the snow was harder and would allow it, till sunset, and then the stars came out brightly in the firmament of heaven, and I was able to steer my course with greater certainty even than in the daytime. I could not think very much; but I did feel thankful that I had not yielded to the temptation of drinking the spirits myself, when I had felt low and almost hopeless. Had I done so, I should have destroyed the very means presented for my deliverance. I got over the plain with tolerable ease, for the sun had at times melted the snow, which when it froze again had become hard and rough. As I ran on, however, I was trying to devise some plan by which the Indians might be turned off my track. To obliterate it, however, was hopeless, unless a heavy fall of snow should come on, and even then the cunning rascals, by scraping away the snow at intervals, were very likely to find me out. It was nearly midnight, I calculated, when I felt that I must stop to rest and take some food. I sat down on what I took to be a mound of earth covered with snow. I ate a handful of rice and a little biscuit, and chewed a piece of wolf's flesh, and felt somewhat revived. I should have liked to have gone to sleep, but I dared not, even for a moment. It would have been, had I given way to the feeling, the sleep of death. I scarcely know why, but as I sat on the heap I struck the butt-end of my rifle into the snow; it gave way. I found there was something beneath it. With eager haste, for I remembered that every moment was precious, I threw off the snow. The body of a man lay beneath. A dreadful sensation came over me. It must be that of Obed, slaughtered, perhaps, on his way to succour me; the idea almost overcame me; I resisted, however, the feeling of despair, and roused myself up. I threw off more of the snow; I could see, by the faint light of the moon, that little more than a skeleton remained; the dress, however, was there; it was that of a backwoodsman. With horrible eagerness, yet with loathing, I examined the tattered clothes. I felt sure that they where those Obed had worn. In my search my hand struck against something; I took it up, it was an old silver watch; such a one Obed had not got, but often had I seen it in the hands of his brother Joab. Poor Joab, then, had been killed on the first attack of the red-skins. What had become of the rest of the party? I dreaded lest I should find their remains as I had that of Joab. Taking the watch, I secured it about me to restore to his family should I ever meet them. I hunted about for his rifle; it was nowhere to be found. It had been carried off, I concluded, by the Indians. With a heavy heart I ran on, after my brief rest, expecting every instant to come on more of the remains of my old friends, but I saw no indications of them, and there was no time to carry on the search. I went on after this for some time without halting even for a moment. I had now been several hours on foot. Had I enjoyed my usual strength, such as I possessed before being wounded, I should have made light of the fatigue. I was, however, again obliged to sit down. I reckoned on having a long start of the red-skins. I hoped to retain my strength so as to redouble my speed when I thought they would be pressing after me. I had deprived them of their arms, and they had no food; so that, could I contrive to keep beyond their reach for two or three days, they must be delayed to obtain it, if they attempted to follow me. Unless also their lodges were in the neighbourhood, and they could go and get arms, I possessed another very great advantage over them. Of course if pursued I would not hesitate for a moment about shooting them down. These ideas occurred to me as I ran on, and I began to feel that my case was not so hopeless as I at first considered it. My great dread was of the wolves. As yet I had not heard any of those cries which make night hideous in the desert regions; but I knew that if a pack once scented me out and gave chase, I should have little chance of escaping them, unless I could find a tree, up which I might climb out of their way. I ran on all night, keeping nearly due west, and daylight found me pursuing my way with unflagging speed. At last I struck what I took to be a branch of the Nebraska river. A wood was not far-off on the other side. "I'll try if a white man cannot manage to deceive the acuteness even of a red-skin," I thought to myself. The wind had blown the snow completely off the ice on the river. I crossed the river and made towards the wood. I stirred up the snow in a way which I knew would puzzle the Indians, and then treading backwards on my footmarks, I once more reached the river. Then away I went up the stream over the smooth ice as hard as I could run. Now and then I tumbled down, but I quickly picked myself up again, and was off as fast as ever. When a man believes that a body of red-skins or a pack of wolves are at his heels, he is likely to run pretty fast. I sat down once for breakfast for five minutes, and once at noon for dinner of raw rice and wolves' ribs, and away I went again. At last I found that the river was making so many bends that it would be necessary to land, which I did on the north shore. Night came on, but I did not relax my speed; the stars came out and guided me as before. I was beginning, however, to feel much distressed. I bore up as well as I could, but I fancied that I could not continue my course much beyond the morning, even if I could go through the night. I came to some bushes growing above the snow; they would afford me shelter from the wind, and I might, I thought, venture to rest for half an hour or so. I should have wished to light a fire, but I dared not, lest the smoke might betray me. I sat down and began searching in my bag for some food, when a distant and faint cry struck my ear. I listened; again I heard it. I knew too well what it was. The cry of a pack of wolves. Could they have gained scent of me and be following in my rack? The bare thought of such a thing made me start up, and again set forth at full speed. For what I knew to the contrary, I had both wolves and Indians following me. The wolves were gaining on me, that was certain. I could distinguish the yelps and barks through the still midnight. They might yet be some way off. I tried to pierce through the gloom ahead in the hopes of seeing some clump of trees rising out of the snowy plain in which I might take shelter. On I ran. It, at all events, would not do to stay where I was. The sound of those horrid yelps, if anything had been required to make me exert myself would have added fleetness to my feet. I longed for day; I thought they would be less likely to attack me. For a whole hour I ran on, I believe. It seemed more like three or four with those dreadful sounds ringing in my ears. I thought they were coming nearer and nearer. At last I saw some object rising up before me in the darkness. It might be a distant hill, or it might be the outline of the wished-for wood. "But if I succeed in reaching it and climbing a tree, will not the delay enable the Indians to overtake me?" I thought. "I will keep outside the wood till the near approach of the brutes compels me to climb a tree to get out of their way." I kept to this resolution. It proved to be a wood that I had seen. I skirted it as I continued my course. All the time I kept listening with a feeling of horror to the hideous chorus of the wolves. Suddenly I was conscious that the sounds were growing fainter. In another twenty minutes I was certain of it. They were in pursuit of some wild beast or other, perhaps of some unfortunate Indian traversing the prairie. How thankful I felt when the sounds altogether ceased. This circumstance gave me fresh courage. I pursued my course steadily onward. I stopped even five minutes to rest and take a little food. The sun rose, still I was going on, but I began to feel that nature would not hold out much longer. I felt a dizziness in my eyes, and my knees began to tremble, and I drew my breath with difficulty. I was again in a vast plain. The sun was behind me; I followed my own shadow. Sometimes I could distinguish nothing before me, then the giddiness went away. Suddenly, as I looked up, I saw before me eight or ten figures moving in a line across my path. Could they be the Pawnees who had lost my track, and were thus making a circuit in the expectation of coming on it? If they were, I would defend myself to the last. I felt for my rifle, and tried to get it ready to fire, but I had miscalculated my strength. The agitation was too much for me; I stumbled blindly forward a few paces, and then sank down helplessly in the snow. I tried to rise--to move--I could not, so I gave myself up for lost, and prepared for death. I was not afraid, I was not unhappy; indeed, I had no very acute feelings whatever, and very soon lost all consciousness. I was aroused by a human voice. "Why, stranger, where have you dropped from? You seem to be in a sad plight!" I looked up to discover whence the voice came, and there, instead of a white face, as I expected, I saw a tall Indian, as he seemed by his dress, though perhaps he was rather fairer than his people usually are, bending over me. I could not reply, but, with a sort of hysterical laugh, I made signs that I had come from the eastward, and that some one was in pursuit of me. "Well, never mind talking now; we must first set you on your feet again," he said in a kind voice. "My companions will be here presently. You want food and rest, and then you can tell us what has happened." "Food, food," I whispered. "Yes, poor fellow, you shall have it," he answered, in a tone of commiseration, taking from his wallet some pemmican, which I ate with a keen relish. The food revived me, and I felt much better by the time my new friend's companions came up. They stood round me while I continued eating, with looks of pity and wonder on their expressive countenances. I saw by their dress and appearance that they were Ottoes, a tribe dwelling to the south of the Nebraska, and always friendly to the whites. My friend was the only one who could speak English, which he did perfectly. He saw me examining his countenance. "I am half an Englishman," he observed. "I am called John Pipestick. My father came from Kent, in the old country, I have often heard him say; the garden of England he called it. A poor place for buffaloes and wild turkeys, I should think, so it would not suit me. He sometimes talked of going to have a look at the hop fields and a taste of its ale, but he was killed by the Pawnees, who carried of his scalp. I've not left him unavenged, though. My mother was a red-skin, and belonged to this tribe, and I have no wish to quit them. But come, friend, you have done eating, and a man who can eat is not in a very bad way. Lean on us, and we will take you to our tents. They are not more than three miles off." Supported in the arms of the kind Ottoes, I walked along with tolerable ease. They were very fine fellows. One was fully six feet six inches in height, and proportionably strong limbed. The rest were not much his inferiors. John Pipestick was shorter, but very strong. As I walked along I found my tongue loosed, and I gave a succinct account of what had occurred. John interpreted. The Indians pricked up their ears, and had an animated discussion among themselves. We reached at length what is called a cedar swamp in the States. The cedar trees form a dense, tangled thicket, perfectly impervious to the wind, and in winter, when the moist ground is frozen hard below, such a locality is perfectly healthy. Woe betide the unfortunate wretch who has to take up his quarters within one in the summer time, when mosquitoes and rattlesnakes abound. He will wish himself well out of it before the morning. Drawing aside a few boughs, the Ottoes led the way by a narrow path towards the centre of the thicket, and we soon found ourselves in an open space, in which were pitched a couple of tents. Several women and three or four men came out to greet us, and warmly shook my hands. I felt truly, as John Pipestick had called me, a brother among them. They placed me in a tent before a fire, and gave me warm food, and chafed my limbs, and then covered me up with a buffalo robe. I quickly fell asleep, and never have I slept so soundly in my life, or with a sense of more perfect security. At last I awoke; I had not stirred for fourteen hours. It was night, but the Indians were sitting up round the fire cleaning their arms. They seemed highly pleased when I awoke. "We have been waiting for you to start on an expedition," exclaimed John Pipestick. "How do you feel? Are you able, think you, to walk?" I got up and stretched my limbs. They felt a little stiff, and pained me slightly, but I thought, I said, that exercise would take that off. "No fear then," said John; "take some food. Our people are anxious to start. I'll tell you all about it as we go along." I lost no time in putting on my moccasins and in getting ready for a start, after I had partaken of some pemmican and a warm broth, of which a wild turkey formed the chief ingredient. I found a party of ten Indians besides Pipestick, all armed with rifles, besides hatchets and knives, and some had likewise bows and quivers of arrows at their backs. In their buffalo-skin coats they looked very like a troop of bears. The remainder of the party were preparing to follow with a light wagon, in which they carried their tents and provisions, and four shaggy little ponies to drag it. I saw that we were taking an easterly course. I asked where we were going. "To your tent," was the answer. "But the Pawnees will have gone," I remarked. "No fear of that while any liquor remains," he observed. I knew that I might as well have spoken to the winds as have attempted to dissuade my wild friends from attacking their enemies. Still I tried to explain my view of the case. John seemed much struck by what I said. He observed that he had never seen it in that light before. He had been taught to do good to your friends, but to injure your enemies to the utmost of your power. He had no notion that such was not the Christian's creed. His father was a Christian; so was he--not that he knew much about religion. That was all very well for people who lived in towns. I tried to show him that all men had souls; that one Saviour died for all; that all would have to stand before the judgment-seat of God; and that therefore religious faith and religious practice were essential for all. Such was one of the many subjects of our conversation which beguiled our way. My long solitude had made me reflect and remember many things I had before forgotten, and my late merciful escape had not been without its effects in turning my heart to my Maker. I wish that I could say that, like the compass, it has ever since kept true to the pole. I did not feel, however, that I was making very deep impression on my auditors. We pushed on, not as fast as I had come, but still at a very rapid rate; and if I at all showed signs of flagging, two of the huge Indians would lift me up by the shoulders and help me along, scarcely allowing my feet to touch the ground. We camped in a wood for a short time, making an arbour with fir branches to keep off the cold, and then on we went. My heart beat quick as, soon after daylight, we approached the height whence we could look down, I knew, on my tent. We reached the spot--the one where I had been standing when I saw the Pawnees coming to destroy me. I looked eagerly for the tent. It was no longer there, nor was there a sign of living beings near. Two scouts went down to examine all the places of concealment near. After a time they signed to us to approach. We hurried down. There lay the remains of the tent, almost burned to pieces, and among a confused mass of cinders and various articles which the tent had contained, lay scattered about the blackened and mangled remains of my late captors. "Verily let not man attempt to avenge himself," I repeated. "Here is a proof of those solemn words, `Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.'" CHAPTER FIVE. I HAVE CAUSE TO REJOICE THAT I DID NOT AVENGE MYSELF--MY GREAT MEDICINE WORK--I RISE IN THE ESTIMATION OF MY NEW FRIENDS--AN INDIAN ENCAMPMENT-- AM OFFERED A WIFE, BUT COMPELLED TO DECLINE THE HONOUR--JOHN PIPESTICK-- SURROUNDED BY ENEMIES--A FIERCE ATTACK--WE FIGHT WITH DESPERATION, AND RESOLVE TO DIE LIKE BRAVE MEN. The disappointment of my Ottoe friends was very considerable when they found all their enemies killed, and not even a scalp remaining to carry off as a trophy; besides which, a large portion of the property contained in the tent had been destroyed. There was still enough, however, to be looked upon as a valuable prize by the red-skins, and I accordingly begged them to appropriate it. This they, without any show of reluctance, did, and immediately set to work to hollow out a large hole under the snow where they might bury it. How thankful I felt that my hand had refrained from slaughtering those poor wretches when they lay in my power. As I considered the subject, I had no doubt of the cause of the catastrophe. After the savages had consumed the cask of spirits they had fallen on the barrel of gunpowder, probably hoping that it might contain more of their favourite fire-water. They were very likely smoking at the time, and perhaps all bending round the cask in their eagerness to get some of its contents. A spark from one of their pipes must in an instant have finished their business. I cannot say that I indulged in any sentimental grief at what had occurred. It was vexatious to lose so many things which might have been of use, but the most serious loss was that of the gunpowder. Fortunately, however, I had a good supply, which would last for some time. I never was addicted to burning gunpowder uselessly. The warriors proposed to await the arrival of the rest of the party where we were, but I entreated them to return to meet their friends. I pointed out to them that perhaps other bands of Pawnees might be moving about--probably, as I found was the case, suffering from hunger; and that first their wives and those with them, and then we ourselves, might be overpowered. John Pipestick translated what I said, and finally they were persuaded to follow my advice. They laughed very much when I proposed to bury the remains of the dead men, and replied that it would be just as well to let the wolves perform that office, which in the course of another night they certainly would do. They found quite enough labour, indeed, in concealing the remains of my property. After they had dug the hole they deposited all the articles within, and then built up a pile of logs over it, which even an inquisitive bear would have had some difficulty in pulling to pieces. My chief anxiety was now about Obed. I got the Ottoes to describe to me exactly the position of their village, about a hundred miles to the south-east of where we then were. Then I took one of the sticks which had served me for a crutch, and making a split in one end, I stuck the other deep into the ground. On a leaf which I tore from my pocket-book, I wrote a brief account of what had occurred and where I was going, and putting it into the cleft of the stick, bound the whole securely up. The Ottoes looked on with intense wonder at my proceedings, till John told them I was performing a great medicine work, which satisfied them. Having thus done my best to enable Obed to join me, I set off with my friends to return to their camp. I paused again for an instant when I reached the summit of the hill, to take what I hoped might be a farewell look at the place which had been the scene of so much suffering to me, and lately that of so dreadful a catastrophe. A small black patch on the dazzling white plain alone was perceptible to mark the spot. I turned from the contemplation of the melancholy scene, and hastened after my friends. I found them moving very leisurely along. I urged John to persuade them to go faster. I could not cast from my mind the notion that more parties of Pawnees, Dacotahs, or other hostile tribes might be about, driven out by hunger to forage in the neighbourhood, and were very likely to attack them. I had, therefore, what I might have called a presentiment that my friends were in danger. I am not generally influenced much by such sensations. Certainly I was more liable to be so at the present moment than at any other. I do not deny the existence of such an influence, but still I cannot help thinking that it is caused by our reason, which tells us that such a thing is likely to happen. Sometimes it does happen, but often probably we find that we are mistaken. My red friends had an idea that the stick I had placed in the ground had something to do with the matter, and that I was positively informed of what was about to occur, so hurried on faster than I found agreeable. My feet had become very sore from my previous exercise, and whenever we came to soft places they sunk into the snow, the thick cake of ice above cutting my ankles almost to the bone. Sometimes I felt that I must stop, but I was anxious to help my new friends, and I knew that it would never do even to appear to flag on such an occasion. I had won their good opinion by the powers of endurance I had hitherto exhibited. They especially admired me for killing the two Pawnees, and for escaping from their comrades; though they could not understand why I had not destroyed the whole gang when I had the power of doing so, and of adorning my belt with their scalps. I saw, therefore, that it would be very disadvantageous to me to run any risk of being lowered in their estimation. John Pipestick and one of the Indians remained with me, while the others went on faster ahead; but, exerting myself to the utmost, we pushed on to overtake them. Besides the idea which I had originated that their friends might be attacked, hunger induced them to move at a rapid rate; for they had brought but a scanty supply of provisions with them, and they had no means of cooking the rice found in the tent. We were passing a wood when I stopped my companions, for my eye had fallen on several prairie-fowls sitting on the boughs of one of the outer trees a little way off. "We should have no chance of hitting at this distance," said John Pipestick. "Stay then, I will try what my rifle can do," I answered; and creeping carefully up till I got them within easy range, I settled in my mind which bird I should fire at with my first, and which with my second barrel. I let fly; down tumbled a bird, and the next barrel was even more fortunate than the first, for two birds were brought to the ground. Both my companions warmly expressed their delight. I had established my fame as a first-rate shot, and had, moreover, provided the whole party with a meal. Knowing how welcome we should be, my companions helping me along, we pushed on, and at length overtook our friends, preparing to camp for half an hour or so in the thicket, that they might be the better able afterwards to pursue their course. I need not say that the game I brought was thankfully welcomed, and very quickly cooked and consumed. I found that the Indians were growing anxious at not by this time meeting with the rest of their party, and they were about, while resting, to hold a consultation as to what course to pursue. We were soon again in motion; night or day made no difference to us. On we pushed. It was about noon when, on reaching a height, we saw a thin light smoke curling up into the pure, intense blue sky, from the bottom of a pine-clad ravine below us. All appeared to rest in perfect peace and quietness, and I began to be ashamed of my nervous anxieties. I was greatly afraid that I should lose my influence with my friends, and as my predictions, or rather warnings, had not been verified, I should in future be looked on as a false prophet. "There are our friends, most probably," said John Pipestick; "but we don't proceed as carelessly as you people from the East are apt to do. We shall send out scouts and approach cautiously, lest our enemies devise some means to destroy us. Such a thing has been done before now. Those left in an encampment while the rest have been out hunting have been attacked and slaughtered, while their enemies have taken possession of their tents, and dressed and painted themselves like those they have killed. There they have remained till the hunting-party have unsuspiciously returned, perhaps a few at a time, and thus all in detail have fallen victims. It was a clever trick, but we should deserve to die if we allowed it to be repeated on us." While John was speaking, three of our party, making a wide circuit, crept cautiously forward towards the edge of the ravine, so that they might look down and see what was going on below. We, meantime, lay down behind some bushes so as to be completely concealed, the chief only keeping watch, that he might direct us to act according to circumstances. I could not help admiring their caution, though it was very tiresome to wait in the cold instead of being within their warm tents. At last the chief gave the sign for us to proceed. I started up, prepared to meet the enemy I expected. We advanced towards the edge of the ravine and began to descend, when we caught sight of the tents pitched at the bottom of it, the smoke issuing forth from the apertures in their summits. I inquired of John Pipestick if all was right. "Yes, all right," he answered; "no enemies have come; they may perhaps though; but we shall not remain here many hours." The scene was very different from any I had, for many weeks, set eyes on. By the side of what I knew was a stream were three tents. Each was formed of some eighteen or twenty long, slender rods, the butt-end stuck in the ground, in a circle, and the tops bent over to meet each other, forming the framework of the habitation. Over this was stretched a covering of buffalo-skins, very neatly sewed together with thin strips of leather, and secured so firmly at the foot with pegs, that it was as tight as a drum, and capable of throwing off any amount of rain, or the snow melting from the heat within. The hides, being tanned white, had a very neat and tent-like look. I cannot say much for the cleanliness inside, but I have been compelled in my wanderings to put up in dirtier places, and that is all I can say in their favour. These habitations are much more substantial than the wigwams of the Canadian Indians, which are formed in a conical shape by uniting at the top a dozen straight poles stuck in a circle in the ground, and by covering them thickly with birch-bark. In both cases a hole is left at the top to serve as a chimney. Inside the tents of my present friends the ground was spread with mats all round the edges, except in the centre, where a bare spot was left for the fire-place. Many of the tribes differ in the way of forming their cooking-place, and often the only means of ascertaining whether friends or foes have encamped on the spot, is by an examination of the place where they have lit their fires. The cots for the babies, and the pots and pans, and bows and arrows, and fishing-spears, and buffalo tongues, and bears' hams, with numberless other articles, are hung up to the tent rods, and often garnish them rather oddly. As we approached the tents, men, women, and children hurried out to meet us, and welcomed us warmly, all eager to hear our adventures. But Indians are not addicted to rattling out news, as is our habit in the old country, so they had to wait till various ceremonies were first gone through. The old chief invited me into his tent, an honour John advised me not to refuse, and then having sat down before his fire, and taken off my outer coat and my torn moccasins, his women-kind hooked out of a huge pot hanging from the centre over the fire, a lump of bear's flesh, and several other dainties, the exact nature of which I could not at first learn. Curiosity prompted me to inquire, by holding up a piece of the meat between my thumb and fingers, when a respectable old dame, whom I took to be his spouse, replied by a "_bow-wow-wow_," by which I guessed rightly that it was a bit of a young puppy. A few days afterwards a deep "bow-wow-wow" showed me that I was dining off an older animal of the same species. I cannot say that I had any repugnance to the meat, for after living on wolves' flesh for so long it was to me a delicate luxury. I objected rather to the quantity than the quality of the food placed before me, for the old chief--_Waggum-winne-beg_ was his name, at least it sounded like that-- wishing to do me unusual honour, gave me a double allowance each time he stuck his stick into the pot. I expressed my gratitude as well as I could, and pointed first to my chest and then to my throat, to show him that I thought the food must have got thus high; but he only laughed, and kept on helping me as before. At last I stuck a piece in my mouth, and pretended that I could not get it down further; but he was too good an anatomist to be so taken in, and offered to get a ramrod to help me down with it. "Now, old fellow," said I, getting savage, "it may be a very good joke to you; but more I will not eat, and that's enough." Luckily John Pipestick coming in, explained that though Englishmen eat as much as any red-skins, they were in the habit of taking several moderate meals during every day throughout the year, and that the Indian fashion of one day gormandising, and for many days starving, would not suit them. I was not sorry to find that my friends were almost as much tired as I was, and that they would remain another whole day to rest. During the day, however, I received a piece of information from John Pipestick, which somewhat discomposed me. I found that the old chief, my host Waggum-winne-beg, proposed bestowing on me one of his daughters to become my wife. Now, although I had no dislike to the notion of matrimony, I had a decided preference for a wife of my own colour and style of education. Miss Waggum-winne-beg was a very charming young lady, I had no doubt, and could dress a puppy-dog to perfection, and could manufacture moccasins unsurpassed by those of any other young damsel in the tribe, and embroider with coloured grass, or make mats of great beauty; indeed, I cannot enumerate all her accomplishments and attractions. Still she had not won my heart, and indeed, a wife, whether white, or red, or black, would have been very inconvenient while I was leading my present wandering style of life. I gave this as the best reason I could think of for not accepting my host's generous offer; but he laughed at my scruples, and replied that I should find a wife very useful, as she could work for me, and carry my gun and baggage of every description; that she would also cook my food and make my moccasins and tent covering, and weave fringe for my leggings and other garments, and manufacture the mats and various requisite utensils. Indeed it would be difficult to find, in any part of the world, so accomplished a young lady, or one more industrious and obedient; that I might always beat her as much as I liked, if I found her either idle or disobedient. I begged Pipestick to explain that, however good the customs of the red-skins were--a point I did not wish then to dispute--those of the English differed from them; that there were a few idle, lazy, good-for-nothing fellows in England, among the chiefs, who looked out for wives with fortunes, and among the lower classes, who made their wives work for them, but it was the pride and endeavour of all true braves to secure the means of supporting their wives, either through inheriting a fortune from their ancestors, or by the exertion of their own strength and talents, and that this latter way was considered the most honourable. This was the method I proposed to follow, and before I could accept the peerless daughter of the chief, I must procure the means of supporting her. Pipestick did not exactly understand the reasons I gave for declining the chief's offer, but he explained them as well as he could. I was rather thunder-struck when the chief remarked that, though he approved of them highly, he would waive all such arrangements in my case, and that he would supply his daughter with ample goods and chattels for our use. To this I could only reply that I was highly flattered by his preference, but that it was against my medicine to avail myself of his offer; that I was an Ottoe at heart; that I loved the Ottoes, and would fight for the Ottoes, and that the time might come when I should be an Ottoe indeed; but that, at present, my medicine did not show me how that was to be accomplished. The name of the young lady, the subject of this long conversation, was, I found, the "Firefly"; and certainly, as I watched her light figure, decked with red feathers and garments with red trimmings, I thought she was very appropriately so called; at the same time, I did not for one moment indulge the base idea of accepting the chief's offer. My earnest desire was to find my way back, as soon as possible, to the society of civilised men. I was heartily glad, then, when, once more, our tents were struck, and we continued our journey. As we travelled with women, children, and a wagon, our progress was very much slower than when we had gone alone. Often it was hard work getting the wagon through the snow. Generally the poor women had to drag it; and I rather scandalised the red warriors by putting my shoulder very frequently to the wheel and by pushing on behind. Pipestick said that it was considered very derogatory to the dignity of a warrior. I said that I thought it might be disagreeable to the inclinations of an idle rascal; but that chiefs in my country never let their wives do any hard work at all, and that I could not bear to stalk on ahead with only my rifle at my back, while the poor creatures were toiling away in that fashion. I suppose Pipestick translated my remarks correctly, for the chiefs tossed their heads and afterwards had a very long talk about the matter. I saw that they began to look on me as a sad republican, and to suspect that I purposed introducing mutiny into their camp. At last we reached the spot where I had spent so many weeks of suffering and anxiety. Scarcely a particle of the remains of the Indians were to be seen, but a few scattered bones and torn bits of garments. The things hidden by the Ottoes were untouched, so they dug them up, and I having added a few words to the paper in my medicine stick, as I called it, we proceeded on our way. We encamped four or five miles off that night, and the next day made good very nearly fifteen miles. The tents were pitched on the lee side of a wood, where there was but little snow, and the air was comparatively warm. All hands, that is to say the women and children, were soon employed in gathering sticks for our fires, and in digging up hickory nuts. It was the chief occupation of the men in the evening, as they sat round the fire, to crack and chew these nuts: the taste indeed was pleasant. The camp was not left altogether without some fortification. The wagon was placed in front, and some logs of half rotten timber were dragged out, and served to fill up the space left open in the little nook in which the tents were ensconced. John Pipestick had a tent of his own, but he came to the old chiefs tent, where I had been asked to take up my abode, to act as interpreter. We sat up till a late hour, cracking nuts and telling very long-winded stories, which, as Pipestick occasionally interpreted them for my benefit, took up a double portion of time, and were not especially interesting. I was not sorry, at last, to find myself comfortably covered up by a pile of buffalo-skins, with the prospect of a sound sleep till daylight. How long I had slept I do not know, when I was awoke by the barking of one of the dogs, then by another and another, till the whole tribe were in full yelp, in every key, from full bass to double treble. The old chief sprang off his couch, so did I, and as we rushed out of the tent, we found all the warriors standing on the alert, and with their rifles in their hands, peering out into the darkness. Two or three advanced cautiously into the wood, the dogs following at their heels yelping furiously, till they were summoned back by those in the camp. I tried to discover the cause of the alarm, but could discover nothing over the white plain spread out before us. If there were enemies, they were in the wood; but to see them was impossible. We waited for the return of the scouts. There was a complete silence: the howl of the wolves had ceased; not a night-bird disturbed the quiet of the night. Suddenly a piercing, terror-inspiring, unearthly shriek was heard ringing through the quiet wood. Directly afterwards the feet of one of the scouts, as we supposed, were heard rushing through the wood. It was one of our companions. The whirl of a dozen tomahawks flying after him showed how closely he was pursued, as he broke into the encampment, crying out, "The enemy are upon us, the enemy are upon us!" What made the suspense more trying was, that not a foe could be seen. We had no doubt that they were there in strong force, and that the two other scouts had been surprised and slaughtered by them. Probably the wood swarmed with them, yet I did not see a sign of fear among any of my friends. Old Waggum-winne-beg was in his element, and he was ably seconded by John Pipestick. To send any more scouts into the wood would have been perfect madness; so, each man sheltering himself as best he could behind trees and bushes, and logs of fallen timbers, we waited in silence for the attack. Some time passed away. "I wonder if it is a false alarm," thought I. "Still, if it is so, what has become of the scouts?" I whispered to Pipestick that I thought it might be a mistake. "Not at all," was the answer; "wait a bit. It you ever shot well, shoot well now, if you care for your scalp." The advice had scarcely been given, when there arose a sound close to us, more hideous and terrific than I ever before heard in my life. The red-skin's war-whoop was heard above all. I turned my head for an instant to the east. The first faint streaks of dawn were appearing in the sky. Through the pale light thus afforded I could see a number of dark forms flitting about among the trees, while they kept up a continued discharge of arrows and darts. Now and then a musket-ball came whizzing by us; but it was very evident that the greater number of our assailants were armed only with bows and arrows; at the same time there could be no doubt that they very far outnumbered us. This would prove of serious consequence should they come to close quarters. Red-skins, however, are not fond of close quarters, unless they can take an enemy by surprise, which our dogs and scouts had prevented them doing in our case. I do not think it is fair to call them cowards. Their notions are altogether different to ours, and they consider stratagem and deceit as the chief art of warfare. They have no notion of risking their own lives, if they can by any other way destroy their enemies, and they consider white men as committing the height of folly when they stand up and exchange shots with similar weapons in a duel. I don't know that they are far wrong. Our assailants, having tried to shake our nerves by their shrieks and showers of arrows, appeared to retire, and again the whole wood was wrapped in perfect silence. It was but of short continuation. Once more those unearthly shrieks and cries broke forth, and this time they were echoed by our people, who kept their muskets ready, and the moment an enemy appeared flitting from one tree to another, did not fail to fire--with what effect I had not time to observe. I felt that I was bound, on every account, to take an active part in the fight, and kneeling down behind a log of timber, I loaded and fired as rapidly as I could, whenever my eye caught sight of the dusky form of an Indian warrior. I did not often miss, but I suspected that I inflicted more wounds on the limbs than on the bodies of our enemies. "Who are they, think you?" I asked of Pipestick, who was at my side. "Dacotahs or Pawnees," he answered. "They have had scouts on our trail for some time probably. When they discovered that their friends were destroyed, they thought that we had done the deed, and have come in force resolved to be revenged." It appeared to me that we might as well have tried to shoot down all the trees in the wood, as to destroy our enemies. They swarmed round us like hornets, seemingly resolved, as John observed, to cut us off to a man. I turned my eye to the right; a band was just emerging on that side from the wood, and the same minute I saw another coming out on the left, in a long line, evidently for the purpose of surrounding us. I picked off two or three fellows as they flew over the snow, but so rapid and eccentric were their movements, that it was no easy matter to get a fair shot at them, especially as all the time we were assailed with showers of arrows. Some were sent from too great a distance to do us much harm; but at the same time they not a little distracted us. Others again had more deadly effect. Some of our people were struck down; two were killed outright, the arrows passing right through their bodies; while several were more or less injured. I, happily, had hitherto escaped unhurt, and so had Pipestick; but the old chief was wounded in the arm, and one of the poor little children was killed, in spite of the protection its mother attempted to afford it. This made me feel more bitter than anything else, and yet such an incident is but a too common consequence of warfare. The old chief proved himself well worthy of the dignity bestowed on him. By word and gesture he animated his people to fight bravely, and to resist to the last; and every time they raised one of their war-whoops, he led the chorus, which these returned with no less vehemence. Still, as I considered the matter, I began to apprehend that we were completely in the power of our vindictive enemies. While we were inside our entrenchments, they knew that it was more prudent not to come to the hand-to-hand encounter; but if we attempted to move onward, we should be instantly surrounded and cut down. The Dacotahs had enough men to keep watch and watch, and to tire us out. Had we been a party of men alone, we might have cut our way through them; but, of course, with the women and children that was impossible. As long as the powder lasted we might keep them at bay; and thus all we could do was to hold out bravely, and to hope that some turn might occur in our favour. The cold grey dawn was just breaking, when with shrieks and whoops louder, more terrific than ever, numbers of the savages rushed out of the wood, closely pressing round us. To count how many there were was impossible, for they flew here and there, and sprang about in a most wonderful way, and then on they came in a body towards us. Several of our people were knocked over, and as I saw the hideous fellows flourishing their tomahawks and scalping-knives, I began to feel a most painful sensation round the top of my head. The old chief stood boldly at his post, picking off his enemies as they drew near, while John Pipestick did no dishonour to his father's land or the men of Kent, I did my best to reduce the number of our foes, but it was of little avail, and in another instant we were engaged, with overwhelming numbers, in a desperate hand-to-hand conflict. I looked round; not a ray of hope appeared, and thus like brave men we resolved to make our foes pay a heavy price for our lives. CHAPTER SIX. OUR POWDER EXPENDED--I BELIEVE THAT MY LAST MOMENT HAS ARRIVED-- UNEXPECTED SUCCOUR--A DANGEROUS PREDICAMENT--OBED'S GALLANTRY--OUR ENEMIES TAKE TO FLIGHT--WE RECOMMENCE OUR JOURNEY--GENEROSITY OF THE OLD CHIEF--OFFERS ME TWO WIVES INSTEAD OF ONE--OBED'S NARRATIVE--HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THE BEAR--A FRESH ALARM--THE APPROACH OF A STRANGER. The infuriated Dacotahs thronged thickly around us, uttering the most horrible yells and shrieks, those in the distance plying us incessantly with their arrows and darts, while those in the front ranks kept whirling their tomahawks above our heads, watching for an opportunity to send them crashing down upon our skulls. Not a shot was heard; our rifles were useless; all our powder was expended. We fought as men driven to desperation generally will fight for none of us had, I am sure, the faintest hope of escaping with our lives; for my part, I fully believed that the next moment would be my last. Old Waggum-winne-beg had received a desperate wound on his shoulder, and had been beaten to the ground; the gallant Pipestick had been brought on his knee, and I found myself without support on either side just as a gigantic chief with uplifted battle-axe made a desperate rush at me. I raised the butt-end of my rifle, which had hitherto done me such good service, to parry the blow, but I felt conscious that it would not avail me. I was in the power of my vindictive enemy. I saw the keen-edged weapon glittering in the first beams of the rising sun, as the glorious luminary of day appeared above the snow-covered plain; I felt as if in another instant it would come crushing through my brain, when the sharp crack of a distant rifle sounded in my ear, and I saw my enemy leap up in the air and fall dead at my side, his axe missing my head and just grazing my arm. I eagerly looked forth in the direction whence the shot had come, to discover, if I could, by whom I had been preserved. I could as yet see no one, but I observed that our assailants were influenced by some disturbing cause, and were gathering together in the north-west, as if to prepare for resisting some expected attack. Still those near us seemed resolved to gratify their vindictive feelings by destroying us if they could before our unknown friends could come to our aid. I had little doubt that the party who had appeared so opportunely to relieve us must, by some means or other, have been collected by Obed; and I prayed heartily that it might be of sufficient strength at once to put our enemies to flight. I had little time, however, to think about the matter. The Indians pressed us harder than ever, and scarcely a man of us remained unwounded, while many of the poor women were hurt. The rest of the women fought with as much fierceness and desperation as the men. Yet I felt that in spite of all the heroism which had been exhibited, and in spite of the aid which was so close at hand, our lives would be sacrificed. Again the Dacotahs gathered thick around us; I could not restrain myself; I shouted loudly for help, though I scarcely expected it to be sent; my shout was replied to by a hearty cheer, and nearly a dozen white men, followed by three times as many Indians, broke through the masses of our enemies with sword and battle-axe and club, and beat them down or drove them back, shrieking and howling with rage and fear. One figure I recognised, more active than the rest, making his way towards me. It was that of Obed. "Hurra, old feller, hurra! I am glad you're safe, that I am," he shouted, as he sprang over the barricade, and grasped my hand. "But we must drive these varmint away, or shoot them down, every mother's son of them, or they'll be gaining heart and coming back on us. Come on, lads; come on--hurra, hurra!" Uttering these shouts, he again leaped out of our encampment, and, beckoning on his followers, they were all once more in pursuit of the flying enemy. Just as he went, Obed handed me a powder-flask and a bag of bullets. "You'll want them, boy, I guess; and I have plenty," said he, as he flew off. I was about to join him, when I found my limbs refused to perform their office. The moans also of old Waggum-winne-beg, John Pipestick, as well as of others of my companions, made me feel that I must stay where I was, both for the sake of attending to them and of guarding them should any of the Dacotahs who might be prowling about in the wood take the opportunity, while our friends were at a distance, to rush in and scalp them, and be off again before pursuit could be made. I have on many occasions found the importance of not despising an enemy. I urged Pipestick to keep a look out while I was attending to the hurts of the old chief, and helping some of the poor women who were the most severely injured. I had been thus employed for some time, occasionally looking out to see how it fared with Obed and his party in their pursuit of the enemy. Wherever they went, the Dacotahs scattered before them, but rallied again directly afterwards in the distance, and seemed as ready as ever to renew the attack. When I looked up the next time, they were once more flying as chaff before the wind. I at once saw that their purpose was to weary out their pursuers, and then to unite and to make a desperate attack on them altogether. I hoped that my friends would be too wary to be led into the snare laid for them. I had been for some time stooping down to try and bind up the lacerated wounds of a poor fellow who had been cruelly cut about by the Indian's tomahawks, when a shout from Pipestick made me lift my head, and I saw a dozen or more Dacotahs come scampering like demons out of the wood with the evident intention of making an attack on us. I sprang to my feet, and helped Pipestick to get up. We both of us had our rifles loaded, as had several of the Indians, from the ammunition furnished me by Obed. The cunning rogues did not know this, and thought that they were going to catch us unprepared. We presented our rifles. They laughed derisively, as much as to say, "Oh, they will do us no harm, we know that." Never were they more mistaken in their lives, and it was the last mistake they ever made. We let them come on without shrinking. "John," said I, "let me take the fellow on my right-hand side; do you take the next, and tell our Indian friends to follow my lead. We'll astonish those red-skins, I guess." Pipestick did as I advised. We let the Indians approach within a hundred yards of us. On they came, making a desperate rush at us, and uttering their fearful war-whoops confident of victory. "Now, my boys, give it them," I shouted; "and take care that every shot tells." Pipestick repeated my words. We all fired at the same moment, and six of the Indians were knocked over. So eager were the rest that they did not discover that their companions had fallen. They were still very formidable antagonists. We had not time to load our rifles before they were upon us. Pipestick, in consequence of his wounds, was scarcely able to offer any effectual resistance, but the Indians fought bravely, and all the women who were unhurt came to our assistance. I certainly was very far from despising their assistance. They enabled me and Pipestick to fall back to load our rifles and those of our companions, and, taking a steady aim, we soon turned the fortunes of the day. Three more Indians were knocked over, and the rest turned tail, and ran off as fast as their long legs would carry them, to avoid the shots which we sent whizzing away in their rear. My great anxiety was now to get Obed to come back into the camp, fearing lest he and his party might be led by the manoeuvres of the enemy to too great a distance from it, and that the Indians might get in between us and our friends, so I resolved to go myself. There was no time for consideration: loading my rifle and seizing the tomahawk of one of the dead Indians, I sprang out and ran faster than I thought I could possibly have moved. Just as I had got half-way from the camp towards them, another party of Indians darted out of the wood, and, setting up their war-whoops, ran out with terrible fleetness towards me. I ran faster, I believe, than I had ever before done, shouting out to Obed to come and rescue me. He at that time, unfortunately, was repelling a strong body of Indians, who seemed to press him very hard. I saw that I must depend on myself; I halted, and, kneeling down, took a steady aim at the headmost of my pursuers. He was, I thought, aware that his fate was sealed when he saw me pointing my rifle at him. He threw up his arms even before I had fired, and then over he fell, shot through the breast. I ran on as hard as I could pelt. There is no disgrace running from an overpowering enemy. Again and again I shouted at the top of my voice to Obed. The Dacotahs pushed on. I loaded as I ran. I thought if I could bring down another of them I might stop the progress of the rest. With no little difficulty I got my rifle-ball rammed down. I turned suddenly and rather surprised my pursuers by lifting my weapon to my shoulder and letting fly at the leading red-skin. He, as had his companion, tumbled over, but his death only the more exasperated the rest, and they sprang forward more intent than ever to take my life. There was no time to load again. The fellows were gaining most uncomfortably on me. I began to feel very much as a person does in a dream, when he cannot get away from monsters in chase of him. "Obed, Obed, fire--do fire," I shouted. At length Obed heard me, and a dozen of his followers faced about and hurried to meet my enemies. The latter, setting that their chance of cutting me off was gone, turned tail and endeavoured to escape into the wood. I entreated my new friends not to pursue them, and they saw the wisdom of my advice. We accordingly went back to join the rest of the party, who had come to my relief. What was my surprise and pleasure to see three of my old friends, Obed's brothers, among them. Just then the remnant of the Dacotahs once more took to flight, and allowed my friends leisure to address me. They hurried up and heartily shook me by the hand, telling how glad they were to find that I was alive, while I assured them that I was equally rejoiced to find that they had escaped. We had no time, however, for talking. I urged them at once to assemble in the camp, so as to enable my friends to proceed on their journey, till they could stop at a more secure resting-place. We got back to the camp just in time to scare away another party of Dacotahs, who like vultures had been hovering about ready to pounce down on their prey. Indeed we had enough to do to keep our scattered enemies at bay. We found old Waggum-winne-beg considerably recovered, and John Pipestick not much the worse for his wounds: indeed, it is extraordinary what knocking about a red-skin will take without suffering materially, provided he keeps clear of the fire-water. Some of the white men, when they found that I wished to proceed farther east, till I had seen my friends in safety, grumbled very much, and said that they had come to help me, but had no notion of going through so much fatigue and danger for a set of varmint Indians. I told them in reply that I was very much obliged to them for all they had gone through on my account, but that I was bound by every law of God, and by every rule of right, to help those who had helped me; and that, come what might, I could not and would not desert them. The Raggets supported me, more especially Obed. "Dick is right, boys!" he exclaimed. "I would do the same as he proposes, and he would not be acting like himself if he did otherwise; the Ottoes have always been friends to the white man, and I've resolved to stick by Dick till we see them free from danger from these rascally Dacotahs." These remarks soon won over by far the larger portion of the white men to our side, the Indians at once recognising their duty to assist their friends. The red-skins who had accompanied Obed were, I found, Kioways, a large tribe inhabiting the country bordering on the Rocky Mountains. I asked Obed how he had induced them to accompany him. "Oh, it is a long story. I'll tell you about that and many other things, when we have more time," he replied. All hands now set to work to strike the tents and pack the wagons; it was soon done, and the wounded people stowed away in them on the top of their goods. Some of the men rather objected to have the poor wounded women placed in the wagons alongside of them, and seemed to think that, as long as the unfortunate wretches had life in them they might just as well get out and walk. Such are the chivalric notions of the Indian warriors we read so much about in novels, and our young ladies are taught to fancy such fine fellows. They have, notwithstanding, some few good qualities, but those belonging to the ancient code of chivalry are not among them. We had not yet done with fighting, and we had not proceeded a mile before we caught sight of the Dacotahs hovering about us to the northward, watching for an opportunity to pounce down upon us. Although a good many of their warriors had been made to bite the dust, they still so far outnumbered our united parties that they might have some hopes, if they could take us by surprise, to cut us up altogether. This, of course, we took care that they should not do. Our attention, however, was so much occupied that Obed had no time to give me an account of his adventures. Our great wish was that the Indians would come on again once more and allow us to give them a lesson which we hoped might teach them to keep at a respectful distance from us. We pushed on as fast as beasts and men could move, and just before nightfall we reached a hillock with several rocks jutting out of it, which was considered a remarkably secure spot for camping. It was well fortified by nature, but the cunning backwoodsmen were not content to trust to it in that condition, but at once set to work to enable it to resist any attack which might possibly be made on it during the night. Our old chief, to show his gratitude to his preservers, ordered an ample supply of provisions to be served out, and as soon as fires could be lighted and the food cooked we all sat down to our repast. We at first were too hungry to talk, but I gleaned from one or two remarks made by my friends that their family had escaped from the Indians, and were encamped for the winter at some distance to the eastward. There was plenty of dry underwood about, so we had made a blazing fire, round which we were seated. We had all lighted our pipes, and Obed was about to begin his narrative, when an Ottoe Indian came and said a few words to John Pipestick, who was sitting with us. "Our chief, Waggum-winne-beg, is anxious to see you," said he to me. "He feels very ill, and as he believes you to be a mighty medicine-man, he thinks that you can certainly cure him." I knew that there was no use in denying my power, so I at once got up to go and see the old man, accompanied by John as interpreter. He was lying down on a mat, with his head resting on a block of wood which served him as a pillow. He sat up as I entered, and with unusual warmth expressed his pleasure at seeing me. I merely give the substance of what he said, for he addressed a long speech to me, which he believed would have a powerful effect on my feelings. "Stranger," he began, "you have met with friends, and undoubtedly you contemplate leaving the tents of the red-skins to accompany them whither they are going. Think well before you leave us. You shall be to us a son and a brother; we will adopt you; we will clothe you; we will paint you; you shall become like one of us in all things. I told you that I would give you one of my daughters. That was when I loved you a little. Now I love you much I will give you two. One does not surpass the other. Both are superior to any of their sex in my tribe, and I may venture to say in the world. I told you of Firefly's accomplishments; her sister Glow-worm is equal to her. You shall have a large tent where they can dwell together in harmony, for among their other perfections their tongues are never addicted to wrangle. Take them, then, my friend: be my son, and be happy." This pathetic appeal did not influence me as forcibly as Waggum-winne-beg had hoped it might do. I did my best not to hurt his feelings, but I declined his offer. When he heard my decision he burst into tears. "If it must be so," he said at last, commanding himself, "so it must be." Having thus delivered himself, he, like a well-bred gentleman, did not further press the delicate subject. After a further conversation on other subjects, I begged that he would excuse me, as I wished to go back to my white friends who were waiting for me round their camp-fire, and having once more carefully dressed the old man's wounds, I took my departure. I made Obed and his brother laugh heartily when I narrated to them the flattering offer I had received, and one or two of their companions, backwoodsmen of the roughest sort, seemed rather inclined to offer themselves in my stead, as candidates for the honour of possessing the brown ladies' hands. "Now, Obed," said I, "I should like to hear all about your proceedings; but before you begin, I must ask you if you have placed sentries round the camp, and sent out scouts to discover if our foes are lurking near?" He had, I found, placed a couple of sentries, one on each side of the camp, but had not thought it necessary to send out any scouts. I urged him to do so, and he selected three of the most intelligent of the Indians, and directed them to feel their way out on every side of the camp, and to ascertain whether any enemies were lurking near. These arrangements being made, I once more took my seat by the camp-fire. I have always spoken of Obed as leader of the party. So in truth he was-- his elder brothers having joined him after he had formed the expedition, and put themselves under his orders. "Now, Obed, my dear fellow, do begin to tell me how it is you came to my rescue so exactly at the nick of time," said I, lighting my pipe over the fire and leaning back against a stone which served instead of an arm-chair. I ought to have remarked that a screen had been put up, composed of birch-bark, to serve as a shelter against the wind, so that we were far warmer than might have been expected in that wintry night. Our encampment had a very picturesque appearance. The white men were collected round one fire; the Indians who had come with Obed had three or four among them; while the tents of Waggum-winne-beg and his followers were in the centre, with a fire burning in the middle of each of them. The greater number of the Indians had thrown themselves down to rest, wrapped up in their fur mantles, under the shelter of the rocks and their birch-bark screens, with small fires at their feet. I could see in the distance the tall figures of those appointed to do duty as sentries walking up and down on their posts, while a few were still sitting up, bending over their fires, as they smoked their pipes and talked over the events of the day. "Well, Dick, since you wish it, I'll begin," said Obed. "You remember the worthy Delaware who came to our tent and persuaded me to accompany him? He proved himself a trusty guide and companion. The rest and food he got with us restored his strength, and we set off at good speed. We were fortunate in killing several turkeys and prairie-hens, so that we were able to husband our dried pemmican, at the same time that we fed sumptuously. Very often I thought about you when we were making good way, and I wished that you were with us. We were anxious, of course, to push on before the cold weather set in, for we knew then that we should have difficulties enough to contend with. We had to be on our guard also against enemies of all sorts--red-skin Dacotahs and Pawnees, grizzly bears, rattlesnakes, and wolves; still my companion, from his long experience of their habits, was well able to take precautions against them. I, all the time, was anxiously looking out for traces of my family, but we had from the first got out of their track, and we met no one from whom we could make any inquiries. We always rose with the sun, and travelled on all day as long as our strength held out; but from weariness, or from the fear of not finding fit camping-ground, we sometimes had to stop an hour or two before sunset. We had done so on one occasion near a stream, whose steep banks sloped away down below us. While I lighted a fire, put up a wigwam, and prepared food, work to which the Delaware had an especial dislike, as it is always performed by women among the Indians, he, taking his rifle, went out along the bank of the stream to try and kill a wild turkey or two to supply the place of one I was about to cook. He was making his way onward, pushing aside the boughs with the barrel of his weapon, when up started, not five yards from him, an old grey she-bear, accompanied by three or four half-grown cubs. He started back to be able to make use of his rifle, but before he could bring it to his shoulder, the old bear sprang upon him, and with a blow of her paw knocked his rifle out of his hand. Had that blow struck his back he would instantly have been killed, and I should have been left alone in the desert. I saw my friend's danger, but could do nothing to help him, for if I fired I was as likely to injure him as the bear. As the brute was again about to strike, he drew his long knife, for, fortunately, his right arm was free, and began stabbing away at her neck. Notwithstanding this, the fierce monster did not relax her gripe, while her claws went deeper and deeper into his flesh, and the horrid cubs, coming to their dam's assistance, began to assail his legs. I was hurrying on to the assistance of my companion, resolved to lose my own life rather than not do my utmost to save his, when the bank gave way, and bear and Indian both rolled away into the stream together." Obed had got thus far in his narrative--I have omitted some of the particulars he told me--when the sharp crack of a rifle made us all start up, and seizing our weapons, we hurried to that part of the camp whence it proceeded. Looking out into the darkness, we could see the figure of a man running at full speed towards us, across the white sheet of snow with which we were surrounded. We had no doubt it was one of the scouts we had sent out; for who else was likely at that time to be coming to us? "If it is not one of our scouts, it may be some white trapper who has been caught by the Dacotahs, and has made his escape from them," observed John Pipestick, who had joined us. "They frequently come thus far west, and those varmints are certain to have been on the lookout for them." While we were waiting the arrival of the stranger, a piercing shriek broke the silence of night. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE DACOTAHS ARE AGAIN UPON US--WE HURRY TO THE RESCUE--WE PRESERVE THE LIFE OF THE STRANGER--SAM SHORT, THE TRAPPER--HIS ADVENTURES--ESCAPE FROM THE RED-SKINS--DESPERATE COMBAT IN THE CANOE--SAM'S SEARCH FOR HIS COMPANIONS--DISCOVERS ONE IN THE HANDS OF THE INDIANS--THEY DISCOVER SAM, AND HE FLIES--FINDS BLOUNT, AND TOGETHER THEY GO IN SEARCH OF NOGGIN--AGAIN GET SIGHT OF NOGGIN, BUT HE IS FASTENED TO A STAKE--NOGGIN SHOWS THAT IN SPITE OF HIS NAME HE IS A HERO. "Those vermin the Dacotahs are upon us again, and have taken the scalp of one of our scouts," cried Obed, when he heard that piercing shriek. My experience of the previous night taught me too well also what it meant. Surrounded as we were by the rocks and thick shrubs on the top of the mound, we were probably not perceptible from the ground below. Presently, as the stranger approached us, we saw emerging from the darkness a dozen or more figures following one after the other slowly and stealthily, evidently fancying that they were not perceived. We had no doubt that they were a party of our late opponents the Dacotahs, but what was their purpose it was difficult to say; they must have known that we had heard the death-shriek of the murdered man, and they could not but have supposed that we should be on the watch for them. Perhaps this only precipitated a previously formed plan. The stranger approached us rapidly; we could hear aimed at him more than one shaft as it flew hissing through the air. Several axes also were thrown in savage fury, as the Indians saw that their hoped-for victim was about to escape them. The stranger came rushing on; he had good need of speed. "Obed, my boy," said I, "let us sally out and protect that poor fellow. If we do not, the red-skins will be up to him before he reaches this hill!" Obed was not a man it was necessary to ask twice to do a thing of the sort, nor were his brothers or their followers. The order was sent rapidly round to assemble together; not a word was uttered above a whisper--the sentries were left standing at their posts as if unconscious of what was going on in the plain below. But a few seconds were expended in preparations. "Now, my boys, down upon them!" exclaimed Obed, and at the word we sprang over our entrenchments as quick as lightning; we were up to the stranger, who for a moment was somewhat startled at our sudden appearance, but soon, comprehending the state of affairs, took shelter behind us while we sprang on to meet the Indians. We halted within ten yards of them, and poured in a volley from our rifles which brought nearly one-half of them to the ground. The remainder hesitated an instant, then hearing our loud shouts and huzzas, and seeing us come on with our axes gleaming in our hands, they turned tail and scampered off as fast as they could go. To pursue them would have been dangerous with so large a number of their tribe in the neighbourhood, and it was very probable that they had an ambush near at hand ready to cut us off. The sound of our fire-arms brought up two of our scouts, who joined us as we were returning to our camp, but the third did not make his appearance, and we had too much reason to fear that he had fallen a victim to the Dacotahs. By the time we got back to camp we found Waggum-winne-beg and all his people, both men and women, turned out and ready to resist any attack which might be made on us. We waited under arms for some time, and then finding that the enemy did not seem inclined to approach, we posted sentries all round, with directions to keep a strict lookout, and to give notice directly they perceived any suspicious movement below, and then we once more sat down round our fire. Our number was increased by the stranger, of whom we had not till then had time to take any notice beyond observing that he was a white man, and that he was dressed in the usual rough costume of a trapper. We now perceived, as he sat close up to the fire with the palms of his hands spread out before it, that he looked famished and weary. "Friend, thou art hungry," said Obed, placing before him some dried deers' flesh and biscuit, and filling him up a cup of spirits-and-water. "Eat that while we cook a more savoury mess." "Thank you," said the stranger; "you have discovered my chief want." He showed that he spoke the truth by setting to work silently and heartily on the food like a man who had fasted long, and was in no way fastidious as to the nature of his provender, so that it was fit to support life. I have often felt ashamed of my civilised and refined friends as well as of myself, when I have watched the abstemious habits of those inhabitants of the backwoods. However varied, or however delicate, or highly flavoured the food placed before them, I have seen them over and over again sit down and help themselves to the nearest dish, eat as much as they required, and generally a very moderate quantity, and then perhaps, after taking a glass of cold water, get up and leave the table. We waited till the stranger had somewhat recovered his strength before asking him any questions. At last he stopped eating, gave his hunting-knife a turn or two over his legging, replaced it in its sheath, and looking up, said--"Well, friends, you've saved my life; I've to thankyou for that--not that I know that it is worth much; and now I guess you'd like to know where I come from, and what I've been about." We all told him that we should particularly like to hear something about him. "Then I'll tell," he replied. "My name is Sam Short; I'm a free trapper; I've hunted this country, man and boy, for pretty well fifty years, and that's a good slice in a man's life. It was at the end of last fall that I and two companions started westward to trap beavers and shoot bears, or any other game which came in our way. We'd left our horses and taken to a canoe to paddle up the Kansas river. Both my companions, Tom Noggin and Silas Blount, were staunch fellows. It doesn't do to have a man in our way of life one can't depend on. We had passed several beaver dams, which we settled to visit on our return, and as long as the season would allow to push higher up the stream. There's no pleasanter life than that we led. We landed when we felt inclined to stretch our legs and take a shot at a deer or a bear. We killed more deer than we could eat, so we only kept the tenderest parts; but the skins were of no little value. "One evening we landed at an open spot, with plenty of thick trees though growing round, intending to camp there. We had lighted a small fire, and we took care that the wood was dry, so that it should send up no smoke to show our whereabouts to any lurking red-skins; Silas and Noggin took their guns, and said they would go and have a look for a deer, or a bear, or a turkey, while I sat over the fire and cooked the venison. I cut some right good steaks, and had dressed them to a turn, and was thinking that it was time my companions were back, when I heard Blount's voice singing out merrily as he came through the wood towards me. We had no fear of red-skins, for we had met with no traces of them as we came up the river, and the first thing we had done that day on landing was to look about for them in every direction. Blount sat himself down by my side and showed me a fat turkey he had just killed, when we heard a shot at some distance from us. We waited some time, thinking Noggin would be coming back; but, as he did not make his appearance, I asked Blount to climb a tree and see if he could make him out anywhere. Curiously enough, he slung his rifle on his back--he had already his shot belt and powder-horn about him--and up a high tree, a little way off, he went. Scarcely had he got to the top, when I heard him cry out, `Fly, man, fly; the red-skins are on us!' "I did not want a second warning. Seizing my rifle, I sprang to the riverside, and as I did so, a band of Indians burst through the woods brandishing their tomahawks, and uttering their hideous war-cries. I threw myself into the canoe, and with a kick of my foot shoved it off from the bank towards the middle of the stream. I looked for the paddles; there was only one in the canoe; I seized it, and began to paddle away down the stream with all my might. The Indians followed me some way, and seeing that I had but one paddle, and made but slow progress, three of them, running on ahead, plunged into the stream, for the evident purpose of cutting me off. I watched them as they approached. If either of them should succeed in getting hold of the canoe, I knew that my life would be lost. Fortunately they had separated somewhat, and were some fathoms distant from each other down the stream. I saw that my only chance was to destroy them in detail. I dropped my paddle and seized my rifle. It was of course loaded. I had no time to lose, for I had to fire and to load again to be ready for another enemy. I took a steady aim. The savage leaped out of the water, casting a look at me of the most intense hatred, and then down he went like a shot, leaving a red streak on the water to mark the spot. I loaded rapidly; the next fellow darted on, hoping to catch hold of the canoe before I was ready to fire; but I was too quick for him. When he saw this, he dived, thinking to escape my bullet. I was surprised at the length of time he kept under water. I thought that he would never come up again. "I dared not exchange my rifle for my paddle, or I would have got over farther to the opposite bank. All my attention was fixed on the spot where I knew that his head would appear. The instant I caught sight of his savage countenance grinning up at me, my bullet entered his brain, and he sank like his comrade. I had not time to finish loading before the third fellow, by desperate exertion, had got hold of the bow of the canoe with one of his hands, while with the other he attempted to seize my right arm, which was employed in ramming down the bullet into my rifle. He had his knife in his teeth, and I saw that the moment he had grasped my arm, he would seize it with his other hand, and plunge it into my side. My great fear was that he would upset the canoe, so that I had to lean back on the opposite side to prevent him from so doing. There is no more cunning or treacherous a varmint than a true-bred red-skin. When he found that I saw what he was at, he pretended to fall backwards, and as I stretched over to unloosen his hand from the gunwale of the canoe, he sprang up by a sudden stroke of his feet, and clutched me by the throat. "So tight did he press my windpipe, that I felt I had but a slight chance of escaping with my life; still, I had lived too long a hunter's life to think of giving in while a hope of escape existed. I caught hold of the side of the canoe with one hand, and with the other, letting go my rifle, I felt about for my knife, which, with my powder-flask and other things, I had thrown into the bottom of the canoe. If I could find it, I had little fear that I should know how to use it. "The Indian guessed what I was about, and pressed my throat tighter and tighter, till I felt myself growing black in the face. He saw his advantage; the time was come, he thought, to gain the victory. Letting go his hold of the canoe, he seized his knife with his right hand, and attempted to haul himself on board by means of my throat. His naked knee was on the gunwale, when at the same moment my fingers discovered my knife. I clutched the handle. My enemy's knee slipped off the smooth wood--his weapon missed its aim, scarcely grazing my side, and I plunged mine up to the hilt in his breast. His hand relaxed his hold of my throat, and he dropped back lifeless into the stream. "I cannot describe my sensations; there was no time to think about them, at all events. I finished ramming down the bullet into my rifle, and while the rest of the Indians were hesitating whether to follow me or not, I pointed it at them, to show them what the first who might venture into the stream would have to expect. They watched me for some time, uttering howls of the most intense rage and hatred; and then, seeing that I was a good match for them, they turned back up the stream again, to wreak their vengeance, as I feared, on my companions. I pretended to be paddling down the stream, till I was certain they were out of sight; but I was not going to desert my friends in that way; such is not the backwoodsman's law. When I knew that they were well ahead, I ceased descending the stream, and, pulling to the south bank, I made fast my canoe to some bushes, and waited till dark. "I thought about all that had occurred; Blount, I hoped, might possibly have escaped, but I greatly feared that Noggin would have fallen into the power of our enemies. Waiting till I could not be seen from the north shore, keeping on the opposite side, I paddled cautiously and slowly up the stream. I kept as much as possible in the eddies and little bays, and thus avoided the strength of the current, against which I could not otherwise have pulled. The nearer I got to the spot where I had left my companions, the more cautiously I proceeded; I knew that if the Indians had not killed them at once, they would not destroy them for three or four days, but would keep them alive to torture them, and to exhibit them to their old men and squaws at home. It was very necessary to be cautious how I proceeded; the slightest carelessness would betray me to the cunning varmints, and I should not only risk my own life, but be unable to help my friends. "At last, about two hours after dark, I got directly opposite the spot where we had encamped; I watched, but could see no light to indicate that the red-skins were there; I pulled up a little farther, and then in perfect silence paddled across. Unless the red-skins had been on the lookout for me, I did not think that there was much chance of my being seen. I did not venture to let the bow of the canoe touch the bank, lest even the slight noise I might make against the grass should be heard, but allowed it to drop slowly down with the current, while I peered eagerly into every opening of the forest which presented itself. I began to fear that the Indians had gone away, and carried off Blount and Noggin with them, when my eye caught a glimmer of light a considerable distance off among the bushes. I had little doubt that the light proceeded from the camp-fire of my enemies: I resolved to ascertain whether this was so, and whether my friends were in their power. I carefully pushed my canoe alongside the bank, and securing her to a bush, stepped out with my hunting-knife in my belt, and my rifle in my hand. I know as well as a native-born Indian how to move silently through the woods, not allowing my feet to tread on a dry stick, or my shoulders to touch a rotten branch. "Step by step, feeling my way with the greatest care, I approached the spot where I had seen the fire; at last I got close to the boundary of an open glade, and by looking through the bushes, I saw at the farther end of it some dozen or more Indians, decked in their war-paint and feathers, squatted round a fire. One was, I saw, speaking, while the others were listening to him with the deepest attention. I looked around, but could distinguish nothing beyond the immediate circle of the fire. At length the orator ceased, and one of the band threw a small quantity of fresh fuel on to the fire. This made it blaze up; and the glare from the bright flames extending to some distance, it fell upon the stump of a tree to which was bound a human figure. I watched to try and make out who it was, for the light was not at first sufficient to enable me to distinguish objects at a distance. I had long to wait. I should have to guide my movements according to which of my friends was in captivity. If it should prove to be Noggin, I might hope that Blount had escaped their vigilance; but if he himself was the prisoner, I should have to fear that Noggin had already fallen a victim to their ferocity. "I had long to wait. One warrior after another got up, and made a vociferous speech, till at last one of them threw a large handful of sticks into the fire. At the same moment it was fanned by a fresh blast of wind which rustled through the forest, and flames darting upwards for a few moments, by their light I recognised the features of Noggin. His eyes were fixed on the group of warriors, as if he was trying to make out what they were saying. There was an expression of horror and despair on his countenance, for he knew full well that a death of torture was prepared for him. I observed, however, that his lips were firmly pressed together, as if he had made up his mind not to flinch, however much he might be called to suffer, while life might last. I looked round for Blount; he was nowhere to be seen; and as I could not discern any bloody scalp hung up on a pole as a trophy of their prowess, I began to hope that he might have escaped the vigilance of our enemies, and that I might still fall in with him. "My great desire was, in the first place, to rescue Noggin; but how to do so was the question. Succour might almost seem hopeless. Even should Blount be alive and at large, he and I together could scarcely hope to succeed. I counted our enemies; there were twenty altogether. Three of these, from their costume and the way they talked, I judged to be chiefs or principal men. Three more, one of whom certainly was a chief, I had sent to their long home. As I could do no more good by staying in so dangerous a neighbourhood, I waited till another long speech was begun, and then crept back as carefully as I had approached, towards my canoe. I reached it in safety, and pushing off I crossed to the opposite side of the stream. "I hunted about till I discovered a point with bushes growing thickly on it. Here I landed; and hauling up my canoe, hoped that I might remain concealed, should the red-skins again come down to the side of the river to look for me. After I had done this, so fatigued was I, that no sooner did I lie down by the side of my canoe than I fell fast asleep. It was daylight when I awoke. I sprang to my feet, rifle in hand, and peered through the bushes which effectually concealed me. I could distinguish in the distance the Indians, who had likewise just risen, and appeared to be in a state of no little excitement. They had discovered my trail, and were hunting about to ascertain in which direction I had gone. "`Ah, ah!' I thought, `I have crossed an element which allows no trail to be left on it. They will scarcely believe that I am still so near them; or should they even suspect it, they will not attempt to follow me, for they know the effects of my rifle, and that if they do, three or four of their number will probably have to pay the penalty of their lives.' "On Noggin's account I did not want to exasperate them more than they were already, or I might have picked two or three of them off, when, having discovered my trail, they followed it to the banks of the river. I saw them peering about in every direction--now down the stream, now up it; but, clever as they were, they could not guess what way I had gone. They examined the bushes all round, but they told no tale which they could read. They were evidently not a little astonished at my audacity in having ventured so close to them as to watch their movements. It made them look upon me as a mighty brave, and they would, I doubted not, have tried their most exquisite tortures on me to prove my heroism had they been able to catch me. I knew that there was a possibility of their so doing, for I was resolved not to leave my friends to their fate without trying to rescue them, great as I knew the risk was that I was running. When they could not, with all their ingenuity, discover what had become of me, they stamped on the ground, and dashed their hatchets into it, and gnashed their teeth, and performed many other frantic gestures. I was pleased at this, because it showed that they had abandoned their search after me. "Once more they came to the edge of the water, and spat, and grinned at it to show their rage at its having disappointed them of their prey, and then they turned tail and went off back to their camp. I feared poor Noggin would be the sufferer, but I could not help that. I waited hidden away for three or four hours, till I thought that they would to a certainty have taken their departure, before I even stirred from my place of concealment. I knew the tricks they were up to, and that very likely they would have remained in ambush in the hope of my coming back to look after my friends. If they had killed Blount, then I felt sure they would not have stopped, but if they had found out that there were three of us, and he was still at large, then I considered it probable that they would be endeavouring to catch us, and that the very greatest caution would be necessary in my proceedings. Still I could not delay till night to commence my progress, which would have been the safest plan; for, in the first place, the Indians, if they had moved, would have got too much the start of me, and I was already so hungry that I was ready to run any risk to procure food to appease my appetite. "At last I could wait no longer. I slipped into my canoe, and emerging from my hiding-place, went across the stream as fast as my one paddle could urge me. When I was about half-way over I saw something moving among the bushes. I stopped paddling and seized my rifle. It might be an Indian, or it might be a bear, or a stag. I was ready for anything. Just as I brought my rifle to my shoulder I heard a voice sing out, `Hollo, Short! don't fire, old feller.' "I knew at once that it was Blount who spoke, and right glad I was to hear him. Down went my rifle, and I paddled away, you may be sure, as hard as I could till I reached the shore where he, as big as life, stood ready to receive me. We shook hands warmly, and then he told me that he had been up the tree all the time; that he had watched the Indians pursuing me along the banks of the river, but could not tell whether or not they had killed me, though he saw them return with diminished numbers, and guessed that at all events I had not died without a desperate fight. "When they came back they hunted about all round our camp, carried off or destroyed all our property, and at last retired farther into the woods to join their comrades. All the night he had spent in a state of uncertainty about me, and it was not till the following morning, when he saw the Indians come down to the river, and watched their movements, that he guessed I was alive and had paid them a visit. He saw them go away, and he then descended the tree, and like a cat in pursuit of a bird, crept after them. To his great satisfaction he saw them breaking up their camp, and then they moved off towards the north-west. Still he followed them till he had assured himself that they really were going in that direction. When he had done this he turned back and looked out for me. We agreed at once that we would set off and try to rescue Noggin as soon as we had killed a sufficient quantity of game to satisfy our hunger. "We calculated that the red-skins were quite far enough off by this time not to hear the report of our rifles. Hunger, when not too long endured, sharpens men's wits. We soon killed a couple of wild turkeys and a deer, which we fell in with in great numbers on their way south. We hid away our canoe in the bank of the river, and so covered her with branches that even an Indian's sharp eyes were not likely to discover her. Having lighted a fire, we smoked, in a hurried way, as much food as would last us for several days, and then, taking a good meal of toasted venison, we set off on our perilous adventure. "We soon found our way up to the Indian camp, and we observed that they took no pains to hide their trail, by which we judged that they did not suppose any of their enemies to be in the neighbourhood. There were no women or children, which showed that they had been on a hunting or war expedition, and also that their chief camp was at no great distance. This gave us the greatest concern, because if once they reached it we could scarcely hope to rescue Noggin from their power. We calculated that there were twenty warriors altogether. They were on foot. They were dragging Noggin on, but he evidently delayed them as much as possible. Perhaps, poor fellow, he suspected that Blount and I were following him. We travelled faster than they did, and towards the evening of the fifth day of our journey we saw, from the freshness of the trail, that we were not far from them. We examined our rifles to be ready for an emergency; but we knew that we could do nothing to help our friend before night. We supposed that we were about half a mile or so from our enemies, and not deeming it wiser to get much nearer, we continued to follow at the same pace at which they were going. "At last we came to more open ground, and several times we caught sight of them. We were near enough indeed to count their numbers, and we found that we had made an exact estimate of them. Evening at last came, and we knew that they were encamped. It was now, therefore, necessary to be more careful than ever, for some of the warriors might be prowling about, and should they discover us, even though we might escape them or come off victorious, we should have to abandon all hopes of saving Noggin. We accordingly lay down in some thick cover where no one was likely to find us, and waited till they were likely to have gone to sleep for the night. We talked over all sorts of plans. Blount proposed going boldly into the camp himself dressed as a medicine-man; but then the difficulty was to find the wherewithal to fit himself out. I, too, opposed the scheme; for they would naturally be suspicious, and, come from whatever quarter he might, they would be apt to question him very narrowly before letting him range their camp at liberty. "`Well, Short, it's all very well for you to say this plan won't do, or that won't do, but do you just tell me what will do.' "This was a poser; I could not. We had our deerskin coats. They had been saved in the canoe. He proposed cutting his into strips, and with the aid of a red pocket-handkerchief he judged that he could turn himself into a very good white medicine-man. I at last consented to let him try the scheme, provided no opportunity occurred during the night of helping poor Noggin. When the plan was arranged, we crept nearer and nearer to the savages. They had camped in an open part of a green valley, the sides of which were clothed with trees. They were far enough from any trees not to be taken by surprise from any enemies except those armed with rifles. We climbed one of the trees, whence we could look down on them and watch their proceedings. We might indeed have picked several of them off had revenge alone been our object; but that would have done no good to poor Noggin, unless he could have managed to escape in the confusion. "Hour after hour passed away. The savages sat up talking over their fire. Several of them at last lay down, but a party went out to examine the neighbourhood of the camp, and when they returned four of those who had previously gone to sleep got up and sat watching their prisoner, evidently with malignant pleasure. This vigilance of the enemy made us almost despair of being able to deliver our friend. Whenever we turned our eyes in the direction of the camp, there were the four wretches gazing up into the countenance of their victim, and he, poor fellow, already looked more dead than alive. Thus we lay stretched out at our length watching them hour after hour. No one moved. Our hearts sank within us. After about four hours the guards gave some loud grunts, and some of their companions starting up took their places. They seemed to watch the countenance of their victim with intense gratification. If, in spite of the bodily pain and mental suffering he was enduring, he dropped asleep, one of them would throw a burning brand at him, to rouse him up again to a full consciousness of his position. It was with the greatest difficulty that I could refrain from knocking over one of the scoundrels, when I saw him treating the poor fellow in that way. "Daylight was now approaching; with heavy hearts we had to withdraw for fear of being discovered when the Indians should break up their camp in the morning. We feared, too, that we should not have another opportunity, for we judged that the Indians were close upon their village from the way in which they had feasted, leaving scarcely any food for the next day. A hunter is obliged to observe everything, and to make what he observes speak a plain language to him. We crept away from the camp to our former hiding-place, and then, overcome with fatigue, we both fell asleep. We were protected during these hours of helplessness by a power greater than man's. "When we awoke the sun was already high in the heavens; we ate our frugal meal, and then set forward to overtake the Indians. They had started early, and had got much ahead of us. We pushed on, but still did not overtake them. We had been travelling some eight or nine hours, when, being on the top of some rising ground, we saw in the distance several curling wreaths of smoke rising up amid the forest. We guessed that without doubt they proceeded from the village of our enemies. Our chief chance of rescuing Noggin was gone. To get him out from among a village full of men, women, and children, all thirsting for his blood, was next to impossible. Still Blount said he would try it. We crept carefully in the track of the red-skins, stopping at every spot from which we could have a clear look ahead, and occasionally climbing trees whence we might hope to get a sight of the village. This was in one respect a dangerous proceeding, for should the Indians cross our trail, they would very likely discover us, although we took care to obliterate, as far as we are able, all marks of our progress. In this way we went on till Blount and I having got to the top of a thick-branched and wide-spreading fir, we saw, scarcely the eighth of a mile off, the conical-shaped wigwams of our enemies. Loud shouts and shrieks reached our ears; the old men, women, and children had gone out to welcome their warriors and their unfortunate captive. We could see him in the middle of them, and the women and children rushing up and hissing at him, and abusing him, and pinching him, and spitting at him, treating him, indeed, with every indignity. He stood quiet, as far as we could see, without flinching. At last he was led on and secured to a tree, close to one of the principal lodges. There the savages let him remain while they retired to their homes, and the women set to work to prepare them a feast. "We now judged it time to get farther off to take some rest which we so much needed. We knew that the savages were not likely to put him to death that night, probably not till the following evening. We chewed some dried venison, and then fell asleep. It was pitchy dark when we awoke, but the noise from among the Indian lodges was louder than ever. Once more we approached the spot, fires were blazing brightly in the centre of the village, and the savages were dancing madly round them, leaping, and shrieking, and howling, in the most terrific manner. A stake had been run into the ground, and poor Noggin, stripped to the waist, was tied to it. His face was turned towards us; despair sat upon it, it was already as pale as death, indeed he did not look as if he had many minutes to live. The cruel savages thought so likewise, and, afraid of losing their victim, they had resolved at once, it appeared, to commence that series of tortures which would terminate with his death. With horrid cries the women approached him, and ran into his flesh the burning ends of sticks, which they flourished in their hands, and they hallooed and shouted in his ears, to rouse him up to feel the more acutely his sufferings. Talk of the noble qualities of savages, I've seen a good deal of human nature, and to my mind, left to itself without anything to improve or correct it, there is nothing too bad or abominably cruel which it will not do." "There, I have told you enough of the old fellow's story for the present," exclaimed Dick Onslow, throwing himself back in his chair and stretching out his legs. "I know that I am very thankful that I had not to share poor Noggin's fate." "You are a pretty fellow for a story-teller," cried one of his hearers (I believe it was I, his humble amanuensis, Barrington Beaver). "You leave the honest Delaware in the clutches of the bear; you leave yourself surrounded by a band of fierce Dacotahs thirsting for your blood; and poor Noggin even in a worse predicament; indeed, I would not wish to be in the skins of either Short or Blount; and now you suddenly stop short, and leave us all lost in a labyrinth of doubt as to how they got out of their various dilemmas." "Not a word more just now, not a word more," answered Dick, laughing. "You'll all do your best to keep me alive, and I promise you I will go on with my tale another day." CHAPTER EIGHT. OBED'S STORY CONTINUED--NOGGIN RESCUED BY THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER--SAM AND BLOUNT RETIRE, HOPING THAT HE MAY BE HAPPY--THEY CONTINUE THEIR WANDERINGS--BLOUNT'S DEATH--SAM PROCEEDS ALONE--CAPTURED BY THE RED-SKINS--THEY PREPARE TO KILL HIM--NOT LIKING IT, HE ENDEAVOURS TO ESCAPE FROM IT--ESCAPE AND PURSUIT--A RIDE FOR LIFE--HARD PRESSED FOR FOOD--OBED'S ADVENTURES--HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THE BEAR--THE FAITHFUL DELAWARE. "So you all want to know what became of poor Noggin," said Dick, leaning back in his comfortable arm-chair, after he had taken a sip from his claret glass, and stretching out his legs on the thick buffalo-skin which served as a rug to his cosy dining-room fire-place. "I'll continue the narrative as old Short told it to me, though not exactly in his own words, for those I cannot pretend to repeat--I cannot even hope to imitate his quaint expressions and racy humour. Noggin stood the attacks of his tormentors with as much heroism as could the most stoical of red warriors. We longed to rush in to his rescue, but we knew full well that the attempt would be worse than useless, and we should inevitably lose our own lives and not save his. The fires burned up brightly, shedding a lurid glare over the whole scene, making the red-painted and feather-bedizened warriors, and their hideous brown squaws, look more horrible and terrific than ever, as they danced, and leaped, and grinned, and shrieked round our friend. To make the picture perfect, you must remember the dark forest in the background, the tents covered with red-tanned skins, and the groups of children and dogs scuttling about in front of them, with the stakes, and the lean-to's, and sheds of different sorts, on or in which the spoils of the chase and other provisions were hung to dry or smoke. Indians delight in prolonging the sufferings of their captives; so they, in their refined cruelty, took care not to wound the poor fellow in any vital part. "After a short time the old squaws resharpened the points of their fire-sticks, and then they all advanced together, the warriors brandishing their tomahawks and shrieking louder than ever. Noggin eyed them all, however, with perfect coolness and disdain. I thought that his last moments had come. This conduct, though the savages admired it, only made them the more anxious to conquer his spirit. Several produced their instruments of torture to tear his flesh, and to pull out his eyes and his tongue, indeed, I will not describe all the excruciating cruelties they were prepared to inflict; I well-nigh gave way myself with horror, though my nerves were pretty well strung, when a young squaw, who had been sitting in the shadow of one of the tents, sprang up, and darting between the warriors and old women, before any of them could stop her, threw one of her arms round Noggin's neck, and holding out her other hand, in a tone of authority ordered her savage country men and women to keep back, and claimed him as her husband. She was a fine, tall young woman, and though her skin was dark, her features were handsome and full of animation, while her eye sparkled with the spirit which burned in her bosom. "`Come, loose him, loose him,' she cried, and we could understand her language. `He is mine. Let none of you dare to hurt a hair of his head.' "I had heard of such things having been done before, but I did not much believe in them. It convinced me that woman has a tender, compassionate, loving heart in every country, and that man should prize it as one of the richest gifts which bounteous Nature has bestowed on him, and consider it one of the most cowardly of acts and the foulest of crimes to tamper with or betray it. The young girl was a chiefs daughter. Her people, as they were bound to do, obeyed her immediately. Noggin was released, and led by her to her tent. Instead of the torments he had been suffering, he found himself tended with the gentlest care which affection could dictate. "Blount and I seeing this, made signs to each other that it was time for us to be off. In the morning the red-skins would be prowling about, and they would be too glad to get us instead of the victim who had escaped them. We were not likely to find another Poccahuntas to save our lives. We went back the way we had come, obliterating as best we could all traces of our advance, and at last, after many hardships, we reached our canoe. We had our rifles, but our ammunition was growing short, and we had no means of replenishing it; the winter also was coming on, and we were far from any white settlement. Still hunters are not to be frightened by trifles; we knew well not only how to trap beavers, but anything that flies, creeps, or swims, and we agreed that we would lay up a store of provisions, and spend the winter by the side of the river. To think with a hunter is to act. Our great want was salt. We caught soon a supply of fish, fowl, and deer, and we killed a bear, which made very good beef; but all these things we had to dry in the sun or to smoke; we kept our ammunition in case of any extremity in which we might find ourselves. We should have liked to have communicated with Noggin, but we knew that he, like many white men who had married Indian women, would be reconciled to his lot, and from henceforth live the life of Indians. "We agreed, therefore, as soon as the return of spring enabled us to travel, we would take up our beaver skins and furs left in _cache_, and go back with them to the settlements. Had we been supplied with powder, we should not have hesitated at once to commence our journey, but unarmed, as we soon should be, we should have been both unable to supply ourselves with food, or to defend ourselves against any enemies we might meet; whereas in the spring we should descend rapidly in our canoe, and carry our provisions with us. "Several weeks passed away. We had a warm hut built and a good supply of provisions and fuel collected. It was intensely cold, and the river was frozen across, and the snow had set in. My great concern was for my companion. Illness had attacked him: he grew weaker and weaker every day. With a sorrowful heart I saw that he had not long to live. I told him so at last. He would not believe me. He said that he should get better, that the cough would leave him, and that he was stronger than he had been. He almost persuaded me that I was wrong in my surmises and that he should recover. When the cold grew very great he took to his bed, from which, according to my idea, I thought he would never rise. "At last one day, however, he sat up and said he should like to go out and see if he could not kill a wild turkey; he should like to have some fresh meat. I told him I would get it for him: he said no, half the pleasure would be in killing it himself; he felt as strong as a buffalo, and knew he could walk a dozen miles. So he got up, and put on his thick coat, and took down his rifle from the peg to which it hung, and said he was ready. I looked at him with wonder. His cheeks were so wan and his hands so thin I did not think he could have held his rifle. "`If you will go, I will go with you, Blount,' said I, and took down my rifle to follow him. "I had just got to the door of our hut, when I heard him say, `Ah! there is the turkey cock.' So, sure enough, there was one sitting on the bough of a tree not fifty yards from us. As he spoke the crack of his rifle sounded in my ears--down came the bird. It seemed as if he was going to run to pick it up; but he staggered forward a few paces, and before I could get up to him he had fallen flat on his face. The blood gushed from his mouth. I lifted him from the ground; he pressed my hand, and before I got him back to our hut he was dead. I sat down and did what I had not done for many a long year before--I burst into tears. He had been my companion and friend, faithful and true, almost from his youth upward--son, wife, everything to me--and now he was gone, and I was alone in the great white melancholy wilderness. "After a time I became quite foolish--I spoke to him, I called out his name, I entreated him to answer me. I felt at last that I should go mad if I kept him longer near me, so I roused myself and dragged his body to a distance under an old hickory tree. The ground was too hard to let me dig a grave, so I made a hole in the snow, and collected all the stones I could find near the river, and piled them over him; I never went near the spot again. The next three or four weeks were the most miserable I ever passed in my life. Not that I had any great reason to be anxious about myself. I had an abundance of food, and I knew that I could easily find my way to the settlements in the spring; but it was the long, long solitude which I dreaded." "I can enter into your feelings," said I, interrupting him, and I told him what I had suffered, and on comparing notes we found that we had been within a hundred miles of each other. "However, go on," said I, and Short continued his narrative. "Three or four weeks had passed away after the death of Blount, when one day, as I was standing near my hut wishing for the return of spring--for I had very little to occupy my hands or thoughts--I saw half a dozen red-skins approaching me at a rapid rate. To attempt to fly was useless, and I knew that I could not hope to defend myself successfully; so, though I did not like their looks, I saw that my only chance of safety was to meet them in a friendly manner. Accordingly, I advanced towards them. As I got nearer I saw that they were Pawnees, some of the very tribe among whom Noggin was located, and three of whose people I had lately killed; I may add also the greatest thieves in this part of the country. Still I put the best face I could put on the matter, and held out my hand in token of friendship. "Instead of taking it, two of them seized me by the shoulders and hurried me back to my hut. As soon as they entered they began to make free with everything they saw, and it was very evident that they had come to rob me of all they could get. When their eyes fell on poor Blount's rifle, they asked me what had become of my companion. I made signs to them that he was dead. They examined the hut for a few minutes, and then seemed satisfied that I told them the truth. On finding that I had a good store of provisions they made signs to me to light a fire, and then forced me to cook enough provisions to satisfy their not very moderate appetites. I knew that it was better to comply with their commands than to refuse, and the less spirit I showed the less likely they were to keep a strict watch over me. If they considered that I was a brave fellow they would look upon me as a greater prize, and treat me accordingly. "After they had eaten as much as they could, they went hunting about the spot in all directions till they came to the place where my canoe was hid away. No sooner did they see it, than there was a great consultation among them, and then they came back and sat round my fire and talked away for an hour or more. The result of this conference was anything but favourable to me. They had undoubtedly heard of the death of their countrymen, and knowing the locality, and seeing the canoe, they had come to the conclusion that the deed had been done by my hand or by that of my late companion. This, doubtless, saved my life for the present. If I had killed their friends, they wished to preserve me to put me to death with the most refined of their tortures. That night they slept in my hut. The next morning, having pulled the canoe to pieces, and totally destroyed my hut, they set forth on what I guessed from their preparations to be a long journey. "I will not describe that journey. At night we slept within any thick wood or cypress swamp we could find, and travelled on the greater part of the day. My captors exhibited a wonderful power of endurance. I walked, of course, with lagging steps, for I felt sure that could I not find means to escape, I should be put to death at the end of it. At last we fell in with the main body of the tribe. No sooner was I shown to them, than several of them declared that I was the very man who had killed their companions, and my heart sunk within me; I knew that they would to a certainty put me to death if they could. The chief forthwith held a consultation with all ceremony, and speedily decided my fate. I was led into a large wigwam to pass the night, and guarded by my captors. I watched all night for an opportunity to escape, but my arms and legs were secured by leathern thongs which cut almost into my flesh, and I had no power to release myself. My heart, as well, it might, sunk lower and lower. "Day came; I made up my mind that it was to be my last on earth. I thought of Noggin, and I knew that if he could he would rescue me, but at the same time I was aware that the cunning red-skins would not let him know that I had been captured. The day wore on; the tribe collected from far and near; the fires were lighted; the squaws and children assembled; indeed, the same scene was enacted which I had seen gone through with Noggin. The fire was actually scorching my feet, and the smoke was ascending into my nostrils, when the sky grew dark and a terrific snow-storm commenced. Down it came like a sheet upon the earth and speedily put out the fires. The red-skins rushed into their wigwams. I was dragged back into the one where I had passed the night, and was told that my death was postponed till the next day. I resolved to make use of the time of grace; still my prospect of escape was slight indeed. A stout thong of buffalo-hide was fastened round my neck, and secured to one of the beams which ran across the top of the wigwam; thongs fastened my wrists and ankles, and cut deeply into my flesh; and my guards, squatted closely around, seemed inclined never to take their eyes off me. Every now and then they addressed me and told me for my comfort that I should eat fire in the morning; I wished that they would go to sleep, and, at all events, leave me in peace. "At last four of them lay down, and I knew by their snoring that they were really unconscious of the present. Two of them still sat up and kept talking at me, describing the horrors I was to go through. At length one of those two lay down, and now only one old man remained awake; I thought he would never cease talking, and smoking, and tormenting me. On he talked; never have I seen a more hideous or vicious old fellow. I tried in vain not to listen. However, at last his voice grew thick, and more and more indistinct; his pipe went out, and his head dropped on his breast. "Not a moment was to be lost; I tugged and tugged at the thongs which bound my wrists. My heart beat so quick and loud that I thought the sound would awaken my captors. My struggles freed my wrists, and I soon had my ankles free, but the tough, well-seasoned buffalo-hide rope round my neck resisted all my efforts to loosen it. Daylight was approaching. The noise I made, or my loud breathing, roused up the old man. I thought all was lost. Placing my hands behind me, I pretended to be dozing. He got up, stirred the fire, and then sat down again. Oh, how anxiously I waited for him to go to sleep again! Once more his head dropped on his breast, and he snored. That was the sweetest noise I had heard for a long time. "I had gnawed and tugged at the thong round my neck in vain; but I knew that what a steady strain will not accomplish a sudden jerk may do. I seized the thong with the grasp of despair, gave it two or three rapid pulls, and to my joy it parted. I was free, but still I had many dangers to encounter. A watchful dog or a sleepless Indian might discover me. Treading with the caution I knew was so necessary, I passed between the bodies of the sleeping red-skins and stepped out into the open air. The cold restored my strength. I looked around on every side. The stars were shining brightly above my head, and the lodges of my enemies lay around in the dark shadow of the forest. The neighing of a horse showed me where some of the steeds of the tribe were tethered. I ran towards the spot. I had no time for selection. I threw myself on the back of the first animal I found. The first faint streaks of dawn were already appearing in the eastern sky. Not an instant had I to lose. I should, I knew, be very speedily pursued. I scarcely had time to consider in which direction I should go. The thong which still hung round my neck served me for a bridle. I looked up at the bright stars, and turned the horse's head towards the south. One thing only I could resolve on--not to pull rein till I was beyond the reach of pursuit. I soon found that I had got one of the best horses of the whole stud. "Away I went galloping over the snow, fleet as the wind. I could not conceal my trail; but if I had the best steed and an hour's start, I might keep ahead of my pursuers, and fall in with some friendly tribe, or by some other means obtain assistance before I was overtaken. My horse was a noble animal. He had, I doubt not, been stolen not long before from the whites, and he seemed glad to have a white man again on his back. Poor beast! I did not spare him. Full fifty miles I went without pulling rein. Then I threw myself off and turned his head to the wind to let him regain his strength. But few minutes only I halted; I either heard my pursuers or thought I heard them. Again I mounted and galloped on as before. The noble brute seemed to know the importance of haste. Oh, how willingly he went up steep hills, down wild valleys, across streams, over the most rugged ground--nothing stopped him. We came to a broad river. It was frozen over with a sheet of smooth ice, from which the wind had blown the snow. Still on he went, slipping and sliding. Several times I thought he would be down, and yet I dared not check him; but he recovered himself and reached the opposite side in safety. Sometimes we were almost buried in the snow. "On the other side of the river we plunged into a deep snow-drift; but he plunged on, and, planting his feet on firm ground, sprung upward again, and on he went breasting the side of a steep hill. We gained the summit. I looked back for an instant. I thought I could discern in the far distance several black spots. I was sure that they were my pursuers. On I went along the ridge of the mountain. It was stony and free from snow, and I hoped that if my pursuers should discover my trail across the ice they might possibly here lose it. This thought gave me fresh courage. I came to the end of the ridge and descended into the plain. My noble steed was becoming much distressed. Still I valued my life more than his. As long as he could go I must make him go. On he went. Full eighty miles had been passed over since dawn. Neither my horse nor I had tasted food. Still I dared not stop. Across the plain we went. Nearly another ten miles were gone over. I felt my horse's legs staggering under him. He breathed heavily, his pace slackened; still he endeavoured to spring forward. He staggered more and more, and I had barely time to throw myself off when down he came to the ground. Once he tried to rise, but again he fell, and his glassy eye told me too plainly that he had destroyed himself in his efforts to save me. Who but the base-hearted would be unmerciful to man's most serviceable and sagacious of friends? I had no time to stop and mourn for my gallant steed. Casting but another look on him I ran on over the ground as rapidly as my legs would carry me. I never stopped; I never looked behind me. I knew that nothing would turn aside my blood-thirsty pursuers. Night came on; still I ran without slacking my speed. "I had been in motion since the morning without food, still the dread of falling into the power of my savage foes gave me supernatural strength. A wood lay before me; I plunged into it. I still could distinguish my course by the stars, and I hoped that my pursuers would be unable to make out my trail. This hope gave me fresh courage, but my strength was failing me, and in a short time, gasping for breath, I fell to the ground, and the blood gushed out of my mouth. I thought I was going to die like my poor horse, but after a time I felt better, and hope revived once more. I lay still in the hopes of recovering my strength. I did not wish to sleep; indeed I knew how dangerous it would be to attempt to do so. As I lay on my back, I saw the moon slowly rise above the still trees, and shed a bright light over the landscape. I gazed at it for some time; then I recollected that by its light my pursuers would certainly be able to follow up my trail. Instantly I sprang to my feet, stiff and full of pains as I felt, and on once more I went. I came at last to a rugged hill. I climbed it, and following the stony ridge for some way, descended into the plain on the opposite side. On I ran. As before, I thought I heard the shouts and threatening cries of my enemies, and fancied that they must have got to the side of the mountain I was on by some other path. As long as I had any strength I determined to run on. "Day at last dawned; I entered a wood. I had my knife in my pocket. I dug up some earth-nuts, and chewed some snow. I felt revived, but my legs refused to carry me farther. I discovered a hole full of leaves, I threw myself into it; I listened with intense anxiety for any sounds made by my pursuers. I could hear none. Exhausted nature at length gave way, and I slept. Whether I slept more than a whole day, or only a few hours, I cannot tell. My first impulse was to spring up and continue my flight. But before I left the wood I remembered that I must have more food, so I dug up a further supply of nuts, and then dashed away as before across the plain. I looked hastily around me, but could see no pursuers. Still I knew too well their pertinacity and their devices, to suppose that they would desist from following me, till I was actually in a place of safety. On I went, therefore, rejoicing in the darkness. "Suddenly as I went along I heard some strange sounds. These were human voices. I became aware that I was passing near a large body of Indians. They were not my pursuers, but, till I could ascertain who they were, I would on no account intrust myself with them. To turn back was as hazardous as to proceed, so on I went. They heard me, and came after me. I expected to lose my scalp after all, when you, my friends, came to my rescue, and here I am; rather battered, I own, but still able and willing to pull a trigger for our mutual defence." "Spoken like an honest backwoodsman," cried Obed and his brothers. "Friend Short, if you like to join your fortunes to ours, you are welcome." The old man owned that he had no fancy to hunt by himself, and that after the adventures he had gone through he would gladly leave that part of the country, for, as he said, Indian vengeance never slumbers, and never dies, as if in exact contradiction to the Christian law of love. Knowing that we were surrounded by vindictive enemies, none of us felt inclined for sleep, and I therefore asked Obed to continue the account of his adventures. "Ay, friend, that I will," he answered promptly. "I left the honest Delaware and the bear and her cubs all rolling away into the river together. The cold water somewhat astonished Mistress Bruin, and made her for an instant let go her gripe. The Delaware took the opportunity of striking his knife with all his force into her neck, and before she could return the compliment, he sprang up the bank, on the top of which I stood ready to assist him. The bear was not killed, but, rendered furious by the wound, she began to scramble up the bank after us. The Delaware sprang to get his rifle, while I pointed mine at the brute's head. On she came. I fired, and expected to see her roll over, but the bullet did not strike a vital part, and so she made savagely at me. "The Delaware had by this time regained possession of his rifle, and while I threw myself on one side, he fired with unerring aim full at the bear's head. In another instant her claws would have been on my shoulders, and her teeth in my cheeks. The ball struck her. With a fierce growl she attempted to spring forward, but I stepped back, and over she rolled at our feet. The cubs came waddling up to see what was the matter with their mother, and as they were rather too big to be pleasant companions, we were obliged to kill them. We ate some slices of them afterwards. We spent the evening very pleasantly over our fire, and next day at dawn we pushed on, that we might encamp while there was an abundance of light to put up our wigwam, and to kill any game we might require. Several days passed away without any event of interest to tell you of. The Delaware was an excellent travelling companion, and I believe that without him the Indians would speedily have found me out, and would have left me without a top to my head. We had quitted the banks of the river, and were progressing across a wide-rolling prairie. Although the wind when it blew was keen, the sun had still at midday great power. We toiled on through the high grass with not a breath of air, hoping to get across the prairie before nightfall. We could see, from the nature of the ground, very little way on either side of us. "Suddenly we were conscious of a hot wind blowing on our right cheeks, and then it came laden with smoke and fine dust. `On! on!' cried the Delaware, grasping my arm to hasten my steps. There was reason for us to hasten. `The prairie is on fire, and before long, if we delay, we shall be surrounded by the raging flames!' he exclaimed. `On! on! on!' I saw in the far distance a rocky mound, rising out of the prairie, towards which my guide pointed. I saw that he meant that we should seek safety there, but it seemed to me scarcely possible that we should reach it before the fire would overtake us." CHAPTER NINE. OBED'S ADVENTURES CONTINUED--JOURNEY WITH THE DELAWARE--THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE--THEY FLY FOR THEIR LIVES--A STAMPEDO--A NARROW ESCAPE ON THE ROCK--LONG JOURNEY--APPROACH OF WINTER--THEIR LIFE IN A CAVE--EXPECTED VISIT FROM BEARS--JOURNEY CONTINUED--ARRIVAL AT THE FORT--FURTHER ADVENTURES WITH BEARS AND WOLVES--SAVE THE LIFE OF A YOUNG CHIEF--CARRY HIM ONWARD TILL THEY REACH THEIR CAMP--THE YOUNG RED-SKIN'S GRATITUDE-- END OF OBED'S NARRATIVE--FRESH ALARMS--AGAIN THE ENEMY APPROACH. "The Delaware and I ran on at full speed through the high grass," continued Obed. "Every instant I expected to be tripped up by its tough roots which trailed along the earth, but my companion, who was well accustomed to the sort of ground, kept me from falling. I asked him, as we ran, why he did not stop, and, as I knew to be the custom, cut down and burn a clear space round us, so as to let the conflagration pass by on either side. "`The deer and buffaloes, and other wild animals, would rush through the space and trample us to death,' he answered. `Even now I hear the sound of their hoofs in the distance--haste! haste!' "I tried to listen as I ran, and I fancied that I did hear a low, murmuring, hollow sound, which had a peculiarly terror-inspiring effect. The wind blew stronger, the air became denser and more oppressive, and the ashes fell thicker around us. We distinctly heard the noise of the rushing flames. The rock towards which we were running rose before us, but, yet near as it was, the fire came roaring on so rapidly that I fully expected it to overtake us. On it came, hissing and crackling. The air grew hotter and hotter, and more and more oppressive. As I struggled on I felt as if I could scarcely move my limbs. It was like a dreadful dream, when a person fancies that danger is near, and that he cannot fly from it. I gasped for breath. The Indian also was much distressed. Some things men can get accustomed to, but to have to run for one's life, with a prairie-fire roaring at one's side, one does not like a bit more the tenth time it is encountered than the first. `On! on!' cried out the faithful Delaware. He could run faster than I could, but still he delayed for me. Besides the crackling and hissing of the fire, there was a loud, roaring, trampling, crushing, thundering sound, or mixture of sounds, utterly indescribable. The rock was reached--we clambered up it. We gained the summit. It was a wide, open space, entirely free of grass. "Almost fainting, I was sinking to the ground, when I saw the Delaware pointing to the plain below us. There, across the ground we had just left, came tearing along, in strange confusion, herds of buffaloes, deer, wolves, foxes, prairie-hares, several bears, and even birds, turkeys, prairie-hens, and other wild fowl, all uttering their peculiar cries of terror, and utterly disregarding each other. Not one stopped to prey on another. "One feeling of intense terror inspired the whole mass. On they flew, fleet as the wind; all they seemed to think of was that the fire was behind them, and that, unless they would be destroyed, they must fly. Some were left dead or wounded; the weak trampled on by the stronger; but still on scampered the mass, with the fire raging at their heels. I saw what would have been our fate, had we not reached the rock before the herd passed by, and I thanked Heaven that we had been preserved. We remained on the rock for some hours, till the ground below was cool enough to enable us to proceed; but, after the heat of the fire, the air felt bitterly cold, and we had no shelter from it. I do not think we could have endured it during the night. We descended, and began to cross the remainder of the plain, but even then our feet struck up sparks from the yet smouldering ashes, and light clouds of smoke rose up continually, circling round our heads till they were dispersed in the clear atmosphere. "Desolate, dismal, and barren looked the country through which we journeyed on the following day. Not a vestige remained of animal life, but here and there appeared the skinless skulls and bones of some huge buffalo or stately stag, which had long lain there blanching in the sun. The sky had for some time been overcast. The Delaware pointed towards it. `The winter is coming,' he observed; `this is not the place to be overtaken in a snow-storm.' I agreed with him; so, in spite of the fatigue which, after my wounds and loss of blood, I felt in a way I had never before done, I dragged my heavy legs after him. We reached about nightfall a clump of trees. Under their shelter we lighted our fire, cooked our provisions, and lay down to rest. Nature required rest. Often have I thought of those words: `The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath.' Constituted as man is, what a blessing truly is the Sabbath! how sweet, how necessary is rest! "We rose before daybreak, stirred up our fire, cooked and ate our breakfast, and, as the light of dawn found its way through the trees which surrounded us, we started on our way. The sky was ominously dark, but the snow had not yet begun to fall, yet the piercing air told us that it would not long be delayed. The Delaware spoke but little. He evidently did not like the state of things. I had made up my mind from the first to be guided by his judgment. One thing was very certain, that we could not stop where we were. Our only chance of safety depended on our pushing on. `Where to?' I thought. I saw nothing but the wide-rolling, blackened prairie before me. The sight alone was depressing, independent of the anticipation of coming evil. Hour after hour passed. Not a break appeared in the clouds, not a gleam of sunshine burst forth to cheer us. Still the snow did not fall, and there was nothing to impede our progress. We stopped at noon to dine. A few minutes sufficed us for our frugal meal. The bitter cold did not tempt us to rest longer than was necessary. "On again we went. `Where is the wood in which we are to pass the night?' I asked of the Delaware. `It is yet far-off,' was his unsatisfactory answer. Evening was drawing on. I saw a bleak hill, but no wood capable of affording us shelter. Just then a snowflake settled on my face. It was a slight thing. How indifferent should I have been to it at other times! Now it made my heart sink lower than it had ever done before. Another and another fell; then down the snowflakes came rapidly, thickly sprinkling the ground and our garments. The wind sent them driving against us over the prairie. The Delaware pointed to the hill. On towards it we pushed. The snow in a few minutes completely covered the ground, a sheet of white was spread out where lately all had been black, here and there only the taller tufts of grass appearing above it. There was no prospect of the snow ceasing to fall. Soon it covered our moccasins and reached to our ankles. Walking became more and more difficult. It was half-way up to our knees, still we pushed on. My companion remained silent. I did not trouble him by asking questions. He had hopes of escaping, or he would, I thought, very likely have sat down where he was and quietly awaited his fate. Had he done so, it would have been my business to rouse him to exertion. The snow fell thicker and thicker. Daylight was rapidly decreasing. It grew less and less. All we could see was the sheet of snow immediately surrounding us. Still my companion went steadily on. "Backwoodsman as I am, and am proud to be, I should have been completely at a loss in what direction to go had I been left by myself, except I had trusted to the wind. As long as that blew it would have served as a guide, though a somewhat uncertain one. Even that guide proved fickle. The wind fell and the snow came down perpendicularly, or rather on all sides, floating here and there, and completely surrounding us. Still my companion went on without hesitation. At first I had walked by his side, now I dropped behind him and trod in his footsteps. This enabled me to keep up with him better. As far as I could judge, I believe his course was straight as an arrow for the point at which he was aiming. The cold was less intense than it had been before the snow began to fall, still I felt that if we were to stop we should very likely be frozen to death. Though I kept as close as I could to my companion, almost touching him indeed, so thickly did the snow come down that often I could barely distinguish his misty form before me. "I never felt so helpless; my manhood seemed to have deserted me. I thought if I should stumble and fall, before I could cry out he might be out of sight and be unable to find me. I confess that all sorts of dreadful fancies came into my head. At last I got ashamed of them, and tried to get a better heart in my body. I began to whistle, but that would not do, then I tried to sing; I got on badly enough in that way also. I don't think the Delaware quite approved of the attempt. He grunted out something once or twice. Perhaps he was trying to join in the chorus. My voice, indeed, grew fainter and fainter, and at last I was obliged to give up the attempt. My knees, too, were less and less able to support me; I felt them trembling under my weight. Still I toiled on. I would not complain, that would have lowered me in the estimation of my guide, and I would not ask questions, so I remained ignorant as to what prospect there was of our reaching shelter from the storm. "At last I found that we were going up hill over rugged ground, and I concluded that we had reached the hill I had seen before it grew dark. We went on for some way up and then down, and then along a level place, and then up again, and I saw a dark object rising on my right side, high above our heads it seemed. It looked to me like a precipice. Presently my guide stopped, so suddenly that I ran against him. Then he turned to the right without speaking, and I followed him. We went on a few paces, and I found that we were in total darkness. No snow fell on me, the air felt comparatively warm, and I was conscious that there was something above my head. "`Stay,' said the Delaware, and I heard the click of his flint and steel. The bright sparks came forth and he applied them to his tinder, and I saw the glowing mass lowered to the ground; and the countenance of the Indian lighted up as he blew against it till it grew larger and larger, and a bright flame burst forth, and I found that we were in a high arched cavern. How cheerful the fire looked as it burned up, and sitting round it we warmed our numbed limbs, and felt that we had found a shelter from the storm. The place had evidently constantly been used for the same purpose. There was a good supply of wood on one side, sufficient to light many a fire for some time to come. Farther up, the floor of the cavern was strewed with the bones of animals, many of which must have been of vast size, and have lived in bygone ages. We had killed a deer not long before, so having warmed our hands we set to work to toast some of the meat at the end of our ramrods. The food and warmth once more wakened the Delaware's tongue, and he told me that in five days, after leaving our present position, we should be able to reach Fort Laramie. "`When shall we be able to leave it?' I asked. `Is there not some probability of our being snowed up?' "`I cannot answer two questions in one breath,' answered the Delaware. `As to when we can leave the cavern, depends on when the snow ceases falling. It may be in three days, or it may fall for a week or more. As to being snowed up, there is not much probability of that. Should it by any chance drift against the mouth of the cavern, we must cut our out. But do not fear. We are warm here, we have fire and food. Let us be thankful for the blessings we enjoy.' "I felt the truth and wisdom of his observations, and having piled up more wood on the fire, we wrapped ourselves up in our buffalo robes, and lay down with our feet towards it. The Indian was asleep in an instant. Though I thought for a minute or so, I very quickly followed his example. We both of us awoke at intervals and made up our fire, but were instantly again asleep, and I do not think I ever enjoyed more refreshing slumber. It was broad daylight when I awoke. I got up and went to the mouth of the cavern; the snow fell as thickly and fast as ever, but as it did not appear to be blocking up our cavern, that did not concern me. "After some time the Delaware awoke, and then we toasted some more venison. After he had eaten it, he lay down and went fast asleep again. I slept a good deal, but I could not manage as much as he did. I asked him how he contrived to sleep so much. He laughed calmly. "`When I have thought of what is to be done, why should I think of anything more? Then I sleep to be ready for the work to be done.' "Day after day passed by; I began to grow very weary of being shut up in the cavern, though I exercised my limbs by walking up and down it continually, and amused myself by examining the bones of the animals in the interior. Many of them were, I doubted not, of elephants, and lions, and tigers, strange animals which I had read about, while with the others I was familiar enough--buffaloes, bears, wolves, stags, and others. I must own that I was not always quite comfortable when I lay down to sleep, expecting that perhaps we might be visited by a roving bear, or a hungry wolf; and more than once, when I opened my eyes, I fully expected to see one poking his head in at the entrance, or standing by ready to fly at one of us the instant we made any movement. The Delaware did not appear to be troubled about the matter, and certain it is that none came near us all the time we were in the cave. The only reason the Indian could give for our not being attacked, was that the animals were afraid of the spirits of their long-dead fellows, whose bones were found there. I suspect that the bears did not come because the cave was so frequently visited, while the wolves kept to their lower grounds, where they were more likely to find animals to prey on. "The snow ceased at last; but it was not till the tenth day that the Delaware said that it would be hard enough for us to travel on without snow-shoes. We had to ascend the mountain some way, and then to descend. The western side was thickly covered with trees; indeed, the country through which we passed was very rich, and only wanted the hand of an industrious people to make it fertile. We each night reached a good camping place, and as we were fortunate in killing two hen turkeys, the Delaware said we should not be pressed for want of food, and we accordingly travelled on at an easy pace. One forenoon, as we were passing over a height, I knew from the way the trees grew that there was a river below us, though now it was covered with nature's uniform of white. Carrying my eye along it in the far distance, I saw a wreath of white smoke ascending into the clear, bright blue sky. There was something inexpressibly cheering in the sight, after going so long without seeing the slightest sign of human beings. However, the smoke might be produced by Indians, and perhaps enemies, whom we must of necessity avoid. I asked the Delaware if he would tell what he knew about the matter. "`That is the fort,' he answered; `you will there very likely gain tidings of your friends.' "My heart bounded within me at the thought of being once more united to my family. "`The sun will sink thus far down before we can reach the place,' said the Indian, pointing to the sky with his hand. "This good news added fresh vigour to my muscles, and I found myself not only keeping up with the Indian, but actually hurrying his steps. After walking for nearly two hours over very rugged ground, up and down steep and wild hills, we saw before us, on an elevated mound overlooking the river, a strong stockade, over which peeped the roofs of several cottages, while a deep trench cut round the hill added yet more to the strength of the place. As the Delaware and I drew near, we saw that we were closely watched through a spy-glass. We waved our hands to show that we came as friends, and as we began to climb the steep height towards the fort, several people came out by the door of the fort to meet us. How pleasant it was to be welcomed as a white man by white men, to hear them talk and to be treated as a brother! The honest Delaware, too, was welcomed, for he had brought letters for many in the fort, and undertook to deliver any others in return, with which he might be intrusted. How pleasant was a cup of hot tea, and some soft bread, and the vegetables for dinner, and then to find myself turning into a real bed, with sheets and blankets! The truth is, however, that after sleeping so long in the open air, I found that of a small room so oppressive that I could not breathe, and had to get up and open the window, and let the cold in. But I am going ahead too fast. "Having satisfied the governor of the fort all about myself, I inquired if they could give me tidings of my family. What was my satisfaction to find that a party answering their description were encamped in winter quarters not more than a week's journey to the north-west. My friend the Delaware knew the spot, and undertook to guide me there. We spent two days longer in the fort to refresh ourselves, and both of us truly needed rest, and then we set out. He had guided me so far in safety, that I felt the most perfect confidence in his courage, judgment, and honesty. We got new moccasins at the fort, and our clothes mended, and our friends furnished us with an ample supply of provisions. Though I had been very happy in the fort, and very kindly treated, I felt as I could fancy a man would, just let out of prison, when I found myself once more walking along with my faithful companion over the snow. The weather was very fine, there was no wind, and at times in the day we found it much too hot to wear our buffalo-skin coats. "One day with us was much like another, though, by the bye, we did meet with some few adventures. We fell in with a fine old grizzly bear, whom we turned out of his cave; but the Delaware shot him through the head, and we afterwards had some capital steaks out of him. Then we were pursued by a pack of wolves, but we climbed a tree and let them pass by us. We were, the Delaware computed, about half a day's journey from the spot at which we were aiming, when we entered a valley, with a high hill on one side of it, broken into rugged precipices. We had advanced some way along the valley, when, as we happened to look up at the heights above us, we saw a figure rapidly coming down towards it. He was hunting some animal, we thought. He did not see his danger. We shouted to him, but it was too late; he did not hear us, and over he went down a frightful precipice. We ran forward, and thinking he must be killed, expected to see his mangled body hanging to some rugged projection in the rock; but the very precipitous character of the cliff had been the means of his preservation. He had fallen directly into a snow-drift, and though a limb apparently was broken, and he was much hurt, he speedily came to himself. To leave him where he was would have been sheer barbarity; so we told him that we would carry him to my father's camp, where he would be quickly cured. He thanked us much, and consented willingly to do as we advised. Cutting some boughs from the trees which grew around, we speedily formed a litter, on which we placed him. "Carrying him between us, we approached the spot where my family were supposed to be encamped. From a hill at a little distance I got a view of it. My heart beat quick at the thought of seeing them all again. They had selected a rocky mound for the site of their encampment, and had surrounded it with a stockade and ditch, so that it was capable of resisting any attack the Indians were likely to make on it. There was room inside, I calculated, not only for their own huts, but for their cattle and wagons, and a supply of fodder and wood. They had spared no pains, I guessed, to make themselves secure and comfortable. The very look of the place convinced me that my family were there. As we drew near, a gate opened, and several people came out. There were, I saw, father and mother, and sisters, and all my brothers but Joab. Then I feared, as I found, that brother Joab had been killed. I said nothing, for I was afraid to ask about him. They all welcomed me as one from the dead, for they thought that I had been killed, and never expected to hear anything of me again, for they had seen me fall, as they had Joab, and he, poor fellow, had been scalped before their eyes, so they had no hopes for him. After they all had done talking to me, I told them about the young red-skin, whom the Delaware and I had brought. The women at once took charge of him, and doctored him in their own kind way. "In the meantime the Delaware was not forgotten, and everybody tried to show their gratitude to him for the service he had been to me. It was several days before the young Indian began to recover; indeed I believe any one but a red-skin would have been killed with such a fall as he had. When he got better he began to talk to us, but we could make out but little of what he said. At last I begged the Delaware to come to him, as he understood his language. After some hesitation, and a long talk with the Delaware, he told us that he was the eldest son of the chief of the Kioway tribe; that he and his people had planned an attack on our fort, and that it was to take place in three days by that time. He said that his people did not know what had become of him, but that they would not abandon their plans on account of his loss. "`Now,' he added, `I will go to them, and tell them all you have done for me, and instead of enemies, they will become your friends.' "In two days more he was strong enough to move, and he insisted on setting out, saying that he should soon fall in with his people. Off he went, and we waited anxiously his return; but in case of treachery we put everything to rights in the fort to resist an attack. In a few hours the young chief came back with some twenty or more painted warriors in his train--very formidable customers they would have proved if they had come as enemies. Well, to make a long story short, when he heard that I was going to set out with my brothers to bring you assistance, he undertook to send twenty of his people with us, while he and the remainder stopped in the neighbourhood to guard our camp. We lost no time in getting ready; I was as fresh as a lark; we travelled fast, and came in time `to do the happy deed which gilds my humble name,' quoth Dick. "`No, no,' exclaimed several of the party simultaneously, `honest Obed Ragget never finished a sentence with a quotation from a play, though it was writ by a minister.' "`To confess the truth, no,' said Dick; `indeed honest Obed's expressions were not always, though highly graphic, grammatically correct, so I have given his narrative in what is generally considered the more orthodox vernacular; yet you have, I own, thereby lost much of the force of his descriptions and no little amusement.' "Obed had scarcely finished his account, when from every part of the whole surrounding wood resounded the most terrific war-whoops and unearthly shrieks and cries. Seizing our weapons, we sprang from our seats, and rushed to repel the expected assault." CHAPTER TEN. THE RED-SKINS ATTEMPT TO ALARM US--SINGULARLY UNSUCCESSFUL--THE ENEMY AT LENGTH COMMENCE THE ASSAULT--WE BRAVELY DEFEND OUR CAMP--SAM DISCOVERS THAT THEY ARE PAWNEES AND DACOTAHS--HIS DEVICE TO SEPARATE THEIR FORCES--DISCOVERS NOGGIN AMONG THEM DRESSED AS A CHIEF--THE ENEMY RETIRE--SAM'S EXPEDITION TO RESCUE NOGGIN, WHICH I ACCOMPANY--OUR SUCCESS--MR. AND MRS. NOGGIN--HIS MAGNIFICENT APPEARANCE AS AN INDIAN CHIEF--WE PUSH ONWARDS AND AT LENGTH REACH THE CAMP OF OUR FRIENDS THE RAGGETS. The red-skins knew that we were on the watch for them, and as they were not likely to take us by surprise, they thought that they could terrify us by their shrieks and hullabaloos. They did not know what we were made of, or they would not have wasted their breath in that way. Two of our scouts came hurrying in, the other two had, we feared, been surprised and scalped by our enemies. We all stood to our arms in dead silence, waiting the expected attack. Our Indian allies wanted to reply to the war-whoops of our foes, but we judged that as they outnumbered us, we should be much more likely to awe them if we remained in perfect silence. Again and again, several times, those unearthly shrieks broke the silence of the night. I own that they were terror-inspiring, and I was very glad each time when they ceased. It was nearly dawn when once more that hideous war-whoop was heard, and instantaneously the snow-clad ground before us was covered with the dark forms of our foes, streaming out from the forest and climbing up the height towards us. The Raggets, Sam Short, Pipestick, and I took the lead in directing the defence, and we were soon joined by old Waggum-winne-beg, who got up, in spite of his wounds and weakness, to give us his assistance. It was evident that our enemies had been reinforced, though it was still too dark to count them with anything like accuracy. Indeed I don't, exaggerate when I say that our sight was not a little disturbed by the showers of arrows which they sent among us. In spite of their numbers, we rather astonished them with the warm reception provided for their entertainment. Old Short was in his element; calling some ten of the Kioways round him, he was here and there and on every side of the camp at the same moment, firing very rapidly and never throwing a shot away. He must have killed a dozen of our enemies in as many minutes. In about twenty minutes they seemed to have had enough of it, and rushed back under shelter as rapidly as they had come out of it. The dawn appeared. The rising sun spread a ruddy glow over the field of snow already stained with the blood of the slain. We thought that our enemies would retire, but no. Without a moment's warning, on they rushed once more up the height. This time our rifles told with more certain effect than even before; not a shot was thrown away, and the redskins fell thickly around us on every side. "What are they about now? They seem to have some scheme in reserve," I observed to Obed. Scarcely had I spoken when some who had retired again came forth, accompanied by a stout, sturdy-looking warrior, who, however, did not seem very anxious to advance. He held a rifle in his hand, which he fired every now and then as he advanced; but he was very long in loading it, and each time his bullet whistled above our heads. His companions were too intent on the attack to observe this. Just then we were joined by old Sam Short. I pointed out the warrior to him. "Why!" he exclaimed, "those fellows are Pawnees, the very villains from whom I escaped, and that seeming chief is no other than poor Noggin. Tell your fellows not to hurt him, and I will have a talk with him before long. If I can get him to draw off the Pawnees, we may easily settle with the remainder of the Dacotahs, whom you have, I see, handled pretty severely already." Saying this, the old hunter disappeared among the tents, but speedily came back rigged out in the most fantastic fashion, holding a long staff in his hand literally covered with rags and tatters, which as he held it aloft streamed in the wind. We, meantime, had been effectually keeping the enemy at bay. "I think this will do for the nonce," he exclaimed; "give them one volley more, and then let me see what I can do." We followed his advice, and the moment we ceased firing, while the enemy were still skipping about to avoid our shots, he rushed from among us, crying out, "Noggin, old friend, tell your fellows that the mighty medicine-man of all the Indians has come to get them out of a great scrape, and that the sooner they take themselves away from this the better." The Indians, astonished at his sudden appearance, hung back, and no one attempted to attack him, as I fully expected they would have done. Noggin, on hearing the voice of his old friend, instantly called his companions around him, we meantime taking care to reserve our fire for our old enemies the Dacotahs. Presently we saw the Pawnees drawing off, while the old hunter, indulging in all sorts of fantastic gestures, came hurrying back to the camp, no one attempting to stop him. I asked him why he had not brought his friend Noggin with him. "Ah, he is an honest fellow," he answered. "He refused to come without Mrs Noggin. The poor girl had trusted to him, had saved his life, and he would not desert her. I honour him for it, but I do not despair of seeing him and her yet. If he can induce her to come, he will bring her as soon as he can make his escape from her tribe. He has no wish to live the life of a red-skin for the remainder of his days. It is my desire, and I think it will be his, to join my fortunes to yours. From what I hear you are bound for California, and I should like to go and try my luck in that country too. I may be of use to you, and you will afford me that companionship which I begin to feel the want of in my old age. I have no fancy again to run the risk of being scalped or roasted, or having to lie down and die by myself like a worn-out old wolf, or other wild beast in the desert." The Raggets and I expressed our satisfaction at the thoughts of having so experienced a hunter as our companion, and that matter was settled off-hand. The Dacotahs had retired when they saw the Pawnees drawing off. They probably tried to ascertain the cause of this desertion. They made but one more very faint attack, and finding, as we supposed, that their chance of success was less than ever, finally retired out of sight into the wood. We could not restrain our Indian allies from rushing out to scalp the slain, though we warned them against surprise, and charged them not to touch the wounded; but I suspect they did not much heed our words. They came back with fully thirty scalps, saying that our bullets had made such sure work, that every one was killed outright. As the day drew on, we were more and more convinced that our enemies had had enough of it. We sent out our scouts, who felt their way cautiously, following their trails. The chief body of the Dacotahs had gone off to the north and east, while the Pawnees had taken the direction of the north-west. The latter had retired with deliberation and order, while the former had made a hurried retreat. A little later in the day a scout came in, saving that the Pawnees had halted about five miles off. "Then I know the reason why," observed Short. "Noggin has persuaded them to halt, and, depend on it, he will try to escape with his wife. If some of you would aid me, I should like to go and meet him, to help him along." Obed and I and John Pipestick agreed to accompany him, with four of our Indian allies. As soon as it was dusk we set off on our expedition. We crept cautiously along from the very fist in Indian file, the scout who had discovered the trail leading, and Short going next. Indeed, the man who wishes to keep the scalp on his head cannot be too cautious when in the Indian country, and with enemies in the neighbourhood. Not a word was spoken, scarcely a sound was heard, while we kept our rifles trailing by our sides, ready for use at a moment's notice. We could not tell, of course, whether the Dacotahs or Pawnees might not have taken it into their heads to come back and attack us, or, at all events, might not have left some scouts to watch our proceedings. We went on thus, till the sounds of drums beating, bones rattling, keeping time to the voices of human beings, creating a most unpleasant sort of music, warned us that we were in the neighbourhood of the Pawnee camp. It was difficult to say when Noggin might take the opportunity of slipping away. It might be at once, while all the noise was going forward, or it might not be till the inhabitants of the camp were asleep. So we all sat down and watched in silence. It was agreed that Short should go forward and meet his friend, so as not to alarm him. I must own that I had fallen asleep, and was dreaming of old England and my comfortable arm-chair, when I was awoke by finding my companions rising and beginning to move on at a rapid rate--I was so sleepy that I could not tell where. On we went, no one speaking, following each other as before, so I judged that it would be wise not to speak either. It was still very dark, all I could do was to see the person immediately preceding me. On, on, we went: at last we began to go up hill, and I found that we were approaching our own camp. The light of our fires was shining brightly from it. Obed answered with a cheerful voice to the challenge of our sentinels, and as we entered our stockade I found, for the first time, that our party was increased by two persons. One was habited in the full costume of a red-skin chief, and a big commanding-looking fellow he was; the other was an Indian squaw; she was a fine but modest girl, and she seemed to shrink back with true feminine timidity from the gaze of so many strangers. To my surprise I found that the handsome chief, who decidedly would have created a great sensation in any London drawing-room, and, perhaps, have won the hearts of half a dozen young ladies, and persuaded them to settle down as the mistress of his faithful retainers in his extensive territories in the Far West, was no other than Tom Noggin, whose adventures I had just been hearing. I do not know what sort of an orator Tom might have made as an Indian, his English vernacular was not of the choicest. "I wish some-on you chaps would get this young woman of mine stowed away with some of her own kind among the Indians, they'll know her, and comfort her a bit, poor thing," quoth Tom. The words and tone were really kind and kindly meant, but they sounded odd as coming from the lips of a full-fledged red-skin warrior. Noggin at once fell into old Short's plan, and having all laid down to take some rest, we packed up our traps and were once more on the move. We accompanied the kind-hearted Ottoes three days further on their road till they considered themselves out of the reach of their enemies. Had I pressed John Pipestick I believe he would have brought his wives and joined our party, but I did not altogether admire the young gentleman's notions on things in general, so I kept silent on the matter. I had an affectionate parting from old Waggum-winne-beg, who once more pressed his beautiful Firefly on me; but my heart was proof against even her brilliant attractions. The young lady pouted a little when I wished her good-bye, and, I have no doubt, thought me a man of very bad taste. Once more our course was turned towards the West. With a good supply of ammunition, little baggage, and forming as we did a band of practised hunters and backwoodsmen, together with a body of faithful allies, we had no fear as to the result of an attack which any Indians might venture to make on us, provided we exercised all necessary precaution in our advance. More than once we were aware that Indians were on our trail, or hovering round our camp; but when they ascertained the state of preparation we were in, being assured that they would have to buy victory, if they got it at all, at a very dear rate, they thought it wiser not to attack us. We expected to have been pursued by the Pawnees, but for some reason or other they did not seem to wish to get back Noggin or his wife. They followed us, however, and ten days afterwards two of them made their appearance in our camp. We watched them narrowly, for they are thievish fellows, and would have stolen anything they could have laid hands on. They came, they said, to bring a message from their chief to his daughter, which, as far as we could make out, was equivalent to his blessing; telling her at the same time that as she had chosen to marry a white man, she must follow his fortunes for the future, and not look to the red men for support. The young lady replied that she was perfectly contented with her choice, and had no intention of going home again. Short all the time kept out of sight of the Pawnees, for he thought his appearance would not fail to enrage them he advised us, however, to follow theirs trail as they went away, to ascertain in what direction they were going, and to assure ourselves that they were not plotting some piece of treachery. We found, however, that they went right away to the north-east, and were not likely to trouble us any more. We travelled steadily on, making good twenty miles a day at least. The instant we arrived at a wood or other fit place for camping, some collected wood and lighted fires, others tore down strips of bark and branches of trees to form wigwams, while the sportsmen ranged round to look out for game, and the scouts explored the neighbourhood to ascertain that no enemies were lurking near. Mrs Noggin made herself very useful in cooking our provisions, and her husband and Short helped her. The latter had not yet recovered from his long run and the exertions he had made to free himself, and it seemed wonderful that he should be able to support the fatigue of travelling as well as he did. Altogether, we led a very pleasant life; but I was not sorry, I own, to see in the distance the stockade in which my old friends the Raggets, and two or three other families who had associated themselves with them, had passed the winter. We arrived just in time before the frost broke up. After that, till the warm dry weather began, travelling would have been very difficult. Our friends were very glad to see us all back again safe, and gave a hearty welcome to old Short and to Noggin and his wife. They were not people to turn up their noses at a red-skin. With all due respect to my white friends, Mrs Noggin appeared to great advantage alongside them. She was a very well-mannered, amiable, kind, sweet young woman, and though some of her ways were not just quite what a refined Englishman would admire, I do not think friend Noggin objected to them, and they seemed as happy as possible. We had altogether not an unpleasant time in the stockade, and we had plenty of work in repairing the wagons and tents, and in making other preparations for our further progress through the wild passes of the Snowy Mountains. The travelling, barring the attacks from the red-skins, had hitherto been easy; we were now to enter on a region wild and rugged in the extreme, where we should have to encounter dangers innumerable from grizzly bears, avalanches, mountain torrents, and steep precipices, added to those we had already gone through. However, their contemplation in no way daunted any of our party. From old Mr Ragget's forethought and judgment, he had amply supplied his camp with provisions before the winter set in, and the same qualities he was now exerting in making preparations for our journey. We thus avoided many of the disasters and miseries from which so many parties of emigrants suffered proceeding over the same route in following years. CHAPTER ELEVEN. OUR WINTER ENCAMPMENT--OUR HUTS--HOW WE SPENT OUR TIME--A NIGHT ALARM-- VISIT FROM A GRIZZLY--MY ENCOUNTER WITH THE SAME--SHORT SAVES ME--WE START IN SEARCH OF MRS. BRUIN--WE ENTER THE FASTNESSES OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS--SHORT'S BATTLE WITH THE BEAR--HIS PERILOUS SITUATION--STILL IN DANGER--WE GO ROUND TO ASSIST HIM--THE SNOW MOVES THOUGH THE BEAR DOES NOT, AND WE FIND OURSELVES ON THE TOP OF AN AVALANCHE--A MOST UNPLEASANT MADE OF LOCOMOTION. I cannot say that I looked forward with any rest degree of satisfaction to the idea of spending the remaining months of the winter, without books or any other means of intellectual enjoyment, in the encampment at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. The Raggets were very worthy people, and kind and considerate in every way; but some of our other companions were somewhat rough and uncouth, and none of them were addicted to literary pursuits, so that there were not six readable volumes of any sort or description to be found among all the party. At times I felt quite a craving for books, when my fingers grew weary mending harness, or manufacturing snow-shoes or moccasins; when conversation, which was never very brisk, altogether flagged. Still I had one great resource, and that was my note-book, though what I was putting into it my companions were very much puzzled to guess. My friends at home will not have much difficulty in guessing what I was writing about. Take it all in all, however, we spent a very pleasant time up among the snow, though it was brought to a conclusion rather sooner than we expected. We had plenty of provisions; we had made ourselves tolerably snug; our numerous well-armed party might set any prowling red-skins at defiance; and, above all things, we had laid in such a fine stock of good-humour and good-nature, that we had nothing like a quarrel or an angry dispute during the whole of the time. We also cut out plenty of employment for ourselves, and in spite of the cold, were never long shut up in our huts without making an excursion in one direction or another. Sam Short, Obed, and I, with the other Raggets, slept in one hut by ourselves. It was the outer hut of all, and forming part of it was our principal store, in which the greater portion of our provisions were kept. Here were piled up casks of flour, and sugar, and salted meats, and fish, and many other necessary articles. We none of us were much addicted to lying long in bed; but when we did turn in, we slept sounder than, I am sure, any tops ever did. We might generally have all snored as loud as a dozen bears growling away in concert, without in the slightest degree disturbing each other. One night, however, a piece of salt tongue had stuck somewhere on its downward passages or Mrs Ragget had given me too strong a bowl of green tea, as a special mark of her favour, or from some other unaccountable cause, I could not for some time get to sleep. I found out that Sam Short did snore, and most lustily and variously too, with notes resembling what one might fancy a broken-winded bagpipe with a bad influenza would give forth more than any other sounds. My other friends were not much behind him in the loudness of their snores, though rather less varied and musical. At length, in spite of the delicious concert, I did manage, by dint of counting and repeating my own name over and over again, and other similar devices, to get into a sort of dose. Still, though I was asleep, I could hear all the noises as clearly as before, only I forgot where I was, and a variety of strange and ever-changing notions came into my head. I thought that I was at sea, when a violent storm arose, and that a huge whale got hold of the vessel, and towed her on at a terrific rate, spouting away and roaring most furiously. Suddenly there was a crash, and I found that the whale had dragged us against a rock, and ran itself on shore. There it lay floundering away, till suddenly it gave a curious kick with its tail, and sprung back again right over our heads into deep water. I never saw a whale, or indeed any creature for that matter, give such a leap. I had very serious doubts, however, whether it was a real whale after all. As it went off skimming over the sea, it looked back with such a wicked expression in its little twinkling eye, as much as to say, "There, I've done for you. I hope you may like it;" at the same time snorting and blowing louder than ever, in a way most unusual, at all events for whales, which, except when in a flurry, are generally quiet, well-behaved creatures. The boiling sea soon knocked the vessel to pieces, and the crash of the wreck made me start up to swim for my life. There really had been a crash, though not so loud as I supposed, for it had not awakened the rest of the sleepers. The noise still continued, as if some one was breaking into the hut or store, and turning over the articles piled up in it. I jumped into my clothes, for with the thermometer twenty degrees below zero, it is not pleasant to run out without some covering, and calling up my companions, seized my rifle and axe, ever ready at hand, and rushed out to ascertain what was the matter. I fully believed that the camp was attacked by red-skins, and that we were about to have a desperate affray. The door of the store was close to that of our sleeping hut, but it was closed of course at night. I opened it and sprang in with my axe, ready to strike, hoping by the suddenness of my attack to scare the Indians, and prevent them from defending themselves. The moon was shining with a splendour which she never exhibits through the denser atmosphere of merrie England, and she was just then casting her beams through the open doorway. There was a window in the hut which had been boarded up, but the boards had been torn away, and a glistening sheet of snow was seen through it. Thus there was enough light in the shed to render a lantern unnecessary. I started back; for, instead of the party of red-skins I expected to see, my eyes fell on a huge grizzly bear, who was busily rolling the casks about, in a vain attempt to get at their contents. He was a ferocious-looking monster, gaunt and hairy, and had evidently been driven out to forage in our camp by the pangs of hunger. When he saw me he gave forth a fierce growl of defiance, and instead of decamping, as I expected he would, he made a desperate rush at me. I stepped back and lifted my axe, intending to make its sharp edge fall with all my strength on his head; but he was too quick for me, and seizing my arm, in another instant the savage brute had me fast locked in his deadly embrace. He would have killed me in an instant, I verily believe, had I not as he caught me, shoved the head of the axe into his open mouth, where it served the purpose of a gag, and considerably incommoded him. It may be supposed that I sung out pretty lustily at the same time for help. As to doing anything for myself, I found that was impossible, beyond the holding the axe with all my might in the bear's mouth. I felt certain that the moment it got out would be my last. "Help! help! Obed, Short! Quick, quick!--a huge grizzly bear has got me," I shouted. The monster seemed to comprehend the meaning of my cries; for he made off with me through the aperture by which he had entered, carrying me along as easily as if I was an infant in arms. As he made off through the window, my companions, whose responding shouts I had just before heard, made their appearance at the door. It would have been easy for them to shoot the bear, but in doing so they would very likely have hit me, so I begged that they would not make the attempt. They therefore followed the bear and me with their glittering axes in hand. If my weight did not prove much of a hindrance to him, my axe at all events did, and they were not long in overtaking us. A bear's winter coat is almost as impervious as a suit of armour, and for some time, though they hacked away at him very lustily, their axes had but little effect. At length, Short, who had his rifle loaded in his hand, and was ever as cool as a snow-ball, which, I conceive, is cooler than a cucumber, managed to get ahead of the bearish marauder, and looking him full in the face, levelled his weapon. "Shall I fire, Dick?" he asked. "I know that I can hit him." "Yes, yes; fire," I grunted out as well as I could; for the brute, fearing that he was going to lose me, began to give me some unpleasantly strong hugs. I was afraid also that should my strength fail me he might get the axe out of his mouth, when he would soon have made mincemeat of my nose. "I'll hit his right eye, then," cried Short. "Fire," I cried. There was the crack of his rifle, a loud roar, and I found myself well bespattered with bear's grease, rolling over and over in the snow, but at length Bruin turned on his back, opened his claws, and to my great delight I found myself free. On jumping out of bed I had slipped on my thick buffalo-skin coat, which fastened round the waist with a thong, and this had much preserved me, or I should have been mangled terribly. As it was, I could scarcely rise to get clear of the bear; and if my friends had not come to my assistance I could not have crawled home. Bruin was dead and fit for smoking. While Obed helped me along, the rest dragged him to the camp, where we found all the rest of the men afoot to ascertain what was the matter. I went to bed feeling very much bruised and knocked about, but by rubbing myself over plentifully with grease I was next morning tolerably limp and pliable. After breakfast we cut up the bear, but as may be supposed, he was in very bad condition, nearly all sinews and bones, though when in good condition he could not have weighed less than eight hundred pounds. We, however, managed to get some ham and a few steaks out of him, and a small supply of fat, while his skin afforded a very acceptable addition to our bed coverings. Just as the operation was concluded, Short, who had gone out, came back, saying that, a little snow having fallen in the first part of the night, he could make out the bear's trail. "If we follow it up, we may come upon Mrs Bear's lodgings, and find some young ones at home. Who's for the game?" he exclaimed. The project suited our tastes, and the young Raggets and I, with two or three others, declared ourselves ready to set out forthwith. Off we set, with a little pemmican and bread in our pockets, and our rifles and long poles in our hands, fully expecting some good sport. Short said that the she-bears and cubs are supposed to hibernate; but that no doubt we should be able to poke them out of their holes. We soon left the plain, when the trail led us up among the rugged defiles of the mountains. I confess that I could not have distinguished the marks of the bear's feet in the snow; but Short's more practised eye did so, and he every now and then pointed them out to me, so that we knew we were on the right track. Our undertaking was a very hazardous one. There is not a more ferocious, at the same time powerful and cunning monster, among all wild beasts than the grizzly bear. When he meets a man, he has something to fight for besides the honour of victory; for he eats him for his dinner or supper as the case may be. As we advanced we found ourselves in a scene of almost terrific wildness. Dark rocks rising out of the snow towered above our heads, so as to completely shut us in, while mountain-ranges appeared one beyond the other, showing us the elevation we had attained. The old grizzly had certainly chosen a very inaccessible post for his domicile. The cold was very intense, though the exercise we were performing kept our blood in circulation. I own that I felt very much inclined to turn back, for the hug the old bear had given me had made my bones ache, and I doubted, as the French say, "whether the game was worth the candle;" in other words, whether it was worth while running so great a risk as we were doing, and getting so cold, and enduring so much fatigue, merely for the sake of killing an old she-bear. However, I said nothing, as I knew that my companions would not enter into my views of the matter. On we plunged farther and farther into the wild recesses of the mountains, till Short made some remarks which led us to suspect that even he began to doubt whether we should find the bear after all. "Well, Sam, but where's the trail?" asked Obed, looking round. "The trail, boy; why, that's just gone and lost itself long ago," answered Sam, with a quizzical look on his dried-up countenance. "If the trail has lost itself, don't let us go and follow its example," remarked Elihu Ragget, laughing. "However, I vote we sit down and have some dinner, while we agree what's next to be done." His proposal met with universal assent. We accordingly all sat down on the snow in the most sheltered spot we could find and opened our store of provisions, but Sam Short very quickly jumped up, and taking his share in his hand said he would go and explore a little ahead while we finished our repast. We were none of us sorry to rest; but before we had quite finished our frugal meal, a loud shout was borne down the glen to our ears. We had little doubt that it was Sam calling to us. We seized our rifles, and rushed on. We had not gone far before we saw him standing in front of a large rock, and in the rock there was a cavern, and at the mouth of the cavern there appeared a huge grizzly she-bear rubbing her eyes, Elihu declared, as if just awoke out of her winter's sleep. I rather think she was licking her lips at the thoughts of the repast she was going to make of Sam Short. She would have found him a tough morsel I suspect. Why she did not at first rush on and try to gobble up our friend I could not tell, till Elihu observed that she probably had her cubs inside the cave, and that she was guarding them. Our appearance, however, instead of daunting her increased her rage, and with a savage roar she began to waddle towards Short. He retreated slowly. We sang out to him to give him confidence. He had before not thought it prudent to fire, lest, as was very likely, his shots should not kill the bear; but when he heard our voices, he lifted his rifle and fired. I thought that the ball had gone through her head; but I suppose that it did not, because on she came at poor Sam faster than ever. Near the cavern was a precipice, with a glen or gully below it. The precipice did not go sheer down, but there were several ledges on the way covered with snow, while the bottom of the glen was filled with snow, how deep it would have been difficult to ascertain. As we drew nearer we discovered, to our dismay, that this glen ran up between where we then stood and the cavern, to get to which Short had made a considerable circuit, though his keen eye had detected it from the hill on which we were. How to render him the most effectual assistance was now the difficulty. While some ran round, Obed and I went to the edge of the glen to fire across it at the bear. As the bear advanced, Short sprang back and seized the barrel of his rifle to use it as a club. A walking-cane would have been of about as much use to him. Still he wielded it gallantly, and gave the bear an ugly knock on the nose. This naturally enraged Mrs Bruin, and grasping the fire-arm she pressed on. Poor Sam! One of three dreadful deaths seemed prepared for him, either to be torn by the bear or to be dashed to pieces down the precipice, with the very great chance of being shot by us, his friends, should we attempt to fire at the bear. He dared not look back to see where he was going, lest the bear should seize him. He felt his left foot over the edge of the precipice. "Fire, fire," he shouted, dropping on his knees almost under the bear. Mrs Bruin had sense enough to know that the consequence of a fall to her would be very unpleasant, and she was as unwilling as Sam to fall into the ravine. She therefore instinctively drew back. That instant one ball entered her head, and another her shoulder. The former from my rifle staggered her. It prevented her from seizing Short with her teeth; but what was our terror to see the snow give way under our companion's feet, and to all appearance inevitable destruction awaiting him. He struggled violently to save himself, and just as the greater part of his body was over he caught hold of one of the hind paws of the bear, who had fallen on her back, and lay kicking furiously in an attempt to rise. Sam, however, held on with all his might. It seemed his only chance of safety. I was afraid lest the bear in her struggles should slip over also. Neither Obed nor I had been idle while watching the scene. We both loaded our rifles, and now stood ready once more to fire. By moving a little on one side, we saw that we could get a good shot at her without hitting Short. Not a moment was to be lost. Running on I fired, Obed followed my example. The bear's struggles grew less violent, and Sam began to try and haul himself up by her leg. It was a dangerous proceeding; there being an inclined plane at the edge, his weight appeared to move the body of the bear on. She could not rise, but she turned round and dug her sharp claws into the snow to save herself. Now, instead of wishing her to die, we were anxious that she might survive till the rest of the party could get up to her. Her growls became more and more feeble. She could scarcely hold on another minute. Poor Sam! We trembled for his fate. We shouted to the rest of the party to hasten on. They had had a difficult place to cross in single file at the head of the gully. Now they came on, hurrying over the snow. The bear gave two or three convulsive struggles. I wished that I could have leaped across the chasm to poor Sam's help. I thought that the bear was slipping down again. If she had got any way on her, as sailors say, it was evident that the united strength of the party could not stop her. They sprang on, and just as I felt sure the bear would have slipped over the precipice, they seized her by the fore-paws. She was not dead, however, for in return for the act of kindness she made some desperate attempts to bite them. "Haul away, haul away," sang out Sam, and they did haul with all their might. Though they could not move the bear, they prevented her from slipping down. She gave several severe kicks with her hind foot. Sam clung on to it, and by the most violent efforts managed to drag himself up by her shaggy coat till two of the party caught hold of his collar and hauled away till they got him up from the edge and placed him in rather a safer position, but still not one free from danger. For the first time for some minutes I breathed freely, and as we could do no more where we were, Obed and I hurried round to help the rest. When we arrived the bear had received her quietus, but it was astonishing how many shot and what terrific blows she had received before she was killed. We were congratulating ourselves on the additional supply of hams and steaks she would afford us when a crack appeared in the snow just below our feet, and to our horror we found that the whole mass, carrying us and the carcase of the bear with it, was slipping off over the precipice. CHAPTER TWELVE. WE FEEL AS IF WE WERE GOING OVER THE FALLS OF NIAGARA--SMOTHERED BY SNOW--WE APPEAR BY DEGREES--OBED MISSING--WE GIVE HIM A WARM BATH INSIDE THE BEAR--OUR DANGEROUS PREDICAMENT--HOW TO GET OUT OF THE RAVINE--SAM APPEARS ABOVE US--WE CLIMB OUT WITH NO LITTLE DIFFICULTY--THE BEAR'S CAVE--HAVING HAD ENOUGH BEAR-HUNTING WE RETURN HOME--FIND A NATIVE VISITOR, WHO INFORMS US THAT WE MAY EXPECT SOON AN ATTACK FROM AN OVERWHELMING FORCE OF RED-SKINS. We were all standing round the carcase of the huge she-bear, when it and the surrounding mass of snow began perceptibly to glide onwards over the edge of the terrific precipice. I have seen a poor fellow sitting in a boat, utterly beyond his control, gliding rapidly down the rapids towards the falls of Niagara. Quicker and quicker it has moved, till, reaching the edge, it has seemed to hover for a moment, as if unwilling to make the fatal plunge, and then over it has leaped with the rapidity of lightning, and it and its hapless occupant have been for ever hid from human sight. I felt at the moment very much the same sort of sensations which I can fancy the occupant of the boat must have experienced, as the mass of snow, increasing in speed, rapidly neared the precipice. From where I was, I had not the slightest power to leap off it. I fancied that all my companions were in a similar condition. There is an eastern story, in which a man puts his head into a basin of water, and during the few seconds he holds it there, he finds that he has gone through the adventures of a lifetime. I do not think that many seconds could have passed from the moment that the snow began to move, till Short and I, and the rest, found ourselves, with the body of the bear, rolling over and over, and bounding from rock to rock, amid confusing heaps of snow, down into the bottom of the glen. How I am alive to tell the tale I do not know, and that fact makes people listen to me with no small amount of incredulity. I was more blinded, stunned, and confused than I had ever been in my life before, and each bound I made I thought would knock the breath out of me; but as for reaching the bottom, I never expected to do that--at all events alive. Now I got a kick from one of my companions in misfortune; now I was knocked against the hairy carcase of the bear; now I was almost suffocated with the overwhelming masses of snow which were showered around me. One thing I own--I did not just then think much about anybody else; I could not help anybody, and I knew that no mortal could help me. Down I went, as I was saying, bounding away, snow above, below, and round me. At last I was quiet. I opened my eyes--I was under the snow--I felt a suffocating sensation. "After having got thus far without broken limbs, it won't do to have the breath squeezed out of my body for want of exertion," said I to myself, working away with arms and shoulders, till, as a chicken cracks the shell of its egg, I broke through the covering of snow which was above me, and once more I popped my head into daylight. I was in the midst of a sea of snow, the hind paw of the big bear was close to me, so I hoped that friend Short was not far-off, while I could make out several of my other companions struggling up through the snow around us. High above us towered the cliffs, and it seemed indeed wonderful that any of us could come down such a height alive. There is a Greek fable I remember reading as a boy at school, of the ground being sown with teeth, and out of it coming armed men. I cannot help thinking that we must have looked very much like those ready-made heroes, as I and my companions struggled up out of the snow. Elihu Ragget was the first who joined me. Sam Short did not appear; I told Elihu that I thought he must be near--probably under the bear, and that if not released, he would certainly be smothered. So, without a word we set to work with our hands, shovelling out the snow as well as we could. We thought, as we worked away, that we heard a groan. This made us redouble our exertions to release our friend. We had not been a minute at work, when a shout reached our ears, and on our looking up, there appeared the very man we were in search of, standing on a ledge of rocks, high above our heads. He seemed unhurt, and he was shouting to us to ask how we were. We thought, therefore, that we must have been mistaken as to the groan, when some one asked, "Where is Obed Ragget?" "Oh, lads, help me!" cried Elihu; the thought that his young brother lay buried beneath our feet, and that he had not missed him, striking him with shame. "Ay, ay," was the answer, as we all set to with even more energy than before. We dug and dug away round the bear, till at length a man's leg appeared, and then his body, and in a few seconds the snow was cleared away, and my friend Obed Ragget was drawn up out of the snow. But we gazed at him with sorrow, for not a spark of life appeared in him. The rest were going to give him up as dead, but I entreated them not to despair. I examined him, and found that, as far as I could judge, there was not a bone broken, and when I put my mouth down to his, I felt sure that he still breathed. "What he wants is warmth," said I, just then recollecting that the body of the bear would still afford it. No sooner thought of than done. It was a desperate, and not altogether a pleasant remedy. We cut a huge slit in the body of the bear, and stripping off Obed's outer garments, we clapped him in, keeping only his head outside, while all of us stood round to assist in giving him warmth. We watched anxiously for the result. First one eye opened, then another; then he sighed heavily; and at last he sang out, and asked where he was. In a little time he laughed quietly. "Don't call me a cub," said he, "that's all; I think that I am wonderfully better. I am much obliged to you and the bear, but now I would just as soon come out into the world again." After this we had no longer any anxiety about him, and certainly our remedy had a very wonderful effect in restoring him to animation. Now came our difficulty as to how to get out of the gully into which we had fallen. There was an outlet, but the way to it was evidently almost impracticable, and where it might lead we could not tell. Besides this, there was Sam Short, perched like an eagle above our heads; only Sam, not having wings like an eagle, could not get down to us, nor, as far as we could see, could we get up to the top of the cliff above him. We shouted, but we could not make each other hear. "If the big bear was up at the top, we should not be long before we would be up to him," observed Obed; "Sam would soon cut her hide up into strips and haul us up." We looked about; as to climbing up, that was out of the question. For fifty feet above our heads there was a perpendicular wall of rock. Above that there were numerous ledges or platforms, and the cliff seemed comparatively easy to climb. While we were looking about and discussing the matter, we saw Sam attempting to climb up the cliff. After many attempts he succeeded in reaching the top, and disappeared from our sight. He was absent for some time, and when he was again seen, he had a coil of something or other, we could not exactly make out what, round his neck. We now saw him, after carefully examining the cliff below him, begin to descend. We watched him anxiously, for our very existence depended on his success. He reached at last the place where he had before stood, then he cautiously commenced descending still lower. "What donkeys we have been!" suddenly exclaimed Elihu; "the coil of stuff he has got won't drag any of us up, we must make a rope for ourselves." We quickly had our knives going, and soon had Bruin completely flayed, and his hide cut up into short strips joined together. All the time we were at work, we every now and then looked up to see how Sam was getting on. The fear was that he might slip on the frozen rock, and come toppling down unable to save himself. Just as we had finished our rope, a shout from him proclaimed to us that he had reached the lowest ledge he could hope to gain. Without a moment's delay he began to unwind his line. It was a very thin one, and had numerous knots and joints in it. As we watched it, we were in doubt whether the end would reach us; it just came down above our heads. By leaping up we could touch it; but as to making a rope fast to the end, that was out of the question. Sam soon discovered our difficulty. The rope was drawn up a little, and then down it came, so that we could make fast to it the end of our newly formed bear's-skin rope. "Haul away!" we sang out, and up it went. There was a doubt, however, whether that would be long enough. We watched it anxiously as it drew near the end, and then up, up, up it went, far beyond our reach. We went back and shouted to Sam. What he said in return, we could not make out. Here was a bitter disappointment indeed. Our labour had been fruitless; our hope of escape well-nigh vanished. Presently we saw the end of the rope descending till it came easily within our reach. Short, directly afterwards, appeared at the edge of the cliff. "What will you do? Shall I haul you up, or will you climb up?" he asked. We were unanimously of opinion, that it would be safer to climb up, as we might help ourselves a little by placing our feet on the inequalities in the side of the cliff, and there would be less chance of the rope chafing and breaking. We drew lots who should go up first. The lot fell on Obed. "Stand from under if I come down," he said, laughing, and seizing the rope. Up he began to mount. He was very active and muscular in proportion to his weight. Still it was no light undertaking to have to ascend such a height. For his sake, as well as our own, we watched him with intense anxiety. Up, up he went. Now he swung off from the cliff, now his feet were planted on a ledge of rock, and he stood there to rest. Then again on he went. The fresh hide stretched fearfully, and it seemed as if to a certainty it would give way. There was no turning back, however. Now he came to a part of the cliff where he had to trust entirely to the rope. With hands, and knees, and feet, he worked away. None but a seaman or a backwoodsman could have accomplished the undertaking so rapidly, if at all. He was almost at the top. Sam reached over to help him. We held our breath. Now seemed the critical moment. How was he to scramble up over the edge of the cliff, exhausted as he must be with his exertions? Sam seized him by the collar and throwing himself back, dragged him up by main force. Now we all uttered a loud shout of congratulation, for thus far Obed was safe. Three or four of the other men followed. The last, having more friends to help them over the edge of the cliff, found it easier than Obed had done. My turn came at last. Only Elihu and another man had to follow. My arms ached as I got half-way up, and the sickening idea came over me that the bear's hide was chafed, and would break with me just as I got up to the most critical part. I rested for a moment on the last spot which afforded space for my feet, and then swung off into mid-air. I now knew the sensations which my companions must have experienced. They were very like those which one has occasionally in a nightmare sort of dream; to feel that one ought to be climbing up, and yet scarcely to have strength to lift one's arms. It must be remembered that we were all clad to keep out extreme cold, and that a buffalo coat is a pretty heavy weight to have on one's shoulders even under ordinary circumstances. My great consolation was, that the snow was pretty soft, and that if I did fall, I might possibly, having once taken the tumble, escape without breaking my neck. To make a long story short, I did reach the ledge at last, and so did the rest of my companions; and then we hauled up the bear's hide, and commenced our still more perilous ascent to the top of the cliff. By the bye, Elihu and the other man had bethought them that we might be hungry after our exertions, and had brought up a supply of bear steaks, which added not a little to their weight. I doubt if one man alone could have succeeded in scaling that height, for it must be remembered that Sam Short had only gone up the higher part. Still, with a number together, all heartily assisting each other, we found the task comparatively easy. When we came to a difficult place, we shoved the lighter ones up first, and then they let down a rope, and the rest hauled themselves up by it. At length we all stood on the top of the cliff, not far from the bear's cave, and when we looked down into the valley we were indeed surprised that we had escaped with our lives, and I hope that we all felt truly thankful for our preservation. Short now told us that he had, when he had before gone up to the top, caught and killed one of the young bears, and had cut up its hide to make a line, but that one or more still remained. I had a great fancy for a young bear, so Obed and I resolved to try and capture one. Accordingly, while the rest of the party were cutting some wood to light a fire for the sake of cooking the bear steaks, Obed and I started away with part of our rope towards the cave. "I suppose there are no more big bears inside there," said Obed; "they are mighty ugly customers to beard anywhere, but especially in their own den." "No fear," I answered; "if one had been in there, he would have appeared long ago. We shall only find a cub or two, and there will not be much difficulty in capturing them." I ought to have said that most of the party had recovered their fire-arms. Obed and I had left our rifles far back, away from the snow which had slipped with us over the cliff, so that we had them now uninjured. The cave was large, and for some distance there was light enough to enable us to see our way, but it at length became so dark, that we could not see ahead. All we could do was therefore to feel our way with our rifles. "I think we must be near the end," said I at last. We had a tinder-box: Obed struck a light. The blue glare of the match showed us two hairy bundles rolled up near the the wall of the cave. While he lighted another match, I rushed up to one of the bundles, which I found, by receiving a sharp bite, was a little bear. I soon, however, had the young gentleman's fore-paws bound tightly together, and was dragging him out towards the mouth of the cave. Obed seized the other, while the match was still burning on the ground, and we thus had them both captives. We brought them in triumph to our friends, who were feasting on their mother. We did not offer them any of the poor brute, and I dare say they thought us very greedy for not doing so, not probably entering into our delicate feelings on the subject. Having refreshed ourselves, all hands agreeing that we had had quite enough bear-hunting for the day, we set off on our return to camp. We had no little difficulty in getting our young bears to move along. Poor little things! they did not like the cold, and of course missed their mother. Still, by dint of poking and pulling, we made them keep up with the rest of the party. Now the excitement was over, I must say that I never felt so tired in my life. Still I would not relinquish my captive. Indeed it would have been barbarous for us to have done so, as it would have died of cold and starvation. At last, at nightfall, we did get in. We found all the camp in a great state of agitation, very much on our account, and not a little on their own. When we inquired what was the matter, they took us into the general sitting-room, and pointed to an Indian, habited in the full-dress warrior costume of winter, who was squatting down before the fire. He looked pleased when he saw us, and counted our numbers. "Good!" he exclaimed, in the deep-toned voice of his people. "Now fight well; drive away bad man." The English vocabulary of our guest was very small, and no one in the camp had been able to comprehend exactly the information he came to give, except that an attack might be expected, at some time or other, from a large tribe or tribes, hostile to the white man. Short, however, who understood several of the Indian dialects, now came in to act as interpreter. The information he elicited was still more alarming. It was to the effect that before long we might expect to be attacked by overwhelming numbers of red-skin warriors, from whom, if they took us by surprise, we should have very little chance of escaping. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. SHORT AND NOGGIN ACT AS INTERPRETERS--WE PREPARE TO MOVE ONWARD--THE WHITE DOG--WE GUARD AGAINST SURPRISE--I GO OUT AS A SCOUT--PURSUED BY RED-SKINS--RETURN TO THE CAMP--MORE VISITORS--WE SUSPECT TREACHERY-- WHITE DOG WARNS US THAT THEY ARE ENEMIES--WE PREPARE FOR A START WHILE NOGGIN HOLDS A PALAVER WITH THE INDIANS--THEY ARE ALLOWED TO ENTER-- THEIR CHIEF'S TREACHEROUS ATTEMPT TO KILL LABAN, BUT GETS KILLED HIMSELF--WE SEIZE THE REST--NOGGIN'S REGRET THAT WE DO NOT KILL THEM--WE START ON OUR JOURNEY--WHITE DOG ACCOMPANIES US--WE PUSH ON--OUR FIRST ENCAMPMENT--A FRESH ALARM. The report brought by the Indian warrior of the intended attack of the red-skins on our camp soon collected all the party together in the common hail. Our men had pretty well strung nerves, and the women, old and young, were in no ways given to fainting; so, although the latter listened with the greatest attention, and the former spoke gravely and deliberately, there was not much excitement, and no great amount of anxiety perceptible on their countenances. Our feather-bedecked, skin-clothed visitor was not much addicted to giving forth long-winded speeches as are some of his countrymen. Short and Noggin were his chief interrogators, as they understood his dialect, and they translated his answers for the benefit of those who did not. He was asked how it was he became acquainted with the information he had brought us. "Can you say, O white-skins, how the blossoms come on the trees? how the mist fills the air? how the snow melts on the ground?" was his reply. "I heard it; I speak the truth; enough." "But when, friend, are they coming?" asked Short. "Can you say when the thunderbolt will fall? when the tempest is about to burst? where the prairie-fire will break forth?" he replied. Short and Noggin seemed perfectly satisfied with his answers. But that was more than I felt, when he replied to the questions put him as to their numbers. "Can you count the flakes which fall in early winter? do you know the number of the stars in the blue canopy above our heads? can you reckon the buffaloes as they scamper across the plains in a stampedo?" Noggin on this got up, and bowing to the old chief who was squatting on his hams by his side, in a most polite way, observed--"All this rigmarole, which this old red-skin here has been telling to us, comes to this, as far as I can make out. He has heard the plot of those thieving, varmint red-skins through his wife, or some friend or other. When they will come he does not exactly know, but it will be about the time that the snow begins to melt, and travelling is pretty heavy work, and then they'll come down upon us in no small numbers, enough, I guess, to make us look pretty foolish if we don't keep our powder dry, and our eyes wide awake around us. The question now is, shall we stay here and fight the varmints, or shall we strike tents, and push away over the mountains?" Various opinions were given on this point. If we remained where we were the red-skins would attack us, and though we might beat them off, they would probably surround us, and come again and again till they starved us out, or compelled us to retreat at a disadvantage. The moving our provisions and baggage was our great difficulty. Still, the general opinion was, that it would be better to move on at once. Laban Ragget at last stood up, and gave the casting vote. "You see, friends," said he, "where there's a will there's a way. That's been my notion through life. Where I've had the will to do, mind you, what ought to be done, I've never failed to find the way. I've fought the red-skins often, and I'd fight them again, if need be, with pleasure; but I don't want to expose the women and children to the chances of a battle with them; and so I say we'll move on. We'll put runners to the wagons, and make snowshoes for ourselves, and by to-morrow evening we'll be ready for a start. Then we'll lie down and rest, and by early dawn we'll be on foot and away. Meantime, some of the young men will keep a lookout round the camp, to watch that we are not taken by surprise." I give Laban's speech entire, because his proposals were carried out to the letter. All agreed and, literally, I do not believe that a minute had passed before everybody was busily engaged in preparing for our departure. Some were making snow-shoes; others runners for the sleighs; others packing our goods and provisions in small, light parcels easily carried; the women were as active as the men, and several were cooking and preparing the flesh of the bear we had killed the night before, by making it into pemmican. Mrs Noggin was very useful in making show-shoes, and so was the old Indian. His name, by the bye, was Wabassem-mung, or the White Dog, and to prove his title to the name, he would set up a barking, which no one could have supposed was from the voice of a human being. He had only about twenty followers, all the rest of his tribe having been treacherously murdered by the Flintheads, against whom he had now come to warn us. He wore a white mantle, as appropriate to his name, or, probably, he obtained his name from his fancy for wearing a white mantle; at least, one that was white by courtesy, for it had become so smoke-dried and stained, that its original purity was considerably damaged. Our venerable friend assured us that there was no chance of the Flintheads attacking us that night, and that we might, therefore, sleep in peace, because his own people were on the watch, and would give us timely notice. This was satisfactory, for, after our bear-hunting expedition, I, for one, was very glad to get some rest. Few people have ever slept sounder than I did on that night for a few hours, notwithstanding all the bustle and noise going on in the camp. By the evening, as Laban had promised, everything was ready for our departure. This night it was judged prudent that scouts should be sent out to watch for an enemy, and Obed, Elihu, Sam, Noggin, and I, with a few others, were appointed to that duty by Laban. He had been chosen leader and dictator, and we were all bound implicitly to obey him. We scouts, with our rifles in hand, started away together, two and two. Obed was with me. With the snow on the ground, and a clear sky in those regions, it is never dark, and our difficulty, as we advanced, was to conceal ourselves from any lurking foe. Still we worked our way on, taking advantage of every mound, or the tops of trees, or bushes appearing above the white smooth plain. It had been agreed that, as soon as we should see an enemy, we were to retreat at full speed to the camp. If we were discovered, we were to fire off our rifles as a warning to our friends, but if not, we were to reserve our bullets for the bodies of our foes. We each had on tight snow-shoes, with which we could walk well enough, but running with such machines is altogether a very different affair to running in a thin pair of pumps. Having proceeded about, as we judged, three miles from the camp, we began to circle round it, for it was just as likely that the cunning redskins would approach from the east or south, as from the north. They, wiser than white men, never commit the fault of despising their enemies, but take every advantage which stratagem or treachery can afford them to gain their ends. Obed and I began to think at last that it must be near dawn, and turned our eyes eastward, in the expectation of seeing the pale red and yellow streaks which usher in the rich glow, the harbinger of the rising sun. That was my idea, not friend Obed's. He remarked, "Daylight will soon be on, I guess, and it is time we were back at camp to get some breakfast, before we begin our trudge over the mountains, for I'm mighty hungry, I calkilate; ain't you, Dick?" I agreed with him; but just before we turned our faces campward, I climbed up the south side of a rocky mound, above which I allowed only my head to appear, that I might take a leisurely survey of the country beyond where we then were. Obed followed my example. We gazed through the shades of night for some time. "I'm main hungry, Dick," said Obed, "let us be going." Still something kept me there. Just as I was getting up, I thought I saw some dark shadows moving along over the white sheet of snow. "Look, Obed," said I, "what are those out there?" His eyes were even sharper generally than mine. "Indjens, red-skins," whispered Obed. "It's time that we cut. They are not far-off." We first, before moving, satisfied ourselves that we were not mistaken; there were a dozen or more people, probably the advance guard. We then slipped down from our height, and began striding towards the camp as fast as our legs and snowshoes would carry us. It was a satisfaction to feel that there was a high mound between us and the Indians, or our scalps would not have felt comfortable on our heads. We did not turn our eyes to the right hand or the left, but looked straight on, keeping our legs going with a curious movement, between sliding and running, and skating and kicking. It was fatiguing, but we got on rapidly, and we had an idea that our enemies were not advancing nearly so fast. It was a race for life or death. Strange to say, I rather liked the excitement. I always prefer having an object when I walk; now I had got one. We knew that if the Indians crossed our trail, they would instantly find us out and give chase, but then it was a satisfaction to know that they could not go faster than we were going. We had got almost within sight of the camp, when we heard a shout from behind us. I was unwilling to stop to look back, but if I did not stop, and attempted to look over my shoulder, I should very likely, I knew, topple down on my head. On we went again. There was another shout. We could just see the tops of the huts. I turned my head round, and there I saw a dozen or more red-skin warriors scampering like mad creatures over the snow, and flourishing their tomahawks. Fast as we were going, they were going faster. Still we might reach the camp before them, but it was necessary to warn our friends. As I ran, I unslung my rifle, not to fire at them, for that would have been useless, but to discharge it in the air as a signal. I did so, but by some means, by this act, I lost my balance, and toppling over, down I came at full length. I tried to rise, but that on soft snow is no easy matter to do at the speed circumstances demanded; and then, what was my horror to find that I had broken one of my snow-shoes! I gave myself up for lost, and entreated Obed to fly and save his life. "Fly, Dick!" he exclaimed indignantly; "that ain't the way of the Raggets, boy. No; if the redskins want your scalp, they must have mine first, and I'll have a fight for both of them, depend on't." While he was saying this, he was helping me to rise, and as one snow-shoe would be worse than useless, I cast them both off, and then did what was the next best thing, loaded my rifle; and turning our faces to our approaching foes, we stood ready to receive them. When they saw us stop, they came on more leisurely. As they got nearer, I counted about a dozen of them only. On this my heart began to beat more regularly. "I say, Dick, my scalp sits pleasanter, like, on my head," observed Obed. In a short time the Indians got near enough to us to hail. "What are they saying?" I asked of Obed. "Why, Dick, as far as I can make out, that they are friends," he answered; "but, you know, these red-skin varmints are so treacherous, that we mustn't trust them on no account. They may be old White Dog's friends, or they may be some of the Flintheads. If they are the last, they'll scalp us in another minute, or maybe they'll try and get into the camp, and then play us some scurvy trick." These surmises were not pleasant. Still, we could not hope to cope with twelve well-armed Indians, with any chance of success, and we must therefore, we saw, attempt only pacific measures. In another minute they were up with us. They held out their hands in a friendly manner, and we observed that their general appearance was very similar to that of old White Dog. In a friendly manner, therefore, we proceeded towards the camp. When we got near, we made signs that we would go and prepare our friends for their reception. They made no objection to this, but, letting us go, squatted down on the snow about two hundred yards from the camp. Immediately we got in, we told Noggin, who interpreted our report to White Dog. "Tell him not to show himself," said Laban. The old chief was, however, far too wide awake to do that. Covering himself up with one of our cloaks, so that even the sharp eyes of an Indian could not discover him, he crept to the north of the hut, and looked through the stockade. Noggin accompanied him. "Flintheads," whispered Noggin. "He says they are not his people. They are up to some deep treachery. They, of course, don't know that old White Dog is here, and that we are warned of their intentions. What is to be done? I wish Short and the rest were here." Laban, after Noggin had spoken, stood for a minute or two in an attitude of reflection. I believe that if a great gun had been let off at his ear he would not have heard it just then. At length he said--"Wait till they come, and then we will let the red-skins enter the encampment. As they do so we must seize every mother's son of them, and bind them all to the posts of the huts. We won't brain them, as they would have brained us, and maybe the lesson we thus give them will teach them that the religion of the white-faces is better than that of the red-skins." We eagerly looked out for the return of the other scouts, for we were afraid that they might have been picked off by some prowling bands of Flintheads. Soon after daylight, however, they came in, without having seen any one. Our arrangements were speedily made. The women were to keep out of the way, and to pretend to be nursing the children. As we far outnumbered the Indians, two of us were told off to take charge of one of them, the rest were to act as a party of reserve to seize any who might escape. The instant they entered the camp they were to be seized, as, seeing us prepared to move, of course their suspicions would be aroused. Noggin, who best knew their ways, undertook to tell them that they might come in. "The varmints, knowing their own treacherous ways, are so suspicious, that if we show that we are too willing to let them come, they'll fancy that we've some plot in hand, and will be off to their friends." The gate of our stockade being opened, Noggin carelessly sauntered out and squatted himself down before the Indians, as if prepared for a regular palaver. Not to lose time, the rest of us got our breakfasts, harnessed the horses, and prepared for an immediate start. I must say I never bolted my food at such a rate as I did that morning. At last Noggin got up, and he and the Indians came towards the stockade. My heart beat in a curious way. We watched Noggin. He looked glum, and made no signal that we were to alter our tactics. The Indians all trooped in one after the other, looking sedate and quiet enough, but their dark eyes rolled furtively about, and there was a scowl on their brows, which showed that they were not altogether at their ease. We waited for Laban to give the expected signal. It was to be the instant the chief of the party reached him and held out his hand, as we knew he would. Slowly, a tall athletic warrior, with a very malignant countenance, however, advanced, casting his suspicious glances on every side, till he was close up to Laban. Obed and I were to seize the same man, but I could not help following the leader, and I felt sure that his hand was stealing down towards his tomahawk. Laban must have thought so too. In an instant the tall warrior's weapon was in his hand, and was descending on Laban's head, when a shot from behind a hut struck him on the forehead, and he fell forward dead at our friend's feet. At the same moment we all threw ourselves on his followers; but many of us received some severe cuts in our attempts to secure them, for all of them, prompted by the same feeling, had grasped their axes, with the intention of fighting their way again out of the camp. We had a severe struggle with them before we had them all secured; scowling and vindictive glances enough they cast on us when we had them fast. Old White Dog had, we found, saved the life of Laban Ragget by taking that of the chief. Never had a more treacherous plot to murder a whole party been more mercifully counteracted. Still neither the Raggets nor I would consent to kill our captives. Our proposal was simply to deprive them of their arms, and having fed them, to leave them bound, knowing that the rest of the tribe would, before long, visit the spot and release them. This plan, however did not at all suit old White Dog's or Noggin's notions on the matter. "The treacherous red-skin varmints! you don't suppose they'll thank you for letting 'em live?" exclaimed the latter. "They will be after us, and follow us up like bloodhounds the moment they are free, that they will." "Never mind, friend Noggin," replied Laban calmly. "Right is right all the world over. It would be wrong to kill a prisoner, do you see, and so I guess it's right to let these people live. I'll stand the consequences, come what may." Noggin said no more; and now everybody was busily engaged in preparing to start. The sleighs were loaded, the horses were put to, and in a long line we filed out of the fort. All the women walked, and carried the children; there were not many of the latter, for it was a rough life we were leading at the bush, and not fitted for such delicate beings. Many of the men also had to drag hand sleighs, and, as it was, they were obliged to leave behind them some of the heavier baggage. Old White Dog volunteered to accompany us. He had been looking for the arrival of the small remnant of his tribe, and as they had not appeared he began to fear that they had fallen into the hands of their enemies. When all the party had gone out, and proceeded some hundred yards, Obed and I went back, by the directions of Laban, and put some food within reach of our captives' mouths. "They won't take a very pleasant meal, but they won't starve," observed Obed, as we left them. Laban, meantime, had undertaken to watch the old Indian and Noggin, whom he suspected of an intention of going back and scalping our captives. We, however, watched them so narrowly that they could not accomplish their object. We now pushed on as rapidly as we could towards the mountains, as it was most important that we should gain a secure position at a considerable height before night. At first, where the snow was beaten down, we went on merrily enough, but when the ascent of the mountain really began, it was very heavy work for man and beast. Our horses were not in good condition, as they had had nothing but dry prairie grass and very little corn all the winter, but they were very little animals, all bone and muscle, and had no weight of their own to carry, at all events. As we proceeded, we kept a very bright lookout behind us, both to the north and south, to ascertain that we were not pursued. At length we entered the pass in the mountains for which we had been making, and here our difficulties began. High black cliffs towered above our heads on each side to the height of many hundred feet, while before us were masses of the wildest and most rugged mountains, over and between which lay the path we had to pursue. Short, who had crossed the mountains at this place two or three times, acted as our guide. Frequently one party had to go ahead with spades and clear the way, and we had also often to take out the horses, and drag on one sleigh, and then come back and get the next. We had reason to be thankful that on this occasion we had no enemy to molest us. Old White Dog was very much astonished to see the men work as we did, and hinted that if he had the direction of affairs, he should make the women labour as those of his people are compelled to do, while he sat still in dignified idleness. He did not gain many friends by his remarks, among the gentler sex of our party. A sheltered platform, surrounded by rocks on the mountain side, had been described by Short, and fixed on for our resting-place. Up, up, up, we worked our way. At last we reached it, pretty well worn-out. I never felt my legs ache so much before. It had not a very inviting aspect when we were there. It had, however, a great advantage, as from its position it might easily be defended, should we be pursued and attacked by the Flintheads. Having driven our sleighs on to it, we set about the business of encamping. As usual, we placed the sleighs in a circle, so as to form a breastwork, with the cattle inside it. The side of the mountain was covered with pine trees. We cut down a number of these, at least, so much of them as appeared above the snow, and having beaten hard a large circle in the centre of the camp, by walking over it with our snow-shoes, we placed them side by side so as to form a large platform. On this we piled up all the branches and logs we could collect dry and green, and set the mass on fire. The platform, it will be understood, served as our hearthstone, and kept the burning embers off the snow. Otherwise, they would quickly have burned out a cavern, into which they would have sunk and disappeared. We required, as may be supposed, a large fire for so numerous a party, and it was a curious sight to watch the different countenances of the travellers, as we sat round it eagerly discussing our evening meal. We did not neglect the usual precautions to prevent a surprise, and two of the young men at a time took post as sentinels a little way down the mountain, to give timely notice of the approach of a foe. After supper, all the party sang a hymn, led by Laban Ragget, and very sweet and solemn were the notes as they burst through the night air, and echoed among those rocks, never before, too probably, awakened to sounds of praise and thanksgiving. "It's an old custom of mine," said Laban to me, "when I cannot expound to my family, or hold forth in prayer as usual. If, Dick, we didn't keep up our religious customs very strictly in the back settlements, we should soon, as many do, become no better than heathens." As I had been on my legs for the best part of the last two days and nights, I was excused doing sentry's duty, and no sooner had I wrapped myself in my buffalo robe, with my feet towards the fire, and my head on a pine log, which served me as a pillow, than I was fast asleep. How long I had slept I could not tell, (it was, I afterwards found, some hours), when I was awoke by the most unearthly shrieks and cries, which seemed to come directly from under the very spot on which I lay. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A SUDDEN ALARM--WHITE DOG NEARLY ROASTED--CONTINUE OUR MARCH--MY YOUNG FRIENDS GOG AND MAGOG--DISAPPEARANCE OF SHORT AND OBED--I DESCEND TO SEARCH FOR THEM--A MAGNIFICENT ICE CAVERN--CROSS A FROZEN LAKE--INDIANS AHEAD--FRIENDS--A SCENE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS--CAMP, AND FORTIFY OURSELVES--APPROACH OF FLINTHEADS--DESPERATE CONFLICT--AN AVALANCHE COMES THUNDERING DOWN ON US. I was describing how I was fast asleep in our first night's encampment on our winter's journey across the Rocky mountains, when I was awoke by the most terrific cries, whence proceeding I could not tell. I thought a whole host of the Flintheads were upon us, and, seizing my rifle, sprang to my feet. When I was really awake, however, I found that the sounds came from under the platform, and a large hole near me soon showed what had happened. I had left our friendly old chief, Wabassem-Mung, or the White dog, fast asleep there. He had selected it from being the warmest place and nearest the fire. The consequence was that the snow had there melted more rapidly, and a deep chasm of seven or eight feet having been formed, he had glided into it, and only awoke when he found the hot ashes coming showering down on his head and burning the tip of his long nose. For once, in his astonishment and fright, he forgot his dignity, and shrieked out as heartily as any paleface. Laban and I and Short, who were nearest, stooping down, soon dragged him out of his uncomfortable position, and except that his nose was a little burned, and his feathers were singed, and his cloak was a hue or two darker, he was not much the worse for his adventure. He took it very good-naturedly, and seemed somewhat ashamed of having expressed his terror in the noisy way he had done. Even before dawn we were on foot, and, having taken our morning meal, harnessed the horses and began our march. Our great object was to get to a certain elevation, to which we knew the Indians of the plain could never attempt to mount, even for the sake of glutting their revenge on us. We hoped also, should they attempt to follow us, to be better able to defend ourselves in the mountain passes than, from the smallness of our numbers, we could in the more open ground. In the hurry of describing more stirring events, I forgot to mention my two young bears. I did not like to desert them, as I might not have an opportunity of capturing any others. Laban at first objected to my dragging them along with me; but at length he consented, observing, "Well, you know, Dick, if we get hungry, we'll eat 'em." Of course I could not but consent to this arrangement. Although the full-grown grizzly bear is the most ferocious of the ursine race, these little creatures in a few hours became comparatively tame and contented with their lot. They trotted alongside of me very willingly, and at night lay coiled up together like a ball of wool, to keep each other warm. I gave them a small piece of fat and a little meal porridge, and that was all they seemed to want, besides sucking their paws, which they did as babies do their fists when they are hungry. Poor little things! they seemed to know that they had nobody else but me to look to as their friend. My friends, the Raggets and their companions, were very kind people, but they had a decidedly practical turn, and would have eaten my pets forthwith if I would have let them. I called one Gog and the other Magog, names about which the honest backwoodsmen, who had never heard even of Guildhall, knew nothing. In appearance there was very little difference between them, but there was a considerable amount in their characters. Gog became much sooner tame, and was of a more affectionate, gentle, and peaceable disposition. Magog would sit and growl over any thing given him to play with, and run off with it away from his brother, while Gog would frisk about and seem to take pleasure in getting the other to join in his sports. Of course Gog became the favourite with all hands, and even the children were not afraid of playing with him, whereas Magog would snap at them, and very often tumbled them over and hurt them. "I say, Dick," said Obed to me, "if we want food, we'll eat that Magog of yours up first." That is what Magog got for his surliness and ill-temper. We continued to push on over the mountain-range. It was not all ascent. Sometimes we came to a level on a wide open space where there was not much snow, and then we got on rapidly. Our only passage through one part of the route was up the bed of a torrent frozen hard and covered with snow. It was very heavy work, but Short assured us that it would not last long, so we pushed on. Obed, Short, and I, with others, were clearing the way with our spades, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, the two first, who were ahead of me, went right through the ice and disappeared. Horror almost overcame me, for I knew that the torrent would have the power of sweeping them down in an instant far out of our sight. Obed was my greatest friend. Short's loss to all the party was irreparable. The three other men with me and I shouted to our friends, several of whom had long poles to assist their progress, to hasten to our aid. Fastening four of these together, two and two, I secured a rope round my body, which the others held, and then worked myself forward till I was over the hole. Another rope was made fast to the poles; by this I descended. I was surprised to find the chasm so deep, for I thought that I should see the water rushing down a little below the surface. Instead of that, there was below the hole a hard, very nearly smooth, floor, I lowered myself gently, and found it perfectly firm and strong; but, alas! neither Obed nor Short were to be seen. Under other circumstances I should have been delighted with the appearance of the place in which I found myself. It was like a magnificent cavern of the purest white marble, ornamented with glass stalactites of the most brilliant rainbow hues. I should call it rather a gallery, because it extended up and down to an indefinite distance. No work of art could be more light or graceful. But my thoughts were with my friends, and all the beauty which surrounded me seemed only to mock my anxiety for their fate. I heard those above, Laban Ragget and his sons, asking eagerly if I had found them, and I had to answer mournfully, "No." Still I saw that they could not have gone through the ice into the stream itself, for that everywhere appeared unbroken. Then it struck me that, as the floor was an inclined plane, they had probably slipped down over the smooth surface without meeting anything to stop them. This was a solution of the problem of the cause of their disappearance, but it did not relieve my anxiety as to their fate. I sung out to my friends above to lengthen the rope as far as they could, for I had no inclination to proceed without it, and slid down to as great a distance as its length would allow me to move. I shouted and shouted, but there was no answer. I began truly to despair. "Poor fellows, they must be gone," I thought. "It will be a sad report I must take to Laban." I began to ascend to get under the hole again. I found that I could easily crawl up the incline on hands and knees. I turned to rest for an instant, and thought that I would give one shout more. There was a roaring, rumbling noise of the water underneath, which made it necessary to sing out very sharply to be heard at any distance. I therefore shrieked out this time at the very top of my voice. A few instants passed while the echoes died away, and then a faint cry came up from far, far down the long ice gallery. It was repeated. There could be no doubt that it was from my friends. I waited to consider whether I should return and get others to come down with more ropes, so that should Short and Obed have fallen into an ice-pit, we might help them out; or whether it was best to wait and see if they were working their own way up, as I found from experience they might be able to do. It was while thus waiting for them that I was able to admire the beauty of the scene. The floor was dark blue, the sides were white, and the ceiling was of every variety of green and red and yellow, and in some places so transparent that it seemed surprising that any person, much less a horse or sleigh, could have passed over it without breaking through; then there were in the distance arches and columns, and whole buildings and statues, of every grotesque form imaginable, at least so my imagination carved out the excrescences and masses of ice I saw piled up in a long vista before me. I did not stay long without shouting again, and once more the voices of my friends assured me that they were drawing near. My heart was now much lighter, and at length I caught sight of their heads as they crawled up like two four-footed creatures in the distance. I was truly glad when they got up to me; they had been, they owned, not slightly alarmed, and were, they showed, very tired and out of breath. On breaking through the ice, the impetus they got sent them sliding down the sloping floor at so great a rate that they could not stop themselves. On, on they went, not knowing when their journey would end; but dreading that it might be into some deep hole, or perhaps the torrent itself. They were well pleased, therefore, when they were brought up suddenly against a mass of rock which rose out of the bed of the stream; and doubly grateful were they when, on looking beyond it, they saw that on the other side there was a deep fall, through which the water itself was forcing its way. We were all soon dragged up again to the surface, and though I described the magnificence of the icy gallery, no one seemed inclined to pay it a visit. We had now to drag our sleighs up a steep bank, and to proceed with the greatest caution, our progress being very slow. At last we once more got on level ground, and soon reached a long narrow lake, out of which the torrent descended. This accounted for there being water under the ice. Many of the torrents we came to were frozen completely through. It may seem in theory very pleasant work walking in snow-shoes over the smooth surface of the snow, often high up among the boughs of trees, and level with the roofs of cottages; but when a person is not accustomed to the proceeding, it becomes painful in the extreme. Snow-shoes are frames of light wood from four to six feet long, pointed at both ends like a boat. The intermediate space is filled up with network. They are secured to the feet by leathern thongs, and there is a hole in which the heel works. From their shape and size they present a very wide surface to the snow, and prevent the walker from sinking in. Great care is required in fastening the thongs, which must be tight; but if they are too tight, when they get wet, as they frequently do, and shrink, they cut into the ankles and cause serious injury. Often the feet are so benumbed with the cold that, at the time, no pain is felt, and it is only when the sufferer comes to take off his shoes, that he finds the thongs have disappeared in a mass of swelling. We had no fears as to the ice on the lake bearing us, so we merrily slid on to it, and proceeded faster than we had done since we left the camp. The horses especially seemed to enjoy the ease, with which they dragged on the loads which had before seemed so heavy, while the rest of us, taking off our snowshoes, glided over the smooth surface as rapidly as they did. Fortunately, but little snow had fallen in this region, and the wind had blown it off the ice. This was the first, and indeed only, advantage we gained by travelling before the frost broke up. Had we not begun our journey as we were now doing, we should have had to wait several weeks longer, till the snows had melted from the mountain-tops, and the streams had subsided to their usual level. Still we could not conceal from ourselves that we had many dangers to encounter, even should we not be pursued by the red-skins. I was generally in the van with Obed and Short and my two bears. I did not venture to let the Masters Bruin go loose, but yoked them together, and had a rope fastened to them besides. Thus united they waddled on; not lovingly, for very often they grumbled and growled, and seemed to be making far from pleasant remarks to each other. They kept on all fours, it must be understood. Bears only stand on their hind legs when they have learned to dance, or are going to eat a man, or at all events are standing at bay. On reaching the end of the lake we found that a considerable portion of the day had been spent, but still we had some distance to go before we could reach the spot proposed for our camping-ground. However, it was thought advisable to push on. I suggested to Short that it might have been better to camp on the shore of the lake. "So it would, Dick, if we hadn't to guard against these cunning red-skins. But old White Dog has heard, and I believe that he is right, that there is another path over the mountains, which leads to the very spot near where we propose camping; at least a little to this side of it. Now, if our enemies know of this, and it's not likely they'll be ignorant, and they make chase after us, some of the cunning varmints will take that path to cut us off, depend on't. We haven't told the women of it, nor the men generally, because there's no use making them anxious till the time comes; and then there's no fear but that they'll all behave as they ought." I could not but admire the calm self-possession of my friends, who, in expectation of so fearful an event, could show so little concern, and at the same time placed such implicit confidence in the nerve courage of their companions. I must own that I felt very anxious, and carefully examined the lock of my rifle, and assured myself that I had properly loaded it. Soon after this we entered a broad defile with high broken rocks on either side of us, beyond which towered up to the sky the white masses of mountain-tops. The defile as we advanced gradually narrowed, till I found that we were approaching a narrow gorge with cliffs rising on each side almost perpendicularly above it. Just then I thought that I saw something moving among the rocks before us. I asked short. His quick eye had detected the movement. "Indjens!" he exclaimed. "Oh! the treacherous varmints." Scarcely had he uttered the word than from behind the rocks in our front up sprang a numerous band of Indians in war-paint and feathers, uttering the most terrific shrieks and cries, and dancing and leaping about in the most extraordinary manner. Our rifles were in a moment in our hands. I was on the point of firing at an Indian whom I had covered, when old White Dog rushed to the front, exclaiming what Short interpreted to mean, "Don't fire; they are friends, my people." This was satisfactory information, for, however pleasant fighting may be to some people, in our case it would not bring either honour or plunder. The fact was that, posted as they were, they might, had they been enemies, have picked us off, supposing they had rifles, without our being able in any way to get at them, except by climbing up the rocks, when, of course, they would have picked us off in detail. After White Dog's followers had amused themselves sufficiently with dancing and shrieking, they came down from their position, and paid their respects to their chief, who inquired how it was they happened to be where we had found them. They all seemed to be very eager to tell him, but he selected one as the spokesman, and told him to narrate what had occurred. It appeared that after their chief had left them they got notice that the Flintheads purposed to attack their lodges and destroy them. To avoid this result they had packed up their goods and fled from the spot, merely leaving some scouts to watch the proceedings of their enemies. They had not to wait long before they observed a party of warriors approaching. This party seemed very much disappointed at finding their lodges deserted. Having set fire to everything that would burn, they continued their route towards our camp, followed closely by the scouts. When these saw them enter within the intrenchments, they instantly set off back to their companions. A council was then held, when it was agreed that it was their duty to set off to help their chief, who might be in danger. Old White Dog had, I found, left directions outside our camp, which they would clearly understand, telling them to follow him. On reaching the camp they found that we had deserted it, but before going on, they very naturally took a glance round inside. There they found the unfortunate Flintheads whom we had left bound. "I hope, Short," said I, "that they respected our intentions, and left them there unhurt." "They left them there, you may be sure, Dick," answered Sam quietly. "But you may be equally sure that they cut the throats of every mother's son of them." "Cruel, murderous wretches!" I exclaimed. "It's their way of doing things," said Sam. "As they are taught in their youth, so they act now they've grown up. If you had been taught to scalp your enemies when you were a boy, you'd do the same with pleasure now, whenever you had a chance!" I could not deny that this would too probably have been the case, and therefore made no further remarks on the subject, only feeling thankful that I had been born in a Christian land, and brought up with Christian principles. The meeting with these Indians caused another short delay, and they and their wives, and children, and dogs, falling into the rear of our party, we all proceeded together. The women and children, I ought to have said, had been hid away among the rocks, and were only produced at the last moment, as we were moving on. We could not object to White Dog's tribe accompanying us, but as they came but scantily furnished with provisions, we were under some considerable apprehension that they would create a famine in our camp. A strong party of us, consisting of Short and Noggin, and some of the Raggets, and myself, with old White Dog and several of his tribe, now pushed on to occupy the pass which led into the one through which we were travelling. We soon reached it, and, climbing up the surrounding heights, looked around. As far as the eye could range, not a moving obstacle was visible; all was silent and solitary. We had purposely concealed ourselves in case an enemy should be approaching, and as I stood on that mountain height looking out into the distance over interminable snow-covered ranges of rock, I was more sensible than I had ever before been of the sensation of solitude; never before had I remarked silence so perfect. Truly it seemed as if Nature was asleep. So she was: it was the sleep of winter. In England, where birds are constantly flying about, and often insects humming, even at Christmas, we have no conception of the utter want of all appearance of life in the mountain regions in which I was now travelling. We waited on the watch till the main body of our party came up, and then, seeing no enemies, pushed on to our camping-ground. I must say that I was very glad to get there without meeting with the Flintheads. I felt sure that as soon as they found out the fate of their friends, they would track us, and, if they could, not leave one of our party alive. Probably Laban and others thought the same, but wisely kept their thoughts to themselves. We fortified ourselves as usual, and kept a strict watch during the night. The weather was much less cold than it had been; indeed, there were evident signs of the coming of spring, and it became more than ever evident that we must push on before the frozen-up torrents should again burst forth, and render many spots impassable. After a hurried breakfast, we were once more on our way; we marched in true military order, with an advanced and a rear guard; the first carried spades, and acted as a pioneer corps. This morning I was in the rear guard, with Obed and Short, and all the Indians with their old chief. We had marched about a mile, and had just entered one of the defiles I have spoken of, with lofty cliffs on each side, and the mountains rising, it seemed, sheer up above our heads for thousands of feet, when I saw the Indians prick up their ears; then they stopped and bent down to the ground as if to listen. There was a great talking among them, and old White Dog called to Short: and Short announced to us the unpleasant information that we were pursued by a large body of Flintheads. They could not have overtaken our party in a position more advantageous to us; for, from the narrowness of the pass, even should they be very superior in numbers, we could show as good a front as they could. While our main body moved on with the women and children and goods, I and about a dozen young men remained with the Indians to defend the pass, and to drive back, if we could, our enemies. "There's one thing we may look for," observed Sam Short; "they'll fight to the last gasp, rather than lose the chance of their revenge; only don't let any of us get into their hands alive, that's all; they'd try our nerves in a way we should not like, depend on that." Every man among us looked to his rifle, and felt that his hunting-knife was ready to his hand in his belt. We advanced a little farther, and then halted at a spot where it seemed impossible that the Indians could scale the heights to get at us. We had not long to wait. Suddenly before us appeared a band of Indians just turning an angle of the pass. On they came at a rapid pace till the whole road, as far as the eye could reach, seemed full of them. As soon as they perceived us, they set up the most terrific yells, and rushed frantically forward. We waited for them steadily, but I feared, by the very force of their charge, that our people would be overthrown and driven back. "Now, lads," exclaimed Laban, as they came on, "be steady. Wait till I give the word. Fire low. Don't let the bullets fly over their heads. Bring down the leading men. Now ready--Fire!" All obeyed our brave leader, and several in the front ranks of the enemy fell. Yet it did not stop the rest, but rushing on with the fiercest shrieks, they threw themselves madly upon our party. The White Dog's followers bore the brunt of the charge, and very gallantly did they behave. Again and again the Flintheads were driven back, and again and again they came on. They seemed resolved to conquer or die. There must have been nearly a hundred warriors among them. The air was at times darkened with their arrows, besides which a number had rifles. Four or five of our Indian allies had been killed, as had one of our people, and numbers had been wounded. We kept up at them a hot fire all the time, and many of them fell. Still, in proportion to our numbers, we had lost more men than they had. Once more the whole column rushed on together. I fully thought that we were lost, when, as I glanced my eye upward, I saw what I fancied was the mountain-top bend forward. Yes, I was not mistaken! Down it came with a wild, rushing noise directly towards us, shaking the very ground on which we stood. The Indians saw it too, but it did not stop them, as with headlong speed they were rushing towards us, about to make another onslaught. They and White Dog's people met, and the last I saw of them they were dashing their tomahawks into each other's brains. I shouted frantically to Laban and the rest to retreat. It was a mighty avalanche, a vast mass of snow and ice. As it descended it increased in size, gathering fresh speed. As one mast of a ship drags another in its fall, so did one mountain-top seem to lay hold of the one next to it, and bring it downwards into the valley. Down, down came the mountains of snow, thundering, roaring, rushing. My brain seemed to partake of the wild commotion. I cannot attempt to describe the effect. I was leaping, running, springing back from the enemy, with every muscle exerted to the utmost, in the direction the women and baggage had gone. Laban and his sons were near me, I believed, but already dense showers of snow, or rather solid masses, the _avant-coureurs_ of the avalanche, were falling down on us and preventing me seeing anything many feet from where I was. Unearthly shrieks and cries of terror and despair reached my ears; a mass of snow struck me, and brought me to the ground deprived of consciousness. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. I FIND MYSELF UNDER THE SNOW--MY ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE APPEAR TO BE VAIN-- STRUGGLE ON--AM FREE, BUT FIND MYSELF ALONE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS--PUSH ON--ENCOUNTER A GRIZZLY BEAR--A FIGHT--WILL HE EAT ME, OR SHALL I EAT HIM?--THE PLEASANTEST ALTERNATIVE OCCURS, AND BRUIN SAVES MY LIFE--I HURRY ON IN THE HOPES OF OVERTAKING MY FRIENDS--TAKE UP MY LODGING FOR THE NIGHT IN A CAVERN. When I saw the avalanche come thundering down towards me, although I used my utmost exertions to escape, I in reality had completely given myself up for lost. My feelings were very bitter, but they were of short duration, when I was brought stunned to the ground. I came to myself at last, or I should not be writing this; but where I was, or what had occurred, it was some time before I could recollect. At last a dim consciousness came over me that something terrific had happened, and I opened my eyes and looked about; I was under the snow, or rather under a mass of ice in a space ten or twelve feet long, and about three high, being rather wider at the base. This was a very respectable sized tomb, and such I feared that it would prove to me, unless I could work my way out of it. Of course I knew that I might be released when the snow melted, but I should inevitably be starved long before that event could take place, not to speak of dying of chill, and damp, and rheumatism. My principle has always been never to say die; if it had been otherwise I should not be again in Old England. My rifle lay on the ground close to me where I had fallen; my hand still grasped the long pike I always carried, and the ever constant weapon of the backwoodsman, my hatchet, was in my belt. I crawled along to one end of the icy cavern, tapping the roof to ascertain if there was any crack through which I may work my way, but it was one solid sheet of ice; the end was blocked up also by a solid mass, through which, after making several attempts, I found it impossible to bore. Finding all my efforts useless at this end, I went to the other. Appearances were not promising; still I would not allow myself to believe that by some means or other I might not work my way out of my icy prison. Not a moment was to be lost; my friends might go away and suppose I had perished, or I might be starved or exhausted before I could reach the open air. It was a great thing having a little space to start from, though it was little enough. I set to work at once, therefore, with my axe, and began chopping away at the ice. My idea was to cut myself out a circular shaft, and thus, like a mole, work my way up. I chopped and chopped away, and when I had cut a couple of feet out of the mass, I carried the chips to the farther end of the cave; my object in doing this was to obtain sufficient air to breathe, for I found that I very soon consumed what there was in the cave, and that the heat of my body had already begun to melt the ice above me. I suffered, therefore, rather from heat than from cold; I went chopping on till I had space enough in which to stand upright. This was a very great advantage; I felt most encouraged, and could now work with far greater ease than at first, when I had to be on my back, and to chop away above me. I felt very thankful that I was not a miner, either in a coal, iron, or lead mine. Sometimes as I was working away I fancied that I head the voices of my friends calling to me, but when I stopped there was again a perfect silence. On I went again, but still it appeared as if I was as far as ever from getting out of my prison. I had now cut my shaft as high as I could reach, so I had to make steps in the walls on which I could stand while I worked upwards. This I did till I had got up a dozen feet or more. It showed me the great thickness of the block of ice which had fallen above me, and how mercifully I had been preserved, for had it come upon me, it would have crushed me as thin as a pancake. I was now exposed to a new danger: should I fall as I was tunnelling away, I should break my legs. I already had removed, as I said, a considerable portion of the ice I had cut out to the other end of the cavern. I now saw that it would be better not to remove any more; so, securing my rifle at my back, and taking my pike in my left hand, which indeed I found very useful in keeping me firm, I determined not again to descend, but to continue working upwards as long as I had strength left. To decrease the risk of falling down, I contracted the diameter of my shaft, and thus got on also faster. At length, as I gave a blow above my head, what was my satisfaction to feel that my axe had entered a mass of snow. Ask an engineer if he would rather bore under a river with a rocky, or a sandy and muddy bed, and he will tell you that the rock he can manage, but that the sand or mud is very likely to baffle him. So I found with regard to the snow; I got on rapidly through the ice, but as I worked up through the snow, I had reason to dread every instant that the superincumbent mass would fall in and smother me. I found that I made the most progress by scraping it down and beating it hard under my feet, forming a rude stair as I went on. I had got up ten feet or so through it, when either my foot had slipped, or a mass of snow had come down upon me, I could not then tell; but I know, to my horror, that I felt myself sent toppling down, heels over head, as I feared, to the bottom of the shaft. I began to give myself up for lost, and would have shrieked out; perhaps I did so, in very grief and disappointment more than through actual fear, when I found that I was brought up by my pike, which had become fixed across the shaft. I held on for some time till the snow had ceased sliding down below me, and I looked up, and there to my delight I saw, far above me, through a narrow aperture, the clear blue sky. I now could have shouted for joy; but my emancipation was not yet complete, the smooth side of the funnel was to be scaled. Having secured my pike, I set about it. I tried to run up and gain the height by a dash. That would not do, I quickly found, for the snow slid down with my feet as fast as I could lift them, and that made still more come sliding towards me. The only way to gain the top was by slow and patient progress, I discovered, after many experiments. I therefore carefully made step above step, beating each one down hard as I progressed, and with infinite satisfaction I found that I was again making an upward progress. At last my perseverance was rewarded with success, and I found myself standing on a vast mass of snow, which blocked up the whole of the valley for a considerable distance on the eastern side and for some way on the west, so far, indeed, that my first delight at my own deliverance was very much damped by the fears which seized me for the safety of my friends and companions. There I stood, in the most silent and complete solitude, amid a heaving ocean, as it were, of snow, with the dark granite peaks rising up here and there out of it, and increasing the appearance of bleakness and desolation which reigned around. I shouted again and again, in the hopes that possibly some of my companions might be within hearing; but my voice sounded faint, and indeed, almost inaudible, it seemed, while no echoes reached me from the surrounding rocks. I did not, however, waste much time in hallooing, for instant action was what was required. I felt very hungry, and that fact made me suppose that I must have been some time in my icy cavern before I returned to a state of consciousness. I took out my watch; it had stopped. It was early in the morning when the Indians had attacked us. The sun had not now risen any considerable height in the eastern sky. This made me feel sure that one whole day, if not more, had passed since the catastrophe, and that if I would preserve my life I must push on to overtake the travellers. I had left my snow-shoes in the camp, so that I had great difficulty often in making my way over the snow in some of the spots where it lay most loosely. More than once I sank up to my shoulders, and had it not been for my pike I should have had great difficulty in scrambling out again. I had got on some way, and was congratulating myself on having got over the worst of it, when I felt the snow giving way under my feet. I tried to spring forward, but that only made me sink down faster; down, down, I went in a huge drift. I had sunk to my middle; then the snowy mass rose to my shoulders, and, to my horror, I found it closing over my head. Though I knew if I went lower I might struggle on for some time, yet that death would be equally certain in the end. My feelings were painful in the extreme. I could not get my pole across above me, but I succeeded in shoving it down below my feet, and, to my infinite relief, after I had made several plunges, it struck the point of a rock, or a piece of ice. I kept it fixed there with all the strength I could command, and pressing myself upwards got sufficiently high to throw myself flat on the snow and to scramble forward. This I did for some distance, holding my staff with both hands before me. It was not a pleasant way of making progress, but it was the only safe one. At length I got into the main pass, where the snow lay at its usual depth, and where it was beaten down by the passage of men, and wagons, and horses. This gave me renewed spirits, though, on examining the traces, I discovered that they were at least a day old, perhaps older. My chief immediate wish was to have something to stop the cravings of hunger. I felt in my pockets. I had not a particle of food; nor had I a scrap of tobacco, which might have answered the purpose for a short time. I tried chewing a lump of snow--that was cold comfort; so all I could do was to put my best foot forward, and to try and overtake my friends as soon as possible. I might have walked on for three or four hours engaged in the somewhat difficult endeavour to forget how hungry I was, and to occupy my mind with pleasing fancies, (I suspect few people would have succeeded under the circumstances better than I did), when I heard a loud growl, and on looking round to my right, I saw, sitting at the mouth of a cavern formed in a rock in a side valley of the main pass along which I was travelling, a huge grizzly bear. There he sat, rubbing his nose with his paws, putting me very much in mind of pictures I have seen of hermits of old counting their beads; nor was he, I suspect, much less profitably employed. I stopped the moment I heard him growl, and looked firmly at the grizzly. I knew that it would not do to turn and run. Had I done so, he would have been after me in a moment, and made mincemeat of my carcass. I do not know what he thought of me: I do know that I thought him a very ugly customer. I bethought me of my rifle. The last shot I had fired had been at the Indians; I had not since loaded it. I dreaded lest, before I could do so, he might commence his attack, which I guessed he was meditating. He had probably only just roused up from his winter nap, and was rubbing his eyes and snout as a person does, on waking out of sleep, to recover his senses, and consider what he should do. To this circumstance I owed, I suspected, my present freedom from attack. I, meantime, loaded my rifle as fast as I could, and felt much lighter of heart when I once more lifted it ready for use to my shoulder, with a good ounce of lead in the barrel. "Now, master Grizzly," said I to myself, "come on, I am ready for you." Bruin, however, was either not quite awake, or wished to consider the best means of making a prize of me. The truth was that both of us were hungry. He wanted to eat me, and I wanted to eat him: that is to say, I determined to do so if I could, should he attack me. If he left me unmolested to pursue my journey--I felt that discretion would be in this instance the best part of valour--that it would be wisest to leave him alone in his glory; for a grizzly, as all hunters know, even with a rifle bullet in his ribs, is a very awkward antagonist. He was so long rubbing his nose, that I at last lost patience, and began to move on. I had not taken a dozen steps when his warning growl again reached my ears. I stopped, and he went on rubbing his nose as before. "This is all nonsense, old fellow," I exclaimed. "Growl as much as you like. I am not going to stop for you any longer." So, putting my best foot forward, as I had need of doing, I stepped quickly out. I very naturally could not help turning my head over my shoulder, to see what Bruin was about, and, as I did so, a growl louder than the previous one reached my ear, and I saw him moving on at a swinging trot after me. This I knew meant mischief. Flight was totally out of the question. I must fight the battle like a man. It must be literally victory or death. Strange as it may seem, my heart felt more buoyant when I had made up my mind for the struggle, independent of certain anticipations of the pleasure I should derive from the bear steaks I had in contemplation, should I be successful. I speak, perhaps, too lightly of the matter now, because I do not want to make more of my deeds than they deserve; but it was in reality very serious work, and I have cause to be deeply thankful that I did not become the victim of that savage beast. Let this be remembered, that I was then, and I am now even more so, most grateful; yet not grateful enough; that I also feel for the merciful way in which I was brought through all the perils to which I was exposed. This being clearly understood, I shall consider myself exonerated from the frequent introduction of expressions to show that I was not a heartless, careless mortal, without a sense of the superintending providence of a most merciful Creator. I do feel, and I have always felt, that there is no civilised being so odious among all the races of man as a person of that description. Well, on came the huge bear. I knelt down and took my pike, as a rest for my rifle. This was a great advantage. Growling and gnashing his teeth, the enemy advanced. I prayed that my arm might be nerved, that my hand might not tremble, and that my rifle might not miss fire. Thus I waited till the brute got within six yards of me. Had I let him get nearer, even in his death struggles, he might have grappled me. I aimed at his eye. I fired, and the moment I had done so, I sprang back, and did not stop till I had placed twenty paces between myself and the bear, scarcely looking to see the effect of my shot. When the smoke cleared off, I saw the monster struggling on, with the aim, it seemed, of catching me. I was thankful that I had been impelled to spring back as I had done, for I certainly had not previously intended doing so. I knew how hard the old grizzlies often die, and so I put some dozen or more yards between me and him. He fell, then got up once, and made towards me again, and then rolled over, and I had great hope life was extinct. I had meantime reloaded my rifle, and approached him with due caution, for bears are, I had heard, cunning fellows, and sometimes sham death to catch the unwary hunter. When I got near enough I poked at him with my pike, and tickled him in several places, and as he did not move, I got round to his head, and gave him a blow with my axe, which would have settled him had he been shamming ever so cleverly. Without loss of time I cut out his tongue and as many steaks as I could conveniently carry, and stringing them together with a piece of his hide threw them over my back, and hurried on till I could find a sufficient collection of wood or lichens, or other substance that would burn, to make a fire for cooking them. I need not dwell on what I did do, but the fact was I was ravenously hungry; and let any one, with the gnawings of the stomach I was enduring, find his nose within a few inches of some fresh wholesome bear's meat, and he will probably do what I did--eat a piece of it raw. I was very glad that I did, for I felt my strength much recruited by my savage meal, especially as I only ate a small piece, very leisurely chewing it as I hurried on my road. It was a satisfaction to believe that I was going much faster than the women and vehicles could progress, and so I hoped to overtake them in a day or two at furthest; still, as long as there was daylight, I did not like to stop, and so on I tramped, till just before it grew dark I reached a broader part of the pass, where, in a nook in the mountain side, I discovered the remains of the camp formed by my friends, and left, I had little doubt, that very morning. There was wood enough about, with a little more, which I set to work to collect, to keep a fire burning all night. While thus engaged I found in the side of the rock a cave of good depth. I explored it at once, while there was light, to ascertain that it was not the abode of another grizzly. Having assured myself that the lodgings were unoccupied, though no signboard announced that they were to be let, I piled my wood up in front, and collected all the branches of fir trees and moss which I could find, to form a bed for myself inside. These arrangements being made, I lighted my fire and sat down with considerable appetite to cook and eat my bear steaks. My adventures for the night were not over. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A NIGHT IN A CAVE--I FORTIFY MYSELF, AND GO TO SLEEP--UNWELCOME VISITORS--MY BATTLE WITH THE WOLVES--I DRIVE THEM OFF, AND AGAIN GO TO SLEEP--CONTINUE MY JOURNEY--NIGHT AGAIN OVERTAKES ME--I BUILD A CASTLE FOR MY RESTING-PLACE--VOICES OF FRIENDS SOUND PLEASANTLY--ESCAPE OF MY COMPANIONS--FATE OF SURLY MAGOG--REACH THE CAMP--THE SUMMIT OF THE PASS--COMMENCE OUR DESCENT--AN IRISHMAN'S NOTION OF THE BEST WAY TO GO DOWN THE MOUNTAIN. I soon got up a good fire, which threw its ruddy glare on all the rough points and salient angles of the cavern, but cast the hollows and recesses into the deepest shade. I glanced my eyes round, however, on every side, and having satisfied myself that it had no previous occupant in the shape of a grizzly and her hopeful family, I proceeded with my culinary operations. Having skewered a supply of bits of bear's flesh sufficient to satisfy my appetite, on as many thin willow twigs, I cut out a number of forked sticks and stuck them round the fire. On these, spit-fashion I placed my skewers, and turned them round and round till they were roasted on every side. A few, to satisfy the immediate cravings of my appetite, I placed very close to the fire, but they got rather more burned than a French chef would have admired. After that, as I had nothing else to do, I could afford to take my time, and to cook them to perfection. I should have liked to have had a little pepper and salt to eat with them, and something more comfortable than melted snow to wash them down. I could not afford to expend my gunpowder, otherwise the nitre in it affords a certain amount of flavour, counterbalanced, to be sure, in the opinion of some people, by the sulphur and charcoal. I don't think, however, any one need fear being blown up by partaking of such a condiment. After I had finished my supper, I sang a little to amuse myself and any bats which might have been hanging on by their claws to the roof of the inner part of the cave, and then, having no book to read or anything else to do, I prepared my bed and made up my fire for the night. In other words, I collected a bundle of sticks and fastened them together to form a pillow, and scraped into a heap all the dry earth I could find to make myself a mattress. This a backwoodsman would have considered great effeminacy; and though I always adopted their ways when with them, I must own that, when left to myself, I could not help indulging in some such approximation, as I have described, to the luxurious habits of my college life. It was pleasant to recall my arm-chair and slippers, my cheery coal fire, my table covered with books, and a cup of coffee, or perhaps a bottle of port and a plate of biscuits, to apply to in case, after my mental exertions, my physical being should require some slight renovation. Some lazy fellows might rather think that I had not changed for the better. I was on the point of stretching myself on the aforesaid luxurious couch, when I bethought me that it would be more prudent to erect a barrier of some sort between my dormitory and the entrance of the cavern, that, should any uninvited visitors intrude, I might have time for taking measures to protect myself. It, by the way, also occurred to me that a wall might guard me from the cold wind which blew in at the mouth of the cavern. I, therefore, shaking off my drowsiness by an impulse I can scarcely now account for, built a wall of all the stones and earth and bits of wood I could heap together, nearly two feet high, reaching from the fire to one side of the cavern. I then carefully examined my rifle, and placing it by my side, lay down alongside my wall with my feet towards the fire. Why I did this, I repeat, I cannot say. The idea that such a precaution might be necessary had not till that very moment crossed my mind. The additional exertion somewhat wearied me, and not a minute after I placed my head on the pillow, and like a hen had worked myself a hole to fit my body in the sand, I was fast asleep. I don't know what occurred after that, till I awoke by finding my feet very cold, which was no wonder, for the fire had almost gone out, and the thermometer was down to zero. I lifted myself up on my elbow while I was recovering my senses after my sleep, when not five paces on the other side of the wall I saw what looked like at least a dozen sparks of light in a row, reaching across the mouth of the cave, while farther off appeared several other small fiery orbs. I looked and looked again. "Fireflies," said I to myself, half dreaming. "Bosh! fireflies in midwinter on the top of a mountain!" I rubbed my eyes. "Sparks from my fire?" Several peculiar low snarling growls made me start up, wide awake with a vengeance. "Wolves!" I said to myself; "there is no doubt about it." The brutes had smelt me out, and with their usual caution, they were making this advance to commence an attack. How many there were I could not tell, but there must have been a flock of them--parents and children, the biggest and fiercest as usual in the van. I concluded that they had not yet seen me in the dark, but I knew that they would find me out as soon as I moved. I felt quietly for my rifle, and got that ready to fire when it was required. Then I lay watching the brutes as slowly they crept on, one foot before the other, just as a pointer advances towards where the covey lies hid. In another instant they might spring upon me. It struck me that they probably did not like the embers of the fire, so I took my long pole, and beat or stirred up the ashes with it, making them send forth showers of sparks. I fancied that the wolves were retreating, so I jumped up, and threw the bundle of sticks which had served me for a pillow, as well as all others on which I could lay my hands, upon the ashes. This act exposed me to the view of the hungry brutes, who instantly, with loud growls, rushed back towards me. Just then the dry sticks, aided by a puff of wind, ignited, and blazing up exhibited the whole savage troop to me. It was a highly picturesque scene I doubt not, the fire blazing up, and the dark rugged walls of the cavern, and my figure brought into strong light, with my gleaming brand pointed towards my savage assailants; but I don't mean to say I thought about that just then. All I saw were the fierce glaring eyes, the shaggy coats, and the hungry-looking fangs of the brutes, as they licked their jaws in anticipation of the feast they hoped to enjoy off me. I did not, however, like to throw away a shot among them, which could only have killed one, so I waited to see what they would do. In my late combat with the bear, I had the anticipation of a meal off my foe, should. I prove the victor, but on this occasion I had not that incitement to exertion, for a man must be very hard up for food who could complacently dine of the flesh of a gaunt wolf at the end of winter; and even the cubs, though probably not quite such tough morsels as their parents, had already far too much muscular development to afford satisfactory employment to the jaws. Though, however, I did not want to eat the wolves, they wanted to eat me, which was quite sufficient reason to make me excessively anxious to gain the victory. After baying at me for some time, the brutes in the front line once more stealthily advanced, followed by those in the rear, whose forms appeared less and less distinct, till all I could make out of them were their fierce eyes, glaring like hot coals through the darkness. By this time a good portion of the sticks had caught fire. As the wolves got nearer, the scent of the remainder of the bear steaks, which I had put aside for my breakfast, filled their nostrils; their eagerness increased, and, with a loud howl, they in a body sprang towards me. I must conquer gloriously, or die and be eaten ignominiously; so, seizing a bundle of the burning sticks, I threw them in among the advancing ranks, and then, with loud shouts, grasping my pole, sprang out towards my foes, and belaboured them with might and main about their heads. They snarled and bit fiercely at the pole, but did not advance. Still they would not take to flight, and as it was very evident I should have a disturbed night's rest if they remained in the neighbourhood, I was very anxious to make them decamp. I got together, therefore, an additional supply of burning sticks. These I put in readiness for use. Then I levelled my rifle at one of the foremost and biggest wolves, and knocking him over, brandished my pole in one hand, and hurling the burning sticks among them with the other, I made a second furious onslaught on the wolves. With unearthly howls and cries away they fled, leaping and scrambling over each other like an affrighted flock of sheep, and in complacent triumph I returned to my sandy couch, expecting to enjoy a quiet and comfortable night's rest. A heap of stones served me now for a pillow. Some of my readers may say, if you had had a downy couch or a feather-stuffed pillow, in a nice room with curtains, and a good fire, you might have had some reason for your hopes; but let me assure them that our ideas of comfort arise from comparison. The first night I slept in a feather bed after my camp life I caught the worst cold I ever had. Well, leaving the dead body of the wolf where he had fallen, I took the precaution to make up the fire with the remaining sticks I had collected, and lay down once more to enjoy the sweets of repose. Can it be believed! I had not been ten minutes wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, when I was again roused out of them by a terrific snarling and barking and growling. I looked up. There, as I expected, were the wolves, unnatural brutes, tearing away at the carcass of their ancient kinsman, and quarrelling over his limbs. "If that is what you are about, my boys, you are welcome to your sport, only let me alone," said I to myself; and leaning back I was immediately fast asleep again. The truth is, not having had a comfortable night's rest for some time, I was very sleepy, which will account for my apparent indifference to the near neighbourhood of such unsatisfactory gentry. In spite of snarling, and barking, and howling, and growling, and every other variety of noise which the genus _canis_, whether in a tame or wild state, is capable of making, I slept on. To be sure I could not help dreaming about them; sometimes that they were running off with my ten toes, then with my fingers; then that a big fellow had got an awkward grip at my nose. The last dream, which was so particularly unpleasant, made me lift up my hand to ascertain whether that ornament of the human visage was in its proper place, when I felt several hot puffs of air blow on my cheek, and opening my eyes I beheld the glaring orbs of half a dozen wolves gazing down upon me over my barricade. Had not my dream given me warning, in another instant they would have been upon me. As it was, they seemed inclined to make a spring and to finish the drama by eating me up, which I calculated they would have done in ten minutes, when, seizing my spear, I swept it round, and as I knocked one off after the other the loud yelling they made showed the force of the blows I had, in my desperation, dealt on them. I then got up, and scraping a portion of the fire within reach of my hands, I kept the ends of a number of sticks burning in it, and as soon as the wolves came back, which they did not fail to do, I hove one at their noses. This made them wary. They must have taken me for a Salamander or some fire-spitting monster; at all events, although some of the bolder ones every now and then came and had a look at me, licking their jaws and wishing they could eat me up, the singeing I gave their whiskers quickly drove them away, while the greater number kept at a respectful distance. At last when morning light returned, I started up, and uttering shouts and shrieks with the most hearty good-will, fired again at the foremost, and, as before, laying about me with my pole, put the remainder to an ignominious flight. I had not enjoyed a quiet night certainly, but I was much warmer than I should have been had my fire gone out. "It's an ill wind that blows no one good." "Good may be got out of everything," I say. So the wolves said, when they supped of their old grandsire instead of me. Having also enjoyed a warm breakfast, I shouldered my rifle and pushed on as fast as my legs could carry me to overtake my friends. I was extremely anxious to get up with them before they descended into the plains; for as I supposed that the snow would be melting there, I knew that I might have great difficulty in following their traces. I pushed on till noon, and then stopped but ten minutes to dine, or rather to rest and chew a bit of bear's flesh. That done, on again I went as fast as before. I did not at all like the notion of having to camp out by myself, for I was so sleepy that I fancied I might be torn limb from limb by wolves or a bear without awaking; and certainly I might have been frozen to death. The evening came, the sun set, and though I was on the track of my friends, I could see nothing of them. Still I pushed on, because I might overtake them before dark; but at length the shades of night crept up the mountain's sides, and for what I could tell I still might be many hours distant from them. I could see very little way ahead; but I had arrived at a part of the mountain-range where there were some very ugly-looking precipices on either side of the pass, and I thought it more than likely, should I push on, that I might slip down one of them, when very probably I should not be brought up till I had had a jump of a couple of thousand feet or so. I could find no dry wood for a fire; but there were plenty of stones, and a superabundance of snow and a big overhanging rock near at hand. I, therefore, built myself a hut with the stones and snow, the big rock forming the back. There was no door nor window, seeing that such would have been more useful to an enemy than to myself; but as there was no roof the space where it should have been enabled me to get into my abode, and allowed air and such light as the stars afforded to enter also. Some men would not have taken so much trouble for a single night, but as I thought that I very probably should be eaten if I did not, I did not think the trouble thrown away. My castle being complete, I climbed over the wall, and sat down on a stone, which I intended as my pillow, to munch a piece of bear's flesh. I felt much better after it, and before going to sleep I bethought me that I would exercise my voice a little, and fire off my rifle to frighten away any prowling bear, who might otherwise take a fancy to inspect my fortress while I might be asleep. My voice rang loudly amidst the solemn silence of that mountain region, and the crack of my rifle echoed from rock to rock, but I heard no sound in return, and having reloaded my rifle, and sung a few songs and a hymn, I knelt down, said my prayers, and placing my head on my rough pillow, went to sleep. I had slept some time when I was awoke by hearing a noise as if some one was climbing over the walls of my tower. Grasping my rifle, which I had placed leaning against the wall nearest me, ready for instant service, I looked up and there I saw the head of a bear looking down upon me. I was on the point of firing, as was natural, when I heard a voice say-- "Hollo, stranger, you snore loudly." I sprang to my feet. "Why, Obed and Elihu, old boys! is it you?" I exclaimed. "And my young friend Gog!" "I might well say, is it you, Dick?" cried Obed and his brother, almost wringing off my hand. "We thought you were some hundred feet under the snow, with all the red-skins, the White Dogs, and Flintheads, and none of us ever expected to see you again, that we did not, let me tell you; but it won't make us less glad to find you come to life again. How is it you are here? Tell us." In reply, I gave them a rapid sketch of my escape and adventures, and inquired anxiously after my friends. He told me that only two white men of our party had lost their lives, though several had been dug out of the snow, whereas, of the Indians, only old White Dog himself had escaped. "And Magog?" I asked, "my other young bear." "Oh, we ate him," answered Obed; "he was an ill-natured brute, and as he bit one of the children, and we wanted some fresh meat, father ordered him to be knocked on the head. I guessed it would come to that. Now, the moment we heard your shots and shouts, Gog was full of fidgets, till he saw us starting off to see what it was about, and then up he got and followed us like a dog. He's a sensible little brute, that he is." This conversation took place while I, like a Jack in a box, stood inside my castle, and my friends outside. At last I bethought me that I should like to be on the move, if it was only the sooner to enjoy a cup of hot coffee and a pipe, luxuries I had had all day an especial longing for. They had been so eager to learn what had occurred to me, that it did not occur to them that the sooner we could get back to camp, the better for me. It was pitched, I found, in a sheltered nook, in a valley some way down the mountain, and thus their fires had been hidden from me, as well as the sound of their voices. Off we set, therefore, little Gog jumping and frisking before me as playful as a young puppy. It was a wonder he did not tumble over the precipices in the dark. I received a warm welcome and got a warm supper, and when I did once go to sleep, I believe that it would have taken a pretty heavy piece of ordnance fired over my head to awaken me. We had now reached the extreme western edge of the Rocky Mountains, and our course was henceforth to be all down hill. We had expected to have had easy work of it, but when we stood on the edge of the cliffs and looked down the terrific precipices, the bottom of which we had by some means or other to reach, we very soon changed our minds. First we had to search for the side of the mountain with the least slope; that is to say, forming the greatest angle with the base. When found we saw that no oxen or horses could, by themselves, prevent a loaded wagon rushing down and being dashed to pieces. We therefore held a council to consider the best means to be adopted. Two plans were agreed on according to the nature of the ground. Where the descent was short and steep we unharnessed the cattle, and making one end of a rope fast to a rock or tree, we passed it through a block in the hinder part of the wagon, and thus lowered the vehicle down gradually to the next platform. The ropes were then unrove and secured to another rock or tree. It was a very slow operation, but it was the only safe one. Indeed, in some places the descent was so precipitous that we had to unload the wagons altogether, and carry each article down separately. Two days were thus occupied; but when we looked up and saw the heights from which we had descended, and the steepness of the precipices above us, we had reason, I thought, to be thankful. We now came to a series of sheer descents, long, excessively steep slopes of half a mile or more each. They were of a more treacherous character, and required as much caution. We first cut down as many trees, with their branches on them, as we had wagons, and secured the butt-ends to the axle-trees, while the thick branchy tops trailed behind digging into the ground. We were too wise, however, to risk the whole at once. First we got one of the lighter wagons with a steady pair of horses ahead. Then we locked all the wheels, and besides that made fast some stout ropes to either side. We remembered that: "The greater haste the worst speed." "Gently, so ho," was the word. On moved the wagon. Obed and I went to the horses' heads. It was ticklish work with all our care. Downward we slid. Often we could scarcely keep our own footing. I was very glad, I know, when we reached the bottom of the first descent. We had several more, however, to accomplish. Others, seeing our success, came following with the same caution, and succeeded as well. All but one party, a family of Irish emigrants, agreed that our plan was the only safe one. Pat Leary, however, and his sons, and sons-in-law, and wife, and daughters, and daughters-in-law, for though the eldest was not twenty, they were all married, cried out lustily against our proceedings. "Arrah, now, why are ye afther bothering so long on the side of the mountain?" exclaimed Leary the elder. "Jist let the wagons now take an aisy slide down by themselves, they'll raich the bottom safe enough. Don't ye see no harm has come to any one of them yet, at all, at all?" "For the very reason, friend Leary, because we have taken proper precautions to prevent an accident," observed Mr Ragget, who had adopted a peculiarly sententious tone in speaking to Pat, a great contrast to the other's rapid style of utterance. Pat was not to be convinced. One of the longest and steepest of the descents lay before us. On one side was a precipice of some six or seven hundred feet in depth. Pat insisted on leading the way. He and his boys were certain that they could trot their horses down it. "It was all so straight and aisy." We entreated them to let the women and children remain behind. With a bad grace they consented, charging us to bring them on to Californy after them. On they went. The descent was tolerably gentle for some way. They looked round laughing at us, cracking their whips. However, steeper and steeper it grew, and faster and faster they went, till, dashing on at a terrific speed, they were hidden from our sight. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. SAD FATE OF THE POOR LEARYS--GRIEF OF THE MOTHER AND SISTERS--WE GO IN SEARCH OF THE MISSING ONES--FIND THEM AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RAVINE--THE BURIAL--WILD SCENE--RETURN TO CAMP--GO ON A SPORTING EXPEDITION--MY BATTLE WITH THE HAWKS--VERY NEARLY BEATEN--SHORT COMES TO THE RESCUE-- CONSEQUENCES OF INDULGING IN A FIT OF ROMANCE ON A JOURNEY--GO TO SLEEP, AND FIND THAT MY ONLY COMPANION IS A HUGE RATTLESNAKE. I was describing our passage down the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains, our worthy companion Pat Leary having taken it into his head that he had discovered a much more rapid way of reaching the bottom than the slow one which the rest of our party thought it prudent to pursue. As we stood on the platform immediately above the slope he had taken, we saw him dashing on at a furious speed not at all conscious of the danger he was running. As his wife and daughters, however, saw his rapid descent, they became so, and screamed out for him to stop. He was a great favourite with us all, in spite of a few eccentricities, for he was a capital fellow in the main; and had he not been so, the cries of the women would have made us anxious for his safety. Obed and I, who were in advance of the rest of the party, could not resist the temptation of setting off to see what had become of him and to render him any assistance in our power. Leaving our wagon, therefore, in charge of two lads, we ran down the slope of the mountain as fast as our legs would carry us. On we went till we were almost done up, but the only sign of the Learys were the ruts which their wagon wheels had made in the softer spots on the mountain side; often they approached fearfully near the edge of the precipice on the left, and then apparently the animals, seeing the danger, had inclined again to the right. We were already carried much farther down the mountain than we intended, and began to repent having come, and to think of our long climb up again, when we saw, a considerable way below us, close to the precipice, some objects moving, which, on descending farther, we discovered to be human beings. They were lying on the ground and waving their hands. As we proceeded we found that the nearest was our poor friend Leary. "Oh, help them!--save them! murther, murther, or they'll all be dashed to pieces," he shouted out, pointing down to the deep glen or gorge below us, through which rushed a rapid, roaring, foaming stream. Two of his sons lay close to him almost stunned. Four had started in the wagon. Where were the other two? Where was the wagon? The marks of the cart wheels verging to the left, and the broken ground at the edge of the precipice, told us too plainly what had occurred. We looked down the fearful ravine. No attempt we could make to aid the two unfortunate young men would avail. Far, far, down amid masses of rocks at the edge of the torrent lay a confused mass, amid which we could distinguish the wheel of a wagon, and the head of one of the animals which had drawn it, but nothing moved, no sound was heard. It was our conviction that both men and beasts had been, long ere they reached the bottom, deprived of life. We did not describe to the poor father what we had seen. He was hoping against hope that his sons had escaped. We needed no one to describe to us how the accident had occurred. The road sloped away to the left, and the animals, losing their footing, had been forced by the impetus of the wagon over the precipice, while he and his other two lads had mechanically leaped out at the moment it was about to make the fatal plunge. The two lads were stunned and so much bruised that when they came to themselves they could not walk, while Leary, though less hurt, what with grief and regret at his folly and alarm, had his nerves so completely unstrung that he lost all command over himself. To leave them in this condition was impossible, so I volunteered to climb up the mountain to hurry on some of the party with assistance; but Obed would not hear of it, and insisted on my remaining while he returned. I consented to his proposal, and having assisted me in dragging the three men to a distance from the precipice, off he started. My watch was a very painful one. Poor Leary was constantly raving, asking why his boys did not come up from below there, and crying out that he would go and look for them. I often had great difficulty in restraining him. One of his sons, too, was so severely hurt that I feared he would sink before assistance could come. The other, who was the eldest, was fully conscious of what had occurred, and groaned and cried bitterly, blaming himself and his father as being the cause of the death of his younger brothers, which was indeed too true. Many an anxious look did I cast up the mountain in the hope of seeing my companions on their descent. I expected them long before they could possibly arrive, for I had not calculated how much time it would occupy Obed in ascending, and the wagons with their wheels locked, and the trees astern in descending the mountain. The state of my poor friends almost unnerved me, and I began to think of grizzly bears and wolves, and all sorts of monsters which might scent us out. Though I had my rifle at my back I could scarcely hope to defend myself and my companions. Still I, of course, determined to do my best. As I looked towards the glen into which the wagon had shot over, I saw high in air several huge birds rapidly winging their flight from various directions, and hovering over the spot ere they made a pounce down on it. I knew too well what they were--vultures drawn by their keen scent from afar to their dreadful banquet. They knew, whatever we might have hoped, that death was there. At last the wagons appeared, and the sound of female voices shrieking and wailing gave me notice that Obed had told the poor wives and sisters of the sufferers what had occurred. It was a most piteous scene. As soon as the wagons could be safely brought to a stop, some of the women threw themselves by the side of the sufferers, and hung over them, and kissed them, and embraced them convulsively, while the bereaved widows cried out for their husbands, and asked what had become of them. This state of things might have continued all day had not Mr Ragget arrived and somewhat restored order. He first judiciously applied such remedies as were at hand to the sufferers, and then had them all lifted into a wagon, and on we proceeded to the bottom of the mountain. Soon after this we reached a spot whence what appeared a vast plain was seen stretching out before us, and became aware that we were near the termination of the mountain portion of our journey. Here and there we observed slight elevations, while several silvery lines meandering amid groves marked the course of what seemed small rivulets flowing towards the Pacific. We afterwards found that the slight elevations turned into considerable hills, the groves into vast forests, and the small rivulets into rapid rivers, which cost us much toil and danger to pass. We had still some way to descend before we reached a level spot, when, near the edge of the stream which rushed out of the gorge I have mentioned, we halted to encamp. Leaving the rest to make the usual arrangements, without stopping to take food, I and three of the Raggets, with Leary's sons-in-law, and one or two others, set off up the gorge to try and find the spot where the wagon and the bodies of our late companions lay. I should say that as we descended the mountain we had looked out for any practicable place by which we might reach the bottom of the gorge, but none could we discover. We had, of course, our rifles at our backs and our axes in our belts, and either crowbars or poles in our hands. The ground was rugged in the extreme. Sometimes we had to climb the sides of the precipices, now to wade along the edge of the stream, running a great risk of being carried off by the current. Sometimes we came to marshy spots, into which we sank nearly up to our middle; then we worked our way onward under trees, swinging ourselves from bough to bough, but the greater part of the way we had to climb over huge boulders with crevices between them, into which it would have been destruction to slip. We had all climbed to the top of one huge rock, expecting that we should see from it the spot at which we were aiming, when, on looking down the opposite side, we found that there was at the bottom a watercourse with a fall of nearly twenty feet into it, while nothing could we see of the broken wagon. We had, therefore, to slip down the way we had come up, and to progress as before. It was weary, fatiguing work. Still we persevered; for there was, of course, a possibility that the poor young Learys might be alive, though of this we had very little hope. We had been deceived as to the distance, and we judged that we must already have travelled a league, or three miles. Obed suggested that we might have passed the spot, but this I did not think possible. Our course, as I mentioned, lay along the side of the torrent; but frequently we lost sight of it, though we did not cease to hear its loud roar, as the foaming waters rushed over its rocky bed. I calculated, as I looked at it, what a mighty torrent would be shortly hurrying onward, when the snows above melted by the heat of the approaching summer. At length, climbing another rock, we saw not fifty yards from us the sad spectacle of which we were in search, the fragments of the wagon and the dead horses. We hurried on and soon reached the spot. Already over the horses were hovering eight or ten huge vultures, flapping their wings as they alighted, while with unearthly cries they tore away the flesh with their sharp talons and hooked beaks. They seemed inclined to dispute their prey with us; but on Obed and I firing we killed two of them, and the rest flew off; but we could see them hovering in the distance, ready to pounce down again as soon as we had retired. We instantly set to work with our crowbars and poles to turn over the broken wagon. The sight which met our eyes was sad indeed. There lay the two young men, fearfully crushed and mangled, directly under the wagon. They must have clung to it as it descended, or have been entangled among the goods in it. They must instantly have been killed. We had wished to carry the bodies back to the camp, but in consequence of the impracticable character of the road we had come over this was impossible. We hunted about till at last we discovered a sort of basin among the rocks, into which the earth from above had washed. Here we dug two graves as deep as time would allow, and with scant ceremony, though not without a tear, we placed in them the two brothers. We knew that prayers for them were of no avail; they had gone to their account; but we did pray that we might not thus be hurriedly snatched away without a warning. There were plenty of slabs of stone on the side of the mountain chipped off by winter frosts and summer heats and rains, and so we placed one at the head of each grave, and then we left them to sleep on undisturbed. Probably many ages may roll by before that spot is again visited by human footsteps. So engaged had we been in our painful employment that we did not perceive how rapidly daylight was decreasing, and before we had proceeded half-a-mile on our return journey we came to the disagreeable conclusion that we should be benighted before we could possibly reach the camp. Still we of course pushed on as long as we could see our way. As we had had no food since the morning, we were desperately hungry; but as Obed observed, "I guess we've plenty of water, mates, and maybe we shall kill a rattlesnake, and that won't be bad eating." The cold we did not much mind, though somewhat icy blasts came down the glen, for we were pretty well inured to that; but as we had had nothing since the morning, our stomachs craved lustily for food, and I would have tried my teeth on the flesh of a gaunt wolf, or even on one of the vultures we had killed, if we could have got at them. We found our way in among a circle of boulders, and there we passed the night, and a most unpleasant one it was. At the earliest dawn we were on foot, but it took us nearly two hours to reach the camp. I will not describe the lamentations of the Leary family when we gave them an account of our proceedings--the shrieks and wailing which the poor women commenced and continued for the greater part of the next twenty-four hours. As there was plenty of wood, water, and grass for the cattle, we determined to remain there a day to prepare for our journey along the level country. To avoid the lamentations of the unhappy wives, as soon as I had performed the part of the work allotted to me for the general good, I stole from the camp to enjoy some portion of quiet. When the sun got up, as the wind was from the west, the heat became very great, and I did not feel inclined to move very fast. Soon after leaving the camp, I observed several hawks hovering round a spot in the wood, the abode probably of some rabbits, hares, or other small game. By cautiously creeping on, I got within shot of one of them. I fired, and down tumbled the monster bird. He was a huge creature, with a large hooked beak and immense claws, who, if he could not have carried off a lamb or a goose, would have had no trouble in flying away with a duck, or a fowl, or a rabbit. I observed where the others went to, and followed them till I reached a tolerably accessible cliff, at the top of which a whole colony seemed to reside; big and little, sires and offspring, were circling round, and making themselves quite at home. Having a fancy to examine the nature of their habitations, I looked about me to see how I could get up the cliff, and with my pole alone in hand commenced the ascent. This, from the nature of the ground, was not very difficult; and I had got within a dozen feet or so from their nests, and was standing on a broad ledge, looking up to ascertain how I could best ascend higher, when they espied me, or, as they had been all along watching me, they probably came to the conclusion that it was time to put a stop to my further proceedings. I had just discovered their nest, which was as large as the baskets market women carry on their heads. It was composed of twigs and small sticks, none less than an inch in circumference. On the ledge below it were scattered numerous bones, and the skeletons and half-mangled bodies of pigeons, hares, and a variety of small birds. Without much consideration, I constituted myself the champion of the smaller denizens of the wood, and, axe in hand, was ascending to knock the robber stronghold to pieces, when old and young, with fierce cries, made a desperate sortie to drive off the assailant of their castle. Down they came upon me with the most desperate fury, dashing at my head and face, and evidently aiming at my eyes. I struck right and left with my axe, but it is a bad weapon for defence, and they laughed at all my efforts, only wheeling round to renew the attack. Ten times rather would I have had a combat with a dozen wolves, or a hungry grizzly. I should instantly have had both my eyes torn from their sockets, had I not kept my left arm like a shield before them; and as it was, my forehead got some ugly blows which almost drove in the bone, while the blood flowing from the wounds nearly blinded me. Never have I felt so unmanned,--so terribly alarmed. It was like being attacked by a host of demons. I could not seek safety in flight, for I should have broken my neck, as I dared not for a moment move my left arm from before my face, while my right was fully occupied in dealing blows on every side at my fierce enemies. I shrieked out at the top of my voice with downright terror, but I was too far from the camp, I fancied, to have any hope of being heard. Even my right arm began to get weary with striking at the empty air, and at the same time the boldness of my assailants increased. They attacked me in rear as well as in front, darting against my neck and the back of my ears; and so terribly did they beat me that I began fully to believe that I should be done to death by birds. Still, had it not been for the dread of losing my eyes, I could easily have escaped. At last, one big fellow, the father of the brood, pounced down and hit me on the temple within an inch of my right eye. Just then, when almost in despair, I heard the voice of Sam Short shouting out, "Throw yourself on the ground, Dick; face downward, Dick." I did as he counselled, and the next moment a shot from his rifle brought down my chief foe, who fell close to me. Still he was not dead, and with the fury of despair, flapping his way up to me, he began to make such determined attacks on my head, that I feared he would have bitten off my ear before I was able to disengage my right hand, with which I then gave him a blow on his head, which made him quiet for ever. Still the rest of the amiable family kept circling above me, giving me most disagreeable prongs, till another shot from Short's rifle killed two more, and the rest, discovering that I had an ally in the field, took to flight. He then came up, and having destroyed the nest, helped me down the cliff, for I really could scarcely have descended by myself, so completely shaken were my nerves with the novel contest in which I had engaged. I begged Sam not to mention in camp what had occurred, but he kept my counsel very badly, for he could not resist asking when I would like to go birds'-nesting again, and made so many other allusions that I thought it was best to tell the story, and got heartily laughed at for my pains. I, however, have always felt that it was no laughing matter, and that I was never in greater peril than on that occasion. We next day proceeded on our journey, and for ten days or so made but slow progress, as we had numerous rivers to pass, and the change of climate from the cold of the mountains to the heat of the plains was very trying to man and beast. We now took to encamping during the middle of the day, and travelling very early and late. In that way our animals got two unbroken rests instead of one, which was a great advantage. One day, after a long morning's journey, we had camped near a stream bordered by rich pastures of red and white clover. As I have hinted, although I was on the most friendly terms with all my companions, I now and then had a longing to be by myself, to commune with my own thoughts, and to call to mind friends whose ideas and manners were so different from those of my present associates. As I frequently did, therefore, I left the camp, and wandered on up the stream till I came to a little grove of sumach and cherry trees, under whose shade I sat down to enjoy the cool air, and to watch the clear water which flowed bubbling by. The sweet-scented flowers of spring were bursting out from many a bush, and encumbering the ground around me. Their balmy odours filled my nostrils, the fresh air played round my brow, and the murmur of the stream sounded in my ears, till my pleased senses became completely overcome by the surrounding soporific influences, and wandered far away amid the regions of dreamland: in other words, I went fast asleep. At last I awoke, and rubbed and rubbed my eyes; I had good reason for rubbing them, for the beautiful landscape on which they had closed was no longer before them. There was the murmur of the stream, and the scent of the flowers, but obscurity was around me, and the stars were glittering brightly overhead. How far in the night it was I could not guess. How to follow my companions too, was a question, as it was so dark that I could not have found my way to the camp, even if they had been there. The only cause I could then assign for my having slept so long, was that I must have been surrounded by some herbs of soporific power, though, perhaps, the perfect tranquillity of the spot, the heat of the weather, and the exertion I had of late gone through were sufficient reasons for the unusual length of my nap. Having no hopes of overtaking my friends that night, I judged that the best thing I could do was to stay where I was and go to sleep again. This was, however, not very easy to do. I was lightly clad, and the night damp had made me feel very chilly. It was not, therefore, till morning that sleep again overpowered me. It would have been better for me had I kept awake. Suddenly I opened my eyes with a start. The sun had already risen, and was glancing through the woods on my head. I heard a noise--a rustling in the grass. I turned my head, and there, to my horror, I beheld a huge rattlesnake about to spring on me. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A FIGHT WITH A RATTLESNAKE, AND A DESCRIPTION OF MY ENEMY--FIND THE CAMP DESERTED--FEEL VERY HUNGRY--KILL A GOOSE--SEE SOME HORSEMEN IN THE DISTANCE--FIND A RIVER BETWEEN ME AND THEM--BUILD A RAFT, AND TAKE A LONGER VOYAGE THAN I INTEND--SHOOT A FALL, AND HAVE THE PLEASANT PROSPECT OF BEING CARRIED DOWN A CATARACT. I sprang up as if I had been galvanised, and leaped a dozen feet or more away from the fangs of the rattlesnake. I had left my pole at the camp, and I had placed my rifle by my side when I went to sleep. There it lay close to the rattlesnake. My axe was in my belt, but it is not a good weapon for the attack of either birds or snakes. My enemy was advancing towards me, his tail rattling ominously. My foot, as I leaped back, struck a stone--the only one appearing thereabouts among the grass. I seized it, and dashed it down on the head of the reptile, who was not then a yard from me, with such force that it drove its body right down into the earth, while its tail wriggled and rattled away in a vain endeavour to extricate itself. I ran and picked up my rifle, and looked round to see that I had left nothing behind me. I could not help stopping, before I proceeded on my way, to examine the creature I had killed. It was of a yellowish-brown colour, marked all down its back with spots of a dark-brown, while from the head down the neck ran three longitudinal lines of the same hue. The head was large and flat, and covered with small scales. It was about five feet long, and as thick as my wrist, and altogether a very formidable-looking snake. The rattlesnake has a small set of teeth, which serve to catch and retain its prey, and the poisonous fangs with which it kills them. These latter are placed in the upper jaw, and when not employed remain flat along it. It is one of the most deadly of poisonous serpents, and would be very dangerous were it not that it is very sluggish in its movements, and that it has a rattle at the end of its tail, with which it cannot avoid giving notice of its approach. The rattle is a collection of bones, formed something like the backbone of a human being. It looks as if it were fastened on outside the tail, at its very tip. The broad part of the rattle is placed perpendicularly to the body, and it is so contrived that each bone strikes against two others at the same time, so as to multiply the rattling sound. I have often thought how glad the rattlesnake would be to get rid of his rattle, just as a person with a bad character, justly obtained, would like to have the stigma removed, that he might commit more mischief on the unwary. The more I have travelled, and the longer I have lived, the greater reason I have to admire the wonderful and beautiful arrangements of the Creator of all things. Why venomous serpents were formed I cannot say, though I am very certain it was for a good object; but it is very evident why the snake I have been describing was furnished with a rattle--that man might be warned of its approach. My examination of the snake did not last long. I afterwards saw and killed many others. Quitting the spot, I hurried towards the camp. When I thought that I had gone a sufficient distance I expected to hear the voices of my associates; but all was silent. I pushed on as fast as I could among the trees. The camp had been placed in a pleasant open glade. I was certain that I had reached the spot. I looked round on every side. No one was there; but there were the black patches where the fires had been, and a few bones, and straw scattered about, and other signs of a deserted encampment. From the character of the ground the trail was very indistinct. Still I thought that I could follow it, and off I set as fast as I could walk. I had not gone far before I became aware that I had lost the track. I looked about in every direction in vain. I could not find it. I was getting very hungry. At last I could go on no longer; so I bethought me that I would kill some bird or beast for breakfast. On examining, however, my powder-flask, what was my dismay to find that I had only five or six charges at the utmost. At that early time of the year there were no berries or wild fruits ripe. Later I might have found wild cherries in abundance, and raspberries, and strawberries, on which I could have supported nature. "I must take care not to throw a shot away," I said to myself, as I looked about in search of game. Just then I saw the glimmer of water through the trees, and walking on, I found myself by the side of a beautiful lake, a mile or more long, and half a mile wide. I was not certainly in a humour to contemplate its beauty, but I was very much in the mood to admire some flocks of geese and ducks which were disporting themselves on its surface, in happy ignorance of the presence of man. I almost trembled with anxiety as I crept along the margin of the lake, till I could get near enough to obtain a shot at one of them. A duck would have satisfied me, but as a goose, being larger, would last longer, I waited till one came near. A stately fellow came gliding up, picking insects off the reeds close to the margin. I fired. He rose and fluttered his wings awhile, and then down he flopped close to me. I sprang forward like a famished wolf, and very nearly toppled heels over head into the water, when, had I escaped drowning, I should, at all events, have spoiled the remainder of my powder in my eagerness to grasp my prey. At first he fluttered away from the land, but something turned him, and he came back so close that I caught hold of a wing, and, hauling him on shore, very soon put an end to his sufferings. To collect sticks, light a fire, pluck, and clean out my bird, was the work of a few minutes. I cannot say that the first part I ate of him was very much done, for I tore off a wing and then put the body back to get more roasted while I satisfied the more violent cravings of hunger. I washed down my breakfast with a draught of water from the lake, and then hurried on again towards the west. Before, when I had lost my friends, I dreaded suffering from cold, now I had to fear the heat. The sun came down with terrific force on my head, and seemed, at times, as if it would scorch my brain to a cinder. At last I felt that if I went on longer I might be struck down by it, so I threw myself on the ground under the shade of a wide-spreading cedar, in a little wood, which contained besides cedars, pine trees, birch, wild cherries, hawthorn, sweet willow, with honeysuckle and sumach. I slept an hour or more, and, having eaten some more goose, continued my journey. Though I kept my eyes actively engaged on every side I could discover no trace of my friends. It was evening, when, as I was travelling along the banks of a river towards the west, I saw on the opposite side, and on the summit of a rocky ridge, which extended at a distance for some miles parallel with it, two horsemen. From the way they rode along I had no doubt that they were my friends the Raggets in search of me. Had they been going east I might have had hopes of cutting them off on their return; but they were moving west, and going from me. I shouted at the top of my voice, though at that distance they could not possibly hear me. I took off my jacket; I waved it frantically. I was about to plunge into the river to swim across, but the current was very strong and rapid, swelled by the melting snows of the mountains. I had good reason to dread being carried away should I make the attempt. I ran on, hoping to find a ford or some high spot whence my signals might be more easily seen. No elevated ground appeared, but the banks were very uneven, sometimes rocky, in some places overgrown with brushwood, so that my progress was very slow, and the horsemen disappeared in the distance. It soon after this grew dark, and this circumstance made me hope that should the horsemen I had seen have been the Raggets, the camp could not be very far-off; but then again I had sufficient experience to teach me that it would be vain to attempt reaching it in the dark. I had now to look about for a place in which to pass the night. I wished to avoid the vicinity of rattlesnakes as well as of bears and wolves. I selected a dry bank near the river, and set to work to collect a quantity of long grass which grew about, not only to form a mattress, but to protect me from the cold and the dew of the night. The thick grass cut my hands sadly as I plucked it, and laughed at the efforts of my axe to cut it down. At length, however, I managed to cut and pluck enough for my purpose, and piling it in an oblong heap, I burrowed under it longways, keeping a bundle in my hands to serve as a pillow. I was surprised to find how warm and comfortable I felt. I was congratulating myself on this, and was just dozing off into sleep, when I was roused up again by the dreadful sound of the rattlesnake's tail. I started up to listen from which side the serpent was approaching; for had I moved I might have run directly on it. A horror seized me. It appeared as if I was surrounded by the creatures. On every side of me there was the same noise. I began to fancy that I was dreaming. I had never heard of so many rattlesnakes being found together. Still I was sure that I was awake. There was the noise again. It was quite close to me. I put out my hand and caught a grasshopper, or rather a sort of locust. The sound of their wings resembles very much that made by the rattlesnake when about to dart on its prey. I was sure that was the noise I had heard. "There may be thousands of them for what I care; they can't eat or sting me," I said to myself; and then I went fast asleep. I awoke very much refreshed, but so strongly had the thought of rattlesnakes been impressed on my mind, that my first impulse on waking was to look cautiously round to ascertain that none were near. Finding that, as far as I could see, the coast was clear, I jumped up and shook myself, then bathed my face in the river; and having said my prayers, which I never failed to do, and returned thanks to Him who had hitherto so mercifully preserved me, continued on my journey. I was now anxious to get to the other bank of the river, which I was convinced my companions had crossed by some ford higher up, and which I had missed. In vain, however, I searched for one; the river, as I advanced, grew wider and more rapid, as more streams poured into it; and at length I came to the conclusion that I must either go back again till I had found the ford, or swim the river and ferry over my gun and powder-horn, or construct a raft, and attempt the passage on it myself. While I was balancing in my mind which I should do, my eye fell on a patch of withies or osiers, growing in a shallow bend of the river close to the bank. This decided me. I would make a raft, for the withies would enable me to fasten it together. I set to work, and cut down with my faithful axe a number of young trees, selecting firs and those of the lighter description of wood. That reminds me, that I would advise every traveller in wild countries to carry an axe, and to know how to use it. It is a weapon which to use properly, requires both care and practice. In my search for fit trees I came upon several dry logs, which, from being so much lighter than the green trees, were very valuable. Having collected my materials, I commenced the construction of the raft, and finished it in half an hour, very much to my satisfaction. I built it partly in the water, so that I might have less difficulty in launching it. I had to prepare a very essential implement to enable me to perform my voyage, namely, a long pole with which to shove the raft along. I had cut down a tall sapling, and cleared it of its boughs, when I heard a rushing noise louder than that hitherto produced by the current. I ran towards the river, dragging my pole, when, as I got near it, I saw that a fresh body of water, caused by the rapid melting of the snow, or by the giving way of some natural dam higher up the stream, was rushing down the channel, and raising its waters considerably above their usual level. I was just in time to see my raft, which I had constructed with so much labour, and which I had left safely resting on the shore, slowly gliding away from it. I could not bear the idea of losing it, and, without a moment's consideration, I made a rush into the water, caught hold of it just as I found myself up to my middle, and with a spring threw myself flat upon it, still, however, keeping hold of my pole. The shove I of necessity gave the raft sent it further from the shore, and by the time I gained my feet, and was in a position to attempt guiding the raft, I found that it had got completely out into the impetuous current, and was being rapidly hurried down it. I tried to reach the bottom with my pole, and though I succeeded, I could in no way stem the current. I should have been wiser had I tried to get back to the shore I had left; instead of this, by following up my first purpose of crossing, I quickly got into a stronger part of the current, and was sent whirling more quickly downward. Holding my pole, I balanced myself as well as I could, prepared for any emergency. The river was four or five hundred yards wide at least, and I saw that I could not hope on this part to reach the opposite or northern shore. The river seemed free from rocks, and as there was no particular danger that I saw to be apprehended, it occurred to me that I was prosecuting my journey in a far more expeditious and pleasant way than I had expected. I was congratulating myself on this circumstance, when I became suddenly conscious that the noise of the rushing water had greatly increased. Looking ahead down the river, the water seemed to bubble and foam more than where I was, while a cloud of mist hung over the spot. The dreadful conviction forced itself on me that I was approaching a rapid, or perhaps a waterfall, down which I should be whirled hopelessly, and dashed to pieces. Again I plunged my pole to the bottom, but it only made the raft whirl round--I had no power of guiding it. On it went. The raft began to tumble and pitch; it was in a rapid of considerable length. The additional rush of water hid many of the rocks; now and then, however, I saw their black tops rising out of the mass of foam which surrounded them. I prayed that I might not strike one. I looked anxiously ahead with compressed lips. The water roared, and foamed, and hissed about me. I might have been proud of my raft-making skill; had not my ark been well built it would soon have gone to pieces. Before long my fears were with reason increased. Before me rose a line of black rocks. There seemed scarcely room for the raft to pass between them. I could no longer keep my feet. I sat down, holding my pole. The raft was driving directly down upon a rock. It swerved a little. I shoved my pole against the rock, and it glanced clear. On it went--but numerous other dangers appeared. I was whirled by the rocks, the foam dashed from them, flying over me. I felt a dreadful blow; the raft quivered. I thought all was over with me, but it floated clear of the rock against which it had struck, and on I went. Suddenly the jerking motion of the raft ceased. I was clear of the rapid. I tried again to pole towards the shore, but the water was so deep, and the current so rapid, that I was able to make but slight progress across the river, when the raft began to pitch again, and I found that I was in another rapid. Away I was whirled as before. There were more rocks in this rapid; at all events the raft drove against more, and it began to suffer from the repeated shocks it was receiving--parts of it got loosened, and I dreaded every moment to see it part asunder, and to find myself hurried amid its fragments to destruction. Again a space of smooth appeared, but it was smooth because it was deep, and I could make but little way towards the shore among its whirling eddies. Still for the present I was safe, and had time to look about me. Thus I floated on, when a loud thundering noise assailed my ears, and a mass of mist rose before my eyes, giving evidence indubitable that I was approaching a formidable cataract. I had seen Niagara. Should this be only half its height it would be sufficient to make mincemeat of me. In vain I looked around for aid, and clinging desperately to my raft, I resigned myself to my fate. CHAPTER NINETEEN. UNEXPECTEDLY REACH THE BANK, AND LAND IN SAFETY--MY CLOTHES ARE IN TATTERS--AFTER MAKING A LONG JOURNEY FIND THAT I HAVE RETURNED TO THE VERY SPOT I LEFT--ENCOUNTER A HUNGRY WOLF--SUFFER FROM WANT OF WATER-- MEET A LYNX, BUT FIND NO LIQUID--GO TO BED AMONG SOME NESTS OF RATTLESNAKES--SLAUGHTER A HOST OF SNAKES AND SIP THE DEW OF THE MORNING--MORE RATTLESNAKES--MY ONWARD JOURNEY CONTINUED--MY CRY IS STILL FOR WATER--OBTAIN A LARGER SHARE THAN I REQUIRE--I SWIM DOWN THE STREAM, AND ON LANDING AM RECEIVED BY A HUGE GRIZZLY. There was only one way I conceived by which, humanly speaking, I could possibly have been saved. I was whirled furiously down the current. I saw, a short distance before me, the commencement of the rapid which led to the cataract, when I felt the raft turn slightly round, and half stop, as it were, and by the appearance of the water I was convinced that it had got into an eddy. I darted down my pole. It speedily struck the bottom. I shoved on with all my might. New energy returned to me. I sprang to my feet. The raft no longer advanced towards the rapid, but I found that I could urge it surely and steadily towards the shore. A shout of joy, and an exclamation of thankfulness escaped my lips as it reached the bank, and, by the aid of my pole, I leaped on to the dry land a dozen feet at least from the edge. I was preserved from immediate death. But where had I drifted to? Where were my friends? What prospect had I of obtaining food to sustain life till I could find them? All these were questions which I asked myself, but to which I could give no satisfactory answer. Scarcely had I reached the shore than my raft, which I had not secured to it, began to drift away. Onward it went down the stream. I could not recover it; so a very natural impulse made me follow its course along the banks. I ran on for two or three hundred yards, when I arrived at the edge of a roaring cataract, some forty feet deep at least. First, there was a foaming rapid, with here and there black rocks appearing amid the sea of froth, and then came a dark treacherous mass of water, which curled over and fell downwards in a broad curtain into a deep pool, out of which there arose a cloud of dense spray with a deafening roar; and then the river went gliding away, dark and smooth, in innumerable eddies, showing the rapidity of the current, till it was concealed by thick woods and rocks. I now felt more than ever how deeply grateful I ought to be for the way I had been preserved, for not an instant longer could I have existed had I once reached the edge of the cataract. I had, however, no time to lose, so, shouldering my rifle and pole, I struck off at a right angle from the course of the river, hoping thus to across the track of my late companions. I had, it must be remembered, but two charges of powder remaining, and as at that season of the year there were no fruits ripe, my existence depended on my making an economical use of them. I had another source of anxiety. I had left the camp in a pair of thin old shoes, and they were now so worn-out and coming so completely to pieces, that they no longer afforded any protection to my feet, which were already cruelly cut. My only resource, therefore, was to tear off the sleeves of my jacket, with which I bound them up. This afforded me some relief; but the ground near the river was in many places rocky, so that these bandages quickly again wore out. The sky, too, became cloudy, and the wind changed constantly, so that when I got into a hollow where I could not see any distant object by which to guide my course, I was often uncertain in which direction I was going. I found also, after I left the river, a great scarcity of water; the heat had dried-up all the water-holes and rivulets, and I thus began to suffer much from thirst. The pangs increased as I walked on. I might have killed a bird, or some animal, and quenched my thirst with their blood; but as I might require their flesh for food, I did not wish to expend a charge of powder till my present stock of meat was expended. It was getting dark. I was more thirsty than hungry; so on I went in the hopes of reaching a spring before it was quite dark. I looked about me. After a time, I could not help fancying that the features of the country were very similar to those through which I had passed some hours before, and at length the disagreeable fact forced itself on me that I had returned back on my own track, and that all my late exertions had been completely thrown away. For an instant I felt very much inclined to despair of reaching my friends, but I quickly recovered myself, and the clouds clearing away in the west, the glow of the setting sun showed me the right direction to take. I therefore determined to push on as long as the least glimmer of light enabled me to find my way. I had not gone far, however, when I heard a rustling noise in a copse close to which I was passing, and presently out of it stalked a huge gaunt wolf, and planted himself before me in a threatening attitude, some twenty paces in advance, as if he had resolved to dispute my onward progress. My first impulse was naturally to fire, but I recollected that if I did, I might not possibly kill him, as I had only small shot, and that though I did kill him, his flesh would be far from pleasant food. I knew that if I showed the slightest symptoms of fear he might fly at me, so I faced him boldly, as I had faced many of his brethren before, and tried to look somewhat braver than I felt. I waved my long pole towards him, and advanced a pace or two, on which he retreated, still keeping his piercing eye fixed savagely on me. Again I advanced, and began shouting as loud as I could, hoping thus to frighten him away, but instead of this he set up the most terrific howls, which I could not help interpreting as invitations to his comrades to assemble from far and near, in order to make a meal on my carcase. The more he howled the louder I shouted, and the odd idea occurring to me that if I shouted out real names the wolf would be more alarmed, I called by name on all the Raggets, and Short, and Noggin to come to my assistance, and looked round, pretending that I expected them to appear. The wolf, I thought, winked his wicked eye, as much as to say, "That's all gammon; don't suppose you can do an old soldier like me;" but I cannot say positively, as it was growing dark. Still he would not move, and I had no wish to get nearer his fangs. I continued shouting, and he went on howling, and a sweet concert we must have made, for I had bawled till I was hoarse. I have an idea that my shouts kept his friends away. Perhaps it prevented them from hearing what he was saying. At length, much to my relief, I saw him turn his head, first on one side and then on the other, and then about he went, as if he had given up all hopes of his expected supper, and away he skulked into the wood. On seeing this my courage rose to the highest pitch, and after him I went, shaking my pole and shouting and shrieking and hallooing at the very top of my voice to expedite his movements; and it is my belief that he was so frightened that he did not stop again to look round till he had got many a mile from where he met me; though I own that, when we first set eyes on each other, I was much the more frightened of the two. The shades of evening were now approaching, and I was anxious to find a place in which I could spend the night in tolerable safety. Scarcely, however, had the wolf disappeared, than an old lynx, followed by a young one, trotted up close to me. I got my rifle ready, but rather than fire I began shouting and shrieking as before, and they continued their course without molesting me. My great wish was now to find water. A draught of the pure liquid would have appeared like the richest nectar. Hurrying on, I saw a green spot with some rushes growing near. "There must be water," I exclaimed, rushing on with eager haste, like the pilgrim in the desert, towards the longed-for oasis, even fancying that I saw the shining surface through the trees. I reached the spot; I looked about; there were the rushes sure enough, and there had been the water, but it was dried-up. Oh, how thirsty I felt! I thought I might find some moisture at the roots of the rushes. I pulled them up and sucked eagerly at them, but they afforded no moisture to my parched lips. I had no resource, therefore, but to go liquidless to bed. It was rapidly getting dark, so I had no time to lose. I saw a large stone at a little distance, and thinking that it would afford me some protection if I slept beside it, I began to pull up some rushes with which to form my bed. Having collected as many as I could carry, I took them to the spot and threw them on the ground. I went back for more, and having scattered them about and piled up a few for a pillow, was about to throw myself on this quickly-formed couch when I saw, just under the stone, what I at first took for a stick, but which then beginning to move, exhibited itself to me as a monstrous rattlesnake, with its body coiled up and its head erect, its fierce eyes glittering, and its forked tongue moving rapidly to and fro as if eager to bite me. I had disturbed it from its slumbers, and it was naturally excessively angry. I did not stop to let it bite me, but sprang back several feet before I recovered my usual coolness. I felt sadly conscious that I was not like myself, and that my nervous system was very much upset. Regaining my self-possession pretty quickly, however, I once more advanced, and settled the creature with a blow of my stick. The strokes I gave the ground soon roused up several other rattlesnakes, and I found that a whole brood were collected under the stone. As they are slow-moving creatures, I was able to kill every one of them before they could escape. They would have been somewhat unpleasant companions to me during my nocturnal slumbers. Scarcely had I despatched my rattle-tailed enemies than, turning over with my foot some smaller stones near the big one, out wriggled a number of other snakes, black, brown, and yellow, twisting and turning amid the grass, many making directly towards me. To be surrounded, even in daylight, by such creatures would have been especially unpleasant, but in the dusk, when I could scarcely see them, the sensations I experienced were scarcely bearable. I felt inclined to shriek out at the top of my voice, but I restrained myself, and began slashing away right and left with my stick. Some I killed, but the others being more nimble than the rattlesnakes, escaped. Still I could not venture to proceed in the dark, nor could I stay on my legs all night; but I had no fancy to sleep near where I had killed the snakes. I looked about, therefore, for another suitable spot, and having selected it, I lashed about in every direction with my stick, so that any lurking serpent must of necessity be killed or put to flight. Then I collected more rushes, and taking a suck at a piece of dry duck for my supper, threw myself at my length on them and tried to go to sleep. It was no easy matter to do this, as I could not help remembering that I was surrounded by venomous creatures and wild beasts of all sorts, who might find me out during my slumbers and rouse me up in a very unpleasant way. At last, however, I closed my eyes, and so tightly did they remain sealed that the sun had arisen before I awoke. I started up and looked around me. Neither venomous serpents nor wild beasts were near, but the bodies of the snakes I had killed lying about showed me the reality of what had occurred. I started to my feet, and a few shakes completed my toilet. I had hoped to awake before daylight, that I might have time to collect the dew from the branches of the trees and from the long grass, that I might at least moisten my lips. I felt as if all the liquid would be dried-up before it got down my throat. But, alas! when I looked round, so hot was the sun, and so dry the atmosphere, that scarcely a drop could I find, even in the shade, sufficient to wet my tongue. I however plucked some cool grass and chewed it, and then continued on my journey. I was now able to proceed with more certainty than on the previous day. As I walked on, my glance was turned on every side for the sort of vegetation which might indicate the vicinity of water. Every height I came near I ascended, that I might enjoy a wider range of vision. I was all this time suffering dreadfully from my feet. Sometimes I passed over a wide extent of ground covered with small sharp stones, which speedily wore out all the bandages which I had fastened round my feet. That was bad enough; but soon afterwards I came to a tract overgrown with stunted prickly pears, or _cacti_ as they are called. It was very much as if the ground were planted thickly with short swords, daggers, dirks, and penknives. Walk as carefully as I could, my feet and legs were constantly striking against them, and from my shins to the soles of my feet I was covered with wounds and blood. My jacket was soon used up, and I then had to begin on the lower part of the legs of my trousers, off which I tore shreds as I required them. At last I sat down on a stone to apply fresh bandages to my feet, and what with the heat, and thirst, and hunger, and weakness, and sickness, and pain, and anxiety, I felt more inclined to cry than I had ever in my life before; but I did not cry. I was too much dried-up for that, I suppose. My next impulse was to throw myself down on the ground and give up the struggle. However, I did not remain long in that mood. It is the worst mood to encourage. I had always belonged to the "try" school. "No, I will not give in," I exclaimed suddenly; "I will trust to Providence to carry me out of my difficulties." Still I was so weak and I felt so helpless that I sat and sat on till I was about to fall into a sort of lethargy, from which I might have had no power to arouse myself. Suddenly, however, my ears caught the well-known and justly-dreaded sound of the rattlesnake's rattle. I sprang up all alive in a moment, and saw the creature half a dozen paces from me, approaching through the grass. A blow with my long stick, however, soon stopped his rattle, and remembering how much time I had lost, I hurried on. I bethought me as I did so, that I had offered but an ungrateful return to the poor snake for the service he had rendered me, for had it not been for him I might never have stirred from the stone on which I was sitting till I had fallen off into the arms of death. I now walked on more rapidly than before, and in about an hour saw before me a more thickly-wooded country than I had yet passed. I pressed forward towards it. I should find shade, and perhaps--what I so earnestly wished for--water. The wood was extensive, and looked gloomy enough when I first entered it, though I felt the shade most grateful after the glare of the open prairies. The sun, also, found its way sufficiently through the foliage, only now bursting forth, to enable me to steer my course as before. I have described the silence of the snow mountains. I might now speak of the language of the woods. I sat down to adjust my feet coverings, and when my feet ceased to tread on the grass and dead leaves, I became conscious that I was surrounded by a low rustling noise. At first I thought that the sound was caused by the wind among the dry leaves, but I was soon convinced that it was made by the young buds breaking forth from the cases which had shielded them during the cold of early spring--that I literally heard the trees growing! I did not rest long, for I was afraid of falling into my former state. On I limped--unable to help uttering every now and then complaining "Oh!" as my foot trod on a thorn or knocked against a stone. I grew faint and more faint--"Water! water! water!" I ejaculated. How dreadful is thirst! "I cannot stand it longer," I cried out; but I felt it would be suicide to stop as long as I could move, and the next instant a low, murmuring, rushing sound reached my ears. I thought it was fancy, but still I dragged on as fast as I could my weary steps. The noise increased--it was that of a waterfall--I was certain of it. I tried to hurry on my feet, and scarcely felt the pricks and cuts they were receiving. I caught sight of the glittering spray through an opening in the woods. I fancied that I felt the coolness of the air passing over it. On I went. There was the water rushing, gurgling, foaming away; but as I sprang on, forgetting my weakness, I found myself on the top of a rock, over which I very nearly toppled into the sought-for stream, twenty feet or more below me. I looked about for a path to lead me down to it. I saw, a little way higher up the stream, a part of the bank less steep than the rest. I ran towards it. I slid down; but what was my dismay to find that I could not stop myself, and into the water I plunged, with my rifle and powder-flask at my back! I had now more of the element I had been so eagerly desiring than was pleasant. My feet, however, touched the bottom, and stooping down, I let the water run into my mouth and wash my dried-up face. Oh, how delicious it was! It revived me and restored my strength; and then I began to consider how I was again to get out of the stream. The current was so strong that I dare not let go the bank, lest I should be carried off my feet. I could not hope to climb up that down which I had come, and those on each side were still steeper. The matter was soon settled for me, for suddenly I felt myself taken off my feet, and down the stream I drifted. I kept as close to the bank as I could, grasping at the rocks as I passed, and endeavouring to climb up by them out of the water. My anxiety was to ascertain whether or not I was above the waterfall. If above it, I might be carried down, and fall into the very danger I had before escaped. I tried to make out by the sound, but could not tell, nor could I see the spray which I had before observed. Still I hoped that I was below it. On I went, drifting down the stream just as I have seen a dog carried along a river when he is trying to climb up on a steep bank. Some bushes appeared. I caught at them--several broke in my grasp. I caught eagerly at others. My strength was failing me. At length I seized one which held. Close to it I saw that there was a resting-place for my feet. I was about to draw myself out of the water when, on looking up, what should I see on the top of the bank but a huge bear gazing intently down on me, and licking his jaws as if in contemplation of a pleasant repast. CHAPTER TWENTY. I LOOK AT THE BEAR, AND THE BEAR LOOKS AT ME--I CLIMB UP AND HE TRIES TO CATCH ME, BUT I DODGE HIM AND ESCAPE--PROCEED ON--FIND A HOLLOW FALLEN TREE, AND MAKE MY BED IN THE INTERIOR--PLEASANT SLEEP UNPLEASANTLY DISTURBED--MY FRIEND THE GRIZZLY AGAIN--I ESCAPE UP A TREE, AND BRUIN OCCUPIES MY BED--WE TRY EACH OTHER'S PATIENCE--I WATCH FOR AN OPPORTUNITY OF ESCAPING, AND HE WATCHES TO CATCH ME. The bear looked very fierce; but I felt desperately desperate, and determined not to be compelled by him to continue my voyage. So, grasping the branch, I gradually drew myself up by it nearly out of the water. I got one knee on the bank; the bear gave a growl; then I got the other knee on _terra firma_; the bear growled again. I was not to be intimidated. I had never let go my pole. I sprang to my feet and stood looking up at the monster. He growled more fiercely than ever, as if to warn me that I was intruding on his domains. "Growl away, old Bruin," I exclaimed, "I do not fear you. Stop me from getting to the top of the bank you shall not." I flourished my stick as I spoke. He took the movement as a challenge, and began to descend. The top was not nearly so steep as the place on which I stood. The bear got down tolerably well, growling as he advanced, and picking his way. My rifle was loaded, but I had every reason to doubt that it would go off, after the ducking it had got, though the muzzle had not got under water. I flourished my pole, therefore, at the bear, and shouted at the top of my voice, but it did not stop him. Just above me was a ledge. I climbed up to it, and there waited the approach of the bear. The ground above was very steep and slippery. On he came, faster and faster. My shouts had enraged him, and he was eager to have a grab at me. I ran up a little way higher, and then turned as if I would spring back into the water. He was afraid he should lose me, and forgetting his previous caution, he sprang on to catch me. As he did so I leaped nimbly on one side, and he toppled over, head foremost, souse into the water. I saw him struggling away to regain the bank; I did not stop to watch him, however, but sprang upwards with all the agility I could exert, and did not stop till I had reached the summit. Never have I gone through so many adventures for the sake of a mouthful of water; I had not even, as it were, had enough, so I determined to keep down the stream for the rest of the day. My clothes very quickly dried, which is not surprising, considering that I had on only the remnants of my jacket, a shirt, and the upper part of my trousers. The legs were bound round my feet. The water, had, however, so much revived me that I began to feel a greater sensation of hunger than I had before experienced. I had but one piece of my dried duck left. I nibbled a bit as I walked on, keeping the remainder for supper. On what I was to breakfast was a question which, if my powder failed me, might be difficult to solve. Sometimes I lost sight of the water, but quickly regained it, and ever and anon returned, where the bank was practicable, to take a refreshing sip. As may be supposed, I took care never to get out of the hearing of its pleasant sound. I did not see the waterfall, and therefore concluded that I must have fallen into the stream a short way below it. Night was now again approaching. I looked about in every direction for a spot in which I might pass it. At last I came upon a huge pine tree, which had been struck by lightning and lay prostrate on the ground. The centre part of the trunk was hollowed out something like a dug-out canoe, and on examining it I bethought me that it would make a peculiarly comfortable abode for the night. I therefore set to work to clear out all the rubbish inside which might conceal any creatures, and I then collected some large sheets of birch-bark which lay stripped off some neighbouring trees. This I placed over the top to form a roof, and a very comfortable sort of abode I considered that I had made. It was a safe one also, I thought, for no snake was likely to climb into it, nor was it probable that any wild animal would find me out. I now ate my last piece of meat, and then went down to the river and took a hearty draught of water, and felt far more invigorated than I had been for a long time. This done, I returned to my hollow tree, crept in, drew the sheets of birch-bark over me, and went comfortably to sleep. Oh, how I did enjoy that sleep! I felt so much more secure than I had ever been at night since I commenced my wanderings. I awoke in the middle of the night, but it was to turn myself round and to think, how comfortable I was. I had, however, some causes for anxiety. How should I protect myself if attacked either by savages or wild beasts? how should I procure food, and how should I defend my feet when all my bandages were worn-out, should I not succeed in finding my friends? The most pressing matter was how to procure food. Suddenly I recollected that I had once put a couple of fish-hooks in a pocket-book which I carried with me. I could not sleep till I had pulled it out and ascertained that they were there. A rod I should have no difficulty in forming; but how to make a line was the puzzle. At last I remembered that my jacket was sewn together with very coarse strong thread, and I thought that I could manufacture a line out of it. Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, I again went to sleep. I had but a short time closed my eyes, when once more I was awoke by a noise, as if something was scratching on the outside of the tree in which I lay. What could it be? The scratching continued, and then there was a snuffing sound, as if a snout was smelling about in the neighbourhood. The noises were suspicious and somewhat alarming. I did not like to move to ascertain what caused them, but I could not help dreading that they were made by some wandering bear who had smelt me out, and was now trying to get a nearer inspection of me. The scratching and the snuffing continued, and then I was certain that the creature, whatever it was, was climbing up on the trunk. It had done so, but it tumbled off again. Soon, however, it came close up to me. I could contain myself no longer. I wished to ascertain the worst. I gently slid off the piece of bark above my head and sat upright. I speedily, though, popped down again. My worst suspicions were confirmed. It was a bear, and very likely the same bear from whom I had escaped the day before. The moment he saw me he poked his snout over my narrow bed-place, but I was too far down for him to get at me, notwithstanding all the efforts he made to effect that object. Still it was not pleasant to have such a watcher over my couch, as I could not help dreading that he might possibly get his claws in and pull me out, and that at all events the moment I sat upright he would give me an embrace, but anything but a friendly one. The moon came out and shone on his bearish eyes, and I saw him licking his jaws in anticipation of his expected repast. The very way he did this convinced me that he was my friend of yesterday. I had outwitted him once, and I determined to try and outwit him again. I saw that near me was a tree with short branches, reaching close down to the ground. I thought that if I could climb up it, I might get out of the reach of my persecutor. Mustering all my strength, I suddenly started up, shrieking out at the top of my voice, and flourishing my stick, which I brought down with all my force on the bear's head. Bruin so little expected the assault that, without attempting to attack me, he turned round and trotted off to the distance of forty yards or so, when he stopped and looked very intently at me. I seized the moment of my emancipation to climb up the tree near me. The bear, the instant he saw me take to flight, uttering a deep growl, sprang eagerly back to the foot of the tree; but I was beyond his reach. What, therefore, was my dismay to see him put his huge arms and legs round the trunk and begin to ascend. Up he came, and as he advanced, I ascended higher and higher. Every now and then he looked up at me, and performed the to me unpleasant ceremony of licking his jaws. He was a cautious brute, for, as he got higher, he felt the boughs and shook them, to ascertain if he could trust his weight on them. I at last was obliged to retreat along a wide extending bough, from which I could just reach my enemy's head as he came near me. I shouted and banged away with all my might, which so much annoyed him that he gave up the chase. The moment I saw him hesitate I redoubled my blows, and at last, infinitely to my satisfaction, not liking the treatment he was receiving, he began slowly to descend the way he had come up. I shouted and poked at him, but nothing would hurry him. At last he reached the bottom, but instead of going away, he sat himself down to watch me. Then we were just like the fox and the crow in the fable. I the crow, and he the fox, only he wanted to get me instead of the cheese. I sat on my bough flourishing my stick at him, and at last he grew tired of watching me; but he did not go away--not he. My astonishment was not small, to see him crawl into the bed-place I had left, and quietly roll himself up and go to sleep. He must have slept, however, with one eye open, for whenever I commenced descending from my bough, he popped up his head as much as to say, "You had better not, or I'll be after you," and then down he laid again. As I could not have made much progress in the uncertain light of the moon, I climbed into a forked branch of the tree, and tying my arm to a bough that I might not tumble off, I tried to get a little more sleep. It was not very sound, for the recollection that the bear might possibly take it into his head to pay me a visit kept me wakeful. I felt certain that the rascal must have known that my powder was wet, or he would not have been so impudent. Once or twice I thought that I would try and make my rifle go off, and I withdrew the charge of small shot, and put a bullet in instead. At last I took aim and pulled the trigger, but no report followed. I was thankful that I had not had to depend on my weapon for my life. Bruin just lifted up his head when he heard the snap, but seeing that I was safe, lay down again, and began either to snore, or to pretend to snore, for the cunning rogue was up to any trick, I was certain of that, to deceive me. For half an hour or more after this I lay quiet, and I had great hopes that Bruin had really gone to sleep. The country to the west along the banks of the stream appeared, as far as I could see by the moonlight, pretty clear. I thought that I might make good some distance before the bear awoke. Down I crept very cautiously, for fear of making the slightest noise, from my lofty perch. I had got to one of the lower forks of the tree, and was considering whether I could not drop without much noise to the ground, from a branch which projected below me, when a low growl proceeded from my recent bed-place, and the ogre lifted up his head with one eye still shut, but with the other turned towards me in the most malicious manner--at least, so I thought. I cannot quite vouch for this last fact; but that was my impression at the time. I was in a most uncomfortable position, so that I had to move one way or the other. I began by moving downwards, and he then rose more, and gave another growl. I then climbed up again, and as I ascended higher and higher, he gradually lay back till his head was concealed inside the hollow of the tree. Still, when I leaned forward, I could see his snout sticking up, and could just catch the twinkle of his wicked eye turned towards me--I mean the eye which, awake or asleep, as it seemed to me, he always kept open. Under the circumstances, it is not surprising that I did not sleep very soundly, still I did go to sleep, with my arms twined tightly round two neighbouring boughs. I longed for daylight, which might enable me to take some active measures one way or the other. At last, as I looked out beyond the tops of the neighbouring trees, I could see a pale pink and yellow hue suffusing the eastern sky, and the light crept forward, as it were, on one side, while the forest on the other remained shrouded in darkness. Not as in our own land, however, did the birds welcome the coming sun with a full chorus of song. They were not altogether silent; but even in that spring time of the year they only exhibited their pleasure by a faint untuneful twittering and chirping. Bruin was, I found, an early riser. I saw first one leg come out of his bed-place, then another, as he stretched them forth; then up went his arms, and I heard a loud yawn. It was rather more like a grunt. Then he began to growl, and to make all sorts of other strange noises, and finally he lifted up his head and gradually sat upright on his haunches. He winked at me when he saw that I was safe up the tree, and I fancied that he nodded his head, as much as to say, "Stay a bit, I'll soon be up to you." Then he turned one leg out of the bed-place and then another, and then he walked up to the tree, and sat himself down under it, and began to growl. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. I EXHAUST BRUIN'S PATIENCE--MANUFACTURE SOME FISHING-LINES, AND DESCEND FROM MY PERCH IN THE TREE--CATCH A BIG FISH TO MY GREAT JOY, WITH NO LITTLE TROUBLE, AND COOK IT--MANY A SLIP BETWEEN THE SPIT AND THE LIP-- MY FISH IS ADMIRABLY DRESSED BUT DISAPPEARS, THOUGH NOT DOWN MY THROAT-- I SET TO WORK AGAIN AND CATCH MORE FISH--CONTINUE MY JOURNEY; AM ALMOST STARVED--MY AMMUNITION EXHAUSTED--SEE SOME HORSES--FALL IN WITH SOME INDIANS--THEY PROVE TO BE FRIENDS--ACCOMPANY ME ON MY JOURNEY, AND CONDUCT ME TO THE CAMP OF THE RAGGETS--WE REACH CALIFORNIA, WHERE I TERMINATE THE ADVENTURES WHICH I NOW GIVE TO THE PUBLIC. I do not mind confessing that I felt anything but happy perched up at the top of a tree in that wild American forest, with a hungry and cunning bear growling away for his breakfast below me. I too was beginning to feel faint for want of food. The bear seemed to know that, and to have hopes of starving me into submission. On that point, however, I determined to disappoint him. Sooner than go down and be eaten I resolved to die up in the tree, and then he would get nothing but my dry bones for his pains. I tried his patience I saw, for he growled and growled louder and more fiercely, and then began to lick his paws, as a baby does its fingers to amuse itself when hungry. Two or three times he began to climb up the tree; but the way in which I flourished the pole in his face, and his recollection that he could not reach me at the end of the branch to which I retired, made him speedily again descend. The sun was now up and warm, and it struck me that if I could dry some of my powder I might turn the tables on him, and eat him instead of his eating me. I therefore cleared out a hollow in a branch, into which I poured a charge of powder, and then cleaned my rifle and picked out the touch-hole. I was determined not to be idle, and so, remembering my fish-hooks, I set to work to manufacture a line. The threads were short, but I knotted them neatly. I tried the strength of each one separately, and those which broke I strengthened with line, which I twisted up. I thus sat knotting and spinning, with as much coolness as I could command, till I had finished my line, and thought my powder was dry. I then put up my line, carefully loaded my rifle, and muttered, "Now, Master Bruin, look out for yourself." Whether he divined what I was about, or had grown tired of waiting for his breakfast and was going elsewhere in search of it, I cannot say, but before I could find a satisfactory rest for my piece, so as to point it down at him, he turned round and began trotting briskly away. I instantly fired, in the hopes of obtaining some bear steaks for my breakfast. The rifle went off, nearly knocking me over from my bough, and the ball hit him, but not in a vital part, for on he went, growling furiously, till he was lost to sight in the depths of the forest, and I must say that I heartily hoped I might never see his ugly face again. I suspect that I considerably damped his appetite for breakfast. As mine was sharper than ever, and I could not make it off bear, I descended from my perch that I might try and catch some fish. I quickly cut a fishing-rod, and a piece of light bark to serve as a float, and my movements being hastened by hunger, in a few minutes, having caught some creatures on the bank to serve as bait, I was bending over the stream as assiduously as old Izaak Walton himself. What was my delight in a few minutes to feel a bite! I was an expert fisherman, but so great was my agitation that I could scarcely give the necessary jerk to hook my fish. It is very different fishing for pleasure, and fishing for the pot or spit when starving. Away went the float bobbing down the stream. It must be done. I jerked up my rod. How breathless I felt! The fish was hooked, of that I was sure, as also that he was a good-sized fellow. Down the stream swam the fish, and along the bank I followed him. I knew that my tackle was not over strong, and I was anxious to secure a good place for landing him. At last I reached a flat rock. "Now I will have him," I said to myself, and I drew his nose up the stream. I got sight of him through the clear water. He was a trout, three or four pounds weight at least. What a hearty breakfast I would make of him! I felt very nervous, because as there was very little bend in my rod, if he gave a sudden jerk he would too probably snap the line or the hook, and be out of my sight for ever. The water was somewhat deep below me, or I should have pushed into the stream and clutched him in my arms, much in the same way as the bear would have clutched me, if he could, and with the same object. Slowly and cautiously I drew him nearer and nearer the shore. He came along pretty quietly. He was pretty well exhausted with his previous swim. Had I possessed a landing-net I could have had him ashore in a moment; but I trembled when I thought of the little pliability there was at the end of my stick to counteract any sudden jerk he might give. There he was, scarcely six feet from me, and yet I could not reach him. I drew him still closer, kneeling down as I did so, and then lowering my rod I made a dart at him. He was quicker than I was, and with a whisk of his tail off he darted, with the hook still in his mouth, dragging the rod after him. I made a dash at the rod, but missed it, and away it floated down the stream. After it I went though, watching it as it bobbed up and down, and dreading lest it should catch fast among some stones, and the fish break away. The stream was here narrow, deep, and rapid. Lower down it was broader, and I hoped might be shallow. I ran on, therefore, and found it as I had hoped. Down came the rod towards me. "Was the fish on to it, though?" I seized hold of the butt-end and lifted it up. Yes, there he was. He could scarcely escape me now. Slowly I drew him up toward me, and slipping my fingers down the line, eagerly seized him by the gills. I had him fast, and was not likely to let him go. I carried him on shore, and throwing him on the ground, speedily began to collect sticks to make a fire. Those near at hand would not burn, so I went further away from the stream to collect some more. While thus engaged, I saw a lynx steal out of the forest and go in the direction of my proposed fire. I had collected as many sticks as I could carry, and was returning as fast as I could, when I saw the lynx go close up to where I had left my fish. It stooped down, and then trotted on. I rushed on, as fast as my legs could carry me, till I reached the spot. My fish was gone. I shrieked and shouted after the lynx, whirling my stick at him, but it was to no purpose. He had found a good breakfast, and was not going to give it up in a hurry. I shouted and shrieked, and ran and ran, till at length I knocked my foot against the sharp end of a broken branch which brought me crying out with pain to the ground. The lynx, holding the fish in his jaws, turned a look of derision at me, as he disappeared in the forest. Did I lie there and howl like a wounded dog? No; I should be ashamed to acknowledge it, had I done so. Instead of that, as soon as the pain would allow me, I got up on my feet, hobbled back to where I had left my rod, searched for some fresh bait, and set to work to catch another fish. Not a minute had passed before I got a bite. I quickly hooked my fish, and hauled up one of about half a pound weight. As that would not be sufficient for my breakfast, I thought it would be wise to restrain my appetite till I had caught some more, as possibly when the sun rose higher they might not bite so readily. Not half a minute passed before I caught a second, and in five minutes, with very little difficulty, I had caught as many fish as would equal the weight of the one I had lost. This time I took care to keep them about me till I had lighted my fire, and stuck them on sticks roasting round it. I kept, too, vigilant watch lest my old enemy, Bruin, or the watchful lynx should return to rob me of my repast. One of the fish was soon sufficiently warmed to enable me to eat it, and one after the other disappeared, giving me a satisfaction which the most highly seasoned feast has never been able to afford. I washed the fish down with a copious draught of water, and then felt myself ready for anything. This part of the river was evidently well supplied with fish, so before leaving it I again took my rod in hand, and in half an hour caught enough fish to last me for a couple of days. I had lost my hat in the river, so I now made myself a curious conical-shaped head-covering with some rushes and long grass, and what with my bare legs, my feet swathed in bandages, and my sleeveless jacket, I must have had a very Robinson Crusoe appearance. As there was no one to see me, this was of no consequence. I now shouldered my pole and fishing-rod, and with my rifle slung at my back, continued my course. I kept down the stream for some way; but as I had not passed the tracks which my friends must have left, I felt convinced that they were to the north of the line on which I had been travelling. I therefore crossed the stream by a ford, at which I arrived in the afternoon, and with much regret left its pure waters to wander into what might prove an arid desert. I had, unfortunately, nothing in which I could carry water, so that I had to depend on the supply which I might find in my path. I pushed on as fast as I could. It was almost night, however, before I reached a pool of water. It was stagnant, and so bad tasted that I could only moisten my lips with it, after I had cooked and eaten one of my fish. A number of birch trees were growing near. I quickly built a shanty with their bark, and with the same material formed myself a mattress and an ample covering for my body. After my long vigil on the previous night I speedily fell asleep, but even in my slumbers I heard the occasional serenades of bears and wolves, who seemed to be the principal inhabitants of that wild region. I awoke more than once, and was convinced that the noise was a reality, and not the fancy of my brain; but I felt that unless they had come and routed me out, as the bear had on the previous night, nothing would have induced me to stir. Off I went to sleep; but much to my satisfaction day returned without any of them having found me out. I need not record the adventures of each day. I suffered so much from my feet that my progress was of necessity slow. My fish were gone, I had found no other friendly stream; but I hoped to come across one before long. I had dried the remnant of my powder. I had enough for one full charge and a little over. I loaded my rifle, still wishing, if possible, to keep it for my defence. This was early one morning. I had had no breakfast. As the day advanced I grew very hungry. A small animal, like a hare or rabbit, came near me. I seized a stone at my foot and hit the creature on the leg, and broke it. Away it went limping, still at a rapid pace. I made chase as fast as my sore feet would let me. I was gaining on the creature, but was afraid that, after all, it might get into some hole and escape me. This made me exert myself still more, when I caught sight of a burrow ahead, for which I suspected it was making. I sprang on, hunger giving an impetus to my feet, and not a yard from the spot I threw myself forward and caught it, as it was about to spring into the hole. The poor creature turned an imploring look at me; but like a savage, as I felt, I speedily squeezed the life out of it, and in another ten minutes I had it skinned and roasting away before a fire of sticks, which I had in the meantime collected. I felt, as I ate the creature, what reason I had to trust in the care of Providence, for each time, when most in want, I had been amply supplied with food, and I doubt not that, had I possessed some botanical knowledge, I should have found a still larger store of provisions in the productions of the earth. The creature was rather lean, so that the best half of him only served me for a meal, and I finished the remainder at night. The next day I was less fortunate. Towards the evening, as I was proceeding along an elevated ridge, I saw in the valley below me a black spot, as if a fire had been there. I hurried down to the place; I was not mistaken. There were the charred embers of sticks, and round it were scattered the half-picked bones of grouse, partridges, and ducks, as if a numerous party had camped there. I looked about, but could find nothing to indicate that they were my friends, hunger made me do what I should not otherwise have fancied. I collected all the bones, and with a pile of sticks, left by my predecessors on the spot, I made a fire, at which I speedily cooked them. As there was plenty of birch-bark about, I then built a wigwam and formed a comfortable couch within it, in which I might pass the night. These bones were all the food I got that day. Several deer had on the previous day come skipping around me, fearless of the approach of man. The next day again hunger assailed me. I had been wishing that some more deer would come, when a herd came racing by, and when they saw me they all stopped staring at me, as if to ask why I had come there. The pangs of hunger just then made me very uncomfortable. Here was an opportunity of supplying myself with food for a week to come. A fat buck stood in the centre; I fired. The whole herd were in full flight, but the buck was wounded, I saw by the drops of blood which marked his track; I hurried after him. What was my delight to see him stop, then stagger and fall! I ran on. He rose and sprang forward, but it was a last effort, and the next moment he rolled over on the ground. I could have shouted for joy. I had now got food in abundance, and what was of great consequence to my ultimate preservation, the means of covering my feet. I finished the poor animal with a blow of my hatchet, and then set to work to skin him and cut him up. I had one drawback to my satisfaction. There was no wood or water near. I therefore cut off as much of the hide as would serve me for moccasins and leggings, loaded myself with all the flesh I could carry, and struck away towards the west. I had been unable to follow up the tracks which led from my last sleeping-place, and this convinced me that the camp had been formed by Indians. Whether they would prove friends or foes, should I fall in with them, was a question. At all events, I felt rather an inclination to avoid than to find them out. At length I came to a wood, through which ran a stream of pure water. Sticks were quickly collected, a fire was lit, and some of my deer was roasting away. While it was cooking, I ran down to the stream to take a draught of water and to wash my feet, and then hurried back to enjoy my repast. I did enjoy it; and as there were still two hours more of daylight, and I felt my strength increased, I hurried onward. Scarcely had I got again into the open country than I came on some recent tracks of horses. Could my friends be ahead? There were no wheel tracks, though. A beaten track appeared. It must lead somewhere. I had not gone half a mile when I fancied that I heard the neighing of a horse. My heart thumped away in my breast. I listened with breathless attention. Again a horse neighed loudly. I could not be mistaken, and hurrying on I saw across a rapid stream, which passed at the base of the hill on which I found myself, a whole herd of those noble animals frisking about in a wide rich meadow spread out before me. I hurried down the hill, and by the aid of my pole, though not without difficulty, hurried across the stream. One of the horses as soon as I landed, came trotting up to me; but seeing that I was a stranger, and rather an odd-looking one too, off he went again. I thought how satisfactory it would be if I could catch one of them to make it carry me the rest of the journey. I remembered, however, that the animals must belong to some one. Perhaps, however, the owner might lend one to me. Crossing the meadow, I saw before me a wreath of smoke gracefully curling up among the trees. It must proceed from some human habitation. Was it from the hut of a white man or from the temporary encampment of Indians? If the latter, would they prove friends or foes? Knowing the necessity for precaution, I hid myself behind every bush and tree, till I got into the wood, and then I advanced with equal care, looking out ahead before I left my shelter, and stooping down in Indian fashion, trailing my rifle and stick after me as I made my onward way. I soon came to an open glade, in one corner of which appeared a skin-covered wigwam, before the entrance to which sat two squaws busily engaged in some culinary occupation. If found looking about I might naturally have been suspected of treacherous intentions, so slinging my rifle, and grasping my pole and fishing-rod in one hand, I advanced, holding out the other. The old woman looked up, and uttered a few grunts, but seemed in no way alarmed. What they took me for I do not know. I must have seemed to them rather a strange character. I had advanced a few paces, when two men sprang out of the hut. This was a trying moment. Greatly to my satisfaction, they stretched out their hands in a friendly way as I hobbled on towards them. Though they had painted faces, and were dressed in skins, I saw by the kind expression on their countenances that they commiserated my condition. Blood was even then streaming from my feet. At once they lifted me up in their arms and carried me into the hut, where they placed me on a couch of skins, and the old woman brought water from the river which flowed close by, and washed my feet, and bound them up with salves. The pain from which I had so long been suffering quickly disappeared. They then brought me a piece of salmon, which I thought delicious, and some soup, which, under other circumstances, I might have thought suspicious. This, with some roots which they roasted, made up a repast more refreshing than I had eaten for a long time. I could not speak a word of their language, nor did they understand English, but I tried by signs to make them comprehend that I had parted from my companions, and that I wished to get to them. At last they appeared to fancy that they comprehended me, for they nodded and smiled, and uttered the same sounds of satisfaction over and over again. They signified, however, by their gestures, that I must sleep in the hut that night, but that on the following morning, as soon as the sun rose, we would set off on our journey. I offered them the deer's flesh which I had slung about me, and which they seemed to value. Just before dark, however, they brought me in another salmon, which I preferred to the somewhat high flavoured meat. I cannot describe how I enjoyed that night's rest. I had perfect confidence in my hosts, and I had no longer the dread of being visited by a wandering bear or prowling wolf. I felt like a new being when, next morning, the good-natured Indian roused me from my slumbers. The rushing sound of waters invited me to take a bath, and going down to the river, I stretched my limbs with a pleasant swim, and then returned to enjoy a hearty breakfast on salmon, roots, and some decoction which served the purpose of tea. My hosts, too, had provided some new moccasins in which to shield my feet. It was a completely patriarchal establishment. There was an old father and four sons, with an old mother, and another old woman and the wives of the younger men, and eight or ten children. The skin-covered huts of the younger couples were close at hand, under the trees. The old man and his eldest son now brought up three horses, they mounted me on one, and they leaped on the others. A deerskin served as a saddle, and rough thongs of leather as a bridle. I wished all the family a hearty good-bye, resolved in future to think better of Indians than I had done, and off we set. How delightful it was to move along over the prairie at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour, instead of creeping along with suffering feet, as I had been so long doing. I travelled on two whole days on a westerly course with my Indian friends. I could not hold much conversation with my guides, except by signs, but we soon appeared to understand each other perfectly well. I made out that we were approaching the camp of my old companions, and as I drew nearer my eagerness increased to be once more among them. After a time I saw wreaths of white smoke curling up from a valley below us. They must proceed from a considerable encampment. The Indians and I rode on in silence, till I heard voices, which I judged came from the spot where I had seen the smoke ascending. Presently a boy, whom I recognised as one of the emigrant children, ran back, shouting out, "Injins--Injins!" His cries brought out the Raggets, and a number of my friends with rifles in their hands, ready to do battle in case of necessity. They saw that we were peaceably disposed; but they did not recognise me till I was in the middle of them, and had addressed them by name. I was cordially welcomed. In truth, most of them had given me up for lost. They showed that they placed some value on me by loading my Indian friends with presents. I am sorry to say that I must bring my adventures in the Far West to a conclusion. We struck our tents next morning, and continued our journey. After a variety of adventures we reached California, and at once proceeded to the gold-diggings. Most of the party separated and worked for themselves. The Raggets kept together, and were the only family who succeeded in securing an independence. For myself I will say nothing, but that I was thankful to find myself back in old England, if not a richer, I hope at all events a wiser man, than when I left its deservedly well-loved shores. THE END. 
23066	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have been retained. [Illustration: FORT SMITH, ARKANSAS.] THE PRAIRIE TRAVELER. A HAND-BOOK FOR OVERLAND EXPEDITIONS. WITH MAPS, ILLUSTRATIONS, AND ITINERARIES OF THE PRINCIPAL ROUTES BETWEEN THE MISSISSIPPI AND THE PACIFIC. By RANDOLPH B. MARCY, CAPTAIN U. S. ARMY. PUBLISHED BY AUTHORITY OF THE WAR DEPARTMENT. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1859. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The different Routes to California and Oregon. Their respective Advantages. Organization of Companies. Elections of Captains. Wagons and Teams. Relative Merits of Mules and Oxen. Stores and Provisions. How packed. Desiccated and canned Vegetables. Pemmican. Antiscorbutics. Cold Flour. Substitutes in case of Necessity. Amount of Supplies. Clothing. Camp Equipage. Arms. 15 CHAPTER II. Marching. Treatment of Animals. Water. Different methods of finding and purifying it. Journadas. Methods of crossing them. Advance and Rear Guards. Selection of Camp. Sanitary Considerations. Dr. Jackson's Report. Picket Guards. Stampedes. How to prevent them. Corraling Wagons. 44 CHAPTER III. Repairing broken Wagons. Fording Rivers. Quicksand. Wagon Boats. Bull Boats. Crossing Packs. Swimming Animals. Marching with loose Horses. Herding Mules. Best Methods of Marching. Herding and guarding Animals. Descending Mountains. Storms. Northers. 71 CHAPTER IV. Packing. Saddles. Mexican Method. Madrina, or Bell-mare. Attachment of the Mule illustrated. Best Method of Packing. Hoppling Animals. Selecting Horses and Mules. Grama and bunch Grass. European Saddles. California Saddle. Saddle Wounds. Alkali. Flies. Colic. Rattlesnake Bites. Cures for the Bite. 98 CHAPTER V. Bivouacs. Tente d'Abri. Gutta-percha Knapsack Tent. Comanche Lodge. Sibley Tent. Camp Furniture. Litters. Rapid Traveling. Fuel. Making Fires. Fires on the Prairies. Jerking Meat. Making Lariats. Making Caches. Disposition of Fire-arms. Colt's Revolvers. Gun Accidents. Trailing. Indian Sagacity. 132 CHAPTER VI. Guides and Hunters. Delawares and Shawnees. Khebirs. Black Beaver. Anecdotes. Domestic Troubles. Lodges. Similarity of Prairie Tribes to the Arabs. Method of making War. Tracking and pursuing Indians. Method of attacking them. Telegraphing by Smokes. 183 CHAPTER VII. Hunting. Its Benefits to the Soldier. Buffalo. Deer. Antelope. Bear. Big-horn, or Mountain Sheep. Their Habits, and Hints upon the best Methods of hunting them. 230 ITINERARIES. 253 APPENDIX. 335 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Page Map of Overland routes _at end of volume._ Fort Smith, Arkansas _Frontispiece._ Swimming a Horse 78 Diagram for Measurements 81 Crossing a Stream 87 Grimsley's Pack-saddle 99 California Saddle 119 Half-faced Camp 134 Conical Bivouac 135 Tent Knapsack 137 Comanche Lodge 140 Sibley Tent 143 Camp Chairs 145 Camp Table--Field Cot 146 Field Cot--Camp Bureau 148 Mess-chest 149 Horse-litter 151 Hand-litter 154 The Grizzly 167 Horse-tracks 178 Keep away! 209 Calling up Antelopes 245 The Needles 254 Chimney Rock 269 Devil's Gate 271 Well in the Desert 292 Map of the Pike's Peak Gold Region 296 Sangre de Cristo Pass 300 San Francisco Mountain 309 Cañon on Bill Williams's Fork 312 Artillery Peak 313 PREFACE. A quarter of a century's experience in frontier life, a great portion of which has been occupied in exploring the interior of our continent, and in long marches where I have been thrown exclusively upon my own resources, far beyond the bounds of the populated districts, and where the traveler must vary his expedients to surmount the numerous obstacles which the nature of the country continually reproduces, has shown me under what great disadvantages the "_voyageur_" labors for want of a timely initiation into those minor details of prairie-craft, which, however apparently unimportant in the abstract, are sure, upon the plains, to turn the balance of success for or against an enterprise. This information is so varied, and is derived from so many different sources, that I still find every new expedition adds substantially to my practical knowledge, and am satisfied that a good Prairie Manual will be for the young traveler an addition to his equipment of inappreciable value. With such a book in his hand, he will be able, in difficult circumstances, to avail himself of the matured experience of veteran travelers, and thereby avoid many otherwise unforeseen disasters; while, during the ordinary routine of marching, he will greatly augment the sum of his comforts, avoid many serious losses, and enjoy a comparative exemption from doubts and anxieties. He will feel himself a master spirit in the wilderness he traverses, and not the victim of every _new_ combination of circumstances which nature affords or fate allots, as if to try his skill and prowess. I have waited for several years, with the confident expectation that some one more competent than myself would assume the task, and give the public the desired information; but it seems that no one has taken sufficient interest in the subject to disseminate the benefits of his experience in this way. Our frontier-men, although brave in council and action, and possessing an intelligence that quickens in the face of danger, are apt to feel shy of the pen. They shun the atmosphere of the student's closet; their sphere is in the free and open wilderness. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that to our veteran borderer the field of literature should remain a "_terra incognita_." It is our army that unites the chasm between the culture of civilization in the aspect of science, art, and social refinement, and the powerful simplicity of nature. On leaving the Military Academy, a majority of our officers are attached to the line of the army, and forthwith assigned to duty upon our remote and extended frontier, where the restless and warlike habits of the nomadic tribes render the soldier's life almost as unsettled as that of the savages themselves. A regiment is stationed to-day on the borders of tropical Mexico; to-morrow, the war-whoop, borne on a gale from the northwest, compels its presence in the frozen latitudes of Puget's Sound. The very limited numerical strength of our army, scattered as it is over a vast area of territory, necessitates constant changes of stations, long and toilsome marches, a promptitude of action, and a tireless energy and self-reliance, that can only be acquired through an intimate acquaintance with the sphere in which we act and move. The education of our officers at the Military Academy is doubtless well adapted to the art of civilized warfare, but can not familiarize them with the diversified details of border service; and they often, at the outset of their military career, find themselves compelled to improvise new expedients to meet novel emergences. The life of the wilderness is an _art_ as well as that of the city or court, and every art subjects its votaries to discipline in preparing them for a successful career in its pursuit. The Military Art, as enlarged to meet all the requirements of border service, the savage in his wiles or the elements in their caprices, embraces many other special arts which have hitherto been almost ignored, and results which experience and calculation should have guaranteed have been improvidently staked upon favorable chances. The main object at which I have aimed in the following pages has been to explain and illustrate, as clearly and succinctly as possible, the best methods of performing the duties devolving upon the prairie traveler, so as to meet their contingencies under all circumstances, and thereby to endeavor to establish a more uniform system of marching and campaigning in the Indian country. I have also furnished itineraries of most of the principal routes that have been traveled across the plains, taken from the best and most reliable authorities; and I have given some information concerning the habits of the Indians and wild animals that frequent the prairies, with the secrets of the hunter's and warrior's strategy, which I have endeavored to impress more forcibly upon the reader by introducing illustrative anecdote. I take great pleasure in acknowledging my indebtedness to several officers of the Topographical Engineers and of other corps of the army for the valuable information I have obtained from their official reports regarding the different routes embraced in the itineraries, and to these gentlemen I beg leave very respectfully to dedicate my book. THE PRAIRIE TRAVELER. CHAPTER I. The different Routes to California and Oregon. Their respective Advantages. Organization of Companies. Elections of Captains. Wagons and Teams. Relative Merits of Mules and Oxen. Stores and Provisions. How packed. Desiccated and canned Vegetables. Pemmican. Antiscorbutics. Cold Flour. Substitutes in case of Necessity. Amount of Supplies. Clothing. Camp Equipage. Arms. ROUTES TO CALIFORNIA AND OREGON. Emigrants or others desiring to make the overland journey to the Pacific should bear in mind that there are several different routes which may be traveled with wagons, each having its advocates in persons directly or indirectly interested in attracting the tide of emigration and travel over them. Information concerning these routes coming from strangers living or owning property near them, from agents of steam-boats or railways, or from other persons connected with transportation companies, should be received with great caution, and never without corroborating evidence from disinterested sources. There is no doubt that each one of these roads has its advantages and disadvantages, but a judicious selection must depend chiefly upon the following considerations, namely, the locality from whence the individual is to take his departure, the season of the year when he desires to commence his journey, the character of his means of transportation, and the point upon the Pacific coast that he wishes to reach. Persons living in the Northeastern States can, with about equal facility and dispatch, reach the eastern terminus of any one of the routes they may select by means of public transport. And, as animals are much cheaper upon the frontier than in the Eastern States, they should purchase their teams at or near the point where the overland journey is to commence. Those living in the Northwestern States, having their own teams, and wishing to go to any point north of San Francisco, will of course make choice of the route which takes its departure from the Missouri River. Those who live in the middle Western States, having their own means of transportation, and going to any point upon the Pacific coast, should take one of the middle routes. Others, who reside in the extreme Southwest, and whose destination is south of San Francisco, should travel the southern road running through Texas, which is the only one practicable for comfortable winter travel. The grass upon a great portion of this route is green during the entire winter, and snow seldom covers it. This road leaves the Gulf coast at _Powder-horn_, on Matagorda Bay, which point is difficult of access by land from the north, but may be reached by steamers from New Orleans five times a week. There are stores at Powder-horn and Indianola where the traveler can obtain most of the articles necessary for his journey, but I would recommend him to supply himself before leaving New Orleans with every thing he requires with the exception of animals, which he will find cheaper in Texas. This road has received a large amount of travel since 1849, is well tracked and defined, and, excepting about twenty miles of "_hog wallow prairie_" near Powder-horn, it is an excellent road for carriages and wagons. It passes through a settled country for 250 miles, and within this section supplies can be had at reasonable rates. At Victoria and San Antonio many fine stores will be found, well supplied with large stocks of goods, embracing all the articles the traveler will require. The next route to the north is that over which the semi-weekly mail to California passes, and which, for a great portion of the way to New Mexico, I traveled and recommended in 1849. This road leaves the Arkansas River at Fort Smith, to which point steamers run during the seasons of high water in the winter and spring. Supplies of all descriptions necessary for the overland journey may be procured at Fort Smith, or at Van Buren on the opposite side of the Arkansas. Horses and cattle are cheap here. The road, on leaving Fort Smith, passes through the Choctaw and Chickasaw country for 180 miles, then crosses Red River by ferry-boat at Preston, and runs through the border settlements of northern Texas for 150 miles, within which distances supplies may be procured at moderate prices. This road is accessible to persons desiring to make the entire journey with their own transportation from Tennessee or Mississippi, by crossing the Mississippi River at Memphis or Helena, passing Little Rock, and thence through Washington County, intersecting the road at Preston. It may also be reached by taking steamers up Red River to Shreveport or Jefferson, from either of which places there are roads running through a populated country, and intersecting the Fort Smith road near Preston. This road also unites with the San Antonio road at El Paso, and from that point they pass together over the mountains to Fort Yuma and to San Francisco in California. Another road leaves Fort Smith and runs up the south side of the Canadian River to Santa Fé and Albuquerque in New Mexico. This route is set down upon most of the maps of the present day as having been discovered and explored by various persons, but my own name seems to have been carefully excluded from the list. Whether this omission has been intentional or not, I leave for the authors to determine. I shall merely remark that I had the command and entire direction of an expedition which in 1849 discovered, explored, located, and marked out this identical wagon road from Fort Smith, Arkansas, to Santa Fé, New Mexico, and that this road, for the greater portion of the distance, is the same that has been since recommended for a Pacific railway. This road, near Albuquerque, unites with Captain Whipple's and Lieutenant Beall's roads to California. Another road, which takes its departure from Fort Smith and passes through the Cherokee country, is called the "Cherokee Trail." It crosses Grand River at Fort Gibson, and runs a little north of west to the Verdigris River, thence up the valley of this stream on the north side for 80 miles, when it crosses the river, and, taking a northwest course, strikes the Arkansas River near old Fort Mann, on the Santa Fé trace; thence it passes near the base of Pike's Peak, and follows down Cherry Creek from its source to its confluence with the South Platte, and from thence over the mountains into Utah, and on to California _via_ Fort Bridger and Salt Lake City. For persons who desire to go from the Southern States to the gold diggings in the vicinity of Cherry Creek, this route is shorter by some 300 miles than that from Fort Smith _via_ Fort Leavenworth. It is said to be an excellent road, and well supplied with the requisites for encamping. It has been traveled by large parties of California emigrants for several years, and is well tracked and defined. The grass upon all the roads leaving Fort Smith is sufficiently advanced to afford sustenance to animals by the first of April, and from this time until winter sets in it is abundant. The next route on the north leaves the Missouri River at Westport, Leavenworth City, Atcheson, or from other towns above, between either of which points and St. Louis steamers ply during the entire summer season. The necessary outfit of supplies can always be procured at any of the starting-points on the Missouri River at moderate rates. This is the great emigrant route from Missouri to California and Oregon, over which so many thousands have traveled within the past few years. The track is broad, well worn, and can not be mistaken. It has received the major part of the Mormon emigration, and was traversed by the army in its march to Utah in 1857. At the point where this road crosses the South Platte River, Lieutenant Bryan's road branches off to the left, leading through Bridger's Pass, and thence to Fort Bridger. The Fort Kearney route to the gold region near Pike's Peak also leaves the emigrant road at this place and runs up the South Platte. From Fort Bridger there are two roads that may be traveled with wagons in the direction of California; one passing Salt Lake City, and the other running down Bear River to Soda Springs, intersecting the Salt Lake City road at the _City of Rocks_. Near Soda Springs the Oregon road turns to the right, passing Fort Hall, and thence down Snake River to Fort Wallah-Wallah. Unless travelers have business in Salt Lake Valley, I would advise them to take the Bear River route, as it is much shorter, and better in every respect. The road, on leaving the Missouri River, passes for 150 miles through a settled country where grain can be purchased cheap, and there are several stores in this section where most of the articles required by travelers can be obtained. Many persons who have had much experience in prairie traveling prefer leaving the Missouri River in March or April, and feeding grain to their animals until the new grass appears. The roads become muddy and heavy after the spring rains set in, and by starting out early the worst part of the road will be passed over before the ground becomes wet and soft. This plan, however, should never be attempted unless the animals are well supplied with grain, and kept in good condition. They will eat the old grass in the spring, but it does not, in this climate, as in Utah and New Mexico, afford them sufficient sustenance. The grass, after the 1st of May, is good and abundant upon this road as far as the South Pass, from whence there is a section of about 50 miles where it is scarce; there is also a scarcity upon the desert beyond the sink of the Humboldt. As large numbers of cattle pass over the road annually, they soon consume all the grass in these barren localities, and such as pass late in the season are likely to suffer greatly, and oftentimes perish from starvation. When I came over the road in August, 1858, I seldom found myself out of sight of dead cattle for 500 miles along the road, and this was an unusually favorable year for grass, and before the main body of animals had passed for that season. Upon the head of the Sweetwater River, and west of the South Pass, alkaline springs are met with, which are exceedingly poisonous to cattle and horses. They can readily be detected by the yellowish-red color of the grass growing around them. Animals should never be allowed to graze near them or to drink the water. ORGANIZATION OF COMPANIES. After a particular route has been selected to make the journey across the plains, and the requisite number have arrived at the eastern terminus, their first business should be to organize themselves into a company and elect a commander. The company should be of sufficient magnitude to herd and guard animals, and for protection against Indians. From 50 to 70 men, properly armed and equipped, will be enough for these purposes, and any greater number only makes the movements of the party more cumbersome and tardy. In the selection of a captain, good judgment, integrity of purpose, and practical experience are the essential requisites, and these are indispensable to the harmony and consolidation of the association. His duty should be to direct the order of march, the time of starting and halting, to select the camps, detail and give orders to guards, and, indeed, to control and superintend all the movements of the company. An obligation should then be drawn up and signed by all the members of the association, wherein each one should bind himself to abide in all cases by the orders and decisions of the captain, and to aid him by every means in his power in the execution of his duties; and they should also obligate themselves to aid each other, so as to make the individual interest of each member the common concern of the whole company. To insure this, a fund should be raised for the purchase of extra animals to supply the places of those which may give out or die on the road; and if the wagon or team of a particular member should fail and have to be abandoned, the company should obligate themselves to transport his luggage, and the captain should see that he has his share of transportation equal with any other member. Thus it will be made the interest of every member of the company to watch over and protect the property of others as well as his own. In case of failure on the part of any one to comply with the obligations imposed by the articles of agreement after they have been duly executed, the company should of course have the power to punish the delinquent member, and, if necessary, to exclude him from all the benefits of the association. On such a journey as this, there is much to interest and amuse one who is fond of picturesque scenery, and of wild life in its most primitive aspect, yet no one should attempt it without anticipating many rough knocks and much hard labor; every man must expect to do his share of duty faithfully and without a murmur. On long and arduous expeditions men are apt to become irritable and ill-natured, and oftentimes fancy they have more labor imposed upon them than their comrades, and that the person who directs the march is partial toward his favorites, etc. That man who exercises the greatest forbearance under such circumstances, who is cheerful, slow to take up quarrels, and endeavors to reconcile difficulties among his companions, is deserving of all praise, and will, without doubt, contribute largely to the success and comfort of an expedition. The advantages of an association such as I have mentioned are manifestly numerous. The animals can be herded together and guarded by the different members of the company in rotation, thereby securing to all the opportunities of sleep and rest. Besides, this is the only way to resist depredations of the Indians, and to prevent their stampeding and driving off animals; and much more efficiency is secured in every respect, especially in crossing streams, repairing roads, etc., etc. Unless a systematic organization be adopted, it is impossible for a party of any magnitude to travel in company for any great length of time, and for all the members to agree upon the same arrangements in marching, camping, etc. I have several times observed, where this has been attempted, that discords and dissensions sooner or later arose which invariably resulted in breaking up and separating the company. When a captain has once been chosen, he should be sustained in all his decisions unless he commit some manifest outrage, when a majority of the company can always remove him, and put a more competent man in his place. Sometimes men may be selected who, upon trial, do not come up to the anticipations of those who have placed them in power, and other men will exhibit, during the course of the march, more capacity. Under these circumstances it will not be unwise to make a change, the first election having been distinctly provisional. WAGONS AND TEAMS. A company having been organized, its first interest is to procure a proper outfit of transportation and supplies for the contemplated journey. Wagons should be of the simplest possible construction--strong, light, and made of well-seasoned timber, especially the wheels, as the atmosphere, in the elevated and arid region over which they have to pass, is so exceedingly dry during the summer months that, unless the wood-work is thoroughly seasoned, they will require constant repairs to prevent them from falling to pieces. Wheels made of the bois-d'arc, or Osage orange-wood, are the best for the plains, as they shrink but little, and seldom want repairing. As, however, this wood is not easily procured in the Northern States, white oak answers a very good purpose if well seasoned. Spring wagons made in Concord, New Hampshire, are used to transport passengers and the mails upon some of the routes across the plains, and they are said, by those who have used them, to be much superior to any others. They are made of the close-grained oak that grows in a high northern latitude, and well seasoned. The pole of the wagon should have a joint where it enters the hounds, to prevent the weight from coming upon it and breaking the hounds in passing short and abrupt holes in the road. The perch or coupling-pole should be shifting or movable, as, in the event of the loss of a wheel, an axle, or other accident rendering it necessary to abandon the wagon, a temporary cart may be constructed out of the remaining portion. The tires should be examined just before commencing the journey, and, if not perfectly snug, reset. One of the chief causes of accidents to carriages upon the plains arises from the nuts coming off from the numerous bolts that secure the running gearing. To prevent this, the ends of all the bolts should be riveted; it is seldom necessary to take them off, and when this is required the ends of the bolts may easily be filed away. Wagons with six mules should never, on a long journey over the prairies, be loaded with over 2000 pounds, unless grain is transported, when an additional thousand pounds may be taken, provided it is fed out daily to the team. When grass constitutes the only forage, 2000 pounds is deemed a sufficient load. I regard our government wagons as unnecessarily heavy for six mules. There is sufficient material in them to sustain a burden of 4000 pounds, but they are seldom loaded with more than half that weight. Every wagon should be furnished with substantial bows and double osnaburg covers, to protect its contents from the sun and weather. There has been much discussion regarding the relative merits of mules and oxen for prairie traveling, and the question is yet far from being settled. Upon good firm roads, in a populated country, where grain can be procured, I should unquestionably give the preference to mules, as they travel faster, and endure the heat of summer much better than oxen; and if the journey be not over 1000 miles, and the grass abundant, even without grain, I think mules would be preferable. But when the march is to extend 1500 or 2000 miles, or over a rough sandy or muddy road, I believe young oxen will endure better than mules; they will, if properly managed, keep in better condition, and perform the journey in an equally brief space of time. Besides, they are much more economical, a team of six mules costing six hundred dollars, while an eight-ox team only costs upon the frontier about two hundred dollars. Oxen are much less liable to be stampeded and driven off by Indians, and can be pursued and overtaken by horsemen; and, finally, they can, if necessary, be used for beef. In Africa oxen are used as saddle animals, and it is said that they perform good service in this way. This will probably be regarded by our people as a very undignified and singular method of locomotion, but, in the absence of any other means of transportation upon a long journey, a saddle-ox might be found serviceable. Andersson, in his work on Southwestern Africa, says: "A short strong stick, of peculiar shape, is forced through the cartilage of the nose of the ox, and to either end of this stick is attached (in bridle fashion) a tough leathern thong. From the extreme tenderness of the nose he is now more easily managed." "Hans presented me with an ox called 'Spring,' which I afterward rode upward of two thousand miles. On the day of our departure he mounted us all on oxen, and a curious sight it was to see some of the men take their seats who had never before ridden on ox-back. It is impossible to guide an ox as one would guide a horse, for in the attempt to do so you would instantly jerk the stick out of his nose, which at once deprives you of every control over the beast; but by pulling _both_ sides of the bridle at the same time, and toward the side you wish him to take, he is easily managed.[1] Your seat is not less awkward and difficult; for the skin of the ox, unlike that of the horse, is loose, and, notwithstanding your saddle may be tightly girthed, you keep rocking to and fro like a child in a cradle. A few days, however, enables a person to acquire a certain steadiness, and long habit will do the rest." [1] A ring instead of the stick put through the cartilage of the nose would obviate this difficulty.--AUTHOR. "Ox traveling, when once a man becomes accustomed to it, is not so disagreeable as might be expected, particularly if one succeeds in obtaining a tractable animal. On emergencies, an ox can be made to proceed at a tolerable quick pace; for, though his walk is only about three miles an hour at an average, he may be made to perform double that distance in the same time. Mr. Galton once accomplished 24 miles in four hours, and that, too, through heavy sand!" Cows will be found very useful upon long journeys when the rate of travel is slow, as they furnish milk, and in emergencies they may be worked in wagons. I once saw a small cow yoked beside a large ox, and driven about six hundred miles attached to a loaded wagon, and she performed her part equally well with the ox. It has been by no means an unusual thing for emigrant travelers to work cows in their teams. The inhabitants of Pembina, on Red River, work a single ox harnessed in shafts like a horse, and they transport a thousand pounds in a rude cart made entirely of wood, without a particle of iron. One man drives and takes the entire charge of eight or ten of these teams upon long journeys. This is certainly a very economical method of transportation. STORES AND PROVISIONS. Supplies for a march should be put up in the most secure, compact, and portable shape. Bacon should be packed in strong sacks of a hundred pounds to each; or, in very hot climates, put in boxes and surrounded with bran, which in a great measure prevents the fat from melting away. If pork be used, in order to avoid transporting about forty per cent. of useless weight, it should be taken out of the barrels and packed like the bacon; then so placed in the bottom of the wagons as to keep it cool. The pork, if well cured, will keep several months in this way, but bacon is preferable. Flour should be packed in stout double canvas sacks well sewed, a hundred pounds in each sack. Butter may be preserved by boiling it thoroughly, and skimming off the scum as it rises to the top until it is quite clear like oil. It is then placed in tin canisters and soldered up. This mode of preserving butter has been adopted in the hot climate of southern Texas, and it is found to keep sweet for a great length of time, and its flavor is but little impaired by the process. Sugar may be well secured in India-rubber or gutta-percha sacks, or so placed in the wagon as not to risk getting wet. Desiccated or dried vegetables are almost equal to the fresh, and are put up in such a compact and portable form as easily to be transported over the plains. They have been extensively used in the Crimean war, and by our own army in Utah, and have been very generally approved. They are prepared by cutting the fresh vegetables into thin slices and subjecting them to a very powerful press, which removes the juice and leaves a solid cake, which, after having been thoroughly dried in an oven, becomes almost as hard as a rock. A small piece of this, about half the size of a man's hand, when boiled, swells up so as to fill a vegetable dish, and is sufficient for four men. It is believed that the antiscorbutic properties of vegetables are not impaired by desiccation, and they will keep for years if not exposed to dampness. Canned vegetables are very good for campaigning, but are not so portable as when put up in the other form. The desiccated vegetables used in our army have been prepared by Chollet and Co., 46 Rue Richer, Paris. There is an agency for them in New York. I regard these compressed vegetables as the best preparation for prairie traveling that has yet been discovered. A single ration weighs, before being boiled, only an ounce, and a cubic yard contains 16,000 rations. In making up their outfit for the plains, men are very prone to overload their teams with a great variety of useless articles. It is a good rule to carry nothing more than is absolutely necessary for use upon the journey. One can not expect, with the limited allowance of transportation that emigrants usually have, to indulge in luxuries upon such expeditions, and articles for use in California can be purchased there at less cost than that of overland transport. The allowance of provisions for men in marching should be much greater than when they take no exercise. The army ration I have always found insufficient for soldiers who perform hard service, yet it is ample for them when in quarters. The following table shows the amount of subsistence consumed per day by each man of Dr. Rae's party, in his spring journey to the Arctic regions of North America in 1854: Pemmican 1.25 lbs. Biscuit 0.25 " Edward's preserved potatoes 0.10 " Flour 0.33 " Tea 0.03 " Sugar 0.14 " Grease or alcohol, for cooking 0.25 " ---- 2.35 lbs. This allowance of a little over two pounds of the most nutritious food was found barely sufficient to subsist the men in that cold climate. The pemmican, which constitutes almost the entire diet of the Fur Company's men in the Northwest, is prepared as follows: The buffalo meat is cut into thin flakes, and hung up to dry in the sun or before a slow fire; it is then pounded between two stones and reduced to a powder; this powder is placed in a bag of the animal's hide, with the hair on the outside; melted grease is then poured into it, and the bag sewn up. It can be eaten raw, and many prefer it so. Mixed with a little flour and boiled, it is a very wholesome and exceedingly nutritious food, and will keep fresh for a long time. I would advise all persons who travel for any considerable time through a country where they can procure no vegetables to carry with them some antiscorbutics, and if they can not transport desiccated or canned vegetables, citric acid answers a good purpose, and is very portable. When mixed with sugar and water, with a few drops of the essence of lemon, it is difficult to distinguish it from lemonade. Wild onions are excellent as antiscorbutics; also wild grapes and greens. An infusion of hemlock leaves is also said to be an antidote to scurvy. The most portable and simple preparation of subsistence that I know of, and which is used extensively by the Mexicans and Indians, is called "_cold flour_." It is made by parching corn, and pounding it in a mortar to the consistency of coarse meal; a little sugar and cinnamon added makes it quite palatable. When the traveler becomes hungry or thirsty, a little of the flour is mixed with water and drunk. It is an excellent article for a traveler who desires to go the greatest length of time upon the smallest amount of transportation. It is said that half a bushel is sufficient to subsist a man thirty days. Persons undergoing severe labor, and driven to great extremities for food, will derive sustenance from various sources that would never occur to them under ordinary circumstances. In passing over the Rocky Mountains during the winter of 1857-8, our supplies of provisions were entirely consumed eighteen days before reaching the first settlements in New Mexico, and we were obliged to resort to a variety of expedients to supply the deficiency. Our poor mules were fast failing and dropping down from exhaustion in the deep snows, and our only dependence for the means of sustaining life was upon these starved animals as they became unserviceable and could go no farther. We had no salt, sugar, coffee, or tobacco, which, at a time when men are performing the severest labor that the human system is capable of enduring, was a great privation. In this destitute condition we found a substitute for tobacco in the bark of the red willow, which grows upon many of the mountain streams in that vicinity. The outer bark is first removed with a knife, after which the inner bark is scraped up into ridges around the sticks, and held in the fire until it is thoroughly roasted, when it is taken off the stick, pulverized in the hand, and is ready for smoking. It has the narcotic properties of the tobacco, and is quite agreeable to the taste and smell. The sumach leaf is also used by the Indians in the same way, and has a similar taste to the willow bark. A decoction of the dried wild or horse mint, which we found abundant under the snow, was quite palatable, and answered instead of coffee. It dries up in that climate, but does not lose its flavor. We suffered greatly for the want of salt; but, by burning the outside of our mule steaks, and sprinkling a little gunpowder upon them, it did not require a very extensive stretch of the imagination to fancy the presence of both salt and pepper. We tried the meat of horse, colt, and mules, all of which were in a starved condition, and of course not very tender, juicy, or nutritious. We consumed the enormous amount of from five to six pounds of this meat per man daily, but continued to grow weak and thin, until, at the expiration of twelve days, we were able to perform but little labor, and were continually craving for fat meat. The allowance of provisions for each grown person, to make the journey from the Missouri River to California, should suffice for 110 days. The following is deemed requisite, viz.: 150 lbs. of flour, or its equivalent in hard bread; 25 lbs. of bacon or pork, and enough fresh beef to be driven on the hoof to make up the meat component of the ration; 15 lbs. of coffee, and 25 lbs. of sugar; also a quantity of saleratus or yeast powders for making bread, and salt and pepper. These are the chief articles of subsistence necessary for the trip, and they should be used with economy, reserving a good portion for the western half of the journey. Heretofore many of the California emigrants have improvidently exhausted their stocks of provisions before reaching their journey's end, and have, in many cases, been obliged to pay the most exorbitant prices in making up the deficiency. It is true that if persons choose to pass through Salt Lake City, and the Mormons _happen_ to be in an amiable mood, supplies may sometimes be procured from them; but those who have visited them well know how little reliance is to be placed upon their hospitality or spirit of accommodation. I once traveled with a party of New Yorkers _en route_ for California. They were perfectly ignorant of every thing relating to this kind of campaigning, and had overloaded their wagons with almost every thing except the very articles most important and necessary; the consequence was, that they exhausted their teams, and were obliged to throw away the greater part of their loading. They soon learned that Champagne, East India sweetmeats, olives, etc., etc., were not the most useful articles for a prairie tour. CLOTHING. A suitable dress for prairie traveling is of great import to health and comfort. Cotton or linen fabrics do not sufficiently protect the body against the direct rays of the sun at midday, nor against rains or sudden changes of temperature. Wool, being a non-conductor, is the best material for this mode of locomotion, and should always be adopted for the plains. The coat should be short and stout, the shirt of red or blue flannel, such as can be found in almost all the shops on the frontier: this, in warm weather, answers for an outside garment. The pants should be of thick and soft woolen material, and it is well to have them re-enforced on the inside, where they come in contact with the saddle, with soft buckskin, which makes them more durable and comfortable. Woolen socks and stout boots, coming up well at the knees, and made large, so as to admit the pants, will be found the best for horsemen, and they guard against rattlesnake bites. In traveling through deep snow during very cold weather in winter, moccasins are preferable to boots or shoes, as being more pliable, and allowing a freer circulation of the blood. In crossing the Rocky Mountains in the winter, the weather being intensely cold, I wore two pairs of woolen socks, and a square piece of thick blanket sufficient to cover the feet and ankles, over which were drawn a pair of thick buckskin moccasins, and the whole enveloped in a pair of buffalo-skin boots with the hair inside, made open in the front and tied with buckskin strings. At the same time I wore a pair of elkskin pants, which most effectually prevented the air from penetrating to the skin, and made an excellent defense against brush and thorns. My men, who were dressed in the regulation clothing, wore out their pants and shoes before we reached the summit of the mountains, and many of them had their feet badly frozen in consequence. They mended their shoes with pieces of leather cut from the saddle-skirts as long as they lasted, and, when this material was gone, they covered the entire shoe with green beeve or mule hide, drawn together and sewed upon the top, with the hair inside, which protected the upper as well as the sole leather. The sewing was done with an awl and buckskin strings. These simple expedients contributed greatly to the comfort of the party; and, indeed, I am by no means sure that they did not, in our straitened condition, without the transportation necessary for carrying disabled men, save the lives of some of them. Without the awl and buckskins we should have been unable to have repaired the shoes. They should never be forgotten in making up the outfit for a prairie expedition. We also experienced great inconvenience and pain by the reflection of the sun's rays from the snow upon our eyes, and some of the party became nearly snow-blind. Green or blue glasses, inclosed in a wire net-work, are an effectual protection to the eyes; but, in the absence of these, the skin around the eyes and upon the nose should be blackened with wet powder or charcoal, which will afford great relief. In the summer season shoes are much better for footmen than boots, as they are lighter, and do not cramp the ankles; the soles should be broad, so as to allow a square, firm tread, without distorting or pinching the feet. The following list of articles is deemed a sufficient outfit for one man upon a three months' expedition, viz.: 2 blue or red flannel overshirts, open in front, with buttons. 2 woolen undershirts. 2 pairs thick cotton drawers. 4 pairs woolen socks. 2 pairs cotton socks. 4 colored silk handkerchiefs. 2 pairs stout shoes, for footmen. 1 pair boots, for horsemen. 1 pair shoes, for horsemen. 3 towels. 1 gutta percha poncho. 1 broad-brimmed hat of soft felt. 1 comb and brush. 2 tooth-brushes. 1 pound Castile soap. 3 pounds bar soap for washing clothes. 1 belt-knife and small whetstone. Stout linen thread, large needles, a bit of beeswax, a few buttons, paper of pins, and a thimble, all contained in a small buckskin or stout cloth bag. The foregoing articles, with the coat and overcoat, complete the wardrobe. CAMP EQUIPAGE. The bedding for each person should consist of two blankets, a comforter, and a pillow, and a gutta percha or painted canvas cloth to spread beneath the bed upon the ground, and to contain it when rolled up for transportation. Every mess of six or eight persons will require a wrought-iron camp kettle, large enough for boiling meat and making soup; a coffee-pot and cups of heavy tin, with the handles riveted on; tin plates, frying and bake pans of wrought iron, the latter for baking bread and roasting coffee. Also a mess pan of heavy tin or wrought iron for mixing bread and other culinary purposes; knives, forks, and spoons; an extra camp kettle; tin or gutta percha bucket for water--wood, being liable to shrink and fall to pieces, is not deemed suitable; an axe, hatchet, and spade will also be needed, with a mallet for driving picket-pins. Matches should be carried in bottles and corked tight, so as to exclude the moisture. A little blue mass, quinine, opium, and some cathartic medicine, put up in doses for adults, will suffice for the medicine-chest. Each ox wagon should be provided with a covered tar-bucket, filled with a mixture of tar or resin and grease, two bows extra, six S's, and six open links for repairing chains. Every set of six wagons should have a tongue, coupling pole, king-bolt, and pair of hounds extra. Every set of six mule wagons should be furnished with five pairs of hames, two double trees, four whipple-trees, and two pairs of lead bars extra. Two lariats will be needed for every horse and mule, as one generally wears out before reaching the end of a long journey. They will be found useful in crossing deep streams, and in letting wagons down steep hills and mountains; also in repairing broken wagons. Lariats made of hemp are the best. One of the most indispensable articles to the outfit of the prairie traveler is buckskin. For repairing harness, saddles, bridles, and numerous other purposes of daily necessity, the awl and buckskin will be found in constant requisition. ARMS. Every man who goes into the Indian country should be armed with a rifle and revolver, and he should never, either in camp or out of it, lose sight of them. When not on the march, they should be placed in such a position that they can be seized at an instant's warning; and when moving about outside the camp, the revolver should invariably be worn in the belt, as the person does not know at what moment he may have use for it. A great diversity of opinion obtains regarding the kind of rifle that is the most efficient and best adapted to Indian warfare, and the question is perhaps as yet very far from being settled to the satisfaction of all. A large majority of men prefer the breech-loading arm, but there are those who still adhere tenaciously to the old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifle as preferable to any of the modern inventions. Among these may be mentioned the border hunters and mountaineers, who can not be persuaded to use any other than the Hawkins rifle, for the reason that they know nothing about the merits of any others. My own experience has forced me to the conclusion that the breech-loading arm possesses great advantages over the muzzle-loading, for the reason that it can be charged and fired with much greater rapidity. Colt's revolving pistol is very generally admitted, both in Europe and America, to be the most efficient arm of its kind known at the present day. As the same principles are involved in the fabrication of his breech-loading rifle as are found in the pistol, the conviction to me is irresistible that, if one arm is worthy of consideration, the other is equally so. For my own part, I look upon Colt's new patent rifle as a most excellent arm for border service. It gives six shots in more rapid succession than any other rifle I know of, and these, if properly expended, are oftentimes sufficient to decide a contest; moreover, it is the most reliable and certain weapon to fire that I have ever used, and I can not resist the force of my conviction that, if I were alone upon the prairies, and expected an attack from a body of Indians, I am not acquainted with any arm I would as soon have in my hands as this. The army and navy revolvers have both been used in our army, but the officers are not united in opinion in regard to their relative merits. I prefer the large army size, for reasons which will be given hereafter. CHAPTER II. Marching. Treatment of Animals. Water. Different methods of finding and purifying it. Journadas. Methods of crossing them. Advance and Rear Guards. Selection of Camp. Sanitary Considerations. Dr. Jackson's Report. Picket Guards. Stampedes. How to prevent them. Corraling Wagons. MARCHING. The success of a long expedition through an unpopulated country depends mainly on the care taken of the animals, and the manner in which they are driven, herded, and guarded. If they are broken down or lost, every thing must be sacrificed, and the party becomes perfectly helpless. The great error into which inexperienced travelers are liable to fall, and which probably occasions more suffering and disaster than almost any thing else, lies in overworking their cattle at the commencement of the journey. To obviate this, short and easy drives should be made until the teams become habituated to their work, and gradually inured to this particular method of traveling. If animals are overloaded and overworked when they first start out into the prairies, especially if they have recently been taken from grain, they soon fall away, and give out before reaching the end of the journey. Grass and water are abundant and good upon the eastern portions of all the different overland routes; animals should not, therefore, with proper care, fall away in the least before reaching the mountains, as west of them are long stretches where grass and water are scarce, and it requires the full amount of strength and vigor of animals in good condition to endure the fatigues and hard labor attendant upon the passage of these deserts. Drivers should be closely watched, and never, unless absolutely necessary, permitted to beat their animals, or to force them out of a walk, as this will soon break down the best teams. Those teamsters who make the least use of the whip invariably keep their animals in the best condition. Unless the drivers are checked at the outset, they are very apt to fall into the habit of flogging their teams. It is not only wholly unnecessary but cruel, and should never be tolerated. In traveling with ox teams in the summer season, great benefit will be derived from making early marches; starting with the dawn, and making a "nooning" during the heat of the day, as oxen suffer much from the heat of the sun in midsummer. These noon halts should, if possible, be so arranged as to be near grass and water, where the animals can improve their time in grazing. When it gets cool they may be hitched to the wagons again, and the journey continued in the afternoon. Sixteen or eighteen miles a day may thus be made without injury to the beasts, and longer drives can never be expedient, unless in order to reach grass or water. When the requisites for encamping can not be found at the desired intervals, it is better for the animals to make a very long drive than to encamp without water or grass. The noon halt in such cases may be made without water, and the evening drive lengthened. WATER. The scarcity of water upon some of the routes across the plains occasionally exposes the traveler to intense suffering, and renders it a matter of much importance for him to learn the best methods of guarding against the disasters liable to occur to men and animals in the absence of this most necessary element. In mountainous districts water can generally be found either in springs, the dry beds of streams, or in holes in the rocks, where they are sheltered from rapid evaporation. For example, in the Hueco tanks, thirty miles east of El Paso, New Mexico, upon the Fort Smith road, where there is an immense reservoir in a cave, water can always be found. This reservoir receives the drainage of a mountain. During a season of the year when there are occasional showers, water will generally be found in low places where there is a substratum of clay, but after the dry season has set in these pools evaporate, and it is necessary to dig wells. The lowest spots should be selected for this purpose when the grass is green and the surface earth moist. In searching for water along the dry sandy beds of streams, it is well to try the earth with a stick or ramrod, and if this indicates moisture water will generally be obtained by excavation. Streams often sink in light and porous sand, and sometimes make their appearance again lower down, where the bed is more tenacious; but it is a rule with prairie travelers, in searching for water in a sandy country, to ascend the streams, and the nearer their sources are approached the more water will be found in a dry season. Where it becomes necessary to sink a well in a stream the bed of which is quicksand, a flour-barrel, perforated with small holes, should be used as a curb, to prevent the sand from caving in. The barrel must be forced down as the sand is removed; and when, as is often the case, there is an undercurrent through the sand, the well will be continually filled with water. There are many indications of water known to old campaigners, although none of them are absolutely infallible. The most certain of them are deep green cottonwood or willow trees growing in depressed localities; also flags, water-rushes, tall green grass, etc. The fresh tracks and trails of animals converging toward a common centre, and the flight of birds and water-fowl toward the same points, will also lead to water. In a section frequented by deer or mustangs, it may be certain that water is not far distant, as these animals drink daily, and they will not remain long in a locality after the water has dried up. Deer generally go to water during the middle of the day, but birds toward evening. A supply of drinking water may be obtained during a shower from the drippings of a tent, or by suspending a cloth or blanket by the four corners and hanging a small weight to the centre, so as to allow all the rain to run toward one point, from whence it drops into a vessel beneath. India-rubber, gutta-percha, or painted canvas cloths answer a very good purpose for catching water during a rain, but they should be previously well washed, to prevent them from imparting a bad taste. When there are heavy dews water may be collected by spreading out a blanket with a stick attached to one end, tying a rope to it, dragging it over the grass, and wringing out the water as it accumulates. In some parts of Australia this method is practiced. In traversing the country upon the head waters of Red River during the summer of 1852, we suffered most severely from thirst, having nothing but the acrid and bitter waters from the river, which, issuing from a gypsum formation, was highly charged with salts, and, when taken into the stomach, did not quench thirst in the slightest degree, but, on the contrary, produced a most painful and burning sensation, accompanied with diarrhoea. During the four days that we were compelled to drink this water the thermometer rose to 104° in the shade, and the only relief we found was from bathing in the river. The use of water is a matter of habit, very much within our control, as by practice we may discipline ourselves so as to require but a small amount. Some persons, for example, who place no restraint upon their appetites, will, if they can get it, drink water twenty times a day, while others will not perhaps drink more than once or twice during the same time. I have found a very effectual preventive to thirst by drinking a large quantity of water before breakfast, and, on feeling thirsty on the march, chewing a small green twig or leaf. Water taken from stagnant pools, charged with putrid vegetable matter and animalculæ, would be very likely to generate fevers and dysenteries if taken into the stomach without purification. It should therefore be thoroughly boiled, and all the scum removed from the surface as it rises; this clarifies it, and by mixing powdered charcoal with it the disinfecting process is perfected. Water may also be purified by placing a piece of alum in the end of a stick that has been split, and stirring it around in a bucket of water. Charcoal and the leaves of the prickly pear are also used for the same purpose. I have recently seen a compact and portable filter, made of charcoal, which clarifies the water very effectually, and draws it off on the siphon principle. It can be obtained at 85 West Street, New York, for one dollar and a half. Water may be partially filtered in a muddy pond by taking a barrel and boring the lower half full of holes, then filling it up with grass or moss above the upper holes, after which it is placed in the pond with the top above the surface. The water filters through the grass or moss, and rises in the barrel to a level with the pond. Travelers frequently drink muddy water by placing a cloth or handkerchief over the mouth of a cup to catch the larger particles of dirt and animalculæ. Water may be cooled so as to be quite palatable by wrapping cloths around the vessels containing it, wetting them, and hanging them in the air, where a rapid evaporation will be produced. Some of the frontier-men use a leathern sack for carrying water: this is porous, and allows the necessary evaporation without wetting. The Arabs also use a leathern bottle, which they call _zemsemiyah_. When they are _en route_ they hang it on the shady side of a camel, where the evaporation keeps the water continually cool. No expedition should ever set out into the plains without being supplied with the means for carrying water, especially in an unknown region. If wooden kegs are used they must frequently be looked after, and soaked, in order that they may not shrink and fall to pieces. Men, in marching in a hot climate, throw off a great amount of perspiration from the skin, and require a corresponding quantity of water to supply the deficiency, and unless they get this they suffer greatly. When a party makes an expedition into a desert section, where there is a probability of finding no water, and intend to return over the same track, it is well to carry water as far as convenient, and bury it in the ground for use on the return trip. "Captain Sturt, when he explored Australia, took a tank in his cart, which burst, and, besides that, he carried casks of water. By these he was enabled to face a desert country with a success which no traveler had ever attained to. For instance, when returning homeward, the water was found to be drying up from the country on all sides of him. He was at a pool, and the next stage was 118 miles, at the end of which it was doubtful if there remained any water. It was necessary to send to reconnoitre, and to furnish the messenger with means of returning should the pool be found dry. He killed a bullock, skinned it, and, filling the skin with water (which held 150 gallons), sent it by an ox dray 30 miles, with orders to bury it and to return. Shortly after he dispatched a light one-horse cart, carrying 36 gallons of water; the horse and man were to drink at the hide and go on. Thus they had 36 gallons to supply them for a journey of 176 miles, or six days at 30 miles a day, at the close of which they would return to the ox hide--sleeping, in fact, five nights on 36 gallons of water. This a hardy, well-driven horse could do, even in the hottest climate."[2] [2] F. Galton's _Art of Travel_, p. 17 and 18. JOURNADAS. In some localities 50 or 60 miles, and even greater distances, are frequently traversed without water; these long stretches are called by the Mexicans "_journadas_," or day's journeys. There is one in New Mexico called _Journada del Muerto_, which is 78-1/2 miles in length, where, in a dry season, there is not a drop of water; yet, with proper care, this drive can be made with ox or mule teams, and without loss or injury to the animals. On arriving at the last camping-ground before entering upon the journada, all the animals should be as well rested and refreshed as possible. To insure this, they must be turned out upon the best grass that can be found, and allowed to eat and drink as much as they desire during the entire halt. Should the weather be very warm, and the teams composed of oxen, the march should not be resumed until it begins to cool in the afternoon. They should be carefully watered just previous to being hitched up and started out upon the journada, the water-kegs having been previously filled. The drive is then commenced, and continued during the entire night, with 10 or 15 minutes rest every two hours. About daylight a halt should be made, and the animals immediately turned out to graze for two hours, during which time, especially if there is dew upon the grass, they will have become considerably refreshed, and may be put to the wagons again and driven until the heat becomes oppressive toward noon, when they are again turned out upon a spot where the grass is good, and, if possible, where there are shade trees. About four o'clock P.M. they are again started, and the march continued into the night, and as long as they can be driven without suffering. If, however, there should be dew, which is seldom the case on the plains, it would be well to turn out the animals several times during the second night, and by morning, if they are in good condition, the journada of 70 or 80 miles will have been passed without any great amount of suffering. I am supposing, in this case, that the road is firm and free from sand. Many persons have been under the impression that animals, in traversing the plains, would perform better and keep in better condition by allowing them to graze in the morning before commencing the day's march, which involves the necessity of making late starts, and driving during the heat of the day. The same persons have been of the opinion that animals will graze only at particular hours; that the remainder of the day must be allowed them for rest and sleep, and that, unless these rules be observed, they would not thrive. This opinion is, however, erroneous, as animals will in a few days adapt themselves to any circumstances, so far as regards their hours of labor, rest, and refreshment. If they have been accustomed to work at particular periods of the day, and the order of things is suddenly reversed, the working hours changed into hours of rest, and _vice versa_, they may not do as well for a short time, but they will soon accustom themselves to the change, and eat and rest as well as before. By making early drives during the summer months the heat of the day is avoided, whereas, I repeat, if allowed to graze before starting, the march can not commence until it grows warm, when animals, especially oxen, will suffer greatly from the heat of the sun, and will not do as well as when the other plan is pursued. Oxen upon a long journey will sometimes wear down their hoofs and become lame. When this occurs, a thick piece of raw hide wrapped around the foot and tied firmly to the leg will obviate the difficulty, provided the weather is not wet; for if so, the shoe soon wears out. Mexican and Indian horses and mules will make long journeys without being shod, as their hoofs are tough and elastic, and wear away very gradually; they will, however, in time become very smooth, making it difficult for them to travel upon grass. A train of wagons should always be kept closed upon a march; and if, as often happens, a particular wagon gets out of order and is obliged to halt, it should be turned out of the road, to let the others pass while the injury is being repaired. As soon as the broken wagon is in order, it should fall into the line wherever it happens to be. In the event of a wagon breaking down so as to require important repairs, men should be immediately dispatched with the necessary tools and materials, which should be placed in the train where they can readily be got at, and a guard should be left to escort the wagon to camp after having been repaired. If, however, the damage be so serious as to require any great length of time to repair it, the load should be transferred to other wagons, so that the team which is left behind will be able to travel rapidly and overtake the train. If the broken wagon is a poor one, and there be abundance of better ones, the accident being such as to involve much delay for its repair, it may be wise to abandon it, taking from it such parts as may possibly be wanted in repairing other wagons. ADVANCE AND REAR GUARDS. A few men, well mounted, should constitute the advance and rear guards for each train of wagons passing through the Indian country. Their duty will be to keep a vigilant look-out in all directions, and to reconnoitre places where Indians would be likely to lie in ambush. Should hostile Indians be discovered, the fact should be at once reported to the commander, who (if he anticipates an attack) will rapidly form his wagons into a circle or "_corral_," with the animals toward the centre, and the men on the inside, with their arms in readiness to repel an attack from without. If these arrangements be properly attended to, few parties of Indians will venture to make an attack, as they are well aware that some of their warriors might pay with their lives the forfeit of such indiscretion. I know an instance where one resolute man, pursued for several days by a large party of Comanches on the Santa Fé trace, defended himself by dismounting and pointing his rifle at the foremost whenever they came near him, which always had the effect of turning them back. This was repeated so often that the Indians finally abandoned the pursuit, and left the traveler to pursue his journey without farther molestation. During all this time he did not discharge his rifle; had he done so he would doubtless have been killed. SELECTION OF CAMPS. The security of animals, and, indeed, the general safety of a party, in traveling through a country occupied by hostile Indians, depends greatly upon the judicious selection of camps. One of the most important considerations that should influence the choice of a locality is its capability for defense. If the camp be pitched beside a stream, a concave bend, where the water is deep, with a soft alluvial bed inclosed by high and abrupt banks, will be the most defensible, and all the more should the concavity form a peninsula. The advantages of such a position are obvious to a soldier's eye, as that part of the encampment inclosed by the stream is naturally secure, and leaves only one side to be defended. The concavity of the bend will enable the defending party to cross its fire in case of attack from the exposed side. The bend of the stream will also form an excellent corral in which to secure animals from a stampede, and thereby diminish the number of sentinels needful around the camp. In herding animals at night within the bend of a stream, a spot should be selected where no clumps of brush grow on the side where the animals are posted. If thickets of brush can not be avoided, sentinels should be placed near them, to guard against Indians, who might take advantage of this cover to steal animals, or shoot them down with arrows, before their presence were known. In camping away from streams, it is advisable to select a position in which one or more sides of the encampment shall rest upon the crest of an abrupt hill or bluff. The prairie Indians make their camps upon the summits of the hills, whence they can see in all directions, and thus avoid a surprise. The line of tents should be pitched on that side of the camp most exposed to attack, and sentinels so posted that they may give alarm in time for the main body to rally and prepare for defense. SANITARY CONSIDERATIONS. When camping near rivers and lakes surrounded by large bodies of timber and a luxuriant vegetation, which produces a great amount of decomposition and consequent exhalations of malaria, it is important to ascertain what localities will be the least likely to generate disease, and to affect the sanitary condition of men occupying them. This subject has been thoroughly examined by Dr. Robert Johnson, Inspector General of Hospitals in the English army in 1845; and, as his conclusions are deduced from enlarged experience and extended research, they should have great weight. I shall therefore make no apology for introducing here a few extracts from his interesting report touching upon this subject: "It is consonant with the experience of military people, in all ages and in all countries, that camp diseases most abound near the muddy banks of large rivers, near swamps and ponds, and on grounds which have been recently stripped of their woods. The fact is precise, but it has been set aside to make way for an opinion. It was assumed, about half a century since, by a celebrated army physician, that camp diseases originated from causes of putrefaction, and that putrefaction is connected radically with a stagnant condition of the air. "As streams of air usually proceed along rivers with more certainty and force than in other places, and as there is evidently a more certain movement of air, that is, more wind on open grounds than among woods and thickets, this sole consideration, without any regard to experience, influenced opinion, gave currency to the destructive maxim that the banks of rivers, open grounds, and exposed heights are the most eligible situations for the encampment of troops. They are the best ventilated; they must, if the theory be true, be the most healthy. "The fact is the reverse; but, demonstrative as the fact may be, fashion has more influence than multiplied examples of fact experimentally proved. Encampments are still formed in the vicinity of swamps, or on grounds which are newly cleared of their woods, in obedience to theory, and contrary to fact. "It is prudent, as now said, in _selecting ground for encampment_, to avoid the immediate vicinity of swamps and rivers. The air is there noxious; but, as its influence thence originating does not extend beyond a certain limit, it is a matter of some importance to ascertain to what distance it does extend; because, if circumstances do not permit that the encampment be removed out of its reach, prudence directs that remedies be applied to weaken the force of its pernicious impressions. "The remedies consist in the interposition of rising grounds, woods, or such other impediments as serve to break the current in its progress from the noxious source. It is an obvious fact, that the noxious cause, or the exhalation in which it is enveloped, ascends as it traverses the adjacent plain, and that its impression is augmented by the adventitious force with which it strikes upon the subject of its action. "It is thus that a position of three hundred paces from the margin of a swamp, on a level with the swamp itself, or but moderately elevated, is less unhealthy than one at six hundred on the same line of direction on an exposed height. The cause here strikes fully in its ascent; and as the atmosphere has a more varied temperature, and the succussions of the air are more irregular on the height than on the plain, the impression is more forcible, and the noxious effect more strongly marked. In accord with this principle, it is almost uniformly true, _coeteris paribus_, that diseases are more common, at least more violent, in broken, irregular, and hilly countries, where the temperature is liable to sudden changes, and where blasts descend with fury from the mountains, than in large and extensive inclined plains under the action of equal and gentle breezes only. "From this fact it becomes an object of the first consideration, in selecting ground for encampment, to guard against the impression of strong winds on their own account, independently of their proceeding from swamps, rivers, and noxious soils. "It is proved by experience, in armies as in civil life, that injury does not often result from simple wetting with rain when the person is fairly exposed in the open air, and habitually inured to the contingencies of weather. Irregular troops, which act in the advanced line of armies, and which have no other shelter from weather than a hedge or tree, rarely experience sickness--never, at least, the sickness which proceeds from contagion; hence it is inferred that the shelter of tents is not necessary for the preservation of health. Irregular troops, with contingent shelter only, are comparatively healthy, while sickness often rages with violence in the same scene, among those who have all the protection against the inclemencies of weather which can be furnished by canvas. The fact is verified by experience, and the cause of it is not of difficult explanation. When the earth is damp, the action of heat on its surface occasions the interior moisture to ascend. The heat of the bodies of a given number of men, confined within a tent of a given dimension, raises the temperature within the tent beyond the temperature of the common air outside the tent. The ascent of moisture is thus encouraged, generally by a change of temperature in the tent, and more particularly by the immediate or near contact of the heated bodies of the men with the surface of the earth. Moisture, as exhaled from the earth, is considered by observers of fact to be a cause which acts injuriously on health. Produced artificially by the accumulation of individuals in close tents, it may reasonably be supposed to produce its usual effects on armies. A cause of contagious influence, of fatal effect, is thus generated by accumulating soldiers in close and crowded tents, under the pretext of defending them from the inclemencies of the weather; and hence it is that the means which are provided for the preservation of health are actually the causes of destruction of life. "There are two causes which more evidently act upon the health of troops in the field than any other, namely, moisture exhaled direct from the surface of the earth in undue quantity, and emanations of a peculiar character arising from diseased action in the animal system in a mass of men crowded together. These are principal, and they are important. The noxious effects may be obviated, or rather the noxious cause will not be generated, under the following arrangement, namely, a carpet of painted canvas for the floor of the tent; a tent with a light roof, as defense against perpendicular rain or the rays of a vertical sun; and with side walls of moderate height, to be employed only against driving rains. To the first there can be no objection: it is useful, as preventing the exhalations of moisture from the surface of the earth; it is convenient, as always ready; and it is economical, as less expensive than straw. It requires to be fresh painted only once a year." The effect of crowding men together in close quarters, illy ventilated, was shown in the prisons of Hindostan, where at one time, when the English held sway, they had, on an average, 40,000 natives in confinement; and this unfortunate population was every year liberated by death in proportions varying from 4000 to 10,000. The annual average mortality by crowded and unventilated barracks in the English army has sometimes been enormous, as at Barrackpore, where it seldom fell far short of one tenth; that is to say, its garrisons were every year decimated by fever or cholera, while the officers and other inhabitants, who lived in well-ventilated houses, did not find the place particularly unhealthy. The same fact of general exemption among the officers, and complete exemption among their wives, was observed in the marching regiments, which lost by cholera from one tenth to one sixth of the enlisted men, who were packed together at night ten and twelve in a tent, with the thermometer at 96°. The dimensions of the celebrated Black Hole of Calcutta--where in 1756, 123 prisoners out of 140 died by carbonic acid in one night--was but eighteen feet square, and with but two small windows. Most of the twenty-three who survived until morning were seized with putrid fever and died very soon afterward. On the 1st of December, 1848, 150 deck passengers of the steamer Londonderry were ordered below by the captain and the hatches closed upon them: seventy were found dead the next morning. The streams which intersect our great prairies have but a very sparse growth of wood or vegetation upon their banks, so that one of the fundamental causes for the generation of noxious malaria does not, to any great extent, exist here, and I believe that persons may encamp with impunity directly upon their banks. PICKET GUARDS. When a party is sufficiently strong, a picket guard should be stationed during the night some two or three hundred yards in advance of the point which is most open to assault, and on low ground, so that an enemy approaching over the surrounding higher country can be seen against the sky, while the sentinel himself is screened from observation. These sentinels should not be allowed to keep fires, unless they are so placed that they can not be seen from a distance. During the day the pickets should be posted on the summits of the highest eminences in the vicinity of camp, with instructions to keep a vigilant lookout in all directions; and, if not within hailing distance, they should be instructed to give some well-understood telegraphic signals to inform those in camp when there is danger. For example, should Indians be discovered approaching at a great distance, they may raise their caps upon the muzzles of their pieces, and at the same time walk around in a circle; while, if the Indians are near and moving rapidly, the sentinel may swing his cap and run around rapidly in a circle. To indicate the direction from which the Indians are approaching, he may direct his piece toward them, and walk in the same line of direction. Should the pickets suddenly discover a party of Indians very near, and with the apparent intention of making an attack, they should fire their pieces to give the alarm to the camp. These telegraphic signals, when well understood and enforced, will tend greatly to facilitate the communication of intelligence throughout the camp, and conduce much to its security. The picket guards should receive minute and strict orders regarding their duties under all circumstances, and these orders should be distinctly understood by every one in the camp, so that no false alarms will be created. All persons, with the exception of the guards and herders, should after dark be confined to the limits of the chain of sentinels, so that, if any one is seen approaching from without these limits, it will be known that they are strangers. As there will not often be occasion for any one to pass the chain of pickets during the night, it is a good rule (especially if the party is small), when a picket sentinel discovers any one lurking about his post from without, if he has not himself been seen, to quietly withdraw and report the fact to the commander, who can wake his men and make his arrangements to repel an attack and protect his animals. If, however, the man upon the picket has been seen, he should distinctly challenge the approaching party, and if he receives no answer, fire, and retreat to camp to report the fact. It is of the utmost importance that picket guards should be wide awake, and allow nothing to escape their observation, as the safety of the whole camp is involved. During a dark night a man can see better himself, and is less exposed to the view of others, when in a sitting posture than when standing up or moving about. I would therefore recommend this practice for night pickets. Horses and mules (especially the latter), whose senses of hearing and smelling are probably more acute than those of almost any other animals, will discover any thing strange or unusual about camp much sooner than a man. They indicate this by turning in the direction from whence the object is approaching, holding their heads erect, projecting their ears forward, and standing in a fixed and attentive attitude. They exhibit the same signs of alarm when a wolf or other wild animal approaches the camp; but it is always wise, when they show fear in this manner, to be on the alert till the cause is ascertained. Mules are very keenly sensitive to danger, and, in passing along over the prairies, they will often detect the proximity of strangers long before they are discovered by their riders. Nothing seems to escape their observation; and I have heard of several instances where they have given timely notice of the approach of hostile Indians, and thus prevented stampedes. Dogs are sometimes good sentinels, but they often sleep sound, and are not easily awakened on the approach of an enemy. In marching with large force, unless there is a guide who knows the country, a small party should always be sent in advance to search for good camping-places, and these parties should be dispatched early enough to return and meet the main command in the event of not finding a camping-place within the limits of the day's march. A regiment should average upon the prairies, where the roads are good, about eighteen miles a day, but, if necessary, it can make 25 or even 30 miles. The advance party should therefore go as far as the command can march, provided the requisites for camping are not found within that distance. The article of first importance in campaigning is grass, the next water, and the last fuel. It is the practice of most persons traveling with large ox trains to select their camps upon the summit of a hill, where the surrounding country in all directions can be seen. Their cattle are then continually within view from the camp, and can be guarded easily. When a halt is made the wagons are "corraled," as it is called, by bringing the two front ones near and parallel to each other. The two next are then driven up on the outside of these, with the front wheels of the former touching the rear wheels of the latter, the rear of the wagons turned out upon the circumference of the circle that is being formed, and so on until one half the circle is made, when the rear of the wagons are turned in to complete the circle. An opening of about twenty yards should be left between the last two wagons for animals to pass in and out of the corral, and this may be closed with two ropes stretched between the wagons. Such a corral forms an excellent and secure barricade against Indian attacks, and a good inclosure for cattle while they are being yoked; indeed, it is indispensable. STAMPEDES. Inclosures are made in the same manner for horses and mules, and, in case of an attempt to stampede them, they should be driven with all possible dispatch into the corral, where they will be perfectly secure. A "stampede" is more to be dreaded upon the plains than almost any disaster that can happen. It not unfrequently occurs that very many animals are irretrievably lost in this way, and the objects of an expedition thus defeated. The Indians are perfectly familiar with the habits and disposition of horses and mules, and with the most effectual methods of terrifying them. Previous to attempting a stampede, they provide themselves with rattles and other means for making frightful noises; thus prepared, they approach as near the herds as possible without being seen, and suddenly, with their horses at full speed, rush in among them, making the most hideous and unearthly screams and noises to terrify them, and drive them off before their astonished owners are able to rally and secure them. As soon as the animals are started the Indians divide their party, leaving a portion to hurry them off rapidly, while the rest linger some distance in the rear, to resist those who may pursue them. Horses and mules will sometimes, especially in the night, become frightened and stampeded from very slight causes. A wolf or a deer passing through a herd will often alarm them, and cause them to break away in the most frantic manner. Upon one occasion in the Choctaw country, my entire herd of about two hundred horses and mules all stampeded in the night, and scattered over the country for many miles, and it was several days before I succeeded in collecting them together. The alarm occurred while the herders were walking among the animals, and without any perceptible cause. The foregoing facts go to show how important it is at all times to keep a vigilant guard over animals. In the vicinity of hostile Indians, where an attack may be anticipated, several good horses should be secured in such positions that they will continually be in readiness for an emergency of this kind. The herdsmen should have their horses in hand, saddled and bridled, and ready at an instant's notice to spring upon their backs and drive the herds into camp. As soon as it is discovered that the animals have taken fright, the herdsmen should use their utmost endeavors to turn them in the direction of the camp, and this can generally be accomplished by riding the bell mare in front of the herd, and gradually turning her toward it, and slackening her speed as the familiar objects about the camp come in sight. This usually tends to quiet their alarm. CHAPTER III. Repairing broken Wagons. Fording Rivers. Quicksand. Wagon Boats. Bull Boats. Crossing Packs. Swimming Animals. Marching with loose Horses. Herding Mules. Best Methods of Marching. Herding and guarding Animals. Descending Mountains. Storms. Northers. REPAIRS OF ACCIDENTS. The accidents most liable to happen to wagons on the plains arise from the great dryness of the atmosphere, and the consequent shrinkage and contraction of the wood-work in the wheels, the tires working loose, and the wheels, in passing over sidling ground, oftentimes falling down and breaking all the spokes where they enter the hub. It therefore becomes a matter of absolute necessity for the prairie traveler to devise some means of repairing such damages, or of guarding against them by the use of timely expedients. The wheels should be frequently and closely examined, and whenever a tire becomes at all loose it should at once be tightened with pieces of hoop-iron or wooden wedges driven by twos simultaneously from opposite sides. Another remedy for the same thing is to take off the wheels after encamping, sink them in water, and allow them to remain over night. This swells the wood, but is only temporary, requiring frequent repetition; and, after a time, if the wheels have not been made of thoroughly seasoned timber, it becomes necessary to reset the tires in order to guard against their destruction by falling to pieces and breaking the spokes. If the tires run off near a blacksmith's shop, or if there be a traveling forge with the train, they may be tied on with raw hide or ropes, and thus driven to the shop or camp. When a rear wheel breaks down upon a march, the best method I know of for taking the vehicle to a place where it can be repaired is to take off the damaged wheel, and place a stout pole of three or four inches in diameter under the end of the axle, outside the wagon-bed, and extending forward above the front wheel, where it is firmly lashed with ropes, while the other end of the pole runs six or eight feet to the rear, and drags upon the ground. The pole must be of such length and inclination that the axle shall be raised and retained in its proper horizontal position, when it can be driven to any distance that may be desired. The wagon should be relieved as much as practicable of its loading, as the pole dragging upon the ground will cause it to run heavily. When a front wheel breaks down, the expedient just mentioned can not be applied to the front axle, but the two rear wheels may be taken off and placed upon this axle (they will always fit), while the sound front wheel can be substituted upon one side of the rear axle, after which the pole may be applied as before described. This plan I have adopted upon several different occasions, and I can vouch for its efficacy. The foregoing facts may appear very simple and unimportant in themselves, but blacksmiths and wheelwrights are not met with at every turn of the roads upon the prairies; and in the wilderness, where the traveler is dependent solely upon his own resources, this kind of information will be found highly useful. When the spokes in a wheel shrink more than the felloes, they work loose in the hub, and can not be tightened by wedging. The only remedy in such cases is to cut the felloe with a saw on opposite sides, taking out two pieces of such dimensions that the reduced circumference will draw back the spokes into their proper places and make them snug. A thin wagon-bow, or barrel-hoops, may then be wrapped around the outside of the felloe, and secured with small nails or tacks. This increases the diameter of the wheel, so that when the tire has been heated, put on, and cooled, it forces back the spokes into their true places, and makes the wheel as sound and strong as it ever was. This simple process can be executed in about half an hour if there be fuel for heating, and obviates the necessity of cutting and welding the tire. I would recommend that the tires should be secured with bolts and nuts, which will prevent them from running off when they work loose, and, if they have been cut and reset, they should be well tried with a hammer where they are welded to make sure that the junction is sound. FORDING RIVERS. Many streams that intersect the different routes across our continent are broad and shallow, and flow over beds of quicksand, which, in seasons of high water, become boggy and unstable, and are then exceedingly difficult of crossing. When these streams are on the rise, and, indeed, before any swelling is perceptible, their beds become surcharged with the sand loosened by the action of the under-current from the approaching flood, and from this time until the water subsides fording is difficult, requiring great precautions. On arriving upon the bank of a river of this character which has not recently been crossed, the condition of the quicksand may be ascertained by sending an intelligent man over the fording-place, and, should the sand not yield under his feet, it may be regarded as safe for animals or wagons. Should it, however, prove soft and yielding, it must be thoroughly examined, and the best track selected. This can be done by a man on foot, who will take a number of sharp sticks long enough, when driven into the bottom of the river, to stand above the surface of the water. He starts from the shore, and with one of the sticks and his feet tries the bottom in the direction of the opposite bank until he finds the firmest ground, where he plants one of the sticks to mark the track. A man incurs no danger in walking over quicksand provided he step rapidly, and he will soon detect the safest ground. He then proceeds, planting his sticks as often as may be necessary to mark the way, until he reaches the opposite bank. The ford is thus ascertained, and, if there are footmen in the party, they should cross before the animals and wagons, as they pack the sand, and make the track more firm and secure. If the sand is soft, horses should be led across, and not allowed to stop in the stream; and the better to insure this, they should be watered before entering upon the ford; otherwise, as soon as they stand still, their feet sink in the sand, and soon it becomes difficult to extricate them. The same rule holds in the passage of wagons: they must be driven steadily across, and the animals never allowed to stop while in the river, as the wheels sink rapidly in quicksand. Mules will often stop from fear, and, when once embarrassed in the sand, they lie down, and will not use the slightest exertion to regain their footing. The only alternative, then, is to drag them out with ropes. I have even known some mules refuse to put forth the least exertion to get up after being pulled out upon firm ground, and it was necessary to set them upon their feet before they were restored to a consciousness of their own powers. In crossing rivers where the water is so high as to come into the wagon-beds, but is not above a fording stage, the contents of the wagons may be kept dry by raising the beds between the uprights, and retaining them in that position with blocks of wood placed at each corner between the rockers and the bottom of the wagon-beds. The blocks must be squared at each end, and their length, of course, should vary with the depth of water, which can be determined before cutting them. This is a very common and simple method of passing streams among emigrant travelers. When streams are deep, with a very rapid current, it is difficult for the drivers to direct their teams to the proper coming-out places, as the current has a tendency to carry them too far down. This difficulty may be obviated by attaching a lariat rope to the leading animals, and having a mounted man ride in front with the rope in his hand, to assist the team in stemming the current, and direct it toward the point of egress. It is also a wise precaution, if the ford be at all hazardous, to place a mounted man on the lower side of the team with a whip, to urge forward any animal that may not work properly. [Illustration: SWIMMING A HORSE.] Where rivers are wide, with a swift current, they should always, if possible, be forded obliquely down stream, as the action of the water against the wagons assists very materially in carrying them across. In crossing the North Platte upon the Cherokee trail at a season when the water was high and very rapid, we were obliged to take the only practicable ford, which ran diagonally up the stream. The consequence was, that the heavy current, coming down with great force against the wagons, offered such powerful resistance to the efforts of the mules that it was with difficulty they could retain their footing, and several were drowned. Had the ford crossed obliquely down the river, there would have been no difficulty. When it becomes necessary, with loaded wagons, to cross a stream of this character against the current, I would recommend that the teams be doubled, the leading animals led, a horseman placed on each side with whips to assist the driver, and that, before the first wagon enters the water, a man should be sent in advance to ascertain the best ford. During seasons of high water, men, in traversing the plains, often encounter rivers which rise above a fording stage, and remain in that condition for many days, and to await the falling of the water might involve a great loss of time. If the traveler be alone, his only way is to swim his horse; but if he retains the seat on his saddle, his weight presses the animal down into the water, and cramps his movements very sensibly. It is a much better plan to attach a cord to the bridle-bit, and drive him into the stream; then, seizing his tail, allow him to tow you across. If he turns out of the course, or attempts to turn back, he can be checked with the cord, or by splashing water at his head. If the rider remains in the saddle, he should allow the horse to have a loose rein, and never pull upon it except when necessary to guide. If he wishes to steady himself, he can lay hold upon the mane. In traveling with large parties, the following expedients for crossing rivers have been successfully resorted to within my own experience, and they are attended with no risk to life or property. A rapid and deep stream, with high, abrupt, and soft banks, probably presents the most formidable array of unfavorable circumstances that can be found. Streams of this character are occasionally met with, and it is important to know how to cross them with the greatest promptitude and safety. A train of wagons having arrived upon the bank of such a stream, first select the best point for the passage, where the banks upon both sides require the least excavation for a place of ingress and egress to and from the river. As I have before remarked, the place of entering the river should be above the coming-out place on the opposite bank, as the current will then assist in carrying wagons and animals across. A spot should be sought where the bed of the stream is firm at the place where the animals are to get out on the opposite bank. If, however, no such place can be found, brush and earth should be thrown in to make a foundation sufficient to support the animals, and to prevent them from bogging. After the place for crossing has been selected, it will be important to determine the breadth of the river between the points of ingress and egress, in order to show the length of rope necessary to reach across. A very simple practical method of doing this without instruments is found in the French "Manuel du Génie." It is as follows: [Illustration: The line AB (the distance to be measured) is extended upon the bank to D, from which point, after having marked it, lay off equal distances, DC and C_d_; produce BC to _b_, making CB=C_b_; then extend the line _db_ until it intersects the prolongation of the line through CA at _a_. The distance between _ab_ is equal to AB, or the width of the crossing.] A man who is an expert swimmer then takes the end of a fishing-line or a small cord in his mouth, and carries it across, leaving the other end fixed upon the opposite bank, after which a lariat is attached to the cord, and one end of it pulled across and made fast to a tree; but if there is nothing convenient to which the lariat can be attached, an extra axle or coupling-pole can be pulled over by the man who has crossed, firmly planted in the ground, and the rope tied to it. The rope must be long enough to extend twice across the stream, so that one end may always be left on each shore. A very good substitute for a ferry-boat may be made with a wagon-bed by filling it with empty water-casks, stopped tight and secured in the wagon with ropes, with a cask lashed opposite the centre of each outside. It is then placed in the water bottom upward, and the rope that has been stretched across the stream attached to one end of it, while another rope is made fast to the other end, after which it is loaded, the shore-end loosened, and the men on the opposite bank pull it across to the landing, where it is discharged and returned for another load, and so on until all the baggage and men are passed over. The wagons can be taken across by fastening them down to the axles, attaching a rope to the end of the tongue, and another to the rear of each to steady it and hold it from drifting below the landing. It is then pushed into the stream, and the men on the opposite bank pull it over. I have passed a large train of wagons in this way across a rapid stream fifteen feet deep without any difficulty. I took, at the same time, a six-pounder cannon, which was separated from its carriage, and ferried over upon the wagon-boat; after which the carriage was pulled over in the same way as described for the wagons. There are not always a sufficient number of airtight water-casks to fill a wagon-bed, but a tentfly, paulin, or wagon-cover can generally be had. In this event, the wagon-bed may be placed in the centre of one of these, the cloth brought up around the ends and sides, and secured firmly with ropes tied around transversely, and another rope fastened lengthwise around under the rim. This holds the cloth in its place, and the wagon may then be placed in the water right side upward, and managed in the same manner as in the other case. If the cloth be made of cotton, it will soon swell so as to leak but very little, and answers a very good purpose. Another method of ferrying streams is by means of what is called by the mountaineers a "_bull-boat_," the frame-work of which is made of willows bent into the shape of a short and wide skiff, with a flat bottom. Willows grow upon the banks of almost all the streams on the prairies, and can be bent into any shape desired. To make a boat with but one hide, a number of straight willows are cut about an inch in diameter, the ends sharpened and driven into the ground, forming a frame-work in the shape of a half egg-shell cut through the longitudinal axis. Where these rods cross they are firmly secured with strings. A stout rod is then heated and bent around the frame in such a position that the edges of the hide, when laid over it and drawn tight, will just reach it. This rod forms the gunwale, which is secured by strings to the ribs. Small rods are then wattled in so as to make it symmetrical and strong. After which the green or soaked hide is thrown over the edges, sewed to the gunwales, and left to dry. The rods are then cut off even with the gunwale, and the boat is ready for use. To build a boat with two or more hides: A stout pole of the desired length is placed upon the ground for a keel, the ends turned up and secured by a lariat; willow rods of the required dimensions are then cut, heated, and bent into the proper shape for knees, after which their centres are placed at equal distances upon the keel, and firmly tied with cords. The knees are retained in their proper curvature by cords around the ends. After a sufficient number of them have been placed upon the keel, two poles of suitable dimensions are heated, bent around the ends for a gunwale, and firmly lashed to each knee. Smaller willows are then interwoven, so as to model the frame. Green or soaked hides are cut into the proper shape to fit the frame, and sewed together with buckskin strings; then the frame of the boat is placed in the middle, the hide drawn up snug around the sides, and secured with raw-hide thongs to the gunwale. The boat is then turned bottom upward and left to dry, after which the seams where they have been sewed are covered with a mixture of melted tallow and pitch: the craft is now ready for launching. A boat of this kind is very light and serviceable, but after a while becomes water-soaked, and should always be turned bottom upward to dry whenever it is not in the water. Two men can easily build a _bull-boat_ of three hides in two days which will carry ten men with perfect safety. A small party traveling with a pack train and arriving upon the banks of a deep stream will not always have the time to stop or the means to make any of the boats that have been described. Should their luggage be such as to become seriously injured by a wetting, and there be an India-rubber or gutta-percha cloth disposable, or if even a green beef or buffalo hide can be procured, it may be spread out upon the ground, and the articles of baggage placed in the centre, in a square or rectangular form; the ends and sides are then brought up so as entirely to envelop the package, and the whole secured with ropes or raw hide. It is then placed in the water with a rope attached to one end, and towed across by men in the same manner as the boats before described. If hides be used they will require greasing occasionally, to prevent their becoming water-soaked. [Illustration: CROSSING A STREAM.] When a mounted party with pack animals arrive upon the borders of a rapid stream, too deep to ford, and where the banks are high and abrupt, with perhaps but one place where the beasts can get out upon the opposite shore, it would not be safe to drive or ride them in, calculating that all will make the desired landing. Some of them will probably be carried by the swift current too far down the stream, and thereby endanger not only their own lives, but the lives of their riders. I have seen the experiment tried repeatedly, and have known several animals to be carried by the current below the point of egress, and thus drowned. Here is a simple, safe, and expeditious method of taking animals over such a stream. Suppose, for example, a party of mounted men arrive upon the bank of the stream. There will always be some good swimmers in the party, and probably others who can not swim at all. Three or four of the most expert of these are selected, and sent across with one end of a rope made of lariats tied together, while the other end is retained upon the first bank, and made fast to the neck of a gentle and good swimming horse; after which another gentle horse is brought up and made fast by a lariat around his neck to the tail of the first, and so on until all the horses are thus tied together. The men who can not swim are then mounted upon the best swimming horses and tied on, otherwise they are liable to become frightened, lose their balance, and be carried away in a rapid current; or a horse may stumble and throw his rider. After the horses have been strung out in a single line by their riders, and every thing is in readiness, the first horse is led carefully into the water, while the men on the opposite bank, pulling upon the rope, thus direct him across, and, if necessary, aid him in stemming the current. As soon as this horse strikes bottom he pulls upon those behind him, and thereby assists them in making the landing, and in this manner all are passed over in perfect safety. DRIVING LOOSE HORSES. In traveling with loose horses across the plains, some persons are in the habit of attaching them in pairs by their halters to a long, stout rope stretched between two wagons drawn by mules, each wagon being about half loaded. The principal object of the rear wagon being to hold back and keep the rope stretched, not more than two stout mules are required, as the horses aid a good deal with their heads in pulling this wagon. From thirty to forty horses may be driven very well in this manner, and, if they are wild, it is perhaps the safest method, except that of leading them with halters held by men riding beside them. The rope to which the horses are attached should be about an inch and a quarter in diameter, with loops or rings inserted at intervals sufficient to admit the horses without allowing them to kick each other, and the halter straps tied to these loops. The horses, on first starting, should have men by their sides, to accustom them to this manner of being led. The wagons should be so driven as to keep the rope continually stretched. Good drivers must be assigned to these wagons, who will constantly watch the movements of the horses attached, as well as their own teams. I have had 150 loose horses driven by ten mounted herdsmen. This requires great care for some considerable time, until the horses become gentle and accustomed to their herders. It is important to ascertain, as soon as possible after starting, which horses are wild, and may be likely to stampede and lead off the herd; such should be led, and never suffered to run loose, either on the march or in camp. Animals of this character will soon indicate their propensities, and can be secured during the first days of the march. It is desirable that all animals that will not stampede when not working should run loose on a march, as they pick up a good deal of grass along the road when traveling, and the success of an expedition, when animals get no other forage but grass, depends in a great degree upon the time given them for grazing. They will thrive much better when allowed a free range than when picketed, as they then are at liberty to select such grass as suits them. It may therefore be set down as an infallible rule never to be departed from, that all animals, excepting such as will be likely to stampede, should be turned loose for grazing immediately after arriving at the camping-place; but it is equally important that they should be carefully herded as near the camp as good grass will admit; and those that it is necessary to picket should be placed upon the best grass, and their places changed often. The ropes to which they are attached should be about forty feet long; the picket-pins, of iron, fifteen inches long, with ring and swivel at top, so that the rope shall not twist as the animal feeds around it; and the pins must be firmly driven into tenacious earth. Animals should be herded during the day at such distances as to leave sufficient grass undisturbed around and near the camp for grazing through the night. METHOD OF MARCHING. Among men of limited experience in frontier life will be found a great diversity of opinion regarding the best methods of marching, and of treating animals in expeditions upon the prairies. Some will make late starts and travel during the heat of the day without nooning, while others will start early and make two marches, laying by during the middle of the day; some will picket their animals continually in camp, while others will herd them day and night, etc., etc. For mounted troops, or, indeed, for any body of men traveling with horses and mules, a few general rules may be specified which have the sanction of mature experience, and a deviation from them will inevitably result in consequences highly detrimental to the best interests of an expedition. In ordinary marches through a country where grass and water are abundant and good, animals receiving proper attention should not fall away, even if they receive no grain; and, as I said before, they should not be made to travel faster than a walk unless absolutely necessary; neither should they be taken off the road for the purpose of hunting or chasing buffalo, as one buffalo-chase injures them more than a week of moderate riding. In the vicinity of hostile Indians, the animals must be carefully herded and guarded within protection of the camp, while those picketed should be changed as often as the grass is eaten off within the circle described by the tether-rope. At night they should be brought within the chain of sentinels and picketed as compactly as is consistent with the space needed for grazing, and under no circumstances, unless the Indians are known to be near and an attack is to be expected, should they be tied up to a picket line where they can get no grass. Unless allowed to graze at night they will fall away rapidly, and soon become unserviceable. It is much better to march after nightfall, turn some distance off the road, and to encamp without fires in a depressed locality where the Indians can not track the party, and the animals may be picketed without danger. In descending abrupt hills and mountains one wheel of a loaded wagon should always be locked, as this relieves the wheel animals and makes every thing more secure. When the declivity is great both rear wheels should be locked, and if very abrupt, requiring great effort on the wheel animals to hold the wagon, the wheels should be rough-locked by lengthening the lock-chains so that the part which goes around the wheels will come directly upon the ground, and thus create more friction. Occasionally, however, hills are met with so nearly perpendicular that it becomes necessary to attach ropes to the rear axle, and to station men to hold back upon them and steady the vehicle down the descent. Rough-locking is a very safe method of passing heavy artillery down abrupt declivities. There are several mountains between the Missouri River and California where it is necessary to resort to one of the two last-mentioned methods in order to descend with security. If there are no lock-chains upon wagons, the front and rear wheels on the same side may be tied together with ropes so as to lock them very firmly. It is an old and well-established custom among men experienced in frontier life always to cross a stream upon which it is intended to encamp for the night, and this rule should never be departed from where a stream is to be forded, as a rise during the night might detain the traveler for several days in awaiting the fall of the waters. STORMS. In Western Texas, during the autumn and winter months, storms arise very suddenly, and, when accompanied by a north wind, are very severe upon men and animals; indeed, they are sometimes so terrific as to make it necessary for travelers to hasten to the nearest sheltered place to save the lives of their animals. When these storms come from the north, they are called "_northers;_" and as, during the winter season, the temperature often undergoes a sudden change of many degrees at the time the storm sets in, the perspiration is checked, and the system receives an instantaneous shock, against which it requires great vital energy to bear up. Men and animals are not, in this mild climate, prepared for these capricious meteoric revolutions, and they not unfrequently perish under their effects. While passing near the head waters of the Colorado in October, 1849, I left one of my camps at an early hour in the morning under a mild and soft atmosphere, with a gentle breeze from the south, but had marched only a short distance when the wind suddenly whipped around into the north, bringing with it a furious chilling rain, and in a short time the road became so soft and heavy as to make the labor of pulling the wagons over it very exhausting upon the mules, and they came into camp in a profuse sweat, with the rain pouring down in torrents upon them. They were turned out of harness into the most sheltered place that could be found; but, instead of eating, as was their custom, they turned their heads from the wind, and remained in that position, chilled and trembling, without making the least effort to move. The rain continued with unabated fury during the entire day and night, and on the following morning thirty-five out of one hundred and ten mules had perished, while those remaining could hardly be said to have had a spark of vitality left. They were drawn up with the cold, and could with difficulty walk. Tents and wagon-covers were cut up to protect them, and they were then driven about for some time, until a little vital energy was restored, after which they commenced eating grass, but it was three or four days before they recovered sufficiently to resume the march. The mistake I made was in driving the mules after the "norther" commenced. Had I gone immediately into camp, before they became heated and wearied, they would probably have eaten the grass, and this, I have no doubt, would have saved them; but as it was, their blood became heated from overwork, and the sudden chill brought on a reaction which proved fatal. If an animal will eat his forage plentifully, there is but little danger of his perishing with cold. This I assert with much confidence, as I once, when traveling with about 1500 horses and mules, encountered the most terrific snow-storm that has been known within the memory of the oldest mountaineers. It commenced on the last day of April, and continued without cessation for sixty consecutive hours. The day had been mild and pleasant; the green grass was about six inches high; the trees had put out their new leaves, and all nature conspired to show that the sombre garb of winter had been permanently superseded by the smiling attire of spring. About dark, however, the wind turned into the north; it commenced to snow violently, and increased until it became a frightful tempest, filling the atmosphere with a dense cloud of driving snow, against which it was impossible to ride or walk. Soon after the storm set in, one herd of three hundred horses and mules broke away from the herdsmen who were around them, and, in spite of all their efforts, ran at full speed, directly with the wind and snow, for fifty miles before they stopped. Three of the herdsmen followed them as far as they were able, but soon became exhausted and lost on the prairie. One of them found his way back to camp in a state of great prostration and suffering. One of the others was found dead, and the third crawling about upon his hands and knees, after the storm ceased. It happened, fortunately, that I had reserved a quantity of corn to be used in the event of finding a scarcity of grass, and as soon as the ground became covered with snow, so that the animals could not get at the grass, I fed out the corn, which I am induced to believe saved their lives. Indeed, they did not seem to be at all affected by this prolonged and unseasonable tempest. This occurred upon the summit of the elevated ridge dividing the waters of the Arkansas and South Platte Rivers, where storms are said to be of frequent occurrence. The greater part of the animals that stampeded were recovered after the storm, and, although they had traveled a hundred miles at a very rapid pace, they did not seem to be much affected by it. CHAPTER IV. Packing. Saddles. Mexican Method. Madrina, or Bell-mare. Attachment of the Mule illustrated. Best Method of Packing. Hoppling Animals. Selecting Horses and Mules. Grama and bunch Grass. European Saddles. California Saddle. Saddle Wounds. Alkali. Flies. Colic. Rattlesnake Bites. Cures for the Bite. PACKING AND DRIVING. With a train of pack animals properly organized and equipped, a party may travel with much comfort and celerity. It is enabled to take short cuts, and move over the country in almost any direction without regard to roads. Mountains and broken ground may easily be traversed, and exemption is gained from many of the troubles and detentions attendant upon the transit of cumbersome wagon-trains. One of the most essential requisites to the outfit of a pack train is a good pack-saddle. Various patterns are in use, many of which are mere instruments of torture upon the backs of the poor brutes, lacerating them cruelly, and causing continued pain. The Mexicans use a leathern pack-saddle without a tree. It is stuffed with hay, and is very large, covering almost the entire back, and extending far down the sides. It is secured with a broad hair girth, and the load is kept in position by a lash-rope drawn by two men so tight as to give the unfortunate beast intense suffering. [Illustration: GRIMSLEY'S PACK-SADDLE.] A pack-saddle is made by T. Grimsley, No. 41 Main Street, St. Louis, Mo. It is open at the top, with a light, compact, and strong tree, which fits the animal's back well, and is covered with raw hide, put on green, and drawn tight by the contraction in drying. It has a leathern breast-strap, breeching, and lash-strap, with a broad hair girth fastened in the Mexican fashion. Of sixty-five of these saddles that I used in crossing the Rocky Mountains, over an exceedingly rough and broken section, not one of them wounded a mule's back, and I regard them as the best saddles I have ever seen. No people, probably, are more familiar with the art of packing than the Mexicans. They understand the habits, disposition, and powers of the mule perfectly, and will get more work out of him than any other men I have ever seen. The mule and the donkey are to them as the camel to the Arab--their porters over deserts and mountains where no other means of transportation can be used to advantage. The Spanish Mexicans are, however, cruel masters, having no mercy upon their beasts, and it is no uncommon thing for them to load their mules with the enormous burden of three or four hundred pounds. These muleteers believe that, when the pack is firmly lashed, the animal supports his burden better and travels with greater ease, which seems quite probable, as the tension forms, as it were, an external sheath supporting and bracing the muscles. It also has a tendency to prevent the saddle from slipping and chafing the mule's back. With such huge _cargas_ as the Mexicans load upon their mules, it is impossible, by any precautions, to prevent their backs and withers from becoming horribly mangled, and it is common to see them working their animals day after day in this miserable plight. This heavy packing causes the scars that so often mark Mexican mules. The animal, in starting out from camp in the morning, groaning under the weight of his heavy burden, seems hardly able to move; but the pack soon settles, and so loosens the lashing that after a short time he moves along with more ease. Constant care and vigilance on the part of the muleteers are necessary to prevent the packs from working loose and falling off. The adjustment of a _carga_ upon a mule does not, however, detain the caravan, as the others move on while it is being righted. If the mules are suffered to halt, they are apt to lie down, and it is very difficult for them, with their loads, to rise; besides, they are likely to strain themselves in their efforts to do so. The Mexicans, in traveling with large caravans, usually make the day's march without nooning, as too much time would be consumed in unloading and packing up again. Packs, when taken off in camp, should be piled in a row upon the ground, and, if there be a prospect of rain, the saddles should be placed over them, and the whole covered with the saddle-blankets or canvas. The muleteers and herders should be mounted upon well-trained horses, and be careful to keep the animals of the caravan from wandering or scattering along the road. This can easily be done by having some of the men riding upon each side, and others in rear of the caravan. In herding mules it is customary among prairie travelers to have a bell-mare, to which the mules soon become so attached that they will follow her wherever she goes. By keeping her in charge of one of the herdsmen, the herds are easily controlled; and during a stampede, if the herdsman mounts her, and rushes ahead toward camp, they will generally follow. In crossing rivers the bell-mare should pass first, after which the mules are easily induced to take to the water and pass over, even if they have to swim. Mules are good swimmers unless they happen, by plunging off a high bank, to get water in their ears, when they are often drowned. Whenever a mule in the water drops his ears, it is a sure indication that he has water in them, and he should be taken out as soon as possible. To prevent accidents of this nature, where the water is deep and the banks abrupt, the mule herds should be allowed to enter slowly, and without crowding, as otherwise they are not only likely to get their heads under water, but to throw each other over and get injured. The _madrina_, or bell-mare, acts a most important part in a herd of mules, and is regarded by experienced campaigners as indispensable to their security. She is selected for her quiet and regular habits. She will not wander far from the camp. If she happen to have a colt by her side, this is no objection, as the mules soon form the most devoted attachment to it. I have often seen them leave their grazing when very hungry, and flock around a small colt, manifesting their delight by rubbing it with their noses, licking it with their tongues, kicking up their heels, and making a variety of other grotesque demonstrations of affection, while the poor little colt, perfectly unconscious of the cause of these ungainly caresses, stood trembling with fear, but unable to make his escape from the compact circle of his mulish admirers. Horses and asses are also used as bell animals, and the mules soon become accustomed to following them. If a man leads or rides a bell animal in advance, the mules follow, like so many dogs, in the most orderly procession. "After traveling about fourteen miles," says Bayard Taylor, "we were joined by three miners, and our mules, taking a sudden liking for their horses, jogged on at a more brisk pace. The instincts of the mulish heart form an interesting study to the traveler in the mountains. I would (were the comparison not too ungallant) liken it to a woman's, for it is quite as uncertain in its sympathies, bestowing its affections when least expected, and, when bestowed, quite as constant, so long as the object is not taken away. Sometimes a horse, sometimes an ass, captivates the fancy of a whole drove of mules, but often an animal nowise akin. Lieutenant Beale told me that his whole train of mules once galloped off suddenly, on the plains of the Cimarone, and ran half a mile, when they halted in apparent satisfaction. The cause of their freak was found to be a buffalo calf which had strayed from the herd. They were frisking around it in the greatest delight, rubbing their noses against it, throwing up their heels, and making themselves ridiculous by abortive attempts to neigh and bray, while the calf, unconscious of its attractive qualities, stood trembling in their midst." "If several large troops," says Charles Darwin, "are turned into one field to graze in the morning, the muleteer has only to lead the _madrinas_ a little apart and tinkle their bells, and, although there may be 200 or 300 mules together, each immediately knows its own bell, and separates itself from the rest. The affection of these animals for their madrina saves infinite trouble. It is nearly impossible to lose an old mule, for, if detained several hours by force, she will, by the power of smell, like a dog, track out her companions, or rather the madrina; for, according to the muleteer, she is the chief object of affection. The feeling, however, is not of an individual nature, for I believe I am right in saying that any animal with a bell will serve as a madrina." Of the attachment that a mule will form for a horse, I will cite an instance from my own observation, which struck me at the time as being one of the most remarkable and touching evidences of devotion that I have ever known among the brute creation. On leaving Fort Leavenworth with the army for Utah in 1857, one of the officers rode a small mule, whose kind and gentle disposition soon caused him to become a favorite among the soldiers, and they named him "Billy." As this officer and myself were often thrown together upon the march, the mule, in the course of a few days, evinced a growing attachment for a mare that I rode. The sentiment was not, however, reciprocated on her part, and she intimated as much by the reversed position of her ears, and the free exercise of her feet and teeth whenever Billy came within her reach; but these signal marks of displeasure, instead of discouraging, rather seemed to increase his devotion, and whenever at liberty he invariably sought to get near her, and appeared much distressed when not permitted to follow her. On leaving Camp Scott for New Mexico Billy was among the number of mules selected for the expedition. During the march I was in the habit, when starting out from camp in the morning, of leading off the party, and directing the packmen to hold the mule until I should get so far in advance with the mare that he could not see us; but the moment he was released he would, in spite of all the efforts of the packers, start off at a most furious pace, and never stop or cease braying until he reached the mare's side. We soon found it impossible to keep him with the other mules, and he was finally permitted to have his own way. In the course of time we encountered the deep snows in the Rocky Mountains, where the animals could get no forage, and Billy, in common with the others, at length became so weak and jaded that he was unable any longer to leave his place in the caravan and break a track through the snow around to the front. He made frequent attempts to turn out and force his way ahead, but after numerous unsuccessful efforts he would fall down exhausted, and set up a most mournful braying. The other mules soon began to fail, and to be left, worn out and famished, to die by the wayside; it was not, however, for some time that Billy showed symptoms of becoming one of the victims, until one evening after our arrival at camp I was informed that he had dropped down and been left upon the road during the day. The men all deplored his loss exceedingly, as his devotion to the mare had touched their kind hearts, and many expressions of sympathy were uttered around their bivouac fires on that evening. Much to our surprise, however, about ten o'clock, just as we were about going to sleep, we heard a mule braying about half a mile to the rear upon our trail. Sure enough, it proved to be Billy, who, after having rested, had followed upon our track and overtaken us. As soon as he reached the side of the mare he lay down and seemed perfectly contented. The next day I relieved him from his pack, and allowed him to run loose; but during the march he gave out, and was again abandoned to his fate, and this time we certainly never expected to see him more. To our great astonishment, however, about twelve o'clock that night the sonorous but not very musical notes of Billy in the distance aroused us from our slumbers, and again announced his approach. In an instant the men were upon their feet, gave three hearty cheers, and rushed out in a body to meet and escort him into camp. But this well-meant ovation elicited no response from him. He came reeling and floundering along through the deep snow, perfectly regardless of these honors, pushing aside all those who occupied the trail or interrupted his progress in the least, wandered about until he found the mare, dropped down by her side, and remained until morning. When we resumed our march on the following day he made another desperate effort to proceed, but soon fell down exhausted, when we reluctantly abandoned him, and saw him no more. Alas! poor Billy! your constancy deserved a better fate; you may, indeed, be said to have been a victim to unrequited affection. The articles to be transported should be made up into two packages of precisely equal weight, and as nearly equal in bulk as practicable, otherwise they will sway the saddle over to one side, and cause it to chafe the animal's back. The packages made, two ropes about six feet long are fastened around the ends by a slip-knot, and if the packages contain corn or other articles that will shift about, small sticks should be placed between the sacks and the ropes, which equalizes the pressure and keeps the packages snug. The ropes are then looped at the ends, and made precisely of the same length, so that the packs will balance and come up well toward the top of the saddle. Two men then, each taking a pack, go upon opposite sides of the mule, that has been previously saddled, and, raising the packs simultaneously, place the loops over the pommel and cantel, settling them well down into their places. The lashing-strap is then thrown over the top, brought through the rings upon each side, and drawn as tight at every turn as the two men on the sides can pull it, and, after having been carried back and forth diagonally across the packs as often as its length admits (generally three or four times), it is made fast to one of the rings, and securely tied in a slip-knot. The breast-strap and breeching must not be buckled so close as to chafe the skin; the girth should be broad and soft where it comes opposite the fore legs, to prevent cutting them. Leather girths should be wrapped with cloth or bound with soft material. The hair girth, being soft and elastic, is much better than leather. The crupper should never be dispensed with in a mountainous country, but it must be soft, round, and about an inch in diameter where it comes in contact with the tail, otherwise it will wound the animal in making long and abrupt descents. In Norway they use a short round stick, about ten inches long, which passes under the tail, and from each end of this a cord connects with the saddle. Camp-kettles, tin vessels, and other articles that will rattle and be likely to frighten animals, should be firmly lashed to the packs. When the packs work loose, the lash-strap should be untied, and a man upon each side draw it up again and make it fast. When ropes are used for lashing, they may be tightened by twisting them with a short stick and making the stick fast. One hundred and twenty-five pounds is a sufficient load for a mule upon a long journey. In traveling over a rocky country, and upon all long journeys, horses and mules should be shod, to prevent their hoofs wearing out or breaking. The mountaineers contend that beasts travel better without shoeing, but I have several times had occasion to regret the omission of this very necessary precaution. A few extra shoes and nails, with a small hammer, will enable travelers to keep their animals shod. In turning out pack animals to graze, it is well either to keep the lariat ropes upon them with the ends trailing upon the ground, or to hopple them, as no corral can be made into which they may be driven in order to catch them. A very good way to catch an animal without driving him into an inclosure is for two men to take a long rope and stretch it out at the height of the animal's neck; some men then drive him slowly up against it, when one of the men with the rope runs around behind the animal and back to the front again, thus taking a turn with the rope around his neck and holding him secure. To prevent an animal from kicking, take a forked stick and make the forked part fast to the bridle-bit, bringing the two ends above the head and securing them there, leaving the part of the stick below the fork of sufficient length to reach near the ground when the animal's head is in its natural position. He can not kick up unless he lowers his head, and the stick effectually prevents that. Tether-ropes should be so attached to the neck of the animal as not to slip and choke him, and the picket-pins never be left on the ropes except when in the ground, as, in the event of a stampede, they are very likely to swing around and injure the animals. Many experienced travelers were formerly in the habit of securing their animals with a strap or iron ring fastened around the fetlock of one fore foot, and this attached to the tether-rope. This method holds the animal very securely to the picket-pin, but when the rope is first put on, and before he becomes accustomed to it, he is liable to throw himself down and get hurt; so that I think the plan of tethering by the neck or halter is the safest, and, so far as I have observed, is now universally practiced. The mountaineers and Indians seldom tether their animals, but prefer the plan of hoppling, as this gives them more latitude for ranging and selecting the choicest grass. Two methods of hoppling are practiced among the Indians and hunters of the West: one with a strap about two feet long buckling around the fore legs above the fetlock joints; the other is what they term the "_side hopple_" which is made by buckling a strap around a front and rear leg upon the same side. In both cases care should be taken not to buckle the strap so tight as to chafe the legs. The latter plan is the best, because the animal, side-hoppled, is able to go but little faster than a walk, while the front hopple permits him, after a little practice, to gallop off at considerable speed. If the hopples are made of iron connected with chains, like handcuffs, with locks and keys, it will be impossible for the Indians, without files, to cut them; but the parts that come in contact with the legs should be covered with soft leather. "A horse," says Mr. Galton, "may be hoppled with a stirrup-leather by placing the middle around one leg, then twisting it several times and buckling it round the other leg. When you wish to picket horses in the middle of a sandy plain, dig a hole two or three feet deep, and, tying your rope to a fagot of sticks or brushwood, or even to a bag filled with sand, bury this in it." For prairie service, horses which have been raised exclusively upon grass, and never been fed on grain, or "_range horses_," as they are called in the West, are decidedly the best, and will perform more hard labor than those that have been stabled and groomed. The large, stout ponies found among some of our frontier settlements are well adapted to this service, and endure admirably. The same remarks hold good in the choice of mules; and it will be found that the square-built, big-bellied, and short-legged Mexican mule will endure far more hard service, on short allowance of forage, than the larger American mule which has been accustomed to grain. In our trip across the Rocky Mountains we had both the American and Mexican mules, and improved a good opportunity of giving their relative powers of endurance a thorough service-trial. For many days they were reduced to a meagre allowance of dry grass, and at length got nothing but pine leaves, while their work in the deep snow was exceedingly severe. This soon told upon the American mules, and all of them, with the exception of two, died, while most of the Mexican mules went through. The result was perfectly conclusive. We found that, where the snow was not more than two feet deep, the animals soon learned to paw it away and get at the grass. Of course they do not get sufficient in this way, but they do much better than one would suppose. In Utah and New Mexico the autumn is so dry that the grass does not lose its nutritious properties by being washed with rains. It gradually dries and cures like hay, so that animals eat it freely, and will fatten upon it even in mid-winter. It is seldom that any grain is fed to stock in either of these territories. Several of the varieties of grass growing upon the slopes of the Rocky Mountains are of excellent quality; among these may be mentioned the Gramma and bunch grasses. Horses and mules turned out to graze always prefer the grass upon the mountain sides to grass of the valleys. We left New Mexico about the first of March, six weeks before the new grass appeared, with 1500 animals, many of them low in flesh, yet they improved upon the journey, and on their arrival in Utah were all, with very few exceptions, in fine working condition. Had this march been made at the same season in the country bordering upon the Missouri River, where there are heavy autumnal rains, the animals would probably have become very poor. In this journey the herds were allowed to range over the best grass that could be found, but were guarded both night and day with great care, whereas, if they had been corraled or picketed at night, I dare say they would have lost flesh.[3] [3] Some curious and interesting experiments are said to have been recently made at the veterinary school at Alfort, near Paris, by order of the minister of war, to ascertain the powers of endurance of horses. It appears that a horse will live on water alone five-and-twenty days; seventeen days without eating or drinking; only five days if fed and unwatered; ten days if fed and insufficiently watered. A horse kept without water for three days drank one hundred and four pounds of water in three minutes. It was found that a horse taken immediately after "feed," and kept in the active exercise of the "squadron school," completely digested its "feed" in three hours; in the same time in the "conscript's school" its food was two thirds digested; and if kept perfectly quiet in the stable, its digestion was scarcely commenced in three hours. SADDLES. Great diversity of opinion exists regarding the best equipment for horses, and the long-mooted question is as yet very far from being definitely settled. I do not regard the opinions of Europeans as having a more direct bearing upon this question, or as tending to establish any more definite and positive conclusions regarding it than have been developed by the experience of our own border citizens, the major part of whose lives has been spent in the saddle; yet I am confident that the following brief description of the horse equipments used in different parts of Europe, the substance of which I have extracted from Captain M'Clellan's interesting report, will be read with interest and instruction. The saddle used by the African chasseurs consists of a plain wooden tree, with a pad upon the top, but without skirts, and is somewhat similar to our own military saddle, but lower in the pommel and cantle. The girth and surcingle are of leather, with an ordinary woolen saddle-blanket. Their bridle has a single head-stall, with the Spanish bit buckled to it. A new saddle has recently been introduced into the French service by Captain Cogent, the tree of which is cut out of a single piece of wood, the cantle only being glued on, and a piece of walnut let into the pommel, with a thin strip veneered upon the front ends of the bars. The pommel and cantle are lower than in the old model; the whole is covered with wet raw hide, glued on and sewed at the edges. The great advantage this saddle possesses is in being so arranged that it may be used for horses of all sizes and conditions. The saddle-blanket is made of thick felt cloth, and is attached to the pommel by a small strap passing through holes in the blanket, which is thus prevented from slipping, and at the same time it raises the saddle so as to admit a free circulation of air over the horse's spine. The Hungarian saddle is made of hard wood entirely uncovered, with a raised pommel and cantle. The seat is formed with a leather strap four inches wide nailed to the forks on the front and rear, and secured to the side-boards by leather thongs, thus giving an elastic and easy saddle-seat. This is also the form of the saddle-tree used by the Russian and Austrian cavalry. The Russians have a leather girth fastened by three small buckles: it passes over the tree, and is tied to the side-boards. The saddle-blanket is of stout felt cloth in four thicknesses, and a layer of black leather over it, and the whole held together by leather thongs passing through and through. When the horse falls off in flesh, more thicknesses are added, and "_vice versa_." This saddle-blanket is regarded by the Russian officers as the best possible arrangement. The Russians use the curb and snaffle-bits made of steel. The Cossack saddle has a thick padding under the side-boards and on the seat, which raises the rider very high on his horse, so that his feet are above the bottom of the belly. Their bridle has but a simple snaffle-bit, and no martingale. The Prussian cuirassiers have a heavy saddle with a low pommel and cantle, covered with leather, but it is not thought by Captain M'Clellan to present any thing worthy of imitation. The other Prussian cavalry ride the Hungarian saddle, of a heavier model than the one in the Austrian service. The surcingle is of leather, and fastens in the Mexican style; the girth is also of leather, three and a half inches wide, with a large buckle. It is in two parts, attached to the bars by raw-hide thongs. The curb and snaffle steel bits are used, and attached to a single head-stall. The English cavalry use a saddle which has a lower cantle and pommel than our _Grimsley_ saddle, covered with leather. The snaffle-bit is attached to the halter head-stall by a chain and T; the curb has a separate head-stall, which on a march is occasionally taken off and hung on the carbine stock. The Sardinian saddle has a bare wooden tree very similar to the Hungarian. A common blanket, folded in twelve thicknesses, is placed under it. The girth and surcingle are of leather. Without expressing any opinion as to the comparative merits of these different saddles, I may be permitted to give a few general principles, which I regard as infallible in the choice of a saddle. The side-boards should be large, and made to conform to the shape of the horse's back, thereby distributing the burden over a large surface. It should stand up well above the spine, so as to admit a free circulation of air under it. For long journeys, the crupper, where it comes in contact with the tail, should be made of soft leather. It should be drawn back only far enough to hold the saddle from the withers. Some horses require much more tension upon the crupper than others. The girth should be made broad, of a soft and elastic material. Those made of hair, in use among the Mexicans, fulfill the precited conditions. A light and easy bit, which will not fret or chafe the horse, is recommended. The saddle-blanket must be folded even and smooth, and placed on so as to cover every part of the back that comes in contact with the saddle, and in warm weather it is well to place a gunny bag under the blanket, as it is cooler than the wool. It will have been observed that, in the French service, the folded saddle-blanket is tied to the pommel to prevent it slipping back. This is well if the blanket be taken off and thoroughly dried whenever the horse is unsaddled. A saddle-blanket made of moss is used in some of the Southwestern States, which is regarded by many as the perfection of this article of horse equipment. It is a mat woven into the proper shape and size from the beaten fibres of moss that hangs from the trees in our Southern States. It is cheap, durable, is not in any way affected by sweat, and does not chafe or heat the horse's spine like the woolen blanket. Its open texture allows a rapid evaporation, which tends to keep the back cool, and obviates the danger of stripping and sudden exposure of the heated parts to the sun and air. The experience of some of our officers who have used this mat for years in Mexico and Texas corroborates all I have said in its favor; and they are unanimous in the opinion that a horse will never get a sore back when it is placed under a good saddle. A saddle made by the Mexicans in California is called the _California saddle_. This is extensively used upon the Pacific slope of the mountains, and is believed to possess, at least, as many advantages for rough frontier service as any other pattern that has been invented. Those hardy and experienced veterans, the mountaineers, could not be persuaded to ride any other saddle, and their ripened knowledge of such matters certainly gives weight to their conclusions. [Illustration: CALIFORNIA SADDLE.] The merits of the California saddle consist in its being light, strong, and compact, and conforming well to the shape of the horse. When strapped on, it rests so firmly in position that the strongest pull of a horse upon a lariat attached to the pommel can not displace it. Its shape is such that the rider is compelled to sit nearly erect, with his legs on the continuation of the line of the body, which makes his seat more secure, and, at the same time, gives him a better control over his arms and horse. This position is attained by setting the stirrup-leathers farther back than on the old-fashioned saddle. The pommel is high, like the Mexican saddle, and prevents the rider from being thrown forward. The tree is covered with raw hide, put on green, and sewed; when this dries and contracts it gives it great strength. It has no iron in its composition, but is kept together by buckskin strings, and can easily be taken to pieces for mending or cleaning. It has a hair girth about five inches wide. The whole saddle is covered with a large and thick sheet of sole-leather, having a hole to lay over the pommel; it extends back over the horse's hips, and protects them from rain, and when taken off in camp it furnishes a good security against dampness when placed under the traveler's bed. The California saddle-tree is regarded by many as the best of all others for the horse's back, and as having an easier seat than the Mexican. General Comte de la Roche-Aymon, in his treatise upon "Light Troops," published in Paris in 1856, says: "In nearly all the European armies the equipment of the horse is not in harmony with the new tactics--with those tactics in which, during nearly all of a campaign, the cavalry remains in bivouac. Have we reflected upon the kind of saddle which, under these circumstances, would cover the horse best without incommoding him during the short periods that he is permitted to repose? Have we reflected upon the kind of saddle which, offering the least fragility, exposes the horse to the least danger of sore back? All the cuirassiers and the dragoons of Europe have saddles which they call _French saddle_, the weight of which is a load for the horse. The interior mechanism of these saddles is complicated and filled with weak bands of iron, which become deranged, bend, and sometimes break; the rider does not perceive these accidents, or he does not wish to perceive them, for fear of being left behind or of having to go on foot; he continues on, and at the end of a day's march his horse has a sore back, and in a few days is absolutely unserviceable. We may satisfy ourselves of the truth of these observations by comparing the lists of horses sent to the rear during the course of a campaign by the cuirassiers and dragoons who use the French saddle, and by the hussars with the Hungarian saddle. The number sent to the rear by the latter is infinitely less, although employed in a service much more active and severe; and it might be still less by making some slight improvements in the manner of fixing their saddle upon the horse. "It is a long time since Marshal Saxe said there was but one kind of saddle fit for cavalry, which was the hussar saddle: this combined all advantages, lightness, solidity, and economy. It is astonishing that the system of actual war had not led to the employment of the kind of saddle in use among the Tartars, the Cossacks, the Hungarians, and, indeed, among all horsemen and nomads. This saddle has the incontestable advantage of permitting the horse to lie down and rest himself without inconvenience. If, notwithstanding the folded blanket which they place under the Hungarian saddle, this saddle will still wound the animal's back sometimes, this only proceeds from the friction occasioned by the motion of the horse and the movement of the rider upon the saddle; a friction which it will be nearly impossible to avoid, inasmuch as the saddle-bow is held in its place only by a surcingle, the ends of which are united by a leathern band: these bands always relax more or less, and the saddle becomes loose. To remedy this, I propose to attach to the saddle-bow itself a double girth, one end of which shall be made fast to the arch in front, and the other end to the rear of the arch upon the right side, to unite in a single girth, which would buckle to a strap attached upon the left side in the usual manner. This buckle will hold the saddle firmly in its place. "Notwithstanding all these precautions, however, there were still some inconveniences resulting from the nature of the blanket placed under the saddle, which I sought to remedy, and I easily accomplished it. The woolen nap of the cavalry saddle-blankets, not being carefully attended to, soon wears off, and leaves only the rough, coarse threads of the fabric; this absorbs the sweat from the horse, and, after it has dried and become hard, it acts like a rasp upon the withers, first taking off the hair, next the skin, and then the flesh, and, finally, the beast is rendered unserviceable. "I sought, during the campaign of 1807, a means to remedy this evil, and I soon succeeded by a process as simple as it was cheap. I distributed among a great number of cavalry soldiers pieces of linen cloth folded double, two feet square, and previously dipped in melted tallow. This cloth was laid next to the horse's back, under the saddle-blanket, and it prevented all the bad effects of the woolen blanket. No horses, after this appliance, were afflicted with sore backs. Such are the slight changes which I believe should be made in the use of the Hungarian saddle. The remainder of the equipment should remain (as it always has been) composed of a breast-strap, crupper, and martingale, etc." The improvements of the present age do not appear to have developed any thing advantageous to the saddle; on the contrary, after experimenting upon numerous modifications and inventions, public sentiment has at length given the preference to the saddle-tree of the natives in Asia and America, which is very similar to that of the Hungarians. SORES AND DISEASES. If a horse be sweating at the time he is unsaddled, it is well to strap the folded saddle-blanket upon his back with the surcingle, where it is allowed to remain until he is perfectly dry. This causes the back to cool gradually, and prevents scalding or swelling. Some persons are in the habit of washing their horses' backs while heated and sweating with cold water, but this is pernicious, and often produces sores. It is well enough to wash the back after it cools, but not before. After horses' backs or shoulders once become chafed and sore, it is very difficult to heal them, particularly when they are continued at work. It is better, if practicable, to stop using them for a while, and wash the bruised parts often with castile soap and water. Should it be necessary, however, to continue the animal in use, I have known very severe sores entirely healed by the free application of grease to the parts immediately after halting, and while the animal is warm and sweating. This seems to harden the skin and heal the wound even when working with the collar in contact with it. A piece of bacon rind tied upon the collar over the wound is also an excellent remedy. In Texas, when the horse-flies are numerous, they attack animals without mercy, and where a contusion is found in the skin they deposit eggs, which speedily produce worms in great numbers. I have tried the effect of spirits of turpentine and several other remedies, but nothing seemed to have the desired effect but calomel blown into the wound, which destroyed the worms and soon effected a cure. In the vicinity of the South Pass, upon the Humboldt River, and in some sections upon other routes to California, alkaline water is found, which is very poisonous to animals that drink it, and generates a disease known in California as "_alkali_." This disease first makes its appearance by swellings upon the abdomen and between the fore legs, and is attended with a cough, which ultimately destroys the lungs and kills the animal. If taken at an early stage, this disease is curable, and the following treatment is generally considered as the most efficacious. The animal is first raked, after which a large dose of grease is poured down its throat; acids are said to have the same effect, and give immediate relief. When neither of these remedies can be procured, many of the emigrants have been in the habit of mixing starch or flour in a bucket of water, and allowing the animal to drink it. It is supposed that this forms a coating over the mucous membrane, and thus defeats the action of the poison. Animals should never be allowed to graze in the vicinity of alkaline water, as the deposits upon the grass after floods are equally deleterious with the water itself. In seasons when the water is low in the Humboldt River, there is much less danger of the alkali, as the running water in the river then comes from pure mountain springs, and is confined to the channel; whereas, during high water, when the banks are overflowed, the salts are dissolved, making the water more impure. For _colic_, a good remedy is a mixture of two table-spoonfuls of brandy and two tea-spoonfuls of laudanum dissolved in a bottle of water and poured down the animal's throat. Another remedy, which has been recommended to me by an experienced officer as producing speedy relief, is a table-spoonful of chloride of lime dissolved in a bottle of water, and administered as in the other case. RATTLESNAKE BITES. Upon the southern routes to California rattlesnakes are often met with, but it is seldom that any person is bitten by them; yet this is a possible contingency, and it can never be amiss to have an antidote at hand. Hartshorn applied externally to the wound, and drunk in small quantities diluted with water whenever the patient becomes faint or exhausted from the effects of the poison, is one of the most common remedies. In the absence of all medicines, a string or ligature should at once be bound firmly above the puncture, then scarify deeply with a knife, suck out the poison, and spit out the saliva. Andersson, in his book on Southwestern Africa, says: "In the Cape Colony the Dutch farmers resort to a cruel but apparently effective plan to counteract the bad effects of a serpent's bite. An incision having been made in the breast of a living fowl, the bitten part is applied to the wound. If the poison be very deadly, the bird soon evinces symptoms of distress, becomes drowsy, droops its head, and dies. It is replaced by a second, a third, and more if requisite. When, however, the bird no longer exhibits any of the signs just mentioned, the patient is considered out of danger. A frog similarly applied is supposed to be equally efficacious." Haunberg, in his Travels in South Africa, mentions an antidote against the bite of serpents. He says: "The blood of the turtle was much cried up, which, on account of this extraordinary virtue, the inhabitants dry in the form of small scales or membranes, and carry about them when they travel in this country, which swarms with this most noxious vermin. Whenever any one is wounded by a serpent, he takes a couple of pinches of the dried blood internally, and applies a little of it to the wound." I was present upon one occasion when an Indian child was struck in the fore finger by a large rattlesnake. His mother, who was near at the time, seized him in her arms, and, placing the wounded finger in her mouth, sucked the poison from the puncture for some minutes, repeatedly spitting out the saliva; after which she chewed and mashed some plantain leaves and applied to the wound. Over this she sprinkled some finely-powdered tobacco, and wrapped the finger up in a rag. I did not observe that the child suffered afterward the least pain or inconvenience. The immediate application of the remedies probably saved his life. Irritation from the bite of gnats and musquitoes, etc., may be relieved by chewing the plantain, and rubbing the spittle on the bite. I knew of another instance near Fort Towson, in Northern Texas, where a small child was left upon the earthen floor of a cabin while its mother was washing at a spring near by. She heard a cry of distress, and, on going to the cabin, what was her horror on seeing a rattlesnake coiled around the child's arm, and striking it repeatedly with its fangs. After killing the snake, she hurried to her nearest neighbor, procured a bottle of brandy, and returned as soon as possible; but the poison had already so operated upon the arm that it was as black as a negro's. She poured down the child's throat a huge draught of the liquor, which soon took effect, making it very drunk, and stopped the action of the poison. Although the child was relieved, it remained sick for a long time, but ultimately recovered. A man was struck in the leg by a very large rattlesnake near Fort Belknap, Texas, in 1853. No other remedy being at hand, a small piece of indigo was pulverized, made into a poultice with water, and applied to the puncture. It seemed to draw out the poison, turning the indigo white, after which it was removed and another poultice applied. These applications were repeated until the indigo ceased to change its color. The man was then carried to the hospital at Fort Belknap, and soon recovered, and the surgeon of the post pronounced it a very satisfactory cure. A Chickasaw woman, who was bitten upon the foot near Fort Washita by a ground rattlesnake (a very venomous species), drank a bottle of whisky and applied the indigo poultice, and when I saw her, three days afterward, she was recovering, but the flesh around the wound sloughed away. A Delaware remedy, which is said to be efficacious, is to burn powder upon the wound, but I have never known it to be tried excepting upon a horse. In this case it was successful, or, at all events, the animal recovered. Of all the remedies known to me, I should decidedly prefer ardent spirits. It is considered a sovereign antidote among our Western frontier settlers, and I would make use of it with great confidence. It must be taken until the patient becomes very much intoxicated, and this requires a large quantity, as the action of the poison seems to counteract its effects. Should the fangs of the snake penetrate deep enough to reach an artery, it is probable the person would die in a short time. I imagine, however, that this does not often occur. The following remedial measures for the treatment of the bites of poisonous reptiles are recommended by Dr. Philip Weston in the London Lancet for July, 1859: 1. The application of a ligature round the limb close to the wound, between it and the heart, to arrest the return of venous blood. 2. Excision of the bitten parts, or free incision through the wounds made by the poison-teeth, subsequently encouraging the bleeding by warm solutions to favor the escape of the poison from the circulation. 3. Cauterization widely round the limb of the bite with a strong solution of nitrate of silver, one drachm to the ounce, to prevent the introduction of the poison into the system by the lymphatics. 4. As soon as indications of the absorption of the poison into the circulation begin to manifest themselves, the internal administration of ammonia in aerated or soda-water every quarter of an hour, to support the nervous energy and allay the distressing thirst. "But," he continues, "there is yet wanting some remedy that shall rapidly counteract the poison introduced into the blood, and assist in expelling it from the system. The well-authenticated accounts of the success attending the internal use of arsenic in injuries arising from the bites of venomous reptiles in the East and West Indies, and also in Africa, and the well-known properties of this medicine as a powerful tonic and alterative in conditions of impaired vitality of the blood arising from the absorption of certain blood-poisons, would lead me to include this agent in the treatment already mentioned. It should be administered in combination with ammonia, in full doses, frequently repeated, so as to neutralize quickly the poison circulating in the blood before it can be eliminated from the system. This could readily be accomplished by adding ten to fifteen minims of Fowler's solution to the compound spirit of ammonia, to be given every quarter of an hour in aerated or soda-water, until the vomiting and the more urgent symptoms of collapse have subsided, subsequently repeating the dose at longer intervals until reaction had become fully established, and the patient relieved by copious bilious dejections." _Cedron_, which is a nut that grows on the Isthmus of Panama, and which is sold by the druggists in New York, is said to be an infallible antidote to serpent-bites. In the _Bullet. de l'Acad. de Méd._ for February, 1858, it is stated that a man was bitten at Panama by a _coral snake_, the most poisonous species on the Isthmus. During the few seconds that it took him to take the cedron from his bag, he was seized with violent pains at the heart and throat; but he had scarcely chewed and swallowed a piece of the nut about the size of a small bean, when the pains ceased as by magic. He chewed a little more, and applied it externally to the wound, when the pains disappeared, and were followed by a copious evacuation of a substance like curdled milk. Many other cases are mentioned where the cedron proved an antidote. CHAPTER V. Bivouacs. Tente d'Abri. Gutta-percha Knapsack Tent. Comanche Lodge. Sibley Tent. Camp Furniture. Litters. Rapid Traveling. Fuel. Making Fires. Fires on the Prairies. Jerking Meat. Making Lariats. Making Caches. Disposition of Fire-arms. Colt's Revolvers. Gun Accidents. Trailing. Indian Sagacity. BIVOUACS AND TENTS. In traveling with pack animals it is not always convenient or practicable to transport tents, and the traveler's ingenuity is often taxed in devising the most available means for making himself comfortable and secure against winds and storms. I have often been astonished to see how soon an experienced voyager, without any resources save those provided by nature, will erect a comfortable shelter in a place where a person having no knowledge of woodcraft would never think of such a thing. Almost all people in different parts of the world have their own peculiar methods of bivouacking. In the severe climate of Thibet, Dr. Hooker informs us that they encamp near large rocks, which absorb the heat during the day, and give it out slowly during the night. They form, as it were, reservoirs of caloric, the influence of which is exceedingly grateful during a cold night. In the polar regions the Esquimaux live and make themselves comfortable in huts of ice or snow, and with no other combustible but oil. The natives of Australia bury their bodies in the sand, keeping their heads only above the surface, and thus sleep warm during the chilly nights of that climate. Fortunately for the health and comfort of travelers upon the Plains, the atmosphere is pure and dry during the greater part of the year, and it is seldom that any rain or dew is seen; neither are there marshes or ponds of stagnant water to generate putrid exhalations and poisonous malaria. The night air of the summer months is soft, exhilarating, and delightful. Persons may therefore sleep in it and inhale it with perfect impunity, and, indeed, many prefer this to breathing the confined atmosphere of a house or tent. During the rainy season only is it necessary to seek shelter. In traveling with covered wagons one always has protection from storms, but with pack trains it becomes necessary to improvise the best substitutes for tents. A very secure protection against storms may be constructed by planting firmly in the ground two upright poles, with forks at their tops, and crossing them with a light pole laid in the forks. A gutta-percha cloth, or sheet of canvas, or, in the absence of either of these two, blankets, may be attached by one side to the horizontal pole, the opposite edge being stretched out to the windward at an angle of about forty-five degrees to the ground, and there fastened with wooden pins, or with buckskin strings tied to the lower border of the cloth and to pegs driven firmly into the earth. This forms a shelter for three or four men, and is a good defense against winds and rains. If a fire be then made in front, the smoke will be carried away, so as not to incommode the occupants of the bivouac. This is called a "half-faced" camp. [Illustration: HALF-FACED CAMP.] Another method practiced a great deal among mountain men and Indians consists in placing several rough poles equidistant around in a half circle, and bringing the small ends together at the top, where they are bound with a thong. This forms the conical frame-work of the bivouac, which, when covered with a cloth stretched around it, makes a very good shelter, and is preferable to the half-faced camp, because the sides are covered. [Illustration: CONICAL BIVOUAC.] When no cloths, blankets, or hides are at hand to be placed over the poles of the lodge, it may be covered with green boughs laid on compactly, so as to shed a good deal of rain, and keep out the wind in cold weather. We adopted this description of shelter in crossing the Rocky Mountains during the winter of 1857-8, and thus formed a very effectual protection against the bleak winds which sweep with great violence over those lofty and inhospitable _sierras_. We always selected a dense thicket for our encampment, and covered the lodges with a heavy coating of pine boughs, wattling them together as compactly as possible, and piling snow upon the outside in such a manner as to make them quite impervious to the wind. The fires were then kindled at the mouths of the lodges, and our heads and bodies were completely sheltered, while our feet were kept warm by the fires. The French troops, while serving in the Crimea, used what they call the _tente d'abri_, or shelter tent, which seems to have been received with great favor in Europe. It is composed of two, four, or six square pieces of cloth, with buttons and buttonholes adjusted upon the edges, and is pitched by planting two upright stakes in the ground at a distance corresponding with the length of the canvas when buttoned together. The two sticks are connected by a cord passed around the top of each, drawn tight, and the ends made fast to pins driven firmly into the ground. The canvas is then laid over the rope between the sticks, spread out at an angle of about forty-five degrees, and the lower edges secured to the earth with wooden pins. This makes some defense against the weather, and was the only shelter enjoyed by the mass of the French army in the Crimea up to October, 1855. For a permanent camp it is usual to excavate a shallow basement under the tent, and to bank up the earth on the outside in cold weather. It is designed that upon marches the _tente d'abri_ shall be taken to pieces and carried by the soldiers. A tent has recently been prepared by Mr. John Rider, 165 Broadway, New York, which is called the "_tent knapsack_." It has been examined by a board of army officers, and recommended for adoption in our military service. [Illustration: TENT KNAPSACK.] This tent is somewhat similar to the _tente d'abri_, and is pitched in the same manner, but it has this advantage, that each separate piece may be converted into a water-proof knapsack. The following extracts from the Report of the Board go to show that this tent knapsack will be useful to parties traveling on the prairies with pack trains: "It is a piece of gutta-percha 5 feet 3 inches long, and 3 feet 8 inches wide, with double edges on one side, and brass studs and button-holes along two edges, and straps and buckles on the fourth edge; the whole weighing three pounds; two sticks, 3 feet 8 inches long by 1-1/4 inches in diameter, and a small cord. When used as a knapsack, the clothing is packed in a cotton bag, and the gutta-percha sheet is folded round it, lapping at the ends. The clothing is thus protected by two or three thicknesses of gutta-percha, and in this respect there is a superiority over the knapsack now used by our troops. Other advantages are, that the tent knapsack has no seams, the parts at which those in use wear out soonest; it adapts itself to the size of the contents, so that a compact and portable bundle can be made, whether the kit be entire or not; and, with the cotton bag, it forms a convenient, commodious, and durable receptacle for all a soldier's clothing and necessaries. "On a scout a soldier usually carries only a blanket, overcoat, and at most a single shirt, pair of drawers, and a pair of socks, all of which can be packed in the tent knapsack in a small bundle, perfectly protected from rain, and capable of being suspended from the shoulders and carried with comfort and ease during a march. "2d. As a shelter. The studs and eyelets along two edges of the tent knapsack are for the purpose of fastening a number of them together, and thus making a sheet of larger dimensions. "A sheet formed by fastening together four knapsacks was exhibited to the Board, stretched upon a frame of wood. When used in service the sheet is to be stretched on a rope supported by two poles, or by two rifles, muskets, or carbines, and pinned down at the sides with six pins, three on each side. "The sheet of four knapsacks is 10 feet 6 inches long, and 7 feet 4 inches wide, and when pitched on a rope 4 feet 4 inches above the ground, covers a horizontal space 6 feet 6 inches wide, and 7 feet 4 inches long, which will accommodate five men, and may be made to shelter seven. The sheet can also be used on the ground, and is a great protection from dampness, and as a shawl or talma; indeed, a variety of advantageous uses to which the gutta-percha sheet may be put will suggest themselves to persons using it. "The Board is satisfied with its merits in all the uses to which it is proposed to be put, and is of opinion that the gutta-percha tent knapsack may be adopted in the military service with advantage." * * * * * The usual tenement of the prairie tribes, and of the traders, trappers, and hunters who live among them, is the Comanche lodge, which is made of eight straight peeled poles about twenty feet long, covered with hides or cloth. The lodge is pitched by connecting the smaller extremities of three of the poles with one end of a long line. The three poles are then raised perpendicularly, and the larger extremities spread out in a tripod to the circumference of the circle that is to form the base of the lodge. The other poles are then raised, laid into the forks of the three first, and spread out equidistant upon the circle, thus forming the conical framework of the structure. Nine or ten poles are generally used in one lodge. [Illustration: COMANCHE LODGE.] The long line attached to the tripod is then wound several times around the top, where the poles intersect, and the lower end made fast at the base of the lodge, thus securing the frame firmly in its position. The covering, made of buffalo hides, dressed without the hair, and cut and sewed together to fit the conical frame, is raised with a pole, spread out around the structure, and united at the edges with sharpened wooden pegs, leaving sufficient space open at the bottom for a doorway, which may be closed with a blanket spread out with two small sticks, and suspended over the opening. The lower edge of the lodge is made fast to the ground with wooden pins. The apex is left open, with a triangular wing or flap on each side, and the windward flap constantly stretched out by means of a pole inserted into a pocket in the end of it, which causes it to draw like a sail, and thus occasions a draught from the fire built upon the ground in the centre of the lodge, and makes it warm and comfortable in the coldest winter weather. Canvas makes a very good substitute for the buffalo-skin covering. SIBLEY TENT. A tent has been invented by Major H. H. Sibley, of the army, which is known as the "_Sibley tent_." It is somewhat similar to the Comanche lodge, but in place of the conical frame-work of poles it has but one upright standard, resting upon an iron tripod in the centre. The tripod can be used to suspend cooking utensils over the fire, and, when folded up, admits the wooden standard between the legs, thereby reducing the length one half, and making it more convenient for packing and traveling. [Illustration: THE SIBLEY TENT.] This tent constituted the entire shelter of the army in Utah during the winter of 1857-8, and, notwithstanding the severity of the climate in the elevated locality of Camp Scott, the troops were quite comfortable, and pleased with the tent. In permanent camps the Sibley tent may be so pitched as to give more room by erecting a tripod upon the outside with three poles high and stout enough to admit of the tent's being suspended by ropes attached to the apex. This method dispenses with the necessity of the central upright standard. When the weather is very cold, the tent may be made warmer by excavating a basement about three feet deep, which also gives a wall to the tent, making it more roomy. The tent used in the army will shelter comfortably twelve men. Captain G. Rhodes, of the English army, in his recent work upon tents and tent-life, has given a description of most of the tents used in the different armies in Europe, but, in my judgment, none of them, in point of convenience, comfort, and economy, will compare with the Sibley tent for campaigning in cold weather. One of its most important features, that of admitting of a fire within it and of causing a draught by the disposition of the wings, is not, that I am aware, possessed by any other tent. Moreover, it is exempt from the objections that are urged against some other tents on account of insalubrity from want of top ventilation to carry off the impure air during the night. CAMP FURNITURE. The accompanying illustrations present some convenient articles of portable camp furniture. [Illustration: CAMP CHAIR. NO. 1.] CAMP CHAIR NO. 1 is of oak or other hard wood. Fig. 1 represents it opened for use; in Fig. 2 it is closed for transportation. _A_ is a stout canvas, forming the back and seat; _b_, _b_, _b_ are iron butt-hinges; _c_, _c_ are leather straps, one inch and a quarter wide, forming the arms; _d_ is an iron rod, with nut and screw at one end. [Illustration: CAMP CHAIRS. NOS. 2 AND 3.] CAMP CHAIR NO. 2 is made of sticks tied together with thongs of buckskin or raw hide. CAMP CHAIR NO. 3 is a very comfortable seat, made of a barrel, the part forming the seat being filled with grass. [Illustration: CAMP TABLE.] CAMP TABLE. Fig. 1 represents the table folded for transportation; in Fig. 2 it is spread out for use. _A_ is the top of the table; _a_, _a_ are side boards, and _c_, _c_ are end boards, turning on butt-hinges, _b_, _b_, _b_. [Illustration: FIELD COT. NO. 1.] [Illustration: FIELD COT. NO. 2.] FIELD COTS. In No. 1, _A_ represents the cot put up for use; _B_, the cot folded for transportation. The legs turn upon iron bolts running through the head and foot boards; they are then placed upon the canvas, and the whole is rolled up around the side pieces. In No. 2 the upper figure represents the cot put up for use; the lower shows it folded for transportation. _A_ is a stout canvas; _b_, _b_ are iron butt-hinges; _c_, _c_, the legs; _d_, _d_, leather straps, with buckles, which hold the legs firm; _f_, _f_, ends, which fold upon hinges; _g_, _g_, cross-bars from leg to leg. This cot is strong, light, and portable. [Illustration: CAMP BUREAU.] CAMP BUREAU. This cut represents two chests, _A_, _A_, with their handles, a, a; the covers taken off, they are placed one upon the other, and secured by the clamps _B_, _B_; _d_ shows the division between the two chests. When it is to be transported, the knobs, _c_, are unscrewed from the drawers, the looking-glass, _f_, is removed, the drawers are filled with clothing, etc., and the lids are screwed on. [Illustration: MESS-CHEST.] MESS-CHEST. A represents the chest open for table; _B_ is the same closed; _C_ is the upper tray of tin, with compartments, _b_, _b_; _E_ is the lower wooden tray, divided into compartments, _a_, _a_, for various purposes, and made fast to the bottom of the chest; _d_, _d_ are lids opening with hinges; _f_ (in figure B) is a wooden leg, turning upon a hinge, and fitting snugly between two pieces of wood screwed upon the cover. LITTERS. Should a party traveling with pack animals, and without ambulances or wagons, have one of its members wounded or taken so sick as to be unable to walk or ride on horseback, a litter may be constructed by taking two poles about twenty feet in length, uniting them by two sticks three feet long lashed across the centre at six feet apart, and stretching a piece of stout canvas, a blanket, or hide between them to form the bed. Two steady horses or mules are then selected, placed between the poles in the front and rear of the litter, and the ends of the poles made fast to the sides of the animals, either by attachment to the stirrups or to the ends of straps secured over their backs. [Illustration: HORSE-LITTER.] The patient may then be placed upon the litter, and is ready for the march. The elasticity of the long poles gives an easy motion to the conveyance, and makes this method of locomotion much more comfortable than might be supposed. The prairie Indians have a way of transporting their sick and children upon a litter very similar in construction to the one just described, excepting that one animal is used instead of two. One end of the litter is made fast to the sides of the animal, while the other end is left to trail upon the ground. A projection is raised for the feet to rest against and prevent the patient from sliding down. Instead of canvas, the Indians sometimes lash a large willow basket across the poles, in which they place the person to be transported. The animals harnessed to the litter must be carefully conducted upon the march, and caution used in passing over rough and broken ground. [Illustration: HAND-LITTER.] A very convenient and comfortable method of packing a sick or wounded man when there are no animals disposable, and which is sometimes resorted to by the Indians, is to take two small poles about ten feet long, and lash three cross-pieces to them, one in the centre, and the other two about eighteen inches from the ends. A blanket or hide is then secured firmly to this frame, and the patient placed upon it under the centre cross-piece, which prevents him from falling out. Two men act as carriers, walking between the ends of the long poles. The patient may be protected against the rain or sun by bending small willows over the frame, and covering them with a cloth. RAPID TRAVELING. Small parties with good animals, light vehicles, and little lading, may traverse the Plains rapidly and comfortably, if the following injunctions be observed. The day's drive should commence as soon as it is light, and, where the road is good, the animals kept upon a slow trot for about three hours, then immediately turned out upon the best grass that can be found for two hours, thus giving time for grazing and breakfast. After which another drive of about three hours may be made, making the noon halt about three hours, when the animals are again harnessed, and the journey continued until night. In passing through a country infested by hostile Indians, the evening drive should be prolonged until an hour or two after dark, turning off at a point where the ground is hard, going about half a mile from the road, and encamping without fires, in low ground, where the Indians will find it difficult to track or see the party. These frequent halts serve to rest and recruit the animals so that they will, without injury, make from thirty to forty miles a day for a long time. This, however, can only be done with very light loads and vehicles, such, for example, as an ambulance with four mules, only three or four persons, and a small amount of luggage. FUEL AND FIRE. There are long distances upon some of the routes to California where no other fuel is found but the dried dung of the buffalo, called by the mountaineers "chips," and by the French "bois de vache," the _argul_ of the Tartary deserts. It burns well when perfectly dry, answers a good purpose for cooking, and some men even prefer it to wood. As it will not burn when wet, it is well, in a country where no other fuel can be had, when it threatens to rain, for the traveler to collect a supply before the rain sets in, and carry it in wagons to the camp. When dry, the chips are easily lighted. A great saving in fuel may be made by digging a trench about two feet long by eight inches in width and depth; the fires are made in the bottom of the trench, and the cooking utensils placed upon the top, where they receive all the heat. This plan is especially recommended for windy weather, and it is convenient at all times. The wood should be cut short, and split into small pieces. It is highly important that travelers should know the different methods that may be resorted to for kindling fires upon a march. The most simple and most expeditious of these is by using the lucifer matches; but, unless they are kept in well-corked bottles, they are liable to become wet, and will then fail to ignite. The most of those found in the shops easily imbibe dampness, and are of but little use in the prairies. Those marked "Van Duser, New York," and put up in flat rectangular boxes, are the best I have met with, and were the only ones I saw which were not affected by the humid climate of Mexico. Wax lucifers are better than wooden, as they are impervious to moisture. I have seen an Indian start a fire with flint and steel after others had failed to do it with matches. This was during a heavy rain, when almost all available fuel had become wet. On such occasions dry fuel may generally be obtained under logs, rocks, or leaning trees. The inner bark of some dry trees, cedar for instance, is excellent to kindle a fire. The bark is rubbed in the hand until the fibres are made fine and loose, when it takes fire easily; dry grass or leaves are also good. After a sufficient quantity of small kindling fuel has been collected, a moistened rag is rubbed with powder, and a spark struck into it with a flint and steel, which will ignite it; this is then placed in the centre of the loose nest of inflammable material, and whirled around in the air until it bursts out into a flame. When it is raining, the blaze should be laid upon the dryest spot that can be found, a blanket held over it to keep off the water, and it is fed with very small bits of dry wood and shavings until it has gained sufficient strength to burn the larger damp wood. When no dry place can be found, the fire may be started in a kettle or frying-pan, and afterward transferred to the ground. Should there be no other means of starting a fire, it can always be made with a gun or pistol, by placing upon the ground a rag saturated with damp powder, and a little dry powder sprinkled over it. The gun or pistol is then (uncharged) placed with the cone directly over and near the rag, and a cap exploded, which will invariably ignite it. Another method is by placing about one fourth of a charge of powder into a gun, pushing a rag down loosely upon it, and firing it out with the muzzle down near the ground, which ignites the rag. The most difficult of all methods of making a fire, but one that is practiced by some of the Western Indians, is by friction between two pieces of wood. I had often heard of this process, but never gave credit to its practicability until I saw the experiment successfully tried. It was done in the following manner: Two dried stalks of the Mexican soap-plant, about three fourths of an inch in diameter, were selected, and one of them made flat on one side; near the edge of this flat surface a very small indentation was made to receive the end of the other stick, and a groove cut from this down the side. The other stick is cut with a rounded end, and placed upright upon the first. One man then holds the horizontal piece upon the ground, while another takes the vertical stick between the palms of his hands, and turns it back and forth as rapidly as possible, at the same time pressing forcibly down upon it. The point of the upright stick wears away the indentation into a fine powder, which runs off to the ground in the groove that has been cut; after a time it begins to smoke, and by continued friction it will at length take fire. This is an operation that is difficult, and requires practice; but if a drill-stick is used with a cord placed around the centre of the upright stick, it can be turned much more rapidly than with the hands, and the fire produced more readily. The upright stick may be of any hard, dry wood, but the lower horizontal stick must be of a soft, inflammable nature, such as pine, cottonwood, or black walnut, and it must be perfectly dry. The Indians work the sticks with the palms of the hands, holding the lower piece between the feet; but it is better to have a man to hold the lower piece while another man works the drill-bow. Inexperienced travelers are very liable, in kindling fires at their camp, to ignite the grass around them. Great caution should be taken to guard against the occurrence of such accidents, as they might prove exceedingly disastrous. We were very near having our entire train of wagons and supplies destroyed, upon one occasion, by the carelessness of one of our party in setting fire to the grass, and it was only by the most strenuous and well-timed efforts of two hundred men in setting counter fires, and burning around the train, that it was saved. When the grass is dry it will take fire like powder, and if thick and tall, with a brisk wind, the flames run like a race-horse, sweeping every thing before them. A lighted match, or the ashes from a segar or pipe, thrown carelessly into the dry grass, sometimes sets it on fire; but the greatest danger lies in kindling camp-fires. To prevent accidents of this kind, before kindling the fire a space should be cleared away sufficient to embrace the limits of the flame, and all combustibles removed therefrom, and while the fire is being made men should be stationed around with blankets ready to put it out if it takes the grass. When a fire is approaching, and escape from its track is impossible, it may be repelled in the following manner: The train and animals are parked compactly together; then several men, provided with blankets, set fire to the grass on the lee side, burning it away gradually from the train, and extinguishing it on the side next the train. This can easily be done, and the fire controlled with the blankets, or with dry sand thrown upon it, until an area large enough to give room for the train has been burned clear. Now the train moves on to this ground of safety, and the fire passes by harmless. JERKING MEAT. So pure is the atmosphere in the interior of our continent that fresh meat may be cured, or _jerked,_ as it is termed in the language of the prairies, by cutting it into strips about an inch thick, and hanging it in the sun, where in a few days it will dry so well that it may be packed in sacks, and transported over long journeys without putrefying. When there is not time to jerk the meat by the slow process described, it may be done in a few hours by building an open frame-work of small sticks about two feet above the ground, placing the strips of meat upon the top of it, and keeping up a slow fire beneath, which dries the meat rapidly. The jerking process may be done upon the march without any loss of time by stretching lines from front to rear upon the outside of loaded wagons, and suspending the meat upon them, where it is allowed to remain until sufficiently cured to be packed away. Salt is never used in this process, and is not required, as the meat, if kept dry, rarely putrefies. If travelers have ample transportation, it will be a wise precaution, in passing through the buffalo range, to lay in a supply of jerked meat for future exigences. LARIATS. It frequently happens upon long journeys that the lariat ropes wear out or are lost, and if there were no means of replacing them great inconvenience might result therefrom. A very good substitute may be made by taking the green hide of a buffalo, horse, mule, or ox, stretching it upon the ground, and pinning it down by the edges. After it has been well stretched, a circle is described with a piece of charcoal, embracing as much of the skin as practicable, and a strip about an inch wide cut from the outer edge of sufficient length to form the lariat. The strip is then wrapped around between two trees or stakes, drawn tight, and left to dry, after which it is subjected to a process of friction until it becomes pliable, when it is ready for use; this lariat answers well so long as it is kept dry, but after it has been wet and dried again it becomes very hard and unyielding. This, however, may be obviated by boiling it in oil or grease until thoroughly saturated, after which it remains pliable. The Indians make very good lariat ropes of dressed buffalo or buck skins cut into narrow strips and braided; these, when oiled, slip much more freely than the hemp or cotton ropes, and are better for lassoing animals, but they are not as suitable for picketing as those made of other material, because the wolves will eat them, and thus set free the animals to which they are attached. CACHÉS. It not unfrequently happens that travelers are compelled, for want of transportation, to abandon a portion of their luggage, and if it is exposed to the keen scrutiny of the thieving savages who often follow the trail of a party, and hunt over old camps for such things as may be left, it will be likely to be appropriated by them. Such contingencies have given rise to a method of secreting articles called by the old French Canadian voyagers "_caching_." The proper places for making cachés are in loose sandy soils, where the earth is dry and easily excavated. Near the bank of a river is the most convenient for this purpose, as the earth taken out can be thrown into the water, leaving no trace behind. When the spot has been chosen, the turf is carefully cut and laid aside, after which a hole is dug in the shape of an egg, and of sufficient dimensions to contain the articles to be secreted, and the earth, as it is taken out, thrown upon a cloth or blanket, and carried to a stream or ravine, where it can be disposed of, being careful not to scatter any upon the ground near the caché. The hole is then lined with bushes or dry grass, the articles placed within, covered with grass, the hole filled up with earth, and the sods carefully placed back in their original position, and every thing that would be likely to attract an Indian's attention removed from the locality. If an India-rubber or gutta-percha cloth is disposable, it should be used to envelop the articles in the caché. Another plan of making a caché is to dig the hole inside a tent, and occupy the tent for some days after the goods are deposited. This effaces the marks of excavation. The mountain traders were formerly in the habit of building fires over their cachés, but the Indians have become so familiar with this practice that I should think it no longer safe. Another method of caching which is sometimes resorted to is to place the articles in the top of an evergreen tree, such as the pine, hemlock, or spruce. The thick boughs are so arranged around the packages that they can not be seen from beneath, and they are tied to a limb to prevent them from being blown out by the wind. This will only answer for such articles as will not become injured by the weather. Caves or holes in the rocks that are protected from the rains are also secure deposits for caching goods, but in every case care must be taken to obliterate all tracks or other indications of men having been near them. These cachés will be more secure when made at some distance from roads or trails, and in places where Indians would not be likely to pass. To find a caché again, the bearing and distance from the centre of it to some prominent object, such as a mound, rock, or tree, should be carefully determined and recorded, so that any one, on returning to the spot, would have no difficulty in ascertaining its position. DISPOSITION OF FIRE-ARMS. The mountaineers and trappers exercise a very wise precaution, on laying down for the night, by placing their arms and ammunition by their sides, where they can be seized at a moment's notice. This rule is never departed from, and they are therefore seldom liable to be surprised. In Parkyns's "Abyssinia," I find the following remarks upon this subject: "When getting sleepy, you return your rifle between your legs, roll over, and go to sleep. Some people may think this is a queer place for a rifle; but, on the contrary, it is the position of all others where utility and comfort are most combined. The butt rests on the arm, and serves as a pillow for the head; the muzzle points between the knees, and the arms encircle the lock and breech, so that you have a smooth pillow, and are always prepared to start up armed at a moment's notice." I have never made the experiment of sleeping in this way, but I should imagine that a gun-stock would make rather a hard pillow. Many of our experienced frontier officers prefer carrying their pistols in a belt at their sides to placing them in holsters attached to the saddle, as in the former case they are always at hand when they are dismounted; whereas, by the other plan, they become useless when a man is unhorsed, unless he has time to remove them from the saddle, which, during the excitement of an action, would seldom be the case. Notwithstanding Colt's army and navy sized revolvers have been in use for a long time in our army, officers are by no means of one mind as to their relative merits for frontier service. The navy pistol, being more light and portable, is more convenient for the belt, but it is very questionable in my mind whether these qualities counterbalance the advantages derived from the greater weight of powder and lead that can be fired from the larger pistol, and the consequent increased projectile force. This point is illustrated by an incident which fell under my own observation. In passing near the "Medicine-Bow Butte" during the spring of 1858, I most unexpectedly encountered and fired at a full-grown grizzly bear; but, as my horse had become somewhat blown by a previous gallop, his breathing so much disturbed my aim that I missed the animal at the short distance of about fifty yards, and he ran off. Fearful, if I stopped to reload my rifle, the bear would make his escape, I resolved to drive him back to the advanced guard of our escort, which I could see approaching in the distance; this I succeeded in doing, when several mounted men, armed with the navy revolvers, set off in pursuit. They approached within a few paces, and discharged ten or twelve shots, the most of which entered the animal, but he still kept on, and his progress did not seem materially impeded by the wounds. After these men had exhausted their charges, another man rode up armed with the army revolver, and fired two shots, which brought the stalwart beast to the ground. Upon skinning him and making an examination of the wounds, it was discovered that none of the balls from the small pistols had, after passing through his thick and tough hide, penetrated deeper than about an inch into the flesh, but that the two balls from the large pistol had gone into the vitals and killed him. This test was to my mind a decisive one as to the relative efficiency of the two arms for frontier service, and I resolved thenceforth to carry the larger size. [Illustration: THE GRIZZLY.] Several different methods are practiced in slinging and carrying fire-arms upon horseback. The shoulder-strap, with a swivel to hook into a ring behind the guard, with the muzzle resting downward in a leather cup attached by a strap to the same staple as the stirrup-leather, is a very handy method for cavalry soldiers to sling their carbines; but, the gun being reversed, the jolting caused by the motion of the horse tends to move the charge and shake the powder out of the cone, which renders it liable to burst the gun and to miss fire. An invention of the Namaquas, in Africa, described by Galton in his Art of Travel, is as follows: "Sew a bag of canvas, leather, or hide, of such bigness as to admit the butt of the gun pretty freely. The straps that support it buckle through a ring in the pommel, and the thongs by which its slope is adjusted fasten round the girth below. The exact adjustments may not be hit upon by an unpracticed person for some little time, but, when they are once ascertained, the straps need never be shifted. The gun is perfectly safe, and never comes below the arm-pit, even in taking a drop leap; it is pulled out in an instant by bringing the elbow in front of the gun and close to the side, so as to throw the gun to the outside of the arm; then, lowering the hand, the gun is caught up. It is a bungling way to take out the gun while its barrel lies between the arm and the body. Any sized gun can be carried in this fashion. It offers no obstacle to mounting or dismounting." This may be a convenient way of carrying the gun; I have never tried it. Of all methods I have used, I prefer, for hunting, a piece of leather about twelve inches by four, with a hole cut in each end; one of the ends is placed over the pommel of the saddle, and with a buckskin string made fast to it, where it remains a permanent fixture. When the rider is mounted, he places his gun across the strap upon the saddle, and carries the loose end forward over the pommel, the gun resting horizontally across his legs. It will now only be necessary occasionally to steady the gun with the hand. After a little practice the rider will be able to control it with his knees, and it will be found a very easy and convenient method of carrying it. When required for use, it is taken out in an instant by simply raising it with the hand, when the loose end of the strap comes off the pommel. The chief causes of accidents from the use of fire-arms arise from carelessness, and I have always observed that those persons who are most familiar with their use are invariably the most careful. Many accidents have happened from carrying guns with the cock down upon the cap. When in this position, a blow upon the cock, and sometimes the concussion produced by the falling of the gun, will explode the cap; and, occasionally, when the cock catches a twig, or in the clothes, and lifts it from the cap, it will explode. With a gun at half-cock there is but little danger of such accidents; for, when the cock is drawn back, it either comes to the full-cock, and remains, or it returns to the half-cock, but does not go down upon the cone. Another source of very many sad and fatal accidents resulting from the most stupid and culpable carelessness is in persons standing before the muzzles of guns and attempting to pull them out of wagons, or to draw them through a fence or brush in the same position. If the cock encounters an obstacle in its passage, it will, of course, be drawn back and fall upon the cap. These accidents are of frequent occurrence, and the cause is well understood by all, yet men continue to disregard it, and their lives pay the penalty of their indiscretion. It is a wise maxim, which applies with especial force in campaigning on the prairies, "_Always look to your gun, but never let your gun look at you._" An equally important maxim might be added to this: _Never to point your gun at another, whether charged or uncharged, and never allow another to point his gun at you._ Young men, before they become accustomed to the use of arms, are very apt to be careless, and a large percentage of gun accidents may be traced to this cause. That finished sportsman and wonderful shot, my friend Captain Martin Scott, than whom a more gallant soldier never fought a battle, was the most careful man with fire-arms I ever knew, and up to the time he received his death-wound upon the bloody field of Molino del Rey he never ceased his cautionary advice to young officers upon this subject. His extended experience and intimate acquaintance with the use of arms had fully impressed him with its importance, and no man ever lived whose opinions upon this subject should carry greater weight. As incomprehensible as it may appear to persons accustomed to the use of fire-arms, recruits are very prone, before they have been drilled at target practice with ball cartridges, to place the ball below the powder in the piece. Officers conducting detachments through the Indian country should therefore give their special attention to this, and require the recruits to tear the cartridge and pour all the powder into the piece before the ball is inserted. As accidents often occur in camp from the accidental discharge of fire-arms that have been capped, I would recommend that the arms be continually kept loaded in campaigning, but the caps not placed upon the cones until they are required for firing. This will cause but little delay in an action, and will conduce much to security from accidents. When loaded fire-arms have been exposed for any considerable time to a moist atmosphere, they should be discharged, or the cartridges drawn, and the arms thoroughly cleaned, dried, and oiled. Too much attention can not be given in keeping arms in perfect firing order. TRAILING. I know of nothing in the woodman's education of so much importance, or so difficult to acquire, as the art of trailing or tracking men and animals. To become an adept in this art requires the constant practice of years, and with some men a lifetime does not suffice to learn it. Almost all the Indians whom I have met with are proficient in this species of knowledge, the faculty for acquiring which appears to be innate with them. Exigencies of woodland and prairie-life stimulate the savage from childhood to develop faculties so important in the arts of war and of the chase. I have seen very few white men who were good trailers, and practice did not seem very materially to improve their faculties in this regard; they have not the same acute perceptions for these things as the Indian or the Mexican. It is not apprehended that this difficult branch of woodcraft can be taught from books, as it pertains almost exclusively to the school of practice, yet I will give some facts relating to the habits of the Indians that will facilitate its acquirement. A party of Indians, for example, starting out upon a war excursion, leave their families behind, and never transport their lodges; whereas, when they move with their families, they carry their lodges and other effects. If, therefore, an Indian trail is discovered with the marks of the lodge-poles upon it, it has certainly not been made by a war-party; but if the track do not show the trace of lodge-poles, it will be equally certain that a war or hunting party has passed that way, and if it is not desired to come in conflict with them, their direction may be avoided. Mustangs or wild horses, when moving from place to place, leave a trail which is sometimes difficult to distinguish from that made by a mounted party of Indians, especially if the mustangs do not stop to graze. This may be determined by following upon the trail until some dung is found, and if this should lie in a single pile, it is a sure indication that a herd of mustangs has passed, as they always stop to relieve themselves, while a party of Indians would keep their horses in motion, and the ordure would be scattered along the road. If the trail pass through woodland, the mustangs will occasionally go under the limbs of trees too low to admit the passage of a man on horseback. An Indian, on coming to a trail, will generally tell at a glance its age, by what particular tribe it was made, the number of the party, and many other things connected with it astounding to the uninitiated. I remember, upon one occasion, as I was riding with a Delaware upon the prairies, we crossed the trail of a large party of Indians traveling with lodges. The tracks appeared to me quite fresh, and I remarked to the Indian that we must be near the party. "Oh no," said he, "the trail was made two days before, in the morning," at the same time pointing with his finger to where the sun would be at about 8 o'clock. Then, seeing that my curiosity was excited to know by what means he arrived at this conclusion, he called my attention to the fact that there had been no dew for the last two nights, but that on the previous morning it had been heavy. He then pointed out to me some spears of grass that had been pressed down into the earth by the horses' hoofs, upon which the sand still adhered, having dried on, thus clearly showing that the grass was wet when the tracks were made. At another time, as I was traveling with the same Indian, I discovered upon the ground what I took to be a bear-track, with a distinctly-marked impression of the heel and all the toes. I immediately called the Indian's attention to it, at the same time flattering myself that I had made quite an important discovery, which had escaped his observation. The fellow remarked with a smile, "Oh no, captain, may be so he not bear-track." He then pointed with his gun-rod to some spears of grass that grew near the impression, but I did not comprehend the mystery until he dismounted and explained to me that, when the wind was blowing, the spears of grass would be bent over toward the ground, and the oscillating motion thereby produced would scoop out the loose sand into the shape I have described. The truth of this explanation was apparent, yet it occurred to me that its solution would have baffled the wits of most white men. Fresh tracks generally show moisture where the earth has been turned up, but after a short exposure to the sun they become dry. If the tracks be very recent, the sand may sometimes, where it is very loose and dry, be seen running back into the tracks, and by following them to a place where they cross water, the earth will be wet for some distance after they leave it. The droppings of the dung from animals are also good indications of the age of a trail. It is well to remember whether there have been any rains within a few days, as the age of a trail may sometimes be conjectured in this way. It is very easy to tell whether tracks have been made before or after a rain, as the water washes off all the sharp edges. It is not a difficult matter to distinguish the tracks of American horses from those of Indian horses, as the latter are never shod; moreover, they are much smaller. In trailing horses, there will be no trouble while the ground is soft, as the impressions they leave will then be deep and distinct; but when they pass over hard or rocky ground, it is sometimes a very slow and troublesome process to follow them. Where there is grass, the trace can be seen for a considerable time, as the grass will be trodden down and bent in the direction the party has moved; should the grass have returned to its upright position, the trail can often be distinguished by standing upon it and looking ahead for some distance in the direction it has been pursuing; the grass that has been turned over will show a different shade of green from that around it, and this often marks a trail for a long time. Should all traces of the track be obliterated in certain localities, it is customary with the Indians to follow on in the direction it has been pursuing for a time, and it is quite probable that in some place where the ground is more favorable it will show itself again. Should the trail not be recovered in this way, they search for a place where the earth is soft, and make a careful examination, embracing the entire area where it is likely to run. Indians who find themselves pursued and wish to escape, scatter as much as possible, with an understanding that they are to meet again at some point in advance, so that, if the pursuing party follows any one of the tracks, it will invariably lead to the place of rendezvous. If, for example, the trail points in the direction of a mountain pass, or toward any other place which affords the only passage through a particular section of country, it would not be worth while to spend much time in hunting it, as it would probably be regained at the pass. [Illustration: HORSE-TRACKS AT ORDINARY SPEED.] As it is important in trailing Indians to know at what gaits they are traveling, and as the appearance of the tracks of horses are not familiar to all, I have in the following cut represented the prints made by the hoofs at the ordinary speed of the walk, trot, and gallop, so that persons, in following the trail of Indians, may form an idea as to the probability of overtaking them, and regulate their movements accordingly. In traversing a district of unknown country where there are no prominent landmarks, and with the view of returning to the point of departure, a pocket compass should always be carried, and attached by a string to a button-hole of the coat, to prevent its being lost or mislaid; and on starting out, as well as frequently during the trip, to take the bearing, and examine the appearance of the country when facing toward the starting-point, as a landscape presents a very different aspect when viewing it from opposite directions. There are few white men who can retrace their steps for any great distance unless they take the above precautions in passing over an unknown country for the first time; but with the Indians it is different; the sense of locality seems to be innate with them, and they do not require the aid of the magnetic needle to guide them. Upon a certain occasion, when I had made a long march over an unexplored section, and was returning upon an entirely different route without either road or trail, a Delaware, by the name of "Black Beaver," who was in my party, on arriving at a particular point, suddenly halted, and, turning to me, asked if I recognized the country before us. Seeing no familiar objects, I replied in the negative. He put the same question to the other white men of the party, all of whom gave the same answers, whereupon he smiled, and in his quaint vernacular said, "Injun he don't know nothing. Injun big fool. White man mighty smart; he know heap." At the same time he pointed to a tree about two hundred yards from where we were then standing, and informed us that our outward trail ran directly by the side of it, which proved to be true. Another time, as I was returning from the Comanche country over a route many miles distant from the one I had traveled in going out, one of my Delaware hunters, who had never visited the section before, on arriving upon the crest of an eminence in the prairie, pointed out to me a clump of trees in the distance, remarking that our outward track would be found there. I was not, however, disposed to credit his statement until we reached the locality and found the road passing the identical spot he had indicated. This same Indian would start from any place to which he had gone by a sinuous route, through an unknown country, and keep a direct bearing back to the place of departure; and he assured me that he has never, even during the most cloudy or foggy weather, or in the darkest nights, lost the points of compass. There are very few white men who are endowed with these wonderful faculties, and those few are only rendered proficient by matured experience. I have known several men, after they had become lost in the prairies, to wander about for days without exercising the least judgment, and finally exhibiting a state of mental aberration almost upon the verge of lunacy. Instead of reasoning upon their situation, they exhaust themselves running a-head at their utmost speed without any regard to direction. When a person is satisfied that he has lost his way, he should stop and reflect upon the course he has been traveling, the time that has elapsed since he left his camp, and the probable distance that he is from it; and if he is unable to retrace his steps, he should keep as nearly in the direction of them as possible; and if he has a compass, this will be an easy matter; but, above all, he should guard against following his own track around in a circle with the idea that he is in a beaten trace. When he is traveling with a train of wagons which leaves a plain trail, he can make the distance he has traveled from camp the radius of a circle in which to ride around, and before the circle is described he will strike the trail. If the person has no compass, it is always well to make an observation, and to remember the direction of the wind at the time of departure from camp; and as this would not generally change during the day, it would afford a means of keeping the points of the compass. In the night Ursa Major (the Great Bear) is not only useful to find the north star, but its position, when the pointers will be vertical in the heavens, may be estimated with sufficient accuracy to determine the north even when the north star can not be seen. In tropical latitudes, the zodiacal stars, such as Orion and Antares, give the east and west bearing, and the Southern Cross the north and south when Polaris and the Great Bear can not be seen. It is said that the moss upon the firs and other trees in Europe gives a certain indication of the points of compass in a forest country, the greatest amount accumulating upon the north side of the trees. But I have often observed the trees in our own forests, and have not been able to form any positive conclusions in this way. CHAPTER VI. Guides and Hunters. Delawares and Shawnees. Khebirs. Black Beaver. Anecdotes. Domestic Troubles. Lodges. Similarity of Prairie Tribes to the Arabs. Method of making War. Tracking and pursuing Indians. Method of attacking them. Telegraphing by Smokes. DELAWARES AND SHAWNEES. It is highly important that parties making expeditions through an unexplored country should secure the services of the best guides and hunters, and I know of none who are superior to the Delawares and Shawnee Indians. They have been with me upon several different occasions, and I have invariably found them intelligent, brave, reliable, and in every respect well qualified to fill their positions. They are endowed with those keen and wonderful powers in woodcraft which can only be acquired by instinct, practice, and necessity, and which are possessed by no other people that I have heard of, unless it be the khebirs or guides who escort the caravans across the great desert of Sahara. General E. Dumas, in his treatise upon the "Great Desert," published in Paris, 1856, in speaking of these guides, says: "The khebir is always a man of intelligence, of tried probity, bravery, and skill. He knows how to determine his position from the appearance of the stars; by the experience of other journeys he has learned all about the roads, wells, and pastures; the dangers of certain passes, and the means of avoiding them; all the chiefs whose territories it is necessary to pass through; the salubrity of the different localities; the remedies against diseases; the treatment of fractures, and the antidotes to the venom of snakes and scorpions. "In these vast solitudes, where nothing seems to indicate the route, where the wind covers up all traces of the track with sand, the khebir has a thousand ways of directing himself in the right course. In the night, when there are no stars in sight, by the simple inspection of a handful of grass, which he examines with his fingers, which he smells and tastes, he informs himself of his locale without ever being lost or wandering. "I saw with astonishment that our conductor, although he had but one eye, and that defective, recognized perfectly the route; and Leon, the African, states that the conductor of his caravan became blind upon the journey from ophthalmia, yet by feeling the grass and sand he could tell when we were approaching an inhabited place. "Our guide had all the qualities which make a good khebir. He was young, large, and strong; he was a master of arms; his eye commanded respect, and his speech won the heart. But if in the tent he was affable and winning, once _en route_ he spoke only when it was necessary, and never smiled." The Delawares are but a minute remnant of the great Algonquin family, whose early traditions declare them to be the parent stock from which the other numerous branches of the Algonquin tribes originated. And they are the same people whom the first white settlers found so numerous upon the banks of the Delaware. When William Penn held his council with the Delawares upon the ground where the city of Philadelphia now stands, they were as peaceful and unwarlike in their habits as the Quakers themselves. They had been subjugated by the Five Nations, forced to take the appellation of squaws, and forego the use of arms; but after they moved west, beyond the influence of their former masters, their naturally independent spirit revived, they soon regained their lofty position as braves and warriors, and the male squaws of the Iroquois soon became formidable men and heroes, and so have continued to the present day. Their war-path has reached the shores of the Pacific Ocean on the west, Hudson's Bay on the north, and into the very heart of Mexico on the south. They are not clannish in their dispositions like most other Indians, nor by their habits confined to any given locality, but are found as traders, trappers, or hunters among most of the Indian tribes inhabiting our continent. I even saw them living with the Mormons in Utah. They are among the Indians as the Jews among the whites, essentially wanderers. The Shawnees have been associated with the Delawares 185 years. They intermarry and live as one people. Their present places of abode are upon the Missouri River, near Fort Leavenworth, and in the Choctaw Territory, upon the Canadian River, near Fort Arbuckle. They are familiar with many of the habits and customs of their pale-faced neighbors, and some of them speak the English language, yet many of their native characteristics tenaciously cling to them. Upon one occasion I endeavored to teach a Delaware the use of the compass. He seemed much interested in its mechanism, and very attentively observed the oscillations of the needle. He would move away a short distance, then return, keeping his eyes continually fixed upon the needle and the uniform position into which it settled. He did not, however, seem to comprehend it in the least, but regarded the entire proceeding as a species of necromantic performance got up for his especial benefit, and I was about putting away the instrument when he motioned me to stop, and came walking toward it with a very serious but incredulous countenance, remarking, as he pointed his finger toward it, "Maybe so he tell lie sometime." The ignorance evinced by this Indian regarding the uses of the compass is less remarkable than that of some white men who are occasionally met upon the frontier. While surveying Indian lands in the wilds of Western Texas during the summer of 1854, I encountered a deputy surveyor traveling on foot, with his compass and chain upon his back. I saluted him very politely, remarking that I presumed he was a surveyor, to which he replied, "I reckon, _stranger_, I ar that thar individoal." I had taken the magnetic variation several times, always with nearly the same results (about 10° 20'); but, in order to verify my observations, I was curious to learn how they accorded with his own working, and accordingly inquired of him what he made the variation of the compass in that particular locality. He seemed struck with astonishment, took his compass from his back and laid it upon a log near by, then facing me, and pointing with his hand toward it, said, "Straanger, do yer see that thar instru-_ment_?" to which I replied in the affirmative. He continued, "I've owned her well-nigh goin on twenty year. I've put her through the perarries and through the timber, and now look yeer, straanger, you can just bet your life on't she never _var_-ried arry time, and if you'll just follow her sign you'll knock the centre outer the north star. She never lies, she don't." He seemed to consider my interrogatory as a direct insinuation that his compass was an imperfect one, and hence his indignation. Thinking that I should not get any very important intelligence concerning the variation of the needle from this surveyor, I begged his pardon for questioning the accuracy of his instru-_ment_, bid him good-morning, and continued on my journey. BLACK BEAVER. In 1849 I met with a very interesting specimen of the Delaware tribe whose name was Black Beaver. He had for ten years been in the employ of the American Fur Company, and during this time had visited nearly every point of interest within the limits of our unsettled territory. He had set his traps and spread his blanket upon the head waters of the Missouri and Columbia; and his wanderings had led him south to the Colorado and Gila, and thence to the shores of the Pacific in Southern California. His life had been that of a veritable cosmopolite, filled with scenes of intense and startling interest, bold and reckless adventure. He was with me two seasons in the capacity of guide, and I always found him perfectly reliable, brave, and competent. His reputation as a resolute, determined, and fearless warrior did not admit of question, yet I have never seen a man who wore his laurels with less vanity. When I first made his acquaintance I was puzzled to know what to think of him. He would often, in speaking of the Prairie Indians, say to me, "Captain, if you have a fight, you mustn't count much on me, for I'ze a big coward. When the fight begins I 'spect you'll see me run under the cannon; Injun mighty 'fraid of big gun." I expressed my surprise that he should, if what he told me was true, have gained such a reputation as a warrior; whereupon he informed me that many years previous, when he was a young man, and before he had ever been in battle, he, with about twenty white men and four Delawares, were at one of the Fur Company's trading-posts upon the Upper Missouri, engaged in trapping beaver. While there, the stockade fort was attacked by a numerous band of Blackfeet Indians, who fought bravely, and seemed determined to annihilate the little band that defended it. After the investment had been completed, and there appeared no probability of the attacking party's abandoning their purpose, "One d----d fool Delaware" (as Black Beaver expressed it) proposed to his countrymen to make a sortie, and thereby endeavor to effect an impression upon the Blackfeet. This, Beaver said, was the last thing he would ever have thought of suggesting, and it startled him prodigiously, causing him to tremble so much that it was with difficulty he could stand. He had, however, started from home with the fixed purpose of becoming a distinguished brave, and made a great effort to stifle his emotion. He assumed an air of determination, saying that was the very idea he was just about to propose; and, slapping his comrades upon the back, started toward the gate, telling them to follow. As soon as the gate was passed, he says, he took particular care to keep in the rear of the others, so that, in the event of a retreat, he would be able to reach the stockade first. They had not proceeded far before a perfect shower of arrows came falling around them on all sides, but, fortunately, without doing them harm. Not fancying this hot reception, those in front proposed an immediate retreat, to which he most gladly acceded, and at once set off at his utmost speed, expecting to reach the fort first. But he soon discovered that his comrades were more fleet, and were rapidly passing and leaving him behind. Suddenly he stopped and called out to them, "Come back here, you cowards, you squaws; what for you run away and leave brave man to fight alone?" This taunting appeal to their courage turned them back, and, with their united efforts, they succeeded in beating off the enemy immediately around them, securing their entrance into the fort. Beaver says when the gate was closed the captain in charge of the establishment grasped him warmly by the hand, saying, "Black Beaver, you are a brave man; you have done this day what no other man in the fort would have the courage to do, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart." In relating the circumstance to me he laughed most heartily, thinking it a very good joke, and said after that he was regarded as a brave warrior. The truth is, my friend Beaver was one of those few heroes who never sounded his own trumpet; yet no one that knows him ever presumed to question his courage. At another time, while Black Beaver remained upon the head waters of the Missouri, he was left in charge of a "_caché_" consisting of a quantity of goods buried to prevent their being stolen by the Indians. During the time he was engaged upon this duty he amused himself by hunting in the vicinity, only visiting his charge once a day. As he was making one of these periodical visits, and had arrived upon the summit of a hill overlooking the locality, he suddenly discovered a large number of hostile Blackfeet occupying it, and he supposed they had appropriated all the goods. As soon as they espied him, they beckoned for him to come down and have a friendly chat with them. Knowing that their purpose was to beguile him into their power, he replied that he did not feel in a talking humor just at that time, and started off in another direction, whereupon they hallooed after him, making use of the most insulting language and gestures, and asking him if he considered himself a man thus to run away from his friends, and intimating that, in their opinion, he was an old woman, who had better go home and take care of the children. Beaver says this roused his indignation to such a pitch that he stopped, turned around, and replied, "Maybe so; s'pose three or four of you Injuns come up here alone, I'll show you if I'ze old womans." They did not, however, accept the challenge, and Beaver rode off. Although the Delawares generally seem quite happy in their social relations, yet they are not altogether exempt from some of those minor discords which occasionally creep in and mar the domestic harmony of their more civilized pale-faced brethren. I remember, upon one occasion, I had bivouacked for the night with Black Beaver, and he had been endeavoring to while away the long hours of the evening by relating to me some of the most thrilling incidents of his highly-adventurous and erratic life, when at length a hiatus in the conversation gave me an opportunity of asking him if he was a married man. He hesitated for some time; then looking up and giving his forefinger a twirl, to imitate the throwing of a lasso, replied, "One time me catch 'um wife. I pay that woman, _his modder_, one hoss--one saddle--one bridle--two plug tobacco, and plenty goods. I take him home to my house--got plenty meat--plenty corn--plenty every thing. One time me go take walk, maybe so three, maybe so two hours. When I come home, that woman he say, 'Black Beaver, what for you go way long time?' I say, 'I not go nowhere; I just take one littel walk.' Then that woman he get heap mad, and say, 'No, Black Beaver, you not take no littel walk. I know what for you go way; _you go see nodder one woman_.' I say, 'Maybe not.' Then that woman she cry long time, and all e'time now she mad. You never seen 'Merican woman that a-way?" I sympathized most deeply with my friend in his distress, and told him for his consolation that, in my opinion, the women of his nation were not peculiar in this respect; that they were pretty much alike all over the world, and I was under the impression that there were well-authenticated instances even among white women where they had subjected themselves to the same causes of complaint so feelingly depicted by him. Whereupon he very earnestly asked, "What you do for cure him? Whip him?" I replied, "No; that, so far as my observation extended, I was under the impression that this was generally regarded by those who had suffered from its effects as one of those chronic and vexatious complaints which would not be benefited by the treatment he suggested, even when administered in homoeopathic doses, and I believed it was now admitted by all sensible men that it was better in all such cases to let nature take its course, trusting to a merciful Providence." At this reply his countenance assumed a dejected expression, but at length he brightened up again and triumphantly remarked, "I tell you, my friend, what I do; I ketch 'um nodder one wife when I go home." Black Beaver had visited St. Louis and the small towns upon the Missouri frontier, and he prided himself not a little upon his acquaintance with the customs of the whites, and never seemed more happy than when an opportunity offered to display this knowledge in presence of his Indian companions. It so happened, upon one occasion, that I had a Comanche guide who bivouacked at the same fire with Beaver. On visiting them one evening according to my usual practice, I found them engaged in a very earnest and apparently not very amicable conversation. On inquiring the cause of this, Beaver answered, "I've been telling this Comanche what I seen 'mong the white folks." I said, "Well, Beaver, what did you tell him?" "I tell him 'bout the steam-boats, and the railroads, and the heap o' houses I seen in St. Louis." "Well, sir, what does he think of that?" "He say I'ze d----d fool." "What else did you tell him about?" "I tell him the world is round, but he keep all e'time say, Hush, you fool! do you spose I'ze child? Haven't I got eyes? Can't I see the prairie? You call him round? He say, too, maybe so I tell you something you not know before. One time my grandfather he make long journey that way (pointing to the west). When he get on big mountain, he seen heap water on t'other side, jest so flat he can be, and he seen the sun go right straight down on t'other side. I then tell him all these rivers he seen, all e'time the water he run; s'pose the world flat the water he stand still. Maybe so he not b'lieve me?" I told him it certainly looked very much like it. I then asked him to explain to the Comanche the magnetic telegraph. He looked at me earnestly, and said, "What you call that magnetic telegraph?" I said, "you have heard of New York and New Orleans?" "Oh yes," he replied. "Very well; we have a wire connecting these two cities, which are about a thousand miles apart, and it would take a man thirty days to ride it upon a good horse. Now a man stands at one end of this wire in New York, and by touching it a few times he inquires of his friend in New Orleans what he had for breakfast. His friend in New Orleans touches the other end of the wire, and in ten minutes the answer comes back--ham and eggs. Tell him that, Beaver." His countenance assumed a most comical expression, but he made no remark until I again requested him to repeat what I had said to the Comanche, when he observed, "No, captain, I not tell him that, for I don't b'lieve that myself." Upon my assuring him that such was the fact, and that I had seen it myself, he said, "Injun not very smart; sometimes he's big fool, but he holler pretty loud; you hear him maybe half a mile; you say 'Merican man he talk thousand miles. I 'spect you try to fool me now, captain; _maybe so you lie_." The Indians living between the outer white settlements and the nomadic tribes of the Plains form intermediate social links in the chain of civilization. The first of these occupy permanent habitations, but the others, although they cultivate the soil, are only resident while their crops are growing, going out into the prairies after harvest to spend the winter in hunting. Among the former may be mentioned the Cherokees, Creeks, Choctaws, and Chickasaws, and of the latter are the Delawares, Shawnees, Kickapoos, etc., who are perfectly familiar with the use of the rifle, and, in my judgment, would make as formidable partisan warriors as can be found in the universe. THE WILD TRIBES OF THE WEST. These are very different in their habits from the natives that formerly occupied the country bordering upon the Atlantic coast. The latter lived permanently in villages, where they cultivated the soil, and never wandered very far from them. They did not use horses, but always made their war expeditions on foot, and never came into action unless they could screen themselves behind the cover of trees. They inflicted the most inhuman tortures upon their prisoners, but did not, that I am aware, violate the chastity of women. The prairie tribes have no permanent abiding places; they never plant a seed, but roam for hundreds of miles in every direction over the Plains. They are perfect horsemen, and seldom go to war on foot. Their attacks are made in the open prairies, and when unhorsed they are powerless. They do not, like the eastern Indians, inflict upon their prisoners prolonged tortures, but invariably subject all females that have the misfortune to fall into their merciless clutches to an ordeal worse than death. It is highly important to every man passing through a country frequented by Indians to know some of their habits, customs, and propensities, as this will facilitate his intercourse with friendly tribes, and enable him, when he wishes to avoid a conflict, to take precautions against coming in collision with those who are hostile. Almost every tribe has its own way of constructing its lodges, encamping, making fires, its own style of dress, by some of which peculiarities the experienced frontiersman can generally distinguish them. The Osages, for example, make their lodges in the shape of a wagon-top, of bent rods or willows covered with skins, blankets, or the bark of trees. The Kickapoo lodges are made in an oval form, something like a rounded hay-stack, of poles set in the ground, bent over, and united at top; this is covered with cloths or bark. The Witchetaws, Wacos, Towackanies, and Tonkowas erect their hunting lodges of sticks put up in the form of the frustum of a cone and covered with brush. All these tribes leave the frame-work of their lodges standing when they move from camp to camp, and this, of course, indicates the particular tribe that erected them. The Delawares and Shawnees plant two upright forked poles, place a stick across them, and stretch a canvas covering over it, in the same manner as with the "_tente d'abri_." The Sioux, Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Utés, Snakes, Blackfeet, and Kioways make use of the Comanche lodge, covered with dressed buffalo hides. All the Prairie Indians I have met with are the most inveterate beggars. They will flock around strangers, and, in the most importunate manner, ask for every thing they see, especially tobacco and sugar; and, if allowed, they will handle, examine, and occasionally pilfer such things as happen to take their fancy. The proper way to treat them is to give them at once such articles as are to be disposed of, and then, in a firm and decided manner, let them understand that they are to receive nothing else. A party of Keechis once visited my camp with their principal chief, who said he had some important business to discuss, and demanded a council with the _capitan_. After consent had been given, he assembled his principal men, and, going through the usual preliminary of taking a _big smoke_, he arose, and with a great deal of ceremony commenced his pompous and flowery speech, which, like all others of a similar character, amounted to nothing, until he touched upon the real object of his visit. He said he had traveled a long distance over the prairies to see and have a talk with his white brothers; that his people were very hungry and naked. He then approached me with six small sticks, and, after shaking hands, laid one of the sticks in my hand, which he said represented sugar, another signified tobacco, and the other four, pork, flour, whisky, and blankets, all of which he assured me his people were in great need of, and must have. His talk was then concluded, and he sat down, apparently much gratified with the graceful and impressive manner with which he had executed his part of the performance. It then devolved upon me to respond to the brilliant effort of the prairie orator, which I did in something like the following manner. After imitating his style for a short time, I closed my remarks by telling him that we were poor infantry soldiers, who were always obliged to go on foot; that we had become very tired of walking, and would like very much to ride. Furthermore, I had observed that they had among them many fine horses and mules. I then took two small sticks, and imitating as nearly as possible the manner of the chief, placed one in his hand, which I told him was nothing more or less than a first-rate horse, and then the other, which signified a good large mule. I closed by saying that I was ready to exchange presents whenever it suited his convenience. They looked at each other for some time without speaking, but finally got up and walked away, and I was not troubled with them again. INDIAN FIGHTING. The military system, as taught and practiced in our army up to the time of the Mexican war, was, without doubt, efficient and well adapted to the art of war among civilized nations. This system was designed for the operations of armies acting in populated districts, furnishing ample resources, and against an enemy who was tangible, and made use of a similar system. The vast expanse of desert territory that has been annexed to our domain within the last few years is peopled by numerous tribes of marauding and erratic savages, who are mounted upon fleet and hardy horses, making war the business and pastime of their lives, and acknowledging none of the ameliorating conventionalities of civilized warfare. Their tactics are such as to render the old system almost wholly impotent. To act against an enemy who is here to-day and there to-morrow; who at one time stampedes a herd of mules upon the head waters of the Arkansas, and when next heard from is in the very heart of the populated districts of Mexico, laying waste haciendas, and carrying devastation, rapine, and murder in his steps; who is every where without being any where; who assembles at the moment of combat, and vanishes whenever fortune turns against him; who leaves his women and children far distant from the theatre of hostilities, and has neither towns or magazines to defend, nor lines of retreat to cover; who derives his commissariat from the country he operates in, and is not encumbered with baggage-wagons or pack-trains; who comes into action only when it suits his purposes, and never without the advantage of numbers or position--with such an enemy the strategic science of civilized nations loses much of its importance, and finds but rarely, and only in peculiar localities, an opportunity to be put in practice. Our little army, scattered as it has been over the vast area of our possessions, in small garrisons of one or two companies each, has seldom been in a situation to act successfully on the offensive against large numbers of these marauders, and has often been condemned to hold itself almost exclusively upon the defensive. The morale of the troops must thereby necessarily be seriously impaired, and the confidence of the savages correspondingly augmented. The system of small garrisons has a tendency to disorganize the troops in proportion as they are scattered, and renders them correspondingly inefficient. The same results have been observed by the French army in Algeria, where, in 1845, their troops were, like ours, disseminated over a vast space, and broken up into small detachments stationed in numerous intrenched posts. Upon the sudden appearance of Abd el Kader in the plain of Mitidja, they were defeated with serious losses, and were from day to day obliged to abandon these useless stations, with all the supplies they contained. A French writer, in discussing this subject, says: "We have now abandoned the fatal idea of defending Algeria by small intrenched posts. In studying the character of the war, the nature of the men who are to oppose us, and of the country in which we are to operate, we must be convinced of the danger of admitting any other system of fortification than that which is to receive our grand depôts, our magazines, and to serve as places to recruit and rest our troops when exhausted by long expeditionary movements. "These fortifications should be established in the midst of the centres of action, so as to command the principal routes, and serve as pivots to expeditionary columns. "We owe our success to a system of war which has its proofs in twice changing our relations with the Arabs. This system consists altogether in the great mobility we have given to our troops. Instead of disseminating our soldiers with the vain hope of protecting our frontiers with a line of small posts, we have concentrated them, to have them at all times ready for emergencies, and since then the fortune of the Arabs has waned, and we have marched from victory to victory. "This system, which has thus far succeeded, ought to succeed always, and to conduct us, God willing, to the peaceful possession of the country." * * * * * In reading a treatise upon war as it is practiced by the French in Algeria, by Colonel A. Laure, of the 2d Algerine Tirailleurs, published in Paris in 1858, I was struck with the remarkable similarity between the habits of the Arabs and those of the wandering tribes that inhabit our Western prairies. Their manner of making war is almost precisely the same, and a successful system of strategic operations for one will, in my opinion, apply to the other. As the Turks have been more successful than the French in their military operations against the Arab tribes, it may not be altogether uninteresting to inquire by what means these inferior soldiers have accomplished the best results. The author above mentioned, in speaking upon this subject, says: "In these latter days the world is occupied with the organization of mounted infantry, according to the example of the Turks, where, in the most successful experiments that have been made, the mule carries the foot-soldier. "The Turkish soldier mounts his mule, puts his provisions upon one side and his accoutrements upon the other, and, thus equipped, sets out upon long marches, traveling day and night, and only reposing occasionally in bivouac. Arrived near the place of operations (as near the break of day as possible), the Turks dismount in the most profound silence, and pass in succession the bridle of one mule through that of another in such a manner that a single man is sufficient to hold forty or fifty of them by retaining the last bridle, which secures all the others; they then examine their arms, and are ready to commence their work. The chief gives his last orders, posts his guides, and they make the attack, surprise the enemy, generally asleep, and carry the position without resistance. The operation terminated, they hasten to beat a retreat, to prevent the neighboring tribes from assembling, and thus avoid a combat. "The Turks had only three thousand mounted men and ten thousand infantry in Algeria, yet these thirteen thousand men sufficed to conquer the same obstacles which have arrested us for twenty-six years, notwithstanding the advantage we had of an army which was successively re-enforced until it amounted to a hundred thousand. "Why not imitate the Turks, then, mount our infantry upon mules, and reduce the strength of our army? "The response is very simple: "The Turks are Turks--that is to say, Mussulmans--and indigenous to the country; the Turks speak the Arabic language; the Deys of Algiers had less country to guard than we, and they care very little about retaining possession of it. They are satisfied to receive a part of its revenues. They were not permanent; their dominion was held by a thread. The Arab dwells in tents; his magazines are in caves. When he starts upon a war expedition, he folds his tent, drives far away his beasts of burden, which transport his effects, and only carries with him his horse and arms. Thus equipped, he goes every where; nothing arrests him; and often, when we believe him twenty leagues distant, he is in ambush at precisely rifle range from the flanks of his enemy. "It may be thought the union of contingents might retard their movements, but this is not so. The Arabs, whether they number ten or a hundred thousand, move with equal facility. They go where they wish and as they wish upon a campaign; the place of rendezvous merely is indicated, and they arrive there. "What calculations can be made against such an organization as this? "Strategy evidently loses its advantages against such enemies; a general can only make conjectures; he marches to find the Arabs, and finds them not; then, again, when he least expects it, he suddenly encounters them. "When the Arab despairs of success in battle, he places his sole reliance upon the speed of his horse to escape destruction; and as he is always in a country where he can make his camp beside a little water, he travels until he has placed a safe distance between himself and his enemy." * * * * * No people probably on the face of the earth are more ambitious of martial fame, or entertain a higher appreciation for the deeds of a daring and successful warrior, than the North American savages. The attainment of such reputation is the paramount and absorbing object of their lives; all their aspirations for distinction invariably take this channel of expression. A young man is never considered worthy to occupy a seat in council until he has encountered an enemy in battle; and he who can count the greatest number of scalps is the most highly honored by his tribe. This idea is inculcated from their earliest infancy. It is not surprising, therefore, that, with such weighty inducements before him, the young man who, as yet, has gained no renown as a brave or warrior, should be less discriminate in his attacks than older men who have already acquired a name. The young braves should, therefore, be closely watched when encountered on the Plains. The prairie tribes are seldom at peace with all their neighbors, and some of the young braves of a tribe are almost always absent upon a war excursion. These forays sometimes extend into the heart of the northern states of Mexico, where the Indians have carried on successful invasions for many years. They have devastated and depopulated a great portion of Sonora and Chihuahua. The objects of these forays are to steal horses and mules, and to take prisoners; and if it so happens that a war-party has been unsuccessful in the accomplishment of these ends, or has had the misfortune to lose some of its number in battle, they become reckless, and will often attack a small party with whom they are not at war, provided they hope to escape detection. The disgrace attendant upon a return to their friends without some trophies as an offset to the loss of their comrades is a powerful incentive to action, and they extend but little mercy to defenseless travelers who have the misfortune to encounter them at such a conjuncture. While en route from New Mexico to Arkansas in 1849 I was encamped near the head of the Colorado River, and wishing to know the character of the country for a few miles in advance of our position, I desired an officer to go out and make the reconnoissance. I was lying sick in my bed at the time, or I should have performed the duty myself. I expected the officer would have taken an escort with him, but he omitted to do so, and started off alone. After proceeding a short distance he discovered four mounted Indians coming at full speed directly toward him, when, instead of turning his own horse toward camp, and endeavoring to make his escape (he was well mounted), or of halting and assuming a defensive attitude, he deliberately rode up to them; after which the tracks indicated that they proceeded about three miles together, when the Indians most brutally killed and scalped my most unfortunate but too credulous friend, who might probably have saved his life had he not, in the kindness of his excellent heart, imagined that the savages would reciprocate his friendly advances. He was most woefully mistaken, and his life paid the forfeit of his generous and noble disposition. I have never been able to get any positive information as to the persons who committed this murder, yet circumstances render it highly probable that they were a party of young Indians who were returning from an unsuccessful foray, and they were unable to resist the temptation of taking the scalp and horse of the lieutenant. A small number of white men, in traveling upon the Plains, should not allow a party of strange Indians to approach them unless able to resist an attack under the most unfavorable circumstances. It is a safe rule, when a man finds himself alone in the prairies, and sees a party of Indians approaching, not to allow them to come near him, and if they persist in so doing, to signal them to keep away. If they do not obey, and he be mounted upon a fleet horse, he should make for the nearest timber. If the Indians follow and press him too closely, he should halt, turn around, and point his gun at the foremost, which will often have the effect of turning them back, but he should never draw trigger unless he finds that his life depends upon the shot; for, as soon as his shot is delivered, his sole dependence, unless he have time to reload, must be upon the speed of his horse. The Indians of the Plains, notwithstanding the encomiums that have been heaped upon their brethren who formerly occupied the Eastern States for their gratitude, have not, so far as I have observed, the most distant conception of that sentiment. You may confer numberless benefits upon them for years, and the more that is done for them the more they will expect. They do not seem to comprehend the motive which dictates an act of benevolence or charity, and they invariably attribute it to fear or the expectation of reward. When they make a present, it is with a view of getting more than its equivalent in return. I have never yet been able to discover that the Western wild tribes possessed any of those attributes which among civilized nations are regarded as virtues adorning the human character. They have yet to be taught the first rudiments of civilization, and they are at this time as far from any knowledge of Christianity, and as worthy subjects for missionary enterprise, as the most untutored natives of the South Sea Islands. [Illustration: KEEP AWAY!] The only way to make these merciless freebooters fear or respect the authority of our government is, when they misbehave, first of all to chastise them well by striking such a blow as will be felt for a long time, and thus show them that we are superior to them in war. They will then respect us much more than when their good-will is purchased with presents. The opinion of a friend of mine, who has passed the last twenty-five years of his life among the Indians of the Rocky Mountains, corroborates the opinions I have advanced upon this head, and although I do not endorse all of his sentiments, yet many of them are deduced from long and matured experience and critical observation. He says: "They are the most onsartainest varmints in all creation, and I reckon tha'r not mor'n half human; for you never seed a human, arter you'd fed and treated him to the best fixins in your lodge, jist turn round and steal all your horses, or ary other thing he could lay his hands on. No, not adzackly. He would feel kinder grateful, and ask you to spread a blanket in his lodge ef you ever passed that a-way. But the Injun he don't care shucks for you, and is ready to do you a heap of mischief as soon as he quits your feed. No, Cap.," he continued, "it's not the right way to give um presents to buy peace; but ef I war governor of these yeer United States, I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd invite um all to a big feast, and make b'lieve I wanted to have a big talk; and as soon as I got um all together, I'd pitch in and sculp about half of um, and then t'other half would be mighty glad to make a peace that would stick. That's the way I'd make a treaty with the dog'ond, red-bellied varmints; and as sure as you're born, Cap., that's the only way." I suggested to him the idea that there would be a lack of good faith and honor in such a proceeding, and that it would be much more in accordance with my notions of fair dealing to meet them openly in the field, and there endeavor to punish them if they deserve it. To this he replied, "Tain't no use to talk about honor with them, Cap.; they hain't got no such thing in um; and they won't show fair fight, any way you can fix it. Don't they kill and sculp a white man when-ar they get the better on him? The mean varmints, they'll never behave themselves until you give um a clean out and out licking. They can't onderstand white folks' ways, and they won't learn um; and ef you treat um decently, they think you ar afeard. You may depend on't, Cap., the only way to treat Injuns is to thrash them well at first, then the balance will sorter take to you and behave themselves." The wealth of the Prairie Indians consists almost exclusively in their horses, of which they possess large numbers; and they are in the saddle from infancy to old age. Horsemanship is with them, as with the Arab of the Sahara, a necessary part of their education. The country they occupy is unsuited to cultivation, and their only avocations are war, rapine, and the chase. They have no fixed habitations, but move from place to place with the seasons and the game. All their worldly effects are transported in their migrations, and wherever their lodges are pitched there is their home. They are strangers to all cares, creating for themselves no artificial wants, and are perfectly happy and contented so long as the buffalo is found within the limits of their wanderings. Every man is a soldier, and they generally exhibit great confidence in their own military prowess. MEETING INDIANS. On approaching strangers these people put their horses at full speed, and persons not familiar with their peculiarities and habits might interpret this as an act of hostility; but it is their custom with friends as well as enemies, and should not occasion groundless alarm. When a party is discovered approaching thus, and are near enough to distinguish signals, all that is necessary in order to ascertain their disposition is to raise the right hand with the palm in front, and gradually push it forward and back several times. They all understand this to be a command to halt, and if they are not hostile it will at once be obeyed. After they have stopped the right hand is raised again as before, and slowly moved to the right and left, which signifies "I do not know you. Who are you?" As all the wild tribes have their peculiar pantomimic signals by which they are known, they will then answer the inquiry by giving their signal. If this should not be understood, they may be asked if they are friends by raising both hands grasped in the manner of shaking hands, or by locking the two fore-fingers firmly while the hands are held up. If friendly, they will respond with the same signal; but if enemies, they will probably disregard the command to halt, or give the signal of anger by closing the hand, placing it against the forehead, and turning it back and forth while in that position. The pantomimic vocabulary is understood by all the Prairie Indians, and when oral communication is impracticable it constitutes the court or general council language of the Plains. The signs are exceedingly graceful and significant; and, what was a fact of much astonishment to me, I discovered they were very nearly the same as those practiced by the mutes in our deaf and dumb schools, and were comprehended by them with perfect facility. The Comanche is represented by making with the hand a waving motion in imitation of the crawling of a snake. The Cheyenne, or "Cut-arm," by drawing the hand across the arm, to imitate cutting it with a knife. The Arapahoes, or "Smellers," by seizing the nose with the thumb and fore-finger. The Sioux, or "Cut-throats," by drawing the hand across the throat. The Pawnees, or "Wolves," by placing a hand on each side of the forehead, with two fingers pointing to the front, to represent the narrow, sharp ears of the wolf. The Crows, by imitating the flapping of the bird's wings with the palms of the hands. When Indians meet a party of strangers, and are disposed to be friendly, the chiefs, after the usual salutations have been exchanged, generally ride out and accompany the commander of the party some distance, holding a friendly talk, and, at the same time, indulging their curiosity by learning the news, etc. Phlegmatic and indifferent as they appear to be, they are very inquisitive and observing, and, at the same time, exceedingly circumspect and cautious about disclosing their own purposes. They are always desirous of procuring, from whomsoever they meet, testimonials of their good behavior, which they preserve with great care, and exhibit upon all occasions to strangers as a guarantee of future good conduct. On meeting with a chief of the Southern Comanches in 1849, after going through the usual ceremony of embracing, and assuring me that he was the best friend the Americans ever had among the Indians, he exhibited numerous certificates from the different white men he had met with, testifying to his friendly disposition. Among these was one that he desired me to read with special attention, as he said he was of the opinion that perhaps it might not be so complimentary in its character as some of the others. It was in these words: "The bearer of this says he is a Comanche chief, named Senaco; that he is the biggest Indian and best friend the whites ever had; in fact, that he is a first-rate fellow; but I believe he is a d----d rascal, _so look out for him_." I smiled on reading the paper, and, looking up, found the chief's eyes intently fixed upon mine with an expression of the most earnest inquiry. I told him the paper was not as good as it might be, whereupon he destroyed it. Five years after this interview I met Senaco again near the same place. He recognized me at once, and, much to my surprise, pronounced my name quite distinctly. A circumstance which happened in my interview with this Indian shows their character for diplomatic policy. I was about locating and surveying a reservation of land upon which the government designed to establish the Comanches, and was desirous of ascertaining whether they were disposed voluntarily to come into the measure. In this connection, I stated to him that their Great Father, the President, being anxious to improve their condition, was willing to give them a permanent location, where they could cultivate the soil, and, if they wished it, he would send white men to teach them the rudiments of agriculture, supply them with farming utensils, and all other requisites for living comfortably in their new homes. I then desired him to consult with his people, and let me know what their views were upon the subject. After talking a considerable time with his head men, he rose to reply, and said, "He was very happy to learn that the President remembered his poor red children in the Plains, and he was glad to see me again, and hear from me that their Great Father was their friend; that he was also very much gratified to meet his agent who was present, and that he should remember with much satisfaction the agreeable interview we had had upon that occasion." After delivering himself of numerous other non-committal expressions of similar import, he closed his speech and took his seat without making the slightest allusion to the subject in question. On reminding him of this omission, and again demanding from him a distinct and categorical answer, he, after a brief consultation with his people, replied that his talk was made and concluded, and he did not comprehend why it was that I wanted to open the subject anew. But, as I continued to press him for an answer, he at length said, "You come into our country and select a small patch of ground, around which you run a line, and tell us the President will make us a present of this to live upon, when every body knows that the whole of this entire country, from the Red River to the Colorado, is now, and always has been, ours from time immemorial. I suppose, however, if the President tells us to confine ourselves to these narrow limits, we shall be forced to do so, whether we desire it or not." He was evidently averse to the proposed change in their mode of life, and has been at war ever since the establishment of the settlement. The mode of life of the nomadic tribes, owing to their unsettled and warlike habits, is such as to render their condition one of constant danger and apprehension. The security of their numerous animals from the encroachments of their enemies and habitual liability to attacks compels them to be at all times upon the alert. Even during profound peace they guard their herds both night and day, while scouts are often patrolling upon the surrounding heights to give notice of the approach of strangers, and enable them to secure their animals and take a defensive attitude. When one of these people conceives himself injured his thirst for revenge is insatiable. Grave and dignified in his outward bearing, and priding himself upon never exhibiting curiosity, joy, or anger, yet when once roused he evinces the implacable dispositions of his race; the affront is laid up and cherished in his breast, and nothing can efface it from his mind until ample reparation is made. The insult must be atoned for by presents, or be washed out with blood. WAR EXPEDITIONS. When a chief desires to organize a war-party, he provides himself with a long pole, attaches a red flag to the end of it, and trims the top with eagle feathers. He then mounts his horse in his war-costume, and rides around through the camp singing the war-song. Those who are disposed to join the expedition mount their horses and fall into the procession; after parading about for a time, all dismount, and the war-dance is performed. This ceremony is continued from day to day until a sufficient number of volunteers are found to accomplish the objects desired, when they set out for the theatre of their intended exploits. As they proceed upon their expedition, it sometimes happens that the chief with whom it originated, and who invariably assumes the command, becomes discouraged at not finding an opportunity of displaying his warlike abilities, and abandons the enterprise; in which event, if others of the party desire to proceed farther, they select another leader and push on, and thus so long as any one of the party holds out. A war-party is sometimes absent for a great length of time, and for days, weeks, and months their friends at home anxiously await their return, until, suddenly, from afar, the shrill war-cry of an _avant courier_ is heard proclaiming the approach of the victorious warriors. The camp is in an instant alive with excitement and commotion. Men, women, and children swarm out to meet the advancing party. Their white horses are painted and decked out in the most fantastic style, and led in advance of the triumphal procession; and, as they pass around through the village, the old women set up a most unearthly howl of exultation, after which the scalp-dance is performed with all the pomp and display their limited resources admit of, the warriors having their faces painted black. When, on the other hand, the expedition terminates disastrously by the loss of some of the party in battle, the relatives of the deceased cut off their own hair, and the tails and manes of their horses, as symbols of mourning, and howl and cry for a long time. In 1854 I saw the widow of a former chief of the Southern Comanches, whose husband had been dead about three years, yet she continued her mourning tribute to his memory by crying daily for him and refusing all offers to marry again. The prairie warrior is occasionally seen with the rifle in his hand, but his favorite arm is the bow, the use of which is taught him at an early age. By constant practice he acquires a skill in archery that renders him no less formidable in war than successful in the chase. Their bows are usually made of the tough and elastic wood of the "_bois d'are_," strengthened and re-enforced with sinews of the deer wrapped firmly around, and strung with a cord of the same material. They are from three to four feet long. The arrows, which are carried in a quiver upon the back, are about twenty inches long, of flexible wood, with a triangular iron point at one end, and at the other two feathers intersecting at right angles. At short distances (about fifty yards), the bow, in the hands of the Indian, is effective, and in close proximity with the buffalo throws the arrow entirely through his huge carcass. In using this weapon the warrior protects himself from the missiles of his enemy with a shield made of two thicknesses of undressed buffalo hide filled in with hair. The Comanches, Sioux, and other prairie tribes make their attacks upon the open prairies. Trusting to their wonderful skill in equitation and horsemanship, they ride around their enemies with their bodies thrown upon the opposite side of the horse, and discharge their arrows in rapid succession while at full speed; they will not, however, often venture near an enemy who occupies a defensive position. If, therefore, a small party be in danger of an attack from a large force of Indians, they should seek the cover of timber or a park of wagons, or, in the absence of these, rocks or holes in the prairie which afford good cover. Attempts to stampede animals are often made when parties first arrive in camp, and when every one's attention is preoccupied in the arrangements therewith connected. In a country infested by hostile Indians, the ground in the vicinity of which it is proposed to encamp should be cautiously examined for tracks and other Indian _signs_ by making a circuit around the locality previous to unharnessing the animals. After Indians have succeeded in stampeding a herd of horses or mules, and desire to drive them away, they are in the habit of pushing them forward as rapidly as possible for the first few days, in order to place a wide interval between themselves and any party that may be in pursuit. In running off stolen animals, the Indians are generally divided into two parties, one for driving and the other to act as a rear guard. Before they reach a place where they propose making a halt, they leave a vidette upon some prominent point to watch for pursuers and give the main party timely warning, enabling them to rally their animals and push forward again. TRACKING INDIANS. When an Indian sentinel intends to watch for an enemy approaching from the rear, he selects the highest position available, and places himself near the summit in such an attitude that his entire body shall be concealed from the observation of any one in the rear, his head only being exposed above the top of the eminence. Here he awaits with great patience so long as he thinks there is any possibility of danger, and it will be difficult for an enemy to surprise him or to elude his keen and scrutinizing vigilance. Meanwhile his horse is secured under the screen of the hill, all ready when required. Hence it will be evident that, in following Indian depredators, the utmost vigilance and caution must be exercised to conceal from them the movements of their pursuers. They are the best scouts in the world, proficient in all the artifices and stratagems available in border warfare, and when hotly pursued by a superior force, after exhausting all other means of evasion, they scatter in different directions; and if, in a broken or mountainous country, they can do no better, abandon their horses and baggage, and take refuge in the rocks, gorges, or other hiding-places. This plan has several times been resorted to by Indians in Texas when surprised, and, notwithstanding their pursuers were directly upon them, the majority made their escape, leaving behind all their animals and other property. For overtaking a marauding party of Indians who have advanced eight or ten hours before the pursuing party are in readiness to take the trail, it is not best to push forward rapidly at first, as this will weary and break down horses. The Indians must be supposed to have at least fifty or sixty miles the start; it will, therefore, be useless to think of overtaking them without providing for a long chase. Scouts should continually be kept out in front upon the trail to reconnoitre and give preconcerted signals to the main party when the Indians are espied. In approaching all eminences or undulations in the prairies, the commander should be careful not to allow any considerable number of his men to pass upon the summits until the country around has been carefully reconnoitred by the scouts, who will cautiously raise their eyes above the crests of the most elevated points, making a scrutinizing examination in all directions; and, while doing this, should an Indian be encountered who has been left behind as a sentinel, he must, if possible, be secured or shot, to prevent his giving the alarm to his comrades. These precautions can not be too rigidly enforced when the trail becomes "warm;" and if there be a moon, it will be better to lie by in the daytime and follow the trail at night, as the great object is to come upon the Indians when they are not anticipating an attack. Such surprises, if discreetly conducted; generally prove successful. As soon as the Indians are discovered in their bivouac, the pursuing party should dismount, leave their horses under charge of a guard in some sequestered place, and, before advancing to the attack, the men should be instructed in signals for their different movements, such as all will easily comprehend and remember. As, for example, a pull upon the right arm may signify to face to the right, and a pull upon the left arm to face to the left; a pull upon the skirt of the coat, to halt; a gentle push on the back, to advance in ordinary time; a slap on the back, to advance in double quick time, etc., etc. These signals, having been previously well understood and practiced, may be given by the commander to the man next to him, and from him communicated in rapid succession throughout the command. I will suppose the party formed in one rank, with the commander on the right. He gives the signal, and the men move off cautiously in the direction indicated. The importance of not losing sight of his comrades on his right and left, and of not allowing them to get out of his reach, so as to break the chain of communication, will be apparent to all, and great care should be taken that the men do not mistake their brothers in arms for the enemy. This may be prevented by having two _pass-words_, and when there be any doubt as to the identity of two men who meet during the night operations, one of these words may be repeated by each. Above all, the men must be fully impressed with the importance of not firing a shot until the order is given by the commanding officer, and also that a rigorous personal accountability will be enforced in all cases of a violation of this rule. If the commander gives the signal for commencing the attack by firing a pistol or gun, there will probably be no mistake, unless it happens through carelessness by the accidental discharge of firearms. I can conceive of nothing more appalling, or that tends more to throw men off their guard and produce confusion, than a sudden and unexpected night-attack. Even the Indians, who pride themselves upon their coolness and self-possession, are far from being exempt from its effects; and it is not surprising that men who go to sleep with a sense of perfect security around them, and are suddenly aroused from a sound slumber by the terrific sounds of an onslaught from an enemy, should lose their presence of mind. TELEGRAPHING BY SMOKES. The transparency of the atmosphere upon the Plains is such that objects can be seen at great distances; a mountain, for example, presents a distinct and bold outline at fifty or sixty miles, and may occasionally be seen as far as a hundred miles. The Indians, availing themselves of this fact, have been in the habit of practicing a system of telegraphing by means of smokes during the day and fires by night, and, I dare say, there are but few travelers who have crossed the mountains to California that have not seen these signals made and responded to from peak to peak in rapid succession. The Indians thus make known to their friends many items of information highly important to them. If enemies or strangers make their appearance in the country, the fact is telegraphed at once, giving them time to secure their animals and to prepare for attack, defense, or flight. War or hunting parties, after having been absent a long time from their erratic friends at home, and not knowing where to find them, make use of the same preconcerted signals to indicate their presence. Very dense smokes may be raised by kindling a large fire with dry wood, and piling upon it the green boughs of pine, balsam, or hemlock. This throws off a heavy cloud of black smoke which can be seen very far. This simple method of telegraphing, so useful to the savages both in war and in peace, may, in my judgment, be used to advantage in the movements of troops co-operating in separate columns in the Indian country. I shall not attempt at this time to present a matured system of signals, but will merely give a few suggestions tending to illustrate the advantages to be derived from the use of them. For example, when two columns are marching through a country at such distances apart that smokes may be seen from one to the other, their respective positions may be made known to each other at any time by two smokes raised simultaneously or at certain preconcerted intervals. Should the commander of one column desire to communicate with the other, he raises three smokes simultaneously, which, if seen by the other party, should be responded to in the same manner. They would then hold themselves in readiness for any other communications. If an enemy is discovered in small numbers, a smoke raised twice at fifteen minutes' interval would indicate it; and if in large force, three times with the same intervals might be the signal. Should the commander of one party desire the other to join him, this might be telegraphed by four smokes at ten minutes' interval. Should it become necessary to change the direction of the line of march, the commander may transmit the order by means of two simultaneous smokes raised a certain number of times to indicate the particular direction; for instance, twice for north, three times for south, four times for east, and five times for west; three smokes raised twice for northeast, three times for northwest, etc., etc. By multiplying the combinations of signals a great variety of messages might be transmitted in this manner; but, to avoid mistakes, the signals should be written down and copies furnished the commander of each separate party, and they need not necessarily be made known to other persons. During the day an intelligent man should be detailed to keep a vigilant look-out in all directions for smokes, and he should be furnished with a watch, pencil, and paper, to make a record of the signals, with their number, and the time of the intervals between them. CHAPTER VII. Hunting. Its Benefits to the Soldier. Buffalo. Deer. Antelope. Bear. Big-horn, or Mountain Sheep. Their Habits, and Hints upon the best Methods of hunting them. HUNTING. I know of no better school of practice for perfecting men in target-firing, and the use of firearms generally, than that in which the frontier hunter receives his education. One of the first and most important lessons that he is taught impresses him with the conviction that, unless his gun is in good order and steadily directed upon the game, he must go without his supper; and if ambition does not stimulate his efforts, his appetite will, and ultimately lead to success and confidence in his own powers. The man who is afraid to place the butt of his piece firmly against his shoulder, or who turns away his head at the instant of pulling trigger (as soldiers often do before they have been drilled at target-practice), will not be likely to bag much game or to contribute materially toward the result of a battle. The successful hunter, as a general rule, is a good shot, will always charge his gun properly, and may be relied upon in action. I would, therefore, when in garrison or at permanent camps, encourage officers and soldiers in field-sports. If permitted, men very readily cultivate a fondness for these innocent and healthy exercises, and occupy their leisure time in their pursuit; whereas, if confined to the narrow limits of a frontier camp or garrison, having no amusements within their reach, they are prone to indulge in practices which are highly detrimental to their physical and moral condition. By making short excursions about the country they acquire a knowledge of it, become inured to fatigue, learn the art of bivouacking, trailing, etc., etc., all of which will be found serviceable in border warfare; and, even if they should perchance now and then miss some of the minor routine duties of the garrison, the benefits they would derive from hunting would, in my opinion, more than counterbalance its effects. Under the old regime it was thought that drills, dress-parades, and guard-mountings comprehended the sum total of the soldier's education, but the experience of the last ten years has taught us that these are only the rudiments, and that to combat successfully with Indians we must receive instruction from them, study their tactics, and, where they suit our purposes, copy from them. The union of discipline with the individuality, self-reliance, and rapidity of locomotion of the savage is what we should aim at. This will be the tendency of the course indicated, and it is conceived by the writer that an army composed of well-disciplined hunters will be the most efficient of all others against the only enemy we have to encounter within the limits of our vast possessions. I find some pertinent remarks upon this subject in a very sensible essay by "a late captain of infantry" (U.S.). He says: "It is conceived that scattered bands of mounted hunters, with the speed of a horse and the watchfulness of a wolf or antelope, whose faculties are sharpened by their necessities; who, when they get short of provisions, separate and look for something to eat, and find it in the water, in the ground, or on the surface; whose bill of fare ranges from grass-seed, nuts, roots, grasshoppers, lizards, and rattlesnakes up to the antelope, deer, elk, bear, and buffalo, and who have a continent to roam over, will be neither surprised, caught, conquered, overawed, or reduced to famine by a rumbling, bugle-blowing, drum-beating town passing through their country on wheels at the speed of a loaded wagon. "If the Indians are in the path and do not wish to be seen, they cross a ridge, and the town moves on, ignorant whether there are fifty Indians within a mile or no Indian within fifty miles. If the Indians wish to see, they return to the crest of the ridge, crawl up to the edge, pull up a bunch of grass by the roots, and look through or under it at the procession." Although I would always encourage men in hunting when permanently located, yet, unless they are good woodsmen, it is not safe to permit them to go out alone in marching through the Indian country, as, aside from the danger of encountering Indians, they would be liable to become bewildered and perhaps lost, and this might detain the entire party in searching for them. The better plan upon a march is for three or four to go out together, accompanied by a good woodsman, who will be able with certainty to lead them back to camp. The little group could ascertain if Indians are about, and would be strong enough to act on the defensive against small parties of them; and, while they are amusing themselves, they may perform an important part as scouts and flankers. An expedition may have been perfectly organized, and every thing provided that the wisest forethought could suggest, yet circumstances beyond the control of the most experienced traveler may sometimes arise to defeat the best concerted plans. It is not, for example, an impossible contingency that the traveler may, by unforeseen delays, consume his provisions, lose them in crossing streams, or have them stolen by hostile Indians, and be reduced to the necessity of depending upon game for subsistence. Under these circumstances, a few observations upon the habits of the different animals that frequent the Plains and on the best methods of hunting them may not be altogether devoid of interest or utility in this connection. THE BUFFALO. The largest and most useful animal that roams over the prairies is the buffalo. It provides food, clothing, and shelter to thousands of natives whose means of livelihood depend almost exclusively upon this gigantic monarch of the prairies. Not many years since they thronged in countless multitudes over all that vast area lying between Mexico and the British possessions, but now their range is confined within very narrow limits, and a few more years will probably witness the extinction of the species. The traveler, in passing from Texas or Arkansas through southern New Mexico to California, does not, at the present day, encounter the buffalo; but upon all the routes north of latitude 36° the animal is still found between the 99th and 102d meridians of longitude. Although generally regarded as migratory in their habits, yet the buffalo often _winter_ in the snows of a high northern latitude. Early in the spring of 1858 I found them in the Rocky Mountains, at the head of the Arkansas and South Platte Rivers, and there was every indication that this was a permanent abiding-place for them. There are two methods generally practiced in hunting the buffalo, viz.: running them on horseback, and stalking, or still-hunting. The first method requires a sure-footed and tolerably fleet horse that is not easily frightened. The buffalo cow, which makes much better beef than the bull, when pursued by the hunter runs rapidly, and, unless the horse be fleet, it requires a long and exhausting chase to overtake her. When the buffalo are discovered, and the hunter intends to give chase, he should first dismount, arrange his saddle-blanket and saddle, buckle the girth tight, and make every thing about his horse furniture snug and secure. He should then put his arms in good firing order, and, taking the lee side of the herd, so that they may not get "_the wind_" of him, he should approach in a walk as close as possible, taking advantage of any cover that may offer. His horse then, being cool and fresh, will be able to dash into the herd, and probably carry his rider very near the animal he has selected before he becomes alarmed. If the hunter be right-handed, and uses a pistol, he should approach upon the left side, and when nearly opposite and close upon the buffalo, deliver his shot, taking aim a little below the centre of the body, and about eight inches back of the shoulder. This will strike the vitals, and generally render another shot unnecessary. When a rifle or shot-gun is used the hunter rides up on the right side, keeping his horse well in hand, so as to be able to turn off if the beast charges upon him; this, however, never happens except with a buffalo that is wounded, when it is advisable to keep out of his reach. The buffalo has immense powers of endurance, and will run for many miles without any apparent effort or diminution in speed. The first buffalo I ever saw I followed about ten miles, and when I left him he seemed to run faster than when the chase commenced. As a long buffalo-chase is very severe labor upon a horse, I would recommend to all travelers, unless they have a good deal of surplus horse-flesh, never to expend it in running buffalo. Still-hunting, which requires no consumption of horse-flesh, and is equally successful with the other method, is recommended. In stalking on horseback, the most broken and hilly localities should be selected, as these will furnish cover to the hunter, who passes from the crest of one hill to another, examining the country carefully in all directions. When the game is discovered, if it happen to be on the lee side, the hunter should endeavor, by making a wide detour, to get upon the opposite side, as he will find it impossible to approach within rifle range with the wind. When the animal is upon a hill, or in any other position where he can not be approached without danger of disturbing him, the hunter should wait until he moves off to more favorable ground, and this will not generally require much time, as they wander about a great deal when not grazing; he then pickets his horse, and approaches cautiously, seeking to screen himself as much as possible by the undulations in the surface, or behind such other objects as may present themselves; but if the surface should offer no cover, he must crawl upon his hands and knees when near the game, and in this way he can generally get within rifle range. Should there be several animals together, and his first shot take effect, the hunter can often get several other shots before they become frightened. A Delaware Indian and myself once killed five buffaloes out of a small herd before the remainder were so much disturbed as to move away; although we were within the short distance of twenty yards, yet the reports of our rifles did not frighten them in the least, and they continued grazing during all the time we were loading and firing. The sense of smelling is exceedingly acute with the buffalo, and they will take the wind from the hunter at as great a distance as a mile. When the animal is wounded, and stops, it is better not to go near him until he lies down, as he will often run a great distance if disturbed; but if left to himself, will in many cases die in a short time. The tongues, humps, and marrow-bones are regarded as the choice parts of the animal. The tongue is taken out by ripping open the skin between the prongs of the lower jaw-bone and pulling it out through the orifice. The hump may be taken off by skinning down on each side of the shoulders and cutting away the meat, after which the hump-ribs can be unjointed where they unite with the spine. The marrow, when roasted in the bones, is delicious. THE DEER. Of all game quadrupeds indigenous to this continent, the common red deer is probably more widely dispersed from north to south and from east to west over our vast possessions than any other. They are found in all latitudes from Hudson's Bay to Mexico, and they clamber over the most elevated peaks of the western sierras with the same ease that they range the eastern forests or the everglades of Florida. In summer they crop the grass upon the summits of the Rocky Mountains, and in winter, when the snow falls deep, they descend into sheltered valleys, where they fall an easy prey to the Indians. Besides the common red deer of the Eastern States, two other varieties are found in the Rocky Mountains, viz., the "black-tailed deer," which takes its name from the fact of its having a small tuft of black hair upon the end of its tail, and the _long-tailed_ species. The former of these is considerably larger than the eastern deer, and is much darker, being of a very deep-yellowish iron-gray, with a yellowish red upon the belly. It frequents the mountains, and is never seen far away from them. Its habits are similar to those of the red deer, and it is hunted in the same way. The only difference I have been able to discern between the long-tailed variety and the common deer is in the length of the tail and body. I have seen this animal only in the neighborhood of the Rocky Mountains, but it may resort to other localities. Although the deer are still abundant in many of our forest districts in the east, and do not appear to decrease very rapidly, yet there has within a few years been a very evident diminution in the numbers of those frequenting our Western prairies. In passing through Southern Texas in 1846, thousands of deer were met with daily, and, astonishing as it may appear, it was no uncommon spectacle to see from one to two hundred in a single herd; the prairies seemed literally alive with them; but in 1855 it was seldom that a herd often was seen in the same localities. It seemed to me that the vast herds first met with could not have been killed off by the hunters in that sparsely-populated section, and I was puzzled to know what had become of them. It is possible they may have moved off into Mexico; they certainly are not in our territory at the present time. Twenty years' experience in deer-hunting has taught me several facts relative to the habits of the animal which, when well understood, will be found of much service to the inexperienced hunter, and greatly contribute to his success. The best target-shots are not necessarily the most skillful deer-stalkers. One of the great secrets of this art is in knowing how to approach the game without giving alarm, and this can not easily be done unless the hunter sees it before he is himself discovered. There are so many objects in the woods resembling the deer in color that none but a practiced eye can often detect the difference. When the deer is reposing he generally turns his head from the wind, in which position he can see an enemy approaching from that direction, and his nose will apprise him of the presence of danger from the opposite side. The best method of hunting deer, therefore, is _across the wind_. While the deer are feeding, early in the morning and a short time before dark in the evening are the best times to stalk them, as they are then busily occupied and less on the alert. When a deer is espied with his head down, cropping the grass, the hunter advances cautiously, keeping his eyes constantly directed upon him, and screening himself behind intervening objects, or, in the absence of other cover, crawls along upon his hands and knees in the grass, until the deer hears his steps and raises his head, when he must instantly stop and remain in an attitude fixed and motionless as a statue, for the animal's vision is his keenest sense. When alarmed he will detect the slightest movement of a small object, and, unless the hunter stands or lies perfectly still, his presence will be detected. If the hunter does not move, the deer will, after a short time, recover from his alarm and resume his grazing, when he may be again approached. The deer always exhibits his alarm by a sudden jerking of the tail just before he raises his head. I once saw a Delaware Indian walk directly up within rifle range of a deer that was feeding upon the open prairie and shoot him down; he was, however, a long time in approaching, and made frequent halts whenever the animal flirted his tail and raised his head. Although he often turned toward the hunter, yet he did not appear to notice him, probably taking him for a stump or tree. When the deer are lying down in the smooth prairie, unless the grass is tall, it is difficult to get near them, as they are generally looking around, and become alarmed at the least noise. The Indians are in the habit of using a small instrument which imitates the bleat of the young fawn, with which they lure the doe within range of their rifles. The young fawn gives out no scent upon its track until it is sufficiently grown to make good running, and instinct teaches the mother that this wise provision of nature to preserve the helpless little quadruped from the ravages of wolves, panthers, and other carnivorous beasts, will be defeated if she remains with it, as her tracks can not be concealed. She therefore hides her fawn in the grass, where it is almost impossible to see it, even when very near it, goes off to some neighboring thicket within call, and makes her bed alone. The Indian pot-hunter, who is but little scrupulous as to the means he employs in accomplishing his ends, sounds the bleat along near the places where he thinks the game is lying, and the unsuspicious doe, who imagines that her offspring is in distress, rushes with headlong impetuosity toward the sound, and often goes within a few yards of the hunter to receive her death-wound. This is cruel sport, and can only be justified when meat is scarce, which is very frequently the case in the Indian's larder. It does not always comport with a man's feelings of security, especially if he happens to be a little nervous, to sound the deer-bleat in a wild region of country. I once undertook to experiment with the instrument myself, and made my first essay in attempting to call up an antelope which I discovered in the distance. I succeeded admirably in luring the wary victim within shooting range, had raised upon my knees, and was just in the act of pulling trigger, when a rustling in the grass on my left drew my attention in that direction, where, much to my surprise, I beheld a huge panther within about twenty yards, bounding with gigantic strides directly toward me. I turned my rifle, and in an instant, much to my relief and gratification, its contents were lodged in the heart of the beast. Many men, when they suddenly encounter a deer, are seized with nervous excitement, called in sporting parlance the "_buck fever_," which causes them to fire at random. Notwithstanding I have had much experience in hunting, I must confess that I am never entirely free from some of the symptoms of this malady when firing at large game, and I believe that in four out of five cases where I have missed the game my balls have passed too high. I have endeavored to obviate this by sighting my rifle low, and it has been attended with more successful results. The same remarks apply to most other men I have met with. They fire too high when excited. THE ANTELOPE. This animal frequents the most elevated bleak and naked prairies in all latitudes from Mexico to Oregon, and constitutes an important item of subsistence with many of the Prairie Indians. It is the most wary, timid, and fleet animal that inhabits the Plains. It is about the size of a small deer, with a heavy coating of coarse, wiry hair, and its flesh is more tender and juicy than that of the deer. It seldom enters a timbered country, but seems to delight in cropping the grass from the elevated swells of the prairies. When disturbed by the traveler, it will circle around him with the speed of the wind, but does not stop until it reaches some prominent position whence it can survey the country on all sides, and nothing seems to escape its keen vision. They will sometimes stand for a long time and look at a man, provided he does not move or go out of sight; but if he goes behind a hill with the intention of passing around and getting nearer to them, he will never find them again in the same place. I have often tried the experiment, and invariably found that, as soon as I went where the antelope could not see me, he moved off. Their sense of hearing, as well as vision, is very acute, which renders it difficult to stalk them. By taking advantage of the cover afforded in broken ground, the hunter may, by moving slowly and cautiously over the crests of the irregularities in the surface, sometimes approach within rifle range. The antelope possesses a greater degree of curiosity than any other animal I know of, and will often approach very near a strange object. The experienced hunter, taking advantage of this peculiarity, lies down and secretes himself in the grass, after which he raises his handkerchief, hand, or foot, so as to attract the attention of the animal, and thus often succeeds in beguiling him within shooting distance. In some valleys near the Rocky Mountains, where the pasturage is good during the winter season, they collect in immense herds. The Indians are in the habit of surrounding them in such localities and running them with their horses until they tire them out, when they slay large numbers. [Illustration: CALLING UP ANTELOPES.] The antelope makes a track much shorter than the deer, very broad and round at the heel, and quite sharp at the toe; a little experience renders it easy to distinguish them. THE BEAR. Besides the common black bear of the Eastern States, several others are found in the mountains of California, Oregon, Utah, and New Mexico, viz., the grizzly, brown, and cinnamon varieties; all have nearly the same habits, and are hunted in the same manner. From all I had heard of the grizzly bear, I was induced to believe him one of the most formidable and savage animals in the universe, and that the man who would deliberately encounter and kill one of these beasts had performed a signal feat of courage which entitled him to a lofty position among the votaries of Nimrod. So firmly had I become impressed with this conviction, that I should have been very reluctant to fire upon one had I met him when alone and on foot. The grizzly bear is assuredly the monarch of the American forests, and, so far as physical strength is concerned, he is perhaps without a rival in the world; but, after some experience in hunting, my opinions regarding his courage and his willingness to attack men have very materially changed. In passing over the elevated table-lands lying between the two forks of the Platte River in 1858, I encountered a full-grown female grizzly bear, with two cubs, very quietly reposing upon the open prairie, several miles distant from any timber. This being the first opportunity that had ever occurred to me for an encounter with the ursine monster, and being imbued with the most exalted notions of the beast's proclivities for offensive warfare, especially when in the presence of her offspring, it may very justly be imagined that I was rather more excited than usual. I, however, determined to make the assault. I felt the utmost confidence in my horse, as she was afraid of nothing; and, after arranging every thing about my saddle and arms in good order, I advanced to within about eighty yards before I was discovered by the bear, when she raised upon her haunches and gave me a scrutinizing examination. I seized this opportune moment to fire, but missed my aim, and she started off, followed by her cubs at their utmost speed. After reloading my rifle, I pursued, and, on coming again within range, delivered another shot, which struck the large bear in the fleshy part of the thigh, whereupon she set up a most distressing howl and accelerated her pace, leaving her cubs behind. After loading again I gave the spurs to my horse and resumed the chase, soon passing the cubs, who were making the most plaintive cries of distress. They were heard by the dam, but she gave no other heed to them than occasionally to halt for an instant, turn around, sit up on her posteriors, and give a hasty look back; but, as soon as she saw me following her, she invariably turned again and redoubled her speed. I pursued about four miles and fired four balls into her before I succeeded in bringing her to the ground, and from the time I first saw her until her death-wound, notwithstanding I was often very close upon her heels, she never came to bay or made the slightest demonstration of resistance. Her sole purpose seemed to be to make her escape, leaving her cubs in the most cowardly manner. Upon three other different occasions I met the mountain bears, and once the cinnamon species, which is called the most formidable of all, and in none of these instances did they exhibit the slightest indication of anger or resistance, but invariably ran from me. Such is my experience with this formidable monarch of the mountains. It is possible that if a man came suddenly upon the beast in a thicket, where it could have no previous warning, he might be attacked; but it is my opinion that if the bear gets _the wind_ or sight of a man at any considerable distance, it will endeavor to get away as soon as possible. I am so fully impressed with this idea that I shall hereafter hunt bear with a feeling of as much security as I would have in hunting the buffalo. The grizzly, like the black bear, hybernates in winter, and makes his appearance in the spring with his claws grown out long and very soft and tender; he is then poor, and unfit for food. I have heard a very curious fact stated by several old mountaineers regarding the mountain bears, which, of course, I can not vouch for, but it is given by them with great apparent sincerity and candor. They assert that no instance has ever been known of a female bear having been killed in a state of pregnancy. This singular fact in the history of the animal seems most inexplicable to me, unless she remain concealed in her brumal slumber until after she has been delivered of her cubs. I was told by an old Delaware Indian that when the bear has been traveling against the wind and wishes to lie down, he always turns in an opposite direction, and goes some distance away from his first track before making his bed. If an enemy then comes upon his trail, his keen sense of smell will apprise him of the danger. The same Indian mentioned that when a bear had been pursued and sought shelter in a cave, he had often endeavored to eject him with smoke, but that the bear would advance to the mouth of the cave, where the fire was burning, and put it out with his paws, then retreat into the cave again. This would indicate that Bruin is endowed with some glimpses of reason beyond the ordinary instincts of the brute creation in general, and, indeed, is capable of discerning the connection between cause and effect. Notwithstanding the extraordinary intelligence which this quadruped exhibits upon some occasions, upon others he shows himself to be one of the most stupid brutes imaginable. For example, when he has taken possession of a cavern, and the courageous hunter enters with a torch and rifle, it is said he will, instead of forcibly ejecting the intruder, raise himself upon his haunches and cover his eyes with his paws, so as to exclude the light, apparently thinking that in this situation he can not be seen. The hunter can then approach as close as he pleases and shoot him down. THE BIG-HORN. The big-horn or mountain sheep, which has a body like the deer, with the head of a sheep, surmounted by an enormous pair of short, heavy horns, is found throughout the Rocky Mountains, and resorts to the most inaccessible peaks and to the wildest and least-frequented glens. It clambers over almost perpendicular cliffs with the greatest ease and celerity, and skips from rock to rock, cropping the tender herbage that grows upon them. It has been supposed by some that this animal leaps down from crag to crag, lighting upon his horns, as an evidence of which it has been advanced that the front part of the horns is often much battered. This I believe to be erroneous, as it is very common to see horns that have no bruises upon them. The old mountaineers say they have often seen the bucks engaged in desperate encounters with their huge horns, which, in striking together, made loud reports. This will account for the marks sometimes seen upon them. The flesh of the big-horn, when fat, is more tender, juicy, and delicious than that of any other animal I know of, but it is a _bon bouche_ which will not grace the tables of our city epicures until a railroad to the Rocky Mountains affords the means of transporting it to a market a thousand miles distant from its haunts. In its habits the mountain sheep greatly resembles the chamois of Switzerland, and it is hunted in the same manner. The hunter traverses the most inaccessible and broken localities, moving along with great caution, as the least unusual noise causes them to flit away like a phantom, and they will be seen no more. The animal is gregarious, but it is seldom that more than eight or ten are found in a flock. When not grazing they seek the sheltered sides of the mountains, and repose among the rocks. [Illustration: THE NEEDLES. Between Cayetano Mountains and the San Juan River--Sierra de la Plata, or Silver Mountains, in the distance.] ITINERARIES. LIST OF ITINERARIES: SHOWING THE DISTANCES BETWEEN CAMPING-PLACES, THE CHARACTER OF THE ROADS, AND THE FACILITIES FOR OBTAINING WOOD, WATER, AND GRASS ON THE PRINCIPAL ROUTES BETWEEN THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER AND THE PACIFIC OCEAN. No. Page I. From Fort Smith, Arkansas, to Santa Fé and Albuquerque, New Mexico. By Captain R. B. Marcy, U.S.A. 257 II. From Fort Leavenworth to Santa Fé, by the way of the upper ferry of the Kansas River and the Cimarron 260 III. Camping-places upon a road discovered and marked out from Fort Smith, Arkansas, to Doña Aña and El Paso, New Mexico, in 1849. By Captain R. B. Marcy, U.S.A. 263 IV. From Leavenworth City to Great Salt Lake City 266 V. From Salt Lake City to Sacramento and Benicia, California 273 VI. From Great Salt Lake City to Los Angeles and San Francisco, California 277 VII. From Fort Bridger to the "City of Rocks." From Captain Handcock's Journal 279 VIII. From Soda Springs to the City of Rocks, known as Hudspeth's Cut-off 282 IX. Sublet's Cut-off, from the junction of the Salt Lake and Fort Hall Roads 282 X. From Lawson's Meadows, on the Humboldt River, to Fort Reading, via Rogue River Valley, Fort Lane, Oregon Territory, Yreka, and Fort Jones 283 XI. From Soda Springs to Fort Wallah Wallah and Oregon City, Oregon, via Fort Hall 285 XII. Route for pack trains from John Day's River to Oregon City 288 XIII. From Indianola and Powder-horn to San Antonio, Texas 288 XIV. Wagon-road from San Antonio, Texas, to El Paso, N.M., and Fort Yuma, California 289 XV. From Fort Yuma to San Diego, California 292 XVI. From El Paso, New Mexico, to Fort Yuma, California, via Santa Cruz 294 XVII. From Westport, Missouri, to the gold diggings at Pike's Peak and "Cherry Creek," N.T., via the Arkansas River 295 XVIII. From St. Paul's, Min., to Fort Wallah Wallah, Oregon 302 XIX. Lieutenant E. F. Beale's route from Albuquerque to the Colorado River 307 XX. Captain Whipple's route from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to San Pedro, California 308 XXI. From Fort Yuma to Benicia, California. From Lieutenant R. S. Williamson's Report 315 XXII. A new route from Fort Bridger to Camp Floyd, opened by Captain J. H. Simpson, U.S.A., in 1858 317 XXIII. From Fort Thorne, New Mexico, to Fort Yuma, California 318 XXIV. Lieutenant Bryan's Route from the Laramie Crossing of the South Platte to Fort Bridger, via Bridger's Pass 320 XXV. Wagon-route from Denver City, at the Mouth of Cherry Creek, to Fort Bridger, Utah 323 XXVI. From Nebraska City, on the Missouri, to Fort Kearney 326 XXVII. From Camp Floyd, Utah, to Fort Union, New Mexico. By Colonel W. W. Loring, U.S.A. 327 XXVIII. Wagon-route from Guaymas, Mexico, to Tubac, Arizona. From Captain Stone's Journal 333 I.--_From Fort Smith, Arkansas, to Santa Fé and Albuquerque, New Mexico._ By Captain R. B. MARCY, U.S.A. Miles. Fort Smith to 15. Strickland's Farm.--The road crosses the Poteau River at Fort Smith, where there is a ferry; it then follows the Poteau bottom for ten miles. This part of the road is very muddy after heavy rains. At 14 miles it passes the Choctaw Agency, where there are several stores. There is the greatest abundance of wood, water, and grass at all camps for the first 200 miles. Where any of these are wanting it will be specially mentioned. The road passes through the Choctaw settlements for about 150 miles, and corn and supplies can be purchased from these Indians at reasonable rates. 11. Camp Creek.--Road crosses a prairie of three miles in length, then enters a heavy forest. The camp is on a small branch, with grass plenty in a small prairie about 400 yards to the left of the road. 12. Coon Creek.--Road passes through the timber, and is muddy in a rainy season. 12. Sans Bois Creek.--Prairie near; some Choctaw houses at the crossing. 14. Bend of Sans Bois Creek.--Indian farm. 15. South Fork of Canadian, or "Gain's Creek."--Road traverses a very rough and hilly region. There is a ford and a ferry upon the creek. Indian farm on the west bank. 12. First ford of Coal Creek.--Road crosses over a rolling prairie, and at four miles the Fort Washita road turns to the left. Second ford of Coal Creek.--Indian farm. 4. Little Cedar Mountain.--Very rough, mountainous road. 6. Stony Point.--Very rough, mountainous road. 5. Shawnee Village.--Several Indian houses. 14. Shawnee Town.--Road passes several small prairies. Indian settlement; store on opposite bank of Canadian River, near the camp. 21. Delaware Mountain.--Road passes over a very beautiful country, with small streams of good water frequent, and good camps. It crosses small prairies and groves of timber. 5. Boggy River.--Road passes a country similar to that mentioned above. 3. Clear Creek.--Road turns to the right near a prominent round mound. Beautiful country, diversified with prairies and timbered lands. 7. Branch of Topofki Creek.--Beautiful country and fine roads. 9-1/2. Cane Creek.--Excellent camp. 5. Small Branch.--Road passes about two miles from the old "Camp Arbuckle," built by Captain Marcy in 1853, since occupied by Black Beaver and several Delaware families. 11-1/2. Mustang Creek.--Road runs on the dividing ridge between the waters of the Washita and Canadian, on a high prairie. 17-1/2. Choteau's Creek.--Road passes on the high prairie opposite Choteau's old trading-house, and leaves the outer limits of the Indian settlements. Excellent road, and good camps at short distances. 11-3/4. Choteau's Creek.--Road runs up the creek; is smooth and good. 12-3/4. Head of Choteau's Creek.--Road runs up the creek, and is good. 17-1/4. Branch of Washita River.--Road runs over an elevated prairie country, and passes a small branch at six miles from last camp. 5-3/4. Branch of "Spring Creek."--Good camp. 16. Head of "Spring Creek."--Road traverses a high prairie country, is smooth and firm. 13. Red Mounds.--Road runs over a high rolling prairie country, and is excellent. 5. Branch of Washita River.--Good road. 15-3/4. Branch of Canadian.--Road continues on the ridge dividing the Washita and Canadian rivers; is smooth and firm. 17-3/4. Branch of Washita River.--Road continues on the "divide." 18. Branch of Canadian.--Road continues on the divide from one to four miles from the Canadian. 19. On Canadian River.--Good road. 16. Little Washita River.--Good road; timber becoming scarce. 13. Branch of Canadian.--Good road. 17-1/2. Antelope Buttes.--Road runs along the Canadian bottom, and in places is sandy. 14. Rush Lake.--Small pond on the prairie. No wood within half a mile; some buffalo chips; poor water. 16. Branch of Washita River.--Good road on the divide. 10-1/4. Dry River.--Road descends a very long hill, and crosses the dry river near the Canadian. Water can be found by digging about a foot in the sand of the creek. Good grass on the west bank. 17. Branch of Canadian.--Road winds up a very long and abrupt hill, but is smooth and firm. 22-1/2. Timbered Creek.--Road passes over a very elevated prairie country, and descends by a long hill into the beautiful valley of Timbered Creek. 11-1/2. Spring Branch.--Good camp. 14. Spring Branch.--Good camp. 17-3/4. Branch of Canadian.--Road passes a small branch 3-1/2 miles from the last camp. 18-3/8. Branch of Canadian.--Road passes a small branch of the Canadian at 8 miles from the last camp. 17-7/8. Spring Branch.--Good road. 9-1/2. Branch of Canadian.--Good road and camp. 18-1/2. Branch of the Canadian.--Good road and camp. 10-1/4. Pools of Water.--Good camp. 10. Large Pond.--Good camp. 25. Pools of Water.--No wood; water brackish. The road passes over a very elevated and dry country, without wood or water. 18-1/2. Head of Branch.--At 13-1/2 miles the road crosses a branch of the Canadian. 19-3/4. Laguna Colorado.--Road here falls into an old Mexican cart-road. Good springs on the left up the creek, with wood and grass abundant. 7. Pools of Water.--Road runs through cedars. 10-3/8. Pajarito Creek.--Grass begins to be rather short in places, but is abundant on the creek. 13-1/2. Gallenas Creek.--Good camp. 15. 2d Gallenas Creek.--Good road. 16-1/2. Pecos River at Anton Chico.--This is the first settlement after leaving Camp Arbuckle. Corn and vegetables can be purchased here. Grass is generally short here. 15. Pecos River opposite Questa.--Road runs through the cedar, and is firm and good. Camp is in sight of the town of Questa, upon a very elevated bluff. 21-3/4. Laguna Colorado.--Road passes through a wooded country for a portion of the distance, but leaves it before reaching camp, where there is no wood, but water generally sufficient for trains. In very dry seasons it has been known to fail. The road forks here, the right leading to Santa Fé via Galistio (45-1/2 miles), and the left to Albuquerque. 22-1/2. San Antonio.--Good road. 18-3/4. Albuquerque.--Good road. Total distance from Fort Smith to Albuquerque, 814-3/4 miles. Total distance from Fort Smith to Santa Fé, 819 miles. * * * * * II.--_From Fort Leavenworth to Santa Fé, by the way of the upper ferry of the Kansas River and the Cimarron._ [In this table the distances, taken by an odometer, are given in miles and hundredths of a mile. The _measured_ distances between the crossing of the Arkansas and Santa Fé are from Major Kendrick's published table. Wood, water, and grass are found at all points where the absence of them is not stated.] Miles. From Fort Leavenworth to 2.88. Salt Creek. 9.59. Stranger's Creek. 13.54. Stranger's Creek. 9.60. Grasshopper Creek. 6.50. Grasshopper Creek. 2.86. Grasshopper Creek. 2.60. Grasshopper Creek. 4.54. Soldier's Creek. 2.45. Upper Ferry, Kansas River. 7.41. Pottawatomie Settlement. 5.75. Pottawatomie Creek. 3.89. White Wakarussi Creek. 7.78. White Wakarussi Creek. 6.27. White Wakarussi Creek. 0.73. Road from Independence.--No place to encamp. 5.72. White Wakarussi Creek. 2.51. White Wakarussi Creek. 2.82. 142-mile Creek. 7.80. Bluff Creek. 5.77. Rock Creek. 5.08. Big John Spring. 2.29. Council Grove. 7.97. Elm Creek.--Water generally. 8.06. Diamond Spring. 1.42. Diamond Creek. 15.46. Lost Spring.--No wood. 9.25. Mud Creek.--Water uncertain; no wood. 7.76. Cottonwood Creek. 6.16. Water Holes.--Water generally; no wood. 12.44. Big Turkey Creek.--No water. 7.83. Little Turkey Creek.--Water uncertain; no wood. 18.19. Little Arkansas River. 10.60. Owl Creek.--Water generally in holes above and below crossing. 6.39. Little Cow Creek.--Water only occasionally. 2.93. Big Cow Creek.--Water holes, 10 miles (estimated). Water uncertain; no wood. 18.24. Bend of the Arkansas. 6.66. Walnut Creek. 16.35. Pawnee Rock.--Teams sometimes camp near here, and drive stock to the Arkansas to water. No wood. 5.28. Ash Creek.--Water above and below crossing, uncertain. 6.65. Pawnee Fork.--Best grass some distance above crossing. From Pawnee Fork to the lower crossing of the Arkansas, a distance of 98-1/2 miles, convenient camping-places can be found along the Arkansas; the most prominent localities are therefore only mentioned. A supply of fuel should be laid in at Pawnee Fork to last till you pass Fort Mann, though it may be obtained, but inconveniently, from the _opposite_ side of the Arkansas. Dry Route branches off at 3-1/2 miles (estimated). This route joins the main one again 10 miles this side of Fort Mann. It is said to be a good one, but deficient in water and without wood. 11.43. Coon Creek. 46.58. Jackson's Island. 5.01. Dry Route comes in. 10.05. Fort Mann. 25.34. Lower Crossing of the Arkansas.--The Bent's Fort Route branches off at this point. For the distances upon this route, see next table. A supply of wood should be got from this vicinity to last till you reach Cedar Creek. 15.68. Water-hole.--Water uncertain; no wood. 30.02. Two Water-holes.--Water uncertain; no wood. 14.14. Lower Cimarron Springs.--No wood. 20.00. Pools of Water.--Water uncertain; no wood. 19.02. Middle Springs of the Cimarron.--No wood. 12.93. Little Crossing of the Cimarron.--No wood. 14.10. Upper Cimarron Springs.--No wood. Pools of water, 7 miles (estimated). No wood. 19.05. Cold Spring.--A tree here and there in the vicinity. Pools of water, 11 miles (estimated). Water uncertain; no wood. 16.13. Cedar Creek.--M'Nees' Creek, 10 miles (estimated). Water indifferent and uncertain; scant pasture; no wood. Arroyo del la Seña, 2-1/2 miles (estimated). No water. 21.99. Cottonwood Creek.--No water. Arroyo del Burro, 5 miles (estimated). 15.17. Rabbit-ear Creek.--10 miles (estimated), springs. Round Mound, 8 miles (estimated). No water; no wood; no camping-place. Rock Creek, 10 miles (estimated). Grazing scant; no wood. 26.40. Whetstone Creek.--Spring; no wood. Arroyo Don Carlos, 10-1/2 miles (estimated). Water, etc., to the left of the road. 14.13. Point of Rocks.--Water and grass _up the cañon_, just after crossing the _point_; scattering shrub cedars on the neighboring heights. 16.62. Sandy Arroyo.--Water uncertain; no wood. Crossing of Canadian River, 4-3/4 miles (estimated). Grazing above the crossing; willows. 10.05. Rio Ocaté.--Wood 1/3 of a mile to right of road; grass in the cañon. Pond of water, 13-1/2 miles (estimated). No wood. 19.65. Wagon Mound.--Santa Clara Springs. Wood brought from the Rio Ocaté. Rio del Perro (Rock Creek), 17-1/2 miles (estimated). 21.62. Cañon del Lobo.--Rio Moro, 3-1/2 miles (estimated). Rio Sapillo, 1 mile (estimated). The Bent's Fort Route comes in here. 18.00. Las Vegas.--Forage purchasable. 13.05. Tacolote.--Forage purchasable. Ojo Vernal, 5 miles (estimated). No grass to speak of. 14.00. San Miguel.--Forage purchasable; no grass. 21.81. Ruins of Pecos.--Grazing very scant. Cottonwood Creek, 4-1/2 miles (estimated). Water uncertain; no grass. 13.41. Stone Corral.--No grass. 10.80. Santa Fé.--Forage purchasable; no grazing. * * * * * III.--_Camping-places upon a road discovered and marked out from Fort Smith, Arkansas, to Doña Aña and El Paso, New Mexico, in 1849._ By Captain R. B. MARCY, U.S.A. Miles. Fort Smith to 65. South Fork of the Canadian.--The road from Fort Smith to the South Fork of the Canadian follows the same track as the road to Albuquerque and Santa Fé, and by reference to the tables of distances for that road the intermediate camps will be found. 15. Prior's Store.--Grass, wood, and water near. 17-1/2. Little Boggy.--Good camp. Wherever there are not the requisites of wood, water, and grass for encamping, it will be specially noted; when they are not mentioned they will always be found. 13. Little Boggy.--Good camp. 15-1/2. Boggy Depôt.--Store and blacksmith's shop. 12-3/5. Blue River.--The road passes over a flat section, which is muddy after rains. 8-1/2. Fort Washita.--Good camp half a mile before reaching the fort. The road forks at the Indian village on the Boggy, the left being the most direct. There are settlers along the road, who will give all necessary information to strangers. Corn plenty. 22. Preston Texas, on Red River.--The road from Fort Washita runs through the Indian settlements, passing many places where good camps may be found, and crosses the Red River at Preston. There is a ferry here; also stores and a blacksmith's shop. 20. M'Carty's.--Road runs through a heavy-timbered country, crossing several streams where there are good camps. 14-2/5. Elm Fork of the Trinity, at Gainesville.--Road passes over a section diversified by prairies and groves of timber. 12. Elm Fork of Trinity.--Good camp. 11. Elm Fork of Trinity.--Excellent camps. Road passes over a beautiful country rapidly settling up with farmers, who cultivate and sell grain at low rates. 9. Turkey Creek.--Tributary of Red River. Road emerges from the upper "Cross Timbers" two miles from camp. 26-3/4. Buffalo Springs.--Springs of good water, but of limited amount, in a ravine. 12. On a Ravine.--Pools of good water and a small running stream, not reliable. 13-1/2. On a Ravine.--Pools of water. 17-1/4. On a Ravine.--Pools of water. 17-1/4. Running branch of Cottonwood Spring.--Branch about two feet wide, good water; wood about half a mile distant. 14. Fort Belknap.--Good road through post-oak timber. County seat and town at Fort Belknap. Good camp on the west side of the Brazos, which is always fordable except in very high water. 14. Small Branch.--Water in holes. 18. Water-holes.--Pools of water. Road passes over prairie and timbered lands, is very smooth and level. 7-1/2. Stem's Farm, on Clear Fork of the Brazos River.--Good road; excellent camp, with abundance of wood, water, and grass. Indian reservation here. 13. Elm Creek, or Qua-qua-ho-no.--Good road over rolling prairie and mesquite lands. 17. Ravine.--Pools of standing water. Good road. 18. Ravine.--Pools of standing water. Good road. 27. Small Creek.--Tributary of the Brazos. Good road. 6. Pools of Water.--Good camp. 8-1/2. Small Branch.--Good water. 20-1/2. Tributary of the Colorado.--Brackish water. 3-1/4. Rio Colorado.--Brackish water. Road very excellent. 12-1/10. Spring on the Road.--Good water. 22-9/10. Big spring to the left of the road, affording a great amount of water, which runs off in a small stream. 23. Laguna Colorado.--Water somewhat sulphurous; fuel mesquite roots; grass abundant. 35. Mustang Pond.--This pond is north of the road about two miles, and was found in 1849, but emigrants and others have not been able to find it since. For this reason I would advise travelers to fill their water-kegs at the Laguna Colorado, as in a very dry season they might not be able to get any water until they reach the Sand Hills. The road is excellent over the "Llano Estacado," or Staked Plain. 34-1/2. Sand Hills.--Water in holes. The water is good here, and can always be relied on as permanent. The road through the Sand Hills is very heavy, and I would advise travelers with loaded wagons to make half loads. 31-1/2. Laguna near the Pecos River.--Road passes through the hills, and descends the high prairie to the valley of the Pecos. Laguna on the left. 15-5/8. Crossing of Pecos.--Water deep and not fordable; river 42 yards wide. A road leads up the eastern bank of the Pecos to a ford with rock bottom. Good camps can be had at almost any point on the Pecos. The water is brackish, but can be used without harm. 54-1/2. Pecos River.--Point of the river where the road turns off toward Delaware Creek. 9-1/8. Delaware Creek.--Good road after leaving the Pecos River. The road on the Pecos is good in the bottom in very dry weather, but after heavy rains it is submerged and very muddy. Travelers should then turn off to the bluffs. The water in Delaware Creek is brackish. 11-7/8. Ojo de San Martin.--Fine spring of fresh water, also mineral spring. Good road up Delaware Creek. 15-3/10. Independence Spring.--Large spring of excellent water. Look out for Indians. 5-1/10. Ojo del Camins.--Good spring in the pine timber at the base of the mountain. 4-1/2. Peak of the Guadalupe.--Spring at the foot of the mountain. Road descends the mountain, and is very steep. 23-7/8. Ojo del Cuerbo.--Road descends through a very rough and sinuous ravine, and crosses a long prairie to camp at a pond of standing water. No wood. 26. Cornudas (Wells).--Well in the rocks; plenty of water for small parties. Road good. 8-3/4. Sierra del Alamo.--Road good; water limited in quantity. There is a small spring upon the side of the mountain. No wood except a few mesquite roots. 22-1/4. Waco Tanks.--Good water in a large reservoir in the rocks. The road here branches, the left leading to El Paso and the right to Doña Aña. 28. El Paso, on the Rio del Norte.--Road good, with some sand; no water upon it. The distance from the "Waco Tanks" to Doña Aña is 63 miles, but 40 miles of the road is over heavy sand, and no water until reaching the mountain, 25 miles from Doña Aña. I would recommend travelers to take the El Paso road in preference. Total distance from Fort Smith to El Paso, 860 miles. * * * * * IV.--_From Leavenworth City to Great Salt Lake City._ Miles. Leavenworth City to 3. Salt Creek.--Good camp; wood, water, and grass. 12. Cold Spring.--To the right of the road, in a deep ravine, plenty of wood, water, and grass. 12. Small Branch.--To the north of the road, in an arroya, good wood, water, and grass. Here enters the road from Atcheson, 6 miles distant. 16-2/3. Grasshopper Creek.--Good wood, water, and grass. 9-1/2. Walnut Creek.--Road passes a town called Whitehead, 4 miles from last camp. Water in pools, but 3/4 of a mile below is a fine spring; plenty of wood, water, and grass. 17. Grasshopper Creek.--Good camp, with wood, water, and grass. 12-1/2. Big Nemehaw, two miles above Richland.--Good wood, water, and grass near the creek. 11. Water-holes.--On the ridge, at the head of a ravine, are wood, water, and grass, but in a dry time there would be but little water. 10-3/4. Vermilion Creek.--Water in the creek not good, but there is a good well of cold water near the road. Wood and grass good. 21-1/2. Big Blue River.--Upper crossing, good ford; plenty of wood, water, and grass. Fine clear stream, 60 yards wide. 17-1/2. Branch of the Big Blue.--Camp half a mile north of the road; good wood, water, and grass. 15. Turkey, or Rock Creek.--Good spring 400 yards to the north of the road. Store at the crossing. Good wood, water, and grass. 19. Big Sandy.--Wood, water, and grass good. 19. Little Blue River.--Road runs across the hills without water until reaching camp. Good wood, water, and grass. 18-3/4. Little Blue River.--Camp is at the point where the road turns off from the creek. Good camps may be found any where on the Little Blue, with excellent wood, water, and grass. Fine running stream. 15. Little Blue River.--Road strikes the creek again, and keeps it to the camp. Good wood, water, and grass. 19. Elm Creek.--Road leaves the Little Blue, and runs along a divide to the head of Elm Creek, where we found water in holes, with some few trees; grass good. 20. Platte River.--Road crosses one small branch, where there is water except in a dry season. Good camp on the Platte, with wood, water, and grass. 15. Fort Kearney.--Good camp about two miles from the fort, upon the Platte, either above or below; grass, wood, and water abundant. 17. Platte River--Road runs along the river, where there is plenty of grass, and occasionally a few cottonwood-trees. Here the buffalo generally begin to be seen, and the traveler can always get a plenty of buffalo-chips along in this section. 16-3/4. On Plum Creek.--Road runs along the Platte to Plum Creek, where there is a little wood, with good grass and water. Mail station at the crossing of Plum Creek. 22-1/3. On Platte River.--Road runs along the Platte bottom after crossing Plum Creek, and is good except in wet weather. The road occasionally comes near the Platte, and, although the timber becomes thin, yet places are found where fuel can be obtained. Grass is plenty at all points. 23. On Platte River.--Road continues along the river valley over a flat country where the water stands in ponds, and is boggy in wet weather. Camps occasionally on the river, but little fuel. Grass and water good. 14. On Platte River.--Road continues along the valley, with the same character as before, but more timber. Camp opposite Brady's Island. Plenty of wood, water, and grass. 17-1/4. Slough.--On the Prairie. Road runs from one to three miles from the river. No wood all day; plenty of grass, and buffalo-chips for cooking. 15-1/4. Platte River.--Road crosses O'Fallon's Bluffs, where there is a good camping-place on the right of the road. Plenty of wood, water, and grass on a small stream, which is part of the Platte. Mail station here. 16-1/2. South Platte River.--Road runs along the Platte, with no timber. Good grass and water at any point, with buffalo-chips for fuel. 17. South Platte River.--No timber all day. Good water and grass at all points, with buffalo-chips. 8. South Platte Crossing.--No wood all day. Good water and grass, with buffalo-chips. The river is about 600 yards wide, rapid, with quicksand bottom, but can be forded when not above a medium stage. It is best to send a footman ahead to ascertain the depth of water before crossing the wagons and animals. 19. Ash Hollow, at North Platte River.--Road leaves the South Fork of the Platte, and strikes over the high prairie for 16 miles, when it descends the high bluffs bordering the valley of the North Platte, and enters Ash Hollow, where there is a plenty of wood and a small spring of water. Half a mile beyond this the road reaches the river. Mail station and a small grocery here. 16-3/4. North Platte.--Very sandy road; no wood; grass and water plenty at all points; buffalo-chips sufficient for cooking. 17. North Platte.--Road sandy in places; no wood; good grass and water; some buffalo-chips. 16-1/2. North Platte.--Road good; no wood; good grass and water; cattle-chips in places. 18-3/4. North Platte.--No wood. Camp opposite "Chimney Rock," which is a very peculiar formation on the south of the road, and resembles a chimney. Grass good. Road muddy after rains. [Illustration: CHIMNEY ROCK.] 17-1/2. North Platte.--No wood; grass and water good. 16. "Horse Creek," branch of the North Platte.--In seven miles the road passes through Scott's Bluffs, where there is generally water in the first ravine about 200 yards below the road. The road then descends the mountain, at the foot of which is the Platte and a mail station. A little wood can be obtained at Scott's Bluffs; there is none on Horse Creek. 14-1/4. North Platte.--Road follows the river bottom all day. Wood, water, and grass on the river. 12. Fort Laramie.--Road rough and rocky in places. There are wood and water plenty, and before many trains have passed the grass is good above the fort. Mail station and post-office here, with a sutler's store well stocked with such articles as the traveler wants. 10. North Platte.--Road good, but hilly in places. Camp is in the river bottom, with plenty of wood, water, and grass. Hot spring two miles above here. 14. Bitter Creek.--There are two roads, both of which lead to Salt Lake. The upper or south road is best in the spring or in wet weather. I traveled the lower road. Wood, water, and grass are good. 17-3/4. Horse-shoe Creek.--Fine camp, with excellent wood, water, and grass. The road here forks, one passing to the left over the hills, and the other running nearer the Platte. 20-1/2. North Platte River.--Good road along near the river. Good wood, water, and grass. Road crosses the river at 12-1/2 miles. 20-1/4. North Platte River.--Road crosses the river again, and the camp is two miles above the mouth of La Prell Creek. Good wood, water, and grass. 19. North Platte River.--Road runs along the river, and is smooth and good. The camp is two miles above the crossing of Deer Creek, where there is a blacksmith's shop and store. Good grass, wood, and water. 16. North Platte River.--Good road, with wood, water, and grass at camp. 13. North Platte River.--Good road passing the bridge, where there is a blacksmith's shop and store, also a military station and a mail station. At two miles from camp the road crosses the river on a good ford with rocky bottom. The wood, water, and grass are abundant. 23. Red Buttes, on the North Platte.--Road is very hilly, and in some places sandy; passes Willow Spring, where there is grass and a little wood. Good wood, water, and grass at camp. Mail station here. 11. Sweet Water Creek.--Road leaves the river at the Red Buttes, and strikes over the high rolling prairie. Good grass and water, but little wood at camp. 15. On Sweet Water Creek.--Road passes a blacksmith's shop and store at the bridge six miles from camp, and at 2-1/2 miles from the camp it passes the "Devil's Gate" and a mail station. The Sweet Water here runs between two perpendicular cliffs, presenting a most singular and striking appearance. Take wood at the Gate for camp. Good grass and water at all places on Sweet Water Creek. [Illustration: THE DEVIL'S GATE.] 20. Sweet Water Creek.--Road muddy after rains, and some bad ravines to cross. Wood, water, and grass of the best quality at camp. 12. Sweet Water Creek.--Road runs along the valley of the Sweet Water, where there is plenty of wood and grass in places, but little wood at the camp noted. 8. On Sweet Water.--Road good; no wood; grass abundant. 20. On Sweet Water.--Road good; no wood. 17. Strawberry Creek.--Little wood; grass and water abundant. Road leaves "Sweet Water," and ascends a very long hill which is very rocky. 20-1/4. South Pass.--Road crosses the dividing ridge, and strikes the Pacific Spring, where there is excellent water and good grass if many cattle have not passed, in which event the traveler had better continue on down the creek which issues from the spring. Sage for fuel; no wood. 15-3/4. Dry Sandy Creek.--Grass scarce; no wood; some sage and greasewood; water brackish, but drinkable; road good. Here the traveler should send ahead and have the best spots of grass found, as it is very scarce throughout this section. Sublett's Cut-off turns off here for Soda Springs and Fort Hall. Take the left for Fort Bridger and Salt Lake City. 15. Little Sandy Creek.--Grass in spots along the creek bottom, and some fuel. 18. Big Sandy Creek.--Grass in detached spots on the creek, and little fuel. 21-1/2. Green River, Upper Ford.--Grass and fuel on the river. 7. Green River, at the Lower Ford.--Good grass and fuel below the ford. Ferry in time of high water. Mail station and grocery. 16. Black's Fork.--Good grass and fuel. 7. Ham's Fork.--United States bridge, no toll. Good grass and fuel. 12. Black's Fork.--Road forks at the crossing of Black's Fork, both roads leading to Fort Bridger. This itinerary is upon the left-hand road, which crosses Black's Fork two miles from Ham's Fork. 13. Smith's Fork.--Good camps along Black's Fork at any place, but the road leaves the stream for several miles. Wood, water, and grass at the confluence of Black's and Smith's Forks. 18-1/4. Fort Bridger.--Good camps above and below the fort. Military post, mail station, and store. Muddy Creek.--Good grass, wood, and water. Grass short after many trains have passed. It is then necessary to go up the creek to find good grass. Road passes a fine spring 3 miles back. 19. Bear River.--Good camps, with wood, water, and grass. Good ford, except in very high water. Sulphur Creek two miles back. 19. Red Fork.--In "Echo Cañon," two miles below Cashe Cave, good grass and fuel; water plenty. 19-1/4. Weber River.--Good grass, wood, and water. Mail station. United States bridge for high water; no toll. 5-1/4. Spring Branch.--Good camp. Road leaves the river, and takes the left into a valley. 9. Bauchmin's Creek.--Road crosses over a mountain, and descends to the creek, where there is a good camp. 14. Big Cañon Creek.--Road crosses Bauchmin's Creek 13 times in 8 miles, then ascends the mountain along a small creek, which is well wooded and good grass. 6. Emigration Creek.--Road leaves Cañon Creek, and crosses the two mountains, which are very steep and long. Grass and wood before crossing the "Little Mountain." 10-1/4. Great Salt Lake City.--Forage can be purchased here, as well as most of the articles the traveler may require, at high prices. There is no camping-place within two miles of the city. It is best for those who encamp with animals to cross the Jordan River, or to stop near the mouth of the cañon before entering the city. Total distance from Fort Leavenworth to Salt Lake City, 1168 miles. * * * * * V.--_From Salt Lake City to Sacramento and Benicia, California._ Miles. From Salt Lake City to 18. Hait's Ranch.--Good road, and grass abundant until Bear River is crossed. 17-1/4. Ford on Weber River.--Good road, and grass abundant. 15. Point of Mountain.--Spring water warm but pure. 12-3/4. Box Elder Creek.--Excellent water; grass and fuel abundant in the cañons. 23. Ferry on Bear River.--Four miles above the usual crossing. Excellent grass. 3/4. West Bank.--Grass not good on the west bank. 6. Small Spring.--Cross Bear River below the mouth of the Mallade. 17-1/2. Blue Springs.--Water and grass scarce, and of poor quality. 21-1/4. Deep Creek.--Heavy sage, but good grass on the right of the road, near sink. 20-1/2. Cedar Springs.--Good grass on the hills, with fine water and wood; rolling country. 10. Rock Creek.--Plenty of grass to the left of the road; good camping-place. 14-1/2. Raft River.--Good camp. 22-1/2. Goose Creek Mountains.--Grass, wood, and water abundant; rough and mountainous country. Road from Fort Bridger comes in here _via_ Soda Springs. 17-3/4. On Goose Creek.--Rough, broken country, with a good road, which runs along the creek for several miles. 28-1/2. Head of 1000 Spring Valley.--Road runs over a rolling, barren section, with but little water except on the river far to the right. 25-3/4. 1000 Spring Valley.--Meadow grass; good fuel scarce. Camps can be found at short intervals along the road. 14. Head of Humboldt River.--Fine camping-places, and road generally good, running over a rolling country. 23. Slough of the Humboldt.--Extensive bottoms of good grass. 20. Humboldt River.--Along the entire course of the Humboldt good grass is found in the bottoms. The road, which follows the bottom, is hard and smooth, but can not be traveled in seasons of very high water, as the bottom overflows. It is then necessary to take the road on the bluffs, where the grass is scarce. The river, when not above a fording stage, can be forded at almost any point, and good camps can be found at short intervals. There are spots along the river bottom where alkaline ponds are frequent. These are poisonous to cattle, and should be avoided by travelers. It is well along this river not to allow animals to drink any water except from the river where it is running. 20. Humboldt River.--The foregoing remarks apply for every camp on the Humboldt River. 22. Humboldt River.--Good camps along the Humboldt Valley. 23. Humboldt River. 13-1/2. Humboldt River. 16-1/2. Humboldt River. 25. Humboldt River. 13-3/4. Humboldt River. 24. Humboldt River. 24-1/2. Humboldt River. 20-1/4. Humboldt River. 18-3/4. Humboldt River. 13-1/2. Humboldt River. 18-1/4. Lawson's Meadows.--The road here forks, the left going by the Carson Valley and Sacramento route, and the right _via_ Goose, Clear, and Rhett lakes, Applegate's Pass of the Cascade Mountains, into Rogue River Valley, Fort Law, Oregon Territory, Yreka, Fort Jones, Fort Reading, and Sacramento River. 33-1/2. On Humboldt River.--Grass and water poor all the distance to the Sink of the Humboldt. 19-1/2. Sink of Humboldt River.--The water at the Sink is strongly impregnated with alkali; the road generally is good. Travelers should not allow their stock to drink too freely of this water. 26. Head Sink of Humboldt.--Road good. 45. Carson River.--Road crosses the desert, where there is no water for stock, but there is a well where travelers can purchase water for drinking. This part of the road should be traveled in the cool of the day and at night. Grass good, also the water. 2. Carson River.--Good bunch-grass near the road. 30. Carson River.--26 miles of desert; poor grass. 14. Eagle Ranch.--Good grass and water. 13. Reese's Ranch.--Good grass and water. 12. Williams' Ranch.--Very good water and grass. 15. Hope Valley.--Road rough and rocky. 3. Near Sierra.--Good camp, with water and grass. 7. First Summit.--Road rough and rocky; good water; grass scarce. 2. Second Summit.--Road mountainous and very steep; snow nearly all the year. 10. Lakes.--Good camp. 12. Leek Springs.--Good grass near the road. 10. Trader's Creek.--Grass and fuel scarce. 12. Sly Park.--Grass and fuel near the road. Forty Mile House.--Water plenty; grass scarce. Sacramento Valley.--Water plenty; purchase forage. Sacramento City.--Water plenty; purchase forage. Total distance from Salt Lake City to Benicia, 973 miles. * * * * * At the Big Meadows, 23 miles from the Sink of the Humboldt, travelers should make a halt of a day or two to rest and recruit their animals and to cut grass for crossing the desert, as this is the last good camping-place until reaching Carson River. The ground near this place is boggy, and animals should be watered with buckets. The camping-ground here is on the right bank of the river, and about half a mile to the left of the main road. The water is in a slough, near its head, where will be found some springs which run off a short distance, but soon sink. The road across the desert is very sandy, especially toward the western extremity. Twenty miles from the Sink of the Humboldt there are four wells. About half a mile east of the mail station the road leading to the wells turns to the right, where water can be purchased for from one to two shillings for each man and beast. At 9-1/2 miles beyond the mail station, on the desert, a road turns off from the main trace toward a very high sandy ridge, and directly upon the top of this ridge is the crater of an extinct volcano, at the bottom of which is a salt lake. Upon the extreme north end of this lake will be found a large spring of fresh water, sufficient for 1000 animals. From thence to "Ragtown," on Carson River, is three miles. I would advise travelers, when their animals become exhausted before reaching this water, to take them out of harness and drive them to this place to recruit. There is some grass around the lake. This desert has always been the most difficult part of the journey to California, and more animals have probably been lost here than at any other place. The parts of wagons that are continually met with here shows this most incontestably. * * * * * VI.--_From Great Salt Lake City to Los Angeles and San Francisco, California._ Miles. Salt Lake City to 20-5/8. Willow Creek.--Good grass. 14. American Creek.--Good grass. 11-1/2. Provo City.--Town. 7-1/4. Hobble Creek.--Good camp. 6. Spanish Fork.--Good camp. 5. Peteetneet.--Good camp. 25. Salt Creek.--Several small streams between. Good camp. 18-5/8. Toola Creek.--Ford. No wood; grass good. 6-1/4. Sevier River.--Road is sandy, passing over a high ridge. Good camp. 25-1/2. Cedar Creek.--Road rather mountainous and sandy. Good grass and wood. 17-1/2. Creek.--This is the fourth stream south of Sevier River. Road crosses two streams. Good camp. 3-5/8. Willow Flats.--The water sinks a little east of the road. 25. Spring.--Good grass and water. 22-1/4. Sage Creek.--Grass poor; wood and water. 5-1/8. Beaver Creek.--Good wood, water, and grass. 27-1/4. North Cañon Creek.--In Little Salt Lake Valley. Good grass; no wood. The road is rough and steep for six miles. 5-3/8. Creek.--Good wood, water, and grass. 6-3/4. Creek.--Good wood, water, and grass. 12-7/8. Cottonwood Creek.--Good grass and water. 9. Cedar Springs.--Good camp. 23. Pynte Creek.--Good grass one mile up the cañon. 9. Road Springs.--Road is rough; good camp. 16. Santa Clara.--Road descending and rough; poor grass. From this point to Cahoon Pass look out for Indians. 17-1/8. Camp Springs.--Two miles before reaching the springs the road leaves the Santa Clara. Good grass. 22-7/8. Rio Virgin.--Road crosses over the summit of a mountain. Good road; grass poor. 39-5/8. Rio Virgin.--Road runs down the Rio Virgin, crossing it ten times. Grass good down the river. 19-5/8. Muddy Creek.--Road for half a mile is very steep and sandy. Good camp. 52-5/8. Las Vegas.--Water is sometimes found 2-1/2 miles west of the road in holes 23 miles from the Muddy, and some grass about a mile from the road. Good camp. 5. On Vegas.--Road runs up the river. Good grass. 17. Cottonwood Spring.--Poor grass. 29-3/4. Cottonwood Grove.--No grass. Water and grass can be found four miles west by following the old Spanish trail to a ravine, and thence to the left in the ravine one mile. 21-3/4. Resting Springs.--Good grass and water. Animals should be rested here before entering the desert. 7. Spring.--The spring is on the left of the road, and flows into Saleratus Creek. Animals must not be allowed to drink the Saleratus water. 14-1/8. Salt Springs.--Poor grass and no fresh water. 38-3/4. Bitter Springs.--Good road; poor grass. 30-3/4. Mohave River.--Good road and good grass. 51-1/2. On the Mohave.--Last ford. Good grass all the way up the Mohave. 17. Cahoon Pass.--At the summit. 10. Camp.--Road bad down the cañon. 11-1/2. Coco Mongo Ranch. 10. Del Chino Ranch.--Williams. 19-3/8. San Gabriel River. 6. San Gabriel Mission. 8-1/4. Pueblo de los Angeles. 65-3/4. Santa Clara River.--_On the Coast Route._ Good camps to San José. 7-1/2. Buena Ventura Mission and River.--Road here strikes the Pacific shore. 26. Santa Barbara.--Town. 45-3/4. San Yenness River.--At the Mission. 78-7/8. Santa Margareta.--Old Mission. 28-3/8. San Miguel.--Old Mission. 24-3/4. San Antonio River. 26-3/4. Rio del Monterey. 15-5/8. Solida Mission.--At the ford of Rio del Monterey. 37-1/2. San Juan Mission. 33. San José Pueblo. 75. San Francisco. * * * * * VII.--_From Fort Bridger to the "City of Rocks."_ From Captain Handcock's Journal. Miles. Fort Bridger to 9. Little Muddy Creek.--Water brackish in pools along the creek; tall bunch-grass; sage for fuel. Road runs over a barren section, is rough, and passes one steep hill. 12-1/3. Big Muddy Creek.--The road, with the exception of two or three bad gullies, is good for ten miles; it then follows the Big Muddy bottom, which is flat and boggy. The camp is three miles above the crossing. Some grass; sage for fuel. 14-1/5. Small Branch of the Muddy Creek.--Cross the river in three miles at a bad ford. A mile above camp the grass is good. Road generally good. 19-1/2. On Small Creek.--Road continues up the Muddy 9-1/2 miles to its head. It then ascends to the divide between Bear and Green Rivers, probably 800 feet, in 1-3/5 miles. The descent on the other side is about the same. The road passes many fine springs. At one and two miles back it passes points of hills, where it is very rough. Good grass and sage at camp. 8-9/10. Bear River.--Bad creek to cross near the camp; thence to Bear River Valley the road is good. It then follows down the river, crossing Willow Creek. Good camp, with a large, fine spring. 17. Bear River.--Good road along the river; plenty of wood, water, and grass at all points. Foot of Grant's Mountain.--Road runs along Bear River; at 2-1/2 miles strikes Smith's Fork, a rapid trout stream. The road crosses the lower ford. A few miles farther on is a bad slough, which can be avoided by taking a round on the hills. Cross Thomas's Fork on a bridge, also a slough near it; toll $2.00 for each team and wagon. The road then leaves Bear River Valley, and turns over a very steep hill. Good grass, wood, and water. 12. Bear River.--Road ascends Grant's Mountain 1200 feet in 1-1/2 miles--double teams--then descends again into Bear River Valley at 4-4/5 miles. Good wood, water, and grass. 17-2/5. Indian Creek.--Road crosses eight fine spring branches; camp is on a beautiful trout stream. Good wood, water, and grass. 11. Spring near Bear River.--Road is hilly, crossing two spring branches. Good wood, water, and grass. The camp is on the left and near the road. 11. Bear River.--At 6-7/10 miles the road strikes a large group of springs called "Soda Springs," and here crosses Pine Creek, on the left bank of which is a saleratus lake. Soon after it strikes the main springs, and after crossing another creek the "Steam-boat Spring" may be seen in the bed of the river. 15. "Port Neuf," or Rock Creek.--At 2-3/10 miles the road leaves Bear River near where it runs through a cañon with high bluffs on each side. At this point the California and Fort Hall roads separate. The California road (called Hudspeth's Cut-off) then crosses a valley between the Bear River and Port Neuf River Mountains, 9 miles. No water from camp to camp. Good camp. 15. Marsh Creek.--About two miles above the main road the creek can be forded; a road leads to it from the descent into the valley. Road good; water and grass plenty; no wood. 16-1/5. Paunack Creek.--First part of the road is hilly; the remainder good. Good camp. 7-1/5. Mallade River.--At 7-1/5 miles the road crosses the Mallade River. Good camp 140 miles from Salt Lake City. Good road. 22-3/10. Small Creek.--The road ascends a ridge through a cañon, and descends to a valley on the other side. From the camp to the summit of the ridge is 6-1/5 miles. The descent is 3-7/10 miles. It then crosses a valley 8 miles wide, and strikes a cañon which leads to the top of a hill over a rough road. Plenty of wood, water, and grass at camp, but no water between this and the last camp. 9-3/5. Small Creek.--Road after five miles strikes a cañon with a long but gentle ascent. Two miles from the entrance of this cañon is a spring branch. There is wood and some grass and water at this place. 11-1/5. Spring Branch.--The road passes through a cañon, and at 5 miles strikes the head of a spring branch, which it follows down 2-1/2 miles to the junction with a larger branch, which is bridged. At nine tenths of a mile another fork enters. Grass very fine here. Road follows down this across the main branch, and the camp is 2 miles below. Good camp. 18-1/2. Decassure Creek, or Raft River.--Road continues down the creek 2-3/10 miles, and crosses, then ascends by a steep hill to an elevated sage plain, leaving the creek at 11-4/5 miles, and passes a slough with water. Good camp. 17-9/10. Spring Branch.--The road crosses the creek near the last camp, and follows up a valley, crossing in five miles several spring branches. At 2-9/10 miles it crosses the creek again, and follows up the valley two miles farther, then crosses a high sage plain 8-9/10 miles long, when it strikes a spring 150 yards to the left of the road, where there is an excellent camp in a beautiful valley. 10. Junction of Salt Lake City Road.--Road passes several small branches in 3 miles, then commences ascending through a cañon which, in 2-1/5 miles, leads to the entrance to the "City of Rocks," and passes through these for three miles. It then crosses a ridge, leaving the City of Rocks, and at ten miles from last camp intersects the road from "Salt Lake City." At 1-2/5 miles beyond this a road leads off to the right to a spring branch, 3 miles, where there is a good camp near the foot of Goose Creek Mountain. From this point California travelers can refer to the itinerary of the route from Salt Lake City to Sacramento. * * * * * VIII.--_From Soda Springs to the City of Rocks, known as Hudspeth's Cut-off._ Miles. Soda Springs to 20. Bear River.--The road runs down Bear River, crossing some small streams. Good camp. 10. Portner Creek.--Camp at the head of the creek. Good wood, water, and grass. 12. Fork of Portner Creek.--Good camp. 15. Pauack Creek.--Road crosses a summit. Good road and camp. 12. Snake Spring.--Good camp. 12. Utha Spring.--Good camp. 15. Decassure Creek.--Road crosses a small stream; rather bad crossing. Good camp. 18. City of Rocks.--Junction of Salt Lake road. Good camp. * * * * * IX.--_Sublets Cut-off, from the junction of the Salt Lake and Fort Hall Roads._ Miles. _Junction_ to 7. Big Sandy. 44. Green River.--From the Big Sandy to Green River (upper road) there is an abundance of grass in places along the road, but no water. 6. Small Creek.--The road runs up the creek. Good grass. 4. On the Creek.--Good grass and water. 12. Small Spring.--The spring is on the left of the road. Good grass. 9. Ham's Fork.--Good wood, water, and grass. 6. Spring.--On the summit of a mountain. Good grass. 6. Muddy Creek.--Wood, water, and grass. 10. Spring.--In Bear River Valley. Good wood, water, and grass. 6. Smith's Fork.--In Bear, River Valley. Good wood, water; and grass. 10. Tomaus' Fork.--Road runs down Bear River. Good wood, water, and grass. 7. Spring Creek.--Wood, water, and grass. 7. Smith's Ford.--Road crosses over a spur of the mountain; long and gradual ascent; descent rather abrupt. Good wood, water, and grass. 8. Telleck's Fork.--Road runs down Bear River. Good camp. 4. Small Creek.--Good camp. 4. Small Creek.--Good camp. 7. Small Creek.--Good camp. 12. Soda Springs.--Left side of the road, among some cedars, is a good camp. Here take the left-hand road to California, called _Hudspeth's Cut-off_. * * * * * X.--_From Lawson's Meadows, on the Humboldt River, to Fort Reading, via Rogue River Valley, Fort Lane, Oregon Territory, Yreka, and Fort Jones._ Miles. Lawson's Meadows to 18-1/2. Mountain Spring.--Road leaves the Humboldt, and takes a northwesterly course 12 miles to a spring of good water. Good bunch-grass to the left of the road, and a small spring at the camp. The road is plain on leaving the river, but after a few days it becomes faint. Road from this point passes over a desert country for about 60 miles, without good water or much grass. 38-1/2. Black Rock Spring.--Road level and hard, with little vegetation. In 14 miles pass springs, but the water is not good. In 16 miles the road passes a slough which is difficult to cross; water not good, but can be given to cattle in small quantities. In five miles from this the road passes Black Rock, mentioned by Colonel Frémont in his trip from Columbia River in 1843-4. Three miles farther pass boiling springs, very hot, but good cooled. Grass pretty good. 20-1/4. Mountain Rill.--Water good; bunch-grass in the vicinity. In eight miles' travel the road passes a beautiful creek of pure water, with good grass. 5-3/4. Lake (Marshy). 10-1/2. High Rock Cañon.--This cañon is 25 miles long, with wild and curious scenery. Road crosses the creek frequently, and the mud is bad. In the autumn the road is good. 14-3/4. High Rock Cañon. Small Creek.--Beautiful country, with the greatest abundance of water and grass; also fuel. 25-1/4. Pine Grove Creek.--Road passes over an interesting country, well supplied with wood, water, and grass, and passes around the south end of a salt lake. 18-1/2. West Slope of Sierra.--Road passes over the mountain, which is steep but not rocky, then descends to a small creek of good water which runs into Goose Lake. Good grass and fuel. Look out for the Indians, as they are warlike and treacherous here. 7-3/4. East shore of Goose Lake.--Excellent camp. 16-1/4. West shore of Goose Lake.--This is a beautiful sheet of fresh water; great quantities of water-fowl resort to this lake. 16-1/4. Slough Springs.--The road passes over a very rocky divide, covered with loose volcanic debris, very hard for animals, and wearing to their feet. They should be well shod before attempting the passage. 18-1/2. Marshy Lake.--Road difficult for wagons. 15. Clear Lake.--Beautiful lake of pure water, with good grass around its shore. 25-1/4. East shore of Rhett's Lake.--Road tolerable over a rolling, rocky country, between lakes. The road crosses Lost River over a natural bridge, on a solid, smooth ledge of rock. 19. West shore of Rhett's Lake.--Plenty of wood, water, and grass along this road. 21. Klamath River.--Road leaves Rhett's Lake, and enters the forest and mountains; tolerably good. Good camp. 15-1/4. Cascade Mountains.--The road passes over high mountains, through lofty pine-trees. Camp is at Summit Meadows. Good water and grass, also fuel. 14-1/4. Western slope of Cascade Mountains.--Rough roads. 19-1/4. Rogue River Valley.--Road descends into the settlements in six miles, where there is a lovely fertile valley, well settled with farmers. 23-3/4. Fort Lane.--Near "Table Rock," on Rogue River, eight miles from Jacksonville. Dragoon post. 22-3/4. Rogue River Valley.--Good camp. 18. Siskiyou Mountains.--Road crosses the Siskiyou Mountains, and is difficult for wagons. 18. Yreka.--Flourishing mining city. 18. Fort Jones.--Infantry post, in Scott's Valley. 20. Scott's Mountain.--Good camp at the foot of the mountain. Road passes over the mountains, but is impassable for wagons. 90. Shasta City.--Good grass, wood, and water. 180. Sacramento City. * * * * * XI.--_From Soda Springs to Fort Wallah Wallah and Oregon City, Oregon_, via _Fort Hall._ Miles. Soda Springs to 25. Portner Creek.--Good camp. Take the right-hand road. 10. Ross's Creek.--Good camp. 10. Fort Hall Valley.--Good camp. Road runs down the creek. 8. Snake River.--Good camp. Road crosses the river bottom. 5. Fort Hall. 15. Small Branch.--Camp is three miles below the crossing of Port Neuf River, which is fordable. Good wood, water, and grass. 10. American Falls.--Good camp. 13. Raft River.--Road rough and rocky. Sage for fuel; grass scarce. 17. Bend of Swamp Creek.--Grass scarce. 20. On Snake River.--Road crosses Swamp and Goose Creeks. Wood on the hills; grass short. 25. Rock Creek.--Road crosses one small creek, and is very rough and rocky for several miles, when it enters a sandy region, where the grass is scarce; sage plenty, and willows on the creek. 24. Snake River.--Road crosses several small branches. There is but little grass except in narrow patches along the river bottom. 26. Fishing Falls.--Road very crooked and rough, crossing two small streams. 29. Snake River.--Road crosses several small creeks, but leaves the main river to the north, and runs upon an elevated plateau. Good grass at camp. 16. Snake River (ford).--Road tortuous; ford good in low water. 19. Small Branch.--Road crosses Snake River, and follows up a small branch, leaving the river to the left. Good grass. Road ascends to a high plateau, which it keeps during the whole distance. 26. River "Aux Rochers."--Road passes Hot Springs, and is rough. Wood, water, and grass plenty. 22. Small Creek.--Road crosses two small branches, and is very rocky, but at camp grass, wood, and water are abundant. 23. Rio Boisè.--Road crosses one small creek, and follows along the Boisè River. Good wood, water, and grass. 26. Fort Boisè.--Road follows the south bank of Boisè River to the fort. 2. Fort Boisè.--Road crosses Boisè River. Good ford at ordinary stages. Grass good in the river bottom. 20. River "Aux Matthews."--Good road. Grass abundant, but coarse; wood and water plenty. 27. Snake River.--Road passes over a rough country. Grass scarce and of a poor quality. 20. Burnt River.--Road leaves Snake River, and takes across Burnt River, following up the north side of this to the camp. It is mountainous and rough, but the grass is good, and there is wood along the river. 22. Burnt River.--Road continues up the river, and is still rough and mountainous. Grass and wood plenty. 26. Small Branch.--Road passes over a divide to "Powder River." It is still rough, but getting better. The grass is good. 13. Powder River.--Good road; grass plenty. 21. Creek.--Road passes a divide, crossing several small streams, and is smooth, with plenty of grass and fuel. 20. Creek.--Road crosses one small branch, and is rather rough. The grass and fuel are good and abundant. 21. Creek.--Road follows down the creek for ten miles, then turns up a small branch, and is good. There is plenty of grass and fuel. 12. Branch.--Road crosses a divide and strikes another branch. 5. Small branch of the Umatilah River.--Good road, with plenty of wood and grass. 16. Branch of Wallah Wallah River.--Wood, water, and grass. 18. Wallah Wallah River.--Wood, water, and grass. Columbia River at Fort Wallah Wallah.--Wood, water, and grass. 10. Butler Creek.--Good camp. 18. Wells's Spring.--Good camp. 12. Willow Creek.--Good camp. 13. Cedar Spring.--Good camp. 6. John Day's River.--Good camp. 5. Forks of Road.--No camping. Left-hand road for wagons, and right-hand for pack trains. This itinerary takes the left. 10. Ouley's Camp.--Good camp. 19. Soot's River.--Good camp. 6. Fall River.--Good camp. 10. Utah's River.--Good camp. 18. Soot's River.--Good camp. 6. Soot's River.--Good camp. Road follows up the river, crossing it several times. 16. Sand River Fork.--Good grass a mile and a half to the left of the road. 8. Good Camp. 15. Royal Hill Camp.--Good camp. 7. Sandy River.--But little grass. 45. Down the River.--Good camps all the distance. 25. Oregon City.--Good camps all the distance. 75. Salem.--Good camps all the distance. * * * * * XII.--_Route for pack trains from John Day's River to Oregon City._ Miles. John Day's River to 17. Columbia River.--From John Day's River to the forks of the road, and thence by the right-hand fork to the Columbia. Good camp. 2-1/2. Soot's River Ferry.--Good camp. 15. Dalles.--Good camp. 25. Dog River.--Good camp. 15. Cascade Mountains.--One bad place. 9. Ouley's Rock.--Good camp. 20. Image Plain Ferry.--Good camp. 15. Portland.--Good camp. 12. Oregon City.--Good camp. * * * * * XIII.--_From Indianola and Powder-horn to San Antonio, Texas._ Miles. Powder-horn to 4. Indianola, Texas.--Steamers run from New Orleans five times a week to Powder-horn. 14. Chocolate Creek.--Good grass and water; fuel scarce. Road passes over a low, flat country, which in wet weather is heavy and muddy. 12. Grove.--Grove of oak; good water and grass. The road passes over a hog-wallow prairie, which is very muddy, and almost impassable for loaded teams after rains. The grass is abundant every where in this section. 12-1/2. Victoria.--The road is good, passing along near the east bank of the Guadalupe River. The country is thickly settled with farmers, who sell grain at reasonable rates. Grass abundant, also fuel. 34. Yorktown.--Road crosses the Guadalupe River on a bridge; toll one dollar for a six-mule team. It then crosses a low bottom for three miles; from thence the road is good, over a rolling country, with plenty of wood, water, and grass. 33. Cibello River.--Good road; wood, water, and grass plenty. 35. San Antonio.--Good road, with plenty of wood, water, and grass along the road. The Cibello is fordable at ordinary stages. The traveler can procure any thing he may need at Victoria and at San Antonio. * * * * * XIV.--_Wagon-road from San Antonio, Texas, to El Paso, N.M., and Fort Yuma, Cal._ [Distances in miles and hundredths of a mile.] Miles. San Antonio to 6.41. Leona. 18.12. Castroville. 11.00. Hondo. 14.28. Rio Seco. 12.50. Sabinal. 13.46. Rio Frio. 15.12. Nueces. 10.27. Turkey Creek. 15.33. Elm Creek.--All good camps, with abundance of wood, water, and grass. Country mostly settled, and the road very good, except in wet weather, from San Antonio to Elm Creek. 7.00. Fort Clarke.--Good grass, wood, and water. Road level and good. 7.00. Piedra Pinta,--Good grass, wood, and water. 8.86. Maverick's Creek.--Good grass, wood, and water. 12.61. San Felipé.--Good grass, wood, and water. 10.22. Devil's River.--First crossing. Good wood, water, and grass. 18.27. California Springs.--Grass and water poor. 18.39. Devil's River.--Second crossing. Grass poor. 19.50. Devil's River.--Good camp. The only water between Devil's River and Live Oak Creek is at Howard's Springs. The road is very rough in places. 44.00. Howard's Springs.--Grass scarce; water plenty in winter; wood plenty. 30.44. Live Oak Creek.--Good water and grass. The road passes within 1-1/2 miles of Fort Lancaster. 7.29. Crossing of Pecos River.--Bad water and bad camp. The water of the Pecos can be used. 5.47. Las Moras.--Good water, grass, and wood. The road is rough on the Pecos. 32.85. Camp on the Pecos River.--Wood and grass scarce. 16.26. Escondido Creek.--At the crossing. Water good; little grass or wood. 8.76. Escondido Spring.--Grass and water good; little grass. 19.40. Comanche Creek.--Grass and water good; little grass. 8.88. Leon Springs.--Grass and water good; no wood. 33.86. Barela Spring.--Grass and water good; wood plenty. 28.00. Fort Davis.--Good camp. From Fort Davis to Eagle Springs there is an ascent, and one of the very best of roads. 18.42. Barrel Springs.--Water good; grass and wood fair. 13.58. Dead Man's Hole.--Good wood and water; grass scarce. 32.83. Van Horne's Wells.--No grass or wood, but they will be found two miles back. 19.74. Eagle Springs.--Grass and wood poor; water about half a mile from camp, in a narrow cañon. 32.03. Mouth of Cañon "de los Camenos."--The road is rather rough. From here to Fort Bliss, opposite El Paso, the road runs near the river, and camps may be made any where. The wood, water, and grass are good at all points. 61.13. San Eluzario.--Mexican town. 9.25. Socorro.--Mexican town. 15.00. Fort Bliss, at El Paso.--United States military post and Mexican town. Total distance from San Antonio to El Paso, 654.27 miles. * * * * * Miles. El Paso to 22. Cottonwood.--From El Paso to Messilla Valley, in the Gadsden Purchase, the road runs up the east bank of the Rio Grande to Fort Fillmore (N.M.), where it crosses the river into the Messilla Valley. 22. Fort Fillmore. 6. La Messilla. 65. Cook's Spring.--From Messilla Valley to Tucson the road is remarkably good, with good grass and water. The streams on this section are the Mimbres and San Pedro, both fordable, and crossed with little trouble. The Apache Indians are generally met with in this country. There is a flouring-mill two miles below El Paso, where flour can be purchased at very reasonable prices. 18. Rio Mimbres. 17. Ojo la Vaca. 10. Ojo de Ynez. 34. Peloncilla. 18. San Domingo. 23. Apache Springs. 9. Cabesas Springs. 26. Dragon Springs. 18. Quercos Cañon.--Bunch-grass will be found sufficient for traveling purposes along this section of the road between El Paso and Tucson. 6. San Pedro Crossing. 20. Cienega. 13. Cienega Creek. 20. Mission of San Navier. 8. Tucson.--Total distance from El Paso to Tucson, 305 miles. 5. Pico Chico Mountain. 35. First Camp on Gila River. 29. Maricopa Wells.--The Maricopa Wells are at the western extremity of a fertile valley occupied by Pincos Indians, who cultivate corn and other grain. 40. Tezotal.--Across Jornada. There is but little grass here, but in the season the mesquite leaves are a good substitute. 10. Ten Mile Camp. 15. Oatman's Flat.--First crossing of the Gila River. 25. Second Crossing of the Gila.--The traveler can generally find sufficient grass in the hills along the valley of the Gila. 32. Peterman's Station. 20. Antelope Peak. 24. Little Corral. 16. Fort Yuma. The distance from El Paso to Fort Yuma is 644 miles. [Illustration: WELL IN THE DESERT.--ALAMO MOCHO.] * * * * * XV.--_From Fort Yuma to San Diego, California._ [Distances in miles and hundredths of a mile.] Miles. Fort Yuma to 10.00. Los Algodones.--Along the Colorado. 10.00. Cook's Wells.--Here commences the great desert; water nowhere good or reliable until arriving at Carizo Creek. The points named are where deep wells have been dug. "New River," though usually set down, is a dry arroyo. The surface of the desert for seven miles on the eastern side is drifting sand and heavy for wagons. Then comes a section in the centre of the desert that is hard and level. On the west side there is about three miles of a mud flat. 21.90. Alamo Rancho. 16.40. Little Laguna. 4.50. New River. 5.80. Big Laguna. 26.40. Carizo Creek.--Water good; cane and brush for fuel, and they afford some forage for the animals; no grass. 16.60. Vallecito.--Grass poor; wood and water sufficient. 17.80. San Felipe.--Grass poor; wood scarce; water good. 15.80. Warner's Ranch.--The road passes through a beautiful oak grove, where there is an abundance of grass and water. This is the summit of the mountain. At the Ranch the grass is poor, and no wood. The water is good. The oak grove terminates six miles from Warner's. 10.30. Santa Isabel.--Good grass, wood, and water. This was an old Spanish mission, but is now occupied by some Americans and Indians. 11.40. Laguna.--Two miles from last camp is a good camping-place. The road passes over some steep hills, not high. This is the best camp on the road. 12.00. San Pasquel.--For the first nine miles the road is level and good to the top of the mountain, where there is a good camping-place, with wood, water, and grass; thence the road descends a very steep hill. The camp is on the east side of the brook, near Soto's house. 18.80. Parrasquitas.--The road passes a good camp three miles from San Pasqual. Wood, Water, and grass at Parrasquitas. 8.00. Fisher's House.--The road passes over several hills, and at four miles is a good camping-place. Wood, water, and grass at camp. San Diego, California.--When animals are to be kept a considerable time at San Diego, they should be taken four or five miles up the river, as the grass is poor near the town. Total distance from Fort Yuma to San Diego, 217 miles. * * * * * XVI.--_From El Paso, New Mexico, to Fort Yuma, California_, via _Santa Cruz._ [Distances in miles and hundredths of a mile.] Miles. From El Paso to 26.10. Samalayuca.--Spring, with grass and wood. 38.00. Salado.--Bad water, with little grass and wood. 24.75. Santa Maria.--Good grass, wood, and water. 27.50. Mines of San Pedro.--Bad water; little grass or water. 19.20. Correlitos.--Good water, grass, and wood. 20.00. Janos.--Good water, grass, and wood. 12.00. Pelatudo.--Good water, grass, and wood. 30.00. San Francisco.--Water half a mile south of the road. 18.00. San Louis.--Good water, grass, and wood. 35.00. San Bernardino.--Good water, grass, and wood. 30.00. Ash Creek.--Grass, wood, and water. 37.00. Head of San Pedro.--Grass and water. 24.00. Santa Cruz.--Good grass, wood, and water. 31.00. Cocospe.--Much grass; 10 or 12 miles without water. Leave Santa Cruz River at old Rancho San Lazaro. No water till reaching the head of San Ignacio, except at nine miles, a spring one mile west of the road. 26.00. Hemores.--From Cocospe to Santa Anna follow down the San Ignacio, and in many places there is wood and grass. Grass is much better at three miles from the river. At the foot of the hills there is an abundance of grama-grass. 5.00. Terrenati. 4.00. San Ignacio. 5.20. Madina. 5.20. San Lorenzo. 2.60. Santa Marta. 5.20. Santa Anna. 26.00. Alamita.--Plenty of grass. Leave the river 10 or 12 miles from Santa Anna, and no water thence to Alamita, which is a small rancho. 31.20. Altar.--No water; grass abundant. 13.00. Laguna.--Small water-hole; grass scanty and poor. 52.00. Sonia.--Sometimes water is found 25 miles from the Laguna, south of the road. There is a well at Sonia in the town, and sometimes water in a hole 300 yards south of the town, 100 yards west of the road. 10.40. El Paso.--Well at El Paso supplying 100 animals; water muddy and brackish; grass poor. 52.00. Sonorita.--No water on the road; at Sonorita are several brackish springs. Grass poor; bad camping-place; saltpetre at the springs. Quita Oaquita.--No water on the road. Saline spring at camp, better than at Sonorita, but the grass is not so good. 10.40. Agua Salado.--Water uncertain; grass poor. 23.40. Los Pleyes.--Water only in the rainy season, one mile west of the road, hidden by bushes and difficult to find. Grass pretty good. 28.60. Cabeza Prieta.--Natural tenajas in a ravine two miles from the road; follow a wagon-track up this ravine between a black and a red mountain. The water is good and abundant; grass tolerable. 31.00. Poso.--No water on the road until reaching Poso. Here it is abundant on the east side of the road; grass good one mile west. 13.00. Rio Gila.--But little good grass. 26.00. Fort Yuma, at the crossing of the Colorado River.--But little good grass for several miles. Total distance from El Paso to Fort Yuma, 756 miles. * * * * * XVII.--_From Westport, Missouri, to the gold diggings at Pike's Peak and "Cherry Creek" N.T._, via _the Arkansas River._ Miles. Westport to 4-3/4. Indian Creek.--The road runs over a beautiful country. Indian Creek is a small wooded stream, with abundance of grass and water. 8-3/4. Cedar Creek.--The road passes over a fine country, and there is a good camping-place at Cedar Creek. 8-1/2. Bull Creek.--The road is smooth and level, with less wood than before. Camping good. [Illustration: Sketch of the country in the vicinity of the Gold Region near Pike's Peak and Cherry Creek.] 9-1/2. Willow Springs.--At nine miles the road passes "Black Jack Creek," where there is a good camping-place. The road has but little wood upon it at first, but it increases toward the end of the march. The road is level for some distance, but becomes more rolling, and the country is covered with the finest grass. Good camp at one mile from the main road. 20-1/4. 110-Mile Creek.--The road traverses the same character of country as yesterday, but with less woodland, is very smooth, and at 9 and 12 miles passes "Rock Creeks," which have no running water in a dry season. Good camp. 22-1/2. Prairie Chicken Creek.--At eight miles the road crosses Dwissler Creek, which is a fine little stream; four miles farther First Dragoon Creek, and at one mile farther the Second Dragoon Creek, both fine streams, well wooded, and good camping-places. Good camp. 20. "Big Rock Creek."--At one mile the road crosses a small wooded branch. Three miles beyond it crosses "Elm Creek," where a good camping-place may be found. At 7 miles it crosses 142-Mile Creek, and at 13 miles it crosses Bluff Creek, where there is a good camping-place. Good camp. 20. "Council Grove," on Elm Creek.--Road passes "Big John Spring" at 13 miles, and is smooth and good. A fine camp is found three fourths of a mile beyond the "Grove," on Elm Creek, with abundance of wood, water, and grass. 16. Diamond Spring.--At-eight miles the road crosses Elm Creek, and passes over a section similar to that east of Council Grove. It is fine in dry weather, but muddy after heavy rains. Good camp at Diamond Spring. 16. Lost Spring.--One mile from camp the road passes a wooded creek. From thence there is no more wood or permanent water until arriving at camp. Take wood here for cooking, as there is not a tree or bush in sight from Lost Spring. The country becomes more level, with grass every where. The road is muddy in wet weather. 15-3/4. Cottonwood Creek.--Road continues over a prairie country, sensibly rising and improving. Wood, water, and grass at camp. 22. Turkey Creek.--The road is good, and at 18 miles passes Little Turkey Creek. No wood, and the water poor at camp; grass good. 23. Little Arkansas River.--The road runs over a level prairie, and at 3-1/2 miles passes "Big Turkey Creek," with the Arkansas River Valley in sight all day. After rains there are frequent pools of water along the road. Good camp. 20. "Big Cow" Creek.--The road passes for ten miles over a level prairie, to Charez Creek, which is a bushy gully; thence six miles to Little Cow Creek, which is a brushy stream, with here and there a tree. Good camp here to the left of the road, near a clump of trees. "Prairie-dog towns" commence to be seen. Road very level. Buffalo-grass here. 20. Big Bend of the Arkansas.--The road at 12 miles strikes the sand-hills of the Arkansas River. They are soon passed, however, and the level river bottom is reached. The river has a rapid current flowing over a quicksand bed. The road is generally good from the last camp. Wood, water, and grass at camp. 7. Walnut Creek.--The road is good. Cool springs at this camp; good grass and wood. 21. Head of Coon Creek.--At five miles the road forks, one following the river, the other a "short cut" "dry route" to Fort Atkinson, where they unite on the river. The country rises for ten miles on the dry route, then descends to the river, and is covered with the short buffalo-grass. No wood at camp. 18. Arkansas River.--The road passes over an undulating and uninteresting prairie, with but little vegetation. The water in dry weather is in pools. 19. Arkansas River, at Fort Atkinson.--The road runs over a similar country to that of yesterday, with no wood near; plenty of buffalo-chips for cooking, and good grass. 18-3/4. Arkansas River.--At 4-1/2 miles the road ascends a bluff covered with thick buffalo-grass. On the river is heavy bottom-grass. At 17 miles pass a ford. Grass good at camp. 19-1/4. Arkansas River.--The road is sandy for 14 miles, but not deep except in places; thence to camp it is good. Good camp. 22. Arkansas River.--Country prairie, covered with short buffalo-grass. Good camp. 22. Arkansas River.--The road is fine, crossing several dry-beds of creeks, along which are seen a few scattering trees. Good camp on a dry creek near the river. 24. Arkansas River.--The road runs over a barren plain at the foot of the main plateau, and crosses two dry creeks near the camp, on which are cottonwood-trees. Plenty of wood at camp. 21. Arkansas River.--The road follows the base of the hills at from one to three miles from the river. Good camp. 20. Arkansas River.--At seven miles the road strikes the "Big Timbers," where there is a large body of cottonwood; thence for three miles the road is heavy sand. Good camps along here. 13. Arkansas River.--At one mile the road passes some old houses formerly used as a trading-post. Here terminates the "Big Timbers." Coarse grass at the camp. 15. Arkansas River.--At three miles the road passes the mouth of Purgatoire Creek. Camp is below Bent's Fort. Good grass here. 24. Arkansas River.--Pass Bent's Fort. The grass is excellent in the vicinity of the fort, but after this it is not so good. The road runs over a high and considerably broken country. Good camp. 11. Arkansas River.--Opposite the mouth of the Apishpa Creek; good camp. The Huerfano Mountains and Spanish Peaks are in sight from the camp. The "Cherokee Trail" comes in from Arkansas near Bent's Fort, and leads to the gold diggings at Cherry Creek. 9. Arkansas River.--Opposite the mouth of the Huerfano Creek. Good camp, and a ford opposite Charles Audebee's house. 12. Arkansas River.--At this point the Cherokee trail bears to the right and leaves the river. The left-hand, or river road, runs up to the old pueblo at the mouth of the Fontaine qui Bouille Creek. The right-hand road leads to the gold diggings. [Illustration: SANGRE DE CRISTO PASS.] 15-3/4. Fontaine qui Bouille.--The road strikes in a northwest course over the rolling country, and comes upon the creek at a most beautiful camp, where there is a great abundance of good wood, water, and grass. The wood, water, and grass are good at all points on the Fontaine qui Bouille, and travelers can camp any where upon this stream. 17-1/2. Fontaine qui Bouille.--Here the road forks, one running up the river, and the other striking directly across to the divide of the Arkansas and Platte. I prefer the left-hand road, as it has more water and better grass upon it. 6-1/2. Forks of the "Fontaine qui Bouille."--The road to Cherry Creek here leaves the "Fontaine qui Bouille" and bears to the right. There is a large Indian trail which crosses the main creek, and takes a northwest course toward "Pike's Peak." By going up this trail about two miles a mineral spring will be found, which gives the stream its name of "_The Fountain that Boils_." This spring, or, rather, these springs, as there are two, both of which boil up out of solid rock, are among the greatest natural curiosities that I have ever seen. The water is strongly impregnated with salts, but is delightful to the taste, and somewhat similar to the Congress-water. It will well compensate any one for the trouble of visiting it. 17-1/2. Black Squirrel Creek.--This creek is near the crest of the high divide between the Arkansas and Platte Rivers. It is a small running branch, but always affords good water. There is pine timber here, and the grass is good on the prairies to the east. This is a locality which is very subject to severe storms, and it was here that I encountered the most severe snow-storm that I have ever known, on the first day of May, 1858. I would advise travelers to hasten past this spot as rapidly as possible during the winter and spring months, as a storm might prove very serious here. 14. Near the head of Cherry Creek.--The road crosses one small branch at four miles from Black Squirrel Creek; it then takes up to an elevated plateau, which in a rainy season is very muddy. The camp is at the first timber that is found, near the road, to the left. There is plenty of wood, water, and grass here. There is also a good camping-place at the small branch that is mentioned. 10. On Cherry Creek.--There is good grass, wood, and water throughout the valley of Cherry Creek. The mountains are from five to ten miles distant, on the left or west of the road, and when I passed there was a great abundance of elk, deer, antelope, bear, and turkeys throughout this section. 7. On Cherry Creek.--Good camp. 11. On Cherry Creek.--Good camp. 17. Mouth of Cherry Creek, at the South Platte.--Good camp, and a town built up since I passed, called "_Denver City_." Total distance from Westport to the gold diggings, 685-1/4 miles. * * * * * XVIII.--_From St. Paul's, Min., to Fort Wallah Wallah, Oregon._ Miles. St. Paul's to 17-1/4. Small Brook.--The wood, water, and grass are abundant as far as the "Bois des Sioux" River. 20-1/4. Cow Creek.--This stream is crossed on a bridge. 23-1/4. Small Lake.--North of the road. The road passes over a rolling prairie, and crosses Elk River on a bridge. 17. Near Sauk Rapids.--The road crosses Elk River twice on bridges; Mississippi River near. 18. Russel's.--Ferry across the Mississippi River, then follow the Red River trail. Camp is on a cold spring brook. 6. Cold Spring Brook.--Cross Sauk River, 300 feet wide, 4-1/2 feet deep. 19-1/2. Lake Henry.--Road good. 18-3/4. Lightning Lake.--Cross Cow River in a ferry-boat; water 4-1/2 feet deep. 17-1/2. Lake.--One mile from Red River trail. Pass White Bean Lake. 9-1/2. Pike Lake.--Pass the South Branch of the Chippeway River. Road runs over rolling prairie, and crosses a small branch. 19-1/4. Small Lake.--Cross Chippeway River in a boat. Road passes numerous lakes and the best grass. 9-3/4. Small Lake.--Road passes rolling prairies, and crosses Rabbit River. 27. "Bois des Sioux" River.--Cross Bois des Sioux Prairie; rolling ground. 11. Wild Rice River.--Cross "Bois des Sioux" River, 70 feet wide and 4 to 7 feet deep, muddy bottom and banks. Wood, water, and grass at all camps between this and Maple River. 4-1/2. Small Creek.--Cross Wild Rice River on a bridge. 26-1/2. Sheyene River.--Smooth prairie road. 16-1/2. Maple River.--Cross Sheyene River on a bridge, and several small branches. 20. Small Creek.--Smooth road; no wood. 20. Pond.--Wet and marshy; numerous ponds in sight; no wood. 15. Pond.--No wood; approaching Sheyene River. 13-1/2. Sheyene River.--Prairie more rolling; camp in the river bottom. Wood, water, and grass abundant. 7. Slough.--Cross Sheyene River, 50 feet wide, 3-1/2 feet deep. No wood. 10. Lake.--Rolling prairie, with many marshes. Wood, water, and grass. 10-1/2. Pond.--Low, wet prairie; no wood; plenty of grass and water. 18-1/4. Marsh.--Smooth prairie, generally dry. 20. "Rivière à Jaques."--Smooth prairie, with marshes. Road crosses the river several times. Wood, water, and grass. 21-1/2. Pond.--Hilly and marshy prairie, with small ponds, and no wood. 12. Small Branch.--Marshy prairie, filled with ponds, with a thin, short grass, and no wood. 19-3/4. Lake.--On a high knoll. Road crosses the South Fork of Sheyene River; good crossing; thence rolling prairie, passing "Balto de Morale," also a narrow lake 4-1/2 miles long. 16-1/2. Pond.--Marshy prairie, ponds, and knolls; cross a small branch at 7-3/4 miles. No wood. 17-3/4. Pond.--Rolling prairie. Cross Wintering River, a deep, muddy stream 100 feet wide, also marshy prairies and ponds. No wood. 16. Small Branch.--Tributary of Mouse River. Road skirts the valley of Mouse River, crossing the ravines near their heads. 15-1/4. Pond.--Undulating prairie with occasional marshes; the road then turns up the high ridge called "Grand Coteau." No wood. 20-1/4. Lake.--Hilly road approaching Grand Coteau. No wood. 20. Lake.--Rolling prairie; smooth, good road; no wood. 15-1/2. Pond.--Road passes Grand Coteau at 11 miles, and runs between two lakes. No wood, but plenty of "bois de vache" for fuel. 19-1/4. Branch of White Earth River.--Country rolling and hilly. Road passes wood at eight miles from camp. 23-1/4. Pond.--For two miles the road passes over a low, flat country, after which the country is hilly. No wood. 23-1/2. Pond.--Rolling and hilly country, with rocky knobs. At 18 miles cross branch of Muddy Creek 15 feet wide. Wood in ravines near this stream. No wood at camp. 20. Pond.--Rolling country. At 11 miles there is water in a ravine. To the left there is more water, but the country is rough. No wood. 16-1/4. Fort Union.--Road descends a hill to the fort; before this it passes over high, firm prairie. Good grass near in the hills. 6-1/2. Pond.--No wood; good grass. 6. Little Muddy River.--Good camp. 15-1/2. Creek.--Two good camps between this and the last. Wood, water, and grass. 10. Big Muddy River.--Drift-wood for fuel. 11. Marsh near Missouri.--Good camp. 18. Poplar River.--Good camp. One or two good camps between this and the last camp. 23-1/2. Creek near Missouri.--Good camp. 15. Slough near Missouri.--Good camp. 17-1/2. Milk River.--One good camp between this and the last camp. 13-1/2. Milk River.--Several good camps passed. 17-1/2. Milk River.--Good camp. 19-1/2. Milk River.--Several good camps passed. 17-3/4. Milk River.--At the crossing. The road follows a trail on the bluffs, and descends again to the river. 7-1/2. Lake.--No wood; grass and water plenty. 12-1/2. Milk River.--Second crossing. Good camp. 12. Milk River.--Good camp. 15-1/2. Milk River.--Good camps between this and the last camp. 10-3/4. Milk River.--Good camp. 20. Milk River.--Good camp. 16. Milk River.--Good camp. 18. Milk River.--At the third crossing.--Good camp. 7-1/2. Branch of Milk River.--Good camp. 17-1/2. Branch of Milk River.--Several good camps between this and the last camp. 6. Branch of Milk River.--Good camp. 19-1/4. Prairie Spring.--No wood; water and grass plenty. 13-3/4. Teton River.--Road crosses "Marias River." 8-3/4. Teton River, at Fort Benton.--A trading-post. 2-1/2. Small Creek.--Good wood, water, and grass. 18-3/4. Missouri River.--Good camp. 20-1/2. Missouri River.--Above the falls. Road much broken into ravines. Wood, water, and grass. 16-3/4. Missouri River.--Road crosses first tributary above Fort Benton at ten miles. 17. Missouri River.--The road becomes very bad after fourteen miles, but is better on the north side of the Missouri. 6. Missouri River.--The road is exceedingly rough and broken; crosses the river.--Good wood, water, and grass. 11. Tributary of the Missouri.--The most difficult part of the road is passed, but the country is still hilly. 18-1/2. Tributary of the Missouri.--The road follows up the last-mentioned stream to near its head. Good camps. 15. Near the summit of Little Blackfoot Pass, on a broad Indian trail; excellent road. 14-3/4. Little Blackfoot River.--Road crosses the summit of the Rocky Mountains. Good road for wagons, with many camping-places. 17-1/2. Little Blackfoot River.--Road good, descending along the river. Near the camp a large fork comes in. 28-1/2. Little Blackfoot River.--Good road, which follows the broad, open valley for 14 miles. Good camps. 19-1/2.-Little Blackfoot River.--The valley contracts so that wagons will be forced to take the bed of the river in some places. The river is fordable, and the trail crosses it five times during the day. 22-1/2. Blackfoot River.--Sixteen miles from the last camp "Blackfoot" and "Hell Gate" River's enter, and about one mile of this distance is impassable for wagons; they would have to cross the river, which is fordable. Good camps. 27-1/2. Fort Owen.--Road runs up the St. Mary's River to Fort Owen over a broad, good trail in the valley. 40. St. Mary's River.--The south Nez Percés trail leaves the main trail, which ascends the St. Mary's Valley to the Forks, and follows the southwest fork to its source. To the Forks the valley of the St. Mary's is open, and admits wagons. 24. Southwest Fork of St. Mary's River.--The road follows a narrow trail, crossing the river frequently, and is not passable for wagons. The valley is narrow, and shut in by hills. 5-1/2. Kooskooskia River.--Road leaves the St. Mary's River, passing over a high ridge to the Kooskooskia River. 10. Branch.--Road runs over wooded hills. 14. Creek.--Road runs over wooded hills. 9. Small Creek.--This is the best camp between the St. Mary's River and the Nez Percés country. 15. Small Creek.--Road passes over wooded hills. 9. Small Branch.--Road passes over wooded hills, is very rough and difficult. Poor camp. 14. Small Creek.--Ten miles from last camp the road passes a high divide, ascending rapidly, though not difficult. Good grass on the summit, but no water. 13. Small Creek.--Good camp where the trail emerges from the woods on to the high plateau. 7. Clear Water River.--Large tributary. Road runs over high table-land, and descends to the valley of the river. 43. Lapwai River.--The road follows a broad trail down the river six miles, when it leaves the river bottom and ascends the plateau, which extends to Craig's house, on the Lapwai, fifteen miles from the river. 23. Tributary Snake River.--The trail runs over high ground from Craig's to Lapwai River, 15 miles. This river is 450 feet wide. No wood. Indians are generally found here, who ferry over travelers. The trail follows Snake River for several miles. 26-1/4. Tchannon River.--The trail passes 5-1/2 miles up the bottom of a small creek; then runs over a steep hill to another small creek, 8 miles; then along the valley of this stream 10-1/2 miles; thence over a high hill to camp on Tchannon River, 3 miles. 11-1/2. Touchet River.--The trail crosses the Tchannon River, and ascends to a high plain, which continues to camp. 32-1/2. Touchet River.--Road follows a good trail along the valley, where good camps are found any where, with wood, water, and grass. 19-1/2. Fort Wallah Wallah.--Leaving Touchet River, the trail passes over again to the plains, when there is neither wood, water, or grass to Fort Wallah Wallah. Total distance from St. Paul's to Fort Union, 712-1/2 miles. Total distance from Fort Union to Fort Benton, 377-1/2 " Total distance from Fort Benton to Fort Owen, 255 " Total distance from Fort Owen to Fort Wallah Wallah, 340-3/4 " -------- Total distance from St. Paul's, Min., to Fort Wallah Wallah, Oregon, 1685-3/4 miles. * * * * * XIX.--_Lieutenant_ E. F. BEALE'S _route from Albuquerque to the Colorado River._ [Distances is miles and hundredths of a mile.] Miles. Albuquerque to 2.10. Atrisco.--Wood, water, and grass. 20.63. Rio Puerco.--Water in pools; wood and grass. 19.41. Near Puta.--Abundance of wood, water, and grass. 13.12. Covera.--Water and grass abundant; wood scarce. 13.06. Hay Camp.--Wood, water, and grass plenty. 25.37. Agua Frio.--Wood, water, and grass plenty. 16.28. Inscription Rock.--Small spring; grass and wood plenty. 16.32. Ojo del Pescado.--Water and grass plenty; wood for camp. 15.13. Zuñi.--Grass and water plenty; wood scarce. 6.19. Indian Well.--Wood, water, and grass. 14.43. No. 1.--Wood and grass; no water. 11.93. Jacob's Well.--Wood, water, and grass. 6.57. No. 2, Navajo Spring.--Wood, water, and grass. 13.62. Noon Halt.--Water by digging; grass and wood scarce. 6.13. No. 3.--Grass abundant. 7.75. Noon Halt.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 7.25. No. 4.--Water in holes; grass and fuel plenty. 3.60. Three Lakes.--Wood, water, and grass. 1.75. Crossing Puerco.--Wood, water, and grass abundant as far as Leroux Spring. 11.25. No. 5. 18.50. No. 6. 10.17. No. 7. 13.25. No. 8. 19.35. Cañon Diablo. 14.75. No. 10. 13.50. Near Cosnino Caves. 17.32. San Francisco Spring. 9.06. Leroux Spring. 8.48. No. 13.--Wood and grass, but no water. 11.13. Breckenridge Spring.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 8.07. No. 14.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 6.50. Cedar Spring.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 10.50. No. 15.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 19.75. Alexander's Cañon.--Wood and grass plenty; not much water. 8.05. Smith's Spring.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 8.75. Pass Dornin.--Wood and grass abundant; no water. 13.50. No. 19.--Wood and grass abundant; no water. 16.35. No. 20.--Water two miles from camp; wood and grass plenty. 4.06. Hemphill's Spring.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 21.25. No. 21.--Wood, water, and grass abundant. 9.75. No. 22.--Wood and grass; spring one mile distant. 5.50. No. 23.--Wood and grass plenty; no water. 8.45. No. 24.--Wood and grass; spring three miles off. 16.75. No. 25.--Wood and grass; no water. 7.25. Sabadras Spring.--Wood, water, and grass. 13.25. No. 26.--Wood; no grass or water. 8.75. Spring.--Wood, water, and grass. 1.25. No. 27.--Wood, water, and grass. 3.17. No. 28.--Wood, water, and grass. 1.25. No. 29.--Wood, water, and grass. 3.11. No. 30.--Wood, water, and grass. 3.25. No. 31.--East bank of Colorado River; wood. No. 32.--West bank; water and grass abundant. * * * * * XX.--_Captain_ WHIPPLE'S _Route from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to San Pedro, California._ [Distances in miles and hundredths of a mile.] Miles. Albuquerque to 0.88. Atrisco.--Permanent running water. 12.16. Isleta.--Permanent running water. 22.78. Rio Puerco.--Water in holes. 18.30. Rio Rita.--Permanent running water. 13.77. Covera.--Permanent running water. 14.66. Hay Camp.--Permanent running water. 17.71. Sierra Madre.--No water. 8.06. Agua Frio.--Permanent running water. 17.49. Inscription Rock.--El Moro. Permanent springs. 14.23. Ojo del Pescado.--Permanent springs. 11.74. Zuñi.--Permanent running water. [Illustration: SAN FRANCISCO MOUNTAIN. Upon Captain Whipple's trail from Albuquerque to the Colorado River.] 8.83. Arch Spring.--Permanent spring. 10.77. ....--No water. 19.69. Jacob's Well.--Permanent water-hole. 7.04. Navajo Spring.--Permanent springs. 12.13. Willow Creek.--Rio de la Jara. Water in holes. 10.87. Rio Puerco of the West.--Water in holes. 11.59. Lithodendron Creek.--Permanent running water. 11.99. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 14.42. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 8.63. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 4.94. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 1.35. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 4.90. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 10.99. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 15.88. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 4.44. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 1.51. Colorado Chiquito.--Permanent running water. 29.72. Colinino Caves.--Permanent water-holes. 11.81. Near San Francisco Spring.--No water; water 4 miles from camp. 10.46. Leroux's Spring.--Permanent water. 8.23. ....--No water. 6.17. ....--No water. 8.54. New Year's Spring.--Permanent spring. 9.77. Lava Creek.--Water in hole. 9.89. Cedar Creek.--Water in holes. 13.26. Partridge Creek.--Water in holes. 3.89. Partridge Creek.--Water in holes. 13.52. Partridge Creek.--Water in holes. 0.87. Picacho Creek.--Water in holes. 7.45. ....--No water. 8.69. Turkey Creek.--Permanent running water. 5.71. Pueblo Creek.--Permanent running water. 6.67. Pueblo Creek.--Permanent water in holes. 5.98. Pueblo Creek.--Permanent water in holes. 5.80. Cañon Creek.--Permanent water in holes. 12.16. Cañon Creek.--Permanent water in holes. 0.30. Cañon Creek.--Water in holes. 11.29. Cañon Creek.--Water in holes. 9.64. Cactus Pass.--Permanent running water. 7.97. White Cliff Creek.--Permanent running water. 11.60. Big Horn Springs.--Permanent spring. [Illustration: CAÑON ON BILL WILLIAMS'S FORK.] 12.83. Mouth of Cañon Creek.--Permanent running water. 9.21. "Big Sandy" Creek.--Permanent running water. 4.35. "Big Sandy" Creek.--Permanent running water. 6.21. "Big Sandy" Creek.--Permanent running water. 4.08. "Big Sandy" Creek.--Permanent running water. 6.10. "Big Sandy" Creek.--Permanent running water. 5.56. "Big Sandy" Creek.--Permanent running water. 6.44. Mouth of Big Sandy Creek.--Permanent running water as far as the Colorado River. 6.52. Rio Santa Maria. 8.97. Rio Santa Maria. 6.85. Rio Santa Maria. 7.22. Rio Santa Maria. 3.90. Rio Santa Maria. 8.69. Rio Santa Maria. 4.33. Mouth of Rio Santa Maria. 4.74. On Colorado River. 5.02. On Colorado River. 9.06. On Colorado River. 11.39. On Colorado River. 29.87. On Colorado River. [Illustration: ARTILLERY PEAK.] 1.02. Mojave Villages. 9.46. Crossing of the Colorado River. 0.33. On Colorado River. 2.78. On Colorado River. 20.71. ....--The road, on leaving the Colorado, runs up over a gravelly ridge to a barren niesa, and descends the bed of the Mojave 4 or 5 miles above its mouth, and at 9-1/2 miles it passes springs near the point where the road turns around the western base of a mountain. There is no water at the camp, but grass in an arroya. 9.00. Pai-Uté Creek.--This is a fine stream, with good water and grass. 13.00. Arroyo.--Grass and wood; water is found by digging. 7.00. Fine Spring.--Good water and grass. The wagon-road passes around the hills, but an Indian trail leads through the ravine where the spring is. 19.00. Marl Spring.--This is a small but constant spring; excellent grass, and greasewood for fuel. 30.00. Lake.--The road follows a ridge for some distance, then descends to an arroyo, and in a few miles emerges into a sandy plain, where there is the dry bed of a lake, which is firm, and makes a smooth, good road. The camp is at some marshy pools of water. Good grass, and greasewood for fuel. 12.00. Mojave River.--Road passes through a valley of drifted sand, and at the camp strikes the river, which is here a beautiful stream of fresh water, 10 to 12 feet wide and a foot deep, with a hard, gravelly bottom. Grass in the hills near. 13.00. Mojave River.--The road ascends the river, the banks of which are covered with fine grass and mesquite wood. Good camps along here. 20.00. Mojave River.--The road leads up the river for a short distance, when it turns into an arroyo, and ascends to a low mésa, and continues along the border of a level prairie covered with fine bunch-grass. It then enters the river bottom again, which is here several miles wide, and well wooded. Grass good. 20.00. Mojave River.--Six miles from camp the road strikes the Mormon road, and crosses the stream near a Mormon camping-place. The trail runs along the river, which gets larger and has more timber on its banks as it is ascended. Good grass, wood, and water. 22.00. Mojave River.--A short distance from camp the valley contracts, but the road is good. It leaves the valley and crosses a gravelly ridge, but enters it again. Good grass, wood, and water. 15.00. Mojave River.--Road continues along the right bank of the river, in a southwest course, and crosses the river at camp. Good wood, water, and grass. 29.50. Cajou Creek.--The road leaves the river at the crossing, and runs toward a break in the San Bernadino Mountains; it ascends a sharp hill and enters a cedar thicket; it then ascends to the summit of the Cajou Pass; thence over a spur of the mountains into an arroyo or creek in a ravine; thence along the dry channel of the Cajou Creek for two miles, where the water begins to run, and from thence the road is rough to camp. 7.00. Cajou Creek.--Road continues along the creek to camp, and is rough. Wood, water, and grass at camp. 20.00. Cocomouga's Ranch.--On a pretty stream of running water. The road runs for six miles down the Cajou Creek, along its steep and rocky bed. It is here a good-sized stream. Captain Whipple's road here leaves the San Bernadino road, and turns to the west along the base of the mountains toward Los Angeles; it then crosses a prairie and strikes the ranch of Cocomouga. Wood, water, and grass. 24.00. Town of El Monté.--The road runs upon the northern border of a basin which is watered by many small streams, and is settled. The camp is on the pretty stream of San Gabriel, where there is a good camping-place. 14.25. City of Los Angeles.--The road passes the Mission of San Gabriel, then enters a ravine among hills and broken ground; it then descends and crosses the river which waters the valley, and enters the city. There is a good camp upon the point of a ridge on the left bank of the river. 23.00. San Pedro.--Good camp. * * * * * XXI.--_From Fort Yuma to Benicia, California._ From Lieutenant R. S. WILLIAMSON'S Report. [Distances in miles and hundredths of a mile.] Miles. Fort Yuma, on Rio Colorado, to 6.51. Pilot Knob. 5.06. Algodones. 11.18. Cook's Wells. 21.11. Alamo Mocho. 14.16. Little Laguna. 10.29. Big Laguna. 12.92. Forks of Road.--The left-hand road leads to San Diego, 139.94 miles, the right-hand to San Francisco. 17.62. Salt Creek. 28.94. Water in the Desert.--Below point of rocks. 12.60. Cohuilla Village. 15.82. Deep Well. 10.62. Hot Spring. 7.36. East base of San Gorgonio Pass. 18.29. Summit of Pass. 27.10. San Bernadino.--Mormon town. 17.60. Sycamore Grove. 14.00. Qui-qual-mun-go Ranch. 26.60. San Gabriel River.--At crossing. 6.70. Mission of San Gabriel. 9.00. Los Angeles. 10.20. Cahuengo Ranch.--At the crossing of a branch of Los Angeles River. 10.70. Mission of San Fernando. 5.90. Summit of San Fernando Pass. 7.15. Santa Clara River, southeast fork. 15.80. Summit of Coast Range.--In San Francisquito Pass. 18.00. Eastern base of Sierra Nevada. 6.70. Summit of Tejon Pass. 13.10. Dépôt Camp in the Tejon. 31.00. Kern River.--At the crossing. 10.80. Dépôt Camp on Pose Creek, or "O-co-ya." 24.30. White Creek. 14.90. More's Creek. 5.10. Tulé River. 22.00. Deep Creek.--Deep Creek is the first of four creeks, crossed by the wagon-road, into which the "Pi-pi-yu-na" divides itself after emerging from the Sierra. These streams are commonly known as the "Four Creeks." 0.29. Cameron Creek.--The second of the "Four Creeks." 3.30. Kah-wee-ya River.--The third and principal one of the "Four Creeks." 0.89. St. John's Creek.--The last of the "Four Creeks." At the crossing. 28.13. Pool's Ferry.--On King's River. 12.32. Slough of King's River. 25.73. Fort Miller.--On San Joaquin River, in the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada. 9.40. Cottonwood Creek. 7.72. Fresno River. 12.15. Chowchilla River.--Sometimes known as "Big Mariposa." 10.39. Mariposa River. 6.03. Bear Creek. 18.33. Merced River. 18.87. Davis's Ferry.--Tuolumne River. 28.85. Grayson.--A ferry on the San Joaquin River. 27.54. Elk Horn.--The distance is by the wagon-road, and is circuitous. 6.90. Summit of Livermore Pass. 7.20. Egress from Livermore Pass. 40.42. Martinez.--On the Straits of Carquives, opposite Benicia, California. Total distance from Fort Yuma to Benicia, 800.45 miles. * * * * * XXII.--_A new route from Fort Bridger to Camp Floyd, opened by Captain_ J. H. SIMPSON, U.S.A., _in_ 1858. Miles. Fort Bridger to 6. Branch of Black's Fork.--Wood, water, and grass. 7-1/4. Cedar on Bluffs of Muddy.--Grass and wood all the way up the ravine from the Muddy, and water at intervals. 5-1/2. Last water in ravine after leaving the Muddy.--Wood, water, and grass. 5-3/4. East Branch of Sulphur Creek.--Wood, water, and grass. Junction of Fort Supply road. 1/2. Middle Branch of Sulphur Creek.--Sage, Water, and grass. 3. West Branch of Sulphur Creek.--Willow, water, and grass; spring a mile below. 5-1/4. East Branch of Bear River.--Wood, water, and grass. 1/4. Middle Branch of Bear River.--Wood, water, and grass. 2-3/4. Main Branch of Bear River.--Wood, water, and grass. 9-3/4. First Camp on White Clay Creek.--Wood, water, and grass. 5-1/4. White Clay Creek.--Wood, water, and grass. 15. White Clay Creek.--Good camps all along the valley of White Clay Creek. 3/4. Commencement of Cañon.--Wood, water, and grass. 1/2. White Clay Creek.--Good camps all along the valley of White Clay Creek to the end of the lower cañon. 12. Weber River.--Wood, water, and grass. 6. Parley's Park Road.--Wood, water, and grass. Pass over the divide. 3-3/4. Silver Creek.--Willows, water, and grass. 6. Timpanogos Creek.--Wood, water, and grass. Cross over the divide. 1. Commencement of Cañon.--Wood, water, and grass. 24-1/2. Cascade in Cañon.--Good camps at short intervals all along Timpanogos Cañon. 4-1/4. Mouth of Cañon.--Wood and water. 6-1/4. Battle Creek Settlement.--Purchase forage. 3-1/4. American Fork Settlement.--Purchase forage. 3. Lehi (town).--Purchase forage. Grass near. 2-3/4. Bridge over Jordan.--Grass and water; wood in the hills 1-1/2 miles distant. 14. Camp Floyd.--Wood, water, and grass. Total distance from Fort Bridger to Camp Floyd, 155 miles. NOTE.--Captain Simpson says this wagon-route is far superior to the old one in respect to grade, wood, water, and grass, and in distance about the same. * * * * * XXIII.--_From Fort Thorne, New Mexico, to Fort Yuma, California._ [Distances in miles and hundredths of a mile.] Miles. Fort Thorne, N.M., to 14.30. Water Holes.--One mile west of hole in rock. Water uncertain; no wood. 9.19. Mule Creek.---Water at all seasons a little up the creek; wood plenty. 12.00. Cook's Spring.--Water sufficient for camping; mesquite bushes on the hills. 19.50. Rio Mimbres.--Water and wood abundant. 16.30. Ojo de la Vaca.--Water and wood. 12.00. Spring.--Constant small streams two miles up the cañon; water at the road uncertain. 44.40. Rancho.--Pond of brackish water one mile to the right, four miles before reaching here. 13.90. Rio St. Simon.--Constant water a few miles up, and mesquite wood. 18.40. Pass in the Mountains.--Water on the left about two miles after entering the Pass. 6.40. Arroya.--Wood one mile up; water uncertain; small stream crossing the road 1-1/2 miles from last camp. 26.30. Nugent's Spring.--Large spring.--Excellent water one mile south, at Playa St. Domingo. 17.20. Cañon.--To the left of the road. Water 1-1/2 miles up the canon, two miles from the road. 17.00. Rio San Pedro.--Water and wood abundant. 16.30. San Pedro.--Water abundant; wood distant. 20.80. Cienequilla.--Water and wood abundant. 7.30. Along Cienequilla.--Water and wood abundant; road rough. 21.80. Mission of San Xavier.--Large mesquite, and water plenty in Santa Cruz River. 8.00. Tucson.--Village on Santa Cruz River. Tucson is the last green spot on the Santa Cruz River. The best camping-ground is two miles beyond the village, where the valley widens, and good grass and water are abundant. 7.20. Mud Holes.--The road passes over arroyas, but is rather level. 65.00. Agua Hermal.--Road passes over a desert section, and is hard and level. Water is found in most seasons, except in early summer, in natural reservoirs on an isolated mountain about midway, called "Picapo;" poor water and tall, coarse grass at the mud-holes. Road here strikes the Rio Gila. 15.10. Los Pimos.--Road follows the river bottom. Lagoon of bad water near camp. Grass good; plenty of cottonwood and mesquite. 13.20. Los Maricopas.--Road takes the river bottom, and passes through cultivated fields; soil and grass good. The Indian village is on a gravelly hill. The road is good. 40.00. El Tegotal.--The road leaves the river and crosses the desert. No water between this and the last camp at the Maricopas' village. Road is good. The calita abounds here, and the mules are fond of it. 10.50. Pega del Rio.--Road runs in the river bottom, and is level. Rincon de Vega.--Road runs in the river bottom, and is level. Good grass. 10.50. Mal Pais.--Road continues near the river, but over low gravel-hills and through a short cañon of deep sand. 9.50. Mil Flores.--Pass over a very steep precipice to an elevated plateau, thence over gravel-hills 4-1/2 miles to camp, where there is excellent grass and wood. 13.70. Santado.--Road keeps the river bottom until within four miles of camp, when it turns over the plateau. Good grass. 16.70. Las Lonas.--Road follows the river bottom. Scattered bunch-grass on the hills. 11.40. Vegas.--Road follows along the river bottom. Grass poor. 16.80. Metate.--Road runs along at the foot of a rugged mountain. Excellent grass at the camp. 14.70. El Horral.--Road ascends to the plateau, which it follows for seven miles over a level country, then descends over gravelly hills to the river. Camp on the river bank near the desert. Wood plenty. 20.80. Los Algodones.--Road runs along at the foot of the hills or spurs of the desert; small rugged hills, vegetation dwarf mesquit, cacti, etc. Good grass at camp. 7.40. Fort Yuma, on the Rio Colorado. Total distance from Fort Thorne, N.M., to Fort Yuma, 571 miles. * * * * * XXIV.--_Lieutenant_ BRYAN'S _Route from the Laramie Crossing of the South Platte to Fort Bridger_, via _Bridger's Pass._ Miles. Laramie Crossing to 14. Bryan's Crossing.--Road runs on the south side of the Platte. Good grass and water. 12. First Crossing of Pole Creek.--Pole Creek is a rapid stream, sandy bed, 15 feet wide, and two feet deep. Good grass on the creek, and wood three miles off on the bluffs. 37. Second Crossing of Pole Creek.--Road runs along the creek. Good grass and good camps at any point. Good road. 17-1/4. Third Crossing of Pole Creek.--Good camp. Wood on the bluffs. 20-1/2. Fourth Crossing of Pole Creek.--Creek dry for three miles. Good grass. 20-1/4. Bluffs covered with dead pines.--Creek is crossed several times. Road runs over a rough, broken country. Good grass. 14-1/2. Road from Fort Laramie to New Mexico.--Road rather rough. The valley opens out into a wide plain. Plenty of grass. 10-1/2. On Pole Creek.--Good road; good camp. 20. On Pole Creek.--Road crosses several ravines, most of which can be avoided by keeping on the bluffs; the valley is narrow. Grass not very good. 17-1/2. Cheyenne Pass.--Road passes over a rolling country. Good grass; willows for fuel. Military post established here. 14-1/2. Summit of Black Hills.--Source of Pole Creek. Grass poor. 10-1/4. East Fork of Laramie River.--Good camp. 16. West Fork of Laramie River.--Good camp. Cherokee trail comes in here. 14. Cooper's Creek.--Wood and grass. 10-1/2. East Fork of Medicine Bow Creek.--Wood and grass as far as Pass Creek. 2-1/2. Small Creek. 6. Birch Creek. 5-1/4. West Fork of Medicine Bow Creek. 2. Flint's Creek. 3. Elm Creek. 7. Rattlesnake Creek. 5. Pass Creek. 14-1/2. North Fork of the Platte.--Good road over high prairie. Five miles before reaching the river the Cherokee trail turns to the left, and crosses three miles above. Good camps on the river. 3-1/2. First Crossing of Sage Creek.--Good road. Grass not plenty. 10-1/2. Second Crossing of Sage Creek.--Road runs through Sage Creek Valley; hilly, broken, and sterile country, covered with sage-brush. Grass not abundant. Cherokee trail leaves three miles back. 4. Third Crossing of Sage Creek.--Road continues through sage-brush. Grass gets better. 3. Fourth Crossing of Sage Creek.--Good grass, wood, and water. 9. Bridger's Pass.--Road runs over a hilly country, crossing several small branches, with a little grass upon their banks; country covered with sage. 3-1/2. Muddy Creek.--The valley of the "Muddy" is deep and narrow at first, and afterward opens out. The crossings of this creek were either bridged or paved by the troops in 1858. But little grass in this valley. 20-1/2. Near Muddy Creek.--Very little grass; poor camp. 16-1/2. Bridger's Fork of the Muddy Creek.--The road for thirteen miles runs over a rolling country, then over a rough, broken country, with deep ravines. No water in this fork in a dry season; small springs of brackish water near the crossing. Grass poor. 4. Small Spring.--Water bad; grass poor. 2-1/2. Small Spring.--In the bluff. Water bad; grass poor. 1. Haystack.--Clay butte. Spring in the dry bed of the creek. Bunch-grass. 5-1/2. Small Springs.--In bluffs on the right of the road. Grass poor and water bad. 7-1/2. Springs.--There is a fine spring at the foot of a steep hill on the south side of the road. Very little grass; rushes on the creek. 3-1/2. South Fork of Bitter Creek.--Good grass and water. 14-3/4. On Bitter Creek.--Country hilly, and intersected with deep ravines. South Fork is a fine stream of good water. 16. Sulphur Springs.--Road very hilly, crossing many deep ravines. Grass and sage plenty. 9. Bitter Creek Crossing.--No grass at the crossing. Water bitter when the creek is down, but tolerable in high water. Road rough, with numerous ravines. 18-1/2. North Fork of Bitter Creek.--Cherokee trail enters near the crossing. Road good, but little grass except in spots. Sage for fuel. 4. Bluffs.--Springs of good water in the elevated bluffs on the right of the road in the cottonwood groves. Grass good and abundant at the base of the bluffs. 11-3/4. Green River.--Road is very rough and hilly, and winds along the valley of the creek. Good camp on the river, with plenty of wood and grass. 15-3/4. Crossing of Black's Fork.--Road runs up through Rabbit Hollow, which is steep and sandy; it then passes over rolling prairie to Black's Fork. Bunch-grass on the hills, and good camp at the crossing. 11-1/4. Fort Laramie Road.--Rolling country; good road through sage bushes. Good camps along the creek. 5-3/4. Ham's Fork.--Good camp on either side of the creek. United States bridge here; good road. 3/4. Black's Fork Crossing.--Good ford except in high water, when the right-hand road on the north bank of the creek is generally traveled. 14-1/2. Fourth Crossing of Black's Fork.--Good road; fine camp; plenty of wood, water, and grass. 2-3/4. Fifth Crossing of Black's Fork.--Good camp; good road. 2-3/4. Smith's Fork.--Good camp; good road. 11-3/4. Fort Bridger.--Good camp near; good road. Total distance from the Laramie Crossing of the South Platte to Fort Bridger, 520-1/2 miles. By the Fort Laramie road the distance is 569 miles. * * * * * XXV.--_Wagon-route from Denver City, at the Mouth of Cherry Creek, to Fort Bridger, Utah._ Miles. Denver City to 5. Vasquez Fork.--Good road and fine camp. 19-1/2. Thompson's Fork.--Road crosses three creeks about five miles apart, is good, and the camp is well supplied with water and grass, but wood is scarce. 16-1/2. Bent's Fork.--Road crosses two streams about five miles apart; no wood on the first. Good camp. 26. Cashe la Poudre River.--Excellent road crossing two streams at ten and twenty-three miles from the last camp; good camps on both. Cashe la Poudre is a fine large stream which issues from the mountains near the road, and is difficult to cross in high water. It has a firm bottom. Good camps along this stream, with plenty of wood and grass. 16. Beaver Creek.--Road turns to the left and enters the hills, ascending very gradually between two lines of bluffs, and is good except in wet weather. Good camp. 19. Small Branch.--Road crosses Beaver Creek three times, affording good camps. Road is hilly, but not very rough, passing for a portion of the distance through a timbered region. Elk and mountain sheep are abundant in this section. The camp is near the summit of the divide. Grass short. 17-1/2. Tributary of Laramie River.--Good road on the divide. Grass and water plenty, but wood not abundant. 18-1/2. Tributary of Laramie River.--Road passes Laramie Fork three miles from the last camp. Good camp. 21. Tributary of Laramie River.--Road crosses a small creek at 14 miles from last camp. Fine camp. 17. Medicine Bow Creek.--At twelve miles the road crosses Sulphur Spring Creek, and at the West Fork of the Laramie Lieutenant Bryan's road enters. At ten miles from the last camp there are two roads--one, Bryan's, leading north of the Medicine Bow Butte, and the other to the south of it. The former is the best. Good camp. 17-1/2. Prairie Creek.--Fine camp. A portion of the road is very rough. It crosses several small branches upon which good camps may be had. Fine game section, with bear, elk, etc., in great abundance. 12-1/2. North Fork of the Platte.--Excellent camp. Leave Bryan's road four miles back, taking the left, which is altogether the best of the two. The crossing of the Platte is good except in high water, when it is very rapid. A flat-boat was left here by Colonel Loring's command in 1858. 12-1/2. Clear Creek.--Sage for fuel; grass short. 23. Dry Creek.--Road leaves Bryan's trail to Bridger's Pass, and bears to the right, passing over a smooth country covered with sage and poorly watered; passes a pond of milky water at thirteen miles. There is water in Dry Creek except in a very dry season. Two miles from the creek, on the old trail, there is a fine spring on the left of the road, which runs down into the road, and here is the best grass after leaving the Platte, with plenty of fuel. 10-1/2. Muddy Creek.--Road leaves the old Cherokee trail at Dry Creek, and bears to the left. Good camp for a limited number of animals; fine grass along near the bank of the creek. Bad crossing. Buffalo seen here. 19-1/2. Lake.--Old trail enters near this camp. Road passes a brackish spring four miles back. The road may be shortened by bearing to the left and skirting the hills for about six miles before reaching the lake. The water in the lake is not good, but drinkable, and will be abundant except in the very dryest part of the summer. Grass is good on the hills. The road from Dry Creek is shorter than the old road by 30 miles. 24-1/2. Red Lakes.--Road is good, but traverses a very dry and sterile region. The water is not good in the lakes, but drinkable, and may go dry in midsummer. Grass tolerable. 22. Seminoes Spring.--After passing the flats at the Red Lakes the road is smooth and good, and there is a good camp at Seminoes Spring. 12-1/2. Bitter Creek.--New road to the left, cutting off ten or twelve miles. Good camp; water a little saline, but drinkable. 25. Sulphur Spring.--Road runs along the valley of Bitter Creek, where there is but little grass until reaching camp. Animals should be driven across the creek into the hills, where the best grass is found. 17. Green River.--Road leaves Bitter Creek at Sulphur Spring, and passes near, some high bluffs, where there are small springs and good grass. Excellent camp at Green River. From here the road runs over the same track as Bryan's road to Fort Bridger. From all the information I have been able to obtain regarding Lieutenant Bryan's road from Sage Creek through Bridger's Pass, and thence down the Muddy Creek, I am inclined to believe that the road we traveled is much the best. It is said that Lieutenant Bryan's route from Bridger's Pass to Green River has a scarcity of grass. The water is brackish, and the supply limited, and may fail altogether in a dry season. The road passes through deep valleys and cañons, crossing muddy creeks and deep ravines. The creeks have been bridged and the ravines cut down so as to form a practicable road; but freshets will probably occur in the spring, which will destroy a great deal of the work, and may render the road impassable.--_Lieutenant Duane's Notes._ The other road is for the greater part of the distance smooth, and has a sufficiency of grass in places, but the water may become scarce in a very dry season. * * * * * XXVI.--_From Nebraska City, on the Missouri, to Fort Kearney._ Nebraska City, on the Missouri River, is a point from whence a large amount of the supplies for the army in Utah are sent, and one of the contractors, Mr. Alexander Majors, speaks of this route in the following terms: "The military road from Fort Leavenworth crosses very many tributaries of the Kansas River, the Soldier, the Grasshopper, etc., etc., which are at all times difficult of passage. There are no bridges, or but few, and those of but little service. From Nebraska City to Fort Kearney, which is a fixed point for the junction of all roads passing up the Platte, we have but one stream of any moment to cross. That one is Salt Creek, a stream which is now paved at a shallow ford with solid rock. "There is no other stream which, even in a high freshet, would stop a train a single day. Again, upon this route we have an abundance of good grazing every foot of the way to Fort Kearney. The route from Nebraska City is about 100 miles shorter to Fort Kearney than that from Fort Leavenworth, the former being less than 200 miles and the latter about 300 miles." From Nebraska City to Salt Creek is...... 40 miles. From Salt Creek to Elm Creek is.......... 60 " From Elm Creek to Fort Kearney is........ 100 " Upon the entire route there is an abundance of wood, water, and grass, and camping-places frequent. * * * * * XXVII.--_From Camp Floyd, Utah, to Fort Union, New Mexico._ By Colonel W. W. LORING, U.S.A. Miles. Camp Floyd to 23. Goshen.--The road runs through Cedar Valley; is level and good for 11 miles, to where the road forks. The left runs near the lake, and has good camps upon it. Thence to a fine spring, where there is a good camp, is 3 miles. Grass continues good to the camp near Goshen. Wood, water, and grass abundant. 14. Salt Creek.--Road runs over a mountain in a direct course to a fine spring branch, which runs into Salt Creek at 3-1/2 miles, where is a good camp; thence through a meadow to a small branch 3 miles, striking the old Mormon road again opposite a mud fort, where there is a fine spring and good camp; thence into the valley of Salt Creek, where there are good camps. 18. Pleasant Creek.--Near the last camp the road forks, one running to Nephi, a small Mormon village, the other to Salt Creek Cañon, which is the one to be taken. The road runs up the cañon 5 miles; thence up its small right-hand fork to a spring, 3 miles; thence to camp. Good camps can be found any where after crossing Salt Creek, with abundance of wood, water, and grass. 19-1/2. Willow Creek.--Road at 6-1/2 miles passes a fine spring; half a mile farther is another spring, where the road forks. Take the right through a meadow; it is 3 or 4 miles shorter. To the crossing is 3 miles; thence to the main road again 3 miles; to the village of Ephraim 5 miles. Good camp. 12. Lediniquint Creek.--At 6 miles pass Manti; thence to Salt and Sulphur Springs is 3 miles. Good camp, with a fine spring, wood, and grass. 15. Lediniquint Creek.--Road passes over a rugged country for 4 miles, to a creek; thence one mile it crosses another creek; thence 2-1/2 miles up the creek, where there is a good camp. The road improves, and for 8 or 9 miles camps can be found by leaving the creek a short distance. The creek on which the camp is muddy, with narrow channel. 18. Onapah Creek, or Salt Creek.--Road is good over a barren country to the pointed red hills near the entrance to Wasatch Pass, 7 miles. From the red hills cross Salt Creek 3 times in 4 miles; grass fair at 2d crossing; very good at 3d crossing, and a good camp. Road rough for 3 miles after leaving the creek. The road then enters a fine valley, with plenty of blue and bunch grass. Road is level to within a mile of the camp. Wood, water, and grass abundant at camp. 7-1/2. Head of Branch of Salt Creek.--Road runs over a ridge at 2 miles, thence one mile to a small branch. Grass abundant. Road runs along the branch 3 miles; in places very rough, with some sand; ascends the entire distance, and the camp is very elevated. Good spring at camp. 5-3/4. Salt Creek.--Road passes over a ridge 2-1/2 miles to a spring. Good camp at this spring. Colonel Loring worked the road at this place. It crosses the creek 6 times within the 5-3/4 miles. Good camp, with abundance of wood, water, and grass. 6-1/2. Silver Creek.--Road traverses a rolling section, is good, passes several springs where there are good camps, and crosses several trails which lead from California to New Mexico. 17-1/2. Media Creek.--At two miles the road passes the dividing ridge between the waters of Salt Lake and Green River; thence two miles' descent to Shipley Creek, where is a good camp. For about a mile the road is rough, but then descends into an open plain where the road is good. The ground is rough about the camp, and covered with sage and greasewood. Two miles up the creek, near the cañon, is some grass, but it is not abundant here. 19-3/4. St. Raphael Creek.--Road passes a rolling section for 5 miles; thence 1-1/2 mile to Garamboyer Creek, where there is a good camp; thence, with the exception of a short distance, the road is good to the Knobs, 9 miles, when it is broken for 4-1/2 miles. Good camp. 11-3/4. San Matio Creek.--For 3 miles the road is over a rolling section, with steep hills, to a creek, where is a good camp; thence, for 3 miles along the creek, soft soil and heavy road; thence 5 miles to another creek, some grass, but not plenty; thence to camp the road is rough in places. Good camp. 14-1/4. In the Hills.--Road runs over a rolling country 2-1/2 miles to San Marcos, or Tanoje Creek, where there is good grass and water, with sage. Two miles farther over a gravelly road, then a good plain road for 9-3/4 miles to camp. Good wood, water, and grass. 23. Spring.--Road for the first ten miles is rocky, when it strikes a spring, where there is a good camp; thence 2 miles to water in a tank, not permanent; thence the road is on a ridge for 6 miles, and is good; thence 3 miles the road is sandy. The spring at camp is large, with plenty of wood, but the grass is scarce. Down the creek it is more abundant. 18. Green River.--For 5 miles the road is sandy; thence the road is good for the remainder of the distance to camp, where there is plenty of wood, water, and grass. 13. 13-Mile Spring.--Green River can be forded at ordinary stages. Road runs among several arroyas for a few miles, and is then straight and good to camp. Good grass a mile to the east of camp. An Arroya.--Road runs between two rocky buttes, and strikes the Mormon trail, which leaves Green River at the same place, but is very tortuous. Water not permanent here; good grass three fourths of a mile from camp. 20-1/4. Cottonwood Creek.--Road passes over a broken country to a water-hole, 9 miles; grass abundant; thence there is sand in places: crosses several arroyas. Camp is between two mountains. Wood, water, and grass abundant. 12. Grand River.--Road is over a rolling country; in places light sand and heavy for wagons. Good camp. 13. Grand River.--Road is rolling and sandy. The Mormon road runs nearer the mountains, and Colonel Loring thinks it is better than the one he traveled. Good camp. 16-3/4. 1-1/2 mile from Grand River.--The first 3 miles is level, then the road passes over a very elevated ridge, and descends into the valley. Grand River runs through a cañon, and can not be reached with the animals. Road in places sandy. Good camp. 9-1/2. Grand River.--At two miles strike Salt Creek, where the Mormon road passes up a dry creek toward Gray Mountain. Road skirts the mountains along Grand River, and is rough in places, passing over abrupt hills. Good camp. 16-3/4. Grand River.--Road runs over a level and firm section, with good camps at any point along the river. Cross the Mormon and other trails. Good ford at the crossing except in high water. Good camp. 18-1/2. On an Arroya.--Road runs over an undulating surface, crossing several small streams issuing from Elk Mountain, affording good camps at almost any place, and strikes Marcy's and Gunnison's trails. Good camp. 15-1/4. Grand River.--Rolling country; high ridges with abrupt slopes for 6-1/4 miles; thence into a plain for 7-1/4 miles to Double Creek. Good camps. 12. Oncompagre River.--Good ford except in high water. At 6 miles cross a dry creek; thence 3 miles over a high, level, and firm road; strike a large trail; descend a hill with gentle slope into the Valley of Oncompagre, where there are fine camps. Winter resort for Uté Indians. 14-1/2. Oncompagre River.--Road runs along the valley of the Oncompagre, is good, and camps may be found at any point, with plenty of wood, water, and grass. 13. Cedar Creek.--Road leaves the Oncompagre, and bears to the east up Cedar Creek to the gap in the mountains, 6 miles; thence up the valley of Cedar Creek to camp, where are wood, water, and grass. The Gap is the first opening in the mountains above the mouth of the Oncompagre. 8-3/4. Devil's Creek.--Road runs to the head of Cedar Creek, over the divide, into the valley of Devil's Creek, and is rough, with a steep descent. Camp is near a narrow cañon called Devil's Gate, with high perpendicular bluffs. Good camp. 3. North Fork of Devil's Creek.--Road very rocky, and worked by Colonel Loring. Marcy's and Gunnison's trails pass here. Good camp. 7-3/4. Cebola Creek.--Road passes over abrupt hills covered with pine. Good camp. 5-1/2. Ruidos Creek.--Road rough, with abrupt ascents and descents. Fine creek 5 feet wide, and good camp. 13. Grand River.--Road rather smooth for the first 3 miles, then rough and rocky, crossing several creeks, and descending into the valley of the Grand or Eagle-tail River, where is a good camp. Plenty of brook trout in all the streams in this section. 14-1/2. Grand River.--Road crosses the river three times; bottom wide; grass and wood abundant. Cross several beautiful streams, upon which are good camps. Some sand and rough places, but generally good road. Game and brook trout abundant in this region. Indians resort to this section a great deal. 18. Cutebetope Creek.--At about 5 miles the Cutebetope Creek enters, forming at the confluence a beautiful valley, which the road crosses, and strikes the creek near the Point of Rocks, where the valley is only 40 yards wide, but after passing the Point it opens again. The course of the creek is nearly north. Good camps. 20. Spring near Beaver Creek.--Road crosses several small creeks, where are good camping-places. Good camp. 16-3/4. Sawatch Creek.--Road runs over a very rough and mountainous section for 14 miles to the summit of the Rocky Mountains; thence it descends to camp, where grass, wood, and water are abundant. 21-1/2. Sawatch Creek.--Road rough and rocky in places; strikes the main Sawatch Creek at 9-1/2 miles; crosses numerous small branches, where are grass, wood, and good water in abundance. 25-1/2. Camero Creek.--Road for 7 miles, to Sawatch Buttes, is good; thence 1-1/2 mile to the last crossing of the Sawatch, where is a good camping-place. Good camp at Camero Creek. 3-1/2. Garita Creek.--Good road and good camp. 16-1/2. Rio Grande.--Road level and good. Good camps along the river at almost any point. 6. Rio Grande.--Good road and camp. 17-1/2. Fort Garland, Hay Camp.--Road continues down the river, and is good. For six miles there is timber, but after this willow is the only wood to camp. Good road. Hay is cut at this place for Forts Massachusetts and Garland. 16. Culebra Creek.--At 4-3/4 miles cross Trinchera Creek, where is a good camp. Road rather sandy. Good camps any where on Culebra Creek. 24-3/4. Latos Creek.--Road tolerable to Costilla Creek, 10-3/4 miles. Good camp. 14. Ascequia, near Lama Creek.--Road crosses several small branches. At 9-1/2 miles strike Red River. Grass at camp good, but not abundant. 19-3/4. Meadow near Indian Puebla.--At 6 miles the road crosses the San Christobal; thence over another ridge into the valley of the Rio Hondo. Camp 2 miles from Taos. 2. Taos, New Mexico.--Good road. At Taos are several stores, where goods of all descriptions can be had at fair prices. 13. Taos Creek Cañon.--Road passes through the settlement, where grain and vegetables can be obtained. It then enters the Taos Cañon at 3 miles, and crosses the Cañon Creek frequently to camp. Good camp. 29. Gaudelapepita.--At 5 miles the road ascends to the dividing ridge, and is tolerable; thence in 4 miles cross the mountain, and reach a fine spring branch, where is a fine camp. Thence the road passes short ridges for 9 miles to Black Lake. Good camp. Fort Union.--Road follows Coyote Cañon 3 miles; thence one mile to Mexican settlement; thence 19-1/2 miles over the prairie to the fort. * * * * * Colonel Loring came over the route from Camp Floyd to Fort Union with a large train of wagons. He, however, found the road in many places upon the mountains very rough, and it will require working before it will be suitable for general travel with loaded wagons. It is an excellent route for summer travel with pack trains, and is well supplied with the requisites for encamping. From Fort Union to Fort Garland the road passes through a settled country, where supplies of grain and vegetables can at all times be purchased at reasonable prices, and there are small towns met with during almost every day's march where small shops supply such articles of merchandise as the traveler needs. * * * * * XXVIII.--_Wagon-route from Guaymas, New Mexico, to Tubac, Arizona._ From Captain STONE'S Journal. Miles. Guaymas to 10-1/4. Rancho del Cavallo.--Good wood, water, and grass. 9. Rancho de la Noche Buena.--Good wood and grass, but no water for animals in May and June. 19-5/8. Rancho de la Cuneguinta.--Good wood, water, and grass the year round; water in tanks and wells. 15-3/4. Rancho del Posito.--Good wood and grass the year round; water for men at all times, and for animals except in the months of May and June. 8. Rancho de la Palma.--Wood, water, and grass at all times. 16-3/8. Rancho de la Paza.--Good wood, water, and grass at all seasons. 16. Hermosillo.--This is a town of 10,000 inhabitants, on Sonora River, where all supplies may be procured. 13. Hacienda de Alamito.--Plenty of running water, wood, grass, and grain. 8. Hacienda de la Labor.--Plenty of running water, grass, and grain. 28. Rancho de Tabique.--Roughest part of the road, but not difficult for wagons. Wood, water, and grass. From Hermosillo to this place there is water at short intervals along the road. 36. Rancho Querebabi.--Wood and grass; water in tanks. 12. Barajita.--Small mining village. Bad water; good wood and grass. 13. Santa Aña.--Village on the River San Ignacio. Plenty of wood, water, and grass. 12. La Magdalena.--Thriving town, where all supplies can be procured. 5. San Ignacio.--Village on the river. Good wood, water, and grass. 6-3/4. Imuris.--Village on the river. Wood, water, and grass. 11-1/2. Los Alisos Rancho.--Wood, water, and grass. 3-1/2. La Casita.--Wood, water, and grass. 3-1/2. Cíbuta.--Wood, water, and grass. 11-1/4. Agua Zarca.--Wood, water, and grass. 23-1/4. Rancho de las Calabasas.--Wood, water, and grass. 13. Tubac.--Silver mines at this place. Total distance from Guaymas to Tubac, 295 miles. NOTE.--During the months of July, August, and September, water will be found at almost any part of the road from La Casita to Hermosillo. There is no lack of wood or grass on any part of the road from Guaymas to the frontier. The only difficulty in encamping at almost any point upon the road is that of obtaining water in the dry season, _i.e._, from February to the first of July. The remarks for each place apply to the most unfavorable seasons. APPENDIX. A. _Portable Boat._ A boat has been invented by Colonel R. C. Buchanan, of the army, which has been used in several expeditions in Oregon and in Washington Territory, and has been highly commended by several experienced officers who have had the opportunity of giving its merits a practical service test. It consists of an exceedingly light framework of thin and narrow boards, in lengths suitable for packing, connected by hinges, the different sections folding into so small a compass as to be conveniently carried upon mules. The frame is covered with a sheet of stout cotton canvas, or duck, secured to the gunwales with a cord running diagonally back and forth through eyelet-holes in the upper edge. When first placed in the water the boat leaks a little, but the canvas soon swells so as to make it sufficiently tight for all practical purposes. The great advantage to be derived from the use of this boat is, that it is so compact and portable as to be admirably adapted to the requirements of campaigning in a country where the streams are liable to rise above a fording stage, and where the allowance of transportation is small. It may be put together or taken apart and packed in a very few minutes, and one mule suffices to transport a boat, with all its appurtenances, capable of sustaining ten men. Should the canvas become torn, it is easily repaired by putting on a patch, and it does not rot or crack like India-rubber or gutta-percha; moreover, it is not affected by changes of climate or temperature. B. _Winter Traveling._ In traveling through deep snow, horses will be found much better than mules, as the latter soon become discouraged, lie down, and refuse to put forth the least exertion, while the former will work as long as their strength holds out. When the snow is dry, and not deeper than 2-1/2 feet, horses in good condition, will walk through it without much difficulty, and throw aside the snow so as to open quite a track. If there are several horses they should be changed frequently, as the labor upon the leading one is very severe. When the snow is deeper than 2-1/2 feet, it becomes very difficult for animals to wade through it, and they soon weary and give out. The best plan, under such circumstances (and it is the one I adopted in crossing the Rocky Mountains, where the snow was from two to five feet upon the ground), is to place all the disposable men in advance of the animals to break the track, requiring them to alternate from front to rear at regular intervals of time. In this manner a track is beaten over which animals pass with comparative ease. When the snow increases to about four feet, it is impossible for the leading men to walk erect through it, and two or three of them are compelled to crawl upon their hands and knees, all being careful to place their hands and feet in the same holes that have been made by those in advance. This packs the snow so that it will sustain the others walking erect, and after 20 or 30 have passed it becomes sufficiently firm to bear up the animals. This, of course, is an exceedingly laborious and slow process, but it is the only alternative when a party finds itself in the midst of very deep snows in a wilderness. Animals, in walking over such a track as has been mentioned, will soon acquire the habit of placing their feet in the holes that have been made by the men; and, indeed, if they lose the step or miss the holes, they will fall down or sink to their bellies. Early in the winter, when the snow first falls in the Rocky Mountains, it is so light and dry that snow-shoes can not be used to advantage. We tried the experiment when we crossed the mountains in December and January, but found it impossible to walk upon them. Should a party, in a country where the snow is deep, have the misfortune to lose its animals by freezing, the journey can not be continued for any great length of time without devising some method of transporting subsistence besides that of carrying it upon the backs of the men, as they are unable to break a track through deep snow when loaded down in this way. The following plan has suggested itself to me as being the most feasible, and it is the one I resolved to adopt in the event of losing our mules faster than we required them for subsistence when we passed the Mountains. Take willow, or other flexible rods, and make long sleds, less in width than the track, securing the cross-pieces with rawhide thongs. Skin the animals, and cut the hides into pieces to fit the bottom of the sleds, and make them fast, with the hair on the upper side. Attach a raw-hide thong to the front for drawing it, and it is complete. In a very cold climate the hide soon freezes, becomes very solid, and slips easily over the snow. The meat and other articles to be transported are then placed upon the sled so as not to project over the sides, and lashed firmly. Lieutenant Cresswell, who was detached from Captain M'Clure's ship in the Arctic regions in 1853, says his men dragged 200 pounds each upon sledges over the ice. They could not, of course, pull as much over deep snow, but it is believed that they would have no difficulty in transporting half this amount, which would be sufficient to keep them from starvation at least fifty days. I am quite confident that a party of men who find themselves involved in deep snows, dependent solely upon their own physical powers, and without beasts of burden, can prolong their lives for a greater time, travel farther, and perform more labor by adopting the foregoing suggestions than in any other way. C. _Indian Signals._ When Indians are pursued by a large force, and do not intend to make resistance, they generally scatter as much as possible, in order to perplex and throw off those who follow their trail, but they have an understanding where they are to rendezvous in advance. Sometimes, however, circumstances may arise during a rapid flight making it necessary for them to alter these plans, and turn their course in another direction. When this happens, they are in the habit of leaving behind them some well-understood signals to indicate to their friends in the rear the change in their-movements. For instance, they will sometimes leave a stick or other object to attract attention, and under this bury an arrow pointing in the new direction they intend to take. They will then continue on for a time in the course they have been pursuing, until they get upon hard ground, where it is difficult to see their tracks, then gradually turn their course in the new direction. THE END. [Illustration: SKETCH of the DIFFERENT ROADS.] 
27300	----	THE YOUNG ADVENTURER OR TOM'S TRIP ACROSS THE PLAINS BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "THE BACKWOODS BOY," "FROM CANAL BOY TO PRESIDENT," "WALTER SHERWOOD'S PROBATION," "NED NEWTON," "ADRIFT IN NEW YORK," ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS ALGER SERIES FOR BOYS. UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. Adrift in New York. Andy Gordon. Andy Grant's Pluck. Bob Burton. Bound to Rise. Brave and Bold. Cash Boy. Chester Rand. Do and Dare. Driven from Home. Erie Train Boy. Facing the World. Hector's Inheritance. Helping Himself. Herbert Carter's Legacy. In a New World. Jack's Ward. Jed, the Poor House Boy. Julius, the Street Boy. Luke Walton. Making His Way. Only an Irish Boy. Paul, the Peddler. Phil, the Fiddler. Ralph Raymond's Heir. Risen from the Ranks. Sam's Chance. Shifting for Himself. Sink or Swim. Slow and Sure. Store Boy. Strive and Succeed. Strong and Steady. Tin Box. Tom, the Bootblack. Tony, the Tramp. Try and Trust. Young Acrobat. Young Outlaw. Young Salesman. _Price Post-Paid, 35c. each, or any three books for $1.00._ HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I MARK NELSON'S FAMILY 3 II TOM FINDS A WALLET 10 III TOM ASKS A LOAN 17 IV TOM ASKS LEAVE OF ABSENCE 25 V TOM RAISES THE MONEY 33 VI TOM ARRIVES IN PITTSBURG 42 VII THE PITTSBURG HOUSE 51 VIII GRAHAM IN HIS TRUE COLORS 59 IX THE "RIVER BELLE" 68 X ON THE STEAMER 76 XI THE FIRST DAY ON THE RIVER 85 XII NO. 61 AND NO. 62 94 XIII GRAHAM'S DISAPPOINTMENT 104 XIV COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 113 XV THE ALLEGHANY HOUSE 117 XVI THE EVENTS OF A MORNING 122 XVII TOM'S ARREST 131 XVIII TOM GETS OUT OF HIS DIFFICULTY 140 XIX A MISSOURI TAVERN 149 XX ST. JOE 158 XXI HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME 167 XXII THE YOUNG MAN FROM BOSTON 175 XXIII MR. PEABODY'S TROUBLES 184 XXIV A SAD SIGHT 192 XXV A NIGHT PANIC 201 XXVI MR. PEABODY IS WORSTED 209 XXVII THE LOST HORSE 217 XXVIII INDIAN CASUISTRY 221 XXIX A RACE FOR LIFE 230 XXX TOM BECOMES AN INDIAN 234 XXXI TOM GIVES A MAGICAL SOIREE 240 XXXII TOM'S ESCAPE 247 THE YOUNG ADVENTURER. CHAPTER I. MARK NELSON'S FAMILY. "I wish I could pay off the mortgage on my farm," said Mark Nelson soberly, taking his seat on the left of the fireplace, in the room where his wife and family were assembled. "Have you paid the interest, Mark?" asked his wife. "Yes; I paid it this afternoon, and it has stripped me of money completely. I have less than five dollars in my pocketbook toward buying you and the children clothes for the winter." "Never mind me," said his wife cheerfully. "I am pretty well provided for." "Why, mother," said Sarah, the oldest daughter, a girl of fourteen; "you haven't had a new dress for a year." "I have enough to last me till spring, at any rate," said the mother. "You never buy anything for yourself." "I don't go in rags, do I?" asked Mrs. Nelson, with a smile. Mrs. Nelson had a happy disposition, which led her to accept uncomplainingly, and even cheerfully, the sacrifices which, as the wife of a farmer in poor circumstances, she was compelled to make. "You are right, Sarah," said Mark Nelson. "Your mother never seems to think of herself. She might have been much better off if she had not married me." The children did not understand this allusion. They had never been told that their mother had received an offer from Squire Hudson, the wealthiest man in the village, but had chosen instead to marry Mark Nelson, whose only property was a small farm, mortgaged for half its value. Her rejected admirer took the refusal hard, for, as much as it was possible for him, he loved the prettiest girl in the village, as Mary Dale was generally regarded. But Mary knew him to be cold and selfish, and could not make up her mind to marry him. If she had done so, she would now be living in the finest house in the village, with the chance of spending the winter in New York or Boston, instead of drudging in an humble home, where there was indeed enough to eat, but little money for even necessary purposes. She had never regretted her decision. Her husband, though poor, was generally respected and liked, while the squire, though his money procured him a certain degree of consideration, had no near or attached friends. To Squire Hudson many in the village paid tribute; for he held mortgages on twenty farms and buildings, and was strict in exacting prompt payment of the interest semi-annually. It was he to whom Mark Nelson's farm was mortgaged for two thousand dollars. The mortgage had originally been for fifteen hundred dollars, but five years before it had been increased to two thousand, which represented more than half the sum which it would have fetched, if put up for sale. The interest on this sum amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars a year, which Mark Nelson always found it hard to raise. Could he have retained it in his hands, and devoted it to the use of his family, it would have helped them wonderfully, with Mrs. Nelson's good management. Tom, the oldest boy, now approaching his sixteenth birthday, looked up from a book he was reading. He was a bright-looking boy, with brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and dark-blue eyes, who looked, and was, frank and manly. "What is the amount of your interest?" he asked. "Sixty dollars every half-year, Tom. That is what I paid to Squire Hudson this afternoon. It would have made us very comfortable, if I only could have kept it." "It would have done you more good than the squire," said Sarah. "He has more money than he knows what to do with," said her father, almost complainingly. "It seems hard that money should be so unevenly distributed." "Money is not happiness," said Mrs. Nelson quietly. "No; but it helps to buy happiness." "I don't think Squire Hudson is as happy a man as you, Mark." Mark Nelson's face softened as he surveyed his wife and children. "I am happy at home," he said, "and I don't think the squire is." "I am sure he isn't," said Tom. "Mrs. Hudson is sour and ill-tempered, and Sinclair--the only child--is a second edition of his mother. He is the most unpopular boy in the village." "Still," said the farmer, not quite convinced, "money is an important element of happiness, and a farmer stands a very poor chance of acquiring it. Tom, I advise you not to be a farmer." "I don't mean to be if I can help it," said Tom. "I am ready for any opening that offers. I hope some day to pay off the mortgage on the farm, and make you a free man, father." "Thank you for your good intentions, Tom; but two thousand dollars is a large sum of money." "I know it, father; but I was reading in a daily paper, not long since, of a boy, as poor as myself, who was worth twenty-five thousand dollars by the time he was thirty. Why shouldn't this happen to me?" "Don't build castles in the air, Tom," said his mother sensibly. "At least, mother, I may hope for good luck. I have been wanting to talk to you both about my future prospects. I shall be sixteen next week, and it is time I did something." "You are doing something--working on the farm now, Tom." "That don't count. Father advises me not to be a farmer, and I agree with him. I think I am capable of making my way in the world in some other way, where I can earn more money. There is Walter, who likes the country, to stay with you." Walter, the third child, was now twelve years of age, with decided country tastes. "I would like to be a farmer as well as anything," said Walter. "I like the fresh air. I shouldn't like to be cooped up in a store, or to live in the city. Let Tom go if he likes." "I have no objection," said Mr. Nelson; "but I have neither money nor influence to help him. He will have to make his own way." "I am not afraid to try," said Tom courageously. "From this day I will look out for a chance, if you and mother are willing." "I shall not oppose your wishes, Tom," said Mrs. Nelson gravely, "though it will be a sad day for me when you leave your home." "That isn't the way to look at it, mother," said Tom. "If gold pieces grew on currant bushes, it wouldn't be necessary for me to leave home to make a living." "I wish they did," said Harry, a boy nine years of age. "What would you do then, Harry?" asked his brother, smiling. "I would buy a velocipede and a pair of skates." "I heard of a boy once who found a penny in the field, right under a potato-vine," said Walter. "I don't believe it," said Harry. "It's true, for I was the boy." "Where did it come from?" "Tom put it there to fool me." "Won't you put one there to fool me, Tom?" asked Harry. "You are too smart, Harry," said Tom, laughing. "My pennies are too few to try such experiments. I hope, by the time you are as old as Walter, to give you something better." The conversation drifted to other topics, with which we are not concerned. Tom, however, did not forget it. He felt that an important question had that evening been decided for him. He had only thought of making a start for himself hitherto. Now he had broached the subject, and received the permission of his father and mother. The world was all before him where to choose. His available capital was small, it is true, amounting only to thirty-seven cents and a jack-knife; but he had, besides, a stout heart, a pair of strong hands, an honest face, and plenty of perseverance--not a bad equipment for a young adventurer. CHAPTER II. TOM FINDS A WALLET. Since the time of which I am writing, over sixty years have passed, for it was in the year 1850 that Tom made up his mind to leave home and seek a fortune. The papers were full of the new gold discoveries in the new country which had recently been added to the great republic. Thousands were hurrying to the land of gold; men who had been unfortunate at home, or, though moderately well situated, were seized by the spirit of adventure. At considerable sacrifice many raised the means of reaching the new El Dorado, while others borrowed or appropriated the necessary sum. Some, able to do neither, set out on a venture, determined to get there in some way. In the weekly paper, to which Mr. Nelson had for years been a subscriber, Tom had read a good deal about California. His youthful fancy had been wrought upon by the brilliant pictures of a land where a penniless man might, if favored by fortune, secure a competence in a twelvemonth, and he ardently wished that he, too, might have the chance of going there. It was a wish, but not an expectation. It would cost at least two hundred dollars to reach the Pacific coast, and there was no hope of getting a tithe of that sum. "If I could only go to California," thought Tom, "I would make my way somehow; I would cheerfully work twelve hours a day. I don't see why a boy can't dig gold, as well as a man. If somebody would lend me money enough to get there, I could afford to pay high interest." There was one man in Wilton who might lend him the money if he would. That man was Squire Hudson. He always had money on hand in considerable quantities, and two hundred dollars would be nothing to him. Tom would not have dreamed of applying to him, however, but for a service which just at this time he was able to render the squire. Tom had been in search of huckleberries--for this was the season--when, in a narrow country road, not much frequented, his attention was drawn to an object lying in the road. His heart hounded with excitement when he saw that it was a well-filled pocketbook. He was not long in securing it. Opening the wallet, he found it was absolutely stuffed with bank-bills, some of large denomination. There were, besides, several papers, to which he paid but little attention. They assured him, however, as he had already surmised, that the wallet was the property of Squire Hudson. "I wonder how much money there is here," thought Tom, with natural curiosity. He stepped into the woods to avoid notice, and carefully counted the bills. There were two hundred-dollar bills, and three fifties, and so many of smaller denominations that Tom found the whole to amount to five hundred and sixty-seven dollars. "Almost six hundred dollars!" ejaculated Tom, in excitement, for he had never seen so much money before. "How happy should I be if I had as much money! How rich the squire is! He ought to be a happy man." Then the thought stole into our hero's mind, that the wallet contained nearly three times as much as he would need to take him to California. "If it were only mine!" he thought to himself. Perhaps Tom ought to have been above temptation, but he was not. For one little instant he was tempted to take out two hundred dollars, and then drop the wallet where he had picked it up. No one would probably find out where the missing money was. But Tom had been too well brought up to yield to this temptation. Not even the thought that he might, perhaps within a year, return the money with interest, prevailed upon him. "It wouldn't be honest," he decided, "and if I began in that way I could not expect that God would prosper me. If that is the only way by which I can go to California I must make up my mind to stay at home." So the question was settled in Tom's mind. The money must be returned to the owner. His pail was nearly full of huckleberries, but he postponed going home, for he felt that Squire Hudson would be feeling anxious about his loss, and he thought it his duty to go and return the money first of all. Accordingly he made his way directly to the imposing residence of the rich man. Passing up the walk which led to the front door, Tom rang the bell. This was answered by a cross-looking servant. She glanced at the pail of berries, and said quickly: "We don't want any berries, and if we did you ought to go round to the side door." "I haven't asked you to buy any berries, have I?" said Tom, rather provoked by the rudeness of the girl, when he had come to do the squire a favor. "No, but that's what you're after. We have bought all we want." "I tell you I didn't come here to sell berries," said Tom independently; "I picked these for use at home." "Then what do you come here for, anyway, takin' up my time wid comin' to the door, when I'm busy gettin' supper?" "I want to see Squire Hudson." "I don't know if he's at home." "Then you'd better find out, and not keep me waiting." "I never see such impudence," ejaculated the girl. "I mean what I say," continued Tom stoutly. "I want to see the squire on important business." "Much business you have wid him!" said the girl scornfully. Tom by this time was out of patience. "Go and tell your master that I wish to see him," he said firmly. "I've a great mind to slam the door in your face," returned Bridget angrily. "I wouldn't advise you to," said Tom calmly. A stop was put to the contention by an irritable voice. "What's all this, hey? Who's at the door, Bridget?" "A boy wid berries, sir." "Tell him I don't want any." "I have told him, and he won't go." "Won't go, hey?" and Squire Hudson came out into the hall. "What's all this, I say? Won't go?" "I wish to see you, sir," said Tom, undaunted. "I have told the girl that I didn't come here to sell berries; but she objects to my seeing you." Squire Hudson was far from an amiable man, and this explanation made him angry with the servant. He turned upon her fiercely. "What do you mean, you trollop," he demanded, "by refusing to let the boy see me? What do you mean by your insolence, I say?" Bridget was overwhelmed, for the squire's temper was like a tornado. "I thought he wanted to sell berries," she faltered. "That isn't true," said Tom. "I told you expressly that I picked the berries for use at home, and had none to sell." "Go back to the kitchen, you trollop!" thundered the squire. "You deserve to go to jail for your outrageous conduct." Bridget did not venture to answer a word, for it would only have raised a more violent storm, but retreated crestfallen to her own realm, and left our hero in possession of the field. She contented herself with muttering under her breath what she did not dare to speak aloud. "You are Tom Nelson, are you not?" asked the squire, adjusting his spectacles, and looking more carefully at the boy. "Yes, sir." "Have you any message from your father?" "No, sir." "Then why did you come here to take up my time?" demanded the squire, frowning. "I came to do you a service, Squire Hudson." "You came--to--do--me--a--service?" repeated the squire slowly. "Yes, sir." "You may as well come in," said the rich man, leading into the sitting-room. Tom followed him into a handsomely furnished room, and the two sat down opposite each other. CHAPTER III. TOM ASKS A LOAN. "I don't know what service you can do me," said Squire Hudson incredulously. His manner implied: "I am a rich man and you are a poor boy. How can you possibly serve me?" "Have you lost anything lately?" inquired Tom, coming at once to business. I suppose most men, when asked such a question, would first think of their pocket-books. It was so with Squire Hudson. He hastily thrust his hand into his pocket, and found--a large hole, through which, doubtless, the wallet had slipped. "I have lost my wallet," he said anxiously. "Have you found it?" In reply Tom produced the missing article. The squire took it hurriedly, and, at once opening it, counted the money. It was all there, and he heaved a sigh of relief, for he was a man who cared for money more than most people. "Where did you find it?" he asked. Tom answered the question. "It is very fortunate you came along before anyone else saw it. I rode that way on horse-back this morning. I told Mrs. Hudson that my pocket needed repairing, but she put it off, according to her usual custom. If it had not been found, I would have kept her on short allowance for a year to come." Tom felt rather embarrassed, for, of course, it would not do to join in with the squire in his complaints of his wife. Suddenly Squire Hudson said, eying him keenly: "Do you know how much money there is in this wallet?" "Yes, sir." "Then you counted it?" "Yes, sir." "Why did you do it?" "I wanted to know how much there was, so that no one might blame me if any were missing." "Didn't you want to take any?" asked the squire bluntly. "Yes," answered Tom promptly. "Why didn't you? For fear you would be found out?" "That may have had something to do with it, but it was principally because it would have been stealing and stealing is wrong." "What would you have done with the money if you had taken it?" "Started for California next week," answered Tom directly. "Eh?" ejaculated the squire, rather astonished. "Why do you want to go to California--a boy like you?" "To dig gold. I suppose a boy can dig gold, as well as a man. There doesn't seem to be much chance for me here. There's nothing to do but to work on the farm, and father and Walter can do all there is to be done there." "How is your father getting along?" asked the rich man, with an interest which rather surprised Tom. "Poorly," said Tom. "He makes both ends meet; but we all have to do without a great many things that we need." The squire looked thoughtful. He took half a dollar from his wallet and tendered it to Tom. "You've done me a service," he said. "Take that." Tom drew back. "I would rather not take money for being honest," he said. "That's all nonsense," said Squire Hudson sharply. "That's the way I feel about it," said Tom stoutly. "Then you're a fool." "I hope not, sir." "This would have been quite a large loss to me. I am perfectly willing to give you this money." Then Tom gathered courage and said boldly, "You can do me a great favor, Squire Hudson, if you choose." "What is it?" "Lend me enough money to go to California," said Tom nervously. "Good gracious! Is the boy crazy?" ejaculated the astonished squire. "No, sir, I am not crazy. I'll tell you what my plans are. I shall go to work directly I get there, and shall devote the first money I make to paying you. Of course, I shall expect to pay high interest. I am willing to pay you three hundred dollars for two; unless I am sick, I think I can do it inside of twelve months." "How much money do you suppose you will need for this wild-goose expedition?" "About two hundred dollars, sir; and, as I just said, I will give you my note for three." "A boy's note is worth nothing." "Perhaps it isn't in law; but I wouldn't rest till it was paid back." "What security have you to offer?" "None, sir, except my word." "Do you know what I would be if I lent you this money?" "You would be very kind." "Pish! I should be a fool." "I don't think you'd lose anything by it, sir; but, of course, I can't blame you for refusing," and Tom rose to go. "Sit down again," said the squire; "I want to talk to you about this matter. How long have you been thinking of California?" "Only two or three days, sir." "What made you think of it?" "I wanted to help father." "Who has told you about California?" "I have read about it in the papers." "Have you spoken to your father about going there?" "I have spoken to him about leaving home, and seeking my fortune; but I have not mentioned going to California, because I thought it impossible to raise the necessary money." "Of course. That's sensible, at least." Squire Hudson rose and walked thoughtfully about the room, occasionally casting a keen glance at Tom, who remained sitting, with his pail of huckleberries in his cap. After a while the squire spoke again. "Your father might let you have the money," he suggested. "My father has no money to spare," said Tom quickly. "Couldn't he raise some?" "I don't know how." "Then I'll tell you. I hold a mortgage for two thousand dollars on his farm. I suppose you know that?" "Yes, sir." "I might be willing to increase the mortgage to twenty-two hundred, and he could lend you the extra two hundred." This was a new idea to Tom, and he took a little time to think it over. "I don't like to ask father to do that," he said. "He finds it very hard now to pay the interest on the mortgage." "I thought you intended to pay the money in a year," said the squire sharply. "So I do," said Tom, and he began to think more favorably of the plan. "In that case your father wouldn't suffer." "You are right, sir. If father would only consent to do so, I would be happy. But I might die." "Your father would have to take the risk of that. You can't expect me to." This seemed fair enough, and, in fact, the danger didn't seem very great to Tom. He was about sixteen; and to a boy of sixteen death seems very far off, provided he is strong and vigorous, as Tom was. He rapidly decided that the squire's offer was not to be refused without careful consideration. It opened to him a career which looked bright and promising. Once in California, what could he not do? Tom was hopeful and sanguine, and did not allow himself to think of failure. "I understand that you are willing to advance the money, Squire Hudson?" he said, determined to know just what to depend upon. "I will advance two hundred dollars, on condition that your father will secure me by an increased mortgage. It is no particular object to me, for I can readily invest the money in some other way." "I will speak to father about it, Squire Hudson, and meanwhile I am thankful to you for making the offer." "Very well. Let me know as soon as possible," said the squire carelessly. As Tom went out, the rich man soliloquized: "I have no faith in the boy's scheme, and I don't believe half the stories they tell about the California mines; but it will give me an extra hold on Nelson, and hasten the day when the farm will come into my hands. When Mary Nelson refused my hand I resolved some day to have my revenge. I have waited long, but it will come at last. When she and her children are paupers, she may regret the slight she put upon me." CHAPTER IV. TOM ASKS LEAVE OF ABSENCE. Tom walked home slowly, but the distance seemed short, for he was absorbed in thought. In a way very unexpected he seemed to be likely to realize what he had regarded as a very pleasant, but impossible, dream. Would his father consent to the squire's proposal, and, if so, ought Tom to consent to expose him to the risk of losing so considerable a sum of money? If he had been older and more cautious he would probably have decided in the negative; but Tom was hopeful and sanguine, and the stories he had heard of California had dazzled him. There was, of course, an element of uncertainty in his calculations, but the fact that there seemed to be no prospect before him in his native village had an important influence in shaping his decision. To ask his father the momentous question, however, was not easy, and he delayed it, hoping for a favorable opportunity of introducing the subject. His thoughtful manner excited attention, and secured him the opportunity he sought. "You seem deep in thought, Tom," said his mother. "Yes, mother, I have a good deal to think about." "Anybody would think Tom overwhelmed with business," said Walter, next to Tom in age, with good-humored banter. "I am," said Tom gravely. "Won't you take me in partnership, then?" asked Walter. Tom smiled. "I don't think I could do that," he answered. "Not to keep you waiting, Squire Hudson has made me a business proposal this afternoon." All were surprised and looked to Tom for an explanation. "He offers to advance me two hundred dollars for a year, to help me out to California." "Squire Hudson makes this offer to a boy of your age?" said his father slowly. "Yes, or rather he makes the offer to you." "To me?" "Perhaps you will think me selfish for even mentioning it," said Tom rapidly, in a hurry to explain fully now that the ice was broken. "He will advance the money, on condition that you increase the mortgage on the farm to twenty-two hundred dollars." Mr. Nelson looked blank. "Do you know, Tom," he said, "how hard I find it now to pay the interest on the mortgage, and how hopeless I am of ever paying it off?" "I know all that, father; but I want to help you. If I keep my health, and have a chance, I think I can help you. There's no chance for me here, and there is a chance in California. You remember what we have read in the _Weekly Messenger_ about the gold-fields, and what large sums have been realized by miners." "They are men, and you are a boy." "That's true," said Tom, "but," he added, with natural pride, "I am pretty strong for a boy. I am willing to work, and I don't see why I can't dig gold as well as a man. I may not make as much, but if I only do half as well as some that we have read about, I can do a good deal for you." "How far off is California?" asked Mrs. Nelson. "Over three thousand miles, across the continent," answered her husband. "By sea it is a good deal more." "Why, it is as far off as Europe," said Walter, who was fresh from his lesson in geography. "It is farther than some parts of Europe--England, for example," said his father. "And a wild, unsettled region," said Mrs. Nelson soberly. "I don't think so much of that," said Mark Nelson. "Tom is no baby. He is a boy of good sense, not heedless, like some of his age, and I should feel considerable confidence in his getting along well." "What, Mark, are you in favor of his going so far--a boy who has never been away from home in his life?" "I don't know what to say. I have not had time to consider the matter, as it has come upon me suddenly. I have a good deal of confidence in Tom, but there is one difficulty in my mind." "What is that, father?" asked Tom anxiously. "The expense of getting to California, and the method of raising the money; I don't like to increase the mortgage." "I suppose you are right, father," said Tom slowly. "I know it is more than I have any right to ask. I wouldn't even have mentioned it if I hadn't hoped to help you to pay it back." "That is understood, Tom," said his father kindly. "I know you mean what you say, and that you would redeem your promise if fortune, or rather Providence, permitted. It is a serious matter, however, and not to be decided in a hurry. We will speak of it again." Nothing more was said about Tom's plan till after the children had gone to bed. Then, as Mark Nelson and his wife sat before the fire in the open fireplace, the subject was taken up anew. "Mary," said Mark, "I am beginning to think favorably of Tom's proposal." "How can you say so, Mark?" interrupted his wife. "It seems like madness to send a young boy so far away." "Tom can't be called a young boy; he is now sixteen." "But he has never been away from home." "He must go some time." "If it were only to Boston or New York; but to go more than three thousand miles away!" and the mother shuddered. "There are dangers as great in Boston or New York as in California, Mary, to a boy of Tom's age. He can't always be surrounded by home influences." "I wish we could find employment for him in town," said Mrs. Nelson uneasily. "That is a mother's thought, and it would be pleasant for all of us; but I doubt if it would be better for Tom." "Why not?" "A boy who is thrown upon his own guardianship and his own resources develops manliness and self-reliance sooner than at home. But we need not take that into consideration; there is nothing to do here, nor is there likely to be. He must go away from home to find employment. To obtain a place in Boston or New York requires influence and friends in those places; and we can hope for neither. In California he will become his own employer. The gold-mines are open to all, and he may earn in a year as much as he could in five years in the East." "Do you favor his going, then, Mark?" "Not against your will, Mary. Indeed, I should not feel justified in increasing the mortgage upon our little property against your wish. That concerns us all." "I don't think so much of that. I am so afraid Tom would get sick in California. What would become of the poor boy in that case?" "That is a mother's thought. I think Tom would find friends, who would not let him suffer. He is a manly, attractive boy, though he is ours, and I think he is well calculated to make his way." "That he is," said his mother proudly. "No one can help liking Tom." "Then you see he is likely to find friends. Were he such a boy as Sinclair Hudson, I should feel afraid that he would fare badly, if he stood in need of help from others. Sinclair is certainly a very disagreeable boy." "Yes, he is; and he isn't half as smart as Tom." "A mother's vanity," said Mark Nelson, smiling. "However, you are right there. I should consider it a misfortune to have such a cross-grained, selfish son as Sinclair. Squire Hudson, with all his wealth, is not fortunate in his only child. There is considerable resemblance between father and son. I often wish that some one else than the squire held the mortgage on our farm." "You don't think he would take advantage of you?" "I don't think he would be very lenient to me if I failed to pay interest promptly. He has a grudge against me, you know." "That is nonsense," said Mrs. Nelson, blushing, for she understood the allusion. "I am glad he doesn't ask me to give him a mortgage on you, Mary." "He has forgotten all that," said Mrs. Nelson. "I am no longer young and pretty." "I think you more attractive than ever," said the husband. "Because you are foolish," said his wife; but she was well pleased, nevertheless. Poor as her husband was, she had never dreamed of regretting her choice. "Be it so; but about this affair of Tom--what shall I say to him in the morning?" Mrs. Nelson recovered her gravity instantly. "Decide as you think right, Mark," she said. "If you judge that Tom had better go I will do my best to become reconciled to his absence, and set about getting him ready." "It is a great responsibility, Mary," said Mark slowly; "but I accept it. Let the boy go, if he wishes. He will leave our care, but we can trust him to the care of his heavenly Father, who will be as near to him in California as at home." Thus Tom's future was decided. His father and mother retired to bed, but not to sleep. They were parting already in imagination with their first-born, and the thought of that parting was sad indeed. CHAPTER V. TOM RAISES THE MONEY. Tom got up early the next morning--in fact, he was up first in the house--and attended to his usual "chores." He was splitting wood when his father passed him on the way to the barn with the milk-pail in his hand. "You are up early, Tom," he said. "Yes," answered our hero. Tom could not help wondering whether his father had come to any decision about letting him go to California; but he did not like to ask. In due time he would learn, of course. He felt that he should like to have it decided one way or the other. While his plans were in doubt he felt unsettled and nervous. At an early hour the family gathered about the breakfast table. Tom noticed that his father and mother looked grave, and spoke in a subdued tone, as if they had something on their minds; but he did not know what to infer from this, except that they had his prospects still in consideration. When breakfast was over, Mark Nelson pushed back his chair, and said: "How soon can you get Tom ready to start, Mary?" "Am I going, father?" asked Tom, his heart giving an eager bound. "Is Tom really going?" asked the younger children, with scarcely less eagerness. "If Squire Hudson doesn't go back on his promise. Tom, you can go with me to the squire's." "How soon?" "In about an hour. He doesn't breakfast as early as we do. I think he will be ready to receive us in about an hour." "Thank you, father," said Tom. "You are doing a great deal for me." "I can't do much for you, my boy. I can probably get you to California, and then you will be thrown upon your own exertions." "I mean to work very hard. I think I shall succeed." "I hope so, at least, Tom. When the time comes to start the other boys, I shall be glad to have your help in doing it." Tom was pleased to hear this, though it placed upon his shoulders a new and heavy responsibility. He was assuming the responsibility not only for his own future, but for that of his brothers. But it made him feel more manly, as if the period of his dependent boyhood were over, and he had become a young man all at once. "I hope I sha'n't disappoint you, father," he said. "If you do, I don't think it will be your fault, Tom," said his father kindly. "Fortune may be against you, but we must take the risk of that." "I don't know what to think about it, Tom," said his mother, in a tone of doubt and mental disturbance. "I feel as if you were too young to go out in the wide world to seek your fortune." "I am not so very young, mother. I am old enough to make my way." "So your father says, and I have yielded to his judgment; but, Tom, I don't know how to let you go." There were tears in Mrs. Nelson's eyes as she spoke. Tom was moved, and if he needed anything to strengthen him in the good resolutions he had formed, his mother's emotion supplied it. "You sha'n't regret giving your consent, mother," he said manfully, and, rising from his seat, he went to his mother and kissed her. "Mary," said Mr. Nelson, "you haven't answered my question. How long will it take to get Tom ready? If he is to go, he may as well start as soon as possible." "Let me see," said Mrs. Nelson, "how many shirts have you got, Tom?" "Five." "Are they all in good order?" "I believe one needs mending." "I don't know whether that will be enough," said Mrs. Nelson doubtfully. "Mary," said her husband, "don't provide too large a supply of clothing. Tom may find it a burden. Remember, in California, he will have to travel on foot and carry his own baggage." "Then I think he is already pretty well provided. But some of his clothes may need mending. That won't take long, and I will attend to it at once." "Perhaps Squire Hudson will go back on you, after all," said Walter. Tom's face was overcast. That would be a disappointment he could not easily bear. "I shall soon know," he said. An hour later Tom and his father set out for Squire Hudson's residence. Tom felt nervous; he could not well help it. "Tom," said his father, "this is an important visit for you." "Yes, sir," said Tom. "You are feeling nervous, I see. Try to take it coolly, and don't feel too low-spirited if things don't turn out as you hope." "I will try to follow your advice, father, but I am not sure as I can." "If you are disappointed, try to think it is for the best. A boy of your age had made all arrangements to visit Europe with a party of friends. The day before starting something happened which made it impossible for him to go. For weeks he had been looking forward with eager anticipation to his journey, and now it was indefinitely postponed." "What a terrible disappointment!" said Tom. "Yes, it seemed so, but mark the issue. The steamer was lost, and all on board were drowned. The disappointment saved his life." "It might not always turn out so," objected Tom. "No, that is true. Still, if we are willing to think that our disappointments are not always misfortunes, we shall go through life with more cheerfulness and content." "Still, I hope I shall not be disappointed in this," said Tom. "You are perhaps too young to be philosophical," said his father. Mark Nelson had enjoyed only the usual advantages of education afforded by a common school; but he was a man of good natural capacity, and more thoughtful than many in his vocation. From him Tom inherited good natural abilities and industrious habits. It would not be fair, however, to give all the credit to his father. Mrs. Nelson was a superior woman, and all her children were well endowed by nature. As they turned into Squire Hudson's gravel-path, the squire himself opened the front door. "Were you coming to see me?" he asked. "We would like to speak with you a few minutes, squire, if you can spare the time." "Oh, yes, I have nothing pressing on hand," said the squire, with unusual affability. "Walk in, Mr. Nelson." He led the way into the room where Tom had had his interview with him the day before. "Your son did me a good turn yesterday," he said graciously. "He behaved in a very creditable manner." "He told me that he found your pocketbook, Squire Hudson." "Yes; it contained a large sum of money. Some boys would have kept it." "None of my boys would," said Mark Nelson proudly. "Of course not. They're too well brought up." "Tom told me that you offered to advance money enough to get him to California," said Mr. Nelson, coming to business. "On satisfactory security," added the squire cautiously. "You proposed to increase the mortgage on my place?" "Yes," said the squire. "I wouldn't have done it, though, Neighbor Nelson, but for the good turn the boy did me. I am not at all particular about increasing the amount of the mortgage, but, if by so doing it I can promote Tom's views, I won't object." "Thank you, sir," said Tom gratefully. "It is a serious step for me to take," continued Mr. Nelson, "for I feel the incumbrance to be a heavy one already. In fact, it is with difficulty that I pay the interest. But the time has come when Tom should start in life, and in this village there seems to be no opening." "None whatever," said the squire, in a tone of decision. "What do you think of the prospects in California?" asked Mark Nelson. "You are a man of business, and can judge better than I. Are the stories we hear of fortunes made in a short time to be relied upon?" "As to that," said the squire deliberately, "I suppose we can't believe all we hear; we must make some allowances. But, after all, there's no doubt of the existence of gold in large quantities; I am satisfied of that." "Then about the wisdom of sending out a boy like Tom, alone; do you think it best?" "It depends altogether on the boy," responded the squire. "If he is honest, industrious, and energetic, he will make his way. You know your own boy better than I do." "He is all you say, Squire Hudson. I have a great deal of confidence in Tom." Tom looked at his father gratefully. Sometimes it does a boy good to learn that the older people have confidence in him. "Then let him go," said the squire. "I stand ready to furnish the money. I think you said you needed two hundred dollars." This question was put to Tom, and the boy answered in the affirmative. "Very well," said the squire. "As soon as the necessary writings are made out, the money shall be ready." "It's all settled!" thought Tom triumphantly. At that moment Sinclair Hudson, the squire's only son, opened the door and looked into the room. "Hello, Tom Nelson," said he, rather rudely. "What brings you here?" CHAPTER VI. TOM ARRIVES IN PITTSBURG. "I came on business, Sinclair," answered Tom, smiling. "Thomas is going to California, Sinclair," explained Squire Hudson. Sinclair opened wide his eyes in amazement. "What for?" he asked. "To dig gold and make my fortune," answered Tom complacently. "Come out and tell me all about it." "You can go, Thomas," said Squire Hudson graciously. "Your father and I will settle the business." "Is it true that you are going to California?" asked Sinclair, when they were out in the front yard. "Yes." "How soon do you go?" "I want to get away in a week." "What has my father to do with it?" inquired Sinclair. "He is going to lend me the money to get there." "How much?" "Two hundred dollars." "Then he is a greater fool than I thought," said Sinclair, with characteristic politeness. "Why do you say that?" demanded our hero, justly nettled. "Because he'll never see the money again." "Yes, he will. My father is responsible for it." "Your father is a poor man." "He is able to pay that, if I don't; but I hope he won't have to." "Do you really expect to find gold?" asked Sinclair curiously. "Certainly I do. Others have, and why shouldn't I? I am willing to work hard." "Do you think you'll come home rich?" "I hope so." "I have a great mind to ask father to let me go with you," said Sinclair unexpectedly. "You wouldn't like it. You haven't been brought up to work," said Tom, rather startled, and not much pleased with the proposal, for Sinclair Hudson was about the last boy he wished as a companion. "Oh, I wouldn't go to work. I would go as a gentleman, to see the country. Wait a minute; I will run in and ask him." So Sinclair ran into the house, and preferred his request. "That's a wild idea, Sinclair," said his father quickly. "Why is it? I'm as old as Tom Nelson." "He is going because it is necessary for him to earn his living." "He will have a splendid time," grumbled the spoiled son. "You shall travel all you want to when you are older," said his father. "Now you must get an education." "I want to travel now." "I will take you to New York the next time I go." "Give me five dollars besides." The money was handed him. He went out and reported to Tom that he was going to travel all over the world when he was a little older, and had decided not to go to California now. "If you have money enough you can go with me," he added graciously. "Thank you," said Tom politely, though the prospect of having Sinclair for a traveling companion did not exhilarate him much. For a few days Mrs. Nelson was very busy getting Tom ready to go. It was well, perhaps, that so much needed to be done, for it kept her mind from the thought of the separation. The question of which route to take, whether by steamer or across the plains, demanded consideration. It was finally decided that Tom should go overland. It was thought he might join some company at St. Joseph--or St. Joe, as it was then, and is now, popularly called--and pay his passage in services, thus saving a good share of the two hundred dollars. That was, of course, an important consideration. "How shall I carry my money?" asked Tom. "It will be best to take gold, and carry it for safety in a belt around your waist," said his father. "You must be very prudent and careful, or you may be robbed. That would be a serious thing for you, as I could not forward you any more money." "I will be very prudent, father," said Tom. "I know the value of money too well to risk losing it." Well, the days of preparation were over at length, and Tom stood on the threshold, bidding good-by to his parents and his brothers and sisters. He had not realized till now what it was to leave home on a long journey of indefinite duration. He wanted to be heroic, but in spite of himself his eyes moistened, and he came near breaking down. "I don't know how to part with you, my dear child," said his mother. "Think that it is all for the best, mother," said Tom, choking. "Think of the time when I will come back with plenty of money." "God bless you, Tom!" said his father. "Don't forget your good habits and principles when you are far away from us." "I won't, father." So Tom's long journey commenced. Tom's plan was to go to St. Louis first. His father made some inquiries about the route, and recommended going to Pittsburg by cars, then to take the boat on the Ohio River for Cincinnati. This seemed to Tom to afford a pleasant variety, and he gladly accepted the suggestion. As they were approaching Pittsburg, Tom occupied a whole seat on the left-hand side of the car. A brisk, plausible young man, of twenty-five, passing through the aisle, observed the vacant seat, and, pausing, inquired, "Is this seat engaged?" "No, sir," answered Tom. "Then, if you have no objection, I will occupy it." "Certainly, sir." The young man was nicely dressed. In his bosom sparkled a diamond pin, and he wore three or four rings on his fingers. "He must be rich," thought Tom, who was of an observant turn. "A pleasant day to travel," remarked the young man affably. "Yes, it is," said Tom. "Do you go farther than Pittsburg?" "Yes, I am going to California," answered Tom proudly. "Is it possible? Are you alone?" "Yes, sir." "You are young to travel so far." "I am sixteen; that is, I shall be in two or three weeks." "Still, you are young to take such a journey alone. Are you going to join friends there?" "No; I am going to seek my fortune." Once more the young man looked surprised, and scanned Tom curiously. "I presume you are from the city," he observed, with a smile which Tom would not have understood if he had noticed it. The truth is, that Tom bore evident marks of being a country boy. I don't like to say that he looked "green," but he certainly lacked the air that distinguishes a town-bred boy. His companion evidently understood boy nature, for Tom was much flattered by the supposition that he was a city boy. "No," he answered, almost as if apologizing for a discreditable fact; "I am from the country." "You don't say so!" exclaimed the other, in apparent surprise. "I thought, from your appearance, that you were from the city. How do you go from Pittsburg?" "By river to Cincinnati." "Do you really? I am glad to hear it; I am going there myself. We shall be fellow passengers. That will be pleasant." Tom thought it would. His companion seemed very pleasant and social, and he had been feeling lonely, as was only natural. "Yes, it will," he said. "By the way, as we may be thrown together, more or less, we ought to know each other. My name is Milton Graham. My father is a rich merchant in New York. I am traveling partly on business for my father's firm, and partly for pleasure." "My name is Thomas Nelson; most people call me Tom," said our hero. "Then I will call you Tom," said Graham. "I like the name. I have a favorite cousin named Tom. Poor boy!--he is an orphan. His father died two years ago, leaving him two hundred thousand dollars. My father is his guardian. He is about your age; only not quite so good-looking." Tom blushed. He had not thought much of his own looks, but he was human, and no one is displeased at being considered good-looking. Mr. Graham spoke meditatively, as if he was not intending to pay a compliment, only mentioning a fact, and Tom did not feel called upon to thank him for this flattering remark. "That is a great deal of money," he said. "Yes, it is. All my relations are rich; that is, except one uncle, who probably is not worth over twenty thousand dollars." Tom was impressed. A man who could talk of such a sum in such terms must certainly be very rich. "Do you know, Mr. Graham," he inquired, "how soon the steamer will start after we reach Pittsburg?" "No; but I can find out after we reach there." On arriving at Pittsburg, inquiry was made, and it was ascertained that the steamer _River Belle_ would leave at nine o'clock the following morning. "We shall have to go to a hotel," said Graham. "Is there any cheap hotel here?" asked Tom prudently. "Yes; there is the Pittsburg House. Suppose we both go there." "All right." Mr. Graham had only a small carpetbag, smaller than Tom's. They took them in their hands, and walked for a short distance, till they reached a plain building, which, from the sign, Tom discovered to be the hotel which had been mentioned. "Shall we room together? It will cost less," said Milton Graham carelessly. "If you please," said Tom. He was lonely and thought he would like company. Besides, it would be cheaper, and that was a weighty consideration. CHAPTER VII. THE PITTSBURG HOUSE. Tom and his companion entered the hotel. At the left was the clerk's desk. Milton Graham naturally took the lead. He took a pen from the clerk, and entered his name with a flourish. Then he handed the pen to Tom, who followed his example, omitting the flourish, however. "This young gentleman will room with me," said Graham. "All right, sir," said the clerk. "Will you go up to your room now?" "Yes." The porter was summoned, and handed the key of No. 16. He took the two carpetbags, and led the way up-stairs, for the Pittsburg House had no elevator. Even in the best hotels at that time this modern convenience was not to be found. The door of No. 16 was opened, revealing a plain room, about twelve feet square, provided, as Tom was glad to see, with two narrow beds. "Have you got a quarter, Tom?" asked Graham. Tom drew one from his pocket. Graham took it and handed it to the porter, who expressed his thanks. "It's always customary to fee the porter," he said carelessly, in answer to Tom's look of surprise. "What for?" "For bringing up the baggage." "Twenty-five cents for bringing up two small carpetbags! That's pretty high. I'd have brought them up myself, if I had known," said Tom, dissatisfied, for he felt that this fee was hardly in accordance with his resolutions of economy. "Oh, he expects it. It's his regular perquisite. When you've traveled more you'll understand." "How much are we to pay for our accommodations?" asked Tom anxiously. "About two dollars apiece, I reckon." "That's more than I can afford," said Tom, alarmed. "Perhaps it is less, as we room together." "I hope so, for I can't afford to be extravagant." "Do you call two dollars a day extravagant?" asked Graham, smiling. "It is for me. My father is poor." "Oh, it'll be all right. I'll fix it with the clerk. If you are ready, suppose we go down and have some supper." To this Tom had no objection. He washed his hands and face, and brushed his hair; then he declared himself ready. Tom was hungry, and did justice to the supper, which he found very good. As they left the table, and reentered the office of the hotel, Milton Graham said, "I am going to make a call on some friends. Sorry to leave you, but we shall meet later in the evening." "All right," said Tom. On the whole he did not regret being alone. He began to doubt whether Graham would make a desirable traveling companion. Tom felt the need of economy, and he saw that his companion would make it difficult. If a fee must be paid, it was fair to divide it; but the porter's fee had come out of Tom's pocket. "Didn't he have a quarter, I wonder?" thought our hero. It was a small matter, but economy must begin in small matters, or it is not likely to be practised at all. He took the opportunity to go to the desk and ascertain the sum likely to be charged for his accommodations. "How long do you stay?" asked the clerk pleasantly. "Till to-morrow morning. I am going to sail in the _River Belle_." "Then we shall charge you a dollar and a half." This seemed large to Tom, but he made no objection. "How much would it have been if I had roomed alone?" he asked. "The same. We make no change in our terms on that account." "Mr. Graham told me it would be cheaper to room together." "He is your roommate, isn't he?" "Yes, sir." "He is mistaken, so far as our house is concerned. I suppose you have known him for some time." "No, sir. I met him on the cars yesterday afternoon for the first time." "Then you don't know anything about him?" "Oh, yes," answered Tom. "He is the son of a rich merchant in New York." "Who told you that?" "He did." The clerk was a man of middle age. At home he had a son of Tom's age, and this led him to feel a friendly interest in our hero. "I suppose you have never traveled much," he said. "No, sir. This is my first journey." "Are you going far?" "To California." "That is a long journey for a boy of your age," said the clerk, looking surprised. "Yes, sir; but I can't get anything to do at home, and I am going to California to seek my fortune." "I hope you will be successful," said the clerk, with hearty sympathy. "Will you let me give you a piece of advice?" "I shall be very glad of it, sir," responded Tom. "I find I am quite inexperienced." "Then don't trust strangers too readily. It is dangerous." "Do you refer to Mr. Graham?" asked Tom, startled. "Yes, I refer to him, or any other chance acquaintance." "Don't you think he is all right?" asked our hero anxiously. "I don't think he is the son of a rich merchant in New York." "Then why should he tell me so?" Tom was green, and I have no intention of concealing it. "I can't tell what his designs may be. Did you tell him that you were going to California?" "Yes, sir." "Then he will, of course, conclude that you have money. Did you tell him where you keep it?" "No, sir. I keep it in a belt around my waist." "You are too ready to tell that, though with me the information is safe. You are to room together. What will be easier, then, for your companion to rob you during the night?" "I'd better take a room alone," said Tom, now thoroughly alarmed. "I should advise you to, in most cases, but at present it may be as well to let things remain as they are, as it will save an awkward explanation." "But I don't want to be robbed." "We have a safe in the office--there it is--in which we deposit articles of value intrusted to us by our guests. Then we become responsible for them. I advise you to leave your money with us overnight." "I will," said Tom, relieved. "I shall have to go to my room to remove it." "Very well. If you have a watch, or any other valuable, it will be well to put those in our charge also." "No, sir, I have nothing of consequence but the money." The belt of money was deposited in the safe, and Tom felt relieved. He began to realize for the first time the need of prudence and caution. It had never occurred to him that a nice, gentlemanly-looking man, like Milton Graham, was likely to rob him of his scanty means. Even now he thought there must be some mistake. Still he felt that he had done the right thing in depositing the money with the clerk. The mere thought of losing it, and finding himself high and dry--stranded, so to speak--hundreds of miles from home, made him shudder. On the whole, Tom had learned a valuable, though an unpleasant, lesson. The young are by nature trustful. They are disposed to put confidence in those whom they meet, even for the first time. Unhappily, in a world where there is so much evil as there is in ours, such confidence is not justified. There are too many who make it a business to prey on their fellows, and select in preference the young and inexperienced. It was only seven o'clock. Tom had a curiosity to see the city of Pittsburg, with whose name he had been familiar. So, after parting with his treasure, he went out for a walk. He did not much care where he went, since all was alike new to him. He ascertained, on inquiry, that Smithfield Street was the principal business thoroughfare. He inquired his way thither, and walked slowly through it, his attention fully occupied by what he saw. CHAPTER VIII. GRAHAM IN HIS TRUE COLORS. Tom strayed into a street leading from the main thoroughfare. Presently he came to a brilliantly-lighted liquor saloon. As he paused in front of the door, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, looking up, he met the glance of a well-dressed gentleman, rather portly, whose flushed face and uncertain gait indicated his condition. He leaned rather heavily upon Tom, apparently for support, for he seemed to have been drinking more than was good for him. "My young friend," he said, "come in and take a drink." "Thank you, sir, but I would rather not," said Tom, startled. "It won't hurt you. It don't hurt me." As he uttered these last words he came near falling. In his effort to save himself he clutched Tom by the arm, and nearly pulled him over. Our hero was anxious to get away. "Are you sure it don't hurt you?" he could not help saying. "Do you think I'm drunk?" demanded the other. "I think you've taken more than is good for you, sir," Tom answered bravely. "I guess you're right," muttered the gentleman, trying to stand upright. "The drink's gone to my legs. That's strange. Does it ever go to your legs?" "I never drink, sir." "You're a most extraor'nary young man," hiccoughed Tom's new acquaintance. "I must bid you good-night, sir," said our hero, anxious to get away. "Don't go. I can't get home alone." "Where do you live, sir?" "I live in the country." "Are you staying at a hotel?" "Yes--Pittsburg House. Know Pittsburg House?" "Yes, sir. I am staying there myself. Shall I lead you there? You'd better not drink any more." "Jus' you say, my young frien'. You know best." It was not a pleasant, or, indeed, an easy task to lead home the inebriate, for he leaned heavily on Tom, and, being a large man, it was as much as our hero could do to get him along. As they were walking along Tom caught sight of his roommate, Milton Graham, just turning into a saloon, in company with two other young men. They were laughing loudly, and seemed in high spirits. Graham did not recognize Tom. "I hope he won't come home drunk," thought our hero. "It seems to me it is fashionable to drink here." Tom's experience of city life was very limited. It was not long before he learned that Pittsburg was by no means exceptional in this respect. He ushered his companion safely into the hotel, and then a servant took charge of him, and led him to his room. Tom sat up a little while longer, reading a paper he found in the office, and then went to bed. "I suppose Mr. Graham will come home late," he said to himself. "I must leave the door unlocked." He soon went to sleep. How long he slept he did not know, but suddenly awoke after an interval. Opening his eyes he became conscious that Graham had returned. He discovered something more. His roommate, partially undressed, and with his back turned to Tom, was engaged in searching our hero's pockets. This discovery set Tom broad awake at once. He was not frightened, but rather amused when he thought of Graham's disappointment. He did not think it best to speak, but counterfeited sleep. "I wonder where the boy keeps his money," he heard Graham mutter. "Perhaps it is in his coat pocket. No, there is nothing but a handkerchief. He's more careful than I gave him credit for. Perhaps it is under his pillow." He laid down the clothes, and approached the bed. Tom, with some effort, kept his eyes firmly closed. Graham slid his hand lightly under the pillow, but withdrew it with all exclamation of disappointment. "He must have some money," he muttered. "Ah, I have it! It is in his valise." He approached Tom's valise, but it was locked. He drew out a bunch of keys, and tried one after the other, but in vain. Our hero feared he might resort to violent means of opening it, and turned in bed. Graham wheeled round quickly. Tom stretched, and opened his eyes languidly. "Is that you, Mr. Graham?" he asked. "Yes," answered Graham nonchalantly, proceeding to undress himself. "Have you been abed long?" "I don't know," answered Tom. "What time is it?" "Haven't you got a watch?" "No, I am not rich enough." "It is one o'clock. I hadn't seen my friend for a long time, and couldn't get away till late. By the way, have you got a key about you? I can't open my carpetbag." Tom thought of suggesting the bunch of keys in Graham's pocket, but decided not to. "My key is in my pants' pocket." "Suppose you get it," said Graham. "I don't like to feel in another person's pocket. There might be some money there." This was very scrupulous for one who had already searched all Tom's pockets thoroughly. Our hero got up, and got the key for his roommate. "No, it won't fit," said the young man, after a brief trial. "It is too large." Tom replaced the key in his pocket, confident that Graham would in the course of the night use it to open his valise. This, however, did not trouble him. "He won't think it worth while to steal my shirts or stockings," he reflected, "and the handkerchiefs are not worth taking." "It will be rather awkward if I can't find my keys," said Graham craftily. "I keep my money in my valise." He thought his unsophisticated companion would reveal in turn where he kept his money; but Tom only said, "That is a good place," and, turning over, closed his eyes again. During the night Tom's valise was opened, as he ascertained in a simple way. In the morning he found that the key was in the right hand-pocket instead of the left, in which he had placed it. Upon Graham's last failure he began to suspect what Tom had done with his money. "The boy isn't so green as I thought," he said to himself. "Curse his prudence! I must get the money somehow, for I am precious hard up." He got up early, when Tom was yet asleep, and went down to the office. "Good morning," he said to the clerk affably. "Good morning, sir." "My young friend and roommate left his money with you last night. Please deliver it to me." "What is the number of your room?" asked the clerk quietly. "No. 16. Tom Nelson is my roommate." "Why doesn't he come for it himself?" inquired the hotel clerk, with a searching glance at Graham. "He wishes me to buy his steamboat ticket," answered Graham coolly. "He is going down the river in my charge." "Are you his guardian?" "Yes," answered Graham, with cool effrontery. "He is the son of an acquaintance of mine, and I naturally feel an interest in the boy." "He told me he never met you till yesterday." Graham was rather taken aback, but he recovered himself quickly. "That's pretty cool in Tom," he returned, shrugging his shoulders. "I understand it, though." "I am glad you do," said the clerk sarcastically, "for it doesn't look to me at all consistent with what you represent." "The fact is," said Graham plausibly, "Tom has a feeling of independence, and doesn't like to have it supposed that he is under anybody's protection. That accounts for what he told you. It isn't right, though, to misrepresent. I must give him a scolding. I am in a little of a hurry, so if you will kindly give me the boy's money----" "It won't do, Mr. Graham," said the clerk, very firmly. "The money was put in our charge by the boy, and it will be delivered only to him." "You seem to be very suspicious," said Graham loftily. "Hand me my bill, if you please. I will breakfast elsewhere." The bill was made out, and paid. Five minutes later Milton Graham, with an air of outraged virtue, stalked out of the hotel, quite forgetting the young friend who was under his charge. When Tom came down-stairs he was told of the attempt to get possession of his money. "I am much obliged to you for not letting him have it," he said. "He searched my clothes and valise during the night, but I said nothing, for I knew he would find nothing worth taking." "He is a dangerous companion. If you ever meet him again, I advise you to give him a wide berth." "I certainly shall follow your advice. If you had not warned me against him he would have stolen my money during the night." CHAPTER IX. THE "RIVER BELLE." As Tom took his place at the breakfast table, he mechanically lifted his eyes and glanced at his neighbors. Directly opposite him sat the gentleman whom he had brought home the evening before. Now he looked sober and respectable. Indeed, he looked as if he might be a person of some prominence. He met Tom's glance, and recognized him. "I think you are the boy who came home with me last evening," he said. "Yes, sir," answered Tom, rather embarrassed. "I am afraid I was not quite myself," continued the stout gentleman. "Not quite, sir." "I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am. I don't often allow myself to be caught in that way. You did me a good service." "You are quite welcome, sir." "I had a good deal of money with me, and, if I had drank any more, I should probably have been robbed." "Why did you run such a risk, sir?" Tom could not help asking. "Because I was a fool," said the other bluntly. "I have taste for drink, but when I am at home I keep it under control." "Then you don't live in Pittsburg, sir?" "No. My home is in one of the river towns in Ohio. I came to Pittsburg to collect money due me for produce, and but for you should probably have carried none of it home." "I am very glad to be of service to you," said our hero sincerely. "What are your plans, my young friend? I suppose you are only a visitor in this city." "I am on my way to California. I expect to sail in the _River Belle_ at nine o'clock." "Then we shall be fellow passengers, and I shall have a chance to become better acquainted with you. You are young to go to California alone. You are alone--are you not?" "Yes, sir." They went down to the boat together, and on the way Tom told his story. He learned that his acquaintance was Mr. Nicholas Waterbury; that he had been a member of the Ohio Legislature, and, as he inferred, was a prominent citizen of the town in which he lived. "I should be very much ashamed to have them hear at home how I had forgotten myself," said Mr. Waterbury. "It need not be known," said Tom. "I shall not mention it to any one." "Thank you," said Mr. Waterbury. "I would rather you did not, as the news might reach my home." "Where do you live, sir?" "In Marietta. I shall be glad to have you leave the boat there, and stay a day or two with me." "Thank you, sir, but I am in a hurry to reach California, on my father's account. I want to send back as soon as possible the money he raised to pay my expenses out." "That is very commendable; I can enter into your feelings. I should like to show my obligation to you in some way." "It is not worth thinking about, sir," said Tom modestly. "Permit me to disagree with you. Why, my young friend, how much money do you think I had with me?" "I don't know, sir." "Upward of six hundred dollars." As Mr. Waterbury uttered these words, a young man, very dark, with narrow black whiskers, passed them. He darted a quick glance at the speaker, and walked rapidly on. Tom noticed him, but not with attention. "That is a good deal of money, sir," he remarked. "It would have been a good deal to lose," said Mr. Waterbury, "and I have no doubt I should have lost it if it had not been for you." "I haven't so much money as you, but I came near losing it last night." "How was that?" asked Tom's new acquaintance, with curiosity. Tom explained the attempt of his roommate to rob him. "It would have been a serious loss to you, my young friend." "It would have broken up all my plans, and I should have had to work my way home, greatly disappointed." "You will need to be careful about forming acquaintances. There are exceptions, however. I am a new acquaintance; but I don't think you need fear me." "No, sir," said Tom, smiling. "While I have received a great service from you, who are a new acquaintance. But here we are at the steamer." The _River Belle_ lay at her pier. Tom and his companion went on board. Both secured tickets, and Tom provided himself with a stateroom, for he expected to remain on board till they reached Cincinnati. Freight of various kinds was being busily stowed away below. It was a busy and animated scene, and Tom looked on with interest. "Have you ever been on a steamboat before?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "No, sir. I have never traveled any to speak of before leaving home on this journey," replied Tom. "It will be a pleasant variety for you, then, though the scenery is tame. However, some of the river towns are pretty." "I am sure I shall like it, sir." "I wish I were going all the way with you--I mean as far as Cincinnati," said Mr. Waterbury. "I wish you were, sir." "I have a great mind to do it," said the gentleman musingly. "I should have to go very soon on business, at any rate, and I can attend to it now just as well as later." "I shall be very glad if you can make it convenient, sir. We might occupy the same stateroom." "Are you not afraid that I shall follow the example of your Pittsburg roommate?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "I have less to lose than you," answered Tom. "Besides, I shall have to have a roommate, as there are two berths." "Precisely, and I might be safer than some. I have a great mind to keep on. I shall see some one on the pier in Marietta by whom I can send word to my family. By the way, I have a son about your age, and a daughter two years younger." "Have you, sir?" asked Tom, with interest. "I should like you to meet them. Perhaps you may some day." "I hope I may," said Tom politely. "I am a manufacturer," continued Mr. Waterbury, "and sell my goods chiefly in Pittsburg and Cincinnati. From these places they are forwarded farther east and west." "I suppose that's a pretty good business, sir?" "Sometimes; but there are intervals of depression. However, I have no right to complain. I began a poor boy, and now I am moderately rich." "Were you as poor as I am?" inquired Tom, beginning to feel a personal interest in his companion's career. "Quite so, I fancy. At the age of sixteen I couldn't call myself the owner of five dollars." "And you have become rich?" said Tom, feeling very much encouraged. "Moderately so. I am probably worth fifty thousand dollars, and am just fifty years of age." "That seems to me very rich," said Tom. "I should have said the same thing at your age. Our views change as we get older. Still, I regard myself as very well off, and, with prudent management, I need not fear reverses." "I should think not," said Tom. "You don't know how easy it is to lose money, my boy. I am not referring to robbery, but to mismanagement." "Your success encourages me, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom. "I am willing to work hard." "I think you will succeed. You look like a boy of good habits. Energy, industry, and good habits can accomplish wonders. But I think we are on the point of starting." Just before the gangplank was drawn in, two persons hastily crossed it. One was the dark young man who had passed them on the way down to the boat; the other was Milton Graham. "Mr. Waterbury," said Tom hurriedly, "do you see that man?" "Yes." "He is the man that tried to rob me." "We must be on our guard, then. He may be up to more mischief." CHAPTER X. ON THE STEAMER. In half an hour the _River Belle_ was on her way. Tom watched the city as it receded from view. He enjoyed this new mode of travel better than riding on the cars. He had never before been on any boat except a ferry-boat, and congratulated himself on his decision to journey by boat part of the way. Milton Graham had passed him two or three times, but Tom, though seeing him, had not volunteered recognition. Finding that he must make the first advances, Graham finally stopped short, looked full at our hero, and his face wore a very natural expression of surprise and pleasure. "Why, Tom, is that you?" he said, offering his hand, which Tom did not appear to see. "Yes," said our hero coldly. "I didn't expect to see you here." "I told you I intended to sail on the _River Belle_." "So you did; but I thought you had changed your mind." It made very little difference to Tom what Mr. Graham thought, and he turned from him to watch the scenery past which the boat was gliding. "I suppose," continued the young man, "you were surprised to find me gone when you came down-stairs to breakfast." "Yes, I was." "He resents it because I left him," thought Graham. "I guess I can bring him around." "The fact was," explained Graham, in a plausible manner, "I went out to call on a friend, meaning to come back to breakfast; but he made me breakfast with him, and when I did return you were gone. I owe you an apology, Tom. I hope you will excuse my unintentional neglect." "Oh, certainly," said Tom indifferently; "it's of no consequence." Mr. Graham looked at him sharply. He could not tell whether our hero was aware of his dishonest intentions or not, but as Tom must still have money, which he wanted to secure, he thought it best to ignore his coldness. "No," said he; "it's of no consequence as long as we have come together again. By the way, have you secured a stateroom?" "Yes." "If the other berth is not taken, I should like very much to go in with you," said Graham insinuatingly. "I have a roommate," said Tom coolly. "You have? Who is it?" demanded Graham, disappointed. "That gentleman," answered Tom, pointing out Mr. Nicholas Waterbury. "Humph! do you know him?" "I met him at the Pittsburg House." "My young friend," said Graham, with the air of a friendly mentor, "I want to give you a piece of advice." "Very well." "Don't be too ready to trust strangers. This Mr. Waterbury may be a very good man, but, on the other hand, he may be a confidence man. Do you understand me?" "I think so." "Now, I suppose you have money?" "A little." "Take care that he doesn't get possession of it. There are men who go about expressly to fleece inexperienced strangers." "I suppose you know all about that," Tom could not help saying. "What do you mean?" demanded Graham suspiciously. "You are an old traveler, and must know all about the sharpers." "Oh, to be sure," said Graham, immediately dismissing his suspicions. "You couldn't leave your companion, could you, and come into my stateroom?" "I don't think I could." "Oh, very well. It's of no consequence. Keep a good lookout for your roommate." Graham turned away, and resumed his walk. Soon Tom saw him in company with the dark young man, to whom reference has already been made. "Well," said the latter, "how did you make out with the boy?" "He's offish. I don't know as he suspects me. I wanted to get him into my stateroom, but he has already taken up with another man--that stout party over there." "So I suspected. I can tell you something about that man." "What?" "He carries six hundred dollars about him." "You don't say so! How did you find out?" "I overheard him telling the boy so." "That's important news. The boy must have a couple of hundred, or thereabouts, as he is on his way to California." "Eight hundred dollars together! That would make a good haul." "So it would, but it won't be easy to get it." While this conversation was going on Tom informed Mr. Waterbury of what had passed between Graham and himself. "So he warned you against me, did he?" said Mr. Waterbury laughingly. "Yes, he thought I would be safer in his company." "If you want to exchange, I will retire," said Mr. Waterbury, smiling. "Thank you; I would rather not. I am glad I met you, or he might have managed to get in with me." It was not long before they came to a landing. It was a small river village, whose neat white houses, with here and there one of greater pretensions, presented an attractive appearance. A lady and her daughter came on board here. The lady was dressed in black, and appeared to be a widow. The girl was perhaps fourteen years of age, with a bright, attractive face. Two trunks were put on the boat with them, and as they were the only passengers from this landing, Tom inferred that they were their property. "That's quite a pretty girl," said Mr. Waterbury. "Yes," answered Tom. "You ought to get acquainted with her," said Mr. Waterbury jocosely. "Perhaps," said Tom shyly, "you will get acquainted with them, and then you can introduce me." "You are quite sharp," said Mr. Waterbury, laughing. "However, your hint is a good one. I may act upon it." It happened, however, that Tom required no introduction. As the lady and her daughter walked across the deck, to occupy some desirable seats on the other side, the former dropped a kid glove, which Tom, espying, hastened forward and, picking up, politely tendered to the owner. "You are very kind," said the lady, in a pleasant voice. "I am much obliged." "Mama is quite in the habit of dropping her gloves," said the young girl, with a smiling glance at Tom. "I really think she does it on purpose." "Then, perhaps, I had better keep near-by to pick them up," said Tom. "Really, Jennie," said her mother, "you are giving the young gentleman a strange impression of me." "Well, mama, you know you dropped your gloves in the street the last time you were in Pittsburg, but there was no gentleman to pick them up, so I had to. Are you going to Cincinnati?" she asked, turning to Tom. "Yes, and farther; I am going to California," replied Tom. "Dear me, you will be quite a traveler. I wish I were going to California." "You wouldn't like to go there on the same business that I am." "What is that?" "I am going to dig gold." "I don't know. I suppose it isn't girl's work; but if I saw any gold about, I should like to dig for it. Is that your father that was standing by you?" "No," answered Tom. "I never met him till yesterday. We were staying at the same hotel in Pittsburg." "He seems like quite a nice old gentleman." Mr. Waterbury was not over fifty, but to the young girl he seemed an old gentleman. "I find him very pleasant." There was a seat next to Jennie, and Tom ventured to occupy it. "What is your name?" asked the young lady sociably. "Thomas Nelson, but most people call me Tom." "My name is Jane Watson, but everybody calls me Jennie." "That is much prettier than Jane." "So I think. Jane seems old-maidish, don't you think so?" "Are you afraid of becoming an old maid?" asked Tom, smiling. "Awfully. I wouldn't be an old maid for anything. My school-teacher is an old maid. She's horribly prim. She won't let us laugh, or talk, or anything." "I don't think you'll grow up like that." "I hope not." "How you run on, Jennie!" said her mother. "What will this young gentleman think of you?" "Nothing very bad, I hope," said Jennie, smiling archly on Tom. "I suppose," she continued, addressing him, "I ought to be very quiet and reserved, as you are a stranger." "I hope you won't be," said Tom heartily. "Then I won't. Somehow you don't seem like a stranger. You look a good deal like a cousin of mine. I suppose that is the reason." So they chatted on for an hour or more. Jennie was very vivacious, occasionally droll, and Tom enjoyed her company. The mother saw that our hero was well-behaved and gentlemanly, and made no objection to the sudden intimacy. CHAPTER XI. THE FIRST DAY ON THE RIVER. About half-past twelve dinner was announced. "I hope you'll sit next to us, Tom," said Jennie Watson. "I will, if I can." It happened that Milton Graham entered the saloon at the same time with the new friends. He took the seat next to Jennie, much to that young lady's annoyance. "Will you be kind enough to take the next seat?" she asked. "That young gentleman is to sit next to me." "I am sorry to resign the pleasure, but anything to oblige," said Graham. "Tom, I congratulate you," he continued, with a disagreeable smile. "Thank you," said our hero briefly. "He calls you Tom. Does he know you?" inquired Jennie, in a low voice. "I made his acquaintance yesterday for the first time." "I don't like his looks; do you?" "Wait till after dinner and I will tell you," said Tom, fearing that Graham would hear. Milton Graham saw that Jennie was pretty, and desired to make her acquaintance. "Tom," said he--for he sat on the other side of our hero--"won't you introduce me to your young lady friend?" Tom was not well versed in etiquette, but his good sense told him that he ought to ask Jennie's permission first. "If Miss Watson is willing," he said, and asked her the question. Jennie was not aware of Graham's real character, and gave permission. She was perhaps a little too ready to make new acquaintances. "Do you enjoy this mode of travel, Miss Watson?" said Graham, after the introduction. "Oh, yes; I think it very pleasant." "I suppose you wouldn't like the ocean as well. I went to Havana last winter--on business for my father--and had a very rough passage. The steamer pitched and tossed, making us all miserably seasick." "I shouldn't like that." "I don't think you would; but we business men must not regard such things." Tom listened to him with incredulity. Only the day before he would have put full confidence in his statement; but he had learned a lesson, thanks to Graham himself. "How far are you going, Miss Watson?" continued Graham. "To Cincinnati. My mother and I are going to live there." "It is a very pleasant city. I have often been there--on business." "What is your business, Mr. Graham?" Tom could not help asking. "I see you are a Yankee," said Graham, smiling. "Yankees are very inquisitive--always asking questions." "Are you a Yankee, Mr. Graham?" asked Jennie. "You asked me where I was going." "A fair hit," said Graham. "No, I am not a Yankee. I am a native of New York." "And I of New Jersey," said Tom. "Oh, you are a foreigner then," said Graham. "We always call Jerseymen foreigners." "It is a stupid joke, I think," said Tom, who was loyal to his native State. "You didn't answer Tom's question," said Jennie, who was a very straightforward young lady. "Oh, my father is a commission merchant," answered Graham. "What does he deal in?" "Articles too numerous to mention. Tom, will you pass me the potatoes?" Dinner was soon over, and the passengers went upon deck. Graham lit a cigar. "Have a cigar, Tom?" he said. "No, thank you; I don't smoke." "You'll soon learn. I'll see you again soon." "Tom," said Jennie, "tell me about this Mr. Graham. What do you know about him?" "I don't like to tell what I know," said Tom, hesitating. "But I want you to. You introduced me, you know." "What I know is not to his advantage. I don't like to talk against a man." "You needn't mind telling me." On reflection Tom decided that he ought to tell what he knew, for he felt that Jennie ought to be put on her guard against a man whom he did not consider a suitable acquaintance for her. "Very well," said he, "if you promise not to let him know that I have told you." "I promise." "He was my roommate last night at the Pittsburg House," said Tom, in a low voice. "During the night he tried to rob me." "You don't say so!" ejaculated Jennie, in round-eyed wonder. "I will tell you the particulars." This Tom did. Jennie listened with indignation. "But I don't understand," she said. "Why should the son of a merchant need to rob a boy like you? He looks as if he had plenty of money." "So I thought; but the hotel clerk told me that sharpers often appeared like this Mr. Graham, if that is his name." "How strange it seems!" said Jennie. "I wish you hadn't introduced me." "I didn't want to; but he asked, and at the table I couldn't give my reasons for refusing." "My dear child," said her mother, "you are too ready to form new acquaintances. Let this be a lesson for you." "But some new acquaintances are nice," pleaded Jennie. "Isn't Tom a new acquaintance?" "I will make an exception in his favor," said Mrs. Watson, smiling pleasantly. "Thank you," said Tom. "How do you know but I may be a pickpocket?" he continued, addressing Jennie. "As I have only ten cents in my pocket I will trust you," said the young lady merrily. "I'd trust you with any amount, Tom," she added impulsively. "Thank you, for your good opinion, Miss Jennie." "Don't call me Miss Jennie. If you do, I'll call you Mr. Tom." "I shouldn't know myself by that title. Then I'll call you Jennie." "I wish you were going to live in Cincinnati," said the young lady. "It would be nice to have you come and see us." "I should like it; but I mustn't think so much of pleasure as business." "Like Mr. Graham." "I must work hard at the mines. I suppose I shall look pretty rough when I am there." "When you've made your pile, Tom--that's what they call it, isn't it?--you'll come back, won't you?" "Yes." "You must stop in Cincinnati on your way home." "I wouldn't know where to find you." "I will give you our address before we part. But that will be some time yet." About this time Graham, who had finished smoking his cigar, strolled back. "Miss Watson," said he, "don't you feel like having a promenade?" "Yes," said Jennie suddenly. "Tom, come walk with me." Our hero readily accepted the invitation, and the two walked up and down the deck. "That's what I call a snub," said Graham's friend, the dark-complexioned young man, who was within hearing. Graham's face was dark with anger. "Curse her impudence, and his too!" he muttered. "I should like to wring the boy's neck." "He can't help it, if the girl prefers his company," said the other, rather enjoying Graham's mortification. "I'll punish him all the same." By this time Tom and Jennie were near him again, on their return. "You don't treat me with much ceremony, Miss Watson," said Graham, with an evil smile. "My mother doesn't like me to make too many acquaintances," said Jennie demurely. "She is very prudent," sneered Graham. "You have known your present companion quite a long time." "I hope to know him a long time," said the young lady promptly. "Let's us continue our walk, Tom." In discomfiture which he was unable to hide, Graham walked away. "Evidently, Graham, you are no match for those two youngsters," said his friend, in amusement, which Graham did not share. Graham did not reply, but seemed moody and preoccupied. Tom and his companion noticed Graham's displeasure, but they felt indifferent to it. They had no desire to continue his acquaintance. Our hero introduced Mr. Waterbury to his new friends, and this gentleman, who was a thorough gentleman, except on the rare occasion when he yielded to the temptation of strong drink, made a favorable impression upon both. So the day passed. Tom enjoyed it thoroughly. The river banks afforded a continuous panorama, while the frequent stops gave him an opportunity of observing the different towns in detail. Two or three times he went ashore, accompanied by Jennie, and remained till the steamer was ready to start. Finally night came, and one by one the weary passengers retired to rest. "Good night, Tom," said Jennie Watson. "Be up early in the morning." "So as to get an appetite for breakfast?" asked Tom, with a smile. "I think we shall both have appetites enough; but it will be pleasant to breathe the fresh morning air." Tom promised to get up, if he wakened in time. "If you don't mind, I will occupy the lower berth," said Mr. Waterbury. "I can't climb as well as you." "All right, sir. It makes no difference to me." CHAPTER XII. NO. 61 AND NO. 62. The stateroom was small, as most staterooms on river boats are. There appeared to be no means of ventilation. Mr. Waterbury was a stout man, and inclined to be short-breathed. After an hour he rose and opened the door, so as to leave it slightly ajar. With the relief thus afforded he was able to go to sleep, and sleep soundly. Tom was already asleep, and knew nothing of what had happened. The number of the stateroom was 61. Directly opposite was 62, occupied by Milton Graham and his companion. If Graham did not go to sleep it was because his brain was busily scheming how to obtain possession of the money belonging to his neighbors. "Won't your key fit?" asked Vincent, for this was the name of the dark-complexioned young man. "No use, even if it does. Of course they will lock it inside, and probably leave the key in the lock." About midnight, Graham, who had not fully undressed, having merely taken off his coat, got up, and, opening the door, peered out. To his surprise and joy he saw that the door of No. 61 was ajar. He at first thought of rousing Vincent, who was asleep; but a selfish thought suggested itself. If he did this, he must share with Vincent anything he might succeed in stealing; if not, he could keep it all himself. He left his stateroom silently, and looked cautiously around him. No one seemed to be stirring in the cabin. Next he stepped across, and, opening wider the door of 61, looked in. The two inmates were, to all appearances, sleeping soundly. "So far, so good," he said to himself. He stepped in, moderating even his breathing, and took up a pair of pants which lay on a chair. They belonged to Mr. Waterbury, for Tom had merely taken off his coat, and lain down as he was. His belt of gold he therefore found it unnecessary to take off. Graham saw at once, from the size of the pants, that they must belong to the elder passenger. This suited him, however, as he knew from Vincent's information that Mr. Waterbury had six hundred dollars, and Tom could not be supposed to have anything like this sum. He felt eagerly in the pockets, and to his great joy his hand came in contact with a pocketbook. He drew it out without ceremony. It was a comfortable-looking wallet, fairly bulging with bills. "He's got all his money inside," thought Graham, delighted. "What a fool he must be to leave it so exposed--with his door open, too!" At this moment Graham heard a stir in the lower berth. There was no time to wait. He glided out of the room, and reentered his own stateroom. Immediately after his departure Mr. Waterbury, who had awakened in time to catch sight of his receding figure, rose in his berth, and drew toward him the garment which Graham had rifled. He felt in the pocket, and discovered that the wallet had been taken. Instead of making a fuss, he smiled quietly, and said: "Just as I expected." "I wonder if they have robbed Tom, too," he said to himself. He rose, closed the door, and then shook Tom with sufficient energy to awaken him. "Who's there?" asked Tom, in some bewilderment, as he opened his eyes. "It's I--Mr. Waterbury." "Is it morning? Have we arrived?" "No, it is about midnight." "Is there anything the matter?" "I want you to see if you have been robbed.'" Tom was broad awake in an instant. "Robbed!" he exclaimed, in alarm. He felt for his belt and was relieved. "No," he answered. "What makes you ask?" "Because I have had a wallet taken. It makes me laugh when I think of it." "Makes you laugh!" repeated Tom, under the transient impression that his companion was insane. "Why should you laugh at the loss of your money?" "I saw the thief sneak out of the stateroom," continued Mr. Waterbury; "but I didn't interfere with him." "You didn't!" said Tom, completely mystified. "I would. Did you see who it was?" "Yes; it was your friend and late roommate." "Mr. Graham?" "As he calls himself. I don't suppose he has any rightful claim to the name." "Surely, Mr. Waterbury, you are not going to let him keep the money," said Tom energetically; "I'll go with you, and make him give it up. Where is his stateroom?" "Just opposite--No. 62." "We had better go at once," said Tom, sitting up in his berth. "Oh, no; he's welcome to all there is in the pocketbook." "Wasn't there anything in it?" "It was stuffed full." Tom was more than ever convinced that his roommate was crazy. He had heard that misfortune sometimes affected a man's mind; and he was inclined to think that here was a case in point. "You'll get it back," said he soothingly. "Graham can't get off the boat. We will report the matter to the captain." "I don't care whether I get it back or not," said Mr. Waterbury. Tom looked so confused and bewildered that his companion felt called upon to end the mystification. "I know what is in your mind," he said, smiling. "You think I am crazy." "I don't understand how you can take your loss so coolly, sir." "Then I will explain. That wallet was a dummy." "A what, sir?" "A sham--a pretense. My pocketbook and money are safe under my pillow. The wallet taken by your friend was filled with imitation greenbacks; in reality, business circulars of a firm in Marietta." Tom saw it all now. "It's a capital joke," he said, laughing. "I'd like to see how Graham looks when he discovers the value of his prize." "He will look green, and feel greener, I suspect," chuckled Mr. Waterbury. "You are certain you have lost nothing, Tom?" "Perfectly certain, sir." "Then we won't trouble ourselves about what has happened. I fancy, however, it will be best to keep our own door locked for the remainder of the night, even at the risk of suffocation." "That's a capital trick of yours, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom admiringly. "It has more than once saved me from robbery. I have occasion to travel considerably, and so am more or less exposed." "I wonder if Graham will discover the cheat before morning." "I doubt it. The staterooms are dark, and the imitation is so good that on casual inspection the strips of paper will appear to be genuine greenbacks." Mr. Waterbury retired to his berth, and was soon asleep again. Tom, as he lay awake, from time to time laughed to himself, as he thought of Graham's coming disappointment, and congratulated himself that he and that young man were no longer roommates. When Graham returned to his stateroom Vincent, who was a light sleeper, was aroused by the slight noise he made. "Are you up, Graham?" he asked. "Yes; I got up a minute." "Have you been out of the stateroom?" "Yes." "What for?" "To get a glass of water." There was a vessel of water in the cabin, and this seemed plausible enough. "Any chance of doing anything to-night?" "No, I think not." Vincent sank back on his pillow, and Graham got back into his berth. Quietly he drew the wallet from his pocket, in which he had placed it, and eagerly opened it. The huge roll of bills was a pleasant and welcome sight. "There's all of six hundred dollars here!" he said to himself. "I mustn't let Vincent know that I have them." It occurred to Graham that, of course, Mr. Waterbury would proclaim his loss in the morning, and it also occurred to him that he might be able to fasten suspicion upon Tom, who, as his roommate, would naturally have the best chance to commit the robbery. One thing might criminate him--the discovery of the wallet upon his person. He therefore waited till Vincent was once more asleep, and, getting up softly, made his way to the deck. He drew the bills from the wallet, put them in an inside pocket, and threw the wallet into the river. "Now I'm safe," he muttered, with a sigh of relief. "The money may be found on me, but no one can prove it is not my own." He gained his berth without again awakening his companion. "A pretty good night's work!" he said to himself, in quiet exultation. "Alone I have succeeded, while Vincent lies in stupid sleep. He is no match for me, much as he thinks of himself. I have stolen a march upon him this time." It is not in accordance with our ideas of the fitness of things that a man who has committed a midnight robbery should be able to sleep tranquilly for the balance of the night, but it is at any rate certain that Graham slept soundly till his roommate awakened him in the morning. "Rouse up, Graham," he said. "Breakfast is nearly ready." "Is it?" asked Graham. "Instead of sleeping there, you ought to be thinking how we can make a forced loan from our acquaintances in 61." "To be sure," said Graham, smiling. "I am rather stupid about such things. Have you any plan to suggest?" "You seem very indifferent all at once," said Vincent. "Not at all. If you think of anything practical I am your man." He longed to get rid of Vincent, in order to have an opportunity of counting his roll of bills. CHAPTER XIII. GRAHAM'S DISAPPOINTMENT. Milton Graham, on reaching a place where he could do so unobserved, drew from his pocket the roll of bills, with a smile of exultation. But the smile faded, and was succeeded by a look of dismay, when he recognized the worthlessness of his booty. An oath rose to his lips, and he thrust the roll back into his pocket, as he noticed the approach of a passenger. "It's a cursed imposition!" he muttered to himself, and he really felt that he had been wronged by Mr. Waterbury. "What are you doing out here, Graham?" asked Vincent, for it was his confederate who approached. "Nothing in particular. Why?" responded Graham. "What makes you look so glum?" "Do I look glum?" "You look as if you had but one friend in the world, and were about to lose him." "That may be true enough," muttered Graham. "Come, man, don't look so downcast." "I'm out of luck, and out of cash, Vincent." "We're both in the same boat, as far as that goes; but that isn't going to last. How about our stout friend? Can't we make him contribute to our necessities?" "I don't believe he's got any money." "No? Why, I heard him tell the boy he had six hundred dollars." "Where does he keep it?" "In his pocketbook probably." "Will you oblige me by stating how we are going to get hold of it?" "I look to you for that." "He's too careful. I leave you to try your hand." "Let me go in to breakfast. There's nothing like a full stomach to suggest ideas." So the two went to the breakfast table, and Graham, in spite of his disappointment, managed to eat a hearty meal. An hour later Mr. Waterbury and Tom were standing on deck, conversing with Jennie Watson and her mother, when Graham and Vincent approached arm in arm. As soon as they were within hearing distance Mr. Waterbury purposely remarked, "By the way, Mrs. Watson, I met with a loss last night." "Indeed!" returned the lady. Graham was about to push on, not wishing Vincent to hear the disclosure, as it might awaken his suspicions; but the latter's curiosity was aroused. "Wait, Graham," he said; and Graham, against his will, was compelled to slacken his pace. "A man entered my stateroom during the night, and stole a wallet from my coat pocket." Graham changed color a little, and Vincent seemed amazed. "Did you hear that, Graham?" he asked. "Yes." "What does it mean?" "How can I tell?" "I hope you did not lose much," said Mrs. Watson, in a tone of sympathy. "I lost the wallet," said Mr. Waterbury, laughing. "Was there nothing in it?" "It was full of bills." Vincent looked at Graham with new-born suspicion, but Graham looked indifferent. "It appears to me that you take the loss cheerfully," said Mrs. Watson, puzzled. "I have reason to. The fact is, I was prepared for the visit, and had filled the wallet with bogus bills. I fancy they won't do my visitor much good." The lady smiled. "You were fortunate, Mr. Waterbury," said she. "Do you suspect any one of the theft?" "I know pretty well who robbed me," returned Mr. Waterbury, and he suffered his glance to rest on Graham, who seemed in a hurry to get away. "Come along, Vincent," he said sharply. Vincent obeyed. Light dawned upon him, and he determined to verify his suspicions. "Graham," said he, in a low voice, "you did this." "Did what?" "You got that wallet." Graham concluded that he might as well make a clean breast of it, since it had become a matter of necessity. "Well," said he, "suppose I did?" "You were not going to let me know of it," said Vincent suspiciously. "That is true. I was ashamed of having been imposed upon." "When did you find out that the money was bogus?" "Immediately." "If it had been good, would you have shared with me honorably?" "Of course. What do you take me for?" Vincent was silent. He did not believe his companion. He suspected that the latter had intended to steal a march on him. "You might have told me of it," he continued, in a tone of dissatisfaction. "There was no need to say anything, as there was nothing to divide." "Have you got the wallet with you now?" "No; I threw it overboard." "And the bills?" "You may have them all, if you like." "Come into the stateroom, where we can be unobserved, and show them to me." Graham complied with his suggestion. "It would have been a good haul if they had been genuine," said Vincent, as he unfolded the roll. "Yes, but they are not; worse luck!" "I didn't give the old fellow credit for being so sharp." "Nor I. There's more in him than I supposed there was." "Well, what is to be done?" "Nothing. The old man is on his guard, and, besides, he suspects me. He was probably awake when I entered the stateroom. He and the boy have probably laughed over it together. I hate that boy." "Why?" "Because he is a green country boy, and yet he has succeeded in thwarting me. I am ashamed whenever I think of it." "Would you like to play a trick on him in turn?" "Yes." "Then give me this roll of bills." "What do you want to do with them?" "Put them in his pocket." "Can you do it unobserved?" "Yes. The fact is, Graham, I served an apprenticeship as a pickpocket, and flatter myself I still have some dexterity in that line." "Very well, it will be some satisfaction, and if the old man didn't see me enter the stateroom, he may be brought to believe that the boy robbed him. If that could be, I should feel partly compensated for my disappointment. I should like to get that boy into trouble." "Consider it done, so far as I am concerned. Now let us separate, so as to avoid suspicion." Vincent began to pace the deck in a leisurely manner, in each case passing near Tom, who was still engaged in conversation with Jennie Watson and her mother. For a time he was unable to effect his purpose, as our hero was sitting down. But after a while Tom rose, and stood with his back to Vincent. He wore a sack coat, with side pockets. This was favorable to Vincent, who, as he passed, adroitly slipped the bills into one of them, without attracting the attention of our hero. Presently Tom thrust his hand into his pocket mechanically. They encountered the bills. In surprise he drew them out, and looked at them in amazement. "What's that, Tom?" asked Jennie, with great curiosity. "It looks like money," answered Tom, not yet understanding what had happened. "You seem to be rich." "By gracious!--it's Mr. Waterbury's money," exclaimed Tom. Then he colored, as it flashed upon him that its presence in his pocket might arouse suspicion. "I don't see how it got there," he continued, in a bewildered way. Just then Mr. Waterbury came up, and was made acquainted with the discovery. "I don't know what you'll think, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom, coloring; "I haven't the slightest idea how the money came in my pocket." "I have," said Mr. Waterbury quietly. Tom looked at him, to discover whether he was under suspicion. "The companion of your friend Graham slipped it into your pocket. He was very quick and adroit, but I detected him. He wanted to throw suspicion upon you." "It is lucky you saw him, sir." "Why?" "You might have suspected me." "My dear boy, don't trouble yourself about that. No circumstantial evidence will shake my confidence in your integrity." "Thank you, sir," said Tom gratefully. "What a wicked man to play a trick on you, Tom!" exclaimed Jennie indignantly. "I see there is somebody else who has confidence in you, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, smiling; "I'd like to give him a piece of my mind." "I am ready to forgive him," said Mr. Waterbury, "as he has restored the money. It will do as a bait for the next thief." CHAPTER XIV. COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. "I believe, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, "that I will come to an understanding with these officious acquaintances of yours. I will intimate to them that their persecution must cease." "Will they mind what you say, sir?" "I think they will," answered his friend quietly. Graham and Vincent were standing together, and apart from the rest of the passengers, when Mr. Waterbury approached them. "A word with you, gentlemen," said he gravely. "I don't know you, sir," blustered Vincent. "Perhaps not. Permit me to remark that I have no special desire for your acquaintance." "Then why do you take the liberty of addressing me?" "I rather admire the fellow's impudence," said Mr. Waterbury to himself. "Are you associated with this gentleman?" he asked, indicating Graham. "We are friends." "Then I will address an inquiry to him. I am not in the habit of receiving calls in my stateroom during the hours of sleep." "I don't understand you, sir," said Milton Graham, with hauteur. "Oh, yes, you do, unless your memory is singularly defective. Our staterooms are close together. You entered mine last night." "You must have been dreaming." "If so, I was dreaming with my eyes open. Perhaps it was in my dreams that I saw you extract a wallet from my coat pocket." "Do you mean to insult me, sir?" demanded Graham. "Really, sir, your remarks are rather extraordinary," chimed in Vincent. "Do you mean to say that I robbed you?" demanded Graham, confident in the knowledge that the booty was not on his person. "I find a wallet missing. That speaks for itself." "Let me suggest that your roommate probably took it," said Vincent. "Extremely probable," said Graham. "He roomed with me in Pittsburg, and I caught him at my pockets during the night." "Did you ever hear the fable of the wolf and the lamb, Mr. Graham?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "Can't say I have." "It's of no consequence. I am reminded of it, however." "Come to think of it," said Vincent, "I saw the boy with a roll of bills. You had better search him. If he is innocent, he can't object." "I see your drift," returned Mr. Waterbury, after a pause. "I saw you thrust the bills into his pocket, as he stood with his back turned, conversing with one of the passengers. It was very skilfully done, but I saw it." Vincent started, for he had supposed himself unobserved. "I see you are determined to insult us," he said. "I will charitably conclude that you are drunk." "I can't be so charitable with you, sir. I believe you are a pair of precious scoundrels, who, if you had your deserts, would be in the penitentiary instead of at large." "I have a mind to knock you down," said Vincent angrily. As Vincent was several inches shorter and much slighter than the person whom he threatened, this menace sounded rather ridiculous. "You are at liberty to try it," said the latter, smiling. "First, however, let me warn you that, if you continue to annoy us, it will be at your peril. If you remain quiet I shall leave you alone. Otherwise I will make known your true character to the captain and passengers, and you will undoubtedly be set ashore when we reach the next landing. I have the honor to wish you good morning." "It strikes me, Graham," said Vincent, as Mr. Waterbury left them, "that we have tackled the wrong passenger." "I believe you are right," said Graham. "Just my luck." "There isn't much use in staying on the boat. He will keep a good lookout for us." "True; but I don't want to give up the boy." "He is under the guardianship of this determined old party." "They will separate at Cincinnati." "Well?" "He has money enough to take him to California. He is worth following up." "Then you are in favor of going on to Cincinnati?" "By all means." "Very well. There are always chances of making an honest penny in a large city." "Money or no money, I want to get even with the boy." So the worthy pair decided to go on to Cincinnati. CHAPTER XV. THE ALLEGHANY HOUSE. It was a bright, sunny morning when the _River Belle_ touched her pier at Cincinnati. The passengers gathered on deck, and discussed their plans. In one group were Tom, Mr. Waterbury, Jennie Watson, and her mother. "I am sorry you are going to leave us, Tom," said Jennie; "I shall feel awfully lonely." "So shall I," said Tom. "What's the use of going to that hateful California? Why can't you stay here with us?" "Business before pleasure, Jennie," said her mother. "You mustn't forget that Tom has his fortune to make." "I wish he could make it in Cincinnati, mother." "So do I; but I must admit that California presents a better prospect just at present. You are both young, and I hope we may meet Tom in after years." "When I have made my pile," suggested Tom. "Precisely." "You won't go right on, Tom, will you?" asked Jennie. "You'll stay here a day or two." "Yes; I should like to see something of Cincinnati." "And you'll call on us?" "I shall be very happy to do so. Where are you going to stay?" "At the Burnet House. Won't you come there, too?" "Is it a high-priced hotel?" "I believe it is." "Then I can't afford to stay there; but I can call on you all the same." "Stay there as my guest, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury cordially. "It shall not cost you anything." "Thank you, sir. You are very kind, but I don't like to accept unnecessary favors. I will put up at some cheap hotel, and call upon you both." "You would be heartily welcome, my boy," said Mr. Waterbury. "I don't doubt it, sir, and the time may come when I will gladly accept your kindness," replied Tom. "But now you mean to have your own way; is that it, Tom." "You won't be offended, sir?" "On the contrary, I respect you for your manly independence. You won't forget that I am your friend?" "I don't want to forget that, sir." So it happened that while Mrs. Watson, Jennie, and Mr. Waterbury registered at the Burnet House, Tom, carpetbag in hand, walked through the streets till he came to a plain inn, bearing the name Alleghany House. It is not now in existence, having given way to an imposing business block. "That looks as if it might suit my purse," thought Tom. He walked in, and, approaching the desk, inquired: "How much do you charge at this hotel?" "A dollar a day," answered the clerk. "Will you have a room?" "Yes, sir." "Please register your name." Tom did so. "Cato," called the clerk--summoning a colored boy, about Tom's size--"take this young man to No. 18." "All right, sar," said Cato, showing his ivories. "When do you have dinner?" asked Tom. "One o'clock." Preceded by Cato, Tom walked up-stairs, and was ushered into a small, dingy room on the second floor. There was a single window, looking through dingy panes upon a back yard. There was a general air of cheerlessness and discomfort, but at any rate it was larger than the stateroom on the _River Belle_. "Is this the best room you have?" asked Tom, not very favorably impressed. "Oh, no, sar," answered Cato. "If your wife was with you, sar, we'd give you a scrumptious room, 'bout twice as big." "I didn't bring my wife along, Cato," said Tom, amused. "Are you married?" "Not yet, sar," answered his colored guide, with a grin. "I think we can wait till we are a little older." "Reckon so, sar." "Just bring up a little water, Cato. I feel in need of washing." "Dirt don't show on me," said Cato, with a guffaw. "I suppose you do wash, now and then, don't you?" "Yes, sar, sometimes," answered Cato equivocally. When Tom had completed his toilet he found that it was but ten o'clock. He accordingly went down-stairs, intending to see a little of the city before dinner. CHAPTER XVI. THE EVENTS OF A MORNING. Graham and Vincent had kept quiet during the latter part of the voyage. They had a wholesome fear of Mr. Waterbury, and kept aloof from him and Tom. They even exchanged their stateroom for one at a different part of the boat. All was satisfactory to Tom and his companion. When the worthy pair reached Cincinnati they were hard up. Their united funds amounted to but seven dollars, and it seemed quite necessary that they should find the means of replenishing their purses somewhere. They managed to ascertain that Tom and his friend were going to separate, and this afforded them satisfaction, since it made their designs upon our hero more feasible. At a distance they followed Tom to the Alleghany House, and themselves took lodgings at a small, cheap tavern near-by. Like Tom, they set out soon after their arrival in quest of adventure. "We must strike a vein soon, Graham," said Vincent, "or we shall be in a tight place." "That's so," answered Graham. "Thus far our trip hasn't paid very well. It's been all outgo and no income." "You're right, partner; but don't give up the ship," responded Graham, whose spirits returned, now that he was on dry land. "I've been in the same straits about once a month for the last five years." "I've known you for three years, Graham, and, so far as my knowledge extends, I can attest the truth of what you say. By the way, you never say anything of your life before that date." A shadow passed over Graham's face. "Because I don't care to think of it; I never talk of it," he said. "Pshaw, man, we all of us have some ugly secrets. Suppose we confide in each other. Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine. It won't change my opinion of you." "Probably not," said Graham. "Well, there is no use in holding back. For this once I will go back to the past. Five years ago I was a favorite in society. One day an acquaintance introduced me into a gambling house, and I tried my hand successfully. I went out with fifty dollars more than I brought in. It was an unlucky success, for it made me a frequent visitor. All my surplus cash found a market there, and when that was exhausted I borrowed from my employer." "Without his knowledge?" "Of course. For six months I evaded discovery. Then I was detected. My friends interceded, and saved me from the penitentiary, but I lost my situation, and was required to leave the city. I went to New York, tried to obtain a situation there, failed, and then adopted my present profession. I need not tell you the rest." "My dear friend, I think I know the rest pretty well. But don't look sober. A fig for the past. What's the odds, as long as you're happy?" "Are you happy?" inquired Graham. "As long as I'm flush," answered Vincent, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm nearly dead-broke now, and of course I am miserable. However, my story comes next in order. I was a bank teller, appropriated part of the funds of the bank, fled with it, spent it, and then became an ornament to our common profession." "Where was the bank?" "In Canada. I haven't been there since. The climate don't suit me. It's bleak, but I fear it might prove too hot for me. Now we know each other." "You don't allow it to worry you, Vincent," said Graham. "No, I don't. Why should I? I let the dead past bury its dead, as Longfellow says, and act in the living present. That reminds me, we ought to be at work. I have a proposal to make. We won't hunt in couples, but separate, and each will try to bring home something to help the common fund. Is it agreed?" "Yes." "_Au revoir_, then!" "That fellow has no conscience," thought Graham. "Mine is callous, but he goes beyond me. Perhaps he is the better off." Graham shook off his transient dull spirits, and walked on, keeping a sharp lookout for a chance to fleece somebody. In front of a railroad ticket office he espied a stolid-looking German, who was trying to read the placard in the window. Graham approached him, and said politely, "My friend, perhaps I can help you. Are you thinking of buying a railroad ticket?" The German turned, and his confidence was inspired by the friendly interest of Graham's manner. "I go to Minnesota," he said, "where my brother live." "Exactly, and you want a ticket to go there?" "Yes, I want a ticket. Do they sell him here?" "No," said Graham. "That is, they do sell tickets here; but they ask too much." "I will not pay too much," said the German, shaking his head decisively. "Of course not; I will take you to a cheaper place." "That is good," said the German, well pleased. "It is luck I meet mit a friend like you." "Yes," said Graham, linking his arm in that of his new acquaintance. "I don't like to see a worthy man cheated. Come with me. How much money have you?" This inquiry ought to have excited the suspicions of the German; but he was trustful, and answered promptly, "Two hundred dollar." Graham's eyes sparkled. "If I could only get the whole of it," he thought. But that didn't seem easy. They walked through street after street till Graham stopped in front of an office. "Now," said he, "give me your money, and I will buy the ticket." "How much money?" asked his new acquaintance. "I don't know exactly," said Graham carelessly. "Just hand me your pocketbook, and I will pay what is needed." But here the German's characteristic caution came in. "I will go with you," he said. "If you do, I can't get the tickets so cheap. The agent is a friend of mine, and if he thinks it is for me he will give it to me for less. Don't give me all your money. Fifty dollars will do. I will buy the ticket, and bring you the rest of the money." This seemed plausible enough, and Graham would have got what he asked for, but for the interference of Tom, who had come up just in time to hear Graham's proposal. He had no difficulty in comprehending his purpose. "Don't give him the money," he said. "He will cheat you." Both Graham and his intended victim wheeled round, and looked at our hero. "Clear out of here, you young vagabond!" said Graham angrily. "This man wants to cheat you," persisted Tom. "Don't give him your money." The bewildered foreigner looked from one to the other. "This is no ticket office," said Tom. "I will lead you to one, and you shall buy a ticket for yourself." "He wants to swindle you," said Graham quickly. "You shall keep your money in your own hands," said Tom. "I don't want it." "I go with you, my young friend," said the German, convinced by Tom's honest face. "The other man may be all right, but I go with you." Graham protested in vain. His victim went off with Tom, who saw that he was provided with the ticket he wanted. His new friend tried to force a dollar upon him; but this Tom steadily refused. "I'll get even with you yet!" said Graham furiously; but our hero was not disturbed by this menace. Vincent, meantime, was making a tour of observation, ready for any adventure that might put an honest or dishonest penny into his pocket. About half an hour later he found himself on the leading retail street in Cincinnati. In front of him walked a lady, fashionably attired, holding a mother-of-pearl portemonnaie carelessly in her hand. He brushed by her, and at the same moment the pocketbook was snatched from her hand. The lady screamed, and instinctively clutched Vincent by the arm. "This man has robbed me, I think," she said. The crowd began to gather about Vincent, and he saw that he was cornered. Among the crowd, unluckily for himself, was Tom. By a skilful movement Vincent thrust the portemonnaie into our hero's pocket. "You are mistaken, madam," he said coolly; "I saw that boy take your money." Instantly two men seized Tom. "Search him," said Vincent, "and see it I am not right." The portemonnaie was taken from Tom's pocket, amid the hootings of the crowd. "So young, and yet so wicked!" said the lady regretfully. "I didn't take the money, madam," protested Tom, his face scarlet with surprise and mortification. "Don't believe him, ma'am. I saw him take it," said Vincent virtuously. Poor Tom looked from one to another; but all faces were unfriendly. It was a critical time for him. CHAPTER XVII. TOM'S ARREST. To one who is scrupulously honest a sudden charge of dishonesty is almost overwhelming. Now, Tom was honest, not so much because he had been taught that honesty was a virtue, as by temperament and instinct. Yet here he saw himself surrounded by hostile faces, for a crowd soon collected. Not one believed in his innocence, not even the lady, who thought it was such a pity that he was "so young and yet so wicked." "Will somebody call a policeman?" asked Vincent. A policeman soon made his appearance. He was a stout, burly man, and pushed his way through the crowd without ceremony. "What's the row?" he inquired. "This boy has picked a lady's pocket," exclaimed Vincent. The officer placed his hand roughly on Tom's shoulder. "You were a little too smart, young feller!" said he. "You must come along with me." "I didn't take the money," protested Tom, pale, but in a firm voice. "That's too thin," said Vincent, with a sneer. "Yes, it's too thin," repeated two or three in the crowd. "It's true," said Tom. "Perhaps you'll tell us how the money came in your pocket," suggested a bystander. "That man put it in," answered Tom, indicating Vincent. The latter shrugged his shoulders. "He says so, because I exposed him," he remarked, turning to the crowd. "Of course; that's a common game," interposed the policeman. "Have you any reason for what you say, my boy?" asked a quiet-looking man, with a pleasant face. "Of course he hasn't," replied Vincent hastily. "I spoke to the boy, sir." "I have a reason," answered Tom. "A friend of this man roomed with me at Pittsburg, and during the night tried to rob me. We were both passengers on the _River Belle_ on the last trip. During the trip he entered our stateroom, and stole a wallet from my roommate. This man slyly put it into my pocket, in order to escape suspicion." "It's a lie!" exclaimed Vincent uneasily. "Gentlemen, the boy is very artful, and the greatest liar out." "Of course he is!" assented the policeman. "Come along, young feller!" "Wait a minute," said the quiet man. "Have you any proof of your statements, my boy, except your own word?" "Yes, sir; my roommate will tell you the same thing." "Who is he? Where can he be found?" "He is Mr. Nicholas Waterbury, of Marietta. He is now at the Burnet House." "That's all gammon!" said the officer roughly. "Come along. I can't wait here all day." "Don't be in a hurry, officer," said the quiet man. "I know Mr. Waterbury, and I believe the boy's story is correct." "It ain't any of your business!" said the officer insolently. "The boy's a thief, and I'm goin' to lock him up." "Look out, sir!" said the quiet man sternly. "You are overstepping the limits of your duty, and asserting what you have no possible means of knowing. There is reason to believe that this man"--pointing out Vincent--"is the real thief. I call upon you to arrest him." "I don't receive no orders from you, sir," said the policeman. "I'm more likely to take you along." "That's right, officer," said Vincent approvingly. "The man is interfering with you in the exercise of your duty. You have a perfect right to arrest him." "I have a great mind to," said the officer, who was one of the many who are puffed up by a little brief authority, and lose no opportunity of exercising it. The quiet man did not seem in the least alarmed. He smiled, and said, "Perhaps, officer, it might be well for you to inquire my name, before proceeding to arrest me." "Who are you?" demanded the officer insolently. "I am Alderman Morris." A great change came over the policeman. He knew now that the quiet man before him was President of the Board of Aldermen, and he began to be alarmed, remembering with what rudeness he had treated him. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said humbly; "I didn't know you." "What is your name, sir?" demanded the alderman, in a tone of authority. "Jones, sir." "How long have you been on the force?" "Six months, your honor." "Then you ought to be better fitted for your position by this time." "I hope you won't take no offense at what I said, not knowing you, alderman." "That's no personal offense, but I object to your pronouncing upon the guilt of parties arrested when you know nothing of the matter." "Shall I take the boy along, sir?" "Yes, and this man also. I don't wish to interfere with the exercise of justice, but it is my opinion that the boy is innocent." "I protest against this outrage," said Vincent nervously. "Am I to be punished because I expose a thief?" "Come along, sir," said the policeman. "The alderman says so." "I appeal to the gentlemen present," said Vincent, hoping for a forcible deliverance. "Madam," said the alderman to the lady who had been robbed, "did you see the boy take your pocketbook?" "No, sir! I thought it was the man, till he told me it was the boy, and the money was found on the boy." "I should think that told the story," said Vincent. "Any man here might be arrested as soon as I. Fellow citizens, is this a free country, where a man of reputation can be summarily arrested at the bidding of another? If so, I would rather live under a monarchy." There was a murmur of approval, and some sympathy was excited. "There will be no injustice done, sir," said the alderman. "I propose to follow up this matter myself. I will see my friend, Mr. Waterbury, and I can soon learn whether the boy's story is correct." "He may lie, too!" said Vincent, who had very good reasons for fearing Mr. Waterbury's testimony. "Mr. Waterbury is a gentleman of veracity," said Alderman Morris sharply. "I see you recognize the name." "Never heard of him," said Vincent. "I suppose it is one of the boy's confederates." "I will answer for him," said the alderman. "My boy," he said, "I hope we shall be able to prove your innocence. Be under no anxiety. Go with the officer, and I will seek out Mr. Waterbury. Officer, take care to treat him gently." "All right, sir." There was no fear now that Tom would be roughly treated. He had too much regard for his own interest, and his tenure of office, to disoblige a man so influential and powerful as Alderman Morris. Notwithstanding there had been such a turn in his favor, Tom felt humiliated to feel that he was under restraint, and his cheeks burned with shame as he walked beside the officer. Vincent, upon the other side, gnashed his teeth with rage, as he thought of his unexpected detention. Just as revenge was in his grasp, he had been caught in the same trap which he had so willingly set for Tom. "That Alderman Morris is a fool!" he said. "He isn't fit to be in office." "Don't you say nothin' against him!" said the policeman. "It won't be best for you. He's one of our leadin' citizens, Alderman Morris is." "He snubbed you!" sneered Vincent. "He talked to you as if you were a dog." "No, he didn't. You'd better shut up, prisoner." "Oh, well, if you're willing to be trampled upon, it isn't any of my business. I wouldn't stand it, alderman or no alderman. Such things wouldn't be allowed in New York, where I live." "Oh, New York's a model city, so I've heard," retorted the policeman, in a tone of sarcasm. "We don't pretend to come up to New York." Finding that nothing was to be gained by continuing his attacks upon the alderman, Vincent became silent; but his brain was active. He felt that Mr. Waterbury's testimony would be fatal to him. He must escape, if possible. Soon a chance came. He seized his opportunity, shook off the grasp of the officer, and darted away. Not knowing what to do with Tom, who was also under arrest, the officer paused an instant, then, leaving our hero, hastened in pursuit. "Now's your chance to escape, boy!" said a sympathetic bystander to him. "I don't want to escape," answered Tom. "I want my innocence proved. I shall stay where I am till the officer returns." And he kept his word. Ten minutes later the officer came back, puffing and panting, after an unsuccessful pursuit; prepared to find Tom gone also. "What, are you there?" he asked, staring in wonder. "Yes," said Tom; "I don't want to escape. I shall come out right." "I believe you will," said the officer, with a revulsion of sentiment in Tom's favor. "Just walk along beside me, and I won't take hold of you. I'm not afraid of your running away now." CHAPTER XVIII. TOM GETS OUT OF HIS DIFFICULTY. Tom had not been long in the station-house when Alderman Morris, accompanied by Mr. Waterbury, entered. The latter looked at Tom with a humorous smile. "You don't appear to get along very well without my guardianship, Tom," he said. "No, sir," answered Tom. "The trouble is, some of my other friends can't let me alone." "Was it in a fit of emotional insanity that you relieved the lady of her pocketbook?" asked Mr. Waterbury, bent on keeping up the joke. "If I ever do such a thing, you may be sure it is because I am insane," answered Tom positively. "I shall," said Mr. Waterbury seriously. "Now, where is this precious acquaintance of ours who got you into this scrape?" "He has escaped." "Escaped!" exclaimed the alderman hastily. "How is that?" Here the policeman took up the story, and explained that Vincent had taken advantage of his double charge to effect his escape. "I suppose, officer," said Mr. Waterbury, "that you were unwilling to leave Tom in order to pursue him." "I did leave him, sir, and didn't expect to find him when I got back. But there he was, waiting for me as quietly as--anything." "Didn't you feel tempted to escape, too, my boy?" "Why should I, sir? I had done nothing; I had nothing to fear." "Innocence is not always a protection, for justice is sometimes far from clear-sighted. In the present case, however, I think you will not suffer for your confidence." Tom was not brought to trial. Mr. Waterbury's statement of what had passed on the voyage of the _River Belle_ was held to be sufficient to establish Tom's innocence, and he was allowed to walk out with Mr. Waterbury. "Have you anything to do this morning, Tom?" asked his friend. "No, sir." "Then come around and dine with me at the Burnet House. Afterward we will call upon your friends, the Watsons." Mrs. Watson and Jennie had altered their plans and gone to a boarding-house, preferring that to a hotel. "That will be agreeable to me, sir." The dinner was excellent, and Tom did full justice to it. "At one time this morning, Tom, it looked as if you would dine at quite a different place," said Mr. Waterbury, when they were eating the dessert. "Yes, sir." "You won't think much of Cincinnati's hospitality, eh, Tom?" "Any place would be the same, where Vincent was," returned Tom. "Very true; he and Graham will bring discredit on any city which they adopt as a home. How long shall you remain here?" "I should like to stay long enough to see something of the city, but I cannot afford it. I must reach California as soon as possible." "No doubt you are right, in your circumstances. I have been inquiring for you, and find that St. Joseph, in Missouri, is the usual starting-point for travelers across the plains. I find an acquaintance here in the hotel, who will start to-morrow for that place. I have mentioned you to him, and he says he shall be glad to have your company so far. Whether you keep together afterward will depend upon yourselves." "I shall be glad to have company, sir," said Tom. Though manly and self-reliant, he realized that it was quite a serious undertaking for a boy of his age to make the trip alone. He was not sure of meeting with another friend like Mr. Waterbury, and there might be danger of falling in with another brace of worthies like Graham and Vincent. "My friend's name is Ferguson--a Scotchman, rather sedate, but entirely trustworthy. I will introduce you this evening." "Thank you, sir." After dinner they walked to Mrs. Watson's boarding-house. Somewhere on Vine Street, Mr. Waterbury paused in front of a jewelry store. "I want to step in here a minute, Tom," he said. "Certainly, sir." Tom remained near the door, while Mr. Waterbury went into the back part of the store, where he was occupied for a few minutes with one of the proprietors. When he came back he held a small box in his hand. "Please carry this for me, Tom," he said. "With pleasure, sir." They went out into the street together. "Do you know what is in the box, Tom?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "No, sir," answered our hero, a little surprised at the question. "You didn't see what I was buying, then?" continued Mr. Waterbury. "No, sir; I was watching the crowds on the sidewalk." "If you have any curiosity, you may open the box." Previously Tom had felt no curiosity. Now he did feel a little. Opening the box, his eye rested on a neat silver watch, with a chain attached. The case was a pretty one, and Tom glanced at it with approval. "It is very pretty, sir," he said; "but I thought you had a watch already." "I didn't buy it for myself." "For your son?" asked Tom innocently. Mr. Waterbury smiled. "I thought of asking your acceptance of it," he said. "You don't mean that you are going to give it to me, sir?" said Tom eagerly. "If you will accept it." "How kind you are, Mr. Waterbury!" exclaimed Tom gratefully. "There is nothing in the world that I should like so much. How can I thank you?" "By considering it a proof of my interest in you. I was sure you would like it. Before I had reached your age the great object of my ambition was a watch. I received one from my uncle, as a gift, on my seventeenth birthday. I believe I looked at it once in five minutes on an average during the first day." "I dare say it will be so with me, sir," said Tom, who, at the moment, had the watch in his hand, examining it. "As you are to rough it, I thought it best to get you a hunting-case watch, because it will be less liable to injury. When you become a man I hope you will be prosperous enough to buy a gold watch and chain, if you prefer them. While you are a boy silver will be good enough." "Gold wouldn't correspond very well with my circumstances," said Tom. "I didn't dream of even having a silver watch and chain for years to come. I shall write home this evening, and tell mother of my good luck." "Will you mention that you have already been under arrest?" asked Mr. Waterbury, smiling. Tom shook his head. "I am not proud of that," he answered; "and it would only trouble them at home to have an account of it. When I get home, I may mention it sometime." "Better put on your watch and chain, Tom, before we reach Mrs. Watson's." Tom needed no second invitation. "It's lucky mother put a watch-pocket in my vest," he said. "We didn't either of us suppose there would be any occasion for it; but I asked her to do it." In a nice-looking brick boarding-house--for brown-stone houses were not then often to be found--Tom and his friend found Mrs. Watson and Jennie. "I'm so glad to see you, Tom," said Jennie. "I've missed you awfully." "Thank you," said Tom. "I've come to bid you good-by." "Good-by! You don't mean that?" "I expect to start for St. Joseph to-morrow. I am in a hurry to get to California." "That's real mean. I don't see why you can't stay in Cincinnati a week." "I should like to." "Then why don't you?" persisted the young girl. "Jennie," said her mother, "we must remember that Thomas is not traveling for pleasure. He is going to California to seek his fortune. It won't do for him to linger on his way." "A week won't make much difference; will it, Tom?" "I am afraid it will, Jennie. Besides, a friend of Mr. Waterbury will start to-morrow, and has agreed to take me with him." "I suppose you've got to go, then," said Jennie regretfully. "Oh, where did you get that watch, Tom?" "A kind friend gave it to me." "Who do you mean--Mr. Graham?" she asked archly. "He would be more likely to relieve me of it. No, it is Mr. Waterbury." "I am going to kiss you for that, Mr. Waterbury," said Jennie impulsively; and she suited the action to the word. "What will Mr. Waterbury think, Jennie?" said her mother. "He thinks himself well repaid for his gift," answered that gentleman, smiling; "and half inclined to give Tom another watch." "Isn't it my turn, now?" asked Tom, with a courage at which he afterward rather wondered; but he was fast getting rid of his country bashfulness. "I never kiss boys," said Jennie demurely. "Then I will grow into a man as fast as I can," said Tom, "and give somebody a watch, and then---- But that will be a good while to wait." "I may kiss you good-by," said Jennie, "if I feel like it." She did feel like it, and Tom received the kiss. "It strikes me, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, as they were walking home, "that you and Jennie are getting along fast." "She kissed you first," said Tom, blushing. "But the kiss she gave me was wholly on your account." "She seems just like a sister," said Tom. "She's a tip-top girl." CHAPTER XIX. A MISSOURI TAVERN. The next day Tom started on his way. His new companion, Donald Ferguson, was a sedate Scotchman, and a thoroughly reliable man. He was possessed to the full of the frugality characteristic of the race to which he belonged, and, being more accustomed to traveling than Tom, saved our hero something in the matter of expense. He was always ready to talk of Scotland, which he evidently thought the finest country in the world. He admitted that Glasgow was not as large a city as London, but that it was more attractive. As for New York, that city bore no comparison to the chief city of Scotland. "You must go to Scotland some time, Tom," he said. "If you can't visit but one country in the Old World, go to Scotland." Privately Tom was of opinion that he should prefer to visit England; but he did not venture to hurt the feelings of his fellow-traveler by saying so. "I wonder, Mr. Ferguson," he could not help saying one day, "that you should have been willing to leave Scotland, since you so much prefer it to America." "I'll tell you, my lad," answered the Scotchman. "I would rather live in Scotland than anywhere else on God's footstool; but I won't be denying that it is a poor place for a man to make money, if compared with a new country like this." "There are no gold-mines, I suppose, sir?" "No; and the land is not as rich as the land here. It is rich in historical associations; but a man, you know, can't live on those," he added shrewdly. "No, I should think not," said Tom. "It would be pretty dry diet. How long have you been in the country, Mr. Ferguson?" "A matter of three months only, my lad. It's the gold-mines that brought me over. I read of them in the papers at home, and I took the first ship across the Atlantic." "Have you a family, Mr. Ferguson?" "I've got an old mother at home, my lad, who looks to me for support. I left fifty pounds with her when I came away. It'll last her, I'm thinkin', till I can send her some from California." "Then Mr. Ferguson, you are like me," said Tom. "I am going to California to work for my father and mother. Father is poor, and I have brothers and sisters at home to provide for. I hope I shall succeed, for their sake." "You will, my lad," said the Scotchman, in a tone of calm confidence. "It is a noble purpose, and if you keep to it God will bless you in your undertaking, and give you a good fortune." "I hope we shall both be fortunate." "I have no fear. I put my trust in the Lord, who is always ready to help those who are working for him." Tom found that Mr. Ferguson, though his manner was dry and unattractive, was a religious man, and he respected and esteemed him for his excellent traits. He was not a man to inspire warm affection, but no one could fail to respect him. He felt that he was fortunate in having such a man for his companion, and he was glad that Mr. Ferguson appeared to like him in turn. He also found that the Scotchman, though a man of peace, and very much averse to quarreling, was by no means deficient in the trait of personal courage. One evening they arrived at a small tavern in a Missouri town. Neither Tom nor his companion particularly liked the appearance of the place nor its frequenters, but it appeared to be the only place of entertainment in the settlement. The barroom, which was the only public room set apart for the use of the guests, was the resort of a party of drunken roisterers, who were playing poker in the corner, and betting on the game. At the elbow of each player was set a glass of whisky, and the end of each game was marked by a fresh glass all around. Tom and Mr. Ferguson took a walk after supper, and then sat down quietly at a little distance from the card-players, attracting at first but little attention from them. Presently, at the close of a game, glasses were ordered for the party, at the expense of those who had suffered defeat. "What'll you have, strangers?" inquired a tipsy fellow, with an Indian complexion and long black hair, staggering toward Ferguson. "Thank you, sir," said the Scotchman; "but I don't drink." "Don't drink!" exclaimed the former, in evident surprise. "What sort of a man, pray, may you be?" "I am a temperance man," said Ferguson, adding indiscreetly, "and it would be well for you all if you would shun the vile liquor which is destroying soul and body." "---- your impudence!" ejaculated the other, in a rage. "Do you dare to insult gentlemen like us?" "I never insult anybody," said the Scotchman calmly. "What I have said is for your good, and you would admit it if you were sober." "Do you dare to say I'm drunk?" demanded the man, in a fury. "Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, in a low voice, "I wouldn't provoke him if I were you." But the Scotchman was no coward, and, though generally prudent, he was too fond of argument to yield the point. "Of course, you're drunk," he said calmly. "If you will reflect, you show all the signs of a man that has taken too much liquor. Your face is flushed, your hand is unsteady, and----" He was interrupted by a volley of execrations from the man whom he was coolly describing, and the latter, in a fit of fury, struck the Scotchman in the face. Had the blow been well directed it would, for the time, have marred the small share of personal beauty with which nature had endowed Mr. Ferguson; but it glanced aside and just struck him on his prominent cheek-bone. "A ring! a ring!" shouted the men in the corner, jumping to their feet in excitement. "Let Jim and the Scotchman fight it out." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Ferguson, "I don't wish to fight with your friend. He is drunk, as you can see plainly enough. I don't wish to fight with a drunken man." "Who says I am drunk?" demanded the champion of whisky. "Let me get at him." But his friends were now holding him back. They wanted to see a square fight, according to rule. It would prove, in their opinion, a pleasant little excitement. "I meant no offense," said Ferguson; "I only told the truth." "You are a ---- liar!" exclaimed the man, known as Jim. "I do not heed the words of a man in your condition," said the Scotchman calmly. "Pull his nose, Jim! Make him fight!" exclaimed the friends of the bully. "We'll back you!" The hint was taken. Jim staggered forward, and, seizing the Scotchman's prominent nose, gave it a violent tweak. Now there are few men, with or without self-respect, who can calmly submit to an insult like this. Certainly Mr. Donald Ferguson was not one of them. The color mantled his high cheek-bones, and anger gained dominion over him. He sprang to his feet, grasped the bully in his strong arms, dashed him backward upon the floor of the barroom, and, turning to the companions of the fallen man, he said, "Now come on, if you want to fight. I'll take you one by one, and fight the whole of you, if you like." Instead of being angry, they applauded his pluck. They cared little for the fate of their champion, but were impressed by the evident strength of the stranger. "Stranger," said one of them, "you've proved that you're a man of honor. We thought you were a coward. It's a pity you don't drink. What may your name be?" "Donald Ferguson." "Then, boys, here's to the health of Mr. Ferguson. He's a bully boy, and no coward." "Gentlemen," said the Scotchman, "it's a compliment you mean, no doubt, and I'm suitably thankful. If you'll allow me, I'll drink your health in a liquor which will not injure any one. I'll wish you health and prosperity in a glass of cold water, if the barkeeper happens to have any of that beverage handy. Tom, join with me in the toast." Tom did so, and the speech was well received. "As for this gentleman," said Mr. Ferguson, addressing Jim, who had struggled to his feet, and was surveying the scene in rather a bewildered way, "I hope he won't harbor malice; I've only got even with him. We may as well forgive and forget." "That's the talk! Jim, drink the stranger's health!" Jim looked a little doubtful, but when a glass of whisky was put into his hand he could not resist the seductive draft, and tossed it down. "Now shake hands!" said one of the players. "With all my heart," said Ferguson, and the two shook hands, to the great delight of the company. "You got off pretty well, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, when they retired for the night. "Yes, my lad, better than I expected. I thought once I would have to fight the whole pack. Poor fellows! I pity them. They are but slaves to their appetites. I hope, my lad, you'll never yield to a like temptation." "No fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I feel as you do on the subject." The journey continued till one day, about noon, they reached the town of St, Joseph, popularly called St. Joe. CHAPTER XX. ST. JOE. St. Joe was at that time the fitting-out point for overland parties bound for California. As a matter of course it presented a busy, bustling appearance, and seemed full of life and movement. There was a large transient population, of a very miscellaneous character. It included the thrifty, industrious emigrant, prepared to work hard and live poorly, till the hoped-for competence was attained; but there was also the shiftless adventurer, whose chief object was to live without work, and the unscrupulous swindler, who was ready, if opportunity offered, to appropriate the hard earnings of others. "It's a lively place, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom. "It is, indeed, my young friend," said the cautious Scot; "but it is a place, to my thinking, where it behooves a man to look well to his purse." "No doubt you are right, Mr. Ferguson. I have learned to be cautious since my adventure with Graham and Vincent." "There's many like them in the world, Tom. They are like lions, going about seeking whom they may devour." St. Joseph could not at that time boast any first-class hotels. Inns and lodging-houses it had in plenty. At one of these--a two-story building, dignified by the title of "The Pacific Hotel"--our hero and his Scotch friend found accommodations. They were charged two dollars and a half per day--the same price they charged at first-class hotels in New York and Boston, while their rooms and fare were very far from luxurious. The landlord was a stout, jolly host, with a round, good-natured face. "You and your son will room together, I suppose," he said. "He isn't my son, but a young friend of mine," said Mr. Ferguson. "I thought he didn't look much like you," said the landlord. "I am hard and weather-beaten, while he is young and fresh." "Well, gentlemen, I wish you both good luck. What will you take? I have a superior article of whisky that I can recommend." "Thank you, but I beg you will excuse me, sir," said Ferguson. "I never drink." "Nor I," said Tom; "but I am much obliged to you all the same." "Well, that beats me," said the landlord. "Why, you don't know what's good. You ain't a minister, are you?" turning to Ferguson. "I have not that high distinction, my friend. I am an unworthy member of the church of Scotland." "I don't think your countrymen generally refuse whisky." "So much the worse for them. They are only too fond of it. My own brother died a miserable death, brought on by his love of liquor." "Then I won't press you; but I say, strangers, you won't find many of your way of thinking in the country you're going to." "I don't doubt he's right, Tom," said Ferguson to Tom, as they entered the chamber assigned to them. "We may not be together always. I hope you won't be led away by them that offer you strong drink. It would be the ruin of you, boy." "Don't fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I have no taste for it." "Sometimes it's hard to refuse." "It won't be hard for me." "I am glad to hear you say that, my lad. You are young, strong, and industrious. You'll succeed, I'll warrant, if you steer clear of that quicksand." Later in the day the two friends began to make inquiries about overland travel. They had no wish to remain long at St. Joe. Both were impatient to reach the land of gold, and neither cared to incur the expense of living at the hotel any longer than was absolutely necessary. Luckily this probably would not be long, for nearly every day a caravan set out on the long journey, and doubtless they would be able to join on agreeing to pay their share of the expenses. It was a great undertaking, for the distance to be traversed was over two thousand miles, through an unsettled country, some of it a desert, with the chances of an attack by hostile Indians, and the certainty of weeks, and perhaps months, of privation and fatigue. Mr. Donald Ferguson looked forward to it with some apprehension; for, with characteristic Scotch caution, he counted the cost of whatever he undertook, and did not fail to set before his mind all the contingencies and dangers attending it. "It's a long journey we're going on, my lad," he said, "and we may not reach the end of it in safety." "It isn't best to worry about that, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom cheerfully. "You are right, my lad. It's not for the best to worry, but it is well to make provision for what may happen. Now, if anything happens to me, I am minded to make you my executor." "But don't you think I am too young, Mr. Ferguson?" "You are o'er young, I grant, but you are a lad of good parts, temperate, steady, and honest. I have no other friend I feel like trusting." "I hope, Mr. Ferguson, there will be no occasion to render you any such service, but whatever I can I will do." "It will be very simple. You will take my money, and see that it is sent to my mother, in Glasgow. I will give you her address now, and then, if any sudden fate overtakes me, there will be no trouble. You will know just what to do." Tom was flattered by this mark of confidence. It was evident that the cautious Scotchman had formed a very favorable opinion of him, or he would not have selected so young a boy for so important a trust. "Will you do the same for me, Mr. Ferguson?" he asked, with the sudden reflection that, young as he was, there was no absolute certainty of his living to reach California. "Surely I will, my lad." "If I should die I should want any money I might have left sent to my father." "Give me his address, my lad, and it shall be done. It is a good precaution, and we shan't either of us die the sooner for doing our duty, to the best of our ability, by those who would mourn our loss." Tom and his friend instituted inquiries, and ascertained that two days later a caravan was to start on its way across the continent. They ascertained, also, that the leader of the expedition was a pioneer named Fletcher, who was making his home at the California Hotel. They made their way thither, and were fortunate enough to find Mr. Fletcher at home. He was a stout, broad-shouldered man, a practical farmer, who was emigrating from Illinois. Unlike the majority of emigrants, he had his family with him, namely, a wife, and four children, the oldest a boy of twelve. "My friend," said Ferguson, "I hear that you are soon leaving here with a party for California." "I leave day after to-morrow," answered Fletcher. "Is your party wholly made up?" "We are about full; but we might receive one or two more." "My young friend and I wish to join some good party, as we cannot afford to remain here, and we are anxious to get to work as soon as possible." Some care needed to be exercised in the choice of a party, as there were some who would only give trouble and annoyance, or perhaps fail to pay their proper share of the expenses. But Ferguson's appearance was sufficient guarantee of his reliability, and no one was likely to object to Tom. "Of course," added Ferguson, "we are ready to bear our share of the expense." "Then you can come," said Fletcher. "You will both need revolvers, for we may be attacked by Indians, and must be able to defend ourselves." "Certainly, we will do our part, if need be." This was an expense which Tom had not foreseen; but he at once saw the importance of being armed when crossing such a country as lay before them, and went with Ferguson to make the needful purchase. His Scotch friend instructed him in the method of using his new weapon, and Tom felt a boy's natural pride in his new acquisition. He felt years older then he did on the morning when he left his country home. He had gained some knowledge of the world, and felt a greater confidence in himself on that account. He looked forward to the remainder of his journey with pleasurable excitement, and lost no time in making the necessary preparations. CHAPTER XXI. HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME. While Tom was slowly making his way westward, there was one place where tidings from him were anxiously awaited, and where nightly prayers were offered for his health and safe progress. Of course this was the dear, though humble, farmhouse, which had been his home. Twice a week Tom wrote, and his letters were cheerful and reassuring. "Don't trouble yourself about me, dear mother"--he wrote from Cincinnati. "I am making friends, and learning how to travel. I feel years older, and rely much more on myself than when, an inexperienced boy, I bade you good-by. I am a thousand miles from you, and the longest and most difficult part of the journey lies before me; but with health and strength, and prudence, I hope to arrive in good condition at my destination. As to health I never felt better in my life, and I have taken lessons in prudence and caution which will be of essential service to me. I have found that a boy who goes out into the world to seek his fortune cannot trust everybody he falls in with. He will find foes as well as friends, and he will need to be on his guard. "I start to-morrow for St. Joseph, in Missouri, going by way of St. Louis. Mr. Donald Ferguson, a middle-aged Scotchman, is my companion. A younger and livelier companion might prove more agreeable, but perhaps not so safe. Mr. Ferguson is old enough to be my father, and I shall be guided by his judgment where my own is at fault. He is very frugal, as I believe his countrymen generally are, and that, of course, just suits me. I don't know how long I shall be in reaching St. Joseph, but I shall write you once or twice on the way. Give my love to father, Sarah, Walter, and Harry, and keep a great deal for yourself. "Your loving son, "TOM." "Tom is growing manly, Mary," said Mark Nelson to his wife. "It's doing him good to see a little of the world." "I suppose it is, Mark," said his wife; "but the more I think of it the more I feel that he is very young to undertake such a long journey alone." "He is young, but it will make a man of him." "He must be having a tip-top time," said Walter; "I wish I were with him." "You would be more of a hindrance than a help to him, Walter," said Mark Nelson. "You are only a child, you know," said Sarah, in an elder-sister tone. "What do you call yourself?" retorted Walter. "You are only two years older than I am." "Girls always know more than boys of the same age," said Sarah condescendingly. "Besides, I haven't said anything about going out to California." "No, I should think not. A girl that's afraid of a mouse had better stay at home." Walter referred to an incident of the day previous, when the sudden appearance of a mouse threw Sarah into a panic. "Are there any mouses in California?" asked little Harry, with interest. "If there are I could carry a cat with me," returned Sarah good-humoredly. Mark Nelson, though he felt Tom was a boy to be trusted, did ask himself occasionally whether he had been wise in permitting him to leave home under the circumstances. Suppose he continued in health, there were doubts of his success. His golden dreams might not be realized. The two hundred dollars which he had raised for Tom might be lost, and bring in no return; and this would prove a serious loss to Mark, hampered as he was already by a heavy mortgage on his farm. Would Squire Hudson be forbearing, if ill-luck came? This was a question he could not answer. He only knew that such was not the squire's reputation. "Well, Mr. Nelson, what do you hear from Tom," asked the squire, one day about this time. "How far is he on his way?" "We received a letter from Cincinnati yesterday. He then was about starting for St. Joseph." "Does he seem to enjoy the journey?" "He writes in excellent spirits. He says he has met with good friends." "Indeed! How does his money hold out?" "He does not speak of that." "Oh, well, I dare say he is getting along well;" and the squire walked on. "Does he feel interested in Tom, or not?" queried Mark Nelson, as he looked thoughtfully after the squire, as he walked on with stately steps, leaning slightly on his gold-headed cane. He might have been enlightened on this point, if he could have heard a conversation, later in the day, between Squire Hudson and his son Sinclair. "I saw Mark Nelson this morning," he observed at the supper table. "Has he heard from Tom?" "Yes; his son wrote him from Cincinnati." "I wish I could go to Cincinnati," grumbled Sinclair; "I think I have a better right to see the world than Tom Nelson." "All in good time, my son. Tom is not traveling for pleasure." "Still, he is getting the pleasure." "He will have to work hard when he reaches California. Probably he won't have a cent left when he gets there." "What will he do then?" "He must earn money." "Do you think he will do well, father?" "He may, and then again he may not," answered the squire judicially. "If he don't, how is he going to pay you back the money you lent him?" "I always thought your father was foolish to lend his money to a boy like that," said Mrs. Hudson querulously. "Women know nothing about business," said the squire, with an air of superior wisdom. "Sometimes men don't know much," retorted his wife. "If you refer to me, Mrs. Hudson," said her husband, "you need have no anxiety. I did not lend the money to the boy, but to his father." "That isn't much better. Everybody knows that Mark Nelson has all that he can do to get along. His wife hasn't had a new dress for years." The squire's face grew hard and stern. He had never loved his wife, and never forgiven Mrs. Nelson, whom he had loved as much as he was capable of doing, for refusing his hand. "She has made her bed and she must lie upon it," he said curtly. "She might have known that Mark Nelson would never be able to provide for her." "Perhaps she never had any other offer," said Mrs. Hudson, who was ignorant of a certain passage of her husband's life. "Probably she did, for she was a very pretty girl." "Then she's faded," said Mrs. Hudson, tossing her head. Squire Hudson did not reply; but as his eyes rested on the sharp, querulous face of his helpmate, and he compared it mentally with the pleasant face of Mrs. Nelson, he said to himself that, faded or not, the latter was still better looking than his wife had been in the days of her youth. Of course it would not do to say so, for Mrs. Hudson was not amiable. "Mark Nelson has given me security," said the squire, returning to the point under discussion. "I hold a mortgage on his farm for the whole amount he owes me." "Do you think you shall have to foreclose, father?" asked Sinclair. "If Tom does not succeed in California, I probably shall," said the squire. "Do you think he will succeed?" "He may be able to make a living, but I don't think he will be able to help his father any." "Then why did you lend him the money?" "He wanted to go, and was willing to take the risk. I lent the money as a business operation." "Suppose Mr. Nelson loses his farm, what will he do?" inquired Sinclair. "I really don't know," answered the squire, shrugging his shoulders. "That is no concern of mine." "Tom wouldn't put on so many airs if his father had to go to the poorhouse," said Sinclair. "Does he put on airs?" "He seems to think he is as good as I am," said Squire Hudson's heir. "That is perfectly ridiculous," said Mrs. Hudson. "The boy must be a fool." "He is no fool," said the squire, who did not allow prejudice to carry him so far as his wife and son. "He is a boy of very fair abilities; but I apprehend he will find it harder to make his fortune than he anticipated. However, time will show." "Most likely he'll come home in rags, and grow up a day-laborer," said Sinclair complacently. "When I'm a rich man I'll give him work. He won't feel like putting on airs, then." "What a good heart Sinclair has!" said Mrs. Hudson admiringly. Squire Hudson said nothing. Possibly the goodness of his son's heart was not so manifest to him. CHAPTER XXII. THE YOUNG MAN FROM BOSTON. Soon after leaving St. Joe, the emigrant train which Tom had joined, entered the territory of Kansas. At that early day the settlement of this now prosperous State had scarcely begun. Its rich soil was as yet unvexed by the plow and the spade, and the tall prairie grass and virgin forest stretched for many and many a mile westward in undisturbed loneliness. One afternoon, toward the setting of the sun, the caravan halted on the site of the present capital of the State, Topeka. The patient oxen, wearied with the twenty miles they had traveled, were permitted to graze. The ten baggage wagons or "ships of the plain," as they were sometimes called--came to anchor in a sea of verdure. They were ranged in a circle, the interior space being occupied as a camping-ground. Then began preparations for supper. Some of the party were sent for water. A fire was built, and the travelers, with a luxurious enjoyment of rest, sank upon the grass. Donald Ferguson looked thoughtfully over the vast expanse of unsettled prairie, and said to Tom, "It's a great country, Tom. There seems no end to it." "That's the way I felt when I was plodding along to-day through the mud," said Tom, laughing. "It's because the soil is so rich," said the Scotchman. "It'll be a great farming country some day, I'm thinking." "I suppose the soil isn't so rich in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?" "No, my lad. It's rocky and barren, and covered with dry heather; but it produces rare men, for all that." Mr. Ferguson was patriotic to the backbone. He would not claim for Scotland what she could not fairly claim; but he was all ready with some compensating claim. "How do you stand the walking, Mr. Ferguson?" "I'm getting used to it." "Then it's more than I am. I think it's beastly." These words were not uttered by Tom, but by rather a dandified-looking young man, who came up limping. He was from Boston, and gave his name as Lawrence Peabody. He had always lived in Boston, where he had been employed in various genteel avocations; but in an evil hour he had been lured from his comfortable home by the seductive cry of gold, and, laying down his yardstick, had set out for California across the plains. He was a slender young man, with limbs better fitted for dancing than for tramping across the prairie, and he felt bitterly the fatigue of the journey. "Are you tired, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "I am just about dead. I didn't bargain for walking all the way across the prairies. Why couldn't old Fletcher let me ride?" "The oxen have had all they could do to-day to draw the wagons through the mud." "Look at those boots," said the Bostonian ruefully, pointing to a pair of light calfskin boots, which were so overlaid with mud that it was hard to tell what was their original color. "I bought those boots in Boston only two weeks ago. Everybody called them stylish. Now they are absolutely disreputable." "It seems to me, my friend," said the Scotchman, "that you did not show much sagacity in selecting such boots for your journey. My young friend, Tom, is much better provided." "His boots are cowhide," said Mr. Lawrence Peabody disdainfully. "Do you think I would wear cowhide boots?" "You would find them more serviceable, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "Besides, I don't believe anybody could tell the difference now." "How much did you pay for them?" asked the Bostonian. "A dollar and a half." "Humph! I thought so," returned Peabody contemptuously. "We don't wear cowhide boots in Boston." "You are not in Boston now." "I wish I was," said Peabody energetically. "I wouldn't have started if I had known what was before me. I expected to travel like a gentleman, instead of wading through this cursed mud till I'm ready to drop. Look at my pantaloons, all splashed with mire. What would my friends say if I should appear in this rig on Washington Street?" "They might take you for a bog-trotter," said Tom, smiling. "I have always been particular about my appearance," said Peabody plaintively. "'He looks just as if he'd come out of a bandbox,' some of my lady friends used to say. How do I look now?" "Like a dirty-handed son of toil," said Tom humorously. "So do you," retorted Peabody, who felt that this was uncomplimentary. "I admit it," said Tom; "and that's just what I expect to be. You don't expect to dig gold with kid gloves on, do you, Mr. Peabody?" "I wish I had brought some with me," said the Bostonian seriously. "It would have saved my hands looking so dingy." "How came you to start for California, my friend?" inquired Ferguson. "The fact is," said Peabody, "I am not rich. There are members of our family who are wealthy; but I am not one of the lucky number." "You were making a living at home, were you not?" "Yes; but my income was only enough for myself." "I suppose you were in love, then," said Tom. "I don't mind saying that I was; confidentially, of course," said Mr. Peabody complacently. "Was your love returned?" "I may say it was. The young lady was the daughter of a merchant prince. I saw that she loved me, but her father would not consent to our union, on account of my limited means. I read in the _Transcript_ of the gold discoveries in California. I determined to go out there, and try my fortune. If I am successful I will go home, and, with a bag of gold in each hand, demand the hand of Matilda from her haughty sire. When he asks me for my credentials, I will point to the gold, and say, 'Behold them here!'" "If both your hands are full I don't see how you can point to the bags of gold," said Tom, who liked to tease the young Bostonian. "There are a great many things you don't understand," said Mr. Peabody, irritably. "He is right, Tom," said Ferguson, with a quiet smile. "If you are both against me, I will give it up," said Tom. "All I can say is, I hope you'll get the two bags of gold, Mr. Peabody, and that you'll get the young lady, too." Here Fletcher came up, and called upon Tom to assist in preparations for supper. Our hero readily complied with the request. Indeed, he always showed himself so obliging that he won the favorable regards of all. Mr. Peabody continued the conversation with Mr. Ferguson. "Do you think there's as much gold in California as people say?" he asked. "No," answered the Scotchman. "You don't?" ejaculated the Bostonian, in dismay. "No; people always magnify when they talk of a new country. Now, my friend, how much do you expect to get in the first year?" "Well, about fifty thousand dollars," answered Peabody. "And how much were you earning in Boston--a thousand dollars?" "About that," answered Peabody vaguely. In fact, he had been working on a salary of twelve dollars a week, in a retail dry-goods store on Washington Street. "Then you expect to make fifty times as much as at home?" "Don't you think I will?" "I have never had such large expectations. If I make three or four thousand dollars in twelve months it will satisfy me." "But a man would never get rich, at that rate," said Lawrence Peabody uneasily. "I don't know about that. It depends as much on what a man does with his money, as on the amount he makes," said the prudent Scot. "I am afraid I did wrong in leaving Boston," said Peabody gloomily. "If I am to travel many weeks through the mud, and get no more than that, I shall feel that I am poorly paid." "You don't feel like my young friend Tom. He is full of hope, and enjoys everything." "He hasn't been brought up as I have," said Peabody. "A country boy in cowhide boots is tough, and don't mind roughing it." Ferguson did not have a chance to answer, for there was a summons to supper--a welcome call, that made even Mr. Lawrence Peabody look cheerful for the time being. CHAPTER XXIII. MR. PEABODY'S TROUBLES. When the party camped for the night the custom was to arrange the baggage wagons in a semicircle, and provide a resting-place for the women and children inside. As they were passing through a country occupied by Indians it was necessary to post one or more sentinels to keep watch through the night, and give notice of any who might be seen lurking near the camp. Fortunately, however, an Indian attack was seldom made at night. The time generally selected was in the morning, when the party were preparing to start on their day's march. Tom, as a boy, would have been excused taking his turn; but this did not suit him. He requested as a favor, that he might stand watch with the rest. "Can he be relied upon? Is he not too young?" asked Fletcher, the leader, of Mr. Ferguson. "You can depend upon him," said the Scotchman confidently. "There's more manliness in Tom than in many men of twice his years." "Then I will put his name on the list," said Fletcher. "That's right. I'll answer for him." But there was one of the travelers who was by no means eager to stand on watch. This was Lawrence Peabody, the young man from Boston. He sought an interview with Fletcher, and asked to be excused. "On what grounds, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher, surprised. "It doesn't agree with me to lose my night's sleep," said Peabody. "I am naturally delicate, and----" "Your excuse is not satisfactory, Mr. Peabody. We are banded together in a little community, having mutual rights and mutual obligations. In the arrangements made for the common safety it is your duty to bear your part." "I am willing to provide a substitute," said Peabody eagerly. "Where will you find a substitute?" "I have been talking with Tom Nelson. He says he is willing to serve in my turn." "He will serve when his own turn comes; that will be all we can expect of him." "But he is only a boy. Why should he be expected to take his turn?" "If he is old enough to be a substitute, he is old enough to stand watch for himself." "But, Mr. Fletcher, I am very delicate," protested Lawrence Peabody. "I must have my regular sleep, or I shall be sick." "We must take our chances of that, Mr. Peabody." "I shall be very likely to go to sleep on my post." "I wouldn't advise you to," said Fletcher seriously. "It might be dangerous." "Dangerous!" ejaculated Peabody nervously. "Precisely. If a lurking Indian should surprise you, you might wake up to find yourself scalped." "Good gracious!" exclaimed the Bostonian, his teeth chattering, for he was not of the stuff of which heroes are made. "Do you--think there is any danger of that?" "Considerable, if you neglect your duty." "But perhaps I can't help falling asleep." "Mr. Peabody," said Fletcher sternly, "you must keep awake. Not only your own safety, but that of the whole camp, may depend upon your vigilance. If you choose to risk your own life, I don't complain of that, but you shall not imperil ours. I therefore give you notice, that if you fall asleep on guard you will be drummed out of camp, and left to shift for yourself." "But I couldn't find my way on the prairie," said Peabody, very much alarmed. "You had better think of that when you are tempted to close your eyes, Mr. Peabody," replied Fletcher. Lawrence Peabody walked off, feeling very much disconcerted. Fervently he wished himself back in Boston, where there are no Indians, and a man might sleep from one week's end to another without any danger of losing his scalp. "What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom, observing his melancholy appearance. "I don't think I shall ever live to see California," answered Mr. Peabody plaintively. "Why, what's the matter now?" asked Tom, checking an inclination to laugh; "are you sick?" "I don't feel very well, Tom. I'm very delicate, and this journey is almost too much for my strength." "Oh, cheer up, Mr. Peabody! Think of the gold that awaits you at the end of the journey." "It's all that keeps me up, I do assure you. But I am afraid I shall never live to get there," said Peabody, with a groan. "Don't think of such things, Mr. Peabody. Of course none of us is sure of living, but the chances are, that we shall reach California in health, make our fortunes, and go home rich. At any rate, that's what I am looking forward to." "I wouldn't mind so much but for one thing, Tom." "What is that?" "Fletcher insists that I shall take my turn in standing guard. If I were not so delicate I wouldn't mind; but I know I can't stand it. I'll give you two dollars to take my place, every time my turn comes." "I am willing, if Mr. Fletcher is," said Tom, who was by no means averse to making a little extra money. "But he isn't. I proposed it to him, for I was sure I could arrange with you; but he refused." "I suppose," said Tom slyly, "he thought I couldn't fill your place. You are a brave, resolute man, and I am only a boy." "Tom--I--I don't mind telling you; but I am afraid I am not brave." "Oh, nonsense, Mr. Peabody! that is only your modesty." "But I assure you," said the young Bostonian earnestly, "I am speaking the truth. If I should see an Indian crawling near the camp I'm really afraid I should faint." "You won't know how brave you are till you are put to the test." "But do you think there is any chance of my being put to the test? Do you think there are any Indians near?" asked Lawrence Peabody, wiping the damp perspiration from his brow. "Of course there must be," said Tom. "We are passing through their hunting-grounds, you know." "Why did I ever leave Boston?" said Mr. Peabody sadly. "You came, as I did, to make your fortune, Mr. Peabody." "I'm afraid I can't keep awake, Tom; Mr. Fletcher tells me, if I don't, that he will turn me adrift on the prairie. Isn't that hard?" "I am afraid it is a necessary regulation. But you won't fall asleep. Your turn will only come about once in two weeks, and that isn't much." "The nights will seem very long." "I don't think so. I think it'll be fun, for my part." "But suppose--when you are watching--you should all at once see an Indian, Tom?" said Peabody, with a shiver. "I think it would be rather unlucky for the Indian," said Tom coolly. "You are a strange boy, Tom," said Mr. Peabody. "What makes you think so?" "You don't seem to care anything about the danger of being scalped." "I don't believe I should like being scalped any more than you do." "You might have got off from standing watch; but you asked to be allowed to." "That is quite true, Mr. Peabody. I want to meet my fair share of danger and fatigue." "You can stand it, for you are strong and tough. You have not my delicacy of constitution." "Perhaps that's it," said Tom, laughing. "Would you mind speaking to Fletcher, and telling him you are willing to take my place?" "I will do it, if you wish me to, Mr. Peabody." "Thank you, Tom; you are a true friend;" and Mr. Peabody wrung the hand of his young companion. Tom was as good as his word. He spoke to Fletcher on the subject; but the leader of the expedition was obdurate. "Can't consent, my boy," he said. "It is enough for you to take your turn. That young dandy from Boston needs some discipline to make a man of him. He will never do anything in a country like California unless he has more grit than he shows at present. I shall do him a favor by not excusing him." Tom reported the answer to Peabody, who groaned in spirit, and nervously waited for the night when he was to stand watch. CHAPTER XXIV. A SAD SIGHT. A day later, while the wagon-train was slowly winding through a mountain defile, they encountered a sight which made even the stout-hearted leader look grave. Stretched out stiff and stark were two figures, cold in death. They were men of middle age, apparently. From each the scalp had been removed, thus betraying that the murderers were Indians. "I should like to come across the red devils who did this," said Fletcher. "What would you do with them?" asked Ferguson. "Shoot them down like dogs, or if I could take them captive they should dangle upon the boughs of yonder tree." "I hope I shall be ready to die when my time comes," said Ferguson; "but I want it to be in a Christian bed, and not at the hands of a dirty savage." Just then Lawrence Peabody came up. He had been lagging in the rear, as usual. "What have you found?" he inquired, not seeing the bodies at first, on account of the party surrounding them. "Come here, and see for yourself, Peabody," said one of the company. Lawrence Peabody peered at the dead men--he was rather near-sighted--and turned very pale. "Is it the Indians?" he faltered. "Yes, it's those devils. You can tell their work when you see it. Don't you see that they are scalped?" "I believe I shall faint," said Peabody, his face becoming of a greenish hue. "Tom, let me lean on your shoulder. Do--do you think it has been done lately?" "Yesterday, probably," said Ferguson. "The bodies look fresh." "Then the Indians that did it must be near here?" "Probably." "These men were either traveling by themselves, or had strayed away from their party," said Fletcher. "It shows how necessary it is for us to keep together. In union there is strength." The bodies were examined. In the pocket of one was found a letter addressed to James Collins, dated at some town in Maine. The writer appeared to be his wife. She spoke of longing for the time when he should return with money enough to redeem their farm from a heavy mortgage. "Poor woman!" said Ferguson. "She will wait for her husband in vain. The mortgage will never be paid through his exertions." Tom looked sober, as he glanced compassionately at the poor emigrant. "He came on the same errand that I did," he said. "I hope my journey will have a happier ending." "Always hope for the best, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "You will live happier while you do live, and, if the worst comes, it will be time enough to submit to it when you must." "That is good philosophy, Mr. Ferguson." "Indeed it is, my lad. Don't borrow trouble." "We must bury these poor men," said Fletcher. "We can't leave them out here, possibly to be devoured by wild beasts. Who will volunteer for the service?" "Come, Peabody," said John Miles, a broad-shouldered giant, who had a good-natured contempt for the young man from Boston. "Suppose you and I volunteer." Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition. "I couldn't do it," he said, shivering. "I never touched a dead body in my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I assure you." "It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody, you will expect us to bury you?" "Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it." "It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders. "I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that remains for us to do for the poor fellows." "Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We have her address in the letter you took from the pocket." "Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?" "If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly. "It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as another." In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy. Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This inscription was the work of Miles. "Somebody may see it who knows Collins," he said. It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch. He was very uneasy and nervous through the day. In the hope of escaping the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head. "What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher. "I've got a fearful headache," groaned Peabody. "It seems to me as if it would split open." "Let me feel of it," said Fletcher. "It doesn't feel hot; it doesn't throb," he said. "It aches terribly," said Peabody. "I'm very subject to headache. It is the effect of a delicate constitution." "The fellow is shamming," said Fletcher to himself; and he felt disgust rather than sympathy. "It's a little curious, Mr. Peabody, that this headache should not come upon you till the day you are to stand on watch," remarked the leader, with a sarcasm which even the young man from Boston detected. "Yes, it's strange," he admitted, "and very unlucky, for of course you won't expect a sick man to watch." "You don't look at it in the right light, Mr. Peabody. I regard it as rather lucky than otherwise." Lawrence Peabody stared. "I don't understand you, Mr. Fletcher," he said. "If you have the headache, it will prevent you from going to sleep, and you remember you expressed yourself as afraid that you might. If you were quite well, I might feel rather afraid of leaving the camp in your charge. Now, I am sure you won't fall asleep." Mr. Peabody listened in dismay. The very plan to which he had resorted in the hope of evading duty was likely to fasten that duty upon him. "He'll be well before night," thought Fletcher shrewdly; and he privately imparted the joke to the rest of the party. The result was that Mr. Peabody became an object of general attention. In half an hour the young man from Boston removed his handkerchief from his head. "Are you feeling better, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "Very much better," said Peabody. "Your headache seems to pass off suddenly." "Yes, it always does," said the young Bostonian. "I am like mother in that. She had a delicate constitution, just like mine. One minute she would have a headache as if her head would split open, and half an hour afterward she would feel as well as usual." "You are very fortunate. I was afraid your headache would make it uncomfortable for you to watch to-night." "Yes, it would; but, as the captain said, it would have kept me awake. Now I don't believe I can keep from sleeping on my post." "Why don't you tell Fletcher so?" "Won't you tell him, Tom? He might pay more attention to it if you told him." "No, Mr. Peabody. You are certainly the most suitable person to speak to him. What makes you think he would pay more attention to me, who am only a boy?" "He seems to like you, Tom." "I hope he does, but really, Mr. Peabody, you must attend to your own business." Fletcher was at the head of the train, walking beside the first wagon. Hearing hurried steps, he turned, and saw Mr. Lawrence Peabody, panting for breath. "Have you got over your headache, Mr. Peabody?" he asked, with a quiet smile. "Yes, Mr. Fletcher, it's all gone." "I am glad to hear it." "It would have kept me awake to-night, as you remarked," said Peabody. "Now, I am really afraid that I shall fall asleep." "That would be bad for you." "Why so?" "You remember those two poor fellows whom we found scalped the other day?" "I shall never forget them," said Lawrence Peabody, with a shudder. "Better think of them to-night. If you go to sleep on watch, those very Indians may serve you in the same way." "Oh, good gracious!" ejaculated Peabody, turning pale. "They or some of their tribe are, no doubt, near at hand." "Don't you think you could excuse me, Mr. Fletcher?" stammered Peabody, panic-stricken. "No!" thundered Fletcher, so sternly that the unhappy Bostonian shrank back in dismay. For the credit of Boston, it may be said that John Miles--a broad-shouldered young giant, who did not know what fear was--more honorably represented the same city. CHAPTER XXV. A NIGHT PANIC. Lawrence Peabody's feelings when night approached were not unlike those of a prisoner under sentence of death. He was timid, nervous, and gifted with a lively imagination. His fears were heightened by the sad spectacle that he had recently witnessed. His depression was apparent to all; but I regret to say that it inspired more amusement than sympathy. Men winked at each other as they saw him pass; and, with the exception of Tom and his Scotch friend, probably nobody pitied the poor fellow. "He's a poor creature, Tom," said Donald Ferguson; "but I pity him. We wouldn't mind watching to-night; but I doubt it's a terrible thing to him." "I would volunteer in his place, but Mr. Fletcher won't agree to it," said Tom. "He is right. The young man must take his turn. He won't dread it so much a second time." "What would the poor fellow do if he should see an Indian?" "Faint, likely; but that is not probable." "Mr. Fletcher thinks there are some not far off." "They don't attack in the night, so I hear." "That seems strange to me. I should think the night would be most favorable for them." "It's their way. Perhaps they have some superstition that hinders." "I am glad of it, at any rate. I can sleep with greater comfort." The rest were not as considerate as Tom and Ferguson. They tried, indeed, to excite still further the fears of the young Bostonian. "Peabody," said Miles, "have you made your will?" "No," answered Peabody nervously. "Why should I?" "Oh, I was thinking that if anything happened to you to-night you might like to say how your things are to be disposed of. You've got a gold watch, haven't you?" "Yes," said Peabody nervously. "And a little money, I suppose." "Not very much, Mr. Miles." "No matter about that. Of course if you are killed you won't have occasion for it," said Miles, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I wish you wouldn't talk that way," said Peabody irritably. "It makes me nervous." "What's the use of being nervous? It won't do any good." "Do you really think, Mr. Miles, there is much danger?" faltered Peabody. "Of course there is danger. But the post of danger is the post of honor. Now, Peabody, I want to give you a piece of advice. If you spy one of those red devils crouching in the grass, don't stop to parley, but up with your revolver, and let him have it in the head. If you can't hit him in the head, hit him where you can." "Wouldn't it be better," suggested Peabody, in a tremulous voice, "to wake you up, or Mr. Fletcher?" "While you were doing it the savage would make mince-meat of you. No, Peabody, fire at once. This would wake us all up, and if you didn't kill the reptile we would do it for you." "Perhaps he would see me first," suggested Peabody, in a troubled tone. "You mustn't let him. You must have your eyes all about you. You are not near-sighted, are you?" "I believe I am--a little," said Peabody eagerly, thinking that this might be esteemed a disqualification for the position he dreaded. "Oh, well, I guess it won't make any difference, only you will need to be more vigilant." "I wish I was blind; just for to-night," thought Peabody to himself, with an inward sigh. "Then they would have to excuse me." John Miles overtook Fletcher, who was with the head wagon. "Captain Fletcher," he said, "I am afraid Peabody will make a mighty poor watch." "Just my opinion." "He is more timid than the average woman. I've got a sister at home that has ten times his courage. If she hadn't I wouldn't own the relationship." "I am not willing to excuse him." "Of course not; but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll keep an eye open myself, so that we sha'n't wholly depend on him." "If you are willing to do it, Miles, we shall all be indebted to you. Don't let him know it, though." "I don't mean to. He shall suppose he is the only man awake in camp." At a comparatively early hour the party stretched themselves out upon the ground, inviting sleep. Generally they did not have to wait long. The day's march brought with it considerable physical fatigue. Even those who were light sleepers at home slept well on the trip across the plains. Few or none remained awake half an hour after lying down. So Peabody knew that he would soon be practically alone. With a heavy heart he began to pace slowly forward and back. He came to where Tom lay. "Tom--Tom Nelson," he called, in a low voice. "What's the matter?" asked Tom, in a sleepy tone. "Are you asleep?" "No; but I soon shall be." "Won't you try to keep awake a little while? It won't seem so lonesome." "Sorry I can't accommodate you, Mr. Peabody; but I'm awfully tired and sleepy." "Who's that talking there?" drowsily demanded the nearest emigrant. "Can't you keep quiet, and let a fellow sleep?" "Good night, Mr. Peabody," said Tom, by way of putting an end to the conversation. "Good night," returned the sentinel disconsolately. The hours passed on, and Lawrence Peabody maintained his watch. He was in no danger of going to sleep, feeling too timid and nervous. He began to feel a little more comfortable. He could see nothing suspicious, and hear nothing except the deep breathing of his sleeping comrades. "It is not so bad as I expected," he muttered to himself. He began to feel a little self-complacent, and to reflect that he had underrated his own courage. He privately reflected that he was doing as well as any of his predecessors in duty. He began to think that after he had got back to Boston with a fortune, gained in California, he could impress his friends with a narrative of his night-watch on the distant prairies. But his courage had not yet been tested. He took out his watch to see how time was passing. It pointed to twelve o'clock. Why there should be anything more alarming in twelve o'clock than in any other hour I can't pretend to say, but the fact none will question. Mr. Peabody felt a nervous thrill when his eyes rested on the dial. He looked about him, and the darkness seemed blacker and more awe-inspiring than ever, now that he knew it to be midnight. "Will it ever be morning?" he groaned. "Four long hours at least before there will be light. I don't know how I am going to stand it." Now, there was attached to the wagon-train one of those universally despised but useful animals, a donkey, the private property of a man from Iowa, who expected to make it of service in California. The animal was tethered near the camp, and was generally quiet. But to-night he was wakeful, and managed about midnight to slip his tether, and wandered off. Peabody did not observe his escape. His vigilance was somewhat relaxed, and with his head down he gave way to mournful reflection. Suddenly the donkey, who was now but a few rods distant, uplifted his voice in a roar which the night stillness made louder than usual. It was too much for the overwrought nerves of the sentinel. He gave a shriek of terror, fired wildly in the air, and sank fainting to the ground. Of course the camp was roused. Men jumped to their feet, and, rubbing their eyes, gazed around them in bewilderment. It was not long before the truth dawned upon them. There lay the sentinel, insensible from fright, his discharged weapon at his feet, and the almost equally terrified donkey was in active flight, making the air vocal with his peculiar cries. There was a great shout of laughter, in the midst of which Peabody recovered consciousness. "Where am I?" he asked, looking about him wildly, and he instinctively felt for his scalp, which he was relieved to find still in its place. "What's the matter?" asked the leader. "What made you fire?" "I--I thought it was the Indians," faltered Peabody. "I thought I heard their horrid war-whoop." "Not very complimentary to the Indians to compare them with donkeys," said Miles. Lawrence Peabody was excused from duty for the remainder of the night, his place being taken by Miles and Tom in turn. It was a long time before he heard the last of his ridiculous panic, but he was not sensitive as to his reputation for courage, and he bore it, on the whole, pretty well. CHAPTER XXVI. MR. PEABODY IS WORSTED. The traveler of to-day who is whirled across the continent in six days and a half has little conception of what the overland journey was in the year 1850. Week after week and month after month slipped away between the start and the arrival on the western slope of the Sierra Nevadas. Delicate women and children of tender years developed extraordinary endurance, and showed remarkable fortitude on the wearisome trip. But the hope of bettering their fortunes was the magnet that drew them steadily on, day after day, in their march across the plains. Tom was at an age when adventure has a charm. His feet were often weary; but he never tired of the journey. Every morning found him active, alert, and ready for the toilsome walk. He was, indeed, impatient for the time to come when he could be earning something to pay up his debt to Squire Hudson, and so relieve his father from the additional burden assumed for his sake. Otherwise he was quite content to plod on, seeing something new every day. "You're always cheerful, Tom, my lad," said Ferguson, one day. "Yes," said Tom. "I am having a good time." "Youth is aye the time for enjoyment. When I was a lad like you I might have been the same." "Don't you enjoy the journey, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Tom. "I'm getting tired of it, Tom. I look upon it as a means to an end. I'm in a hurry to reach the mines." "So am I, Mr. Ferguson, for that matter." "And I can't help thinking, what if they don't turn out as well as we expect? Then there'll be months lost, besides a good bit of money," replied Ferguson. "Oh, I'm sure there is plenty of gold, and we shall get our share," said Tom confidently; "that is, if we have our health." "I hope it'll be as you say, my lad. Indeed, I think you are right. You have taught me a lesson." "Have I, Mr. Ferguson? What is it?" "Always to look on the bright side. It is a lesson worth learning. It makes a man feel happier, and often gives courage to press on to the accomplishment of his purpose." "I suppose it is natural to me," said Tom. "It is a happy gift. It is a pity that poor creature from Boston hadn't it." Lawrence Peabody was approaching, and this no doubt led to the allusion. He was limping along, looking decidedly down in the mouth, which, indeed, was not unusual. "What is the matter with you, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "I'm almost gone," groaned Peabody. "My strength is exhausted, and, besides, I've got a terrible corn on my left foot." "How long has that been?" "For two or three days. It's torture for me to walk. I don't know but you'll have to leave me here on the prairie to perish." "Not so bad as that, Mr. Peabody, I hope. Perhaps Mr. Chapman will lend you his donkey to ride upon." The owner of the donkey was within hearing distance, and at once expressed a willingness to lend his animal to Mr. Peabody. "That will be better than perishing on the prairies," said Tom cheerfully. "I am not much used to riding," said Peabody cautiously. "He won't run away with you, Peabody," said the owner. "He's too lazy." Lawrence Peabody was already aware of this fact, and it gave him courage to accept the offered help. He mounted Solomon--as the donkey was called, for some unknown reason--and for a time enjoyed the relief from the toil of walking. He became quite cheerful, and was disposed to congratulate himself upon his success, when an unfortunate fit of obstinacy came over Solomon. It dawned upon the sagacious animal that it would be much easier to travel without a load, and, turning his head, he looked thoughtfully at his rider. "Get up, Solomon!" exclaimed Peabody, striking the animal on the haunch. Solomon felt that this was taking a personal liberty and he stood stock-still, his face expressive of obstinacy. "Why don't he go on?" asked Peabody, perplexed. "He's stopping to rest," said Tom. "I am afraid he is lazy." "Go along!" exclaimed Peabody, again using his whip. But the animal did not budge. "This is really very provoking," murmured the rider. "What shall I do?" "Don't give up to him," advised one of the company. "Here, let me whip him." "Thank you; I wish you would." It was an unlucky speech. The other complied with the request, and delivered his blow with such emphasis that Solomon's equanimity was seriously disturbed. He dashed forward with what speed he could command, Mr. Peabody holding on, in a sort of panic, till he was a hundred yards away. Then he stopped suddenly, lowering his head, and his hapless rider was thrown over it, landing some distance in advance. Solomon looked at him with grim humor, if a donkey is capable of such a feeling, and, apparently satisfied, turned and walked complacently back to the wagon-train. Several of the company, witnessing the accident, hurried forward to Mr. Peabody's assistance. They picked him up, groaning and bewildered, but not much hurt. "None of your limbs broken," said Miles. "I guess you'll do." "I'm badly shaken up," moaned Peabody. "It will do you good," said Miles bluntly. "You had better try it yourself, then," retorted Peabody, with unwonted spirit. "Good for you!" laughed Miles. "I suspect you are not dead yet." "What made you put me on such a vicious beast?" asked Peabody of the owner. "Solomon isn't vicious; he's only lazy," said Chapman. "We can't blame him much." "I think he ought to be shot," said Peabody, painfully rising, and stretching out one limb after another to make sure that none was broken. "You seem to be unlucky, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "I'm always unlucky," moaned Peabody. "Will you ride again, Mr. Peabody?" asked Chapman. "I'll catch Solomon for you, if you like." "Not for fifty dollars!" exclaimed Peabody energetically. "It is as much as anybody's life is worth." "If you will make me the same offer, I won't refuse, Mr. Chapman," said Tom. "You can mount him, if you like." Tom waited for no second invitation. He approached Solomon cautiously, vaulted upon his back, and the animal, disagreeably surprised, had recourse to the same tactics which had proved so successful in the case of the young man from Boston. But he had a different kind of a rider to deal with. Tom had been accustomed to ride from the time he was six years of age, and he stuck to his seat in spite of all attempts to dislodge him. So far from feeling alarmed, he enjoyed the struggle. "It's no go, Solomon!" he said gaily. "You've tackled the wrong customer this time. Better make up your mind to go as I want you to." Solomon came to the same conclusion after a time. He had tried his ordinary tactics, and they had proved unavailing. The struggle had been witnessed with some interest by the other members of the company. "You can ride, youngster; that's a fact," said the owner of the donkey. "I didn't say anything, but I rather expected to see you follow Peabody." "I'm used to riding," said Tom modestly. "Mr. Peabody is not." "Every lad ought to know how to ride," said Ferguson. "It's a deal manlier than smoking a cigar, to my thinking." "I can smoke a cigar," said Peabody, desirous probably of appearing to possess one manly accomplishment. "You will hardly find it as useful as riding in the new country you are going to, Mr. Peabody," said Ferguson dryly. "I'd give something for a good cigar myself," said John Miles. "I prefer riding," said Tom. "I never smoked a cigar in my life." "You are just as well off without it, my lad," said the Scotchman. "It don't do men any good, and always harms boys." Peabody never again mounted Solomon. One trial was sufficient, and, footsore and lame as he was, he decidedly preferred to walk. CHAPTER XXVII. THE LOST HORSE. Day followed day, and every sunset found the party from eighteen to twenty miles nearer the land of gold. They had not yet been molested by Indians, though on more than one occasion they had encountered the remains of those whom the savages had ruthlessly slaughtered. When they witnessed such a spectacle they were moved less by fear than indignation. "I didn't think I should ever thirst for a fellow creature's blood," said John Miles; "but if I could meet the savages that did this bloody work, I would shoot them down like dogs, and sleep all the more soundly for it. How is it with you, friend Ferguson?" "I am inclined to agree with you," said the Scotchman. "When an Indian makes himself a beast of prey he should be treated accordingly." "Are there any Indians in California?" asked Peabody nervously. "I don't think we shall have any trouble with them there, Mr. Peabody," said Ferguson. "Then I wish I was there now. It must be terrible to be scalped;" and the young man from Boston shuddered. "I don't think it would be an agreeable surgical operation," said Fletcher, who had just come up. "Let us hope that we shall not be called upon to undergo it." The next morning, when breakfast was over, and the party was preparing to start, an unpleasant discovery was made. One of the most valuable horses was missing. He must have slipped his tether during the night, and strayed away; as they were situated, the loss of such an animal would be felt. "He can't be far away," said Fletcher. "Some of us must go after him." "Let Peabody mount the mustang, and undertake to find him," suggested John Miles, winking at the captain. "Mr. Peabody," said Captain Fletcher gravely, "will you undertake to recover the horse? We shall all feel under great obligations to you." "I--I hope you will excuse me, Captain Fletcher," stammered Peabody, in great alarm. "I know I couldn't find the horse. I shouldn't know where to look." "This is where he got away. You can see his trail in the grass," said Scott, a young man from Indiana. "All you will have to do will be to follow the trail, Mr. Peabody." "I'm very near-sighted," pleaded Peabody. "I should lose my way, and never come back." "Carrying the mustang with you? That would be a loss indeed," said John Miles pointedly. "On the whole, Captain Fletcher, we had better excuse Mr. Peabody." "Mr. Peabody is excused," said the leader. "Thank you," said Peabody, looking relieved. "I would go, I am sure, if I could do any good; but I know I couldn't." "Who will volunteer?" asked Fletcher. "Let me go," said Tom eagerly. "You are not afraid of losing your way, Tom?" said Miles. "No; or if I do, I will find it again." "That boy is more of a man now than Peabody will ever be," said Miles, in a low voice to Ferguson. "That he is," said the Scotchman, who was a firm friend of our young hero. "There is the making of a noble man in him." "I believe you." "I have no objection to your going, Tom," said Fletcher; "but it is better that you should have company. Who will go with the boy?" "I," said several, among them John Miles and Henry Scott. "You may go, Scott," said the leader. "I have work for Miles at camp. The sooner you get started the better." "All right, captain. Come along, Tom." The two were in the saddle before two minutes had passed, and, guided by the trail, struck out upon the prairie. Scott was a tall, broad-shouldered young farmer, not over twenty-five, strong and athletic, and reported, the best runner, wrestler, and vaulter in the party. Tom was very well pleased to have his company. CHAPTER XXVIII. INDIAN CASUISTRY. "I should like to know when the horse got away," said Scott, as he and Tom rode on side by side; "then we could calculate how far we should have to go before overtaking him." "He wouldn't be likely to travel all the time, would he?" asked Tom. "Probably not. He may have gone only a mile or two. Are your eyes good?" "Pretty good." "Look about, then, and see if you can anywhere see anything of the rover." Scott and Tom, drawing rein, looked searchingly in all directions; but nowhere was the lost animal visible. "Somebody may have found him," suggested Tom. "That may be. If so, we have a harder job before us." The prairie was not quite level, but was what is called a rolling prairie, and this limited the view. Otherwise it would have been easy for a person, whose sight was keen, to have distinguished an object as large as a horse at a distance of many miles. "Are you sure we are on the right track, Mr. Scott?" asked Tom. "Yes, I can see by the trail." "I can see no hoof-marks." "Not just here; but look closely, and you will see slight marks of disturbance in the grass. As long as these signs last we need have no doubts as to our being on the right track." "The same trail will lead us back to our party," said Tom. "Yes, I shouldn't like to part from them in this country. It would be rather a bad place to be lost without provisions." They had ridden about five miles, when the trail became clearer and better defined. In fact, the marks in the prairie grass appeared more numerous than a single horse would be likely to make. Scott looked grave. "We will halt here a moment, Tom," he said. "I want to examine the trail." "Shall I get off my horse?" "No; it is not necessary." Scott dismounted and walked about, closely examining the marks in the grass. Finally he looked up. "I begin to think it doubtful whether we shall recover Dan," he said. "Why?" "He has been found and carried off," was the reply. "Do you see the double trail?" "Yes," said Tom, after a brief examination. "It means that a horseman has found Dan, and led him away. This rather complicates matters." "What do you think we had better do?" inquired Tom. "That requires consideration. I could tell better if I knew by whom the horse had been found. The finder may be honest, and would, in that case, surrender it on our appearing, and claiming him. But, again, he may be dishonest, and resist our claims." "We are two to one," said Tom stoutly. "We don't know that. The man may belong to a party." "The members of his party would know that the horse was not his." "Quite true, if the party was composed of decent persons, like our own; but that is not certain." "Then will you go back without Dan?" asked Tom. "I don't want to do that. In fact I should be ashamed to. Captain Fletcher would conclude that he might as well have sent Peabody; and I am not anxious to be classed with him." "Nor I," said Tom, smiling. "So the only thing is to push on, and make what discoveries we may." "All right," said Tom cheerfully. They rode on for a couple of miles, having no difficulty in following the trail, until they reached the brow of a small eminence. Here they were greeted with a sight that startled them. A group of a dozen Indians were reclining on the grass, with their horses fastened near them. Startled as they were, they detected the animal of which they were in search among the Indian horses. "We've walked into a trap with our eyes open, Tom," said Scott, halting his horse mechanically. His bronzed face was a little pale, for he knew well the character of the savages before him, the hopelessness of escape, and the terrible fate that probably awaited them. "Shall we turn and fly, Mr. Scott?" asked Tom hurriedly. "It would be of no use, Tom. We must stay and face the music." Upon the appearance of the two friends the Indians had sprung to their feet, and the colloquy was scarcely over before there was an Indian at each bridle-rein. They made signs, easily understood, for Tom and Scott to dismount. "Stop a minute," said Scott, with creditable coolness, considering the great peril in which he knew himself to be. "Is there any one here who speaks English?" An elderly Indian stepped forward quickly, and said, "Speak, white man. I speak English a little." "Good," said Scott; "then I want you to tell your friends here that I came after a horse that left our camp last night. Do you understand?" The Indian inclined his head. "There he is," continued Scott, pointing with his finger to Dan. "Give him to me, and I will go away." The interpreter turned to his companions, and repeated what Scott had said. Evidently it was not favorably received, as Scott could see by the menacing looks that were turned upon him. He waited, with some anxiety, for the answer to his claim. He had to wait for some minutes, during which the Indians appeared to be consulting. It came at last. "The white man has lied," said the Indian sententiously. "The horse is ours." "That's pretty cool, eh, Tom?" said Scott, provoked; not only by the denial of his claim, but by the charge of falsehood. Tom did not answer, thinking silence more prudent. The Indian interpreter looked suspiciously from one to the other. He understood what "cool" meant, but was not familiar with the special sense in which Scott used it. "I will prove that the horse is ours," said Scott. "Here, Dan!" The horse whinnied, and tried to reach Scott, upon hearing his name pronounced. "There," said Scott triumphantly, "you see the horse knows me. I have not lied." The speech was an imprudent one. Indians are not lawyers, but they understand the familiar saying, that "possession is nine points of the law." That the horse was a valuable one they understood; and they had no intention of parting with him. Still more, they looked with covetous eyes at the horses ridden by Scott and the boy, and they had already made up their minds to seize them also. "The white man is a magician," said the interpreter. "He has bewitched the horse. The horse is ours. He has always belonged to us." "It's no use, Tom," said Scott. "They are bound to keep Dan, and I don't see how we can help it. We had better give him up, and get away if we can. All the same, the fellow is an outrageous liar." He spoke in a low voice, and the interpreter, though listening attentively, did not quite catch what was said. "I guess you are right," said Tom. Scott turned to the interpreter. "Well, if you think it is yours, squire, I reckon you will keep it. So we'll say good morning, and go." He pulled the rein, but the Indian at his bridle did not let go. "Good morning, gentlemen," said Scott. "We are going." "White man must stay," said the Indian interpreter decisively. "Why?" demanded Scott impatiently. "He has tried to steal Indian's horse," said the wily savage. "Well, by gosh; that's turning the tables with a vengeance," ejaculated Scott. "They're rather ahead of white rogues, Tom. Will you let the boy go?" he asked. "White boy stay, too," answered the interpreter, after a brief reference to the leader of the Indian party. "Tom," said Scott rapidly, and not appearing to be excited, lest his excitement should lead to suspicion, "none of them are mounted. Lash your horse, and tear from the grasp of the man that holds him; then follow me. It is our only chance." Tom's heart beat rapidly. He knew that all his nerve was called for; but he did not falter. "Give the signal," he said. "One, two, three!" said Scott rapidly. Simultaneously both lashed their horses. The startled animals sprang forward. The grips of the Indians, who were not suspecting any attempts at escape, were already relaxed, and before they were fully aware of what was intended our two friends were galloping away. CHAPTER XXIX. A RACE FOR LIFE. The Indians were taken by surprise. They so outnumbered their intended captives that they had not anticipated an attempt at escape. But they had no intention of losing their prey. There was a howl of surprise and disappointment; then they sprang for their horses, and, with little delay, were on the track of our two friends. The delay was small, but it was improved by Scott and Tom. Pressing their animals to their highest speed they gained a lead of several hundred feet before their savage pursuers had fairly started. It was well that Tom was a good rider, or he might not have been able to keep his seat. In fact, he had never ridden so rapidly before: but he felt that he was riding for his life, and was only anxious to ride faster. Scott had felt a little anxious on this point; but his anxiety vanished when he saw how easily and fearlessly his boy companion kept at his side. "Well done, Tom!" he said, as they flew over the prairie. "Keep up this pace, and we will escape yet." "I can do it, if my horse holds out," returned Tom briefly. Scott looked over his shoulder, and, brave man as he was, it almost made him shudder. The whole party of Indians was on his track. He could see their dusky faces, distorted by wrath, and the longing for a savage revenge. He knew that Tom and he had little to hope for if they were caught. Fortunately their horses were strong and fleet, and not likely to break down. "Ride for your life, Tom!" he shouted. "They will show us no mercy if they catch us." "All right, Mr. Scott!" said Tom, his face flushed, and panting with excitement. If he had not felt that so much depended upon it; if he could have thrust out from his mind the sense of the awful peril in which he stood--he would have enjoyed the furious pace at which his horse was carrying him. The horses ridden by the Indians were not equal in speed or endurance to those which the two friends bestrode. They were fresher indeed, but they did not make up for the difference between them. There was one exception, however: Dan, the stolen horse, was not only equal to either of their horses, but had the advantage of being fresher. This, after a while, began to tell. It was ridden by a young Indian brave, a brother of the leader. Soon he drew away from his companions, and, yard by yard, lessened the distance between himself and the pursued. At the end of three miles he was close upon them, and at least fifty rods in advance of his comrades. Scott saw this in one of his backward glances. "Tom," said he, "the redskin on Dan is overhauling us." "Will he catch us?" "I mean to catch him," said Scott coolly. Tom did not need to ask for an explanation. Scott wheeled round, took hasty but accurate aim at the Indian, and fired. The hapless warrior reeled in his saddle, loosed his hold of the reins, and fell to the ground, while his horse, continuing in his course, his pace accelerated by fright, soon galloped alongside of Scott. There was a howl of rage from the main body of Indians, who saw the fate of their comrade, without being able to help him. "Now, Tom, ride as you never rode before!" shouted Scott. "We will circumvent those Indian devils yet, and bring Dan safe into camp. Come along, Dan, old fellow; you're doing nobly." Dan recognized the familiar voice. He entered into the spirit of the race, and, relieved from the weight of his rider, dashed forward with increased speed, till he led, and Scott and Tom were forced to follow. The Indians were mad with rage. Their comrade had received a fatal wound. They saw the round hole in his breast, from which the life-blood was gushing, and they thirsted for vengeance. Should two palefaces, one of them a boy, escape from them? That would be a disgrace, indeed; the blood of their brother called for blood in return. Could they have inspired their horses with the same spirit which animated themselves, they might, perhaps, have overtaken their intended captives; but, happily for our two friends, the horses were less interested than their riders. The danger was well-nigh over. It was scarcely two miles to the camp. There they would be so re-enforced that the Indians would not venture an attack. That was the goal they had in view. Already they could see in the distance the wagon-train, ready for a start. They were surely safe now. But at this unlucky moment Tom's horse stumbled. The motion was so rapid that he could not retain his seat. He was thrown over the horse's head, and lay stunned and insensible upon the ground. His horse kept on his way to the camp. CHAPTER XXX. TOM BECOMES AN INDIAN. Scott did not immediately notice Tom's mishap. The boy had shown himself so good a rider that such an accident had not occurred to him as likely to happen. When he did look back there was already a considerable distance between them. In fact, Tom lay midway between the Indians and himself. What was he to do? If he returned there was no hope of rescuing Tom; and he would infallibly fall into the hands of the Indian pursuers. In that case his fate was sealed. He had killed an Indian warrior, and his life would pay the forfeit. By going on he could head a rescuing party from the camp. His heart ached for Tom. It was hard to leave him in the hands of the savage foe; but Tom was a boy, and there was hope that he would be spared; so he felt that it was better to continue his flight. There was a shout of fierce joy when the Indians saw Tom's fall. They would have preferred to capture Scott, for he it was who had killed their comrade; but they were glad to have one prisoner. They reined up their horses, and halted beside the still insensible boy. They held a brief consultation, and decided not to continue the pursuit. They could see the encampment, which Scott was sure to reach before he could be overtaken. They could not tell the number of the party to which he belonged; but, being few in numbers themselves, the risk would be a hazardous one. They decided to retire with their prisoner. Tom was lifted to a seat in front of one of the party, and they rode leisurely back. This was the position in which our hero found himself when he roused from his stupor. One glance revealed to him the whole. His heart sank within him. They might kill him. Remembering the ghastly sights he had seen on his trip across the plains, he thought it likely that they would. Life was sweet to Tom. To what boy of sixteen is it not? It seemed hard to be cut off in the threshold of an active career, and by savage hands. But there was an additional pang in the thought that now he would be unable to help his father. The result of his plan would only be to impose an additional burden upon the modest home which his father found it so hard to keep up. Tom sighed; and, for the first time in his life, he felt discouraged. He looked about him, scanning the dark, grave faces, and read no hope or encouragement in any. Finally the Indians came to a halt at their old camping-ground, and Tom was lifted from the horse. He was placed upon the ground, in the center of the group. Then followed a consultation. From the glances directed toward him Tom understood that he was the subject of deliberation. In fact, his fate was being decided. It was certainly a trying ordeal for our young hero. He was not sure of half an hour's life. An unfavorable decision might be followed by immediate execution. Tom felt that his best course was to remain perfectly passive. He could not understand what was said; but we are able to acquaint the reader with the general purport of the conference. Several of the Indians favored immediate death. "Our brother's blood calls for vengeance," they said. "The white boy must die." "The boy did not kill him," said others. "It was the white warrior who spilled our brother's blood. He must be pursued and slain." "What, then, shall be done with the boy? Shall he go?" "No; we will keep him. He has strong limbs. We will adopt him into our tribe. He will make a brave warrior." "He shall be my brother," said the chief. "I will take him in place of my brother who is dead." There was a low murmur of approval. Even those who had first recommended the infliction of death seemed to have changed their minds. They looked at the boy as he lay stretched out upon the ground. He was stout, comely, and strongly made. He had proved that he was an admirable rider. If he should join them he would grow up into a warrior who would do credit to their tribe. So the matter was settled. The only thing that remained was to acquaint the prisoner with the decision. The interpreter approached Tom, and said, "White boy, you are our captive. Why should we not kill you?" "You can if you wish," answered Tom; "but why should you kill me? I have done you no harm." "Our brother is killed. He lies dead upon the plain." "I did not kill him," said Tom. "The white boy speaks truth. He did not kill our brother, but his white friend took his life." "You ought not to kill me for that," said Tom, gathering courage, for he inferred he was to live. "The white boy speaks truth, and therefore he shall live, but he must join us. He must live with us, hunt with us, and fight for us." "You want me to become an Indian!" ejaculated Tom. "We will take you in place of the warrior that is gone," said the interpreter. Tom looked thoughtful. He did not enjoy the prospect before him, but it was, at all events, better than death. While there was life there was hope of escape. He concluded to make one appeal for freedom, and, if that was denied, to accept the proposal. "I have a father and mother far away," he said; "I have brothers and a sister, who will mourn for me. My father is poor; he needs my help. Let me go back to them." The interpreter communicated Tom's words to his companions, but it was easy to see that they were not favorably received. The original advocates of the death penalty looked at our hero with hostile eyes, and he saw that he had made a mistake. "The white boy must become one of us; he must take our brother's place, or he must die," said the interpreter. Tom very sensibly concluded that it would be better to live with the Indians than to be killed, and signified his acceptance of the offer. Upon this the Indians formed a circle about him, and broke into a monotonous chant, accompanied with sundry movements of the limbs, which appeared to be their way of welcoming him into their tribe. It seemed like a dream to Tom. He found it very hard to realize his position, so unexpectedly had he been placed in it. He could not help wondering what the family at home would say when they should learn that he had joined an Indian tribe far beyond the Mississippi. CHAPTER XXXI. TOM GIVES A MAGICAL SOIREE. Tom had no intention of passing his life with the Indians. In joining them he submitted to necessity. It gave him a respite, and a chance to devise plans of escape. He understood very well that, if he made the attempt and failed, his life would be the forfeit. But Tom determined to take the risk, though his life was sweet to him; but, of course, he must wait for a favorable opportunity. There was a chance of his being rescued by his party, but this chance was diminished by the decision of his Indian captors to break camp, and proceed in a northerly direction, while the course of the emigrant train was, of course, westward. Little time was wasted. The Indians mounted their horses, Tom being put on the horse of the fallen brave. The leader put himself at the head, and Tom was placed in the center, surrounded by Indians. It was evident that they were not willing to trust him yet. They meant to afford him no chance of escape. As the only one of the band with whom Tom could converse was the interpreter, who rode at the head with the chief, he rode in silence. The Indians on either side of him never turned their heads toward him, but, grave and impassive, rode on, looking straight before them. "This is easier than walking," thought Tom; "but I would a hundred times rather walk with Scott, or Miles, than ride in my present company." They rode for three hours, and then dismounted for the midday rest. Nothing had been seen or heard of his old friends, and that made Tom anxious and thoughtful. "They have gone on without me, leaving me to my fate," he said to himself, and the reflection gave him a pang. He had been on such pleasant and friendly terms with the whole party, that this cold desertion--as it appeared--wounded him. The young are more sensitive in such cases than their elders. As we grow older we cease to expect too much of those whose interests differ from our own. Tom felt that his fate was more and more bound up with the Indians. If some days should pass before he could escape, he would find himself in an embarrassing condition. Suppose he got away safely, he would find himself in a pathless plain, without provisions, and with no other guide than the sun. If he should meet with no party, he would die of starvation. The prospect seemed by no means bright. I am bound to say that, for a time, Tom, in spite of his bright, sanguine temperament, was greatly depressed; but his spirits were elastic. "I won't give up to despair," he said to himself. "Something tells me that I shall come out right. I must wait and watch my chances." Upon this his face brightened, and his air, which had been listless, became more animated. The Indians glanced at him, with grave approval. They concluded that he was becoming reconciled to living among them. When the simple midday meal was placed upon the ground, and the Indians gathered around it in a sitting posture, Tom followed their example, and did full justice to the dinner. In fact, he had taken so much exercise that he felt hungry. Besides, he knew that he must keep up his strength, if he wished to escape; so, instead of keeping aloof in sullen dissatisfaction, he displayed a "healthy appetite." After resting several hours the Indians resumed their journey, but did not travel far. They were in no hurry. They had no long journey to make across the continent. They only wished to go far enough to be safe from attack by a rescuing party of Tom's friends. Again they encamped, and this time, from the preparations made, he understood that it was for the night. One thing Tom could not help noticing--the silence of these red children of the plains. They seemed to make no conversation with each other, except on necessary matters, and then their words were few in number, replies being often made in a monosyllable. "They don't seem very social," thought Tom. "I suppose they have nothing to talk about. I wonder if the squaws ever have sewing-circles. If they have, they can't be much like Yankee women if they don't find plenty to talk about." The silence became oppressive. Tom would have liked to take a walk, but he knew that this would not be allowed. It would be thought that he wanted to escape. Yet to sit mute hour after hour seemed to Tom intolerably stupid. A bold idea came to him. He would try to afford them some amusement. Accordingly, he said to the interpreter: "Shall I show you a trick?" The interpreter communicated the proposal to his comrades, and permission was granted. Tom took from his pocket a penny. He explained to the interpreter that he would swallow the penny, and make it come out at his nose--a common boy's trick. The Indians, to whom this also was communicated, looked curious and incredulous, and Tom proceeded. Now, I am not going to explain how Tom accomplished the illusion. That I leave to the ingenuity of my boy readers to discover. It is enough to say that he succeeded, to the great amazement of his copper-colored spectators. There was a chorus of ughs! and Tom was requested to repeat the trick. He did so, the Indians being as puzzled as before. Now, Indians are, in many respects, like children. They displayed, on this occasion, a childish curiosity and wonder that amused Tom. They insisted on his opening his month, to ascertain whether there was any hidden avenue from his mouth to his nose, and found, to their surprise, that his mouth was like their own. Then one of the Indians volunteered to try the experiment, and nearly choked himself with the penny, which, it must be remembered, was one of the large, old-fashioned, copper coins, in circulation before the war. It cannot be said that he turned black in the face, but he certainly gasped, and rolled his eyes in a manner that alarmed his friends, and they instinctively looked to Tom for help. Tom was equal to the emergency. He rose hastily, slapped the Indian forcibly on the back, and the cent was ejected from his mouth. There was another chorus of ughs! and it was evident that Tom had risen vastly in their opinion. They looked upon him as a white magician, and even were a little afraid that he might work them injury in some way. But Tom's frank, good-humored manner reassured them. They asked him, through the interpreter, if he could perform any other tricks. Tom knew a few, that he had learned out of an old tattered book which had fallen in his way at home; and such as he had facilities for he attempted, to the great delight of his new friends. Tom was becoming popular; and even those who had at first recommended death were glad that his life had been spared. CHAPTER XXXII. TOM'S ESCAPE. Night came, and the Indian camp was hushed and still. It was long before Tom went to sleep. Generally he was a good sleeper, but his mind at present was too active for slumber. "How long is this strange life going to last?" he asked himself. "How long am I to be exiled from civilization?" This was more easily asked than answered. When he slept, his sleep was troubled. He dreamed that Lawrence Peabody was a captive, and that the chief was about to scalp him, when suddenly he awoke. He could not at first tell where he was, but a glance revealed the disheartening truth. He must have slept several hours, for the gray dawn was creeping up the sky, heralding sunrise. He leaned on his elbow, and bent a searching glance upon his companions. They were stretched motionless upon the ground, hushed in the insensibility of sleep. "Are they asleep?" Tom asked himself. He satisfied himself that the slumber was genuine, and there sprang up in his heart the wild hope of escape. A few rods distant the horses were fastened. Could he unfasten and mount one before any of them a wakened? Tom's heart beat quick with excitement. He knew that he ran a fearful risk; but he made up his mind that now was his time. Slowly, and without noise, he raised himself to his feet. As he stood erect, he closely scanned the sleepers. There was not a motion. With stealthy steps he crept to the horses. He selected the one he had ridden the day before, and unloosed him. The animal gave a slight whinny, and Tom's heart was in his throat. But no one stirred. He quickly mounted the animal, and walked him for a few rods, then gave him a loose rein, and was soon speeding away. Just then the sun rose, and this guided him in the direction he was to take. He had got a mile away, when, looking back through the clear air, he saw, to his dismay, that his flight had been discovered. The Indians were mounting their horses. "I must gallop for life," thought Tom. "They will kill me if they catch me." He urged on his horse by all the means in his power. Luckily it was one of the two fleetest horses the Indians possessed, the other being ridden by their leader. Tom's hope was sustained by this fact, which he had proof of the day before. Rather to his surprise, he did not feel as much frightened as he anticipated. He felt excited, and this was his prominent feeling. Probably he felt like a soldier in the heat of battle. But the odds against Tom were terrible, and his chance of escape seemed very slender. Behind him was a band of savages, accustomed to the plains, strong, wily, enduring, and persistent. He was new to the plains, and a mere boy. Moreover, he did not know where to find his party. There were no sign-boards upon the prairies, but a vast, uniform expanse stretching farther than the eye could reach. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the Indians gained upon him, the leader considerably in advance. Even if he alone were to overtake Tom, our hero would of course be no match for a strong, full-grown warrior, more especially as he had no weapon with him. By some mischance he had left it in the camp. Tom's heart began to fail him. His horse could not always, perhaps not long, keep up his headlong speed. Then would follow capture, and a painful death. "It's hard," thought Tom sadly; "hard for me and for my dear parents and brothers and sisters. Why did I ever leave home?" He turned in the saddle, and saw the Indian leader, evidently nearer. But he saw something else. He saw a herd of buffaloes, thousands in number, impetuously rushing across the plain from the west. Their speed was great. They seemed to be blindly following their leader. "Good heavens!" ejaculated Tom, in great excitement; "the Indians are in their path. If the herd does not stop, they will be destroyed." The Indians were fully aware of their great danger. They knew the plains well, and the terrible, resistless power of these wild herds when once on the march. They no longer thought of Tom, but of their own safety. But the buffaloes were close at hand. They were sweeping on like a whirlwind. The Indians could only ride on, and trust to clear them. But their pathway was wide. It reached to within a furlong of where Tom was riding. They never paused; some of the animals in the advance might have veered to the right or left on seeing the Indians, but the pressure from behind prevented. The savages saw their fate, and it inspired them with more dread than an encounter with white foes. Finally, they halted in despair, and their fate overtook them. Riders and steeds were overthrown as by a flash of lightning. The dark, shaggy herd did not stop, but dashed on. Tom, in awe and excitement, halted his horse, and watched the terrible sight. He could not but sympathize with his late companions, though he knew they would have taken his life. The buffaloes passed on, but left no life behind them. The Indians and their horses were all trampled to death. Tom was alone upon the plains. He thanked God in his heart for his self-deliverance; though he shuddered at the manner in which it was wrought. He, too, had been near being overwhelmed, but, through God's mercy, had escaped. But for what had he escaped? Unless he found his own party, or some other, he would starve to death, or might fall into the power of some other tribe of Indians. He must ride on. An hour later he thought he saw in the distance a solitary horseman. It might be an Indian; but that was not likely, for they generally traveled in numbers. It was more likely to be a white man. Any white man would be a friend, and could guide him to safety, unless he were himself lost. At any rate, there seemed but one course to follow, and that to ride toward the stranger. When Tom drew near his heart was filled with sudden joy, for, in the new arrival, he recognized John Miles. Miles was no less delighted. "Tom, old boy," he said, "is it you? How did you get away? I was afraid we should never see you again." "I feared so myself," said Tom; "but I have been saved in a wonderful manner. Has the train moved on?" "Do you think we would go on without you? Not a man was willing to stir till you were found. Even Peabody, though afraid of falling into the hands of the Indians, and losing his scalp, was in favor of our waiting. The boys are very anxious about you." Tom heard this with satisfaction. The esteem of our friends and associates is dear to us all; and it is always sad to think that we may be forgotten in absence. "But you have not told me of your escape, Tom," said Miles. "Where are the Indians who captured you?" "All dead!" answered Tom solemnly. "Good heavens! You don't mean to say----" "That I killed them? Oh, no! Look over there! Can you see anything?" Miles looked earnestly. "I think I see upon the ground some men and horses." "It is the Indians. They were pursuing me when they were trampled to death by a herd of buffaloes." "Wonderful!" ejaculated Miles. "I have heard of such things, but hardly believed in them." "It was a terrible sight," said Tom soberly. "I wish I could have been saved in some other way." "It was you or they," said Miles sententiously. "It is well as it is." * * * * * They were warmly welcomed at the camp. Tom was looked upon as one raised from the dead; and the particulars of his wonderful escape were called for again and again. "You are sure they didn't scalp you, Tom?" asked Mr. Peabody. "Feel and see, Mr. Peabody," said Tom, smiling. "I believe my hair is pretty firm." "I wouldn't have been in your shoes for all the gold in California," said Peabody fervently. "I believe you, Mr. Peabody. Indeed, I think I may say that I wouldn't be placed in the same situation again for all the gold in the world." "Tom," said Scott, "you are bound to succeed." "What makes you think so?" "You have shown so much pluck and coolness that you are sure to get along." "I hope so, I am sure, for my father's sake." * * * * * Some weeks later a wagon-train was seen slowly climbing a mountain pass on the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They reached the summit, and, looking eagerly to the westward, saw the land of gold at their feet. They had been months in reaching it. Now it lay spread before them, glorious in the sunlight. "Yonder lies the promised land, my lad," said Ferguson. "It remains to be seen whether we shall be rewarded for our long and toilsome journey." "If hard work will win success, I mean to succeed," said Tom stoutly. "I don't see any gold," said Lawrence Peabody, with a disappointed air. "Did you think it grew on trees, Mr. Peabody?" asked Scott sarcastically. "I should like to stop a week at a first-class hotel before getting to work," remarked Peabody. "I don't like roughing it." "We will leave you at the first hotel of that sort we meet. Now, boys, gather about me, and give three rousing cheers for California." Thus spoke Miles, and swung his hat. The cheers were given with a will, and the wagon-train commenced the descent. THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original text did not include a table of contents. One was added to assist the reader. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 61, word "don't" added to text. (I don't doubt) Page 66, "dosen't" changed to "doesn't" (it doesn't look to) Page 105, a repeated sentence was removed. ("I'm out of luck, and out of cash, Vincent.") Page 207, "twelev" changed to "twelve" (pointed to twelve) 
31384	----	In the Early Days Along the Overland Trail in Nebraska Territory, in 1852. BY GILBERT L. COLE, 1905. COMPILED BY MRS. A. HARDY. Press of FRANKLIN HUDSON PUBLISHING COMPANY, KANSAS CITY, MO. [Illustration: GILBERT L. COLE.] COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY GILBERT L. COLE, BEATRICE, NEB. TESTIMONIALS. A true story plainly told, of immense historical value and fascinating interest from beginning to end. DR. GEO. W. CROFTS, Beatrice, Nebraska. I have read every word of "In the Early Days," written by Mr. Gilbert L. Cole, with great interest and profit. The language is well chosen, the word-pictures are vivid, and the subject-matter is of historic value. The story is fascinating in the extreme, and I only wished it were longer. The story should be printed and distributed for the people in general to read. July 27, 1905. C. A. FULMER, _Superintendent of Public Schools_, Beatrice, Neb. At a single sitting, with intense interest, I have read the manuscript of "In the Early Days." It is a very entertaining narrative of adventure, a vivid portrayal of conditions and an instructive history of events as they came into the personal experience and under the observation of the writer fifty-three years ago. An exceedingly valuable contribution to the too meager literature of a time so near in years, but so distant in conditions as to make the truth about it seem stranger than fiction. REV. N. A. MARTIN, _Pastor, Centenary M. E. Church_, Beatrice, Neb. NEBRASKA STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY. LINCOLN, Nebraska, July 28, 1905. _To whom it may concern_: The manuscript account of the overland trip by Mr. Gilbert L. Cole of Beatrice, Nebraska, in my opinion is a very carefully written story of great interest to the whole public, and particularly to Nebraskans. It reads like a novel, and the succession of adventures holds the interest of the reader to the end. The records of trips across the Nebraska Territory as early as this one are very incomplete, and Mr. Cole has done a real public service in putting into print so complete a record of these experiences. I predict that it will find a wide circulation among lovers of travel and of Nebraska history. Very sincerely, JAY AMOS BARRETT, _Curator and Librarian Nebraska State Historical Society_, Author of "Nebraska and the Nation"; "Civil Government of Nebraska." EXECUTIVE CHAMBER, LINCOLN, Nebraska, July 28, 1905. _To whom it may concern_: It gives me great pleasure to say that the publication, "In the Early Days," written by Mr. Gilbert L. Cole, of Beatrice, Nebraska, is a very interesting and profitable work to read. It bears upon many subjects of great historical value and no doubt will prove a very interesting book to all who read it and I take pleasure in recommending the same. Very respectfully, JOHN H. MICKEY, _Governor_. _To whom it may concern_: It is with pleasure I write a few words of commendation for the book written by Mr. Gilbert L. Cole, of Beatrice, Nebraska, entitled "In the Early Days." It is well prepared and full of interest from beginning to the end. It is of great value to every Nebraskan. _July 28, 1905._ D. L. THOMAS, _Pastor Grace M. E. Church_, Lincoln, Neb. An interesting, thrilling and delightful bit of prairie history hitherto unwritten and unsung, which most opportunely and completely supplies a missing link in the stories of the great Westland. MRS. A. HARDY, _President Beatrice Woman's Club_, Beatrice, Neb. BEATRICE, NEB., July 30, 1905. I have just read "In the Early Days," by Col. G. L. Cole, and I find it an interesting and instructive narrative, clothed in good diction and pleasing style. Few of the Argonauts took time or trouble to make note of the events of their journey and our California gold episode is remarkably barren of literature, a fact which makes Col. Cole's book doubly interesting and valuable. M. T. CUMMINGS CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--Setting up Altars of Remembrance, 13 CHAPTER II.--"God Could Not Be Everywhere, and so He Made Mothers," 23 CHAPTER III.--"But Somewhere the Master Has a Counterpart of Each," 32 CHAPTER IV.--Our Prairies are a Book Whose Pages Hold Many Stories, 41 CHAPTER V.--A Worthy Object Reached For and Missed is a First Step Toward Success, 51 CHAPTER VI.--"'Tis Only a Snowbank's Tears, I Ween," 58 CHAPTER VII.--We Stepped Over the Ridge and Courted the Favor of New and Untried Waters, 67 CHAPTER VIII.--We Had No Flag to Unfurl, but Its Sentiment Was Within Us, 77 CHAPTER IX.--We Listened to Each Other's Rehearsals, and Became Mutual Sympathizers and Encouragers, 87 CHAPTER X.--Boots and Saddles Call, 98 CHAPTER XI.--"But All Comes Right in the End," 108 CHAPTER XII.--Each Day Makes Its Own Paragraphs and Punctuation Marks, 123 INTRODUCTORY. If one is necessary, the only apology I can offer for presenting this little volume to the public is that it may serve to record for time to come some of the adventures of that long and wearisome journey, together with my impressions of the beautiful plains, mountains and rivers of the great and then comparatively unknown Territory of Nebraska. They were presented to me fresh from the hand of Nature, in all their beauty and glory. And by reference to the daily journal I kept along the trail, the impressions made upon my mind have remained through these long years, bright and clear. THE AUTHOR. IN THE EARLY DAYS ALONG THE OVERLAND TRAIL IN NEBRASKA TERRITORY, IN 1852. CHAPTER I. SETTING UP ALTARS OF REMEMBRANCE. It has been said that once upon a time Heaven placed a kiss upon the lips of Earth and therefrom sprang the fair State of Nebraska. It was while the prairies were still dimpling under this first kiss that the events related in this little volume became part and parcel of my life and experience, as gathered from a trip made across the continent in the morning glow of a territory now occupying high and honorable position in the calendar of States and nations. On the 16th day of March, 1852, a caravan consisting of twenty-four men, one woman (our captain, W. W. Wadsworth being accompanied by his wife), forty-four head of horses and mules and eight wagons, gathered itself together from the little city of Monroe, Michigan, and adjacent country, and, setting its face toward the western horizon, started for the newly found gold fields of California, where it expected to unloose from the storage quarters of Nature sufficient of shining wealth to insure peace and plenty to twenty-five life-times and their dependencies. As is usual upon such occasions, this March morning departure from home and friends was a strange commingling of sadness and gladness, of hope and fear, for in those days whoever went into the regions beyond the Missouri River were considered as already lost to the world. It was going into the dark unknown and untried places of earth whose farewells always surrounded those who remained at home with an atmosphere of foreboding. Nothing of importance occurred during our travel through the States, except the general bad roads, which caused us to make slow progress. Crossing the Mississippi River at Warsaw, Illinois, we kept along the northern tier of counties in Missouri, which were heavily timbered and sparsely settled. Bearing south-west, we arrived at St. Joseph, Missouri, on the first day of May. The town was a collection of one-story, cheap, wooden buildings, located along the river and Black Snake Hollow. The inhabitants appeared to be chiefly French and half-breed Indians. The principal business was selling outfits to immigrants and trading horses, mules and cattle. There was one steam ferry-boat, which had several days crossing registered ahead. The level land below the town was the camping-place of our colony. After two or three days at this point, we drove up to the town of Savannah, where we laid in new supplies and passed on to the Missouri River, where we crossed by hand-ferry at Savannah Landing, now called Amazonia. Here we pressed for the first time the soil of the then unsettled plains of the great West. Working our way through the heavily timbered bottom, we camped under the bluffs, wet and weary. We remained here over Sunday, it having been decided to observe the Sabbath days as a time of rest. We usually rested Wednesday afternoons also. Just after crossing the river, we had a number of set-backs; beginning with the crippling of a wheel while passing through a growth of timber. As we examined the broken spokes, we realized that they would soon have to be replaced by new ones, and that the wise thing to do was to provide for them while in the region of timber; so we stopped, cut jack-oak, made it into lengths and stored them in the wagon until time and place were more opportune for wheel-wrighting. This broken wheel proved to be a hoodoo, as will appear at intervals during the story of the next few weeks. In attempting to cross the slough which lies near to and parallel with the river for a long distance, my team and wagon, leading the others, no sooner got fairly on to the slough, which was crusted over, than the wagon sank in clear to its bed, and the horses sank until they were resting on their bellies as completely as though they were entirely without legs. And there we were, the longed-for bluffs just before us, and yet as unapproachable as if they were located in Ireland. A party of campers, numbering some fifty or seventy-five, who were resting near by, came to our relief. The horses were extricated, and, after we had carried the contents of the wagon to the bluff shore, they drew the wagon out with cow-teams, whose flat, broad hoofs kept them from sinking. Cow-teams were used quite extensively in those days, being very docile and also swift walkers. Here under the bluffs over-hanging the Missouri, we completed our organization, for it was not only necessary that every man go armed, but also each man knew his special duty and place. W. W. Wadsworth, a brave and noble man, was by common consent made captain. Four men were detailed each night to stand guard, two till 1 o'clock, when they were relieved by two others, who served till daylight. Monday morning came, and at sunrise we started on the trail that led up the hollow and on to the great plains of Kansas and Nebraska. The day was warm and bright and clear. The sight before us was the most beautiful I had ever seen. Not a tree nor an obstacle was in sight; only the great rolling sea of brightest green beneath us and the vivid blue above. I think it must have been just such a scene as this that inspired a modern writer to pen those expressive and much admired lines: "I'm glad the sky is painted blue And the grass is painted green, And a lot of nice fresh air All sandwiched in between." Sky, air, grass; what an abundance of them! in all the pristine splendor of fifty-three years ago, was ours upon that spring morning. This, then, was the land which in later years was called the "Great American Desert." I have now lived in Nebraska for a quarter of a century and know whereof I speak when I say that in those days the grass was as green and luxuriant as it is today; the rivers were fringed with willow green as they are today; the prairie roses, like pink stars, dotted the trail sides through which we passed; and, later on, clumps of golden-rod smiled upon us with their sun-hued faces; the rains fell as they have been falling all these years, and several kinds of birds sang their praises of it all. This was "the barren, sandy desert," as I saw it more than half a hundred years ago. Perhaps right here it will be well to ask the reader to bear in mind the fact that the boundary lines of Nebraska in 1852, were different from the boundary lines of today. They extended many miles farther south, and so many miles farther west, that we stepped out of Nebraska on to the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains into California. It was at this stage of our journey, that, in going out, very early in the morning to catch my horse, I noticed ahead of me something sticking up above the grass. Stepping aside to see what it might be, I found a new-made grave; just a tiny grave; at its head was the object I had seen--a bit of board bearing the inscription, "Our only child, Little Mary." How my heart saddened as I looked upon it! The tiny mound seemed bulging with buried hopes and happiness as the first rays of a new sun fell across it, for well I knew that somewhere on the trail ahead of us there were empty arms, aching hearts, and bitter longings for the baby who was sleeping so quietly upon the bosom of the prairie. The first Indians we saw were at Wolf Creek, where they had made a bridge of logs and brush, and charged us fifty cents per wagon to pass over it. We paid it and drove on, coming northwest to the vicinity of the Big Blue River, at a point near where Barneston, Gage County, is now located. As a couple of horsemen, a comrade and myself, riding in advance, came suddenly to the Big Blue, where, on the opposite bank stood a party of thirty or forty Indians. We fell back, and when the train came up a detail was made of eight men to drive the teams and the other sixteen were to wade the river, rifles in hand. In making preparations to ford the river, Captain Wadsworth, as a precaution of safety, placed his wife in the bottom of their wagon-bed, and piled sacks of flour around her as a protection in case of a fight. Being one of the skirmish line, I remember how cold and blue the water was, and that it was so deep as to come into our vest pockets. We walked up to the Indians and said "How," and gave some presents of copper cents and tobacco. We soon saw that they were merely looking on to see us ford the stream. They were Pawnees, and were gaily dressed and armed with bows and arrows. We passed several pipes among them, and, seeing that they were quiet, the train was signalled, and all came through the ford without any mishap, excepting, that the water came up from four to six inches in the wagon-bed, making the ride extremely hazardous and uncomfortable for Mrs. Wadsworth, who was necessarily drawn through the water in an alarming and nerve-trying manner. But she was one of the bravest of women, and in this instance, as in many others of danger and fatigue before we reached our journey's end, she displayed such courage and good temper, as to win the admiration of all the company. The sacks of flour and other contents of the wagons were pretty badly wet, and, after we were again on the open prairie, we bade the Indians good-bye, and all hands proceeded to dismount the wagons, and spread their contents on the grass to dry. An "Altar of remembrance," is sure to be established at each of these halting places along life's trail. A company of kin-folk and neighbor-folk hitting the trail simultaneously, having a common goal and actuated by common interests, are drawn wonderfully close together by the varied incidents and conditions of the march, and, at the spots thus made sacred, memory never fails to halt, as in later life it makes its rounds up and down the years. Not fewer in number than the stars, which hang above them at night, are the altars of remembrance, which will forever mark the line of immigration and civilization from east to west across our prairie country. CHAPTER II. "GOD COULD NOT BE EVERYWHERE AND SO HE MADE MOTHERS." We now moved on in the direction of Diller and Endicott, where we joined the main line of immigration coming through from St. Joe, and, crossing the Big Blue where Marysville, Kansas, is located, we were soon coming up the Little Blue, passing up on the east side, and about one-half mile this side of Fairbury. Our trail now lay along the uplands through the day, where we could see the long line of covered wagons, sometimes two or three abreast, drawing itself in its windings like a huge white snake across this great sea of rolling green. This line could be seen many miles to the front and rear so far that the major portion of it seemed to the observer to be motionless. This immense concourse of travellers was self-divided into trail families or travelling neighborhoods, as it were; and while each party was bound together by local ties of friendship and affection, there still ran through the entire procession a chord of common interest and sympathy, a something which, in a sense, made the whole line kin. This fact was most touchingly exemplified one day in the region of the Blue. I was driving across a bad slough, close behind a man who belonged to another party, from where I did not know. Himself, wife and little daughter lived in the covered wagon he was driving. The piece of ground was an unusually bad one, and both his wagon and mine being heavily loaded, we stopped as soon as we had pulled through, in order that the horses might rest; our wagons standing abreast and about ten or twelve feet apart. In the side of his wagon cover next to me was a flap-door, which, the day being fine, was fastened open. As we sat our loads and exchanged remarks, his little girl, a beautiful child, apparently three or four years old, came from the recesses of the wagon-home, and standing in the opening of the door, looked coyly and smilingly out at her father and myself. She made a beautiful picture, with her curls and dimples, and, as I didn't know any baby talk at that time, I playfully snapped my fingers at her. The thought of moving on evidently came to the father very suddenly, for, without any preliminary symptoms and not realizing that the little one was standing so nearly out of the door, he swung his long whip, and, as it cracked over the horses' backs, they gave a sudden lurch, throwing the little girl out of the door and directly in front of the hind wheel of the heavily laden wagon, which, in an instant had passed over the child's body at the waist line, the pretty head and hands reaching up on one side of the wheel, and the feet on the other, as the middle was pressed down into the still boggy soil. The little life was snuffed out in the twinkling of an eye. The mother, seeing her darling fall, jumped from the door, and such excruciating sobs of agony I hope never to hear again. But why say it in that way when I can hear them still, even as I write? It seemed but a moment of time till men and women were gathered about the wagon, helping to gather the crushed form from the prairie, and giving assistance and sympathy in such measure and earnestness as verified the truth of the words, "A touch of sorrow makes the whole world kin." When started again, the trail soon led to a stream, called the Big Sandy; I believe it is in the northwest part of Fillmore County, where, about nine o'clock, A. M., we were suddenly alarmed by the unearthly whoops and yells of one hundred or more Indians (Pawnees), all mounted and riding up and down across the trail on the open upland opposite us, about a good rifle shot distant. Our company was the only people there. A courier was immediately sent back for reinforcements. We hastily put our camp in position of defense (as we had been drilled) by placing our wagons in a circle with our stock and ourselves inside. The Indians constantly kept up their noise, and rode up and down, brandishing their arms at us, and every minute we thought they would make a break for us. We soon had recruits mounted and well armed coming up, when our Captain assumed command, and all were assigned to their positions. This was kept up until about four P. M., when we decided that our numbers would warrant us in making a forward movement. As a preliminary, skirmishers were ordered forward toward the creek, through some timber and underbrush, I being one of them. My pardner and I, coming to the creek first, discovered an empty whiskey barrel, and going a little farther into the brush, discovered two tents. Creeping carefully up to them, we heard groans as of some one in great pain. Peeping through a hole in the tent we saw two white men, who, on entering the tent, we learned were badly wounded by knife and bullet. From them we learned the following facts, which caused all our fear and trouble of the morning: The two white men were post-keepers at that point, and, of course, had whiskey to sell. Two large trains had camped there the night before; the campers got on a drunk, quarreled, and had a general fight, during which the post-keepers were wounded. On the trail over where the Indians were, some immigrants were camped, and a guard had been placed at the roadside. One of the Indians, hearing the noise down at the post, started out to see what was going on. Coming along the trail, the guard called to him to halt, but as he did not do so the guard fired, killing him on the spot. The campers immediately hitched up and moved on. Later the dead Indian was found by the other Indians lying in the road. It was this that aroused their anger and kept us on the ragged edge for several hours. The Indians all rode off as we approached them, and as the trail was now clear our train moved ahead, travelling all night and keeping out all the mounted ones as front and rear guards. We now come to the "last leaving of the Little Blue," and pass on to the upland without wood or water, thirty-three miles east of Ft. Kearney, leading to the great Platte Valley. Meanwhile my broken wheel had completely collapsed. Having a kit of tools with me, I set about shaping spokes out of the oak wood gathered several days before. While I was doing this others of the men rode a number of miles in search of fuel with which to make a fire to set the tire. It was nearly night and in a drizzling rain when we came to the line of the reservation. A trooper, sitting on his horse, informed us that we would have to keep off of the reservation or else go clear through if once we started. This meant three or four miles' further ride through the darkness and rain, and so we camped right there, without supper or even fire to make some coffee. We hitched up in the morning and drove into the Fort, where we were very kindly treated by the commanding officer, whose name, I think, was McArthur. He tendered us a large room with tables, pen and ink, paper and "envelope paper," where we wrote the first letters home from Nebraska, which, I believe, were all received with much joy. The greater part of the troops were absent from the Fort on a scout. After buying a few things we had forgotten to bring with us and getting rested, we moved on our journey again, going up on the south side of the Platte River. Before leaving this region I want to speak of the marvelous beauty of the Platte River islands, a magnificent view of which could be had from the bluffs. Looking out upon the long stretch of river either way were islands and islands of every size whatever, from three feet in diameter to those which contained miles of area, resting here and there in the most artistic disregard of position and relation to each other, the small and the great alike wearing its own mantle of sheerest willow-green. There are comparatively few of these island beauty spots in the whole wide world. When the Maker of the universe gathered up his emeralds and then dropped them with careless hand upon a few of earth's waters. He wrought nowhere a more beautiful effect than in the Platte islands of Nebraska. It was well that at this point we had an extra amount of kindness tendered us and so much unusual beauty to look upon, for a great sorrow was about to come upon us. Just as we were leaving the Little Blue, thirty-three miles back, one of our party, Robert Nelson, became ill, and in spite of the best nursing and treatment that the company could give he rapidly grew worse, and it soon became evident that his disease was cholera, which was already quite prevalent thereabout. Mrs. Wadsworth, that most excellent woman, gave to him her special care, taking him into the tent occupied by herself and husband, which, in fact, was the only tent in the outfit. It was Lew Wallace who once said that "God couldn't be everywhere, and so He made mothers." Our captain's wife was a true mother to the sick boy, but she couldn't save him. At 3 o'clock Sunday afternoon, May 27th, about sixty miles beyond Kearney, his soul passed on, and we were bowed under our first bereavement. We dug his grave in the sand a little way off the trail. We wrapped his blanket about him and sewed it, and at sunrise Monday morning laid him to rest. The end-gate from my wagon had been shaped into a grave-board and, with his name cut upon it, was planted to mark his resting-place. It was a sorrowful little company that performed these last services for one who was beloved by all. Just before dying, Robert had requested that his grave might be covered with willow branches, and so a comrade and myself rode our horses out to one of the islands and brought in big bunches of willows and tucked them about him, as he had desired. Truly our prairies have been a stage upon which much more of tragedy than of comedy has been enacted. CHAPTER III. "BUT SOMEWHERE THE MASTER HAS A COUNTERPART OF EACH." "O Lord Almighty, aid Thou me to see my way more clear. I find it hard to tell right from wrong, and I find myself beset with tangled wires. O God, I feel that I am ignorant, and fall into many devices. These are strange paths wherein Thou hast set my feet, but I feel that through Thy help and through great anguish, I am learning." This modern prayer, as prayed by the hero of a modern tale, would have fitted most completely into the spirit and conditions prevailing in our camp on a certain morning in early June, 1852, as we were completing arrangements preparatory to the extremely dangerous crossing of the Platte River, owing to its treacherous quicksand bottom. Despite the old proverb, "Never cross a bridge till you get to it," we had, because of the very absence of a bridge, been running ahead of ourselves during the entire trip, to make the dreaded crossing over this deceptive and gormandizing stream. We had now caught up with our imaginings and found them to be realities. There was not much joshing among the boys that morning as we made the rounds of the horses and wagons and saw that every buckle and strap and gear was in the best possible condition, for to halt in the stream to adjust a mishap would mean death. "Once started, never stop," was the ominous admonition of the hour. About 9 o'clock, all things being in readiness, two of us were sent out to wade across the river and mark the route by sticking in the sand long willow branches, with which we were laden for that purpose. The route staked, we returned and the train lined up. It need not require any great feat of imagination on the part of the reader to hear how dirge-like the first hoofs and wheels sounded as they parted the waters and led the way. Every man except the drivers waded alongside the horses to render assistance if it should be required. Mrs. Wadsworth was remarkably brave, sitting her wagon with white, but calm face. Scarcely a word was spoken during the entire crossing, which occupied about twenty-five minutes. We passed on the way the remains of two or three wagons standing on end and nearly buried in the sand. They were grewsome reminders of what had been, as well as of what might be. But without a halt or break, we drove clear through and on to dry land. To say that we all felt happy at seeing the crossing behind us does not half express our feelings. The nervous strain had been terrible, and at no time in our journey had we been so nearly taxed to the utmost. One man dug out a demijohn of brandy from his traps and treated all hands, remarking, "That the success of that undertaking merits something extraordinary." The crossing was made at the South Fork of the Platte, immediately where it flows into the main river. What is now known as North Platte and South Platte was then known as North Fork and South Fork of Platte River. It was at the South Fork and just before we crossed that I shot and killed my first buffalo. It was also very early in the morning, and while I was still on guard duty. A bunch of five of them came down to the river to drink, buffalo being as plentiful in that region, and time, as domestic cattle are here today. My first shot only wounded the creature, who led me quite a lively chase before I succeeded in killing him. We soon had his hide off, and an abundance of luscious, juicy steak for breakfast. I remember that we sent some to another company that was camping not far distant. This was our first and last fresh meat for many a day. A few days after this an incident occurred in camp that bordered on the tragic, but finally ended in good feeling. My guard mate, named Charley Stewart, and myself were the two youngest in the company, and, being guards together, were great friends. He was a native of Cincinnati, well educated, and had a fund of stories and recitations that he used to get off when we were on guard together. This night we were camped on the side of some little hills near some ravines. The moon was shining, but there were dark clouds occasionally passing, so that at times it was quite dark. It was near midnight and we would be relieved in an hour. We had been the "grand rounds" out among the stock, and came to the nearest wagon which was facing the animals that were picketed out on the slope. Stewart was armed with a "Colt's Army," while I had a double-barreled shot-gun, loaded with buckshot. I was sitting on the double-tree, on the right side of the tongue, which was propped up with the neck-yoke. Stewart sat on the tongue, about an arm's length ahead of me, I holding my gun between my knees, with the butt on the ground. Stewart was getting off one of his stories, and, had about reached the climax, when I saw something running low to the ground, in among the stock. Thinking it was an Indian, on all fours, to stampede the animals, I instantly leveled my gun, and, as I was following it to an opening in the herd, my gun came in contact with Stewart's face at the moment of discharge, Stewart falling backward, hanging to the wagon-tongue by his legs and feet. My first thought was that I had killed him. He recovered in a moment, and began cursing and calling me vile names; accusing me of attempting to murder him, etc. During these moments, in his frenzy, he was trying to get his revolver out from under him, swearing he would kill me. Taking in the situation, I dropped my gun, jumped over the wagon tongue, as he was getting on to his feet, and engaged in what proved to be a desperate fight for the revolver. We were both sometimes struggling on the ground, then again on our knees, he repeatedly striking me in the face and elsewhere, still accusing me of trying to murder him. As I had no chance to explain things, the struggle went on. Finally I threw him, and held him down until he was too much exhausted to continue the fight any longer, and, having wrested the revolver from him, I helped him to his feet. In trying to pacify him, I led him out to where the object ran that I had fired at, and there lay the dead body of a large gray wolf, with several buckshot holes in his side. Stewart was speechless. Looking at the wolf, and then at me, he suddenly realized his mistake, and repeatedly begged my pardon. We agreed never to mention the affair to any one in the company. Taking the wolf by the ears, we dragged him back to the wagon, where I picked up my gun, and gave Stewart his revolver. I have often thought what would have been the consequence of that shot, had I not killed the wolf. Along in this vicinity, the bluff comes down to the river, and, consequently, we had to take to the hills, which were mostly deep sand, making heavy hauling. This trail brought us into Ash Hollow, a few miles from its mouth. Coming down to where it opened out on the Platte, about noon, we turned out for lunch. Here was a party of Sioux Indians, camped in tents made of buffalo skins. They were friendly, as all of that tribe were that summer. This is the place where General Kearney, several years later, had a terrific battle with the same tribe, which was then on the war-path along this valley. My hoodoo wheel had recently been giving me trouble. The spokes that I made of green oak, having become dry and wobbly, I had been on the outlook for a cast-off wheel, that I might appropriate the spokes. Hence it was, that, after luncheon I took my rifle, and started out across the bottom, where, within a few rods of the river, and about a half a mile off the road which turned close along the bluff, I came upon an old broken-down wagon, almost hidden in the grass. Taking the measure of the spokes, I found to my great joy, that they were just the right size and length. Looking around, I saw the train moving on, at a good pace, almost three-quarters of a mile away. I was delayed some time in getting the wheel off the axle-tree. Succeeding at last, I fired my rifle toward the train, but no one looked around, all evidently supposing that I was on ahead. It was an awful hot afternoon, and I was getting warmed up myself. I reloaded my rifle, looked at the receding train, and made up my mind to have that wheel if it took the balance of the day to get it into camp. I started by rolling it by hand, then by dragging it behind me, then I ran my rifle through the hub and got it up on my shoulder, when I moved off at a good pace. The sun shining hot, soon began to melt the tar in the hub, which began running down my back, both on the inside and outside of my clothes, as well as down along my rifle. I finally got back to the road, very tired, stopping to rest, hoping a wagon would come along to help me out, but not one came in sight that afternoon. In short, I rolled, dragged and carried that wheel; my neck, shoulders and back daubed over with tar, until the train turned out to camp, when, I being missed, was discovered away back in the road with my wheel. When relief came to me, I was nearly tired out with my exertions, and want of water to drink. Some of the men set to work taking the wheel apart and fitting the spokes and getting the wheel ready to set the tire. Others had collected a couple of gunny-sacks full of the only fuel of the Platte Valley, viz., "buffalo-chips," and they soon had the job completed. The boys nearly wore themselves out, laughing and jeering at me, saying they were sorry they had no feathers to go with the tar, and calling me a variety of choice pet names. The wheel, when finished and adjusted, proved to be the best part of the wagon, and, better than all else, had provided a season of mirth to the whole company, which, considering the all too serious environments of our march, was really a much needed tonic and diversion. We learned so many wonderful lessons in those days, lessons that have never been made into books. We learned from nature; we learned from animal nature; we learned from human nature; and where are they who studied from the same page as did I? So often and so completely have the slides been changed, that among all the faces now shown by life's stereopticon, mine alone remains of the original twenty-five, of the trail of '52. But somewhere the Master has a counterpart of each. CHAPTER IV. OUR PRAIRIES ARE A BOOK, WHOSE PAGES HOLD MANY STORIES. We have just been passing through an extremely interesting portion of Nebraska, a portion which today is known as Western Nebraska, where those wonderful formations, Scott's Bluff, Courthouse Rock and Chimney Rock, are standing now, even as they did in the early '50's. Courthouse Rock a little way off really looked a credit to its name. It was a huge affair, and, in its ragged, irregular outline, seemed to impart to the traveller a sense of protection and fair dealing. Scott's Bluff was an immense formation, and sometime during its history nature's forces had cleft it in two parts, making an avenue through its center at least one hundred feet wide, through which we all passed, as the trail led through instead of around the bluff. Chimney Rock in outline resembled an immense funnel. The whole thing was at least two hundred feet in height, the chimney part, starting about midway, was about fifty feet square; its top sloped off like the roof of a shanty. Beginning at the top, the chimney was split down about one quarter of its length. On the perpendicular part of this rock a good many names had been cut by men who had scaled the base, and, reaching as far on to the chimney as they could, cut their names into its surface. So clear was the atmosphere that when several miles distant we could see the rock and men who looked like ants as they crept and crawled up its sides. As one stops to decipher the inscriptions upon this boulder the sense of distance is entirely lost, and the traveller finds himself trying to compare it with that other obelisk in Central Park, New York. As he thinks about them, the truth comes gradually to him that there can be no comparison, since the one is a masterpiece from the hand of Nature and the other is but a work of art. These formations are not really rock, but of a hard marle substance, and while each is far remote from the others, the same colored strata is seen in all of them, showing conclusively that once upon a time the surface of the ground in that region was many feet higher than it was in 1852 or than it is today, and that by erosion or upheaval large portions of the soil were displaced and carried away, these three chunks remaining intact and as specimens of conditions existing many centuries ago. I have been through the art galleries of our own country and through many of those in Europe; I have seen much of the natural scenery in the Old World as well as in the New; but not once have I seen anything which surpassed in loveliness and grandeur the pictures which may be seen throughout Nature's gallery in Nebraska and through which the trail of '52 led us. Landscapes, waterscapes, rocks, and skies and atmosphere were here found in the perfection of light, shadow, perspective, color, and effect. Added to these fixed features were those of life and animation, contributed by herds of buffalo grazing on the plains, here and there a bunch of antelope galloping about, and everywhere wolf, coyote, and prairie dog, while a quaint and picturesque charm came from the far-reaching line of covered wagons and the many groups of campers, each with its own curl of ascending smoke, which, to the immigrant, always indicated that upon that particular patch of ground, for that particular time, a home had been established. In this connection I find myself thinking about the various modes of travel resorted to in those primitive days, when roads and bridges as we have them today were still far in the future. The wagons were generally drawn by cattle teams, from two to five yokes to the wagon. The number of wagons would be all the way from one to one hundred. The larger trains were difficult to pass, as they took up the road for so long a distance that sometimes we would move on in the night in order to get past them. Among the smaller teams we would frequently notice that one yoke would be of cows, some of them giving milk right along. The cattle teams as a rule started out earlier in the morning and drove later at night than did the horse and mule teams; hence, we would sometimes see a certain train for two or three days before we would have an opportunity to get ahead of them. This was the cause of frequent quarrels among drivers of both cattle and horse teams; the former being largely in the majority and having the road, many of them seemed to take delight in keeping the horse teams out of the road and crowding them into narrow places. These little pleasantries were indulged in generally by people from Missouri, as many of them seemed to think their State covered the entire distance to California. As to classes and conditions constituting the immigration, they might be divided up somewhat as follows: There were the proprietors or partners, owners of the teams and outfits; then there were men going along with them who had bargained with the owners before leaving home, some for a certain amount paid down, some to work for a certain time or to pay a certain amount at the journey's end. This was to pay for their grub and use of tents and wagons. These men were also to help drive and care for the stock, doing their share of camp and guard duty. There were others travelling with a single pack animal, loaded with their outfits and provisions. These men always travelled on foot. Then there were some with hand-carts, others with wheelbarrows, trudging along and making good time. Occasionally we would see a man with a pack like a knapsack on his back and a canteen strapped on to him and a long cane in either hand. These men would just walk away from everybody. A couple of incidents along here will serve to show how these conditions sometimes worked. We were turned into camp one evening, and as we were getting supper there came along a man pushing a light handcart, loaded with traps and provisions, and asked permission to camp with us, which was readily granted. He was a stout, hearty, good-natured fellow, possessed of a rich Irish accent, and in the best of humor commenced to prepare his supper. Just about this time there came into camp another lone man, leading a diminutive donkey, not much larger than a good-sized sheep. The donkey, on halting, gave us a salute that simply silenced the ordinary mule. The two men got acquainted immediately, and by the time their supper was over they had struck a bargain to put their effects together by way of hitching the donkey to the cart, and so move on together. They made a collar for the donkey out of gunny-sack, and we gave them some rope for traces. Then, taking off the hand-bar of the cart, they put the donkey into the shafts and tried things on by leading it around through the camp till it was time to turn in. Everything went first-rate, and they were so happy over their transportation prospects that they scarcely slept during the whole night. In the morning they were up bright and early, one making the coffee and the other oiling the iron axle-trees and packing the cart. Starting out quite early, they bade us goodby with hearty cheer, saying they would let the folks in California know that we were coming, etc. About 10 o'clock we came to a little narrow creek, the bottom being miry and several feet below the surface of the ground. There upon the bank stood the two friends who had so joyously bidden us goodby only a few hours before. The cart was a wreck, with one shaft and one spindle broken. It appeared that the donkey had got mired in crossing the creek and in floundering about had twisted off the shaft and broken one of the wheels. We left them there bewailing their misfortune and blaming each other for the carelessness which worked the mishap. We never saw them again. This incident is an illustration of those cases where a man obtained his passage by contributing something to the outfit and working his way through. There were quite a number of this class, they having no property rights in the train. At the usual time we turned in for dinner near by a camp of two or three wagons. On the side of one wagon was a doctor's sign, who, we afterwards learned, was the proprietor of the train. As we were quietly eating and resting we suddenly heard some one cursing and yelling in the other camp, and saw two men, one the hired man and the other the doctor, the latter being armed with a neck-yoke and chasing the hired man around the wagon, and both running as fast as they could. They had made several circuits, the doctor striking at the man with all his might at each turn, when some of us went over to try to stop the fight. Just at this point, the hired man, as he turned the rear of the wagon, whipped out an Allen revolver and turning shot the doctor in the mouth, the charge coming out nearly under the ear. The doctor and the neckyoke struck the ground about the same time. His eyes were blinded by powder and he had the appearance of being dangerously if not fatally wounded. Everybody was more or less excited except the hired man. From expressions all around in both trains, the hired man seemed to have the most friends. There were many instances of this kind, though none quite so tragic, the quarrels usually arising from the owner of the wagons constantly brow-beating and finding fault with the hired man. Again I saw an instance where two men were equal partners all around, in four horses, harness and wagon. They seemed to have quarreled so much that they agreed to divide up and quit travelling together. They divided up their horses and provisions, and then measured off the wagon-bed and sawed it in two parts, also the reach, and then flipped a copper cent to see which should have the front part of the wagon. After the division they each went to work and fixed up his part of the wagon as best he could, and drove on alone. The entire trip from Monroe, Michigan, our starting-point, to Hangtown, the point of landing in California, covered 2,542 miles, and we were five months, lacking six days, in making it. Today the same trip can be made in a half week, with every comfort and luxury which money and invention can provide. There is probably nothing that marks the progress of civilization more distinctly than do the perfected modes and conveniences of travel. It is strange, but true, however, that so long as our prairies shall stretch themselves from river to ocean the imprint of the overland trail can never be obliterated. Today, after a lapse of over fifty years, whoever passes within seeing distance of the old trail can, upon the crest of grain and grass, note its serpentine windings, as marked by a light and sickly color of green. I myself have followed it from a car-window as traced in yellow green upon an immense field of growing corn. No amount of cultivation can ever restore to that long-trodden path its pristine vigor and productiveness. Our prairies are a book, Whose pages hold many stories Writ by many people. Tragedy, comedy, pathos, Love and valor, duly Punctuated by life's Rests and stops, Whose interest shall appeal To human hearts as long as Their green cover enfolds them. CHAPTER V. A WORTHY OBJECT REACHED FOR AND MISSED IS A FIRST STEP TOWARD SUCCESS. Who, among the many persons contributing for a wage, to the convenience of everyday life in these latter times, is more waited and watched for, and brings more of joy, and more of sorrow when he comes, than the postman. In the days of trailing, our post accommodations were extremely few and very far between. There were no mailing points, except at the government forts, Fort Kearney and Laramie being the only two on the entire trip, soldiers carrying the mail to and from the forts either way. After leaving Fort Kearney, the next mailing point east, was Fort Laramie. Before leaving home, I had been entrusted with a package of letters by Hon. Isaac P. Christiancy, from his wife, to her brother, James McClosky, who had been on the plains some fourteen years, and who was supposed to be living near Fort Laramie. When within a couple of days' drive of the fort we came to a building which proved to be a store, and which was surrounded by several wigwams. Upon halting and going into the store, we found ourselves face to face with the man we were wanting to meet, Mr. McClosky. He was glad to see us, and overjoyed to receive the package of letters. He stepped out of doors and gave a whoop or two, and immediately Indians began to come in from all directions. He ordered them to take our stock out on the ranch, feed and guard it, and bring it in in the morning. He treated us generously to supper and breakfast, including many delicacies to which we had long been strangers. In consideration of my bringing the letters to him, he invited me to sleep in his store, and, in the morning, introduced me to his Indian wife and two sons, also, to several other women who were engaged in an adjoining room, in cutting and making buckskin coats, pants and moccasins, presenting me with an elegant pair of the latter. His wife was a bright and interesting woman, to whom he was deeply attached. His two boys were bright, manly fellows, the oldest of whom, about ten years old, was soon to be taken to St. Joe or Council Bluffs and placed in school. At an early hour in the morning, the Indians brought in the stock, in fine condition, and we hitched up and bade our host goodbye. He sent word to his sister at home, and seemed much affected at our parting. This was the first morning when, in starting out, we knew anything about what was ahead of us; what we would meet, or what the roads and crossings would be. In fact, every one we saw, were going the same as ourselves, consequently, all were quite ignorant of what the day might bring forth. On this morning, we knew the conditions of the roads for several days ahead, and, that Fort Laramie was thirty-six miles before us. Shortly after going into camp toward sunset, a party of horsemen was seen galloping toward us, who, on nearer approach, proved to be a band of ten or twelve Indians. When within about one hundred yards, they halted and dismounted, each holding his horse. The chief rode up to us, saluted and dismounted. He was a sharp-eyed young fellow, showing beneath his blanket the dress-coat of a private soldier and non-commissioned officer's sword. He gave us to understand that they were Sioux, and had been on the warpath for some Pawnees, also that they were hungry and would like to have us give them something to eat. After assuring him that we would do so, he ordered his men to advance, which they did after picketing their ponies, coming up and setting themselves on the grass in a semi-circle. We soon noticed that they carried spears made of a straight sword-blade thrust into the end of a staff. On two or three of the spears were dangling one or more fresh scalps, on which the blood was yet scarcely dry. On pointing to them, one of the Indians drew his knife, and taking a weed by the top, quickly cut it off, saying as he did so, "Pawnees." His illustration of how the thing was done was entirely satisfactory. We gave the grub to the chief, who in turn, handed it out to the men as they sat on the ground. When through eating, they mounted their ponies, waved us a salute and were off. The balance of the day was spent in writing home letters, which we expected to deliver on the morrow at the post. About 9 o'clock the next morning, we came to Laramie River, near where it empties into the North Platte, which we crossed on a bridge, the first one we had seen on the whole route. At this point a road turns off, leading up to the fort, about one mile distant. Being selected to deliver the mail, I rode out to the fort, which was made up of a parade-ground protected by earth-works, with the usual stores, quarters, barracks, etc., the sutler and post-office being combined. On entering the sutler's, about the first person I saw was the young leader of the Indians, who had lunched at our camp the afternoon before. He was now dressed in the uniform of a soldier, recognizing me as soon as we met with a grunt and a "How." Delivering the mail, I rode out in another direction to intercept the train. When about one-half mile from the fort I came to a sentinel, pacing his beat all alone. He was just as neat and clean as though doing duty at the general's headquarters, with his spotless white gloves, polished gun, and accoutrements. In a commanding tone of voice, he ordered me to halt. Asking permission to pass, which was readily granted, I rode on a couple of miles, when I met some Indians with their families, who were on the march with ponies, dogs, women, and papooses. Long spruce poles were lashed each side of the ponies' necks, the other ends trailing on the ground. The poles, being slatted across, were made to hold their plunder or very old people and sometimes the women and children. The dogs, like the ponies, were all packed with a pole or two fastened to their necks; the whole making an interesting picture. Overtaking the train about noon, we camped at Bitter Cottonwood Creek, the location being beautifully described by the author of the novel, "Prairie Flower." Our standard rations during these days consisted of hardtack, bacon, and coffee; of course, varying it as we could whenever we came to a Government fort. I recall how, on a certain Sunday afternoon, we men decided to make some doughnuts, as we had saved some fat drippings from the bacon. Not one of us had any idea as to the necessary ingredients or the manner of compounding them, but we remembered how doughnuts used to look and taste at home. So we all took a hand at them, trying to imitate the pattern as well as our ignorance and poor judgment would suggest. Well, they looked a trifle peculiar, but we thoroughly enjoyed them, for they were the first we had since leaving home, and proved to be the last until we were boarding in California. One thing was sure; our outdoor mode of living gave us fine appetites and a keen relish for almost anything. And then again, persons can endure almost any sort of privation as long as they can see a gold mine ahead of them, from which they are sure to fill their pockets with nuggets of the pure stuff. What a happy arrangement it is on the part of Providence that not too much knowledge of the future comes to us at any one time! Just enough to keep us pushing forward and toward the ideal we have set for ourselves, which, even though we miss it, adds strength to purpose as well as to muscle. A worthy object reached for and missed is a first step towards success. CHAPTER VI. "'TIS ONLY A SNOWBANK'S TEARS, I WEEN." We are now approaching the foot-hills of the Rocky Mountains. The fertile plains through which we have been passing are being merged into rocky hills, the level parts being mostly gravelly barrens. The roads are hard and flinty, like pounded glass, which were making some of the cattle-teams and droves very lame and foot-sore. When one got so it could not walk, it was killed and skinned. Other lame ones were lashed to the side of a heavy wagon, partially sunk in the ground, their lame foot fastened on the hub of a wheel, when a piece of the raw hide was brought over the hoof and fastened about the fet-lock, protecting the hoof until it had time to heal. This mode of veterinary treatment, although crude, lessened the suffering among the cattle very materially. The streams along here, the La Barge, La Bonte, and Deer Creek, were all shallow with rocky bottoms and excellent water. Here we frequently took the stock upon the hills at night, where the bunch-grass grows among the sage brush. This grass, as its name indicates, grows in bunches about a foot high and about the same in diameter, bearing a profusion of yellow seeds about the size of a kernel of wheat. This makes excellent feed, and the stock is very fond of it. At this point Mother Nature is gradually changing the old scenes for new ones. The big brawny mountains with their little ones clustered at their feet are just before us; while the Platte River, which for many miles has been our constant companion, will soon be a thing of the past, as we are close to the crossing, and once over we shall see the river no more. This river which stretches itself in graceful curves across an entire State, is one of peculiar construction and characteristics. At a certain point it is terrifying, even to its best friends. In curve, color, contour, and graceful foliage, it is a magnificent stretch of beauty; while as a stream of utility its presence has ever been a benediction to the country through which it passes. As a tribute to its general excellence, I place here the beautiful lines (name of author unknown to me), entitled: IN THE CRADLE OF THE PLATTE. A little stream in the cañon ran, In the cañon deep and long, When a stout old oak at its side began To sing to it this song, "Oh, why do you laugh and weep and sing, And why do you hurry by, For you're only a noisy little thing, While a great strong oak am I; A hundred years I shall stand alone, And the world will look at me; While you will bubble and babble on And die at last in the sea." "So proud and lofty," the stream replied, "You're a king of the forest true; But your roots were dead and your leaves all dried Had I not watered you." The oak tree rustled its leaves of green To the little stream below; "'Tis only a snowbank's tears, I ween, Could talk to a monarch so. But where are you going so fast, so fast, And what do you think to do? Is there anything in the world at last For a babbling brook like you?" "So fast, so fast,--why should I wait," The hurrying water said, "When yonder by the cañon gate The farmer waits for bread?" Out on the rainless desert land My hurrying footsteps go; I kiss the earth, I kiss the sand, I make the harvest grow. "And many a farmer, when the sky Has turned to heated brass, And all the plain is hot and dry, Gives thanks to see me pass. By many a sluice and ditch and lane They lead me left and right, For it is I who turns the plain To gardens of delight." Then hurrying on, the dashing stream Into a river grew, And rock and mountain made a seam To let its torrent through; And where the burning desert lay, A happy river ran; A thousand miles it coursed its way, And blessed the homes of man. Vain was the oak tree's proud conceit, Dethroned the monarch lay; The brook that babbled at its feet Had washed its roots away. Still in the cañon's heart there springs The desert's diadem, And shepherds bless the day that brings The snow-bank's tears to them. We crossed the river on a ferry-boat that was large enough to hold four wagons and some saddle-horses. The boat was run by a cable stretched taut up stream fifteen or twenty feet from the boat. A line from the bow and stern of the boat connected it with a single block which ran on the cable. When ready to start, the bow-line was hauled taut, the stern line slacked off to the proper angle, when, the current passing against the side of the boat, it was propelled across very rapidly. The river here was rapid, the water cold and deep, with a strong undercurrent. We had to wait nearly a whole day before it came our turn to take our wagons over. In the meantime we were detailed as follows: Ten men were selected to get the wagons aboard the boat, cross over with them and guard them until all were carried over; three or four men were sent across and up the river to catch and care for the stock as it came out of the river near a clump of cottonwoods. One of the company, named Owen Powers, a strong, courageous young man and a good swimmer, volunteered to ride the lead horse in and across to induce the other animals to follow, the balance of the company herding them, as they were all loose near the edge of the river. When everything was ready, Powers stripped off, and mounting the horse he had selected, rode out into the stream. The other animals, forty-seven of them followed, and when a few feet from the shore had to swim. Everything was going all right until Powers reached the middle of the river, when an undercurrent struck his horse, laying him over partly on his side. Powers leaned forward to encourage his horse, when the animal suddenly threw up his head, striking him a terrible blow squarely in the face. He was stunned and fell off alongside the horse. It now seemed as though both he and his horse would be drowned, as all the other stock began to press close up to them. He soon recovered, however, and as he partially pulled himself on to his horse, we could plainly see that his face and breast were covered with blood. We shouted at him words of encouragement, cheering him from both sides of the river. While his struggling form was hanging to the horse's mane, the other animals all floundered about him, pulling for the shore for dear life. The men on the other side were ready to catch him as he landed, nearly exhausted by his struggles and the blow he had received. They carried him up the bank and leaned him against a tree, one man taking care of him while the others caught the animals, or rather corralled them, until the rest of us got across and went to their assistance. We brought the young man's clothes with us and fixed him up, washing him and stanching his bleeding nose and mouth. He had an awful looking face; his eyes were blackened, nose flattened and mouth cut. However, he soon revived and was helped by a couple of the men down to the wagons. We then gathered the stock, went down to the train, hitched up, and drove into camp. We now soon came to the Sweetwater River. The country here is more hilly and rocky, and the valleys narrower and more barren. The main range of Wind River Mountains could be plainly seen in the distance, while close upon our left were the Sweetwater Mountains. The difference in scenery after leaving the river and plains was such as to awaken new emotions and fire one with a new kind of admiration. The immensity and fixedness of the mountains awakened a keener sense of stability, of firmness of purpose, and a sort of _expect great things and do great things spirit_; while the sense of beauty appreciation was in no wise narrowed as it followed the lights and shades of jut and crevice, and the rosy, scintillating bits of sun as a new day dropped them with leisure hand upon summit and sides, or later the tender glow of crimson and blue and gold, as the gathered sun-bits trailed themselves behind the mountains for the night. When making up our outfit back in the States, by oversight or want of knowledge of what we would need, we had neglected to lay in a supply of horse-nails, which we now began to be sorely in need of, as the horses' shoes were fast wearing out and becoming loose. It was just here that we came one day to a man sitting by the roadside with a half-bushel measure full of horse nails to sell at the modest price of a "bit" or twelve and one-half cents apiece. No amount of remonstrance or argument about taking advantage of one's necessity could bring down the price; so I paid him ten dollars in gold for eighty nails. I really wanted to be alone with that man for awhile, I loved him so. He, like some others who had crossed the plains before, knew of the opportunity to sell such things as the trailers might be short of at any price they might see fit to ask. It was here, too, that we came upon the great Independence Rock, an immense boulder, lying isolated on the bank of the Sweetwater River. It was oblong, with an oval-shaped top, as large as a block of buildings. It was of such form that parties could walk up and over it lengthwise, thereby getting a fine view of the surrounding country. About a mile beyond was the Devil's Gate, a crack or rent in the mountain, which was probably about fifty feet wide, the surface of the walls showing that by some sort of force they had been separated, projections on one side finding corresponding indentations on the other. The river in its original course had run around the range, but now it ran leaping and roaring through the Gate. There was considerable alkali in this section. We had already lost two horses from drinking it, and several others barely recovered from the effects. CHAPTER VII. WE STEPPED OVER THE RIDGE AND COURTED THE FAVOR OF NEW AND UNTRIED WATERS. Between Independence Rock and Devil's Gate we cross the river, which is about four feet deep and thirty or forty feet wide. There was a man lying down in the shade of his tent, who had logs enough fastened together to hold one wagon, which he kindly loaned the use of for fifty cents for each wagon, we to do the work of ferrying. Rather than to wet our traps, we paid the price. The stock was driven through the ford. We camped at the base of some rocky cliffs, and while we were getting our supper an Indian was noticed peering from behind some rocks, taking a view of the camp. One of the boys got his rifle from the wagon and fired at him. He drew in his head and we saw no more of him, but kept a strong guard out all night. The trail that followed up the Sweetwater was generally a very good road, with good camping-place's and fair grass for stock; while grass and sage brush for fuel and excellent water made the trip of about ninety miles very pleasant, as compared with some of the former route. We now came to the last-leaving of the Sweetwater, which is within ten miles of the highest elevation of the South Pass. The springs and the little stream on which we were camped, across which one could have stepped, was the last water we saw that flowed into the Atlantic. We were upon the summit or dividing line of the continent. With our faces to the southward, the stream at our left flowed east and into the Atlantic, while that upon our right flowed west into the Pacific. There was something not altogether pleasant in considering the conditions. Following and crossing and studying the streams as we had so long been doing, it was not without a tinge of regret and broken fellowship that we stepped over the ridge and courted the favor of new and untried waters. The abrupt ending of the great Wind River Mountain range was at our right. These mountains are always more or less capped with snow. To the south, perhaps one hundred miles, could be seen the main ridge of the Rocky Mountains looming up faintly against the sky. The landscape, looking at it from the camp, was certainly pleasing, if not beautiful. During the day there could be seen bunches of deer, antelope, and elk grazing and running about on the ridges, the whole making a picture never to be forgotten. The sky was clear, the air pure and invigorating, the sun shone warm by day and the stars bright at night. The spot proved to be a "parting of the ways" in more than one sense, for it was here, before the breaking of camp, that the company decided to separate, not as to interests, but as to modes of travel. Some of our wagons were pretty nearly worn out, and, as we had but little in them, there were sixteen men who that night decided to give up their five wagons and resort to "packing." Consequently the remaining three wagons, including Captain and Mrs. Wadsworth, bade us goodby and pulled out in the morning. This parting of the trail, as had been the case in the parting of the waters, was not without its smack of regret. For four months we had travelled as one family, each having at heart the interest and comfort of the others. There had been days of sickness and an hour of death; there was a grave at the roadside; there had had been times of danger and disheartenment; all of which marshalled themselves to memory's foreground as the question of division was talked _pro_ and _con_ by the entire family while camped at the base of the snow-capped mountains on that midsummer night. After the departure of the three wagons we who remained resolutely set ourselves to work to prepare, as best we could, ourselves and our belongings for the packing mode of travel. For three days and nights we remained there busily engaged. We took our wagons to pieces, cutting out such pieces as were necessary to make our pack saddles. One bunch of men worked at the saddles, another bunch separated the harnesses and put them in shape for the saddles, while others made big pouches or saddle-bags out of the wagon covers, in which to carry provisions and cooking utensils. The spot upon which our camp was located was in the vicinity of what is now known as Smith's Pass, Wyoming. During one of our afternoons here Nature treated us to one of the grandest spectacles ever witnessed by mortal eyes. We first noticed a small cloud gathering about the top of the mountain, which presently commenced circling around the peak, occasionally reaching over far enough to drop down upon us a few sprinkles of water, although the sun was shining brightly where we were. As the cloud continued to circle, it increased in size, momentum, and density of color, spreading out like a huge umbrella. Soon thunder could be heard, growing louder and more frequent until it became one continuous roar, fairly shaking the earth. Long, vivid flashes of lightning chased each other in rapid succession over the crags and lost themselves in crevice and ravine. All work was forgotten. In fact, one would as soon think of making saddles in the immediate presence of the Almighty as in the presence of that terrific, but sublime spectacle upon the mountain heights. Every man stood in reverential attitude and gazed in speechless wonder and admiration. David and Moses and the Christ had much to do with mountains in their day; and, as we watched the power of the elements that afternoon, we realized as never before how David could hear the floods clap their hands and see expressions of joy or anger upon the faces of the mountains; and how Mount Sinai might have looked as it became the meeting-place of the Lord and Moses and the tables of stone. The storm lasted about an hour, and when at last Nature seemed to have exhausted herself the great mountain-top stood out again in the clear sunlight, wearing a new mantle of the whitest snow. During our three-days' camp we had a number of callers from other trains, also six or eight Indians, among whom we divided such things as we could not take with us. In the evening of the last day, we made a rousing camp-fire out of our wagon wheels, which we piled on top of each other, kindling a fire under them, around which we became reminiscent and grew rested for an early start on the morrow. All things finally ready, we brought up the animals in the morning to fit their saddles and packs to them. One very quiet animal was packed with some camp-kettles, coffee-pots, and other cooking traps. As soon as he was let loose and heard the tinware rattle he broke and ran, bringing up in a quagmire up to his sides. The saddle had turned, and his hind feet stepping into the pack well nigh ruined all our cooking utensils. We managed to pull him out of the mire and quieted him down, but we could never again put anything on him that rattled. We took our guns and provisions and only such clothing as we had on, leaving all else behind. I remember putting on a pair of new boots that I had brought from home, which I did not take off until I had been some time in California, nor any other of my clothes, lying down in my blanket on the ground, like the rest of the animals. As we turned out for noon, we saw off toward the mountain a drove of eleven elk. I took my rifle and creeping behind rocks and through ravines, tried to get in range of them, but with all my caution, they kept just beyond my reach. But I had a little luck toward night just as we were turning into camp. Out by a bunch of sagebrush sat the largest jack rabbit I ever saw. I raised my rifle and hit him squarely in the neck, killing him. I took him by the hind feet and slung him over my shoulder, and as I hung hold of his feet in front, his wounded neck came down to my heels behind. His ears were as long as a mule's ears. We dressed it and made it into rabbit stew by putting into the kettle first a layer of bacon and then one of rabbit, and then a layer of dumpling, which we made from flour and water, putting in layer after layer of this sort until our four camp-kettles were filled. We had a late supper that night. It was between 9 and 10 o'clock before our stews were done to a turn, but what a luscious feast was ours when they were finally ready. I can think of no supper in my whole life that I have enjoyed so much as I did that one. We had plenty left over for our sixteen breakfasts the next morning, and some of the boys packed the remainder as a relish for the noon meal. Soon after our start in the morning, we came to the Big Sandy, a stream tributary to Green River. The land here had more of the appearance of a desert than any we had yet seen. Out on the plain the trail forked, the left hand leading via Fort Bridges and Salt Lake City, while the right hand led over what is known as Sublett's Cut-off. Being undecided as to which fork to follow, we finally submitted it to vote, which proved to be a large majority in favor of the Cut-off, it having been reported that the Mormons were inciting the Indians to attack immigrants. The road here was hard and flinty, and, for more than a mile passed down a steep hill, at the bottom of which we noticed that wagon tires were worn half through owing to the wheels being locked for such a long distance. This was Green River valley, and, where we made our crossing, the water being deep and cold, with a swift current. There was a good ferry boat, on which, after nearly a day's waiting, we ferried over our pack animals at one dollar per head; the balance of the stock we swam across. A short way on we had to ford a fork of the same river, and were then in an extremely mountainous country, up one side and down the other, until we reached Bear River valley. We came down off the uplands into the valley and beside the river to camp, where we had an experience as exasperating as it was unexpected. Seeing some fine looking grass, half knee high, we started for it, when all at once clouds of the most persistent and venomous mosquitos filled the air, covering the animals, which began stamping and running about, some of them lying down and rolling in great torment. We hurried the packs and saddles off them and sent a guard of men back to the hills with them. The rest of us wrapped ourselves head and ears and laid down in the grass without supper or water for man or beast. About 3 o'clock in the morning, the mosquitos having cooled down to some extent, the guard brought in the pack animals, which we loaded, and, like the Arab, "silently stole away." Returning to the road and getting the balance of the stock, we moved along the base of the hills, and about sunrise came to a beautiful spring branch, which crossed the trail, refreshing us with its cool, sparkling water. Here we went up into the hills and into camp for a day and a night, to rest and recuperate from our terrible experience of the night before. It was now the first of July. By keeping close to the base of the hills we found good travelling and an abundance of clear spring-water. At nights we camped high up in the hills, where the mosquito was not. CHAPTER VIII. WE HAD NO FLAG TO UNFURL, BUT ITS SENTIMENT WAS WITHIN US. "It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, bells, bonfires and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward for evermore." These words, written by John Adams to his wife the day following the Declaration of Independence, and regarding that act and day, were evidently the sounding of the key-note of American patriotism. It has long been one of Uncle Sam's legends that "he who starts across the continent is most sure to leave his religion on the east side of the Missouri river." Conditions in Nebraska to-day refute the truth of this statement, however. Whatever may be the rule or exception concerning an American traveller's religion, the genuineness of his patriotism and his fidelity to it are rarely questioned. Hence it was that during the early July days the varied events of the past few months betook themselves to the recesses of our natures, and patriotism asserted its right of pre-emption. The day of July 3d was somewhat eventful and perhaps somewhat preparatory to the 4th, in that I did a bit of horse-trading, as my riding-horse, through a hole in his shoe, had got a gravel into his foot, which made him so lame that I had been walking and leading him for the last ten days. We had just come to Soda Springs, where there was a village of Shoshone Indians, numbering about one thousand, among whom was an Indian trader named McClelland, who was buying or trading for broken-down stock. I soon struck him for a trade. He finally offered me, even up, a small native mule for my lame horse, and we soon traded. I then bought an Indian saddle for two dollars, and, mounting, rode back to camp with great joy to myself and amusement of the balance of the company. I had walked for the last two hundred miles, keeping up with the rest of them, and consequently was nearly broken down; and now that I had what proved to be the toughest and easiest riding animal in the bunch, I was to be congratulated. I afterwards saw the horse I had traded for the mule in Sacramento, hitched to a dray. His owner valued him at four hundred dollars. We had gone into camp close to the Indians, right among their wigwams, in fact, and, though it was Independence eve, the weather was cool and chilling, which, together with the jabbering and grunting of the Indians and their papooses, made sleeping almost impossible. We had not been in camp more than an hour when three or four packers rode up on their way to the "States." They were the first persons travelling eastward that we had met since leaving the Missouri River. One of the men had been wounded with a charge of buckshot a few hours before, and there being no surgeon present, some of us held him while others picked out the shot and dressed his wounds. Soda Springs was in the extreme eastern part of what is now the State of Idaho, at which point there is a town bearing the same name, Soda Springs. Indeed, the 4th of July found us in a settlement of springs, Beer Spring and Steamboat Spring being in close proximity to Soda Springs. Beer Spring is barrel-shaped, its surface about level with the ground surface. It was always full to the top, and we could look down into the water at least twenty feet and see large bubbles that were constantly rising, a few feet apart, one chasing another to the surface, where they immediately collapsed. The peculiarity of the water was that one could sip down a gallon at a time without any inconvenience. The celebrated Steamboat Spring came out of a hole in a level rock. The water was quite hot, and the steam, puffing out at regular intervals, presented an interesting sight. We remained in camp during the forenoon and celebrated the 4th of July as best we could. I am quite positive that we could not have repeated in concert the memorable words which open this chapter, but, while the letter of the injunction was absent, the spirit was with us and we carried it out in considerable detail, the Indians joining with us. We shot at a mark, we ran horse-races with the Indians and also foot-races. We had no bells to ring, but we had plenty of noise and games and sports. We had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us; and when we had finished we were prouder than ever to be Americans. After dinner we packed up and started out again, our trail leading us up in the top of the mountains, where, after going into camp for the night, it began to snow, so I had to quit writing in my diary. We spent a very uncomfortable night, and got out of the place early, going down into a warmer atmosphere and to a level stretch of deep sand covered with a thick growth of sagebrush. Having neglected to fill our canteens while on the mountain, we had to travel all day in the sand, under a scorching sun, without a drop of water. This was our first severe experience in water-hunger, and we thought of the deserts yet to be crossed. At night we were delighted with coming to a stream, by the side of which we made camp, ourselves and our animals quite exhausted with the day's experiences. The country along here was very rough and mountainous, making travelling very difficult, so much so that two or more men dropped out to rest up. We were soon in the region of the "City of Rocks," which was not a great distance south of Fort Hall, in Oregon. This place, to all appearance, was surrounded by a range of high hills, circular in form and perhaps a quarter mile in diameter. A small stream of mountain water ran through it, near which we made our noon meal. From about the center of this circle arose two grand, colossal steeples of solid rock, rising from two hundred to three hundred feet high; in outline they resembled church steeples. From the base of these great turrets, allowing the eyes to follow the circular mountains, could be seen a striking resemblance to a great city in ruins. Tall columns rose with broad facades and colossal archings over the broad entrances, which seemed to lead into those great temples of nature. Many of the formations strongly resembled huge lions crouched and guarding the passageways. Altogether the spot was one of intense interest and stood as strong evidence that "The manuscript of God remains Writ large in waves and woods and rocks." In crossing the valley of Raft River, which is tributary to the Snake River, and finally empties into the Columbia, we came to a deep, ditch-like crack in the earth, partly filled with water and soft mud. It was about a rod in width, but so long that we could not see its end either up or down the valley as far as the eye could reach, so there was no possible show to head it or go around it. Scattered along its length we could see a dozen or more wagons standing on their heads, as it were, in this almost bottomless ditch of mud and water, each waiting for the bank to be dug out in front of it, when a long cattle-team would haul it out. After looking the situation over, we put our wits to work for some means of crossing, and finally hit upon what proved to be a feasible plan. A part of the men stripped off, plunged in and made their way through to the opposite bank. We then led the animals up, one at a time, secured a good strong lariat around its neck, and threw the end of it across to the men on the other side. Then we just pushed the brute into the ditch and the men ahold of the lariat pulled him through. We then did up our traps in light bundles and threw them across. After everything else was over, we took turns in being pulled through at the end of the lariat. This was a successful way of getting over, but, O my! we were the dirtiest lot of men and animals one ever saw. We were little more than one-quarter mile from Raft River, and we lost no time in getting there and wading out in the clear, running water, about two feet deep, with rocky bottom, where we and the animals were washed sleek and clean. Leaving the river we entered a narrow defile in the mountain, where horses and men were crowded close together. One of the men having a rifle with the hammer underneath the barrel attempted to mount his horse without stopping and accidentally discharged his gun, the shot shot taking effect in the horse's side. As I happened to be walking on the other side of the wounded horse I was fortunate in not getting some part of the discharge. We pulled the pack off the horse and led him a few steps off the road, where he soon fell dead. We camped for the night farther up this ravine. It was the same place where, a few years afterward, some immigrants were massacred, when a part of the Wright family was killed and others badly wounded. Years afterward I became well acquainted with the survivors. Their description of the place and its surroundings left no doubt in my mind that our ravine camping-spot was identical with that of their massacre. Our passage up Goose Creek Valley was extremely slow and difficult, the valley in places being no wider than the road, while in other places rocks and streams were so thick and close together that the way was almost impassible. We camped in this valley at nightfall, and, as there was no feed in sight for the animals, several of us took them up on the mountain side and gave them a feed of bunch grass, one man and myself remaining to guard them. Very soon a storm came up, dark clouds, deep thunder, sharp lightning, and a perfect deluge of rain were sweeping through the mountains. We brought the animals as close together as we could, tied them to the sagebrush, and kept going among them, talking to them and quieting them as best we could, for they were whinnying and trembling with fear. It was an awful night. Over and above the roaring storm could be heard the howling of wolves, which added much terror to the situation. On being relieved at daylight and going down to camp, the men were trying to find themselves and a lot of traps that were missing. It seemed that the men had lain down in a bunch on a narrow bit of ground close to the creek, and when the rain began to fall they drew a canvas wagon cover over them for protection, when, without any sound or warning that could be heard above the storm, a tide of water came down upon them which fairly washed them off the earth. They got tangled up in the wagon cover and were being washed down the creek, not knowing in the darkness when or where they were going to land. They kept together by all keeping hold of the wagon cover, but for which some or all of them might have lost their lives. They were finally washed up against a rocky projection and pulled themselves ashore. We were a sorry-looking lot--wet, cold, dilapidated, and suffering from the terror and fright of the night. After breakfast we went out to hunt for our missing goods, some of which we found caught in the brush; some was washed beyond finding. This was Sunday morning and the weather had cleared up bright. All Nature seemed anxious to make amends for her outrageous conduct of the night before. We concluded to stop here until Monday morning, and spread our traps out to dry, and cook some rice, and rest and replenish in a general sense. CHAPTER IX. WE LISTENED TO EACH OTHER'S REHEARSALS AND BECAME MUTUAL SYMPATHIZERS AND ENCOURAGERS. We travelled up Goose Creek for several days till we got to its head, on the great divide that separates the Snake River from the Humboldt. The second or third day up the creek we had a genuine surprise that put us all in the best of humor again. It was no less than the overtaking of the three wagons that left us in the South Pass, where we commenced packing. Captain Wadsworth's wagon was mired down and part of the team. We all turned in and soon had him out. We were all glad to meet again, and all our men were delighted to meet and shake hands with Mrs. Wadsworth, who was equally as joyful as ourselves. We camped together that night and had a good visit. It was a genuine family reunion. How thoroughly we listened to each other's rehearsals and became mutual sympathizers and encouragers! This was the last time the original company ever met together. Some of our boys, whose stock was nearly worn out, concluded that they would join the three wagons and take more time to get through. This move reduced our little company of packers to six men and ten animals. In the morning we bade them all goodby (some of them for the last time), swung into our saddles, and moved on. After crossing the divide we entered Pleasant Valley, which, with its level floor, abundant grass, and willow-fringed stream of cool water, was very appropriately named. As our provisions were now getting short, I was on the lookout for game of any sort that would furnish food. After dinner, taking my rifle, I went along down the stream as it led off the road, when a pair of ducks flew up and alighted a short distance below. These were the first ducks I had seen since leaving the Platte, and, being out for something to eat, I was particularly glad to see them. I watched them settle, and then creeping up through tall wild rice I got a shot and killed one of them. I quickly reloaded. As I was out there alone I was necessarily on my guard. The duck was about twenty-five feet from the bank, and as the water was deep and cold and no one with me I concluded not to go in after it. So I took out the ramrod, screwed the wormer to it, lengthened it out with willow cuttings fastened one to another, and then shoved it out on the water until the wormer touched the duck, which I managed to twist into the game and draw it ashore. We had an elegant supper that night. The next day or two I came to a pond where were sitting five snipe. I killed the whole bunch, and they helped to make another square meal. We were now near the border of the Great Desert proper, where, out of the midst of a level plain, stood a lone mountain known as the "Old Crater," which, together with its surroundings, had all the appearance of an extinct volcano. The plain round about this mountain had been rent in narrow cracks or crevices leading in various directions from the mountain off on to the plain, some of them crossing the trail, where we had to push and jump the stock across them. In dropping a rock into them there seemed to be no bottom. All about them the ground was covered with pieces of broken lava, largely composed of gravel stones that had been welded together by intense heat. A half mile or so from the mountain stood a block of the same material, which was nearly square in shape and larger than a thirty-by-forty-foot barn. We made good time here after coming off the mountain, although we suffered intensely for want of water, the sun being very hot. However, we soon found ourselves in the "Thousand Spring Valley," and, being influenced by its name, expected to have, for that day at least, all the water we could drink. But, as is sometimes the case, there was "Water, water everywhere, But not a drop to drink." Near the entrance of the valley, which is about thirty miles long, is the Great Rock Spring, deriving its name, I presume, from its flowing out from under an immense rock, forming a pool or basin of the brightest and clearest of water, but so warm that neither man nor beast could drink it. We all waded around through the basin, the water being about two feet deep. After a few more miles, we could see ahead of us clouds of steam vapor rising from the earth in various places. We came to the first group of boiling springs at noon, nearly famished for water that one could drink. We turned out for a resting-while. Some went to look for cool water, and found none, while others made some coffee with boiling water from a spring, of which there were hundreds on a very few acres of ground. Some of the springs were six to ten feet across and three or four inches deep. We set our coffee-pots right in a spring and made coffee in a very short time. The hot sun pouring down on us, and boiling springs all about us, and no cold water to drink, made the place desirable for only one thing--to get away from. Toward night we turned off into the hills and looked for water, where, tramping over the rocks and brush, supperless, until nearly midnight, we found a most delicious spring. We all drank together, men and animals, and together laid down and slept. A little farther along, one day at noon, while we were drinking our coffee, two wild geese flew over and down the river. Watching them sail along as if to light at a certain point, I took my rifle and followed. The trail led to the right and over a range of hills, coming into the valley again several miles ahead, and the direction in which I was pursuing the geese being a tangent, I soon lost sight of the company. I went hurriedly on down the river bottom, much of which was covered with wild rice, very thick and almost as high as my head. The course and windings of the river here were, as elsewhere, marked by the willows along the banks. I was now a mile or so from the trail, and coming quite near where I expected to find the game. Passing cautiously by a clump of willows I noticed something white on the dead grass, which, upon investigation, proved to be a human skeleton in a perfect state of preservation. I picked up the skull, looked it over, and picked off the under jaw which was filled with beautiful teeth. Putting these in my pocket and replacing the skull, I moved carefully forward, expecting to soon see the geese. Picking my way through the stiff mud, I saw several moccasin tracks. I was just on the point of turning back when I saw the head of an Indian to my left, within easy range of my rifle. Looking hurriedly about me, I saw another at my right and quite a distance to the rear. In a moment they drew their heads down into the grass. I immediately realized the danger of retreating back into open ground, so I plunged forward into the wild rice, gripping my rifle with one hand and making a path through the rice with the other. I ran along in this way until my strength was nearly gone and the hand I worked the rice with was lacerated and bleeding. I faced about, dropped to my knees, and, with rifle cocked, awaited developments. After resting a few minutes and getting over my scare I started in the direction of the trail, hoping to get out of the rice and the willows into the open. Again I had to rest. My hands and arms were now both so lame and sore I could scarcely use them. When I finally got out of the rice, I straightened up and ran like a deer, expecting at every jump I made to be pursued and shot. I made straight for a bend in the slough which was partly filled with water. The opposite bank being lined with willows, some of them began to move a little and I concluded some one was coming through them. Levelling my rifle and with finger on the trigger, I heard some one shout to me not to shoot. It was a white man, who wanted to cross the slough. He ran into the water and mud far enough so that I could reach him and pull him on to the bank. He, too, had encountered the Indians in the rice and willows, and for a time was unable to stand, being completely exhausted with fear and his efforts to escape. As soon as he could walk, we started away from that locality with what strength and energy we had left. He was there alone and unarmed, looking for strayed cattle, and had been skulking and hiding from Indians for more than an hour before I came along. I, being well armed, might have discouraged them in their hunt for either one of us. At least they never got in my way after our first sight of each other. My hands were now swollen and very painful. The stranger carried my gun, and in a couple of hours we overtook my comrades. As I got on to my mule I thought what a fool I had been to go alone so far on a wild-goose chase. That day's experience ended my hunting at any considerable distance from camp. While we were still trailing close beside the Humboldt River a most remarkable and pathetic incident occurred, the vicinity being that now known as Elko, in Elko County, Nevada. We had been camping over night in the Humboldt Mountains, and on our way out in the morning I chanced to be some distance ahead. Riding down a steep, narrow place, walled in on either side, I could catch only a glimpse of the Humboldt River as it spun along just ahead of me. Just before emerging from this narrow place I heard loud screaming for help, although as yet I could see no one. Coming out into the open, I saw a man in the river struggling with a span of horses to which was still attached the running gear of a wagon. A few rods below him were his wife and two children about five and three years old, floating down the strong current in the wagon bed. I swam my mule across, and the minute I reached the land, I jumped off, and, leaving my rifle on the ground, ran over the rocks down stream after the woman and children, who were screaming at the top of their voices. The river made a short bend around some rocks on which I ran out, and, wading a short distance, I was able to grasp the corner of the the wagon bed as it came along, which was already well filled with water. Holding to it, the current swept it against the shore, where the woman handed her children out to me and then climbed ashore herself. As soon as all were on land, the woman, hugging her children with one arm, knelt at my feet and clasping me about the knees sobbed as though her heart would break, as she kept repeating that I had saved their lives, and expressing her thanks for the rescue. As soon as I could collect my wits I began to tug at the wagon-bed, and then the woman helped, and together we got it where it was safe. Then we led the children up to where the man had got ashore with his team. By this time the rest of our train had crossed the river and were with the man and his horses. When they learned just what had happened, they became very indignant because the man had apparently abandoned his wife and children to the mercies of the river, while he exerted himself to save his team. Quicker than I can tell it, the tongue of the man's wagon was set up on end, and hasty preparations being made to hang the man from the end of it. Almost frantic with what she saw, the wife again threw herself at my feet and begged me to save her husband. Her tears and entreaties, probably more than all I said, finally quieted the men, although some of them were still in favor of throwing him in the river. We eventually helped them get their wagon together, when we moved on and left them. At this place the river runs down into a cañon, where we had to ford it four times in ten miles, the stream changing that many times from one side of the rocky walls to the other. We made the last ford about middle afternoon, and as it was Sunday, we put out for the day and night. "Up with my tent, here will I lie to-night. But where to-morrow? Well, all's well for that." CHAPTER X. BOOTS AND SADDLES CALL. [Illustration: Music] In nearly all lifetimes and in nearly all undertakings, there will occur seasons which severally try not merely one's faith and courage, but one's power of physical endurance as well; seasons when one's spirits are fagged and stand in need of a reveille, or "Boots and Saddles" call. The march of our little company during these mid-July days, with their privations and sufferings, could scarcely have been maintained, but for the notes of cheer which, by memory's route, came to us from out the silent places of the past, or, on the wings of hope, alighted among us from off the heights of the future. The Humboldt River, which by this time had become to us quite a memorable stream, was winding and crooked after coming out of the cañon, and could be traced through the desert only by the willows that grew along its banks and around its shallow pools. Our route lay on the left bank all the way down to the "sink." It was the middle of July, with never a cloud in the sky, not a tree or shade of any kind. The ground was heated like an oven and covered more or less by an alkali sand, which parched our lips while the sun was blistering our noses. The river from here down to its sink is like all desert streams in the dry season. It does not have a continuous current, but the water lies in pools, alternating with places where the bed is dry and bare. In its windings it averaged about twenty-five miles from one bend to another, the trail leading a straight line like a railroad from one point to another. These points were our camping-places. As it was useless to stop between them we had to make the river or perish. The willows were already browsed down to mere stubs, consequently there was little or no feed for the stock. Wherever we could find any grass, there we took the animals and tended them until they got their fill. There was no game to be seen nor anything that had life, except horned toads and lizards. The former could be seen in the sand all day. They were of all sizes, ranging from a kernel of corn to a common toad, each ornamented with the same covering of horns, beginning with a Turk's crescent on the tip of the nose. As to the lizards, none could be seen during the day, but at night there would be a whole family of them lying right against one, having crept under the blankets to keep warm, I suppose, as the nights were quite cool. Upon getting up in the morning we would take our blankets by one end and give a jerk, and the lizards would roll out like so many links of weinerwurst. About midway to the river we began to get uncomfortably short of provisions, having only some parched coffee, a little sugar, and a few quarts of broken hardtack. We had neither flour nor meat for more than two weeks. But of all our sufferings the greatest was that of thirst. It was so intense that we forgot our hunger and our wearied and wornout condition. Our sole thought was of water, and when we talked about what amount we would drink when we came to a good spring no one ever estimated less than a barrel full, and we honestly believed we could drink that much at a single draught. We had, in a degree, become "loony" on the subject, particularly in the middle of the day, when one could not raise moisture in his mouth to even spit. For about ten days the only water we had was obtained from the pools by which we would camp. These pools were stagnant and their edges invariably lined with dead cattle that had died while trying to get a drink. Selecting a carcass that was solid enough to hold us up, we would walk out into the pool on it, taking a blanket with us, which we would swash around and get as full of water as it would hold, then carrying it ashore, two men, one holding each end, would twist the filthy water out into a pan, which in turn would be emptied into our canteens, to last until the next camping-place. As the stomach would not retain this water for even a moment, it was only used to moisten the tongue and throat. One afternoon we noticed on the side of a mountain spur off to our left a green spot part way up its side. We looked at the spot and then at the bend to which we were going, and as each seemed to be about equi-distant we concluded to go to the mountains, believing we would find water. Well, if any of you have had any experience in travelling toward a mountain you, as did we, probably under-estimated the distance. We left the trail at 3 o'clock and tramped until nearly sundown before we began to make the ascent, always keeping our eyes on that green spot. About an hour after dark we came into the bed of a dry creek, and believing that it would eventually lead us to water, we followed it up until about midnight, when we came to water in a ditch about two feet wide and a few inches deep. Ourselves and animals being nearly exhausted, we just laid down in that stream, and I guess each one came pretty near drinking his barrel of water. We pulled off the packs and let the animals go loose in the feed, which was very good, while we were soon stretched out and sound asleep. When we woke in the morning the sun was well up and sending down its scorching rays into our faces. We made some coffee, drank it and felt better. We stayed there until noon, as the animals were still getting good feed, and we--well, we were getting all the water we wanted. We filled our canteens with it, and after making necessary preparations started to strike the river again, which we could plainly see from our mountain perch, also slow moving trains, as they plod their weary way over the plain. We reached the river about sundown and as we looked against the western horizon, began to see quite distinctly the snow-capped range of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They looked grand and formidable to us, knowing that we must climb up and over them before we could reach our journey's end. They held no terror for us, however, for we knew that we should suffer neither from heat nor thirst during our trail over their broad, friendly sides. For a couple of days we had been trying the experiment of camping during the day and travelling at night, but we soon got enough of that way of getting along. The traveling at night was all right, but to camp all day with a scorching sun overhead and a burning sand under our feet was more than we could endure, so we again worked by day and slept at night. There was no fuel along here except willows, and they were so green it was impossible to coax them into a blaze. We finally resorted to a willow crane, which we made by sticking a couple of willows into the sand, arching them over toward each other and tying them together, hanging our coffee-pot between them, underneath which we made a fire of dead grass tied in knots. For a long time we laid on the sand and fed that fire with knotted grass, but _boil_ the coffee would not. We had now reached the sink of the Humboldt, which was a small lake, perhaps ten or twelve miles long and two or three miles wide. The upper half was quite shallow, with soft, miry bottom covered with flags and rushes. The lower half was clear, open water, rounding off at its lower end with a smooth, sandy beach, making it a very pretty thing to look at, but its water was so brackish as to be unpalatable for drinking purposes. We camped for the night near its flags and rushes, a large quantity of which we cut and brought in for the animals, which seemed to give them new life and ambition. We also cut as many bundles as we could carry away bound to the backs of our loose stock, for we still had forty-two miles more of desert, without wood, water or grass, before reaching the Carson River. While camping in this vicinity two pelicans sailed around and lighted in the clear lake, beyond reach of rifle-shot. These were the first birds of the kind I had ever seen outside of a showman's cage, and I was determined to have one of them if possible; so, with rifle in hand, I waded out till the water came up under my arms, and, not being able to go any farther, I fired, but without avail. In looking about me as I waded back, I saw a little white tent a short way off, just on the edge of the lake. Going to it, I found a lone man about half drunk. I asked him what he was doing there, and he said he had some alcohol to sell at five dollars a quart. I bought a quart, my canteen full, and went back to camp. We succeeded in making coffee of the strongest kind and enough of it to fill our six canteens. We divided the alcohol equally among us and mixed it with the coffee. This arrangement was an experiment, but we found upon trial that one swallow of this mixture would make a person bat his eyes and step about quite lively, while two of them would make a man forget most of his troubles. I remember that it was about mid-afternoon when we finally packed and left the Humboldt River for the last time, which we did with but few regrets. It was our intention to make as much as possible of the Humboldt desert during the night. A few miles out the trail forked, the one to the right being "Trucke Route" and the other "Carson Route"; we decided upon the latter. Near the forks were some campers, two sets of them, who were quarreling as to which route was the better. They finally began to shoot at each other and were still at it when we passed out of hearing, not knowing or caring how the duel might end. Toward sundown we came to the salt wells, twelve miles from the sink, the water in them being as salt as the strongest brine. This was the last salt water we saw on our journey. About midnight we came to some tents, wagons, and a corral of stock; we were then nearly half the distance across the desert. At the tent water was sold at the very low price of "six bits" a gallon. We bought one gallon apiece for each of the animals and as much as we needed to drink at the time for ourselves. We did not care to dilute the contents of our canteens. We gave the stock a feed and moved on. The night was moonlighted, very bright and pleasant, but awfully still, rendered so seemingly by the surroundings, or perhaps by the lack of surroundings, for there could be heard no rushing of waters, no murmuring of forests no rustling of grasses. All of Nature's music-pieces had been left far behind. There was nothing but sand, and it was at rest except as our footfalls caused it to vibrate. The broad and barren expanse, the white light of the full moon full upon it, the curvings and windings of the trail upon the sand, the steady onward march of our caravan, all combined to make a subject worthy the brush of a Millet. We travelled in silence mostly. There was reverence in the atmosphere and we could not evade it. We did not even try. Akin to this scene must have been the one which inspired Longfellow to write: "Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her mien." CHAPTER XI. "BUT ALL COMES RIGHT IN THE END." From this point on to Carson River the route was continuously strewn with the carcasses of stock that had perished there, some of them years before. Owing probably to the dry climate and the fact that the greater part of the desert was covered with alkali and crystalized soda, the bodies of these animals remained perfect, as they had fallen. The sand glistening in their eyes gave them a very lifelike appearance. At intervals could be seen wagons, all complete except the cover, with two to four yoke of cattle lying dead, with the yokes on their necks, the chains still in the rings, just as they fell and died, most of them with their tongues hanging from their mouths. Daylight came just as we got to the loose sand. The moment the sun rose above the horizon its influence could be seen and felt, and in an hour or two several cattle-teams had perished near us. First one ox would drop as though he were shot, and in a few minutes others would sink down, and almost before the owner could realize the condition of things, a part or the whole of his team would lie dead. For the want of vegetables or acid of some kind, I had been troubled for a week or so with an attack of scurvy in my mouth, the gums being swollen because of the alkali dust. This not only caused me pain and misery, but created a strong and constant desire for something sour. While riding past an ox team I noticed a jug in the front end of the wagon. Upon inquiry of the driver, I found that the jug contained vinegar. I offered him a silver dollar for a cupful, but he refused to part with any of it, saying that he might need it himself before he got through. He was afoot on the off side of the wagon, where the jug was setting. I was sort of crazy mad and drawing my revolver, I rode around the rear of the wagon, thinking I would kill the fellow and take his jug of vinegar. But when he began to run for his life around the front yoke of cattle I came to my senses and hastened away from his outfit. We could now see a few scattering, tall trees outlining the Carson River, also long mountain spurs reaching almost out into the sand, covered with a short growth of pine timber. In leaving the sand about 11 o'clock A. M. I noticed a large open tent near by. I rode up and into the tent, and, looking about, saw among other things one bottle of gherkin pickles about one quart of them. I asked the price. It was five dollars, and I paid it gladly as the owner passed the bottle over to me. I saw in that bottle of pickles my day of deliverance and salvation, and drawing my long knife from my bootleg soon drew the cork and filled my fevered mouth with pickles. I assure my readers that I can taste those gherkins to this day. The proprietor, who evidently thought that I was a "little off," brought me to a sense of realization by telling me that his tent was not a mule stable and that I had better get out. His voice and expression made me feel that I might be in danger of losing my pickles, so I waited not on ceremony, but beat a hasty and complete retreat. We had now finished the desert which, with all its events and experiences, was already behind us. We had travelled more than one thousand miles with no tree in sight, and our feelings can easily be imagined when, in looking a short distance ahead, we saw a clump of trees--real trees, green trees, shade-giving trees. We instantly became, as it were, initiated into the tree-worshipping sect. We were soon, men and beasts, within the cooling shade, and the packs stripped from the poor, tired animals, when they were led into the shallow water of the Carson, where they drank and bathed to their heart's content, and were then turned loose into a stretch of good grass. We couldn't treat ourselves as well as we had treated our animals, for we had only a bite of hardtack crumbs, which we washed down with some of the "elixir of life" from our canteens. But we stretched ourselves underneath the friendly trees and, just letting loose of everything, slept until nearly noon the next day. The vicinity in which we camped seemed to have been pre-empted by a number of parties, who lived in tents and sold provisions to the immigrants. The settlement was called "Ragtown." After coming out of our long sleep and taking in the situation of our whereabouts we were soon ready to take up our westward march, which, in two days, brought us to the first real house we had seen since leaving the Missouri. This house was known as "Mormon Station." It was a good-sized story and half building, with a lean-to on one side and a broad porch on the other, along which was a beautiful little stream of cold, clear water. Cups were hanging on the porch columns for the use of immigrants. There were also long benches for them to sit and rest on. Connected with this house was a stock ranch and a cultivated farm of sixty acres, mostly all in vegetables. Within was a large store of supplies. Well, we didn't stop long for compliments, for our mouths were watering for some of those onions, lettuce, cabbage, new potatoes, pickles, steak and bacon, etc. We laid in a generous supply of the whole thing, including soft and hard bread and a bucket of milk. We also got a new coffeepot, as our old one had neither spout nor handle. After making our purchases we selected our camping-site and proceeded to make ourselves comfortable, after disposing of the stock in grass up to its eyes. We were going to have a supper fit for the gods, and everybody became busy. The boss coffee-maker attended strictly to his business, and some others cut and sliced an onion that was as large as a plate, covering it with salt and pepper and vinegar, which we ate as a "starter." We had an elegant supper and appetites to match. After supper some of the men went back to the store and laid in a supply of fresh bread and steak for breakfast. They brought back some pipes and tobacco, and for a long time we sat around our campfire smoking and reciting many experiences incident to our journey across the continent. With pangs of hunger and thirst appeased, our pipes filled to the brim and the smoke therefrom curling and twisting itself into cloud-banks, we were a supremely happy lot, and with the poet was ready to sing: "The road is rough and the day is cold, And the landscape's sour and bare, And the milestones, once such charming friends, Half-hearted welcomes wear. There's trouble before and trouble behind, And a troublesome present to mend, And the road goes up and the road goes down, _But it all comes right in the end._" We decided to remain in this place another day, thereby giving ourselves and the stock time to secure the rest which we so greatly needed. It was during our stay here that in loading my rifle for a duck the stock broke in two. In making this little book, I cannot pass the incident by without a few parting words in memory of my faithful old friend and protector. In make and style the gun was known as a Kentucky rifle, with curled maple stock the entire length of the barrel, underneath which was a "patch box," set lock, and a brass plate. Since we began to pack I had carried it continually on my shoulders, exposed to weather and elements, hot air and desert heat, until the varied exposures had so weakened it that it broke while being loaded. I had carried it on my shoulders for such a long time that my shirt and vest became worn through, and the brass plate, heated by the scorching sun, did a remarkable piece of pyro-sculpture by burning into my bare shoulders a pair of shoulder straps that continued with me more than a year. Carson valley, through which our route lay, seemed to be twenty or more miles wide when we first entered it, but it narrowed as it continued toward the Sierras until it became not more than a mile in width at the point where it pushed itself far into the mountain range. Upon the morning of our departure, we were early astir, and, turning to the right, left the valley that had been to us a Mecca of rest and replenishment, and entered the Dark Cañon, which is but a few rods wide, with perpendicular sides of rock so high that daylight seemed to be dropped down from overhead. Through this cañon flowed a rushing, roaring torrent of water, and as the bed of the cañon is very steep and made up mostly of round stones and boulders ranging in size from a marble to a load of hay, one can imagine something of the difficulties we had to encounter during the first four miles of our ascent. In addition to the well-nigh impassable track, was the most deafening and distracting accumulation of noises ever heard since the time of Babel. The water as it roared and rushed and dropped itself from boulder to boulder, the rattling and banging of empty wagons, the cracking of the drivers' whips, the shouting of the men, and the repetitions and reverberations of it all as the high walls caught them up and tossed them back and forth on their way to the exit, gave an impression that the cañon was engaged in grand opera with all stops open. After spending one entire day here we emerged into what is known as Hope Valley, and its name in no wise belied its nature. In its quietude we took a new hold of ourselves, remaining in camp within its enclosure during the night. The valley is a large estuary or basin upon the first great bench of the range. Its center seemed to consist of a quagmire, as one could not walk far out on it and stock could not go at all. Some of us took our knives and 'twixt rolling and crawling on our stomachs, got to where the grass was and cut and brought in enough to bait our horses and mules. We started again at daylight next morning, and as the roads were fairly good we made twelve miles, which brought us to the shore of Mountain Lake. The weather here was cold during the night, the water near the edge of the lake freezing to the thickness of window glass. We were among quite heavy timber of pine and fir. This place might be called the second point in line of ascent. About one-half mile distant was the region of perpetual snow, in full sight, toward which we climbed and worked most assiduously, the line being very steep and the trail exceedingly zigzagged. Resting-places were only to be had on the upper side of the great trees. It was here that a four mule team, hitched to a splendid carry-all, got started backward down the mountain, the driver jumping from his seat. The whole outfit going down the mountain end over end and brought up against a large tree, the vehicle completely wrecked. The mules landed farther down. Arriving at the snow line, we found grass and even flowers growing and blooming in soil moistened by the melting snow. The notch in the summit of the mountains through which we had to pass was four miles distant from this point. The trail leading up was of a circular form, like a winding stair, turning to the left, and the entire distance was completely covered with snow, or more properly ice crystals as coarse as shelled corn, which made the road-bed so hard that a wheel or an animal's foot scarcely made an impression on it. We reached the summit about noon, August 7th, where we halted to rest and, as did Moses, "to view the landscape o'er." Looking back and down upon the circular road we could plainly see many outfits of men, animals, and wagons, as they slowly worked their way up and around the great circle which we had just completed. Thinking we might see the Missouri River or some eastern town from our great altitude, we looked far out to the east; but the fact was we could see but a very little way as compared with our view on the plains. On a point high up on the rocks I spied a flag, which proved to be a section from a red woolen shirt. Upon going to it I found in a small cavity in the highest peak a bottle having upon its label the inscription, "Take a drink and pass on." We went down to the edge of the timber on the California side and spent a night on the hard snow. We had wood for fire, snow for water, and pine boughs for beds, but no feed for our hungry beasts. Having laid in a good supply of provisions at Mormon Station, among which was a big sack of hard bread, we gave the animals a ration apiece of the same, promising them something better as soon as it could be had. This was our first night in California, having heretofore been travelling, since leaving the Missouri River Valley, in the Territory of Nebraska, except as we passed through a little corner of Oregon, near Ft. Hall. After an early breakfast, we left the region of snow and went down among the timber and into a milder atmosphere. We passed through a place called Tragedy Springs, whose history, we afterwards learned, was indicated by its name. Leek Springs was the name of our next stopping place, which, from its appearance, evidently a favorite resort of all who passed that way. It so happened, however, that we were the only parties camping there that night. Realizing that we were very near our journey's end, we made these last evenings together as pleasant and as restful as possible. I remember this evening in particular, also the following morning, when, upon bestirring ourselves, we found that our sack of hard bread had been eaten and the sack torn to pieces. The frying pan had been licked clean, and things generally disturbed. Upon investigation we soon found that the camp had been invaded by two grizzly bears. They had walked all around us while we slept, evidently smelling of each one, as was indicated by the large, plain tracks which they had left, not only in the camp, but across the road also as they took their departure. During the day we had opportunity to buy some hay for our stock, and at night we made ourselves at home among the heaviest white pine timber I ever saw. To test the size of the trees, we selected one that was representative of more than half the trees in that vicinity, and four of us joined hands and tried to circle the tree, but could not. They were so large and so near together that it seemed as though more than one-half of the ground and air was taken up by them. They had only a few stub branches for a top. Their bodies were as straight and as smooth as a ship's mast, and so tall that in looking at them one usually had to throw one's head back twice before seeing their tops. The western slope of the Sierras was much more gradual in its descent than on the eastern side, the former reaching from the summit to the Valley of the Sacramento, about one hundred miles, while the ascent on the eastern side, from the leaving of Carson Valley, is about twenty-four miles. The travel along here was quiet and easy, and as we had reason to believe that we were in close proximity to the gold mines, we were constantly looking out for them. We found a sort of restaurant on the hillside, where we treated ourselves to sardines and vinegar, coffee and crackers; and a little later we came upon some men actually engaged in gold-digging, the first we had ever seen. The place was called Weber Creek Diggings. There were several Chinamen in the group, who, with their broad bamboo hats and their incessant chatter, were certainly a great curiosity to us. We passed on and soon came to Diamond Spring Diggings, where we spent the night under an immense lone tree. The ground was rich with gold here, and if we had gone to digging and washing the very spot on which we slept we could all of us have made a snug fortune; but it was not for us to get rich so quickly. This was our last night together, Hangtown, or Placerville, Eldorado County, as it is to-day, being but a few miles distant. We reached Hangtown in time for breakfast, after which we all rode up the dividing ridge, from the top of which we looked down upon the busiest town and richest mining district in that country. The hill was long and steep, and thereby hangs a tale. The saddle had worked up on my mule's shoulders, which I had not noticed, my mind being so wholly given to our new surroundings. In a second of time, and with no admonition whatever, that mule kicked both hind feet into the air, and I was made to turn a complete somersault over his head landing on the flat of my back just in front of him. He stopped and looked at me with a malicious smile in his eye, as much as to say: "We will now quit even." The breath was knocked out of me. The boys picked me up and brushed the dirt off, but I never mounted the mule again. We closed our social relations right there. To think he should be so ungrateful as to treat me in that way after I had watched over him with so much care and tenderness! We had swam many a stream together; I had even divided my bread with him; I had reposed so much confidence in him that many a night had I slept with the loose end of his lariat tied to my wrist. When we returned to town I sold both my mule and pony. After we had treated ourselves to a bath, shave, haircut, and some new clothes we started out to prospect for individual interests, and became separated. Two of the company I have never seen since we parted that afternoon, August 10, 1852. CHAPTER XII. EACH DAY MAKES ITS OWN PARAGRAPHS AND PUNCTUATION MARKS. "I am dreaming to-night of the days gone by, When I camped in the open so free and grand. * * * * * Those days have gone; each passing year Has made the buoyant steps grow slow, But the pictures stay to comfort and cheer The days that come and the days that go." During the preparation of the previous chapters I have once again been twenty-four years old. Once again I have lived over those five months, so alternated with lights and shadows, but above which the star of hope never for a moment lacked luster or definiteness. The entire route from Monroe, Michigan, to Hangtown, was one great book, having new lessons and illustrations for each day. Some of them were beautiful beyond description; others were terrible beyond compare, and so hard to understand. Each day made its own paragraphs and punctuation marks, and how surprising and unexpected many of them were! Commas would become semicolons and periods give place to exclamation points, in the most reckless sort of fashion. The event which had been planned as a period to a day's doings would often instead become a hyphen, leading into and connecting us with conditions wholly undreamed of. To-day as I look back upon the more than fifty intervening years I realize that the wealth that I gathered from the wayside of each day's doings has enriched my whole after-life far beyond the nuggets which I digged from the mines. Nature never does anything half-heartedly. Her every lesson, picture, and song is an inspirer and enricher to all who would learn, look, and listen aright. All of our company, excepting the one who still sleeps in his prairie bed, eventually reached the "promised land." Captain and Mrs. Wadsworth, then as before, were noted and esteemed for their noble manhood and womanhood. The Captain in time was made Marshal of Placerville and did much for the advancement of its interests. Both he and his wife died after being in California about seven years. Charley Stewart, the young man with whom I had the midnight tussle, returned to his home in a few months, dying shortly thereafter. He had made the trip hoping to benefit his impaired health, but was disappointed in the result. I kept in touch with several of the others for some time. After two years I returned home by way of the Isthmus, when other and new interests claimed my time and attention, and I would only hear now and again that one and then another and yet others had left the trail and passed over the dividing ridge into the land where camps neither break nor move on. The story of our trail has of necessity been told in monologue, as only I of all the number am here to tell it. The pictures upon memory's walls, a few relics, and a golden band upon my wife's finger, made into a wedding-ring from gold that I myself had dug, are the links which unite _these_ days to _those_ days. 
31449	----	ACROSS THE PLAINS TO CALIFORNIA IN 1852 JOURNAL OF MRS. LODISA FRIZZELL EDITED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT IN THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY BY VICTOR HUGO PALTSITS KEEPER OF MANUSCRIPTS [Illustration: Logo] THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY 1915 REPRINTED MAY 1915 FROM THE BULLETIN OF THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY OF APRIL 1915 [Illustration: _Indians._ FROM A WATER-COLOR BY MRS. FRIZZELL, AUTHOR OF THE ACCOMPANYING NARRATIVE] * * * * * ACROSS THE PLAINS TO CALIFORNIA IN 1852 FROM THE LITTLE WABASH RIVER IN ILLINOIS TO THE PACIFIC SPRINGS OF WYOMING JOURNAL OF MRS. LODISA FRIZZELL EDITED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT IN THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY BY VICTOR HUGO PALTSITS, KEEPER OF MANUSCRIPTS EDITOR'S NOTE This simple narrative journal was written at Cañon Creek in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, in the middle of December, 1852, by Mrs. Lodisa Frizzell, who, with her husband, Lloyd Frizzell, and their four sons, set out on April 14th, of that year, from their unnamed home, not far from Ewington, Effingham County, Illinois, on the upper reaches of the Little Wabash River, on an overland journey to California. The journal records her observations and experiences from the Little Wabash, across Illinois and Missouri, to St. Louis and St. Joseph, and over the St. Joseph and Oregon Trails to the Pacific Springs, in Fremont County, Wyoming. Here, at the continental divide and at the halfway point of her journey, the journal ends, on June 26th, or the seventy-fourth day out. It was nearly seven months later, in her snowbound quarters of the Sierra Nevadas, that she busied herself with its composition from notes she had kept by the way, enlivened by her memory. Mrs. Frizzell's journal was secured by The New York Public Library with the manuscripts of the Ford Collection, presented by the late J. Pierpont Morgan. It has a quaint manuscript title-page, as follows: _Narative of a Journal [sic] across the "Plains" in 1852 by Mrs. Lodisa Frizzell. Illustrated by several original drawings. And to my relatives, and friends, respectfully subscribed._ A later hand has written over the title the words, "The Overland Route to California." Among the numerous amateurish illustrations drawn by lead pencil and tinted with colors, three are reproduced here; also her three route maps. The other illustrations include the following: "The home I left behind me" (Her home in Illinois); "Crossing the Nimehaw"; "Killing a buffalo"; "Independence Rock"; "A view of Devil's Gate"; "Distant view of Courthouse & Chimney rocks"; "Chimney Rock 5 miles distant"; "Distant view of Laramie Peak"; "A view of Sweetwater mountains. 5 miles west of the Devil's Gate"; "Buffalo skeletons"; "View of the Wind range of mountains"; "View of South Pass"; "A Horned Frog." Written on inner covers or flyleaves are several names, which may be of value for future identification. They are: John G. Harness, 1852; Nancy Varnyan; G. W. Catron; Wm. Malone; Orin Anderson and T. Alexander. Nothing has been discovered of the personal history of this Frizzell family. The patronymic, however, is found at an early period in New England. In 1859, Lieutenant Gouverneur K. Warren, of the corps of topographical engineers, U. S. A., issued a _Memoir_ and map of the exploring expeditions in the West, from 1800 to 1857, and an epitome thereof forms a part of volume 1 of Wheeler's _Report_, appendix F, of the United States Geographical Surveys west of the one hundredth meridian (Washington, 1889). Among the narratives of those who, in the main, travelled the route covered by Mrs. Frizzell, the earliest is the journal of Robert Stuart, 1812, of which The New York Public Library has a complete typewritten transcript, made from the original manuscript in 1908. This journey was begun in June, 1812, at Astoria, and ended at the Ohio. It was undertaken by representatives of the Pacific Fur Company. The next important expedition to the Rocky Mountains was made by Captain B. L. E. Bonneville, 1832-1836, of which we have the record in Washington Irving's _The Rocky Mountains_, first published in 1837, in two volumes. In 1835, Colonel, afterwards General Henry Dodge, covered a part of the way en route from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. In 1842, J. C. Frémont traversed the Plains on his first expedition, ending in the Wind River Mountains, and in 1843-1844, he went over much of the same ground. Joel Palmer's journal of his travels over the Rocky Mountains, in 1845-1846, was printed in 1852, and has been edited as a part of Thwaites's _Early Western Travels_. Among the California pioneers, who went over the route in the mad rush of 1849, was Amasa Delano, who wrote an illuminating journal, published as _Life on the Plains_, in 1854. These and many other publications have been consulted in editing the Frizzell journal. THE JOURNAL PREFACE Agreeable to my promise I now set down to write the incidents of my journey to Callifornia. Having taken notes by the way, I shall be able by the assistance of my memory, to give you a full & accurate account of the "trip." It is now about the middle of December,[1] I am here in midst of the Sierra Nevada rightly named snowy mountains, the snow has been constantly falling for the last ten days & still it has not abated; it is now some ten or twelve feet in this place (Canyan Creek[2]) & on the mountain tops, fifty or more, there is no passing or repassing at present, I am shut up in my room, the snow having completely blocked up both doors and windows, I therefore have lighted my candles & sat down to amuse myself & "while the tideous hours away" by giving you my narative. FOOTNOTES: [1] December, 1852. [2] Cañon Creek, a north branch of Trinity R., in Trinity Co., Cal. CHAPTER I FROM THE WABASH RIVER[3] TO ST. LOUIS We (that is George Westall Bethel Elliot, my husband[4] & myself) started for California on the 14th day of April, with five yoke of cattle one pony & sidesaddle, & accompanied by several of our friends & neighbors as far as the first town, where we parted & said our last _good by_, & turning westward which was to be our course for most of the way of our long journey. The first night we put up at widdow womans, we did not camp out, all though we had intended to commence camping from the start, but it goes so much "agin the grane" at first, & then there is so many fine people passing & repassing along the road, while you are eating your meal on a log, or stump, or the end board of your waggon, with your tin plates tin cups &c. For my part I felt _kinder streaked_[5] at first, especially while we traveled in the states. As I said we did not camp out the first night & having plenty of victuals with us went in made some tea, fried some eggs, eat our suppers, & were accomodated with a fine bed, which is a great luxury after a hard days travel; but my thoughts and reflections were such that I could not readily fall asleep. Who is there that does not recollect their first night when started on a long journey, the wellknown voices of our friends still ring in our ears, the parting kiss feels still warm uppon our lips, & that last seperating word _Farewell!_ sinks deeply into the heart. It may be the last we may ever hear from some or all of them, & to those who start for California there can be no more solemn scene of parting only at death; for how many are now sleeping in death on the lonely plains whose Farewell was indeed their last. [April 15--2d day] But to return, we started in the morning of our seckond day, a fine clear sky, but the roads rather muddy. Loyd[6] killed ten plovers with 2 shots of his double barrel shotgun, which we dressed, & had a fine supper, which we cooked by a log in the wood where we camped for the night, about half a mile west of Ewington.[7] We obtained lodging nearby, slept soundly started in the morning [April 16--3d day] after preparing our hasty meal; it soon commenced raining I kept in the waggon, we killed 2 ducks & some plovers, bought some butter, & at night having come about 21 miles we encamped had a fine supper, the proprietor of the place came down & spent the evening with us around our large fire, we went up to the house with him stayed 'till morning, yoked up our team started on our journey [April 17--4th day], killed 2 squirrels & some quails, 3 horse teams passed us to-day for California, we put up to-night 3 miles east of Greenville.[8] [April 18--5th day] To day Sunday passed through the beautiful town of Greenville which approached from the east has a very picturesque appearance from the hill which overlooks the town & surrounding country, Crossed Lookingglass Prairie[9] which is the most beautiful & fertile prairie I ever saw, but being so large it is but thinly settled, encamped on the west side of it, at a house, it being to late to reach the timber that night. [April 19--6th day] Killed 3 squirrels traveled 22 miles encamped in a wood, slept in the waggon for the first time, passed through a small town this morning [April 20--7th day] as we proceeded on our journey, & about 10 o'clock we came to the pleasant town of C----ville,[10] from there we had the pleasure of traveling on a fine plank road, we soon came in sight of the tall spires of the city of St. Louis,[11] & there were other signs that we were approaching a great metropolis, there were gentlemen on the ponds[12] fishing some gunning, & several little boys along the roadside with spear in hand, a sack thrown over their shoulder & with deliberate aim picked up every frog that dared to put their heads above the water. they were not doing this for sport or prehaps [sic] the frogs might have reproved them, but for proffit, I asked one little fellow what he got for his frogs? he said 3 bits[13] a dozzen. About the middle of the day we arived on the bank of the Mississippi opposite St. Louis, encamped in sight of several waggons which we knew from appearences were for the same destination as ourselves, the horse teems which had passed us some days before soon came up, some of their party had been through before, & we intended to travel with them seeing that we could go as far in a day as they did, but circumstances prevented as you will soon see. The men all went over to the city, & returned in the evening with an account of the vast number of Californians (as we were called here) who were there outfiting & shipping &c. [April 21--8th day] This morning we went down to the Ferry crossed over, & with much difficulty forced our way through the narrow streets which were crowded with drays, & the loose stalk which was being driven down to the ferry boat, but we made our way up to the place where we were to get our outfit, it was nearly opposite the postoffice, fortunately there was a pile of bricks lying on the side of the road which protected our team or I think they must have been run over. I choose to set in the waggon while they were trading; & never before did I see such bustle, & hear such a din as I did in those two hours, or ever see such a drama pass before me, for being in the immediate vicinity of the postoffice there were constantly passing in & out, a mixed multitude of all ages sex & condition, I amused myself by noticing them as they passed while I was unobserved in our huge covered waggon. Many of them as they came out with a letter would immediately break the seal and commence reading, although this subjected them to be run against by every passer by, but they did not seem to heed it, and when to much annoyed they would lean against the palings or set down in some sheltered spot. There was the man of business, whom you could distinguish by his brisk walk, important airs, fine dress & appearence, he would merely glance at the signature, put it in his pocket, & hurry back to his shop, but I noticed one old man as he broke open his letter & was reading it, appeared dejected; he would stop, and his mind would seem abstracted, for he heeded nothing which passed arround him, it know [no] doubt contained unwelcome news. I thought it might have been the conduct of some profligate son, or perhaps of some disaster which affected his pecuniary condition. I also noticed a woman reading a letter as she walked along leading a small child, she appeared to be about 40 years of age, rather poorly clad; when she broke the seal she appeared aggitated, but she had not read far before she smiled & tears of joy ran down her cheeks, I could not mistake the mother or wife was there; & I conjectured with some probability that it was favorable news from a husband or son in California. But I will not attempt to discribe all I saw, but I must say that the noise & bustle of those two hours was enough to give one the headache it exceeded that of the levy of New-Orleans. [Illustration: _Distant view of St. Louis._] FOOTNOTES: [3] Little Wabash River of Illinois. [4] Her husband was Lloyd Frizzell. [5] An Americanism with various meanings,--"ashamed," "disconcerted," etc. [6] Her husband. [7] Ewington, Effingham Co., Ill., twenty-nine miles northeast of Vandalia, on the west bank of the Little Wabash River. It was formerly the county seat and derived its name from Gen. W. L. D. Ewing, a prominent lawyer of Vandalia. [8] Greenville, Bond Co., Ill., the county seat, situate on the East Fork of Big Shoal Creek. [9] Looking Glass Prairie, a large, fine and undulating prairie, situate between Silver and Sugar Creeks, on the eastern border of St. Clair Co., Ill. [10] Collinsville, Madison Co., Ill. [11] They were near East St. Louis. [12] Indian Lake may be meant. [13] A colloquialism usually denoting a shilling, valued at twelve and a half cents. A long bit is fifteen cents and a short bit is ten cents. CHAPTER II FROM ST. LOUIS TO ST. JOSEPH At length it was decided that myself with the outfit should be shiped on board a steamer & sent to St. Joseph,[14] accordingly I was conveyed on board the Martha Jewett[15] which was loading with freight for that, & intermediate points, while the men with the team would proceed by land. The cabin of this well furnished & beautiful steamer was filled with passengers two thirds of whom were for California. [April 22--9th day] Started up the river about 2, o'clock this afternoon, the company being all strangers to me I felt quite lonesome, thought much about "those I left behind me." [April 23--10th day] A man fell overboard this morning, he was a deck passenger going to California, broke two of his ribs, he is not expected to live, he has no family as I could learn. there are about 200 passengers on board for California. [April 24--11th day] The man died last night, carried him on to Boonville[16] & buried him, I did not learn his name. We got on rather slowly for the boat is very heavily laden, there is some 100 head of cattle horses & mules on board, a good many among whom were those gentlemen with whom we had intended to travel having shipped their teems & waggons besides their other freight, & the river is quite low. [April 25--12th day] Sunday quite sad although there were some 40 ladies on board, I have been reading the various guides of the rout to California, they have not improved my ideas of the _pleasure_ of the trip, no very flattering accounts I assure you, but hope we may find it better, not worse. [April 26--13th day] The country along the Mississouri [_sic_] most of the way, is quite broken, & hilly, many of the towns are small & uninteresting, but there are some, though not large which do a great deal of business. The scenery is quite monotonous. [April 27--14th day] Passed the wreck of the steamer Luda,[17] which was blown up a short time since, it was a sad sight; for nearly 200 hundred lives were lost by that fatal accident, & the most of them I was told were for California. Men were at work digging from the hulk (which was nearly all that was left, so great was the explosion) such articles as were of value, or to ascertain if there were any dead bodies, to give them burial. I suppose they had found many for they had a line on which was hung promiscuously men, women, & children's clothes, it made ones heart ache to look uppon such a sight, but what must be the feelings of those who should recognize amidst those wet & muddy articles, some well known garment, of relative or friend, whose body in death lies sleeping beneath the turbulent waters & sands, of the Mississouri [_sic_]. Passed the town of Kanzas,[18] here was some 60 waggons of the Sante Fee traders. Saw several indians here, one squaw on a beautiful white pony. This is a pretty place, we also passed Ft. Levenworth[19] which is pleasantly situated on an elevated plain, which affords a fine view, this as its name indicates is a military station. Saw several of the black war dogs[20] standing around there, but I guess they have very little to bark at now. [April 28--15th day[21]] Arived at St. Josep[h] this evening, the banks of the river & all around the town were white with waggons, & tents; while the people came running down to the wharf by hundreds, a great many came on board for their families, or to look for some expected friend; they would come to the cabin door, & with an anxious looks survey all within, but if the ones they sought were there, it was but for a moment, before the eye of affection would recognize, the wife her husband, the daughter her father, the father by his whole family all rushing up to him to see who should be first caressed. They soon all left the boat excepting a few I was one as it was now dark, & it was reported that the tavern were all full. [April 29--16th day] I left the boat this morning with a family with whom I had formed an agreeable acquaintance, who were going to California, & they having accertained that it was impossible to get boarding in town, concluded to cross the river, & pitch their tent, & having a good sheet iron cooking stove & they would board themselves; & as their teems were coming by land & not expected for several days I was invited to go over with them which I accordingly did. We proceeded to the ferry, but could not cross for 2 hours for the crowd of teams which were in before us; while waiting there, some 200 indians of the Pawtawattimees & Winewbagoes[22] came down the street, affording me one of the strangest sights I ever saw. They were verry dark complected, quite black, half clothed, & some few were ornamented; they had some 30 or 40 ponies which were laden as I should judge by the variety; with every thing that they possessed; for there were fastened on the top of the enormous loads which they carried, dogs, puppies, paupooses, chickens, & those who were unable to walk by reason of age or infirmity. One of the puppies thus confined kept yelping, probably from hunger, an old indian perhaps tired of hearing it, or thinking that it disturbed us, steped up & shot it in the head with a blunt arrow & killed it, and then threw it in the river. They were in a hurry to cross over and crowded down to the waters edge, the ferrymen would not take but a few of them at a time for there was not room for the waggons, one old skuaw was as mad as a wet hen, she scolded a perfect storm, one of the men who stood by understood her, & interpreted to us what she said, & it served to amuse us not a little. Our turn now come we crossed over to the wild and unhabited (except by indians) Territory of Nebraska. We soon had our tent up got some dinner, the indians came round the tent, some begging, some having a few articles to trade, and as they concluded a bargain or "swop" as they call it, they shake hands with all around and say, good, good, & then depart. [April 30--17th day] Last night I slept but little, the indians had encamped not far from us, & they kept up a constant singing, or howling for it was the most doleful noise I ever heard, & they were passing around the tent, & some would pull open the door & peep in, I knew they had liquor, for I had seen several of them drunk, I was fearful what they might do, the strangeness of the scene & the wildness of the place, made me conjure up in my mind all the indian massacres of which I had ever read or heard, but the Major[23] & his family slept soundly, for he had been through before consequently he heeded them not, nor did I say a word, but was glad when day broke; my fears were dispelled with the darkness. Seated outside the tent I was amused watching the indians shoot with their bows & arrows for 5 or 10 cts that some men would put up for the purpose of seeing them shoot, or looking at them ride on their ponies in a manner that none but indians can; it is a novel sight to see them, their faces painted, or tattooed, wraped in their red blankets with a kind of cap on their heads, & stuck in the top were from one to a dozen long feathers of various colors, & by a word to their ponies, for I seldom see them use a whip, they scamper away with the speed of the wind. [May 1--18th day] Teams crossing the river all the while, but there is not half ferry boats enough here, great delay is the consequence, besides the pushing, & crowding, to see who shall get across first. There is every description of teams & waggons; from a hand cart & wheel-barrow, to a fine six horse carriage & buggie; but more than two thirds are oxen & waggons similar to our own; & by the looks of their loads they do not intend to starve. Most of the horses, mules & cattle, are the best the states afford; they are indeed beautiful, but I fear some of them will share the fate of the "gallant grey" of Snowdouns Knight.[24] [May 2--19th day] It being a very pleasant day we walked out toward the indian encampment, we saw a little way to our left a painted post, which the Major said denoted that an indian was buried there; we turned aside, found there were two graves on[e] of quite recent date, & recolecting that I had seen a coffin put on the ferryboat that day I came over I supposed this to be the same, deposited here, & that the noise I heard them making the following night, was the funeral dirge. There was one old grey headed indian here, but on approach, he wraped his blanket around him, & without speaking, or seeming to take notice of us, walked off into the thickets, & disappeared. I looked after him as he turned away, & felt as if I was an intruder. There was an air of greatness about him, his tall and erect figure, & noble features; he had doubtless sat arround the council fires of his tribe when they were many, before the white man had reduced their numbers to a mere handful, & perhaps this one now laid low, might have been the last belonging to him; no doubt but he could "a tale unfold," of the events of bygone years. But we proceeded onward & found that they had nearly all packed up and gone, some of the squaws were mounted on their little ponies 2 on each, seated on opposite sides, so as to ballance. We turned to the tent, heard that the Majors teems had arrived in town, & would be over in the morning. [May 3--20th day] A place having been found at a private house where I could be accommodated for a few days, I recrossed the river, went to the house where I was to stay, until the team came which I most anxiously wished for, as the numbers which passed over dayly, seemed to me so great that we should be behind, for there are a like number crossing at several other points at the same time. [May 4 to 7--21st to 24th days] Began to look for the team, but manny said, it would take at least 18 or 20 days to come from St. louis here, looked quite hard to-day. [May 8--25th day] This morning I went out walked up a hill which overlooks the town & river, never saw such a bustle, there was a large drove of cattle filling the streets for some distance, which they were crossing to the other side as fast as possible, with their little boats, where there should have been at least 2 good large steam ferry boats, & I should think that they could afford to build them, or charter them from some other ports, this I know & all others who have experienced it, that it is a great vexation to keep ones team standing for a day or two in the street, & watch your chance to get ferried over, for the press is so great that they will slip in before you if they can. I saw several teams approaching the town, & I suppose I saw ours, for they came in about that time, but I did not see the grey pony (which I afterwards learned they had sold her back getting sore) nor the blue steer which had died concluded it was not them, returned to the house, & thought if it was them they would soon be in, but as it proved the letter which I had deposited in the P. O., informing them of my wherebouts, was nailed upon the door, & had been covered over by others of more recent date, I had also left word with the commission merchant to whom the goods were shiped that I was going over the river to stay several days prehaps [_sic_] until they came; if not I would leave a line there, or in the P. O. Loyd got this word, & not finding any line in the office, immediately crossed the river & searched for me for several miles out on the road. [May 9--26th day] Sunday I sat at the window observing every team & every person, for I thought surely they would come to day, while they at the same time were looking as hard for me. Loyd having got no tidi[ngs] of me over the river; went to every church in the town, & looked if I was there, but not seeing me, he went to the P. O. once more, & tearing off some score of letters he found the desired information, & in a few moments he was at the door; & "the lost was found," all was soon explained, we eat our dinner, which was to be out last at a table for some time. We went down, crossed over the river, after having procured several articles to complete our outfit, found our team already on the opposite bank ready to start, our other team from Calhoun Co.[25] was in waiting to accompany us, they had fallen in company with our folk & George[26] being acquainted with them, & as we had never heard from Mr. Besser we were glad of their company, but there was no woman with them, but 5 men one waggon 4 yoke of splendid cattle, they were merry fellows and as we came up they joked us not a little about our looking for each other at the same time. & congratulated us upon our success. FOOTNOTES: [14] On the Missouri River, from St. Louis to St. Joseph. [15] The "Martha Jewett," of which W. C. Jewett was master, began her trips on the Missouri River in 1852. She was "one of the finest and most popular boats on the river in her day." [16] Boonville, the county seat of Cooper Co., Mo. [17] The "Saluda," a side-wheel steamer with double engine and two boilers, having a capacity of 233 tons, was built in 1846. She exploded at Lexington, Mo., on the morning of April 9, 1852, only eighteen days prior to the above observation of Mrs. Frizzell.--_Chappell. History of the Missouri River, 1906, p. 52, 74._ [18] Kansas City. [19] Fort Leavenworth, two miles north of the city of Leavenworth, Kan., situate on Rattlesnake Hills, was first occupied as a cantonment in 1827, and became a regular fort of the U. S. government about 1832. [20] Cannon.--_Original note_. [21] Mrs. Frizzell made an error at this point, numbering the day as the "18th", instead of 15th, which led to a misnumbering throughout. It has been corrected here. [22] Potawatomi and Winnebago. [23] An original note names him "Major Stemmons, of Rockport, Mo." This is evidently an error for _Slemmons_, a family-name that is yet found in Atchison County. [24] An allusion to the Knight of Snowdoun in Scott's _The Lady of the Lake_. [25] Calhoun Co., Ill. [26] One of her sons. CHAPTER III FROM ST. JOSEPH TO FT. KEARNEY Come now with me gentle reader, and let us cross the plains, I will endeavor to show you whatever is worth seeing, & tell you as much as you will care about hearing, while you are comfortably seated around your own fireside, without fatiegue, or exposure, I will conduct you the whole of this long & weary journey, which I wish if you should ever in reality travel, that you may feel no more fatiegue than you do at the presant moment, but I fear that you would, as you yourself will probably admit before the close of this narative. This is considered th[e] starting point[27] from this river is time reconed, & it matters not how far you have come, this is the point to which they all refer, for the question is never, when did you leave home? but, when did you leave the Mississouri [sic] river? Our team looked bad one ox had died, the roads through Missouri were muddy & bad. It was about 2 o'clock as we started out through the heavy timbered bottom which extends back some 7 or 8 miles from the river, & which was to be the last of any note until we reached the Siera Nevada Mts. It seems hard to believe, but it is nevertheless true, that this immence distance is nearly destitute of timber, particularly near the road. It comenced raining a little, we reached the outskirts of the timber, called the bluffs, as the land raises here, we encamped pitched our tent, soon had a large fire, got supper, turned the cattle out to graze on the grass & bushes, for they were vary hungry & devoured whatever came in their way, they soon filled themselves & they were drove up & tied each one by a rope, to the waggon, or bushes nearby. There were several campfires burning in sight, we at length went to bed, Loyd & I occupied the waggon, while the boys slept in the tent, I had bought rag carpet enough to spread over the ground in the tent which proved excellent for keeping the wet, or sand, from getting on the bedding, which consisted of buffalo robes & blankets, which I considder the best for this journey, as they keep cleaner & do not get damp so easily as cotton quilts. [May 10--27th day] Stayed in camp to-day unloaded our waggon put every thing that it was possible in sacks leaving our trunk chest, barrels & boxes, which relieved the waggon, of at least, 300 lbs, besides it was much more conveniently packed. Water being handy, we washed up all our things & prepared to start soon in the morning. A boy about 12 years old came to our tent poorly clad, he said he was going back, I asked him several questions, & learned that he had ran away from his folks who lived in the eastern part of Ohio, had got his passage from one Steamboat to another, until he had reached St. Jo.[28] & then had got in with some one to go to California, but he said they would not let him go any further, & sent him back, I gave him something to eat & told him to go back to his parents, I know not where he went but from his tale this was not the first time that he had ran away from home. What a grief to parents must such children be. [Illustration: THREE ROUTE MAPS ST. JOSEPH TO FT. KEARNY--FT. KEARNY TO FT. LARAMIE--FT. LARAMIE TO SOUTH PASS] [May 11--28th day] Fine morning, started out on the Plain which appeared boundless, stretching away to the south & covered with excellent grass 5 or 6 inches high, but they were not near so level as I had supposed, quite undulating like the waves of the sea when subsiding from a storm, In 6 or 8 ms,[29] we came to where there was a general halt, some dozen teams standing here waiting to cross a deep slue,[30] in which one team & waggon were stuck & were obliged to unload part of their goods, it being difficult to attatch more team to it where it then was, some others taking the precaution doubled theirs before starting in, but noticed that the great difficulty was in the cattle not pulling together, we drove in just above them, passed over, went on our way which for many miles is often in sight of the Mississouri [_sic_] river and the highlands on the opposite bank to the cultivated fields of which I often turned a "lingiring look" which is the last I have as yet seen, or may see for some time, with one exception which I shall soon relate. We met two or three indians, saw a fresh made grave, a feather bed lying upon it, we afterwards learned that a man & his wife had both died a few days before, & were burried together here, they left 2 small children, which were sent back to St. Joseph by an indian chief. We now came to Wolf creek,[31] a small stream but very steep banks, the indians have constructed a kind of bridge over it, & charged 50 cts per waggon, there were several of them here, quite fine looking fellows, not near so dark as those I had seen, but of the real copper color, said they were of the Sacs & Fox tribes.[32] One was a chief, he was dressed in real indian stile, had his hair shaved off all except the crown lock, which was tied up & ornamented with beads & feathers, he, & one or two others, had various trinkits upon their arms, legs, & heads, but their main dress was their bright red blankets, There were several teams here, which were passing over before us, when one of the teams getting stalled on the opposite bank, which was steep & muddy, a little pert looking indian jumped up comenced talking & jesticulating in great earnest; on inquiring what it was he said? an interpreter nearby said, he was saying to the driver, that if he could not go through there he could not go to California, he had better go back home. We passed over when our turn came, & went a short distance up the stream, & encamped; having come about 20 ms, fine grass here, & some small timber along the banks of this creek, I had a severe headache this evening, our folks having got their supper, they were soon seated around a blazing fire, & were soon joined by several indians, who likewise seated themselves by the fire, & as one of them could speak a little English, they kept up quite a conversation. They said they no steal white mans cattle, they good indian, but the Pawnee he bad indian, he steal, no good, Loyd gave them a drink of brandy which when they had tasted, said strong, strong, but smacked their lips as if it was not stronger than they liked. I lay in the waggon looked out upon this group, which as the glare of the fire fell on the grim visages, & bare, brawny arms, & naked bodies; having nothing on the upper part of the body but their loose blanket, & as they move their arms about when speaking, their bodies are half naked most of the time, the contrast was striking between their wild looks & savage dress, to the familiar faces of our own company, & their civilized dress and speech. [May 12--29th day] I felt quite well this morning, we soon dispatched our breakfast, yoked up our cattle which were as full as _ticks_, started out into the broad road, or roads, for here there are several tracks, there is plenty of room for horse, or mule teams to go around, which will be quite different when we come to the Mountains, we passed the indian mission,[33] where there are several hundred acers of land cultivated by indians under the superintendince of the missionaries. Rested our teams at noon, took a lunch, went on some 10 miles farther [sic], & encamped, where there was good grass, but very little water & no wood, we succeeded in boiling the tea kettle, & making some coffee, & having plenty of bread, meat, & crackers, fruit pickles, &c, we done very well for supper, it was quite cold tonight, but slept well till morning. [May 13--30th day] Started out soon this morning, passed several graves, we hear that it is sickly on the route, that there are cholera, smallpox, & measles, but rumor says so much, that you do not know when to believe her, but the graves prove that some have died, & it must be expected that from such a number, some would die; but it is very sad to part with them here, for the heart can hardly support the addition, of so much grief, for there are few whose hearts are not already pained, by leaving so many behind. We came to another indian toll bridge, which crossed a small ravine, charged but 25 cts, two indians here, went on till near night and encamped for the night, very good place, in a hollow to the left of the road. George caught some small fish with a pinhook. [May 14--31st day] Soon in the morning we renewed our journey, through a fine rotting[34] prairie, small groves of timber along the water courses, giving the landscape a very picturesque appearance; saw several graves to day, passed where they were burying a man, crossed the little Nimahaw,[35] a fine stream, encamped on the bank. We had not been here long, when a little white calf came up to us out of the bushes, & appeared very hungry; it had probably been left on purpose, though most of them are gennerally killed, but he might have been hid in the bushes, & people are not very tenderhearted on this journey, but he reminded me so much of home I would not let them shoot it; we left it there to be devoured by wolves, or die of hunger, or be killed by some one else. [May 15--32d day] We renewed our journey, when about noon it commenced to rain we turned down to the right, & encamped, it continuing rainy, we staid till next day; here was a small stream full of little fishes, which if we had had a small sceine, we might have caught any amount; but we had not so much as a fish hook, which we had forgoten to provide. [May 16--33d day] Crossed the Big Nimahaw,[36] nooned here, there were so many teams here crossing that we had to wait some 2 hours, for many would not go through, until they had doubled their team; but we crossed with our 4 yoke of small cattle, & the largest waggon there, without any difficulty, but a little snug pulling; George said we done it _easy_; our team is certainly no. 1. This is a fine mill stream, some very good timber on its banks, & as rich prairie around as I ever saw, there is no reason why it should not be settled some day. We passed the junction of the Indipendence road,[37] there was as many teems in sight, as on ours, & their track looked about the same, Saw a fine sheet iron stove sitting beside the road, took it along cooked in it that night, & then left it; for they are of very little account, unless you could have dry wood. We met a man who was driving several cows, the men in the other waggon recognized 4 of them, belonging to a man from their country, with whom they had intended to travel. They asked the man where was the owner of the cows? & why he was driving them back? he said first that he was the owner, & that he had bought them; but as he could not tell where the man was, nor discribe him, they concluded he had no right to them; & finaly he said them four he had found, & they took them away from him; & as one of them gave milk, we were enable[d] to live quite well; & I would advise all to take cows on this trip, if you used the milk only to make bread, for you can do very little with yeast, & the soda & cream tarter I do not like. [May 17--34th day] We went on through a rich & fertile country, & encamped some 2 ms to the left of the road, in one of the most wild and romantic places I ever saw; the wolves howled around the tent nearly all night, I could not sleep soundly, therefor dreamed of being attacted by bears, & wolves; when the sharp bark of one, close to the waggon, would rouse me from my fitful slumbers but the rest slept so soundly, that they hardly heard them; for people sleep in general very sound, on this trip, for being tired at night, they feel like reposing. [May 18--35th day] Proceeded onward, crossed the Big Blue river[38] there was a ferry here, but we forded it, although it came near running into our waggon bed; came on some 11, ms. father [_sic_], & encamped, to the left, down in a hollow where there was small stream; Here[39] a doctor from the same place of those men who were travelling with us, came up, he had started to pack through with 2 horses, but soon getting tired of it, he had let a man have one of the horses, & provisions, to take him through: but he said they soon wanted him to help about every thing & he got tired of it; & offered to go through with them, & cook for them, they concented, as one of their company had gone back which I had forgotten to mention, for we meet some going back every day, some have been sick, some say that they are carrying the mail; but there is most to great a number for that purpose. [May 19--36th day] Beautiful morning the Dr. said I could ride his horse if I liked, & having my saddle yet, I gladly excepted it; for it is tiresome riding in the waggon all the while, & every waggon should be provided, with at least one good horse, for the company to ride when they are weary, or when they wish to go out & hunt; for it is very hard to go off from the road a hunting, & perhaps kill some game, & then have it to carry & overtake the teams; for as slow a[s] an ox teem may seem to move, they are very hard to catch up with, when you fall behind an hour or two. and you need a horse also, to ride through & drive the team in all bad places, & to get up your cattle without getting your feet wet, by wading in water or dew; if such exposures as these were avoided, I do not think there would be as much sickness as there usually is, along here, for we have not passed less than 100 fresh graves from St. Joseph to the Blue river. See some dead stalk, the wolves have a feast, hope they will not disturb the graves. [May 20--37th day] We travel about 20 ms. a day our cattle are thriving, look well; but this Gy[p]sy life is anything but agreeable, it is impossible to keep anything clean, & it is with great dificulty that you do what little you have to do. Turned down to the left; tolerable grass only; here we saw the first buffalo sign; the wolves kept barking all night. [May 21--38th day] Raining some, came 7 or 8 ms, the rain still continuing, we put up for the day, down to the left, near a dry sandy creek, here was a fresh grave; there being some timber along this creek, we soon had a large fire, & prepared our dinner. We have not as yet seen any game, & a fishhook would have been of more service so far, than half a dozen guns, The weather is quite cold, need overcoats, & mittens. [May 22--39th day] Again we get up the cattle & start on; the land here is poor, the country flat, & grass only in places, the road is very crooked thus far; for the track runs wherever it is nearest level. We encamped on the Little blue,[40] which we had been following up for the last 3 or 4 days, it is a poor place for grass. Some teams turned back a day or two since, & one old lady said we had all better turn back, for if the grass began to give out now, what would become of us if we went on until our teams were not able to take us back; she said she was going back, for she had made a living before she had ever heard of California, & the rest might go on & starve their teams to death if they liked. Saw the heads of [s]everal fine large fish lying here, but could not catch any with a pin hook. [May 23--40th day] After some difficulty, we got our cattle from the other side of the river, where they had strayed during the night, but when we found they were across, some of the men went over & watched them, which was the first time we had watched them, but being now in the Pawnee country we were a little afraid they might be stolen, but we did not see one of these indians, some said it was because they were afraid of the smallpox. We passed a spot where there was a board put up, & this information upon it, that a man was found here on the 17th, horribly murdered, with wounds of a knife, & buckshot, his shirt was lying there, with the blood & wounds upon it, he was buried near by, it stated by whom &c. I have never learned any more, but I hope the murderer may meet his reward, sooner or later. [May 24--41st day] The day being clear & still, as we passed over the 16 mile desert, to the head waters of the L. Blue[41]; we saw a mirage, at first we thought we were near a pond of water which we saw just over the ridge, & remarked that the guide had said there was no water here; but when we came near, it was gone, and then suspecting what it was, we looked around (for here you can see any distance in all directions) we saw beautiful streams, bordered with trees, small lakes, with islands, & once on looking back, we saw several men in the road, who looked to be 15 ft tall, & once or twice we saw what appeared to be large & stately buildings. Met a company of fur traders with 16 waggons loaded with buffalo robes, they were very singular in appearence looking like so many huge elephants, & the men, except 2, were half breeds; & indians, & a rougher looking set, I never saw; & their teams which were cattle, looked about used up; quite warm to day, crossed the last branch of the Little Blue, it was dry and good crossing, we went on some 3 miles, and encamped near some small ponds of water, no wood, only what we could find at old camping places; we had brought a little water in our kegs, made some coffe[e], & just as we were done supper, the sun was declining in the west, making thing[s] appear very distinctly on the horizon, when there was an animal discovered, feeding on the plain, not far distant. 2 of our men went in persuit, and after some time, returned with a quarter of fresh meat, which they said was antelope; but asking them why they did not bring more, & they making rather a vague reply, and not being anyways anxious to have any of it cooked, & from certain sly looks which they exchanged, I began to think something was wrong about it, at length one went out in the morning [May 25--42nd day] and found it to be an old sheep left from some drove, which was probably unable to travel, but the sport was that they thinking it was an antelope, and it being so dark that they could not see distinctly, & knowing that they were hard to get a shot at, they crept on their hands & knees for some distance, both fired at the same time, & shot the poor sheep through & through; but to turn the joke, they brought up a piece, to have the Dr. _& me_[42] cook some of it, but failed. This made us something to joke & laugh about for some time, for it is seldom that you meet with anything for merriment, on this journey. We reached the Platte river,[43] after a hard days drive, although the sand hills which were in sight, soon after we started in the morning; did not seem to be, but 2 or 3 ms. distant. Saw several antelope but could not get a shot at them it being so level, There is no wood here, except what is procured from the island, the river was not fordable at this time, but some swam accross on horseback & procured some; but with much difficulty and danger, the current being very swift, & the bottom quicksand; we contented ourselves with a few willow bushes; there were some buffalo chips, but we had not as yet got in the way of using them. [May 26--43d day] We are about 5, ms below Ft. Karney.[44] Several indians of the Sioux tribe came to our tent, the best looking indians I ever saw, they were tall, strongly made, firm features, light copper color, cleanly in appearance, quite well dressed in red blankets, and highly ornamented, with bows and arrows in their hands. We gave them some crackers & coffee, with which they seemed very much pleased. They signified that they wished to trade, & pointing of to the right, we saw, many more indians seated on the ground not far distant, with some 20 ponies feeding around them, as we started out there, we saw a train of waggons which were passing, halt, & appear to be perplexed, we soon saw the cause, a huge indian, naked to his waist, with a drawn sword, brandishing it in the road, & seemed to say, "stand & deliver." But when we came up, he signified that he wished to trade, but they wishing to proceed, & not wanting to be detained, they gave him some crackers &c, each waggon as they passed, throwing him something on a blanket, which he had spread on the ground beside the road; but I saw the indians chuckle to one another, upon the success of the old chiefs maneuver. This old chief accompanied us to the rest of the indians, & he gave the doctor a buffalo robe for his vest, which he immediately put on, buttoned it up, and appeared much pleased with his bargain; but not better than the doctor did with his. We also got a very fine robe, for a bridle & mantingals [_sic_], which were not very new. We struck our tent, moved on up to the fort; there are 2 or 3 good frame building here, saw some children playing in the porch of one of them, suppose there are some families here but the barracks & magazines are mostly built of turf; the place is not inclosed, & presents no striking appearance, but we liked to look at a house as it had been some time since we had seen one, and would be some time before we should see another. They kept a register here, of the number of waggons which passed, there had then passed 2657, & as many waggons pass without touching here, I do not think they can keep a correct account, & I do not think they try to get the number of those that pass on the north side of the river, for it would be difficult to do. Opposite the town, & extending up & down the river for 16 or 18 ms, is an island,[45] it is covered with a fine growth of cottonwood timber, I was struck with its appearance with the mirage which I had seen on the plain, & believe it the same reflected by the atmosphere. FOOTNOTES: [27] St. Joseph, Mo. [28] St. Joseph, Mo. [29] Abbreviation used throughout for "miles." [30] A variant of "slough." [31] Wolf Creek, a tributary of the Missouri, rises in Brown Co. and runs through Doniphan Co., Kan. [32] Sauk and Fox, from this northeastern section of Kansas. [33] This seems to refer to the Presbyterian mission among the Iowas and the Sauk and Fox, established in 1837, near the present town of Highland, Doniphan Co., Kan. [34] So in the original and evidently an error for "rolling" or undulating. [35] The Little Nemaha R., in the southeastern corner of Nebraska, and empties into the Missouri seven miles below Brownsville. [36] Nemaha or Big Nemaha R., in the southeastern part of Nebraska, emptying into the Missouri two miles below Rulo. [37] This is a mistake, did not pass it till 2 days afterwards.--_Original note._ [38] The Big Blue R., an affluent of the Kansas R., rising in Nebraska and running nearly southward into Kansas. [39] This it a mistake--did not join us till 3 days after this.--_Original note._ This doctor's name is nowhere given in her journal. [40] The Little Blue R. rises in the southern part of Nebraska, runs through Jefferson Co., thence into the State of Kansas, and empties into the Big Blue R. in Marshall Co., of that state. [41] Little Blue R. [42] These words are partly erased in the original manuscript. [43] The Platte or Nebraska R., and well-known affluent of the Missouri R. Her description is similar to Frémont's, in his first exploration of ten years earlier.--Frémont. _Report._ Washington, 1845, p. 16. [44] Fort Kearny, Nebraska, named after Col. Stephen W. Kearny who, in 1845, conducted the first military expedition through the West, from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains. It was at first named Fort Childs, in honor of Gen. Thomas Childs, of the Mexican War. The post was abandoned permanently in 1871. [45] Judging from the length of miles, the reference seems to be to the group of islands of which Long Island, opposite Kearney, Neb., is the largest. CHAPTER IV FROM FT. KERNEY TO FT. LARIMIE Leaving our letters in the P. O. went on some 10 or 12 ms. & stoped for the night, there was no wood, & was not likely to be fore some distance according to the guides. [May 27--44th day] The grass being poor, & no wood, & believing that it was better on the north side, & I guess our cattle thought so too, for they all got into the river last night & started to swim across, but after a while they give it up & come out. we concluded to cross the river at the first ford we came to. We had proceded some 4 or 5 ms. up the river; when we saw several waggons standing on the bank, & the men watching something in the water; we soon saw there was a waggon & team fording the river, we could hardly descerne the team which was nearly under the water, and the waggon looked like a little boat, it was preceeded by two men on horseback, who rode side by side, surveying out the ford & marking it by sticking up little sticks in the sand; we watched them till they were safely across, & the pilots had returned, but there was a board stuck up here which informed us, that the ford was safe, & that a large train had passed the day before. I felt a little nervous when we were about to cross, for the river here is all of one mile & a half wide, & a more foaming madening river I never saw, & its banks being very low, & the water the color of soapsuds you cannot see the bottom where it is not more than six inches deep, consequently looks as deep as the Missouri when it is bank full, & the many islands & bars which obstruct this swift current makes an awful noise, you cannot make a person hear you, when you are in the river, at 5 yds. distant; and I call this one of the greatest adventures on the whole route, for from the quicksands giving away under the waggon wheels, there is danger of upsetting, which would be a very great disaster indeed. Blocking up our waggon bed, we started in, for our cattle do not mind mud, or water, the men with their coats, hats, & boots off, with a kerchief around their heads, with whip in hand, into the Platte river we go; but we are only one team in 20 that is now in the river, making a line from bank to bank; we were about 2 hours in crossing, & I do not think our team pulled as hard & for so long a time on the road, at any place; for our waggon was heavy loaded with about 15 hundred lbs, & the wheels sunk in the sand about 6 inches most of the way, but we did not stop but once, for fear the waggon would get fast in the yielding sands, for there were 2 or 3 teams stuck, when we crossed, 2 were mule teams, their feet being so small they sank in the sands & could not pull out; but when we got across, one of the men who traveled with us, went back & pulled out one team; but there was no one anxious to go in a second time. There being abundance of grass here, we turned out our cattle after they had rested a little, but there was know [no] wood, so after changing their clothes, & passing around the brandy freely; we hiched up an went on some 4 miles father [_sic_] up the river, & encamped in a beautiful place, on the bank of a stream called Elm creek,[46] under the shade of two large elm trees; here was good grass, plenty of the best of wood, & some water, for the creek was very low, & as the sun was 3 hours high or more, some went out a hunting while the old Dr[47] Beth & I went to cooking, we soon had the best of a fire, cooked some meat & beens, stewed some apples & peaches, boiled some rice, & baked buiscuit, & fried some crulls, & as I had a glass pickle jar full of sour milk, & plenty of salaratus, I had as fine cakes as if I had been at home; & when they returned in the evening we had a general feast; for we had had no wood to cook with before for several days, the men had seen plenty of game but the time did not permit of their pursuing it, saw also deer Elk and buffalo tracks. [May 28--45th day] We started out, but I would gladly have stayed today, rested & cooked some more, for the guides said we would have no more wood for 200 ms, & we must now take to "picking up chips."[48] When a few miles out we came to a very bad slue, deep & muddy, it would be a fortune to some one to bridge it, it could be easily done, for it is not wide & the timber could be had on Elm creek which is but a few miles back, & any one would rather pay a reasonable toll, than to pull his team (cattle) so hard. Saw several head of stalk [_i. e._, stock] which had give out, one old cow by the road with a paper pined on her head, it stated that she had been left to die, but if anyone choose, they might have her, but requested that they would not abuse her as she had been one of the best of cows, she looked so pittiful, & it called up so many assotiations in my mind that it affected me to tears. Drove on and encamped; turned out the cattle & put up the tent, then for a fire, no wood, but _chips_ in abundance, no alternative, soon had a large pile of them, & set fire to them, when they immediately blazed up & burned like dry bark, it was laughable to see the boys jump around it, particularly Beth & saying it "wooled them" bad. On saying that I feared the dust would get in the meat, as it was frying, George said he would as soon have his broiled as any way, so laughing, & jokeing we forgot our antipathies to the fire some said it had improved all the supper, even the coffee. [May 29--46th day] Hear of people killing buffalo, the ground is strewed with their bones. Passed a prairie dog town,[49] killed two, that we might have a near view of them; they resemble both the squirrel & puppy, teeth feet and tail like the squirrel their shape is more like that of a puppy; their color is redish grey, their size about twice that of a fox squirrel, some pronounce them good to eat, they bark nearly like a little puppy but their note is quicker & more like a squirrel, as we first came in sight, they comenced barking & running from hole to hole, & it is believed that they are all connected by subteraneous passages, which is probably the case, for they are not but a few feet apart, and on the near approach of any one, they will "disappear in a twinkling," & appear as if they turn a summerset right down into their hole. They set up straight on their hind feet when they bark, & they are so near the color of the sand that you can hardly see them, unless in motion. Shot a young hare, which made us a fine dinner. The water along here is very poor; the river water is said to be healthiest, but it is warm, & muddy. [May 30--47th day] The road is along the bank of the river, which is very straight, & on each side of which, are high sandhills or bluffs, from 2 to 10 ms. distant from the river, it is the same the whole way, & you can see no father [sic] on either side than these miniature mountains, for they present in many places a beautiful outline; [May 31--48th day] the scenery along the river is very monotonous & the weather is quite warm, & the diarhia prevails to some extent among the emigrants, we are all slightly affected it is no doubt owing to the quality of the water, for most of it, is impregnated more or less with alkali. [June 1--49th day] One of our company quite sick to-day. The grass is very good along here, looks like a meadow. Saw four buffalo feeding near the bluffs, some 3 ms. distant, 2 of our party, & another man, went in persuit; this man killed one of them, & they brought what they could to the waggons, & left the remainder of it to the wolves. We came on & encamped to the right, on the west bank of a beautiful stream, I think called Buffalo creek,[50] we made some soup from the marrow bone of our fresh meat, which I think an epicure would have called good, and eating this with boiled rice helped us very much. Here is signs of game in abundance, elk, deer, buffalo, antelope, hare, &c, [June 2--50th day] The bluffs in this place approach the river, & the road passes over them for 6 ms, the sand is from 6 to 15 inches in depth, it being very warm, & such hard pulling that our cattle lolled their tounges out for breath; we stoped when we came down to the river, & nooned. Passed on, saw a train which was stoped & digging a grave for a woman, who had died this morning, having been taken sick only last night; she leaves a husband & 2 small children, this is sad at any time, but much more so here. On a little father [_sic_], an old man was suddenly taken with the cholera, by drinking a draught of cold water from a spring, the Dr. stoped with him an hour or two, but thought he would not live; I never heard from him again. [June 3--51st day] Had a fine shower of rain last night, which has laid the dust, & the road is level, & it is fine traveling to-day, nooned opposite Cedar Bluffs,[51] which are on the south side of the river, & the little dwarf cedars which grow upon them, are all the trees that I have seen for many mile, & shall see again very soon. [June 4--52d day] Passed where they were burying a man; scarce a day but some one is left on these plains, to return to their mother dust; may the Lord pity, & bless the widows & orphans, who are left behind. [June 5--53d day] Nooned nearly opposite Castle Bluffs,[52] here we were joined by 2 teams, a man & his family, & his widowed sister with her family, she was going only to Salt Lake, they had 5 or 6 cows which gave milk, they gave me an excellent one to milk, for they had more than they could well tend to, & we were willing that they should travel with us, which they did to the end of our journey. [June 6--54th day] Most of the soil here is very barren, the wild sage sets in here it is very small, not much wood about this. Came in sight of Courthouse[53] and Chimney[54] rocks some 30 or 40 miles distant, they have a beautiful appearance. Passed some bluffs on our right which presented a very singular & picturesque appearance, resembling a ruined wall & buildings. A few miles onward to the left we found good camping. In a tent near by was a man very sick, the Dr. went & stayed with him till morning [July 7--55th day], when he died, leaving a wife & one child, they put him in his narrow bed & left him there to sleep (rest) alone. Traveled about 25 ms, & encamped on the bank of the river opposite Chimney rock, which appeared to us to be very near the other bank of the river but I am told it is 3 ms. distant & that is why it did not look larger to me, but I knew it was much larger than it seemed to be there, for when we were 10 ms distant it did not appear any smaller & not much farther off. There was a man very sick in a tent near by, supposed to be cholera. [June 8--56th day] A fine cool breeze from the mountains makes it very pleasant. Passed a large prarie dog town it was about 2 ms long by one broad, they kept up a wonderful barking, & running from house to house, but disappeared on our approach & kept perfectly still, until we got a little passed, when they would jump up, & stand as straight & bark with all their might, & no doubt they were saying some very hard things against us, for the boys shot several of them, although I beg[g]ed them not to hurt them, for it is pitiful to see them when one is wounded or killed outside, & cannot get into his hole; others will rush out, & drag him in, when they will commence barking with all their might, & directly the whole town join in, as if they had been informed, & understood that one of their number was wounded or dead. If there were any of these little animals in Ireland, we might easily account for their legends of Faries, Elfs &c. And I think if their habits were thouroughly studied, that they would be found to possess wonderful powers of instinct. [June 9--57th day] Came in sight of Laramie Peak,[55] its dark outline resting against the clouds had a sublime appearance. Passed where they were diging a grave for a girl 12 years old; how hard it must be to leave ones children on these desolate plains, but "God will watch over all their dust till He shall bid it rise." [June 10--58th day] To-day & yesterday the roads very sandy & in some places hilly, had a small shower of rain, turned down to the river, nearly 2 miles from the road, found excellent wood, which had been drifted there by the river in high water, & likewise fine grass. We are about 5 ms. from Ft. Laramie.[56] Near by where we nooned to-day, there was 2 dead indians in the top of a cottonwood tree,[57] this being their manner of disposing of their dead. They were wraped in well dressed buffalo hides, & then lashed to several small poles, which were fastened to the limbs of the tree, it was a very singular sight, they must have been there some time, as I found a part of an old rusty knife, which had probably been one of the many things which had been hung on the tree, such as, knife, bow & arrow, & whatever he might have posessed. [June 11--59th day] We started out in the morning for town, reached it about 9 o'clock or rather opposite the place, we halted a little while, one of the company rode over & put some letters in the P. O. This is quite a place, several fine buildings, nestled here among the hills it looks like a rose in the wilderness. There were several indian lodges not far from the road, & plenty of indians. Taking a last look of the town we departed on our journey. FOOTNOTES: [46] Elm Creek, a northern affluent of the Platte River, west of Fort Kearny, in the present Dawson Co., Neb. [47] The doctor's name is nowhere revealed. Beth was one of her sons. [48] Buffalo-chips, the dried dung of the American bison. [49] The species _Cynomys Ludovicianus_, whose burrow-towns were common east of the Rocky Mountains. [50] Buffalo Creek, a northern affluent of the Platte River, in Nebraska. [51] Perhaps near Cedar Point, Keith Co., Neb. [52] Not definitely located, but perhaps in Keith Co., Neb., between the North Platte and South Platte Rivers. [53] Courthouse Rock, a huge mass of sand and clay, near Pumpkin Creek, in Cheyenne County, Neb. There is a good description of it in Delano's _Life on the Plains_ (1854), p. 69-70. [54] Chimney Rock, near the western boundary of Cheyenne County, Neb. Its height, in 1832, as given by Captain Bonneville, was 175 yards.--Irving's _The Rocky Mountains_. Phila., 1837, vol. 1, p. 45. It has become greatly reduced in height by erosion.--Chittenden's _Hist. of American Fur Trade_, vol. 1, p. 467. For a description and view in 1842, see Frémont's _Report_. Washington, 1845, p. 38. [55] Laramie Peak, the highest point of the Laramie Mountains of Wyoming, altitude 9020 feet. [56] Fort Laramie, at the confluence of the North Platte and Laramie Rivers, Wyoming, was named after Joseph Laramé (or La Ramie), a trapper who lost his life here in 1821. Near by was an earlier station of the American Fur Company, known successively as Fort William and Fort John. A near view, as seen in 1842 by Frémont, is in his _Report_. Washington, 1845, opp. p. 40. The federal government bought out the trading company in 1849 and Fort Laramie became a military station; a birdseye view of the latter year is in H. H. Bancroft's _Works_, vol. 25, p. 690. For a full history of the fort, see Coutant's _Hist. of Wyoming_, vol. 1, p. 296-329. [57] One of the many mortuary customs of the Indians, known as tree-burial. CHAPTER V FROM FT. LARAMIE TO THE SOUTH PASS We now turned to the right, & commenced ascending the black hills,[58] the scenery is wild & magnifficent, the contrast was delightful, we encamped in a most romantic spot, where not far distant a fine spring of cold water rushed out of the mountain; this was refreshing, and our cattle climed [_sic_] the hills to feed upon the rich seeded grasses which grow in bunches on their sides. The ground is covered with the richest profusion, & variety of flowers, but all were strange to me, except the wild rose which was the only one which was sweet sented. [June 12--60th day] The roads here are smooth & excellent, but hilly, & in some places very steep, it is so hard that it is bad on the cattles feet, & waggons. Passed where they were diging a grave for a woman, who had died that morning, leaving a husband & 2 small children. She rests in a lovely spot, in sight, & opposite Laramie Peak, & surrounded with hills. Came to a good spring of water, & encamped quite early. Two of our men went out hunting, & succeeded in killing an antelope, & a mountain hare; we soon took their jackets off, & another such a broiling, boiling & roasting you never saw, there being more than our company wanted, we let our nearest neighbors have 2 quarters. we staid here until the next day noon, it being sunday. [June 13.--61st day] We drove about 10 ms. & encamped in the midst of volcanic hills, no water, not much grass, the soil is thin, the ground is covered with cactus, or prickley pear, the blossom of which is very beautiful of different colors, some pink, some yellow & some red. Here the earth has felt a shock at no very distant period, & by a convulsive throe, these enormous piles of volcanic rocks were upheaved; I went out and climbed upon the top of one of these mountains of red stone sat down, & looked with wonder about, & thought of the dreadful scene which it must have once presented. Then came the question, what has caused the earth to be to its center shook? Sin! the very rocks seemed to reverberate, Sin has caused them to be upheaved that they may be eternal monuments of the curse & fall of man; viewing these symbols of divine wrath, I felt humbled; I took a small stone & wrote upon a flat rock beside me, Remember me in mercy O lord. I shall never forget this wild scene, & my thoughts & reflections there. [Illustration: _Indian mode of disposing of their dead_] [June 14--62d day] Roads being good, we traveled about 24 ms. to-day, returned to the river, encamped, it is quite small here, but runs faster than ever, the water is not much better, Mountains in the distance on both sides of the river, with small cedars & pines growing upon them. Roads rocky & hilly, came to the river at noon [June 15--63d day], where there was a grove of cottonwood trees, here were several indians incamped, & a frenchman who kept a few articles to sell, the principle article was whiskey, which he sold at 12 dollars per gallon, or 25 cts a drink, there were several indian families, I went round to their lodges, saw one old indian 106 years old, he shook hands with us, smiled, appeared well, but he looked very aged; two fine looking young squaws were seated at the door of the tent, embroidering a deer skin to make a coat, they showed me one they had already made, & I must say that nicer work with a needle I never saw, or any thing more beautiful, it looked like sattin, & was finely ornamented with various colored beeds. These two girls probably were this old mans descendants of the 3d or 4th generation. [June 16--64th day] Roads very hilly, sandy, & dusty, quite warm weather, nights cool, light showers occasionly. We bought a cow to-day to work with our odd steer; gave 16 dollars & a half; some of the rest of the company bought 3 or 4, for people trade all along the road selling brandy, hardbread, flour, bacon, sugar &c, for most of those packing now are out of provisions, & b[u]y of the waggons, or get their meals at the tents. people do not charge very high for whatever they have to spare, for they do not like to haul it. [June 17--65th day] The roads still sandy; we are about 100 ms. above Ft. Laramie saw a horned frog[59] which appears to be the link between the toad and the terapin, or mud turtle; it is about the size of a small toad, his body very flat & round, light colored but specked with red & black specs; has two knots, or horns on his head, a short peaked tail, & crawles around very lively, but does not jump, like a frog or toad. Where we nooned today, as we started out, we saw some men on the opposite side of the river chaseing a buffalo, which on coming to the river, plunged in, & made for our side; the men gathered their guns, ran for the bank, stationed themselves by some trees, the buffalo coming to a sandbar in the middle of the river, halted a while, & those on the other shore, poured out upon him a shower of bullets. I looked for him to fall every moment, but they overshot him, for their balls struck the water on this side; a dog was sent into the river, he made for the buffalo, & seizing him by the tail, he made for our shore & as he neared it, the dog still hanging to his tail, & swimming, as he rose upon the bank, he commenced to gallop away, when several guns were discharged at him, he halted, one lead entered the seat of life, the red blood spouted from his side; an ounce & a half ball from Georges double barrel shot gun, had done the deed; he walked on a little farther to some water, went into it, fell down, struggled & died in a few minutes. Twenty men with as many knives in as many minutes, had him in pieces ready for the stewkettle. One old mountaineer made choice of a _delicate_ part, observing that no one would probably quarrel with him for his (part) piece. He was a fine male buffalo, eight years old (judging from his horns) hair short, & nearly black. I never saw a more noble looking animal, his eye looked green & firy in death, such strength did his enormous neck, & great muscles exhibit, that all wished they had a team like him. All repaired to their tents, to have a feast, we drove down to the river, where there was plenty of grass & wood, & encamped for the remainder of the day; we jerked most of our meat,[60] baked, boiled & fried some; it was fine beef, some said that it was better than any beef they had ever eat. In the morning [June 18--66th day] we renewed our journey, quite refreshed. Passed the ferry[61] of the north fork of Platte river; it is kept by some french, & indians, they have 3 boats well fixed with ropes & pullies, & cross with ease, and expedition, they charge 5 dollars per waggon, 50 cts for every animal, & person; this is a heavy tax on the emigration, besides, this vast amount of money is in a manner thrown away, if the general government would take possession of or build ferries on the principal streams on this route & the prices be reduced one half or more; it would be a little something in Uncle Sams pocket, & remove an obstruction, I might have said destruction, because property, & even lives are lost, by trying to swim their teams across for as small as the sum may seem, many have not got it, for they have probably laid out all their money for their outfit, for most of those who go by land, are perhaps not able to go by water, but let the case be as it may, no one let him have ever so much money, likes to have it extorted from him. There is no reason why a ferry should not be kept here at a reasonable rate, for ferriage. On the high bluffs, on the south side of the river, is plenty of excellent pine, & cedar timber, as the gunwales of their boats show, for they said they got them there, & provisions for a few men, could be had at a reasonable rate, of the emigrant. [June 19--67th day] Fine roads this morning, we came to the top of a hill, where we had a view of the Sweet water mountains,[62] distant some 40 miles, we turned down to the right, & encamped in a beautiful little valley, good grass but the water, what little there was, is charged with alkali but there is no better anywhere near; a great many camped hear [_sic_] to-night, it had the appearance of a large town, & in a tent near by ours, they were fiddling & dancing, nearly all night; this was the first dancing I had seen on the plains, although I had seen some choose partners on the Steamboat, for the first sett on the plains, but there had been so much sickness on the Platte, that perhaps they were rejoicing that they had left it. [June 20--68th day] We passed on over a sandy barren country, where even sage cannot grow, but a still hardier shrub called greese wood[63] abounds here, it is good for nothing to burn, & I cannot think of any use it is, unless, for the rabbits to hide behind. Quite warm, cool breeze from the mountains; we crossed greesewood creek,[64] went down some 2 ms, & encamped, not very good grass, I have been told that it is better 5 or 6 miles farther down, where it empties into Sweet water.[65] [June 21--69th day] We saw several antelope, 2 of our men went in persuit, killed a young one; came across a human skeleton, brought the skull bone to the waggon, I think it was an indians skull. We soon came in sight of Independence Rock,[66] it did not look at all like I had formed an idea, & at a distance, it has no very imposing appearance; but as we approached it, its magnitude was then striking, & beautiful, it is an enormous mass of solid blocks of granite, it is so large that its highth seems inconsiderable, until you climb upon it, which you can easily do, at least I did, but when I reached the low place in the middle, I took off my shoes, for in passing around the side to go up to the top, there is some danger of sliping, which would presipitate you to the bottom. There are thousands of names of persons upon this rock, which have been placed there from year to year, by those who think, "there is something in a name" & many beautiful flowers growing in the crevices I have one which I gathered here near the top of the rock it is a kind of Lilly a beautiful flower. We nooned here, & then went on crossed sweet water,[67] which I had supposed from its name to be the best water in the world, but it has more alkali in it, than the Platte, it is not so muddy, but the water is nearly the same here, Some 6 or 8 miles onward, we came to what is called the Devils Gate,[68] it is a deep chasam, or gap in the mountain, which has been rent assunder for the passage of Sweet Water river, the opening is not wide, but the rocks on each side are perpendicular, & of great highth some 400 ft., the road passes a little to the right, where there is a nataral pass through the mountain, but we could hear the river roaring, & chafing, through its narrow rocky channel; a person who has curiosity, & nerve enough, may climb & look over the brink of this yawning gulf. Some of our men went up part way, but said that satisfied their curiosity. We passed here a trading post, they kept quite an assortment of goods, which were all brought from St. Louis, their [_sic_] enormous waggons, serving as a kind of shop, & store house; they said they had brought 60 hundred to the waggon from St. Louis; they had recruited their teams, some of them were fat, for the grass here is excellent; they offered them for sale, one of our company bought 3 yoke, for from 45, to 60 dollars per yoke. This is a romantic place, & a good place for a post, for there is abundance of grass, & water; & some considerable pine & cedar timber on the mountains. We followed up the stream two or 3 ms & encamped, where the mountains were of naked rocks, without the least vegetation upon them, I now saw how appropriate the name, stony or rocky was applied to them. We passed an alkali pond this morning & gathered up a panful of the salaratus, which looks like frozen snow, forming a crust around the edge of the water; I tried some of it, in some bread; it made it quite light, but gave it a bitter taste. [June 22--70th day] The roads very sandy; while we were nooning, there was a severe hailstorm, but it had nearly expended itself, before it reached us, but as we proceeded, we found the hail in places 2 or 3 inches deep, & they were so large, that it had trimed up the sage brush completely; it lay on the ground in shady places till the next day, we encamped for the night on the river, very good grass, but there was alkali all over the ground, we tried to keep our cattle from it as much as we could, but they got a little, which affected them some, but we gave them some fat bacon, which is said to be good for them. Great sign of buffalo here; also saw one today galloping away through a gap[69] in the mountains. [June 23--71st day] To day we passed through a narrow defile in the mountains, where we were compeled to ford the river 3 times,[70] in less than 2 miles, we had to block up our waggon bed several inches; it is a very bad place, there is a way to go around, but I am told that it is about 10 ms. & very sandy. There were goose berry bushes here by the road side, this was the first fruit we had seen; we gathered some of the green berries, stewed them for supper, found them delicious. We soon emerged into an open plain, where the main chain of the Rocky mountains appeared in the distance; Crossed Sweet Water again, went up a few miles & encamped; not very good grass, plenty of alkali, & some of the largest kind of sage, we soon had a good fire, for the nights are getting cool here in the mountains, & after supper we were seated around it, some sitting on yokes, & some on buffalo heads; & they do not make a bad seat; and some are used for writing upon, & then setting them up by the side of the road, generally informing the passerby, that Mr. A. B. &c. passed such a day, all well &c. Saw some written in '49 & '50, & though penciled was not yet effaced, we frequently find a buffalo head stuck up with a notice, that there is a spring in such & such a place; nearly all the skulls & shoulder blades along the road, are more or less written upon. Loyd he wrote a moralizing epitaph upon a very large old skull, stating that this animal had fulfilled the laws of nature, & that his head, still served as a seat to the weary traveler. [June 24--72d day] Had a shower last evening, quite cool, have to wrap up to keep warm, good roads, except 3 or 4 this morning, passed the ice springs; here are great quantities of alkali, & saltpeter, which kills the stalk [stock] which stop here, for we saw more dead cattle to day, than we have seen before on the route. We did not stop to dig for ice,[71] for we were cold enough without it. Passed on crossed Sweet Water twice, & encamped on the same, found tolerable grass. There was a trading post at the head of this little valey, which we passed in the morning. [June 25--73d day] The roads to day hilly & rocky, weather cold, had a sprinkle of snow & hail; as we reached the top of a high ridge we had a fine view of the wind range of mountains[72] a little to our right, these are the highest peaks of these mountains, which we have been so long gradually ascending, nothing that I had before seen of mountain scenery, was half so beautiful, for the white snow lying upon the dark blue ground, looked like pictures of silver; no painting can give that delicate tint, of light & shade, & it continually varied, as the light of the sun shown upon it, or when it was obscured by clouds. We passed a bank of snow, and an ice spring, so called, from its water being as cold as ice could make it. It was excellent water but the weather was rather to cold to have made much of a relish for it. We went on to Strawberry creek[73] & encamped, good grass, & the water of this beautiful stream, is excellent. George had a severe chill, this evening, and a high fever, he was sick a day or two. We are about 15 ms from the South Pass, _we are hardly half way_.[74] I felt tired & weary, O the luxury of a house, a house! I felt what some one expressed, who had traveled this long & tidious journey, that, "it tries the soul." I would have given all my interest in California, to have been seated around my own fireside, surrounded by friend & relation. That this journey is tiresome, no one will doubt, that it is perilous, the deaths of many testify, and the heart has a thousand missgivings, & the mind is tortured with anxiety, & often as I passed the fresh made graves, I have glanced at the side boards of the waggon, not knowing how soon it might serve as a coffin for some one of us; but thanks for the kind care of Providence we were favored more than some others. [June 26--74th day] We proceeded onward, crossed Sweet Water for the last time,[75] here it is a real mountain torrent, we soon arrived at the summit, or Pass[76] of the Rocky Mountains, this has more the appearance of a plain, for it is some 5 ms across, & nearly 30 ms wide from north to south. The road is sandy, & some rocky, but not steep in no place here. We traveled about 25 ms to-day, & encamped below the Pacific Springs,[77] poor place to camp, for where there is any grass, it is so miry that it is dangerous for stalk [stock] to go, 2 or 3 of ours got in the mire & a good many others, they were got out, but with much difficulty. We now consider ourselves about half way, but the "tug of war" is yet to come. We have now bid adieu to the waters, which make their way into the Atalantic, & now we drink of the waters which flow into the Pacific. Our faithful team still looks well, they, nor we, have not yet suffered only fatiegue, they have generally had plenty of grass & water, but according to the guides we may suffer for both, but hope to find it better than some have represented. More than half of the cattle on the road have the hollow horn,[78] the man who is traveling with us has lost, several head & there are two or three more which will not go much farther.[79] FOOTNOTES: [58] So called from their having a dark appearance in the distance by reason of the small cedars which grow upon them.--_Original note._ The name Black Hills was used collectively to denote all of the ranges in the region of the Laramie Mountains, which are situate in the southwest corner of Wyoming and form a curvilinear or semi-circular range, of which the lower part has now the restricted name of Black Hills. _Cf._ Delano's _Life on the Plains_, p. 80-81, 111, for an interesting, contemporary topographical description. [59] Not a frog, but a lizard, genus _Phrynosoma_. [60] Refers to the process of cutting meat into long strips and preserving it by drying in the open air or over a fire. [61] As to these early ferries kept by French Canadians, etc., see Coutant's _Hist. of Wyoming_, vol. 1, p. 365-367. [62] Granite Mountains seem to be meant. [63] Greasewood, a low shrub prevalent in saline localities of the West and of various genera. [64] Greasewood Creek, an affluent of the Sweetwater River. [65] This river rises in the Wind River Mountains and is a western affluent of the North Platte River. For the roads and fords in this region, see Delano, p. 104-105. [66] Independence Rock is said to have received its name from the circumstance of a party ascending it on July 4th and celebrating there Independence Day. It is an isolated mass of gray granite in length about 1950 feet, and in height about 120 feet, according to Frémont's observation in 1842, at which time he marked a large cross thereon, a fact which was introduced adversely against him during his presidential campaign in 1856. Frémont speaks of the many names inscribed on the rock.--Frémont's _Report_. Washington, 1845, p. 72. On account of these names it has been called a "tombstone" and Father De Smet named it "the great register of the desert." Joel Palmer, in 1845, described it as follows: "Portions of it are covered with inscriptions of the names of travelers, with the dates of their arrival--some carved, some in black paint, and others in red."--_Journal_, in Thwaites's "Early Western Travels," vol. 30, p. 67. For other descriptions, see Delano, p. 98; Chittenden, vol. 1, p. 471-472. [67] Sweetwater River. [68] Described by Frémont, in 1842, as follows: "Devil's Gate, where the Sweet Water cuts through the point of a granite ridge. The length of the passage is about three hundred yards and the width thirty-five yards. The walls of rock are vertical, and about four hundred feet in height."--_Report._ Washington, 1845, p. 57, where a picture of it is also given. For other descriptions, see Palmer's _Journal_, in Thwaites's "Early Western Travels," vol. 30, p. 67-68; Delano, p. 99-100; Chittenden, vol. 1, p. 473-474. [69] Delano, p. 104-105, refers to the "gap" or "gloomy gorge." [70] The place known as the Three Crossings. [71] The ice is found here by diging down some 18 or 20 inches below the surface.--_Original note._ [72] The Wind River Mountains, a range of the Rocky Mountains, running northwest and southeast, in Fremont County, Wyo., and of which Fremont Peak, of 13,790 feet, is the highest altitude. It was the ultimate limit of Frémont's expedition of 1842, and he presents a view of these mountains in his _Report_. Washington, 1845, opp. p. 66. This range was earlier described, _e. g._ in Irving's _The Rocky Mountains_. Phila., 1837, vol. 1, p. 62-63. [73] Strawberry Creek, in Fremont County, Wyo. [74] These words are scored out in the original manuscript. [75] See on this last crossing, Delano, p. 113; Chittenden, vol. 1, chap. 26. [76] The South Pass, "the most celebrated pass in the entire length of the Continental Divide" and where "the traveler, though only half-way to his destination, felt that he could see the beginning of the end."--Chittenden, vol. 1, p. 475. It is in Fremont County, Wyo. Delano, p. 115, describes it. Gold was discovered here and it became a great goldmining center, for which see Coutant's _Hist. of Wyoming_, vol. 1, chap. XLIII. [77] The Pacific Springs empty into Pacific Creek, an affluent of the Big Sandy River, in Fremont County, Wyo. Here is the first water that is met flowing into the Pacific Ocean. _Cf._ Delano, p. 115. Chittenden, vol. 1, p. 476, locates it as 952 miles on the Oregon Trail. [78] A cattle disease through which the core of the horn is lost. [79] Here her journal ends. It was written in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. 
31780	----	http://www.archive.org/details/journaloftriptoc00ingarich Transcriber's note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect spellings and punctuation have been retained. JOURNAL OF A TRIP TO CALIFORNIA BY THE OVERLAND ROUTE ACROSS THE PLAINS IN 1850-51 by E. S. INGALLS. Waukegan: Tobey & Co., Printers 1852 PREFACE. In offering this Journal to the public, the publishers believe that a benefit will be conferred on many who are desirous of visiting the Eldorado of the nineteenth century. This is one object we have in publishing it; but our principal object is to gratify the numerous friends of Judge Ingalls by furnishing them with his journal in a form easily transmitted through the mails to the different parts of the country. Without claiming any merit as a literary production, the author has simply given us a plain statement of incidents as he saw them. Without further remark, we present his work to the public. PUBLISHERS. JOURNAL. In offering this journal to the public, the writer makes no pretensions to authorship, but believes that, although it be written in plain, off-hand style, nevertheless, some portions of it may be interesting to the public, and that if any who may chance to read it are about to start for "Eldorado," they may derive some benefit from it, whether they go over the Plains, or by water. The writer will only attempt to describe objects and incidents as he saw them. We commenced our journey from Lake county, Ill., on the 27th day of March, (or rather I did, the team not being ready, and I having some business to transact at Rock River.) _March_, 28--I left Hainesville, and traveled to Franklinville, McHenry Co., at night a distance of 30 miles. 29th. Reached Belvidere about noon, and spent the remainder of the day with John S. Curtis, Esq. Belvidere is a thriving village in Boon co., situated in the midst of a fertile and beautiful country. 18 miles. 30th.--Left Belvidere about noon, after having made a very agreeable visit with Mr. Curtis, and traveled as far as Rockford, on Rock river, where I found E. Ford, one of our company, and several others from Lake county. I found Ford taking care of a California emigrant from Wisconsin, by the name of Maynard, who was very sick at the Rockford House. 12 miles. 31st. I remained at Rockford, it being Sunday. Rockford is one of the most active and prosperous villages on the Rock River, and when the contemplated railroad from Chicago to Galena shall be completed, it will double its size and population. The water power furnished by damming the Rock River is unequaled. It is used now to some extent, but is capable of driving six times the machinery which it now does. _April_ 1st. Remained at Rockford. Maynard died this night about 11 o'clock. He had the satisfaction of seeing his wife before he died, she having been sent for by the landlord of the Rockford House. How many will be cut down by disease on this crusade to California. How many will die where they can have no friendly hand to alleviate their sufferings, time only will tell. 2d. Started down the Rock River--travelled thirty miles through a very good country, and stopped over night at the house of an old townsman and friend, L. Scott, Esq. 30 miles. 3d. Stormy and cold; went over to Mr. J. R. Merrill's, another old townsman, and spend the day. 4th. Remained at Merrill's--visited Grand de Tour, a thriving village on the Rock River, about four miles from the house of my friend. 5th. Remaining still with Merrill. Disagreeable, stormy weather.--This evening J. and I. B. Ingalls came up with team which left Hainesville, April 2d. 6th. Bought a horse of Merrill to-day. Bade Mr. M.'s family adieu, and felt like leaving home again, so agreeably had the time passed in the society of my friend and his accomplished family. Found one of our horses lame with a sprained ankle; got the materials and made some liniment (by directions of Mr. Merrill,) and I must say it proved the most effectual remedy for sprains, galls, and other injuries to horses, that I ever saw used, and we had good reason to be thankful to Mr. Merrill for imparting the knowledge of making it to us, before we got through with our trip. We traveled this day 24 miles down Rock river--weather pleasant, and roads good. 24 miles. 7th. Sunday--traveled about 25 miles, pleasant weather, but some bad roads. 25 miles. 8th. Traveled about 25 miles to Rock Island. Pleasant weather; beginning to get into the track of California teams. Took in some hard bread, visited Rock Island Lodge, of I.O.O.F., where I found a cordial welcome as befitted brothers. 25 miles. _April_ 9th. Crossed the Mississippi to Davenport, Iowa; took in 25 bushels of corn--paid for shelled corn 38 cts. per bushel, in the ear 30 cts. Purchased also most of our other necessaries, excepting meat and flour. I was surprised to find Davenport and Rock Island such large places.--They lie opposite each other on the Mississippi, and about three miles above the mouth of Rock river. They are surrounded by a country of fertile soil on each side of the river, and bid fair in a few more years to become very important cities. We left Davenport at noon, and traveled to Hickory Grove, Scott co.--roads very bad, with a snow storm towards night. 14 miles. 10th. Left Hickory Grove in the morning and made 25 miles to Tipton, the county seat of Cedar county. Roads very bad, mud deep, mostly prairie, but good land. We got sloughed once to-day, and had to carry our loads on our backs. We found Tipton full of California teams, and had to let our horses stand out for the first time, although it was a cold disagreeable night. 25 miles. 11th. Left Tipton in the morning and reached Cedar River about noon--found the road bad enough, but better than it had been for a couple of days past. We ferried across the Cedar river and drove a few miles, and put up with a crowd of California emigrants at the log house of an Irishman by the name of Nolan, a clever man, who did the best his slender means permitted to make us comfortable. During the night it rained and snowed, and our horses had an uncomfortable time of it, and we did not fare much better, as there were eleven of us camped on the floor of a log shanty, with the chinking pretty well knocked out, so that the wind, rain and snow had a free sweep amongst us. 15 miles. 12th. Very windy and cold--started on account of our horses, and drove twelve miles, to Iowa City, where we arrived about noon, after one of the most disagreeable day's drive I ever experienced. We laid over the rest of the day on account of the wind. We here found quite a number of our Lake co. friends, who had got here in advance of us. 12 miles. 13th. Remained in Iowa City; the wind still high and the weather very cold. Iowa City is quite a place, with a population, as I am told, of about 2500. It is the seat of government for the State of Iowa, which is its only recommendation. It is situated on the Iowa river, which is navigable at high water for steamboats of a small class. The State House will be a very handsome building when finished; it is built of hewed stone, on the bank of the Iowa river, and when the work is properly finished will do honor to the State. This is a gathering point for California teams, and the town is now full of them lying bye on account of bad weather. It is supposed there are 100 wagons here now, and they keep coming; besides, there are numbers wind bound at the Cedar river. We are stopping at Swan's Hotel, the best house in the city, the register of which shows the names of great numbers of our town and county people who started before us--and more are coming after. This afternoon, another team, or the advance guard of it, from our town came up. We now begin to find every thing higher as we get farther advanced towards the frontiers. Corn is worth here fifty cents a bushel, and report says that towards Council Bluffs there is no feed for horses and cattle of any kind or at any price. 14th. Sunday. We still lie over; the weather has become more moderate, though it is still cold; the wind has gone down, so that it is more comfortable travelling, consequently most of the teams have left town on their route. They stretch off across the prairie this morning as far as the eye can reach, quite an army of themselves; what we shall find when we get to the Missouri river, it is impossible to tell; judging from present appearances there will be one of the largest armies congregated that were ever got together at one time on this continent. Most of the teams that go to-day head for St. Joseph, the prospect being better on the road that way, and after they get there, for feed for teams than on the Council Bluffs route. We are all in too much of a hurry, for there is no probability of our being able to leave the frontiers before the 10th of May, for want of feed, consequently we shall have to tarry two weeks at some point, and we think it best lie bye at several different points, than all at once. _April_ 15th. Monday. Left Iowa City this morning, for Washington, county seat of Washington co. Country mostly rolling prairie for the first 15 miles; soil very good, and good road, being the military road built by Government. Streams all bridged with the best bridges that I have seen in Iowa. The balance of the road to Washington--having left the military road--is very bad; no bridges; got sloughed in a creek, occasioned by our hindmost evener breaking; after unloading we got our wagon out with one span of horses. This creek was within about a mile and a half of Washington. I think there is no better evidence of the want of enterprise in the inhabitants, than to find such places unbridged on main roads near villages. We went on with one span of horses, but it being very dark we got sloughed again, and had to leave our wagon and go on to the village, where we arrived cross and hungry about eight o'clock, having made 28 miles, and had the hardest day's work since we left home. However, we found an obliging landlord, which made up somewhat for our trouble. The country for the last part is flat prairie and very wet. I should think it worthless. 28 miles. 16. Unloaded our wagon and got it out of the mud again this morning & started for Brighton, Washington co. 11 miles. Country rolling, the best land on the east side of the Skunk river, that I had seen in Iowa, being rolling openings. Crossed the Skunk river on a ferry. Arrived at Brighton about 2 o'clock, P.M.; commenced snowing soon after, and we had one of the hardest snow storms of the season. Continued snowing until midnight. The town is full of California teams, some going to Council Bluffs, and some to St. Joseph. 11 miles. 17th. Laid over at Brighton. Snow this morning about two inches deep; the day pleasant but cool; the wind in the North West. Brighton is quite a small village, has three or four stores, one steam saw mill, besides a fair share of mechanics and other business men. We found good accommodations, with the worthy landlord, Mr. Yates, and spent a pleasant day. The snow went off by noon, but left the roads muddy. 18th. Left Brighton this morning for Fairfield, Jefferson co., where we arrived without accident, but found the roads muddy; weather warm and showery, most like spring of any day this month. 15 miles. 19th. Stopped last night at the Eagle Hotel, and I must say it was the nastiest hole I ever got into, and everything else was in perfect keeping, and to make matters even worse, the landlord charged the highest bill that we had paid on the road. Started this morning for Iowaville, sixteen miles, where we arrived about four o'clock, P.M., and put up for the night. (By the way, I found an old townsman and school mate in Fairfield, that I had not seen for thirteen years,--Ezra Brown, Esq., District Attorney for that judicial district, and editor of a paper there. Of course I stopped to visited him an hour or two, and then passed on on this journey of time. Shall we ever meet again?) 20th. Crossed the Desmoines river this morning. This, as the Hosiers say, is a right smart chance of a river, between two and three hundred yards wide, and would be navigable for steamboats one hundred miles above here, if it were not for the dams below, of which I understand there are nine. Iowaville is situated on the bank, and is only a hamlet of log huts, with a grocery or two, but has a steam mill building, and one in operation on the other bank. We crossed on a ferry--charge 75 cts. Most of our route to-day lay through the timber, and the best timber too, I have seen in Iowa, but we have had dreadful roads, the worst, in fact, on the journey. We arrived at Drakesville about four o'clock and put up for the night, although we could get no "roughness" for our team, (as they call hay here;) in fact we are getting where we find but little hay or grain. Matters look squally ahead, no hay, and grass not an ell high, and growing downwards at that. Grain we care nothing about as we have twenty days feed on bread, which will be more than we can consume before we reach St. Joseph. 20th. Drakesville is a small village of log houses, with a store, blacksmith shop, &c. It is situated in Davis county. The inhabitants I understand are mostly Campbelites, or Disciples. They had a meeting to-day, and are having one this evening. There is a lodge of the Sons of Temperance here, too, who are having their meeting over my head. I did not expect to find anything of the kind in this back country. Good speed to them. I understand they have twenty members, and have two or three to initiate to-night. 20 miles. 21st. Laid over at Drakeville, it being Sunday, remained all day.--Two women and a man were baptized in a mud-hole to-day by a Disciple preacher. Got no roughness, as the people here call hay; our horses had to live on corn, in consequence of which we foundered one. 22d. Left Drakeville this morning, had one of the most muddy roads on the route. Camped at night for the first time, on a small brook; could get no hay--had to cut dry prairie grass with our knives. Made twenty miles, passed one small village of log houses, (Unionville) and camped within four miles of Centreville, county seat of Appanose co. 20 miles. 23d. Passed Centreville this day, and made 18 miles over some of the worst roads I ever saw in the western states. Though the country generally is the best I have seen in Iowa, being well timbered, and excellent prairie, I do not like the water, it is too milky. No hay--camped by a run. 18 miles. 24th. Heard a wild turkey gobbler near our camp, for the first time. Jonathan started after him but did not get a shot at him. We are now at noon within 30 rods of the Missouri state line, and right glad are we to get out of Iowa. Have been in company the last two days with 3 teams from Mineral Point, Wis. The weather to-day is very pleasant & warm; the warmest day we have had this spring. We find some green grass to-day. We have a good road with the exception of one bad creek. One of our comrades got his horses down in the mud and went back to roll him out; the rest of us passed without much trouble. We traveled ten miles into Missouri, and camped by a small stream. We here saw wild turkeys for the first time. The country is mostly prairie, and very good. 20 miles. 25th. Very warm and pleasant; made about twenty miles over a pleasant country, rather uneven, diversified with woods and prairie, thinly settled. Saw several wild turkeys; there appears to be plenty of such game here. 20 miles. 26th. Passed through heavy timber to-day for most of the way.--Crossed the north and middle fork of Grand river, and passed the village of Princeton, which is a small hamlet of log houses about one half of which are groceries. Tried to buy some flour--found but an 100 weight in the village, and they asked $4 for that. I concluded I would not take it for two reasons: First, if they had but one cwt. in the village, they needed it themselves; and next, I did not like to be shaved well enough to pay that price. They asked $1.50 per bushel for corn. Uncle Jo, one of our comrades from Mineral Point, and myself, went turkey hunting last night (by moonlight.) We rambled some eight or ten miles, and got back about 2 o'clock in the morning, minus turkeys, not having seen one. The day has been excessively warm, and we are in hopes of having grass soon, which would be welcome as our horses have had nothing of hay kind but dry prairie grass, which we cut ourselves (and some nights we could not get that) for the last hundred miles, and we do not expect to find any more. We cannot camp now without doing it in a jam. There are some 30 or 40 wagons camped around us now, oxen, horses, &c. We are camped to-night on the Middle Fork of Grand river. 20 miles. 27th. We had a heavy shower with thunder last night: in the morning the wind was in the north-west, and cold. We left our camping ground early, and made 26 miles. We passed one small village to-day--Bethany, similar to the last, i.e. groceries. Have passed through a beautiful country to-day, alternately timber and prairie, some of it has been settled eleven years, but we cannot buy a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, or any hay or straw, or in fact anything to eat for man or beast, with the exception of bacon, and that raised itself. We were lucky enough to lay in supplies for both man and beast before we got into this region. It is a great pity that Missouri is a slave state; were it a free state, so that free northern men would settle in it, all this great region of valuable land would be settled and improved, and there is no part of the western country that can excel the northern part of Missouri in beauty and fertility. It is better timbered, and watered than Illinois, and is rather more uneven, but no more so than is necessary to make good farming land. 26 miles. 28th. Sunday. We started again this morning and travelled ten miles to the main branch of the Grand river, which we crossed and camped. This is the last timber before crossing a prairie of 25 miles in width. Some go on intending to camp on the prairie, but the wind being cold, (from the north-west) we concluded to lay over until to-morrow. Our camping ground looks like the camp of an army. Horses, picketed tents, with the star spangled banners flying, wagons standing around, while lying by the side of logs and trees are brawny, sun-burnt men, sunning themselves, and taking their ease. Within thirty minutes after we camped there were 21 wagons camped. Since then they have been coming in and camping continually. How many there are at this time, would be difficult to say, and still they come. But this is but a foretaste of what we shall see at St. Joseph, which we expect to reach by Tuesday night, it being 44 miles from this place, we are told. On the opposite side of the river, and half a mile from here, is Gentryville, the county seat of Gentry county. It is a right smart place, as they say out this way. It has a saw and grist mill, two taverns, with a fair sprinkling of stores and workshops. I should think the water power very good for this country, and capable of supplying power for much more machinery than now in use. 10 miles. 29th. Left Grand river and crossed the Great Prairie, passed some teams camped that had lost 22 horses, (but found 20 of them and were hunting for the other two.) Got in with a large train which hindered us so much that we ran by, and made 34 miles for the purpose of keeping ahead of them. Country good, but too much prairie. Passed Platte river, and the village of Rochester. Good mills on the Little Platte river at this village. 34 miles. 30th. Left our camping ground and traveled 14 miles to St. Joseph. Weather very cold and windy--no grass nor hay. We have traveled 200 miles without grass or hay, but have cut dry prairie grass where we could find it. Camped in a ravine half a mile north of St. Joseph. St. Joseph is quite a village, and doing a great deal of business at this time. But the way they fleece California emigrants is worth noticing. I should advise all going the overland route to take every thing along with them that they can of small weight, as every little thing costs three or four times as much here as at home. The markets are filled with broken down horses jockeyed up for the occasion, and unbroken mules, which they assure you are handy as sheep. It is the greatest place for gambling, and all other rascality that I was ever in. We have to stand guard over our horses as much as if we were in the Indian country. It is said that one or two men have been shot by the emigrants while in the act of stealing horses. Here let me before leaving the State of Missouri say one word in relation to the country. We traveled about one hundred and eighty miles through the north-west part of the State which is mostly unsettled. We found the country the best I had ever seen in the great Mississippi Valley, and I had seen a great share of it. It is a perfect paradise for the agriculturist, the manufacturer and the hunter. The soil is warm and fertile, the wild prairie grass growing as high as a man's waist on the uplands. An abundance of good timber skirts the streams. The land is rolling, approaching the hilly, and well watered by rivers, brooks, and springs of pure clear water, running over gravelly or rocky beds in clear banks, free from sloughs or marshes. The streams furnish an abundance of the best water power suitable for driving all kinds of machinery. The prairies and woods are filled with abundance of deer, wild turkeys and other game, and of wild honey. The river bottoms are covered with endless quantities of plums, sweet grapes, and various other wild fruits in the greatest abundance. Nature has seemed to lavish her best gifts on this country in the greatest profusion; yet with all it remains a wilderness, only inhabited by a few straggling squatters whose whole aim is to raise what corn and bacon they can consume, and kill a sufficiency of game to supply their daily wants. Why is it so? Is it because it is one or 200 miles back from the Mississippi? This cannot be the reason, for thousands are now emigrating farther back into the wilds of Minesota. Is it not owing to, and one of the fruits of, the blighting curse of slavery?--the driving of free men of the northern states to emigrate to more uncongenial soil and climate, rather than settle in a slave state. This is a question which all Missourians who love their State should investigate. The west, and north-west part of Missouri is capable of supporting a population larger than the whole present population of the State. It is a country superior in soil, climate, water, timber and other natural advantages, to any portion of the great Mississippi Valley, yet it is unsettled, and apparently will be for a long time, the current of emigration being turned into Iowa, Minesota and Wisconsin, simply because men raised in free states do not like the idea of settling in slave states. Would it not be better for Missouri to abolish slavery, and thereby cause her millions of acres of rich lands to be settled by intelligent farmers, with villages springing up on every water course, than to retain her few thousands of slaves, the profit of which to the owner is really questionable? But I do not intend to write a lecture on slavery, but these thoughts would intrude themselves upon me as I was traveling through this beautiful wilderness country; for I can say with the greatest sincerity that I know of no part of the world that it is so desirable to locate in as this, but with this objection the country never will be settled densely, for the simple reason that emigrants from the South prefer going to a more southern climate, where their negroes can be made more profitable raising cotton and sugar, to going into the west part of Missouri, and emigrants from the North object to settling in a slave state. May 1st. Remained encamped as before. Weather more moderate but too cold for grass to grow. 2d. Remain camped as before. Sent down the river five miles and got 30 bushels of corn in the ear at 90 cents per bushel; bought 11 bushels of shelled corn at the camp for one dollar per bushel, which we got ground into meal. Commenced raining in the afternoon, and rained all night; we had a very disagreeable time of it. 3d. Got our stores mostly on board and crossed the Missouri, and drove six miles to the Bluffs, and camped. We found the whole six miles a camping ground, and a good sized city of tents at the Bluffs, probably six thousand men. Weather still cold. 6 miles. 4th. Remain camped at the same place. Went back to the town and got the remainder of our supplies; had a very warm day, but a cold night before it--ice made 3/4ths of an inch thick. 5th. Sunday. Remained camped at the same place; had a pleasant day. There was a funeral down at the lower end of the camp to-day; it was about a mile from our camp, I did not learn the particulars. Met at night to try and organize a company; chose a committee and adjourned until the next night at five o'clock. 6th. Remained at the same place. Went to town to try the Post Office again before we started, but found nothing. By the way, I forgot to say that we are in the Nebraska Territory now, and on the Indian lands. The Indians do not like it very well that the whites camp on their ground on account of cutting timber. (There are about 500 of them camped near us.) The men met again to organize; I was not present, but they made out nothing. We concluded to go with the same company that we had been in: Trimble, Sublett, Ainsly, Welch and Trammel & Co. from Mineral Point, Wisconsin. 7th. Had a bad night last night; it rained and snowed nearly all night. Had about two inches of snow on the ground this morning. It cleared off about 10 A.M., when we struck our tent and started on the long journey. Weather came off fine and warm; find some grass but none to amount to anything; still have to cut dry grass. We made 20 miles to-day, and camped on a small creek. We have nine teams in company that expect to go through together, although we are not organized, viz: (besides myself) Thomas Trimble, and William Sublett & Co., Stephen Ainsly and party, Litwiler and company, and Daughterty and company. We have mechanics of every trade, and various musicians, and while I am writing, one of the company is enlivening the solitude with a fine toned key bugle; one ought to be here in the wilderness to know the value of music. We have 37 men in our party, and if the other teams come up and join us we shall have 41. This I think is a large enough party, as we cannot camp any where after this without being near other companies, several of whom are now camped above and below us. We expect to go as far as the Indian Mission to-morrow. 12 miles. 8th. Made 14 miles over a rather hilly country, and passed the Indian Mission, and camped two miles from it on a creek. We found some fine farms at this mission; it was a pleasing sight to us to see the wheat fields; they appeared to compare well with the wheat fields of Illinois. Passed some dead horses on the road to-day; also some graves of those buried last year. Several teams came up and joined us this night. 14 miles. 9th. Traveled about 25 miles to-day over a prairie country, passed several more graves made last year. We have not seen any fresh ones yet, but found more dead horses. This is the result of feeding too much corn with no hay or grass. The grass seems to be getting a little better as we get on. Have had a very hot day, and dry, and good roads with the exception of two or three mud holes. Some more teams came up and camped with us--we turned off from the road and camped on a small creek. 25 miles. 10th. Had 21 wagons in our train this morning. We call all hands at 4 o'clock A.M. now, and start about 1/2 past 6. Had some rain last night, when the wind shifted to the north-west, very cold, and we have had one of the best roads to-day that I ever saw; plank roads are no comparison to it, and have passed over the most beautiful prairie country in the world, with little timber, and that dwarf burr oak, but the soil is equal to the best in Illinois. We turned off from the road about one mile and camped on a branch, about 3 o'clock, P.M. The grass is still improving. We have about 75 men in our company, which is too many, so many cannot agree. While I am writing, two of them are very near fighting, and the captain, Wm. Soublett stands between them, as this is the only means of keeping them apart. We cannot go on long with so many, I think. Passed some more graves, and dead horses to-day; in fact we expect to every day. It looks bad to see so many at this end of the route. 25 miles. 11th. Drove 22 miles to-day. Passed a Chicago wagon broken down at a creek; Hugunin, of Waukegan, belonged to the party. The country is prairie, without timber, excepting a few scattering trees on the creeks. We were delayed some time by a train of ox teams at a creek; while we were watering I fell asleep, and came very near being left behind the team. Ford came back and roused me. I stood guard last night, which was the cause of my being so sleepy; passed several dead horses, and the graves of many buried last year. 22 miles. 12th. Sunday. Not having a good camping spot we concluded to travel, and made 30 miles, and reached Blue river. Here we found a large city of tents, and preaching. There were probably 2000 men camped within two miles of the crossing; and here we found wagons broken down last year, with irons of those burnt. Voted two teams out of the train this morning for disobedience of orders. The night was cold, but the day was warm. We found some last year's graves, besides the usual amount of dead horses. This point is called 120 miles from St. Joseph, but I think it is more. Roads good. Blue River, or as it is commonly called, the Big Blue, is a beautiful clear stream, about eight rods wide, and at this time about three feet deep. It is a favorite camping ground for California emigrants. It has a skirt of timber, mostly cotton wood, from 8 to 100 rods wide along its west bank, and generally plenty of grass may be found. Sometimes however the emigrant is detained here for two or three weeks by the high water, when his only consolation is in hunting antelope and wild turkies, of which game there is an abundant supply on this river, and in fishing. We caught a few small cat-fish after we had camped, but did not have time to try the qualities of the stream for fish to any great extent. This stream is in the Pawnee country, and consequently I would advise all emigrants who hunt remote from the road and their trains, to be on their guard, for the Pawnees are a very treacherous, hostile race, and would not be likely to omit of an opportunity offered to strip a solitary hunter and send him in minus his gun, clothes, and perfectly naked, for they seem to be a people much given to such practical jokes, as some who have traveled this road can testify. 30 miles. 13th. Made about 25 miles to-day, but found but little grass. Have had a good road, and a very hot day. Litwiler and myself scouted to-day for a good camping ground, and found one where there was good grass and water, but no wood except a few dry willows, which we made answer our wants for the night. We had the misfortune to burst one of our inside hub bands whilst wedging up the boxes this evening, which, although a small matter in the States, yet may prove a very serious one out here on the plains, two hundred miles from a blacksmith's shop, as it may be the means of losing our wagon. 25 miles. 14th. Made an early start and traveled 28 miles; passed a new made grave, (made this morning) of a young man who accidentally shot himself through the head, whilst in the act of taking a rifle out of the wagon, with the muzzle towards him. He was from Illinois. We have had a dry, hot day, and the dust has been very annoying to us. Litwiler and myself scoured the creek bottoms to-day again in search of irons of wagons that had been burnt, and succeeded in finding some hub bands, with which I repaired our wagon so that it answered as well as before it was broken. We turned off from the road this evening about a mile, and camped by a branch of the Little Blue river, where we found a plentiful supply of grass, wood and water. Litwiler killed a wild turkey this evening, which was very fat. We have a beautiful camping ground as the heart could desire; our wagons are circled, with the tents on the outside like a Tartar village, on the side of a gentle sloping knoll, at the base of which stretches off to the river, a beautiful grove of timber through which runs a clear sparkling brook made by a copious spring which arises from the ground only a few rods from our encampment. Our horses are feeding about in sight on the side hills, cropping the rich grass, an abundance of which they have not had before since we started on this long journey. Indeed we look, if we except the wagons, more like a wandering band of Tartars than a company of christians bound on a business excursion; and the appearance of our men does not tend to destroy the illusion, as sunburnt and bearded with their belts stuck full of bowie knives and revolvers, they lounge about in groups on the ground around the camp fires, or busy themselves amongst the horses, or in the various sports which are got up by the travelers on the plains to while away the time. But it requires a more able pen than mine to describe, vividly, a scene like this. To see it and feel it in all its beauty, one must be hundreds of miles from civilization, out on those great ocean like prairies, where the sight of a tree is welcome to the traveler as the sight of a sail to the mariner when he has been for a long time traversing an unknown sea. He must be there on a balmy sunset eve, after a long and wearisome march over arid plains, destitute of water, and suffocated with the dust. Then when he can find a camping ground combining all the blessings of grass, good water and beautiful groves, all that the traveler on the plains holds essential to human comfort, he will truly appreciate a scene of this kind, but to the dwellers in cities, who know nothing of the beauties of nature in Nature's temple, the vast wilderness, no description would give a life-like picture of such a scene. 28 miles. 15th. Remained at the same camp to-day to recruit our horses, and make some repairs on the wagons, shoe horses, &c. A part of the men have been hunting--some of them have just returned, it being noon, and report having seen a great many antelopes, wild turkies, wolves, &c.; but have brought in nothing, with the exception of Fuller, who has just come in with a back load of clams or muscles tied up in his shirt, he not having any other means of bringing his prize, having stripped himself of that very necessary garment and constructed it into a bag for that purpose. Perhaps by night they may succeed in getting some kind of game for a change. I have been busy repairing the hub of my wagon, while others are equally busy, shoeing horses, washing clothes, and attending to other necessary evils of a camp life. This evening I went out and took tea, (as the old ladies would have it at home, in the settlements,) that is, I went to the tent of friends Litwiler, Porter, and Drake, and helped eat the turkey which Litwiler shot last night, and we had quite a sociable time of it, none the less so from the novelty of taking tea out in this great wilderness, where perhaps the foot of civilized man never trod before--and one thing I can say with candor, that unlike many tea parties in more civilized regions, we had no scandal to talk over to give zest to the enjoyment of our tea drinking, although we did dwell somewhat on our homes, wives, children, fathers, brothers, sisters and friends. One wagon left us this morning, being anxious to get on. 16th. Traveled 25 miles this day over a barren, volcanic country. The face of the country is prairie diversified with sandy and rocky knobs, with no water fit for man to drink, although there is some in muddy pools that the horses may drink as a last resort. The country is destitute of timber, and has every appearance of having been acted upon by volcanoes, and taking it altogether, it has been the most dreary day's drive that we have had yet. We have had an exceedingly hot day, and the dust has been suffocating. The ground is so dry that grass cannot grow. We camped this night on a dry branch of the Little Blue river, where we could get some water of very poor quality. Found less grass here than at any place back, which is very discouraging, for there has not been enough yet at any place but one, to give our horses what they required. We found a company camped here who intend to stop here three days, and if no rain falls in that time to turn back to the States, but that is what we will never do, for we will go on until we get through, or perish in the attempt; let what will come, our company are determined to go through. 25 miles. 17th. Our company held a council and elected me Captain of the train this morning, which is by no means a desirable post, as it is attended with greater responsibility and much more care and labor than a less noted position. However there was no help for it, the company unanimously insisting on my acquiescence, so I was forced to yield to the "public voice," and accordingly entered upon the discharge of my duties. We struck our tents at half past six A.M., and crossed the branch where we became the involuntary witnesses of a terrible accident which happened to a train that started from above us about the time we left. As we approached the main road we were alongside of them, and some of our company finding old friends in the other train, both trains were stopped to have a little friendly conversation. A few moments afterwards a dog belonging to the other train, frightened the mules belonging to one of their wagons, ahead of which there were a span of high spirited horses, causing them to break out of the train and run, when instantly the dog jumped upon one of the mules and bit him severely, and adding much more to their fright. The wagon was loaded to the top of the bows, on the top of which sat the driver who reined the horses and mules for some time until a line broke, when they turned down a steep gully, turning the wagon completely over, and burying the driver under the load, the leaders (horses) broke clear from the mules, and the latter turned over and came upon their feet, the reverse from their original position, the nigh one being on the off side, and the off one on the nigh side. The horses ran in one direction, whilst the mules ran in another, with the forward wheels attached to them, and the dog with another belonging to the train chasing them. The horses were soon caught by Litwiler, who sprang upon one of our horses and gave chase, but the mules were not caught until the dogs were shot, although frequently surrounded by the men, they being so frightened that they would have ran directly over them. We got the driver out from under the goods as soon as possible, found him badly bruised and cut up, and bleeding freely, but sensible, which was more than we expected, as we thought we should find him killed outright. The wagon was completely broken to pieces, and they were compelled to encamp the train to repair the damage and to take care of the injured man. I never saw him afterwards, and have never heard whether he recovered; it is possible that he did, yet as they had two doctors in the train it is uncertain. The train belonged to Hennepin, Ill., and the same unlucky dog I was told had killed a mule for the train once before since they started. We reached the Little Blue river about noon. The Little Blue is about 30 feet wide, and about 3 deep, good banks and sandy bottom; the water is good, and flows in a quick current. It is skirted with cotton wood trees, with some oak and ash the whole length of it. The timber generally lies on the west bank of the river, and averages from 20 to 100 rods in width. It furnishes good camping grounds all along its bottoms. One of the men killed an antelope this evening which was divided up amongst the different messes in the train. 25 miles. 18th. Saturday. We saw some Pawnees to-day, for the first time--four came to the road to trade--about 20 more were hid in a gully a short distance from us, who were seen by some of our men, although they tried hard enough to secrete themselves. They are a treacherous, ill-looking set, and I did not like the looks of them much. They have too much of the cat look in their eyes, and when I see that in an Indian, I always look out for treachery. We saw some buffalo to-day--one was killed last night a short distance above our camp. We camped this night on the Little Blue, where we found plenty of grass. Litwiler and Ranahan killed two antelope this evening, which furnished our camp with fresh meat again. We found plenty of signs of beaver this night, our sentries hearing them splashing their tails in the water nearly all night; on the banks of the river were trees one foot in diameter cut down by them. 22 miles. 19. Sunday. We concluded to travel to-day. Left the Blue for the last time about noon. A man had three horses and $500 stolen last night by his own guard, who left him with his wife and two other women without a team. We took in water at the last place that we struck the Blue river, having 21 miles to travel without good water. Met a train coming from Robadeau's trading post, with five wagon loads of buffalo skins and other peltries. We stopped and wrote letters and sent back to the States by them, for which we paid them 25 cents for each letter. Robadeau himself was along, riding in a nice covered carriage, smoking his pipe, enjoying all the comfort imaginable. 25 miles. 20th. We camped last night on the prairie without wood or water, only some rotten slough water, bad enough to poison a horse. We had a wind storm, with heavy thunder, just at night, but no rain. It came upon us instantly without warning, and before we could secure our tents they were all blown down but two, which were protected by, and secured to the wagons. It was terrific, raising loaded wagons on the side next to the wind, two feet from the ground; we expected they would be blown over, and nothing saved them from being overturned but their loads, for if they had not been loaded they would have been swept away before the wind like feathers. Some of the time it was impossible for a man to keep his feet. I never saw such a storm of wind in the States, and hope I may not see another on this journey. We drove 26 miles and camped on an island in the Platte, or Nebraska river, about two miles below Fort Kearney, where we found plenty of grass and fuel. Saw some antelope, deer and buffalo to-day, but did not try to kill any. 26 miles. 21st. Remained over to repair damages, and to cut our wagon boxes off and make them shorter. Had some rain in the morning. A report is current here this morning that a train was cut off by the Indians on Sunday night, (where we baited Sunday noon.) A company of dragoons have left the Fort to-day to investigate the matter. Fort Kearney is considerable of a fort, built of adobies or unburnt brick. It is built in the form of a paralelogram, the centre forming a square which is defended by a park of artillery. The garrison consists of about 250 soldiers, who seem to be under excellent discipline. The commander's name I did not learn. The whole affair seems to be well calculated to keep the Indians in check, but I think would be of very little account in repelling an attack made by scientific troops, supported with good artillery. 22d. Started again this morning, traveled 22 miles up the Platte river. Our road lay along the Platte bottom, and was very good, but somewhat slippery from the rain that fell day before yesterday. The Platte bottom on this side of the river, is from 10 to 15 miles wide, being terminated on the side opposite from the river by high sand hills or bluffs. The river itself is about two miles wide, with a swift current, but filled up with innumerable islands and sand bars. 22 miles. 23d. Our road still leads up the Platte bottoms. The land is very good, and we find some grass, best where there is no wood, except some willows and cotton wood on the islands in the river. We saw some antelope and buffalo to-day, but they were back on the bluffs, and our men thought too much of their spare horses to follow them. 25 miles. 24th. Continue still up the Platte bottom. We found some excellent springs of cool water, which were a treat to us, as we have had a very hot day, and our water has all along been muddy river water. We were compelled to use buffalo chips to-day for fuel, there being no wood. I suppose many of my lady readers would rather turn up their noses at a hoe cake baked on buffalo chips, but I assure them I saw ladies, who were genteel, that seemed to eat cakes baked with this fuel with great apparent relish. The buffalo chips used are droppings of buffalo the year previous. They become entirely dry, and make very good fuel, and are the main dependance for cooking for the next 300 miles, and until we get into the sage country. One of our men waded the Platte river to-day while we were baiting. The water was about three feet deep, except on the sand bars, where it was often not over six inches deep. The width of the river is about one mile. We began to find alkali on the surface of the ground to-day. In some places it was half an inch in depth, and tastes like air slacked salæratus. We found but little grass on this day's travel, but a very good, level road, and saw some antelope. 25 miles. 25th. Weather still hot, with cold nights. The wind changes about midnight, and blows cold from the west until noon of the next day, in the afternoon it dies away, leaving the atmosphere hot and sultry. The wind suddenly changed this evening, and blew a perfect tornado. It would have made a parson split his sides with laughter if he could have refrained from holding the hair on his own head long enough to laugh--to have seen the perfect confusion and turmoil which our camp was thrown into when it struck us. Tents were flying in the air, men chasing their hats, with the most persevering energy; some were holding down their tents to keep them from tumbling down, while others were tumbling them down to keep them from being torn into ribbons, and others in the greatest excitement were securing the covers of their wagons to prevent their being blown away; in truth it was one of the most delightful scenes of confusion, turmoil and dismay that could be imagined. For our part, we had noticed the coming change a few moments before it came about, and had secured our tent to our wagon, so that it weathered the gale; ours and one other were the only ones in the camp that remained standing when the blow passed over. The tornado lasted about thirty minutes, but during that time it leveled every tent in every encampment in sight of us, (but the two in our camp.) This is the second time we have had such a blow out, but we expect to find more of them before we get through. The grass is poor to-day, and no wood except willows on the islands and buffalo chips, of the latter of which there are a great plenty. 28 miles. 26th. Sunday. A part of our train concluded to lie over to-day, but the majority being against it, produced a split in the train, owing to which 10 wagons left us and drove on, leaving seven wagons behind. This we consider no detriment, although the men belonging to those wagons that left us are all of them whole-hearted, noble-souled companions. Small trains travel faster than larger ones, and the difficulty of finding good camping grounds for a small train is not so great as for a large one. We were sorry to part with them, but we parted in friendship and peace, as all ought to do on this journey. Some of them wish to travel to Fort Laramie, which is 330 miles from Fort Kearney, before stopping, but we wish to rest our horses one day in every seven, and are determined whenever we can find grass to make that day the Sabbath. We are all very busy keeping the Sabbath, which is done here after this fashion: Exercises of the morning, shaving and cleaning with a plunge bath in the Platte river. Forenoon, setting wagon tire, repairing wagons. Afternoon, shoeing horses, washing clothes &c. &c. Evening, rest--which is all the time we get to rest. Our stopping days are no resting days to us, but our horses need it--they look well now, and we mean to keep them looking well if we can. We have three blacksmiths in our train, and one wagon maker. We set the tire on Ainsly's wagon this morning in a manner that would be new to blacksmiths in the States. Not having any means of welding tire, we took them off from the wheels, took all the felloes off, and then put leather cottrells or rings on the spokes, thereby raising the shoulder of the spoke and enlarging the circle of the wheel, then put the felloes on again, and then heated the tire, and set it as tight as the best blacksmith could do, with a forge and bellows to cut and weld the ties at. This valley is lined with buffalo bones and carcasses, their skulls lie about in every direction. One of our men found 18 yesterday in one spot at the foot of a high bluff. They were probably driven over the bluff by the Indians. We saw no buffalo to-day, although there were plenty of signs, they appear to come down to the river at night to get water, and go back to the plains in the morning. The bottom is about two miles wide here, and on the bluffs may be found some few scattering cedars. Litwiler killed a noble buck to-day. Its horns were in the velvet, and the meat good. It made us plenty of meat for the whole company, and some to spare. Saw a beaver dam at this place. 27th. We struck our tents again this morning and started. We have had a very cold day, so much so that we needed great coats and mittens, and I have suffered more with cold than on any day since I started. We had a smart shower in the morning, which was welcome. The country on this day's drive looks like a huge buffalo pasture, the ground being covered with buffalo chips like a farm-yard. The emigrants before us have been slaughtering them without mercy. We counted eight fresh slaughtered ones within one mile distance. We were informed to-day that McPike & Strother's train lost 25 mules and horses in a stampede last night. We crossed the south fork of the Platte this afternoon. It is about three fourths of a mile wide here, which is the south or lower ford, but we had to travel in the river at least a mile and a half, the wind and current sweeping us down the river, so that our course lay in the form of a half circle. The water was about up to our wagon boxes, one of them taking water a little. This crossing is one of the exciting scenes of this journey. When we crossed, the river was filled with wagons, men, mules and horses, extending quite across the river. One of our wagons got stuck in the quick-sand which frightened the horses, but frightened the driver more. Being on horse back myself, I rode back to assist the driver, but in our endeavors to start the wagon we had our doubletree broken, owing to which accident I had to go ashore and send back a spare team to help them out, but before the team reached the wagon, and within a few minutes after I had reached the shore, the driver came ashore, bearing in hand a tin lantern, that being (in his fright) the only thing which he could find of value, to save out of the drowned wagon, which, as he supposed, would be soon buried in the quick-sand. However, after awhile, the wagon came safely ashore, when the driver had the satisfaction of depositing his tin lantern in a place of safety again in one of the boxes in the wagon. He did not relish much being said after that about crossing the Platte, it was a disagreeable subject, decidedly. Some of the teams were towed through the river with long ropes, with 20 or 30 men dragging at them ahead of the mules and horses, up to their middles in the water. One man was riding horse back when his horse stumbled off from a sand bar into deep water, and horse and rider both went out of sight; a dozen of us started immediately for him, but before we had got to him, horse and rider both came up, the horse making for the shore, and the man for the nearest sand bar.--The man lost his rifle and hat, which grieved him a great deal; the horse lost his rider, which he did not seem to take to heart at all. We drove about two miles after crossing and camped on the bottom, with no fuel but buffalo chips. A stampede took place about sunset, of 150 head of horses, mules and oxen, which was the largest stampede that we have seen or heard of. We were just cooking our supper. Our horses were quietly grazing around the camp; the men gathering buffalo chips for the night, or idly lounging about the fires, talking and smoking, and taking as much comfort as possible after our hard day's work, when down the river came a sound, as of distant thunder, yet more terrible to the ears of the practiced emigrant on the plains; instantly every man was on his feet listening to the approaching sounds; faintly above the noise could be heard the cry of stampede! stampede! and a dark mass enveloped in the dust could be seen moving down upon us with the speed of the wind. Instantly every man sprang for the horses, knowing too well that if they were not got inside of the correll of wagons, before that moving mass of terror and phrenzy came up to them they were lost. The cooks threw down their frying pans, the men their pipes, and bags of buffalo chips, and the whole plain looked more like bedlam broke loose than a quiet camping ground; some shouted and belabored the poor beasts, who already began to feel the infection, others lugged away at the long lariets of their mules who dogged and sullen, threw themselves on their reserved rights, and braced back on all fours with their long ears turned back and their eyes half closed, seemed to say to the unhappy knights who were so energetically tugging them along, no you don't--you can't come it, if you do, just let us know, but in they had to go, in spite of their resolution and firmness. During this time, which occupied less space than I have been in recording it, the infuriated mass kept rushing down towards us, sweeping everything of stock kind along with them that came in their way. The matter began to look serious for us, although we had succeeded in getting all of our stock within the circle of our wagons, when suddenly, when within a quarter of a mile of us they look a turn and went dashing over the hills like a torrent, and a few minutes after them went 30 or 40 men on horses which they had secured, riding madly on to keep in sight of the terrified animals; on went the mass, and on went the riders, over hill and gully through the darkness of night in their "break-neck" career, until they came to the North Fork of the Platte, when fortune favored the riders, for the stampede took down the river towards the forks of the two rivers. Excitement reigned through every camp that night. Many had lost all their stock, their sole dependence for the prosecution of their journey, or even their safe return to the States. Families, men, women and children thrown out in the wilderness hundreds of miles from civilized beings, and their main hope gone. Would those in pursuit recover the horses? or would they dash on over these boundless plains in the frenzy of fear, growing more frantic as they proceeded, as many had before them, until nature could stand no more, and then drop dead in their tracks? These questions were often asked, and many were the tearful eyes that night that sought without avail rest and sleep. All night long the darkness was rendered hideous by the blowing of horns, firing of guns, and the shouting of men to warn, if perchance any straggler from the pursuing party should be on his return, of the whereabouts of the camp, and few were the eyes in those camps through which the stampede had taken its course that closed in sleep that night. The stampede continued down the river until it was stopped by the two rivers coming together, which once having checked their mad career, they were soon surrounded by the pursuers and safely secured, with the exception of one horse, which had broken his neck. Reader, if you wish to realize all the anxiety and horror of a stampede, go out in the plains hundreds of miles from help, where your horses are as necessary to your safety as the ship is to the sailor at sea. See a moving body of stock coming down towards your horses, snorting, neighing, bellowing and braying, enveloped in a perfect cloud of dust, making the earth tremble under their feet: witness the distended nostril, the glistening eye, and the fierce snort and neigh of your own horse as you cling to him for dear life, and as he kicks and plunges as the stampede approaches, and the madness grows upon him to break from you and join them in their mad career--go out and see and feel all these things, when perhaps your life hangs upon the result, and then you may have some idea of a stampede; but otherwise you cannot. 20 miles. 28th. We traveled up the south Fork about eight miles, when we left the river and crossed the dividing ridge between the two forks to the north branch of the Platte. The country is barren and sandy, with no grass. We saw several antelope, and had one or two good chases for them, but did not get any. 22 miles. 29th. We were compelled to ascend the bluffs to-day and travel 15 miles without water. Three buffalo came running towards our train to-day, and threatened to run through the train, but turned their course when within about 20 rods of us. Col. Sublet shot two bullets through one of them from his double shooter but did not bring him down. Litwiler afterwards killed a bull. We stopped four hours after we got to the river to get in the meat. It was excellent, with the exception of having a strong flavor of musk. It will supply our whole train for a week, besides leaving enough for 40 men. We have found great quantities of wagons, irons, chains and other property thrown away, on the road to-day. Abundance of buffalo, antelope and wolves are seen now. 24 miles. 30th. We got an early start this morning, and reached Ash Hollow about noon, where we found some trees growing, which were welcome to our sight. The road from the upper ford on the South Fork, comes in at Ash Hollow. Camped early and found plenty of grass, with thousands of horses cattle and mules feeding upon it. An old Frenchman with a party of Yanktaw Indians, is camped near us, trading with the emigrants. We have passed several good springs of water to-day. The Bluffs here are mostly limestone, with a few cedar trees growing upon them; back of this they have been mostly sand bluffs. We find alkali every day now. 22 miles. 31st. We had a heavy shower last night, a perfect deluge, but it was needed, for the country was very dry. We have passed several Indian villages to-day, belonging to the Yanktaw Sioux. One village had about forty lodges in it. The Sioux are a noble race and very friendly, and appear to be as much civilized as their neighbors near the settlement, that is they know how to beg to perfection. They lately had a fight with the Pawnees, in which they were victorious, and took a great many ponies, which are now feeding around the wigwams. One of them came in with a pony loaded with buffalo meat while I was in their wigwam. I saw some Indian burials, to-day. They bury on a platform raised from the ground, on poles about eight feet high. The poles are set up in the form of a pyramid, and are fastened together at the top, where also is hung the medicine bag of the chief. The body is wrapped in buffalo robes, and a cloth made of bark, enclosing also a quantity of buffalo meat, and other provisions to last him on his journey to the spirit land, and his arrows to shoot with on the way. When all the preparation is complete, the body is laid upon the platform, to moulder or dry up as may be, in the sun, until the robes get off when the ravens may finish it. This one that I went to see to-day, smelt so bad that I could not approach very near to it without holding my nose, and then it was very offensive. It was a chief who had been killed in the recent fight with the Pawnees. _June 1st._ We had more rain last night. Passed several springs to-day, and saw some scattering trees on the bluffs. We now find great quantities of lizards; they are small, being about three inches long, and very sprightly and active little things, and the boys have much fun in chasing them. We passed some more Sioux and Chienes wigwams to-day; or as the Indians themselves pronounce it, Siuk. We had a heavy wind-squall in the afternoon, with some rain. Country still barren, with but little grass. We camped at night in sight of the famous Chimney Rock; this rock is quite a curiosity. It is composed of soft sand stone. It is about one hundred and twenty paces around it at the base, and about as high as Bunker's Hill monument, and looks very much like it at a distance. It can be seen at a distance of thirty or forty miles. We travelled one day and a half after we came in sight of it, before we came opposite to it. It is said by the French traders to have been much higher than at present, but is wearing away every year by the action of the elements. The Court House and county buildings are also in sight from our camping ground to-night. They are a group of sandstone bluffs, resembling the objects which they are named from, and are curiosities worth seeing. They are about twenty miles from us, perhaps more, but they look as if they were not three miles distant. All distances here are deceptive, the eye readily taking in objects at a distance of twenty or thirty miles, the atmosphere being so clear. 25 miles. 2d. Sunday. Laid over to-day, to air our loads and rest our teams.--All the wagons but Litwiler's and mess left us to-day, being anxious to get along. We shall probably overtake them at St. Laring, which is about ninety miles from this place. The weather is pleasant and warm with a fair chance for grass. Fuller and J. Ingalls undertook to go to Court House Rock this afternoon, which looks to be but a few miles from us, but after traveling about twelve miles they thought it looked quite as far as when they started, and they turned back; they got into the camp about eleven o'clock at night. 3d. Drove twenty-five miles, and passed the Chimney Rock. We camped about two miles back from the river on the bottom, and about four miles from a large bluff resembling the fortification which we named Fort Whitey, from its white appearance. Several of the boys went out on a wild goose chase to the bluffs for wood, there being a few straggling cedars in sight which appeared to be not over two miles distant; they started about four P.M. and got back at ten o'clock at night pretty well fatigued, with no fuel, being unable to reach the cedars. 25 miles. 4th. Had a heavy rain last night, and got a late start, but drove thirty miles and caught up with the rest of our company who left us on Sunday. We passed Robadove's trading post, at Scott's bluffs and camped about two miles from it at a spring of clear cold water gushing out of a rock.--This ought to be called the Rock of Horeb, situated as it is in a desert land. Our road to-day led back from the river and we have had a scarcity of water for our horses. We have had a dry, hot day, with great scarcity of grass. The country is getting more barren. Found an indifferent camping ground. 25 miles. 6th. Passed another French trading post to-day with its usual accompaniment of Indian wigwams. Litwiler swapped horses with an old Indian who took a fancy to his horse because it was white, and his squaw wanted it, he said. We reached Fort Laramie about four o'clock, P.M., forded the Laramie river, and camped about two miles from the fort on the bluff, the authorities at the Fort prohibiting emigrants from camping in the valley. 26 miles. 7th. Remained this day at the camping ground to write home, there being a post office at the Fort. There are a great many wagons left at this point by many taking to packing. Thousands of dollars worth of property being thrown away, but anything we wish to buy, we have to pay double price for. Fort Laramie is situated at the junction of the Laramie and Platte rivers, and surrounded by high bluffs, being at the base of the Black Hills. It is 630 miles from St. Joseph, and 500 from Council Bluffs. The fort is built mostly of adobies, or unburnt brick, and resembles Fort Kearney. The garrison consists of about 300 men at this time.--The Council Bluffs road comes in at this place, and the soldiers have a ferry across the Platte by which they make considerable money out of the emigrants, which I understand goes into a fund to buy a library for the garrison. The officers have built a hand saw-mill near the fort, although there is no timber nearer than the Black Hills, some 10 miles distant from the fort. 8th. Struck our tents this morning and started on the Black Hills road. The majority of the teams have gone up the Platte bottoms. We have found good grass to-day, abundance of good buffalo grass, the best we have had. Passed the Warm Spring, 14 miles from the fort; saw a flock of mountain sheep, but they were so wild that we could not get a shot at them. Saw an antelope--had a grand chase for him, but he eluded us and got away. We camped at night at a beautiful stream of water in a romantic valley, with plenty of wood and water. One of Loyd's men shot a sage hen, which is a species of grouse somewhat larger than a prairie hen. The flesh of the sage hen is excellent savory eating. We are now in the sage country; it resembles our cultivated sage, but is more bitter, and grows about two feet high; also great abundance of prickly pear, the ground being sometimes covered for acres in one bed. The prickly pear covers the ground here to that extent that we are frequently compelled to clear away with our spades space to erect our tents, it not being particularly agreeable to the seat of honor to sit down on the long sharp thorns. This must be a healthy country, although a barren cold one, being constantly in sight of snow, which can be seen at all times in the year. 26 miles. 9th. The road this morning led up the valley of the creek about six miles, then struck across to another creek eight miles; after leaving the creek we found a spring of good water; five miles from this spring we came to Horse Creek. Here were great numbers camped, being just seventeen miles to the next water, with but little grass on the route. The latter part of the day's drive has been rough and sandy. We passed two men on the creek making pack saddles. They had given away their wagons and thrown away their other property. Wagons, harness, stoves, and all kinds of property we find strewn along the road now. We had a tremendous hail storm this afternoon. The hail fell two inches deep, some of the pieces of which were an inch in diameter. Many who were exposed had their lips and cheeks cut through by the hail. The storm beat our tents down, and we had to crawl under the wagons for shelter from its fury. We got up our tents again after the storm passed over, but had to sleep in three inches depth of mud through the night. 20 miles. 10th. We were camped last night opposite Laramie's Peak, distant about 10 miles. We first saw the Peak at a distance of 70 miles. It is always covered with snow, which makes it a prominent object. We reached La Pointe Creek about noon. Have had a hilly road to-day and poor grass. 26 miles. 11th. Camped last night at the Red Stone Quarries. Here we found the most beautiful, pure specimens of white free stone. It was soft and could be cut readily with a knife. The real free stone is equally soft when it first comes out of the quarry. We have had muddy roads to-day, and a very barren country to travel through, with but little grass. Passed Pearl Creek, where we had another severe hail storm. Saw a fine horse that had been left behind to-day. His feet had become injured for want of shoes. 22 miles. 12th. We saw a good vein of coal to-day, about ten inches thick. It was on the bank of the Platte river, where the water had washed the bank away. I examined it, and found it of good quality. A camp near us lost twenty-six horses and one mule last night, by a stampede. We have heard to-day that they have found sixteen of the horses, and mule. Country barren, and grass poor. Passed the Deer Creek to-day, which is a beautiful stream, with cotton wood trees growing on its banks. Fuller and Ingalls caught a mess of small fish out of it. 22 miles. 13th. Reached the Upper Platte ferry about noon. We found four boats, two belonging to the Mormons, and two to a St. Louis company. The charge for crossing is four dollars per wagon, and 50 cents for a horse or mule. The celebrated Kit Carson is here with a drove of horses and mules for sale. I did not see him, he being out on the hills with stock.--The country is very barren here, the Black Hills reaching down within a few miles of the river, and covered with snow. Crossed the river and camped on a barren hill-side without grass, which was the best spot that we could find. 15 miles. 14th. To-day's drive has been over a desert bearing nothing but wild sage, and crickets which cover the ground, and seem to get as fat as if they had something to eat. They were so numerous that we could not step without crushing some of them. Passed an alkali spring and pond 12 miles from the ferry; also the Willow Springs, 28 miles from the river. Found good water at the Willow Springs, but no grass. Camped on Prospect Hill in full view of the lofty snow capped Peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and have had a very cold, windy day's drive, with sandy road. 30 miles. 15th. Very cold day; have to wear our overcoats and mittens. Rained all night and forenoon, with a right smart chance of a snow storm. After the snow storm had blown out we had one of the most splendid views of the Rocky Mountains that the mind could conceive. They were clothed with pure white snow from base to summit, gigantic specimens of Nature's monuments. Passed some small creeks to-day furnishing some good water; also several alkali lakes and swamps. Thousands of wagon loads of pure saleratus and pearlash could be got here. The crusting over some of the swamps readily supported a man walking upon it. We gathered some for use and found it much stronger than the manufactured article, but think it contains some poisonous property, as the bread made of it affected us disagreeably. I should advise all to observe caution in using it. Passed the Independence Rock, which is a huge mass of granite covered with the names of thousands who have gone before us. Crossed the Sweet Water river, which is about 10 rods wide, and three feet deep at the ford, and camped one mile from the crossing. 24 miles. Sunday. 16th. Moved our camp up to the foot of the mountain where we found a good spring of water and some grass. We are now fairly in the Rocky Mountains, and a ragged looking country it is. Huge piles of granite reared upon each other, covered with snow renders the prospect picturesque, but cheerless. Weather cold and windy. 17th. Passed the Devil's gate, a narrow chasm in the rock, said to be about four hundred feet deep, through which the Sweet Water runs. It resembles the dells on the Wisconsin river. Have had a sandy road and poor grass. Bought a light wagon and harness this evening for 10 dollars. Saw several heavy wagons that had been left on the road, owing to the sand. 25 miles. 18th. Crossed the Sweet Water three times to-day. Got in with a train of ox wagons which hindered us so much that we turned out and camped at 3 o'clock, P.M. Found good grass at camp, but have had sandy roads and no grass on the drive. Left our heavy wagon, for the good of other comers, who will probably burn it. Ice made last night half an inch in thickness. 19th. Started at half past three o'clock this morning, and passed all the ox trains in their camp ground, the Sweet Water, four miles from camp, from which crossing we will have 16 miles to travel without water or grass. Saw several dead oxen along the 16 miles, which were killed by alkali.--Crossed the Sweet Water again--passed one tent on the river of a man and his wife, the man down with the mountain fever. Roads sandy and grass poor. We overtook the balance of our company, who left us last Sunday, again to-day. This is the second time they have left us, and we have overtaken them within three days afterwards, which shows pretty conclusively, I think, that nothing is gained by driving Sundays. 28 miles. 20th. Got up into the region of snow to-day, and have passed several snow banks alongside of the road in the ravines. Road better, but no grass to speak of. We passed the 10 wagons to-day which left us on the Platte because we would not drive on Sunday. They had had four days start of us at Ft. Laramie. When we passed them they had 14 men down with the mountain fever. Crossed a branch of the Sweet Water and the Willow Creek, and camped about a mile from the latter. We passed to-day a grave made yesterday of a man found with his throat cut. He had in his hand when found, a jack knife, and near him was found a scanty supply of provisions. He had committed suicide. It was evident that he was a foot packer, and had probably become depressed by his journey and the gloomy prospect of his not being able to get through his long journey with his slender supply of provisions. Poor fellow; he had become discouraged in prosecuting one long journey, and had entered upon another longer journey, with, perhaps, less preparation than upon the first. His name was not known. 20 miles. 21st. We lost our horses this morning, which hindered us some time, but we succeeded in finding them again. We crossed the Sweet Water for the last time; 10 miles from the crossing is the summit of the Rocky mountains at the South Pass, which we reached at noon. It is known by two conical shaped mounds or hills, about 60 feet high. No one would ever suspect this to be the summit, the country is so level, and the ascent of the whole distance is so gradual. Three miles from the summit we reached the Pacific Springs, one of the heads of the Colorado river of the Gulf of California. Camped at the springs over night, found plenty of grass, but the swamps are very miry. At this place the California Express mail stops to take letters back to the States for the emigrants.--The price of sending back a letter is 50 cents. The other 10 wagons came up to-night and camped with us. They have two more men down with the fever, making 16 in all. They intend going the Salt Lake route from here, but we shall go the Sublett cut-off. 17 miles. 22d. Left early this morning and reached the Big Sandy river at night. We had no water the first 25 miles excepting from one small brackish creek. Passed the forks of the Salt Lake and Sublett cut-off, roads 14 miles from the Springs. The right hand road, the Sublett cut-off, the left, Fort Bridges and Salt Lake. The road along this day's drive has shown plenty of the evil effects of want of grass, water, &c., in the numerous skeletons of stock left last year along the road. The country is barren deserts, destitute of grass, and covered with wild sage. We found plenty of grass towards the mountains about three miles from the river.--We have had a hot day, although the mountains, as far as we can see are covered with snow. 31 miles. 23d. Sunday. Remained on the Big Sandy to-day. Great numbers are camped here intending to cross the Big Sandy and Green River desert to-night. One of our company Thos. Trimble, was taken sick yesterday with mountain fever; by my advice he was brought along by his partner, Col. Sublett, who had intended to remain back with him. He is very much better to-day, which inclines me to think that it would be better in most cases to travel with the patient in that fever than to lie bye. The Big Sandy is about 10 rods wide, and 18 inches deep at this time, and is a branch of the Colorado of the West. 24th. Started last night at five o'clock, P.M., to cross the desert, which is not so much a desert as a great deal of the country over which we have already traveled. It is destitute of water, but we found considerable grass. Arrived at the Green River about noon, having traveled all night, only stopping occasionally to rest our teams. The distance, as measured by a roadometer belonging to Dr. Reed's Pennsylvania train, was 41 miles, but I was told that a road turned off 25 miles from the Sandy which shortened the distance to Green River, to 30 miles. It was but little traveled, owing to which we missed it, being in the night when we passed it. Five miles from the river we had a bluff to descend which was 300 feet high, and almost perpendicular, but we got down without accident by locking both hind wheels and sliding. Last year the emigrants were obliged to take their wagons to pieces and let them down with ropes. We had a beautiful moonlight last night for traveling. Our road led in sight of the snow mantled peaks of the Rocky Mountains, which looked with the moon beaming upon them, like mountains of molten silver. It was one of the most magnificent views that I have ever witnessed, and richly repaid me for the loss of rest in crossing the desert in the night to attain it. We brought a packer across the desert in our wagon who was unable to travel on horse back, from sickness; he was so much better when we reached Green River that he concluded to try his horse again. Our company is peculiarly fortunate, for we not only escape sickness ourselves, but are often able to relieve others who are suffering. We crossed Green River in a ferry boat and drove seven miles, passing a creek six miles from the river, and camped for the night. Found the grass poor, but good water. We paid $5 a wagon for crossing, and swam our stock. Green River is about 15 rods wide at the ferry, with a very swift current, and generally deep. Some few ford above the ferry, but it is attended with great danger. One wagon went rolling down the stream, while we were there. One horse belonging to it was drowned, but the men were saved by the ferry boat. One went down yesterday in the same manner. I understand that 14 men have been drowned here this season in crossing. Flour is worth here $50 per hundred lbs. Green River presents the most romantic scenery in the world; it is deep set in the midst of bluffs that take the shapes of towers, castles, cities, and of every imaginable work of art. The bottom is smooth at intervals, looking like a lawn with the stream, as viewed from the summit of the bluffs meandering through it, looking like a silver thread winding through a green landscape, while at a distance on one side may be seen the peaks of the Rocky Mountains covered with snow, from their bases to their summits, rearing their heads far into the sky, with the sun shining upon them causing them to glisten like burnished silver. On the other side are Green River mountains, which, though less lofty, are quite as picturesque, having their valleys relieved by groves of pine, the green contrasting agreeably with the naked brown rocks composing the mountains. It is out of my power to do the subject justice.--It would be a paradise for a landscape painter. When the railroad shall be built from the States to California or Oregon, it will undoubtedly become a fashionable resort in summer, and then its beauty will be known to the world. Green River rises in the Wind River mountains and empties into the Colorado. 48 miles. 25th. Drove five miles to a considerable branch of Green River, and camped for the day. We here found the best grass that we have had since leaving St. Joseph. Drove our horses about one mile below the road and crossed to an island containing about 40 acres, covered with excellent grass. We have had a very hot day, as we have had every day since we left the Pacific Springs, but cold nights. 5 miles. 26th. Remain in camp to-day to recruit our horses. A man died about a mile above us to-day. He had the measles, when the mountain fever set in and carried him off. Some of the company went to the mouth of the creek this evening and caught a fine mess of salmon, one of which weighed seven lbs. They are an excellent kind of fish, and very well flavored, the cold ice water of the mountain rivers keeping them always hard. They are very abundant in Green River. 27th. Started again this morning early, traveled up the creek about three miles, then crossed the stream and struck across the ridges. Had a bad day for traveling on account of the dust which was suffocating.--Stopped to bait at some springs and thin groves at the foot of the Two Mile bluffs. We here found a few spruce trees. It is a great pleasure in these deserts to find trees, even if they are but dwarfs. We camped at night near a little brook at the foot of some high mountain. We have had high hills to ascend and descend to-day, with plenty of water but no grass until night, when we found good grass. 26 miles. 28th. We traveled above the snow region again to-day and had abundance of it all about. I climbed one snow bank 20 feet high, notwithstanding the heat in the middle of the day is so intense. We have had steep hills to ascend again to-day, but the worst of it is in descending them.--We crossed one considerable stream, name unknown. Fuller and Jonathan caught about 35 trout while we were lying about it. We have had plenty of Indians about us. They are Shoshonees or Snakes. Camped this night on Grove Hill, at the Bear Head encampment, in the summit between Green River and Bear River. We are above snow yet, and have found a plenty of grass and water. 18 miles. 29th. We had some very bad hills to descend to-day. I understand that the emigrants of last year had to let their wagons down some of them with ropes. We got down with out accident, by locking our hind wheels. Reached Bear River about 3 P.M., and drove down the Four Branches or Smith's River, and camped. At this point the Four Branches enter the Bear River between two high points or curves of the mountains, and within one hundred rods from the first to the last. One of them is very deep and bad to cross; the water coming nearly to the top of the wagon bed. Bear River is a large stream about 150 yards across, with a deep swift current, and runs almost directly towards the north at this place. Its bottoms furnish an abundance of luxuriant nutritious grass, enough to supply all the stock on the plains, and they resemble the bottoms on the rivers of Illinois. We find plenty of Indians on this river, it being the head quarters of the Shoshonees whose lodges may be seen on the opposite side of the river. They have an abundance of Rocky Mountain horses, and are learning to talk English very fast; have learned to beg right smart, as our Missouri friends say, but dog on 'em, if they can't beg, they will steal. They are a little better looking Indians than the Crows, but I think much more indolent and filthy. 18 miles. 30th. Sunday. We remain in camp to-day, having good grass and water. Some of the boys are fishing trout and have caught several. This is a beautiful, romantic spot, surrounded by high steep mountains, forming a basin three or four miles in extent, well supplied with grass. We have had some Indian visitors here to-day; one of them swam Bear River and came up to the camp, as naked as father Adam before he eat the forbidden fruit. He was an old fellow, and as full of his jokes as if he could talk English. His nakedness however did not seem to trouble him, as I suppose that according to his notions of propriety, "That nature unadorned, the most adorned;" and it is no unusual thing to see the Indian women in the same state of nature's ornament as father Adam's helpmeet was at the time before mentioned. A train passed to-day, who called upon us for assistance in crossing the Four Forks, for reason that every man in the train was sick but one. We helped them to cross, when they went their way. Dr. Reed's Pennsylvania train camped here last night. They moved on this morning with the intention of getting up a celebration of our National Anniversary on the Fourth of July. We have traveled occasionally with them since striking the Little Blue, often camping with them, so much so that we seem to feel like old friends. July 1st. Struck our tents this morning and crossed the Four Forks.--Had bad crossing the second Fork, the water being over the top of the wagon box. After crossing, we had to go over one of the worst roads around the mountain I ever saw, sometimes raising our wheels up perpendicular rocks three feet high, sometimes jumping off similar ledges.--We broke the bolster to our wagon--others experienced other injury.--Some in advance of us had been still more unfortunate, as the wrecks of wagons along the road plainly proved. We drove about 12 miles and baited by another fine stream, where we found plenty of grass, and caught a fine mess of trout. This afternoon we had some tremendous hills to climb and descend, with a very rough road, over combs of rock, but at night we found ourselves past them, and on Bear River again, where we camped. We have found an abundance of grass and water to-day, and have had rather a pleasant time, although climbing some of the hills was sufficiently tiresome, though not as tiresome as the descent. 25 miles. 2d. Had a good road with plenty of water and grass. The road left the river to-day, following up a wide valley, in which we camped for the night. We passed an Indian village this afternoon, with a grocery and a black smith's shop. The forge was an army forge, belonging to the Government. Porter swapped one of his horses that had got beaten out, with an Indian, and got the wickedest little witch of a pony that I ever saw. It had never been rode with anything but a lariet. The boys had great sport this evening in trying to harness her, which they succeeded in doing after a long fight with her. 22 miles. 3d. We had an excellent road with an abundance of water and grass. I say nothing about wood for the last thousand miles, for the reason that we have had to do the best we could for fuel by using buffalo chips, (Boise baches) and sage bush. We passed the Soda Springs this afternoon and camped on the Bear River for the last time, and where the Fort Hall road leaves the river, and about four miles from the Springs. The Springs are situated at the point where the Bear River commences to turn towards the south. They will undoubtedly, when the great railroad shall have been constructed to the Pacific, become a great watering place for the world.--It is a beautiful location. The majestic Bear River flowing along--the snowy peaks of the Utah mountains stretching away to the south as far as the eye can reach, while to the north can be seen the lower ranges of the Rocky Mountains, green to their tops with vegetation. The Springs arise on the bank of the river on a small plain covered with cedars through which runs a clear branch of the Bear River. To the west may be seen the bed of the old volcanoes, now a barren plain, covered with wild sage, and dangerous to travel, on account of the numerous chasms of unknown depths, opening their yawning mouths on its surface. Probably there are no greater curiosities in the world than the Soda Springs. The water from several of these springs is equal to the best soda. We tried it with acid and produced a most pleasant beverage. One of them called the Steamboat Spring, is a great curiosity of itself. It has a cone shaped shaft or spout, the cavity of which may be six or eight inches in diameter. The water rises and recedes in this shaft every few minutes, with a noise like letting off steam on a steamboat, hence its name. There are also Sulphur Springs, and springs containing other minerals, and five miles back in the hills is a Sulphur Lake. We have had a pleasant summer day to-day, although the mountain-tops are covered with snow. We have had a light shower this afternoon, for the first time since we crossed the Rocky Mountains. We found an Indian village at the Soda Springs, with one or two Frenchmen. They were Shoshonees or Snakes, and very intelligent looking Indians. 25 miles. 4th. Not having overtaken Reed's train, to celebrate with them, we concluded to travel to-day. The Fort Hall road here bears to the right, which is also the Oregon route; the Soda Springs cut-off route keeps directly across the old crater. We concluded to go the latter route. About 10 miles travel took us over the crater, and six miles more over the hills to a branch of the Lewis or Snake River, a branch of the Columbia River, where we found another Indian village, with some Mexicans, and about three hundred of the most beautiful Rocky Mountain horses. We passed the village and stopped to bait on the side of the hill, where we found good spring of water. We here had a pail full of punch made, cooled with a lump of snow from a deep snow bank a few rods from our camp, to celebrate our National Anniversary. Having drank our punch, and given three cheers for our glorious Union, we resumed our march. Soon after starting we came to where we had to descend a very bad hill, where we found one company with their wagon broken down, who were about to take to packing. Soon afterwards we came to another considerable stream which we traveled down a few miles and camped. We found plenty of grass on the stream and caught some fine trout. 25 miles. 5th. Passed several streams to-day, and some good springs. Roads good but somewhat hilly; plenty of grass; passed a brook about night, camped on a hill side by a spring of water. This is the most beautiful country that I ever traveled in; stupendous mountains, the bald peaks covered with snow, rearing their lofty heads far into the skies. The lesser hills green to their tops, and the valleys rich with vegetation, wild wheat, clover and oats, whilst the clear, pure, invigorating atmosphere renders it the paradise of the mountaineer in summer. It is well worth a trip to California for the slothful, ease-loving denizen of lower countries, to see the country, and recover their manhood. 23 miles. 6th. Drove about 11 miles and stopped to bait at a pretty little brook. We should have taken in water at this place, as we had to drive 18 miles to get water again. After baiting we entered a canon which we followed about eight miles to the top of a mountain. It furnished us with an excellent road, although so narrow that but one wagon could pass for most of the way, the walls rising on either side hundreds of feet. The ascent is gradual, so much so that the traveler hardly perceives any. We called this the Emigrant's Pass. It seems as if nature constructed this inclined plain expressly for the benefit of us poor mortals, but if dame Nature was moved by any such kindly feelings towards us when she was engaged on this excellent natural road, she must have got sadly miffed when she got it completed to the top of the mountain, for we had one of the most tremendous descents to make on the other side, that we have had on the journey. The descent was probably one thousand feet within the first mile, steeper than the roof of a house. It is said of an ancient Spartan, that he commenced by lifting a kid, and by continuing to add weight, soon got so that he could lift an ox. This is somewhat the case with us; when we commenced the journey, trifling hills were considered great obstacles, but now we lock our hind wheels and slide down a thousand feet, over rocks, and through gullies, with as much sang froid as a school boy would slide down a snow bank. After descending, we traveled down a valley a few miles and turned up to the foot of the mountains, and just after dark found water. 29 miles. 7th. Sunday. We concluded to lie over to-day, although we have not so good a camping ground as we could desire. One of our company, Loyd, of Mineral Point, Wis., had a horse stolen, or strayed last night. Another company, camped about eight miles from us, had three stolen by the Indians. 8th. Got an early start this morning. Passed another spring eight miles from where we camped last night. Met six men going back after the three horses that were stolen. They had recovered one, which the Indians had sold to an ox train. Passed some men digging a grave, to deposit the last remains of one who had traveled a long road to obtain a narrow home. This afternoon, we entered another canon, similar to the Emigrant's Pass, only that instead of having a steep hill to descend, it reached quite through the mountain. The distance through, is about fifteen miles, and has several fine springs of water in it. Saw some goodly sized trees, either spruce or fir; camped at night in the canon on a spring branch which makes out on the west side of the mountain. Found good grass all day; passed over a valley covered with wild wheat, as high as my shoulders. It was headed out, and looked like a cultivated wheat field. 25 miles. 9th. Traveled down the Spring branch about six miles, when we crossed it, and traveled fourteen miles over a barren, burning sage plain, without water--to Raft river, which is the nastiest stream that we have had to cross, since leaving the Missouri. Deep, narrow and muddy, we had to pack all of our load across it, on our backs. One wagon that crossed whilst we were there, tipped end-wise over the forward wheels, as it entered the stream, throwing the two men who were in it, into the water, frightening them awfully. They caught hold of their mules' tails, and were drawn out; the king bolt of the wagon preventing its coming down upon them. We had four more, smaller streams to cross, within two miles of the Raft river, equally muddy; at one of which, we broke our hindmost evener, leaving our wagon in the water, and getting our load wet. After getting out of the scrape, we drove four miles, and crossing another branch of the Raft river, camped for the night, at the junction of the Cut-Off and Ft. Hall roads. We are now at the end of the Soda Springs cut-off. I like this route much, with the exception of descending two bad hills; it is a good route, along which may be found abundance of grass and water, the two great desideratums on this long journey. It is somewhat infested with Indians, excepting the first 45 miles; they are the Shemook or Root Digger Indians, a thievish, rascally race. It is well for the emigrant to keep good guard over his stock on this cut-off, for they are always on the watch for an opportunity to steal. We have good grass and water to-night, and an abundance of it. 25 miles. 10th. Left our camping ground early and travelled up the creek about five miles, then crossed and passed over another dividing ridge to another small creek--came in sight of the Great Salt Lake road. Had plenty of grass and water--camped at night on a small brook in a basin in the mountains, surrounded by high granite peaks standing about in the greatest confusion, called the Steeple Rocks. They are quite a curiosity at a distance, looking like steeples rising up from the plains, some of them many hundred feet high, and covering more than an acre or two at the base.--The road has been good. 25 miles. 11th. Got an early start this morning. We had a very cold night, quite cold enough for December, but have had a very warm day.--Passed the Junction of the Salt Lake and Ft. Hall roads this morning;--saw some wagons coming that road, the men said they had been seven days coming from Salt Lake; that it was about 170 miles, and that they had some bad streams to cross, one of them (the Webber) 19 times.--Passed a new grave at noon. We saw the team to which the person belonged who died, go along while we were baiting; he was then alive;--when we came up two hours afterwards, he was buried. He was from Missouri, and had been left sick on the road by his comrades. The team that had him in charge had picked him up and brought him along over 1000 miles and attended him until he died. Humanity sickens at such selfishness as that manifested by his comrades. They were three in number--he owned one fourth of the craft in common with them, but becoming sick, the brutes left him to the mercy of Indians, wolves, or such strangers as chance might throw in his way. The scoundrels should serve 10 years in the penitentiary if they ever get back to Missouri. We find many sick on the road now, and some deaths, but three-fourths of all that are sick are from Missouri. I do not know why it is, but such appears to be the fact. This afternoon we had a long bad hill to descend, when we reached Goose Creek, and traveled up a few miles and camped for the night.--We have had an abundance of grass and water to-day. A singular looking gigantic bluff of rocks lies directly opposite from us, which we call the castle, and it looks like an ancient castle, with its mossy battlements and sturdy towers. I saw some of the most beautiful specimens of white marble to-day that it hast been my fortune to examine. There was a quarry of it filling a mountain. It was as pure as alabaster, and probably has not a rival in the world. Horse shoe nails sold to-day for 25 cents a piece. 25 miles. 12th. Followed up the Goose creek 13 miles, then up a spring branch thro' a gorge in the mountains and across some barren ridges without water, about 12 miles, when we entered the Thousand Spring Valley. The ridge that we crossed is composed almost entirely of lava, or melted stone, and is very rough and sharp to travel over. We did not camp until after dark, there being no grass at the first springs, and then we camped in the wild sage without grass, but we could go no farther that night. Fourteen horses ran away whilst we were getting our supplies. Some of them were found during the night, and the rest in the morning; they had found good grass up in the hills. Most of our men were out all night, so that this night seems but a continuation for the morrow. 30 miles. 13th. Crossed the ridge from the Thousand Spring Valley to the Cold Creek Valley about 12 miles, no grass or water. Cold Creek is a dry creek where we struck it, but furnishes some water for stock. Our course lay up the creek, which we followed up to near its head, where we camped at some good springs impregnated with sulphur. We found plenty of grass at night, and have seen considerable quantities of alkali through the day. We passed the grave of a man drowned July 1st., [1850] but cannot imagine where it happened, as there is not water enough in the creek to drown a man, if he should lie down expressly for that purpose. The dust has been very oppressive to-day. 23 miles. 14th. Sunday. Laid over to-day. Weather very warm, but cold last night. Jonathan killed a sage hen to-day; we found it good, delicate flavored meat, much better than prairie hen. A packer had a horse shot last night with an arrow about 10 miles below us; another man lost two horses and four oxen which were stolen by the Indians. 15th. Got an early start this morning, traveled about four miles and came to the hot springs. They are curiosities worth visiting. They boil up like water in a kettle, and are hot enough to cook eggs. I attempted to put my hand into one of them to the wrist, but could not get it in to the knuckles without scalding. An amusing story is told of some Dutchmen who came to it, and stopped their teams by its side, when one of them went to the spring, and seeing it boiling up clear and limpid, threw himself down on the ground and thrust his face into the water, but instantly sprang to his feet with his eyes staring, and brushing the hot water from his face with both hands, he screamed out, "Trive on, Honce, trive on; hell ish no more dan five milsh from here!" The springs smell strong of sulphur, and discharge a large quantity of water. Near them are some good cold springs. Four miles from these springs we left the Mormon trace which leads over to Kanyon Creek, and passed through a valley to a branch of the Humboldt River. Road good but dusty, not much grass. At the point where we left the Mormon trace, we found an excellent spring of pure cold water, as cold as ice water. We passed a natural well near the place where we struck a branch of the Humboldt, and camped two miles below at some sulphur springs, strongly impregnated with alkali. This well has no soundings that have ever been reached, there are also some of the same in Thousand Spring Valley. The whole country hereabouts has been at some day past a great volcanic crater, and its distinctive features at this day will remind one of that place spoken of above by the honest Dutchman, rather than pertaining to earth. We have passed springs gushing out of the rocks to-day so poisonous that a wine glass full would kill a man as soon as so much arsenic. They can be told by the smell for 40 rods before reaching them. We found good grass to-night, although there was considerable alkali mixed with it. 33 miles. 16. About 10 miles drive brought us to the Humboldt, which is about 20 yards wide and three feet deep. We crossed it and followed down it on its west bank. The valley here is wide and filled with abundance of excellent grass, clover, wild oats, wheat and red top. The day has been very hot and dusty, yet on both sides of us, but a few miles distant, the tops of the mountains are covered with snow. We passed two new graves to-day; one of them was of a man who was shot by an Indian whilst on guard on the night of the 2d of July, and died on the fifth. His name was Oliver; he was from Waukesha, Wis. The Indians are rather troublesome of late, as the Diggers always are when they dare to be. We find a great many dead horses now, and some that are left alive, the effects of hard driving and alkali. The most of the dead stock heretofore has been oxen, but it seems now that oxen stand this part of the trip the best. 25 miles. 17th. Course still down the river--crossed a considerable branch of the Humboldt, probably the Kanyon creek. The Humboldt here is very swampy. Had some of our horses mired--general complaint of like nature. The road last year followed down the bottoms, but this year the water is so high, that the bottoms are one complete swamp, and as a consequence we have to keep on the sage plains and cross ridges, making the road longer and worse to travel, and also to wade in the mud and cut grass for our stock. Passed another grave this evening of a man killed by an Indian; also some men digging a grave for one of their comrades who had died. There is an abundance of red clover along this drive in the low grounds. 32 miles. 18th. Continued down the river--stopped and set the tire for our wagon. This afternoon we entered a canon leading across a spur of the mountain, distance about 12 miles, and without water. Camped on a small creek, with but little grass. A horse was shot a short distance from us by the Indians. 23 miles. 19th. About five miles from our last night's camp we crossed a mountain brook of excellent water, then entered a canon which we followed for 26 miles, the first 14 without water. After turning the summit, and descending about two miles we came to a spring of pure cold water by the road side. We camped this night on the Humboldt and swam our stock across the river. Our camp presents the appearance of a populous village. There are probably not far from five hundred men in it, besides many women and children. Found good grass on the opposite side of the river. 33 miles. 20th. Our road to-day led mostly away from the river, crossing some ridges in the forenoon; in the afternoon left the river and crossed a level sage plain to the base of the mountains, where we found some poor water and some grass. We followed along at the base of the hills until we reached within a few miles of the river again and camped on a bottom covered with heavy grass, and slough water. This is the best point to stop at to recruit on the Humboldt, as there are miles of good grass equal to the less cultivated meadows, and but little alkali, and by taking some pains, water may be had. It will be known by the emigrant by this description: The road leaves the river and runs directly to the hills, the river bearing to the left. The hills which you approach also bear to the left, until they approach the river, which takes a short turn around its base. The road when it reaches the hills turns to the left and follows the base of them until it strikes the river, then passes around the rocky rugged point of the mountain next to the river. After you pass this point you come into extensive salt and alkali plains. You will find good looking grass in some places, but it is so much impregnated with salt and alkali that your stock will run down on it all the time. The best place to stop here is a few miles before you reach the point of the mountain. Turn off to the left towards the river. The day has been hot and the dust oppressive. No person in the States can have an idea of the dust in this country until he has been here. A man will settle to the ankles at every step, and his eyes and nostrils are filled with it throughout the day; and when the wind blows it is suffocating. The country is volcanic, the mountains being composed entirely of lava and cinders. We found a new variety of currants here, yellow variety, which are very good. Fuller picked a large quantity of them to-day. 30 miles. 21st. Sunday. We drove about eight miles to-day, passing the point of the mountain and camped near the river in a clover patch. There are a number of warm springs near the road by the point of the mountain. 8 miles. 22d. Left the river this morning and traveled down the second bank of the river, a nearly level plain covered with alkali and wild sage, but no grass. We went to the river once, although out of the way. The right hand road is 18 miles without grass or water, very dusty and disagreeable. Water very bad, even that in the river; camped on the river bank, no grass on our side. The boys swam the river about fifteen rods wide here, and rigged a sort of ferry with our piquet ropes, and ferried grass across on them for the night, no small job for 17 horses. 23 miles. 23d. Started this morning at four o'clock, A.M. From camp it is 14 miles to water or grass. Two miles from camp the roads branched in every direction, and the course of the river is hidden entirely by the mountain which seems to circle the whole country like the rim of a great basin, with the exception of a gap far to the right. The plain spreads out to the mountains level and desolate, a desert. This labyrinth of roads gave rise to one of the most ludicrous scenes that I ever saw. For myself, I had been lost from my wagons since daylight, without being aware of the fact, and like the rest had taken a wrong road. About noon I found some good clover and stopped to bait my horse. When I started again, on rising a gentle aclivity I found the plain alive with teams and men, who looked as though they had been struck with the confusion of Babylon. Some were driving in one direction, some in another, oxen, horses, mules, wagons, horse packers and foot packers, were hurrying across the plains, without seeming object, in every direction as far as the eye could reach, and in the most delightful confusion imaginable. Two hundred wagons and numbers of packers had lost their way, and knew not which way to turn, and as usual in such cases were going every wrong way. I rode up to a man and asked him what the deuce was to pay; if all the people were mad? He was as much in the fog as I was. Presently some packers came along who said they had been to the end of the road, and that they were lost. This explained the confusion, although not very satisfactory of itself, for we began to fear that we had inadvertantly been following some old cut-off which would take time to retrace. By good fortune I succeeded in finding one wagon belonging to our train, where I got some dinner. Our train had become broken up as well as the rest in the confusion, each one going on his own hook. After dinner I struck out in the direction where I thought to find the river, and found I was right, and about night was so fortunate as to find the ballance of the train, who had succeeded in reaching the river ahead of me. Emigrants, that is the Fools Meadow. When you get down below the point of the mountain which I spoke of before this, and come to a great basin, surrounded on all sides, but a gap far to the right, don't you pay any attention to that gap, nor come to the conclusion that the river takes a turn and runs through it, for it don't do it, but you keep the extreme left hand road, and you will find that the river runs right through the mountains as high as they look. The right hand roads are all camping roads, and extend some of them 12 miles to some clover patches, and the old Lawson cut-off leads through that gap on the right, where an Oregon party went two or three years ago and nearly all perished. Many stopped and made hay at these clover patches, thinking they were at the desert, but don't trouble yourself here, for you have got a long dreary march of a week's duration before you get to the Great Desert. We traveled hard all day to get 14 miles on our journey, but I think the emigrant who reads this will remember the Fools Meadow, and avoid the same mistake. The emigrants now begin to experience a want of provisions. Flour, pork and sugar are one dollar per lb.; coffee 50 cts., fresh beef 25, and not much to be got at those prices. 14 miles. 24th. About four miles from last night's camp ground we came to a watering place near where the river passes through the mountains. The road leaves the river here and crosses the mountains eight miles, rough road and dusty, no water. Swam the river for grass to bait our horses at noon. Passed the grave of a man who was drowned whilst getting grass across the river. Camped at night on the river; had to wade three sloughs to find grass. 20 miles. 25th. A few miles from where we camped had a bad deep creek to cross, where we found plenty of dead stock. Immediately after crossing passed over a rough stony ridge for about two miles, between two cone shaped hills or mammelles. This point is about 110 miles from the meadows at the sink of the Humboldt, and there is but little grass on the route. Litwiler cut his wagon in two and made a cart of it, we then drove about eight miles and camped. Roads sandy, weather hot. This river beginning to lose itself and grow smaller. I killed three sage hens this morning, which were very desirable as we are getting short of provisions. 18 miles. 26th. Traveled over 18 miles of very bad road to-day. It was over a table of the mountain. The sand was six inches deep, for most of the way, and the day hot; our stock suffered severely. Passed much dead stock and piles of wagon irons. Killed two sage hens--mosquitoes quite troublesome; camped on the river bottom which is narrow; but little grass. 18 miles. 27th. Started at four o'clock, A.M., traveled down the river two miles, then left the river, struck across a desert plain 12 miles to the river; many think this the Great Desert; it is desert enough, but not the Great Desert. This point will be known by a high mountain dividing two valleys. The river runs to the right of this mountain. At noon we had to feed our horses on willows, there being no grass. We got some rushes by swimming the river. We have now got far enough along to begin to have a sight of the Elephant. The river here runs through narrow clay banks like a canal. Passed the grave of a man found in the river; camped at night on a sand bank, put our horses across the river; grass poor. 17 miles. 28th. Sunday. Crossed a sand ridge about two miles, and travelled down the bottom about four miles, where we found some grass and camped. Our horses are failing fast. Kit Carson says truly that the Humboldt is the burying ground for horses and oxen. We pass daily great numbers of dead stock at the camping grounds, in the sloughs, and in the river. The river is nothing but horse broth, seasoned with alkali & salt. The appearance of emigrants has sadly changed since we started. Then they were full of life and animation, and the road was enlivened with the song of "I am going to California with my tin pan on my knee." "Oh, California, that's the land for me," but now they crawl along hungry, and spiritless, and if a song is raised at all, it is, "Oh carry me back to Old Virginia, to Old Virginia's shore." Well, they say misery loves company, so we can have some enjoyment after all, for there is plenty of that kind of company. No one seems to know where we are, even those who traveled the route last year, several of whom are along. Last year the road led immediately on the bottom, but this year it is on the sage plains or second level of the river, the bottoms being so swampy that they cannot be crossed. The Mormon guide for this end of the route, is good for nothing. Yesterday was the worst day for dust that we have had. Every body was literally covered with it so that the drivers could not be recognised. 6 miles. 29th. Litwiler and Ranahan killed three antelope yesterday. They packed in two of them about eight miles from the mountains. They arrived in camp about 11 o'clock at night. Passed the clay banks, some perpendicular banks on the opposite side of the river about 50 feet high. From this place is a desert, the river running through narrow clay banks, void of vegetation except the Artemesia or wild sage. The road generally follows the plains back from the river, only approaching occasionally for water. We camped about three P.M., and managed to get a little grass for our horses. 15 miles. 30th. Started at four A.M.; route similar that of yesterday. We are now in sight of the Pyramid, a lone peak nearly opposite the upper slough of the sink commonly called the meadow. Road touched the river once or twice to-day for water, but no grass, nothing for feed but willows. 16 miles. 31st. Started at one o'clock, A.M., struck the river again 10 miles from camp; no grass, only an arid sage desert. From this it is 25 miles to the slough or meadows, and 13 to water, which will be found at some springs in the gully directly opposite the pyramid. We reached the springs about 10 o'clock, A.M., although one of our horses gave out, which delayed us somewhat, and reached the upper end of the slough about noon, where we obtained some rushes and flags for our horses which they devoured greedily after their long fast on willows. The pyramid at a distance resembles an ancient Mexican pyramid, rising by steps. It may be seen for 40 miles up the river, and serves as a beacon, for the slough or meadows. After baiting we continued down the slough about six miles to some passable springs, and to where there is better grass. We found two cities of tents at the slough quite populous. They would do honor to more civilized countries. The road for a few days past has been strewed with dead stock. I counted to-day 120 head of horses, mules and oxen, and got tired of it before night at that. I suppose I passed 50 head more that I did not count. If there is any worse desert ahead than we have found for 70 miles back, I don't know what it may be. I have noticed several dead horses, mules and oxen, by the roadside, that had their hams cut out to eat by the starving wretches along the road; for my own part I will eat the lizzards which infest the sage bushes, before I will eat the stock that died from the alkali. The destitution has reached its height now. Hundreds are entirely out of provisions, and there are none who have any to spare, and but very few who have enough to carry them into the mines. Often, almost daily, will some poor starved fellow come up to the wagon and pray us in God's name to give or sell him a crust of bread; some of them asserting that they have eaten no food for two, or even three days. Money is no consideration for food here; no one will sell it for money, but we always give enough to prevent starvation, when thus importuned, although we have not over five days' provision on hand, putting our trust in Providence for the issue to ourselves--for so long as there is game in the mountains we will never starve. To-day is the first, since the third day of June, that we have been out of sight of snow for a whole day; it has been excessively hot, the dust rising in clouds; roads bad, owing to the deep sand. 32 miles. August 1st. Remained camped to-day, preparing hay for crossing the Desert, which commences 20 miles from the slough or meadow. There is an abundance of grass at this point for all the stock that can ever reach here. We have to wade to get it, then cart it to the channel, and boat it across that in a wagon box. A man with his wife came into the camp last night on foot, packing what little property they had left on a single ox, the sole remaining animal of their team; but I was informed of a worse case than this by some packers, who said they passed a man and his wife about 11 miles back who were on foot, toiling through the hot sand, the man carrying the blankets and other necessaries, and his wife carrying their only child in her arms, having lost all their team. 2d. We still remain at the meadows. A team came in yesterday evening from Sacramento, loaded with provisions. They ask for rice $2.50 per lb.; for flour $2.00; bacon $2.00; whiskey $2.00 per pint, and brandy $3.00 per pint. We killed a cow this evening which we had picked up a few days ago at a camping ground, where she had been left on account of lameness. She was not exactly beef, but she was better eating than dead mules and horses by the road side; we divided her up in the train and among the starving people who are about us, only saving a small amount for ourselves, which we jerked and dried. 3d. We are still lying by. About two miles below our camp are some falls in the river, at which point the meadows terminate. There is no more grass from here until we reach Carson River, about 66 miles.--Some of the teams that left us above Fort Kearney came in to-day, entirely destitute of provisions, and had been so for some days, although they had contrived to starve along somehow. We heard of them before they got here, and saved a little beef for them. 4th. Sunday. Broke up camp and started again. We had stopped three days to recruit our horses before taking the desert, and although we have taken the utmost pains with them, they are weaker now than when we stopped. My advice to all is not to make any stop at this point, but push on to Carson River, for there is so much alkali in the water and grass here that your stock will not recruit. There is no water for the next 20 miles fit for stock to drink. We lost one horse to-day from watering beside the road, four miles before we got to the sink. He died in thirty minutes after drinking, in the greatest agony. Two others were much injured, so much so, that we could only get them to the sink with the greatest difficulty. Trimble and Sublet also lost one. Beware of shallow water along here. 20 miles. 5th. Reached the Sink last night about sunset. This is a basin about 80 rods wide and half a mile long. It is usually the last water found on the Humboldt, or where it loses itself in the sand, hence its name, but this year the water is so high that it runs down several miles further before it entirely sinks. There is no grass here whatever, nothing but desert. We broke up our wagon to-day and made pack saddles, being convinced of the impossibility of getting our wagon across the desert, since the loss of the horse yesterday and the injury to the others. Last night while we were making our supper on coffee and boiled corn, soon after dark, a man came to us and asked for a drink of water. I gave it to him; after drinking he stood looking wistfully at our corn, then asked me if I would take half a dollar for a pint cup full of it. I told him I would not take half a dollar for it, for money was no consideration for food here. He said no more, but turned sorrowfully away, when I stopped him and asked him if he was in distress. He said that he had eaten nothing for two days but a small piece of dried meat which a man gave him. I then told him that I would not take a half dollar for the corn, but that he was welcome to sit down and eat his fill; for although we were nearly out of provisions, we would divide with a man in distress to the last morsel. He stopped the night with us, and took breakfast, and although urged to stop and cross the desert with us to-day, or take some corn with him, he would not do it, but said that he had taxed our hospitality too much already, and left us this morning. His name was Bayell, he belonged in one of the central counties of Illinois, and was a man of standing and influence at home, and a brother of the I.O.O.F. He said he hailed when he came up to our camp, but it was so dark that I did not see his hail, or I should not have put him to the test, to see whether he was really needy or not. Sublet and company, and Williams & Co. left us this morning to cross the desert; we got our pack saddles completed, and took the desert at 2 o'clock, P.M., and traveled all night. Two of our horses gave out, the same that were alkalied, and we left them. About midnight we reached the first wagon road where we found about four acres of wagons left to decay on the desert; this is the first sand ridge; we passed two other wagon yards before morning at similar ridges, besides great numbers along the road, many of them burning. Who will accurately describe this desert at this time? Imagine to yourself a vast plain of sand and clay; the moon riding over you in silent grandeur, just renders visible by her light the distant mountains; the stinted sage, the salt lakes, cheating the thirsty traveler into the belief that water is near; yes, water it is, but poison to the living thing that stops to drink. Train after train drag their tiresome course along, man and beast suffering all the pangs of thirst toil on, feeling, knowing that the burning sun finds them on the desert in the coming day, their sufferings will be enhanced ten-fold, if worn out with fatigue and thirst they do not faint by the wayside and give up altogether. Burning wagons render still more hideous the solemn march; dead horses line the road, and living ones may be constantly seen, lapping and rolling the empty water casks (which have been cast away) for a drop of water to quench their burning thirst, or standing with drooping heads, waiting for death to relieve them of their tortures, or lying on the sand half buried, unable to rise, yet still trying. The sand hills are reached; then comes a scene of confusion and dismay. Animal after animal drops down. Wagon after wagon is stopped, the strongest animals are taken out of the harness, the most important effects are taken out of the wagon and placed on their backs and all hurry away, leaving behind wagons, property and animals that, too weak to travel lie and broil in the sun in an agony of thirst until death relieves them of their tortures. The owners hurry on with but one object in view, that of reaching the Carson River before the broiling sun shall reduce them to the same condition. Morning comes, and the light of day presents a scene more horrid than the rout of a defeated army; dead stock line the roads, wagons, rifles, tents, clothes, everything but food may be found scattered along the road; here an ox, who standing famished against a wagon bed until nature could do no more, settles back into it and dies; and there a horse kicking out his last gasp in the burning sand, men scattered along the plain and stretched out among the dead stock like corpses, fill out the picture. The desert! you must see it and feel it in an August day, when legions have crossed it before you, to realize it in all its horrors. But heaven save you from the experience. An incident occurred this evening which shows well of the selfishness of some people on this route. It was soon after dark; we had taken off the packs to rest our horses, and were sitting and lying in the sage bushes beside the road; one of our companions had a few miles back been compelled to leave a horse, which from mistaken feelings of sympathy for the poor animal, he had neglected to kill. While sitting there, a company of packers came along the road, when, although it was so dark that I could not distinguish one animal from another, our friend caught up his rifle, cocked and presented it towards one of them, exclaiming in an angry tone, "Get off that horse, you g----d d--n--d scoundrel, or I'll shoot him down under you." The fellow slid off the horse instantly, when our friend gave him one of the "dog-onit-est" blowings up, as the Missourians say, that one fellow ever got for riding the poor animal after he had given out. It was our friend's horse, who, dark as it was, recognized his faithful animal. The fellow sloped without saying a word in his defence. 6th. Morning still finds us dragging our weary steps along on the desert, with nothing near but endless sand hills and beds of clay. Passed Sublett's and Trimbles and Williams's wagons, which they were compelled from loss of stock to leave. Reached the last sand 13 miles from Carson's River, about 10 o'clock, A.M., where we found a water station, and bought some water for our horses at 75 cts. a gallon. We left the pack of one horse here for the station keeper to bring in at night, and the boys went on with the horses, leaving Fuller, who was pretty much done over, and myself, behind. They reached the river about four o'clock, P.M. We were fortunate enough to find some old friends, I. Welch, and T. Ranahan, who had got up a shelter for themselves and oxen, of tents, cloths, and wagon covers, to protect them from the sun. We stayed with them through the heat of the day, and about night started again, but turned off about a mile from the road to visit a small salt lake, where we found a very good spring of fresh water and a sulphur spring. This lake is about three miles from Carson River; its waters are more salt than the most salt brine, and its shores are encrusted with pure salt. Its bed was evidently once the crater of a volcano. We reached the river about 10 o'clock, P.M., but could not find our camp it was so dark, although we found the next day that we had passed directly through it, but the loss of tents, wagons, &c., rendered it impossible to distinguish our comrades who were snoring away, wrapped in their blankets. However, after straggling around until towards midnight, we found the tent of some old esteemed friends, Esq. Hoffman & son, who gave us a hearty welcome and a spare blanket, which, (having already filled ourselves with God's beverage from the Carson River,) was to us a perfect elysian. 46 miles. 7th. There are several stations here, at which they sell flour at $1.50 per lb.; meals at $2.00 a head, and liquor at $1.00 a drink, and measure it themselves. There are great complaints of stock stealing here, some of the station keepers having a hand in it. About 20 men went down the river to-day to take some stock away from the Indians, which they had stolen. Among them, I saw Mountaineer Jack. He was riding a pony upon the full gallop, his hair, which would reach over his shoulders, streaming in the wind; he was dressed in buckskin from head to foot, sunburnt and bearded, his head guiltless of any other covering but that of nature's; he presented the most perfect specimen of a wild man, conveying to the beholder a feeling not unmixed with dread as he approached, rifle in hand, and his belt stuck full of revolvers and bowie knives. But Jack is always the poor man's friend, and shabby as he looks, his pockets are always lined with the yellow boys. He is now here at the station, ever ready to take part in whatever comes up, whether it be a game of French monte, a frolic, or to make a foray upon the Indian villages in the mountains, or recover the emigrants horses. A good story is told of him, of an incident which transpired a few days ago. He was then over the desert on the Humboldt. A couple of starved foot packers came across him, and taking Jim from his wild appearance to be some destitute emigrant as bad off as themselves, and as misery loves company, hailed him with, "Halloo, friend, we had better travel in company; you look as if you had seen as hard times as ourselves." Jack stopped and looked at them until they came up, when he asked them what they meant. They told him that they were starving, and had neither provision nor money--"What!" said Jack, "are you going to starve in this fine country? You are a couple of d----d fools if you do." They replied that they had no money, and if they had it would not buy food here. Jack put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a 10 dollar piece and gave them, telling them to go and buy some flour. They then started for the river to where there were some trains in sight, and Jack along with them. They found on the river a large train, the men of which were feeding flour to their mules.--One of them walked up to the captain of the train, and stating their condition and circumstances asked him to _sell_ them some flour. He refused to do it, telling them he wanted it for his mules. They told him they were starving, but he replied that he must look out for himself before he did for other folks, and that they might as well be off. Jack stood a silent listener to the conversation, but when he found that the captain would not let them have any flour, he walked up to him and asked him if he would let the men starve. In reply the captain made an insulting response, when Jack raised his fist and gave the captain a blow in the teeth, sprawling him on the ground, and telling him that he was worse than a d----d digger to refuse starving men flour, when he could feed it to mules; he left him and went with the packers to where they succeeded in buying some flour. Moved our camp up the river six miles to better grass. Saw Bagwell again; he said that he never came so near perishing as he did in crossing the desert; that having nothing to eat but the piece of dried meat, which being somewhat salt, made him thirsty, and having no water, his tortures became almost insupportable, and that when he reached the first water camp, his tongue was swollen so that he could not keep it in his mouth, and had turned black; that he expended his half dollar, (which was all the money that he had) for water, which enabled him to reach the river, where he got a meal of victuals on credit, and went to work cutting grass and getting it across the river at sixpence a bundle, and was making five dollars a day at the business. He left the road where we struck the river for us to come up to where he was, and he would have all the grass ready for us that we should want gratis, but finding grass, we were not compelled to tax him. We had a California court in camp to-day. A couple of Irishmen got a man drunk, and after getting him to lie down, laid themselves down one on each side of him. Presently a man from Pike co. Ill., came along, and said that they were picking his pockets. Seeing that nobody else would interfere, I went to him, tumbled him over and took the money away from him, when the bystanders, a crowd of whom had gathered around, picked him up and kicked him out of the camp. When this was settled some men came forward and stated that the other one had picked another man's pocket who was then drunk in a gully near bye, then tumbled him over, and found as drunk as he pretended to be, he got over it very easily when his turn came. He jumped upon his feet and denied the charge so vehemently, and with such brazen impudence, that many thought I was mistaken and wrong in holding him to it. I insisted on taking him to the man who was robbed, which was done, when he admitted that he picked his pocket, but said the man was his brother, which we found to be true; this so enraged those who had spoken in his favor, that they whirled him around and commenced kicking him out of the camp. In the affray he drew a revolver, which was instantly knocked out of his hand. A man on the bank of the river seeing the revolver ran for it, which led to another scuffle, those who were kicking him supposing him to be a friend to Barney, but the man succeeded in getting the pistol, which he instantly threw into the river. A man was found dead in a wagon on the desert this morning; he probably died of hunger and thirst. The Carson River is about 12 yards wide at this place, and three feet deep. Its banks are composed of ridges with narrow bottoms covered with willows and scattering cottonwood trees, with some grass. 6 miles. 8th. Litwiler and company sold their horses this morning and started on foot. Ford, one of our men, went with them, leaving but four of us; we being nearly out of provisions. A man came to our camp this morning who had lost everything on the desert, his team, wagon, provisions, and father; he had been without sleep or food for two nights and a day, and was pretty much worn out. I made him a cup of coffee, and gave him some boiled corn, which having devoured, he laid himself down in the shade and slept until evening, then went in pursuit of his father again.--He was from Missouri. A man came near being drowned near us this morning, but was saved by a person standing on the bank, who plunged in and brought him out. He tumbled off his horse while crossing the river, which frightened him so much that he could not help himself in the least. The traders here buy horses of the emigrants for from two lbs. of flour to 10, per head.--Such is the destitution. I saw one horse, saddle and bridle, a very good one too, sold on the desert for three gallons of water. 9th. Started again this morning, taking along the Missourian who lost his father. We consumed the last of our rice this morning, leaving us reduced to six quarts of corn, and three lbs. of dried meat for four of us. The road soon leaves the river and strikes across the desert, making the river again about two miles from the Carson River meadows. The Missourian and myself followed up the river and found a very good packing trail; we killed two turtle doves which sustained us through the day. Saw snow again to-day on the tops of the Sierra Nevadas. 22 miles. 10th. Camped on the meadows late last night where we remain to-day to recruit our horses. Jonathan and myself went into the mountains hunting, found a few deer, but they were so wild that we could not get a shot; killed a large yellow rattlesnake, a sage hare, and found an old Indian and boy fishing, traded my pocket knife to the boy for a line with 10 bone hooks I attached to it, caught about 40 small fish, and got back to camp about dark. 11th. Sunday. Still remain in camp. Fuller left us this morning, having concluded to pack through on foot with Dr. Cody, of our county. A man died near us last night. He was picked up on the desert and brought thus far by some gentlemen from Davenport, Iowa. He was left there by his messmates sick, without food or water, and when found, his hands and face were so blistered by the scorching sun that the skin all peeled from them, leaving them as raw as a piece of beef. Poor fellow!--When found he was crying in the most excruciating agony for a drop of water to quench his burning thirst. Burning at the stake would be too merciful to the hardened wretches who left him sick and helpless on those burning sands. The gentlemen who picked him up had been lying bye two or three days at this place expressly on his account. One of them was a physician; although the poor fellow was a stranger to them, they tended him with all the assiduity of brothers. 12th. Started again this morning, but our road led across a sand plain 12 miles wide, when we struck the river again, following a packing trail, thus avoiding the desert back from the river. 22 miles. 13th. Our road followed the river until noon, when we had another stretch of desert for 13 miles. The valley begins to narrow somewhat. 23 miles. 14th. Passed through a canon seven miles, continually crossing brooks of cold clear water from the mountains--beautiful meadows and rich land on the bottoms. Desert plains back, and still back lofty Sierra Nevadas, their sides covered with the evergreen pine, their summits with snow.--Passed some hot springs, and trading stations. The latter have little to sell but whiskey; some few of them beef. 27 miles. 15. Passed the Mormon station, saw a party of Californians and Mexicans prospecting. There is gold this side of the mountains. Entered the seven mile Kanyon, which begins the real pass of the Sierra Nevada. A branch of the Carson River runs through it, which stream we follow to its head. The Kanyon is a wild, picturesque place, with perpendicular wall of gray granite hundreds of feet high, with lofty pines in the bottoms, and a perfect chaos of granite blocks rent from the walls above. We were compelled to camp in it with nothing for our horses to eat, which somewhat destroyed the romance of the thing; as for eating ourselves, it is so long since we have had anything to eat that we don't trouble ourselves about it. 23 miles. 16th. Got out of the Kanyan into the valley, and stopped to bait. Drove about six miles and camped for the night; grass abundant in this valley. J. Ingalls killed a California partridge to-day. It is larger than a partridge In the States, and finely flavored. 8 miles. 17. This morning we had the Nevadas to climb; this is the point which will stop the Pacific Railroad on this route, if anything will do it. This rise is said to be 9000 feet in 13 miles. After climbing the first mountain we descended to a lake, which is the head of one of the branches of the Sacramento. It is the crater of an extinguished volcano. The next mountain, the Snowy Peak, is still worse than the last, although both for most part of the way are as steep as the roof of a house; in climbing it our road lay over the snow, which was 20 feet deep for 80 rods up its side. Having reached the top of the snowy peaks, we took a cut-off, descended about two miles and camped at a small brook where we found good grass. We had the good fortune to shoot three woodchucks [groundhogs,] this evening which, in addition to three lbs. of flour we coaxed out of a Californian, made us feel as rich as the Rothschilds. We have not eaten for the last two weeks (all of us) as much as one man would have eaten if he could have had all that he required, consequently we are living in the greatest luxury and abundance to-night, having all we can eat. It does not take much to make man happy after all; here we have been starving along for the last month, crossing deserts, drinking rotten, alkali or salt water, or deprived entirely, and now we've got to the top of the Nevadas, around our camp fire amid snow drifts, with plenty of good water and three woodchucks for three of us, and we are the happiest mortals alive; we seem to have forgotten that we ever suffered privation. 16 miles. 18th. Killed another woodchuck this morning; begin to feel as if we are getting into a land of plenty again. Passed a small lake at the foot of the snowy peak, which was well filled with spotted trout. We made a mistake and took a wrong trail this morning, after passing the lake which took us over some tremendous granite ridges to ascend and descend which we had great difficulty, often climbing and descending bare smooth rocks for rods at a place, the horses frequently sliding down such places on their haunches. We found good grass in the ravines, which was some compensation for the badness of the route. We got out to the road about dark, and reached Leek, Springs where we found some grass, and camped. 18 miles. 19th. Our road lay along the summit of a ridge covered with heavy pine and cedar forests, but no grass, and but little water. Had nothing for our horses to eat but brush this evening. A man was shot just back of us. A trader had left the road to look for grass and water, when coming to a fallen tree by a thicket, several men rose up from behind it and snapped a gun at him, which did not go off, but the trader's revolver did, tumbling one of them into the bushes, and the trader went off too, before they could make another attempt. 28 miles. 20th. We Passed the forks of the Weaver Creek and Hangtown road, but got on a wrong trail which we followed nearly to the Weaver Creek. Found plenty of grass and cut enough to supply our horses for the night, which would have cost us in Hangtown about five dollars. Met some miners who, not knowing the country much better than we did, directed us to go back by the way of Johnson's Ranch, which was about 12 miles, when we were by the right route, only seven miles from Hangtown. We reached the diggings at the head of the emigrant ravine, three miles from Hangtown, about nine o'clock, P.M., and camped. 20 miles. 21st. Leaving packs and horses in camp we entered the town this morning, where we found great numbers of our friends and county people, as also my brother, who had reached the mines 25 days ahead of us, having started on the Council Bluffs route at the same date that I did. 3 miles. CALIFORNIA--GENERAL REMARKS. Having reached the mines, I shall close with some remarks in relation to the country, &c. California is a country of contrarieties in every respect. Probably there is no country so much belied, for, generally, those who admire the country and speak in its praise, tell the truth in such a way that it amounts to a falsehood, when judged by the lights which his audiences in the States will have, to enable them to understand him, while the man who has been unfortunate gives it the same false coloring when detracting from its merits, and what is worse, both parties speak literally the truth, but unless his auditors have been here they cannot obtain a correct idea of the country. It is the best country in the world, and at the same time the worst, as every man will find that comes here, according to the circumstances in which he may chance to be placed. It is thought that the diggings are exhausted, but from observation I am satisfied that so far from this being the case, their riches have only began to be discovered, and although the gulch and ravine diggings are pretty much worked out, yet all those mountains and hills composed of gravel and earth, will be found to contain riches of great value, on the surface of rock upon which they rest. Mining hereafter will be attended with greater expense, on account of the depth which the miner will have to dig to reach the gold, but there will be rich gold diggings in California for a hundred years to come, in my opinion. Great sickness has prevailed thro' the fall in the mines, there being buried from Hangtown alone about 13 a day. At the least calculation, one fourth of the emigration of 1850 have, or will die, by the first of January 1851. Miners at this time are getting but small pay, very many not more than paying board. Almost all who came here thought that they should make from 12 to 20 dollars a day, but instead of those prices, they are glad to get from four to eight per day, and very many do not make but half that sum. Yet nevertheless California is a good country, and if people would move to it with their families, and make their homes here, in a few years they would be richly paid. The old adage, "a rolingstone gathers no moss," is exemplified every day here. The same restless spirit that prompted men to come, keeps them constantly on the move while here. Many who are making from three to six dollars a day, work until they obtain two or three hundred dollars, then hearing of richer diggings otherwheres, pull up and leave sure work and travel until they have spent what they have got and a month or two in prospecting, when they become strapped, to use a favorite expression here, and are compelled to work for less pay, until they make a raise, when the same spirit puts them in motion again. I have known men who have been here two years, and have sometimes had a thousand dollars on hand, that, when I saw them, had not a dollar, and were compelled to obtain credit to enable them to live for a time until they could make a raise again, and all the result of this restless spirit. In my opinion one half of the aggregate time of the miners of California is spent in traveling from one section of the mines to another. California may be properly divided into four ranges, or divisions. The first, the alluvial bottoms of the rivers or bays, and the plains, which comprise all of the agricultural country in the State, the area of which would probably amount to one half of the area of the State of Illinois. This range is exceedingly fertile, probably equal to any soil on the earth. The climate is excellent, the air pure and healthy, neither too cool nor too hot, and well calculated for the products of a temperate climate, as well as many of tropical. Grass grows on the bottoms all the year, and farming may be carried on in all months of the winter, if not prevented by the rain. No frosts ever nip the crops, and the seasons present a perpetual spring. The plains are somewhat elevated from the bottoms, gently rolling, and resemble our prairies. The soil is fertile, but cannot be cultivated without irrigation in the summer, although crops are raised by sowing in November and December, which enables them to get so far advanced by the commencement of the dry season as to avoid the drouth. In the spring they are covered with a great variety of flowers, wild oats, and clover. The timber on this range consists of live oak, and various oaks resembling white burr and black oak, besides various shrubs. The second range is the lower hill or mountain range, which is also the gold range. The soil would admit of cultivation if it could be irrigated, but this would be impossible, from the nature of the country. It will be only available for its gold, which is inexhaustible in my opinion, although the business of gathering it will not be as profitable hereafter as it has been. The timber in the range consists of the various kinds of oak and pine, with some cedar and spruce; it is not valuable, but will answer the wants of this range for the present. The third range is the timber range, which in time will be the most valuable part of California. Probably no part of the world will furnish such pine and cedar timber. The valleys are filled with trees from two to three hundred feet high, clear from limbs nearly to their tops, and of the best quality for lumber; many of the trees from five to ten feet in diameter at the foot. I saw a pine tree said to be 11, and a cedar 15 feet thro', and have no doubt but such was the fact. They can only be got out of the mountains by railways or the rivers at flood time, consequently it will be some years before the attention of the Californian will be turned to this branch of trade. But little gold has been found in this range, or probably ever will be, as the quartz veins, the original deposit of gold, if they exist at all in it, lie deep under the granite ridges. The next range and the last lies upon the bald peaks of the Sierra Nevadas, and is too much elevated even for timber to grow to any extent. Their summits are covered eternally with snow, and their sides, where uncovered, present a barren shingle, or ragged walls of lava. But little gold is found in this range, and I know of no use of it in the economy of nature except to hold the world together. The valleys fit for cultivation, are so cold that vegetation cannot grow, except grass, which is of better quality where it can grow, than in the two next lower ranges. This range was also the district of volcanoes, the extinct craters of which indent the mountains in every direction, and are now generally lakes and ponds forming the heads of the various streams. The water in them is very pure and clear; they are well stocked with trout. By their sides in many places, the ragged perpendicular walls of lava rise thousands of feet high, black and gloomy, as it cooled off, when thrown from the bowels of the earth. The east side of the mountains on the descent to the Carson Valley is well timbered, and furnishes some good gold diggings, although not very much prospected. The Carson Valley is perhaps one of the most desirable farming districts in California. The bottom is very fertile, and covered with a heavy growth of wild clover, wheat, oats, &c. The plains by the side of the bottoms are barren deserts covered with wild sage, and utterly worthless. The climate is very favorable to the growth of the cereal grains, but the nights are too cold for corn. It is best calculated for stock growing, and is capable of supporting a population of many thousands.--The air is very pure, and the water power and water very abundant, and of excellent quality, the valley being well supplied with numerous small clear streams of ice cold water, running from the mountains across the valley, and emptying into the Carson River. The California railroad, if built by way of the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, will follow up the valley of this river, in which case this fertile valley will soon teem with populous villages of civilized men, instead of the few squalid, thieving diggers who are now its sole tenants. The gold digging of California is much less profitable than it was in 1849, the shallow ravine diggings having been pretty much worked out, but there is no doubt but that the hills still contain inexhaustible supplies, which though attended with greater expense in obtaining, will nevertheless pay well for working, when the same shall be worked by a permanent settled population, aided by mechanical science. It is folly in my opinion for a man to leave home and family, with all his home interests, to go to California for a mere temporary sojourn for one or two years. A man should take his family and household goods with him, and make a permanent settlement, which would aid him very materially in his business prospects. He would then remain in one location, and would consequently save both time and money. And there is another gain in locating more permanently, that is in acquiring a better knowledge of his location. Every section of the mines has its distinct characteristic, and a person having learnt the location and features of gold deposits in one section, in removing to another will have to learn this anew. When this fact is taken into consideration it will be quite evident that a man will always succeed best when permanently located. Any man of sober, industrious habits, who may make his home in California, will in 10 years, with ordinary luck and health, and the vicissitudes of life, acquire a fortune sufficiently ample to maintain himself for the balance of his life in the old states, but many who have resided for that length of time in California will be unwilling to leave its beautiful climate to go back to the old states to live in their variable climates. Many conjectures have been put forth as to the cause of the deposits of native gold on the surface, and many have asserted that it came there by being thrown out of the craters of volcanoes. This idea is now pretty much exploded amongst intelligent miners. It is evident that the gold originally lay in the quartz mines, and has been loosened by the action of fire decomposing the quartz, and by abrasion of the atmosphere and water. In evidence of this it will be observed that in those sections richest in melted or deposit gold, there are but few gold bearing quartz veins, and those bearing evidence of great heat, while in those locations rich in quartz veins, there is but little surface gold, and that very fine, and generally found on the bars of the rivers, and along their banks. The whole country has at some day been in a state of fusion, as the quantity of cinders found in the gulches bear ample testimony, and in those sections where the heat was greatest, the quartz became intirely decomposed, allowing the gold to drop like molten lead upon the slate and granite substratum, where when undisturbed by the action of water, it now remains imbedded in the rock. This is not mere opinion, but a statement made from personal observation in working in deep diggings, where it was evident that the gold had not been disturbed since it was melted from the quartz veins, I having frequently taken pieces from the slate that fitted the interstices as closely as it would have done if I had melted it myself and turned it in to cool. The best mining country appears to be a strip of land about 30 or 40 miles wide, running north and south, or nearly so, and extending the whole length of California, and as I have been informed on reliable authority as far north as Puget's Sound, where gold has been found in small quantities. This information I had from a gentleman of intelligence and observation, from Missouri, Mr. Sherwin, who spent the summer of 1850 at that place. The quartz veins also lie in this general course, one of which may be traced hundreds of miles. No great amount of gold has been found out of this district, although it is possible that in time it may be; but in my opinion, if the original stratum of quartz veins extended back into the mountains, that it there ceases to be the surface, and becomes the substratum; if this proves to be the case, there is no estimating the mineral wealth of California. It will take ages to exhaust the supply. The supposition that this stratum does reach back of the now known district, under the mountains, is a reasonable one, as the rock in view, generally, on the first range or plains, is slate; in the second range, quartz veins resting in and on slate, in the third range granite ridges, with occasional spur quartz veins in view, and on the fourth or summit range, either granite, or molten rock, or lava cooled off, as it was cast out of the numerous extinguished craters, California furnishes a great field for study to the geologist, and much may be learned which is not now known, and which will be useful in developing her vast resources. Many suppose that gold was not known here until discovered by the Americans. This I am disposed to doubt, but whether known to civilized man, or only the native digger, I would not hazard an opinion. A discovery which occurred immediately under my own observation, satisfies me that the gold had been sought for many years before that time. A miner in sinking a hole at the head of the Spanish Ravine, which had been one of the richest in California, found a plain gold ring of rude workmanship, soldered together with silver, or some white metal, about four feet from the surface of the ground. On the inside of it was a cross stamped very legibly, indicating that it was made by a christian. This was in new diggings, where the earth had never been disturbed so far as appearances would indicate, and moreover he found but one small piece of gold besides that in the claim. How long it would take to form four feet of solid earth, or how it came there, no one can say, but certainly it must take a great number of years for that depth of soil to form, and the ring itself shows workmanship of an early and rude age. The limited space of this work necessarily precludes me from going into a lengthened detail of incidents and description of California, but in closing I must remark that California, from its variety of climate, which is so great that a man may walk in a day from the region of snow through a temperate climate to another of perpetual summer, where the flowers cover the earth, and render the air fragrant with their perfume. From its great resources in gold and other mineral treasures, and its boundless forests of pine and cedar, from its great amount of water power, and its great agricultural and commercial advantages, is yet destined to be the first State in the Union, as it now is the most pleasant to reside in, and it behooves our government to so cement the bonds of union in commercial interests--while now cemented by the feelings of "Padre pais"--with a belt of iron from ocean to ocean, with the iron horse with the sinew of steel and breath of fire for a messenger, that the time may not come, when the diverse interests of the Pacific states may induce their inhabitants to form a government of their own. It is a well known fact in history, that a country divided by a great natural barrier, cannot remain long under one government, but that their several interests call for separate governments. The great natural barrier between the Atlantic and Pacific States is, the Rocky mountains and the deserts, which can only be overcome by railroads, which will bring the two sides of the continent within a few days of each other, and render much now useless territory available, either in an agricultural, manufacturing or commercial point of view. Although the country, from the Missouri river to the Pacific, is quite as well adapted to the building of railroads--if we except the Nevada Mountains, and this exception would not apply to the Oregon route--as any of the eastern States, yet no private company can, or should be allowed to build such road, but it should be a national work, and subject to the regulation of the government, for the good of the people, when completed. If it should be built by a private company, it would become one of the greatest and worst monopolies in the country, rivaling the British East India company monopoly. This may not be so evident to a person who has not traveled the route, but I believe that every thinking man who has traveled it will agree with me. This is a matter which it were well for our legislators to consider well and act upon before it is too late, for it will soon be found that those routes now opening through Central America and the Isthmus, will not answer the wants of the growing commerce with the Pacific, and every year is cementing the bonds of interest between California and Oregon, and the Spanish countries on the Pacific. But I must bring my work to a close, and bid farewell to California, its lofty snow capped peaks, its beautiful valleys, its flowery plains, its rapids, rivers and broad bays. Farewell! It was with a feeling of sadness, that I turned, on the last range of hills to look back towards those busy valleys teeming with life and energy, and when on the planks of the vessel crossing the bar into the broad ocean, I turned to look for the last time on the Queen City of the Pacific, embosomed in hills, by the sparkling waters of the Bay. But home, family and friends, call me away. Farewell Reader! Improved Farms for Sale. _A RARE CHANCE FOR EMIGRANTS AND OTHERS WISHING TO PURCHASE IMPROVED FARMS._ The undersigned, Real Estate Agent, has constantly at his disposal, Improved Farms of various size and quality of improvement, which he offers for sale to Emigrants and others as cheap, if not cheaper than can be bought in the Western country. These farms are located in and about Antioch, Lake county, Illinois; also in McHenry county, Ill., and Kenosha county, Wisconsin. They are situated in one of the most desirable sections of the western country, are mostly opening timber and small prairie, combining the advantages of excellent land, easy of cultivation, with abundance of timber and fuel, and good water on the same farm. The country is well watered by the Fox and O'Plain rivers and their branches, and by numerous small clear lakes of excellent water, well stocked with fish. The country around is one of the best stock and grain countries in the world, and from its proximity to Lake Michigan, and to the valuable markets, which its numerous part towns afford, and the cheapness of improved farms, the emigrant cannot find a more desirable country to locate in.--All who are desirous of purchasing a farm will find it for their interest to give the undersigned a call at Antioch, Lake county, Illinois, before buying elsewhere. Antioch is a flourishing village, situated in the north-west corner of the county, four miles east of Fox River, and one mile south from the Wisconsin State line. It has two dry goods stores, one shoe store, one hotel, a saw-mill, and various mechanics, and more are wanted. Chicago is distant 48 miles south and east; Waukegan 17 miles south and east; Kenosha 18 miles north and east; Racine 25 miles north and east, Milwaukee 42 miles north and east, consequently Antioch has _five lake cities_ within a day's drive of it. There are five flouring mills, and five saw-mills within 12 miles of the village, two of which and three saw-mills are within six miles of it. Besides these, a company has been formed and a part of the stock subscribed for a steam flouring mill to be built in the village, and a Plank Road is in contemplation of being built directly from Waukegan to Antioch. The country around being removed from the raw winds near Lake Michigan, and at the same time near enough to it for all practical wants, is one of the most desirable to locate in that the emigrant, seeking a new home in the far west, will be able to find, combining all the advantages of proximity to good markets, and good lands, good society, and everything that the heart of man can desire. Remember to call on the undersigned, who will give you the best bargains in farms that can be got in this country. The following is the route from different cities on the Lake to Antioch: From Chicago to Dutchman's Point, 12 miles; to Indian Creek 26 miles; to Libertyville 32 miles; to Antioch 48 miles. From Waukegan to the O'Plain bridge, four miles; to Milburn 11 miles; to Antioch 17 miles. From Kenosha to Jackson's Tavern at the O'Plain river, 12 miles; to Brass Balls 16 miles; to Antioch 22 miles (via. Bristol nearer, but not so good a road.) From Racine to Martin Stand, (Ingall's Hotel) on Pleasant Prairie, nine miles; to Jackson's Tavern 18 miles; to Brass Balls 22 miles; to Antioch 28 miles. From Milwaukee to Ive's Grove in Yorkville, 20 miles (through the Milwaukee woods); To Paris 29 miles; to Brass Balls 37 miles; to Antioch 43 miles. (Another route quite as good, but distance greater, is by way of Racine, and another by Rochester on the Fox river. Antioch is 25 miles from Rochester, Wis.) Antioch, June 1852. E. S. INGALLS. * * * * * E. S. INGALLS, Attorney and Counsellor at Law, County Justice of the Peace, Notary Public, Commissioner of Deeds, &c., for Wisconsin, and General Land Agent. Will give prompt attention to all business entrusted to his care, in Northern Illinois and Southern Wisconsin. Farms constantly on hand to suit purchasers, of all descriptions, sizes and improvements. Conveyancing done to order. Prompt attention will be given to the execution of deeds, &c., and the taking of depositions to be used in any part of Wisconsin, his seal of office as Commissioner of Deeds being legal authentication of his official acts throughout said State. Collecting attended to with promptness. Office corner of Main and Clay streets, Antioch, Lake county, Illinois. * * * * * JOHN H. ELLIOTT, Wholesale and retail dealer in Dry Goods, Groceries, and Crockery.--Keeps constantly on hand an extensive assortment of every variety of Silk, woollen, Worsted and cotton goods, Groceries, Crockery and Hardware, ever called for in the western country. Will purchase, or receive in exchange for goods; horses, cattle, wool, grain, or any other product for transhipment at as good prices as may be obtained at the Lake ports. Store under the Antioch Hall, Main street. Antioch, Lake Co., Ill. * * * * * GEORGE HALE, County Surveyor for Lake county, Illinois; and Draftsman. Will give particular attention to drafting in its various branches. Office Main street. Antioch, Lake co., Illinois. * * * * * LEROY D. GAGE, Justice of the Peace, Insurance and collecting Agent. Will give prompt attention to all business entrusted to his care. Office corner of Main and Clay streets. Antioch, Lake co. Illinois. * * * * * WM. H. RING, Dealer in Dry Goods, Groceries, Crockery, Hardware, and all goods used in the western country. Keeps constantly on hand every variety of goods and wares that can be called for. Prompt attention always given to customers. All kinds of produce taken in exchange for goods. Store on Main Street. Antioch, Lake co. Illinois. * * * * * GAGE & LEWIS, Physicians & Surgeons. Particular attention given to optical diseases LEROY D. GAGE. DANIEL LEWIS. Office corner of Main and Clay streets. Antioch, Lake co. Illinois. * * * * * WILLIAM L. STEVENS, Attorney and Counsellor at Law. Will attend promptly to all business entrusted to his care in Lake and McHenry counties, Illinois, and Racine and Kenosha counties, Wisconsin. Office corner of Main & Clay sts. Antioch, Lake co. Illinois. * * * * * J. B. RICE, Architect. Will give prompt attention to all applications for drafts and plans for buildings of every kind. Office on Main street. Antioch, Lake co. Illinois. * * * * * PARKS, FREEMAN & HAINES, Attornies and Counsellors at Law, and Solicitors in Chancery. Waukegan, Illinois. Will practice in the Courts of Lake, Cook, and McHenry counties.--Prompt attention will be given to the collecting and securing of demands in Illinois and Wisconsin. Also to the sale and purchase of real estate, investigation of titles, payment of taxes, &c. The best of reference will be given. C. C. PARKS, JAS. FREEMAN, E. M. HAINES. PRINTING. W. H. H. TOBET & CO., BOOK, CARD, AND JOB PRINTERS. OFFICE IN DEWEY'S BRICK BLOCK, WASHINGTON STREET, WAUKEGAN, ILLINOIS. The proprietors of the above establishment respectfully announce to the public that they are constantly making additions to their already extensive assortment of Job Type, Bordering &c., and are prepared to execute every variety of Book, Card and Job Printing in as good style as any other office in the West, and on reasonable terms. All kinds of Fancy Printing, PRINTING IN GOLD AND IN COLORS executed with neatness and at corresponding prices. Printing done in eight different colors, if desired. Having a greater variety of materials, and a better knowledge of the business than any other establishment in the city, we feel confident of giving perfect satisfaction to all who may favor us with their patronage. --> BLANKS of every description kept constantly on hand and for sale cheap. --> All orders from the country either for Blanks or Job work will receive prompt attention. 
33450	----	http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924028909203 JOURNAL OF A TRIP TO CALIFORNIA Across the Continent From Weston, Mo., to Weber Creek, Cal., in the Summer of 1850 by C. W. SMITH Edited with an Introduction and Notes, by R. W. G. Vail Librarian of The Minnesota Historical Society The Cadmus Book Shop New York Press Standard Book Company Manchester, N. H. INTRODUCTION. Several years ago I had the good fortune to find, in the lumber and rubbish of a storeroom, this little journal. A small leather-backed notebook, it had lain unnoticed and forgotten for more than half a century in the author's old homestead. The original manuscript is written in a 4 by 6-inch notebook, bound in boards. It contains 180 pages of text, with pressed western flowers and plants pasted on the five fly-leaves at the end. Mr. William Smith, our author's father, came from Gloucestershire, England, in 1831 and settled on a farm (now owned by his grandson, George Smith) just west of the village of Victor, N. Y. For several years Mr. Smith's sons, James and Charles W., both helped him on the farm, but eventually the latter decided to become a printer and so obtained a position in the neighboring village of Canandaigua. At the time of the discovery of gold in California, Mr. C. W. Smith[1] had been for several years on the staff of the _Ontario Messenger_, which perhaps accounts for the interesting and newsy style in which his journal is written. Certain it is that he showed more than usual ability and training in narrating the experiences of the overland journey and especially in painting a vivid picture of the prairies, the rivers and mountains, the rocks and the flowers. And so the Spring of 1850 found Mr. Smith leaving his place in the composing room at Canandaigua and, after a brief farewell visit with his family in Victor, he proceeded to Centreville, Indiana, from which town he dated the first entry of his narrative. The journal itself tells the rest of the story, and I am sure that the student of western history will find it one of the most valuable of the contemporary journals of the Forty-Niners and the Overland Trail. R. W. G. Vail. The Minnesota Historical Society, March 20, 1920. FOOTNOTES: [1] A portrait of the author, painted in East Bloomfield, N. Y., is still owned by the family in Victor.--ED. LETTER TO MOTHER. April 10, 1853. DEAR MOTHER: I have concluded to send you my journal, not because I think it contains anything of great interest, but because I know you will take it as an evidence that I have not forgotten my Mother. Nancy and I have been married two years today, and through that time have walked peacefully along the path of life together, a path on which little Alice now presses her tiny feet and, holding a little hand in each of ours, will make our union more complete. It is now nearly six years since I left home, a home which I then expected to see again in a few months, and _would_ have seen had I been able to return in a better condition than when I left it, for it is always expected that when a young man goes out upon the world, it is to rise and prosper, and not return in rags. And if it was not for that ambitious feeling that forbids there are now thousands in California and Oregon, who would instantly start for those good old homes on the other side of the Rocky Mountains. In all my wanderings I have been singularly fortunate, always having my health, and never meeting with those accidents which are common to persons in an unsettled condition. In regard to the good things of this world, I have reason to be grateful, rather however for what we expect, than what we now enjoy, for our 640 acres of land are lying in an unproductive state, and Nancy's money is all in the States, excepting $200, which were sent across the plains. The spring here opens early this year, a full month in advance of last. The hillsides are covered with good fresh grass and many places with a variety of flowers, some of which would adorn a garden. The pony that we called "Uncle Ned" is gone "where the good ponies go"--to the mines. I got a mare and $15 for it, but after it had run out a few weeks, and improved, it became so wild that I could not catch it, and I gave a man $2.00 to catch her for me. But I have traded again, and this time I have got one that Nancy can ride, and could be sold for $100. We have got but one cow at home, and one in the Willammette Valley, and $75 there for the purpose of buying another cow. Alice is growing fast, and can stand by holding to a chair. Nancy is going to put a lock (a small lock I guess) of her hair in this book. She has two teeth and Nancy says she can bite. I understand that Jesse Dryer is here, with Rawson.[2] He sent word to me that you had sent a box and that it was in his trunk at Marysville and would be brought to this valley as soon as there was an opportunity. Marysville is a place in the Willammette, about 100 miles from here. The country is beginning to be pretty well settled up in this quarter, some new neighbors having lately come in. Our claim is joined on three sides by settlers. There is a new post office nearer than Winchester, to which I would like you to direct hereafter. Name, Deer Creek, Douglass County. I have not received a letter from Sarah yet. I will still look for it. I received a letter from John. I will send an answer in a short time. April 17. I have just received a letter from Nancy's folks in relation to her property, which we will probably get this fall. I start for the Willammette next Wednesday, and will be gone about 15 days, I shall bring a cow with me, perhaps two. I shall take this book with me and mail it in the Willammette. While I am gone Nancy will have to stay alone, excepting one of the neighbors little girls. Cattle have rose to an enormous price lately, good oxen will sell for $300.00 per yoke. I intend when I am able to buy a good horse team, and then I can go somewhere in some reasonable time, and with pleasure. Nancy will send some specimens of wild flowers between the leaves of this book. C. W. SMITH. FOOTNOTES: [2] Norman Rawson of Victor, N. Y., uncle of Mrs. Herman Boughton, who now owns the pistol that he carried across the plains. Dryer was also from Victor.--EDITOR. JOURNAL OF A TRIP TO CALIFORNIA "Ever changing from scene to scene, deriving new interest from them all, and learning each day something more of the many wonders of nature."--_The Author._ Journal of a Trip to California In the Spring of 1850 the startling reports from California in relation to the discoveries of gold had been generally confirmed and sustained by such a vast number of letters that most men were satisfied of their truth. Strongly impressed with the general correctness of reports from the modern El Dorado, I at length determined to wend my way in that direction, and having made the necessary arrangements, I left Centreville, Ind., on the second of April, 1850. On the same day a company of about twelve men left the same place and about the same number left Richmond, Ind., bound for the same destination. The Spring of 1850 was unusually backward, in consequence of which many were compelled to spend many days at the various starting places on the frontier. APRIL 4, 1850. I make my first note at Cincinnati, Ohio, on board the _Cambria_ April 4, 1850. Though the Spring is backward, the weather has been fine for a few days past; some parts have begun to assume a green appearance, and the roads from this place were quite good. I have engaged passage on the _Cambria_ for St. Louis, and am now impatient to be off. The boat was to start at 4 o'clock P. M., but we are yet here. It is a very common practice of deceiving travelers as to the time of the departure of boats. It should be frowned down by the traveling public, as it causes great perplexity and loss of time, etc. Passengers are still coming on board. Most of them are bound for California. A large number of mules and horses are on deck. Some of them are inferior animals, especially the mules. The price of mules and horses is represented as being quite high at St. Joseph and Independence. Good wagons can be purchased here for $75.00, and many are being taken for the emigrating service. A company has been organized here, offering to carry passengers to the gold region for $160, each passenger to do his equal share of the necessary labor upon the road. APRIL 5, 1850. Ohio River, April 5, 1850. We left Cincinnati yesterday afternoon about 5 o'clock, with a large number of passengers on board. Reached Madison last night and laid to till morning. We are now riding along at a fine rate. The clouds that hung above us all the morning are partly cleared away, and the warm sun shining through at intervals, making it rather pleasant and it would be really so, were it not for a cold breeze that is now up. The trees upon the banks of the river begin to assume the appearance of spring, putting forth their fresh buds and lending to the prospect some degree of cheerfulness. The banks of the river are here high and abrupt, and well timbered, though the general prospect is rather monotonous. SUNDAY, APRIL 7. I made no note of yesterday, having seen nothing of particular interest. The river banks become lower as we descend. Today I have seen fruit trees in blossom. Our passage is rather disagreeable--too cool to be agreeable on deck, from which the passenger wishes to view the shores of the river. I rose early this morning and went on deck, as usual. It was early dawn, so early that I would not have thought it morning were it not for a golden streak in the east, glowing beneath a heavy mass of dark clouds. We were just then at an interesting point, passing round the point from the Ohio into the mighty Mississippi, and had already begun to stem its muddy current when I came on deck. I took a long look down between her banks, for the purpose of impressing upon my memory a picture which I might unveil in the future. The flush of crimson dawn-light was reflected upon the ripples that came chasing in our wake. Now and then upon the shore the dark outlines of a log cabin (the wood-chopper's home) met the eye. The banks are low and marshy, and mostly covered with underbrush, such as cottonwood, etc. The river is some two miles wide here (fifteen miles above the mouth of the Ohio) and divided by numerous islands of all sizes--from an acre to several miles in length. To keep the channel, we have to shift constantly from one side of the river to the other; sometimes I could throw a stone to the shore. This is a quiet, calm Sabbath morning, the sun shining out brightly, with a cool breeze floating in from the west. But the iron giant beneath us knows no Sabbath, no more than those who direct her powerful arms, and keeps working on, tireless and undismayed; but like a war horse, champing the bit, he is a dangerous slave, breathing fire and smoke and shaking his person by his gigantic struggles. To use a strong poetical figure, he seems to say: "Bind me down with your iron bands, Make sure of your curb and rein, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the lion scorns a chain." The California-bound passengers on board are a hardy-looking class of men, say but little about the gold, and are probably prepared to meet the dangers and hardships of the journey. APRIL 8. The banks of the Mississippi begin to assume a more cheerful aspect, the banks are higher and are partly covered with cedar bushes and other evergreen shrubbery. We arrived at St. Louis at about 9 o'clock this morning, and immediately took passage upon "_The Pride of the West_" for St. Joseph. We expect to be about a week in going there, longer than it would take to travel the same distance on the Ohio, owing to the numerous obstructions in the river. The signs of an immense emigration become more apparent as we approach the starting points. Every boat is crowded with passengers, horses, wagons and everything else necessary for an outfit preparatory to crossing the continent. At St. Louis business appears quite brisk at present. The levee is crowded with articles of trade. But St. Louis, like Louisville, bears the mark of slavery in their population and the appearance of local business; their suburbs, instead of being occupied by the beautiful little dwellings of artisans, look ruinous and uninteresting. Well, we are under way again, St. Louis is fading away in the twilight and blending with the distant hills. Tomorrow morning I expect to look upon the waters of the Missouri. APRIL 9. We entered the Missouri this morning at sunrise and are now making but slow progress in consequence of the numerous obstructions in the stream, such as sawyers, sand bars, etc. We are compelled to lie up at shore at night. The weather is decidedly cool today, and we have been favored with a few flakes of snow. The soil some sixty miles above St. Louis looks productive, is sufficiently high for agricultural purposes and is well timbered. At St. Louis I saw a few Indians, belonging to some of the western tribes. They were dressed in the highest style of their fashion, their faces painted and highly colored with red powder. Their hair is also dyed or powdered red after the same manner as their faces. They were quite curious specimens of humanity to those unacquainted with Indian fashions. We have but very few lady passengers. APRIL 10. Weather clear and cold. We have just passed Jefferson City, the capital of Missouri. It is but a small place and unimportant, only as being the capital. The state house is a respectable two-story stone building situated upon a bluff near the river, fronting the east. There is also a state prison here, inclosed by a high stone wall. We have seen some specimens of wild game on the river, such as geese, ducks, turkeys, etc. Speaking of game reminds me of gaming, a business that is very extensively followed on the river steamers. About one third of the passengers on board are at this moment engaged in that laudable profession--many of them play for money. This class is bound for California and pass the dimes freely. APRIL 13. I have neglected my journal a little on account of sickness. The boat is anything but agreeable to a person in good health, but to a sick man it is almost insupportable. When I awoke yesterday morning, I was very much oppressed with heat, and supposed the weather had moderated in the night. I got up and went on deck, and fancied that the weather was very mild, but instead of this, I suppose the difference was in myself, having contracted a slight fever in the night. In cooling myself I caught a severe cold, and soon began to feel very chilly. I sat by a hot stove, wrapped in my overcoat, but it was impossible to get warm, so I sat shivering all day. Owing to the crowded state of the boat, I had not got a berth when I took passage, but slept upon the cabin floor, with about fifty others. I again attempted to get a berth, but could not, so I was compelled to "chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy" alone. Today I succeeded in getting a berth of one of the passengers, in which I took a refreshing sleep, took some quinine, and now begin to feel better. I also had a very severe pain in my side, but I am getting better of that, too. As I have been close by the stove for a day or two past, I can say but little about the country through which I have passed. Yet I know we have run upon numerous sand bars, backed out and found other channels; stopped for wood and passengers, and I felt the jarring of the machinery beneath me. A large number of the passengers on board are more or less indisposed, so I have not suffered more than many others. We have passed several respectable towns in coming up, the principal of which are Boonville, Lexington and Independence. The latter is some four miles from the river. We expect to reach St. Joseph tomorrow. There is a report abroad that the cholera prevails at St. Joseph, and some of our passengers are leaving the boat to avoid it. It is also said to prevail at other towns on the river. I shall not deviate from my course on that account. If it is my fate to be stricken down at this time, I shall try to meet my fate like a Christian. But I have hope and a strong belief that-- "There's a divinity that shapes our ends Rough hew them how we will." APRIL 18. Weston, Missouri, April 18. We arrived here last Sunday morning, stopped, because our boat being a large one, we could not go up the river in her further. We have since concluded that Weston is as good a starting-place as any on the Missouri, and have determined to fit out here for the journey, and we have already engaged partners in a wagon, looked at cattle, provisions, etc. APRIL 22. Our arrangements are completed, and we intend to cross the river tomorrow and join a company as soon as possible. The weather is becoming a little more pleasant, as the Spring is late. We will take with us what grain we can carry for our cattle. I am now enjoying good health and feel myself hardening to our present rude mode of life. All that now remains to be done is to put our cattle to the wagon and be off. APRIL 23. Weston Ferry, April 23. As we found several parties before us at the ferry this morning, we are compelled to wait several hours till our turn. All we expect today is to cross the river, and go out two or three miles in the country, where we expect to join a company. Several hundred wagons are already on the opposite shore, waiting for the season to bring forth grass, etc. I can now see the smoke ascending from the camp fires behind the bluff upon the other side. Everybody is impatient to be on the trail, fearing that others will reach the diggings before him. Two of our party are quite feverish just now, and I have consented to start immediately, though I think it is too early. The ferry boats here are very poor and make slow passages. Common flat boats are used, propelled with oars; they have to tow them up the shore a quarter of a mile before crossing, to prevent landing below their mark on the other side. They carry about two wagons each time, beside several head of cattle or horses. We are now to cross. APRIL 25. We started early this morning from our encampment one mile west of the Missouri, and went to within about one mile of a stream called Soldiers' Creek. We have not yet joined a company. Today we made some 18 miles. About noon we stopped at the cabin of an old Indian, of whom we purchased an additional supply of corn at $1.00 per barrel. The country through which we came today is a high, rolling prairie. APRIL 26. Left our encampment about 8 o'clock in the morning and went some fifteen miles before stopping, where we encamped for the night. We stopped by a fine little stream of excellent water. Today I had some extensive views entirely different from any I ever before experienced. Everything here seems created on a magnificent plan, the atmosphere clear, the landscape just beginning to wear its earliest green, and the landscape stretched far back against the sky. Today we fell in with some other Californians, but, having mule teams, they soon left us in the rear. I have not yet seen any game except a few prairie hens. I have seen but very few Indians. Today we met one brawny fellow; he was quite sociable--wanted whiskey and "tobac." We gave him a small piece of the latter. He was very thankful for small favors, and as he left us, he took a trail and was soon lost sight of among the hills. He wore buckskin leggings, a blanket over his shoulders, and a sort of turban on his head. Last night I stood on guard till 12 o'clock. Profound silence reigned, except the croaking of a million frogs, and the distant rumbling of thunder in a black cloud that hung in the west. In the latter part of the night it rained a little. The grass is very poor here, but is said to be better several miles in advance. APRIL 27. Was off early this morning, and traveled about thirty miles over a fine prairie country. I saw a large train of wagons that came in on the St. Joseph road. I have noticed a great many ox teams on the road. I believe they make the surest team--will subsist on nearly anything and are not so liable to become fractious and run away, if properly managed, as horses or mules. The weather is still cold--it must be extremely cold here in winter. APRIL 28. Set off about sunrise and drove about twenty miles and stopped. Owing to our ignorance of the road, we had some trouble to find a convenient place to encamp, the country getting a little more level. APRIL 29. This morning we joined a company of three wagons with which we intend to travel. The men are mostly Germans and not of my selection. Went about twenty miles by one o'clock and encamped; high winds prevail. We all have good health and strong appetites. A sort of inefficient election was held this morning at which one of our men was chosen captain--a man in no way calculated to act in that capacity. Strong pledges of mutual assistance were given, etc. In looking over these vast prairies, just beginning to freshen beneath the smile of Spring, I can scarcely believe that they are uninhabited. Not a tree is within reach of the eye. APRIL 30. Off again early this morning and went seven miles before breakfast. After breakfast we pushed on twelve miles more by one o'clock, when we stopped to dine, by a small brook. Two miles more brought us to another stream, which we crossed, and traveled on. Yesterday afternoon a mild south wind prevailed, but fell in the night, when it became quite cold. Toward morning, a perfect gale sprung up in the north, and though I laid in the wagon, wrapped in a blanket, in heavy overcoat, I suffered very much by the cold. The wind poured through our covering like cold water. Thirty wagons passed us today--they all had feed for their teams. The wind still raged this morning till about noon, when the sun shone out and it began to get pleasant. The country here assumes a more even appearance, and resembles in some degree what I had anticipated. We have seen a great number of little animals called prairie squirrels, resembling the ground squirrel of the northern states. The ground is literally filled with their holes. I have seen also a great many elk horns by the way; they are huge specimens and indicate that a superior quality of game abounds here at certain seasons of the year. A few prairie hens come in sight occasionally, but are rather wild. No timber except on the water courses, and upon these it is so hedged in by the hills that it cannot be seen till you get close to it. In consequence of their ignorance of the road, the emigrants carry wood and water where it is unnecessary, and again, neglect to take it when needed; but this is unavoidable. The heavy west winds drive a blinding dust in our faces, and in a few hours a person becomes as black as a negro. Yesterday we met two United States dragoons. They report some Indian depredations in advance of us. One is that a family has been massacred by the Indians, and that the troops from the Fort Laramie had pursued the murderers and put one hundred to death. Our road so far has been most excellent, better than a turnpike, as it is not so hard for the feet of teams. Generally the road is not worn through the heavy turf but just deep enough to expose the roots of the grass, which are as large as a man's little finger. Yet, from the appearance of the road, there are a great many emigrants before us. Five four-horse wagons passed us yesterday; they traveled fast, intended to go forty per day and had feed sufficient for fifteen days, thirty miles. MAY 1. Started early and went to a tributary of Little Blue River, some four miles, and took breakfast. The grass begins to look better. At noon we found water close by the road. We are constantly passing and re-passing wagons. I have noticed some few families on the road, including all ages and sexes. Tonight we stop off the road to the right one hundred rods, within four miles of Big Blue River. We cross it tomorrow. The country tolerably level. The wolves make a great noise at night. A majority of the emigrants now on the road are Missourians. Distance, twenty-four miles. MAY 2. Left encampment at two o'clock this morning, for the purpose of giving our cattle more time to feed in the middle of the day. Reached Blue River at daylight; crossed over immediately; went two miles further and stopped for breakfast. This plan of irregular driving I consider of no advantage, yet we have practiced it because some of our men think it excellent policy. Weather fine, with a shower in the afternoon. Today we passed the place where the Weston road joins the Independence and St. Joseph roads. Many come in from the Independence road, and the trail is now alive with emigrants. At night we stopped twelve miles west of Big Blue River, a short distance from the road, where we found wood, water and some picking for our cattle. When I got up this morning I felt quite unwell and soon commenced vomiting. Mr. Finch offered me his pony to ride, which I accepted, but soon found it almost impossible to keep my seat, so I got off and led the pony. Soon after, one of our company solicited the use of the pony, and as I let him have it and he rode on, I was compelled to walk till we stopped for breakfast. I felt so exhausted that it was almost impossible to proceed, and at one time I seriously thought of lying down by the road and resting myself, and run the risk of losing the wagons. But I struggled on till breakfast time, when I took medicine and soon became better. In many places in this region we find water standing in holes upon the prairie, and as the weather is cool it is tolerably good, though I suppose it stagnates later in the season. MAY 3. Started early: soon crossed a little stream and went on in a northwest direction till noon, when we came round to the southwest. Up to this time our general course has been northwest, and this is the reason why the season seems so backward here. The vegetation is no more advanced here than at Weston ten days since. We were passed at noon by a company of one hundred wagons from Wisconsin, and also one of thirty from Illinois. Most of them had fine horse teams--generally four horses to each wagon. The wind has been high and cold--cold as winter. Imagine a man on the third of May walking in a heavy overcoat and blanket, and shivering with cold. This was my condition. At sundown the wind subsided and a rosy glow in the west promised a fair tomorrow. Went nineteen miles today and stopped by a little stream called Rock Brook. I see but very few Indians, perhaps one in a week. We have passed the Potawatimes region, and are now in that of the Pawnees. I have seen none of the latter tribe. Today we met a few troops from Fort Laramie. They say the grass is good in the valley of the Platte, distant about one hundred miles. Good health on the road generally, though we see a grave occasionally, which reminds us of the admonition, "_memento mori_," and beneath this inhospitable soil are hearts once virtuous ambition. The angel of death follows the race of Adam to the uttermost parts of the earth. "There is no flock however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there; There is no fireside howso'er defended, But has one vacant chair." MAY 4. Today we made some eighteen miles--passed two or three little streams, and encamped about one mile from the road, by a stream of good water. Weather pleasant and warm in the afternoon. Met one team returning on account of poor grass in advance. It is tolerable where we stop tonight in a valley. MAY 5. Today we rested, partly to observe the Sabbath and partly to let our teams rest. The day has been fair, with a cool breeze from the north. Sun sets gloriously, with fair promise of tomorrow. About fifty wagons went by us today, while others are stopping near us. Our men are now engaged in the business of the closing day--feeding cattle, etc., and others loitering about the wagon and thinking, perhaps, of Sabbath evenings spent in a different manner. MAY 6. Off at sunrise. Reached Little Blue River in the evening. Day fine. We crossed several valleys in which were channels filled with yellow sand. It is probable that water courses through them during the wet seasons. Grass poor. Emigrants pushing by us. The Little Blue River is a fine stream about ten yards in width and deep. MAY 7. Went up by Little Blue River fifteen miles, and encamped about 4 o'clock, earlier than usual, for the purpose of repairing wagon wheels. We are getting into the buffalo region; one was seen yesterday and one killed today by a man in another company. I have seen none yet. Prairie hens are abundant, and I have had the pleasure of partaking of one myself. Day fine, excepting a cool breeze. MAY 8. Encamped again by Little Blue River, after a drive of fifteen miles. This morning we met a young man in search of a pony, which had strayed away from him in the night. He looked quite discouraged, and well he might, as the lost nag was his only means of conveying his provisions and clothes. They suspected the Indians. Presently we came up to his comrades, where we found their things in great confusion, and the man with them in a gloomy mood. But they were partially relieved by some gentlemen who were there when we came up, who offered to buy their things or carry them for them, as they might prefer. It looks hard to meet misfortunes so soon, but many have had to submit to them, as is apparent all along the route. Horses, mules and oxen have died, wagons have broken down, and sickness fell to the lot of some. Some of the teams have consumed all of their feed and begin to travel more moderately. In this case they are compelled to go slow, as the grass is very poor. Roads today good and scenery pleasant. MAY 9. Commenced our march at sunrise, and drove our cattle slowly on account of the poor feed they had had. Went up the Little Blue twelve miles, when we left it and entered a high prairie country. Distance, sixteen miles. MAY 10. Went on as usual. Met some government wagons going to Fort Leavenworth. Drove eighteen miles and encamped at the border of the Platte River bottom. The river itself is some four miles distant, and there is no water nearer, nor wood, so we are compelled to do without it and make our supper of hard bread, etc. But little promise of grass. Day pleasant. MAY 11. Went four miles to the Platte before breakfast. Just opposite where we stopped is a large island and but a narrow stream on this side; the water is very muddy. We reached Fort Kearney about 4 o'clock, ten miles further, and stopped for the night one mile west of the fort. At Fort Kearney there are several plain-looking buildings, mostly composed of unburnt brick and turf, and some tents, though the best houses are wood. One hundred fifty soldiers are stationed here. We hope to reach Fort Laramie by the end of the month. Grass looks a little better in the valley. Day warm. Distance, fifteen miles. MAY 12. This day being Sunday, we rest ourselves, and cattle are in need of it. About one hundred wagons have passed us today; at times the road would be crowded with them for a great distance. MAY 13. Having rested yesterday, we made an early start this morning, and went five miles before stopping to take breakfast. Then went twelve miles farther and encamped for the night near the river. The stream at this point is from one to two miles wide, shallow, and divided by numerous islands. Though there is plenty of timber up on the opposite shore, and the islands, we have not yet been able to get a stick upon this side--not enough for fuel. All day we have seen wagons winding along on the opposite shore, on the road from Council Bluffs. The valley of the river here is broad and beautiful, stretches away as far as the eye can reach, and occasionally presenting upon its blue and white profile herds of buffalo, deer, elk, antelope, etc. Distance, seventeen miles. MAY 14. Some of our cattle having strayed off, we were delayed a short time in finding them. However, we were under way at seven o'clock. Having encamped last night with three additional wagons, we all started together this morning, and I hope we may continue so. Our new associates appear like upright men--men who would respect justice where there is no law. At night we stopped one mile west of Plum Creek in a most delightful place, the beauty of which I am incapable of faithfully delineating. Distance, seventeen miles. MAY 15. Off early, pursuing our course up the Platte; valley wide and bordered by high bluffs; at places they are divided by deep ravines, giving us a peep at the background. Today one of our party had the good luck to kill an antelope, and we had the pleasure of partaking of it for supper. The meat is very sweet and tender, and after living for nearly a month on salt pork, it was decidedly relishable. The Indians visit the road but very little, which is not much regretted by the emigrants. Last night a man came to one of our wagons who was in search of horses, which had become frightened and ran away from his company. They lost nine, which were all they had. This is a great loss. The grass is but little better here than it was at Weston; the season has been cold and dry. Distance, twenty-two miles. MAY 16. Traveled over a level country; saw some antelope and was passed by a train of wagons from Galena, Wis. Tonight we stopped near the river. I never saw finer horses than are on this road, especially those from Wisconsin and Illinois. Distance, fifteen miles. MAY 17. Continued our march over beautiful prairie country, and encamped in the afternoon upon a green plain not far from the Platte. I forgot to mention before that when we reached the fort but nine hundred wagons had been reported as having passing this Spring, and about one hundred more have gone ahead since then. From this we perceive that we are comparatively among the first of the emigrants this season. A few pass us every day, but as we are passing others, it is difficult to tell how many really keep in advance of us. Distance, fifteen miles. MAY 18. In our course today we left the Platte several miles to the right and entered on a high region. At noon we stopped by a small stream of good water, which winds along in an easterly direction between the hills and the river. In the evening we stopped on the same stream higher up. Grass poor. Today we met a man who was in search of a horse which had run away from him in a buffalo herd. He had himself become lost, a considerable distance from the road, was without food or arms, except a single pistol. Saw numerous herds of buffalo and represented the country as barren and desolate. His horse had been taken up by another company, and when we saw him, he was in search of his own. Day warm. Distance, seventeen miles. MAY 19. In consequence of there being little grass where we stopped last night, we were off early this morning, and intended to cross the south fork of the Platte before we stopped, which we supposed was about ten miles distant. Today I saw almost countless numbers of buffalo. I saw several shot and a great many dead by the road. They are huge animals, some of them larger than any I ever saw; ran in a clumsy sort of canter, yet they are not slow, as it takes a good horse to overtake them. A man stayed with us last night who had got lost while in pursuit of the game. He and another man had killed three, and had some choice cuts with them. In the morning I lent my rifle to one of our party who wished to go hunting. In a couple of hours he came up with the gun broken; he said it was done in a hand-to-hand encounter with a buffalo. But I shall not state the particulars, as I have reason to discredit his story. About noon we reached the south fork of the Platte and crossed it immediately. This river where we cross it is about one mile wide, with an average depth of about one foot. It is entirely different from any other river I ever saw in the States. The bed of the river is a kind of quicksand, into which a horse will sink several inches by standing still a few moments. Another of our men has just returned from buffalo hunting. He succeeded in killing one, but not till he had fired twelve bullets at it. The balls at the head rebounded as from the solid rock. This evening one of our men found a human skull near our wagons. It was perforated by a ball just above the left eye and through the back of the head. We examined it and conjectured how it came here--whether Indian or white, male or female. But all our conjectures could not draw from its eyeless hole one ray of its history, nor awake a slumbering echo in its hollow ear. "Alas, poor Yorick! Is that a place where a god may dwell?" We have passed more than fifty wagons today. In the afternoon a thunder shower came up in the west, and for two or three hours threatened heavy rain; and at length, after shedding a few drops, it passed round to the south. We have been just one week in coming from Fort Kearney, a distance of 125 miles. At this rate we shall reach Fort Laramie by the first of June. The grass is poor in this region, and is never so good here as in the districts we have passed. I have not seen an Indian in two weeks, but I presume they have seen us every day. Distance, fifteen miles. MAY 20. We continued our march up the south fork of the Platte some ten miles, where we crossed over the bluffs which lie between the two streams, and after going two miles we reached the north fork at about noon. In the afternoon we continued up on the south side of the north flat. At this point the river wears the same general characteristics as the lower Platte. The banks are lower and the soil less productive, but the stream is wide, shallow, and filled with islands or sand-bars. Tonight we feed our cattle on two of these little islands, near the south shore. The grass is very poor here. Two of our party who went out yesterday morning to hunt have not yet returned. It is very easy to get lost on these vast wilds, as the country is very much alike, and in pursuing game, the uninitiated thinks of very little beside. Distance, twenty miles. MAY 21. This morning, after going some two miles up the banks of the river, we turned off to the south and wound up over the bluffs, and traveled a level, dry region, almost destitute of vegetation. After going over this tableland for about twelve miles, we again came down to the river, through a steep and sandy ravine. Our feet would sink into the sand some six or eight inches in walking over it, and was thrown up in showers by the wheels of our wagons. We stopped for the night some twelve miles farther beyond where we reached the bottom. The day has been warm, though cloudy. The earth is parched with drought, and if rain does not fall soon, vegetation will be entirely checked. The flood of emigrants is rushing past and behind us, all in haste to surpass each other in reaching the land of gold. Some of the fastest travelers have already gained much time upon us; a few have gone by us who started as late as the fifth and sixth of May. But they are now compelled to go more slow, as the feed with which they supplied themselves on the start is exhausted, and their teams are becoming weak. One of our party waded across the Platte today for the purpose of ascertaining the condition of the grass on the other side, as from our side it looks quite forward. The water was nowhere above his knees. Two of our men who left us on Sunday for the purpose of hunting buffaloes have returned. They were completely tired of their sport, having succeeded in capturing one of those huge animals and wounding half a dozen more. Distance, nineteen miles. MAY 22. After going up the Platte two miles from camp, we left the stream and went over the bluffs, in consequence of the river banks being high and broken. The road was not so good today, as we had to go through deep sand most of the way. We stopped at night at the mouth of Ash Hollow, at which place the road that goes up the South Platte came in. At the lower end there are several springs and a little timber, such as ash and cedar, and some shrubbery. We are now in the territory of the Sioux Indians, a party of whom are now about our wagons. They are very desirous to beg or buy provisions, particularly sugar, coffee, and liquor. The chief was here and made himself known to us. Their dress is very simple and confined to adults, the children going naked, except a bit of cloth fastened about their loins. This tribe is quite friendly, and the chief signified that anything that we might lay out of our wagons would be perfectly safe. They look quite intelligent for Indians and superior to what I had expected to see. Some of them are now practicing with their bows and arrows for the amusement of the emigrants. The wind has been very high all day and the dust troublesome. The sun has just sunk down in the west, casting a crimson flush upon the dark clouds that hang like a dark curtain drawn across the west. Companies of emigrants have encamped all around us, and should the Indians make an attack upon us, at least two hundred men could be gathered in ten minutes. Distance, twenty-five miles. MAY 23. Today we continued our travel over a sandy soil, making slow progress in consequence. We set out at daybreak, and after going a couple of miles, came to an Indian village. They live in tents made of buffalo skins. These skins they support on poles set round in a circle on the ground, and fastened together at the top. In cold weather they make their fires in the center of the tent and have an aperture in the top for the smoke to escape. These Indians, like all others, are always ready to trade, and will sometimes give enormous prices for articles they happen to fancy. Sugar and coffee are prized very highly by them. I have known them to give from $1 to $3 per pint for the first, and as they seem to have plenty of money just now, it will be a profitable trade for those who have a surplus of these articles. Before I left the United States I was not aware that these articles could be sold at such prices among the Indians. Distance, twenty miles. MAY 24. Traveling two miles this morning, we came to another Indian encampment of some thirty-five tents. They were encamped upon a beautiful and expansive plain. These Indians are of the same character of those we saw yesterday. When we passed by, the sun was just rising and the scene was quite picturesque. These Indians have a large number of ponies and mules, which were scattered over the valley feeding, while several Indians in their blue and white blankets and buffalo skins were watching them. There were four or five dogs about each tent, and as we passed they gave us a satisfactory display of vocal sounds. These dogs are an inferior-looking brute and from imagination appear a little wolfish. They howl rather than bark, and when a number of them are in concert, it sounds singularly mournful and plaintive. The road becomes better as we advance and the grass better than we have before seen. In fact, this is the earliest period at which the grass can be considered fit for working cattle. Distance, twenty miles. MAY 25. A short distance beyond our stopping place we crossed a small stream called Small Creek. Soon after, we came in sight of those promised curiosities, the Courthouse and Chimney Rock, the first appearing in the distance like the dome of an immense building and the latter like a tower or straight column. At noon, we came nearly opposite the Court House, and as it appeared but a short distance from the road, some of our men determined to go to it and satisfy their curiosity. They went, and by fast walking, overtook us about four o'clock in the afternoon. It is about seven miles from the trail, and appears very fine, being discernable from all points. It is composed of an immense mass of rock, raising from 300 to 500 feet above the level of the plain, and of a conical shape at the summit, from which it derives its name. Chimney Rock is about twelve miles further, and seven miles from where we stop tonight. At noon we crossed another stream, the largest since we crossed Little Blue River, and good water. It comes in from the south, a little east of the Court House. This afternoon we had a fine specimen of a hail storm in this region. A dark mass of clouds were gathering for several hours in the west, till our path was overhung with an impenetrable curtain of black, and at length the wind, which was blowing from the east, turned back, and the storm rushed upon us. It was a real hail storm. When it commenced beating upon our cattle, they became intractable, but we succeeded in unfastening them from the wagons, and having driven them behind the wagons, they bore it as well as might have been expected. The hail stones were the largest I ever saw, some of them being as large as hens' eggs, and striking with force sufficient to make a man seek a shelter as soon as convenient. It continued some twenty minutes, when it stopped and we commenced our march; but we had not gone far when it recommenced, and we were compelled to turn around and wait till it ceased. But we have reason to be thankful, as we did not feel the worst of the storm. Two of our men who were in advance to find a stopping-place for the night were less fortunate than ourselves. Where they were, the hailstones were as large as lemons and with force enough to bruise a man severely. Our party in advance were on horses, and as they became fractious, they could not shelter themselves, and had to take the full force of the storm. One of our men received a severe bruise on his head, caused by a hailstone. But the storm soon blew over and the sun set behind a crimson curtain of transparent clouds. Distance, twenty miles. MAY 26. Today being Sunday, we determined to lay by till noon and let our cattle rest, and go on in the afternoon to the vicinity of Chimney Rock, which would afford better feed and give us an opportunity to examine this great natural curiosity. A large number of teams passed us in the forenoon, which made some of our party impatient to be going. I said we stopped to let our cattle rest, for the men were nearly all engaged in such matters as become necessary, such as washing their clothes, airing their bedding, and such other things as could not be done on the way. By four o'clock we were opposite Chimney Rock, and after going a short distance further we stopped for the night. In company with some others of our party, I started for the Rock, some two miles distant. The lower portion of it is thrown up like a mound in a conical shape, to the height of about two hundred feet, and upon this rests a perpendicular column of some twenty feet in diameter, and about one hundred feet high. By some, the height of the rock is computed at from five hundred to eight hundred feet, but I have put it as it appeared to me. The lower portion is composed of baked clay, and the upper part of a kind of soft rock, darker in color than the base. I saw thousands of names which were engraved upon the plaster material, and intended to carve my own, but was prevented by a storm coming on. It continued to rain that evening, and as there was a cold wind, and we had no fuel except a little we had in our wagons, it was anything but pleasant; but as we went to bed early, we soon forgot the rain beneath comfortable blankets. Though the ground was wet, a good buffalo robe was sufficient to keep out dampness all night. High bluffs are visible on each side of us, and in advance. Distance, eight miles. MAY 27. For a few days past we have got up and started about two o'clock in the morning, and so we did this morning. So after we set out, it recommenced raining and continued till we stopped for breakfast. Some of our men swore if they were at home they would not be caught here again, and it was disagreeable, trying to kindle a fire of wet fuel, being wet ourselves, and still getting more damp and chilly if possible. But at length the clouds broke away, and having refreshed ourselves with some warm breakfast, we went on our way rejoicing. We left the river in the early part of the day, and traveled upon a high plain, with Scotts Bluffs as the boundary. In the evening we reached the bluffs, where we encamped. In this region wood and water is very scarce, and we were not able to collect during the day so much as we needed; but this might be remedied by taking them in previously if we had known what was in advance. At the Bluffs we found several little springs, but they were between such precipitous banks that it was almost impossible to get our cattle to them, and some of them entirely beyond their reach. Here we found a little wood, consisting of a few specimens of stunted cedar scattered upon the bluffs and in the ravines, and a little dry wood in the valley, having been washed down by the rain. This latter is most excellent fuel, having been exposed to the sun for years, and as dry as powder. Some of the best teams begin to go our pace and will be thankful if they can maintain it. Distance, twenty-three miles. MAY 28. After proceeding a couple of miles, we came to an Indian encampment and also a place where blacksmithing was done, and on a little further we ascended the bluffs and traveled over a level, high country and came to the Platte again in the afternoon and encamped at night in the valley of that stream. This morning we had the first view of the Rocky Mountains, 150 miles distant. Laramie Peak looks like a vast sugar loaf. We see a little timber today by the Platte, such as cedar, pine and poplar. Day warm, and sand deep. Distance, twenty-five miles. MAY 29. After traveling five miles, we came to a trading place, which was occupied by some half dozen men and some thirty or forty Sioux Indians. They had clothing, but no provisions, which were most sought by the emigrants. This place is within twenty miles of Fort Laramie, and we have been so successful in getting over the ground that we feel no small degree of gratification. At three o'clock we came to Laramie River and forded it and encamped about one half mile beyond by the road opposite the Fort, which is a mile or more to the south of it. In consequence of the lateness of our arrival and the determination of our party to proceed early in the morning, I could not find time to visit it, but was compelled to satisfy my curiosity at a distance. From where I now am I can see several respectable looking buildings, looking the most like civilization of anything that I have seen since I left Weston. Laramie River has the same characteristics as the Platte, only much smaller, and about four feet deep where we forded it. A large number of emigrants change their mode of travel at this place--from wagons to packing--for the purpose of hastening their arrival in the gold regions. In doing this, some of them abandon much property, such as guns, tools, bedding, clothing, and more especially wagons and harness. I was told last evening that two men had just thrown their rifles into the Platte, having tried to sell them to no purpose, and being determined that no one should profit by the loss. Good wagons can be bought for a mere trifle, and many of them can be had for nothing. An excellent one was sold here yesterday at $7 and with it a lot of other valuables thrown into the bargain. Near us in this valley there is a very large number of emigrants encamped, stopping for the purpose of some business and seeing the Fort. I should think there were about 500 wagons and 2,000 men. Provisions, biscuit and bacon can be obtained at the Fort in small quantities by those who are in need of them, sufficient to last them to Salt Lake. Biscuit, $14 per pound. Though we are on the first part of our journey, we see many things left by the way, but everything of any value is examined and perhaps taken a short distance by those who come after, when they in turn cast them away; and others still encumber themselves as before. I have seen men take hold of a log chain and drag it for several rods, knowing at the same time that they could not take it with them; but having large acquisitiveness, they would cling to it from the force of habit, or in hopes that some lucky circumstance would turn up that would enable them to sell it. A man was at our camp this morning who had a rifle, a hatchet, and a shovel, which he offered to sell for two dollars, but could not, so he gave the rifle to one of our party and took the rest along. The soil is poor and sandy here and the grass short and dry. Distance, twenty-five miles. MAY 30. At three o'clock this morning we were under way and continued up the Platte, and having gone sixteen miles by two o'clock, we stopped for the night, our cattle being much in need of feed and rest, having traveled hard and found but little feed in the vicinity of the Fort. Some three miles before we stopped we left the river and ascended the tableland, passing over innumerable little knobs, upon which is scattered a little cedar and pine. In a ravine near the camp is an excellent spring of water and tolerably good grass. In the afternoon a dark cloud arose in the west, and soon came thunder and lightning and rain; and now while I am writing it is dancing upon our tent in a fine manner--a manner peculiar to this country. At length the clouds cleared away and our party concluded to proceed a few miles further. Accordingly, we collected our cattle, yoked them, and drove about five miles further. In the afternoon we passed some soldiers who were engaged in burning lime for the Fort. One of them wanted to buy liquor; said he had that day offered $16 per gallon for brandy to an emigrant but could not get it. One of our company sold him a drink of whiskey for fifty cents. Distance, twenty-one miles. MAY 31. Going two miles this morning, we came to a little stream called the Little Cottonweed. Our trail led over a hilly country, presenting every variety of scenery, from the level plain to the bold bluffs, with here a few shrubs of pine and cedar. These evergreens are the only objects generally which enliven the plains in which they are found, as they usually grow in the moist barrens and indescribable places, deep ravines and nearly naked rocks. At length we have come into the region of wild sage so well known and so much hated by the emigrant, as it grows in the most inhospitable regions. It is a low, bushy shrub, with thick and light-colored leaves, resembling to some extent the leaf of the cultivated sage and exhaling a similar scent. Our road is very circuitous. We have, in a few hours, traveled toward every point of the compass. Laramie Peak, which we first saw from Scotts Bluffs, is still in sight, several miles to the south of us. Its snow-capped summit presents a strong contrast to the green hill and prairie, which are just putting on their summer apparel. Today we swapped our wagon for one we found abandoned by the road. We made a good trade. Distance, twenty-one miles. JUNE 1. Still among the hills. In the afternoon over a high, level plain. Stopped at night by a little stream, a short distance from the Blue Mountain. Day fine. Distance, twenty-five miles. JUNE 2. Today we moved on till we came to a little stream about four miles from our last night's stopping-place. One mile from where we stopped, we crossed a little stream called Mountain Blue. We have not found a more beautiful place than where we stopped today--plenty of wood, water and grass. Day fine; health good. There is a novel feature in this region in the existence of a red sand which gives to the prospect a very picturesque character. I suppose it was caused by volcanic fires, which burned perhaps centuries ago. A soft quality of marble also abounds here, and many of our party have smoothed pieces of it and written or carved their names, dates, and other laconic bits of news upon them for their friends behind them. I cut a level surface upon a piece and wrote thus: "C. W. Smith, Centreville, Indiana. 'On the night's Plutonian shore.' June 2, 1850." The country over which we are passing is becoming very rocky and broken, and I am surprised that we can pass over it with so little difficulty. Sometimes we pass along an extensive range of hills, sometimes through a deep gorge or dry-bed of a stream, and then again winding along a serpentine track, thus ever changing from scene to scene, deriving new interest from them all and learning each day something more of the many wonders of nature. Distance, four miles. JUNE 3. Having refreshed ourselves yesterday (Sunday) by the river La Bronte, we proceeded this morning in good spirits; about ten o'clock we crossed the river "_a la Psete_ (Prele?)" ten or twelve feet in width, and at night encamped on La Boisce. Great variety of scenery. At noon we had a heavy shower of rain, which increased the water in the creeks to an almost impassable height. Tonight the sky is obscured by heavy masses of dark clouds that sit with portentous aspect upon the brows of the mountains. The valleys of the tributaries of the Platte through which we have passed are narrow and winding, with little timber, such as willows, lind, cottonwood and poplars, beside a little cedar and pine, in the ravines and on the bluffs. Distance, twenty-three miles. JUNE 4. Going nine miles brought us to a stream called Deer Creek, about twenty yards wide and with a strong current. Crossed one more stream during the day. Muddy, crooked creek, and encamped in the valley of the Platte, twelve miles from the stream. Country more level by the Platte. Weather pleasant. Distance, eighteen miles. JUNE 5. Distances are very deceptive here. A range of mountains to our left appeared about two miles off; became the object of curiosity to some of our party from the fact that there was snow upon its summit, and so they concluded to walk across the plain and ascend them and get some of the snow, if such it was, which some of them doubted. They started about 2 P. M. and as we laid by this afternoon, they supposed it a good opportunity. At sundown our explorers returned, much fatigued. They had walked the entire afternoon after they had left us. The top of the mountains was about twelve miles distant, and they had been there. They brought a snowball and declared that what they saw was worth their labor. Distance, twelve miles. JUNE 6. We started early this morning, in order to get ferried across the Platte before those who stopped behind us over night. One mile's travel brought us to the ferry, and our wagons were taken across without delay. There are three boats running across abreast, though conducted by different men. Price per wagon $4.00. They were not willing to ferry our cattle over, so we drove them up a short distance, and made them swim the stream. The boats are run on a very simple principal and a very good one. A long line is stretched across the river, secured at each end. To this are placed two pulley wheels, which are fastened to ropes attached to the boat at each end, and the forward rope being the shortest, the side of the boat is brought to the force of the current and forced across. Two wagons are placed in a boat each trip, which is made in about ten minutes. All being safely over, about 8 o'clock we resumed our march, leaving the river and following the trail over a high range of country, destitute of wood and water. At noon we stopped a short time at Alkali Pond--very poor water and grass; and being none better within fifteen miles, we pushed on in order to reach them by night. At sundown we came from a stream which comes from what are called Willow Springs, about two miles further on. Stopped here. This being a general stopping place, the grass is poor. The stream is small and the valley narrow. On the upland there is no vegetation worth mentioning, except wild sage, which grows in stunted clumps all over the country. We see mountain peaks to the left and in advance, the first being a range of the Black Hills and the second the Rattlesnake Mountains, I suppose. Distance, twenty-six miles. JUNE 7. After traveling over a rough country till noon, we came to Grease Creek and encamped on it near Rattlesnake Rock. We stopped about two o'clock for the purpose of resting and letting our cattle feed, as we had just come over a portion of the route nearly destitute of grass and water. We came by one little stream which is known to be poisonous, the water being strongly impregnated with alkali. We learn by some emigrants since we passed this stream that a company who were ignorant of the nature of the water let their horses drink it, and many of them died in consequence. Distance, fourteen miles. JUNE 8. Today at noon we reached the Sweetwater, much elated, as we had been on the muddy Platte for more than twenty days. The river is here about six rods wide, and deep; water tolerably good, not quite clear. Another mile brought us to the far-famed Independence Rock. I climbed up its abrupt, rocky sides, and spent a few minutes in walking about its summit, though I had not time to examine it as I wished. It is composed of solid rock of a light red clay color, about one eighth of a mile long and two hundred feet high. There are huge masses of grotesque rocks lying upon its sides and summit, some of which weighed hundreds of tons and appear as if they could be shoved off by the hand. On the prominent points of this rock are carved and painted thousands of names, in all styles and sizes; some are put high up on the ledges, where it must have been difficult to place them, and others nearer the ground. I looked for a familiar name, but could find none, though I saw all the states inscribed, as the former residences of these pilgrims. One half mile further on we crossed the Sweet Water, and in the afternoon went by what is called The Devil's Gate, a narrow channel of the stream, through a pass of the Rattlesnake Mountains. Looking down into the stream from the rocks hundreds of feet high, it is said that the Sweet Water appears as a mere rivulet. Some of our party climbed to the top of the Gate and boasted of having done some daring climbing. We are now surrounded by mountains, entirely barren, except a few stunted cedars or other evergreens. The range on the south is partly covered with snow. Distance, twenty-two miles. JUNE 9. Started in the morning. A shower at noon. Distance, fourteen miles. JUNE 10. After proceeding up the river for fourteen miles, we left it for sixteen miles. At night we stopped at the Ice Springs. The water is very bad here, so much so that we dare not let our cattle drink it. We see many evidences of its fatality in the many horses and cattle in the vicinity. Distance, twenty miles. JUNE 11. Started early and reached the Sweet Water again about 10 o'clock, having gone some ten miles. We were delayed an hour in the morning to find our cattle that had strayed off. Many of our cattle show the effects of bad water and today our best yoke gave out, having to take them from the wagon and drive them slowly behind. Distance, ten miles. JUNE 12. Still by the Sweet Water. The valley is becoming more narrow and the stream more rapid. In advance and a little to the north of our trail, we can see the Wind River Mountains. Their lofty summits are covered with snow, and in their dazzling whiteness appear truly sublime. From their great height and the transparency of the air, they look not far off, though they are probably not less than seventy-five miles. In the afternoon I walked over a body of snow lying near the road, and as it had retreated down the bank, it was interesting to notice how the grass and flowers had followed, a barren space of not more than three yards intervening winter's snow and summer's flowers. Pleasant day, just cool enough to be agreeable. The grass is becoming better, as there are numerous springs in this vicinity, by which it grows. Distance, nineteen miles. JUNE 13. Started early this morning and went two and three quarters miles to the North Sweet Water, where we took breakfast and stopped till noon. In the afternoon we crossed Willow Creek, and at night encamped on a fine little brook of crystal water about one mile from the main road. Today we have felt that we are in a high region. We see snow in all directions--on the mountains, on the hills and in the ravines--and here, a few yards above me, an extensive bed reflects the rays of the setting sun over a bed of sweet pink flowers which peep up through the fresh grass. The grass is good here, though rather short. We are now within about ten miles of the South Pass, which we will probably reach by tomorrow noon. We see no longer any of the large companies which overtook us on the outset of the journey. They have invariably broken up into small companies of five or six wagons. This is the best plan, especially when there is no danger to be apprehended from the Indians. It is impossible for large companies to improve the time like small companies. The great difficulty is there is too much hesitation on the plains, which invariably results in disagreement. Distance, eleven miles. JUNE 14. After going a little over a mile, we crossed the Sweet Water for the last time, leaving it to our right. At noon we were at the South Pass, where we stopped for a short time. In the afternoon we passed the Pacific Springs and encamped within about two miles of Little Sandy. In the afternoon it rained very hard, and now, at sundown, as heavy a cloud as I ever saw is coming up in the west. Distance, seventeen miles. JUNE 15. Quite cool last night, so much so that we could not keep warm between a buffalo robe and two good blankets. The night before last was cold also. Water froze over near our camp. After three miles' travel this morning we came to what is called Dry Sandy. In the valley there is no water at this season of the year. We passed down the valley six miles, when we came to the fork in the roads--the Salt Lake and Subletts (?)--cut off, the former leading down by Sandy and the latter keeping to the right, west. Five miles more brought us to the Little Sandy, where we stopped for the night. Tomorrow we shall go but six miles to Big Sandy, where we shall prepare to cross a desert, as it is called, stretching from that stream to Green River, a distance of forty miles, which is generally traveled in the night. Distance, six miles. JUNE 16. Today we laid by to prepare to cross the desert from Big Sandy to Green River. This afternoon I went up this stream about three miles to cut grass for our cattle while crossing the desert. I was engaged half a day in cutting two small sacks full with a knife. Then I came back to the wagons and started down the stream for more grass, but found it more scarce than ever. There is but little grass in this region, excepting the creek bottoms, and they are few and narrow. JUNE 17. As it was agreed to start early, I went in company with some others to fetch our cattle from some three miles up the river, where they had been feeding. A snowstorm came on about daybreak and I had the full benefit of it. I walked several miles in search of a couple of ponies that belonged to the company and was at last compelled to return without them. The face of the country there is nearly destitute of vegetation, wild sage, greasewood and an occasional bunch of grass being the entire product of the soil. We left Big Sandy at about eleven and a half A. M. with the intention of traveling all night and reaching Green River the next morning. We pushed on as fast as we could against a strong wind and a blinding dust. A little before sundown we stopped an hour for supper and to feed our cattle, having gone fifteen miles. This over, we entered the night, and the most tedious part of our journey. With the sun went down the wind and we hoped that an agreeable night would follow such a boisterous day. But we were disappointed. A dark cloud overcast the sky and soon a snowstorm came drifting in our faces, and continued all night. At twelve o'clock we stopped to rest and feed our cattle, and then pushed on till eight o'clock in the morning, when we reached the Green River. The country between these streams is not so barren as I was led to suppose. It is but little more so than much of the ground we had passed over before, west of Fort Laramie. Green River is about 1,000 feet lower than Big Sandy. Upon this stretch of forty miles there is not a drop of water, and this is the reason why it is so barren. Our cattle stood the drive very well. In the morning the sun shone out clear and warm and the thin mantle of snow soon disappeared beneath his beams. Distance, forty-six miles. JUNE 18. About 7 o'clock this morning we came within sight of Green River, apparently not far off, but several hundred feet below us. After the most disagreeable night's travel I ever experienced, we were elated at the prospect of being so near a stopping-place, but on following the trail we had to go about three miles further before we got down to the river. Green River is about twenty rods wide here and so deep that it has to be ferried. In the Spring it is said it can be forded, but it is swollen now in consequence of the snow melting at its sources. There are two ferries, which charge $7 per wagon. We made arrangements to have ours crossed this evening, and accordingly they were taken over without accident. I am told that four men were drowned the other day in attempting to cross on a raft. Some companies find it difficult to make their horses and cattle swim the stream, but ours went over without trouble. We found the grass rather scarce near the ferry, and drove our cattle three miles up the river, where it was first-rate. In company with three others of our party, I went up about sundown to watch the cattle over night. Nowhere upon the way have I found a more beautiful place than this. The valley of the river is broad and Spring's first fresh carpet of grass adorned with fragrant flowers. The numerous varieties of shrubs divided and subdivided the valley into picturesque lawns, and gave more variety to the scenery. We built a good fire of dry wood, and spreading our buffalo robes upon the grass, we laid down to rest, one watching at a time and being relieved at intervals by the others. JUNE 19. This morning we drove the cattle back to the wagons and taking breakfast while our company were preparing to start, we were on the march by 7 o'clock. Here we entered a decidedly mountainous country and our road is very crooked. After winding over and around the mountains for about eight miles, we came to a tributary of Green River, which we expect to travel up for several miles. We went two miles up this stream and rested for an hour or two. We found good grass by driving our cattle across the stream, which is narrow and deep. Quite a ludicrous incident occurred here. As I said, the stream is deep, though narrow, our cattle being compelled to swim it when only eight or ten yards wide. Well, when we were ready to start, somebody must cross over to bring the cattle back. After some equivocations, two men were chosen, and having undressed and went a little higher up the stream, they plunged in, but instead of swimming, they struck their knees upon the bottom, and having raised upright in two feet depth of water, walked the remainder of the way across, amid the laughter of the whole company. We crossed to the south side of the stream about two miles further on and left it. After going seven miles further we came to another, and two miles more, another still, by which we stopped for the night. We see snow all round us and have very cool nights. Distance, nineteen miles. JUNE 20. Continued our march over a mountainous country, the most rough I ever saw. From some of the elevations we could see the trail for miles, dotted with men, horses and, more distinctly, the white-covered wagons. We passed numerous small streams, flowing from the mountains. After going about seventeen miles, we reached Ham's Fork of Green River, and encamped four miles beyond it on the open prairie, where we found good grass, and water we had in store. The day has been pleasant, more so than any we have had since we left the Sweet Water. This morning I had a fine view of the Bear River Mountains, about seventy-five miles distance, stretching around the sky from the south to the southwest. Their summits are covered with spotless snow. At Ham's Fork I saw another party of the Snake River Indians. Most of them looked very squalid and miserable, and beg provisions of all they can. They are less prepossessing than the Sioux, though they are well supplied with guns and horses. They are good horsemen and use their sharp-pointed arrows with the certainty of a bullet. The mosquitoes began to trouble us today for the first time. We expect they will lay a long siege to our blood. Distance, twenty-one miles. JUNE 21. Country continues very mountainous. In the afternoon we passed over a very high range, to descend which ropes had been used by former emigrants on a trail near the one we took. We had two wheels of our wagon locked for more than a mile, and then it was hard to keep it from running over the cattle. The mosquitoes stick to us like genuine friends, especially during the day; at night it is too cool for them. At noon we stopped by a fine stream of water, in a deep gorge of the mountains. In the afternoon we ascended another high range of mountains, from the summits of which we could see far below us into Bear River Valley. This stream is as large as the Sweet Water, and courses its way through a rich and beautiful valley, from three to six miles in width. We encamped in the valley at night by a large pond of very poor water, but the grass was excellent. Distance, twenty-two miles. JUNE 22. Continued down the valley of Bear River. In the forenoon we passed four branches of the stream, which came within a few yards of each other. Some of them were deep and all difficult to cross, but we got over in safety. There is good grass in this valley. Four miles after dinner brought us to Smith's Fork, which we crossed in safety, though we had to raise our wagon-beds in order to keep them dry. Day warm. Thunder and lightning, but no rain. The river makes a sudden bend south, and the trail leaves it and lies over a spur of the mountains, reaching it again in about eight miles. After going about four miles, we came to a long and difficult hill. In the valley east of it is a stream, which empties into Bear River within sight. Some of our company thought we could reach the river by sunset, but the first ascent being set at nought, their calculations were wrong. It was nearly sunset by the time we reached the summit, and here, without wood or water, our cattle being tired, and one having fallen dead in coming up, we determined to stop for the night. A party of us returned to the stream for water, to make coffee, etc.--a distance of about two miles. As we descended the mountain the mosquitoes commenced an assault upon us and General Taylor would have been compelled to surrender upon this occasion. I never before saw them half so numerous or so bloodthirsty. They stung my hands so much that they were soon badly swollen. After fighting them about half an hour, we were successful in getting back with a few quarts of water. Distance, twenty miles. JUNE 23. This morning we drove four miles to Bear River and stopped for the day, all needing rest. A family of the Snake Indians came to our camp and asked for sugar and powder. They were dressed in dirty buckskin and looked very wretched. We see already upon the road numerous stragglers, men having lost their teams and provisions, and those who started unprepared. Our speed on the road has been much better than we expected. For more than a month we have seen the same companies, some of them supplied with the best teams. Distance, four miles. JUNE 24. Started early this morning, all in good spirits. Continued down the valley but were not within several miles of the river for most of the day, and did not come close to it at all, though we crossed a great many streams, which came down from the range of mountains on our right, and emptied into Bear River. Though we had crossed many streams during the day, at night we camped not less than three miles from it. A couple of our men went to the river for some water, and when they returned they declared that it was not less than four miles to it. It appears about one mile and a half. Road today excellent. The wild sage which covered most of the country from Fort Laramie to Green River is not so prolific in this region, but a great many plants spring up among the grass, some of which bear beautiful blossoms. Distance, twenty-six miles. JUNE 25. Went two miles to water and took breakfast; about eight miles farther we came to Cold Springs. They spring up out of the plain near the trail and make quite a respectable stream. The water is remarkably cold and good. Opposite the Cold Springs, and about a half a mile to the right, is another natural curiosity, called Beer Springs. These springs are so called from the fact that these springs have a sour taste, somewhat resembling beer. It springs out of an elevated, light-colored rock, which I suppose was caused by the petrification of certain properties in the water. Upon the center of the elevation are several sharp-pointed rocks, from which the water rushes. Several of these conical rocks, larger than the rest, are now exhausted. They must have been great curiosities when in full play. Four miles further on, and within two yards of Bear River, are Steamboat Springs. The water of these springs, which gushes from the rocks is warm, which is the more remarkable from the fact of its being so close to the river. Just beyond this place the Bear River bends suddenly round the mountains, to the south, and here we leave it. It is well known it rises in the great basin and empties into Salt Lake. A little to the west of the bend is the old crater, so called from the supposition that it was once a volcano, the base alone remaining. The rocks in this ruinous-looking place bear the marks of fire. Opposite to the old crater the road branches off to Fort Hall, the one we are traveling (Hedspeths [?] Cutoff), continuing west. Distance, twenty miles. JUNE 26. This afternoon we crossed the vide that divides the waters of the Great Basin from those of the Pacific. This we know from the fact that we crossed a branch of the Pont Neuf River. At night we encamped by the Pont Neuf. It is from ten to fifteen yards wide, and deep. We saw some Snake Indians today. They have plenty of horses, which they offer to sell. The country before us appears very mountainous. I must cut today's note short, as it takes both hands to keep off the mosquitoes. Confound the mosquitoes! Distance, twenty miles. JUNE 27. Today our road led over very mountainous country. We crossed two high mountain ranges, with a fine stream of water between them. In advance of us our path was filled up with mountains, one upon another. Snow to be seen. There are two classes of mountains in this region, the largest covered with snow and the smaller one having vegetation and filling up the space between the others. Upon the peaks of some of the highest mountains is a stunted growth of cedar, which gives them rather a dark appearance. I have often heard when at home that buffalo did not abound west of the south pass, but I have seen numerous evidences in the shape of skulls by the road; but it is said by the Indians that there are not at this time any buffalo in this region, nor has there been for six years past. A sufficient cause for their entire disappearance in this region I cannot fully understand. Distance, sixteen miles. JUNE 28. Most excellent road today, and down hill all the way, except a circuitous narrow gorge in the mountains of about four miles in length, which we went through in the afternoon. In descending the western slope of this range we found the road very steep, though we came down in safety. At the soda springs we saw an old man who called himself Captain Grant. He assured us that one half of our cattle would die on the cut-off, for want of grass, and also that the road was almost impassible and no nearer than that by Fort Hall. This statement in respect to grass is utterly untrue, and we suspect the others are of like character. Grass on the cut-off is first rate--better than we have before seen on the road. Wild flax abounds in this region, though not in abundance. It is now in full bloom and looks quite like a flower garden in some places. We stopped by a little stream at noon, beyond which water is not so plenty for about twenty miles. There are willows growing along this stream. The road turns south after we cross it. We laid here until three o'clock and then went on about eight miles, passing over a range of low mountains, and encamped at night in the valley. A shower of rain in the afternoon. Distance, twenty miles. JUNE 29. Went down the valley about four miles to where it turned west over the mountains, when we unyoked the cattle and drove them in a southeast direction to a spring of water. About eight miles more brought us to a valley in which were several good springs. In the afternoon went eight miles and found another spring of good water. Here we took in water for the night and encamped just beyond, where we found good grass. A little animal abounds in this region called the prairie squirrel. It is a little smaller than the common black squirrel, and gray in color. We see hundreds of them every day, and they are often killed with clubs and whips. I first noticed them in the vicinity of Fort Laramie, and have seen them every day since. The Indians, the Snakes principally, shoot them and use them as an article of food. Road good, weather pleasant. Distance, twenty miles. JUNE 30. This morning we continued through the range of mountains which we entered yesterday. In the forenoon found plenty of water, passing several springs, and at length came to a mountain stream, which we followed down the valley. At noon we stopped opposite to a spur of rock. In the afternoon we struck out across the valley in a western direction. After crossing the stream which we followed in the morning, we went about twelve miles before we reached water. This stream was but four or five feet wide, but deep and difficult to cross. In this valley there is an abundant growth of wild sage and grease wood, but not much grass. Distance, twenty-seven miles. JULY 1. Went four miles this morning and came to what we supposed to be Raft River. It is about six yards wide and deep, like most of the other rivers in the mountains. We forded it and went up its valley about one mile and laid by till about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when we proceeded three miles further and stopped for the night, the grass in which a heavy swath could be cut. Just after we crossed Raft River we came to the junction of the cut-off with the Fort Hall road. Those with whom we have spoken about the road represent it as being further and the worst of the two. On that road there are one or two very bad streams to cross, and also a mirey district. Distance, eight miles. JULY 2. Went up Raft River a short distance, when we crossed it and struck out in a southern direction. We went up a gentle slope for several miles and then descended into a wide valley, in which we crossed several streams and found plenty of grass. By one of these brooks we stopped at noon. In the afternoon we proceeded, and after going three miles, we entered the mountains again and went through a rugged region through the remainder of the day, though the road was good and water plenty. Towards evening we came to the junction of the Fort Hall and Salt Lake roads, about nineteen miles from where it crossed Raft River. We fell in with some emigrants direct from Salt Lake and got all the news we could. Provisions are represented as being very high there--flour $1.00 per pound and other things in proportion, except butter and milk, which are comparatively cheap. Distance, twenty-one miles. JULY 3. In the morning we went up Sleet (?) Creek, which we followed a mile or so up a ravine, and after descending the other side of the mountain, we reached what is called Goose Creek, a distance of about ten miles. This part of the day's drive was bad. In the afternoon we proceeded up Goose Creek about twelve miles. This stream is about six yards wide and the valley is narrow; grass good. Weather hot. Distance, twenty-two miles. JULY 4. The Fourth of July! What a glorious day, and how honored at home, but to the travel-worn emigrant, in the eternal wilds, this day's remembrances hardly stir the sluggish blood. All are rushing to the gold region, and few stop to celebrate the Fourth of July. We drove as usual, wild sage and dust being about the only thing in the eye. We followed up Goose Creek and a tributary for about ten miles, when we struck out across a high, dry country, destitute of vegetation, except wild sage, etc. After going twelve miles, we came to Thousand Spring Valley, and going down it a little more than a mile we found water and tolerable grass, where we stopped for the night. Day hot! Distance, twenty-three miles. JULY 5. Continued our march down the valley for ten miles, when we turned to the right, and on going two miles, came to what is called Dry Creek. In the afternoon we followed up this valley. In it there is the channel of a creek in which there is a little indifferent water in holes. A little farther on we noticed more water in the creek, and presently we saw it had increased to a stream. About ten miles up we stopped for the night, where we found a well of tolerable water. Grass first rate. Distance, twenty-two miles. JULY 6. We went up the valley this morning eight miles and crossed the stream which I suppose is called Cold Creek. Five miles more brought us to the end of the valley, where we found a good spring of water. In the afternoon we went over a range of mountains, and after going eight miles, came to another valley, in which we found a spring and good grass. Weather warm. Distance, twenty-one miles. JULY 7. Continued down the valley all day, except a few miles over a point of land running into a bend of the river. We found water in sloughs along the valley and at night came to a stream which is the head waters of Mary's or Humboldt's River. The valley is here broad and the grass good, though the soil is considerably impregnated with alkali. The weather cool and cloudy, with heavy rain seen falling upon the mountains in the afternoon. We begin to think that we have gained upon the great mass of emigrants, as we have not seen so many in the last few days; but this is owing to some extent by some having stopped at Salt Lake to recruit and others having gone by Fort Hall to Oregon. We at present overtake more than overtake us. Distance, twenty miles. JULY 8. This morning we reached the main stream of the long looked for Humboldt. The crossing was bad, the water being deep and the banks steep, though the stream is but about eight yards wide. The valley opens broad and affords a very extensive view of the country in advance of us. On our right rise the Humboldt Mountains, whose summits are covered with snow. The last rays of the setting sun are now lending to their spotless mantle a warm, rosy glow. One by one the lofty peaks lose their transient splendor, and outline after outline loses its distinctness in the sombre hues of evening. No timber in sight, except a little underbrush by the river. Today we passed a new-made grave, in which sleeps the last sleep of an emigrant who was shot a few days ago by an Indian, while on guard. Indians were about for the purpose of stealing horses and really did succeed in capturing one while the mounted guard was receiving the attention of the whole company. The fatal arrow was poisoned. This murder will raise great animosity against the Indians and the future emigrant, as he passes by the grave of his murdered countryman, will feel a spirit of revenge. The Root Diggers infest this region, a most savage and degraded tribe. Distance, twenty miles. JULY 9. Continued down the valley this morning some seven miles, when we came to a branch of the river and forded it. It is longer than the first we came to, though better to ford. At noon we met five men who had their team of six horses stolen last night by the Indians. There was but a single horse left among the five, and being unable to proceed with their effects, they were waiting for some fortunate opportunity. We put their provisions in with ours, intending to assist them through the journey, giving them equal advantages with ourselves. We take one of them in our wagon. This afternoon they found a written notice put up by the way, cautioning emigrants against the Indians, and stating that some twenty-five horses had been stolen by the Indians in that quarter within two or three days. They were taken in the night. A mule had been shot and a man captured and robbed. This will arouse new vigilance. We have not yet heard of any cattle being stolen. Distance, twenty-two miles. JULY 10. Nothing of note today. Continued down the valley thirteen miles by noon, then ascended a mountain and took a very circuitous course for the remainder of the day, making nine miles by night. Distance, twenty-two miles. JULY 11. Went down the Humboldt and crossed another stream, tributary to the former. After crossing it we commenced ascending a range of mountains and continued in this character of country for some fifteen or eighteen miles; but little water, and that in springs in the mountains. At night we reached the Humboldt again after having been from it some thirty-five miles. This portion of the road is new. The usual road is near the river, but could not be traveled now on account of high water. The face of the country is very barren, always excepting wild sage. Our road is very dusty. The dust is so light that the least wind raises it, though it does not impede the wheels of the wagons but little. Sometimes the dust is so heavy that we cannot see the wagon immediately ahead of us in the train. Quite a number of packers pass us daily. Provisions begin to get scarce. Constant applications are made. Distance, twenty-six miles. JULY 12. Having made a long drive yesterday, we rested today till noon. As we started we turned off to the right and reached the river again at the end of eight miles, continued along it a mile or two, crossed another low range of hills about two miles across, and camped for the night by the Humboldt, a short distance further on. Distance, twelve miles. JULY 13. Continued down the valley, which is very wide at this point. Toward night we entered into another bend of the river, running across by north and south. The general surface of the soil here is nearly bare, wild sage, greasewood and a few stunted weeds being the only vegetation. The soil is light in color and weight, and walking through it is like walking through ashes or slacked lime. Most of the day we were several miles from the river and came to it but twice during the day, I never saw such dense clouds of dust as I saw here, and it is more disagreeable on account of being impregnated with alkali, which abounds in this valley. The sky is cloudless and the sun extremely warm. We have traveled so long among the mountains, and all bearing the same general appearance, that we seem to be stationary instead of changing our position every day. In looking around me I seem to be in a deep blue ocean of air, with the distant mountains around as the shore. Distance, twenty-three miles. JULY 14. Went on this morning over a most desolate plain, with scarcely a vestige of vegetation, except greasewood. We traveled fifteen miles before we reached the river, and then found no grass on the east side; but as some men were ferrying grass across in a wagon bed, we procured it and brought over grass for our cattle. After going two miles further we came to a fork in the road, one running down the river and the other passing over a low range of bluffs. We followed the latter and came to the river again in about two miles. Distance, twenty miles. JULY 15. This morning we went on eight miles, when we came to the river, where we stopped to water. Here we found quite a number of wagons which were stopped in consequence of a report that they were near the desert and at the place where it was necessary to take in grass. We made inquiries and examined our uncertain guides, which tended to corroborate the report. The indications were all affirmative, but the distance was too short. Several hundred wagons have gone directly off the road eight miles to procure grass for their stock on the desert, and finally we concluded to go also, and be on the safe side at any rate. In the afternoon we traveled to the grass and found it tolerably good and was enabled in the afternoon to cut as much as we could conveniently carry. Day hot. Distance, eight miles. JULY 16. Up and off early. Came to the river again some three miles below where we left it. A little lower down we stopped at noon. By the way, one of our men went on twelve miles yesterday noon to see if we were as near the sink as was supposed. We found the appearance of the river unchanged and concluded that the sink was not near. However, we determined to take on our grass and use it when necessary. In the afternoon we went over a low range of hills some six miles in distance, then we came to the river, and soon stopped for the night, and found good grass after a good deal of trouble in getting our oxen over a bad slough. Distance, twelve miles. JULY 17. In the forenoon we were thrown off our main course some three miles by having to go round a slough. We met some packers from California, who informed us that we were 140 miles from the sink. We discredited their statement, but soon after came to some emigrants who were old neighbors of these Californians and was told by them that confidence might be placed in the report. This disappointment came extremely hard to those who were nearly out of provisions. Some are already destitute of food and have to depend on the liberality of others. Some are killing their work cattle for beef. One man in our own company offered $10 for five pounds of flour and could not get it. The grass and water in this region are poor. Weather warm. Distance, eighteen miles. JULY 18. There being but little grass where we stopped last night, we went on this morning before breakfast about five miles. Being weary of the journey and wishing to proceed as fast as possible, I here sold out my share in the team, and in company with another of our party who sold out his team also, proceeded ahead of the wagons, carrying our provisions upon a pony, going in company with six others from the same company, who set out in consequence of being short of eatables. Most of the day we kept by the river, but just at night happened to get upon a sand plain of fifteen miles, without grass or water. We came upon this distance unawares and suffered much for water. About 9 o'clock we reached the river again, greatly fatigued. Distance, thirty-five miles. JULY 19. Proceeded down the river and went round a great bend to the north. Grass very scarce. Hot weather. A breeze every noon; soil very light. Distance, twenty-two miles. JULY 20. Light sand plain. River bottom narrow. No grass. Dead animals. Destruction of property. Distance, twenty-two miles. JULY 21. Fourteen miles to good spring--two to river--three to grass for the desert. Grass plenty. Beef twenty-five cents per pound. One hundred wagons preparing. Weather hot. Destitution of food among the emigrants. Distance, twenty-three miles. JULY 22. Started early for the sink. Country barren. Bad water. Distance, twelve miles. JULY 23 AND 24. Crossed the desert forty miles. Eight miles to the sink. Went upon the desert at 4 o'clock P. M. Saw many dead animals. First part road level and good. Moonlight night. Wagons strewn along the road. Latter part of the road deep sand. Reached Carson River at 11 o'clock A. M. Saw timber for the first time in several hundred miles. JULY 25. Went up river twelve miles, then from it for fifteen miles over a high desert country. Valley of river narrow and well timbered. Distance, twenty-seven miles. JULY 26. Left the river and went twenty-six miles before we came near it again. Country barren and broken. JULY 27. Went up river eight miles, then left it for twelve. Road mountainous, with a little cedar. Distance, twenty miles. JULY 28. By river one mile, from it five, then up the valley remainder of the day. Valley wide--numerous mountain streams, fine grass and fine flowers. A high mountain on our right. Snow on some of the peaks. Nights cool. Past trading post. Provisions from a dollar to two dollars per pound. Packers and foot men rushing for the diggings. Distance, twenty-one miles. JULY 29. Up the valley twelve miles, then through a canyon six, then in camp two miles beyond; canyon rocky and ascending and full of timber. High mountains all around us. Distance, twenty miles. JULY 30. To dividing range of mountains, with Red Lake at foot, five miles. Over this range and down to another lake, six miles. Over Snow Mountain to Rock Valley, ten miles. (Through snow two miles.) Road over continual rocks; snow in places, and timber. Cool day and freezing at night. On the mountain, amid the melting snows, were flowers of the most brilliant colors, and the road passed for many miles among gigantic pines. Distance, twenty-one miles. JULY 31. Went fifteen miles to Leak [Leap (?)] Spring Valley. Country mountainous and well timbered. AUGUST 1. Went seventeen miles to the junction of the Weaver and Hangtown roads. No grass and but little water on the road in this distance. Road bad. AUGUST 2. Went seventeen miles to Pleasant Valley, in the vicinity of Ringgold and Weaver. Here the country begins to look like California--canvas houses, hot weather, dry, reddish soil. This day's travel I consider the conclusion of a journey, a longer or more tedious than which is not often performed on this earth. "The heart rebounds with long forgotten fleetness" at the thought of having performed it. The interminable wastes are passed over, the wilderness of wild sage and ashes is behind me, and climbing a hundred mountains will no longer tire my feet. This act is ended, and now for a struggle for gold and then "Oh! for a falcon's wing to bear, To bear me to my home." NOTE. The distances in the foregoing journal are probably inaccurate, as we had no means to measure them, and depended entirely on our own judgment. In reading it over, I have noticed many typographical and grammatical errors, but these will be excused when it is recollected that it was written for the most part in haste and at different times. C. W. S. +-----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 5 wonderings changed to wanderings | | Page 6 wil changed to will | | Page 13 nigh changed to night | | Page 24 conditon changed to condition | | Page 32 suceeded changed to succeeded | +-----------------------------------------------+ 
38351	----	http://www.archive.org/details/triptocalifornia00bail Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Errors listed in the Errata have been corrected. The original spelling and inconsistencies have been retained except as listed at the end of the book. The table of contents was generated for the reader's convenience. The original does not contain a table of contents. CONTENTS Brief Biography Of The Author CHAPTER I, Uncle Joshua's Visit And Our Preparations For The West CHAPTER II, On The Western Plains--Some Of Our Experiences CHAPTER III, Among The Foot Hills And Troublesome Indians CHAPTER IV, Over The Mountains Into California CHAPTER V, Prospecting For Gold--Some Hard Experiences ERRATA APPENDIX [Illustration: WASHINGTON BAILEY] A TRIP TO CALIFORNIA IN 1853 by WASHINGTON BAILEY Recollections of a gold seeking trip by ox train across the plains and mountains by an old Illinois pioneer LeRoy Journal Printing Company 1915 _Mr. Bailey was induced by some of his friends to put in writing his recollections of an overland trip made by "prairie schooner" to California, over sixty years ago. These recollections were published in the LeRoy Journal in series, and later collected and reprinted herewith in book form on the solicitation of his friends who desired a permanent record._ BRIEF BIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTHOR Washington Bailey, the author of this narrative of a trip to California in 1853, was born October, 1831, in Adams County, Ohio. Afterwards he, with his parents, came to Fountain County, Indiana, from which place he went to California, returning in 1856 to Cheney's Grove, now Saybrook, Illinois. While in California, he sent money back to his father, who bought for him, fifty acres of land, where Bellflower village now stands, paying $5.00 per acre. This he sold in 1856, getting $6.00 per acre. He then bought 85 acres north of Saybrook, adding to it later 40 acres, at a total cost of $1,400. This was sold in 1864 for $1,875. The next year he purchased 141 acres in DeWitt County, Ill., where Mike Walden now lives, paying $22.00 per acre. He purchased more land bordering this farm until 1891, when he moved to LeRoy, where he has since resided in a commodious home south of the city park. This farm of 261 acres was divided up among his children and afterwards sold. Mr. Bailey later invested in 160 acres in DeWitt County, which he now owns conjointly with his wife, having deeded 80 acres to her. Besides his residence, he owns another residence property in LeRoy. Mr. Bailey was married to Julian Brittin, March 19, 1857, and they are parents of three boys and three girls, all living. They are: A. G. Bailey, who was serving his second term as mayor of LeRoy, when this volume was published; Henry Bailey, of Normal; Lincoln Bailey and Mrs. Nancy Van Deventer, of LeRoy; Mrs. Sarah Brown, of Maroa, and Mrs. Emma Vance, of Farmer City. Mr. Bailey has served several terms as justice of the peace and school director. He has been a loyal member of the Methodist church since boyhood. He has a remarkable memory and has always took a lively interest in politics. His mind is a store-house of dates and facts concerning political affairs. He is a staunch foe of the liquor traffic, and holds to the Republican doctrine of McKinley and Roosevelt. He is a man of deep convictions and is always ready to advocate them on all occasions. Although about 84 years of age as this book goes to press, Mr. Bailey is enjoying good health and goes up town every day to greet old friends and acquaintances. Loved by all his children, respected by the whole community, still enjoying the companionship of his good wife, there are no clouds in the western horizon, and the sundown of his life is radiant with worthy motives and deeds of a three-quarters of a century. CHAPTER I UNCLE JOSHUA'S VISIT AND OUR PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEST In the spring of 1853, my uncle, Joshua Bailey, came from California to Ohio to see his mother and his brothers, uncle John Bailey, and my father, Eben Bailey. But my father had moved to Fountain County, Indiana, so uncle Joshua came through Indiana to see us. Joshua Bailey had gone to California in 1849, across the plains and had made over one hundred thousand dollars in gold. He hired my brother-in-law, William Reighley, to come out with him from Adams County, Ohio, to Indiana, to buy stock to take across the plains to California. My uncle had bought a span of mules in Ohio. Three of my cousins, William McNeal, Joel Bailey, George Bailey, and a man by the name of Bart Robins, brought the mules and some harness through to Indiana, so William Reighley, uncle Joshua and my cousins, were all together at my father's. My brother, Crawford Bailey, and my self, concluded to go along with them. Uncle Joshua Bailey had gone to the lead mines when he was a young man, had married and raised his family there. It was from there he had gone to the gold mines. I was twenty-one year old at the time of uncle's visit to our house in Indiana, and it was the first time I had ever seen him. My uncle poured out a pile of gold coins from a carpet sachel that was lined inside with buck skin and counted out several thousand dollars, enough to buy 250 head of cattle, 1,500 head of sheep and some horses and gave it to William Reighley, to go to Illinois to buy this stock and it did not look like you could hardly miss it out of the pile of gold coins on the table. He gave him more money than would be necessary to buy the stock and my brother, Crawford Bailey and cousin, William McNeal were to take what was left and pay the expense of feeding the stock and their lodging through to Indian Territory, where we were to start across the plains, and what was left, turn it over to uncle. Wm. Reighley, for his labor buying the cattle and covering his expenses, kept out $50. He had traveled over 800 miles in coming to Illinois and traveling over Piatt, Macon, DeWitt, Logan, Tazwell and Peoria counties, picking up the stock. When the stock was finally delivered to uncle Joshua, he was well pleased with the judgment William used in the buying. After uncle had made arrangements for the purchase of the stock, he went back to Wisconsin to his family and made preparations to move to California to make his home. After William Reighley had bought the stock in Illinois, he went with the boys as far as the Illinois River and then returned to Ohio. While the stock was being bought, I, with two other young men, were making preparations to go and overtake them. We had rented some land and had to dispose of that and sell some grain and some horses before starting. We were to meet the advance party at Independence, Mo., but when we were ready to start, heavy rains had set in and we were much delayed by swollen streams. At many places we had to swim our horses as there were but few bridges. We had to go out of the way ten miles at Danville, in order to get across the Vermillion River. When we got to Peoria, we learned that the roads were so bad that we took passage on a steam boat down the Illinois River to St. Louis. There we took passage up the Missouri River to Independence, Mo., where we expected to find the men with the stock. After reaching Independence and waiting several days, we were not able to hear anything of uncle or of the drove which he was driving through from Wisconsin. We learned that there were other places from which the overland trains started for the West. One was St. Joe, about eighty miles up the river, and two of my party went to St. Joe, while I remained at Independence. By watching at St. Joe and Independence, we expected to meet the train as we knew that we must be ahead of them. The men at St. Joe happened to run across uncle, who had been in St. Louis to buy supplies for the trip. They wrote me and I left for St. Joe. We told uncle that he had instructed the men who were driving stock through from Illinois, to go to Independence, but he did not understand it that way. He had instructed his family and the men who were bringing the stock from Wisconsin, to go to Cainsville, Iowa, which was twenty-five miles above Council Bluffs on the Missouri River, and about 150 miles from St. Joe. Uncle bought a yoke of oxen and a wagon at St. Joe and he and I started for Cainsville. After we were in Cainsville for several days, the family and party, with the horses, wagons and cattle, came from Wisconsin. In the party, were Peter House, his brother-in-law and family, William Nailer, Thomas Roberts, John Feril, Allen Gilber, Horace Failling, Thomas Brooks, John Brooks and James Creek. We remained there for two or three weeks, hoping to hear from the drove from Illinois. Uncle finally came to the conclusion that he had told them to go to Independence, Mo., and he sent Jobe Spray to St. Joe to see if he could find trace of them. He was given money to buy a horse and saddle, and in case they had crossed the river at St. Joe, he was to follow and overtake them, in order to get the two parties together. When he reached St. Joe, he found that they had crossed there and later learned that when crossing the Missouri, that they had stopped to shear the sheep, and on finding that Independence was south of the direct line, they had made directly for St. Joe and had crossed the river before Jobe had arrived. On account of the misunderstanding, uncle, with his party, was above Council Bluff on the east side of the Missouri, and the Illinois party was somewhere on the west side of the river in what is now Kansas. I was with the party at Cainsville, when an incident happened which I never will forget. We were waiting for word from Jobe Spray, and uncle and all the party except one other man and myself had left the camp and gone to Cainsville. We were left to herd the cattle. While in the town, uncle met a man who owned a farm near the camp. They rode out as far as the camp together, and as uncle's horse was a little thin, having been ridden through from Wisconsin, and the farm was but a short distance away, he picketed out the horse, took off the saddle and threw it away far enough so that the horse could not reach it. He proceeded on foot to the man's farm. From where I was herding, I could see the horse and went down, thinking that some of the party had come back from Cainsville, and that I would be able to get something to eat as I was very hungry. When I got to the camp, I saw that it was uncle's horse, but could not see anything of uncle. I started back to the cattle when I discovered the saddle in the grass with a two-bushel sack tied to the horn of the saddle. I was interested to know what was in the sack, thinking it might be crackers, so I gave the sack a kick with the toe of my boot. There was a jingling sound as if there were ox shoes and nails in it. So to satisfy my curiosity, I untied the sack from the saddle, ran my hand into it and took out, to my great surprise, a handful of gold. Tying up the sack, I looked in all directions for uncle, but could not see him. I called out for him as loud as I could, three or four time, but received no answer. After waiting for quite awhile, I took the sack and hid it under some clothing and bedding in the bottom of one of the covered wagons. I then went to a high point near the cattle where I could watch both, the cattle and the wagon. Along in the afternoon, the folks returned from Cainsville, and my mind was relieved, as I knew there was no further danger of prowlers. My helper and myself, gathered up the stock, and when we got into camp, it was dark and I was hungrier than I had ever been before in my life. "Come to supper," was a welcome shout and the thought of the gold had vanished. While eating, I heard uncle call out to some of the men: "Did you see anything of a sack on my saddle horn?" Several of the men answered, "No," before I could get my mouth emptied and when my vocal canal was free from congestion, I holloed, "I saw a sack on the horn of your saddle," and he answered back, "All right Wash," and I told him to wait until I had my supper and I would be over and get it for him. I went to the camp fire where the men were huddled and asked uncle where he had been and he said that he had walked to the farm across the fields. I asked him how much was in the sack and replied, "Thirty-six thousand Dollars." I went to the wagon and got the sack. Uncle was badly scared and remarked that it was the most careless trick that he had ever done. There were some Mormons camped a short distance away and he said that if they had found the sack, that he would have been ruined. While waiting at Cainsville, we finally received word from Jobe Spray that the Illinois party had crossed the river at St. Joe and had proceeded on west and that he would follow them, they having crossed the river two weeks before he got there. He had followed day and night and overtaken them about half way between St. Joe and Fort Kearney, which would be about 150 miles from St. Joe. After receiving the letter, we began to make arrangements to cross the Missouri River. The steam ferry boat had gone up the river after furs, so we had no way to get our stock and wagons across. While waiting, a fur boat came down the river with three men. This boat was strictly a home made affair. It was built of rough sawed lumber and the bottom and sides were nailed onto the frame with several thicknesses of boards and caulked up with buffalo tallow to keep it from leaking too badly. We secured this boat to get us across. The process of getting that old boat across the river was a difficult one and as it only could take sixteen cattle at a time, many trips had to be made. A round trip across the river, meant much labor, and was as follows: After the cargo was put in the boat, it had to be hauled by ropes and pushed by pike poles up the river along the bank, until we were above an island which was in the middle of the river. Then we would cast off from the shore and by means of the oars, pulled for the opposite shore. The current, however, would take the boat in a diagonal direction so we would strike the lower end of the island. Then we would pull and push the old ark to the upper end of the island and again cast loose and finally reach the shore at a point much lower, being carried along with the current. In order to get back, we would drag the boat along the west shore to above the island again and cast off, reaching the lower end of the island. Dragging the boat along the shore to the upper end of the island and crossing, finally reach the east side below the camp. After two weeks of hard work, we managed to ferry all the stock and camp outfit across without serious accident. CHAPTER II ON THE WESTERN PLAINS--SOME OF OUR EXPERIENCES When we reached the other side, we were in Indian territory, or what is now known as Nebraska, and a short distance north from where Omaha now is. At this place, uncle Joshua impressed on our minds the danger of an attack by the Indians and told us to make plenty of bullets and have our guns well loaded to protect ourselves. Up to this time, I had seen only two Indians. One of them was a squaw named Gripteth, on this side of the Wabash River in Warren County, Indiana. The other one I came upon lying in the grass south of Cainsville, wrapped up in a red blanket. The way uncle talked I thought that we would have to fight our way through. The imagination pictured out every bunch of grass or object in the distance as Indians, but coming closer, we found that we were always unnecessarily alarmed. The scare over meeting Indians gradually wore off, and when we came to the Indians, or rather, when they came to us, I was not as afraid of them as I was of the wolves. We followed the Indian trail until we came to the Elkhorn River and there we crossed on a willow brush bridge. These bridges lay flat on the water and I did not find out how they were fastened to the banks. Before we reached California, we had crossed over several of them. We kept a southwest course, following the trail and reached the Platte River, which we followed on the north side. We had traveled about 200 miles in Nebraska. We heard cannons firing and we knew that we were near Fort Kearney and that they were celebrating the Fourth of July. Uncle Joshua, on a fine bay blooded mare which he had brought from Wisconsin, forded the river after a life and death struggle with the treacherous quick sands along the banks, and managed, by wading and swimming the horse, to get across the river. After arriving on the opposite bank, he waved his hat in token of his success and started for the fort. He carried with him a seven shot Colts rifle and a five caliber Colts revolver. When uncle reached Fort Kearney, as we afterwards learned, he found that the Illinois train had passed through there two weeks before. Uncle took up the trail and after following for ten days, he overtook them on the south side of the North Platte, a short distance on this side of Fort Laramie near the Wyoming-Nebraska line, at a place called Ash Hollow. The river was forded and the cattle, sheep and horses were now on the right bank of the river. The night after uncle had left the camp, we were camped near the river on some ground which was level and smooth. Aunt and her two children, Henry and Ellen, were with her in one of the tents. During the night there was a heavy rain or water spout. I was lying on the ground with my boots and coat under my head, and I was awakened by the water which had partly covered my body. I heard aunt crying and calling: "Where is Henry? I can't find Henry." I started to go to her and got into deeper water and realized the water was raising very fast. I reached aunt, who was holding the little girl in her arms and she was hysterical about the boy. I heard a splash and following the direction of the sound in the darkness, I got my hand on his head and lifted him out of the water. I took aunt and the children to a covered wagon, where we stayed until morning. The water had raised until it was two and one-half feet deep, when it began to go down and by morning it was all gone. We were not able to understand where so much water came from so quickly or where it had gone, as the river was about a mile from the camp. We broke camp and trailed on westward on the north side of the river, and after several days, we met uncle, who was returning from overtaking the Illinois train. He had halted them at Ash Hollow, near Fort Laramie. We finally reached their camp and for the first time after about a thousand miles' travel, the two trains were united. It will be remembered that the junction place was to be Independence, Missouri, but the meeting place turned out to be in the borders of Wyoming. The two herds made 1500 sheep and 500 cattle and we were on the borders of the rough and tumble freaks of nature near the foot hills of the great Rockies. After we had passed Fort Kearney in the month of July, we saw great herds of Buffalo going north. At times as we looked across the Platte River, we could see countless numbers of them and the earth would be black with them for miles. The droves would travel in "V" shape, with the leaders at the point. When a drove would cross the river toward us, it was necessary to use the utmost care in order that our cattle would not stampede. We would herd our cattle up close and get out with our guns and by shooting and holloing, we were able to turn the buffalo in a direction away from our cattle. We came to high grounds, once, where there was excellent grazing and we stopped there for the day, to let the cattle and stock take advantage of the good grass. While we were eating our dinner, two Indians came riding up, with two of the finest spotted ponies I had ever seen. They got off and were holding them with a sort of a lariat, as they had no bridles, when Bart Robins, one of the men with us, made the Indians understand by signs, that he wanted to ride one of the ponies. He mounted one of them and rode away to round some of the cattle which were straying. When Bart first started off, they did not care, but when they saw him circle away from the main herd, they evidently thought that he was running away with it, and one of them jumped on the other pony, fixed an arrow to his bow and started in pursuit. By yelling as loud as we could, we attracted the attention of Bart and motioned for him to circle back to camp. By keeping a circle, he kept out of shooting distance of the bow, and arrived in camp safe, but somewhat frightened over his experience. The Indians got on their ponies and left. Two or three days after this incident, a chief and about twenty of his tribe, came to us and after a pow-wow, they sat down in a row and uncle understanding the maneuver, had as many of the men sit down facing them, as there were Indians. The chief lit his tomahock pipe, took a puff, passed it to uncle, who did the same. The order pursued, was that the chief would hand it to one of the Indians; the pipe would be returned to him, and he would hand it to uncle, who would give it to one of the men, who would return it to uncle, and uncle would give it back to the chief. The order was maintained until all the men and Indians had a puff at the pipe. When the program was over, the chief arose and said, "How!" and he and the Indians took their departure. This was the "pipe of peace" and meant that they would do us no harm, and we were not to harm them. Evidently this visit was to clear up the misunderstanding concerning the pony incident. A rule had been made and understood by the men that there was to be no quarreling or fighting in the camp. It is unfortunate in camp life, especially on a trail far west, to have enmity in the camp. Tom Brooks, who was one of the cooks, was a crabbed fellow. James Greek was an orphan boy, who had made his home with uncle for several years, and who one day killed a big buffalo. In order to preserve the meat, it was put through a process of jerking, which was to cut it into strips to be dried by the sun or by heating. We had made a scaffold by putting forked sticks in the ground and by laying sticks across in them, had made a platform about the fire. After the fire became a bed of charcoal, the meat was laid on the cross sticks to roast and dry. James, who was a good natured chap of eighteen years of age, and having killed the buffalo, helped himself to a piece of the meat. Tom Brooks ordered him to put the meat back, which he refused to do, Tom jumping onto him and beat him, until his face was black with the beating. The sympathy of the camp was with Jim and Tom lost the respect of the camp by his bullying disposition. Uncle was restrained from taking a hand in the matter, as he could not afford to lose any of his helpers. One day when uncle and aunt rode ahead to pick out a camping place, he had instructed us to drive the cattle to the left side of the trail as we were nearing alkali water, which was unfit for the stock to drink. He had given us wrong instructions, for instead of driving them away from the danger, we drove them to where they drank the injurious water. As a result, we lost, with what we had killed for beef, about 250 head of cattle. If the sheep drank any of the water, they were not affected. In the herd of cattle we had left, were forty or fifty milk cows, some of them fresh and we had plenty of milk. The boys all milked except Wm. Nailor, who could not, but had made arrangements with the other boys to take his place and he would do some of their work in exchange. One day, Nailor, who was in the rear of the train, came in late for dinner. It was customary for every one to have a cup of milk for dinner, and he held out his cup to Tom, the cook, for his milk. Tom, after the others had eaten, poured the milk out on the ground and said to Nailor, "No man who wont milk, can drink milk." Nailor replied that he had made arrangement for others to milk in his place and that it was none of Tom's business. Angry words followed and Tom took a run at Nailor, butting him in the stomach. Nailor was knocked down, and in falling, his head struck the wheel of a wagon, cutting a gash in his scalp. This ended the fight and Tom, after this, was meaner than ever, as he had whipped Nailor, who had some reputation as a fighter. It has been over sixty years since these events took place, but I distinctly remember another of the mean tricks of the cook. Tom had a way of cutting out of a side of bacon, the best part, leaving the balance for the family. My aunt spoke to him about it and with an oath, he told my aunt to attend to her own business. Such insolence was endured for the time being, but later Tom paid the penalty, the story of which will be told later. I remember at one place where we camped late at night, that when we awoke the next morning, we discovered two graves side by side. Near the graves was an endgate of a wagon on which was cut with a knife, the words, "Do not camp here." Evidently it was a dangerous place to camp on account of the Indians and the graves were mute testimony of that fact. The graves were lined with large rocks or bowlders, and over the top there were also rocks to protect the bodies from wolves. However, the wolves had dug down on one side deeper than the graves and dislodged some of the rocks and got the bodies. Some of the human bones were on the ground where the wolves left them after picking off the flesh. We followed the headwaters of the North Platte, which flowed to the east, and leaving this river, we soon arrived at the headwaters of the Sweet River, whose waters flow westward into the Green River and on through the Columbia River to the Pacific. If you will take your atlas and find Fort Laramie on the Platte River, and follow it until you come to Casper, and then skirt the Rattlesnake hills on the north, you will reach the Sweet Water River near what is now called Independence Rock and Slit Rock. The Sweet River Mountains will be on your south and the Wind Mountains on the north, as you cross between, through South Pass along the banks of the beautiful river Sweet Water. We saw the Chimney Rock which stood out by itself like a chimney after the house had burned. I think that it must be what is now called Independence Rock, which name is very appropriate. Also there was the Court House Rock, called that because of the rooms in it as if someone had cut rooms into the soft rock. There was the Devil's Gate, which was a massive ridge of rock, through which the river, some time in the dim past, had apparently drilled, and through the ages, disposed of the rock above, until a deep and straight-faced canyon greeted the "Path Finder" of other centuries. We camped here for a day and others of the camp discovered a beautiful pool of water jutting out from the river. The water was clear as crystal and we could see in the water the most beautiful fish that I had ever seen. They were spotted or speckled and all about the same size--about twenty inches long. They were the speckled trout so much prized by the anglers of today. We took one of uncle's wagon covers, tied a log chain to one side along the edge; tied a rope on the other side; got some tent poles and tied them to the end of the cover. We were going to seine this pool of water, when uncle came down to where we were and wanted to know what we were doing. We told him that we were going to seine the pool and catch some of those fine fish. He said, "You can't catch fish with a wagon cover. You will only tear my cover to pieces and catch no fish. I don't want my cover torn up. I will need it." We told him we would not hurt his wagon cover, but he forbade us using it. We told him that we had it fixed and we were going to make one haul any how, and show him we could catch fish with a wagon cover. Uncle got out of humor, but we did that once as we pleased. We went in with our seine at the upper end of the pool and dragged down to the lower end, where there was a nice gravel riffle, a nice place to pull out on the side. We boys had seined with uncle John's wagon cover in Elkrun in Ohio, and we understood the business. In the first haul, we had a lot of the finest kind of fish and uncle's wagon cover was not damaged. Uncle was so surprised to see such a lot at one drag, that he told the men to unyoke the oxen, and that they could dress and fry fish the rest of the day. We caught all the fish they all wanted and as many as they wanted to take along. CHAPTER III AMONG THE FOOT HILLS AND TROUBLESOME INDIANS If you will take your atlas, and look on the map of Wyoming, at the base of the Wind Mountains, the most rugged group of the Rockies, you will find South Pass, with the headwaters of the Sweetwater River, cutting a canyon through it. Going westward from this point and following the Sweetwater River, we came to the headwater, which was called Atlantic Springs. A few hundred yards beyond, we came to the Pacific Springs. This small strip of land is the water shed or dividing point between the two oceans. The water which bubbles up from the Atlantic Springs, races eastward through the rocky canyon of the Sweetwater and to the Platte and from the Platte to the Missouri, thence the Mississippi, uniting with the waters of the Ohio, Illinois, Tennesse and Cumberland, the Monongahela, of the Allegheny Mountains, finally reaching Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. But should you follow the course of the sparkling water that gushes from the Pacific Springs, you would course along the Big Sandy to the Green River, which cuts its way through the sand and rocks of that rough and tumble country of northern Utah and northwestern Colorado. Launch your boat on the turbulent waters and drift, if you were not capsized, in southern Utah, you would come to Colorado River and then soon in the shadows of the most wonderful canyons which scar Mother Earth, the Cataract, Marble and Grand Canyons, of world renown. These livid seething waters find rest in the bosom of the great Pacific. We trailed westward across the Pacific Springs on the Bear River which flowed south to Bear Lake in the northern part of Utah. We were on what was called Fremont and Carson route. This lead southwest to Salt Lake City. When north of Salt Lake City, we came to what was called the Truckey route. This route left Salt Lake City to our left. We were behind all the other trains and it had been reported that the Mormons had killed a whole train of men, women and children, for plunder and had laid it onto the Indians. Old Brigham Young had sent what he called his "Destroying Angels" and had murdered all of them and took all the stock and wagons. We decided to take the Truckey route and keep away from Brigham Young and his "destroying angels." Perhaps one of the most interesting things I saw while traveling through the Bear River country in southern Utah, was a lava bed, about fifty or sixty feet high and I judge about two hundred feet wide at the base. At the crest, the lava was bubbling out as clear as water and running down the side of the mound, it would cool and turn into rock, forming a rocky mound. I saw three such mounds of lava or rock, which had been formed this way. The soil in the Bear River bottom was rich, black soil, and I thought what a pity it was that it should be covered with these mounds of lava. There was a grave at the foot of this mound with a head board, on which we were informed that the deceased had drunk of the lava water and had died in a few minutes and that the water was poison. We came across what was called Soda Springs and the water was as fine as any I had ever drank, and it came out of the ground foaming, a veritable natural soda water fountain. We also saw the Steam Boat Springs, which gushed from a hole in the basin of rock. The water was boiling hot and it bubbled and sizzled like boiling water on a stove. It would boil for a short time and then the steam would shoot up about fifteen feet high. Below this spring and near the river, was a strip of rocks about twenty feet wide, that seemed to be in motion with heat. The water in the river was so hot we could not hold our hands in it for two or three rods along the banks. Down the river and off to one side, we came to Bear Rock. This rock was cut up with great crevices and if a man or beast had fallen into one of them, they would have disappeared from view in the bowels of the earth. I threw a rock into one of them and heard it rattling down into the depths until the sound gradually died away in what appeared to be bottomless. This serrated rock appeared to be about three miles across and it was the most dangerous place we had encountered. It had to be crossed as it was the path of the trail. A road had been made by wedging rock in the crevices and by means of picks, the way had been smoothed down so we were able to get across without serious accident. While near Bear River, James Bailey and John Ferril were driving a cow whose feet were so worn that she could not keep up with the rest of the drove. The boys would drive her along slowly and arrive late in the evening at the camp. She was a big red cow and uncle hated to lose her, but one evening she laid down and the boys could not whip her up and they had to come to camp without her. The next morning uncle sent Jim and I after her. As we came in sight of her, an awful sight came to our view. A pack of wolves were around her, snarling and gnashing on all sides. The cow was making a desperate struggle to keep off the ravenous wolves. When we saw the condition, we rode as fast as we could and the wolves took to the tall grass. We found the hind quarter of the cow bleeding and in some places the flesh was stripped off to the bone. There was nothing to do but to put her out of her misery, which I did with a shot from my gun. Jim held my horse and I went near enough to the grass to shoot at them as they ventured out of the grass. I could not tell whether I killed any of them or not as they would leap back in the grass. I had in mind to go nearer to the grass to see the result of my shots, when Jim called to me and said, "Wash, come quick. Get on your horse, the grass is alive with them." When I got on my horse, I could see on both sides of the trail the grass all in motion with the cat like movements of the wolves. We could not see them, but the waving grass showed that it was full of them. We put spurs to our horses and when we got to a safe distance, we stopped and looked back. The wolves had come out of the grass and were pilled upon the cow, resembling a small hay stack. One day soon after this, when we had made a noon stop, an Indian chief, who could talk our language, told us that his men, while hunting, had found a white man who was nearly starved to death, and that he had carried him to his lodge. Uncle and some more of the men went with him to see if he was strong enough to be taken along. They found him too weak to be moved. After a council between uncle and the chief, it was decided to leave him there and the chief promised to look after him and when he was strong enough, that he would put him on a pony and send him to Salt Lake City. I believe the man was left in good hands and that the chief was a man of his word. We were now coming to the desert country of Nevada and our cattle had been without water for a day, when we came to what is known as Poison Water. To get across this little stream, we put the cattle in bunches of twelve and whipped them across, not letting them stop to drink. We got all of our stock across without being poisoned. After we got across, on the side of the hill, we saw the awful effects of the poison water, as there were hundreds of dead cattle and rods at a time, we could step on dead cattle without stepping on the ground. After we got back on the Freemont and Carson route and were making for the headwaters of the Humbolt River, we found some fair grass land for the stock. We followed the Humbolt River for many miles until we came to the Humbolt Sink. At first it was as smooth as a rock for some distance, but later we dropped off into sand and it was the worst travelling I ever saw. The sand was so light and fine, that one foot would go down until I would set the other foot on top of the sand and pull that foot out, before I could step one foot ahead of the other. It was about the same sort of motion and as slow as treading water. We were three days and nights crossing that desert. After getting across this desert stretch, we came to the banks of the Carson River, which we were to follow for many miles to the borders of California. When we reached Carson River, we came to a trader's pound, constructed of wagon tires and log chains. It was about the size of an ordinary city lot. There were tires lengthwise and crosswise, hind wheel tires, front wheel tires and log chains, bound together in all kinds of shapes. There were tons of steel in that fence. We came across another pound on the Carson River, near the Sierra Nevada Mountains, built of logs. The logs were 100 feet or over in length and had notches cut in them. These logs were placed in two rows and were crossed by small logs resting in the notches. It was built high enough so that stock could not jump over. One night when we were afraid the Indians would come in on us, a double guard was put on duty. Four men stood guard in the fore part of the night and four in the after part. The eight men to do duty were all the men in my mess. Uncle said that the bacon was getting low and that he wanted some one of our mess, to get up early and help kill a beef. I told him to have some of the men in the other mess to help, as we would be on guard duty all night. Uncle said, "All right." The men of my mess had killed all the beeves and mutton up to that time. We did not care, nor did we think much about it, as one of our men was a butcher. The next morning uncle called for some one to get up and help him kill a beef. He called the second and third time, and no one got up and he said, "If no one will get up and help, you will do without meat." Two of the men in my mess said, "If the other fellows will not help, we will." I did not help as I was willing to do without meat rather than help after being on guard about all night. When I got up, I went over to the other camp to see what was the matter and why they would not help to kill the beef. They had all gone to look after the stock except John and Tom Brooks. Tom, the cook, did not have to help with the other work. I asked, "John, why did not you fellows get up this morning and help uncle?" He looked at me, wrinkled up his face, swore and said as hateful as he could, "You will be a good deal prettier than you are, before I will help kill a beef." "Johnny," I replied, "If you don't propose to do your part, you might get a dose you would not like so well." I thought I would go back to my camp and say nothing more about it. I started off and had gone about a rod, when John said, "Now you go off to your own camp, or I will put Tom at you." I turned around and looked at him and remarked, "You low lived insignificant scoundrel, you will put Tom at me?" "Yes, and if you don't go to your own home, I will get at you," Tom cut in. "You big necked, nigerfied, curly-headed villian, you will get at me?" I replied. At that he came running toward me and as he came near, he ducked his head to butt me in the stomach. When I saw that, I ran backwards a little to kill the shock and I reached down and caught him in the cheek, gave him a jerk, and he fell on his back. He fell near the hind wheel of a wagon. He pulled himself up by holding to the wheel and I got him by the throat and pushed him back between the wheel and the bed, and beat his face and head like he did poor Jim Greek and gave him some for Nailor and some for abusing aunt, and some for jumping on to me. When I got through, he had a plenty and the great fighter was badly whipped and he had not given me a scratch. This was the first fight I had ever had and I found out afterwards that he had told the boys, that if any of his mess helped kill the beef, they would have had him to whip first. Aunt saw the commotion and called for me to come to their camp fire and get my breakfast. She said, "I am going to give you the best breakfast you ever had on the plains, for whipping that low lived, good for nothing, Tom Brooks." I ate breakfast with aunt--was the best meal on the plains and the only time I had eaten with her. Tom Brooks behaved after that. One morning we missed a cow out of the herd. Several of us went to find her. We hunted for quite a while and finally all came back to camp with the exception of my brother, Crawford Bailey and Wint Crumley. There was a willow thicket along the river and they got out of sight of us. They had found the trail of the cow and followed it. The camp had moved on down the trail while George Bailey had taken his gun and went on foot to kill an antelope. While hunting on the side of the trail, he was surprised to see Crawford and Wint running their horses around a bend in the river. He made for the trail just in time to catch one of the horses by the tail and by that means, kept up with the fleeing men. The Indians who were after them, tried to cut them off, but when they came in sight of the camp, they gave up the chase and disappeared. The two boys had followed the track of the cow into a willow thicket and they came across the Indians with a cow's hide stretched across poles, scrapping it ready for tanning. The Indians saw them and gave chase, but the fleetness of the horses and George's lucky hold on the tail of the horse, saved their scalps. A few nights after this incident, we had to drive late to get to where there was a good place to camp. It was dusk when we camped. We had to turn off to the right of the main trail and the river bent off to the north and I think it was a quarter of a mile from the main trail to where we camped. We had built our fires and were just ready to commence getting supper, when we heard the Indians begin holloing, "Show shony, show shony, humbugen, humbugen oss cawaw cawaw, cawowaw cawowaw cawowaw cawaw cawaw." The first time they holloed this, uncle Joshua Bailey said, "There! We are going to be attacked. That is the war whoop. Put out the fires and corral the wagons." The wagons were placed in a circle, running the tongues under each other so we could get inside and protect ourselves from their arrows as much as possible. When we got that done, which was in short order, he said, "All hands load your guns and your revolvers and have your knives ready." We had been so long on the road that everybody had become careless. Some of the guns had not been used for a long time and were rusty and others had no bullets. Some had to prepare their guns, while others tried to run bullets. We had what we called ladles to melt lead in. They were made of wooden pieces split out of oak or some other kind of hard timber, four square, with one end hewed round for the handle, the other end, that is, the square end, had a hole cut down in with the corner of the ax. We would put lead in this ladle and put coals of fire in on the lead and blow the coals with our breath, and which would not make much light. Joel Bailey, my cousin, had run off from home when a small boy, got on a steam boat at Ripley, Ohio, worked his passage as dish washer, and had gone to Wisconsin, where my three uncles were. While there, Joel got acquainted with the Indians and their ways more than I did, but I had got pretty well acquainted by this time myself. Aunt Susan Bailey was crying and talking to uncle and saying, "O, Bailey, why did you bring us all out here to be killed by the Indians." "We had treaties and I did not think they would bother us," replied uncle. Bellry Bailey, their eldest daughter, was of age, and Rachel Ann, the next daughter, was nearly of age, together with Aunt Susan and the rest of the little boys and girls of the camp were crying, and there in the utter darkness, it was hard to tell who were or were not crying. Joel Bailey, I knew, was a coward when he was sober, but when under the influence of liquor, he was not afraid of anything. All at once he holloed out, "If any other man will go with me, we will go out and see what those fellows want." I thought he was doing it for bluff, so I said, "I'll go with you." "Well, go and equip yourself," answered Joel. I replied, "What kind of equipment do you want me to have, a double barreled rifle, shotgun and a Colts revolver and a bowie-knife?" We had some of the guns in order, having been used for hunting purposes and Joel and I knew it, but someone handed me a Colts revolver, for they knew I had only a single barreled pistol; another a combination gun, which had a rifle barrel and shot gun barrel on the same stock. Joel was equipped by the time I was. The Indians commenced holloing again, up the river behind us, where we had come just before camping. They would come down closer and then stop and hollo the same words. I will never forget them while I live. We started out and the men began to beg us not to go, for they thought we would be killed. I informed them that I had promised to go and that I was going to go if Joel did not back out. The Indians by this time had located our camp and were holloing again. Uncle Joshua came outside the wagons, got one foot on the hub of the hind wheel, held to the bow of the wagon cover, and plead for us to come back and all fight and die together. Joel turned and told him with an oath, that if he didn't hush, he would shoot him, so uncle said no more. It was an awful dark night and one could not tell one another at all, only by bulk and that not more than a few feet from each other. We walked straight as we could toward the sound of the Indians' voices. We got out of the sound of the crying and lamenting at the camp and Joel said, "Wash, I want to tell you something. I have been drinking wine and my head is not exactly level and I will have to depend on you to do the guessing for me." Later we heard voices and Joel whispered, "There are the chiefs giving the command and if we can get them, we can save the train, that is if we can get them before you hear the screech raise in the camp. But if you hear the screech raise in the camp before we get the chiefs, we will have to give leg bail for security, for we are all the ones that will get out alive." "Where did you get your wine," I asked. "In that wagon I am driving," said Joel. "Uncle Josh has a keg of wine in that wagon and if we can get those chiefs, you shall have wine to drink as long as that keg lasts." I did not know there had been a bit of liquor of any kind in the train for over two thousand miles and I was puzzled to know what to do with a man under the influence of wine, whether to go back to camp or go on and try to take the chiefs. But I concluded to go ahead and try it, for Joel had said that the Indians would do nothing without their chiefs first giving the command. The chiefs kept going on west and north, circling around our camp. Every time they would hollo, giving commands to their tribe, we would have to change our course and go more to our right in order to follow their voices, for that was all we had to go by, for a man could not see six feet to tell where they were. The chiefs got straight west of us down the river below our camp. I think fully a mile from our camp, and we could hear over a mile on a still night. The chiefs stopped and remained in one place and holloed the same "Show shoney humbugen oss humbugen oss cawaw cawaw cawowaw cawowaw cawaw cawaw." I could tell by the sound of their voices, after I got pretty close to them, that they laid down every time they holloed. Joel had told me that when close enough and thought I could guess the distance, we must count our steps and walk right straight to the sound of their voices. When we had stepped to where I thought they were, for me to stop and he would hollo as loud as he could, "howdy doo." "They can't keep their mouth shut and they will say 'howdy doo' too, then you show one of them how you do and I will show the other one how I do. Take him or die. Kill him if you have to take him dead, and I will take the other one or I'll die." We stationed ourselves to where their voices sounded close to us, and when they holloed again, I whispered to Joel, "About fifty steps, Joel, for your life." I don't believe I missed it two feet. Joel's head was level enough to count his steps right, for we both stopped at once. As we went along, Joel bore over toward me. I was taller than he. I kept holding him over to the left, for I thought he was trying to go too far to the right for the sound of their voices. When we got to where they were laying in the grass, they were several feet apart. We were between them. "How do you do?" holloed Joel. "Howdy doo," said the Indian at my right. Joel jumped across in front of me, right onto the Indian, and said with a big word, "I'll show you how I do." As Joel passed in front of me, I looked quickly over to my left, for the voice I had been listening to. It sounded more to the left, when I saw something in the dark. I thought it might be the other Indian's head. I jumped toward it. When I lit, I could see the object more plainly and I made the second jump as far as I could and grabbed with my left hand. My fingers struck his head under the plat of his hair. He pulled and twisted, thrust his feet forward and threw his weight on my arm, but I jammed him up by the hair and told him if he made a move to hurt me, I would cut his heart out. "O, Wash!" called Joel, "Have you got your'n?" "Yes," I replied, "I've got him by the hair of his head, with my left hand behind his back, and my bowie-knife drawn on him, and if he makes a move to hurt me, I'll cut his heart out. Have you got yours?" "I've got him in the same fix," was the reply. As we talked, we were pushing toward each other, until I could see Joel and his Indian. I told Joel not to get too close, so that if they go to do anything, we wouldn't hurt each other. When we neared the camp, uncle Joshua holloed, "Boys, have you got 'em?" "Yes, we've got 'em," said Joel. Uncle evidently did not hear and he yelled, "O, Wash, have you got 'em?" "Yes," I holloed as loud as I could, "I've got one by the hair of his head and I'll cut his heart out if he makes a bad move. Joel's got his in the same fix." "Hold on to them boys," uncle said, "Hold on to them. We will start up the fires so you can see where to come," and the fires lit up mighty quick. I shoved up on my Indian's hair and made him tramp up. When we got to where Aunt Susan Bailey, Bellry and Rachel could see us with the Indians, they commenced to jump up and down and clap their hands, exclaiming, "O, Goody, goody," the tears running down their faces. The little boys and girls all joined in. When the camp got more settled, the other men started out to look after the stock and we had uncle with his seven shot Colt rifle watching the Indians. Joel and I untied the Indians' belts and took their tomahocks, knives, bows and arrows from them. Each had a fox skin full of arrows. We were going to hide them, when all at once the Indian I had taken in, commenced holloing, "Show shoney humbugen--" But that was as far as he got, when we holloed to uncle, "Knock him down, knock him down, don't let him hollo." We dropped the belts and Indian weapons and ran back with our fists shut, ready to strike as soon as we could get to him. Uncle had his fist dawn to strike, but grabbed his Colts rifle which was leaning against a wagon, and drew his gun on them both and said, "Drop to the ground or I'll blow both your brains out." They dropped flat on their faces. "Now," said uncle, "If you fellows move or say a word until tomorrow morning at sun up, I'll blow your brains out." They lay there all night and did not move until after sun up the next morning. The men gathered up the stock and saw to them as well as they could and then came in and got their suppers. It was getting late by this time. Uncle sat in his place and watched the Indians all night. All the men guarded the stock and the camp except Joel and I. The men told us that we were excused from further duty and that Joel and I might go to bed and sleep. We were the only men in the train that slept any that night. I don't believe the women slept much either. The next morning we held a council concerning these chiefs. Uncle had more experience with Indians than the rest of us. "If we kill them," said uncle, "The whole tribe might come on us, and if we took them along, the other Indians would see us and they might come onto us and overpower us. The best thing we can do, is to give them their breakfast and treat them well and let them go, and maybe they'll not bother us any more." This we did. That morning we got a late start. The sun was way up and it must have been about nine o'clock before we drove out. While we were eating our dinner the following day, some Indians came to us--one was a chief of another tribe. He was an educated chief and could talk our language. We had just gotten out of the tribe's territory where we had the time the night before. He told my uncle and my brother, Crawford, that those chiefs, whom Joel and I had taken, were bad men, and if we had brought them with us, they would have fixed them for us and that those bad chiefs had no more idea of our men going out and jumping onto them, than nothing in the world, and that that was all that saved us. He also stated that the bad Indians did not care how many of their men they lost, just so they accomplished the killing of the white people and got their stock. Joel kept his word in reference to the wine. He drove the ox team and wagon in which was the wine, also the bedding for uncle's family. He would claim he was sleepy, get the girls to drive for him, get the drinking cup, fill it two-thirds full when their backs were turned, and then come running and holloing for me to hold up, for he wanted a drink, as I had a keg of water in the hind end of my wagon. He would never spill a bit of it. I would drink part of it and Joel never let the rest go to waste. Joel was the prettiest runner I ever saw. He could run so level, that his head looked like it was sailing through the air. I never saw him outrun, and I had seen him run with some who were counted fast. He brought me wine several times. I asked him one day, how much wine there was in that keg. "O! There's right smart of it," he replied. I told him not to bring me any more, and that was the last he brought me, but I heard it was dry before we got through. CHAPTER IV OVER THE MOUNTAINS INTO CALIFORNIA While we were going down the Humbolt River, several days before we got to the sink or desert, six of our men got tired going so slow, and went on and left us. Uncle tried to get them to stay with us, but when they would go, he offered them provisions to take along. Four of them were so gritty that they would not take any. Two of them did. These four thought they would come to what were called "trading posts," but they had all gone back to California, as we afterwards found. The men had nearly starved to death. They had to shoot birds and they used everything they could find for food. These "trading posts" were kept by men who had brought on pack mules, provisions from California, to sell to emigrants and bought up weak stock and herded them on the grass until they got strong enough to drive across the Sierra Nevada Mountains into California. Uncle thought we would soon come to one of these trading posts, where we could get flour, but the traders had all gone back and ceased to trade. We ran out of flour and sea biscuits when we crossed the desert into Carson Valley. We had to live on beef and mutton for five or six hundred miles. The first flour and bread we got to eat, was after we crossed the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I thought I had seen mountains before, but these beat them all. When we got to the headwaters of the Carson River, for it was up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, we went over what was called the Johnson Cut Off. When we got to the foot of the mountain, I looked up its side and told Uncle Joshua that we could never get up this mountain in this world, for it looked as straight up as a wall could possibly be. "O, yes, we can," he said. "We will get on the trail and go first one way and then another, until we get up." We were six days getting everything to the top of that mountain, and when we got up, we rested one night. The first horse uncle lost was getting up this mountain. He was a little weak, stumbled and fell off the trail and that was the last we ever saw of him. The next morning we yoked up the oxen and all got ready to start. Uncle instructed me to lead out. Right on top of the mountain, it was pretty level for some distance. I drove on ahead of the rest. I came to where I saw I had to go down again. I stopped, locked both hind wheels of my wagon, rough locked them by wrapping a chain twice around the felloe and tire, so the tire would ride on the chain and make it drag hard on the ground. I started down. I had not gone far until I found I was going down the same kind of a mountain we had been six days coming up. A little further down, the trail got very narrow. I was on the left side of the oxen, for that was the side upon which we had always taken when driving. That put me on the lower side, so that if I had been knocked off, that would have been the last of me. I stopped and let the wagon pass me, so that I could get on the upper side to drive. When I crossed behind the wagon, the dust blew up in my face so thick that I could not see my wagon, and that was the last I saw of those oxen until nearly sun down. I went down the mountain as fast as I could. I had no idea I would ever see those oxen again, but when I got down on level ground at the foot of the mountain, where I could see, off about one hundred yards, there stood my oxen and wagon, right side up. There were three yoke of them, six head of cattle, but my near ox, next to the wheel, died that night. The first ones to come down following me, were uncle and aunt. They were in a light one-seated top buggy, the one they had used all the way across the plains. Uncle had his feet under the buggy, holding down the hind axle tree, while aunt had the lines, driving. They drove a brown mare, which I had taken from Indiana and a black horse they had fetched from Wisconsin. Aunt was saying, "O, Bailey, I will be killed, I will be killed." "Hold on Susan, hold on, Susan," answered uncle. The team was nearly setting down on their hind parts and just sliding. They could not move their feet to step for rods at a time. "How did you ever get down that mountain," uncle asked when he saw me. "I will never tell, uncle," I said. Nor did I tell, for I could not tell myself how those oxen got down that mountain. When we got started again on the trail, we met a man going across the mountains, over the same route, with a pack train. He was packing provisions across to the miners in Carson Valley. Uncle coaxed him out of two fifty pound sacks of flour at thirty dollars a sack. This made our first bread since crossing the desert. Somebody stole the black horse which uncle and aunt drove down the mountain, while we were camped there that night. This was the second horse uncle lost on the trip, and the last one since starting from the states. We drove down the west slope toward the gold mine. The second night after we left the summit, it commenced to snow on us, but not very fast. Every day after that, it was snowing or raining until we came to the gold mines. Some mornings the snow would be two or three inches deep, but by night we would get to where it was raining. One night we camped in what was called Pleasant Valley, near a stream called Boland's Run. A man by the name of Thomas Boland, kept a trading post here, with a stock of groceries, clothing, boots and shoes, and a saloon in connection. A little further down, we helped uncle across the McCosma River, to a place called Fair Play, where uncle said that he and his family could get down to their future home alone. We then bade farewell to uncle and family, and started on a prospecting tour. This was now the last of November. After we got to California, we found out that those bad Indians on the Humbolt River, had taken two or three messes or camps, that year, and one man escaped from one of the camps and two out of another, the rest of the men, women and children being killed. These men, who got away from among the Indians in some way or other, got to other camps. The trains that were taken, were camped no great distance apart; far enough so as to herd their stock and keep them separate. They said the Indians holloed on one side and while the campers were looking in the direction of the holloing, the first thing they knew, other Indians came right in on them behind their backs. These three remaining men said that the next morning they gathered the white men from the camps up and down the river, and followed on the trail of the marauders. The Indians had cut open sacks of flour and scattered it along their trail. They had also cut open feather beds and the feathers were blown over the prairie. When the white men came in sight, the Indians broke and ran in every direction, and when they got up to the captured oxen and wagons, which the Indians had taken from the campers, it was found that the Indians had cooked and were eating an unyoked ox, with the other ox still yoked with the dead one. They did not know how to get the yoke off. The men took what oxen and stock they could find, along with them, but had no time to stay to hunt for them. This is the story of the men who escaped, and were then living in California. These campers must have driven until after dark, for it seemed they did not have their oxen unyoked, for we always unyoked our oxen as soon as we stopped. I shall now try to give you a description of the country through which we traveled. Starting in Nebraska, there was what I considered pretty good land for two or three hundred miles, though I did not see very much of the country outside the Platte River bottom. After we came to the Rocky Mountains, I never saw very much of what I called good land laying in one body. Sometimes we would come to some pretty fair rolling land, but it was what I called poor and rough. At times we got so high up, we were above timber line, but we always had grass where there was soil. We passed through sage brush and sand, and all of that kind of country looked desolate to me, but once in awhile, we would come to prairie land. We found some pretty good, rich strips of land away out on the other side of the Rocky Mountains. A good long ways out, we came to such a strip of land, which was called Fur Grove, covered with what we called balsam fir. I do not know in what state it is now, for the whole country from the Missouri River to California was then known as Indian Territory. Sometimes we would be on the mountain tops, where we could look down and see below where we saw a fog, or at least thought so, but the men said it was raining down in the valley, but clear where we were. We passed near Red Mountains and there were black mountains not very far apart and which could be seen from one point of view. We crossed some small rivers. I remember one in particular we had to cross on one of those willow brush bridges. There had been so much travel on this bridge, that a great hole was worn in it, but uncle said we did not have time to stop to mend it, and we would have to risk it. We got the horses, sheep, oxen and wagons across on the bridge, but the cattle we had to swim the river. I don't believe I ever heard what the name of that river was, if I did, I have forgotten it. I did not see much of Iowa on this trip. Of all the country I saw from Indiana, through, or after I got through, there was none suited me like Central Illinois, and I have not changed my mind. There was government land in Illinois to enter at that time. CHAPTER V PROSPECTING FOR GOLD--SOME HARD EXPERIENCES After we left uncle in the mining district called Fair Play, we crossed back over the McCosma River to Boland's Run and went over to Four Spring Valley and prospected for some time before we struck any gold that paid. We finally struck a claim that paid six dollars a day to the hand, clear of water. We had to buy water from a dike that was dug around on the side of the mountain and which cost us four dollars a day. We worked on this claim about three weeks, when the dike broke between where we were at work and the head of the dike where the dam was made across the McCosma River to turn the water out into the dike. We could not work any more until the dike was mended. My brother, Crawford Bailey and Wint Crumly went out prospecting. They went back across the McCosma River into Fair Play district, where we had parted with Uncle Joshua, a distance of fourteen miles. They struck a surface digging, and they wrote me and I went to them. We had to buy water at the same price, one dollar an inch, or four dollars a day. This claim was richer of gold. We made nine dollars a day to the hand, clear of water. We finally heard that the dike was mended over at Four Springs Valley and I went over and sold our provisions and collected sixty dollars we had loaned to a miner by the name of Thomas Brison. We did not go back to Four Springs Valley to work any more, but remained on the claim at Fair Play, until in June, when the water gave out and we could not get water to wash any longer. We then concluded to go north on to the American, Uby and Feather rivers and prospect and see if we could strike claims where we could get water to wash with. The American River was the next river after leaving the McCosma. When we came to the American River, up in the gold region, where we were crossing, the mountains were very steep and looked like they were straight up. We had to travel six miles to get from the bottom of the mountain to its top. But when we got to the American River district, every place we went, we found it claimed up and plenty of miners at work to do all the work there was to do. We could neither find claims to work for ourselves, nor could we hire out to work for any one else. We left the American River and went over the mountains to the Uby River. When we got on top of the mountains and started down toward Uby River, we had a hard time finding the path. There was so much gravel and rock and so little soil or dirt, it was almost impossible to see where footmen had made the path. Far toward the west end of the mountain, pack animals could get on top and then travel east ward from where we were crossing, but nothing except footmen and Indians could cross on the trail we were using. Woodmen had packed their wagons and tools up this mountain somewhere to the westward, to the point where we were crossing, and had cut sawlogs and hauled or rolled them nearby. Then by rolling the logs three or four rods on sloping ground, they would fall straight down to the river bottom, a distance that took us fellows a half day to go up. I was hunting for the trail which led down the mountain, when I came to the sloping ground where the woodmen had rolled these logs off. I walked carefully down this place, and when I looked down, I saw a yellow streak straight below me. It looked like I could step across it, but I knew it was a river. It made me dizzy to look over the precipice and I stepped backward a few paces and then turned to walk to the top of the mountain again. If I had slipped there, that would have been the last of me. After hunting a good while, we found the trail and went down the mountain. The path was just wide enough for one to walk on. If a person had stepped off with one foot, the rest of his life's story would have certainly been very brief. When we got down to the river, that little yellow streak which I thought I could step across when looking down the mountain, we had to cross in a ferry boat, the Uby River being a quarter of a mile wide. We went north and northeast until we reached Morisson's Diggings. The snow at this place was over thirty feet deep in the winter. They had to lay in provisions in the fall to last them all winter and until the snow melted off, and the mountain dried so the ground on the side of the mountains got solid enough so that the trail would not slip off from under the feet of the pack mules. They built their houses out of round pine or fur logs, a foot and a half in diameter, and porches built by letting one log at the eaves of the house run out and logs a foot through, for posts set up under the ends of these logs. These porches were used to put wood under for winter use. When the snow commenced falling, they would beat it back with their shovels and keep it beaten back until they could form an arch overhead, making a tunnel from one house to another, so they could visit each other during the winter. It was the twentieth day of July when we got there and they were just getting started to wash gold. The gold was mixed with dirt and quartz rock. These rocks were round and smooth and about the size of a man's fist. When they were washed in the sluice boxes and thrown in piles, they looked as white as snow. I have often thought what a beautiful walk or drive they would make if we had them in Illinois. We stopped at Morisson's Diggings two or three days. We found Uncle Isaac and his son, Jesse, at this place. We left there and went across another mountain to a place called Poker Flat, which was fourteen miles over the mountain. We heard there, that across on the other side of another mountain, on a stream called Nelson Creek, were new diggings. Uncle Isaac and his son made us promise, that if we heard of new diggings being struck, to give them word. I went back the next day and told them and they returned with me over to Poker Flat, where brother Crawford and the four others were waiting for us. We went over the mountain to Nelson Creek. An old Scotchman by the name of Wright, had struck a rich claim on the side of the creek on a little bottom. The gold here was coarser than it was in the southern diggings. The gold that Mr. Wright was getting, looked like small potatoes. Some were a little less and some a little over one ounce in weight. We prospected all around there, but could not strike any pay dirt. We concluded that if there was gold on this bottom, there must be gold in the creek. We put six men to dig a ditch to turn the creek out of the channel and then dam the creek and turn the water out, so we could get to the bottom of the creek. Old Mr. Wright had packed a whip saw over to make lumber for sluice boxes. Uncle Isaac and I borrowed the saw and went to work and whipsawed lumber for sluice boxes. We cut down two trees, up as high as we could reach, then cut small trees for skids, laid one end of the skid on the side of the mountain and the other end of the skids on the stumps of the trees we cut off, then rolled the log up on these skids. Then with pick and shovel, a level place was dug underneath, the length of the sawlog, barked and lined it on two sides, then sawed to the lines. One stood on top of the log, the other under it, or in the pit, as it was called. The whipsaw is shaped like one of the common key saws, wide at one end and narrow at the other, only the whipsaw had handles on both ends. It took nice work to whipsaw lumber and keep it true to the line. We got our lumber sawed, our sluice boxes made, our ditch dug, our creek damed and the creek turned out of the channel, prepared to work in the bed of the creek. Late one evening, we just had time to roll over a large bolder and get a pan of sand and gravel, and pan it out. We dried the gold and weighed it and there was seventy-five dollars worth of gold in that one pan. We worked out this claim, but it proved to be a slate rock bed and was smooth and sleek, and the water washed all the gold away, only where a huge bolder was imbeded in the slate bed and the gold settled around the bolders. We did not get any more gold out of the rest of that claim, than I got in that one pan. We left Uncle Isaac at this claim and followed down Nelson Creek. Our party was composed of Crawford Bailey, Winston Crumly, Jack Alberts, Guss Parberry, Bird Farris and myself. There was a nice path beat down on the side of the creek, but the mountains on both sides stood almost straight up. We went down the creek, fifteen or twenty miles, when we suddenly came to a waterfall where the water dropped straight down about forty or fifty rods. There was no way for us to get down. We then thought the people who made the path, had to climb the mountains. We looked up on our right hand and could see the dirt crumbling out from between the rocks. It was straight up. We saw there was no show to go up on that side. We looked up on our left and could not see any dirt or rock crumbling off this mountain. We concluded that they must have climbed up over this mountain to get out. We started up. We could hardly keep from falling backwards. We held to little vines or little fine brush which grew out from between the layers of rock. Finally, after we had gone up a distance of perhaps a couple of miles, we could see above us a shelf of rock extending out over our heads. It then dawned upon us that the path we had followed down the creek, had been made by people who had come that far and were compelled to go back and that no one had ever gone up this mountain. We looked as far as we could see each way, but that shelf of rock stood out over our heads from three to six or eight feet. We were sure that when we got up to that shelf, we could not get over it, neither could we go back down again; for one can go up when one can see where to stick their toes, but cannot see to go down without falling. We began to think we were where we could not get away alive. We looked off to our left and saw one place in this shelf that was narrower than the rest, and we concluded to make for that place with the possibility that we might be able to break off some of the rock and get above. It was still a good ways up from where we were. We made for the narrow shelf, but when we got there, the rock was so hard that we could not pierce it with our picks, but the mountain was not quite so steep under this piece of shelf. My brother said to me: "If you will pick in the side of the mountain and stick your toes in so you will have a good foothold, and hold against my back with my shovel, and two of the other men, one on each side of me, fix their feet so they can lift me on their picks while I hold to the shelf, I will try and see how it looks above." Two of our strongest men lifted him on their picks while I held against his back with the shovel until he was high enough to look above the shelf. "The mountain," he said, "is not steep above here, and it is not far to the top, if we could only get over this shelf. Let me put one foot on one pick and the other foot on the other pick and you fellows lift me up as high as you can. Wash, you hold against my back and if I can get a little farther up, I can catch some brush and pull myself up over the shelf." They lifted and I held him to the shelf, while he climbed up over it. We reached him a shovel and a pick. He dug a good place in which to set his feet, and then reached the shovel over the bench, for one of the boys to catch hold. We lifted one of the boys, while Crawford pulled him up. We kept this process up until all were up but one. We left the lightest one to the last. He was down where he couldn't see any of us and he got scared and trembled and claimed that he did not believe he could hold to the shovel for us to draw him up. We dug holes to set our heels in and then held others by the feet so they could look down over the shelf and see and talk to him. He was pale and greatly frightened. I got some of the men to hold me by the feet while I encouraged him. I told him to take a good hold of the shovel and as soon as he came to where I was and got him by the arm, he could count himself safe. I don't believe that there ever was a white man or an Indian, who ever went up that mountain before, nor since the last man we got up. About two miles from where we got on the top of the mountain, we came to a mining town, called Poor Man's Diggings. We could not get work there. We prospected for a few days, but could find no gold, although there were a good many good, paying claims belonging to other men. We left there and went to what was called American Valley, where a man struck a rich claim. This was called a rich claim, because it would pay one hundred dollars or over to the hand a day. We tried to hire out and work by the day, but they had all the hands they could work. Everywhere up north, they paid a man at least five dollars a day. We left the American Valley country, which was on the headwaters of the Feather River, and struck for the Sacramento River Valley. We thought we might find work on a ranch. We went down to Marysville. The Uba River enters the Sacramento below Marysville and the Feather River above. Farming was all done when we got down there, so we could not find work. We then struck for Sacramento City. As a fellow would say, we were getting "about strapped," that is, running short of money. We walked from Marysville to the American River bridge one night, about fifty miles. We ate breakfast there, walked twenty miles up the American River and about three o'clock that day, hired to work for the next morning at two dollars and seventy-five cents per day, and board ourselves. I worked for a man by the name of Stewart. I was to work two weeks, but I worked ten days. We went from here back to Fair Play, from where we had started. We stayed there until November. The weather kept dry--had no rain, so Uncle Joshua came to us and wanted us to work for him on a ranch in the Sacramento Valley, above the city of Sacramento something like three hundred miles, between the towns of Tehama and Red Bluffs. We worked for him ten months at fifty dollars a month. My brother got sick and went to the mountains and I worked one month for a man by the name of David Jorden and his partner, Joseph Moran, in a brick yard, for fifty dollars. When uncle paid us, and I received my pay for working at the brick yard, I went to my brother, sixty miles southeast of Sacramento, to a mining town called Volcano. We remained in Volcano for about two weeks. We then went to Sacramento. From there we took a steamboat to San Francisco, where we stayed for two weeks. We then got on a steamship and sailed for Panama. We landed once at a town in Mexico, called Acapuco, to take on beef cattle. We were four day on the way from San Francisco to Panama. We remained in Panama one night, and then took a train and crossed the isthmus by railroad, which was the first railroad train I ever saw. The next day we arrived at Aspinwall, now called Colon, where we stayed until the next day, when we boarded a ship bound for New York. We were nine days on the way from Aspinwall, or Colon, to New York City. We then took a steamboat and went up the Hudson River to Albany, where we took a train to Buffalo; from there to Cleveland, Ohio; to Indianapolis, and then to LaFayette, Ind. I then went to my home in Fountain County, and later came to Cheney's Grove, Illinois, on horse back. I landed at Cheney's Grove on New Year's Day, 1856. ERRATA --Page 5, 2nd paragraph, "Peter House" should read, "Peter Hughs." In next line, "John Feril" should read "John Teril." Likewise same name in 1st line, 2nd paragraph, page 19. --Page 18, 1st paragraph, should read, "We trailed westward across the Pacific Springs toward the Bear River." Also 3rd sentence, "When northeast of Salt Lake City" etc. --Page 28, last paragraph, should read, "'Hold on to them, boys," uncle said, "Hold on to them." I holloed back, "Start up the fires so we can see where to come," and the fires lit up mighty quick.' --Page 45, 3rd paragraph, 6th sentence, should read "We were 'fourteen' days on the way from San Francisco to Panama." APPENDIX The foregoing chapters conclude the excellent narrative concerning the remarkable trip of Mr. Bailey to California from 1853 to 1856. Mr. Bailey also kindly consented to give for publication in the LeRoy Journal, a description of the gold regions and the crude methods of mining practiced in that early day, which is placed in this volume as a brief appendix. His comments were as follows: I will now give you a description of the gold region where gold was found, where I traveled and where I mined. The McCosma River headed up toward the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains toward the northeast and runs a little southwest until it empties into the Sacramento River. Gold was found in what were called bars, that is, where rock, gravel and sand had lodged on either side, or across the river. Some of these bars would be very rich in gold. There were, also, what were called gulches, running out from the river on either side. They often headed the valleys. These gulches ran out between mountains and when they headed pretty well up toward the top of a large mountain, that divided the rivers, into what were called ravines. All of these ravines would have gold in them. The bed rock would raise up on both sides and the lowest place in this bed rock, was called the lead. Some would be richer in gold than others, taking the name of rich lead or poor lead. Often there were places up on the sides of the mountains where the bed rock was almost bare, and in these places were cracks or seams down in the bed rock, where the gold would be found mixed with sand and dirt. When the first miners came, they did not know how to save the gold and they had no tools to work with. They used their jackknives to dig the gold out of these crevises and carried it in their pans to where there was water and washed out the dirt and sand. When the miners had picks and shovels, they made rockers. They were made just like the rocking beds of the old fashioned kind to rock babies in, only one end was out, except about two inches at the bottom, for what they called a riffle, to lodge the gold against. They put another of these riffles up higher in the rocker for the same purpose. They made a box four square that set on top of this rocker with a sheet iron bottom with round holes punched in it to let the gold and sand through. They would then fill this box with pay dirt, dip water from the creek or river, and pour it in on the pay dirt with one hand and rock with the other. They would then gather up the gold and what little sand remained from behind the riffles, place it in their pans and wash it out, leaving nothing but the gold and some black sand. Another plan used and a better and faster method, was to use what they called the long tom. This was made of plank on the sides about six feet long and three feet wide. The planks were cut curved on the lower end, so that the sheet iron with the holes in it, would turn upward. The upper end of the tom, was made of planks sawed sloping and drawn in until it was wide enough to lay their water hose in, which furnished the water for washing. When they washed the gold with pans, they would throw all the top dirt away until they got down deep enough to find it sufficiently rich to pay, then they would pan out the rest of the dirt to the bed rock. When we mined in California, we washed with sluice boxes, whenever we could get plenty of water. Sluice boxes were made by sawing the bottom board two inches narrower at one end than at the other so we could place the end of every box in the upper end of the next box. We had slats nailed across the top of the boxes to keep them from spreading. There were slats for riffles, two and a half or three inches wide, fitted down tight on the bottom, for the gold to lodge against. The gold, with the sand and dirt would then be removed and panned out as in the other methods mentioned above. * * * * * * List of transcriber's corrections - so be [we] would strike the lower end of the island. - This was the "pipe of of [pipe of] peace" - huddled and and asked [and asked] uncle - and then skirt the [Rattlesnake] Rattlsnake - Grand Canyons, of world renoun [renown] - and he would do some of thier [their] work in exchange. - a nice place to pull out on the side. [period added] - River, cutting a canyon through it. [period added] - in the same fix." [replaced period with comma] was the reply. - fill it two-thirds ful [full] when their backs were turned - where the dam was made across the McComa [McCosma] River 
29543	----	Ox-Team Days on the Oregon Trail [Illustration: Ezra Meeker.] [Illustration: Signature: Ezra Meeker] _Pioneer Life Series_ * * * * * Ox-Team Days on the Oregon Trail by _Ezra Meeker_ in collaboration with _Howard R. Driggs_ Professor of Education in English University of Utah [Illustration] _Illustrated with drawings by F. N. Wilson and with photographs_ Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York _World Book Company_ 1927 WORLD BOOK COMPANY THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE Established 1905 by Caspar W. Hodgson YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO The Oregon Trail--what suggestion the name carries of the heroic toil of pioneers! Yet a few years' ago the route of the trail was only vaguely known. Then public interest was awakened by the report that one of the very men who had made the trip to Oregon in the old days was traversing the trail once more, moving with ox team and covered wagon from his home in the state of Washington, and marking the old route as he went. The man with the ox team was Ezra Meeker. He went on to the capital, where Mr. Roosevelt, then President, met him with joy. Then he traversed the long trail once more with team and wagon--back to that Northwest which he had so long made his home. This book gives Mr. Meeker's story of his experiences on the Oregon Trail when it was new, and again when, advanced in years, he retraced the journey of his youth that Americans might ever know where led the footsteps of the pioneers. The publication of this book in its Pioneer Life Series carries forward one of the cherished purposes of World Book Company--to supply as a background to the study of American history interesting and authentic narratives based on the personal experiences of brave men and women who helped to push the frontier of our country across the continent. [Illustration] PLS:MDOTD-5 Copyright 1922 by World Book Company Copyright in Great Britain _All rights reserved_ PRINTED IN U. S. A. AN INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTHOR OUT in the state of Washington recently, a veteran of more than ninety years stepped into an aëroplane with the mail pilot and flew from Seattle to Victoria in British Columbia, and back again. The aged pioneer took the trip with all the zest of youth and returned enthusiastic over the adventure. This youthful veteran was Ezra Meeker, of Oregon Trail fame, who throughout his long, courageous, useful life has ever kept in the vanguard of progress. Seventy years ago he became one of the trail-blazers of the Farther West. In 1852, with his young wife and child, he made the hazardous journey over plains and mountains all the way from Iowa to Oregon by ox team. Then, after fifty-four years of struggle in helping to develop the country beyond the Cascades, this undaunted pioneer decided to reblaze the almost lost Oregon Trail. An old "prairie schooner" was rebuilt, and a yoke of sturdy oxen was trained to make the trip. With one companion and a faithful dog, the veteran started out. It took nearly two years, but the ox-team journey from Washington, the state, to Washington, our national capital, was finally accomplished. The chief purpose of Mr. Meeker in this enterprise was to induce people to mark the famous old highway. To him it represented a great battle ground in our nation's struggle to win and hold the West. The story of the Oregon Trail, he rightly felt, is an American epic which must be preserved. Through his energy and inspiration and the help of thousands of loyal men and women, school boys and school girls, substantial monuments have now been placed along the greater part of the old pioneer way. Two years ago it was my privilege to meet the author in his home city. Our mutual interest in pioneer stories brought us together in an effort to preserve some of them, and several days were spent in talking over the old times and visiting historic spots. Everywhere we went there was a glowing welcome for "Father Meeker," as he was called by some of his home folks, while "Uncle Ezra" was the name used affectionately by others. The ovation given him when he arose to speak to the teachers and students of the high school in Puyallup--the city he founded--was evidence of the high regard in which he is held by those who know him best. Other boys and girls and older folk all over the country would enjoy meeting Ezra Meeker and hearing of his experiences. Since this is not possible, the record of what he has seen and done is given to us in this little volume. The book makes the story of the Oregon Trail live again. This famous old way to the West was traced in the beginning by wild animals--the bear, the elk, the buffalo, the soft-footed wolf, and the coyote. Trailing after these animals in quest of food and skins, came the Indians. Then followed the fur-trading mountaineers, the home-seeking pioneers, the gold seekers, the soldiers, and the cowboys. Now railroad trains, automobiles, and even aëroplanes go whizzing along over parts of the old highway. Every turn in the Trail holds some tale of danger and daring or romance. Most of the stories have been forever lost in the passing away of those who took part in this ox-team migration across our continent. For that reason the accounts that have been saved are the more precious. Ezra Meeker has done a signal service for our country in reblazing the Oregon Trail. He has accomplished an even greater work in helping to humanize our history and vitalize the geography of our land, by giving to us, through this little volume, a vivid picture of the heroic pioneering of the Farther West. HOWARD R. DRIGGS CONTENTS INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTHOR v PART ONE--FROM OHIO TO THE COAST 1. BACK TO BEGINNINGS 1 2. BOYHOOD DAYS IN OLD INDIANA 9 3. LEAVING THE HOME NEST FOR IOWA 15 4. TAKING THE TRAIL FOR OREGON 21 5. THE WESTWARD RUSH 33 6. THE PIONEER ARMY OF THE PLAINS 38 7. INDIANS AND BUFFALOES ON THE PLAINS 43 8. TRAILING THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN LAND 49 9. REACHING THE END OF THE TRAIL 57 PART TWO--SETTLING IN THE NORTHWEST COUNTRY 10. GETTING A NEW START IN THE NEW LAND 69 11. HUNTING FOR ANOTHER HOME SITE 78 12. CRUISING ABOUT ON PUGET SOUND 86 13. MOVING FROM THE COLUMBIA TO PUGET SOUND 99 14. MESSAGES AND MESSENGERS 106 15. BLAZING THE WAY THROUGH NATCHESS PASS 115 16. CLIMBING THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS 122 17. FINDING MY PEOPLE 128 18. INDIAN WAR DAYS 135 19. THE STAMPEDE FOR THE GOLD DIGGINGS 141 20. MAKING A PERMANENT HOME IN THE WILDS 146 21. FINDING AND LOSING A FORTUNE 154 22. TRYING FOR A FORTUNE IN ALASKA 160 PART THREE--RETRACING THE OLD OREGON TRAIL 23. A PLAN FOR A MEMORIAL TO THE PIONEERS 165 24. ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL AGAIN 177 25. TRAILING ON TO THE SOUTH PASS 185 26. REVIVING OLD MEMORIES OF THE TRAIL 195 27. A BIT OF BAD LUCK 204 28. DRIVING ON TO THE CAPITAL 212 29. THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 219 THE WORLD'S GREATEST TRAIL WORN deep and wide by the migration of three hundred thousand people, lined by the graves of twenty thousand dead, witness of romance and tragedy, the Oregon Trail is unique in history and will always be sacred to the memories of the pioneers. Reaching the summit of the Rockies upon an evenly distributed grade of eight feet to the mile, following the watercourse of the River Platte and tributaries to within two miles of the summit of the South Pass, through the Rocky Mountain barrier, descending to the tidewaters of the Pacific, through the Valleys of the Snake and the Columbia, the route of the Oregon Trail points the way for a great National Highway from the Missouri River to Puget Sound: a roadway of greatest commercial importance, a highway of military preparedness, a route for a lasting memorial to the pioneers, thus combining utility and sentiment. [Illustration: Signature: Ezra Meeker] PART ONE FROM OHIO TO THE COAST [Illustration: NORTH AMERICA IN 1830] This map shows the main divisions of North America as they were when Ezra Meeker was born. The shading in the Arctic region shows how much there was still for the explorers to discover. The Oregon Country is shown as part of the United States, although the whole region was in dispute between the United States and Great Britain. In the United States itself the settled part of the country was east of the dotted line that runs from Lake Ontario to the Gulf of Mexico. West of this line was the Indian country, with only a few forts as outposts of settlement. Several territories had been organized, but Oregon, Missouri, and Nebraska were little more than names for vast undetermined regions. [Illustration: The old Meeker homestead near Elizabeth, New Jersey.] CHAPTER ONE BACK TO BEGINNINGS I WAS born in Huntsville, Butler County, Ohio, on December 29, 1830. That was, at this writing, more than ninety years ago. My father's ancestors came from England in 1637. In 1665 they settled near Elizabeth City, New Jersey, building there a very substantial house which stood till almost 1910. More than a score of hardy soldiers from this family fought for the Colonies in the War of Independence. They were noted for their stalwart strength, steady habits, and patriotic ardor. Both my parents were sincere, though not austere, Christian people. Father inherited to the full the sturdy traits of his ancestors. I well remember that for three years, during our life in Indiana, he worked eighteen hours a day as a miller. For this hard service he received only twenty dollars a month and bran for the cow. Yet out of the ordeal he came seemingly as strong and healthy as when he entered it. My mother's maiden name was Phoebe Baker. English and Welsh strains of blood ran in her veins. Her father settled in Butler County, Ohio, in the year 1804, or thereabouts. My mother, like my father, could and did endure continuous long hours of severe labor without much discomfort. I have known her frequently to patch and mend our clothing until very late at night, and yet she would invariably be up in the morning by four to resume her labors. Small wonder that with such parents and with such early surroundings I am able to say that for fifty-eight years I was never sick in bed a single day. I, too, have endured long hours of labor during my whole life, and I can truthfully say that I have always liked to do my work and that I never watched for the sun to go down to relieve me from the burden of labor. My mother said I was "always the busiest young 'un" she ever saw, by which she meant that I was restless from the beginning--born so. According to the best information obtainable, I was born in a log cabin, where the fireplace was nearly as wide as the cabin. The two doors on opposite sides permitted the horse, dragging the backlog, to enter at one and then to go out at the other. Of course, the solid floor of split logs defied injury from such treatment. The skillet and the Dutch oven were used instead of the cook stove to bake the pone or johnny cake, to parch the corn, or to fry the venison which was then obtainable in the wilds of Ohio. A curtain at the farther end of the cabin marked the confines of a bedchamber for the "old folks." The older children climbed the ladder nailed to the wall to get to the loft floored with loose clapboards that rattled when trodden upon. The straw beds were so near the roof that the patter of the rain made music to the ear, and the spray of the falling water would often baptize the "tow-heads" left uncovered. [Illustration: Bringing in the backlog.] Our diet was simple, and the mush pot was a great factor in our home life. A large, heavy iron pot was hung on the crane in the chimney corner, where the mush would slowly bubble and sputter over or near a bed of oak coals for half the afternoon. And such mush!--always made from yellow corn meal and cooked three hours or more. This, eaten with plenty of fresh, rich milk, furnished the supper for the children. Tea? Not to be thought of. Sugar? It was too expensive--cost fifteen to eighteen cents a pound, and at a time when it took a week's labor to earn as much money as a day's labor would earn now. Cheap molasses we had sometimes, but not often, meat not more than once a day, but eggs in abundance. Everything father had to sell was low-priced, while everything mother must buy at the store was high. Wheat brought twenty-five cents a bushel; corn, fifteen cents; pork, two and two and a half cents a pound, with bacon sometimes used as fuel by reckless, racing steamboat captains of the Ohio and Mississippi. My earliest recollection, curiously enough, is of my schoolboy days, although I had so few. I was certainly not five years old when a drunken, brutal teacher undertook to spank me because I did not speak a word plainly. That is the first fight of which I have any recollection. I could hardly remember that but for the witnesses, one of them my oldest brother, who saw the struggle. My teeth, he said, did excellent work and drew blood quite freely. What a spectacle--a half-drunken teacher maltreating his pupils! But then, that was the time before a free school system. It was the time when even the parson would not hesitate to take a "wee drop," and when, if the decanter was not on the sideboard, the jug and gourd served as well in the field or in the house. In our neighborhood, to harvest without whisky in the field was not to be thought of; nobody ever heard of a log-rolling or barn-raising without whisky. Be it said to the everlasting honor of my father, that he set himself firmly against the practice. He said his grain should rot in the field before he would supply whisky to his harvest hands. I have only one recollection of ever tasting any alcoholic liquor in my boyhood days. I did, however, learn to smoke when very young. It came about in this way. My mother always smoked, as far back as I can remember. Women smoked in those days, as well as men, and nothing was thought of it. Well, that was before the time of matches,--leastwise, it was a time when it was necessary to economize in their use,--and mother, who was a corpulent woman, would send me to put a coal in her pipe. I would take a whiff or two, just to get it started, you know, and this soon developed into the habit of lingering to keep it going. But let me be just to myself. More than forty years ago I threw away my pipe and have never smoked since, and never will smoke again. My next recollection of school days was after father had moved to Lockland, Ohio, then ten miles north of Cincinnati. It is now, I presume, a suburb of that city. I played hooky instead of going to school; but one day, while I was under the canal bridge, the noise of passing teams so frightened me that I ran home and betrayed myself. Did my mother whip me? Bless her dear soul, no! Whipping of children, both at home and in the school-room, was then about as common as eating one's breakfast; but the family government of my parents was exceptional for that time, for they did not think it was necessary to rule by the rod. Because my mind did not run to school work and because my disposition was restless, my mother allowed me to work at odd jobs for pay instead of compelling me to attend school. This cut down my actual school days to less than six months. It was, to say the least, a dangerous experiment, and one to be undertaken only by a mother who knew her child better than any other person could. I do not by any means advise other mothers to adopt such a course. In those days apprenticeship was quite common. It was not thought to be a disgrace for a boy to be "bound out" until he was twenty-one, especially if he was to be learning a trade. Father took a notion he would bind me out to a Mr. Arthens, the mill owner at Lockland, who was childless, and one day he took me with him to talk it over. When asked, finally, how I should like the change, I promptly replied that it would be all right if Mrs. Arthens would "do up my sore toes," whereupon there was such an outburst of merriment that I never forgot it. We must remember that boys in those days did not wear shoes in summer, and quite often not in winter either. But mother put an end to the whole matter by saying that the family must not be divided, and it was not. Our pioneer home was full of love and helpfulness. My mother expected each child to work as well as to play. We were trained to take our part at home. The labor was light, to be sure, but it was service, and it brought happiness into our lives. For, after all, that home is happiest where every one helps. Our move to Indiana was a very important event in my boyhood days. This move was made during the autumn of 1839, when I was nine years old. I vividly remember the trip, for I walked every step of the way from Lockland, Ohio, to Attica, Indiana, about two hundred miles. There was no room in the heavily laden wagon for me or for my brother Oliver, aged eleven. It was piled so high with household goods that little space was left even for mother and the two babies, one yet in arms. But we lads did not mind riding on "Shank's ponies." The horses walked so briskly that we had to stick to business to keep up with them. We did find time, though, to throw a few stones at the frisky squirrels, or to kill a garter snake, or to gather some flowers for mother and the little ones, or to watch the redheaded woodpeckers hammering at the trees. The journey was full of interest for two lively boys. Our appearance was what might well be called primitive, for we went barefooted and wore "tow pants" and checkered "linsey-woolsey" shirts, with a strip of cloth for "galluses," as suspenders were at that time called. Little did we think or care about appearance, bent as we were on having a good time--and that we surely had. [Illustration: On the corduroy road.] One dreary stretch of swamp that kept us on the corduroy road behind the jolting wagon I remember well; this was near Crawfordsville, Indiana. It is now gone, the corduroy and the timber as well. In their places great barns and comfortable houses dot the landscape as far as the eye can reach. One habit that we boys acquired on that trip stuck to us all our lives, until the brother was lost at sea. When we followed behind the wagon, as we did part of the time, each took the name of the horse on his side of the road. I was "Tip," on the off side; while brother was "Top," on the near side. Tip and Top, a span of big, fat, gray horses that would run away "at the drop of the hat," were something to be proud of. This habit of Oliver's walking on the near side and my walking on the off continued for years and through many a mile of travel. [Illustration: Plowing through the oak grubs on the Wabash.] CHAPTER TWO BOYHOOD DAYS IN OLD INDIANA WHEN we reached Indiana we settled down on a rented farm. Times were hard with us, and for a season all the members of the household were called upon to contribute their mite. I drove four yoke of oxen for twenty-five cents a day, and during part of the time boarded at home at that. This was on the Wabash, where oak grubs grew, my father often said, "as thick as hair on a dog's back;" but they were really not so thick as that. We used to force the big plowshare through and cut grubs as big as my wrist. When we saw a patch of them ahead, I would halloo and shout at the poor oxen and lay on the whip; but father wouldn't let me swear at them. Let me say here that I later discontinued this foolish fashion of driving, and always talked to my oxen in a conversational tone and used the whip sparingly. That reminds me of an experience I had later, in the summer when I was nineteen. Uncle John Kinworthy--a good soul he was, and an ardent Quaker--lived neighbor to us in Bridgeport, Indiana. One day I went to his house with three yoke of oxen to haul into place a heavy beam for a cider-press. The oxen had to be driven through the front dooryard in full sight and hearing of Uncle John's wife and three buxom Quaker girls, who either stood in the door or poked their heads out of the window. The cattle would not go through the front yard past those girls. They kept doubling back, first on one side and then on the other. Uncle Johnny, noticing that I did not swear at the cattle, and attributing the absence of oaths to the presence of ladies, or maybe thinking, like a good many others, that oxen could not be driven without swearing at them, sought an opportunity, when the mistress of the house could not hear him, to say in a low tone, "If thee can do any better, thee had better let out the word." My father, though a miller by trade, early taught me some valuable lessons about farming that I never forgot. We--I say "we" advisedly, as father continued to work in the mill and left me in charge of the farm--soon brought the run-down farm to the point where it produced twenty-three bushels of wheat to the acre instead of ten, by the rotation of corn and clover and then wheat. But there was no money in farming at the prices then prevailing, and the land for which father paid ten dollars an acre would not yield a rental equal to the interest on the money. The same land has recently sold for six hundred dollars an acre. For a time I worked in the _Journal_ printing office for S. V. B. Noel, who published a Free Soil paper. A part of my duty was to deliver the papers to subscribers. They treated me civilly, but when I was caught in the streets of Indianapolis with the Free Soil papers in my hand I was sure of abuse from some one, and a number of times narrowly escaped personal violence from the pro-slavery people. In the office I was known as the "devil," a term that annoyed me not a little. I worked with Wood, the pressman, as a roller boy, and in the same room was a power press, the power being a stalwart negro who turned a crank. Wood and I used to race with the power press, and then I would fly the sheets,--that is, take them off, when printed, with one hand and roll the type with the other. This so pleased Noel that he advanced my wages to a dollar and a half a week. One of the subscribers to whom I delivered that anti-slavery paper was Henry Ward Beecher, then pastor of the Congregational Church that faced the Governor's Circle. At that time he had not attained the fame that came to him later in life. I became attached to him because of his kind manner and the gentle words he always found time to give me. [Illustration: Carrying papers to Henry Ward Beecher.] One episode of my life at this time I remember because I thought my parents were in the wrong. Vocal music was taught in singing school, which was conducted almost as regularly as were the day schools. I was passionately fond of music. Before the change of my voice came I had a fine alto voice and was a leader in my part of the class. This fact coming to the notice of the trustees of Beecher's church, an effort was made to have me join the choir. Mother first objected, because my clothes were not good enough. Then an offer was made to clothe me suitably and pay me something besides. And now father objected, because he did not want me to listen to preaching of a sect other than that to which he belonged. The incident set me to thinking, and finally drove me, young as I was, into a more liberal faith, though I dared not openly espouse it. Another incident that occurred while I was working in the printing office I have remembered vividly all these years. During the campaign of 1844, the Whigs held a gathering on the Tippecanoe battle ground. It could hardly be called a convention; a better name for it would be a political camp meeting. The people came in wagons, on horseback, afoot--any way to get there--and camped, just as people used to do at religious camp meetings. The journeymen printers of the _Journal_ office planned to go in a covered wagon, and they offered to make a place for the "devil" if his parents would let him go along. This was speedily arranged with mother, who always took charge of such matters. When the proposition came to Noel's ears, he asked the men to print me some campaign songs. This they did with a will, Wood running them off the press after the day's work while I rolled the type for him. My, wasn't I the proudest boy that ever walked the earth! Visions of a pocketful of money haunted me almost day and night until we arrived on the battle field. But lo and behold, nobody would pay any attention to me! Bands were playing here and there; glee clubs would sing and march, first on one side of the ground and then on the other; processions were parading and crowds surging, making it necessary to look out lest one be run over. Although the rain would pour down in torrents, the marching and countermarching went on all the same and continued for a week. An elderly journeyman printer named May, who in a way stood sponsor for our party, told me that if I would get up on the fence and sing the songs, the people would buy them. Sure enough, when I stood up and sang the crowds came, and I sold every copy I had. I went home with eleven dollars in my pocket, the richest boy on earth. In the year 1845 a letter came from Grandfather Baker in Ohio to my mother, saying that he would give her a thousand dollars with which to buy a farm. The burning question with my father and mother was how to get the money out from Ohio to Indiana. They actually went in a covered wagon to Ohio for it and hauled it home, all silver, in a box. This silver was nearly all foreign coin. Prior to that time but a few million dollars had been coined by the United States Government. Grandfather Baker had accumulated his money by marketing small things in Cincinnati, twenty-five miles distant. I have heard my mother tell of going to market on horseback with grandfather many times, carrying eggs, butter, and even live chickens on the horse she rode. Grandfather would not go into debt, so he lived on his farm a long time without a wagon. He finally became so wealthy that he was reputed to have a barrel of money--silver, of course. Out of this store came the thousand dollars that he gave mother. It took nearly a whole day to count the money. At least one of nearly every coin from every nation on earth seemed to be there, and the "tables" had to be consulted in computing the value. I was working on the _Journal_ at the time when the farm was bought, but it seemed that I was not cut out for a printer. My inclinations ran more to open-air life, so father placed me on the farm as soon as the purchase was made and left me in full charge of the work there, while he gave his time to milling. Be it said that I early turned my attention to the girls as well as to the farm and married young, before I reached the age of twenty-one. This truly was a fortunate venture, for my wife and I lived happily together for fifty-eight years. [Illustration] [Illustration: The first railroad in Indiana.] CHAPTER THREE LEAVING THE HOME NEST FOR IOWA IN the early '50's there lived near Indianapolis two young people. Their fathers were old-time farmers, keeping no "hired man" and buying very little "store goods." The girl could spin and weave, make delicious butter, knit soft, well-shaped socks, and cook as good a meal as any other country girl around. She was, withal, as buxom a lass as ever grew in Indiana. The young man was a little uncouth in appearance, round-faced, rather stout in build--almost fat. He loved to hunt possums and coons in the woods round about. He was a little boisterous, always restless, and not especially polished in manners. Yet he had at least one redeeming trait of character: he loved to work and was known to be as industrious a lad as any in the neighborhood. These two young people grew up to the age of manhood and womanhood, knowing but little of the world outside their home sphere. Who can say that they were not as happy as if they had seen the whole world? Had they not experienced the joys of the sugar camp while "stirring off" the lively, creeping maple sugar? Both had been thumped upon the bare head by the falling hickory nuts in windy weather; had hunted the black walnuts half hidden in the leaves; had scraped the ground for the elusive beechnuts. They had ventured to apple parings together when not yet out of their 'teens. "I'm going to be a farmer when I get married," the lad quite abruptly said to the lass one day, without any previous conversation to lead up to the statement. His companion showed by her confusion that she had not mistaken what was in his mind. After a while she remarked, "Yes, I want to be a farmer too. But I want to be a farmer on our own land." Two bargains were confirmed then and there when the lad said, "We will go West and not live on pap's farm," and she responded, "Nor in the old cabin, nor any cabin unless it's our own." So the resolution was made that they would go to Iowa, get some land, and grow up with the country. About the first week of October, in 1851, a covered wagon drew up in front of Thomas Sumner's house, then but four miles out from Indianapolis on the National Road. It was ready to be loaded for the start. Eliza Jane, Thomas Sumner's second daughter, the lass already described, was now the wife of the young man mentioned (the author). She also was ready for the journey. She had prepared supplies enough to last all the way,--cake and butter and pumpkin pies, jellies and the like, with plenty of substantials besides. The two young people had plenty of blankets, a good-sized Dutch oven, an extra pair of shoes apiece, cloth for two dresses for the wife, and an extra pair of trousers for the husband. Tears could not be restrained as the loading progressed and the realization faced the parents of both that the young people were about to leave them. "Why, mother, we are only going to Iowa, you know, where we can get a home that shall be our own. It's not so far away--only about five hundred miles." [Illustration: A Dutch oven.] "Yes, I know, but suppose you get sick in that uninhabited country; who will take care of you?" Notwithstanding this motherly solicitude, the young people could not fail to know that there was a secret feeling of approval in the good woman's breast. After a few miles' travel the reluctant final parting came. We could not then know that this loved parent would lay down her life a few years later in a heroic attempt to follow the wanderers to Oregon. She rests in an unknown and unmarked grave in the Platte valley. What shall I say of that October drive from the home near Indianapolis to Eddyville, Iowa, in the delightful atmosphere of Indian summer? It was an atmosphere of hope and content. We had the wide world before us; we had good health; and above all we had each other. At this time but one railroad entered Indianapolis--it would be called a tramway now--from Madison on the Ohio River. When we cut loose from that embryo city we left railroads behind us, except where rails were laid crosswise in the wagon track to keep the wagon out of the mud. No matter if the road was rough--we could go a little slower, and shouldn't we have a better appetite for supper because of the jolting, and sleep the sounder? Everything in the world looked bright. The great Mississippi was crossed at Burlington. After a few days of further driving, we arrived at Eddyville, in Iowa. Though we did not realize it at the time, this was destined to be only a place to winter, a way station on our route to Oregon. My first introduction to an Iowa winter was in a surveyor's camp on the western borders of the state. This was a little north of Kanesville, now Council Bluffs. I began as cook for the camp, but very soon changed this position for that of flagman. If there are any settlers now left of the Iowa of that day, they will remember that the winter was bitter cold. On the way back from the surveying party to Eddyville, just before Christmas, I encountered one of the bitterest of those bitter days. A companion named Vance rested with me overnight in a cabin. We had scant food for ourselves or for the mare we led. It was thirty-five miles to the next cabin; we must reach that place or lie out in the snow. So a very early start was made before daybreak, while the wind lay. The good woman of the cabin baked us some biscuits for a noon lunch, but they were frozen solid in our pockets before we had been out two hours. The wind rose with the sun, and with the sun two bright sun dogs--a beautiful sight to behold, but arising from conditions intolerable to bear. Vance came near freezing to death, and would have done so had I not succeeded in arousing him to anger and getting him off the mare. [Illustration: NORTH AMERICA IN 1850 By 1850 the general divisions of the continent had taken the shape that they have today. The states of Texas and California and the territories of Utah and New Mexico had been added to the United States, all as a result of the war with Mexico. The dispute with Great Britain over the Oregon Country had been settled by a compromise. The region just west of the Missouri, known as the Nebraska Territory, was still beyond the frontier.] I vowed then and there that I did not like the Iowa climate, and the Oregon fever that had already seized me was heightened. The settlement of the northern boundary by treaty in 1846 had ended the dispute between the United States and Great Britain for ownership of the region north of the Columbia. As a consequence, American settlers were beginning to cross the Columbia in numbers, and stories were coming back of the wonderful climate, the rich soil, and the wealth of lumber. The Oregon Country of that day included the present states of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, and parts of Montana and Wyoming. It was a special consideration for us that if we went to Oregon the government would give us three hundred and twenty acres of land, whereas in Iowa we should have to purchase it. The price would be low, to be sure, but the land must be bought and paid for on the spot. There were no preëmption laws or beneficial homestead laws in force then, nor did they come until many years later. But what about going to Oregon when springtime came? An event was pending that rendered a positive decision impossible for the moment. It was not until the first week of April, 1852, when our first-born baby boy was a month old, that we could say we were going to Oregon in 1852. It would be a long, hard journey for such a little fellow, but as it turned out, he stood it like a young hero. [Illustration] [Illustration: Crossing the muddy Missouri.] CHAPTER FOUR TAKING THE TRAIL FOR OREGON WHEN we drove out of Eddyville, headed for the Oregon Country, our train consisted of but one wagon, two yoke of four-year old steers, and one yoke of cows. We also had one extra cow. This cow was the only animal we lost on the whole journey; she strayed away in the river bottom before we crossed the Missouri. Now as to the members of our little party. William Buck, who had joined us as partner for the expedition, was a man six years my senior. He had had some experience on the Plains, and he knew what outfit was needed; but he had little knowledge in regard to a team of cattle. He was an impulsive man, and to some extent excitable; yet withal a man of excellent judgment and honest as God makes men. No lazy bones occupied a place in Buck's body. He was scrupulously neat and cleanly in all his ways; courteous to every one; always in good humor and always looking upon the bright side of things. A better trail mate could not have been found. Buck's skill in camp work and his lack of ability to handle the team naturally settled the division of the work between us. It was he who selected the outfit to go into the wagon, while I fitted up the wagon and bought the team. We had butter packed in the center of the flour, which was in double sacks; eggs packed in corn meal or flour, enough to last us nearly five hundred miles; fruit in abundance, and dried pumpkins; a little jerked beef, not too salt. Last though not least, there was a demijohn of brandy "for medicinal purposes only," as Buck said, with a merry twinkle of the eye. The little wife had prepared the homemade yeast cake which she knew so well how to make and dry, and we had light bread to eat all the way across. We baked the bread in a tin reflector instead of the heavy Dutch oven so much in use on the Plains. The butter in part melted and mingled with the flour, yet it did not matter much, as the "shortcake" that resulted made us almost glad the mishap had occurred. Besides, did we not have plenty of fresh butter, from the milk of our own cows, churned every day in the can by the jostling of the wagon? Then the buttermilk! What a luxury! I shall never, as long as I live, forget the shortcake and corn bread, the puddings and pumpkin pies, and above all the buttermilk. As we gradually crept out on the Plains and saw the sickness due to improper food, or in some cases to its improper preparation, it was borne in upon me how blessed I was, with such a trail partner as Buck and such a life partner as my wife. Some trains were without fruit, and most of them depended upon saleratus for raising their bread. Many had only fat bacon for meat until the buffalo supplied a change; and no doubt much of the sickness attributed to the cholera was caused by bad diet. I am willing to claim credit to myself for the team, every hoof of which reached the Coast in safety. Four steers and two cows were sufficient for our light wagon and the light outfit, not a pound of which but was useful (except the brandy) and necessary for our comfort. I had chosen steers that had never been under the yoke, though plenty of broken-in oxen could have been had, generally of that class that had been broken in spirit as well as to the yoke. The ox has had much to do with the settlement of the country. The pioneers could take care of an ox team in a new settlement so much cheaper than a horse team that this fact alone would have been conclusive; but aside from this, oxen were better for the work in the clearings or for breaking up the vast stretches of wild prairie sod. We used to work four or five yoke to the plow, and when dark came we unhitched and turned them on the unbroken sod to pasture for the night. I have often been asked how old an ox will live to be. I never knew of a yoke over fourteen years old, but I once heard of one that lived to be twenty-four. On the Plains, oxen were better than horses for getting their feed and fording streams. There was another advantage, and a very important one, to oxen: the Indians could not run them off at night as easily as they could horses. [Illustration: The tin reflector used for baking.] The first day's drive out from Eddyville was a short one. When we got to plodding along over the Plains, we made from fifteen to twenty miles a day. That was counted a good day's drive, without unusual accidents or delays. As I now remember, this was the only day on the entire trip when the cattle were allowed to stand in the yoke at noontime, while the owners lunched and rested. When it was near nightfall we made our first camp. Buck excitedly insisted that we must not unyoke the cattle. "What shall we do?" I asked. "They can't live in the yoke always." "Yes, but if you unyoke here you will never catch them again," he said. One word brought on another until we were almost in a dispute, when a stranger, Thomas McAuley, who was camped near by, stepped in. He said his own cattle were gentle; there were three men of his party, and they would help us yoke up in the morning. I gratefully accepted his offer and unyoked, and we had no trouble in starting off the next morning. After that, never a word with the least semblance of contention to it passed between Buck and me. Scanning McAuley's outfit in the morning, I was quite troubled to start out with him. His teams, principally cows, were light, and they were thin in flesh; his wagons were apparently light and as frail as the teams. But I soon found that his outfit, like ours, carried no extra weight, and he knew how to care for a team. He was, besides, an obliging neighbor, which was fully demonstrated on many trying occasions, as we traveled in company for more than a thousand miles, until his road to California parted from ours at the big bend of the Bear River. Of the trip through Iowa little remains to be said further than that the grass was thin and washy, the roads muddy and slippery, and the weather execrable, although May had been ushered in long before we reached the little Mormon town of Kanesville (now Council Bluffs), a few miles above the place where we were to cross the Missouri River. Here my brother Oliver joined us, having come from Indianapolis with old-time comrades and friends. Now, with the McAuleys and Oliver's party, we mustered a train of five wagons. [Illustration: A yoke of oxen.] It was here at Kanesville that the last purchases were made, the last letter sent back to anxious friends. Once across the Missouri and headed westward, we should have to cross the Rocky Mountains to find a town again. We had now come to the beginning of the second stage of our long journey. We had reached the Missouri River. From the western bank of the river we should strike out across the Plains, through what is now Nebraska and Wyoming, to the crest of the continent. We should follow the ox-team trail along the north bank of the Platte, and then up the north fork of the Platte to the mountains. But first we must get across the Missouri. "What on earth is that?" exclaimed one of the women, as we approached the landing for the ferry which crossed the river to a point a few miles below where Omaha now stands. "It looks for all the world like a big white flatiron," answered another. [Illustration: On this page and the following are shown the main trails that stretched across the continent, west of the Missouri, in the years before the building of railroads. The Oregon Trail from Kanesville to Portland is marked with the heaviest line. The lighter line from Huntsville to Kanesville shows Ezra Meeker's early travels; this marks not a trail but a main-traveled road. People starting out from St. Louis for the Oregon Country went by way of the Santa Fé Trail about as far as Fort Leavenworth, then northwest to Fort Kearney on the Platte River, where they joined the trail from Kanesville. The Santa Fé Trail was the earliest trail to be made; trading expeditions had gone from St. Louis to Santa Fé since the early 1800's. The California Trail and the Oregon Trail are the same as far as the big bend of the Bear River, at which point the California Trail goes off to the southwest.] [Illustration] We drivers had little time for looking and for making comparisons. All our attention had to be given to our teams, for as we neared the landing we found the roads terribly cut up on account of the concentrated travel. It was indeed a sight long to be remembered. The "white flatiron" proved to be wagons with their tongues pointing to the landing. A center train with other parallel trains extended back in the rear, gradually covering a wider range the farther back from the river it went. Several hundred wagons were thus closely interlocked, completely blocking the approach to the landing. All about were camps of every kind, some without any covering at all, others with comfortable tents. Nearly everybody appeared to be intent on merrymaking, and the fiddlers and dancers were busy; but here and there were small groups engaged in devotional services. These camps contained the outfits, in great part, of the wagons in line; some of them had been there for two weeks with still no prospect of securing an early crossing. Two scows only were engaged in crossing the wagons and teams. The muddy waters of the Missouri had already swallowed up two victims. On the first day we were there, I saw a third victim go under the drift of a small island within sight of his shrieking wife. The stock had rushed to one side of the boat, submerging the gunwale, and had precipitated the whole load into the dangerous river. One yoke of oxen that had reached the farther shore deliberately reëntered the river with a heavy yoke on, and swam to the Iowa side; there they were finally saved by the helping hands of the assembled emigrants. "What shall we do?" was the question passed around in our party, without answer. Tom McAuley was not yet looked upon as a leader, as was the case later. "Build a boat," said his sister Margaret, a most determined maiden lady, the oldest of the party and as resolute and brave as the bravest. But of what should we build it? While a search for material was being made, one of our party, who had got across the river in search of timber, discovered a scow, almost completely buried, on the sandpit opposite the landing. The report seemed too good to be true. The next thing to do was to find the owner. We discovered him eleven miles down the river. "Yes, if you will agree to deliver the boat safely to me after crossing your five wagons and teams, you may have it," said he. [Illustration: Digging out the scow.] The bargain was closed then and there. My, but that night didn't we make the sand fly from the boat! By morning we could begin to see the end of the job. Then, while busy hands began to cut a landing on the perpendicular sandy bank of the Iowa side, others were preparing sweeps. All was bustle and stir. Meanwhile it had become noised around that another boat would be put on to ferry people over, and we were besieged with applications from detained emigrants. Finally, the word coming to the ears of the ferrymen, they were foolish enough to undertake to prevent us from crossing without their help. A writ of replevin or some other process was issued,--I never knew exactly what,--directing the sheriff to take possession of the boat when it landed. This he attempted to do. I never before or since attempted to resist an officer of the law; but when that sheriff put in an appearance and we realized what his coming meant, there wasn't a man in our party that did not run to the nearby camp for his gun. It is needless to add that we did not need to use the guns. As if by magic a hundred other guns came in sight. The sheriff withdrew, and the crossing went on peaceably till all our wagons were safely landed. We had still another danger to face. We learned that an attempt would be made to take the boat from us, the action being not against us, but against the owner. Thanks to the adroit management of McAuley and my brother Oliver, we were able to fulfill our engagement to deliver the boat safely to the owner. We were now across the river, and it might almost be said that we had left the United States. When we set foot upon the right bank of the Missouri River we were outside the pale of law. We were within the Indian country, where no organized civil government existed. Some people and some writers have assumed that on the Plains each man was "a law unto himself" and free to do his own will,--dependent, of course, upon his physical ability to enforce it. Nothing could be farther from the facts than this assumption, as evil-doers soon found out to their discomfort. It is true that no general organization for law and order was effected on the western side of the river. But the American instinct for fair play and a hearing for everybody prevailed, so that while there was no mob law, the law of self-preservation asserted itself, and the counsels of the level-headed older men prevailed. When an occasion called for action, a "high court" was convened, and woe betide the man that would undertake to defy its mandates after its deliberations were made public! An incident that occurred in what is now Wyoming, well up on the Sweetwater River, will illustrate the spirit of determination of the sturdy men of the Plains. A murder had been committed, and it was clear that the motive was robbery. The suspected man and his family were traveling along with the moving column. Men who had volunteered to search for the missing man finally found evidence proving the guilt of the person suspected. A council of twelve men was called, and it deliberated until the second day, meanwhile holding the murderer safely. What were they to do? Here were a wife and four little children depending upon this man for their lives. What would become of his family if justice was meted out to him? Soon there developed an undercurrent of opinion that it was probably better to waive punishment than to endanger the lives of the family; but the council would not be swerved from its resolution. At sundown of the third day the criminal was hanged in the presence of the whole camp. This was not done until ample provision had been made to insure the safety of the family by providing a driver to finish the journey. I came so near to seeing the hanging that I did see the ends of the wagon tongues in the air and the rope dangling therefrom. From necessity, murder was punishable with death. The penalty for stealing was whipping, which, when inflicted by one of those long ox lashes in the hands of an expert, would bring the blood from the victim's back at every stroke. Minor offenses, or differences generally, were arbitrated. Each party would abide by the decision as if it had come from a court of law. Lawlessness was not common on the Plains. It was less common, indeed, than in the communities from which the great body of the emigrants had been drawn, for punishment was swift and certain. The greater body of the emigrants formed themselves into large companies and elected captains. These combinations soon began to dissolve and re-form, only to dissolve again, with a steady accompaniment of contentions. I would not enter into any organized company, but neither could I travel alone. By tacit agreement our party and the McAuleys travelled together, the outfit consisting of four wagons and thirteen persons--nine men, three women, and the baby. Yet although we kept apart as a separate unit, we were all the while in one great train, never out of sight and hearing of others. In fact, at times the road would be so full of wagons that all could not travel in one track, and this fact accounts for the double roadbeds seen in so many places on the trail. [Illustration: Giving chase to the buffaloes.] CHAPTER FIVE THE WESTWARD RUSH WE crossed the Missouri on the seventeenth and eighteenth of May. The next day we made a short drive, and camped within hearing of the shrill steamboat whistle that resounded far over the prairie. The whistle announced the arrival of a steamer. This meant that a dozen or more wagons could be carried across the river at a time, and that a dozen or more trips could be made during the day, with as many more at night. Very soon we were overtaken by this throng of wagons. They gave us some troubles, and much discomfort. The rush for the West was then at its height. The plan of action was to push ahead and make as big a day's drive as possible; hence it is not to be wondered at that nearly all the thousand wagons that crossed the river after we did soon passed us. "Now, fellers, jist let 'em rush on. If we keep cool, we'll overcatch 'em afore long," said McAuley. And we did. We passed many a team, broken down as a result of those first few days of rush. People often brought these and other ills upon themselves by their own indiscretion. The traveling had not progressed far until there came a general outcry against the heavy loads and unnecessary articles. Soon we began to see abandoned property. First it might be a table or a cupboard, or perhaps a bedstead or a cast-iron cookstove. Then feather beds, blankets, quilts, and pillows were seen. Very soon, here and there would be an abandoned wagon; then provisions, stacks of flour and bacon being the most abundant--all left as common property. It was a case of help yourself if you would; no one would interfere. In some places such a sign was posted,--"Help yourself." Hundreds of wagons were left and hundreds of tons of goods. People seemed to vie with each other in giving away their property. There was no chance to sell, and they disliked to destroy their goods. Long after the end of the mania for getting rid of goods to lighten loads, the abandonment of wagons continued, as the teams became weaker and the ravages of cholera among the emigrants began to tell. It was then that many lost their heads and ruined their teams by furious driving, by lack of care, and by abuse. There came a veritable stampede--a strife for possession of the road, to see who should get ahead. It was against the rule to attempt to pass a team ahead; a wagon that had withdrawn from the line and stopped beside the trail could get into the line again, but on the march it could not cut ahead of the wagon in front of it. Yet now whole trains would strive, often with bad blood, for the mastery of the trail, one attempting to pass the other. Frequently there were drivers on both sides of the team to urge the poor, suffering brutes forward. [Illustration: _United States Geological Survey_ The Platte River. Along this old stream the Oregon Trail wound its way for nearly five hundred miles.] We were on the trail along the north side of the Platte River. The cholera epidemic struck our moving column where the throng from the south side of the Platte began crossing. This, as I recollect, was near where the city of Kearney now stands, about two hundred miles west of the Missouri River. "What shall we do?" passed from one to another in our little family council. "Now, fellers," said McAuley, "don't lose your heads, but do jist as you've been doing. You gals, jist make your bread as light as ever, and we'll take river water the same as ever, even if it is most as thick as mud, and boil it." We had all along refused to dig little wells near the banks of the Platte, as many others did; for we had soon learned that the water obtained was strongly charged with alkali, while the river water was comparatively pure, except for the sediment, so fine as seemingly to be held in solution. "Keep cool," McAuley continued. "Maybe we'll have to lay down, and maybe not. Anyway, it's no use frettin'. What's to be will be, 'specially if we but help things along." This homely yet wise counsel fell upon willing ears, as most of us were already of the same mind. We did just as we had been doing, and all but one of our party escaped unharmed. We had then been in the buffalo country for several days. Some of the young men, keen for hunting, had made themselves sick by getting overheated and drinking impure water. Such was the experience of my brother Oliver. Being of an adventurous spirit, he could not restrain his ardor, gave chase to the buffaloes, and fell sick almost to death. This occurred just at the time when we encountered the cholera panic. It must be the cholera that had taken hold of him, his companions argued. Some of his party could not delay. "It is certain death," I said, "to take him along in that condition." They admitted this to be true. "Divide the outfit, then," it was suggested. Two of Oliver's companions, the Davenport brothers, would not leave him; so their portion of the outfit was set aside with his. This gave the three a wagon and a team. Turning to Buck, I said, "I can't ask you to stay with me." The answer came back as quick as a flash, "I'm going to stay with you without asking." And he did, too, though my brother was almost a total stranger to him. We nursed the sick man for four days amidst scenes of death and excitement such as I hope never again to see. On the fifth day we were able to proceed and to take the convalescent man with us. The experience of our camp was the experience of hundreds of others: there were countless incidents of friends parting; of desertion; of noble sacrifice; of the revelation of the best and the worst in man. In a diary of one of these pioneers, I find the following: "Found a family consisting of husband, wife, and four small children, whose cattle we supposed had given out and died. They were here all alone, and no wagon or cattle in sight." They had been thrown out by the owner of a wagon and left on the road to die. From a nearby page of the same diary, I read: "Here we met Mr. Lot Whitcom, direct from Oregon. Told me a great deal about Oregon. He has provisions, but none to sell; but gives to all he finds in want, and who are unable to buy." [Illustration] [Illustration: Pioneers on the march.] CHAPTER SIX THE PIONEER ARMY OF THE PLAINS DURING the ox-team days a mighty army of pioneers went West. In the year that we crossed (1852), when the migration was at its height, this army made an unbroken column fully five hundred miles long. We knew by the inscribed dates found on Independence Rock and elsewhere that there were wagons three hundred miles ahead of us, and the throng continued crossing the river for more than a month after we had crossed it. How many people this army comprised cannot be known; the roll was never called. History has no record of a greater number of emigrants ever making so long a journey as did these pioneers. There must have been three hundred and fifty thousand in the years of the great rush overland, from 1843 to 1857. Careful estimates of the total migration westward from 1843 to 1869, when the first railroad across the continent was completed, make the number nearly half a million. The animals driven over the Plains during these years were legion. Besides those that labored under the yoke, in harness, and under saddle, there was a vast herd of loose stock. A conservative estimate would be not less than six animals to the wagon, and surely there were three loose animals to each one in the teams. Sixteen hundred wagons passed us while we waited for Oliver to recover. With these teams must have been nearly ten thousand beasts of burden and thirty thousand head of loose stock. Is it any wonder that the old trail was worn so deep that even now in places it looks like a great canal? At one point near Split Rock, Wyoming, I found the road cut so deep in the solid sandstone that the kingbolt of my wagon dragged on the high center. The pioneer army was a moving mass of human beings and dumb brutes, at times mixed in inextricable confusion, a hundred feet wide or more. Sometimes two columns of wagons, traveling on parallel lines and near each other, would serve as a barrier to prevent loose stock from crossing; but usually there would be a confused mass of cows, young cattle, horses, and men afoot moving along the outskirts. Here and there would be the drivers of loose stock, some on foot and some on horseback: a young girl, maybe, riding astride and with a younger child behind her, going here and there after an intractable cow, while the mother could be seen in the confusion lending a helping hand. As in a thronged city street, no one seemed to look to the right or to the left, or to pay much attention, if any, to others, all being bent only on accomplishing the task in hand. The dust was intolerable. In calm weather it would rise so thick at times that the lead team of oxen could not be seen from the wagon. Like a London fog, it seemed thick enough to cut. Then again, the steady flow of wind through the South Pass would hurl the dust and sand like fine hail, sometimes with force enough to sting the face and hands. Sometimes we had trying storms that would wet us to the skin in no time. One such I remember well, being caught in it while out on watch. The cattle traveled so fast that it was difficult to keep up with them. I could do nothing but follow, as it would have been impossible to turn them. I have always thought of this storm as a cloudburst. Anyhow, in an incredibly short time there was not a dry thread left on me. My boots were as full of water as if I had been wading over boot-top depth, and the water ran through my hat as though it were a sieve. I was almost blinded in the fury of the wind and water. Many tents were leveled by this storm. One of our neighboring trains suffered great loss by the sheets of water on the ground floating away camp equipage, ox yokes, and all loose articles; and they narrowly escaped having a wagon engulfed in the raging torrent that came so unexpectedly upon them. Fording a river was usually tiresome, and sometimes dangerous. I remember fording the Loup fork of the Platte with a large number of wagons fastened together with ropes or chains, so that if a wagon got into trouble the teams in front would help to pull it out. The quicksand would cease to sustain the wheels so suddenly that the wagon would drop a few inches with a jolt, and up again the wheel would come as new sand was struck; then down again it would go, up and down, precisely as if the wagons were passing over a rough corduroy road that "nearly jolted the life out of us," as the women folks said after it was over, and no wonder, for the river at this point was half a mile wide. Many of the pioneers crossed rivers in their wagon boxes and very few lost their lives in doing so. The difference between one of these prairie-schooner wagon boxes and that of a scow-shaped, flat-bottomed boat is that the wagon box has the ribs on the outside, while in a boat they are on the inside. The number of casualties in that army of emigrants I hesitate to guess at. Shall we say that ten per cent fell on the way? Many old plainsmen would think that estimate too low; yet ten per cent would give us five thousand lives as one year's toll paid for the peopling of the Oregon Country. Mrs. Cecilia McMillen Adams, late of Hillsboro, Oregon, kept a painstaking diary when she crossed the Plains in 1852. She counted the graves passed and noted down the number. In this diary, published in full by the Oregon Pioneer Association, I find the following entries: June 14. Passed seven new-made graves. June 16. Passed eleven new graves. June 17. Passed six new graves. June 18. We have passed twenty-one new graves today. June 19. Passed thirteen graves today. June 20. Passed ten graves. June 21. No report. June 22. Passed seven graves. If we should go by the camping grounds, we should see five times as many graves as we do. This report of Mrs. Adams's, coupled with the facts that a parallel column from which we have no report was traveling up the south side of the river, and that the outbreak of cholera had taken place originally in this column coming from the southeast, fully confirms the estimate of five thousand deaths on the Plains in 1852. It is probably under rather than over the actual number. To the emigrants the fact that all the graves were new-made brought an added touch of sadness. The graves of previous years had disappeared, leveled by the storms of wind or rain, by the hoofs of the stock, or possibly by ravages of the hungry wolf. Many believed that the Indians had robbed the graves for the clothing on the bodies. Whatever the cause, all, or nearly all, graves of previous years were lost, and we knew that the last resting places of those that we might leave behind would also be lost by the next year. One of the incidents that made a profound impression upon the minds of all was the meeting with eleven wagons returning, and not a man left in the entire train. All the men had died and had been buried on the way, and the women and children were returning to their homes alone from a point well up on the Platte, below Fort Laramie. The difficulties of the return trip were multiplied on account of the throng moving westward. How those women succeeded in their attempt, or what became of them, we never knew. [Illustration] [Illustration: In an instant each Indian had dropped to the side of his horse.] CHAPTER SEVEN INDIANS AND BUFFALOES ON THE PLAINS OUR trail led straight across the Indian lands most of the way. The redmen naturally resented this intrusion into their territory; but they did not at this time fight against it. Their attitude was rather one of expecting pay for the privilege of using their land, their grass, and their game. As soon as a part of our outfits were landed on the right bank of the Missouri River, our trouble with the Indians began, not in open hostilities, but in robbery under the guise of beggary. The word had been passed around in our little party that not a cent's worth of provisions would we give up to the Indians. We believed this policy to be our only safeguard from spoliation, and in that we were right. Our women folks had been taken over the river with the first wagon and had gone on to a convenient camp site nearby. The first show of weapons came from that side of our little community, when some of the bolder Pawnees attempted to pilfer around the wagons. No blood was shed, however, and indeed there was none shed by any of our party during the entire journey. [Illustration: Demanding pay for crossing.] Soon after we had left the Missouri River we came to a small bridge over a washout across the road, evidently constructed by some train just ahead of us. The Indians had taken possession and were demanding pay for crossing. Some parties ahead of us had paid, while others were hesitating; but with a few there was a determined resolution not to pay. When our party came up it remained for that fearless man, McAuley, to clear the way in short order, though the Indians were there in considerable numbers. "You fellers come right on," said McAuley. "I'm goin' across that bridge if I have to run right over that Injen settin' there." And he did almost run over the Indian, who at the last moment got out of the way of his team. Other teams followed in such quick succession and with such a show of guns that the Indians withdrew and left the road unobstructed. Once I came very near to getting into serious trouble with three Indians on horseback. We had hauled my wagon away from the road to get water, I think, and had become separated from the passing throng. We were almost, but not quite, out of sight of any wagons or camps. The Indians came up ostensibly to beg, but really to rob. They began first to solicit, and afterwards to threaten. I started to drive on, not thinking they would use actual violence, as there were other wagons certainly within a half mile. I thought they were merely trying to frighten me into giving up at least a part of my outfit. Finally one of the Indians whipped out his knife and cut loose the cow that I was leading behind the wagon. I did not have to ask for my gun. My wife, who had been watching from within the wagon, saw that the time had come to fight and handed my rifle to me from under the cover. Before the savages had time to do anything further they saw the gun. They were near enough to make it certain that one shot would take deadly effect; but instead of shooting one Indian, I trained the gun so that I might quickly choose among the three. In an instant each Indian had dropped to the side of his horse and was speeding away in great haste. The old saying that "almost any one will fight when cornered" was exemplified in this incident; but I did not want any more such experiences, and consequently thereafter became more careful not to be separated from the other wagons. On the whole, we did not have much trouble with the Indians in 1852. The great numbers of the emigrants, coupled with the superiority of their arms, made them comparatively safe. It must be remembered, also, that this was before the treaty-making period, and the Indians of the Plains were not yet incensed against white men in general. Herds of buffalo were more often seen than bands of Indians. The buffalo trails generally followed the water courses or paralleled them. But sometimes they would lead across the country with scarcely any deviation from a direct course. When on the road a herd would persistently follow their leader, whether in the wild tumult of a stampede or in leisurely grazing as they traveled. A story is told, and it is doubtless true, of a chase in the upper regions of the Missouri, where the leaders of the buffalo herd, either voluntarily or by pressure from the mass behind, leaped to their death over a perpendicular bluff a hundred feet high, overlooking the river. The herd followed blindly until not only hundreds but thousands lay struggling at the foot of the bluff. They piled one upon another till the space between the river and the bluff was bridged, and the last of the victims plunged headlong into the river. Well up on the Platte, but below Fort Laramie, we had the experience of a night stampede that struck terror to the heart of man and beast. It so happened that we had brought our cattle into camp that evening, a thing we did not usually do. We had driven the wagons into a circle, with the tongue of each wagon chained to the hind axletree of the wagon ahead. The cattle were led inside the circle and the tents were pitched outside. [Illustration: A night out on the range.] Usually I would be out on the range with the oxen at night, and if I slept at all, snuggled up close to the back of my good ox, Dandy; but that night, with the oxen safe inside the enclosure, I slept in the wagon. William Buck and my brother Oliver were in a tent near by, sleeping on the ground. [Illustration: _L. A. Huffman_ A remnant of the buffalo herds that once roamed the Plains.] Suddenly there was a sound like an approaching storm. Almost instantly every animal in the corral was on its feet. The alarm was given and all hands turned out, not yet knowing what caused the general commotion. The roar we heard was like that of a heavy railroad train passing at no great distance on a still night. As by instinct all seemed to know suddenly that it was a buffalo stampede. The tents were emptied of their inmates, the weak parts of the corral guarded, the frightened cattle looked after, and every one in the camp was on the alert to watch what was coming. In the darkness of the night we could see first the forms of the leaders, and then such dense masses that we could not distinguish one buffalo from the other. How long they were in passing we forgot to note; it seemed like an age. When daylight came the few stragglers yet to be seen fell under the unerring aim of the frontiersman's rifle. We were lucky, but our neighbors in camp did not escape loss. Some were detained for days, gathering up their scattered stock, while others were unable to find their teams. Some of the animals never were recovered. When not on the road, the buffalo were shy, difficult to approach, and hard to bag, even with the long-range rifles of the pioneers. But for over six hundred miles along the trail, a goodly supply of fresh meat was obtainable. [Illustration: The prairie wagon used as a boat.] CHAPTER EIGHT TRAILING THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN LAND AS the column of wagons passed up the Platte in what is now western Nebraska, there was some relief from the dust. The throng was visibly thinned out; some had pushed on beyond the congested district, while others had lagged behind. The dead, too, had left room upon the road. When we reached the higher lands of Wyoming, our traveling became still more pleasant. The nights were cooler, and we had clearer, purer water. As we gradually ascended the Sweetwater, life grew more tolerable and discomfort less acute. We were now nearing the crest of the continent. The climb was so gradual, however, as to be hardly observable. The summit of the Rocky Mountains, through the South Pass, presents a wide, open, undulating country. The Pass offers, therefore, an easy gateway to the West. Passing Pacific Springs at the summit, we rolled over to Big Sandy Creek. At this point we left the Salt Lake Trail (known also as the Mormon Trail) and took the Sublette Cut-off over to Bear River. This was a shorter trail to the Oregon Country, made by William Sublette, one of the American fur traders of the early days. The earlier emigrants to Oregon went on to Fort Bridger before leaving the Salt Lake route. [Illustration: _Howard R. Driggs_ The big bend of the Bear River in Idaho.] The most attractive natural phenomenon encountered on the whole trip was found at the Soda Springs, near Bear River in Idaho. Some of the springs, in fact, are right in the bed of the river. One of them, Steamboat Spring, was spouting at regular intervals as we passed. Just after leaving Soda Springs our little company of friends separated. The McAuleys and William Buck took the trail to California, while with Oliver and the Davenport brothers we went northwest to Oregon. Jacob, the younger of the brothers, fell sick and gradually grew worse as the journey grew harder. Shortly after reaching Portland the poor boy died. Thomas McAuley settled in the Hobart hills in California and became a respected citizen of that state. When last I heard of him he was eighty-eight years old. William Buck has long since lain down to rest. A few years after we had parted on the big bend of the Bear River, I heard from William in a way that was characteristic of the man. He had been back to "the States," as we then called the eastern part of our country, and returning to California by way of the Isthmus of Panama, he had brought fifty swarms of bees. Three of these swarms he sent up to me in Washington. As far as I know these were the first honey bees in that state. William Buck was a man who was always doing a good turn for his friends. When Snake River was reached, and in fact even before that, the heat again became oppressive, the dust stifling, and the thirst at times almost maddening. In some places we could see the water of the Snake winding through the lava gorges; but we could not reach it, as the river ran in the inaccessible depths of the canyon. Sickness again became prevalent, and another outbreak of cholera claimed many victims. There were but few ferries, and none at all in many places where crossings were to be made. Even where there was a ferry, the charges were so high that they were out of reach of most of the emigrants. As for me, all my funds had been absorbed in procuring my outfit at Eddyville, in Iowa. We had not dreamed that there would be use for money on the Plains, where there were neither supplies nor people. But we soon found out our mistake. The crossing of the Snake River, although late in the journey, gave us the opportunity to mend matters. About thirty miles below Salmon Falls the dilemma confronted us of either crossing the Snake River or having our teams starve on the trip down the river on the south bank. We found that some emigrants had calked two wagon beds and lashed them together, and were using this craft for crossing. But they would not help others across for less than three to five dollars a wagon, the party swimming their own stock. If others could cross in wagon beds, why couldn't we do likewise? Without more ado all the old clothing that could possibly be spared was assembled, and tar buckets were scraped. Old chisels and broken knives were hunted up, and a boat repairing and calking campaign began. Very soon the wagon box rode placidly, even if not gracefully, on the waters of the Snake River. My boyhood experience at playing with logs and leaky old skiffs in the waters of White River now served me well; I could row a boat. My first venture across the Snake River was with the wagon gear run over the wagon box, the whole being gradually worked out into deep water. The load was so heavy that a very small margin was left to prevent the water from breaking over the sides, and some water did enter as light ripples on the surface struck the _Mary Jane_--for we had duly named our craft. I got over safely, but after that I took lighter loads, and I really enjoyed the work, with the change from the intolerable dust to the clear atmosphere of the river. Some people were so infatuated with the idea of floating on the water that they were easily persuaded by an unprincipled trader at the lower crossing to dispose of their teams for a song and to embark in their wagon beds for a voyage down the river. A number of people thus lost everything they had, and some even lost their lives. After terrible hardships, the survivors reached the road again, to become objects of charity. I knew one survivor who was out seven days without food other than a scant supply of berries and vegetable growth and "a few crickets, but not many." We had no trouble to get the cattle across, although the river was wide. Dandy would do almost anything I asked of him; so, leading him to the water's edge, with a little coaxing I got him into swimming water and guided him across with the wagon bed. The others all followed, having been driven into deep water after the leader. It seems almost incredible how passively obedient cattle will become after long training on such a journey. Indeed, the ox is always patient, and usually quite obedient; but when oxen get heated and thirsty, they become headstrong and reckless, and won't obey. I have known them to take off the road to a water hole, when apparently nothing could stop them till they had gone so far into the mud and water that it was a hard job for them to get out again. We had not finished crossing when tempting offers came from others to cross them; but all our party said, "No, we must travel." The rule had been adopted to travel some distance every day that it was possible. "Travel, travel, travel," was the watchword, and nothing could divert us from that resolution. On the third day we were ready to pull out from the river, with the cattle rested by the enforced wait. Now the question was, what about the lower crossing? Those who had crossed over the river must somehow get back. It was less than a hundred and fifty miles to the place where we must again cross to the south side (the left bank) of the river. I could walk that distance in three days, while it would take our teams ten. Could I go on ahead, procure a wagon box, and start a ferry of my own? The thought brought an affirmative answer at once. With only food and a small blanket for load, I walked to the lower crossing. It may be ludicrous, but it is true, that the most I remember about that tramp is the jack rabbits. Such swarms, as I traveled down the Boise valley, I had never seen before and I never saw again. I soon obtained a wagon bed, and all day long for several days I was at work crossing people. I continued at this till our teams came up, and for a few days after that. I left the river with a hundred and ten dollars in my pocket. All but two dollars and seventy-five cents of this was gone before I arrived in Portland. But we could not delay longer, even to make money. I thought I could see signs of failing strength in my young wife and the baby. Not for mountains of gold would we jeopardize their lives. All along the way the baby and the little mother had been tenderly cared for. We used to clear away a space in the wagon bed for them to take a nap together. The slow swaying of the wagon over smooth, sandy stretches made a rock-a-by movement that would lull them off to dreamland and make them forget the weary way. When we left the lower crossing, the mother and baby were placed in a small wagon. A sprightly yoke of oxen was hitched to it that they might get an early start and keep out of the dust. What few delicacies the pioneers had were given to them. By this tender care the mother and child were enabled to continue to the end of the long journey, though the brave little mother was frail and weak from the wearisome struggle before we reached a resting place at last. [Illustration: A nap in the wagon.] What became of that baby? He thrived and grew to manhood and he is now living, sixty-nine years of age, in California. Some of his grandchildren are almost grown to manhood and womanhood. [Illustration: _Myers, Boise, Idaho_ Thousand Springs of the Snake River, Idaho.] [Illustration: The travel-worn wanderers sing "Home, Sweet Home."] CHAPTER NINE REACHING THE END OF THE TRAIL AFTER leaving the Snake River we had one of the worst stretches of the trying journey. From the lower crossing of the Snake River at old Fort Boise to The Dalles is approximately three hundred and fifty miles over mountains and deserts. It became a serious question with many travelers whether there would be enough provisions left to keep them from starvation and whether their teams could muster strength to take the wagons in. Many wagons were left by the wayside. Everything that could possibly be spared shared the same fate. Provisions, and provisions only, were religiously cared for. Considering the weakened condition of both man and beast, it was small wonder that some ill-advised persons should take to the river in their wagon beds, many thus going to their death. [Illustration: _Benj. A. Gifford_ The cataract of the Columbia.] The dust got deeper every day. Going through it was like wading in water as to resistance. Often it would lie in the road fully six inches deep, so fine that a person wading through it would scarcely leave a track. And when disturbed, such clouds! No words can describe it. [Illustration: _Benj. A. Gifford_ Shifting sands of eastern Oregon.] At length, after we had endured five long months of soul-trying travel and had covered about eighteen hundred miles, counting from the crossing of the Missouri, we dragged ourselves on to the end of the Overland Trail at The Dalles on the Columbia River. From here my wife and I, with the baby, went by boat down the river, while Oliver took the ox team on to Portland by the land way. The Dalles is a name given to the peculiar lava rock formation that strikes across the Columbia, nearly two hundred miles from the mouth. These rocks throw the great stream into a fury of foaming rapids. An Indian legend says that the Bridge of the Gods was once near The Dalles, but that the bridge broke and fell. On the September day in 1852 when we reached The Dalles, we found there a great crowd of travel-worn people. This assemblage was constantly changing. It was a coming-and-going congregation. [Illustration: _Gifford & Prentiss_ Where the Columbia cuts through the Cascades.] The appearance of this crowd of emigrants beggars description. Their dress was as varied as pieces in a crazy quilt. Here was a matronly dame in clean apparel, but without shoes; her husband perhaps lacked both shoes and hat. Youngsters of all sizes were running about with scarcely enough clothing to cover their nakedness. Some suits and dresses were so patched that it was impossible to tell what was the original cloth. The color of practically everybody's clothing was that of desert dust. Every little while other sweat-streaked, motley-dressed homeseekers would straggle up to this end of the long trail. Their thoughts went back to their old homes, or to the loved ones that they had laid away tenderly in the shifting sands of the Plains. Most of them faced the future with fortitude; the difficulties they had met and mastered had but steeled them to meet the difficulties ahead. There was an undercurrent of gladness in their souls with the thought that they had achieved the end of the Overland Trail. They were ready now to go on down the Columbia to find their new homes in this great, unknown Land of Promise. Almost every nationality was represented among them. All traces of race peculiarity and race prejudice, however, had been ground away in the mill of adversity. The trying times through which these pioneers had just passed had brought all to a kinship of feeling such as only trail and danger can beget. Friendships, sincere and lasting, came as one of the sweet rewards of those days of common struggle and adversity. Few of the pioneers are now left to talk over the old days; when any of them do meet, the greeting is one of brotherhood indeed. We camped but two days on the bank of the Columbia River. When I say "we," let it be understood that I mean myself, my young wife, and the baby boy who was but seven weeks old when the start was made from Eddyville. [Illustration: _Kiser Bros._ St. Peter's Dome--one of the sentinels of the Columbia.] I do not remember the embarking on the great scow for our trip down the Columbia to the Cascades. But incidents of the voyage come to me as vividly as if they had happened but yesterday. Those who took passage felt that the journey was ended. The cattle had been unyoked for the last time; the wagons had been rolled to the last bivouac; the embers of the last camp fire had died out. We were entering now upon a new field with new present experiences, and with new expectancy for the morrow. The scow, or lighter, upon which we took passage was decked over, but without railing, offering a smooth surface upon which to pile our belongings. These, in the majority of cases, made but a very small showing. The whole deck surface of the scow was covered with the remnants of the homeseekers' outfits, which in turn were covered by the owners, either sitting or reclining upon their possessions, with but scant room to change position or move about in any way. There must have been a dozen families or more on the boat, or about sixty persons. These were principally women and children; the young men and some of the older ones were still struggling on the mountain trail to get the teams through to the west side of the Cascade Mountains. As we went floating down that wonderful old river, the deep depression of spirits that, for lack of a better name, we call "the blues," seized upon us. Do you wonder why? We were like an army that had burned the bridges behind it. We had scant knowledge of what lay in the track before us. Here we were, more than two thousand miles from home,--separated from it by a trackless, uninhabited waste of country. It was impossible for us to retrace our steps. Go ahead we must, no matter what we were to encounter. Then, too, we had for months borne the burden of duties that could not be avoided or delayed, until many were on the verge of collapse from strain and overwork. Some were sick, and all were reduced in flesh from the urgent toil at camp duty and from lack of variety of food. Such was the condition of the motley crowd of sixty persons as we slowly neared that wonderful channel through which the great Columbia flows while passing the Cascade range. For myself, I can truly say that the journey had not drawn on my vitality as it had with so many. True, I had been worked down in flesh, having lost nearly twenty pounds; but what weight I had left was the bone and sinew of my system. The good body my parents had given me carried me then and afterwards through many hardships without great distress. [Illustration: _Benj. A. Gifford_ Multnomah Falls along the Columbia; named after a famous Indian chief.] In our company, a party of three, a young married couple and an unmarried sister, lounged on their belongings, listlessly watching the ripples on the water, as did also others of the party. But little conversation was passing. Each seemed to be communing with himself or herself, but it was easy to see what were the thoughts occupying the minds of all. The young husband, it was plain to be seen, would soon complete that greater journey to the unknown beyond, a condition that weighed so heavily upon the ladies of the party that they could ill conceal their solicitude and sorrow. Finally, to cheer up the sick husband and brother, the ladies began in sweet, subdued voices to sing the old familiar song of "Home, Sweet Home," whereupon others of the party joined in the chorus with increased volume of sound. As the echo died away, at the moment of gliding under the shadow of the high mountain, the second verse was begun, but was never finished. If an electric shock had startled every individual of the party, there could have been no more simultaneous effect than when the second line of the second verse was reached, when instead of song, sobs and outcries of grief poured forth from all lips. It seemed as if there were a tumult of despair mingled with prayer. The rugged boatmen rested upon their oars in awe, and gave way in sympathy with the scene before them, until it could be truly said no dry eyes were left nor aching heart but was relieved. Like the downpour of a summer shower that suddenly clears the atmosphere to welcome the bright shining sun that follows, so this sudden outburst of grief cleared away the despondency, to be replaced by an exalted, exhilarating feeling of buoyancy and hopefulness. The tears were not dried till mirth took possession--a real hysterical manifestation of the whole party, ending all depression for the rest of the trip. On this last stage of the journey other parties had much more trying experiences than ours. John Whitacre, afterward governor of Oregon, was the head of a party of nine that constructed a raft at The Dalles out of dry poles hauled from the adjacent country. While their stock was started out over the trail, their two wagons were put upon the raft. With the women and children in the wagons, perched on the provisions and bedding, the start was made to float down the river to the Cascades. They had hardly begun the journey when the waves swept over the raft. It was like a submerged foundation upon which their wagons stood. A landing a few miles out of The Dalles averted a total wreck, and afforded opportunity to strengthen the buoyancy of the raft with extra timber carried upon the backs of the men for long distances. Then the question arose, how should they know when they would reach the falls? Would they be able to discover the falls in time to make a landing? Their fears finally got the better of them and a line was run ashore; but instead of making a landing, they found themselves hard aground out of reach of land, except by wading a long distance. This occurred while they were many miles above the falls, or Cascades. At last they gave up the raft and procured a scow. In this they reached the head of the Cascades in safety. As we neared Portland we felt that a long task had been completed. Yet reaching the end of the Overland Trail did not mean that our pioneer struggles were over. Before us lay still another task--the conquest of the new land. And it was no easy work, we were to learn, to find a home or make one in the western wilderness. PART TWO SETTLING IN THE NORTHWEST COUNTRY [Illustration: This is the region in which Ezra Meeker settled in 1852, when it was all known as the Oregon Country and had not been divided into Washington and Oregon. The journey from Portland to Kalama, where the first cabin was built, is shown by line 1. The line marked 2 shows the route followed in the journey to explore the Puget Sound region. The brothers went as far as Port Townsend, but turned back to make the second home at Steilacoom. Line 3 is the trail through the Natchess Pass, the trail that Ezra Meeker followed to meet his father's party coming up through the Blue Mountains.] [Illustration: Looking for work on the good ship _Mary Melville_.] CHAPTER TEN GETTING A NEW START IN THE NEW LAND ON the first day of October, 1852, at about nine o'clock at night, with a bright moon shining, we reached Portland. Oliver met us; he had come ahead by the trail and had found a place for us to lodge. I carried my wife, who had fallen ill, in my arms up the steep bank of the Willamette River and three blocks away to the lodging house, which was kept by a colored man. "Why, suh, I didn't think yuse could do that, yuse don't look it," said my colored friend, as I placed my wife on the clean bed in a cozy little room. This was the first house we had been in for five months. From April until October we had been on the move. Never a roof had been over our heads other than the wagon cover or tent, and no softer bed had we known than the ground or the bottom of the wagon. We had found a little steamer to carry us from the Cascades to Portland, along with most of the company that had floated in the scow down the river from The Dalles. The great Oregon Country, then including the Puget Sound region, was large enough to swallow up a thousand such migrations. Portland was no paradise at that time. It would be difficult to imagine a sorrier-looking place than the one that confronted us upon arrival. Some rain had fallen, and more soon followed. With the stumps and logs and mud and the uneven stretches of ground, it was no easy matter to find a resting place. The tented city was continually enlarging. People seemed to be dazed; it was hard to find paying work; there was insufficient shelter to house all. The country looked a great field of forests and mountains. Oliver and I had between us a cash capital of about three dollars. It was clear that we must find work at once, so at earliest dawn next day Oliver took the trail leading down the river, to search for something to do. I had a possible opportunity for work and wages already in mind. As we were passing up the Willamette, a few miles below Portland, on the evening of our arrival, a bark lay seemingly right in our path as we steamed by. This vessel looked to our inexperienced eyes like a veritable monster, with hull towering high above our heads and masts reaching to the sky. Probably not one of that whole party of frontiersmen had ever before seen a deep-sea vessel. The word went around that the bark was bound for Portland with a cargo of merchandise and was to take a return cargo of lumber. As we passed her there flashed through my mind the thought that there might be opportunity for work on that vessel next day. Sure enough, when morning came, the staunch bark _Mary Melville_ lay quietly in front of the mill. Without loss of time my inquiry was made: "Do you want any men on board this ship?" A gruff-looking fellow eyed me all over as much as to say, "Not you anyhow." But he answered, "Yes. Go below and get your breakfast." I fairly stammered out, "I must go and see my wife first, and let her know where I am." Thereupon came back a growl: "Of course, that will be the last of you! That's the way with these newcomers, always hunting for work and never wanting it." This last aside to a companion, in my hearing. I swallowed my indignation, assured him that I would be back in five minutes, and went post-haste to impart the good news. Put yourself in my place, you who have never come under the domination of a surly mate on a sailing vessel of seventy years ago. My ears fairly tingled with anger at the harshness of the orders, but I stuck to the work, smothering my rage at being berated while doing my very best. As the day went on I realized that the man was not angry; he had merely fallen into that way of talking. The sailors paid slight heed to what he said. Before night the fellow seemed to let up on me, while increasing his tirades at the regular men. The second and third day wore off. I had blistered hands, but never a word about wages or pay. "Say, boss, I'se got to pay my rent, and we'se always gits our pay in advance. I doan' like to ask you, but can't you git the old boss to put up somethin' on your work?" I could plainly see that my landlord was serving notice to pay or move. What should I do? Suppose the old skipper should discharge me for asking for wages before the end of the week? But when I told him what I wanted the money for, the old man's eyes moistened. Without a word he gave me more money than I had asked for, and that night the steward handed me a bottle of wine for the "missus." I knew that it came from the old captain. The baby's Sunday visit to the ship, the Sunday dinner in the cabin, the presents of delicacies that followed, even from the gruff mate, made me feel that under all this roughness lay a tender humanity. Away out here, three thousand miles from home, the same sort of people lived as those I had left behind me. Then came this message: St. Helens, October 7th, 1852. Dear Brother: Come as soon as you can. Have rented a house, sixty boarders. This is going to be the place. Shall I send you money? OLIVER P. MEEKER. The mate importuned me to stay until the cargo was on board. I did stay until the last stick of lumber was stowed, the last pig in the pen, and the ship swinging off, bound on her outward voyage. I felt as if I had an interest in her. Sure enough, I found St. Helens to be the place. Here was to be the terminus of the steamship line from San Francisco. "Wasn't the company building this wharf?" "They wouldn't set sixty men to work on the dock unless they meant business." "Ships can't get up the Willamette--that's nothing but a creek. The big city is going to be here." This was the talk that greeted my ears as I went looking about. We had carried my wife, this time in a chair, to our hotel--yes, our hotel!--and there we had placed her, and the baby too, of course, in the best room the house afforded. One January morning in 1853, our sixty men boarders did not go to work at the dock building as usual. Orders had come to suspend work. Nobody knew why, or for how long. We soon learned that the steamship company had given up the fight against Portland and would thenceforward run its steamers to that port. The dock was never finished and was allowed to fall into decay. With our boarders scattered, our occupation was gone, and our supplies were in great part rendered worthless to us by the change. Meantime, snow had fallen to a great depth. The price of forage for cattle rose by leaps and bounds, and we found that we must part with half of our stock to save the rest. It might be necessary to provide feed for a month, or for three months; we could not tell. The last cow was given up that we might keep one yoke of oxen, so necessary for the work on a new place. The search for a claim began at once. After one day's struggle against the current of the Lewis River, and a night standing in a snow and sleet storm around a camp fire of green wood, Oliver and I found our ardor cooled a little. Two hours sufficed to take us back home next morning. Claims we must have, though. That was what we had come to Oregon for. We were going to be farmers; wife and I had made that bargain before we closed the other more important contract. We were still of one mind as to both contracts. Early in January of 1853 the snow began disappearing rapidly, and the search for claims became more earnest. Finally, about the twentieth of January, I drove my stake for a claim. It included the site where the city of Kalama now stands. With my mind's eye I can see our first cabin as vividly as on the day it was finished. It was placed among the trees on a hillside, with the door in the end facing the beautiful river. The rocky nature of the site permitted little grading, but it added to the picturesqueness. The great river, the Columbia, was a mile wide at the point where our house stood. Once a day at least it seemed to tire from its ceaseless flow and to take a nooning spell. This was when the tides from the ocean held back the waters of the river. Immediately in front of our landing lay a small island of a few acres, covered with heavy timber and driftwood. This has long since been washed away, and ships now pass over the place in safety. The cabin was built of small, straight logs. The ribs projected a few feet to provide an open front porch--not for ornament, but for storage of dry wood and kindling. The walls were but a scant five feet high; the roof was not very steep; and there was a large stone fireplace and a chimney. The cabin was not large nor did it contain much in the way of furnishings; but it was home--our home. Our home! What a thrill of joy that thought brought to us! It was the first home we had ever had. We had been married nearly two years, yet this was really our first abiding place, for all other dwellings had been merely way stations on our march from Indianapolis to this cabin. The thought brought not only happiness but health to us. The glow returned to my wife's cheek, the dimple to the baby's. And such a baby! In the innocence of our souls we honestly thought we had the smartest, cutest baby on earth. Scarcely had we settled in our new home before there came a mighty flood that covered the waters of the river with wrecks of property. Oliver and I, with one of our neighbors, began to secure the logs that came floating down in great numbers. In a very short time we had a raft that was worth a good sum of money, could we but get it to market. [Illustration: Our first cabin home.] Encouraged by this find, we immediately turned our attention to some fine timber standing close to the bank near by, and began hand-logging to supplement what we had already secured afloat. This work soon gave us ample means to buy our winter supplies, even though flour was fifty dollars a barrel. And yet, because of that same hand-logging work, my wife came very near becoming a widow one morning before breakfast; but she did not know of it until long afterwards. It occurred in this way. We did not then know how to scaffold up above the tough, swelled bases of the large trees, and this made it very difficult to chop them down. So we burned through them. We bored two holes at an angle to meet inside the inner bark, and when we got a fire started there the heart of the tree would burn through, leaving an outer shell of bark. One morning, as usual, I was up early. After lighting the fire in the stove and putting on the kettle, I hastened to the burning timber to start the logging fires afresh. As I neared a clump of three giants, two hundred and fifty feet tall, one began toppling over toward me. In my confusion I ran across the path where it fell. This tree had scarcely reached the ground when a second started to fall almost parallel to it, the two tops barely thirty feet apart and the limbs flying in several directions. I was between the two trees. If I had not become entangled in some brush, I should have been crushed by the second falling tree. It was an escape so marvelous as almost to lead one to think that there is such a thing as a charmed life. [Illustration: A narrow escape.] In rafting our precious accumulations of timber down the Columbia River to Oak Point, we were carried by the current past the place where we had expected to sell our logs at six dollars a thousand feet. Following the raft to the larger waters, we finally reached Astoria, where we sold the logs for eight dollars a thousand instead of six, thus profiting by our misfortunes. But this final success had meant an involuntary plunge off the raft into the river with my boots on, for me, and three days and nights of ceaseless toil and watching for all of us. We voted unanimously that we would have no more such work. The flour sack was nearly empty when I left home. We were expecting to be absent but one night, and we had been gone a week. There were no neighbors nearer our cabin than four miles, and no roads--scarcely a trail. The only communication was by the river. What about the wife and baby alone in the cabin, with the deep timber at the rear and a heavy jungle of brush in front? Happily we found them all right upon our return. [Illustration: A lesson in the art of clam baking.] CHAPTER ELEVEN HUNTING FOR ANOTHER HOME SITE OUR enjoyment of this first home did not last long. Hardly were we fairly settled, when news came that unsettled us again. In April of 1853, the word had begun to pass around that we were to have a new Territory to embrace the country north of the Columbia River. Its capital was to be on Puget Sound. Here on the Columbia we should be away off to one side, out of touch with the people who would shortly become a great separate commonwealth. It seemed advisable to look about a little, before making the move; so leaving the little wife and baby in the cabin home one bright morning in May, Oliver and I each made a pack of forty pounds and took the trail, bound for Puget Sound. We camped where night overtook us, sleeping in the open air without shelter or cover other than that afforded by some friendly tree with drooping limbs. Our trail first led us down near the right bank of the Columbia to the Cowlitz, thence up the latter river thirty miles or more, and then across the country nearly sixty miles to Olympia. At this time there might have been, about Puget Sound, two thousand white people all told, while now there are nearer a million. But these people were so scattered we did not realize there were even that number, for the Puget Sound country is a big place--more than two hundred miles long and seventy-five miles wide--between two mountain ranges, with the Cascades on the east and the Olympics on the west. The waters of the Sound, including all the channels and bays and inlets and shores of forty islands, make more than sixteen hundred miles of shore line--nearly as many miles as the Oregon Trail is long; that is, almost as many miles as we had the previous year traversed from the Missouri River to the Sound. Our expectations had been raised high by the glowing accounts of Puget Sound. But a feeling of deep disappointment fell upon us when we could see in the foreground only bare, dismal mud flats, and beyond these a channel scarcely twice as wide as that of the great river we had left, bounded on either side by high, heavily timbered land. We wished ourselves back at our cabin on the Columbia. Should we turn around and go back? No; we had never done that since leaving our Indiana home. But what was the use of stopping here? We wanted a place to make a farm, and we could not do it on such forbidding land as this. The dense forest stretching out before us was interesting enough to the lumberman, and for aught I knew there were channels for the ships; but I wanted to be neither lumberman nor sailor. My first camp on Puget Sound was not cheerful. Olympia at the time contained about one hundred inhabitants. It had three stores, a hotel, a livery stable, a saloon, and one weekly newspaper. A glance at the advertising columns of this paper, _The Columbian_ (the name which was expected to be that of the new territory), disclosed but a few local advertisers. "Everybody knows everybody here," a resident remarked to me, "so what's the use of advertising?" We could not stay at Olympia. We had pushed on past some good locations on the Chehalis, and farther south, without locating. Should we now retrace our steps? Oliver said no, and my better judgment also said no, though I was sorely pressed with a feeling of homesickness. The decision was quickly made to see more of this Puget Sound. But how were we to see these--to us--unexplored waters? I declared that I would not go in one of those Indian canoes, that we should upset it before we were out half an hour. I had to admit that the Indians navigated the whole Sound in these canoes and were safe, but I would not trust myself in a craft that would tip as easily as a Siwash canoe. When I came to know the Indians better and saw their performances in these frail craft, my admiration for the canoes was even greater than my distrust had been. Neither Oliver nor I had much experience in boating, and we had none in boat building. However, when we had discarded the idea of taking a canoe, we set to work with a hearty good will to build us a skiff. We made it out of light lumber, then easily obtained at Tumwater. We determined to have the skiff broad enough not to upset easily, and long enough to carry us and our light cargo of food and bedding. As in the trip across the Plains, we must provide our own transportation. Here and there might be a vessel loading piles and square timber for the San Francisco market, but not a steamer was then plying on the Sound; there was not even a sailing craft that essayed to carry passengers. As the tide drew us off on the placid waters of the bay at Olympia, with just a breath of air stirring, our little eighteen-foot craft behaved splendidly. The slight ripples jostling against the bow brought dreams of a pleasure trip, to make amends for the tiresome pack across the country. [Illustration: A Siwash Indian in his canoe.] We floated lazily with the tide, sometimes taking a few strokes with the oars, and at other times whistling for the wind. The little town of Olympia to the south became dimmed by distance. But we were no sooner fairly out of sight of the little village than the question came up which way to go. What channel should we take? "Let the tide decide; that will carry us out toward the ocean." "No, we are drifting into another bay; that cannot be where we want to go." "Why, we are drifting right back almost in the same direction from which we came, but into another bay! We'll pull this way to that point to the northeast." "But there seems a greater opening of water to the northwest." "Yes, but I do not see any way out there." So we talked and pulled and puzzled, until finally it dawned upon us that the tide had turned and we were being carried back into South Bay, to almost the very spot whence we had come. "The best thing we can do is to camp," said Oliver. I readily assented. So our first night's camp was scarcely twelve miles from where we had started in the morning. It was a fine camping place. A beautiful pebbly beach extended almost to the water's edge even at low tide. There was a grassy level spit, a background of evergreen giant-fir timber, and clear, cool water gushing out from the bank near by. And such fuel for the camp fire!--broken limbs with just enough pitch to make a cheerful blaze and yet body enough to last well. We felt so happy that we were almost glad the journey had been interrupted. Oliver was the carpenter of the party, the tent-builder, wood-getter, and general roustabout, while I, the junior, was "chief cook and bottle-washer." An encampment of Indians being near, a party of them soon visited our camp and began making signs for trade. "_Mika tik eh_[1] clams?" said one of the matrons of the party. "What does she say, Oliver?" "I'm blessed if I know, but it looks as if she wanted to sell some clams." After considerable dickering, with signs and gestures and words many times repeated, we were able to impart the information that we wanted a lesson in cookery. If she would show us how to cook the clams, we would buy some. This brought some merriment in the camp. The idea that there lived a person who did not know how to cook clams! Without saying by your leave or anything else, the motherly looking native woman began tearing down our camp fire. [Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_ Indians gathering clams on the beach.] "Let her alone, and see what she's up to," said Oliver, noticing that I was disturbed at such interference with my well-laid plans for bread-baking. She covered the hot pebbles and sand where the fire had been with a lighter layer of pebbles. Upon these the clams were deposited. They were covered with fine twigs, and upon the twigs earth was placed. "_Kloshe_,"[2] she said. "_Hyas kloshe_,"[3] said her husband, who squatted near by, watching the proceedings with evident approval. "What did they say?" I asked. "I know what they said, but I don't know what they meant," responded Oliver, "unless it was she had done a good job; and I think she has." Thus began and ended our first lesson in the Chinook jargon, and our first experience with a clam bake. This first clam bake gave us great encouragement. We soon learned that the bivalves were to be found in almost unlimited quantity and were widely distributed. The harvest was ready twice a day, when the tide was out, and we need have no fear of a famine even if cast away in some unfrequented place. "_Ya-ka kloshe al-ta_,"[4] said the Indian woman, uncovering the steaming mass and placing the clams on a sliver found near by. "_De-late kloshe muck a muck alta._"[5] Without understanding her words, but knowing well what she meant, we fell to disposing of this, our first clam dinner. We divided with the Indians the bread that had been baked and some potatoes that had been boiled. The natives soon withdrew to their own camp. Before retiring for the night, we repaid the visit. To see the little fellows of the camp scud behind their mother when the strangers entered, and shyly peep out from their retreat, while the mother lovingly reassured them with kind and affectionate caresses, and finally coaxed them out from under cover, revealed something of the character of the natives that neither of us had realized before. We had been in Indian country for nearly a year, but with guns by our side, if not in our hands, during nearly half the time. We had not stopped to study the Indian character. We took it for granted that the Indians were our enemies and watched them suspiciously; but here seemed to be a disposition to be neighborly and helpful. We took a lesson in Chinook, and by signs and words held conversation until a late hour. When we were ready to leave they gave us a slice of venison, enough for several meals. Upon offering to pay for it we were met with a shake of the head, and with the words, "_Wake, wake, kul-tus pot-latch_," which we understood by their actions to mean they made us a present of it. We had made the Indians a present first, it is true; but we did not expect any return, except perhaps goodwill. From that time on during the trip,--I may say, for all time since,--I found the Indians of Puget Sound always ready to reciprocate acts of kindness. They hold in high esteem a favor granted, if it is not accompanied by acts showing it to be designed simply to gain an advantage. FOOTNOTES: [1] You want. [2] Good. [3] Very good. [4] Good now; ready to serve now. [5] Exceedingly good to eat. [Illustration: A fleet of Siwash canoes.] CHAPTER TWELVE CRUISING ABOUT ON PUGET SOUND OUR second day's cruise about the Sound took us past historic grounds. We went by old Fort Nisqually, one of the earliest posts of the Hudson's Bay Company on Puget Sound. Some houses had been built on the spot in 1829 or 1830, though the fort, one fourth of a mile back from water, was not constructed until 1833, just twenty years before our visit. As the tide and wind favored us, we did not stop. Soon we came in sight of a fleet of seven vessels lying at anchor in a large bay, several miles in extent. The sight of those seven vessels lying in the offing made a profound impression upon our minds. We had never before seen so many ships at one place. Curiously enough, among them was the good bark _Mary Melville_, with her gruff mate and big-hearted master, Captain Barston. Upon the eastern slope of the shores of this bay lay the two towns, Port Steilacoom, and Steilacoom City, both established in 1851. A far larger trade centered here than at any other point on Puget Sound, and we decided on a halt to make ourselves acquainted with the surroundings. A mile and a half from the shore we found also Fort Steilacoom. It was simply the camp of a company of United States soldiers, quartered in wooden shells of houses and log cabins. Intense rivalry ran between the two towns, upper and lower Steilacoom, at this time. As a result things were booming. We were sorely tempted to accept the flattering offer of four dollars a day for common labor in a timber camp, but concluded not to be swerved from the search for a new homesite. During this visit we began seeing Indians in considerable numbers. They seemed to be a listless lot, with no thought for the future, or even for the immediate present. The Indians in those days seemed to work or play by spurts and spells. Here and there we saw a family industriously pursuing some object; but as a class they seemed to me the laziest set of people on earth. That opinion was materially modified later, as I became better acquainted with their habits. I have found just as industrious people, both men and women, among the Indians as among the whites. The workers, it may be said, are less numerous among the men; the women are all industrious. Should we camp here and spy out the land, or should we go forward and see what lay before us? After a sober second thought, we realized that we had nothing to trade but labor; and we had not come as far as this to be laborers for hire. We had come to find a place to make a farm, and a farm we were going to have. Again we set about searching for claims, and the more we searched the less we liked the look of things. Finally, on the fourth day, after a long, wearisome tramp, we cast off at high tide, and in a dead calm, to continue our cruise. Oliver soon dropped into a comfortable afternoon nap, leaving me in full command. As the sun shone warm and the tide was taking us rapidly in the direction we wanted to go, why shouldn't I doze a little too, even if we did miss some of the sightseeing? I was aroused from my nap by Oliver's exclaiming, "What is that?" Then, half to himself, "As I live, it's a deer swimming out here in the bay!" "It surely can't be," I responded, three quarters asleep. "That's what it is!" he asserted. We were wide awake now and gave chase. Very soon we caught up with the animal and succeeded in throwing a rope over its horns. By this time we had drifted into the Narrows, and we soon found we had something more important to do than to tow a deer. We were among the tide rips of the Sound. Turning the deer loose, we pulled our best for the shore, and found shelter in an eddy. A perpendicular bluff rose from the highwater mark, leaving no place for camp fire or bed. The tide seemed to roll in waves and with contending forces of currents and counter currents, yet all moving in a general direction. It was our first introduction to a genuine tide rip. The waters boiled as if in a veritable caldron, swelling up here and there in centers and whirling with dizzy velocity. A flat-bottomed boat like our little skiff, we thought, could not stay afloat there very long. Just then some Indian canoes came along, moving with the tide. We expected to see them swamped as they encountered the troubled waters; but to our astonishment they passed right through without taking a drop of water Then there came two well-manned canoes creeping alongshore against the tide. I have said well-manned, but half the paddles, in fact, were wielded by women, and the post of honor, or that where most dexterity was required, was occupied by a woman. [Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_ Sunset on the Pacific.] "_Me-si-ka-kwass kopa s'kookum chuck?_"[6] said the maiden in the bow of the first canoe, as it drew alongside our boat, in which we were sitting. Since our evening's experience at the clambake camp, we had been industriously studying the Chinook language, and we could understand that she was asking if we were afraid of the rough waters. We responded, partly in English and partly in Chinook, that we were, and besides that it was impossible for us to proceed against the strong current. "_Ne-si-ka mit-lite_,"[7] she replied; that is to say, she told us that the Indians were going to camp with us and wait for the turn of the tide, and accordingly they landed near by. [Illustration: _Asahel Curtis_ Mt. Rainier.] By the time the tide had turned, night had come. We hardly knew whether to camp in our boat or to start out on unknown waters in the dark. Our Indian visitors made preparations to proceed on their journey, and assured us it was all right ahead. They offered to show us to good camping grounds in a big bay where the current was not strong. Sure enough, a short pull with a favorable current brought us to the Narrows and into Commencement Bay, in sight of numerous camp fires in the distance. I remember that camp quite vividly; though I cannot locate it exactly, I know that it was on the water front within the present limits of the large and thriving city of Tacoma. I well remember our supper of fresh salmon. Of all the delicious fish known, give me the salmon caught by trolling in early summer in the deep waters of Puget Sound, the fish so fat that the excess of oil must be turned out of the pan while cooking. We had scarcely got our camp fire started before a salmon was offered us; I cannot recall what we paid, but I know it was not a high price, else we could not have purchased. The following day we could see Mt. Rainier, with its reflection in the placid waters of the bay. Theodore Winthrop, the observant traveler who came into these same waters a few months later and wrote of it as Mt. Tacoma, described it as "a giant mountain dome of snow, seeming to fill the aerial spaces as the image displaced the blue deeps of tranquil water." A wondrous sight it was and is, whatever the name. Next day we entered the mouth of the Puyallup River. We had not proceeded far up this stream before we were interrupted by a solid drift of monster trees and logs, extending from bank to bank up the river for a quarter of a mile or more. The Indians told us that there were two other like obstructions a few miles farther up the river, and that the current was very strong. We secured the services of an Indian and his canoe to help us up the river, and left our boat at the Indians' camp near the mouth. It took a tugging of two days to go six miles. We had to unload our outfit three times to pack it over cut-off trails, and drag our canoe around the drifts. It was a story of constant toil with consequent discouragement, not ending until we camped on the bank of the river within the present limits of the thriving little city of Puyallup. The Puyallup valley at that time was a solitude. No white settlers were found, though it was known that two men had staked claims and had made some slight improvements. An Indian trail led up the river from Commencement Bay, and another led westward to the Nisqually plains. Over these pack animals could pass, but wagon roads there were none; and whether a feasible route for one could be found, only time and labor could determine. We retraced our steps, and in the evening landed again at the mouth of the river after a severe day's toil. We were in no cheerful mood. Oliver did not sing as usual while preparing for camp. Neither did I have much to say; but I fell to work, mechanically preparing the much-needed meal. We ate in silence and then went to sleep. We had crossed the two great states of Illinois and Iowa, over hundreds of miles of unoccupied prairie land as rich as anything that ever "lay out of doors," on our way from Indiana to Oregon in search of land on which to make a home. Here, at what we might call the end of our rope, we had found the land, but with conditions that seemed almost too adverse to overcome. It was a discouraging outlook, even if there had been roads. Such timber! It seemed an appalling undertaking to clear this land, the greater part of it being covered with a heavy growth of balm and alder trees and a thick tangle of underbrush besides. When we fell asleep that night, it was without visions of new-found wealth. And yet later I did tackle a quarter-section of that heaviest timber land, and never let up until the last tree, log, stump, and root had disappeared, though of course, not all cleared off by my own hands. If we could have known what was coming four months later, we would have remained, in spite of our discouragement, and searched the valley diligently for the choicest locations. For in October following there came the first immigrants over the Natchess Pass Trail into Washington. They located in a body over nearly the whole valley, and before the year was ended had made a rough wagon road out to the prairies and to Steilacoom, the county seat. We lingered at the mouth of the river in doubt as to what best to do. My thoughts went back to wife and baby in the lonely cabin on the Columbia River, and again to that bargain we had made before marriage, that we were going to be farmers. How could we be farmers if we did not have land? Under the donation act we could hold three hundred and twenty acres, but we must live on it for four years; it behooved us to look out and secure our location before the act expired, which would occur the following year. With misgivings and doubts, on the fourth day Oliver and I loaded our outfit into our skiff and floated out on the receding tide, whither, we did not know. As we drew off from the mouth of the Puyallup River, numerous parties of Indians were in sight. Some were trolling for salmon, with a lone Indian in the bow of each canoe; others with poles were fishing for smelt; still others with nets seemed waiting for fisherman's luck. Other parties were passing, those in each canoe singing a plaintive chant in minor key, accompanied by heavy strokes of the paddle handles against the sides of the canoe, as if to keep time. There were some fine voices to be heard, and though there were but slight variations in the sounds or words, the Indians seemed never to tire in repeating, and I must confess we never tired of listening. During the afternoon, after we had traveled some twenty miles, we saw ahead of us larger waters, into which we entered, finding ourselves in a bay five or six miles wide, with no very certain prospect of a camping place. Just then we espied a cluster of cabins and houses on a point to the east. There we made a landing, at what is now known as Alki Point, though it then bore the pretentious name of New York. We soon pushed on to the east shore, where the steam from a sawmill served as a guide, and landed at a point that cannot be far from the western limit of the present Pioneer Place, in Seattle, near where the totem pole now stands. As we were not looking for a mill site or town site, we pushed on next day. We had gone but a few miles when a favorable breeze sprang up, bringing with it visions of a happy time sailing; but behind us lay a long stretch of open waters several miles wide, and ahead we could see no visible shelter and no lessening of width; consequently the breeze was not entirely welcome. In a short time the breeze stiffened, and we began to realize that we were in danger. We were afraid to attempt a landing on the surf-beaten shore; but finally, the wind increasing, the clouds lowering, and the rain coming down in torrents, we had to take the risk. Letting down the sail, we headed our frail craft towards the shore. Fortune favored us, for we found a good sandy beach upon which to land, though we got a thorough drenching while so doing. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ A rich haul of salmon.] Here we were compelled to remain two or three days in a dismal camp, until the weather became more favorable. Then launching our boat, we pulled for the head of Whidbey's Island, a few miles to the northwest. Now I have a fish story to tell. I have always been shy about telling it, lest some smart fellow should up and say I was drawing on my imagination: I am not. When we had broken camp and were sailing along, we heard a dull sound like that often heard from the tide rips. As we rested on our oars, we could see that there was a disturbance in the water and that it was moving toward us. It extended as far as we could see, in the direction we were going. The sound increased and became like the roar of a heavy fall of rain or hail on water, and we became aware that it was a vast school of fish moving south, while millions were seemingly dancing on the surface of the water or leaping in the air. We could feel the fish striking against the boat in such vast numbers that they fairly moved it. The leap in the air was so high that we tried tipping the boat to catch some as they fell back, and sure enough, here and there one would drop into the boat. We soon discovered some Indians following the school. They quickly loaded their canoes by using the barbed pole and throwing the impaled fish into their canoes. With an improvised net we too soon obtained all we wanted. When we began to go on we were embarrassed by the mass of fish moving in the water. As far as we could see there was no end to the school ahead of us; but we finally got clear of the moving mass and reached the island shore in safety, only to become weather-bound in the wilds once more. This camp did not prove so dreary as the last one, although it was more exposed to the swell of the big waters and the sweep of the wind. To the north we had a view of thirty miles or more, to where horizon and water blended, leaving it doubtful whether land was in sight or not. As we afterwards ascertained, we could see the famous San Juan Island, later the bone of contention between our government and Great Britain, when the northern boundary of the United States was settled. Port Townsend lay some ten miles from our camp, but was shut out from view by an intervening headland. We did not know the exact location of the town. Like the lost hunters, "we knew where we were, but we didn't know where any place else was." Not lost ourselves, the world was lost from us. Three ships passed us while we were at this camp, one coming from out of space, as it seemed, a mere speck, and growing to a full-fledged deep-sea vessel, with all sails set, scudding before the wind. The other two were gracefully beating their way out against the stiff breeze to the open waters beyond. What prettier sight is there than a full-rigged vessel with all sails spread! The enthusiasm that rose as we gazed at the ships, coupled with a spirit of adventure, prompted us to go farther. [Illustration: A deep-sea vessel sailing before the wind.] It was a calm, beautiful day when we reached Port Townsend. Distance lends enchantment, the old adage says; but in this case the nearer we approached to the place, the greater our admiration. The shining, pebbly beach in front, the clear, level spot adjoining, with the beautiful open and comparatively level plateau in the background, and two or three vessels at anchor in the foreground, made a picture of a perfect city site. Upon closer examination of the little town we found that the first impression, gained from a distance, was illusory. Many shacks and camps, at first mistaken for the white men's houses, were found to be occupied by natives. They were a drunken, rascally rabble, spending their gains from the sale of fish and oil in a debauch that would last as long as their money held out. This seemed to be a more stalwart race of Indians than those to the south, doubtless from the buffeting received in the larger waters. They would often go out even to the open sea on their fishing excursions in canoes manned by thirty men or more. After spending two or three days exploring the country, we turned back to the bay where lay the seven ships we had seen near Steilacoom. We remembered the timber camps, the bustle and stir of the little new village, and the activity that we saw there, greater than anywhere else on the waters of the Sound. Most of all, my thoughts would go on to the little cabin on the Columbia River. Three days sufficed to land us back in the bay we sought, but the ships were gone. Not a sailing craft of any kind was in sight of the little town, though the building activity was going on as before. The memory of those ships, however, remained with us and determined our minds on the important question where the trade center was to be. We decided therefore that our new home should be near Steilacoom, and we finally staked out a claim on an island not far from that place. Once the claim had been decided upon, my next desire naturally was to get home to my family. The expedition had taken thirty days, and of course there had been no news from my wife, nor had I been able to send back any word to her. FOOTNOTES: [6] Are you afraid of the rapid water? [7] I will stay with you. [Illustration: On the trail again with Buck and Dandy.] CHAPTER THIRTEEN MOVING FROM THE COLUMBIA TO PUGET SOUND "CAN I get home tonight?" I asked myself. It was an afternoon of the last week of June, in 1853, and the sun was yet high. I was well up the left bank of the Cowlitz River; how far I could not tell, for there were no milestones on the crooked, half-obstructed trail leading downstream. At best it would be a race with the sun, but the days were long, and the twilight was long, and I would camp that much nearer home if I made haste. My pack had been discarded on the Sound. I had neither coat nor blanket. I wore a heavy woolen shirt, a slouch hat, and worn shoes; both hat and shoes gave ample ventilation. Socks I had none; neither had I suspenders, an improvised belt taking their place. I was dressed for the race and was eager for the trial. At Olympia I had parted with my brother, who had returned to stay at the claims we had taken, while I was to go home for the wife and baby, to remove them to our new home. I did not particularly mind the camping, but I did not fancy the idea of lying out so near home if by extra exertion I could reach the cabin before night. There was no friendly ox to snug up to for warmth, as in so many of the bivouacs on the plains; but I had matches, and there were many mossy places for a bed under the friendly shelter of drooping cedars. We never thought of catching cold from lying on the ground or on cedar boughs, or from getting a good drenching. After all, the cabin could not be reached, as the trail could not be followed at night. Slackening pace at nightfall to cool my system gradually, I finally made my camp and slept as soundly as if on a bed of down. My consolation was that the night was short and I could see to travel by three o'clock. I do not look upon those years of camp and cabin life as years of hardship. To be sure, our food was plain as well as our dress; our hours of labor were long and the labor itself was frequently severe; the pioneers appeared rough and uncouth. Yet underlying all this there ran a vein of good cheer, of hopefulness. We never watched for the sun to go down, or for the seven o'clock whistle, or for the boss to quicken our steps. The days were always too short, and interest in our work was always unabated. The cabin could not be seen until the trail came quite near it. When I caught sight of a curl of smoke I knew I was almost there. Then I saw the cabin and a little lady in almost bloomer dress milking the cow. She never finished milking that cow, nor did she ever milk any cow when her husband was at home. There were so many things to talk about that we could scarcely tell where to begin or when to stop. Much of the conversation naturally centered on the question of our moving to a new home. "Why, at Olympia, eggs were a dollar a dozen. I saw them selling at that. The butter you have there would bring you a dollar a pound as fast as you could weigh it out. I saw stuff they called butter sell for that. Potatoes are selling for three dollars a bushel and onions at four. Everything the farmer raises sells high." "Who buys?" "Oh, almost everybody has to buy. There are ships and timber camps and the hotels, and--" "Where do they get the money?" "Everybody seems to have money. Some take it there with them. Men working in the timber camps get four dollars a day and their board. At one place they paid four dollars a cord for wood to ship to San Francisco, and a man can sell all the shingles he can make at four dollars a thousand. I was offered five cents a foot for piles. If we had Buck and Dandy over there we could make twenty dollars a day putting in piles." "Where could you get the piles?" "Off the government land, of course. All help themselves to what they want. Then there are the fish and the clams and oysters, and--" "But what about the land for the claim?" That question was a stumper. The little wife never lost sight of that bargain made before we were married. Now I found myself praising a country for the agricultural qualities of which I could not say much. But if we could sell produce higher, might we not well lower our standard of an ideal farm? The claim I had taken was described with a touch of apology, in quality falling so far below what we had hoped to acquire. However, we decided to move, and began to prepare for the journey. The wife, baby, bedding, ox yoke, and log chain were sent up the Cowlitz in a canoe. Buck and Dandy and I took the trail. On this occasion I was ill prepared for a cool night camp, having neither blanket nor coat. I had expected to reach Hard Bread's Hotel, where the people in the canoe would stop overnight. But I could not make it, so again I lay out on the trail. "Hard Bread's," an odd name for a hotel, was so called because the old widower that kept the place fed his patrons on hardtack three times a day. I found that my wife had not fared any better than I had on the trail, and in fact not so well. The floor of the cabin--that is, the hotel--was a great deal harder than the sand spit where I had passed the night. I had plenty of pure, fresh air, while she, in a closed cabin and in the same room with many others, had neither fresh air nor freedom from creeping things that make life miserable. With her shoes for a pillow, a shawl for covering, small wonder that she reported, "I did not sleep a wink last night." We soon arrived at the Cowlitz landing, the end of the canoe journey. Striking the tent that had served us so well on the Plains and making a cheerful camp fire, we speedily forgot the hard experiences of the trail. Fifty miles more of travel lay before us. And such a road! However, we had one consolation,--it would be worse in winter than at that time. Our wagon had been left at The Dalles and we had never seen or heard of it again. Our cows were gone--given for provender to save the lives of the oxen during the deep December snow. So when we took account of stock, we had the baby, Buck and Dandy, a tent, an ox yoke and chain, enough clothing and bedding to keep us comfortable, a very little food, and no money. The money had all been expended on the canoe passage. Should we pack the oxen and walk, and carry the baby, or should we build a sled and drag our things over to the Sound, or should I make an effort to get a wagon? This last proposition was the most attractive, and so next morning, driving my oxen before me and leaving wife and baby to take care of the camp, I began the search for a wagon. That great-hearted pioneer, John R. Jackson, did not hesitate a moment, stranger though I was, to say, "Yes, you can have two if you need them." Jackson had settled there eight years before, ten miles out from the landing, and now had an abundance around him. Like all the earlier pioneers, he took a pride in helping others who came later. He would not listen to our proceeding any farther before the next day. He insisted on entertaining us in his comfortable cabin, and sent us on our way in the morning, rejoicing in plenty. Without special incident we in due time arrived at the falls of the Deschutes (Tumwater) and on the shore of Puget Sound. Here a camp must be established again. The wife and baby were left there while I drove the wagon back over the tedious road to Jackson's and then returned with the oxen to tidewater. [Illustration: A cat-and-clay chimney, made of small split sticks embedded in layers of clay mortar.] My feelings may well be imagined when, upon returning, I found wife, baby, and tent all gone. I knew that smallpox was raging among the Indians, and that a camp where it was prevalent was less than a quarter of a mile away. The dread disease had terrors then that it does not now possess. Could it be possible my folks had been taken sick and had been removed? [Illustration] The question was soon solved. It appeared that I had scarcely got out of sight on my trip back with the oxen before one of those royal pioneer matrons had come to the camp. She pleaded and insisted, and finally almost frightened the little wife into going with her and sharing her house, which was near by, but out of danger from the smallpox. God bless those earlier pioneers! They were all good to us, sometimes to the point of embarrassment, in their generous hospitality. Oliver was to have had the cabin ready by the time I returned. He not only had not done that, but had taken the boat and had left no sign to tell us where either brother or boat could be found. Not knowing what else to do, I paddled over to the town of Steilacoom. There I found out where the boat and the provisions had been left, and after an earnest parley succeeded in getting possession. With my canoe in tow I soon made my way back to where my little flock was, and speedily transferred all to the spot that was to be our island dwelling. We set up our tent, and felt at home once more. [Illustration: Crows breaking clams by dropping them on boulders.] Steilacoom, three miles across the bay, had grown during my absence, and in the distance it looked like a city in fact as well as in name. Mt. Rainier looked bigger and taller than ever. Even the songs of the Indians sounded better; the canoes looked more graceful, and the paddles seemed to be wielded more expertly. Everything looked cheerful; everything interested us, especially the crows, with their trick of breaking clams by rising in the air and dropping them on the boulders. There were so many new things to observe that for a time we almost forgot that we were nearly out of provisions and money and did not know what had happened to Oliver. Next morning Oliver returned to the village. Finding that the boat and provisions had been taken and seeing smoke in the bight, he surmised what had happened and came paddling across to the tent. He had received a tempting offer to help load a ship and had just completed his contract. As a result of this work, he was able to exhibit a slug of California gold and other money that looked precious indeed in our eyes. The building of our second cabin with its stone fireplace, cat-and-clay chimney, lumber floor, real window with glass in it, together with the high-post bedstead made out of tapering cedar saplings, the table fastened to the wall, the rustic chairs, seemed but like a play spell. No eight-hour day there--eighteen would be nearer the mark; we never tired. It was in this same year, 1853, that Congress cut off from Oregon the region that now comprises the state of Washington and all of Idaho north of the Snake River. The new district was called Washington Territory, so we who had moved out to the Oregon Country found ourselves living in Washington. [Illustration: Bobby carried me safely over the sixty crossings and more.] CHAPTER FOURTEEN MESSAGES AND MESSENGERS AT last we were really settled and could begin the business for which we had come West; henceforth the quiet life of the farmer was to be ours, we thought. But again we had not reckoned with the unexpected. While we were working on our new cabin, we received a letter from father, saying: "Boys, if Oliver will come back to cross with us, we will go to Oregon next year." The letter was nearly three months old when we received it. Our answer was immediate: "Oliver will be with you next spring." Then came the question of money. Would Davenport, who had bought the Columbia River claims, pay in the fall? Could he? We decided that we must go to the timber camp to earn the money to pay the expenses of Oliver's journey, that we must not depend altogether on the Columbia River asset. "What shall we do with the things?" asked my wife. "Lock them up in the cabin," suggested Oliver. "And you go and stay with the Dofflemires," I added. "Not I," she returned. "I'm going along to cook." All our well-laid plans were thus suddenly changed. Our clearing of the land was deferred; the chicken house, the inmates of which were to make us rich, was not built; the pigs were not bought to fatten on the clams, and many other pet schemes were dropped that Oliver might go back East to bring father and mother across the Plains. We struck awkward but rapid and heavy strokes in the timber camp established on the bluff overlooking the falls at Tumwater. The little cook supplied the huckleberry pudding for dinner, with plenty of the lightest, whitest bread, and vegetables, meat, and fish served in style good enough for kings. Such appetites! No coaxing was required to get us to eat a hearty meal. Such sound sleep, such satisfaction! Talk about hardships--it was all pleasure as we counted the eleven dollars a day that the Tullis brothers paid us for cutting logs, at one dollar and seventy cents a thousand. We earned this every day. Yes, we should be able to make money enough together to pay Oliver's passage to Iowa. It was to be a long journey--over to the Columbia River, out from there by steamer to San Francisco, then to the Isthmus, then to New York. After that, by rail as far west as there was a railroad, then on foot to Eddyville, Iowa, where the start was again to be made. It would take Oliver two months to reach Eddyville, and then at least seven more to lead the newcomers over the trail from Iowa to Puget Sound. Oliver was soon speeding on his way, and again my wife and I were left without money and with but a scant supply of provisions. How we made out through the winter I can hardly remember, but we managed somehow and kept well and happy. Soon after Oliver's departure our second baby was born. In the latter part of August, 1854, eight months after Oliver had left us, James K. Hurd, of Olympia, sent me word that he had been out on the immigrant trail and had heard that some of my relatives were on the road, but that they were belated and short of provisions. He advised me to go to their assistance, to make sure of their coming directly over the Cascade Mountains, and not down the Columbia River. How my people, with Oliver's experience to guide them, should be in the condition described, was past my comprehension. However, I accepted the statement as true. I felt the particular importance of their having certain knowledge as to prevailing conditions of an over-mountain trip through the Natchess Pass. The immigrants of the previous year had encountered formidable difficulties in the mountains, narrowly escaping the loss of everything, if not facing actual starvation. I could not help feeling that possibly the same conditions still prevailed. The only way to determine the question was to go and see for myself, to meet my father's party and pilot them through the pass. [Illustration: We struck awkward but rapid and heavy strokes.] But how could I go and leave wife and two babies on our island home? The summer had been spent in clearing land and planting crops, and my money was very low. To remove my family would cost something in cash, besides the abandonment of the season's work to almost certain destruction. Without a moment's hesitation my wife said to go; she and Mrs. Darrow, who was with us as nurse and companion, would stay right where they were until I got back. I was not so confident of the outcome as she. At best the trip was hazardous, even when undertaken well-prepared and with company. As far as I could see, I might have to go on foot and pack my food and blanket on my back. I knew that I should have to go alone. Some work had been done on the road during the summer, but I was unable to learn definitely whether any camps were yet in the mountains. At Steilacoom there was a certain character, a doctor, then understood by few, and I may say not by many even to the end. Yet, somehow, I had implicit confidence in him, though between him and me there would seem to have been a gulf that could not be closed. Our habits of life were diametrically opposite. I would never touch a drop, while the doctor was always drinking--never sober, neither ever drunk. It was to this man that I entrusted the safe keeping of my little family. I knew my wife had such an aversion to people of his kind that I did not even tell her with whom I would arrange to look out for her welfare, but suggested another person to whom she might apply in case of need. When I spoke to the doctor about what I wanted, he seemed pleased to be able to do a kind act. To reassure me, he got out his field glasses and turned them on the cabin across the water, three miles distant. Looking through them intently for a moment he said, "I can see everything going on over there. You need have no uneasiness about your folks while you are gone." And I did not need to have any concern. Twice a week during all the time I was away an Indian woman visited the cabin on the island, always with some little presents. She would ask about the babies and whether there was anything needed. Then with the parting "_Alki nika keelapie_,"[8] she would leave. With a fifty-pound flour sack filled with hard bread, or navy biscuit, a small piece of dried venison, a couple of pounds of cheese, a tin cup, and half of a three-point blanket, all made into a pack of less than forty pounds, I climbed the hill at Steilacoom and took the road leading to Puyallup. The first night was spent with Jonathan McCarty, whose cabin was near where the town of Sumner now stands. McCarty said: "You can't cross the streams on foot; I'll let you have a pony. He's small, but sure-footed and hardy, and he'll carry you across the rivers anyhow." McCarty also said: "Tell your folks this is the greatest grass country on earth. Why, I am sure I harvested five tons of timothy to the acre this year." [Illustration: Twice a week the Indian woman visited the cabin.] The next day found me on the road with my blanket under the saddle, my sack of hard bread strapped on behind. I was mounted to ride on level stretches of the road, or across streams, of which I had fully sixty crossings to make. White River on the upper reaches is a roaring torrent; the rush of waters can be heard for a mile or more from the high bluff overlooking the narrow valley. The river is not fordable except in low water, and then in but few places. The river bed is full of stones worn rounded and smooth and slippery, from the size of a man's head to large boulders, thus making footing for animals uncertain. After my first experience, I dreaded the crossings to come more than all else on the trip, for a misstep of the pony's might be fatal. The little fellow, Bobby, seemed to be equal to the occasion. If the footing became too uncertain, he would stop stock still and pound the water with one foot, then reach out carefully until he could find secure footing, and finally move up a step or two. The water of the river is so charged with sediment that the bottom cannot be seen; hence the necessity of feeling the way. I soon learned that my pony could be trusted on the fords better than I. Thereafter I held only a supporting, not a guiding, rein and he carried me safely over all the crossings on my way out. Allan Porter lived near the first crossing. As he was the last settler I should see and his the last place where I could get feed for my pony, other than grass or browse, I put up for the night under his roof. He said I was going on a "Tom Fool's errand," for my folks could take care of themselves, and he tried to dissuade me from proceeding on my journey. But I would not be turned back. The following morning I cut loose from the settlements and plunged into the deep forest of the mountains. The road, if it could be called a road, lay in the narrow valley of White River or on the mountains adjacent. In some places, as at Mud Mountain, it reached more than a thousand feet above the river bed. There were stretches where the forest was so dense that one could scarcely see to read at midday, while elsewhere large burned areas gave an opening for daylight. During the forenoon of this day, in one of those deepest of deep forests, Bobby stopped short, his ears pricked up. Just then I caught an indistinct sight of a movement ahead, and thought I heard voices; the pony made an effort to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. Soon there appeared three women and eight children on foot, coming down the road in complete ignorance of the presence of any one but themselves in the forest. "Why, stranger! Where on earth did you come from? Where are you going, and what are you here for?" asked the foremost woman of the party. Mutual explanations followed. I learned that their teams had become exhausted and all the wagons but one had been abandoned, and that this one was on the road a few miles behind. They were entirely out of provisions and had had nothing to eat for twenty hours except what natural food they had gathered, and that was not much. They eagerly inquired the distance to food, which I thought they might possibly reach that night. Meanwhile I had opened my sack of hard bread and had given each a cracker, at the eating of which the sound resembled pigs cracking dry, hard corn. Neither they nor I had time to parley long. The women with their children, barefoot and ragged, bareheaded and unkempt, started down the mountain, intent on reaching food, while I went up the road wondering how often this scene was to be repeated as I advanced on my journey. [Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_ White River in the upper reaches is a roaring torrent.] A dozen biscuits of bread is usually a very small matter, but with me it might mean a great deal. How far should I have to go? When could I find out? What would be the plight of my people when found? Or should I find them at all? Might they not pass by and be on the way down the Columbia River before I could reach the main immigrant trail? These and kindred questions weighed on my mind as I slowly ascended the mountain. [Illustration] FOOTNOTE: [8] By and by I will return. [Illustration: The boy led his mother across the log.] CHAPTER FIFTEEN BLAZING THE WAY THROUGH NATCHESS PASS THE Natchess Pass Trail, along which I must make my way, had been blazed by a party of intrepid pioneers during the summer of 1853. Fifteen thousand dollars had been appropriated by Congress to be expended for a military road through the pass. I saw some of the work, but do not remember seeing any of the men who were improving the road. I stuck close to the old trail, making my first camp alone, just west of the summit. I had reached an altitude where the night chill was keenly felt, and with only my light blanket missed the friendly contact of the faithful ox that had served me so well on the Plains. My pony had nothing but browse for supper, and he was restless. Nevertheless I slept soundly and was up early, refreshed and ready to resume the journey. Such a road as I found is difficult to imagine. How the pioneer trail-blazers had made their way through it is a marvel. It seemed incredible that forests so tall and so dense could have existed anywhere on earth. Curiously enough, the heavier the standing timber, the easier it had been to slip through with wagons, there being but little undecayed timber or down timber. In the ancient days, however, great giants had been uprooted, lifting considerable earth with the upturned roots. As time went on the roots decayed, making mounds two, three, or four feet high and leaving a corresponding hollow into which one would plunge; for the whole was covered by a dense, short evergreen growth that completely hid from view the unevenness of the ground. Over these hillocks and hollows and over great roots on top of the ground, they had rolled their wagons. All sorts of devices had been tried to overcome obstructions. In many places, where the roots were not too large, cuts had been taken out. In other places the large timber had been bridged by piling up smaller logs, rotten chunks, brush, or earth, so that the wheels of the wagon could be rolled over the body of the tree. Usually three notches would be cut on the top of the log, two for the wheels and one for the reach, or coupling pole, to pass through. In such places the oxen would be taken to the opposite side, and a chain or rope would be run to the end of the wagon tongue. One man drove, one or two guided the tongue, others helped at the wheels. In this way, with infinite labor and great care, the wagons would gradually be worked over all obstacles and down the mountain in the direction of the settlements. But the more numerous the difficulties, the more determined I became to push through at all hazards, for the greater was the necessity of acquainting myself with the obstacles to be encountered and of reaching my friends to encourage and help them. [Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_ In the heart of a Cascade forest.] Before me lay the summit of the great range, the pass, at five thousand feet above sea level. At this summit, about twenty miles north of Mt. Rainier in the Cascade range, is a small stretch of picturesque open country known as Summit Prairie, in the Natchess Pass. In this prairie, during the autumn of 1853, a camp of immigrants had encountered grave difficulties. A short way out from the camp, a steep mountain declivity lay squarely across their track. One of the women of the party exclaimed, when she first saw it, "Have we come to the jumping-off place at last?" It was no exclamation for effect, but a fervent prayer for deliverance. They could not go back; they must either go ahead or starve in the mountains. Stout hearts in the party were not to be deterred from making the effort to proceed. Go around this hill they could not. Go down it with logs trailed to the wagons, as they had done at other places, they dared not, for the hill was so steep the logs would go end over end and would be a danger instead of a help. The rope they had was run down the hill and turned out to be too short to reach the bottom. James Biles, one of the leaders, commanded, "Kill a steer." They killed a steer, cut his hide into strips, and spliced the strips to the rope. It was found to be still too short to reach to the bottom. The order went out: "Kill two more steers!" And two more steers were killed, their hides cut into strips and the strips spliced to the rope, which then reached to the bottom of the hill. By the aid of that rope and the strips of the hides of those three steers, twenty-nine wagons were lowered down the mountain side to the bottom of the steep hill. Only one broke away; it crashed down the mountain and was smashed into splinters. The feat of bringing that train of wagons in, with the loss of only one out of twenty-nine, is the greatest I ever knew or heard of in the way of pioneer travel. [Illustration: By the aid of one short rope and the strips of the hides of three steers, twenty-nine wagons were lowered down the mountain side.] Nor were the trials ended when the wagons had been brought down to the bottom of that hill. With snail-like movements, the cattle and men becoming weaker and weaker, the train crept along, making less progress each day, until finally it seemed that the oxen could do no more. It became necessary to send them forward on the trail ten miles, to a place where it was known that plenty of grass could be had. Meanwhile the work on the road continued until the third day, when the last particle of food was gone. Then the teams were brought back, the trip over the whole ten miles was made, and Connell's Prairie was reached at dark. In the struggle over that ten miles the women and children had largely to take care of themselves while the men tugged at the wagons. One mother and her children, a ten-year old boy, a child of four years, and a babe of eight months, in some way were passed by the wagons. These four were left on the right bank of the river when the others had crossed. A large fallen tree reached across the river, but the top on the farther side lay so close to the water that a constant trembling and swaying made it a dangerous bridge to cross on. None of the four had eaten anything since the day before, and but a scant supply then; but the boy resolutely shouldered the four-year-old child and deposited him safely on the other side. Then came the little tot, the baby, to be carried across in his arms. Last came the mother. "I can't go!" she exclaimed. "It makes me so dizzy!" "Put one hand over your eyes, mother, and take hold of me with the other," said the boy. They began to move out sidewise on the log, half a step at a time. "Hold steady, mother; we are nearly over." "Oh, I am gone!" she cried, as she lost her balance and fell into the river. Happily, they were so near the farther bank that the little boy was able to catch with one hand a branch that hung over the bank while he held on to his mother with the other hand, and so she was saved. It was then nearly dark, and without knowing how far it was to camp, the little party started on the road, tarrying on the bank of the river only long enough for the mother to wring the water out of her skirts. The boy carried the baby, while the four-year-old child walked beside his mother. After nearly two miles of travel and the ascent of a very steep hill, they caught the glimmer of camp lights; the mother fell senseless, utterly prostrated. The boy hurried his two little brothers into camp, calling for help to rescue his mother. The appeal was promptly responded to; she was carried into camp and tenderly cared for until she revived. There were one hundred and twenty-eight people in that train. Among them, as a boy, was George Himes, who for many years has been Secretary of the Oregon Historical Society. To him we are indebted for most of this story of pioneer heroism. [Illustration: Bobby and I went up the mountain in a zig-zag course.] CHAPTER SIXTEEN CLIMBING THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS UP through the Natchess Pass Bobby and I took our lonely way, to reach and bring over this same difficult trail the party in which were my parents and my brothers and sisters. From the first chill night, following the sweat due to the climb of the day before, my muscles were a bit stiffened; but I was ready for the climb to the summit. Bobby was of a different mind. As I have said, he had been restless during the night. I had just strapped the roll of blankets and hard bread securely behind the saddle, when he suddenly turned his face homeward and trotted off gaily, down the mountain. I could do nothing but follow him. The narrow cut of the road and impenetrable obstructions on either side prevented my heading off his rascally maneuvers. Finally, on finding a nip of grass by the roadside, he slackened his gait, and after several futile attempts I managed to get a firm hold of his tail. After this we went down the mountain together, much more rapidly than we had come up the evening before. Bobby forgot to use his heels, else he might for a longer time have been master of the situation. The fact was he did not want to hurt me, but was determined to go no farther into mountains where he could not get a supper. The contest was finally settled in my favor when I managed to catch hold of the rein. Did I chastise him? Not a bit. I did not blame him; we were partners, but it was a one-sided partnership, as he had no interest in the enterprise other than to get enough to eat as we went along, and when he saw no prospect of food, he rebelled. We were soon past our camping ground of the night before, and on our way up the mountain. Bobby would not be led; if I tried to lead him, he would hold back for a while, then, making a rush up the steep ascent, he would be on my heels or toes before I could get out of the way. I would seize his tail with a firm grasp and follow. When he moved rapidly, I was helped up the mountain. When he slackened his pace, then came the resting spell. The engineering instinct of the horse tells him how to reduce grades by angles, and Bobby led me up the mountains in zig-zag courses, I following always with the firm grasp of the tail that meant we would not part company, and we did not. By noon we had surmounted all obstacles and stood upon the summit prairie--one of them, for there are several. Here Bobby feasted to his heart's content, while for me it was the same old story--hardtack and cheese, with a small allotment of dried venison. To the south, apparently but a few miles distant, the old mountain, Rainier, loomed up into the clouds fully ten thousand feet higher than where I stood, a grand scene to behold, worthy of all the effort expended to reach this point. But I was not attuned to view with ecstasy the grandeur of what lay before me; rather I scanned the horizon to ascertain, if I could, what the morrow might bring forth. This mountain served the pioneer as a huge barometer to forecast the weather. "How is the mountain this morning?" the farmer asked in harvest time. "Has the mountain got his nightcap on?" the housewife inquired before her wash was hung on the line. The Indian would watch the mountain with intent to determine whether he might expect _snass_ (rain), or _kull snass_ (hail), or _t'kope snass_ (snow), and seldom failed in his conclusions. So that day I scanned the mountain top, partially hid in the clouds, with forebodings verified at nightfall. A light snow came on just before night, which, with the high mountains on either side of the river, spread darkness rapidly. I was loath to camp. If I could safely have found my way, I would have traveled all night. The trail in places was very indistinct and the canyon was but a few hundred yards wide, with the tortuous river striking first one bluff and then the other, making numerous crossings necessary. Finally I saw that I must camp. I crossed the river to an opening where the bear tracks were so thick that the spot seemed a playground for all these animals roundabout. The black bears on the western slope were timid and not dangerous; but I did not know about this species of the eastern slope. I found two good-sized trees that had fallen obliquely across each other. With my pony tethered as a sentinel, and my fire as an advance post, I went to bed, nearly supperless. I felt lonesome; but I kept my fire burning all night, and I slept soundly. Early next morning found Bobby and me on the trail. We were a little chilled by the cold mountain air and very willing to travel. Towards nightfall I heard the welcome tinkling of a bell, and soon saw first the smoke of camp fires, and then a village of tents and grime-covered wagons. How I tugged at Bobby's halter to make him go faster and then mounted him, without getting much more speed, can better be imagined than told. [Illustration: A night camp in the mountains with a fire to keep off the bears.] Could it be the camp I was searching for? It had about the number of wagons and tents that I expected to meet. No; I was doomed to disappointment. Yet I rejoiced to find some one to camp with and talk to other than the pony. The greeting given me by those tired and almost discouraged travelers could not have been more cordial had they been my relatives. They had been toiling for nearly five months on the road across the Plains, and now there loomed up before them this great mountain range to cross. Could they do it? If they could not get over with their wagons, could they get the women and children through safely? I was able to lift a load of doubt and fear from their jaded minds. Before I knew what was happening, I caught the fragrance of boiling coffee and fresh meat cooking. The good matrons knew without telling that I was hungry and had set to work to prepare me a meal, a sumptuous meal at that, taking into account the whetted appetite incident to a diet of hard bread straight, and not much of that either, for two days. We had met on the Yakima River, at the place where the old trail crosses that river near the site of the present flourishing city of North Yakima. [Illustration: Mountain wolves.] In this party were some of the people who next year lost their lives in the White River massacre. They were Harvey H. Jones, his wife, and three children, and George E. King, his wife, and one child. One of the little boys of the camp, John I. King, lived to write a graphic account of the tragedy in which his mother and stepfather and their neighbors lost their lives. Another boy, a five-year-old child, was taken off, and after being held captive for nearly four months was then safely delivered over by the Indians to the military authorities at Fort Steilacoom. I never think of those people but with sadness. Their struggle, doubtless the supreme effort of their lives, was only to go to their death. I had pointed out to them where to go to get good claims, and they had lost no time, but had gone straight to the locality recommended and had set immediately to work preparing shelter for the winter. "Are you going out on those plains alone?" Mrs. Jones asked me anxiously. When I told her that I would have the pony with me, she insisted, "Well, I don't think it is safe." Mr. Jones explained that his wife was thinking of the danger from the ravenous wolves that infested the open country. The party had lost weakened stock from their forages right close to the camp. He advised me not to camp near the watering places, but to go up on the high ridge. I followed his advice with the result, as we shall see, of missing my road and losing considerable time, which meant not a little trouble and anxiety. [Illustration: To dig under was the only way to pass the obstruction.] CHAPTER SEVENTEEN FINDING MY PEOPLE ON leaving my newly found friends I faced a discouraging prospect. The start for the high, arid table-lands bordering the Yakima valley cut me loose from all communication. No more immigrants were met until I reached the main-traveled route beyond the Columbia River. The road lay through a forbidding sage plain, or rather an undulating country, covered by shifting sands and dead grass of comparatively scant growth. As the sun rose, the heat became intolerable. The dust, in places, brought vivid memories of the trip across the Plains. Strive against it as I might, my eyes would strain at the horizon to catch a glimpse of the expected train. Then an intolerable thirst seized upon me and compelled me to leave the road and descend into the valley for water. I dared not linger off the trail and take chances of missing the expected train. So I went through another stretch of travel, of heat, and of thirst, that lasted until during the afternoon, when I found water on the trail. Tethering my pony for his much-needed dinner, I opened my sack of hard bread to count the contents; my store was half gone. I lay down in the shade of a small tree near the spring to take an afternoon nap. Rousing before sundown, refreshed, Bobby and I took the trail with new courage. When night came, I could not find it in my heart to camp. The cool of the evening invigorated the pony, and we pushed on. Finding that the road could be followed, though but dimly seen, I kept on the trail until a late hour, when I unsaddled and hobbled the pony. The saddle blanket was brought into use, and I was soon off in dreamland forgetting all about the dust, the trail, or the morrow. In the morning I awoke to find that the pony had wandered far off on the hillside, so far, in fact, that it required close scanning to discover him. To make matters worse, his hobbles had become loosened, giving him free use of all his feet, and he was in no mood to take the trail again. Coaxing was of no avail, driving would do no good. Taking an opportunity to seize his tail, I followed him around about over the plain and through the sage brush at a rapid gait; finally he slackened pace and I again became master. [Illustration: Hobbling the pony.] For the life of me I could not be sure of the direction of the trail after all this roaming over the plain at Bobby's heels, but I happened to take the right course. When the trail was found, there was the saddle to look for, and this was located with some difficulty. The sun was high when we started on our journey. A few hundred yards of travel brought uneasiness, as it was evident that we were not on the regular trail. Not knowing but this was some cut-off, I went on until the Columbia River bluff was reached and the great river was in sight, half a mile distant and several hundred feet lower. Taking a trail down the bluff that seemed more promising than the wagon tracks, I began to search for the road at the foot of the bluff, only to find every semblance of a road gone. I lost more than a half-day's precious time, and again was thrown into anxiety lest I had missed the long-sought train. The next incident that I remember vividly was my attempt to cross the Columbia, just below the mouth of the Snake River. I had seen but few Indians on the whole trip and, in fact, the camp I found there on the bank of the great river was the first I distinctly remember coming upon. I could not induce the Indians to cross me over; they seemed surly and unfriendly. Their behavior was so in contrast to that of the Indians on the Sound that I could not help wondering what it meant. No one, to my knowledge, lost his life at the hands of the Indians that season, but the next summer all or nearly all the travelers who ventured into that country unprotected were murdered. That night I camped late, opposite Wallula (old Fort Walla Walla), in a sand storm of great fury. I tethered my pony this time, and rolled myself up in the blanket, only to find myself fairly buried in the drifting sand in the morning. It required a great effort to creep out of the blanket, and an even greater effort to free the blanket from the accumulated sand. By this time the wind had gone down and comparative calm prevailed. [Illustration: I spent two hours calling across the river at the top of my voice.] Then came the attempt to make myself heard across the wide river by the people of the fort. I traveled up and down the river bank for half a mile or so, in the hope of catching a favorable breeze to carry my voice to the fort, yet all to no avail. I sat upon the bank hopelessly discouraged, not knowing what to do. I must have been two hours hallooing at the top of my voice, until I was hoarse from the violent effort. Finally, while sitting there wondering what to do, I spied a blue smoke arising from a cabin on the other side. Soon after I saw a man; he immediately responded to my renewed efforts to attract attention. The trouble had been that the people were all asleep, while I was there in the early morning expending my breath for nothing. The man was Shirley Ensign, of Olympia, who had established a ferry across the Columbia River and had lingered to set over belated immigrants, if any should come along. He came across the river and gave me glad tidings. He had been out on the trail fifty miles or more and had met my people. They were camped some thirty miles away, he thought, and they would reach the ferry on the following day. But I could not wait there for them. Procuring a fresh horse, I started out in a cheerful mood, determined to reach camp that night if I could possibly do so. Sundown came, and there were no signs of camp. Dusk came on, and still no signs. Then I spied some cattle grazing on the upland, and soon came upon the camp in a ravine that had shut it from view. Rejoicing and outbursts of grief followed. I inquired for my mother the first thing. She was not there. Months before she had been buried in the sands of the Platte valley. My younger brother also lay buried on the Plains, near Independence Rock. The scene that followed is of too sacred memory to write about. When we came to consider how the party should proceed, I advised the over-mountain trip. But I cautioned them to expect some snow and much hard work. "How long will it take?" they asked. "About three weeks." This brought disappointment; they had thought they were about through with the journey. "You came to stay with us, didn't you?" "I want to; but what about my wife and the two babies, at the island?" Father said some one must go and look after them. So Oliver was sent ahead, while I was to take his place and help the immigrants through the Natchess Pass. In our train were fifty or more head of stock, seven wagons, and seventeen people. We made the trip across the divide in twenty-two days without serious mishap or loss. This was good time, considering the difficulties that beset our way at every step. Every man literally "put his shoulder to the wheel." We were compelled often to take hold of the wheels to boost the wagons over the logs or to ease them down steep places. Our force was divided into three groups,--one man to each wagon to drive; four to act as wheelmen; father and the women, on foot or horseback, to drive the stock. God bless the women folks of the Plains! Nobler, braver, more uncomplaining souls were never known. I have often thought that some one ought to write a just tribute to their valor and patience, a book of their heroic deeds. One day we encountered a newly fallen tree, cocked up on its own upturned roots, four feet from the ground. Go around it we could not; to cut it out with our dulled, flimsy saw seemed an endless task. "Dig down, boys," said father, and in short order every available shovel was out of the wagons. Very soon the way was open fully four feet deep, and oxen and wagons passed under the obstruction. Do you say that we endured great hardships? That depends upon the point of view. As to this return trip, I can truly say for myself that it was not one of hardship. I enjoyed overcoming the difficulties, and so did the greater number of the company. Many of them, it is true, were weakened by the long trip across the Plains; but better food was obtainable, and the goal was near at hand. It was a positive pleasure, therefore, to pass over the miles, one by one, assured that final success was a matter of only a very short time. When our little train at last emerged from the forests and came out into the Nisqually plains, it was almost as if we had come into a noonday sun from a dungeon, so marked was the contrast. Hundreds of cattle, sheep, and horses were quietly grazing, scattered over the landscape as far as one could see. The spirits of the tired party rose as they looked upon this scene, indicating a contentment and prosperity in which they might participate if they so desired. Our cabin, eighteen feet square, could not hold all the visitors. However, it was an easy matter to set up the three tents they had brought with them, and for several days we held a true reunion. Great was the feasting, with clam bakes, huckleberry pies and puddings, venison for meat, and fresh vegetables from our garden, at which the newcomers could not cease from marveling. The row of sweet peas that my wife had planted near the cabin helped to put heart into those travel-weary pioneers; where flowers could be planted, a home could be made. For a short time the little party halted to take breath and to look over the new country. This rest, however, could not last long. Preparations must be made without delay for shelter from the coming storms of winter; the stock must be cared for, and other beginnings made for a new life of independence. After surveying the situation, father said the island home would not do. He had come two thousand miles to live neighbors; I must give up my claim and take up another near his, on the mainland. Abandoning the results of more than a year's hard work, I acted upon his request, and across the bay we built our third cabin. [Illustration: The night ride to the fort.] CHAPTER EIGHTEEN INDIAN WAR DAYS ONE of the saddest chapters in the early history of Washington Territory was the trouble with the Indians, which led finally to open war. On October 28, 1855, word came that all the settlers living on White River had been killed by the Indians and that the next day those in the Puyallup valley would be massacred. At the risk of his life a friendly Indian brought this news to us in the dead hours of the night. The massacre had occurred less than twenty miles from where we lived. For all we knew the Indians might be on us at any moment. There were three men of us, and each had a gun. The first thing we did was to harness and hitch the team to the wagon. Then we opened the gates to let the calves get to their mothers, turned the pigs loose, and opened the chicken-house door--all this without light. Then the drive for our lives began, the women and babies lying close to the bottom of the wagon, the men with guns ready for action. We reached Fort Steilacoom unmolested. But we could not in safety stop there. The place was really no fort at all, only an encampment, and it was already filled with refugees from the surrounding settlements. So we pushed on into the town and stayed there until a blockhouse was built. This building was about fifty feet wide and nearly a hundred feet long. It was bullet-proof, without windows, and two stories high. A heavy door swung at the front entrance to the lower story, while an inclined walk from higher ground in the rear enabled us to reach the upper story; inside, a ladder served the purpose of a stairway between the two stories. The blockhouse proved a haven of safety during the Indian trouble, not only to our own family but to many of our neighbors besides. Seventy-five such houses were built during these troublous times. Numbers of settlers did not go back to their homes for several years. The Indians finally came in force just across the Sound and defied the troops. They also prevented the soldiers from landing from the steamer sent against them. A few days later we heard the guns from Fort Nisqually, which, however, I have always thought was a false alarm. It was when a captive child was brought in that we began to feel the gravity of the situation. Yet many of our fears turned out to be baseless. For instance, one day Johnny Boatman, a little boy not quite four years old, was lost. His mother was almost crazed, for word went out that the Indians had stolen him. A day later the lad was found under a tree, asleep. He had simply wandered away. A perplexing feature of the whole affair came from the fact that there were two warring camps among the forces of both the Indians and the whites. Some of the Indians were friendly; we had ample proof of that fact. Some of the whites were against the harsh measures taken by those in charge. This dissension led to much unnecessary trouble and bloodshed. [Illustration: The blockhouse, a haven of safety.] The war was brought on by the fact that the Indians had been wronged. This seems certain. They had been robbed of their lands, by the treaties made in 1854, and there had been atrocious murders of Indians by irresponsible white men. The result was suffering and trouble for all of us. The war brought troops, many of whom were reckless men; the army then was not up to the standard of today. Besides, there came in the wake of the soldiers a trail of gamblers and other disreputable people to vex and perplex us. In the blockhouses could be seen bullet marks which we knew did not come from Indians. I remember a little drummer boy, known as Scotty, who used frequently to come over to our home. He was a bright little fellow, and the Colonel, finding it was agreeable to us, encouraged him to make these visits, perhaps to get him away a little from the rough life of the post. Scotty had been living with a soldier there who, as report had it, used to get drunk and beat his wife. When my wife asked Scotty one day if the soldier abused his wife, he replied, "Well, I can't say exactly that he abuses her. He only cuffs and kicks her around the house sometimes." Poor boy! he had seen so much rough living that he didn't know what abuse meant. Not all the soldiers were of this drunken cast, of course. Many brave and noble men were among the military forces. The Indians, naturally, did not discriminate between good and bad soldiers. They hated and fought the troops, while at the same time they would often protect the pioneers, with whom they had been generally friendly. I had lived in peace with these Indians and they had gained my confidence. As events subsequently showed, I held their friendship and confidence. At one time, during the war, a party of Indians held me harmless within their power. They had said they would not harm those who had advocated their cause at the time the treaties were made. [Illustration: The lost child.] Soon after the outbreak noted, I disregarded the earnest entreaties of many persons and went back to my stock and to the cabin to care for the abandoned dairy and young cattle. I did not believe the Indians would molest me, but took the precaution of having my rifle in a convenient place. I did not need to use it. When nightfall came I did withdraw from my cabin, not from fear of war parties, but of individual outlaws. The sole military experience of my life consisted in an expedition to the Puyallup valley with a company of seventeen settlers soon after the outbreak described. The settlers of Puyallup had left their homes the day after the massacre in such haste that they were almost destitute of clothing, bedding, and food, as well as shelter. A strong military force had penetrated the Indian country--the upper Puyallup valley and beyond. We knew of this, but did not know that the soldiers had retreated by another road, virtually driven out, the very day we went in armed with all sorts of guns and with scarcely any organization. We had gone into the Indian stronghold not to fight Indians, but to recover property. Nevertheless, there would have been hot work if we had been attacked. The settlers knew the country as well as did the Indians and were prepared to meet them on their own ground and in their own way. The Indians were in great force but a few miles distant. They had scouts on our tracks, but did not molest us. We visited every settler's cabin and secured the belongings not destroyed. On the sixth day we came away with great loads of "plunder." All the while we were in blissful ignorance that the troops had been withdrawn, and that no protection lay between us and the Indian forces. After this outbreak, Indians and settlers about our neighborhood lived in peace, on the whole. To anyone who treated them fairly, the Indians became loyal friends. Mowich Man, an Indian whom I was to know during many years, was one of our neighbors. He frequently passed our cabin with his canoe and people. He was a great hunter, a crack shot, and an all-round Indian of good parts. Many is the saddle of venison that he brought me in the course of years. Other pioneers likewise had special friends among the Indians. Some of Mowich Man's people were fine singers. His camp, or his canoe if he was traveling, was always the center for song and merriment. It is a curious fact that one seldom can get the Indian music by asking for it, but rather must wait for its spontaneous outburst. Indian songs in those days came from nearly every nook and corner and seemed to pervade the whole country. We often could hear the songs and accompanying stroke of the paddle long before we saw the floating canoes. [Illustration: Carrying a dairy to the new mining town.] CHAPTER NINETEEN THE STAMPEDE FOR THE GOLD DIGGINGS HARDLY had we got fairly over the Indian War when another wave of excitement broke up our pioneer plans again. On March 21, 1858, the schooner _Wild Pigeon_ arrived at Steilacoom with the news that the Indians had discovered gold on Fraser River, that they had traded several pounds of the precious metal with the Hudson's Bay Company, and that three hundred people had left Victoria and its vicinity for the new land of El Dorado. Furthermore, the report ran, the mines were exceedingly rich. The wave of excitement that went through the little settlement upon the receipt of this news was repeated in every town and hamlet of the whole Pacific Coast. It continued even around the world, summoning adventurous spirits from all civilized countries of the earth. Everybody, women folk and all, wanted to go, and would have started pell mell had there not been that restraining influence of the second thought, especially powerful with people who had just gone through the mill of adversity. My family was still in the blockhouse that we had built in the town of Steilacoom during the Indian War. Our cattle were peacefully grazing on the plains a few miles away. One of the local merchants, Samuel McCaw, bundled up a few goods, made a flying trip up Fraser River, and came back with fifty ounces of gold dust and the news that the mines were all that had been reported and more, too. This of course, added fuel to the flame. We all believed a new era had dawned upon us, similar to that of ten years before in California, which changed the world's history. High hopes were built, most of them to end in disappointment. Not but that there were extensive mines, and that they were rich, and that they were easily worked; how to get to them was the puzzling question. The early voyagers had slipped up the Fraser before the freshets came down from the melting snows to swell the torrents of that river. Those going later either failed altogether and gave up the unequal contest, or lost an average of one canoe or boat out of three in the persistent attempt. How many lives were lost never will be known. Contingents began to arrive in Steilacoom from Oregon, from California, and finally from "the States." Steamers great and small began to appear, with little cargo but with passenger lists that were said to be nothing compared to those of ships coming in less than a hundred miles to the north of us. These people landing in Whatcom in such great numbers must be fed, we agreed. If the multitude would not come to us to drink the milk of our cows and eat their butter, what better could we do than to take our cows to the place where we were told the multitude did not hesitate to pay a dollar a gallon for milk and any price one might ask for fresh butter! But how to get even to Whatcom was the rub. All space on the steamers was taken from week to week for freight and passengers, and no room was left for cattle. In fact, the run on provisions for the gold rush was so great that at one time we were almost threatened with famine. Finally our cattle, mostly cows, were loaded in an open scow and taken in tow alongside the steamer, the _Sea Bird_, I think it was. [Illustration: A "shaker" used to wash out gold.] All went well enough until we arrived off the head of Whidby Island. Here a choppy sea from a light wind began slopping over the scow and evidently would sink us despite our utmost efforts at bailing. When the captain would slow down the speed of his steamer, all was well; but the moment greater power was applied, over the gunwales would come the water. The dialogue that ensued between the captain and me was more emphatic than elegant. He dared not risk letting go of us, however, or of running us under, for fear of incurring the risk of heavy damages. I would not consent to be landed. So about the twentieth of June we were set adrift in Bellingham Bay and, tired and sleepy, landed on the beach. Our cows must have feed, they must be milked, the milk must be marketed. There was no rest for us during another thirty-six hours. In fact, there was but little sleep for anybody on that beach at the time. Several ocean steamers had just dumped three thousand people on the beach, and there was still a scramble to find a place to build a house or stretch a tent, or even to spread a blanket, for there were great numbers already there, landed by previous steamers. The staking of lots on the tide flats at night, when the tide was out, seemed to be a staple industry. A few days after my arrival four steamers came with an aggregate of more than two thousand passengers. Many of these, however, did not leave the steamer; they took passage either to their port of departure--San Francisco or Victoria--or to points on the Sound. The ebb tide had set in, and although many steamers came later and landed passengers, their return lists soon became large and the population began to diminish. Taking my little dory that we had with us on the scow, I rowed to the largest steamer lying at anchor. So many small boats surrounded the steamer that I could not get within a hundred feet of it. All sorts of craft filled the intervening space, from the smallest Indian canoe to large barges, the owner of each craft striving to secure customers. The great difficulty was to find a trail to the gold fields. This pass and that pass was tried without success. I saw sixty men with heavy packs on their backs start out in one company. Every one of these had to come back after floundering in the mountains for weeks. The Indians, among whom the spirit of war still smouldered, headed off some of the parties. The snows kept back others; and finally the British, watching their own interests, blocked the way through their land. As a result the boom burst, and people resought their old homes. It is doubtful if another stampede of such dimensions as that to the Fraser in 1858 ever occurred where the suffering was so great, the prizes so few, and the loss of life proportionately so great. Probably not one in ten that made the effort reached the mines, and of those who did the usual percentage drew the blanks inevitable in such stampedes. And yet the mines were immensely rich; many millions of dollars of gold came from the find in the lapse of years, and gold is still coming, though now more than sixty years have passed. While the losses of the people of the Puget Sound country were great, nevertheless good came out of the great stampede in the large accession of population that remained after the return tide was over. Many people had become stranded and could not leave the country, but went to work with a will to make a living there. Of these not a few are still honored citizens of the state that has been carved out of the territory of that day. [Illustration] [Illustration: Carrie sees "a big cat" sharpening its claws.] CHAPTER TWENTY MAKING A PERMANENT HOME IN THE WILDS THE days that followed our venture in the gold field were more peaceful and prosperous. Soon after the Indian War we had moved to a new claim. We began now to realize to the full our dream of earlier days, to settle on a farm and build a home. Three neighbors were all we had, and the nearest lived nearly two miles away. Two of them kept bachelor's hall. The thick, high timber made it impossible for us to see any of our neighbors' houses. We could reach only one by a road; to the others we might go by a trail. Under such conditions we could not have a public school. This, however, did not keep us from having a school of our own. One day one of our farther-off neighbors, who lived more than four miles away, came to visit us. Naturally the children flocked around him to hear his stories in broad Scotch and to ply him with questions. In his turn, he began to ask them questions. One of these was, "When do you expect to go to school?" "Oh, we have school now," responded the children. "We have school every day." "And pray, who is your teacher, and where is your schoolhouse?" "Father teaches us at home every morning before breakfast. He hears the lessons then, and mother helps us too." "Your father told me a while ago that you had your breakfast at six o'clock. What time do you get up?" "Why, father sets the clock for half-past four, and that gives us an hour while mother gets breakfast, you know." Boys and girls of today may pity those poor pioneer children who had to get up so early. They may as well dismiss such feelings from their hearts. The children were cheerful and healthy; they did some work during the day in addition to studying their lessons; and besides they went to bed earlier than some boys and girls do these days. In January 1861 the wreck of the steamer _Northerner_ brought great sorrow to us, for my brother Oliver was among those lost. The ship struck on an uncharted rock. During the stay at Steilacoom in the time of the Indian troubles, we had begun a trading venture, in a small way. The venture having proved successful, we invested all our savings in a new stock of merchandise, and this stock, not all paid for, went down with the ship. Again we must start in life, and we moved to a new location, a homestead in the Puyallup valley. Here we lived and farmed for forty-one years, seeing the town of Puyallup grow up on and around the homestead. In the Puyallup valley there were more neighbors--two families to the square mile. Yet no neighbors were in sight, because the timber and underbrush were so thick we could scarcely see two rods from the edge of our clearing. But the neighbors were near enough for us to provide a public school and build a schoolhouse. Some of the neighbors took their axes to cut the logs, some their oxen to drag them, others their saws and cleaving tools to make clapboards for the roof. Others again, more handy with tools, made the benches out of split logs, or, as we called them, puncheons. With willing hands to help, the schoolhouse soon received the finishing touches. The side walls were scarcely high enough for the doorway, so one was cut in the end. The door hung on wooden hinges, which squeaked a good deal when the door was opened or shut; but the children did not mind that. The roof answered well enough for the ceiling overhead, and a cut in one of the logs on each side made two long, narrow windows for light. The children sat with their faces to the walls, with long shelves in front of them, while the smaller tots sat on low benches near the middle of the room. When the weather would permit, the teacher left the door open to admit more light. There was no need to let in more fresh air, as the roof was quite open and the cracks between the logs let in plenty of it. Sometimes we had a woman for teacher, and then the salary was smaller, as she boarded around. That meant some discomfort for her during part of the time, where the surroundings were not pleasant. One day little Carrie, my daughter, started to go to school, but soon came running back out of breath. "Mamma! Mamma! I saw a great big cat sharpening his claws on a great big tree, just the way pussy does!" she said as soon as she could catch her breath. Sure enough, upon examination, there were the marks of a cougar as high up on the tree as I could reach. It must have been a big one to reach so far up the tree. But the incident soon dropped out of mind and the children went to school on the trail as if nothing had happened. Afterwards I met a cougar on a lonely trail in the woods near where Auburn now stands. I had been attempting to drive some wild cattle home, but they were so unruly that they scattered through the timber and I was obliged to go on without them late in the day. The forest was so dense that it was hard to see the road even when the sun was shining; on a cloudy day it seemed almost like night, though I could see well enough to keep on the crooked trail. Just before I got to Stuck River crossing I came to a turn in the trail where it crossed the top of a big fir that had been turned up by the roots and had fallen nearly parallel with the trail. The big roots held the butt of the tree up from the ground. I think the tree was four feet in diameter a hundred feet from the butt, and the whole body, from root to top, was eighty-four steps long, or about two hundred and fifty feet. I didn't stop to step it then. But you may be sure I took some pretty long strides about that time; for just as I stepped over the fallen tree near the top, I saw something move on the big body near the roots. The thing was coming right towards me. In an instant I realized that it was a great cougar. He was pretty, but he did not look especially pleasing to me. I didn't know what to do. I had no gun with me, and I knew perfectly well there was no use to run. Was I scared, did you say? Did you ever have creepers run up your back and right to the roots of your hair, and nearly to the top of your head? Did the cougar hurt me? If I had been hurt I shouldn't have been here to tell you this story. The fun of it was that the cougar hadn't seen me yet, but as soon as he did he scampered off as if the Old Harry himself were after him, while I sped off down the trail as if old Beelzebub were after me. But no wild animals ever harmed us, and we did not die for want of food, clothing, or shelter, although we did have some experiences that were trying. Before the clearings were large we sometimes were pinched for both food and clothing. I will not say we suffered much for either, though I know that some families at times lived on potatoes, straight. Usually fish could be had in abundance, and there was considerable game--some bear and plenty of deer. [Illustration: The Christmas tree with its homemade gifts.] The clothing gave us more trouble, as but little money came to us for the small quantity of produce we had to spare. I remember one winter when we were at our wits' ends for shoes. We just could not get money to buy shoes enough to go around, but we managed to get leather to make each member of the family one pair. We killed a pig to get bristles for the wax-ends, cut the pegs from alder log and seasoned them in the oven, and made the lasts out of the same timber. Those shoes were clumsy, to be sure; but they kept our feet dry and warm, and we felt thankful for them and sorry for some neighbors' children, who had to go barefooted even in quite cold weather. Carrie once had a pair of nice white shoes "for best," I remember, that one of her brothers made for her, with buckskin uppers and light tan-colored soles. You must not think that we had no recreation and that we were a sorrowful set. There was never a happier lot of people than these same hard-working pioneers and their families. We had joy in our home life, and amusements as well as labor. Music was our greatest pleasure. We never tired of it. "Uncle John," as every one called him, the old teacher, was constantly teaching the children music; so it soon came about they could read their music as readily as they could their school books. No Christmas ever went by without a Christmas tree, at which the whole neighborhood joined. The Fourth of July was never passed without a celebration. We made the presents for the tree if we could not buy them, and supplied the musicians, reader, and orator for the celebration. Everybody had something to do and a voice in saying what should be done, and that very fact made all happy. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ A dairy farm in Washington, where once the forest stood.] It was sixteen miles to our market town, Steilacoom, over the roughest kind of road. Nobody had horse teams at the start; we had to go with ox teams. We could not make the trip out and back in one day, and we did not have money to pay hotel bills. We managed in this way: we would drive out part of the way and camp; the next morning we would drive into town very early, do our trading, and if possible, drive back home the same day. If not able to do this, we camped on the road again. But if the night was not too dark we would reach home that night. And oh, what an appetite we would have, and how bright the fire would be, and how joyous the welcome in the cabin home! The trees and stumps are all gone now and brick buildings and other good houses occupy much of the land. As many people now live in that school district as lived both east and west of the mountains when the Territory was created in March of 1853. Instead of going in ox teams, or even sleds, the people have carriages or automobiles; they can travel on any of the eighteen passenger trains that pass daily through Puyallup, or on street cars to Tacoma, and also on some of the twenty to twenty-four freight trains, some of which are a third of a mile long. Such are some of the changes wrought in fifty years since pioneer life began in the Puyallup valley. [Illustration: A hop field with the hops ready for picking.] CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE FINDING AND LOSING A FORTUNE OUR youthful dream of becoming farmers was now realized in fullest measure. The clearing was gradually enlarged, and abundant crops came to reward our efforts. The comfort and plenty we had hoped and struggled for was attained. Next came a development in the family fortunes that we had not dreamed of. Never had we thought to see the Meeker family conducting a business that would require a London office. This unexpected prosperity came to us through the hop-growing industry, upon which we entered with all our force. The business was well started by the time of my father's death in 1869, and in the fifteen years following the acreage planted to hops was increased until the crop-yield of 1882, a yield of more than seventy-one tons, gave the Puyallup valley the banner crop, as to quantity, of the United States--and, some persons asserted, of the world. The public, generally, gave me the credit of introducing hop culture into the Northwest. Therefore it seems fitting to tell here the story of the beginnings of an industry that came to have great importance. In March of 1865, Charles Wood of Olympia sent about three pecks of hop roots to Steilacoom for my father, Jacob R. Meeker, who then lived on his claim in the Puyallup valley. John V. Meeker, my brother, passed by my cabin when he carried the sack of roots on his back from Steilacoom to my father's home, a distance of about twenty miles, and from the sack I took roots enough to plant six hills of hops. As far as I know those were the first hops planted in the Puyallup valley. My father planted the remainder, and in the following September harvested the equivalent of one bale of hops, 180 pounds. This was sold for eighty-five cents a pound, or a little more than a hundred and fifty dollars for the bale. This sum was more money than had been received by any of the settlers in the Puyallup valley, except perhaps two, from the products of their farms for that year. My father's near neighbors obtained a barrel of hop roots from California the next year, and planted them the following spring--four acres. I obtained what roots I could get that year, but not enough to plant an acre. The following year (1867) I planted four acres, and for twenty-six successive years thereafter we added to the area planted, until our holdings reached past the five-hundred-acre mark and our production was more than four hundred tons a year. None of us knew anything about the hop business, and it was entirely by accident that we engaged in it. But seeing that there were possibilities of great gain, I took pains to study hop culture, and found that by allowing our hops to mature thoroughly, curing them at a low temperature, and baling them while hot, we could produce hops that would compete with any product in the world. Others of my neighbors planted them, and so did many people in Oregon, until soon there came to be a field for purchasing and shipping hops. But the fluctuations in price were so great that in a few years many growers became discouraged and lost their holdings. [Illustration: The site of the cabin home in Puyallup is now Pioneer Park, Ezra Meeker's gift to the city that he founded. In it still stands the ivy vine that for fifty years grew over the cabin.] Finally, during the failure of the world's hop crop in the year 1882, there came to be unheard-of prices for hops, and fully one third of the crop of the Puyallup valley was sold for a dollar a pound. I had that year nearly one hundred thousand pounds, which brought an average of seventy cents a pound. My first hop house was built in 1868--a log house. It still stands in Pioneer Park in Puyallup. We frequently employed more than a thousand people during harvest time. Many of these were Indians, some of whom would come for a thousand miles down the coast from British Columbia and even the confines of Alaska; they came in the great cedar-log canoes manned with twenty paddlers or more. For the most part I managed my Indian workers very easily. Once I had to tie up two of them to a tree for getting drunk; their friends came and stole away the prisoners--which was what I intended they should do. It was in 1870, eighteen years after my arrival from across the Plains, that I made my first return journey to the States. I had to go through the mud to the Columbia River, then out over the bar to the Pacific Ocean, and down to San Francisco. Then there was the seven days' journey over the Central and Union Pacific and connecting lines; this meant sitting bolt upright all the way, for there were no sleeping cars then, and no diners either. About 1882 I had come to realize that the important market for hops was in England, and E. Meeker & Co. began sending trial shipments, first seven bales, then the following year five hundred bales, then fifteen hundred. Finally our annual shipments reached eleven thousand bales a year, or the equivalent in value of half a million dollars--said at that time to be the largest export hop business of any one concern in the United States. At one time I had two full trainloads between the Pacific and the Atlantic, on their way to London. I spent four winters in London dealing in the hop market. Little as I had thought ever to handle an international business, still less had I thought ever to write a book. My first publication was an eighty-page pamphlet descriptive of Washington Territory, printed in 1870. My first real book, _Hop Culture in the United States_, was published in 1883. I mention this fact simply as one instance out of the many that could be given of the unexpected lines of development that life in the new land opened out to the pioneers. The hop business could not be called a venture; it was simply a growth. The conditions were favorable to us in that we could produce hops for the world's market at the lowest prices. We actually pressed the English growers so closely that more than fifteen thousand acres of hops were destroyed in that country. Our great prosperity was not to last. One evening in 1892, as I stepped out of my office and cast my eyes toward one group of hop houses, it struck me that the hop foliage of a field near by was off color--did not look natural. One of my clerks from the office said the same thing--the vines did not look natural. I walked down to the yards, a quarter of a mile away, and there first saw the hop louse. The yard was literally alive with lice, and they were destroying at least the quality of the hops. I issued a hop circular, sending it to more than six hundred correspondents all along the coast in California, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia, and before the week was out I began to receive samples from them, and letters asking what was the matter with the hops. It appeared that the attack of lice was simultaneous in Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia, extending over a distance coastwise of more than five hundred miles, and even inland up the Skagit River, where there was an isolated yard. This plague was like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky to us. I sent my second son, Fred Meeker, to London to learn the English methods of fighting the pest and to import some spraying machinery. We found to our cost, however, in the course of time, that the English methods did not suit our different conditions; for while we could kill the lice, we had to use so much spraying material on the dense foliage that, in killing them, we virtually destroyed the hops. Instead of being able to sell our hops at the top price of the market, we saw our product fall to the foot of the list. The last crop I raised cost me eleven cents a pound and sold for three under the hammer at sheriff's sale. At that time I had advanced to my neighbors and others upon their hop crops more than a hundred thousand dollars, which was lost. These people simply could not pay, and I forgave the debt, taking no judgments against them, and I have never regretted the action. All my accumulations were swept away, and I quit the business--or, rather, the business quit me. After a long struggle with the hop plague, nearly all the hops were plowed up and the land in the Puyallup valley and elsewhere was used for dairy farming, fruit growing, and general crops. It is actually of a higher value now than when it was bearing hops. [Illustration: _United States Forest Service_ Going up the Chilkoot Pass.] CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO TRYING FOR A FORTUNE IN ALASKA AFTER the failure of the hop business, I was left more or less at sea for some years. I tried various other projects--among them the raising of sugar beets. The country, we soon found, was not adapted to this industry. Then I tried banking, likewise with little success. Finally I decided to strike out for the mines of Alaska. This adventure, taken when I was nearly three score and ten years of age, was full of exciting experiences. Indeed, it left me richer only in experience. I had lived in the old Oregon country forty-four years and had never seen a mine. Mining had had no attraction for me. But when my accumulations had all been swallowed up, I decided to take a chance. In the spring of 1898 I made my first trip over the Chilkoot Pass, went down the Yukon river to Dawson in a flatboat, and ran the famous White Horse Rapids with my load of vegetables for the Klondike miners. One may read most graphic descriptions of Chilkoot Pass; but the difficulties met by those earlier fortune-seekers who tried it were worse than the wildest fancy can picture. I started in with fifteen tons of freight and got through with nine. On one stretch of two thousand feet, I paid forty dollars a ton. Some others paid even more. The trip part of the way reminded me of the scenes on the Plains in 1852, when the people and teams crowded each other on the several parallel trails. At the pass, most of the travel came upon one track, and that so steep the ascent could be made only by cutting steps in the ice and snow--fifteen hundred steps in all. Frequently every step would be full, while crowds jostled each other at the foot of the ascent to get into the single file, each man carrying a hundred-pound pack on his back. After all sorts of trying experiences, I finally arrived in Dawson, where I sold my fresh potatoes at thirty-six dollars a bushel and other things at proportionate prices. In two weeks I started up the river, homeward bound, with two hundred ounces of Klondike gold in my belt. But four round trips in two years satisfied me that I did not want any more of such experiences. Once, fortunately, I was detained for a couple of days, and thereby escaped an avalanche that buried fifty-two other people in the snow. I passed by the morgue the second day after the catastrophe on my way to the summit, doubtless over the bodies of many unknown dead, embedded so deeply in the snow that it was utterly impossible to recover them. The good ducking I received in my first passage through the White Horse Rapids made me resolve I would not go through there again. But I did it on the very next trip that same year, and came out of it dry. Again, when going down the Thirty-Mile River, it did seem that we could not escape being dashed upon the rocks. But somehow or other we got through safely, though the bank was strewn with wrecks and the waters had swallowed up many victims. When the Yukon proper was reached, the current was less swift, but the shoals were numerous. More than once we were "hung up" on the bar, each time uncertain how we should get off. No mishap resulted, except once when a hole was jammed into the scow, and we thought we were "goners" for sure; but we effected a landing so quickly that we unloaded our cargo dry. While I now blame myself for taking such risks, I must admit that I enjoyed it. I was sustained, no doubt, by high hopes of coming out with my "pile." But fate or something else was against me, for mining ventures swept all my gains away "slick as a mitten," as the old phrase goes. I came out over the rotten ice of the Yukon in April of 1901 to stay, and to vow I never wanted to see another mine or visit another mining country. In two weeks after my arrival home my wife and I celebrated our golden wedding. There was nothing but a golden welcome home, even if I had not returned with my pockets filled with gold. Since I was then past my allotted three score years and ten, it naturally seemed that my ventures were at an end. But for many of these years I had been cherishing a dream that I felt must come true to round out my days most satisfactorily. I longed to go back over the old Oregon Trail and mark it for all time for the children of the pioneers who blazed it, and for the world. How that dream was made to come true is the story to be told in the succeeding part of this book of pioneer stories. PART THREE RETRACING THE OLD OREGON TRAIL [Illustration: With the development of railroad construction it was thought that roads would go out of use except for local communication. But since the advent of motor vehicles, transcontinental highways have again become of great importance. For many reasons it is highly desirable that there should be good roads clear across the continent. Two have been proposed, and in sections meet the requirements of a great transcontinental highway; but neither is yet completed. One is the Oregon Highway, which follows the old Oregon Trail. This is the route over which Ezra Meeker traveled by ox-team in 1906 and on which many monuments have been erected to commemorate the pioneers of the 1840's and '50's. The other is the Lincoln Highway, shown by the lighter line on this map.] [Illustration: Out on the trail again.] CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE A PLAN FOR A MEMORIAL TO THE PIONEERS THE ox is passing--in fact, has passed. The old-time spinning wheel and the hand loom, the quaint old cobbler's bench with its handmade lasts and shoe pegs, the heavy iron mush pot on the crane in the chimney corner,--all have gone. The men and women of sixty years or more ago are passing, too. All are laid aside for what is new in the drama of life. While these old-time ways and scenes and actors have had their day, yet the experiences and the lessons they taught are not lost to the world. The difference between a civilized and an untutored people lies in the application of experiences. The civilized man builds upon the foundations of the past, with hope and ambition for the future. The savage has neither past nor aspiration for the future. To keep the flame of patriotism alive, we must keep the memory of the past vividly before us. It was with these thoughts in mind that the expedition to mark the old Oregon Trail was undertaken. There was this further thought, that on this trail heroic men and women had fought a veritable battle--a battle that wrested half a continent from the native race and from another mighty nation contending for mastery in unknown regions of the West. To mark the field of that battle for future generations was a duty waiting for some one; I determined to be the one to fulfill it. The journey back over the old Oregon Trail by ox team was made during my seventy-seventh year. On January 29, 1906, I left my home in Puyallup, Washington, and on November 29, 1907, just twenty-two months later to the day, I reached Washington, our national capital, with my cattle and my old prairie schooner. Not all of this time was spent in travel, of course; a good deal of it was taken up in furthering the purpose of the trip by arranging for the erection and dedication of monuments to mark the Trail. To accomplish the purpose of marking the trail would have been enough to make the journey worth while to me, besides all the interest of freshening my recollections of old times and reviving old memories. There is not space in this book to dwell on all the contrasts that came to my mind constantly,--of the uncleared forests with the farms and orchards of today, of the unbroken prairie lands with the ranches and farms and cities that now border the old trail from the Rockies to the Mississippi. There is nothing like an ox-team journey, I maintain, to make a person realize this country, realize its size, the number of its people, and the variety of conditions in which they live and of occupations by which they live. I wish I could share with every boy and girl in the country the panorama view that unrolled itself before me in this journey from tidewater to tidewater. The ox team was chosen as a typical reminder of pioneer days. The Oregon Trail, it must be remembered, is essentially an ox-team trail. No more effective instrument, therefore, could have been chosen to attract attention, arouse enthusiasm, and secure aid in forwarding the work, than this living symbol of the old days. Indeed, too much attention, in one sense, was attracted. I had scarcely driven the outfit away from my own dooryard before the wagon and wagon cover, and even the map of the old trail on the sides of the cover, began to be defaced. First I noticed a name or two written on the wagon bed, then a dozen or more, all stealthily placed there, until the whole was so closely covered that there was no room for more. Finally the vandals began carving initials on the wagon bed and cutting off pieces to carry away. Eventually I put a stop to such vandalism by employing special police, posting notices, and nabbing some offenders in the very act. Give me Indians on the Plains to contend with; give me fleas or even the detested sage-brush ticks to burrow into the flesh; but deliver me from cheap notoriety seekers! I had decided to take along one helper, and a man by the name of Herman Goebel went as far as The Dalles with the outfit. There William Marden joined me for the journey across the Plains. Marden stayed with me for three years, and proved to be faithful and helpful. And now a word as to my oxen. The first team consisted of one seven-year-old ox, Twist, and one unbroken five-year-old range steer, Dave. When we were ready to start, Twist weighed 1,470 pounds and Dave 1,560. This order of weight was soon changed. In three months' time Twist gained 130 pounds and Dave lost 80. All this time I fed them with a lavish hand all the rolled barley I dared give and all the hay they would eat. [Illustration: Preparing to cross a river; unyoking the oxen.] Dave would hook and kick and perform every other mean trick. Besides, he would stick his tongue out from the smallest kind of exertion. He had just been shipped in off the Montana cattle range and had never had a rope on him, unless it was when he was branded. Like a great over-grown booby of a boy, he was flabby in flesh, and he could not endure any sort of exertion without discomfort. At one time I became very nearly discouraged with him. Yet this was the ox that made the round trip. He bore his end of the yoke from the tidewaters of the Pacific to the tidewaters of the Atlantic, at the Battery, New York City, and on to Washington City to meet the President. He finally became subdued, though not conquered. At times he became threatening with his horns, and I never did trust his heels. [Illustration: Taking off the wagon box.] The other ox, Twist, died suddenly on August 9, 1906, and was buried within a few rods of the trail. It was two months to a day after his death before I could find a mate for the Dave ox, and then I had to take another five-year-old steer off the cattle range of Nebraska. This steer, Dandy, evidently had never been handled; but he came of good stock and, with the exception of awkwardness, gave me no serious trouble. Dandy was purchased out of the stockyard at Omaha. He then weighed 1,470 pounds, and the day before he went to see the President he tipped the scales at the 1,760-pound notch. Dandy proved to be a faithful, serviceable ox. On the journey Dave had to be shod fourteen times, I think, and he always struggled to get away. Once, on the summit of the Rocky Mountains, we had to throw Dave and tie him hard and fast before we could shoe him. It takes two shoes to one foot for an ox, instead of one as for a horse, though the fastening is the same; that is, by nailing into the hoof. At one time Dandy's hoofs became so worn that I could not fasten a shoe on him, and so I had what we called leather boots put on, that left a track like an elephant's; but he could not pull well with them on. [Illustration: Calking the wagon box to turn it into a boat.] Besides the oxen we had a dog, Jim. More will be told of him later. An authentic prairie schooner, a true veteran of the Plains, was out of the question. In building the new one, use was made of parts of three old wagons. The woodwork of the wagon had to be new throughout except for one hub, which had done service across the Plains in 1853. This hub and the bands, boxes, and other iron parts were from two old-time wagons that had crossed the Plains in 1853. They differed somewhat in size and shape; hence the hubs of the fore and hind wheels did not match. [Illustration: Launching the schooner to cross the river.] The axles were of wood, with the old-time linchpins and steel skeins, which called for the use of tar and the tar bucket instead of axle grease. Why? Because if grease were used, the spokes would work loose, and soon the whole wheel would collapse. The bed was of the old prairie-schooner style, with the bottom boat-shaped and the ribs on the outside. My first camp for the return journey over the old trail was made in my own dooryard at Puyallup. This was maintained for several days to give the wagon and team a trial. After the weak points had been strengthened and everything pronounced to be in order, I left home for the long trip. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ Great changes had taken place along the old trail through Washington and Oregon; here are strawberries growing where the forest stood in 1852.] The first drive was to Seattle through the towns of Sumner, Auburn, and Kent. In Seattle I had a host of friends and acquaintances, and I thought that there I could arouse interest in my plan and secure some aid for it. Nothing came of the effort. My closest friends, on the contrary, tried to dissuade me from going; and, I may say, actually tried to convince others that it would be an act of friendship not to lend any aid to the enterprise. I knew, or thought I knew, that my strength would warrant undertaking the ordeal; I felt sure I could make the trip successfully. But my friends remained unconvinced; so after spending two weeks in Seattle I shipped my outfit by steamer to Tacoma, only to meet the same spirit there. One pleasant incident broke the monotony. Henry Hewitt, of Tacoma, drove up alongside my team and said, "Meeker, if you get broke out there on the Plains, just telegraph me for money to come back on." "No," I said, "I'd rather hear you say to telegraph for money to go on with." "All right," came the response, "have it that way, then." Henry drove off, perhaps not giving the conversation a second thought until he received my telegram two months later, telling him that I had lost an ox and wanted him to send me two hundred dollars. The money was immediately wired to me. Somehow no serious thought of turning back ever entered my mind. When I had once resolved to make the trip, nothing but utter physical disability could deter me. I felt on this point just as I did when I first crossed the Plains in 1852. From Tacoma I shipped again by steamer to Olympia. The end of the old trail is but two miles distant from Olympia at Tumwater, the extreme southern point of Puget Sound. Here the first American party of homeseekers to Washington rested and settled in 1845. At this point I set a post, and afterwards arranged for a stone to be placed to mark the spot. On the twentieth of February I went to Tenino, south of Olympia, on the train. My outfit was drawn to this place by a horse team, the oxen being taken along under yoke. Dave was still not an ox, but an unruly steer. I dared not intrust driving him to other hands, yet I had to go ahead to arrange for the monument and the lecture. The twenty-first of February was a red-letter day. At Tenino I had the satisfaction of helping to dedicate the first monument erected to mark the old trail. The stores were closed, and the school children in a body came over to the dedication. The monument was donated by the Tenino Quarry Company; it is inscribed "Old Oregon Trail: 1843-57." [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ A prosperous fruit farm along the trail.] In the evening I addressed a good-sized audience, and sixteen dollars was received to help on the good work. The spirit of the people, more than the money, was encouraging. At Chehalis, Washington, the Commercial Club undertook to erect and dedicate a monument. John R. Jackson was the first American citizen to settle north of the Columbia River. One of the daughters, Mrs. Ware, accompanied by her husband, indicated the spot where the monument should be erected, and a post was planted. A touching incident was that Mrs. Ware was requested to put the post in place and hold it while her husband tamped the earth around it. At Toledo, the place where the pioneers left the Cowlitz River on the trail to the Sound, another marker was placed by the citizens. [Illustration: The first boulder marked on the old trail; near The Dalles of the Columbia.] From Toledo I shipped the whole outfit by steamer down the Cowlitz River, and took passage with my assistants to Portland, thus reversing the order of travel in 1853. We used steam instead of the brawn of stalwart pioneers and Indians to propel the boat. On the evening of March the first I pitched my tent in the heart of the city of Portland, on a grassy vacant lot. On the morning of the tenth of March I took steamer with my outfit, bound up the Columbia for The Dalles. How wondrous the change! Fifty-four years before, I had come floating down this same stream in a flatboat with a party of poor, heartsick pioneers; now I made the trip enjoying cushioned chairs, delicious foods, fine linens, magazines and books--every luxury of civilized life. That night I arrived at The Dalles, and drove nearly three quarters of a mile to a camping ground near the park. The streets were muddy, and the cattle were impatient and walked very fast, which made it necessary for me to tramp through the mud at their heads. We had no supper or even tea, as we did not build a fire. It was clear that night, but raining in the morning. Prior to leaving home I had written to the ladies of the Landmark Committee at The Dalles. What should they do but provide a monument already inscribed and in place, and notify me that I had been selected to deliver the dedicatory address! The weather of the next day treated us to some hardships that I had missed on the first overland journey. Ice formed in the camp half an inch thick, and the high wind joined forces with the damper of our stove, which had got out of order, to fill the tent with smoke and make life miserable. The fierce, cold wind also made it necessary to postpone the dedication for a day and finally to carry it out with less ceremony than had been planned. Nevertheless, I felt that the expedition was now fairly started. We had reached the point where the real journey would begin, and the interest shown in the plan by the towns along the way had been most encouraging. [Illustration: The Dalles, on the Columbia River.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL AGAIN IT was the fourteenth of March when I drove out of The Dalles to make the long overland journey. By rail, it is 1734 miles from The Dalles to Omaha, where our work of marking the old trail was to end. By wagon road the distance is greater, but not much greater--probably 1800 miles. The load was very heavy, and so were the roads. With a team untrained to the road and one of the oxen unbroken, with no experienced ox driver to assist me, and the grades heavy, small wonder if a feeling of depression crept over me. On some long hills we could move only a few rods at a time, and on level roads, with the least warm sun, the unbroken ox would poke out his tongue. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ An apple orchard in Washington.] We were passing now through the great farming district of eastern Oregon. The desert over which we had dragged ourselves in those long-ago days has been largely turned into great wheat fields. As we drew into camp one night a young man approached, driving eight harnessed horses. He told me that he had harrowed in thirty-five acres of wheat that day, and that it was just a common day's work to plow seven acres of land. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ Where a wheat farm of today has taken the place of the unbroken prairie in eastern Oregon.] I recalled my boyhood days when father spoke approvingly if I plowed two acres a day, and when to harrow ten acres was the biggest kind of a day's work. I also recalled the time when we cut the wheat with a sickle, or maybe with a hand cradle, and threshed it out with horses on the barn floor. Sometimes we had a fanning mill, and how it would make my arms ache to turn the crank! At other times, if a stiff breeze sprang up, the wheat and chaff would be shaken loose and the chaff would be blown away. If all other means failed, two stout arms at either end of a blanket or a sheet would move the sheet as a fan to clean the wheat. Now we see the great combination harvester garner thirty acres a day, and thresh it as well and sack it ready for the mill or warehouse. There is no shocking, no stacking or housing: all in one operation, the grain is made ready for market. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ In spite of the wide-spreading farms and fruit orchards, there are still forests in Washington and Oregon, and lumbering is still a great industry.] As we journeyed eastward, the Blue Mountains came into distant view. Half a day's brisk travel brought us well up toward the snow line. The country became less broken, the soil seemed better, the rainfall had been greater. We began to see red barns and comfortable farmhouses, still set wide apart, though, for the farms are large. In the Walla Walla valley the scene is different. Smaller farms are the rule and orchards are to be seen everywhere. We now passed the historic spot where the Whitman massacre occurred in 1847. Soon afterward we were in camp in the very heart of the thriving city of Walla Walla. It was near here that I had met my father when I crossed by the Natchess Pass Trail in 1854. Another day's travel brought us to Pendleton, Oregon. Here the Commercial Club took hold with a will and provided funds for a stone monument. On the last day of March it was dedicated with appropriate ceremonies. That evening I drove out to the Indian school in a fierce rainstorm to talk to the teachers and pupils about the Oregon Trail. A night in the wagon without fire and with only a scant supper sent my spirits down to zero. Nor did they rise when I learned next morning that the snow had fallen eighteen inches deep in the mountains. However, with this news came a warm invitation from the school authorities to use a room they had allotted to us, with a stove, and to help ourselves to fuel. That cheered us up greatly. There was doubt whether we could cross the Blue Mountains in all this snow. I decided to investigate; so I took the train. About midnight I was landed in the snow at Meacham, with no visible light in the hotel and no track beaten to it. Morning confirmed the report of the storm; twenty inches of snow had fallen in the mountains. An old mountaineer told me, "Yes, it is possible to cross, but I warn you it will be a hard job." It was at once arranged that the second morning thereafter his team should leave Meacham on the way to meet me. "But what about a monument, Mr. Burns?" I said. "Meacham is a historic place, with Lee's encampment in sight." (It was in 1834 that the Reverend Jason Lee had crossed the continent with Wyeth's second expedition.) "We have no money," came the quick reply, "but we've got plenty of muscle. Send us a stone and I'll warrant you the foundation will be built and the monument put in place." A belated train gave opportunity to return at once to Pendleton, where an appeal for aid to provide an inscribed stone for Meacham was responded to with alacrity. The stone was ordered, and a sound night's sleep followed. I quote from my journal. "Camp No. 31, April 4, 1906. We are now on the snow line of Blue Mountains (8 P.M.), and am writing this by our first really out-of-doors camp fire, under the spreading boughs of a friendly pine tree. We estimate we have driven twelve miles; started from the school at 7 A.M. The first three or four miles over a beautiful farming country; then we began climbing the foothills, up, up, up, four miles, reaching first snow at three o'clock." True to promise, the mountaineer's team met us on the way to Meacham, but not till we had reached the snow. We were axle-deep in it and had the shovel in use to clear the way, when Burns came upon us. By night we were safely encamped at Meacham, with the cheering news that the monument had arrived and could be dedicated the next day. The summit of the mountain had not been reached, and the worst tug lay ahead of us. But casting thoughts of this from mind, all hands turned to the monument, which by eleven o'clock was in place. Twist and Dave stood near it, hitched up, and ready for the start as soon as the order was given. Everybody in town was there, the little school coming in a body. After the speech we moved on to battle with the snow, and finally won our way over the summit. [Illustration: A monument to the old trail, on the high school grounds at Baker City, Oregon.] The sunshine that was let into our hearts at La Grande was also refreshing. "Yes, we will have a monument," the people responded. And they got one, too, dedicating it while I tarried. We had taken with us an inscribed stone to set up at an intersection near the mouth of Ladd's Canyon, eight miles out of La Grande. The school near by came in a body. The children sang "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean," after which I talked to the assemblage for a few moments, and the exercises closed with all singing "America." Each child brought a stone and cast it upon the pile surrounding the base of the monument. The citizens of Baker City lent a willing ear to the suggestion to erect a monument on the high-school grounds, although the trail is six miles off to the north, and a fine granite shaft was provided for the high-school grounds and was dedicated. A marker was set on the trail. Eight hundred school children contributed an aggregate of sixty dollars to place a children's bronze tablet on this shaft. Two thousand people participated in the ceremony of dedication. News of these events was now beginning to pass along the line ahead. As a result the citizens in other places began to take hold of the work with a will. Old Mount Pleasant, Durkee, Huntington, and Vale were other Oregon towns that followed the good lead and erected monuments to mark the old trail. A most gratifying feature of the work was the hearty participation in it of the school children. [Illustration: _Howard R. Driggs_ A sheep herder's wagon in the sage-covered hills of Wyoming near the Oregon Trail.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE TRAILING ON TO THE SOUTH PASS THE Snake River was crossed just below the mouth of the Boise, about where, almost fifty-four years before, we had made our second crossing of the river. We were landed on the historic site of old Fort Boise, established by the Hudson's Bay Company in September, 1834. This fort was established for the purpose of preventing the success of the American venture at Fort Hall, a post established earlier in 1834 by Nathaniel J. Wyeth. Wyeth's venture proved a failure, and the fort soon passed to his rival, the Hudson's Bay Company. Thus for the time being the British had rule of the whole of that vast region known as the Inland Empire, then the Oregon Country. Some relics of the old fort at Boise were secured. Arrangements were made for planting a doubly inscribed stone to mark the trail and the site of the fort, and afterwards, through the liberality of the citizens of Boise City, a stone was ordered and put in place. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ Sheep ready for shipment at Caldwell, Idaho.] At Boise, the capital of Idaho, there were nearly twelve hundred contributions to the monument fund by the pupils of the public schools. The monument stands on the State House grounds and is inscribed as the children's offering to the memory of the pioneers. More than three thousand people attended the dedication service. The spirit of coöperation and good will towards the enterprise that was manifested at the capital city prevailed all through Idaho. From Parma, the first town we came to on the western edge, to Montpelier, near the eastern boundary, the people of Idaho seemed anxious to do their part in marking the old trail. Besides the places already named, Twin Falls, American Falls, Pocatello, and Soda Springs all responded to the appeal by erecting monuments to mark the Old Trail. One rather exciting incident happened near Montpelier. A vicious bull attacked my ox team, first from one side and then the other. Then he got in between the oxen and caused them nearly to upset the wagon. I was thrown down in the mix-up, but fortunately escaped unharmed. [Illustration: The monument to the trail at Boise, Idaho.] This incident reminded me of a scrape one of our neighboring trains got into on the Platte in 1852, with a wounded buffalo. The train had encountered a large herd of these animals, feeding and traveling at right angles to the road. The older heads of the party, fearing a stampede of their teams, had ordered the men not to molest the buffaloes, but to give their whole attention to the care of the teams. One impulsive young fellow would not be restrained; he fired into the herd and wounded a large bull. The maddened bull charged upon a wagon filled with women and children and drawn by a team of mules. He became entangled in the harness and was caught on the wagon-tongue between the mules. The air was full of excitement for a while. The women screamed, the children cried, and the men began to shout. But the practical question was how to dispatch the bull without shooting the mules as well. Trainmen forgot their own teams and rushed to the wagon in trouble. The guns began to pop and the buffalo was finally killed. The wonder is that nobody was harmed. From Cokeville to Pacific Springs, just west of the summit of the Rocky Mountains at South Pass, by the road and trail we traveled, is one hundred and fifty-eight miles. Ninety miles of this stretch is away from the sound of the locomotive, the click of the telegraph, or the voice of the "hello girl." The mountains here are from six to seven thousand feet above sea level, with scanty vegetable growth. The country is still almost a solitude, save as here and there a sheep herder or his wagon may be discerned. The sly coyote, the simple antelope, and the cunning sage hen still hold sway as they did when I first traversed the country. The old trail is there in all its grandeur. [Illustration: Monument at Pocatello, Idaho.] "Why mark that trail!" I exclaimed. Miles and miles of it are worn so deep that centuries of storm will not efface it; generations may pass and the origin of the trail may become a legend, but these marks will remain. We wondered to see the trail worn fifty feet wide and three feet deep, and we hastened to photograph it. But after we were over the crest of the mountain, we saw it a hundred feet wide and fifteen feet deep. The tramp of thousands upon thousands of men and women, the hoofs of millions of animals, and the wheels of untold numbers of vehicles had loosened the soil, and the fierce winds had carried it away. In one place we found ruts worn a foot deep into the solid rock. The mountain region was as wild as it had been when I first saw it. One day, while we were still west of the Rocky Mountains, in Wyoming, two antelopes crossed the road about a hundred yards ahead of us, a buck and a doe. The doe soon disappeared, but the buck came near the road and stood gazing at us in wonderment, as if to ask, "Who the mischief are you?" [Illustration: Deep ruts had been worn in the solid rock of the trail through the mountain country.] Our dog Jim soon scented him, and away they went up the mountain side until Jim got tired and came back to the wagon. Then the antelope stopped on a little eminence on the mountain, and for a long distance we could see him plainly against a background of sky. At another time we actually got near enough to get a shot with our kodaks at two antelopes; but they were too far off to make good pictures. Our road was leading us obliquely up a gentle hill, gradually approaching nearer to one of the antelopes. I noticed that he would come toward us for a while and then turn around and look the other way for a while. Then we saw what at first we took to be a kid, or young antelope; but soon we discovered that it was a coyote wolf, prowling on the track of the antelope, and watching both of us. Just after the wagon had stopped, I saw six big, fat sage hens feeding not more than twice the length of the wagon away, just as I had seen them in 1852. [Illustration: Jim, the collie that made the journey from Washington to Washington.] The dog, Jim, had several other adventures with animals on the way. First of all, he and Dave did not get along very well. Once Dave caught Jim under the ribs with his right horn, which was bent forward and stood out nearly straight, and tossed him over some sage brush near by. Sometimes, if the yoke prevented him from getting a chance at Jim with his horn, he would throw out his nose and snort, just like a horse that has been running at play and stops for a moment's rest. But Jim would manage to get even with him. Sometimes we put loose hay under the wagon to keep it out of the storm, and Jim would make a bed on it. Then woe betide Dave if he tried to get any of that hay! I saw Jim one day catch the ox by the nose and draw blood. You may readily imagine that the war was renewed between them with greater rancor than ever. They never did become friends. One day Jim got his foot under the wheel of our wagon, and I was sure it was broken, but it was not; yet he nursed it for a week by riding in the wagon. He never liked to ride in the wagon except during a thunderstorm. Once a sharp clap of thunder frightened Jim so that he jumped from the ground clear into the wagon while it was in motion and landed at my feet. How in the world he could do it I never could tell. Jim had some exciting experiences with wild animals, too. He was always chasing birds, jack rabbits, squirrels, or anything in the world that could get into motion. One day a coyote crossed the road just a few rods behind the wagon, and Jim took after him. It looked as if Jim would overtake him, and, being dubious of the result of a tussle between them, I called Jim back. No sooner had he turned than the coyote turned, too, and made chase, and there they came, nip and tuck, to see who could run the faster. I think the coyote could, but he did not catch up until they got so near the wagon that he became frightened and scampered away up the slope of a hill. At another time a young coyote came along, and Jim played with him awhile. But by and by the little fellow snapped at Jim and made Jim angry, and he bounced on the coyote and gave him a good trouncing. Before we sheared him, Jim would get very warm when the weather was hot. Whenever the wagon stopped he would dig off the top earth or sand that was hot, to have a cool bed to lie in; but he was always ready to go when the wagon started. Cokeville was the first town reached in Wyoming. It stands on Smith's Fork, near where that stream empties into Bear River. It is also at the western end of the Sublette Cut-off Trail from Bear River to Big Sandy Creek, the cut-off that we had taken in 1852. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ Coal mining is one of the industries that have grown up in Wyoming.] The people of the locality resolved to have a monument at this fork in the old trail, and arrangements were made to erect one out of stone from a local quarry. This good beginning made in the state, we went on, climbing first over the rim of the Great Basin, then up and across the Rockies. I quote again from my journal: "Pacific Springs, Wyoming, Camp No. 79, June 20, 1906. Odometer, 958. [Miles registered from The Dalles, Oregon.] Arrived at 6 P.M., and camped near Halter's store and the post office. Ice found in camp during the night." On June 22 we were still camped at Pacific Springs. I had searched for a suitable stone for a monument to be placed on the summit of the range, and, after almost despairing of finding one, had come upon exactly what was wanted. The stone lay alone on the mountain side; it is granite, I think, but mixed with quartz, and is a monument hewed by the hand of Nature. [Illustration: _Chas. S. Hill_ Wyoming oil wells.] Immediately after dinner we hitched the oxen to Mr. Halter's wagon. With the help of four men we loaded the stone, after having dragged it on the ground and over the rocks a hundred yards or so down the mountain side. We estimated its weight at a thousand pounds. There being no stonecutter at Pacific Springs to inscribe the monument, the clerk at the store formed the letters on stiff pasteboard. He then cut them out to make a paper stencil, through which the shape of the letters was transferred to the stone by crayon marks. The letters were then cut out with a cold chisel, deep enough to make a permanent inscription. The stone was so hard that it required steady work all day to cut the twenty letters and figures: THE OREGON TRAIL, 1843-57. We drove out of Pacific Springs at a little after noon and stopped at the summit to dedicate the monument. Then we left the summit and drove twelve miles to the point called Oregon Slough, where we put up the tent after dark. The reader may think of the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains as a precipitous defile through narrow canyons and deep gorges. Nothing is farther from the fact. One can drive through this Pass for several miles without realizing that the dividing line between the waters of the Pacific and those of the Atlantic has been passed. The road is over a broad, open, undulating prairie, the approach is by easy grades, and the descent, going east, is scarcely noticeable. All who were toiling west in the old days looked upon this spot as the turning point of their journey. There they felt that they had left the worst of the trip behind them. Poor souls that we were! We did not know that our worst mountain climbing lay beyond the summit of the Rockies, over the rugged Western ranges. [Illustration] [Illustration: Nooning beside the prairie schooner.] CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX REVIVING OLD MEMORIES OF THE TRAIL THE sight of Sweetwater River, twenty miles out from South Pass, revived many pleasant memories and some that were sad. I could remember the sparkling, clear water, the green skirt of undergrowth along the banks, and the restful camps, as we trudged along up the stream so many years ago. And now I saw the same channel, the same hills, and apparently the same waters swiftly passing. But where were the camp fires? Where was the herd of gaunt cattle? Where the sound of the din of bells? The hallooing for lost children? Or the little groups off on the hillside to bury the dead? All were gone. An oppressive silence prevailed as we drove to the river and pitched our camp within a few feet of the bank, where we could hear the rippling waters passing and see the fish leaping in the eddies. We had our choice of a camping place just by the skirt of a refreshing green brush with an opening to give full view of the river. It had not been so fifty-four years before, with hundreds of camps ahead of you. The traveler then had to take what he could get, and in many cases that was a place far back from the water and removed from other conveniences. [Illustration: _United States Geological Survey_ Devil's Gate, on the Sweetwater River, one of the many beautiful streams in the uplands of Wyoming. The pioneer trail followed the course of this river.] The sight and smell of carrion, so common in camping places during that first journey, also were gone. No bleached bones, even, showed where the exhausted dumb brute had died. The graves of the dead pioneers had all been leveled by the hoofs of stock and the lapse of time. The country remains as it was in '52. There the trail is to be seen miles and miles ahead, worn bare and deep, with but one narrow track where there used to be a dozen, and with the beaten path that vegetation has not yet recovered from the scourge of passing hoofs and tires of wagons years ago. As in 1852, when the summit was passed I felt that my task was much more than half done, though half the distance was scarcely compassed. On June 30, at about ten o'clock, we encountered a large number of big flies that ran the cattle nearly wild. I stood on the wagon tongue for miles to reach them with the whipstock. The cattle were so excited that we did not stop at noon, but drove on. By half-past two we camped at a farmhouse, the Split Rock post office, the first we had found in a hundred miles of travel since leaving Pacific Springs. The Devil's Gate, a few miles distant, is one of the two best-known landmarks on the trail. Here, as at Split Rock, the mountain seems to have been split apart, leaving an opening a few rods wide, through which the Sweetwater River pours in a veritable torrent. The river first approaches to within a few hundred feet of the gap, then suddenly curves away from it, and after winding through the valley for half a mile or so, a quarter of a mile away, it takes a straight shoot and makes the plunge through the canyon. Those who have had the impression that the emigrants drove their teams through this gap are mistaken, for it's a feat no mortal man has done or can do, any more than he could drive up the falls of the Niagara. This year, on my 1906 trip, I did clamber through on the left bank, over boulders head high, under shelving rocks. I ate some ripe gooseberries from the bushes growing on the border of the river, and plucked some beautiful wild roses, wondering the while why those wild roses grew where nobody would see them. The gap through the mountains looked familiar as I spied it from the distance, but the roadbed to the right I had forgotten. I longed to see this place; for here, somewhere under the sands, lies all that was mortal of my brother, Clark Meeker, drowned in the Sweetwater in 1854. [Illustration: _United States Geological Survey_ Devil's Gate, on the Sweetwater River, one of the famous landmarks on the old trail.] Independence Rock is the other most famous landmark. We drove over to the Rock, a distance of six miles from the Devil's Gate, and camped at ten o'clock for the day. This famous boulder covers about thirty acres. We groped our way among the inscriptions, to find some of them nearly obliterated and many legible only in part. We walked all the way around the stone, nearly a mile. The huge rock is of irregular shape, and it is more than a hundred feet high, the walls being so precipitous that ascent to the top is possible in only two places. Unfortunately, we could not find Fremont's inscription. Of this inscription Fremont writes in his journal of the year 1842: "August 23. Yesterday evening we reached our encampment at Rock Independence, where I took some astronomical observations. Here, not unmindful of the custom of early travelers and explorers in our country, I engraved on this rock of the Far West a symbol of the Christian faith. Among the thickly inscribed names, I made on the hard granite the impression of a large cross. It stands amidst the names of many who have long since found their way to the grave and for whom the huge rock is a giant gravestone." On Independence Day, 1906, we left Independence Rock. Our noon stop was on Fish Creek, eleven miles away. The next night we camped on the North Platte River. Fifty-four years before, I had left the old stream about fifteen miles below here on my way to the West. Next day, while nooning several miles out from Casper, we heard the whistle of a locomotive. It was the first we had heard for nearly three hundred miles. As soon as lunch was over, I left the wagon and walked to Casper ahead of the team to select a camping ground, secure feed, and get the mail. A special meeting of the Commercial Club of Casper was held that evening, and I laid the matter of building a monument before the members. They resolved to build one, opened the subscription at once, and appointed a committee to carry the work forward. Since then a monument twenty-five feet high has been erected at a cost of fifteen hundred dollars. Glen Rock is a small village, but the ladies there met and resolved they would have "as nice a monument as Casper's." One enthusiastic lady said, "We will inscribe it ourselves, if no stonecutter can be had." At Douglas also an earnest, well-organized effort to erect the monument was well in hand before we drove out of town. As we journeyed on down the Platte, we passed thrifty ranches and thriving little towns. It was haying time, and the mowers were busy cutting alfalfa. The hay was being stacked. Generous ranchers invited us to help ourselves to their garden stuff. All along the way was a spirit of good cheer and hearty welcome. Fort Laramie brings a flood of reminiscences to the western pioneer and his children. This old post, first a trappers' stockade, then in 1849 a soldiers' encampment, stood at the end of the Black Hills and at the edge of the Plains. Here the Laramie River and the Platte meet. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ The desert before irrigation.] The fort was a halfway station on the trail. From the time we crossed the Missouri in May, 1852, until we reached the old fort, no place name was so constantly in the minds of the emigrants as that of Fort Laramie. Here, in '52, we eagerly looked for letters that never came. Perhaps our friends and relatives had not written; perhaps they had written, but the letters were lost or sidetracked somewhere in "the States." As for hearing from home, for that we had to wait patiently until the long journey should end; then a missive might reach us by way of the Isthmus, or maybe by sailing vessel around Cape Horn. There is no vestige of the old traders' camp or the first United States fort left. The new fort--not a fort, but an encampment--covers a space of thirty or forty acres, with all sorts of buildings and ruins. One of the old barracks, three hundred feet long, was in good preservation in 1906, being utilized by the owner, Joseph Wilde, for a store, post office, hotel, and residence. The guard house with its grim iron door and twenty-inch concrete walls is also fairly well preserved. One frame building of two stories, we were told, was transported by ox team from Kansas City at a cost of one hundred dollars a ton. The old place is crumbling away, slowly disappearing with the memories of the past. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ The desert after irrigation.] From Fort Laramie onward into western Nebraska we passed through a succession of thriving cities. The Platte has been turned to splendid service through the process of irrigation. Great canals lead its life-giving waters out to the thirsty plains that now "blossom as the rose." Rich fields of grain and hay and beets cover the valley. Great sugar factories, railroads, business blocks, and fine homes tell of the prosperity that has leaped out of the parched plains we trailed across. Scott's Bluff, however, is one of the old landmarks that has not changed. It still looms up as of old on the south side of the river about eight hundred feet above the trail. The origin of the name, Scott's Bluff, is not definitely known. Tradition says: "A trapper named Scott, while returning to the States, was robbed and stripped by the Indians. He crawled to these Bluffs and there famished. His bones were afterwards found and buried." These quoted words were written by a passing emigrant on the spot, June 11, 1852. Another version of the tale is that Scott fell sick and was abandoned by his traveling companions. After having crawled almost forty miles, he finally died near the bluff that bears his name. This occurred prior to 1830. From the bluff we drove as directly as possible to a historic grave, two miles out from the town and on the railroad right of way. In this grave lies a pioneer mother who died August 15, 1852, nearly six weeks after I had passed over the ground. Some thoughtful friend had marked her grave by standing a wagon tire upright in it. But for this, the grave, like thousands and thousands of others, would have passed out of sight and mind. The tire bore this simple inscription: "Rebecca Winters, aged 50 years." The hoofs of stock tramped the sunken grave and trod it into dust, but the arch of the tire remained to defy the strength of thoughtless hands that would have removed it. Finally the railroad surveyors came along. They might have run the track over the lonely grave but for the thoughtfulness of the man who wielded the compass. He changed the line, that the resting place of the pioneer mother should not be disturbed, and the grave was protected and enclosed. The railroad officials did more. They telegraphed word of the finding of this grave to their representative in Salt Lake City. He gave the story to the press; the descendants of the pioneer mother read it, and they provided a monument, lovingly inscribed, to mark the spot. [Illustration: _United States Geological Survey_ Chimney Rock, an old sentinel on the trail in western Nebraska.] About twenty miles from Scott's Bluff stands old Chimney Rock. It is a curious freak of nature, and a famous landmark on the trail. It covers perhaps twelve acres, and rises coneshaped for two hundred feet to the base of the spire-like rock, the "chimney," that rests upon it and rises a full hundred feet more. A local story runs that an army officer trained a cannon on this spire, shot off about thirty feet from the top, and for this was court-martialed and dishonorably discharged from the army. I could get no definite confirmation of the story, though it was repeated again and again. It seems incredible that an intelligent man would do such an act, and if he did it, he deserved severe punishment. It is saddening to think of the many places where equally stupid things have been done to natural wonders. Coming through Idaho, I had noticed that at Soda Springs the hand of the vandal had been at work. That interesting phenomenon, Steamboat Spring, the wonderment of all of us in 1852, with its intermittent spouting, had been tampered with and had ceased to act. [Illustration: Going up the steep, rocky sides of Little Canyon.] CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN A BIT OF BAD LUCK "OLD Oregon Trail Monument Expedition, Brady Island, Nebraska, August 9, 1906, Camp No. 120. Odometer, 1,536 5/8. Yesterday morning Twist ate his breakfast as usual and showed no signs of sickness until we were on the road two or three miles, when he began to put his tongue out and his breathing became heavy. But he leaned on the yoke more heavily than usual and determined to pull the whole load. I finally stopped, put him on the off side, gave him the long end of the yoke, and tied his head back with the halter strap to the chain; but to no purpose, for he pulled by the head very heavily. I finally unyoked, gave him a quart of lard, a gill of vinegar, and a handful of sugar, but all to no purpose, for he soon fell down and in two hours was dead." Such is the record in my journal of this noble animal's death. I think he died from eating some poisonous plant. When we started, Twist weighed 1470 pounds. After we had crossed two ranges of mountains, had wallowed in the snows of the Blue Mountains, followed the tortuous, rocky canyon of Burnt River, and gone through the deep sands of the Snake, this ox had gained 137 pounds, and weighed 1607 pounds. While laboring under the short end of the yoke that gave him fifty-five per cent of the draft and an increased burden, he would keep his end of the yoke a little ahead, no matter how much the mate might be urged to keep up. There are pronounced individualities in animals as well as in men. I might have said virtues, too--and why not? If an animal always does his duty and is faithful and industrious, why not recognize this character, even if he is "nothing but an ox"? To understand the achievements of this ox it is necessary to know the burden that he carried. The wagon weighed 1430 pounds, had wooden axles and wide track, and carried an average load of 800 pounds. Along with an unbroken four-year old steer, a natural-born shirk, Twist had hauled the wagon 1776 miles, and he was in better working trim just before he died than when the trip began. And yet, am I sure that at some points I did not abuse him? What about coming up out of Little Canyon, or rather up the steep, rocky steps of stones like stairs, when I used the goad, and he pulled a shoe off his feet? Was I merciful then, or did I exact more than I ought? I can see him yet, in my mind, on his knees, holding the wagon from rolling into the canyon till the wheel could be blocked and the brakes set. Then, when bidden to start the load, he did not flinch. He was the best ox I ever saw, without exception, and his loss nearly broke up the expedition. His like I could not find again. He had a decent burial. A headboard marks his grave and tells of the aid he rendered in this expedition to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail. [Illustration: Twist, a noble animal.] What should I do--abandon the work? No. But I could not go on with one ox. So a horse team was hired to take us to the next town, Gothenburg, thirteen miles distant. The lone ox was led behind the wagon. Again I hired a horse team to haul the wagon to Lexington. At Lexington I thought the loss of the ox could be repaired by buying a pair of heavy cows and breaking them in to work, so I purchased two out of a band of two hundred cattle. "Why, yes, of course they will work," I said, in reply to a bystander's question. "I have seen whole teams of cows on the Plains in '52. Yes, we will soon have a team," I declared with all the confidence in the world, "only we can't go very far in a day with a raw team, especially in this hot weather." But one cow would not go at all! We could neither lead her nor drive her. Put her in the yoke, and she would stand stock still, just like a stubborn mule. Hitch the yoke by a strong rope behind the wagon with a horse team to pull, and she would brace her feet and actually slide along, but would not lift a foot. I never saw such a brute before, and hope I never shall again. I have broken wild, fighting, kicking steers to the yoke and enjoyed the sport, but from a sullen, tame cow, deliver me! "Won't you take her back and give me another?" I asked the seller. "Yes, I will give you that red cow,"--one I had rejected as unfit,--"but not one of the others." "What is this cow worth to you?" "Thirty dollars." So I dropped ten dollars, having paid forty for the first cow. Besides, I had lost the better part of a day and experienced a good deal of vexation. If I could only have had Twist back again! The fact gradually became apparent that the loss of that fine ox was almost irreparable. I could not get track of an ox anywhere, nor even of a steer large enough to mate the Dave ox. Besides, Dave always was a fool. Twist would watch my every motion, and mind by the wave of the hand, but Dave never minded anything except to shirk hard work. Twist seemed to love his work and would go freely all day. It was brought home to me more forcibly than ever that in the loss of the Twist ox I had almost lost the whole team. When I drove out from Lexington behind a hired horse team that day, with the Dave ox tagging on behind and sometimes pulling on his halter, and with an unbroken cow in leading, it may easily be guessed that the pride of anticipated success died out, and deep discouragement seized upon me. I had two yokes, one a heavy ox yoke, the other a light cow's yoke; but the cow, I thought, could not be worked alongside the ox in the ox yoke, nor the ox with the cow in the cow yoke. I was without a team, but with a double encumbrance. Yes, the ox has passed, for in all Nebraska I was unable to find even one yoke. I trudged along, sometimes behind the led cattle, wondering in my mind whether or not I had been foolish to undertake this expedition to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail. Had I not been rebuffed at the first by a number of business men who pushed the subject aside with, "I have no time to look into it"? Hadn't I been compelled to pass several towns where not even three persons could be found to act on the committee? And then there was the experience of the constant suspicion that there was some graft to be discovered, some lurking speculation. All this could be borne in patience; but when coupled with it came the virtual loss of the team, is it strange that my spirits went down below a normal point? [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ The railroad bridge at Omaha, crossing the Missouri where in 1853 we went over by ferry.] Then came the compensatory thought of what had been accomplished. Four states had responded cordially. Back along the line of more than fifteen hundred miles already stood many sentinels, mostly granite, to mark the trail and keep alive the memory of the pioneers. Moreover, I recalled the enthusiastic reception in so many places, the outpouring of contributions from thousands of school children, the willing hands of the people that built these monuments, and the more than twenty thousand people attending the dedication ceremonies. These heartening recollections made me forget the loss of Twist, the recalcitrant cow, and the dilemma that confronted me. I awakened from my reverie in a more cheerful mood. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ Sugar-beet factories were seen when we left behind us the open ranges of the Wyoming country and came into the sugar-beet section in Nebraska.] "Do the best you can," I said to myself, "and don't be cast down." My spirits rose almost to the point of exultation again. We soon reached the beautiful city of Kearney, named after old Fort Kearney, which stood across the river, and were given a fine camping place in the center of the town. It was under the shade trees that line the streets, and we had a fresh-cut greensward upon which to pitch our tents. People came in great numbers to visit the camp and express their appreciation of our enterprise. Later a monument was erected in this city. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ In the corn lands of Nebraska.] At Grand Island I found public sentiment in favor of taking action. It was decided, however, that the best time for the dedication would be in the following year, upon the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the settlement. I was a little disappointed in the delay, but felt that good seed was sown. Grand Island, with its stately rows of shade trees, its modest, tasteful homes, the bustle and stir on its business streets, with the constant passing of trains, shrieking of whistles, and ringing of bells, presented a striking contrast to the scene I saw that June day in 1852 when I passed over the ground near where the city stands. Vast herds of buffalo then grazed on the hills or leisurely crossed our track and at times obstructed our way, and herds of antelope watched from vantage points. But now the buffalo and antelope have disappeared; the Indian likewise is gone. Instead of the parched plain of 1852, with its fierce clouds of dust rolling up the valley and engulfing whole trains, we saw a landscape of smiling, fruitful fields, inviting groves of trees, and contented homes. From Grand Island I went to Fremont, Nebraska, to head the procession in the semi-centennial celebration in honor of the founding of that city. In the procession I worked the ox and cow together. From Fremont I went on to Lincoln. All the while I was searching for an ox or a steer large enough to mate the Dave ox, but without avail. Finally, after looking over a thousand head of cattle in the stockyards of Omaha, I found a five-year-old steer, Dandy, which I broke in on the way to Indianapolis. This ox proved to be very satisfactory. He never kicked or hooked, and was always in good humor. Dave and Dandy made good team-mates. "As dumb as an ox" is a very common expression, dating back as far as my memory goes. In fact, the ox is not so "dumb" as a casual observer might think. Dave and Dandy knew me as far as they could see; sometimes when I went to them in the morning, Dave would lift his head, bow his neck, stretch out his body, and perhaps extend a foot, as if to say, "Good morning to you; glad to see you." Dandy was driven on the streets of a hundred cities and towns, and I never knew him to be at a loss to find his way to the stable or watering-trough, once he had been there and was started on a return trip. I arrived at Indianapolis on January 5, 1907, eleven months and seven days from the date of departure from my home at Puyallup, twenty-six hundred miles away. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ Along the Erie Canal, part of the National Highway to the West.] CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT DRIVING ON TO THE CAPITAL AFTER passing the Missouri, and leaving the trail behind me, I somehow had a foreboding that I might be mistaken for a faker and looked upon as an adventurer, and I shrank from the ordeal. My hair had grown long on the trip across; my boots were somewhat the worse for wear, and my old-fashioned clothes (understood well enough by pioneers along the trail) were dilapidated. I was not the most presentable specimen for every sort of company. Already I had been compelled to say that I was not a "corn doctor" or any kind of doctor; that I did not have patent medicine to sell; and that I was not soliciting contributions to support the expedition. The first of March, 1907, found me on the road going eastward from Indianapolis. I had made up my mind that Washington should be the objective point. For my main purpose--to secure the building of a memorial highway--Congress, I felt, would be a better field to work in than out on the hopelessly long stretch of the trail, where one man's span of life would certainly pass before the work could be accomplished. But I thought it well to make a campaign of education to get the work before the general public so that Congress might know about it. Therefore a route was laid out to occupy the time until the first of December, just before Congress would again assemble. The route lay through Indianapolis, Dayton, Cleveland, Columbus, Buffalo, Albany, New York, Trenton, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, to Washington. For the most part I received a warm welcome all along the route. Dayton treated me generously. Mayor Badger of Columbus wrote giving me the freedom of the city; and Mayor Tom Johnson wrote to his chief of police to "treat Mr. Meeker as the guest of the city of Cleveland," which was done. At Buffalo, a benefit performance for one of the hospitals, in the shape of a circus, was in preparation. A part of the elaborate program was an attack by Indians on an emigrant train, the "Indians" being representative young men of the city. At this juncture I arrived in the city, and was besought to go and represent the train, for which they would pay me. "No, not for pay," I said, "but I will go." So there was quite a realistic show in the ring that afternoon and evening, and the hospital received more than a thousand dollars' benefit. Near Oneida some one said that I had better take to the towpath on the canal to save distance and to avoid going over the hill. It was against the law, he added, but everybody did it and no one would object. So, when we came to the forks of the road, I followed the best-beaten track and was soon traveling along on the level, hard, but narrow way, the towpath. All went well that day. We were not so fortunate the next day, however, when a boat with three men, two women, and three long-eared mules was squarely met, the mules being on the towpath. The mules took fright, got into a regular mixup, broke the harness, and went up the towpath at a two-forty gait. As I had walked into Oneida the night before, I did not see the sight or hear the war of words that followed. The men ordered Marden to "take that outfit off the towpath." His answer was that he could not do it without upsetting the wagon. The men said if he couldn't they would do it quick enough. They started toward the wagon, evidently intent upon executing their threat, meanwhile swearing at the top of their voices while the women scolded in chorus, one of them fairly shrieking. My old muzzle-loading rifle that we had carried across the Plains lay handy. When the men started toward him, Marden picked up the rifle to show fight and called on the dog Jim to take hold of the men. As he raised the gun to use it as a club, one of the boatmen threw up his hands, bawling at the top of his voice, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" He forgot to mix in oaths and slunk out of sight behind the wagon. The others also drew back. Jim showed his teeth, and a truce followed. With but little inconvenience the mules were taken off the path, and the ox team was driven past. The fun of it was that the gun that had spread such consternation hadn't been loaded for more than twenty-five years. The sight of it alone was enough for the three stalwart braves of the canal. It took New York to cap the climax--to bring me all sorts of experiences, sometimes with the police, sometimes with the gaping crowds, and sometimes at the City Hall. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ In the great automobile factory near Cleveland, Ohio, the old prairie schooner came into vivid contrast with the new means of following the trail.] Mayor McClellan was not in the city when I arrived; but the acting mayor said that while he could not grant me a permit to come in, he would have the police commissioner instruct his men not to molest me. Either the instructions were not general enough, or else the men paid no attention; for when I got down as far as 161st Street on Amsterdam Avenue, a policeman interfered and ordered my driver to take the team to the police station, which he very properly refused to do. It was after dark and I had just gone around the corner to engage quarters for the night when this occurred. Returning, I saw the young policeman attempt to move the team, but as he didn't know how, they wouldn't budge a peg, whereupon he arrested my driver and took him away. Another policeman tried to coax me to drive the team down to the police station. I said, "No, sir, I will not." He couldn't drive the team to the station, and I wouldn't, and so there we were. To arrest me would make matters worse, for the team would be left on the street without any one to care for it. Finally the officer got out of the way, and I drove the team to the stable. He followed, with a large crowd tagging after him. Soon the captain of the precinct arrived, called his man off, and ordered my driver released. It appeared that there was an ordinance against allowing cattle to be driven on the streets of New York. Of course, this was intended to apply to loose cattle, but the policemen interpreted it to mean any cattle, and they had the clubs to enforce their interpretation. I was in the city and couldn't get out without subjecting myself to arrest, according to their view of the law; and in fact I didn't want to get out. I wanted to drive down Broadway from one end to the other, and I did, a month later. All hands said nothing short of an ordinance by the board of aldermen would clear the way; so I tackled the aldermen. The _New York Tribune_ sent a man over to the City Hall to intercede for me; the _New York Herald_ did the same thing. And so it came about that the aldermen passed an ordinance granting me the right of way for thirty days, and also endorsed my work. I thought my trouble was over when that ordinance was passed. Not so; the mayor was absent, and the acting mayor could not sign an ordinance until after ten days had elapsed. The city attorney came in and said the aldermen had exceeded their authority, as they could not legally grant a special privilege. Then the acting mayor said he would not sign the ordinance; but if I would wait until the next meeting of the aldermen, if they did not rescind the ordinance, it would be certified, as he would not veto it. Considering that no one was likely to test the legality of the ordinance, he thought I would be safe in acting as though it were legal. Just thirty days from the time I had the bother with the policemen, and having incurred two hundred and fifty dollars of extra expense, I drove down Broadway from 161st Street to the Battery, without getting into any serious scrape, except with one automobilist who became angered, but afterwards was "as good as pie." Thirty days satisfied me with New York. The crowds were so great that congestion of traffic always followed my presence, and I would be compelled to move. One day when I went to City Hall Park to have my team photographed with the Greeley statue, I got away only by the help of the police, and even then with great difficulty. [Illustration: In Wall Street, New York City.] A trip across Brooklyn Bridge to Brooklyn was also made, and then, two days before leaving the city, I came near to meeting a heavy loss. Somehow I got sandwiched in on the East Side of New York in the congested district of the foreign quarter and at nightfall drove into a stable, put the oxen in the stalls and, as usual, the dog Jim in the wagon. The next morning Jim was gone. The stableman said he had left the wagon a few moments after I had and had been stolen. The police accused the stablemen of being parties to the theft, in which I think they were right. Money could not buy that dog. He was an integral part of the expedition: always on the alert; always watchful of the wagon during my absence, and always willing to mind what I bade him do. He had had more adventures on this trip than any other member of the outfit. First he was tossed over a high brush by the ox Dave; then, shortly after, he was pitched headlong over a barbed wire fence by an irate cow. Next came a fight with a wolf; following this, came a narrow escape from a rattlesnake in the road. Also, a trolley car ran on to him, rolling him over and over again until he came out as dizzy as a drunken man. I thought he was a "goner" that time for sure, but he soon straightened up. Finally, in the streets of Kansas City, he was run over by a heavy truck while fighting with another dog. The other dog was killed outright, while Jim came near to having his neck broken. He lost one of his best fighting teeth and had several others broken. I sent him to a veterinary surgeon, and curiously enough he made no protest while having the broken teeth repaired or extracted. There was no other way to find Jim than to offer a reward. I did this, and feel sure I paid twenty dollars to one of the parties to the theft. The fellow was brazen enough, also, to demand pay for keeping him. That was the time when I got up and talked pointedly. But I had my faithful dog back, and I kept him more closely by me while I was making the rest of my tour. Six years later it chanced that I lost Jim. While we were waiting at a station, I let him out of the car for a few minutes. The train started unexpectedly and Jim was left behind. A good reward was offered for him, but nobody ever came to collect it. [Illustration: Welcomed by President Roosevelt at the Capitol.] CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL I WAS glad enough to get out of the crowds of New York. It had given me some rich experiences, but that big city is no place for ox teams. It was good to get away from the jam and the hurry out on to the country roads. On the way to Philadelphia, between Newark and Elizabeth City, New Jersey, at a point known as Lyon's Farm, the old Meeker homestead stood, built in the year 1676. Here the Meeker Tribe, as we call ourselves, came out to greet me, nearly forty strong. On the way through Maryland we saw a good many oxen, some of them driven on the road. The funny part of it was to have the owners try to trade their scrawny teams for Dave and Dandy, offering money to boot, or two yoke for one. They had never before seen such large oxen as Dave and Dandy, and for that matter I never had myself. Dandy was of unusual size, and Dave was probably the largest trained ox in the United States then; he was sixteen hands high and eight feet in girth. I reached Washington, the capital, just twenty-two months to the day from the time I left home in Washington, the state. As soon as arrangements could be made I went to see President Roosevelt. Senator Piles and Representative Cushman, of the Washington Congressional delegation, introduced me to the President in the cabinet room. Mr. Roosevelt manifested a lively interest in the work of marking the trail. He did not need to be told that the trail was a battlefield, or that the Oregon pioneers who moved out and occupied the Oregon Country while it was yet in dispute between Great Britain and the United States were heroes. When I suggested that they were "the winners of the Farther West," he fairly snatched these words from my lips. He went even further than I had dreamed of or hoped for, in invoking Government aid to carry on the work. Addressing Senator Piles, the President said with emphasis: "I am in favor of this work to mark this trail. If you will bring before Congress a measure to accomplish it, I am with you and will give my support to do it thoroughly." Mr. Roosevelt thought the suggestion of a memorial highway should first come from the states through which the trail runs. However, it would be possible to get Congressional aid to mark the trail. In any event, he felt it ought to be done speedily. Unexpectedly the President asked, "Where is your team? I want to see it." Upon being told that it was nearby, without ceremony, and without his hat, he was soon alongside, asking questions faster than they could be answered, not idle questions, but such as showed his intense desire to get real information, bottom facts. President Roosevelt was a man who loved the pioneers and who understood the true West. His warm welcome remains in my heart as one of the richest rewards of the many that have come as compensation for my struggle to carry out my dream. On the eighth of January, 1908, I left Washington, shipping my outfit over the Allegheny Mountains to McKeesport, Pennsylvania. From McKeesport I drove to Pittsburgh, and there put the team into winter quarters to remain until the fifth of March. Thence I shipped by boat on the Ohio River to Cincinnati, stopping in that city but one day, and from there I shipped by rail to St. Louis, Missouri. My object now was to retrace the original trail from its beginnings to where it joined the Oregon Trail, over which I had traveled. This trail properly ran by water from St. Louis to Independence, thence westward along the Platte to Fort Laramie. At Pittsburgh and adjacent cities I was received cordially and encouraged to believe that the movement to make a great national highway had taken a deep hold in the minds of the people. I was not so much encouraged in St. Louis. The city officers were unwilling to do anything to further the movement, but before I left the city, the Automobile Club and the Daughters of the American Revolution did take formal action indorsing the work. St. Louis had really been the head and center of the movement that finally established the original Oregon Trail. It was from here that Lewis and Clark started on the famous expedition of 1804-05 that opened up the Northwest. Here was where Wyeth, Bonneville, and others of the early travelers on the trail had outfitted. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ The homeward trip took us through the great industrial cities of the Middle states, among them Pittsburgh.] The drive from St. Louis to Jefferson City, the capital of the State of Missouri, was tedious and without result other than that of reaching the point where actual driving began in early days. Governor Folk signified his approval of the work, and I was given a cordial hearing by the citizens. On the fourth of April I arrived at Independence, Missouri, which is generally understood to be the eastern terminus of the Santa Fé Trail. I found, however, that many of the pioneers had shipped farther up the Missouri, some driving from Atchison, some from Leavenworth, others from St. Joseph. At a little later period, multitudes had set out from Kanesville (now Council Bluffs), where Whitman and Parker made their final break with civilization and boldly turned their faces westward for the unknown land of Oregon. The Santa Fé and Oregon trails from Independence and Kansas City were identical for forty miles or thereabouts, out to the town of Gardner, Kansas. From there the Santa Fé Trail bore on to the west and finally to the southwest, while the Oregon Trail bore steadily on to the northwest and encountered the Platte valley below Grand Island in what is now Nebraska. At the forks of the road, the historian Chittenden says, "a simple signboard was seen which carried the words 'Road to Oregon,' thus pointing the way for two thousand miles. No such signboard ever before pointed the road for so long a distance, and probably another such never will." I determined to make an effort to find the spot where this historic sign once stood, and if possible to plant a marker there. Friends in Kansas City, one of whom I had not met for sixty years, took me by automobile to Gardner, where, after a search of a couple of hours, two old residents were found who were able to point out the spot. These men were Mr. V. R. Ellis and Mr. William J. Ott, aged respectively seventy-seven and eighty-two years, whose residence in the near vicinity dated back nearly fifty years. The point is at the intersection of Washington Street and Central Street in the town of Gardner. I planned to drive up the Missouri and investigate the remaining five prongs of the trail--Leavenworth, Atchison, St. Joseph, Kanesville, and Independence. I drove to Topeka, the capital city of Kansas, where I arrived the eleventh of May (1908). There the trail crosses the Kansas River under the very shadow of the State House, not three blocks away; yet only a few knew of it. On the twenty-third of May the team arrived at St. Joseph, Missouri, a point where many pioneers had outfitted in early days. While public sentiment there was in hearty accord with the work of marking the trail, yet plainly it would be a hard tug to get the people together on a plan to erect a monument. "Times were very tight to undertake such a work," came the response from so many that no organized effort was made. [Illustration: The ox-team pioneer of 1852 tries the airplane trail in 1921.] The committee of Congress in charge of the bill appropriating fifty thousand dollars to mark the trail, by this time had taken action and had made a favorable report. Such a report was held to be almost equivalent to the passage of a bill. So, all things considered, the conclusion was reached to suspend operations, ship the team home, and for the time being take a rest from the work. I had been out from home twenty-eight months, lacking but five days; hence it is small wonder that I concluded to listen to the inner longings to get back to home and home life. On the twenty-sixth of May I shipped the outfit by rail from St. Joseph to Portland, Oregon, where I arrived on the sixth day of June, 1908, and went into camp on the same grounds I had used in March, 1906, on my outward trip. As I returned home over the Oregon Short Line I crossed the old trail in many places. This time, however, it was with Dave and Dandy quietly chewing their cud in the car, while I enjoyed all the luxuries of an overland train. I began vividly to realize the wide expanse of country covered, as we passed first one and then another of the camping places. I was led to wonder whether or not I should have undertaken the work if I could have seen the trail stretched out, as I saw it like a panorama from the car window. I sometimes think not. All of us at times undertake things that look bigger after completion than they did in our vision of them. We go into ventures without fully counting the cost. Perhaps that was the case, to a certain extent, in this venture; the work did look larger from the car window than from the camp. Nevertheless, I have no regrets to express or exultation to proclaim. The trail has not yet been fully or properly marked. We have made a good beginning, however, and let us hope the end will soon become an accomplished fact. Monumenting the old Oregon Trail means more than the mere preservation in memory of that great highway; it means the building up of loyalty, of patriotism, as well as the teaching of our history in a form never to be forgotten. Words can not express my deep feeling of gratitude for the royal welcome given me by the citizens of Portland. I was privileged to attend the reunion of the two thousand pioneers who had just assembled for their annual meeting. The drive from Portland to Seattle is also one long to be remembered; my friends and neighbors met me with kindliest welcome. On the eighteenth day of July, 1908, I drove into the city of Seattle and the long journey was ended. My dream of retracing the way over the Old Trail had come true. [Illustration] THE WHITE INDIAN BOY BY E. N. WILSON _In collaboration with Howard R. Driggs_ EVERYONE who knew "Uncle Nick" Wilson was always begging him to tell about pioneer days in the Northwest. When "Uncle Nick" was eight years old, the Wilson family crossed the plains by ox team. When he was only twelve, he slipped away from home to travel north with a band of Shoshones with whom he wandered about for two years, sharing all the experiences of Indian life. Later, after he had returned home, he was a pony express rider, he drove a stage on the Overland route, and he acted as guide in an expedition against the Gosiute Indians. "Uncle Nick" knew pioneer life and he knew the heart of the Indian. So Mr. Driggs persuaded him to write his recollections and helped him to make his story into a book that is a true record of pioneering and of Indian life with its hardships and adventures. _The White Indian Boy_ is an exciting, true story that has interested many boys and girls and contributed to their understanding of the early history of the West. _Cloth. xii + 222 pages. Illustrated. Price $1.20_ WORLD BOOK COMPANY YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO [Illustration] THE BULLWHACKER _ADVENTURES OF A FRONTIER FREIGHTER_ BY WILLIAM FRANCIS HOOKER _Edited by Howard R. Driggs_ BULLWHACKING is an occupation about which most persons know little in these days, but one that demanded courage out in Wyoming territory fifty years ago. The bullwhacker drove ox teams to outlying army posts and Indian reservations far from railroads, when the pioneers were pushing our frontier west of the Missouri. Mr. Hooker was one of these bullwhackers and his book is a true account of his adventures while driving frontier freighters. He tells one of the choice stories of America's making and in a way that makes the old West, with the Indian, the cowboy, and the outlaw, live again. Pioneer adventures are here recounted in an entertaining way, and they are convincing because the author is one of the few surviving men who whacked bulls and he knows of what he is writing. Used as an historical reader, this book will make vivid to pupils of the upper grades an adventurous period of our history. _Cloth. xvi + 167 pages. Illustrated. Price $1.00_ WORLD BOOK COMPANY YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO [Illustration] FRONTIER LAW _A STORY OF VIGILANTE DAYS_ BY WILLIAM J. MCCONNELL _In collaboration with Howard R. Driggs_ THE restoring of law and order on our western frontier in the sixties was the work of courageous men with firm hands. It was one of the stirring periods in the evolution of our government. Mr. McConnell, who was first a captain of a band of Vigilantes before he was senator and then governor, gives in this book his own experiences in bringing the control of territorial affairs into the hands of law-abiding citizens. In straight-forward fashion he tells of his journey from Michigan to the coast, of mining in California, of homesteading in Oregon, of prospecting in Idaho. Most unusual and interesting is his account of the struggle against outlawry and the establishment of orderly government. Through this life story of a real American boy rings a clear note of Americanism with love of liberty, respect for law, and a willingness to face squarely the issues of life. It is one of the very few first-hand accounts of the Vigilantes and it will bring the events of those days, with the great lessons that they teach, nearer to the young student of our history. _Cloth. xii + 233 pages. Illustrated. Price $1.20_ WORLD BOOK COMPANY YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO [Illustration] DEADWOOD GOLD _A STORY OF THE BLACK HILLS_ BY GEORGE W. STOKES _In collaboration with Howard R. Driggs_ THE life and work of the pioneer miners who opened up the golden treasures of the Black Hills form a stirring chapter in the history of the winning of the West. The story as told in this book is a vivid one, made more valuable and interesting because Colonel Stokes writes of his own experiences. He was one of the first to reach the new gold diggings in the seventies, and he saw the whole development from the early exciting days, on during the mad rush to Deadwood, to the discovery of some of the greatest gold mines in the world. There is in this volume much historical and geographical information. Especially does the book give a realistic picture of many aspects of the gold mining process and of the activities associated with the great gold rushes of all times. Serving as a supplementary reader in intermediate grades, this true story of American adventure will hold the interest of boys and girls. _Cloth. xii + 163 pages. Illustrated. Price $1.00_ WORLD BOOK COMPANY YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Page vii, "189" changed to "185." Page 86, "eatablished" changed to "established" (established in 1851) Page 220, "Britian" changed to "Britain" (between Great Britain and the) Page 222, "Fe" changed to "Fé" (of the Santa Fé Trail) Page 223, "Sante Fe" changed to "Santa Fé" (The Santa Fé and Oregon trails) Page 223, "Fe" changed to "Fé" (Santa Fé Trail bore) 
42611	----	Transcriber's Note There are numerous photographs included in this text. Each is indicated using captions as [Illustration: Description.]. Italic text is shown using underscore delimiters as _italic_. There is a single instance of the 'oe' ligature, which is here given as 'oe'. Spelling is generally retained, with several exceptions which appear to be printer's errors. Details may be found in an End Note following this text. Hyphenation can be variable and is retained as found. Where the sole instance of a hyphenated word occurs on a line break, modern usage is followed. There is a single footnote, a gloss on the title of the Fifth Letter, which has been left near the beginning of that Letter. [Illustration: THE AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE UPON THE TRAIL.] IN TO THE YUKON BY WILLIAM SEYMOUR EDWARDS WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS SECOND EDITION CINCINNATI THE ROBERT CLARKE COMPANY 1905 COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY WILLIAM SEYMOUR EDWARDS PUBLISHED NOVEMBER, 1904 REPRINTED JUNE 1905 PRESS OF THE ROBERT CLARKE COMPANY CINCINNATI, U. S. A. DEDICATION. TO THE COMRADE WHOSE CHARMING COMPANIONSHIP ADDED SO GREATLY TO THE DELIGHTS OF MY TWO MONTHS' OUTING, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. These letters were not written for publication originally. They were written for the home circle and the few friends who might care to read them. They are the brief narrative of daily journeyings and experiences during a very delightful two months of travel into the far north and along the Pacific slope of our continent. Some of the letters were afterwards published in the daily press. They are now put into this little book and a few of the Kodak snapshots taken are given in half-tone prints. We were greeted with much friendliness along the way and were the recipients of many courtesies. None showed us greater attention than the able and considerate officials of the Pacific Coast S. S. Co., the Alaska S. S. Co. and the White Pass and Yukon Railway Co., including Mr. Kekewich, managing Director of the London Board, and Mr. Newell, Vice-President of the Company. At Atlin and Dawson we met and made many friends, and we would here reiterate to them, one and all, our warm appreciation of their hospitalities. WILLIAM SEYMOUR EDWARDS. CHARLESTON-KANAWHA, WEST VIRGINIA, August, 1904. CONTENTS PAGE. I. THE GREAT LAKES. CLEVELAND TO DETROIT 13 II. ST. PAUL, WINNIPEG AND BANFF; THE WHEAT LANDS OF THE FAR NORTHWEST 20 III. BANFF TO VANCOUVER ACROSS THE ROCKIES AND SELKIRKS 38 IV. VANCOUVER AND SKAGWAY; FJORDS AND FORESTS 52 V. SKAGWAY, CARIBOU CROSSING AND ATLIN 75 VI. THE GREAT LLEWELLYN OR TAKU GLACIER 109 VII. VOYAGING DOWN THE MIGHTY YUKON 112 VIII. DAWSON AND THE GOLDEN KLONDIKE 132 IX. MEN OF THE KLONDIKE 170 X. DOG LORE OF THE NORTH 180 XI. HOW THE GOVERNMENT SEARCHES FOR GOLD 195 XII. SEATTLE, THE FUTURE MISTRESS OF THE TRADE AND COMMERCE OF THE NORTH 206 XIII. THE VALLEY OF THE WILLAMETTE 224 XIV. SAN FRANCISCO 230 XV. LOS ANGELES 249 XVI. SAN FRANCISCO AND SALT LAKE CITY 260 XVII. A BRONCHO-BUSTING MATCH 282 XVIII. COLORADO AND DENVER 300 XIX. ACROSS NEBRASKA 307 XX. ALONG IOWA AND INTO MISSOURI TO ST. LOUIS 314 INDEX 333 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE. The Author and His Wife Upon the Trail _Frontispiece_. The Waterside, Cleveland 15 Entrance St. Clair Canal 15 White Bear Lake, St. Paul 31 Down the Silver Bow--Banff 31 A Reach of the Fraser River 41 Big Douglas Fir--Vancouver Park 45 Victoria, B. C.--The Harbor 49 Leaving Vancouver 53 Awaiting Cargo--Vancouver, B. C. 57 Totem Poles at Ketchikan 61 Glaciers on Frederick Sound 63 Approaching Fort Wrangel 67 The Pier--Fort Wrangel 67 The Pier--Skagway 71 Lynn Canal from the Summit of White Pass 71 Looking Down White Pass 73 The Summit--White Pass 73 Railway Train--Skagway 77 The International Boundary 77 Early September Snow, Caribou Crossing 79 Caribou Crossing 79 A Vista on Lake Marsh 83 Woodland Along Lake Marsh 83 On the Trail at Caribou 85 View Near Caribou Crossing 85 The Taku River 89 Lake Atlin 91 Dogs, Atlin 91 Atlin Baggage Express 95 Atlin City Waterworks 95 Government Mail Crossing Lake Atlin 99 Miner's Cabin on Spruce Creek, Atlin Gold Diggings 99 Finding "Color," a Good Strike, Otter Creek, B. C. 103 Sluicing for Gold, Otter Creek, B. C. 103 An Atlin Gold Digger 105 Bishop and Mrs. Bompas 113 Great Llewellyn or Taku Glacier 113 Fishing for Grayling, White Horse Rapids 117 Moonlight on Lake Le Barge 119 Lake Bennett, from Our Car 119 A Yukon Sunset 123 The Upper Yukon 123 A Yukon Coal Mine 125 Five Finger Rapids on the Yukon 125 Coming Up the Yukon 129 The "Sarah" Arriving at Dawson, 1,600 Miles up from St. Michael's 133 The Levee, Dawson--Our Steamer 133 Dawson City, The Yukon--Looking Down 137 Dawson and Mouth of Klondike River, Looking Up 137 Second Avenue, Dawson 141 Dawson--View Down the Yukon 141 The Cecil--The First Hotel in Dawson 143 A Private Carriage, Dawson 143 Dog Corral--The Fastest Team in Dawson 147 A Potato Patch at Dawson 147 First Agricultural Fair Held at Dawson, September, 1903 151 Daily Stage on Bonanza 155 Discovery Claim on Bonanza of the Klondike 155 Looking Up the Klondike River 159 The Author at White Horse Rapids 159 "Mes Enfants," Malamute Pups 161 A Klondike Cabin 161 On the Yukon 175 Floating Down the Yukon 175 Approaching Seattle 181 With and Without 181 Malamute Team of Government Mail Carrier, Dawson 187 Breaking of the Yukon--May 17, 1903 187 Sun Dogs 189 Winter Landscape 189 Lake Bennett 197 The Height of Land, White Pass 197 Mt. Ranier or Tacoma 217 Along the Columbia River 221 A Big Redwood 235 Italian Fishing Craft at Santa Cruz 239 Approaching San Francisco 239 The Franciscan Garden--Santa Barbara 243 Our Franciscan Guide 243 The Sea--Santa Barbara (two views) 245 Marengo Avenue, Pasadena 251 Street View, Los Angeles 251 The Sagebrush and Alkali Desert 263 The Mormon Temple 267 The Mormon Tithing House 271 The Mormon "Lion House" 271 Great Salt Lake 277 Nuckolds Putting on the Hoodwink 285 Nuckolds, "The Broncho Busted" 285 Grimsby and the Judges 289 Bunn, Making Rope Bridle 289 Arizona Moore Up 293 Arizona Moore 293 The Crowd at the Broncho-Busting Match 298 The Dun-colored Devil 298 On the Great Kanawha 325 Our Kanawha Garden 327 Map of Route in the United States 329 Map of Upper Yukon Basin 331 IN TO THE YUKON FIRST LETTER. THE GREAT LAKES, CLEVELAND TO DETROIT. STEAMER NORTHWEST, ON LAKE SUPERIOR, } August 11, 1903. } We reached Cleveland just in time to catch the big liner, which cast off her cables almost as soon as we were aboard. A vessel of 5,000 tons, a regular sea ship. The boat was packed with well-dressed people, out for a vacation trip, most of them. By and by we began to pass islands, and about 2 P. M. turned into a broad channel between sedgy banks--the Detroit River. Many craft we passed and more overtook, for we were the fastest thing on the lakes as well as the biggest. Toward 3 P. M., the tall chimneys of the huge salt works and the church spires of the city of Detroit began to come into view. A superb water front, several miles long, and great warehouses and substantial buildings of brick and stone, fit for a vast commerce. The sail up the Detroit River, through Lake St. Clair, and then up the St. Clair River to Lake Huron, was as lovely a water trip as any I have made. The superb park "Belle Isle," the pride of Detroit; the many, very many, villas and cottages all along the water-side, hundreds of them; everywhere boats, skiffs, launches, naphtha and steam, all filled with Sunday pleasure excursionists, the many great pleasure excursion steamers loaded down with passengers, gave a life and liveliness to the water views that astonished and pleased us. The Lake St. Clair is about twenty miles across, apparently broader than it is, for the reason that its sedgy margins are so wide that the trees and higher land further back seem the real border of the lake. What is called the "St. Clair Flats" are the wide, low-lying lands on each side of the long reaches of the St. Clair River. Twenty miles of cottages, hotels, club-houses, are strung along the water-side, each with its little pier and its boats. Towards dark--eight o'clock--we came to Sarnia and Port Huron, and pointed out into the great lake, second in depth to Superior--larger than any but Superior--a bit of geography I had quite forgotten. At dawn on Monday, we were skirting the high-wooded southern shore, and by 11 A. M. sighted the fir-clad heights of Mackinac where Lake Michigan comes in. Here is a beautiful protected bay, where is a big hotel, and the good people of Chicago come to forget the summer heats. After half an hour, we turned again and toward the north, in a half circle, and by 4 P. M. were amidst islands and in a narrow channel, the St. Mary's River. [Illustration: THE WATERSIDE, CLEVELAND.] [Illustration: ENTRANCE ST. CLAIR CANAL.] Huron is a deep blue like Superior, and unlike the green of shallow Erie. The channel toward the Soo is very tortuous--many windings and sharp turns, marked by buoys and multitudinous beacon lights. All along we had passed great numbers of steamships and barges--ore carriers, but nowhere saw a large sailing craft, only a sail boat here and there. This entire extensive traffic is a steam traffic, and though we see many boats, they are black and sombre, and burdened with coal and ore. It was late, nearly seven o'clock, when we steamed slowly into the lock basin at the Soo. High fir-clad hills on either hand; a multitude of channels among wooded islands. A new and vigorous manufacturing community growing up on either shore where the electric power is being harnessed. Many buildings, many new residences, some of them large and imposing, covering the sloping hillsides. The rapids are a mile or more in length and half a mile wide. The American canal with its locks is on the south side. One, the old lock, small; the other, large and deep for modern traffic. We were here delayed more than two hours by reason of the pack of boats ahead of us. It was dark when we came out of the lock--a lift of twenty-one feet. But meantime, the hills on either hand had burst out into hundreds of electric lights, betokening a much greater population than I had conceived. As we entered the American lock, a big black ship, almost as large as ours, crept in behind us to the Canadian lock on the river's further side--one of the Canadian Pacific line going to Fort William. It was a full moon as we came out of the upper river and lost ourselves in the blackness of Lake Superior. A keen, crisp wind, a heavier swell than on the lakes below. We were continually passing innumerable craft with their dancing night lights. The tonnage that now goes through the Soo canals is greater than that of Suez. How little could the world have dreamed of this a few years ago! To-day when I came on deck we were just entering the ship canal that makes the short cut by way of Houghton. A cold mist and rain, fir-trees and birches, small and stunted, a cold land. A country smacking strongly of Norway. No wonder the Scandinavians and Finns take to a land so like their own. At Houghton we were in the center of the copper region. A vigorous town, many handsome residences. But it has been cold all day. Mercury 56 degrees this morning. A sharp wind from the north. The bulk of the passengers are summer tourists in thin gauze and light clothing, and all day they are shivering in the cabin under cover, while we stay warm out on deck. The food is excellent, and the famous planked white fish is our stand-by. This whole trip is a great surprise to me. The splendid great ship, the conveniences and luxury equalling any trans-Atlantic liner. The variety and beauty of the scenery, the differences in the lakes, their magnitude, the islands, the tributary rivers with their great flow of clear water, the vast traffic of multitudinous big boats. The life and vigor and stir of this north country! Many of the passengers are going to the Yellowstone. We will reach Duluth about 10 P. M., and leave by the 11:10 Great Northern train for St. Paul. SECOND LETTER. ST. PAUL, WINNIPEG AND BANFF; THE WHEAT LANDS OF THE FAR NORTHWEST. ST. PAUL, Minnesota, August 13, 1903. We have spent two delightful days in St. Paul, great city of the Northwest that it is. We came over from West Superior by the "Great Northern" route, very comfortably in a new and fresh-kept sleeper--a night's ride. I was early awake and sat for an hour watching the wide flat farming country of Minnesota. Not much timber, never a cornfield, much wheat and oats and hay land. A black, rich soil. Still a good deal of roll to the landscape, and, at the same time, a certain premonition of the greater, more boundless flatness of the land yet further west. And a land, as well, of many picturesque little lakes and pools. I now the more perfectly comprehend why the Indian word "Minne," water, comes in so often among the names and titles of Minne-sota. The farm houses and farm buildings we pass are large and well built, and here and there I see a building which might be along the Baegna Valley or the Telemarken Fjords of Norway, it is so evidently Norse. There are, as yet, but few people at the way-stations. We are a through flyer, and the earlier commuters are not yet astir. About the houses and barns, also, I notice a certain snugness, indicative of winters that are cold. Now, we are nearing the city, there are more men at the way-stations. It is evident that the early morning local will follow us close behind. We came into the big Union Depot on time. The air was crisp and dry. There was much bustle and ado. These people move with an alert vigor, their cheeks are rosy, their eyes are snappy, and I like the swing of their shoulders as they step briskly along the streets. Mankind migrates along earth's parallels of latitude, so 'tis said--and Minnesota and the great Northwest is but another New England and New York. Vermont and New Hampshire, Massachusetts and New York have sent her their ablest sons and daughters, while Ontario and Quebec and the Maritime Provinces have contributed to her population of their force and power. Upon and among this matrix of superior American and Canadian stock, has also been superimposed many thousands of the more energetic and vigorous men, women and children of Europe's ancient warlike breeds--the viking Northmen of Norway and Sweden and of Denmark, of all Scandinavia. A still great race in their fatherlands, a splendid reinforcement to the virtues of Puritan and Knickerbocker; while there have also come cross currents from Virginia and the South. The type you see upon the streets is American, but among it, and with it, is prominently evident the Norse blue eyes and yellow hair of Scandinavia. St. Paul is surely a great city, great in her present, great in her future. St. Paul is builded on several hills, out along which are avenues and boulevards and rows of sumptuous private residences, while down in the valleys are gathered the more part of the big, modern business blocks and store houses and manufacturing establishments, where are centered the energies which direct her industries and commerce. St. Paul is a rich city, a solid city. The wild boom days of fifteen and twenty years ago are quite gone by, the bubble period has been safely weathered, she is now settled down to conservative although keen and active business and trade. She supplies all of that immense region lying west and north of her, even into the now unfolding Canadian Far Northwest. The continent is hers, even to the Pacific and the Arctic Seas. Minnesota and the Dakotas and Montana have already poured their wealth of grains and of ores, of wheat and of oats, of rye and of barley, of iron and of copper, of silver and of gold, into her capacious lap, and now Manitoba and Alberta and Assiniboia and Saskatchewan and Athabaska, and all the unfolding regions between the Hudson Bay and the Rocky Mountains, the fertile valleys of the Saskatchewan and Peace Rivers, are to contribute even yet more lavishly to her future commercial predominance as unrivalled mistress of the North. She and Minneapolis will have this trade. She and her twin sister city are entitled to it. And if I mistake not the spirit of the men I have talked with upon her streets, in her shops and banks and clubs, she and Minneapolis will secure of it their full and certain share. Here in the splendid stores of St. Paul we have made the last few purchases of the things we shall need for our going into the distant Yukon. H. has bought a perfectly fitting sweater--a garment that we searched for and ransacked through the town of Antwerp, in Belgium, two years ago, and could not find, while I have laid in some woolen garments, so fit and warm that they make one hanker for an Arctic blizzard just for the joy of trying them on. And we have been feted and wined and dined as only mortals may be, who have fallen among long-time and well-tried friends. A sumptuous lunch has been given us at the Merchants' Club, where old chums and classmates of my Cornell College days did make me almost believe that it was but yesterday that we went forth from our Alma Mater's Halls. Later in the day we have taken one of the many suburban trains and journeyed down ten miles to the summer country home of another old-time friend, along the shores of White Bear Lake, and all the afternoon have enjoyed a sail in the crack yacht of the fleet that parades these waters. A new design of boat. Conceived and perfected in St. Paul, and which has this summer carried havoc and defeat to every competing yacht club of all the wide country of the western and northern lakes, and even caused perturbation among the proud salt-water skippers of the east. I send you a snap-shot of the prize yacht as she lies floating at her little pier. And when we came back and landed from our voyage, we found assembled an even greater company than we had yet met, to again give us welcome without stint. We gathered in the commodious dining-hall of our host, a delightful company, these men who once with me were boys, and their cultivated wives! Long and late we sat, and old college songs we sang, until the eastern sky was already lightening with the approach of dawn. Many of us had not met for nigh twenty years, when we had parted to go forth to fight life's battles and to win or lose. Then, in the second afternoon, yet other friends, of yet later knowing, have taken us in hand and have trollied and driven us to see St. Paul's twin sister, Minneapolis. With her monstrous flouring mills along the Mississippi, she is become the wheat milling center of the world, but she has never succeeded in rivalling St. Paul in the reach and volume of her jobbing trade. Once bitter enemies, rivals for the supremacy of the trade and commerce of the Northwest, their borders have now met, their streets have coalesced, and it will not be many years before the two will have fused and melted into one, even as Canada will one day inevitably become knitted and commingled with the great Republic, for there is room for but one nationality, one English-speaking nationality upon the northern continent of the western world. In the long gloaming of the waning eventide we were driven in an easy victoria behind a pair of spanking bays and threaded our way among and along the lawns and lakes and avenues of the twin cities' splendid parks. The deciduous trees do not here grow as large as with us further to the south. The conifers, the pines and firs, are here necessarily more frequently employed by the landscape artist to perfect his plans, but the flowers seemed just as big, just as fine in coloring and in wealth of leaf. The day was ended with another elaborately served dinner, with other intelligent and cultivated friends, and then, before the night quite fully fell, we were driven to the big station which first we had entered, and were bidden a hearty farewell. We have boarded the sleeper for Winnipeg. A white porter now makes up our berths, and tells us we shall travel in his company some sixteen hours, so long is now the journey to Canada's nearest city in the north. WINNIPEG, August 14, 1908. We left St. Paul in the Winnipeg sleeper on the Great Northern Railroad at 8:06 P. M. When we awoke this morning we were flying through the wheatfields of North Dakota, passing Grand Forks at about 9 A. M., and reaching Neche, on the Canadian border, at eleven, and arriving at Winnipeg at 1:40 P. M., a longer journey to the north--440 miles--than I had realized. It was my first sight of a prairie--that vast stretch of wheat country reaching 1,000 miles west of St. Paul, and as far to the north of it. In the States it was wheat as far as the eye could reach in all directions--ripening wheat, waving in the keen wind like a golden sea, or cut and stacked wheat in innumerable piles, in countless shocks. A few miles north of the boundary the wheat land gradually changed to meadow and grass land, with many red cattle. Huge hay stacks here and there--the country flat. Winnipeg holds about 60,000 people, they tell me. Wooden houses mostly, but some fine modern ones of stone and brick. Hundreds of new houses built and houses a-building. Fine electric tramway system, on which we have been riding all the afternoon. Many paved streets, some wood-paved, but mostly the native black earth of all this northland. A vigorous, hustling town, with now a big boom on, owing to the rapid development of the far north wheat lands--"the Chicago of the far Northwest," they call it. We go on to-night by 6 P. M. train, and should reach Banff in two nights and a day. There we rest a day. BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL, BANFF, CANADA, } August 18, 1903. } We had intended leaving Winnipeg by the through train called the "Imperial Limited," which crosses the continent three times a week each way, but to do so we should have had to lie over in Winnipeg a full day and a half longer, and we had already seen the shell of the town in our first afternoon, so we mended our plans, paid our modest dinner bill of fifty cents each at the Clarendon Hotel, and took the ordinary daily through Pacific express which, leaving Winnipeg at 6 P. M., would yet bring us to Banff, even though it would take a half day longer in doing it, earlier than the Imperial Limited train. A good many people seemed to be of our mind, and so the railway people attached an extra sleeper to the already crowded train. We were fixed in this. A sumptuous car, finished in curled maple and brass, longer, wider, higher than even the large cars run on the N. Y. C. & H. R. R., that traverse no tunnels. These Canadian Pacific Railway cars are built by the railway company, owned and run by it. No "Pullman conductor;" the porter, be he white or black, runs the car and handles the tickets and the cash. The company were mostly Canadians, going out to Regina, Calgary, Edmonton, etc., large towns toward which Winnipeg bears the same relation as does Cincinnati to our country (West Virginia), and many Australians en route to take ship at Vancouver. For a long distance the track seemed to be perfectly straight, and miles and miles west of Winnipeg, the city still peeped far distant between the rails. We rose a little, too, just a little, but steadily, constantly. And on either hand and before and behind spread out the wonderful flatness of the earth. The real prairie now. Not even a tree, not a bush, not a hill, just as smooth as a floor, like an even sea, as far as the eye could reach and out beyond. A good deal of wheat grows west of Winnipeg, as well as south and north and east of it. We were still in wheat land when we awoke yesterday morning, though the now intervening patches of green grass grew larger and larger until the grass covered and dominated everything. And then we had miles and miles of a more rolling country. Here and there began to appear pools of water, ponds, even small lakes and deep sunk streams bordered with rushes and scrub willow and stunted alders. Every bit of water was alive with wild fowl. Each pool we hurried by was seemingly packed with geese, brant and ducks. All the myriads of the north land water birds seemed to be here gathering and resting preparatory to their long flight to the distant south. Many plover, snipe and some herons and even cranes I noted along the margins of the pools and streams. And this prolific bird life cared but little for the presence of man. Our rushing train did not frighten them, none ever took to wing, too much engrossed were they in their own pursuits. Through the flat wheat land the farmsteads were few and far between, and the towns only at long intervals. Nor is there here the population seen among the many and thrifty towns and villages of Minnesota and Dakota. In the grass lands we saw no towns at all, nor made many stops, while herds of cattle began to increase in number; of horses, also, as we drew further and further west and north. Toward evening, through the long twilight, we entered a hill country, where were a great many cattle and horses, and some Mexican cowboys rounding up the stock ere nightfall. Here, also, the wilder life of the hills came close upon us. Just as we drew beyond the prairie a large grey wolf had crossed our way. He had no fear of the iron horse; he stood and watched us with evident curiosity, lifting one forepaw as he gazed upon the flying train, not fifty feet away. When we were gone by, he turned and trotted leisurely into the bush. New buildings with added frequency met our view. Sometimes whole new towns. All this I afterward learned is largely owing to the present American immigration. At dusk we stopped at the bustling town of Dunmore, just where the railway crosses the broad Assiniboia River on a long bridge. Here many of our fellow sleepers left us, and several new passengers got into our car to ride through to Calgary, the largest town in the Northwest Territory--seven or eight thousand inhabitants--and where the Edmonton branch goes off two hundred miles into the north, and will soon go three or four hundred miles further through the opening wheat country which the world is now pouring into. This morning we were following the Silver Bow River, past a long lake which it widens into in the journey of its waters toward Hudson's Bay; then we were among fir-clad foot-hills, and then, quite suddenly, as the enveloping mist lifted, there were revealed upon either side of us the gigantic, bare, rocky, snow-capped masses of the real Rocky Mountain chain. I have never yet seen as immense and gigantic masses of bare rock, unless it be the Cordillera of Michoacan, in Mexico. Here we are at a fine modern hotel kept by the Canadian Pacific Railroad. It is cool, even cold, almost. As cold as on Lake Superior, 54 and 56 degrees, and as in St. Paul the days we were there, but here the air is so much drier that one sits by the open window and does not feel the cold. [Illustration: WHITE BEAR LAKE--ST. PAUL.] [Illustration: DOWN THE SILVER BOW--BANFF.] Among the passengers on our train I fell in with several of those who now make their homes in this booming land--from Winnipeg west and north, all this vast country is now on what is called a boom--a wheat-land boom, a cattle boom, a town boom! One, a vigorous six-footer from Wisconsin, a drummer for an American harvesting machine, has put and is now putting all the money he can raise into the buying of these northern wheat lands. And there is no finer wheat land in all the world, he said, than the rich, warm Peace River valley, four hundred or five hundred miles north of Edmonton. A Canadian drummer, who had won a medal fighting in South Africa, also told me much of the awakening up here. The Hudson Bay Company had for years kept secret the fatness of this north land, although they and their agents had (for more than a century) raised great wheat harvests on their own hidden-away farms along the distant Peace River, where their mills made it into flour for their own use, and to feed the fur-trapping Indians. But never a word had they or their close-mouthed Scotch servants said about all the richness of which they so well knew. But little by little had the news of these wheat crops leaked out into the world beyond, and little by little, after the opening of the Canadian Pacific Railway, and cession to Canada of their exclusive rights, had the pioneer settlers quietly crept into the hidden country. Now there were many farmers snugly living on their own lands along the Peace River valley and in that neighboring region. Every year there are more of them. They haul their supplies three hundred miles north from Edmonton, or buy direct of the nearest Hudson Bay Post. Soon the railways will be up among them, soon the greatest export of Canadian wheat will come from that now far-away country. And here is where the hustling American comes in. The Canadian has been slow to "catch on." The dull farmer of Ontario has scoffed at the notion of good wheat land so far north. He preferred to stay at home and raise peas and barley. The French habitan, too, did not take stock in the tales of a land so far from church and kindred. Nor did the Englishman do more than look blandly incredulous at whatever secret tales he might hear. He would just inquire of the office of the Hudson's Bay Company, where he always learned that the tale was a joke out of the whole cloth. Not even the bankers of now booming Winnipeg would invest a dollar in buying Government land beyond the already well-defined wheat limits of Manitoba. It was the keen-scented Yankee who caught on. A group of bright men in St. Paul and Minneapolis heard in some way of the possibilities of the far north. They quietly sent their own experienced Minnesota and Dakota farm land experts and practical wheat judges up into Saskatchewan and Assiniboia to look, examine and report. This they did, and then the Americans began to buy direct of the Canadian Government at Ottawa. Their expert investigators also had friends and neighbors who had money, who had made money in farming, and some of them went up. All who went up staid, and sent back word of having got hold of a good thing. The first the world knew, fifty thousand American farmers went in last year, more than two hundred thousand have gone in this year, and the Canadian world and the English world have awakened to the fact that the bulk of the rich wheat lands of the far north are already owned by the American land companies, American banks and American farmers. In St. Paul to-day you can learn more about all this rich far north, and buy its best lands, rather than in Toronto or even in Winnipeg. Now the railroads are also beginning to stir themselves. The Canadian Pacific Railway is to build more north branch lines. The Grand Trunk Pacific is to be built right through the Peace River country to Port Simpson, and everybody is astir to get a chance at the golden future. But the Americans have the cinch. And what is more, they do better and succeed when the Canadians, from Quebec or Ontario, and, above all, the Englishmen, make rank failures. The Americans have been farming on the same sort of land in Minnesota, in Iowa and in the Dakotas. They go into this new land with the same machinery and same methods. They all do well. Many of the Canadians fail, most of the English likewise, and the prospering American buys them out. Now, also, the Americans are beginning to find out that there is much good cattle range in this north land. The American cattle men are coming up with their herds, even with their Mexican cowboys. No blizzards here, such as freeze and destroy in Montana. No lack of water here the year round. No drouths like those of Texas. Nor is the still, quiet, steady cold of these plains more fatal, not as much so, as the more variable temperatures of the States. Not much snow over these northern plains, rarely more than a foot. The buffalo grass may be always reached through it. The mercury rarely more than fifty below zero, and so dry is the air and so still that no one minds that temperature. So we have it, that this entire rich wheat-yielding land of the far, far north, that the bulk of these grazing lands, tempered as the winter is by the warm Pacific climate, which here climbs over the rather low barrier of the Rockies, are falling into alert American hands. Even the storekeepers, they tell me, would rather trade with the American--he buys more freely, buys higher-priced machinery and goods; he is better pay in the end. "The Englishman brings out money, but after the first year or two it is gone." "The American brings some and then keeps making more." So my Canadian drummer friend tells me, and he gathers his information from the storekeepers in all these northwest towns with whom he deals. "Some even tell me," he said, "that if it wouldn't make any disturbance, why they would do better if all this country was part of the States." So the American is popular here, and he is growing rich, richer than the Canadian and Englishman, and in course of time, I take it, he will even yet the more completely dominate the land. It is strange how the American spirit seems to have an energy and force that tells everywhere, in Canada as well as in Mexico. The information I give you here comes to me from the intelligent fellow-travelers I have chanced to meet, and, I take it, is probably a fair statement. We are some 4,500 feet above the sea, and the highest summits near us rise to about 10,000 or 11,000 feet. There is none of the somber blackness of the Norwegian rocks, nor the greenness of the Swiss slopes, while the contour of the summits and ridges is much like that of the volcanic, serrated summits of the mountains I saw in Mexico. THIRD LETTER. BANFF TO VANCOUVER ACROSS THE ROCKIES AND SELKIRKS. HOTEL VANCOUVER, VANCOUVER, B. C., } August 19, 1903. } Our day crossing the Rockies was delightful. We left Banff about 2 P. M., following up the valley of the Silver Bow River to its very head. A deep valley, shut in on either hand by gigantic granite mountains, rising to 10,000 and 12,000 feet, their lower slopes covered with small fir, aspen, birch, then a sparse grass, and lichens, and then rising up into the clouds and eternal snows. Snow fields everywhere, and many glaciers quite unexplored and unnamed. The rise was so easy, however, that we were surprised when we actually attained the summit of the divide, where a mountain stream forks and sends its waters, part to Hudson's Bay, part to the Pacific. But the descent toward the west was precipitous. Since leaving Winnipeg, two days and nights across plains and prairie, and a night and day up the valley of the Silver Bow River, we had steadily risen, but so gradually that we were almost unconscious of the ascending grade, but now we were to come down the 5,000 feet from the height of land and reach the Pacific in little more than a single day. Not so sheer a ride as down the Dal of the Laera River in Norway, 3,000 feet in three hours behind the ponies, but yet so steep that the iron horse crept at a snail's pace, holding back the heavy train almost painfully, and descending into gorges and cañons and shadowy valleys until one's hair nearly stood on end. How on earth they ever manage to pull and push the long passenger and short freight trains up these grades for the east-bound traffic, is a matter of amazement; that is, shove them up and make the business pay. At once, so soon as the divide was crossed, the influence of the warm, moist air of the Pacific was apparent. No longer the bare, bleak, naked masses of granite, no longer the puny firs and dwarf aspen and birches, but instead, the entire vast slopes of these gigantic mountain masses were covered with a dense forest. The tall Douglas firs stood almost trunk to trunk, so close together that the distant slopes looked as though covered with gigantic coverlets of green fur. The trees seemed all about of one height and size. And the slopes were green right up to the snow field's very edge. Our way wound down the profound cañon of the Kicking Horse River, sometimes sheer precipices below and also above us, the road blasted out of the granite sides, then we swept out into the beautiful Wapta Valley, green as emerald, the white snow waters of the river--not white foam, but a muddy white like the snow-fed waters of the streams of Switzerland--roaring and plunging, and spreading out into placid pools. At last we emerged through a gorge and came into the great wide, verdant valley of the British Columbia, from which the province takes its name. A river, even there on its upper reaches, as wide as the Ohio, but wild and turbulent, and muddy white from the melting snows. Behind us the towering granite masses of the Rocky Mountains--a name whose meaning I never comprehended before--their peaks lost in clouds, their flanks and summits buried in verdure. The valley of the Columbia is wide and fertile. Many villages and farms and saw-mills already prospering along it. Here and there were indications of a developing mine upon the mountain slopes. We followed the great river until we passed through a narrow gorge where the Selkirk Mountain range jams its rock masses hard against the western flanks of the Rockies and the river thrusts itself between, to begin its long journey southward through Washington and Oregon to the Pacific; and then turning up a wild creek called Six Mile, we began again to climb the second and last mountain chain before we should reach the sea. These grades are very heavy. Too heavy, I should say, for a railroad built for business and traffic and not subsidized by a government, as in practical effect the Canadian Pacific is. The pass at the divide is almost as high as that at the source of the Silver Bow, and much more impeded in winter with snowfalls and avalanches, which require many miles of snow-sheds to save the road. [Illustration: A REACH OF THE FRASER RIVER.] We dined about 8 P. M., in a fine large hotel owned by the railroad company at a station called "Glacier," for it is right at the foot of one of the most gigantic glaciers of the Selkirks, and many tourists tarry here to see it and climb upon it; Swiss guides being provided by the railway company for these adventures. And then we came down again, all night and half the next day, following the valley of the Fraser River until it debouched into level tidal reaches a few miles from Puget Sound. The Fraser River is a magnificent stream; as great as the Columbia, as wild as New River of West Virginia. We stood upon the platform of the rear car and snapped the kodak at the flying gorges, tempestuous rapids and cascades. All along, wherever the water grew angry and spume spun, were Indians fishing for salmon, sometimes standing alert, intent, spear in hand poised and ready, or, more often, watching their nets or drawing them in. And every rocky point held its poles for drying the fish, belonging to some individual Indian or tribe, safe from trespass or molestation by immemorial usage. The sands of the river are said to also have been recently discovered to hide many grains of gold, and we saw in several places Chinamen industriously panning by the water-side. Near Vancouver we passed several extensive salmon canneries, and their catch this year is said to be unusually large. As we came nearer to the sea the air grew warmer, the vegetation more luxuriant, the flowers more prolific, and the Douglas fir more lofty and imposing. A single shaft, with sparse, ill-feathered limbs, down-bent and twisted, these marvelous trees lift their ungainly trunks above every other living thing about. The flowers, too, would have delighted you. Zinnias as tall as dahlias, dahlias as tall as hollyhocks, nasturtiums growing like grape vines, roses as big as peonies, geraniums and heliotropes small trees. Great was the delight of our trainload of Australians. They had never seen such luxuriance of foliage, such wealth of flowers, except under the care of a gardener and incessant laying on of water. We came across with a car full of these our antipodean kin. Most have been "home," to England, and had come across to Canada to avoid the frightful heats of the voyage by Suez and the Red Sea. And they marveled at the vigor and the activity of both Canada and the States. Some had lingered at the fine hotels up in the mountains now maintained by the Canadian Pacific Railroad. All were sorry to go back to the heats of the Australian continent. [Illustration: BIG DOUGLAS FIR--VANCOUVER PARK.] The building and maintaining of this railway has been accomplished by the giving of millions of dollars in hard cash, and millions of acres in land grants, to the railway company by the government of the Dominion. Fortunes were made and pocketed by the promoters and builders, and the Canadian people now hold the bag--but although as a mere investment it can never pay, yet as a national enterprise it has made a Canadian Dominion possible. It owns its terminals on the Atlantic and on the Pacific. It owns its own telegraph lines, its own cars, sleeping-cars, and rolling stock; it owns and runs ten, a dozen, a score of fine hotels; it is a vast land-owner. Its stock can never be bought up and owned out of Canadian hands. A Morgan or a Gould can never seize it, manipulate it, or wreck it. It is a good thing for Canada to have it so. It is a good thing for the people of the United States that it is so. The Canadian Rockies are the most beautiful and picturesque of any section of the mountain chain from Mexico north. The air is cooler in the far northern latitude, keener, more bracing, and the hustling American has begun to find this out. The great hotels of the Canadian Pacific are already best patronized by the American visitor, and this year the sun-baked Californians have come up in swarms and promise another year even greater numbers. And the Canadian Pacific Railroad welcomes them all--all who can pay. At Banff, too, were the advance guard of the English Colony from China, brought over from Shanghai by the sumptuous steamships of the Canadian Pacific Railway, taken to and kept at their great hotels, and carried home again, at so low a round-trip rate that these Rocky Mountain resorts promise to become the summering-place of the Oriental Englishmen as well as Australian and Californian! How these things bring the world together! Our journey from Kanawha, across Ohio, from Cleveland through the Great Lakes, across the wheatfields of Minnesota and Dakota and Manitoba, and over the wonderful prairies and plains of the opening far Northwest, has had a fit ending in the last few days climbing and plunging over and down the wildest, most picturesque, most stupendous valleys and passes of the Rocky Mountain and Selkirk Mountain ranges. How vast and varied and splendid is the continent we live on, and which one of these days the people of the United States will inevitably wholly possess! And now the wonders of these Pacific slopes and waters! All the afternoon we have been wandering through Vancouver's superb Natural Park, among its gigantic trees, and gazing westward over and across the waters of Puget Sound, the most mighty fjord of the Pacific seas, the most capacious land-locked harbor of the world. I must not say more about this now. I have not yet seen enough. I am only beginning dimly to comprehend what is the future power of our race and people in the development of this side of the earth. VICTORIA A SLEEPY ENGLISH TOWN. THE DRIARD HOTEL, VICTORIA, B. C., } August 21, 1903. } We came over here yesterday, leaving Vancouver by a fine new 1,800-ton steamer "Princess Victoria," and making the voyage in four hours,--all the way in and out among the islands and straits and inlets. The shores of the mainland high, lofty;--the mountain summits rising right up till snow-capped, six or seven thousand feet in the air, their flanks green with the dense forests of fir that here everywhere abound. The islands all fir-clad, the trees often leaning out over the deep blue waters. Many fishing-boats were hovering about the points and shoals below the mouth of the Fraser River, awaiting the autumnal rush of salmon into the death-traps of that stream. I hope to see one of these salmon stampedes--they often pushing each other high and dry on the shores in their mad eagerness to go on. [Illustration: VICTORIA, B. C.--THE HARBOR.] Tuesday we reached Vancouver. Wednesday we consumed seeing the lusty little city. Yesterday we spent the morning in picking up the few extra things needed for the Yukon--among others a bottle of tar and carbolic--a mixture to rub on to offend the yet active mosquito. Vancouver is a city of some 30,000 people, full of solid buildings, asphalted streets, electric car lines, bustle and activity. Much of the outfitting for the Canadian Yukon is done there, though Seattle gets the bulk of even this trade. To-day we are in Victoria, a town of twelve or fifteen thousand, a fine harbor, and near it the British naval and military station of Esquimault, the seat of its North Pacific war power. The town is sleepy, the buildings low and solid, the air of the whole place very English. The capitol building is an imposing structure of granite, surmounted by a successful dome. FOURTH LETTER. VANCOUVER AND SKAGWAY; FJORDS AND FORESTS. FIRST AND SECOND DAY OUT, } August 23, 1903. } We arrived in Vancouver by the steamer "Charmer" from Victoria about ten o'clock A. M.--two hours late--a small boat, packed with passengers. We could not get a state-room to ourselves, so were glad of berths, while many people lay on mattresses in the cabin and many sat up. Tourist travel surprises the slow-going Canadian, and he does not catch up with it. We went to the Hotel Vancouver, where we had been staying, and there breakfasted. Our boat, "City of Seattle," is roomy and comfortable. We have a large upper state-room on the starboard side, plenty of fresh air and sunlight. It is loaded down with an immense cargo of miscellaneous freight, from piles of boxes of Iowa butter and fresh eggs, to sheep and live stock, chickens and pigs, vegetables and canned goods, most of it billed to Dawson and even to points below. The Yukon has been so low this year--less snow than usual falling last winter--that the bulk of the freight "going in" has had to be shipped via these Skagway boats and the White Pass Railway, despite the exorbitant freight rates they are charging for everything. [Illustration: LEAVING VANCOUVER.] The travellers are of two sorts. A good many making the round trip from Seattle to Skagway, and the Yukoner "going in" for the winter. The former are not of much concern to us, but among the latter I have found a number of interesting acquaintances. One, a man who hunts for a business, and is full of forest lore and hunting tales. He is also something of a naturalist and taxidermist, and I have been showing him our volumes of the report of the Harriman Expedition, to his delight. He has also explored along the Kamtschatka coasts of Siberia, and describes it as a land stocked with salmon and fur animals. He says, too, that I have done right to bring along my gun, for there are lots of ptarmigan as well as mountain sheep and goats in the Yukon Valley, and caribou and moose are also plentiful. Another man has spent a year or more on the Yukon--our chief engineer--and thinks we will have no difficulty in getting a boat down from Dawson, and the scenery he says is grand. Another is a lumber-man of Wrangel--from Pennsylvania--and tells me they have some fine timber there, though most of that of these far northern latitudes is too small to now profitably compete with the big logs of Washington. Our vis-a-vis at table is going up to the Porcupine Placer district to try his luck with finding gold, and several men are going into Atlin--whither we are bound--to find work at big pay. The atmosphere of the company is buoyant and hopeful, even the women have a dash of prosperity about them--gold chains and diamonds--of which there are not a few. From all I can pick up, an immense trade is already developed with Alaska and is still growing with bounds. The United States Government statisticians give thirty-seven millions as the figure for the trade of the past year. Already three or four lines of steamers ply between Skagway alone and Puget Sound ports, and several more run to St. Michaels and Nome. The sail from Vancouver is most delightful. You come out of a narrow channel through which the tides foam and churn, and then turn north through the "Gulf of Georgia," twenty or thirty miles wide. Vancouver Island stretches for three hundred miles along the west, fir-clad, backboned by a chain of mountains rising up into the snows. On the east a coast indented with multitudinous bays and deep channels, sharp promontories and islands; the forest coming to the water's edge, the mountains rising sharply six and seven thousand feet into the snows and clouds, as lofty as the fjelde of Norway, but not so bare and naked, the dense, deep green fir forests growing from water to snow line. [Illustration: AWAITING CARGO-VANCOUVER, B. C.] We were crossing Queen Charlotte Sound when we awoke this morning, and all day long have been threading our way among islands, through narrow channels, across seemingly shut-in lakes, ten and twelve miles wide, and then no wider than the Kanawha River or even narrower. As we come north the mountains grow higher and come closer to the water we sail upon, and there is more snow on their summits. You might imagine yourself with Henrik Hudson on his first voyage, when the Hudson valley was covered with primeval forests. Last evening we saw a number of humpbacked whales, and to-day more. This morning saw my first sea lions and also fur and hair seals. To-morrow, they say, we shall see yet more. Only gulls, a few terns and ducks to-day. No larger birds as yet. MONDAY, August 24, 1903. The greyness of yesterday is vanished. The sky is cloudless, the atmosphere translucent. The mountains are more lofty, the snow patches grown into wide fields, and the air has taken on a certain added keenness, telling of distant snow and ice. To-morrow we shall see more snow and even glaciers. All day we have been going from one broad sound or channel through narrow straits into others as broad. We crossed Dixon's Channel at breakfast-time, through which the commerce of the Orient will come to Port Simpson, the Canadians hope, when the Grand Trunk Pacific shall have been built. About noon we came around a wooded island and made our first port of Ketchikan, where there are salmon canneries, and hard by quartz mines yielding gold, and saloons and stores. Here we had our first view of near-by totem poles, and our first sight of the shoals of salmon that make alive these waters. From a foot-bridge crossing a little creek that debouched near our steamer wharf, we looked down into the clear water and saw it fairly swarming with salmon, fish from ten to fifteen pounds, "small ones," they said. But the waters were choked with them. Dipping a net down, you might haul up a wagon load as easily as one. Yet no one was catching them. So plentiful are the fish that no one wants to eat salmon except as a last resort--"food fit only for dogs," they say, and the distant tenderfeet whom the canneries supply. And these swarming fish below us shoved each other upon the shallow shore continually, when there would be a great splashing to get back. From Ketchikan we have come out into the great Clarence Strait, with Belim and Ernest Sounds stretching away into the snow-covered mountains toward the east. The strait is as wide as the Hudson at the Palisades, the shores fir clad, the mountains six to seven thousand feet, up into clouds and snow. The water to-day is like a mirror, and many porpoises are playing about. I have just seen three big blue herons, and awhile ago we passed a loon. Last night just at dusk, we saw several flocks of snipe or plover, small, brown, swift in flight, close above the water. [Illustration: TOTEM POLES AT KETCHIKAN.] [Illustration: GLACIERS ON FREDERICK SOUND.] We have just looked upon the most superb panorama we have yet beheld. The last four hours the mountains both east and west of us have come closer to the shores, and risen higher, the fir mantle enveloping them has grown a darker green, larger timber than for the last few hundred miles, and then we came round a bend in our great strait--about six to ten miles wide--forty or fifty miles long--and there in front of us, bounding the horizon on the north, stretched an immense mass of jagged, serrated mountain chain, glittering like silver in the slanting sun rays. Not mere snow patches, not mere fields of snow, but vast "fjellen" of snow, snow hiding all but the most ragged rock peaks, and even sometimes enveloping these. Valleys all snow-filled and from which descend mighty glaciers. Below the miles of snow lay the deep green forests of the lesser mountain summits and sloping flanks, and then the dark blue waters of the giant fjord, dotted with many fir-clad islands. We agree that we have seen nothing in our lives so sublimely beautiful. Never yet nature on so stupendous a scale. The quiet waters of the last two days are now alive with gulls and ducks and grebes and divers, many loons. More bird life than we have yet seen. Just as is told by the Harriman naturalist. Only at Wrangel does the real bird life of the north begin. Curving around another wooded promontory, we beheld the town of Wrangel, at Fort Wrangel, on Wrangel Island, ten miles away, nestling at the mouth of a little valley, below the firs and snow summits behind. We are now tied up to the pier at this port, and shall lie here till 2 A. M., when flood tide will allow us to continue the voyage, and at daylight pass through the narrowest and most hazardous strait of the trip. We mean to be waked at four o'clock so as to see the pass. In the village, which claims to be the second town in Alaska, we have walked about and seen some of the totem poles which stand before many of the Indian cabins. Grotesque things, surely. It is now near nine o'clock and yet the lingering twilight permits one to read. At Dawson, they tell me, there is in June no night, and baseball matches are played at 10 P. M. August 25, 1903. We did not leave Wrangel till 2 A. M., lying there waiting for the flood of the tide. We were to pass through the very tortuous, narrow and difficult straits and passages between Wrangel Bay and Frederick Sound, through which the tides rush with terrific fury--the tides rise twenty or thirty feet along these shores--and the ship would only venture at flood tide and after dawn. In order to see these picturesque passages, I climbed out between three and four o'clock this morning, wrapped in a blanket shawl above my overcoat, and stood in the ice-chilled air while we threaded slowly our dangerous way. Along sheer mountain-sides, between low wooded islands (all fir), a channel carefully marked with many buoys and white beacons, with many sharp turns, finally entering the great Frederick Sound, where many whales were blowing, and we saw our first real icebergs--masses of ice, blue and green, translucent, with deep, clear coloring. [Illustration: APPROACHING FORT WRANGEL.] [Illustration: THE PIER--FORT WRANGEL.] All day we have sailed up this great land-locked sheet of blue water, the icebergs and floes increasing in number as we approached Taku Inlet, from whose great live glaciers they are incessantly shed off. 4 P. M.--We have landed at the Treadwell Mines on Douglas Island, where the largest stamp mill in the world crushes a low grade quartz night and day the year around, and where is gathered a mining population of several thousand. Then we crossed the fjord to the bustling port of Juneau, the would-be capital of Alaska, the rival of Sitka. A curious little town of wooden buildings, wooden streets, wooden sidewalks, nestling under a mighty snow-capped mountain, and, like those other towns, largely built on piles, on account of the tides. Now we are off for Skagway, a twelve hours' run with our thirteen-knot speed. To-day we have fallen in with two more fellow-travelers. One a young fellow named Baldwin, attached to the U. S. Fish Commission, who tells me much about the fishing on these coasts, and the efforts now being made to stay the indiscriminate slaughter. Another, a grave-faced, sturdy man from Maine who is panning free gold near Circle City, and has endured much of hardship and suffering. He hopes to win enough this winter and coming summer from his claim to go back to California and make a home for his old mother who waits for him there. SKAGWAY, ALASKA, Wednesday, August 25. Here we are, safe and sound after a voyage due north four days and four nights, more than 1,500 miles--I do not know just how far. We came out from Juneau last night in a nasty rain, mist (snow-rain almost) and wind driving against the rushing tides. Coming around Douglas Island in the teeth of the gale, we passed over the very spot where a year or two ago the ill-fated S. S. "Islander" struck a sunken iceberg, and went down into the profound depths with all on board. As I heard the moan of the winds, the rain splash on our cabin window, and hearkened to the roar of the whirling tides against whose currents we were entering the great Lynn Canal--fjord we should say--ninety miles or more long--ten to fifteen miles wide--I could not help thinking of the innumerable frail and lesser boats that dared these dangerous waters in the first mad rush to the Klondike but a few short years ago. In the darkness we have passed many fine glaciers, and along the bases of immense snow and ice crested mountains, which we are sorry not to have seen, but so much is now before us that our minds are already bent toward the great Yukon. We are tied to an immense pier, and mechanical lifters seem to be dragging out the very entrails of the ship. Across the line of the warehouses I see the trucks of the railway, the hackmen are crying out their hotels. "This way, free 'bus to the Fifth Avenue Hotel." [Illustration: THE PIER, SKAGWAY.] [Illustration: LYNN CANAL FROM THE SUMMIT OF WHITE PASS.] [Illustration: LOOKING DOWN WHITE PASS.] [Illustration: THE SUMMIT--WHITE PASS.] FIFTH LETTER. SKAGWAY, CARIBOU CROSSING[A] AND ATLIN. ATLIN, BRITISH COLUMBIA, August 29, 1903. Here we are at the mining camp of Atlin, on Atlin Lake. We left Skagway the same morning we arrived. Our boat, the "City of Seattle," came in early Wednesday morning, and long before we got up we heard them discharging cargo, all hands at work. The day was cloudy, cold, and icy winds swept down from the glaciers. It seemed November. The little town is built on a low sand tongue of detritus carried down from the glaciers by the snow rivers, the river Skagway here pouring out a flood of muddy white water like the Swiss streams. [A] Caribou Crossing now called Carcross. The railway is a narrow, three-foot gauge, and the cars are low but roomy. Our train consisted of nine freight cars, a baggage, two passenger cars and three locomotives, one in front and two in the middle. The famous ride was all that has been said of it. First, a gradual ascent up the deep valley of the Skagway, then steep climbing and many doubles and winds up through the cañon to the summit, twenty miles away, and 3,200 feet above the sea. In many places the road-bed is blasted out of the granite rock, sheer precipices above and below, a most costly piece of work, and ever down below winds the difficult, dangerous trail, over which fifty to one hundred thousand men and women footed it in the winters of 1897-1898, in the strange, mad world-rush to the fabulous gold fields of the interior. How they got up and through at all is the wonder; yet men tell me that men, pack-laden, footsore, determined, were so closely massed along the trail that it was one continuous line from Skagway to summit and beyond, for months at a time. The various views from our car were magnificent and even appalling; sometimes we seemed to hang in mid-air as we crawled upward. As we approached the summit we came among snow fields and near many glaciers, and then passed through long snow-sheds over which the avalanches often slip and thunder into the abysses below. Near the divide is the international boundary line, and the customs station for Alaska and the Yukon Territory of Canada, and where the red-coated Canadian mounted police come first in evidence. Here our bags were examined by the customs. Then we began a gradual descent into wide, open, flat valleys, over bare granite rock masses and through a stunted fir wilderness into the basin of the Yukon, 2,600 miles from the Behring Sea at St. Michaels. Flocks of ptarmigan flew up as the train rolled down, and a few eagles soared high above the snow summits. Our first stop was at a railway eating-house near the head of Lake Bennett, a sheet of light green water, two to ten miles wide and over thirty miles long, all shut in by gigantic granite mountains whose summits were covered with glittering snow. The railway skirts the water for the entire distance until it crosses at a bridge over a swift current where Lake Bennett flows into Lake Marsh, and where is the station of Caribou. [Illustration: RAILWAY TRAIN--SKAGWAY.] [Illustration: THE INTERNATIONAL BOUNDARY.] [Illustration: CARIBOU CROSSING.] [Illustration: EARLY SEPTEMBER SNOW, CARIBOU CROSSING.] Here we were put off, and here we would, two days later, take the bi-weekly steamer for Atlin, on Atlin Lake, where we now are, and here the railway leaves the lakes and takes a short cut across a low divide to White Horse Rapids, where begins the steamboat navigation on the Yukon River. Caribou is a collection of cabins and tents, and is the first settlement where, they say, will some day be a city. It was on Lake Bennett that the weary pilgrims used to camp to build their boats and rafts and begin their long water journey of five hundred miles to Dawson and the golden Klondike. Our hotel we found surprisingly neat and clean; owned and kept by a famous Indian, "Dawson Charlie," who was one of the discoverers of the gold of Bonanza Creek in the Klondike, and who had the sense to himself stake out several claims, the gold from which has made him now a magnate worth several hundred thousand dollars, and who lives and entertains like a white man. He housed us in a neat, comfortable room, iron bedstead, wire mattress, carpeted floor. He fed us at fifty cents a meal as well, as abundantly as in West Virginia, and only his Indian daughter, who waited on us, dressed neatly and fashionably, with big diamonds in her ears, made us realize that we were not in our own land. Here we have spent two delightful days. The air is as wonderfully clear as on the table-lands of Mexico, full of ozone, but cold in the shadow even in midday, though the sun is warm. On the ship we met a delightful naturalist, Mr. Baldwin, of New Haven, artist of the U. S. Fish Commission, and who came with us to try and catch some grayling, in order to make drawings for the Commission, and for two days we have been out in the woods, he with my rod, H---- with your butterfly net, and I with my gun. He caught his grayling, several of them. I shot several mallard ducks, but H---- caught no butterflies, nor saw one. It was too late in the season for that. On the way up we fell in with a very intelligent Swede, whose partner in the Klondike is a Dane, and who, when he learned H----'s nationality, and she had talked Danish with him, was all courtesy and friendliness. He had come in with the "mushers" (corruption of the French _marche_), as the early foot-farers are called, and had succeeded. When we get to Dawson he will welcome us. [Illustration: A VISTA ON LAKE MARSH.] [Illustration: WOODLAND ALONG LAKE MARSH.] [Illustration: ON THE TRAIL AT CARIBOU.] [Illustration: VIEW NEAR CARIBOU CROSSING.] At Caribou we also made acquaintance with the Canadian customs officer, Mr. John Turnure, a fine type of Canadian official, big, bluff, yet courteous, who at first was going to tax all my cartridges and kodak films, notwithstanding I had passed the customs at Winnipeg and had come from Vancouver direct, but who, upon explanation, relented, and afterward called on us and invited H----, Mr. B---- and myself to call on his wife and family at his log cabin mansion near the station, which we did, and were served cake and coffee from dainty china, and sat on a divan covered with priceless furs, near a good piano. His daughters were now at home from school on vacation, and his wife, a cultured woman, was next day going with them on a shopping visit to Dawson, the New York or Cincinnati of this far north. The Yukon territory is governed from Ottawa by appointees, and policed by the "Northwest Mounted Police," a fine body of men--including many young Englishmen of good family--in cowboy hats and red coats. While here in Atlin, we are just over the line in the Province of British Columbia, a state with its own laws and civil magistrates. We left Caribou on a little steamer with a big sternwheel--all of which, timber and machinery, had been carried from Skagway over the White Pass on horses' backs, and sledges, dragged by men and dogs, and put together on Lake Bennett, before the railway was even thought of. How in the name of heaven a ten-ton boiler, and the engines and big timbers, were got over that foot-path trail, is even yet a standing marvel--the boat is as big as the steamer "Calvert" on the Kanawha River--but it was done, and to-day I have talked with the man who bossed and directed the job, Captain Irving, now a gold hunter of Atlin and a member of the British Columbia Parliament. We first came slowly through a well-marked track on a little lake, Lake Marsh, for about ten miles, then through a short river, and then out into Lake Taggish, a sheet of water larger than Lake Bennett, and one arm of which is famous for its desperate winds from the glaciers--the "hurricane" arm--another arm of which heads toward the White Horse Rapids, and a third arm, "The Taku Arm," which extends southerly toward Lake Atlin, a lake more than one hundred miles in length, which empties into it through a short, swift, turbulent river. This southerly portion of the lake is eight or ten miles wide and we were all night steaming on it to Taku, where we landed this morning--a distance of forty or fifty miles--when, taking a little, short, two-mile railway, we were pulled over to Atlin Lake, a yet bigger body of water. There embarking on another steamboat, we were ferried ten miles across to Atlin, a town with a courthouse, several churches, a little hospital, a newspaper, a bank, a dozen hotels, a multitude of restaurants, bicycles, numerous livery stables, and which is the center of a gold-mining region from which already several millions of dollars have been taken since the first pay dirt was found in 1898. We dined at a restaurant where a colored French cook presides, and you may have any delicacy New York could afford. At the bars men preside with diamonds the size of hickory nuts in their shirts, drinks are twenty-five cents each and cigars the same. The hotels are full of keen-faced men; well-gowned and refined women are to be seen on the streets; the baby carriages are pulled by great big dogs, and even the water carts and delivery wagons are hauled by teams of eight and ten dogs--Newfoundland or wolfish Esquimaux. [Illustration: THE TAKU RIVER.] [Illustration: LAKE ATLIN.] [Illustration: DOGS--ATLIN.] "The Camp," or city, is now in the midst of a boom, and this morning we were shown several buckets of gold nuggets just brought in last night from a recent "clean up." When in the midst of Lake Taggish, yesterday afternoon, we were hailed by a naphtha launch of the Mounted Police, and, on our lying to, three gentlemen climbed in. One face seemed in some way familiar to me, and when I presently heard some one call him Mr. Sutton I recognized one of my old Port Hope schoolmates, who had also been at Cornell, and who had been an especial friend. He was as well pleased as I at the meeting, and is now here with me. He was a brilliant scholar, and is now British Columbia's most eminent geologist and mining expert. We have been out together to-day, and to have his expert opinion here on what I see is invaluable. We have also met here a Mr. and Mrs. R----, of Philadelphia, to whom I had a letter, a promoter of the largest hydraulic company here, and H---- has been off with Mrs. R---- to-day and panned her first chunks of real, true, genuine gold, of which performance she is not a little proud. The whole country seems to be more or less full of gold; it is in the gravels and sands everywhere, and a number of very large gold-getting enterprises are under way, mostly hydraulic placer mining, but also some fine quartz veins carrying free gold are being opened up, and I have been off with Sutton all the afternoon looking at one. September 1, 1903. We have had three days of outing; at least, I have. Saturday morning I made an early start with Sutton and three other men for a visit to some hydraulic mining operations up on Pine Creek, and to the great dredge now being built. At one of these, an operation called "The Sunrise Gold Co.," I found in charge a Mr. Ruffner, of Cincinnati, a cousin to the Kanawha family, grandson of one of the original Ruffner brothers, who, hating slavery, had freed his slaves and removed to free soil in Ohio. A bright young fellow, managing a large operation. Then we went on further to Gold Run, where an enormous dredge is being built. An experiment in this country, about the final success of which there is yet much question. Here I dined in a tent, which is warmer, they say, than any timber building, even when the temperature is 50 degrees below zero. The valley is a broad, open one, all of glacial formation. It is very level, with Pine Creek cutting deeply between high gravel banks. A black top soil of a foot or two, eight or ten feet of grey gravel, then as much more yellowish sandy gravel, and often a foot or two of black sand at the bottom, lying upon a bed of serpentine rock; and it is in this lowest ten feet of yellow gravel and black sand that the free gold is found, nuggets of a pound or two down to minute gold dust, a red gold of about 22 to 23 carats in combination with copper or silver. Through this gravel are also immense stones and boulders, and these are the gold diggers' particular bete noir. Most of the digging is done by getting out this gravel, freeing it of the boulders and washing it. Pine Creek is the overflow of Surprise Lake, a sheet of water twenty miles long and one-half to one mile wide; and although a considerable stream, yet its waters are so much needed in these gold-washing operations that a constant water-war among the diggers and digging companies goes on. There is much waste also in the present methods, and it is to prevent the wars as well as to save the fine gold that now largely escapes that the dredging method is to be applied. Then, too, there are only four, or at most five, months in the year when men can work, so that great energy must be expended during the open season. There is no night up here for these four months, and men work all the twenty-four hours in eight-hour shifts; thus, really, more work is done than one would at first imagine. The life of the ideally successful gold digger is to toil with unflagging vigor for the four or five months of daylight and open weather, then "come out" and blow it in leisurely luxury in some comfortable city. But not all are so able to make their summer pile. They may not strike rich pay dirt, but may find it lean, or even barren, and such must just live on through ice and snow and mighty frost, hoping for more luck another year. Many are the tales of hardship and suffering and dire wreck one hears. The little graveyard out along the Pine Creek pike has many graves in it. One man died a natural death, they say, but all the rest went to their graves stark mad from disappointment, poverty and privation. Every train passing out over the White Pass Railway carries its complement of the hopelessly insane, gone mad in the hunt for gold. [Illustration: ATLIN BAGGAGE EXPRESS.] [Illustration: ATLIN CITY WATER WORKS.] In this little town or "camp," as it is called, are very many too poor to get away, too broken in health and spirits to more than barely exist. A delicate woman, once the wife of the mayor of an Illinois city, does our washing; her husband, a maimed and frozen cripple, sits penniless and helpless while she earns a pittance at the tub. Our landlady lets rooms to lodgers, her husband's body lying beneath the deep waters of Teslin Lake. A Cambridge Senior wrangler passed us yesterday on the road driving two dogs hitched to a little wagon, peddling cabbages and fish. A few strike gold, and, making their piles, depart, but the many toil hopelessly on, working for a wage, or frozen or crippled, weary in spirit and out of heart, sink into penury, or die mad. [Illustration: GOVERNMENT MAIL CROSSING LAKE ATLIN.] [Illustration: MINER'S CABIN ON SPRUCE CREEK--ATLIN GOLD DIGGINGS.] After our dinner in the tent I joined another party, some of those interested in the building of the dredge, and drove with them twenty miles up into the interior to Otter Creek, where three of them have just started an operation, sluicing for gold. We passed many cabins and small tents, where live the men who are working claims and washing for gold. Some were quite shut down for lack of water, others were eagerly at work. At one point a Mr. S---- and I left the wagon and struck six miles across a great grassy mountain. We must have ascended 2,000 feet or more. An easy ascent over a vast expanse of moss and tufted grass; no trees, no bushes, no hardy herbs, nothing but grass and moss. Only on the south and west was the horizon bounded by jagged peaks and summits of snow-topped mountains. Glacial action has everywhere worn down the surface into rounded rolling domes and slopes, and for hundreds of miles the land is one wide moorland of grass and moss. Here are many flocks of wild sheep and mountain goats, and here moose and caribou are said to abound. During the day, about the noon hour, a giant bull moose had stalked deliberately through the midst of the camp, neither quickening his pace, nor fearing man. So engrossed were the men in their search for gold, that none dropped pick or shovel to molest him. On these higher slopes are multitudes of ptarmigan,--the birds breeding close to the permanent snow line, remaining high up during the summer heats, and gradually descending to the valleys as the fresh falling autumnal snows little by little push them down. In Atlin, the other day, a young Swedish engineer, a graduate of Upsala, showed me a fine pair of ibex horns from one which he had shot high up on the mountains beyond the lake. The animal, though not uncommon, is difficult to get, inhabiting the most inaccessible summits and rarely descending to even the levels where the mountain sheep and goats find pasture. A superb and seemingly boundless pasture land where great herds of cattle ought also to be feeding, and would be, except for the terror of the winter's cold. Perhaps the reindeer will some day here find a congenial home. We sat by fires after nightfall, and when day came icicles a foot long hung all along the drip of the flume, and in the afternoon snow fell, covering every rounded summit with its white mantle. Returning, I walked another ten miles down the winding valley of Otter Creek. A stretch of open, grassy moorland, where in the winter-time the moose and caribou gather in numbers seeking shelter from the winds, and finding the dried grass through the scraped-off snow. [Illustration: FINDING "COLOR," A GOOD STRIKE, OTTER CREEK, B. C.] [Illustration: SLUICING FOR GOLD, OTTER CREEK, B. C.] [Illustration: AN ATLIN GOLD-DIGGER.] To-day H----, Sutton and I have driven for hours along the valley of Spruce Creek, visiting another industrious gold-washing section. We picnicked for lunch in an abandoned miner's camp, and H---- saw her first real washing for gold. We took the picture of one old man, a Mr. Alfred Sutton, in whose cabin we had sought shelter from a passing rain squall. He had hoped to return to England for the winter--he left there many years ago--but the gold had not come in as rich as he had hoped, so he must delay his going for one more year. Poor old fellow, his beard was long and white, so, too, his uncombed hair. He had not yet made his yellow pile, but was as hopeful as a boy of twenty. I promised to send him a copy of the photograph and he thanked me joyfully, saying, "And I shall send it to my family at home"--in England. We are here two days longer, when we move on to Dawson and I mail these lines to you. September 2, 1903. This is our last day in Atlin. The morning was cold like late November in Virginia, the air keen and frosty. Ice has formed in the pools, though the aspen and scrub willow and a sort of stunted alder are only turned yellow in spots and patches. The mountain-tops are now all whitened with the delicate early snows, extending like blankets of hoar-frost out beyond the margins of the snow fields that never melt. We dine sumptuously, and all through the gold fields it is the same. The one thing men will and must have is food, good food and no stint. The most expensive canned goods, the costliest preserves, the most high-priced fresh fruits, oranges, bananas, pears and grapes, the finest beef steaks and meats, the most ample variety of vegetables. Such an average as New York gives only in her best hotels, is what the gold digger demands, will have, and freely spends his nuggets to obtain. We are astonished at such lavish eating. At the diggings where men work for wages, $4.50 and $5.00 per day, board is always included and demanded, and only this high-priced, costly food is accepted. The cooks are connoisseurs. Their wages run from $125.00 to $150.00 per month and free board. At the camp high amidst the desolate moorlands of Otter Creek, the men eat beef steaks, thick, juicy, rare, California fresh fruit and lemon meringue pie; with lemons $1.00 per dozen and eggs ten cents apiece! Dundee marmalade is eaten by the ton; the costliest canned cream is swallowed by the gallon--the one permitted, recognized and established extravagance of the gold fields is the sumptuous eating of every man who finds the gold. This afternoon Sutton and ourselves with a few friends are going down to see the great glacier at the south end of Lake Atlin. SIXTH LETTER. THE GREAT LLEWELLYN OR TAKU GLACIER. CARIBOU CROSSING, September 4, 1903. We have just come in on the steamboat from Atlin, and are waiting for the train which will take us to White Horse this afternoon, where we will take a river boat to Dawson. Day before yesterday we took the little steamboat that plies across Atlin Lake, having chartered it with Sutton, and having asked a Mr. Knight, of Philadelphia, and Captain Irving, of Victoria, making a party of five, and went to the head of the lake--forty-five miles. A lovely sail. Up the narrow mountain-locked channel on the west of Goat Island (named from the many wild goats on it). The water a clear, deep blue and light green, according to its depth. The mountains chiefly granite, rising sheer up on either hand four and five thousand feet; the fir forest, dense and sombre, clothing their bases, then running out to ground pine and low shrubs, then the grass and mosses, then the bare rocks and jagged crags and the everlasting snows. The lake channel is everywhere narrow, sometimes widening out to five or six miles, then narrowing into a mile or two, but the air is so wonderfully translucent that ten miles look like one, and distant shores seem close at hand. The further we sailed the narrower grew the channel, until we were among islands and cañons, with sheer snow-capped heights hanging above us, at last slowly creeping through a tortuous passageway of still water out into a long, silent arm, at whose head we tied up to the forest for the night. These clear waters are filled with trout and grayling--the latter chiefly, but of birds there were almost none. Only a belated and startled great blue heron flapped lazily away to the west. Using our glasses, we saw two or three wild goats up on the heights above us, and probably many more saw us far down below. In the morning we breakfasted early, and started for the glacier--the great Llewellen or Taku glacier, said to be the largest in the British possessions of North America, sixty miles long to where it comes to Taku Bay, near Juneau, and is there known as Taku glacier. We clambered over a mile of trail, through dense, close-growing fir, then out into a wide plain of detritus, once covered by the ice, now two miles long by a mile wide. Difficult walking, all glacial drift, and boulders great and small. The distance to the vast slope of dirty ice seemed only a little way; nothing but the walk would convince one that it was over two miles. The glacier projects in a great bow. On its center, like a hog-back mane, are piled masses of earth and rocks. It is there that the moving ice river is. On either side the ice is almost still and white. For five or ten miles the glacier rises toward an apparent summit and stretches toward the coast, fed by a multitude of lesser ice streams issuing from every mountain gorge and valley, while monstrous masses of rock, granite and porphyry, tower into the snows and clouds above it. We had some difficulty in climbing upon the glacier. Chasms opened on either side, the front was a cracking ice cliff, crevasses yawned everywhere. Though the surface was dirty and blackened, yet down in the cracks and crevasses the wonderful blue ice appeared. From the base of the glacier flows a river, and over its surface coursed a thousand rills. We walked upon the ice and lingered near it till about noon, when our boat took us back to Atlin through the greater lake, along the east shores of Goat Island, a four hours' sail. From Atlin we have returned as we went, and are now spending a few hours here. There were very few birds on Atlin Lake, though I saw a superb loon yesterday near the western shore. Ice formed on the lake last night. Snow is in the air. We may be too late to go down the Yukon from Dawson. SEVENTH LETTER. VOYAGING DOWN THE MIGHTY YUKON. DAWSON, September 5, 1903. This letter is headed Dawson, for I shall mail it there, but I begin it at White Horse, a thriving town of over 2,000 people, on the west bank of the Fifty Mile River, just below the famous rapids. The streets are wide, of hard gravel, many large buildings. We are in the "Windsor" Hotel, a three-storied wooden structure, iron bedsteads, wire mattresses, modern American oak furniture--very comfortable, but as all the partitions are of paper--no plaster--you can hear in one room all that is said on six sides of you--above and below, too. The city and hotel are electric-lighted. Many churches, a commodious public school, public hall and reading-room supplied with all current American, Canadian and English magazines. The town is up to date. It is at the head of the Yukon navigation, where those "going out" take the White Pass and Yukon Railway for Skagway, and those "going in" take the boats for "Dawson." Just now the town is half deserted, many of its inhabitants having stampeded to the new Kluhane gold strike, some one hundred and forty miles away. It is here claimed that a new Eldorado as rich as the Klondike has been found, and White Horse now expects to yet rival Dawson. Extensive finds of copper ore of high grade are also reported in the neighborhood. [Illustration: BISHOP AND MRS. BOMPAS.] [Illustration: THE GREAT LLEWELLYN GLACIER.] We arrived at Caribou yesterday morning on the little S. S. "Scotia," built on Lake Bennett, after a very comfortable night, and went over to Dawson Charlie's hotel for a good breakfast. By this time H---- and the Indian housekeeper had become fast friends, and the girl accordingly brought out her store of nuggets and nugget jewelry for H---- to see. A lovely chain of little nuggets linked together, a yard or more long, earrings, breastpins, buckles, and sundry nuggets, large and small. It is Dawson Charlie's habit, when in a good humor, to give her one of the pocketful of nuggets he usually carries around. We crossed the bridge over the rushing outflow of Lake Bennett and went down to the Indian village, and called on the man whom all Canadian churchmen affectionately and reverently term the "Apostle of the North," old Bishop Bompas and his quaint, white-haired wife. For over forty-five years he has wrought among the Indians of the Peace River, the Mackenzie and Yukon watersheds. He is an old man, but as erect as a Cree brave. His diocese is now limited to the Yukon waters, where, he says, are about 1,000 Indians, and, of course, an increasing number of white men. They lived in this back, wild country long before the white men thought of gold, or the Indian knew of its value. I took their pictures and promised to send them copies. This morning we have walked a few miles up the river to see the celebrated White Horse Rapids, and I went four miles further, and saw also the Miles Cañon, where the waters of Lake Taggish and Fifty Mile River begin their wild six miles before reaching here. The cañon is sharply cleft in trap rock, and the sides rise sheer and pilastered as though cut into right-angled pillars. These cliffs rise up 200 feet or more and go down as deep below the foaming tide. The cleft does not seem more than 100 yards wide, and through it the waters boil and roar. How the early gold hunters ever got through the furious waters alive is the wonder, and indeed very many did lose their lives here, as well as in the dashing rapids below. ON THE YUKON, September 7, 1903. We have boarded the steamer "White Horse," whose captain is commodore of the Yukon fleet--twenty-odd large steamers owned by the White Pass & Yukon Ry. Co. We have a stateroom at the rear of the texas, with a window looking out behind as well as at the side. I can lie in my berth and see the river behind us. We swung out into the swift blue current about a quarter to seven, yet bright day, the big boat turning easily in the rather narrow channel. The boat is about the size of those running between Charleston, W. Va., and Cincinnati or Pittsburg--165 feet long, 35 feet wide, and draws 2-1/2 feet, with a big stern wheel:--the Columbia River type rather than the Mississippi, such as run from Dawson down--sits rather high in the water and lower parts all enclosed. She has powerful machinery fit for breasting the swift waters; a large, commodious dining salon; a ladies' parlor in the rear; a smoking-room for gentlemen forward; lighted with electricity, and all modern conveniences. She was built at White Horse, as were also ten of the sister boats run by the railway company. Six years ago no steamboat had traversed these waters. With the current we travel fourteen to twenty miles an hour, against the current only five! The river winds among hills and flats, and mountains all fir-clad and yellowed with much golden aspen, turned by the nightly frosts. [Illustration: FISHING FOR GRAYLING--WHITE HORSE RAPIDS.] [Illustration: MOONLIGHT ON LAKE LE BARGE.] [Illustration: LAKE BENNETT FROM OUR CAR.] We came down through Fifty Mile River, which is the name given to the waters connecting Lake Taggish and Lake Lebarge. The moon hung full and low in the south, giving a light as white as upon the table-lands of Mexico, so clear is the atmosphere and free from atmospheric dust. We sat upon the upper deck until late in the night, watching the varying panorama. From the window of my stateroom, lying in my berth, I looked an hour or more while we sailed through Lake Lebarge--five or six miles wide, thirty miles long--hemmed in by lofty, rounded, fir-clad limestone mountains, 4,000 or 5,000 feet in altitude--the full moon illuminating the quiet waters. Only the frequent mocking laugh of the loon echoed on the still night air--there seemed to be hosts of them. Once I heard the melancholy howling of a timber wolf among the shadows of a deep bay. From Lake Lebarge we entered the swift and dangerous currents of Thirty Mile River. Here the boats usually tie up till daylight, but with the full moon and our immense electric searchlight, the captain ventured to go down. Again I sat up watching the foaming waters behind us and how deftly we backed and swung round the many sharp bends:--high mountains quite shutting us in, the foaming waters white and black in the moonlight and shadow. At last, when the mountains seemed higher, blacker, more formidable than ever, we suddenly rounded a precipitous mass of limestone and granite and floated out into an immense pool, while away to the east seemingly joined us another river as large as our own, the Hootalinqua, fetching down the yet greater tides of Lake Teslin, and forming with the Thirty Mile, the true Yukon--though the stream is mapped as the Lewes, until joined by the Pelly, many miles below. We have now been descending this great river all day long; as wide as the Ohio, but swifter and deeper and always dark blue water. The valley is wide like the Ohio; the bottom lands lying higher above the water and the country rising in successive benches till the horizon is bounded by rounded mountains eight or ten miles away. Mountains green with fir, golden yellow with the aspen and the birch, and red and scarlet with the lutestring herb and lichens of the higher slopes. A magnificent panorama, an immense and unknown land, not yet taken possession of by man! The soil of many of these bottoms is rich, and will yield wonderful crops when tilled. Some distant day, towns and villages will be here. We have seen many loons upon the river, and probably twenty or thirty golden eagles soaring high in mighty circles--more than I have seen in a single day before. We caught sight of a black fox in the twilight last evening, and surprised a red fox hunting mussel shells upon a river bar to-day. [Illustration: A YUKON SUNSET.] [Illustration: THE UPPER YUKON.] [Illustration: A YUKON COAL MINE.] [Illustration: FIVE FINGERS RAPIDS ON THE YUKON.] We have passed several steamers coming up the river and stopped twice to take on firewood and a few times to put off mail at the stations of the Northwest Mounted Police. About four o'clock P. M. we safely passed through the dangerous rocky pass of the Five Fingers, where five basalt rocks of gigantic size tower 100 feet into the air and block the passage of the foaming waters. Just where we passed, the cliffs seemed almost to touch our gunwales, so near are they together. The banks are high slopes of sand and gravel, now and then striped by a white band of volcanic dust. The trees are small and stunted, but growing thickly together, so as scarcely to let a man pass between. We have seen two puny coal banks where is mined a dirty bituminous coal, but worth $30.00 to $40.00 per ton in Dawson. Better than a mine of gold! We have just now run through the difficult passage known as Hell's Gates, where on one side a mass of cliff and on the other a shifting sand bar confine the waters to a swift and treacherous chute. So close to the rocks have we passed that one might have clasped hands with a man upon them, yet for a mile we never touched their jagged sides. Clever steering by our Norwegian pilot! Now we are past the mouth of the great Pelly River, itself navigable for steamboats for some three hundred miles, as far as up to White Horse by the main stream, and are hove to at Fort Selkirk, an old Hudson Bay Company post. Here the mounted police maintain a considerable force. They are standing on the bank, many of them in their red coats, together with a group of the Pelly Indians, a tribe of famous fur hunters. Passing safely through the treacherous Lewes Rapids above the mouth of the Pelly, we have swung out into the true Yukon, an immense river, wide as the Mississippi at St. Louis, many islands and sand bars. At high water the river must here be two miles across. The moon hangs round and white in the south, not much above the horizon, and we shall slowly steam ahead all night. September 7, 1903. We are making a quick trip. We passed the mouth of the Stewart River in the early dawn. Another great stream navigable for 200 miles. By the Pelly Valley or by the Stewart, and their feeding lakes, will some day enter the railroads from the valley of the Mackenzie, coming up from Edmonton and the southeast. There is supposed to be yet much undiscovered gold on both of these streams, and fine grass land and black soil fit for root crops. [Illustration: COMING UP THE YUKON.] The Yukon, the mighty Yukon, is surely now become a gigantic river, its deep blue waters carrying a tide as great as the St. Lawrence. We are making a record trip, Ogilvie by 11 A. M., and Dawson, sixty miles below, in three more hours! So the captain cheerily avers--the fuller current and deeper tide of waters carrying us the more swiftly. The mountains are lower, more rounded in outline, fir and golden aspen and now red-leaved birch forests covering them to their summits. The air is cold and keen. Ice at night, grey fogs at dawn, clear blue sky by the time the sun feebly warms at nine or ten o'clock. We are reaching lands where the ground is frozen solid a few feet below the summer thaws, and the twilight still lingers till nine o'clock. They tell us the days are shortening, but it is hard to credit it, so long is yet the eventime. I shall mail this letter at Dawson and send you yet another before we go down the river to the Behring Sea. To-day I saw the first gulls, white and brown, some ducks on wing, many ravens and but few eagles. We are having a great trip, worth all the time and effort to get here--on the brink of the Arctic north, and in one of the yet but half-explored regions of the earth. EIGHTH LETTER. DAWSON AND THE GOLDEN KLONDIKE. DAWSON, YUKON TERRITORY, } Thursday, September 10, 1903. } We came in on Tuesday afternoon, the steamer "White Horse" having had an unusually good run. As we descended the river the stream grew larger, wider, with more water, and when we passed the White River the blue water there changed to a muddy white, discolored by the turgid, whitish tide of that stream. It must flow somewhere through beds of the white volcanic ash, that for so many miles marks the banks of the Yukon with its threadlike white line a foot or two below the surface soil. As we passed the swift water of Klondike shoals and rounded in toward the landing, our own hoarse whistle was replied to by several steamers lying at the various wharfboats. We were ahead of time;--our arrival was an event. The town lies well, upon a wide bottom, and now begins to climb the back hill to a secondary flat. It is laid off with wide streets, the chief of which are graveled and fairly kept. There are a few brick buildings, but most are of wood, here and there an old-time (six years old) log building appearing among the more modern ones built of sawed lumber--for logs are now too precious and too costly to squander. [Illustration: THE "SARAH" ARRIVING AT DAWSON, 1,600 MILES UP FROM ST. MICHAELS.] [Illustration: THE LEVEE, DAWSON. OUR STEAMER.] The town has telephones and electric lights, which latter must pay finely when you realize that for nearly seven months darkness prevails over day. There are two morning daily, and one evening daily newspapers, with all Associated Press telegraphic news. I send you a copy of one of them. Two banks handle the gold, buying the miners' "dust" and doing a thriving business. There are half a dozen quite handsome churches, two hospitals, government buildings, the "Governor's Palace," and a number of residences that would do credit to any town. There are two large sawmills near the mouth of the Klondike River, which is crossed by two fine bridges, one iron and one wood. Of foundries and machine shops there are many. The stores and shops are many of them pretentious and filled with the most expensive high-class goods and wares--for, in the first place, the gold miner is lavish, extravagant, and will only have the very best, while it costs as much freight to bring in a cheap commodity as an expensive one. You can buy as handsome things here as in San Francisco or New York, if you don't mind the price. The daily newspapers are sold by newsboys on the streets at 25 cents a copy. Fine steaks and roasts, mutton and veal, are thirty-five to sixty-five cents per pound. Chickens, $2.00 to $3.00 each. A glass of beer, twenty-five cents. Some elegant drags and victorias, with fine horses, as well as many superb draft horses, are seen on the streets. It only pays to have the best horses; a scrub costs as much to bring in and to keep as a good one, and hay is $60.00 to $150.00 per ton, and oats are sold by the pound, sometimes $1.00 per pound. Cows' milk is an expensive luxury at the restaurants, and various canned goods form the staple of life. Many large steamboats ply on the Yukon, and those running down to St. Michael, 1,800 miles below, are of the finest Mississippi type, and are run by Mississippi captains and pilots. We shall go down on one of these, the "Sarah," belonging to the "Northern Commercial Company," one of the two great American trading companies. Also large towboats push huge freight barges up and down the river. Several six-horse stage lines run many times a day to the various mining camps up and adjacent to the Klondike Valley, which is itself now settled and worked for one hundred and fifty miles from Dawson. Probably thirty to thirty-five thousand people are at work in these various diggings, and trade and spend in Dawson. Hence Dawson takes on metropolitan airs, and considers herself the new metropolis of the far north and Yukon Valley. Two things strike the eye on first walking about the town. The multitude of big, long-haired, wolflike-looking dogs, loafing about, and the smallness of the neat dwelling-houses. The dogs play in the summer and work untiringly through the long seven months of winter--a "dog's life" then means a volume. Small houses are easier to warm than big ones, when fuel is scarce and wood $16, $20 and $50 per cord, and soft spruce wood at that! [Illustration: DAWSON CITY, THE YUKON--LOOKING DOWN.] [Illustration: DAWSON AND MOUTH OF KLONDIKE RIVER, LOOKING UP.] But Dawson has an air of prosperity about it. The men and women are well dressed, and have strong, keen faces. Many of them "mushed" across Chilkoot Pass in 1897, and have made their piles. And they are ready to stampede to any new gold field that may be discovered. It is said that there are 6,000 people here, stayers, and then there is a fluctuating horde of comers and goers, tenderfeet many of them. This year eleven millions of dust has come into Dawson from the neighboring diggings, and since 1897, they say, near a hundred millions have been found! Many men and even women have made their millions and "gone out." Others have spent as much, and are starting in anew, and the multitude all expect to have their piles within a year or two. A curious aggregation of people are here come together, and from all parts! There are very many whom you must not question as to their past. German officers driven from their Fatherland, busted English bloods, many of these in the Northwest Mounted Police, and titled ne'er-do-wells depending upon the quarterly remittances from London, and Americans who had rather not meet other fellow countrymen;--mortals who have failed to get on in other parts of this earth, and who have come to hide for awhile in these vast, solitary regions, strike it rich if possible and get another start. And many of them do this very thing, hit upon new fortunes, and sometimes, steadied by former adversity, lead new, honorable careers; but most of the black sheep, if luck is kindly to them, only plunge the deeper and more recklessly into vice and dissipation. The town is full of splendid bar-rooms and gilded gambling-hells. Two hundred thousand a night has been lost and won in some of them. I drove past a large, fine-looking man, but possessed of a weak, dissipated mouth, on Eldorado Creek yesterday. His claim has been one of the fabulously rich, a million or more out of a patch of gravel 1,000 feet by 250, and he has now drunk and gambled most of it away, divorced a nice wife "in the States outside," then married a notorious belle of nether Dawson, and will soon again be back to pick and pan and dogs. Another claim of like size on Bonanza Creek was pointed out to me where two brothers have taken out over a million and a quarter since 1897, and have been ruined by their luck. They have recklessly squandered every nugget of their sudden riches in drunkenness and with cards and wine and women to a degree that would put the ancient Californian days of '49 in the shade. On the other hand, there are such men as Lippy, who have made their millions, saved and invested them wisely, and are regarded as veritable pillars in their communities. Lippy has just given the splendid Y. M. C. A. building to Seattle. [Illustration: SECOND AVENUE, DAWSON.] [Illustration: DAWSON--VIEW DOWN THE YUKON.] [Illustration: THE CECIL--THE FIRST HOTEL IN DAWSON.] [Illustration: A PRIVATE CARRIAGE, DAWSON.] There is now much substantial wealth in Dawson and the Klondike. Most of the large operations are in the hands of Americans, especially of the American companies who have bought up the claims after the individual miner, who just worked it superficially and dug out the cream, has sold the skim milk. And even the major part of the original "stakers" seem to have been Americans. There are many good people in Dawson among these. Then, too, there is the body of Canadian officials who govern the territory of Yukon--political henchmen of Laurier and the Liberal party, many of them French Canadians. The governor himself and the chief of these officials live here, and their families form the inner circle of select society. Very anti-American they are said to be, and they do not mix much with the Americans who, of equal or superior social standing at home, here devote themselves to business and gold getting and let Canadian society and politics altogether alone. But while the alert American has been the first to stake, occupy and extract the wealth of the Klondike, and while by his energy and tireless perseverance he has made the Yukon Territory the greatest placer mining region of the world, yet this acquirement of vast wealth by Americans has not really been pleasing to the Canadians, nor to the government of Ottawa. So these governing gentlemen in Ottawa have put their heads together to discover how they, too, might profit, and especially profit, by the energy of the venturesome American. How themselves secure the chestnuts after he had, at peril of life and fortune, securely pulled the same out of the fire--in this case, frightful frost and ice! And they hit upon this plan: They resolved themselves into little groups, and the government then began granting extensive and exclusive blanket concessions to these groups. Just now a great row is on over some of these private concession grants. One man, Treadgold by name, turns up and discovers himself to be possessed of an exclusive blanket grant to all the water rights of the Klondike Valley and its affluent creeks, as well as the exclusive right to hold and work all gold-bearing land not already occupied, and also to hold and have every claim already staked, or worked, which for any reason may lapse to the crown either for non-payment of taxes or any other reason, thus shutting out the individual miner from ever staking a new claim within this region should he discover the gold, and from taking up any lapsed claim, and from re-titling his own claim, should he be careless and neglect to pay his annual taxes by the appointed day! [Illustration: DOG CORRAL--THE FASTEST TEAM IN DAWSON.] [Illustration: A POTATO PATCH AT DAWSON.] Another man, named Boyle, also appears with a similar concession covering the famous Bonanza and Eldorado Creeks, where land is valued by the inch, and millions beyond count have in these few years been dug out. Such flagrant and audacious jobbery as the creation and granting of these blanket concessions in the quiet of Ottawa, presents to the world, has probably never before been witnessed, unless it be among the inner circle of the entourage of the Russian Czar. These steals have been so bold and unabashed that this entire mining region has risen as a unit in angry protest. While the miner has been prospecting, discovering, freezing, digging in these Arctic solitudes, the snug, smug politician of Ottawa has fixed up a job to swipe the whole find should the innocent, ignorant prospector happen to make one. So vigorous has been the protest against these daring abuses of a government clique, that this summer what is called a "Dominion Royal Commission" has been sent here to investigate the situation. The papers are full of the matter. The citizens have met in mass-meeting and unanimously joined in the protest against the concessions, calling for their revocation, and Judge--"Justice"--Britton, the head of the commission, is bitterly denounced as a partisan here simply on a whitewashing trip to exculpate Laurier and his friends. And the result of what has unquestionably been crooked jobbery at Ottawa is said to be that hundreds of prospectors and miners are moving out of the Yukon and into Alaska, where they say "there is fair play," and a man may have what he finds. What I here tell you is the current talk in Dawson--quite unanimous talk--and I should like to have heard the other side, if there is one. To-day H---- and I have been across the river to visit a characteristic establishment of these far northern lands--a summer "dog ranch"--a place where, during the summer months, the teams of "Huskies" and "Malamutes" may be boarded and cared for till the working-time of winter comes again. Here are some seventy-five dogs in large kennels of rough timber, each team of six dogs having its own private kennel, with a large central yard inside the tiers of pens, into which the whole pack are turned once a day for exercise. We hoped to find the proprietor at home and induce him to give his pets a scamper in the central yard, but he was away. The only visitors besides ourselves were two strange dogs which stood outside, running up and down the line and arousing the entire seventy-five to one great chorus of barks and howls. Some of the groups of dogs were superb. And two teams of Huskies--the true Esquimaux--must have been worth their weight in gold--six dogs--$1,000.00 at the very least. We tried to get some kodak shots, but a cloudy sky and pine log bars made the result doubtful. [Illustration: FIRST AGRICULTURAL FAIR HELD AT DAWSON--SEPTEMBER, 1903.] We have just returned from an evening at the first annual show of the Dawson or Yukon "Horticultural Society." The name itself is a surprise; the display of vegetables particularly and flowers astonished me. The biggest beets I have ever seen, the meaty substance all clear, solid, firm and juicy. Potatoes, Early Rose and other varieties, some new kinds raised from seed in three years--large, a pound or more in size. And such cabbage, cauliflower and lettuce as you never saw before! Many kinds, full-headed and able to compete with any produced anywhere. All these raised in the open air on the rich, black bottom and bench land of the Yukon. Squashes and also tomatoes, but these latter, some of them, not fully ripened. Also a display of fine strawberries just now ripe. We bought strawberries in the markets of Cristiania and Stockholm upon the 12th and 13th of September, last year, and now we find a superior ripe fruit here at just about the same degree of north latitude. The wild currants, blueberries and raspberries with which these northern latitudes abound are notorious. And the show of oats, rye, barley, wheat and timothy and native grasses, as well as of red and white clover, was notable, proving beyond a doubt that this Yukon region is capable of raising varied and nutritious crops necessary for man's food and for the support of stock, horses and cattle. Already a good many thrifty mortals, instead of losing themselves in the hunt for gold, are quietly going into the raising of vegetables and hay and grain, and get fabulous prices for what grows spontaneously almost in a night. And the show of flowers grown in the open air would have delighted you. All of these products of the soil have been grown in sixty or seventy days from the planting of the seed, the almost perpetual sunlight of the summer season forcing plant life to most astonishing growth. September 11th. Day before yesterday I took the six-horse stage up Bonanza Creek of the Klondike and rode some thirteen miles over the fine government road to "Discovery" claim, where a Cleveland (O.) company is using a dredge and paying the Indian "Skookum Jim," whose house we saw at Caribou, a royalty that this year will place $90,000.00 to his credit, I am told. [Illustration: DAILY STAGE ON BONANZA.] [Illustration: DISCOVERY CLAIM ON BONANZA OF THE KLONDIKE.] The Klondike is a large stream, about like Elk River of West Virginia, rising two hundred miles eastward in the Rockies, where the summer's melting snow gives it a large flow of water. The valley is broad--a mile or more. The hills are rolling and rounded, black soil, broad flats of small firs and birches. Bonanza Creek, on which Skookum Jim and "Dawson Charlie" and the white man, discovered the first gold in 1897, has proved the richest placer mining patch of ground the world has ever known. For a length of some twenty miles it is occupied by the several claim-holders, who are working both in the creek bed and also ancient river beds high up on the rolling hill slopes, a thing never known before. Here the claims are larger than at Atlin, being 1,000 feet wide and 250 feet up and down the creek. The claim where a discovery is made is called "Discovery Claim," and the others are named "No. 1 above" and "No. 1 below," "No. 2 above" and "No. 2 below," etc., and so entered of record. I had seen the dredge being built on Gold Run at Atlin. I wished to see one working here. I found a young American named Elmer in charge, and he showed me everything. Then he insisted that I dine with him, and took me up to his snug cottage, where I was cordially greeted by his American wife, and taken to the mess tent, where a Japanese cook set a good dinner before us. Then Mrs. Elmer said that if I would like she would be delighted to drive me still further up Bonanza, and up the equally famous Eldorado Fork, and show me the more noted claims. Her horse was a good one, and for nearly three hours we spanked along. At "16 Eldorado below" I saw the yawning gravel pit from which $1,200,000 has already been taken out by the lucky owner. From "28 Eldorado above" I saw where the pay gravel yielded another enormous sum. And all along men were still digging, dumping, sluicing and getting gold. At "18 Bonanza above," yet another particularly rich strike was shown me, and at "28 Bonanza above," working in the mud and gravel, were men already enormously rich, who in 1897 owned nothing but their outfit. And up along the hillsides, too, near the tops, were other gashes in the gravel soil where gold in equally fabulous sums has been taken out and is still being got, for all these rich sands are yet far from being worked out or exhausted. The first mad rush is over. Men do not now merely pick out the big nuggets, but are putting in improved machinery and saving the finer dust. Along the roadside we also saw many men digging and "rocking" for gold, who have leased a few square yards or an acre or two on a royalty and who are said to be "working a lay." After our drive, I caught the returning stage and came home in the long twilight. To-day I have staged again twenty miles on to the famous Hunker Creek, and then been driven further and home again by Mr. Orr, the owner of the stage line, behind a team of swift bays, over another fine government highway. I have looked at more machinery, steam shovels, hoist and labor-saving apparatus, and seen more millions already made and in the making. The present and potential wealth of this country almost stupifies one, and dollars fall into the insignificance of dimes. The traffic on these fine roads is also surprising. Substantial log "road houses," or inns, every mile or so, and frequently at even shorter intervals, very many foot-farers traveling from place to place. Young men with strong, resolute faces; bicycle riders trundling a pack strapped to their handle-bars, and many six and eight span teams of big mules and big horses hauling immense loads--sometimes two great broad-tired wagons chained together in a train. Ten or twelve four and six horse stages leave Dawson every day, and as many come in, carrying passengers and mails to and from the many mining camps. In my stage to-day behind me sat two Mormons, a man and a woman, who had never met before, from Utah, and a woman from South Africa, the wife of an expatriated Boer; a Swede who was getting rich and a French Canadian. My host at dinner was from Montreal, a black-eyed, bulldog-jawed "habitan," whose heart warmed to me when I told him that my great grandmother, too, was French from Quebec, and who thereupon walked me out to the barn to see his eleven Malamute pups, and afterward insisted that I take a free drink at his bar. I took a kodak of him with "_mes enfants_," and promised to send him a copy of the same. [Illustration: LOOKING UP THE KLONDIKE RIVER.] [Illustration: THE AUTHOR AT WHITE HORSE RAPIDS.] [Illustration: "MES ENFANTS" MALAMUTE PUPS.] [Illustration: A KLONDIKE CABIN.] To-night I ventured out to try again the restaurant of our first adventure. Sitting at a little table, I was soon joined by three bright-looking men--one a "barrister," one a mining engineer, one a reporter. Result (1), an interview; (2), a pass to the fair; (3), my dinner paid for, a 50-cent Havana cigar thrust upon me, and (4) myself carried off to the said fair by two of its directors, and again shown its fine display of fruits and grains and flowers and all its special attractions by the management itself. In fact, the Dawsonite can not do too much for the stranger sojourning in his midst. Mercury 26 to 28 degrees every morning. Before arriving in Dawson a big, rugged, government official had said to me, "Go to the hotel ---- and give my love to Mrs. ----. She has a red head and a rich heart. She has cheered more stricken men than any woman in the Yukon. She mushed through with her husband with the first 'sourdoughs' over the ice passes in '97. She was a streak of sunshine amidst the perils and heartaches of that terrible human treck. She runs the only hotel worth going to in Dawson. You will be lucky to get into it. Give her our love, the love of all of us. Tell her you're our friends, and maybe she will take you in." So we were curious about this woman who had dared so much, who had done so much, who was yet mistress of the hearts of the rough, strong men of the Yukon. We went to her hotel. We asked to see her. We were shown into a cosy, well-furnished parlor. We might just as well have been in a home in Kanawha or New York. We heard some orders given in a firm, low-pitched voice, a quick step, Mrs. ---- was before us. An agreeable presence, dignity, reserve, force. Tall, very tall, but so well poised and proportioned you didn't notice it. A head broad browed and finely set on neck and shoulders. Yes, the hair was red, Venetian red with a glimmer of sunshine in it. I delivered the message straight. She received it coolly. "The house was full, but she would have place for us before night. A party would leave on the 4 P. M. stage for Dominion Creek. We should have his room. Dinner would be served at seven." The chamber was given us in due time. Plainly furnished, but comfortable. The hotel is an immense log house, chinked with moss and plaster, and paper lined, and all the partitions between the rooms are also paper. But we are learning to talk in low voices, and, between a little French and German and Danish, H. and I manage to keep our secrets to ourselves, although of the private affairs of all the other guests we shall soon be apprised. The dining-room is large, the whole width of the house, in the center a huge furnace stove from which radiate many large, hot pipes, where in the long winter night-time is kept up a furious fire, and a cord of wood is burned each day--and wood at $25 to $50 per cord! The guests sit at many little tables. The linen is spotless. The china good English ware. The fare is delicious. The cook is paid $300 per month, the maids $125, with board thrown in. Delicate bacon from Chicago. Fresh eggs from Iowa. Chickens from Oregon--no live chickens in Dawson. The first mushers brought in a few, but the hawks and owls, the foxes and minks and other varments devoured many of them, and the surviving ones, after waiting around a week or two for the sun to set, went cackling crazy for lack of sleep, and died of shattered nerves. Caribou steak and tenderloin of moose we have at every meal. And to-day wild duck and currant jelly. The ducks abound along the river, the currants grow wild all over the mountain slopes. And such celery and lettuce and radishes and cabbage! Potatoes, big and mealy, and turnips, and carrots, delicate and crisp, all grown in the local gardens round about. Cabbage here sells at a dollar a head and lettuce at almost as much. But you never ate the like. White and hard as celery, so quickly do they grow in the nightless days! Nowhere in all the world can you live so well as in Dawson, live if only you have the "stuff." Live if you can pay. We follow the habit of the land and pay up in full after each meal. It is dangerous to trust the stranger for his board. It is well for us we hold fast to this custom, else we might not be able to leave the town--a regulation of the government of the city--no man may leave with bills unpaid. So long as he owes even a single dollar, he must remain! And the N. W. M. P. watch the boats, the river and the mountain passes and enforce this law. Our hostess takes good care of her guests. Very many young men working for the larger commercial companies board here, all, who are allowed, come for transient meals. And those who are homesick and down in spirit come just for the sake of neighborship to the tall, well-gowned woman whose invariable tact and sympathy, and often motherly tenderness, has given new heart to many a lonely "chechaqua" (tenderfoot), so far away from home! In this dining-room, too, one sees a type not so often now met in our own great country, but inherent to English methods. The permanent Chief Clerk. The man whose career is to be forever a book-keeper or a clerk, whose highest ambition is to be a book-keeper or a clerk just all his life, and who will be trusted with the highest subordinate positions, but will never be made a partner, however much he may merit it. London is filled with such. The offices of the great British Commercial companies are full of such the world round. Men who know their business and attend to it faithfully, and whose lives are a round of precise routine. Such men sit at tables all about us. In London every morning the _Times_ or _Daily Telegraph_ is laid at their plates. Here the Yukon _Sun_ or Dawson _Times_ is laid before them just the same, and they gravely read the news of the world, while they sip their tea and munch their cold toast, just as though they were "at home." And they walk in and out with the same stoop-shouldered shuffle gait one sees along the Strand or Bishopsgate Street within, or Mansionhouse Square. Our hostess greets each guest as he enters, and walks about among them and says a cheery word to every one. One, on her left, has just now been reading to her from a letter which tells of his mother in England, and, I surmise, hints of a waiting sweetheart; and another, an Australian, who is just going away on a prospecting trip far up the Stuart River, is telling her what to write home for him in case he shall never come back. The two other chief objects of interest in this dining-room, besides Mrs. ----, are--her small boy of six, who is being greatly praised this morning by all the company--he has just licked the big boy across the street, who for a week or two has tried to bully him, on account of which feat his mother is immensely proud--and a wonderful grey and white cat that sits up and begs just like a prairie dog or a gopher. When a kitten, pussy must have gone out and played with some of the millions of gophers that inhabit every hillside, and learned from them how to properly sit up. She visits each guest every morning and sits up and folds her paws across her breast and mews so plaintively that no hand can forbear giving her a tidbit. "We were among the first. We came up from San Francisco in a waterlogged schooner through the wash of ice and winter gales to Dyea, and then mushed over Chilkoot Pass on snowshoes with the dogs. I shouldered my pack like the men. And John--John would have backed out or died of weariness, if I hadn't told him that if he quit, I should come on in just all the same. Yes! I carried my gun--I didn't have to use it but once or twice. Yes! We've done very well in Dawson, very well in the Klondike, very well!" And a big diamond glinted as though to reenforce the remark. She spoke rapidly, though easily, in crisp, curt sentences, and you felt she had indeed "mushed" in, that frightful winter, over those perilous snow and ice passes, just sure enough! As I looked into her wide-open, brown eyes, I felt that I beheld there that spirit which I have everywhere noted in the keen faces of the men and women of the Yukon, the yet living spirit of the great West, of the West of half a century ago; of Virginia and New England two hundred years ago; the spirit which drove Drake and Frobisher and Captain Cook and their daring mariners out from the little islands of our motherland to possess and dominate the earth's mysterious and unchartered seas; the spirit which still makes the name American stand for energy and power and accomplishment in all the world; the spirit, shall I say, which gives the future of the earth to the yet virile Anglo-Saxon race. NINTH LETTER. MEN OF THE KLONDIKE. YUKON TERRITORY, CANADA, September 18, 1903. We lingered in Dawson a week waiting for the steamers "Sarah" or "Louise" or "Cudahy" to come up from the lower river, and though always "coming," they never came. Meantime the days had begun to visibly shorten, the frosts left thicker rime on roof and road each morning. "Three weeks till the freeze-up," men said, and we concluded that so late was now the season that we had best not chance a winter on a sand-bar in the wide and shallow lower Yukon, and a nasty time with fogs and floe ice in Behring Sea. So on Wednesday, the 16th, we again took the fine steamer "White Horse," and are now two days up the river on our way. We will reach White Horse Sunday morning, stay there till Monday morning, when we will take the little railway to Skagway, then the ocean coaster to Seattle and the land of dimes and nickels. We regret not having been able to go down to St. Michael and Nome, and to see the whole great Yukon. My heart was quite set on it, and the expense was about the same as the route we now take, but to do so we should have had to take too great risks at this late season. While lingering in Dawson we were able to see more of the interests of the community. One day we called on a quite notable figure, _a_, or rather _the_, Dr. Grant of St. Andrews Hospital, M. D., and of St. Andrews great church, D. D.! A Canadian Scotchman of, say, thirty-five years, who, although a man of independent fortune, chose the wild life of the border just from the very joy of buffet and conquest. He "mushed" it in 1897 over the Chilkoot Pass. He built little churches and hospitals all in one, and became the helper of thousands whom the perils and stresses of the great trek quite overcame. So now he is a power in Dawson. A large and perfectly equipped hospital, his creation, has been endowed by the government; a fine, modern church holding six hundred; a pretty manse and big mission school buildings of logs. All these standing in a green turfed enclosure of two or three acres. The church cost $60,000. He preaches Sundays to a packed house. He is chief surgeon of the hospital during the rest of the time. He gives away his salary, and the men of these mining camps, who know a real man when they see him, can't respond too liberally to the call of the preacher-surgeon who generally saves their bodies and sometimes their souls. I found him a most interesting man--a naturalist, a scientific man, a man of the world and who independently expounds a Presbyterian cult rather of the Lyman Abbott type. He showed us all through the hospitals; many surgical accident cases; very few fevers or sickness. The church, too, we inspected; all fittings within modern and up to date; a fine organ, the freight on which alone was $5,000, 40 per cent. of its cost; a furnace that warmed the building even at 80 below zero, and a congregation of 400 to 500 people, better dressed (the night we attended) than would be a similar number in New York. There are no old clothes among the well-to-do; gold buys the latest styles and disdains the cost. There are few old clothes among the poor, for the poor are very few. So as I looked upon the congregation before Dr. Grant, I might as well have been in New York but for a pew full of red coats of "N. W. M. P." (North West Mounted Police). The succeeding day Dr. Grant called upon us, and escorted us through the military establishment that polices and also governs the Yukon territory as well as the whole Canadian Northwest. Barracks for 250 men, storerooms, armory, horse barn, dog kennel--150 dogs--jail, mad-house and courtrooms. The executive and judicial departments all under one hand and even the civil rule as well. Everywhere evidence of the cold and protection against it. A whole room full of splendid fur coats, parquets, with great fur hoods. Such garments as even an Esquimaux would rejoice in. Later, we attended the fine public school, where are over 250 children in attendance; all equipment the latest and up to date; kindergarten department and grades to the top, the teachers carefully picked from eastern Canada. The positions are much sought for by reason of unusually high salaries paid. The new principal had just come from Toronto. He told us that these were the brightest, most alert children he had ever taught. Keen faces, good chins, inheriting the aggressive initiative of the parents who had dared to come so far. In the kindergarten a little colored boy sat among his white mates. In Canada, like Mexico, there is no color line. It now takes us four days to creep up the river against the strong current and through the many shallows to White Horse. On the boat there are all sorts. I have met a number of quaint figures. One a French Canadian trapper, on his way to a winter camp on McMillan Creek of the Pelly River. He will have three or more cabins along a route where he will set his traps. About two hundred he keeps a-going, and sees as many of them as he can each day. Mink and marten and otter and beaver, as well as wolves and foxes, lynx and bears. For meat he prefers caribou to moose. For many years he trapped for the "H. B. C." (Hudson Bay Company) over east of the Rockies. But they paid him almost nothing and there were no other buyers. Now he sells to Dawson merchants and gets $6.00 for a marten skin "all through"--the whole lot. The fur merchant in Victoria asked $30.00 for just such, and said we might buy them as low as $10.00 in the Yukon country, so he had heard. Another man to-day has sat on the wood-pile with me and told me of the great North--a man with a well-shaped face, who used language of the educated sort, yet dressed in the roughest canvas, and who is raising hay here along the Yukon which he "sells at three cents a pound in Dawson, or one cent a pound in the stack," wild, native hay at that. And he had "mushed" and "voyaged" all through the far north. He had set out from Edmonton, he and his "pardner," and driven to "Athabasca landing" in their farm wagon, three or four hundred miles over the "Government road;" had passed through the beautiful, wide, gently sloping valley of the Peace River, and through the well-timbered regions north of the Peace. At Athabasca landing they had sold the wagon and built a stout flatboat, and in this had floated down some three hundred miles to Athabasca Lake, Indian pilots having taken them through the more dangerous rapids. The Athabasca River enters the lake among swamps and low, willowy spits of land, where grows wild hay and ducks abound, and the "Great Slave" River flows out of it into the body of water of that name. These two rivers enter and depart near together, and the voyager escapes the dangers of a journey on the great and shallow Athabasca, where the surf is most dangerous. Three or four hundred miles of a yet greater river, with many rapids through which you are guided by Indian pilots, who live near the dangerous waters, carry you into the Great Slave Lake, the largest body of fresh water in Canada. Steamboats of the Hudson Bay Company run upon it and ply upon the inflowing rivers, and even go up and down the McKenzie to Herschell Island at its mouth, and where the "N. W. M. P." have a post, chiefly to protect the natives from the whalers who gather there to trade and smuggle in dutiable goods. The McKenzie is greater than the Yukon, is wider and much deeper and carries a much greater volume of water. Great Slave Lake, while shallow and flat toward the eastern end, is deep and bounded by great cliffs and rocks on the west. Storms rage upon it, and at all times the voyagers count it dangerous water. Both it and Athabasca are full of fish, so, too, the adjacent rivers and the McKenzie. Floating down the McKenzie, passing the mouth of the Nelson River, they came at last to the Liard, and up this they canoed to within half a mile of the waters of the Pelly, down which they floated to the Yukon. The French trapper had also "come in" by this route. "Two seasons it takes," he said, "an easy trip," and you can winter quite comfortably in the mountains. East of the mountains there is much big game, "plenta big game;" musk ox are there, and moose and caribou. But the Indians and wolves kill too many of them. The Indians catch the caribou on the ice and kill them for their tongues. "Smoked caribou tongue mighta nice." They leave the carcasses where they fall, and then come the foxes for the feast. "Thousands of fox, red fox, silver fox, black fox, white fox. Mr. Fox he eat caribou, he forget Indian--Indian set the trap and fox he caught. The wolf, too, he creep up upon the caribou, even upon the moose when he alone, when he lying down; the wolf he bites the hamstring. He kill many moose. That a grand country for to trap, but the Hudson Bay Company it pay nothing for the fur. A sack of flour I see them give one Indian for a black fox. Now since Hudson Bay lose his exclusive right, no man trade with him or sell him fur except he must for food." [Illustration: ON THE YUKON.] [Illustration: FLOATING DOWN THE YUKON.] We have just passed a little log cabin beneath great firs and amidst a cluster of golden aspen. Its door and solitary window are wide open. No one occupies it, or ever will. Wild things may live in it, but not man. Near the cabin, where the Yukon makes a great sweeping bend, and the swift water purls round into bubbling eddies, a narrow trail cut from the river bank leads up among the trees. The dweller in the cabin could see far up the great river; he could espy the raft or skiff or barge descending and mark its occupants; then he used to take his trusty rifle, step across to the opening in the trees at the point, and pick off his victims. Sometimes their bodies fell into the deep, cold, swift-running waters. The wolves and foxes picked their bones on the bars below. Sometimes he captured the body as well as the outfit, and sunk and buried them at leisure. The pictures of the three last men he murdered hang in the office of the chief of the Northwest Mounted Police, at Dawson, beside his own. It took three years to gather the complete chain of circumstantial evidence, but at last they hanged him, two years ago. In the beginning there were many other crimes quite as atrocious committed in this vast region of the unknown north, but soon the efficiency and systematic vigilance of the Northwest Mounted Police broke up forever the bandits and thugs who had crowded in here from all the earth, and Uncle Sam's dominion in particular. Many were hanged, many sent up for long terms, many run out. Life sentences were common for robbery. To-day the Yukon country is more free from crime than West Virginia, and Dawson more orderly than Charleston. TENTH LETTER. DOG LORE OF THE NORTH. WHITE HORSE, Sunday, September 20, 1903. We arrived about nine o'clock this morning. The voyage up the Yukon from Dawson has taken us since Wednesday at 2:30, when we cast off and stemmed the swift waters--twenty-four hours longer than going down. During the week of our stay at Dawson the days grew perceptibly shorter and the nights colder. There is no autumn in this land. Two weeks ago the foliage had just begun to turn; a week ago the aspens and birches were showing a golden yellow, but the willows and alders were yet green. Now every leaf is saffron and golden--gamboge--and red. In a week or more they will have mostly fallen. As yet the waters of the Yukon and affluent rivers show no ice. In three weeks they are expected to be frozen stiff, and so remain until the ice goes out next June. The seasons of this land are said to be "Winter and June, July and August." To me it seems inconceivable that the Arctic frosts should descend so precipitately. But on every hand there is evident preparation for the cold, the profound cold. Double windows and doors are being fastened on. Immense piles of sawed and cut firewood are being stored close at hand. Sleighs and especially sledges are being painted and put in order; the dogs which have run wild, and mostly foraged for themselves during the summer, are being discovered, captured and led off by strings and straps and wires about their necks. Men are buying new dogs, and the holiday of dogkind is evidently close at an end. Women are already wearing some of their furs. Ice half to a full inch forms every night, and yesterday we passed through our first snow storm, and all the mountains round about, and even the higher hills, are to-day glistening in mantles of new, fresh, soft-looking snow. The steamers of the White Pass and Yukon Railway Company will be laid up in three weeks now, they tell us, and already the sleighs and teams for the overland stage route are being gathered, the stage houses at twenty-four-mile intervals being set in order, and the "Government road" being prepared afresh for the transmission of mails and passengers. [Illustration: APPROACHING SEATTLE.] [Illustration: WITH AND WITHOUT.] We have just seen some of the magnificent Labrador dogs, with their keeper, passing along the street, owned by the Government post here--immense animals, as big as big calves, heifers, yearlings, I might say. They take the mails to outlying posts and even to Dawson when too cold for the horses--horses are not driven when the thermometer is more than 40 degrees below! As I sat in the forward cabin the other night watching the motley crowd we were taking "out," two bright young fellows, who turned out to be "Government dog-drivers" going to the post here to report for winter duty, fell into animated discussion of their business, and told me much dog lore. The big, well-furred, long-legged "Labrador Huskies" are the most powerful as well as fiercest. A load of 150 pounds per dog is the usual burden, and seven to nine dogs attached each by a separate trace--the Labrador harness is used with them, so the dogs spread out fan-shaped from the sledge and do not interfere with each other. The great care of the driver is to maintain discipline, keep the dogs from shirking, from tangling up, and from attacking himself or each other. He carries a club and a seal-hide whip, and uses each unmercifully. If they think you afraid, the dogs will attack you instantly, and would easily kill you. And they incessantly attack each other, and the whole pack will always pounce on the under dog so as to surely be in at a killing, just for the fun of it, ripping up the unfortunate and lapping his blood eagerly, though they rarely eat him. And as these dogs are worth anywhere from $100 up, the driver has much ado to prevent the self-destruction of his team. And to club them till you stun them is the only way to stop their quarrels. Then, too, the dogs are clever and delight to spill the driver and gallop away from him, when he can rarely catch them until they draw up at the next post house, and it may be ten or twelve or thirty miles to that, unless it be that they get tangled among the trees or brush, when the driver will find them fast asleep, curled up in the snow, where each burrows out a cozy bed. The Malamutes, or native Indian dog, usually half wolf, are driven and harnessed differently--all in a line--and one before the other. They are shorter haired, faster, and infinitely meaner than the long-haired Huskie (of which sort the Labrador dogs are). Their delight is to get into a fight and become tangled, and the only way out is to club them into insensibility, and cut the leather harness, or they will cut the seal-hide thongs themselves at a single bite if they are quite sure your long plaited whip will not crack them before they can do it. These Malamutes are the usual dogs driven in this country, for few there are to afford or know how to handle the more powerful Labrador Huskie. And the Malamute is the king of all thieves. He will pull the leather boots off your feet while you sleep and eat them for a midnight supper; he delights to eat up his seal-hide harness; he has learned to open a wooden box and will devour canned food, opening any tin can made, with his sharp fangs, quicker than a steel can-opener. Canned tomatoes, fruit, vegetables, sardines, anything that man may put in, he will deftly take out. Even the tarpaulins and leather coverings of the goods he may be pulling, he will rip to pieces, and he will devour the load unless watched with incessant vigilance night and day. Yet, with all their wolfish greed and manners, these dogs perform astonishing feats of endurance, and never in all their lives receive a kindly word. "If you treat them kindly, they think you are afraid, and will at once attack you," the driver said; "the only way to govern them is through fear." Once a day only are they fed on raw fish, and while the Malamute prefers to pilfer and steal around the camp, the Huskie will go and fish for himself when off duty, if given the chance. Just like the bears and lynx of the salmon-running streams, he will stand along the shore and seize the fish that is shoved too far upon the shallows. Seventy miles a day is the rule with the Indians and their dog teams, and the white man does almost as much. Forty miles is it from here to Caribou Crossing, and the Northwest Mounted Police, with their Labrador teams, take the mails when the trains are snowbound and cover the distance in four to five hours. Great going this must be! And then the conversation turned to the great cold of this far north land, when during the long nights the sun only shows for an hour or two above the horizon. When the thermometer falls below fifty degrees (Fahr.), then are the horses put away, what few there may be, and the dogs transport the freight and mails along the Government road between White Horse and Dawson, as well as from Dawson to the mining camps to which the stage lines usually run. Indeed, throughout all of this north land, with the coming of the snow, the dogs are harnessed to the sledges and become the constant traveling companions of man. [Illustration: MALAMUTE TEAM OF GOVERNMENT MAIL-CARRIER--DAWSON.] [Illustration: BREAKING OF THE YUKON--MAY 17, 1903.] [Illustration: SUN DOGS.] [Illustration: WINTER LANDSCAPE]. The air is dry in all this great interior basin of the continent, and, consequently, the great cold is not so keenly felt as in the damper airs nearer to the sea. The dogs can travel in all weathers which man can stand, and even when it becomes so cold that men dare not move. The lowest Government record of the thermometer yet obtained at Dawson City is eighty-three degrees below zero. These great falls of temperature only occasionally occur, but when the thermometer comes down to minus sixty degrees, then men stay fast indoors, and only venture out as the necessity demands; then the usually clear atmosphere becomes filled with a misty fog, often so thick that it is difficult to see a hundred yards away. When traveling with a dog team, or, indeed, when "mushing" upon snow-shoes across streams and forests, men go rather lightly clad, discarding furs, and ordinarily wearing only thick clothes, with the long canvas parquet as protection against the wind rather than against the temperature; then motion becomes a necessity, and to tarry means to freeze. The danger of the traveler going by himself is that the frost may affect his eyesight, freezing the eyelids together, perhaps dazing his sight, unless snow-glasses are worn. And the ice forms in the nostrils so rapidly, as well as about the mouth, and upon the mustache and beard, that it is a constant effort to keep the face free from accumulating ice. In small parties, however, men travel long distances, watching each other as well as themselves to insure escape from the ravages of the frost. When the journey is long and the toil has become severe, the Arctic drowsiness is another of the enemies which must be prevented from overcoming the traveler, and the methods are often cruel which friends must exercise in order to prevent their companions from falling asleep. During this long period of Arctic winter and Arctic night, there seems to be no great cessation in the struggle for gold; the diggings in the Klondike and remoter regions retain their companies of men toiling to find the gold. The frozen gravels are blasted out and piled up to be thawed the next summer by the heat of the sun and washed with the flowing waters. While the Arctic night prevails for twenty-two or twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four, yet so brilliant are the stars and so refulgent are the heavens with the lightening of the aurora borealis, that men work and travel and carry on the usual occupations, little hindered by the absence of the sun. Sometimes, in the very coldest days, is beheld the curious phenomenon of several suns appearing above the horizon, and these are called the "sun dogs," the sun itself being seemingly surrounded by lesser ones. I was fortunate enough to obtain a fine photograph taken on one of these days, which I am able to send you. The freezing of the Yukon comes on very suddenly, the great river often becoming solid in a night. The curious thing of these northern lakes and rivers is, that the ice forms first upon the bottom, and, rising, fills the water with floating masses and ice particles, which then become congealed almost immediately. Early in last October our steamer "White Horse," on which we are now traveling, became permanently frozen in when within one hundred miles of Dawson City, the apparently clear river freezing so quickly that the boat became fast for the winter, and the passengers were compelled to "mush" their way, as best they might, across the yet snowless country, a terrible and trying experience in the gathering cold. You may be in a row-boat or a canoe upon ice-free waters, and, as you paddle, you may notice bubbles and particles of ice coming to the surface. Great, then, is the danger. The bottom has begun to freeze. You may be frozen in before you reach the shore in ice yet too thin to walk upon or permit escape. For the greater part of the winter season the frozen streams become the natural highways of the traveler, and the dog teams usually prefer the snow-covered ice rather than attempt to go over the rougher surface of the land. Another curious thing, friends tell me, affects them in this winter night-time, and that is the disposition of men to hibernate. Fifteen and sixteen hours of sleep are commonly required, while in the nightless summer-time three and four and five hours satisfy all the demands nature seems to make--thus the long sleeps of winter compensate for the lack of rest taken during the summer-time. And yet these hardy men of the north tell me that they enjoy the winter, and that they perform their toils with deliberation and ease, and take full advantage of the long sleeping periods. The Yukon freezes up about the 10th of October, the snow shortly follows, and there is no melting of the ice until early June. This year the ice went out from the river at Dawson upon June 10th; thus, there are seven to eight months of snow and ice-bound winter in this Arctic land. ELEVENTH LETTER. HOW THE GOVERNMENT SEARCHES FOR GOLD. STEAMER DOLPHIN, September 22, 1903. We left White Horse by the little narrow-gauge railway, White Pass & Yukon Railway, at 9:30--two passenger cars, one smoker, mail and express and baggage hung on behind a dozen freight cars. Our steamer brought up about one hundred passengers from Dawson and down-river points, and together with what got on board at White Horse, the train was packed. Many red-coated Northwest Mounted Police also boarded the train, and just as it pulled out, a strapping big, strong-chinned, muscular woman came in the rear door and sat down. She was elegantly gowned, dark, heavy serge, white shirt waist, embroidered cloth jacket, and much gold jewelry, high plumed hat. Presently a big man called out that all the men must go forward into the next car, and the big woman announced that she would proceed to examine all the ladies for gold dust. The paternal government of the Yukon Territory exacts a tax of 2-1/2 per cent. of all gold found, and examines all persons going out of the territory, and confiscates all dust found on the person. Women are said to be the most inveterate smugglers, and the big woman goes through them most unmercifully. She bade the lady next her to stand up and then proceeded to feel her from stockings to chemise top, and did the same by the others. Those who wore corsets had a tough time, and some had to undo their hair. As the first victim stood up and was unbuttoned and felt over, she was greeted with an audible smile by the other ladies, but silence fell as the next victim was taken in hand. Meanwhile, during this pleasant diversion, a big red-coat stood with his back to each door, and the men were being similarly though not so ruthlessly gone through in the other cars. This trip no dust was found, I believe, but last week one woman was relieved of $1,800 sewed into the margin of her skirts and tucked deep into the recesses of her bosom. Stockings and bosom are the two chief feminine caches for gold, and when a culprit is thus discovered and relieved, many are the protestations and unavailing the clamors raised. During the past year I am told that the examiners have seized in these searches some $60,000 in dust, so I presume the happy custom will for some time continue. Detectives are kept in Dawson, travel on the boats, and so watch and scrutinize every traveler that by the time the final round-up and search takes place, the probable smugglers are all pretty well spotted. As each is examined, his or her name is checked off in a little book. We were close to Caribou Crossing when the ceremony was over, and I with others of my sex was permitted to re-enter the rear car and rejoin the company of the much beflustered ladies. [Illustration: LAKE BENNETT.] [Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF LAND, WHITE PASS.] All along the advance of winter was apparent. The green of a fortnight ago had turned into the universal golden yellow, and the fresh snow lay in more extended covering upon all the mountain summits and even far down their slopes. So it is in this far north, each day the snow creeps down and down until it has caught and covered all the valleys as well as hills. At Caribou we met old Bishop Bompas and his good little wife, who, with a big cane, came all the way into the car to see us and say good-by. A charming couple who have given their lives doing a noble work. Lake Bennett was like a mirror, and Lake Lindemann above it, too, seemed all the greener in contrast to the encroaching snows. We were at the White Pass Summit by 3 P. M., and then for an hour came down the 3,200 feet of four per cent. grade, the twenty miles to Skagway. The increase of snows on all the mountains seemed to bring out more saliently than ever the sharp, jagged granite rock masses. It even seemed to us that we were traversing a wilder, bolder, harsher land than when three weeks ago we entered it. And the views and vistas down into the warmer valleys we were plunging into were at times magnificent. Snow around and above us, increasing greenness of foliage below us, and beyond recurring glimpses of the Lynn fiord, with Skagway nestling at its head. In every affluent valley a glacier and a roaring torrent. One of the newest and best boats in the trade, "The Dolphin," was awaiting us. Our stateroom was already wired for and secured. We took our last Alaska meal at the "Pack Train Restaurant," where we snacked sumptuously on roast beef, baked potatoes and coffee for seventy cents (in Dawson it would have been an easy $3.00), and walked down the mile-long pier to the boat. The tides are some twenty feet here, and the sandy bars of Skagway require long piers to permit the ships to land when the tides are out. We cast off about 10 P. M., with the tide almost at its height, and only awoke to-day just as we were steaming out of Juneau. Now we are approaching the beautiful and dangerous Wrangel Narrows, and see everywhere above us the fresh snows of the fortnight's making. WILD SEAS AMONG THE FJORDS. WEDNESDAY, September 23rd. It is the middle of the afternoon and we are just safely through the--to-day--tempestuous passage of "Dixon's Entrance," the thirty-three-mile break in the coast's protecting chain of islands and the outlet for Port Simpson to the open sea. Yesterday we passed through the dangerous twenty miles of the Wrangel Narrows just before dark, and only the swift swirls of the fighting tides endangered us; they fall and rise seventeen feet in a few hours, and the waters entering the tortuous channels from each end meet in eddying struggle somewhere near the upper end. The boats try and pass through just before the flood tide or a little after it, or else tie up and wait for the high water. If we had been an hour later, we should have had to lie by for fifteen hours, the captain said. As we turned in from Frederick Sound, between two low-lying islands all densely wooded with impenetrable forests of fir, the waters were running out against us almost in fury, but in a mile or two they were flowing with us just as swiftly. To-day we saw a good many ducks, chiefly mallard and teal, and small divers, and my first cormorant, black, long-necked and circling near us with much swifter flight than the gull. In the narrows we started a great blue heron and one or two smaller bitterns. From the narrows we passed into Sumner Strait, and then turning to the right and avoiding Wrangel Bay and Fort Wrangel, where we stopped going up, passed into the great Clarence Strait that leads up direct from the sea. A sound or fiord one hundred miles or more long, ten or fifteen miles wide. The day had been clear, but, before passing through the narrows, clouds had gathered, and a sort of fierce Scotch mist had blown our rain-coats wet. On coming out into wider waters, the storm had become a gale. The wildest night we have had since twelve months ago in the tempest of the year upon the Gulf of Finland. To-day, until now, the waters have been too boisterous to write. All down Clarence Strait, until we turned into Revilla and Gigedo Channels--named for and by the Spanish discoverers--and across the thirty-three miles of Dixon's Entrance, we have shuttlecocked about at the mercy of the gale and in the teeth of the running sea. The guests at table have been few, but now we are snug behind Porcher Island and passing into the smooth waters of Greenville Channel, so I am able to write again. The Swedish captain says the storm is our equinoctial, and that may be, and now that the sun is out and the blue sky appearing, we shall soon forget the stress, although to-night, as we pass from Fitzhugh Sound into Queen Charlotte Sound, we shall have a taste of the Pacific swell again, and probably yet have some thick weather in the Gulf of Georgia. Considering the lateness of the season, we are, all in all, satisfied that we rightly gave up the St. Michaels trip, though it has sorely disappointed us not to have seen the entire two thousand miles of the mighty Yukon. Already we notice the moderation of the temperature and the greater altitude of the sun, for we are quite one thousand miles south of Dawson, while the air has lost its quickening, exhilarating, tonic quality. We are becoming right well acquainted with our sundry shipmates, particularly those who have "come out" from the Yukon with us. Among them we have found out another interesting man. Across the table from us on the steamer "White Horse" sat a shock-headed man of about thirty years, tall, very tall, but muscularly built, with a strong, square jaw and firm, blue eyes. A fellow to have his own way; a bad man in a mix-up. A flannel shirt, no collar, rough clothes. Possibly a gentleman, perhaps a boss tough. We find him a graduate of the University of Michigan. He has lived in Mexico, and now for five straight years has been "mushing it," and prospecting in the far north; has tramped almost to the Arctic Sea, into the water-shed of the Mackenzie, and bossed fifty to one hundred men at the Klondike and Dominion diggings. His camera has always been his companion, and for an hour yesterday he sat in our cabin and read to us from the MSS. some of the verse and poems with which his valise is stacked. Some of the things are charming and some will bring the tears. This far north land of gold and frost has as yet sent out no poet to depict its hopes, its perils, its wrecks. It may be that he is the man. His name is Luther F. Campbell, and you may watch for the name. And so we meet all sorts. FRIDAY, September 25th. Yesterday was a "nasty" day, as was the day before. Early, 2 or 3 A. M., we passed through the ugly waters of Millbank Sound, where the sweeping surge of the foam-capped Pacific smashes full force against the rock-bound coast. We were tossed about greatly in our little 400-ton boat, until at last, passing a projecting headland, we were instantly in dead quiet water and behind islands once more. About 10 A. M. we came again into the angry Pacific, and for fifty miles--four hours--were tossed upon the heavy sea, Queen Charlotte Sound. The equinoctial gales have had a wild time on the Pacific, and the gigantic swell of that ocean buffeted our little boat about like a toy. But she is a fine "sea boat," and sat trim as a duck, rolling but little, nor taking much water. Toward middle afternoon we were in quiet waters again, and by nightfall at the dangerous Seymour Narrows, where Vancouver Island leans up against the continent, or has cracked off from it, and a very narrow channel separates the two. Here the tides--twelve feet--rise, rush and eddy, meet and whirl, and only at flood stage do boats try to pass through. In 1875, a U. S. man-of-war tried to pass through when the tides were low, and, caught in the swirling maelstrom, sank in one hundred fathoms of water. In 1883, a coastwise steamer ventured at improper moment to make the passage, was caught in the mad currents, and was engulfed with nearly all on board; half a dozen men alone were saved. Hence the captains are now very careful in making the passage, and so we lay at anchor--or lay to--from seven to twelve, midnight, waiting for the tide. To-day we are spinning down the Gulf of Georgia and Puget Sound, the wind direct astern, and have already left Vancouver and Victoria to the north. The sun is clear and soft, not hard and brilliant as in Dawson. Whales are blowing at play about the ship, gulls skimming the air in multitudes. All our company are over their seasickness and now mostly on deck. We are repacking our bags and the steamer trunk, taking off heavy winter flannels and outer wear, and preparing to land at Seattle clad again in semi-summer clothes. TWELFTH LETTER. SEATTLE, THE FUTURE MISTRESS OF THE TRADE AND COMMERCE OF THE NORTH. THE PORTLAND HOTEL, } Portland, Oregon, October 3, 1903. } Just one week ago to-day the steamer "Dolphin" landed us safely at the pier at Seattle. The sail on Puget Sound, a body of deep water open for one hundred miles to the ocean, was delightful. We passed many vessels, one a great four-masted barque nearing its port after six or eight months' voyage round the Horn from Liverpool. Seattle lies upon a semi-circle of steep hills, curving round the deep waters of the Sound like a new moon. An ideal site for a city and for a mighty seaport, which some day it will be. Many big ships by the extensive piers and warehouses. The largest ships may come right alongside the wharves, even those drawing forty feet. The tracks of the Great Northern and Northern Pacific Railways bring the cars along the ship's side, and there load and unload. All this we noted as our boat warped in to her berth. A great crowd awaited us. Many of our passengers were coming home from the far north after two and three years' absence. Friends and families were there to greet them; hotel runners and boarding-house hawkers; citizens, too, of the half world who live by pillage of their fellowmen were there, and police and plain clothes men of the detective service were there, all alike ready to greet the returning Klondiker with his greater or lesser poke of gold. It was exciting to look down upon them and watch their own excitement and emotion as they espied the home-comers upon the decks. We, as well, had all sorts of people among our passengers. Mostly the fortunate gold-finders who had made enough from the diggings to "come out" for the winter, and some, even to stay "out" for good. A young couple stood near me; they were on their wedding trip; they would spend the winter in balmy Los Angeles and then return to the far north in the spring. An old man stood leaning on the rail. Deep lines marked his face, on which was yet stamped contentment. He had been "in" to see his son who had struck it rich on Dominion Creek, who had already put "a hundred thousand in the bank," he said. He had with him a magnificent great, black Malamute, "leader of my boy's team and who once saved him from death. The dog cost us a hundred dollars. I am taking him to Victoria. I couldn't let him go. His life shall be easy now," the old man added. Just then I noted a tall man in quiet gray down on the dock looking intently at two men who stood by one another a little to my left. They seemed to feel his glance, spoke together and moved uneasily away. They were a pair of "bad eggs" who had been warned out of the Yukon by the Mounted Police, and who were evidently expected in Seattle. One, who wore a green vest and nugget chain, played the gentleman. The other, who worked with him, did the heavy work and had an ugly record. He was roughly dressed and wore a blue flannel shirt and a cap. A bull neck, face covered with dense-growing, close-cropped red beard, shifty gray eyes. He had been suspected of several murders and many hold-ups. Detectives frequently travel on these boats, keeping watch upon the "bad men" who are sent out of the north. We probably had a few on board. In the captain's cabin, close to our own, were piled up more than half a million dollars in gold bars; the passengers, most of them, carried dust. But the pair, and any pals they may have had along, had kept very quiet. They were spotted at the start. They knew it. Now they were spotted again, and this, too, they discerned. Seattle is the first homing port for all that army of thugs and scalawags who seek a new land like the far north, and who, when there discovered, are summarily hurried back again. It is said to be the "nearest hell" of any city on the coast. The hungry horde of vampire parasites would make a fat living from the pillage of the returned goldseeker if it were not for the vigilance of the police. A strong effort is now being made by the authorities of Seattle to stamp out this criminal class and drive it from the city. Our impression, as we crowded our way through the pressing throngs upon the pier and pushed on up into the city, was that we were in another Chicago. Tall buildings, wide streets, fine shops, great motion of the crowds upon the streets, many electric tram-cars running at brief intervals, and all crowded. On our trip up the Yukon we had made the pleasant acquaintance of a Mr. S---- and a Mr. M---- of Columbus, O. Keen and agreeable men who had been spending a month in Dawson puncturing a gold swindle into which an effort had been made to lead them and their friends by unscrupulous alleged bonanza kings. They had cleverly nipped the attempt in the bud, and were now returning, well satisfied with their achievements. We had become fast comrades and resolved to keep together yet another few days. We found our way to the Grand Rainier Hotel, one of Seattle's best, and now kept by the old host of the Gibson House in Cincinnati. Our favorable impressions of Seattle were confirmed that night when our friends introduced us to the chief glory of Puget Sound, the monstrous and delicious crab, a crab as big as a dinner plate and more delicate than the most luscious lobster you ever ate. They boil him, cool him, crack him and serve him with mayonnaise dressing. You eat him, and continue to eat him as long as Providence gives you power, and when you have cracked the last shell and sucked the last claw, and finally desist, you contentedly comprehend that your palate has reflected to your brain all the gustatory sensations of a Delmonico banquet, with a Sousa band concert thrown in. Saturday, after we had spent the morning in seeing the shops and wandering along the fine streets of the choicer residence section of the city, we all took the tourist electric car, which, at 2 P. M., sets out and tours the town with a guide who, through a megaphone, explains the sights. Seattle now claims one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty thousand inhabitants, and probably has almost that number. A distinctly new city, yet growing marvelously, and already possessing many great buildings of which a much larger town might well boast. Toward evening, at 4:30 P. M., we took the through electric flyer, and sped across a country of many truck gardens and apple orchards, some thirty-five miles to Tacoma, that distance farther up the Sound, and once the rival of Seattle. A city more spread out and less well built, the creation of the promoters of the Northern Pacific Railway Co., in the palmy days of Henry Villard. Tacoma, too, possesses superb docking facilities and a good two miles of huge warehouses and monstrous wharves, where, also, great ships are constantly loaded and unloaded for the Orient, South Africa and all the world, but whence few or no ships depart for the Northern Continent of Alaska. Tacoma seemed less alive and alert than Seattle, fewer people on the streets, smaller shops and business blocks, and the people moving more leisurely along the thoroughfares. In Seattle the houses mostly fresh painted; in Tacoma the houses looking dingy and as though not painted now for many a month. Seattle is noted for the public spirit of its citizens; they work and pull together for the common weal, but Tacoma is so dominated by the railway influence which created it, that the people are lacking in the vigor of the rival town. As our electric train came to a standstill, W---- rode up on his bicycle, and he was surely glad to see us. Messrs. S---- and M---- had come over with us for the ride, and we all five set right off to find our dinner. "Cracked Crabs" was again the word, and W---- added, "Puget Sound oysters broiled on toast." A delicate little oyster about the size of one's finger nail, and most savory. When our party left the table, we were as contented a group as ever had dined. We lodged with W----, and were delightfully cared for--a large, sunny room overlooking such a garden of roses and green turf as I never before have seen. Roses as big as peonies and grass as green and thick as the velvet turf of the Oxford "quads." Our host gave us each morning a dainty breakfast, and then we foraged for ourselves during the day. In the morning of Sunday we attended the Congregational Church, and in the afternoon rode on the electric car to the park, a few miles--two or three--out of the city, along the shores of one of the fine bays that indent the Sound. Not so fine a park as Vancouver's, but one that some day will probably rank among the more beautiful ones of our American cities. On Monday we wandered about the town, visited its museum, saw the fine public buildings, and spent several hours in going over and through the most extensive sawmill plant on the coast--"in the world," they say. The big business originally instituted by one of the early pioneers, is now managed by his four sons, all graduates of Yale. We met the elder of them in blue overalls and slouch hat, all mill dust. A keen, intelligent face. He works with his men and keeps the details of the business well in hand. How different, I thought, from the English manner of doing things. These men are rich, millionaires; college bred, they work with their men. In England they tell you that no man who would give his son a business career would think of sending him to college. Oxford or Cambridge would there unfit him for business life. He would come out merely a "gentleman," which there means a man who does nothing, who earns no bread, but who lives forever a parasite on the toil of others. In these great mills the monstrous fir and pine logs of Washington are sawed up, cut, planed, and loaded directly into ships for all the markets of the earth--Europe, South Africa, Australia, China, South America and New York, wherever these splendid woods are in demand. The forests of Washington and British Columbia are said to possess the finest timber in the world, and all the world seems to be now seeking to have of it. Many fishing-boats were in the harbor and along the water-side, and many of the big sixty-foot canoes, dug out of a single immense log, paddled by Indians, were passing up and down the bay. Throughout the States of Washington and Oregon the Indians are the chief reliance of the hop growers for the picking of their crops, and every summer's-end the various tribes along the coast gather to the work. They come from everywhere--from Vancouver's Island, from British Columbia and even from Alaska. They voyage down the coast in their immense sea canoes, stop at the ports, or ascend the rivers, pushing as far as water will carry them. They bring the children and the old folks with them, they buy or hire horses, and they push hundreds of miles inland to the hop fields, where a merry holiday is made of the gathering of the hops. They were now returning, and many were passing through Tacoma. They were here outfitting, and spending their newly earned wages in buying all those useful and useless things an Indian wants--gay shawls and big ear-rings for the squaws, gaudy blankets, knives and guns for the bucks; even toys for the papooses. On the side the women were also selling baskets made in their seasons of leisure. In the shelter of the long pier one afternoon we came upon a group of several family canoes preparing for the long voyage to the north. A number of pale-face women were bargaining for baskets; one had just bought a toy canoe from an anxious mother, and I was fortunate in buying another. Near by a man was carefully cutting out the figures of a Totem pole. They were evidently from Alaska. Alaska and a thousand miles or more of sea lay between them and home. They looked like a group of Japanese and spoke in gutteral throat tones. The Indians we lately met at Yakima were wholly different, being redskins of the interior, not the light yellow of the coast. When in Caribou Crossing, old Bishop Bompas, who has spent more than forty years among the Indians of the north, told me that in his view the coast Indians had originally come over from North Asia and were allied to the Mongolian races, while he believed that the red-tinged, eagle-nosed Indian of the interior was of Malay origin and of a race altogether distinct. Be this as it may, the coast Indian, according to our preconceived ideas, is no Indian at all, but rather a bastard Jap. He fishes and hunts and works, and his labor is an important factor in solving the agricultural problems of the Pacific Coast. The enormous and profitable hop crops could not be gathered without him. We had hoped while in Tacoma to have had the chance of visiting some of the primeval forest regions of the State, where the largest trees are yet in undisturbed growth, but the opportunity of taking advantage of a railway excursion to Yakima, there to see the State Fair, was too good to be lost, and we accordingly made that journey instead. Mr. S---- had joined us in Tacoma, so we four bought excursion tickets, and climbed into one of eleven packed passenger coaches of a Northern Pacific special, and made the trip. Eight hours of it, due east and southeast, across the snow-capped Cascade Mountains and down into the dry, arid Yakima River basin to the city--big village--of North Yakima. An arid valley, but yet green as an Irish hedge, a curious sight. The hills all round sere and brown, tufted and patched with dry buffalo grass and sage brush; the flat bottom lands mostly an emerald green; all this by irrigation, the first real irrigation I had yet seen. The river is robbed of its abundant waters, which are carried by innumerable ditches, and then again divided and sub-divided, until the whole level expanse of wide valley is soaked and drenched and converted into a smiling garden. Here and there a piece of land, unwatered, stretched brown and arid between the green. North Yakima, named from the Indian tribe that still dwells hard by upon its reservation, is a thriving little place, the greenest lawns of the most velvety turf, roses and flowers abounding where the water comes. Trees shading its streets, which are bounded on each side by flowing gutters, and the driest, dustiest, vacant lots on earth. The fair is the annual State show of horses, cattle, sheep and fruits, and these we were glad to see. All fine, very fine, and such apples as I never before set eyes on. Thousands of boxes of Washington apples are now shipped to Chicago, and even to New York, so superior is their size and flavor. Returning, we had an instance of the insolence of these great land grant fed railway corporations. While the Northern Pacific had advertised an excursion to Yakima and hauled eleven carloads of men, women and children to the fair, it yet made no extra provision to take them back, so that when next day several hundred were at the station in order to board the train for home, only a few dozen could get in, and the very many saw with dismay the train pull away without them! We had got into a sleeper on the rear, fortunately, and thus escaped another twelve hours in the overcrowded little town. Yesterday we boarded the night express for Portland. The country between this city and Tacoma is said to be rough and unsettled, and not fit for even lumbering or present cultivation, so we did not regret the travel at night. On the other hand, we saw much fine forest in crossing the Cascade Mountains, although the finest timber in the State is, I am told, over in that northwestern peninsula on the slopes of the Olympia Mountains, between Puget Sound and the Pacific. There the trees grow big, very big, and thence come the more gigantic of the logs, fifty and one hundred feet long and ten to twenty-five feet in diameter at the butt. [Illustration: MT. RANIER OR TACOMA.] The Puget Sound cities are destined to become among the chief marts of commerce and of trade upon the Pacific Coast, and they are filled with an energetic, intelligent population of the nation's best. The climate, too, though mild, is cool enough for the preservation of vigor. Roses bloom all the winter through in Tacoma, they tell me. And the summers are never overhot. The humidity of the atmosphere is the strangest thing to one of us from the East. "More like England than any other is the climate," they say, and the exquisite velvet turf is the best evidence of this. But the most wonderful sight of all to my Kanawha eyes was the ever-present snow-massed dome of Mt. Rainier, lifting high into the sky, sixty miles away, but looking distant not more than ten. The third great center of the life of this northwest coast is Portland. Solid, slow, rich, conservative. A hundred and twenty miles from the sea, but yet a seaport. Situated on the Willamette River, six miles from its confluence with the mighty Columbia. Already Seattle outstrips it in population, so a Portland man admitted to me to-day, yet Portland will always remain one of the great cities of the coast. It possesses many miles of fine docks; the waters about their piles are not quiet and serene, but swift and turbulent, sometimes mad and dangerous. It has a complete and extensive electric tramway system, and this evening we have ridden many miles about the city, and up by a cable road onto the heights, a straight pull four hundred feet in the air. Below us lay the city, level as a floor, the Willamette winding through it, crossed by many steel draw-bridges, while distant, to the north, we could just make out the two-mile-wide Columbia. Portland is a wealthy and substantial city--a city for the elderly and well-to-do, while Seattle is the city for the young man and for the future. The lesson we have really been learning to-day, however, is not so much of Portland as of the river Columbia, the really "mighty Columbia." At 9:30 we took a train on the Oregon Shortline Railway up along the Columbia--south shore--to the locks at the Cascades, a three hours' run, and then came down again upon a powerful steamboat of the Yukon type, though not so large. It took us about four and one-half hours with only three landings and with the current. The last fifteen or twenty miles of the trip the river was fully two miles wide, although at the Cascades it had narrowed to be no broader than the Kanawha. On either side the valley was generally occupied by farms and meadows, grazing cattle, many orchards, substantial farmsteads. A long-time settled country and naturally fertile. And along either shore, at intervals of not more than a quarter of a mile, were the fish-traps, the wheels, the divers handy contrivances of man, to catch the infatuated salmon. Until I saw the swarming waters of that creek of Ketchikan, my mind had failed to comprehend the fatuity of these fish. This year, owing, they say, to the influence of the hatcheries established by the Government, the catch of salmon here has been enormous; so great, in fact, that "hundreds of _tons_" of the salmon had to be thrown away, owing to the inability of the canneries to handle them before they had spoiled. [Illustration: ALONG THE COLUMBIA RIVER.] The Portland people whom I have met and talked with all tell me that even though Seattle secures the Alaskan trade, even though Seattle and Tacoma obtain the lion's share of the waxing commerce of China and Japan, yet will Portland be great, because she must ever remain the mistress of the trade of that vast region drained by the Columbia and the Willamette, all of whose products come to her by water, or by a rail haul that is wholly downgrade. And when I realize that the Columbia is plied by steamboats even up in Canada, a thousand miles inland, where we traversed its valley on the Canadian Pacific Railway, and that when Uncle Sam has built a few more locks, these same boats can then come down to Portland, and Portland boats ascend even to the Canadian towns, as well as traverse Washington and enter Idaho and Montana, then is it that I realize that the future of this fine city is most certainly well assured. THIRTEENTH LETTER. THE VALLEY OF THE WILLAMETTE. STATE OF OREGON, THE VALLEY OF THE WILLAMETTE, } October 3, 1903.} From Portland to San Francisco. Written while moving thirty miles an hour on the Southern Pacific Railway. Here we are flying due south from Portland, crossing the entire State of Oregon. We have left Portland on the 8:30 morning train--"The Southern Limited"--and shall be in "Frisco" at eight o'clock to-morrow night. We are now ascending the beautiful valley of the Willamette, "Will-am-ett;" with a fierce accent on the _am_. Flat and level as a table--ten to twenty miles wide and two hundred miles long, lying between the Coast Range on the west and the higher Cascade Mountains on the east. A land of perfect fertility, so gracious a country as I have never yet beheld. In winter, rarely any snow, plenty of rain and very much moist Scotch air. In summer, a sunshine that ripens fields of wheat, a moisture that grows the biggest apples and prunes and small fruits. Everywhere neat, tidy farmhouses, big barns. Great stacks of wheat straw and as big ones of hay, and these generally tented in with brown canvas. We are passing, too, extensive fields of hop vines, an especially lucrative crop at present prices--twenty-five cents a pound, while seven cents is reckoned as the cost. Everywhere we see flocks of chickens, turkeys and some geese plucking the stubble fields, for the crops are all cut and harvested. And every now and then we espy a superb Mongolian pheasant in gorgeous plumage, for they have become acclimated and multiply in this salubrious climate. Herds of fine cattle and sheep are grazing in the meadows, and the horses are large and look well cared for. A rich, fat land, filled with a well-to-do population. I have just fallen into talk with a young lawyer who lives at the port of Toledo, where Uncle Sam is dredging the bar at the mouth of the Yaquina River, and to which city new railroads are coming from the interior, and where they expect a second Portland to grow up. He tells me that east of the Cascade Mountains lie other fertile valleys west of the Rockies, and where also is the great cattle and stock raising region of the State, and where moisture is precipitated sufficient to save the need of irrigation. Now we are just coming to the Umpqua River and the town of Roseburg--a garden full of superb roses blooming by the station--where stages may be taken to the coast at Coos Bay, another growing seaport section, where extensive coal mining and timbering prevail. And as the dusk grows we are passing over the divide to Rogue River and its verdant valley, which we shall traverse in the night. Oregon is green and the verdure much like that of England--the same moist skies, with a hotter summer sun urging all nature to do its best. In the night we shall climb over the Siskiyou Mountains, and by dawn will be in sight of Mount Shasta. At Portland we were amidst mists and fogs and drizzling rain, so we caught no glimpses of Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams and Mt. St. Helena and Mt. Jefferson, all of whose towering snow-clad cones may be seen on a clear day. We hope that to-morrow Mt. Shasta will be less bashful and not hide her white head. SUNDAY A. M., October 4th. In California! We were called at six o'clock that we might see Mt. Shasta, and also have a drink from the famous waters of Shasta Spring. Mt. Shasta we did not see, so great were the fog masses and mists enshrouding her, but we have had a drink from the elixir fountain. A water much like the springs at Addison, in Webster County, W. Va., but icy cold. Now we are coming down the lovely valley of the Sacramento. A downgrade all the way to "Frisco." The verdure is growing more tropical. The undergrowth of the forests is more and more luxuriant. I see big, red lilies by the swift water-side. The air is milder. We have descended already 1,600 feet since passing Shasta Spring. We have five hundred feet more to drop to Oakland. We are now in a ruggedly volcanic mining country, many iron, lead and copper mines and once placer diggings for gold, these latter now pretty much worked out, only a few Chinese laboriously washing here and there. Now we are at Keswick and see our first groves of figs and almonds and some wide-reaching palms and the spreading umbrella-trees, and many prune orchards. The valley is widening, the air is warmer than we have known it for many days. We are surely in California. I have just been talking with the brakeman. He has been in Dawson and on the Klondike. "Mushed" through the White Pass, but, after reaching Dawson, he lost heart and came back again without a stake. The man who failed! Another, a big man, with a strong jaw and keen eye, has just climbed on the rear platform. He, too, has been in Dawson, stayed one day, bought a claim in the morning for $1,000, and sold it in the evening for $15,000, and then came right back to his almond groves to invest his make and thereafter rest content with California. The man who won. Near us sits a black-eyed Russian woman, young and comely, whose husband was one of the discoverers of gold in Nome, and with her the loveliest blue-eyed Norwegian maiden just arrived from Hammerfest. "My husband's sister who is come to America to stay," the Russian says in perfect English. She is learning to talk American, and wonders at the huge cars, the multitude of people, the distances--"only a few hours from Trondhjem to Kristiania, but over four days and nights from New York to Seattle!" she exclaims. And her blue eyes grow big with wonder at the half-tropical panorama now unrolling before us. I am writing this letter by bits as we travel. We are now on a straight track, as from my improved handwriting you may detect. A stretch of thirty-seven miles straight as the crow flies. We are past the smaller fruit farms of the upper Sacramento Valley; we are out on the interior plain that from here extends all down through California, a thousand miles almost to Mexico. We are in the wonderful garden land of the State. On either side of us stretches away, as far as the eye can see, a flat, level plain. It is one monstrous wheat field, and fences only at rare intervals mark it into separate holdings. On the east, far on the sky line, extend the snow-tipped summits of the Sierra Nevada Mountains; on the west, the Coast Range. We have passed out of the region of mists and clouds, and are now in a clear, warm sunshine, the heavens an arching vault of cloudless blue. As clear as on the Yukon almost, but with many times the warmth. This is the region of the Mammoth Bonanza wheat farms you have so often read about. And one feels that man hereabouts does things in a big way. In Oregon, they tell me, the climate is so equable that a single blanket keeps you warm of night the year round. You need it in summer; you do not need more in winter. Here, I fancy, you scarcely need any at all, so much further south have we already come. Even yet we are passing through the wide stretches of wheat lands, wheat now milled in California and sent in many big ships to the Orient. The Chinaman is just learning the joy of an American flap-jack or a loaf of wheat bread--and he can't get enough. Dusk has come down upon us before we have reached Carquinez Strait, over which our train--a long train--is carried by a monstrous ferry boat, and then, skirting San Francisco Bay, we are soon among the suburban illuminations of Oakland. Across the five miles of water lies San Francisco, its million glittering electric lights stretching several miles and covering the hills on which the city is built, while far out on the right flashes the intermittent gleam of the light-houses marking the entrance of the Golden Gate. The ferry-boat taking us across is said to be the largest in the world, and the Norwegian lass's big blue eyes grow all the bigger as she looks about her on the multitude of fellow-passengers. And then we are ashore and are whirling through broad, well-lighted streets to our hotel, "The Palace," where now we are. FOURTEENTH LETTER. SAN FRANCISCO. LOS ANGELES, October 12, 1903. We slept in the old, famous, and yet well-patronized Palace Hotel, and on which the Fair estate has just renewed a mortgage for another term of years. In the morning we essayed to have a look at the city, and so took a long, wide electric car devoted to that purpose. A ride of thirty miles, and all for the price of only "two bits"! We circled around the city, we traversed its streets and avenues, climbed and descended its multitude of hills, went everywhere that an electric car might dare to go, and were given the chance to try the cable trams when the declivity was too steep for anything to move that did not cling. The sunshine was delicious, the watered lawns and watered flowers superb, the unwatered, blistered sand spaces, vacant lots and dust-laden winds dreadful. The city pleased and disappointed me. It is an old city--half a century old--old for the driving West, and mainly built of wood. Miles and miles of small, crowded, two-story, wooden dwellings, sadly needing a coat of paint, and mostly constructed thirty or forty years ago. A town once replete with vigor, that has slumbered for several decades, and is now reviving into life again. The vast mansions of the bonanza kings, the railway lords on "Nob Hill," are now all out of date and mostly empty of their former occupants. The Fairs, the Mackeys, the O'Briens are dead, their heirs scattered to the winds. The Crokers, the Stanfords, the Huntingtons are reminiscences. The street urchins know them no more. Fashionable San Francisco has moved to another hill. The tenement quarter of the town has crept to their very doors. But the business section of the city has not moved as it has in New York. It stands just where it always stood. The Palace Hotel, once the glory and boast of the Pacific Slope, is still the chief hostelry of the town; and yet the city is instinct with a new life. Its lively, hustling thoroughfares are full of a new vigor; a new tide of Asiatic and Oriental commerce has entered the somewhat somnolent city. All this, the magic result of the battle of Manila Bay, and the new relation of the United States to the far east. Where the Pacific Mail S. S. Co. sent a single monthly ship across the Pacific five years ago, now six lines of great freight and passenger steamships are unable to satisfy the increasing demands of trade. Now twenty steamers and a multitude of sailing craft come to deliver and take cargoes, where few or none came six years ago. On the land side, too, there is progress. The A. T. & Santa Fe Railway has broken through the monopoly of the Southern Pacific Railway Company, so cleverly and firmly fastened by Huntington and his friends; and there are hopes that other lines may yet establish independent relations with the city. Along with this new growth of commerce have come a new throng of energetic men, and new fortunes are being made--and more widely distributed. The city, the commercial center, the ocean port, are all growing at a steadier, healthier gait than in the ancient feverish days of bonanza kings and railroad magnates. For awhile, San Francisco was "in the soup," so to speak. Its rich men were leaving it, did leave it; its sand-lots proletariat threatened to gain the upper hand; its middle class, the people making and possessing only moderate incomes, were doubtful of a success that to them had not yet come. To the north, sleepy Portland had wakened up; Seattle and Tacoma had been born; and in the south, Los Angeles had risen, like a phoenix, from the torrid sands. But San Francisco did not stir. Then Dewey sank the fleet of Montejo; the nation quickened with a consciousness that she was a world-power; that the trade and commercial dominance of the Pacific lands and isles and seas were rightly hers, and in a night San Francisco found herself re-endowed with new life. After the tramway ride, we spent an afternoon strolling about through the business streets and along the docks and wharves, viewing the many new shops, splendid modern stores, quite equaling, in the sumptuous display of their wares, the great trading centers of New York and Chicago, and noting the volume of wholesale traffic on the down-town streets, the jobbing center, and the busy stir along the waterfront for several miles. No finer sight have we seen than when we stood near the surf-washed rocks, famous as the home of the sea-lions, and, turning our gaze toward the wind-tossed billows of the Pacific Ocean, beheld eight or ten full-rigged ships and four-masted barques converging on the narrow entrance of the Golden Gate, coming in out of the west, laden with the teas and silks and commerce of the Orient, their multitudinous sails all set before the breeze, like a flock of white-winged sea birds, while slipping among them a steamer from Honolulu and another from Nome came swiftly in. Another day we were ferried five miles across the wide bay toward the north, to the pretty suburban residence section of Sausalito, and there taking an electric road were brought to the foot of Mount Tamalpais, and then changing to a climbing car were pushed ten miles up near 4,000 feet into the air, to the top of a volcanic cone that rises out of sea and bay, and dominates the landscape for many miles. Below us, at our feet, lay the great Bay of San Francisco and the city itself, with its green, garden-like suburban villages, the many islands, the ships of war and of commerce, the narrows of the Golden Gate; and, westward, the Pacific Ocean, with the distant Farallon Islands, outposts of the Orient, while far to the east, peeping above the clouds, gleamed the snow-capped summits of the Sierra Nevadas. Another day, we visited the Presidio, and rejoiced to see the blue uniform of Uncle Sam after the many weeks of red coats upon the Yukon. Say what you may, it quickens the blood to catch a glimpse of our boys in blue. I well remember how good it seemed when we met them in command of the fortress of El Moro, at Havana, two years ago. We also spent a night in Chinatown--or part of the night--for we were bound to see its horrors and its joys. The opium dens--a picture of Hop Sing and his cat, the beast also a victim of the habit--I bring home to you; the theatre, where the audience and the actors were equally interesting; the Joss house or temple; the lady with the tiny feet, one of whose midget shoes I took off and have to show you; the barber shop where they shave the head and scrape out the ears and nose; the many handsome shops and almost priceless curios; and the swarms of bright-eyed, laughing, friendly, gentle children. [Illustration: A BIG REDWOOD.] While the Chinese upon the Pacific Coast, and in San Francisco more particularly, have been greatly lessened in number the last few years, it is interesting to note how many of the more progressive Japanese are now to be seen in all of the great cities along the Pacific coast. In Vancouver, all of the bell boys and elevator boys in the large Hotel Vancouver were bright-eyed Japs. Keen, intelligent, wide-awake little fellows, speaking good English, dressed in American style, and seeming to know their business perfectly. We saw them at Seattle and Tacoma and Portland, and now we find them in large numbers in San Francisco. They get along well with the white man. They dress like him, eat like him, walk like him, and try to look as much like him as possible. They seek employment as servants, as day laborers, and are also getting extensively into trade in a small way. They keep prices up like a white man and join labor unions like the white man, and sympathetically act with him to a degree that eliminates the prejudice that hedges in and drives out the Chinaman. The Japanese seem to supply a genuine want in the Pacific slope. I learned, also, that Japanese capital is now coming into California and making substantial investments, the expenditure of their money giving employment to American white labor. Coming down the Sacramento Valley the other day, I noticed that all the labor gangs employed by the Southern Pacific Railroad were Greeks, dull-looking Greeks who could speak no English. It seemed to me as I looked into their semi-Oriental faces, that they gave less promise of satisfactory American citizenship than did the up-to-date, alert, intelligent Japanese. The one represented a semi-Oriental country, whose greatness was destroyed by Rome two thousand years ago; the other expressed the awakened intelligence of the new Orient, the new Japan whose great modern navy to-day ranks first upon the Pacific. That night when we first crossed the bay toward the long line of glittering city, the tall Norwegian said to me: "I have sailed all about this world and visited many cities, but San Francisco suits me the very best of them all." And his black-eyed Tartar wife from Moscow exclaimed: "Ah, I will never leave here till I die." All who visit San Francisco feel this subtle charm. There is a certain something in the air that soothes as well as stirs. Its lawns and flowers where water is applied; its sunshine, never too hot, for it is tempered by the breezes from the sea; no winter, rarely a dash of snow; no torrid sun; an atmosphere almost gentle, yet not destroying energy. Leaving San Francisco, we took the little narrow-gauge railway that leads out south of the city, skirts the bay and climbs the Coast Range through the famous grove of immense redwood trees that comes down to the sea at Santa Cruz. A pretty village among gardens and orchards of prunes and apricots and almonds, famous for its flowers and its fish. On the long pier we watched the Italian fishermen mending their nets and loading them into their lateen-sailed boats. Here the rainbow-hued Barroda is caught in the deep sea and shipped to the city; while, sitting all along the pier, were old folks and young catching smelts with hook and line. An old man with long, white beard said to me, as he took off a smelt and put it in his creel, "If a man has nothing to do but just to live, this is the most salubrious spot along this coast. I've tried them all." [Illustration: ITALIAN FISHING CRAFT AT SANTA CRUZ.] [Illustration: APPROACHING SAN FRANCISCO.] From Santa Cruz we went over to the quaint old Spanish town of Monterey, once California's capital, now the barrack sanitarium of Uncle Sam's soldier boys, and upon whose quiet main street still dwells the Mexican-Spanish beauty to whom Tecumseh Sherman once made love, and in whose garden yet grows the pomegranate he planted in token of their tryst. She has never wed, but treasures yet the memory of her soldier lover. Near Monterey is that marvelously lovely park, surrounding the great Del Monte Hotel, built by Crocker and Stanford and Huntington in their days of power, and where, among groves and lawns and gardens, winds the seventeen-mile drive of which the world has heard so much. Imagine the parks of Blenheim and Chatsworth and Windsor all combined, but filled with palmettos and palms and semi-tropical verdure--giant live oaks and Norfolk pines and splendid redwood, with all the flowers of the earth, with ponds and fountains, and you will have some faint conception of the beauty of Del Monte, an object-lesson of what the landscape gardener may do in California. We regretted leaving this superb place, but were glad to have had even a glimpse of it. All the day we now hastened south on the flying "Coast Limited," bound for Santa Barbara. First ascending the broad valley of Salinas River, the Coast Range close on our right, a higher range of mountains on our left, until, converging, we pierced the barrier by a long tunnel and slid down to San Louis Obispo and then to the sea. Many monstrous fields of sugar beet, miles of prune and almond and apricot trees, thriving orchards all of them; then mile after mile of wheat stubble, stacks of wheat straw, piles of sacked wheat at the by-stations; then herds of cattle and many horses as we reached the head of the valley. A rich and fecund land, held originally in big estates, now beginning to be cut up into the smaller farms of the fruit growers. Toward the end of the afternoon we were skirting along by the breaker-lashed coast of the Pacific. A clear sky, a violent wind and tempestuous, foam-covered sea. We sat with the windows open, not minding the heat of the sun. The tide was at ebb, and upon the sand we saw many sea birds, gulls in myriads, snipe, plover, yellow-legs, sand-pipers in flocks, coots and curlew. We also passed a number of carriages driving close to the receding waters. [Illustration: THE FRANCISCAN GARDEN--SANTA BARBARA.] [Illustration: OUR FRANCISCAN GUIDE.] [Illustration: THE SEA--SANTA BARBARA.] [Illustration: THE SEA--SANTA BARBARA.] The country grew constantly warmer, the soil responding to cultivation with more and more luxuriant crops; among these, fields of lima beans, miles of them, which are threshed out and shipped in enormous quantity. It was dark when we drew in at Santa Barbara, and we did not know what hotel to go to, but, tossing up, chose the Potter. Many runners were calling their hostelries; the Potter porter alone was silent. As we drove in his 'bus through the palm-bordered streets, a cozy home showing here and there in the glare of an electric street light, we wondered what our luck would be. Imagine our delight when we drew up at the stately portal of a modern palace, built in the Spanish style and right on the borders of the sea. The moon was almost full, the tide near flood, the sunset breeze had died, the sea air soft and sweet, and the palace ours! A new hotel, two millions its cost, no finer on the Pacific Coast. And in this off season the prices were most moderate. Nowhere yet have we been so sumptuously housed. In the lovely dining-room we sat at supper by a big window looking out over the moonlit sea. In the morning we wandered far down upon the beach, watching the breakers beyond the point, and later went up to the famous old Franciscan Monastery, a mile beyond the town. A shrewd yet simple father in brown monk's robe who asked many questions of the outside world, showed us all about, and in the garden stood for his photograph, quite pleased at the attention. No more charming wintering spot have we yet come to than Santa Barbara. In the late evening we entrained again and took the local for Los Angeles. For quite an hour and a half we ran close to the ocean, the perpetual breaking of the crested waves upon the shore sounding above the roar of the moving train. A yet greener land we now passed through, everywhere watered by irrigation, everywhere responding with seemingly greater luxuriance. It was just dusk as we turned inland, and quite dark when we came through the big tunnel into the head waters of the Los Angeles Valley. Just then a bright young fellow sat down beside me, and, talking with him, I was pleased to find him from West Virginia. A. Judy, from Pendleton County. A few years ago the family had come to this southern land and all have prospered. He was full of the zest of the life that wins. Presently we came to many lights among shade trees, mostly palms, then houses and more lights, wide streets showing themselves. We were in Los Angeles, the metropolis of Southern California, the furthest south that on this journey we shall go. FIFTEENTH LETTER. LOS ANGELES. LOS ANGELES, October 13, 1903. We slept in Los Angeles with our windows wide open and felt no chill in the dry, balmy air, although a gentle breeze from seaward sifted through the lace curtains all night long. The sun was streaming in when at last we awoke to the sound of New England church bells. We breakfasted on plates piled high with big, red, sweet strawberries, dead ripe, evenly ripe, but not one whit over ripe. A ripeness and sweetness we have never before tasted, even in Oxford. In Seattle and Tacoma we met the royal crab of the Puget Sound, and found him big and bigger than the crabs of England and of France--big as dinner plates, all of them, and now we find in the great, luscious strawberry of Los Angeles another American product as big as those that grow in the gardens of merrie England. Los Angeles! How can I tell you of it and of the lovely region of the American Riviera all round about it? My ideas of Los Angeles had been indefinite. I had only heard of it. I only knew that up in Dawson and in Alaska the frost-stung digger for gold dreams of Southern California and the country of Los Angeles, and when, during his seven long months of winter and darkness, he assures himself of his stake and his fortune, he talks of the far south and prepares to go there and to end his days among these orange groves and olive orchards and teeming gardens. And when he dies--so it is said--every good Yukoner and Alaskan has no other prayer than to be translated to Southern California! So I had imagined much for this perhaps most charming of all regions of the semi-tropics, within the immediate borders of the United States. But I had not yet conceived the fine, modern city among all of this delight of climate and of verdure. A city with broad, asphalted business streets, built up on either side with new, modern sky-scrapers far exceeding in bigness those of San Francisco. The edifices bordering Market Street in San Francisco are fine, but old in type--most or all erected thirty or forty years ago--while the many huge blocks of Los Angeles are as up to date as those of New York. It possesses two hundred miles of modern electric tramways, and H. E. Huntington has sold out his holdings in the Southern Pacific left him by his uncle, C. P. Huntington, and has put and is now putting his millions into the electric tramway system of Los Angeles. [Illustration: MARENGO AVENUE--PASADENA.] [Illustration: STREET VIEW--LOS ANGELES.] During the morning we rode some thirty miles upon the tourist's car, seeing the city, its many fine parks, its public buildings, its business blocks, its extraordinary extent of imposing residences. And when we might ride no longer, we strolled on through Adams Street and Chester Place and St. James Place, and among those sections of the residence quarter where no tramways are allowed to profane the public way. And here among these modern palaces, perhaps, we learned to comprehend the real inwardness of Los Angeles' astonishing growth, for many of these superb homes are not built and owned by the business men making fortunes out of the commerce of the city, but are built and owned by those who have already acquired fortunes in other parts of the United States and of the world, and who by reason of the genial climate of Southern California, have come here to live out the balance of their days. Their incomes are derived from sources elsewhere than in California, and they spend freely of those incomes in the region of their new homes. The exquisite lawns, the flowering shrubs, the tropical and semi-tropical palms and palmettos, all kept and cared for by means of the constant use of water and expert gardeners' skill, give to the city a residence section of marvelous charm. Water does it all, and man helps the water. Los Angeles possesses many fine churches and schools and two flourishing colleges. One run by the Methodist Church; the other under the control of the State. From a city of twenty-five thousand in 1890, Los Angeles is now grown to one hundred and twenty-five thousand, and is still expanding by leaps and bounds. It is the center of the gardens and orchards and citrus fruit trade of Southern California, and is the Mecca toward whose environs comes in perpetual procession the unending army of the world's "One Lungers," and their friends. Of an afternoon we rode out to Pasadena in the swift, through electric train. Once a separate community, now already become a suburb of the greater growing city. "The finest climate on the earth," they say, and mankind from all parts of the earth are there to prove it. A large town of residences, each standing apart in its own garden; many surrounded by oranges and pomegranates and figs. Lovely homes and occupied by a cultivated society. We did not tarry to see the celebrated ostrich farm, which is one of the famous sights of Pasadena, but went on toward the mountain chain beyond and north of Pasadena to the base of towering Mount Low, and climbed right up its face a thousand feet on an inclined plane steeper than any of Kanawha's, and then another thousand feet by five miles of winding electric railway. A wonderful ride into the blue sky, with a yet more wonderful panorama stretching for many miles beneath our feet. All the valley of the Los Angeles, the innumerable towns and villages and farms and groves and orchards and vineyards stretching far as the eye could see until bounded by the mountains of Mexico to the south, and the shimmering waters of the Pacific to the west, and to the north and east a limitless expanse of scarred and serrated volcanic mountain ranges, like the gigantic petrified waves of a mighty sea. Below us the perfect verdure of irrigated land, the patches and masses of greenness everywhere threaded and interspersed by the irrigating ditches and pools and ponds whereby the precious water is impounded and distributed when used. Los Angeles lies very near the center of an immense cove, whose sea line marks the great indenture on the southwest of the United States, where the coast bends in from Cape Conception and curves southeastward to the borders of Mexico, a total coastal frontage on the Pacific Ocean of near three hundred miles. On the north, the mountains of the Coast Range, and the westward jutting spurs of the Sierra Nevada come together and form a barrier against the cold northern airs. Eastward their extension forms a high barrier against the colder airs of the Rocky Mountain region. Los Angeles lies at about the point where these protecting mountain ranges recede to near sixty miles from the sea, itself some twenty and thirty miles from the twin ports of Santa Monica and San Pedro, and is the commercial center of this rich alluvial and sheltered region, of which Santa Barbara, on a lovely bay, is the chief northern center, and San Diego, one hundred and fifty miles to the south, upon the second finest harbor in California, is the most southern port and trade outlet. A vast "ventura," as the Spaniards called it, upon this fertile plain and rolling upland anything will grow if only it has water. For three or four months in the year, from early November to March, the skies pour down an ample rainfall, and the world is a garden. During the other eight months, man--the active American--now irrigates the land with water stored during the rainy season, and thus a perpetual and prolific yield is won from the fecund soil. Here the famous seedless orange was discovered, perpetuated, and has become the most coveted citrous fruit. Fortunes have been made from the raising of these oranges alone. The immense and fragrant strawberries ripen every month the year round. Figs and pomegranates abound. Apples, pears, olives and grapes yield enormous and profitable crops. No frosts, no drouths. Last year Los Angeles and its contributing orchards shipped twenty-five thousand carloads of citrous fruit. This year they reckon to do yet more. Their capacity is only limited by the markets' demand, and both seem boundless. The air is dry like that of the Yukon Valley, and similarly, extremes of temperature are easily borne. It is never unpleasantly hot in Southern California, they say, just as the Yukoner vows he never suffers from the cold. "Only give us water to wash our gold;" "water to irrigate our crops," cries each, "and we will become richer than the mind of man can think." But the types of men and women are somewhat different in the two extremes. A sturdier race wins fortune from the soil in the Klondike land; there the children have rosier faces and are more alert. On the crowded streets of the southern city the pale presence of the "one lungers" is at once remarked. But for this, the people might be the same. We left this gracious garden land, with its gentle climate, by the midday train, this time leaving the coast and following the interior San Joaquin Valley route. Just at the outskirts of the city our train halted a moment, and, looking from the window, I saw a most astonishing spectacle--an extensive enclosure with a large, wide-roofed building in its midst, and enclosure, roof and air all thick with myriads of pigeons. Here is the greatest pigeon roost of the world, where an enterprising bird lover raises squabs by the thousands, cans them in his own factory, and sends them all over the earth to the delight of the epicure. Just why such myriads of birds should not fly away, I do not know, but there they were covering the ground, the roof, and filling the air in circular flights, and seemed rarely or never to leave the borders of the enclosure. For a few hours we retraced our way and then turned eastward across the edge of the great Mojave Desert. Crossing the barrier of the San Fernando Mountains on the north, through a mile-and-a-half-long tunnel, we left the greenness of olive grove and orange orchard behind, and came out into a continually more and more arid country. Cactus and yucca began to appear and to multiply, the dwarf shrunken palmetto of the Mexican plains grew more and more plentiful, and then we came through dry, parched gulches and cañons, out onto a dead flat plain stretching away toward the eastern horizon as far as the eye could see--sand and sage brush and stunted cactus; a hundred miles or more away a faint blue mountain range showing in the slanting sunlight against the eastern sky. Dry and arid and hopeless to man and beast. A terrible waste to cross, or even to enter, and lifeless and desolate beyond concept. During the night we crossed over the high, arid Tehachapi Mountains and descended into the San Joaquin Valley, traversing that wonderfully fertile garden land until in the morning we were at Oakland. We then crossed the five miles of wide harbor and took our last breakfast in the city of the Golden Gate. After night had fallen and I sat with my cigar, I chanced to fall in with an interesting young Jap, "R. Onishi," on his first visit to America, correspondent of the "Jije Shimpo," Tokio's greatest daily newspaper. He had come over to investigate the growing rice plantations of Texas, with a view to Japanese capital becoming interested in development there. He had been much impressed with the opportunity there offered, and should report favorably on the proposed enterprise. Not to use Japanese labor, but for Japanese capital under Japanese management to use American labor. So does the opportunity and natural wealth of our country begin to attract the investment of the stored wealth of Asia as well as of Europe. Like the rice dealer I met on the "Kaiser Frederich," crossing the Atlantic two years ago, Mr. Onishi said that American rice brings the highest price of any in the markets of the world, and he looks for a large export trade to Asia of American rice, as well as wheat. And America, how vast and rich and hopeful a land it seemed to him! I have now seen almost the entire Pacific Coast of our Northern American Continent. From Skagway, from Dawson to the sight of Mexico. Its old and its new towns and cities, its ports and trade centers have I visited, and greatly has the journey pleased and profited me. The dim perception of our future Pacific power that first dawned upon me at Vancouver has now become a settled conviction. We are just beginning to comprehend the future dominance and potency of our nation in Oriental trade, in commerce, in wealth, in enlightened supremacy. And it fills the imagination with boundless sweep to contemplate what are the possibilities of these great Pacific States. Among the cities of the future upon the Pacific Coast, Seattle and Los Angeles are the two that impress me as affording the wider opportunity and certainty of growth, wealth and controlling influence in trade, in commerce, in politics. If I were a young man just starting out, I should choose one of them, and in and through Seattle I believe there is the larger chance. Or if I were on life's threshold and, say, twenty-five and vigorous, I would pitch my tent within the confines of the continent of Alaska, and by energy, thrift and foresight, become one of its innumerable future millionaires. SIXTEENTH LETTER. SAN FRANCISCO AND SALT LAKE CITY. SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH, October 14, 1903. We left San Francisco on the "Overland Limited" train, taking the ten o'clock boat across the bay to Oakland and there entering our car. It was a lovely morning; the sky, blue, without a cloud; the sun, brilliant, and not so hot as at Los Angeles. The city, as we receded from it, lay spread before us, stretching several miles along the water and quite covering the range of hills upon which it is built. Many great ships were at the quays, many were anchored out in the blue waters awaiting their turn to take on cargo, and among these several battleships and cruisers of our navy and one big monitor. Above the city hung a huge black pall of smoke, for soft coal--very soft--and thick asphaltic oil are the only fuels on this coast. We had come to San Francisco by night, and marveled at the myriad of electric lights that illumined it; we now left it by day, and yet more fully realized its metropolitan and commercial greatness. The ride, this time, was not along the northern breadth of the Sacramento Valley, but by the older route through the longer settled country to the south of it. Still many immense wheatfields, hundreds of sheep browsing among the stubble, and yet more of the orchards of almonds, prunes, apricots, figs and peaches. A monstrous fruit garden, for more than one hundred miles; and everywhere fruit was drying in the sun, spread out in acres of small trays. At Sacramento, we crossed the river on a long iron bridge, and noted the many steamboats along the wharves--the river is navigable thus far for steamboats--boats about the size of our Kanawha packets, and flows with a swift current. After leaving San Francisco, we began that long ascent, which at last should carry us over the passes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains some 6,000 feet above the sea. The grades are easy, though persistent, the track sweeping around mountain bases and along deep valleys in wide ascending curves. All the day, till evening, we were creeping up, up, up, following one long ridge and then another, the distant snow summits always before us and seemingly never much nearer than at first. The lower slopes were, like the Sacramento Valley, everywhere covered with well-kept orchards, and everywhere we noted the universal irrigation ditches of running water, constantly present beside us or traversing our way. As we climbed higher we began to see evidences of present and past placer mining, many of the mountain-sides being scarred and riven by the monitor-thrown jets of water. Just as the shadows began to fall aslant the higher valleys, we commenced that long and irksome journeying through the snowsheds that, for so many miles, are necessary on this road. Coming over the Canadian Pacific, we met few snowsheds through the Rockies, and not more than two or three of them in the Selkirks, but here they buried us early and held on until long after the fall of night. This road, you know, was originally the Central Pacific, remaining so until swallowed by its stronger rival of the south, the Southern Pacific, which now owns and operates it. As we rode along, I could not help recalling its early history, the daring of its projectors, Huntington, Crocker, Stanford and Hopkins, and how it never could or would have been built at all but for the aid of the thousands of Chinese who, under their Irish bosses, finally constructed it. This morning, when we awoke, we had long passed Reno in Nevada, and were flying down the Sierras' eastern slopes through the alkali deserts of the interior basin, and all day long we have been crossing these plains of sand and sage brush and eternal alkali. We read of things, and think we are informed, but only when we see the world face to face do we begin to comprehend it. Only to-day have I learned to comprehend that Desert and Death are one. [Illustration: THE SAGEBRUSH AND ALKALI DESERT.] On the Canadian Pacific Railway we had beheld the great Columbia River plunge between the facing cañon cliffs of the Rocky Mountains and the Selkirks where they almost touch, the very apex of that vast interior arid basin that stretches thence all across the United States and on into Mexico. At Yakima, in Washington State, we had crossed the Cascade range and found the arid valley made to bloom and blossom into a perpetual garden by means of the melting snows that there fed the Yakima River and adjacent streams. Now we were again descending from the crests of the Sierra Nevadas, down into this same vast basin where no Columbia cuts it through and no Yakima irrigates its limitless and solitary aridness. For more than three hundred miles have we now been traversing this expanse of parched and naked waste. No water, no life, no bird, no beast, no man. Two thousand miles and more it stretches north and south, from Canada into Mexico. Five hundred and forty miles is its narrowest width. We beheld a spur of it the other evening when we crossed the edge of the Mojave desert in Southern California; we should have traversed it two days or more if we had taken the Southern Pacific route through Arizona. As wide in its narrowest part as from Charleston to New York, or to Chicago! What courage and what temerity did those early pioneers possess who first ventured to cross it with their lumbering prairie-schooners or on their grass-fed bronchos from the Eastern plains! And how many there were who perished in the attempt! Yet water will change even these blasted wastes, and, at the one or two stations where artesian wells have been successfully sunk, we saw high-grown trees and verdant gardens. Late in the afternoon we began to approach high, barren hills and mountain spurs, all brown and sere, save the sage brush. No cactus or even yucca here, and after climbing and crossing a long, dry ridge, we found ourselves descending into flat, sandy reaches, that bore even no shrubs or plants whatsoever, save a dead and somber sedgy grass in sparse, feeble bunches, and while the land looked wet we saw no water. Then far to the southeast glimmered a silver streak, so faint that it seemed no more than mist, and the streak grew and broadened and gleamed until we knew it to be, in fact, Utah's Great Salt Lake. Later, we came yet nearer to it for a few miles, and then lost sight of it again. But the face of the land had changed. We saw cattle among the sage brush; cattle browsing on the sweet, dry grass that grows close under the sage-brush shadow on the better soils. Then we came to an occasional mud dugout hut and sometimes a wooden shack, and the country grew greener, grass--buffalo bunch grass--became triumphant over the sage brush, and then, right in the midst of a waste of sere yellowness, was an emerald meadow of alfalfa and a man driving two stout horses hitched to a mowing-machine cutting it, two women raking it and tossing it. We were in the land of Mormondom, and beheld their works. Now, the whole country became green, irrigating ditches everywhere, substantial farmhouses, large, well-built barns and outhouses, and miles of thrifty Lombardy poplars, marking the roadways and the boundaries of the fields. [Illustration: THE MORMON TEMPLE.] At Ogden, where we were three hours late, our sleeper was taken off the through train to Cheyenne and attached to the express for Salt Lake City. We made no further stops, but, for an hour, whirled through a green, fruitful, patiently-tilled landscape, whose fertility and productiveness delighted eye and brain. Many orchards, large, comfortable farmsteads; wide meadows, green and abundant, as in Holland, with cattle and horses feeding upon them; stubble wheatfields, with flocks of sheep; great beet fields and kitchen gardens in full crops; and water--water in a thousand ditches everywhere! Big farm wagons, drawn by large, strong horses, we saw upon the highways; and farmers, in well-found vehicles, returning from the city to their homes. Then, far away, towering above all else, loomed a group of gray spires, like the distant view of the dominating pinnacles of the minsters and cathedrals of England and of France, and of Cologne. They were the spires of the great towers of the Mormon temple, that strange, imposing and splendid creation of the brain of Brigham Young. It was dusk when we reached the city. Electric lights were twinkling along the wide streets as we drove to our hotel. We have not yet seen the city, except for a short stroll under the glaring lights. But already it has made an indelible impression on our minds. Only two cities upon this continent--cities of magnitude--have ever been created and laid out, by systematic forethought, before being entered and occupied by men. One, Washington, laid out according to a comprehensive and well-digested plan; the other, Salt Lake City, the creation--as all else here--of Brigham Young. The streets of Salt Lake City are all as wide as Pennsylvania Avenue. The blocks, of ten acres each, immense. But these streets--the chief ones are perfectly asphalted; running water flows in every side gutter; great trees, long ago planted, shade every wide sidewalk; the electric tram-cars run on tracks along the middle of the thoroughfare; and the two wide roadways, on either side, are quite free from interfering wires and poles. Many great blocks of fine buildings now rise along the business sections, and the stores present as sumptuous displays of goods and fabrics as anything we have seen in San Francisco, Los Angeles, or New York. The town bears the marks of a great city. Great in its plan, great in its development, great in its destiny. Truly, a capital fit for the seat of power of the potent and comprehending Mormon church. [Illustration: THE MORMON TITHING-HOUSE.] [Illustration: THE MORMON "LION HOUSE."] All the morning we have been viewing concrete, practical Mormondom, and the sight has been most instructive. High above the buildings of the city tower the imposing spires and pinnacles of the Temple, the most immense ecclesiastical structure on the North American continent. Thirty years was it in building, all of native granite, and costing more than four millions of dollars. It stands in the central square of the city, surrounded by a high adobe wall, and a Gentile may view only the exterior. Then we visited the famous Tabernacle beneath whose turtle-shaped roof 10,000 worshipers may sit, and whose acoustic properties are unrivaled in the world. You can hear a whisper and a pin drop two hundred feet away. In it is the immense organ possessing five hundred and twenty stops, which, like the two great structures, was conceived and constructed by the genius and patience of the Mormon architects. We were shown about the grounds of the ecclesiastical enclosure--though not permitted to enter the Temple--by a courteous-mannered lady whose black eyes fired with religious enthusiasm as she explained the great buildings. "My son is a missionary in Japan, giving his life to the Lord. He preaches in Japanese, and is translating our holy books into the Japanese tongue," she said, turning to an intelligent Japanese tourist who was of our party. We also bought some Mormon literature in the fine, modern sky-scraper buildings of the _Deseret News_, and the bright young man, selling us the books, showed us with evident pride the stores of elegantly printed and bound volumes, all done here in Salt Lake City. They print their books in every modern tongue, and their missionaries distribute them all over the world. Later, we viewed the fine college buildings where higher education is given to the Mormon youth. We also saw the famous "Lion House," over whose portal lies a sleeping lion, once the offices of Brigham Young, now occupied by the ecclesiastical managers of the church. And also we viewed the "Beehive House," where once Brigham dwelt; the Tithing House, where is received and stored the ecclesiastical tithe tax of ten per cent. of all crops raised and moneys earned by the devoted Mormon believers; and the great bank run in connection with it. All these evidences of practical, organized, devoted religious world zeal have we beheld gathered and centrally grouped in the great city founded and raised by these curious yet capable religious delusionists. I asked about Mormonism of a Gentile stranger from another State, and he replied in deferential tones: "No man in his senses now throws stones at the Mormons; they are among the most industrious, most thrifty and most respected people of the West." To wander along and through the residence section of the city is also a thing to surprise. Street after street of fine private dwellings, each mansion standing in its own garden, upon its own lawn. Many of them very modern, and many of them far exceeding in cost and imposing elegance any residence Charleston, West Virginia, can yet boast--equal to the most sumptuous homes of Pittsburg and St. Louis--and most of them owned and lived in by cultivated families of the Mormon cult. And how the zeal and faith and religious ardor of this strange sect even now to-day burns in the atmosphere of this their Holy City! It is the same spirit that we met in Holy Moscow, Russia's sacred capital--but more enlightened, more practical. And Mormonism is already a political as well as religious power in the West. In Idaho, in Colorado, in Nevada, in Arizona, the Mormon vote is to be considered and even catered to. In Alberta, the Mormon settlement is said to be the most prosperous in the province. In Mexico, the Mormon settlements, their astonishing productivity and fertility, are already teaching the wonder-struck Mexican what irrigated agriculture may do. And as I beheld this and the evident success of a religious sect which mixes fanatical zeal with astute practical management, I asked myself what is the real secret of their accomplishment and their power! Is it the theory and practice of polygamy. Did or does polygamy have anything to do with the unquestioned success and prosperity of the Mormon people? I think not. Polygamy has been merely an incident, and the disappearance of polygamy has in nowise lessened the formidable growth of Mormon power. The secret, I think, is the secret of the amazing growth and spread of early Christianity, the putting into actual practice the Christian doctrine of the brotherhood of man--with them the brotherhood of the Mormon man in particular. Once a Latter-day Saint, and all other Saints are ready to lend you a hand, and the organized and ably administered mechanism of the church lends the new Saint a hand as well, and those hands once extended are never withdrawn except for powerful and well-merited cause. The Mormon farmer feels that back of his success is the ever helpful and protecting eye of his church in material as well as spiritual things. The Gentile farmer may succeed or may fail, and who cares; but the Mormon must succeed. If he do not himself possess the innate power and force of character and judgment to get on, then men will guide and aid him who do possess that power, and so he gets on even in spite of himself. In a certain sense, the Mormons practice the doctrine of collective socialism, and that collective unity is the secret, I think, of their wonderful accomplishment. The creed of the brotherhood of man, and of man within the Christian pale, has been the secret of Christianity wherever it has won success. The failure to heed it and obey it is the cause of failure to every religious movement that has come to naught. And so long as the Mormon Church adheres to this fundamental principle, just so long will it continue to be a power, and a power of increasing weight. And this cardinal principle is also the secret of their missionaries' success. All over the world they are, in every State of the Union, in nigh every land, and they serve without recompense, without pay even, as did the early missionaries of the Christian Church. [Illustration: GREAT SALT LAKE.] There is and always has been a good deal of cleverness in the leadership of the Mormon Church. It is an old adage that "The blood of her martyrs is the seed of the church," and the Mormon leaders have comprehended this from the start. Not only have they cultivated the Christian socialism of the early church, but they have also never fled from, but they rather have greatly profited by, a real good case of martyrdom. The buffets and kicks of the Gentile world have helped, have been essential in welding the Mormon believers into that political, religious and social solidarity so much sought by the leaders. They were driven from New York, from Ohio, from Missouri, then from Nauvoo. They have been shot, stoned, murdered by scores. They have been imprisoned and harried by the federal laws (very justly, perhaps). But the effect of all this has been only to make them stand together all the closer. Just now the attack upon Senator Smoot is profiting them immensely. He sits by and smiles. He has only one wife. He is no more oath-bound to his own church than is every Roman or Greek Archbishop vowed to his. A matter of conscience only. The effort to oust him will probably fail, but it's a good thing for the church to have him hammered. The more martyrs, the fewer backsliders. The faithful line up, stand pat, the church grows. On the streets of Salt Lake City we have noted the very few vehicles of fashion anywhere to be seen, and, on the other hand, the many substantial farm wagons which generally seem to be driven by a woman accompanied by one or more children, more usually a half-grown boy. The men would seem to be working on the farms, while the women come into town with the loads of produce. The faces, too, of these women were generally intelligent and contented. In our own country we frequently hear the Mormons denounced as polygamists. In Utah and the neighboring States you hear nothing about polygamy, and, upon inquiry, I was told that while once this tenet of the church had been urged and practiced, yet that under modern social conditions, which have come in with the railways, the younger Mormon of to-day finds that one woman is all that he can take care of, and shows no disposition to load himself up with the burden of half a dozen. To my observation, the strength and danger of Mormonism is not in polygamy, but rather in their social and political solidarity, the Mormon president of the church wielding political influence over his followers similar to, although in nowise so vast as, that of the Roman Pope. Be these things as they may, it is at any rate worth while for a modern Gentile to visit this center of the Mormon power, and gather from ocular evidence of its vital, living, forceful presence such lessons as he may. This afternoon we took a little railway and journeyed twelve miles to Saltair, the Atlantic City or Virginia Beach of this metropolis, and there we bathed in the supersaturated brine. I could swim on it, not in it, so buoyant was the water, and my chief difficulty was to keep my head out and my feet in. The lake is sixty miles wide by ninety miles long, with several islands of high, barren hills. A few boats ply on it. No fish can live in it, and the chief use of it is to evaporate its waters for supply of salt. After dipping in it we came out quite encrusted with a white film of intense salt. To-night we go on to Denver, through the cañon of the Grand River. SEVENTEENTH LETTER. A BRONCHO-BUSTING MATCH. GLENWOOD SPRINGS, October 16, 1903. We left Salt Lake City by the express last night over the Denver & Rio Grande Railway, starting three hours late. When we awoke, we were coming up the canyon of the Green River, one of the head streams of the Colorado, and had passed through the barren volcanic lava wastes of the Colorado Desert during the night. The Green River flows between sheer, naked volcanic rock masses, not very high, but jagged, no green thing growing upon them. But the scanty bottom lands were often green with alfalfa meadows and well-kept peach and apple orchards, the result of irrigation. From the valley of the Green River we crossed, passing through many deep cuts and tunnels, to the Grand River, the eastern fork of the Colorado, and followed up this stream all day. Very much the same sort of country as before. The bare, ragged, verdureless cliffs and rock masses, dry and plantless, only the red and yellow coloring of sandstone relieving the monotony, and everywhere upon the scant bottom lands the greenness and agriculture of irrigation. The aspen and maples, all a bright yellow, but not so splendid a golden hue as the forests of the valley of the Yukon. Just before coming to Glenwood Springs, about noon, I had wandered beyond my sleeper into the smoking-car, thinking to have a view of the sort of men who got in and out at the way stations, and, seating myself in a vacant place, picked up a conversation with my neighbor. Imagine my surprise when I found him to be a fellow West Virginian, from Clarksburg, taking a little summer trip in the West, himself a Mr. Bassel, nephew of the well-known lawyer, John Bassel, of upper State fame. He was going to stop off at Glenwood Springs to see one of Colorado's most popular sports, a "broncho-busting" match, where were to be gathered some of the most eminent masters of the art in the State. I consulted my time-tables, ascertained that we might spend the afternoon there and yet reach Denver the next morning, and when the train pulled into the station, we were among the expectant throng who there detrained. The little town was all astir. A pile of Mexican saddles lay on the platform, and a crowd of big, brawny men in wide felt hats, leathern cowboy leggings and clanking spurs, were shouldering these, their belongings, and moving up into the town. The streets were full of people come in from the surrounding highlands, where, high up on the "mesas" or plateaus above the valleys, lie some of the finest cattle ranges in the State. Big, raw-boned, strong-chinned men they were, bronzed with the sun and marked with a vigor bespeaking life in the open air. The ladies, too, were out in force, well dressed, not much color in their cheeks, but, like the men, possessing clean-cut, clear-eyed faces. And up and down the wide streets were continually galloping brawny riders, evidently arriving from their distant ranches. The crowd stuck to the sidewalk and seemed expectant. We did not know just what was going to happen, but stuck to the sidewalk, too, and well for us it was that we did so. There were rumors of a parade. A number of ranch maidens, riding restive bronchos, some sitting gracefully astride, drew their horses to one side. The crowd was silent. We were silent, too. Just then a cloud of dust and a clatter of hoofs came swirling and echoing down the street. A troop of horses! They were running like mad. They were bridleless, riderless; they were wild horses escaped. They ran like things possessed. No, not all were riderless, for behind them, urged by silent riders, each man with swinging lasso, came as many cowboys hot on the chase. Had the wild horses broken loose? Could they ever be headed off? We wondered. Was the fun for the day all vanished by the accident? Not so, we found. This was part of the game. Every broncho buster, if he would take part in the tests of ridership, must first catch a wild horse, that later an opponent should master. And the way those lassos swung and reached and dropped over the fleeing bronchos was in itself a sight worth stopping to see. Then, as each rider came out of the dust and distance leading the wild-eyed, terrified beast by his unerring lasso, great was the acclaim given him by the hitherto silent multitude. Every loose horse was caught before he had run half a mile, and thus haltered--the lariat around the neck--was led to the corral near the big meadow, where the man who should ride most perfectly would win the longed-for prize--a champion's belt and a purse of gold. [Illustration: NUCKOLDS, PUTTING ON THE HOODWINK.] [Illustration: NUCKOLDS, THE BRONCHO "BUSTED."] Many famous men were met there to win the trophy--the most coveted honor a Coloradan or any ranchman may possess. There was Marshall Nuckolds, of Rifle City, swarthy and black as an Indian, who had won more than one trophy in hard-fought contests--his square jaw meaning mastery of any four-footed thing that bucks. There was Red Grimsby, long, and lank and lithe as a Comanche, with a blue eye that tames a horse and man alike. There was big, loose-limbed Arizona Moore, a new man in Glenwood, but preceded by his fame. He it was who won that cowboy race in Cheyenne, not long since, when his horse fell, and he underneath--dead, the shuddering audience thought him--and who shook himself loose, re-mounted his horse and won the race amidst the mad cheers of every mortal being on the course. He rode a fiery black mustang, and was dressed in gorgeous white Angora goat's hair leggins, a blue shirt, a handkerchief about his neck. Handy Harry Bunn, of Divide Creek, was there too, a dapper little pile of bone and sinew, whom broncho, buck as he might, never yet had thrown. And Freddy Conners, solid and silent, and renowned among the boys on the ranches all 'round about. And the two Thompson brothers, of Aspen, home boys, the youngest, Dick, the pride of Grand River, for hadn't he won the $100 saddle in the big match at Aspen last year, and then carried off the purse of gold at Rifle City on the Fourth of last July! Slim and clean-muscled, and quick as a flash he was, with a piercing black eye. The crowd on the streets were all betting on Dick, and Dick was watching Arizona Moore like a hawk. The honors probably lay between the two. The big meadow in the midst of the mile track was the place. H---- sat in the grandstand, my field-glasses in hand. I was invited to the judges' stand, and even allowed with my kodak out in the field among the judges who sat on their horses and followed the riders, taking points. [Illustration: GRIMSBY AND THE JUDGES.] [Illustration: BUNN, MAKING ROPE BRIDLE.] Swarthy Nuckolds was the first man. He came out into the meadow carrying his own saddle and rope and bridle. To him had fallen a wiry bay, four-year old, never yet touched by man. First the horse was led out with a lasso halter around its neck, then, when it came to a standstill, Nuckolds, with the softness of a cat, slipped up and passed a rope halter over its head, which he made cleverly into a bitless bridle, then he stealthily, and before the horse knew it, hoodwinked it with a leather band, and then when the horse could not see his motions, he gently, oh, so gently, laid the big Mexican saddle on its back, and had it double girt fast before the horse knew what had happened. Then he waved his hand, the hoodwink was pulled off by two assistants, and instantly he was in the saddle astride the astonished beast. For a moment the horse stood wild-eyed, sweating with terror--and then, and then--up it went like a bent hook, its head between its legs, its tail down, its legs all in a bunch, and down it came, stiff-kneed, taut as iron, and then up again, and so by leaps and bounds across the wide field and back again right through the scrambling crowd. All the while Nuckolds rising and falling in perfect unison with the mad motions of the terrified horse--his hat gone, his black hair flying, his great whip and heavy spurs goading the animal into subjection. At last he rode it on a trot, mastered, subjugated, cowed, up to the judges' stand. The horse stood quietly, trembling, sweating, wet as though having swum Grand River. Wild were the yells that greeted Nuckolds. He had but added to a reputation already made. "Grimsby next," was the command. His horse was a short-backed, spindle-tailed sorrel, with a sort of a vicious gait that boded a bad temper and stubborn mind. Again the halter was deftly put on and made into a bitless bridle, the hoodwink slipped on, the saddle gently placed, and man and horse were furiously rushing, bucking, leaping, rearing across the meadow, and right straight at the high board and wire fence. The horse, if it couldn't throw him, would jam and scrape him off if it ever reached that merciless mass of pine and barbed wire. Could Grimsby turn him, and without a bit? Great riding that was, and greater steering, for just before the seeming inevitable crash, the horse swerved, turned and was bucking across and then around the field again. Grimsby never failed to meet every wild movement, and sat in the saddle as though in a rocking-chair. The horse, at last conquered, stood quiet as a lamb, and the cheers for the sturdy rider quite equaled the plaudits given his raven-maned predecessor. Now the crowd had its blood up. Two native champions had proved their grit, what could the Arizonian do against such as these? "He's too big and awkward," said one onlooker. "He's not the cut for a King buster," grunted another. "The h--l he ain't. Ain't he the man who won that Cheyenne race after his horse fell on him?" exclaimed one who knew, and the scoffers became silent. [Illustration: ARIZONA MOORE, UP.] [Illustration: ARIZONA MOORE.] Arizona Moore strode clumsily under the weight of his big saddle, but his black eye shone clear and masterful, and I felt he was sure enough a man. His horse was a dark blood bay, well knit, clean limbed, short-barreled, full mane and tail, a fighter with the grit of a horse that dies before it yields. I stood quite near with my camera. It was difficult to get the rope bridle on, it was more difficult to put on the hoodwink, it was nigh impossible to set and cinch the saddle. But Moore did it all, easily, deftly, quietly. The hoodwink dropped, and instantly the slouchy, awkward stranger was riding that furious, leaping, cavorting, bucking, lunging creature as though horse and man were one. I have never beheld such riding. He sat to his saddle and every muscle and sinew kept perfect time to the fiery, furious movements of the horse. And he plied his whip and used his spurs and laughed with glee, as though he were on the velvet cushions of a Pullman car. The horse was stronger, more active, more violent than the two before. It whirled 'round and 'round until you were dizzy looking. It went up all in a bunch, it came down spread out, it came down with stiff legs, it reared, it plunged, it ran for the fence. Nothing could mar the joy of the rider nor stir that even, easy, tenacious seat. "You've beat 'em all." "Nor can the others beat you," roared the crowd, as he rode the conquered animal on a gentle trot up to the judges' stand and leisurely dismounted. It was the greatest horsemanship I have ever seen, nor shall I again see the like for many a day. Bunn rode next. His horse was in full and fine condition. It leaped, it bucked, it raced for the fence, it reared, it even sat down and started to roll backwards, a terrible thing to happen, and often bringing death to an incautious rider. But Bunn never lost his seat, nor did the horse stay long upon its haunches, for, stung by rawhide and spur, it sprang to its feet and tore across the meadow, actually leaping clean and sheer the impounding fence. And Bunn, vanquishing at last, walked his quiet horse peacefully up and dismounted. The Thompson boys each covered themselves with glory. Dick's first horse was tamed so quickly--a big, bright bay--that they brought him a second one to ride again--a long, lean, dun-colored, Roman-nosed cayuse, with scant mane and tail. A mean beast, the sort of a horse that other horses in the bunch scorn to keep company with and hate with natural good horse sense. He stood very quiet through bridling, hoodwinking and saddling. He had seen the others in the game. His mind was quite made up. And when Dick vaulted into the saddle, he at first stood stock still, and then, as I set my kodak, I could see nothing but one great cloud of dun-colored dust and Thompson's head floating in the upper levels of the haze. The horse was whirling and bucking all at the same instant, a hump-buck, a flat buck, an iron-legged buck, a touch-ground-with-belly buck, and a swirling-whirl and tail-and-neck twist at one and the same moment. Enough to throw a tender seat a hundred feet and crack his bones like pipe stems. And then, like the flight of an arrow from a bow, that dun-colored devil bolted straight for the wickedest edge of the fence. I thought Dick would be killed certain, but there he sat and drew that horse down on its hams three feet from sure death. It was a long battle, vicious, mean, fierce, merciless--the beast was bleeding, welts stood out on flanks and shoulders, its dry, spare muscles trembled like leaves shaken by wind. [Illustration: THE CROWD AT THE BRONCHO-BUSTING MATCH.] [Illustration: THE DUN-COLORED DEVIL.] The boy hero of Aspen was hero still, and the dun horse walked quietly up to the judges' horses and allowed himself to be unsaddled without as much as a flinch, and he, too, was drenching wet, as well as bloody. I did not see the last rider, for my train was soon to leave, and I barely had time to get aboard. But I got some fine kodak photographs, and have promised to send a set to the old, gray-headed rancher who stood near me and who almost cried for joy to see how these men rode. "I've seven boys," he said, "and every one of 'em's a broncho buster; even the gals can bust a broncho, that they can." I have not learned who got the coveted prize belt, but I should divide it between Arizona Moore and Dandy Dick. EIGHTEENTH LETTER. COLORADO AND DENVER. DENVER, October 19th. After leaving Glenwood Springs we wound up the gorge of the Grand River, the castellated, crenelated, serrated, scarped and wind-worn cliffs towering many thousand feet into the blue sky. The valley narrowed sensibly and the sheer heights imposed themselves more and more upon us as we approached the tunnel at the height of land 10,200 feet above the sea, and where part the waters of the Gulf of Mexico from those of the Pacific. On the Canadian Pacific Railway, the interoceanic divide between the waters of Hudson Bay and the Pacific is only some 5,300 feet above tide level, so now we were nearly a mile higher in the air. Yet the long journey of 2,000 miles from San Francisco, the crossing of the Sierra Nevada and Wasatch ranges, had brought us to this final ascent almost unperceived. Traversing the divide and coming out from the long tunnel which bows above the continental height of land, we diverged from the main line and crept yet higher right up into Leadville, where the air was thin and keen and as chill as in December. Thence we descended through the wonderful cañon of the Platte River that has made this journey on the Denver and Rio Grande Railway famous the world round. We came to Denver early in the morning; the metropolis of the middle West, the chief railroad center west of the Missouri, the mining center of all the Rocky Mountain mineral belt, and now claiming to be equally the center of the great and rapidly growing irrigated agricultural region of the inter and juxta mountain region of the continent. Essentially a business place is Denver. Its buildings are as elegant as those of New York City, many of them almost as pretentious as those of Chicago, as solid as those of Pittsburg, and as new as the fine blocks of Los Angeles. She is altogether a more modern city than San Francisco, is Denver. Her residences are also up to date, handsome, substantial. The homes of men who are making money. Her one hundred and eighty miles of electric tramways are good, though not quite as good as the two hundred miles of Los Angeles. Her schools are probably unexcelled in the Union. Denver is new, and in the clear, translucent atmosphere looks yet newer; she is neat, she is ambitious, and she is gathering to herself the commerce, the trade, the manufacturing pre-eminence, the mining supervision of all that vast section of our continent from Canada to Mexico, from the great plains to the snowy summits of the Cascades and Sierra Nevadas. All this is Denver, while at the same time she is the capital of Colorado, a State four times as big as West Virginia, though with only half the population. And Denver is so fast seated in the saddle of state prosperity that no section of Colorado can prosper, no interest can grow nor develop, neither the gold and silver mining with its yield of forty millions a year, nor the iron and coal fields--30,000 square miles of coal fields--nor the agriculture and grazing interests, worth eighty millions a year (now exceeding the value of the gold and silver produced twice over), none of these can grow and gain, but they immediately and permanently pay tribute to Denver. Yet this very up-to-dateness of Denver robs it of a certain charm. You might just as well be at home as be in Denver. The people look the same, they dress the same, they walk the same, they talk the same. Just a few more of them, that's all. There are none of the lovely lawns and gardens of Los Angeles and Tacoma in Denver, nor can there ever be. Roses do not bloom all the winter through, nor in Denver does the turf grow thick and velvety green as in Seattle, nor can they ever do so--only a few weakly roses in the summer-time and grass--only grass when you water each blade with a hose three times a day. And then, too, men do not go to Denver to make homes; they go there the rather to make fortunes, and, if successful, then to hurry away and live in a more congenial clime. Denver is not laid out with the imposing regalness of Salt Lake City, nor can it ever possess the dignity of that place. It is just a big, hustling, commercial, manufacturing, mine-developing center, where the well man comes to work and toil with feverish energy in the thin air; and the sick man--the consumptive--comes to live a little while and die--"One Lungers" do not here hold fast to life as in the more tender climate of southern California--nor can they survive long in Denver's harsh, keen air. The loveliest, grandest part of Denver is that which it does not possess. It is the splendid panorama of the Rocky Mountain chain that stretches, a monstrous mass of snow-clad summits, along the western horizon, eighteen to thirty miles away. Across a flat and treeless plain you behold the long line of lesser summits, and then lifting behind them, towering skyward, the splendid procession of snow-clad giants, glittering and flashing in the translucent light of the full shining sun. The panorama is sublime, as fine as anything in Switzerland, and of a beauty worthy of a journey--a long journey--to behold. In Canada, the Rockies come so slowly upon you that they seem almost insignificant compared with their repute. But here, one realizes in fullest sense the dignity of this stupendous backbone of the continent. And the pellucid atmosphere of the mile-high altitude, gives renewed and re-enforced vision to the eye. The gigantic mountains stand forth with such distinctness that the old tale of the Englishman who set out to walk to them before breakfast--thinking them three instead of thirty miles away--is likely enough to have more than once occurred. The great "Mountain Empire State" of Colorado is vastly rich in deposits of gold and silver and lead and antimony and copper and coal and iron, yet very few there are, or ever can be, who do or may amass fortunes therefrom. Her coal beds exceed in area the entire State of West Virginia nearly twice over, yet thousands of acres lie unworked and are now practically unworkable. Her oil fields are promising, a paraffine oil of high grade, yet no oil producer has made or can make any great stake out of them. Her agriculture and grazing interests already exceed the enormous values of her gold and silver, yet few farmers or cattle men make more than a living. Colorado is rich, fabulously rich, yet the wealth that is wrung from her rocks and her pastures and her tilled fields passes most of it into hands other than those who produce it. The great railroad corporations get the first whack. It has cost enormously to build them; they are expensive to maintain; they are safe from competition by reason of the initial cost of their construction. They are entitled to consideration, and they demand it and enforce it to the limit. The freight rates are appalling, and so adjusted as to squeeze out of every natural product the cream of profit it may yield--sometimes only very thin skim milk is left. The passenger fares are high, usually four cents to ten cents per mile. The cost of living is onerous in Colorado; all freights brought there pay excessive tribute to the railways. So much for the general conditions. With mining it is yet more serious. The Rockefeller-Gugenheim Smelter combine now controls mercilessly all the smelting business of the State, and, as for that, of the mining country. And unless you have an ore that "will yield more than $20 per ton, you might as well not go into the mining business," experienced mining men repeatedly observed to me. Colorado boasts enormous agricultural and grazing wealth. She claims that the present values of her herds of cattle and horses, and flocks of sheep, of her orchards and irrigated crops already exceed that of her gold and silver and mineral production. This may be so, and yet after the cattle and sheep and horses are transported to distant markets and converted into cash, after her farmers have paid the enormous irrigation charges to the private corporations that control the water springs, the man on the soil makes little more than a bare living, the fat profits, if any there be, having passed into the capacious pockets of the water companies, of the transportation companies, of the great meat-packing and horse-buying companies. The farmers and grazers with whom I have talked tell me that if they come out even at the end of the year, with a small and moderate profit, they count themselves fortunate. Here and there, of course, a fortune may be amassed by an unusual piece of good luck by the man who raises cattle or fruit, or crops, but as a rule the undoubted profits of these industries are absorbed by the great corporate interests at whose mercy they lie. Just what will be the outcome of these crushing industrial conditions it is difficult to forecast, but we already see the first expressions of popular dissatisfaction in the extensive labor strikes now prevailing in the Cripple Creek region, and threatening to spread to and include all of the mining camps and operations of the State and adjoining States. Corporate greed and unscrupulous selfishness arouse opposition, and then ensues corresponding combination, and too often counter aggression quite as unreasonable and quite as inconsiderate in scope and action. Men are but mortal, and "an eye for an eye" is too ancient an adage to have lost its force in this twentieth century. Just how these transportation, mining, agricultural and industrial problems will be finally solved I dare not predict, but we will trust that the ultimate good sense of American manhood will work out a reasonable solution. NINETEENTH LETTER. ACROSS NEBRASKA. ON BURLINGTON ROUTE EXPRESS, } October 20, 1903. } We left Denver upon the night express over the Burlington Railway system, and all day to-day are flying eastward across flat, flat Nebraska. At dawn the country looked parched and treeless; expanses of buffalo grass and herds of cattle. Here and there the course of a dried-up stream marked by straggling cottonwood trees and alders, their leaves now turned a dull yellow brown. A drear land, but yet less heart-sickening than the stretches of bleak and barren landscape we have so often gazed upon through Nevada, Utah and Colorado. Despite the dry and parched appearance of this immediate region, it is yet counted a fine grazing country, and the cattle range and thrive all the year round upon the tufted bunches of the sweet, nutritious buffalo-grass that everywhere here naturally abounds. By middle morning we are entering the more eastern farming section of the State, though still in western Nebraska. The land is all fenced, laid out in large farms, the fences and public roads running north and south and east and west. The farmhouses are neat, mostly, and set in tidy yards with groves of trees planted about. Large red barns, many hay and wheat stacks, illimitable fields of thick-growing wheat stubble, and miles of corn, the stalks bearing the large ears yet standing in the hill, while, as a general thing, the roughness has all been gathered in--the Southern way of handling the corn crops. No shocks standing like wigwams in the fields. Fall plowing is also under way. We have just passed a man sitting on a sulky plow, driving four big horses abreast, his little six-year old daughter on his knee. A pretty sight. There are many windmills, one near each house and barn, some out in the wide fields, all pumping water, turned by the prairie winds that forever blow. We are passing many small towns. All just alike. The square-fronted stores, the steepled churches, the neat residences, rows of trees planted along either side of the streets. "That dreadful American monotony," as foreign visitors exclaim! The country looks just like the flat prairie section of Manitoba, Assiniboia and Alberta, in Canada, that we traversed in August, except that this is all occupied and intelligently tilled, while the most part of that is yet open to the roaming coyote, and may be yet purchased from the Canadian Government or from the Railway Company, as is rapidly being done. And this country here looks longer settled than does northern Minnesota and North Dakota through which we passed. The planting of trees in Nebraska seems to have been very general, and along the roadways, the farm division lines, and about the farmsteads and in the towns are now multitudes of large and umbrageous trees. And sometimes large areas have been planted, and are now become veritable woodland. At the town of Lincoln, Mr. W. J. Bryan's home city, we have stopped quite awhile, and in the distance can see the tall, white, dome-hooded cupola of the State Capitol through the yellow and brown foliage of autumnal tinted cottonwood. Sitting in the forward smoker and falling into conversation with a group of Nebraska farmers, I found a number of substantial Democrats among them, admirers but no longer adherents of Mr. Bryan--"Our crops have never been so good and gold never so cheap and so plenty as during the last few years," they said. And they were not surprised when they saw by the quotation of silver in the Denver morning paper that silver had never risen to so high a price in the open market as it holds to-day, sixty-eight cents per ounce. And they spoke of Grover Cleveland with profound respect. In Nebraska, they tell me, all possibility of a recrudescence of the Bryan vagaries is now certainly dead, and that this fine agricultural State is as surely Republican as is Ohio. The farmers are all doing well, making money and saving money. They are fast paying off such land mortgages as remain. Also, there are now few, very few, unoccupied lands in Nebraska. The State is practically filled up, and filled up with a permanent and contented population. As families grow, and sons and daughters come to manhood and womanhood, the old farms must be cut up and divided among them, or the surplus young folk must seek homes elsewhere. And of this surplus some are among the great American trek into the Canadian far north. We reached Omaha, the chief city of Nebraska, late in the afternoon, coming into the fine granite station of the Burlington Railway system. While in the city we were delightfully taken care of by our old school and college friends, to whom the vanished years were yet but a passing breath. We were sumptuously entertained at a banquet at the Omaha Club. We were dined and lunched and driven about with a warm-hearted hospitality which may only have its origin in a heart-to-heart friendship, which, beginning among young men at life's threshold, comes down the procession of the years unchanged and as affectionately demonstrative as though we were all yet boys again. It carried me back to the days when we sat together and sang that famous German student song: "Denkt Oft Ihr Brueder an Unserer Juenglingsfreudigheit, es Kommt Nicht Wieder, Die Goldene Zeit." Omaha, a city of 100,000 inhabitants, forms, together with Kansas City on the south and St. Paul, and Minneapolis on the north, the middle of the three chief population centers between St. Louis, Chicago and Denver. It is the chief commercial center of Nebraska and of South Dakota, southern Montana and Idaho, and controls an immense trade. In old times it was the chief town on the Missouri above St. Louis and still maintains the lead it then acquired. I was surprised to find it situated on a number of hills, some quite steep, others once steeper, now graded down to modern requirements. Its streets are wide and fairly well paved, and its blocks of buildings substantial. The residence streets we drove through contain many handsome houses, light yellow-buff brick being generally used, while Denver is a red brick town. The parks, enclosing hill and dale, are of considerable natural beauty, here again having advantage over Denver, where the flattened prairie roll presents few opportunities for landscape gardening. The extensive stockyards and abattoirs of Armour, Swift and several other companies have made Omaha even a greater center of the meat trade than Kansas City. In company with W---- I spent the morning in inspecting these extensive establishments. The volume of business here transacted reaches out into all the chief grazing lands of the far West. The stockyards are supposed to be run by companies independent of the packing-houses, and to be merely hotels where the cattle brought in may be lodged and boarded until sold, and the cattle brokers are presumed to be the agents of the cattle owners who have shipped the stock, and to procure for these owners the highest price possible. But, as a matter of fact, the packing-houses control the stockyards, dominate the brokers, who are constantly near to them and far from the cattle owners, and the man on the range who once ships his cattle over the railroads, forthwith places himself at the mercy of the packer--the stock having been shipped must be fed and cared for either on the cars or in the yards, and this takes money--so the quicker the sale of them is made the better for the owner. Hence, inasmuch as the packer may refuse to buy until the waiting stock shall eat their heads off--the owner, through the broker, is compelled to sell as soon as he can, and is compelled to accept whatsoever price the packer may choose to offer him. So the packing companies grow steadily richer and their business spreads and Omaha increases also. The other chief industry of Omaha is the great smelter belonging to the trust. Incorporated originally by a group of enterprising Omaha men as a local enterprise, it was later sold out to the Gugenheim Trust, whose influence with the several railroads centering in Omaha has been sufficient to preserve the business there, though the smelter is really far away from ores and fluxes. These two enterprises, the cattle killing and packing and ore-reducing, together with large railway shops, constitute the chief industrial interests of Omaha, and, for the rest, the city depends upon the extensive farming and grazing country lying for five hundred miles between her and the Rocky Mountains. As they prosper, so does Omaha; as they are depressed, so is she. And only one thing, one catastrophe does Omaha fear, far beyond words to tell--the fierce, hot winds that every few years come blowing across Nebraska from the furnace of the Rocky Mountains' alkali deserts. They do not come often, but when they do, the land dies in a night. The green and fertile country shrivels and blackens before their breath, the cattle die, the fowls die, the things that creep and walk and fly die. The people--the people flee from the land or die upon it in pitiful collapse. Then it is that Omaha shrivels and withers too. Twice, twice within the memory of living man have come these devastating winds, and twice has Omaha suffered from their curse, and even now Omaha is but recovering her activity of the days before the plague, forgetful of a future that--well! men here say that such a universal catastrophe may never again occur. And the handsome city is prosperous and full of buoyant life. We now go on to St. Louis and thence to Cincinnati and so home. TWENTIETH LETTER. ALONG IOWA AND INTO MISSOURI TO ST. LOUIS. CHARLESTON, W. VA., October 23, 1903. Our journey from Omaha to St. Louis was down the valley of the Missouri, a night's ride. We crossed the mighty river over an enormously high bridge and then followed the crest of an equally lofty embankment across several miles of wide, rich bottoms to Council Bluffs, in the State of Iowa. "Nobody dares fool with the Missouri," a man said to me in Omaha, as he pointed out where the voracious river was boldly eating up a wide, black-soiled meadow in spite of the square rods of willow mats and tons of rocks that had been laid down to prevent it. "When the Missouri decides to swallow up a bottom, or a village, or a town, she just does it, there is no escape." And even the citizens of Omaha do not sleep well of nights when the mighty brown tide fumes too angrily. Hence the extraordinarily high bridge and enormous embankment we traversed when we sought to cross over to dry land in Iowa. The waters of the Missouri are as swift as those of the Yukon, but the river flows for a thousand miles through the soft muds of the Western prairies, instead of through the banks of firm gravel, and it eats its way here and there when and where it chooses, and no man can prevent. Hence the railways, while they traverse the general course of the great valley of the Missouri, do not dare follow too closely the river banks, but they rather keep far away and have just as little to do with the treacherous stream as they may. So it was we did not see much more of the Missouri, but sped into wide, flat, rich stretches of alluvial country until darkness fell upon us and night shut out all suggestions of the river. When morning dawned we were among immense fields of tall corn, corn so high as to quite hide a horseman riding through it. The farm-houses were large and substantial. The farmstead buildings were big and trim. The cattle we saw were big, the hogs were big, the fowls were big. And over all there brooded a certain atmosphere of big contentedness. We were in the State of Missouri, and passing through some of its richest, most fruitful, fertile farming lands. A rich land of rich masters, once tilled by slave labor, a land still rich, still possessed by owners well-to-do and yielding yet greater crops under the stimulus of labor that is free. When we had retired for the night our car was but partially filled. When we awoke in the morning, and I entered the men's toilet-room, I found it full of big, jovial, Roman priests. Our car was packed with them. They had got in at every station; they continued to get in until we reached St. Louis. The eminent Roman prelate, the Right Reverend Archbishop of St. Louis, Kain, once Bishop of Wheeling, had surrendered his great office to the Pope, and the churchly fathers of all the middle West were gathering to St. Louis, to participate in the funeral pageant. A couple of young priests were talking about the "old man," while a white-haired father spoke of "His Eminence," and I learned that Cardinal Gibbons, of Baltimore, was expected to also attend the funeral ceremonies. We breakfasted on the train, and in the dining-car sat at table with two brother Masons wearing badges, and from them I learned that they were also traveling to St. Louis, there to attend the great meeting of the Grand Lodge of the State of Missouri. The city would be full of Masons, and the ceremonies of the Masonic Order and of the Roman Church would absorb the attention of St. Louis for the next few days. And so we found it, when we at last came to a stop within the great Central Railway Station--next to that of Boston, the largest in the world--where we observed that the crowd within it was made up chiefly of men wearing the Masonic badges, their friends and families, and the round-collared priests. A strange commingling and only possible in America. In Mexico, a land where the Roman Church dominates, though it no longer rules, the Masons do not wear their badges or show outward token of their fraternal bonds. In England, where the king is head of the Masonic Order, there, until the last half century, the Roman Catholic subject might not vote nor hold office. Here in St. Louis, in free America, I saw the two mixing and mingling in friendly and neighborly comradeship. I do not know whether you have ever been in St. Louis, but if you have, I am sure you have felt the subtle, attractive charm of it. It is an old city. It was founded by the French. The old French-descended families of to-day talk among themselves the language of La Belle France. For a century it has been the Mecca of the Southern pioneer, who found in it and about it the highest northern limit of his emigration. Missouri was a slave state. St. Louis was a Southern slave-served city. The Virginians, who crossed through Greenbrier and flat-boated down the Kanawha and Ohio, settled in it or went out further west from it. Alvah, Charles and Morris Hansford, the Lewises, the Ruffners, made their flatboats along the Kanawha and floated all the way to it. St. Louis early acquired the courtly manners of the South. She is a city to-day which has preserved among her people much of that Southern savor which marks a Southern gentleman wherever he may be. St. Louis is conservative; her French blood makes her so. She is gracious and well-mannered; her southern founders taught her to be so. And when the struggle of the Civil War was over, and the Union armies had kept her from the burning and pillaging and havoc and wreck that befell her more southern sisters, St. Louis naturally responded to the good fortune that had so safely guarded her, and took on the renewed energy and wealth-acquiring powers of the unfolding West. The marvelous developments of the Southwest, and now of Mexico, by American railroad extension, has built up and is building up St. Louis, just as the great Northwest has poured its vitalizing energies, its boundless wheat crops, into Chicago. Corn and cattle and cotton have made St. Louis, and Spanish is taught in her public schools. Chicago may be the chief of the cities upon the great lakes; St. Louis must forever remain the mistress of the commerce and trade and wealth of the great Mississippi basin, with New Orleans as her seaport upon the south, Baltimore, Newport News, Norfolk on the Chesapeake Bay, her ports upon the east. St. Louis is self-contained. She owns herself. Most of the real estate in and out of St. Louis is owned by her citizens. Her mortgages are held by her own banks and trust companies. Chicago is said to be chiefly owned by the financiers of Boston and New York. The St. Louisian, when he makes his pile and stacks his fortune, builds a home there and invests his hoard. The Chicagoan when he wins a million in the wheat pit or, like Yerkes, makes it out of street railway deals, hies himself to New York and forgets that he ever lived west of Buffalo. Hence, you find a quite different spirit prevailing among the people of St. Louis from Chicago. This difference in mental attitude toward the city the stranger first entering St. Louis apprehends at once, and each time he returns to visit the great city, that impression deepens. I felt it when first I visited St. Louis just eleven years ago, when attending the first Nicaragua Canal Convention as a delegate from West Virginia. I have felt it more keenly on every occasion when I have returned. The Great Union Depot of St. Louis is the pride of the city. It was designed after the model of the superb Central Bahnhof of Frankfort on the Main, in Germany, the largest in Europe, but is bigger and more conveniently arranged. In the German station, I noted a certain disorderliness. Travelers did not know just what trains to enter, and often had to climb down out of one car to climb up into another, and then try it again. Here, although a much greater number of trains come in and go out in the day, American method directs the traveler to the proper train almost as a matter of course. From the station we took our way to the Southern Hotel, for so many years, and yet to-day, the chief hostelry in the city. A building of white marble, covering one entire block, with four entrances converging upon the office in the center. Here the Southern planters and Mississippi steamboat captains always tarry, here the corn and cattle kings of Kansas and the great Southwest congregate. The politicians of Missouri, too, have always made the Southern a sort of political exchange. Other and newer hotels, like the Planters, have been built in St. Louis, but none has ever outclassed the Southern. We were not expecting to tarry long at the hotel, nor did we, for after waiting only a short interval in the wide reception-room, a carriage drove up, a gracious-mannered woman in black descended, and we were soon in the keeping of one of the most delightful hostesses of old St. Louis. Her carriage was at our command, her time was ours, her home our own so long as we should remain. And we had never met her until the bowing hotel clerk brought her smiling to us. So much for acquaintance with mutual friends. The morning was spent visiting the more notable of the great retail stores, viewing the miles of massive business blocks, watching the volume of heavy traffic upon the crowded streets. At noon we lunched with our hostess in a home filled with rare books and objects of art, collected during many years of foreign residence and travel, and I was taken to the famous St. Louis Club, shown over its imposing granite club-house, and put up there for a fortnight, should I stay so long. In the afternoon we were driven through the sumptuous residence section of the city out toward the extensive park on whose western borders are now erected the aggregation of stupendous buildings of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition. This residence section of St. Louis has always been impressive to me. There is so much of it. The mansions are so diverse in architecture, so splendid in design. "Palaces," they would be called in England, in Germany, in France. Here the plain St. Louisian says "Come up to my house," and walks you into the palace with no ado. Evidences of the material wealth of this great city they are. Not one, not two, but tens and hundreds of palatial homes. Men and women live in them whom you and I have never read about, have never heard about, will never know about, yet there they are, successful, intelligent, influential in the affairs of this Republic quite as much so as you and I. And the larger part of these splendid mansions are lived in by men and women who represent in themselves that distinctively American quality of "getting on." One granite palace pointed out to me, is inhabited by a man and his wife, neither of whom can more than read and write. Yet both are gifted with great good sense, and he lives there because he saved his wages when a chore hand in a brewery until at last he owned the brewery. Another beautiful home is possessed by a man who began as a day laborer and then struck it rich digging gold in the Black Hills. Calves and cattle built one French chateau; corn, plain corn, built several more, and cotton and mules a number of others. Steamboats and railways, and trade and commerce and manufactures have built miles of others, while the great Shaw's Botanical Garden, established and endowed and donated to the city, came from a miserly bachelor banker's penchant to stint and save. The incomes of the hustling citizens of St. Louis remain her own; the incomes of the rent-payers of Chicago, like the interest on her mortgages, go into the pockets of stranger owners who dwell in distant cities in the East. The extensive Fair grounds and Exposition Buildings were driven upon and among. A gigantic enterprise, an ambitious enterprise. St. Louis means to outdo Chicago, and this time Chicago will surely be outdone. The buildings are bigger and there are more of them than at Chicago. They are painted according to a comprehensive color scheme, not left a blinding white, less gaudy than the French effort of 1900, more harmonious than the Pan-American effects at Buffalo two years ago. The prevailing tints are cream white for the perpendicular walls and statuary, soft blues, greens, reds, for the roofs and pinnacles, and much gilding. More than twenty millions of dollars are now being expended upon this great Exposition show. For one brief summer it is to dazzle the world, forever it is to glorify St. Louis. The complacent St. Louisian now draws a long breath and mutters contentedly, "Thank God, for one time Chicago isn't in it." The Art buildings alone are to be permanent. They are not yet complete. I wonder whether it will be possible to have them as splendidly sumptuous as were the marble Art Palaces I beheld in Paris three years ago--the only works of French genius I saw in that Exposition that seemed to me worthy of the greatness of France. The Exposition grounds and buildings are yet in an inchoate condition, and but for the fact that Americans are doing and pushing the work, one would deem it impossible for the undertaking to be completed within the limited time. As it is, many a West Virginian and Kanawhan will next summer enjoy to the full these evidences of American power. In the late afternoon we were entertained at the Country Club, a delightful bit of field and meadow and woodland, a few miles beyond the city. Here the tired business man may come from the desk and shop and warehouse and office, and play like a boy in the sunshine and among green, living things. Here the young folk of the big city, some of them, gather for evening dance and quiet suppers when the summer heat makes city life too hard. Here golf and polo are played all through the milder seasons of the year. We were asked to remain over for the following day, when a polo match would be played. We should have liked to see the ponies chase the ball, but our time of holiday was coming to an end. We might not stay. In the evening we were entertained at a most delightful banquet. A large table of interesting and cultivated people were gathered to meet ourselves. We had never met them before, we might never meet them again, but for the brief hour we were as though intimates of many years. All the night we came speeding across the rolling prairie lands of Illinois and Indiana into Ohio. A country I have seen before, a landscape wide and undulating, filled with immense wheat and corn fields. The home of a well-established and affluent population. The sons and grandsons of the pioneers who, in the early days of the last century, poured in from all quarters of the East, many Virginians and Kanawhans among the number. A country from which the present younger generations have gone and are now going forth into the land yet further west, and even up into the as yet untenanted prairies and plains of the Canadian north. In the morning we were in Cincinnati and felt almost at home. The city, smoky as usual, marred by the blast of the great fire of the early summer. The throngs upon the streets were just about as numerous, just about as hustling as those elsewhere we have seen, yet there was a variation. The men not so tall, more chunky in build, bigger round the girth, stolid, solid. The large infusion of German blood shows itself in Cincinnati, even more than in St. Louis, where the lank Westerner is more in evidence. It was dusk when the glimmering lights of Charleston showed across the placid Kanawha. We were once more at home. We had been absent some seventy days; we had journeyed some eight thousand miles upon sea and lake and land. We had enjoyed perfect health. We had met no mishap. We had traveled from almost the Arctic Circle to the sight of Mexico. We had traversed the entire Pacific coast of the continent from Skagway to Los Angeles. We had twice crossed the continent. We had beheld the greatness of our country, the vigor and wealth and energy of many cities, the splendor and power of the Republic. [Illustration: ON THE GREAT KANAWHA.] [Illustration: OUR KANAWHA GARDEN.] [Illustration: MAP OF ROUTE IN U. S.] [Illustration: MAP OF UPPER YUKON BASIN.] INDEX. Agricultural and grazing wealth of Colorado, 305. Animal life, 121. An outlaw at White Horse Rapids, 178. A prospector's story, 203. Atlin, 75, 88. A wild night, 201. Banff, 30. Bathing in Salt Lake, 280. Bird notes, 28, 65, 131, 201. Bishop Bompas, 115. Bishop Bompas on the Coast Indians, 214. Blanket concessions from Ottawa, 145. Boyle, 146. British Columbia River, 40. Broncho-busting match, 283-299. Canadian Pacific Railway, 27. Canadian Rockies, 47. Caribou Station, 81. Cascades, 220. Chinatown, 234. Cincinnati, 324. Clarence Straight, 60. Climate of Oregon, 228. Cold of the north land, 186. Colorado and Denver, 300. Crossing the Rockies, 38. Dangerous navigation, 200. Dawson Charlie, 81, 115. Dawson City, 112, 132, 136. Dawson Horticultural Society, 150. Del Monte hotel at Monterey, 241. Detroit River, 13. Dixon Channel and Port Simpson, 59. Dogs--Malamutes and Huskies, 136, 180. Dog ranch, 149. Dr. Grant, of St. Andrews Hospital, 171. Edmonton to Dawson, 174. Fifty Mile River, 121. First glimpse of the Great Salt Lake, 266. Fort Selkirk, 128. Fort Wrangel, 65. Fraser River, 43. Frederick Sound, 66. Freezing of the Yukon, 193. French Canadian trapper, 173. Glacier Hotel, 43. Glenwood Springs, 283. Government of Yukon Territory, 87. Grand River, 282. Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, 35. Grayling, 82, 117. Green River, 282. Gulf of Georgia, 56. Hells Gates, 127. How the Government searches for gold, 195. Icebergs and whales, 66. Immigrants from the U. S., 30. Indian laborers in Washington and Oregon, 213. International boundary line, 76. Japanese on the coast, 234. Japanese rice planter, 258. Juneau, 69. Ketchikan, 59. Kicking Horse River, 39. Klondike, 154. Lake Atlin, 88. Lake Bennett, 76. Lake Lebarge, 121. Lake Marsh, 88. Lake St. Clair, 14. Lake Superior, 18. Lake Taggish, 93. Los Angeles, 249. Los Angeles to Salt Lake City, 260. Lynn Canal, 70. Luxurious living in Dawson, 165. Mackinac, 14. Miles Cañon, 116. Millbank Sound, 203. Mineral wealth of Colorado, 304. Mining on Bonanza Creek, 140, 154. Mining on El Dorado Fork, 157. Mining on Pine Creek, 94. Mining on Hunker Creek, 158. Minneapolis, 24. Mode of living at the diggings, 108. Mojave Desert, 257. Monterey, 241. Mormon literature, 273. Mormon Temple, 270. Mt. Shasta, 226. Narrow-gauge railway from Skagway, 75. Nebraska, 307. Northwest Mounted Police, 172. Ogden to Salt Lake City, 269. Omaha, 310. Otter Creek, 101. Our landlady at Dawson, 163. Peace River, 33. Pelly River, 128. Placer mining, 94. Portland, 219. Preparations for winter, 180. Presidio, 234. Ptarmigan, 101. Public school in Dawson, 172. Puget Sound cities, 218. Puget Sound crabs, 209. Queen Charlotte Sound, 56. Returning travellers from the Klondike, 207. Ride along the coast, 242. Ride to Portland, 216. Ride to Yakima, 215. Salmon, 60. Salmon at Ketchikan, 59. Salmon in the Columbia River, 220. Salt Lake City, 270. Salt Lake City to Glenwood Springs, Colorado, 282. San Francisco, 230. Santa Barbara, 242. Santa Cruz, 238. San Joaquin Valley, 257. Sausalito and Mt. Tamalpais, 233. Sault St. Marie, 17. Sawmill at Tacoma, 212. Seattle, 206. Secret of the success of Mormonism in Utah, 275. Silver Bow River, 30. Skagway, 70, 75. Spruce Creek, 102. Steamer "City of Seattle," 52. Steamer White Horse, 116. Stewart River, 128. St. Louis, 317. St. Paul, 20, 22. Sutton, geologist, 93. Tacoma, 210. The Five Fingers, 127. Thirty Mile River, 122. Treadgold, 146. Treadwell mines, 69. Trip to the Taku Glacier, 109. Upper Yukon, 122. Up the Yukon from Dawson, 180. U. S. Fish Commission, 82. Valley of the Willamette, 224. Vancouver, 48, 51. Victoria, 48, 51, 52. Washington State Fair at Yakima, 214. Wheat land, 26, 29, 34, 35. White Pass, 87. Wild sheep and goats, 101. Winnipeg, 26. Work in the diggings in winter, 192. Yukon above Dawson, 131. Zodiacal lights in winter, 192. Transcriber's Note: Small inconsistencies in punctuation in the Index and captions of photographs have been resolved. Two 'N' entries in the Index ("Narrow-gauge railway" and "Northwest Mounted Police"), were misplaced, and have been moved to their correct positions. There were several other indexing errors: "Portland" was corrected to refer to p. 219. "Cincinati" was corrected to refer to p. 324. The following obvious printer's errors are noted, and where unambiguous, have been corrected. p. 70. we are sor[r]ry Removed extra 'r'. p. 97 and blow it in [in] leisurely Removed repeated 'in'. p. 110 the great [Llewellen] or Taku _sic_ glacier p. 166 N. W. [N/M]. P. North West Mounted Police p. 196 so I [persume/presume] Corrected. p. 238 the very best of them all.["] Added. p. 279 they have also never fled from, but Added. the[y] rather 
43897	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. [Illustration: Map to illustrate the Story of Antoine of Oregon] ANTOINE OF OREGON A STORY OF THE OREGON TRAIL BY JAMES OTIS NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY JAMES OTIS KALER. COPYRIGHT, 1912, IN GREAT BRITAIN. ANTOINE OF OREGON. W. P. I FOREWORD The author of this series of stories for children has endeavored simply to show why and how the descendants of the early colonists fought their way through the wilderness in search of new homes. The several narratives deal with the struggles of those adventurous people who forced their way westward, ever westward, whether in hope of gain or in answer to "the call of the wild," and who, in so doing, wrote their names with their blood across this country of ours from the Ohio to the Columbia. To excite in the hearts of the young people of this land a desire to know more regarding the building up of this great nation, and at the same time to entertain in such a manner as may stimulate to noble deeds, is the real aim of these stories. In them there is nothing of romance, but only a careful, truthful record of the part played by children in the great battles with those forces, human as well as natural, which, for so long a time, held a vast portion of this broad land against the advance of home seekers. With the knowledge of what has been done by our own people in our own land, surely there is no reason why one should resort to fiction in order to depict scenes of heroism, daring, and sublime disregard of suffering in nearly every form. JAMES OTIS. CONTENTS PAGE THE FUR TRADERS 9 WHY I AM NOT A FUR TRADER 11 STRIVING TO PLAN FOR THE FUTURE 13 AN INQUISITIVE STRANGER 15 AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION 16 I SET OUT AS A GUIDE 18 JOHN MITCHELL'S OUTFIT 20 MAKING THE BARGAIN 23 WE LEAVE ST. LOUIS 25 THE HARDSHIPS TO BE ENCOUNTERED 26 THE CAMP AT INDEPENDENCE 28 A FRONTIER TOWN 30 THE START FROM INDEPENDENCE 33 CARELESS TRAVELERS 35 OVERRUN BY WILD HORSES 38 SEARCHING FOR THE LIVE STOCK 40 ABANDONING THE MISSING ANIMALS 42 MEETING WITH OTHER EMIGRANTS 43 A TEMPEST 46 FACING THE INDIANS 49 TEACHING THE PAWNEES A LESSON 51 THE PAWNEE VILLAGE 53 A BOLD DEMAND 54 I GAIN CREDIT AS A GUIDE 56 A DIFFICULT CROSSING 58 WASH DAY 60 INDIAN PICTURES 62 A PLAGUE OF WOOD TICKS 64 ANOTHER TEMPEST 66 THE CATTLE STAMPEDED AGAIN 68 DIFFICULT TRAVELING 69 COLONEL KEARNY'S DRAGOONS 71 DISAGREEABLE VISITORS 73 DRIVING AWAY THE INDIANS 75 TURKEY HUNTING 76 EAGER HUNTERS 77 ANTELOPE COUNTRY 79 SHOOTING ANTELOPES 81 A PAWNEE VISITOR 83 THE PAWNEES TRY TO FRIGHTEN US 85 DEFENDING OURSELVES 87 SCARCITY OF FUEL, AND DISCOMFORT 89 LAME OXEN 91 AN ARMY OF EMIGRANTS 92 THE BUFFALO COUNTRY 95 HUNTING BUFFALOES 97 MY MOTHER'S ADVICE 99 ASH HOLLOW POST OFFICE 100 NEW COMRADES 102 FORT LARAMIE 103 A SIOUX ENCAMPMENT 106 INDIANS ON THE MARCH 107 THE FOURTH OF JULY 109 MULTITUDES OF BUFFALOES 111 WE MEET COLONEL KEARNY AGAIN 113 ACROSS THE DIVIDE 115 FORT BRIDGER 117 TRADING AT FORT HALL 122 THIEVISH SNAKES 123 THE HOT SPRINGS 124 THE FALLS OF THE SNAKE RIVER 126 SIGNS OF THE INDIANS 128 BESET WITH DANGER 129 HUNGER AND THIRST 131 NEARLY EXHAUSTED 133 ARRIVAL AT FORT BOISE 135 ON THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 137 CAYUSE INDIANS 139 THE COLUMBIA RIVER 140 AN INDIAN FERRY 141 THE DALLES OF THE COLUMBIA 143 OUR LIVE STOCK 144 MY WORK AS GUIDE ENDED 145 I BECOME A FARMER 146 ANTOINE OF OREGON THE FUR TRADERS There is ever much pride in my heart when I hear it said that all the trails leading from the Missouri River into the Great West were pointed out to the white people by fur buyers, for my father was well known, and in a friendly way, as one of the most successful of the free traders who had their headquarters at St. Louis. [Illustration] It is not for me to say, nor for you to believe, that the fur traders were really the first to travel over these trails, for, as a matter of fact, they were marked out in the early days by the countless numbers of buffaloes, deer, and other animals that always took the most direct road from their feeding places to where water could be found. Then came the Indians, seeking a trail from one part of the country to another, and they followed in the footsteps of the animals, knowing full well that thereby they would not lack for water, the one thing needful to those who go to and fro in the wilderness. Thus it was that the animals and the Indians combined to mark out the most direct roads that could be made, with due regard to the bodily needs of those who traveled from one part of the Great West to another. As the traders in furs journeyed from tribe to tribe of the Indians, or sought the most favored places for trapping, they learned how white men could go westward from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean without fear of dying from hunger or thirst. My father, Pierre Laclede, was, as I have said, a free trader, which means that he went out into the wilderness with his crew of boatmen and trappers, free from any bargains or duties to the great fur trading companies, such as the Hudson's Bay, the Northwest, and the X. Y. There were regular battles fought between the hunters and trappers of these great companies in the olden days, when St. Louis was under Spanish rule and had become a famous gathering place for the fur traders. There were many like my father, who, hiring men to help them, carried into the wilderness goods to be exchanged with the Indians for furs, and, failing in this, set about trapping fur-bearing animals throughout the winter season. Wonderful sport these same traders had, as I know full well, having been more than once with my father over that trail leading from the Missouri River to the Oregon country. Then there was the home-coming to St. Louis, when every man forgot the days on which he had been cold or hungry, and no longer heeded the half-healed wounds received in Indian attacks, when he had been forced to defend with his life the furs he had gathered. Once in St. Louis, what rare times of feasting and making merry, while the furs were being shipped to New Orleans, or bartered to the big companies that were ever on the watch for the return of the free traders! WHY I AM NOT A FUR TRADER I, Antoine Laclede, would have followed in the footsteps of my father, becoming myself a free trader after the treacherous Blackfeet Indians killed him, had it not been that my mother, with her arms around my neck, pleaded that I remain at home with her. Therefore, instead of carrying on my father's business as a lad of fifteen should have done, I strove to content myself at St. Louis, to the pleasure of my dear mother. [Illustration] However much affection there might be between us, it remained that we must be supplied with food, and that my mother should have the things necessary for her comfort. But if I did not take up my father's business after he had lost, with his life, the store of furs which he had been eight months in gathering, as well as what remained of the goods he had carried into the wilderness for trading, then how could I rightly fill the position as head of the family, when all I had in this world were my two hands and the desire to make my mother happy? We lived on a street near the old cathedral, and it may be that our small home was not the most pleasing to look upon of all the houses in St. Louis; but in it I was born. My father had built it, paying for every timber with furs he had gathered at risk of his life, and I would not have yielded it in exchange for the finest house in the land. The evil days fell upon us, meaning my mother and me, very shortly after the news of my father's murder was brought to St. Louis, for we soon came to know that we had neither goods nor furs enough to keep us one full year. STRIVING TO PLAN FOR THE FUTURE Then it was that I went out one day alone to the river bank, where I might have solitude and think how I could care for my mother as the only son of a widow should care for that person whom he most loves. I had lived fifteen years. There was no trapper in the Northwest Company who could take more furs than I could. To ride and shoot were my pleasures, and my unhappiness was in being forced to set down words with a pen, or to puzzle my poor brain over long rows of figures which must have been invented only for the sorrow of Antoine Laclede. My rifle and Napoleon, a small spotted pony that could outkick any beast this side the Rocky Mountains, made up all I owned of value, and yet with them I must earn enough to support my mother and make her comfortable. The truth is, I might have joined with some free trader who had known my father, working for a small wage, which would not be more than enough to supply my mother with food and clothes such as had been provided by my father; but I must earn more than that, lest the day should come when, from wounds or sickness, I could not hold up my end with my companions on the trail or with the traps. All this made my heart heavy as I sat there on the river bank asking myself what there was a lad like me could do. [Illustration] Just at that time, when I was most downhearted, a man, tall of stature and spare in flesh, came up close beside me, and, as it seemed, looked down with much mirth in his heart, perhaps because I carried such a woebegone expression on my face. AN INQUISITIVE STRANGER Then, much to my surprise, he said, speaking in what seemed an odd tone, much as though he had a cold in his head:-- "Are you the son of Laclede, the free trader who was killed by the Blackfeet Indians not so long ago?" I was ever proud to own that I was my father's son, and speedily gave the stranger an answer, although at the same time asking myself whether there was any good reason for such a question, or if he was intending to make sport of me. "I am told that you have been over the trail 'twixt here and the Oregon country with your father, lad?" "I have been twice into the land of the Walla Wallas, but no farther than that, although it would have pleased me well could I have seen the great ocean." "Now I am not so certain where the country of what you call the Walla Wallas may be," the man said with a puzzled expression upon his face, whereupon I answered quickly, proud because of being able to tell:-- "It is this side the Cascade Range, the other side of the Blue Mountains, near where the Columbia River takes a sharp turn to the westward." "The Columbia River, eh?" the man repeated, as if satisfied with my reply. "Then you surely must have traveled near to the Pacific Ocean?" "I have been so near that one might go down the river to it in a canoe, if he were so disposed; but there is a station of the Hudson's Bay Company near the coast and we free traders who deal with the Northwest Company have no desire for traffic with those who would shut us out from St. Louis, fearing lest we may cut into their trade." AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION [Illustration] The man seated himself by my side as if satisfied that I was the one whom he sought, and began his business by saying:-- "My name is John Mitchell. I am at the head of a party of thirty men, women, and children who are bound for the Oregon country. We are taking with us forty head of oxen, twenty horses, ten mules, and thirty cows, to say nothing of the remainder of the outfit. I counted on meeting here at St. Louis a man who would guide us across, but find that he has left us in the lurch, likely because of getting a better offer from some other company of settlers. Now I have been told that you could serve us as guide; that you are what may be called a fairly good hunter; and, although you look a bit too young for the business, there are those here in St. Louis who say you may be depended upon. What about guiding my party across? We are willing to pay considerably more than fair wages--" "It may not be for me to do any such thing," I replied quickly, although at the same time wishing I could go once more into the Oregon country and do a man's work as guide. "I have here my mother, who has no other to depend upon, and I must stand by her, as a son should." "Well said, lad, well said. It does you credit to think first of your mother; but we are willing to pay considerable money to one who can guide us, because this kind of traveling is new to all my party. Already in coming up from Indiana we have had trouble with the cattle and with the teams. Now say three hundred dollars for the trip, and if you are minded to take your mother with you we stand ready to let her share in whatsoever we have." There is no reason why I should set down all we said, for we sat there on the river bank until an hour had passed, talking all the while. Each moment I grew more and more eager for the adventure, until it seemed to me I had never had but one desire in life, and that to go into the Oregon country and make there a home for my mother. I promised to meet the man again that evening and went straight away home to lay the matter before my mother. It surprised me not a little that she seemed to be in favor of going to the Oregon country, and I have since been led to believe that her willingness to abandon the home in St. Louis came from the wish to make a change and to leave that place where everything must needs remind her of my father. I SET OUT AS A GUIDE Before seeking out John Mitchell, whose company was encamped on the opposite side of the river, I visited a neighbor who had once offered to buy our home. With him I agreed that for a certain sum of money he should take possession of the house, using it as his own until my mother and I came back, or, in case we remained in the Oregon country, then he was to pay us as many dollars as we agreed upon. That afternoon, an hour before sunset, I paddled across the river to where John Mitchell's company was encamped, and for the first time I questioned whether it might be possible for me, a lad only fifteen years of age, to guide all these people, who seemingly had no more idea of what was to be encountered in a journey to the Oregon country, than if they had never heard of such a place. I dare venture to say there could not have been found in St. Louis a lad over ten years old who would have shown so much ignorance in forming a camp, as did John Mitchell, who held himself commander of the company. [Illustration] True, there was no reason why they need guard themselves as if in the country of an enemy. Yet if they were careless at the start, heeding not the common precautions against the stampeding of their cattle, or the possibility that prowling Indians might steal whatever lay carelessly around, then surely when in a place where danger lurked, they could not be depended upon to care for themselves in a sensible manner. Somewhat of this I said to John Mitchell while looking around the encampment, and that he himself was ignorant of what might be met with on a journey to the Oregon country, was shown when he asked:-- "And are you reckoning, lad, that we may come upon much danger?" "Ay, sir, and plenty of it," I replied. "Just now the Indians are quiet, so I have heard it said by the traders; but even when there is no disturbance of any account, you are likely to come upon roving bands that will make trouble. Even though they may do no worse, you can set it down as a fact that from the time of leaving the settlement of Independence, where the journey really begins, until you have come into the Walla Walla country, there will be hardly a day, or, I should say, a night, when you are not in danger of losing your stock through these red thieves." JOHN MITCHELL'S OUTFIT There was one thing in favor of John Mitchell, as I looked at the matter, which was that his outfit was most complete. He had five well-made carts with straight bodies, and sideboards from fourteen to sixteen inches wide running outward four or five inches; in other words, what are called "Mormon wagons," and to three of these he counted on putting four yoke of cattle apiece. I was not so well satisfied with this, for the beasts had been raised in Indiana, and therefore were not accustomed to eating prairie grass, which would be the greater portion of their food during the journey. [Illustration] I had always heard it said that Illinois or Missouri cattle could stand the journey to the Oregon country better than any others, although then I did not know it from my own experience. The ten mules were to be used for the hauling of the two remaining wagons. To one of these would be harnessed six of the animals, and the other, in which many of the women and children were to ride, was to be drawn by four. The horses were to be used under the saddle. I was forced to admit that Mitchell had not been niggardly in outfitting his company. He had no less than five sheet-iron stoves with boilers, one being carried on a small platform at the rear end of each wagon. There were tents in abundance for all the company, while for cooking utensils, there were plates and cups and basins of tinware, half a dozen or more churns, an ample supply of water kegs, and farming tools almost without number. [Illustration] I had little or no interest in this part of the outfit, but took good care to make certain there were ropes and hobble straps in plenty for tying up the horses and fettering those that were likely to stray, because I knew from experience how much of such supplies might be lost or stolen during the long journey. The weapons carried by the men were of heavier caliber than I would have suggested, unless they counted on using them wholly for buffalo shooting. John Mitchell took no little pride in showing me his rifled gun which carried thirty-two bullets to the pound, when to my mind fifty-six would have served him better for general work; but that was really no concern of mine. MAKING THE BARGAIN We talked over the matter fairly and at great length, all the men of the company and some of the women taking part in the parley. The bargain, as I understood it, was that I was hired for no other service than to guide this company, and also to make suggestions as to the best places for camping, as well as how we could keep the people supplied with fresh meat. It was agreed that my mother should ride in the four-mule wagon with John Mitchell's family, which consisted of his wife, a girl about my own age by name of Susan, and three awkward-looking boys. The oldest of these lads was not more than ten, I should think, and all of them were so clumsy that it seemed almost impossible for them to avoid treading on their own feet. About mounting a horse or rounding up cattle, they knew no more than my Napoleon knew about good manners. Susan, however, was a sprightly girl, who, as it seemed to me, had more good sense in her little finger than might be found in all the rest of the family. Before my visit was at an end, she came to ask concerning this or that which we might meet with on the way, and I believed I had found one who would be a most desirable comrade. [Illustration] Unless I mistook her entirely, she was a girl to be depended upon in the time of trouble, and when one would travel from the Missouri River to the Oregon country, it is of the greatest importance to have with him only those who can be relied on to a certainty when danger lurks at hand, as it surely does, so I have heard my father say, from the time the voyager leaves the Kansas River until he has come to the Columbia. It was agreed that my mother and I should have a day in which to make ready for this journey, which, if we met with no serious mishaps, would require not less than five months to make; therefore it can well be understood that we had little time to spend in sleep, if we would present ourselves to John Mitchell at the hour agreed upon. It is my desire never to make a promise which I do not, or cannot keep; consequently there were many things left undone in St. Louis when mother and I crossed the river; but it was better thus than that I should disappoint ever so slightly those with whom I had made a positive agreement. WE LEAVE ST. LOUIS In order that one may the better understand how much of a journey it is from the Missouri River to the Oregon country, I set down here the fact that at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, on the twenty-fifth day of April, in the year 1845, we, meaning John Mitchell's company, my mother, and I, set off on that long march. The real journey would not begin until we had passed that settlement on the Missouri known as Independence, which is the point of departure for those who count on traversing the Oregon or the Santa Fe trail. Therefore concerning this portion of our march I shall content myself simply with saying that we arrived at Independence on the morning of May 6th, and made camp two miles beyond, on the bank of a small creek, where there was plenty of grass for the cattle. It must be understood that up to this time we had been traveling through one settlement and another in a portion of the country where were to be found as many people as lived, mayhap, in the neighborhood from which John Mitchell had come. Yet so awkward were the men and boys, that while we were traversing beaten roads they found it exceedingly difficult to keep the cows from straying or the oxen from stampeding even while they were yoked and hitched to the heavy wagons. I do not claim to have had any experience at driving oxen or herding cattle, and therefore I held myself aloof, saying it were better these people from Indiana should learn their lesson when there were but few difficulties in the way and no dangers, so that after we should come where the real labor began, they might at least have some slight idea of what was expected of them. THE HARDSHIPS TO BE ENCOUNTERED But for the fact that Susan Mitchell, riding upon a small black, wiry-looking horse, held herself well by my side, I would have been disheartened even before we had really begun the journey, because I was looking forward to what we must encounter, and saying to myself that unless these people could pull themselves together in better fashion, we were certain to come to grief. When a company fails to herd thirty cows, over what might well be called a beaten highway, what would you expect when in a country where the Indians are doing all they can to stampede and run off cattle as well as horses? I soon saw that Susan was a girl of good understanding, for without a word having been spoken, she seemed to realize those fears which had come into my mind, and said again and again as if to strengthen my courage:-- "They will know more about this kind of traveling when we reach Independence." [Illustration] I could not refrain from saying in reply that unless they learned more speedily it would be well we waited a full year at Independence, rather than attempt a journey where so much danger and hardship awaited us. I venture to say that there was not one among John Mitchell's company who could have put a pack upon a horse in such a manner that it would hold in place half an hour over rough traveling; and as for handling a mule team, the driver of that wagon in which my mother rode had no more idea of how the beasts should be treated than if he had so many sheep in harness. To show how ignorant these people were regarding the country, I have only to say that from the moment we left St. Louis one or another was continually asking me whether we were likely to come upon buffaloes before the night had set. The idea of buffaloes between St. Louis and Independence, save perchance we came upon some old bull that had been driven away from the herd by the hunters! It was by my advice that John Mitchell decided to overhaul his outfit at Independence in order to learn whether there might be anything needed, for after having left the settlement we would find no opportunity of replenishing our stores save at some one of the forts, and then it was a question, serious indeed, whether we could get what might be needed. THE CAMP AT INDEPENDENCE The tents were hardly more than set up, and the women had but just got about their cooking, for the breakfast had been a hasty meal owing to our being so near the settlement, when we were visited by a dozen or more Kansas Indians, who are about as disreputable a looking lot as can be found in the country--dirty, ill-favored red men with ragged blankets cast about them, and seeming more like beggars than anything else. To tell the truth, I would rather have seen around the camp a Blackfoot, a Cheyenne, or a Sioux, knowing that any of them would murder me if he had a fair opportunity, than those beggarly Kansas savages. [Illustration] It was the first time any of the women of our company, save my mother, had seen an Indian near his own village, and straightway all of them, with the exception of Susan, were in a panic of fear, believing harm would be done. Even John Mitchell was undecided as to how he should treat them, until I told him that any attempt to drive the creatures away would be useless, and that if his people were so disposed they might give them some food; but it was in the highest degree necessary that sharp watch be kept, else we would find much of our outfit missing after the visitors had taken their departure. The men and the boys of our company were so disquieted because of having come thus suddenly upon the Indians, that they kept good watch over the camp during this first day, and it would have been well for all of us if they had continued to stand as honest guard over their belongings. It was found that we were needing extra bows for the wagons, meaning those bent hoops over which the canvas covering is stretched, that the supply of shoes for the horses and mules was not sufficient, and, in fact, there were half a hundred little things required which the women believed necessary to their comfort. Therefore John Mitchell and I went into the settlement to get what was wanted, and, like the good comrade she gave promise of being, Susan insisted on going with us. A FRONTIER TOWN Independence was much like a trading post, save that there were no blockhouses; but the log tavern had the appearance of a building put up to resist an attack, and the brick houses surrounding it were made with heavy walls in which were more than one loophole for defense. The idea that the settlement was a frontier post was heightened by the number of Indians to be seen, while their scrawny ponies were tied here and there in every available place. [Illustration] There were the wretched Kansas, only half covered with their greasy, torn blankets, Shawnees, decked out in calicoes and fanciful stuff, Foxes, with their shaved heads and painted faces, and here and there a Cheyenne sporting his war bonnet of feathers. The scene was not new to me, and so did not invite my attention; but Susan, who seemingly believed that she had suddenly come into the very heart of the Indian country, was so interested that I went with her here and there, while her father was bartering in the shops, and before an hour had passed her idea of an Indian was far different from what it had been before she left her home in Indiana. I had nothing to say against the savages more than can be set down when I speak of the murder of my father, and save for the fact that Susan was so eager to see all she might, and that everything was so strange to her, I would not have lingered in the settlement a single minute longer than was necessary to complete our outfit. [Illustration] There were here Santa Fe traders in Mexican costume; French trappers from the mountains, with their long hair and buckskin clothing; groups of Spaniards, who were evidently bound down the Santa Fe trail; and here and there and everywhere as it seemed, were people from the States, emigrants like those who followed John Mitchell, to the number, I should say, of not less than two hundred, all expecting to make homes in the Oregon country. It saddened me to think of what was before these people. To gain the banks of the Columbia River they must travel more than two thousand miles, in part over sandy plains, where would be found little or no water for themselves and scanty feed for their animals. There were rivers to be crossed where the current ran so swiftly that a single misstep might mean death. Mountain ranges were to be climbed when even the strongest would find it difficult to make progress, and all the while danger from wild beasts or wilder men. And it was I who must show these men when and where to camp, how to bring down the game which would be necessary for their very existence, and lead them, in fact, as one might lead children. THE START FROM INDEPENDENCE We remained in camp by the creek until next morning, and then our way lay over the rolling prairies, where was grass on every hand and water in abundance, yet we made only fifteen miles between eight o'clock in the morning and within an hour of sunset, owing to the awkwardness of those who were striving to drive our few head of cattle. Then came the first real camp, meaning the first time we had halted where it was necessary to guard everything we owned against the Indians, for we knew full well there were plenty in the vicinity of Independence, and I strove my best to show these people how an encampment should be formed on the prairie. [Illustration] It was difficult to persuade John Mitchell that it would be better to give the horses and mules a side hobble, than to take chances of securing them by picket ropes. I had always heard that by buckling a strap around the fore and hind legs, on the same side, taking due care not to chafe the animal's legs, he could not move away faster than a walk, while if he was hobbled by the forefeet only, it would be possible for him to gallop after some practice. There were many in our party who claimed it was a useless precaution to hobble the horses, and insisted on fastening them to picket pins, doing so in such a slovenly manner that I knew if the animals were stampeded they could easily make their escape. Before morning came we had good proof that carelessness in looking after the live stock at such a time is much the same as a crime. CARELESS TRAVELERS When I proposed that watch be set around the encampment during the night, every man, even including John Mitchell, protested, saying it was a needless precaution, that they were all needing sleep, and there was no reason why any should stand guard when they could look around on every hand and make certain there was no one near to do them harm. One of the women asked me if there might be any danger from wild beasts, and when I told her we had not yet come into that part of the country where such game were found, every member of the company believed I was only trying to show myself as the commander. I heard one of the men say grumblingly to another, that he was not minded to put himself under the orders of a boy who took pleasure in displaying his authority even to the extent of making them stand needless watch. Never had I seen my father make camp, even though no more than two miles from a fort or a settlement, without carefully hobbling his horses, rounding up the cattle, if he had any, and stationing a picket guard, insisting that those on duty remain awake during every hour of the night. [Illustration] Now, however, these people from Indiana, who knew nothing whatsoever of traveling in the wilderness, claimed to have a better idea of how camp should be guarded than did I, who had already traversed the Oregon trail twice, and I so far lost my temper as to make no reply, saying to myself that if they were inclined to take desperate chances, the loss would be theirs, not mine. Mayhap if we had been farther along the trail among the mountains, where the danger would be greater if we lost all our animals, then for my mother's sake I might have insisted strongly that the orders which I gave should be obeyed. As I have said, however, I held my peace, while those foolish people lay down to sleep in their tents, or in the wagon bodies, believing they were safe beyond any possible chance of danger simply because of being no more than seventeen miles from Independence. I must say to John Mitchell's credit that he outfitted me as he would have done an older guide, and set apart for my especial use one of the small canvas tents. Believing that my mother would have more comfort by herself than if she shared a bed in one of the larger tents, or in one of the wagons where so many must sleep, I proposed that she use my camp, and we two laid ourselves down that night feeling uncomfortable in mind, for she understood quite as well as did I that we were taking great chances at the outset of the journey. I had hobbled Napoleon securely, as you can well fancy. In addition to that I had made him fast to a picket pin firmly driven into the ground so there might be no danger of his straying too far away. It was not a simple matter to enjoy the resting time, because of the weight of responsibility which was upon me. Even though John Mitchell's people were not inclined to obey such orders as I saw fit to give, yet I knew that in event of trouble they would cast all the blame on my shoulders, and not until a full hour had passed were my eyes closed in slumber. OVERRUN BY WILD HORSES [Illustration] It seemed as if I had hardly more than lost myself in sleep when I was aroused by a noise like distant thunder, and springing to my feet, as I had been taught to do by my father at the first suspicious sound, I stood at the door of the tent while one might have counted ten, before realizing that a herd of those wild ponies which are to be found now and then on the prairies was coming upon us. Once before in my life had I seen horses and cattle stampeded by a herd of those little animals, and without loss of time I rushed into the open air, shouting loudly for the men to bear a hand, at the same time discharging all the chambers of my weapon. Unfortunately, however, I was too late to avert the evil. If we had had a single man on guard he could have given warning in time for us to have checked the rush; but as it was the ponies were within the encampment before I had emptied my weapon. John Mitchell had not brushed the slumber from his eyelids before the ponies overran the camp and passed on at full speed, taking with them every horse, mule, ox, and cow we had among us, save only Napoleon, who would have joined in the flight had it been possible for him to do so. "What has happened? What was it?" John Mitchell cried as he came running toward my tent with half a dozen of the other men at his heels, and I replied with no little bitterness in my tone:-- "A herd of wild ponies has stampeded every head of stock, except Napoleon." "But _my_ horse was made fast," one man cried, as if, because he had left the animal with his leading rope around a picket pin loosely driven, it would have been impossible for him to get away. The driver of the four-mule team declared that his stock could not have been run off because he had seen to it that each animal was hitched securely, while a third insisted that we must have been visited by the Indians, who had frightened the beasts in order the better to carry them away. I could not refrain from saying what was true:-- "If we had had but one man on guard this could not have happened. I tell you that the disturbance this night was caused by a herd of wild ponies." "Then why do we not go in search of the stock?" John Mitchell cried, and I replied:-- "That you may do, if it please you; but I have never yet seen the man who, on foot, could come up with a horse that had joined the wild of his kind. When the morning dawns, I will do all I can to aid in gathering up the stock, but until then there is nothing to be done." Then, with much anger in my heart because this thing had happened through sheer carelessness, I went back into my tent, nor would I have more to say to any member of the company, although no less than half a dozen men stood outside asking this question or that, all of which simply served to show their folly. SEARCHING FOR THE LIVE STOCK When day broke John Mitchell was man enough to meet me as I came out of my tent, and say in what he intended should be a soothing tone:-- "I am willing to admit, lad, that we showed ourselves foolish in not obeying your orders. From now on you can make certain every man jack of us will do whatsoever you say. Now tell us how we had best set off in search of the stock." "There is no haste. The horses and mules will run with the ponies until they are tired and need food, therefore we may eat our breakfast leisurely. My advice is that the company get under way, moving a few miles across the prairie to the next creek, while all, save those needed to drive the teams, go with me." [Illustration] "But we can't start a single wheel. There is no ox, horse, or mule in the encampment," John Mitchell cried, and then my face flushed with shame because I had forgotten for the instant that we had no means of breaking camp. There is little need why I should spend many words in telling of what we did during that day. Within an hour we found one of the mules and succeeded in getting hold of his leading rope. Before noon we had overtaken all the cows and eight of the oxen, bringing them back to camp while the wild ponies circled around the prairie within seven or eight miles of us, as if laughing to scorn our poor attempts to catch the horses which they had stolen. The afternoon was not yet half spent when we succeeded in gathering up all our stock save two horses and two mules, and then I insisted we should go on without them. "Between here and the Columbia River we shall lose more stock than that," I said, "and if we are to reach the Oregon country before winter sets in, such misadventures as this must not be allowed to delay us." ABANDONING THE MISSING ANIMALS I noted that more than one of the men wore a dissatisfied look, as if believing we should remain at this camp until all the stock had been found; but mayhap they remembered that the loss was caused by their not listening to me, and not a word was said in protest. Next day, without giving further heed to the horses and mules that were with the pony herd, we pushed forward toward the Oregon country once more, traveling twenty-two miles and in the meanwhile crossing the Wakarusa River. Then came a stretch of prairie land, and after that, near nightfall, we arrived at the Kansas River, where camp was made. This time you may set it down as certain that when I claimed we ought to set a picket guard, there were none to say me nay. Even more, I noticed that every man carefully hobbled his horses or his mules, as I hobbled Napoleon, and when I went into my tent I said to myself that we need have no fear of trouble that night. When we started out next day, Susan Mitchell insisted on riding by my side. She held her place there until we made camp, although it was no slight task, for while the company was passing over twenty miles of distance, I had ridden from the front to the rear of the train mayhap twelve times, thereby almost doubling the length of the journey. Not once did the plucky girl show signs of faltering, even though a good half of the day's march was up the side of a ridge and along the top of it, where the way was hard even for those of us who were riding light. MEETING WITH OTHER EMIGRANTS We were traveling within two or three miles of the Kansas River, not yet having come to the ford, when at about four o'clock in the afternoon we overtook a company of people who were bound for the Oregon country, having in their train twenty-eight wagons. At first John Mitchell was eager to join the strangers as they suggested; but he lost much of the desire on being told that two miles in advance was another party having nearly a hundred wagons. I really believe the man grew confused when he learned there were so many people on the Oregon trail. [Illustration] When he asked my advice as to joining the larger company, I told him that my father had ever said if he could travel independently of any one else, it was profitable for him to do so, for then he was forced neither to go faster than he desired, nor remain idle when it pleased him to push on. I asked John Mitchell how much he could gain by forming a small part of such a large company, unless, perhaps, he intended to dismiss me as guide, whereupon he assured me heartily that he had no such idea, but it seemed to him we might join the strangers for mutual assistance. It was not for me to do more than offer advice, and I told him that unless we came upon hostile Indians, we had best continue on by ourselves, for the time was coming, and not very far in the future, when we should be put to it to find grass for the cattle and fuel with which to cook our food. At such times the smaller the company, the less chance for suffering. It was Susan who settled the matter, for she said very decidedly that I, who had already traveled over the Oregon trail twice, ought to know more about such affairs than any other in the company. When she had spoken, her father held his peace as if convinced that her words were wise. We did not overtake the company of a hundred wagons that night, but camped near a small brook about four miles from the Kansas River, I having led the people off the trail a mile or more so that we might not be joined by those emigrants in the rear. Next morning we traveled four miles to the river ford, and there found the water already so high that there was nothing to do but to ferry our wagons over in a flatboat owned by a man named Choteau whom I had already known in St. Louis. He was no relative of that famous Choteau of the fur company, but a very obliging Frenchman indeed, who, because of his acquaintance with me, did all he could to hasten our movements. It was necessary we have a friend in such work, for it was a hard task to make the journey back and forth across that muddy stream, which was at least two hundred and fifty yards wide, when we could carry only one unloaded wagon at a time. [Illustration] A TEMPEST It was nearly nightfall before we were all across with our outfit and cattle, and then I gave the word that we should encamp within a mile of the stream, for I was not pleased with the appearance of dark clouds which were rolling up from the west. It would have been better had I halted the company when we first crossed, for before we could get the tents up and the wagons in place, a terrific storm of thunder and lightning was upon us. Instantly, as it seemed, our oxen and cows were stampeded, rushing off across the prairie like wild things, and although I did my best to round them up, all efforts were vain. There was nothing for it but to let them go, and seek shelter from the downpour of water, which was so heavy that at times one could hardly stand against it. [Illustration] Susan Mitchell had followed my mother into the tent which I had taken care to set up immediately we halted, and because there was no other shelter save the overcrowded wagons, the girl was there when I entered. It made my heart ache to see the evidences of her fright. Well was it for her that she was with my mother, for I truly believe none could have soothed her fears so readily. I left the two together while the storm was at its height, and sought shelter in one of the wagons, believing the tempest would continue to rage throughout the night. Next morning, before day had fully come, I aroused all the men. We saddled our horses and set out in search of the cattle, John Mitchell saying in a grumbling tone as he rode forward, that it seemed to him as if he was "doing more in the way of running down oxen and cows, than in making any progress toward the Oregon country." Hardly realizing how true my words might prove to be, I told him laughingly that we were likely to get more of such work as the days wore on, rather than less, and another four and twenty hours had not passed before he came to believe that I was a true prophet. Not until noon did we succeed in getting all the live stock rounded up, and I believed we were exceedingly fortunate in not losing a single animal, for it seldom happens, as I have heard, that cattle can be stampeded during the night and every one brought into camp next morning. It was my belief that we ought to travel rapidly during the afternoon and until a reasonably late hour in the night, in order to make up the time we had lost; but it is one thing to say and quite another matter to accomplish. FACING THE INDIANS After traveling no more than three miles we arrived at Big Soldier Creek. As Susan and I were riding on in advance to make certain the ford was safe for heavy wagons, I saw coming down over a slight incline a band of mounted Indians, who immediately, on seeing our company, came forward at full speed, brandishing bows and arrows, or guns, accordingly as they were armed, and yelling furiously. Susan Mitchell screamed with fear, as well she might; but I had already seen just such an Indian maneuver and knew what it meant. I hurriedly told her to ride back and join the company, while I held Napoleon steady. Their intention was to stampede the cattle, as I well knew, and although it would have been unwise for me to have sent a bullet among them, it was my purpose to do so if I failed in checking their advance otherwise. Then Napoleon took the matter into his own hands, or, I should say, his own feet, for when the Indians were perhaps thirty yards away he wheeled about, flinging up his heels as if he counted on kicking the entire band over the ridge. [Illustration] Do what I might I could not get the stubborn animal wheeled around before the savages had rushed by me, whooping and yelling in such a manner as caused a panic among our company and a stampede of the beasts. The oxen wheeled around in the yokes until they were so mixed up that the most expert would have found it difficult to untangle them, while the cows, their tails straight up in the air, fled back over the trail, bellowing with fright. TEACHING THE PAWNEES A LESSON By the time all this mischief had been done, Napoleon was ready to attend to his own business once more, and I rode among the company to find the people in such a state of panic and fear as one would hardly credit. "Get your rifles and follow me!" I shouted as I rushed forward, and it is quite certain that more than one of the men cried after me to come back, for all were so terrified that they would have suffered the loss of the stock rather than make any attempt at reclaiming it. [Illustration] It must not be supposed that I am trying to make it appear as if I was wondrously brave in thus giving chase. I knew from the experience gained while with my father, that there is but one way to treat these savages, and that is to put on a bold front. After doing any mischief the Indians would go farther and farther, until having accomplished all their desires, if their victims made no attempt to defend themselves; therefore it was necessary that we make a decided stand. I knew full well that if we pursued, these Pawnees, as I judged them to be, would speedily be brought to their senses. Whereas if we remained idle in camp they would run off all the stock, and for us to lose that herd of cows at the very outset of the journey would indeed have been disastrous. It was fortunate for those under my charge that they followed as I commanded, even though they did not do so willingly. When we had ridden at our best pace six miles or more, we came upon all except three of the cows who, wearied with their mad race, were now feeding; but not a feather of an Indian could be seen. That the Pawnees knew we were coming in pursuit, there could be no doubt, and because they were not in war paint I understood that they must have an encampment near by. Therefore, as soon as we had rounded up the cattle, I told John Mitchell it was our duty to search for the Indian camp, and there demand that they return to us, or aid us in searching for, the cows we failed to find. THE PAWNEE VILLAGE The man looked at me uncertainly an instant, as if questioning whether we had the pluck, as the Easterners say, to ride into an Indian encampment. Then he said grimly, almost as if doubting his own judgment:-- "I shall do as you say, boy; but if mischief comes of it, remember that I hold you responsible." "Mischief will surely come of it if we fail to put on a bold front," I replied hotly, and then wheeling Napoleon around, I sent him ahead under the whip, which he richly deserved because, but for his foolish trick of kicking, all this mischief might have been spared us. We rode through our encampment, for by this time the lads and the women had set up some of the tents, while one of the men who had remained behind was straightening out the oxen, and from there on a distance of about three miles, when we found that for which we were searching. It was a Pawnee village, and in it there might have been forty men, women, and children, occupying say, ten tepees, or lodges, while there were so many ponies and dogs that one would hardly have had the patience to count them. We could see no signs of our cattle, nor did I expect to find them there; but, riding directly into the center of the village, I brought Napoleon to a standstill, at the same time demanding in the Pawnee language, or such smattering of it as I could command, to be brought to the chief. [Illustration] A BOLD DEMAND Within a minute he came out from one of the lodges, and it gave me more courage when I noted the fact that he was looking disturbed in mind. I demanded that he, or some of his tribe, return to us the cows which had been driven away. If there had ever been such a being as an honest Indian, then I might have believed we had come upon him, for this chief, knowing there were men enough in our company to wipe out his entire band, declared again and again, with no little show of innocence, that neither he nor his young men had had anything to do with our cattle. [Illustration] Straightway I pointed here to one fellow and there to another, as two whom I recognized among those who had ridden over the ridge, and called the attention of the chief to the ponies at the farther end of the village, which were yet covered with perspiration. Instead of staying there to parley with the fellows, I insisted that the cows be brought to us before another day had passed, and made many threats as to what would happen in case my demands were not complied with. Then we rode out of the village. When we were some distance away, John Mitchell asked in a bantering tone if I really expected to see the cows again, whereupon I told him we would not move from the present encampment, save to punish the rascally Pawnees, until every head of the three had been brought to us. Because he laughed I saw that he believed that he never would see his cattle again; but I was better acquainted with the Pawnees than he. I GAIN CREDIT AS A GUIDE Because of all that had happened I found no reason to complain of the manner in which watch was kept over the encampment that night, and at a fairly early hour next morning, even before I had begun to expect them, the Indians came into camp with two of the cows. They talked much about their innocence so far as causing a stampede and claimed that it was not possible to find the third beast. The Pawnee who acted as spokesman would have tried to make me believe they were simply in sport when they overrode our camp; but I let him know that I was acquainted with such thievish tricks, and threatened them as to the future, much as though I had a company of soldiers at my back. It may be that the Indians were not greatly frightened by what I said; but certain it is that the members of John Mitchell's company began to believe that I was to be treated less like a boy, and more after the manner of one who knew somewhat regarding the work in which we were engaged. [Illustration] They gave more heed to my words from that time on, and Susan Mitchell seemed to think I had done some wondrously brave deed when I frightened the cowardly red men, or attempted to; but we never again saw that third cow. I believe that the Pawnees had hidden her, intending to have a great feast after we had gone away; but I dared not go any farther in the way of threats lest they openly defy me, when I would have been powerless because the men of our company were not equal to fighting the savages. I could have told Susan that if we had come across a party on the warpath, then my words would have been laughed at, and I might have found myself in serious trouble through making threats which could not be carried into execution. A DIFFICULT CROSSING [Illustration] Because of having been thus delayed by waiting for the cattle, we traveled only five miles on this day, which, if I remember rightly, was the 14th of May. Then we arrived where Big Soldier Creek must be crossed, an undertaking I had been looking forward to with no little anxiety because the banks of the creek are very steep and it is impossible to drive either mules or oxen down to the bed of the stream while attached to the wagons. We were forced to unyoke the oxen and unharness the mules, after which we let the wagons down by means of ropes, with four men to steer the tongue of each cart. The ford was shallow, but on the other side the banks loomed in front of us like the sides of a cliff. In order to get even the lightest wagon to the top we had to yoke all the oxen in one team, and even then every man of us put his shoulder to the tailboard, pushing and straining as we forced the heavy vehicle straight into the air, as one might say. One entire day was spent in crossing, and within an hour of sunset we pitched our tents on the high banks, where we let down buckets by ropes in order to get water for cooking,--this method being easier than scrambling up and down the steep incline. Before night had come a party of about sixty from the Ohio country joined us, having fifteen wagons. They were unaccustomed to such traveling, as I understood after seeing them make camp. When the leader came up to John Mitchell, proposing that we journey together from then onward, claiming that by thus increasing the numbers each company would be in greater security from the Indians, I gave my employer a look which I intended should say that we would travel as we had started, independently. WASH DAY From this point on to the Little Vermilion Creek was eighteen miles over high, rolling prairie, and I believed we ought to make it in one day's travel, which we did. [Illustration] We arrived at the creek about four o'clock in the afternoon, and within thirty minutes it seemed as if the banks of that small stream were literally lined with fires, over each of which was suspended a kettle filled with water. Tubs were brought out from all the wagons, for the women of our company had decided on making a "wash day" of the three or four hours remaining before sunset. On seeing that Susan Mitchell was not taking part in this labor, I proposed that we ride five or six miles onward, where I knew would be found quite a large village of Kansas Indians. She was only too well pleased with the proposition, even though having been in the saddle since early morning. [Illustration] To me one Indian village is much like another; but before we had come to the end of our journey Susan could point out the difference between a Kansas, a Pawnee, a Cheyenne, or a Sioux tepee. The Kansas Indians make their houses about thirty feet in length by fifteen feet wide, and build them by sticking hickory saplings firmly into the ground in the shape of the lodge desired. These are bent to form an arch eight to ten feet in height, when the tops of the saplings are bound together by willow twigs. This forms the inner framework, which is covered with bark taken from linden trees; over this is another frame of saplings, also tied with willows, to bind the whole together securely and prevent the coverings from being blown away during a high wind. Each of these lodges has one small door about four feet in height and three feet wide, while at the top of the hut is an opening for the smoke to pass out, when a fire is built in the center of the floor during cold or stormy weather. INDIAN PICTURES There were in the village when we arrived but few women and children, with here and there an old man, all the hunters having gone out, as I learned, hoping to find antelopes near at hand. Understanding by this information that there would be no attempt made to hinder us from gratifying our curiosity, I led Susan into one of the largest of the empty lodges. She was filled with wonder because of the pictures, drawn with charcoal and colored with various paints, which were to be seen on the inside of the bark walls. There were mounted men fighting with bows and arrows, horses hauling wagons, figures of beasts and reptiles, all done as one can well fancy in a rude way; but to Susan they afforded no little amusement, and she would have remained studying them until after nightfall, had I not insisted that we must return to camp before darkness. [Illustration] It was an odd picture which our encampment presented when we rode in just at twilight. The women had finished their washing, and, having no ropes on which to stretch their clothes, had hung them on wagon wheels and the tongues of the carts, in fact, on everything available, until the entire place had much the appearance of a gigantic, ragged ghost. Because so much time was spent next morning in gathering up these garments and packing them away, we traveled only twelve miles, arriving at the bank of a small stream with all the animals, save the saddle horses, showing signs of weariness. I insisted we should take a day for resting the cattle, although John Mitchell would have pushed on, regardless of their condition; but I knew we must keep them in good shape, else when we arrived at the more difficult portion of the journey they would fail us entirely. Perhaps because of our experience with the Indians, the men failed to grumble at the delay. A PLAGUE OF WOOD TICKS Every member of the party was not only willing, but eager, to set out after our long halt, for we had a most disagreeable experience with wood ticks, little insects much like those that worry sheep. They covered every bush as with a veil and lay like a carpet over the ground as far as one could see. I have never come upon them in such numbers, and before we lay down to rest I wished a dozen times that I had delayed the halt another day. These ticks fasten themselves to a person's skin so tightly that, in picking them off, the heads are often left embedded in the flesh, and unless carefully removed, cause most painful sores. It was like one of the Plagues of Egypt such as I have heard my mother read about, and so much did our people suffer that John Mitchell came to me in the middle of the night, urging that we break camp at once rather than remain there to be tortured. I soon convinced him that we could not hope to drive the cattle in the darkness, without danger of losing one or more, therefore he ceased to urge; but before the sun had risen, all our company were astir making preparations for the day's journey. [Illustration] Early though it was when we set off, only fourteen miles were traveled, owing to the difficulty in crossing the Big Vermilion River. The banks of the stream were steep and the channel muddy, affording such difficult footing for the animals that we were forced to hew down many small trees and lop off large quantities of branches to fill up the bed of the river before the wagons could be hauled across. All this occupied so much time that after arriving at the opposite bank we traveled only one mile before it was necessary to make camp. On this night we were not troubled by wood ticks, yet I had the camp astir early next morning, knowing that before nightfall we must cross the Bee and the Big Blue Creeks, therefore much time would be spent in making the passages. The difficulties which I had anticipated in crossing the creeks were not realized. We got over in fairly good shape, being forced on Bee Creek to double up the teams in order to pull the wagons across, and when night came we were two and a half miles west of Big Blue. There I believed we should make a long halt, for the country was covered with oak, walnut, and hickory trees, and, if I remembered rightly, this would be the last time we could procure timber for wagon tongues, axletrees, and such other things as might be needed in case of accidents. ANOTHER TEMPEST It was well we came to a halt early, for the tents were no more than up and the wagons not yet drawn in a circle to form a corral for the horses, before the most terrific storm of rain I ever experienced burst upon us. The women had but just begun to cook supper. The first downpour from the clouds quenched the fires, making literal soup of the bread dough, and it was only by building a small blaze under one of the wagons, where it would be partly sheltered from the storm, that we could get sufficient heat to make coffee. [Illustration] Before this was done--and nearly all us men took part in it, for the storm was so furious that the women could not be expected to remain exposed to its full fury--no less than two hours were spent, and I had almost forgotten that the encampment and all within it were under my charge. THE CATTLE STAMPEDED AGAIN Each moment the storm increased, and had I been attending to my duties instead of trying to play the part of cook in order to enjoy a cup of coffee, I would have noticed that the cattle were growing uneasy. After standing with their tails to the storm for a while, they began milling, that is running around in a circle, and by the time I gathered my wits every animal was galloping off across the plain. Fortunately the horses and mules were properly hobbled, and, in fact, some of the saddle beasts had been brought into the corral formed by the wagons; therefore when John Mitchell would have set off in pursuit of the oxen and cows despite the terrific storm, I insisted that he take such ease in camp as was possible because on the following morning we, mounted, would quickly round up the stampeded cattle. It was a most dismal night, and for the first time since leaving their homes these people, who were setting their faces toward the Oregon country, had a fair taste of what hardships awaited them. So furious was the wind that the rain found entrance to every camp and beneath each wagon cover, until beds and bedding were saturated. Welcome indeed was the morning to my mother and me, for our tent stood in a tiny pond when the day broke, and we waded out to a higher bit of ground, where the gentle summer breeze, now that the storm had cleared away, might dry our water-soaked clothing. Without waiting for breakfast I saddled Napoleon, calling upon the men to follow me, and within four hours we had rounded up and brought into camp the missing animals. Then came a hasty meal, and I gave the word to break camp, whereupon John Mitchell reminded me that we were to take in a store of oak and hickory timber for future needs; but I insisted that we push on a short distance, knowing that this wooded country extended ten or twelve miles farther westward, where I hoped to find higher ground, so we might be able to camp with some comfort. DIFFICULT TRAVELING The trail was heavy. The rain had so softened the ground that the wagon wheels sank several inches into it, and many times before nightfall we were forced to hew trees and cut large quantities of brush, in order to fill up the depressions in the way where the water stood deep and the bottom was much like a bog. Again and again we found it necessary to double up the teams in order to haul the heavy wagons over the spongy soil, and after we had traveled eight miles with more labor than on the previous day we had expended in going twice that distance, we decided to encamp. [Illustration] We were on reasonably high ground, or, in other words, we were not in a quagmire, and after camp had been made I counted that we would spend the following day in getting as much hickory and oak timber as we might need when we came to the mountain ranges, where axletrees, wagon tops, and even the wheels themselves, were likely to be splintered because of the roughness of the way. Next morning while the men were hewing trees and shaping them roughly into such forms as might come convenient, the women took advantage of the opportunity to churn, and at noon we had fresh butter on our bread, which was indeed a luxury. We were yet eating slowly in order the better to enjoy the butter, when we saw in the distance, coming toward us, what appeared to be a large body of soldiers and emigrants. COLONEL KEARNY'S DRAGOONS [Illustration] Among the foremost of the horsemen who came up and halted near us, was Colonel Stephen W. Kearny who, with three hundred dragoons, nineteen wagons drawn by mules, fifty head of cattle, and twenty-five sheep, was making the first military campaign into the Far West, in order properly to impress the Indians with the strength and power of the Great Father at Washington. Colonel Kearny would not permit his train to halt where we were encamped, but he remained with us a full half hour, taking his due share of the newly made butter, and eating heartily of our poor store. It was a most pleasing break in the journey, and to me it was indeed something to be remembered, for never before had I seen or heard of such a number of soldiers so far away from the frontier. When we set off again all our teamsters pressed forward eagerly, hoping to overtake the dragoons, who had already no less than two hours' start of us. Perhaps I ought to have checked them, knowing they were forcing our stock at too rapid a pace; but yet I did not, and when next we halted thirty-two miles had been traversed since morning. This, though the way was smooth and the crossings easy, I allowed was a good day's work. It was on the twenty-sixth day of May, after we had traveled ten miles, that we came to the bank of Little Sandy River, where was already encamped a company of emigrants bound for the Oregon country. They had thirty-two wagons, and, in addition to the other stock, ninety cows, having started from Independence with a hundred. Susan Mitchell laughed with glee when we arrived at this camp and, when I asked the reason for her high spirits, told me our people could spend the evening visiting these strangers even as they visited their neighbors at home. Indeed, I saw that all the members of the company were prinking and pluming like a party of savages making ready for a war dance. Men whose clothing had been well-nigh in rags suddenly appeared decked out in finery, and as for the women and the girls, a garden of flowers could hardly have compared with them for variety of colors. DISAGREEABLE VISITORS However, our company did not spend the evening visiting the strangers; on the contrary, they were forced to entertain others, for before supper had been cooked and eaten about three hundred Kansas Indians, men, women, and children, some walking, some riding, came into camp. The emigrants whom our people had intended to visit were overrun even as we were, and during two hours or more the beggars remained watching for an opportunity to steal something, or striving to trade their skeleton-like ponies for our horses and mules. Some of the visitors were clad in buckskin, others had leggings of elk hide, with buffalo skins over their shoulders, while many wore only greasy, ragged blankets and leggings so besmeared with blood and dirt that one could not tell what the material might be. Many of the men had long hair, while the heads of others were shaved close to the skin, save for a tuft extending from the forehead over the crown and down to the neck, much like the comb of a rooster. [Illustration] Some had their faces painted in a fanciful manner with red, while others had only their eyelids and lips colored. Again, there were those with various colored noses or ears, and I failed to see any two who were decked out, either with garments or by paint, in the same manner. The costumes and decorations of the women were as varied as those of the men, and equally filthy. All, from the smallest papoose to the oldest brave, were repulsive, at least to me, because of their uncleanliness. DRIVING AWAY THE INDIANS How long those representatives of the Kansas tribe would have remained with us awaiting an opportunity to steal whatever they might, I cannot say; but at about eight o'clock John Mitchell urged that I drive them away, if indeed I dared. This last suggestion caused me to smile, for what fellow would not dare anything among the Kansas Indians, who know no more of courage than they do of cleanliness? I speedily sent them out of the camp, and when, next morning, the whole tribe returned begging this or that, I threatened punishment to any who should dare linger around. Again we had an opportunity to join forces with another company, for those emigrants whom we met at Little Sandy River were eager to journey with us, but intended to remain one full day on the bank of the stream in order to rest their stock. I urged that we push on, lest they should travel with us whether we wished or not, and so we set off at an early hour across the prairie, arriving next day at the Republican Fork of the Blue River. It was on the last day of May that we came to where the trail turns abruptly away from the stream, stretching out twenty-five miles or more to the Platte River. Then we advanced in wild, fertile bottoms, where wild peas abounded, and we were among the last of the oak and hickory trees that we would see for many a long day. TURKEY HUNTING Here I knew we might find game, and said to those men who had been eagerly inquiring day after day as to when we would come upon buffaloes, that now was the time when they could display their skill in bringing down wild turkeys. [Illustration] I had supposed that these people knew somewhat about hunting; but when one of the men turned upon me sharply, asking how I knew turkeys could be found near about, I nearly laughed in his face. For it seemed to me that a child should have known we were come at last to where game of some sort might be taken easily. I had no idea of hunting turkeys, for I knew that within the next few hours there should be a possibility of bringing down as many antelopes as Napoleon would be willing to carry. Therefore I remained in camp, and saw those eager hunters striding off amid the timber, making noise enough to warn every fowl or beast of their coming. The wonder of it was that the fellows brought in a feather; yet at night they returned triumphant and excited, with two turkeys, and one would have believed, from the way the game was displayed, that they had shown great skill. When Susan Mitchell asked why I did not go out in search of game, I told her it was not for me to spend my time in such sport, but that before many days had passed I would show her what a hunter could and should do in this country. It may be she thought I was boasting, and I fancied I read as much on her face; but I contented myself in silence, knowing that she soon would see what kind of hunting those, who have crossed from the Missouri River into the Oregon country twice, could do. EAGER HUNTERS Next day every man and boy in our company was looking eagerly forward for signs of game, and when, the afternoon being nearly spent, they saw large herds of antelopes in the distance, it was only with difficulty I could force the teamsters to remain on their wagons. Every horseman would have set off at that time in the afternoon with weary steeds, when there was no possibility of running down the game, had it not been for John Mitchell, who, after talking with me, insisted that no man should leave the company until we had made camp. [Illustration] The Platte River was to be crossed before we halted, and we needed every man with us, for I knew that the bottom of the stream was soft, and the chances many that we would be forced to double up our teams. However, we gained the opposite bank without much difficulty and were hardly more than ready to encamp, after having traveled eighteen or nineteen miles, when it began to rain once more, and then the men were glad that they had not set off to hunt at nightfall. We camped where it would be possible for us to get water without too much labor, and set about gathering fuel before everything was soaked by the rain, and darkness was upon us. Then the men began to treat me as if I was of their own age. They came into my tent by twos and threes, asking when it would be possible for them to hunt antelopes, and when I would go with them to bring in fresh meat. I told them that on the next day they should have all the hunting that would satisfy them and their horses, and this caused them to wonder how I knew antelopes might be near at hand. ANTELOPE COUNTRY Next morning, when we had traveled no more than six miles, any hunter could see that we were in a game country, and because our people were really in need of fresh meat, to say nothing of the desire of the men for sport, I gave the word to halt and make camp. John Mitchell angrily demanded why I had halted the company before the forenoon was half spent. When I told him that here was our opportunity to get antelope steaks for supper, he looked at me as if he believed I was talking of something wholly beyond my knowledge. I have an idea he would have countermanded my order to form camp, insisting that we move on, had not his wife suggested that now we were so near the river, where the bank was shelving instead of steep, it would be a good time for the women to finish washing their clothing. [Illustration] After she had spoken he said to me:-- "Very well, lad, you may show the other men your antelopes. I have no desire for a wild-goose chase across the prairie." I gave little heed to his banter, and those who had been so eager for the hunt were right willing to follow me on the chance that they might come upon something that could be killed; John Mitchell finally consented to go with us, in order, as he said, to hear what sort of excuse I would make for not finding game. We rode straight away from the river, and within half an hour came upon a herd of from twenty to thirty antelopes feeding less than three miles away, whereupon every member of the company would have started off singly, taking the poor chances of getting a shot, had I not insisted they should hold themselves under my orders, lest there be no possibility of bringing in fresh meat that day. "You made a good guess, lad," John Mitchell said to me, as if he was disappointed because we had brought the game to view, and I replied:-- "Any one familiar with this country may say with reasonable certainty that he will find deer in such and such a place without first having seen any signs. With buffaloes it is different. But on feeding grounds like this, one can declare positively that he will come upon some kind of deer without riding very far." SHOOTING ANTELOPES Then I gave the word for the men to divide into two parties, one going to the right and the other to the left toward the herd, in order to come up with them on both sides at the same moment, and the silly animals did not note our approach until we were within half a mile. Then they showed how rapidly they could run. I have never seen antelopes in full flight without thinking how nearly alike they are to swallows, both for swiftness and the manner in which they bound over the ground without seeming to touch it. There are not many horses that can come up with this game once the fleet animals have been aroused; but I knew my pony could gain upon them in a chase of five miles or less, and straightway urged him on, shouting for the others to follow. [Illustration] It was like horses accustomed to the plow striving to keep the pace with a blooded racer, when we struck off across the plains, and before two miles had been traversed, my companions were left so far in the rear that there was little chance they could take any part in this sport. I urged Napoleon on until we were in fairly good range, when, firing rapidly, I brought two of the beautiful creatures to the ground. There was no possibility of overtaking the herd, once having halted, so swinging the game across the saddle in front of me, I let my pony walk leisurely back to where the men waited, each of them looking with envious eyes at the result of the chase. Within half an hour after our return to camp, five or six fires had been built, and our people were busily engaged in cooking the fresh meat, which was so welcome to them, giving little or no heed to anything save the preparations for a feast. Suddenly a single Indian of the Pawnee tribe stood before us, having ridden up without attracting the attention of any member of the company. A PAWNEE VISITOR It was the first time such a thing had ever occurred while I was supposed to be on duty, and I said to myself that until we had come into the Oregon country and I had said good-by to these people, I should never again be caught off guard. The Indian who had thus surprised me was as fine a specimen of a Pawnee as I have ever seen. He was tall, had a good figure, and rode a handsome pony which was really fat,--something seldom come upon, for the Indians do not generally allow their horses to take on very much flesh. He wore a calico shirt, buckskin leggings, and fancifully decorated moccasins. It would seem as if he had set himself up as a trader in footgear, for he carried with him half a dozen or more pairs of moccasins, some of them well worn, which he wanted to trade for meat. [Illustration] Our people were so foolish as to bargain with him, when, had they been content to wait a few days longer, until we were in a country abounding with game, they might have made any number of pairs out of fresh hides. This fellow remained in camp after having disposed of his wares, until he had eaten three times as much as could any member of our company, going from camp fire to camp fire and gorging himself as an Indian will, until it was only with difficulty that he could mount his pony. I felt more at ease when the fellow had left us, for I never see one of his race hanging around an encampment without good reason for believing he is trying to steal something; but the women of our company were saddened because he went so soon, and I verily believe they would have served him with another feast had it been possible for him to eat more. There was, perhaps, some petulance in my tones when I told Susan Mitchell that she need not feel badly because he had taken his departure so soon, for before arriving at the Oregon country she would come across Indians to her heart's content, and perhaps to her heart's sorrow. I little dreamed how soon my words were to come true, although knowing that we would meet more red people than white during the remainder of the journey; but next day, when we had traveled perhaps eight miles and were halted at noon that the women might prepare dinner, our company saw Indians in a way which was, during a few moments, anything rather than pleasant. THE PAWNEES TRY TO FRIGHTEN US We had camped in a slight depression of the prairie, and were just about eating the noonday meal, when the distant trampling of hoofs told me that a party of some considerable size was approaching. I had barely time to spring to my feet before twenty-three mounted Pawnees, all armed with bows and arrows, rode up over the crest of land, halting there an instant as if to measure our strength. Because they were not in full paint, I understood that it was a hunting party, and therefore I gave the word for our men to arm themselves without delay, for it is true that in the wilderness one expects the savages will take advantage of any opportunity to work mischief. John Mitchell was not disposed to obey the command, fearing lest if we made any show of warlike preparations it would only incite the Indians to anger, but, fortunately, the other men did as I told them. [Illustration] Marshaling this little force, I moved out from among the wagons, bidding every fellow to stand firm, while I motioned for the savages to keep back. However, they urged their ponies on at full speed, riding toward us like fiends, and, as I knew very well, striving to throw us into a panic, in which case there is no question but that they would have plundered the camp. Because I was the guide, it was necessary for me to take on the greater share of the danger, and, stepping four or five paces in advance of my comrades, I made signs for the savages to keep away, at the same time leveling my rifle. [Illustration] The band was coming down upon us at the full speed of their ponies, when I thus gave evidence that it was my intention to fire if they continued, and immediately the horses were checked, the band riding off toward the south, leaving the leader behind. DEFENDING OURSELVES Dismounting, while the others wheeled about to join him again, he came toward me, his eyes roving from one member of our company to the other, as if to learn whether we had backbone enough to stand up for our rights. He must have understood that we would put up with no foolishness, for straightway all his show of fierceness vanished. He told me that his party had been out hunting buffaloes, but failed to come across any, and then begged like a dog for us to give him food. To have admitted such a crowd into our encampment would have been giving them a license to plunder, therefore I warned the fellow off. I insisted that they go back to their village, where, beyond doubt, they would find food if they were very hungry. [Illustration] John Mitchell would have argued with me because I was turning hungry people away; but I refused to listen to him, and put on such a bold front that without further parley the leader mounted his pony, and away they went over the ridge, much to my relief. When we were making camp that night a party of emigrants, numbering no less than fifty, all bound for the Oregon country, came up with us. Instead of halting as one might have supposed, for a quiet chat, they rode on as though fearing we might want to join them, and I said to myself that their guide must be one who, like myself, had already traversed the Oregon trail; yet I was pleased because of their desire to continue on alone. SCARCITY OF FUEL, AND DISCOMFORT We made only twelve miles on this day, and then camped on the open prairie where we were sadly in need of fuel, being obliged to scrape up dried grass and gather even the tiniest twigs. The scarcity of fuel was no more than might have been expected, for now we were coming to that part of the country where wood was a rarity. Next day the wind blew strong and cold from the northwest, and the cattle hurried onward in order, as it seemed, to keep up a circulation of the blood, therefore before we encamped, our party had advanced twenty miles nearer our destination; but all the men and boys were decidedly uncomfortable in body. We had crossed five or six creeks which were no more than half their usual height; but the beds of the streams were so soft that we were forced again and again to wade in that we might lay our shoulders to the wheels when the wagons were stuck fast in the mire. [Illustration] To work in water nearly above your waist for half an hour or more until having become thoroughly heated and then come out into that chilling wind, was indeed a hardship. During the next day, which was the 7th of June, we saw the first signs of buffaloes, and then indeed our hunters were wild to go out and kill some of the huge animals, insisting that I lead the party. Through these bottom lands, which were from two to four miles wide, there ran in every direction buffalo paths, which had been traversed so often by the animals that they were no less than fifteen inches wide and four inches deep in the solid earth, and as smooth as if cut out with a spade. Although we knew that buffaloes ranged in this region, it would indeed have been folly to set off, especially at nightfall, with the idea that we might find a herd, and so I told the eager ones, who grumbled not a little, believing I refused to lead them in the chase because of my own indolence. LAME OXEN When we made camp, after having traveled sixteen miles, John Mitchell called my attention to the fact that our oxen were growing lame, and he seemed quite vexed because I treated it as a matter of course. Any one who has traveled from the Missouri River to the Oregon country, knows that while crossing the prairies, which are covered with a dry stubble of matted grass, the hoofs of the animals will become hard and crack, thus allowing dirt to collect in the crevices until the leg above the hoof swells, and sometimes festers. There is only one way to treat this trouble, which is to wash thoroughly in water made very strong with soap, and then scrape away all the diseased part of the hoof, after which tar, or hot pitch, should be applied freely. [Illustration] Our men should have looked after the feet of the animals, but perhaps because that required too much labor, they had allowed the poor beasts to go neglected, and now had come the time when, unless they set about it manfully, our journey to the Oregon country might be ended suddenly. AN ARMY OF EMIGRANTS That evening, while every man was working for the relief of the oxen, three companies of emigrants, one after another, came up and encamped within half a mile of us, until we had close under our eyes, belonging to these strangers, more than a hundred wagons. There were in the first company fifty-two wagons, each drawn by four yoke of cattle; the smallest company had thirteen wagons in its train, therefore you can understand that we were almost an army. Now John Mitchell and Susan understood why I had protested against joining forces with any of the companies we came across, for at this place the grass was scanty indeed, with many animals to feed upon it, and we had the greatest difficulty to find for our beasts as much food as they were needing. I insisted on pulling out at an early hour next morning, in order to get ahead of this army of emigrants, and we traveled all day without finding better food for the cattle, encamping at night, after having journeyed twelve miles, with the knowledge that every beast we owned was sadly in need of something to eat. One train of the emigrants which we had left behind, numbering forty-three wagons, came within sight of our camp that night just at sunset and, finding the grass poor where we had halted, continued on; but I knew full well there were not hours enough of daylight remaining for them to find better pasturage. When another day dawned the rain was falling heavily, and even John Mitchell proposed that we remain in camp, rather than attempt to push on; but when I reminded him that the oxen and cows were straying here and there, striving eagerly to pick up a few scanty blades of grass, he held his peace. [Illustration] We continued the journey while floods of water came down from the clouds, until before we were half an hour on the way every one, save the women and children, who were protected by the wagon covers, was drenched. After traveling fifteen miles, we encamped where the ground was so sodden that our feet sank into the soil two inches or more; however, we gained such shelter as we could under the wagon bodies or beneath the wagon coverings, striving to sleep while the wind drove the rain in upon us like a shower bath. We could not well put up the tents in such mire, and it was more comfortable pacing to and fro as if doing sentry duty, than lying at full length in a veritable swamp. Again we set out with the rain coming down as if it would never cease, passing village after village of prairie dogs; but the children and the women showed no desire to spend any time looking at them, for all our company were in such discomfort that it would have needed something more than an ordinary animal to entice them out of their way a dozen paces. Not until we arrived at the lower crossing of the Platte River did the storm of rain subside, and while we were striving to get the wagons across, the sun came out with full strength, making matters quite as uncomfortable for us who labored, as when the torrents of water were pouring down upon our bodies. THE BUFFALO COUNTRY At this crossing the water was from one to three feet deep and the bed of the river sandy, therefore in order to get our wagons over it was necessary to double up the teams, and in some cases put on twelve or fourteen yoke of oxen, all of which required considerable time. When we were on the other side of the river, and our men so weary that they spent but little time making camp, in order the sooner to throw themselves down to rest, I aroused them to the highest pitch of excitement by announcing that now we were in a buffalo country, and that before many hours had passed they should have as many short ribs, humps, and tongues for roasting as could be eaten at one meal, however hungry they were. As if some magic change had been wrought, every man sprang to his feet, insisting that we go at once in search of the game; but I held firm, claiming that the horses were far too weary to take part in a hunt. Before the next day had fully dawned, the men who were standing guard aroused the camp by shouting excitedly that we were surrounded by buffaloes. [Illustration] It was not a very great surprise to me that the huge beasts should come so near the camp, for I had heard from men who traveled over the Santa Fe trail that the buffaloes would often mingle with straggling cows, and more than once had emigrants lost their live stock by having the animals literally forced away by these big brutes. HUNTING BUFFALOES It was a difficult matter to restrain the hunters who were bent on starting off on the instant, believing they could kill a buffalo with but little effort, if one came within range. To bring a buffalo down, one must shoot him in the lungs. To hit the skull is much like sending a bullet against a rock, for it has no other effect than to excite the animal, and oftentimes even then not very much. Of course if a hunter can send a ball through the brute's heart, that settles the matter, but it is a difficult shot. I did my best to explain how they ought to shoot in order to kill, and then, finding they were not inclined to heed my words, I proposed that we set off, each going his own way and doing the work after his own fashion. It caused me to smile when I saw those men creeping up on some old bull, whose flesh was so dry and tough that none save a starving man would eat it; but they seemed to think it was size that counted. Knowing that now was the time when I could again profit by my experience as a hunter and trapper, I went off in chase of a couple of young cows, and within thirty minutes had them stretched out on the prairie. Meanwhile I believe that no less than a hundred shots had been fired by the other members of the company; but I failed to see that any of them had been successful. [Illustration] John Mitchell and one of the men who went out with him succeeded in killing an old bull, and although during three hours of that forenoon there were hundreds of buffaloes in sight, all our company took from that vast herd were the two cows I had killed and the tough old fellow that had fallen under John Mitchell's rifle. Because Susan's father did not call upon me for advice as to how his share of the game should be cut up ready for cooking, I held my peace, but set about taking the flesh from each side of the spine, from the shoulders to the rump, of the two animals I had killed. Afterward I cut out the tongue and the hump ribs, while those two men were hacking at their game, apparently believing his flesh should be treated after the same manner as that of a stall-fed ox. While I was making ready some of the hump ribs for roasting, my mother came to my side, saying, as she pointed to our companions:-- MY MOTHER'S ADVICE "It pains me to see these people heedless of that which they must meet with before we can arrive at the Oregon country. They who complain bitterly because the sun falls upon them too warmly, or that the ford is very deep, hope to make their way to that far-off land with no more labor and no more suffering than they have already experienced since we left Independence." [Illustration] "They will soon learn, mother," I said laughingly, and yet in my heart was sorrow for the people whom I had so lately come to know, because of the lesson that was before them. "The one fear is that when we come to the mountains, when we must fight with all our strength to gain a half mile in this direction or a mile in that, camping without food and without fuel, whether they will keep on or grow disheartened and turn back." "I cannot understand, my son, that you need feel anxious. Do your duty by them as you have agreed, and even though we are forced to come straight away back over the trail, it will be through no fault of yours." I have allowed myself to set down details concerning this journey of ours into the Oregon country as if there was ample time at my disposal; yet if I am to tell all the story of that long tramp, and then attend to the work which I have taken upon myself, it is necessary I hasten in the recital, instead of striving to give the particulars of each day's march. After leaving the camp where we had killed the buffaloes, we found the traveling good, grass plenty, and game so abundant that one might go out and shoot whatever he needed of buffaloes, antelopes, or elks, without spending very much time at the work, providing he was reasonably expert with his rifle. ASH HOLLOW POST OFFICE Susan rode with me, as she had from the beginning of the journey. Nothing of note happened to us, unless I should set down that this day was stormy, and on that day the sun shone, until we came into the valley of the North Fork of the Platte, through a pass which is known as Ash Hollow. There we drove down a dry ravine on our winding way to the river bottoms, stopping now and then to gather a store of wild currants and gooseberries which grew in abundance. [Illustration] Near the mouth of the ravine we came upon a small log cabin, which had evidently been built by trappers, but the emigrants on their way into the Oregon country had converted it into a post office, by sticking here and there, in the crevices of the logs, letters to be forwarded to their friends in the States. Hung on the wall where all might see it, was a general notice requesting any who passed on their way to the Missouri River to take these missives, and deposit them in the nearest regular post office. The little cabin had an odd appearance, and Susan confessed that, almost for the first time since leaving Independence, she was growing homesick, solely because of seeing this queer post office. After crossing the stream we came upon a party of emigrants from Ohio, having only four wagons drawn by ten yoke of oxen, and driving six cows. Truly it was a small company to set out on so long a march, and when the leader begged that they be allowed to join us, I could not object, understanding that unless the strangers had some one of experience to guide them, the chances were strongly against their arriving at the Columbia River. NEW COMRADES There was in the company a girl of about Susan's age, whose name was Mary Parker, and from that time I had two companions as I rode in advance of the train. I could have found no fault with these new members of our company, for they obeyed my orders without question from the oldest man to the youngest child. Mary Parker was a companionable girl, and she and Susan often cheered me on the long way, for even when the rain was coming down in torrents, drenching them to the skin, they rode by my side, laughing and singing. [Illustration] On the twenty-fourth day of June we arrived at Fort Laramie, in the midst of a heavy storm of rain, thunder, and lightning. We had traveled six hundred sixty-seven miles since leaving Independence, if our course had been the most direct; but allowing for the distances some of us had ridden in search of cattle or here and there off the trail looking for a camping place it must have been that we made at least a hundred miles more. FORT LARAMIE Fort Laramie is on the west side of a stream known as Laramie's Fork and about two miles from the Platte River. It is a trading post belonging to the North American Fur Company, and built of adobe, by which I mean sun dried bricks, with walls not less than two feet thick and twelve or fourteen feet high, the tops being well guarded by long, sharp spikes to prevent an enemy from climbing over. [Illustration] This fort, if it can be called such, is simply a wall inclosing an open square of twenty-five yards each way, along the sides of which are the dwellings, storerooms, blacksmith shops, carpenter shops, and offices all fronting inside, while from the outside can be seen only two gates, one of which faces the north and the other the south. Just south of the fort is a wall inclosing about an acre of land, which is used as a stable or corral, while a short distance farther on is a cultivated field, the scanty crops of which give good evidence that the soil is not suitable for farming. About a mile below Fort Laramie, and having much the same appearance as that fortification, although not so large, is Fort John, which is in possession of the St. Louis Fur Company. [Illustration] We were given quarters inside Fort Laramie, which was much to our liking, for it would have been more than disagreeable had we been forced to camp outside the walls, where were, when we arrived, at least three thousand Sioux Indians. Their buffalo-skin lodges dotted the plain all around the fort until one could have well fancied there were three times the real number in the neighborhood, and it was as if their tepees were countless, although John Mitchell was told that they had no more than six hundred. I learned shortly after our arrival that the Sioux had gathered here for the purpose of making ready to attack the tribes of the Snakes and Crows, and they had but just finished their war dance when we came up, seemingly having no regard for the violent storm which was raging. Even as we drove into the fort the water was descending from the clouds in torrents, but there were hundreds of these savages dancing and singing, and in various ways striving to show their joy because a war was about to be begun against their enemies. A SIOUX ENCAMPMENT A Sioux lodge is made of poles lightly stuck into the ground, in a circle of about ten feet in diameter; the tops come together within less than twelve inches, this opening being left for the smoke to pass out, because in stormy weather the Sioux women do all their cooking under cover, when a fire is built in the center of the tepee. Herein they differ considerably from the Pawnees, who seem to think it disgraceful to seek shelter, save in the most bitter weather of winter. Over the framework of poles are buffalo robes, tied together with sinews until the covering will shed water and resist wind. Inside, the floor is covered thickly with skins of many kinds, on which by day the occupants lounge or cook, play or gamble, as best suits their fancy, and at night the same furs serve as a bed for all the family. It was at Fort Laramie that I was met by certain members of the American Fur Company, who had in the older days been well acquainted with my father, and had seen me more than once when I was with him. [Illustration] They paid their respects to my mother, and she and I, in company with John Mitchell and Susan, were invited to dinner with the gentlemen. We had cold corned beef and biscuit, with plenty of milk to drink, which fare was to us a luxury. INDIANS ON THE MARCH We remained at Fort Laramie one day and had the good fortune to see the Indians setting out on the march, the men to go against their enemies, and the women to return to the villages. We saw the squaws taking down the lodges and fastening the poles on either side of the pack animals, with one end dragging on the ground. Across these poles, just behind the horse, were lashed short pieces of wood, forming a framework on which were tied the food, furs, and household belongings, while in many cases the children rode on top of the load during the journey. [Illustration] Then the babies were shut up in small willow cages, and either fastened on the backs of the pack horses, or securely tied to the trailing poles. The women performed all the work from taking down the lodges to leading the pack animals. The men did nothing save sit on their ponies, decked out in a fanciful array of feathers, with their war shields and spears from which fluttered gay-colored bits of cloth, as if their only purpose in life was to present a warlike appearance. As I told the girls, those Sioux Indians making ready for battle were the first real savages we had met. They would not hesitate to carry away anything belonging to a white man, if they could get their hands upon it, but they acted more like men, than did any we had seen before. THE FOURTH OF JULY Within two days after leaving Fort Laramie, we killed three elks and four deer. It was necessary to halt another day in order to cure the meat, after which we pushed on at our best speed until the Fourth of July, when all the company, John Mitchell's following as well as that party of emigrants who joined us at Ash Hollow, remained in camp during a full day to celebrate properly the winning of our independence. There was nothing we could do, save follow the example of the savages, when they want to show signs of rejoicing, and that was to make a great feast. I had the good fortune to shoot an elk and an antelope shortly after daybreak that morning, and much to my surprise John Mitchell and one of the men brought in a small bear. During the feast those men who believed they excelled in speech making showed their skill at great length. The chief part of what was said concerned the Oregon country and the possibility that the Government at Washington would stretch out its arms over the land to which we were traveling, showing the English people that we claimed it as our own, and intended to hold it against all comers. This halting for the celebration was of advantage to the cattle, whose feet were yet sore, for they needed rest quite as much as did the women of the company. [Illustration] Then, when we set off once more, it was with greater cheerfulness and increased hope, for the way could not have been improved nor made more pleasant. There was timber in abundance, so we were not put to it for fuel, and as for game, a good hunter might go out at almost any hour in the day two or three miles from our wagon train, and bring back deer, buffaloes, antelopes, or even bears. MULTITUDES OF BUFFALOES Ten days after we celebrated the independence of this country we encamped near the Narrows, within sight of the snow-capped Wind River Mountains, and then it was that our company got some idea of what a herd of buffaloes looked like. [Illustration] When we broke camp in the morning it seemed as if the entire land was covered with the animals. They were in such throngs that the sound of their hoofs was like the rumbling of distant thunder, and one could hear the click, click, clicking of the thousands upon thousands of horns when they came together in battle, for the bulls appeared to be fighting incessantly as they moved here and there. Some of the brutes were rolling in the dust, turning from side to side as if in greatest delight, others had gathered in groups as if watching those who fought. One could compare the scene to nothing more than to an ocean of dark water surrounding us on every side, pitching and tossing as if under the influence of a strong wind. It was such a sight as I had seen more than once, but to my companions it was terrifying at the same time that it commanded their closest attention. [Illustration] The big brutes were in such numbers that they gave no heed to us. Had we been needing meat, hundreds upon hundreds might have been brought down within a mile of the encampment. As it was, four of our men could not resist the temptation to go out and kill some, although it was wanton butchery, for we had then so much flesh in camp that more could not be carried. I was a little anxious on beginning the day's march, fearing lest we might find ourselves in the midst of that herd, for they gave no attention to man even when our people were shooting. But it was not for us to halt because of a lot of stupid buffaloes, and I gave the word to move on, insisting that all the men, being fully armed, should guard the cows lest they be stampeded. For two hours we rode in the very midst of that countless herd, with the shaggy, heavy brutes pressing so close to our wagons that some of the men were forced to go on ahead and drive them away by firing pistols or using clubs, for one could get near enough to pommel them as you might pommel a lazy horse. I did not breathe freely until past noon, and then we had left behind us that surging sea of beasts. But for the fact that the time would come, as I knew full well, when we should need meat, I would have said I hoped we should never see another buffalo that side of the mountains. WE MEET COLONEL KEARNY AGAIN On this night, within about a dozen miles of the Narrows, we came upon Colonel Kearny's soldiers, returning from their long march, having come through South Pass. Somewhat of the hardships they had encountered, and which we must face, could be guessed at by looking at those seasoned troopers, who appeared to be completely exhausted by long riding and scanty rations. No less than twenty of the men were on the sick list, and at least a hundred others looked as if they soon would be. [Illustration] I believe nothing could have been shown John Mitchell's company which would have told more eloquently of the hardships to be encountered when we came among the foothills. Then we pushed onward more sturdily, and I could see that every man in our company was looking forward into the future, understanding that there must be no faltering now, else they would fall by the wayside, as had so many of whom we heard from day to day. On the seventeenth day of July we felt the first frost of the season, when ice formed a quarter of an inch thick, and this warned our people that there was no time to be lost, if we would win our way through. If winter caught us while we were among the mountains, it would be necessary to make camp until spring, and who could say whether during those long months we would be able to get sufficient game to keep us alive? ACROSS THE DIVIDE [Illustration] Two days after we had this first token that winter was coming, we passed over the dividing ridge which separates the waters flowing into the Atlantic from those which find their way into the Pacific Ocean, and, bringing the train to a stop before any of our people realized that we had arrived at what one might call the parting of the ways, I called out that three cheers be given for the Oregon country, at the same time pointing to the streams which were running westward. There was great excitement in our company when it was known that we were really on the Divide, and regardless of the fact that we should have been pushing on, all insisted upon halting until late in the afternoon, in order, as Mary Parker said, that they might celebrate properly having accomplished thus much of the journey. That night the air was filled with frost, and we who had been sleeping with no blankets over us, were glad to wrap ourselves in whatsoever we could lay hands upon, to prevent our blood from being chilled. When we camped, there was no water to be seen on either hand, nothing save the sandy bed of the stream, and I verily believe all our people would have gone thirsty if I had not insisted that they dig in the sand a hole from eighteen to twenty inches in depth. We then watched until enough brackish water had oozed up to moisten the tongues of our thirsty stock, after which, by waiting a full hour we got enough to satisfy us partly. It was the twenty-fifth day of July when we halted at Fort Bridger and set up our tents just outside the adobe walls, for, knowing the place right well, I had no desire to spend a night inside the inclosure. FORT BRIDGER This fort, like many another, is little more than a trading post, and was built two years before we started for the Oregon country, by two old trappers who had turned fur traders. The largest building is made of adobes and serves as storehouse, while the others are flimsy shelters built from time to time to serve the needs of visitors. I remember having heard in St. Louis why James Bridger forsook his calling of trapper to engage as trader, and have even seen the letter he wrote Pierre Chouteau when he settled in the valley of Black's Fork of the Green River, asking that goods for trading with the Indians be sent to him. In it he wrote: "I have established a small fort with a blacksmith shop and a supply of iron, on the road of the emigrants, which promises fairly. People coming from the East are generally well supplied with money, but by the time they get here are in want of all kinds of supplies. Horses, provisions, and smith work bring ready cash from them, and should I receive the goods hereby ordered will do a considerable business with them. The same establishment trades with the Indians in the neighborhood, who have mostly a good number of beaver among them." John Mitchell had a very good idea of how great a profit the owners of the fort hoped to make, when he was forced to pay five cents a pound for flour, and three dollars a pound for powder, with other supplies in like proportion. [Illustration] James Bridger was exceedingly kind to mother and me when he learned who we were, for he had often trapped in company with my father, and I believe he would have given us outright anything we might have needed from his stores, had we told him we lacked money with which to pay for what was wanted; but I would not have taken a dollar's worth from any man, unless my mother had been in sore distress. Susan Mitchell was greatly interested in the trapper who had turned trader, when she heard from my mother that James Bridger had been grievously wounded in a battle with the Blackfeet Indians, had received two arrows through his back, and yet after so severe an injury he, with his friend, Bascus, and two other comrades, held the savages at bay for two days, until a company of white hunters came to his relief. One of the arrows was taken from Bridger's body during the fight, but the other held firm in the wound, and Bascus cut off the wooden portion close to the flesh, letting the iron head remain. This piece of metal he carried in his body three years, until Dr. Marcus Whitman, who was on his way to the Oregon country, cut it out after long and painful work. The arrowhead was three inches long, and the barbs had become hooked around one of the man's bones, which held it until it was cut out by Dr. Whitman. We were at our nearest point to the Great Salt Lake, and at this place a trail branched off, leading to what is known as Ogden's Hole, close by that vast inland sea. If we had desired to go to the California country, it would only have been necessary to continue on around the Wasatch Mountains, and then strike off again to the westward, unless we were inclined to climb the hills, going by the way of that salt lake. There were twenty-five lodges of Indians near Fort Bridger, some of the savages having come to trade, and not a few of them being employed as trappers by the fur buyers. They were mostly of the Snake tribe and had with them quite a large herd of cattle. Already Susan Mitchell and Mary Parker had seen enough of the Indians to satisfy their curiosity, and whether they wore moccasins of a little different pattern from other Indians, or fashioned their bows and arrows after another manner, was not sufficient inducement to persuade them to encounter such conditions as were to be found in the lodges. [Illustration] In order to give our cattle a rest we remained at Fort Bridger two days, after which we went on again with the hope of soon coming upon the Columbia River. Our men had been told by the fur buyers that it was of the greatest importance we push forward at all speed, lest we be caught among the hills by the snow, and during the four or five days following our departure from the post, we traveled more rapidly than at any other time since leaving Independence. The month of August had well set in when we came to Soda Springs, and there it was I had counted upon surprising Susan Mitchell; nor was I disappointed. [Illustration] These springs are small hills or mounds standing at the right of the trail near a grove of cedars and pines, while the water that has oozed out of them in the past has formed a solid crust of soda for miles around, so hard that one may walk upon it. The liquid soda is warm and sparkling as it comes to the surface, and when it has been led some distance away where it may be cooled, is as pleasing a drink as one can find in any of the shops in the East, for it is the true soda water as made by God Himself. TRADING AT FORT HALL At the end of the first week in August we arrived early one forenoon, at Fort Hall, which is a trading post belonging to the Hudson's Bay Company and having the appearance of a regular fortification, because of being built chiefly of adobe brick. [Illustration] There we were able to buy flour at two cents a pound, providing we were willing to pay for it in cattle at the rate of from five to twelve dollars per head, and since we had two lame oxen and three cows that could travel but little farther, we laid in a supply, being allowed for our five animals thirty-six dollars in goods. At this place John Mitchell's people were urged to abandon the idea of going into the Oregon country because of the hardships and dangers which must be encountered, and those trappers who were lounging about the fort insisted that it would be better that we went to California, instead of attempting to go farther on the road we had chosen. The emigrants who had joined us on the way became frightened because of the many stories which were told, and decided to try their fortunes in California rather than Oregon. Therefore when we pulled out from Fort Hall, Susan Mitchell was saddened at parting with Mary Parker, who had been a cheery comrade for the girl during the time they had traveled together. THIEVISH SNAKES We were now in the country of the Snake Indians, and while one might believe that the Pawnees are the most expert thieves in the world, he has simply to come across the Snake tribe in order to learn what may be done in the way of robbery. Two days after we left Fort Hall, when I had warned John Mitchell that it was necessary to keep a sharp watch both day and night lest even the clothing be stolen from our backs, he laughed me to scorn; but I noticed that he took exceedingly good care of his saddle horse, not only hobbling the animal, but tying him to a picket rope which was fastened to his own wrist. This he did twice, and yet on the third morning, despite all such precautions, the horse was gone, the hobble having been cut and left on the ground, while the picket rope was severed neatly within a half dozen inches of his hand. This theft had been committed while Mr. Mitchell slept, and he prided himself upon being one who was easily aroused. After this, and I may as well say here that John Mitchell never saw his horse again, there was no reason why I should urge watchfulness upon any of our people. They voluntarily redoubled the guards while we were in the Snake country, and although I am not able to say we got through without losing anything, nothing of great value was taken from us, with the exception of the horse. THE HOT SPRINGS I had one more marvel on this road to the Oregon country with which to surprise Susan Mitchell, and that was the Hot Springs, which were within a mile of the trail; therefore I led the company directly to them, there making camp. [Illustration] There are five or six of these springs, from which water bubbles up so hot that one may boil meat in it without need of fire, and when I said as much to Susan's mother, she was inclined to think I would make sport of her; therefore she boldly plunged her hand in, with the result that every part of the skin which came in contact with the water was reddened to the point of being blistered. That night we boiled some pemmican[1] in one of the springs, and the girls of the party amused themselves by making up balls of meal dough and lowering them into the water by strands of plaited grass, cooking them as dumplings are cooked in a stew of meat. When we camped at Portneuf Crossing, mother told us the story of the trapper Portneuf, who was murdered at this place by the Indians, and spoke in such a tragic manner that even John Mitchell was impressed by the brutal details. When I made the rounds of the camp before going to sleep, I took note that none of the men were inclined to move around alone outside the rays of light cast by the camp fires, and he whose turn it was to stand watch, had with him a companion, much as though he was afraid to remain without a comrade near at hand in a place where such an evil deed had been done. FOOTNOTE: [1] A prepared meat carried by all travelers over the Oregon trail. THE FALLS OF THE SNAKE RIVER Next day, after a march of fourteen miles, we came to the American Falls of the Snake River, and supper was long delayed because all the women and girls were lost in wonder and surprise at the beautiful scene. I told them that the Snake River flows over three immense cataracts, the American, the Shoshone, and Salmon Falls, one quite as awe-inspiring as the other. We slept that night with the roaring of the cataract drowning all other noises, and next morning we were as wet as if we had been exposed to a smart shower. The wind had changed about midnight, and the spray from the falls was blown into the tents as well as under the wagon covers, until we were so uncomfortable that sleep left us at an early hour. [Illustration] Because of thus being awakened before break of day, we set off on the march sooner than usual, with the result that before sunset we had arrived at Raft River, twenty-six long miles from the American falls. The trail was difficult even for pack horses, and there were many places where it seemed an absolute impossibility to drag the heavy wagons with the teams doubled until we had at times as many as twelve yoke of cattle to one cart. We were encamped in a valley, the bottom lands of which were covered with heavy, rich grass that must have been a real surprise to the animals after the scanty fare they had had from the time of leaving Fort Bridger. I believed that we might spend a full day here, in order to give the animals good rest before undertaking the mountainous trail, and was on the point of telling John Mitchell what I had in mind when Susan called my attention to six or eight wreaths of smoke coming from as many different points on the mountains around us. SIGNS OF THE INDIANS To the girl it was a cause only for surprise that smoke should be seen ascending in such a place; but on the instant I was alarmed, knowing beyond doubt that signal fires had been kindled by the Indians, warning others of their tribe that a small company of white people were where they might be attacked with small chance of defending themselves. No one except my mother knew of the anxiety which filled my heart that night. Knowing that we were at the mercy of the savages, if they should fall upon us while we were in the valley and they on the rising ground around us, I could not sleep, although needing rest sadly. I spent the time until sunrise walking from one sentinel to another in order to make certain each man was keeping sharp watch. John Mitchell must have guessed that danger threatened, for he came out from beneath the cover of his wagon shortly after midnight and remained on the alert until sunrise. [Illustration] Then we could see many columns of smoke from the sides of the mountains, and I knew we were surrounded by savages who would not hesitate to make an attack in order to gain possession of our goods, if it could be done without great danger to themselves. BESET WITH DANGER I would not listen to John Mitchell when he proposed that we make a hurried start, for I knew the Indians were near enough to see clearly what we were doing, and at the first show of fear on our part the whole crew would be upon us. However, I insisted that no member of the company should stray ever so short a distance from the train, and I took good care that the cows were herded in close order between two of the wagons. Despite all I could say to the contrary, Susan insisted on accompanying me when I rode to and fro along the line, keeping sharp watch for a possible ambush and fearing each instant to hear that savage yell which would tell that the enemy was upon us. Yet we passed along the mountain sides and across narrow valleys in peace until after sixteen miles we arrived at the banks of Marsh Creek, where I gave the word that a halt be made, because then we were where it would be possible to make some show of defending ourselves in event of an attack, owing to a small thicket of stunted pines on a slight elevation of land near the water. During all the day's journey, I knew the Indians were hovering close around us, because of the signal fires that were lighted just in advance of us from time to time; but we failed to see the enemy except once, when a half-naked savage showed himself, as if by accident, as we rounded a bend in the trail. Other than that one glimpse of a dark form and the signal fires on every hand, we had no proof that danger lurked near us. It is likely that the greater number of our company were ignorant of that which menaced; but I knew full well that we had been in peril of our lives from the moment we made camp at Raft River. [Illustration] Again I passed a sleepless night, and again John Mitchell joined me as I went from sentinel to sentinel, asking now and then if any suspicious noise had been heard, until another day had dawned, and then I failed to see signal smoke, search the country with my eyes though I did. It was evident the Snakes believed we would put up a strong fight if attacked, and, failing to catch us at a disadvantage, they had drawn off, most likely hoping to come across some other company of emigrants who were not so cautious. HUNGER AND THIRST From Marsh Creek we journeyed to Goose Creek, a distance of seventeen miles, earning by most severe labor every yard of advance and failing to find water during the entire day. That part of the country yielded no grass for the animals, and when we made camp at night we took good care to see that every beast was hobbled so securely that he could not stray very far in search of food. The next day's march ended at Rock Creek, and although the traveling was quite as hard for beasts and men, we made twenty-four miles, urged to most severe exertions because our store of food was being consumed rapidly. I knew we could not hope to find game and therefore we must go hungry until arriving at the trading post on the Snake River known as Fort Boise, while the animals would have great difficulty in finding grass. The country was stripped as bare of green as though a fire had passed over it, and many were the distressing tales I could have told of emigrants who had perished miserably by starvation while trying to make this portion of the long journey. We left Rock Creek a full hour before daylight, urging the famished beasts at their best pace while we ourselves strove not to think of food lest the hunger which beset us should become more keen. Not until forty-two miles had been traversed did I give the word to encamp, and it was full time, for I question if we could have held on half an hour longer. NEARLY EXHAUSTED Then we had arrived at Salmon Falls Creek. It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening when we came to a halt, and during the last half hour of the march we had been more nearly asleep than awake. At this camp we found a scanty crop of grass, but no food for ourselves, and when, weary to the verge of exhaustion, we crept under such shelters as had been put up hurriedly in the darkness, it was with the knowledge that sleep would come quickly, enabling us to forget, even for a short time, our great needs. From this point the next camping place would be on the bank of the Snake River, at what is known as the first crossing, twenty-five miles away, and then we had before us a journey of seventy-three miles to the Boise River, after which we must march forty-eight miles farther in order to gain Fort Boise, where food could be had. One hundred forty-six miles stretched out ahead of us before it would be possible to satisfy our hunger, and this distance could not be covered in less than three days. Our animals were so nearly worn out with severe work and lack of food that it did not seem possible we could advance another ten miles, and yet all that long distance must be traversed unless we gave up the struggle, leaving our bones to bleach on the trail, as many another had done before us. Now and again we came upon ghastly evidences of death, in wrecks of wagons and tokens of human beings who had perished by starvation. Perhaps it was well we saw those things, since they forced our people to struggle all the harder. [Illustration] We traveled in silence during the three days before arriving at Fort Boise, eating nothing at noon, and for breakfast and supper receiving no more than enough to prove how desperately hungry we were. I strove to keep my mind fixed upon the danger which might menace from Indians, in order to be ready to guard against it; but the others, even including Susan, rode or walked listlessly, as if already despairing of ever being able to accomplish the task before us. The animals moved feebly; twice an ox fell in the yoke, refusing to rise again, and we were forced to leave him behind. The men worked half-heartedly when it became necessary to double the teams in order to haul the wagons over the rough road, and so great became the suffering of all that we moved onward as if in a dream. ARRIVAL AT FORT BOISE I shall not speak of that terrible time, save to say that the good God permitted us to arrive finally at Fort Boise at the very moment when I believed there was no hope of our succeeding. It was as if we had been dead and come alive again, when the trappers came out to meet us, and carried the women and children into the inclosure, for, having arrived where grass could be found, the hungry beasts came to a full stop nearly a quarter mile distant, nor was it possible to force them forward a single pace farther. Fort Boise is a Hudson's Bay Company's post, and if the trappers and traders there had been members of the American Company they could not have treated us with greater kindness. Because of our exhausted condition the men took entire charge of our cattle, and we were treated almost as children, being waited upon during the first hours after our arrival as if we were not capable of caring for ourselves, which I suppose really was the case, for if we had been allowed to have all the food we desired some of the weaker ones might have eaten until they died. [Illustration] Two days at this post served to put the members of the company, as well as the cattle, in fairly good condition, and the men who had treated us so kindly urged that we take our departure without further loss of time lest we be overtaken by snowstorms while among the Blue Mountains, which range it would be necessary to cross before we arrived at the Oregon country. ON THE TRAIL ONCE MORE I understood that such advice was good, and when John Mitchell would have lingered despite the advice of the trappers, I took it upon myself to insist that we go forward, picturing to him in the most vivid colors the result if winter came upon us before we had scaled the mountain range. In order that we might not overtax our newly acquired strength, we brought the first day's march from Fort Boise to an end at the bank of the Malheur River, sixteen miles distant. Next day we traveled thirty-one miles to Burnt River, where we halted one day to make ready for a sixty-mile journey to Powder River. To make any attempt at describing this part of our journey would be repeating the words I have set down many times before. The trail was as rough as can well be imagined, and the labor of getting the heavy wagons along quite as great as had been found elsewhere. Because of the supplies bought at Fort Boise, we did not suffer greatly from hunger, although we were allowed only a small portion of food each day; but the animals were in a half-famished condition all the while until we had arrived at the Grande Ronde, which is a beautiful valley among the mountains, where grass can be found in abundance. There in that excellent camping place we remained two days, the cattle meanwhile feeding greedily, as if realizing that it was necessary they add to their strength in order to make the journey over the mountains, fifteen miles away. [Illustration] Refreshed by the long halt, we began to climb the Blue Mountains, where the trail led over such steep ascents that it became necessary to yoke all our cattle to one wagon, pull it a mile or two up what was much like a cliff, and then drive the oxen back for another load, thus winning our advance with the greatest difficulty, and after the most severe labor traveling no more than seven miles in one day. CAYUSE INDIANS It was about the middle of September when we arrived at the Umatilla River, where is an Indian village under rule of the chief Five Crows of the Cayuse tribe, and a more friendly tribe I have never seen. They had not a little land cultivated,--of course all the work had been done by the squaws,--and stood ready to trade with us for whatever we had, but were more eager for clothing than anything else. [Illustration] On leaving the valley, the trail runs straight up the bluff, over a high, grassy plain, affording fairly good footing for the animals; but when we halted that night it was necessary to carry water from the stream no less than a mile and a half up on the ridge, to our camp. Two days later we came upon a village of the Walla Walla Indians, who, instead of begging, offered us venison and potatoes and seemed to be much pleased when we accepted their gifts; we lingered with them a day, for now the time had come when I could no longer call myself guide. THE COLUMBIA RIVER We had come within sight of the Columbia River, which was not more than four miles away, and farther than this I had never gone, for my father in his trading trips had generally halted in the Umatilla Valley, where he remained until having gathered a large supply of furs. [Illustration] Now that the river was in full view, any of the party might have led the way, for the trail was fairly well defined; but there were so many chances of wandering out of the most direct course that I urged John Mitchell to hire one of the Walla Walla Indians to serve us until we arrived at Oregon City. To my surprise he refused, but insisted that I finish the task. It is true that I could continue as guide while we had the river near at hand to mark out the general course, and it pleased me much that he should be willing to put so much confidence in me, for I understood, or believed I did, when we left Independence, that he was more than doubtful whether a lad of my age could properly do that which might be required. As I learned from the Indians, we had but one more difficult passage to make before the journey would be finished, and although the cattle and the horses were worn nearly to the verge of uselessness, I believed that by making slow marches, if the winter did not come upon us too suddenly, it would be possible to make our way through. AN INDIAN FERRY The way was hard, more difficult, it seemed to me, than any over which we had passed. But by working carefully, sparing the cattle as much as we could, and not forcing them more than an eight- or ten-mile march, we succeeded in passing over the bluff, until we came to the Des Chutes River. At this stream it was necessary to have assistance from the Indians, because it would be impossible for so small a party as ours to make the crossing. The current was so rapid and violent, besides being exceedingly deep at places, that we could not hope to take the wagons over except by using canoes as ferryboats. This last we did, lashing upon five or six of the largest a platform of poles and split logs, until there had been formed a bed sufficiently large to give room for a wagon. It seemed to me as if John Mitchell would never make a bargain for this rough ferrying. The Indians demanded as the price of their labor almost everything they saw in the wagons, and at least three hours were spent in haggling, before we were ready to make the first venture. [Illustration] Then our picket ropes were doubled and tied together until we had a length sufficient to stretch across the stream. One end of this was made fast to the platform of logs and canoes, and the other carried by a party of the Indians to the opposite side of the stream, when all the strength of every man that could be mustered was required to keep our ferryboat from striking upon the rocks. We were two days making this passage, although the stream at its widest part is not over a hundred fifty yards, and when, finally, the task had been accomplished and we started on the last stage of our journey, it was found that, in addition to what we had given the Indians, they had succeeded in stealing a quantity of powder and shot, several shirts, and two pair of trousers, one pair of which, I grieve to say, belonged to me and were the best I ever owned. THE DALLES OF THE COLUMBIA I wish I could express the thankfulness and relief which came upon me on the 29th of September, when we arrived at the end of our journey, for then we had come to the Dalles, or the Methodist Missions, beyond which no wagon had ever passed. At this place we found several families of would-be settlers waiting for a passage down the river in one of the two small boats which ran from Cascade Falls to Fort Vancouver, from which place they might continue the journey by water to Oregon City. Here, at what is known as the Dalles of the Columbia, where the water rushes through a long, narrow channel of rock with so swift a current that when the water is high even boats propelled by steam cannot stem it, the missionaries sent out by the Methodist Church have built a few dwellings, a schoolhouse, and a barn, besides planting the surrounding land by aid of the Indians whom they have converted from a life of savagery to the knowledge of God. [Illustration] OUR LIVE STOCK I cannot take to myself very much credit because of having led John Mitchell's company without serious mishap, even though I have twice before traversed the trail from the Missouri River. Yet we had no trouble which could not be overcome by hard labor, and every member of the company arrived at the journey's end in good health, which is more than can be said of other emigrants. When we arrived at the Dalles of the Columbia, we found there emigrants who had lost more than half of all their live stock during the long journey, and again my heart was overflowing with thankfulness, because we had suffered no great loss. On leaving Independence there were in John Mitchell's train, as I have already set down, thirty cows, forty oxen, twenty horses, and ten mules. We arrived at the Dalles with twenty-one cows, thirty-two oxen, seventeen horses, and six mules. MY WORK AS GUIDE ENDED Here at the Dalles, as I have said, the journey was nearly ended, and here it is that I, Antoine, who now three times have crossed from the Missouri to the Columbia River, have come to an end of my story-telling. In guiding John Mitchell's company over this long journey of more than two thousand miles, I did no more than show them what I knew of woodcraft, how to kill the buffalo, to stalk the antelope, to creep up on the elk, and, what in the Indian country is of the greatest importance, how to form camp so that they might be in least danger of a surprise. My mother had come over this long stretch of country with fewer hardships than any other woman in the company. She had been, as you might say, familiar with travel in the wilderness, for twice had she been out with my father on his trading trips, and knew how to take advantage of this time of rest, or of that period of toil. I BECOME A FARMER Having left our home in St. Louis, we began to realize, as the end of the journey drew near, that we must look upon ourselves now as settlers in the Oregon country. Because of not having sufficient money with which to embark in my father's business, I must content myself with becoming a farmer, that I might the better care for my mother. Even though it did not accord with my wishes to abandon the life of a trapper, yet that was of no account, so long as I was able to do my duty by my mother, even as she has done her duty, and more, by me. Concerning the journey down the river, when we traveled comfortably on a boat, there is no reason why I should set down anything, save that we arrived at Oregon City on the twenty-second day of October. We remained at the Mission, with other intending settlers, a long time waiting for the boats, and when we arrived the journey which had been begun on the sixth day of May, if we counted the beginning when we left Independence, was at an end. There were many matters regarding this long march of ours, many small adventures and larger misadventures, which I would dearly have loved to set down. It would also have pleased me to tell how it was that I came to buy land on the Columbia River, with the money earned as a guide, together with what was received from the sale of the old home. All this and more, I would like to set down in detail; but I have not the time in which to do it, therefore I will write as the last words, that I, who once claimed St. Louis as my home, while I labor with my hands in the fields for my dear mother, have put behind me the past with its lure of trapping and hunting, and learned to think of myself only as Antoine of Oregon. [Illustration] BOOKS CONSULTED IN WRITING ANTOINE OF OREGON BALLANTYNE, R. M.: The Dog Crusoe. Henry T. Coates. BRYANT, EDWIN: What I Saw in California. D. Appleton & Co. BRYCE, GEORGE: The Remarkable History of the Hudson's Bay Company. Sampson Low, Marston & Co. CHITTENDEN, HIRAM MARTIN: The American Fur Trade of the Far West. Francis P. Harper. DELLENBAUGH, F. S.: Breaking the Wilderness. G. P. Putnam's Sons. DRAKE, SAMUEL ADAMS: The Making of the Great West. Charles Scribner's Sons. IRVING, WASHINGTON: The Adventures of Captain Bonneville. G. P. Putnam's Sons. MARCY, RANDOLPH B.: The Prairie Traveler. Harper & Brothers. PARKMAN, FRANCIS: The Oregon Trail. Little, Brown & Company. PAXSON, FREDERICK L.: The Last American Frontier. The Macmillan Company. POWELL, LYMAN P.: Historic Towns of Western States. G. P. Putnam's Sons. THORNTON, J. QUINN: Oregon and California. Harper & Brothers. THWAITES, REUBEN GOLD: Early Western Travels (Palmer). Arthur H. Clarke Co. THWAITES, REUBEN GOLD: Early Western Travels (Buttrick). Arthur H. Clarke Co. JAMES OTIS'S COLONIAL SERIES Calvert of Maryland Richard of Jamestown Mary of Plymouth Ruth of Boston Peter of New Amsterdam Stephen of Philadelphia Price, each, 35 cents. For grades 3-5 Don't you remember the "Toby Tyler" stories, which appeared some years ago in "Harper's Young People"? And don't you remember how impatiently boys and girls looked forward to the next issue merely because of those tales? Stories like those mean something to children and make an impression. ¶ Here are six new stories by the same author, James Otis, the first he has ever written for schools. They are just as fascinating as his earlier ones. They are stories and yet they are histories. Their viewpoint is entirely original, the story of each settlement being told by one of the children living in the colony. For this reason only such incidents as a child might notice, or learn by hearsay, are introduced--but all such incidents are, as far as possible, historical facts and together they present a delightfully graphic and comprehensive description of the daily life of the early colonists. ¶ The style in which the children tell the stories reads as charmingly as that of a fairy tale, and abounds in quaint humor and in wholesome, old-fashioned philosophy. ¶ Each book is profusely illustrated with pen and ink drawings that not only add to its artistic attractiveness, but will be found a genuine aid to the child's imagination in reproducing for him realistic glimpses into a home-life of long ago. ¶ There is no better way for your pupils to learn about the beginning of our country. The books are just as well suited to libraries and home use. Write us about them. HISTORICAL READERS By H. A. GUERBER Story of the Thirteen Colonies $0.65 Story of the Great Republic .65 Story of the English .65 Story of Old France .65 Story of Modern France .65 Story of the Chosen People .60 Story of the Greeks .60 Story of the Romans .60 Although these popular books are intended primarily for supplementary reading, they will be found quite as valuable in adding life and interest to the formal study of history. Beginning with the fifth school year, they can be used with profit in any of the upper grammar grades. ¶ In these volumes the history of some of the world's peoples has taken the form of stories in which the principal events are centered about the lives of great men of all times. Throughout the attempt has been made to give in simple, forceful language an authentic account of famous deeds, and to present a stirring and lifelike picture of life and customs. Strictly military and political history have never been emphasized. ¶ No pains has been spared to interest boys and girls, to impart useful information, and to provide valuable lessons of patriotism, truthfulness, courage, patience, honesty, and industry, which will make them good men and women. Many incidents and anecdotes, not included in larger works, are interspersed among the stories, because they are so frequently used in art and literature that familiarity with them is indispensable. The illustrations are unusually good. ¶ The author's Myths of Greece and Rome, Myths of Northern Lands, and Legends of the Middle Ages, each, price $1.50, present a fascinating account of those wonderful legends and tales of mythology which should be known to everyone. Seventh and eighth year pupils will delight in them. CARPENTER'S READERS By FRANK G. 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The summaries at the end of the chapters, besides serving to emphasize the chief events, are valuable for review. ¶ In the SCHOOL HISTORY by far the larger part of the book has been devoted to the history of the United States since 1783. From the beginning the attention of the student is directed to causes and results rather than to isolated events. Special prominence is given to the social and economic development of the country. ¶ In the BRIEF HISTORY nearly one-half the book is devoted to the colonial period. The text proper, while brief, is complete in itself; and footnotes in smaller type permit of a more comprehensive course if desired. Short summaries, and suggestions for collateral reading, are provided. PUPILS' OUTLINE STUDIES IN UNITED STATES HISTORY $0.30 By FRANCIS H. WHITE, A.M., Professor of History and Political Science, Kansas State Agricultural College A blank book, which is intended for the pupil's use in connection with any good history of the United States. It presents an original combination of devices conveniently arranged, and affords an unusually clear idea of our country's history in which the chief events are deeply impressed on the learner's mind. The entire development of the United States has been taken up in the most logical manner, and facts of a similar nature have been grouped naturally together. ¶ This material is in the form of outline maps, charts, tables, outlines for essays, book references, etc., with full directions for the pupil, and suggestions to the teacher. Students are required to locate places, trace routes, follow lines of development, make pictures of objects illustrating civilization, write compositions, etc. ¶ The use of this book has demonstrated that the teaching of history need no longer present any difficulties to the teacher. 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NEW SERIES OF THE NATURAL GEOGRAPHIES REDWAY AND HINMAN TWO BOOK OR FOUR BOOK EDITION Introductory Geography $0.60 In two parts, each .40 School Geography 1.25 In two parts, each .75 In the new series of these sterling geographies emphasis is laid on industrial, commercial, and political geography, with just enough physiography to bring out the causal relations. ¶ The text is clear, simple, interesting, and explicit. The pictures are distinguished for their aptness and perfect illustrative character. Two sets of maps are provided, one for reference, and the other for study, the latter having corresponding maps drawn to the same scale. ¶ The INTRODUCTORY GEOGRAPHY develops the subject in accordance with the child's comprehension, each lesson paving the way for the next. 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Sheep, Indexed $2.40 Webster's Handy Dictionary .15 Webster's Pocket Dictionary .57 The same. Roan, Flexible .69 The same. Roan, Tucks .78 The same. Morocco, Indexed .90 DAVISON'S HEALTH SERIES By ALVIN DAVISON, M.S., A.M., Ph.D., Professor of Biology in Lafayette College. Human Body and Health: Elementary, $0.40 Intermediate, $0.50 Advanced, $0.80 Health Lessons: Book One $0.35 Book Two $0.60 The object of these books is to promote health and prevent disease; and at the same time to do it in such a way as will appeal to the interest of boys and girls, and fix in their minds the essentials of right living. 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AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
42214	----	TRANSCRIBER NOTE: Original spelling and grammar has been mostly retained, with some exceptions. The use of hyphenation and quotation marks marks in the book is a bit haphazard. Some corrections have been made. More details about corrections and changes are provided in the TRANSCRIBER ENDNOTE. * * * * * [Illustration: _R. Pitcher Woodward at his journey's end._] * * * * * ON A DONKEY'S HURRICANE DECK A Tempestuous Voyage of Four Thousand and Ninety-Six Miles Across the American Continent on a Burro, in 340 Days and 2 Hours STARTING WITHOUT A DOLLAR AND EARNING MY WAY BY R. PITCHER WOODWARD (PYTHAGORAS POD) AUTHOR OF "TRAINS THAT MET IN THE BLIZZARD" Containing Thirty-nine Pictures from Photographs Taken "en Voyage". 1902 I. H. BLANCHARD CO., PUBLISHERS NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY R. PITCHER WOODWARD [Illustration] * * * * * CONTENTS. PART I. I. Madison Square to Yonkers 11 II. Donkey's many ailments 19 III. Polishing shoes at Vassar 27 IV. An even trade no robbery 35 V. The donkey on skates 42 VI. Mac held for ransom 51 VII. I mop the hotel floor 60 VIII. Footpads fire upon us 68 IX. In a haymow below zero 74 X. An asinine snowball 83 XI. One bore is enough 90 XII. At a country dance 98 XIII. A peculiar, cold day 105 XIV. I bargain for eggs 111 XV. Gypsy girl tells fortune 116 XVI. All the devils are here 123 XVII. Darkest hour before dawn 132 XVIII. Champagne avenue, Chicago 142 PART II. BY PYE POD AND MAC A'RONY. XIX. Donk causes a sensation 153 XX. A donkey for Alderman 158 XXI. A donkey without a father 169 XXII. Rat trap and donkey's tail 173 XXIII. Mac crosses the Mississippi 178 XXIV. Pod hires a valet 183 XXV. Done by a horsetrader 190 XXVI. Pod under arrest 197 XXVII. Adventure in a sleeping bag 208 XXVIII. Mayor rides Mac A'Rony 213 XXIX. Across the Missouri in wheelbarrow 219 XXX. Pod in insane asylum 224 XXXI. Narrow escape in quicksand 237 XXXII. At Buffalo Bill's ranch 243 XXXIII. Fourth of July in the desert 250 XXXIV. Bitten by a rattler 253 XXXV. Havoc in a cyclone 260 XXXVI. Two pretty dairy maids 265 XXXVII. Donks climb Pike's Peak 273 XXXVIII. Sights in Cripple Creek 280 XXXIX. Baby girl named for Pod 287 XL. Treed by a silvertip bear 293 XLI. Nearly drowned in the Rockies 304 XLII. Donkey shoots the chutes 309 XLIII. Paint sign with donk's tail 319 XLIV. Swim two rivers in Utah 326 XLV. Initiated to Mormon faith 339 XLVI. Typewriting on a donkey 343 XLVII. Pod kissed by sweet sixteen 348 XLVIII. Last drop in the canteen 352 XLIX. How donkey pulls a tooth 364 L. Encounter with two desperadoes 369 LI. Donk, boy and dried apples 380 LII. Lost in Nevada desert 385 LIII. A frightful ghost dance 393 LIV. Across Sierras in deep snow 400 LV. All down a toboggan slide 409 LVI. 'Frisco at last, we win! 415 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. (Portrait) The traveler at the journey's end. "I bade my friends farewell." "We consumed a half hour in the gigantic task." "I found the captive drinking with other jackasses." "We tramped tired and footsore into the village." "Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying it." "Mac's little legs would get stuck." "Mac supervised the work." "The only time I got ahead of him." "I scrutinized his hat inquisitively." "He accused me of attempting suicide." "We made slow headway to the Mississippi. "In this way I crossed that bridge of size." "And I saw the streak of daylight." "Mac was so slow that his shadow beat him to town." "Over the Platte bridge, after blindfolding them." "I killed my first rattlesnake." "That was the town of Korty." "Climbing Pike's Peak." "He had caught a nice mess of trout." "Trail through the timber." "Independence Pass; one of the loftiest of the Continental Divide." "Trail to Florisant." "Two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass." "Through thickets, tangled roots and fallen trees." "To swim and float on Salt Lake." "Skull Valley desert, we stopped to feed and rest." "The last and only drop." "Just finished lunch when the possé arrived." "Coonskin and I took shelter behind our donkeys." "Through Devil's Gate, their panniers scraped the walls of the rocky gateway." "Fired their revolvers in the air." "Some Piute Indians who had camped close by." "Playing Solitaire on Damfino's broad back." "Began to plow snow toward Placerville. "The cattle passed us, after we donks had broken the trail." "Across on the exclusive Solano." "I pointed toward the goal." "The ferry approach in 'Frisco was choked with a rabble." * * * * * PROLOGUE. This is as true a story of my "voyage" as I am capable of writing. Besides the newspaper accounts, two magazine articles, illustrated on this subject have been published, the only ones contributed by me, and they hardly outlined the trip. I have left out a hundred interesting incidents and culled and edited until I am tired, in order to condense this volume to convenient size. On the other hand, notable adventures only recalled by my photographs have been cheated of a mention, because the donkey ate my notes--he ate everything in sight, and did not discriminate between a comic circus poster and a tragic diary. Ever since completing the trip, I have promised this book "next month," but owing to the checkered career of the MS. with ninety-seven publishers (all of whom declared that the book should be brought out at once, but they lacked the nerve to publish it), I am only now able to fulfil my promises. This is no romance. When I did not walk with the donkey or carry him, he carried me the whole four thousand and ninety-six miles, which includes the distance traveled when he balked and backed. With my two cameras I secured six hundred pictures descriptive of the journey across eleven states, through the four seasons, during that long, long year; only by them and my diary am I brought to realize it is not a wild, weird dream. Now it is over, I sometimes smile over things recalled which, when they happened, found me as serious as the donk--grave in the superlative degree--and thought-less people and those who never even crossed the plains by train may style my experience a mere outing or "picnic." General Fremont and other distinguished pioneers emphasize in their writings the pleasures of their overland trips. They, as did the emigrants of the '40s and '50s, set out in spring time from the Missouri or the Mississippi in companies, with money, wagons, cattle and supplies, and with one-third of the continent already behind them. The Indians and big game of the prairies provided excitement that lent a charm to the undertaking; it is dull monotony that kills. I started four days before winter, practically without money, to support, from earnings only, myself and dumb partner from New York city to San Francisco. It required twelve weeks to traverse the Empire State, through a severe season when and where I suffered the most. The delightful part of the journey was while crossing the Rockies. Instead of taking the shortest cut, I had to consider the towns where I might best make expenses, to look for the best roads and desert trails by springs. Three times when lost I traveled far out of my course, once twenty miles into a mountain forest. It is only five days across by rail. Have you traveled it--in summer? How monotonous grew those seas of alkali, sand (rock waste), cacti and sage as the hours lengthened into days! Yet with comfortable beds, shade, meals served, cool drinks, and books to read, at times feeling yourself speeding through the air a mile to,the minute, you wearied of the "voyage." Five days! Multiply them into weeks, then into months, double and add five weeks--forty-nine weeks! Fancy yourself for such a period on a slow burro which walks half your natural pace, and so small that if you wear roller skates while in the saddle you may ease the animal; ride one mile astride; when you feel about to split, ride the second mile side-ways; when your back feels ready to break, ride the third mile Turkish fashion; by this time your legs are benumbed and your feet asleep, so walk a mile and carry the jackass; you will thereby quiet your nerves, rest your bones, and make better time. If ever you are tempted to ride a donkey overland, REFRAIN. Rather creep across backwards on your hands and knees, or circumnavigate the globe in a washtub. If you still persist, why, ride a donkey twenty miles in a pouring rain, then follow your own judgment. If you wish my donkey's advice, I will introduce him. His head is longer than his ears, which was not the case when he set out with me. R. P. W. [Illustration: "_I bade my friends farewell._"] * * * * * PART 1. * * * * * On a Donkey's Hurricane Deck CHAPTER I. By this hand, thou think'st me as far in the devil's book as thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and persistency. Let the end try the man. --_Shakespeare._ A noisy, curious, gaping multitude was crowded about the Bartholdi Hotel, New York. It was just after the noon hour on Friday, November 27, 1896, the day on which I was to start on my long and memorable journey across the continent on a donkey. The corridors were filled with interested guests, the reception room held about a hundred of my friends who had come to bid me God-speed, and less than a hundred thousand people choked Madison Square and the streets leading into it. I had agreed with a friend to forfeit to him five thousand dollars, in case I should fail to make a donkey trip from New York to San Francisco in three hundred and forty-one days, under the following conditions: Start from New York City, without a dollar in pocket and without begging, borrowing, or stealing, procure a donkey, and, riding or leading the beast, earn my way across the continent to San Francisco, and register at its leading hotel within the schedule time. I must cover the whole distance with a donkey by road or trail only; announce in a prominent newspaper of New York my start, at least twenty-four hours in advance, and mention the hour, day, and starting point. Seated on a donkey, I must parade on portions of Broadway, Fourteenth and Twenty-third Streets, Fifth, Madison, and West End Avenues; both the donkey and I must wear spectacles, and I a frock-coat and "plug" hat, but, the latter to be discarded at pleasure when once across the Mississippi River, the coat to be worn to San Francisco. I slyly suggested the two most absurd conditions, believing it would be easier to earn my way in the rôle of a comedian than in the garb of a serious-thinking, imposed-upon mortal. I reasoned that I should have to live on sensation and notoriety, and, perhaps, keep from starving by employing my wits. These reflections I kept to myself. My "friend" chuckled amusedly, doubtless picturing in his mind the circus I was about to provide. Without delay I began the preparations for the asinine journey. After much troublesome searching, I managed with the help of Hennessy, a stable-keeper, and Dr. Moore, a veterinary surgeon, to secure an option on a small donkey at James Flanagan's sale stables. Macaroni was the animal's name, and the price to be paid was $25. Then I got our coachman to go among his friends to see if he could get hold of a coat--a Prince Albert--and stove-pipe hat. He succeeded admirably, and when I had ordered spectacles for myself and the donkey, I was ready for the trip. I reached the hotel on the appointed day at one o'clock, borrowed the donkey for my official start, sent him back to the stables, then went to the Reception Room. Among my friends awaiting were my "friend," the landlord of the hotel, a photographer who had taken a picture of me seated on the donkey a few days before, and had come to deliver the photos; and my attorney, for the Chief of Police had refused me a permit to parade on the streets, and threatened my arrest if I proved to be a public nuisance. I borrowed a pen and bottle of ink, and, after bowing a greeting to my friends assembled, set to work putting my autograph on the pictures, which I offered for sale at twenty-five cents. Bless my suspenders, and how they went! I made up my mind that we "two donkeys" would many times have greater difficulty in obtaining quarters before I reached my destination. For an hour the fist of Pye Pod swung a powerful quill and inscribed on each photograph a name that would go into his-story. Silver jingled on the table; the anxious hands of the crowding patrons got mixed in the shuffle, and some got two pictures and others got none; the ink flew about recklessly, and there were no blotters at hand; my heart thumped, and I was so excited that I kissed by mistake an indignant girl friend in place of my sister; and finally stole my sister's lace handkerchief, instead of that of a sweetheart, but which, however, I failed to discover till six months afterward; and still I lacked the requisite sum. I now had twenty-four dollars, but I needed at least forty-one. Although I had made a five-dollar payment to Flanagan, that money came from my private purse and must be redeemed and returned; besides, I must pay $12 to the photographer for the 200 photos delivered to me, and $4 more to the blacksmith's representative for shoeing the donkey. "I will lend you all the money you want," said the president of one of my clubs; and my "friend's" ears and eyes were directed upon me. "I cannot beg, borrow, or accept gratuities," I exclaimed, firmly; "I propose to fulfill the terms of my wager to the letter, and when I accomplish it, be able to make a sworn statement to that effect." Just then I heard a newsboy calling, "EXTRA--ALL ABOUT THE GREAT DONKEY RIDE." At once I dispatched a friend with money to purchase the papers, while I followed him to the hotel exit, where I stationed myself in full view of the crowd and drew from my pocket a blue lead pencil, ready for a new task. The papers secured and brought to me, I scribbled my name on them and offered them for a dime apiece. "I have no time to make change, so give me the amount you wish to pay," I said to the eager purchasers. In fifteen minutes I had enough dimes and quarters and fifty-cent pieces to enable me to square my accounts and send for my donkey. In the course of a half hour, Macaroni was induced by sundry persuasions to invade the noisy precinct of Madison Square and come up to the hotel door; and, with a small surplus of cash in pocket, I bade my friends farewell and got into the saddle. Amid a deafening "tiger" from the multitude, the "lion" of the hour majestically proceeded down Broadway to Fourteenth Street; and the most sensational parade New York had ever witnessed had begun. My lazy steed barely crawled; he stopped every rod or two, and generally in front of a car or other vehicle. It was an event for the street gamins, and, had they not trailed close behind us through the city and given Mac occasional goads and twists of the tail, I doubt if I could have reached Harlem by midnight. It was a terrible ride, and I often have wondered since how I escaped with my neck. Passing down Fourteenth Street, we turned up Fifth Avenue, crossed Madison Square, paraded Madison Avenue to Thirty-third Street, turned to the left over to Fifth Avenue and passed the Waldorf-Astoria, followed Forty-second Street to the Boulevard, and up the avenue to Seventy-second Street, and then up West End Avenue, past my "friend's" residence. There I was stopped by a member of the mounted police, and, to my surprise, was tendered a Loving-cup Reception by my "friend's" pretty daughter, who, with a number of our mutual friends, welcomed me while her father was at his office expecting a telegram that Pye Pod had given up his trip. All drank to the pilgrim's progress. Wines, flowers and ice cream, tears, and best wishes, all contributed to the happy function, while out of doors, an incident happened that caused me to rush to my donkey's side. It seems that, in looking through his green glasses, he mistook the iron picket screen that guarded a young and hopeful shade tree for some kind of verdant fodder, and destroyed a couple of teeth. The incident threw a damper on the reception, so I made my adieux, and resumed my fated journey with a heart still hopeful, yet heavier than it ever felt before. It was 7 P. M. when Mac and I stopped at the Minot Hotel, Harlem, and registered for the night. Among my several callers that evening was a Professor of a Riding Academy who claimed to have ridden horseback from ocean to ocean a few years previous and within several feet of his death after losing several horses; and he described to me the perils of my prospective trip, the boundless, waterless deserts and snow-covered mountains, the tornadoes and tarantulas, and the untamed Indians, and ferocious prairie dogs, and begged me to give up the journey. Dear old Professor, how often on that voyage on the hurricane deck of my donkey, did I indulge in grievous meditation on the wisdom of your advice! I simply thanked the gentleman for his tender concern about my welfare, and sold him a chromo for a quarter. After a bath, I enjoyed a delicate sleep, and next day set out in a dripping rain for Yonkers, over twenty miles away, with less than a dollar in pocket. I had only sold enough pictures on the way to Harlem to defray my hotel bill, as a stringent city ordinance prohibited it without a license, and I had difficulty in avoiding the vigilant police. But, although fortune and the weather frowned on me, I ground my teeth and headed for the Golden Gate. Trailing up Seventh Avenue, I gradually left the busy metropolis to my rear and entered a more open country. Some urchins of the suburbs tagged behind us meddlesomely, and finally a Dutch vixen hit Macaroni with a potato, almost causing me to leave the saddle. That paradox of asininity chased the potato, and ate it. He, doubtlessly, feared lest the missile might strike him again, and decided it best to put it out of the way. At 2 P. M. I had crossed McComb's Dam Bridge, and at five I crossed another of the same description. It was low and narrow, and Mac was so afraid of the water that I had to blindfold him to get him across. Shortly after occurred our first disaster. On nearing a little hamlet that had reached the horse-car stage of progress a counterfeit breeze sprang up which soon developed into a howling hurricane, as a huge beer wagon filled with dragons, or flagons of vile spirits wheeled down upon us. They wanted to scare the jackass, and they did. The wagon wheels got into the car tracks, and when the wagon turned out for us the wheels slid, and hit my partner in the vicinity of his tail, sprinkling us broadcast over a quarter acre of ground. I carried out a friend's prediction by traveling some distance on my face; I say this without vanity. When I sat upright, I saw Macaroni still turning headsprings. My repeating rifle stuck in the soft earth erect, dressed in my long-tail coat and plug hat, a veritable scarecrow, while the soil was well sown with rifle cartridges. It took us a half hour to get again under way. With a degree of patience that would have overtaxed Job himself, I collected my belongings, dragged my beast of burden to Yonkers, and anchored him in front of a hotel. It was only eight; I had thought it nearly morning. The genial landlord received me kindly, but said I had arrived at a bad season. The town was financially dead, the factories had shut down, and a thousand stomachs were empty. I corrected him; there were a thousand and one, and, ascertaining the shortest route to the dining-room, I gave him proof that I was right. After supper I felt in good spirits. I had sold sufficient chromos on the way from Harlem to land here with five dollars in pocket, and soon after my arrival, one man bought all the pictures I had left, seven of them, for which he paid two dollars. So, although weary in body, I retired that Saturday night with some sense of relief in knowing I possessed the funds to keep myself and partner over the Sabbath. A general inspection of my donkey next morning revealed the fact that he was badly "stove up," and the probability that I would be detained in consequence several days. If I ever had the blues, I had them then. A veterinary, Dr. Skitt, was summoned; he bandaged two legs, covered twenty square inches of donkey with court-plaster, and strapped a new boot on the animal's off fore leg. On returning to the hotel, I notified the landlord that I should be his guest very likely several days on account of my steed's crippled condition; I said I proposed to give a lecture Tuesday evening to defray my extra expense, and asked him if I could have the dining room for the purpose. "Can you fill the hall?" asked the proprietor. "Full as a kit of mackerel." "But I have only a hundred chairs," he apologized. "Hire two hundred of an undertaker," I suggested, "and I will defray all other expenses of the funeral." It was a go. I then worded a handbill and hurried with it to a printer. CHAPTER II. I sow all sorts of seeds, and get no great harvest from any of them. I'm cursed with susceptibility in every direction, and effective faculty in none. --_Mill on the Floss._ A shower of paper flakes fell upon the amazed citizens of Yonkers like an unseasonable snow-storm, and every flake contained the announcement: TO=NIGHT! TO=NIGHT! TO=NIGHT! G---- HOUSE DINING=HALL Only chance to hear The Greatest of Modern Travelers PYTHAGORAS POD Who left New York without a dollar, to eat his way to San Francisco, within one year, WILL RELATE 100 HAIR=BREADTH ESCAPES Lassoing elephants in India; hunting chamois with sling-shots in the Alps; perils of an ostrich ride through the great African desert; and a kangaroo hop across Australia--THE BIGGEST HOP ON RECORD. * * * * * Gleanings from the Press. "His stories will make a hyena laugh."--_New York Bombast._ "Pye Pod is nothing more than a cake of sugar boiled down from the syrup of Lawrence Stearne, Dean Swift, Cervantes, Artemus Ward, and Josh Billings."--_Chicago Tornado._ * * * * * EVERY MAN AND WOMAN who has Thirty cents to throw away, should put one in a Yonkers Bank and Twenty-nine in the pocket of the donkey traveler. * * * * * TICKETS, $0.29. TICKETS, TWENTY=NINE CENTS * * * * * YONKERS APPEAL POWER PRINT Even Macaroni lent a hoof, and was led by a boy through the streets, bearing a pasteboard sandwich which reached from ears to tail. The residents of Mistletoe Avenue gazed at the ridiculous spectacle, indignantly at first; but on the return trip they crowded in open door-ways and regarded the procession of beast and tagging boys, as much as to say, "We must go and hear the donkey lecture." Macaroni had quite recovered; his exercise did him good. My lecture promised to be a huge success. The Tuesday Morning Squib and the Evening Sunrise contained alluring advertisements of the event sure to puncture an epoch in my life. When the hour arrived, the populace, I was secretly informed, with twenty-nine cents in one hand and their lives in the other crowded about the hotel and called loudly for admittance. My hands trembled, my hair throbbed, and my heart leaped in the ecstacy that comes with one's first great triumph, while I stood in the butler's pantry waiting for a friend to introduce me--to bid me enter the stage--the first stage of lunacy. When I issued forth, I was so excited I could not distinguish the audience from so many chairs. Having agreed to divide the receipts with my host for the use of his house, my visions of wealth got confused with my words, and I talked for an hour with all the eloquence and enthusiasm I could muster,--though I should have said less to a smaller house,--and with a sore throat retired to the refreshment room, followed by my press agent from Brooklyn. The "Doctor" handed me just twenty-nine cents. My audience had consisted of three persons: the landlord, the head-waiter, and the Dago printer whom I owed three dollars. Reverses are like children's diseases. If they come too late in life, they go hard with us; and if too early, they may visit us again. I was not totally bankrupt. Not willing to begin a "three ball" business at the very outset, I resolved to rise at dawn and sell enough chromos to that unappreciative community to pay my bills, if I had to sell them at cost. I set to work. By one o'clock I had visited every shop, store and Chinese laundry, and was talking hoarsely to a corner grocer who, seated on a keg of mackerel, sampling limburger cheese, grinned with satisfaction at his fortified position and swore like a skipper. I offered a picture for fifteen cents, but the reduction in price did not disturb his physical equilibrium. "I vant not a peakture at any price," he affirmed. "I lack fifteen cents of the amount of my hotel bill," I urged; "I am in dire straits." His reply was weak, but the cheese was strong enough to help him out. My mental magazine had but a single charge left, and I fired it. "Isn't it worth fifteen cents to know a fool when you see one?" "Ye-e-es, I dink it ess," answered Sweitzer Edam, "and eef you vill write it on the peakture I'll buy it." I made the sale. Then after calling on the Mayor, who received me cordially, swapped autographs, and asked to see my partner, I saddled my animal and led him to the hotel for my traps. "You aren't going before dinner?" the proprietor asked; "it's ready now." "I'm flat broke--can't afford to eat," I returned sadly. "Then come in and have a meal on me," said he. "A man who has worked as you have to square with his landlord shan't leave my hotel hungry." I yielded. My trip to Tarrytown was accomplished on my own legs. Macaroni refused to budge unless somebody led him. The whole town turned out to see us; it was an event for the hotel. That evening I was asked to McCarty's Show, at the Theatre, paying thirty-five cents admission; I learned that the "Dutch treat" was in vogue when too late for my pride to let me decline the invitation. Next day, at noon, I set out for Sing Sing, now called Ossining, about seven miles away. My steed, that was really not half a steed, seemed to be gradually recovering from the doubt that an endless journey had been mapped out for him, and kept me watching and prodding him constantly. On one occasion he drove through a gap in a fence; on another, he scraped through a hedge and relieved himself of my Winchester, coat and saddle-bags, for which he immediately expressed regret. At length, he balked; and I sat down by the road-side a half hour before he showed readiness to go. While there meditating upon my trials, a pedestrian stopped and listened to my sixteen complaints. He seemed much amused, and suggested that if I would hang a penny before the donkey's nose he might follow the cent. A practical idea at once came to mind, and when, soon afterward, we reached a farm house, I put my idea to the test. I purchased some apples, and suspended one from a bough secured to the saddle and reaching over the donkey's head. The scheme worked admirably. Mac pursued the bobbing, swinging fruit at such a speed that he was nearly winded when we reached town, having manipulated his short legs to the velocity of two and one-third miles an hour. We reached town shortly after five. The village is nicely situated high on the banks of the Hudson, and some of its residents have a beautiful view of the river, while others see nothing more picturesque than a stone wall. Sing Sing, to use the more familiar name, is the seat of an extensive prison, patronized by sojourners from all parts of the world and heavily endowed, being backed by the wealth of the State. A local organization, the Sing Sing Steamer Company, invited me to its monthly dinner that evening, and, to my surprise and gratitude, purchased with a sealed envelope one of "our" pictures for the club rooms. I don't think it a good custom to buy a pig in a poke, but this time the pig was fat and healthy, and I found myself several dollars richer. Next morning I bought a revolver, for, as I had to employ the larger part of the day in making sales and working my wits in a multitude of ways to keep my ship from stranding and the crew from starving, I was often compelled to travel long into the night and required some more handy weapon than a rifle for defence against pirates. The newspapers generally heralded my coming, often greatly magnifying my successes, and I felt that the hard times, which the country at large was suffering, made such a thing as a hold-up not only possible but imminent any night. Having received an invitation to visit the State Prison, I set out in the forenoon to find it, and a policeman (a very proper person, by the way), guided me to that famous hostelry. Macaroni also was invited, but the affrighted animal declined to enter the prison gates. Whether he thought he saw a drove of zebras, or was repelled by a guilty conscience, I know not, but, falling back in a sitting posture, he threw his ears forward and brayed loudly. On entering the office, the secretary rose from his chair and seized me. "Professor," he said, "you are my prisoner for an hour; come this way and I will present you to the warden." We left the room and walked over to that official's desk. "Mr. Warden," said the secretary, "Allow me to introduce Professor Pythagoras Pod, the illustrious donkey-traveler, who is eating his way across the continent." "Show the gentleman to the dining-room, and give him a plate of soup," said the warden hospitably; then, squeezing my fingers, he waived me to the chief keeper of the prison. The warden noted my hesitancy in leaving, and asked if there was anything in particular he could do for me. "Will you allow me to sit in the electric chair?" I asked. "Ye-e-es," he replied politely, but apparently startled, "although I consider you are already having capital punishment for your asinine undertaking;" and turning to the keeper, he said, "Give him fifty thousand volts; nothing less will phase a man of his nerve." I thanked him. With faltering step I entered the solemncholy chamber. A colored prisoner was to follow me a day later. Little he knew that he would sit in the same chair Pod sat in the previous day. The keeper said everything was in readiness for turning on the current that has the power to drift a soul from this world to another in the twinkling of an eye. The battery had been thoroughly tested,--and detested, too. In less than thirty seconds from the time an ordinary prisoner enters a door of this world he enters the door of another; but, Pod, being a man of extraordinary nerve, walked out the door he entered. When I climbed into that terrible chair, I held my breath. The keeper said it required only a certain number of volts to kill a man; that fifty thousand, such as the warden had suggested for my pleasure, would not so much as singe a hair of my head. If I survived the first shock, I would have something to boast; as it would be abusing a confidence to describe the sensations of electrocution, I must not do so. On returning to the office the warden congratulated me, and said I had earned my freedom. He even presented me a plaster of Paris ornament,--made by a prisoner who had never seen Paris,--and a package of prison-made tobacco, which I might chew, or eschew, as I liked. While I appreciated these gifts, how much more I should have valued a battery of electrical currents to administer to my donkey. Crowds assembled to view our exit from town at two o'clock. We reached Croton, some six miles beyond, about dusk. As we approached the bridge crossing of the Croton River, I saw a duck and thought I would test my marksmanship with a revolver. My drowsy steed had nearly reached the center of the bridge when I banged at the innocent hell-diver. A compound disaster followed the shot as the frightened jackass shied to the left and dashed through the iron frame-work, tail over ears into the river, scraping me out of the saddle, but dropping me, fortunately, on the bridge. I managed, however, to get the duck; the donk got the ducking. It was a marvel that he didn't drown; from the way he brayed, I judged he was of the same opinion. Long after dark we arrived in Peekskill. Throughout the day the weather was threatening, and I tramped the last three miles in the rain. I had donned my mackintosh and slung my overcoat across the saddle, and was pacing ahead of Mac, with reins in hand, coaxing the stubborn beast on, when suddenly he jumped. I turned just in time to discover in the darkness two men, one of whom was suspiciously near to the donkey. I told them civilly to walk ahead, as they excited my animal. "That's none of our business," one of them remarked; "we'll walk where we d--d please." "Not this time," I said, as I got the drop on them with my new shooting-iron; and I marched the ruffians into town. The sneaks probably wanted my overcoat. Before we were fairly in town I dismissed them, and advised them thereafter to cultivate civility toward travelers. It was Friday night. I called upon the Mayor, and engaged the Town Hall for a lecture, resolved to try my luck again in that line. Alas! my second reverse! This time it was a too impromptu affair. Sunday I rested, but Monday, when everything augured bright for the week, I was shocked to find Macaroni ill. At once I summoned a doctor, a dentist, and a veterinary surgeon for a consultation, and breathlessly awaited the verdict. "Your jackass has a complication of diseases," said the vet; "among them influenza, bots, and hives." "He has the measles," pronounced the doctor. "He is teething," insisted the dentist. This was too much; with a troubled brow and an empty stomach I went to breakfast, and left the doctors to fight it out. CHAPTER III. Little drops of water, Little grains of dirt, Make the roads so muddy Donk won't take a spurt. --_Dogeared Doggerels--Pod._ Never before had I encountered such a disagreeable road. While I tramped over the highlands from Peekskill to Fishkill Landing, Macaroni barely crawled. He kept me constantly in the fear that he would lie down and roll, and finally he did so, selecting a mud puddle. I was told donkeys fairly dote on dust, and that a roll will invigorate them more than will a measure of grain. But mine was different to other donkeys. Before leaving Peekskill, Dr. Shook said Mac showed symptoms of mud fever, although the tendency lay strongly toward phlebitus, farcy, and poll-evil. He even warned me that I might expect epizootic to set in any day. To urge Mac on to Newburgh in one day necessitated my start, at day-break. We reached the Fishkill ferry at half-past eight, covering the twenty-mile journey in fifteen hours. The highland road was rough where the mud had dried. Steep and rocky summits stood out, bold and barren, save where occasional bunches of young cedars huddled among the denuded trees. Finally I saw a small structure, through whose open windows could be heard a chorus of youthful voices intoning. "The--dog--caught--the--pig--by--the--yer." It was a school house. I remembered that song of my boyhood; I thought it would be interesting to drop in, and forthwith rapped on the door. Meanwhile, Mac stuck his head in the window, causing a deafening chime of cries within. A painful silence followed. I waited patiently for admittance; then I opened the door. The room was deserted, the exit at the opposite end wide open, I crossed the floor and looked out to discover the teacher and two dozen young ones scurrying up the mountain through the scant woods. I called to them, but they ran the faster. Wonder what they thought they saw? With every mile's advance we penetrated more deeply the mountain wilderness. Before long Macaroni began to slow up. Again I had recourse to the scheme of suspending an apple over his head. The beast increased his speed at once, making a lunge at the unobtainable, and chasing it with rapid stride. He evidently had never read the story about the boy who pursued a rainbow, and unlike that boy, was stupid enough to be fooled twice. A few miles beyond I answered some inquiries of a woman out driving, and sold her a photo. I had no sooner stopped with the article in hand than I was startled with the sound of gagging behind, and turning, I beheld the donkey wrenching in the throes of strangulation. Having lowered the apple to the ground, he had swallowed it, together with the string and half the bough. I withdrew the "intrusions" with difficulty, and returned to the woman who had fainted. I had no restoratives; but I had once resuscitated a Jew with a novel expedient, and determined to try the same plan in this case. "These pictures are fifteen cents each, although I sometimes get twenty-five for one," I said somewhat forcibly; "don't trouble yourself, madam, trust me with your pocket-book, I will--." At once the woman awoke, and counting out the lesser amount mentioned, pulled on the reins and drove away. Let me grasp the hand of that man who can beat a woman at a bargain! When passing through Cold Spring, I was startled by the booming of cannon at West Point, just across the river. I had not expected such honors. So overawed was I by the salute that I forgot to count the guns, but presume there were twenty-one. Far above and behind the group of academic buildings still frowned old Fort Putnam, deploring its shameful neglect, and casting envious glances at the modern Observatory below and the newer buildings lower down. Every mile of the beautiful Hudson recalled to mind happy memories of my own school days, which made my present ordeal doubly distressing. When night lowered her sombre shades, my thoughts took flight to more distant scenes. My heart and brain grew weary, and I forgot for a time that my bones were lame and my feet sore from walking, walking, walking on an endless journey, with no perceptible evidence of approaching nearer to the goal. At length, the Albany night boat steamed past us, its myriad lights dancing on the ruffled waters, or revealing a jolly group of passengers on deck. The air was painfully quiet; and when the song, "Oh, Where is My Wandering Boy To-night," floated over to me in answer to Macaroni's bray, I found consolation in the thought that perhaps some of the tourists recognized my outfit in the dark, and pitied me. I had by this time discovered mountain climbing to be a donkey's leading card. He may loiter on the flat, but he will make you hump when it comes to steep ascents. The night was mild for that season of the year, and becoming considerably heated, I doffed my overcoat and spread it over the saddle on my mackintosh. When we were descending the hill on the other side, I dismounted and led Mac with the bridle reins, but kept a good watch on the coats. After a while, however, I became so absorbed in thought that I neglected my duty, and, finally, when I did turn to inspect them they were missing. It gave me the worst fright I had experienced since leaving New York. Staking Mac to a gooseberry bush, I immediately retraced my steps a mile or more through an Egyptian darkness before I found the garments lying securely in the mud. On my return to the bush I was alarmed not to find the donkey. That "phenomenon" had eaten that prickly shrub to the roots and fled either down the road to Fishkill or through the woods. I started out for town on a run. Imagine my astonishment to find Mac patiently standing in front of the ferry. The boat had landed her passengers; and had the donkey not taken the precaution to anticipate me, we should have had to remain on that side of the river for the night. As it was, the ferry waited for Mac's rider--thanks to the considerate pilot. Newburgh! I recognized her by her streets at an angle of 45 degrees. Mac took to the place hugely. I stopped at a small combination hotel and restaurant, where roast turkey and pumpkin pie decorated the windows, and made arrangements for the night. When about to leave, I was visited by a delegation from the local militia who, for a fair consideration, induced us both to remain over and referee a game of basket ball that evening at the armory. Mac did not accept very gracefully, and had to be coerced. What I knew about the game wouldn't tax a baby's mind, but that didn't matter. It proved to be an event for the regiment, for Pod, and for Macaroni. Next day I found my donkey's maladies increasing. They had already tripled in number since leaving Peekskill; and, to think, I had arrived at Newburg just two days too late to secure a sound animal. I pushed on to Poughkeepsie. Upon arriving at that university city I was pleased to find the inhabitants not quite so slow as the appearance of the place would indicate. The city has of late years become the Henley of America. It is the seat of Eastman's business college, as well as a very progressive college for girls--Vassar. The residents generally drop three letters in spelling the name of their proud city, and make it Po'keepsie. There were four good points I liked about the place, and that was one of them; the other three were, the Mayor, the Vassar girls, and a newspaper reporter who, for a consideration, engaged Mac and me to appear at the theatre in an amateur play. It was to be a new stage in our travels. The urchin who led the donkey about the streets proudly bore in one hand a standard inscribed: "KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE DONKEY;" and those who obeyed saw printed on a canvas blanket gracefully draped over Mac's back the startling announcement: "WILL APPEAR TO-NIGHT IN HOGAN'S ALLEY, AT KIRCHNER'S HALL." I believe Mac paraded the city utterly oblivious of the interest he created. I had promised to have my donkey at the Hall at five sharp. There were two staircases for him to climb, and I had not contemplated the enormity of the task before me. We tugged on his halter; we set three dogs barking at his heels; but the only time he stirred was when he removed the dogs. He just braced himself well against the curb, and brayed until he had called the audience to the show two hours ahead of time. After a while two strong policemen took a hand with me in a three-handed game, and turned over a jack. Finally, four more men assisting, the beast was carried upstairs and into the theatre, where he was forced to walk a plank on to the stage. Then I fed and watered him, and combing his fur the right way, left him to the melancholy contemplation of his position. When we returned an hour later, he was still as immovable as a statue. The stage manager directed me to ride the donkey out from behind the scenery at a given signal; so I began to practice with him. I cannot describe all that happened the next hour. By seven o'clock Mac was fairly broken, and everything looked promising. The house was crowded; only a portion of the attendance of the fair held in connection with the play, down stairs, could find seats; and the performance was to be repeated. One part of the play, however, not on the program, could not be reproduced. Apparently no attempts had ever been made to convert Mac to religion, for when the Salvation Army entered the scene, banging drums and clashing cymbals, the terrified jack began to back toward the footlights. The stage manager, fearing lest the beast might back off the stage, dropped the curtain. But that didn't check Mac; he backed against the curtain and under it, and dropped plumb into the audience, making five "laps" in a second, his best time to date. One fat man, over-burdened, crashed through his chair. Fortunately nobody was seriously injured, but several had spasms, and more than one girl crawled over the backs of the seats in terror. "Such doings," as a paper stated next day, "were never known before in this town in the annals of donkeys--four-legged or two-legged either." As soon as the excitement was over, Mac was assisted on to the stage, and the play was twice repeated, all three performances before crowded houses. While returning Mac to his stable I heard the bray of a donkey, and resolved next day to look him up. Then I sent a message to a young lady friend at Vassar, and wrote my weekly story for the papers. I frequently refer to my Vassar friends, but I doubt if they ever mention me. I had written one that I would polish two dozen pairs of Vassar shoes at the rate of fifty cents a pair, either on, or off. Allowing me two minutes for each pair and half a minute for making change, I believed I could polish to the queen's taste some forty-eight pairs in two hours. My proposal was accepted. The hour set was 5:00 A. M., while the teachers would be dreaming about the binomial formula, blue light, and turnips. And I was expected to polish the shoes on the foot. Accordingly, I was aroused from slumber at four, and practiced on the stove legs for a full half-hour, to get polishing down to a science. Then I took the trolley car to the hedge fence, stole in through the stately gate, and took the time of the huge clock above the entrance. Then I took my own time. I had four minutes to spare, and knew Vassar girls were anything but slow. "The days of chivalry are not gone," says George Eliot, "notwithstanding Burke's grand dirge over them; they live still in that far-off worship paid by many a youth and man to the woman of whom he never dreams that he shall touch so much as her little finger or the hem of her robe." I had no sooner placed my chair at the right marble staircase than I heard the rustle of skirts, immediately followed by a bevy of charming girls stealing down the steps on tip-toe, all a-giggle and a-smile, balancing their supple forms with outstretched arms, and enlivening the early dawn with the mischief beaming from their eyes. "Good morning," they said, as each in turn shook hands with me. I was inspired to hug every one of them, but dared not show the lack of polish. Raising my hat, I said softly, "Shine," and number one mounted the throne, soon to be "daubed" a queen. Bless me! wasn't she pretty! As she gaily lifted her skirts to give my brushes a free swing, a perfect pair of ankles burst into view, daintily imprisoned in black silk hose, and--well, I naturally was excited. Blacking flew like the mud did when the beer wagon bumped against Mac, and a brush flopped out of my hand through a colored window, letting in more light, for it was still quite dusky. It seemed to be impossible for the young lady to keep her feet in place on the block, and not until she suggested I should hold her boot in place did I begin to polish to my credit. After that no girl could keep her feet stationary unless I held her foot with one hand and polished with the other. "Next," and another winsome creature took the chair, and poured fifty pennies into my hand. I took it for granted that she was some copper king's daughter. I worked so hard that I was soon perspiring. After finishing a dozen pair, when about to polish the second shoe on number thirteen, someone claimed she heard a professor reading Volapuk. At once there was a scurry, and a rustle of skirts. Number thirteen kicked over the blacking accidental, and fled with one shoe unpolished; but that odd shoe did just as good service as any of the rest. The whole bevy of girls vanished before I had time to collect my senses, my chair, and my brushes, and chase myself away. When once started, I ran to beat the cars, and reached the hotel in time for breakfast, the richer by six dollars and a lace handkerchief. Come to think of it, what an extr'ordinary adventure that was for a modest and dignified traveler with a donkey! I wondered, as I sipped my coffee, what the Principal said when she discovered so many neat-looking shoes. CHAPTER IV. Shame on the world! said I to myself. Did we but love each other as this poor soul loved his ass, 'twould be something. --_Sentimental Journey_--_Stearne._ An empty heart is like an empty barrel conveniently located; nobody will dare to gamble on the first thing to be thrown into it: and a full heart, like a barrel of fruit, must be sorted frequently, lest a bit of blemish corrupt the whole. My heart was as full of Macaroni from New York to Po'keepsie as my stomach once had been from Milan to Naples. I first fancied my donkey, next admired him, suddenly became conscious of a growing contempt for him, and finally pity, now that the time for parting with him had come. Having depended entirely upon the stupid beast for companionship, he really had become a pet. Often he had offended and vexed me beyond seeming pardon; on the other hand, he had afforded me amusement during my lonesome hours, often causing me to laugh outright at his antics. But, in order to complete my journey on time, I felt I must avail myself of the first opportunity to exchange him for a livelier steed. It was my Vassar friend who told me about Dr. Jackson and his precocious donkey; she claimed the animal often displayed human intelligence. With some difficulty I found the doctor's residence; when, introducing myself and acquainting him with my errand, he put on his hat and took me to the barn. Behold! the cutest little donkey I ever saw. He was a sleek, slender creature of blush color, with an intelligent but roguish countenance, and with cropped ears which gave him a semblance to a deer. The doctor said the animal was hardly three years old. His hoofs were very small, so tiny that he might have stepped into an after-dinner cup and not damaged more than your appetite for coffee. "What do you call the little fellow?" I asked. "Mac A'Rony," said the doctor. The coincidence made me smile. "That, too, is my donkey's name," I declared, somewhat to his astonishment. He then spelled his animal's name, showing that there was as much difference between the names as between the donkeys, between patrician and plebeian. He said that Mac A'Rony was the lineal descendant of an ancient and honorable family of Irish asses; whereas, I believed Macaroni could boast of no more distinguished heritage than that of Italian peasantry. The doctor even harbored the suspicion that his donkey must be a descendant of Balaam's famous ass. "His bluish coat is a reflection of the blue blood in his veins," observed the doctor; and I was made to feel of the same opinion. I coveted that donkey, but had little hope of securing it, as my means were so limited. Imagine my astonishment when the doctor proposed that we make an even exchange of animals. "If your overland journey continues to be as notable as it is thus far," said he, "I should like to possess the first donkey you used." I dared not believe my ears. "But you have not seen my donkey," I reminded him. "I will accept your representation of the animal," he replied. The bargain made, we parted. An hour later Macaroni was in the doctor's barn, and Mac A'Rony in the livery stable. The greatest objection I had to my new companion was his youth. The fastidious appetite of this Irish gentleman demanded bread, and other table fare; he actually stuck up his nose at oats and hay. What would he do should we get stranded! I might live a whole day on three milk punches which I could pay for with photos, but experience had taught me it required many punches to keep a donkey moving. When about to depart, I was disconcerted to discover the doctor's boy riding his new possession down the street toward the hotel. Macaroni seemed to realize we were to part forever. There was a sad, depressed look in his eyes; his brows knitted, and his nose wept, as he brayed "When shall we three meet again." I felt a pang in my heart, and turning my eyes from him, headed Mac A'Rony for the West. Shortly afterward, I was stopped by a blacksmith who recognized Mac and asked to shoe him, saying he would do it for a picture, seeing it was I. Of course, I was delighted, and leaving the donkey in his custody, dropped in a restaurant and lunched; after which I bought Mac a loaf of graham bread. The kind-hearted blacksmith had several horses waiting to be shod, and it was nearly night when Mac A'Rony ceased to be a "bare-foot boy." I remained in Po'keepsie over night, and early next day, Friday, set out for Kingston. But that quadruped traveled so fast that he tired out after going a few miles, and I had to put up at a little inn at Staatsburg for the night. Had it not been that I sold next day a number of photos at princely villas on the way, I should have had trouble to keep from starving. No remittance had come from the papers as yet, and lecturing was out of the question at that time. I had written to several soap, sarsaparilla, tobacco and pill companies for a contract to advertise their stuffs by distributing circulars, or samples, or displaying a sign from my donkey's back, but thus far had received no favorable replies. At length the blue summits of the Catskills loomed against an azure sky in the west, and I caught occasional glimpses of Kingston and Rondout, the twin cities, nestling in the foothills by the Hudson. At three o'clock we crossed the ferry, and soon afterward arrived at the Mansion House, Kingston. The landlord received us with gracious hospitality, but I, having lost so much time by accident and other misfortune, only tarried for the night, and hastened on up the valley. The days were perceptibly shorter while we traveled in the shadow of the Catskills. The roads were so heavy, and the recent cold I had contracted so stiff and uncomfortable, that I decided at seven o'clock to spend the night at a German road-house. Landlord Schoentag gave us soft beds, in spite of his hard name, and his spouse was kind enough to make me a hot brandy and a foot bath. I drank the one; Mac cheated me of the other. I retired early under a pile of bedding as thick as it was short, and soon found myself in a terrible sweat. This was not due alone to the comfortables, but to a party of convivial young people, who thrummed on a discordant piano, and sang, and danced till daylight, their hilarity causing Mac in the stable sundry vocal selections, such as should have disturbed the spirit of Rip Van Winkle, eight miles away. Monday we pushed on toward Saugerties. But for a delay at Soaper's Creek Bridge, we should have reached Catskill before dark. Mac A'Rony stopped stock still at the bridge approach, and neither the eloquence of gad nor gab moved him an inch. I petted him and patted him; I stroked his ears and I rubbed his nose; and then I asked him point blank what ailed him. "You big fool, can't you see that sign up there?" he retorted, as he eyed me squarely. It was fully sixty seconds before I realized that the animal had actually spoken; then I looked up and read the sign hanging from the iron girder overhead, "Ten dollars fine for riding or driving over this bridge faster than a walk." I must say I greatly appreciated Mac's consideration for my pocket-book, but his obduracy struck me as being not a little absurd, since he had not yet demonstrated to me that he could go faster than a walk, even on a level and unimpeded road. All I could do was to sit down on a stone and, like Macawber, wait for something to turn up. It seemed ages before a farmer came along with a ton of hay; he was kind enough to slide off the load and assist me to carry the donkey across the bridge. The night was spent in Catskill. Smith's Hotel was swarming with busy grangers, generally good-hearted, garrulous characters, whose society lightened the tedium of two days, while I nursed my cold and weaned Mac. We reached Athens, a village eight miles to the north, Wednesday noon, but being somewhat rusty in Greek, I ferried the river to Hudson. A light snow had fallen; the wind was sharp shod, and traveled forty miles an hour. A small German hotel opened its doors to us, and I persuaded Mac to ascend the low stoop and venture half his length indoors; the landlord aided me at the helm and we managed to anchor my "craft" out of range of the storm, though we couldn't get it across the bar. Mac lay down in a heap, and I called for port, to find none in stock. Suddenly, a man in shirt sleeves hastily entered with a pitcher in hand, and before he could check himself, went sprawling over the frightened beast, smashing the pitcher and setting Mac to braying. The man hurriedly collected himself, glanced at the strange-looking quadruped, and not stopping for beer, fled in dismay. When the storm had abated somewhat, we started for Kinderhook. Late in the afternoon we trailed into a thrifty little town where I found stock port in Stockport. Here the cheery aspect of the Brookside Hotel tempted me to remain over night, and doctor the severe cold in my chest. This tavern, the pride of the village, was said to be the oldest on the old "post road" from New York to Albany. So comfortable was the hotel that I hesitated long before accepting a cordial invitation, extended to me through his coachman, to be the guest of the wealthiest resident of the town. I was driven over to the home of Mr. Van ----, and the affable gentleman introduced me to his family, before driving me to his father's residence. The old gentleman was enthusiastic in his reception of the donkey traveler, and after doping me with some delicious cider, reluctantly allowed his son to keep me for the night. After a month of "roughing it," my happy affiliation with those refined and cultured people acted like a healing balm to my wearied heart. Many and many a time thereafter on the tiresome, lonesome trail did my memory recall that pleasant evening. The daughters entertained me with music and song, the parents brought out refreshments, and, at last, with a hot foot-bath, and a hotter mustard leaf on my chest, I retired. Next morning, Georgie, the little son, rushed into my chamber calling, "Get up, you people, the pancakes are getting cold!" "All right," I answered meekly. "Oh!" the little fellow gasped with astonishment, as he beheld Pod tucked neck-deep in eider-down. "I--I--I thought you was the girls." [Illustration: "_We consumed a half hour in the gigantic task._"] [Illustration: "_I found the captive drinking with other jackasses._"] The boy had retired early the evening before, quite ignorant of the fact that the eccentric traveler was delegated to snooze in his sisters' bedroom. Through the happy agency of conversation Mr. Van---- and I discovered a mutual friendship. The family, somewhat to my embarrassment, insisted upon purchasing pictures galore, and after breakfast and a little music in the glow of a blazing fireplace, I donned my overcoat and made my adieux. How chill and heartless that December morning was! The wind blew my plug hat off to begin with, and, as I was driven to the Brookside Inn, had the courage to try to freeze my face. A half hour later Mac and Pod were marching to Kinderhook. CHAPTER V. Of all conceivable journeys, this promised to be the most tedious. I tried to tell myself it was a lovely day; I tried to charm my foreboding spirit with tobacco; but I had a vision ever present to me of the long, long roads, up hill and down dale, and a pair of figures ever infinitesimally moving, foot by foot, a yard to the minute, and, like things enchanted in a nightmare, approaching no nearer to the goal. --_Travels with a Donkey_--_R. L. Stevenson._ Kinderhook! I promised myself to visit the seminary, so popular in the early '60's, and commune with the spirits of those charming old-fashioned girls of whom mother had often spoken. After dining at the Kinderhook Hotel, I looked it up, and found it to be then the village academy. The cold in my chest pained more than ever; I began to fear pneumonia. The landlord's wife said she would be a mother to me. Whew! If she made it as warm for her "old man" as she did for me, I pity and congratulate him in one breath. She prepared a mustard sitz-bath (my feet had suffered two already) powerful enough, she declared, to force cold-blisters on my hair; she slapped mustard leaves on my chest and back; she gave me spirits of camphor for my lips, witch-hazel for my eyes, a pork bandage for my neck, and liberal doses of aconite, quinine, whiskey and rum. Then she innocently asked if I could think of any other place my cold, when fairly on the run, would be likely to settle. Being unable to answer, I called on a physician. "The landlady has fixed you up admirably," said he; "I cannot benefit you further, unless I advise you to shave off your hair when the blisters have settled on it, to prevent the cold's return." I expressed my gratitude for his kind assurances, and to my surprise, though he had an electric battery in his room, he refused to charge me. Without loss of time, I set out and walked two miles to the old homestead of President Martin Van Buren, that stood back from the road behind a group of ancient pines which sighed dolefully as I passed. The family living there received me kindly, and showed me the library, parlors and hall; the old Dutch wall-paper, picturing ancient hunts, watch-towers, and pastoral scenes, recalled a pleasant sojourn in Holland. A Wagoner family living in the next house asked me to dinner, and I "et" with them. "I once knew a Van Wagoner," I said; "they were fine people." "Our family were originally of that name," Mr. Wagoner replied. "They dropped the Van some time ago." Mac A'Rony said he had never heard of Vans being dropped from Wagoners, but had often seen wagoners dropped from vans. I next crossed the bridge spanning the creek just out of town, where, it is said, Washington Irving conceived the story of the headless horseman. President Van Buren gave a ball to some statesmen, and Irving was invited. Some wag among the guests rigged up a dummy on a horse, and let the animal loose to give the author a scare. Wash never lost an opportunity to make a good story, and he made use of the idea. Mary Ann and Lucretia Van Buren, two aged spinsters, were all who remained of the illustrious family. I called on Mary Ann when Lucretia was absent, and won her favor so quickly that she presented me with a little oil painting which had been in the family over a hundred years. Close by stood the old brick house, formerly a fort, built with brick brought from Holland. One brick was carved "1623." I saw the house where General Burgoyne is said to have dined, after which I visited Van Buren's grave. We slept that night in North Chatham, traveling out of the direct route to give the weak-kneed donkey as level a road as possible. We had now been boon companions one week; it seemed a month. Next day, we passed a rickety barn in which two horses were engaged at a huge tread-wheel, with the dual object of threshing corn-stalks and of keeping their ears warm. My ears were almost frozen; whereas Mac claimed his were as warm as toast. My comrade had the advantage over me in being able, as he expressed it, to wiggle his ears and keep the blood circulating. I stopped at a shanty near, and asked leave to warm myself, and begged a newspaper to put in my breast. A poverty-stricken but hospitable man welcomed me, and politely took my hat and stuck it on a pitcher of milk. The humble habitation contained two rooms, one store room, the other the living room. The latter was furnished with a square table, now set for the mid-day meal, two beds, a stove which was exerting every effort to boil some ancient pork and frozen cabbage to a state of "doneness," four chairs, and a wash-tub. The housewife was washing clothes while her "old man" acted as cook. A dog reclined on the store-room floor watching a saw-horse. There was not such bric-a-brac visible; a five-year-old calendar and two or three unframed chromos hung on the walls, and when I arose to go I discovered behind me a cracked mirror and a comb that needed dentistry. I was surprised when the woman handed me the desired paper; I should not have accused any of them of being able to read. "Wall, yer kin see haow all classes of folks lives eny haow," the matron observed, as she screwed her face out of shape in her anxiety to wring the last drop of suds out of a twisted garment. "Yes," I returned, rising and reaching for my hat, "but how my donkey and I can manage to live to reach 'Frisco interests me more." And politely declining a hunk of pork rind and black bread offered me for a pocket lunch, much to the gratification of the house cat, I sallied forth into the biting blast, knocked several icicles from Mac A'Rony's whiskers, and headed for the state capital. Further on we tarried a few moments to exchange a word or two with an inquisitive hayseed, who planted himself in the road before us, and stretched forth a brawny hand for both of us to shake. "Yer th' feller what's goin' to Fran Sanfrisco, hain't yer?" the old man questioned, bracing himself against the boisterous gale. "Yep," I replied laconically. And at once Mac, yielding to a mighty gust of wind, dashed past the animate obstruction, dragging his master with him. "Whar be th' biggest crops this year?" he called after us; and Mac, assuming the question was put to him, shouted, "In ostriches. Some of them weigh several stone." As I looked back from the hill, I saw the statuesque figure still gaping at us behind a long, frost-colored beard. The roads to fame and to the capitol are hilly. Fame seemed to be more easily reached in slippery weather than the capitol in dry. Albany had just experienced a heavy rain, and the roads had frozen. We set out Monday morning to pay our respects to the Governor, the Mayor and other shining lights. When half way up the ascent to the capitol, Mac A'Rony slipped off his feet and slid to the bottom of the hill. Of course, I stayed with him; in a moment we had won fame. The excited populace thronged about us, and the reporters hauled out their paper and pencils. One toboggan slide satisfied Mac, and I was compelled to return him to the stable and go alone. The Governor was in his chair of state when I arrived at the Executive Chamber. The rumor that the odd traveler, Pye Pod, was in the ante-chamber brought a smile to his lips, which he still wore when he rose to grasp my hand, relishing the humor which I had failed to taste. "Don't you find it pretty cold traveling these days?" the Governor inquired, as he sat down to write in my autograph album. "Rather," said I. The Governor chuckled, wished me good luck on my journey and commended me for my pluck. Then I was ushered through the magnificent capitol. After lunching with an aunt, I visited the Mayor. He, like other notable men, received me graciously and wished me joy, prosperity and health. Tuesday I hustled early and late to earn a dollar above the expenses of my sojourn in the up-hill city. Wednesday morning I received a small check, the first remittance from the papers. It was only two days before Christmas. The Holiday season seemed to have absorbed all the money in circulation. The snow now lay six inches deep on the level; it had snowed all night and was snowing still. I greatly needed a pair of felt boots with rubber overshoes, but couldn't afford the outlay. So I wrapped strips of gunnysacks round my shoes and trouser legs, bought a pair of earlaps, and saddling my donkey, started for Schenectady, seventeen miles away. People had cautioned me that donkeys were afraid of snow. I was most agreeably surprised to find Mac A'Rony an exception to the rule; but in another respect, he puzzled me very much. For five days he had not been known to drink, and I concluded that, like an orchid, he slaked his thirst by sucking the juice out of the atmosphere. When I ushered him into the snow, he rubbed his nose in it, and tasted it to satisfy himself that it wasn't sugar, and then majestically waded through, as if it were so much dust. And so, with less than two dollars in pocket and some fifty photos in my saddle-bags, I urged my donkey through the blinding gale to a road-house, four miles out of Albany, where tethering him to a huge icicle under a low-roofed shed, I went into the tavern to toast my hands and feet, and to warm my inner self. A few moments later found us fighting the elements again. And though we stopped at fully a dozen houses on that day's journey, we reached Schenectady soon after dark, with my face black and blue from the snowballs Mac rolled with his hoofs and slung at me (he claimed, unintentionally). Both of us were in prime condition to appreciate a hot supper and a soft, warm bed. After seeing my comrade safely sheltered in the hotel barn and leaving instructions with the stable-keeper to lock the door, I spent a pleasant hour with the other hotel guests, who gathered about to hear my story, and to give me all kinds of valuable and worthless advice on traveling with a donkey. What happened that night may be better understood by reading the following page from my diary: "It is midnight, halfway between Christmas eve and Christmas morning. For the last three hours I have been looking all over town for Mac. I went to the stable at nine o'clock to fill his stockings, and lo! he was missing. Where he can possibly be and how he got there is beyond my power of conception. I found the lock in the barn door unbroken, but scratched about the keyhole, as if it had been picked. The landlord and the stableman are of the opinion that Union College boys have stolen the donkey and hidden him, just for mischief. In my rambles I failed to detect a sign of any student. A squad of volunteers from among the hotel guests, armed to the teeth and carrying lanterns, were kind enough to go with me donkey hunting, but nothing more than a few ominous traces of Mac's stubborn resistance did we discover. A tuft of donkey hair and a gory human tooth were picked off the barn floor, and also, just outside, a section of the seat of a man's trousers, all of which indicates that the donkey is the unwilling prisoner of a band of wags. "Going down Fifth Street to Union, we detected Mac's little foot-prints and a college society pin. Just beyond, I found another lock of hair, this time human, indicating some football fiend had parted with a portion of his mane. A torn cravat, a finger of a kid glove, and a piece of human flesh resembling part of a nose, were noted by different members of the posse. Thence on, we traced with much difficulty my donkey's hoof-marks a mile or more into the suburbs, where we lost them. It was then 11:30 P. M. A concensus of opinion resulted in the verdict that at that point the animal had been put in a sleigh and drawn to some hiding place and that further search that night was useless. I am now going to retire, and trust to luck for Mac A'Rony's safe return to-morrow." When I went to breakfast Christmas morning, I amused myself while my order was being filled by perusing the Schenectady "Daily Tantrims." You may imagine my astonishment upon reading the following: GRAND OPENING Of the Canal Skating Rink. Greatest Social Function of the Season. COLLEGE BOYS AND SOCIETY THERE. A Donkey on Skates. "Those who were not 'let in' to the private ball given at the new Canal Ice Rink on Christmas Eve by the Union boys who remained here over night to enjoy the Holidays, missed a rare and novel entertainment. It proved to be a side-splitting as well as an ice-breaking affair. Carefully laid plans were successfully carried out, and the diminutive donkey belonging to the quixotic traveler, Prof. Pythagoras Pod, became the guest of honor at the first rink party of the season. The jackass seemed to relish the sport immensely. Two pairs of skates were securely buckled on his feet and, declining the proffered assistance, at once the precocious tyro struck out in four several directions at once, coming down on the not over thick ice kothump! on his Antartic pole, deluging four propositions of Euclid, seven principles of unnatural philosophy, and three dozen young men and women. All would have gone well had the jack not been so conceited. He, just like an ass, thought he knew it all. If he ever cut any ice in his life he did it then. Being of a generous disposition, he made ample accommodations for a crowd who, like his asinine self, came out for a skate and were hardly prepared for a baptism. Pandemonium reigned. There were several narrow escapes from drowning; even Mac A'Rony barely averted a sublime decease, and bellowed like a freight engine. However, as he was the only donkey of the whole party that piloted himself to terra firma without assistance, he deserves much more praise than the fools that were so unwarrantably thoughtless as to imperil a hundred precious lives in their selfishness to have a good time at the expense of an humble beast. As soon as the panic had subsided, a new rink was cleared further down the canal, where the Christmas fete was prolonged to a late hour. The terrified animal was here supported on two parallel bars held by strong men; and he promised to remain upright henceforth. To say the least, his frantic efforts to do the "pigeon wing" on the star-spangled firmament nearly capsized his pall-bearers. Guards had been posted at various points to apprise the practical jokers, if the donkey's master should come uninvited on the scene, but it seems that, by crafty, foxy methods, the Professor had been led by false scent to the suburbs. So the fun continued. After the ball was over, Mac A'Rony was returned in safety to his stall. The little fellow appeared to be the nimbler from his cold-water plunge, and was so elated over his extraordinary exploits that he brayed all the way to his quarters." As soon as I heard Mac I rushed out to the barn bare-headed, and threw my arms round his neck. I found the little fellow joyously rummaging in four huge stockings filled with corn bread, molasses cake, mince pie, carrots, and apple-sauce. "I had a h--l of a time last night," was all he said. CHAPTER VI. Christmas day is a merry day For all good lads and lassies, But dull and lorn for th' fellow born To ride or drive jackasses. --_Old Song._ Yuletide afforded me few pleasures. How I was to bridge the gulf of penury and want of the Holiday season caused me much concern. Lacking the funds to pay my hotel and stable bills, I canvassed the town and sold a few pictures before church time. I wished to attend Christmas service, but lacked the nerve. My grotesque attire might have inspired the preacher. I had worn holes in all my socks, and not having the price of a new pair, retired to my room to darn them. It was the first darning of that sort I ever did; when I had finished, I darned my luck, the hard times, and many things not down on the calendar. I pictured to my mind's eye the pleasures of Christmastide, of which I had cheated myself; but it was no time to brood over might-have-beens. I would start for the next town that morning. I felt a constant anxiety for Mac A'Rony's safety, and shouldn't feel easy until we were out of the college district. We reached Amsterdam in time for Christmas dinner. I will not give the bill of fare; it wouldn't whet your appetite. The following day was almost as dull as Christmas. In the morning I was fortunate enough to receive in advance two dollars for distributing calendars to the farmers on my way to the next town, and employed the afternoon repairing saddle-bags. The snow lay deep, the weather was windy and chill, and my donkey slower than axle grease; so I tarried over night and heard Sabbath bells. Sunday evening saw us comfortably quartered in the little village of Fonda, a few miles' journey. While supping I learned that a German newspaper reporter, who claimed to be walking across the continent on a $750 wager, was a guest at another hotel. He came into town shortly after dark, and, unable to pay for a bed, was permitted to sleep on a bench, where my informant saw him. By the terms of his bet, the fellow was not allowed to beg, but could accept the earth, if offered him. My sympathies were aroused, and I called on him after supper. He told his story, showed me papers, and a book signed by the railroad station agents on his route--for he had "hit the ties" all the way--and expressed much anxiety about covering the remaining 184 miles to New York in six days. The young man looked emaciated, his shoes were literally worn out. His one meal that day had been a cup of coffee and a roll. He hadn't slept in a bed since leaving Detroit, where he earned his last money, five dollars. Pod's tender heart was touched. Although the more affluent donkey traveler possessed but a dollar and sixty cents, he gave his brother globe-trotter a dollar, a hot supper and bed, and would have paid for a stimulating drink had not the hotel-keeper been inspired to treat the two. Next morning some commercial travelers, having learned of Pod's generosity, purchased a pair of shoes for the pedestrian. The delighted fellow departed at an early hour, expressing his sanguine belief that he would win his wager. I had to hustle that morning to settle accounts, and it was eleven o'clock before Mac and I departed. I had only a nickel in pocket. That day we both went without lunch. It was long after dark and past supper time when we arrived in Fort Plain, and a half hour later before we reached the hotel. The town was illuminated with electric arc lights, which always throw vivid shadows, and Mac A'Rony had a desperate encounter with another donkey in the snow. He reared, and pitched, and cavorted, and bolted; he wound me up in the reins, and then bunked into me--I was in his way all the time--and finally rushed down a side street, dragging me after him. I had to lead the rampant animal through several unlighted streets round the village to get him to the stable. It was the first time I had presented myself at a strange hotel without my asinine credentials. When I registered, the incredulous proprietor went to the barn for Mac's own statement before believing me the famous man I claimed to be. That evening a committee from the Bohemian Club invited me to a concert given under the auspices of the Fort Plain Band. I went, and enjoyed it. At its conclusion, I was asked to talk to a phonograph, the invention of the president of the Club. Having once addressed an audience of chairs, I could not object to talk to a funnel. I addressed the emptiness thereof with all the eloquence I could muster, then listened while the phonograph tried to repeat my words. It was simply awful. Had the machine been togged out in night shirt, mask and lighted candle, and shot off such a lingo in a dark alley, I should have thought it my own spook and fled in terror. When I reached Little Falls my stock of photos was exhausted, and, but for a stroke of good luck, I fear I could not have paid my bills. Mac A'Rony agreed to carry a sign extolling the virtues of a one-price clothier, and that brought us a few dollars, which we divided. It was late when we started for Herkimer, a town twelve miles away. The mud greatly impeded our progress and, suddenly, just before dark, when five miles to town, we came to a long, covered, wooden bridge. Then there was trouble. Mac obstinately refused to enter the dark tunnel. I coaxed him with an apple to follow me; I prodded him; I turned him about and tried to back him through; but he would not budge. I went behind and pushed him; and vexed beyond reason, I finally whipped him; all without avail. What could I do? I sat down and thought. No sound of an approaching vehicle greeted my ear, but I saw a house down the road. I decided to hitch my obdurate beast to the fence and seek assistance. As I approached the house the seductive aroma of frying steak told me it was supper hour. In response to my knock a rural-looking man came out and eyed me curiously, while chewing vigorously. Indoors I could hear somebody drinking out of a saucer. "Excuse me for interrupting," I said politely; "but my jackass----" "Yer what?" "My jackass! I am bound for California with one, and am stuck out there by the bridge. I came to ask your assistance." The man swallowed. "In a hole, eh? Wall, I reckon you've come ter th' right place fer help." "No, I'm not in a hole exactly--that's just the trouble. My animal abhors holes; he refuses to enter the covered bridge." "Wall, I swan! can't yer lick him through?" the farmer asked. "As impossible," said I, "as to lick a camel through the eye of a needle." "I want ter know. Come in," he said; and turning to the hired man, added, "John, let's give th' feller a lift." The men donned wraps and boots, and, with an old wheelbarrow, followed me down the slushy road to the beastly eye-sore of my existence. To describe our efforts to get that donkey through the bridge would tire you as much as those efforts tired me. Mac squirmed and kicked and bit; he would not be carried by hand; so the wheelbarrow was employed. He was too large for the vehicle, and lapped over the edges. We consumed a half hour in the gigantic task of wheeling Mac across that bridge. "By gum, young feller!" exclaimed the exhausted farmer, as he dropped the heavy live weight. "Do yer haster go through this kind of business every bridge yer come ter?" I explained that I usually met with difficulties at bridges, but had never encountered a covered one before. Then I thanked the good Samaritans for their kindness, and prodded Mac to town. We arrived in Herkimer late. Directly after supper I canvassed the stores, and worked till ten o'clock selling pictures. We seemed to create quite a sensation. When about to retire, I learned that my donkey was stolen; I was told local bandits held him for ransom. I was greatly provoked, and rushed about the streets, making inquiries until, at length, a street loafer whispered that he would tell me where my animal was, if I "would blow him to a drink." I agreed. Then the man "in the know" piloted me to a bar-room several blocks away, where I was astonished to find the captive drinking with several other jackasses. He was the only one not disconcerted by my appearance, and even had the audacity to stick his nose up at the bar-keeper and bray. I engaged men to assist me convey the inebriate to the stable as quickly as possible, and ordered an extra padlock to be snapped on the door. Next morning I found my partner in a surprisingly sober condition. Resuming my pilgrimage, I made brief stops at Ilion and Frankfort, and arrived in Utica shortly after dark on the last day of the leap year. The hotel corridors swarmed with inquisitive guests who had been apprised of my coming. The jovial proprietor gave us a hearty welcome, and, ordering several porters to lead Mac into the office, called loudly, to the amusement of all, "Front! Give the donkeys the best double room in the house." "Slow traveling for a LEAP year," I remarked to the clerk. "Oh, that reminds me, Mr. Pod," said he; "here's a letter for you--just came a few minutes ago." I settled my weary frame in a rocker and read it. It was actually an invitation to a Leap Year Ball, given under the auspices of the society girls of Manicure Hall. The card was printed, but on its margin were inscribed in a purely feminine hand a few choice words urging me to come in my traveling habit. It struck me that it might be my only chance to get engaged for eight long years, so I washed and brushed and polished, and turned up at the ball-room at a late but nevertheless fashionable hour. [Illustration: "_We tramped tired and footsore into the village._"] The ball was the most brilliant function it had been my pleasure to attend since the days of my freedom. Caesar! what charming girls! Were they really charming! or was it because I had been a recluse so long that most anybody wearing dresses fascinated my starved optics? Before advancing a rod into the hall, I received a proposal; within an hour I had a dozen. The dance, the supper, the defective lights, and the kisses in the dark, the midnight alarm, and the New Year's bells, all fulfilled their offices delightfully in turn--all, except the leave-taking of the old year, which groaned over the effects of bad salad, and gave up the ghost. I devoted the afternoon to a delightful nap; I was worn out. Saturday I called upon the genial Mayor, who paid me liberally for a photo and subscribed to my donkey book. Sunday I set out with Mac for Rome. I was told all the roads were in bad condition, and was advised to take the tow-path of the Erie Canal. After two hours of tramping and groping in the darkness, we came to a suburban street; soon after I was directed to a tavern, and quartered myself for the night. A number of commercial men had prophesied I would not make my expenses in Rome, but I did. It was an all-day job, however, and another night was fairly upon me before I started for Oneida, sixteen miles away. We had not gone far, when we came to an old-fashioned toll-gate, where I expected to be made to contribute to the county's good-road fund. I felt loath to do so, for nowhere else on my journey had we found the highway in such a disreputable condition. I told Mac to keep his mouth shut, and we stealthily walked through the gate, hoping not to be observed; but no sooner done than the keeper issued from his shanty and welcomed me back. He wished to talk with me, he said. His boy had preceded me from town and given his father glowing accounts of the donkey traveler. So interested were the toll-gate keeper and his family in the welfare of Pod and Mac that they not only waived the toll, but gave us a pressing invitation to remain with them over night. The generosity of that man's big, honest heart stood out in such happy contrast with the miserly county administration and my own penury that I gratified the man's desire, in a measure, and hitching Mac A'Rony, followed my host into his dwelling, where I allowed myself to share his frugal board. It was certainly such a home where either a Don Quixote or a Pythagoras Pod might feel himself a distinguished guest. The wife brewed tea, and spread the table with black bread and doubtfully wholesome cakes, while the children climbed on my knees and heard with rapture my tales of adventure. When it was time to go the keeper, having learned from his son that I sold the pictures "to live on," begged me with tears to accept a quarter for the one I gave him, saying that he had a fair-sized garden besides the pittance he received for performing the duties of his humble office, whereas I had to depend on Providence for the keeping of myself and comrade on our long trip "round the world." So Mac and I, thanking the good people for their kindnesses--for Mac's ever-acute appetite had not been overlooked by the thoughtful hostess--strode on in mud and darkness, slipping, spattering, and mumbling unintelligible and impolite words, and hoping against hope soon to arrive at some comfortable haven of rest. A mile beyond we were greeted with loud applause issuing from a huge building to our left, which I took to be a girl's seminary, but which Mac insisted was a slaughter house. To be distinguished in the dark and tendered such an ovation quite tickled my vanity; but my less-conceited partner only brayed and trembled in the fear of being chased by a mad pig with its throat cut. When we had passed to a safe distance, I met a farmer in a wagon, and asked him the name of the illuminated building. "The Rome State Insane Asylum," said the man. At length, a dense mist gathered; then it began to sprinkle. I could scarcely distinguish Mac in the darkness. The road was tortuous, one vast river bed of mud, as untenable as quicksand. We first ran against a barbed-wire fence on one side, and a rail fence on the other, and finally, I plunged over boot-tops in a sluice, and might have drowned had I not held the reins and been pulled out by my unintentionally heroic comrade. My boots were new and didn't leak, and the mud and water remained in them. If ever there was a moment on that overland "voyage" when I felt in prime condition to give it up, it was there and then. Still we struggled onward, and a few hundred yards ahead I discovered the faint light of a farm house, where I stopped to ask the distance to the next place we could secure shelter. "'Bout four mile, I should jedge," said the farmer. I guessed as much, but it gave me a chance to sigh. "Mercy! None nearer?" Just then Mac coughed, and approached. "Nope. But wait! Be you the gentleman bound fer 'Frisco with a mule?" "Verily so," I returned, while my partner brayed indignantly at being called a mule. "Wall, what's it wuth to take you both in fer the night and feed ye?" the man asked, avariciously. "Oh, about seventy-five cents." "Come back," said he; "I just walked from the railroad station a mile and a half in the mud, and lost my overshoes, and kin sympathize with ye." My donkey was comfortably stabled, watered and fed, and I ushered into a cozy room, where my host brought me dry garments and slippers, and gave me a hot supper. Truly, I thought, the darkest hour is just before dawn. CHAPTER VII. I pass like night from land to land, I have strange power of speech; So soon as e'er his face I see, I know the man that must hear me, To him my tale I teach. --_Rime of the Ancient Mariner._ Having the funds to tide over a couple of days, I set out early next morning for Syracuse. At 11:00 P. M. we tramped tired and foot-sore into the village of Fayetteville, having traveled twenty miles, the longest day's journey yet made. My donkey was fagged out. The stable men could hardly get him into his stall; but Mac had great recuperative power, and was so frisky in the morning that we resumed the march to the Salt City. It was still some distance to the city when an incident happened to mar the pleasure of our peaceful walk. In passing a large dairy farm, Mac's grotesque figure excited either the admiration or the contempt of an ugly-looking bull, which left a small bunch of cattle in the field and trotted along the dilapidated fence. His actions were frightfully menacing, and I urged Mac to a faster gait. Suddenly the bull broke through the fence, bellowing, and made for us, head down. My first thought was to save Mac's life. The leather-rimmed goggles he wore placed him at a disadvantage, aside from the fact that the road was icy and denied us a secure footing. Then, too, Mac carried seventy-five pounds burden, including my grip, the saddle and rifle. I was wholly unprepared for the bull; my revolver was unloaded, I having made it a rule to withdraw the cartridges every morning. As the brute lunged at my donkey, I struck Mac with my whip and wheeled him about with the reins in time to dodge the enemy. Recovering himself, the enraged bull made another lunge at my spry partner, and still another, the third time scraping off a tuft of hair with one of his horns. I could only assist Mac with the reins while striking the bull over the face with the cutting rawhide. I yelled for help. A quarter mile away stood a farm house, and in front of it two men gawking at our "circus," indifferent to our peril. I never was more active than during those awful moments; Mac afterward said he never was so busy in all his life. So rapidly did we three pirouette, the bull after Mac, the donkey after me, and I after the bull, that the two human statues in the distance must have taxed their optics to distinguish which was which. So dizzy did I become that I wheeled Mac round and started in the opposite direction, the enemy bellowing, I calling, and the donkey braying to beat a fire-boat whistle. Finally, I heard the glad sound of approaching wheels from up the road, and at a glance saw a horse and buggy. As it came nearer, I distinguished a woman driving, and my heart sank. Surely she would not have the courage to venture into our very midst; she must soon turn round. A man might drive to our aid. Still we three kept busy, until the rig wheeled down upon us, the prancing horse so distracting the bull that he shied to the opposite side, and, forgetting us, set out on a trot after the receding vehicle, lowing vexatiously. I held my breath. Soon we collected our senses and hustled on until the enemy was lost to view. There are many who would call our rescue a marvel; Mac said it was just our "luck;" but I thought it miraculous. A prominent hotel in Syracuse welcomed me as its honored guest, and crowds cheered us to the door. I had consumed six weeks traveling from New York, a distance of 340 miles, although by rail the mileage shrinks to 303. It was Friday, January 8. I was tendered a private box at the theatre that evening, and the following day Mac and I appeared on the stage between acts, at both the matinee and evening performances, I receiving five dollars for each appearance. Saturday I devoted to business; and was invited to the Elks' entertainment in the evening. At noon on Monday we headed for Auburn. A heavy snow accompanied a fall of the mercury. Great drifts had formed during the night, reaching anywhere from inches to feet, and from yard to yard. My spirits were low. The first eight miles to Camillus were covered in four hours. After a good rest and poor fodder, we strode on over the white and solitary road seven more miles to Elbridge, where, at eight o'clock, I registered at a cozy hostelry, and ordered that Mac be cared for and my supper at once be prepared. Then I hastened to canvass the stores, disposing of three photos at fifteen cents apiece. My over-night expenses would be a dollar and a half; I lacked forty-five cents of the amount. But that did not disconcert me. The hotel was composed of bricks, and its proprietor was one of them: a jovial Grand Army man who wore a big soft hat, and a blue coat with brass buttons. His cranium was chock full of entertaining reminiscence, too. At that time, men were engaged with mule-teams hauling stone for repairing the canal, and the hotel was filled with an incongruous lot of teamsters and laborers. Judging by their roguish remarks, it would be wise of me to place my donkey under lock and key; but when I hinted it to my host, he assured me my fears were unwarranted. I was assigned a large chamber on the main floor, next to the dining room. There was no lock to the door; I complained about it. "Nobody will molest you," said my host. I soon fell to sleep. Long before daylight I was awakened by the juggling of plates and cutlery, and the racking of a stove. It was impossible to sleep during such a hubub, so I proposed to smoke. Rising from bed and groping in darkness, I hunted for the electric light button hanging from the ceiling, but had proceeded only a few steps when, suddenly, I fell headlong over a huge, hairy substance, which moved and yawned. Hamlet's ghost! Was this really midwinter's night dream? I sat on the floor for a moment to set my dislocated big toe on the off foot, then staggered timorously to my feet, found the cord, and turned on the light. Could I believe my eyes? There lay Mac A'Rony. He gazed at me in mute bewilderment and blinked like an owl, then presently rose to the occasion, brayed, and charged at the donkey in the mirror. It was enough to awaken the whole village when the excited animal rushed around the room with the mirror frame for a collar, vaulting chairs, bed, and table, and exerting his best efforts to kick holes in the walls and ceiling. "What in damnation is the racket!" yelled the proprietor, as he came running to my room. I thought to disarm him by being the first to complain, for I expected some harsh invectives to be hurled my way. "You said I should not be molested!" I said indignantly, standing on a mantle shelf in my night shirt. "Well! It's the first time my house was ever turned into a stable," retorted the erstwhile jovial Grand Army man. "And it's the first time I ever was made to room with a jackass," I returned, in a rage. By this time Mac had stuck a foot in the frame-collar in trying to clear the stove, and had fallen. I quickly leaped from my perch, and my now more conciliating host helped to disengage the beast from his wooden harness, and give him a forcible exit. Then we dressed, and set to work clearing the room. Of course, the cook rushed in to have her say; otherwise, that hotel was suspiciously quiet, considering what had happened. When I went to breakfast the landlord met me with a smile; it surprised and pleased me. I concluded that the practical jokers had settled everything to his satisfaction. My table mates were unusually uncommunicative; their conversation hung mournfully on the weather. My breakfast finished, I went to my host and informed him of the state of my finances. "Two mule-drivers were discharged last night," he observed. "I could have got you a job if you had told me in time." Right here an aged townsman came in, stamping the snow off his boots, unwound a great tippet from his neck, and regarding the clay-besmeared floor, delivered his opinion to the landlord. "Gol blast me! If I run a house a lookin' like this, I'd close up and go out of the business," the granger remarked, with a critical eye to the floor and a wink at me. "I agree with you," said I; "Price ought to pay a quarter to have the floor cleaned. "It would be worth twice that sum to me to see you clean it," he returned, humorously. "It's a bargain!" so saying, I pulled off my coat, and called for a mop and a pail of hot water. The landlord seemed to regard the incident as a good joke; so did Pye Pod. Rolling up my trousers and shirt sleeves, I fell to work. The old man fled to spread the news, as soon as he saw I was in earnest. My first sweep with the old mop shattered it; the landlord lost no time procuring a new one. Then I went at it as though it were my special line of trade, and so deeply absorbed was I in the novel undertaking that less than half of the population of the village filed into the room without my comment. There were men and women, young and old and middling, and children bound for school; all around, backing against the walls and windows, commenting, laughing, and joking; while I just mopped, and with new jokes helped make merry, for I felt that was an experience of a lifetime for all of us. A pretty girl snapped a kodak at me; she took fifteen orders for pictures within a minute. I was gratified to see all enjoy themselves. Still I kept mopping, and watched the clock to see how much time was left before school. MY time was coming; I wanted everybody to hear my story. They didn't know a thing about me or Mac A'Rony, except through newspaper reports, which are not always reliable. Finally, I dropped my mop and straightened up to rest my lame back. "Does that suit you?" I asked the landlord. "A handsomer job was never done this floor," said he; "you have earned your money." Every one evidently wished to see me paid. As I received the cash, I whispered to my host to hand me the key to the door, expressing my purpose with a sly wink, which he hardly interpreted. The silver jingled with the brass in my hands, and I went to the door and locked it. Then walking to the desk, I turned, faced my audience without a blush, bowed low, and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, and children of Elbridge;" then gave a brief account of my travels from New York. My words pleased, and were greeted with laughter. But they had not heard my peroration. "We rarely appreciate anything that costs us nothing," I began my conclusion. "In New York, a show such as I have just provided would cost at least a dollar and a half for orchestra chairs and fifty cents for the family circle; this seems to be the family circle. Now, to save the bother of printing tickets and posters, we admitted you to the show without delaying you at the door in the frosty air, and one and all, old and young, must pay me five cents before you leave this room. The door is locked, and I hold the key. Those of you ladies who left your purses on the piano can borrow of your gentlemen friends, who, doubtless, will be ready to help you out of your dilemma. Some of you may demur, and complain of hard times, but said excuses will not hold with me; I carry hard times with me whither I go on my long journey, whereas you have yours only in one place. As soon as all have paid me, the door will be unlocked, and not until. I thank you for your unsolicited audience, and trust that the next time we meet the circumstances will be as happy for us all as they have been this January morning." My speech must have been forceful, for the nickels poured into my hat. As each individual paid I motioned him or her to the opposite side of the room, to guard against humbugging. The landlord had to come to the financial relief of a few, but the door was opened in time for school, and everybody departed with evident good feeling. My host was the most astonished of all, and, with a hearty grip of the hand, predicted that I would reach my destination. Without delay I settled my account with him, saddled Mac A'Rony, and with $2.80 to the good started for Auburn. The last denizen of the village to bid me God-speed was the philanthropist who unwittingly procured me my "bill" for the hotel show, and then filled my purse for me. CHAPTER VIII. An attempted assassination! I cried in excited tones. One of the boldest ever heard of, and right here, too, in the shadow of this palace devoted to commerce and peace. --_A Soldier of Manhattan._ Soon after reaching Auburn, I received a theatre manager who called to engage Mac and me to appear at the Opera House. We signed with him, and the first evening we made such a decided hit that we were engaged for a re-appearance; I received ten dollars for both performances and the privilege to sell photos at the door, which netted me a considerable sum. Auburn is the seat of a State Prison and a Theological Seminary. Avoiding the former, I set out to visit the seminary. The students were cordial, and showed me about the buildings, among them being Willard Chapel, which they called the handsomest in America. I was unable to leave until just before noon. Tramping without dinner went against the donkey's grain even more literally than it did mine. About 2 o'clock I was passing through Aurelius, when a farmer invited me to take lunch with him. I accepted, and enjoyed the repast and the visit with the hospitable agriculturist and his wife. He gave me a card to a California friend, and hoped I would visit him and present his regards. This pleasant delay upset my calculations; I did not reach Cayuga until dusk. The lake was frozen, but the sun had somewhat melted the ice during the past two days. I was cautioned not to venture across with the donkey, for, if he should slip, both of us would go through the ice. This was a great disappointment, for it compelled me to follow the tow-path some five miles round the edge of the lake through the dreaded Montezuma Swamp, in order to reach Seneca Falls. It was long after dark when we left the swamp and entered the shadow of a rocky ridge. A half mile further, I discerned the distant electric lights of the town. To our left was the canal, and to the right, the rocky barrier, while ahead, beside the tow-path, shone an arc light suspended from one of several poles which extended in a line to town. I was tramping along at Mac's head when, suddenly, a man stepped from behind the pole and ordered me to throw up my hands. Although excited, I still had the presence of mind to jump behind my donkey. Instantly the highwayman fired at me. Then I fired to show I was armed and ready to defend myself; and at once a shot came from the rocks, a little to my rear. Turning my head, I saw what appeared to be a cave, where presumably the second man was hiding. But just as I turned my head, a second shot from the man in front knocked off my plug hat; and then came a shot from the rocks. Now, fully realizing my peril between two fires, I aimed my revolver at the man in the road some thirty feet away, and fired to cripple him. I apparently succeeded, for the fellow cried, "God! I'm hit!" and fell in the snow-covered road, resting on one elbow, and pressing his hand to his right breast. Not sure, however, that the man was not feigning, I shot into the cave, from which at once issued the other footpad, who ran down the tow-path. Then I picked up my hat and passed by the prostrate man, keeping my revolver trained upon him, and hurried on toward Seneca Falls. A quarter of a mile beyond I came to Lock House No. 6. My story greatly excited the quiet household. Hibbard, the keeper, with a lantern helped me examine Mac to see if he was wounded; then we were generously cared for. After drinking a cup of tea and toasting my feet awhile at the fire, I made my departure. On reaching Seneca Falls, I called on the chief of police; he being absent, I saw the Mayor, who told me that I did only my duty by shooting in self-defense. Then I went back to the hotel where, in the crowd of excited people anxious to hear my story, were reporters eager to gather the facts of the affair. Next day Hibbard reported that at 2 o'clock in the morning he had heard a buggy pass his house toward the scene of the shooting, and, although he laid awake until daylight, did not hear it return. He said it was the first vehicle in years to traverse the tow-path at such a late hour, and believed the injured footpad had been rescued by his confederate and driven away. After lunch I left for Waterloo, where I found its main thoroughfare so choked with people to see me that I could not get Mac through. They hailed me as a hero, and shouted my name and Mac's until they were hoarse, and purchased all my photographs at twice the regular price. Finally, we resumed our journey, and arrived in Geneva long after dark. Geneva is the seat of Hobart College. One of the societies invited me to a spread at its fraternity house; and, while I was there, Mac was stolen from the stable, of which I was not informed until evening. In view of the fact that a cow had recently been lodged in the college library, I shouldered my Winchester and set out on the war-path after breakfast, accompanied by the Chief of the Fire Department. We had searched the dormitories and cellars of the college buildings and were going to the gymnasium, when I discovered Mac standing in the snow, eating thistles. It had been a cold and stormy night; he was covered with snow, and icicles hung from his under jaw. Yet the donkey uttered no complaint, merely saying, "The boys didn't do a thing to me last night." I learned from a professor that Mac had been found in a recitation room describing impossible theorems and eating chalk, and that the janitor and two professors had their hands full carrying the donkey down two staircases and out of doors. Although it was biting cold and the mercury had fallen to the zero point, I could not afford to tarry longer. After lunch we set out in a blinding snow-storm and tramped on to Phelps, where we stopped for supper and an hour's rest. At first Mac had shown no ill-effects of his recent exposure, but now he coughed. Having made but eight miles that day, I resolved to brave the storm four miles further, and reached Clifton Springs at ten o'clock. There I obtained comfortable lodgings for myself and partner. Next day the venerable director of the Sanitarium invited me to be his guest, and kindly permitted me to lecture to the patients of his fashionable hostelry for a silver offering. Of course, I accepted. My "heart to heart" talk seemed to tickle the large audience, but when the porter brought back my hat with only two dollars in it I was disappointed. I had expected a contribution commensurate with the encores. When I paid the porter 25 cents for his services, I dropped my spectacles and broke the glasses. A new pair would cost me $1.75. That made accounts even. "Reminds me of the colored preacher," observed the director with good humor; "somebody passed his hat to the congregation and returned it empty. 'Well,' said the parson, 'I'm thankful to de Lawd to get my hat back." The story was apt, but it did not console me. While at the Sanitarium I sold many photographs, and judging the patients to be affluent, doubled the regular price. Before our departure, Mac showed symptoms of rheumatism. A doctor suggested that an electri-thermal bath would make a new animal of him. "It won't cost you a cent," said he. I arranged for the treatment at once. It required several attendants to get the fellow in the electric chair, where they secured him with straps; and then the doctor administered the electricity. While the electric wand was rubbed over his legs and body, the frightened donkey brayed and twisted and squirmed, and threatened to upset the chair, causing much merriment. Well, Mac's professional treatment made him a new donkey. He traveled more quickly than ever before, and almost out-tramped his master. Near the Springs is a farm-house where resided, at that time, a sister of Stephen A. Douglas. I called to see her, and was cordially received. She was 86 years of age, her left arm paralyzed, and her eyesight very dim. Tramping on, we came to Shortsville, where we stopped for dinner. Supper was eaten at Victor, and at eight, Mac and I set out for Pittsford, the wind and snow blowing furiously in our faces. The night was intensely dark. Somewhere past ten, I passed two tramps on the highway, but only they and the passing trains broke the monotony of the journey. It must have been eleven when the road joined another at right angles; I was puzzled then whether to turn to the left or to the right. I stamped my half frozen feet, as we halted in the biting wind until, presently, through the falling snow, I saw a distant light, and hurried for it. Farmers usually retired early; but on arriving at the cozy house, I found a party of young people dancing, playing cards, and eating refreshments. A kind-faced woman greeted me at the door, and asked me in. When I introduced myself, and inquired my way, the astonishment of the whole party told me plainly I was considered an honored guest, transient indeed though I was. "Well, I declare, we've read about you lots;" said the hostess. "Won't you sit down and have some ice cream and cake?" "I smell coffee," I remarked, frankly; "if I may be treated to a little of that, I shall be grateful; but as for ice cream, I feel it a little unseasonable this evening. And as I rubbed my ears vigorously, the girls laughed and said, Ain't he plucky!" It was hard, indeed, to break away from this jolly party; I don't know how long I should have tarried if Mac had not called to me. His bray was the signal for a stampede to the porch; all forgot refreshments and dancing in their eagerness to see the famous donkey. They simply lionized him. The girls carried cake and pie and ice cream to him, and one offered him a fried egg, which he declined. When we said our adieux the shivering group gave us a hearty cheer and God-speed, then rushed indoors, leaving the dejected pilgrims to the cold consolation of the snow, wind and darkness of a winter's night. CHAPTER IX. In the first lighted house there was a woman who would not open to me.... Modestine was led away by a layman to the stables, and I and my pack were received into our Lady of the Snows. --_Travels with a Donkey._ Having been directed on the road to Pittsford, a town seven miles beyond, we tramped wearily on, battling with the elements as best we could until midnight, when almost numb with cold, I resolved to seek refuge in a small hamlet we were nearing, called Bushnell Basin. I was told it contained a tavern which would accommodate us, in an emergency. But it was so dark when we reached Bushnell that I could not see the Basin. Its dozen dusky-looking shanties seemed to be deserted, and when I saw a boy crossing the road I was too surprised to hail him. Mac brayed, and the lad stopped. I asked him where the hotel was. He directed me toward a dim light, and disappeared. We pushed on, but the light was extinguished before we could reach the house. I called loudly to the landlord to let me in; I rapped on the door desperately, and repeated my yells. A dog in the house barked savagely; then Mac began to bray, and I wondered that nobody entered a protest against such a disturbance. At length, a squeaky female voice called from an upstairs window: "Who be ye?" "A man," I answered, civilly. "What kind of a man?" "A gentleman," I said, with emphasis. "What's that thing yer got with ye?" I was afraid she'd catch cold in the opened window, if she was in her nightdress, but I replied in a voice of a siren, "A jackass." "Can't let ye in--no room for shows here--next town," fell the frozen words on my benumbed ears. Then the woman sneezed, and closed the window. Mac A'Rony seemed to comprehend the situation, but offered no remedy. I would have covered the three miles to Pittsford, but the donkey was fagged out, and could barely drag his legs. Where were we to find shelter at such a time and place? Retracing our steps a short distance, I caught the sound of pounding, as of a hammer. Soon I heard the sawing of a board, and the saw's enraged voice when it struck a knot. Saved! I thought, as I walked in the direction whence the sound emanated. The snow lay ten inches deep; old Boreas shook the trees, and whistled round the quivering hovels; and I was so chilled and vexed that, if another person had dared to ask me what kind of a man I was, I would have measured somebody for a coffin. Finally, I came to the house, through whose window I discerned a lighted candle in a back room. I rapped on the door. The sawing continued; so did my rapping. Then the sawing ceased, and the door was opened by a swarthy, heavy bearded man who extended me a kindly "Good evenin'." I introduced myself, and pleaded my case. "Come in where it's warm," he said; and following him to the stove, I explained my situation. "We ain't got much accommodation for ye," he apologized, "but I can't leave ye and yer pet out in the cold. This is my wife," and the man introduced me. Then he censured the landlady of the tavern for not admitting me, saying she ought to have her license revoked, "If you'd been a loafing vagabond and drunkard, she'd taken ye in quick enough," said my sympathetic host; "but as ye was a gentleman she was embarrassed to know how to treat ye." From which I gathered that he did know how, and would prove it. He explained that the front part of the building was a store; the rear portion was divided into two small rooms,--a kitchen and a sleeping room. The second floor was utilized as a hay-loft, wherein was stored Hungarian hay for his horse, which he said he kept "in a shed 'cross the road yonder." "Now, if ye'll lend me a hand," he suggested, "we'll make room for yer mule in the shed, and my wife'll get ye something to eat. Then we'll see where we kin tuck ye comfortable till mornin'." I pulled on my mittens and followed the man into the biting wind with a warmer and cheerier heart, and, acquainting Mac with the good news, proceeded to assist my host to transfer a huge woodpile in order to obtain the side of a hen roost lying underneath it, with which to construct a partition in the shed to preserve peace between horse and donkey. By one o'clock Mac was stabled and I in prime condition to enjoy any kind of a meal. The good wife had fried me three eggs, and brewed me a pot of tea, and sawed off several slices of home-made bread, for which I blessed her in my heart and paid her a compliment by eating it all. The repast over, I chatted a while with my friends and smoked; then said if they were ready to retire, I was. A roughly made staircase reached from the kitchen floor over the cook-stove to a trap-door in the ceiling, and up those stairs I followed my host, he with candle in hand, I with a quilt which I feared the kind people had robbed from their own bed. Great gaps yawned in the roof and sides of the loft, through which the wind whistled coldly. The hay was covered with snow in places and the thermometer must have been far below zero. But I stuck my legs in the hay, and pulled a woolen nightshirt over my traveling clothes, and tucked the quilt round my body, and put on my hat and earlaps, and soon was as snug as a bug in a rug, and slept soundly. I arose early with the family, joined them at breakfast, paid my host liberally, and started with Mac for Pittsford. There we were welcomed by a party of young men who had expected to give us a fitting reception the evening before. They claimed that, had they known where we were, they would have rescued us with a bob-sleigh. I did not tarry with them, but tramped on to Rochester, and arrived there at 3:30 P. M., having covered thirty-five miles since the previous morning. We spent two days in the Flour City. An old business acquaintance arranged for Mac A'Rony to pose in the show window of a clothing store, for which I received five dollars. Although it was dreadfully cold and the wind blew a gale, Mac attracted every pedestrian on the street. I called on "Rattlesnake Pete," the proprietor of a well-known curiosity shop, who wanted to buy my bullet-riddled hat, but I declined to part with it at any reasonable price; then I called on the Mayor. He received me cordially, laughed when I related my adventures, and subscribed to my book. Rochester is the seat of a Theological Seminary, and several breweries. Near by is the celebrated Genesee Falls, where Sam Patch leaped to his death. Many old friends called on me during my sojourn, among them a physician, who gave me a neat little case of medicines, such as he believed would be most needed in emergency on such a journey; and while being entertained at a club, I was presented with a fine sombrero. In spite of the frigid gale which had been raging three days, and of the dire predictions of the Western Union bulletins, I started with Mac for Spencerport at 12:30, right after lunch. The village lay twelve miles distant. The biting wind swept across the level meadows, laden with icy dust from the frozen crust of the snow, and cut into our faces. Five times were Mac and I welcomed into houses to warm, but we reached the village an hour and a half after dark with only my ears frost-bitten, and soon were comfortably quartered for the night. Next morning we started for Brockport, eight miles further on, by the tow-path, which we followed. The wind was blowing forty miles an hour, and the mercury fell below zero. Every now and then we had to turn our backs to the gale to catch our breath. Mac's face was literally encased in ice; I rubbed my ears and cheeks constantly to prevent their freezing. Only two or three sleighs were out, and the drivers of these were wrapped so thoroughly in robes and mufflers that I could not distinguish male from female. Still determined not to retreat to town, I urged my little thoroughbred on, and soon we were called into a house and permitted to thaw out. On this occasion Mac, to his own astonishment, as well as that of the kind lady of the house, stuck his frosted snoot into a pot of boiling beans on the stove, for which unprecedented behavior I duly apologized. Eight more times both of us were taken into hospitable homes and inns to warm before reaching Brockport at eight in the evening, more dead than alive. My nose and ears were now frost-bitten. The towns-people, hearing of our arrival, flocked into the hotel to chat with me, or went to the stable to see Mac A'Rony. Wednesday I resumed the journey, resolved that nothing save physical incapacity should deter me; now was the time to harden myself to exposure, and prepare me for greater trials later on. But before leaving, I purchased a small hand-sled, and improvised rope-traces by which Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying it. Besides, this novel sort of vehicle would attract attention; I realized that we must depend for a living more upon sensation than upon our virtues. The next thing essential was a collar for the donkey, and I had to make it. But to make the stubborn beast understand I wished him to draw the sled, that he wasn't hitched to stand, was the greatest difficulty I had. Finally, he caught on, and marched along through the streets quite respectably. Beyond the town we met with some deep snowdrifts lying across the road, and Mac's little legs would get stuck, or he would pretend they were, and I would have to dig the fellow out with my rifle. Again, while leading the stubborn animal in order to make better time in the opposing wind, I would suddenly hear a grating, scraping sound to the rear, and looking around would find the sled overturned with its burden. After several such upsets, I cut a bough from a tree, whittled a toothpick point to it, and prodded Mac to proper speed, while I walked behind and with a string steadied the top-heavy load of freight. Then, this difficulty remedied, Mac, with seeming rascality, would cross and recross the ridge of ice and snow in the center of the road, as if he couldn't make up his mind which of the beaten tracks to follow, or disliked the monotony of a single trail, every time upsetting the sled. During that long and frigid day's tramp but one human being passed me, and he was in a sleigh. He recognized my outfit, for he called to me encouragingly, "Stick to it, Pod; you'll win yet!" Late in the afternoon a man hailed me from the door of a farm-house, "Come in and warm, and have a drink of cider." Now, if there was one thing in the world that tickled my palate, it was sweet cider, and I accepted a glass. "Wouldn't your pard have a drink?" asked the generous man. "Presume he would, if you offered it," I replied. "I never knew him to refuse any kind of a beverage, though this cider is pretty hard." The farmer brought out a milk-pan; and that donkey drained the pan. "Shall I give him some more?" asked the big-hearted soul. Mac stuck out his nose in mute response, so I said yes, provided he would not be robbing himself; it would probably put new vigor in the fatigued animal, and super-induce more speed. "Got barrels of it, friend, barrels of it," said the Good Samaritan, who refilled the pan which Mac again drained. Then thanking the farmer, I steered my donkey on over the ice-bound highway. [Illustration: "_Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying it._"] [Illustration: "_Mac's little legs would get stuck._"] We had not proceeded a mile when I observed that Mac did not walk as firmly as he had; his course was decidedly zig-zag. Finally I left my station at the sled and guided him by the bit. Now he staggered more than ever; then it dawned on me that the cider had gone to his head. In less than five minutes more I regretted having met that liberal-hearted farmer, possessing barrels of hard cider. Suddenly the drunken donkey fell down in the snow, and, instead of attempting to rise, he tried to stand on his head. Not succeeding in that, he made an effort to sit up, and toppled over backwards. All this time he brayed ecstatically, as if in the seventh heaven. Next he began to roll, and tangled himself in the rope traces, and tumbled the sled and gladstone bag about the snow as though it were rubbish. Fearing lest he would break my rifle and cameras, I tried to unbuckle them from the saddle while the scapegrace was in the throes of delirium tremens, and got tangled up with him in the ropes. In trying to free myself, I was accidentally kicked over in the snow. And in that ridiculous and awkward fix I was found by a jovial farmer, who drove up in a sleigh. He soon helped me out of my scrape, and laughed me into good humor, kindly consenting to take charge of my luggage and send a bob-sleigh after the drunkard as soon as he reached his house, a mile beyond. There I waited for the relief committee and the wrecking sleigh to arrive. To say I was the maddest of mortals doesn't half express it. At length two strong men with my help succeeded in depositing Mac on the bob; and he was conveyed to the barn and there placed behind the bars, bedded and fed, and left to sober up, while I, his outraged master, was hospitably entertained over night by my charitable benefactor. We were now at Rich's Corners, some four miles from Albion. My good host provided me with such warm apparel as I hadn't with me, and when bed-time came, I was trundled into a downy bed where I dreamed all night about drunken jackasses. By breakfast time I had recovered my good spirits. I insisted on baking the buckwheat cakes, and not until all the family were apparently filled with the flapjacks which I tossed in the air to their amusement did I sit down to the table to eat. Breakfast over, I joined my host in a smoke, then donned my wraps for the day's journey. When we men returned from the barn with the reformed donkey, a number of the neighboring farmers had assembled with their families on the porch to see the overland pilgrims. I snapped my camera on the group, said "Go on, Mac," to my remorseful partner, and soon was plodding toward Albion. CHAPTER X. Strange to see what delight we married people have to see these poor fools decoyed into our condition, every man and woman gazing and smiling at them. --_Samuel Pepys' Diary._ We did not reach Albion until noon. So numerous were the snow-drifts that we made only a mile an hour. Old Boreas might have been a little more considerate and brushed the snow along the fences instead of piling it across our path. That morning I dug Mac out of a dozen snow-drifts. Albion looked to be a pretty place. Besides many attractive homes, it possesses the celebrated Pullman Memorial Church, a High School, and a woman's reformatory. But I did not visit those interesting places. Being a high churchman, the church was too low for me; not being up in the classics, the high school was too high for me; and believing women to be terrestrial angels, I did not wish to be convinced that my judgment was wrong by investigating a female reformatory. I put up at a comfortable hotel, where I was told that the relentless storm would likely imprison me several days, and found cozy quarters for Mac A'Rony. The day after my arrival, a neighboring farmer took me sleigh-riding into the country to dine with him and his mother, his fleet horse having once conveyed him and his father from Dakota to Albion, 1,600 miles, in thirty-six days. When I told Mac about it, he turned a deaf ear, lay down, and groaned a groan of incredulity. Ex-Consul Dean Currie invited me to spend an evening with him and his family, and took me to call on the Mayor, who received me cordially and offered me the use of the Town Hall for a lecture. I accepted, and addressed a well-filled house; my receipts far exceeding my expenses in town. The coziest place during these three stormy days, I found to be an easy chair by the great stove in the hotel office, where I whiled away most of my time. There, throughout the wintry days and evenings, assembled the guests of the house and many convivial spirits from town, to hear the biggest lie, or to relate the most ridiculous yarn. At one of those gatherings, I met an interesting character Sylvenus Reynolds. Although he was eighty-four years old, he appeared as young and agile as most men of half his years. He attributed his longevity to active out-of-door life. Judging from his talk, one would have thought him to be the greatest traveler living; but, because he was denied the gift of a scribe, he would probably die like the heroes of the country churchyard, "unknown to fortune and to fame." He had tramped and lived by his rifle from Puget Sound to Terra Del Fuego, and was the first white man to cross the Andes from Chili to Brazil. Once in the jungles of India he and a lion and a tiger all met unexpectedly, and, while the three were determining which two should become partners, the tiger made a spring at Sylvenus, and just when his gun missed fire and he thought it all up with him, the lion leaped in the air, caught the tiger by the neck, and killed it. He said after that he never could be induced to take the life of a lion, "the kindest and gentlest of wild beasts." But I must tell about his famous jump across the Lock at Lockport, at that time 14-1/2 feet wide. The event was well advertised. Temporary toll-gates were established, and ten cents levied on such individual passing through to the "show." Over eight hundred and eighty-eight dollars were collected for the jumper. The jump was successful, and Syl got the pot. The narrative closed with a discussion--and another jump. "That wasn't such a mighty big jump," remarked a listener. "I know several fellows who can jump to beat 14-1/2 feet." "I'll bet a dollar with any or all the men present," said I, "that not one of you can stand still on this floor and jump 7 feet." I had ten takers. The money was deposited with the proprietor; the house was thrown into great excitement. The ten jumps were made. But the judges agreed with Pod that the jumpers failed to STAND STILL and jump, and so handed me the money. Naturally, the jumpers, being in a jumping mood, wanted to jump on me next, but they finally conciliated, and regarded me thereafter with suspicion. Although the roads were reported impassable, we departed for Medina on Sunday morning, and, the day following, hastened on toward Lockport. When yet two miles to town, after traveling sixteen miles, a boy ran after us in the darkness and persuaded me to return to his house, as his Pa wished me to be his guest over night; so we did not reach Lockport until eleven next morning. I no sooner stabled Mac than I boarded the train for Buffalo in quest of a theatre engagement; failing in that, I returned to enjoy a stroke of good luck in the form of an engagement for Mac and me to appear on a vaudeville stage in Lockport, which netted me a few honest dollars. At six o'clock Thursday morning we were off for Buffalo, a twenty-six mile journey. Only once did we stop, when I unsaddled for our mid-day meal at Stormville, Mammoth snow-drifts were piled against the fences and across the roads which, melting, gave way under my donkey's weight, frequently imprisoning his slim legs. We reached a school-house near the village of Williamsville just as the scholars were dismissed for their nooning, and were immediately set upon by a laughing, shouting, questioning bevy of frolicsome children, who made merry sport of my partner's predicament; he was stuck in a snow-drift. If Mac had exerted himself a little, he might have climbed out, but he was tired, unusually obstinate, and naturally lazy, and so preferred to await developments. One precocious genius in the crowd suggested rolling the donkey into a snowball, and rolling him to town. That was the signal for a general hurrah. I shook my head disapprovingly, but, on thinking it over, decided to try the novel plan. "Come on, boys," I said. And then with peals of merriment and youthful energy which I never saw equalled, the whole lot soon packed the snow about the patient animal, until only his head and tail were left exposed; then I gave the word "heave to," and the asinine snowball began to turn slowly on its axis, and made a complete revolution. The donkey brayed with laughter; but before he had rolled a dozen times he stopped braying and began kicking, or rather made futile efforts to kick. A dozen more revolutions and he complained of dizziness, but the children only pushed and rolled with renewed energy. Larger and larger the snowball grew, until finally we had to stop and scale off sufficient snow to enable the good work to go on. And presently it did go on, and we rolled the asinine snowball into town amid the cheers and laughter of the children, the frightful brays of protestation from the imprisoned donkey, and the dumb consternation of the villagers. Mac, when liberated, rose at once, only to topple over on his head. He claimed the earth was turning around, which was true enough, although not the way the donkey meant. He was too dizzy to stand for some time; each effort resulted in a comical physical collapse, that set the villagers shrieking with laughter. This was a good time for me to profit by Mac's generous entertainment, and while telling the assembled crowd all about our travels, I sold photos by the dozen. The people opened their pockets liberally, and before they could recover from the effects of the sensation Mac had caused, we pilgrims were hurrying out of town, over an easier road to Buffalo. In consequence of the snowball affair and several other delays, we did not reach the city until after dark. Having traveled seventeen miles since lunch, we were ravenously hungry. Buffalo presented a beautiful sight, with her myriad lights gleaming on the snow. Down Main street, I espied a patent night-lunch wagon standing by the curb, and hitching Mac to the hind axle, I went in for a bite. Suddenly I became conscious that the vehicle was moving, and made a hasty exit, to discover I had traveled several blocks in the lunch wagon. The hard travel Mac had been subjected to for the past week necessitated his having a long rest before resuming the journey. The morning after our arrival in Buffalo, my aristocratic donkey was made the honored guest of the Palace Stables, a large and handsome brick building. Mac's box stall was on the third floor, and could be reached either by an inclined run-way, or an elevator. The donkey being unaccustomed to such extravaganzas as elevators, chose the inclined plane, and even then he put on such airs that it required the united efforts of a half dozen stablemen to escort him to his apartment. Once there, he was feted like a nobleman. I, too, was lavishly entertained. But of all the courtesies extended me the most interesting was the invitation to stand up with a young Italian wedding party in the City Hall, where the Mayor, who sent for me, tied the knot. His Honor did the sacred office bravely--until the conclusion, when he flunked completely. I'll explain. Casimo Mazzette and Rosino Lodico were dago peasants, born in Palermo, Sicily. The groom was tall and proud and embarrassed, although ten years the senior of his eighteen-year-old bride, who was too coy to meet his gaze. She at first took Pod for a preacher, engaged to prompt the Mayor. According to the custom of their native heath, they simply joined hands, instead of using a wedding-ring,--a very sensible idea, for hard times. The pretty ceremony over, the bewitching female benedict looked at the Mayor, and moved toward him, and raised her face, but the embarrassed Mayor withdrew, to the astonishment of everyone, explaining that he was married to a jealous woman, and asked me to kiss the bride for him. He preferred to do the honors by proxy. So, without comment or hesitation, I stepped up to the pretty dago, placed my arm around her to avoid danger of making a bungle of the first kiss I ever gave a woman, drew her face to mine, and kissed her squarely on her ruby lips. She looked so happy that I was about to repeat the act, but her husband stepped between us. The pair shook hands with the Mayor and his clerical-looking assistant, who wished them lots of luck and "dagoettes," and then the blushing bride fled with her devoted swain out of the hall. Next day I accepted for Mac an invitation to a phonograph exhibition in the Ellicott Building. We both attended and were richer for it. The room was well-filled with men and women who eagerly awaited the advertised show. When the manager courteously asked what was the donkey's favorite style of music I explained that, as he was a slow animal, he probably preferred lively music. At once the "yellow kid" held the tubes to the donkey's ears; those sensitive organs indicated his delight by each alternatively flapping forward and backward; but, suddenly, as they were thrown forward together, the jackass kicked an incandescent light globe above into flying fragments. Women screamed and fell into the arms of the men for protection. "You said the donkey was gentle," said the manager, angrily. "So he is," I returned. "Then how do you account for such high kicking?" "Struck a discord, I presume," I said. "What music is in that machine?" The clerk answered. "The first p-p-piece was the "Darkey's Dream,"" said he, with slight impediment of speech, "but the s-s-second was "Schneider's Band."" "Who wouldn't kick!" I exclaimed. Due apologies were in order, and confidence was restored, and an hour later we two departed with the donkey's earnings and the well wishes of all. CHAPTER XI. ASININE TABLE OF MEASUREMENT. Nine square inches make one foot, Four all-around feet make one jackass, One cross jackass makes three kicks, Two hard kicks make one corpse; Corpse, kicks, jackass, feet-- How many doggies do we meet? --_Dogeared Doggerels._ From which table we may safely conclude there is one dog less in the world, and that, estimating him by his kicks, Mac is a jackass and a half. If I had kept a complete record of the breeds, sorts, colors, and conditions of the canines, the pups and curs we met with on the road from New York, I might have compiled a book larger than Trow's New York City Directory, which still would exclude the mongrels and all unclassified "wags" and "barks" of the country sausage-districts. From a financial point of view, I was disappointed with our four-days' sojourn in Buffalo, but Mac and I were rested, and the weather was milder. The winds from Lake Erie had swept the snow off the roads against the fences where it didn't belong, so that my partner had to drag the sled out of Buffalo over a dry and rutty highway. There were, however, several places where the elements had shown a grudge against the farmers by piling huge snow drifts across the road to impede their travel and maliciously blowing the white spread from the fields of winter wheat which required its protecting warmth. Directly on reaching Hamburg, we were taken in charge by a Mr. Kopp (Mac had predicted a cop would have us before long), and given a warm reception. On the way to Eaton's Corners, six miles beyond, I undertook to earn fifty cents in an extraordinary manner; some might call it a hoggish manner. A farmer hailed me from a barnyard, and asked if he could sell me a boar. "Boar!" I exclaimed, almost losing my breath; and I added: "No, sir; one boar is enough." "Well, then, do yer want to make a half dollar?" he called. "Course I do--more than anxious," I answered. "Then jes' help me drag this 'ere hog ter town most; Squire Birge has bought it, and I've agreed ter deliver it or bust." "Let's see it," I said. "Don't know much about hogs, but I'll know more, I guess, when I see yours." I followed the man, Mac tagging close behind. Behold! A docile looking hog of mastodon dimensions was conveying the contents of a corn crib to its inner self. I walked around the beast several times to count his good points, and closed the bargain. An end of a rope was fastened to the hog's hind foot, and the other end wound round the pommel of the saddle. Then I gave the infuriated donkey the whip. A tug of war followed; presently the rope snapped, and donkey and hog were hurled in opposite directions, both turning somersaults. Luckily my rifle escaped injury. The hog lost the kink in his tail; he looked mad, and with his vicious stares, frightened Mac half to death. Finally the rope was again adjusted, and an exciting scene ensued. The velocity of the vibrations of that hog's roped foot, trying to kick loose, put electricity to shame. When the donkey eased up a little, the boar showed its true character by starting for the barn, pulling Mac after him; while, on the other hand, when the hog stopped for wind, the donkey would make a dive for town and drag him until he also had to pause for breath. So those obdurate beasts worked rather than played at cross-purposes for half an hour before I forfeited my contract and proceeded on over the frozen road. We reached Angola by seven, and Farnham at ten o'clock. There we were comfortably quartered; Mac was rubbed with liniment, fed and watered, while I, too late for supper, retired with an empty stomach. The Lake Shore road threads some thrifty-looking towns. The country was dotted with neatly painted barns and cozy houses, surrounded by energetic windmills and inert live-stock, while denuded vineyards laced the frosted shores for miles about. We lunched at Silver Creek, where a burly denizen tried to sell me a big dog, which, he claimed, would tear an ox into pieces. The price named was $5. Neither man nor dog made an impression on me. When I finally drew rein in Dunkirk, at 7:30 P. M., the hotel was alive with commercial men who quickly surrounded us. In ten minutes I sold enough chromos to pay our expenses over night and purchase a new breast-band for Mac. Prior to February 12, Lincoln's Birthday, I traveled so rapidly (even with a donkey), that events somewhat confused me; following the shore of Lake Erie, I visited a dozen towns or more, sometimes several in a single day. I had no sooner disfigured the guest register of the New Hotel, Fredonia, with my odd signature than I discovered the illustrious name of Geo. W. Cable on the line above mine. It seemed a strange coincidence that two such famous men as Cable and Pod should be so unexpectedly crowded together in that little book, in a little inn, in that town. Natural enough and pursuant to the Law of Affinities, I immediately sent my card to the celebrated author, who at once invited the eccentric traveler to his room. Mr. Cable had been reclining, having just arrived by train. He gave me a complimentary ticket to his lecture, that evening, which I placed in my pocket, and later gave to the hotel clerk for discounting my bill. "What a pretty place this must be in summer," was the author's initiatory remark, while twisting a yawn into a smile. "Yes, indeed," I answered, and stretched my legs. "And how do you stand the journey." "Oh, fairly well; getting in better condition every day." "You are a slender man, Professor, but I assume, very wiry, like the cables." The conversation continued until I felt the strain, and I presently shook hands, and wishing him a full house, departed. The author-lecturer is a little under stature; he wore a genial smile and frock coat; his eyes were as bright as duplex burners; and he shook hands just as other people do. It was long after dark when we travelers ambled into Brockton and put up for the night. Mac and I had passed the day in the village of Ripley. The Raines Law did not seem to have a salutary effect on that section of the State. I met on the road that afternoon a tall, lank, tipsy fellow, carrying a long muzzle-loader gun. He stopped me, and said he was a Westerner, a half-breed, and fifty years old. "Been out shootin' mavericks," he said importantly. "Same gun (hic) had in th' Rockies. I'm gentle, though--gentle as a kitten." I was charmed to know he was not hostile, said "So long," and hurried on. Sunday was Valentine's Day. I received a few doubtfully appropriate souvenirs, but did not discover the name of a single friend in the batch. Before leaving Ripley I was presented with a large and handsome dog, a cross between the bloodhound and the mastiff, a pup weighing 98 pounds, which I named Donkeyota. The generous donor was a Mr. W. W. Rickenbrode, who accompanied me some distance to assist me in handling the huge animal, in case of emergency. He had no sooner bade me good-bye than I feared lest I should not be able to make another mile that day. The wind blew a hurricane. While passing a cemetery, I took a snap-shot of square grave-stones, which photograph shows them rolling in that driving gale. It was the most wonderful demonstration of the wind's power I ever witnessed. Shortly afterward, in descending a steep and icy road into a gully the sled with its burden ran against my donkey's heels, upset him, and carried him half way down the hill. In my anxiety and haste to assist Mac, and hold on to my hat, I dropped the dog's chain, and away he went kiting down hill after the sled; and I needed four hands. To my surprise, the dog, Don, seemed to enjoy the entertainment, and instead of fleeing back to Ripley, rolled in the snow and barked in glee. We reached the Half Way House, Harbor Creek, after dark. Next morning after breakfast the landlord's little daughter came rushing into the house to impart the thrilling news that John, their horse, had a little colt; and, enthusiastically leading us to the stable, she pointed to my donkey and said, "There! see?" Mac A'Rony turned his head and regarded the little one with a comical expression on his countenance, as much as to say, "If I brayed, you'd think me a Colt's revolver." Upon entering the city of Erie, Pa., the Transfer Company sent an invitation to Mac A'Rony and Donkeyota to be its guests; I sought a leading hotel, and busied myself with my newspaper article. Tuesday, late in the day, we started for Fairview, twelve miles beyond. We passed many jolly sleighing parties, some of whom stopped to chat with me, and share with me refreshments, and purchase my chromos; and one sleigh load promised to entertain me royally at the hotel. They kept their word, and after refreshments and an hour's rest, we resumed the journey in the light of the full moon, arriving at Girard by 9:30. Next morning, the village constable arrested my attention and persuaded me to act as auctioneer at a vendue; by which deal I made some money. I worded the hand-bill as follows: AUCTION SALE. Monday, February 15th, 1897. The farm of Jeremy Shimm, its buildings, live-stock, farming utensils and implements, its crops and its woodland, its weals and its woes, including the following named articles and belongings, will be sold under hammer this day at 10 a. m.: Barns and sheds, and other stable articles, pens and pig-pens, hen-roosts, dog-kennels, house and smoke-house, step-ladders, dove-cotes, buggies, wagons, traps and rat-traps, plows, sows, cows, bow-wows, hay-mows, sleds, beds, sheds, drills, wills and mills, wagon-jacks and boot-jacks, yoke of oxen, yolk of eggs, horse-clippers, sheep-shears, horse-rakes, garden-rakes, cradles, corn-cribs and baby-cribs, cultivators, lawn mowers, corn-shellers, chickens and coops, roosters and weathercocks, swine, wine, harrows, wheel- barrows, bows-and-arrows, stoves, work horses, sawhorses, axles and axle-grease, axes, cider, carpets, tables, chairs, wares, trees, bees, cheese, etc. By orders of the TOWN CONSTABLE, Hank Kilheffer, Pythagoras Pod, Auctioneer. The dodgers were speedily printed and circulated in all directions--sown broadcast, as it were--and, it being a windy day, they flew like scudding snow-flakes over every farm for miles around. A great throng assembled to witness the extraordinary event, and to take advantage of bargains with the traveler-auctioneer, who, mounted on a pile of wood, with plug hat in hand, yelled at the top of his voice and finally disposed of the rubbish. The art of auctioneering seemed to come to me by inspiration, and the enthusiastic farmers and towns-people swarmed around me, eager to secure a trophy of the notable sale. "Three superb harrows are now to be sold, and will be sold, if I have to buy them myself--seventy-two tooth, thirty-six tooth and false tooth harrows; harrows with wisdom teeth, eye teeth and grinders, will grind up the soil and corn-stubble in a harrowing manner, and cultivate the acquaintance of the earth better than any other kinds made. How much am I offered?" As I yelled, I felt that I had strained my voice. "One dollar," called a granger to set the ball rolling. "One dollar, one dollar, one dollar--going one dollar--gone one dollar--to the bow-legged gentleman over there, with albino eyebrows"--"THIS WAY, SIR!" I shouted. "Constable, please take his name, and chain him to the wood pile." In this manner it didn't take me long to dispose of the farm, including the soil four thousand miles deep, and the air forty-five miles high. I finished the ordeal by noon, was paid my fee, and then discourteously told that I had realized several hundred dollars less from the sale than the constable himself could have done. Still every purchaser admitted he was more than satisfied with my generous conduct, shook my hand, bought a chromo and expressed the desire to meet me again. And that was a thing that does not happen always in connection with vendues. CHAPTER XII. I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history. --_Duchess of Malfy._ I did not tarry long in Girard, but spent the night in West Springfield. Thursday morning I escaped from the Keystone into the Buckeye State, eating dinner in Conneaut. As the sleighing had disappeared, I shipped my little sled home, as a relic of the trip, and packed my grip in the saddle, as of old. After a short rest in Ashtabula, we climbed a hill by the South Ridge road, where I got a fine view of the city, and soon lost ourselves in the darkness. Presently a farmer drove up in a rickety wagon and began to coax me to accept of his hospitality for the night. He deftly explained that he would care for me and my animals until after breakfast for fifty cents. I decided to avail myself of the invitation, and Mac congratulated me on my display of good sense. I, too, slapped myself on the shoulder; I was ready to sup and go right to bed. In a short time both donk and dog were comfortably stabled, and I was introduced to the family. The noises from the lighted kitchen had faintly intimated to me the sort of den into which I was allured. It contained the noisiest lot of children that ever blessed a household. "Are these all yours?" I inquired, politely. "Nope," answered Mr. Cornbin. "Ye see, this 'ere's sort of a half-way house;" the man smiled, and poked some cheap tobacco into his corn-cob pipe. "There's goin' to be a dance down to Plimton's to-night and all our friends from around 've fetched in their babies for George Buck--he's our hired man--to take care of. Like to dance, eh? Better go 'long--fine women going ter be there--here's plug, if ye want a chew--no? That's smokin' terbaccer on the table by yer. We're plain folks, but you're welcome to the best we've got." Mrs. C. prepared me a supper which went right to the spot. She advised me to go to the dance, by all means. I had made up my mind to that as soon as the word "dance" was mentioned; the "kids" would have driven me crazy in short order, had I remained with Buck. One by one the mothers of the hilarious "brats" came in; then we all got our wraps on. I expected, of course, we were going to ride, but no, the whole party walked. My hostess took her own babe with her. She would leave the hired man in charge of her neighbors' children, but was too wise to entrust her own child with him and the lamp. When we reached our destination I was introduced to four grangers playing "seven up," and told to make myself comfortable. "Choose your woman, Professor," said Mr. Cornbin, "an' show 'em how you kin manage yer feet on a waxed floor." Sure enough, the floor was waxed. The garret was converted into a veritable ball-room. Two rows of upright scantling crossed in the center of the room and propped the snow-laden roof, and through these uprights, some twenty inches apart, glided the blue jeans and overalls, calico and cambric skirts, with as much energy and pride as might be squeezed out of a city cotillion. The fiddlers and caller were mounted on a board platform at one end of the "hall." They sawed away and shouted, and wore out more enthusiasm, catgut and shoe-leather than I ever saw wasted in the same length of time. There were all sorts of dances and dancers. I myself tackled the Virginia reel, Lancers, Quadrille, Caledonia, Polka, Hornpipe, Mazourka, a Spanish dance, the Irish Washwoman, and several others. The favorite music was "Pussy in the Rainbarrel;" it served for a half dozen different dances. I never liked the music--a sort of windpipe or bagpipe which allowed no breathing-spell from start to finish. In my second dance I went off my feet, my head caught under the sloping roof, and the floor master had to knock my "pins" from under me to get me loose. There was one pretty girl there, and I tried to engage her for a dance, but every time I approached her she shied away; at last, she got used to my odd appearance, and allowed me to clasp her to my bosom in a waltz. Just as we got started, the dance closed, and the caller shouted to choose partners for a square dance. My pretty partner agreed to dance it with me; I could see several of her admirers looking "daggers" at me. "Forward; right and left!" sounded the call. "Lead yer partners round the outside!" I thought the caller meant the outside of the house, and started down stairs, but was soon stopped, and the call explained to me. "Alaman left!--grand right and left!--half way and back--change partners, and four ladies salute!--balance again and swing the opposite lady!" That succession of calls completely demoralized me. I got all mixed up, and soon found myself clasping an upright instead of somebody's partner, and concluded my part by violently sitting on the floor. After that I contented myself with looking on. Although the two prettiest features of the ball--the Minuette and the St. Vitus Dance--had not yet taken place, I felt more than satisfied, and bidding my friends good morning, set out for the Cornbin domicile. After a late breakfast of tea, bread, salt pork and fried potatoes, I started for Geneva. All through New York State people had supposed on seeing me that "Uncle Tom's Cabin" had "busted," and that Marks, the lawyer, was homeward bound with his mule. In Ohio, the curious countrymen inquired if I was on my way to join Maine's Circus, at its winter quarters, Geneva. Mac, as well as I, was quite sensitive over these inquiries. Through the driving snow-storm we managed to reach a hotel where, after a noon meal, I led my animals on to Madison. When a half mile yet to the village we passed the Old Woman's Home, which I visited the following morning, Sunday. The man who planned it was a genius. The rooms of the commodious building were fitted up to suit the whims of the most fastidious fossils of second childhood. Paintings and plaster bas-reliefs of old women knitting, washing false teeth, and sewing, decorated the walls. Sewing baskets, crazy quilts, dolls, and paper soldiers were strewn about the rooms. The most novel of all departments was the dental and hirsute Check Room, where the old ladies checked their false teeth, wigs, cork legs, etc., when they happened in disuse. A little brass ring containing a number is given the owner of the article to be checked, so that it may be preserved in good condition, and not get lost. Incidents are cited where very old women, during intervals of temporary aberration, have got their checks mixed and tried to wear an extra set of teeth, or an additional wig; and it is said that once a woman with two normal legs endeavored to hook on a cork leg. But when we consider the great age of the inmates, such cases are quite pardonable. From the next town, Painesville, we went to the home of President Garfield. Mr. R----, who had the care of the handsome residence, invited me in to rest, and sup. I was shown all of the beautiful and interesting rooms. In the spacious hall hung a large photograph of Milan Cathedral, and in the upstairs hall, a portrait of Washington and an engraving of Lincoln. In the General's favorite study, I was permitted to sit in the large easy chairs where he had found comfort after his mental labors and inspiration for his speeches and debates, and regarded the bric-a-brac and furniture with more awe and reverence than I had ever felt upon visiting the homes of the great. Two miles beyond Mentor is Kirtland, once a thriving Mormon camp. It is situated at considerable distance from the direct route to Cleveland, and it took us over a distressingly muddy road, and through such intense darkness that I soon lost my bearings. Seeing the gleam of a lamp in a window, I went up to the house to inquire the way to the tavern. The owner insisted on our being his guests, and I felt very grateful. My animals were assigned to a shed, and I was invited to a hot supper, which my good hostess hastily prepared. I soon discovered that I was among spiritualists, as well as Latter Day Saints. My Host, Mr. J----, was an elderly man, and well informed. He said much about Joseph Smith. He himself was born in Kirtland some eighty years back, and had often listened to the preachings of the founder of Mormonism. In those days Kirtland contained about 2,000 inhabitants; but all that remained of the town are two stores, a shop, and a dozen or so little houses, half of which I found to be occupied by itinerant preachers of the "Latter Day Saints." My host said he firmly believed in Spiritualism, and dwelt at length on communication between the material and spiritual world. Finally he strode to my chair and felt of my cranium. "Why Prof.," said he enthusiastically, "you are a medium yourself. All you require is a little study of the science. Spiritualism is merely the science of materialism." I shivered audibly. "And do you mean to tell me," I said, "that you believe honestly you can see the ghost, or the spirit of the departed?" "I know it," Mr. J---- returned, emphatically. "I have FELT the spirit of the departed. One night at a seance I saw my little step-daughter who had been dead many years. I heard her call to me "papa." She put her arms round my neck, and kissed me on the lips. Then she disappeared. Of course, I know it! I saw her, I heard her, I felt her; isn't that proof enough?" I told my host that he was certainly convinced, but I wasn't. I then bade him and his wife good night, and was ushered to my chamber. There I pulled the clothes over my head, and tried to attribute my shivers to the cold. When I awoke next morning and searched in my grip for my razor and found in place of it a "Toledo Blade," I began to suspect some supernatural being had robbed me. Before leaving Kirtland my host persuaded me to be shown the famous Temple and the house in which the Prophet, Joseph Smith, lived. The Temple of the Latter Day Saints there standing, is probably the only church of three stories in the country. I climbed to the tower that surmounts it, and got a fine view of the spot where once stood the house of Brigham Young. The arrangement of the inner temple was quite novel. At both extremities of the main hall, or nave, was a series of four rows of white-painted seats, lettered in gilt to represent the several orders of the Priests of Melchizedek. Long rows of rings hung from the ceiling, crossing each other in places, from which were once suspended curtains to divide the nave into rooms for the sessions of the different orders, and in the white square pillars might still be seen the rollers and pulleys with which the curtains were drawn. Said Mr. J----, "I have heard Joseph Smith shout from that pulpit and tell how the Mormons would yet build a temple still larger, to answer their future needs, and some day in the future another one a mile square; that they were the chosen people, and would send missionaries to convert all Europe, after which they proposed to sweep in America to a man. Soon after that proclamation he moved West with a large following. There they reorganized, and the new order assumed the title of 'The Latter Day Saints.'" Traveling that day was most disheartening in more ways than one. The roads were awful, my exchequer extremely low. Fortunately, on the way to Willoughby a farmer offered to feed me and my partner, provided we would help him saw some wood. Mac supervised the work. After we sawed off a section of a log, the farmer handed me the axe, but soon took it from me, saying that I couldn't chop any better than I could saw. Then we ate. [Illustration: "_Mac supervised the work._"] [Illustration: "_Only time I got ahead of him._"] CHAPTER XIII. As Bud bestrode the donkey the cheers of the throng rose, but above the tumult he could hear the North End jeering at him. --_Much Pomp and Several Circumstances._ From Willoughby we went to Cleveland. My route through the beautiful city lay along one of the finest residence streets in America--the famous Euclid avenue. From there we marched to Superior street, where cheers greeted us on every hand. The papers had heralded my advent, and as in the other towns and cities, the newspaper artists had taxed their imaginations to picture Pod and Mac. We two were engaged to appear at the Star Theatre Wednesday evening, and when I rode out on to the stage the house shook with laughter and cheers. I made a short address and announced that I would sell photos of Mac A'Rony and his master at the door. That theatre put me way ahead financially. Thursday morning I called on the Mayor, Mark Hanna and Senator Garfield, and added the autographs of all three to my album. Mr. Garfield invited me to attend the weekly dinner and reception of the "Beer and Skittles Club," that evening. I went and enjoyed myself. Next day I reached the village of Bedford by 7:00 P. M., only making thirteen miles; and the following night I put up at a cozy inn at Cuyahoga Falls. We three had covered eighteen miles that day; it seemed twice the distance. I was almost frozen. All day I held my once frost-bitten nose in my woolen mittens, and my ears were wrapped in a silk muffler. In the morning a man hailed me: "Cold day!" "Yes, pretty chilly," I returned, politely. A half mile on a farmer opened the door and yelled: "Pretty cold, hain't it, Professor?" "You bet," said Pod, icily. Some distance further a fat German drove by in a gig and said: "It vash cold--don't it?" "'Course it's cold!" I answered, acridly. A mile beyond two men reminded me it was a very wintry day. Then a woman drove past and tossed me the comforting reminder: "Don't you find it awfully cold?" I did not reply to the last two. Twenty minutes later a boy, from a cozy home, yelled to me. I had passed to some distance, and did not understand. It sounded like, "Won't you come in and warm, and have lunch," I hesitated a moment in the biting wind, then retraced my steps and called to the lad: "What's that you said?" "It's a cold day!" yelled the scamp. I was mad enough to unload my Winchester. But I didn't; I only tucked my half-frozen nose in my mits, rubbed my ears, and continued my journey, like an ice-covered volcano. A mile beyond a wagon with a family in it passed me, and the man said, "Cold, my friend." At dusk a farmer inquired, "Hasn't it been a pretty frigid day?" The human volcano was now ready to burst. So when a man and woman warmly clad drove by in a buggy, with top up, I resolved to get even. I shouted several times before the rig stopped. A fur-clad head stuck out to one side, and a male voice called: "Can't hear ye; come nearer." I ambled up, put a foot on the hub of a wheel, and said, "I simply want to say, it's a cold day." "You--!----!!------!!!--------!!!!" As soon as he had finished, I said, by way of civil explanation: "My dear sir, do you know, a hundred people have stopped me to-day and told me it is cold. I have tramped nearly twenty miles without stopping to warm or eat; and I resolved to let the next fellow have the same dose I have been taking half-hourly all day. Now, if you are satisfied that it is a cold day, I will bid you good night." With this I returned to my companions, somewhat warmer physically, but cooler in spirit. The hotel in Cuyahoga Falls received us most hospitably; I never shall forget the kindnesses of its landlady. The village dates back to pioneer days. It is built on the hunting grounds of the old Cuyahoga Indians. Monday, March 1st, at 12:30 P. M., we arrived in Canton. The citizens expected my arrival, and Market street teemed with excitement. In front of two hotels, a block apart, stood their proprietors waving hats and arms, and calling to me to be their guest. I was puzzled to know which invitation to accept. While deliberating, one of the landlords approached, and taking my arm, led me to his comfortable hostelry, where he royally entertained me and my animals. The pageant that celebrated the departure of William McKinley to the seat of Government was a fair estimate of the regard in which his fellow-citizens held him. Canton did him honor. I witnessed the leave-taking at his house, his ride to the train in the coach drawn by four greys under escort of a band, and heard him deliver his farewell address from the rear platform of his private car. I spent Wednesday night in Massillon, and next morning returned to Canton, to take some interior photographs of McKinley's home. I was successful, beyond my hopes and expectations, securing fine pictures of his study and parlor. The President's inauguration at Washington called forth a deafening demonstration. Cannon boomed, steam whistles shrieked, and the citizens shouted and hurrahed, and I was glad Mac was not with me to add his salute. I returned to Massillon, and at 4:00 P. M., set out for Dalton over the muddiest, stickiest red-clay roads I ever encountered. I saw a meadow-lark on the first of March; this day I heard blue-birds and robins singing gaily. It looked as though spring had come to stay. I expected that day to reach Dalton, only eight miles distant, but the mud prevented me. I put my foot in it--the genuine red and yellow mixture of real Ohio clay. It was so deep, and sticky, and liberally diluted with thawed frost that once I was compelled to crawl along the top of a rail fence two hundred feet and more, and drag my jackass. At dusk I had covered only three miles. Then I sought lodgings. A store loomed into view shortly; I was elated. According to the sign over the entrance, the younger generation was the ruling power. It read: "Hezekiah Brimley and Father." I made for Hez. He said the town hadn't reached the hotel stage of development yet, but that he would gladly take me in, provided I'd sleep with his clerk in the garret. I found the store full of loungers, who patronized the chairs, soap and starch boxes, mackerel kits and counter, forming a silent circle round a towering stove in the center. The village treasurer wore a "boiled shirt" and brass collar-buttons, but no collar or coat. His companions were generally attired in flannel shirts of different hues and patterns, plush caps, which might be formed into several shapes and styles, and felt boots encased in heavy overshoes. These rural men eyed me with suspicion until I mentioned Mac A'Rony. Then there was a rush to the door. As it swung open, in leaped my great dog; at once the crowd surged back to the stove. "Does yer dorg bite?" came several queries in a bunch. "No," I said. "He has killed a bull, chewed up a ram, made Thanks-giving mince-meat of several dogs, chased a pig up a tree, and only this morning ate two chickens and a duck and chased a farmer into his hay loft. But he doesn't bite." My statement had a sensational effect on the assembly, who, one by one, sneaked out of the door, leaving Hez and his odd guest alone. As soon as the junior member, Hez's father, came in, Hez took my animals to the shed and fed them, and told me to help myself to the best in the store. "Ye know what ye want; I don't." Hez said he was sorry he was just out of butter and bread. I was sorry, too. Wishing a light supper, I selected one yeast cake (warranted 104 per cent. pure), a pint of corned oysters (light weight), some crackers, and leaf lard, to take the place of butter, and a cake of bitter chocolate. I left a few things unmolested; such as soap, cornstarch, cloves, baking-powder and stove-polish. My assorted supper went down all right until I tackled the chocolate. Chocolate is a favorite beverage of mine; besides, I wanted a hot drink. To be good, chocolate must be well dissolved. No pot was to be had, save a flower-pot with a hole in the bottom. A great idea popped into my head. I would drink chocolate on the instalment plan. Did you ever try it? If not, don't let your curiosity get the better of you. Chocolate belongs to the bean family, and the bean is a very treacherous thing--chocolate bean, castor-oil bean, pork-bean, and all kinds. I first ate the cake of chocolate, then some sugar, and drank two dippersful of hot water,--then shook myself. That mixture might suit my stomach, I thought, but it doesn't delight my palate. I felt I had eaten a heavy meal unwittingly, and sat down to digest it. I hadn't sat long before I felt myself swelling. Something within was sizzling and brewing and steaming; gas and steam choked me. I was sure there was going to be a demonstration in my honor that I had not bargained for. The yeast cake came to mind; then I knew the cause. My body grew warm, and finally I was so hot that I had to go to the garret and take a cold bath; after which I excused myself to the clerk, and went to bed, and dreamed I was being cremated alive. Next morning, on invitation of the superintendent, I visited the Pocock Coal Mine, situated close by, and had an enjoyable trip through its subterranean passages. CHAPTER XIV. This day Dame Nature seemed in love: The lusty sap began to move; Fresh juice did stir th' embracing Vines, _And birds had drawn their Valentines_. --_The Complete Angler._ It was noon when I started for Dalton, three miles away, and night before we arrived there. The mud oozed into my overshoes, and I made Mac carry me and my grip. I delivered a lecture, whose receipts about defrayed my expenses, and was presented a pair of rubber boots by a man frank enough to admit the boots didn't fit him. We spent the Sabbath in Wooster. While strolling down its main street with my dog, I suddenly came upon a captive coyote, which defied Don, who ran off in a fright. That monster canine fell considerably in my estimation. I wondered what he would do when our camps on the plains were surrounded with a hundred of these yelping beasts. Wooster, rather a pretty town, is the seat of a university. The word "seat" reminds me that I needed a pair of trousers. The rainy season had set in, and I wanted a reserve pair. Otherwise, when my only pair got soaked I must go to bed until they dried. I walked into a Jewish clothier's, and, selecting a pair of corduroys, inquired, "How much?" "Two dollahs ond a hollaf," said the merchant. He informed me that in Mansfield the same "pants" would cost $3, in Fort Wayne $5, in Chicago $7, etc. I said that according to his way of reckoning I could have purchased the same kind of trousers in Dalton for $2, in Massillon for $1, and in Canton for a song. My argument staggered him, but he soon recovered, and showed me a great colored picture, representing a pair of corduroys, one leg chained to an elephant, the other hooked to a locomotive, and both powers working in opposite directions to part those wonderful trousers. "Just vot you vant vor riding a jockoss; can't bull abart; vy, my dear sir, it's a bargain." That was a strong argument; I bought the "pants." Passing on through Jeromeville and Mifflin, we reached Mansfield, the home of Senator Sherman; and sixteen miles beyond Galion. That lovely spring day, with the birds chirping merrily in the trees, my pilgrimage seemed unusually irksome. Next day was my birthday, and I resolved to make it a holiday. I enjoyed a day of recreation, so did my donkey and dog, and in the evening delivered a lecture on my travels before a campaign league at its club house. On Friday morning I started for the town of Marion, twenty-six miles away. Many citizens of Galion assembled to see us off. Mac and Don were impatient for the journey, and amused the crowd by pulling each other's whiskers. I had boasted of having trained Mac A'Rony to follow me. When I set out with a wave of my hat and a beckon to my partner, he responded promptly, and for some distance verified my boasts. He never before had acted so tractable. Suddenly, a cheer sounded in the distance, and, turning, I beheld that asinine rascal making back to town on a hop-skip-and-jump. How the crowd did yell! It was a circus for them. Mac certainly had rested too long and eaten too many oats. The only time I got ahead of him was when I photographed him. I did not upbraid him, but when I readjusted my scattered belongings and whirled the whip over his head, he moved forward with utmost humility. At Caledonia, I took advantage of the farmers' market day and sold a large number of photos at a good price. I could not appear anywhere on the street without some rural stranger stopping me to shake hands and purchase a chromo. Saturday evening I lectured to a crowded house. It was 4:30 P. M. Sunday before I started to Kenton, twenty-seven miles beyond. When nearly there, I passed a small farm whose rural incumbent came to the fence to question me. "Goin' ter show to-night?" he inquired. "Nope," I answered, and kept Mac A'Rony moving. "Hold a minute!--Be ye travelin' er goin' somewhere?" the man persisted, as he leaned over the fence-rail. He interested me. "When you see people walking," I returned, bringing my donkey to halt, "you can take it for granted, they are going somewhere." The lonesome-looking farmer was the first I had met who was neither busy at work nor whittling. Gray locks fell wantonly over his ears. His faded coat, blue overalls and felt boots exhibited signs of a persistent conflict with farm implements, hooking cows, kicking horses, and a rich clayey soil. A cow and two hogs eyed my donkey and dog with contempt through the bars of the barnyard fence. I observed that all the buildings, including the house, were of logs. The man, judging from his property, didn't have a dollar in the world, but had great expectations. He asked if I had any books to sell. I had one, a copy of a volume I had published, several of which I had sold on my journey at a good price. I had lost fifteen valuable minutes talking with the man, and resolved to get even. While wondering what I could take in exchange for the book, a hen cackled. "Certainly. I have a book to sell," I said. "How much is it?" "Dollar and a half." "I'd buy it," said the farmer, longingly, "but I hain't got the price." "Have you got any eggs?" I asked. "Dozens of 'em. How many kin ye suck at a sittin'?" "I don't wish to suck them; I want them to sell," I replied. "How much do you ask a dozen?" "Six cents," he answered. "Well," I said, "I will trade the book for ten dozen. Is that a bargain? It looks like a cinch for you." "I meant a book about yer travels t' San Francisco," he explained, as he looked far away. "Well, that's just what it is," I returned, bound to make a sale, or die in the attempt. "Tells all about them: how robbers shot at me in York State, bull chased me down a well in Pennsylvania, dog worried me up a tree in Illinois, cowboys rescued me from Indians in the Rocky Mountains, grizzly bear hugged--" "Whew," ejaculated the man. "Thet's what I want. Ye got yer book aout purty soon. Wait till I go and fetch th' eggs." And the apparently ignorant man disappeared, soon to re-appear with a paper sack full of hen fruit. "Fresh?" I inquired, as I tied the fragile bundle to the saddle-horn. "Couldn't be fresher," was the positive answer. "Some laid terday, some yisterday, but most on 'em ter-morrer." Then observing my arched brows, he added, "Yaas--yer thunk I was a know-nuthin', and I let yer think so, 'cause yer need 'couragement. And I say agin, most on 'em was laid ter-morrer, and th' best on 'em is rooster eggs." I delivered the book, feeling the farmer had somewhat the better of me after all, and came to the conclusion that because a man looks primitive, and lives in primitive style, he is not necessarily of primitive intellect. Mac joined in a pleasant adieu to Mr. Bosh, and we sauntered on, I, behind, deeply absorbed in thought. We hadn't proceeded a half mile, however, before Mac shied at a bunch of hay, and ran plumb against a rail-fence; in a jiffy that jackass looked like an egg-nog. There is no word coined to express my eggs-ass-peration. When I caught the scapegrace, it required a half hour to make him and the saddle look the least respectable. I stopped at the next farm house, where a windmill supplied me with the water to wash the outfit, and I signed a pledge never to have anything to do with shell games of any kind. They always get the better of you. CHAPTER XV. Every one who has petted a favorite donkey will remember many traits of its mental capacities; for, as in the case of the domestic fool, there is far more knavery than folly about the creature.--_Wood's Natural History._ It was a sunny spring day when I arrived in Kenton. After supper with a young physician, on his invitation, I retired, and next day set out for Ada, a village sixteen miles away. Toward evening, being tired and almost without funds, I sat down to converse with a farmer who was husking corn. He soon became interested in my trip, and said if I would help him husk awhile he would feed me and my animals. I gladly consented; Mac A'Rony and Don lent their assistance, the donkey soon losing his appetite. After a delicious supper with the farmer's family, I hastened on, reaching Ada long after dark. Ada is the seat of a Normal School, which is the seat of a large number of other seats. Everybody seemed to be much concerned about the great fistic bout to take place in Carson City that day; the 17th of March. It was "St. Patrick's Day in the morning," with the weather threatening, when I started for Lima. My coat was decorated with cabbage and lettuce leaves and paper imitations of shamrock, and I looked like an animated vegetable garden. Finally it rained; and the road became a mire. I had just finished a heated argument on the Carson fight, and began to question the story of how St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland, when I suddenly found myself on the ground. And I saw the streak of daylight Mac threatened to kick into my brain. An old man tried to drive a colt past my strange-looking outfit. I called to him to hold his horse by the bit until I could lead my donkey into the field. But no, he could handle the colt, or any other horse, and I should mind my own business. On the rig came a few yards nearer, when in the twinkling of an eye the colt whirled and upset the buggy with its boastful driver. The man was not hurt; but somewhat dazed. Several farmers soon arrived and were loud in their abuse, saying Mac and I had no right on the highway. It was an effort for the donkey to keep his mouth shut. I replied, civilly, that I was sorry the thing occurred, and explained how I had warned the stranger. Then I whipped up my unjustly abused partner, and left the old man pulling his beard thoughtfully in the midst of the sympathetic group. All day I strode far in advance of my donkey and led untrained, untamed, and frightened horses past. Next day being stormy, I devoted the morning to writing my newspaper article and answering some urgent letters; then, failing to arrange for a lecture, I left Lima for Delphos, and tramped fifteen miles in mud and rain without lunch. We spent Saturday night in Van Wert, and Sunday afternoon resumed the journey in sunshine, people crowding their front windows and doorways to see us leave town. We had not proceeded far when I met an odd trio who had run half a mile across lots to speak to me. One boy had a twisted foot; another, a hand minus five or six fingers; and the third acknowledged that as soon as he caught sight of us he lost his head. Considering their crippled condition, I thought they deserved credit for such activity. It was eight miles to Convoy. There was no bottom to the road. Seeking a footing along the fence, I ground innumerable land crabs into the mud, while the peepers in the swampy clearings piped their dismal music. At dusk we waded into the village where a curious throng awaited the sensation of the day. And there we spent the night. The nearer I approached the Indiana border, the more impoverished appeared the farms and their struggling proprietors. Every other farm-house was the primitive log-cabin, and the barns and outbuildings generally tallied with the house. A thunderstorm awoke me at day-break; the prospect for my day's tramp was most dismal. After walking six miles, I stopped to talk with a party of gypsies, in camp. Presently a black-eyed gypsy girl issued from a heap of bedding under a tree, and inquired if Mac A'Rony was an ostrich. Her heavy jet-black hair fell in a mass over her shoulders, and her sparkling eyes did their level best to enchant me, as she asked to tell my fortune. "How much?" I asked. Her grizzled sire said fifty cents; the daughter corrected him, saying one dollar. That was too steep for me. I gave Mac the rein and proceeded some distance when the girl called to me, "Twenty-five cents! Come back!" This was an alluring proposition, and I returned. At once dismissing the bystanders, she reached over the fence for my hand, told me to place a quarter in it, then to close and open it. I no sooner obeyed than the coin disappeared, and the gypsy began in a charming manner, as follows: "That line shows you will live to a good old age. You are to enjoy your best days in the future. Understand me? If your pocket was as big as your heart you would make many others happy. Understand me?" She surely must mean creditors, I thought. "Yes," I answered. "Shows it in your face," said she. "You have for a long time disliked your business" (that was no lie), "and want to change it. Understand me? You make friends easily, and wherever you go you are invited to come again. Understand me?" I nodded. "Shows it in your face." I began to think she was reading my countenance instead of my hand. "Are you married?" she asked. "No, but want to be," I replied. "Shows it in your face," said she. "A widow lady is in love with you. She has written you, and you will get her letter soon. Her name is Sarah. Understand me?" "I do not," said I; "I know but one woman named Sarah. Heaven help me if she is after me!" "Shut your hand now, and make a wish," said the girl. I did as she bade, and wished long and hard. "Now open," said she. Her black eyes seemed to pierce my very soul. "You wish to make fame and fortune. Understand me?" "True, I do," I said to her; that's just what every man wishes, I said to myself. Then she continued: "You will make fame and fortune in the business you are now in. Shows it in your face." I wasn't satisfied with that prediction; I preferred the fortune to be in my pocket. "A kiss is awaiting you from a black-haired girl within two weeks' time. She loves you. A lot of girls want you, but they can't have you. Understand me?" "I confess that I don't quite," I answered. "But I wish those poor girls did." And I looked real serious. "Shows it in your face," she repeated. That fortune teller puzzled me. The quarter's worth of seance at an end, I plodded on toward the Hoosier country with my mute comrades, wondering how much of the fortune would come true. Soon afterward we got out of the mud area and came to a hard, smooth, broken-stone road. I stopped my donkey and sat down to take off my rubber boots. Just when I got the first shoe on, Mac began to move down the level turnpike. I called, "Whoa, Mac! Huh!! You long-eared Mephisto!" The jackass paid no heed, but galloped on, shaking his head and kicking up his heels merrily with the dog in front of him, barking as if he enjoyed Mac's practical joke. By this time I was speeding after the runaway, a boot on one foot, a shoe on the other, and chased a half mile before I caught him. Then I led him back for my footgear. Two miles beyond we again struck mud, thick and deep. Observing a little mound covered with long dried grass, I sat down again to change my footgear. Mac turned and eyed me mischievously, and wobbled his ears, then nodded to Don. I was so absorbed with the idea that he intended to lead me another chase that I failed to hear an ominous sound emanating from underneath my seat. Not until something seemed to burn me did I rise to the occasion, and light out, this time stocking foot, but making less speed through the black and sticky highway than on my former run. Something less than a million bees swarmed about my head. I ran! Oh, how I ran! And I would be running still, perhaps, had not a farmer seen me and knocked down the swarm with a section of a rail fence. I was quite out of breath. The hero had only spared my life for future tortures. [Illustration: "_I scrutinized his hat inquisitively._"] After considerable search, I found boots and shoes, but failed to see either dog or donkey. Putting on my boots, I hung my shoes on the fence, and set out on the trail of the fugitives, which appeared to have gone into the brush. I waded into the thicket, calling Don all the time, and at last was rewarded. He leaped at me delightedly, and barked, and tugged at my trouser legs, and piloted me to the terrified donkey which I found tangled in a mass of wild raspberry bushes, his head tucked between his forelegs, and his back doubled up like a cat at bay. There were no bees on Mac. That was a hot experience, for a raw March day. I plodded on through the mire to the house, whose proprietor had come to my rescue. The dooryard was filled with hives. "Regular bee ranch," I remarked, pleasantly, though I burned uncomfortably. "Yas. Right smart business," the man returned. "You're right; bees do a smart business." "Lived on 'em nigh ten years." "You must find them a hot diet!" I said. "I lived on a nest of them less than half a minute and nearly burned up." "I reckon so," he replied with a chuckle. "I saw yer scorchin'." It was 2:30 P. M. when we crossed the state line. The first sight that greeted my eyes in Indiana was a flock of Ohio geese just ahead of us, being driven by a hoosier. "Fine drove of geese you've got there," I said to the man. "Yaw," he answered. "But Ohio geese is peculiar. Gooses won't run with th' ganders." "No?" I queried. "What's the reason they won't?" "Wall, jest th' way they's built. Won't run--jest fly, er waddle." "What most all geese do, don't they?" I asked, much amused. "Yaw," reiterated the hoosier, grinning; "jest fly, or waddle." CHAPTER XVI. Get money; still get money, boy, no matter by what means.--_Ben Jonson._ Indiana swamps, woodland, corn fields and log cabins were not unlike those of Ohio. On arriving in New Haven two hours after dark, I was quite tired out, and I think my companions were, too. We had tramped all day without dinner over a road alternately hard and muddy. I would have stopped to rest at a small place called Zulu, but the name sounded so cannibalistic that I looked to my firearms and hurried past. Next day I registered in Fort Wayne. After calling on the genial Mayor, I set out to inspect the city and see what my chances were, for I found the outlook for my delivering a lecture discouraging, and, although for several days I had barely made expenses, did not attempt money-making there. Fort Wayne is notable for its great car-shops and the Indiana School for the Feeble Minded. In the morning I boarded a car and rode a mile and a half out of town to the latter. The large building of brick and terra cotta, viewed in its expansive setting of well-groomed lawn and gay parterres, presented a picture of architectural beauty. The superintendent welcomed me cordially, although it was not visitors' day, and graciously showed me through the interesting institution. Its neatness, the clock-work regularity with which the several departments are conducted, and the great variety and detail of the mode of instruction given the 550 idiotic inmates were a revelation to me. Many of the advanced scholars were making and mending their clothes and bedding; something I couldn't do, I fear. The idiots are carefully attended day and night. Never before did I see a natural-born bald-headed person. Here was one, a funny-looking girl, and I was told she had several brothers, sisters, parents, uncles and aunts, all bald from birth--a distinguished family indeed. I wondered whether her disappointment was as great as that of Pye Pod, who once possessed a head of hair, then lost it. I have heard it said people who never had money know not its value, and presume its so with their heirs. For mortals deprived of reason the place is surprisingly quiet. The halls are tiled, the floors of the rooms are waxed, and all are so slippery that the inmates are unable to romp, which is probably the reason for such stillness. Whenever they gain sense enough to be boisterous like sane and healthy children, they instantly fall on their craniums on the polished floor and are rendered insensible. I was interested in a group of little girls who were being taught a game. One wee child with a big head--bigger than I had ever been accredited with--was sitting in an invalid's chair with her head resting in an iron prop, because it was too heavy for one body to support in those hard times, and seated around in ordinary chairs were epileptic, paralytic, cross-grained idiots, etc., so far advanced toward health and sanity by careful training as to play a game. While the great object of this school is to provide the unfortunates with a comfortable home and prevent intermarriage, a few are graduated every year and transferred to the large farm owned by the institution. I heard the Feeble Minded Brass Band play; its music I thought quite equal to that of many normal bands I had heard. The birthdays of great men (excepting that of Pythagoras Pod), are celebrated, and birthday parties given. The superintendent drove me back to town and urged me to fetch my donkey out to entertain the idiots, and invited me to dine with him. So not telling Mac about the place, I rode him to the Home, where I found my host and his assistants ready to receive us. "Shylock there will assist you," said the superintendent, pointing to a hump-backed inmate. When we got Mac to the hall entrance the circus began. Two attendants helped Shylock boost the donkey while I guided his head, and we managed to pitch the beast headlong into the slippery hall, where he landed three times in succession--first, on his knees and heels, second, on his tail, and third, on his back. I think he imagined he was on ice, for he lay perfectly still, afraid to move. The hall floor was cleared, but a bunch of idiotic heads stuck out of every doorway, and peals of hyenish laughter reverberated through the building. Finally we got Mac on all fours, and I rode him slowly down the hall amid the hysterical shouts and screams of the physically strong, if feeble-minded children, and talking, yelling and commanding attendants, all of which so frightened my sensitive mount that he squatted down on the floor, rolled over on his side, and brayed. Did you ever hear an ass bray in any confined space? It is awful! These unmanageable pupils and their overtaxed preceptors fairly went mad, while Mac yelled, "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!" The hall was now a swarming, uncontrollable mass of unbridled lunacy in human mould; romping, tumbling, fainting, and taxing the united strength and strategy of the surprised officials to bring order out of chaos. The jackass went into a veritable fit, kicked the plaster off the walls, shattered an incandescent light globe, nearly rolled on top of an idiot who took him for a pussy cat, and brayed himself hoarse. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and ran akiting down the tiled hall floor until it turned; then he tried to turn, and flopping off his feet, came down on his vertebræ. As soon as we could get him out of doors, I handed him over to Shylock and went into dinner with the laughing superintendent. I never want another experience like that. The disappointing feature about the show was that probably not one idiot would remember it over to the next day. The following morning my party set out over a black muddy road. Thrifty looking farm-houses, many of them of brick, were scattered along our route, and sheep and cattle basked in the sunshine on the south side of strawstacks, often attracting wistful glances from my long-eared partner. Arriving at Churubusco, I put up at a comfortable hotel near the railroad where the noisy passing trains kept me awake most of the night, and resumed the journey next day, after lunch. Some four miles beyond the village we came to a new iron bridge, without its approaches filled in. No workmen were about. A single two-by-twelve plank was stretched from the bank to the bridge at both ends to enable people to cross, but evidently quadrupeds were supposed to ford or swim the stream. I tarried some moments thinking what best to do, when presently a countryman happened by, and helped me carry a plank from the roadside to widen the bridge approach for my donkey to walk. What an ass Mac was! He attempted to walk the planks sideways, and consequently fell into the deep miry hole, almost into the stream. I feared he had broken his back, but he escaped injury. The farmer helped me uncinch the saddle and get Mac up the steep bank on to the road; then we transferred the plank at the other end of the bridge to that end and made a three-plank foot-bridge. Finally we got Mac on to the bridge proper, and by transferring the three planks to the other end I managed to overcome the obstacle, and proceeded on the journey, after the loss of two hours. My hat had anticipated the animal into the hole and was flattened by his weight; thereafter it supported a gable roof. Two hours after dark we came to a barn that looked roomy and airy, and as the next town beyond Wolf Lake was so far away, I concluded we might as well take possession of it for the night. The barn door wasn't locked, so I led my animals in, and struck a match. No horses were visible, but a box stall contained a cow and a calf. Prowling about with lighted matches, I discovered a buck sheep, hiding behind his wool in fear of my big dog. I found a measure of grain for Mac and assigned Don to a pile of hay near the door, then tucked myself in some straw and drew my mackintosh over my shoulders, prepared for a night's rest. I was almost asleep when the calf bawled; again when on the brink of Lethe, the sheep bleated. Suddenly my restless donkey kicked a board off the side of the barn and set Don to barking. I yelled, "Shut up!" Again the dog barked. The next second he made a leap in the dark, followed by a loud commotion, and at once the atmosphere indicated plainly what kind of an animal the dog was after. I couldn't get out of the door without running the lines, which seemed perilous indeed. Mac kicked and brayed as he never had before, and my dog was running round the barn trying to get away from the atmosphere or something. And I was as busy as the rest endeavoring to bury myself in the straw. Presently the dog and the buck sheep went to settling some misunderstanding, fighting like demons. The cow and calf then began to bellow in a discordant duet, and fearing lest any moment the cow would break the bars of her stall and enter the general fray, I dug all the harder in the straw. All at once, amid the obscured exciting scene and above the tumult, I detected an agonizing groan, and suspected Don was squeezing the life out of the sheep or the calf or the nuisance; but when it was all over and I heard the victim gasping in its death throes, it was plain that my dog had shaken all the strength out of our unwelcomed guest. It was impossible for me to go asleep in that great, airy barn. I crawled out of the straw, and got my donkey out of doors as quickly as possible. As for Don, I felt indifferent about his joining our company, if he proposed to be familiar. On over the deserted highway we groped our way; the dog sneezing, coughing and rolling by the roadside, the half-suffocated jackass breathing hard and braying faintly for more air, and I soliloquizing vociferously about the existence of useless creatures. The wind blowing head on, I kept some distance ahead of Mac, and threw mud and stones at the dog, which now seemed particularly fond of his master, and continued my tirade against such obnoxious things as we had lately run against. "Every creature has some redeeming virtue," Mac A'Rony remarked after a while. "Above all things, don't belittle the skunk; he's the best financier in the world. He could go into the Stock Exchange and bull the market with one scent, and all the members together couldn't bear it." Mac was ever doling out to me unwelcome philosophy under trying circumstances. We reached Ligonier, a fine little town eleven miles away, the next day in time for one o'clock dinner. Since entering Indiana I had not made expenses; and my little reserve fund was vanishing. I had been told that Ligonier was a moneyed town, and its people liberal; so I tried to secure a hall for a lecture, but failing, I spoke my piece in the street. Fully two hundred persons assembled to hear me, and encored enthusiastically. I concluded with passing my hat and collecting 32 cents. I talked again three hours later on the same spot, and was rewarded with a contribution of three cents. I think that collection for a lecture is a record-breaker. Goshen was reached next day by 5 P. M. The Scripture speaks of Goshen as the land "flowing with milk and honey," but as I have been told, I am somewhat rusty on Biblical history. At any rate, I looked forward to replenish my depleted exchequer here, if I had to resort to extreme measures. Before retiring, I made up my mind I was going to be awfully disappointed with Goshen. The people of the section of country I had threaded from the Ohio boundary were incredulous, superstitious, penurious and suspicious, and those characteristics seemed to reach their superlative in that particular town. Monday dawned still and sunny--an ideal day for hanging out clothes, but not shingles. I hung out mine, nevertheless; it was essential to Mac's welfare and to mine, to say nothing of the dog's. A drummer showed deep interest in my pilgrimage, and I asked him how he made out with his business. I had failed signally. He said he was glad I spoke to him on the subject, and drew me aside. "See all the thrifty-looking wagon-teams hitched on the two sides of the Court House Square?" said he; "See those squads of grangers standing around waiting for something to turn up? Well, every stranger is looked upon with suspicion. If he attempts to drum up a new business among these fossils, he is immediately branded a 'fake.' After I had made two unsuccessful trips to this section, I vowed I would make the third one a success. A fake article sold by a first-class imitation drummer would just about catch these people. And ever since that day I have been unloading on them, and reaping a big harvest. Do you see the moral?" I said I did, and thanked him. After lunch, during which I was accredited extremely thoughtful, I drew my friend aside and whispered, "I have it. I'll buy some axle-grease, and mix it with sweet oil, and sell it for eye salve!" The drummer eyed me as he might a wonderful character, felt of my head, and said I'd win out. At once I went to a drug-store for some pill boxes, blank labels and perfume, and to a hardware store for axle-grease and sweet oil; then retired to my hotel room, and mixed my "Eye Elixir." As soon as my magic healing wares were ready to put on the market, I hunted up a sore-eyed tramp I had seen on the street that day, and promising him a percentage of my receipts, got him to assist me to get even with the folks he, too, had a grudge against. When I was fairly started on my eloquent talk about the virtues of "Eye Elixir," the tramp walked up with the quarter I had given him, and asked for "another box," saying to the crowd, he'd been looking for me all over the country and was glad to find me, for his eyes being almost well from using the first box began to get worse when he had no more salve, which was the only thing that ever helped his sore eyes. He said, if he could afford it, he would lay in a lot of it for future use, not knowing where he could get any more. Then a boy stepped up and bought a box, and an old woman bought two boxes, and the sales proceeded so fast when once started that I soon sold out, and took in $7, selling twenty-seven boxes of "Eye Elixir" besides the box I had sold to the tramp. I paid him one dollar for his services, with which he was delighted. This left me a net profit, after deducting the cost of making the salve, of $4.90, paying my expenses in town and leaving me a small balance. Then I cleared out of Goshen as quickly as possible. Oh, Shakespeare, how truthfully you said, "What fools these mortals be!" I resolved that when I should return East I would go by ship around the Horn, or by train across the Isthmus, or else choose a trans-continental route which would give that section, honied and milked by Pye Pod, a wide berth. CHAPTER XVII. Yankee Doodle came to town, Riding on a pony, Stuck a feather in his cap, And called him "Mac A'Rony." --_Old Ballad._ A county poor-house on the road to Elkhart attracted my notice when I was about to pass it by. My outfit was recognized by a man raking the front lawn, and he urged me to visit the institution; so, thinking I might devote a quarter-hour to the cause of self-education, I tied Mac in the yard, and was shown through the dirtiest and most uninteresting building I ever inspected. Old, lazy-looking men, with empty heads in full hands, lounged about on benches, and several others in the hospital ward seemed to be trying harder to die than to live. One wrinkled but round-faced wench, with a soiled bandage round her ears and forehead, was smoking a well-seasoned pipe in the kitchen while stirring mush. I was glad to see the house prison empty. Five minutes indoors sufficed me; and, bidding my escort a hasty adieu, I piloted Mac on to Elkhart. Arriving in the city, I at once procured a license to sell pictures on the curb, a precaution I had been timely advised to take, and one that was rarely necessary on that trip. Then, before going to eat and to rest my tired bones, I led the donkey to a prominent corner in the business center and began to sell. I had disposed of two photos only, when a policeman with unusual pomposity ordered me away, but I continued to make sales and, as he was about to take me in custody, shook my license in his face, causing much merriment to the crowd. Soon the cheering attracted the Mayor to the scene, and he, to my surprise, not only bought a chromo, but paid me for the privilege of riding Mac A'Rony. The jack reluctantly consenting, his Honor got into the saddle and rode down the half-choked thoroughfare a block and back amid thunderous applause. The profits from my sales did not meet my expenses, including the cost of license, so I hurried on to Mishawaka, where, after supper I delivered a street lecture, passed my hat and collected 24 cents. I would yet be stranded in Indiana, at that rate. Mac advised me to leave town at once, and we made for South Bend at dark, reaching that city by ten o'clock. And there with only $6.50 in pocket, I put up at a small hotel and tossed in bed half the night, wondering how I should save myself. "The darkest hour is just before dawn," and it was about that time when I recollected having received, a few days before my pilgrimage began, a letter from a Mr. Adams, of Chicago, extending me an invitation to be his guest, should I pass through that city. It was one of many letters received at the time, which I had not answered. I now regretted my negligence, but nevertheless, next morning, with due apologies I wired him to expect me on a certain train, and planned for a week's absence. The lenient hotel proprietor agreed to take care of my animals as security for my hotel and stable bill; then I purchased a return ticket for emergency, and boarded the train for the Windy City, trusting to a dollar and a half, to my wits, and to "luck" to carry me through. As I stepped off the train in Chicago, a stranger grasped my hand and gave me a most cordial greeting. "Laying for me, eh?--first man I meet a confidence man," I muttered inwardly. But he was extremely courteous, and offered to carry my saddle-bags. "No, sir," I said, politely. "I've carried them twelve hundred miles, and can carry them three thousand more." "Pod is your name, all right;" the stranger continued, half in inquiry, half in surprise, I thought, as we walked out of the railroad station. "You bet it is," I said, emphatically. "Just because you've plenty of wind out here you needn't think it can blow away my name." "Well," said he, cheerfully, "Our wind is said to be the best brewed in all this country. It may not be strong enough to blow away pods, but I'll wager it can blow the pease out of 'em so far you never can find them." The man's facetiousness interested me; it bespoke his nerve. "Tell me, Mister," I said, after walking several blocks, "where are you taking me, anyhow?" "Oh, just three blocks more, then we take a cable," said my escort, as he made another futile grab for my countryfied luggage. When on the car, this confidence man had the confidence to introduce me to a pal, as the New York gentleman and scholar, Professor Pye Pod, who was surveying a trans-continental turnpike from the observation platform of a jackass. "I want to know!" exclaimed bunco man number two; and suddenly, a new light affecting to dawn on his brain, he added, as if to disarm my suspicions, "I see. I see. I have it now. You are the journalist I've read about,--said to be well fixed--first visit to Chicago?" "Not much," I returned. "Been here dozens of times. Can't say I'm well fixed, though, with only a dollar and a half to my name." At this stage of the dialogue, I saw a police station. "Come with me," I said, "I want to procure a license. Then we'll have a 'smile.'" And, to my utter surprise and gratification, both men stepped off the car and followed me like faithful dogs into the police station. "Where's the Chief of Police?" I inquired of a man in uniform, who stepped toward me. "Right here before you," was the answer. "Well, arrest these bunco-steerers," I said, dropping my odd-looking luggage and laying a hand on each man's shoulder. I never saw greater astonishment and embarrassment than was expressed by these two confidence men at being so easily trapped by their "Uncle Rube." "This man met me at the train when my depot came in," I continued, excitedly, in _lapsus linguæ_. "He knew my name, business, and previous condition of fortune, and put me on a car where he introduced this pal of his, and if I hadn't been forwarned against such fellows by my Uncle Hiram, and caught on to the game, I would have been robbed by this time and chucked into the sewer." This was enough for the Chief. He seized each man by the collar. Instantly the first man found his tongue and tried to explain matters, and finally did so, to the satisfaction of all concerned. But what a surprise party for Pye Pod! "Well! well!! well!!!" I exclaimed, my heart thumping like a pile-driver, as I realized my embarrassing predicament. "Who would have thought it? Mr. Adams, of course! My dear sir, how stupid of me! I have wronged you and your friend unmercifully. When I telegraphed you (the Chief here loosened his hold on the men) I never thought you would attempt to meet me at the train, let alone have time to. Your address of 131609 Wellington avenue, I supposed must be near to the State line; Chicago has grown so. Couldn't conceive how you could reach the depot before to-morrow." Of course, it was "up to me" to treat. So I left my saddle-bags, and going to a cigar store, purchased a dime's worth of cheroots, and did myself nobly by the chief and the confidence men, whose faces were bloated and red on my return. Then my forgiving host took me to his distant home, where, after dinner, we enjoyed a smoke--of his own cigars--and a hearty laugh over my exceptional initiation to Chicago life. While smoking and chatting, my host happened to mention a big mass meeting to be held that evening at Lincoln Turner Hall. The doors were to be opened at eight o'clock. It was now seven-thirty. At once I explained my financial stress, and told him that the object of my advance trip by train was to try to make enough money to continue my donkey journey. Adams suggested that, that being the case, we should attend the meeting, by all means; so we hurried off. Arriving at the hall, my host introduced me to an officer of the league, who escorted us both to seats on the platform with a number of vice-presidents and their wives and mothers-in-law. After several orators had spoken, among them being Carter Harrison, soon to be elected Mayor of Chicago, the chairman reminded the audience of Pythagoras Pod and his celebrated donkey, Mac A'Rony, of whom they had read, saying that the meeting was honored with the Professor's presence; then he introduced me, after having said I needed no introduction. It was five minutes before I could hear myself speak, and, not being there for that purpose, I didn't say much. But my speech seemed to tickle the audience, and when I had concluded, the chairman suggested that my histrionic plug hat be passed around the hall, on the inside, so it was; and, do you believe, it was returned to me with more wealth than I had possessed before, at any one time on my pilgrimage. The two days following were busy ones. I contracted for the manufacture of a quantity of buttons, containing the picture of Pye Pod on his donkey, and arranged for the meeting with the manager of a large patent medicine concern on my return to the city with Mac A'Rony. Then, after a day's rest, I returned Sunday evening to South Bend, Ind., to find my donkey and dog well and delighted to see me, but myself suffering, for the first, with malaria. I had a severe chill on reaching the hotel, and all night long I rolled and tossed with a fever. This was doubtless the result of my evening travels through the swamps and lowlands of the Hoosier State. At midnight, I sent a bell-boy for quinine, and by feeding on the medicine liberally, for several hours, I broke up the fever by morning; but still my bones ached. I had no appetite and was in no form to travel. At noon I forced down a little soup, paid my bills, and set out for New Carlisle, walking the whole distance, fourteen miles, by sunset. Mac was so slow that his shadow beat him to town. My muscles and joints still ached, and I passed another sleepless night. Next day I pushed on to La Porte, fourteen miles further, and went to bed feeling a wreck. But as the chills and fever failed to return, I enjoyed sleep. My Chicago trip was a boon to me. I gave no thought to money-making for the present. Wednesday morning, feeling in better spirits, I started for Valparaiso, and covered the twenty-two miles on foot by dark, and relished a hearty supper. Thus far the week had been cold and damp and cloudy. The roads, where they were not muddy, were very sandy, and Mac and I made slow headway. The following night was spent in Hobart, where I was entertained at an amusing, though distressing cock-fight, and all day Friday I tramped or waded in sand six inches deep to the next town, Hammond, where I passed a restless night, in spite of my now restored health. In the morning I learned that the state line runs not only through the town, but also, the very house and bedroom I occupied. My bed was directly on the line, and somehow, any position I got in brought that line across some part of my body. Dull monotony and bad weather distinguished the next day's journey; a rainstorm met us half way to Chicago, and wet us all the way. But on Palm Sunday, we progressed under more genial skies. I observed many pacific, law-abiding people with prayer-books, bottles and shot-guns, either on their way to church, to a fishing-stream, or to the woods; and we came upon a tandem bicycle party, the machine broken down, the young man and woman apparently broken up. She sat on a stone against a telegraph pole with chin in her hands, watching the gallant fellow, who was at her feet, on his knee caps with a monkey wrench in his hands, trying to repair damages. From South Chicago we passed into Stony Island Boulevard and the Midway Plaisance of the World's Fair of '93. The remaining Art building arched its brows at my curious outfit, and an endless chain of bicycles and carriages conveyed past us an inquisitive and gaping multitude, many of whom altered their plans to follow us into the city proper. It was six o'clock when we reached Thirty-fourth street and I found a suitable stable for my animals. Then affectionately patting Don's head and rubbing Mac's nose, I left them and sauntered up the avenue, heaving a sigh of infinite relief over my hard-earned triumph. As I trended the streets of that wide-awake metropolis toward its business center, I was stopped many times by truant messenger boys and idle street gamins, who seemed surprisingly solicitous about the physical condition of my hat. "Mister, this way to a hat store." "If you want to buy a new hat, I'll take you to a hatter." "This way, Mister, I know a place to get a hat cheap." "Say, Mister, I kin get yer a hat fer nothin'." Why should I wish a new hat? I asked myself indignantly. True, mine had seen better days, but it was worth more to me now than a hundred new hats. "Yes, yes, you dear old weather-beaten tile," I apostrophized as I strode on with a deaf ear to my inquisitors, "you are of royal stuff, for you have triumphed over many wars and dissensions and still wear a crown! The plebeian hats who calumniate you, although fresh from a band-box, are common compared with you; they are jealous of your exploits and envy you your faithful friend." "Vividly do I recall our desperate encounters with the mad bull, the hailstorms and other warring elements; and that winter's night when you forgot your personal safety and made a noble self-sacrifice by receiving the assailant's bullet intended for me; and, again, the day the awkward jackass tried to yank me off the plank foot-bridge underneath him in his fall, when you threw your own lean frame down on to the bank in place of me and received the weight which would have mashed me to death, but which only squeezed the wind out of you. Why do all the idle clerks gaze at you so longingly from the shop-windows? Because they covet you as a drawing card to disdaining shoppers. I am proud of you. Rest in peace." I spent the night with friend Adams, on his invitation. Monday morning I kept my appointment with the patent medicine man. He received me cordially, evidently aware of the boon I might be to his business should I enter his employ, and in order that he might better discuss my proposition and its possibilities, he invited me some miles into the country for a couple of days' outing at a mineral spring resort. A stylish coach and four met us at the train, and wheeled us over a pretty rolling country, in the glow of the setting sun, to the cozy hotel-sanitarium, which was brilliantly illuminated and whose doors were open to welcome us. And in less than twenty minutes, Pod made of his Apollo form a companion piece to "Diana Bathing." The water then sold at fifty cents a gallon and there were two hundred gallons in my tub. Think of it! I had read about beautiful actresses and heiresses taking milk baths and champagne baths and Rochelle salts baths, but that $100 bath of mine in pure lithia water would have put all those pretty bathing women to the blush. But when, in my enthusiasm, I so told my generous host, he spoiled all my beautiful delusions at once by saying quite mechanically, "Oh, two hundred gallons for a bath is nothing unusual; it's only the overflow." Next morning he asked me if I would like a magno-mud bath. "Sir?" I interrogated, gravely. "If you had dragged and pushed and carried a stubborn, cantankerous donkey through four hundred miles of red and yellow Ohio mud, and two hundred miles of blue and black Indiana mud, not to mention some six hundred miles of New York and Pennsylvania mud of various hues and conditions, the overflows of December, January and February; if you had bathed in mud, waded in mud, soaked in mud and cursed in mud for nearly five months, and I were to put such a delicate question to you, your sensibilities would be shocked, your nerves paralyzed, your reason ossified." My host apologized and withdrew the invitation; then with great wisdom and forethought, he introduced me to the physician, Dr. Tanner, the highest authority on fasting, and renowned for his having fasted forty days. I considered this the luckiest meeting of my whole journey. He took quite a fancy to me and gave me valuable instructions and prescriptions for fasting any period from one to forty days; but I was disappointed not to be enlightened on how to go several days without water. That morning my host made me a liberal proposition to advertise his medicines, he guaranteeing to pay me a regular weekly stipend during the remainder of my pilgrimage to the Golden Gate, and, free of all charges, to provide me with all the photographs of my asinine outfit that I could sell en route. I signed the contract. Then we returned to Chicago. CHAPTER XVIII. The whole duty of man is to be a mother.--_Jerome K. Jerome._ One week of gamboling in sporty, wide-awake Chicago, and of high-life on the top floor of the Auditorium, put me in fine fettle to resume travel. My second morning at the popular hotel I indited this note to an Eastern friend; "Breakfasted to-day on the roof, got a shine in the cellar, and met everybody half way." For nearly five months, through severe winter and early spring weather, I had hustled as I never had before to make ends meet; now I had swum the Hellespont to a prosperous shore, the remainder of my long, slow journey looked more enticing. Several valuable and useful articles were presented to me by wealthy admirers in the Windy City, who also dined me, took me to the theatre and entertained me in other ways. One evening I was pleasantly surprised to be escorted to a champagne dinner given by my friend Williams, of the Union News Company of New York, to several prominent business men of the West. When the sumptuous repast was well under way he unpinned from the lapel of my coat a button containing a photo of Pod seated on Mac, and paid me a five dollar bill for it; and, learning I had a stock of buttons in pocket, the other guests followed suit. Such wholesale generosity was as overwhelming as my gratitude. The man with whom I contracted to advertise gave me a donkey, which I named Cheese, to go with Mac A'Rony. And so delighted was Mac with this new comrade to share his burdens that, on my approval, he agreed henceforth to contribute to the papers every other letter on our travels to the coast, and so enable me to devote more time to bread-winning. Easter morning I found a blue hen's egg at my plate. I was pleased with the remembrance and had the clerk place it in my letter-box. When I called at noon for my mail, I was told the egg had visited most all of the letter boxes, each guest in turn having disclaimed it; so, when at six o'clock I called for the egg to take it to my room for safe keeping, and was handed instead a parcel that smelled of chicken, I was not surprised; however, upon opening it, I could not conceal my astonishment. "Mr. Pod," said the clerk, gravely, "the egg was handled so much that it naturally hatched. Certainly you are not surprised?" "Not surprised that it hatched," I returned, to be reasonable, "but this is fried chicken, and the egg was boiled." My Easter dinner with friends on Champlain avenue made me realize somewhat the stupor a boa-constrictor experiences after having swallowed an ox. My friend Bob B---- urged me to make his home my transitory abode, arguing that perhaps while at the hotel I was cheated of needed rest by yielding too much to entertainment by well-meaning acquaintances. He gave me a key to the house, showed me my room, and told me to drop in any time, day or night, and make myself at home. Having promised to call on an elderly gentleman who had been very kind to me, I spent that evening with his family. Before leaving I had made great friends with his little granddaughter, and promised to call again and bring her some candy. "I want circus candy, the kind with rings around it," she explained, drawing imaginary circles round her finger. When I reached my hotel the clerk said several gentlemen were waiting to see me. I was sleepy; besides, I felt I had caught cold and should doctor it at once. Explaining to the clerk that I was indisposed and begged to be excused to my callers, I slipped out of the door and hurried to a drug store. "A good drink of calisaya will fix you," said the drug clerk, who explained it was well charged with quinine, but failed to mention it was also well charged with alcohol. I drank two glasses of it, then boarded a car for Champlain avenue. Before reaching my destination I fell asleep. But the conductor was thoughtful enough to awaken me and assist me to alight. I was so dizzy from sleepiness, I couldn't walk straight. I soon got my bearings, though, and reached Bob's house by experiencing sensations of treading a moving sidewalk, promenading a steamer deck in a high sea, and circumnavigating a crystal maze. I found the door-knob but not the key-hole. We had been having damp weather, and I reasoned that perhaps the key-hole had shrunk shut. I searched my pockets for matches, and found enough wooden toothpicks to kindle my wrath. While I was fuming, a policeman came to my relief. "Who be you, young feller?" he interrogated. "Pyth (hic) thagoras Pod," I answered, civilly; and offering him the key, added, "Won't you open the (hic) door for me?" "You don't live here, then," said the cop. "I know (hic) it," I admitted. "Just visiting friends." "Are you sure you know where you are at?" he queried, sternly. [Illustration: "_He accused me of attempting suicide._"] [Illustration: "_We made slow headway to the Mississippi._"] "No (hic), I'm not sure," I said feebly, "but I think I'm on Champlain avenue." "More like champagne," he returned, sourly. "What's the number of the house?" "I forget it," I answered, "I know the house (hic), though, when I see it." "I think you came here for business," said the officer. "You better come with me." And he locked his arm in mine. "Let me ring (hic) up the folks," I pleaded. "They'll identify me." The cop stopped, hesitated, and, doubtlessly deeming prudence the better part of valor, "let." When I took my thumb off the electric button the household must have thought Chicago burning again. I heard Bob tumble half way down stairs; and, when he opened the door and identified me and saw me stagger in, he took another tumble. The third was taken by the disappointed cop, who hurried off to his proper beat. Conscious of my inebriated condition, I was much embarrassed that my friend should find me in such a state at that late hour. He asked me no questions, and I told him no lies. When he had assisted me to bed, he turned out the gas, which likely I should have blown out, and left me to prayerful meditation. My late propensity to sleep had vanished. My brain was a whirling wilderness. The more I thought about that temperance drink of calisaya, the less respect I had for the principles of prohibition. I scored temperance societies, darned Salvation Armies, and cursed the birth of Matthews, who invented the soda fountain. Before long I was in a sweat. The red beverage was evidently breaking up my cold, but that wasn't all. It broke me up; it had broken the slumbers of my host; I was sure it had broken up my good reputation for sobriety. I was too nervous to sleep. Thinks I, "A hot bath will just fix me. I'll get up and take one." I rose and hunted for matches, but couldn't find any. Piece by piece, I scraped several ornaments off the mantel to the floor, one bronze Mozart statuette doing some effective work on my big toe that I had intended a chiropodist to do. Next I fell over a center-table, and upset a glass vase on the floor, which broke its neck; then I tumbled over a rocker and wondered that I didn't break mine. Still bent upon reaching the bath room, I bent my nose against an opened closet door. I was mad. At last, finding the exit of my chamber, I groped my way into the hall, then hesitated. I thought I remembered the location of the bath room; I was under the impression my bedroom was on the third floor. In reaching for the balusters, I almost lost my balance. My head still whirling like a dancing Dervish. Slowly and dizzily I felt my way down stairs until I came to a door--the bath room door, I supposed. I opened it gently, groped my way in, and put my bare foot on a napkin-ring, which proceeded to roll away, landing me flat on the floor. Then the folding door swung to with a bang. I feared my friends would think burglars were in the house. But I found the tub all right. I turned the faucets, and was pleased to have both run cold water, for I burned as with a fever. But, when I started to climb into the tub, I found I had either grown shorter in stature, or the tub had been raised. Perhaps it was managed by automatic machinery. I knew nothing about machinery; so with great effort I climbed up and into the tub, but found greater difficulty to get all of me in it. I reasoned that the dimensions of the contracted bath-tub must be all right, but the expansions of my head were wrong; I was intoxicated by a temperance drink, and had heard that it was the worst kind to get tipsy on. I made another heroic effort to jam my body into the tub, but some of me would always lap over the edges. I reasoned that, if I were sober, there would surely be room for three to swim comfortably about that bathtub. Cold water ran from the faucets for some time and I was considerably cooled off, when, suddenly, one faucet began to run hot water. Instead of turning off the water, in my excitement I tried to climb out of the tub, but was wedged so tightly in it a hasty escape was impracticable, and before I fell out on the floor my left leg was scalded. There were no pillows where I dropped, so the next moment the door swung open and the gleam of a lighted match shone in my face. I saw my host, with countenance as white as his nightshirt, suddenly assume a rosy hue, then I heard him giggle. I was glad he saw some humor in it, for I failed to. In one hand he held an old army musket, and I told him not to shoot. Sitting on the floor, I now saw plainly that it was the butler's pantry and not the bath room, and that I had taken a bath in the sink. Bob, on gaining my room, put some salve on my scald, and wound my limb with the first handkerchief he came across, and I was soon fast asleep. Next morning I remembered my promise to buy some candy for my little friend and visited a confectioner. It was a big store, and three salesladies tried to wait upon me. "I wish the spiral-striped peppermint, kind of circus candy," I explained. "It's for a little tot I am fond of." "I understand," said the girl, "but we haven't it,--but wait a minute." Before I realized what she meant, she had dashed out the door, presumably to the store two doors away. I was sorry she took such trouble to please a poor patron. Soon she reappeared with a crystal jar of the long stick candy I desired, and dumping a pound of it on the scales, inquired, "How much do you wish?" "Oh, one stick will do," I said. "She's a delicate child; I don't want to make her sick." The girl almost dropped the jar. Then recovering her mental equilibrium, she asked, while refilling the jar from the scales: "Will you take it with you, or have it sent?" I blinked. "Take it with me, I guess," was my reply. As she wrapped the stick of candy, I reached in my pocket for the penny. Then I felt weak; I hadn't a cent. "I-I-I-I declare!" I exclaimed. "I left all my money with the hotel clerk; I'll be back directly." And out I rushed into the street where there was more air. By the time I got to the hotel and back I was willing to buy five pounds of candy. I no sooner entered the store than the girl, with a smothered smile, said, "We sent the candy to the hotel." Now I was embarrassed. "What hotel?" I inquired. "Why, the Auditorium!" she giggled. "You're Mr. Pye Pod, aren't you? The proprietor said so, and appreciating your immense purchase, desired to spare you all the inconvenience possible." I heard laughter in the office as I closed the door behind me. I dreaded to face the hotel clerk. As I strolled up street, I thought what a poor mother I would make even to one little child, and tried to fancy the awful strain on Washington to be such a good father to his whole country. There was one thing that worried me generally when my meals were over; my hat. I feared I should lose it. The hat boy, clever as he was, by mistake might give it to another. Always when he handed it to me I stopped to examine it carefully, to make sure it wasn't one of the stylish tiles which had presumed to associate with it on the rack. It was customary for me to question the custodian of hats in this manner: "Is this my hat?" "Are you sure it is?" When, Tuesday evening, my odd-looking stove-pipe was handed me, I examined it incredulously, eyed the colored man, then stepping in front of a natty-groomed gentleman of fifty, who had just received his latest Dunlap from the custodian, I scrutinized his hat inquisitively, then my own, and eyed him inquiringly, as much as to say, "Are you sure our hats have not become exchanged?" The dignified guest did not take kindly to my manner. He frowned, even looked savage. The darkey seemed to think it funny, and laughed in his hand, with back turned. I accompanied the old gentleman down in the elevator, to the office, where we picked our teeth. Then I addressed the clerk in injured tones: "I have a complaint to make." "Let's have it," said the genial Harry. "That black, blue-brown hat custodian at the dining room is forever getting my tile mixed with those of other guests. I hate to make a fuss, but----" "You are quite right, Mr. Pod," said the clerk, seriously, "A first-class hotel should not tolerate such inefficiency in a trusted employee. I'll discharge the fellow at once." I stepped away, contented, and lighted my cigar. Then the stately gentleman addressed the clerk: "Who in ---- is that fellow? He's off his trolley! He thought this hat of mine was his, and that rusty antediluvian, dilapidated specimen he wears was mine. What's his name?" "Why, Professor Pythagoras Pod, of course. Didn't you recognize him? Everybody knows him. He knows his hat, too, and don't you forget it. Offer him fifty dollars for his old tile, and see how quickly he'll refuse it." The outraged dignitary shrank into his clothes, and, with a wry glance in my direction, walked away. The custodian of hats kept his job, but I never saw the stylish gentleman again. PART TWO. By PYE POD AND MAC A'RONY. "Do you believe the whale swallowed Jonah?" "No." "And don't you believe Balaam's ass spoke to him?" "Yes; I believe that." "Why?" "Because so many asses speak to me every day." CHAPTER XIX. BY MAC A'RONY. Days are but the pulse-beats of immortal time.--_Sparks from Iron Shoes--Mac A'Rony._ It was the twenty-tooth of April. The inclement weather, which had rained supreme for forty hours, suddenly abdicated in favor of the presumptive sun and genial air apparent which ruled gloriously for some six hundred and nine minutes. Save that it lacked the odor of new-mown hay, it was a day fashioned after a donkey's own heart. However, a yard of fresh grass painted green would have satisfied my taste better than did the golden sun rays and the transparent air. At ten o'clock Pye Pod, D. D. (donkey driver), sauntered off to do an errand, and then hastened to the stables to saddle and pack his two noble and fractious partners, Cheese and myself. I believe my erudite collaborator has already introduced to you my long-eared comrade. Such a load as we were to carry! Of course, I got the worst of the bargain in which I had no voice. Said my master, as he rubbed my nose, "Mac, old boy, since you have become hardened to the trip by reason of your thirteen hundred mile creep (I nabbed at him vexedly), I'll just let you shoulder the two boxes." And, with nerve incarnate, the unbalanced Professor balanced on my back what seemed to me two one-ton cases of pig-iron. I believed my time had come. Even the unsophisticated Cheese, whispered to me nervously, "Our coffins, Mac, sure as Balaam!" and resumed the mastication of timothy hay, as if it were his last meal. The pack-saddles were tightly cinched to us. Every time Pod pulled on the ropes under my belly I grunted as if in pain, although it only tickled me, and gnawed a half inch off the oaken manger in seeming agony; so, while he imagined he was squeezing all the breath out of me, I had still enough left to inflate a balloon. That's how I fooled Pod. All this time he was talking to himself. He vowed that he would get even with a certain officious policeman, who had daily gloried in the exercise of his authority, by ordering him to lead his "confounded jackass" away from the front portal of the hotel, where crowds of curious people always gathered around us and blocked the way. His soliloquy grew louder and more fiery every moment. Even Cheese lifted his snoot out of the haymow and, tilting his left ear, whispered, "Say, Mac, our master must have some unholy motive in mind. Hold on to your wind. Don't let him lace those lockers on you, as a squaw would bind a pappoose to her back, for you may want to kick 'em off. Pod's daft." Well, that suspicious jack's most grotesque foreboding was soon realized. Everything went well until we were nearly opposite the great double portal of the hotel, when, suddenly, I felt the saddle slipping round my girth. Another second and I was flat on my back, jerked high off my feet on top of the boxes. For a moment I could not realize the undignified posture I was in. Being roped securely to the boxes, all I could do was to kick at the flying sparrows, and bray as only a frightened donkey can. Crowds quickly assembled. Excitement ran high. Cheese, instead of raising a hoof in my defense, dropped his ears and looked complacently on my animated heap like a country gawk. The hotel guests rushed out bare-headed, some of them fresh from the cafe with tripe and ice cream in hand, and wild-eyed pedestrians flocked to the scene of my troubles. Don barked excitedly and kept the throng back. The coolest one of the outfit was Pod. He stood quietly by, grinning and bowing to the open-air audience, as if he were the bandmaster and I the band. I now recollected Cheese's advice, and chided myself for having expanded my lungs at the packing. The thought was vexing to one in my position. Immediate relief looked hopeless. Scared half to death, I brayed myself hoarse before a would-be liberator wedged through the crowd and order Pod to clear the thoroughfare. He was that pompous policeman. He eyed Pod severely, and glancing at my up-turned face, inquired: "What's in them there boxes, Mister?" "Pills," said Pod, "just pills," and with his usual suavity added, "A very dainty but effective cathartic, the best remedy in the world for a morbid patrolman. I know you feel out of sorts, Mr. Cop, but the contents of one of these boxes taken internally will make you imagine you are not only the chief of the Chicago police but the Mayor of the city and the President of the United States combined." The Professor then handed the man a small box, and proceeded to free me. And, do you know, I choked Michigan Boulevard for an hour before I was got "right side up with care." We next moved on to the Columbus Statue, which then stood in a barren spot between the road and the lake shore, where a photographer waited to take some rare views of our outfit. The bombastic policeman ordered us off the grass, although there was nothing but gravel in sight. Cheese was raving mad and so annoyed by the cop's impertinence that he boldly made a bluff at eating the sculptured stone wreath off the statue, just to worry him. "Mac A'Rony, please keep your ears still for one moment, will you?" said the photographer, as he took hold of my flaps and pushed them forward, adding, "Now keep them there." As he let go they flew back into a natural position like blades of whalebone. Next he twisted my nose almost out of shape, and addressed me as if I were a lady. "Now, smile gently--there!" Such a grin as I gave! The instant he removed the black cloth from the camera, a familiar lump came up in my throat, and I brayed. My efforts to restrain myself joggled my ears out of gear and completely shook the smile off my face. But I was "took," body and bra'in's, with the whole outfit. How I shudder, when I gaze upon those photographs; my drooping eyes, and my lazy body--all taken together made a picture so perfectly asinine that one can almost detect the bray leaving my mouth. I have always been ashamed of that picture of real life. Like all donkeys, I was disappointed because my photo did not flatter me. Besides, my master's eagerness to keep his contract to advertise a patent medicine led him to drape Don in a gray blanket, on which, "Throw physic to the dogs," was brilliantly embroidered--words which helped make Shakespeare immortal, but caused Don to blush. It was a long jaunt to Illinois street. Several times my burden threatened to come off. And once I almost made a free distribution of pills by falling in front of an electric car, which was brought to a stand only six inches from me. I caused a sensation, to say the least. And when Cheese brayed in terror, a multitude flocked to the scene. The passengers were thrown out of their seats, some of them pitched off the front platform on the top of me, and screamed with fright. Pod, of course, flew into a rage. He accused me of attempting suicide; but Cheese loyally defended me and said, "Such a load of medicine is enough to prostrate a herd of elephants." Soon afterward, on turning a corner, the wind blew Pod's hat off, and it went flying under the wheels of a cable car which completely ironed the curl out of the hat rim on one side, and gathered a crowd on the other. "Managing one jackass is a difficult job, but controlling two is impossible," I heard Pod mutter, as he slapped his plug on his bald pate. Although it was only five miles to Garfield Park as the crow flies, it was ten by the course we took. At that place we were not overfed, and soon after leaving we encountered an electric hail storm. Volley after volley of round shot ripped open Pod's ill-fated tile, and his spleen broke loose again. "I'm glad this day's most ended!" he thundered. His remark seemed to solicit sympathy, so I answered gravely, "My worthy master, remember that days are but the pulse-beats of immortal time. You should cherish each as you do every heart throb." My philosophic words silenced him for a moment. Then, as if I might warp the wearisome hour by a mute tongue, I lay back my tail and ears till they were parallel with the road, and landed my cargo in Oak Park before six. There was no hotel in sight, but as it was not yet dark, Pod was enabled to find a barn, adjoining a saloon, and there he stalled us, fed and watered us, and said good night. CHAPTER XX. BY PYE POD. Full in the midst the polish'd table shines, And the bright goblets, rich with generous wines; Now each partakes the feast, the wine prepares, Portions the food, and each the portion shares; Nor till the rage of thirst and hunger ceased To the high host approached the sagacious guest. --_Homer's Odyssey._ I left my embryo caravan in Oak Park for the night, and returned to the Auditorium Hotel. The clerk greeted me with, "Well! well!" grasped my outstretched hand, and with a smile said, "I thought your picturesqueness had left us for good." Then, pulling a pen out of the vegetable pen-stand which squinted "How to do?" with one remaining eye, he handed it to me. "I'm a hard customer to get rid of," I remarked; "could not get out of the city entirely this day, though I've traveled miles--jacks at Oak Park--saloon barn, best I could find--no hotel--got to eat and sleep, you know." And having said this, I walked majestically to the "lift." "Seventh floor?" queried the elevator boy. "No--dining room," I corrected, patting my stomach fondly. "Pretty late for feed, guess," observed the lad discouragingly, as we began to rise. "There's a banquet on now," continued the lad. "Great Balaam! I am late!" I exclaimed. "I've been a week saving my appetite for this dinner. Let 'er slide kid--there!" and I hurried to the dining-room. I knocked persistently against the locked doors, while savory odors drifted through the keyhole, and was soon admitted by the assistant head-waiter. I smile now as I recall that watermelon grin, when the darkey yawned like a coalbin in expression of his greeting. "I'm somewhat embarrassed, Jim, to appear so tardy," I began, "I had about decided to deny myself the honor and pleasure of the event. You see, my friends are all togged out in their pigeon-tails, while--just look at me." "Why, Mistah 'Tagras, shuah dey will be glad to--" "Yes, yes, I know they would be more pleased to see me in my odd regulation clothes; but no, not this time, Jim; close your scuttle--mum's the word. Just let me eat in this snug corner where I can hear the strains of the orchestra, out of reach of their stale jokes. Fetch on the viands." As I concluded I pressed a coin into the mahogany hand, and took from my coat a button containing Mac's and Pod's photo, and gave it to the delighted darkey. There was novelty in this strange situation. It was the only feast I remembered ever having attended uninvited. Across the spacious hall, obscured by Japanese screens, sat the garrulous banqueters, blissfully ignorant of my presence, while I, a famished and jaded nomad, sat comfortably drinking in the liquid music of the serenade and inflating my gastronomical pipes with terrapin, squab, robin's eggs, salads and other dainties galore. Presently I was served with something more mellifluous than music, as Jim appeared with a bottle of that familiar sparkling liquid, which is proverbially wrapped in cobwebs and frost, in a pail of ice, and said: "Believe yo' sayed Mumm, Sah--be dis yo' taste, Mistah 'Tagras?" My eyes eloquently expressed my sentiments. Oh, what a nerve tissue a donkey journey does create! As I quaffed the soul-stirring nectar, I thought of Mac A'Rony--how he would have relished a quart of that sterling brand!--and then poured a bumper for him and drank it to his very good health. When I had finished, I called the waiter and said, with visible effort: "Jim, I wish--hic--you would tell th' bandmaster (here Jim poked a napkin into his mouth), that a tardy guest--hic--heartily requests the pat--patriotic--hic tune Macaroni's come to town. Go, Jim, that's a good girl." And Jim went. That waiter was the cleverest darkey I ever came across. We all well know that one trait of a thoroughbred darkey is the faculty for invention. Imagine my surprise when the fellow returned with a gentleman in full dress and introduced me. I, expecting to catch something different, failed to catch his name. My new acquaintance seemed to feel highly honored with the presentation. He appeared a bit staggered, though, and with difficulty found my wandering hand. Taking my arm, he escorted and introduced me to the convivial assembly as the distinguished guest of the evening--"though somewhat belated, nevertheless his genial presence duly appreciated." When he mentioned the name of Professor Pythagoras Pod such applause issued from the unsteady occupants of the hundred chairs that I, thinking it my courteous duty to join in the encore, clapped my hands vigorously. This seemed to provoke great merriment. The laughter and clapping grew louder and louder, until hands and throats were inadequate to express the jubilant spirits of the banqueters, and they began to stamp their feet. Finally all arose, threw in the air imaginary hats, broke glasses of wine, and, in fact, I don't know what would have happened if the manager had not entered the scene. Finally, some one called, "Speech! Speech! A speech from Mr. Pod!" I tried to respond. I didn't believe the guests knew who I was, other than a pod of some sort. The hotel manager did, but he had gone. I therefore decided not to reveal my identity; I would act the invited guest I was taken to be. I did not speak long. What I said was ostensibly so appropriate, so pointed, so witty, so apropos, that the frequent cries of "Hear! Hear!" told me I had made a hit, and it was time to stop. I have no recollection of what I said on that momentous occasion, but I apologized for the abruptness of my departure on the plea that I had six more banquets to attend that evening, whereas I had but one stomach. Wild cheers and handclapping greeted my speech. When quiet was restored I offered the following toast, asking all to rise with filled goblets: Hic--here's to the man, boys, here's to the man Who--hic--has the sagacity, gall, and who can Partake of the bless--hics--of earth, though unbidden, Without revealing the jack--hic--he has ridden; Here's to--hic--his pocket and here's to--hic--his purse-- May Balaam shed tears when--hic--he rides in a hearse. With a concerted "Bravo!" all drank my health. Then, hat in hand, I followed a very tortuous route out and to the elevator, and soon afterward found the keyhole of my chamber door, and retired. I did not feel well in the morning, but nevertheless journeyed to Oak Park at an early hour. What a surprise awaited me at the barn! The air was dense with the odor of beer. I had hardly anticipated trouble brewing; nothing was so foreign to my thoughts as the possibility of finding two asinine inebriates and a "jagged" canine instead of the sober company I left the evening before. But there they lay, both donkeys paralyzed, panting and blear-eyed. An overturned beer keg swam in the deluge of froth that flooded the floor. Mac must have pulled the bung out of the keg. The fellow looked guilty enough, but, when I recalled my own recent dissipation, I didn't have the heart to upbraid him. I was perplexed. What could I do? To resume my pilgrimage that morning was out of the question. I felt in my bones that as soon as the saloonkeeper learned of the calamity, I, Pythagoras Pod, would have to pay damages. Such I could not well afford. Why not go to the man and enter a complaint against him for harboring knock-out drops, and consequently causing my valuable animals ruination of mind, physique and moral character? A capital idea! No sooner thought than done. The man was speechless. "Why!" I exclaimed, pounding my fist hard down on the oaken bar, "think of it! a day's delay may lose me my five thousand dollar wager. THINK OF IT, MAN! FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I would have said more, but I noticed the Hibernian was knocked completely out of the metaphorical ring by my unequivocal utterances. His blanched countenance showed that his conscience smote him. He paced the barroom floor like a leopard trying to get away from his spots. Presently he stopped, and, thrusting his fingers through his goatee, looked out in time to witness Mac A'Rony turn a headspring from the barn door. "Begorry!" he exclaimed, "if Oi hod that mule, Oi'd ruun 'im for alderman of the Tinth Ward. Shure, and it's phure air and wather the bye's votin fer. It's this Oi'm sayin', Misther Pod, Oi'll give ye twinty-foive bones fer th' brute in his prisent condishun; Oi will that, ond call it shquare." Mac certainly was acting very compromisingly. But I explained to the Irishman no reasonable sum could purchase that particular donkey, and, furthermore, that twenty-five dollars would barely satisfy my claims. The exclamation of "Holy Mither!" checked me for the moment, and as the man looked barnward he added, elequently shaking his fists, "Oi'm dommed, if th' shcapegrace ain't mixin' dhrinks!" Here Mr. Rooney and I rushed out in the nick of time to prevent my crazy jack from tapping a whiskey barrel standing in the shed adjoining the barn. "Misther Pod, a curse on me soul if Oi would ruun th' bladherscat fer doorkeeper oof th' pinnytinsury! Here's tin dollars, tear th' likes oof it in two and rhuun ond buy a bhromo seltzer, and sober th' toper oop at wance." I took the proffered note, and had gone but a hundred feet when the Irishman called to me, "Hold on; before yez lave fer th' sphace of a mooment moind thet ye puts a muzzle on th' asrophoid rephrobate with th' bobtail ears, ond shpring a toime lock on th' crethur." The animals having been dosed, I was about to question myself "What next?" when my host said cordially, "Shure, ond yez will feed with us. Yez may keep th' change from th' shinphlaster ond good luck in sthore fer yez. Now, coom on to grub, ond lave th' brutes alone. They'll be afther havin' their sea legs soon." And Pat succeeded in conciliating me, and escorted me to the house. By one o'clock my disgraceful donkeys answered to roll-call, and with touching humility submitted to be saddled. With such disappointing interpositions of Fate the Golden Gate seemed to be a decade removed. For a while, the donks were wavering and their pedals unreliable; but after the first hour they meandered along quite acceptably. As Mac was slow to recuperate, I rode Cheese. He was surprisingly sure of foot, whereas Mac, swell-headed, drowsy-eyed and swaying, couldn't have walked a straight line a yard wide, unless it was a yard of grass. He walked with a suspicious tread, like one venturing on ice which threatened his death bath any moment. When the afternoon was well advanced Cheese showed symptoms of lameness in his nigh fore-leg, as I had feared, in consequence of his late circus. We passed Maywood and Elmhurst as we followed the main-traveled road. I was compelled to dismount and lead my cripple four miles to Lombard. Such was my luck in the State of Illinois. It was after dark, the second day out of Chicago, and still we had traveled but twenty miles. To think--that munificent gift, Cheese, was already an invalid on my hands! I summoned a veterinary surgeon, and listened to his diagnosis with solicitous attention. "Only a strain of the shoulder muscles," said he; "must have run-hop-skip-and-jumped to get such a strain--does he ever play golf? Will require a full week's rest." The doctor rendered his professional opinion with the air of a metropolitan specialist prescribing a trip to Europe for some delicate society belle. Next morning I rode in company with a good fellow two miles into the country, where I purchased a very long-eared, shapeless donkey, of a good character, and quickly rode him bare-back to town. Then I sold my cripple at auction in the public square. The cumbersome pack-boxes, which the sturdy Mac A'Rony had borne without a murmur, I also sold to pay the doctor's bill. The following day saw me in the town of Wheaton, whose reputed beauty I failed to appreciate in a pouring rain. I remained there over Saturday night and Sunday. The clipping of Cheese II on Monday morning proved to be an exhibition well worth witnessing--at a safe distance. That "model" character turned out to have the temper of a vixen. First, a rope was twisted round his nose, then his four legs were tied securely together, and finally six strong men held him down on the floor to permit the finishing touches to his vibrating limbs, while carefully avoiding the finishing touches to their lives. Instantly the half dozen assistants were sent sprawling across the floor in all directions, while the stable dog chased an imaginary bird into space and landed in a poultry yard. The frightened donkey was mad, or had a fit. On the other hand, Mac, in the noisy excitement, pumped his bronchial organs to their utmost capacity, and Don joined in the chorus, till any passer-by might easily have mistaken the barn for a slaughter house. Finally, the unruly subject was got under control, and in time released on bail (of hay). I verily believe that the electricity generated by that clipped donkey, if stored, could have propelled a trolley for twenty-four hours. During the ensuing week, the villages of Geneva, Elberon, Maple Park and Courtland in turn greeted me with the usual curiosity and concern, and I was spared to enter De Kalb on Wednesday evening, after a most distressing adventure. When we had proceeded about two miles beyond Courtland, I unchained my dog for a short sportive recess. I rode Mac, and about three feet to our right ambled Cheese, a chain connecting his bit with my saddlehorn. My little troop was peacefully traversing the smooth country road when suddenly Don came bounding down the highway, chasing a little red calf, the dog barking gleefully, the calf bellowing with fright. Drawing my revolver, I fired to distract Don's attention; but without avail. A few moments later, as I was aiming at a flock of black birds, I heard the ominous clatter of hoofs rapidly approaching us from the rear, accompanied by a deep, hoarse mooing, which clearly emanated from a calf of mature years. Imagine my feelings when, turning in my seat, I beheld an enraged cow racing with Don in a bee line for me, the dog in the lead going a mile a minute, the bovine a mile and a quarter. It was the first I had known Don to flee from a foe. His eye now protruded, his tongue hung out a-foam, and his tail lay back straight like an arrow. As I remember, the dog passed under the chain connecting my donkeys, and instantly with the force of a locomotive something alive plunged in our midst, striking the chain. How many double somersaults I turned I know not. How many minutes we remained in the dusty road overturned in a heap I can only estimate from the distance the lucky dog must have traveled to get out of sight so soon. My first mental reflection was that the cow must be the calf's mother; my second thought was to save my life. I managed somehow to crawl out from under the animated heap, and then surveyed the situation. The cow's horns were fast in the chain and one of her feet in the saddle gear; and she tossed her head savagely, every time lifting one donkey or the other bodily off the ground and dropping him in a heap in the dust. She kicked and bellowed, until, finally breaking loose minus a horn, she made for me head down, innocent as I was. I didn't stop to argue, but lit out for the barbed wire fence with that outraged mother at my heels. I have heard you can tell how fast a man thinks by the way he eats. You could have told how fast I thought by the way I ran. Over the fence I leaped, leaving my long coat-tail hanging from the top strand of wire. The cow, blinded with rage, made a lunge at the piece of cloth only to lacerate her head on the barbs; then she jumped the fence and took after me, tail in air, and foam dripping from her mouth. A small tree stood by the roadside not far distant, and I cleared the fence again and made for it. Although not an expert at climbing, I shinned aloft like a squirrel, and for a moment expected the bovine to follow. She reared on her haunches, and pawed furiously at the swaying branches; then, backing several feet, she charged headlong against the sapling, almost dislocating every bone of my body and every hair of my head. All but shaken out of the tree-top, I contrived to gather in my legs and to wind them round the slender trunk. Then I reached for my revolvers. My Colt 44 was missing, but with my Smith & Wesson 32, I peppered that cow, until I shot away a section of her tail, and sent her off in a cloud of dust--like a howling, raging cyclone--in the direction of her calf. I waited a while before venturing down to look for my animals, now conspicuous for their absence. Darkness had settled on the scene. Groping my way up the road, I soon stumbled over a pair of boots, further on a camera, and a hundred yards beyond my Winchester rifle, minus its holster. Still no sign of donkeys or dog. I stopped at a farm house and inquired: "Have you seen two jackasses strolling this way?" The agriculturist pulled his goatee as he surveyed me from foot to crown, and replied: "No, I hain't seen TWO jackasses STROLLIN' this way, but a WHOLE HERD of 'em came tearing past my barnyard a-kitin' about an hour ago, skeerin' the cattle I was a-milkin' into fits. Why! the brayin' and takin's on of the wild beasts caused a stampede of my hull gol-darned dairy. What be ye at a-pesterin' round these parts with a herd of wild jackasses?" My response was terse, and was given before the man had finished. I hurried on, making inquiries at other farmhouses before I found my fugitive caravan huddling together in a corral, a mile beyond. My dog was with them, but no cows or calves. Borrowing a lantern and two halters, I retraced my steps down the highway, my unwilling animals in tow, and resaddled and packed them as best I could; then I returned the loan and hastened to town. [Illustration: "_In this way I crossed that bridge of size._"] [Illustration: "_I saw the streak of daylight._"] [Illustration: "_So slow that his shadow beat him to town._"] CHAPTER XXI. BY MAC A'RONY. An uneducated person, seeing a picture of a donkey in a field, sees only a donkey in a field, however well it may be painted, and I fancy very exceptional ability would be required to make any of us think a gray donkey sublime, or believe an ordinary field to be one of Elysian.--_Ideala--Sarah Grand._ There will be many converts to the Darwinian Theory by the time I have taken Pythagoras Pod to his destination. They are recruiting all along the line. The Professor's street lecture in De Kalb in a mist was punctuated with effusive allusions to his "obstreperous asses," which epithet only strengthened our ill-feeling toward him, and furnished a new incentive for Cheese's rascality. When Pod reached the middle of an elegant burst of rhetoric, that animal, true to asinine instinct, pushed a hind foot against the orator's stomach and brought the speech to a finish. The afflicted one was tenderly borne away, I know not whither, but Cheese whispered probably to a blacksmith's where a bellows could be had with which to pump wind into the vacuum. The following day, my master having come to, it was decreed that Cheese and I be taken to a smith's to have our corns pared, and our shoes repaired. Whenever Pod has an idle moment--thank Balaam he hasn't many!--he amuses himself by torturing a donkey. Shoes are a nuisance, especially new shoes, and I would much rather go barefoot as do country boys and girls. The blacksmith, an expert cobbler, shook hands with us, with special deference to Cheese, who was to have the new footgear, then informed my master that if we jacks would treat him with respect he would do what was right, but if not, he would inflict on him what he himself had received from us. I overheard Pod mutter as he departed that he was sure that villain Cheese was going to kick him by proxy. When Pod returned, that incorrigible donkey had both smiths in a corner, and was kicking knots out of the walls. Soon that shop appeared as if constructed of perforated cardboard, and the two men as if they were worsted. Both men were saved, however, by Pod, who ran to a bakery for some cakes with which he completely subjugated the murderous brute, and enabled the men to complete the work. All next day we labored through mud, which made my feet feel good, but spoiled the looks of our new shoes. That day the Professor bought a new donkey. "Sell him cheap, sound as a dye," said the man. Perhaps this was the truth, but he was the funniest donkey I ever set eyes on. His face resembled a poodle dog's, except that it was longer, and he appeared to be a combination of crosses between South American llama, Rocky Mountain sheep, baby camel, and muley cow, with only a sprinkling of donkey blood. After this freak was roped to my saddle and we had proceeded a little way, I asked, "Excuse me, friend, but what stock did you descend from?" "Why, live stock," said the simpleton. The rest of us hid our faces; but I persisted, "Who's your father?" "I never had a father," he returned. "If I did, he never showed up in my lifetime. As for my mother, she kicked the tenderloins out of a farmer's thoroughbred pig, in consequence of which I was left to shift for myself, so you can't call me a shiftless fellow." Well, the poor fellow ain't quite as bad off as Topsy, I thought--she had neither father nor mother. For a week back Cheese had been complaining of a weak foot, which explains why Pod desired an emergency donkey. The heavy roads would have taxed a dray horse. But by shifting the burden from Cheese and myself to the new acquisition we were able to make better time with less effort. The sun was hot, and Poodle's long coat dripped with perspiration. Before long, we were stopped in front of a house, where a man was cutting the grass with a lawn-mower. "Hay, there, Mister!" Pod shouted; "will you loan me that machine a moment? I'll remunerate you handsomely for the kindness." The farmer just shouldered that machine and fetched it down to the roadside. Then my master dismounted, and whispering to the granger something I couldn't understand, to my utter astonishment deliberately pushed that lawn-mower almost the whole length of that donkey's back. I recall the incident so vividly. First sounded the noisy swish of the mower, next the fragrant air was hazy with flying hair, hat, man and mowing machine. A moment of painful silence followed, when suddenly a clatter from the roof of the house indicated that the jackass had promptly returned the machine to its owner. Poor Pod, it looked as if he were no mower. The farmer laid him gently on the grass, where he finally awoke, and with the aid of hard cider and a fanning machine was restored. Three miles beyond he caught the refractory jack that meant only to harm the machine, he said, and not the man, and securing a slipnoose to Poodle's tail, roped him to my saddle; next he tied Cheese to my tail, and leaping aboard his new expedient led the way. All at once Poodle espied two donkeys grazing in a field. "I must say a farewell to my sweethearts before leaving," he protested, braying and making a dash for the fence, dragging me after him. I often wonder if he had any feeling left in his tail after that; for while it pained me to drag Cheese, it must have caused Poodle more pain to tow us two by resorting to such a sensitive extreme. Had not the fence been a thorn hedge, I verily believe that that "Samson" would have dragged us across lots to his sweethearts. I never saw Pod so enraged. On nearer approach to Rochelle, we stopped in front of a house where Pod purchased a drink of milk of a woman who was passing milk cans to a man in a wagon. Neither the man nor the woman asked a question, much to my surprise, until we had proceeded some distance, when to prevent a tragedy, nature asserted herself and impelled the woman to call out: "Say, what be them thar animiles ye-ve got, stranger?" "Two are camels, and one is a dromedary," Pod yelled. "Dromedary!" The woman exclaimed; and, to the man, added, "That's a new sort of dairy I never heered tell of. Did you, Hank?" CHAPTER XXII. BY PYE POD. "By my faith, Signor Don Quixote," quoth the duchess, "that must not be; you shall be served by four of my damsels, all beautiful as roses." "To me," answered Don Quixote, "they will not be as roses, but even as thorns pricking me to the very soul; they must in nowise enter my chamber."--_Don Quixote._ From Rochelle to the Mississippi I found the people more conservative, but interesting subjects for character study. The topography of the country varied but little. Snipe, quail, doves and meadow larks were prevalent. The pesty pocket-gophers were as shy of my fire-arms as of the farmers' dogs; one might shoot a dozen of them only to see the spry little fellows drop dead into their "home-made" graves. I have seen hundreds of them sitting upright on as many mounds, immovable as sticks, but pop! and they vanished. Crossing this one-time prairie state, I recalled pictures of prairie fires in my school-books, and easily imagined the terror of the droves of wild horses and buffalo, fleeing before the leaping flames. This seemed to be a contented section, and contentment is a great thing. Although no woodland was visible, I saw occasional clusters of "pussy willows," and groups of shade-trees embowering a house, above which the shaft of an aeromotor towered like a sentinel, asserting the homestead rights. When the windwheels were in motion, they created a noise which only an expert linguist could distinguish from the vernacular of a guinea hen. Here and there bunches of cattle browsed in the meadows behind barbed-wire fences and thorn hedges; and long corn-cribs, often full to overflowing, had rewarded most every farmer. About dark, May first, my small caravan ambled into the village of Ashton, and my bugle blasts aroused the nodding inhabitants sufficiently to give me a fair audience for a lecture. The Germans predominated, and to them May-day festivals are indispensable. Boys and girls celebrate by hanging May-baskets on door knobs, and a few wags, who resemble frogs, in that a half dozen make you think they are a million, shower corn, sand and bird shot at windows equal to a Kansas hail-storm. The celebration that night seemed to be directed at my particular window. The racket had almost soothed me to sleep, when suddenly a rag doll loaded with shot came smashing through the blinds and landed on my bed. My patience overtaxed, I arose and resorted to free trade by exporting to the street a piece of crockery, and a chair, not to mention a few roasted invectives. I would have folded my bedstead and sent it sailing after them, but the disturbance of the peace and the pieces ceased together. While at breakfast I wondered if any tricks had been played on my animals. I was quite sure of it before reaching the stable. The livery keeper came hobbling up on one foot and a crutch, with his face done up in fly-paper, and a bandage around his head. "What's up?" I asked. "Jacks got the spasms." "You mean spavins," I corrected, innocently enough. "Guess I ought to know the difference 'tween spasms and spavins," he returned, sourly. "Those d---- mules o' yourn kicked out petitions, hollared, and had such fits last night that they scared all the mice and rats outen the haymow." "What kind of petitions?" I asked, remembering I had been tempted to issue a petition on my own account. "What kind d'y, 'spose? Wooden petitions," said he. "And when I crawled out o' bed and went to the stalls to see what ailed 'em----" "Ailed the petitions?" I interrupted, excitedly. "Naw, the mules,--something like a thousand rats and mice ran over my bare feet. I thought the barn must be afire, and I jumped so the lantern fell outen my hand and broke, and I had to feel my way in the dark." "You ought to know better than to feel around strange donkeys, night or day," said I, reprovingly. "It wasn't th' feelin' of 'em what broke me up so," said he. "'Twas the kindlin' wood they piled up again me." I did not discuss further the circumstances; I was quite satisfied, since we had grievances in common. While settling my bill, I noticed Mac gaze at the ceiling, so I glanced upward, too, and at once saw hanging to a nail on a cross-beam a circular rat-trap, bent almost flat, and containing two dead rodents. That solved the mystery. On recovering the trap, we found it sprinkled with donkey hair, and sheep twine, which was proof enough that some young villain had fastened a cage full of rats to Mac A'Rony's tail, he being the most amiable of the donkeys. There is nothing like the mysterious to frighten a dumb brute, and when that donkey heard strange noises and felt mysterious movements about his hind legs, he didn't wait for an explanation. Good-bye, rats! Although the day dawned clear, dark clouds began early to bank in the Southwest, and before I could reach the next town I was drenched by a heavy shower. But I was fortunate in selling Cheese II, my weak-footed jack, for seven dollars to the village butcher, who, while in Ashton, had generously fed my dog. Wet to my skin, I took refuge in a German tavern managed by a widow with five comely daughters. All were kind and responsive to my wants, and brought to my room a varied assortment of house pets, literature, and cheese, not omitting a bottle of beer, for my entertainment and refreshment, while I remained in bed enveloped in comforters, waiting for my only suit of clothes to dry by the kitchen fire. Meanwhile I became almost asphyxiated from the gas generated by the Limburger cheese which had already smothered two hearty slices of bread. The next day I spent in Dixon, and the following day in Sterling, situated on Rock River. From my bedroom window I had a charming view of the dam falls and the iron bridge which spans the stream. My sojourn in both these towns was profitable. It was a hot and dusty ride to Morrison, where I found a brass band serenading a leading citizen. "This won't do," said I; and making Mac bray, I blew my bugle, and at once turned the tide of popularity in our favor. The fickle crowd soon gathered and cheered me to the hotel, while the jilted band had the brass to march down the street past me, blowing itself with might and main until lost to view, not once thinking that distance lent enchantment to my ear. Next day we made slow headway to the Mississippi. As I approached the "Father of Waters" the land, as well as my donkeys, were more rolling. Several times when wading through a pool of dust, Cheese III, alias Poodle, would suddenly stop, circle about, kneel and roll with all the paraphernalia he was carrying. Then my steed would follow suit, before I could get out of the saddle. Thirteen miles from Morrison lay the village of Fulton, on the banks of the Mississippi, and it was 4:30 P. M. before we arrived at the big high bridge. The bridge approach on each side of the river crosses a broad stretch of lowlands which at certain seasons is inundated. My donkeys refused to pass the toll-gate, although I had paid the toll. I demanded of Mac an explanation. He maintained silence, as did Cheese, and neither of them would budge. A squad of laborers, amused at my plight, asserted their donkey nature by imitating an ass's bray, and so perfect was the imitation that my animals took them for donkeys disguised in human apparel, and joined in the awful chorus. Presently a timid woman following us with a terpsichorean horse called to me and gesticulated wildly. I feared a runaway and was at a loss to know how to urge my contrary animals on, but before long a double dray team came to my assistance. The teamster roped Mac to the rear axle of his wagon, cracked his whip, and drove on, dragging the obdurate donkey on his haunches across the bridge, while Cheese crept closely behind in fear and trembling. When I had crossed the Mississippi it was exactly seventeen minutes past five. As we wended our way into Clinton, Ia., cheers greeted us from every quarter. "The streets were rife with people pacing restless up and down;" but soon all footsteps followed in one direction, to the Reviere House, where I took advantage of the favorable circumstances to make a speech, and to dispose of a host of my chromos. I had traveled thirteen hundred and sixty miles, about one-third of the distance by trail from New York to San Francisco, and had consumed one hundred and sixty days; and there was left me only one hundred and eighty-one days in which to accomplish the remaining two-thirds of my journey. CHAPTER XXIII. BY MAC A'RONY. Hell is paved with good intentions.--_Samuel Johnson._ How the Professor ever landed that lop-sided, dilapidated tile of his on the west bank of the Mississippi without a bottle of fish-glue is beyond me. The wind gave our whole outfit a good blowing up for not crossing the bridge earlier in the day, and Pod had to handle the hat as carefully as an umbrella to prevent it's turning inside out. Except at such times, we donks were the only ones to get a "blowing;" the threats Pod used to coerce us across that lofty bridge and his final cruel expedient of having a double team drag me with a rope around my neck were enough to drive one to suicide. "We must reach Iowa to-day," said he. "You show absolutely no interest whatever in the next state; but I'll convert you." I protested until I was hoarse. Said I, "When you take into consideration all the different animals that came out of the ark,--monkey, parrot, man and ass,--and the results of several thousand years of study and research, how many believe in any other state? Only one. Man. There are a few horses and dogs and cats and, occasionally, a white rat, that enjoy heaven on earth, but we jackasses are always catching----! The last word of my peroration was spilled, as my master whacked me over the ears with his black-snake whip and knocked all the theological and theosophical considerations out of my head. "Get along, there, Mac," he shouted, "and quit your everlasting braying;" and as the horses started, I "got," to save my neck. When we reached the middle of the bridge and I was over my dizziness, I slackened my neck rope and followed the wagon more willingly, but my fetlocks bled from scraping on the rough planks and my rich aristocratic blood painted a faint red trail behind us. It was a hot day; I burned as with a fever, and wanted a drink. "And they call this the 'Father of Waters,'" my master soliloquized, as he watched the sluggish current creep under the bridge. "What do they call the father of beer?" I asked, facetiously, for I was mad. "Mac," said Pod, "you have brought me back to earth. Let us hurry to town." When we were on Iowa soil, the Prof. tied his "stove-pipe" over my ears with a green ribbon, and added insult to injury by making me parade into Clinton in that condition before all the genteel donkeys along the road. We stopped at the post-office, and Pod read on the way to the hotel portions of two letters, one informing him that his sombrero was at the express office, the other casting aspersions on my race. "Yes, I did promise to meet you at the Mississippi and accompany you across the plains," the letter ran, "but really, old man, after reading your articles, I have concluded that I want nothing to do with a jackass." Pod seemed disappointed and, handing the envelope to me, said, "Here, Mac, what do you think of it?" I greedily devoured the contents without a murmur, and the Professor galloped into the express office. "Do you realize that you have swallowed a postage stamp?" Cheese asked, gravely, after I had stowed away the morsels of paper. "Most assuredly," I said, smacking my lips, "and hereafter you can look upon me as a sort of internal revenue collector." But now Pod appeared under cover of a broad-brimmed hat, looking frightfully cowboyish. That evening the sombrero so completely unbalanced his head that he sauntered up the street armed to the teeth, and attempted to "hold up" an Indian cigar sign, to the amusement and terror of passing pedestrians. Later on, he became more rational, and gave a street lecture. Friday, May seventh, was a lucky day for Pod and me. Friday is Pod's and the seventh of the month is mine,--with a few exceptions; hence, the Prof, has on an average of four and a half to my one. His first errand in Clinton was an act of courtesy. He called on Mr. Gobble, the genial Mayor, and obtained one of his quills to embellish the autograph album which was destined to furnish me a delectable repast, unless Pod should find a gold cure to destroy my appetite for stationery. His second errand was to place an order for panniers to be made after his own designs, for they would soon be needed; and his third, to call at the stable and superintend a tonsorial artist clip Cheese III after the devil's designs. The circus had begun when he arrived. There, tangled in straps and ropes, lay the frightened subject on the stable floor, kicking, while several men were performing rare feats of tumbling. Pod was indignant. "Is it necessary to pile on the donkey in that fashion?" he inquired, starting up a ladder to the loft. "I reckon so, squire," said the clipper, rubbing his bruised arm; "we tied the brute t' auger-holes in the floor, but he yanked the holes plumb out o' the boards, and we bored 'em in agin. Then he brayed, and strained, and pulled out the holes agin. What's he been livin' on? Indian turnips?" Pulled the holes out of the floor! Such an astonishing statement was enough to warp a donkey's credulity. But the operation was finished at last, and Pod returned to the hotel to answer some letters, one of which seemed to tickle him very much. It was from a farmer in the neighborhood, and I'll quote it word for word. CORNVILLE HOLLOW, IOWA, May 6, 1897. Prof. Pithygors Pod, Eskire, M. D.: Illustrious Sir:--My wife has give me unexpeckted opertunety ter do ye the grate onner of namin our latest and last kid after ye and if ye cum this here way ye will see a namesake ye will be prowd of. Times are not so good with us of late but hope they air with you wishing you a socksessfull jurny I remane Yours fraternally CY SUMAC. I did not see Pod's reply, but I took him to the post office to purchase a ninety-nine cent money order, which he mailed to Cy, and overheard him say that was all the money he had when he started and no man had a right to think he was any richer now, and hoped naming children after him wasn't going to become a fad. On our way to the hotel a little girl, walking with her papa, expressed the wish to ride on my back. Pod overheard her, and jumping off, placed the little one in the saddle, and led me down the street. Pod is never safe without a chaperone. He had no more than got his land legs than a monstrous colored woman, whose avoirdupois was out of proportion to her energy, and with shoes that made him keep his distance, stepped in his way, and with a grin half the width of an adult watermelon asked him if he was "shully dat wonderful traveler Pye-tag-o-rastus w'at was chasin' a mule roun de world." For a second Pod was somewhat colored, too; but he laughed, and said he believed he was the gentleman. Then the old mammy held out a great black hand, with knotted fingers, looking more like an elephant's foot than anything else, and asked if she might have the honor to walk a piece with him. The Professor took the proffered hand, and the pair sauntered on down town, and were soon lost in the crowd. CHAPTER XXIV. BY PYE POD. "Why, Toby's nought but a mongrel; there's nought to look at in her." But I says to him, "Why, what are you yoursen but a mongrel? There wasn't much pickin' o' YOUR feyther an' mother, to look at you." Not but what I like a bit o' breed myself, but I can't abide to see one cur grinnin' at another.--_Mill on the Floss._ The good old black mammy, who made my acquaintance on the street, called upon me at the hotel to present me with a little dog. I thanked her, and told her that one dog was all I could take care of; whereupon she argued that I should visit the Indian Reservation at Tama City, and if I presented a dog to the Chief that I would be royally received. A good idea; I wondered it had not occurred to me. I accepted the dog. An hour later I came near being arrested for promoting a dog fight in defiance of the law. Don was generous, however, and left a little of the cur for the Indian Chief, but next morning the sight of a bandaged and plastered dog being dragged behind my outfit was gruesome indeed. This is how I managed the dogs. I chained Don to one end of an eight-foot pole, and the mongrel to the other, so that the dogs could not get closer than four feet. Then I chained Don to the saddle-horn. I hoped to reach the town of DeWitt before dark. Everything went smoothly and I was congratulating myself on getting out of the city without a mishap, when, suddenly, both dogs leaped to the opposite side of my donkey in the effort to reach a cat basking in the sun. The pole yoke caught Mac's hind legs and upset us, almost causing a runaway. This and other incidents delayed me many hours. On arriving at the village tavern, "The Farmers' Home," I was agreeably surprised to find the landlord not so much out of spirits as I. A "night cap," then to bed. Next day I rode sixteen miles, through the beautiful farming country to Wheatland. Nature was arrayed in Sabbath attire, and no sermon could have inpressed me more than the pure, sweet voicings of God's creation. Graceful turtle-doves, always in pairs, flitted in mid-air; bevies of quail whistled in the meadows and ditches; flying-squirrels, half winged, half jumped from tree to tree; and coy Norwegian girls scampered indoors as my "mountain canaries" now and then joined in a carol. Just before entering town a gay cotton-tail rabbit shied at my pistol ball, allowing the ball to graze a calf grazing in the field beyond, to wing a pigeon on a barn further on, and eventually to announce my advent to the towns-folk in a most singular manner. When I arrived, the church bell was faintly tolling, and a crowd of people were staring wild-eyed at the belfry tower. I inquired of a countryman what was up. "Blamed if I know," said the sexton; "I was jest settin' down to feed, when sudden I heard a sharp clang of the church bell. Sounded like it was hit with a hammer. Whole hour before church, and the doors are locked. Now I'd like to know what sot that bell to chantin'." "Go up and find out," I said. "Not on yer life," he replied. "You may think us folks superstitious--well, we are. Lots of queer things happen in this town." When I reached the privacy of my room, I did a good deal of thinking; but whichever way I reasoned I arrived at one conclusion. My pistol ball must have struck the bell after calling on the calf and the pigeon. It was merely a chant's shot. The landlord of the Siegmund Hotel did not venture close enough to shake hands. "Doos them dogs bite--yes?" he asked from the veranda. "No," I answered, "they won't bite you and me, but they are very fond of each other." Don looked up at me appealingly, as if he thought he had been persecuted. When the donkeys and the mongrel were in the barn, I turned Don loose. He was tickled, and ran round the barn three times, jumped over the hen-coop, upset the landlord, and then chased the house cat so that it climbed to the top of the hotel chimney. Most extraordinary dog; no common pastime satisfied him. The hilly country I was now entering made it necessary for me to walk half the time, as a precaution against wearing out my animals. But the air was sweet with lilac, tulip, violet and apple blossoms; blue and red and yellow birds serenaded me as I passed, all making me feel somewhat repaid for my winter hardships. The main street of Mechanicsville was beautifully shaded, and along the road-side was a tempting pasture for ruminating animals. As I rode along and admired the scenes, I recalled a sentence from the Scriptures: "Whatsoever cheweth the cud that shall ye eat." To the right, in the cool shade, reclined a gentle-eyed cow, chewing her cud; to the left, at the base of a magnificent tree, sat a pretty bloomer girl beside her bicycle, also chewing. I was puzzled. On reaching Mount Vernon, I discovered, after diligent inquiries, that Washington had never been there, dead or alive. Cornell College, for boys and girls, distinguishes the place as a seat of learning, and the students showed an abnormal appetite for knowledge by purchasing my books and photos. A few miles west I crossed a ridge of wooded hills, descended into a lovely vale, crossed Cedar River, and drew rein at Bertram, a mountain town consisting of a railroad station, side track, tavern, store, and two to three houses. From Bertram we mounted another and still higher ridge, from the summit of which I could see the great verdant valley, and, winding about it, a spiral cloud of smoke from the busy city of Cedar Rapids, where I arrived at six o'clock. That evening, after a lapse of nine years, I met my old friend, Steve D----, who once had tramped Switzerland with me. After I had explained the cause of my unique pilgrimage and each had given an account of himself, he planned for me a pleasant two days' sojourn, and suggested it was time I had a useful traveling companion. As I moved westward, the towns would be farther apart and I would have to camp often on the highway. The services of an able and trusty man would save me much time. Steve said he would try to find him. Cedar Rapids contains some of the largest oatmeal factories in the country. I met through my friend several pleasant people, dined with his family, and was tendered a spread at the Grand Hotel, to which a few of his friends were invited. Meanwhile I found the man I was looking for. He was about twenty, had been night porter in a hotel, and was well recommended. Twice I refused him because of his apparent inexperience in "roughing it," but I was won over by his persistence at the third call. He said his name was "Coonskin," and Wisconsin the State of his nativity. His attainments were something extraordinary. He could sling a Saratoga trunk into a first story window; had painted the highest church steeples, and broken the wildest horses; could skin all kinds of game, and, with equal facility, could "skin the cat;" in fact, he had made an enviable record in athletics, and had won several championships for sprints. He could swim like a frog, and, as for shooting, his comrades couldn't touch him with any kind of a gun. He was never ill, and had stood all kinds of exposures from hanging all night on a church steeple after his ladder had fallen, to riding on the trucks of a baggage car, as the result of the disbanding of a theatre troupe. This Coonskin was a wonderful combination of resources; he was the very man I wanted. He wished to go with me for fun and experience, and was perfectly satisfied if I would defray his expenses. I took Coonskin at once to make the acquaintance of Mac, Cheese, Don, and the mongrel, and to be assigned to his duties. At nine o'clock the morning of our departure, he called at the hotel with a small bundle done up in a red handkerchief, and wearing a new pair of shoes. "What have you in that bundle?" I asked. "Everything." "Extra suit of clothes?" "Yep--and patches for emergency." "Extra shoes already broken to your feet?" "Yep--and chloride-of-lime and extra socks." "Brush and comb and tooth brush?" "Yep--and corn plasters and curry-comb." "Extra suit of underwear and handkerchiefs?" "Yep. Pajandrums, too." I smiled in astonishment, so small was the bundle. "Well done," said I, "after this you shall do all my packing." I was gratified to note Coonskin's quick perception, his alertness to obey, and his capacity for memorizing. He did not have to be told a thing more than three times before understanding it, and his lively interest in my welfare manifested itself at the start. When I went to the stable at eleven o'clock, I found he had added to my itinerant kennel a bull terrier, which took to Don as fondly as Don had taken to the mongrel. I remonstrated. "The more dogs you offer the Indian Chief, the bigger time he will give you," said my valet. "Better keep the terrier; I'll preserve harmony." Glad to shift some of my responsibilities to the broad shoulders of this young genius, I returned to the hotel and dressed for luncheon. You may imagine how my heart was set aflutter when luncheon over, my valet rapped on the door and, venturing a foot in the room, said, with the courtliness of a Sancho Panza, "Your highness' donkeys and dogs are at the door." My guests were as much amused as I, and accompanied me to the street, where a crowd had assembled. I shall never forget the expression on my old friend's face when he saw the dogs yoked together. A second pole had been brought into use, and, Don and the mongrel having become reconciled, the bull terrier was made a sort of pivot round which revolved the other two, a mean dog between two extremes. Coonskin said at first he had made the little mongrel act as the pivotal dog, but he had no sooner left the animals than Don and Towser swung round and clinched in pugilistic style, and, had it not been for the efficacy of the stable hose, with all hands at the pump, the mongrel would have soon been converted into sausage. It was nineteen miles to the village of Norway; we did not arrive there till eleven at night. Once or twice on the way Coonskin was prevailed upon to relieve me in the saddle for a couple of miles; but although his new shoes were paining him, as I could see from his gait, he was too "game" to admit it, and whenever I asked him to ride, protested that walking wasn't a circumstance with him. He would rather walk than eat. We found Norway asleep. After assisting Coonskin to stable the donks and secure the dogs, I perused a newspaper while my young neophyte went out to smoke. When he limped in, I noticed his coat pocket bulged with something he would conceal. I did not question him. But before retiring, I opened his door to give him orders for the morrow, and found him dressing his feet with Indian ointment, which he admitted he had procured from the village druggist. He had with difficulty aroused the man from slumber, in consequence of which he was made to pay double price for his cure. Coonskin was somewhat embarrassed, but I praised his pluck in glowing terms, and put him at ease. Next day he was ready to take advice, by wearing his old shoes and riding most of the journey. CHAPTER XXV. BY MAC A'RONY. What made Balaam celebrated as an astronomer? He found an ass-to-roid.--_Old Conundrum._ I had heard about the chilly climate of Norway, and was not surprised when we donks met with a cold reception. We had plenty of hay but no grain. Next morning the landlord said that he expected some oats soon after our departure. Pod had walked the last three miles, and warming up, had strapped his vest to the saddle, where I found it next morning. Peaking out of a pocket was a crisp five dollar greenback. Now, a donkey likes anything that's green. I never had eaten a vest. But I determined to tackle this somewhat tough corduroy "steak," and made a fair breakfast on it, not to speak of its garnishes of green money, lead pencils, and a scented lace handkerchief, the one my master had long carried in the left inside pocket. Save for the fact that I got a few sharp bones of a pocket-comb in my teeth, and a page of court-plaster stuck in my throat, I relished the repast. But not so the Professor. When he had searched some time for the vest, he looked at me. As luck would happen, I had left sufficient circumstantial evidence on the saddle to convict most any donkey, but no one in particular. However, I suppose I looked guilty, and my past record was against me. Pod was speechless a moment, then he made up for lost time, and said that he believed a jackass would devour a house and lot if he had the chance. "I don't know about a house," I replied, "but I know I could eat a lot if it were set before me." Then I caught it! By nine o'clock the clouds having dispersed, we started for Blairstown. The Iowa farms were pleasing to my eye. Horses and cattle were cropping the juicy grass, hogs were shelling corn or taking mud-baths, fowls of all kinds were engaged in athletic sports trying to add some new feather to their plumage, and occasional bunches of sheep were standing in barnyards and corrals with wool pulled over their eyes, not knowing what to do with themselves. It looked like a Garden of Eden, where donkeys were excluded. Finally we met a farmer with a team of lazy horses. Pod asked him if a donkey was a known quantity in those parts, and was told that a man by the name of K----, living near the next town, owned two that he had been trying to give away. A mile beyond, we met a man in a one-horse gig, who had a word to say, too. One donkey knows another when he meets him. "Your name is K----?" Pod inquired. "That's the name I always went by," said the black-eyed, black-hearted man. I did not like his looks; I felt it in my bones that Pod was going to be "done" by him. When a man or donkey is over anxious to acquire something, he is pretty sure to make a blunder. On being catechised, the man said his business was "hoss tradin' some, farmin' some, and various some." "Hear you've got a donkey for sale," Pod observed. "Nope," said K----, "but I've got two of 'em. Sell both er none." "I was told you have tried to give them away," said Pod. The "hoss trader" threw one leg over the other, spat tobacco juice in Don's eyes so he couldn't see all that might a-cur, raked timothy seed out of his whiskers, and inquired, "Who was tellin' ye that?" "The fellow didn't give his name," answered Pod, "and I wouldn't undertake to describe his physical geography, but I could locate him if I wished to." "If I could lay my hands on him, I'd dislocate him," said K----, snapping his eyes. When my master told about his travels, the Iowan became interested, and showed signs of weakening on his ultimatum. Meanwhile, I discovered the subjects of the discussion grazing in a meadow, and brayed them a courteous "how to do," thus calling Pod's attention to them. The hoss trader was sharp enough to see it, and his animal instinct told him that vanity was Pod's weak point; so he opened up with a little blarney. "Now, Mr. Pod, I'm fair t' say I've sort o' takin' a likin' to ye, and I want to help ye along. I'll sell both my donkeys for ten dollars, er one for five and trade the other for one of your'n. Jest let your partner here run across the field and drive 'em over. I want ye to see 'em." Coonskin went, and K---- continued: "They're two as fine-lookin' jennies as ye'll run across in many a day, both healthy and strong--not too young--not too old--often plow with 'em--kind and gentle--boy rides 'em everywhere--fast, too, but no danger runnin' away. Why, they're twice the size o' your'n, and 'll carry double the load." "I'm more than satisfied with my donkeys" (very flattering to Cheese and myself), Pod affirmed, "and only require one more. If I am suited with one of your donkeys, I am willing to pay five dollars for it, but I will not trade one of mine, nor will I purchase both of yours." By this time the animals arrived. They were certainly big enough, and as for the danger of their running away, they didn't act as if they could run ten feet if charged with a thousand volts of electricity. The farmer said he was bound to make a satisfactory deal with Pod somehow, and that if he wasn't convinced by the time we reached his house that both animals weren't superior to either of his (an absurdity on the face of it), then he would consider some other proposition. When we reached the house, Cheese and I were generously fed, and Pod and Coonskin invited into dinner. Then K---- chased his donks around the yard, and felt them all over, and finally hoodwinked my master to buy one, and trade the other for Cheese. I could have kicked the daylight out of that man. When K---- was on his way to town with his five dollars, Pod came to the stable. My new companions were crabbed old spinsters, and raised some objections to going with me. "Where are you bound?" one asked. "San Francisco," said I, "but I don't know where that is any more than do you. Guess it's land's end." Then I told them how far I had come, and that Pod said only a few days before that the journey had only begun; also, that he expected we donks would fall off some before long, from which I inferred the fall would be gradual and the horrors of death prolonged. It was enough to frighten the wits out of any old maid, and it took a pitchfork, two hoe-handles and a crowbar to get those donkeys out of the gate. Then one of them balked, kicked, threw Coonskin, broke her halter, and ran back into the yard. She could run after all. That was enough for Pod. He rode me back into the yard, and told Coonskin to fetch Cheese out of the barn. And it didn't take him long to shift the blanket from that gray spinster to my old chum. "You just tell your dad when he returns," said Pod to K----'s son, "that I don't intend to put up with any such game. He grossly misrepresented that donkey; it would take a week to travel a mile with her. As I have paid him for the other one, she belongs to me and I shall push her along with the outfit. But this animal," and he pointed to Cheese, "is mine yet awhile. Good-bye." "Do as you like," K----, Jr., replied. "I know nothin' 'bout yer agreement." We covered the first mile in slow time. Coonskin's new steed was forever stopping, and straying out of the road to eat grass. The young man wore himself out keeping her moving by rapping her with the flat side of a hatchet. This big, brown jenny was made of the right stuff, but evidently lacked training and experience. We were yet a half mile to Blairstown when a young woman and a child drove toward us with a skittish horse. It acted as though it had never seen a donkey. It pricked up its ears, and snorted, and, so help me Balaam! in a jiffy that buggy was on its side, the girls on the ground, and the horse running to beat a cyclone. Luckily, the girls escaped injury. My master was as frightened as he was chivalrous, and assisting the girls to their feet, invited them to ride us donkeys to town; which kind offer was respectfully declined. On our arrival, Pod took us to a blacksmith's to have the new donkey's fore feet measured for a pair of shoes. The smith seemed to be much taken with me, and said I had the smallest feet of all the gentlemen donks he ever met. The remark so tickled my vanity that I nibbled at his coat tail, whereupon he turned to me and inquired, "What kind of a donkey are you? Chinese?" "Not much," said I, indignantly, "My name is Irishy, and I always supposed I was a thoroughbred Irish ass, but I'm beginning to believe I'm a roamin' donkey, after all." I could see that Pod expected trouble from some quarter, but none of us knew just where the lightning would strike. The next village, Luzerne, lay fifteen miles to the west. My lady companion did not carry herself too gracefully, nor her rider, either. She was broad and flat across the hips, and, as Coonskin did not possess a saddle, he found it more comfortable to sit far back on her where he could get a good swing of the fence rail he substituted for a whip. We were ambling peacefully along the dusty road late in the afternoon, when Pod broke the silence with a word to his valet. "Well, Coonskin," said he, "what 're you going to call your donkey?" "Damfino," said Coonskin; and he added, with a drawl, "Git ap." "You ought to have found a suitable name by this time." "I HAVE named her," emphasized the young man. "Good!" shouted the Professor. "Let's have it then." "Damfino," yelled Coonskin, with a wild swing of the fence rail. Pod's face turned on its axis with a puzzled expression, as his eyes regarded the hopeful pioneer. Said he, "See here, young man, I know not whether my ears deceive me, or you are not up on my dialect; you say you have named the donkey, yet, when I ask the name, your answer implies a contradiction. Again, what is her name?" Coonskin drew a long breath, and said loud enough to be heard a mile away, "Damfino." As the fellow uttered the word, I dropped to the joke and, stopping in the road, brayed till my sides ached. A new light now came into the Professor's eyes, and he smiled. "Damfino, then, is the lady's angelic name," said he resignedly. "It's odd, it's not inappropriate. Let it stand." "Very well," returned Coonskin, "I will proceed with the ceremony." And letting the fence rail fall on his steed's rear quarter, he added, "In the name of the great and only Balaam, I christen thee Damfino." It was an interesting event. Thenceforth Cheese and I resolved to be more choice in our language and decorous in our manners in Miss Damfino's presence; and we lived up to our pledge two hours before Cheese called Don and the bull-terrier bad names for accidentally upsetting Miss Damfino with their yoke, and I kicked the tired and panting mongrel in the neighborhood of its pants. CHAPTER XXVI. BY PYE POD. Thou hast described A hot friend cooling. --_Julius Cæsar._ It was nine o'clock in the evening. While we were chatting with the landlord of the only tavern in Luzerne, a portly, smooth-looking individual entered the room. He was clad in a great fur ulster and top boots. After a familiar "hello" to the landlord, he eyed me searchingly, and added, "Your name is Pod, ain't it?" I said, "I believe so; yours is what, don't it?" Evidently not pleased with my expression, he instantly struck an attitude, or something equally hard, and announced, "I'm the sheriff of Borden County, and have come for a jack belonging to Mr. K----." "Jack?" I interrogated; "boot-jack, apple-jack--" "Just plain jack," interrupted the officer. "Well," I replied, carelessly, "I have no jack belonging to Mr. K----, but I have the jenny he sold me for five dollars. Mr. K---- imposed upon me, and if he will refund the money, I will be only too glad to return his hundred-year old mule." Here K---- himself entered. He stormed about, and said that I told only a section of the truth. The sheriff gave his client a look, which quelled his ire for a moment, then, turning to me, said: "You talk reasonably enough, Mr. Pod, and doubtless mean right, but Mr. K---- has sworn out a warrant for your arrest; and if you don't want trouble and a double-jointed advertisement just turn over to K---- the jack he claims, and send your man back for the gray jenny." It may not seem strange that I was converted to the officer's way of thinking. "Take the donkey you claim," I said to K----, "you have the advantage of me. I haven't time to fight my case in the courts." My black-bearded adversary now calmed his temper; his victory must have tasted sweet. I calculated the cost of the warrant and the sheriff's services to be at least ten dollars, since the officer had sacrificed angling for posse duty; although he was prevented from catching fish, there was a nice mess for me. With reluctant equanimity the man who had wished to help me along explained that he had boasted of having acquired one of Pye Pod's noted donkeys, but when he found I had outwitted him, he swore vengeance. On the other hand, the officer had conducted himself as a gentleman. "Here, Coonskin," said the officer, "take this dollar and fetch us a pail of beer;" and, turning to me, added, "we must drown ill feeling amongst us, for when you come this way again, we'll show you how to catch fish." By one o'clock next day Coonskin, weary, hungry, and morose, had managed to steer his slow "craft" into Luzerne and to moor it in front of the tavern barn. That closed the interesting event. On our way to Tama City I was greeted by a member of assembly, who tendered me an invitation from the Mayor to dine with them that day. Lounging about the shop doors and strolling the streets, on our arrival in Tama, were many stately, still proud redskins, who, when they espied me with the wealth of canines collected on my way, shied off the scent for "fire-water" and dogged my trail to the hotel. After dinner with the Mayor and Assemblyman, I escorted them to the stable to discover Mac A'Rony devouring a new hair-cushioned carriage seat. At once the Mayor wanted to buy that donkey outright, head and seat, for a round sum. On expressing my intention to visit the Indian Reservation, some three miles away, his Honor gave me letters of introduction to the Indian Teacher and the Indian Instructor in agriculture. There lived the Sac and Fox tribe of the Musquaques. I was told that they were one of the most primitive tribes in the States, holding on to the primeval, and often evil, customs of feeding on dog soup, indulging in various kinds of dances, living in teepees, or wickey-ups, and wearing bears' teeth, eagles' claws, scalps, skins and moccasins. As you know, I had long hoped to be welcomed as their guest. I was tired and weary of the care of my dog pack, and wished to present it bodly, save Don, to the Chief. About two o'clock we saddled and packed. When ready to start, a diminutive bicyclist, mud-bespattered and perspiring from a hot century run, he affirmed, wheeled up to the stable and, almost before catching his breath, introduced himself to me. "My name is Barley Korker," said he, "de champion lightest-weight wheelman in de United States, weighin' jest sixty-eight pounds. I'm jest troo wid a trip from New York in one month and tirty-two days. My bicycle was giv me by de Cormorant Club of Phil'delfia. De Bourbon Club of Chowchow Wheelman of Pittsburg put up five hundred dollars 'gainst de wall dat I couldn't go all de way to San Francisco and git dere. On de way I hears of de great donkey traveler, Professor Pod, so I says, I'll jest catch up wid him, and mebbe he'll take me 'long wid him." I at once made the little fellow a proposition, which he accepted; if he would wheel ahead of my caravan every day, carrying a small flagstaff with a streamer containing the words, "Official Courier to Pye Pod," I would, as long as he gave satisfaction, defray his traveling expenses. Barley was delighted. He forthwith purchased a piece of plum-colored silk and a bit of white silk for letters, needles and thread, and, having once been a tailor by trade, when we went into camp that night said that he would make a beautiful streamer, one I would be proud of. He promised to have it completed in a couple of days. I had not more than finished my business with my courier, when a rustic-looking boy rode up on a white donkey, and called to me, "Want ter trade?" "Not anxious," I returned, but showed no signs of a desire to flee. "Trade with yer, if you give me five dollars to boot," said the enterprising lad. I recalled how I had been swindled recently in a trade, and resolved to make a deal with that boy by hook or by crook. "Do you suppose I would think of trading this thoroughbred Irish ass that has gone around the world for your common beast, just because mine is tired from fast and long traveling, and yours is fresh?" I saw I had made an impression; the lad dismounted, and examined Cheese IV, critically. "I hain't no money to-day," said the boy, "but if you'll give me two dollars to boot I'll trade." [Illustration: "_I killed my first rattlesnake._"] [Illustration: "_That was the town._"] [Illustration: "_Over the Platte ... after blindfolding them._"] "What! do you want the earth?" I exclaimed. "Only before dinner I paid two dollars to have this donkey shod. I don't intend to pay two dollars more to shoe your animal." The lad replied "All right," and galloped away, but had only gone a short distance when I hailed him. He came back without hesitation, and I then concluded a bargain. It was agreed that a blacksmith should take the new shoes off Cheese and put them on his donkey, and that I should pay him three dollars to boot. An hour later Cheese V was shod, bridled and saddled, and that afternoon became Coonskin's mount, Damfino carrying the principal portion of our luggage, and Mac A'Rony his master. My party reached the Reservation in time for me to meet the Indian teacher before he left school, my courier having wheeled ahead to announce my coming. I was greeted warmly when I presented the Mayor's letter, was shown some of the lodges of the tribe, and made acquainted with a few of the foremost braves of the camp. The teacher was an admirable interpreter, and the Indians grunted approvingly at meeting such a noted personage as Professor Pye Pod. A fat old buck named Ne-tah-twy-tuck (old one), on being presented, extended me his hand, muttering, "How do?" His grip almost mashed my fingers. "Much dog," he observed, eyeing my pack with doubtful admiration. "Yes, too much," I replied; "I want to visit Me-tah-ah-qua, your great chief, and give him a heap of dogs." The Indian grinned majestically, while his teacher turned his head to control his risibles. "Make pleasant?" the redskin grunted, and shook his head disapprovingly. "Me-tah-ah-qua say no dog good--old--make tough soup." And the brave pinched one of the mongrels, causing such a ky-eying that my interpreter feared it would put the whole camp on the war-path. Presently an Indian boy notified the teacher that the chief had heard of Mr. Pod's arrival, and wished him to dine with him at his lodge. I accepted, and the boy departed; and soon afterward Coonskin and I were escorted to the chief's wigwam, taking my dog pack with me. Me-tah-ah-qua met us with a grunt, rubbed my nose against his until it became lopsided, and likewise greeted Coonskin. Then the chief waved us into the wigwam. He seated me on his right, and Coonskin on his left, while opposite to me he placed his disenchanting daughter of forty-five summers. Opposite the chief sat his first councilman, Muck-qua-push-e-too (young one), and at my right, at the entrance of the tent in full view of the host was seated our Government interpreter, seemingly much amused by the event. I lost no time in presenting my dogs to the chief, who in broken sentences, half Indian, half English, accepted the munificent gift in befitting words. The spread consisted of a wolf skin, and on it rested a large flat stone on which to stand the kettle of soup when ready. For some moments the chief regarded me searchingly, then said, "Me-tah-ah-qua wants--big donk man to live with him--and marry--his only daughter--Ne-nah-too-too. Me-tah-ah-qua will give--him a bow and a quiver of arrows--three seasoned pipes--five ponies--a new wicky-up--two red blankets--a deer skin--bag full of dogs' teeth--fifteen scalps taken by his father." The chief left off abruptly, as if for my answer, but I shook my head thoughtfully, and the chief continued: "If you--will marry my daughter (here the chief glanced at me, then let his eyes dwell fondly on that aged belle of forty-five summers), Me-tah-ah-qua will make--you chief of his tribe--before he goes to--the Happy Hunting Grounds. He will call--your first born Chicky-pow-wow-wake-up." I was never more embarrassed, and eyed the damsel of forty-five summers, trying to persuade myself that she was beautiful and rich, and still shook my head. The old chief, seeing his inducements were not alluring, motioned to his councilman to pass the pipe of peace. After we had all taken a puff at it, the kettle of dog soup was set before us, and we all dipped in our ladles, the chief first, and began to eat. When I first looked into that caldron of bouillon, I could see in my mind's eye, all kinds and conditions of dog staring at me, and almost fancied I could hear them barking. The soup wasn't bad, after all; it reminded me of Limburger cheese, in that it tasted better than it smelled. But Coonskin and I, and even our interpreter, ate sparingly (I use the word "ate," because there was so much meat in it). I learned from the teacher that the whole kettleful of soup was extracted from one small spaniel. "Dog gone!" I sighed. The feast at an end, I thanked the chief for the honor conferred upon me, shook hands with his daughter, and departed. Barley Korker, Mac A'Rony and the rest of the party welcomed me with glee, and soon we were marching over the hill toward the house of the Indian farmer. In front of a wigwam sat the chief's squaw, an old, wrinkled and parched woman of a hundred and five winters, weaving a flat mat; a little way off two Indian boys were filling pails with sand, making believe they were at Coney Island; and still beyond I saw two squaws carrying huge bundles of faggots for the wigwam fires, round which sat the lazy bucks, smoking. A half-mile further on we met the Indian Farmer, and I presented my letter of introduction. He extended me a glad hand, and invited us all to supper, and on the way to his house, enlightened me about Indian farming, and the results of our Government's efforts to civilize the savage tribes. The Reservation contains 2,800 acres of woodland and arable soil. After supper on bread and milk with the farmer, we travelers made our beds of hay and horse-blankets in the barn, and then followed the trail half way back to the Indian village, until we came to a house, where I discovered in the darkness its rustic incumbent leaning on the fence, smoking. There we lay down on the dry sod, lit our pipes, and listened for the first sound of the Indian drum beats which, the farmer told us, we would soon hear; that was the night for an Assembly dance, and the first drum beat was to assemble the tribe to its nocturnal orgie. As I reclined on the grass in the starlight that mild May evening, my mind recalling the harrowing tales of the early settlers of the West, the first sound of the drum beat sent a thrill through my frame. I mentally counted the weapons comprising the arsenal in our belts; and even Don crept closer to me and rubbed his face against mine. After a few moments' interim the drum again beat, but for a longer period, sounding something like the army long-roll, only more weird. The farmer said this was the signal for the dance to begin, so we strolled leisurely down the hill trail through the woods to the grotesque scene. A circular corral, fenced with three or four strands of wire, surrounded a pole driven slantingly in the ground, and from the pole was suspended a very bright lantern. Already within the enclosure could be seen the dusky forms of the Musquaques, some of them grouped in a sitting posture, crosslegged, in the center of the corral, beating a large shallow drum resting on the ground; while maneuvring fantastically about them were four agile reds, clad in loose-fitting, bright-colored robes, feathers, moccasins and sleighbells, dancing, and pow-wowing frightfully. Finally we drew closer to the scene, and then an educated Indian, named Sam Lincoln, welcomed us into the enclosure. He said he was a graduate of the Carlisle Indian School of Pennsylvania, and greeted us in the true American style, but he still loved the primitive customs of his people. We sat on the ground against the fence, and occasionally one or another of the dancers would put a pinch of tobacco into the hand of Sam, seated next to me. "What was that he just gave you?" I asked of the Indian. "He give pleasant of tobacco," said Sam. "Show good feeling--Indian not steal--leave things around--Indian no take--Indian honest." By that sign of distributing tobacco among his fellows, the tamed savage promises fair play among his tribe. The men alone danced. Before long, the squaws, one by one, came into the ring from various quarters with pappooses bound on their backs in shawls or robes, and squatted in a circle just behind the drummers. As the dancers became fatigued, I noticed that they would exchange places with the spectators, most of whom were in dancing rig. Sam Lincoln, after a time, excused himself politely and asked me to sit on his coat, reminding me should I leave before his return not to forget to leave the strap he loaned me to tie my dog to a post. The weird proceedings were all too exciting for Don, and it was all I could do to prevent his making mince-meat out of the dancers and prowling squaws. The whoops and pow-wowing and yells were thrilling enough to frighten even a man "tenderfoot." Toward midnight speech-making began. The drummers stopped beating the drum, and an old patriarch walked from the fence toward the center group, and stood behind the squaws a moment in silence. Presently he softly uttered something that sounded like a prayer, to which all the dusky auditors responded feelingly at the close in a monosyllable not unlike "Amen." Then the drum-beating and dancing was resumed, continuing some moments, to be followed by another prayer. At last, a great pipe was put through a series of mysterious calisthenics, and passed around among the drummers. At midnight the full, round moon rose above the wooded hills, and cast a broad, silvery sash across the ring, illuminating the weird and grotesque scene. Now a squaw entered with a large earthen jar and passed it around to all the Indians, the bucks first. I was ignorant of its contents, as it was not passed to me and my white comrades. Fatigued from travel, I finally rested my head on Don's warm body, and went to sleep; and it must have been near one o'clock when Coonskin awoke me. Then we three, accompanied by my dog, started for the barn to lay ourselves out for a few hours' repose. I shall never forget that night. Sam Lincoln said that several members of the tribe, a few weeks previous, had gone to visit another branch of the tribe in Wisconsin, in the absence of which a "meeting dance" was held every fourth night, when the Indians appealed to the Great Father for their safe return. Sam told me that in all their various dances a different drum was beaten--there was one each respectively for the snake dance, ghost dance, wolf dance, buffalo dance, peace dance, war dance, meeting dance, etc. The drum for the meeting dance, Sam pronounced beautiful, and "much nice"--"seven dollars fifty cents worth of quarters on it--all silver on drum--fine drum--much cost." The Indians valued their drums, evidently, more than any other of their possessions. We rested well that night in our haymow bed, although the rats kept the dog busy till morning, so Barley said; he was the only one of us three who failed to sleep soundly. We rose in good season, and traveled five miles to Mountour, Barley Korker wheeling on in advance to order breakfast. He proved himself a good financier on this, his first, mission as Pod's official courier, and pleasantly surprised me by having bargained for three twenty-five cent breakfasts for fifty cents. Before reaching Marshalltown, we met with a terrific thunderstorm, and rode up to the hotel at six o'clock in a drenched condition. CHAPTER XXVII. BY MAC A'RONY. What the devil was the good of a she-ass, if she couldn't carry a sleeping bag and a few necessities?--_Stevenson._ Our sojourn in Marshalltown was brief. Before leaving, my master purchased cooking utensils, so that he would not be compelled to travel more than he ought to in a day to reach a town; now he could cook his own meals. After going into camp the first night, Pod fetched out the cooking tools, and having saved up a huge appetite, went to work to get a fine supper. "Hello! Coonskin," said he, "what do you think? We've plenty of frying pans, but nothing to fry--never once thought of buying grub." And three more disappointed, famished individuals I never saw. But when to get even they ate double their usual breakfast next morning and were charged accordingly, Pod was enraged. We trailed through State Center, Nevada, and Ames to Boone, arriving at midnight, May 22d; and continued on next day to Grand Junction, where a farmer invited the men to sleep in his kitchen. Instead of accepting, they shared with us donks the comforts of the barn, where, after a supper, cooked at a safe distance from the hay-stack, Pod received a delegation of gay young chaps from town. They brought all kinds of prohibition drinks and eatables; the popping of corks kept me awake until a late hour. And when I complained, all I got was an invoice of corn on the ear. The Mayor of Jefferson, during our stop, presented Pod with a heavy shillalah that was intended as an ornament, but several times later, persuaded to do business. The Irishman, also, as a compliment to my ancestry, invited us all to dinner. After passing through Scranton and Glidden, two or three interesting incidents occurred on the road to Carroll. One night we were caught in a shower that seemed to settle down to business for the night. Coonskin thought he saw a barn in a meadow, so Pod sent him to investigate. He came back soon and said it was only a double corn-crib, built so a wagon could drive between, under a roof. All three thought it was just the thing; it was better than tramping through rain and mud. So we broke through the fence, and soon were unpacked and fed all the corn we could eat. The men made their bed in one of the big cribs of corn, the best they could with their scant blankets, and went to sleep. Pod told me that wasn't the first night he had spent in a crib. And I shouldn't wonder if that were so. I said I preferred corn on the ear to corn on the feet. It was a funny sight before the men arose. There happened to be several holes in the inner wall, and the men had twisted and turned about so much during the night in their dreams and to get the ears comfortably filled into their backs, that it resulted in Pod's head sticking out of one hole, Coonskin's foot out of another, and Barley's seat plugging another. When Pod awoke, his head was red as a beet; he found his feet higher than his head, Damfino having pulled the corn out of the hole during the night. So much did we donks eat that, before starting on the day's journey, our stomachs ached and doubled us all up. Then a ridiculous sort of runaway happened. A fat Irishwoman tried to drive a gentle horse past our party. The pet stuck up his ears and stopped a hundred feet away; Pod called to the courageous driver to wait, and that he would send his man to lead the horse past us. But the woman yelled back that she could manage her own horse; so she whipped him on. To the left was a marsh deep from the heavy rains; and the frightened horse made a dash through it, but he hadn't run far before he stuck knee-deep, right beside us. The horse snorted and plunged, and tried to get away, but it was no "go." He burst the traces, and the frantic driver hollered so that I almost "busted" too. "Don't move your feet an inch, or you'll go over," Pod cautioned the woman, but she took it as a personal offense, and said her feet were all right. "Help me and Oi'll pay yez!" she implored. So Coonskin waded in and, tying the reins around the broken traces, led the horse on to dry land at a safe distance. Then he held out a hand for his pay. "Phwat do yez want, ye poppinjay?" said the ingrate. "You promised to pay me if I would help you," replied the valet, soberly. "Ah, gwan, yez crazy loot!" she exclaimed. "Dishpose of thim hathenish jackasses, ond yez will have money ond th' rishpect of the community." Coonskin was watersoaked up to his waist. But before he could get to a hotel to change his clothes, our little courier met us coming into town, and inquired, "Hev yuse been havin' a fallin' out wid de crazy mule?" "Not by a blank sight," retorted the valet, in ill humor. He felt like scaring Barley, and he did. "Two women met us down the road a way driving a fractious horse--horse got frightened at donks--ran away--upset wagon--both women killed--expect sheriff and posse after us with shot guns. You weren't in the muss and are safe. Here's my mother's address." To say the fellow was scared half to death doesn't express it. It was his business to gather information and pace our party out of every town on the best road to the next. On this occasion he took us out on the longest road to Carroll, saying he had paced us on that road to elude pursuit. "Dey's method in my madness, Mr. Pod," said the excited fellow, leaping off his wheel, to better explain matters. "If de whole blamed country's after yuse, do yuse tink I was goin' to let yuse be catched if I could help it? We sticks togedder, we do, tru t'ick an' thin, an' when de sheriff t'inks he is chasin' yuse one way, we's chasin' ourselves de udder way, see?" And our courier looked heroic. Pod said he was grateful, and slyly winked to Coonskin, who turned his head and grinned. At Carroll, Pod purchased some canvas for a sleeping-bag. He said he was tired of sleeping in barns and corn-cribs and such, and if he had a bed of his own, he would be independent. Barley sewed up the canvas for him, to save expense, and we left town with the patent bed. Of course, the men were anxious to put the thing into service. About nine o'clock, the three crawled in and soon went to sleep. The bagful of humanity rested on the sloping roadside where the grass was thick, their heads being at the higher end, their feet at the lower. We donks were up bright and early the next morning eating thistles, when, suddenly, I heard Miss Damfino giggling. She nodded toward the sleeping-bag, and I saw a funny sight. The seam at the foot of the bag had been ripped by the weight of the three bodies sliding down against it, and now six legs were sticking out clear up to the knees, the feet turned skyward in all directions. In a lumber wagon opposite, a farmer sat taking in the curious sight with a phiz that would make a monkey laugh. One couldn't tell who or what was in that bag, except for human legs. Miss Damfino was so convulsed with merriment she just lay down and rolled. Now it happened that Cheese V was a droll wag, and chock full of innocent mischief, so as soon as his eyes lighted on that row of awkward-looking feet, he quietly strolled over to the sleeping-bag and commenced to lick the bare soles of those sensitive pedals. In a minute the peaceful bed looked as if hit by a cyclone. Such yells, I had never before heard. The men's heads were down so far in the bag that the terrified fellows didn't know which end to crawl out of first, so tried both ends at once; and, slap bang me! if that bag full of live things didn't begin rolling and hopping about the highway like a sackful of oats. One could have heard the hollaring a mile off. I laughed so hard I thought I'd die, and Cheese, Damfino and Don were weak from the strain of their risibles long afterward. The farmer almost rolled off the seat, but finally he pacified his excited horse, got down, and caught the animated bag before it jumped the fence, ripped it open, and pulled out the dazed men. For the life of me, I thought at one time the bag would reach the creek across the field, and drown the men. Cheese escaped detection for his practical joke, and I, from the way Pod leered at me all day, knew that I got all the blame. CHAPTER XXVIII. BY PYE POD. If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go To see Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show, Do you think I'd wollop him? Oh, no, no! Then run to Jarley's---- --_Old Curiosity Shop._ Dennison was still and peaceful when, at nine in the evening, we trailed up to its leading hotel, after a long and tiresome day's walk, for, to relieve Cheese and Mac A'Rony, Coonskin and I had journeyed half the distance on foot. But we left next day in good season for Arion, taking it slowly, as Cheese was noticeably lame; he had stumbled in the darkness the evening before. At Arion, so aggravated was his injury, that I tarried a whole day, for I appraised him a valued animal. When I resumed the pilgrimage, I took it slowly, and relieved the animal from any burden more than his saddle. Coonskin and I took turns riding Mac, who was as chipper and strong as ever. He gloried in his health and vigor, and found amusement in chaffing his unfortunate comrade. The eve of May thirtieth was spent in camp a few miles from Woodbine. The following morning, when we were still two miles from town, my courier, who had preceded us, wheeled back in company with an old, white-haired man leading three white Esquimaux dogs. The stranger managed his sportive pets with one hand, and carried a basket of apples in the other; and, introducing himself and shaking hands, he presented me with the delicious russet fruit, and welcomed me to his home in the distance as his guest for the holiday, a pleasure I was compelled to deny myself, for lack of time. According to his own account, he was a hermit and lived in the society of his canine companions, as he had the greater part of his seventy-five years. Content to subsist on the product of his little thirty-six acre farm, he denied himself the use of any portion of a small fortune of $15,000 in gold which, he claimed, he had buried somewhere outside of that state; nobody had ever helped him to a cent, and he resolved that no one should enjoy a dollar of his money. I put up at the Columbia Hotel, Woodbine, a pretty brick hostelry, and, after an enjoyable lounge in the parlor, we all went out to see the military and civic parade, in keeping with the usual Memorial day custom. The band assembled from all quarters and kinds of quarters--doors, windows, cellars, barns, corn-cribs, hay-stacks, hencoops, smoke-houses, etc., and without delay began tuning instruments. Their uniforms challenged imitation. No two were dressed alike. Every horn was different; they tried to outvoice each other, when, suddenly, the bass drum banged away and upset the equilibrium of the horns, until the snare drums and cymbals interfered as peacemakers. At last, after much strain of nerve tissue, the medley of musical tools settled down to a good, sensible patriotic tune, which held sway for fifteen minutes. But the procession that followed the band beggared description. The band acted as leaders, the Grand Army followed as pointers, then trailed the wheelers--carriages filled with citizens and farmers. There were democrat wagons, side-bar buggies, buckboards, carts, gigs, surreys, hayricks, baby carriages, wheelbarrows, goat carts, and velocipedes. Pedestrians then fell into line, and brought up the rear. To cap the climax, a big, fat man with inflated chest galloped past on a faded, wind-broken horse, and exhorted the excitable celebrators to strictly obey orders. "Remember, citizens," he yelled, "let us take care not to have any accident to-day, for we are not used to 'em here!" The procession had begun slowly to move forward, when suddenly the command was given to halt, and the bangity-bang, clapity-clap, rip-slap of wagon tongue against wagon boxes sounded like freight cars when the engine clamps on the brakes. The firearms carried looked as if they had been loaned by some museum for the event. They were muskets, match-locks, flint-locks, and minus-locks; Winchesters, Remingtons, Ballards, Floberts, Sharps, Springfields; shot-guns, muzzle-loaders and breach-loaders; blunderbusses; carbines, bean-shooters, sling-shots and cross-guns--a most formidable looking arsenal. Such a pageant! When the procession arrived at the cemetery, the hearse, filled with flowers, stopped in front of a newly made grave. Then the undertaker in black clothes and red cap, seated beside the driver in blue coat, white trousers and stovepipe hat, banged a bass drum in his lap with an Indian club, as each floral piece was placed on the several soldiers' graves. Presently my attention was directed to a new excavation, before which solemnly stood Coonskin, as immovable and statuesque as a marble slab; and soon I observed an aged woman approach, bend toward the human statue, and read the pathetic epitaph on his back: "Take Blank's cathartic pills and keep healthy." "Poor boy!" she exclaimed, sorrowfully, "a pity to have died so young." That was too much for Coonskin, who instantly resumed consciousness, and wheeled about, as the frightened mourner gasped, "Bless my stars, alive!" When Mac took in the situation he brayed with merriment, almost shaking me out of the saddle. The interesting proceedings concluded with a volley fired over a grave, and at once bird shot, buck shot, salt pork, hickory nuts, marbles, acorns, beans, and pebbles rained about us frightfully. When the firing was through, I assisted a quack doctor probe for a number one duck shot in Barley's shoulder and an acorn in Coonskin's leg. As I mounted my terrified donkey, I noticed the old woman had fainted. Bending over her was a gallant fellow countryman trying to fan her back to life with his broad-brimmed hat, while exposing patched trousers to an admiring crowd. As soon as she came to, we started for the hotel, congratulating ourselves on our narrow escape. Next day we set out for Logan. Our arrival was signaled by an assembly of townspeople, headed by their Mayor, who greeted me cordially and asked to ride the celebrated donkey. He rode Mac up and down the central street before the cheering throng, as had the Mayors of other towns we had visited. Then I delivered a lecture on my travels, on a corner of the business street, after which Coonskin, who had lately received his banjo-guitar from home, accompanied me with my mandolin, recently purchased, as we gave a short serenade of music and song that made everybody sad and wish we would depart. The morrow was the first of June; I welcomed summer joyfully. Missouri Valley was reached in the afternoon, and there, with my dog chained in the cellar of a hotel and the three donkeys stabled, we men retired and slept the sleep of the just. The further I journeyed, the more primitive and squatty were both dwelling and store in small places, and the architecture reached the superlative of simplicity on the plains; but I observed more of a passion for flower gardens and shrubbery evinced west of the Mississippi than east. The great bluffs characterizing the banks of the Missouri now loomed up, verdant and picturesque, after the genial showers and sunshine of spring. Every turn in the road presented a different kaleidoscopic effect to the landscape. Wild roses lined the roadside as we passed in review with our hats trimmed with blossoms, and songbirds caroled sweet melodies from early morn till eventide. Pure springs and wells were ever within reach, and the farmers treated us to brimming bowls of sweet milk and buttermilk. One day, after imbibing freely from a barrel of buttermilk, standing against the porch, where I was chatting with the housewife, I was astonished to see a calf walk up to the barrel and drink. After that I lost my appetite for buttermilk. All through Iowa were droves or bunches of white-faced cattle, the predominating breed. I was told that the white-faced cattle make the best beef, which seemed to sustain the theory early advanced by the Indians, that pale-faces made the best roasts. During the last few days, I noted a happy change in Damfino's demeanor, and a marked improvement in Cheese's tender feet. Damfino traveled faster and more smoothly, her long ears swinging back and forth with every stride like pendulums of a clock and apparently assisting her to walk to regular time. Just as we were trailing out of Crescent City, a woman presented me with a large bouquet of flowers. I had intended to travel ten miles that lovely June night, but when some five miles from town, on observing an inviting grassy lot, I decided to go into camp. We let our donkeys roam at will and graze, and spread our sleeping-bag under an apple-tree; then, with Don on guard and with the gleaming stars beaming on us through the boughs, we enjoyed a delightful sleep. At dawn we were awakened by the owner of the property, a short, crabbed individual, who lifted a dirty face above the top fence-rail and called, "Git out," to us. I was awfully sleepy and dozed on luxuriously. After a while he again hailed us, now from the opposite quarter, but still on the outside of the enclosure, where I could see him eyeing disapprovingly my huge dog. Finally we induced him to come into our camp, on the promise that our dog wouldn't molest him, and even invited him to breakfast with us. When we departed he was in good spirits. He said he lived "over in that house yonder all alone," because he couldn't afford to live "together." Of course, we understood. He informed me that we were following the old Mormon trail to Council Bluffs, where Mormonism and bigamy flourished for a season before the historic band of pilgrims crossed the Missouri in 1848. Thursday, June third, my donkeys ambled into Council Bluffs. CHAPTER XXIX. BY MAC A'RONY. He was mounted upon a mule, which he rode gineta fashion, and behind him, by the duke's order, was led his Dapple, adorned with shining trappings of silk, which so delighted Sancho that every now and then he turned his head to look upon him, and thought himself so happy that he would not have exchanged conditions with the Emperor of Germany.--_Don Quixote._ The city of Council Bluffs is four miles from the Missouri River, and takes its name as many people do, from both sides of the house. Council comes from the old Mormon councils formerly held there, and Bluffs is borrowed from the bluffs on which the city is built. Often such things are handed down for many generations; the Mayor seemed to be constructed on the bluff order. He had the consummate cheek to tell my master he wasn't allowed to sell photographs without procuring a license, and thought he had squelched him, but he almost fell out of his chair when Pod nonchalantly pulled out a fifty dollar bill and said, "Just make out a license at once." Then he went to work and did a land-office business, taking more money out of the town than the Mayor could put into it in a year's time. Next morning Miss Damfino went shopping, coming back with a brand new pair of shoes. She said she saw lots of donkeys shopping, and began to distribute to a stableful of equine and asinine gossips such a lot of scandal that I was ashamed of her. She had also discovered the startling fact that there was one more river to cross. "Furthermore," said she, "our highfaluting, aristocratic, literary genius, Mac A'Rony, is to enjoy the distinction of crossing the great Missouri River Bridge in a wheelbarrow." This caused me to collapse. I fell on my knees and preyed on the bed of yellow straw, and brayed aloud for spirituous support, but all I got was a bucket of water. An hour afterward I was saddled for the show. I had experienced riding in a wheelbarrow before, and did not like the idea, but said nothing. Sure enough, when we arrived at the bridge, there stood a wheelbarrow, just brought by a wagon from the Bluffs. I eyed the vehicle disdainfully. That was the same kind of carriage that a man once went to London with to fetch a wife home in, and now, as a fitting jubilee memorial of that historic event, I, a respectable scion of an ancient race, was to be toted across a bridge into a great city in this outlandish vehicle, to the cheers and jeers of a multitude. The event was heralded in the morning papers of both Council Bluffs and Omaha; I saw Pod reading about it on the way. At the bridge, I was at once unsaddled, and my luggage distributed equally between Cheese and Damfino. The quilts and blankets were folded in the wheelbarrow, and with the help of two men Pod and Coonskin lifted me into the one-wheeled carriage, where I was strapped and roped so securely I couldn't budge without upsetting. Pod wheeled me a short way first, then Coonskin relieved him; in this way I crossed that bridge of size. When half way, I thought I would be easier if I turned over, for it was an awful long bridge; in a minute I was on the bridge proper, the wheelbarrow on the top of me, improper. Wasn't Pod mad though! A street-car line crossed the bridge, and cars full of curious passengers were passing continually, having paid extra, I reckoned, to see the circus. I had to be untied, and again deposited in the wheelbarrow, and do you believe, those human jackasses didn't have sense enough to lay me on my other side. Then another distressing circumstance happened soon after. I could see the street at the Omaha terminus jammed with people as on a Fourth of July, but that didn't matter; a horse-fly buzzed around me a minute prospecting, and suddenly made his camp-fire on my left hip. Soon the fire burned like fury, and I not able to stand it, made one super-asinine effort, ripped and tore, and upset myself and Pod, who was wheeling me. Then the crowd cheered louder than ever. Some boy with a large voice yelled, "Hurrah for Mac A'Rony!" and three cheers were given. "I think he'll walk the rest of the way, Coonskin," said Pod, referring to me. "Save us the trouble of fixing him in the wheelbarrow again." Thinks I, I'll just get even with the Professor at once, and I lay down as if I were in a barnyard for the night. It didn't take those men long to put me in the wheelbarrow again, I tell you. This time Pod didn't seem to care whether I was all in or not. My tail caught in the spokes of the wheel, and wound up so quickly that I was nearly pulled out on the bridge. The wheelbarrow came to such a sudden stop that Pod fell all over me. At first I thought I had lost my tail by the roots. It was sore long after. Couldn't switch off flies with it, and had to kick at them, and ten times out of nine I'd miss the fly and kick my long-legged rider in the leg or foot, whereupon I would catch it with whip and spur. At length we crossed the bridge, and there I was dumped; then I had a good roll in the dust, just to show there was no hard feeling; after which a host of inquisitive spectators followed us to the Paxton Hotel in Omaha, where we were to have a two days' rest. Good fortune began to fall before us now like manna from the sky. The first morsel came in the manner of a proposition for Pod and me to pose in front of a leading apothecary's shop in the business center, and extol the virtues of fruit frappe, and incidentally his perfumed soaps, insect powders, and dog-biscuits, in consideration of several dollars in silver. The frappe clause of the contract was most agreeably cool and delectable for that summer season, and the sample doses of the various ices to which Cheese and I, not to mention Pod, were treated, furnished rare sport for an appreciative audience. The cheerful proprietor, recognizing my blue blood, attempted to feed me with a long, silver spoon; I so admired the spoon that with my teeth I stamped it with our family crest. As the demand for frappe increased, the brass-buttoned society began to gather from the four points of the compass, and finally attempted to arrest Pod for blocking the thoroughfare; and, but for the timely arrival of the druggist, there would have been a riot. Coonskin had two guns in his belt, and Pod declared he would not be taken alive. On this occasion, besides the money received from the druggist, Coonskin sold many chromos, for the wily Professor was far-seeing enough to work in considerable nonsense about his travels, and got even the police so interested that several cops wedged through the gang and purchased souvenirs. We made a pretty fair street show. All were there but Miss Damfino, who felt indisposed and remained indoors. One of our severest crosses (some folks think the ass has only one cross, and that on its shoulders), was experienced a few miles southwest of the city, where we donks refused to walk a narrow plank over a shattered bridge, and were forced to ford the stream. CHAPTER XXX. BY PYE POD. We may live without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks. --_Lucile._ It was my good fortune to obtain in Omaha a most adaptable teepee tent, a triangular canvas bag, as it were. One man could put it up in a minute. This waterproof tent had a canvas floor stoutly sewn to the sides, and when the door was tied shut neither sand, water, nor reptile could invade its sacred precincts; mosquito netting across the two small windows kept out all kinds of insects. Three could sleep in it comfortably, besides allowing ample room for luggage and supplies; and the tent with its folding poles only weighed thirty pounds. This extra baggage was added to Damfino's pack, for she was large and strong, and by this time in good traveling fettle. I could now thoroughly enjoy the outdoor life of the West, with its fresh and fragrant air; after sleeping a few nights under the stars, only some imperative emergency could induce me to spend a night indoors. Although my two attendants were not companions of choice they were fairly good company, but my courier unconsciously furnished entertainment for Coonskin and myself. He had such an absurd dialect--he said he had learned it in an eastern factory where Irish, Germans, and Swedes, and other nationalities were employed--and his gullibility was a constant challenge for practical jokes. One day at supper, an idea of putting up a game on Barley came to mind. "It's a pity we haven't blue beetle sauce for our quail, Coonskin," I said, giving my valet a sly wink, and he, suspecting I had some joke in mind, took up the argument. "You bet," was his response. "Seen hundreds of beetles to-day." Barley eyed Coonskin, then me, and satisfied that we were serious, queried, "Do yuse mean wese kin make sauce of de blue beetles what wese see in de road?" "Why," I said, as with astonishment, "haven't you ever heard of it before? Man, they pay a steep price for blue beetles at Delmonico's. Only the wealthy enjoy such a luxury." "The dandiest stuff I ever et on broiled birds of any kind," seconded my valet cleverly. The repast over, my courier was convinced of the surpassing virtues of blue-beetle sauce. Next day the bettles came out thicker than ever. With enthusiasm, I dismounted, and began to fill my emptied purse with the insects, and Coonskin followed suit by filling a handkerchief, exclaiming: "By the very old Ned! Gather 'em all; we'll have a treat for the gods." Up to this, Barley kept on his wheel within talking distance, but now he leaped off and made a dive in the dust with his hat, as if he had trapped a butterfly. "Remember, man," I called to him, "there should be seventeen in every family; bag every one of them." "Here's fourteen Ise got, guess dey's one family, but can't see no more; besides my handkerchief's full. Has yus got a sock yuse kin lend me?" I said I had, and then he came to get the sock. His trousers pockets were filled with the strong smelling beetles. Suddenly, he dived for a whole entomological tribe almost under Mac's feet; had the donkey not leaped over him, we all would have been hurt. We lunched in a small village where I purchased peppermint oil for flavoring the sauce. That night, I made a concoction that would only satisfy a Siwash appetite. We had bagged two dozen quail and doves, so we had plenty of game, and an abundance of beetles; the next thing in order was a heap of fun. After frying our potatoes, gun oil, peppermint oil, pink tooth-powder, butter milk, lemon juice, and beetles were stirred in the frying pan, and when it began to sizzle and steam, Barley was put in charge and cautioned to keep stirring it. I thought, when he looked at the repelling mess and inhaled a little of those bug aromas, he would smell the joke, but he didn't. He kept on stirring, and smacked his lips, and finally said that it looked done. I decided to bring the joke to an end. Going to the fence ostensibly to tie more securely the donkeys, Coonskin loosened Damfino's rope while I seated myself at our table, and called, "Supper is ready." At once that grinning youth chased the freed donkey plumb into our fire, and so surprised was my courier that he never knew whether Damfino or Coonskin kicked over the pan, and robbed us of the rarest delicacy on record. I stormed about like a madman, and blamed both attendants, then went at the hot broiled birds inwardly delighted with the success of the joke. Barley never was the wiser. The following day, several times, he told me we were passing lots of beetles, but he wasn't going to spend his time catching them to be wasted. Something followed the game supper which more fully explains my courier's displeasure. By oversight, one of the socks of bugs was left untied; the result was, beetles ran the tent all night. Barley claimed he found a beetle in his windpipe. Coonskin spent the night lighting matches and hunting the pests. I myself smothered a score of more in my pillow. That experience closed my calendar for practical jokes. On to Lincoln was now the watchword. While still five or six miles from the city, a donkey and cart hove in sight, both gayly decorated with flags and bunting. The driver said he had been sent from Lincoln by a prominent citizen to escort me and my party into the city. Barley had been busy stirring up the populace, so when I rode majestically up to the leading hotel on Mac A'Rony, I found a crowd of representative citizens there to give me a befitting greeting. As soon as my donkeys were anchored, a tall, fat, jovial member of the medical profession, advancing with outstretched hand, welcomed me to the city. "Mr. Pod," said he, smiling all over, "I'm Dr. E---- and am at your service. I shall take pleasure in doing what I can to make your sojourn a pleasant memory." The first thing the Doctor did was to take me to the Executive Mansion. We found the Governor absent, but easily traced him to a local sanitarium, where my escort found him on a couch, wrapped in swaddling clothes, apparently secure from all intruders but the genial Doctor himself. He had just finished a Turkish bath, but he sent the Doctor for me at once. "We meet under difficulties," was his Excellency's smiling greeting. "I'm trying to knock out an attack of rheumatism." "True enough," I acknowledged, extending my hand, "both of us are flat on our backs." Gov. Holcomb then wrote some hieroglyphics in my autograph album, and expressed the hope that I would not find it as hot on the desert as I did in that room. Our next stop was at a soda fountain. Then we visited a leading clothier--where I procured a contract to direct, with Mac's assistance, the public's attention to alluring bargains in its show-windows. For this I received a five dollar note. My first evening in town was pleasantly spent in the company of Mrs. Bryan, who, on learning that I was in town, invited me to call. I remained in the last evening to rest, while Coonskin and Barley took a trip to Burlington Beach, a famous local watering place. "Wese taught, yuse see," said my little courier, in the morning, "dat it was something like Coney Island; so it's bein' only ten cents round trip dare, wese takes de trolley an' goes down. "Well, yuse oughter seen de place. Before wese gets dare it begins to smell--why, Coney Island ain't in it fer smells. Den wese gets off de cars and shuffles our feet across a long wooden bridge over on to a island, where dare was a dance hall and lots of girls of all kinds and canal boats, and dongolas, and drinks, and beers--talk of beers!--say, wese had a tank dat high fer a nickel. Yuse see, de beach is on a island in a counterfeit lake, made of salt wells and sand, but day ain't no oysters, ner clams, ner crabs, day's nothin' but bad smells--but say, yuse oughter seen de lobsters crawlin' round wid dere sweethearts on dere arms! Say, dem peoples t'ought dey was havin' a big time. Gee, I wished day could see once Coney Island!" We had not journeyed far beyond Lincoln Park before we approached the State Asylum for the Acute Insane. From the beginning of my pilgrimage, I had kept a sharp lookout for Insane Asylums, always passing them after dark, but Mac argued that the public had by this time found me harmless, and advised me to call. So I did. "A patient has arrived," some one called to an attendant. I was startled, but soon recovered my equilibrium, when I observed several doctors and nurses rush out of doors to a carriage at the porch. The lunatic having been safely deposited in one of the wards, the Superintendent then welcomed me, and persuaded me to accept his invitation to visit and inspect the institution. There was only one department that interested me. I had no sooner entered the kitchen than my omnivorous eye caught the pie-ocine stratum of a well-developed pie, and my curiosity led me to inquire if it were made by a lunatic. "Why, most certainly, Professor!" exclaimed the Superintendent. "What's the matter with it?" "As far as appearances go, I think it's all right--doesn't look different from any other pie I've seen and eaten. Shouldn't think a crazy man could make a decent pie, though; did he do it all alone, without anybody watching him?" "Oh no, we employ a sane cook to supervise the cooking," explained the officer, much to my satisfaction. "Will you have a piece?" he asked. "Y-y-y-y-yes," I said incredulously, "if you are sure there is no danger of insanity being transferred to me by such a delectable agency." The head cook then butchered the great pie into quarters, and the Superintendent said, "Help yourself, boys." I gathered up the juicy quarter, and saying, "My good sir, you have heard of dog eat dog, you shall now witness Pye eat pie." I proceeded to devour it. I couldn't recollect ever having eaten better pie; I was almost prompted to ask the cook to slaughter another, but, instead, carried the remaining quarter out to Mac A'Rony. When we had left the asylum, I could not help but remark the scrutiny with which each man regarded the other. At length we went into camp near a farm house, where we certainly acquitted ourselves in a manner to arouse the suspicions of any sane observer. We put our sleeping-bag on the ground outside of the tent, built a fire close to the tent on the windward side while a strong breeze was blowing, cooked creamed potatoes in the coffee pot, and steeped tea in the frying pan; and Coonskin tied all three donkeys and the dog to a small sapling by their tails. I felt sure that insanity was breaking out in our party in an aggravated form, and congratulated Cheese, Damfino and Don for not having eaten infected pie. Camp Lunatic, as we called it was visited by the owner of the farm, a hospitable German, who had a large family. He gave us a generous donation of corn-cobs for fuel, milk, butter, fresh eggs, and water, then introduced his wife and children. I asked him how he came to have such a large family. He explained that he had a large farm and couldn't afford hired help, and he thought the best way to remedy the difficulty was to rear boys to help him. He looked hopeful, although he had eight girls, no boys. Supper over, the farmer conferred on me every possible honor, even letting me hold his youngest girl, a child of ten months. He said, enthusiastically, he was going to name his boy after me; the wife smiled heroically. To cap the climax, I was asked to write my name in the big family Bible. The book was in German. My host opened it to a blank page, and, without comment, I inscribed my name underneath the strangely printed heading--Gestorben, thus pleasing the whole family. When we reached our tent, Barley began to find fault with me. "What for did yuse want to write your name on de Gestorben page?" he asked seriously. "Dat means bad luck, dat does." "And why?" I inquired, puzzled. "Gestorben is German and means death, yuse crazy loon!" he returned. "It's de lunatic pie dat's workin' already; wese all goin' crazy." Next day was hot. In the afternoon my party rested three hours in the shade of a peach orchard, where we were treated to ice cream by the kind lady of the house close by. It was about 105 miles from Lincoln to Hastings, and we covered it in five days. Threading the villages of Exeter, Crete, Friend, and Dorchester, we arrived in Grafton, where I caught my courier in a dishonest trick, and discharged him. The party reached Hastings Thursday, June 17, where I purchased a saddle for Coonskin. Detained by a thunderstorm, we passed a miserable night in close quarters. Next morning, Mac pranced about like a circus donkey, and trailed to Kearney in a manner almost to wind his fellows. Before leaving Hastings, the Superintendent of the Asylum for the Chronic Insane, three miles out of town, telephoned me to stop and dine with him. On this occasion I rode into the asylum grounds without hesitation or nervousness. "You must earn your grub, according to contract, Professor," said the Superintendent, when the greetings were over, pointing to a wood-pile in the rear of the building. As soon as I fairly began to comply with the suggestion his young lady secretary, the daughter of a deceased and much esteemed congressman, trained a camera on me and the axe and secured a picture. I was then notified I had more than earned my dinner, and was escorted into the family dining-room, where an enjoyable repast was accorded me, after which, some twenty wardens and matrons purchased photos at double price. Then I resumed the journey with more heartfelt blessings than had been expressed to me on similar occasions. The trail was superb. But an intensely hot spell followed, and made all of us perspire. Two days of hard travel brought us to the old Government Reservation of Ft. Kearney, established by Gen. Fremont on his historic overland trip to California in pioneer days. The fort has long since been abandoned. There the Mormons camped for a short period after leaving Council Bluffs. Next evening, I made my camp on the site of the notorious Dirty Woman's Ranch of early days, and spent a Sunday in delightful rest and recreation in the shade of the grove of wide-spreading elms and cotton-woods that sighed mournfully over the deserted scene. [Illustration: "_Trail through the timber._"] [Illustration: "_He had caught a nice mess._"] [Illustration: "_Climbing Pike's Peak._"] We crossed the long, low bridge over the Platte, early in the morning. It required nearly an hour and all our wits and energies to get the donkeys across, even after blindfolding them. And when my party ambled into Kearney, that sultry, dusty June day, grimy with dirt and perspiring, we all were in ripe condition for a swim. The little city looked to be about the size of Hastings, but did not show the same enterprise and thrift. In fact, the inhabitants ventured out in the broiling sun with an excusable lack of animation, and seemer to show no more interest in their local affairs than they did in Pye Pod's pilgrimage. It was here I first saw worn the Japanese straw helmet. It served as a most comfortable and effective sun-shade, and purchasing a couple, we donned them at once. Kearney is said to be the half-way point, by rail, between New York and San Francisco. My diary, however, showed I had covered fully two thousand miles of my overland journey; I had consumed 227 days, with only one hundred and thirty-four days left me, the prospects of accomplishing the "feat" in schedule time looked dubious enough. The great Watson Ranch, when my donkey party arrived, was experiencing its busiest season. But, while the male representatives were in the fields, the good matron in charge of the house made us welcome and treated us to cheering bowls of bread and milk. When Mr. Watson, Jr., arrived, he showed us about the place and enlightened me about alfalfa, of which he had over a thousand acres sown; fifty hired hands were busy harvesting it. For a week or two we had, for the most part, been trailing through the perfumed prairies at an invigorating altitude ranging from two thousand to nearly three thousand feet, inhaling the fresh, pure air, gazing on the flower-carpeted earth, and enjoying a constant shifting of panoramic scenes of browsing herds, and bevies of birds, and occasional glimpses of the winding Platte and the sand dunes beyond. The cities and villages, that formed knots in the thread of our travels on the plains, came into view like the incoming ships from the sea. At first one spied a white church-steeple in the distance like a pointed stake in the earth only a mile away, but soon the chimneys and roofs and finally door-yard fences would come into view, then what we thought a village, nearby, proved to be, as we journeyed onward, a town of much greater size seven or eight miles beyond the point of calculation. The crossbars on the telegraph poles, along the straight and level tracks of the Union Pacific, formed in the eye's dim perspective a needle, as they seemed to meet with the rails on the horizon. Little bunches of trees, scattered miles apart and then overtopped by the spinning wheel of an air motor, indicated the site of a ranch-house where we might procure water. The trail ahead became lost in a sea of flowers and grasses. From time to time, as I dismounted to ease myself and little steed I picked from the stirrups a half dozen kinds of flowers, ensnared as my feet brushed through the grasses. Great beds of blood-red marshmallows; natural parterres of the wax-like blooms of the prickly pear; scattering stems of the flowery thistle with white corollas as large as tulips; and wild roses and daisies of all shades and colors--the white and pink, and the white wild roses being the first I ever saw; these with varicolored flowers of all descriptions were woven into the prairie grasses and likened the far-reaching plain to a great Wilton carpet enrolled from the mesa to the river. Some of the sunsets were gorgeous. At times, the western sky glowed like a prairie fire; and the sunrises were not less magnificent. Sometimes, we were overtaken by severe electric storms, and obliged to pitch the tent in a hurry. When the lightning illuminates the plains at night, the trees and the distant towns are brought into fantastic relief against the darkness, like the shifting pictures of a stereopticon. A flash of lightning to the right reveals a church or school-house, to the left, a bunch of cattle chewing the cud or grazing, ahead of us, a ranch house, and, sometimes, to the rear, a pack of cowardly coyotes, at a safe distance, either following my caravan, or out on a forage hunt. Often, as the trains swept by, the engineers would salute with a deafening blast of whistles, frightening the donkeys and entertaining the passengers. Some of the prairie towns which look large on the map have entirely disappeared. In one case, I found more dead citizens in the cemetery than live ones in the village. Frequently, as a means of diversion, I left the saddle to visit these white-chimney villages of the dead. Such might be considered a grave sort of amusement, but really some of the gravestones contained interesting epitaphs. In one instance the following caught my eye: "God saw best from us to sever Darling Michael, whom we love; He has gone from us forever, To the happy realms above." Imagine the shock to my sobered senses on reading these lines cut on a white-washed wooden slab, close by: "Here lays Ezekiel Dolder, Who died from a jolt in the shoulder; He tried to shoot snipe While lighting his pipe, And now underneath his bones moulder." Just below the heartrending epitaph appeared in bold letters the satisfactory statement--"This monument is pade fer." On the lonely plains, miles from habitation, a single grave fenced in with barbed wire in a circular corral, I discovered a mate to the preceding epitaph, which illustrates the utter abandon with which the rugged, dashing "bronco buster" regards the perils of riding a bucking wild horse. "Here is buried my bronco, Ah Sam, Beside me--I don't give a damn! While bucking he killed me; On this spot he spilled me, And now the devil's I am." Sometime before parting with my courier, unknown to him we pitched camp one dark night in a graveyard. Barley was an early riser, and, as we know, as superstitious as he was gullible. He was the first out of the tent at dawn. Suddenly he rushed back, exclaiming: "De Resurrection has came, fellows, an' wese de first livin' on earth agin." And with terror in his eyes and voice, dragged Coonskin and me to see a strange sight indeed. There, some forty feet from the tent, stood a towering crucifix with a figure of the Saviour, life size, looking down upon us, while about us were tablets and mounds: the scene was so still and solemn no wonder that my awestricken courier thought the world had come to an end. On the 24th of June, after a hot and dusty trail across an arid waste, where only occasional patches of buffalo grass and cacti matted the earth in the place of the long prairie grass and flowers we were tramping in a few days before, my weary troop, jaded and hungry entered the little village of Overton. CHAPTER XXXI. BY MAC A'RONY. And the ass turned out of the way, and went into the field; and Balaam smote the ass, to turn her into the way.--_Book of Numbers._ Shortly after reaching Overton, I took Pod with Coonskin and Don to pay our respects to Towserville, a large dog town so closely situated to Overton as to inspire a rivalry far more serious than that existing between Minneapolis and St. Paul. Overtonians complained of repeated raids made by prairie dogs of Towserville on their chickens and gardens. On the other hand, the Towser "villians" repudiated the calumny, then fled in confusion from the charge of shotguns and rifles. As our party approached with guns trained for a complimentary salute, I saw his honor, the Mayor, seated in his hallway. The roof of his mound towered above the other habitations, and was undoubtedly the City Hall. Copying after New York, each burrow in Towserville had a representative in the City Council. I'm sure we would have been welcomed cordially, had not Don wanted to be first to shake the Mayor's paw; his honor abruptly excused himself to avoid a scene, and his fellow townsdogs likewise, with the result that the above dogtown population rushed in and slammed the doors in our faces. The Professor was embarrassed. He had no visiting cards, so decided to leave at each door a sample box of cathartic pills; and a careful distribution was made. Next morning as we passed Towserville, his dogcellency, the Mayor, his alderdogs and towndogs looked regretful of their slight to us, as each stood at his door or sat with his housekeeper, the owl, on the roof of his dwelling, nodding and waving at us. Others, however, were prostrate, either from remorse or Pod's magnanimity. Sometime about noon, we approached the shallow current of the Platte, where we were unpacked and fed. We donks were almost roasted from the sun's scorching rays. Close by was a deep well, but no bucket in which to draw water. So Coonskin hitched a syrup can to the rope and drew water for Pod and himself. Soon a drove of cattle, accompanied by two ranchmen and a boy, came down to the river to drink with us donks, just to show there was no hard feeling. The lad laid down to drink from the stream. "Here, boy, come and have a drink of cold water!" Pod called. "That ain't fit to drink." "Fitter'n that well water," answered the lad. Said Pod: "I'd like to know the reason." "Well," replied the lad, approaching, "I dropped a dead jackrabbit in the well a week ago." Somehow the men had drunk so much of that cool well-water they hadn't room for dinner; too cool water I guess aint' good for one when heated. After the dishes were washed, Pod took off everything but his socks and collar-button, and wrote his newspaper letter, while Coonskin went prospecting. Pretty soon the latter returned with a sand turtle and, hitching it up in a rope harness, said he was going to keep it for a pet. He named it Bill. He said it would make a fine center-piece for the table; it would keep the Buffalo gnats and mosquitos and flies off the victuals, and if tied at the tent door no centipede or tarantula would dare enter. Pod thought it a good scheme. So, when we packed up, Bill was put in one of my saddle bags, without my knowing it. All new luggage was generally tied on to Damfino; I supposed the turtle was. After going a couple miles, I felt something mysterious crawling on my back. I looked around, but my master was in the way; so I up and kicked with all my might, determined to scatter that crawling thing to the four winds, but, instead, threw Pod completely over my head. Then I ran pell-mell down the desert trail, kicking and braying, with that terrible something gnawing my hair and bouncing and flopping with every jump I made. I ran fast and thought fast, and that thing stuck fast. Suddenly, I stopped, laid down, and tried to roll on it. This I couldn't do, on account of the saddle horn. But while I was still trying, the rest of the party came up, and solved the mystery by capturing the turtle, Bill; then they chained him on Damfino, and our outfit moved on peacefully for several miles, the men talking merrily. Said Pod, "Hitting the trail on the plains in summer isn't as comfortable as driving a city ice-wagon. "Not much," Coonskin returned; "but the donkeys and dog have their woes, too." "Verily so," confirmed the Professor. "For instance, there's Damfino; she thinks she's awfully persecuted. Being a female, she doesn't have much to say. But how about Mac? Doesn't he do more kicking than all the rest put together?" "Oh, well," Coonskin answered, "you see Mac regards himself a pioneer and all the others mere tenderfeet." I couldn't help grinning at the simple debate. The fact of the case was, our caravan had been growing larger with every day's travel. New articles were continually added. Cheese and I generally carried the men; but to our saddles were hung guns, revolvers, cameras, and the lantern, not to mention a bundle of blankets; all of which, added to the burden of our thoughts, a nagging whip and a pair of spurs, and a million and one buffalo gnats, mastodon mosquitos, and other kindergarten birds of prey, tended to make us lose our mental equilibrium a dozen times a day. In my case, there was a lump of avoirdupois in the saddle ranging between 150 and 160 pounds. Sometimes Pod would get out of his seat and walk a mile or two, to relieve me. With Cheese it was much the same. But that old spinster, Damfino, bore a burden, increasing daily. She was large and strong, and couldn't appreciate fine sentiments, or fine stuffs either, even complaining of sand in the wind, and coughed and snorted continually. Her sawbuck saddle corset was laced tightly around her robust bust, and to this unhealthsome vesture were hung on both sides large canvas panniers, packed with canned goods, medicines, salves, ink, cow-bells, vegetables, ham and bacon, vinegar, old shoes, toilet articles, including currycomb, clothes, soap, flour, salt, baking-powder, cheese, coffee, tea, kerosine oil, matches, cooking tools, ammunition, folding kitchen range, and two dozen et ceteras. On top and lopping over the panniers were roped the tent and tent-poles, folding beds, canteens, musical instruments, axe, and axle-grease, five iron picket-pins, packages of photos (for sale), a tin wash basin, two tin pails, extra ropes, a half dozen paper pads, and a dozen more et ceteras. Beneath all that burden, she ambled along without a murmur, swinging her ears to help her outwalk the rest, except Don, who kept up a dog-trot. A ranchman gave Pod some new potatoes one day (half of which I yanked out of the tent door at night and devoured), and in reply to his habitual inquiry, "Where'll we stow 'em?" Coonskin said, "On Damfino, of course." When some canned goods were added to the list of poisons, my master was puzzled. "Strap 'em on Damfino," advised Coonskin. Pod bought some canteens. "Where'll we put these?" he asked. "Oh, hang 'em on Damfino somewhere," said the wise "Sancho." One day a large package of chromos came, and the Professor was discouraged. "How the d--l can we carry these?" he asked with bewilderment. "Why," ejaculated the valet chuckling, "right on Damfino." Just then that silent old maid looked at the men; and I saw blood in her eye. Picture if you can our party trailing along the banks of the Platte that bright June afternoon. A few miles away loomed the cacti-covered sand-dunes, and between them and the river stared the desert of glistening alkali, sprinkled with cacti and sage, where an occasional steer was scratching an existence--and mosquito bites. We came to a muddy irrigation ditch, where the water had leaked out. Across it was an alfalfa field, and beyond that an adobe ranch house. We donks thought the mud in the ditch was stiff; the green field looked tempting. Damfino whispered that she would make a bolt for the field, if we would follow; and we said we would. At once she shied into the ditch, and the next minute was knee-deep in quicksand, and still sinking. Cheese and I stood riveted to the trail, while the men just gaped at Damfino with open mouths. Damfino, thinking she would soon be out of sight, brayed as she never brayed before. When Pod got his senses he yelled, "Let's pull her out!" "What with? Every rope and strap's on Damfino," said the truthful valet, running around like a head with the chicken cut off. Coonskin tried to reach a rope and, losing his balance, put a foot in the quicksand. Then, all excited, he attempted to pull his foot out, and got them both in. The Professor tried to reach a bridle-rein to his comrade, and went sprawling across the ditch on his corduroys and whiskers, his arms elbow-deep in the mire. This put Don in a panic. Seeing his master sinking, he grabbed his boots and pulled them off. Then he fastened his teeth in Pod's trousers, and I expected to see them come off too, but s' help me Balaam! the dog only pulled off one trouser leg, when Coonskin managed to free himself by crawling over Pod's corduroy road to dry land, and saved the day! At once, with a bridle-rein, the valet roped the Professor's feet and pulled him out, after which both men fastened the reins to Damfino's pack and tied the other ends to the saddles of Cheese and myself. Then that she-ass, wet and gray as a rat, with her burden, was dragged out of the ditch into the trail. Well, that quicksand pulled all the bad nature out of her, and she went a long time before she was tempted to leave the trail again. The men looked grateful as they wiped the brine from their faces, and Pod remarked, "That was a narrow escape for all of us. Our donkey party came within two of going ass-under, sure." CHAPTER XXXII. BY PYE POD. It has come about that now, to many a Royal Society, the Creation of a World is little more mysterious than the cooking of a dumpling; concerning which last, indeed, there have been minds to whom the question, _How the apples_ were got in, presented difficulties.--_Sartor Resartus._ It was noon at Big Springs, the last village on the Union Pacific Railroad in Nebraska, when I sat down to write in my dairy. I had just finished a combination breakfast and dinner, warranted to kill any appetite and keep it dead for twelve hours. Consequently I wrote under great pressure. Since striking Camp Coyote, I had shot prairie dogs, owls, jack-rabbits, and gophers innumerable, but on Wednesday, June 30, I killed my first rattlesnake. It was not the first we had seen, but the first to lie in our path. I wanted to shoot it's head off, but instead of it losing its head, I lost mine, and severed its vertebræ. The snake was three feet five, and possessed eight rattles and a button. Cookskin suggested that the button might come in handy in many ways. "You know, Pod, you are always losing buttons." These dreaded reptiles abound on the plains, particularly in dogtowns, where they can dine on superfluous baby-dogs when families become too large. Three sorts of creatures, including the owl--animal, bird, and reptile--bunk together companionably, but have quarrels of their own, doubtless, like mankind in domestic affairs. At that season the South Platte was drained for irrigation in Colorado. I was riding peaceably along, watching its morbid current and the gray hills beyond, when suddenly my valet yelled to me, "Look out, Pod, a rattler ahead!" Coonskin was riding Cheese, who leaped to one side, but my own steed, blinded by his spectacle-frames, walked on and stepped over the coiled snake, which struck at my leg. Fortunately my canvas legging protected me from the reptile's fangs, which glanced off, letting him fall in the trail. Instantly I turned in my saddle and ended its miserable existence. The report of my revolver attracted some cowboys, who galloped up on their rope horses and accompanied us to their adobe house a few miles beyond. It was five in the afternoon, the day was hot, and our journey long and dusty. They were a jolly lot. Thir ranch was a square sod structure, without a floor, and sparingly furnished, but cool and comfortable. "We'll have hot biscuit for supper," said one of the cowboys. "So you like cooking," I remarked; "I pride myself on the dumplings I make, and my flapjacks are marvels of construction." "Hang together well, I suppose," observed the cook, smiling and piling buffalo chips in the stove. "I haven't tasted dumplings since I visited the World's Fair," said another. "Well," declared the first speaker, "my tenderfoot friend, your oven will soon be hot, and the flour, soda, shortening, and apples are on the shelf. Anything else you need, ask for it." I was in a bad fix; I remembered the parrot that got into trouble with the bull-terrier by talking too much. "It requires a long time to steam dumplings; it will delay supper," I protested. "We shan't turn you out, if it takes you all night, but we'll shoot the enamel off your front teeth if you don't make them apple dumplings, and do your best," said a cowboy. "All right, boys, I'll try my luck, and you can save time by helping." "Sure," all replied. "Fetch me the shortening," I called. "Right before your eyes," said one. "Blamed if I can see it," I explained. The fellow put his hands on a cake of greasy-looking substance. "That's soap," I said, remonstrating, with a chuckle. "All we use for shortening," apologized the cook; "don't see much butter or lard out on this here desert." I fell to with a will. Before long my dough was mixed. As I rolled it out with a tin can, I directed a cowboy to put in the apples and roll up the dough. Soon the dumplings were in the steamer, and the cook began to prepare other eatables for the meal. Then, my duty done, I watched two fellows throw the lariat, and shoot the fly specks off Coonskin's hat in midair. At last, five hearty eaters sat down to dinner. The cook's hot biscuits, potatoes, bacon, eggs and coffee were delicious, and I devoured them greedily. But in the middle of our repast I turned my head in time to detect the cook meddling with the dumplings. "Shouldn't take off the cover till they're done," I shouted; "makes 'em heavy." "Didn't take it off--lifted itself off," explained the man, regarding me first, then the steamer. "Man alive, the dumplings are as big as cabbages." "And 'tain't more'n likely they've got their growth yet," said Coonskin, who examined the wonders. "Gracious!" I exclaimed. "How many apples did you cram into each dumpling?" "Only fifteen or twenty," the cook returned; "awfully small, you know." "That explains the size of them," said I. "You've got a half dozen whole apples in each dumpling, and a peck or more in the steamer. Don't you know dried fruit swells?" "But how am I to keep the lid on the steamer," asked the hungry cook, wistfully eying the disappearing meal. "Sit on it, you crazy loon," suggested a companion. And the fellow did. Presently there was a deafening report, and the cook was lifted off the steamer, while dumplings flew in every direction, striking the ceiling, and then, from heaviness, dropping on the floor. One broke my plate into a dozen pieces. Another hot and saucy dumpling shot through the bursted side of the steamer, hitting one of the cowboys in the eye. "Just my luck," I said; "they would have been as light as a feather." "Light!" exclaimed the injured fellow with a handkerchief against his scalded optic. "It was the heaviest thing that ever hit me, let me tell you, and I've been punching cattle seven years." When the excitement was over, and we had found sufficient grub to complete our meal, all assembled in the cool outer air, where Coonskin and I entertained with our musical instruments until bedtime. Next morning, on my suggestion, a cowboy threw his lariat round my body good-naturedly and pulled me over, but before I could right myself Don took three bounds and pulled the fellow down by the shoulder, frightening one and all. I shouted so loudly to the dog that I was hoarse for a week. That demonstration of Don's loyalty was a revelation to me. The man was not injured, although his coat was torn. The lack of energy and enterprise of the town of the western plains was both surprising and amusing. I expected a package of photos at Willow Island. When I called for it I was informed that the railroad station had burned a few months before, and that their express stopped at Cozad, which I had passed through. So I wrote to have the package forwarded to a station farther west. Gothenburg, the next town, was in a decline, the reaction of a boom. A traveler approaching it expects to find a business center. Many stores and dwellings were of brick, but whole rows were vacant at the time. The soothing melody of the squalling infant was only a memory to the village druggist; the itinerant butcher and milkman had ceased their daily rounds; and all that was left to distinguish the half-deserted village from the desert was an occasional swallow that went down the parched mouth of a chimney. There is another town characteristic of the plains. I had a letter to post at Paxton, but forgot it; some miles beyond, a ranchman whom we met said I would find a post-office at Korty, five miles further on. After traveling two hours, we could see no vestige of a village anywhere. Don ran ahead to the top of every sand hill and stood on his hind feet to have the first peep at the mysterious town. I came to the conclusion the ranchman had said twenty-five miles instead of five. Finally the trail approached the railroad. "I see the town of Korty!" my valet exclaimed. "Where?" I asked. "There. Plain as day. Can't you see it?" he asked, pointing straight ahead. "I must confess I can't," I replied. "Let me look over your finger." Then I saw it. It wasn't one hundred feet away. A single white-painted post stood beside the track, and on it was nailed a cross-bar, lettered in bold type, "Korty;" underneath was a letter-box. That was the town. There was no section house, no water tank, no break in the wire fence, and there being, of course, no general delivery window in the "post-office," I did not ask for my mail. On the way to North Platte, we passed the site of old Ft. McPherson, where Buffalo Bill, the celebrated scout, once lived and won his fame and title by providing buffalo meat for the Government, and also the site of a notorious Pawnee village, now called Pawnee Springs. We reached North Platte, situated at the confluence of the North and South Platte rivers, which form the great River Platte, Saturday afternoon, and spent Sunday in a manner to meet the approval of the most pious. That first evening I lectured from a large dry-goods box on a prominent corner. Sunday afternoon an old friend and classmate drove me into the country to the famous "Scout's Rest Ranch," the estate of Mr. Cody (Buffalo Bill), where I saw a herd of buffalo and a cornfield of 500 acres. "There is quite a contrast between your cornfield and mine," I said to the manager. "How big a cornfield have you?" "Just a small one," I replied. "One acher on each big toe." "I see, only sufficient for your own use," came the response; "your 'stock in' trade, as it were." Then the ranchman purchased a photo, and we two grown-up school boys drove back to town, in time to escape a thunder shower. The country between North Platte and Julesburg is a desolate and barren region. Occasionally we could see a ranch house, sometimes cattle grazing on I knew not what. There was plenty of alkali grass in the bottom lands of the Platte, and further back on the mesa, patches of the short and nutritious buffalo grass, half seared by the scorching sun. The railway stations, with one or two exceptions, consisted of water tanks and section houses, where water could be procured. At Ogalala we met a train-load of Christian Endeavorers, and had a chance to quench our thirst. CHAPTER XXXIII. BY MAC A'RONY. What a thrice double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool! --_Tempest._ Where and how to celebrate the Fourth of July greatly concerned Pye Pod. The third was spent in Julesburg, a town in Colorado, two miles west of the boundary line; as Sunday was the Fourth, we naturally expected a lively programme for Saturday. We were disappointed. Everybody had gone off on an excursion, and Julesburg was dead. So my master, realizing the long journey before us, inquired as to the possibility of obtaining an extra donkey, and was told of one, some six miles from town. He rode in a buggy to a ranch right after lunch and brought back the prettiest damsel I ever saw. Her name was Skates; Pod said he so named her because she ran all the way and beat his pride-broken, wind-broken horse into town. I gave Skates a loving smile, but she gave me a look, which said, "Keep your distance, young feller." So I did. But I lost my heart to that girl then and there. Pod noticed my leaning toward Skates, and asked me my intentions. I frankly told him. "But what nonsense for a youth of four years," he remarked. "Mac, be patient; wait until you are of age, at least." Time was precious, and we could not tarry. That afternoon we set out for Sterling, sixty miles into the desert, where, it was said, there would be a big time on the fifth. Monday dawned cloudy and threatening, as is usual with celebration days. The tent door was open, and Skates and I were looking in, I waiting for a chance to pull a bag of eatables out of the tent for her. "What is your programme for to-day?" Pod asked his valet. No answer. The question was repeated; still no response. Then my master turned drowsily on his pillow, and beheld Coonskin with bloodshot eyes and the only whiskey bottle clasped lovingly to his breast. The valet wanted to say something, but his lips refused to speak. It was evident that his celebration had begun the night before. Pod sat up and rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming, and then asked the fellow why he drank all the emergency whiskey. "R-r-r-r-r-r-r-rat-schnake bite-bite-bited me--d--drank whisky t'shave life," stammered the youth. "H-h-h-hic-have shome, Prof." Pod looked mad. He up and dressed, and mixed soda and water and lemon juice, and made Coonskin drink it. Soon the tipsy fellow tried to dress, but finally gave it up and went to sleep. Two hours later he awoke quite sober, and came out to where Pod was currying me for the celebration, and showed him his programme. I haven't space to give it in full. One feature was an obstacle race, the prize for the winner being a quart bottle of snake-bit (whiskey). Coonskin said, as his excuse for drinking the whiskey, that he was certain of winning the race, but afraid the bottle might be broken before the event. Pod thought that reasonable enough, and forgave him; but he told me confidentially that he didn't know what he should do if he were bitten by a rattlesnake without whiskey at hand. I suggested, in such event, he should point a revolver at Coonskin's garret, where his brains ought to have been, and make him suck out the poison. The obstacle race began at eleven in the morning. The start was made from the tent door; the course and conditions were as follows: Run to the fifth fence-post down the trail, alongside the railroad track; crawl through the barbed-wire fence four times between different posts on the way back to the tent, without tearing clothes; creep through the legs of the little portable table (purchased in Julesburg) without rolling off an egg resting on it; run a hundred yards and unpicket one of the donkeys and ride it round the tent three times with a spoon in hand, holding an egg; ride the donk back to his picket-pin and crawl between its hind legs without disturbing the animal's equilibrium; stand in the tent door and shoot some hair off one of the donkey's tails without touching the tail proper; then lead that donkey to the tent and hitch him to the turtle, Bill. Cheating, if detected, forfeited the prize. Well, while there were two starters, there was only one finisher. It seems that Coonskin shot a piece off Cheese's tail (improper, the donk said), and, in consequence, man and donk disappeared over the horizon, without leaving their future address or the date for their return. Coonskin rode Cheese into camp after dark. Then he rubbed axle-grease on Cheese's sensitive part, and prepared the delayed dinner. Next came fire-works--Roman candles, firecrackers, and pin-wheels--after which both men retired, fancying they had the jolliest Fourth ever witnessed by man or donkey in the history of the Colorado desert. CHAPTER XXXIV. BY PYE POD. Sancho Panza hastened to his master's help as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up he found the knight unable to stir, such a shock had Rosinante given him in the fall.--_Don Quixote._ The casualty, which terminated our celebration on the fifth, seemed to portend bad luck. The metaphorical lightning first struck me. We struck camp, that hot July day, before the sun was an hour high, and a mile beyond trailed through a dog-town reservation. I had long been desirous of securing a prairie dog to have mounted; as a rule one can pick off these shy creatures only at long rifle range. This morning, stealing up behind a cornfield, I wounded a dog, then dropping my gun, ran to catch him before he could escape into his hole. Crawling through a barbed-wire fence without afterward appearing in dishabille is considered by a tenderfoot the feat of feats. Before I reached the hole half undressed the dog had tumbled into it. He must have made a mistake, however, for out the fellow came, and made for another hole. I grabbed him, but instantly dropped him, for he tried to bite me. Then, like a shot, he dived into the second hole, and I thrust my arm in to pull him out. But my hand came out quite as fast as it went in. It was bitten; and at the mouth of the hole I now detected for the first time the tail of a rattlesnake. That was an awful moment, What should I do? My whiskey was gone; I had no antidote for the poison. I rushed to where Coonskin was waiting with my outfit. "Make for the house!" he exclaimed. A ranch house stood some two miles away, but not a soul was in sight. Still, that seemed to be my only salvation; I realized a painful death was the only alternative. With a hundred other thoughts rushing into my head, I ran toward the distant house. Coonskin began picketing the donkeys, and promised to follow. While racing madly through the cacti and sage, I thought of my past, from three months upward. Just when I had reached an episode, which almost ended my reckless career at the age of ten, I heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and, a moment later, a young woman reined her steed at my side, dismounted and gave me her horse. "Into the saddle, quick, man!" she cried. "Mother has turpentine and whiskey. The horse will take the fence and ditch. Pull leather, stick to the saddle, never mind the stirrups!" and to the horse--"Git home, Topsy!--Run for your life, old girl!" Like a flash, the big mare sped forward with the velocity of the wind. To pull leather, in the parlance of the cowboy, means to grip the saddle with the hands. For a cow-puncher to pull leather is deemed disgraceful; for Pod, it was excusable. Although the mare fairly flew, she did not travel half fast enough to suit me. With reins round the saddle-horn, I gripped the saddle with my left hand and sucked the bite on my right, but suddenly the mare took a hop-skip-and-jump over the fence and ditch; fell to her knees, and threw me over her head. When I sat up, I saw a woman in the door of the house, yet a half mile away, no doubt, wondering how a maniac happened to be on her daughter's steed. The next moment, Coonskin arived all out of breath, and assisted me to the house. Before we could fully explain the situation, the good woman disappeared, soon to return with a bottle of turpentine, which she turned nozzle down over the snake bite, while my valet poured whiskey down my throat. They say it takes a long time and much whiskey to affect one bitten by a rattler, but this case seemed to be an exception; in a few moments, my head was going round, and I prostrate on a couch. My kind nurse looked curiously at the turpentine, and finally said it was queer it didn't turn green, as it should in the case of a rattle-snake bite. A half hour passed and still there was no change. Then when I repeated my story of how the thing happened, she grinned, and said she guessed it was the prairie dog and not the snake that bit me, after all. I was so dead drunk when the daughter came that she glanced at me and asked in a whisper, "Is he dead?" "No," said the mother, "and he ain't going to die. We've been trying to cure dog bite with 'snake bit', and I reckon it'll take a week or more to sober the man up." Then the daughter began to get a meal, and Coonskin went after my outfit, on the good woman's suggestion, to fetch my animals to the corral. It was not until morning that I was fit to sit my saddle; but I made the effort, and after thanking my hostesses and insisting on paying for the turpentine, we said good-bye. Mid-day travel, in the Colorado desert at that season, was enervating in the extreme. Our straw helmets, being supported by a skeleton crown, allowed a free circulation of air over and about the head; also a free circulation of buffalo gnats, blue flies, mosquitos, flying ants, grasshoppers, and everything else that hadn't an excuse for living. Everything seemed to be free in that country. The sunrays beat down mercilessly on the sandy plain, and every live thing seemed to be in search of shade or water. Once, while crossing the dry and cracked bed of a stream, I saw a rabbit, almost dying of thirst, and I put an end to its agony with my six-shooter. In the narrow bars of shade cast by the fence posts along the railroad, could be seen occasional birds, standing on the hot sand, immovable, with bills wide open, panting from the excessive heat. We reached Sterling late that night, after a twenty-eight mile journey. The town looked dull. Everybody complained of the hottest weather for years. It occurred to me that an awning would add greatly to our comfort, so I bought the canvas, and had one made. Henceforth we would travel at night, and sleep as much as possible in the day beneath the awning. I also purchased a light folding chair, which, with our table and stove, could easily be carried on Skates, the new donkey. We pitched camp eight miles from town, near a sod house and well. On the way the donkeys became obstreperous, and before they were under control, our only lantern was smashed. This stroke of bad luck was the forerunner of other misfortunes. As I fell on my hard bed, expecting to have a delightful rest, I voiced a righteous yell of pain, and leaped out of doors. I was a fair imitation of a porcupine. Coonskin had carelessly pitched the tent on a bed of cacti. The astonished fellow made profuse apologies, and set to the task of picking the cactus spears out of me by the flare of lighted matches. But for a week I suffered the sensations of sleeping on pins and needles. The turtle, Bill, deserves some notice. He was put in the center of a table at meal time to catch flies, but all that stupid turtle did was to scrape them off his head by drawing it under his shell. He disdained the carnivorous diet. Millions of insects swarmed about the table, where before only thousands had gathered, attracted, doubtless, by Bill. They literally covered our food and all we could safely eat was flapjacks. Holding a fork against the mouth, we could with lips and tongue draw a flapjack in through the tines, by which delicate operation all flies and other insects were scraped off; and in course of time a fairly good meal was conveyed to our stomachs. Of course, one's success depended upon the strength of the flapjacks. Most of them stood the strain. The afternoon of July 11, we saw Long's Peak, the first spur of the Rocky Mountains, in view. The following evening we rode into Fort Morgan. Journeying on, to escape the heat of the day, we came at midnight to where several trails crossed, and were puzzled which to take. "Put the responsibility on the donkeys," I finally suggested. "They've great instinct." "Good idea," commented my valet; "I've often heard of horses taking lost hunters out of the woods." So giving the word, my caravan resumed the march in the darkness, and went into camp about four in the morning. When I arose about noon, I was surprised to find ourselves on the outskirts of a village. I called Coonskin, with a feeling of suspicion dawning in my mind. "The blasted town looks familiar," said my valet. About that time a cowboy rode up, and I asked him the name of the town. "Fort Morgan," he answered. "Have you fellows lost anything?" Coonskin and I eyed each other, then both gazed thoughtfully at the jackasses. I was provoked about the loss of that night's journey; to think of our following our donkey's ears round an imaginary race-course in the desert, some twenty odd miles, was not conducive to a good temper. Many well-meaning persons had advised me to carry a compass. Some day, some night, they said, I would stray from the trail. I resolved to purchase such an instrument immediately on reaching Denver. We spent the afternoon enjoying the luxuries of our new awning and camp chairs; I writing my article for the press, Coonskin reading a thrilling dime novel. "This is life," remarked my napping valet, as he rolled over on his pillow. "You bet," I replied; "we know who we are." "I suppose there are lots of folks who don't know, Prof," he returned; "but they'll find out before we reach 'Frisco." "But Coonskin," I asked, looking up from my writing, "do you know where we are?" I had no sooner put the question than a whirlwind swept down upon the camp and scattered everything broadcast. Tent, awning, table, chairs, ink and writing pad, packing cases, and articles of all kinds, not to mention dog, donkeys, and men chased each other over the cacti and sand; the tent half inflated, rolled over in the scudding wind like a balloon. "No, I don't," said Coonskin, gaining a sitting posture a rod from where I stood on my head, some hundred yards from our original camp. "What are you talking about?--are you wandering?" I asked. "I think the whole shooting-match has been wandering some," said he, picking the sand out of his eyes. It was long before we collected our belongings. I never found my letter for the press. Just before sunset we took up the march across the broad, rolling plains, which grew tiresome to look upon before darkness set in. But occasionally a hand-car with its sloop-rigged sails set to the wind would speed over the rails in the distance, like a cat-boat before a gale, and break the monotony of the scene. This mode of travel appears to be characteristic of the Western plains alone. We saw innumerable buffalo wallows, great depressions in the sand where the vast herds of buffalo in the early days wallowed in the cool earth for salt, and to escape the heat and pestering gnats. In most cases these "wallows" are covered with cacti and other desert verdure, and are apt to upset the unwary traveler after dark, unless he keeps to the beaten trail. At a little before sunset we arrived at the great D. Horse Ranch, where we watered our animals and accepted the ranchman's invitation to supper. CHAPTER XXXV. BY MAC A'RONY. That is the idea; for Juliet's a dear, sweet, mere child of a girl, you know, and she don't bray like a jackass.--_Huckleberry Finn._ We did not tarry at the D. Horse Ranch, but later on pitched camp near a sheep ranch run by a Mexican, who met us with a grunt that nobody understood. "Gee! how I wish I could speak Spanish!" remarked Pod, facing the squatty ranchman. It was comical to watch Coonskin's puzzled face. "I once studied Spanish, but why didn't I master it! Just two words can I remember: "porque"--why, and "manana"--to-morrow. But how can they help me? To utter them would be to ask, why to-morrow? And there would be no sense in that." "But it might convey the idea," I interrupted, "that either you know more than you looked to know, or appeared to know more than you do know; and that would be something." My master did not answer, but when the Mexican came around again, he said to him, "Porque manana?" The Mexican laughed--who could blame him--and said something about Espanola, a young lady I never heard tell of, and invited us all to the corral, except the men, who followed him to the house. Nothing like Mexican hospitality when one understands the language as Pod did. At first the Mexican did not comprehend that we all were thirsty. The Professor asked for a drink in many varieties of expression, concluding with a desperate "Porque Manana?" at the same time pointing to the well. The Mexican grinned, and replied in a peculiar vernacular, and handed him a huge tin cup. Pod next inquired the right trail to Brighton in many artistic demonstrations of verbal inflection and gesticular design, and wound up with a heroic "Porque Manana." The mystified sheep herder shook his head quizzically, and began to pour out a whole tubful of liquid linguistics which my pedantic master drained to the dregs without discovering their meaning; then he shook hands with the gracious host and gave the word to "hit the trail." "Mighty lucky you understood Spanish, Mr. Pod," Coonskin remarked, when we were some distance from the house. "I'd give a farm to speak it like you." That tickled Pod's vanity, and he told his flattering valet that Spanish could not be learned in a day, but perhaps sometime he would give him a few lessons, just to prepare him for an emergency. That night we donks were picketed to a rickety, barbed-wire fence, and the men pitched the tent close by, cooked, and went to bed early. Seldom had been so much care taken to prevent my getting wound up in the rope so I couldn't eat or lie down. In the morning there was a surprise for everybody. S' help me Balaam! if there wasn't a circus, then I never saw one. We donks were completely tangled in the dismantled wire fence, and cutting up capers to beat a side-show. I kept my eye peeled on the tent door for an hour. Finally Pod came out, took in the situation at a glance, and then sat down on a cactus, for less than a fraction of a second, to laugh. I was proud of the rôle I played in that matinée. There I was, with a fence post wired to each of my legs, which raised my feet off the ground, walking about on veritable stilts, and close behind me followed Cheese and Skates with a post yoking their necks together, like oxen, while Damfino was rolling over and over, unmindful of the cacti, as if our extraordinary sport were for her special entertainment. We were quiet, until Cheese suddenly opened his mouth and brayed with glee. I told him to shut up. Says I, "Pod will think we got in this fix on purpose, and give us Hail Columbia." Pod looked worried. He said he wondered how they could dismount that giraffe--meaning me, no doubt--without breaking his legs. I didn't feel comfortable so far above the earth, the atmosphere was chilly, and the rarified air made me dizzy; but that remark frightened me. The trick was, at last, accomplished. Coonskin held my fore-stilts, while Pod braced his feet, and with a violent push threw me over on my side on a pile of blankets and pillows. Well, let me tell you, my donkey friends, it required two hours to free us from the fence-posts and wire. After that, both men busied themselves like Red Cross Nurses. (Skates said they were cross nurses of some sort), and bandaged up our cuts and scratches, then, after breakfast, they saddled and packed us for the day's journey. I never want another experience like that. On Thursday night, I think (I ate up Pod's only calendar), we again wandered from the trail, and about two o'clock camped near a cottonwood tree which seemed to indicate we were near water. Although I was awfully dry, I had to wait till morning. It was pleasant to be lulled to sleep by the rustling of leaves (and it was consoling to know something besides us donks had to rustle), yet there we were in the boundless desert. Don's barking awoke us early. A ranchman rode up and said we would find plenty of water yonder at the well, the only water for many miles around; then he rode away. There was one long row of cottonwood trees hundreds of feet apart, stretching for a mile or two across the desert, as if planted by birds fifty years ago. Pod took us empty donks and canteens over to the well. That was the novelest thing I ever saw; and the water was the coolest I ever tasted. An iron wheel turned in a cog and drove a piston-rod down a deep well, the power being furnished by a meek-looking horse which walked round the pump in circus fashion, thinking he was the whole show, and pulled a sort of walking-beam that turned the cog-wheel. There the ranchman and his big small boy rode every morning many miles from home to pump water for their cattle, which ate (they evidently had eaten everything in sight) during the day, and chewed their cud at night in the cottonwood shade. That morning, when several miles nearer our goal, a stiff wind introduced itself and increased in velocity until such speed was attained that the men had to stop traveling and tie the whole outfit to the picket-pins driven in the ground. That gale beat the tornado on the shore of Lake Erie, and the cyclone near Sterling. We donks had to lie down with our backs to the wind, for Damfino, not thinking, lay the other way at first, and the wind blew into her mouth so fast she swelled up twice her natural size. She was so full of air that she arose and turned around, before being able to lie down again. Pod said it was a good time to write his letter for the paper. So he hitched his shoulders to ropes tied to picket-pins about five feet apart, and sat in a camp-stool, and, facing the gale, laid his writing pad on the wind, and finished his article in fine style. When I asked him how the wind could be so strong as to brace up both the pad and his story, he said he was writing in a lighter vein than usual. We were in sight of Brighton next morning when a strange accident happened to Pod. We were approaching a field of grain on an irrigated ranch when, suddenly, he was struck on the head by a mastodon grasshopper and knocked senseless out of the saddle. At once Don chased the creature and headed him off, while Coonskin lassoed him and bound him on Damfino. We took the wonder to Denver. There Pod put the thing in a bottle of alcohol, but it hadn't been there more than a half hour when it kicked out the bottom, and almost upset a street car in trying to escape. Again the grasshopper was captured, then poisoned and skinned, and the bones were expressed to the Smithsonian Museum. About one o'clock we left the line of the B. & M. railroad, and cut across the plain six miles to the Union Pacific, which we had left on the previous week. Then we began to descend into the verdant valley of the Platte. Great fields of grain waved in the breeze on either hand. The song of the reaper was cheering, the glistening snow on the distant Rockies, cooling. At last our caravan ambled into Brighton. It impressed me as a pretty town; after crossing a two hundred mile desert, I was in condition to compliment any sort of a place. That night we traveled ten miles and camped near the Nine Mile House, where, next morning, we were disappointed not to obtain breakfast. Beautiful, far-famed Denver loomed up on the distant plain. The smoke from her smelters curled on high, a dusky sign of prosperity. We breakfasted three miles nearer the city, and at two P. M. our picturesque outfit strode up Seventeenth street and anchored in front of the Albany Hotel. Denver at last! CHAPTER XXXVI. BY PYE POD. At the head of the procession strode the four heralds. Silently they marched, in silence the populace received them. The spectacle reminded very old men of the day the great Axaya was born in mournful pomp to Chapultepec.--_The Fair God._ When I had taken a bird's-eye view of Denver, and visited many of its handsome streets and buildings, and met its hospitable citizens, I dubbed it one of the most attractive cities. One of the first to greet me was a member of the Jacksonian Club, who invited me to attend a lawn party to be given at the home of a fellow member. The grounds were illuminated with Japanese lanterns and a platform was erected for speech-making, while indoors were served refreshments. In the midst of the pleasant proceedings a gentle rain frightened everybody into the house, where dancing closed the festivities. Of course, every pretty girl wanted to dance with Pod. Sunday seemed to be the accepted day for sight-seeing. The "Seeing Denver" car (electric) made two twenty-five mile trips a day, threading the more attractive portions of the city and suburbs and giving the passengers a splendid idea of the beauties and possibilities of Denver. Each car was manned by a director, who clearly described all points of interest en route. Finally, the car was stopped on the heights overlooking Clear Creek Valley, where, in 1858, Gregory, a North Carolina prospector, discovered gold in quartz and proved his theory that all placer ore came from a mother lode. People in the East, hearing that gold could be found here in quartz, hurried to the spot, resolved to be contented if they could only find it in pints. While many were disappointed, within a year one hundred and seventy quartz mills were erected, and in 1860 Colorado's gold output amounted to $4,000,000. The Colorado farmer raises everything in the fruit and vegetable line that can be produced in the East. Through the system of irrigation the soil is brought to such a state of production that one farmer near Denver was reaping a revenue of $5,000 a year from a twenty-acre plot. "One of our best crops is tomatoes," said our guide, with the view of enlightening some possible investor. "There, you can see in the distance, is one of our largest canneries. It cans tomatoes only. All the tomatoes they can are raised around Denver, and all the tomatoes not consumed in the city are sent to this cannery to be canned. They raise all they can and what they can't raise they can't can. They eat all they can, and all they can't eat they can. Moreover, all they can't can they eat, and what they eat they can't can. All canned tomatoes they can and cannot eat they ship to those who can't visit Denver to eat all they can. If you can visit the cannery and see them can all they can and eat what they can't can, and can't eat a can yourselves, you then only can understand why it is they can't eat what they can and can't can what they eat. Can you not?" When he had finished three women cried. Later on the journey the car was stopped in a different quarter of the suburbs, where several got off to pluck wild flowers. In the course of our tour many attractive buildings were pointed out, among them the Consumptive's Home, erected by philanthropists of the East, and the several smelting mills, one of which boasts of a chimney four hundred feet in height, the tallest on the continent. While the ladies were gathering wild flowers I was persuaded to perpetrate a practical joke suggested by two jovial Johnny Bulls. I had become quite chatty with their party. They had the impression that I was a cowboy, and when they discovered their error they proposed I should jostle a fellow countryman of theirs as soon as they could decoy him off the car, they claiming that he still believed me a real cow-puncher out for a holiday. They said it was his first trip to America, and that he had frequently expressed a curiosity to see one of those wild men of the plains. On promises of their support in case of offense being taken, I chuckled and awaited my chance. Presently the man was persuaded to pick a wild rose, and as he was about to pass me I backed roughly against him, almost sending him off his feet. When he had regained his equilibrium and was on the point of rebuking me, I turned furiously upon him: "Say, you foreign tenderfoot," I said, "you got a preemption on the whole earth? If so, just fence it in. Don't yer brush me that way agin, or I'll show yer how we trim moustaches out in this country when our razors ain't sharp. Understand?" As I uttered these words I put my hand on my hip-pocket. My sombrero was tilted, and the attitude I struck would have amused any real cowboy. The astonished Englishman, red in the face, edged away in silence and eyed me narrowly. "Turn your lamps the other way, or I'll shoot off yer eyebrows!" I shouted. At once the innocent butt of our ungentlemanly joke ventured to apologize for the carelessness that was not his, when a peal of laughter from behind told plainly that the joke was off. I turned to see everybody in a fit of laughter; I now began to feel embarrassed, and had not my confederate immediately explained the case and introduced me to their imposed-upon comrade, I certainly would have felt very awkward. As it was, the tourist laughed heartily at the joke, complimented me on my art in acting and gave me a cordial handshake. At our journey's end I was introduced to all the ladies, and induced to pose for their cameras, after which I departed with the well-wishes of all. I must not overlook an amusing incident of the trip. One of the passengers was an Irishman, who caused much merriment by a stroke of wit, or a blunder, just as the car stopped in front of the City Hall. "This lovely park which you see," said the director, "has been brought to its present beautiful condition by levying a tax of one mill on all property owners. The burden, you see, was light for each person, and just to all." "Light was it!" the Emerald-Islander exclaimed. "Begorry! mills must be dom plintiful in these parts, whin every mon is willin' to give uup a mill for an interist in a parruk. Be dad! it must ha' been rough on th' mon that owned but one mill. It was thot!" Whereupon our erudite guide politely dissertated on the great difference in mills, to the amusement of the English party and the Hibernian's satisfaction. Before leaving Denver I found it advisable to add considerable to my traveling equipment. I ordered a tin canteen from my own design, to hold a gallon of water, and within it was fashioned a receptacle for holding two pounds of butter. Its value was constantly appreciated when crossing the deserts where we were enabled to carry butter, and an extra quantity of drinking water which was kept cool by wrapping the canteen with cloth and canvas and keeping them in a moist condition. I also purchased a large basket-covered demijohn of port wine (for medicinal purposes), an extra pack-saddle and camp supplies. Although that altitude of 5,000 feet was quite invigorating, the sun at that season was unusually warm, and I intended to enjoy as much camp life as possible. We took a southerly course towards Pike's Peak, threading the villages of Littleton, Castle Rock, Sedalia and Monument, and the city of Colorado Springs. The scenic beauties of Colorado became more manifest every day. Sunday afternoon I observed in the southwest a dark cloud draw a threatening hood over that giant discovery of 1806 by Col. Zebulon M. Pike, and I decided to camp in the vicinity of a dairy ranch. Anticipating a shower, I rode Skates, my fastest donkey, to the house with canteen and pail, leaving Coonskin to unpack, pitch tent, and build a wood-pile under shelter. On approaching the house, I detected a pretty dairymaid in the doorway. I endeavored to dismount from my asinine steed with grace, but the picture so unbalanced me that I caught a foot in a stirrup and fell heels over appetite on the ground at my charmer's very feet, much to my embarrassment and her amusement. "Can you spare me a quart of milk, Miss?" I inquired, lifting my hat. She smiled. Then, fearing lest I might have created the impression of begging, I asked; "can you sell some? I mean to pay for it, of course." My words seemed to break her spell, and she replied sweetly, "We have two kinds--cream and skimmed milk." And her eyes sparkled. I caught my breath and gave her a chance to lose hers. "Per-per-perhaps you might mix the two safely--mightn't you?" I now felt the crisis coming, and twisted myself nervously. The maid laughed. It quieted my nerves. "But," she returned, "you see, the cream is all engaged, and--and I would not like to sell you the skimmed milk, because--because we feed that to the hogs." I smiled now and tried to answer. "Well, what is good enough for hogs ought--," and I hesitated, feeling I was getting things twisted; but she came to the rescue nobly. "What you mean is, what is good enough for you ought to be good enough for hogs, eh?" "Thank you," I said. "What you say goes," and I handed her the pail, which she accepted with a shy courtesy. As she hurried to the spring house, I watched her admiringly until foosteps behind caused me to turn around. Behold! there was another young lady, tall and becomingly gowned, even prettier than the other. The softness of her brown, lustrous eyes bespoke the tenderness in her nature. Even Don interpreted this when she patted his head and observed: "What a nice dog you have!" The expression "nice dog" was very familiar to Don, and they were no sooner uttered than the huge dog arose to the occasion by planting his fore-paws against the lady's breast and attempting to steal a kiss. The shock would have upset her completely if I had not caught her in my arms. It was therefore under somewhat embarrassing circumstances that the dairy maid witnessed the embrace--embarrassing to all save the dog. Explanations will only make matters worse, I thought, so I took the pail and kept mum, though I know I looked anything but innocent. Business over, we conversed until it began to sprinkle, and then, after accepting the ladies' invitation to spend the evening with them, I cantered back to camp. "I feared you had gone on to 'Frisco," said Coonskin; "I'm dying for a drink of water." Indeed, I had forgotten to fill the canteen--all on account of those charming girls. "I declare, Coonskin," I explained, "I had such a time persuading the folks to sell me a little milk that I never thought of water. I'll hurry back for it." And not giving my companion time to anticipate me, or stopping to mount a donkey, I did the errand on foot. That evening we passed a pleasant hour with "wine, women and song," and departed with another invitation to a fish and game dinner next day, if I would tarry and provide trout and birds. Of course, I tarried. Coonskin accompanied me into the canyon next morning with rod and line, and in the afternoon with gun and bag. By five he had caught a nice mess of trout and I had shot a young jack-rabbit. It was a delicious repast that was served us by those New England girls. We ate fish till their tails stuck out of our mouths. The bread tasted like angel's food, and the beans were well done, in spite of the fact it required a whole day to cook beans in that altitude. I smacked my lips and said to myself: "I'll eat heartily now, for it'll be long before I'll get another dinner like this." On the way to the Springs next day I suggested to Coonskin that we climb the Peak and see the sun rise. "Why, is sunrise up there any finer than it is down here?" he inquired. I thought he was making a mental calculation of the number of steps, and labored breaths, and obsolete words the ascent would require. "Certainly," I said, "the reflections to be seen from that altitude are more beautiful and varied than from the plains." "They're more beautiful perhaps, but I've been riding a mule over three months now, and my reflections are about as varied as anything could make 'em." My donkey party reached Colorado Springs in time for dinner. [Illustration: "_Independence Pass ... one of the loftiest of the Continental Divide._"] [Illustration: "_Trail to Florisant._"] [Illustration: "_Two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass._"] CHAPTER XXXVII. BY MAC A'RONY. The Professor, scorning to waste shoe leather and economize francs, began the ascent on a mule steered by a woman holding on to the beast's tail.--_Easter on the Riviera._ A curious proceeding held my rapt attention as we neared Petersburg, a suburb of Denver. At the terminus of a horse-car line I observed a car approaching us down-grade, with a horse on its rear platform. As soon as the car stopped at the station the horse stepped off on a platform and took his place in front of the car, ready to haul it up-grade again and earn another ride. I did not have the chance to ask the horse how he enjoyed it, but I would willingly have exchanged places with him. Next morning, to my surprise, Coonskin was the first to rise. Our camp was near Littleton, on the banks of a small stream, and here at early dawn that ambitious youth gathered a panful of glittering wet sand, and rushed into the tent with it, almost out of breath. "Look here, Pod!" he called, excitedly, "see the strike I've made! The river bottom is yellow with gold!" Then I heard Pod say, "Rich, I should say! Funny this placer hasn't been discovered before now." "Let's file a claim," said Coonskin, "we can make a million in six months." "Let's!" the Professor exclaimed. As soon as breakfast was over both tenderfeet were trying their luck at panning gold. A cabin stood not far away, and presently there issued from it an old man who approached the argonauts, and sat on a log to watch them. "Your first experience at placer mining?" the stranger observed. "For an instant both men looked confused. I could see that Coonskin didn't want to reveal his newly discovered fortune by the way he dumped his sand and said nothing. But Pod held on to a frying-pan full of sand with one hand, and reached for his revolver with the other to defend his claim. "Well, boys," observed the native, laughing, "you're goin' through jest what all tenderfeet do when they first strike these parts--try to wash gold dust out of mica. All the streams out here 're filled with them glist'ning particles, but recollect, boys, all what glitters ain't gold. That you've got's called 'fool's gold.'" It was plain that Pod was disappointed, but the stranger gave him some good advice, and a large Colorado diamond for a keepsake, then strolled away, leaving two sadder but wiser men. The road to Colorado Springs was a popular thoroughfare for bicyclists. Saturday afternoon, as we donks began the ascent of a long, steep, and winding incline, a din of voices and a whir of wheels suddenly sounded ahead, and a party of fifty or more young men and women in gala attire came speeding down toward us. As quickly as possible we donks turned out to the right. I think the bicyclists must have been English, for they steered to the left. In a minute "it was all off." It happened that the leader of the wheel brigade saw us donks too late and tried to save himself by turning suddenly to his right. Result: Tire off and man off. Sequel: A wild rough-and-tumble conglomeration of sexes, as his followers mixed up with our party. Bicycles, donkeys, men, women, lunch baskets, packs, hats, petticoats and cameras were distributed in all directions. The cries and shrieks of the bruised and frightened together with the confusion of the wreckage so terrified us donks that as soon as we could pick ourselves up we reared on our haunches, and cavorted, and brayed, and so help me Balaam! it was the worst mix-up I was ever in. When every man had assisted some one else's girl to her equilibrium, a council of war assembled to adjust grievances and repair machines; but the proceedings did not interest the Professor, for he hustled us donks up hill and out of sight as quickly as possible. The din of voices soon sounded in the distance like a swarm of yellow-jackets. Colorado City was a gambling resort lying between Colorado Springs and Manitou. Our stop there was all too brief. While Pod and Coonskin were at feed we donks stole down-street to watch a "play." That was the time I regretted having eaten the five dollar bill back in Iowa, for three times in succession the roulette ball dropped on my colors, and by compounding the principal and interest each time I could have made a beautiful scoop which might have given us donks a high old time. Thence onward Pike's Peak was the chief topic of discussion. To begin with, Pike's Peak is the largest mountain of its size in the world. Cats can't live ten minutes on the summit before going crazy, and dogs even lose their bark at the timber-line. I concurred with Pod that it would be a big feat to climb the Peak. On the other hand, Cheese and Skates demurred from our opinion. Skates positively declined to leave the stable, and Cheese backed her up by putting both fore feet in the manger. Damfino stood by Pod and me. She argued that when one has climbed to an elevation of 14,147 feet above sea-level he is likely to feel a blamed sight nearer heaven than he is ever apt to be again. The result was that Damfino and I alone accompanied the men on that adventuresome trip. Everything went well until we struck the cog track in Engleman's Canyon. It was the first experience for us donks in "hitting the ties." I did not fancy the route at all. But Pod, having seen a boy ride a native burro up the track, resolved to do no less. The first half mile was not steep, and the men rode us donks; but when we caught up with a party of men and women making the ascent, an ambitious boy grabbed my tail and allowed me the privilege of dragging him a hundred yards before the Prof discovered him, and dismounted. How I thanked the boy for his thoughtfulness. Damfino lagged behind. She had changed her mind. The consequence was, we donks were driven ahead, and Coonskin no sooner hit Damfino a whack with the butt of his six-shooter, then she began to pace so fast none of us could keep up with her. When we came to the steep 25 per cent. grade the men were winded; not so we donks. The men called to us, but we would not listen. They threw stones at us, and we quickened our gait. The men couldn't run up-grade to save their lives, whereas mountain climbing finds a donkey in his true element. "Ain't this fun!" exclaimed Damfino. "Never had such a picnic!" I added. Well, Pod walked half the way from New York and prided himself on walking, and Coonskin had won medals for sprinting: so it looked to us a huge joke, and we just brayed. The next instant a locomotive bell sounded ahead, and I saw a train approaching from round a bend. We felt that we had the right of way, and were much put out when the train refused to stop. We would not get off the track; it would be contrary to the nature of first-class donkeys to do such a thing. Say, what wonderfully powerful things steam engines are! We got it in our heads that we could stop the train, if we didn't push it off the track. You just ought to have seen us pitch headlong down the bank of the canyon into the foaming torrent. It was a mighty plunge we made, I can tell you. Before we rose to the surface the car stopped, and many of the passengers got off. The banks of the pool were so steep we couldn't climb out, and we had to swim and tread water to keep from drowning. Damfino brayed like a lunatic, I spouted like a geyser, and great excitement reigned among the tourists. Evidently "nothing was doing" for our immediate relief. The engineer was loudly refreshing Pod's memory that he had no right on the railroad bed with his donkeys, and the female passengers gesticulated wildly and condoled with Damfino and me for the deep predicament we were in. One facetious fellow asked if we jackasses were Baptists, and the Professor told him he didn't know what denomination we formerly adhered to, but he believed that we were skeptics now. Presently our masters began search for ropes and straps. Alas! all of them had been left behind. I was now through with coughing, but still weak and out of breath, while Damfino pumped logarithms of abuse at the cog train and exhorted me to keep swimming--advice entirely unnecessary. Finally the car steamed down to Manitou, and the sympathetic occupants called back that they would send aid. Coonskin was first to come to his senses. Said he, "I can run, I'll run to the village for help;" and away he went to beat the cars. This expedient awoke the Prof.'s dormant mind to an idea, and he began to roll rocks into the Pool. At the same time he yelled something at us, but I couldn't wait to listen, for I ducked under water in the nick of time to dodge a half-ton boulder. It came within an inch of knocking all the bad character out of Damfino's head, and completely submerged us both. After that Pod was more careful, and instead of rolling one giant stone he sent two middle-weights down the bank in a manner to make us dive. I concluded Pod had gone daft. "For Balaam's sake! what you trying to do up----" I brayed loudly, but scarcely finished when I came within an ace of "passing in my chips," as a gigantic pebble of the first water whizzed between our heads. Pod called back, "I'm lifting the bottom of the pool so you two can crawl out." I was astonished at such inventive faculty. A wonder we donks survived to tell it. Rolling stones may gather no moss, but they need a lot of looking after. It seemed hours before Coonskin returned. By this time I had found a footing so I could rest with my head out of water. "Why were you gone so long?" Pod asked, as he sat himself on a rail to rest his windpipe. "Well," said the winded man, adjusting a lariat, "I hunted all over Manitou before I found the superintendent of the waterworks." "But what on earth did you want of him?" "I told him of the fix of our donks, and asked him to change the course of the stream till we could get them out of the pool." "You idiot! And what did he say?" "Oh, he was civil enough; said he, 'If you would like to have the mountain moved a little to one side I will have it put on jackscrews without delay." Now it nettled me to listen to such nonsense while Damfino and I were refrigerating in ice water, and I brayed to the jester above: "Say there, you old fool, if you had only thought to have him pump the water out of the canyon above us you might have furnished a little dry humor that we would have appreciated." The lariat was found to be of little service, but soon a couple of tourists arrived on the scene and assisted the two with their contract to raise the devil, as well as the bed of the torrent, and, at length, to extricate us water-soaked donks from our unhappy predicament. Then we were taken to the stable, rubbed down, and put to bed. CHAPTER XXXVIII. BY PYE POD. It is the property of great men to rise to the height of great events.--_Victor Hugo._ The city of Colorado Springs possesses many attractions, and is growing in population and wealth. Here is a good-sized collection of pretty homes, built on wide and well-shaded streets, where reside beside the health hunter of independent means the mining king, the wealthy ranch owner, the Eastern capitalist, and the English tourist or speculator. Friday morning we entered that picturesque Swisslike hamlet of Manitou with flying colors. The summer tourists were either lounging on the broad verandas of the hotels or assembling for burro trips to the Garden of the Gods and other famous retreats in the mountains. Coonskin and I rode our favorite mounts to the principal hotels, Hiawatha Gardens and the iron and soda springs, at which several places I delivered lectures to the amused tourists and reaped a small harvest. The Garden of the Gods is some distance from town, the popular drive being fourteen miles from start to finish. To ride our slow steeds there would mean a sacrifice of a day's time. So after much prospecting, I bargained with a garrulous but genial guide to drive us with his team to the Garden and Glen Eyre for the sum of $2. What a gay old ride that was, in a cushion-seated carriage! I'll bet there wasn't one square inch of the seat that I didn't cover before I got back. Some way I couldn't seem to get in a comfortable position. The driver-guide was very accommodating and offered to go back to put a saddle on the seat for me to ride in, if I would but say the word. The Garden of the Gods is a picturesque and grotesque natural park, the rock formations of red and white sandstone resembling roughly most every bird and beast and human character imaginable. In fact, one old pioneer whom we met insisted that the place is the original Garden of Eden, and that when Adam and Eve were caught eating the sour apple, God caused the earth to cough, whereupon it threw up mountains of mud and petrified many fine specimens of the menagerie. The mountaineer struck me as something so unique in his make-up and mental get-up that I bribed him to accompany me and explain those wonderful exhibits of the earth's first zoo. "Now there is Punch and Judy," he said; "most folks take them as sech." "I suppose you make out they are the stone mummies of Adam and Eve?" I interrogated, showing effusive interest. "Our first parents, sure's you are born," he returned with conviction. "And there yender is th' old washerwoman what done up Eve's laundry." "But," I argued, "the Scripture says Eve didn't wear clothes, so she couldn't have had any washing." The man coughed.--"Well, my young man," said he, "I've lived a good many year and in a heap of places and seen a lot of females come inter the world, or seen 'em soon after they did come, and I never yet saw one come in dressed, but yer kin bet yer last two-bit piece, from what I knows of women, it didn't take Eve more time than she needed to catch her breath to change her 'mother Eve' fer a 'mother Hubbard." Then the pioneer pointed out the "Kissing Camels," the "Seal" and "Bear," and the "Baggage-room." "Are there any petrified elephants in this menagerie?" I asked. "I'm fond of big exhibitions." "N-n-no, they ain't no elifants here," said he with a jerk of the head. "Yer see when the mud was coughed up, they got so fast they left some of their trunks. That's them in the Baggage-room yender." And he ha-hahed over this poor joke. As we passed successively the "Buffalo's head," the "old Scotchman," the "Porcupine," the "Ant Eater," the "old man's wine cellar" and the "Egyptian Sphinx" my guide enlightened us on geology, botany and mineralogy far beyond my powers of understanding, but not desiring to reveal my ignorance, I listened attentively, and now and then gasped: "Well, I never!" "I do declare!" "Would you believe it!" and "Gracious sakes alive!" The "Gateway" to the famous park lies between two giant towering rocks three to four hundred feet in height, and further on the "Balancing Rock," a mammoth mass of sandstone, appears to be on the verge of a fall. Before leaving the park with its myriad curiosities, I called upon the "fat man" who runs a bar, restaurant, curiosity shop and miniature zoo. There lying in a box partially covered was a sculptured figure of a Digger Indian, which some enterprising mortal must have buried, unearthed, and sold to the hoodwinked man, for genuine petrified aboriginal meat. Rainbow Falls, Grand Caverns, William's Canyon, Cave of the Winds and Cheyenne Mountain Drive all had their peculiar attractions. On Cheyenne Mountain is the original grave of Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Ramona." It was about midnight when, with a small lunch in an improvised knapsack and revolvers in our belts, Coonskin and I began the ascent of Pike's Peak, the first attempt to do it having been so summarily defeated. By 1 a. m. we were well up Engleman's Canyon and with the aid of a lantern we surveyed the wild and steep cog track with about the same pleasure one feels in descending a deep mine with a lighted candle. Higher and higher as we rose toward the starlit heavens we found it more difficult to breathe and easier to freeze. At times the grade was so steep that we had to creep on our hands and knees to prevent sliding backward to Manitou. The so-called beautiful Lake Moraine looked disenchantingly black and icy, and the timber line, still far above us, seemed as elusive as a rainbow. We had to stop frequently to rest our knees and to breathe, for air up there was at a premium. Later on we built a fire of railroad ties and ate our lunch. By four o'clock we overtook others striving to make the climb--men, women and small boys, whose chief aim in life evidently was to climb Pike's Peak. Some of them had started twelve hours before; others had been twenty-four hours climbing seven miles, and from the questions they put to us were doubtless under the impression there was an error in the guide books and that they had already tramped fifty miles from Manitou. The sunrise effects from the Peak are marvelous, but Uncle Sol appeared to have as hard work in rising mornings as we travelers. The sunrise looked as uncertain as our arrival on the summit. Once, we tarried to speculate on our chances of reaching the opposite side of Manitou in time to witness the event, then resumed tramping and creeping, puffing and blowing and snorting, and venting our wrath on Mr. Pike for discovering the peak, and made the turn to find the sun as tardy as ever, with no apparent inclination to rise. One old man we overtook told me he had been "nigh on to twenty year" climbing Pike's Peak, and hadn't climbed it yet. That gave me courage. I wouldn't back out. It looked as if there were only one more turn to make, when, about half way around, three shivering maidens sitting on a rock asked me most pathetically if I had seen any kindling wood about. My heart was touched! I replied that I had not, but would try to find some. I built a fire, and the girls were real nice to me, and insisted that I share their cheese sandwiches. On arriving at the summit I was just in time to see the most dazzlingly beautiful sunrise to be witnessed on earth. Arriving on the board walk in front of the Summit House I saw Coonskin thawing in the sun, fast asleep. Inside the house a young man lay on a sofa in a swoon, for want of air. There is a golden opportunity for some enterprising man to transport barrels of air to an airtight building on the Peak, and sell it to patrons for a dollar a pint. A hundred gallons could have been sold that morning--I would have bought fifty myself. Wandering aimlessly and weakly, as if from that tired feeling, about the house and rocky-looking grounds, were several dozen mountain-climbers, shaking hands with themselves for having seen the sunrise, or examining the crater of the extinct volcano, or discussing the mysterious ingredients of their coffee cups in the only restaurant, which small concoctions cost fifteen cents each. I haven't said what was in the cups; it was supposed to be coffee. I bought a cup, and forgetting that I had drunk it, bought another, and still I didn't make out what it was. Then I purchased another, and after I had finished four cups began to have a suspicion of coffee. It cost me sixty cents. After resting an hour we started back to Manitou. It was two p. m. before the foot-sore Pod and his lung-sore valet managed to get to their hotel. In less than an hour both became rational, and agreed that the first of them to mention Pike's Peak should instantly be deprived of breath. To those who boast of their ability to grow fat on beautiful scenery I heartily commend the trail through Ute Pass, Divide, Cripple Creek, South Park, Leadville and Aspen to Glenwood Springs, crossing Western and Independence Passes. First proceeding up Ute Canyon along the banks of the turbulent stream and in the shadow of the towering cliffs, often in view and in hearing of the trains on the Colorado Midland, we passed the summer retreats of Cascade and Green Mountain Falls, at which places the tourists flocked from hotels, cottages and tents to talk with Pod and Mac A'Rony. Only a brief stop was made at Divide to enable me to replenish my larder; then we hustled on toward the famous mining camp. Early every afternoon a thunder shower drenched our party. Once or twice the thunder in advance warned us so we could pitch tent and crawl under shelter. Thus our travels in that region were impeded. Three miles beyond Gillette we climbed to Altman, said to be the highest incorporated town in the United States, some 11,300 feet above the sea. It rests literally on the summit and hangs down over the mountain sides secure enough whenever and wherever there is a prospect hole with sufficient gold in it to serve the miners a foothold and check their sliding further. The high altitude of the district makes it especially undesirable for women, causing nervous troubles. Even the male population are more or less excitable, and when prospectors think they have made a strike some of them run about like lunatics. From Altman we took a tortuous trail, threading Goldfield, Independence, Victor and Anaconda. The mountains about are honeycombed with prospect holes--or graves they might be properly called, for many of them contain buried hopes. From a distance they look like prairie-dog towns, but occasional shaft-houses and gallows-frames rise here and there to give character to the mining region, while several railroad and electric car lines wind about the hills and gulches. Many of the cabins in these towns are built of logs; the streets look to have been surveyed by cows rather than engineers. As a rule, there is no symmetry to the thoroughfares--up hill and down hill, crooking and winding, crossing and converging, in a manner to puzzle a resident of a year. The situation of most of the habitations seems to have been governed by the location of the claim of each house owner. This great camp got its name from two circumstances occurring when the locality was known for no other virtue than a grazing place for cattle. One day on the banks of the creek that trickled through the present site of Cripple Creek a man broke his leg, and the following day a cowboy was thrown from his bronco and had his arm broken. Some one, seeing both accidents, said: "I reckon we'd better call this place Cripple Creek." So the noted camp was christened. CHAPTER XXXIX. BY MAC A'RONY. You do ill to teach the child such words; he teaches him to kick, and to hack, which they'll do fast enough of themselves; and to call horum;--fye upon you!--_Merry Wives of Windsor._ Frequently since crossing the Mississippi Pod had received letters from proud parents informing him that they had named their latest boy after him. At that time in Cripple Creek, several boys ranging from a day to six weeks old, whose destinies were thought to be promising, were afflicted with my master's ponderous name. A little green-eyed Irish girl, five days old, was named Pythagorina Podina Mulgarry. The happy father called personally on Pod and asked him to act as godfather at the baptismal service, Sunday afternoon. The impressive ceremony took place at the cabin of Miss Pythagorina, as the aged grandmother wished to witness it. Pod said he was somewhat embarrassed about attending, since he had forgotten almost all his Latin, but he arranged with one of the pall bearers to give him nudges and kicks when it was expected of him to make a response, and so he got through fairly well--better than the kid did. He said the babe was an unruly child, and kicked so frantically when the priest took her in his arms that two flatirons were tied to its feet to keep them down. It was simply nervousness, because the high altitude affected the child's nerves. So when the priest was handed the tiny thing in swaddling clothes and held it over the barrel that served as the font, the poor girl was frightened and squirmed, and suddenly slipped out of the priest's arms into the barrel and sank out of sight. There was great excitement and surprise because the flatirons didn't float, and the undertaker, or what you call 'em, overturned the barrel of water and set everybody afloat, drenching the sponsors and guests. Pod said the scene was without a parallel; he was soaked to his equator; the half-christened, half-drowned Pythagorina Podina was picked up from the flood with a tablespoon, and the ceremony finished; then she was rolled on the barrel to get all the water out of her, and put to bed with hot flatirons at her feet to prevent croup and mumps. Then the wake broke up. I don't believe the child understood a word that the priest said; Pod didn't. That night he got up a fine supper, and invited some old friends. He bought a big porterhouse steak, thick and tender, and personally broiled it on his patent folding stove. Just when everything was on the table and the guests were finding stones and tin plates to sit on, Don, not having had a thing to eat for an hour, coolly pulled the hot steak off the platter and dropped it on the ground. Pod didn't say anything, though, but just forked it on to the platter and scraped off some dry grass and a sliver and a bug, and carved it up and generously put it on the ladies' plates. The ladies looked at the dog, and then at Pod, not knowing which to thank, then feeling sensitive about accepting the best part of the steak, insisted upon Pod's having one of their pieces and Coonskin the other; and both men being kind and gallant accepted the compliment, and all fell to eating. But the guests didn't eat much. They said they had just had dinner. You could see plainly from their appetites that they were telling the truth. After supper Don feasted on the tougher parts of the steak, and we donks were fed the scraps of potatoes and bread and tin tomato and peach cans. When the banquet was over the guests went home. Pod devoted Monday morning to business, and took in a good stock of supplies, and after lunch we set out on the trail to Florisant, about twenty miles away. About six o'clock we went into camp on the margin of a famous petrified forest. Pod objected at first, because of the scarcity of fire-wood. "Lots of petrified wood chips lying around," I remarked; "and they'll last. Ordinary wood burns up too fast." "Bright idea!" exclaimed Pod. And Coonskin went to work gathering petrified wood for the supper fire. "The only trouble will be in starting the fire," said Pod. "Just as soon as it's once going, it ought to burn smoothly enough--might pour coal oil on the chips. What do you say, Coonskin?" Coonskin's opinion didn't benefit Pod much. His hard-wood fire wasn't very satisfactory, but with some dry brush the men got the meal under way. Next morning we visited the noted petrified stump, measuring upwards of forty-five feet in circumference. Several saws were imbedded in it, for many futile attempts had been made to take off some slices for the Denver Exposition. It has been estimated by various ornithologists, botanists and entomologists that the stump is millions of years old. I think they were guessing at it, for I couldn't see the rings, and even if I had seen them with a telescope a fellow couldn't live long enough to count them. We journeyed until ten at night, stopping at Florisant only a few minutes to buy a crate of peaches. Several times I had a suspicion that we had been misdirected. When we came to the end of a narrow wood-road I was sure of it. We went into camp, and before breakfast a timberman called on us. "You kin trail through the timber to Pemberton," said he to Pod, "and then cut through to Fairplay, er you kin go back the way ye came." "What do you say?" Pod inquired, turning to Coonskin. "I think best to go through the woods," said the valet. So we were headed for the timber. Our tramp through the forest I cannot soon forget. Up and down the rocky heights, through thickets of quaking asp and pine, tangled roots and fallen trees, we climbed and panted and coughed and brayed for some four miles, when we stopped to rest and realized we were lost. Coonskin said he was an experienced woodman, and would blaze the trees so we would get out again. Wonderful! the amount of learning he had gleaned from dime novels. He lagged behind to do the blazing; and pretty soon I smelt smoke. The Professor snuffed. "Smells as if the woods were on fire somewhere," hinted Pod. "Look behind you; they are!" I exclaimed. And Pod caught that erudite valet-back-woodsman in the act of setting a tree on fire with oil and matches. Fortunately for us the wind wasn't blowing strong, but we had to change our course some, and hustle faster, for the blazing trail chased us. Coonskin learned a new lesson, and turned down the corner of the page so he'd recollect it. After Pod had explained the meaning of the word "blaze" in this case, the fellow was more put out than the fire. At length we struck a trail which led to a couple of cabins in the canyon. A board sign informed us it was simply Turkey Creek. I couldn't see any turkeys, but there was good pasturage around. The hot trip through the timber made us all hungry. It was three o'clock when we donks were picketed and allowed to graze. Then Coonskin went fishing. He said he had seen some trout in the stream; by supper time he had caught a nice mess. Pod said he would fry the fish, and went at it so enthusiastically that he forgot to put the bag of corn meal back in its place. After the meal was over, he began to look around for the bag. It was nowhere to be found; I had eaten the corn meal and bag. It was comical how those two men puzzled their brains about that missing commodity. When Coonskin detected some meal stamped in the ground, Pod pointed at me and said, "That's the thief, there." Next morning, Coonskin was the first to return from fishing, and looked much excited. When Pod returned he told him he had seen huge bear tracks; he was going bear-hunting. Pod laughed at him. "Now let me tell you," said the boy, "we aren't likely to get any big game on this trip if we are looking and gunning for it. That was my experience in the woods of Wisconsin. The men at the saw-mill said we should see bear in this forest, but where are they? It's my opinion if we loiter around this here canyon a day without guns we will see a bear pretty soon. A silvertip would be a boon to you, Prof; its skin would fetch fifty dollars or more. Let's look for bear." "What would you do if you saw a bear?" Pod asked. "Well, now leave that to me," said Coonskin. "In the first place, it would be worth a hairbreadth escape to see one wild; I've only seen bears in circuses, or traveling chained to Italians; in the second place, I can run. I've plenty of medals for sprinting, but if I saw a real bear I could beat all records." Pod looked at me and I looked at Pod; I hadn't anything to say on the subject; it didn't interest me as much as it did Coonskin. Pod went fishing that afternoon with a gun, and took the whole arsenal along with him, including the axe. Somewhere about five o'clock Pod came into camp with a good mess of trout. After cleaning the fish, he took off his guns, and laid down on the grass, and wondered if that crazy valet had run across any more bear tracks. He wasn't there long when, suddenly, I heard yells issuing from the canyon down stream round the bend. The shouting sounded nearer every second, and I soon distinguished Coonskin's voice. Pod got up from the ground excitedly. "Coonskin's in trouble, plain enough," said Pod aloud to himself, "I must run to his aid." So he started on a trot down stream to the bend, and then quickly turned, falling all over himself, and ran toward the cabins faster than I ever saw him run before or since. And immediately Coonskin came flying into view with the biggest bear at his heels I ever want to see. That sight paralyzed me; I couldn't get on to my feet for a minute or two, then I broke the rope and kited up the canyon a hundred yards, where behind a tree I waited to see the interesting finish. CHAPTER XL. BY PYE POD. Who dared touch the wild bear's skin Ye slumbered on while life was in? --_Scott._ How fast a man can run when he knows he's got to win a race! There was one time in my life when "can't" was an obsolete word in my vocabulary. It was when that silvertip granted Coonskin's chief desire in the field of adventure. "Shoot him! Shoot him!" cried the angler, as he fairly flew past me, headed for the first cabin. But I had neither time nor gun to shoot; when I heard bruin at my heels I switched off to the left and ran three times around the second cabin before I realized the bear had taken a stronger fancy to my comrade. It seems he had chased Coonskin around the cabin several times, until the man dived in the door and head first out of the window. Bruin followed in, but remained. He smelled the fragrant peaches. Coonskin, however, under the impression that bruin was still after him, ran twice around the cabin before he climbed a tree. Meanwhile, I, having climbed a tree close to the cabin, descended to the cabin roof. I knew silvertips couldn't climb trees, so I felt safe. The sudden shuffle of my feet on the gravel-covered roof disturbed the peace of the present incumbent, and out he came, rose on his haunches and looked about to see what was up. I was immovable. Back into the cabin went brother Bruin, and began to break up things, generally. Then followed a few moments of dreadful silence. Not a sound issued from Coonskin's tree; he was probably trying to recover his breath and reason. Night soon fell upon us; it gets dark early in the canyons, and the mercury falls fast. I was chilly, for I shivered frightfully. The blankets and guns were on the ground just outside the cabin. "Let's flip a coin to see which of us goes down for a gun," suggested Coonskin from his tree. But I did not take him seriously. "Don't you wish you had taken the fish-line off your rod?" he added; "you could fish up a blanket and keep from freezing." "By jingo!" I exclaimed, "I have my line, and I'll try it." At once I fashioned a fish-pole out of a pine bough, and after much patience secured the only blanket within reach. Then winding it around myself, I lay as snug as possible, but couldn't go to sleep. That was the longest night I ever experienced. How long we should be kept off the earth, was an unpleasant speculation. Once I called to Coonskin not to go to sleep and tumble out of the tree, but he answered that he was so stuck up with pitch he couldn't fall. Our hopes were low, when, suddenly, about seven o'clock, from the canyon below appeared a man in the rough garb of a mountaineer, with a rifle across his shoulder and a hunting knife in his belt. As he was about to pass I hailed him. The hunter stopped, looked my way, approached to within a few feet of the cabin, and said a cheery "Good morning." I responded in a mood still more cheery. "What you doin' up there--smoking? Had breakfast, I reckon." "No, haven't cooked yet this morning," I returned. "Glad t' hear that--haven' et yet myself. Got 'nough to go round?" he asked, shifting a cud of tobacco from one side to the other. "Don't know about that," I said. "You'll have to ask the boss--he's inside." As the rugged looking huntsman approached the cabin door, I held my breath, but I rose to my feet when I actually saw the hunter's hat rise on his uplifted hair as he looked into the cabin door. With the quickness and coolness that come to one habituated to solitary life in the wilds, he put his Sharp's rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired. There was a second report, followed by a tremendous thud, and the sound of something within struggling for life and vengeance. The hunter had no sooner fired than he dodged, and stood ready for a second charge; but that was not needed. "Come down," he said to me with a grim smile. "I'm boss here now." I slid off the roof, and Coonskin, to the man's surprise, appeared from his lofty perch; then we introduced ourselves. While I thanked the hunter for his kind offices and welcomed him to breakfast, Coonskin began to prepare the meal. Our guest explained that he was a bee-hunter. "When the bear meets the bee-hunter searchin' for a bee tree, brother Bruin says, 'Ahem! Excuse me, but I'm workin' this 'ere side of the trail, you just take t'other side.' Then the bee-hunter says: 'Pardon, my friend, Mr. Bear, but I'm workin' both sides of this particular trail, just throw up your paws.'" The bee-hunter chuckled over the practical joke played on him, and said as it came from a tenderfoot he'd take it in good part; but if it had been a backwoodsman that played such a game he'd settle with the bear and the man in the same fashion. His words and manner startled me. The bee-hunter rose from the log and drawing his knife, dropped on his knee, and began to skin the bear as if he thought he owned it. "You needn't bother about skinning it for us," I said, "we're quite satisfied that you killed it." The man eyed me. "This bear belongs to me, if ye want to know," he said. "How is it your bear?" Coonskin asked, when he came to announce breakfast. "You shot it, but in our cabin." "That don't make no difference, and I don't intend arguing the question," came the positive retort; "I say he's mine--who says he hain't?" I suddenly felt a bee in my bonnet. "The 'ayes' have it," I said. That stopped the debate, but I could see blood in Coonskin's eye when he ushered us to breakfast. Before we had finished, my nervy valet asked our guest if he played poker. "Ya-a-as, some," the hunter drawled. "If there's money in it, I'll jine ye in a game." [Illustration: "_Through thickets, tangled roots and fallen trees._"] What could Coonskin have in mind, to challenge this rough mountaineer to a game of cards? He had often boasted of his skill at poker. Now he cleared the table and brought forth the cards he had carried way from Iowa, and motioning the bee-hunter to a seat, the two cut for the deal. From my seat, beside Coonskin, I discovered a little round mirror hanging on the wall behind the hunter opposite; it was the one my valet had purchased in Denver. Where he sat he could see the hunter's hand reflected in the glass. I felt if he were detected in this underhand game it would go ill with both of us; so put both revolvers in my belt, and kept mum. That was an interesting game. "Lend me some change," said Coonskin. I threw him my bag of silver. Then he added: "Pod, you count out the matches here for chips and act as banker." So I was drawn into the game. The first few hands were very ordinary, and caused no excitement. But finally the bee-hunter, arched his eyebrows; I knew he must have a fine hand or a bluff, in store for his tenderfoot opponent. He bet heavily, but Coonskin raised the ante every time. Suddenly what had been in Coonskin's mind all the time was revealed. "Lend me fifty dollars," said he to me, and to the bee-hunter added: "I'll lay this roll of bills against the bear skin, and call you." "I'll go ye," said the bee-hunter. When both men lay down their hands, I had taken down the mirror and hid it in my pocket. "Beaten by four jacks! I be d----d!" the outraged mountaineer exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table and regarding his four ten-spots with grim disfavor. Coonskin grinned from ear to ear as he swept in the money. Said he, "Mac A'Rony, Cheese, Damfino and Skates--I swear by them every time. Whenever I get that hand I'm billed to win." "So yer travelin' on them jacks," remarked the defeated partner. "No, not exactly," Coonskin returned as he rose from his seat. "The jacks I'm traveling with are out doors; these are their tin-types." The bee-hunter looked chagrined enough, but he took the thing as a matter of course, apparently never dreaming that he had been actually buncoed by a boy tenderfoot. Presently he rose, and shouldering his rifle, made his departure without thanking us for our hospitality. I hoped sincerely he would find his bee tree, and harvest a rich reward. I told Coonskin he was a brick. He accepted his winnings modestly, and fell to finishing the task of skinning the bear. It was a fine skin. After salting it, and wrapping it in gunnysacks, I packed our luggage while Coonskin saddled the donkeys. Shortly after noon we reached the road that was already familiar to us, and five hours later arrived in Florisant. It was sundown when we went into camp. I had lost three days, but I had been fully compensated by the pleasures of angling and bear-hunting. Next day we were off for Leadville in good season. My animals seemed to be in fine traveling form; by sunset we arrived in South Park. It was Saturday. There we enjoyed the hospitality of a deserted, floorless cabin, where, sheltered from the wind, we could eat without swallowing an inordinate amount of sand. Close by was a fine spring, so we resolved to remain until Sunday afternoon. We were awakened at dawn by a bevy of magpies perched on the tent; Coonskin was so annoyed that he crept to the door and shot the chief disturber, in spite of the bad luck promised him by a popular legend. South Park is one of three great preserves in Colorado. There once roamed buffalo, deer, elk, antelope and wolves, while on the mountains bordering the valley were quantities of mountain sheep. A few deer, sheep and bear are said to be still found in that section. Coyotes are heard nightly, and the evening we trailed out of the Park a traveler with a prairie schooner said he had seen two gray wolves. Our afternoon trip through the Park was a painful one. Mosquitoes attacked us from every quarter, and it was mosquito netting, pennyroyal and kerosene alone that saved our lives. When we consider that Mosquito Pass, the highest pass of the Rockies, 13,700 feet, was named after a mosquito we may derive some idea of the size of the insect. It was late in the night, when, after brief stops at two sheep ranches run by Mexicans, and another at a small settlement, we entered the canyon. It required two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass. The snow-capped peaks of the range looked grand and beautiful, and the noisy streams in the canyons leading from the summit on both sides were stocked with trout. The morning we trailed out of the canyon into the Arkansas Valley was clear and lovely. After traveling some distance up the valley, the smoke of the Leadville smelters burst into view, and a mile beyond the city itself could be seen nestling against the towering mountains. This famous mining camp gave us royal welcome. The report in the papers that Pye Pod would lecture that evening drew an enthusiastic throng, applauding and crowding closely about the donkeys, all eager for the chromos that Coonskin sold while I talked. Next morning we crossed the valley and pitched camp on the banks of Twin Lake, two lovely sheets of water at the mouth of the canyon leading to Independence Pass. This pass is one of the loftiest of the Continental Divide--that snowy range from which the rivers of Western America flow east or west through undisputed domains. Trailing up, the ascent gradually became very precipitous and the trail a severe trial. Over this pass, climbed the overland stages and freighting wagons with their four and eight-horse teams. It was, in ante-railroad days, a popular route, and the now deserted cabins of Independence once composed a lively mining camp. Although the trail was kept in good order, yet wagons and teams frequently toppled over the narrow trail, and mules, horses and passengers met their death on the rocks below. We men walked to relieve our animals and arrived at the summit at sundown. Looking backward, for six or seven miles the view surpassed in grandeur any scene of the kind I had ever viewed. The stream appeared to be spun from liquid fleece from the mountain sides, and tumbled and foamed over the rocks and fallen trees in its bed until it looked like a strand of wool in a hundred snarls. While resting, a heavy snow squall descended, and drove us on across the pass into the western canyon for shelter. This canyon surpassed in grandeur and size the other. Knowing our sure-footed steeds would keep the trail much better than we, Coonskin and I got in the saddle, but more than once I nearly went over Mac's head. When we had proceeded only a mile below the summit, the trail became particularly narrow and rocky. To the right, protruded from the bank a great boulder, and to the left sloped a deep and sheer precipice, to which only the roots and stumps of trees could cling. Here my valet dismounted; I should have done likewise. Mac considered a moment whether or not to descend further, then made a sudden dive, shying from the declivity and striking the rock on our right, and was jarred off his feet, falling with me over the edge of the trail. Down and over we rolled toward the yawning gulf some forty feet before we caught on a stump and stopped. That was a dreadful moment for me. For a time I lay still, not daring to excite Mac. Carefully I extricated myself from my perilous position, and held my donkey's head down till Coonskin got the ropes from Damfino's pack and came to my relief. In time the other three donkeys pulled Mac A'Rony up on to the trail. We pitched camp and Sunday morning continued down the trail, which soon presented difficulties still more discouraging. The numerous springs had necessitated corduroy roads often hundreds of feet in extent. But these had been so long in general disuse that the logs had rotted away in places. Frequently Coonskin and I dismounted and repaired the corduroy breaches, with fallen trees, thereby losing much time. By dark my outfit had made but three miles. In the darkness of evening we came to the empty cabins of old Independence, whose single inhabitant called to us from his doorway as we passed. At last we arrived at an old-time stage-house. It was now temporarily tenanted by fishermen from Aspen, who asked us to spend the night with them. I accepted; soon my animals were feeding on the fresh grass bordering a spring nearby, and Coonskin and I seated at the hot repast our hosts had quickly provided. The house was large, with a high roof and a dirt floor. A great fire blazed in the center, lending comfort to the cozy quarters. The anglers had spread their blankets in one end of the shack, and we pitched our tent in the other and soon fell to sleep, while the fishermen likely continued to swap "lies" till a late hour. The last remarks I heard almost made me cry. "I don't think it would do for me to go to hell, pa," said the lad of the party. "Why?" queried the sire. "Oh," said the boy, "the light would hurt my eyes so, I couldn't sleep." Getting an early morning start, we trailed down and out of the long canyon into Roaring Fork Valley, and at four o'clock arrived in Aspen, a famous silver camp of early days. A crowd soon gathered, and I had no sooner announced a street lecture for that evening than the news began to spread all over town. Here supplies must be bought, some business transacted under my advertising contract, and Mac shod. For the first time that jackass kicked the blacksmith. When I reprimanded him, he claimed the man had pounded a nail in his hoof almost to the knee, and added, for the smith's benefit, "Shoe an ass with ass's shoes, but set them with horse sense." Which I thought sound philosophy. At the appointed hour and place for my lecture the street was choked with an eager audience. Coonskin had been instructed to have the donkey there, saddled and packed, by eight sharp. They failed to appear. So impetuous and enthusiastic were the crowding, cheering citizens that I mounted a block and began to talk. Suddenly, I was interrupted by a shout, "The donkeys are coming," and at once the crowd became so hilarious that I had to cease speaking till my outfit arrived. "Mac A'Rony!--Mac A'Rony!--Damfino!--Cheese!" echoed and re-echoed, as a number of boys ran to meet the donks. It occurred to me that Coonskin might soon have his hands full, so I hastened to his side. But, ere I arrived my handsome Colt's revolver was stolen from its holster, buckled to Mac's saddle horn. As Coonskin was riding Cheese and trailing the others he could not guard against the theft, but I blamed him for not heeding my instructions always to leave the guns at my headquarters. It was the only article lost by theft on my journey. The four marshals on duty hoped to recover the revolver, and forward it to me, but I never received it. When I had finished my lecture, Judge S---- passed his hat and handed me a liberal collection. And as my outfit trailed out of town toward Roaring Fork, a young man wheeled up with us and gave me a silver nugget scarf pin. In Aspen, as in Leadville, I disposed of many photos. It was a fine evening. I was promised a smooth trail through to Glenwood Springs. We were to travel ten miles that night, and hence would need to sleep late next day. So I advised Coonskin to set the alarm clock, just purchased, for ten a. m. CHAPTER XLI. BY MAC A'RONY. And riding down the bank, he spurred into the water.--_The Fair God._ When, at the conclusion of Pod's Aspen lecture, he gave the signal for our outfit to "move on," I breathed a sigh of relief. I abhor crowds; I despise shoemakers. They say that an ingrown nail is painful; an inpounded nail is worse. Pod said he wouldn't care if I had lockjaw; for then I'd have to keep my mouth shut. "You ordered Bridget to call us at eight in the morning, didn't you?" Pod asked of his valet, when we were a mile out of town. "I did that," Coonskin replied. Who could Bridget be? Surely the turtle, Bill, hadn't changed his name. I'd hate to have him pull me out of bed. "Have the men got a woman stowed away in their luggage?" queried Cheese; "I hear 'em talking of some biddy." "It's scandalous!" exclaimed Miss Damfino, and Miss Skates said she thought so, too. These words were hardly spoken when, about eight o'clock, we were strolling peacefully down the trail along the high bank of Roaring Fork River in the darkness, something with a shrill voice suddenly began to scream and kick up a terrible racket in one of my saddle bags, electrifying my whole being. Was Pod bewitched? Or was some demon upon me? I asked both questions at once, and not waiting for an answer, ran through the darkness blind with terror. Ears back, tail out straight, and legs spinning, I failed to see the trail, or hear my master's "Whoas!" I only thought the devil was after me, and flew through the air like a meteor. Soon the trail turned to the right, but I kept on straight ahead, and suddenly tumbled, tail over ears, down the steep bank into the rushing river, my master still holding on to reins and saddle horn. How deep I dived I can't say. The dampness poured into my ears and mouth and drowned my thoughts, and just when I had begun to think of my past life, I came to the surface with that demon still yelling and clinging to the saddle or to Pod. Then a terrific jerk on my bit brought me to my senses, and I swam to the nearest shore. It was a long, hard pull. Pod clung to me as though I were a life buoy, and when I climbed on to the bank out of breath, the screaming demon chased me half way up to the trail. Pod's mouth was a flame of fire, but aimed more at Coonskin than at me. Reckon he thought me too wet to burn. The whole outfit, including dog and turtle, awaited us with bated breath. "We've found out who Bridget is," said Cheese, laughing. "To the devil with Bridget!" I retorted. "What in the name of Balaam was that after us?" "The new alarm clock, you fool," replied Cheese. I was too full for utterance--too full of water. The Professor was a sight, even in the darkness. Never saw him so mad. "Didn't you know that if at six o'clock you set the alarm for eight in the morning, it would ring at eight in the evening?" he vociferated, wildly gesticulating at his scared and speechless attendant. Cautiously through the darkness we proceeded for a couple of miles, Pod walking to prevent taking cold, he said. Then we were steered to an old cedar stump, where we camped. Bridget's alarming voice had made a fearful impression upon me. Several times on the way to camp I imagined a demon was after me, and shied into the sage. Why, I've seen roosters and hens chase all over a half acre lot and jump a fence after losing their heads, simply from nervousness. The cedar stump was set ablaze, and as soon as Pod had pitched the tent, he began walking around it dressed in his only suit of clothes, trying to get thoroughly dry. He was not in a good mood to talk with, so I kept aloof. Next morning the valley and the mountains hemming it in revealed a beautiful and bountiful nature. Although alfalfa seemed to be the chief crop, fields of wheat and oats waved in the breeze. It was August; the harvest had hardly begun. The vendure on the mountains was not less lavish in its rare autumnal tintings than were the internal colorings of the hills with metals--copper, lead, silver and gold. Now the trail would hug the river so closely I could hear the roaring flood, and again the current would sink beyond reach of ear or eye, suddenly to burst upon us later. The sun grew hotter with every hour's travel; the trail became more dusty; the prickly sage looked more browned and withered. One evening, under the screen of darkness, the men pitched camp conveniently near to an alfalfa field, hay-stack, and potato cellar. The sage, while much seared by the sun, was yet too young and green to burn, so when Coonskin dropped two large boards in front of the tent Pod was elated. The fellow said he had unroofed a tater cellar. In view of the shady deed, Pod kindled the fire on the shady side of the tent and proceeded to cook the supper. We hadn't time to make our escape next morning before we heard the rattle of a wagon approaching. Presently a team of horses, driven by a short, morose-looking, black-whiskered farmer, stopped right in front of camp. Instinct told me he was the owner of the property we had "squatted on" and intended to make trouble. Pod was seldom embarrassed, but when so he appealed to Coonskin's wit and gall for the desired relief. The man climbed out of the wagon and walked toward the tent, until he saw Don, and stopped short. Coonskin winked slyly at Pod and me under his hat-brim, and said to our caller, "Walk right in, sir, and make yourself miserable; the dog won't hurt you;" then Pod said a "Good morning" sweet and juicy. The stranger's sharp eyes surveyed the remaining board and the cremation ashes of the departed, and nodded sourly. I was now saddled, and Coonskin was buckling on his belt with revolvers and hunting knife. Said he to our guest, "This traveling round the world on a bet ain't what it's cracked up to be." "Reckon not," returned the stranger. And he asked, "Big bet." "N-o-o, only fifteen thousand dollars." The stranger grunted, as he mentally appraised the value of his lumber, and then regarded the men as if he wanted to put a price on their heads. "Wouldn't been so bad," Coonskin resumed, "If one of our original party hadn't got scalped by Esquimaux when crossing the Arabian Desert." "I want ter know!" the stranger exclaimed. "How did it happen?" As he spoke, he sat down near the board and whittled a stick, now and then eyeing Coonskin with overdue interest. "Well, you see," the valet began, "we were trailing on the desert at night, because the sun in India is so hot, when he suddenly hailed what we took to be a caravan. But instead of one outfit, there were three, all of 'em enemies of each and tother--Hottentots, Spaniards, and Solomon Islanders, all at lagerheads. Say, weren't we in a nice mess!" "'Pears so," the farmer ejaculated, with wrapt phiz. "At once all tried to capture us," Coonskin continued, "but pretty soon fell to fighting among themselves; and that'e how we escaped. But Jack got shot." Coonskin looked as if he had lost his last friend. "Poor Jack," muttered Prof., shaking his head sorrowfully. I saw plainly the story had touched the stranger's heart. "Purty sad, wasn't it boys?" he commented. "Didn't ye have no shootin' irons along?" he asked. "Should say we did--a whole battery," said the valet. "We shot several of the black demons (here waxing excited as he recalled the harrowing spectacle), but what was a thousand of them compared with one Jack!" And Coonskin tickled me in the ribs. "Ner a hundred Jacks," returned the farmer absentmindedly, and looking thoughtful. Then Pod said it was time to be going, and offered to pay the farmer for the board he had much enjoyed; but the latter said he "didn't want no pay," and, after offering Pod and Coonskin his plug of tobacco, clambered into his wagon and drove off. Then we made for Glenwood Springs. CHAPTER XLII. BY PYE POD. You may nail it on the pailing as a mighty risky plan To set your judgment on the clothes that cover up a man; It's a risky piece of business, for you'll often come across A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss. --_Old Saw._ We reached Glenwood Springs the week of the annual races, and I piloted my outfit to a prominent corner in town. At once a crowd gathered. After making a few remarks about my trip and promising a lecture before leaving town, I inquired for the leading hotel. "The Colorado," answered a chorus. Then a man in shirtsleeves, sombrero, and high boots edged to my side, and whispered, "Prof, there's a dollar house t'other end of town. The tax is five dollars a day at the Colorado." "How much can I make at the dollar house?" I asked. My informant shrank into his clothes. "I don't believe you can make your salt," he answered. I left my outfit, and rode Mac to the post office. I had not been indoors long before I heard loud cheers and laughter in the street. I rushed out, thinking somebody was making sport with my donkey, and was surprised to see Don leading by the reins that incorrigible flirt, Mac A'Rony, up-street toward the post office. He had strolled to the next corner to make the acquaintance of a prepossessing donk of the opposite sex, and my faithful dog, conscious of his responsibilities, was doing his duty. The town is situated on the east bank of the Grand River; across, some distance from the water, stands the Hotel Colorado. An iron bridge spans the stream, and across it I led my caravan to the hotel in time for dinner. As I dismounted, the guests on the veranda hurried to the railing and whispered to one another; I paid no heed, but, giving my valet instructions to care for my animals, hurried in. The clerk extended his hand in greeting. "Just on time," said he. "Lunch is awaiting you." I shall never forget the sensation I caused when I entered the dining room. A sweeping glance detected every eye upon me. I sat at the nearest table opposite two dudes who almost choked to death when I reached for the menu card. Even the pretty waitresses stopped as if struck. One of the poor girls dropped a tray of dishes. Every countenance said plainly, "How did it drift in?" Several pretty girls at the next table, seasonably gowned in silks and muslins, whispered and giggled audibly. Presently the dudes considered there wasn't room for us three at the table, and changed their seats so precipitately that one of them stumbled over the legs of his chair and broke his fall by first breaking a cup. As they now faced the pretty girls, their prospect was more inviting, if not picturesque. My hair and beard were long, one of my coat-sleeves threatened to come off with the slightest cough or sneeze; I looked like one who had experienced hardship and rough traveling. This is a treat, I thought, as I divided my interest between the diners opposite and my menu card. I was famished. The waitresses kept aloof from me. Suddenly my ear caught the words spoken by one of the dudes, "He acts as if he owned the dining room, and had first bid on the hotel." I smiled. Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and recognized the head-waiter, who, a moment before, had left the room probably to see the hotel clerk. He was all smiles, as he asked if I was being waited upon. I said I was not. "I-I-I beg your humble pardon," he stammered, and off he danced. The next minute a half dozen waitresses were assailing me for my order. Finally I was lavishly served; then there was dissatisfaction at the next table. The dudes began to complain because that "hobo" received every attention while they were neglected. Having received an invitation to the races, I did not tarry longer than necessary. I was sure things would be different when I returned for dinner. And such a change as there was! I was assigned to a table at which was a bevy of girls and two or three gentlemen. My seat had evidently been reserved for me by request. I didn't have to wait for the waitresses to pass me things, the girls did that. I was treated like a hero, and almost embarrassed with attentions. When I retired to dress for the ball given in my honor by the young women of Glenwood, I fell in a chair and laughed till my sides ached. What fun the study of human nature does afford! The evening paper stated that the famous donkey traveler, Professor Pythagoras Pod would be the guest of the evening, and was expected to appear in traveling clothes, spurs, and belt guns. And so I attired myself, arriving at the hall at eight-thirty, and was at once introduced to one and all of the fair gathering. I danced myself completely out. When supper was announced I was glad. Had I traveled thirty miles that day I couldn't have felt more fatigued. It was almost eleven o'clock when I set out for my hotel. One of the attractions at the Colorado is the great out-of-doors natatorium, between the river and the hotel. I had hardly crossed the bridge when I heard Mac's bray issuing from that quarter. The darkness and thick foliage obscured the view, but I heard splashing of water, and laughter, and another wild bray, and concluded some mischief was on the boards among the college students who were guests of the hotel. Quickening my pace, I stole through the shrubbery to the reservoir, and beheld a sight to cause me fright. There was a high chute beside the natatorium, and a staircase for the bathers to climb to the top "to shoot the chutes." There, almost at the top of the stairs, was my misused donkey, being carried to the source of the water raceway by several young men, the donkey braying and kicking frantically, the men struggling in the throes of smothered laughter as well as with their asinine burden. By the time I had collected my senses, Mac was deposited on the platform. "Heigh, there!" I yelled at the top of my voice. "Drop that donkey, you ruffians!" They dropped him. And down he came, tobogganing over the slippery, watery chute, over and over, and landing in the pond, flat on his back. It didn't take long for Mac to finish his bath. When he rose to the surface he snorted and brayed louder than ever, and in swimming about to find a place he could climb out he chased every bather on to land. One of the men got a rope, and, several others assisting, pulled the frightened animal out. Without stopping to discuss the affair, I led Mac to his corral. The following morning a committee persuaded me to deliver a lecture to the guests of the hotel. A notice was posted, announcing Pod's lecture to be delivered at 2 p. m. on the broad veranda in front of the hotel office. I talked in my happiest vein. The interest manifested by my fair auditors would have inspired any lecturer. [Illustration: "_And floated on Salt Lake._"] [Illustration: "_Skull Valley desert; we stopped to feed and rest._"] I concluded with these words: "It is very gratifying for me to know so many are interested in Mac A'Rony's welfare. I hope to take him through with me to the Pacific. I do not like it to appear that I, while a guest of the hotel, am taking undue advantage of its privileges, but if there are any among you who desire a souvenir of our novel trip I have a few pictures which may be procured at twenty-five cents each. I now formally bid you all adieu." The souvenirs went like hot cakes. Presently a sweet girl who had purchased three pictures, with beaming eyes and a winsome smile, asked, "Oh, Mr. Pod, won't you please put your autograph on these photos?" "Certainly," I replied, "but each signature will cost twenty-five cents extra." I said it, just to see how it would take. "Of course, I'll be glad to pay for the autographs," the maid returned, and handed me the photos to sign. And I was kept busy signing pictures until my hand ached. My last afternoon in Glenwood was a busy one. I decided to heed the admonitions of many Westerners I had met, to avoid the Green River desert, a barren waste of shifting sands, utterly devoid of water, stretching a hundred and thirty miles and more, and, instead, to trail northwesterly via Meeker, White River, and the Ute Reservation. On the Meeker route I was promised fair grazing and ample water supply every twenty or thirty miles of the distance to the Mormon City. It was five in the p. m. when Coonskin brought my caravan to the hotel, and saluting me, said, "Professor, your donkeys are ready and packed for the journey." The guests of the hotel, with few exceptions, were assembled to witness the start, and my dog in appreciation of the compliment strode grandly among the ladies and kissed their hands, and I believe bade every one an affectionate farewell. I thought this a good time, for once on my trip, to put on stylish "airs." I had never called upon Coonskin to exercise the duties of a valet, in the strictest sense. As soon as he buckled the guns on the saddles, I dropped my ragged canvas leggings at his feet, put forth a foot, and gave him a significant look. Immediately the gallant "Sancho" knelt down on one knee and proceeded to lace the leggings on me, creating much amusement. I then made a short farewell address, got into Mac A'Rony's saddle, and gave the word to start. Such a cheer as arose from the ladies that lined the veranda! I'll bet there wasn't one who would have missed the event for a five dollar note. Hugging the Grand River (the only hugging I had done in that section) until after dark, we trailed through the sage until ten o'clock, when, discovering a fair grazing place, I ordered camp. My donkeys had just rested two days, so next day, the 28th day of August, I made them trail fast and far, in spite of the heat. It was five o'clock when we pitched camp near the Scott Ranch. I had observed a cow and several hens about the ranch. If I couldn't get milk, I might still obtain fresh eggs, and vice versa. Not waiting to unpack for a can, I set out for the house and knocked at the back door. "Come in," called a female voice. I entered the kitchen with hat in hand and politely said, "How to do?" The sober-faced housewife did not pause in her duties as she welcomed me to be seated. "I came to purchase some milk and eggs," I said presently. "Ain't got no eggs er milk to spare jest now," she replied; "cows all dried up." My face reflected my disappointment. "Are all your hens dry also?" I asked, as the woman deluged a big white cochin with a pan of dish-water. "That one ain't," she returned, smiling at her play on a word and a hen. The incident, trifling as it was, served to break the "ice." I introduced myself and explained my journey; the woman was interested; she had read about me. She told me to make myself "at home," and, admitting that one cow still gave milk and she could spare me a little, she went to the creamery. When she handed me a pail of milk, I offered to pay for it, and persuaded her to sell me a loaf of bread. But I had hardly started for camp with my precious purchases than I was surrounded by a swarm of yellow-jackets which proceeded to alight on the rim of the pail and my hand. I dropped the milk instantly, if not sooner. The woman's exclamation of indignation embarrassed me. I explained and apologized, while my kind "hostess" tried to convince me of the docility of those yellow-jackets; from her account one might suppose they were merely a dwarf species of canary birds. But finally she forgave my indiscretion, refilled the pail, and handing it to me, told me the insects were perfectly harmless, and were not known to sting anybody, unless they were harmed. I thanked the woman for her exceptional generosity and rare treatise on "insectology" and again started for my tent, resolved to preserve that milk at any cost. But I soon wavered from my resolve; the pail wavered, too. I couldn't change it from one hand to the other fast enough to elude those docile yellow-jackets. Then I hit upon a new idea; it looked practical enough. I spilled some milk on the ground, and after weaning many hornets from the pail, I lifted the latter, covered it with my hat, and made for camp. Now once in a while a babe is found hard to wean; the same may be said of a yellow-jacket. One buzzing fellow, doubtless young and feeble, and being tired from long flight, sat on my bald pate to rest, there to die a violent death. On that spot, although his remains were removed, was soon reared a monumental mound, sacred to his memory. I yelled before I remembered it was not manly to do such a thing, and the good madam hastening to my aid, if not relief, carried the pail of milk to my tent, also bringing with her a can of jam. Her kind, forgiving disposition mentally paralyzed me. My own unprecedented conduct almost made me hang my sore head with shame. We men dined on bread and milk, and at seven o'clock struck out for Meeker. We had passed through the village of Newcastle when some fifteen miles from the Springs; and there were invited into a peach orchard to delight our palates with some delicious fruit, but no other village did we thread on our route to White River. The last twenty miles of the journey led us across a series of divides, mesas or benches, variously called, and between these miniature watersheds trickled occasional rivulets which either lost themselves in the parched soil, or struggled on till they joined with a larger stream to reach a river. As the tired eye wanders over this sun-scorched wilderness, strewn with what appears to be volcanic matter, he imagines he sees on the black, rock-strewn butes the craters of long-extinct volcanos, which the ravages of time and the elements have almost leveled. And over these charred piles and the intervening plains of white and yellow sage one sometimes sees a solitary horse or steer standing bewildered, as if before impending doom, or else trending by animal instinct some tortuous, obscured trail to a hidden spring. Meeker takes its name from a family, massacred by the Indians in the 70's. Four or five hundred inhabitants to-day compose this quiet and now law-abiding community, whose chief pursuits appear to be the pursuit of wild steers, horses, fish and game. White River flows past the town on its picturesque way to the Grand, the latter further on joining forces with the Green to form the Colorado. The hills about Meeker abound with large game--mountain lions, bear, bobcats, and, when the snow comes, deer and elk. I was informed from authentic sources that in early winter the deer are driven by the snow down the river in to Grand Junction valley in such numbers that ranchmen have had to stand guard over haystacks with guns and pitchforks. One woman told me with modest candor that she had actually seen her husband catch and hold a deer in his arms. After leaving Meeker the scenic views from the trail down and along White River for seventy miles are magnificent and imposing. Rising sheer and bold from the west bank of this deep stream, is a lofty ridge of brown and barren mountains, whose mural crests of red and yellow sandstone and limestone formed in my imagination the walls and watch-towers of castles of a prehistoric race, while the placid river at their base appeared to be a mighty moat to protect the towering battlements from menacing foe. White River City lies some twenty miles south of Meeker. It has great possibilities. If another house were erected there, and it domiciled as many people as the one habitation then standing did, the population of the place would be increased 100 per cent. Even a part of that house was converted into a post office and a general store. About twenty-five miles from White River City is Angora, another town containing a single house. We arrived at sunset. The proprietor of this goat ranch invited me to pitch camp on his meadow lot, where my animals could find some feed, and treated me to a leg of goat. He possessed a herd of about two hundred Angoras, and derived his chief livelihood from their hair, hides, and "mutton," as he called it. I found the meat sweet and tender; it was hard to distinguish it from lamb; possibly because I had forgotten how lamb tasted. My host visited my camp-fire and entertained me with many interesting tales of adventure. Occasional gardens and fields of alfalfa are seen on the east bank, all due to irrigation. Great water-wheels, turned by the river current, raise cans of water ten feet and more and empty them in troughs, so conveying the water to ditches. Ranchmen had cautioned me to give Rangely, the next settlement, a "wide berth." I was told it was a den of outlaws and desperate cowboys, who lived by "rustling" cattle and rebranding them, hunting mavericks, (unbranded calves) and following other nefarious pursuits. Instead of frightening me away, these accounts interested me. At four in the afternoon we came to a trail branching and leading to a large log house a half mile away. That was Rangely; and we headed for it. CHAPTER XLIII. BY MAC A'RONY. I'll say of it It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. --_Timon of Athens._ Pod was always looking for trouble. The fellow who courts trouble finds it sooner or later. I brayed myself hoarse trying to persuade my reckless master to give Rangely a wide berth. He couldn't think of it. He was anxious to meet real wild-and-woolly-west cowboys of the old-time style; he didn't fear the worst of 'em. "Hit the trail, there, Mac," he said, spurring me toward the hotbed of cowboy rascality. Arriving at the house-saloon-store-city-hall-business-headquarters of Rangely, the dozen rough-looking men lounging about swaggered toward us, pleased-like and curious. "Prospectin'?" one inquired. "N-o-o-o," Pod drawled; "just traveling." That was the time in Pod's life when he ought to have lied. Then he explained where he was from, and where he was bound, but did not say that he was a darn fool. The cowboys grunted, or nodded, or smiled, some winked to each other, and one of 'em nudged another in the ribs; everything they did had a deep meaning. I began to tremble for Pod. Would they shoot at his heels and make him dance? Or make him ride a bucking bronco? Or what? "Better feed yer jacks, Mister," said one; "ye'll find grain in th' shed yender." Pod seemed to be as delighted as we donks. "The Prof is going to catch it soon," Cheese observed. "Serve him right," added Damfino. Coonskin left us to feed and walked to the house with Pod. Soon afterward they returned with a cowboy, who said I had a good shape, asked my weight, and inquired if I was sound in body and mind; then he questioned Coonskin. "What did you do fer yer salt 'fore ye jined th' outfit?" "I was night porter in a hotel," was the reply. "What was ye doin' 'fore that?" "Railroading some." "And 'fore that?" "Painting." "Paintin' what?" "Church steeples." "Golly! yer jest th' man we're lookin' fer." Coonskin didn't quite understand them, but he did later. "Bridle this 'ere jack," said the cowboy, meaning me. Coonskin bridled me and rode to the joint. I didn't think anything would happen to me. Several more cowboys had just come in from the range, and soon every man of the gang was busy. I now noticed one fellow mixing red paint; three or four were making two ladders; another one appeared with an armful of blankets; and another with ropes, and presently a cowboy climbed one of the ladders to the roof. Something was doing, sure. Pod seemed interested, but didn't say anything. Coonskin looked as if he saw his finish. I giggled. Suddenly came a surprise. One cowboy wrapped the blankets round my body, while another bound them on with lariats; another trimmed my tail with a pair of sheepshears. Then ropes were fastened to my body and the other ends thrown to the men on the roof. Next the ropes were slung round the two chimneys at both ends of the roof, and thrown to the gang below. At once the cowboys grabbed hold and pulled, and I rose in the air, until my head bunked against the eaves. There I dangled and swung and kicked and brayed. Never was so scared in all my life. Splinters flew as I kicked holes in the house, and knocked off a section of the eaves. The cowboys howled, they thought it so funny. But the real circus began when Pod was commanded to mount a ladder with a pail of red paint, and using my tail for a brush, paint the name "R A N G E L Y" on that house. Coonskin was made to climb the other ladder with another pail of paint, and, he being a professional painter, with a real paint brush go over Pod's lettering to make a decent job of it. Well, I had seen Pod mad, but never as mad as he was then. He grabbed my tail and started to paint a big letter R, when I up and kicked the pail out of his hands and sent red paint flying all over half the cowboys; not satisfied with this, I put a few more holes in the house, and finally hit the ladder and spilled Pod on the ground. The cowboys thought that was fun, too; some were so tickled they fired off their revolvers. Here Coonskin was told to divide his paint with Pod, and the painting was continued on the letter A. The Prof worked as well as he could with such a nervous paint brush, now and then dodging my heels. I admit I didn't know what I was doing, when suddenly I struck my master in the stomach, and made him get down from the ladder. But the sign had to be finished. Up the ladder again Pod climbed like a man, the cowboys pulled on the ropes, dragging me along so that my tail could be brought to where the next letter should be. Then Pod started on the fourth letter, G. By this time the men were tugging on the ropes to keep me in position for the painter's convenience. Finally the men backed from the house and pulled me away from its side, and Pod turned me about till I hung the other end to, and began the fifth letter, E. Now I could see the sign. It was up hill. I knew it wouldn't suit those cowboys, and I expected it would have to be painted over. It wasn't Pod's fault, it wasn't mine. As I was gradually pulled along the eaves the higher I was raised, because there was no pulley on the rope. But now that I was turned about, I was swung back some, and the E had to be painted below the level of the first four letters. L and Y followed each other up hill, until, just as the job was finished, I hit the pail a crack with my right foot and sprinkled two more cowboys. The crowd made sport of them, and I think, after all, those cowboys fared worse than we three painters. Then I was lowered to the earth. To my surprise, the cowboys liked the sign immensely. One pronounced it artistic, another said it was odd and people would notice it, and several agreed that it was the best job of its kind they ever saw. Pod didn't seem to be tickled over this flattery, but Coonskin was puffed up with pride, and when one fellow told him he ought to have stuck to painting, he acknowledged that he should have done so. When the two started down the ladders the cowboys called: "Hold on there, we want a speech." So the Prof made a speech. Both men were then escorted indoors and the barkeeper mixed a high-ball in a pail and sent it out to me. I was "loony" for hours afterwards. I never want another experience like that. Pod said afterward it was his first and last painting. He thought the cowboys might have shot a pipe out of his mouth, but he hadn't thought they could condescend to such a low trick as to make him paint a sign with his donkey's tail. The cowboys wanted us to spend the night with them, but Pod replied that he couldn't tarry, but he said he was much obliged for all their courtesies. About dark we said good-bye, and pretending we would travel ten miles that evening, pitched camp near a bridge crossing White River, one or two miles from Rangely. At dawn the men were out after sage hens. They saw several, but couldn't get a shot at the shy creatures. We started early and traveled over a desolate wilderness of sage and greasewood in a torturing sun, and were unpacked at one o'clock for an hour's rest. Sometimes the trail led through deep channels in the hard-baked sand for several hundred yards, where we were obscured from view. These channels wound about through the desert and mesa, as if they might be the beds of dried-up rivers; and they were often so narrow that had we met a wagon either our outfit or the vehicle would have had to turn back. We came across quantities of skeletons and skulls of horses and cattle and wild animals, but I failed to see any donkey's bones. Don was glad when in these cuts, for he managed there to keep in the shade, while trailing in the open he was ever trotting ahead to hide under a bush where three-fourths of him was exposed to the sun. Toward the middle of the afternoon we crossed the backbone of the plateau, at an altitude of seven thousand feet, and met a wagon with four horses, bound for Leadville with honey. The driver said he was from Vernal, some sixty miles to the west. Pod thought honey would go well with hot cakes for supper, and after some coaxing got the freighter to break a case and sell him a half dozen boxes. Then the question arose, how could he safely carry the honey? "Good idee not to put all your eggs in one basket," Coonskin remarked. Pod said he wouldn't. He tucked one box in a saddle-bag, another in a roll of blankets strapped behind his valet's saddle, another in a bag of supplies on Skates, and the last two he packed carefully in the canvas awning. The men conversed and smoked awhile, when the stranger happened to mention that he sometimes dealt in hides. Here was the chance the men were waiting for. The bearskin Skates had carried from Turkey Creek belonged to the poker-player, but he promised half what he should get for it to Pod, if he would let the donks carry it till disposed of. The man said he was willing to give $60 for a fine silvertip skin, so Coonskin unpacked. The stranger was more pleased with it than he would admit, and hemmed and hawed some about the price, but finally paid the $60, and we moved on. It was six o'clock, and the sun was sinking behind the distant plain when the buildings of the K ranch loomed in the distance. The sound of galloping horses approaching us from behind caused me to look around, and I beheld two Indians with guns in hand, yelling and gesticulating wildly as they leaned over their ponies' necks, spurring hard to catch up with us. When Pod and Coonskin saw the Indians after them, they got ready to throw up their hands. Their faces were as chalky as an alkali desert. "Have you seen any cattle branded U. S.?" one of the wild men inquired. Pod said he hadn't. "Where you from?" questioned the half-breed. Pod said: "White River country." "Ah, we just from there--been hunting up stolen cattle," the half-breed replied. "Found them, but fellows wouldn't give them up. We've done our duty; the fort must deal with them now." Pod asked what fort, and was told Fort Duchesne, some seventy miles away. We learned that two companies of colored troops of the U. S. army were stationed there. The Indians never touched us. CHAPTER XLIV. BY PYE POD. "Dost not hear the neighing of horses, the blare of the trumpets, the beating of the drums?" "I hear nothing," said Sancho, "but a great bleating of ewes and wethers." And this was true, for the two flocks had now come up near them.--_Don Quixote._ The great K ranch welcomed us just before dark. My animals were generously fed, and we men soon joined the Indian policemen at supper in the house. When, next morning, the foreman saw us pack the donkeys, he expressed surprise at my traveling with such a luxurious camp outfit. The folding table and chairs, awning, many blankets and other articles were condemned as disgraceful by this experienced plainsman; so, my sensibilities being shocked by such a criticism, I abandoned a hundred pounds of luggage, giving the table, chairs and superfluous blankets to the ranchman, and selling him the awning; then we resumed the journey. Green River was twenty-five miles to the west. The journey was even more monotonous than that of the previous day. The powdered alkali rose in our faces and penetrated our eyes and throats, compelling us almost constantly to sip from our canteens, wrapped in wet cloths to keep the water cool. Frequently my dog would jump at the larger canteens in the panniers and bark for a drink. I loved to watch him lie down in the narrow shade of a donkey, and, resting his chin on the rim of the basin, slowly lap the frugal measure of water I was able to spare him. We reached Green River by five, and waited until the ferryman awoke from his daydream to guide the flat-boat across the stream for us. He charged me only two dollars. I thought it very decent of him, as the river was too deep to be forded and he controlled the only ferry; our only alternative was to swim this treacherous stream. Several overland travelers with prairie schooners were in camp on the opposite shore, eastward bound. I paid a dollar to graze my animals in an alfalfa field for the night, but when we left for Vernal next morning every donkey had the stomach-ache. They grunted and groaned on the march until noontime, and deplored their gluttony with sundry brays that were grating on the nerves. Vernal is a veritable oasis in a desert, nestling in a broad and fertile valley, which, irrigated from the numerous springs in the mountains forming a rampart round it, is a garden of vivid green. Farmhouses dot the orchards and meadows everywhere, and the village itself is splendidly shaded. Honey is a leading industry; one can see bee-hives in almost every door yard. After a good supper with a stranger who offered his hospitality, we two strolled about the flower-scented streets in the cool evening air, until we retired to a downy bed in his apartment that made me wish my trip at an end. Here were no mosquitoes. The fruits of this valley are prolific and delicious, and haven't a blemish; the water is pure, and the climate healthful and exhilarating; surely Vernal received its name from Nature. The frontier post, Fort Duchesne, lay twenty-eight miles to the south, across a desert waste. A few miles beyond Vernal we entered the Uintah Indian Reservation. Further on we saw the shacks and teepees of the Utes, and once we passed a party of this treacherous tribe on their ponies. Apparently taking us for desperadoes, they veered off to some distance in the sage and gave us a "wide berth." The strength and humility of their little steeds was surprising. Several of them carried four and five people, the buck sometimes with a boy in front of him and his squaw astride behind him with a papoose strapped to her back, and a boy or girl behind her. When they saw Damfino with her towering pack they, too, perhaps, did some wondering. We crossed the bridge spanning the Uintah River just before sunset, and reached the guardhouse of the fort just as the bugle sounded retreat parade. To my surprise and delight the officer of the day, Lieut. Horne, was adjutant and chief commissary, and better still, an old classmate. And when, after parade, I saw the popular officer crossing the parade ground to meet me, I wondered if the changes wrought in our appearance by the lapse of thirteen years would make us both unrecognizable. Our meeting was amusing. The orderly ushered me into the officer's presence, and I advanced and grasped my old friend's hand in a manner to convince him that I knew him; but while we shook hands vigorously and playfully punched each other in the shoulders, the puzzled man could not speak my name. "You old fool! Don't you know me?" I asked, still shaking his hand. "You disgraceful old vagabond! Of course I know you; but blast me if I can place you," he returned grinning all over. "Who are you for heaven's sake? Where 're you from, and how did you get here? Speak, man! Relieve me of suspense, if you don't want to get shot by a colored regiment of United States troopers." "Why," I asked, "is it possible that you do not recollect your old classmate; the famous pillow fight at S--'s Hotel? The mock fight with our old chum, Mike H--n, in my room, when you frightened the boy from West Virginia half to death with--?" "Pod! Blast me, if it ain't Pod!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "Well, well, if this doesn't beat me. Sit down and tell me about it. I am glad to see you. But you do look rough. Prospecting? Or fighting Indians? Or what?" I explained. My animals, I said, were waiting outside in the care of my valet. Horne rose in astonishment. "Traveling overland with a valet!" he exclaimed. "You are a beautiful looking swell. I have often read about you, but, blast me! if I ever once suspected it was my old chum making the famous trip. Show me the jackasses." Forthwith I escorted the laughing Lieutenant out and presented Mac A'Rony. I spent two enjoyable days at Fort Duchesne, as the guest of my friend. One of the first to call upon me was the genial Colonel commanding. He asked me to lecture to the residents of the post. Accordingly, I gave my talk that evening to a large audience, and at its conclusion I was introduced to many ladies and officers of the post and afterwards entertained at the army club. The following day, at one o'clock, my outfit was ready to start. The donkeys were in fine fettle, and Don frisked about gayly, eager for the journey. My friend regretted I could not spend a month with him, and tucked a package in my saddle-bag by which to remember him, and many officers and ladies joined with him in wishing me God-speed. Then we waved an adieu and climbed the long, sage-covered mesa, toward Heber City, a hundred and thirty-mile march without a habitation in view. Fort Duchesne was still in sight when a hailstorm struck us. The donkeys were compelled to close their eyes and turn their backs to the fearful charges of the merciless elements, while we men pulled our hats over our eyes, put our hands in our pockets, and crouched under our animals; still we were severely bruised, and our necks and arms were black and blue. When the hail ceased, the leaden clouds poured down a cold rain, which beat in our faces and greatly impeded travel. The trail was soon converted into a veritable torrent; the sand or rock-waste soil softened into mire many inches deep, causing the stubbornly faithful burros to slip and stumble and labor as they never did before. We had journeyed only sixteen miles when, at eight o'clock, we pitched camp on the banks of the swollen Lake Fork River. The night was black. What a nasty predicament! No bottom to the soil anywhere; the mud and water reached to my boot-tops. Before unpacking we cut sage brush and trampled it into a large square bed two feet deep, on which to place our packs. Then, picketing the animals, we tried to kindle a fire with water-soaked brush sprinkled with coal oil; but failed. Soon a ranchman arrived leading his horse, and said he had almost lost his steed while fording the river and narrowly escaped drowning. He joined us in a cold supper of canned meat and corn, whiskey and water, then rode away in the pouring rain. Our bed that night was anything but inviting. We could not pitch the tent. The soaked sage and the rain saturated our canvas sleeping-bag and dampened our clothing. How I regretted having disposed of those "superfluous" blankets at the K ranch. We were not only wet, but cold, rolled in two blankets and a quilt. When I awoke in the morning I even wrung the water out of the underwear I had slept in, and, also, my trousers and coat before I could get them on, and then in the still pouring rain ate a cold breakfast, saddled, packed, and resumed the trip. That day we made twenty miles, and "ran" as terrible a gauntlet of thunderbolts as I ever witnessed. Next day it became necessary to swim Lake Fork. Mac said it was his Rubicon as well as mine. The current was swift, and roared and foamed like a mountain torrent. My donkeys, brought to the water's edge, reared and wheeled and rushed intractably into the willows, scraping off their packs on the miry banks; it required a half hour to replace and securely cinch the luggage on the beasts so that it might not be washed away. Then, with stout willow goads and howling invectives, we drove the braying animals into the flood and followed them, fording or swimming across the river. Cheese was carried down stream and almost drowned. Gaining the nether bank we tramped through storm and mire all day, making eighteen miles, and after dark camped with the party of a prairie schooner at the foot of a hill, where we found seasoned cedar stumps for fuel, and built a roaring fire. The soil there was more solid, the land gently sloping, and we pitched the tent near the wagon and fire, staked the donkeys, and joined hands with our chance acquaintances to provide the evening meal. The good woman of the party gave us a pie, a can of beef and a loaf of bread; these luxuries, together with boiled potatoes and hot coffee, put our bodies in prime condition for a sound night's sleep in wet garments and bedding. My provisions were not only quite spoiled by the rain and river water, but were insufficient to last us through. Rising early, we breakfasted in the rain, and traveled only fifteen miles, swimming the Duchesne River once and fording it twice that day. The stream was somewhat deeper than Lake Fork, but the current less swift, and at every crossing my donkeys rebelled. Soon after the last fording, the sun broke through the clouds, and gave us an opportunity to dry ourselves and freight. A patch of wild meadow enabled my animals to fill their empty stomachs with grass, while some giant sage brush soon dried in the broiling sun, allowing us to spread our blankets and soaked apparel thereon. We unpacked, and cooked, and when our clothes were dry enough to feel comfortable and shrunken enough hardly to be got on, we resumed the march. Our supplies were in a mess. Our only can of coal oil was broken, and the contents had seasoned every eatable not canned. The forgotten boxes of honey had been smashed, and everything was gummed with it; every pack smelled like a bee-hive. The honey I rolled in our underwear, diluted with the water of the several fords, had permeated the raiment so thoroughly that now the heat of our bodies began to warm it up, and my clothes were soon glued to my skin. That night we camped on Current Creek, after fording the stream. A bear appeared, but scampered grunting into the thicket, my dog not inclined to give chase. Once I was awakened by the cry of a mountain lion, and Coonskin said the yelps of wolves kept the dog growling and snarling half the night through. It appeared that we were experiencing the fall equinox. Wearily traveling through another day of rain, we camped for the night near a bunch of dwarf cedars. Now the rain ceased for a couple of hours, and enabled us to kindle a fire and cook before lightning played on every hand and the rain descended again. Our largest canteen leaked from some accident it had received, and our surprise and despair on discovering the emptied receptacle may be imagined. What should we do for drinking water? I had not more than asked the question than my eye discerned several small basins in the table rocks close by. These basins were filled, but were so shallow that only by dipping the water with a saucer could we obtain a two-quart can of the precious liquid; next morning we secured another frugal supply for the ensuing day's journey. Our luggage was placed under two cedars for protection from the storm. During the night we were awakened by the terrific crash of a thunderbolt, which struck so near as to shock us. In the morning I saw that one of the trees had been struck. But our packs were uninjured, save the whiskey bottle, which was broken and its precious contents lost. Thus the sympathy existing between "Jersey lightning" and Utah lightning. Another day's tramp over a muddy trail, and a night camp on another roaring stream, Red Creek; our supplies quite exhausted, we boiled some onions and ate them with the last of our honey. I felt as if I were eating diphtheria medicine. Next morning we breakfasted on a turkey buzzard shot by Coonskin, and that afternoon my jaded caravan crossed the summit of the plateau, and descended into the beautiful Strawberry Valley in the glow of a gorgeous sunset. Soon after, we met two sheep-herders on horseback, looking for two comrades, and, when crossing the broad, verdant valley, we saw two great flocks of sheep, one grazing up the valley, the other down. We camped near Strawberry Creek. The four sheep-herders rode up presently and having a wagon full of supplies, said if I would lend them my tent-poles they would string up a lamb and divide. I gladly consented. Two of the herders rode off to mill up the flocks for the night, while the other two butchered a sheep, built a fire and cooked. If the scene of that highland camp could have been painted with true color and detail, it certainly would have made the artist famous. A few feet from the flaming fire stood my tent-poles like a tripod, and from their apex was suspended, head down, a fat mutton; on bended knee with hunting knife in hand, one of the herders was taking its woolly pelt. The coffee-pot and frying-pan were on the fire with a kettle of boiling potatoes, and, while the shepherd-cook was preparing bread for my Dutch oven, two herders gathered sage for a reserve supply of fuel. Some fifty feet way the horses were picketed, and across the stream the donkeys grazed on the juicy grass, untethered but none the less secure in the novel corral of twenty thousand sheep which the faithful shepherd dogs promised to keep milled round us all throughout the black, chilly night. The camp-fire sent flashlight beams on the surrounding scene, and etched weird pictures on the darkness. The silhouetted heads and backs of the horses and donkeys moved fantastically against the starry sky like animated mountain peaks on the distant horizon; the vast field of wool encompassing us and the bleating of its contented life seemed like the troubled waters of some highland lake imprisoning us on its one small island; and away across the vale and again just above us towered the barrier of mountains against the sparkling heavens, forming banks and pillows for stray clouds to sleep upon. At a late hour we hungry men sat down to a tasty supper of fried mutton, potatoes, hot bread and coffee. The air soon rang with laughter. Later when we brought forth our companionable pipes and began story-telling round the cozy fire, I felt a delight which seemed a full compensation for the hardships we had suffered during the last week. Suddenly the cry of a mountain lion set the collies barking, but the report of a herder's rifle silenced the prowler and sent him back, no doubt, into the hills. The lions and wolves are a constant menace to the flocks in that popular valley. It was midnight when we retired. Storm-clouds had gathered and shut out the light of the stars; it looked and felt like snow. The shepherds, learning that we travelers were short of bedding, brought us two heavy woolen blankets; so we rolled ourselves together and were soon asleep, and in the morning awoke, covered with snow an inch deep. By seven o'clock we were ready to resume our journey and the shepherds had saddled their mounts for their day's duties. Trailing out of the valley, and through Daniel's Canyon, we traveled some twenty-five miles down to the lowlands, and at nine in the evening pitched camp near where, next morning, we discovered a ranchhouse and haystack. Heber City lay five miles away; arriving there we were royally entertained. Friday we started for Provo. The trail lay through a picturesque canyon, along the bank of Provo River, where the mountains rose sheer and barren to a great height on either hand. Numerous waterfalls pour their loveliness over steep declivities; patches of crimson and yellow verdure showed in the crevices of the gray summits; and now and then a terraced vineyard or orchard or an irrigation ditch, hugging the steep slopes, indicated a habitation was hidden somewhere near in leafy bower or vine-covered trellis. Once we crossed the river on a new iron bridge replacing an old stone structure which avalanches had demolished. Passing the night in Provo, I rode Skates six miles to Springville, through a beautiful, verdant valley, where rows of poplars lined the fields and orchards, reminding one of Normandy. There I was greeted by a newspaper editor and a school principal, the latter inviting me to dinner. Returning to Provo I found my outfit ready for trail. Making a brief stop in Lehi, we reached Pleasant Grove about eight, and camped in a peach orchard adjoining a hotel. The landlord welcomed us to a hot supper, in spite of the late hour, then offered us a downy bed, which we declined, preferring the pure, crisp outer air. I boarded the early morning train for Salt Lake City to attend Sunday service at the Tabernacle and hear the famous organ and choir. Coonskin remained behind to care for our animals. Without my donkeys to identify me, my rough, unkempt and most eccentric person caused a sensation at the Mormon capital. I kept aloof from everybody, and nobody was inquisitive enough to inquire my name, errand, and previous condition of servitude. I strolled about the beautiful city, and then went to church. [Illustration: "_The last and only drop._"] [Illustration: "_Just finished lunch when the posse arrived._"] An usher with a charitable heart led me half way down the aisle to a pew in the midst of that fashionable congregation. Every one was dressed better than Pod. But I did not feel ill at ease; on the contrary, I felt at home. A great many true churchmen and churchwomen should have kept their eyes on their hymnals instead of watching me try to chant "I want to be a Mormon and with the Mormons stand." Presently my sensitive nerves were irritated by successive coughing across the aisle. I looked to see what kind of a mortal was suffering so, and beheld a vision of loveliness! Instantly I remembered a small box of cough drops in my pocket, and felt it my duty as a gentleman to summon the courage to cross the aisle and offer the soothing remedy. Soon with palpitating heart and crimson face, I stepped with quaking limbs across the aisle and reached the box to the fair cougher. I remember her look, as she lifted the lid of the--empty box. I knew plenty of people in my lifetime who had fainted; I regretted never having taken lessons from them. My head reeled, the Tabernacle was going round, and with difficulty I retreated to the pew in front of my hat, which I looked for, but couldn't find. I needed fresh air, I wanted to go out. Strange to say the lady stopped coughing. It was the shock that cured her, but the congregation were not aware of that. Some of them saw her look into the mysterious pasteboard box and turn red-beet color, and cease her convulsions. That was why several spoke to me, and asked if I were a magician, or healer, as they had read of such people. When I had once escaped into the airy street, I wondered how that box became emptied; then, suddenly, I recollected that, before retiring the night before, Coonskin asked if I had some cough drops left, and helped himself. After dinner I felt better. I visited the Jubilee Museum, where was exhibited an interesting collection of Mormon relics of pioneer days, and then took a car for Fort Douglas, about three miles from the city on the mountain side, and was invited to tea with an officer of the post, my old friend Lieut. K----n. It was late when I reached Pleasant Grove. The following day my party covered nearly twenty-five miles, and about two o'clock on the succeeding afternoon marched into the Mormon capital. There a well known pioneer made a speech and welcomed me to the city; and after I had responded in fitting words, he presented me to leading citizens, among them bishops, presidents and elders of the Mormon church. The presiding bishop, an affable old gentleman, asked the privilege of caring for my animals at the Tithing House; another prominent citizen invited me to be his guest. I declined the latter kindness, preferring to be a free lance and to make the most of my sojourn. I was next introduced to Governor Wells. That same evening Coonskin and I were invited to the theater, and next day, besides delivering many lectures, I contracted with S---- & Company, prominent silversmiths, to make a full set of silver shoes for Mac A'Rony, to be sent to Oakland, Cal., and there to be set for his triumphant entry into San Francisco. CHAPTER XLV. BY MAC A'RONY. O, that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am made an ass.--_Much Ado About Nothing._ My sojourn in the famous Mormon Capital was too short for my taste. I shall remember it as long as I have bra'in's. I am proud to say that I was initiated into the Mormon faith and took unto myself no less than eleven wives; and I would have outrivaled Brigham Young in connubial conquests if Pye Pod had not bribed the Elders and put an end to my marital ambitions. While a guest at the Tithing House, I found it well stored with asinine and equine luxuries. The Bishop and many charming lasses brought me bread, cake, apples and jam, and some genial fellow of a convivial turn tapped a bottle of rum punches. After imbibing a few "balls," I was quite ready to tipple Cheese, Damfino and Skates, and right here let me say, that of all skates I ever knew or heard about, the last named takes the palm as an artist in "high-jinks." While she gave a clever exhibition of an inebriated athlete, the rest of us donks lay stupidly on a bunch of hay, which was one-tenth of some Mormon's harvest, and reveled in day dreams. Skates had reached that stage of her circus where she was burlesquing a Shetland pony cavorting on two legs, when Coonskin announced it was time to start. None of us stirred, except Skates. She showed the man how superbly she could pirouette on her left legs around the corral; then, suddenly, she toppled over in front of him, and reached for the bottle lying at his feet. Coonskin grabbed the bottle, smelt of it, eyed each one of us distrustfully, flung it over the fence, and prodded us all on to our feet. You can bet he had a hard job to keep two of us standing, let alone all four of us. He looked disgusted, turned on his heel, and made for the gate at once. When Coonskin returned, he bore a pail of water in each hand. Indeed, the forgiving old soul, I thought, is going to refresh us and wash that dull, brown taste out of our mouths. Staggering to my feet, I advanced to meet him. Damfino and Cheese were almost dead to the world, but Skates made for the man on a lop-sided trot, arriving at one pail just as I reached the other. Into the liquid we dipped our nozzles, and as quickly jerked them out. What strange tasting water! "Water from a mineral spring," observed Skates. "No, it's a bromo-seltzer," said I. Then each drank about a fourth of a pailful, and would have drunk more, but Coonskin snatched the pails away, and, it seems, transposed them. Again we fell to drinking. But, so help me Balaam! soon something began to boil and sizzle inside of me. I thought I had swallowed a school of swordfish, but immediately a geyser raged within, and, like a shot, spouted out of my mouth, spraying Coonskin's face; and almost simultaneously Skates played another fountain in the man's eyes. "Seidlitz powders!" I gasped, trying to catch my breath, which seemed to have left me forever. And didn't that man curse the whole race of jackasses! Dropping the pails, he ran for a pump. Presently Coonskin returned. "You infernal scapegraces!" he exclaimed, as he eyed me and picked up the pails. My recent experience had quite restored me to a rational donkey, and, remembering that "a soft word turneth away wrath," I said, "You are too eager to fix the blame on an innocent creature, Master Coonskin. The recent episode which was so distasteful to us three, and most exasperating to you, points a good moral. Never become so absorbed in the virtues of a cure that you are blind to its possible effect upon your patient." The man left us, shaking his head and talking to himself, and administered the dose to Damfino and Cheese. When Coonskin first visited us it was eleven o'clock. Damfino did not sound eight brays to announce the sun's meridian and the hour for barley, but we donks were considered sober enough to be packed by one o'clock, although in poor condition to travel. It was an effort for me to walk, an impossibility to walk straight. My asinine comrades grunted and groaned from nausea, and Cheese complained that we had been cheated of our mid-day meal. When we arrived at the Hotel, Pod had just finished his luncheon. Damfino looked into the hotel portal and brayed. Then Pod came out, got into my saddle, and amid great applause from the assembled citizens, piloted our caravan down the broad thoroughfare, out of the lovely poplared streets and hospitable, home-lined avenues, past orchard and field and cottage and windmill, over the road to Garfield Beach, on "that mysterious inland sea," a few miles from the city. Once or twice, as I wabbled across the level and luxuriant valley, I turned my head for "one last, lingering look behind," though I confess I did so timorously, with a feeling intermixed with superstitious foreboding, as I recalled the story of how Lot's wife turned into a pillar of salt. It suggested itself to my reason that if there was one spot on earth indigenous to such a dire transformation it was right in that Salt Lake valley. There, above and behind us, and across the majestic towers of the Temple, lay Fort Douglas, the gem frontier post of America, its white painted fences and barns glistened like meerschaum in the sunshine, with lovely drives and walks, and smooth-cut foliage, and sleek-broomed lawns of emerald, and fountains (not charged with seidlitz), and blooming flowers. And beyond towered the rugged, snow-crowned summits of the "eternal barrier" which holds the fort below, and guards with loving care the "Land of Promise" and that so-called "modern Zion" at their feet, like a dog guards his bone when threatening elements are wagging his way. We arrived at Utah's Coney Island, Garfield Beach, late in the middle of the afternoon. This famed resort, named after the martyr President who was the victim of an assassin, is a very pleasant retreat on the lake shore. It is accessible by railroad train, horse and buggy, or donkey engine, although few people accept the latter mode of conveyance, as Pod did, I observed. Pod stopped to swim and float on Salt Lake. Then we went on and brought up at a delicious fresh-water well, in front of the Spencer Ranch-house, where I led my asinine quartette in the song of the "Old Oaken Bucket." An audience at once gathered. Mr. S---- invited us all to tarry for the night, and when the Prof. accepted, we donks gave three "tigers" and a kick, which struck the ranch dog as being most extraordinary. Landing on the other side of the fence, he yelped himself into the house without further assistance. CHAPTER XLVI. BY PYE POD. There are braying men in the world, as well as braying asses; for what's loud and senseless talking and swearing any other than braying?--_Sir Roger L'Estrange._ We set out early from Spencer ranch, refreshed by a good night's sleep. The weather was mild, but the trail dusty, and the country uninteresting. I found Tooele to be a sociable town that, from appearances, subsisted mainly on sympathy and fruit. Some of its denizens own outlying ranches or fruit-farms, and the remainder, those who don't, have sympathy for those who do. There appears, however, betwixt these two outcropping extremes to be ample means with which to provide the more modest comforts of life--wives and children: for such are known to exist, under any conditions, all over the world. No sooner had I entered the village, than a gentle-eyed siren coyly approached, and said her papa wished me to put my jacks in his stable. While I was trying to please that man, a squatty youth scraped across the road in his elder brother's breeches to say that his mother would like to have me spend the night at her house. "Sociable people all right," my valet remarked, while I said to the boy, "Kid, you run and tell your good mother that I have a man with me, and, if she can accommodate us both, I will be glad to compensate her liberally for the hospitality." But these Mormon _beaux esprits_, while followers of the Prophet, reverence old Bacchus as though he were Young. As soon as my animals were provided for, Coonskin and I were called to supper and greeted at the gate by Mr. and Mrs. Noah and the children. I was hungry and tired. It occurred to me that in all probability my hosts had drawn heavily on their larder to provide a generous repast, and would yet have to pluck all their drakes and ganders before they could make our beds down. That evening, on venturing in the street, I was held up by a jolly party, armed with two kegs of beer, a barrel of sandwiches, and a number of mandolins and guitars. In front of my donkey's quarters was a spacious, grass-grown area, where they spread their feast; there I met my fête. The serenade, if not the banquet, was in honor of the whole party, biped and quadruped. Although my dog whined at the harmony to frighten the performers, Mac and Damfino applauded the classic selections vociferously, while all four donks availed themselves of standing-room only, rest their chins on the top corral rail, and audibly discussed the exercises. As soon as my entertainers departed, Coonskin and I sought our hostess. It was a beautiful September night. No air was astir. The sky was darkly clear and the myriad stars were winking with insomnia. Startled from sound sleep at early dawn by a blast from a "busted" fish-horn, I rolled out of bed in the presence of Noah, instead of Gabriel, as I was frightened to expect. The next thing was to wash and dress. A half vinegar barrel stood at the back door abrim with water. I was told it was soft, but I found it hard enough to wash in. A few feathers floated on the surface, and the soft water looked like soft soap. Old Noah was one ahead of me and dipped in. His wife, sons, and dog made their ablutions in turn, while the Shanghai hens and a pet magpie had doubtless rinsed their fowl beaks in it. I watched the exhibition reflectively, and, concluding it would not show proper respect to appear at table before taking a dip, and that more than likely I should have to drink worse water before I had crossed the desert, I ducked my head, paddled my fins, then dried them in the sun, for I couldn't "go" that towel. The scrambled pigs' feet at breakfast was a new dish to this epicure, though my versatile valet observed with an inflated appetite, that he had often made pigs' feet scramble back in Wisconsin. In spite of a late start, we reached Stockton before noon. My first duty was to hunt up an opulent resident, whom I had met at the soiree in Tooele, and who had promised me a burro. We at once unpacked the donkeys, to give them a restful nooning, and piled the luggage in front of a store. It was here that my philanthropic friend found me smoking. At once, he sent a lad to chase up a good, strong burro to make good his promise; next he offered me the freedom of the town. "I'm kind of tired, my good sir," I said gratefully, "but--how--how far is the town." The donor of Coxey blinked his eyes and felt of his goatee, then, straightening back, said, "Not fer, it's right here. Can't you see it all round ye? Ye didn't cal'luate ter find a New Yirk er New Orlins, did ye? This is jest plain unadulterated Stockton, and it's glad ter welcome ye. Now, if ye're trim ter go about a piece, I'll guide ye." "Thanks, awfully," I replied, rising. "Take me to a smith the first thing; I want all my donks' feet examined and put in condition for the desert." Then leaving an order for supplies at the store, I had Coonskin ride my new burro to the blacksmith. After a two-and-a-half-hour sojourn in Stockton, my caravan was wending its way to the next and last town we would visit in Utah, St. Johns. The next after that would be one hundred and seventy-five miles away. Here and there along the trail a ranchman's shack stood alone, the glistening window panes flashing like a lighthouse tower in that sea of sage. An occasional horse or steer would loom above the brush; once or twice a jackrabbit bounded across the trail, or a weary buzzard careened in the air overhead, as though figuring for me a fatal horoscope. I was silent a long time before Coonskin reminded me that I had neglected my weekly letter to the papers. Said he, "It's a good time to cultivate the acquaintance of Samantha Jane, that typewriter you got at Salt Lake." "Can't you suggest something more sensible?" I replied. "How can I manage the machine while riding a jackass?" "Easy enough," said Coonskin. "Lash it on Damfino, and seat yourself as you would to play solitaire." Great idea! The neglected typewriter was at once introduced to my party for the first time, and secured in a comfortable position on the broad-backed donkey. Then I seated myself vis-à-vis, and opened up a somewhat spirited conversation on the journey. It was not with the best of grace that Samantha Jane consented to be my amanuensis. She held the sheet of paper very mechanically, and appeared utterly devoid of animation. I first tried to date my letter. I shot my finger at the S key and struck the L just as Damfino nabbed at a sage bush. I'll correct the spelling afterward I thought, and tried to hit the letter E, but rapped A full in the face. "Don't joggle so!" I yelled at my steed, and, drawing a bead on P, literally knocked down Z, as Damfino stubbed her toe. Next, in vexation, I shot at T quite recklessly, and punched Y's face close by. The effort had overtaxed me, and snatching the paper from my typewriter, read aloud L-A-Z-Y. Mac grinned from ear to ear, and Coonskin laughed loudly. The donkey remarked that practice is a good remedy for incompetence, even if it does not cultivate patience. Again and again I tried to write the abbreviation "Sept.," but at length called "Coonskin, I'm going to discharge this typewriter, and stow her away till we get to Eureka." "Your courtship is amusing. Keep it up, you'll understand each other in time," he replied. "I have my doubts," brayed Mac, "when she won't even let him make a date with her." I resolved to begin the letter anew, and to write at least a paragraph, date or no date. This is how it looked when I had finished. "Talo hab$ getoch-Tho forntnigs ate erut%wsot pirowigs og owhym, dyl swelboka swice, bomblastnig wisj thu cleg pry) wet dnpenting tresgd wobm -&a wihng rubpint dor a Togues Cruop; % ro mi Noty gni- leek befort dajosty ga eht5 safey haschimb she boj o rew laim$." It was extremely encouraging, to find but four correctly-spelled and distinctly English words in all that jumble of dialects. I thought it a good paragraph to practice on, and would have tried it over, but Coonskin called to me that we were approaching town and, from appearances, the villagers were going to give us a hearty welcome. So I stopped Damfino, and hastily tucked Samantha Jane away in time to avoid a scandal. CHAPTER XLVII. BY MAC A'RONY. Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy.--_Othello._ By the time our caravan reached St. Johns, Pye Pod was bewailing his failure to discover the key to his typewriter's character, the non-production of his newspaper letter, and the forfeiture of the check it would have brought him; besides, he was borrowing trouble by deploring his prospective desert journey ere it had begun. "What a sleepy old hamlet in which to bid farewell to earth!" he muttered dejectedly, as we passed the first house. "I'll bet 13 to 1 that there isn't a soul in the whole settlement to welcome us. The great and only Pythagoras Pod, D. D. (donkey driver), passeth through with his stately train and entereth the seared and thorny purgatory of the desert without the perfume of a single rose to waft to him its balm of comforting sympathy." Suddenly a happy cheer greeted our ears in the distance. The sound was sweetly feminine, and Pod said that to his sensitive ear the angelic chimes swelled and died and softly returned, like the tender notes of the nightingale in an echo vale. (Pod is often swelled by the divine inflatus). At this time not a soul beyond our outfit was visible, but soon we discovered in the foreground of a kennel-shaped schoolhouse a bevy of girls, all clad in white and garnished with flowers and delicate vines. As we drove near, the whole band of pretty maidens, led by the tallest of them, approached and surrounded us. I knew not whether Pod was frightened or elated; he fell off my back in an effort to dismount gracefully. The pretty chieftess made a bow, and looked at the sky, and played nervously with her skirt, and turned side-ways, and finally began to intone her "Him of the Asinine Pilgrimage." "Noble and valorous courtier," she began softly--and a donk of the party brayed, "Speak louder!"--"we daughters of St. Johns, Queen of the Desert, come to greet you with kind and admiring hearts." (Coxey brayed boisterously, "Here, Here!") "We hail your brilliant achievement, as the planets hail the sun"--("What a Venus that middle one," I confided to Pod)--"Your courage, your fortitude, your manly sacrifice of the associations of your nativity and of the affectionate kisses of dear ones left behind you. These, we deem, should be recognized. Therefore, having learned that you and your stately caravan were coming by this highway and that your trusty charger, Mac A'Rony, was still standing faithfully by you" (I bowed at the compliment)--"and your poultroon of long-eared cavalry"--"For Balaam's sake! What's that she calls us?" I questioned my mute master. "She means 'Platoon,' not 'poultroon,'" he explained--"St. Johns has befittingly chosen the flowers of her desert garden--thirteen comely virgins--to be presented to you on this momentous occasion. And so, in honor of your famous exploits," continued the chieftess, composedly, "we now come to meet the lion fearlessly in his desert haunts. Here, take these flowers" (she handed Pod a bunch) "and wear them. They will prove a talisman to conduct you and your party in safety to the farther desert shore." And with the most exalted, sweet-scented nerve Pod accepted the bokay. He smelled of it, and examined it, and then disappointedly yet courageously replied: "I see no tulips among the flowers, and I love two-lips so much." "Indeed? Well, then you shall not be disappointed," said the pretty speaker; and, s'help me Balaam! If that girl didn't step forward and give my surprised master her two lips. And every one of the dozen others, except the last one, gave hers too, or drown me in an alkali pond. The last girl sensibly boxed his ears. Pod just kissed every mouth of them, from the eldest to the youngest, save the one. The touching ceremonies over, I rather expected my master to respond eloquently in a few well-chosen words, but he was speechless. "Speech!" cried Cheese, and every donkey of us repeated, "Speech, Speech!" Then Pod found his tongue and began: "Beautiful and spicy sage-flowers," he bungled; and the maidens' sweet faces colored,--"I am completely overcome with this splendid ovation. As frogs dive into a crystal pool, you have disturbed the morbid surface of my present feelings with radiating ripples which shall widen and cease to fade into oblivion only when I shall have reached the desert's opposite strand. The honey you have left on my lips shall sweeten my ertswhile bitter hours, and the milk of your human kindness will quench my thirst when the last drop in my canteen has evaporated. Now I must bid you all a fond and affectionate farewell." At once the silver-tongued orator went down the line again, kissing each and every one of the dozen he had sampled before; then he got into my saddle. The thirteen foolish virgins backed sorrowfully against the barbed wire fence with handkerchiefs to their eyes; the blushing, crimson sun hid his phiz behind the distant mountains; a dumb weathercock tried to crow as he tucked himself to roost on a neighboring barn; and our caravan moved on toward the desert waste. "A complete triumph," remarked the Professor, swelled with pride; "but for that eldest prude who slapped my face." "The incident points a moral," I returned. "Don't attempt to pet every cat that purrs." CHAPTER XLVIII. BY PYE POD. The lottery of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. --_Shakespeare._ Rocky Mountain canaries were singing their lullabys and Bridget (the clock) had just called eleven o'clock when the house of St. Joer loomed in the darkness. A hush was upon it and all the out-buildings. Though nobody greeted me, still I knew where I was by the odd-looking arch over the corral gate. Mr. St. Joer was at the soiree in Tooele, and had made me promise to tarry with him a night before braving the desert; so we camped in the corral. We were awakened early by the genial ranchman, and escorted in to breakfast with him and a guest, a young man from Salt Lake City, who had just ridden horseback from Granite Mountain, where he had been inspecting some lead mines. It was a treat for me to sit again at a meal not cooked by myself; all four of us ate with genuine relish. The stranger was about thirty, of light complexion, tall and slender, and was dressed in a nobby riding-suit, with leather leggings and spurs. "If you take the Granite Mt. trail to Redding Springs," suggested my host, turning to the young engineer for his indorsement--"but no, that's too risky," he corrected. "Save forty miles and more," commented the engineer. "I can give the Professor a diagram of the desert and all the trails to Fedora Spring in Granite Mt.; the trail from there to Redding is not confusing, I understand." I said I would take the risk to save forty miles, a two days' journey. My first intention had been to go south of the desert by Fish Springs, the route generally traveled by emigrant schooners. Three hours later, we were climbing the rocky summit of the range that hid the great desert beyond, and threading the jagged causeway called the Devil's Gate. They rose sheer and craggy high above us--immutable witnesses of that sundering catastrophe of nature when the earth's mighty convulsions of a prehistoric age converted an obstacle into a convenient pass. When out on the western side and I beheld the broad expanse of sun-tanned desert reaching from that sage mottled slope to the parallel-stretch of mesa, some twenty miles away, the intervening Skull Valley lost for me its legendary terrors. But it was a forlorn-looking prospect; only two things made up the perfect picture of a despised Nature--alkali and sage. About noon, when we had proceeded some distance into the Skull Valley desert, we stopped to feed and rest an hour before resuming the march. As we seemed to have abundance of water and provisions, this glaring solitude with such a lugubrious name caused me no dread sensations, for when supplied with the necessities of life, it is difficult for one to realize the dying man's agonies of starvation or thirst. By six we had crossed Skull Valley. The last mile of trail wound up a slight grade to a grassy bench, where stood a low-roofed, log shack; it was the deserted Scribner's Ranch. A few moment's reconnoitering resulted in our finding the spring. Then we unpacked and picketed the animals, excepting Mac A'Rony, who was usually allowed to roam at will; for when tied, he was forever tangling himself in a snarl that required time and patience to unravel. Our tent was pitched a hundred feet from the shack, whose dusky contour, wrapped in the sombre veil of night, on the mesa above us and against the sparkling firmament, looked cold and repelling indeed. Day had advanced two hours when we awoke. The broad desert to the west gleamed at white heat. While I cooked breakfast, Coonskin saddled the animals, to save time; then, the meal over, we quickly packed and started for the scorching sands. The trail was as hot and level as a fire-brick floor. As far as the eye could reach in three directions, the blue, curved dome of heaven and the glistening desert met in a gaseous haze, hiding the horizon, but in time, far to the west, as we proceeded gradually, rose a bluish-gray pyramid, which we know to be Granite Mountain; while, to the rear, the distant hills, where stood the deserted cabin, looked to be mere dust-heaps at the base of Nature's architecture--the towering rocks of the Cedar Mountains through which we trailed the morning before. Every few minutes we had to tap our canteens; the powdered alkali dust rose in our faces and swelled our eyes and tongues; no amount of water would alleviate our pangs of thirst. Besides, the evaporation of the water in our cloth-wrapped canteens and basket-covered demijohn was frightfully great; I feared lest the supply would not last us through to Fedora Spring. I gave Don frequent drinks, yet his eyes were blood-shot and his tongue hung out foaming and swollen. As a precaution against any sudden freak of madness on his part, I held my revolver in readiness to dispatch the dear fellow should it become necessary. On the other hand, my donkeys strode along quietly, without complaint or seeming discomfort, as if in their native element. Not a living thing could we see beyond our caravan. No jack-rabbits ventured into the desert; no more would a water-spaniel breast a scalding sea. The only living thing we met with in that gigantic kiln was a horned toad, which was existing as a hermit and was apparently content. We captured it, and Coonskin named it Job, because the horns which covered it looked like the extinct craters of once boiling boils. Our water was vanishing so rapidly by noon that I decided not to tarry for lunch and rest, but to hasten to the spring; but at five, when the sun was nearer the horizon and evaporation less, I ordered a dry camp, and the donkeys were unpacked and grained with the last of the barley generously presented by St. Joer. We men lunched on cold meat and crackers and canned fruit, and sparing draughts of warm water; after which we reclined and smoked until the sun set. Then we repacked before darkness set in to confuse us. How the donkeys did enjoy rolling in the alkali! When they had finished their dry ablutions they looked like negroes who had been hit with a bag of flour. Just before resuming the march, we men poured a few drops of citric acid into our two quart canteens, whose tepid water was only an aggravation of our thirst; the acid made it palatable. Soon afterward I discovered our great error. The acid so worked on the tin that the water became, in time, unfit to drink; fearing lest it would poison us, we both had to throw the precious liquid away. About mid-way that afternoon I saw my first mirage. It was simply magnificent, wonderful! A snow-crowned mountain rose out of the desert, and on top of it, turned bottom-side up, rested its counterpart, both phantom peaks remaining a while immovable; then they appeared to crush into each other and dissolve. The spectacle was bewildering. Like mammoth icebergs in a glistening sea, they seemed to melt and leave on the arid waste a great lake of crystal water. At sundown they reappeared with still grander effect. The sun threw a crimson, fiery mantle over the under mountain, which produced the effect of flowing lava down its snow-white slope to a flame-red lake on the desert, while above, on the upper mountain, reflected and danced shadows of rose-color and pink, as if reflected from flames within the crater of a volcano underneath. Then, as the sun sank below the horizon, the upper mountain gradually rose toward the zenith and opened wider, like a great fan, tinted with all the colors of a rainbow, until it faded into radiating webs of gossamer, and disappeared. One other time we saw plainly the skeletons of a man and a horse glistening several hundred feet from the trail, but I was too incredulous to put faith in the old proverb, "Seeing is believing," and passed on. Just before dark the huge Granite Mountain looked to be only a couple of miles away. Still we traveled till midnight before we passed the edge of the dusky pile, so deceiving are distances in that rarified air. The evening in that cooling oven of baked sand and alkali was oppressively long, dull and wearisome. Every trail branching toward Granite Mountain had to be checked off my diagram, for we had seen no sign-board. True, the heavens lent a little cheer with their sparkling lights, but the temperature fell from far above the 100 degree mark to 70 degrees by eight o'clock, and to 48 degrees before we pitched camp. We had passed three trails not on the diagram, and I began nervously to speculate whether the sign-board had been taken by some overland voyager for fuel and we had passed the trail to Fedora Spring. The clock pointed to one. A few moments later a well-beaten trail curved southward toward the towering pyramid of rock. I called a halt to reason with my man on the advisability of following it. "We'll chance it," I said; and we trailed toward the mountain. Narrower, rockier and steeper grew the trail for two miles, before I discerned the sloping sides of the canyon we were in, when I ordered camp. The donkeys were securely picketed to the roots of giant sage with our longest ropes, to enable them to find sleeping places among the rocks; I knew they must be very thirsty, and would try to break away in search of water. Then we made our bed in the trail, and with lantern went to find the spring; but we searched in vain and returned to our camp-fire discouraged. Evidently we had taken a wood-trail into a dry canyon. Only half a two-quart canteen of water was left us. We ate a cold lunch, and drank sparingly; after which I took charge of the canteen for the night. Coonskin remonstrated at once, saying he was thirsty. I said I was, too, and that when I should drink, he could, but not otherwise. We were in desperate circumstances, and I must exercise my authority. So we crawled into our blankets, on the hard and narrow trail under the glittering canopy of heaven, and were soon asleep. But, before lying down, with a realizing sense that we were lost and without the water to keep us alive half the distance either to Skull Valley or to Redding Springs, I knelt in fervent prayer to God to guide us out of that awful wilderness to water in time to save us from the death that seemed to be in store for us on the morrow. The beaming planets, also voyagers on a limitless sea of mystery and doubt, looked down, cold and unsympathetic. Coonskin was first asleep; when I was sure, by his breathing, I quietly rose and gave my faithful dog a few drops of water in the wash basin. He was grateful indeed, and tried to be content; he seemed to realize the situation, and licking my cheek, lay down close to my side. The sun shone over the walls of the canyon and awoke us frightfully late. We stretched and yawned. Now, I thought, if I had only taken Mac's suggestion to lay in a store of carrots and turnips, the water in the vegetables would have sufficed in emergency, and the donkeys had feed. As my hopeful outfit tramped and slipped and tumbled down to the shining plain, I almost felt I could see my finish on that sun-scorched lime-hued gridiron which faded away into a gaseous nothingness in three directions. When we came to the main desert trail, I halted my caravan to debate with my despondent valet as to what would be the wisest move. Should we go east or west? "Flip a penny," said Coonskin, "Heads, west; tails, east!" and he at once threw the coin whirling in the air, and caught it, tails up. "West we have been traveling, and west we shall continue to go," I said positively; and gave the command to move on, adding: "If we fail to discover the sign-board after passing beyond the mountain, then we'll come back and search to the east." We had proceeded a mile and a half when Coonskin went crazy, or had a fit, and I emptied the canteen in his mouth. This revived him. He had partially undressed and was trying his best to frighten me and the dog. The sun beat down furiously; the sky wasn't the only thing that looked blue. I raised the canteen to my lips and drained it of the last and only drop. My tongue hung out swollen, and my palate and throat burned. Another half mile, and I should have despaired, when, suddenly, a small white board, nailed to a short stake, loomed up ahead of us. I knew intuitively it marked the branch trail to the coveted spring. No two happier mortals ever lived than Coonskin and I. We threw our hats in the air; we shouted, and hurrahed, and sang; and turned handsprings and somersaults on the white, dusty floor of the desert. An hour later my little caravan had climbed the canyon to its fountain, and there we men fell on our stomachs with my dog, under the heels of the five donkeys which crowded about the cool, delicious waters, and drank until seized by the collar and dragged away from the spring by a man and boy. Near by stood prairie schooners, and some yards beyond were their horses, nibbling on the tops of sage brush. The party was bound east, and did us a kindness by preventing our drinking to excess in our condition. The man was kind enough to caution me before departing to mark well the sky and the wind, for should we be caught in a rain in that dreaded Red Desert, whose soil is so tenacious, we would "pass in our chips" without doubt. At one o'clock we struck out. The afternoon's march was just as tedious, and uncomfortably hot, and thirst-provoking as that of the previous day. But, with the exception of a fright we received late in the day when a few drops of rain fell from a passing cloud, there was nothing to mar the serenity of the journey to Redding Springs. The long-traveled trail was worn to a depth of twenty inches and more for many miles. We men, especially I, had to sit our animals Turkish-fashion to avoid being drawn out of the saddles by our dragging feet. The march after sunset to two in the morning was the most wearisome. Finally, when we were still three or four miles to Redding, I heard a dog bark ahead in the darkness, and thought we were almost there. Yet we traveled an hour and a half before the buildings of the ranch loomed in the darkness. Soon we had supped, and were wrapped in slumber. Redding Springs is a great oasis in the Salt Lake Desert. Three springs, varying from fifty to one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, overflow the reeded banks and irrigate a wide area of what otherwise might be an arid spot. An Italian owns this cattle-ranch and grows most of the necessities of life; he seemingly is content, though far removed from the cheerful and busy world. He believed that two of the springs were bottomless, and had some subterranean outlet. A steer once attempted to swim across one pond, and was drawn under by the suction and never seen again. To prove the Italian's theory, these two ponds, or springs, contained fish whose blindness indicates they must have lived in underground channels where eyesight was not required, soon losing their optics altogether. Mac A'Rony observed, when I had related to him the dago's story that in all probability the steer had undertaken an underground voyage to join a herd of sea-cows in the Pacific. Our much-needed day of rest was a delightful one. It was a twenty-eight mile journey to Deep Creek. My outfit was in readiness to start at 7 a. m. next day. The nine miles across the sage-covered plain to the mountains was accomplished in a little over three hours; then my animals began slowly to climb the ascent over a rough but well-beaten trail. By carrying out the directions given me by the Italian, at ten that night my fatigued caravan was straggling along the western slope of the broad-shouldered Deep Creek range. The sky was clouded, the air heavy with mist; a shower was imminent. I strained my eyes to ferret out a habitation of some sort from among the distant and faintly twinkling lights, but when I had selected one for our objective point and gone a hundred yards or so, it suddenly went out, and I had to single out another one. Again we were disappointed. Evidently it was the bed-time hour; soon all the lights would be extinguished. Presently rain began to fall. I took it as a timely warning, and ordered camp. We pitched our tent in the trail, the only place in which we could spread our bed, and crawled under cover just as the rain poured down with a vengeance. We had not more than closed our eyes than Don uttered a growl of warning, and I heard the sound of galloping hoofs approaching. I sat up. Then I heard the trampling of sage to one side of the trail, and looking out, saw a man on horseback. "Hello there! Who be you? Travelin' er goin' somewhere?" called a voice. I liked the tone; the words were genial, even cheery. When I answered, he gave us an urgent invitation to pack up and go on with him to his cabin a half mile distant, as his guests until the storm abated. "I thought you were drunken Injuns at first," said he. "Not common for white men to camp in the trail. My horse was so frightened he nearly spilt me, shying into the chaparral." I laughed good-naturedly, and promised to arrive at his house in time for breakfast, explaining that it would not be worth our while to dress and pack in the rain, since we were perfectly comfortable. Soon a hush fell upon the scene, and the beating rain on the canvas lulled us sweetly to sleep. When we arose in the morning, everything was dripping and a furious gale blowing. The rain appeared to be over, but no sooner had we packed up than down again it came. We hustled our animals up the muddy incline, and soon rode into the door-yard of the only cabin on the trail, and commenced unpacking. Soon our midnight acquaintance, Murray, and his chum, an old man who went by the cognomen of Uncle Tom, came out and welcomed us; both our hosts were effusive in their hospitality. One stabled and fed the donkeys, and the other ushered us into the cabin where we were provided with dry raiment and a hot breakfast. The fire in the stove roared in triumph and scorn at the scudding rain and wind without, while I smiled in gratitude. The men brought us books and tobacco, and couldn't do enough for us. The storm soon assumed the character of a hurricane; and I tried to fancy my little party struggling in the throes of those merciless elements to make headway across the valley and up the western mesa. The gale waged all day and night, but on the following morning the sky was clear and the wind had died considerably. It was a relief to get out of the stuffy house into the free and open air. I took the axe and exercised myself with chopping wood for an hour, which display of energy greatly pleased Uncle Tom, who, I assumed, provided the fuel for the camp. Murray was to start at eight on a round-up; so I resumed my pilgrimage at the same time. Before good-byes were said he presented me with a fine hair rope, braided with his own hands, as a souvenir of the happy occasion. The place to find large hearts is out on the western plains! Nine o'clock saw us trampling sage in a short cut down the slope toward a small group of log houses, designated as Deep Creek. The frontier store was kept by an Irishman, but bossed by his wife, who tried to impress me with her importance. Adjoining it stood another old shack, and projecting from its front eves was a small signboard on which was the following startling announcement: 1st. class dentestry All kinds dun cheap. Horses a specilty. Wimen prefured. TERMS CASH or credit. I was amused at the novelty of this dentist's shingle; so was Mac A'Rony. "Poor Damfino!" he ejaculated presently, as I rubbed his nose. "Can't you help her out of her suffering? The poor girl has had a toothache for two days." "Most assuredly I will," I said. "Why didn't you inform me before?" And forthwith I ferreted out the frontier tooth-doctor. He, resurrected from his prolonged lethargy, hunted up a dust-covered tool-chest, and followed me impetuously to his asinine patient. CHAPTER XLIX. BY MAC A'RONY. Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad Because it makes us smile. --_Byron._ Contrary to the old saw, "Misery loves company," Damfino wished to be alone. She said she wanted to cry, but couldn't. She had the sympathy of us all. Only those who have suffered can appreciate the sufferings of others. I never shall forget my profanity and the pain that prompted it when the too considerate Prof. consented to my electric bath. And now, with the same kind motives oozing out of his face, he introduced the sage brush dentist to Damfino. Dr. Arrowroot dropped his toolchest and seizing his patient by the upper jaw with his left hand and by the lower jaw with his right, said: "Open up, madam," and proceeded to examine her molars. "Locate the claim, Doc?" an on-looker asked, facetiously. The doctor said he did, but no sooner began to dig than he was ejected. Then the tooth-doctor called for volunteers to assist him; every man not valuing his life responded. Two Mexicans held the remote end of a long pole and pried Damfino's jaws apart, while several Indians and halfbreeds braced against her sides to prevent her from kicking and falling. At length, Doc fastened his forceps on the ulcerated tooth, and, grinding his teeth and wrinkling his face, yanked with all his might. He might just as well have tried to pull a tree out of the ground. He rested a few moments, then sent for some hay wire and a lariat, and after wiring the lariat to the tooth, tied it to Damfino's hind feet. We other donks were holding our sides; I thought I would "bust." Then, when the patient was unbound--that cantankerous donkey's four legs were roped together to prevent further excavations in the local cemetery--there was performed the neatest, cleverest, most thoroughly successful piece of dental surgery that I ever heard of. That moaning "Old maid" just kicked the tooth clean out of her jaw. And, s'help me Balaam! the root of all that evil was three inches long. Poor Damfino was the last to realize that the trick had been accomplished, and kept on kicking till she threw off the lariat and slung the molar half way through the side of the store. When Pod showed her the tooth, she brayed for the loss of it, and as evidence of her ingratitude, the shrew turned to me and whispered: "Mac, since I pulled my own tooth, how can that brutal dentist have the nerve to ask pay for it?" "He got the nerve from your tooth, like as not," I said. "You once told me that the Bible says, 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,'"--and in a jiffy Damfino made for that innocent, fleet-footed tooth-doctor, before Pod could have time to settle with him. Before long, I was leading the troop up the sage-covered mesa in step with Damfino's mutterings. When we arrived at Billy Jones' ranch, Billy was leaning on the picket fence in front of his back door. His house was once turned around, hind side foremost, by a cyclone. He was munching pinenuts, and did not budge, at first, taking us for prospectors. When Pod introduced himself, Billy almost fell to pieces with surprise. Soon Mrs. Jones came out, and Pod was almost persuaded to remain over night. But we did not tarry. It was dark and misty; rain threatened to descend any moment. When darkness settled, it was as black as Egypt and almost impossible for me to follow the trail. After a while a light could be seen through the mist; Pod said it must be the Tibbits' ranchhouse, where he proposed to camp. Suddenly, wwhile chuckling over a joke, we donks walked slam-bang against a barbed-wire fence, throwing the men into a rage. Then I leading the way, we followed the fence, turned a corner round a barn, and finally anchored at the back door of the house. Pod found the doorknob, and made the ranchman's acquaintance, while Coonskin pitched the tent, unpacked and picketed us donks, then both men gathered fire-wood with which to cook. Mr. T----, when once assured that Pod was neither beggar nor tramp, authorized us animals to be fed grain and hay; but his wife said it was too late to prepare supper for the men. This did not disturb Pod for he soon had one prepared. My, that ranchman was close-fisted! Pod even had to pay for his kindling wood before starting the fire. The old man was a plain-looking ruddy-faced Englishman, as snobbish as he was penurious, but after a time he condescended to "join" the five in a post-prandial smoke. And not until it was pounded into his thick cranium, that his strange guests were traveling like princes did he affect to be hospitable. Long before dawn, our donkey matin song awoke the natives as well as our masters, and Pod issued from the tent, half awake, hardly in presentable condition to face Madam T., who was splitting wood, while the old man looked on. He now insisted on his "guests" taking breakfast with him, and afterwards charged for the bacon, eggs, coffee and bread double the sum charged by other ranchmen previously. The bill for hay, grain and firewood was also presented and paid by the amused Prof. Coonskin was rash enough to hint to Mr. T. that by some oversight no charge had been made for water, for our party drank lots, but the Briton said no, he'd be generous. He accompanied us horseback four miles, nearly to the base of the mountain, where we turned to cross the pass, and on the way acquaint us with the superior advantages of country life in England as compared with the disadvantages in America, and admitted that, while a squatter in the West, he had for twenty-five years declined to be naturalized. The climb over the Antelope Mountains was slow and laborious. Across the flat valley beyond, mottled with sage and greasewood, alkali and sand spots, rose the summits of the Kern Mountains. We trailed through straggly groves of dwarf pines laden with cones, full of tiny nuts, some of which the men gathered and munched unroasted. Coonskin said they were a dandy invention, just the thing to break the monotony of talk, for they kept the jaws at work just the same; and they were so hard to gather and shuck that a fellow couldn't eat too many to crowd the stomach. The valley was about ten miles broad; we crossed it and camped at the base of another range of mountains, near the V---- sheep ranch. The boss was away, but his genial wife and son were holding down the claim. They visited camp after supper, listened to the Professor's marvelous tales, and next morning the good woman sent her son horseback to lead us beyond the point of conflicting trails, to the entrance to the pass to Schelbourne. As the lad rode off we donks joined in that pathetic hymn: "One more mountain to cross," just as a sort of parting serenade. The trail was smooth, but in some places almost obliterated; it was the old pony express trail of ante-railroad days. Sometimes it was steep and we donks puffed like engines. There were the charred stumps of the telegraph poles that the Injuns burned to annoy Uncle Sam, and occasional ruins of stone or adobe cabins or saloons, relics of those hot times of savages and fire-water. Every time I saw one of them I felt dry. By 11 a. m. we had crossed the summit and were resting near the great stone barn of Schelbourne. It is built strong, with sheet-iron doors and shutters, and high enough to admit a stage coach and four. When the Injuns used to get out for a little holiday sport, the stage, freighted with passengers, mail and express, used to drive in at a two-forty gait; and I've heard tell how the iron doors would shut and give the coach a friendly boost in the nick of time to receive on their armor a hail of leaden bullets or a shower of poisoned arrows. On reaching the plain, I heard my master tell his valet we would spend that night at Green's ranch. I was glad, for I was hungry; the savory smell of the nuts the men chewed was tantalizing. Midway the plain we were stopped to enable Pod to empty a sackful of cones, which Cheese had threshed by his wibble-wobble motion, and to refill their pockets with nuts. At length, we arrived at Green's a half-hour after dark. Here we donks were fed and watered; then Coonskin proceeded to get camp ready for the night, while Pod made a fashionable call on Mrs. Green. And--well, he will tell you what happened. [Illustration: "_Coonskin and I took shelter behind our donkeys._"] CHAPTER L. BY PYE POD. Here, brother Sancho, we may dip our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures. But take note, though thou seest me in the greatest danger on earth, thou must not set thy hand to thy sword to defend me, unless thou shouldst perceive that they who assail me are rabble and low people, in which case thou canst come to my aid.--_Don Quixote._ It was early evening, October 5, at Green's ranch. The somber quiet of the place seemed to indicate a deserted estate, but a dim light in the window invited me to knock. At once I heard feet shuffle across the floor, and a bolt slide in the door. "Who be you?" called a woman, distinctly. I introduced myself through the key-hole and was admitted. Mrs. Green extended me a left-handed greeting while holding a sixshooter in her right hand. It was a most interesting reception. "What are you going to do with that?" I inquired, smiling. The idea that a frontier woman should be so easily frightened seemed ridiculous. "Haven't you heard?" she returned. "Why, the whole country is up in arms looking for two desperate outlaws. They shot a sheep-herder last night in Telegraph Canyon, and after robbing the fellow of four dollars, left him for dead. Mr. Green went to Egan Canyon this afternoon for the mail, and hasn't returned. He ought to be back by now. It is only three miles away." Here the somewhat perturbed woman glanced at the clock, which indicated 8:00. I conversed with Mrs. Green a few moments, and she invited us men to supper and told me to feed my animals from the hay-stack. I said we were well provided with food and fire-arms, that she might feel quite safe from the brigands. Now Coonskin called for me and said our evening meal was under way. So, I bade Mrs. Green a good night. Coonskin, whose chief literary diet had been dime novels, listened to the news with rapt attention, and suggested that I cook while he prepared camp for a sudden attack. "Gee! Wouldn't I like to capture 'em, though!" he said enthusiastically. "I would like to see you try it," I returned; "you have been 'spoiling' for a scrap with an Indian, or a desperado, or some wild beast ever since we crossed the borders, and I shouldn't wonder if this were your opportunity. Something tells me that we'll meet these outlaws." Supper over and dishes washed, we retired. Our bed, only separated from the earth by a single canvas, never was more comfortable. The night was cool and a gentle breeze was blowing, but there was no sound, save the braying of the donks. Suddenly I heard Don, who was on guard, growl, then a sound of wheels and a horse's whinny. "Will your dog bite, Mr. Pod?" called Mr. Green. I rushed out barefoot and dispelled his fears, and, after shaking hands, questioned him how he knew who I was. "Oh," he chuckled, "anybody would know you by your outfit; besides, everybody along the trail has been expecting you, even two desperadoes." This was interesting. But I explained that his wife had told me all, whereupon he invited us men to breakfast, and was escorted by Don to a point which he considered the limit of his master's domain. While at breakfast I learned that the Salt Lake newspapers, containing illustrated accounts of my prosperity, had subscribers all along the trail; that the shooting at Telegraph Canyon was the first in that section for sixteen years; that no pay-boxes were expected at the Egan mill, where a half dozen men were working; and that, what was of more importance than the rest, it was the prevailing opinion that Pye Pod was the man the outlaws were laying for. "Griswold is the unfortunate man's name," said Green. "The outlaws pretended to be friendly, lunched with him, and started off on their horses. But Griswold had no sooner turned his back than the strangers ordered him to throw up his hands. They took all his funds, shot him, and galloped away with his good horses, leaving their jaded ones. The poor fellow regained consciousness, and managed by morning to crawl six miles to a ranch. Resolute men hurriedly saddled their horses, and soon thirty were after the outlaws. I hear Griswold is with them, he having recovered. But they say at Egan that some of the boys this afternoon gave up the chase, because it was getting too warm for them; they felt pretty near the game." Mr. Green gave me a second-handed description of the desperadoes and their outfit, and directing me on my route, wished us Godspeed. I felt that my route forced me to overtake rather than to meet by chance two men who set but little value on other men's lives, and even less on their own; therefore having everything to gain and nothing to lose, they put up the best kind of a fight. We soon arrived at Egan, where we were kindly received. The men showed us about the works, allowing me to take photographs, and gave me a more accurate description of the outlaws, and the long trail of a hundred miles to Eureka. At three points only should we find water, at Nine Mile Spring, Thirty Mile and Pinto Creek, the latter being seventy miles away. No habitation would we see; only an occasional coyôte, or a band of wild horses, or possibly some prairie schooner, or the outlaws, or some of the possès. By trailing through Egan Canyon we cut the backbone of the mountain range and now, at an altitude of several hundred feet above the plain, were climbing higher and higher the rugged plateau, until we reached Nine Mile, and unpacked. The spring was in a grassy spot, and Coonskin first replenished our canteens, then released the donkeys. It was noon. Accustomed as we were to travel on two meals a day, I could set no regular hour for them. It was twenty-one miles to Thirty Mile Spring. So we cooked here. The desperadoes formed the chief topic of discussion, even Don showed the bloodhound in him, and, ever since leaving Egan, showed unusual excitement and was more vigilant. We must have crossed the tracks of the outlaws, or were following them unwittingly. Taking everything into consideration, we were in a fair mood to be startled when the dog sprang to his feet, and growled. Then three men, heavily armed, galloped up and dismounted. I was relieved when I saw one of the riders wearing a bandage round his head; it must be Griswold. The strangers left their steeds standing, each tying a rein to a stirrup, then introduced themselves. We had just finished lunch and were smoking when the possè arrived; but now Coonskin cooked for our friends, while I did all the honors and gleaned all the information essential to our interests. They were affable fellows and resolute, but had set out hardly equipped for the chase. One picked up a two-quart canteen, saying good-naturedly that he reckoned he would have to rustle it. I said they were welcome to anything I could spare. Before separating on our several missions, Coonskin photographed the party, and Griswold repeated his description of the outlaws. Couriers had been dispatched to Ely, Hamilton, Eureka, and other points; these men were bound for Hunter, seven miles over the mesa. Before leaving they asked me if I would blaze a sage-brush fire that night should I reach Thirty Mile and discover any evidence of the bandits. They also admonished me to hold up and shoot without considering an instant any two mounted men of the description given, else we two would never live to tell how it happened. With this parting injunction, unofficial though it was, the riders loped away, and my nervous troop, at half-past two, "hit the trail" in lively form. I was glad the country was clear and open. Only an occasional dwarf cedar stood in dark relief against the sage. About midnight the grade began perceptibly to grow steeper, and in consequence of the clouds which had gathered the darkness was dense. I felt we must be near to Thirty Mile. The idea of passing the spring and having to trace our steps next morning was not to be entertained. Seeing a bunch of cedars some distance to the right, I headed for them. And there we camped. Behind the screen of three small trees and the darkness we spread our blankets, lunched on bread and cold meat, and went to sleep. The donkeys were picketed still another hundred yards back, so as not to be seen from the trail; we did not light a fire. By ten o'clock next morning we had breakfasted, and were trailing toward the summit of the plateau. Three miles further on was Thirty Mile. Here again I unpacked the animals for an hour's grazing on the grass by the spring. The noon hour found us weary travelers reclining on a heap of blankets. To the east, some fifty feet away, stood a tub, obscured by pussy willows, and brimming with cool water furnished by a cedar trough which reached from the bubbling spring. The overflow streamed down a tiny gorge in the hard soil, under cover of the willows, and finally sank in the earth. "I'm afraid the fellows ain't going to bother us after all," said Coonskin disappointedly, at length. "I'd give a farm to get a whack at them." He had no sooner uttered the words than he turned pale, and I turned to behold two small moving dots on the horizon, some two miles down the trail. "Jove!" he added, "I believe the outlaws are coming." Indeed, I could make out two men, mounted on a dark and a light-colored horse respectively, slowly approaching. Assigning to my valet the shot-gun and the Smith & Wesson double-action revolver, I loaded two extra shells with buckshot, tested the locks of my Winchester and single-action Colt revolver, gave Coonskin explicit instructions, and awaited events. When the strange riders rode to within a half mile of us they stopped and dismounted. It was plain they were cinching their saddles, probably preparing to do some rough riding. The dark horse appeared to be somewhat darker than the one described by Griswold, but I was cautioned that they might exchange a horse for one on the range in order to mislead their pursuers. They and their outfit in all other respects tallied with the description given to me. My companion in arms, who of late had evinced such courage, now showed signs of weakening. He protested that it would be better not to attempt to hold up the fellows until we were sure we were right, and when I said that I proposed to get the drop on them the first opportunity offered, and to shoot if necessary, and should count on him to aid me, he was speechless. Don seemed to understand, and stationing himself some ten feet before us, watched the strangers eagerly. I assured Coonskin that if our dog allowed those horsemen to enter camp, we could rest easy, but if, when I hailed them, Don uttered a protest, we could mark them as the outlaws. "Don't let them corral us," I cautioned; "if they get us between them, the game is up." Those were anxious moments for me, as well as for the young man who was ten years my junior. I was seated on our packs, my Winchester lying across my knees, cocked; Coonskin sat on the ground at my right, with shot-gun in hand. Our revolvers were in our belts. Our bearded and sun-burned faces, long hair, and generally rough attire, added to our unfriendly attitude, must have puzzled the approaching horsemen. When they had come to a hundred feet from us, I called roughly, "Helloa, boys! come in. You're just in time for grub." Instantly Don leaped to his feet, and with tail straight out and body trembling from rage he uttered a savage growl of defiance. He identified the desperadoes. Instantly reining their steeds, one of them slung some simple questions at me, designed, no doubt, to throw us off guard. "Purty nice lot of burros you've got," he began. "Pretty fair," I replied disinterestedly. "Which way you traveling?" "West. Where 're you bound?" I inquired. "Just lookin' round. Which is the trail to Hamilton?" I did not answer. Then the man asked: "How far is it?" "I don't know, and I don't care a d----," I answered coarsely, with bravado, as if I considered it wasting time to talk. The smiling outlaw now looked grave, and turning to his comrade asked, loud enough for me to hear: "Shall we go in and cook?" "No, better water our horses and go on," said the partner. Then, quite as I anticipated, while the more slender man rode direct to the tub of water, to the right of us, the other guided his horse to our left, to hem Coonskin and me in between them. Instantly I rose to my feet, and trailing the rifle over my wrist strode, eyeing him defiantly, in a line at a right angle with the course of his horse, but the rogue did not go far before turning his steed in the direction of the tub. There both men dismounted behind their steeds, took off the bridles with spade bits that their horses might drink, and regarded us tenderfeet with some respect and concern. They handled their bridles with their left hands, which left their right hands free to use the revolvers I had seen in their belts; in view of which fact, Coonskin and I took shelter behind our donkeys, three of which were lying down after rolling, and, aggressive as well as defensive, awaited our opportunity. [Illustration: "_Through Devil's Gate, their panniers scraped the walls._"] [Illustration: "_Fired their revolvers in the air._"] Presently the spokesman of this bandit party, inquired: "Say, fellows, have you seen three armed men mounted, looking for two fellows riding a grey horse, bare-foot, and a sorrel with a bald face, they claimed shot a man in Telegraph Canyon?" "Not exactly," I said with a faint smile. "Don't think I ever saw THREE armed men." I waited a few seconds for my levity to produce the desired effect, then added: "There were three determined-looking fellows armed with double-barreled shot-guns who stopped here. They were man-hunting." "That so?" queried the outlaw, quite excitably. "How long ago were they here? Where'd they go?" "Oh just a little while ago. They took in a few cans of water," I here pointed in their direction, and said: "They were going to cook over there behind that knoll." At once, as I hoped they would, the desperadoes were thrown off their guard and looked behind them. And as they did so I raised my rifle and whispered to Coonskin to pull on them. But "Sancho" never budged, his courage had left him. The outlaws turned their eyes upon us so quickly I think they must have overheard my whispered command. They hastily bridled, mounted, and rode southwesterly in the direction we were bound, while turning in their saddles and watching us until they were beyond range of our guns. I was in the mood to "jump" Coonskin for not aiding me to hold up the outlaws. Our one great opportunity to distinguish ourselves on the journey was lost. "Think of the receptions we would have had if we had captured and disarmed those desperadoes, and marched them handcuffed into Ely, the county seat! And think of the handsome reward," I said. The thought of a forfeited reward seemed to stagger the boy. I concluded my lecture with the emphasized mandate that henceforth I must not detect any unusual display of courage or prowess on his part, unless it should be solicited by me, and furthermore, I did not wish to hear any expressions of desire to attack anything more formidable than a jack-rabbit. Our donkeys were soon packed for a twenty-mile evening tramp toward Pinto Creek. I pinned a penciled message on paper to the tub before departing, for the benefit of the possè, and my caravan was on the move again. About midnight we made a dry camp at a discreet distance from the trail, where without building a fire we made a cold lunch serve for our second meal that day, and retired. Next morning early we resumed the journey. By two o'clock we had crossed the Long Valley Mountains and were on the margin of a sage-covered plain, still probably twenty miles to Pinto. Several times we were puzzled by forking trails, and were in doubt whether we were on the right one to Eureka. I judged the valley to be ten miles wide. On we rode, the plucky animals swinging slowly along in that awkward yet amusing hip-movement characteristic of the burro, until I distinguished across the plain what looked to be a house. I decided to head for it. We arrived there at five o'clock, to find the place temporarily deserted, to discover a fine spring and plenty of hay. Here we cooked our evening meal and were enjoying a smoke when two men rode up with an air of conscious proprietorship. They were Mr. Robinson, proprietor of Newark Mines, and his superintendent. Both were very hospitable. Mr. Robinson invited me to help myself to anything I or my party needed, regretted that we had not waited to dine with him, and asked us to spend the evening at his house and breakfast with him. When I told them the story of our experience with the outlaws, they were greatly interested, and it called forth many tales of adventure from both those frontiersmen. We were treated to a heaping plate of delicious apples, and it was a late hour before we sought our tents. It was a relief to feel myself well beyond the outlaws' domain. Next day my good host directed his superintendent to guide us over Chihuahua Pass, which would save us a fifteen-mile journey around the extremity of the mountain by way of Pinto. The climb over the pass was rich with beautiful views. After rising several hundred feet and looking back, the vista between the summits and the plains glistening in the sun was superb. The mines were a mile or two up the canyon, and to this point my kind host accompanied us, after which his man on horseback led us over the roughest and most puzzling part of the trail. So narrow was the passage through Devil's Gate that two animals could not walk abreast, and their panniers often scraped the rough walls of the winding and rocky gate-way. Having once gained the summit, a great oval of bench-land spotted with buffalo-grass, we rested and grazed the donkeys while we lunched; then we shook hands with the good-hearted guide, and trailed down the long, pine-covered slope to Eureka. CHAPTER LI. BY MAC A'RONY. I will feed you to bursting.--_The Fair God._ Eureka is a good old mining town that saw its finish when Congress demonetized silver. As have some clouds, it has a silver lining; the earth beneath and the surrounding hills are rich, or rather poor, in the white metal. A few of the mines were still operating, and any one could see ten-horse teams drawing ore done up in bags, like grain, to fool any mule or donk. The night we hungry donkeys arrived in town we followed a wagon filled with bags of ore a quarter of a mile out of our course before Prof. discovered the mistake. I observed that the populace didn't take much interest in what I had to say, so I didn't say much, but I thought lots, and stored away plenty of grain and hay, to say nothing of water. The amount I drank would make a camel envious. But I wasn't satisfied. I hadn't tasted fruit for a long time. So I got out of the corral, strolled to a grocery store, and helped myself to dried apples; I was about to nab a bacon when I was driven away to a watering-trough by a kind boy who knew a thing or two, and then led to the corral. I remembered having eaten less than two quarts of apples, but before ten minutes were gone I easily believed I had eaten ten bushel. To look at me you would have sworn I had swallowed a barrelful, barrel and all. Most of the day, I spent rolling round the corral in pain. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to be really tight. The kind boy stood innocently by, and a companion of his dared him to go up first. "Up where?" asked the kind boy. "Up in the balloon, yo' big idiot!" said the other. "Jest got ter tie a basket to his tail, and git in, and hang on. Fillin' fast, he'll rise purty soon." That mockery was more than I could stand while lying down, so I rolled on to my feet and made both boys scarce. And if a horse-doctor hadn't stabbed me, the kind boy would have needed a balloon to save himself. That evening saw me well again, but my cravings took a different turn. I had a taste for a newspaper. Finally a man threw one to me. Among its contents, I ran across the following squib, and smiled: "MAC TEMPTED AND DRIVEN OUT. Some vixen let out one of Pye Pod's burros--it happened to be his pet jack--then drove him to Pete Dago's open-air lunch counter, where the ass helped himself to that diet which would go farthest, yet take up the least room--dried apples. It's a sad story, but the worst is over, and save a small doctor's bill, and a grocer's bill, and a five dollar bill, and the small boy, Bill, who has been placed in the coop for the night, no other bill figures in the case. The distinguished party leave in the morning, also the nigh extinguished party (meaning me). Adam was the first ass to be tempted to eat of forbidden fruit, but not the last. Adam blamed Eve. Mac blames a kind boy. Adam deserved some commiseration for having perhaps sampled apples too green, for we know what it is to be a boy, but no compassion can be tendered the 'narrow-gage mule' that is such an ass as to pack away a hundred pounds of evaporated apples, gulp down a cistern, and expect to fly." During his sojourn Pod wrote his weekly letter, discussed the desperadoes with the sheriff, photographed some crippled, dried-up Piute Indians, and doctored the sick dog, for Don had on the trail imbibed too freely of alkali water. We left town the morning of October 11th, and arrived at the Willows about midnight, after a long forced march through a wilderness. There Pod pitched camp. Neighing broncos disturbed my dreams, and daylight revealed a bunch of cowboys on a round-up, also a bale of hay, which set us all braying so loudly that we awoke the men in time to start for Austin before the sun got scorching hot. The cowboys were a jolly lot. They gave an exhibition of rough riding which nearly frightened Damfino into epileptics and Don into hydrophobia. Then the whole lot of 'em fired their revolvers in the air and skooted through the sage, yelling like mad. Our next stop was the Blackbird ranch, twenty-five miles further on, whose hospitable proprietor showed greater interest in the novel tent than in anything else. Coonskin took it down with one hand, pitched it with two feet, and while the wondering spectators pulled their whiskers, bound up the canvas and tied the rope with his teeth. The seventy-five mile journey from Eureka to Austin was accomplished in three days. There, the Professor lectured to an immense audience. Austin is another mining town that had seen more prosperous times; its people, like those of Eureka, were cordial and generous. When Pod and I led the troop out of town, he was considerably enriched in pocket and mind. Twelve mile ranch is twelve miles from the town. Same, I suppose, as October thirteenth is the 13th of the month. Here was a large stock ranch, and the thrifty proprietor did his best to persuade my stubborn master to remain over night, at least until the threatening storm had passed. He would not tarry, but hustled us on in a drizzling rain. By nightfall we began to climb a canyon winding over the Shoshone Mountains, I think, and about midnight reached the summit in a blinding snow squall. The wind blew at half a hurricane gait, and the men were mad because they couldn't light a match to look at the compass and get their bearings, and Damfino laid down on the dog that had lain under the donkey to get out of the ice-shod wind, and the men wasted twenty minutes searching for the right trail. You see, my biped friends, that another range of mountains met the Shoshones at right angles at this point, and it was dollars to nutmegs that the men would miss the trail in the dark, which happened; as the result, two hours later, our outfit slid into camp for the rest of the night some two half miles from the plain. Breakfast was served at ten. Menu: sage brush for five. We were on the north side, and the wrong side, of the range, plain enough. Pod said it was Coonskin's fault, Coonskin claimed the Prof. was to blame, and the dispute would have ended in the blessings of the pipe of peace if Coxey and Cheese had not chewed up the only bag of tobacco while the men were feeding. We were now in what was, I believe, the Sinkarata Valley. It stretched many miles to the north, and appeared to be twenty miles wide at the narrowest point. No sign of habitation could we see. All day long we trailed through that desolation parallel with the range until we came to a cross-trail leading to the mountains. Here the men examined the compass, and headed for the hills. It was sundown ere we began the ascent, and ten o'clock when we went into camp half-way to the summit. The air was chill, and we thirsty animals were left unguarded while the men built a fire. I smelt snow on the mountain peak, so did my comrades. My instinct told me that in a moment more we all would be picketed for the night. Our mouths were parched; but the men had only enough water in their canteens for themselves. Self preservation is the first law of nature, I reflected, and to think was to act. I whispered to Damfino, she passed the word to Coxey, and all five of us desperate donks stole away unnoticed in the darkness and followed our noses as fast as our weary legs could take us in the direction of the peak. The air was so rarified I could hear the least sound, and the slow-kindling fire flamed more plainly instead of more dimly as we widened the breach of confidence between us and our masters. "Rather hard on the fellows for us to run off with their water," observed Cheese, stopping for breath. Sure enough, the men were left without supplies, water or food. Not a thing had been unpacked. I loved the Professor, for he had many times made sacrifices for me, and the thought made me stop and look back. The men were talking and gesticulating excitedly. Presently one started up the trail, and the other down, and were soon lost to view. They had set out on the wrong scent. With some misgivings I hastened to catch up with my comrades. CHAPTER LII. BY PYE POD. Then, looking down at the great dog, he cried, with a kind of daft glee: "_Up an' waur them a', Quharrie_, Up an' waur them a', man; There's no a Dutchman i' the pack That's ony guid ava, man--Hooch!" --_The Raiders._ Never before was I in such a desperate plight, nor was I ever more frightened than now. I knew not where, but believed we were in the De Satoyta Mountains, possibly on the trail to pass between Indian Peak and Mt. Atry. We had kindled a fire, warmed our hands, and were about to unpack when Coonskin exclaimed, "For God's sake! Pod, the donks are gone!" Often had I exercised the importance of Coonskin's picketing the beasts before leaving them, but now was no time to scold. I directed him to take matches and examine the ascending trail, while I retraced our steps and did likewise. Luckily our revolvers were in our belts, and it was agreed that the first to discover traces of the deserters should shoot until hearing a shot in answer. Don went with Coonskin. The lighted lantern was left by the unreliable fire. It was difficult in the wind to keep a match lighted long enough to be of value, even when protecting it with my hat, as I knelt on the hard trail or on the softer earth in the sage, and strained my eyes to detect the shoe prints of my runaways. Every few steps I stopped to listen for a signal shot, and deplored our dire predicament without food or water. I had about concluded that the only resort left us was an all-night tramp over the pass, perhaps to be followed by an all-day hunt in the next valley for a habitation and spring, when I heard the welcome signal from Coonskin. Presently through the still air came the sound of Don's barking, then I knew the fugitives were captured. With a lighter heart I now gathered sage preparatory to cooking, for we had traveled all day without a bite. Our animals that night were securely roped both to the iron tent-pins and the tent, so that they could not slip away during the night without taking us with them. When I opened my eyes next morning, Mac stood with his head inside the tent-door, wistfully eyeing the canteen by my pillow. My heart was touched, but I thought, "Self-preservation is the first law," and knew that, if turned loose, all five donkeys would have the asinine instinct to find a spring in time to save themselves, whereas a man might fall a hundred feet from a spring and die in ignorance of it. One hour after sunrise the breakfast dishes had been cleaned with a rag, in the absence of water, and the donkeys were standing to be packed for the disheartening journey. A heap of ashes smothered some fragile hot coals of sage, which, from all appearances, were most inviting to any donkey to roll in. While cinching the pack on Coxey, I observed Mac to steal to the ash heap, look at it wistfully a moment, circle round it two or three times, and, kneeling down, flop over on his side, plumb in the middle of the warm, gray ashes, and still warmer coals. It was his custom to roll over several times, but he didn't do so this morning. He didn't roll at all. If he had fallen on a huge rubber ball, he couldn't have bounded on to his feet with more alacrity. When Mac once had his balance, he shook himself vigorously and brayed, then eyed the ash heap as if it were a nest of rattlesnakes. The air smelled of singed hair. The donkey reached around and licked his side a moment, then he backed away. When one donkey rolls and his fellows do not follow suit, you can mark it as most significant. Two hours later my caravan had crossed the summit and were marching down the western slope of the range. Nevada is the home of the wild horse, and now we saw bunches of these wary creatures grazing in the distance, or running like deer for the hills at the sight of my outfit, although five and more miles away. It was 2 o'clock when, rounding a bend, my searching eye discerned across the valley, close to the base of the Augusta range, a building or hay-stack. My heart leaped with joy. Our canteens were empty, but ere long we might slake our thirst at a ranch well and give our faithful animals a treat. On we pressed until, passing the stack, we reached a trail leading into the canyon. A few moments more, and I saw a wreath of smoke ascending not far up the pass. My intuition told me it was the Maestratti ranch. And it was. We received a hearty welcome. Don, poor thing, was so weak from a prolonged siege of dysentery that he could scarcely creep to the house; but, while Coonskin and I unpacked and watered the donkeys, my faithful dog was fed scalded bread and milk by our hostess, who ordered a hearty meal for us men. Mr. Maestratti invited us to a bed in his house, but I declined it, preferring my own blankets; and now, as I strode wearily to it, I called affectionately to my dog. Something told me I was going to lose him, my devoted friend during three thousand miles and many months of travel. I missed the loving pressure of his face against mine, his warm tongue on the back of my hand, his gay antics and playful bark when in his happier moods, and anticipated the grief I should soon feel. I paused at the tent door and whistled. "Don has stolen away to die," said Coonskin, feelingly. "That's just what dogs do. Let's take the lantern and try and find him." So saying, the man lighted up, and we began the search. We found him. He was lying beside a stalk of sage a hundred feet from camp, uncomplaining, weak, and breathing irregularly. The flare of the lantern aroused him, and he turned his bloodshot eyes to mine, as much as to say, "Leave me, kind master, I shall soon be out of misery. Do not mourn." Then I thought of his identification of the outlaws at Thirty Mile, and of his attack on the cowboy in Nebraska who had playfully lassoed me at my request. I remembered the chill nights in Iowa barns when he crept over and nestled against me in the hay that the heat from his great, warm body might keep me comfortable. I could not restrain my tears. My best friend must not die in the brush alone. We persuaded him to return with us, and made him a comfortable bed in a corner of the tent, patted his head, and retired. But soon the poor fellow stole out into the frosty night. It was not the rising sun or a donkey's bray that awoke me, but a woman calling, "Breakfast!" I intended first before answering the demands of my stomach, to look at my dead friend's face, but to my surprise and delight I saw the dog lying in the sun, his head up and his tail wagging, very much alive. He had passed the crisis of his illness during the night; I had hopes that he would soon be well. A fortunate circumstance threw us in the company of a stranger journeying westward in a wagon. Like everybody else, he showed great interest in my travels, and when he saw the condition of my dog, he offered to convey him over the mountains. We arrived at the summit of the pass by ten o'clock. There we rested an hour and fed our animals. The journey down the western slope, while apparently as trying to the donkeys as the ascent had been, was more inviting to the convalescing dog, and he on the way surprised us by leaping out of the wagon and making after a jackrabbit. At two o'clock Don's Good Samaritan drove away to the south, and at four we arrived at the Donaldson Ranch. Many courtesies were extended us here and we were half persuaded to remain over night with these hospitable people. We cooked dinner early, gave our animals a liberal mess of barley, filled our canteens, packed and departed at seven with the well-wishes of all and a fifty-pound bag of grain, which was donated to Mac A'Rony. Darkness had set in. Although cautioned about two diverging trails which we would reach before ascending the mountain, before an hour had passed I realized we were going in the wrong direction. The night was chill and pitch dark. Quickly changing the saddle from Mac to my fleet-footed Skates, I rode back to the ranch. No light shone through the windows of the house, and I knew that every one had retired. I could see no expedient left me other than to arouse somebody to set me straight. Feeling my way to the house, I shouted with all my might, and soon awoke Mr. Donaldson, Jr., who came good-naturedly to my relief, saddled a horse, and insisted on guiding my party to the summit. We did not arrive there until midnight. The noonday saw me at Horse Creek, and midnight, at Sand Spring, where we camped. At dawn, a sweeping glance from my tent door revealed the most desolate of surroundings. To the west was a great barren desert, while on every hand were massive sand dunes, some of them towering a hundred feet. A breeze had sprung up during the night. After purchasing a peck of pine nuts from some Piute Indians who had camped close by for the night, and were now starting out on the home trail, I tied the door flaps as tightly as possible to keep out the drifting sand, then went back to bed. In spite of my precautions the sand forced an entrance, coated our blankets an inch thick, and scattered seeds of unkindness in our nostrils, ears and hair. When I awoke and saw the sides of the tent bended inward and half way up the walls an uneven horizon, where, through the canvas, the sand and sunshine met, I roused my companion and we dressed. In a few moments more we might have been buried alive. How we were to cook breakfast was a serious question. On unfastening the door, we were immediately blinded with sand and alkali dust; and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I could find the ruins of the old restaurant of '49, which at early dawn I had discovered only two hundred feet away. The floor of this structure had long since gone to provide camp-fires for many a traveler, but I kicked off a piece of siding. Then I tried to find the tent. I groped and stumbled in the blinding storm, and only by calling to Coonskin and keeping him constantly answering did I hold to my bearings and succeed in reaching camp. Saturating a few sticks with coal oil, I got them a-blazing, and then under cover of our water-pail I ventured out of the tent and built a fire sufficient to boil coffee. Our bread when buttered looked as if veneered with sand-paper. Coonskin, gulping down a half cup of coffee, echoed my sentiments when he remarked, "It takes plenty of grit to cross these plains." How we ever packed and drove our half-crazed animals out of that sandy hurricane is beyond my power to describe. Blinded and choked with the sand themselves, they could scarcely be made to walk to the well. Having washed out their throats, Skates was persuaded to move, and the others followed reluctantly out of range of the warring elements. As soon as we were clear of the sand belt, we stopped and made our toilet. All day long while crossing that broad desert my eyes smarted and swelled, and they did not cease paining me until we reached the first habitation, where I procured witch-hazel. Grimes' ranch at seven o'clock saw my whole party in better spirits. I declined both the invitation to remain over night and to stop for supper. Mr. Grimes telephoned to Mr. Len A----n, of Sinclair, advising him that I was on my way there and expected to arrive by nine. It was much after that time, however, when my outfit reached the ranch. When still three miles away and a full hour's march, we could see a lantern swinging, and when we got within a half mile the sound of cheers and calls of welcome greeted our ears. We answered the signals with our lantern and cheered so lustily that Mac A'Rony paused to bray and led the donkey quintette in a heartrending chorus. The day's thirty-mile jaunt thus came to a happy end in marked contrast with its beginning. A stalwart, broad-shouldered man, with a smiling face half hidden by a beard streaked with gray, lifted his sombrero as he grasped my hand and shook it heartily. "Welcome, welcome, my boy! Now make yourself at home," said Len A----n. [Illustration: "_Some Piute Indians who had camped close by._"] [Illustration: "_Playing Solitaire on Damfino's broad back._"] CHAPTER LIII. BY MAC A'RONY. "A torch for me, let wantons, light of heart, Tickle the useless rushes with their heels; For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase. I'll be a candle-holder, and look on." --_Romeo and Juliet._ Old Len A----n was a jolly old soul, and a jolly old soul was he; he leaped aboard in the middle of my back, and hollared to me: "Git!----Haw!----Gee!" We donks had a great time at that little desert metropolis. Len owned the place, that is, until Pod's outfit arrived, then Mac A'Rony owned it. Pardon my seeming vanity. When the nabob of Sinclair rode me to the corral, the crowd cheered me three times three, "Hooray fer Mac A'Rony!" Besides Len, the sturdy pioneer of '49, there were the foremen, store-keeper, blacksmith, bronco buster, justice of the peace, postmaster, cowboys, cooks, and numerous wives and daughters and cousins and aunts all willing and anxious to make our party comfortable. Pod was at once escorted to the house to entertain and be entertained by the ladies, while Coonskin unpacked, watered and fed us donks, like a good fellow. For once on my long journey, I had my fill. Finally we were left to entertain ourselves. In less than a half hour I wanted a drink, for when we were led to the well I refused to imbibe; now I regretted it. Donks are funny creatures--regular Chinese puzzles. When you think us thirsty we ain't, and when we are we must help ourselves, or go dry. I discovered a rope dangling from a projecting arm of a high gatepost, nabbed it, and pulled; the gate did the rest--opened. So I walked straightway to the well trough and drank, then sauntered to the house to learn how Pod was faring. S' help me, Balaam! there he sat with Coonskin at a long table, surrounded by men and women, all talking and laughing and "joshing." But I noticed the travelers kept their knives and forks busy, and wasted no time. It made me hungry to see them eat, so I returned to the corral to finish my barley; but when I got there I found it already finished. No use talking, a jackass ain't to be trusted, nohow, at any time. The only thing left for me to do was to go foraging. Out I went, nosing around, hoping to discover a clothesline with some shirts and socks hanging on it, or to stumble over an old gunnysack or cast-off garment. After a little, I observed that the second largest house was the scene of considerable activity, and I sneaked up and peeped in the window. The ground floor was one vast room, presumably the bunk house for those men not having homes of their own. At one extremity a ladder reached from the floor to the loft. One half of the ceiling was boarded, and the other half looked white, as if it were made of canvas or sheeting. I suppose lumber was scarce out there in the desert. Now, a donkey's curiosity ain't to be sneezed at. Fearing lest I might be discovered and locked up, I withdrew to the rear to another window, when, suddenly, I ran into a heap of bedding and other stuff. I could arrive at only one conclusion; there was to be a dance in honor of Pye Pod. I had devoured half of a hay mattress before the guests began to arrive for the dance. They came from the various houses and cabins, clad in their finest, and among them were a fiddler and a mouth-organ grinder, who at once pitched camp in one corner of the room and tuned up. To open the dance, the Prof. led off with the landlord's pretty daughter in a waltz, Coonskin sailed around close behind with her black-eyed companion, and soon that bunk-house was as busy as a stock exchange. After several dances had occurred, the men excused themselves and came out to the table beside the luggage, and commenced opening several bottles of the "real article." I stood stock still at some distance in the darkness, but within smell of the refreshments, and noted that some took it straight, while others mixed it with sugar and water, or milk. Coonskin doted on punches of all kinds (except one variety reserved for obstreperous donks), milk punches, rum punches, whiskey punches, claret punches, etc., but milk punches mostly, and so this was an event for that unbridled youth. He gulped down several milk punches with great glee, and then followed the gang into the house and went at the dance again in earnest. Later on the men came out for more refreshments. At a late hour that "O be joyful dance" was brought to a sudden finish by a frightful incident, or accident. It seems that the cowboys had to rise early to hunt up stock on the range, and therefore went up the ladder to bed before the dance was over. As Coonskin had a cot with them, he was asked to retire at the same time, so as not to disturb them. But that boy wanted just one more dance--it was one too many. When he started to climb the ladder I held my breath; once he slipped through the rungs and only caught himself by his chin. The rest of the dancers kept their feet as busy as ever, and the fiddler had just called "Balance ter corners," and everybody looked to be in good spirits--the best of spirits was in the men--when all at once Coonskin dropped through the sheet ceiling overhead on to the floor in their midst. I was glad to see he lit on his feet like a cat, instead of on his head, as one would suppose with such a heavy "load" as it must have had. The frightened, embarrassed fellow chased himself in his shirt tail round and round that room, passing three doors at every lap, yet calling: "Where's th' door?" For a moment everybody looked paralyzed. But by the time the first of them regained his senses, Coonskin discovered a door and scooted out into the darkness, and ran plumb over me. Both of us went sprawling on the ground. It broke up the dance and everybody there. The women gathered in one corner and laughed in their sleeves, and the men ran out to look for what had dropped out of the ceiling, or sky--they seemed sort of dazed like, as if they didn't know. When I got my breath, I set out for the corral and brayed with laughter all the way. Finally, I heard a familiar voice whispering to me in the stable door, and creeping up I discovered Coonskin shivering with a sheepskin about his shoulders. "They're after me, ain't they?" he asked. "Well, I reckon they are," I replied. "How did it happen?" "Well, it was this way," Coonskin explained. "When I went upstairs to bed, I found the men had blown out the candle and left me to undress in the dark-hic-ness. I felt round till I found my cot, and undressed, all but my shirt, when I found my pillow missing. Says I, 'Where's my pillow?' One fellow says: 'There it is, over there; wese had a pillow fight.' So I started to go for it. I hadn't gone far before I sort o' felt I was treading-hic-on velvet, but I thought it was the punches and kept right on, till I struck the floor downstairs. That-hic-'s-all." Just then the men entered the stables and finding Coonskin huddled up in wool, had a laugh, and brought him clothes to put on, and went with him to the deserted dance hall, and saw him safely to bed. The more I thought of this accident the more sober I got, until I thought what a miracle saved Pod's valet, and wondered what he would have done without him out there in the desert. Then I tangled up my legs and went to sleep. Next day Coonskin was the most embarrassed fellow that ever rode a donk. The good-natured host could hardly persuade him to breakfast. Everybody was silent at the table, Pod said; but finally Len began to chuckle, and remarked that he'd been West nigh on to fifty year, but last night was the first time he had ever seen the ghost dance. Coonskin said it was no ghost dance, just a new kind of breakdown. After breakfast, Len gave Pod a look at his stock and made him stock up with all necessary provisions. He wouldn't take a cent for anything, only a few photographs to distribute to his retainers. He even said he was sorry for the hard times; he would like to give the Prof. at least a hundred dollars. I believed the generous old pioneer, for it would be just like him. Pod began the day in fine spirits. He had been pleasantly surprised on being assigned to a room in Len's house to notice the furnishings arranged with distinctively feminine taste; so he was not surprised, when at the breakfast table he catechized Miss A----n, to draw from the lips of the blushing maiden the confession that she had resigned her boudoir to the distinguished donkey-traveler. Hence Pod had a delicious sleep in the downiest of beds. And, as a token of his appreciation for the courtesy, he presented the young lady with a silver scarf-pin which he had worn across the desert. I shared some of my master's regrets on leaving. The women hugged me good-bye, but when the ranchman's daughter put her arms round my neck, Pod was so jealous that he jammed a spur in my side. After a time we got started on the trail. Len not only declined pay for Pod's supplies, but gave me a hundred pounds of barley. This my comrades offered to carry provided I would divide with them. For the three days following there was little else to see besides sand and sage and basaltic rocks. Ragtown still stands, a squatty cabin and dilapidated shed with corral adjoining, where old Ace Kenyon of questionable fame reaped a harvest from the half-starved emigrants of early days by extorting from them rewards for recovering their lost cattle, which he had had his retainers drive into the mountains in the night. Ace would place all the blame on the innocent shoulders of the Indians. He claimed that such depredations were often made by hostile tribes, and that only through the courage of his desperate cowboys could he possibly retrieve them. After the despondent emigrants had tarried several days and been forced to pay extravagant prices for provisions, and some of them induced to throw away their rags for a suit of new clothes, the cattle would be driven into camp. Then the elated travelers had to open their purses again. Ragtown, situated as it was at the extremity of the Humboldt Desert, was a sort of overland depot, and we were told that thousands of emigrants used to drift in that direction from other routes when water had given out and for miles the trail was then strewn with cast-off raiment, abandoned wagons, sometimes with oxen attached, and the skeletons of cattle and men who died from thirst. At times we could see the winding line of cotton-woods that marked the tortuous current of the Carson in the distance, and again the river would flow slowly close at hand. Pod spent most of the dull hours playing solitaire on Damfino's broad back, riding backwards. We struck camp at the last ranch on the Carson the morning of October 18, and tried to reach Dayton the same night. Everything went well until we came to a point where three trails met. Pod had been cautioned to take the best-beaten one, so, the night being dark, Coonskin left us donks in Pod's charge and ventured to examine the trails. It was eleven o'clock. Not a thing had we had to eat or drink all day except a small measure of barley. To stand waiting for that slow boy to get his bearings was more than we donks could bear, and soon Damfino whispered to Cheese and me to slip away from the outfit and follow her lead. The suggestion was at once acted upon. Each of us took a different course to start with, but we soon caught up with Damfino, who led us a good pace for two hours and ran us all into Six Mile Canyon about one a. m. There we lay down with saddle and packs on, and, to our surprise, discovered that faithful dog, Don, lying close by, on guard. It was not the most comfortable night I had ever passed, but it was better than standing. When Coonskin found us in the afternoon he caused me to change my ideas on that question, but on reaching Dayton, the Prof, was so glad to see me that he lavishly dined us all, watered us, and let us roll to our heart's content. So all scores were settled. CHAPTER LIV. BY PYE POD. It means, monsieur, that a storm is raging at the summit--a snow storm--which will be upon us ere long. And, dame! it is dangerous!--_Tartarin on the Alps._ We left Dayton at two o'clock. Carson City lay six miles away, close to the Sierra Nevadas, whose towering heights, on the Nevada side, rise abruptly from the plain. That afternoon's journey was the last we were to experience through the monotonous chaparral. When we trailed into Carson, the sun had gone down behind the forest-covered mountains, leaving me a little less than thirteen days in which to reach San Francisco. The leading hotel was pointed out to me, and a cheering crowd followed us there and called for a speech from me. While unstrapping our traps for the porter to take, we men answered inquiries about the trip, then conducted our animals to a stable, to be cared for. I was glad to note that they were generally in good condition, although Damfino's shoulders were somewhat tender from the rubbing of the pack-saddle, as the result of her running away. Dr. Benton, at the stable, after dressing her shoulders, showed me the famous watch bequeathed to him by Hank Monk, the clever stage-driver of early days, to whom it was presented for having driven Horace Greeley over the pass to Placerville, in time to keep his lecture engagement. [Illustration: "_Began to plow Snow toward Placerville._"] [Illustration: "_The Cattle Passed Us._"] I had just registered at the hotel, and was chatting with the group of men crowded round me, when a generous, good-natured gentleman edged through the cordon and grasped my hand. "I'm going to take charge of you," he said, with a comical wink of the eye; "you are my guest while in town." The next moment I found myself launched in an offhand lecture on my travels. And I should have talked myself hoarse had not my host led me out to his carriage. After telling the landlord to make Coonskin comfortable, I asked who the gentleman was who had taken me in custody. "Why, he's Sam D----s; you've heard of Sam, of course--editor, writer and humorist--famous story-teller--the biggest 'josher' on earth----." But that was enough. I fled. Indeed, Sam's reputation was known to me long before I arrived on his stamping ground. I leaped into the buggy, and we drove for his country home. "Keep yer hand on yer pocket-book!" shouted one of my host's intimates; whereupon Sam turned to me with affected seriousness and observed, "Good advice. But I took the precaution to leave my money and watch at the office. I heard of your capture for donkey-stealing back in Iowa." On the drive my host recalled many happenings of the golden days of the Comstock, which made me lose all reckoning of the present. Soon we had reached his ranch. When I met his family I was ready to believe some of his accounts of the practical jokes he claimed to have played on his fellows. I was somewhat disconcerted when he introduced me to his wife as a noted "road agent"--an old friend of his who had wavered from the path of rectitude--whom he desired to feed and hide from the sheriff's possè, hot on his trail. But I was amused when his good wife, who of all would be expected to know him best, apparently took his word for granted, and, regarding me with nervous suspicion, started to get me a quick lunch. But Sam delayed her a moment. "Dan wants to entrust this $25,000 with me until he has eluded the possè," he said to his wife, taking my weighty saddle-bags and passing them to her. "There is no fire in the front-room stove, is there? Might shove 'em in there." She accepted the trust so seriously that I laughed outright, and exploded the joke. My hostess chuckled good-naturedly, and said that most any woman might take me for a bandit. I did look disreputable. Adjoining the ranch were a few acres owned by "Mrs. Langtry," and sold to her by Sam, so he said, but how he made the deal is too good a story to be injured by my telling. I was up early next morning. In spite of my host's urgent invitation to remain another day, I drove to town with Sam after breakfast. There I was shown several places of interest. Dark and threatening clouds hung over the mountains and alarmed me. My friend cautioned me to hasten across, if I would avoid the storm. By two o'clock my outfit left Carson and began the ascent of the steep trail over the pass to Glenbrook, a lumber camp on the shore of Lake Tahoe. Dr. Benton advised me to telephone him from Glenbrook, if it snowed so hard as to endanger us before crossing the second summit, in which case he volunteered to dispatch at once a relief expedition, with horses to break the trail and render me a safe conduct beyond the snow belt. I shall always remember the veterinary's thoughtfulness. My friend Sam must have been interested in the plan. As higher we climbed the steep ascent, the air became more damp and chilly, and the heavy clouds looked more ominous. We men were afoot, for my donkeys were burdened enough. Mac A'Rony and Cheese were favored, merely carrying the saddles and guns, for Cheese seemed to be quite worn out, and Mac, while sound and strong, was the one, if it be decreed that only one should survive, I wished to take through. The donkeys often stopped for breathing spells, and not until we neared the summit did they require urging to make the fatiguing climb. By this time we were over our ankles in snow. The biting wind came down over the pass in aggressive sorties and volleyed blasts of cutting snow dust in our faces, nipping our ears and noses, and blinding us. By reason of the fast-falling flakes and the darkness, the donkeys often lost the trail, and the snow obscured the rocks over which we all continually stumbled and slipped. At length, when we stood on the summit and looked back over that battle-ground, I think all of us took courage for the final conflict awaiting us on the next and higher pass. We arrived at Glenbrook at eight o'clock and found cozy quarters for all. The storm having driven everybody indoors, the place looked coldly uncordial for a time; but as soon as its warm-hearted people were apprised of my arrival they hastened to welcome me. When provision had been made for the comfort of my animals, I returned with Coonskin to the hotel, where a hot supper had thoughtfully been provided for us. And there we recounted our adventures, which evidently afforded our auditors the keenest enjoyment. Morning revealed a dreary prospect. The snow was a foot deep, and it was still falling thick and fast. My friends urged me to tarry until the storm had abated, but I set out, after an early breakfast, for Myer's Station, twenty miles away. There I hoped to find feed for us all, and, should the storm be over by that time, comfortable shelter for the night. The trail followed the shore of beautiful Lake Tahoe--never more severely grand and picturesque than now--followed it many miles before it led into the majestic, white-clad forest. The snow fell incessantly, while the rays of the sun, peeping through its cold armor, either melted it into slush or softened it so as to "ball up" the donkeys' hoofs and render their tramp more difficult. When we reached Myer's Station it was snowing harder than in the morning, so I resolved to rest an hour and to cross the pass that night. The solitary tavern first came into view through the dense snow-screen, not a hundred feet away. It was four o'clock. Then a barn loomed up beyond and across the trail, and I felt grateful. I had great confidence in Skates, Damfino and Coxey; Coonskin and I had ridden but a little that day, so that, if Mac A'Rony and Cheese could fortify themselves with plenty of grain, I had hopes of getting all five over the summit. Alas! my hopes were soon shattered. There was neither grain nor hay to be had. The landlord explained that he didn't keep "no cattle." Even the pantry was depleted, but my host would find a bite for us men, and "boil" us some tea, which would have to suffice until the expected supplies arrived. They might be delayed by the storm until morning. Meanwhile we shouldn't starve. I didn't intend my animals should starve, either, but bought several loaves of bread and fed it to them. "Don't think I am going to stay here over night," I said to the tavern-keeper. "You don't mean to cross the summit in this storm!" I nodded. At that moment a man stumbled in, accompanied by a frigid gust of wind, and, walking to the stove, stamped the snow off his high boots, unwound a tippet from his neck, and slapped his ice-covered hat against his limbs. "Whose jackasses be them outside?" he inquired. "Mine," I replied. "Where ye bound with them?" "Over the pass to Placerville." The man laughed, then, looking sober, inquired, "Where yer from, may I ask?" "New York," I said, nonchalantly. "Not with them little burros?" "With one of them." "Je-ru-salem! I don't know but ye may cross with 'em!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. "But I doubt it. Jest fetched down my four horses--left the wagon up to the hubs in snow half-way up the trail--snow must be three foot deep on the summit. You'll leave your carcasses in the snow, if ye try it, I'm tellin' ye." Said the proprietor, "If you will wait here till to-morrow, there'll be five hundred cattle cross the pass and break the trail for you." "I go to-night," said I, "and will break the trail for the cattle." I thanked both men for their kind caution, but said such impediments had stared me in the face ever since leaving New York, and never yet one of them proved to be an obstacle. As we moved off, the men stood in the hotel door, gaping in mute wonderment at my stubborn resolution. Darkness gathered ere we began the ascent of the mountain. Slowly the donkeys climbed the slippery trail, Coonskin, upon my advice, walking beside Cheese and watching him with utmost concern. The snow scudded against our faces, although the mountain somewhat shielded us from the biting gale we had faced all day. The three stronger animals carrying the packs walked ahead, while close behind them struggled Cheese and Mac, supporting our saddles and lighter traps, we men encouraging them the while with kind words and allowing them a few moments' rest every time they stopped. Soon I feared lest Cheese would give out. At length, when about one-third the summit was climbed, he stopped and deliberately lay down. I knew that meant his abandonment, then and there. We might induce him to climb a little further, but we might better free him at once; he would likely find his way back to the station. So we took off his saddle and bridle, cinched them on Mac, and, saying a sad farewell, hid our faces in our sleeves, and soon had climbed beyond his vision. It was no time to indulge in sentiment. Once or twice Mac, Cheese's oldest comrade, stopped and looked behind, then with a soft bray resumed the ascent; and from the distance at once came Cheese's response, causing my eyes to fill with tears. No two human beings could have shown more tender feelings at parting than did those two heroic little donks. Finally we came to the abandoned wagon, half enveloped in whiteness. I had no idea of the hour, but it must have been eleven o'clock when my sturdy leader, Skates, began to stop for rest at every twenty paces. An hour later we could make only ten feet headway with every undertaking. I was afraid another donkey would drop at any moment. Several times I thought we had reached the summit, when a turn of the Z trail showed a clear space, with Skates far in the lead, ploughing and dragging her burden through two feet of snow. Suddenly, when we had all but reached the summit, as we after learned, Damfino fell with a groan. She was so strong and hardy, I had not anticipated her giving out. Coonskin thought she had slipped and broken a leg. We took off part of her pack, and at length succeeded in getting her on to her feet; but not far beyond she again fell, when, realizing it was from fatigue, we left her, with all the supplies on. We had no way to carry them, and I still had hopes of her resting out and trailing over after us. It was now a question of life and death. Could I but get Mac A'Rony through, even by leaving all else behind, I should do so and fight to the bitter end. Mac was certainly a wonder. After thirty-eight hundred miles of travel, during a period of three hundred and thirty-odd days, he was chipper and nabbed at me mischievously as I kindly twisted his tail. Eureka! At last we stood on the summit of that high Arctic pass of the snow-bound Sierras! Man and beast were ensconced in snow and ice, and my ears and face and hands and feet were numb; but I was too happy to feel any suffering. Could Cheese and Damfino have been with us then, I should have been jubilant. The battle was won. I could now see myself, in my mind's eye, in company with Mac in Golden Gate Park, gazing out on the balmy Pacific. After a quarter hour's rest, we resumed the journey through the two and a half feet of snow, until, after several resting spells, we began gradually to descend. The air at once felt milder; the snow had ceased falling; as if crushed with defeat, the elements had retreated. It must have been two in the morning when Coonskin, who was in advance beside Skates to check her impetuosity, shouted, "Helloa, Pod, I see a house!" I threw my hat in the air with delight. We had expected to have to wade through snow until daylight. Were we all to find a refuge in that half-buried cabin? CHAPTER LV. BY MAC A'RONY. How he trots along on his mule! I declare the beast's ears are not so long as his master's.--_The Hunchback of Notre Dame._ The supreme moment of my life had "arrove." Must have come on Skates. I had crossed the broad continent at last--all but a little toboggan-slide of one hundred and fifty miles, more or less, and that would be easy sailing. I felt boastful now. When Pod wasn't occupied in prodding me over the pass he was quoting "Hannibal Crossing the Alps" and other heroic adventurers, imagining his little exploit of the same class. Prof., old boy, just bear in mind that hobo Hannibal was not so fortunate as to have five gullible jackasses to help him. The storm had abated. As I stood waist-deep in snow while the men-folks were trying to waken the sleepers of an uninhabited shanty, I looked back where we donks sang "One More Mountain to Cross" for the last time, and I gave three brays with a gusto. Standing in snow or water taxes my patience. Coxey brayed to the men to "get a move on," but Skates and I amused ourselves by sucking icicles hanging from our bangs. Pod's courageous valet received first orders. He rode an avalanche bareback down the mountain and went through the door without knocking until he hit the other side of the shanty. "Don't shoot, for heaven's sake, folks;" he yelled. No answer. "Beg thousand pardons, friends, but couldn't stop," he added. No answer. Then he picked himself up and called. "Ain't nobody livin' here? Speak up, I won't hurt you." No answer. The next thing that boy did was to find the lantern he had lost in the snow slide, and explore the place. "The cabin's empty," he called presently. "Any stove and fuel?" Pod asked. "Yep," answered Coonskin, "and a hay tick, and-waow-w-w-w!!!--!--!--!--!--spook! Scat you!--and a gol blasted cat," he added. "Folks must've left just before the storm." Then to the dog he called, "Here, Don, sick'em--cats!" and Don sicked. My elated master next ordered Skates to slide down that chute to the cabin, and she shooted. He hinted that Coxey and I would follow, but I wasn't so sure. Judging from Coonskin's experiment, it looked too swift for my blood. But when I witnessed Skates safely descend and heard Coxey's whisper, "Come on, Mac, show your nerve," I was bound to stay with it and follow suit. We donks no sooner reached the door than Pod began to unpack us. It was no go. Knots and buckles, everything was frozen stiff; my saddle felt glued to my back. "We must fire up, and thaw them out," said Pod, and he led us in doors. Coonskin converted some shelves into kindling, and soon the little stove was roaring like a coke oven. When we began to thaw, one by one the ropes and straps were unhitched, or cut, until we were all relieved of our burdens--and part of our avoirdupois. Although the men had tramped almost all the way from Carson in order to spare us, our wrenching and twisting in climbing the slippery summits had loosened our saddles, which rubbed into our shoulders until we were badly galled. Our proud flesh had frozen to the icy blankets, and when Pod, while near the stove saw our conditions great tears melted in his eyes, and he rubbed my frosted nose, I suppose expecting me to purr. We got thawed out by three in the morning. That small apartment depicted a busy scene. We donks were so cramped that we couldn't turn if we had tried. While Coonskin dried the bedding, the Prof found in the luggage a box of tar, and gave us a good plastering. Then he put us in the other room,--it was a two-room house,--and fed us the hay tick, and a wooden soap box for dessert, and bade us good-night. I heard Coonskin mention something about supper, but Pod told him all the grub was cachéd in the snow over the summit and that Damfino carried the keys; there was, however, a possible chance of getting a bite later if he would go back for the supplies. Soon after I heard both men snoring. As I recall the circumstance, I don't see how we three donks stood it, cramped up in that small room, eight long hours before the men got up. First we ate the hay tick; the hay went fast enough, but it took time to chew the tick. Then we gnawed soap box until dawn. The latter was savory, but rather tough, and had to be eaten slowly on account of the bones--nails, Pod called them--which would get into our teeth. Coxey happened to swallow one, and said he wouldn't lie down for a week for fear of puncturing himself. Every time one of us gnawed on the box Don barked, taking it to be mice. He lay under Coxey with one eye open, ready to vacate at a second's warning, for that donk pretended he was going to lie down every moment. We breathed the air of that cell ten times over, and had begun on the eleventh course when the door opened. What a magnificent pair of spectacles was open to our eyes! The mountains on both sides of the canyon looked like great billows of a frozen sea, while the fir trees sticking out of the snow resembled the spars of sunken wrecks with their torn sails frozen to the yardarms. Coonskin was up first. While dressing he happened to glance out of the window and his tell-tale exclamation caused Pod to leap out of bed. "Well! In the name of Balaam, if there ain't Damfino!" he laughed. "She's a nervy dame," observed the youth with satisfaction. "She knows the other donks are here, all right." Curiosity led me to stick my head out of the door, and there, knee-deep in snow, stood the old girl, patiently waiting for an invite to our house party. Skates had to be taken up to pilot down the half-starved, half-frozen, timid refugee. Damfino slipped on the way but collected herself, and the "girls" whispered something to each other, which I could not catch, and laughed. I suppose it was a joke, so I got off an old one to Coxey, and he brayed with merriment. Then I told it to Pod, and he gave it to Coonskin, who snorted like a colt over a horse chestnut. As soon as Damfino was unloaded the men got breakfast. The dishes washed and our galls redressed with tar and cotton wool, our shoulders were padded for the saddles, and we were packed for the journey. Two o'clock swung around before we got up that toboggan-slide. Once there, we stopped for wind, then began to plow snow toward Placerville. It was a beautiful day, but the glare of the sun on the snow made us shed tears. Not a sound jarred the air, except the swish-swash of our pedals hewing away the snow, or an occasional asinine sneeze, or canine cough, the result of a night's exposure. At the steep and narrow turn where the stage driver nearly spilled Horace Greeley trying to take him through on pony-express time, I became interested, and the spot where Sawlog Johnson was crushed to death by a giant tree falling on his shadow riveted my attention for some time. I thought it a good place to rest; the trees were bent by the heavy snow and ice, and I knew lightning never struck twice in the same spot. We reached Hart's shingle camp long after dark. Pod and I were cordially received and entertained. When about to resume travel next morning the drove of cattle which we were urged to wait for passed us. They had crossed the summit in quick time, of course, after we donks had broken the trail. Now only small patches of snow dotted the roadside, and we had a muddy trail down to the Bridge house. The keeper gave Pod a round reception, and charged him an all-round sum. We left early next morning. The scenery on that mountain trail was a thing to out-last a donkey's memory. One sheer cliff rising a thousand feet marks the site of a bold exploit. It is said that once upon a time Snowshoe Thompson, while out hunting above this cliff, was chased by a grizzly, and only escaped by leaping off the precipice and striking the frozen river on his snow-shoes, the momentum taking him down to Sacramento, seventy miles away. On that cliff was afterwards found a grizzly of 1,220 pounds dead weight with a hunting knife in his heart. It was the coroner's verdict that the bear was so astonished at the fearless hunter's brave act that he committed suicide with the knife the hunter dropped in his hurry. Although it was near to November, the foliage of the trees was barely colored. The climate of California charmed me. We were making fast time down grade, in spite of our jaded condition, and we did not tarry for lunch. When Placerville hove in sight I was a most tickled donk. Just one minute after dark we ambled into town, and were escorted to the famous spot where Horace Greeley first stepped on California soil. CHAPTER LVI. BY PYE POD. Who can tell a man from manners? Who can tell him by his close? Beggars often smoke Havanners; Nabobs wear a bottle-nose. --_Dog-eared Doggerels._ Placerville greeted us royally. It was once one of the largest cities in California, and in those lawless days was called Hangtown. After describing my journey in my happiest vein, the thoughtful sheriff passed his hat and presented me with about nine dollars. Then amid hearty cheers for Mac A'Rony, we were escorted to a hotel. That evening Coonskin and I were fêted by the young "bloods" of the town. The following morning a jolly party drove me to Coloma, where I saw the statue of Marshall, and old Sutter's Mill, where he discovered gold. It was a lovely autumn day. The leaves were turning, but the verdure of the Pacific slope is more subdued in its colorings than that of the East, where the change of seasons embellishes it with scarlet. My genial companions were refreshing to me after being so long a recluse, but, returning to Placerville, I dined and wasted no time in starting for Sacramento. Coonskin had shipped to San Francisco most of our luggage, to relieve our animals, and at two p. m. my little caravan drifted toward the Sacramento Valley. The next stop was Folsom, the seat of a state prison, twenty miles away, where we arrived at midnight. All the inhabitants seemed to be asleep. We were noisily debating about which street to follow, when a man called from a chamber window, and directed us to the best hotel, saying he would call on me in the morning. He introduced himself after breakfast as an officer of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and asked to see my donkeys. I escorted him to the stable, but I feared trouble. I knew three of my donkeys were galled since leaving Carson, and was so solicitous that I sent Coonskin to have the blankets and saddles cinched on them for the start, hoping the officer would be guided by the wisdom of the proverb, "What the eye cannot see the heart cannot grieve for." You may imagine how disconcerted I was when the officer uncinched the saddle on Skates, the one most galled, and lifted the blanket. "I am sorry to say, Mr. Pod," said he calmly, "I must arrest you for cruelty to animals." I protested, and explained that my valet and I had been as tender and solicitous for our animals' health and comfort as a father could have been for a child; that we had tramped across both passes from Carson; and that the galls resulted from unavoidable loosening of the cinches and the shifting of the saddles. We had even changed the packs from one animal to another at frequent intervals to distribute equally the general burden. If he doubted my word we would show him our feet. The sight of our sore and bleeding feet caused the "humane" officer to blush at his threat, and as a sympathetic murmur ran through the crowd he said: "Professor, I must say, you men are exonerated. You are as bad off as your poor donkeys, but I cannot let you take this animal out of town in that condition." [Illustration: "_Across on the exclusive Solano._"] [Illustration: "_I pointed toward the goal._"] [Illustration: "_The Ferry approach in 'Frisco was choked with a rabble._"] I was grieved to part with Skates, who had piloted us across the summits in that heavy storm, but the law must be obeyed. I sold the donkey to a son of the hotel landlord, who promised to cherish her as a pet. We were allowed to proceed with the rest on condition that neither of us would ride. It was a long day's journey to the capital, upwards of thirty miles, and we got under way by nine o'clock. Coonskin and I could scarcely walk, and as we drove our three jaded burros down the main street we were cheered on every hand. After reaching the open country Mac A'Rony, observing me screw my face and hearing me sigh from pain, seemed to say: "I'm sorry, old man, but when we are out of sight of those meddling officers, get in the saddle and I will carry you a way." The dear fellow; he could read me like a book. We threaded a lovely country. The orchards were denuded of fruit and verdure, but the vineyards were laden with their white and pink and purple harvest, and the waving alfalfa sent us whiffs from their fragrant censers all along the trail. We stopped at the great Sonora Vineyard to rest and enjoy some Muscat grapes; and shortly after lunch hour, we rested again at a weighing station, where I received a telephone message inquiring when we might be expected at the capital. Handkerchiefs and hats were waving from the balconies of the Golden Eagle Hotel, Sacramento, and newsboys were crying the arrival of Pod and Mac A'Rony as we approached. While I had tramped most all of the way from Folsom, I rode into the city, and after a brief address at the hotel, sent my animals to the stable. The landlord welcomed me cordially, and I was immediately assailed by reporters. The next morning a newspaper man took me driving about the city. I was presented to several state officials, and shown through the handsomest state capitol grounds in the Union. Half the day was devoted to business duties; in the evening I delivered a lecture; and several times I was asked to escort a party of ladies to the stable to see the donkey that enjoyed the unrivaled distinction of having made a 4,000 mile journey from the Hudson to the Sacramento. Next day we started for 'Frisco at eight a. m. Just five days were left us in which to travel the ninety miles to our goal. There were many who advised me to go by way of Stockton, a longer journey by forty miles, cautioning me that my donkeys would not be allowed to cross in the "Solano" ferry at Benicia, which was reserved strictly for people and passenger trains. But we started on the shorter route, Mac and I leading the way out of the beautiful city and along the banks of the Sacramento River, through the toolies and hop fields towards Davisville. When yet a mile to town, Damfino while not even carrying a saddle, staggered and showed symptoms of the colic. The noble beast had done her duty on the hard trip from Iowa, and being the biggest and strongest, she had borne the heaviest burden. She had earned her freedom. I decided to leave her by the roadside. Somebody would soon find her, and take good care of her; which I afterwards learned to be the case. Next morning Coonskin and I set out early with the remaining two donkeys, Mac A'Rony and Coxey, for Suisun, some twenty-five miles away, we walking two-thirds of the distance for the sake of our animals, although augmenting our own sufferings, for our feet still pained us. My dog, Don, on the other hand, was full of health and abrim with mirth. Suisun welcomed us at sunset. That evening a happy idea came to mind; I would send Coonskin to Oakland by train. Considerable business must be done there which he could attend to, besides, he might arrange for hotel and stable accommodations, and engage a blacksmith to put on Mac A'Rony the silver shoes which should be at the express office in that city. There was left me three days in which to travel fifty miles, but now I could ride alternately the two donks and not overtax either. I was received with usual courtesies at Benicia, and the hotel swarmed with townspeople and guests to hear about my trip. At nine next morning a sympathetic crowd accompanied me to the ferry, fully expecting to see my party refused passage. "You cannot board the Solano with your burros," said the officer, positively; "the boat is strictly reserved for passenger trains and people." I did not show surprise, but calmly explained my overland trip, and emphasized the importance of my reaching 'Frisco with Mac by noon of November 3. "Will you send a message to the Southern Pacific's head office at my expense?" I asked. The officer said he would, and sent it. The answer soon came directing the ferrymaster to pass Pod and party across on the exclusive Solano and extend us every courtesy. The officer seemed much astonished at receiving the message. His obsequiousness made Mac A'Rony bray. When the expected train arrived and the Solano left the dock and the passengers realized that they were the first to cross in the company of four-legged donkeys, they treated to cigars and fruit and paid Mac A'Rony exceptional homage. Landing at Porte Costa, I was directed on the shortest route to Oakland, and amid cheers and hearty well-wishes started to climb the trail over the hills which border the river from that point to some distance south. It was after dark when, descending the bluffs and trailing a few miles along the river, I rode into the little village of San Pablo. The streets were quite deserted, and the few men I talked with answered my inquiries in Spanish. Finally, I entered a humble tavern whose Irish proprietor directed me on the right road. Only a few miles now lay between me and Oakland, and although tired and hungry I did not stop for supper, but pushed onward over the level road, now and then walking a half mile to rest my tired yet uncomplaining mounts or to ease my joints, until I rode into the city at midnight. Coonskin met me on the road and cheered me with the information that all the duties assigned to him were attended to, then piloted me to the hotel and the animals to the stable. After getting something to eat I retired. Coonskin had interviewed the reporters, and the morning press heralded my advent in long and sensational notices. When I went to the stable everybody seemed to identify me with the traveler pictured in the papers. I inwardly chuckled when I thought of my dilapidated garb and general unkempt appearance. I was still lame and felt that I had walked around the world in eighty days. My poor little donks were lying down when I went to their stalls. The twenty-eight-mile tramp of the preceding day had told on them. Mac rose to his feet and stuck up his nose to be rubbed. "You have almost earned your pension, too," I said. "But now come to the smith's to have your new shoes put on. They are of pure silver, and befitting one that has made such a record in the field of travel." The little fellow smiled, and playfully pulled the handkerchief out of my pocket while I adjusted his bridle. And when he walked out of the shop "in" his pretty new shoes he looked as proud as any lad in his first pair of pants. Coonskin and I lunched early. The customary crowd followed my party to the ferry, and some crossed with us on the boat to 'Frisco. How happy I felt while drifting over San Francisco Bay! I pointed toward the goal, and to a bystander, said: "During my 340 days' journey, I have had only a vague vision of the city before me, but the day I started from New York I felt as confident of reaching it as I do now." Several passengers laughed incredulously; nevertheless I spoke the truth. The ferry approach in 'Frisco was choked with a rabble. Upon landing Coonskin and I rode our little long-eared animals up Market street to a prominent hotel, a cheering throng of men and street gamins tagging behind or following by the walk on both sides of the street. And when at two o'clock the glass doors to its great white court were thrown open to us, I was just twenty-two hours ahead of schedule time. The several rows of balconies were crowded with hotel guests and friends waving handkerchiefs and hats, and cheer upon cheer rose to the crystal roof and descended to our ears. The court was packed. I called a porter. "Bring a rug for my silver-shod donkey to stand on," I ordered. The darkey looked mystified, and had the insolence to question my strange request, but he soon brought the rug. The reporters aided me to urge back the crowd to give the spectators in the balconies a view of Mac's silver-shod hoofs, all four of which Coonskin lifted, one after the other, for them to see. "Three cheers for Mac A'Rony!" some one shouted from the balcony. It was the signal for a general outburst of applause; and Mac, Coxey and Don, each, respectively, brayed or bayed his deafening acknowledgment of the popular ovation. Then I briefly reviewed my long and tempestuous voyage of 4,096 miles on a donkey's hurricane deck in 340 days and two hours. Frequently I was interrupted with laughter or cheers, as I cited some ludicrous experience, and the unbridled throng, many of them mere street loungers, laughed and yelled and whistled until, finally, the incensed manager was attracted to the Court. The police were unable to cope with the crowd, so I was requested to remove the cause of the disturbance. Indeed I was grateful for the excuse to get away from that wild scene. Coonskin took the animals to the stable, and I, after registering, immediately sought a more exclusive hotel, to whose landlord I bore a letter of introduction from a distinguished gentleman friend. I must have looked as if I had crossed Central Africa and had fought fifty tribes of cannibals. My clothes, hat and leggings were in shreds, my sleeves were fastened to my coat with bale-wire, and blue cotton hung in view. "Do you take tramps at this hotel?" I inquired of the astonished clerk of the Occidental, as I leaned on the office counter. He stopped sorting letters and eyed me with curiosity, but before he recovered his reason, the junior proprietor appeared, and said: "Sometimes," then with a knowing smile extended his hand in greeting. "I believe this is Mr. Pod," he said. I nodded and handed him the letter. When he had read it the affable young gentleman extended me the freedom of the hotel and three days later got up a coaching party in my honor. I was soon a transformed man. After a shave and hair-cut and bath, I dressed and appeared at the office attired as a gentleman on parade, and was hardly recognized by the clerk to be the same man. Coonskin, too, I had fitted out completely; besides I gave him a sum of money and an honorable discharge. In a few days he secured a situation in a hotel, but later set out for a mining camp in the Sierras to dig for gold. I presented one donkey to Golden Gate Park, and sold the other, but I retained possession of my dog. Frequently afterward I called at the park to see dear old faithful Mac A'Rony. In conclusion, let me state that I had eleven donkeys on my overland trip, never more than five at one time. I wore out ten pairs of boots, and put one hundred and forty-eight shoes on my animals at an average cost of ninety cents each, and arrived at my journey's end with several hundred dollars in pocket and weighing thirty-three pounds more than I did the day I set out from New York with ninety-nine cents. "I am as free as Nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in the woods the noble savage ran." EPILOGUE This tale will be hard to swallow, because truth is stronger than fiction. The trip was more healthful for Pod than for me. There are four distinct distances across the American continent, viz: Three thousand miles as the crow flies. Three thousand five hundred as the train steams. Four thousand by overland trail for a man. A million miles as a donkey goes. The most monotonous constant companion for a long journey is a man. There are more people who descend to the level of a jackass than donkeys that rise to the plane of man. If Pye Pod had been killed or drowned, or had died on the journey he would have been condemned and ridiculed as a fool by the same people who now applaud and envy him for his achievement. If I had died on the first day of the trip the world would have called me lucky; now that I lived through it, I'm d----d lucky! M. A'R. TRANSCRIBER ENDNOTE: End-of-line hyphens have been retained or discarded to maintain internal consistency, when possible. In table of contents, for page 213, "XXVII." changed to "XXVIII." For page 219 entry, "Accross" changed to "Across". Page 49: in "he did it them.", "them" to "then". Page 50: the quotation mark at the end of the paragraph that ends with "[...] to his quarters." has no obvious mate, unless at the beginning of the paragraph on page 49 "Those who were not 'let in' to [...]" If so, then this would be a long quotation containing five paragraphs, with only two quotation marks, other than embedded short quotations. It has been formatted (e.g. by indentation) as such herein. Some instances of the odd use of quotation marks have been retained. Others--which seemed clearly wrong or misleading, have been changed. Some were changed silently, but a few of these are listed below. Page 102: one "the" removed from "visiting the homes of the the great". Page 107: "protographs" to "photographs". Page 109: "into his hay loft.." to "into his hay loft." Similar corrections on page 121 and 126. Also fixed a double comma on page 255. Page 120: "semed" to "seemed". Page 130: "Exixer" to "Elixir". Missing quotation mark inserted after "moral?". Page 166: "accompained" to "accompanied". Page 173: period added to the end of "The topography of the country varied but little". Page 190: period added to end of paragraph. Page 193: quotation mark with no mate removed from start of paragraph beginning with "I did not discuss further". Page 200: quotation mark with no mate removed from "I recalled how I had been swindled [...]". Page 211: "wheeel" to "wheel". Page 212: in "caught the animated beg before it", "beg" to "bag". Page 216: missing quotation mark inserted for "a pity to have [...]". Page 218: "Fnally" to "Finally". Page 224: "smaal" to "small". Page 246: excess quotation mark removed after "companion.". Page 253: "Hhat" to "That". Page 258: "I thing the whole" to "I think the whole". Page 260: "Buy" to "But". Page 278: "comething" to "something". Also, "house" to "hours". Page 308: missing quotation mark inserted. Also in illustration facing page 312. Page 313: missing "it" inserted. Page 341: quotation mark inserted after "patient.". Page 376: "I answered. coarsely," to "I answered coarsely,". Page 377: quotation mark inserted after "of water,". Page 381: "to save him-" to "to save himself." Page 410: missing quotation mark inserted before "Ain't nobody livin'". Also, extraneous single quote deleted after "blasted cat,". Also, "wasn"t" to "wasn't". In this text version, italics that originally served specifically for emphasis have been converted to uppercase. Small-caps text has also been represented by uppercase. Italics that seemed merely to set off titles, words or phrases from the context have been _marked with underscores_ before and after. 
44671	----	Transcriber's note: Spelling and punctuation inconsistencies been harmonized. Obvious printer errors have been repaired. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. Please see the end of this book for further notes. JACK IN THE ROCKIES _By the same Author_ JACK THE YOUNG COWBOY JACK THE YOUNG TRAPPER JACK THE YOUNG CANOEMAN JACK THE YOUNG EXPLORER JACK IN THE ROCKIES JACK AMONG THE INDIANS JACK THE YOUNG RANCHMAN PAWNEE HERO STORIES AND FOLK TALES BLACKFOOT LODGE TALES THE STORY OF THE INDIAN THE INDIANS OF TO-DAY THE PUNISHMENT OF THE STINGY AMERICAN DUCK SHOOTING AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING TRAILS OF THE PATHFINDERS [Illustration: "THROWING HIS GUN TO HIS SHOULDER HE FIRED AT THE ANIMAL." _Page 221_] JACK IN THE ROCKIES OR A BOY'S ADVENTURES WITH A PACK TRAIN BY GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL _Author of_ "_Jack the Young Ranchman_," "_Jack Among the Indians_," "_Pawnee Hero Stories_," "_Blackfoot Lodge Tales_," "_The Story of the Indian_," "_The Indian of To-Day_," _Etc._ _Illustrated by_ EDWIN WILLARD DEMING [Illustration] NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1904, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY _All rights reserved_ _Thirteenth Printing_ _Printed in the United States of America_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE INDIANS OF FORT BERTHOLD 9 II THE BATTLE OF THE MUSSELSHELL 27 III THE START FOR THE BLACKFOOT CAMP 43 IV OLD FRIENDS AND NEW 56 V BUFFALO HUNTING WITH THE BLACKFEET 73 VI AMID WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE PARK 86 VII GEYSERS AND HOT SPRINGS 97 VIII ACROSS THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE 109 IX AN ELK HUNT UNDER THE TETONS 122 X TRAILING BLACK-TAILS 137 XI TRACKS IN THE SNOW 147 XII WHAT WILL BECOME OF THE ELK? 160 XIII A PACK HORSE IN DANGER 172 XIV A BIGHORN 180 XV A CHARGING GRIZZLY 189 XVI SOMETHING ABOUT BEARS 194 XVII THE STORY OF A MAN KILLER 202 XVIII JACK'S FIRST MOOSE 216 XIX WATCHING A BEAR BAIT 228 XX A PUZZLING TRAIL 240 XXI HUGH GOES "ON DISCOVERY" 248 XXII STEALING FROM HORSE THIEVES 257 XXIII "DIED WITH HIS BOOTS ON" 266 ILLUSTRATIONS "THROWING HIS GUN TO HIS SHOULDER HE FIRED AT THE ANIMAL" _Frontispiece_ "HE REACHED FAR FORWARD, AND GRASPED THE LONG HAIR ON THE BUFFALO'S HUMP" 82 "ALMOST BELOW THEM, FEEDING, WERE TWO GOOD SIZED RAMS" 183 "'HANDS UP'! HUGH CALLED" 268 FOREWORD At the time Jack Danvers journeyed through the Yellowstone National Park, that wonderful country was little known. Since then it has become famous, and people from all parts of the globe go to visit it. There is no more delightful summer excursion possible than a trip to the National Park where--if one can take a pack train and journey away from the beaten roads and trails--it is still possible to see elk and deer and many other wild animals, almost in their old time abundance. In the spring of 1903 President Roosevelt did just this, and on his return wrote a most interesting article about what he saw, telling of the abundance of the elk, the familiarity of the deer, the shyness of the antelope and the tameness of the mountain sheep. American boys and girls are happy in having in their own country so lovely and so marvelous a region. Jack in the Rockies CHAPTER I THE INDIANS OF FORT BERTHOLD With noisy puffings the steamboat was slowly pushing her way up the river. On either side the flat bottom, in some places overgrown with high willow brush, in others, bearing a growth of tall and sturdy cottonwoods, ran back a long way to the yellow bluffs beyond. The bluffs were rounded and several hundred feet in height, rising imperceptibly until they seemed to meet the blue of the sky, so that the boat appeared to be moving at the bottom of a wide trough. Hour after hour she pushed on, meeting nothing, seeing nothing alive, except now and then a pair of great gray geese, followed by their yellow goslings; or sometimes on the shore a half-concealed red object, which moved quickly out of sight, and which observers knew to be a deer. On the boat were two of our old friends. From the far East had come Jack Danvers, traveling day after day until he had reached Bismarck, Dakota, where he found awaiting him Hugh Johnson, as grave, as white-haired, and as cheery as ever. At Bismarck they had taken the up-river steamer, "Josephine," and the boat had sailed early on the morning of July 5th. Hugh and Jack were on their way back up to the Piegan country. They had separated at Bismarck the previous autumn, and while Hugh kept on down the river, to take a west-bound train, which should carry him back to Mr. Sturgis' ranch in Wyoming, Jack had gone East, to spend the winter in New York. He had had a year of hard work at school, for his experience of the previous winter had taught him that it paid well to work in school, and to make the most of his opportunities there. This made his parents more willing to have him go away to this healthful life, and he found that if he did his best he enjoyed all the better the wild, free life of the prairie and the mountains, which he now hoped would be his during a part, at least, of every year. His summer with the Piegans had taught him many things known to few boys in the East, and given him many pleasures to which they are strangers; and the more he saw of this prairie life the more he enjoyed it, and the more he hoped to have more and more of it. Sometimes, when he awoke early in the morning, or at night, after he had gone to bed, as he lay between sleeping and waking, he used to go over in his mind the scenes that he had visited, and the stirring adventures in which he had taken part, and these memories, with the hope of others like them, gave him a pleasure that he would not have parted with for anything. Often when he was in New York, walking through narrow city streets, looking up at high buildings, hearing the roar and rattle of the passing traffic, and watching the people hurry to and fro, each one absorbed in his own business, it was hard to realize that away off somewhere, only a few days' journey distant, there was a land where there was no limit to the view, where each human being seemed absolutely free, and where it was possible to travel for days and days without seeing a single person. Always interwoven with his dreams and his imaginings about this distant country was the memory of the friend Hugh, to whom he was so deeply attached. It hardly seemed to him possible to go anywhere in the West, except in company with Hugh, and until he had joined him, it never seemed as if his journey had begun, or was really going to be made. All through the day the boat went on, turning and twisting, and at different times facing all points of the compass. Sometimes the sun would be shining on the port side of the boat, a little later on the starboard side, then it would be ahead, and again behind. Hugh and Jack spent their time chatting on the upper deck of the boat, Hugh smoking vigorously, to keep off the mosquitoes, while Jack, the edges of his handkerchief under his hat and tucked inside his coat collar, to leeward of Hugh, took advantage of the constant stream of smoke that poured from his pipe. They had much to tell each other of the winter that had passed, and much to say of the trip on which they were now starting. Fort Benton was their destination, and until they reached there, and saw their friend Joe, the Blackfoot Indian who was to meet them with the horses, they were uncertain what they should do. There were not a few passengers on the boat. Some of them were carefully dressed persons, wearing long frock coats, white shirts, and a modest amount of jewelry, residents of the thriving towns of Helena or Virginia City, Montana; others were army officers, on their way to posts in the Northwest, or now starting out on some exploring expedition; while others still were persons of whose occupation and destination it was hard to judge from their appearance. Among them was a middle-aged man who Jack thought, from his conversation, had long been a resident of the plains, and who told Jack something about a trade that he had long practised--that of wolfing. "Why, young fellow," he said, "it is only a few years ago since there was good money in wolfin', but I had to quit it down in the southern country for wolves got too scarce when the buffalo got killed off. Wherever there was buffalo there was plenty of wolves, for the wolves made their livin' off the herds, just like the Indians; and when I say wolves I mean big wolves, coyotes, foxes, and swifts. "In the autumn, as soon as the fur began to get good, I used to start out and find a herd of buffalo, and after shootin' two or three of them, I'd skin them down, and rip them up, and put from one to three bottles of strychnine in each carcass. After the blood that lay in the ribs had been poisoned good, I'd smear that over the meat on the outside. Generally I'd try to kill my buffalo close to where I was goin' to camp, and after I had put out my baits I went to camp and slept until near day. Then, before I could see, I'd get up, cook my breakfast, hitch up, if I had a team, and go round to all my baits. Likely, around each one I'd find my half dozen to fifteen wolves, and sometimes it would take me two or three days to skin them. Likely enough, if the weather turned right cold, I got a good many more wolves than I could skin, and had to stack them up, and wait till I got time. It was mighty hard work now, and don't you forget it. Then, too, there was always a chance that Indians might come along and make trouble for me. You take a man out on the prairie, ten years ago, and even the friendly Indians were likely to scare him a whole lot, or take his hides, even if they didn't take away his gun and his horses. As for the hostiles, if they got too close to a man it was all up with him. But I never had no trouble with them, except once, and then I was camped in the dug-out, with plenty of provisions, and there was only three of the Indians. I saw them comin', and suspected who they were, and managed to get my horses into the dug-out with me and stood 'em off. They scared me bad though. "I should think so," said Jack. The man stopped talking to fill his pipe and after he had lighted it puffed thoughtfully. Then he continued: "There's another way I've wolfed it, and that is by draggin' a bait over quite a scope of country, and droppin' pieces of poisoned meat along the trail. I used to do that when I couldn't find animals to kill for bait. This worked pretty well for awhile but it's no good any more down in that country." "I've seen coyotes killed by putting poisoned tallow in auger holes, bored in chunks of wood," said Jack. "Yes," said the man, "that's good sometimes, and they stay there lickin' and lickin' up the bait until they die right there. You don't have to look over much country to find your wolves." "What kind of meat did you use when you were dragging the bait?" asked Jack. "Most any kind would do," replied the wolfer; "sometimes it would be a piece of buffalo meat, sometimes a shoulder of a deer, but the best bait of all is a beaver carcass; there's lots of grease and lots of smell to that, and the wolves and coyotes are sure to follow it. This draggin' a trail is good too, because the wolves, when they go along and snap up the poisoned bait, don't go off, but keep right on followin' the trail, and you find them there, maybe quite a long way from where they pick the bait. "Where are you goin', young fellow; you and that old man I see you talking with?" "We're going up to Benton," said Jack, "and I don't know where we're going from there. I expect we'll meet a friend there, with our horses, and then we're going to make a trip, off maybe on the prairies, and maybe into the mountains; we can't tell yet." "Sho," said the man, "you're sure goin' to have a good time. I've got to get a job when I get to Benton; somethin' that'll keep me until it comes time for fur to get good." The next morning when Jack and Hugh left their stateroom a heavy fog hung low over the river and the boat was not moving, but was tied up to the bank, for it was so thick that there was danger of running aground on the frequent sand-bars, and as the river was now falling, the captain was unwilling to take the chance of such delay. On the lower deck was a dug-out canoe, the property of a temporary passenger, who was going only to Fort Berthold, and, after breakfast, Jack suggested to Hugh that they should borrow this canoe and go off a little way up the river, taking their guns, and seeing whether they could kill anything. Hugh said this could not be done, explaining that it would be easy enough to get lost, which would be bad for them, and very irritating to the captain, who might feel it necessary to wait for them; and besides this, the fog might lift at any moment, when the boat would move onward much faster than they could paddle. As it happened, the fog lifted almost immediately, and the boat set forward; and a little before noon the village of the Rees, Gros Ventres and Mandans, high up on the bluff above the river, was seen; and soon after the boat tied up, and all hands went ashore. The bluff rose steeply from the river, and up and down its face were steep trails, worn by the feet of women passing up and down as they carried water and the driftwood which they gathered, up to the village. On the top of the bluff stood the bee-hive shaped gray houses, which Hugh told Jack were much like those occupied by the Pawnees. They began to climb the bluff toward the village, and Jack asked Hugh about the Indians who lived here. "In old times," said Hugh, "these Indians were scattered out up and down the river. The Gros Ventres lived furthest up, between here and Buford, and the Rees and Mandans lived further down the stream. A long time ago,--back maybe more than a hundred years,--the Rees and the Mandans all lived together, away down below here; but then they had some sort of a quarrel among themselves, and the Mandans moved on up the stream, and for a long time camped near the mouth of the Knife River. For a while after that there was some fighting between the Rees and Mandans, but after a time they made peace, and gradually the tribes came together again; and now for a long time they've all lived together in this village of Berthold. In old times each of these villages was a big one, but since the white men came among them, and brought smallpox, and liquor, and all the other things that the white men bring, they are dying off fast, and I don't believe that now there is more than eight or nine hundred of these Indians all together. You know these Rees here are kind of kin to the Pawnees; they speak near the same language, so that I can talk with 'em, and they call the Pawnees their relations. I think they used to be a part of the Skidi band. Nobody knows just when they separated from the Pawnees, but it must have been a good while ago." Hugh paused, and Jack asked: "Does any one know how they came to separate, Hugh? Is there any tradition about it?" "Yes," said Hugh, "there is. The old story is that all the Pawnees were out hunting, and the Sioux got around some of 'em, and cut 'em off from the rest and kept fighting 'em, and driving 'em, and fighting and driving, until they got 'em away up on the Missouri River, so far from their friends that they had to winter there. Then, along back, maybe about 1830, soon after the beginning of the fur trade on the upper river, the Rees fought the white folks, and were generally hostile. After that they went back and joined the Pawnees, but they couldn't get along well with the Pawnees, and quarreled with them, and finally the Pawnees drove 'em off. So they came on back up the river. It was after that that they joined the Mandans, and they've lived together ever since." By this time they had reached the top of the bluff, and were now close to the houses, on whose curious domed roofs many people were sitting,--women busy with their work, young men wrapped in their robes, and looking off into the distance, and little girls playing with their dolls or their puppies. The ground in the village all about the houses was worn bare by the passage of many feet; Indians were going to and fro, women carrying water and wood, men naked, or wrapped in their summer sheets, little boys chasing each other, or, with their ropes trying to snare the dogs, which were usually too cunning for them. Jack was greatly interested in the houses, and wished to look into one, and to this Hugh said there would be no objection. The entrance of each house was by a long passage-way, closed above, and at the sides, and passing through this, they found themselves at the door. Jack expected to go into a room that was dark; but this was not so. Above the center of the large room was a wide open space, which answered both for chimney and for window. About the fireplace, which was under the smoke hole, at the corners of a square, stood four stout posts, reaching up to and supporting the rafters of the roof. The floor of the house was swept clean, and all around the walls were raised platforms, serving for beds, and separated by screens of straight willow sticks strung on sinew, from the adjacent bed on either side. In front of some of the beds similar screens hung down like curtains so that the bed could be cut off from the observation of those in the house. Over the fireplace hung a pot, and two pleasant-faced women were sitting near it, sewing moccasins. They looked up pleasantly, as the strangers stood in the doorway, and Hugh spoke a few words to them, to which they made some answer. Then the strangers withdrew. Keeping on through the village, they walked out on the higher prairie, toward the tribal burying-ground, but not such a burying-ground as Jack was accustomed to see. Here were placed the dead, wrapped up in bundles, on platforms raised on four poles, eight or ten feet above the ground. Evidently no attention was paid to them after burial, for many of the poles which supported the platforms had rotted and fallen down, and, in the older part of the graveyard the ground was strewn with pieces of old robes and clothing, and with white bones. Hugh told Jack that farther away, and down on lower ground, where the soil was moist, the Rees, Mandans, and Gros Ventres had farms, where they raised corn, beans, pumpkins, and squashes, and that in old times they used to raise tobacco. It was now time to return to the boat, for the wait was to be only a short one, and on their way back he told of something that had happened not many years before in the Mandan village. "The people were hungry," said Hugh, "and there was no food in camp. They sent young men off in all directions to look for buffalo, but none could be found. As the people grew hungrier and hungrier the White Cow Society made up their minds that they would give a dance, and try to bring the buffalo. They did this, and danced for a long time; but no buffalo were found, and there were no signs that any were coming. Still the people of the White Cow Society danced, and still the other people watched them, and prayed that they might bring the buffalo. One day, after they'd danced for ten days, suddenly a big noise was heard in the village, and when the people rushed out of the lodges to see what was happening, there, among the lodges, was a big buffalo bull, charging about right close to the lodge in which the White Cow Society were dancing. All the dogs in the village seemed to be about him, barking at his head, and biting at his heels, and he was trying only to get away, and paying no attention to the Indians that were all about him. "Then everybody was glad, for all could see that the Master of Life had sent this bull, to answer their prayers; and all believed that he had come ahead of the main herd, which would soon follow him. Before he had got out of the village, the bull was shot. The White Cow Society came out of their lodge, and danced around the village, and while they were doin' this, one of the scouts came in, and reported that a big band of cows was not far off. Then everybody was glad, and all wondered at the strong medicine of the White Cow Society. The next day the men went out and made a surround, and killed plenty of cows, and brought in the meat, and there came a terrible storm, and when the storm cleared off the whole prairie, beyond the ridge near Knife River, was black with buffalo. Now there was plenty in the camp, and every one was happy. The men went out and brought in fat meat, and it was dried, and no more that winter was there any suffering for food." "That's a good story, Hugh," said Jack, "but do you suppose the dancing of the White Cow Society really brought the buffalo?" "I couldn't tell you, son. The Indians believed it did, but I don't suppose any white folks would. But I've seen so many queer things follow these medicine performances that I don't know what to think about them, myself." By this time they had reached the shore, and looking around, as they passed over the gang-plank to the deck, they saw the captain and purser coming down the trail just behind them. The deck hands were already beginning to cast off the fasts, and a moment later the whistle sounded, the boat's nose turned out into the river, and the steady thump, thump of the paddle-wheel began again. On the bank stood the three or four white men belonging to the agency, and up and down the bottom, and clustered in little groups on the bluffs, were Indians, dressed in buckskin, or in bright-colored cloth, who stood motionless, watching the steamer as she slowly moved away. "That's a mighty interesting place, Hugh; and I want to get you to tell me all about it. Who are the Gros Ventres, and who are the Mandans? You've told me about the Rees, but I want to know about the others." "Well, son," said Hugh, "I don't know as I can tell you very much about them, but I'll try. The Gros Ventres are close relations to the Crows; in fact, many people call them the River Crows, to distinguish them from the real Crows, that live up close to the mountains, on the head of the Yellowstone. Those fellows are called the Mountain Crows, and there's a good many more of them than there are of these. These people, I suppose, got their name, Gros Ventres, from the French, and I never heard why it was given to 'em. I never could see that they were any fatter, or had any bigger bellies, than other Indians, and I never found out any reason for the name. They don't call themselves by any such name as that; their name for themselves is _Hi d[)a]t sa_, and that's said to mean, willows. Anyhow, they used to be called Willow Indians; so I have been told. "In old times, they say that there were three tribes of them, but the other tribes have been lost, or forgotten, and now they're all together--all one bunch of Indians. There's one thing you want to remember, that there are two different outfits of Indians, both called Gros Ventres; one of them, these people here, whom we know as the Gros Ventres of the Village, or Gros Ventres of the Missouri; the others are the Gros Ventres of the Prairie, whose country is east of the Blackfoot country, and who used to be friendly with the Blackfeet, and then fought them for a long time, and now are friendly again. Those Gros Ventres of the Prairie are no kin at all to these people, but are a part of the Arapahoes, from whom, according to the old story, they split off a long, long time ago. They talk the Arapahoe language, and call the Arapahoes their own people, and still visit them back and forth. Nowadays they have an agency along with the Assinaboines, further west, at Fort Belknap, over on Milk River. Ninety-nine men out of every hundred get these Arapahoes and these River Crows mixed up, just for the reason that the French called them both Gros Ventres. Don't you ever do that, because when a man makes that mistake it shows that he don't know nothing about Indians. Try to remember that, will you?" "Of course I will, Hugh. I don't want to make any mistakes, especially now since I have been out and seen something of real Indians. People back East, and especially all the fellows at school, think that I know everything about Indians now. They're all the time asking me questions about them, who they are, and where they live, and I should hate to make any mistakes in my answers. Now tell me, who are the Mandans?" "I don't know as much about the Mandans as I do about the Gros Ventres of the Village," said Hugh, "and yet I've heard a lot about them. They're a kind of queer people; lots of 'em used to have yellow hair and gray eyes, and lots of 'em now have gray-haired children, same as you have seen among the Blackfeet. I got hold of a book once with lots of pictures of Indians in it; mighty good pictures, too, they were. 'T was written by a man named Catlin, who came up the river, painting pictures of Indians, a long time ago; maybe fifty years. He said he thought the Mandans were Welshmen, and told some story about some foreign prince that brought a colony of Welshmen over here, and Catlin thought that maybe the Mandans were descended from that colony. Anyhow they've lived by themselves, so the story goes, for a great many years; but I've heard the old men say that long, long ago the tribe came from away back East somewhere. They followed down a big river that ran from east to west, likely it may have been the Ohio River, until they came to the Mississippi, and then they struck off northwest, and camped on the Missouri, and they have been traveling up the Missouri, a little way at a time, for an almighty sight o' years. "This book of Catlin's that I tell you about has got a whole lot o' stuff about the Mandans, and it is mighty good readin'. You had better get hold of it sometime when you get back East; it'll tell you more about 'em than I can. The Mandans have always been farmers, and raised good crops of corn, and that and their buffalo give them a pretty good living. But now the buffalo are getting scarce, and when they give out the Mandans will have to live on straight corn, I am afraid. There's one thing about the Mandans that's worth rememberin', they make the best pots of any people that I know of on the plains. I expect that in old times maybe the Pawnees made just as good pots, but since the white folks began to bring brass and copper kettles into the country the Pawnees have forgotten how to make pots; but the Mandans still keep it up, and make some pots, big and little----" "Oh, Hugh!" called Jack at this moment, "Look at the buffalo!" and he pointed toward the high bluffs on the south side of the river, and there were three dark spots, running as hard as they could up the hill. "Sure enough," said Hugh, "there's the first buffalo we've seen. Don't they look like three rats scuttling off over the hills, as fast as they can go. Before long, now, we ought to see plenty of 'em along the river; though we ain't likely to see many buffalo before we get above Buford." The boat pushed slowly up the river's muddy current, and Hugh and Jack continued to talk about the Indian village on the hill. "A mighty queer thing happened once at that village, son," said Hugh. "You've heard, maybe, that in some tribes of Indians they have sort of prophets, or men that foretell things that are going to happen. I have seen a little of that sort of thing myself, that I never could explain. Besides that, they've got some way of learning news that we don't understand anything about. Of course it may not be as quick as railroads and telegraphs, but its quick. Let me tell you something that happened there at Berthold, some years ago, and the man that it happened to lives in the upper country now, and you may likely run across him some time when you are up there. He is a Dutchman, and his name is Joe Butch. "Along in 1868, Joe was working at Berthold, for a trader there, and the trader got into some sort of a quarrel about a horse with old White Cow, chief of the Mandans, and I guess old White Cow was pretty sassy, and maybe he threatened to do something, and Joe killed him. Well, as soon as he had killed the old man, Joe he knew that that wasn't no place for him, because the Mandans would be pretty sure to kill him; so he hops onto his horse, and rides as hard as he could for Buford, that's eighty miles up the river, next place we stop at. When he got to Buford he found there a big camp of Assinaboines, and they were having a big dance, because the chief of the Mandans, their enemies, had just been killed. Now, how do you suppose those Assinaboines knew that White Cow had been killed? Joe didn't waste no time getting onto his horse, and he rode as hard as he could to Buford; and its a sure thing that nobody got there before him with the news. I never understood how they found that out, and I never expect to." "That seems a wonderful thing, Hugh," said Jack. "I don't see how they could have found it out if nobody told them, and if there were no telegraphs." "Well, it's sure there were no telegraphs," said Hugh, "and I don't see how anybody could have told them. Joe killed the man, and started on his ride right off, and had a good horse. That's one of the things that always beat me." The hours passed swiftly by for Jack and Hugh, as they watched the river banks on either side. The boat had met a flood of water just above Berthold, which, if it made progress against the strong current more slow, nevertheless saved time by deepening the water, so that they did not run aground on sand-bars. Several times during the morning, antelope were seen feeding in the bottom, lifting their heads to gaze at the boat, as it puffed and snorted along, but not being enough alarmed to take to flight. After supper that night, as they sat on the deck about sundown, Hugh, watching the banks, pointed out no less than three distant spots on the wide bottom, which he told Jack were bears digging roots. They were a long way off, yet with his glasses Jack was able to make out their forms, and to recognize them as bears. CHAPTER II THE BATTLE OF THE MUSSELSHELL Early next morning the boat stopped at Fort Buford, above the mouth of the Yellowstone River. The wait was to be only a short one, and no one left the boat. Jack was interested in looking from the upper deck at the post, where there were a number of soldiers, and it looked like a busy place. Away to the left was seen the broad current of the Yellowstone coming down between timbered banks. As the two friends sat on the upper deck and looked off toward the shore, Hugh, in response to some question by Jack, said: "Yes, in old fur-trading days this used to be a mighty interesting place. Just above here was one of the great trading posts of old times, and pretty much all the tribes of the northern prairie used to come here to get their ammunition, and whatever other stuff they could buy. Old man Culbertson was here for a long time, and lots of people from back east and from foreign parts used to come up the river as far as this. Sometimes they used to have great fights out here on this flat, when two hostile tribes would come in to trade and would get here at the same time. I've heard great stories about the way the Indians used to fight here among themselves almost under the walls of the post; and, then, again, sometimes the Indians used to crawl up as near to the fort as they could, and try to run off the horse herd, which would be feeding right out in front of the post. Sometimes they'd get 'em; sometimes they wouldn't, but would get one of the herders. On the whole, however, the place wasn't often attacked, because the Indians couldn't afford to quarrel with the people who furnished them with their goods. When 'twas Fort Union, 'twas a mighty lively place." "Why Hugh," said Jack, "do you mean to tell me that this is old Fort Union?" "Sure," said Hugh. "Why," said Jack, "I've read lots about Fort Union. Don't you know that in 1843 Audubon, the naturalist, and a party of his friends, came up here to find out a lot about the Western birds and animals? I've read a lot of Audubon, and he speaks constantly of Fort Union, and about the things he used to see here, and the buffalo hunting, and about Mr. Culbertson. Dear me! dear me! when I was reading about it I never thought that I would see Fort Union." "Well," said Hugh, "this is the place; and if this man Audubon was out here in 1843, that, I think, was just the year before they had the big smallpox here. Men that were here at the time tell me that there were two or three big camps of Indians here, and that they got the smallpox in the fall, just before the ground froze, and the Indians died off like wolves about a poisoned carcass; and the ground was hard, and they could not dig graves for them, and they just stacked up the bodies outside of the fort, in rows, like so much cord-wood, and had to wait till the ground melted in the spring before they could bury 'em. There must have been a pile of Indians died." "Well, what did they do for smallpox, Hugh? How did they cure themselves?" "Why, they didn't know anything about curing themselves, son. When a man got smallpox, or got sick, he just went into a sweat-lodge, and took a sweat, and came out and plunged into the river to cool off, and the ice was running, and some of 'em never came up again, and some of those that did come up were so weak from the shock that they could not get to the shore, and just drowned. If we get to the Blackfoot camp this summer, you ask old man Chouquette about it. He was here then; he'll tell you about it, just the same as he told me." While Hugh had been talking, the boat had cast off and had once more started up the river. It was afternoon, and Hugh was dozing in his chair, tilted up against the cabin, while Jack as usual was watching the river banks, when suddenly from behind a little hill that formed the end of a hog back, which extended well out into the bottom, he saw a herd of seventy or eighty buffalo, come running as hard as they could across the bottom, and plunge into the river just above the boat. The great animals ran as if frightened, and seemed to regard nothing but the danger behind them. As the boat went along, and the buffalo swam to cross the stream, they came nearer and nearer together, and at last it was evident that the buffalo would pass very close to the boat. They swam rapidly, and with them were many little calves, swimming on the down stream side of their mothers, and going swiftly and easily. Jack shouted to Hugh, who, with him, watched the buffalo, and in a very few minutes the boat was actually in the midst of the herd. The animals did not attempt to turn about, but swam steadily after their leaders, and some of them actually swam against the boat, and, only then seeming to understand their danger, turned about and, grunting, snorting, and bellowing, climbed up on each other in tremendous fright. As they came to the boat Jack at first had started to get his rifle, but Hugh called him back, and they both descended to the lower deck, where, with the other passengers, and the deck hands, they were actually within arms length of the buffalos. The mate, forming a noose with a rope, threw it over the head of a two-year-old, and half a dozen of the roustabouts, pulling on the rope, lifted the animal's head up on the deck, when the mate killed it, and it was presently hauled aboard and butchered. As they returned to the upper deck, having watched the buffalo, after the boat had passed, swim to the other bank and climb out of the water, and then stop and look at the boat, Jack said to Hugh, "Well, I saw a lot of buffalo last year, but it sort of excites one to see them again as close as those were." "Yes," said Hugh, "that's so; but there was no use in your getting your gun, as you started to. I don't want you to act like all the rest of these pilgrims that come up the river, and to be shooting at everything you see that's alive. There'd have been no more fun in shooting one of those buffalo in the water there, than there'd be in shooting a cow on the range. Of course, if a man's hungry, it's well enough for him to butcher; but if he just wants meat, and there's somebody else to do the butchering, he might just as well let him do it. I always used to like to hunt, and I do still, but it's no fun for me to kill a calf in a pen, or to chop off a chicken's head. "That's so, Hugh," said Jack; "it would have been no more to shoot one of those buffalos in the water than it was for the mate to kill that two-year-old." "That's so," said Hugh; "it would have been just the same thing, and you don't envy him the work he did, I expect." "No indeed," said Jack, "not much." "Now, if you want to fire a few shots," said Hugh, "if you want a little practice with your gun, get it out the next time we get close to the bank, and shoot at a knot in some cottonwood tree. I can watch with the glasses and see where you hit, and you can get some practice with your rifle, but won't show up a tenderfoot." The sun was low that evening when they reached Wolf Point, the agency for the Assinaboine Indians, and it seemed as if all the Indians there must have clustered about the landing-place to welcome the boat; men, clad in fringed buckskin shirts and leggings, and with eagle feathers in their hair; bright-shawled women, carrying babies on their backs; small boys, naked, save for a pair of leggings and a breech-clout; and little girls, some wearing handsome buckskin dresses, trimmed with elk-teeth, and clinging to their mothers' skirts, made up the assemblage. Most interesting to Jack were the many travois, each one drawn by a dog. Some of these were very wolf-like in appearance; others might have been big watch dogs taken from the front door yard of some eastern farm house. All seemed well-trained and patient; and when, a little later, some of them started off for the agency buildings, dragging loads that had been piled on the travois, they bent sturdily to their work, and dug their feet into the ground. "There's something, son," said Hugh, "that we are not going to see much longer. The dog travois has seen its best days, and before long dogs won't be used any more for that work. Why, I hear that even up in the North, dogs are not used in winter for hauling half as much as they used to be; and down here, the first thing you know, all these Indians will be having wagons, and driving them 'round over the prairie. Why, do you know, it ain't so very long ago since these Assinaboines had hardly any horses. They didn't want 'em; they said horses were only a nuisance and a bother to 'em, and their dogs were better. Horses had to be looked after; driven in and caught up whenever they were to be used, and then they had to be watched to keep people from stealing them; but dogs, instead of running away when you wanted to catch them, would come running toward you; they never ran off nor were stolen. Nowadays, though, the Assinaboines have got quite a good many horses, and I expect to live long enough to see the time when dog travois will be a regular curiosity." "Who are the Assinaboines, Hugh," said Jack. "What tribe are they related to?" "They're Sioux," said Hugh, "and talk the Sioux language. Of course it's a little different from that talked by the Ogallalas and the down river Sioux; but still they can all understand each other, and they call themselves Lacotah, which of course you know is the name that all the Sioux have for themselves." "And yet," he continued, "they have been at war with the Sioux and with the Sioux' friends for a good many years. I reckon there ain't any one that rightly knows when the Assinaboines split off from the main stock; it must have been a long time ago. But you talk with the Assinaboines, and they'll tell you--just as most of the other Sioux'll tell you--about a time long ago, in the lives of their fore-fathers, when their people lived at the edge of the salt water. I expect maybe that means that they migrated a long way, either from the East or from the West, very far back." "My!" said Jack, "if we could only know about all these things that happened, and what the history of each tribe was, wouldn't it be interesting?" "It sure would," said Hugh. "Well, Hugh," continued Jack, "what does Assinaboine mean? Has it any real meaning, like some of these other names of Indian tribes that you tell me about?" "Yes," said Hugh, "it has a meaning, and I reckon it's a Cree word. _Ass[)i]ne_ means stone in Cree, _poit_ means cooked, or cooking, and the Assinaboines are called stone-cookers, or stone-roasters, I suppose because they used to do their cooking with hot stones. But of course that don't mean much, because pretty nearly all the Indians that I know of used to boil their meat with hot rocks, except those that made pots and kettles for themselves out of clay. Nobody knows, I reckon, when the Pawnees and Mandans first learned how to make pots. I expect that was a long time ago, too. But most of these Indians used to boil meat in a kettle made of hide, or the paunch of a buffalo, filled with water. Then they'd heat stones in the fire, and put them in the water, taking them out as they got cool and putting in others, until the water boiled and the food was cooked." "But," said Jack, "I should think when they cooked the hide or paunch it would break, and let the water spill out." "No," said Hugh. "It would of course, if you kept cooking long enough; but one of these kettles would only last to cook a single meal; you couldn't use it a second time, but it was all right for one cooking. I have seen a hide kettle used, and eaten from it." Jack sat thinking, for awhile, and then he turned to Hugh and said: "I tell you, Hugh, if all you know about Indians, and about this Western country were put in a book, it would make an awful big one, wouldn't it?" "Well, I don't know, son," said Hugh, "maybe it might; but a man has got to learn the life he's lived; if he doesn't, he won't amount to nothing. I expect if all that you know about the East was put in a book it would make quite a sizable one." "Oh," said Jack, "that's nothing. The things I know don't amount to anything, and everybody else knows them a good deal better than I do." "Well, I tell you," said Hugh, "the things that are new and strange to you seem kind o' wonderful, but they don't seem wonderful to me; but I remember one time you were telling me something about catching fish down at the place called Great South Bay, and talking about seeing the vessels sailing on the ocean, and to me that seemed mighty wonderful." By this time the boat had left the landing-place, and the light was growing dim. They turned and looked back, and there across the wide bottom was moving toward the Post, a long string of people, men and women and children and dog travois, so that it looked almost like a moving camp. Hugh and Jack sat for a while longer on the deck talking, and then, as the mosquitoes got bad, they turned in. The next afternoon the boat reached Fort Peck, then one of the most important Indian agencies on the Missouri River. It stood on a narrow bench, a few log buildings surrounded by a stockade, and back of it the bluffs rose sharply, and were dotted with the scaffolds of the dead. It seemed to Jack that there must be hundreds and hundreds, if not thousands, of these graves in sight. From the poles of some of them long streamers were blown out in the wind, which Hugh told him were offerings tied to the poles of the scaffolds by mourning relatives. But few living Indians were seen here, and there were only three or four white men seen about the trading post. They did not leave the boat, which soon pushed on again. "The Indians about here have been awful mean," said Hugh; "Lots of things were brought in here that the Sioux took from the Custer battlefield. Somebody told me that Custer's gold watch was brought in here by an Indian, who wanted to know how much it was worth: but so many questions were asked him about it that he just put the watch in his sack and lit out, and has not been seen here since." As the boat passed the mouth of the Musselshell early next morning Hugh pointed shoreward, and said: "Do you see that place over there where that creek comes in, son?" "Why, of course I see it, Hugh," said Jack, "and the timber that runs along it. What creek is it?" "You ought to know," said Hugh, with a laugh; "you got scared in it a whole lot last summer." "Why, Hugh, is that the Musselshell?" said Jack. "That's what it is," said Hugh; "and seeing the mouth of the river, and them sticks there on the flat, reminds me of the big fight that took place there some years back. I wonder if you ever heard about it. I meant to tell you last summer, but somehow it slipped my mind. It was there that Liver-Eating Johnson got his name. They used to say that he cut out the liver of an Indian that got killed in that fight and ate it. Of course he never did, but they tell the story about him, and I rather think he was kind o' proud about it after a little while, and liked the name. "I think it was in 1869 that the fight took place, along in the spring. "You know the steamboats always have trouble in coming up to Benton in the low water; and along about 1866, after the mines got paying, and when the fur trade was good, some men at Helena formed a company to make a road and start a freight line down to some point on the river that the boats could always get to. These men didn't know much about the river, and they chose the mouth of the Musselshell for the point where their road, which began at Helena, should end. "Now, I suppose if they'd raked the whole river with a fine-tooth comb they couldn't have found a poorer place for a town, nor a poorer country to travel through, than this one they pitched on. The place chosen for the town was that little neck of land between the Musselshell and the Missouri. The soil is a bad-land clay, which in summer is an alkali desert, and in spring is a regular bog, in which a saddle-blanket would mire down. Then, all along the Musselshell was a favorite camping and hunting ground for the Indians, and in those days Indians were bad. Well, they made up their company, and started their town. There weren't many settlers, but a few people, mostly hunters and wood-choppers, stopped there; and of course, wherever there were a few people gathered together, there was sure to be a store and a few saloons. "I think it was along in 1868 that a man came down there with a fine train of mules. Likely he expected to get some freighting to do when the boats came up the river. The stock was turned out, and some men were on guard, when a party of Sioux charged in among them, killed two of the men, and ran off every hoof of stock. The thing was done in a minute; and before the men could get out of their houses and tents the stock was gone, and the Indians along with it: all except one young fellow, who, just to show what he could do, charged back and rode through the crowd, making fun of them as he went along. So far as anybody knew, not one Indian got hit. "It was not very long after that that the Sioux came down and charged into the Crow camp, and ran off eight hundred head of horses. Of course that made a big excitement. The Crows jumped on their horses an pursued and they had quite a fight, and some of the Indians got killed. "During the Spring of 1869, the Indians used to attack the town every few days; a Crow squaw that was living there got shot through the body, and a white woman was wounded, knocked down, and scalped, but I reckon she's living yet. Anybody that went out any distance from the town was sure to be shot at and chased. It was a time for a man to travel 'round with his gun loaded, and in his hand all the time. The Indians didn't do much of anything, but they kept the people scared up everlastingly. It got to be so, finally, that the Indians would charge down near the town, and then swing off and run away, and pretty much all the men would run out and run after them, shooting as long as the Indians were in sight. "One morning there were a couple of Crow women out a little way from town, gathering sage brush for wood, and the Indians opened fire on them. The white men all rushed out and after the Indians, who numbered sixteen. They ran on foot over toward the Musselshell, and then up the bottom, not going very fast, and the white men were gaining on them, and thinking that now they would force them to a regular fight; when suddenly, from a ravine on the Musselshell, a shot was fired, which killed a man named Leader. "That stopped the whites right off, and they turned to run; and if the Indians had charged 'em then, I expect they'd have got every last one of 'em. But Henry McDonald saw what would happen if they ran, and, bringing down his rifle, swore he'd shoot the first man who went faster than a walk. "They could see now that there was quite a body of Indians in the ravine on the bank of the Musselshell, but they couldn't tell how many. There was some little shooting between the two parties. Most of the whites moved back to the settlement; but there were half a dozen men who did not retreat; but getting under cover, within thirty or forty yards of the Indians, held them there. They kept shooting, back and forth, and presently a man named Greenwood got shot through the lungs, and had to be carried back. The other men stood their ground, and the Indians, knowing that they had to do with good shots, did not dare to show their heads. "After two or three hours of this sort of thing, it began to rain, a mighty lucky thing for the white men. They were all armed with Henry rifles, or needle-guns, while the Indians, for the most part, had bows and arrows, with some flintlock guns. They had stripped themselves for war, and had no clothing with which they could cover their gun-locks and bow-strings to keep them from getting wet. After a little of this, the white men began to see that the Indians were practically disarmed, and began to think about charging them; but when they raised up to look, they saw that there was a big party of men there, and that the only way to get them, except in a hand to hand fight, was for some of the party to cross the Musselshell, and get to a point where they could shoot into the ravine, thus driving the Indians out and placing them between two fires. Three men started to do this. "When the Indians saw what the white men were trying to do, they ran down to the mouth of the ravine and tried to shoot at them; but their strings were wet, and the arrows had no force and hardly reached the men, and very few of their guns would go off. The three men got across the river, and went down to a point opposite the ravine, and began to shoot at the Indians; but by this time all the men in the settlement had collected together, about eight hundred yards behind the Indians, and seeing these three men on the other side of the stream took them for Indians and began to shoot at them; so that the three white men who had crossed had to get away and re-cross the Musselshell. By this time half a dozen other men got around on the lower side of the Indians, and then again three men crossed the river and commenced to shoot up the ravine. This was too much for the Indians: they jumped out of their hole and started to get away, and everybody was shooting at them as hard as they could. The fire from the body of men near the town still continued, and obliged the men who were doing the real fighting to keep more or less under cover. The Indians broke for the Musselshell, crossing it where they could, and most of them got away; but thirteen were killed, and it was said that a good many more died on the way to camp, and only one of the ninety and more who were in the fight escaped without a wound. The next day after that, the white men found the place where the Indians had stripped for the fight and left their things, and there over a hundred robes and two war bonnets and a whole lot of other stuff were found. Most of it was sold, and the money given to Greenwood, who was wounded. Jim Wells and Henry McDonald, I heard, each got a war bonnet. "The freight road was given up, and pretty much everybody left the place,--except some traders who stopped there a little longer. Then Carroll was started, up near the Little Rockies, and in a very much better place, and that was the end of Musselshell City. It was at this same place that Johnson claimed to have made for himself a razor strap from a strip of skin that he cut from an Indian's back: but Johnson was always a good man to tell stories, and you never could be quite sure when he was telling the truth and when he was joking. "A few years ago there used to be lots of talk about that fight, and the people called it one of the biggest lickings that the Indians ever got in this part of the country." Pushing along up the river, the boat passed beyond the Musselshell, and then up by Carroll, and the Little Rocky Mountain, and the Bearspaw,--and at last one day, about noon, Fort Benton came in sight. For the last two hundred miles they had seen a good deal of game. Buffalo were almost always in sight on the bluffs, or in the bottom; elk, frightened by the approach of the steamer, tore through the willow points; deer, both black-tail and white-tail, were often seen, and on several occasions mountain sheep were viewed--once in the bottom and at other times on the high bad-land bluffs. One of the herds was a large one, which Hugh said must contain seventy-five or a hundred animals. As Benton was approached, Jack began to feel more and more excited. Here he hoped to meet Joe, who had been warned some months before by Mr. Sturgis that Hugh and Jack would be at Benton early in July: and Joe would have with him the horses, a lodge, and all their camp equipage; so that, if nothing interfered to prevent, the next morning they could start out on their trip. CHAPTER III FOR THE BLACKFOOT CAMP As the boat slowly drew near the wharf, Hugh and Jack, from the upper deck, recognized first the old adobe fort and then, one after another, the different buildings of the town. The arrival of the steamer was always a great event in Benton, and pretty much all the inhabitants of the town were seen making their way toward the water's edge. The throng was made up of whites and Indians, with an occasional Chinaman: for already Chinamen had begun to come into the country. At first the two watchers from the steamboat could recognize no faces, but, as the boat drew nearer and nearer, Hugh suddenly let his hand fall on Jack's shoulder and said, "There's Baptiste, and I believe that's Joe standing near him." "Oh, where are they, Hugh? I can't see either of them:" and then a moment later, after Hugh had told him where the two stood, he saw them; and springing up on the rail, and holding to a stanchion, he waved his hat, and shouted out to Joe, who had already recognized him and made joyous gestures in response. A little later, the four were cordially shaking hands on the shore: and presently, when the crowd of passengers had left the boat, the two old men and the boys went on board again and, mounting to the upper deck, talked together. Jack's first question to Joe was as to the whereabouts of the camp. "Down east of the Judith Mountains somewhere, I expect," said Joe in reply. "They went down there to kill buffalo; there's lots of buffalo over on the Judith, or between the Judith and the Musselshell. I guess they'll be there all summer, and before I left the camp I heard that they would make the medicine lodge somewhere out in that country." "What about the hostiles, Joe?" said Jack. "Have they seen any Sioux lately?" "No," said Joe, "but I've heard that there are a few passing back and forth, between the lower country and Sitting Bull's camp, over across the line." "Like enough," said Hugh, "like enough. We've got to look out for those fellows; but they won't do nothing more than try to steal our horses." Hugh had been talking quietly with Baptiste La Jeunesse, who told him what had been happening in Benton during the winter. This was not much: there was talk that a railroad was going to be built into the country, one that might even pass through Fort Benton itself, and this would make the town big and important, so people said--and Fort Benton would once more become what it had been in the early days of the fur trade, a populous and thriving place. "And how have you been getting on yourself, Bat?" said Hugh. "Oh, I've done well. I always have everything that I want, since you people came in here last summer and gave me the gold. Every month I go to the bank, and they give me the pay for the money that you lent them for me, and so I live well. It doesn't make any difference to me whether I've work to do or not, yet always it is pleasant to be doing something, and so I keep on working. Also, there are some people in the town who are poor, just as I used to be; and now that I have money I can help them to live, just as your boy has helped me." "Well, Bat, it makes me feel good that you are doing well, and I think that you will continue to do well from this on." "And what are you going to do this season, Hugh?" said Baptiste. "Where are you going, and what are you going to do--hunting or trapping, or what?" "Well, Bat," said Hugh, "I am traveling 'round again with this boy of mine. His uncle and his father and mother want him to spend the summers out here, and get strong and hearty, and they've told me to travel with him, and teach him about the way of living out here; the same lesson that you and I learned when we were young; only he will learn it in a better and easier way than we did. He's a good boy: I like him better all the time. I should feel bad if anything happened to him." "Yes, Hugh, I think he's a good boy," said Baptiste. "Both of those boys are good. I like the Indian well. He came in here many days ago, and came to me; and since he got here, he and I have lived together. I like him." Hugh now turned to the two boys, who were busily talking, and said; "Now, boys, if we're going to get off to-night we've got to make a start right soon. I expect Joe has got all our stuff ready, except the grub, and if you and he will hurry up and get the horses together and get them saddled, I'll go and buy the grub, and put it in the wagon, and come down here and get our guns and beds, and we'll pack up and move out of town four or five miles and camp." Both the boys jumped to their feet, and Jack said; "Hurray! that's what I want to do; I want to get out on the prairie once more, and I don't want to see a town again until I have to." Jack and Joe started at once, and ran races with each other up the street, to see which should get first to the stable. Joe beat the white boy, who found that his winter's confinement, and his lack of exercise in the big city had made him short of wind; so that at last he got out of breath, and stopped running. When they reached the stable, Joe took his rope and went out into the corral, and caught a handsome little buckskin pony, and, saddling it, rode out to get the animals which were pasturing on the bluffs above the town. He was gone some little time, and then, Jack, who was watching for him, saw the familiar sight of loose horses running along the bluff, and then turning and rushing down its steep sides, followed by a cloud of dust; and then Joe, with whoops and yells, and quick turnings and twistings of his horse, drove them up to the bars, through which they crowded, and then stood quiet in the corral. Jack thought that he would try his old scheme of calling Pawnee, and whistled sharply. The good horse threw up his head, and looked about, and then seeming to recognize Jack, walked over to him, and arched his neck over his shoulder in the old-fashioned way. Jack was very much touched, and put his arms around the horse's head, and leaned his head against his neck, thrilled with affection for the animal that he had ridden so many miles. Presently they got out the ropes, and tied up the horses, and one by one they were saddled. They were all fat and in good condition, and some of them objected quite strongly to being saddled. The dun bucked when the flank cinch tightened on him, just as he had bucked the first time Jack ever saw him packed, and so did the star-faced bay. The others grunted and squealed and kicked a little, but on the whole took the saddling very well. Not long after they had finished saddling up they heard a cheery call from the front of the stable, and, rushing out, Jack saw the wagon, piled up with food and beds, and Hugh and Baptiste, sitting in it. It took some little time to make up the packs, but by late afternoon this was done, the horses packed, and after shaking hands with Baptiste, the little train, with Hugh in the lead, Jack driving three pack horses, and Joe bringing up the rear, driving two more, filed out of the town and climbed the hills toward the upper prairie. That afternoon they traveled until the sun went down, and then coming on a little coulee, through which water trickled, they camped. They were careful to picket all their horses; and after this was done, while Joe and Jack brought armfuls of willow brush from up and down the creek, Hugh cooked supper. The next day they kept on. Now they were well away from the settlements, and game began to be seen. Only antelope, it is true, but of them there were plenty. Jack had a fair shot at a buck, at about a hundred and twenty-five yards, but failed to kill him--to his great mortification. "Ha!" said Hugh, "you've got to learn how to shoot again; you shot too high, and missed him slick and clean. I remember the first shot you fired last year, when you first came out; you shot high then, just as you did now. When we get to camp to-night, you and Joe had better go out and shoot three or four times at a mark. You have got to learn your gun over again, and Joe of course has got to learn his for the first time." Jack had brought out from New York a gun for Joe, carefully selected from the stock of one of the largest rifle manufacturers in the world, and as yet Joe had not fired a shot out of it; but he seemed never to tire of looking at it, and putting it up to his shoulder, and sighting at various objects. That night they camped on a great swiftly rushing stream, near some high hills, or low mountains; and while he was cooking supper Hugh sent them off to try their guns. With the axe they shaved off the outer bark from a thick cottonwood tree, and making a black mark on the brown surface, each fired five shots at it. Jack's first two shots were high, but the next three were clustered within the size of a silver dollar, all about the mark. Joe did not shoot quite so steadily, two of his shots being above, and two below, and one a little off to one side. When they returned to camp and Hugh asked them about their shooting, they told him, and he advised them to fire a few more shots after supper, and, if necessary, a few in the morning. "There's nothing, I hate worse than to hear a gun fired about camp," he said, "but guns are no use to people unless they understand them, and you boys must get used to your guns. It won't take you more than a very few shots to do this, and you certainly must do it." The next morning they started on again. No signs had yet been seen of the Indians, but this day they saw a few buffalo, old bulls, mostly off to the north of them. In the afternoon they passed by the Moccasin Mountains, and camped on a little stream flowing into the Judith River. After they had unpacked their animals and made camp, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, have you ever been here before? Do you see anything that you recognize?" "Why, no Hugh," said Jack, "I don't think I do;" and standing up he took a long look about him, up and down the valley, and at the hills on either side. Suddenly his face brightened, and he said, "Why yes I do, too. I know where we are. This is just where we came through last year, the second day after I got caught in the quicksands in the Musselshell." "That's so," said Hugh, "this is just where we came. I wondered if you'd recognize it. You ought to do so, and I'm glad you do. "Right over a few miles east of us is what we used to call old Camp Lewis. There used to be a trading store there, and a camp of soldiers, and a few men got killed there, mostly soldiers. I remember coming through here not many years ago, the afternoon after some soldiers got killed on the bank of the creek, right close to the camp. There was a camp of Crows there then--about three hundred lodges. The Sioux came down, and ran off some government horses, and killed three recruits that were fishing here in the creek, and the Crows took after 'em, and had quite a fight, and Long Horse, the Crow chief got killed. They got seven of the Sioux, I think. They had quite a time here in the camp then. I remember Yellowstone Kelly was here, and three or four other men; I think the Sioux set them all afoot." The next morning while Hugh was getting breakfast he said to Jack: "Son, why don't you kill some meat? You are going through a country where game is fairly plenty; anyway, antelope are, and there's a few buffalo; and besides that, here are some mountains right close to you, where there's surely lots of sheep. You boys had better make up your minds to do something to-day; if you don't I'll have to start out and hunt, to kill meat for the camp." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I certainly would rather hunt than drive pack horses; and if you want me to I'll go off to-day and follow along a little closer to the hills, and see if I can't kill something." "Do so," said Hugh, "and then if you kill anything you can easily overtake us. We will be traveling slow, and your horse is good and fat and can catch us wherever we are. All the same, keep your eye open for Indians, and don't let any strangers come up too close to you. I'd rather have you two boys go off together, but I've got to keep Joe with me, to drive these pack horses. You'd better throw the saddle on your horse and start right off, and maybe you'll catch us before we've gone very far." No sooner said than done. Jack saddled up, and having asked Hugh the direction in which the party would move, rode away to the left, toward the low foot-hills of the mountains. He had gone only a mile or two when, passing over the shoulder of the foot-hills, he found himself coming down into a narrow valley, in which pretty little meadows were interspersed with clumps of cottonwoods and willows. Three or four antelope were feeding in the valley not far off, but there was no cover under which they could be approached, so he rode straight along. As he drew near, the antelope ceased feeding and raised their heads, and then, before he was within easy rifle shot, trotted off to the other side of the valley, and stood on the hillside watching him. After looking back for a few moments, they started, in single file, and slowly walked up the hill. They were by no means frightened, and it seemed likely that by taking a little time, after they had passed on out of sight, he might get a shot at them; but the brush above him on the stream seemed likely to hold a deer, and he turned his horse that way and rode quietly forward up the stream, among the groups of bushes. He had not gone very far when from a clump of willows at his right a big doe sprang into view, and moved slowly off by those high, long bounds which make the white-tail, in motion, one of the most graceful of animals. Jack's impulse was to jump off his horse and shoot at her, but he saw that, if he did this, he would be so low down that she could hardly be seen over the tops of the willows. He checked Pawnee, cocked his gun, and rising a little in his stirrups, and gripping the horse with his thighs, aimed carefully at the back of the doe's head, just as she was rising in one of her leaps, and pulled the trigger. Almost at the report, her long tail fell flat to her body, and she began to run much faster. He knew he had hit her, and before she had gone fifty yards, and while she was crossing an open bit of meadow, she fell. Jack rode up to her, and on turning her over found that he had made a good shot. A ball had entered her back, just to the right of the spine, and had pierced both lungs and heart. Turning her over, to get her ready to put on the horse, he was glad to see that she was a barren doe, one that had not produced a fawn that spring, and so would be fat and good eating. She was pretty big, however, and Jack was a little uncertain just how he was going to get her on his horse. Of course by cutting her up it could easily have been done, for then the quarters would not be too heavy for him to handle. At first he thought that he would take in the whole animal, but considering the time that this might take, and the fact that he had to ride a long way before overtaking his companions, he determined to do things in the easier way. He skinned the deer, therefore, cut off the shoulders and hams, and tied them on his horse, and then taking out sirloins and tenderloins, and some of the fat, wrapped this up in the skin, and put that on behind the saddle. Now he had a fairly compact load, which could be easily carried, and would not be a great additional weight for his horse; while on the ground were left all the bones of the deer, except those of the legs. This method of butchering he had learned from the Indians the summer before. All this had taken some little time, and when Jack looked at the sun he saw that the morning was half gone. Hugh had told him that they would follow the trail around the point of the mountains, and would then strike the Carroll Road, and bend back toward the river again. This meant that if he could cross the point of the mountains he would save several miles travel, and this he determined to do. Before starting, he tightened up his cinches carefully, for he knew that the pieces of meat tied on his saddle would give it more or less side motion, and he did not want it to chafe Pawnee's back. Then he climbed into the saddle and started. By this time the sun was pouring down hot upon him, and there was no breeze. From the high ridges that he crossed from time to time he had a wide view of the prairie, and of the distant mountains, the Little Belts and Snowies, which rose from the plain a long way to the south. Here and there on the prairie were black dots, which he knew were buffalo, and other white ones, much nearer, which were antelope. Occasionally, as he rode along, a great sage grouse would rise from the ground near his horse's feet, or a jack-rabbit would start up, and after running fifteen or twenty yards, would stop, sit up, raise its enormous ears, look at him for a moment, and then settle back on all fours, and flatten itself on the ground, so that if he took his eye off it for a moment he could not find it again. It seemed to him then, as it had so often seemed before, a wonderful thing to see how absolutely this wild creature, like so many others, could disappear from sight even while one was looking at it. As he rode over a high ridge, he saw on the hillside before him, two white-rumped animals, that for a moment he thought were antelope; but a second glance showed him that they were not, and, to his very great astonishment, he recognized them as mountain sheep--a ewe and her young one--which had been feeding on the prairie, just where he would have expected an antelope to be. He threw himself off his horse and, cocking his gun, jerked it to his shoulder and then paused, and lowering it again, stepped back and put his foot in the stirrup. As he mounted, the ewe, which had been looking at him, started to run, passing hardly more than fifty yards in front of him, closely followed by the lamb. A little further on, she stopped again and gazed, and Jack sat there and returned her look. The sight of the sheep had been almost too much for him, and he had come near shooting her,--but before he pressed the trigger he realized that if he shot her he should have to shoot the lamb, and he could not conveniently carry either, and the old ewe would be thin in flesh and hardly worth taking with him. The temptation had been strong, but as he sat there and looked at the graceful animal, which stood and stamped, while the lamb, close beside her, imitated her motions, he realized that it was a good thing to let them go. It seemed to him a mysterious thing, though, that these sheep should be down here on the prairie, and a long way from the rocky peaks, where he supposed they always lived. He made up his mind that he would ask Hugh about this when he got into camp and get him to explain it. At last he had crossed the point of the mountains and began to descend. Stretching out toward the northeast he could see a dim thin line, which, although it was interrupted at times--and sometimes for long distances--he thought must be the Carroll Road. Then off a long way to the east was a line of dark--the timber along a stream's course--which he supposed was where they would camp to-night. He had almost reached the level prairie, when suddenly he became aware of two horsemen galloping toward him from behind. He watched them as they drew nearer, and at last could make out that they were Indians; and by this is meant that he saw that they had no hats on. More than that, he could see, he thought, that one of them had red leggings. CHAPTER IV OLD FRIENDS AND NEW Of course there were no known hostiles in the country, but at the same time he recalled Hugh's advice, not to let any Indians come too close to him. These men were galloping along and would soon overtake him; and if, by any chance they should happen to be Sioux, from Sitting Bull's camp, or worthless Indians of any tribe that he did not know, they might take his horse and gun, even if they did nothing worse. He decided then that he would find out who they were, and drawing up his horse on a little rise of ground, he dismounted and stood behind it, facing them with his rifle barrel resting in the saddle. The Indians were now only three or four hundred yards off, but when Jack did this they at once halted, and turning toward each other, seemed to consult. Then, one of them, raising his hands high in the air, held his gun above his head, and after handing it over to his companion, struck his horse with his quirt and galloped toward Jack, while the other man remained where he was. The swift little pony was soon within easy rifle shot, and as its rider drew nearer and nearer, Jack seemed to recognize something familiar in the look of the man, yet he could hardly tell what it was; but when he was within speaking distance the man called out; "Why, don't you know me, Master Jack? I'm Hezekiah;" and instantly Jack recognized his negro friend of the Blackfoot camp. He called back to him; "Hello, Hezekiah! come on; I didn't know who you were." And Hezekiah, turning about, waved to his companion, who started toward them. Jack and Hezekiah shook hands, and Hezekiah said; "You done mighty well to stop us, Master Jack; you're making a good prairie man all right, and I'm glad to see it. Plenty Indians traveling through this country, back and forth, that would be willing to kill you for your horse and gun; and it ain't far off to the line, and they'd skip across and go to Sitting Bull's camp, and nobody'd ever know who done it. It's just like what all the Piegans said last year, after the Medicine Lodge, that you was sure goin' to make a good warrior." "Well Hezekiah," said Jack, "I don't know as I'd have stopped you if Hugh hadn't spoken to me about that only this morning. He said that there were Sioux traveling back and forth, and that I had better not let any Indians come up close to me until I knew who they were. That's the reason I stopped you." At this moment the other Indian rode up, and handing his gun to Hezekiah, shook hands cordially with Jack. It was Bull Calf, one of his companions on the trip to the Grassy Lakes, where Jack had shot the Assinaboine who was trying to steal horses from the camp; a young man of good family whom he knew very well, and with whom he had been on several hunting excursions. "Where's the camp Hezekiah?" asked Jack. "Hugh and Joe have gone on ahead with the pack train, and I stopped behind to kill a deer. We're looking for your camp, and going to stay a little while with you, and then we're going off south into the mountains." "The camp isn't far off Master Jack," said Hezekiah. "I expect it's right over there on Muddy Creek; somewhere in that timber. Some days ago they left Carroll, and are moving south now after buffalo; but Bull Calf, here, and me, we came 'round by the mountains here, to see if we couldn't kill some sheep. I want to get a couple of shirts made, and my woman says she'd rather make 'em of sheep than of antelope. "I expect we'll strike the camp this afternoon somewhere and maybe we'd better be starting right along now." They mounted, and rode on over the prairie. Jack had many questions to ask about what had happened in the Piegan camp during the winter, for though Joe had told him much, there were still plenty of matters to be discussed. Hezekiah and Bull Calf wanted to ride fast, but Jack did not feel like doing so with his load, so he put the two shoulders of the deer on Bull Calf's horse, and tied down what he carried so that it would not shake, and they went on at a good pace. An hour or two of brisk riding brought them close to the stream; but before they reached it they saw the trail where the camp had passed. There were tracks of a great band of horses, and many scratches left by travois poles; and in the trail there were a number of fresher horse tracks, which showed where Hugh and Joe and the pack animals had passed along after the camp. Jack had a feeling as if he were almost home. It seemed funny to him to think how eager he was to meet all the brown-skinned friends that he had left so many months before, and how much pleasure he felt in having come across these two on the prairie. Two hours before sundown they began to see horses dotted over the hills ahead of them; and a little later they rode out into a broad open space in the river bottom, where stood a circle of white lodges, which they knew was the Piegan camp. "Where do you suppose Hugh will camp, Hezekiah?" said Jack, as he ran his eye over the lodges, each one of which looked like every other lodge. It was evident that he could tell nothing by looking at the lodges, and he must look for the horses; and just as Hezekiah replied, he thought he saw old Baldy tied in front of a lodge on the opposite side of the circle. "Why, I reckon he'll camp with Joe's people, Master Jack," said Hezekiah. "That's the Fat Roasters, you know, and they're over there across the circle. I reckon that's the old man now, drivin' pins for the lodge." "Yes, that's it, Hezekiah," said Jack: "I see him now. I'll ride over there and get rid of my meat, and sometime to-night or to-morrow I hope to come to your lodge." "Please do, Master Jack, and we'll be mighty glad to see you. I want to have you see the childern, too; they've grown a heap since you was here last." As Jack stopped in front of the lodge, Hugh looked up from his task and said, "Well, you've got here all right, son. Killed somethin' too, I reckon." "Yes," said Jack, "I killed a barren doe, and I reckon we've got meat enough to keep us going for a few days. I gave the shoulders to Bull Calf and Hezekiah, whom I met out here on the prairie, but I've got the hams here. Shall I turn Pawnee loose, or shall I tie him up here by old Baldy?" "Better tie him up here," said Hugh. "I want to make arrangements with some young fellow to herd our horses; Joe's gone off now to try to do that. We've got the lodge up, and now pretty quick we'll have a fire and cook supper." The news of the arrival of the strangers had already spread through the camp, and that night Hugh and Jack and Joe were invited to feasts at several lodges. They saw many of their friends: old John Monroe, Little Plume, Last Bull, and of course Fox Eye, and many others. Old Iron Shirt came around to their lodge, and shook hands cordially with Jack, from whom he accepted a plug of tobacco and a red silk handkerchief. It was late before the festivities were over, and when they turned into their blankets they were soon asleep. While they were at breakfast next morning, Jack told Hugh about the sheep that he had seen on the prairie the day before, and how he had been about to kill the old ewe, and then had thought it better not to do so. "You did just right, son," said Hugh; "I've said to you a good many times never to kill anything that you don't want, and can't use, and I believe that's the way to do. You were right not to kill the old ewe also because she wouldn't have been good for anything; she'd have been poor from suckling her lamb, and you'd have just killed her without getting any good out of it. Besides that, the lamb would have starved to death if you hadn't killed it, and if you had killed it it would'nt have been no good. No, you did right; you used good sense, and I like men, or boys either, to use sense." "Well, Hugh, I'm glad I didn't shoot. Of course, maybe I wouldn't have killed the ewe anyhow, but I'd have tried. But what I wanted to ask you about was what those sheep were doing down there on the prairie. I supposed that sheep only lived on high mountains, or else in the very roughest kind of bad-lands. They're called Rocky Mountain sheep; that ought to mean that they live in the Rocky Mountains." "Well now, son, you're like a good many people that think that sheep ain't found anywhere except in the mountains, but that's a big mistake. In old times sheep were found on the prairie just about as much as they were found in the mountains. I expect they were always in the mountains, and in old times they were always on the prairie too. It has got so now that they're pretty scarce on the prairie, because so many people traveling around all the time shoot at them; but in old times it was no uncommon sight to see sheep feeding right in among the buffalo, and we often used to see them all mixed up with the antelope, on the flat prairie. Of course, sheep always like to be somewhere within reach of the buttes or mountains, or rough bad-lands, that they can run to if they get scared, but as for them not being on the prairie, the way some people think, that's all a mistake. Up here in Montana, and in Dakota and Nebraska and Wyoming, I have seen them on the prairie, a long way from any hills. Why, I've even seen them out in the sand-hills, up not very far from the head of the Dismal River, and south of the Loup, but I suppose they came from up the Platte, where there are bad-lands and buttes, like Scott's Bluffs and Chimney Rock. But if ever people tell you that sheep are found only among the rocks, don't you believe them. I know you won't after to-day, because you saw them on the prairie yourself." "Yes, Hugh, that's so; but just as you say, they started to run back to the rocks when they were scared." "Why son, there's no better sheep country in America to-day, I believe, than within a day's ride of here. You take the Missouri River bad-lands, and the Little Rockies, the Judith Mountains, the Little Belts, the Moccasins, and the Bear's Paw; they're all good sheep countries, and always have been ever since I've been in the country; and I reckon if you ask any of the old Indians they'll tell you just the same thing. Why, years and years ago, before the Indians got bad, there was no place where there were more mountain sheep than right along the Yellowstone, where the bluffs don't run more than a couple of hundred feet high, and there's a flat bottom below them, and just rolling prairie above." "Well, I didn't know this at all, Hugh," said Jack, "and yesterday when I saw those animals on that little ridge, I could not believe that they were sheep. I thought I must be mistaken, that they must be queer colored antelope, but then of course I saw the sheep horns and I knew that I wasn't mistaken." "There's lots to learn about sheep yet, son; and you and I are not the only people that don't know much about them. The fact is, I don't believe anybody knows much about them. "I expect there's more than one kind of sheep in the country, too. I have heard about a white sheep that they find away up north; and then a great many years ago, once when I went up north to Peace River, I killed a sheep that was pretty nearly black, and had black horns. I never saw but one little bunch of them, and killed one out of it, a yearling ewe; she was not like any other animal I ever saw before." Not long after breakfast Hugh and Jack started out to make a round of the camp, and to call upon their friends. As they were passing a nice new lodge, a tall, slender, straight young man came out from it, and after hesitating a moment as he looked at them, walked up to Hugh, and extending his hand, said, "How d'ye do, Mr. Johnson. I guess you don't know me, but I've heard of you pretty near all my life. I'm Billy Jackson, a son of old Thomas Jackson, whom you may have known a long way back, and the nephew of John Monroe." "Why yes, sure," said Hugh, "I've heard of you, and I used to know your mother right well. I'm glad to see you. Ain't you the young man that was with General Custer in the Black Hills, and afterwards scouted for Miles, down on the Yellowstone? or was it your brother? I think you're the man." "Yes, I'm the man" said Jackson. "Bob scouted for Miles, too, and we both did a good deal of riding down there during the last of the wars, and now I've come up here to live in the Piegan camp." "I'm glad to see you," said Hugh. "Let me make you acquainted with Jack Danvers; he and I've traveled together now for two or three years, and we spent last summer here in Piegan camp." Jack and Billy Jackson shook hands together, and they parted; but Hugh asked Jackson to come round and eat with them that night, which the young man said he would do. He was a handsome fellow, lean and active; and after they had left him Hugh said to Jack, "Take notice of that young man, and if you've occasion to go on the prairie with him, do as he says. I've heard of him; he's a good man, brave, and knows the prairie well, and, at the same time, he has good sense, and isn't likely to get himself or his friends into any trouble." At Little Plume's lodge they were made very welcome. His wife had apparently thought that they would come around that day, and as soon as they sat down in the lodge, food was set before them: boiled buffalo heart and back fat, and berry pemmican, with stewed service-berries, made a tempting feast, and Jack ate heartily of it. Little Plume told them that the next day the camp would move south, and they hoped that before they got to the Musselshell, or if not, soon after crossing it, they would find buffalo. Hereabouts near the Missouri, there were but few, chiefly bulls. Further south, between the Musselshell and the Yellowstone, scouts had reported great numbers of buffalo. That evening, Last Bull, Iron Shirt, and Fox Eye, Jackson and Little Plume, all came to the lodge, and they had a feast; and after all had eaten, there was much general conversation, but no formal speeches. Much of the conversation was in the Piegan tongue, which Jack as yet could hardly understand, but Jackson talked much to him in English, and told some entertaining stories. Among them was one of an adventure that he had had a year or two before, only a short distance from where they were now, and which had in it something of humor, and a little of danger. Jackson said: "In the fall of 1879, Paul Sandusky, Jo Hamilton and I built our winter quarters on Flat Willow Creek, about twenty miles east of the Snowy Mountains. The country was then still infested with roving war parties from the different tribes, some coming from Sitting Bull's camp on the Big Bend of Milk River. "As we intended to do some trading with the friendly tribes, especially the Crows and Blackfeet, we built commodious quarters, consisting of two buildings facing each other and about forty feet apart, and containing altogether five rooms. Joining on to the 'Fort'--as we called it--we constructed a high stockade corral for the horses. "Game of all kinds was very plenty, and bands of elk and antelope could be seen almost daily within a mile or so of our place. Glad to have company, we gave free quarters to all hunters and trappers who cared to stop with us, and by March 1 we numbered eleven men, including our cook, 'Nigger Andy.' "A few hundred yards below our fort a little creek, which we named Beaver Castor, joined the Flat Willow. For some miles above its mouth it flowed through a deep cut in the prairie, bordered with sage brush and willows. At its junction with the Flat Willow, in the V formed by the two creeks, was quite a high butte. It sloped up very gently from the Flat Willow side, but was almost a cut bank on the Beaver Castor side. "This butte was our watch tower. From its summit we could see miles and miles of the surrounding country. "One morning in March most of the men went out antelope hunting, leaving four of us in camp--Jo Healy, laid up with rheumatism; Harry Morgan, the herder; the cook and myself. About ten o'clock this morning I concluded to take a hunt, and before catching up a horse I climbed the butte to see if I could spy a band of elk or antelope near by. As soon as I reached the summit I saw some moving forms on the prairie not far off, near Beaver Castor, and adjusting my glass, I found that they were a large war party of Indians afoot. They also saw me, for I saw several of them stop and level their telescope at me. I took pains to let them know I was not an Indian, for I strutted about with long strides and faced them with arms akimbo. Finally, as they came close, I backed down from the summit, very slowly, and placing a buffalo chip on top of a bush, so as to make them think I was still watching them, I dashed for the fort. "I found that the horse-herder had caught up an animal and gone out hunting; so grabbing a lariat I ran out to drive in the band, which was grazing nearly a mile from the house. I went down as fast as I could run, but found that I couldn't get within roping distance of a single animal. They had been in the corral all night as usual, and in spite of my efforts they kept straggling and feeding along, and every minute I expected the war party to swoop down on me. However, I finally got them home and into the corral, and, my clothing wet with perspiration, I sat down to get my wind. "In the meantime Andy had not been idle. He had placed all our spare arms and ammunition by the loopholes, had dragged Healy, bed and all, to a place of vantage, where he could shoot without hurting his rheumatic legs, and had then gone on preparing our dinner. So we waited and watched, expecting every minute to be attacked. But no Indians came. We had our dinner, and as the afternoon passed the boys kept straggling in by ones and twos, until by five all were home. None of them had seen any Indians. "Finally I proposed that two or three of us get our horses and make a reconnoissance. "'We don't want no horses,' said Sagebrush Charlie, 'just you and me go up on the butte and take a look from there.' "I didn't like the proposition, for I surmised that the war party were concealed in the brush on Beaver Castor, probably near the butte. But on the other hand I didn't care to be bluffed, so I went with him. "As we neared the top of the butte we proceeded very cautiously, moving only a step at a time. Only a few yards more and we would have reached the summit, when we saw that an Indian on the opposite side of the butte was looking at us. We could see nothing of him but his head, and of course he could see only our heads. Thus we stood facing each other for what to me seemed a long time. 'Shall we shoot?' asked Sagebrush. 'No,' I replied. 'If we advance to shoot he will have the best of it, and if he advances we will have the edge on him.' So we continued to stare at him. After a while I saw that the Indian was beginning to back down out of sight, so I did the same. I made only a step and he had disappeared, but I kept backing away, watching the top of the butte, with rifle cocked ready to shoot in an instant. When half way down I turned to run and saw Sagebrush just disappearing around the corner of the fort. Until then I had supposed that he was at my side. So calling him some names I fairly flew down the hill, expecting every minute to have a shower of bullets about my ears. But I too reached the fort without any sign from the enemy. "When I got inside I found the boys joking Sagebrush about leaving me, and seeing that he was ashamed of himself I said nothing to him, although I was quite angry. "As soon as it was dark we put on a double guard, and kept ourselves in readiness for an attack. Late in the evening we concluded that the Indians would make a daylight raid on us, so we arranged about guard duty and slept by turns. However, we heard nothing of our dusky friends, and at six o'clock the cook called breakfast as usual. The horses had now been in the corral nearly twenty-four hours and were very hungry, so four of us saddled up and went out to make a big circle and find out if our friends had left us. We went down Flat Willow a mile or more, then swung up onto the prairie, crossed Beaver Castor and headed home, but could see no Indian signs. Finally we went up on top of the butte, where Sagebrush and I had seen the Indian the night before. There in the loose shale we found his tracks, and saw that after backing down a little ways he had, like us, turned and run by mighty leaps to the bottom. There we found a great number of tracks and a lot of moccasins, some meat, etc., and following the trail we found that the Indians had crossed Beaver Castor and gone up on the prairie, where in the thick dry grass we lost all traces of them, and concluding that they had left we went home and turned the horses out to feed, with a herder and one other man to herd them. "After dinner, perhaps two or three o'clock, we saw a person on foot come down to the creek from the prairie, about half a mile below the house. I went down to see who it was, and found to my surprise that it was a lone Indian woman, and as soon as I came up to her she began to talk to me in a language which I at once knew to be Nez Percés, but which I could not understand. I replied to her in Sioux, and found that she understood and could speak a little of that tongue, and by piecing it out with signs we got along very well. I told her to go up to the fort with me and get something to eat, and afterward she could tell us her story. When we reached the place the boys all crowded around and stared at her, and asked all sorts of questions, but I told them to wait, and we would hear what she had to say. "The woman didn't seem to be at all embarrassed. She sat at the table and calmly and slowly ate the food the cook set before her, not heeding the ten or eleven pairs of eyes that were intently watching her. After she had finished eating I asked her to tell us where she had come from, where she was going and all about herself, and I interpreted her tale, sentence by sentence, to the boys. She said: 'I came from Sitting Bull's camp on Milk River, where some of my people, Nez Percés, are living with the Sioux. Two years ago, my son went with some Sioux and Nez Percés to war against the Crows. They had a big fight on the Yellowstone, and it was supposed that my son was killed. But not long ago I heard that the Crows had captured my boy, and that he is still living and in the Crow camp. Having no relatives and no husband, I made up my mind to go and live with my son, and started out; this is the twenty-third day since I left Milk River. I have been starved most of the time and am very tired.' "'Hush!' said one of the boys, 'That's too durned thin. I move that we hang her right now.' "At this, every one began to talk at once. Some said she was a spy, others that she was all right. "Finally I said to her, 'The boys, some of them, think you are not telling the truth. Yesterday a big war party was here, and they think you belong to that outfit.' "'How they lie,' she interposed. 'I haven't seen an Indian since I left Milk River.' "'That may be,' I replied, 'you cannot blame the boys for being a little suspicious. However, they will not harm you. You are as safe here as you would be among your own people. Just as soon as this snow goes, one of our men will start for the Yellowstone with a four-horse team after some provisions, and you can go with him. From there it is only a short distance to the Crow camp. In the meantime you can stay with us here and rest up. Throw off your robe and make yourself at home.' "'I like what you say,' she replied, 'but I am afraid of all these men. Let me stay close by you.' "Wherever I went that afternoon she followed me, and when it came time to turn in I made her a bed of buffalo robes behind the counter. Some of the boys spread down in the room and others in the cook house. "'I don't like this,' the woman said to me. 'I am afraid to sleep there; let me make my bed down beside yours.' "'Don't fear,' I replied, 'no harm will come to you. No one in this place cares for you or wishes to harm you.' "'Well, then,' she said, 'if that is so I will step out a minute and then go to bed.' "Now the door to this room was fastened from the inside, when we wished it, by two wooden bars; outside we closed it merely by a rawhide thong and pin. Some of us were always at home, and when we all left this room we fastened the door with the thong to keep the dogs and the cold air out. As the woman started to go out I went up to the counter and took my six-shooter, intending to follow her out, but quicker than a flash she darted through the door, and closed and fastened it with the thong and pin. Of course all the boys in the room made a rush, and two of us getting our fingers between the door and the jamb gave a strong jerk, snapped the fastening and we all ran out. The woman had disappeared in the darkness, but we could still hear her footsteps as she ran toward the brush. Suddenly she gave a peculiar kind of a whistle and from all around in the brush she was answered by the hooting of owls. We all rushed back into the fort, put out the lights and made ready for an attack. "After an hour or so the boys began to talk. 'I knowed,' said one, 'that she was a spy.' "'Didn't I say to hang her,' exclaimed another. 'You fellers that thought she was all right are sure soft.' "We all sat up until long after daylight, and not until eight or nine o'clock did any one turn in. But we were not attacked, nor did we see the woman again. "Several weeks afterward, when Hamilton went to the Yellowstone after supplies, he learned that this woman had stopped at the 'Circle N' ranch and that they had lost one hundred and forty horses." CHAPTER V BUFFALO HUNTING WITH THE BLACKFEET Early next morning the camp was in motion, and they travelled south all day, making a long march. Hugh left the pack horses in charge of Fox Eye's people, who drove them along with their own, while he and Jack and Joe joined the flankers, who marched off to one side, and who killed a few antelope, a few bulls, and hunted out the stream bottoms that they passed. Each day these hunters killed just about fresh meat enough to support the camp, which as yet had plenty of dried meat, so that there was no suffering. That night Hugh told Jack that the next day they would strike the Musselshell, and very likely buffalo, but if not, they would cross the river and move on down toward the Yellowstone, where, on the Dry Fork, or Porcupine, they would be sure to get what they wanted. "We can't stop very long with these people, son," he said; "not if we're going into the mountains, and going to work our way down through them back to the ranch. Of course we've got lots of time, but then we don't want to stay up here too long, and be rushed at the last, so that we'll have to hurry along and make our horses poor, and keep ourselves tired all the time. We can stop here for a while and kill buffalo, and then we'll leave the people, and strike west into the mountains." The next night they camped on the Musselshell, and word was brought that about twenty or twenty-five miles to the south buffalo were plenty. Orders were given that from now on no one should kill buffalo, and camp was moved a day's march still further south, to the neighborhood of the herd. The next day a bunch of buffalo was located in a place suitable for a surround. That night the old crier, as usual, rode around through the camp, telling all the people to get in their horses, to tie up their running horses close, ordering the women to sharpen their knives, and the men to whet their arrow-points, because the next day they were going to chase buffalo. The following morning, very early, Jack heard him shouting through the camp, calling to the people to "Get up! get up!" It was still black night; the stars shone brilliantly in the sky, the light of the fire showed through the lodge-skins, and sparks were rising with the smoke, when Jack went out to saddle up Pawnee. Hugh had had offers of buffalo runners from several of his friends. Last Bull had asked him to ride the spotted horse that he had several times used the year before, while Jackson had pressed upon him a beautiful buckskin that he declared was the best buffalo horse in the camp. The excitement which always precedes a buffalo chase pervaded the camp, and every one seemed to be hurrying in the performance of whatever task was at hand. It was still long before daylight when Jack and Hugh, following the men who were starting out, found at a little distance from the camp the group of hunters who were being held there by the soldiers. The sky was just becoming gray in the east when the soldiers started off, and the hunters followed; and just after the sun had risen, the halt was made behind a hill which hid the herd from them. After a little pause, and a few low-voiced directions, horses were changed, the line spread out, and at first going slowly, rode up to the crest of the hill, pushed over it, and hurried down toward the unfrightened buffalo. These were slow to see their enemies, and the horsemen were close to them before the herd got started. Jack held back Pawnee until the word came for the charge, and even after that he still restrained him, not wishing him to run too hard at first, for the horse was fat, and might lose his wind if pushed at the start. He gave no thought to the whereabouts of his friends; Joe and Hugh would no doubt take care of themselves. Just before he overtook the last of the bulls, however, he was aware of a man riding close to him, and turning saw Billy Jackson, riding the little buckskin, without a saddle, and carrying in his hands a bow and some arrows, while he had a quiver on his back. Jack laughed at him, and signed to him that he was armed with good weapons, and Jackson nodded. A moment later they were mixed up with the dust of the flying herd, and surrounded by buffalo, and Jack bent his energies to killing a couple of cows. The bulls were soon passed, and Pawnee, running free and easily, forged up to the cows. Two fat ones were running just ahead of him, lumbering heavily, and with their tongues out, yet getting over the ground with surprising speed. He drew up alongside of one, and shot it, and it turned a somersault; then touching Pawnee with his heel, he was soon riding close to another, which also he killed by a single shot. Then turning, he rode back to the last cow, and looked at her. She was quite dead. The task of butchering seemed rather a heavy one, but he went to the cow first shot, and, with some trouble split her down the belly, and then re-mounting, went back to the other cow, which he treated in the same way. Then he sat down on the ground in the shade of his horse, and waited. An hour later the women and girls and children were seen coming over the hills with their travois, and scattering out to look at the dead buffalo, over many of which men who had returned were now working. When Fox Eye's family came along, Jack spoke to the wife, and made her understand that these two were his buffalo, and with two of the other women she set about skinning and cutting them up. That night in the lodge, as they were getting ready for bed, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, have you ever been through this country before? Do you see anything that you recognize?" "Why yes, Hugh, of course, we came through it last year when we were coming north, but I haven't seen anything to-day that I knew." "Well," said Hugh, "I'm not very much surprised at that, but right along here somewhere is where we passed last year, the second or third day after we crossed the Yellowstone River, coming north. Now, I ain't never forgot that sheep's head that we left up in the tree down there. As I told you then, it's a better head than most, and likely a better one than you'll ever kill again, and I was thinking that it wouldn't be a bad idea for you and me to ride down there and get it. We can go in a day, and come back in another, and we can easily enough carry the head with us, and take it back to the ranch. What do you say?" "Why, sure Hugh;" said Jack, "I'd like to do that mighty well. I've always felt sorry that we lost that sheep head, and felt that I wanted it to take back east. I never thought of our getting it this year; in fact I never expected to see it again. I'd like very much to get it, if you feel like it." "Well, say we do it. We can start to-morrow or next day; the Indians'll be here now two or three days at least, killing and drying meat, and we can easily enough go there, and come back and catch them before they leave these parts. You and I can go alone, or we can take Joe; or if you like, we can ask anybody else that we want to go down there with us. It'll be a nice little trip." So it was arranged that within a day or two they should start for the Yellowstone River, to get the sheep's head. It was the second day after that they finally got away. Joe wanted to go with them, and when they told Jackson what they intended doing, he said that he too would like to go. This made a party of four capable men, to whom no danger could come. They took a couple of pack horses, to carry their bedding and provisions, but no shelter, for the weather was bright and dry, and there seemed no prospect of rain. On their way to the Yellowstone they rode constantly through buffalo and antelope, tame and unsuspicious, and just moving aside from the track of the travellers as they passed along. That night they camped on the little stream just where Jack had killed the sheep, and reaching camp before sundown, Hugh and Jack rode up the stream to the tree where the sheep's head had been placed, took it down and brought it to camp. The ashes of the fire of the year before, and the bones of the sheep from which they had cut the meat called up old memories. Even the places where the lines had been tied for drying the meat were remembered. Jack was glad enough to get this head again. As Hugh had said, it was a very fine one. The great horns swung around in more than a complete curve, and although near the base they were more or less bruised and battered by the battles the old ram had fought, the tips of the horns were very nearly perfect. The skin of the head and neck had been picked by the birds and bleached by the weather, and Hugh said; "I'm not sure that it will do to use in covering the skull, son; but even if it is too hard and sunburned to make anything out of, I'd take it along. If we get another good ram on the trip you can take his scalp; but if we don't, maybe the man that puts up your head can make something out of this." The next morning before starting back, they rode down to the Yellowstone River, and looked up and down the valley. There were some buffalo here too, and a few elk; but there was nothing to keep them, and they turned about and returned to the Piegan camp, which they reached that night. For some days longer the camp remained here, killing buffalo and drying the meat. Then they moved east, one day's journey, to another little stream, and again hunted from here. By this time many buffalo had been killed, and many robes made. The parfleches were full of dried meat and back fat; and now presently the chiefs began to consult as to whether they should not go north again to the neighborhood of the mountains, for the women wished to gather roots and berries for the winter. One evening when Jack came in from the hunt he saw a great crowd of people, men, women and children, gathered just outside of the circle. They seemed to be having a good time, for shouts of laughter and shrill screams from the women told that something was happening which amused them all. Riding up to the edge of the crowd, Jack saw in the midst of it a little buffalo calf, standing there with its head down and tail in the air, facing with very determined attitude two or three small boys who were trying to approach and get hold of it. Every now and then one of the little fellows would get up his courage and venture close to the calf's head, when the calf would charge him and the boy would jump out of the way; but just as Jack came to a place where he could see, one of the boys went slowly forward toward the calf, and just as the calf began to charge, one of the boy's companions gave him a push forward, so that instead of dodging the calf he met its charge, and was knocked sprawling on the ground. Then everybody screamed with laughter, and the boy scrambled out of the way as fast as he could. At one side of the ring of people, Jackson was standing, evidently much amused at what was going on. Jack called out to him, "What are they doing, Billy?" "Why, I roped this calf to-day and brought him in to try to take him back to the river, where there are some cows, and raise him, but some of these small boys got bothering and teasing him, and I told them if they didn't let him alone I'd turn him loose, and let him take care of himself, and now it seems to me he's doing it pretty well; he's knocked a half dozen of 'em out of time already, and once in a while, if he gets real mad, he charges into the crowd, and I tell you they scatter." The fun went on for a little while longer, and then Jackson, after speaking to the people, put a rope about the calf's neck, and with the assistance of two young men, dragged it away to his lodge, where it was picketed to a stake firmly driven into the ground. That night, Joe said to Jack, "Say, Jack, do you want to see some fun to-morrow?" "Of course I do," said Jack. "I always want to be around when there's any fun going on." "Well," said Joe, "there's going to be some fun to-morrow; at least I think there is. Some of the young men have been making fun of Eagle Ribs; they say that there's something he dare not do; to jump from his horse to the back of a bull, and ride it. When they said that, Eagle Ribs said, 'Why do you talk about doing that? You should talk about something that is really dangerous. I should not be afraid to jump on a bull's back and ride him; but it's too easy; I do not care to do little things like that. It would be a trouble to me, and could not do any one any good.' The others kept teasing him, and making fun of him, and at last, after they had bothered him a good deal, Eagle Ribs said, 'It will be a little trouble to do this, but if you want to see me I will do it. I will ride a bull; the fastest and strongest that I can choose. Watch me to-morrow, and see whether I do it or not.' So to-morrow we're all going together, to see whether Eagle Ribs will ride the bull." "But isn't there danger that the bull will throw him off, and catch him and kill him?" "No," said Joe, "I guess he can stick to it; or, if he can't do that, why he'll have to be quick on his feet if the bull does throw him; they can't turn very quickly, you know, and Eagle Ribs, if he's smart, can get around and keep out of the way of his horns. Besides that, there'll be a lot of us there, and we can tease the bull, and get him to chase us, if Eagle Ribs should be in any danger." "Well," said Jack, "it's going to be a regular circus, I guess, and I'll have to be there." "Yes," said Joe, "you want to be there if you can; and a lot of us young fellows are going to keep pretty close together, and I think we'll have a real good time, even if we don't kill any buffalo. The camp has got about all the meat now it wants, anyhow." The next morning before the chase began, Jack and Joe found themselves among a lot of boys about their own age, many of whom were making fun of and teasing Eagle Ribs. When the chase started the boys did not ride as usual to try to catch cows, but instead of that singled out some old bulls that made up the rear of the herd, and turned them off on to the prairie. Then they all began to whoop and yell, and call out Eagle Ribs' name, and say to him, "Now is the time to show us what you can do. Here is your horse; now ride him." Eagle Ribs was riding a good horse, and at once accepted the challenge. He pressed the animal close up to a bull, and when he was so near that his horse's side almost touched the buffalo's side, he reached far forward, grasped the long hair on the buffalo's hump, and threw himself from his horse onto the bull's back. The bull was frightened, and for a few minutes it ran faster than all the horses; and then forgetting that it was being chased, and only anxious to get rid of the terrible burden that it was carrying, it stopped, and began to plunge and buck, and skip around, and acted as if it were a calf instead of a huge old bull. Eagle Ribs clung to it with both hands, and with his legs, but the bull jumped so high, and came down so hard, that two or three times he was shaken from his seat. The boys all about him were shouting with laughter, some of them calling out encouraging words to the bull, and some to the rider. [Illustration: "HE REACHED FAR FORWARD, AND GRASPED THE LONG HAIR ON THE BUFFALO'S HUMP."--_Page 82._] The bull seemed very strong, and for a long time did not get tired, and two or three times Jack feared that the boy would be thrown from his back. Presently, however, the bull stopped, and stood with his head down, glaring at the horsemen about him, as if he wanted to fight. Now the boys began to ask Eagle Ribs why he had stopped; why he did not ride further; and one of them threw his quirt to him, telling him that he should use this to make his horse go better. Others ran their horses close by, in front of the bull, trying to make him charge. Toward one of these horses he rushed furiously, and as he did so, Eagle Ribs slipped from his back and ran away in the opposite direction, and got behind a horse ridden by one of the boys. Jack rode up to him, and signed to him to get on behind him, and then they went back to where Eagle Ribs' horse was feeding, and he mounted him. Meantime, the bull had run on, and some of the boys had killed him. The next evening the old crier rode about the camp, shouting out the orders of the chiefs; telling the people that the next day, early, the camp would move back to the great river. On the evening of that day Jack was awakened by a shot in the camp, and then another, and then a rush of people, followed by a swift pounding of horses' hoofs on the prairie. He scrambled from his bed, put on his moccasins, and seizing his gun and cartridge belt, rushed out-of-doors. Joe was standing in front of the lodge, having just come out, and Jack asked him what was the matter. "I don't know sure," said Joe, "only horses have been stolen." "Well," said Jack, "why don't they go after the thieves?" "Oh," said Joe, "that would not do; that is too dangerous. Suppose we were to run out onto the prairie, chasing the thieves, they could stop behind any sage brush, or the edge of any hill, and shoot us as we came up to them, before we could see them. We'll have to wait until to-morrow, until it gets light, and then take good horses and try to catch them." The whole camp was now thoroughly awake, and the fires were made up in every lodge, while people went about visiting each other, and trying to find out what the extent of the loss had been. It appeared that only three good horses had been taken; but more would have been stolen if it had not happened that a man coming back late from a gambling game, and seeing somebody cutting the rope of a horse in front of his lodge, had shot at him with a pistol that he carried. The enemy threw himself on the horse and rode swiftly away, and at the sound of the shot a half dozen men rushed from their lodges and fired at the retreating sound. It was several hours before the camp quieted down again, and before daylight next morning forty or fifty men on good horses were prepared to follow the trail, and try to overtake the thieves. Both Jack and Joe wished to accompany the pursuing party, but Hugh advised them not to. He said, "If we had come up here to spend the summer with these people, maybe there'd be no harm in your going off, but now in the course of a few days we're going to leave them and go into the mountains, and if you run your horses down, or if either of you should get hurt, why it might spoil our whole trip back to the ranch. These Indians ain't likely to overtake those fellows, and 'twill just be a long hard ride for nothing. We'd better stop at the camp for two or three days more, and then strike out for the mountains, just as we intended to, and go on down there and see that place they used to call Colter's Hell, and then go on down through it, and back to the ranch." The boys, rather unwillingly, agreed to do this. Three days later the Piegan village was once more camped not far from the Judith Mountains, and all the pursuing warriors had returned, not having overtaken their enemies. Dire were the threats that they made against the Crows who had stolen the horses, and a number of war parties were made up to go south and make reprisals on that tribe. CHAPTER VI AMID WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE PARK It was toward the middle of August that Hugh and Jack and Joe, with their little pack train, started southwest, to strike the Carroll Road, to go to the place once known as Colter's Hell, and now as the Yellowstone Park. Their animals carried only their provisions, messkit and bedding, and a skin lodge which Hugh had purchased from Fox Eye's wife. Their way led them through the beautiful Gallatin Valley, crossing the surveyed line of the Northern Pacific railroad, then being built westward, and then over the mountains to the valley of the Yellowstone, which they followed up to the cañon. Before they reached the Gallatin Valley they had seen plenty of buffalo, and had killed one for fresh meat, while in the Valley there were many antelope. In the Bridger Mountains, by which they passed, elk and deer were abundant; and one morning in the trail which they followed were seen the tracks of an enormous bear and two small cubs. In the mountain streams which they crossed, trout were abundant, and they greatly enjoyed the delicious fish which were so easily caught. A wagon road had been built through the cañon into the Yellowstone Park, and here a number of white people were travelling back and forth, and wagons were hauling material for hotels and other buildings that were to be put up near the Mammoth Hot Springs. They reached these one night, and spent the next day wandering about them, marveling at the floods of hot water which poured over the many tiny falls, and deposited the lime which had built up the terraces of what the people there called "the formations." From an old German, Jack purchased three or four articles: a horse shoe, a nail, and the twig of a tree which had been suspended in the water until coated with a beautiful white covering of lime. The next day they climbed the hill to the right and came into a level park-like country, which they followed south. It was a picturesque region, with grand mountains showing on every hand, yet nearby, a green level meadow, spangled with wild flowers, and a little further back dotted with clumps of pines and spruces, which were very beautiful. At every step there was something new to be seen: new birds, new animals, and new scenery. The trail led up a fork of the Gardiner River, and then, crossing over, struck one of the heads of the Gibbon River, down which they passed, and then suddenly found themselves in a country of hot springs, which steamed, and sometimes threw up boiling water to a considerable height. This was the recently discovered Norris Geyser Basin, and here they camped, and spent the day walking about among the hot springs, which at first were very awe-inspiring. In many of them there were old tree trunks and branches of trees, which, when taken out and examined, seemed to be partly turned to stone. Fine particles of a flinty material seemed to have penetrated all the pores of the wood, and while the branches were not hard, the woody matter in them seemed gradually to be changing to stone. As they sat eating their supper that night, Hugh said to Jack, "Well, son, I don't wonder that the mountain men in old times used to call this Colter's Hell. It is surely a place where the flames down below seem to be mighty close to the surface of the earth." "It makes me afraid," said Joe. "Well," said Jack, "it does me too a little. This morning I was afraid pretty nearly every minute that I'd fall through the ground and get into hot water below." The next morning they moved camp, and rode over toward the river intending to look at the Grand cañon, and the wonderful falls of which they had heard. Although the Yellowstone Park had been known for more than ten years, few people had as yet visited it. Nevertheless, they saw a number of visitors, some travelling with teams, and some with pack trains, and altogether the Park seemed quite a bustling place. That night they camped on the head of Alum Creek, and the next day, leaving their pack horses picketed and hobbled at the camp, rode over to see the falls. They rode first down toward the river, passing the Sulphur Mountain, a great barren hill, full of hot springs and sulphur vents, about which much sulphur had been deposited. Many fragments of the bright yellow mineral were strewn on the ground, and at one place Hugh noticed where two or three grass blades had fallen across one of the vents' and calling the boys' attention to this, they all dismounted to look at it. About these blades of grass, and on their slender heads, most delicate and beautiful crystals of sulphur had collected. These were so fragile that a little motion made them loose their hold, and drop from the grass, or else break, so that it was impossible to carry them away. Near here, at the foot of the hill, was a large spring, six or eight feet in diameter, and boiling violently. The water was sometimes thrown up eight or ten feet high, not in jets, but seemingly by impulses from the center of the pool, so that the spray was sent outward in all directions. They then followed down the river for two or three miles. It was a broad stream, swiftly-rushing yet smooth, and nowhere interrupted by rocks or rapids until the upper falls were almost reached. Here were short rough rapids and then the tremendous falls. The great mass of dark water glided rather than plunged into the depths below, and just below the crest of the cataract was broken into white foam, which, further down changed to spray. The falls are 162 feet high, and clouds of white vapor constantly rose from the water below, and hid the view. Looking down the stream, they had a glimpse of the wonderful cañon below. The roar of the falls was so tremendous that conversation was impossible, and nothing was said; but presently they left the upper falls and rode on north to the lower one. Here was repeated the marvelous impression which they got from this tremendous body of water falling 150 feet sheer to the great basin below, and from under the mist cloud that hid the foot of the fall came out the narrow green ribbon of the river, winding and twisting, hardly to be recognized as a river, dwarfed by distance, and creeping with a slow oily current. On either side the stream rose the walls of the cañon, five or six hundred feet to the pine-fringed margin above. Looking down the stream, Jack saw a cañon a thousand feet deep, and perhaps twice as wide, extending for miles to the northward. Its sides were curiously sculptured and carved into fantastic forms. In one place a vertical cliff supported lofty cones of rock, ranged side by side upon the same horizontal ledge along its face. Again, a narrow buttress arose from the river's level in a series of pinnacles and turrets overtopping one another, until the summit of the cañon wall was reached. At one place that wall was so nearly perpendicular that it seemed as though a stone dropped from the edge of the cliff would fall at once into the water of the river. In another, the decomposing rock had been eaten away above until a talus of fallen rock and earth arose in a steep slope half way to the top. But to Jack's mind the glory of the cañon was in its color. The walls glowed with a vivid intense radiance which is not less wonderful than beautiful. Browns and reds and pinks and yellows, and delicate grays and pure whites had painted these hard rocks with a wealth of coloring hardly to be described in words. In the sun the cañon walls shone with brilliancy. When the clouds passed over the sky they grew duller and softer, but were hardly less beautiful. Down close to the river were the most vivid greens, and in the mist which rose from the foot of the fall were seen, when the sun was shining, all the hues of the rainbow. The travellers sat long watching this wonderful sight, and then pushing along the margin of the cañon, below the falls, walked out on a projecting point of rock, and looked up and down the river. The more they gazed, the more wonderful it seemed, the harder to take it all in, and the harder to put into words. On a pinnacle of rock, rising from the end of the point on which they had walked, was a great nest, in which the boys noticed two large and downy young birds. Flying up and down over the river, sometimes low over the water, again far above the heads of those who stood on the edge of the cañon, were great hawks--eagles, Hugh afterward said they were, but Jack recognized them as fish-hawks--and while they were standing there, one of these great birds brought a fish to the nest, and tearing it to pieces with its beak, gave the fragments to its greedy young. Jack noticed, also, little sparrow-hawks flying about the edge of the cañon, and, far below at the edge of the river, saw little birds flying from point to point, which he thought must be dippers. The whole day was spent here, for no one seemed to wish to return to the camp; but at last, as the sun swung low, and the pangs of hunger began to be felt, they returned to their horses, and mounting them, were soon at camp once more. The next morning they set out up the river to go to the lake. On the way they passed two well known places. The Mud Volcano, a huge hot spring of gray clay, which steamed, and bubbled, and thumped, and sometimes spouted, throwing up its mud to a great height. Jack in his mind compared the boiling mud to mush boiling in a kettle, but as this pool of mud was fifty feet in diameter, the comparison was not a good one. All about, the trees were splashed with mud, which had dried on them, showing that at some time, not long before, there had been an eruption. Nearby, on the hillside, was a steam spring in a little cavern, which they had heard of as the Devil's Workshop. From this cavern came constantly great volumes of steam, while within it were heard hollow bubbling noises, which sounded like the clang and clash of great pieces of machinery turning. It was a mysterious place, and neither one of the three cared to go very close to it. There were boiling springs and sulphur vents hereabout in great plenty, and the place seemed an uncanny one. The way to the lake was attractive: it led through forests, sometimes of living green, and at others killed by fire. Occasionally they passed through pretty grassy meadows, and from them had charming views of the river, which grew wider as they approached the lake, and seemed to spread out over wide flats. To the right the mountains rose sharply, forming the "Elephant's Back," a thousand feet in height. Presently they came to a broad opening, and saw before them the lake. At the outlet the grass grew thick and rank, and in the marshes, pond-holes and sloughs here, they saw many flocks of wild ducks and geese; and sand-pipers and beach birds fed along the shore. Some swans were seen, and a few great white pelicans. Their fresh meat was now exhausted, and for a day or two they had been living on trout, of which great numbers were caught in the streams that they had crossed, for fish are abundant everywhere in the mountains. When they made camp that night, Jack got out his line, and cutting a pole, went down to the shore to catch some fish, while Hugh and Joe made the fire. Jack had hardly thrown his hook in the water when it was seized, and he dragged a large fish to shore. As he was taking it off the hook however, he noticed a bunch on its side, and after examining it for a moment, cut into this bunch with his knife, and drew from it a long white worm. He got a dozen trout, but all of them seemed to be afflicted with this parasite, and finally putting up his line he carried them to the fire, and showed them to Hugh. Both Hugh and Jack agreed that these fish were not fit to eat, and that night they supped on dried meat and back-fat. As they had made camp that night they had noticed, just beyond them, two white tents, and had seen some horses feeding near the lake shore. Shortly after their supper, a man walked into the camp, and after saluting them, sat down by the fire. A little talk showed that he was a member of the geological survey that worked in the Park, and he had been attracted to their camp by the fact that they had an Indian lodge. He was a pleasant man, and seemed quite willing to talk, and to answer all their questions, and very much interested in his work. After he and Hugh had talked together for a while, Jack ventured to ask some questions about the Park, and especially about the place where they now were. "Won't you tell me, sir," he said, "what you can about this big lake that we are on. It looks to me awful big to be up here high in the mountains. Of course I know it isn't anything like the Great Lakes; still it's the largest lake I ever saw." "It is a large lake," said their visitor, "for it contains about 150 square miles of water, and there is probably no lake in North America of equal size at so great an elevation. You see, we are about 7700 feet above the level of the sea. Roughly speaking, the shape of the lake is like that of an open hand which lacks the first and middle finger; the wrist is the northern end of the lake, the west arm answers to the outstretched thumb, and the south and southeast arms to the ring and little finger. If you are going to travel around it, you will feel that it is a lovely sheet of water. It is very picturesque, and in fair weather it lies here like a great sapphire beneath the unclouded sky. But when the storms come up, and the wind rolls down along the mountain sides, the lake can get up a great sea, and one would not care to be out on it. But in fair weather it is very beautiful--to me the loveliest spot in all the park. And what is more, I never get tired of it; the more I see it, and the more familiar I become with its scenery, the lovelier it is. From every promontory and every bay, and from every hillside above it, one has always a different view, and each view has a charm that is all its own." The geologist sat there long with them that night, talking to them in a most interesting way about the Park and the geysers and the cañons. He told them that all this country was volcanic in origin, and that for some reason or other, which he did not know, the heat still remained close to the surface of the earth; and that this was the reason that there were so many hot springs and geysers here. "It's one of the most interesting regions in the world," he said, "and one of the most beautiful. As yet, people do not appreciate it. Many people do not even know that it exists; but the time will come when thousands will gather here each summer, from all quarters of the world, to see its beauties. Geologically, it is most interesting, and already geologists from all over the world are coming to see it, or are making plans to come. I predict that the time is coming when the Yellowstone Park will be acknowledged to be the most wonderful place in the world." As the visitor rose to go, he looked about the lodge and said, "So this is an Indian lodge, is it? I've often read about them, but this is the first one I've ever seen. They seem warm and comfortable, but are they not rather smoky?" "No," said Hugh, "they're not smoky; but you must remember they're not made to stand up in; people in the lodge are expected to sit down, or to lie down. If there's a fire burning, and no wind blowing, or if the air is damp and heavy, smoke often gathers in the top of the lodge, and a man standing in it finds about his head more than he likes. Stoop down a little bit and you will see that the smoke no longer troubles you." The geologist did as Hugh advised, and seemed to be greatly interested by the discovery that it was as he had said; and then bidding them good night, he left the lodge. CHAPTER VII GEYSERS AND HOT SPRINGS They were afoot before the sun had arisen next morning, and the outlook over the lake was beautiful. Away to the east and south were many mountain peaks, the names of which they did not know; but all grand and majestic, and far away to the south was one larger than any of the others, and covered with snow. As Jack looked at them, he saw these snowy crowns take on a glow of pink, and then grow brighter and brighter, and then could see the sunlight creep down the sides of the mountains, and finally it was broad day. The islands in the lake interested him, and he thought them beautiful. As they passed the geologist's camp, they saw him standing with his back to the fire, and he called out good morning to them; then, signing to Hugh to draw near, he said, "Excuse me for asking you, but I suppose you have been to the Upper and Lower Geyser Basins?" "Well," said Hugh, "we've been to one geyser basin; that one on the way to the falls, but that's the only one we've seen." "Well," said the geologist, "of course you know your own affairs best, but it seems to me you will make a great mistake if you do not get to the Upper and Lower Geyser Basins, because it's there that the most wonderful geysers are to be seen." "Well," said Hugh, "we're travelling through here to see the sights, and I'd be mightily obliged to you if you'd tell me what we'd better do. We are strange to the country, and don't know anything about it." "I shall be very glad to help you in any way that I can," said the geologist, "and you certainly should not miss the geyser basins. You can follow the trail along the lake here for about twenty miles, and then turn to your right, at the end of the Thumb, and strike northwest across through the timber, to the streams running into the Firehole River, and follow them down, and that will take you to the Lower Geyser Basin; then from there you must travel up the Firehole to the Upper Geyser Basin. Then, if you want to, you can cross over to Shoshone and Lewis Lakes, and go on south, following Snake River, to Jackson's Lake. From there you can go wherever you please, but if you choose to follow up Pacific Creek, and pass through Two Ocean Pass, that will bring you back on the upper Yellowstone, and then you can come down to the lake again." "Well," said Hugh, "we want to go south, and to get down on the streams that run into the Platte. I reckon we might as well go down to Jackson's Lake the way you say, and then strike across the country, over into the Wind River drainage, and then over onto the Platte." "Yes, I guess that is one very good way to go if you know the way across the range," said their friend. "Well," said Hugh, as he started on, "we'll try to find a way, and anyhow we're mightily obliged to you for telling us about those two geyser basins, and we'll sure see them before we go south;" and saying goodbye to their acquaintance, they rode on. A few miles further along the trail, they came to a natural bridge, spanning a brook which now carried little water, but showed that in the spring it was much larger. The stream had burrowed its way beneath a dike of lava, at right angles to its course, and was bridged by a nearly perfect arch of rock, about six feet thick above the keystone. From the top of the bridge on its lower side to the bed of the stream is about sixty feet, and the bridge is twenty-five feet long, and the arch fifteen feet in width. The lava stands in upright layers, from one to four feet in thickness, and seems to have separated into these thin plates in cooling. Beyond the bridge, the dim trail which they followed led for the most part through the pleasant green timber, but at midday they passed over several hog-backs, from which the timber had long ago been burned off, most of the tree trunks had rotted away, and only a few charred fragments of the roots remained on the ground. No young growth had sprung up to replace the old, and the ground was bare: not merely bare of timber, but bare even of underbrush, weeds and grass. Exposed for years to the full force of the weather, the rains and melting snows had swept away all the rotted pine needles, twigs and fallen branches which had formed the old forest floor and soil, leaving only the fine lava sand and gravel, without any soil to support vegetation. Dry, thirsty and desolate, these hog-backs resembled the desert, a barren waste in the midst of the green pine forest. Hugh turned to Jack and said, "You see, son, what the forest fires may do in these mountains. When the timber burns off, unless there are seeds in the soil to spring up at once, the snow, melting quickly, washes away the soil, and leaves the rock, whether it is solid or broken up fine like this here, uncovered and without the power to support anything. Every year the snow melting quickly washes off a larger tract, and so these little deserts increase in size. The time is coming, I am afraid, when these mountains will all be burned over, and then what the ranchmen down on the prairie are going to do for water for their hay meadows and their crops I don't know." "But, Hugh," said Jack, "aren't there laws forbidding people to set the timber on fire?" "Yes," said Hugh, "there's plenty of laws, but the trouble is nobody pays any attention to them." Toward evening they camped on the shores of the lake, at what Hugh supposed was the Thumb, and he told the boys that the next day he was going to start off northwest through the timber, and try to strike the streams leading down to the Firehole. Making an early start, they rode up the hill, following a deep ravine through the cool green timber, over ground covered with feathery moss, where the hoofs of the animals made no sound as they struck the ground. Soon the lake was lost to view, and then, on all sides of them rose the tall straight boles of the pine trees. There seemed not very much life. A few small birds were seen in the tops of the trees. Some gray jays gathered near them when they stopped at midday to eat, and uttered soft mellow whistles, and two came down very close to Jack and Joe, and picked up little bits of dried meat that they threw to them. Soon after they started on, they came to a stream, and following that down, about three or four o'clock rode into the Lower Geyser Basin. Here was a large wet meadow, with green grass, and plenty of good camping spots; and before long they had the lodge up, and closing the door, started out to make a tour of the basin. The many geysers, large and small, and the wonderful hot springs of surpassing clearness and deep blue color astonished and delighted Hugh and the boys. Many of the springs were very hot, seeming to boil from beneath, bubbles of steam following one another to the surface, and then exploding. One of these large springs, about twenty-five feet long and more than half as wide, gave a vigorous display, beginning first to boil at the middle, and then to spout; at length throwing the water about in all directions, from twenty to forty feet in height. The margins of all these geysers and hot springs were beautifully ornamented with yellow gray and pinkish deposits of stone, which took the form of beads and corals and sponges, and all the tree trunks and branches seen in and near them were partly turned to stone. Close to the geysers were what are called the paint-pots. These are boiling pools of finely divided clay of various colors. The air seemed to be forced up slowly through the thick fluid, making little puffs, much like those that one would see in a kettle of boiling indian meal. Some of these paint-pots were very large, others small, and they were of a variety of colors--some red, some white, some yellow, and some softly gray. The clay was exceedingly smooth to the touch. The Geyser Basin was long, and contained a great many wonderful springs and geysers, of which some, like the Grotto, had built up great craters for themselves, twelve or sixteen feet high. The Grotto was at the end of the Lower Geyser Basin, and from here they turned back to go to their camp. Much talk was had during the evening of the wonderful things that they had seen, and of what they expected to see in the morning. An early start brought them to the Upper Geyser Basin not long after the sun had risen. Not far from the Grotto which they had seen last night was the Giant, with an enormous crater, from which great volumes of steam were escaping, and where the water could be heard boiling below the surface, and occasionally rising in great jets which splashed over the top. They camped near at hand, and turning out their horses, proceeded on foot to see Old Faithful, the Bee-hive, the Giantess, the Grand, and many other large geysers, besides many hot springs wonderful in color and in the purity of their waters. Just before they reached Old Faithful, the roar of its discharge was heard, and its wonderful shaft of water was seen rising, by two or three rapid leaps finally to a height of over one hundred feet, with clouds of steam reaching far higher, and drifting off with the wind. The great column of water maintained its height for fully five minutes, and then, dropping by degrees, it sank down and disappeared. All about the crater the naked shell of silica which surrounds it was flooded with water, so hot that Jack and Joe, who tested it with their fingers, shook them violently and at once thrust them into their mouths. The crater of this geyser is very beautiful. It stands on a little mound and is four or five feet high, and its lips are rounded into many strange and beautiful forms, beaded and shining like glistening pearls, while all about it are little terraced pools of the clearest water, with scalloped and beaded borders. The margins and floors of these pools are tinted with most delicate shades, white, buff, brown and gray, and in many of them are beautiful little pebbles, which are also opalescent. Many cruel hands had been at work breaking down these beautiful borders, to carry them away, and people who had visited the place had scrawled their names on the smooth pebbles and in the beautiful flooring of the pools. Hugh said to Jack, "Well, we come from the Indians, and we belong in a cow camp; but we ain't low down enough to spoil pretty things like these, by writing our names on 'em, are we, son?" "No, Hugh, we're not," said Jack, "and I'm mighty glad of it. I don't think anybody that had any love for pretty things would want to spoil them in this way, or take any of this beautiful bordering away with them. You get these pretty things away from their surroundings, and they are not pretty any longer. It's like picking a beautiful flower and carrying it away with you; before you've got far, it's all faded and gone, and good for nothing except to throw away." During the day, which seemed to them all too short, the geysers were good to them. The Bee-hive played, throwing up a slender shaft of water to a height of about 200 feet; the Grand Geyser sent up a stream eighty feet in height; the Castle played, but its exhibition was not very showy compared with the others that they had seen. But toward afternoon, the greatest of all the geysers, the Giantess, gave an exhibition of her power, throwing up a vast quantity of water, sometimes to a height of one hundred feet. While the geyser was playing, Jack and Joe brought a large tree stump and threw it into the basin, and it was instantly whirled to a height of 200 feet, looking at the last like a tiny piece of wood. The wind, which was blowing, kept the steam and water from going nearly as high as the stump went. The roar of the geyser was tremendous, and its force shook the ground all about, so that those who were looking on were almost afraid. As they returned to camp that night they saw a party of tourists moving about among the geysers, and passing near they could see that they were busy with axes and a pick, cutting away and prying out the borders of some of the geyser pools. It was an irritating sight, but they could do nothing, and much of the way back to camp was devoted to talking of the wickedness of destroying the beauties of this place, and declaring that the government ought to do something to protect the wonders of the region from the destruction which constantly threatened them. At night, after supper, they sat in the lodge talking about what they should do to-morrow, and for the following days. Generally, their idea was to travel in a southeasterly direction, and finally to bring up at Mr. Sturgis' ranch; but just how they should go was uncertain. Neither Jack nor Joe had ever before travelled in the mountains, and they were therefore quite dependent on Hugh for advice. Jack said, "Of course, Hugh, we want to get back to the ranch, but then, too, we want to see as much as we can of what there is in the mountains; but I suppose we'll have to travel by some trail or some road, because we can't take the horses everywhere." "Well, that's so," said Hugh; "we can't go everywhere, but then again, when you are travelling with a pack train there's mighty few places where you can't go; you're mighty free and independent when you're packing. Of course you can't take a pack train up a cut cliff; but, on the other hand, the rough mountains and down timber don't cut much figure; you can pretty much always go round, and keep your general direction. You can go and come about as you want to." "Well," said Jack, "of course I never travelled before with a pack train in the mountains, but I tell you I like it. It's a mighty pretty sight to see the white packs winding in and out among the timber, or to see them following one another along a narrow ridge, or zigzaging up and down a steep hillside, as we've seen them since we've been here in the Park." "Yes," said Hugh, "it's a nice way to travel; of course it's a little slower than a wagon, and it takes you some time to load and unload; but then again you can often go straight, instead of going a long way round, and I like it." "I tell you," said Joe, "I like to watch these horses. I don't know whether they've ever been in the mountains before, but it seems to me they're smart. They seem to know a whole lot, and I notice that when they're going along among the trees, sometimes I see a horse start to go between two trees, where I think there isn't room enough for the pack, but generally they get through. Then, sometimes, going under branches it seems to me that the pack has got to strike the branches, but the horses generally get under them without touching. Of course if they follow old Baldy close, there is always room enough; but now and then that dun horse tries to cut off a corner, and get in ahead of one of the others, and then sometimes I think he's bound to get caught. He only did so once, day before yesterday, and then he went between two trees where there wasn't room enough; then he pushed and pushed and pushed for a long time, and I had to run round in front of him and drive him back, and then he got out." "Yes," said Hugh, "horses that are used to the mountains, or mules or burros, get to be mighty smart in going through thick timber, and if the packs are properly put on, there isn't likely to be much trouble, unless you strike down timber. Of course, down timber is bad." "Well, what is down timber, Hugh?" said Jack. "I've heard of places in the woods back east where a hurricane goes along and tears up all the trees in a strip for miles in length. They call that a wind-fall there. Is that the way down timber is made here?" "No," said Hugh, "we've plenty of wind here, but it don't often act that way. Down timber comes like this: say that you have a rough and rocky mountain side, where the timber stands thick, most of the trees will be from six to ten inches in diameter, but they'll all be pretty near of a size. Now, suppose a fire passes over this, and kills all these trees; likely it doesn't burn them to amount to anything, but it's hot enough to sort o' cook the sap, and kill the trees. They'll stand there naked, with the bark gradually drying up and peeling off them, maybe for twenty, thirty or forty years; and likely while they're standing there, there'll be a new growth of young pines springing up among them, and grow to quite a height. But after a while these dead trees get white and weathered, and the dead roots that hold them in the ground keep on rotting and rotting, and at last these roots become so weak that there's nothing to support the tall trunk that stands there, and then with every big wind that comes blowing along, some of the trees get blown over, and fall to the ground. They don't all fall at once, but some may fall to-day with a south wind, and some may fall next week with a west wind, and some the week after with a north wind. In this way they're falling all the time, and in all sorts of directions, and presently the timber will lie piled up on the ground there, criss-cross in all directions. Now, if the logs are not more than a foot or two above the ground, and don't lie too close together, you can take your train through them, but if they lie three or four feet high, of course the horses can't step or jump over them, and you've either got to go winding round among them, picking out the low places where the animals can get across, or else you've got to chop your way through, or else you've got to back out and go round. That's down timber." "But Hugh," said Jack, "I should think it would be kind of dangerous to ride through one of those patches of dead timber when the wind is blowing; they might fall on you." "Well," said Hugh, "so they might. I've sometimes had to ride through a patch of that timber when the trees were falling all about, but I never happened to have one fall on me, nor on any animal that I was driving. The chances are mighty few that you'll get hit. I mind one time a big tree fell, with the top about twenty feet from one of my animals, and threw dirt and splinters all about him. The horse was scared a whole lot, and ran away; but of course I got him again." CHAPTER VIII ACROSS THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE The next morning they made an early start, and following up the Firehole, turned up a branch coming in from the east, only a short distance beyond Old Faithful. They purposed to go over to Shoshone Lake, and camp there, and to do this they must pass over the Continental Divide, for the Firehole finds its way through the Madison River, and the Missouri, to the Atlantic Ocean, while the waters of the Shoshone Lake fall into Snake River, then into the Columbia, and so at last reach the Pacific. The way was pleasant, through park-like openings and green timber, and the distance not great. There was no trail, but they followed up a narrow grassy valley, whose slopes on either side were clothed with pines. At last, when Hugh thought they must be near the Divide, they found down timber, and began to wind about among the logs. Little by little, however, matters grew worse, and presently a stick was encountered over which old Baldy could not step, but on which he caught his foot and almost fell. Here all hands dismounted, and getting an ax out of a pack, Hugh and the boys went ahead, and by lifting some of the larger sticks, and breaking smaller ones, and a little chopping, a way was soon made by which the horses could pass along. Beyond this timber was an open and almost level country, which Hugh declared was the Divide, and passing along a little further, they began to go down a gentle hill. Here there were park-like meadows and low wooded hills on either side. There were a few little gullies, but no water; and in the dry stream-beds and water-holes were many tracks of elk, all made in the spring when the ground was soft. From the summit of this Divide, when snows are melting in the early summer, little trickles of water pour down the opposite sides of the mountains, some to the north, to find their way into the Firehole; others south toward Snake River. Hugh followed the general direction of one of these water-courses, which constantly grew larger, and presently turned into one still wider, whose sandy bottom was dotted with great blocks of black lava. Hugh pointed out these to the boys, and said to them, "That's the stuff that in old times many of the Indians used to make their arrow points from. It must have been a great article of trade, for away up north of the boundary line I have seen little piles of chips of that black glass lying on the prairie, where men have been making arrow-heads, and I know that there wasn't any of the rock within 400 miles." All along the valley of this dry stream was a beautiful park of gently rolling country, with timbered knolls and open grassy intervales. Some of the trees were very large--two or three feet in diameter. It was early in the afternoon when they reached Shoshone Lake, and riding along its smooth, firm beach, camped in a little point of spruces. The lake was large, and looked as if it should have a fish in it. Jack got out his rod and put it together, and standing it against a tree, went back into the open meadow where the horses were feeding, to catch grasshoppers. He caught half a dozen, and then, returning, fished faithfully for quite a long distance along the shore, but without success. Neither could he see anywhere that fish were rising, and he wondered whether it could be possible that this beautiful lake, which seemed an ideal home for trout, should have none in it. Joe, on the other hand, as soon as camp had been made, had taken his rifle and started out on foot, working along the edge of the lake and looking for game. He found many old elk tracks and a very few made by deer, but went quite a long distance without seeing anything. Then, turning away from the shore of the lake, and taking the hillside at some distance from it, he began to work back to the camp. Here there were more deer tracks, but none that seemed worth while for him to follow, and he began to feel discouraged. When he had come almost opposite the camp he crossed a wide dry water-course, going now rather carelessly, though still making no noise, yet not trying to keep out of sight. As he climbed the gentle slope, after crossing the little valley, and had almost reached the top, he stopped, and turned about and looked backward, and there to his astonishment saw, projecting above a patch of low willows and weeds, the heads of two fawns. They were staring at him most innocently, but the camp needed meat, and bringing his rifle to his shoulder he fired at the neck of one of them, and the little deer disappeared, while the other turned about and raced away through the brush. Going to the place Joe found the fawn quite a small one, though it had already lost its spotted coat. He dressed it, and then throwing it on his shoulders walked quickly to the camp. As he came in front of the lodge, Hugh said to him, "Hello, Joe, what have you got there, a jack rabbit?" "Well," said Joe, "it is not much bigger, but it's the only thing I have seen except another of the same size, and that I could not shoot at." That night as the sun went down the wind began to blow a fresh dry wholesome breeze from the west. The wind raised quite a sea on the lake, and big waves tumbled up on the beach one after another, so fast that it was not an easy matter to get a bucket of water without at the same time getting a wet foot. Jack and Joe walked along the beach a little way. "Do you know, Joe," said Jack, "this looks to me just like the seashore; the wind blows in the same way, and the waves have the same white-caps, and the surf roars as it pounds on the beach; and there is the moon on the water. Why it seems to me just like some nights I have walked on the beach, back east on the Long Island shore." "Well," said Joe, "it's not like anything I ever saw before. Up in our country we don't have sand beaches like this, though we do have the lake, and the waves and the wind." The animals were packed early next day, and they followed the shores of the lake southward. In some places they could see where elk had passed along recently, and there were tracks of bulls and cows and calves. In some places, too, along the beach the pines, which were small yet looked old, were all bent toward the eastward, and had no branches on the western side. Joe pointed these trees out to Hugh and said, "Why is it Hugh that these trees seem all bent one way, and have no branches on the other side; is it the wind?" "Yes," said Hugh, "the wind. You'll see that in lots of places, especially on mountain tops, and along big waters like this, where the wind blows mostly from the west and northwest, and gets a wide sweep." The wind was still blowing hard, and the lake was in a turmoil. The air was cold, and all hands wore their coats as they rode along. A day's journey took them by Shoshone Lake and Lewis Lake, and they camped below it on Lewis Fork. For much of the distance the trail passed through an attractive open country, full of streams and springs, and dotted with clumps of thick willow brush; while on the higher lands were the ever-present pines. To the left was the lofty ridge of the Red Mountain Range, down which half a hundred beautiful cascades hurried toward the river. To the right was the stream, and beyond the steep sides of the Pitchstone Plateau, so called from the black glossy fragments of the lava rock, of which the soil is largely made up. It was evident that this would be a hard trail in the early spring, for it was low and wet, and animals would have trouble in passing over it at any except the dry season. A few miles below the camp they began to look for a ford. The stream looked deep and difficult, yet it was necessary for them to cross it, for on the east side the mountains came down close to the river in a steep and impassable jumble of slide rock. Just above them they could see a great water-fall, not far below the lake. It was now getting toward night, and Hugh was a little uncertain whether to cross this stream, or to camp on this side. However, he determined to cross, and stopping, had the boys catch up the pack animals, while he rode into the stream to prospect for a ford. He kept diagonally down the river, going very slowly, and feeling for the shoalest places, but at last, reached the opposite bank and climbed out. Then, turning about, he recrossed, and telling the boys to keep the horses close to him, he led them into the stream. The ford was rather deep, the water coming more than half way up the horses' bodies, so that they all tucked their feet up behind them on the saddle, and rode along with some anxiety, lest a false step or a stumble over the great stones which formed the river bottom should throw down one of the animals, and so wet either a pack or a rider. However, the crossing was made safely, and then climbing the steep hill, they kept on through the timber, soon, however, camping by a little spring, in an opening where there was food for the animals. By the time camp was made, the sun had set and it was too late to hunt. The little deer had all been eaten, and once more they made their meal on dried meat and back-fat. The next day they kept on through the green timber, riding over ridges and at a distance from the stream, though now and then they had glimpses of its dark hurrying waters. To the right were seen some little lakes, one of them covered with water-fowl. Across the trail that they were following--if it could be called a trail--was some fallen timber, but nothing that delayed them. Jack noticed that some of the living trees were curiously bent in their growth, sometimes at right angles to the vertical a foot or two from the ground, the trunk growing six inches or a foot horizontally, and then turning once more straight toward the sky, the remainder of the tree being straight as an arrow. In some cases the bend was more than this, the tree growing straight up for a foot, and then turning over, growing down for a few inches or a foot, and then making another curve, and growing upright once more. Some of these curves were almost shaped like the letter S, and Jack kept wondering what caused these bends. As they stopped at midday to unsaddle and let the horses feed and to eat something themselves, Jack asked Hugh about the curious way in which these trees grew. Hugh smiled and said, "I don't much wonder you ask about that, son. I remember that I used to think about that a good deal, and wonder how it happened. But it is easy enough to explain if you once get onto it, and you can easily enough get onto it if you travel around through the mountains enough. "You know I told you the other day," he continued, "that when a country has been burned over, the trees stand for a good many years, and then they commence to fall in all directions. Likely enough before they begin to fall, a whole lot of young trees and sprouts have started from the ground, and are growing among them. Now, nothing is more likely than that some of these falling trees may happen to fall upon these young saplings and sprouts. Some of them they smash down flat, and the sprout dies; but sometimes they fall so as just to bend a sprout over, or so that a little small sprout just growing is bound to grow up against the log as the sprout grows larger. These young trees are springy and bend easily. Of course the ones that are smashed down and broken off short are killed; we never hear anything more of them. But likely enough there are some young and hardy plants caught beneath the tops or branches of the fallen trees within a foot or two of the ground, and not much hurt but just held down. Sometimes these little trees are pressed flat to the ground, and when they are, they usually die. But if they are only bent over a few inches, or a foot or two from the ground, they don't always die. Instead of that they keep on growing, and of course the top of the growing tree keeps on reaching up all the time toward the light. No matter if it is bent flat, it tends to turn upward, so that all of it beyond the place where the dead tree is pressing on it grows straight, just like all the other trees around it. Then, after a while the dead stick which is holding the young tree down, rots, and at last disappears. The injured tree grows larger and larger, and at last gets to be a big tree; and there is then nothing to show how this big tree should have grown in such a bent, queer fashion." "Well now, Hugh, that's mighty interesting," said Jack, "and I ought to have worked it out for myself, for three or four times to-day I saw dead trees pressing little green sprouts over to one side; but I never thought about that being the reason for the bends in these big trees. The fact is, I never thought of them bending while the trees were young, but supposed it must be some accident or disease that had struck the trees after they were big." "Well," said Hugh, "you see it's all simple enough, if you understand it." "Simple!" said Jack, "Why it's simple as rolling off a log; but you've got to understand the reason." "Well," said Hugh, "you keep your eyes open as you ride through the timber, and you'll see the very thing I've been talking about, happening before your face all the time." The wind blew fiercely all day long, though when they were in the timber they hardly felt it, and only the sighing of the pines and occasionally the crash of some distant tree told of the force of the gale. They crossed Snake River about noon, and kept on southward. During a halt at the river all hands went to the fishing, and caught some splendid trout, which they promptly cooked and which gave them a delicious meal. A little more fishing furnished them with enough fish for two or three meals more, and Jack was hard at work trying to catch a big one that he had seen rise, when he saw two great shadows on the water, and looking up, saw only a few yards above him a pair of great sand-hill cranes. They were not in the least afraid, and flying on a little further, alighted in the meadow where they fed, walking about in most dignified fashion until the train started on again, and alarmed them. As they went into camp that afternoon at a little spring, Hugh said to the boys, "Now, look here; if one of you don't go out pretty soon and kill something, I'll have to do that myself. This camp needs fresh meat. Dried meat and back-fat is good; fish are good; but we want either a deer or an elk; or, better still, if you can find it, a buffalo; but I reckon these bison here in the mountains are a little too smart for any of us. They're pretty scarce, and they're pretty watchful." "Well," said Jack, "which one of us shall go? We can't both go, because one has got to stay and help drive the animals. I'll toss up with you, Joe, to see which shall hunt to-morrow morning." "All right," said Joe, "I'll toss up;" but as no one of them had a coin, Jack took a fresh chip, and rubbing some black earth on one side of it, said, "We'll call that black side heads, and the other tails; and Hugh will throw the chip. You call, Joe." Hugh tossed the chip into the air, and Joe called heads. But the chip came down the clean side up, and so Jack was to go hunting next morning. As soon as the animals were packed, Jack started off, keeping to the right of the trail and up the hill. He knew, of course, that at this time of the year the elk were likely to be found high up, and the deer, too; for the flies and mosquitoes were bad. The underbrush was thick, and there were many marshy places, and once this hillside had been covered with a great forest, for it was strewn with logs. The underbrush seemed higher and thicker than he had been accustomed to, and he saw many sorts of plants that he did not remember to have seen before; and at last it struck him that perhaps as he was now on the western side of the Continental Divide, the rain-fall might be greater, and that this might make a difference in the vegetation. Willow and alders, and other brush, made riding rather difficult, and besides that, the hillsides grew steeper and steeper, until at last Jack dismounted, and clambering up on foot, left Pawnee to follow, as he had long ago been trained to do. Getting up on a high ridge, bald now, though once forest-grown, for the ground was strewn with great charred and rotting tree-trunks, long before killed by fire, he followed the ridge toward higher land, and gradually climbing, at last reached a commanding height, from which he saw the beautiful Jackson's Lake, and its lovely surroundings. To the eastward the Red Mountain Ridge, rising above him, cut off the view, but northeast he could see the valley of Snake River, broad near at hand, but narrowing further off, until the mountains, closing in, hid the silver ribbon of the stream's course. To the west were the splendid gray and white masses of the Teton range, low and rounded toward the north, with long easy ridges of moderate steepness, and crowned with great fields of snow. Toward the southward the mountains became more and more abrupt, until at last the highest peak of all, Jack knew must be the Grand Teton. From this pinnacle the ridge gradually sank away again, becoming lower and lower in the blue and misty distance. Immediately under the ridge, and south of where Jack stood, was Jackson's Lake. He had often heard Hugh speak of Jackson's Hole and Jackson's Lake, spots for many years hardly known to white men, and about which most marvelous stories were told. Here, men used to say--the miners that the streams were paved with nuggets of gold, the trappers that the rivers and forests abounded in fur, the hunters that game was so abundant and so tame that there was always plenty to eat, and the camp never starved; and now this wonderful region lay before him. And yet he knew that within the past few years many people had passed through this place. He knew that the miners had washed the sands of the rivers, but found that they did not pay; that trappers had caught the beaver and the marten, and had soon trapped almost all of them. Now it was for him to find whether the game was as plenty as had been said. At all events, Jackson's Lake with the wide meadows that surrounded it, and the superb mountains that walled it in on one side, made this a lovely spot. The lake shone in the sunlight like a sheet of silver, and was dotted with pine-clad islands. On the west its waters flowed close beneath the great mountains which rose above it, but on the other three sides a belt of forest grew close to the water, and back of this belt, broad meadow lands, with groups of trees and low rounded clumps of willows, looked almost like a park. Further to the eastward bare ridges rose higher and higher, forming the foot-hills of the main range, and still further to the east and southeast were massive mountains, more distant--and so seeming lower--than the Teton Range, but which were the Continental Divide. Jack looked, and looked, and enjoyed this beautiful view; but after a little he realized that time was passing, and that he must move on, and do his hunting, and get to camp. He crossed the ridge, and began to ride down the side of the mountain toward the south, following the crest of a hog-back, which would take him down to the valley of the lake by a gentle slope. Below, and to his left, was a narrow valley, in which stood green timber, and among the green timber much that was dead and much that was down. Chapter IX AN ELK HUNT UNDER THE TETONS He was riding along slowly, letting Pawnee make his own way among the loose rocks and tree-trunks, when he caught sight of an animal standing with its tail toward him, in a little opening among the trees. For an instant he thought it was a buckskin horse, and the idea flashed through his mind that there must be a camp down there. Almost before the thought had taken form, the animal moved a little, and he saw that it was an elk. He slipped off his horse on the side furthest from the animal, and led Pawnee out of sight behind a clump of pines, and left him there. Then he crept back to the ridge. In the timber below he soon made out half-a-dozen elk, and as he watched, he could see quite a large bunch of cows and calves. He lay there, watching and waiting. The drop down the hill into the valley was very steep, and he was hoping that the elk might move into some position where he would not have to go down to them. They seemed uneasy and suspicious, and presently something startled them, and they ran a little way, and then stopped, looking back up the valley. Two big heifers stood almost side by side facing opposite ways, with their shoulders close together, and their heads in such position that their necks seemed to cross. Jack raised his gun and took a careful sight at the necks, just below the heads, and pulled the trigger. One of the cows dropped instantly, while the other, standing a moment to look, turned and ran off. He heard the elk crashing through the timber of the valley, and then saw them climbing the bald hills on the other side, stopping every little while to look back, and at last walking slowly off over the hills. A convenient side ridge gave Pawnee a good road down to where the cow had fallen, but she had rolled far down the hill, and finally had stopped on a little level place. She was quite dead. The animal was rather large for Jack to handle, but with some trouble he managed to cut off her hams and sirloins, and tying the two hams together by the gambrel joints, he balanced them on his saddle, and then tying the sirloins on behind, set out on foot for camp. There was much scrambling up steep hillsides, and down others quite as steep, and some working through the thick underbrush, before he came out into the open lake valley. Here progress was more rapid. Jack walked swiftly, and Pawnee followed close behind. After a time he came on the trail made by the pack train, some hours before, and hurrying along this, presently saw in the distance what looked like a house. Before he reached it, however, the trail that he was following turned sharply to the right, and led down toward the river, two or three miles below the lake. As he approached the tall cottonwood timber, which he supposed grew on the shores of the river, he saw the horses feeding close to it, and before long the cone of the lodge showed through the leaves, and a little later he stopped by the fire. "Good boy," said Hugh. "I'm mighty glad to get that meat. That'll keep us going for quite a while, and now that we've got fresh meat, and dried meat and fish, we're bound to live well." "Animal's in good order, too," he continued, as he began to lift the meat from the saddle. "I expect you picked out a heifer, didn't you?" "Well," said Jack, "I tried to, but I wasn't sure that it wasn't an old cow until I put a knife into her. The only thing I was sure of was that she had no calf." "Well," said Hugh, "it's a nice piece of meat, and I'm mighty glad you got it." "What's that house that I see up there, Hugh? Nobody lives here now, does there?" "No," said Hugh, "I reckon that's some kind of a shelter or stable, built by hunters or prospectors, for their horses in fly-time. Flies are pretty bad here now, and I reckon close about this lake the greenheads must be enough to drive the horses crazy. I noticed to-day when we were crossing some points of that meadow up above that they were bad. If it hadn't been for that, I reckon we'd have camped up there by the lake. It's an awful sightly spot, but there were too many flies." Supper was almost ready, and they feasted royally that night on trout and the fat sirloins of the elk; and after the meal was over, it was pleasant to sit round the big camp-fire that Jack and Joe built out in front of the lodge, and watch the blaze, and listen to the murmur of the river as it hurried over the stones, just beyond the camp. Every stick tossed on the burning pile sent a great cloud of sparks soaring upward to disappear among the dark green foliage of the spruces, which here grew among the taller cottonwoods. The warmth of the fire was grateful; the willows and cottonwoods and spruces all about their camp sheltered them from the strong wind which still blew down the valley; and Jack, as he lay stretched out on the ground between Joe and Hugh, thought that he never could have a happier time than that very moment. "Now, boys," said Hugh, "I don't know how you feel about it, but it strikes me this is a terrible nice place to stop for a day or two. This is a good camp, and these mountains right opposite to us are things I like to look at. What do you say to our stopping here, say for one day, anyhow; and maybe to-morrow we'll take a little ride across the river, and get closer to these mountains, and see something of what they look like. I'd like mighty well to look at them long enough to kind o' carry a remembrance of them back with me to the ranch." "Well," said Jack, "let's do that. There's no reason for our hurrying; we've got plenty of grub, and I think we'd all like to stay here for one day, anyhow." "Now, there's two things we can do," said Hugh. "We ain't made up our minds how we'll go home; but we can cross the range in a whole lot of different places. We can either follow down Snake River for a way, and then work up one of the creeks, and go over and strike the head of Wind River, and follow that down, or we can go back to the park, and then cut across, and get down onto Stinking Water, and then go back on the prairie. My idea is that we'll do better to keep on south, and try to go straight on our course. We can either go up Buffalo Fork, and then strike across to the head of the Wind River, and follow that down; or go down and follow up the Gros Ventre, and get across some way there. We don't have to make up our minds to-day; we can settle that to-morrow night. Let's agree that we'll stop here to-morrow, and then to-morrow night decide what we'll do." "All right," said both boys. When the three friends got up next morning, and went to the stream to wash, they could see nothing of the great range beneath which they were camped, for the tall spruce trees which grew on the opposite bank cut off the view of everything beyond. After breakfast they saddled up and having picketed two of the pack horses, set out to cross the river, and to get nearer to the mountains. The river was wide, and so deep that the water came almost up to the saddle blankets, but they crossed comfortably enough, and riding through the open dry timber of the bottom, before long were approaching the high bluffs which formed the first terrace above the river. In the bottom were many tracks of deer and elk, some of the deer tracks quite fresh; and they almost rode over a huge old porcupine, which waddled awkwardly to one side, and then stopped among some low rose bushes, with its head between its forefeet, its quills erect, and its tail thrashing about in a threatening way. Jack stopped his horse and said to Hugh: "Hugh, is there anything in that story that porcupines throw their quills? I've heard lots of people say it is so, and then other people say it isn't." Hugh drew his horse up, and turning in his saddle said, "Why no, son, there's nothing in that; though I've heard plenty of men who ought to know a heap better say that there was. Take a stick and go right up close to that fellow, and poke him with it, and then bring it to me." Jack picked up a dead branch, and going to the porcupine, poked him in the sides and back, and when he did this the porcupine thrashed his tail about more vigorously than ever, and two or three times struck the stick. Leaving him, Jack went to Hugh, carrying the stick in his hand, and Hugh said, "Look at the end of that stick now, and see those quills." The end of the stick was pierced by a dozen or twenty sharp, strong quills, and Jack, taking hold of one and trying to pull it out, found that the point was firmly fastened in the wood, so that it required quite a little effort to pull it out. "Now, son," said Hugh, "a porcupine, as you have seen, is slow, and can't run away. His back and sides and tail are covered with these quills, which are mighty sharp, and which have little stickers pointing back toward the root, so that if a quill gets fast in the flesh, it is a very hard matter to pull it out again. If a quill gets stuck in an animal's head or foot, it keeps working forward all the time; it never works backward and comes out; it has to go through to the other side. Most animals know that it isn't good to fool with a porcupine. The only way to kill him is to turn him over on his back, and get at his throat and belly, which are not covered with quills. When a porcupine sees an animal coming he holds his body close to the ground, makes his quills stand up all over him, and thrashes around with his tail, which is pretty well covered with quills too. His tail is strong, and he can hit a hard blow with it; and so you see he's pretty well defended. The quills are not set deep in the skin; they are loose, and they pull out mighty easy; you see that just by poking the porcupine you got that stick full of quills. Sometimes when he thrashes hard with his tail he may hit a piece of wood, or may knock loose some of the quills on his tail so that they may fly a little distance; but as for throwing them any distance from his body, or with any force, why he can't do it. "I have had dogs that would tackle porcupines, and when they did, it was a terrible job to pull the quills out of them." "Well," said Jack, "I'm glad to hear all that I've been told of dogs tackling porcupines, up in the Adirondacks, but I never saw one that had been pierced by quills." "Most dogs," said Hugh, "soon learn never to bother porcupines, but some seem never to learn, and will go for one every time they see it. Bears sometimes tackle them, and so do lynx and panthers, but they say the greatest animal of all to kill a porcupine is a fisher. I've seen two or three panthers with their jaws full of quills. I've heard people say that the fisher kills them by turning them over on their backs and then jumping onto the belly, but I never saw this done. What I have seen is fishers with lots of quills in their bodies: some in the legs, some in the belly, and some in the sides. And the Indians say that these quills don't bother them at all; that is to say, that a fisher full of quills don't swell up the way a dog or a panther does. The porcupine is a pretty stupid beast, but its effect on its neighbors is quite interesting." Jack listened with much attention to this lesson in natural history, and they mounted and rode on again. Soon they came to a great slough, evidently an old beaver meadow, and as Hugh drew up his horse and looked at it, he shook his head:--"Too soft for us to cross, I reckon, we'll have to go round some other way. There's plenty of sloughs and mud-holes in there where our horses would go out of sight." They turned northward, and for the next two hours were occupied in trying to make their way out to the high prairie. At frequent intervals they came to what looked like a tongue of hard dry land extending out to the bluffs, but after following it for a little distance they found at its end a mud-hole, which obliged them to turn back and take another road. At length they reached a strip of hard ground which led them to the bluffs; and just before they rode up the steep ascent, Hugh's horse started from the ground a brood of grouse, which scattered in all directions, many of them alighting on the willows and spruce branches close to them. They were singularly tame, almost as much so as the fool hens they had seen farther north, and Jack rode up to within three or four feet of one, and then reached out his gun to touch it, but before the muzzle was within a foot of the bird, it flew away. When they reached the higher prairie they rode off toward the range, which was now plainly to be seen. There were three principal peaks, the names of which Hugh gave them. One, he said, was Mount Moran, a great square-topped mass of granite, with two or three vast snow or ice banks on its north face. To the south of that were the three pinnacles of the Tetons, whose slender summits ran far up into the blue sky. The prairie over which they were now riding was uneven:--here cut by dry, grassy, ancient water-ways, there with mounds of great extent rising above the general level. There was much gravel--some of it very large--which looked as if it might have been carried down by the water. Long ridges composed wholly of this gravel ran for long distances out from the foot of the range, and were now for the most part bare of timber, having been burned over. On some of them the fire had spared many of the pines, and young aspen timber grew on their slopes. The terraces of the river's flood-plain rose one above another, and on the highest of all, on the west side, were groups of evergreen trees, and now and then a single pine standing alone in the wide sage-plain. Scattered about over the prairie were many antelope. They rode on toward the mountains, trying to get up high enough so as to look down on Jackson's Lake, which runs in close to the foot of Mount Moran; but the ridges became higher and higher, more and more timber grew on them, and cut off the view, so that at length they gave up the effort and turned off to one side to ride through the timber. Here were many fresh elk tracks and trails, some made the night before, and some since daylight; and here, quite unexpectedly, as they rode over a ridge a little higher than any that they had yet passed, a fine view was had of the southern end of Jackson's Lake. It seemed to wind and twist about among its points and islands, and sent out long and narrow finger-like bays into the hills in a most curious way. A little further on they saw from a hilltop another lake, not nearly so large as Jackson's, but still perhaps two miles long. It was surrounded by dense forest, and reflected the great peaks which overhung it. Here they dismounted for a while to look at the range, which was now plainly seen. "Big mountains, ain't they, son?" said Hugh, as they sat there looking up at them. "Yes, Hugh," said Jack, "they're awful big, and how bare and gray they are. There seems to be a little timber in small patches, but except for that, there doesn't seem to be anything growing on them at all; they are just rocks with snow on top and in the ravines." "Well," said Hugh, "I expect for the most part that rock is so steep that the snow can't lie there. Even if the wind don't blow, just as soon as any weight of snow falls on the rocks it slips off. "Have you got your glasses with you, son?" he continued, and when Jack had handed them to him, he looked through them and said: "I thought so. Do you know, son, that snow up there in those highest ravines isn't snow at all, it's ice; just like them glaciers that we have up there in the mountains to the north. Look through the glasses, and you can see the cracks on the lower border, and you can see too that it is blue, and not white like snow." Jack and Joe both looked through the glasses and saw what Hugh meant, and both were reminded of the masses of ice that they had seen in the mountains of the north, the year before. It was pleasant sitting in the warm sun and looking up at this wonderful scenery, but at last they caught up their horses, and mounted and rode back to the camp. As they were going along side by side, down the wide point of a ridge, a great brown deer bounced out from an aspen thicket on Joe's side and ran down the ravine. Joe sprang from his horse and raised his gun to shoot, but just as he did so she sprang into a little gully, so that Joe could see only her ears as she raced along. She followed the ravine down and was not seen again. Hugh and Jack both laughed at Joe, and told him that he should have stayed on his horse, for from their point of view on horseback, the doe's body had been in sight for quite time enough to shoot. When they reached the level bottom, they rode out close to the river, and keeping along the bank found firm ground all the way to the camp. There remained still some hours of daylight, and both boys got out their lines and began to fish, catching a number of fine and heavy trout. Just as they were about to go to camp with their catch, a flock of seven wild geese flew up the river, calling loudly, and after they had passed a little beyond the boys, Joe began to honk in response, and presently the great birds turned about and came back, flying directly over the boys, looking down at them, as if to see who it was that was talking to them. The air was cool and damp after dark and they sat about the fire in the lodge. A great horned owl a little way down the river was hooting regularly, and Joe said, "We're going to have a storm." "Yes," said Hugh, "I hear him now, and I heard him last night. I reckon we're going to have change of weather." "What do you mean, Hugh?" said Jack, "has the owl anything to do with the weather?" "Well no, son, I don't know that he has; but some of the Indians say that if you hear an owl calling it means a storm's coming." It was raining the next morning when Jack thrust his head from under his blankets, and as the fire had not been started, and nobody seemed to be moving, he knew that this day also would be spent in camp. When he went out of the lodge the ground was covered with an inch of very wet snow, and the weather seemed to be trying to make up its mind whether it would rain or no. Big wet flakes were falling in a mixture of rain and snow, and moisture was everywhere. After breakfast, Hugh cut some crotches and poles, and with the ropes and two of the mantas made a very good shelter, under which they built an outdoor fire. By this they sat for a long time, discussing various matters, and then, since the rain had stopped, Jack went down to the stream and began to fish. He caught a few fish weighing from three quarters of a pound to a pound, and there were enough of them to make it interesting. The small ones seemed to trouble his hook very little, and one or two little ones that he caught he shook off before getting them to shore. Suddenly, after a long cast that he had made out toward the middle of the stream, a huge fish rose to his fly, but in its eagerness, missed and sprang over the fly showing its full length out of the water. This was such a fish as Jack had not seen before, and he was very anxious to get it. He cast again over the same spot, and this time drew in his line a little more slowly. The great fish rose again, and just at the right moment Jack struck, and had him fast. For a moment the fish did nothing, but then came a fight the like of which Jack had never witnessed. The fish made a strong rush toward the deepest water of the rapid, and twice on his way there he sprang into the air, shaking his head savagely to rid himself of the steel that was biting his jaw. Then he turned about and rushed back toward the bank, again throwing himself out of the water. Jack was excited, but was trying to keep cool. Whenever the fish gave him an opportunity he took in line, and when the fish ran he gave him as little as possible. Suddenly the trout started down the river at great speed, so fast that Jack was afraid to check him, and started racing after him, running over the slippery stones of the beach, and through the pools of water left by the river. Presently the fish stopped, and refused to move, and Jack recovered all the line that he could, and then began to try to move the fish. Now it began to give a series of tugging jerks on the line, as if it were bending itself from side to side in the water; then it began to throw itself over and over, as if trying to twist the line; and then it would rush off, as if striving to break it. As the splendid fish grew tired, Jack worked it nearer and nearer to the beach; but he had no net and of course could not lift it from the water. After looking about a little he found a place where the beach was shelving, and laying down his rod, he drew the fish out by the leader and soon had it safely in his hand. It was a handsome fish, deep and thick, and yet graceful in all its lines, and it seemed to Jack as big as a North River shad. As soon as it was killed, Jack took his rod and started back to the camp for he wished to show them there the biggest trout that he had ever seen. White clouds hung low over the valley and hid the mountains on either side; but as Jack walked along the beach the western sky grew lighter, and for a few moments the sun struggled to shine through the clouds. Then suddenly, far down the valley the white wall that shut out the view broke away, and Jack could see the great mountain mass of the Teton Range. He stopped and gazed, waiting for the rent to close up again. Through it he could see, like a picture in its frame, the mountains, not dark and gray as they had been yesterday, but white now, in all the purity of new-fallen snow. As he looked, the break in the clouds moved rapidly northward, exposing one mountain after another, each seeming more beautiful than the one seen just before. A wreath of mist hung around and concealed the needle peak of the Grand Teton, adding to, rather than taking away from its height. The rift in the clouds passed northward, and after it had shown him Mount Moran, it closed again and the white vapor cut off the view. Jack had seen the glories of the Tetons, snow-clad. He returned to camp. CHAPTER X TRAILING BLACK-TAILS It was pleasant that night after supper was over, as they lay about the bright fire in the lodge. During the afternoon, while Jack had been fishing, Joe had split fine a lot of dry cottonwood sticks, and a good pile of them lay within the lodge door, just to its left. The fire blazed and crackled merrily and the draft was good, so that there was no smoke even in the top of the lodge. Joe said to Jack, "Jack, have you seen all this old beaver work up north of the camp?" "No," said Jack, "I have seen plenty of small beaver cuttings. There have been lots of beaver here, but I haven't seen any big work." "Well," said Joe, "you'd better go up fifty yards from the camp, and you'll see there bigger trees cut down by the beaver than I've ever seen, and I've seen some beaver work in my day. Why, there's cottonwood logs there cut down by the beaver that are bigger round than my body, and I believe they're more than a foot through. You surely ought to see them." "Well," said Jack, "I will in the morning." "This used to be a great place for fur, didn't it Hugh?" "Yes," said Hugh, "I expect when the white men first came in here that beaver were awful plenty. Wherever I've been since I came into this valley I've seen lots of old work but not much new work. All the same, these sticks that Joe is talking about are not very old; they were cut down only a few years ago. I guess 'twas a great fur country. But, Lord! I've told you about the stories that people used to tell about Jackson's Lake. They used to say that pretty nearly everything good in the mountains was to be found here, and plenty of it. "Do you know, boys," Hugh continued, "I've about made up my mind what we'd better do? Now, we don't know the country here, none of us, but I expect we can find our way around pretty well with the pack-train. I think the best thing we can do is to go back to that last big creek that we crossed, and follow that up to its head; then cross the mountains there, and get over onto Wind River; and then we can follow Wind River down; and then over and strike Sweetwater, and follow Sweetwater down to the Platte; and then, you know, we're pretty near home. What do you say? Would either of you rather go any other way, or will you leave it that way?" The boys sat silent for a little while, and then Joe said, "I think it will be good to do as Hugh says; he is the leader, and we will follow him." "I think so, too," said Jack. "Neither of us boys knows anything about the country, and we want to do just what you think is best, Hugh." "Well," said Hugh, "I guess that is best, and if you say so, we'll do it; and we'll start to-morrow morning if the weather is good and the things are dry." "All right," said both boys. The next morning saw the little train following its back trail up Snake River for a few miles, when Hugh turned off to the right, and entered the valley of a great stream which rushed down from the Red Mountain Range. The hills were low and rounded and composed of sand and gravel, covered with grass and sage-brush. On either side, from time to time, the stream had cut into the hills and washed away the gravel, and its bed was full of huge boulders; so that it was necessary for them to keep back on the ridge, at some distance from the water. The river was so large and along it there were so many evidences of a vast body of water running down through this valley in the spring, that it seemed evident that it must be a very long stream, and must drain a wide area of country. Before they had gone very far, the sun, which had been shining, went behind clouds; it began to rain hard; and before long they began to get wet. Early in the day, therefore, Hugh drew up his horse in the shelter of some spruces on a little bench about thirty feet above the valley, and said, "Let's camp, boys, and get out of this wet." It took but a little time to put up the lodge, to unsaddle, get things covered and a fire in the lodge, and also one outside under a shelter of manta, so that they were soon dry and comfortable again. Jack tried the fishing, but the fish would not bite. The rain continued, and by the middle of the afternoon had changed to snow, and before dark the ground was white. When they went to bed at night the snow was still falling and the weather was growing colder. The next morning the snow had stopped, but it was two or three inches deep on the ground. Everything was wet, and it looked as if it might snow again at any time. Jack got tired of sitting round the fire, and watching Hugh fill his pipe, and light it and smoke it out, and then fill and light it again, and presently he proposed to Joe that they should go out and try to kill a deer. Joe was ready and they started. For a short distance, they followed the trail up the river, and then turning to the left, took the first ridge and began to climb the hill on the north side of the valley. It was pretty wet. It had begun to rain again, and the snow was damp, and under the snow there seemed to be an inch or two of water. When they had to pass through willows and other underbrush, these wet the upper parts of their bodies. The ground was soft and slippery, and the down timber and the loose stones made walking and climbing quite hard work. Nevertheless, they pushed on, and having reached the top of the ridge, could see beyond other ridges toward which they climbed. They crossed one or two elk tracks, made since the snow had stopped falling, but the animals were going pretty fast and they did not follow them. A few deer tracks, made while the snow was falling, tempted them; but they did not follow them and continued to climb. The higher they went the harder it seemed to rain, and every little while a heavy fog would rise from the valley, and creeping slowly along the mountains would shut out from sight one hilltop after another, until it reached them and hid everything from their sight. There was a little breeze blowing from the west, and these fogs did not last long; but while they were about them the boys could only stand still and wait for the mist to lift. As they climbed they saw a good many birds: flickers, robins, and blue snow-birds, as well as some other western birds that Jack did not know. The boys climbed hill after hill for several hours, but saw nothing but tracks, and none of these seemed worth following. At last Jack turned to Joe and said, "What do you say, Joe, shall we go any further? It's pretty cold, and we can't see far, and perhaps we might as well go down the hill again and get back to camp." "Well," said Joe, "it's pretty cold and wet up here and we don't see much." They turned and followed the ridge they were on for some little distance, trying to see down into the valley, and to determine just where the camp was. As they were doing this, all at once the fog lifted, and Jack saw, a little way before them, a green timbered ridge leading down into the valley, pretty near where the camp should be. As he looked down into the valley, Jack heard Joe whisper, "Hold on!" Jack stopped, slowly turned his head and threw a cartridge into his gun, and then stood motionless; for over the crest of the ridge just above them had risen the horns, head and body of an enormous black-tailed buck. Almost at once, two others, much smaller, followed him, and in a moment more two others, one nearly as large as the leader, and the other smaller, came up to the top of the ridge and looked over. They were a long way off, perhaps three hundred yards, and neither boy dared move for fear of startling them, for two or three jumps would have taken them out of sight. The great leader had seen the boys at once, but could not make out what they were, and perhaps for ten minutes he stood there and watched. He was not alarmed or suspicious, but these two upright objects, which might be stumps or might be something else, excited his curiosity, and he kept looking at them. The deer stood on the very crest of the ridge, with only a white sky for a background; so that the outline of his graceful form and large branching horns was plainly visible. While he stood there watching, the other deer wandered about, now taking a bite of grass and again giving a long look over the country. One of the smallest came a few steps down the face of the ridge to a low pine, three or four feet in height, against which he began to rub his horns and head, just as a deer or an elk does when ridding the antlers of the velvet, or, as it is termed, "shaking." The large one, next in size to the leader, came still further down the bluff and began to feed at a bush that grew there. A third, the smallest of all, was very playful and frisked about almost as a fawn might do. At length, after his long, long stare, during which the boys scarcely breathed, the big leader seemed satisfied. He shook himself, and then turned and gave a long look to the east and one to the west; then he lowered his head, took a bite of some weed, and stepping proudly along the ridge for a few yards, turned away and walked out of sight. While he was doing this, two of the young deer, like boys when the schoolmaster's back is turned and they feel that they can begin to play, backed away from each other, and then charged each other, coming together vigorously, head to head. It did not seem to be done angrily, but rather in sport, and one of them, being evidently much the stronger of the two, as he was the larger, pushed the other a few feet backward, when the smaller one sprang lightly out of the way, and both turned and walked off after the big buck. Four of the deer had now moved out of sight, and there remained only the large one feeding on the hillside. A couple of dead trees, one leaning against the other, stood sixty or seventy yards in front of the boys, between them and the deer, and it seemed possible by moving up behind these to approach within rifle-shot. He was busily eating, and when he had his head down the boys whispered to each other. Jack said, "Let us sneak up behind those trees, and we can get near enough to kill him, I guess." "Better wait," said Joe, "pretty soon he'll go off over the hill, and then we can follow him, and get one sure." But Jack had not yet learned the patience which makes an Indian so certain of his game; he began to make a slow approach, but had taken only a few steps when suddenly the deer stopped feeding, looked about him, walked briskly up to the top of the ridge, and then pausing for a moment to see where his companions were, followed them over the ridge and out of sight. At last the coast was clear; the boys hurried toward the ridge, and clambered up its steep face with breathless haste. When they reached the crest they cautiously looked over, but saw nothing, and still as they slowly advanced in the direction which the deer seemed to have taken, the game was not seen. They were just about to go back and take the deers' tracks, when suddenly, without an instant's warning, a mountain hurricane of hail, rain and snow swept down upon them, blotting from view every object save those directly at their feet. The wind blew cold, and the rain and hail pelted them. There was no shelter, and all they could do was to turn their backs to the blast and stand there waiting. The storm lasted but a few moments, and as soon as it was over they started back, and soon crossed the tracks of the deer, not far from the ridge. All had been walking slowly, except the last one, who was trotting to catch up with the others. The trail led over the rolling ground, toward two little groups of spruces, and when the boys saw these, and could not see the deer on the open ground beyond, they looked at each other and nodded, each feeling sure that the animals would be found in this timber. They were still a hundred yards from the nearest clump of trees when Joe's eye caught sight of something moving just beyond them, and almost at the same time Jack saw something dark move against the snow. They made themselves very small, and keeping the thick foliage of the trees between themselves and the deer, crept carefully up almost to the timber. Suddenly, through a little opening in the branches, Jack saw three deer standing close together--the big leader and two of the yearlings. He wanted the leader, of course, and yet he could see only his head and neck, and hesitated to shoot at the neck, for he was chilled and shaking with the cold. However, he determined to risk it, and looking round at Joe saw that he was ready, and that he nodded. Jack fired, the leader disappeared, and a moment later four deer ran out over the snow, beyond the trees, and stopped; and as they turned to look back, Joe fired, and killed the other big deer. "Hurrah!" said Jack, and he shook Joe's hand, "we've surely got plenty of meat now." "Yes," said Joe, "good meat, too." They found the big leader lying on the snow just beyond the trees, his neck broken, and the other big deer not more than fifty yards beyond him. "Now, Jack," said Joe, "I tell you what we'd better do: you go back to camp and get two pack horses, and fetch 'em up here, and I'll butcher these deer, and then we can take 'em back to the camp to-night. We don't want to make two trips." "That's so," said Jack, "I'll either go back for the horses or butcher, whichever you like." "No," said Joe, "you go back, and when I get through butchering I'll make a little fire here and dry off, and wait for you." "All right," said Jack, "I'll do it. I don't believe it'll take me very long to get back to camp, and I'll be back here in an hour or two, anyhow." He at once started, and was soon following the green timbered ridge down to the stream. When he reached there he found that camp was only a short distance further down the creek, and he was soon standing by the fire. Hugh had heard the shots, and was not surprised when Jack told them that they had two deer. Jack went out to look up the horses, and soon returned with two of them, and putting saddles on them, mounted one, and rode off up the hill leading the other. CHAPTER XI TRACKS IN THE SNOW Meantime Joe had proceeded with his butchering and after he had finished, gathered some wood and made himself a little fire. It took some time to do this, for almost everywhere the wood was wet; but by looking carefully he found some dry branches that were sheltered by the foliage above them, and others that lay under a fallen tree, and presently he had a good fire lighted, and one that was so strong that he could throw wet wood on it and it would soon dry and burn. He built his fire in a sheltered place, and the light breeze drifted the smoke off down the stream. Before long he was warm and dry. After he had waited a while, he went out beyond the trees and looked off toward the ridge where Jack had gone, to see whether he was not yet coming back, but he saw nothing. A little later he went out again and Jack was not yet in sight, but as he turned about he saw coming down the hill about half a mile off, thirteen elk, mostly cows and calves, but one spikehorn, and following last of all and keeping the others together a monstrous bull with a great pair of horns. Of course when he saw them Joe stood still. The elk had come down from some higher hill, and when they came to where the snow was not very deep they began to scatter out and feed. When most of them had passed behind the point of hill which backed the next ridge above the one Joe was on, he began to move very slowly and cautiously toward the shelter of a clump of trees. Every now and then, one of the old cows would lift her head, and as she munched the grass that she had just plucked, would look all around the horizon, and when she did so, Joe stood without moving a muscle. Then when all the heads were down again, he very slowly moved a little toward his cover. At last only one of the elk was in sight, and when she put her head down he could see nothing but her back and hips, and two or three steps took him out of sight even of these. Still he did not run, but walked slowly, watching closely the sky-line above him, for at any moment one of the elk might walk up there to look over the country. None appeared, however, and in a very few moments he was hidden by the trees. Now he did not know what to do. His first idea was to creep up to the ridge and kill some of the elk, but before he determined that he would do this he considered. He remembered how Hugh often spoke of not killing anything more than they needed to eat, and he knew that these deer that they had would last them for a long time. He did not wish to do anything that Hugh would not like, and so, instead of deciding that he would kill anything, he took his gun and walked over to the ridge, to look at the elk. He had crept up to the top of the hill and peered over, and was watching the elk feeding not far in front of him--half a dozen of them within easy rifle-range--when he heard a faint whoop behind him, and turning his head saw Jack coming with the pack-horses. Slowly creeping back a little way, Joe waved to him to come on, and to hurry, and Jack galloped the pack horses over to the foot of the ridge, and at a sign from Joe, dismounted. Then he crept up to Joe and they both lay there on the hill and watched the elk. It was a pretty sight, and an interesting one, too. The bull, although all the time feeding, seemed to keep close watch of his companions. Once in a while one of the cows would stray off to a little distance from the others, and the bull would walk over toward her, shaking his head as he approached, and when the cow saw this she turned back to the bunch and joined them again. Then the bull began to feed once more. "Watch him," said Joe, "he's a pretty good herder, isn't he? He won't let one of those cows wander away; he's afraid that somewhere there might be some other old bull looking for cows, that would take her and carry her off. Pretty smart at this time of year they are." While they were watching the herd as they fed along a little beyond them, presently some eddy of the wind brought their scent to the cows farthest down the stream, and they lifted up their heads, and looked for a moment; then turned and trotted swiftly away up the hill. As soon as they did this, the other cows began to look, and then to move off; but the bull seemed to understand at once that there was danger near at hand, and rushed around the cows, thrusting at them with his horns, so that in a moment they were all in motion, and swiftly trotting away. At the top of the hill the cows paused to look back; but the bull, which was laboring along behind, shook his head at them, and they began to run again. When the elk had disappeared, the boys rose to their feet, and then realized that they were both of them chattering with cold. The breeze was blowing harder now, and lying on the hillside exposed to it, they had both become chilled. They went down to the horses and took them over to where the deer lay and then built up the fire and got warm again. Then they packed the deer on the two horses, but the animals were so large that they could not lift them without cutting them up into quarters. At last the loads were arranged, the ropes tightened, and they started down the hill toward camp, which they reached just before dark. Supper was ready, and as soon as the boys had hung up their meat on the branches of a tree, and had washed their hands in the brook, they fell to eagerly. Not much was said during the meal, but after it had been cleared away and Hugh had filled his pipe and was sitting by the fire comfortably smoking, Jack said to him, "Hugh, we had a mighty nice view of a bunch of elk this afternoon, and watched them for quite a while, and saw the old bull gather up the cows and drive them away when they found that we were there." "Yes," said Hugh, "haven't you ever seen a bull do that before?" "No," said Jack, "I've seen plenty of elk but I never happened to see that." "Well," said Hugh, "you know the bull elk is mighty rough with his cows, after he has gathered them and got a bunch, and what is more, when he is looking for them in the early fall, just about this time, he is mighty systematic in the way he hunts for them. I've sat on a hill and seen an old bull hunt out a lot of ravines in the elk country just as systematically as a cow-puncher would hunt them out for cattle. He makes a regular business of it, and after he's got them together he don't allow any straggling, and if a cow don't mind what he says, and he can catch her, he gives her a terrible thumping with those old horns of his." "Well, Hugh, did you ever see two bulls fight?" "Yes," said Hugh, "I've seen 'em do that a good many times. I reckon I've told you about that before. They don't fight quickly; they're not active like an antelope when they're fighting: but they're mighty powerful, and they come together pretty hard, and then they just push and push, and at last, if the footing is good, the biggest one is pretty sure to push the other out of the way, and if the smaller one doesn't hop round pretty lively, he gets a good punch with the horns. I've heard tell of elk killing each other when they fought; but I never saw anything like that, and I never even saw an elk get cut up with the horns of an animal that he was fighting with. Of course I never had a chance to look close at many elk that I saw fighting, but I never could see any blood or any cuts. An elk-hide is pretty thick, and I guess they just scratch and bruise each other. "I've heard of elk-horns being locked, same as deer-horns often are, but I never myself saw but one pair; they were locked and you could not pull them apart. I heard that some chap bought them, up on the Missouri River, to send back east to some museum." "Well, I tell you, Hugh," said Jack, "I don't think much of elk, anyhow, except to eat. You remember that tame one we had down at the ranch? There wasn't anything interesting or nice about him; he was awkward and clumsy and mean. Of course he looked nice, but that was about all." "No," said Hugh, "that's so; elk meat is good, but that's about all elk are good for--to eat." The next morning the sun came out bright and strong, and the snow began to melt rapidly. Lines were strung among the trees, and all the blankets, ropes and saddles, which had been more or less wet during the last day or two, were hung up to dry. The flesh of the deer was sliced into thin flakes, and hung up on scaffolds made by Joe and Hugh, and under this a small fire was made, and the smoke passing under the flakes of meat partially dried it. The hams and saddle of one of the deer were kept for fresh meat. "I'd like to get off this afternoon," said Hugh, toward midday. "Of course it's early in the season yet, and no heavy snow is likely to fall; but often we have a storm late in September that might stop us for a week, and I'd be pleased if we could get over the ridge before that comes. We must start as soon as these things get dry, and as soon as that meat will do to pack; it's pretty fat, and it won't dry fast in this kind of weather; this air is too damp." In the effort to hurry up the drying process they built a large fire near the wet things that were hung up, and as the heat from the fire and from the sun grew strong, the steam rose from them. A little after noon, Hugh, who had been inspecting the things, said, "Come on, now; let's saddle up. The robes and blankets are dry, and we'll shove this meat in a sack and give it another steaming when we get to a good place. The weather is cool enough now so that it will keep until we get over the range." Before long the packs were lashed, and all the members of the party were in the saddle and pushing their way up the stream. There was now no visible trail. The snow covered everything, and though it was dripping fast from the trees at their level, they could see that on the higher hills it still hung thick upon the branches. From time to time the stream narrowed, so that they were obliged to leave it and climb the ridges, which often afforded much better going than the creek bottom. As they climbed higher and higher, everything was draped in white; but now the sun went behind the clouds, and the glare of the white snow was not uncomfortable. Hugh had said as they started, "You boys better take and blacken your faces; I am going to do it;" and taking some charcoal from the fire, each of the party rubbed the black over the upper parts of the face, the cheeks, the bridge of the nose, and around the eyes, to keep the glare from the snow from affecting the eyes. They climbed higher and higher, and as they climbed, the stream grew smaller. From time to time they reached some point from which there was an extended view, showing far-reaching, snow-clad mountains and evergreen forests; and ahead of them the high peaks of the main divide, with precipices of bare black rock, to which the snow could not cling. As they passed along, Jack noticed frequent tracks of deer and elk, and others of smaller animals which he did not recognize, and which there was no time to stop and ask about. Hugh rode fast, and the boys kept the animals close behind him. Often for a little distance through an open valley, or along a bare ridge, Hugh would trot or gallop. He was evidently anxious to get on. It was growing dark when, at the head of a pretty, open valley, Hugh turned his horse into the timber, and after looking around for a moment, said, "We'll camp here, boys. Bring the horses right up close to Baldy." They did so, and soon had the loads on the ground. Poles were quickly cut, the lodge was put up, and the ground within it was soon cleared of snow, and a fire started. Then, under Hugh's direction, the boys went out and broke several armfuls of spruce boughs, which they brought in and placed around the walls of the lodge where the beds would be spread, to keep them off the snow. Two of the horses had already been picketed and the others hobbled. There was danger that night they might desert, and take the back trail for the lower ground, where, of course, they well remembered that there was good grass, while up here to get anything to eat they would have to paw through the deep snow. "You boys had better cook supper," said Hugh. "I'm going down to the end of this valley, to see if I can't stop it up in some way so that the horses can't get away to-night; they're likely to leave us, and if they do, we'll have to hunt them to-morrow." Before entering this valley they had passed up through a narrow cañon, riding for a short distance in the stream-bed, and Hugh, who had noticed two or three spruce trees standing on either side of the stream, took an axe, went down there, and felling two of the trees across the stream, made a fence that the horses could not surmount. They could possibly get around by climbing high on the hillside, but as all the loose ones were hobbled, it was not likely that they would go very far up hill. When he returned to the camp supper was ready, and before long they were all fast asleep. The next morning was bright and cold. No more snow had fallen. The horses were all there, but those that had been hobbled looked gaunt and hungry. Hugh was up before daylight and took off their hobbles, and when the sun rose they were all busily at work getting what must have been their supper and breakfast. When their front feet were tied together, they could not paw through the snow to the grass beneath. "Now boys," said Hugh, as soon as breakfast was over, "let's saddle up and get along. I'd like mightily to get over the range to-day, if we can." It took but a short time to get started, for the three had now been working together so long that they wasted no time, and made no unnecessary motions. Neither of the boys had noticed the night before how deep the snow was; but to-day they could see that down here under the trees it was eight or ten inches deep, though perhaps in the open where it had a chance to melt or to blow off there was not so much. As they went forward, Jack was more and more interested in the tracks. Down at the foot of a cañon wall in the valley he saw a series of tiny parallel dots in the snow, which he thought must have been made by a little striped squirrel, which had run out from the broken rock-fragments where he had his home, down nearly to the water's edge, and then, frightened by some sight or sound, had turned and hurried, with long bounds, back to his rocky home. Higher up on the hill, about every weed-stalk that showed above the surface of the snow were numbers of long parallel depressions, and scattered about on the snow were fragments of the seed-cases of the plants, and strips of the bark of the stem. Here the birds had been at work, and so hard pressed for food that they had visited almost every projecting plant. There had been killing during the night; death had been abroad, travelling over the barren hills, and pushing his way among the thickly clustered pines. There had been battles and ambuscades, and stern unrelenting pursuits; fierce struggles; resistance, feeble and unavailing; despair, and, at last, yielding, when the hope of escape was lost. More than one life had gone out that night on the hillside. Here, close to the margin of a little brook, was a pile of bright blue feathers, telling its story of death, and near it in the light snow, long, light strokes, which told of some fierce bird, that, in the gray light of the morning, had crushed in his strong crooked talons a little blue-bird which was just beginning his journey toward the south. There were tracks of a fox winding about on the hillside, often quartering the ground like a well trained hunting dog. He had covered much ground, and had visited every spot that might give shelter to his prey. In one place Jack saw the tracks of a grouse, and those of a fox following them, then suddenly the tracks of the grouse were seen no more, the last two sunk deep in the snow, showing where the bird had sprung from the ground and had darted away among the snow-laden trees. A few feet from these, Jack could see where the fox had stopped when the bird took flight, and he could fancy how angrily the sly fellow gazed after it as he saw his wished-for breakfast disappear. A little further on the fox had been more lucky, and a hole dug in the snow and a tuft or two of bluish fur showed where the keen-nosed hunter had caught a mouse. At the border of a grove of pines, Jack saw the impress of the great pads of the snowshoe rabbit, scarcely sinking into the light snow. For the most part, the rabbits kept close under the evergreens where the snow was less deep, and food most easily to be found; but if startled by fox or wolf, they could readily run over the drifts, where the heavier pursuer must sink into them, far behind. As they climbed higher and higher, the trees grew larger, and now they began to see, through the valley and coming down from the higher hills on either side, the tracks of elk. The heavy snow-fall, warning these animals of the near approach of winter, had set them in motion down from the peaks, and everywhere trails were seen leading from the hillside into the valley. They saw none of the animals, for the footfalls of the pack-train clambering over the rocks, the sound of dead branches rattling against the packs, and the calls to the horses alarmed the elk at a distance, and they retreated to the timber, out of sight. Presently the climbing seemed at an end for the present, and the valley became more open and nearly level. Not far ahead off to the southeast they could see a low pass in the mountains, which seemed likely to be the one they were trying to find. As they ascended, the stream continued to grow smaller, large branches, almost equal in size to the main brook kept coming into it, and often it was uncertain which was the main fork. Hugh gave no hint of what was passing in his mind, but pushed on, and the boys kept the animals close behind him. In this broad level valley there were more elk tracks than ever. These, seen at a distance, were very pretty, often looking like two delicate chains laid side by side, and running for a long distance almost in a straight line. Sometimes the animals seemed to have wandered about, biting off the heads of the grass and weeds that stood above the snow; but always at last the tracks turned and kept on down the valley. In the middle of the great meadow stood an old pine stub, and a number of the tracks converged to this, and then went away from it in one path. It seemed that the elk, coming along, had gone to this stump, and rubbed against it, and then all followed the same trail going away. As the afternoon advanced, the valley grew narrow again and they entered the timber, and soon afterward came on what was evidently a trail that had been travelled both by whites and Indians. Some of the trees were blazed with an axe, but many years ago, for the bark had partly grown over the old blazes; there were later marks where little three-cornered patches of the bark had been knocked off, showing where the hard corners of packs had struck against the trees. On one or two of the trees were seen little woolen threads, white and red, showing where some Indian's blanket had rubbed against the trunk and left a little sign, to remain there for years. At length, the trail again passed out of the timber into a narrow valley, and a sharp climb brought them to a place where water seemed to be flowing down hill both before and behind them. Hugh stopped and waved his hand and pointed ahead; and beyond they could see a valley, steep-walled and full of timber, stretching off toward the southeast. CHAPTER XII WHAT WILL BECOME OF THE ELK? "Here we are, boys; this is the divide--the top of the range," said Hugh. "Now if we can only get down this hill and find decent travelling in the valley, we'll soon be out of this snow. I expect this is one of the heads of Wind River, and I hope we can make it down below the snow to-morrow." The way down the new stream was steep, and for a while progress was slow. There appeared to be no trail, and several times Hugh dismounted and went ahead slowly on foot, to pick out a way for the animals down steep rock slides. At last, however, they came to a point where the stream had a little bottom, thickly overgrown with timber, but all of it green; and working their way along through this they came, shortly before sundown, to a little open park surrounded by willows, where they camped. There was a little daylight left after camp had been made and supper eaten, and Jack, with Hugh, walked out to the edge of the stream. There was a good deal of water flowing in it, for ever since they came into the valley they had been crossing rivulets and brooklets, tumbling down from the high hills and pouring their current into the valley. The little river flowed among the close-set pines, and its bed was composed of great blocks of stone. Just opposite the camp it opened out into a pool twenty feet long, and half as wide; and, as they stood here, they saw two little dippers at work in the stream. Although Jack had often seen these birds in the northern mountains, they constantly interested him. He knew that, although living always in and about the water, their nearest relations were not water-birds, such as ducks or snipe, but instead were thrushes, of which the common robin is one. Yet as many times as he had seen them diving into the water, swimming about on it, and again disappearing beneath its waves, he could never quite get over his astonishment at seeing a bird walk down the shelving rock or smooth beach into the water, and keep on walking, without attempting to swim or to dive, until it had disappeared. He spoke about this now to Hugh, and said, "Those are the queerest little birds I ever saw, and I don't know of any like them anywhere." "Yes," said Hugh, "they are queer; but they're mighty cheerful--mighty good company if you're alone in the mountains. They stay here, you know, all summer and all winter, wherever the water is open, and they've got a real nice little song, and they sing, too, at all seasons of the year. There, listen to that one," he said, as a dipper appeared from under the water in the pool before them, and then flying to an old dead stick that projected from the bank, alighted on it and began to warble a simple but pleasing song. After it had finished, it flew part way across the pool, and then dived from the wing, and came to the surface again some distance below where it had entered the water. Then flying to a rock it seemed to batter to pieces some small object which it had brought up from the bottom, which it then devoured. "Don't it seem queer, Hugh," said Jack, "that they never get wet; their plumage seems light and fluffy, like that of a land bird, and not close and compact like that of the duck or grebe. They must have a big oil-sack, and must oil up their feathers pretty often." "I reckon they do," said Hugh, "but I'm sure they never get wet. I've often wondered what it is they feed on; I suppose it's insects that live at the bottom of the water. Anyhow, I've often seen them bring up one of those little worms that build sort of houses for themselves out of sticks and little bits of sand, and take it to a rock and pound it to pieces, and then eat the worm that's inside of it. You've seen those things, haven't you? I don't know what they do, or what they're good for, without it is to feed the birds and the fish." "Oh yes, Hugh," said Jack, "I've often seen those. Mighty queer little houses they are, but I don't know any more than you do what the insect in them lives for. I expect he may turn into a dragonfly, or maybe some kind of beetle or other. I know I've heard that there are lots of insects that lay their eggs, and live part of their lives in water, and then finally, coming up to the surface, change their shape and become perfect insects." "Well," said Hugh, "I expect likely that's the way it may be." Jack noticed that the dippers seemed to dive into the upper part of the pool, and to be carried down by the swift current close to a little point of rocks, and slowly walking out there, and standing perfectly still, he soon saw one of the birds drop down from a large stone near him, and disappear under the water. He could see a sort of a flying shadow under the surface, and in a moment the bird came up a little below him, and flew off to the other side of the stream. As it grew darker, the dippers disappeared, having probably gone to their roost; and as the two returned to camp, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, did you ever see one of the nests made by these birds?" "No, Hugh, I never did," said Jack. "Well, we must be on the lookout for that. They're mighty queer little nests. On the outside they seem to be made of green moss, so that the nests look just like a bunch of moss growing on a rock. Often they build them close under some little water-fall, and I expect maybe it's the mist from the fall that keeps the moss wet and growing; but if the outside is damp and wet, the inside is just as dry as can be, and the young birds have a good warm place, and a good roof over their heads. It's kind of fun to watch one of these nests and see how hard the old birds have to work to keep the young birds quiet. They come with an insect, and give it to some one of the young ones, and then dart off, and are not gone more than a few minutes, and then come back again, so both the old birds keep travelling back and forth; and all the time the young ones are making all the noise they can, only you can't hear'em for the sound of the water--they're a hungry lot, I tell you. Of course, the breeding season is past a long time now, and maybe if we keep our eyes open we'll be able to see a nest and get it for you to take home with you, though often they're in a place where it's mighty hard to get at them." The little circular meadow in which they had camped was not large enough to give good feeding for their horses, even if the ground had not been covered with snow; but Hugh felt certain that the horses would not try to follow the back trail up the hill again, nor did he think that they would venture away down the stream into country unknown to them. However, he picketed two horses and hobbled most of the others, and when morning came they were most of them in sight, though one or two had strayed away into the timber. The snow on the ground made it an easy matter to follow them, and soon after sunrise the train had started on again. The travelling was better than had been expected. Although sometimes the walls of the valley drew so close together that there was hardly room for the stream to flow, they managed to get along without very much climbing, and were all the time going down hill. The next night when they camped, the snow had almost entirely disappeared from the valley, only patches lying in some of the most shady spots. There was abundant sign of game here, but they saw none, nor did they look for it. The next afternoon however, Hugh stopped as they were crossing a meadow, and, calling Jack to him, pointed out some tracks in the soft ground, which Jack at first supposed were elk tracks, but on more careful examination found to be quite different; and after thinking for a moment, he asked Hugh if they could be moose tracks. "Yes," said Hugh, "that's just what they are. This was a good bull, and he crossed here early this morning. Follow his tracks a little way and see if you can make out anything special about them, and then come on after us and tell me what you saw." Jack followed slowly along on the tracks until they entered the timber. Then he returned to take his position in the pack train. By this time the way was so open that it was not necessary to travel in single file, and Jack, riding up to Hugh said, "Well, Hugh, those tracks are about twice as long as an elk's track, and only a little bit wider; that makes them look long and narrow. Then, besides that, I noticed that whenever the animal went over a soft spot, and his foot sank in a little, there seemed to be two marks behind the main track, and I suppose those are the dew claws sinking in. Is that so?" "That's it," said Hugh, "I'm glad you took notice so carefully. Maybe we'll get a chance to kill a moose before we get down out of these mountains. We don't really want one now; but you've never seen a moose, and I expect if one should show up, why maybe you'd want to shoot at it." "Well, Hugh, I guess I would," said Jack; "but I suppose as long as we're travelling here with the pack train, and making so much noise, there isn't much chance of our seeing one." "No, not much," said Hugh. As the valley became wider, and the stream larger, there seemed to be more life in the bottom. Several broods of ruffed grouse had been noticed during the day, and all were so tame that they scarcely moved out of the horses' way as they passed along. In the river there were a few ducks, of the kind that breed high up in the mountains; and the next morning, when Jack was down at the water's edge, just after he had risen, he saw a hawk make a dash at a family of ducks. The ducks were flying down the river when the hawk came out of the timber and darted toward them. They all fell into the water, with loud splashings, and the hawk swooped at one of them which was a little apart from the main flock; but the duck made a rush to one side and easily avoided it. Then the hawk gave up the chase, and flew into a tall tree, where he watched the ducks as they swam swiftly down the stream. Jack was amused at a little spotted sandpiper that had been flying up the stream when the hawk darted for the ducks. The bird was very much frightened, thinking that the hawk was after it. It dropped into the water as if it had been shot, and sat there with its head cocked to one side, watching the enemy, and prepared to dive at a second's warning, if the hawk should dash at it. The weather was bright and pleasant, and they kept on down the stream, which constantly grew wider. Now there was some sage-brush on the benches above the bottom, and often the trail kept away from the stream, and close under these benches, in order to avoid the frequent wet and miry places which would have troubled the horses. As Jack was riding along he suddenly heard a shot behind him, and looking about, saw three deer running near the top of a ridge, and just below the timber. Joe had shot at one of them, and just after Jack looked round, two of them disappeared over the ridge. The last one stopped almost at its crest, and looked back, and Joe fired again. The doe fell, and Joe rode up to where she lay. The train was halted, and when the deer had been brought down to the trail she was put on one of the packs and they started on again. As the bottom became wider it was evident that beaver had been much at work here, and although they had long deserted it, the marshes and sloughs and mud-holes caused by their damming of the stream still remained as pitfalls for the traveller. Ever since they had left Snake River they had heard from time to time the shrill bugling call of the elk, though near the top of the range where the snow was deepest they had not heard them whistle. Now, however, they frequently heard elk, and on this day an old bull came out of a point of timber near which they were travelling, and stood and looked at them. He was but a short distance off, and might easily have been killed; but they had meat enough, and there was no reason for shooting him. He was but forty or fifty yards distant, and seemed disposed to come even nearer, making some threatening demonstrations with his head, and advancing a few steps; but no attention was paid to him, and presently he turned about and disappeared in the timber. Hugh said that very likely the elk took some of the pack animals for cows, and wished to gather them in. That night they camped on an enlargement of the river, which almost seemed like a little lake. Behind them and on either side were timbered hills, before them the water, and beyond the mountains rising steeply. The lodge stood in a little grove of pine trees, which furnished shelter and fuel, and the hungry animals fed on the rich grass behind it. The bright fire in front of the lodge lit up the trees and the lodge and the pack saddles, and as it flamed and flickered, curious shadows peeped out from the dark caverns that stretched back beneath the pine branches to the gloom beyond, and sometimes creeping stealthily forth, danced for a moment within the circle of the firelight, and then chased one another back into the darkness, and were swallowed up in it. The soft murmur of the river over its stones came to the campers in a monotonous undertone, while now and then from the nearby trees came the plaintive call of some bird, and the mountain sides echoed at intervals to the fierce shrill challenge of the angry elk. "This is a great elk country, isn't it, Hugh?" said Jack. "It seems to me that elk are 'most everywhere, and I suppose they'll always be here, won't they?" "Well, I don't know, son," said Hugh; "it's pretty hard to say about that. They'll likely be here until the white folks come; but as soon as they come, why the elk are bound to go. I've heard they're talking about passing a law not to let them be killed in the Park we came through--that place where the hot springs and spouting fountains are. But just as soon as mineral is discovered in these hills, the game will go. I reckon, too, that this law they're talking about passing for that Park back there won't amount to much, for I talked with two hunters there who said that they expected to get the contract this winter to kill meat for all them fellows that's working on those buildings that we saw. Of course what two men'll kill in a winter won't amount to much; but just as soon as many people begin to come into this country, the game will all get killed off. I've seen places down in the south, in Colorado, where twenty or twenty-five years ago game was so plenty that you could kill all you wanted right close to camp, any time; and now that country is full of settlers, miners and ranchmen, and they've killed off the game for the mining camps and tie camps and every settler has to go and get three or four wagon loads for his winter's meat, and the first thing they know there won't be a hoof left in the country." "Well, but Hugh," said Jack, "what's going to become of all the game? Isn't there going to be any left after a few years?" "You can't prove it by me, son. I don't know; but I expect there won't be any game left, unless they pass some laws, and enforce them, to stop the killing of it. Of course laws don't mean anything without they're enforced, and as far as I can see, these laws protecting the game never are enforced." "But, Hugh," said Jack, "that seems to me all wrong. Do you mean to say that if I come out here twenty years from now there won't be anything for me to hunt?" "Looks that way to me, son," said Hugh. "And if I should have a son, and ever want to bring him out here and show him the things that I saw when I was a boy, he could not see them?" "I don't believe he could. I tell you, son, this country has changed an awful lot since I first saw it, and it seems to me it's changing more and more all the time, and quicker now than it used to. I used to think that the time would never come when I couldn't go out and kill meat if I wanted it; but my ideas have changed a whole lot in the last year or two, and I believe now that the time will come when there won't be any game left for a man to shoot with a rifle. I used to think that the buffalo could never be killed off, but I've seen 'em killed off over part of the country, and I may live long enough to see 'em killed off everywhere." "Well," said Jack, "it seems as if there ought to be some way to stop that." "Yes, there ought to be," said Hugh, "but you see, every fellow that comes out into the mountains, he's just like you and me; we think the other fellow oughtn't to kill game, but we ought to kill it. We claim that we don't kill anything more than what we want to eat, and these other fellows claim, maybe--if they're buffalo skinners or elk skinners--that they don't kill any more than they want to skin. Each man thinks that what he'll kill won't do any harm; but when they're all at work killing as hard as they can, the upshot of it is that there's no game left." "I see," said Jack; "each one of us is thinking about himself and about nobody else, and yet each one of us is likely to talk about what the other people do. You must have seen lots of game in your life, Hugh," he added. "Yes, son," said Hugh, "I've seen a heap of game. Why, at one time men used to travel day after day, and never be out of sight of game; and most times the game was not afraid at all. Buffalo or elk or antelope would just move out the way, and a man never thought of shooting at anything until he needed meat to eat. Of course in those times we never took anything but the best parts, and so it often happened that we killed an animal every two or three days. But we never thought, up to within a very few years ago, when railroads began to come into the country, that things would be much different from what they were then; but when the railroads came, they brought a heap of people, a good many of them hunters, and a good many of them men who came to live on the land where the game had always roamed without being bothered by anybody, except maybe once a year when Indians happened to pass that way and perhaps camped in the neighborhood for a few weeks. Of course the time has been when a man could easily enough kill a car-load of game in a day, but in the old times no one had any reason for doing that. We could only eat about so much meat, and wear about so much buckskin; and ammunition cost money, and nobody wanted to waste it." CHAPTER XIII A PACK HORSE IN DANGER They had not gone far down the river the next morning when the mountains on either side drew closer together, and the valley narrowed greatly. Before they had gone far Hugh stopped, and, turning, said to the boys as they came up, "I don't like the looks of things ahead; I reckon we'll have to go up on the hillside down below here. Looks to me like we were coming to a cañon." A little farther along it proved so; and Hugh, after going ahead and making a little investigation, called out to the boys to bring on the animals. They found him on a narrow game trail, which began to climb the hill among thick timber, where the trees stood so close on both sides of the trail that it was evident that there might be trouble in getting the packs along. Hugh got an axe out of the pack, and, going ahead on foot, began to chop the branches on either side, so as to make room for the loaded horses. Two or three times he found small trees fallen across the trail, and, as it was extremely steep, it was necessary to cut out each one of these. Progress was slow, but after two or three hours they emerged from the timber and could see ahead of them the trail leading along a very steep hillside. Immediately below the trail grew underbrush, and below that the rocks fell off sharply to the river. From the hillside a number of little brooks and springs trickled down, making slippery, muddy places in the trail over which it was necessary to go carefully. Hugh several times called back to the boys, saying, "Go slow along this place, and don't crowd the animals; let each one take its time, and you boys go on foot. The horses will follow all right." There was nothing on the trail that was difficult for a man on foot or for a careful horse, and for some time they went on very well, and made good time; but in crossing a little brook which ran down over the trail, and where there was a mud-hole, the bay horse, pausing and putting down his head to investigate the trail, was crowded upon by the dun and kicked back at him with both heels, and when his feet came down they were over the edge of the trail, and, trying to recover himself, he clumsily fell down and rolled over once or twice. Just below the trail at this point there was a big patch of stiff alders growing close to the steep hillside. Jack saw the horse begin to fall, and, dropping his own bridle rein and placing his gun on the hillside above the trail, he slipped by the dun, and before the pack horse had turned over twice he had caught it by its hackamore and checked it. In a moment Joe was by his side, and the two hung on like grim death, and held the horse there on its side, with its head a little up the hill. Meantime Hugh had left his horse and come back along the trail, and in a moment he too had hold of the horse's head. Fortunately, the horse lay perfectly quiet, and neither slid nor rolled, his hips being more or less supported by the alders. Hugh quickly unfastened the hackamore, which gave all hands a better hold, and then said to Jack, "Slip down there now, behind the horse, and see if you can loosen that lash rope. If you can't, cut the lacing that holds it to the cinch. We've got to get that pack off, or else lose the animal. Don't get where the horse can hit you with his feet; reach over his back." The horse was lying on its off side, and it was impossible to loosen the lash rope, but reaching over the back, Jack cut the lacings of the lash cinch, so that the whole lash rope fell off. "Now," said Hugh, "come back here and hang on to the hackamore." Jack took Hugh's place, and Hugh quickly loosened the sling ropes, and removing the packs from the saddle, carried them up to the trail, and then along it a little distance until he reached a place where the ground on the upper side sloped more gradually. Here he deposited the packs one by one; then he took hold of the hackamore again and said to Jack, "Go and get your rope and bring it here, and tie it round this horse's neck in a bowline." When this had been done, the end of the rope was passed round a small spruce tree, which grew just above the trail, and then all three held the rope, so that now the horse could not possibly roll down the hill, unless the tree gave way, or the men let the rope go. While two of them held the rope, Jack led the horses along the trail, until a place was reached where it came out on a wider ledge, and leaving them there returned. Then the pack horse was made to rise to its feet, and without very great difficulty, assisted by the rope about its neck, it climbed back to the trail and was led along to a place where there was more room. Now, while Hugh mended the lash cinch, the boys carried the packs along the trail to where it was wider, and at length the horse was re-packed, and they started on. While they were at work, Jack said to Hugh, "I want you to understand, Hugh, that I didn't drive the dun onto that horse. The dun came up behind him and stopped, and the bay kicked at him, and lost his footing, and went over the side of the trail." "I know," said Hugh, "I know; I was watching. It wasn't anybody's fault, but the fool horse that tried to kill himself. You did mighty well to get hold of him as quick as you did, and if it hadn't been for that, if he'd made one more roll, he'd have gone over the rocks, and we'd have lost him, and likely a lot of the load he's carrying. "We've got to look for things like this when we're travelling with a pack train, and I'm mighty surprised that we've had as little trouble as we have." It was near sundown when Hugh stopped as they came out on a bench of the hillside, and said: "I reckon we'll have to camp up here to-night, boys. There don't seem to be any place where we can get down to the river. There's good grass here for the horses and a place where we can picket two or three of them, but I don't see any water just here. Jack, you ride up the hill, and see whether you can find anything that looks like a spring. Joe and I'll stop here with the horses." Jack had not ridden far, when, passing over a little ridge, he found, issuing from a ledge of rock, a good spring, which ran down into a little ravine, and calling to the others, they came up there, unsaddled, and made camp. It was dark when supper was over, and their talk was chiefly of the difficulties of the day, and the narrow escape had by the pack horse. "A man is bound to lose an animal in the mountains now and then," said Hugh, "not always through his own carelessness, but because there's always some horses and mules that are fools. After all a horse is nothing but a bundle of nerves, and if he gets scared and loses his head, why he doesn't do anything but jump round and kick and make things worse for himself. Now, that's where a good man has the bulge on any dumb beast that ever was. A man, if he's got sense, will stop and think, and reason, and try to find some way out of his difficulty; but a critter doesn't do that. That's the reason horses and mules and cattle stampede, and that's the reason often that human beings stampede too; they lose their senses, and become no better at all than just so many animals. We've always got to keep our wits about us, be ready, and when anything happens do the right thing, and do it right off--like you did to-day, son, when you ran to grab that horse's head, and like you did too, Joe; for I saw that you were both ready. You saved us the horse, and a mighty good job it is. "I remember one day, years ago, we lost our whole kitchen outfit just through the foolishness of a mule. It was near Henry's Fork of Green River, and I was guiding a lot of soldiers and bug hunters up from the Unita agency. To get down into the valley we had to follow down a mighty sharp crest that ran out between two deep ravines. It was mighty narrow, and a terrible long way down on either side, but there were no bad places in it; but a big bay mule that carried the kitchen, in two big baskets, tried to turn round and look at the rest of the train that were coming, and somehow she caught her hind legs over the edge, and they slipped down, and she hung a little while with her forefeet, but before any one could get to her she let go, and she fell. She was dead long before she struck the bottom, I guess, and the kitchen was all smashed and broken up. I believe we did get some knives and forks and tin plates out of the mess, but the plates were all battered, and had to be hammered out on a tree with an axe before they would set on the ground. It was one of the worst falls I ever saw an animal take." The next morning the horses were seen scattered all along the hillside above the camp, and it took the boys some time to gather and bring them in; and while they were doing this, a big doe, followed by two little fawns, jumped up out of a patch of quaking aspen, ran a short distance up above them on the hillside, and then all three animals turning round stood looking at them, with their great ears thrown forward. The boys stood for a few moments and looked at her, and then she turned again and clambered still higher up, only to stop again for another look. Neither felt any desire to shoot at her. The greater part of the day was devoted to working down stream along the hillside. They found that they could travel with some comfort on the benches, except when these were interrupted at frequent intervals by deep ravines, cut out by streams coming down from the hills, and the plunge down into these, and the subsequent climb up the other side, was tiring to the animals. Also they had to stop frequently to adjust the packs and tighten the saddles. That night they camped again on the benches, and Hugh said, "I believe we'll do as well to stop somewhere, if we can find a good camp, and rest up for two or three days. These horses have been having hard work now for some little time, and they'll get poor. Besides that, this up and down work is awful hard on their backs, and I think it would be a good idea to given 'em a rest. If we can find a good camp to-morrow, any time in the day, as we're travelling along, I think we better stop and rest up, or we can stop right here. You boys might want to take a hunt or a fish. It's nice weather now, and we're low enough down so that there's no danger that the snow will catch us, and I think we can spare the time." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I think that's a pretty good idea. I'd like to look over these hills and see what there is in them, and I guess we'd all like to rest for a day." The next few days were spent in this camp. Hugh was busy mending up saddles and riggings, fixing blankets, and getting things in good shape for their further journey, while Jack fished a good deal in the river and took many trout. One day while working around the edge of a large pool, and trying to cover it all with his line, he found himself close to a steep rocky wall, over which poured a fall six or eight feet high. He had fished here for some minutes, when suddenly his eye caught a round brownish-green bunch of something, resting on a little ledge close to the falls and over deep water; and as he saw it he thought that this must be a nest of the dipper. It was impossible to get close to it, and remembering that it was now autumn and that the nest by no possibility could contain anything, he reached over with his pole, and pushing it from its position, it fell to the water and was soon in his hand. He found it just what Hugh had described: a bunch of moss, containing a chamber within, lined with dried grass and a few feathers, and with a round hole at the front for the passage in and out of the birds. It was a beautiful piece of bird architecture, and he determined to take it with him and to try to carry it back east. CHAPTER XIV A BIGHORN While Hugh had been working and Jack fishing, Joe had been roaming the hillsides. He had found some signs of game and killed another little fawn, but had not been higher up than the first bench above the camp. From there, however, he had seen higher mountains rising beyond, and one night he said to Jack, "Jack, why don't you quit catching these fish, and let's go up high on the hills here, and see if we can't kill something?" "That's a good idea, Joe," said Hugh, "the meat of these black-tails is about gone now, and it's a good idea for you boys to go out and kill something more. That last fawn that you got is almost gone, too. We don't want to keep eating fish all the rest of the trip. "Good enough," said Jack. "I'll go you; and we'll start early to-morrow morning. Shall we take horses, Hugh?" "Why, no," said Hugh, "if I were you I'd leave the horses here to rest, and go afoot. You can hunt better afoot, and then if you kill anything that's too big for you to pack in, you can come down and get a horse for it." The next morning the two boys started early, and for a long time scrambled up the hill. When they reached the top of the bench above camp, they found before them a plateau, more or less level, and beyond that rose another ridge, which cut off the view. They climbed and climbed for a long time, passing over one bench after another, and at length, a little before noon, Joe saw far off on the hillside, at about the same level with themselves, three mountain sheep. They were on quite another mountain, for there were two wide gorges between them and the boys; and, what was more to the point, the sheep had already seen them and were looking. So the boys kept on climbing. At last they reached the rocks, a great brown slope of broken weathered lichen-covered stones, which rose steeply before them; but the going was not bad, and they climbed up, heading always for a place where the precipices above seemed broken away, so that they could get through. It was now noon and the sun shone warm, but a cool breeze was blowing along the hillside, and the air was fresh and invigorating. Jack said, "Now, Joe, when we get to the top of this cliff we'll find a sheltered place, and sit down there and eat." "That will be good," said Joe; "I'm hungry." They had now climbed quite high, and looking across at the mountain on the other side of the stream, could see that the timber was small, and that a little higher up it seemed to stop. Joe said, "We ought to see sheep up here, it seems to me." "I should think so," said Jack, "but we'll have to wait until we get to some place where we can get a good look along the mountain." Before long they reached a ravine, and clambering up it for some distance came out on a rocky hillside, from which both to the north and south they could see a long way over ground that for the most part was open and steeply sloping. Above them the mountains rose in a series of narrow benches--a bench not more than fifty feet wide, and then a cliff as high, then another bench, and another cliff, and so on up. Here, choosing a place which was sheltered from the wind, they sat down and rested for a while, at the same time eating their bread and dried meat, which tasted very good. When they had finished, Jack said: "Now, Joe, you know more about the mountains than I do. What shall we do? Shall we keep on climbing, and try to get up to the top, or shall we walk along one of these benches? I suppose if we do that we might easily enough run across some sheep, for at this time of the day they'd be likely to be lying down in just such places." "Yes," said Joe, "that's so; but if they're lying down there, they're looking 'round all the time, and pretty sure to see you before you see them. Then maybe they'll make one jump out of sight, going up the hill, or down, and you don't get a shot." "Well, then," said Jack, "let's go higher." "All right," said Joe, "we'll go ahead." The climb was steep and rough and hard, but they kept at it for sometime longer, and at last found themselves up above the benches and on a gentle rounded rock slope, where little grass grew. There were no trees or tall weeds. [Illustration: "ALMOST BELOW THEM, FEEDING, WERE TWO GOOD SIZED RAMS."--_Page 183_] "Now," said Joe, "I think we've got to the place. Now we can work along and look down into these ravines, or little basins, or onto the ledges, and maybe if we see sheep we'll be above them and can get to them." They followed the ridge down the stream, and in the first ravine that they came to they saw a big drift of snow. They headed that, and as they went on, found that in all the low places on the mountain top there was more or less snow. They had gone more than half a mile when, peering over a crest of rock, they looked down into a pretty little basin in which there was a good deal of snow, but above the snow grew green grass, and almost below them feeding were two good sized rams. The animals did not see them, and they drew back. "Now, Joe," said Jack, "which of us shall shoot? I guess you'd better, because I don't think you have ever killed a big ram, have you?" "No," said Joe, "I never killed a ram as big as this, but then I've killed sheep, and I'll have plenty of chances to hunt when maybe you won't. You'd better shoot." "No," said Jack, "I'd rather have you." "No," said Joe, "you shoot." "Well, I tell you," said Jack, "let's toss up for it, the way we did before," and picking up a small flat stone he spat on one side of it, and said, "we'll call the wet side heads. Now, you call," and throwing it up in the air, Joe called "Head" and "tail" came uppermost. "All right," said Jack, "that settles it." He stepped forward and shot, and Joe stood beside him, ready, in case Jack should miss. At the crack of the gun the two sheep jumped a little, but did not run away but stood looking in all directions. Jack said to Joe, "Now you give him another," and Joe fired at the sheep Jack had shot at. Almost as the gun cracked, the sheep sank to his knees, and its head fell down. The boys reloaded their guns, and began to pick their way down the rocks to it. The other ram stood until they had approached quite near to it, and then suddenly seeming to become very much frightened, rushed away along the mountain side, and was soon seen climbing the cliff. They could see that the ram that had fallen was big and fat, and knew that they could not take the whole of the meat into camp with them, and both felt quite sure that they could not bring an animal up here. At least, if they could do so, it would take all day to do it. On turning over the sheep and examining it, they found that the bullet holes made by the two shots were only two inches apart. Both were shots that would have killed the sheep in a few moments. This merely meant that Jack's had not given the animal a shock sufficient to throw it to the ground. When they had butchered, they found the sheep very fat, and neither Jack nor Joe liked the idea of leaving the greater part of it up here on the mountain to waste. "I'll tell you what we'll do, Jack," said Joe, "let's each of us take one of the shoulders and try to carry that down to camp, and then to-morrow we can come up here with the horses and see if we can get the rest of it down. We can tell as we go home what sort of a trail there will be up here for a horse. Of course we can't get him up here over these cliffs that we climbed, but maybe by following down the stream that runs out of this basin we can find a horse trail." When the boys got into camp that night they were both pretty tired. They told Hugh what they had done, and that it was impossible to get a horse up as they had gone. Of course there might be some other way of climbing the hills. "Well," said Hugh, "now I'll tell you what we'll do to-morrow: we'll take a pack horse, and all of us go up there on foot, and we'll take the horse as far as we can, and when we can't get him any further, why of course we'll have to leave him. Then we can bring the meat down, or most of it, on our backs, and when we get to the horse, put it on him, and so get it all to camp." "Well, Hugh," said Jack, "let's do that; but I tell you, that sheep is awful heavy. I had all I wanted to carry one of those shoulders down, and of course the hams will be twice as heavy as the shoulders. I don't believe either Joe or I can carry those hams." "Oh, well, we don't any of us know what we can do until we try. I'd like to stretch my legs on the mountains, and I'll see what we can do toward bringing in the meat to-morrow." While breakfast was being cooked next morning Hugh told the boys to go out and bring in the dun horse, for he was the stoutest and toughest animal in the bunch, and besides that, Hugh thought him the best climber. Before starting, Hugh had the boys point out as nearly as possible the direction from which they had come the night before, and then swinging off down the hill, he worked up on the mountain, the others following close behind. Studying each steep ascent as they approached it over the more or less level bench below, he avoided a number of the rock climbs that the boys had made the day before, and several times led the horse up through ravines where Jack would not have supposed it possible for any animal except a sheep or a deer to pass. Jack noticed, too, Hugh's method of climbing. While he walked briskly across the level and gently sloping country, he climbed steep ascents rather slowly and stopped frequently. The boys, of course, did just as he did, and Jack noticed that he was not nearly so tired or so out of breath as he had been during the climb of the day before. During one of the rests which they made just after reaching a bench, Jack said, "I wonder why it is, Hugh, that I can climb so much better to-day than I could yesterday. Yesterday I lost my wind all the time, and it took me a long time to get it back. Every time I climbed up one of these steep places, when I got to the top I gave out, and had to throw myself down and pant for a long time before I could go on. I suppose it's because I've been riding so much, and doing but little on foot." "Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon that has something to do with it; but how did you climb yesterday? Did you hurry on and try to get to the top of each cliff quick, going as fast as you could, and then stop and rest for a long time?" "Yes, that's the way we did. We wanted to get up to the top as quickly as we could, and see what was over the next hill." "Well," said Hugh, "that's natural, but I don't think that's the way to climb 'round among the mountains. You get along as fast, and I think easier, if you go more slowly and make frequent stops, but have them short ones. If you go hurrying all the time, you get all blown by the hard work you're doing, and then when you have to stop, you have to stop a long time, and after you've rested for a long time you don't feel much like getting up and going on again; you're all tired out. "It always seems to me," he went on, "better to climb a little way and then stop and take a few deep breaths, and then go on a little way further, and then stop and breathe again. In that way you are not nearly so tired at any time, and the whole climb is easier for you. I have scrambled 'round considerable in the mountains myself, and that is the way I've learned to climb. You watch through the rest of the day, and see if you don't find it easier on you than it was yesterday." "I will," said Jack. "It seems a good deal easier so far, but then we haven't climbed anywhere near as steep places as we did yesterday." "That's another thing you want to learn," said Hugh: "when you're climbing the mountains, try always to pick the easiest road; it's a good deal less trouble to go 'round and take the easy slopes, even if it's twice as long, than it is to buck right against the steep face of a hill. Of course there's lots of places where there are no easy slopes, and you've got to go up over bad steep sliding shell-rock, and to climb up straight cliffs; but when you can do it, it pays to take the easy ways." CHAPTER XV A CHARGING GRIZZLY They were now getting high up in the mountain, and pretty near, Jack thought, to where the sheep was. The horse was still with them, and it astonished Jack to see that Hugh found a means of getting him up or around every cliff or rock slide that they met. At length they were so near the top that, after speaking with Joe about it, Jack told Hugh that he thought they were pretty near the game. One more high cliff should bring them to the little basin in which the sheep lay. "Well, boys, if you're sure of that," said Hugh, "we'll leave the horse here, and maybe we can pack the meat down to him. It's getting to be pretty steep and pretty rocky under foot, I don't want to take him any further than we must." "Well," said Joe, "I think we're right close now--that it's just over this little bluff ahead of us." Hugh twisted the horse's rope around a little bush that grew on the hillside, and then turning to Joe said, "Well, Joe, go ahead, and take us up to it." Joe started, and they were soon at the ridge; but just before passing over it, Joe made a motion with his hand, and sank back out of sight, and whispered to Hugh, "There's a bear at the sheep." "Sure?" said Hugh. "Sure," said Joe. "Well, how can we get at him?" asked Jack, who had pushed up beside Hugh. "The same way we did at the sheep, I guess," said Joe. "It don't look very far from here. You take a look, Hugh." Hugh climbed up, and cautiously raising his head, looked for a few seconds, and lowering it again said, "Well, boys, we've got more than we bargained for; there's two bears there, a big one and a little one. Now, let's go 'round to the left here, and get behind those rocks and a little above them, and then we'll have a chance to look at them and see what we'll do." They went back down the ravine, and then a little way around and again climbing the rocks, found that they could see the basin in which the sheep lay, and hurrying forward, they soon reached its rim and looked down on the spot. Sure enough, there were two bears, tearing away at the sheep's carcass, and seeming greatly to enjoy themselves. They looked like mother and cub, and to Jack the mother looked pretty big. They had mauled and partly eaten the fore part of the sheep's carcass, and had dug into its belly, gnawing the flanks. The cub paid no attention to anything, and was eating greedily, but the larger bear stopped feeding every few moments and looked in all directions, and throwing up her head seemed to snuff the breeze. Fortunately, the wind was blowing from the southeast, and so up the stream, and there was no danger that the animal would detect the presence of human beings; yet she seemed uneasy, and more or less suspicious. "Well, boys," said Hugh, "what do you want to do? I expect you want to kill them bears." "Yes, indeed, Hugh," said Jack, "of course we want to kill them." "Hide's no good now," said Hugh, "they're in summer coat, and all sunburned, and the winter coat isn't started." "Oh, Hugh," said Jack, "you don't mean you want to let those bears go. Why look how they've torn our sheep to pieces. Why they ought to be killed for that, if for nothing else." "Well, well, well," said Hugh, smiling, "you are an unreasonable creature. Do you expect if you leave meat out on the mountain that bears, or wolves, or Indians, or white people either, are going to pass it by and not use it? How do you suppose those bears knew that you were coming back?" Jack saw that Hugh was making fun of him, and said, "Well, how shall we take them, Hugh?" "Fix it any way you like. Suppose you take the old bear and Joe the cub; and I won't fire until I have to." "All right," said Jack, "but wouldn't you rather fire? I've had some hunting, and so has Joe since we've been out, and you haven't had a shot. Wouldn't you like to kill the old bear?" Hugh laughed again, as he said, "No, I'll give that up to you. You take the old one, and Joe'll take the young one; but I tell you, the young one's hide is better than the old one's." "Oh, I don't care about that," said Jack. "What do you say, Joe, does that suit you?" "Yes," said Joe, "it suits me all right." "All right then, let's shoot at the word; and you count, Hugh; when you say three we'll both fire." "All right," said Hugh, "get ready. Are you ready?" Both boys grunted in assent. One, two, three! the two guns cracked at the same instant. The smaller bear fell over, and then sprang to its feet, screaming dismally, and ran along the hillside. The larger one turned her head quickly and bit at the place at which Jack had fired, and then, without a moment's waiting, came rushing toward the spot over which the smoke of the two rifles still hung. "Hurrah, boys!" said Hugh, with more interest than Jack had ever seen him show. "Here she comes; get ready, and shoot again." The two boys, having reloaded, fired, but both hurriedly, and the bear made no pause, but kept galloping toward them at tremendous speed. She was now within thirty or thirty-five yards, and Hugh, saying, "Scatter out if she keeps a-coming, and keep shooting," raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired; and as he did so, the bear crumpled up and fell to the ground, and after a few struggles, lay still; but for several moments all three stood with loaded guns, waiting to see what she would do. "She was a tough one," said Hugh, "but I reckon that neither of you boys hit her a second time to do any harm to her. You were a little excited, I guess, and shot before you got your sights rightly drawed. I tell you when a bear is coming for you, that isn't the time to get excited. If you get excited when a deer or antelope is running away from you, that's all right, but when a bear is coming to you, you want all your wits. "But what became of your bear, Joe," he continued. "I don't know," said Joe; "last I saw of him he was going over that ridge, squealing a whole lot. I know just where he went over, and I can go there and look for him." "Well, you'd better," said Hugh. "But first let's see if there's any life left in this old lady down here." They slowly approached the bear, and threw stones at her, but she did not move. Moreover, much blood was running from her mouth and nostrils, and she was evidently dead. When they turned her over to skin her they saw that she was not a very large bear, but a grizzly. Her coat, as Hugh had said, was not in good order, being faded and sunburned, and with many thin patches. Still, Jack thought it would be worth taking home with him, and he and Hugh proceeded to skin her, while Joe went off to look for the small one. "Keep your eyes about you, son," said Hugh, as the boy started. "Even a little bear can scratch and bite a whole lot, if he gets hold of you. If you find the bear lying down, don't go up to him until you're sure either that it is dead or alive; and if it is alive, kill it." CHAPTER XVI SOMETHING ABOUT BEARS As they began to skin the bear, Jack said, "I want to find out why I didn't kill this bear, Hugh; I thought I held all right on it, and yet my shot never seemed to faze her." "Well, I'll tell you what I think, son. I noticed where she seemed to snap at where you hit her, and I reckon you forgot you were shooting down hill, and shot a little high, and perhaps hit a little far back. Now, when we get her hide off we'll see." Jack thought for a moment, and then said, "Hugh, I bet you're right. She made a kind of a step to one side just as I was pulling the trigger, and I never thought one thing about holding low because we were above her on the hillside. I guess if we open her we'll find that that shot of mine went nearer her liver than it did her heart." "Well," said Hugh, "I wouldn't be surprised. Of course the liver is a pretty deadly shot after a while, but it isn't so good as the heart, and, as I've told you I guess more than forty times, it's always better to shoot under than over." "Well," said Jack, "that was a pretty bad blunder. I feel pretty badly about that. I ought to have known better than to have done such a thing. I wonder if Joe shot over, too. I hope he'll get his bear, so that we can know about it." The work of skinning the bear was long and slow, and Hugh said, when they drew the skin out from under the animal, "Now we've got it, it ain't worth anything." It was found that Jack's ball had struck the bear much too far back, and so that it passed just under the spine, yet not quite high enough to cut the great vein that passes along close beneath the vertebrae. The bear might have lived a number of days, or even have recovered, with this shot alone. The heavy ball from Hugh's rifle had struck her in the back of the neck, and had smashed two of the vertebrae, and lay there flattened in the muscles of the neck. As Jack looked at the wound made by Hugh's ball, and then cut the flattened lead out and held it in his hand, he said, "Well, Hugh, it's mighty sure that you didn't get excited, anyhow. That was an awful good shot, even if it was close, and a mighty hard shot when you think how fast the bear was coming." "Yes," said Hugh, "of course in a case like that a man's got to figure close. I took the chance of striking her on the top of the head, or breaking her neck, or breaking her back right between the shoulders; but I hit just the place I wanted to hit. I don't hear anything of Joe," he went on; "let's walk over to that ridge and see if we can see him. I'd like to see the trail left by that bear, and maybe call Joe back if he's going too far." They walked quickly over to the ridge, and had just reached its top when they saw, a little way below them, the figure of Joe bending over something which they knew must be the bear, and going to him they found that he had nearly finished skinning it; and a few minutes help by Hugh and Jack completed the job. "That looks like good meat, Hugh," said Jack. "Is it worth while taking any of it along?" "Do as you like," said Hugh. "I don't go much on bear meat, myself. I've had to eat it, but then I've had to eat lots of other things that I didn't hanker after. If you like, we can take those hams along. The horse will have all he can carry, with the sheep if any of it is worth taking, and the bear skins. They've mauled that animal a whole lot, I reckon, and it may not be fit to carry to camp." Folding up the little bear skin, Joe put it on his back, while Hugh cut off the hams of the bear, which he said was a yearling, and he and Jack each taking one, they started back to look at the sheep. This was found in bad shape, but the greater part of both hams was uninjured, and cutting these off, and cutting away the part where the bears had gnawed, they were ready to start on their return. "Jack," said Hugh, "do you suppose you can carry both of these little bear hams? If you can, I'll take both the sheep hams, and then come back here and get the bear skin. But one of you boys'll have to come back to carry my rifle, for I reckon I can't tote both the skin and the gun, at least not without a rope to tie the skin up with." "I guess we've got to make two trips anyhow," said Jack, "there's too much to carry, and anyhow it isn't far." "No," said Hugh, "it isn't far." The two trips were made, and all the things carried to the edge of the cliff, and then Hugh said: "Now, I'll go and get the horse. I'd rather get him myself, for the smell of the bears'll maybe scare him, and I may have to fool with him a little. You boys get these things down; get the bear skins down first, and then the meat. We're likely to have some trouble packing that horse. I don't think he'll mind the meat, but the smell of the bear is likely to scare him." It proved as Hugh had said, the dun made a great fuss when approaching the pile which constituted the hunters' spoils, and after he was close to it it was necessary for Hugh to take off his coat and put it over the animal's head, and tie it there; and then Joe held the horse's rope, while Hugh and Jack packed the load. After the ropes were all tied, Hugh said. "Now boys, you want, both of you, to get hold of that rope, for I expect when I get this blind off the horse he'll buck plenty, and if he bucks down the hill, he's likely to turn a somersault, and roll, and break his neck before he stops rolling." The boys, having put their guns well up above the horse on the hillside, took the rope, prepared for anything. As Hugh had said, when the coat was taken from the horse's head he partly turned his head, and giving a frightened snort at the load on his back, began to buck. If he had gotten his head down the hill he would certainly have fallen, but the boys, and with them Hugh, kept his head from turning down the slope, and he soon tired of bucking, and though once or twice he staggered as if about to fall over, they managed to keep him on his feet. Though he bucked no more that day, he was still much alarmed by what he was carrying, and they were obliged to handle him with great discretion while going down some of the steep places; for, as the load pressed forward toward his neck he would snort loudly, and roll his eyes, as if he felt that he must do something to get rid of the terrifying burden. They reached camp just before dark, and all were glad to get there. When they stopped before the lodge, Hugh again put his coat over the horse's head until he was unpacked and unsaddled, and when it was taken off, the dun threw head and tail into the air and trotted out to the other horses, looking back and snorting fiercely, showing that his alarm was not yet over. "Well," said Hugh, "I believe if I had that job to do over again I'd rather carry the stuff down on my own back than fool with that horse. If I'd known we were going to have bear skins to pack, I wouldn't have taken the horse along." Before doing anything else, Hugh sent the two boys with the axe down into the timber, and told them to get a slender pole, like a lodge pole, and trim it, and bring it up to him. Then resting the ends of the pole on the branches of two trees, about six feet from the ground, he spread the bear hides over it. After supper that night the talk turned to what they had seen and done that day, and from that to bears. Jack had many questions to ask about them, some of which Hugh could not answer. "I thought bears almost always had two cubs," said Jack; "but this one only had one, and that you say is a yearling." "Well," said Hugh, "they do 'most always have two cubs, and sometimes three, and sometimes four. I've heard of five, but I never saw more than four, and those only once. I expect this old bear started in with two cubs, but that something happened to one of them. You see, when cubs first come out they are pretty small, and lots of things are likely to happen to them. This old she-bear very likely lost one of her cubs when it was a little one. You notice, the one we killed is pretty good size for a yearling, and fat and in good order. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd had all his mother's milk now for over a year, and that's maybe what makes him so fat." "When are the cubs born?" asked Jack. "Most people think they're born about the middle of the winter," said Hugh. "I know the Indians think that, and I've had one or two men tell me that they've come across bear dens in winter, and killed the mother, and found the cubs in there mighty small--no bigger than a young pup. Anyhow, by the time they get to travelling round, in May and June, they're still right small, not near so big as old Shep, down at the ranch. They say that if you catch the black-bear cubs when they're right small, they make nice pets for a while; but I never heard of anybody that got very friendly with young grizzlies. "I remember once, years ago, Joe Kipp had a couple on the Blackfoot Reservation, that one of the Indians had caught and brought in when they were right small. Joe put collars on them, and then forgot to take them off, and long toward the end of the summer both bears were like to choke to death, the collars were getting so small for them. I helped Joe and Hi Upham take 'em off, one day, and 'twas a regular circus. Those little cubs--they weren't more'n a foot or fifteen inches high--were awful mean, and regularly on the fight. They were hard to catch, too, and if you did get hold of them they'd turn quick as a wink and bite or scratch you. Finally, we cornered one of 'em, and Joe grabbed it by the ears and held it between his legs, while Hi held the forepaws and I loosened the collar; but it came pretty near scratching Joe's overalls to pieces with its hind feet. We did the same thing with the other one. I tell you they were mean little cusses. "The Indians don't like bears much; ask Joe," continued Hugh. "No," said Joe, "Indians don't like bears. Afraid of 'em. Bears are powerful medicine, you know, and some people won't speak about a bear, or won't sit down on a bear skin, and of course they won't eat bear meat. There's lots of stories about bears among the Piegans. In old times, you know, bears used to kill lots of Indians; and the Indians had only stone arrows, and couldn't do anything. If a bear took after a man, maybe the man would shoot three or four arrows into him, and they wouldn't much more than go through his hide, and just make him madder and madder all the time, and at last he'd just catch the man and tear him to pieces. One story my grandfather told me a long time ago, and I heard my uncle tell it again last winter. Would you like to hear it, Jack?" CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF A MAN-KILLER "Yes," said Jack, "this is bully; I'd love to hear it." "Well," said Joe, "this happened a long time before the white people came. In those days we didn't have any guns. I expect the bears knew that they were stronger and better armed, and they weren't a bit afraid of the people. Often they wouldn't move out of the road if they saw people coming; but the people were always afraid of them and willing to let them alone. Very few men ever killed a bear, and those that had done so were thought brave. It was more to kill a bear than it was to kill two or three of the enemy, and a man who had killed a bear used to string its claws, and make a collar that he wore about his neck. "In those times we had no horses, and the only animals that we packed, or that hauled the travois, were the dogs; and so the people did not wander far over the prairie as they do to-day; they used to stop in one place for a long time, and did not move camp except for some good reason. You see, the people could pack some of their things on the dogs, but besides that, men and women, and sometimes even the children, had to carry heavy packs on their backs whenever they moved. In those days, a great place for camping in summer was the valley of Two Medicine Lodge River. You know where it is, Hugh?" "Yes, I should say so," said Hugh. "That was a good place. Berries grew there, big and sweet; and along the river were high steep bluffs, over which the hunters used to lead the buffalo, which were killed by falling on the rocks below. "One summer the people were camped there, as usual. It had been a good summer. All about the lodges, whichever way one looked, you could see only red, the red of meat hanging on the trees and bushes, and scaffolds, drying, above the reach of the dogs; and all over the ground, spread out so thick as to cover almost all the grass, were the skins of buffalo, elk and deer, on which were heaped berries, curing in the sun, to be used during the winter. No wonder the people were happy, and that you could hear laughter and singing all through the camp. They had plenty of food; they feared nothing. No enemies were near at hand; the Stonies of the north, the Kutenais and Flatheads of the west, ran away when the Piegans came in sight; they did not dare to wait to fight them. "It was a very hot day; there was no wind, and the sun burned down, so that no one could work. The lodge skins were raised, and all the people sat or lay in the shade, some smoking, some talking and others sleeping. Even the little children had stopped playing, and the camp was quiet. Suddenly, at the west end of the village, a great noise was heard, cries and screams, and wailing by women; and from all directions men and women and frightened children began running to the place, crying to each other, 'What has happened? Who is it that is suffering?' About two women who were seated on the ground a crowd had gathered. These women were mourning and crying and sobbing as they wailed, 'Our husband! our husband! a great bear seized him, and carried him away into the bushes. Oh, we shall never see him again.' "The chief talked to them; their relations and friends tried to help them, and little by little in broken words the women told what had happened. Early that morning, with their husband, they had gone up the river to pick berries. They had gone far, and the sun had reached the middle by the time they came to the bushes where the berries hung ripe and red. There were so many that it had taken but a little time for them to gather all they wished, and they had started toward home along the game trail which followed the stream. The women were walking ahead, their husband following, and were crossing a grassy opening between two points of trees, when suddenly the husband shouted to them, 'Run, run fast to the nearest trees; a bear is coming.' "Looking back, they had seen their husband running as fast as he could, and behind him a whitish colored bear, so large that it seemed almost as great as a full grown buffalo bull. Its mouth was wide open, and they could see its long white tusks as it raced over the grass with great jumps. The women dropped their berry sacks and ran as fast as they could. Their husband was now close behind them, and kept urging them on; but fast as they ran, the bear ran faster, and the husband, seeing that it would soon overtake them, had once more shouted to them to 'run fast,' and then had stopped to face the bear, calling out that he would try to save them. Just as they reached the trees they heard a fierce growl, and looking back saw that the husband had shot an arrow into the bear, but before he could shoot another, the beast was upon him, threw him down, and taking him by the shoulder dragged him to the timber near the river. The women had continued to run, and had come to the camp as fast as they could. "When they had told their story, a Kutenai woman, a captive, who had learned to speak Blackfoot, spoke and said, 'This bear is surely he whom my people have named Man-eater. He is a great traveler. One summer he may be living in the valley of the Beaverhead, and the next season perhaps he will be found on the Elk River of the north. The Kutenais, the Flatheads, and all the mountain people know him too well. He likes the flesh of human beings better than that of game, and has killed many of us. In vain the hunters have pierced his sides with their sharpest arrows. They cannot harm him, and we think that he possesses some strong medicine, and cannot be killed. Indeed, now they no longer try to kill him, but as soon as he appears, they move camp, and travel a long distance to some other place. Listen to my words: tear down your lodges now, pack the dogs, and move away at once, before he shall kill more of you.' "That night the chief and all his warriors talked together about all this, and after they had counciled for a long time, they said, 'We are not Kutenais, to run away from a bear. We will go to hunt this animal, and avenge the death of our friend.' The next day they started, many brave warriors, and when they reached the park they placed some of the strongest and best bowmen at the upper end of the bottom, while the rest went through the timber to drive it toward them. They found the body of their friend, partly eaten, but there was no sign of the bear; he had disappeared. It seemed as if such a large and heavy animal must leave behind him a plain trail of weeds crushed down, grass flattened, deep marks of feet in soft and sandy places; but from where he had eaten that poor man no signs were seen. "Why did they not listen to the Kutenais woman's words! The very next day, almost at the edge of the camp the great bear killed two women and carried one of them away to feast upon, as he had before done with the man. In the camp the screams of the poor women were plainly heard, but before the men could arm themselves and rush to the place, they were dead. "Now the whole camp turned out, every man; and making a ring about the point of timber, they all drew toward its center. They moved slowly, carefully, each man with his arrow fixed on the string, and said to each other, 'Surely now this bear will not escape.' "A thicket of close-set willow stems grew beneath the great cottonwoods, and from a clump of these willows the bear sprang on one of the men, and crushed his head with a single blow of his paw. 'Here he is,' cried those nearby, and they let fly their arrows into its sides, as the bear stood growling and tearing the dead person; but when the arrows struck him the bear sprang here and there among the men, turning like a whirlwind of fur, while his claws cut and his jaws snapped; and four more men fell to the ground dead or dying. The people all ran away. "Now there was great sorrow and mourning in the camp. After a little time some of the men ventured back into the timber, and brought away the bodies of their companions; and the women, wrapping them in robes, lashed them on scaffolds in the trees, as was the old way. Then at last they listened to the words of the Kutenai woman. The lodges were pulled down, everything was packed up, and the tribe moved southward, to the banks of the Big River. Six long days they were on the trail, and the man-eater did not trouble them again. Perhaps he did not wish to follow them; perhaps some one of the arrows shot into him had killed him. So the people talked; but the Kutenai woman laughed. 'You may be sure,' she said, 'that he is not dead. The arrow has not been made that will reach his heart. His medicine is strong.' "All through the winter the people talked of what had happened, and of the camping place under the cliffs of Two Medicine Lodge River. There was no place where it was so easy to kill meat as there, and when spring came they moved back there once more. The day after they had camped, the hunters went out, up and down the valley, and found the buffalo and elk and deer as plenty as ever; but they saw no sign of the great bear. "The next day the chief's son went out with his mother and sister, to watch for them while they dug roots, and as they were going along, without any warning the great bear sprang from a thicket by the trail, struck the young man before he could draw an arrow, and carried him away without a glance at the women, who stood silent in their fear. "When the chief was told what had happened, he was almost crazy with anger and sorrow. He ordered all the men in the camp to go with him to the place. But not one of them would go. 'It is useless', they said; 'we are not fools to throw away our lives trying to kill an animal whose medicine is so strong that he cannot be killed with arrows.' The chief begged and threatened them, but no one would go with him to recover the body of his son. All feared the bear. That day camp was broken, and the people once more moved away from the place that they loved best of all their camping grounds. It was no longer theirs. The bear had driven them from it. "From that day the chief seemed different. Now he no longer laughed and made jokes and invited his friends to feast with him. Instead, he kept by himself, seldom speaking, eating little, often sitting alone in his lodge, and thinking always of the dear son who had been taken from him. One day he took his daughter by the hand, and went out to the center of the camp, and called all the people together. When all had come, he said to them, 'My children, look at this young woman standing by me. Many of you here have tried to marry this daughter, but she has always asked me to allow her to remain unmarried, and I have always said that she should do as she wished. Listen: I am still mourning for the death of my son. Now, I call the Sun, who looks down upon us, and who hears what I am saying, to hear this: whichever one of all you men that shall go out and kill that bear, to him I will give my daughter for his wife.' Then he turned to the girl, and said to her 'Have I spoken well, my daughter? Do you agree to my words?' The girl looked at him, and then said aloud, 'Since you wish it, I will marry the man who will kill that bear, and will thus wipe away our tears.' "Then the girl hurried back to her father's lodge. "All through the camp now the only thing talked about was the offer the chief had made, and the young men were trying to think how it might be possible to kill this bear; yet none of them said that he intended to try to marry the girl, for they all believed that the bear could not be killed. "There was one young man who, when he heard the words of the chief, was glad. Ravenhead was very poor, he had not a single relation, and as far back as he could remember he had lived as best he could. That means that he had been often hungry, and had worn poor clothing, and had often lain shivering through the winter nights; that he had run errands for every one, and had often been scolded. Now he was grown up; he had gone out to dream for power, and had become a warrior. His dream had been good to him, and in his sleep there had come to him a secret helper, who had promised to aid him in time of danger and of need. For a long time the young man had loved the daughter of the chief, but he knew that one so poor as he could never hope to marry her. Sometimes when he happened to pass her on the trail, as she was going for water or as she walked through the camp, she seemed to look at him kindly and as if she were asking him something; yet she never spoke to him, but hurried by, and he was always afraid to speak to her; yet sometimes he used to ask himself what her kind looks meant. "But now, since the chief had spoken, it seemed as if Ravenhead might hope. Those words had rolled away the clouds that hung over him, and if he could only kill the bear, he could marry the girl. He determined that he would kill the bear; some way could be found to do it, he felt sure. Now, for a little while Ravenhead kept by himself, praying, thinking, planning, trying to devise a way by which he might kill the bear, and yet himself not be hurt. Four days passed, and yet in all the camp no one had said that he intended to try to marry the girl. This made Ravenhead glad. "And there was another thing. For four nights he had dreamed the same dream. In his sleep he saw the picture of a great bear, painted as large as if alive, upon the side of a new lodge. It was painted in black; the long claws, and open jaws, with their great white tusks, showed plainly; and from the mouth ran back the life line, a green band passing from the mouth back to the heart, which was red. Ravenhead was sitting by the river, considering his dream reaching out dimly with his mind for its meaning when suddenly he sprang to his feet as if he had been stung, for all at once there had flashed upon him what seemed to be the way of success. The dream had shown it to him. "He turned toward the village, and there, only a step or two away, stood the chief's daughter, holding her water-skin, looking at him as she had looked before. Ravenhead stepped forward and stood near her. Twice he tried to speak, but the words would not come. Then he looked at her, and as she smiled at him, he said, 'I am going to hunt the great bear, and if I return I shall come to you.' The girl dropped the water-skin, and put her arms about his neck, as she said, 'I have tried to make you see, so far as a girl can, that I love you.' They kissed and clung to each other, there by the river; but soon the girl sent him from her, telling him to take courage; to go, and to return safe and successful. When he had gone she stood there by the river, and not able to see before her for the tears which filled her eyes, as she prayed to the Sun to protect the young man. "Ravenhead travelled for four days before he reached the old camp grounds, near the Two Medicine Lodge cliffs. He had left the village alone; no one but the girl had known his purpose. He came out into the valley, and looked up and down it, seeing nothing except the game, feeding peacefully, and, lashed on their platforms in the branches of the trees, the silent forms that the bear had killed. He wondered if he, too, was to become a prey of this medicine animal. "All that day Ravenhead walked about the valley, looking for the bear, keeping in the open timber or along its borders, where he could look over the parks and the slopes of the valley. He did not pass close to the thickets of brush, or to sloughs of tall grass, where the bear might lie hidden. On his back, in case and quiver, were his bow and his arrows; only three of these, for he had been too poor to trade for more, and he would not beg for any. He carried also a pouch of dried meat, that he had killed and roasted the day before, and a little bag of small stones. "Although he kept looking until dusk, he did not see the bear, and then, building a platform of poles in a tree, he lay down on it and slept. That night, in his dream, he again saw the picture of the bear; and as he was looking at it, his secret helper came to him, and pointing at it said, 'Thick fur, tough hide, hard muscle, and broad ribs may stop the sharpest arrow. The easy way to reach the heart is down through the throat.' "This was what had come to him so suddenly the day he sat thinking and planning by the riverside back of the village. He did not believe that this bear had powerful medicine, or that he could not be killed. If he only could shoot an arrow down its throat, he believed that he would be successful. "As soon as day had come, Ravenhead climbed down from the tree, and again began to search for the bear, hopefully now, yet constantly praying to the Sun to grant him success. "It was yet early in the morning when he saw the great bear, lazily walking across a little park toward the river, and stepping out from the shelter of the timber, Ravenhead shouted to attract its attention. The bear reared up at the sound; then Ravenhead first saw how great he was; and as the bear stood there on his broad hind feet, he turned his head slowly, this way, that way, smelling the air. Ravenhead waved his robe, and shouted again, calling the bear coward and other bad names; and presently the bear slowly dropped down on all fours and came toward him. The young man had gone out some little distance into the park, but now he began to go back toward the timber, and as he went faster, so did the bear, until both were running very fast, and the bear was gaining. To the young man, looking back, it seemed scarcely to touch the ground; and it drew nearer and nearer, though he was running as fast as he could. Presently, he could hear the bear pant, and just as he did so he reached the foot of the nearest tree. Almost in an instant he was up among the branches, but he was not too soon. The claws of the bear almost grazed his heels, and tore away a great piece of the bark. From the limb on which he sat, Ravenhead, panting for breath, looked down at the bear as it sat at the foot of the tree. The beast was huge, its head monstrous, its eyes little and mean, and from its mouth, in which the long white teeth showed, the foam dripped down over its neck and shoulders. "The young man drew his bow from its case, and fitted an arrow to the string, and then taking a stone from his sack, threw it down, hitting the bear on the nose. The bear jumped up, growling with rage and pain, and then came a shower of stones, one after another, hitting him on the head, the body, and the paws, and each one hurting. He bit at the places where they struck, growled, and tore up the ground, and at last rushed to the tree, trying to drag it down, or to climb up it, reaching up as far as he could, in his attempt to seize his tormentor. "Here was the chance that Ravenhead had been planning for, praying for, waiting for. He bent far over toward the bear, and drawing the arrow to its head, drove it with all his might down the bear's gaping throat. The great jaws shut with a snap, the growl died away to a wheezing cough, and then, after a moment, while the blood streamed from his nose and his lips, the great bear sank back to the ground. His gasping breath came slower and slower, and then, with a long shudder which almost frightened Ravenhead, so strong was it, he died." * * * * * "There was great excitement in the village; people running to and fro and calling to one another; women and children standing in groups and pointing to a young man who was entering the camp. Ravenhead had returned, weary, bloody, and dusty, and staggering under the weight of the head and part of the hide of the great bear. The people gathered about him, calling out his name and singing songs of what he had done, and followed him to the door of the chief's lodge, where he threw down the heavy burden. The chief came out, and put his arms about him, and led him inside, and gave him the seat at his left hand. The chief's daughter set food before him; she did not speak, but her face was happy. The young man told the chief how he had killed the bear, and while he was talking, the women hurried to make a sweat lodge for him, and when it was ready, with the chief and the medicine men, he entered it and took a sweat, purifying his body from the touch of the bear. Then, after the sweat had been taken, and the prayers said, and he had plunged in the river, they all returned to the lodge, just as the sun was setting. The chief pointed to a new lodge, set up near his own. 'There is your home, my son; may you live long and happily.' Ravenhead entered and saw his wife. "Without, the people were dancing around the scalp of the bear. They were happy, for the death of the bear had wiped away the tears of those whose relations he had killed." "That's a splendid story, Joe," said Jack. "That's about the best story I ever heard. I wish I could remember it to tell it when I get back east, the way you tell it." "Yes," said Hugh, "that's a mighty good story, and mighty well told. Who did you hear it from, Joe?" "I heard it first from Four Bears, and then afterwards I heard my uncle tell it." "Well," said Hugh, "you told it mighty well, but I don't wonder much, for Four Bears is about the best story teller I ever heard. But you remember it mighty well, and tell it well. It's a right good story. "Now, boys," he added, "I think to-morrow we'll pack up and go a day or two further down the creek here, and then see what turns up. These horses of ours have filled themselves up pretty well now, and are able to go along all right, and we might as well go on a little further. So, say we pack up to-morrow morning." "All right," said the boys, and they went to bed. CHAPTER XVIII JACK'S FIRST MOOSE Travel down the stream next day was easy. The valley widened out, and the hills on either side grew lower. Twice during the march they came to broad meadows, partly overgrown with willows, old beaver meadows, Hugh said; and instead of going through them they went around close to the hills, so as to avoid any possible trouble from miry spots. After supper that night at camp Hugh said to the boys, "I reckon pretty quick we'll turn off south and follow up some creek, so as to get over to the Divide, and cross down onto Sweetwater. If I ain't mistaken, before we get much further along we'll strike a big stream coming in from the south, and when we do, we've got to turn and follow that up. I've heard tell of a little town off here to the south, but I don't know where it's at, and we don't want to go to it, anyhow." About noon next day they began to see a wide valley opening up to the south, and Hugh told them that this must be the creek he had been looking for. They did not follow the stream down to where the river from the south joined it, but cutting across southwest, climbed the hill, and journeyed through beautiful green timber in the direction in which they wished to go. Several times they came on beautiful mountain lakes lying in the timber, and while passing one of these Hugh stopped and pointed to the ground, and when Jack came along he saw there a track which he knew must belong to a moose. He wished that he might get a shot at a moose, and kept his eyes wide open as they journeyed along, but saw nothing. Two or three times during the day they rode near enough to the river they were following up to hear its rushing, and the noise of water-falls, but they could not see them. Hugh did not seem to be following any road at all,--there was not even a game trail,--but he wound in and out among the timber, keeping in the general direction from which the river came. About the middle of the afternoon he turned to the left, and worked down into the valley of the stream, which, though often narrow, sometimes spread out and showed charming little park-like meadows, in one of which they stopped to camp. After camp had been made, the horses attended to, and supper eaten, Jack said to Hugh, "Are there many moose in this country, Hugh?" "Well," said Hugh, "I don't know exactly what you call many. There used to be plenty here, and I expect if a man was hunting he might run across one once in a while. Of course moose stick close to the timber and the brush, and you don't see them as easily as you do the elk, that feed on the bald hillsides or on the prairie." "I'd like mighty well to get a shot at one," said Jack. "Well," said Hugh, "it might be such a thing as you could do that, but you're not likely to, unless we stop for a day or two to hunt. We can do that most any time now, if we feel like it. We've got over the ridge, and there's no danger of any snow falling, to stop us, but of course it's getting cooler all the time. If you're going to kill an animal for meat you'd better kill a cow. On the other hand, if you want a big head, why of course you'll kill a bull; but the bulls are pretty poor eating now; they were better two weeks ago, just like the elk was. We've got quite a little way to go yet, and of course we've got to have meat to eat; but, on the other hand, we've got the hams of that sheep, and the piece of that little bear, and we're going through a good game country all the way, so that I wouldn't kill anything more until we need it." "Well, Hugh, we've had lots of hunting; let's not kill anything more until we need it. Maybe there'll be a show down on the Sweetwater to get a moose." "Well," said Hugh, "maybe there will be; yet this is a better place than that. But we'll be in good moose country for quite a way yet, and maybe you'll get a chance to kill a moose, if you want to very bad." The stream that they were following up grew smaller and smaller, yet Hugh continued to follow it, and in the same southerly direction. He told the boys that this stream headed in the Divide, between Wind River and Sweetwater, and that when they came to the head of this creek it was only a short distance over to others running into some of the heads of the Sweetwater. "It ain't far, and it ain't a high climb," he continued, "and after we strike the Sweetwater, it's a plain trail right down to the Platte, and then across that is home. I don't rightly know how far it is, but I reckon it's not far from two hundred miles." "That means ten days then, Hugh, does it?" "Well," said Hugh, "you might call it ten days. Of course that means if we don't have any trouble. If we should get into any difficulties, or lose a horse or two, or something of that kind, it might take us longer." Three days later they had crossed over the Divide, between the Wind River and Sweetwater drainages, and were making their way through the timber down toward the Sweetwater. Camp had been made early. One of the pack horses had hurt its foot during the day, and had gone lame, and Hugh wanted to rest the animal for a day or two; otherwise it might become so lame that he would have to leave it behind. About the middle of the afternoon, Joe and Jack started out from camp to hunt, Joe taking the hills to the right of the camp, and Jack those to the left. It was pleasant going through the green timber so quietly as to make no sound, and watching constantly between the tree trunks, to see the motion of any living thing that might appear. There were a few birds in the upper branches of the trees, and now and then a grouse walked out of the way. Jack entered one of those level pieces of forest where the trees stand a little apart and the ground is covered with the pale green stems of the little mountain blueberry, which in fact is not blue in color, but red. This little fruit is very delicious, and a favorite food for birds and beasts. Jack came to a patch where the berries were thick, and sitting down began to strip them from the stems and eat them. Now and then he could hear the whistle of a meat-hawk, the harsh grating cry of a Clark's crow, and the shrill scream of a hawk that soared far above the forest. Jack thought it most pleasant, and he liked to be there alone and just look about him, and see and listen. It seemed to him a place where at any moment some great animal might step into sight, and begin to feed or to go about any of the operations of its daily life, not knowing that he was there watching and enjoying it all. And just as these thoughts were passing through his mind, something of this sort happened. It was not a very large animal, but the sight was a pretty one, none the less. He saw the slender stems of the huckleberry bushes shake, thirty or forty yards from him, and the shaking came nearer and nearer, and presently he was able to distinguish that a dozen grouse were coming toward him, feeding on the berries. He sat still, hardly daring to breathe, and before very long the birds were close to him, and in a moment more were all about him. He could see the old hen, larger than all the rest, and with frayed and faded plumage, while the young birds, but little smaller, were much more highly colored,--bright brown and white and bluish. They seemed sociable little creatures, for they were talking all the time, calling to each other much as a flock of young turkeys would call, and seeming uneasy if they became separated. There was one bird that wandered off quite a little to one side, and as the cries of its fellows became fainter as they passed along, the bird stood very straight, with its head much higher than usual, and erected the feathers of its head and neck so that they stood on end, giving it a very odd appearance. As soon as it had located the brood, the bird smoothed down its feathers and ran quickly toward the others. When the group got to where Jack was sitting, they paid no attention to him whatever. One of them stopped immediately in front of him, and looked carefully at his face, but at once resumed its feeding; and passing on both sides of him, they went on. Jack did not wish to frighten them, and so turned his head and body very slowly to look after them, and he did it so carefully that the birds were not alarmed, but finally passed out of sight and hearing without being frightened. This small adventure gave Jack very great pleasure, and he felt as if he had already been well repaid for his walk. Keeping on through the forest, he went down a gentle slope, and presently found himself at the edge of a little meadow, surrounding a very pretty lake. Nothing was to be seen there, and he stepped out of the bushes to go down to the water. He was going along rather carelessly, holding his rifle in the hollow of his left arm, when from a bunch of willows just before him a huge black animal with horns rushed out, and trotted up the meadow toward the timber. Instantly Jack knew that it was a moose, and throwing his gun to his shoulder, he fired at the animal just before it reached the fringe of willows at the edge of the meadow. It seemed to him that the creature flinched a little and then went faster, but he could not be sure. What was certain was that it did not fall. Taking up the track, he followed it for some distance through the timber--not a difficult task, for the moose was trotting rapidly and throwing up dirt at every stride. At length, however, he came to a piece of rocky ground, where the tracks were much harder to follow, and presently he lost them and had to circle two or three times to find them, and from that on the work of picking them out was slow. Soon, too, he noticed that it was growing darker, and looking at the sky he concluded that the sun had set. He had a mile or two to go, and as he did not wish to lie out during the night, he reluctantly left the moose track and started back for the camp. He hurried as fast as he could, and made good progress; but after it really got dark it was impossible to go very fast. He did not feel like firing his gun, because that would be as much as to say to the people in the camp that he was lost, and he did not wish to do this. He worked his way along, therefore, keeping toward camp as nearly as he could, but more by guess than anything else, because the trees stood so close that the stars could not be seen. However, the little light that still lingered in the west gave him some idea of direction. At last the ground began to slope in the direction in which he was going, and before long he saw in the sky the glare of a fire. He made sure that this was the camp, and hurrying along as fast as possible, frequently stumbling over rocks and sticks and occasionally running his face into the twigs of a dry spruce limb, he at last found himself near the bottom of the hill, and could see the gleam of the fire through the tree-trunks. Before long he was close to camp, and saw that Hugh and Joe had built quite a bonfire in front of the lodge. It was the reflection of this that he had seen in the sky. As he walked up to the fire, Hugh said, "Well, here you are, eh? We didn't know but you calculated to lie out all night." "Well," said Jack, "I didn't know but I'd have to do that; but I didn't want to, and so I kept going. I think perhaps I would have stopped and built a fire back in the timber if it hadn't been that I saw your fire, and kept coming." "What kept you?" said Joe. "Why, Joe," said Jack, "I saw a moose, the first moose I ever saw; and I had a good shot at it, running nearly straight away from me, and I ought to have killed it, but I didn't. I think I must have hit it; anyhow, I thought I saw it flinch when I shot, and it went through the timber in great shape. I followed the tracks quite a long way; but then it got dark, and I had to give it up and come back. "I'd like to go out and look for it to-morrow, and I will, too, if we stay here." "Well," said Hugh, "we'll stay here, all right enough. I want to rest up this horse's foot for a day or two. If I stay here and bathe that horse's foot, and keep him quiet, he's likely to be all right in two or three days. If we make him follow us over these hills now, he may get so that he can't use the foot at all. "Pity you didn't kill your moose," he continued; "what do you think was the matter?" "I don't know," said Jack. "I had as good a chance as I ever had at a running animal, but I think maybe I wasn't careful enough, and didn't hold low enough. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if I shot high on him. That seems to be my trouble often." "Well," said Hugh, "you'd like to go to-morrow and see if you could follow him up and find him. Of course he won't be good for anything if you do find him, but you'll have the satisfaction maybe of knowing that you killed him." "Won't be good for anything," said Jack; "how do you mean? You don't mean he'll spoil, just lying out for one night." "Why, son, didn't you know that? Is it possible you've travelled with me all these months and haven't learned that unless you dress an animal as soon as it's killed it's going to spoil? It don't make any difference whether the weather's cold or warm, but if you leave a critter with the entrails in for four or five hours it is no good; the meat gets tainted." "Well," said Jack, "That's news to me. I never heard that before." "Oh," said Joe, "everybody knows that." "Yes," said Jack, "everybody but me." After Jack had put his gun in the lodge, he brought out the coffee pot and frying pan, and ate some food, and then sat there by the fire, very melancholy, because he had not got his moose. "He had horns, Hugh," Jack said, "and if I should be able to find him to-morrow, I could bring those in, couldn't I?" "Yes," said Hugh, "the horns won't be spoiled. It's only that the meat wouldn't be good to eat. Were his horns big?" "No," said Jack, "I don't think they were very big; they stuck out on both sides. You see, I didn't get much of a look at him, except when he was running away. Then I could see his horns, but I wasn't looking at them; I was trying to pick out the place to shoot, and I didn't pick it out very well." The next morning Hugh told the boys that they had better go out and see whether they could find the moose, or another one, but warned them to watch the sky, and keep their direction, so that they would be sure to get back. He warned them also to notice carefully, and not get over the Divide. So long as they stayed on this side, the streams running down toward the Sweetwater would always help them to find camp; but if they crossed the Divide and got into the Wind River drainage, then the streams would only confuse them, especially as the timber was thick, and the sky could not be seen, and so the direction could not be told from that. Jack did not attempt to go back to the point where he had lost the moose tracks, but instead kept off to the south, in order to cross the tracks again, and pick them up where they were plain. He felt sure that he and Joe would have no trouble in following them up to the point where the darkness had obliged him to give them up. They soon found the tracks, and Jack, from his memory of the country passed over the night before, was able to follow them quite rapidly to the place where he had finally left them. Beyond here the trail was not hard to follow. The timber was thick and the ground damp; there was much moss, and the great hoofs of the moose tore this up, so that the trail was plainly visible; and here Jack had the first confirmation of his belief that he had hit the moose, for Joe called attention to a bush against which the animal had rubbed, and showed on it a little smear of dried blood. By this time the moose had stopped trotting and was walking; and after a while they saw before them lying on the pale soil, among the tree-trunks, a dark object stretched out, which they presently recognized as the moose. He had lain down here and died as he lay. The body was rigid now and somewhat swollen. Although the moose was not a large one, to Jack he seemed enormous--much taller, longer, and deeper through than an elk, and with a huge ungainly head and a swollen upper lip. "Well, Jack," said Joe, "what are you going to do now? You killed the moose, and you know it, but we can't take any of the meat. You might come up here and get the horns, if you want to pack them back with you, but it's no use to butcher the animal; you can see for yourself that the meat is spoiled." "Yes," said Jack, "I suppose it is. I'm awfully sorry; I hate to see a great big lot of meat go to waste like this, but there's nothing to be done now. I ought to have shot better." "Well, I'll tell you what let's do," said Joe: "let's go back to camp, and catch up our horses, and come up here and get those horns. In fact I guess we may as well bring a pack horse with us. Horns are awful unhandy things to carry on a saddle, but we can put the head on a pack so that it will ride well." "Well," said Jack, "we may as well do that, I think," and they rose to go. "I'll stick a knife in this carcass," said Joe, "and if I do that it will be pleasanter to work about when we get back." He plunged his knife into the animal's side and there was an outburst of gas; then the two boys went back to the camp. CHAPTER XIX WATCHING A BEAR BAIT "Hello, Hugh," said Jack, as they walked up to the lodge; "we found the moose." "Well, you've done pretty well," said Hugh. "I thought maybe he'd go so far, even if you'd hurt him bad, that you wouldn't find him at all." "No," said Jack, "we found him easily enough. He didn't go very far beyond where I had to leave the trail last night. But it is just as you said; the meat is spoiled; he's no good to eat. "His horns are not very big, but Joe suggested that we should come back here and get our horses and a pack horse, and go up and bring in the head and horns." "Why, sure," said Hugh; "why not do that? I expect you'd like to take it home, seeing it's the first moose you ever killed." "Yes," said Jack, "I should like it." "Now, I'll tell you what you do," said Hugh. "Do you remember how I cut off that sheep's head?" "Why, yes," said Jack, "I remember that you cut it off close down to the shoulders, but I don't remember just how you cut the skin." "Well," said Hugh, "look here now; I'll show you," and sitting down on the ground he drew a little diagram with the stick, explaining to Jack that he should stick the knife into the moose's head immediately behind the horns, split the skin down on the nape of the neck to the shoulders, then make a cut at right angles to the first one, running down outside of one shoulder, across under the chest, and up outside of the other shoulder. Then, by skinning away from the top of the neck, the hide of the whole neck could be drawn forward; the head cut from the neck where the first vertebrae joins the skull; and afterward, by cutting the skin from where the neck-cut began between the horns, out on each side to each horn and around its base, the whole skin of head and neck could be taken off, and the skull cleaned, with the horns attached to it. Afterwards in mounting, the skin could again be stretched over the skull, so that the head could be hung on the wall. It did not take the boys long to saddle up their riding horses and a pack animal, and when they were on horseback the distance to the moose was not great. When they reached it they tied their horses, and walked up to the carcass to begin the skinning. But before they did anything, Joe said, "Hold on, Jack! look a-here! There's been a bear here since we've been gone;" and sure enough, the tracks of a middle-sized bear were seen about the carcass, and the hole made by Joe's knife was wet around the edges, as if some animal had been licking it. Jack looked all around, but of course nothing living was to be seen now. "Now, I tell you what," said Joe; "let's get this head off, and go away, and I wouldn't be surprised if we could come back here to-morrow and get a shot at a bear. You know, Hugh said we weren't going to move for two or three days, and if that's so, why shouldn't we come back here and watch." "It isn't a very good place for that, is it?" said Jack, "right in here among the timber; we'd have to be close to the moose, and likely enough a bear would see us or smell us, before we could see it." "That's so," said Joe; "it's a pretty poor place, but before we go we'll look around and see if we can find any way to hide." The boys were somewhat excited at this prospect, and at once set to work to skin the moose head. A long slit was made down through the thick hair on the nape of the neck, back to the shoulders, and then a cross cut down to the moose's chest; then both the boys, getting hold of the head, tried to turn it over, but they were not strong enough to do that. Then they tried to lift the moose's head up in the air, in order to get under it, and to make the cross cut on the other side close to the ground. They did not succeed very well in this either; but finally, after raising the head as high as they could, Joe got a stick and propped it in this position. Then, getting a longer stick they tugged, strained, and kept raising the head higher and higher, until finally the fore part of the shoulder was pretty well exposed. They made the cross cut, but for six or eight inches it was quite ragged. However, they succeeded in completing the cut, and then worked more rapidly, and before very long had the skin off the whole neck and turned so far toward the head that the back of the skull could be seen. Then, Joe cutting down close to the skull so as to sever the ligament of the neck, they twisted the skull, disjointed the neck, and after that it was a mere matter of cutting through the flesh. After the head had been cut off it was pretty heavy, much more than one boy could lift, besides being unwieldy and hard to handle. They dragged the head a little way from the moose, and then stood looking at it, for both were a little tired. "Now, look here, Jack," said Joe, "what's the use of packing all this stuff back to camp; why not finish the job here, and take the skull back pretty clean?" "Yes," said Jack, "it's a pretty long job, but we've got to do it either here or at the camp, and we might as well do it here. I guess we'd better use our jackknives to cut around these horns." Sitting down on the ground they did the work of making the crosscut to the horns, and then they cut round the horns, close up against the burr. The hide was thick and tough, and the blades of the knives were small; but, on the other hand, the knives were sharp, and before very long they had completed this. Then they both worked at skinning the hide down over the head, cutting through the gristle of the ears, and going very carefully about the eyes; and at last, after midday, the skin of the head was free from the skull and was dragged off to one side. "There," said Joe, "that's a good job, and now we'll cut off all the meat we can from the skull, and pack the horse, and go back to camp. I'm getting hungry. I don't believe this tongue is spoiled; we may as well take that with us." The remaining work was not long, and lashing the skull on the pack saddle, they set out for camp. Hugh hailed them, when they got in, with an expression of surprise, saying, "Why, you done the whole job, didn't you? I supposed I'd have an afternoon's work over that head, skinning it out, and cleaning the skull." "Well," said Jack, "Joe suggested that we should not make two bites of the cherry, so we did the work right there. But, say Hugh, a bear had been 'round that moose, between the time we left it and the time we got back, and Joe says maybe we can get a shot at him. What do you think?" "Why, I don't know," said Hugh; "maybe you could. What sort of a place is it to wait?" "Not very good," said Jack; "it's right in the thick timber, and there's no hill, and no hiding-place anywhere nearby. We looked when we were coming away. But I tell you what I think, Hugh; I believe we could go back there, and get up into a tree, and watch from there; then the bear won't be likely to smell us, and maybe we'll be able to get a good shot." "Yes, that's so," said Hugh; "but there's one bad thing about getting up into a tree: it's awful noisy, and if you move much, the bear's pretty sure to hear you. When did you calculate to watch?" "Why, I don't know," said Jack; "we were going to ask you. It ought to be either early in the morning or late in the evening, I suppose. That's the time bears come out, isn't it?" "Yes," said Hugh, "that's the time; but in here where they're not much hunted, I suppose maybe they'd feed any time of day. "I tell you what I believe I'd do," he continued, "we're going to stop here for a day or two more and see if that horse's foot will get better, and suppose you don't do anything now until along about the middle of the day to-morrow; then you can ride up there and see if the bears have been working at the carcass, and if they have, why you can wait there until about dark, and if you don't get a shot you can go back again the next day, right early in the morning." "Well, let's do that then," said Jack. "Now," said Hugh, "take your moose-head down to the creek and put it in there to soak and drain, and then this afternoon you can take the brains out and sort of scrape the skull, and after it soaks there for a couple of days it'll be in good shape to dry right up." The next day, a little before noon, they set out to inspect the bait. As they started out to catch their horses, Hugh told them to drive in old Baldy as well, and that he would ride up there with them and see how the prospect looked. When they reached the moose they found a great hole torn in its side, and from the tracks around about, it seemed that several bears had been feeding there. The day, though bright at sunrise, had now become overcast and dull, and the air felt like rain or snow. Hugh surveyed the ground about the moose with some care, and finally said to the boys: "I don't see anything for you to do except to climb up into a couple of these trees; and if I were you I'd watch this afternoon, and if you don't get a shot, quit pretty early, at least before it gets plumb dark, come back to camp, and then try it again early in the morning. I'll take your horses down here a half a mile, and tie them in that little open park that we passed, where they can feed, but where they'll be far enough away so as not to scare the game. If you don't get a shot, try to get to your horses before it's right dark, and then you can get back to camp all right." Hugh waited until the boys had climbed the two trees, one a little distance to the north of the moose, the other about as far to the south of the carcass. He told them to cut away all the twigs that were close to them and would rustle if they moved, and advised them that they must keep absolutely still, "for" he said, "there is no animal so shy as a bear, and none that's more careful in coming up to a bait. If a bear comes, don't try to shoot at it too soon, let it come on until it gets right close to you; then shoot as carefully as you know how, and try to kill it dead, for I don't want you to wound a bear, and then go following it through the thick timber and the brush; that's dangerous, and I think foolish." The hours, after Hugh departed, seemed pretty long to the boys as they sat on their perches. They could not see each other, and of course could not talk. Both were occupied in looking over the ground that they could cover with their eyes, and in listening for any noise. The weather grew colder, and toward the middle of the afternoon flakes of snow began to sift down through the tree-tops. Then they stopped; then began again. There was snow enough to see as it fell, but not enough to show upon the ground. Joe was glad when he saw the snow, for he believed it would bring the bears out soon; but Jack did not know this, and thought only of the discomfort of the cold. A little breeze was blowing from the south, and that gave Joe the unpleasant benefit of the odor of the decaying moose meat; but he thought little of that, and sat there and watched. For a long time nothing was seen. Then suddenly, from behind a dead log, fifty or sixty yards from Joe, he saw the head of a black bear rise, and the animal stood there screwing its nose in all directions and snuffing the wind. It remained there for a long time, and then the head drew back and disappeared. Joe's rifle was loaded and cocked. He had fixed himself in as good a position as possible for shooting, and he waited. For a long time nothing happened, and then suddenly the bear appeared, stepping out from behind a tree quite close to him,--not more than thirty or forty yards away--and stood there, looking at first toward the moose, and then slowly turning its head and looking in all directions. It was a black bear, not very large, and yet not by any means a cub. Joe thought the best thing he could do was to shoot it. It stood nearly facing him, and when it turned its head away to the right, he aimed for its chest, just to the right of the bear's left shoulder, and pulled the trigger. The animal gave half a dozen bounds, and then commenced to jump into the air and come down again, and to roll over, and turn somersaults; while Joe kept his eyes rolling in all directions, to see whether there were any others. The bear's position had been such that Jack had not seen it at all. He was cramped and stiff, cold, tired and hungry by this time; but at the shot he forgot all his discomforts, and sat watching to see what should happen. For a moment he saw and heard nothing, and then, off to his left, he heard a stick break, once or twice, as if some heavy animal were stepping on it, and then all became silent again. Presently Joe appeared, walking by the moose, and came and stood under the tree in which Jack sat. "Well, Jack," he said, "I've got a bear, and I don't suppose any more will come now. We may as well go over and skin it, and go back to camp." "How big is it, Joe?" said Jack. "Well," said Joe, "it's small. It looked pretty big to me when I first saw it looking out through the trees; but when I shot it, and saw it lying on the ground, it didn't seem very big." Jack scrambled down from the tree, and the two boys went over to the bear. It was not large, but, on the other hand, it was better than no bear at all, and its coat was quite good: not long, but full, and black and glossy, and quite worth having. Jack congratulated Joe, and they set to work to skin the bear. Joe's shot had been a good one; he had hit exactly in the right place, and the ball had cut the great artery of the heart, and the lungs, so that the bear died almost at once. The work of skinning the animal took some little time, but it was not nearly dark when Joe, with the skin on his back, and Jack, with one of the hams in his hand, started to go to the horses. The other ham they hung up in a tree. The horses took them speedily to the camp, and they greatly enjoyed their dinner that night. Both boys were tired and were glad to turn in at an early hour. The next day the whole camp arose late. Hugh reported that the horse's leg was better, and that he thought they might as well move on the next day. "Now," he said, "do you boys want to go up and watch for bear again to-night?" "I don't know, Hugh," said Jack; "what do you think the chances are? Will any of them come back after one being killed last night?" "Yes," said Hugh, "I think maybe they might. Of course you can't tell. Maybe they might come back now, or perhaps they'll leave the bait alone for three or four nights, and then come back." "Well," said Jack, "I'd like to get a shot; but it's paying pretty dear for it to have to sit up in a tree for five or six hours, and pretty nearly freeze to death. I like to be doing something. I wouldn't mind trailing a bear or a deer or a sheep for half a day, but this sitting on a thin branch in the cold, and waiting for a bear to come to you, isn't what it's cracked up to be." "No," said Hugh, "you're right there. I don't think much of it. However, we might get on our horses about midday, and go up and see whether any bears came last night after you left. The carcass'll show that plain enough." When they looked at the carcass they found that a number of bears had evidently been there; and not only had they eaten a considerable part of the moose, but they had also partly eaten the bear that Joe had killed the night before. "Well," said Hugh, "this seems to be a regular bear playground! I've a good mind to come up here myself to-night, and sit in one of these trees, and see if I can't get a shot. It's quite a while since I've killed a bear, and I sort of need a bear-skin to spread on my bed. What do you say boys, shall we all watch here to-night?" "Yes, Hugh, let's do that; that'll be great fun,--to see who gets the shot, or whether any bears come." "Well," said Hugh, "I'm no way certain they'll come; they're awful keen-nosed, and if they should smell that we've been around here during the day, they won't show themselves. Now, I'll tell you what we might do: suppose we go off down to where we're going to leave the horses, and stop there for two or three hours,--nothing will come here very much before sundown,--and then about three o'clock we'll come up here, and you two boys can ride your horses right under the trees you're going to get into, and just climb into them without touching the ground at all; and I'll take the horses back and come up afoot, and get up into my tree. In that way there'll be only one set of tracks for the bears to smell." Accordingly, about three o'clock they rode back; the boys climbed from their horses directly into the tree; and then Hugh, taking the bridle reins, led the horses back and picketed them in the park. Then he returned, and choosing a tree about half way between the boys, clambered up into it, and they all sat there, patient and still. The boys watched and waited as carefully as the day before; but nothing happened until, just before sundown, the heavy report of Hugh's gun rang out on the silent air, and a moment later they heard the branches crackle as he clambered down from the tree. "All right, boys," he called out: "come along." The boys descended from their branches, and joining Hugh, they all went forward a little way, to a small open spot where a brown bear lay stretched on the ground, with the blood flowing from its nostrils. "This fellow," said Hugh, "has been fussing 'round in sight for about twenty minutes. He wanted to come awful bad, and yet he was awful scared to. I thought one time that maybe he was going around Jack's way, and so I didn't bother with him; but presently he came back and commenced to go right toward the bait, making little runs forward and then little runs backward, but always getting closer, until finally I made up my mind that I'd have to kill him. Now, Joe," Hugh continued, "you help me skin him, and, Jack, you go and fetch the horses." Not long after Jack had returned, the skin was off the bear, rolled up and tied behind Hugh's saddle, and they returned to camp. CHAPTER XX A PUZZLING TRAIL The next morning Hugh put a light load on the lame horse, and they started down the stream. The going was fairly good, through open timber, and at last they came to what Hugh said was the main river, and followed that down. There was a good game trail all the way, and they went pretty fast, but Hugh stopped early because he did not want to tire his cripple. The horse, however, was in good heart and fed eagerly, and Hugh said that it was all right. For several days their journey down the Sweetwater was without incident. They reached the open country, where there were many antelope, and saw two or three bunches of elk. Several times Jack tried fishing in the river, but without success, as Hugh had prophesied, saying: "You won't find any trout in this stream, nor in any other stream that runs into the North Platte, without they've been put there. There's lot's of trout in the South Platte, and just as soon as you strike the tiny little creeks that run from springs on the other side of the Divide you can catch from them all the small trout you want; but there are none in the North Platte." "But why is that?" said Jack. "You can't prove it by me," said Hugh. "I don't know. I've heard tell that the trout in all the streams on this side of the mountains come from the other side;--that is, that they really belong on the west slope, but that somehow they got over on this side. Now, you take a place like Two Ocean Pass, that we heard about up in the Park, and other places that I have seen like that, where there's a low place on the Divide,--a place that often holds water, and from each end of which a little creek runs down, one going east, the other west. If the trout ran up the creek that goes west into this little pond on the Divide, why it might easy enough be that some of them would run down the creek that runs east. Anyhow, it's a sure thing that there are no trout in any of the North Platte waters that I ever saw, while in the South Platte, and in the Wind River, and the Bighorn, and the Yellowstone, and pretty much all the streams to the north, there are lots of trout. It always seemed queer to me that the North Platte don't have any." One night in camp, as they were sitting around the fire after supper, Jack said, "Hugh, tell me a bear story. We've seen a lot of bears this trip and killed quite a lot. Were you ever badly scared by a bear? Of course that old bear charged us the other day, but I don't suppose you were scared by it, and I wasn't; but I'd like to know if you were ever really scared by a bear." "Well," said Hugh, "I reckon I have been. I remember one time that a bear made me run pretty lively for a ways." "How was it?" said Jack. "Well," said Hugh, "it wasn't so very long ago, and I was up on the mountains back of the ranch trying to kill some meat. I had left my horse and gone quite a way without seeing anything, when I came over a ridge and looked down into a piece of timber. About a hundred yards off, lying at the foot of two or three trees, just in the edge of the timber, I saw a kind of a black pile, and for a little while I could not make out what it was. I stopped and looked, and presently a part of the pile got up, and a bear began to walk around, and then another, and then a third got up, and they all walked around the others that were lying there, and looked as if they were snarling and wanted to fight. I saw in a minute that there were too many bears for me to tackle and was just about to back off over the hill and clear out, when one of them saw me and started running toward me as hard as he could. I knew then it was no use to run, and I sort of braced myself, and got a half a dozen cartridges in my hand, and waited until the bear got up within fifteen or twenty steps of me, and then fired at it, and turned and ran as hard as I could. I didn't hear anything following me, and presently looked over my shoulder, and saw that there was nothing in sight; but I kept on running until I got out of wind, and then I went to my horse as quickly as I could. When I had mounted I went back, went round a little way, and rode up over the hill in another place and looked down, and there was nothing alive in sight. I went pretty carefully along the ridge until I got to the place where I had stood, and then I went down to where the bear had been when I shot. There was plenty of blood there, but that was all. Then I went down to the tree and found that these bears--and there must have been a half-dozen of them--had dug down into the ground under the trees and had been lying there, as a dog sometimes digs in the dirt and lies there to get cool. "The bears had started off together, but it was hard to tell just what they had done. I followed them for quite a way, and some of them must have left the bunch, for when I got to a big snow-drift--it was toward the end of June, and there were plenty of big drifts that hadn't melted yet--there were only three of the bears together. The snow-drift was hard, and I walked along over it, leading my horse and following the tracks. The horse hardly sank in at all, and my feet made no impression on the snow; but the big bear,--the one that was bleeding,--sank in about six or eight inches every step, while the two others only sank in a half an inch. That must have been a big one. I followed them into the timber, and finally they went into a place where the spruces grew low and so thick that you could not see through them, and there I gave up the trail. I didn't want that bear bad enough to follow him into that place." "Well, of course you never knew anything more about it than you do now," said Jack. "No," said Hugh, "I never knew anything about it except what I learned from following the trail. The bear was hit somewhere in the breast or neck or head; he was bleeding from the front part of the body; and I expect the bullet must have knocked him down, or else he would have followed me and likely caught me. But it was about the longest and fastest run that I've made in many a year." For some days they travelled down the Sweetwater, having an open easy road and making good progress. They passed the cañon at the mouth of the river where it enters into the Platte, and now felt that they were getting near home. One morning as they were riding along, Jack noticed the trail of a big bunch of horses, driven fast, going the opposite way from themselves and turning off into the hills to the north. He asked Hugh who would be driving a bunch of horses through that country, and where they were going; but Hugh could not tell him. "I don't know anybody, son," he said, "who would be taking horses through here, and I don't know where they'd be taking them to, without it's up to some small town north, or up to the new railroad, and then I don't see why they should be coming this way, unless perhaps they wanted to get over on Powder River and follow that down. The railroad, I hear, is pushing west from the Missouri, and it may be that some contractor came down here to get horses. And yet that don't seem right either. These are not work horses,--you can see that from their tracks,--and besides that there are lots of colts with them. If it was a few years back, I should think that a bunch of Indians had gone through; but then there are no travois trails, and I don't know what it is. Might be horse thieves; it's been so the last few years that people are stealing stock some." The trail came from down the river, and they had followed it for some miles when a dark spot seen on the bottom showed a large animal lying down. Hugh rode over and found it to be a dead horse. He waved to the boys, who followed him, and they sat there on their horses, looking down at it. The animal had been dead perhaps a day; it lay on its side, and the brand was plainly visible. As Jack looked at the brand he recognized it as his uncle's, and he looked at Hugh in perplexity to see what this could mean. For a time Hugh said nothing, and then getting down from his horse, he looked more closely at the brand, and then, re-mounting, said to the boys, "We'll camp right here; over in that bunch of timber." It was but little after midday, and Jack knew that something important must have happened, but he asked no questions, waiting for Hugh to speak. After they had unsaddled, and put up the lodge, Hugh told the boys to picket the three riding horses while he got dinner. Jack had told Joe about the brand, and both boys were a good deal excited, wondering what was coming next. After they had eaten, Hugh filled his pipe and said: "Now boys, I don't know what all this means, but to me it looks as if a gang of horse thieves had been riding our range and had driven off a bunch of horses, and among them some of ours. "I know that three-year-old filly lying over there perfectly well. She had her first colt this spring. It looks to me as if she had been run so hard that it killed her. Maybe she got a chance to fill herself up with water, somewhere back. But anyhow, there she is, and she came from the ranch, and what is more, she never was sold to anybody. She's been driven here, and driven so hard that it killed her. Now I am going to find out, if I can, what this means. I am going to see if I can find this bunch of horses, and see whose they are and who has got them. If they, or any part of them, belong to us, or came from our country, why we'll get them back if we can. Of course if we can't get them back, why they've got to go on. I don't think there are enough horses in Wyoming to pay for the life of either of you two boys; but if these horses have been stolen I reckon we can get them back, and I am mighty sure we'll try. "Now, presently, as soon as the horses have eaten, I am going off on the trail of this bunch. I want you boys to stop right here until I come back, and if I should not come back in the course of three days, I want you to go to the ranch and tell them what you've seen. It will be no trouble to get back home. You'll know when you get to Casper or to Fetterman, and you can cross the river most anywhere there, and then it's pretty nearly a straight shoot south. You and me have ridden enough around the country, Jack, so that you know the principal hills, and I'm sure you'll know Rattlesnake Mountain when you see it. You know where the ranch lies from there. You've got plenty of grub, and it's only a little more than two days hard ride to get home. "But I expect that you'll see me back here about day after to-morrow, in the morning, and then I'll have something to tell you:--either that I haven't found the stock, or else that I have: and what it is; and who it belongs to. "Now, I want some grub--just some of that dried meat. I won't have a chance to kindle a fire while I'm gone, and I've got to ride pretty fast and can't carry much. One thing I must have though, and that is your glasses, son." Jack rose and went into the lodge and brought out his glasses and gave them to Hugh, who opened them, looked at the clasp of the case, and then, shutting it and seeing that the spring was in good order, tied a buckskin string around it. As the sun fell toward the west he sent one of the boys to bring in a horse and said to him, "Let old Baldy stay out there, and fetch the dun; he's stronger, and fatter, and tougher than any of the rest. "Now, boys," he said, after he had mounted, "this next two or three days will be business; you want to forget you're boys, and think that we may have to do something pretty hard and pretty active before long. Don't go off hunting; don't neglect your horses; stay 'round camp, and keep a good lookout during the daytime. If you see anybody coming, get your horses in close and tie them among the trees. Keep your riding horses on picket all the time, and at night keep them pretty close to the lodge." Then he rode off. "Well," said Jack, as Hugh's form grew smaller and smaller in the distance, "what do you suppose this means, Joe?" "I don't know," said Joe, "except what Hugh said. If he finds these horses belong to your uncle, why I expect maybe he'll come back, and we'll have to go up there and kill the man that stole them, and take them back." "Oh, nonsense, Joe, Hugh didn't mean anything like that. Don't you know, he said there weren't horses enough in Wyoming to pay for our lives? That means that there isn't going to be any fighting." "Well," said Joe, "maybe then if he finds they're your horses, we'll have to go up there and steal them, and take them back that way." Jack slapped his thigh with his hand, as he said, "That would be bully, wouldn't it? It would be real fun to steal horses, and have all the excitement of it, and yet know that you were not doing any harm, only getting back your own. "Well, anyway," he continued, "we've got to look out mighty sharp for things, for whatever Hugh said has got to be done. I remember one time when I failed to do as he told me, and I got the worst scare that I ever had in all my life. That was the time when Hezekiah and young Bear Chief caught me in swimming." Joe grinned appreciatively, as he said, "I heard about that a good many times." "I suppose you have," said Jack; "that's always been a good joke on me." CHAPTER XXI HUGH GOES "ON DISCOVERY" Meantime, Hugh was loping fast up the bottom of the Platte, on the trail of the horses. It seemed to him to have been made the day before; and this would agree very well with the length of time that the mare bearing Mr. Sturgis' brand seemed to have been dead. It was not easy to tell, out here in the open under the hot sun and in the dry wind, just when the tracks had been made. An hour or two of hard, fast riding brought him to the point where he had come upon the trail that morning, and he could see, looking ahead, that here it turned off and struck in toward the hills, apparently to go up one of two valleys. There was water in both,--not much down here on the dry bottom, but further back in the hills and among the timber he knew that these streams were running brooks, and that on both there were wide grassy meadows and places very likely to be chosen by people driving a bunch of horses, in which to stop and let them feed and rest. If he had been following Indians who had driven off a band of horses that they had stolen from an Indian camp, he would have gone carefully, for Indians would have left behind scouts who, from the top of some high hill, would have watched the back trail for at least a few hours; but he did not think that white men would do this. He had reason to think that if these were rustlers--horse thieves--they had gone over the range after the horse round-up was over, and gathering these horses, had driven them slowly, perhaps by night, until they had got beyond the last ranch, and then had hurried them along, hoping to get them out of the country without observation. On the other hand, these might not be horse thieves, but might be people who were driving their own stock in a legitimate way, for some purpose of their own; but he could not understand how this should be, and the presence in the bunch of an animal with Mr. Sturgis' brand made him feel that he must investigate. The trail led toward the westernmost of the two valleys, and Hugh followed it. The sun was almost down when he got well into the valley, but he could see that the horses were still going fast, and he hurried the dun along, for he was anxious if possible to find the herd that night. It grew dark rapidly, but still he rode on, galloping fast over the grassy bottom, and going more slowly only when he came to the crossings of streams, or to rocky ground, where his horse's hoofs made some noise. Of course the dun, like all the other horses, was unshod, so that there was no clink of iron against stone, to be heard at a distance. After he had ridden for three or four hours in the dark, he stopped, took off his saddle and bridle, and holding the rope which was about the dun's neck in his hand, let the animal walk about. It took a few bites of grass, and then lay down and rolled three or four times, and then getting up, shook itself. Then Hugh put the saddle on, re-mounted, and went forward. All the time he was looking and listening as hard as he could. He had gone but a little distance beyond this place, when suddenly he heard the whinney of a little colt, and stopped. Taking his horse by the bridle he walked forward, and before he had gone very far saw a horse standing near him, and then another, and presently a number of horses, and knew that he was in the midst of the bunch. He took a long look on every side. The valley here was wide, but on either side he could see the black mountains rising, and he did not know just how far the timber came down into the valley. Now he wanted to find where the camp was, and mounting his horse he took a long look up and down the stream on both sides, and there on his right, and not far off, he detected what he thought was the glow of a fire. Passing on north, until he had gone well above the place where he supposed the camp must be, he tied his horse to a little bush, and then walking over to the edge of the valley, close to the stream, he silently drew nearer to the camp. Before long he was close enough to see the dim light of the fire, and knew that some where near it must be lying the men who had the horses in charge. This was enough for him. He went back, got his horse, and going further up the stream, crossed it, and finding an open place sat down, holding his horse's rope in his hand until the animal had eaten its fill. Then, still on foot, he climbed the mountain, tied up his horse in a thick bunch of brush where it could not be seen, took off the saddle, and after eating some dried meat, went along the mountain side back to a point opposite the camp, and finding a smooth place, lay down, wrapped himself in his saddle blanket, and went to sleep. It was still dark when he awoke, but he sat up, stretched himself, and involuntarily felt in his pocket for his pipe, and then smiled a little as he recollected that now he could not smoke. He folded his blanket, and laid it behind the trunk of a tree, and then very slowly began to make his way down the mountain side toward the camp. Before he had gone far, he began to hear the calls of early waking birds, and to be conscious that in the little patches of sky that he saw from time to time the stars were growing paler. He went very slowly and carefully, feeling his way with hands and feet, never brushing against the branch of a tree, or stepping on a stick which might crack. The men in the camp below were probably fast asleep and would not notice the sounds that he might make, but the matter was too important for him to run any risks. After a time it grew lighter, and presently he could hear below him the rattle of the water as it flowed over the stones; and as it grew more and more light, the dim shadows of the horses in the open, and the dark outlines of the bushes on the stream were seen. The mountain side just over the camp was steep and thickly clothed with spruces, most of them of large size, but with many small ones growing among them. If he had himself chosen a place for these men to camp, he could not have selected one that would have been better suited to his purpose. As the light grew stronger, he worked down closer and closer to the camp, until he was as near it as he dared go. Then he began to look about for a place from which he could see it, for first of all he wished to discover who the men were who had the horses. It might be that this would at once explain the whole matter. After a little manoeuvering he found a place where, through the thin branches of a young spruce, he could look directly down into the camp. There were the ashes of a fire, and not far from it, on the smooth dry grass, were three piles, two of them covered with canvas such as cow punchers commonly use to wrap their beds in, and the other with a gray blanket. He knew that he might now have to wait a long time, and was prepared to exercise patience. He had set his gun on the hillside, against a tree, where it would not fall down, and at the same time would be in easy reach of his hand if he should need it. He sat there for an hour, occasionally looking at the sleeping men, but for the most part studying through the glasses the horses that fed not far from him. After the light grew strong but a glance was needed to see that this was not a bunch of work horses, but was range stock, picked up anywhere. He could see the fresh brands on colts and yearlings, and could recognize some of them without his glasses. Through the glasses these fresh brands, many of which had as yet scarcely begun to peel, stood out very plainly, and in many cases the old brand could readily be distinguished. Besides this, there were many horses which he perfectly well knew, without seeing the brands,--animals that he recognized as occupying the range which he was accustomed to ride over. He chuckled to himself as he saw these, and thought, "My, my, wouldn't Mr. Sturgis and Powell and Joe be hot if they were here;" and then he thought, "I wish they were here, for if they were we could take in these three fellows mighty easy." From what he had already seen Hugh had made up his mind that this was a bunch of horses stolen from the range about the Swiftwater ranch, but he wished to wait a little longer in order to be sure who the men were who had them. After a while, one of the heaps that he was looking down upon stirred, and a few moments later the covering was thrown off, and a man sat up. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, and stretched and yawned, and finally put his hand under the edge of his blanket, pulled out his shoes, and then put them on and stood up. Hugh chuckled as he recognized Red McClusky, a man whom he well knew as living along the railroad. He was a cowboy who had come up from Texas and had worked at odd times on the range, but who spent most of his time in the town, consuming bad whiskey and occasionally disappeared for a few weeks, and then turned up again. McClusky filled his pipe and lighted it, and then going over to the fireplace, began to kindle a fire, at the same time calling out, "Here, get up, you lazy cusses; the sun's high, and we want to get breakfast." Soon after this the other two men sat up. One of them was Black Jack Dowling, another bad character along the railroad, well known to Hugh; but the third was a boy or young man, whom Hugh did not know, with a pleasant but rather weak face, who seemed a little bit afraid of both his companions. Dowling seemed in rather bad temper, and as he walked toward the creek growled at McClusky, asking him why he hadn't let them sleep longer. "We've had an awful hard ride," he said, "and I feel as if I could sleep all day, and all to-morrow too." "Pshaw," said McClusky, "that's no ride; if you're goin' to let a little pleasure gallop like that tire you out, you'd better stick to holding up trains. I feel as fresh to-day as if I hadn't been in the saddle for a week; don't you, Pete?" he laughed, speaking to the young man. "Yes," said Pete, "that wasn't no ride. I guess Jack here aint much used to the saddle." Dowling snarled out "Used to the saddle or not, you don't stir me out of this for two days more." "Well," said McClusky, "it don't make much difference when we go on, but I want to get these horses up north before snow comes, and we've got quite a ways to go. We ought to leave here to-morrow, sure; anyhow, the day after to-morrow." The fire was now burning, and operations for breakfast went on. The coffee-pot and frying pan were brought out from beneath the willows; Pete brought some water, and McClusky cooked, while the other two sat by the fire and smoked. Hugh had now seen enough, and began very slowly to work his way up the mountain. It was not long before he was out of sight and hearing of the camp, and taking up his blanket on the way, he went on up the stream. Gradually descending the hill, he at length reached the valley's level, and spent some time in the willow and alder bushes, studying the horses that were within sight. As nearly as he could figure, there were about a hundred head of horses, and most of them seemed pretty tired. After feeding for some time, they lay down and were seen resting all over the meadow. Returning to his horse, he led him for a long distance up the stream, to a point where the timber on both sides reached out well into the valley, and here crossing a little open spot, which was almost out of sight of the horses below, he turned down the stream, and keeping himself always well back from the valley in the timber, again stopped opposite the camp. From here, for a time he watched. The men loafed about the camp; but toward the middle of the morning the boy walked out among the horses, and catching one that was evidently picketed, took it back to camp, saddled it, and rode up the stream. He was not gone long, and indeed did not pass out of Hugh's sight. His only purpose was to round up the horses, driving those up stream down opposite the camp, and when he had done that he rode down stream and started the animals that were feeding there up to the others. Hugh could now make a close estimate of the number of the animals, and after having counted them a number of times, he made up his mind that there were between ninety and a hundred. Of these three seemed to be picketed, and he took careful note of their location, for he had already made up his mind what he intended to do. After the boy had rounded up the horses he caught A fresh horse, put it on picket and then riding back to the camp, unsaddled and turned loose the horse he had been riding. CHAPTER XXII STEALING FROM HORSE THIEVES Hugh now knew all that he was likely to learn, and starting down stream, still well out of sight in the timber, he kept along the mountain side until the camp had been left two or three miles behind. Then mounting, he passed out into the open valley, and keeping close to its border, rode hard to the Platte River. It was but little after noon when he rode into the Platte bottom, and two hours more brought him in sight of his camp. The boys saw him while he was yet a long way off, and he could see them standing and watching him, and talking together as he approached. As he rode up to the lodge he said, "Well, boys, here I am. Now, I wish you two would go out and catch up old Baldy and your two riding horses, and bring them in and put them on picket. We've got to pack up, too, before very long, and get ready for a quick move and a long ride. When you get your horses we'll have something to eat, and I'll tell you what's happened." Hugh unsaddled, filled his pipe, started the fire, and began to cook some food, for by this time he was pretty hungry. While he was cooking, the boys came in and picketed the horses, and then Hugh said to them, "We'd better get our packs together, and pull down the lodge, and get everything ready for a move. I went up there and found the camp of these fellows. They're horse thieves, all right enough, and they've about a hundred head of horses, most of them Mr. Sturgis', but some are Powell's, and some belong to other neighbors of ours. Of course I could not see the brands on all the horses, but I saw the men that were driving them, and that's enough for me. I don't know, son, if you ever saw Red McClusky or Jack Dowling; but they're the men up there with the horses, with a boy not much older than you two, and I expect they've run 'em off and are going to take 'em up north. "Now, I figure that we can do one of two things. We can go up there and kill those fellows, and drive the horses back, or we can go up there and steal the horses from them, and leave them afoot, and just take the horses back on the range. "I feel some like killing the thieves, but I don't want you boys to be mixed up in anything of that kind; it might be bad for you. I reckon the best thing we can do will be to go up and steal the horses; steal 'em all if we can, so as to leave them fellows afoot. But if they've got sand to follow us, why then we've got to fight; because I know mighty well that they've no right to this property." The boys said nothing for a time, but when Hugh spoke of stealing the horses they looked at each other and grinned, with a delight that they could not conceal. "What are you fellows laughing at?" said Hugh, when he saw them. "This ain't no joke; this is serious business." "That's so, Hugh," said Jack, "but I guess we were both laughing because Joe suggested that if these were horse thieves, the best thing we could do would be to go and steal the horses." "Well," said Hugh, "I reckon that's what we've got to do; but I do hope that we can get 'em all. Now, to do that, we've each one of us got to do his part, and to do it the best way we know how. I'd rather have done it last night than do it to-night, because last night those fellows were tired, and to-night they'll sleep lighter; they may hear the horses walking off; but all the same, I don't believe they will. Now, you boys better saddle your horses, and we'll make up the packs and put 'em all together here, and put hobbles on the pack animals, so that there'll be no time lost in catching them, when we come back. You see, if we have to stop here it'll take quite a time to pack, and if we leave any horses up there for those fellows to ride, they may follow us for a way, and there's no saying what may happen. I don't want either of you boys to get shot, and I'm sure I don't want to get shot myself." After the meal was eaten, the packs were quickly made up, the pack horses were driven in, caught and hobbled, and the afternoon was not half gone when the three were riding back up the valley. Jack and Joe were somewhat impatient, but Hugh checked them. "There's no hurry," he said, "we can't do anything till the middle of the night. Those fellows may sit up round the fire for quite a while, and they might notice if the horses were moving much. I am in hopes that Joe and I can go up there afoot, and cut loose their riding horses, and then just slowly and quietly shove the whole bunch down until we get them well below the camp, and then we can start them at a good gait. There'll be no trouble about keeping them going fast, for we've got plenty of riding horses in the bunch there, and we can change often." The sun had not set when they entered the valley. They followed it up for what seemed to the boys a long distance, but at length Hugh stopped and dismounted, saying, "The camp is only about a mile above here." It was now dark night. Hugh sat down on the ground, holding his horse's bridle, and began to fill his pipe, and the boys sat close to him. "Now," he said, "I am going to take you boys up just where I came down this morning, and we'll get around these horses at the upper end of the valley, and work them down slowly on the other side from the camp. I'll go over and cut loose the horses that are picketed, and then we'll work on slowly until we get down well below this. Then we can go. I don't want either of you boys to shoot unless you have to; and if you have to, I'd rather have you shoot not to kill, but to cripple. If you get a chance, shoot at the man's shoulder, so he can't use his gun. On the other hand, I've heard that Dowling is handy with a gun in either hand. We've got to take some chances, of course. I don't expect we'll see anything of those fellows without we leave them a horse or two. If we do that, why then to-morrow morning they'll come on. You boys keep right close after me, and try to make as little noise as you can. Don't let your horses call. They may want to when they smell the others, but keep them from doing it if you can." Keeping well to the left, and close in under the timber, Hugh rode slowly along, and after a time they saw the light of the fire flickering on the other side of the valley, and occasionally could see shadows passing in front of it. As they moved along, they saw, from time to time, horses feeding, and once rode close to an old mare, whose little colt, not seeing them until they were near, gave a great bound into the air and rushed away for a few yards. Hugh kept on up the valley until it narrowed, going almost to the point where he had crossed in the morning. Then he stopped and said to the boys: "Now get off your horses and lead them. I reckon we're above all the horses, and now we'll go back down stream. Keep on the side away from the camp; keep spread out some; and when you come to any horses just walk toward them and get them to move along slowly. I'll keep out toward the middle until we get down near the camp; then, if the fire's gone down, I'll try to cut loose the horses, and I'll try to push them and all the others down the stream. It may take longer than we think, and you boys when you get down where we went into the timber, on the way up, get off your horses and lie down on the ground together and wait. See that you don't make any noise; see that you don't shoot me; keep your wits about you; and don't get excited or scared." The boys listened without a word. "Now," Hugh continued, "we'll start. Jack, you go over next to the timber, but keep fairly well out from the edge, and try to see all the time that you don't miss any of the horses. Joe, you keep out nearer the middle, and get all the horses you can, and both of you work as slow and careful as you know how." The three separated and set about their task. To Jack it seemed sort of shivery work, being off there alone. He wondered if anything would happen to Hugh or Joe; whether the thieves would find out what was being done, and would attack them; whether Hugh and Joe would meet him down at the end of the valley, and what in the world he would do if they did not. He had not much time for thoughts like these, however, for he had to watch the sky-line of the timber, and to figure how far he was from it; to look out for horses in front of him, and to travel along without stumbling, or running into little low bushes, or doing anything that would make a noise. Before long he saw his first horse, an old mare with a colt. He walked toward her, and as he approached, she began slowly to walk away. Then there were other horses off to his right and to his left, and he walked back and forward across the valley, sometimes seeing that the horses to his left were moving slowly along down the valley, which told him that Joe was doing his work, sometimes coming to a large bunch of brush, around which he had to pass in order to be sure that no horses were hidden there. All the time he kept a good lookout across the valley, to see if he could see the fire of the camp, and at length, after he had gone, as it seemed, a very long way, he recognized, under the opposite hills, a dim glow on the bushes, which told him of a fire burned down. This he was glad to see, because it made him feel sure that the thieves had gone to bed and were asleep. By this time he had in front of him a good many horses, all going quietly and feeding as they went. Now and then two or three would lag behind, and he was obliged to cross over and walk behind them, but they at once started on, and Jack felt pretty sure that, so far as his side of the valley was concerned, the horses had all been gathered. As he approached the place where they had entered the timber he began to hope that before long he would see Joe; and it was not very long after that that he saw one horse lagging behind all the rest, and as he went over to drive it along, he saw that someone was walking by it, and knew that this must be Joe. He wanted to go over and speak to him, but remembering that he had his own horses to look after, he restrained himself and kept on down the valley. At the same time he was glad to be sure that Joe was close by. Now, if only Hugh would appear, he should feel that they were all right. Now the valley grew more and more narrow, and the boys were closer together, and presently, as the horses bunched up to pass through a narrow place between two points of timber, Jack and Joe were almost side by side. "Everything all right, Joe?" said Jack. "All right," said Joe. "We've got a good bunch of horses." "Have you seen anything of Hugh?" said Jack. "No," said Joe, "I ain't seen Hugh, but the horses off to my left are moving along; I reckon he's there somewhere." The words were hardly spoken when suddenly, apparently from a horse that was walking just in front of them, Hugh's voice said: "All right, boys; I believe we've done the trick. I think we can mount now and go ahead. Don't start 'em up yet, we'll go two or three miles further, and then we'll let 'em sail." Both boys were delighted to hear Hugh, and they mounted and crowded close to him. "O Hugh," said Jack, "do you think we got 'em all?" "Well," said Hugh, "I don't know about that, we've got the most of 'em. They may have riding horses cached in the brush somewhere. I was afraid to go right close to the camp, for fear some of 'em might be awake; but I got two picketed horses; there may be one hidden somewhere else; but I don't believe they've got horses enough to ride to-morrow, and I'm almighty sure they haven't got horses enough to catch us." "What time is it, Hugh, do you think?" said Jack. "Well, I don't know," said Hugh, "but it's considerable after the middle of the night. We've got plenty of time to get these horses down to camp, and pack, and start the whole outfit on before it gets day; and pretty soon I'm going to begin to hurry 'em. I want you two boys to drive the horses, and when we get out of the valley, I'm going to ride round them, and go ahead of them and lead them. Keep them going well until you hear me whoop; or if you can't hear me, until you see me. I shall ride pretty hard until we get near the camp, but we must stop the horses before we get there; otherwise they'll frighten our pack animals, and we won't be able to catch them. Now," said Hugh, as they came to a little enlargement of the valley, "I'll go ahead, and you give me a few minutes to get around them, and then start them up. When I hear them beginning to gallop, I'll go just ahead of them, and they'll all follow me." The cavalcade proceeded at a walk for ten minutes more, and then Joe and Jack began to hurry the animals, and before long they were galloping at a good rate of speed down the valley. When they reached the Platte bottom the horses turned off, following the trail by which they had come up, and swung steadily along at a good gait. Now and then Jack recognized, even in the darkness, a place that they had passed before, but for the most part the country all looked strange to him. It seemed as if they had been going for a long time when he thought he heard a faint whoop from in front, and at the same moment Joe called out to him: "Hold on, Jack; drop back. Hugh called, and we must let the horses stop." They drew their horses into a walk, and before long the animals they were driving also slowed down. Then, after a little while they heard Hugh, not far in front of them, calling out: "Come round here, boys, and help catch the pack animals, and put the packs on." They rode through the horses, which had now stopped and begun to feed, and it took but a short time to catch their pack horses, and saddle and pack up. Then turning loose the packs, they all three rode round behind the herd, and started it on again. CHAPTER XXIII "DIED WITH HIS BOOTS ON" It was now growing light, and they drove the horses hard. Hugh rode steadily behind the bunch, while the boys were out on either flank, keeping them straight, and not permitting any lagging. Once they stopped for a little while and caught three fresh horses which Hugh pointed out, put their saddles on them and turned loose their own horses. The morning passed, and it was now the middle of the afternoon. The boys had noticed that Hugh often turned about and looked back up the level valley, and they themselves were also watching the back trail to see whether there was any pursuit. The sun was getting low, when far back up the valley was seen a speck of dust, which gradually grew larger, and underneath it they could see a black spot that was constantly growing nearer and nearer. It was evidently a man on horseback. After they had watched it for some time, Hugh motioned both boys to come over toward him, and riding there side by side in the thick dust kicked up by the hurrying herd, Hugh said to them: "Boys, there's one man coming, and he's on a good horse, and we've got to kill him, I expect. Let these horses stop now, and catch up three other animals and change the packs onto them, and by that time this fellow will be close up to us, and we can see what he wants." They slowed down their horses, the willing herd stopped and began to feed. Jack and Joe rode through it, and one by one caught the pack horses, which they brought back to Hugh. Then Hugh, sitting on his horse, pointed out to them other animals to catch, and they roped them, brought them up, and one by one the packs were transferred to the new horses. The horses did not like it very much, and one or two of them bucked, and to Jack it seemed rather nervous work to be doing this when the approaching horseman kept growing larger and larger, and when, for all he knew, before long bullets would be flying. The work was finished before the horseman was near them, and then Hugh told the boys to start the herd on again. But Jack demurred, and said: "Hold on, Hugh; are you going to stay here and meet this man? I think we all ought to stay, because something may happen." "Well," said Hugh, "I don't like the idea of your stopping. I'd rather have you go on and start these horses. Nothing's going to happen to me; I feel pretty sure of that. I shall be on the ground, and have every advantage over this fellow, if he wants trouble." "Hugh," said Joe, "how will this do: suppose Jack gets off twenty steps one side of you and I get off twenty steps on the other, and we won't do anything unless it looks like you were going to get hurt; then we can shoot." "All right," said Hugh, "if it will make you boys feel any easier; but I tell you nothing is going to happen. If that fellow don't stop when he gets within good rifle shot I'll stop him, and I won't hurt him either. If he's got so much sand that he won't know when a man's got the drop on him, I may have to hurt him, but I don't look to." The man came on; his horse was a great powerful beast and had been ridden hard, for it was covered with dust and foam. When he got within a hundred yards, Hugh dismounted, and stepping out in front of his horse, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and pointed it at the man. The man paid no attention to the motion, save to put his hand behind him and jerk from his holster a six-shooter. He called out something as he came on, but they could not distinguish what he said. "Hands up!" Hugh called; but the man paid no attention, and the distance between the party and the rider grew smaller. "Hands up!" Hugh shouted again, and then a third time; and still the man came on. Hugh fired, and the horse plunged forward on his knees throwing the rider far before him. It was Dowling. He struck on his head and hands and slid a little way along the earth, and then springing to his feet, with his left hand he pulled another six-shooter from his belt; but as he raised it, Hugh's rifle sounded again, and the man fell. [Illustration: "'HANDS UP!' HUGH CALLED."--_Page 268_] "Look out for him, boys! Don't go near him; he's like a grizzly bear; likely to be playing possum." Hugh watched the man with a wary eye, and was not surprised to see him after a moment raise himself on one elbow and feel about over the ground, in the effort to recover the pistol which he had dropped. Hugh had seen it fall, and knowing the man's quickness with the pistol, watched him carefully. In a moment, however, the man sank back and seemed to be breathing hard, and Hugh called to the boys: "Watch him, now, and I'll step up to him and get that gun; I'll be ready for him if he moves." Hugh stepped carefully but quickly forward, with his gun ready, and had almost reached the man, when he moved slightly, and Hugh sprang swiftly to one side, as the pistol was discharged without being raised. In a moment Hugh was on the man, and had taken the arm from him and thrown it to one side. Dowling was badly wounded, and it was evident he could not live long. When his pistols had been secured they did what they could to make him comfortable. Joe went to the river and brought water in his hat, and after a little, Dowling opened his eyes and spoke. "Well, you've got me," he said; "I was in hopes I'd get you. I couldn't stand it to have those horses taken, but I wish you'd taken this one, instead of leaving it for me to ride. However, we made a good try to get the stock, and we would have got it if it hadn't been for you. Where did you come from? We never saw anything of you." "We were just travelling down the river," said Hugh, "and saw the tracks, and I knew there wasn't any reason for a bunch of horses to be driven through this country; so I went back to look up and see what it meant, and I found that you'd got our horses." "Well," said Dowling, "a fool for luck! Anybody else coming through the country wouldn't have paid any attention to that horse trail, but you just had to do it. "I reckon I've got it," he went on; "and I expect it's about time too, but I hate almightily to be downed by an old man. I'd a heap sight rather have had one of them young fellows kill me." "Well," said Hugh, "I expect when a man's time comes, it don't make much difference how he gets killed." "No," said Dowling, "I expect maybe it don't. I always allowed I die with my boots on, anyhow, and here I am." During the few moments that had elapsed since he had received his wound his voice had grown much weaker. He was not bleeding much, but Hugh shook his head as he looked at the wound. "Have some more water, Dowling?" he said. "Yes, a little," said Dowling; but as Hugh raised him up to drink, he began to choke, and in a moment, after a shudder or two, lay dead. "Well, boys," said Hugh, "we've got to bury him, and then move along. Suppose you two go over onto the edge of that bluff and scrape away the clay, as much as you can with your knives, and I'll bring the body over, and put his saddle-blanket over him, and we'll cover him up." It had all happened so quickly, and there had been so much excitement about it, that Jack hardly understood or realized what had happened. He and Joe walked over to the bluff, and scraping away the soft yellow clay, soon made a place six or eight feet long, and presently Hugh came over, carrying the man on his shoulder, and they laid him in his shallow grave. Hugh took off his belt, and looked through his pockets to see if he had any papers by which he might be identified, but found none. They covered him with the earth, and brought flat stones that had fallen down from the top of the bluff, and piled them upon the grave, to protect it from the wolves. Then Hugh went back, and picking up the two pistols that Dowling had dropped, shoved them in the holsters, and holding out the belt to Jack, he said, "You want to wear this, son?" "Why, yes, Hugh, I'd like to have it to remember this day by, though there are some things that I don't much care to remember." "Well," said Hugh, "this is the way things used to be in the far west, but I thought we'd about got through with it by this time. However, some of the old spirit seems to crop out now and then." They mounted, and started the herd along again. They had not gone far before Hugh said, "I want you boys to drive these animals on three or four miles down the creek, and leave them there; but cut out the pack horses, and we'll camp right here." Camp was made in a bunch of cottonwood brush, but the lodge was not put up. The pack horses were hobbled, and then the boys drove the loose horses some distance further down the stream, and returning found the camp dark, but supper ready. "I thought," said Hugh, "that there was just a chance that those two other fellows might follow us down and try to take some of the horses back again; so we had better stop here, without any fire, and with the horses kept close, and make an early start in the morning." Hugh had them up long before day. They built no fire, but ate some dried meat, and started on. The tired horses were found just where they had been left, were pushed along at a good gait all day and crossed the Platte; and the next night they drove them into Mr. Sturgis' ranch to the great astonishment of all there, and later of Powell, and the other men from whom horses had been stolen. Great was the credit received by all three of those who had brought back the stolen horses. Mr. Sturgis gave to Jack and Joe each three good riding animals; and to this day Jack talks of the only horse stealing expedition he was ever on. Transcriber's note: In Chapter I there is the word "Hi d[)a]t sa" which contains an "a" with a breve accent mark above it which is rendered as [)a]. In Chapter II is the word " Ass[)i]ne" which contains an "i" with breve accent mark above, [)i]. 
46906	----	https://archive.org/details/earlywesterntrav30thwa EARLY WESTERN TRAVELS 1748-1846 VOLUME XXX EARLY WESTERN TRAVELS 1748-1846 A Series of Annotated Reprints of some of the best and rarest contemporary volumes of travel, descriptive of the Aborigines and Social and Economic Conditions in the Middle and Far West, during the Period of Early American Settlement Edited with Notes, Introductions, Index, etc., by Reuben Gold Thwaites, LL. D. Editor of "The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents," "Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition," "Hennepin's New Discovery," etc. Volume XXX Palmer's Journal of Travels over the Rocky Mountains, 1845-1846 [Illustration: decoration] Cleveland, Ohio The Arthur H. Clark Company 1906 Copyright 1906, by The Arthur H. Clark Company All Rights Reserved The Lakeside Press R. R. Donnelley & Sons Company Chicago CONTENTS OF VOLUME XXX PREFACE. _The Editor_ 9 JOURNAL OF TRAVELS OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, TO THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA RIVER; MADE DURING THE YEARS 1845 AND 1846: containing minute descriptions of the Valleys of the Willamette, Umpqua, and Clamet; a general description of Oregon Territory; its inhabitants, climate, soil, productions, etc., etc.; a list of Necessary Outfits for Emigrants; and a Table of Distances from Camp to Camp on the Route. Also; A Letter from the Rev. H. H. Spalding, resident Missionary, for the last ten years, among the Nez Percé Tribe of Indians, on the Kooskooskee River; The Organic Laws of Oregon Territory; Tables of about 300 words of the Chinook Jargon, and about 200 Words of the Nez Percé Language; a Description of Mount Hood; Incidents of Travel, &c., &c. _Joel Palmer._ Copyright Notice 24 Author's Dedication 25 Publishers' Advertisement 27 Text: Journal, April 16, 1845-July 23, 1846 29 Necessary Outfits for Emigrants traveling to Oregon 257 Words used in the Chinook Jargon 264 Words used in the Nez Percé Language 271 Table of Distances from Independence, Missouri; and St. Joseph, to Oregon City, in Oregon Territory 277 Appendix: Letter of the Rev. H. H. Spalding to Joel Palmer, Oregon Territory, April 7, 1846 283 Organic Laws of Oregon (with amendments). 299 ILLUSTRATION TO VOLUME XXX FACSIMILE OF TITLE-PAGE, PALMER'S JOURNAL OF TRAVELS. 23 PREFACE TO VOLUME XXX In the wake of the pathfinders, fur-traders, Indian scouts, missionaries, scientific visitors, and foreign adventurers came the ultimate figure among early Western travellers, the American pioneer settler, the fore-runner of the forces of occupation and civilization. This concluding volume in our series is, therefore, fitly devoted to the record of an actual home-seeker, and founder of new Western communities. The significant feature of American history has been the transplanting of bodies of colonists from one frontier to a newer frontier. In respect to the Oregon country, our interest therein is enhanced not only by the great distance and the abundant perils of the way, but also by the political result in securing the territory to the United States, and the growth of a prosperous commonwealth in the Far Northwest corner of our broad domain. In several previous volumes of our series we have witnessed the beginnings of Oregon civilization. Two of our travellers, Franchère and Ross, have graphically detailed the Astoria episode, giving us, not without some literary skill, the skeleton of facts which Irving's masterful pen clothed with living flesh and healthful color; in Townsend's pages we found an enduring picture of the régime of the all-powerful Hudson's Bay Company; De Smet, with faithful, indeed loving, touches has portrayed the vanishing aborigines, whose sad story has yet fully to be told--eventually, when the last vestige of their race has gone, we shall come to recognize the tale as the sorriest chapter in our annals; Farnham shrewdly narrates the sharp transition to American occupancy; but Palmer tells us of the triumphant progress of the conquering pioneer, and in his pages the destiny of Oregon as an American state is clearly foreshadowed. "Fifty-four forty, or fight," the belligerent slogan with regard to Oregon, adopted in the presidential campaign of 1844, was after all not so much a notice to the British government that the United States considered the Oregon country her own, beyond recall, as an appeal to the pioneers of the West to secure this vast inheritance by actual occupation. As such it proved a trumpet call to thousands of vigorous American farmers, most of them already possessed of comfortable homes in the growing communities of the Middle West. "I have an uncle," declared one of the pioneers to Dr. John McLoughlin, Hudson's Bay factor on the Pacific coast, "who is rich enough to buy out your company and all this territory." "Indeed!" replied the doctor, courteously, "who is he?" "Uncle Sam," gayly responded the emigrant, with huge enjoyment in his well-worn witticism. It was at the supposed behest of this same "Uncle Sam" that farms were sold, wagons and oxen purchased, outfits prepared, and long caravans of permanent settlers slowly and painfully crossed the vast plains and rugged mountains lying between the comfortable settlements of the "Old Northwest"--the "Middle West" of our day--and the new land of promise in the Far Northwest of the Pacific Slope. The emigration of 1845 exceeded all that had gone before. That of 1843, eight hundred strong, had startled the Indians, and surprised the staid officials of the Hudson's Bay Company. That of 1844 had occupied the fertile valleys from Puget Sound on the north to Calapooia on the south. That of 1845 determined that the territory should be the home of Americans; it doubled the population already on the ground, reinforced the compact form of government, and laid broad and deep the foundations of new American commonwealths. Our author, Joel Palmer, a shrewd, genial farmer from Indiana, was a leader among these emigrants of 1845. Born across the Canada line in 1810, he nevertheless was of New York parentage, and American to the core. In early life his family removed to Indiana, where Joel founded a home at Laurel, in northwest Franklin County. By the suffrages of his neighbors Palmer was sent to the state legislature in 1844, but the following year determined to make a tour to Oregon for personal observation, before deciding to remove his family thither and cast his future lot with its pioneer settlers. Arrived on the Missouri frontier, he found that the usual wagon train had gone in advance. However, he overtook the great body of the emigrants in time to assist in the organization of the caravan on Big Soldier's Creek, in Kansas. Gathered from all parts of the Middle West, with no attempt at organization nor any pre-arrangement whatsoever, the emigrants, who had not yet forgotten the frontier traditions of their fathers, proved to be a homogeneous body of about three thousand alert, capable travellers, provided in general with necessities and even comforts for the hardships of the long journey; indeed, after the manner of their Aryan forbears in the great westerly migrations of the past, they were accompanied by herds of cattle, to form the basis of agricultural life in the new land. Each of the several hundred wagons was a travelling house, provided with tents, beds, and cooking utensils; clothing and food were also carried, sufficient not only for the journey out, but for subsistence through the first year, always the crucial stage of agricultural pioneering. The draught cattle were largely oxen, but many of the men rode horses, and others drove them with their cows and bulls. Aside from the duties of the nightly encampment and morning "catch-up," life upon the migration progressed much as in settled communities. There were instances of courtship, marriage, illness, and death, and not infrequently births, among the migrating families. These, together with the ever-shifting panorama of sky, plains, and mountains, made the incidents of the long and tedious journey. Occasionally there appeared upon the horizon an Indian gazing silently at these invaders of his tribal domain, and at times he came even to the wagon wheels to beg or trade; the mere numbers of the travellers gave him abundant caution not to attempt hostilities. The wagons were so numerous as to render a compact caravan troublesome to manage and disagreeable to travel with. The great cavalcade soon broke into smaller groups, over one of which, composed of thirty wagons, Palmer was chosen captain. At Fort Laramie they rested, and feasted the Indians, who, in wonderment and not unnatural consternation, swarmed about them in the guise of beggars. Palmer afterwards harangued the aboriginal visitors, telling them frankly that their entertainers were no traders, they "were going to plough and plant the ground," that their relatives were coming behind them, and these he hoped the red men would treat kindly and allow free passage--a thinly veiled suggestion that the white army of occupation had come to stay and must not be interfered with by the native population, or vengeance would follow. From Fort Laramie the invaders, for from the standpoint of the Indians such of course were our Western pioneers, followed the usual trail to the newly-established supply depot at Fort Bridger. Thence they went by way of Soda Springs to Fort Hall, where was found awaiting them a delegation from California, seeking, with but slight success, to persuade a portion of the emigrants in that direction. Following Lewis River on its long southern bend, the travellers at last reached Fort Boise, where provisions could be purchased from Hudson's Bay officials, and a final breathing-spell be taken before attempting the most difficult part of the journey--the passage of the Blue and Cascade ranges. A considerable company of the emigrants, accompanied by the pilot, Stephen H. Meek, left the main party near Fort Hall, to force a new route to the Willamette without following Columbia River. The essay was, however, disastrous. Meek became bewildered, and was obliged to secrete himself to escape the revenge of the exasperated travellers, who reached the Dalles of the Columbia in an exhausted condition, having lost many of their number through hunger and physical hardships. Palmer himself continued with the main caravan on the customary route through the Grande Ronde, down the Umatilla and the Columbia, arriving at the Dalles by the closing days of September. Here a new difficulty faced the weary pioneers--there was no wagon road beyond the Dalles; boats to transport the intending colonists were few, and had been pre-empted by the early arrivals, while provisions at the Dalles would soon be exhausted. In this situation Palmer determined to join Samuel K. Barlow and his company in an attempt to cross the Cascades south of Mount Hood, and lead the way overland to the Willamette valley. This proved an arduous task, calling for all the skill and fortitude of experienced pathfinders. In its course, Palmer ascended Mount Hood, which he describes as "a sight more nobly grand" than any he had ever looked upon. At last the valley of the Clackamas was reached, and Oregon City, the little capital of the new territory, was attained, where "we were so filled with gratitude that we had reached the settlements of the white man, and with admiration at the appearance of the large sheet of water rolling over the Falls, that we stopped, and in this moment of happiness recounted our toils, in thought, with more rapidity than tongue can express or pen write." The distance that he had travelled from Independence, Missouri, our author estimates at 1,960 miles. Passing the winter of 1845-46 in Oregon, Palmer made a careful examination of its resources, and in his book describes the country in much detail. The ensuing spring, after a journey to the Lapwai mission for horses, he started on the return route, arriving at his home in Laurel, Indiana, upon the twenty-third of July. Palmer's experience, although trying, had been sufficiently satisfactory to justify his intention to make a permanent home in Oregon. In 1847 he took his family thither, the emigration of that year being sometimes known as "Palmer's train," he having been elected captain of the entire caravan, also in recognition of his great utility to the expedition. The new caravan had but just arrived in Oregon--now belonging definitely to the United States--when the Whitman massacre aroused the colonists to punish the Indian participants in order to ensure their own safety. In the organization of the militia force, Joel Palmer was chosen quartermaster and commissary general, whence the title of General, by which he was subsequently known. He was also made one of two commissioners to attempt to treat with the recalcitrant tribes, and win to neutrality as many as possible. Accompanied by Dr. Robert Newell, a former mountain man, and Perrin Whitman, the murdered man's nephew, as interpreter, Palmer risked his life in the land of the hostiles, and succeeded in alienating many Nez Percés and Wallawalla from the guilty Cayuse. Thus was laid the foundation of that full knowledge of aboriginal character that availed him in his service as United States superintendent of Indians for Oregon. To this difficult position General Palmer was appointed by President Pierce in 1853, just on the eve of an outbreak in southern Oregon, and his term of office coincided with the period of Indian wars. After pacifying the southern tribes, Palmer inaugurated the reservation system, removing the remnants of the tribes of the Willamette valley and their southward neighbors to a large tract in Polk and Yamhill counties, known as Grande Ronde Reservation. This ended the Indian difficulties in that quarter until the Modoc War, twenty years later. Palmer found the tribesmen east of the mountains more difficult to subdue. Scarcely had he and Isaac T. Stevens, governor of Washington Territory, made a series of treaties (1855) with the Nez Percés, Cayuse, Wallawalla, and neighboring tribes, when the Yakima War began, and embroiled both territories until 1858. During these difficulties the military authorities complained that Commissioner Palmer was too lenient with former hostiles, and pinned too much faith to their promises. Consequently the Oregon superintendency was merged with that of Washington (1857), and James W. Nesmith appointed to the combined office. Retiring to his home in Dayton, Yamhill County, which town he had laid out in 1850, General Palmer was soon called upon to serve in the state legislature, being speaker of the house of representatives (1862-63), and state senator (1864-66). During the latter incumbency he declined being a candidate for United States senator, because of his belief that a person already holding a public office of emolument should not during his term be elected to another. In 1870 he was Republican candidate for governor of the state, but was defeated by a majority of less than seven hundred votes. From this time forward he lived quietly at Dayton, and there passed away upon the ninth of June, 1881. His excellent portrait given in Lyman's _History of Oregon_ (iii, p. 398) is that of an old man; but the face is still strong and kindly, with a high and broad forehead, and gentle yet piercing eyes. One of Palmer's fellow pioneers said of him, "he was a man of ardent temperament, strong friendships, and full of hope and confidence in his fellow men." Another calls his greatest characteristic his honesty and integrity. Widely known and respected in the entire North-West, his services in the up-building of the new community were of large import. Not the least of these services was, in our judgment, the publication of his _Journal of Travels over the Rocky Mountains_, herein reprinted, which was compiled during the winter of 1846-47, and planned as a guide for intending emigrants. The author hoped to have it in readiness for the train of 1847, but the publishers were dilatory and he only received about a dozen copies before starting. The book proved useful enough, however, to require two later editions, one in 1851, another in 1852, and was much used by emigrants of the sixth decade of the past century. Palmer makes no pretence of literary finish. He gives us a simple narrative of each day's happenings during his own first journey in 1845, taking especial care to indicate the route, each night's camping places, and all possible cut-offs, springs, grassy oases, and whatever else might conduce to the well-being of the emigrant and his beasts. The great care taken by the author, with this very practical end in view, results in his volume being the most complete description of the Oregon Trail that we now possess. Later, his account of passing around Mount Hood and the initial survey of the Barlow road, produces a marked effect through its simplicity of narrative. His incidents have a quaint individuality, as for instance the reproof from the Cayuse chief for the impiety of card-playing. No better description of the Willamette valley can be found than in these pages, and our author's records of the climate, early prices in Oregon, and the necessities of an emigrant's outfit, complete a graphic picture of pioneering days. In the annotation of the present volume, we have had valuable suggestions and some material help from Principal William I. Marshall of Chicago, Professor Edmond S. Meany of the University of Washington, Mr. George H. Himes of Portland, Dr. Joseph Schafer of the University of Oregon, and Mr. Edward Huggins, a veteran Hudson's Bay Company official at Fort Nisqually. With this volume our series of narratives ends, save for the general index reserved for volume xxxi. The Western travels which began in tentative excursions into the Indian country around Pittsburg and Eastern Ohio in 1748, have carried us to the coast of the Pacific. The continent has been spanned. Not without some exhibitions of wanton cruelty on the part of the whites have the aborigines been pushed from their fertile seats and driven to the mountain wall. The American frontier has steadily retreated--at first from the Alleghanies to the Middle West, thence across the Mississippi, and now at the close of our series it is ascending the Missouri and has sent vanguards to the Farthest Northwest. The ruts of caravan routes have been deeply sunk into the plains and deserts, and wheel marks are visible through the length of several mountain passes. The greater part of the continental interior has been threaded and mapped. The era of railroad building and the engineer is at hand. The long journey to the Western ocean has been ridded of much of its peril, and is less a question of mighty endurance than confronted the pathfinders. When Francis Parkman, the historian of New France, going out upon the first stages of the Oregon Trail in 1847--the year following the date of the present volume--saw emigrant wagons fitted with rocking chairs and cooking stoves, he foresaw the advent of the commonplace upon the plains, and the end of the romance of EARLY WESTERN TRAVELS. Throughout the entire task of preparing for the press this series of reprints, the Editor has had the assistance of Louise Phelps Kellogg, Ph. D., a member of his staff in the Wisconsin Historical Library. Others have also rendered editorial aid, duly acknowledged in the several volumes as occasion arose; but from beginning to end, particularly in the matter of annotation, Dr. Kellogg has been his principal research colleague, and he takes great pleasure in asking for her a generous share of whatever credit may accrue from the undertaking. Annie Amelia Nunns, A. B., also of his library staff, has rendered most valuable expert aid, chiefly in proofreading and indexing. The Editor cannot close his last word to the Reader without gratefully calling attention, as well, to the admirable mechanical and artistic dress with which his friends the Publishers have generously clothed the series, and to bear witness to their kindly suggestions, active assistance, and unwearied patience, during the several years of preparation and publication. R. G. T. MADISON, WIS., August, 1906. PALMER'S JOURNAL OF TRAVELS OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, 1845-1846 Reprint of original edition: Cincinnati, 1847 JOURNAL OF TRAVELS OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, TO THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA RIVER; MADE DURING THE YEARS 1845 AND 1846: CONTAINING MINUTE DESCRIPTIONS OF THE VALLEYS OF THE WILLAMETTE, UMPQUA, AND CLAMET; A GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF OREGON TERRITORY; ITS INHABITANTS, CLIMATE, SOIL, PRODUCTIONS, ETC., ETC.; A LIST OF NECESSARY OUTFITS FOR EMIGRANTS; AND A Table of Distances from Camp to Camp on the Route. ALSO; A Letter from the Rev. H. H. Spalding, resident Missionary, for the last ten years, among the Nez Percé Tribe of Indians, on the Kooskooskee River; The Organic Laws of Oregon Territory, Tables of about 300 words of the Chinook Jargon, and about 200 Words of the Nez Percé Language; a Description of Mount Hood; Incidents of Travel, &c., &c. BY JOEL PALMER. CINCINNATI: J. A. & U. P. JAMES, WALNUT STREET, BETWEEN FOURTH AND FIFTH. 1847. ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by J. A. & U. P. JAMES, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Ohio. TO THE PIONEERS OF THE WEST, AND THEIR DESCENDANTS, THE BONE AND MUSCLE OF THE COMMUNITY, WHO IMPROVE AND ENRICH THE COUNTRY IN PEACE, AND PROTECT AND DEFEND IT IN WAR, THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT In offering to the public a new work on Oregon, the publishers feel confident that they are performing an acceptable service to all who are desirous of obtaining full and correct information of that extensive and interesting region. The facts contained in this Journal of Travels over the Rocky Mountains were obtained, by the author, from personal inspection and observation; or derived from intelligent persons, some of whom had resided in the country for ten years previously. It contains, as is believed, much very valuable information never before published, respecting the Oregon Territory. Mr. Palmer's statements and descriptions are direct and clear, and may be relied on for their accuracy. He observed with the eye of an intelligent farmer the hills and valleys; timbered land and prairies, soil, grass, mill sites, &c.; all of which he has particularly described. To the man about to emigrate to Oregon just the kind of information needed is given. He is informed what is the best season for setting out; the kinds and quantities of necessary outfits; where they may be purchased to the best advantage, so as to save money, time and useless hauling of provisions, and to promote comfort and prevent suffering on the long journey. {vi} A particular account of Oregon City is given; the number of houses and inhabitants; the number and kinds of mechanical trades carried on; and the prices current during the author's stay there. The objects of natural curiosity on the route--the Solitary Tower--the Chimney Rock--Independence Rock--the Hot Springs--the Devil's Gate--the South Pass--the Soda Springs, and many others--are noticed. The work is enlivened with anecdotes of mountaineer life--shooting buffalo--hunting bear--taking fish, &c. Mr. Palmer made the ascent of one of the highest peaks of Mount Hood, almost alone, and with a very scanty supply of provisions. An extraordinary achievement, when the circumstances under which it was accomplished are taken into consideration. _Cincinnati, January, 1847._ JOURNAL OF TRAVELS OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS Having concluded, from the best information I was able to obtain, that the Oregon Territory offers great inducements to emigrants, I determined to visit it with a view of satisfying myself in regard to it, and of ascertaining by personal observation whether its advantages were sufficient to warrant me in the effort to make it my future home.[1] I started, accordingly, on the morning of the 16th of April, 1845, in company with Mr. Spencer Buckley. We expected to be joined by several young men from Rushville, Ind., but they all abandoned the enterprise, and gave us no other encouragement than their good wishes for our success and safety. I took leave of my family, friends and home, with a truly melancholy heart. I had long looked forward and suffered in imagination the pain of this anticipated separation; but I had not tasted of its _realities_, and none but those who have parted with a family under similar circumstances, can form any just conception of the depth and power of the emotions which pervaded my breast on that occasion. The undertaking before me was arduous. It _might_ and doubtless _would_ be attended with various and unknown difficulties, privations and dangers. A doubt arose in my mind, whether the advantages, which were expected to result from the trip, would be likely to compensate for the time and expense necessary to accomplish it: but I believed that I was right, hoped for the best, and pressed onward. We were favoured with a pleasant day and good roads, which tended in some degree to dissipate the gloom which {10} had weighed down my spirits upon leaving _home_. Our day's travel ended at Blue River, on the banks of which we encamped for the first time on the long and tedious journey before us.[2] _April 17._ Arrived at Indianapolis, in the afternoon, where we expected to meet a number of persons, who had expressed a determination to join the party.[3] But here too, as in the case of our Rushville friends, we were doomed to meet disappointment;--not one was found willing to join us in our expedition. After having had our horses well shod, (we traveled in an ordinary wagon drawn by two horses,) and having laid in a supply of medicines, we put up for the night. _April 18._ We this day had a sample of what might be called the _mishaps_ of travelers--an encounter with a wild animal, the first which we met in our journey. One of our horses becoming lame, we were obliged to trade him away, and received in exchange one so wild, that it required the greatest vigilance and exertion on our part to prevent him from running away with our whole concern. We reached Mount Meridian after a day's journey of about thirty-four miles, during which we succeeded admirably in taming our wild horse.[4] _April 24._ Reached the Mississippi, opposite to St. Louis, having traveled daily, and made the best of our time after leaving Mount Meridian. _April 25._ We made a few purchases this morning, consisting chiefly of Indian trinkets, tobacco, powder, lead, &c. and, soon after, resumed our journey upon the road to St. Charles, the seat of justice for St. Charles county.[5] We reached this place at the close of the day, and encamped upon the banks of the Missouri, which appears to be about as wide as the Ohio at Cincinnati, in a fair stage of water; the current is quite strong; the water very thick and muddy. Here, we overtook a company of Germans, from St. Louis, who had started for California. The company consisted of four men, two women and three children; they traveled with a wagon drawn by six mules, and a cart drawn by two,--a very poor means of conveyance for such a long and tedious route. We traveled the same road until we reached Fort Hall. _April 26._ At nine o'clock A. M. we crossed the river and traveled twenty-eight miles. The surface of the country is somewhat undulating; the soil, though poorly watered, appears to be good, and produces respectable crops. _April 27._ We traveled thirty-one miles. The day was rainy {11} and unpleasant. The country through which we passed is a rolling prairie: some parts of it are very well timbered. On account of the scarcity of springs, the people rely generally upon their supplies of _rain_ water. There we were joined by a clever backwoodsman, by the name of Dodson, who was making the best of his lonely journey to join an emigrating party at Independence; upon his consenting to bear an equal share in our expenses and outfit at that place, we took him in, and traveled together. _April 28._ We started this morning at sunrise, and traveled to Lute creek, a distance of six and a half miles.[6] This stream was so much swollen, in consequence of the recent rains, that we were unable to ford it, and were forced to encamp upon its banks, and remain all day. While there, we were greatly annoyed by the _wood-tick_--an insect resembling, in size and in other respects, the _sheep-tick_. These insects, with which the bushes and even the ground seemed to be covered, fastened themselves with such tenacity upon our flesh, that when picking them off in the morning, the head would remain sticking fast to the skin, causing in most cases a painful wound. _April 29._ We traveled about twenty-six miles, through a gently undulating country: the principal crops consisted of corn, oats, tobacco and some wheat. We passed through Williamsburgh and Fulton. The latter town is the seat of justice for Callaway county.[7] _April 30._ We made an advance of about thirty miles through a well timbered country, and passed through Columbia, the seat of justice for Boone county. The town is pleasant and surrounded by a fertile and attractive country. We made our halt and encamped for the night, five miles westward of this town. _May 1._ We started this morning at the usual hour, and after a ride of eight miles, reached and re-crossed the Missouri, at Rocheport, and continued our journey until night, passing through Booneville, the county seat of Cooper--a rich and fertile county, making in all a ride of twenty-six miles.[8] _May 2._ Passed through the town of Marshall, the seat of justice for Saline county. The town stands upon an elevated prairie, upon which may be found a few groves of shrubby timber. The country upon this [the west] side appeared to be much better supplied with water, than that upon the east side.[9] _May 3._ We traveled about twenty-eight miles, over a thinly-settled {12} prairie country. The crops, cultivated generally by negroes, consisted of hemp, corn, oats, and a little wheat and tobacco. The soil appeared to be good, but the scarcity of timber will prove a serious barrier to a complete settlement of the country. _May 4._ We traveled twenty-three miles this day, through a better improved and pleasanter part of Missouri, than any we have yet seen. The crops appeared well; there were fine orchards under successful cultivation. The country is well timbered, and there appears nothing to hinder it from becoming the seat of a dense and thriving population. _May 6._ Reached Independence at nine o'clock A.M.;[10] and as the main body of emigrants had left a few days previous, we hastily laid in our supplies, and at five o'clock P. M., pushed forward about two miles, and encamped upon the banks of a small creek, in company with four wagons, bound for Oregon. From one of the wagons they drew forth a large jug of whiskey, and before bed-time all the men were completely intoxicated. In the crowd was a mountaineer, who gave us a few lessons in the first chapter of a life among the mountains. At midnight, when all were quiet, I wrapped myself in my blanket, laid down under an oak tree, and began to realize that I was on my journey to Oregon. _May 7._ After traveling about fifteen miles we halted and procured an extra set of horse-shoes, and a few additional wagon bows. The main body of the emigrants is twenty-five miles in advance of us: we have now passed out of Missouri, and are traveling in an Indian country--most of which is a rolling prairie.[11] _May 8._ We started at seven o'clock, A. M. and traveled about twenty miles. Towards evening we overtook an emigrating company, consisting of thirty-eight wagons, with about one thousand head of loose cattle, all under the direction of a Mr. Brown. We passed this company, expecting to overtake a company of about one hundred wagons, which were but a few miles before us. The night, however, became so dark that we were compelled to encamp upon the prairie. Soon after we had staked our horses, a herd of wild Indian horses came galloping furiously by us, which so alarmed our horses and mules, that they broke loose and ran away after them. Dodson and myself pursued, but were distanced, and after running two or three miles, abandoned the chase as hopeless, and attempted to return to the camp. Owing to the darkness, we {13} were unable to find our camp, until the night had far advanced; and when we finally reached it, it required all my logic, supported by the positive testimony of Buckley, to convince Dodson that we were actually there. _May 9._ At daylight, Dodson and I resumed the search for our lost stock. After a fatiguing tramp of several hours, I came upon _one_ of the mules, which being hobbled, had been unable to keep with the herd. Dodson was unsuccessful, and returned to camp before me; during our absence, however, the herd had strolled near the camp, and Buckley had succeeded in taking our two _horses_. Having taken some refreshments, we started again in search of the lost animals. As I was returning to camp, hopeless, weary and hungry, I saw at a distance Dodson and Buckley mounted upon our two horses, and giving chase to the herd of Indian horses, among which were our two mules. The scene was wild, romantic and exciting. The race was untrammeled by any of those arbitrary and useless rules with which the "knights of the turf" encumber their races, and was pursued on both sides, for a nobler purpose; it was to decide between the rights of _property_ on the one side, and the rights of _liberty_ on the other. The contest was for a long time doubtful; but the herd finally succeeded in winning the race, and poor Buckley and Dodson were compelled to yield; the former having lost his reputation as a sportsman, and the latter--what grieved him more,--his _team_; and _both_ had ruined the character of their coursers in suffering them to be beaten. Sad and dispirited, they returned to camp, where, after a short consultation, it was unanimously resolved,--inasmuch as there was no _other_ alternative,--to suffer the mules freely and forever to enjoy the enlarged liberty which they had so nobly won. The day was nearly spent, but we harnessed up our team and traveled four miles, to the crossing of a creek, where we encamped for the night. _May 10._ Re-considered our resolution of last evening, and spent the morning looking for the mules--re-adopted the _same_ resolution, for the _same_ reason, and then resumed our journey. We advanced about eighteen miles through a very fertile and well watered country, and possessing, along the banks of the water courses, a supply of bur and white oak, ash, elm, and black walnut timber, amply sufficient for all practical purposes. In our travel, we crossed a stream called the Walkarusha, extending back from which, about two miles in width, {14} we discovered a fine bottom covered with heavy bur oak and black walnut timber. After passing through this bottom, the trail strikes into a level and beautiful prairie, and crossing it--a distance of four miles--rises gradually to the ridge between the Walkarusha and the Caw, or Kansas river.[12] We encamped upon the ridge, in full view of the two streams, which at this place are from six to eight miles apart. The banks of both streams, as far as can be seen, are lined, either way, with excellent timber: the country rises gradually from the streams, for fifteen or twenty miles, with alternate forests and prairies, presenting to the eye a truly splendid scene. I noticed here almost a countless number of _mounds_, in different directions--some covered with timber, others with long grass. The Caw or Kansas Indians dwell along these streams. Through this part of the route there are _two_ trails, uniting near our camp; the difference in the distance is small.[13] _May 11._ We traveled about twenty miles, and passed a company of twenty-eight wagons. The road runs upon the ridge, which after a distance of ten or twelve miles becomes a broad rolling prairie. As night came on, we came up with the company of one hundred wagons which we were in pursuit of: they were encamped upon the banks of a small brook, four miles from the Kansas, into which it empties. We joined this company. At dark the guard was stationed, who becoming tired of their monotonous round of duty, amused themselves by shooting several dogs, and by so doing excited no small tumult in the company, which after some exertion on the part of the more orderly portion was quelled, and tranquility restored. _May 12._ We traveled about four miles to Caw or Kansas river. This is a muddy stream, of about two hundred and fifty yards in width. We were obliged to be ferried over it in a flat boat; and so large was our company, and so slowly did the ferrymen carry on the necessary operations, that darkness overtook us before half the wagons had crossed the stream. Fearing molestation from the numerous Indians who were prowling about, we were compelled to keep a strong guard around our camp, and especially around our cattle; and when all the preliminaries had been arranged, we betook ourselves to rest; but our tranquility was soon interrupted by one of the most terrific thunder storms that I ever witnessed. It appeared to me that the very _elements_ had broken loose, and that each was engaging madly in a desperate struggle for the mastery. All was confusion in our camp. The storm had so frightened the cattle, {15} that they were perfectly furious and ungovernable, and rushed through the guard, and dashed forward over the country before us: nothing could be done to secure them, and we were obliged to allow them to have out their race, and endeavor to guard our camp. _May 13._ Early this morning we succeeded in finding and taking possession of our cattle, and by noon all our wagons had crossed the river. Soon after we took up our line of march, and after advancing about three miles, encamped near the banks of Big Soldier creek, for the purpose of organizing the company by an election of officers; the officers _then_ acting having been elected to serve only until the company should reach _this place_.[14] It was decided, when at Independence, that _here_ there should be a thorough and complete organization. Great interest had been manifested in regard to the matter while upon the road; but _now_ when we had reached the spot and the period for attending to the matter in earnest had arrived, the excitement was intense. The most important officers to be elected were the pilot and captain of the company. There were two candidates for the office of pilot,--one a Mr. Adams, from Independence,--the other a Mr. Meek, from the same place. Mr. Adams had once been as far west as Fort Laramie, had in his possession Gilpin's Notes,[15] had engaged a Spaniard, who had traveled over the whole route, to accompany him, and moreover had been conspicuously instrumental in producing the "Oregon fever." In case the company would elect him pilot, and pay him five hundred dollars, _in advance_, he would bind himself to pilot them to Fort Vancouver. Mr. Meek, an old mountaineer, had spent several years as a trader and trapper, among the mountains, and had once been through to Fort Vancouver;[16] he proposed to pilot us through for two hundred and fifty dollars, _thirty_ of which were to be paid in advance, and the balance when we arrived at Fort Vancouver. A motion was then made to postpone the election to the next day. While we were considering the motion, Meek came running into the camp, and informed us that the Indians were driving away our cattle. This intelligence caused the utmost confusion: motions and propositions, candidates and their special friends, were alike disregarded; _rifles_ were grasped, and _horses_ were hastily mounted, and away we all galloped in pursuit. Our two thousand head of cattle were now scattered over the prairie, at a distance of four or five miles from the camp. {16} About two miles from camp, in full view, up the prairie, was a small Indian village; the greater part of our enraged people, with the hope of hearing from the lost cattle, drove rapidly forward to this place. As they approached the village, the poor Indians were seen running to and fro, in great dismay--their women and children skulking about and hiding themselves,--while the chiefs came forward, greeted our party kindly, and by signs offered to smoke the pipe of peace, and engage with them in trade. On being charged with the theft of our cattle, they firmly asserted their innocence; and such was their conduct, that the majority of the party was convinced they had been wrongfully accused: but one poor fellow, who had just returned to the village, and manifested great alarm upon seeing so many "pale faces," was taken; and failing to prove his innocence, was hurried away to camp and placed under guard. Meanwhile, after the greater part of the company had returned to camp, and the captain had assembled the _judges_, the prisoner was arraigned at the bar for trial, and the solemn interrogatory, "Are you guilty or not guilty," was propounded to him: but to this, his only answer was--a grunt, the import of which the honorable court not being able clearly to comprehend, his trial was formally commenced and duly carried through. The evidence brought forward against him not being sufficient to sustain the charge, he was fully acquitted; and, when released, "_split_" for his wigwam in the village. After the excitement had in some degree subsided, and the affair was calmly considered, it was believed by most of us that the false alarm in regard to the Indians had been raised with the design of breaking up or postponing the election. If such _was_ the design, it succeeded admirably. _May 14._ Immediately after breakfast, the camp was assembled, and proceeded to the election of officers and the business of organization. The election resulted in the choice of S. L. Meek, as pilot, and Doctor P. Welch,[17] formerly of Indiana, as captain, with a host of subalterns; such as lieutenants, judges, sergeants, &c. After these matters had been disposed of, we harnessed up our teams and traveled about five miles, and encamped with Big Soldier creek on our right hand and Caw river on our left. The next day we were delayed in crossing Big Soldier creek, on account of the steepness of its banks; and advanced only twelve miles through a prairie country. Here {17} sixteen wagons separated from us, and we were joined by fifteen others. _May 17._ We traveled eighteen miles over a high, rolling prairie, and encamped on the banks of Little Vermilion creek, in sight of a Caw village. The principal chief resides at this village.[18] Our camp here replenished their stores; and, although these Indians may be a set of beggarly thieves, they conducted themselves honorably in their dealings with us; in view of which we raised for their benefit a contribution of tobacco, powder, lead, &c., and received in return many good wishes for a pleasant and successful journey. After leaving them, we traveled about twelve miles over a fertile prairie. In the evening, after we had encamped and taken our supper, a wedding was attended to with peculiar interest. _May 19._ This day our camp did not rise. A growing spirit of dissatisfaction had prevailed since the election; there were a great number of disappointed candidates, who were unwilling to submit to the will of the majority; and to such a degree had a disorderly spirit been manifested, that it was deemed expedient to divide the company. Accordingly, it was mutually agreed upon, to form, from the _whole_ body, three companies; and that, while each company should select its own officers and manage its internal affairs, the pilot, and Capt. Welsh, who had been elected by the whole company, should retain their posts, and travel with the company in advance. It was also arranged, that each company should take its turn in traveling in advance, for a week at a time. A proposition was then made and acceded to, which provided that a collection of funds, with which to pay the pilot, should be made previous to the separation, and placed in the hands of some person to be chosen by the _whole_, as treasurer, who should give bonds, with approved security, for the fulfilment of his duty. A treasurer was accordingly chosen, who after giving the necessary bond, collected about one hundred and ninety dollars of the money promised; some refused to pay, and others had no money in their possession. All these and similar matters having been satisfactorily arranged, the separation took place, and the companies proceeded to the election of the necessary officers. The company to which I had attached myself, consisting of thirty wagons, insisted that I should officiate as their captain, and with some reluctance I consented. We dispensed with many of the offices and formalities which {18} existed in the former company, and after adopting certain regulations respecting the government of the company, and settling other necessary preliminaries, we retired to rest for the night. _May 20._ We have this day traveled fifteen miles, through a prairie country, with occasionally a small grove along the streams. _May 22._ Yesterday after moving thirteen miles we crossed Big Vermillion, and encamped a mile beyond its west bank; we found a limestone country, quite hilly, indeed almost mountainous. To-day we have crossed Bee, and Big Blue creeks; the latter stream is lined with oak, walnut, and hickory.[19] We encamped two and a half miles west of it. During the night it rained very hard. Our cattle became frightened and all ran away. _May 23._ Made to-day but eight miles. Our pilot notified us that this would be our last opportunity to procure timber for axle trees, wagon tongues, &c., and we provided a supply of this important material. Our cattle were all found. _May 25._ Early this morning we were passed by Col. Kearney and his party of dragoons, numbering about three hundred. They have with them nineteen wagons drawn by mules, and drive fifty head of cattle and twenty-five head of sheep. They go to the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains.[20] Our travel of to-day and yesterday is thirty-two miles, during which we have crossed several small streams, skirted by trees. The soil looks fertile. _May 26._ Overtook Capt. Welsh's company to-day. We passed twelve miles through a rolling prairie region, and encamped on Little Sandy. _May 27._ As it was now the turn of our company to travel in advance, we were joined by Capt. Welsh and our pilot. The country is of the same character with that we passed through on yesterday, and is highly adapted to the purpose of settlement, having a good soil, and streams well lined with timber. _May 31._ In the afternoon of the 28th we struck the Republican fork of Blue River,[21] along which for fifty miles lay the route we were traveling. Its banks afford oak, ash and hickory, and often open out into wide and fertile bottoms. Here and there we observed cotton wood and willow. The pea vine grows wild, in great abundance on the bottoms. The pea is smaller than our common garden pea and afforded us a {19} pleasant vegetable. We saw also a few wild turkies. To-day we reached a point where a trail turns from this stream, a distance of twenty-five miles, to the Platte or Nebraska river. We kept the left hand route, and some nine or ten miles beyond this trail, we made our last encampment on the Republican Fork. _June 1._ We set out at the usual hour and crossed over the country to Platte river; having measured the road with the chain, we ascertained the distance to be eighteen and a half miles, from our encampment of last night. It is all a rolling prairie; and in one spot, we found in pools a little standing water. Some two miles before reaching the Platte bottom the prairie is extremely rough; and as far as the eye can reach up and down that river, it is quite sandy.[22] We encamped near a marshy spot, occasioned by the overflow of the river, opposite an island covered with timber, to which we were obliged to go through the shallows of the river for fuel, as the main land is entirely destitute of trees. Near us the Platte bottom is three and a half miles wide, covered with excellent grass, which our cattle ate greedily, being attracted by a salt like substance which covers the grass and lies sprinkled on the surface of the ground. We observed large herds of antelope in our travel of to-day. In the evening it rained very hard. _June 2._ Our week of advance traveling being expired, we resolved to make a short drive, select a suitable spot, and lay by for washing. We accordingly encamped about six miles up Platte river. As I had been elected captain but for two weeks, and my term was now expired, a new election was held, which resulted in the choice of the same person. The captain, Welsh, who was originally elected by all the companies, had been with us one week, and some dissatisfaction was felt, by our company, at the degree of authority he seemed disposed to exercise. We found, too, that it was bad policy to require the several companies to wait for each other;--our supply of provision was considered barely sufficient for the journey, and it behooved us [to] make the best use of our time. At present one of the companies was supposed to be two or three days travel in the rear. We adopted a resolution desiring the several companies to abandon the arrangement that required each to delay for the others; and that each company should have the use of the pilot according to its turn. Our proposition was not, for the present, accepted by the other companies. While we were at our washing encampment one {20} of the companies passed us, the other still remaining in the rear. _June 3._ Having traveled about eight miles, we halted at noon, making short drives, to enable the rear company to join us. We have no tidings of it as yet. We met seventy-five or eighty Pawnee Indians returning from their spring hunt.[23] _June 5._ Yesterday we traveled about twelve miles, passing captain Stephens, with his advance company. To-day we traveled about the same distance, suffering Stephens' company to pass us.[24] At noon they were delayed by the breaking of an axletree of one of their wagons, and we again passed them, greatly to their offence. They refused to accede to our terms, and we determined to act on our own responsibility. We therefore dissolved our connection with the other companies, and thenceforward acted independently of them. _June 6._ We advanced twenty miles to-day. We find a good road, but an utter absence of ordinary fuel. We are compelled to substitute for it buffalo dung, which burns freely. _June 7._ We find in our sixteen miles travel to-day that the grass is very poor in the Platte bottoms, having been devoured by the buffalo herds. These bottoms are from two to four miles in width, and are intersected, at every variety of interval, by paths made by the buffaloes, from the bluffs to the river. These paths are remarkable in their appearance, being about fifteen inches wide, and four inches deep, and worn into the soil as smoothly as they could be cut with a spade. We formed our encampment on the bank of the river, with three emigrating companies within as many miles of us; two above and one below; one of fifty-two wagons, one of thirteen, and one of forty-three--ours having thirty-seven. We find our cattle growing lame, and most of the company are occupied in attempting to remedy the lameness. The prairie having been burnt, dry, sharp stubs of clotted grass remain, which are very hard, and wear and irritate the feet of the cattle. The foot becomes dry and feverish, and cracks in the opening of the hoof. In this opening the rough blades of grass and dirt collect, and the foot generally festers, and swells very much. Our mode of treating it was, to wash the foot with strong soap suds, scrape or cut away all the diseased flesh, and then pour boiling pitch or tar upon the sore. If applied early this remedy will cure. Should the heel become worn out, apply tar or pitch, and singe with a hot iron. At our encampment to-night we have abundance of wood for fuel. {21} _June 8._ We advanced to-day about twelve miles. The bottom near our camp is narrow, but abounds in timber, being covered with ash; it, however, affords poor grazing. So far as we have traveled along the Platte, we find numerous islands in the river, and some of them quite large. In the evening a young man, named Foster,[25] was wounded by the accidental discharge of a gun. The loaded weapon, from which its owner had neglected to remove the cap, was placed at the tail of a wagon; as some one was taking out a tent-cloth, the gun was knocked down, and went off. The ball passed through a spoke of the wagon-wheel, struck the felloe, and glanced. Foster was walking some two rods from the wagon, when the half spent ball struck him in the back, near the spine; and, entering between the skin and the ribs, came out about three inches from where it entered, making merely a flesh wound. A small fragment of the ball had lodged in his arm. _June 9._ The morning is rainy. To-day we passed Stephens' company, which passed us on yesterday. Our dissensions are all healed; and they have decided to act upon our plan. _June 10._ Yesterday we traveled fifteen miles; to-day the same distance. We find the grazing continues poor. In getting to our encampment, we passed through a large dog town. These singular communities may be seen often, along the banks of the Platte, occupying various areas, from one to five hundred acres. The one in question covered some two hundred or three hundred acres. The prairie-dog is something larger than a common sized gray squirrel, of a dun color; the head resembles that of a bull dog: the tail is about three inches in length. Their food is prairie grass. Like rabbits, they burrow in the ground, throwing out heaps of earth, and often large stones, which remain at the mouth of their holes. The entrance to their burrows is about four inches in diameter, and runs obliquely into the earth about three feet, when the holes ramify in every direction and connect with each other on every side. Some kind of police seems to be observed among them; for at the approach of man, one of the dogs will run to the entrance of a burrow, and, squatting down, utter a shrill bark. At once, the smaller part of the community will retreat to their holes, while numbers of the larger dogs will squat, like the first, at their doors, and unite in the barking. A near approach drives them all under ground. It is singular, {22} but true, that the little screech-owl and the rattlesnake keep them company in their burrows. I have frequently seen the owls, but not the snake, with them. The mountaineers, however, inform me, that they often catch all three in the same hole. The dog is eaten by the Indians, with quite a relish; and often by the mountaineers. I am not prepared to speak of its qualities as an article of food. During the night, a mule, belonging to a Mr. Risley,[26] of our company, broke from its tether, and in attempting to secure it, its owner was repeatedly shot at by the guard; but, fortunately, was not hit. He had run from his tent without having been perceived by the guard, and was crawling over the ground, endeavoring to seize the trail rope, which was tied to his mule's neck. The guard mistook him for an Indian, trying to steal horses, and called to him several times; but a high wind blowing he did not hear. The guard leveled and fired, but his gun did not go off. Another guard, standing near, presented his piece and fired; the cap burst, without discharging the load. The first guard, by this time prepared, fired a second time, without effect. By this time the camp was roused, and nearly all seized their fire-arms, when we discovered that the supposed Indian was one of our own party. We regarded it as providential that the man escaped, as the guard was a good shot, and his mark was not more than eighty yards distant. This incident made us somewhat more cautious about leaving the camp, without notifying the guard. _June 11._ To-day we traveled ten or twelve miles. Six miles brought us to the lower crossing of Platte river, which is five or six miles above the forks, and where the high ground commences between the two streams. There is a trail which turns over the bluff to the left; we however took the right, and crossed the river.[27] The south fork is at this place about one fourth of a mile wide, and from one to three feet deep, with a sandy bottom, which made the fording so heavy that we were compelled to double teams. The water through the day is warm; but as the nights are cool, it is quite cool enough in the morning. On the west bank of the river was encamped Brown's company, which passed us whilst we were organizing at Caw River. We passed them, and proceeded along the west side of the south fork, and encamped on the river bank. At night our hunters brought in some buffalo meat. _June 13._ Yesterday we followed the river about thirteen miles, and encamped on its bank, where the road between the {23} two forks strikes across the ridge toward the North fork. To-day we have followed that route: directly across, the distance does not exceed four miles: but the road runs obliquely between the two streams, and reaches the North fork about nine miles from our last camp. We found quite a hill to descend, as the road runs up the bottom a half mile and then ascends the bluff. Emigrants should keep the bluff sixteen or seventeen miles. We descended a ravine and rested on the bank of the river. _June 15._ Yesterday we advanced eight miles, and halted to wash and rest our teams. We have remained all this day in camp. At daylight a herd of buffalo approached near the camp; they were crossing the river, but as soon as they caught the scent, they retreated to the other side. It was a laughable sight to see them running in the water. Some of our men having been out with their guns, returned at noon overloaded with buffalo meat. We then commenced jerking it. This is a process resorted to for want of time or means to cure meat by salting. The meat is sliced thin, and a scaffold prepared, by setting forks in the ground, about three feet high, and laying small poles or sticks crosswise upon them. The meat is laid upon those pieces, and a slow fire built beneath; the heat and smoke completes the process in half a day; and with an occasional sunning the meat will keep for months. An unoccupied spectator, who could have beheld our camp to-day, would think it a singular spectacle. The hunters returning with the spoil; some erecting scaffolds, and others drying the meat. Of the women, some were washing, some ironing, some baking. At two of the tents the fiddle was employed in uttering its unaccustomed voice among the solitudes of the Platte; at one tent I heard singing; at others the occupants were engaged in reading, some the Bible, others poring over novels. While all this was going on, that nothing might be wanting to complete the harmony of the scene, a Campbellite preacher, named Foster, was reading a hymn, preparatory to religious worship. The fiddles were silenced, and those who had been occupied with that amusement, betook themselves to cards. Such is but a miniature of the great world we had left behind us, when we crossed the line that separates civilized man from the wilderness. But even here the variety of occupation, the active exercise of body and mind, either in labor or pleasure, the commingling of evil and good, show that the likeness is a true one. {24} _June 17._ On our travel of eight miles, yesterday, we found the bluffs quite high, often approaching with their rocky fronts to the water's edge, and now and then a cedar nodding at the top. Our camp, last night, was in a cedar and ash grove, with a high, frowning bluff overhanging us; but a wide bottom, with fine grass around us, and near at hand an excellent spring. To-day five miles over the ridge brought us to Ash Hollow. Here the trail, which follows the east side of the South fork of Platte, from where we crossed it, connects with this trail.[28] The road then turns down Ash Hollow to the river; a quarter of a mile from the latter is a fine spring, and around it wood and grass in abundance. Our road, to-day, has been very sandy. The bluffs are generally rocky, at times presenting perpendicular cliffs of three hundred feet high. We passed two companies, both of which we had before passed; but whilst we were lying by on the North fork, they had traveled up the South fork and descended Ash Hollow. _June 18._ We met a company of mountaineers from Fort Laramie, who had started for the settlements early in the season, with flat-boats loaded with buffalo robes, and other articles of Indian traffic. The river became so low, that they were obliged to lay by; part of the company had returned to the fort for teams; others were at the boat landing, while fifteen of the party were footing their way to the States. They were a jolly set of fellows. Four wagons joined us from one of the other divisions, and among them was John Nelson, with his family, formerly of Franklin county, Indiana. We traveled fifteen miles, passing Captain Smith's company. _June 19._ Five miles, to-day, brought us to Spring creek; eleven miles further to another creek, the name of which I could not ascertain; there we encamped, opposite the Solitary Tower.[29] This singular natural object is a stupendous pile of sand and clay, so cemented as to resemble stone, but which crumbles away at the slightest touch. I conceive it is about seven miles distant from the mouth of the creek; though it appears to be not more than three. The height of this tower is somewhere between six hundred and eight hundred feet from the level of the river. Viewed from the road, the beholder might easily imagine he was gazing upon some ancient structure of the old world. A nearer approach dispels the illusion, and it looks, as it is, rough and unseemly. It can be ascended, at its north side, by clambering up the rock; holes having been cut in its face for that purpose. The second, or {25} main bench, can be ascended with greater ease at an opening on the south side, where the water has washed out a crevice large enough to admit the body; so that by pushing against the sides of the crevice one can force himself upward fifteen or twenty feet, which places the adventurer on the slope of the second bench. Passing round the eastern point of the tower, the ascent may be continued up its north face. A stream of water runs along the north-eastern side, some twenty rods distant from the tower; and deep ravines are cut out by the washing of the water from the tower to the creek. Near by stands another pile of materials, similar to that composing the tower, but neither so large nor so high. The bluffs in this vicinity appear to be of the same material. Between this tower and the river stretches out a rolling plain, barren and desolate enough. _June 20._ Traveling fourteen miles, we halted in the neighborhood of the Chimney Rock. This is a sharp-pointed rock, of much the same material as the Solitary Tower, standing at the base of the bluff, and four or five miles from the road. It is visible at a distance of thirty miles, and has the unpoetical appearance of a hay-stack, with a pole running far above its top.[30] _June 24._ Since the 20th we have traveled about sixty-two miles, and are now at Fort Laramie; making our whole travel from Independence about six hundred and thirty miles. On the 22d we passed over Scott's Bluffs, where we found a good spring, and abundance of wood and grass. A melancholy tradition accounts for the name of this spot. A party who had been trading with the Indians were returning to the States and encountering a band of hostile savages, were robbed of their peltries and food. As they struggled homeward, one of the number, named Scott, fell sick and could not travel. The others remained with him, until the sufferer, despairing of ever beholding his home, prevailed on his companions to abandon him. They left him alone in the wilderness, several miles from this spot. Here human bones were afterwards found; and, supposing he had crawled here and died, the subsequent travelers have given his name to the neighboring bluff.[31] _June 25._ Our camp is stationary to-day; part of the emigrants are shoeing their horses and oxen; others are trading at the fort and with the Indians. Flour, sugar, coffee, tea, tobacco, powder and lead, sell readily, at high prices. In the {26} afternoon we gave the Indians a feast, and held a long _talk_ with them. Each family, as they could best spare it, contributed a portion of bread, meat, coffee or sugar, which being cooked, a table was set by spreading buffalo skins upon the ground, and arranging the provisions upon them. Around this attractive board, the Indian chiefs and their principal men seated themselves, occupying one fourth of the circle; the remainder of the male Indians made out the semi-circle; the rest of the circle was completed by the whites. The squaws and younger Indians formed an outer semicircular row immediately behind their dusky lords and fathers. Two stout young warriors were now designated as waiters, and all the preparations being completed, the Indian chiefs and principal men shook hands, and at a signal the white chief performed the same ceremony, commencing with the principal chief, and saluting him and those of his followers who composed the first division of the circle; the others being considered inferiors, were not thus noticed. The talk preceded the dinner. A trader acted as interpreter. The chief informed us, that "a long while ago some white chiefs passed up the Missouri, through his country, saying they were the red man's friends, and that as the red man found them, so would he find all the other pale faces. This country belongs to the red man, but his white brethren travels through, shooting the game and scaring it away. Thus the Indian loses all that he depends upon to support his wives and children. The children of the red man cry for food, but there is no food. But on the other hand, the Indian profits by the trade with the white man. He was glad to see us and meet us as friends. It was the custom when the pale faces passed through his country, to make presents to the Indians of powder, lead, &c. His tribe was very numerous, but the most of the people had gone to the mountains to hunt. Before the white man came, the game was tame, and easily caught, with the bow and arrow. Now the white man has frightened it, and the red man must go to the mountains. The red man needed long guns." This, with much more of the like, made up the talk of the chief, when a reply from our side was expected. As it devolved on me to play the part of the white chief, I told my red brethren, that we were journeying to the great waters of the west. Our great father owned a large country there, and we were going to settle upon it. For this purpose we brought with us our wives and little ones. We were compelled {27} to pass through the red man's country, but we traveled as friends, and not as enemies. As friends we feasted them, shook them by the hand, and smoked with them the pipe of peace. They must know that we came among them as friends, for we brought with us our wives and children. The red man does not take his squaws into battle: neither does the pale face. But friendly as we felt, we were ready for enemies; and if molested, we should punish the offenders. Some of us expected to return. Our fathers, our brothers and our children were coming behind us, and we hoped the red man would treat them kindly. We did not expect to meet so many of them; we were glad to see them, and to hear that they were the white man's friends. We met peacefully--so let us part. We had set them a feast, and were glad to hold a talk with them; but we were not traders, and had no powder or ball to give them. We were going to plough and to plant the ground, and had nothing more than we needed for ourselves. We told them to eat what was before them, and be satisfied; and that we had nothing more to say. The two Indian servants began their services by placing a tin cup before each of the guests, always waiting first upon the chiefs; they then distributed the bread and cakes, until each person had as much as it was supposed he would eat; the remainder being delivered to two squaws, who in like manner served the squaws and children. The waiters then distributed the meat and coffee. All was order. No one touched the food before him until all were served, when at a signal from the chief the eating began. Having filled themselves, the Indians retired, taking with them all that they were unable to eat. This is a branch of the Sioux nation, and those living in this region number near fifteen hundred lodges.[32] They are a healthy, athletic, good-looking set of men, and have according to the Indian code, a respectable sense of honor, but will steal when they can do so without fear of detection. On this occasion, however, we missed nothing but a frying pan, which a squaw slipped under her blanket, and made off with. As it was a trifling loss, we made no complaint to the chief. Here are two forts. Fort Laramie, situated upon the west side of Laramie's fork, two miles from Platte river, belongs to the North American Fur Company.[33] The fort is built of _adobes_. The walls are about two feet thick, and twelve or fourteen feet high, the tops being picketed or spiked. Posts are planted in these walls, and support the timber for the roof. {28} They are then covered with mud. In the centre is an open square, perhaps twenty-five yards each way, along the sides of which are ranged the dwellings, store rooms, smith shop, carpenter's shop, offices, &c., all fronting upon the inner area. There are two principal entrances; one at the north, the other at the south. On the eastern side is an additional wall, connected at its extremities with the first, enclosing ground for stables and carrell. This enclosure has a gateway upon its south side, and a passage into the square of the principal enclosure. At a short distance from the fort is a field of about four acres, in which, by way of experiment, corn is planted; but from its present appearance it will probably prove a failure. Fort John stands about a mile below Fort Laramie, and is built of the same material as the latter, but is not so extensive. Its present occupants are a company from St. Louis.[34] _June 26._ This day, leaving Fort Laramie behind us, we advanced along the bank of the river, into the vast region that was still between us and our destination. After moving five miles, we found a good spot for a camp, and as our teams still required rest, we halted and encamped, and determined to repose until Saturday the 28th. _June 28._ A drive of ten miles brought us to Big Spring, a creek which bursts out at the base of a hill, and runs down a sandy hollow. The spring is one fourth of a mile below the road. We found the water too warm to be palatable.[35] Five miles beyond the creek the road forks; we took the right hand trail, which is the best of the two, and traversed the Black Hills, as they are called. The season has been so dry that vegetation is literally parched up; of course the grazing is miserable. After proceeding eighteen miles we encamped on Bitter Cottonwood.[36] _June 29._ To-day we find the country very rough, though our road is not bad. In the morning some of our cattle were missing, and four of the company started back to hunt for them. At the end of fourteen miles we rested at Horse Shoe creek, a beautiful stream of clear water, lined with trees, and with wide bottoms on each side, covered with excellent grass. At this point our road was about three miles from the river.[37] _July 1._ As the men who left the company on the 29th, to look for our lost cattle, were not returned, we remained in {29} camp yesterday. Game seemed abundant along the creek, and our efforts to profit by it were rewarded with three elk and three deer. To-day our cattle hunters still remain behind. We sent back a reinforcement, and hitching up our teams advanced about sixteen miles. Eight miles brought us to the Dalles of Platte, where the river bursts through a mountain spur. Perpendicular cliffs, rising abruptly from the water, five hundred or six hundred feet high, form the left bank of the river. These cliffs present various strata, some resembling flint, others like marble, lime, &c. The most interesting feature of these magnificent masses, is the variety of colors that are presented; yellow, red, black and white, and all the shades between, as they blend and are lost in each other. On the top nods a tuft of scrubby cedars. Upon the south side, a narrow slope between the bluff and river, affords a pass for a footman along the water's edge, while beyond the bluff rises abruptly. Frequently cedar and wild sage is to be seen. I walked up the river a distance of half a mile, when I reached a spot where the rocks had tumbled down, and found something of a slope, by which I could, with the assistance of a long pole, and another person sometimes pushing and then pulling, ascend; we succeeded in clambering up to the top--which proved to be a naked, rough black rock, with here and there a scrubby cedar and wild sage bush. It appeared to be a place of resort for mountain sheep and bears. We followed this ridge south to where it gradually descended to the road. The river in this _kanyon_ is about one hundred and fifty yards wide, and looks deep.[38] At the eastern end of this _kanyon_ comes in a stream which, from appearance, conveys torrents of water at certain seasons of the year. Here, too, is a very good camp. By going up the right hand branch five or six miles, then turning to the right up one of the ridges, and crossing a small branch (which joins the river six or seven miles above the _kanyon_) and striking the road on the ridge three miles east of the Big Timber creek, a saving might be made of at least ten miles travel. We did not travel this route; but, from the appearance of the country, there would be no difficulty. _July 2._ This day we traveled about sixteen miles. The road left the river bottom soon after we started. A trail, however, crosses the bottom for about two miles, and then winds back to the hill. The nearest road is up a small sandy ravine, for two miles, then turn to the right up a ridge, and follow this ridge for eight or ten miles. At the distance of thirteen {30} or fourteen miles, the road which turned to the left near the Big Spring, connects with this. The road then turns down the hill to the right, into a dry branch, which it descends to Big Timber creek, where we encamped.[39] _July 3._ This day we traveled about fifteen miles. Six miles brought us to a small branch, where is a good camp. Near this branch there is abundance of marble, variegated with blue and red, but it is full of seams. The hills in this vicinity are of the red shale formation. In the mountain near by is stone coal. The hills were generally covered with grass. The streams are lined with cotton wood, willow and boxalder. The road was very dusty. _July 4._ We traveled about fifteen miles to-day, the road generally good, with a few difficult places. Two wagons upset, but little damage was done. We crossed several beautiful streams flowing from the Black hills; they are lined with timber. To-day, as on yesterday, we found abundance of red, yellow and black currants, with some gooseberries, along the streams. _July 5._ We this day traveled about twelve miles. Three miles brought us to Deer creek.[40] Here is an excellent camp ground. Some very good bottom land. The banks are lined with timber. Stone coal was found near the road. This would be a suitable place for a fort, as the soil and timber is better than is generally found along the upper Platte. Game in abundance, such as elk, buffalo, deer, antelope and bear. The timber is chiefly cotton wood, but there is pine on the mountains within ten or twelve miles. The road was generally along the river bottom, and much of the way extremely barren. We encamped on the bank of the river. _July 6._ In traveling through the sand and hot sun, our wagon tires had become loose; and we had wedged until the tire would no longer remain on the wheels. One or two axletrees and tongues had been broken, and we found it necessary to encamp and repair them. For this purpose all hands were busily employed. We had neither bellows nor anvil, and of course could not cut and weld tire. But as a substitute, we took off the tire, shaved thin hoops and tacked them on the felloes, heated our tire and replaced it. This we found to answer a good purpose. _July 7._ This day we traveled about ten miles. In crossing a small ravine, an axletree of one of the wagons was broken. {31} The road is mostly on the river bottom. Much of the country is barren. _July 8._ Six miles travel brought us to the crossing of the north fork of the Platte. At 1 o'clock, P. M. all were safely over, and we proceeded up half a mile to a grove of timber and encamped.[41] Near the crossing was encamped Colonel Kearney's regiment of dragoons, on their return from the South Pass. Many of them were sick. _July 9._ We traveled about ten miles this day, and encamped at the Mineral Spring. The road leaves the Platte at the crossing, and passes over the _Red Buttes_.[42] The plains in this region are literally covered with buffalo. _July 10._ To-day we traveled about ten miles. The range is very poor, and it has become necessary to divide into small parties, in order to procure forage for our cattle. Out of the company five divisions were formed. In my division we had eleven wagons; and we travel more expeditiously, with but little difficulty in finding grass for our cattle. _July 11._ We this day traveled about twelve miles. Soon after starting we passed an excellent spring: it is to the right of the road, in a thicket of willows. One fourth of a mile further the road ascends a hill, winds round and passes several marshy springs. The grass is very good, but is confined to patches. Our camp was on a small branch running into the Sweet Water. _July 12._ This day we arrived at _Independence Rock_. This is a solitary pile of gray granite, standing in an open plain. It is about one-eighth of a mile long and some six or eight rods wide, and is elevated about sixty or seventy feet above the plain. On the north-eastern side the slope is sufficiently gradual to be easily ascended. Portions of it are covered with inscriptions of the names of travelers, with the dates of their arrival--some carved, some in black paint, and others in red. Sweet Water, a stream heading in the Wind River Mountains, and entering the Platte, runs immediately along its southern side, leaving a strip of some twenty or thirty feet of grassy plain between the base of the rock and the creek. We encamped two miles above the rock, having traveled about thirteen miles.[43] _July 13._ We traveled about thirteen miles this day. Three miles brought us to the _Gap_, or _Devil's Gate_, as it is sometimes called. The Sweet Water breaks through a spur of the mountain, which from appearance is four or five hundred feet high. {32} On the south side the rocks project over the stream, but on the north slope back a little. The whole mountain is a mass of gray granite rock, destitute of vegetation, save an occasional scrubby cedar or bush of artemisia. From where the creek enters to where it emerges from this _kanyon_ is three or four hundred yards. The water rushes through like a torrent. At the distance of one hundred rods south of this is the Gap, where the road passes; but the rock is not so high. South of this again is another gap, perhaps half or three-fourths of a mile wide. The rocks there rise mountain high.[44] South-west of this is a valley extending as far as the eye can penetrate. As the road passes through this gap, it bears to the right, up the valley of the Sweet Water. _July 14._ This day we traveled about twenty-two miles. The road sometimes leaves the creek for several miles, and passes over a barren, sandy plain; no kind of vegetation but the wild sage. We this day met a party of men from California and Oregon. A portion of those from California spoke unfavorably of that country; and those from Oregon spoke highly of the latter country. On this day's march we came in sight of the long-looked-for snowcapped mountains. They were the Wind River Mountains. On our right is a mass of naked rock; on our left and to the distance of ten or twelve miles is a high range of mountains, mostly covered with timber; whilst in the valley there is no timber, and much of the plain entirely destitute of vegetation. We encamped near the Narrows.[45] _July 15._ We traveled about eleven miles to-day. There are two trails, which diverge below the Narrows. The nearest and best is that to the right up the creek, crossing it several times; they unite again near where we encamped. The road was good, but as usual very dusty. Our hunters wounded a buffalo, and drove him into camp. About twenty men ran to meet him. He gave them battle. They fired a volley that brought him to his knees, and whilst in that position Mr. Creighton (a young man from Ohio) ran across the creek, intending to shoot the animal in the head. When Creighton had approached within ten or twelve feet, the enraged animal sprung to his feet and made at him. Creighton wheeled and "split" for the camp; the buffalo pursuing to near the bank of the creek, where he stopped. By this time others had arrived with guns, and the buffalo was compelled to yield. In the "spree" one of my horses was shot with a ball in the {33} knee; no bones were broken, and he was able to travel, but he was a long time very lame. _July 16._ This day we traveled about twenty-six miles. Four miles brought us to a marshy bottom, where was very good grass. In the centre of this quagmire and near where the road crosses the bottom is a spring of good water. Eight miles brought us to a small stream; but little grass. Six miles brought us to Sweet Water; crossed and left it and struck it again in six or eight miles. The grass here is good. Wild sage was our only fuel. This night there was a heavy frost. _July 17._ Our cattle being much fatigued, we drove but five miles. The road is up the creek bottom, which is mostly covered with grass. A heavy frost: ice formed in buckets one-fourth of an inch thick. We here found the celebrated mountaineer Walker, who was traveling to Bridger's fort.[46] _July 18._ We traveled about twenty-two miles this day. The road ascends the bluff and winds among rocky hills for six miles, passing over ledges that are entirely naked for rods. The appearance of the country is extremely barren. We passed several rivulets where small parties may obtain grazing for their stock. The day has been quite cold. The Wind River Mountains are on our right, about twenty miles distant. They presented a most grand appearance. Huge masses of ice and snow piled up peak upon peak, with large bodies of timber covering portions of the mountains. We viewed the southern termination of this range; but they extend to the north further than the eye can penetrate. The country between us and the mountains is rolling, and much of it apparently barren. Hard frost. _July 19._ This morning we ascended the bank on the south side of Sweet Water. Six miles brought us again to the creek, where is good grass in the bottom and willow for fuel. We crossed, went up the bottom two miles, and crossed back and left the Sweet Water. _This day we passed over the dividing ridge which separates the waters flowing into the Atlantic from those which find their way into the Pacific Ocean._ WE HAD REACHED THE SUMMIT OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. Six miles brought us to a spring, the waters of which run into Green river, or the great Colorado of the west.[47]--Here, then, we hailed OREGON. Here we found a bottom covered with good grass, where we halted until four o'clock, P. M., when we again hitched up and took the plain for Little Sandy. Ten miles brought us to a dry branch, where by digging to the {34} depth of one foot we procured water; but it was brackish, and had a very unpleasant taste. A white sediment, such as we had noticed elsewhere on the road, covered the surface of the ground. Ten miles more brought us to Little Sandy, which we reached at one o'clock in the night, having traveled thirty-one miles. The road was over a barren plain of light sand, and was very dusty. From the spring to Little Sandy there is no vegetation but the wild sage, and it had a withered appearance. The night was cold, freezing quite hard. Little Sandy has its source in the Wind river mountains.[48] Along this stream is a narrow bottom, covered with grass and willows. We are now out of the range of the buffalo, and although not often mentioned, we have seen thousands of these huge animals. There have been so many companies of emigrants in advance of us, that they have frightened the buffalo from the road. We daily see hundreds of antelope. _July 20._ This day we traveled about thirteen miles, to Big Sandy. The road was over a level sandy plain, covered with wild sage. At Little Sandy the road forks--one taking to the right and striking Big Sandy in six miles, and thence forty miles to Green river, striking the latter some thirty or forty miles above the lower ford, and thence to Big Bear river, striking it about fifteen miles below the old road. By taking this trail two and a half days' travel may be saved; but in the forty miles between Big Sandy and Green river there is no water, and but little grass. Camps may be had within reasonable distances between Green and Bear rivers.[49] The left hand trail, which we took, twelve miles from Little Sandy strikes the Big Sandy, follows down it and strikes Green river above the mouth of Big Sandy. _July 21._ We traveled about fourteen miles to-day. Six miles brought us to Green river, or Colorado. This is a beautiful clear stream, about one hundred yards wide, with a rapid current over a gravelly bottom. It flows through a barren, sandy country; occasionally the bottoms spread to a mile in width, covered with grass. There is mostly a belt of timber along the banks of the stream.--Emigrants had been in the habit of crossing the river on rafts. We succeeded in finding a place where, by hoisting up the wagon-beds six inches, we could ford the river without damaging our goods. This was done by cutting poles and placing them under the wagon-beds, and in one hour we were all safely over. We proceeded down the river eight miles, and encamped in a grove near some {35} cabins built by a party of traders. There is an abundance of fish in this stream, and we had great sport in fishing. _July 23._ This day we traveled about fifteen miles. The road leaves Green river near our camp, and passes over a high, barren country, to Black's fork; this we followed up some four miles and encamped.[50] As upon other streams, there is occasionally a grassy bottom with a little cotton wood and willow brush. Snowy mountains to be seen in the south. _July 24._ We traveled, to-day, about fourteen miles, over a barren country, crossing the creek several times. We noticed a number of piles of stone and earth, some forty or fifty feet high, scattered in different directions, giving the appearance of the general surface having been worn away to that extent by the ravages of time and the elements. _July 25._ This day we traveled about sixteen miles, crossed the creek several times, and encamped near Fort Bridger. This is a trading fort owned by Bridger and Bascus. It is built of poles and daubed with mud; it is a shabby concern.[51] Here are about twenty-five lodges of Indians, or rather white trappers' lodges occupied by their Indian wives. They have a good supply of robes, dressed deer, elk and antelope skins, coats, pants, moccasins, and other Indian fixens, which they trade low for flour, pork, powder, lead, blankets, butcher-knives, spirits, hats, ready made clothes, coffee, sugar, &c. They ask for a horse from twenty-five to fifty dollars, in trade. Their wives are mostly of the Pyentes and Snake Indians.[52] They have a herd of cattle, twenty-five or thirty goats and some sheep. They generally abandon this fort during the winter months. At this place the bottoms are wide, and covered with good grass. Cotton wood timber in plenty. The stream abounds with trout. _July 26._ Remained at the fort the whole of this day. _July 27._ We traveled about eight miles, to-day, to Little Muddy. The grazing and water bad. Several bad hills. _July 28._ To-day we traveled about sixteen miles. Ten miles brought us to the Big Muddy.[53] Country barren. Our course is up the Big Muddy, and nearly north. Encamped on the creek. Very poor grazing. This is a limestone country. _July 29._ This day we traveled about sixteen miles. Our course is still up the Muddy. Emigrants would do well to push on up to near the head of this creek, as the grass is good, {36} and there are excellent springs of water. The country is very rough. We saw a few beaver dams. _July 30._ We traveled about twenty-five miles this day. Twelve miles brought us to the dividing ridge between the waters of Green and Bear rivers. The ridge is high, but the ascent is not difficult. From this ridge the scenery is most delightful. In one view is the meanders of Muddy creek. Two companies with large herds of cattle are winding their way up the valley. The bold mountains on either side are very high and rugged. In front and at the distance of twelve miles is the valley of Big Bear river. A ravine at our feet cuts the spur of the mountain, and empties its waters into Bear river. The valley of Bear river is four or five miles wide, with willows along its banks. At a distance beyond the Bear river is a range of high mountains, stretching as far as the eye can reach, their snowy tops glistening in the rays of the sun. The mountains near the trail are rough and have a singular appearance; the earth being of various colors--black, white, red, yellow, and intermediate shades. Occasionally there is a grove of quaking aspen, and a few sour-berry bushes and some cedar. Our camp to-night was on Bear river; the bottom is sandy, and mostly covered with wild sage.[54] _July 31._ This day we traveled down Bear river fifteen miles. The bottom is from two to four miles wide, and mostly covered with good grass. The road excellent. We encamped two miles above Smith's fork. The upper road from Green river comes in two miles back. _August 1._ We traveled fifteen miles this day. Two miles brought us to Smith's fork. This is a bold, clear, and beautiful stream, coming in from the east. It is about fifteen yards wide, lined with timber and undergrowth.[55] In this stream is an abundance of mountain trout, some of them very large. The road leads down the bottom of Bear river three miles to Spring branch, one mile to the Narrows and three miles to the first crossing of Bear river.[56] Here are two trails. The nearest turns to the right up a creek for a mile and a half, crosses the creek and passes over the hill, and strikes the other trail at the foot of Big Hill, six miles from the crossings. The other trail crosses the river, follows up its bottom round the bend for eight miles, to where it crosses the river, then follows down the bottom three miles, and takes up a valley for one mile to the foot of the Big Hill, where it intersects the other trail. This is the most level road, but the other is not a bad one. {37} The hills bordering on Bear river on this day's travel are very high and rugged; they are covered with grass. The bottoms are from one to four miles wide. We saw this day large herds of antelope. We encamped in the bend of the river, near the second crossings. _August 2._ This day we traveled about nineteen miles. Four or five miles brought us to the big hill or mountain. It is about half a mile to the top of the first ridge, and quite steep. The road then turns a few rods to the right, then to the left down a ravine for three hundred yards, and then up a ravine for half a mile to the top of the mountain. We traveled about two miles along the ridge, and then turned to the left down the mountain. It is about one mile to the plain, and generally very steep and stony; but all reached the plain safely, and were truly thankful that they had safely passed one of the most difficult mountains on the road. From the top of this mountain we had a most delightful view of the surrounding country. This is one of the ranges which border this stream. At this place they close in upon both sides so as not to admit of a passage with teams along the river. A road could easily be cut around the point, and save the fatigue of climbing this mountain; the distance would not be materially increased. The valley of Bear river bears off to the northwest, and can be seen a great distance. From the south comes in a broad valley, up which can be seen Bear Lake. A high range of mountains separates it from the river. The outlet of this lake is two or three miles below the narrows made by this mountain.[57] A high range of snow covered mountains can be seen to the southwest. The road strikes the river two miles from the foot of the mountain, at Big Timber. Here is a good camp. Eight miles brought us to a spring branch. The bottom here is wide; a low marsh prevents driving to the river. The grass is good. There is a little timber on the mountains. At Big Timber is a company of trappers and traders attached to Bridger's party. _August 3._ We traveled about fourteen miles, crossing a number of spring branches, coming in from the mountains. These branches abound in trout. The ground, for a strip of about four miles, was covered with black crickets of a large size. I saw some that were about three inches in length, and measuring about three-fourths of an inch in diameter; but the common size were two inches in length and one-half or five-eighths of an inch in diameter; their legs were large in proportion {38} to the size of their bodies. Some were singing on stalks of wild sage; others crawling in every direction. Our teams made great havoc among them; so numerous were they that we crushed them at every step. As soon as one was killed, others of them would alight upon it and devour it. The bottoms are wide, and covered with grass, and the soil looks well. A few patches of snow were seen upon the mountain some ten miles distant. A portion of the mountain is covered with fine timber. The bottoms are rolling. _August 4._ We reached the Soda springs, having traveled about eight miles.[58] The first view we had was of two or three white hillocks or mounds, standing up at different points to the right of the road, and near a grove of cedar and pine timber. One of them is about ten rods long at the base, and three or four rods in width; its elevation is probably twenty-five or thirty feet from the plain in which it is situated. The size of these mounds continually increases, as the water oozes out at different points, and produces a crust which becomes quite hard. The rocks, for miles around, are of the soda formation. Upon these mounds the water is warm. In a small bottom, immediately before reaching the first of these mounds, and about two hundred yards above the road, is a hole about eight feet in diameter; in this is a pool of water, strongly impregnated with soda. I had no means of ascertaining the depth, but believe it to be considerable; at one edge of it the water was boiling and sparkling; it would sometimes swell four inches above the surface. This pool, and others contiguous, affords excellent drinking water; it was cool, and, when sweetened, would compare favourably with any soda water. Just below the mound, and near the grove, is a rapid stream of water, coursing over a rocky bottom, formed by soda. At the crossing of this creek, and below the road, is a morass; and immediately on the bank of the rivulet, is a crevice in the rock, from which a small stream of water issues; this was the best to drink of any I found. After crossing the creek, the distance to the springs generally resorted to is about three-fourths of a mile; they boil up in every direction. Several mounds have been formed, of ten feet in height. The water has found some other passage, and left them to moulder away. The centre or middle of these are concave. The surface of the earth here is some twelve or fifteen feet above the level of the river, the bank of which is of rock, of the soda formation. A grove of cedar and pine timber extends from the river back to {39} the mountain, a distance of two and a half or three miles; the space between the road and the river is covered with grass; but between it and the mountain it is barren of vegetation of any kind. The soda has left a sediment, which is now crumbled and loose, with an occasional mound of ten or twelve feet elevation, but no water running. The river here is about one hundred yards in width, and about eighteen inches in depth, running very rapidly. The soda water is bubbling up in every direction, and sometimes rises six inches above the surface of the river. This bubbling extends for near half a mile. A stream comes in from the north at the western edge of the springs, tumbles over the rocks, and finally into the river. Near where one branch of this falls over the rock (it has several passages where the road crosses it) is a circular basin in the rock, being two feet in diameter at the top, but larger below. It was covered with grass; and, in walking along, I barely avoided stepping into it; whilst at its edge the purling or gurgling of the water, as it boils up, apprized me of its vicinity. The surface of the water is about three feet below the top of the rock. The water is cool, much more so than the water of the springs, and is remarkably clear. Three hundred yards below the crossing of this branch, and immediately on the bank of the river, is the Steamboat Spring.[59] The water has formed a small cone of about two and a half feet in height, and three feet in diameter, at the base. A hole of six inches in diameter at the top, allows the water to discharge itself. It swells out at intervals of eight or ten seconds, and sometimes flows four or five feet in disjointed fragments. It is lukewarm, and has a milky appearance; but when taken in a vessel becomes as transparent as crystal. It produces a sound similar to the puffing of a steamboat, but not quite so deep. It can frequently be heard at the distance of a quarter of a mile. About six feet from this is a small fissure in the rock, which is called the escape-pipe or gas-pipe. It makes a hissing noise, corresponding with the belching of the spring. The gas emitted from this fissure is so strong that it would suffocate a person, holding his head near the ground. To the rear of this, across the road, are mounds fifty or sixty feet in height; these were entirely dry. Up this creek is very good grazing for cattle, but there are found some marshy places contiguous. The bottom upon the opposite side of the river is four or five miles in width, and covered with a good coat of grass. The soil looks good; and if the seasons are not too {40} short, would produce well. The mountain upon the south side is covered with heavy pine timber; on the north side but little timber was observed; what little was noticed consisted principally of scrubby cedars. Antelope found in abundance. The water, in many of the springs, is sufficiently strong to raise bread, equally as well as saleratus or yeast. Were it not for their remote situation, these springs would be much resorted to, especially during the summer months. The country is mountainous, and its altitude so great, that the air is always cool, and consequently must be healthy. Companies wishing to remain for a length of time at the springs, would pursue a proper course in driving their cattle over the river, as good grazing can thereby be had. _August 5._ We traveled about nineteen miles. Five miles brought us to where the road leaves the river, and bears northward through a valley. The river bears to the southward and empties its waters into Big Salt Lake.[60] The range of mountains bounding the north side of the river here comes to within a half mile of it, then bears off to the north, leaving a valley of about seven or eight miles in width between it and a range coming from Lewis river, and extending south towards Salt Lake. The range bounding the south side of the river comes abruptly to the stream at this point, presenting huge and cumbrous masses of basaltic rock, but it is generally covered with heavy timber. At this point two trails are found: one striking west, across the valley, to the opposite side; the other, which is the nearest and best, follows around the point, hugging the base of the mountain for several miles. Two and one half miles distant, and immediately beneath a cliff of rocks by the road side, is to be found a soda pool. A little spring of cool soda water runs out at the base of the rock, and a basin of eight or ten yards in extent, and about two and one half feet high has been formed. Inside of this, is a pool of water;--the material composing the bank around, is of a white color. In a few miles travel, we crossed several spring branches. We then directed our course through the plain for some eight or nine miles, to where we encamped. Our camp was located near a spring branch; but a small quantity of wood was found; grazing was excellent. From where the road leaves the river, the country presents every appearance of having been volcanic at some period. Craters are yet standing in the plain, exhibiting positive evidence of this fact. A large mound has been formed by the lava ejected from this crater. In the centre is {41} a deep cavity; now partially filled, from the falling in of the masses of bank surrounding it. In every direction the eye rests upon fragments of rock, which have been thrown out in a hot and burning condition, many of them melted and united; pieces resembling broken junk bottles or black glass lay scattered over the plain. The valley for ten or twelve miles is covered with stone of this description. In many places the rocks have been lifted or bulged up to an elevation of ten or fifteen feet, the top has been burst asunder, presenting a cavity of eight or ten feet in width, caused by the fragments having been cast out; the depth of the cavity is from twenty to thirty feet, the sides have a black appearance, and exhibit indications of having been burned; at other places the rock had been lifted up, and elevated above the surface of the earth some five or six feet, and about the same in width, having numerous small apertures in it, the centre being concave. The stone forms a complete arch. At other places the rock has been rent, and a chasm of thirty or forty feet in depth and from two to ten feet in width, has been the result. These chasms are about one quarter of a mile in length. The fragments lay in every direction. The country over this plain is rather barren; but at certain seasons of the year, is covered with grass, which during the summer months dies, leaving but little appearance of vegetation. After we had halted for the night, three families who had separated from our company at the Soda Springs, passed us. A few hours had elapsed, and we espied one of their number returning post haste to our camp. When he arrived, he was so paralysed with fear, that it was with difficulty we obtained from him the cause of his alarm. It appeared evident, from his statement, that a party of Snake Indians meditated an attack upon their party. We dispatched a company to their relief, but soon had the gratification to witness the return of their wagons to our camp. It appears that one of their number had marched about two miles in advance of the wagons, when he was discovered by a party of Snake Indians, lurking in the vicinity, who immediately gave him chase, at every step uttering the most terrific yells, and endeavoured to surround him; but as he was astride a fleet American courser, he succeeded in outstripping them, and arrived at the wagons in time to prepare for their approach. The wagons were then in a deep ravine, and could not be seen, by the Indians in pursuit, until within seventy-five yards. As soon as the Indians discovered {42} their proximity to the wagons they commenced a precipitate retreat, and the emigrants rejoined our party. _August 6._ We traveled this day about fifteen miles. The road for seven miles is up the valley; it then takes over the mountain, to the waters running into Snake or Lewis river. The high range of mountains which bears off towards _Salt Lake_, terminates near the road on the left. The road follows a ravine, and winds about among the hills, and thickets of quaking aspen, until it reaches a spring branch, down which it follows, to near Fort Hall. Over the ridge, and for two miles down the branch, there is but little grass found. At the distance of three miles, on our left up the mountain, were several patches of snow. A few of our party brought some of the snow to our camp. _August 7._ This day we made about eighteen miles. For ten miles the road is very good. Along the stream is found willow brush, answering for fuel. The last seven miles is over a sandy plain; it was dry, and very heavy traveling. Our camp was at a large spring of cold water; grazing was very good. _August 8._ We traveled but five miles, which brought us to Fort Hall.[61] This is a trading post in the possession of the _Hudson's Bay Company_. Like the forts on the east side of the mountains, it is built of mud or adobes. (This term applies to sun-burnt brick.) They are of a similar construction. At each corner is a bastion, projecting out some eight or ten feet, perforated with holes for fire-arms. Captain Grant is now the officer in command; he has the bearing of a gentleman.[62] The garrison was supplied with flour, which had been procured from the settlements in Oregon, and brought here on pack horses. They sold it to the emigrants for twenty dollars per cwt., taking cattle in exchange; and as many of the emigrants were nearly out of flour, and had a few lame cattle, a brisk trade was carried on between them and the inhabitants of the fort. In the exchange of cattle for flour, an allowance was made of from five to twelve dollars per head. They also had horses which they readily exchanged for cattle or sold for cash. The price demanded for horses was from fifteen to twenty-five dollars. They could not be prevailed upon to receive anything in exchange for their goods or provisions, excepting cattle or money. The bottoms here are wide, and covered with grass. There is an abundance of wood for fuel, fencing, and other purposes. {43} No attempt has, as yet, been made to cultivate the soil. I think the drought too great; but if irrigation were resorted to, I doubt not it would produce some kinds of grain, such as wheat, corn, potatoes, &c. Our camp was located one mile to the southwest of the fort; and as at all the other forts, the Indians swarmed about us. They are of the Snake tribe, and inhabit the country bordering on Lewis and Bear rivers, and their various tributaries. This tribe is said to be numerous; but in consequence of the continual wars which they have engaged in with the Sioux, Crows and Blackfeet, their numbers are rapidly diminishing. Snake river, which flows within one half mile of the fort, is a clear and beautiful stream of water.[63] It courses over a pebbly bottom. Its width is about one hundred and fifty yards. It abounds in fish of different varieties, which are readily taken with the hook. While we remained in this place, great efforts were made to induce the emigrants to pursue the route to California. The most extravagant tales were related respecting the dangers that awaited a trip to Oregon, and of the difficulties and trials to be surmounted. The perils of the way were so magnified as to make us suppose the journey to Oregon almost impossible. For instance, the two crossings of _Snake_ river, and the crossing of the Columbia, and other smaller streams, were represented as being attended with great danger; also that no company heretofore attempting the passage of these streams, succeeded, but with the loss of men, from the violence and rapidity of the current; as also that they had never succeeded in getting more than fifteen or twenty head of cattle into the Willamette valley. In addition to the above, it was asserted that three or four tribes of Indians, in the middle region, had combined for the purpose of preventing our passage through their country, and should we attempt it, we would be compelled to contend with these hostile tribes. In case we escaped destruction at the hands of the savages, a more fearful enemy, that of famine, would attend our march; as the distance was so great that winter would overtake us before making the passage of the Cascade Mountains. On the other hand, as an inducement to pursue the California route, we were informed of the shortness of the route, when compared with that to Oregon; as also of many other superior advantages it possessed. {44} These tales, told and rehearsed, were likely to produce the effect of turning the tide of emigration thither. Mr. Greenwood, an old mountaineer, well stocked with falsehoods, had been dispatched from California to pilot the emigrants through;[64] and assisted by a young man by the name of McDougal, from Indiana, so far succeeded as to induce thirty-five or thirty-six wagons to take that trail.[65] About fifteen wagons had been fitted out, expressly for California; and, joined by the thirty-five afore-mentioned, completed a train of fifty wagons; what the result of their expedition has been, I have not been able to learn.[66] _August 9._ This day we traveled about eight miles; five miles brought us to the crossing of Portneth. This is a stream heading in the mountains near the Soda Springs, receiving numerous branches in this bottom, and is here about eighty yards in width.[67] From this place, it is one mile to the crossing of a narrow slough, with steep banks. We crossed, and journeyed two miles to the bank of Snake river, where we encamped. Eight wagons joined us at our encampment. _August 10._ We remained in camp. _August 11._ This day we traveled about eight miles; which brought us to within one mile of the American falls.[68] Our camp was at the springs. An island in the river afforded excellent grazing for cattle. The country is extremely barren, being sandy sage plains.[69] _August 12._ We traveled about fifteen miles, which brought us to Levy creek, or Beaver-dam creek, as it is sometimes termed; it is a small stream; its waters flow down a succession of falls, producing a handsome cascade: it has the appearance of having been built up by beaver. The property of the water has turned the material into stone; the water appears to be impregnated with soda; the rocks along the bank are of that formation.[70] The best camp is two miles farther on. _August 13._ This day we traveled about eight miles, to Cassia creek; here the California trail turns off. The road {45} has been very dusty and heavy traveling. The country presents the same usual barren appearance.[71] _August 14._ This day we traveled about fifteen miles, and reached marshy springs; the road has been stony and dusty; the country mostly destitute of vegetation--nothing growing but the wild sage and wormwood.[72] _August 15._ We traveled but eleven miles. The road runs over a sage plain for eight miles, when it crosses the stream from the marsh; no water running, and but little standing in pools. At the distance of three miles the road strikes the river bottom, at the lower end of this, at which place the road leaves it; here was found a good camp. _August 16._ We traveled about twenty-three miles. Four miles brought us to Goose creek. We found difficulty in crossing, and no good location for a camp.[73] After seven miles travel we reached the river; but little grass. Twelve miles brought us to Dry Branch; here also was unsuitable ground for encamping, as the water was standing in pools. The road we traveled was very dusty, and portions of it quite stony; here the river runs through a rocky _kanyon_. The cliffs are sometimes of the height of one thousand feet, and nearly perpendicular.[74] Above the _kanyon_, the river is two or three hundred yards wide; but at this place it is not more than one hundred and fifty feet; and at one place, where there is a fall of some twenty feet, its width does not exceed seventy-five feet. In our march this day I attempted to get down to the river, to procure a drink of water, but for six miles was unable to do so, owing to the steep precipitous banks. _August 17._ We traveled but eight miles. The road lay over a sage plain to the bottom on Rock creek.[75] Here we found a very good camp. _August 18._ This day we traveled about twenty miles. After the distance of eight miles we arrived at the crossing of Rock creek, (in a _kanyon_,) here we halted for dinner, and gave our cattle water. We then took up the bluff, and traveled over sand and sage plains for about twelve miles. When night overtook us we drove to the top of the river bluff and encamped. We drove our cattle one and a half miles down the bluff to the river for water. Here we found a little grass and green brush, but it was not sufficient in quantity to supply our cattle, and we could do no better. We packed water up the bluff to our camp. The bluffs at this place exceed one thousand feet in height; they are of basalt. The road is on a high barren {46} plain; a range of mountains is on our left hard by, and at a great distance on our right another range appears. _August 19._ We traveled about twelve miles. Nine miles brought us to where we pass down to the river bottom; from this point the distance to the river was three miles. A warm spring branch empties itself into the river at this place. Emigrants would pursue a more proper course by encamping on the bottom, near the source of Rock creek, then drive down to where the road crosses in a _kanyon_, then following the road for eight or nine miles to where the road leaves the bluff of the creek and encamp, driving their cattle into the creek bottom. From this place they can drive to Salmon Fall creek, just four miles below our present encampment, follow down this creek to its mouth, where will be found an excellent camp. _August 20._ We traveled about nine miles, reaching the Salmon Falls.[76] Here are eighteen or twenty Indian huts. Salmon come up to these falls: the Indians have an abundance of them, which they very readily dispose of for hooks, powder, balls, clothing, calico and knives, and in fact for almost anything we have at our disposal. The river at this place is a succession of cataracts for several miles, the highest of which does not exceed twelve feet. The grazing was very poor, and the country barren as usual. _August 21._ We traveled about twelve miles; for two miles the road is up a sandy hill, it then strikes a sandy sage plain, over which it takes its course for ten miles. Here night overtook us, as we had commenced our march at a very late hour on account of having lost some horses. Our camp was on the top of the river bluff. It is one mile to water; but little grass was found. This day we found several head of cattle that had given out from fatigue of traveling. Some of the companies had been racing, endeavoring to pass each other, and now they have reached a region where but little grass is found--are beginning to reap the reward of their folly. _August 22._ Our cattle were so much scattered that it was late in the day when we prepared to resume our march. We traveled about ten miles. At night we left the road, and directed our course to the right, down a ravine to the river, where we encamped. Our cattle suffered much for want of food. _August 23._ This morning we turned up the ravine for one and a half miles, and then struck up the hill to the road. Three and a half miles brought us to where the road crosses {47} the Snake river. In coming down to the river bottom, there is a very steep hill. Along the shore of this river was a little grass; there are two islands covered with grass, so that our cattle were soon repaid for their privations heretofore. The difficulties attending the crossing of this stream had been represented as being almost insurmountable; but upon examination we found it an exaggeration. From the main shore to first island there is no difficulty; from first to second island, turn well up, until nearly across, then bear down to where the road enters it. The water is not deep until nearly across, and not then if you keep well up stream. From second island to main shore is more difficult; it is about three hundred yards wide and the current very rapid. Strike in, heading well up for two rods, then quartering a little down until eight or ten rods from shore: then quartering a little up for fifteen or twenty rods; then strike up for the coming out place; the bottom is gravelly. With the exception of a few holes, the water for the first fifteen rods is the deepest part of the ford. The bottom is very uneven; there are holes found of six or eight feet in width, many of them swimming. Those crossing this stream can escape the deepest of these holes by having horsemen in the van and at each side; it is necessary that there be attached to each wagon four or six yoke of oxen, the current being swift; and in the passage of these holes, previously alluded to, when one yoke is compelled to swim, the others may be in shallow water. Great care must be taken that these teams be not beat down too low and pass over the ripple; and to prevent such a casualty, two drivers must attend each wagon. Before attempting the passage of the river all articles liable to damage, from coming in contact with the water, should be piled on the top of the wagon bed. We commenced crossing at eleven o'clock, A. M., and at one o'clock, P. M., we effected the passage of the stream, and were so fortunate as to land our goods free from all damage. We traveled two miles to a spring branch and pitched our encampment. Good grass, wood and water, were procured in plenty.[77] _August 24._ We traveled but six miles. Soon after leaving camp we directed our course up a stony hill; thence over a sage plain to a spring branch.[78] We pursued our way up this branch for one mile, where we obtained good grazing for our cattle; a high range of hills appearing on our right, at the distance of two miles, an occasional grove of pine timber upon them; but, in general, the mountains here are covered with {48} grass; numerous streams issuing from their sides, and pouring their waters in the plain below. There is no appearance of vegetation until you reach the low bottoms immediately along the water's edge. The road traveled to-day was quite stony. The Indians along this road are expert in theft and roguery. A young man having a horse which he had taken much pains to get along, when night approached, staked and hobbled him, that he might not stray off; but at night an Indian stole into the camp, unhobbled the horse, cut the rope, and took him off, leaving the young man undisturbed in his sleep. A few days thereafter, this Indian effected a sale of the horse to one of a party of emigrants traveling behind us. _August 25._ We remained in camp. _August 26._ We traveled about ten miles; our camp was located on a small rivulet, at a quarter of a mile's distance above the road, and near the mouth of the _Hot_ Spring branch. Between the road and the mountain good grazing was found. The river is about eight miles on our left; the space between is a barren, sandy sage plain. _August 27._ We traveled about sixteen miles; one mile brought us to the Hot Springs, near which the road passes.[79] These springs are in a constant state of ebullition. They number from five to six, extending over a surface of two to three yards, all uniting and forming a stream of one yard in width and about three inches deep, running quite rapid. The water is sufficiently hot for culinary purposes. About fifteen rods off, approaching the mountain, which is half a mile distant, are similar springs, the waters of which flow into a reservoir a short distance below. An ox, belonging to our party, appeared desirous to test the qualities of the water afforded by these springs. His owners, seeing his inclination, attempted to arrest his steps, but failed; when he arrived at the brink of one of them, and stuck his nose in, preparatory to indulging in a draught of the delicious nectar, he immediately wheeled, and made the welkin ring by his bellowing; kicking and running, he showed he was evidently displeased with himself. Our camp was on Barrel creek bottom, which is very narrow. _August 28._ We traveled about eighteen miles, crossing several running branches. The road is near the base of the mountain; wild sage and grease wood found in plenty. Encamped on Charlotte's fork, a small branch. _August 29._ We traveled about eighteen miles, which brought us to Bois river, a stream of forty or fifty yards in {49} width, and abounding in salmon; its banks are lined with Balm of Gilead timber.[80] The bottoms here are two or three miles wide, and covered with grass. _August 30._ We traveled about eleven miles. The road is sometimes on bottom, at others, on bluff. The Indians are very numerous along this stream; they have a large number of horses; clothing is in much demand; for articles of clothing costing in the States ten or twelve dollars, a very good horse can be obtained. _August 31._ We traveled about 14 miles. The road pursues its course down the valley of the Bois river. _September 1._ We traveled about thirteen miles. Two miles from camp we crossed Bois river. Some of the bottoms are covered with grass, others with wild sage and grease wood. The road was very dusty. There is not much timber along the stream, but great quantities of brush. _September 2._ We reached Fort Bois. This is a trading post of the Hudson's Bay Company, established upon the northern side of Snake or Lewis river, and one mile below the mouth of Bois river. This fort was erected for the purpose of recruiting, or as an intermediate post, more than as a trading point. It is built of the same materials, and modeled after Fort Hall, but is of a smaller compass. Portions of the bottoms around it afford grazing; but, in a general view, the surrounding country is barren.[81] North of this fort is an extensive plain, which has an extremely unfertile appearance; but, I am informed, that during the winter and spring months it affords good grazing. At this fort they have a quantity of flour in store, brought from OREGON CITY, for which they demanded twenty dollars per cwt., in cash; a few of our company being in extreme want, were obliged to purchase at this exorbitant price. At this place the road crosses the river; the ford is about four hundred yards below the fort, and strikes across to the head of an island, then bears to the left to the southern bank; the water is quite deep, but not rapid; it swam some of our smallest work cattle; the bottom is solid and smooth. We cut poles, and laid them across the top of our wagon-beds, piling our loading on them; answering a twofold purpose--preventing our loading from damage, as also by its weight keeping the wagons steady and guarding them against floating. In about three hours we effected our passage in safety, but few of the goods getting wet. We went up the bottom a half mile, and there encamped; {50} driving our cattle on an island hard by, to graze. Fort Bois is about two hundred and eighty miles below Fort Hall, following the wagon road; but by crossing the river at Fort Hall, and going down on the north side, the distance would be lessened, as the river bears off south, and then north; and judging from the appearance of the country, I think a road may be found, equal, if not better than the one on the south side; and, I doubt not, the grazing will be found better.[82] _September 3._ We traveled fifteen miles, to Malheur, or Malore, as it is sometimes called: here is a good camp. This is a stream of about ten yards in width, having its source in a range of mountains to the southwest, and pursuing its meanderings through a succession of hills, sage and sand plains, and occasionally a fertile bottom, until it arrives at Snake river, into which it empties. A few miles below Fort Bois, its course from its source is north of east. Along its banks, near to where the road crosses it, are a number of hot springs; they are of the same temperature of those between the two crossings of Snake river.[83] Here we met Dr. White, a sub-Indian agent, accompanied by three others, on their way from OREGON to the STATES.[84] At this place are two trails; the fork is in the bottom above the crossing of the creek, and there is a possibility of emigrants pursuing the wrong route. I do not deem it amiss to give some particulars in relation to this road. Mr. Meek, who had been engaged as our pilot, but had previously gone in advance of the companies who had employed him, and who had after reaching Fort Hall, fitted up a party to pilot through to Oregon, informed the emigrants that he could, by taking up this stream to near its source, and then striking across the plains, so as to intersect the old road near to the mouth of Deshutes or Falls river, save about one hundred and fifty miles travel; also that he was perfectly familiar with the country through which the proposed route lay, as he had traveled it; that no difficulty or danger attended its travel. He succeeded in inducing about two hundred families to pursue this route; they accordingly directed their course to the left, up this creek, about ten days previous to our arrival at the forks. _September 4._ We traveled about twenty miles; ten miles brought us to a sulphur spring, and ten miles more to Birch creek, where we encamped.[85] The country is considerably rolling, and much of it barren: no timber found. _September 5._ We traveled about eight miles; three miles {51} brought us to Snake river, and five more to Burnt river. The road is hilly but good; the country mountainous. Here is a good camp. _September 6._ We made about twelve miles. The road is up Burnt river, and the most difficult road we have encountered since we started. The difficulties arise from the frequent crossings of the creek, which is crooked, narrow and stony. We were often compelled to follow the road, in its windings for some distance, over high, sidelong and stony ridges, and frequently through thickets of brush. The stream is about ten or twelve yards in width, and is generally rapid. The hills are high, and covered with grass.[86] _September 7._ This day we traveled about twelve miles. The road exceeded in roughness that of yesterday. Sometimes it pursued its course along the bottom of the creek, at other times it wound its way along the sides of the mountains, so sidelong as to require the weight of two or more men on the upper side of the wagons to preserve their equilibrium. The creek and road are so enclosed by the high mountains, as to afford but little room to pass along, rendering it in some places almost impassable. Many of the mountains viewed from here seem almost perpendicular, and of course present a barren surface. The eye is occasionally relieved by a few scrubby cedars; but along the creek is found birch, bitter cottonwood, alder, &c., in quantity, and several kinds of brush and briars, so impenetrable as to preclude ingress. The road pursues its course through these thickets, the axe having been employed; but it is so very narrow as almost to prevent travel. A little digging, and the use of the axe, united with the erection of bridges, would make this a very good road. At first view this road appeared to us impassable, and so difficult of travel, as almost to deter us from the attempt; but knowing that those who had preceded us had surmounted the difficulties, encouraged us to persevere. It required much carefulness, and the exercise of skill on the part of our drivers to pass along and avoid the dangers of the way. We pursued our route without any loss, with the exception of that attending the breakage of two wagon tongues, done in crossing some deep ravines. We also experienced difficulty in finding our cattle, which had strayed away. Five miles from camp the road turns up a spring branch to the right, which we followed two miles, crossing it very frequently; it then turns up the mountain of the left, until it strikes another ravine. We followed {52} up this for one mile, where water makes its appearance. Here is found a good camp. The road then takes to the left up the hill, and then down to a dry branch: here is a good camp, one mile to running water. This portion of the road is solid and of good travel. _September 8._ This day we traveled about fourteen miles. Two miles brought us to the creek again; the bottom here is of some extent. We followed this bottom for the distance of one mile; the road then led up the right hand branch, crossing several small branches, taking up a ravine to the left over a ridge, until it reaches the fork of the river; pursues its route up this river some six or seven miles, crossing it twice, then directs its course to the right, through a narrow ravine over the mountain, then strikes Dry Branch; we followed up this branch to running water, and near to a scrubby pine; here we encamped. The road has been solid and good. The hills and valleys appear well covered with grass. _September 9._ This day we traveled about sixteen miles. The road runs up the branch for one mile, then turns to the left over the hill, pursuing a very winding course for some thirteen miles, until it reaches a slough in Powder river bottoms. Powder river is a stream of some eight or ten yards in width, having its source in the high range of mountains on our left, which mountains in many places are covered with snow.[87] An abundance of pine timber is found covering the sides of these mountains, sometimes extending far down into the bottoms, which here are between six and seven miles in width. The soil is fertile and would undoubtedly yield abundantly. To our right, at the distance of fifteen or twenty miles, is presented a high range of mountains, their base covered with grass, their sides with heavy pine timber. At their summit they are entirely destitute of vegetation: some of these are very lofty, their peaks present a very lustrous appearance, resembling the snow mountains. This shining, dazzling appearance they possess, is derived I think from the material of which they are composed, being a kind of white clay. The valley between Powder river and this range is very rolling, portions of it covered with wild sage. Wild fowl abound in this valley. _September 10._ This day we traveled about ten miles; our course was down the valley of Powder river; eight miles brought us to the crossing of the same, one mile to the middle {53} fork, and one to the third fork. There is good ground for encampments at any point along these streams. At our camp we were visited by an Indian chief of the tribe Caäguas,[88] accompanied by his son. He was of a friendly disposition; his object in visiting us was principally to barter for cattle; he had in his possession thirty or more horses. _September 11._ This day we traveled about twelve miles; for the first five or six miles, the road was quite level and good, it then follows a ridge dividing Powder river and Grand Round; this portion of the road is very uneven and stony. The road leading down into the valley of Grand Round, is circuitous, and its difficulty of travel enhanced by its roughness; it is about one and a half miles in length, to where it reaches the bottom. Grand Round is a valley, whose average width does not exceed twenty miles, and is about thirty miles in length; a stream of water of some twenty yards in width passes through this valley, receiving considerable addition to its volume from the many rivulets that pour down their waters from the mountains, by which this valley is enclosed. The bottoms are of rich friable earth, and afford grass of various kinds, among others that of red clover. There is a root here found in great abundance, and known as the _camas_, which is held in high repute by the Indians for some medicinal qualities it is thought to possess; wild flax and a variety of other plants grow in luxuriance, like to those I have observed in the western prairies.[89] The streams are generally lined with timber, and abound in salmon and other varieties of fish. Upon the sides of the mountains and extending down into the valley are found beautiful groves of yellow pine timber. These mountains are places of resort for bear, deer, and elk. This bottom affords an excellent situation for a settlement, possessing more advantages in that respect, than any found since our departure from the lower Platte river. North of this and at the distance of about twenty miles, is another valley, similar in appearance to this, but of greater extent.[90] The streams having their course through this valley empty into Lewis river, which is eighty or ninety miles to the north. Our camp was at the foot of the hill, convenient to a spring branch. At twilight we were visited by four or five of the Caäguas, the tribe alluded to previously. An incident quite worthy of note, occurred at this place. The {54} chief (Aliquot by name)[91] who had joined us at our other encampment, and had pursued this day's journey in company, had pitched his tent some three hundred yards to the rear of our camp. In the evening, in strolling about the camp, I came near his tent, and entered with the intention of employing his squaw in the soling of my moccasins; while she was engaged in this employment, a conversation had sprung up between the old chief and myself, in which he took occasion to ask me if I were a christian, as also whether there were many upon the road; to which questions I of course answered in the affirmative, supposing that he merely wished to know, whether I classed myself with the heathen or christians. On my return to our camp, some one of our party proposed that we should while away an hour or so, in a game at cards, which was readily assented to. We had but engaged in our amusement, when the old chief Aliquot made his appearance, holding a small stick in his hand; he stood transfixed for a moment, and then advanced to me, raising his hand, which held the stick in the act of chastising me, and gently taking me by the arm, said "Captain--Captain--no good; no good." You may guess my astonishment, at being thus lectured by a "wild and untutored savage," twenty five hundred miles from a civilized land. I inwardly resolved to abandon card playing forever. _September 12._ This day we traveled about seven miles; the road runs across the upper end of Grand round, to a small spring branch, when it again ascends the mountains. At this spring branch we pitched our camp, and while here, were visited by great numbers of Indians, including men, squaws, and papooses. These Indians have decidedly a better appearance than any I have met; tall and athletic in form, and of great symmetry of person; they are generally well clad, and observe pride in personal cleanliness. They brought wheat, corn, potatoes, peas, pumpkins, fish, &c. which they were anxious to dispose of for cloths, calico, napkins and other articles of wearing apparel; they also had dressed deer skins and moccasins; they had good horses, which they offered in exchange for cows and heifers; they would gladly exchange a horse for a cow, esteeming the cow as of equal value. They remained with us throughout the day, and when evening approached returned to their lodges along the river two miles distant. I noticed a few of the Nez Percés (Pierced Noses) tribe of Indians among them.[92] Both of these tribes are under the influence and control of two Presbyterian missionaries, Dr. {55} Whitman and Mr. Spalding, who have resided among them for the last ten years; the former among the Caäguas, which inhabit the country bordering on Wallawalla river and its tributaries, the Blue mountains and Grand round: the latter among the Nez Percés who inhabit the country lying along Lewis river, and its tributaries, from the eastern base of the Blue mountains to the Columbia river.[93] These missionary establishments are of a like character to those farther north. As I shall have occasion to speak of these missionaries, as also the beneficial results which have flowed from their residence among the savages, I will return to my travels. Some of our party becoming scant of provision, started for Dr. Whitman's, the missionary establishment referred to above, intending to rejoin us at Umatillo river, my old friend Aliquot generously proffered his services as pilot for them, which were readily accepted. _September 13._ This day we traveled about seven miles. From Grand Round the road ascends the Blue mountains, and for two miles is quite steep and precipitous; and to such an extent, as to require six yoke of oxen, or more, to be attached to a wagon; from the summit of these mountains is presented a rolling country for some four miles, alternately prairie and groves of yellow pine timber. In the prairie the grass is quite dry, but among the groves of timber it is green and flourishing. The road is very stony; at the end of four miles it takes down the mountain to Grand Round river, one mile in distance; it then crosses. Here is another bottom covered with grass and bushes, where we pitched our encampment. It is a remarkable circumstance that when individuals are engaged in conversation, their voices can be heard distinctly at a quarter of a mile distance; the discharge of a gun resembles that of a cannon, and is echoed from hill to hill, the reverberations continuing for some length of time. _September 14._ This day we traveled about ten miles. The road ascended the mountain for one and a half or two miles, then wound along the ridge crossing many deep ravines, and pursuing its route over high craggy rocks; sometimes directing its course over an open plain, at others through thick groves of timber, winding among fallen trees and logs, by which the road was encumbered. The scenery is grand and beautiful, and cannot be surpassed; the country to a great distance is rough in the extreme. It may strictly be termed a timber country, although many small prairies are dotted over its surface. {56} The valleys are beautiful and the soil presents a very rich appearance. We encamped in an opening, on the south side of a range of mountains running to the north, and found water in plenty in the bottom of the ravine, on our left, about one fourth of a mile from the road. The timber growing in this region is principally yellow pine, spruce, balsam fir, and hemlock; among the bushes I noticed laurel. _September 15._ This day we traveled about nine miles, over the main ridge of the Blue Mountains. It is mostly a timbered country through which we passed; the scenery is delightful, resembling in grandeur that presented on yesterday's travel.[94] We had a fine view of the Cascade Mountains to the west. Mount Hood, the loftiest of these, was plain to the view. It was some one hundred and fifty miles distant, and being covered with snow, appeared as a white cloud rising above those surrounding it. To the north of Mount Hood, and north of the Columbia, is seen Mount Saint Helen. We halted for the night at Lee's encampment.[95] _September 16._ We traveled about sixteen miles this day, which brought us to Umatillo river. Here is an Indian town, the residence of the principal chiefs of the Caäguas.[96] At this time they were mostly in the mountains hunting. The road has been good; the first twelve miles led us through a well timbered country, the last four miles over prairie; the country has a dry appearance; the banks of the streams are lined with cottonwood, balm of gilead, choke cherries and every variety of bushes. The Indians have a few cultivated fields along this stream; they raise wheat, corn, potatoes, peas and a variety of vegetables. After the planting of crops, the labour of tending devolves upon the squaws, or is done by slaves, of which they have a number, being captives taken in their expeditions against other tribes. They brought us the different products of their farms for traffic. As they expressed great eagerness to obtain clothes, and we had a like desire to obtain vegetables, a brisk traffic was continued until dark. On yesterday morning when about ready to start, we discovered that eight or ten of our work cattle were missing. Four of our number, myself included, remained to hunt them up. In our search we rambled over the mountains for several miles, and at night found them about three miles from camp; we then followed the road and arrived at Lee's encampment just after dark. This morning an ox, a mule and a horse were missing. Three of us remained to hunt for them. We searched the prairies and {57} thickets for miles around, but were unsuccessful. We then pursued the road to Umatillo, which we reached at night. _September 17._ At eight o'clock this morning, the men who had left us at Grand Round for Dr. Whitman's station, rejoined us, accompanied by the doctor and his lady.[97] They came in a two horse wagon, bringing with them a plentiful supply of flour, meal and potatoes. After our party had taken some refreshment, the march was resumed; our visitors accompanying us to our camp four miles down the river. Our present location affords but little grazing. The doctor and lady remained with us during the day; he took occasion to inform us of the many incidents that marked his ten years' sojourn in this wilderness region, of a highly interesting character. Among other things, he related that during his residence in this country, he had been reduced to such necessity for want of food, as to be compelled to slay his horse; stating that within that period, no less than thirty-two horses had been served up at his table. It appears that the soil has never been cultivated until within a few years back; but at this time, so much attention is given to the culture of the soil, which yields abundantly, that the privations of famine, or even scarcity, will probably not again recur. The condition of the savages has been greatly ameliorated and their improvement is chiefly attributable to the missionary residents. They have a good stock of cattle, hogs, sheep, &c., and raise an amount of grain not only sufficient to supply their own wants, but affords a surplus. These tribes differ in their appearance and customs from any we have met. They recognise the change which has taken place, and are not ignorant that it has been effected by the efforts and labor of the missionaries. On the other hand, they acknowledge the benefits derived by yielding to their instructions. They have embraced the Christian religion, and appear devout in their espousal of Christian doctrines. The entire time of the missionaries is devoted to the cause for which they have forsaken their friends and kindred; they have left the comforts of home, and those places which have been endeared by early associations, for the wild wilderness and the habitation of the savage, prompted by those principles of charity and benevolence which the Christian religion always inculcates. Their privations and trials have been great, but they have borne them with humility and meekness, and the fruits of their devotion are now manifest; and if any class of people deserve well of their country, or are entitled to the thanks of {58} a christian community, it is the missionaries. Having no family of their own, they generously take families of orphan children, raise and educate them in a manner that is worthy of all commendation.[98] _September 18._ This morning, after breakfast, our worthy guests left us and we took up our line of march, traveling down the Umatillo valley for some twelve miles, crossing the _stream_ twice. The road then takes up the bluff to the right, over a high grassy plain. Our encampment was pitched on the bluff on the left of the road. The water required at camp, was packed about one and a half miles, being procured at the base of the bluffs, up which we had to climb. The country is very rolling, covered with dry grass; it is mostly prairie. From this point two snowy peaks appear in view, as also the great valley of the Columbia; in truth it may be said that our present location is in that valley, although it is generally termed the middle region. _September 19._ This day we traveled about ten miles. Eight miles brought us to the river; we followed the banks of the river for two miles, and encamped; good grazing is found. The stream as usual is lined with timber, but with this exception, it is a rolling prairie as far as can be seen, extending to the north and south, and bounded on the east and west by the Blue and Cascade mountains. Whilst at this camp, we were visited by the Wallawalla Indians; they reside along the lower part of the Wallawalla, the low bottoms of the Umatillo and the Columbia, from the mouth of Lewis river for one hundred miles south. They furnished us with potatoes and venison. In their personal appearance they are much inferior to the Caäguas, and want the cleanliness that characterizes that tribe.[99] _September 20._ This day we traveled about fifteen miles. For the first eight miles the soil was remarkably rich in appearance, an admixture of sand and loam, and covered with good grass; the stream is lined with timber, in common with many of those that we have passed; the last seven miles was sandy and heavy traveling. The Columbia river presents itself on our right, at the distance of four miles. The river is in view for miles along this road. The prickly pear is found in abundance. It was our intention to have reached the Columbia before encamping, but from the difficult traveling, were compelled to encamp on the sandy plain, deprived of water, wood and grass. {59} _September 21._ This morning at daylight we started for the Columbia, distance three and a half miles. The river at this place is from a half to three-fourths of a mile in width. It is a beautiful stream; its waters are clear and course gently over a pebbly bottom. Along the Columbia, is a strip of barren country of twelve miles in width; a little dry grass in bunches, prickly pear and grease wood, dot its surface. With this exception, its appearance was wild and solitary to a great degree; but sterile as it is in appearance, the view is relieved by the majesty of the river that flows by it. Immediately along the bank of the Columbia is a narrow bottom, covered with green grass, cucklebur, wild sunflower, pig weed, and several other kinds of weeds, all of which were in full bloom. There was something inspiriting and animating in beholding this. A feeling of pleasure would animate our breasts akin to that filling the breast of the mariner, when after years of absence, the shores of his native land appear to view. We could scarce persuade ourselves but that our journey had arrived at its termination. We were full of hope, and as it was understood that we had but one more difficult part of the road to surmount, we moved forward with redoubled energy; our horses and cattle were much jaded, but we believed that they could be got through, or at least the greater part of them. The Indians were constantly paying us visits, furnishing us with vegetables, which, by the by, were quite welcome; but they would in return demand wearing apparel, until by traffic, we were left with but one suit. We were compelled to keep a sharp look out over our kitchen furniture, as during these visits it was liable to diminish in quantity by forming an attachment towards these children of the forest, and following them off. Many of these savages were nearly naked; they differ greatly from the Caäguas, being much inferior; they are a greasy, filthy, dirty set of miscreants as ever might be met. _September 22._ This day we remained in camp, engaged in traffic with the Indians. Some of our party were in want of horses, and took this occasion to supply themselves. _September 23._ This day we traveled about twenty miles. The first eight miles the road is heavy traveling; the remaining portion however is much better, with the exception of the last five miles, which proved to be quite rocky. There is an occasional green spot to be found, but the whole distance we have traveled since we first struck the river cannot be regarded {60} as more than a barren sandy plain. In our route this day we passed several Indian villages; they are but temporary establishments, as their migratory disposition will not justify more permanent structures. _September 24._ This day we traveled but sixteen miles. After a march of seven miles, we arrived at a small creek, a good situation for encamping; nine miles more brought us to Dry Branch, from whence we proceeded down the bluff to the river; a great portion of the road traveled was sandy and heavy.[100] _September 25._ This day we traveled about fourteen miles. The road was quite hilly; sometimes it followed the bank of the river, at others pursued its course along the high bluff. The river is confined to a very narrow channel; country very barren, and the bluffs of great height. _September 26._ This day we traveled about three miles. The road ascends the bluff; is very difficult in ascent from its steepness, requiring twice the force to impel the wagons usually employed; after effecting the ascent, the sinuosity of the road led us among the rocks to the bluff on John Day's river; here we had another obstacle to surmount, that of going down a hill very precipitous in its descent, but we accomplished it without loss or injury to our teams. This stream comes tumbling through kanyons and rolling over rocks at a violent rate. It is very difficult to cross, on account of the stone forming the bed of the creek; its width, however, does not exceed ten yards. The grazing is indifferent, the grass being completely dried.[101] _September 27._ This morning we discovered that several of our trail ropes had been stolen. Our horses could not be found until very late; notwithstanding the delay thus occasioned we traveled some twenty miles. The road for the first three miles is up hill; it then pursues its course over a grassy, rolling plain for fifteen or sixteen miles, when it again descends the bluff to the bank of the Columbia, which we followed down for one mile and there encamped. The bluffs are very high and rocky. We suffered great inconvenience from the want of fuel, as there is none to be found along the Columbia; we collected a few dry sticks of driftwood and weeds, which enabled us to partially cook our food. The road we traveled this day was very good. _September 28._ This day we traveled about twelve miles. Two miles brought us to the crossing of De Shutes or Falls {61} river; a stream having its source in a marshy plain bordering on the Great Basin, and receives numerous tributaries heading in the Cascade mountains, the eastern base of which it follows and pours its waters into the Columbia. The mouth of De Shutes river is near fifteen miles east of the Dalles or eastern base of these mountains; the river is about one hundred yards wide, and the current very rapid; the stream is enclosed by lofty cliffs of basaltic rock. Four hundred yards from the Columbia is a rapid or cascade. Within the distance of thirty yards its descent is from fifteen to twenty feet.[102] The current of this stream was so rapid and violent, and withal of such depth, as to require us to ferry it. Some of the companies behind us, however, drove over at its mouth by crossing on a bar. Preparatory to ferrying, we unloaded our wagons, and taking them apart, put them aboard some Indian canoes, which were in waiting, and crossed in safety; after putting our wagons in order of travel, and preparing to start, we discovered ourselves minus a quantity of powder and shot, two shirts and two pairs of pantaloons, which the Indians had appropriated to their own use, doubtless to pay the trouble of ferriage. In the morning a quarrel ensued among the Indians respecting their canoes, closing in a _melee_, and such a fight I never before witnessed; stones and missiles of every description that were at hand were used with freedom. We did not interfere with them, and when they were tired of fighting the effects of the battle were visible in numerous instances, such as bloody noses and battered, bleeding heads. We ascended the bluff and traveled along the brink for several miles, then crossed over the ridge to a small creek; after crossing it, we took up a dry run for one or two miles, thence over a ridge to a running branch, and there encamped. The country through which we traveled this day was extremely rough; all prairie, and covered with grass, but very dry. _September 29._ This day we traveled about five miles, which brought us to the _Dalles_, or Methodist Missions.[103] Here was the end of our road, as no wagons had ever gone below this place. We found some sixty families in waiting for a passage down the river; and as there were but two small boats running to the Cascade falls, our prospect for a speedy passage was not overly flattering. _September 30._ This day we intended to make arrangements for our passage down the river, but we found upon inquiry, that the two boats spoken of were engaged for at least {62} ten days, and that their charges were exorbitant, and would probably absorb what little we had left to pay our way to _Oregon City_. We then determined to make a trip over the mountains, and made inquiries respecting its practicability of some Indians, but could learn nothing definite, excepting that grass, timber and water would be found in abundance; we finally ascertained that a Mr. Barlow and Mr. Nighton had, with the same object, penetrated some twenty or twenty-five miles into the interior, and found it impracticable. Nighton had returned, but Barlow was yet in the mountains, endeavoring to force a passage; they had been absent six days, with seven wagons in their train, intending to go as far as they could, and if found to be impracticable, to return and go down the river.[104] We succeeded in persuading fifteen families to accompany us in our trip over the mountains, and immediately made preparations for our march. On the afternoon of the first of October, our preparations were announced as complete, and we took up our line of march; others in the mean time had joined us, and should we fall in with Barlow, our train would consist of some thirty wagons. But before proceeding with a description of this route, I will enter into a detail of the difficulties undergone by the company of two hundred wagons, which had separated from us at Malheur creek, under the pilotage of Mr. Meek. It will be remembered that S. L. Meek had induced about two hundred families, with their wagons and stock, to turn off at Malheur, with the view of saving thereby some one hundred and fifty miles travel; and they had started about the last of August. They followed up Malheur creek, keeping up the southern branch, and pursuing a southern course. For a long time they found a very good road, plenty of grass, fuel and water; they left these waters, and directed their course over a rough mountainous country, almost entirely bereft of vegetation, were for many days destitute of water, and when they were so fortunate as to procure this indispensable element, it was found stagnant in pools, unfit even for the use of cattle; but necessity compelled them to the use of it. The result was, that it made many of them sick; many of the cattle died, and the majority were unfit for labor. A disease termed camp-fever, broke out among the different companies, of which many became the victims. {63} They at length arrived at a marshy lake, which they attempted to cross, but found it impracticable; and as the marsh appeared to bear south, and many of them were nearly out of provisions, they came to a determination to pursue a northern course, and strike the Columbia. Meek, however, wished to go south of the lake, but they would not follow him. They turned north, and after a few days' travel arrived at Deshutes or Falls river. They traveled up and down this river, endeavoring to find a passage, but as it ran through rocky _kanyons_, it was impossible to cross. Their sufferings were daily increasing, their stock of provisions was rapidly wasting away, their cattle were becoming exhausted, and many attached to the company were laboring under severe attacks of sickness;--at length Meek informed them that they were not more than two days' ride from the Dalles. Ten men started on horseback for the Methodist stations, with the view of procuring provisions; they took with them a scanty supply of provisions, intended for the two days' journey. After riding faithfully for ten days, they at last arrived at the Dalles. On their way they encountered an Indian, who furnished them with a fish and a rabbit; this with the provision they had started with, was their only food for the ten days' travel. Upon their arrival at the Dalles they were so exhausted in strength, and the rigidity of their limbs, from riding, was so great, as to render them unable to dismount without assistance. They reached the Dalles the day previous to our arrival. At this place they met an old mountaineer, usually called Black Harris, who volunteered his services as a pilot.[105] He in company with several others, started in search of the lost company, whom they found reduced to great extremities; their provisions nearly exhausted, and the company weakened by exertion, and despairing of ever reaching the settlements. They succeeded in finding a place where their cattle could be driven down to the river, and made to swim across; after crossing, the bluff had to be ascended. Great difficulty arose in the attempt to effect a passage with the wagons. The means finally resorted to for the transportation of the families and wagons were novel in the extreme. A large rope was swung across the stream and attached to the rocks on either side; a light wagon bed was suspended from this rope with pulleys, to which ropes were attached; this bed served to convey the families and loading in safety across; the wagons {64} were then drawn over the bed of the river by ropes. The passage of this river occupied some two weeks. The distance was thirty-five miles to the Dalles, at which place they arrived about the 13th, or 14th of October. Some twenty of their number had perished by disease, previous to their arrival at the Dalles, and a like number were lost, after their arrival, from the same cause. This company has been known by the name of the St. Joseph company; but there were persons from every state of the Union within its ranks. Illinois and Missouri, however, had the largest representation. The statements I have given are as correct as I could arrive at, from consultation with many of the members. This expedition was unfortunate in the extreme. Although commenced under favorable auspices, its termination assumed a gloomy character.[106] It has been stated that some members of the Hudson's Bay Company were instrumental in this expedition, but such is not the fact. Whilst I was at Fort Hall, I conversed with Captain Grant respecting the practicability of this same route, and was advised of the fact, that the teams would be unable to get through. The individual in charge at Fort Bois also advised me to the same purport. The censure rests, in the origin of the expedition, upon Meek; but I have not the least doubt but he supposed they could get through in safety. I have understood that a few of the members controlled Meek, and caused him to depart from his original plan. It was his design to have conducted the party to the _Willamette Valley_, instead of going to the Dalles; and the direction he first traveled induced this belief. Meek is yet of the opinion that had he gone round the marshy lake to the south, he would have struck the settlement on the Willamette, within the time required to travel to the Dalles. Had he discovered this route, it would have proved a great saving in the distance. I do not question but that there may be a route found to the south of this, opening into the valley of the Willamette.[107] But I must again return to the subject of my travels. _October 1._ At four o'clock, P. M., every thing was ready for our departure, and we pursued our way over the ridge, in a southern course. The country was very rolling, and principally prairie. We found excellent grazing. Our camp was pitched on a small spring branch. _October 2._ This day we made about ten miles, crossing several ravines, many of which had running water in them; {65} the country, like that of yesterday's travel, proved to be very rolling; our camp was situated on a small spring branch, having its source in the mountain. _October 3._ This morning I started on horseback in advance of the company, accompanied by one of its members. Our course led us south over a rolling, grassy plain; portions of the road were very stony. After a travel of fourteen miles, we arrived at a long and steep declivity, which we descended, and after crossing the creek at its base, ascended a bluff; in the bottom are seen several small enclosures, where the Indians have cultivated the soil; a few Indian huts may be seen along this stream. Meek's company crossed Deshute's river near the mouth of this stream, which is five miles distant.[108] After ascending, we turned to the right, directing our course over a level grassy plain for some five miles or more, when we crossed a running branch; five miles brought us to Stony Branch, and to scattering yellow pine timber. Here we found Barlow's company of seven wagons. Barlow was absent at the time, having with three others started into the mountain two days before. We remained with them all night. _October 4._ This morning myself and companion, with a scanty supply of provisions for a two days' journey, started on a westerly course into the mountains. From the open ground we could see Mount Hood. Our object was to go south and near to this peak. For five miles the country was alternately prairie and yellow pine; we then ascended a ridge, which ascended gradually to the west. This we followed for ten miles. After the crossing of a little brushy bottom, we took over another ridge for four or five miles, very heavily timbered and densely covered with undergrowth. We descended the ridge for a short distance, and traveled a level bench for four miles; this is covered with very large and tall fir timber; we then descended the mountain, traveling westward for one and a half miles; we then came to a small branch, which we named Rock creek.[109] After crossing the creek, we ascended a hill for one fourth of a mile, then bore to the left around the hill, through a dense forest of spruce pine. After five miles travel from Rock creek we came to a marshy cedar swamp; we turned to the left, and there found a suitable place for crossing. Here is a stream of from five to six yards in width, when confined to one channel; but in many places it runs over a bottom of two rods in width, strewed with old moss {66} covered logs and roots. The water was extremely clear and cold. Four miles brought us to the top of the bluff of a deep gulf; we turned our course northward for two miles, when darkness overtook us, forcing us to encamp. A little grass was discernible on the mountain sides, which afforded our jaded horses a scanty supply. _October 5._ At an early hour this morning, I proceeded down the mountain to the stream at its base. I found the descent very abrupt and difficult; the distance was one half mile. The water was running very rapid; it had the same appearance as the water of the _Missouri_, being filled with white sand. I followed this stream up for some distance, and ascertained that its source was in Mount Hood; and from the appearance of the banks, it seems that its waters swell during the night, overflowing its banks, and subside again by day; it empties into Deshute's river, having a sandy bottom of from two rods to half a mile wide, covered with scrubby pines, and sometimes a slough of alder bushes, with a little grass and rushes. We then ascended the mountain, and as our stock of provisions was barely sufficient to last us through the day, it was found necessary to return to camp. We retraced our steps to where we had struck the bluff, and followed down a short distance where we found the mountain of sufficiently gradual descent to admit of the passage of teams; we could then follow up the bottom towards _Mount Hood_, and as we supposed that this peak was the dividing ridge, we had reasonable grounds to hope that we could get through. We then took our trail in the direction of the camp; and late in the evening, tired and hungry, we arrived at Rock creek, where we found our company encamped. Barlow had not yet returned, but we resolved to push forward. _October 6._ We remained in camp. As the grazing was poor in the timber, and our loose cattle much trouble to us, we determined to send a party with them to the settlement. The Indians had informed us that there was a trail to the north, which ran over Mount Hood, and thence to Oregon city. This party was to proceed up one of the ridges until they struck this trail, and then follow it to the settlement. Two families decided upon going with this party, and as I expected to have no further use for my horse, I sent him with them. They were to procure provisions and assistance, and meet us on the way. We had forwarded, by a company of cattle-drivers from the Dalles, which started for the settlement on the first of the {67} month, a request that they would send us provisions and assistance; but as we knew nothing of their whereabouts, we had little hope of being benefited by them.[110] The day was spent in making the necessary arrangements for the cattle-drivers, and for working the road. In the afternoon, Barlow and his party returned. They had taken nearly the same route that we had; they had followed up the bluff of this branch of the De Shutes, to within twelve or fifteen miles of Mount Hood, where they supposed they had seen Willamette valley. They had then taken the Indian trail spoken of, and followed it to one of the ridges leading down to the river De Shutes; this they followed, and came out near our camp. We now jointly adopted measures for the prosecution of the work before us. _October 7._ Early in the morning, the party designated to drive our loose cattle made their arrangements, and left us. And as we supposed our stock of provisions was insufficient to supply us until these men returned, we dispatched a few men to the Dalles for a beef and some wheat; after which, we divided our company so as that a portion were to remain and take charge of the camp. A sufficient number were to pack provisions, and the remainder were to be engaged in opening the road. All being ready, each one entered upon the duty assigned him with an alacrity and willingness that showed a full determination to prosecute it to completion, if possible. On the evening of the 10th, we had opened a road to the top of the mountain, which we were to descend to the branch of the De Shutes.[111] The side of the mountain was covered with a species of laurel bush, and so thick, that it was almost impossible to pass through it, and as it was very dry we set it on fire. We passed down and encamped on the creek, and during the night the fire had nearly cleared the road on the side of the mountain. On the morning of October 11th, a consultation was had, when it was determined that Mr. Barlow, Mr. Lock, and myself, should go in advance, and ascertain whether we could find a passage over the main dividing ridge. In the mean time, the remainder of the party were to open the road up the creek bottom as far as they could, or until our return. We took some provision in our pockets, an axe, and one rifle, and started. We followed up this branch about fifteen miles, when we reached a creek, coming in from the left. We followed up this for a short distance, and then struck across to {68} the main fork; and in doing so, we came into a cedar swamp, so covered with heavy timber and brush that it was almost impossible to get through it. We were at least one hour in traveling half a mile. We struck the opening along the other fork, traveled up this about eight miles, and struck the Indian trail spoken of before, near where it comes down the mountain. The last eight miles of our course had been nearly north--a high mountain putting down between the branch and main fork. Where we struck the trail, it turned west into a wide, sandy and stony plain, of several miles in width, extending up to _Mount Hood_, about seven or eight miles distant, and in plain view. I had never before looked upon a sight so nobly grand. We had previously seen only the top of it, but now we had a view of the whole mountain. No pen can give an adequate description of this scene. The bottom which we were ascending, had a rise of about three feet to the rod. A perfect mass of rock and gravel had been washed down from the mountain. In one part of the bottom was standing a grove of dead trees, the top of which could be seen; from appearance, the surface had been filled up seventy-five or eighty feet about them. The water came tumbling down, through a little channel, in torrents. Near the upper end of the bottom, the mountains upon either side narrowed in until they left a deep chasm or gulf, where it emerged from the rocky cliffs above. Stretching away to the south, was a range of mountain, which from the bottom appeared to be connected with the mountain on our left. It appeared to be covered with timber far up; then a space of over two miles covered with grass; then a space of more than a mile destitute of vegetation; then commenced the snow, and continued rising until the eye was pained in looking to the top. To our right was a high range, which connected with Mount Hood, covered with timber. The timber near the snow was dead. We followed this trail for five or six miles, when it wound up a grassy ridge to the left--followed it up to where it connected with the main ridge; this we followed up for a mile, when the grass disappeared, and we came to a ridge entirely destitute of vegetation. It appeared to be sand and gravel, or rather, decomposed material from sandstone crumbled to pieces. Before reaching this barren ridge, we met a party of those who had started with the loose cattle, hunting for some which had strayed off. They informed us that they had lost about {69} one-third of their cattle, and were then encamped on the west side of Mount Hood. We determined to lodge with them, and took the trail over the mountain. In the mean time, the cattle-drovers had found a few head, and traveled with us to their camp. Soon after ascending and winding round this barren ridge, we crossed a ravine, one or two rods in width, upon the snow, which terminated a short distance below the trail, and extended up to the top of Mount Hood. We then went around the mountain for about two miles, crossing several strips of snow, until we came to a deep kanyon or gulf, cut out by the wash from the mountain above us. A precipitate cliff of rocks, at the head, prevented a passage around it. The hills were of the same material as that we had been traveling over, and were very steep. I judged the ravine to be three thousand feet deep. The manner of descending is to turn directly to the right, go zigzag for about one hundred yards, then turn short round, and go zigzag until you come under the place where you started from; then to the right, and so on, until you reach the base. In the bottom is a rapid stream, filled with sand. After crossing, we ascended in the same manner, went round the point of a ridge, where we struck another ravine; the sides of this were covered with grass and whortleberry bushes. In this ravine we found the camp of our friends. We reached them about dark; the wind blew a gale, and it was quite cold. _October 12._ After taking some refreshment, we ascended the mountain, intending to head the deep ravine, in order to ascertain whether there was any gap in the mountain south of us, which would admit of a pass. From this peak, we overlooked the whole of the mountains. We followed up the grassy ridge for one mile and a half, when it became barren. My two friends began to lag behind, and show signs of fatigue; they finally stopped, and contended that we could not get round the head of the ravine, and that it was useless to attempt an ascent. But I was of a different opinion, and wished to go on. They consented, and followed for half a mile, when they sat down, and requested me to go up to the ledge, and, if we could effect a passage up and get round it, to give them a signal. I did so, and found that by climbing up a cliff of snow and ice, for about forty feet, but not so steep but that by getting upon one cliff, and cutting holes to stand in and hold on by, it could be ascended. I gave the signal, and they came up. In the {70} mean time, I had cut and carved my way up the cliff, and when up to the top was forced to admit that it was something of an undertaking; but as I had arrived safely at the top of the cliff, I doubted not but they could accomplish the same task, and as my moccasins were worn out, and the soles of my feet exposed to the snow, I was disposed to be traveling, and so left them to get up the best way they could. After proceeding about one mile upon the snow, continually winding up, I began to despair of seeing my companions. I came to where a few detached pieces of rock had fallen from the ledge above and rolled down upon the ice and snow, (for the whole mass is more like ice than snow;) I clambered upon one of these, and waited half an hour. I then rolled stones down the mountain for half an hour; but as I could see nothing of my two friends, I began to suspect that they had gone back, and crossed in the trail. I then went round to the southeast side, continually ascending, and taking an observation of the country south, and was fully of the opinion that we could find a passage through.[112] The waters of this deep ravine, and of numerous ravines to the northwest, as well as the southwest, form the heads of Big Sandy and Quicksand rivers, which empty into the Columbia, about twenty-five or thirty miles below the Cascade Falls.[113] I could see down this stream some twelve or fifteen miles, where the view was obstructed by a high range coming round from the northwest side, connecting by a low gap with some of the spurs from this peak. All these streams were running through such deep chasms, that it was impossible to pass them with teams. To the south, were two ranges of mountains, connecting by a low gap with this peak, and winding round until they terminated near Big Sandy. I observed that a stream, heading near the base of this peak and running southeast {71} for several miles, there appeared to turn to the west. This I judged to be the head waters of Clackamis, which empties into the Willamette, near Oregon city; but the view was hid by a high range of mountains putting down in that direction.[114] A low gap seemed to connect this stream, or some other, heading in this high range, with the low bottoms immediately under the base of this peak. I was of the opinion that a pass might be found between this peak and the first range of mountains, by digging down some of the gravel hills; and if not, there would be a chance of passing between the first and second ranges, through this gap to the branch of Clackamis; or, by taking some of the ranges of mountains and following them down, could reach the open ground near the Willamette, as there appeared to be spurs extending in that direction. I could also see a low gap in the direction from where we crossed the small branch, coming up the creek on the 11th, towards several small prairies south of us. It appeared, that if we could get a road opened to that place, our cattle could range about these prairies until we could find a passage for the remainder of the way. The day was getting far advanced, and we had no provisions, save each of us a small biscuit; and knowing that we had at least twenty-five miles to travel, before reaching those working on the road, I hastened down the mountain. I had no difficulty in finding a passage down; but I saw some deep ravines and crevices in the ice which alarmed me, as I was compelled to travel over them. The snow and ice had melted underneath, and in many places had left but a thin shell upon the surface; some of them had fallen in and presented hideous looking caverns. I was soon out of danger, and upon the east side of the deep ravine I saw my two friends slowly winding their way up the mountain. They had gone to the foot of the ledge, and as they wore boots, and were much fatigued, they abandoned the trip, and returned down the mountain to the trail, where I joined them. We there rested awhile, and struck our course for one of the prairies which we had seen from the mountain. On our way we came to a beautiful spring of water, surrounded with fine timber; the ground was covered with whortle berry bushes, and many of them hanging full of fruit, we halted, ate our biscuit, gathered berries, and then proceeded down the mountain. After traveling about ten miles, we reached the prairie. It was covered with grass, and was very wet. A red sediment {72} of about two inches in depth covered the surface of the ground in the grass, such as is found around mineral springs. A beautiful clear stream of water was running through the prairie, in a southeast direction. We had seen a prairie about two miles further south, much larger than this, which we supposed to be dry. We now took our course for camp, intending to strike through the gap to the mouth of the small branch; but we failed in finding the right _shute_, and came out into the bottom, three miles above where we had first struck the cattle or Indian trail. We then took down the bottom, and arrived in camp about eleven o'clock at night; and although not often tired, I was willing to acknowledge that I was near being so. I certainly was hungry, but my condition was so much better than that of my two friends, that I could not murmur. Our party had worked the road up to the small branch, where they were encamped. On the morning of the 13th of October we held a consultation, and determined upon the future movements of the company. The party designated to bring us provisions had performed that service; but the amount of our provisions was nearly exhausted, and many of the party had no means of procuring more. Some of them began to despair of getting through this season. Those left with the camp were unable to keep the cattle together, and a number of them had been lost. The Indians had stolen several horses, and a variety of mishaps occurred, such as would necessarily follow from a company so long remaining in one position. They were now on a small creek, five miles from Stony hill, which we called Camp creek, and near the timber. It was impossible to keep more than one third of the men working at the road; the remainder were needed to attend the camp and pack provisions. It was determined to send a party and view out the road, through to the open country, near the mouth of Clackamis, whilst the others were to open the road as far as the big prairie; a number sufficient to bring up the teams and loose cattle, (for a number of families with their cattle had joined since ours left, and portions of our company did not send their loose cattle,) to a grassy prairie in this bottom, and near the mouth of this creek, as the time required to pack provisions to those working on the road would be saved. All being arranged, the next thing was to designate the persons to go ahead of the party, and if found practicable to return with provisions and help; or at all events to ascertain whether the route were practicable. {73} It was determined that I should undertake this trip. I asked only one man to accompany me. We took our blankets, a limited supply of provisions, and one light axe, and at eight o'clock in the morning set out. I was satisfied that the creek which we were then on, headed in the low gap, seen from Mount Hood; and the party were to open the road up this branch. But as I was to precede them, I passed up this creek for about eight or ten miles, when I discovered the low gap, went through it, and at noon arrived at the wet prairie, which we had visited the day before. The route was practicable, but would require great labor to remove the timber, and cut out the underbrush. We halted at the creek and took some refreshment; we then struck for the low gap between the first range of mountains running west, and the base of Mount Hood, and traveled through swamps, small prairies, brush, and heavy timber for about twelve miles, when we found the labor necessary to open a wagon road in this direction, to be greater than we could possibly bestow upon it before the rainy season. We determined to try some other route, retraced our steps six or seven miles, and then bore to the right, around the base of the mountain, when we struck into an old Indian trail. This we followed for seven or eight miles, through the gap I had seen from Mount Hood. It is a rolling bottom of about four or five miles in width, and extending from the base of Mount Hood south for ten or twelve miles. The trail wound around the mountain, but as its course was about that we wished to travel, we followed it until it ran out at the top of the mountain. We then took the ridge west, and traveled until dark; but as the moon shone bright, and the timber was not very thick, we turned an angle down the mountain to the left, to procure water. We traveled about three miles, and struck upon a small running branch; this we followed, until owing to the darkness, we were compelled to encamp, much fatigued, and somewhat disheartened. _October 14._ At daylight we were on the way. My moccasins, which the night before had received a pair of soles, in yesterday's tramp had given way, and in traveling after night my feet had been badly snagged, so that I was in poor plight for walking; but as there was no alternative, we started down the mountain, and after traveling a few miles I felt quite well and was able to take the lead. We traveled about three miles, when we struck a large creek which had a very rapid current, over a stony bottom. I had hoped to find a bottom of sufficient {74} width to admit of a wagon road, but after following down this stream six miles, I was satisfied that it would not do to attempt it this season. The weather, which had been entirely clear for months, had through the night began to cloud up; and in the morning the birds, squirrels, and every thing around, seemed to indicate the approach of a storm. I began for the first time to falter, and was at a stand to know what course to pursue. I had understood that the rainy season commenced in October, and that the streams rose to an alarming height, and I was sensible that if we crossed the branch of the Deshutes, which headed in Mount Hood, and the rainy season set in, we could not get back, and to get forward would be equally impossible; so that in either event starvation would be the result. And as I had been very active in inducing others to embark in the enterprise, my conscience would not allow me to go on and thus endanger so many families. But to go back, and state to them the difficulties to be encountered, and the necessity of taking some other course, seemed to be my duty. I therefore resolved to return, and recommend selecting some suitable place for a permanent camp, build a cabin, put in such effects as we could not pack out, and leave our wagons and effects in the charge of some persons until we could return the next season, unencumbered with our families and cattle, and finish the road;--or otherwise to return to the Dalles with our teams, where we could leave our baggage in charge of the missionaries, and then descend the Columbia. And when my mind was fully made up, we were not long in carrying it into execution. We accordingly ascended the mountain, as it was better traveling than in the bottom. The distance to the summit was about four miles, and the way was sometimes so steep as to render it necessary to pull up by the bushes. We then traveled east until we reached the eastern point of this mountain, and descended to the bottom, the base of which we had traversed the day before. We then struck for the trail, soon found it, and followed it until it led us to the southern end of the wet prairie. We then struck for the lower gap in the direction of the camp, crossed over and descended the branch to near its mouth, where we found four of our company clearing the road, the remainder having returned to Camp creek for teams. But as we had traveled about fifty miles this day, I was unable to reach the camp. _October 15._ This morning we all started for camp, carrying {75} with us our tools and provisions. We reached camp about two P.M. Many of our cattle could not be found, but before night nearly all were brought into camp. The whole matter was then laid before the company, when it was agreed that we should remove over to the bottom, near the small creek, and if the weather was unfavorable, leave our baggage and wagons, and pack out the families as soon as possible. But as some were out of provisions, it was important that a messenger should be sent on ahead for provisions, and horses to assist in packing out. Mr. Buffum, and lady, concluded to pack out what articles they could, and leave a man to take charge of the teams and cattle, until he returned with other horses. He kindly furnished me with one of his horses to ride to the settlement. He also supplied the wife of Mr. Thompson with a horse. Mr. Barlow and Mr. Rector made a proposition to continue working the road until the party could go to and return from the valley; they agreeing to insure the safety of the wagons, if compelled to remain through the winter, by being paid a certain per cent. upon the valuation. This proposition was thought reasonable by some, and it was partially agreed to. And as there were some who had no horses with which to pack out their families, they started on foot for the valley, designing to look out a road as they passed along. Some men in the mean time were to remain with the camp, which as above stated was to be removed to the small branch on Shutes' fork; and those who intended pushing out at once, could follow up it to the Indian trail. This all being agreed upon, arrangements were made accordingly. _October 16._ The morning was lowering, with every indication of rain. Messrs. Barlow and Rector started on the trip.[115] All hands were making arrangements for moving the camp. In the mean time Mr. Buffum and his lady, and Mrs. Thompson, were ready to start.[116] I joined them, and we again set out for the settlement. We had traveled about two miles when it commenced raining, and continued raining slightly all day. We encamped on the bottom of Shutes' fork, near the small branch. It rained nearly all night. On the morning of the 17th October after our horses had filled themselves, we packed up and started. It was still raining. We followed up this bottom to the trail, and then pursued the trail over Mount Hood. Whilst going over this mountain the rain poured down in torrents, it was foggy, and very cold. We arrived at the deep ravine at about four P.M., {76} and before we ascended the opposite bank it was dark; but we felt our way over the ridge, and round the point to the grassy run. Here was grazing for our tired horses, and we dismounted. Upon the side of the mountain, where were a few scattering trees, we found some limbs and sticks, with which we succeeded in getting a little fire. We then found a few sticks and constructed a tent, covering it with blankets, which protected our baggage and the two women. Mr. Buffum and myself stood shivering in the rain around the fire, and when daylight appeared, it gave us an opportunity to look at each others' lank visages. Our horses were shivering with the cold, the rain had put out our fire, and it seemed as though every thing had combined to render us miserable. After driving our horses round awhile, they commenced eating; but we had very little to eat, and were not troubled much in cooking it. _October 18._ As soon as our horses had satisfied themselves we packed up and ascended the mountain over the ridge, and for two miles winding around up and down over a rough surface covered with grass. The rain was falling in torrents, and it was so foggy that we could barely see the trail. We at length went down a ridge two miles, when we became bewildered in the thick bushes. The trail had entirely disappeared. We could go no farther. The two women sat upon their horses in the rain, whilst I went back to search for the right trail; Buffum endeavoring to make his way down the mountain. I rambled about two miles up the mountain, where I found the right trail, and immediately returned to inform them of it. Buffum had returned, and of course had not found the trail. We then ascended the mountain to the trail, when a breeze sprung up and cleared away the fog. We could then follow the trail. We soon saw a large band of cattle coming up the mountain, and in a short time met a party of men following them. They had started from the Dalles about eight days before, and encamped that night four or five miles below, and as it was a barren spot, their cattle had strayed to the mountain to get grass. But what was very gratifying, they informed us that a party of men from Oregon city, with provisions for our company had encamped with them, and were then at their camp. We hastened down the mountain, and in a few hours arrived at the camp. But imagine our feelings when we learned that those having provisions for us, had despaired of finding us, and {77} having already been out longer than was expected, had returned to the settlement, carrying with them all the provisions, save what they had distributed to these men. We were wet, cold, and hungry, and would not be likely to overtake them. We prevailed upon one of the men whom we found at the camp, to mount one of our horses, and follow them. He was absent about ten minutes, when he returned and informed us that they were coming. They soon made their appearance. This revived us, and for awhile we forgot that we were wet and cold. They had gone about six miles back, when some good spirit induced them to return to camp, and make one more effort to find us. The camp was half a mile from the creek, and we had nothing but two small coffee-pots, and a few tin cups, to carry water in; but this was trifling, as the rain was still pouring down upon us. We speedily made a good fire, and set to work making a tent, which we soon accomplished, and the two women prepared us a good supper of bread and coffee. It was a rainy night, but we were as comfortable as the circumstances would admit. _October 19._ After breakfast, the drovers left us; and as the party which had brought us provisions had been longer out than had been contemplated, Mr. Stewart and Mr. Gilmore wished to return. It was determined that Mr. Buffum, the two females, Mr. Stewart, and Mr. N. Gilmore, should go on to the settlement, and that Mr. C. Gilmore, and the Indian who had been sent along to assist in driving the horses, and myself, should hasten on with the provisions to the camp. We were soon on the way, and climbing up the mountain. The horses were heavily loaded, and in many places the mountain was very slippery, and of course we had great difficulty in getting along. It was still raining heavily, and the fog so thick that a person could not see more than fifteen feet around. We traveled about two miles up the mountain, when we found that whilst it had been raining in the valley it had been snowing on the mountain. The trail was so covered with snow that it was difficult to find it, and, to increase our difficulty, the Indian refused to go any farther. We showed him the whip, which increased his speed a little, but he soon forgot it, was very sulky, and would not assist in driving. We at length arrived at the deep ravine; here there was no snow, and we passed it without serious difficulty. Two of our packs coming off, and rolling down the hill, was the only serious trouble that we had. When we ascended the hill to {78} the eastern side of the gulf, we found the snow much deeper than upon the western side; besides, it had drifted, and rendered the passage over the strip of the old snow somewhat dangerous, as in many places the action of the water had melted the snow upon the under side, and left a thin shell over the surface, and in some places holes had melted through. We were in danger of falling into one of these pits. Coming to one of these ravines where the snow had drifted very much, I dismounted in order to pick a trail through, but before this was completed, our horses started down the bank. I had discovered two of these pits, and ran to head the horses and turn them; but my riding horse started to run, and went directly between the two pits; his weight jarred the crust loose, and it fell in, presenting a chasm of some twenty-five or thirty feet in depth, but the horse, being upon the run, made his way across the pit. The other horses, hearing the noise and seeing the pits before them, turned higher up, where the snow and ice were thicker, and all reached the opposite side in safety. Our Indian friend now stopped, and endeavored to turn the horses back, but two to one was an uneven game, and it was played to his disadvantage. He wanted an additional blanket; this I promised him, and he consented to go on. We soon met two Indians, on their way from the Dalles to Oregon city; our Indian conversed with them awhile, and then informed us of his intention to return with them. Whilst parleying with him, a party of men from our camp came up the mountain with their cattle; they had driven their teams to the small branch of the De Shutes, twelve miles below the mountain, where they had left the families, and started out with their cattle before the stream should get too high to cross. Whilst we were conversing with these men, our Indian had succeeded in getting one loose horse, and the one which he was riding, so far from the band of pack-horses that, in the fog, we could not see him, and he returned to the settlement with the two Indians we had just met. Our horses were very troublesome to drive, as they had ate nothing for thirty-six hours; but we succeeded in getting them over the snow, and down to the grassy ridge, where we stopped for the night. My friend Gilmore shouldered a bag of flour, carried it half a mile down the mountain to a running branch, opened the sack, poured in water, and mixed up bread. In the mean time, I had built a fire. We wrapped the dough around sticks and baked it before the fire, heated water in our {79} tin cups and made a good dish of tea, and passed a very comfortable night. It had ceased raining before sunset, and the morning was clear and pleasant; we forgot the past, and looked forward to a bright future. _October 20._ At 8 o'clock we packed up, took the trail down the mountain to the gravelly bottom, and then down the creek to the wagon-camp, which we reached at 3 P. M.; and if we had not before forgotten our troubles, we certainly should have done so upon arriving at camp. Several families were entirely out of provisions, others were nearly so, and all were expecting to rely upon their poor famished cattle. True, this would have prevented starvation; but it would have been meagre diet, and there was no certainty of having cattle long, as there was but little grass. A happier set of beings I never saw, and the thanks bestowed upon us by these families would have compensated for no little toil and hardship. They were supplied with an amount of provisions sufficient to last them until they could reach the settlements. After waiting one day, Mr. Gilmore left the camp for the settlement, taking with him three families; others started about the same time, and in a few days all but three families had departed. These were Mr. Barlow's, Mr. Rector's, and Mr. Caplinger's,[117] all of whom had gone on to the settlement for horses. Ten men yet remained at camp, and, after selecting a suitable place for our wagon-yard, we erected a cabin for the use of those who were to remain through the winter, and to stow away such of our effects as we could not pack out. This being done, nothing remained but to await the return of those who had gone for pack horses. We improved the time in hunting and gathering berries, until the 25th, when four of us, loaded with heavy packs, started on foot for the valley of the Willamette. But before entering upon this trip, I will state by what means the timely assistance afforded us in the way of provisions was effected. The first party starting for the settlement from the Dalles, after we had determined to take the mountain route, carried the news to Oregon city that we were attempting a passage across the Cascade mountains, and that we should need provisions. The good people of that place immediately raised by donation about eleven hundred pounds of flour, over one hundred pounds of sugar, some tea, &c., hired horses, and the Messrs. Gilmore and Mr. Stewart volunteered to bring these articles to us.[118] The only expense we were asked to defray was the hire of the horses. They {80} belonged to an Indian chief, and of course he had to be paid. The hire was about forty dollars, which brought the flour to about four dollars per hundred, as there were about one thousand pounds when they arrived. Those who had the means paid at once, and those who were unable to pay gave their due bills. Many of the families constructed packsaddles and put them on oxen, and, in one instance, a feather bed was rolled up and put upon an ox; but the animal did not seem to like his load, and ran into the woods, scattering the feathers in every direction: he was finally secured, but not until the bed was ruined. In most cases, the oxen performed well. In the afternoon of the 25th October, accompanied by Messrs. Creighton, Farwell, and Buckley, I again started to the valley. We had traveled but a short distance when we met Barlow and Rector, who had been to the settlement. They had some horses, and expected others in a short time. They had induced a few families whom they met near Mount Hood to return with them, and try their chance back to the Dalles; but, after waiting one day, they concluded to try the mountain trip again. We traveled up the bottom to the trail, where we encamped; about this time, it commenced raining, which continued through the night. _October 26._ This morning at eight o'clock, we were on the way. It was rainy, and disagreeable traveling. We followed the trail over the main part of the mountain, when we overtook several families, who had left us on the twenty-second. Two of the families had encamped the night before in the bottom of the deep ravine; night overtook them, and they were compelled to camp, without fuel, or grass for cattle or horses. Water they had in plenty, for it was pouring down upon them all the night. One of their horses broke loose, and getting to the provision sack, destroyed the whole contents. There were nine persons in the two families, four of them small children, and it was about eighty miles to the nearest settlement. The children, as well as the grown people, were nearly barefoot, and poorly clad. Their names were Powell and Senters. Another family by the name of Hood, had succeeded in getting[119] up the gravelly hill, and finding grass for their animals, and a little fuel, had shared their scanty supply with these two families, and when we overtook them they were all encamped near each other. We gave them about half of our provisions, and encamped near them. Mr. Hood kindly furnished us with a {81} wagon cover, with which we constructed a tent, under which we rested for the night. _October 27._ The two families who had lost their provisions succeeded in finding a heifer that belonged to one of the companies traveling in advance of us. In rambling upon the rocky cliffs above the trail for grass, it had fallen down the ledge, and was so crippled as not to be able to travel. The owners had left it, and as the animal was in good condition, it was slaughtered and the meat cured. After traveling four miles through the fresh snow, (which had fallen about four inches deep during the night,) we came to where the trail turned down to the Sandy. We were glad to get out of the snow, as we wore moccasins, and the bottoms being worn off, our feet were exposed. Two miles brought us to where we left the Sandy, and near the place where we met the party with provisions; here we met Mr. Buffum, Mr. Lock, and a Mr. Smith,[120] with fourteen pack-horses, going for effects to Fort Deposit--the name which we had given our wagon camp. The numerous herds of cattle which had passed along had so ate up the grass and bushes, that it was with great difficulty the horses could procure a sufficiency to sustain life. Among the rest, was a horse for me; and as I had a few articles at the fort, Mr. Buffum was to take the horse along and pack them out. Two of his horses were so starved as to be unable to climb the mountains, and we took them back with us. The weather by this time had cleared up; we separated, and each party took its way. A short distance below this, our trail united with one which starting from the Dalles, runs north of Mount Hood, and until this season was the only trail traveled by the whites. We proceeded down the Sandy, crossing it several times, through thickets of spruce and alder, until we arrived at the forks, which were about fifteen miles from the base of Mount Hood. The bottom of the Sandy is similar to the branch of De Shutes which we ascended; but in most cases the gravel and stones are covered with moss; portions of it are entirely destitute of vegetation. The mountains are very high, and are mostly covered with timber. At a few points are ledges of grayish rock, but the greater part of the mountain is composed of sand and gravel; it is much cut up by deep ravines, or kanyons. The trail is sometimes very difficult to follow, on account of the brush and logs; about our camp are a few bunches of {82} brakes, which the horses eat greedily. The stream coming in from the southeast is the one which I followed down on the 14th, and from appearance I came within five miles of the forks. The bottom in this vicinity is more than a mile wide, and is covered with spruce, hemlock and alder, with a variety of small bushes. _October 28._ We started early, and after having traveled several miles, found a patch of good grass, where we halted our horses for an hour. We then traveled on, crossing the Sandy three times. This is a rapid stream; the water is cold, and the bottom very stony. We made about fifteen or sixteen miles only, as we could not get our horses along faster. We struck into a road recently opened for the passage of wagons. Mr. Taylor, from Ohio, who had left our company with his family and cattle on the 7th, had arrived safely in the valley, and had procured a party of men and had sent them into the mountains to meet us at the crossing of Sandy.[121] They had come up this far, and commenced cutting the road toward the settlements. After traveling this road five or six miles we came upon their camp, where we again found something to eat; our provisions having been all consumed. The road here runs through a flat or bottom of several miles in width, and extending ten or twelve miles down the Sandy; it bears towards the north, whilst the creek forms an elbow to the south. The soil is good, and is covered with a very heavy growth of pine and white cedar timber. I saw some trees of white cedar that were seven feet in diameter, and at least one hundred and fifty feet high. I measured several old trees that had fallen, which were one hundred and eighty feet in length, and about six feet in diameter at the root. We passed some small prairies and several beautiful streams, which meandered through the timber. The ground lies sloping to the south, as it is on the north side of the creek. In the evening it commenced raining a little. We remained at this camp all night. _October 29._ This morning, after breakfast, we parted with our friends and pursued our way. We soon ascended a ridge which we followed for seven or eight miles, alternately prairie and fern openings. In these openings the timber is not large, but grows rather scrubby. There are numerous groves of beautiful pine timber, tall and straight. The soil is of a reddish cast, and very mellow, and I think would produce well. We came to the termination of this ridge and descended to the bottom, which has been covered with heavy timber, but which {83} has been killed by fire. From this ridge we could see several others, of a similar appearance, descending gradually towards the west. We here crossed the creek or river, which was deep and rapid; and as our horses were barely able to carry themselves, we were compelled to wade the stream. Buckly had been sick for several days, and not able to carry his pack; and if at other times I regretted the necessity of being compelled to carry his pack, I now found it of some advantage in crossing the stream, as it assisted in keeping me erect. Buckly in attempting to wade across, had so far succeeded as to reach the middle of the stream, where he stopped, and was about giving way when he was relieved by Farwell, a strong athletic yankee from the state of Maine. In crossing a small bottom, one of the horses fell; we were unable to raise him to his feet, and were compelled to leave him. The other we succeeded in getting to the top of the hill, where we were also compelled to leave him. The former died, but the latter was taken in a few days after by those who were opening the road. After being relieved of the burthen of the two horses, we pushed forward on foot, as fast as Buddy's strength and our heavy packs would allow; and as it had been raining all day, our packs were of double their former weight. At dark we met a party of men who had been through with a drove of cattle, and were returning with pack horses for the three families who were yet at Fort Deposit. We encamped with them. After crossing the Sandy our course was southwest, over a rolling and prairie country. The prairie, as well as the timber land, was covered with fern. The soil was of a reddish cast, and very mellow, as are all the ridges leading from the mountain to the Willamette or Columbia river. We traveled this day sixteen or seventeen miles. _October 30._ This morning was rainy as usual. Four miles brought us to the valley of the Clackamis, which was here five or six miles wide. The road was over a rolling country similar to that we passed over on yesterday. To the left of the trail we saw a house at the foot of the hill; we made for it, and found some of our friends who had started from camp with C. Gilmore. The claim was held by a man named McSwain.[122] We tarried here until the morning of the 31st, when we again started for Oregon city. Our trail ran for five or six miles along the foot of the hill, through prairie and timber land. The soil looks good, but is rather inclined to gravel; {84} numerous streams flow down from the high ground, which rises gradually to a rolling fern plain, such as we traveled over on the 28th, and 29th. We then continued upon the high ground seven or eight miles, alternately through timber and fern prairies. We then turned down to Clackamis bottom, which is here about one mile wide; this we followed down for three miles, when night overtook us, and we put up at Mr. Hatche's, having spent just one month in the Cascade mountains.[123] _November 1._ This morning we left Hatche's, and in two miles travel we reached the crossings of the Clackamis river. At this point it is one hundred and fifty yards wide, the banks of gentle descent, the water wending its way for the noble Columbia over a pebbly bottom. Here is a village of about twenty families, inhabited by the Clackamis Indians, who are few in number, apparently harmless, and caring for nothing more than a few fish, a little game, or such subsistence as is barely sufficient to support life. There are but two or three houses in the village; they are made by setting up side and centre posts in the ground, the latter being the highest, to receive a long pole to uphold puncheons split out of cedar, which form the covering; the sides are enclosed with the same material, in an upright position. These puncheons are held to their places by leather thongs, fastened around them to the poles that lay upon the posts. After examining this little community, the remains of a once powerful and warlike people,[124] we obtained the use of their canoes, crossed over the river, and after two miles further travel we reached a point that had long been a desired object; where we were to have rest and refreshment. We were now at the place destined at no distant period to be an important point in the commercial history of the Union--Oregon City.[125] Passing through the timber that lies to the east of the city, we beheld Oregon and the Falls of the Willamette at the same moment. We were so filled with gratitude that we had reached the settlements of the white man, and with admiration at the appearance of the large sheet of water rolling over the Falls, that we stopped, and in this moment of happiness recounted our toils, in thought, with more rapidity than tongue can express or pen write. Here we hastily scanned over the distance traveled, from point to point, which we computed to be in miles as follows, viz: From Independence to Fort Laramie, 629 miles; from Fort Laramie {85} to Fort Hall, 585 miles; from Fort Hall to Fort Bois, 281 miles; from Fort Bois to the Dalles, 305 miles; from the Dalles to Oregon City, (by the wagon route south of Mount Hood,) 160 miles, making the total distance from Independence to Oregon city, 1960 miles. Actual measurement will vary these distances, most probably lessen them; and it is very certain, that by bridging the streams, the travel will be much shortened, by giving to it a more direct course, and upon ground equally favorable for a good road. * * * * * OREGON CITY. Now at rest, having arrived at this place, before entering upon a general description of the country, I will give a short account of Oregon city, as it appeared to me. This town is located upon the east side of the Willamette river, and at the Falls. It is about thirty miles above the junction of the Willamette with the Columbia, following the meanders of the river; but, directly from the Columbia at Vancouver, it is only about twenty miles. It was laid out by Dr. M'Laughlin, in 1842, who holds a claim of six hundred and forty acres upon the east side of the river. From the river, upon this side, immediately at the Falls, there rises a rocky bluff of about eighty feet in height, which bears off to the northeast. Passing down the river, the land lies about ten feet lower than the surface of the water above the Falls. This plateau extends for about one-fourth of a mile, when there is a further descent of about fifteen feet, from which a level and fertile bottom skirts the Willamette for a mile and a half, to where the waters of the Clackamis are united with those of the Willamette. Upon the plateau, immediately below, and a small portion of the higher ground above the Falls, is the portion of his grant, that Dr. M'Laughlin has laid off in town lots.[126] Three years ago, this land was covered with a dense forest, which is now cleared off, to make room for the erection of houses to accommodate the inhabitants of the town. There were already erected, when I left there, about one hundred houses, most of them not only commodious, but neat. Among the public buildings, the most conspicuous were the neat Methodist church, which is located near the upper part of the town, and a splendid Catholic chapel, which stands near the river and the bluff bank at the lower part of the town site.[127] There are two grist mills; one owned by M'Laughlin, having three sets of buhr runners, and will compare well with most of the mills in the States; the other is a smaller mill, {86} owned by Governor Abernethy and Mr. Beers.[128] At each of these grist-mills there are also saw-mills, which cut a great deal of plank for the use of emigrants. There are four stores, two taverns, one hatter, one tannery, three tailor shops, two cabinet-makers, two silversmiths, one cooper, two blacksmiths, one physician, three lawyers, one printing office, (at which the Oregon Spectator is printed, semi-monthly, at five dollars per annum,)[129] one lath machine, and a good brick yard in active operation. There are also quite a number of carpenters, masons, &c., in constant employment, at good wages, in and about this village. The population is computed at about six hundred white inhabitants, exclusive of a few lodges of Indians. The Indians spend most of their nights in gambling. They have a game peculiar to the tribes of the lower Columbia, and as I have not seen it described, I will mention it here. Six men meet in their lodge, when they divide among themselves into partners of three on each side, then seat themselves, with a pole between the parties; the middle man on one of the sides has a small bone or stick which he holds in his hand; his partners upon the left and right keep up a regular knocking upon the pole with sticks, and singing of songs. The man with the bone keeps shifting it as quickly as possible from hand to hand, to deceive the middle man of the opposite side, as to which hand holds the bone; after he is satisfied, he stops and inquires of his opponent in which hand he holds it. If the opponent guesses rightly, he throws the bone, with a small pointed stick, to the winner, who goes through the same ceremony as the loser had done; but if the man guesses wrongly as to the hand that holds the bone, he hands over a little pointed stick. Thus they keep it up until one or the other has won a certain number of pointed sticks, which they have agreed shall constitute the game, when the stakes are delivered over to the winning party. So desperately attached to this game are these savages, that they will gamble away every species of clothing or property they may possess; after this their wives, and they have been known to stake their own services, for a certain number of moons, and sometimes even to become the slaves for life of the more fortunate gamesters.[130] The stores have but a very limited supply of such articles as emigrants need; but the present merchants, or others that will soon locate there, will find it to their interest to take out such commodities as will be required. Mr. Engle, who went out {87} with the late emigrants, had erected a small foundry, with the intention of casting some old cannon that lay about the fort, and other broken utensils, into those most needed for culinary purposes; but he had not commenced business when I left.[131] Unimproved lots sell at from one to five hundred dollars each, (the price varying with their location,) in the currency of the country. The ground back of the town on the bluff, is rather rocky for half a mile, to the foot of the hill; upon ascending the hill, the country consists of fern openings and timber groves alternately, for a distance of about thirty-five miles, to the Cascade mountains. Upon this bluff, which is covered with timber, there is a small but beautiful lake, supplied with springs, which has an outlet by a rivulet that passes through the town into the river. The river below the Falls, for several miles, is about two hundred and fifty yards wide, and opposite the town it is very deep. The bank on the east side, with the exception of a few hundred yards, is a cliff of about twenty feet in height, for the first half mile, of a firm basaltic rock; from thence down to the Clackamis the bank is a sandy loam. Upon the west side of the Willamette, and opposite to Oregon city, are laid out two villages; the upper one is called Linn city, in honor of the late senator from Missouri, whose memory, for his patriotic services in the cause of the Oregon emigrant, is held in high esteem by every true friend of his country and of humanity. When Dr. Linn died, the friends of Oregon lost a champion who would not have shamelessly deserted them in the hour of need.[132] Mr. Moore, late of Missouri, is the proprietor;[133] his claim commences one-fourth of a mile below the Falls, extends above the Falls one and three-fourths of a mile, and back from the river one half of a mile. When I left, there were about fifteen buildings in this village, inhabited mostly by mechanics. The proprietor had refused to sell water power, which was doubtless one of the reasons why more emigrants did not settle in it. Next, lower down, is the claim of Mr. Hugh Burns, a native of Ireland, but lately an emigrant from Missouri; he is the proprietor of Multinoma city, which is so called from the Indian name for the Willamette river, and a tribe of Indians of this name that once inhabited that country.[134] This tribe is now nearly extinct. At their burial places, near this, there are hundreds of skulls yet lying over the ground. When I left, {88} there were but few buildings, and some few mechanics settled in it. There are two ferries established over the river, from the villages on the west side, to Oregon city.[135] Upon the west side, the bank of the river is similar to that on the east, quite high, leaving but a small semicircular level for the first bottom; and upon a farther ascent of about twenty feet, there is a larger plain at the lower end of this bluff. The bottom corresponds well with that above the Clackamis on the opposite side, and is covered with a dense growth of fir; the trees are tall and straight. * * * * * DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY. The journey to Oregon city accomplished, and an examination of the immediate vicinity completed, I set about an inquiry as to the features of the country--its fertility, its general susceptibility of improvement, and its capability for the support of a large and industrious population. In so doing, in addition to what I could see for myself, I applied for information to all whose opportunities had been favorable for obtaining a knowledge of any particular section. In this work I was an inquirer after facts, in order to decide the question as to the propriety of taking my family there for a permanent home; and when I noted these facts, no attention was paid to the classification and arrangement of the various subjects, as is generally done by those travelers and geographers whose business is book-making. Necessarily, therefore, my Journal presents facts, just in the order in which they came to me, and as I received them they are placed before the reader. The landscape immediately adjacent to the villages of Linn city and Multinoma present several abrupt precipices of various heights, upon each of which is a small level, of lesser and greater widths, clothed with fine grass and studded over with oak timber, until the highest ascent is reached, when it spreads out into an extensive fern opening. From these cliffs there gush out fine streams of pure spring water; and they will afford most beautiful country seats for the erection of residences convenient to the towns, when their improvement shall render such sites desirable. From these heights, (which are easily ascended,) there is a fine view of the falls of the river for several miles, and of Mount Hood. From the heights to Quality Plains, a distance of twenty-five miles, the country presents rolling plains, with small groves of oak and fir, and it is well watered by springs and small rivulets. {89} From the description given of the towns, the reader may have already inferred, that the Falls of the Willamette combine all that is necessary to constitute great water privileges for propelling machinery; but before leaving this point, we will take a more particular view of them. These falls are occasioned by the descent of the whole volume of the river over a ledge of basaltic rock that crosses the entire channel. The greatest fall at any point is twenty-eight feet, but the whole descent here is about forty feet. The water is so divided in the channels at the Falls, and the islands are so situated, that nearly all of the water may be rendered available, at a very small expense, when it shall be needed. Nature rarely at any one point concentrates so many advantages for the erection and support of a great commercial and manufacturing city, as are to be found here. There is an abundance of water to propel the machinery, stone and timber convenient to erect the necessary buildings, an extensive country of the best farming lands in the world to support the towns by their trade, and a fine navigable river to bring the raw material to the manufactories, and when manufactured to carry the surplus to the Pacific, whence it can easily be taken to the best markets the world affords. At this place, the business of the upper Willamette will concentrate, for many years at least. Tide water reaches to the mouth of the Clackamis, which is within two miles of the Falls. Here there is a considerable ripple in the river, which can easily be removed by confining the Clackamis to its original bed upon the eastern side of the island. As it is, there are four feet of water over the bar, and not so rapid as to prevent the ascent of steamboats to the Falls. Vessels of two hundred and fifty tons burthen have ascended within two miles of the rapids; but, from the crookedness of the stream and the difficulty in tacking so frequently, they generally receive and discharge their cargoes at Portland, twelve miles below.[136] Traveling up the river, five miles from the Falls, brings us to Rock Island. Here is said to be a serious obstruction to the navigation of the river. The difficulty consists in there being several peaks of rocks so elevated, as to be near the surface of the water in a low stage; and as the channels between them are very narrow, and the water quite rapid, boats are liable to run on to them. But the rock can be removed at an inconsiderable expense. It is fifteen miles above the Falls to the {90} first gravel bar, at which place, in low water, there is but three feet in the channel.[137] In traveling up the river about fifty miles, I found, in addition to the obstructions named, four other gravel bars, over some of which there were only thirty inches of water. In going the next seventy-five miles, I approached the river several times, and found it to have a deep channel and smooth current. Persons who had navigated the river considerably further up, in their traffic with the Indians, informed me that it continued equally favourable for navigation. From what I saw and learned of intelligent persons, I think the smaller class of steamboats could for most part of the year ascend two hundred miles above the Falls. From the Columbia to Upper California, is a mountainous belt, known as the Coast range.[138] Spurs of this range approach nearly to the mouth of the Willamette. Between these spurs and the river, there is but a small portion of the soil well adapted to agriculture. The higher range to the west of the Falls affords a scope of fifty miles, that with the exception of a few openings, and Quality Plains, is tolerably broken, generally well timbered, finely watered, with many excellent situations for farms; but not so well calculated, as some other parts, for dense settlements. Quality Plains are distant twenty-five miles west from Oregon city; they are about twenty-five miles in length, are alternately rolling prairie and timber, surrounded by heavy growths of firs, many of which rise to the height of two hundred and fifty feet. These plains are all claimed, settled, and mostly improved.[139] They are well watered by many small streams that constitute the two forks of Quality river, which unite near the southeast part of the plains, and runs an easterly course, through narrow bottoms, well supplied with timber for more than twenty miles, where it discharges its waters into the Willamette, two miles above Oregon city. The principal part of the water that flows in Quality river descends from the Coast Range. This stream, like most others in that region, has several falls and rapids, that furnish very desirable sites for the propelling of machinery; but if ever profitable for navigation, will have to be improved by canals and lockage around its falls; which can easily be done, when the commerce of the country will justify the expense. From this stream, and between the Coast Range and Willamette, and to the south, to the Shahalam valley, which commences {91} at the low pass of Quality Plains, is a tract of about twenty by thirty miles in extent, of rolling fertile lands, alternately fern openings and timber groves. From the Coast Range to the Willamette there is a belt of five or six miles in width, which near the river is covered thinly with yellow pines; but nearer the mountain it is better timbered, and well watered from mountain rivulets; mostly a rich and loose soil, composed chiefly of yellow sand, loam and clay. But little of this tract is claimed by the emigrants, as they usually prefer the prairie country above. The Shahalam is a small stream, which has its origin in the Coast Range, runs eastwardly and empties into the Willamette, twenty miles above Oregon city. This is skirted with good prairies of five or six miles in width, near the mountains; but towards its mouth the valley is covered with timber and fern. The best portion is claimed.[140] Eleven miles further up, the Willamette receives the waters of the Yam-hill. At the mouth it is about twenty-five yards in width, quite deep, and will bear upon its bosom crafts of large burthen for ten miles, to the falls. This stream has two principal branches; the one rising in the Coast Range, runs for twenty miles in a south-easterly direction, through a beautiful and fertile valley of twelve miles in width, handsomely covered with groves of white oak, and other timber; which is intersected with numerous spring branches, the banks of which are lined with timber, leaving in some places fine bottom prairies, covered with a rich sward of grass. Between this fork and the Shahalam is a range of hills averaging about two miles in width, extending from a part of the Coast Range, to within three miles of the Willamette. They are of steep ascent, some of them rising to five or six hundred feet in height, well covered with grass, and from their sides issue numerous spring rivulets, which near their origin are lined with fir trees; thence passing through groves of white oak, alder and willow, to the bottom lands, which in crossing some of them disappear, and others after joining together, continue their courses until they unite with the Shahalam and Yam-hill. The grasses on these hills are a species of red clover, that grows in the summer season about one foot high, and a fine grass, which after the clover disappears, keep them clad in green during the winter. Thus they furnish a perpetual supply of food for cattle the whole year. The soil upon these hills is a mixture of clay and loam, of a reddish color, and in the bottoms it is a rich {92} mixture of loam and muck. However, there are some of the hills somewhat sandy, and occasionally interspersed with stony places. From the source of this branch of the Yam-hill, (which in the country is called the North Fork,) passes the trace, along which the people on Clatsop plains drive their cattle a distance of about forty miles, when they reach the coast, fifteen miles south of Cape Lookout. The south fork of Yam-hill has its source in the Coast Range; where it emerges from the mountains, for the first ten miles, its banks are well supplied with large fir trees, as are its several tributaries; its banks are generally steep, bearing the appearance of having washed out a channel from fifteen to twenty feet in depth. It runs an eastern course for about ten miles, then northeast for some miles, and finally takes a northern direction, until it connects with the North fork, near the Falls, after having flowed a distance of about twenty-five miles. The valley watered by this stream is about fifteen miles wide, after the stream emerges from the heavy growth of firs already noticed; for there are firs, more or less, its whole length. From the water courses, upon an average of a little over one fourth of a mile, the valley is fine prairie land, soil light and rich, occasionally interspersed with fine groves, and well adapted to agricultural purposes. It is well covered with grass, as is every portion of the country that has oaken groves, and the lower bottoms yield an abundant supply of the _Camas_, a tuberous rooted plant, shaped something like an onion, which it resembles in appearance. It is devoured greedily by hogs, and affords very good nutriment. The Indians make much use of it as an article of food. Between these streams and within six miles of their junction, commences the high lands of the Coast Range; the first plateau is about ten miles wide, and well covered with grass. The second plateau, for a few miles is fern openings, with an occasional grove of timber; after this westward to the coast the country is heavily timbered with firs, pine, and occasionally cedar, hemlock, balsam, and nearly all species of the evergreen timber. The streams last described furnish good sites for hydraulic purposes, near the mountains. A considerable portion of the valley of the Yam-hill is not only claimed, but settled, and finely improved.[141] Leaving the Yam-hill and ascending the Willamette twenty-five miles, we reach the mouth of the Rickerall, a stream {93} which has its source in the same range as the Yam-hill; for the first ten miles it runs rapidly over a pebbly bed, and from thence to the mouth has a deep channel, worn in a rich soil, with timbered banks. It flows in an easterly course from the mountains eighteen miles, and unites with the Willamette. The valley through which this stream flows resembles that described as watered by the Yam-hill; perhaps the soil is a little richer. It is nearly all claimed, and will soon be well settled. Upon this stream there is erected a grist mill, and there was a saw mill, but the freshets washed it away last spring.[142] Five miles above Yam-hill commence a range of hills that extend south to the Rickerall, similar to those between Shahalam and Yam-hill. These hills vary from one to four miles in width, leaving a bottom about six miles wide to skirt the Willamette, which is of good soil, well watered and timbered. Upon the slopes of these hills are several thousands of acres of white oak, from six to twenty feet in height, some of them of large diameter and all with large and bushy tops; the ground being covered with grass, at a distance they look like old orchards. The timber of these trees is very solid, and promises great durability.[143] The valley between the Yam-hill and Rickerall is called the Applegate settlement; there are three brothers of the Applegates, they have fine farms, with good herds of fat and thrifty cattle.[144] The Yam-hill plains is called the Hemerey settlement, from a family of this name there settled.[145] Upon the Rickerall are the Gillams, Fords and Shaws, all doing well.[146] The Gays and Matheneys are settled upon the bottom of the Willamette, between Yam-hill and Rickerall.[147] Twelve miles above the Rickerall, empties the Lucky muke into the Willamette; it heads in the same range as the Yam-hill, and, like it, has two principal branches, of about the same length, depth and width, and passes through an excellent valley of land, with the same diversities and excellent qualities for farming which are attributed to the Yam-hill valley--the timber being more of oak and less of fir. Upon this stream several claims are entered, and there is a fine opening for others who may desire to settle there. Mouse river joins the Willamette about thirty-five miles above the Lucky-muke.[148] It has its origin in the Coast range, has two principal branches, which unite near the mountains, passes ten miles over a pebbly bottom, and then becomes more sluggish to its mouth. This, like the other streams described, {94} has timber upon its borders, but less than some; good country, fine prospects, and but few claims made. Between the Lucky-muke and Mouse river there is a range of hills, as between other streams; but at one place a spur of the Coast range approaches within ten miles of the Willamette; from this issue many small streams which run down it, and through the fine plains to the Lucky-muke upon the one side, and into Mouse river on the other. This is a beautiful region; from the bottom can be seen, at different points, seven snow-covered peaks of the Cascade range.[149] The Cascade is within view for a great distance, to the north and south; which, together with the beautiful scenery in the valley, renders it a picturesque place. Thrifty groves of fir and oak are to be seen in every direction; the earth is carpeted with a covering of luxuriant grass, and fertilized by streams of clear running rivulets, some of which sink down and others pursue their course above ground to the river. Between the forks of Mouse river approaches a part of the Cascade,[150] but it leaves a valley up each branch about one mile in width, the soil of which is rich and good prairie for several miles above the junction. The mountain sides are covered very heavily with fir timber. Thus these beautiful valleys offer great inducements to those who wish to have claims of good land, with fine grounds for pasturage and timber close at hand. There are no claims made as yet above the forks. These streams furnish good mill sites for each of the first six miles, and are well filled with trout. From the forks of this stream starts a trail, (or half-made road,) which leads to the falls of the Alsa, a stream that heads twenty miles to the south of these forks; the trail leads a westerly course for fifteen miles to the Falls; from thence to the coast it is twenty-one miles. From the Falls the river runs in a westerly direction. An old Indian told me that there was some excellent land in this valley, and that there would be but little difficulty in constructing a good road down it. Salmon and other fish are in great abundance in this stream, up to the Falls.[151] Six miles above Mouse river is the mouth of Long Tom Bath;[152] this, like all other streams that enter the Willamette upon the western side, heads in the coast range, and after breaking its way through the spurs to the plains below, passes through a valley of good soil. It has deep banks, is more sluggish in its movements than those that join it lower down, {95} is filled with dirty water, has a miry bottom, shaded upon its margin with timber, and in size is something larger than the Yam-hill. So far, I have described the valley from personal observation in that direction; but I was informed by those who had good opportunities for obtaining correct information, that it bore off more easterly, and that it was for eighty miles further up as well watered, timbered, and of as luxuriant soil, as that which I have described. It may be proper here to remark, that the further the valley is ascended the oak timber becomes more abundant, and the fir in a corresponding ratio decreases. Having described the country for more than one hundred miles upon the western side of the Willamette, we will return to the Falls and mention a few facts respecting the eastern bank. Upon this bank, for ten miles to the south of Oregon city, continue fern openings, to a small stream called Pole Alley,[153] which is skirted with beautiful prairie bottoms of from two to eight miles in length and from one to two miles wide; these, with alternate groves of fir, constitute the principal characteristics of Pole Alley valley. It is not more than half a mile from the mouth of Pole Alley, farther to the south, where Pudding river embogues into the Willamette; it is twenty-five yards in width at the mouth. The valley up this river to the Cascade mountains, where it rises, is alternately fine prairie and timber lands, with occasional fern openings. Some of the prairies are claimed by the recent emigrants. It is finely clothed in grass, and up the river some distance there are valuable mill sites; the water is clear, and well stocked with fish.[154] From Pudding river further south, there are fern openings, which are succeeded by grassy prairies, which give place to fine groves of fir, but sparsely intermingled with cedar. Eight miles from Pudding river is a village called Butes. It was laid out by Messrs. Abernethy and Beers. There were but a few cabins in it when I left. The proprietors had erected a warehouse to store the wheat they might purchase of the settlers back, who should find it convenient to sell their crops at this point. At this place are some conical hills, called Butes, which rise to a considerable height; the sides and tops of them are clothed with tall fir trees, which can be seen from the valley above for sixty miles. Immediately at this village is a fern opening, covered with an undergrowth of hazel, for three-fourths of a mile back, when it merges into an extensive and fertile prairie.[155] {96} South of Butes three miles is the village of Shampoic. It was laid out by a mountaineer, of the name of Newell, formerly a clerk of the Hudson's Bay Company.[156] It contains a few old shabby buildings, and a warehouse owned by the company, where they receive the wheat of the settlers of the country from thence to the Cascade mountains. This is an extensive plain, extending from Pudding river up the Willamette to the old Methodist mission ground, which is distant thirty miles from the mouth of Pudding river. The soil for this distance, and for two miles in width, is similar to that described immediately at Butes. Back of this for twenty-five or thirty miles is a very handsome country, mostly prairie, and fine timber, well watered, with occasionally a hill--the whole covered with a soil quite inviting to the agriculturist, with an abundance of pasturage for cattle. This is called the French settlement, and is one of the oldest in the valley. The Catholics have here a mission, schools, a grist and saw mill, and several mechanics; they have also several teachers among the Indians, and it is said that they have done much for the improvement of these aborigines. The inhabitants are mostly of what are called French Canadians, and were formerly engaged in the service of the Hudson Bay Company, but have now quit it, made claims, and gone to farming. They have very pretty orchards of apple trees, and some peach trees. Their wives are natives of the country. Many of them are raising families that, when educated, will be sprightly, as they are naturally active and hardy, and appear very friendly and hospitable. But few of them speak the English language fluently; they mostly talk French and Chinook jargon.[157] They cultivate but little land, but that little is well done, and the rich soil well repays them for the labor expended upon it. I could not satisfactorily ascertain the population of the settlement, which I much regretted. The old Methodist mission is nearly opposite to what is now called Matheny's Ferry. It was reported to me to have been one of the first missions occupied in the valley, but has been abandoned on account of the overflowing of the river. It consists of only several dilapidated buildings.[158] The soil is gravelly, inclined to barren, with a grove of pines near by. This place for a number of years was under the superintendance of the Rev. Jason Lee. It is here that the remains of his wife are interred; a tombstone marks her resting place, which informs the passer by that she was the first white woman {97} that was buried in Oregon Territory,--together with the place of her nativity, marriage, &c.[159] The unfortunate location of the mission, and the circumstances under which Mrs. Lee died, no doubt have had great influence in creating that unfavorable impression of the country in the mind of Mr. Lee, which he has expressed in some of his letters. The country surrounding the mission is covered mostly with scrubby oak and pine trees. From the mission the road proceeds up the valley, alternately through groves of oak and pine, fern plains, and grassy prairies, in which are several farms, with convenient buildings. After pursuing this route about ten miles, we come to an improvement of several hundred acres, surrounded with small groves of oak. Here the soil is quite gravelly, and not very rich. Nearly opposite the mouth of the Rickerall is the Methodist Institute, which was located at this place when it was ascertained that the Willamette would overflow its bank at the old mission. My opinion is, that the location is a good one, being in a high and healthy neighborhood, and nearly central of what will be the principal population of the valley for long years to come. The course of instruction there given is quite respectable, and would compare well with many of those located in the old and populous settlements of the States. This school is unconnected with any mission. When the missionary board concluded to abandon that field of labor, the Institute was bought by the Methodists of Oregon; hence it continued under its old name. The price of tuition is low, and the means of receiving an education at this place is within the power of those who have but a small amount to expend in its attainment.[160] For the first five miles from the river towards the Cascade range, the soil is gravelly; it is then a sandy loam to the foot of the mountain, and is generally an open plain. The valley upon the east side of the river at this place, is about twenty-five miles in width. It is proper, however, to remark, that there are occasional groves of timber interspersing the prairie, and in some places they reach within a short distance of the river. In this last described tract, there are several varieties of soil, with prairie, timber, upland, bottom, and hill side; the whole is well watered. At the Institute there reside about fifteen families, and near by several claims are taken, and improvements commenced. The Methodist missionaries {98} have erected a saw and grist mill; these mills were sold, as was all the property of the missions in the valley, by Mr. Gerry, who was sent out to close the missionary matters in that region; they are now owned by resident citizens, and in successful operation. At this place a town is laid out.[161] Six miles above the Institute commences a range of oak hills, which continue about twelve miles in a southeastern direction along the river, where they connect by a low pass with the Cascade Range. From this place, at the lower bench of the Cascade, commences another range of hills, running south-westwardly, which continue about twenty miles in length, to the mouth of the Santaam river, which joins the Willamette twenty miles by land above the Institute. This is a bold and rapid stream, of about one hundred and fifty yards in width; for a considerable portion of its length, it has a pebbly bottom, and banks covered with fir and white cedar trees of the best quality.[162] The Santa Anna has four principal branches, with several small tributaries, all lined with timber, leaving a strip of beautiful prairie land between each, of from one-half to four miles in width. The two northern branches rise in Mount Jefferson, the first running nearly west from its origin to where it leaves the mountain, when it inclines to the south for a few miles, where it receives another branch; from this junction about eight miles, it is joined by a stream that rises in the Cascade Range, south of Mount Jefferson. Ten miles below this point, the other principal branch, which rises still further to the south, unites with the others, when the river inclines to the west, until it joins the Willamette. From its origin in Mount Jefferson to its termination, is about forty miles; from the Oak hills above named is twenty-five miles. A considerable portion of the soil in this valley is quite gravelly, but a great portion is rich, and the prairies are well clothed with luxuriant grass. Among the plants, herbs, &c., common to this part of the country, is wild flax. A few claims have been made along the northeast side of the Oak hills, and improvements commenced. The soil yields a good crop of the agricultural products suited to the climate. Above the Santa Anna, upon the eastern side of the Willamette, the valley is about twenty miles in average width for ninety miles, to the three forks. In this distance there are many small mountain streams, crossing the valley to the river, all of which are lined with timber, and several of them affording {99} valuable water privileges for such machinery as may be erected, when yankee enterprise shall have settled and improved this desirable portion of our great republic. After leaving the Santaam, a prairie commences, of from four to twelve miles in width, which continues up the valley for a day's travel, which I suppose to be about forty miles. The mountains upon the east side of the Willamette are covered with timber of quite large growth. In this last prairie has been found some stone coal, near the base of the mountain spurs; but as to quantity or quality I am uninformed. The specimen tried by a blacksmith was by him pronounced to be good. The Willamette valley, including the first plateaus of the Cascade and Coast ranges of mountains, may be said to average a width of about sixty, and a length of about two hundred miles. It is beautifully diversified with timber and prairie. Unlike our great prairies east of the Rocky Mountains, those upon the waters of the Pacific are quite small; instead of dull and sluggish streams, to engender miasma to disgust and disease man, those of this valley generally run quite rapidly, freeing the country of such vegetable matter as may fall into them, and are capable of being made subservient to the will and comfort of the human family in propelling machinery. Their banks are generally lined with fine groves of timber for purposes of utility, and adding much to please the eye. The Willamette itself, throughout its length, has generally a growth of fir and white cedar, averaging from one-fourth to three miles in width, which are valuable both for agricultural and commercial purposes. Its banks are generally about twenty feet above the middling stages, yet there are some low ravines, (in the country called _slues_,) which are filled with water during freshets, and at these points the bottoms are overflowed; but not more so than those upon the rivers east of the Mississippi. It has been already observed that the soil in these bottoms and in the prairies is very rich; it is a black alluvial deposit of muck and loam; in the timbered portions it is more inclined to be sandy, and the higher ground is of a reddish colored clay and loam. The whole seems to be very productive, especially of wheat, for which it can be safely said, that it is not excelled by any portion of the continent. The yield of this article has frequently been fifty bushels per acre, and in one case Dr. White harvested from ten acres an average of over fifty-four {100} bushels to the acre; but the most common crop is from thirty to forty bushels per acre, of fall sowing; and of from twenty to twenty-five bushels, from spring sowing. There is one peculiarity about the wheat, and whether it arises from the climate or variety, I am unable to determine. The straw, instead of being hollow as in the Atlantic states, is filled with a medullary substance, (commonly called pith,) which gives it firmness and strength; hence it is rarely that the wheat from wind or rain lodges or falls before harvesting. The straw is about the height of that grown in the states, always bright, the heads upon it are much longer, and filled with large grains, more rounded in their form, than those harvested in the eastern part of the Union. I have seen around fields, where a single grain has grown to maturity, forty-two stalks, each of which appeared to have borne a well filled head; for the grains were either removed by birds, or some other cause. As it was November when I arrived in the country, I saw wheat only in its grassy state, except what had escaped the late harvest. The farmers have a white bald wheat, the white bearded, and the red bearded, either of which can be sown in fall or spring, as best suits their convenience, or their necessities demand. That sown in September, October or November, yields the most abundantly; but if sown any time before the middle of May, it will ripen. The time of harvesting is proportioned to the seed time. That which is early sown is ready for the cradle or sickle by the last of June, or the first of July, and the latest about the first of September. In the Oregon valley, there are but few rains in the summer months, and as the wheat stands up very well, farmers are generally but little hurried with their harvesting. The emigrants usually arrive in the latter part of the summer or fall, and necessarily first provide a shelter for their families, and then turn their attention to putting in a field of wheat. In doing this, they frequently turn under the sod with the plough one day, the next harrow the ground once, then sow their seed, and after going over it again with a harrow, await the harvest, and not unfrequently gather forty bushels from the acre thus sown. In several instances the second crop has been garnered from the one sowing. When the wheat has stood for cutting until very ripe, and shattered considerably in the gathering, the seed thus scattered over the field has been harrowed under, and yielded twenty bushels to the acre, of {101} good merchantable grain. I was told of an instance where a third crop was aimed at in this way; it yielded but about twelve bushels to an acre, and was of a poor quality. The rust and smut which so often blast the hopes of the farmer, in the old states, are unknown in Oregon, and so far there is but very little cheat. Harvesting is generally done with cradles, and the grain threshed out with horses, there being no machines for this latter purpose in the territory. The grain of the wheat, though much larger than in the states, has a very thin husk or bran, and in its manufacture in that country during the winter months requires a coarser bolting cloth than in the Atlantic states, owing to the dampness of the atmosphere at this season. The farmers already raise a surplus of this commodity, over and above the consumption of the country: but owing to the scarcity of mills to manufacture it, they cannot at all times have it in readiness to supply vessels when they visit the settlements. At the time I left, wheat was worth eighty cents per bushel, and flour three dollars and fifty cents per hundred pounds. The mills above the Falls grind for a toll of one-eighth, but at the Falls they will exchange for wheat, giving thirty-six pounds of fine flour for an American bushel, and forty pounds for a royal bushel. The weight of a bushel of wheat, (according to quality,) is from sixty to seventy pounds. Oats yield an abundant crop, but this grain is seldom sown, as the stock is generally suffered to gather its support by grazing over the plains. Peas do well, and are much used in feeding hogs, at the close of their fattening, when taken off of their range of camas and other roots; and it is remarked that this vegetable there is free from the bug or wevil that infests it in the western states. Barley is very prolific, and of a large and sound growth; but there is as yet little raised, as the demand for it is quite limited. I saw no rye in the country. Buckwheat grew very well, though not much raised. For potatoes Oregon is as unequalled, by the states, as it is for wheat. I doubt whether there is any portion of the globe superior to it for the cultivation of this almost indispensable vegetable. I heard of no sweet potatoes, and think there are none in the territory. Indian corn is raised to some extent upon the lower bottoms {102} in the valleys, but it is not considered a good corn country. It had yielded forty bushels to the acre; they mostly plant the small eight-rowed yankee corn. The summers are too cool for corn. Tobacco has been tried; and although it may be raised to some extent, it is lighter than in Kentucky, and more southern latitudes. The climate and soil are admirably adapted to the culture of flax and hemp, and to all other vegetables, which grow with ordinary care, in any of the northern, eastern and middle states. During my travels through the valley, I spent some time with Mr. Joel Walker, a gentleman who had resided several years in California, had made several trips from Oregon to the bay of San Francisco, and had spent some time in trapping and trading between the Willamette valley and the 42d degree of north latitude.[163] From this gentleman, as well as from several others, I learned that the trail near two hundred miles south of Oregon city arrives at the California mountains, which is a ridge running from the Cascade to the Coast range of mountains. With the exception of a few peaks, this ridge is susceptible of easy cultivation, being partly prairie and partly covered with timber. Mr. Walker doubts not that a good wagon road can be made over this ridge; to cross which requires but a few hours, and brings us into the beautiful country bounded on the east and west by the Cascade and Coast ranges, the California mountains on the north, and the Rogue's River mountains on the south. This district of country, which is only about forty miles wide from east to west, is drained by the Umpquah river, and its tributaries, which as in the Willamette valley, are skirted with timber; but back from the streams is a prairie country, beautifully alternated with groves of timber. At the mouth of the Umpquah, which empties into the Pacific about thirty miles from where it leaves this beautiful district of country, the Hudson's Bay Company have a trading post.[164] If we except this, there is no settlement nor claim made on this river or its tributaries. Passing Rogue's River mountains, the trail enters the valley of the river of that name. This valley is quite similar to that of the Umpquah, but perhaps not quite so large.[165] This valley is bounded on the south by the Klamet mountain, which is a spur of the Cascade and Coast mountains. It is high and somewhat difficult to pass over; but it is believed a route may be found that will admit of an easy passage over. It is heavily timbered; and as in {103} the Coast range, the timber in many places has died, and a thick growth of underbrush sprung up. South of the Klamet mountains spreads out the beautiful valley watered by the Klamet river. This valley, although not so well known as that of the Willamette, is supposed to be more extensive, and equally susceptible of a high state of cultivation. It is esteemed one of the best portions of Oregon.[166] The land is mostly prairie, but is well diversified with timber, and bountifully supplied with spring branches. The Indians are more numerous here than in the valley further north, and as in the Umpquah and Rogue's river valleys, more hostile. There has been very little trading with them; but they not unfrequently attack persons driving cattle through from California to the settlements in Oregon; and although none of the drivers have been killed for several years, they have lost numbers of their cattle. Before these valleys can be safely settled, posts must be established to protect the inhabitants from the depredations of these merciless savages.[167] A settlement of about a dozen families has been made upon Clatsop plains. This is a strip of open land, about a mile in width, extending from the south end of Point Adams, or Clatsop Point, at the mouth of the Columbia river, about twenty miles along the margin of the ocean, in the direction of Cape Lookout.[168] It appears to have been formed by the washing of the waters. Ridges resembling the waves of the ocean extend from north to south throughout the entire length of the plains. These ridges are from twelve to twenty-five feet high, and in some places not more than fifty feet, but at other points as much as three hundred yards asunder. That along the coast is the highest and least fertile, as it seems to be of more recent formation. The soil is composed of vegetable matter and sand, and produces grass more abundantly than the valleys above; the spray and dampness of the ocean keeping the grass green all the year. The land is not so good for fall wheat as in the upper country, but the settlers raise twenty-five bushels of spring wheat to the acre. I think it better for root crops than the valleys above. In the rear of the plains, or about a mile from the shore, is a body of land heavily timbered with hemlock and spruce, which is tall and straight, and splits freely. Near the timber a marsh of some two hundred yards in width extends nearly the entire length of the plains. This marsh is covered with the low kind of cranberries. A stream some ten or twelve yards in width[169] enters the plains {104} at the south end, runs ten or twelve miles north, when it turns to the west, and after passing through two of the ridges, takes a southerly direction and enters the bay that sets up between the Plains and Cape Lookout, not more than ten rods from its entrance into the Plains. Here a dam is built across the stream, and the claimant is erecting a flouring mill. On these plains the claims are taken half a mile in width on the coast, and extending back two miles; each claimant therefore having a fair proportion of prairie and timber land, besides a glorious cranberry patch. Some fifteen miles southeast of Cape Lookout, stands a peak of the Coast range, called Saddle Mountain; and the cape is a spur or ridge extending from this mountain some two or three miles out into the ocean.[170] Around the head of the bay, immediately north of Cape Lookout, is a body of several thousand acres of timber land. The soil is good, but most of it so heavily timbered that it would require much labour to prepare it for farming. But as the streams from the mountain afford an abundance of water power, it would be an easy matter to manufacture the timber into lumber, for which there is a good market for shipping, and thus make the clearing of the land for cultivation a profitable business. Along the coast from Cape Lookout to the 42d parallel there is much land that can be cultivated; and even the mountains, when cleared of the heavy bodies of timber with which they are clothed, will be good farming land. There is so much pitch in the timber that it burns very freely; sometimes a green standing tree set on fire will all be consumed; so that it is altogether a mistaken idea that the timber lands of the country can never be cultivated. I am fully of the opinion that two-thirds of the country between the Willamette valley and the coast, and extending from the Columbia river to the forty-second parallel, which includes the Coast range of mountains, can be successfully cultivated. This region abounds in valuable cedar, hemlock and fir timber, is well watered, possesses a fertile soil, and being on the coast, it will always have the advantage of a good market; for the statements that soundings cannot be had along the coast, between Puget Sound and the Bay of San Francisco, are altogether erroneous. No place along the range would be more than thirty miles from market; and the difficulty of constructing roads over and through this range would be trifling, compared with that of constructing similar works over the Alleghanies. {105} The country about Cape Lookout is inhabited by a tribe of Indians called the Kilamooks. They are a lazy and filthy set of beings, who live chiefly on fish and berries, of which there is here a great abundance. They have a tradition among them that a long time ago the Great Spirit became angry with them, set the mountain on fire, destroyed their towns, turned their _tiye_ (chief) and _tilicums_ (people) into stone, and cast them in the ocean outside of Cape Lookout; that the Great Spirit becoming appeased, removed the fire to Saddle Mountain, and subsequently to the _Sawhle Illahe_ (high mountain,) or Mount Regnier, as it is called by the whites, on the north side of the Columbia river.[171] In the ocean about a mile west of Cape Lookout, is to be seen at high water a solitary rock, which they call Kilamook's Head, after the chief of the tribe. Around this rock for half a mile in every direction may be seen at low water divers other rocks, which are called the _tilicums_, (people) of the tribe. At low water is to be seen a cavity passing quite through Kilamook's Head, giving the rock the appearance of a solid stone arch.[172] In support of this tradition, the appearance of the promontory of Cape Lookout indicates that it may be the remains of an extinct volcano; and on Saddle Mountain there is an ancient crater, several hundred feet deep; while Mount Regnier is still a volcano. Those who have visited the rocky cliffs of Cape Lookout, report that there is some singular carving upon the ledges, resembling more the hieroglyphics of the Chinese, than any thing they have seen elsewhere. These Indians have another tradition, that five white men, or, as they call them, pale faces, came ashore on this point of rock, and buried something in the cliffs, which have since fallen down and buried the article deep in the rocks; that these pale faces took off the Indian women, and raised a nation of people, who still inhabit the region to the south. And I have met with travelers who say they have seen a race of people in that region, whose appearance would seem to indicate that they may have some European blood in their veins. A reasonable conjecture is, that a vessel may have been cast away upon the coast, and that these five men escaped to Cape Lookout. Another circumstance renders it probable that such might have been the case. Frequently, after a long and heavy south westerly storm, large cakes of beeswax, from two to four inches thick and from twelve to eighteen inches in diameter, {106} are found along the beach, near the south end of Clatsop Plains. The cakes when found are covered with a kind of sea-moss, and small shells adhere to them, indicating that they have been a long time under water.[173] In or about Saddle Mountain rises a stream called Skipenoin's river, which, though extremely crooked, runs nearly north, and empties into the western side of Young's bay, which, it will be remembered, is a large body of water extending south from the Columbia river between Point Adams and Astoria. Between this river and Clatsop plains is a strip of thick spruce and hemlock, with several low marshes. The landing for Clatsop plains is about two miles up the river; which it is rather difficult to follow, as there are many _slues_ putting in from either side, of equal width with the main stream. From the bay a low marshy bottom extends up to the landing, covered with rushes and sea-grass. This bottom is overflowed opposite the landing at high water. Between the landing and Clatsop plains is a lake one or two miles in length, which has its outlet into the bay. Its banks are high, and covered with spruce. Near this is a stream, from the mouth of which it is about two or three miles along the bay to the creek upon which Lewis and Clark wintered; and thence about three and a half miles to the head of the bay where Young's river enters.[174] Young's river is a stream about one hundred and fifty yards in width, and is navigable for steamboats and small sloops to the forks, six or seven miles up. About seven miles further up are the "Falls," where the water pitches over a ledge of rocks, making a fall of about sixty feet. Around the falls the mountains are covered with heavy timber. Near the forks the river receives from the east a small stream, upon which a machine for making shingles has been erected; and as the timber in the vicinity is good for shingles, which can be readily sold for the Sandwich Islands market, the owners expect to do a profitable business. Young's river rises in or near Saddle mountain.[175] From the mouth of this river it is about eight or ten miles, around the point which forms on the east Young's Bay, to Astoria, or Fort George, as it is called by the Hudson's Bay Company. This stands on the south side of the Columbia river, about sixteen miles from its mouth.[176] The Columbia river and its location have been so often described, that it is hardly necessary for me to go into details. But as this work is designed to be afforded so low as to place {107} it within the reach of every one, and may fall into the hands of many whose means will not enable them to procure expensive works on Oregon, it may not be amiss to say something about that noble stream, which discharges its waters into the ocean between cape Disappointment on the north, and point Adams or Clatsop point on the south, and in latitude about 46° 15['] north. At its mouth the Columbia is narrowed to about six miles in width by cape Disappointment extending in a south west direction far out into the stream, the cape being washed on the west side by the ocean. Cape Disappointment and Chinook point, a few miles above it, form Baker's bay, which affords good anchorage for vessels as soon as they round the point.[177] This cape presents a rocky shore, is quite high, and covered with timber. An American had taken it as his land claim, according to the laws of the territory; but during the last winter, he sold his right to Mr. Ogden, then one of the principal factors, but now Governor of the Hudson's Bay Company in Oregon, for one thousand dollars. A fortification on this cape would command the entrance of the river by the northern channel, which is immediately around the point, and as it is said, not more than half a mile in width.[178] Point Adams, the southern cape of the Columbia, is a little above cape Disappointment. It is low and sandy, and continues a sand ridge four miles to Clatsop plains. This point, and the high ground at Astoria, as before stated, form Young's bay, near which the ridge is covered with timber. Near point Adams is the southern channel or entrance into the Columbia, which is thought to be preferable to the northern channel; and I think either of them much better than heretofore represented. In each there is a sufficiency of water to float any sized vessel. With the advantages of light houses, buoys, and skillful pilots, which the increasing commerce of the country must soon secure, the harbor at the mouth of the Columbia would compare well with those on the Atlantic coast; and I may say that it would be superior to many of them. As we ascend, Astoria occupies probably the first suitable site for a town. It stands upon a gradual slope, which extends from the bank of the river up to the mountain. The timber was once taken off of some forty or fifty acres here, which, except about twenty acres, has since been suffered to grow up again, and it is now a thicket of spruce and briars. Five or six old dilapidated buildings, which are occupied by the Hudson's Bay Company, who have a small stock of goods for trading {108} with the natives, and a few old looking lodges upon the bank of the river, filled with greasy, filthy Indians, constitute Astoria.[179] The person in charge of this establishment, whose name is Birney, seems to be a distant, haughty, sulky fellow, whose demeanor and looks belie the character generally given to a mountaineer or backwoodsman.[180] As evidence of his real character, I will state one circumstance as it was related to me by persons residing in the vicinity of the place. During the summer or fall, while the British war vessel Modesté was lying at Astoria, one of the sailors fell overboard and was drowned. Search was made, but his body could not be found. Several weeks afterwards the body of a man was found upon the shore, a short distance above Astoria. Information was immediately communicated to Birney, who promised to give the body a decent burial. About two weeks after this, some Indians travelling along the shore, attracted to the place by a disagreeable scent and the number of buzzards collected together, discovered the body of a man much mangled, and in a state of putrefaction. They informed two white men, Trask, and Duncan,[181] who immediately made enquiry as to whether the body found on the beach previously had been buried, and received for answer from Birney, _that it was no countryman of his, but it was likely one of the late emigrants from the States that had been drowned at the Cascade Falls_. Trask and Duncan proceeded to bury the body, and found it to be in the garb of a British sailor or marine. This, to say the least, was carrying national prejudice a little too far. Near Astoria, and along the river, several claims have been taken, and commencements made at improving. Anchorage may be had near the shore. Three miles above Astoria is Tongue point,[182] a narrow rocky ridge some three hundred feet high, putting out about a mile into the river; but at the neck it is low and not more than two hundred yards across. The two channels of the river unite below this point. Opposite is Gray's bay, a large, beautiful sheet of water, of sufficient depth to float ships. Above and on the south side of the river is Swan bay, a large sheet of water, though shallow, presenting numerous bars at low tides. A deep channel has been cut through this bay, which affords an entrance into a stream that comes in from the south, about two hundred yards wide, and from appearance is navigable some distance up.[183] In this vicinity the whole country is covered with heavy timber. In {109} the indentation in the mountain range south of the river, there seems to be large scopes of good rich land, which would produce well if cleared of timber. From Tongue point across Gray's bay to Catalamet point is about sixteen miles. Small craft are frequently compelled to run the southern channel, inside of a cluster of islands called Catalamet Islands, which passes "old Catalamet town," as it is called, a point where once stood an Indian village. Four or five claims have been taken here, but none of them have been improved. A short distance from the river are several beautiful prairies, surrounded with heavy timber. A small stream enters here, which affords water power a short distance up.[184] A few miles above old Catalamet town, near the top of the bluff, about four hundred yards from the Columbia, stands Wilson & Hunt's saw mill, which is driven by a small stream coming down from the mountain; after leaving the wheel the stream falls about sixty feet, striking tide water below. A sluice or platform is so constructed as to convey the lumber from the mill to the level below, where it is loaded into boats and run out to the river, where it can be loaded into vessels. Upon our arrival at this place, the bark Toulon was lying at anchor, about fifty yards from the shore, taking in a cargo of lumber for the Sandwich Islands, to which she expected to sail in a few days. This was early in January, but from some cause she did not leave the mouth of the river until the last of February.[185] In the vicinity of the mill there is some better timber than I have seen in any other part of the country. The largest trees are about seven feet in diameter, and nearly three hundred feet high; the usual size, however, is from eighteen inches to three feet diameter, and about two hundred feet high. The country slopes up from the mill gradually, for several miles, and is susceptible of easy cultivation; the soil is somewhat sandy, and has the appearance of being good. In leaving this place, we struck directly across the river, which is here over two miles wide. Upon the north side, almost opposite to the mill, is a claim held by Birney, of Astoria, who has made an effort at improvement by cutting timber and raising the logs of a cabin. At this place a rocky bluff commences and continues up the river for ten miles, over which a great many beautiful waterfalls leap into the Columbia. There is one sheet of water ten or twelve feet wide, which plunges over a precipitous cliff two hundred feet into the river, {110} striking the water about thirty feet from the base of the rock, where there is sufficient depth to float vessels of large size. At the distance of eight or ten miles above the mill, on the south side of the river, there is an indentation in the mountain to the south, and a bend in the river to the north, which forms a body of bottom land several miles in width, and some ten or twelve miles long, the greater part of which, except a strip varying from a quarter to half a mile in width, next to the river, is flooded during high tides. This strip is covered with white oak and cottonwood timber. The remainder of the bottom is prairie, with occasional dry ridges running through it, and the whole of it covered with grass. By throwing up levees, as is done upon the Atlantic coast, most of these fine lands might be cultivated. At the extreme southern point of the elbow, there comes in a stream, the size of which was not ascertained, but from appearances it is of sufficient size to propel a considerable amount of machinery. There are several islands in the river opposite the lower point of this bottom, and at the northern angle the Columbia is not more than three-fourths of a mile wide. This is called Oak point, and holds out good inducements for a settlement. There is an Indian village half a mile below the point; and opposite, upon the northern side of the river, a good millstream, the falls being near the river, and the mountain covered with timber.[186] Immediately above the point, the river spreads out to one and a half or two miles in width, and having several islands, portions of which are covered with cottonwood, oak and ash timber, the remainder being nearly all prairie. From Oak point up to Vancouver, the scenery very much resembles that along the Hudson river through the Catskill Mountains, but much more grand, as the Cascade range of mountains, and many snowcapped peaks, are in view. Some portions of the way the shore is high rugged cliffs of rocks, at others indentations in the mountain leave bottoms, from a quarter to three miles wide, which are mostly covered with timber. From the lower mouth of the Willamette to Fort Vancouver, the shores are lined with cottonwood timber, and upon the south side, as far up as the mouth of Sandy, or Quicksand river, which comes in at the western base of the Cascade range. But few claims have as yet been taken along the Columbia, but the fishing and lumbering advantages which this part of the country possesses over many others, holds out great inducements to settlers. {111} From Fort Vancouver, for several miles down upon the north side, the country is sufficiently level to make good farming land; and the Hudson's Bay Company, or members of the company, have extensive farms, with large herds of cattle. Fort Vancouver is one of the most beautiful sites for a town upon the Columbia. It is about ninety miles from the ocean, and upon the north side of the river. Large vessels can come up this far. The banks of the river are here about twenty-five feet high. Much of the bottom land about the fort is inclined to be gravelly, but produces well.[187] A party consisting of nine persons, in two row-boats, started from Oregon city on the 24th of December, for Fort Vancouver, and arrived there in the afternoon of the 25th. In our party was Colonel M'Clure, formerly of Indiana, and who had been a member of the Oregon legislature for two years.[188] As soon as we landed, he made his way to the fort, which is about four hundred yards from the shore, with the view of obtaining quarters for the party. He soon returned and conducted us to our lodgings, which were in an old cooper's shop, or rather shed, near the river. Before starting we had prepared ourselves with provisions, and a few cooking utensils. We set to work, and although the wind and rain made it unpleasant, we soon had a comfortable meal in readiness, and we made good use of the time until it was devoured. This was holyday with the servants of the Hudson's Bay Company, and such _ranting_ and frolicking has perhaps seldom been seen among the sons of men. Some were engaged in gambling, some singing, some running horses, many promenading on the river shore, and others on the large green prairie above the fort. H. B. Majesty's ship of war Modesté was lying at anchor about fifty yards from the shore.[189] The sailors also seemed to be enjoying the holydays--many of them were on shore promenading, and casting _sheep's eyes_ at the fair native damsels as they strolled from wigwam to hut, and from hut to wigwam, intent upon seeking for themselves the greatest amount of enjoyment. At night a party was given on board the ship, and judging from the noise kept up until ten at night, they were a jolly set of fellows. About this time a boat came ashore from the ship, with a few land lubbers most gloriously drunk. One of them fell out of the boat, and his comrades were barely able to pull him ashore. They passed our shop, cursing their stars for this ill luck. We wrapped ourselves in our blankets, and lay down upon {112} a pile of staves. The rain was falling gently, and we were soon asleep. In the after part of the night, several of us were aroused by a strange noise among the staves. In the darkness we discovered some objects near us, which we supposed to be hogs. We hissed and hallooed at them, to scare them away. They commenced grunting, and waddled off, and all was again quiet, and remained so until daylight; but when we arose in the morning, we found ourselves minus one wagon sheet, which we had brought along for a sail, our tin kettle, eighteen or twenty pounds of meat, a butcher knife and scabbard, one fur cap, and several other articles, all of which had been stolen by the Indians, who had so exactly imitated the manoeuvres of a gang of hogs, as entirely to deceive us. After breakfast we visited the fort, where we had an introduction to Dr. McLaughlin, the Governor of the Hudson's Bay Company. He appears to be much of a gentleman, and invited us to remain during the day; but as we were upon an excursion down the river, we only remained to make a few purchases, which being accomplished, we left the place. As before stated, the fort stands upon the north bank of the Columbia, six miles above the upper mouth of the Willamette, and about four hundred yards from the shore. The principal buildings are included within a stockade of logs, set up endwise close together, and about twelve feet high; the lower ends of the timbers being sunk about four feet in the ground. A notch is cut out of each log near the top and bottom, into which a girth is fitted, and mortised into a large log at each end, the whole being trenailed to this girth. I judge the area contains about four acres. The first thing that strikes a person forcibly upon entering one of the principal gates upon the south, is two large cannons, planted one upon either side of the walk leading to the Governor's house, immediately in front of the entrance. Many of the buildings are large and commodious, and fitted up for an extensive business, others are old fashioned looking concerns, and much dilapidated. East of the fort and along the river bank there is a grassy prairie, extending up for about three miles; it has been cultivated, but an unusually high freshet in the river washed the fence away, and it has since remained without cultivation. The soil is gravelly. North of this, and extending down nearly even with the fort there is a handsome farm, under good cultivation. North of the fort there is a beautiful orchard, and an extensive garden, with several large blocks of buildings. Below the {113} fort, and extending from the river for half a mile north, is the village; the inhabitants of which are a mongrel race, consisting of English, French, Canadians, Indians of different nations, and half breeds, all in the employ of the company. The buildings are as various in form, as are the characteristics of their inmates. As yet there are but few Americans settled upon the north side of the Columbia. There seems to have been an effort upon the part of the Hudson's Bay Company, to impress the American people with an idea that the entire country north of the river was unfit for cultivation. Not only was this statement made to emigrants, but it was heralded forth to the whole world; and as much of the country along the Columbia corroborated this statement, no effort was made to disprove it. Americans visiting that country being so well pleased with the attentions paid them by the Hudson's Bay Company, took for granted their statements, without examining for themselves, and have asserted it at home, in accordance with British interests, and this I fear has had its influence in the settlement of this question. For any one acquainted with the character of the claims of the respective governments can but admit, that greater privileges have been granted to Great Britain than that government had any right to expect, or than the justice of our claim would allow. Undoubtedly, the largest part of good agricultural country is south of 49° north latitude, but there is a great deal of excellent land north of that line. But little of it has been explored by Americans, and we have taken only the statements of British subjects, and upon their authority, the question between the two governments was settled. But as we have proven by actual examination the incorrectness of their statements in relation to the country between the Columbia and the 49th degree north latitude, we may reasonably infer that they are also incorrect in relation to the remainder of the country north. That the general features of the country north of the Columbia River are rough and mountainous, is admitted; and the same may be said in relation to the country south of it; but that it is barren and sterile, and unfit for cultivation, is denied. The country upon the north side of the Columbia abounds with beautiful valleys of rich soil, of prairie and timbered lands, well watered, and adapted to the growth of all the grains raised in the northern, middle, and western States, with superior advantages for grazing; never failing resources for timber {114} and fish; and its proximity to one of the best harbors in the world, renders it one of the most desirable and important sections upon the Pacific coast. Frazer's river, with its numerous tributaries, will afford a settlement which will compare well with England itself. Vancouver's Island, an excellent body of land, is equal to England in point of size, fertility of soil, climate, and everything that would constitute great national wealth. And besides these, there are undoubtedly extensive valleys north of Frazer's river, which will compare well with it; but we know nothing positively upon this subject.[190] The excellent harbors of Puget's sound, with its many advantages, and the delightful country about it, are sufficient to induce capitalists to look that way. This will probably be the principal port upon the coast. Here will doubtless be our navy yard and shipping stores. It is thought by many that an easy communication can be had between the Sound and the middle region, by striking the Columbia above fort Wallawalla. If this can be effected, it will lessen the distance materially from the settlement upon the upper Columbia to a seaport town; and as the navigation of that river, between the Cascade and Lewis's fork is attended with great danger and difficulty, a route through to the sound in this quarter would be very desirable.[191] That it can be accomplished there is but little doubt. A stream emptying into the ocean between the Columbia and the sound, called Shahales, affords a very good harbor, which is called Gray's harbor.[192] Up this stream there is a country suitable for an extensive settlement. Like most other valleys in the country it is diversified with prairie and timbered land, and well watered. No claims as yet have been taken in this valley. There are two peaks upon the north side of the river, which remain covered with snow the whole year round. One is called Mount St. Helen, and stands north east of Fort Vancouver, and distant perhaps forty-five or fifty miles. The other is Mount Regnier, and stands some thirty-five miles from St. Helen, in a northerly direction. This is said to be a volcano. The distance from Fort Vancouver to Puget's sound, in a direct line, cannot exceed ninety miles; but the high mountains between render the route somewhat difficult, and the distance necessarily traveled would be considerably increased. About forty miles below fort Vancouver there comes in a {115} stream called Cowlitz; twenty-five miles up this stream there is a French settlement of about twenty families. Like those in the settlement upon the east side of the Willamette river, they have served out their term of years in the H. B. Company, have taken claims, and become an industrious and thriving population.[193] * * * * * The people in Oregon have adopted a code of laws for their government, until such time as the United States shall extend jurisdiction over them. The powers of the government are divided into three distinct departments--the legislative, executive, and judicial. The legislative department is to consist of not less than _thirteen_ members, nor more than _sixty-one_; the number not to be increased more than _five_ in any one year. The members are elected annually; each district electing a number proportionate to its population. The executive power is vested in one person, who is elected by the qualified voters of the territory, and holds his office for the term of two years. The judicial power is vested in a supreme court, and such inferior courts of law, equity, and arbitration, as may by law from time to time be established. The supreme court consists of one judge, elected by the legislature, and holds his office four years. They have adopted the Iowa code of laws.[194] Oregon is now divided into eight counties, viz: Lewis, Vancouver, Clatsop, Yam-hill, Polk, Quality, Clackamis, and Shampoic.[195] Lewis county includes that portion of country about Puget's sound;--Vancouver, that along the northern side of the Columbia. These two counties comprise all the territory north of the Columbia river. Clatsop county includes that part of the country west of the centre of the coast range of mountains, and from the river south, to Yam-hill county, and of course includes Astoria, Clatsop Plains, &c. Quality county includes the territory bounded on the north by the Columbia, on the east by the Willamette, on the south by Yam-hill, and on the west by Clatsop county. Yam-hill county is bounded on the north by Quality and Clatsop, (the line being about fifteen miles south of Oregon city,) on the east by the Willamette river, on the south by Polk county, and on the west by the Ocean. {116} Polk county is bounded on the north by Yam-hill county, on the east by the Willamette, on the south by the California line, and on the west by the Pacific ocean. Clackamis county is bounded on the north by the Columbia, on the east by the Rocky mountains, on the south by Shampoic county, and on the west by the Willamette, including Oregon city. Shampoic county is bounded on the north by Clackamis county, on the east by the Rocky mountains, on the south by California, and on the west by the Willamette. The country will, without doubt, be divided into at least three states. One state will include all the country north of the Columbia river. Nature has marked out the boundaries. Another state will include all that country south of the Columbia river to the California line, and west of the Cascade range of mountains. This country, however, is large enough to form two states. The country east of the Cascade range, extending to the Rocky mountains, and between the Columbia and California, would make another state. This would include more territory than all the remainder; but it would cover all that vast barren region of country which can never be inhabited by the white man. The western portion of this section is fertile. The line doubtless would be established between, leaving the eastern portion as Oregon territory, for future generations to dispose of. The country now contains over six thousand white inhabitants; and the emigration this year, over land, will be about seventeen hundred souls, and that by water will probably equal it, which will increase the number to near ten thousand. It may be a safe calculation to set down the number for the first of January, 1847, at twelve thousand souls. The settlers are labouring under great disadvantages on account of not being able to obtain a sufficient amount of farming implements. The early settlers were supplied at the Hudson Bay Company's store, and at prices much less than those now charged for the same articles. At that time the supply was equal to the demand; but since the tide of emigration has turned so strongly to this region, the demand is much greater than the supply. This may be said of almost every kind of goods or merchandise. The supply of goods in the hands of the American merchants has been very limited, being the remnant of cargoes shipped round upon the coast, more for the {117} purpose of treating with the Indians, than with the cultivators of the soil. Great complaints have been made by the merchants trading in that quarter, that they were not able to compete with the Hudson Bay Company; and this is the cry even at home; but the fact is, the prices were much lower before these American merchants went into the country than they now are. Their mode of dealing is to ask whatever their avarice demands, and the necessities of the purchaser will bear. And not being satisfied with an open field, they have petitioned the Hudson Bay Company to put a higher price upon their goods, as they were selling lower than the American merchants wished to sell. In accordance with this request, the H. B. Company raised the price of goods _when sold to an American_, but sold them at the old prices to British subjects. This arrangement was continued for two years; but an American can now purchase at the fort as cheap as any one. These facts I obtained from various sources, and when apprised of the prices of goods in that country, they are not so hard to be believed. I paid for a pair of _stoga_ shoes, made in one of the eastern states, and a very common article, four dollars and _fifty_ cents; for a common coarse cotton flag handkerchief, which can be had in Cincinnati for five or ten cents, fifty cents. The price of calico ranges from thirty-one to eighty-seven and a half cents a yard; common red flannel one dollar and fifty cents per yard; a box of two hundred and fifty percussion caps, two dollars and fifty cents; coarse boots, eastern made, six to eight dollars; calfskin from ten to twelve dollars; coarse half hose, one dollar; dry goods generally ranging with the above prices. Iron was selling at twelve and a half cents per pound. Tools of all kinds are very high; so that whatever may be said against the company, for putting down the prices to destroy competition by breaking up other merchants, cannot be "sustained by the facts of the case." That they prevent them from raising the prices there is no doubt, and if the American merchants had the field, clear of competition, the prices would be double what they now are. They have not capital to enable them to keep up a supply, nor to purchase the surplus of the country. The Hudson Bay Company are the only purchasers to any extent, for there are no others who have the necessary machinery to manufacture wheat, which is the staple of the country at present. The American merchants buy a few fish, {118} hides, and lumber; but in such limited quantities as to be of very little advantage to the country. A few American merchants, with a little capital, would give an impulse to trade, encourage the settlers, make it a profitable business to themselves, and add much to the character of the country. There is scarcely any branch of business that might not be carried on successfully in Oregon. Flouring mills, saw-mills, carding machines, fulling and cloth dying, tin shops, potteries, tanyards, &c., &c., would all be profitable; and in truth they are all much needed in the country. The price of a flour barrel is one dollar; that of common split-bottom chairs twenty-four dollars per dozen; a common dining table without varnish, fourteen dollars; half soling a pair of shoes or boots, two dollars; cutting and splitting rails, one dollar and twenty-five cents per hundred; eighteen inch shingles, four dollars and fifty cents per thousand; cutting cord wood, from seventy-five cents to one dollar per cord; carpenter's wages from two to three dollars per day; laborer's from one to two dollars per day; plough irons fifty cents per pound; stocking a plough, from four to six dollars. Wheat, eighty cents per bushel; potatoes fifty cents; corn sixty-two and a half cents; oats fifty cents; beef four to six cents per pound; pickled salmon by the barrel, nine to twelve dollars for shipment; work cattle are from seventy-five to one hundred dollars per yoke; cows from twenty-five to fifty dollars each; American work horses from one hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars. I have never heard of any sheep being sold, but presume they would bring from five to ten dollars. A tailor will charge from six to twelve dollars for making a dress coat. Hogs are high, though there seems to be plenty of them in the country. The common kinds of poultry are plenty. It is a singular fact that the honey bee is not found in the Oregon territory, neither wild nor domesticated. Beef hides are two dollars each; a chopping axe from four and a half to six dollars; a drawing knife, three to five dollars; hand-saws, six dollars; crosscut saws, eight to twelve dollars; mill-saws, twenty-five dollars. There is but little hollow ware in the country. No stationery of any kind could be had when I was there. The people are in great need of school books; some sections being destitute of schools in consequence of not being able to procure books. Good teachers are also much needed. I had expected to find the winters much more severe than they turned out to be. I had no thermometer, and no means {119} of ascertaining the degrees of heat and cold, but I kept an account of the wet and dry weather, cloudy, clear, &c., &c., commencing on the first day of November and ending on the fifth of March, which was the day I started on my return to the United States. The 1st and 2d days of November were clear; 3d rainy; then clear until the 11th; cloudy until the 13th. Then cloudy, with slight showers of rain until the 20th; 21st and 22nd clear; 23d rainy; 24th and 25th were cloudy, but no rain; the weather was then clear until the 29th, when it again clouded up. 30th of November and first of December were cloudy; 2d and 3rd clear, with frosty nights. On the 4th a misty rain; 5th and 6th were cloudy; from 7th to 10th clear and cool, with frost every night. On the 11th it rained nearly all day, and on the 12th about half the day. 13th and 14th were cloudy. From the 15th to 22d clear and pleasant, with frosty nights; it thawed through the day in the sun all that froze at night, but in the shade remained frozen. From the 22d to 24th cloudy, with showers of drizzling rain; 25th, 26th and 27th rain nearly all the time, but not very copiously; the mornings were foggy. The 28th and 29th were clear, but very foggy in the forepart of the day; 30th and 31st rain about half the time. From the 1st to 3d of January it was squally, with frequent showers of rain; 4th cloudy, but no rain; 5th rained nearly all day. From the 6th to the 12th, clear and pleasant, being slightly foggy in the mornings; from 13th to 17th rained about half each day, and nearly all the night; 18th and 19th, cloudy without rain. The 20th and 21st, slight rain nearly all the time; 22d was cloudy; 23d and 24th, rain about half of each day; 25th rained all day, 26th cloudy, without rain, 27th was rainy, some heavy showers; 28th was clear; 29th, 30th and 31st, were showery and blustering, raining about half the time, and foggy. The 1st of February was clear; 2d cloudy, 3d rainy; 4th and 5th were a little cloudy, but pleasant; 6th and 7th, a few slight showers; 8th and 9th rainy and quite cool; snow was seen on the lower peaks of the Coast range of mountains, but none in the valley. The 10th was cloudy, at night a little frost; 11th was rainy; 12th and 13th rained all the time; 14th and 15th were nearly clear, with light frosts. The weather remained clear until the 23rd, with light frosts, but not cold enough to freeze the ground; 24th cloudy; 25th clear; 26th, 27th, and 28th rained all the time. {120} First of March, rained half the day; 2d cloudy, 3d rained all day; 4th cloudy, 5th was showery--making in all about twenty days that it rained nearly all the day, and about forty days that were clear, or nearly so; the remainder of the days were cloudy and showery. A number of the days set down as rainy, a person with a blanket coat could have worked out all the day without having been wet. Much of the time it rained during the night, when it was clear through the day. I should think that two-thirds of the rain fell during the night. No snow fell in the valleys, nor were there frosts more than _fifteen_ nights. Ice never formed much over a quarter of an inch in thickness. The little streams and "_swales_" sometimes rise so high as to make it difficult to get about for a few days; but they are short, and soon run down. But little labour has yet been bestowed on the public roads. The Willamette river is the highway upon which nearly all the traveling is done, and upon which nearly all the products of the country are conveyed. The numerous streams can be easily bridged, and when this is done, there will be but little difficulty in traveling at any period of the year. Upon the 5th of March, 1846, I set out on my return to the States. About one week previous, a party of seven persons had also set out on their return, and we expected to overtake them at Dr. Whitman's station. A few head of lame cattle had been left the preceding fall with a man named Craig, who resided near Spalding's mission;[196] and as the Indians in that vicinity had large bands of horses, which they wished to trade for cattle, I purchased several head of cattle to trade for horses, as also did others of the party. I, however, had purchased two horses and one mule; which, with several horses and mules belonging to the party, had been taken ahead on the 2d of the month, with the view of crossing the Columbia river at fort Vancouver, going up the valley of the Columbia, and recrossing below the Dalles. By this route we would avoid the deep snow on the Cascade mountains. We loaded our effects on board a boat which we had bought for that purpose, and at two o'clock P.M. shoved off; and although anxious to be on the way back, yet I left the place with considerable reluctance. I had found the people of Oregon kind and hospitable, and my acquaintance with them had been of the most friendly character. Many of the persons who had traveled through to Oregon with me, resided at Oregon {121} city. Attachments had been formed upon the road, which when about to leave, seemed like parting with our own families. We were about to retrace the long and dreary journey which the year before had been performed, and again to brave the privations and dangers incident to such a journey. Traveling as we expected to do on horseback, we could not take those conveniences so necessary for comfort, as when accompanied with wagons; but we bade adieu to the good people of Oregon, and rapidly floated down the Willamette to the town of Portland, twelve miles below the falls. It commenced raining quite fast, and we hove to, and procured quarters with Mr. Bell, one of the emigrants who had recently settled at this place. This will probably be a town of some consequence, as it occupies a handsome site, and is at the head of ship navigation. Mr. Petigrew[197] of New York is the proprietor. It continued raining nearly all night. In the morning the rain abated; we again took the oars, and in two hours and a half reached the town of Linnton. Here are a few log huts, erected among the heavy timber; but it will not, probably, ever be much of a town.[198] A great portion of the emigrants traveling down the Columbia land at this place, and take the road to Quality plains, which are about twenty-five miles distant; but the road is a bad one. At 3 o'clock P. M. we arrived at fort Vancouver, where we made a few purchases to complete our outfit, and then rowed up the river two miles and a half, and encamped. Here we found the party with our horses. The Indians had stolen two horses, several trail ropes, &c. The day was showery. On the 7th we ascended about eighteen miles, to the mouth of a stream coming in upon the north side of the river, about one hundred yards in width, having its source in Mount St. Helen. Here a commencement of a settlement had been made by Simmons, Parker, and others, and about a dozen buildings erected, but were now abandoned on account of its being subject to be overflowed by the annual high freshets of the Columbia river.[199] The soil is good, with several patches of prairie. On our way we passed the grist and saw mills of the Hudson's Bay Company. They stand immediately upon the bank of the Columbia. The water power is obtained from small mountain streams. The mills are six and eight miles above the fort. Several islands in the river might be _leveed_ and successfully cultivated. The day was cloudy, with occasional showers of rain, and some hail. {122} On the 8th we advanced sixteen or eighteen miles. For the greater part of the way, the river is hemmed in by high, craggy, rocky cliffs. At a point, called Cape Horn, the rocks project over the stream, presenting a huge mass of black looking rocks of several hundred feet in height.[200] Some of them seem to have broken and slid from their former position, and now stand in detached columns erect in the deep stream, presenting a grand and terrific appearance. At several points, streams of water were tumbling more than a thousand feet from crag to crag, and falling into the river in broken sheets. Upon one of these columns stands a solitary pine tree, and upon the topmost branch sat a large bald-headed eagle. We rowed nearly under it, when one of our men took his rifle and fired, and down came the eagle, striking the water not more than ten feet from the boat. A wing had been broken, and we dispatched him with our oars; he measured over seven feet from tip to tip of the wings. Round this point the water is sometimes very rough. Boats have been compelled to lay to, for two weeks, on account of the roughness of the water. The day was clear. Upon the 9th we progressed about ten miles. Seven miles brought us to the foot of the rapids, called the Cascade falls, and here for five miles the river is hemmed in and contracted to not more than three hundred yards in width, and runs with tremendous velocity.[201] We were compelled to _cordelle_ our boat, and sometimes lift it over the rocks for several rods. It is not easy to form an idea of the difficulties to be encountered, in ascending this rapid. Late in the evening we encamped, after a day of hard work in wading, pulling and lifting. It rained nearly all night. On the 10th we arrived at the head of the portage. Three times we were compelled to unload our boat, and carry our effects over the rocks along the shore; and at the main falls the distance of the portage is nearly one mile. At night we had completed the portage, and were all safe above the falls. At the foot of the rapids we met several families of emigrants, who had been wintering at the Dalles. One of them had traveled the most of the way with us, but being unwilling to travel as fast as we wished, had not arrived in time to get through before winter set in. In this family was a young woman, who so captivated one of our party, that he turned back with them. On the 11th we made but about eight miles; the wind causing {123} a swell that rendered boating dangerous. The day was clear, and at night there was a hard frost. We progressed twelve or fourteen miles on the 12th; the day was cloudy. Here we had designed crossing the river with our horses. The morning of the 13th was too windy to swim our horses over. We attempted to take them up the north side of the river; but after clambering about three miles, we were compelled to halt, the cliffs being so abrupt that we were unable to pass them with horses. We remained at this place through the day. On the morning of the 14th the wind had so abated that we could swim our animals. We commenced by taking four at a time; two upon each side of the boat, with four men rowing. In this manner by ten o'clock A. M., all had crossed. The water was very cold. The width of the river at this place, is more than a mile. The party with the horses then took the trail, and we saw no more of them, until we arrived at the Dalles, which we reached on the 15th. Here we found five of the party who had started a week in advance of us. Two of their company had gone on to Whitman's station. We sold our boat to the Missionaries, and remained here until the morning of the 19th, endeavoring to hire and buy horses to pack our effects to Dr. Whitman's. There were hundreds of horses belonging to the Indians, but their owners knew our situation, and wished to extort a high price from us. We so arranged our effects as to pack them on the mules and horses we had, and we ourselves traveled on foot. On the evening of the 18th, we packed up and proceeded two miles, when we encamped. Two Indians came and encamped with us. In the night our mules began to show signs that a thief was approaching. The guard apprised us of it, and we prepared our arms. Our two Indian friends seeing that we were prepared to chastise thieves, roused up and commenced running around the camp, and hallooing most lustily; probably to give warning that it was dangerous to approach, as they soon disappeared. During the day we had seen some sport. As we were nearly all _green_ in the business of packing, and many of our animals were quite wild, we frequently had running and kicking "sprees," scattering the contents of our packs over the prairie, and in some cases damaging and losing them. In one instance, while traveling along a narrow, winding path upon the side of {124} a bluff, a pack upon a mule's back became loose; the mule commenced kicking, and the pack, saddle and all, rolled off, and as the trail rope was tied fast to the mule's neck, and then around the pack, it dragged the mule after it. The bank for six or eight hundred feet was so steep that a man could scarcely stand upright. The mule was sometimes ahead of the pack, at others the pack was ahead of the mule. At length, after tumbling about one thousand feet, to near a perpendicular ledge of rocks, they stopped. Six feet farther would have plunged them over a cliff of two hundred feet, into the river. We arrived at and crossed Falls river, receiving no other damage than wetting a few of our packs.[202] We encamped two miles above Falls river, having traveled about sixteen miles. The weather was clear and warm. We traveled leisurely along, nothing remarkable occurring; but as some of the party were unaccustomed to walking, they soon showed signs of fatigue and sore feet. We were often visited by a set of half-starved and naked Indians. On the 26th we reached Fort Wallawalla, or Fort Nez Percés, as it is sometimes called. This fort stands upon the east side of the Columbia, and upon the north bank of the Wallawalla river. We went about three fourths of a mile up the Wallawalla river, and encamped. Near us was a village of the Wallawalla Indians, with their principal chief.[203] This old chief was not very friendly to Americans. The season before, a party of the Wallawallas had visited California, by invitation of Capt. Suter; and whilst there, a difficulty arose about some horses, and the son of the old chief was killed in the fort. The Indians left immediately, and as Suter claimed to be an American, the chief's feelings were excited against all Americans. He had showed hostile demonstrations against a party of Americans the summer previous; and when we arrived, we were told that he was surly, and not disposed to be friendly. The grazing about the camp was poor, and we sent a few men with the animals to the hills, three miles distant, to graze. Near night we observed quite a stir among the Indians. We gave a signal to drive in the horses; they soon came in, and we picketed them near the camp. As soon as it was dark the Indians commenced singing and dancing, accompanied with an instrument similar to a drum, and giving most hideous yells, running to and fro. We began to suspect that they meditated an attack upon our camp; and we accordingly prepared to meet them by building a fortification of {125} our baggage, and posting a strong guard. We remained in this position until daylight, when we packed up, and traveled up the Wallawalla eight or ten miles, when we stopped, cooked breakfast, and allowed our animals to graze. Before starting, the old chief and a few of his principal men made us a visit. They appeared friendly, and wished to trade. We gave them some provisions, and made them a few presents of tobacco, pipes, &c. After shooting at a mark with the chief, to convince him of our skill, we conversed on various subjects, among which the death of his son was mentioned, and he expressed his determination to go to California this season. We parted, he and his people to their village, and we upon our route to Dr. Whitman's. We were here joined by a party of Nez Percé Indians; among whom were four of their principal chiefs. Ellis the great chief was with them. He speaks very good English, and is quite intelligent. He was educated at the Hudson's Bay Company's school, on Red river.[204] They traveled and encamped with us, making heavy drafts upon our provisions; but as we expected to replenish at Whitman's, we gave them freely. We encamped on a branch of the Wallawalla. This is a most beautiful valley of good land, but timber is limited to a few cottonwood and willows along the streams. In the afternoon of the 28th we reached Dr. Whitman's station.[205] Here we remained until the 31st, when in company with four others, and the Nez Percé Indians, we started for Spalding's mission--Mr. Spalding being of our party. The rest of our party remained at Whitman's. Our object was to purchase horses and explore the country. The distance from Dr. Whitman's to Spalding's was about one hundred and fifty miles, in a northeast direction. The first day we traveled but about twenty-five miles, over a most delightful prairie country, and encamped on a beautiful clear stream coming down from the Blue mountains, which are about twelve miles distant.[206] The first of April we traveled about fifty-five miles, also over a delightful, rolling, prairie country; crossing several beautiful streams, lined with timber, and affording desirable locations for settlement. The soil is rich, and covered with an excellent coat of grass. This region possesses grazing advantages over any other portion of Oregon that I have yet seen. The day was blustering, with a little snow, which melted as it reached the ground. On the 2d of April we arrived at Mr. Spalding's mission, {126} which is upon the Kooskooskee or Clear Water,[207] and about twenty miles above its mouth or junction with Lewis's fork of the Columbia. Ten miles from our camp we struck Lewis's fork, and proceeded up it for five miles, and crossed. On our way up we passed a ledge of rocks of fluted columns, two or three hundred feet high. The bluffs of Lewis's fork and the Kooskooskee are very high, sometimes more than three thousand feet. The hills are nearly all covered with grass. As the time I could remain in this region would not allow me to explore it satisfactorily, I requested Mr. Spalding to furnish me with the result of his experience for ten years in the country. He very kindly complied, and the following is the information obtained from him.[208] As he goes very much into detail, it is unnecessary for me to add any further remarks here, in relation to this region of the country. We remained at this missionary establishment until the 10th of April. During our stay, we heard related many incidents common to a mountain life. At one time, when Mr. Spalding was on an excursion to one of the neighboring villages, accompanied by several Indians and their wives, they espied a bear at a short distance clambering up a tree. He ascended thirty or forty feet, and halted to view the travelers. A tree standing near the one upon which sat the bear, with limbs conveniently situated to climb, induced Mr. Spalding to attempt to _lasso_ master bruin. He accordingly prepared himself with a _lasso_ rope, and ascended the tree until he attained an elevation equal to that of the bear. He then cut a limb, rested the noose of the rope upon one end, and endeavored to place it over the head of the bear; but as the rope approached his nose, bruin struck it with his paw, and as Mr. S. had but one hand at liberty, he could not succeed, the weight of the rope being too great. He called to some of his Indian friends, to come up and assist him; but none seemed willing to risk themselves so near the formidable animal. At length one of the squaws climbed up, and held the slack of the rope, and Mr. S. succeeded in slipping the noose over bruin's head. He then descended from the tree, and as the rope extended to the ground, they gave it a jerk, and down came the bear, which fell in such a way as to pass the rope over a large limb, thus suspending him by the neck. The cattle which we had purchased were scattered over the {127} plain. On the 3d they were brought in, and the chief Ellis bought the whole band, agreeing to give one horse for each head of cattle. His place of residence was about sixty miles further up the Kooskooskee, but his father-in-law resided near the mission. Ellis made arrangements with the latter for six horses, and delivered them to us, and his father-in-law took possession of the cattle. We left the horses in his possession, until Ellis could return with the remainder of the horses. In his absence many of the natives came in with their horses to trade for the cattle, and when informed that Ellis had bought them all, they were very much displeased, and charged Ellis with conniving with the whites against his people. In a few days Ellis returned, when the feelings of his people were so much against him, that he was forced to abandon the trade. His father-in-law drove down his band of horses according to agreement, but instead of bringing the horses which had been selected, he brought some old, broken-down horses that could not stand the trip. We objected to receive these horses, and thus broke up the whole arrangement. They had the horses and cattle; of course we demanded the cattle; the Indians showed us that they were on the plains, and that we must hunt them up. We dispatched a party, and they soon brought us all but one heifer. Our intention then was to drive the cattle down to Dr. Whitman's, and trade with the Cayuses; but as we would be compelled to travel on foot for nearly one hundred and fifty miles, we abandoned the project. The neighboring Indians soon drove in some horses to trade, and before night we had disposed of all but four head of our cattle, one yoke of oxen, one yearling heifer, and a yearling calf. The oxen belonged to me. I left them in charge of Mr. Spalding, until my return. In the exchange one horse was given for a cow or heifer. A few horses were purchased for other articles of trade, such as blankets, shirts, knives, &c. The value of fourteen dollars in trade would buy an ordinary horse; if it was an extra horse something more would be asked. Four blankets was the price of a horse. None of the Indians would take money except Ellis. In fact they did not seem to know the value of money. During our stay at this place, the Indians flocked in from all quarters. It is but seldom that the whites visit this portion of the country, and the Indians all seemed anxious to see us. The house was literally filled from morning until night with men, women, and children. They are usually much better {128} clad than any other tribe east or west of the mountains, are quite clean, and are an industrious people. They have made considerable advances in cultivating the soil, and have large droves of horses, and many of them are raising large herds of cattle. Mr. and Mrs. Spalding have kept up a school, and many of the Indians have made great proficiency in spelling, reading, and writing. They use the English alphabet to the Nez Percé language. Mr. Spalding has made some translations from the Scriptures, and among others from the book of Matthew. From this printed copy[209] many of the Indians have printed with a pen facsimiles of the translation, which are neatly executed. I have several copies in my possession of these and other writings, which can be seen at any time in Laurel, Indiana. They are a quiet, civil people, but proud and haughty; they endeavor to imitate the fashions of the whites, and owe much of their superior qualifications to the Missionaries who are among them. Mr. Spalding and family have labored among them for ten years assiduously, and the increasing wants and demands of the natives require an additional amount of labor. A family of their own is rising around them, which necessarily requires a portion of their time; and the increasing cares of the family render it impossible to do that amount of good, and carry out fully that policy which they have so advantageously commenced for the natives. It is impossible for one family to counteract all the influences of bad and designing men, of whom there are not a few in the country. They need more assistance. There are a sufficient number of establishments, but not a sufficient number of persons at those establishments. For instance: Mr. Spalding must now attend not only to raising produce for his own family, but also to supply in a great measure food to numerous families of Indians; to act as teacher and spiritual guide, as physician, and perform many other duties incident to his situation. With such a multitude of claims on his attention, his energies are too much divided, and on the whole his influence is lessened. Could not the Missionary board send out an assistant? There is one thing which could be accomplished with a small outlay, that would be of lasting advantage to these people. They are raising small flocks of sheep, and have been taught to card and spin and weave by hand, and prepare clothing--but the process is too tedious. A carding machine and machinery for fulling cloth would be a saving to the board of {129} missions, and of lasting benefit to the natives. There are no such machines in that country. The wood work of those machines could nearly all be done in the country; the cards and castings are all that would be necessary to ship. A mechanic to set up the machines would be necessary. Perhaps no part of the world is better adapted to the growth of wool than this middle region, and it abounds with water-power to manufacture it. Farmers, mechanics and teachers, should be sent among these people by the missionary board, or by the government. A division is about being made in this nation, which if not counteracted, will doubtless lead to bad consequences. Three Delaware Indians have crossed the mountains, and settled on the Kooskooskee among the Nez Percé Indians. One of them, named Tom Hill, has so ingratiated himself into the feelings of the Nez Percé Indians, that he has succeeded in persuading about one hundred lodges to acknowledge him as their chief. It was formerly, as among other tribes, customary for an Indian to have as many wives as he could maintain; but the missionaries taught them otherwise, and succeeded in abolishing this heathen custom. But Tom Hill tells them that they can have as many wives as they please. He says to them, You make me chief, and I will make you a great people. The white men tell you not to steal--I tell you there is no harm in it; the bad consists in being caught at it. These men will mislead you, &c., &c. Ellis and the other chiefs have exerted themselves to recall their people, but they cannot succeed. In conversing with Ellis, I enquired whether cases of insanity were common among his people. He answered that he never knew a case of insanity, but this one of Tom Hill's. He looks upon him as a crazy man. The two other Delaware Indians are young men, and are industrious and peaceable. They have commenced cultivating the soil, and are raising a fine herd of cattle. Ellis is considered wealthy. He has about fifteen hundred horses, a herd of cattle, some hogs, and a few sheep. Many persons in this nation have from five to fifteen hundred head of horses. In traveling from Dr. Whitman's to this place, I saw more than ten thousand horses grazing upon the plains. They are good looking, and some of them large. In the fall I had made enquiries as to whether it was practicable to obtain the necessary supplies at these missions for our home journey; and in the winter Mr. Spalding wrote to us that he could furnish us with flour and meat. We had accordingly {130} contemplated procuring a part of our outfit at this place. A few bad designing Indians had frequently given Mr. Spalding trouble about his place, and had made severe threats. At one time they had threatened to tie him, and drive his family away. They complained that the whites never came through their country, giving them the advantages of trade; but that the white men passed through the Cayuse country, selling their cattle, clothing, &c.; and that if they could not have all the benefits of trade, the whites should leave the country. Early in the spring some of them had got into a fit of ill humour, and had ordered Mr. Spalding from the place, cut open his mill-dam, threw down his fences, broke the windows of the church, crippled some of his hogs, and took possession of the whole premises. This time they seemed to be determined to carry their threats into execution. Mr. S. allowed them to take their own course, putting no obstacle in their way. The principal men seemed to look on with indifference; but they evidently saw that it was likely to injure them, more than it would Mr. Spalding; for they relied upon the mill and farm for their support to a great extent. In the meantime Mr. Spalding had written a letter to us, informing us of his situation, and that we could not rely on him for furnishing us with supplies. He gave the letter to an Indian to carry to Dr. Whitman's, that it might be forwarded to us. The Indians being apprised of the contents of the letter, stopped the carrier, and took from him the letter, and after a consultation determined to abandon their rash course; as it would be likely to deprive them of the benefit of our trade, and be a barrier against the white men ever coming to trade with them. They accordingly brought the letter to Mr. Spalding, acknowledging they had done wrong, and placed him in full possession of his premises, promising to behave better for the future; and when we arrived he was enjoying their full confidence. The Indians informed us that there was a good passway upon the north side of Lewis's fork, by proceeding up the Kooskooskee some sixty miles, and then striking across to Salmon river, and then up to Fort Bois. By taking this route in the winter season, we would avoid the deep snow upon the Blue Mountains, as the route is mostly up the valley of Lewis' river, and it is undoubtedly nearer to Puget Sound than by the old route. Those wishing to settle about the Sound would do well to take this route, or at least the saving in the distance {131} would justify an examination of the route, to ascertain its practicability. We were very hospitably entertained by Mr. Spalding, and his interesting family. With the exception of Mr. Gilbert, who is now engaged on the mission farm, and Mr. Craig, who has a native for a wife, and lives six hundred yards from Mr. Spalding's dwelling, the nearest white families are Messrs. Walker and Ellis, who have a mission one hundred and thirty miles to the north, among the Flathead nation; and Dr. Whitman, nearly one hundred and fifty miles distant, among the Cayuses.[210] In this lonely situation they have spent the best part of their days, among the wild savages, and for no compensation but a scanty subsistence. In the early part of their sojourn they were compelled to use horse meat for food, but they are now getting herds of domestic animals about them, and raise a surplus of grain beyond their own wants. At Mr. Spalding's there is an excuse for a grist mill, which answers to chip up the grain, but they have no bolting cloth; in place of which they use a sieve. The meal makes very good bread. There was formerly a saw mill, but the irons have been taken and used in a mill which Dr. Whitman has recently built about twenty miles from his dwelling, at the foot of the Blue mountains. The Catholics have several missionary establishments upon the upper waters of the Columbia.[211] On the 10th of April we had made the necessary arrangements, and started on our return to Dr. Whitman's, where we arrived on the 14th. On my way down in the fall, I had left a horse and a heifer with the Doctor. They were now running on the plains. Several persons were engaged in hunting them up; the horse was found and brought in, and was in good condition. The Indians had concealed the horse, in order to force a trade, and offered to buy him, they to run the risk of finding him; but as he was a favorite horse, that I had brought from home, I felt gratified when he was found. The heifer I traded for a horse, the purchaser to find her. My two oxen, which I had left at Mr. Spalding's, I traded for a horse. An Indian who had stolen a horse from a company in the fall, had been detected, and the horse taken to fort Wallawalla. He had again stolen the horse, and traded him off. He was at Dr. Whitman's, and as the owner was of our party, he made a demand for the horse, and the Indian gave up a {132} poor old horse in its stead. This was the same fellow that had bought my heifer. We remained at Dr. Whitman's until the 17th, when all was prepared, and we made a formal start. Our party consisted of eighteen persons, and fifty-one horses and mules. We traveled about eight miles, and encamped. On the 18th, we traveled to the Umatillo. On the way the fellow who had bought the heifer overtook us and demanded the horse, as he said he had not time to hunt up the heifer. I refused to give it up, and he insisted. At this juncture Dr. Whitman overtook us, and the Indian made complaint to him. It was arranged that we should all go on to Umatillo, where several of the chiefs resided, and have the matter amicably settled. We reached the river in the afternoon, and repaired to the chief's. The Indian told his story, and I told mine. The chief decided that I should give up the horse, and he would give me a horse for the heifer. I agreed that in case the heifer could not be found, to give him another on my return to Oregon. The Indian set out with his horse, and the chief soon brought me one in its place, worth at least two such as the first. Of course I was much pleased with the exchange. At night it commenced raining, and then snowing, and in the morning the snow was four or five inches deep on the ground. We were then immediately at the foot of the mountain, and as we expected the snow had fallen deep upon the mountain, we remained in camp all day. The 20th was unfavorable for traveling, and we remained in camp. On the 21st we took up the line of march, ascended the mountain, and advanced about twenty-five miles, which brought us over the dividing ridge. We found the snow in patches, and sometimes three feet deep--that is, the old snow, for the new fallen snow had all melted away. The grazing was poor, but at night we found a prairie upon the south side of the mountain, which afforded a scanty supply of grass; here we encamped for the night. The 22d was very blustery, sometimes snowing; very disagreeable traveling. We reached the Grand Round at 2 o'clock P. M. and encamped. Here we found an abundance of good grass, and halted for the night. During the night the horse which I had obtained of the old chief broke from his picket, and in company with one that was running loose, took the back track. In the morning we dispatched two men, who followed them about four miles, when it was found that the {133} horses had left the road. The two men went back ten or twelve miles, but could see nothing of the horses. They then returned to camp. We in the mean time had packed up, and traveled across Grand Round about eight miles, when we encamped. In the morning we started back four men to hunt for the horses. On the evening of the 24th our men returned, but without the horses. On the morning of the 25th we packed up, traveled about twenty-six miles, and encamped on Powder river, near the lone pine stump.[212] On the 27th we traveled about twenty-five miles. On the 28th we traveled about twenty-three miles, and encamped near Malheur. On the 29th we reached fort Bois. The people at the fort, and the Indians in the vicinity, were evidently much alarmed. Before reaching the fort, I saw at a distance numerous columns of smoke, alternately rising and disappearing; and then another column would rise at a great distance. These columns of smoke seemed to be signals that enemies were in the country. The people at the fort were seemingly friendly, and supplied us with milk and butter. We selected our camping ground with caution, and with an eye to the defence both of horses and men. Our guard was doubled. We were visited by many Indians, but no hostile demonstration was exhibited. Here the wagon road crosses the river, but as there were no canoes at the upper crossing, and the river was too high to ford, we decided upon traveling up the south side of the river. On the 30th of April we packed up, and left fort Bois. The trail led us up to the mouth of a stream coming in on the south side of Lewis river, about one hundred yards in width. This we reached in about three miles. Immediately at the crossing is an Indian village of the Shoshonee tribe. When within one fourth of a mile from the crossing, an Indian who had been at our camp the evening before, was seen riding furiously towards us. He came up directly to me, extending his hand, which I took of course; two or three were riding in front with me, who all shook hands with him. He then turned and led the way through the bushes to the crossing. At the point where we came out, the bank was some fifteen feet high. A narrow place had been cut down, so as to admit but one horse at a time to go up the bank; the village was immediately upon the bank, and I discovered some thirty or forty Indians standing near the point where the trail ascended the bank. I rode {134} to the top of the bank, where about fifteen ugly looking Indians were standing, all striving to shake hands, but my horse would not allow them to approach. I passed on, the company following, and as we formed a long train, being in single file, by the time those behind were out of the creek, those in the lead were five or six hundred yards from the bank, and over a ridge. I halted the front, for all to come up, when I discovered that Buckley, who was in the rear riding one horse and leading another, had not appeared over the ridge. Two of the men who were in the rear went back for him. The horse which he was leading soon came running over the ridge, and as Buckley did not make his appearance, we supposed that something was wrong. Others started back, but they all soon returned, and we went on. In a few minutes, however, one of the party came riding up, and stated that the Indians were going to charge upon us. At this instant a gun was fired by them, and a hideous yelling was heard at our heels. The Indians were drawn up in line upon the ridge, all armed, some with muskets, and others with bows and arrows. The fellow who had met us, was still mounted, and running his horse from one end of the line to the other, and all were yelling like fiends. I thought it could not be possible that they would charge upon us, and ordered all hands to move along slowly but cautiously, to have their arms in readiness, and to keep the pack animals together, so that they could be stopped at any moment. We marched along slowly in close order, and paid no further regard to the Indians, than to carefully watch their movements. They followed along a few hundred yards, and halted, their yells then ceased, and we saw nothing more of them. When the two men returned to Buckley, the mounted Indian spoken of had Buckley's horse by the head; he had proposed an exchange, but Buckley did not wish to swap, and asked him to let go the bridle: the Indian held on, Buckley pulled and he pulled; Buckley rapped his knuckles with a whip, and in the scuffle the horse that B. was leading broke loose, and ran over the ridge, they not being able to catch him. At this juncture the two men arrived; one of them raised his rifle in the attitude of striking the Indian on the head, but he paid no regard to it; the other, seeing his determined manner, rushed at him with his bowie knife; he then let go the bridle, and our men came up to the company. What his object was, or what their object in rallying their forces, I could not conjecture: but it {135} put us on our guard. At our night encampment there were Indians prowling about, but they were afraid of our riding too near them, and made no attempt to steal, or otherwise molest us. The country was extremely dry and barren; grazing was very poor. On the 5th of May we arrived at the upper crossing of Snake river. On our way we had seen several villages of Shoshonee Indians, but were not disturbed by them. The grazing was poor, and the country very barren. We crossed several warm streams running down from the mountains, which appeared at a distance of from five to ten miles on our right. A wagon road can be had along the south side of the river, by hugging the base of the mountains for twenty or thirty miles, when it would take down the low bottom of Snake or Lewis river; but the distance is greater than by crossing the river. On the 6th of May we reached Salmon falls, and went up six miles to Salmon Fall creek, and encamped. On the 8th and 9th it rained and snowed, so that we were compelled to lay by most of the time. On the 10th it cleared up, and in the afternoon we had fair weather and pleasant traveling. On the 12th we reached Cassia creek. At this place the California trail turns off. On the 14th we arrived at Fort Hall. On the 16th we reached the Soda Springs. On the 18th we met about six hundred lodges of Snake Indians; they were moving from Big Bear river to Lewis' fork. On the 23d we reached Green river, taking the northern route. Much of the time the weather has been cool with frosty nights, and several days of rain and snow. On the 24th we crossed Green river, and traveled about forty miles to the Big Sandy. The day was blustering, with rain and snow. Along the bottoms of the Sandy we found very good grazing for our animals. On the 25th we traveled to the Little Sandy. On the 26th we arrived at the _South Pass_, and encamped on Sweet Water. Here we saw a few buffalo. The ride from Little Sandy to Sweet Water was extremely unpleasant on account of the wind and snow. We were sometimes compelled to walk, in order to keep warm. We here found a horse, which we supposed had been lost by some emigrants the year before. He came running to our band, and exhibited signs of the greatest joy, by capering and prancing about. He was quite fat, and seemed determined to follow us. {136} On the 27th we traveled down the valley of Sweet Water about twenty-five miles. On our way we saw some hundreds of buffalo and antelope, and two grizzly bears. We gave the latter chase, but did not succeed in taking them. We had some difficulty in preventing our pack animals from following the numerous bands of buffalo which came rolling past us. We traveled down this valley until the 30th, and encamped about four miles east of _Independence Rock_, at a spring near a huge mountain of gray granite rock. Soon after encamping it commenced raining, which turned to snow, and in the morning we had about five inches of snow upon us. We were uncomfortably situated, as we could procure but little fuel, and had no means of sheltering ourselves from the "peltings of the pitiless storm." Our horses too fared poorly. On the 31st of May we remained in camp. By noon the snow had disappeared, and we succeeded in finding a few dry cedar trees, built a fire, and dried our effects. We had an abundance of buffalo marrow-bones, tongues, and other choice pieces, on which we feasted. We saw large droves of mountain sheep, or bighorn, and thousands of antelope. On the 2d of June we arrived at the north fork of Platte. The plains during this day's travel were literally covered with buffalo, tens of thousands were to be seen at one view; antelope and black-tailed deer were seen in great abundance, and a few elk and common deer. One panther, and hundreds of wolves were also seen. We found the river too high to ford. Soon after encamping, snow commenced falling, which continued all night, but melted as it reached the ground. The grazing on the bottom was excellent, the grass being about six inches high. This was the best grass we had seen since leaving Burnt river. On the 3d we succeeded in finding a ford, and in the evening we crossed. On the 4th we reached Deer creek, having traveled about thirty miles. On the way we saw a band of Indians whom we supposed to be of the Crow nation, and as they are generally for fight, we prepared to give them a warm reception; but it seemed that they were as fearful of us, as we were of them.[213] They were soon out of sight. After traveling about five miles, we saw them drawn up into line two miles from the road. As they were at a respectful distance, we did not molest them. We however kept a sharp look out, and at night were cautious in selecting camp ground. The grass was good, and our animals fared well. {137} On the 5th we traveled about fifteen miles, and encamped on Mike's-head creek.[214] Here we found two trappers, who had been out about three weeks. They accompanied us to Fort Laramie, which we reached on the 8th of June. In the morning H. Smith, one of our party, in catching a mule was thrown, and his shoulder dislocated.[215] We attempted to set it, but could not succeed. He traveled on to the fort, but in great misery. We remained here until the afternoon of the 10th. Mr. Smith's shoulder was so much injured that he could not travel. He concluded to remain at the fort a few days; three men were to stay with him, and the rest of us had made arrangements for starting, when a company of Oregon emigrants came in sight. We awaited their arrival, and had the gratification of hearing from the States, it being the first news we had received since leaving our homes. A part of us remained a few hours to give them an opportunity of writing to their friends; while five of the party took the road. In the evening we traveled about eight miles, and encamped. We continued for a distance of two hundred miles meeting companies of from six to forty wagons, until the number reached five hundred and forty-one wagons, and averaging about five souls to each wagon. They were generally in good health and fine spirits. Two hundred and twelve wagons were bound for California; but I have since learned that many of those who had designed to go to California had changed their destination and were going to Oregon.[216] At Ash hollow we met a company who had lost many of their cattle and horses; but they were still going on. A short distance below the forks of Platte, we met a company of forty-one wagons, under the command of a Mr. Smith, which company had lost about one hundred and fifty head of cattle; they were encamped, and parties were out hunting cattle.[217] We remained with them a short time, and then passed on. This was on the 18th of June. Two of Smith's company had taken the back track in search of a band of their cattle, which had traveled nearly forty miles on the return to the States. Near night, and after we had encamped, two others of the company came up in search of the two men who had started in the morning. We had also met a boy belonging to their company, who had been in search of cattle, but had found none; and as it was nearly night, and he was about thirty miles from their camp, we induced him to remain with us through the night. {138} The two men who had arrived after we had encamped, concluded to continue their search until they found the two other men who had preceded them. Accordingly after taking some refreshments, they mounted and followed on. Soon after dark, they came running their horses up to our camp, one of them having behind him one of the men who had started out in the morning. They had proceeded from our camp about seven or eight miles, when rising over a small swell in the prairie, they discovered a few head of cattle, and saw ten or twelve Indians, a part of them engaged in catching a horse which Mr. Trimble (one of the men who had started out in the morning) had been riding, and some were engaged in stripping the clothes from Mr. Harrison, the other of the men. The men who had left our camp put whip to their horses, and ran towards the Indians, hallooing and yelling. The Indians seeing them approach, and probably supposing that there was a large company, left Harrison, and ran under a bluff, but they took the horses with them. Harrison put on his clothes and mounted behind Bratten, (one of the men who had come to their rescue,) stating that the Indians had killed Trimble,[218] and as none of the emigrants had fire-arms, the Indians would soon return upon them. They then came to our camp. Harrison stated that he and Trimble had traveled nearly all day with that portion of our party who had started from the fort in advance of us, and near night had found five head of their cattle, with which they were returning to the company; and as they were traveling leisurely along, about dusk, whilst in a small hollow, ten or twelve Indians came suddenly upon them, seized his horse, and endeavored to get hold of Trimble's horse, but he jumped away, and ran his horse off. Harrison in the mean time had dismounted, and three of the Indians rifled him of his clothes. On looking to see what had become of Trimble, he saw him riding in a circuitous manner towards the place where Harrison was; at this instant some half dozen arrows were let fly at Trimble by the Indians, some of which took effect. He leaned a little forward, his horse at the time jumping; at that instant the crack of a gun was heard, and Trimble fell from his horse upon his face, and did not move afterwards. His horse ran round for some minutes, the Indians trying to catch him; and at that instant Bratten and his friend came up. Several of our party, supposing that we had passed all danger, had sold their arms to the emigrants, and we had but five {139} rifles in the company. It was quite dark, and there would be but little prospect of finding Trimble, if we attempted a search. We therefore remained in camp until morning. About eleven o'clock at night we dispatched two persons back to inform the company of what had occurred, with a request that a force might be sent, which would be able to chastise the Indians, if found. Early in the morning we packed up and traveled to the spot where the murder had been committed. We found there Trimble's hat, whip, and pocket knife; and several large pools of blood where he had fallen from his horse, and where the Indians had evidently stripped him. We also found several arrows, two of which appeared to have struck him; but nothing could be found of his body. The river Platte was about a quarter of a mile distant; we searched the shore diligently, but could see no sign. As we approached the spot a gun was fired on a large island opposite, but we saw no Indians. Eight beds in the grass near where the attack was made, showed the manner in which the Indians had been concealed. It is highly probable that the Indians had driven the cattle off, and that some of the Indians concealed themselves, and as Trimble and Harrison had no fire-arms, and carried long ox-whips, they could be easily distinguished as cattle hunters, and the Indians knowing that the white men must come back, selected a favorable spot, and attacked them as above related. The probability is, that had Trimble and Harrison been armed, they would not have been molested. We remained upon the ground until late in the afternoon, waiting the arrival of the force from the company. We finally began to despair of their coming, and feared that the two men whom we had sent back had been cut off; and as we had two of the company with us, and one of our party was back, we packed up and took the back track, and after traveling about five miles, we discovered a band of their cattle crossing the river a mile above us. We made to the shore, when the cattle turned down the river, in the direction of the head of the big island. We judged that the Indians had been driving the cattle, but upon our approach had left them. The river was quite shoal, and Buckley waded out and turned them to the shore. There were in this band twenty-one head of work cattle; two of them carried marks of the arrow. After traveling three miles farther, we espied the party coming to our assistance, but it consisted of only seven persons. {140} Mr. Trimble had left a wife and four children. She had sent by the party a request that we might come back, and allow her and family to travel with us to the U. States. We accordingly all took the road to the company's camp, (driving the cattle) which we reached at day-break on the morning of the 20th June. Here we remained until the afternoon. By the persuasion of her friends, Mrs. Trimble concluded to continue her journey to Oregon. But there were four families who had lost so many of their cattle, that they were unable to proceed on their journey. They had four wagons, and only five yoke of cattle, and some of them were very small. They wished us to travel with them through the Pawnee country, as the Pawnees were the perpetrators of the act which had caused them so much difficulty. We accordingly traveled with them until the 30th, when we left them, and resumed our journey towards home. On the morning of the 21st we were joined by Mr. Smith, and the three men who had been left at the fort. We traveled on rapidly day and night, barely giving our animals time to rest. The weather was becoming warm; the flies and musquitoes were very annoying. We arrived at the Mission or Agency on the morning of the 6th of July.[219] Here are extensive farms, and a most delightful country. The first view of cultivated fields, and marks of civilization, brought simultaneous shouts from the whole party. Our troubles and toils were all forgotten. On the 7th of July, at 10 o'clock A. M., we arrived at the St. Joseph's mission, where we all hoped to meet with friends.[220] We had been so long among savages, that we resembled them much in appearance; but when attired in new apparel, and shaved as became white men, we hardly knew each other. We had been long in each other's company; had undergone hardships and privations together; had passed through many dangers, relying upon each other for aid and protection. Attachments had grown up, which when we were about to separate were sensibly felt; but as we were yet separated from our families, where still stronger ties were felt, each one took his course, and in a few hours our party was scattered, and each traveling in a different direction. Those of us who had mules found ready sales; but as the horses were much reduced in flesh, they could not be disposed of. Our horses had stood the trip remarkably well, until within two hundred and fifty miles of Missouri. But the flies {141} had so annoyed them, the weather being warm, and the grass of an inferior quality, that they had failed much. I had five horses; the one which I had taken from home was quite lame, and I left him at St. Joseph's; the other four were Indian horses, and Mr. Buckley agreed to take them by land, across Missouri and Illinois, and home; but he was unsuccessful, and arrived with only one of them. I took steamboat passage to St. Louis[221] and Cincinnati, and thence by stage to Laurel, Indiana, where I arrived on the 23d of July; having been gone from home one year three months and one week. I had the pleasure of finding my family enjoying good health. NECESSARY OUTFITS FOR EMIGRANTS TRAVELING TO OREGON For burthen wagons, light four horse or heavy two horse wagons are the size commonly used. They should be made of the best material, well seasoned, and should in all cases have falling tongues. The tire should not be less than one and three fourth inches wide, but may be advantageously used three inches; two inches, however, is the most common width. In fastening on the tire, bolts should be used instead of nails; it should be at least 5/8 or 3/4 inches thick. Hub boxes for the hubs should be about four inches. The skeins should be well steeled. The Mormon fashioned wagon bed is the best. They are usually made straight, with side boards about 16 inches wide, and a projection outward of four inches on each side, and then another side board of ten or twelve inches; in this last, set the bows for covers, which should always be double. Boxes for carrying effects should be so constructed as to correspond in height with the offset in the wagon bed, as this gives a smooth surface to sleep upon. Ox teams are more extensively used than any others. Oxen stand the trip much better, and are not so liable to be stolen by the Indians, and are much less trouble. Cattle are generally allowed to go at large, when not hitched to the wagons; whilst horses and mules must always be staked up at night. Oxen can procure food in many places where horses cannot, and in much less time. Cattle that have been raised in Illinois or Missouri, stand the trip better than those raised in Indiana or Ohio; as they have been accustomed to eating the prairie grass, upon which they must wholly rely while on the road. {142} Great care should be taken in selecting cattle; they should be from four to six years old, tight and heavy made. For those who fit out but one wagon, it is not safe to start with less than four yoke of oxen, as they are liable to get lame, have sore necks, or to stray away. One team thus fitted up may start from Missouri with twenty-five hundred pounds and as each day's rations make the load that much lighter, before they reach any rough road, their loading is much reduced. Persons should recollect that every thing in the outfit should be as light as the required strength will permit; no useless trumpery should be taken. The loading should consist of provisions and apparel, a necessary supply of cooking fixtures, a few tools, &c. No great speculation can be made in buying cattle and driving them through to sell; but as the prices of oxen and cows are much higher in Oregon than in the States, nothing is lost in having a good supply of them, which will enable the emigrant to wagon through many articles that are difficult to be obtained in Oregon. Each family should have a few cows, as the milk can be used the entire route, and they are often convenient to put to the wagon to relieve oxen. They should be so selected that portions of them would come in fresh upon the road. Sheep can also be advantageously driven. American horses and mares always command high prices, and with careful usage can be taken through; but if used to wagons or carriages, their loading should be light. Each family should be provided with a sheet-iron stove, with boiler; a platform can easily be constructed for carrying it at the hind end of the wagon; and as it is frequently quite windy, and there is often a scarcity of wood, the stove is very convenient. Each family should also be provided with a tent, and to it should be attached good strong cords to fasten it down. The cooking fixtures generally used are of sheet iron; a dutch oven and skillet of cast metal are very essential. Plates, cups, &c., should be of tin ware, as queens-ware is much heavier and liable to break, and consumes much time in packing up. A reflector is sometimes very useful. Families should each have two churns, one for carrying sweet and one for sour milk. They should also have one eight or ten gallon keg for carrying water, one axe, one shovel, two or three augers, one hand saw, and if a farmer he should be provided with one crosscut saw and a few plough moulds, as it is difficult getting such articles. When I left the country, ploughs cost from twenty-five to forty dollars each. A good supply of ropes for {143} tying up horses and catching cattle, should also be taken. Every person should be well supplied with boots and shoes, and in fact with every kind of clothing. It is also well to be supplied with at least one feather bed, and a good assortment of bedding. There are no tame geese in the country, but an abundance of wild ones; yet it is difficult procuring a sufficient quantity of feathers for a bed. The Muscovy is the only tame duck in the country. Each male person should have at least one rifle gun, and a shot gun is also very useful for wild fowl and small game, of which there is an abundance. The best sized calibre for the mountains is from thirty-two to fifty-six to the pound; but one of from sixty to eighty, or even less, is best when in the lower settlements. The buffalo seldom range beyond the South Pass, and never west of Green river. The larger game are elk, deer, antelope, mountain sheep or bighorn, and bear. The small game are hare, rabbit, grouse, sage hen, pheasant, quail, &c. A good supply of ammunition is essential. In laying in a supply of provisions for the journey, persons will doubtless be governed, in some degree, by their means; but there are a few essentials that all will require. For each adult, there should be two hundred pounds of flour, thirty pounds of pilot bread, seventy-five pounds of bacon, ten pounds of rice, five pounds of coffee, two pounds of tea, twenty-five pounds of sugar, half a bushel of dried beans, one bushel of dried fruit, two pounds of saleratus, ten pounds of salt, half a bushel of corn meal; and it is well to have a half bushel of corn, parched and ground; a small keg of vinegar should also be taken. To the above may be added as many good things as the means of the person will enable him to carry; for whatever is good at home, is none the less so on the road. The above will be ample for the journey; but should an additional quantity be taken, it can readily be disposed of in the mountains and at good prices, not for cash, but for robes, dressed skins, buckskin pants, moccasins, &c. It is also well for families to be provided with medicines. It is seldom however, that emigrants are sick; but sometimes eating too freely of fresh buffalo meat causes diarrhoea, and unless it be checked soon prostrates the individual, and leaves him a fit subject for disease. The time usually occupied in making the trip from Missouri to Oregon city is about five months; but with the aid of a person who has traveled the route with an emigrating company the trip can be performed in about four months. {144} Much injury is done to teams in racing them, endeavoring to pass each other. Emigrants should make an every day business of traveling--resting upon the same ground two nights is not good policy, as the teams are likely to ramble too far. Getting into large companies should be avoided, as they are necessarily compelled to move more tardily. From ten to twenty-five wagons is a sufficient number to travel with safety. The advance and rear companies should not be less than twenty; but between, it may be safe to go with six. The Indians are very annoying on account of their thieving propensities, but if well watched, they would seldom put them into practice. Persons should always avoid rambling far from camp unarmed, or in too small parties; Indians will sometimes seek such opportunities to rob a man of what little effects he has about him; and if he attempts to get away from them with his property, they will sometimes shoot him. There are several points along the Missouri where emigrants have been in the practice of fitting out. Of these Independence, St. Joseph, and Council Bluffs, are the most noted. For those emigrating from Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and northern Missouri, Iowa and Michigan, I think St. Joseph the best point; as by taking that route the crossing of several streams (which at the early season we travel are sometimes very high) is avoided. Outfits may be had at this point, as readily as at any other along the river. Work cattle can be bought in its vicinity for from twenty-five to thirty dollars per yoke, cows, horses, &c., equally cheap. Emigrants should endeavor to arrive at St. Joseph early in April, so as to be in readiness to take up the line of march by the middle of April. Companies, however, have often started as late as the tenth of May; but in such cases they seldom arrive in Oregon until after the rainy season commences in the Cascade range of mountains. Those residing in northern Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, &c., who contemplate traveling by land to the place of rendezvous, should start in time to give their teams at least ten days rest. Ox teams, after traveling four or five hundred miles in the states, at that season of the year, would be unfit to perform a journey across the mountains; but doubtless they might be exchanged for others, at or near the rendezvous. Farmers would do well to take along a good supply of horse gears. Mechanics should take such tools as are easily carried; as there are but few in the country, and those are held at exorbitant {145} prices. Every family should lay in a good supply of school books for their children. In case of an emergency, flour can be bought at Fort Hall, and Fort Bois, two trading posts of the Hudson's Bay Company, at twenty dollars per hundred; and by forwarding word to Spalding's mission, on the Kooskooskee, they will pack out flour to Fort Bois, at ten dollars per hundred, and to the Grand Round at eight dollars, and will take in exchange dry goods, groceries, &c.; but at Forts Hall and Bois, the company will take nothing in payment but cash or cattle. At Dr. Whitman's station, flour can be bought at five dollars per hundred, corn meal at four dollars, beef at six and seven cents per pound, potatoes, fifty cents per bushel. It is proper to observe that the flour at Spalding's and Whitman's stations will be unbolted. Emigrants however, should be cautious, and lay in a sufficient supply to last them through. WORDS USED IN THE CHINOOK JARGON This is a tongue spoken by a few in each of the tribes residing in the middle and lower divisions of Oregon. It is also used by the French, and nearly all the old settlers in the country. _Aach_ _Ekik_ _Hu-e-hu_ Sister Fish-hook Swap, exchange _Aha_ _Elitah_ _Hol_ Yes Slave Drag, or pull _Alka_ _Esick_ _Ilips_ Future, by and by Paddle First _Alta_ _Esil_ _Ith-lu-el_, or _Ituel_ Present, now Corn Meat, flesh _Ala_ _Geleech_ _I-yak_ I wonder Grease Quick, or hurry _Ankote_ _Halo_ _Il-a-he_ Past time None Soil, dirt _Chawko_ _Hankachim_ _Ichwet_ Come Handkerchief Bear _Chee_ _Hous_ _Is-kum_ New House Take _Chinkamin_ _How_ _In-a-ti_ Iron, chain Let us Overdress _Chuck_ _Hoel-hoel_ _Ith-lu-k-ma_ Water Mouse Gamble _Deob_ _High-you_ _I-wa_ Satan Quantity, many Beaver _Delie_ _High-you-k-wah_ _Ips-wet_ Dry Ring Hide _Ekih_ _Hul-u-e-ma_ _Ik-ta_ Brother-in-law Strange, different What _Kah_ _K-wathen_ _Kilaps_ Where Bell Turn over _K-u-ten_ _K-macks_ _Klips_ Horse Dog Upset _Kaw-lo-ke-lo_ _Klugh_ _Ko-el_ Goose Split, or Plough Cold _Ka-luck_ _Ko-pet_ _Kap-wah_ Swan Done, finished Alike _K-puet_ _Kop-po_ _Kon-a-maxt_ Needle Older brother Both _Kot-suck_ _Kow_ _Kla-hum_ Middle Is to tie Good-bye _Kap-o_ _K-wat_ _Kla-hi-you_ Coat Hit How do you do _Ka-nim_ _Kop-shut_ _Kaw-a-nassim_ Canoe Broken Always _Ka-ta_ _Ko_ _Kla-ha-na_ Why Arrived Out _Kap-su-alla_ _Kim-to_ _Klim-in-wit_ Theft, steal Behind A falsehood _K-liten_ _Kollo_ _Krap-po_ Lead Fence Toad _Kaw-kaw_ _Kutt_ _Klose_ Crow Hard Good _Klat-a-wah_ _Klimin_ _Klas-ko_ Go, Walk Fine Them, those _Kul-a-kulla_ _Kle-il_ _Ka-so_ Fowl Black Rum _Kum-tux_ _Ka-was_ _Ko-pa_ Know, or understand Afraid There _Ke-a-wale_ _Kom-suck_ _Kit-lo_ Love Beads Kettle _Ka-wah-we_ _Ko-ko-well_ _Klone-ass_ All Eel I do not understand _Klow-e-wah_ _Klaps_ _Klop-sta_ Slow Find Who _K-wallen_ _Kow-ne-aw_ _Klouch-man_ The ear How many Female _Kee-kool_ _La-sel_ _Le-lu_ Down Saddle Panther _Lepo-lo_ _Le-lo-im_ _Le-pul_ Pan Sharp Chickens _Le-por-shet_ _Le-poim_ _Lecorset_ Fork Apple Trunk _Lehash_ _La-bush_ _Laport_ Axe Mouth Door _Leg-win_ _Le-da_ _Le-pip_ Saw Teeth Pipe _Lima_ _Le-ku_ _Lo-lo_ The hand Neck Carry, or tote _Lita_ _Le-mora_ _Leb-ya_ Head Wild Old woman _Le-pe-a_ _Lashimney_ _La-lure_ Feet Chimney Hoe _Lo-ma-las_ _Lemitten_ _La-cope_ Molasses Mitten White _Lemon-to_ _La-ha-la_ _La-cre-me_ Sheep Feel Yellow _Lavest_ _Le-le_ _Mas-a-tro_ Jacket, or vest A long time Bad _La-ep_ _Las-well_ _Met-lite_ Rope Silk Residence, Sitting down, &c. _Lep-lash_ _La-tem_ Boards Table _Mal-ha-na_ As, in the river; or, _Lep-wa_ _Lep-o-lip_ push off the boat Peas Boil _Lep-well_ _Le-sit-well_ _Man_ Skillet Stars Male _La-win_ _Le-mit-rem_ _Mow-etch_ Oats Medicine Deer _La-ram_ _Le-shaw_ _Mu-lack_ Oar, for boats Shoe Elk _Le-wash_ _Le-sack_ _Muse-a-muse_ Snow Sack, or bag Cattle _Lemonti_ _Le-quim_ _Me-si-ka_ Mountain White bear Plural of you _Muck-a-muck_ _O-ep-can_ _Papo_ Provisions, eat Basket Father _Musket_ _O-ep-in-pin_ _Pil_ Rifle, or gun Skunk Red _Moon_ _O-e-lile_ _Pe-chi_ Month Berries Green _Mo-kah_ _O-e-pick_ _Pat-le_ Buy Both Full _Mim-a-loosheb_ _O-elk_ _Poo_ Die, or dead Snake Shoot _Mal-hu-ale_ _O-lo_ _Pe-teck_ Back Hungry The world _Mi-ka_ _Oel-hin_ _Pilton_ You Seal Foolish _Ni-ka_ _O-koke_ _Pal-a-k-lo_ I, or me This, or that Night _Nan-ach_ _Pi-yah_ _Pes-hocks_ Look, or see Fire Thickety _Na-ha_ _Pos-ton_ _Pis-say-ukes_ Mother Americans French _New-ha_ _Pee_ _Quack-quack_ Let And Duck _Now-it-k_ _Pus_ _Si-wash_ Yes, certainly If Indians _Ne-si-ka_ _Puss_ _Swas_ We, us Cat Rain _Nein_ _Pish-hash_ _Sah-lee_ Name Polecat High _O-es-km_ _Pos-seas_ _Stick_ Caps Blanket Wood _Oel-man_ _Pot-latch_ _Seck-um_ Old Give Swim _O-pet-sa_ _Pole-ally_ _Si-yaw_ Knife Powder Far _O-pes-wa_ _Po-et_ _Sap-a-lil_ Wonder, astonishment Boat Flour _Ow_ _Pa-pa_ _Su-ga_ Brother Paper Sugar _Sec-a-lukes_ _Shot_ _To-lo_ Pantaloons Shot Win, or gain _Sap-a-pul_ _Sup-ner_ _Te-ma-has_ Hat Jump Poison _Sto-en_ _Til-a-kum_ _Ti-pee_ Rock People An ornament _Sil_ _Tit-the-ko-ep_ _Te-kah_ Shirting Cut Want _Sko-kum_ _Tum-tum_ _Till_ Strong, stout The heart Heavy, or tired _Sec-pee_ _Te-o-wit_ _Toc-ta_ To miss Leg Doctor _See-ah-os-ti_ _Tum-pe-lo_ _Wah-wah_ Face, or eyes Back Talk, conversation _Sam-mon_ _Tam-o-lack_ _Wake_ Fish Barrel No, not _Sto-gon_ _Ti-ye_ _Wap-a-to_ Sturgeon Master, or chief Potato _Son-dra_ _Tes-um_ _Win_ Roan Pretty Wind _Salt_ _To-lo-bus_ _Wam_ Salt Wolf Warm _Shu-es_ _Te-ko-ep_ _Wetch_ Shoes White More _Sun_ _Te-mo-lo_ _Ya-ka_ Sun, or day To-morrow Him, she, it _Silk-um_ _Tu-lusk_ _Yaw-wah_ Half, or a part Milk Yonder _Smo-ek_ _Tip-so_ _Yok-sa_ Smoke Grass Hair _Sul-luks_ _Tum-tuk_ _Ya-ha-la_ Mad, angry Water-falls Name _Six_ _Ton-tle-ke_ _Yult-cut_ Friends Yesterday Long _Sick_ _T-sit-still_ _You-till_ Sick, or sore Buttons, or tacks Glad, proud _Shut_ _Tee-see_ Shirt Sweet CHINOOK MODE OF COMPUTING NUMBERS _Iht_ 1 _Dilo-p-sin-a-maxt_ 17 _Makst_ 2 _Dilo-p-sow-skins_ 18 _Klone_ 3 _Dilo-p-k-wi-etst_ 19 _Lakst_ 4 _Tath-la-hun makst_ 20 _K-win-nim_ 5 _Tath-la-hun klone_ 30 _Ta-hum_ 6 _Tath-la-hun lakst_ 40 _Sina-maxt_ 7 _Tath-la-hun k-win-ma_ 50 _Sow-skins_ 8 _Tath-la-hun ta-hum_ 60 _K-wi-etst_ 9 _Tath-la-hun sin-a-maxt_ 70 _Tath-la-ham_ 10 _Tath-la-hun sow-skins_ 80 _Dilo-pe-iht_ 11 _Tath-la-hun k-wi-etst_ 90 _Dilo-p-maxt_ 12 _Tak-o-mo-nuxt_ 100 _Dilo-p-klone_ 13 _Tak-o-mo-maxt_ 200 _Dilo-p-lakst_ 14 _Tak-o-mo-nuxt klone_ 300 _Dilo-p-k-winnim_ 15 _Tak-o-mo-nuxt lakst_ 400 _Dilo-p-ta-hum_ 16 _Tak-o-mo-nuxt k-win-nim_ 500 WORDS USED IN THE NEZ PERCÉ LANGUAGE _Hama_ _Talonot_ _Ipalikt_ Man Ox Clouds _Aiat_ _Talohin_ _Wakit_ Women Bull Rain _Haswal_ _Kulkulal_ _Hiwakasha_ Boy Calf Rains _Pitin_ _Shikam_ _Maka_ Girl Horse Snow _Silu_ _Tilipa_ _Hatia_ Eye Fox Wind _Huku_ _Tahspul_ _Yakas_ Hair Beaver Hot _Ipsus_ _Kelash_ _Yamits_ Hand Otter Cold _Ahwa_ _Hisamtucks_ _Tiputput_ Feet Sun Warm _Simusimu_ _Hayaksa_ _Silakt_ Black Is hungry Body _Ilpilp_ _Husus_ _Katnanas_ Red Head Salt _Yosyos_ _Kohalh_ _Haya_ Gray Cow Salmon-trout _Shukuishukui_ _Kaih_ _Wahwahlam_ Brown Colt Trout _Kohatu_ _Highwayahwasa_ _Ilat_ Short Snows Weak _Kohat_ _Haihai_ _Wals_ Long White Knife _Kalinin_ _Ashtai_ _Ilatama_ Crooked Fork Is blind _Tukuh_ _Ashtai_ _Lakailakai_ Straight Awl Gentle _Silpsilp_ _Wawianas_ _Shiau_ Money Axe Skittish _Taiitaii_ _Kimstam_ _Waiat_ Flat Near Far _Hamoihamoi_ _Maksmaks_ _Shakinkash_ Soft Yellow Saw _Sisyukas_ _Shapikash_ _Wishan_ Sugar File Poor _Pishakas_ _Takai_ _Ilahui_ Bitter Blanket Many _Komain_ _Sham_ _Milas_ Sickness Coat Few _Hickomaisa_ _Ahwa_ _Animikinikai_ Is sick Foot Below _Aluin_ _Silpsilp_ _Tokmal_ Is lame Round Hat _Wakaas_ _Tohon_ _Huwialatus_ Is well Pantaloons Weary _Tinukin_ _Ilapkit_ _Ahat_ Is dead Shoe Down _Hiswesa_ _Hikai_ _Akamkinikai_ Is cold Kettle Above _Yahet_ _Sham_ _Koko_ Neck Shirt Raven _Nahso_ _Laka_ _Houtat_ Salmon Pine Goose _Tushti_ _Isa_ _Houtat_ Up Mother Geese _Atim_ _Nisu_ _Yaya_ Arm Child Swan _Matsayee_ _Mamaias_ _Yatin_ Ear Children Crane _Piama_ _Hikai_ _Paps_ Brothers Pail Fir, (tree) _Kelah_ _Sishnim_ _Kopkop_ Sturgeon Thorns Cottonwood _Wayu_ _Sikstua_ _With_ Leg Friend Alder _Kupkup_ _Lantuama_ _Tahs_ Back Friends Willows _Timina_ _Walatakai_ _Tims_ Heart Pan Cherry _Sho_ _Kuish_ _Satahswakkus_ Spoon Risk Corn _Kahno_ _Shushai_ _Paks_ Prairie-hen Grass Wheat _Huhui_ _Suyam_ _Lapatat_ Shoulder Sucker Potatoes _Pisht_ _Hashu_ _Papa_ Father Eel A spring _Walpilkash_ _Shakantai_ _Wawahp_ Auger Eagle Spring (season) _Katkat_ _Sholoshah_ _Tiam_ Duck Fish-hawk Summer _Askap_ _Washwashno_ _Shahnim_ Brother Hen Fall _Asmatan_ _Koun_ _Anim_ Sisters Dove Winter _Kinis_ _Aa_ _Pelush_ Sister Crow Gooseberry _Kikaya_ _Timanawat_ _Yaka_ Serviceberry A writer Black bear _Kahas_ _Sapaliknawat_ _Kemo_ Milk A labourer Old man _Katamnawakno_ _Hania_ _Tahat_ Peas Made Young man _Hahushwakus_ _Hanishaka_ _Otwai_ Green Have made Old woman _Inina_ _Hanitatasha_ _Timai_ House Will make Young woman _Sanitwakus_ _Hanikika_ _Pishas_ Parsnips Made going Father-in-law _Initain_ _Hanisna_ _Pishas_ For a house Made coming Son-in-law _Initpa_ _Ipna hani aisha_ _Siwako_ To the house Make for him Mother-in-law _Initkinai_ _Hanitasa_ _Siwaka_ From the house Go and make Daughter-in-law _Initrim_ _Tash hama_ _Inaya_ House only Good man Brother-in-law _Ininm_ _Tash timina_ _Siks_ Of a house Good heart Sister-in-law _Initki_ _Tash shikam_ _Pimh_ By a house Good horse Step-father _Initph_ _Tiskan shikam_ _Kaka_ To a house Fat horse Step-mother _Haniai_ _Hamtis shikam_ _Lemakas_ Not made Fast horse Deep _Haniawat_ _Kapskaps shikam_ _Pakas_ A mechanic Strong horse Shallow _Hanishimai_ _Sininish shikam_ _Mul_ Not a mechanic Lazy horse Rapids _Tamtainat_ _Kapsis shikam_ _Amshah_ Preacher Bad horse Breaker _Himtakewat_ _Haihai shikam_ _Watas_ Teacher White horse Land _Tamiawat_ _Hahas_ _Pishwai_ Trader Gray bear Stones _Mahsham_ _Hitkakokaiko_ _Watoikash_ Mountain He gallops It is fordable _Kuhsin_ _Hitksilsilsa_ _Hatsu hiyaniksa_ Hill He trots Wood is floating _Tahpam_ _Himilmilisha_ _Hiwalasa_ Plain He paces The water runs _Hantikam_ _Hiwalakaiks_ _Hahanwasam_ Bough He walks The day is dawning _Tepitepit_ _Hishaulakiks_ _Wako hikaaun_ Smooth He runs It is daylight now _Wilpwilp_ _Titishka shikam_ _Hitinatra hisamtuks_ Round Fat horses The sun is rising _Pohol_ _Maksmaks shikam_ _Naks halaps_ Valley Sorrel horse One day _Tasham_ _Hihaihai shikam_ _Hikulawitsa_ Ridge White horse It is evening _Iwatam_ _Tamsilps shikam_ _Kaaun_ Lake Spotted horse Daylight _Tikim_ _Tilamselp shikam_ _Hatsu hialika_ Falls Spotted horses The wood is lodged _Hitkawisha_ _Minsahsminko_ _Kia waaiikshi_ He falls Read We are crossing _Kohat tawish_ _Kokalh_ _Ka apapinmiks_ Long horn Cattle Let us sleep _Wishan kokalk_ _Hiwaliksa_ _Ka apahips_ Poor ox The river is rising Let us eat _Lilkailakikokal_ _Hitaausa_ _Ka apakus_ Gentle cows The river is falling Let us go _Hiwasasha_ _Hiwalasa_ _Ka apasklin_ He rides The water runs Let us go back NEZ PERCÉ MODE OF COMPUTING NUMBERS _Naks_ 1 _Putimpt wah wimatat_ 18 _Lapit_ 2 _Putimpt wah kuis_ 19 _Mitat_ 3 _Laptit_ 20 _Pilapt_ 4 _Laptit wah naks_ 21 _Pahat_ 5 _Mitaptit_ 30 _Wilaks_ 6 _Piloptit_ 40 _Winapt_ 7 _Pakaptit_ 50 _Wimatat_ 8 _Wilaksaptit_ 60 _Kuis_ 9 _Winaptit_ 70 _Putimpt_ 10 _Wimitaptit_ 80 _Putimpt wah naks_ 11 _Kuisaptit_ 90 _Putimpt wah lapit_ 12 _Putaptit_ 100 _Putimpt wah mitat_ 13 _Laposhus_ 200 _Putimpt wah pilapt_ 14 _Mitoshus_ 300 _Putimpt wah pahat_ 15 _Pelaposhus_ 400 _Putimpt wah wilaks_ 16 _Pakoshus_ 500 _Putimpt winapt_ 17 TABLE OF DISTANCES FROM INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI; AND ST. JOSEPH, TO OREGON CITY, IN OREGON TERRITORY MILES FROM Independence to Rendezvous 20 " Rendezvous to Elm Grove 13 " Elm Grove to Walkarusha 20 " Walkarusha to crossing of Kansas river 28 " Kansas to crossing of Turkey creek 14 " Turkey creek to Little Vermilion 24 " Little Vermilion to branch of same 12 " To Big Vermilion, with intermediate camps 29 " Vermilion to Lee's branch 8 " Lee's branch to Big Blue 6 " Big Blue to the junction with St. Joseph's trail 10 The distance from St. Joseph, Missouri, to the Independence trail, striking it ten miles west of Blue river, is about one hundred miles. Good camps can be had from eight to fifteen miles apart. From forks of road as above, to Big Sandy, striking it near its junction with the Republican Fork of Blue river, with intermediate camps 42 " Sandy to Republican fork of Blue river 18 " up Republican fork, with good camps 53 " Republican fork to Big Platte 20 " up Big Platte to the crossing of South fork 120 Camps can be had at suitable distances, with wood for fuel upon the islands. From lower to upper crossings of South fork 45 There is a road on each side of the river, and but little choice in them. From South to North fork, at Ash Hollow 20 " Ash Hollow to opposite Solitary Tower, on Little creek 42 " Little creek to opposite Chimney rock 16 " Chimney Rock to where the road leaves the River 15 " thence to Scott's Bluffs (Good Spring) 10 " Scott's Bluffs to Horse creek 12 " Horse creek to Fort Laramie 24 " Laramie to Dry Branch and Big Spring 12 " to Bitter Cottonwood 10 To Willow Branch 7 " Horse Shoe Creek 7 " River 8 Thence to where the Road leaves the River 8 To Big Timber creek 16 " Marble creek 5 " Mike's-head creek 12 " the River, crossing several streams 10 " Deer creek 6 Thence to crossing of North fork of Platte 25 From crossing of Platte to Spring 10 Thence to Mineral Springs (bad camp) 8 " Willow Spring (good camp) 5 " Independence Rock on Sweet Water 22 " Devil's Gate 5 Up Sweet Water to South Pass (good camps) 104 Over the dividing ridge to Pacific Spring, the waters of which run into Green river 5 HERE, HAIL OREGON! From Spring to Little Sandy 20 Here the road forks, the southern trail going by way of Bridger's Old Fort, and thence to Bear river. The northern (which is two and a half days less driving) strikes Green river about forty miles above the southern trail; I will give the distance on both routes. The northern route, from Little Sandy to Big Sandy 6 From Big Sandy to Green river 40 (No water and but little grass between.) " thence to Bear river, (with good camps,) 64 On the southern route:-- From Little Sandy to Big Sandy 12 Down Big Sandy to Green river 24 Cross Green river and down 8 From Green river to Black's fork 15 Up Black's fork to Bridger's Old Fort 30 From Old Fort to Little Muddy (poor camp) 8 " thence to Big Muddy (poor camp) 10 Up Big Muddy to the dividing ridge (good camp near head of creek) 32 Over dividing ridge to spring 10 From spring to camp on Bear river 6 " thence to where the northern trail comes in 10 To Smith's fork three miles, to Narrows four miles, and thence to crossing of Bear river three miles 10 Here the road forks; the nearest is to follow up the creek two miles, cross and then go over the ridge five miles to foot of Big Hill, where the roads again unite 7 The other road crosses the river, follows up the bottom about ten miles, re-crosses and is then about seven miles to junction. From foot of Big Hill, to top of ridge is about 3 " thence to Big Timber on Bear river 4 Here is a company of American traders and trappers From Big Timber to Soda Springs 36 " Spring to Soda Pool seven miles, to Spring Branch three 10 " Spring to Running Branch 9 " thence to foot of hill 8 " foot of hill over dividing ridge and down to camp 12 " thence to Lewis's river bottom at Springs 18 and to Fort Hall 5 " Fort Hall to the crossing of Portneth 6 " Portneth to American falls 12 " American falls to Levey Creek 15 " thence to Cassia creek, (here the California trail turns off) 8 " Cassia to Big Marsh 15 " Marsh to River 11 " River to Goose creek four miles, seven miles to river, and twelve miles to Dry Branch, (water in pools) 23 To Rocky Creek 8 To crossing of Rocky creek, eight miles, down to where the road leaves the bluff of creek, seven 15 " Salmon Falls creek 20 From thence to Salmon falls 6 " Falls to first crossing of Lewis river 23 " crossing to Bois river is about 70 Camps can be had from six to fifteen miles Down Bois river to Fort Bois (good camps) 46 Cross Lewis river and thence to Malheur 15 " Malheur to Birch creek, about 20 " Birch creek to river three miles, and thence five miles to Burnt river 8 Up Burnt river about (good camps) 26 From where the road leaves Burnt river, to the lone pine stump in the bottom of Powder river, (the last thirteen miles no water) 28 To the crossing of Powder river 10 To Grand Round 15 Across the southern end of Grand Round 7 Up Big Hill and on to Grand Round river 8 Over the Blue Mountains to Lee's encampment 19 To Umatillo river 16 Down Umatillo river 44 " Columbia river to John Day's river 33 From thence to Falls river 22 And thence to the Dalles of the Columbia 16 From the Dalles to Oregon city, by way of wagon road south of Mount Hood about 160 Upon reaching the Columbia, emigrants should have persons in advance to select suitable places for camp ground: as the country along the river is extremely barren, and the grazing limited to small patches. APPENDIX LETTER OF THE REV. H. H. SPALDING TO JOEL PALMER (_Referred to on page 126_ [_our page 233_]) NEZ PERCÉ MISSION, CLEAR WATER RIVER, _Oregon Territory_, April 7, 1846. TO JOEL PALMER ESQ. OF INDIANA. MY DEAR SIR:--Agreeably to your request I most cheerfully give you my views concerning the Oregon territory, its extent, its most desirable climate, fertility of soil, rivers and mountains, seas and bays, and its proximity to one of the most extensive markets opening upon the world. The Oregon territory is usually divided into three great divisions, the lower, middle, and upper regions. The upper includes the Rocky Mountains, with the head waters of most of the rivers running west and east, north and south, and extends west to the Blue and Spokan ranges of mountains. The lower includes the belt of country bounded on the west by the Pacific, and on the east by the Nesqually, Cascade, and California Mountains. The middle region lies between the two, and embraces probably far the greatest extent of country, and is in some respects the most desirable for settlers. The number of rainy days, during the winter season, in the lower country, is thought to be about eighty-five one-hundredths; while the number of rainy days during the same season in the upper (or middle) country, is about fifteen one-hundredths. {166} There is but little more snow during the winter season in the middle than in the lower region of the Columbia river, or upon the plains. Of course the depth of snow upon the mountains, depends upon their height. The lower country is subject to inundations, to a greater or less extent, from the Columbia river, which gathering into standing pools, with the great amount of vegetable decay consequent upon low prairie countries, produces to some extent unhealthy fogs during the summer season. This, however, is greatly moderated by the sea breezes from the Pacific. The middle region is entirely free from these evils, and has probably one of the most pacific, healthy, and every way most desirable climates in the world. This, with its extensive prairies, covered with a superior quality of grass tuft, or bunch grass, which springs fresh twice a year, and spotted and streaked everywhere with springs and streams of the purest, sweetest water, renders it admirably adapted to the herding system. The lower country will ever have greatly the advantage in its proximity to market, its extensive sea coast, and from the fact that it contains one of the largest and best harbors in the world, viz. Puget's sound, running far inland, the mouth of which is protected by Vancouver's island, easy of access at all seasons and under all winds. But to go into detail. Myself and wife were appointed missionaries by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, and destined to this field, and with our worthy associates, Dr. Whitman, and lady, arrived in this country in the fall of 1836. The Doctor settled among the Cayuses near fort Wallawalla, and myself at this place, where we have ever since continued to dwell. Our duties have called us to travel more or less every year to visit the distant bands and tribes, as also to pack our supplies. I have traversed this middle region in seventeen different routes, of from 60 to 300 miles. Over many of the routes I have passed probably in every month in the year, have marked the progress of vegetation from its earliest shooting forth; the effects of this climate {167} upon the animal constitution; the rapidity with which exhausted poor animals regain their flesh and activity, when turned upon the plains; and have kept tables under some of these heads, as also a meteorological table for several years. Let me here observe that my views of the country have been materially changed by a more accurate acquaintance with its true nature. I once thought the valleys only susceptible of habitation; considering the plains too dry for cultivation. But I am now prepared to say this is not the case. The plains suffer far less from drought than the valleys, on account of the reflection of heat from the surrounding hills. The country, however, is nowhere peculiarly subject to drought, as was once thought. My place is one of the deepest valleys, and consequently the most exposed to the reflection from the high bluffs around, which rise from two to three thousand feet; but my farm, though prepared for irrigation, has remained without it for the last four years. I find the ground becomes more moist by cultivation. Three years ago I raised six hundred bushels of shelled corn from six acres, and good crops of wheat on the same piece the two following years, without irrigation. Eight years ago I raised 1500 bushels of potatoes from one acre and a half; measuring some of the bags in which they were brought to the cellars, and so judging of the whole amount. I gave every eleventh bag for digging and fetching, and kept a strict account of what every person brought, so that I was able to make a pretty accurate estimate of the whole amount. My potatoes and corn are always planted in drills. Every kind of grain or vegetable which I have tried or seen tried in this upper country, grows well. Wheat is sown in the fall, and harvested in June at this place; at Dr. Whitman's in July, being a more open country. Corn is planted in April and ripens in July; peas the same. EXTENT OF COUNTRY The southern boundary of Oregon territory is the 42d degree of north latitude. The northern boundary is not yet settled;[222] {168} both England and The United States claim north of the Columbia river to latitude 49°. But this vast fertile region, well timbered upon the mountains and river sources, and well watered, besides having the fine harbor above named, Puget's sound, must ever remain the most important portion of Oregon, especially on account of this harbor, which will naturally control these seas, and consequently the country. Should the British flag finally exclusively wave over its placid waters, it will be to the rest of Oregon as Quebec is to Canada, or Gibraltar to the Mediterranean. Vancouver's Island is doubtless another reason why Great Britain wishes to make the Columbia river her northern boundary. The line of 49° passes a little north of the southern half of the island. The whole island contains a territory considerably larger than England and Scotland, produces every kind of grain and vegetable well, and has a climate very similar to our Middle and Southern states. Whatever nation possesses this island, or the south portion of it, with its neighboring harbor, Puget's sound, possesses nearly all of a national consideration which pertains to Oregon, and will consequently control it. But if this island, or this portion of it, with this harbor, add their ever controlling influence to the undivided interests of Oregon, this young colony, but yesterday begun, and whose country and existence were but yesterday disputed, will at no distant day, under the softening, life-giving influence of civilization and our holy religion, take its place among the wealthiest, happiest, and best nations of the earth. The country of Oregon, should it extend to 49° north latitude, is probably capable of sustaining as great a population as two-thirds of the territory of the States, and with far less hard labor. CLIMATE This is decidedly the inviting characteristic of the country, and is certainly a great inducement for all persons of delicate health. I speak of the middle region. Free from marshes or standing water and vegetable decay, the air is remarkably pure and serene; summers rather warm, especially in the valleys; the mercury ranges, for some time during the hot season, from 100 to 109 degrees above zero. Nights cool, but no fog or dew, except in a few places. Twice since I have been in the country frost has injured vines, leaves, &c., first of May, but never in the fall till late; often my melon vines, &c., are green till the first of December. Four times since I have been here the mercury has fallen below zero; once to 26 degrees. But usually it ranges above 20 in the morning, and above 60 through the day. During six of the ten winters I have passed in the country, the rivers have not been frozen. The Columbia river has been frozen nearly to its mouth, twice since I have been in the country. The snow sometimes falls a foot deep--I should judge about once in five years. About half of my winters here there has been no snow in the valleys, and but little on the plains, except to whiten the earth for a short time. It disappears in a few hours, especially on the south face of the bluffs and hills. Last year I made a collection of flowers and plants, which I purpose to send to Washington. I gathered two flowers in January, on the 22d and 29th,[223] and during the month of February some 40 showed themselves, and by the first of March the grass on the south faces of the bluffs was 14 inches high. This year the season was about three weeks later, judging by the appearance of flowers. I know of no disease that can be said to be peculiar to the country. The country is peculiarly free from sudden changes of weather, or violent storms. Persons who have wintered here from the south, tell me the winters are as mild as the winters {170} in the northern parts of North and South Carolina, and with less sudden changes. ADVANTAGES FOR THE HERDING SYSTEM The country is one extensive prairie, except the mountains, which are covered with several species of pine, cedar, and fir. The prairies are rolling, and with the exception of a narrow belt of sand and sedge upon the Columbia, and portions of the Snake river, are everywhere covered with the bunch grass, which, from observation, I judge to be a richer, heartier food for animals than corn, oats, and the best pastures of the States. It is a fine, solid stalk, growing two feet high, with fine leaves, holds its freshness through the winter; I mean the old stalk, which mingled with the young growth, that usually springs fresh in the fall, forms a food for animals through the winter, preferable to the best hay. Horses and oxen perform labor at all seasons upon this grass simply, without the aid of grain; which I now think disposes the animal system to various diseases. When I pack, I usually travel from thirty-five to forty miles a day, each horse carrying two hundred pounds--rest an hour at noon, without taking down the packs; camp while the sun is yet two hours high; hobble the horses and drive them up in the morning at sunrise. I find that horses will endure such labor for twenty-five or thirty days, resting of course on the Sabbath, upon this grass, without injuring them. Their wind is evidently better than that of horses fed on grain and hay. I have rode from Dr. Whitman's station to this, 125 miles, in nineteen hours, starting at 9 o'clock in the night, and driving a spare horse for change; but this was no advantage, for I find it is more fatiguing to a horse to be drove than to be rode. You doubtless recollect the man who overtook us on the head of Alapausawi, Thursday morning. He had left the Dalles or Long Narrows on the Columbia on Tuesday morning, slept a short time Tuesday night below the Umatillo, passed by Dr. Whitman's station, and slept Wednesday night on the Tukanan, {171} a distance from the Dalles of two hundred and forty miles; and the day he passed us he traveled fifty-five miles more.[224] He rode one horse and drove another for change. You will probably even recollect those horses, as they left us upon the round gallop. A man went from this place, starting late, to Wallawalla, and returned on the third day, sun two hours high, making the journey in about two days and a half. The whole distance traveled was two hundred and fifty miles, and but one horse was used. None of these horses were injured. Cattle, sheep, horses, and hogs feed out through the winter, and continue fat. We very often kill our beef in March, and always have the very best of meat. Often an ox from the plains, killed in March, yields over one hundred and fifty pounds of tallow. You have seen two specimens, one killed at Dr. Whitman's, and one at this place. Sheep need the care of a shepherd through the winter, to protect the lambs from the prairie wolves. A band of mares should have a good stud that will herd them and protect the colts from the large wolves. Some thirty different kinds of roots grow abundantly upon the plains and bluffs, which, with the grass, furnish the best of food for hogs, and they are always good pork. The south faces of the extensive bluffs and hills are always free from snow, and, cut up into ten thousand little ravines, form the most desirable retreat imaginable for sheep during the winter. Here they have the best of fresh grass, and the young lambs, coming regularly twice a year, are protected from the winds and enlivened by the warm sun. We have a flock of sheep belonging to the Mission, received from the islands eight years ago; there are now about one hundred and fifty. Not one has yet died from disease, a thing of such frequent occurrence in the States. It must certainly become a great wool growing country. I cannot but contrast the time, labor, and expense requisite to look after herds in this country, with that required in the States, especially in the Northern and Middle States, where two-thirds of every man's time, labor, and money is expended {172} on his animals, in preparing and fencing pasture grounds and meadows, building barns, sheds, stables, and granaries, cutting and securing hay and grains, and feeding and looking to animals through winter. In this country all this is superceded by Nature's own bountiful hand. In this country a single shepherd with his horse and dogs can protect and look after five thousand sheep.[225] A man with his horse and perhaps a dog can easily attend to two thousand head of cattle and horses, without spending a dollar for barns, grain, or hay. Consider the vast amount of labor and expense such a number of animals would require in the States. Were I to select for my friends a location for a healthy happy life, and speedy wealth, it would be this country. Timber is the great desideratum. But the country of which I am particularly speaking, extending every way perhaps four hundred miles, is everywhere surrounded by low mountains, which are thickly timbered, besides two or three small ridges passing through it; also the rivers Columbia, Snake, Spokan, Paluse, Clear Water, Yankiman, Okanakan, Salmon, Wailua, Tukanan, Wallawalla, Umatillo, John Day's and river De Shutes; and down most of these timber or lumber can be rafted in any quantities. So that but a very small portion of the country will be over ten or fifteen miles from timber; most of it in the immediate vicinity of timber. The numerous small streams which occur every five or six miles, affording most desirable locations for settlements, contain some cotton wood, alder and thorn. But timber is soon grown from sprouts. The streams everywhere run over a stony bottom, while the soil is entirely free from stone. Streams are rapid, affording the best of mill privileges. MARKET, SEAS AND BAYS The western shores of Oregon are washed by the placid {173} waters of the Pacific, which bring the 360,000,000 of China, the many millions of the vast Indies and of Australasia, and lay them at our doors with opening hands to receive our produce; which, with the numerous whale ships that literally whiten the Northern Pacific, calling not only for provisions, but harbors to winter in, must ever afford one of the most extensive markets in the world for all kinds of produce, and one concerning which there need be but little fear that it will ever be overstocked. A market compared with which, that offered by western Europe to the eastern section of the United States, will become as a drop to the bucket. The United States' Commercial Agent at Oahu, Sandwich Islands, is desirous to make a contract for a certain amount of provisions to be supplied to American shipping every year at Oregon city; but as yet the supplies of the country over and above the home consumption, are not sufficient to warrant a dependence of our whale shipping upon the country. In fact for many years, while the United States continue to pour their inhabitants by tens of thousands, every year, into this young republic, the home market must continue in competition with the foreign. But the day is not distant when this country, settled by an industrious, virtuous, Sabbath-loving people, governed by wholesome laws, blessed with schools, and the institutions of our holy religion, will hold out abundant encouragements for the numerous whale and merchant ships of the Pacific to leave their heavy lading of three years' supply of provisions at home, and depend upon the market in the immediate vicinity of their fishing grounds. Others following in their track, learning of this new world, and finding out our ample harbors, soon this little obscure point upon the map of the world will become a second North American Republic--her commerce whitening every sea, and her crowded ports fanned by the flags of every nation. From this upper country, a distance of three hundred or four hundred miles, droves of cattle and sheep can be driven to the lower portions of the Columbia river, {174} with far less expense and labor than they are driven the same distances in the States, always being in the midst of grass upon which they may feed every night without charge. The principal harbors are Puget's Sound, mouths of Columbia, Frazier's, Shahales, Umpqua, Rose and Clamet rivers.[226] Doubtless others will be discovered, as the country becomes more known. A dangerous bar extends nearly across the mouth of the Columbia, leaving but a narrow obscure channel, difficult of access or egress, except with favorable winds. Vessels sometimes find it impossible to enter the river by reason of contrary winds; and sometimes are detained in the river two or three months, there not being sea room enough to go out against a head wind. This difficulty could be greatly obviated, and perhaps removed, by a pilot boat. Concerning the other rivers I have no certain knowledge, but have been informed that some of them are navigable for vessels from forty to sixty miles, and afford convenient harbors. Puget's Sound, as before observed, is one of the safest and best harbors in the world, it can be entered or left under any winds and at any season of the year. The scenery around is said to be most enchanting. Two lakes near sending off a small stream of pure water. A considerable river runs into the sound, making a fall of some twenty-five feet just as it plunges into the sea, affording the opportunity of building mills upon the wharfs. But very little has been known by Americans concerning the extensive country north of the Columbia, till last winter. I have several times been told by British subjects that the countries bordering on Frazier's river and Puget's Sound were too sterile for cultivation, and but poor crops could be raised on the Cowlitz. Whereas, the exploring party who left Oregon city, last winter, report that they found a very extensive country north of the Columbia river, of apparently good soil, well timbered with pine and oak, and well watered with the following rivers and their tributaries, viz.: the Cowlitz, emptying into the Columbia river from the north; the Shahales, {175} running into a small bay north of the Columbia river; the Nesqualla, rising near the source of the Cowlitz, and running north into Puget's Sound; Frazier's river north of this, and several smaller ones not named. On the Cowlitz, Nesqualla and Frazier's rivers, the Hudson Bay Company have large establishments, and are producing vast quantities of wool, beef, pork, and all kinds of grain, for British whale ships which frequent the harbors. Besides these establishments, they have extensive farms and herds at Vancouver, in the Willamette valley and Colvile, and trading posts on Vancouver island, and at the mouth of the Columbia river, Umpqua, Vancouver, Wallawalla, Okanakan and Colvile, Boise and fort Hall, with very many at the north. Some of these are strongly fortified, and are being well supplied with cannon and other munitions of war, by almost every ship that arrives. So I have been informed by persons from these ships. With the extensive valley watered by the Willamette and its numerous tributaries, you are better acquainted than myself, as I have never visited that country. I cannot, however, deny myself the pleasure of expressing my opinion of the country, formed from information derived yearly from scores of persons who have dwelt long in, or traveled more or less through its extensive territory, at all seasons of the year. On the west the great valley is separated from the Pacific by a low range of well timbered mountains, that give rise to numerous streams and small rivers, some of which are lately found sufficient to admit vessels. On the east it is bounded by the Cascade or President's range, everywhere abounding with white pine and cedar. The Willamette river rises in latitude 42° and runs north and empties itself into the Columbia river 85 miles above its mouth. The falls of the Willamette are about thirty miles above its mouth, and must ever add a vast interest to the country. The power for mills and machinery that may be erected on each side of the river, and on the island in the middle of the falls, is adequate for almost any conceivable demand. {176} Oregon city, situated at the falls on the east side of the river, contains over five hundred souls, about eighty houses, viz.: two churches, two blacksmith shops, one cooper shop, two cabinet shops, four tailor shops, one hatter's shop, one tannery, three shoe shops, two silver smiths, four stores, two taverns, two flouring and two saw mills, and a lathe machine. Directly opposite, on the west side, are two towns laid out, and buildings are going up. The face of the country in the Willamette valley is rolling, very equally divided into prairie and timbered countries, with frequent oak openings. Wheat produces well; corn, potatoes, &c. produce well in some places, and probably would everywhere do well with good cultivation; soil everywhere considered of a superior quality. Less snow during the winter season than in the middle district, but much more rain, with fogs, on the low lands during the summer, which render the country less healthy than this middle region; but still the country cannot be considered an unhealthy country. The face of the country is everywhere covered with bunch grass,[227] and animals feed out through the winter, as in the middle region. The rivers Umpqua, Rose and Clamet, which empty into the Pacific, south of the Columbia, are said to water extensive fertile countries; but as yet very little is known of these regions. Ships come up the Willamette river within a few miles of Oregon city. Concerning the road for wagons commenced south of Mount Hood, and which is to be completed this summer, to be in readiness for the next emigration, you are better acquainted than myself. I am happy to recommend to future emigrants your directions and advice as to the best mode of traveling; number of wagons desirable to travel together; quantity of provisions required for each person; best route; distance to be traveled each day. You will also be able to give the prices for which the Hudson Bay company sells flour, at Forts Hall {177} and Bois, and for which it is brought from the Willamette to the Dalles and sold. You are acquainted with the fact that the Mission station at this place, and at Waiilatpu, have been in the habit of furnishing provisions to immigrants. We are willing to do so as long as there are no other sources of supplies in this vicinity, and therefore seems a duty. But our object in the country is to civilize and Christianize the Indian tribes among whom we are located. We are stewards of the property of others. We receive no salaries, but simply our living and clothing. We therefore feel it to be our duty to endeavour to make the receipts for provisions sold, net their expenses. For this end, Mr. Gilbert, a gentleman from New York, has taken charge of the secular affairs of this station, and will furnish provisions to immigrants on the most reasonable terms. He will give you their probable prices, and the names of such things as will be taken in exchange. You have seen the quantity and quality of flour and beef at this place, as also at Waiilatpu. Yours very sincerely, H. H. SPALDING. P. S. During last season, commencing 22d of January, I collected and preserved over two thousand different species of flowers, plants and grasses,[228] many of which I think are rare, but I am no botanist. ORGANIC LAWS OF OREGON (WITH AMENDMENTS) _The Legislative Committee recommend that the following Laws be adopted._ PREAMBLE WE, the people of Oregon Territory, for purposes of mutual protection, and to secure peace and prosperity among ourselves, agree to adopt the following laws and regulations, until such time as the United States of America extend their jurisdiction over us. Be it enacted, therefore, by the free citizens of Oregon Territory, that the said territory, for purposes of temporary government, be divided into not less than three nor more than five districts, subject to be extended to a greater number when an increase of population shall require. For the purpose of fixing the principles of civil and religious liberty, as the basis of all laws and constitutions of government that may hereafter be adopted-- _Be it enacted_, That the following articles be considered articles of compact among the free citizens of this territory: ARTICLE I § 1. No person demeaning himself in a peaceable and orderly manner, shall ever be molested on account of his mode of worship or religious sentiments. {180} § 2. The inhabitants of said territory shall always be entitled to the benefits of the writ of habeas corpus and trial by jury, of a proportionate representation of the people in the legislature, and of judicial proceedings, according to the course of common law. All persons shall be bailable, unless for capital offences, where the proof shall be evident or the presumption great. All fines shall be moderate, and no cruel or unusual punishments shall be inflicted. No man shall be deprived of his liberty but by the judgment of his peers, or the law of the land; and should the public exigencies make it necessary for the common preservation to take any person's property, or to demand his particular services, full compensation shall be made for the same; and in the just preservation of rights and property, it is understood and declared that no law ought ever to be made, or have force in said territory, that shall, in any manner whatever, interfere with or affect private contracts or engagements, "bona fide" and without fraud previously formed. § 3. Religion, morality and knowledge being necessary to good government and the happiness of mankind, schools and the means of education shall forever be encouraged. The utmost good faith shall always be observed towards the Indians; their lands and property shall never be taken from them without their consent; and in their property, rights or liberty they shall never be invaded or disturbed, unless in just and lawful wars, authorised by the representatives of the people; but laws founded in justice and humanity shall, from time to time, be made for preventing injustice being done to them, and for preserving peace and friendship with them. § 4. There shall be no slavery nor involuntary servitude in said territory otherwise than for the punishment of crimes, whereof the party shall have been duly convicted. § 5. No person shall be deprived of the right of bearing arms in his own defence; no unreasonable searches or seizures shall be granted; the freedom of the press shall not be restrained; {181} no person shall be twice tried for the same offence; nor the people deprived of the right of peaceably assembling and discussing any matter they may think proper; nor shall the right of petition ever be denied. § 6. The powers of the government shall be divided into three distinct departments--the legislative, executive, and judicial; and no person, belonging to one of these departments, shall exercise any of the powers properly belonging to either of the others, except in cases herein directed or permitted. ARTICLE II § 1. The legislative power shall be vested in a House of Representatives, which shall consist of not less than thirteen nor more than sixty-one members, whose numbers shall not be increased more than five at any one session, to be elected by the qualified electors at the annual election, giving to each district a representation in proportion to its population, (excluding Indians,) and the said members shall reside in the district for which they shall be chosen; and in case of vacancy by death, resignation or otherwise, the executive shall issue his writ to the district where such vacancy has occurred, and cause a new election to be held, giving sufficient notice at least ten days previously, of the time and place of holding said election. § 2. The House of Representatives, when assembled, shall choose a speaker and its other officers, be judges of the qualifications and election of its members, and sit upon its own adjournment from day to day. Two-thirds of the House shall constitute a quorum to transact business, but a smaller number may adjourn from day to day, and may be authorised by law to compel the attendance of absent members. § 3. The House may determine the rules of its proceedings, punish its members for disorderly behavior, and with the concurrence of two-thirds, expel a member, but not a second time for the same offence; and shall have all powers necessary for {182} a legislature of a temporary government, not in contravention with the restrictions imposed in this Organic Law. § 4. The House of Representatives shall, from time to time, fix the salaries of the different officers appointed or elected under this compact, provided the pay of no officer shall be altered during the term of his service; nor shall the pay of the House be increased by any law taking effect during the session at which such alteration is made. § 5. The House of Representatives shall have the sole power of impeaching; three-fourths of all the members must concur in an impeachment. The governor and all civil officers under these articles of compact, shall be liable to impeachment for treason, bribery, or any high crime or misdemeanor in office. Judgment in such cases shall not extend further than removal from office, and disqualification to hold any office of honor, trust or profit under this compact; but the party convicted may be dealt with according to law. § 6. The House of Representatives shall have power to lay out the territory into suitable districts, and apportion the representation in their own body. They shall have power to pass laws for raising a revenue either by the levying and collecting of taxes, or the imposing license on merchandize, ferries, or other objects--to open roads and canals, either by the levying a road tax, or the chartering of companies; to regulate the intercourse of the people with the Indian tribes; to establish post offices and post roads; to declare war, suppress insurrection or repel invasion; to provide for the organizing, arming, and disciplining the militia, and for calling forth the militia to execute the laws of Oregon; to pass laws to regulate the introduction, manufacture, or sale of ardent spirits; to regulate the currency and internal police of the country; to create inferior offices necessary and not provided for by these articles of compact; and generally to pass such laws to promote the general welfare of the people of Oregon, not contrary to the spirit of this instrument; and all powers not hereby expressly delegated, {183} remain with the people. The House of Representatives shall convene annually on the first Tuesday in December, at such place as may be provided by law, and shall, upon their first meeting after the adoption of this instrument of compact, proceed to elect and define the duties of a secretary, recorder, treasurer, auditor, marshal, or other officers necessary to carry into effect the provisions of this compact. § 7. The executive power shall be vested in one person, elected by the qualified voters at the annual election, who shall have power to fill vacancies; to remit fines and forfeitures; to grant pardons and reprieves for offences against the laws of the territory; to call out the military force of the country to repel invasion or suppress insurrection; to take care that the laws are faithfully executed, and to recommend such laws as he may consider necessary to the representatives of the people for their action. Every bill which shall have been passed by the House of Representatives, shall, before it becomes a law, be presented to the governor for his approbation. If he approve, he shall sign it; if not, he shall return it, with his objections, to the House, and the House shall cause the objections to be entered at large on its journals, and shall proceed to reconsider the bill; if, after such reconsideration, a majority of two-thirds of the House shall agree to pass the same, it shall become a law. In such cases the vote shall be taken by ayes and noes, and be entered upon the journal. If any bill shall not be returned by the governor to the House of Representatives within three days (Sundays excepted) after it shall have been presented to him, the same shall become a law in like manner as if the governor had signed it, unless the House of Representatives, by its adjournment, shall prevent its return; in which case it shall not become a law. The governor shall continue in office two years, and until his successor is duly elected and qualified; and in case of the office becoming vacant by death, resignation, or otherwise, the secretary shall exercise the duties of the office until the vacancy shall be filled by {184} election. The governor shall receive the sum of dollars per annum, as full compensation for his services, which sum may be increased or diminished at any time by law, provided the salary of no governor shall be altered during his term of service. The governor shall have power to convene the legislature on extraordinary occasions. § 8. The judicial power shall be vested in a supreme court, and such inferior courts of law, equity, and arbitration, as may, by law from time to time be established. The supreme court shall consist of one judge, who shall be elected by the House of Representatives, and hold his office for four years, and until his successor is duly elected and qualified. The supreme court, except in cases otherwise directed by this compact, shall have appellate jurisdiction only, which shall be co-extensive with this territory, and shall hold two sessions annually, beginning on the first Mondays in June and September, and at such places as by law may be directed. The supreme court shall have a general superintending control over all inferior courts of law. It shall have power to issue writs of habeas corpus, mandamus, quo warranto, certiorari, and other original remedial writs, and hear and determine the same. The supreme court shall have power to decide upon and annul any laws contrary to the provisions of these articles of compact, and whenever called upon by the House of Representatives, the supreme judge shall give his opinion touching the validity of any pending measure. The House of Representatives may, hereafter, provide by law for the supreme court having original jurisdiction in criminal cases. § 9. All officers under this compact, shall take an oath, as follows, to wit: I do solemnly swear, that I will support the Organic Laws of the provisional Government of Oregon, so far as said Organic Laws are consistent with my duties as a citizen of the United States, or a subject of Great Britain,[229] and faithfully demean myself in office. So help me God. § 10. Every free male descendant of a white man, inhabitant {185} of this territory, of the age of twenty-one years and upwards, who shall have been an inhabitant of this territory at the time of its organization, shall be entitled to vote at the election of officers, civil and military, and be eligible to any office in the territory, provided, that all persons of the description entitled to vote by the provisions of this section, who shall emigrate to this territory after its organization, shall be entitled to the rights of citizens after having resided six months in the territory. § 11. The election for all civil officers, provided for by this compact, shall be held the first Monday in June annually. ARTICLE III--LAND LAW § 1. Any person now holding, or hereafter wishing to establish a claim to land in this territory, shall designate the extent of his claim by natural boundaries, or by marks at the corners and upon the lines of such claim, and have the extent and boundaries of said claim recorded in the office of the territorial recorder, in a book to be kept by him for that purpose, within twenty days from the time of making said claim: provided, that those who shall be already in possession of land, shall be allowed twelve months from the passage of this act to file a description of his claim in the recorder's office: and provided further, that the said claimant shall state in his record, the size, shape, and locality of such claim, and give the names of the adjoining claimants; and the recorder may require the applicant for such record to be made to answer, on his oath, touching the facts. § 2. All claimants shall, within six months from the time of recording their claims, make permanent improvements upon the same, by building or enclosing, and also become an occupant upon said claim within one year from the date of such record, or in case not occupied, the person holding said claim shall pay into the treasury the sum of five dollars annually, and in case of failure to occupy, or on failure of payment of {186} the sum above stated, the claim shall be considered as abandoned: provided, that no non-resident of this territory shall have the benefit of this law: and, provided further, that any resident of this territory, absent on private business for two years, may hold his claim by paying five dollars annually to the treasury. § 3. No individual shall be allowed to hold a claim of more than one square mile, or six hundred and forty acres, in a square or oblong form, according to the natural situation of the premises. Nor shall any individual be allowed to hold more than one claim at the same time. Any person complying with the provisions of these ordinances, shall be entitled to the same recourse against trespass as in other cases by law provided. § 4. Partnerships of two or more persons shall be allowed to take up a tract of land not exceeding six hundred and forty acres to each person in said partnership, subject to all the provisions of the law; and whenever such partnership is dissolved, the members shall each record the particular parts of said tract as may be allotted to him: provided that no member of said partnership shall hold a separate claim at the time of the existence of said partnership. § 5. The boundary lines of all claims shall hereafter conform, as near as may be, to the cardinal points. § 6. The officers elected at the general election, held on the first Tuesday in June, 1845, shall be the officers to act under this organic law, and their official acts, so far as they are in accordance with this compact, are hereby declared valid and legal. § 7. Amendments to this instrument may be proposed by the House of Representatives, two-thirds of the members concurring therein; which amendments shall be made public in all parts of Oregon, and be read at the polls at the next succeeding general election, and a concurrence of two-thirds of all {187} the members elected at said election, may pass said amendments, and they shall become a part of this compact. * * * * * CERTIFICATE I, John E. Long,[230] secretary of Oregon territory, do hereby certify, that the foregoing is a true and correct copy of the original law, as passed by the representatives of the people of Oregon, on the fifth day of July, A. D. 1845, and submitted to the people on the twenty-sixth day of the same month, and by them adopted and now on file in my office. J. E. LONG, _Secretary_. N. B. At the December Session, 1845, of the House of Representatives, two-thirds of the members concurring therein, the following amendments to the Organic Law were proposed, to wit: Strike out in the 4th section of said law, the words "or more." Also, to amend the land law so as to "permit claimants to hold six hundred acres in the prairie, and forty acres in the timber, though said tracts do not join." ARDENT SPIRITS AN ACT to prevent the introduction, sale, and distillation of ardent spirits in Oregon. § 1. _Be it enacted by the House of Representatives of Oregon Territory_, That if any person shall hereafter import or introduce any ardent spirits into Oregon, with intent to sell, barter, give, or trade the same, and shall offer the same for sale, trade, barter, or gift, he shall be fined the sum of fifty dollars for each and every such offence, which may be recovered by indictment, or by trial before a justice of the peace, without the form of pleading. § 2. That if any person shall hereafter sell, barter, give, or trade any ardent spirits of any kind whatever, directly or indirectly, to any person within Oregon, he shall forfeit and pay {188} the sum of twenty dollars for each and every such sale, trade, barter, or gift, to be recovered by indictment in the county court, or before a justice of the peace, without the form of pleading. § 3. That if any person shall hereafter establish or carry on any manufactory or distillery of ardent spirits in Oregon, he shall be subject to be indicted before the county court, as for a nuisance, and if convicted, he shall be fined the sum of one hundred dollars; and the court shall issue an order to the sheriff, directing him to seize and destroy the distilling apparatus, which order the sheriff shall execute. § 4. Whenever it shall come to the knowledge of any officer of this government, or any private citizen, that any kind of spirituous liquors are being distilled or manufactured in Oregon, they are hereby authorised and required to proceed to the place where such illicit manufacture is known to exist, and seize the distilling apparatus, and deliver the same to the nearest district judge or justice of the peace, whose duty it shall be immediately to issue his warrant, and cause the house and premises of the person against whom such warrant shall be issued to be further searched; and in case any kind of spirituous liquors are found in or about said premises, or any implements or apparatus that have the appearance of having been used or constructed for the purpose of manufacturing any kind of spirituous liquors, the officer who shall have been duly authorised to execute said warrant, shall seize all such apparatus, implements, and spirituous liquors, and deliver the same to the judge or justice of the peace who issued the said warrant; said officer shall also arrest the person or persons in or about whose premises such apparatus, implements, or spirituous liquors are found, and conduct him or them to said judge or justice of the peace, whose duty it shall be to proceed against such criminal or criminals, and dispose of the articles seized, according to law. § 5. All fines and penalties imposed under this act, shall go, {189} one-half to the informant and witnesses, and the other half to the officers engaged in arresting and trying the criminal or criminals; and it shall be the duty of all officers into whose hands such fines and penalties may come, to pay over as directed in this section. § 6. This act shall not be so construed as to prevent any practising physician from selling such liquors for medicine, not to exceed half a pint at one time. § 7. That it shall be the duty of the secretary to publish this act in the first newspaper printed in Oregon. * * * * * CERTIFICATE I, John E. Long, Secretary of Oregon, do hereby certify, that the foregoing act on ardent spirits, is truly and correctly revised by me. J. E. LONG, _Secretary_. FOOTNOTES: [1] Oregon Territory, which under the treaty of 1818 was held in joint occupation by the United States and Great Britain, had been brought into prominence by the presidential campaign of 1844, and the belligerent message of President Polk at his inauguration in March, 1845. Emigration thither for the year 1845 exceeded that of any previous season and consisted of nearly three thousand persons, largely from Missouri and the frontier states of the Old Northwest.--ED. [2] Blue River, in central Indiana, flowing through Rush and Shelby counties, is part of the White River system.--ED. [3] For a note on the founding of Indianapolis see our volume ix, p. 190, note 100.--ED. [4] Mount Meridian is a small village in Jefferson township, Putnam County, Indiana. It was laid out in 1833 and at first named Carthage.--ED. [5] For St. Charles see our volume v, p. 39, note 9.--ED. [6] By the term "Lute creek," Palmer intends Loutre River, rising in northeast Callaway County, and flowing south and southwest through Montgomery County into the Missouri, at Loutre Island. See our volume v, p. 47, note 19.--ED. [7] Williamsburgh, a village in the township of Nine Mile Prairie, Callaway County, was laid out in 1836. For Fulton see our volume xxi, p. 131, note 7.--ED. [8] Columbia and Rocheport are noted in our volume xxi, p. 133, note 8; Boonville, _ibid._, p. 89, note 59. Palmer probably crossed the Missouri at Boonville. Townsend went by a similar route from St. Louis to Boonville. See his _Narrative_ in our volume xxi, pp. 125-134.--ED. [9] Marshall was in 1839 set off as the county seat of Saline, and in 1900 had a population of 5086. It was named in honor of the chief justice of the United States, who died shortly before the incorporation of the town.--ED. [10] For Independence see our volume xix, p. 189, note 34. Gregg gives a much fuller description of this town as an outfitting place, than does our present author; _ibid._, pp. 188-192.--ED. [11] On the bounds of this territory, see our volume xxi, p. 50, note 31.--ED. [12] Walkarusa Creek rises in several branches in Wabaunsee County, and flows east through Shawnee and Douglas into Kansas River. The crossing of the Oregon Trail was almost directly south of Lawrence. The trail thence followed the divide between the creek and river to about the present site of Topeka. During the Free Soil troubles in Kansas, a bloodless campaign (1855) along this creek toward Lawrence was known as the "Walkarusa War." Kansas River is noted in our volume xiv, p. 174, note 140.--ED. [13] For the Kansa Indians see our volume v, p. 67, note 37; also our volume xxviii, p. 140, note 84. Wyeth notes their village in his _Oregon_, our volume xxi, pp. 48, 49.--ED. [14] For this stream see De Smet's _Letters_ in our volume xxvii, p. 197, note 74.--ED. [15] This was probably a local publication of the journal or notes of William Gilpin, who went to Oregon with Frémont's party in 1843. Gilpin was a Pennsylvanian, appointed cadet at West Point in 1834. Two years later he became lieutenant in the 2nd dragoons, and saw frontier service, resigning from the army in 1838. He accompanied Frémont as far as the Dalles of the Columbia, and passed the winter of 1843-44 in the Willamette valley, returning overland to the states in 1844. As an intelligent observer his reports on the Oregon country were much sought (see _Niles' Register_, lxvii, p. 161). Gilpin afterwards served in the Mexican War, and earnestly urged the building of a Pacific railway. In 1861 he was appointed first territorial governor of Colorado, in recognition of "his services as an explorer of the Great West," and lived until 1894.--ED. [16] Stephen Hall Meek was a brother of Colonel Joseph Meek so well known as an Oregon pioneer (see our volume xxviii, p. 290, note 171). Stephen began his career as a trapper under Captain Bonneville in 1832, and accompanied Joseph Walker to California in 1833-34. He was in the Willamette valley in 1841, where he purchased of Dr. John McLoughlin the first lot sold on the site of Oregon City. In 1842 he guided the emigrant caravan from Fort Laramie. His unfortunate experience in attempting a "cut off" with a party of emigrants in 1845 (related _post_ by Palmer), discredited his abilities as a guide. At the time of the gold excitement (1848-49) he returned to California, where he made his later home in Siskiyou County.--ED. [17] Little is known of Dr. Presley Welch save as related by Palmer--that he was from Indiana, was chosen captain of the caravan, and was without authority after the formation of the independent companies. H. H. Bancroft (_History of Oregon_, i, p. 612) notes that he was candidate for governor in 1846. George H. Himes, assistant secretary of the Oregon Historical Society, writes to the Editor: "In all my efforts to make a roll of Pioneers by years, I have not so far been able to find anything about Dr. Welch; hence I conclude he either left the country at an early date or died soon after his arrival here."--ED. [18] For this stream see our volume xxi, p. 149, note 20. Townsend also describes the same Kansa village, _ibid._, pp. 148, 149.--ED. [19] The Big Vermillion is now known as the Black Vermillion, an eastern tributary of the Big Blue, in Marshall County, Kansas. The usual crossing was near the site of the present town of Bigelow. Bee Creek is a small stream in Marshall County. The Big Blue is noted in our volume xiv, p. 185, note 154; also in our volume xxi, p. 142, note 15.--ED. [20] For a biographical note on Colonel Stephen W. Kearny see our volume xvii, p. 12, note 4. In the summer of 1845 the general of the army ordered Kearny to take five companies of dragoons and proceed from Fort Leavenworth via the Oregon Trail to South Pass, returning by way of the Arkansas and the Santa Fé Trail. The object was both to impress the Indians, and to report upon the feasibility of an advanced military post near Fort Laramie. Leaving their encampment May 18, they were upon the Little Blue by the twenty-sixth of the month. See report in _Senate Docs._, 29 Cong., 1 sess., 1, pp. 210-213. This was the first regular military campaign into the land of the Great West, and strongly impressed the Indians of that region. Kearny's recommendations were against the establishment of a post because of the difficulty of supplying it--advising instead, a biennial or triennial campaign similar to his own.--ED. [21] By the "Republican Fork of Blue River" Palmer intends the stream known usually as the Little Blue. Republican River, farther west, is an important branch of Kansas River, and for a portion of its course nearly parallels the Little Blue. The Oregon Trail, however, followed the latter stream, and the distances given by Palmer preclude the possibility of a detour via the Republican River. The name of this stream, as well as that applied by Palmer to the Little Blue, is derived from the tribe of Republican Pawnee, for which see our volume xiv, p. 233, note 179.--ED. [22] There were two routes across from the head of Little Blue River to the Platte. The first left the trail near the site of Leroy, Nebraska, and came in to the Platte about twenty miles below Grand Island; the second continued farther west, about ten miles, then crossed northwest to the Platte near the site of Fort Kearney. See military map of Nebraska and Dakota, prepared in 1855-57 by Lieutenant G. K. Warren of the topographical engineer corps. For the Platte River see our volume xiv, p. 219, note 170.--ED. [23] For this tribe, see our volume vi, p. 61, note 17; also our volume xv, pp. 143-165; and xxviii, p. 149, note 94.--ED. [24] Thomas Fulton Stephens joined the Oregon caravan from Illinois. The year after his arrival in Oregon he took up donation land near the site of Portland and erected thereon a saw-mill. His death occurred in 1884.--ED. [25] John Foster was born in Ohio in 1822, removed to Missouri in early life, and in 1897 was still residing in Oregon.--ED. [26] Orville Risley was born in New York state about 1807. In early life he removed to Ohio, where he joined the Oregon emigrants of 1845. Upon reaching the Willamette valley he took up land in Clackamas County, and later was a merchant at Lafayette. In his last years he resided principally at Portland, where he was known as Judge Risley, from having once held the office of justice of the peace. His death occurred at his Clackamas farm in 1884.--ED. [27] For the fords of the South Platte see our volume xxi, p. 173, note 27.--ED. [28] Ash Hollow, called by Frémont Coulée des Frênes, was a well known landmark, where the Oregon Trail crossed the North Platte. It is now known as Ash Creek, in Deuel County, Nebraska.--ED. [29] Spring Creek was probably the one now known as Rush, formed by springs issuing in Cheyenne County, Nebraska. The second creek was that now entitled Pumpkinseed. In the days of trail-travelling it was called Gonneville, from a trapper who had been killed thereon. The Solitary Tower is on its bank--a huge mass of indurated clay, more frequently known as the Court House or the Castle.--ED. [30] For a note on Chimney Rock consult De Smet's _Letters_ in our volume xxvii, p. 219, note 89. See also engraving in Frémont's "Exploring Tour," _Senate Docs._, 28 Cong., 2 sess., 174, p. 38.--ED. [31] This story is told with variations by many writers, notably Washington Irving in his _Rocky Mountains_ (Philadelphia, 1837), i, pp. 45, 46. The event appears to have occurred about 1830. The range of bluffs, about nine hundred yards in length, still retains the name. It is situated on the western borders of Nebraska, in a county of the same name.--ED. [32] The usual habitat of the Dakota or Sioux was along the Missouri River or eastward. The Teton Sioux were in the habit of wandering westward for summer hunts, and this was probably a band of the Oglala or Brulé Teton, who frequently were encountered in this region. For the Teton subdivisions see our volume xxii, p. 326, note 287.--ED. [33] The succession of trading posts on the Laramie branch of Platte River is somewhat confusing, due to differences in nomenclature. Consult our volume xxi, p. 181, note 30. The fort here described appears to be the new Fort Laramie (which must thus have been built in 1845, not 1846). Alexander Culbertson, who was at one time in command for the American Fur Company, says that this post cost $10,000, and was the best built stronghold in the company's possession. Fort John was the old American Fur Company's post. How a rival company had secured it, seems a mystery; possibly Palmer has confused it with Fort Platte, which Frémont notes in 1842 at the mouth of the Laramie, belonging to Sybille, Adams, and Company. See his "Exploring Tour" (cited in note 30, _ante_), p. 35.--ED. [34] Since the above was written, the North American Fur Company has purchased Fort John, and demolished it.--PALMER. [35] The trail lay back from the river, for some distance above Fort Laramie. Big Spring was frequently known as Warm Spring, and the coulée, in Laramie County, Wyoming, still retains the name of Warm Spring Cañon.--ED. [36] On the general use of the term Black Hills see our volume xxiii, p. 244, note 204. The stream called Fourche Amère (bitter fork) by Frémont is now known simply as Cottonwood Creek.--ED. [37] Retaining the same name, Horseshoe Creek is a considerable wooded stream in western Laramie County, Wyoming.--ED. [38] This is now known as Lower Platte Cañon, and is traversed by the Wyoming branch of the Colorado and Southern Railway.--ED. [39] Big Timber Creek was called La Fourche Boisée by Frémont; more frequently it was known by the name it still retains--La Bonté Creek, in Converse County, Wyoming. The cut-off recommended by Palmer would be by way of Elkhorn Creek and an affluent of La Bonté.--ED. [40] Deer Creek is the largest southern affluent of the Platte, between the Laramie and the Sweetwater. It is well-timbered, and its mouth was a familiar camping place on the Oregon Trail. It is in the western part of Converse County, Wyoming, about 770 miles from the starting point at Independence.--ED. [41] The best ford in this stretch of the river; it averaged only about three feet in depth at the ordinary stage of water, and its width varied from eight hundred to fifteen hundred feet. It was a little above the present town of Casper, Wyoming.--ED. [42] The Mineral Spring was usually called Red Spring, near Poison Spider Creek, and shows traces of petroleum. For a description of Red Buttes see our volume xxi, p. 183.--ED. [43] For Independence Rock and Sweetwater River see our volume xxi, p. 53, notes 33, 34.--ED. [44] For this gap, or cañon, see De Smet's _Letters_ in our volume xxvii, p. 241, note 113.--ED. [45] The Wind River Mountains are noted in our volume xxi, p. 184, note 35. The trail along the Sweetwater is for the most part over a rough, undulating prairie, but at times the hills force the road close to the river valley. At one place, about thirty-six miles above the river's mouth, the route grows rugged and crosses the river three times. This was usually known as the Three Crossings, and is probably the stretch that Palmer calls the Narrows.--ED. [46] Joseph R. Walker was born (1798) in Tennessee. In early life he migrated to the Missouri frontier, and for many years was a trapper and trader in the direction of Santa Fé. Once he was captured by the Mexicans, and afterwards participated in a battle between them and the Pawnee Indians. In 1832 Captain Bonneville secured Walker as a member of his trading party, and the following year sent him on an expedition that explored a route from Salt Lake to California, through Walker's Pass, which took its name from this explorer. On this journey he claimed first of any American to have seen the Yosemite. His knowledge of the West brought his services in demand as a guide or pilot. In 1843 he led out a small party of emigrants. From Bridger's Fort, whither he was going when met by Palmer, he joined Frémont's third exploring expedition, and was sent forward with a portion of the party by his former route of 1833. The junction with his chief's party was made after the latter's visit to Monterey. Walker, however, did not remain to take part in the events that led to the American conquest of California, but started back to the states with a drove of California horses for sale, and was again at Fort Bridger in July, 1846. For twenty years longer he continued his vagrant life in the mountains, finally settling (1866-67) in Contra Costa County, California, where he died in 1876.--ED. [47] For South Pass and Green River see our volume xxi, pp. 58-60, notes 37, 38. The springs were known as Pacific Springs, running into a creek of that name, affluent of the Big Sandy in Frémont County, Wyoming.--ED. [48] The dry branch is known as Dry Sandy Creek. For the Little Sandy see our volume xxi, p. 187, note 36.--ED. [49] This was known as Sublette's Cut-off; see De Smet's _Letters_ in our volume xxvii, p. 242, note 115.--ED. [50] At this point, Green River bears considerably east of south, the trail therefore turns southwest, striking Black Fork of Green, not far from the present Granger, Wyoming, at the junction of the Union Pacific and Oregon Short Line railways. Black Fork rises in the extreme southeastern corner of Wyoming, flows northeast, thence east and southeast, entering the Green in Sweetwater County. It is a shallow, somewhat sluggish stream, passing through an alkaline country.--ED. [51] The site of Fort Bridger was chosen by its founder as the best station for trade with emigrants following the Oregon Trail. Its building (1843) marked an epoch in Western emigration, showing the importance of trade with the increasing number of travellers. The place was an oasis in the desert-like neighborhood, the stream of Black Fork coming from the Unita Mountains, and in this wooded valley dividing into several branches. In 1854 Bridger sold his post to a Mormon named Lewis Robinson, who maintained it until 1858, when United States troops wintering during the Mormon campaign built at this site a government post, also known as Fort Bridger, which was garrisoned about twenty years longer. For Bridger, the founder, see De Smet's _Letters_, in our volume xxvii, p. 299, note 156. His partner was Louis Vasques (not Bascus), a Mexican who for many years had been a mountain man. For some time he was in partnership with Sublette in a trading post on the South Platte. About 1840 he entered into partnership with Bridger, and is remembered to have lived with some luxury, riding about the country near Fort Bridger in a coach and four. See Wyoming Historical Society _Collections_, i, p. 68.--ED. [52] For the Snake (Shoshoni) Indians, see our volume v, p. 227, note 123. The Paiute are referred to in our volume xviii, p. 140, note 70; also in De Smet's _Letters_, in our volume xxvii, pp. 165, 167, notes 35, 38.--ED. [53] By the Little Muddy, Palmer refers to the stream now known as the Muddy, a branch of Black Fork, which would be reached in about eight miles from Fort Bridger, by travelling northwest. Palmer's "Big Muddy" is the stream usually known as Ham's Fork, for which see our volume xxi, p. 197, note 43.--ED. [54] The divide between the waters of Green and Bear River may be crossed at several points. Its altitude is about eight thousand feet, and all travellers speak of the wide view. The mountains to the west are those of the Bear River range, running between the arms of the river, for which see our volume xxi, p. 199, note 44.--ED. [55] The upper road from Green River, usually known as Sublette's road, comes across by way of Crow Creek, a branch of Ham's Fork, and Sublette Creek, a tributary of the Bear. Smith's Fork comes almost directly from the north, its headwaters nearly interlacing with Salt River branch of Lewis (or Snake) River. It enters Bear River quite near the dividing line between Wyoming and Idaho.--ED. [56] The first crossing of Bear River is just above the mouth of Thomas's Fork. For a detailed map of this stretch of the road see Frémont's "Exploring Tour" (_op. cit._ in note 30), p. 132.--ED. [57] The big hill is just beyond the bend of the Bear, below Thomas's Fork, and the nearest approach the road makes to the valley of Bear Lake. This lake is evidently the remains of one that occupied a much larger area, as the marshes at its upper end signify. It now measures about nineteen miles in length, with an average width of six, and a depth of from forty to sixty feet. The lower portion of the lake is in Utah and the upper in Idaho. Its waters are noted for their exquisite blue tint.--ED. [58] For the location of these springs see our volume xxi, p. 200, note 45.--ED. [59] A map of these springs can be found in Frémont's "Exploring Tour" (_op. cit._ in note 30), p. 135. Steamboat Spring is a miniature geyser, an analysis of whose waters is given by Frémont, p. 136.--ED. [60] For a brief note on Salt Lake see our volume xxi, p. 199, note 44.--ED. [61] The entire route from Soda Springs at the bend of Bear River to Fort Hall was about fifty miles in length, crossing the basaltic, volcanic plateau which Palmer describes, to the waters of Portneuf River, down which the trail passed to Fort Hall. For the founding of this post see Townsend's _Narrative_, in our volume xxi, pp. 209-211.--ED. [62] Captain James Grant was Hudson's Bay factor in charge at Fort Hall for several years during the immigration movement. Most of the travellers speak of his courtesy and readiness to assist. He was at this post in 1842, when Matthieu describes him as a large man, resembling Dr. McLoughlin--_Oregon Historical Quarterly_, i, p. 84. He seems to have later settled in Oregon.--ED. [63] For a brief description of Snake (or Lewis) River, see our volume xxviii, p. 303, note 179.--ED. [64] This attempt to deflect Oregon immigrants to California arose from the unsettled conditions in that Mexican province, and the determination of earlier American settlers to secure California for the United States. Caleb Greenwood, who was sent to Fort Hall from Sutter's Fort (Sacramento), was an aged mountaineer and trapper, who reared a half-breed family by a wife of the Crow tribe. In 1844 he guided the Stevens party to California, and during the winter of 1844-45 served in Sutter's division of Micheltorena's army against Alvarado and Castro. Sutter wrote in regard to his mission, "I am glad that they meet with some good pilots at Fort Hall who went there from here to pilot emigrants by the new road."--ED. [65] George McDougall was a native of Ohio, but started on his journey from Indiana. He conducted the advance party of young men known as the Swasey-Todd party, over the Truckee route to Sutter's, leaving Fort Hall about August 13, and arriving at New Helvetia late in September. McDougall served the next year in the California battalion, and was known to have been at San Francisco in 1847-48. He several times returned East, and after 1853 became a confirmed wanderer, being found in Patagonia in 1867. He is thought to have died at Washington, D. C., in 1872. He was eccentric, but brave, and a favorite with the frontier population. Many of the emigrants who turned off at Fort Hall for California went overland to Oregon the next year. Consult H. H. Bancroft, _History of Oregon_ (San Francisco, 1886), i, p. 522.--ED. [66] The writer has recently learned that the emigrants alluded to, not finding California equal, in point of soil, to their high wrought anticipations, have made the best of their way to Oregon.--PALMER. [67] For another description of Portneuf (not Portneth) River see De Smet's _Letters_ in our volume xxvii, p. 249, with accompanying note.--ED. [68] These falls derive their name from the following circumstance. A number of American trappers going down this stream in their canoes, not being aware of their proximity to the falls, were hurried along by the violence of the current; and passing over the falls, but one of the number survived.--PALMER. [69] The trail from Fort Hall led down the eastern and southern bank of the Lewis; see our volume xxviii, p. 310, note 190. American Falls is a well-known landmark, flowing over a rock about forty feet in height; see Frémont's "Exploring Tour" (_op. cit._ in note 30), p. 164, for an engraving thereof. The once barren land of this region is now being made fertile by irrigation.--ED. [70] Fall Creek, in Oneida County, so called by Frémont, and still known by this name. Its bed is composed of calcareous tufa, chiefly the remains of reeds and mosses, forming a beautiful succession of cascades.--ED. [71] Cassia Creek is an important western affluent of Raft River, of Cassia County, Idaho. Upon its banks was the earliest settlement in this region, and the valley is still noted for its farms. The first party to take this route to California was that of J. B. Chiles (1843), guided by Joseph Walker. They struck across from the Snake to Humboldt River, down that stream to its sink, and by the Walker Pass into California. In 1844 the Stevens party followed a similar route; crossing the Sierras, however, by Truckee and Bear River road, the line of the present Central Pacific railway.--ED. [72] Called by Frémont Swamp Creek, now known as Marsh Creek, a small southern affluent of the Lewis. It forms a circular basin or valley, about six miles in diameter, where there was grass and consequently a good camping place.--ED. [73] Goose Creek is a deep, rocky stream rising in Goose Creek range, lying on the border between Idaho and Utah. The creek flows north, receiving several branches before entering the Lewis in Cassia County. Placer mines of considerable value have been found on this creek.--ED. [74] Dry Creek is still to be found on the maps of Cassia County. Frémont says of this portion of the trail: "All the day the course of the river has been between walls of black volcanic rock, a dark line of the escarpment on the opposite side pointing out its course, and sweeping along in foam at places where the mountains which border the valley present always on the left two ranges, the lower one a spur of the higher; and on the opposite side, the Salmon River mountains are visible at a great distance." (See _op. cit._, _ante_, in note 30, p. 167.)--ED. [75] The falls mentioned by Palmer are the Great Shoshone Falls of the Lewis River, where the cañon is over eight hundred feet deep: the first fall has a plunge of thirty feet, and then a sheer descent of a hundred and ninety. These are, in the United States, exceeded in grandeur only by Niagara and the Yosemite. Palmer's failure to appreciate their height and magnificence was probably due to the depth of the cañon from the top of which he viewed them; or he may not have seen the lower falls at all, for the trail wound back from the river in many places. Rock Creek is a considerable stream, with a swift current, flowing northwest into the Lewis in Cassia County, Idaho.--ED. [76] Salmon Falls River is the largest southern affluent of the Lewis that has been crossed since leaving Fort Hall. It rises in many branches on the boundaries of Nevada and flows north through a valley now noted as a hay-and stock-raising section. Salmon Falls (also called Fishing Falls) is a series of cataracts with sharply inclined planes, forming a barrier to the ascent of the salmon, and thus a fishing resort for Indians.--ED. [77] For this crossing see our volume xxviii, p. 314, note 193.--ED. [78] The emigrants were in Elmore County, Idaho, where a number of small streams come from the north into Lewis River; one is known as Cold Spring Creek, possibly the branch mentioned by Palmer.--ED. [79] For these springs see Farnham's _Travels_ in our volume xxviii, p. 314, note 194.--ED. [80] For Boise River see our volume xxi, p. 249, note 63. The trail approached this stream near the present site of Boise City, and followed its banks to Lewis River.--ED. [81] For a brief sketch of Fort Boise see Farnham's _Travels_ in our volume xxviii, p. 321, note 199.--ED. [82] This northern and more direct route was followed by Wyeth in 1834--see Townsend's _Narrative_ in our volume xxi, pp. 231-249. He found the difficulties of the passage great, and the longer and more southern route was the one usually followed.--ED. [83] For Malheur River see our volume xxi, p. 264, note 64. The Hot Springs are noted in our volume xxviii, p. 323, note 202.--ED. [84] For a brief sketch of the life of Dr. Elijah White see Farnham's _Travels_ in our volume xxix, p. 20, note 12. He was at this time returning to Washington to secure the settlement of his accounts as Indian sub-agent, and with the hope of securing further preferment--if possible, the governorship of Oregon. He was the bearer of a memorial from the provisional government of Oregon, requesting Congress to extend the sovereignty and laws of the United States over the Oregon settlements. See _Cong. Globe_, 29 Cong., 1 sess., p. 24. Later advices from Oregon, however, frustrated the plans of Dr. White, who was retired to private life. On his return his companions across the plains (1845) were William Chapman and Orris Brown of the immigration of 1843, and Joseph Charles Saxton of 1844. Only Brown returned to Oregon; he went back in 1846 accompanied by his own family, and that of his mother, Mrs. Tabitha Brown, who was connected with the history of early education Footnote: in Oregon. The Brown family settled at Forest Grove, the immigrant of 1843 finally dying at Salem in 1874. White, in his _Ten Years in Oregon_ (New York, 1859), p. 282, speaks of meeting a party (Palmer's) near Fort Boise, who brought him important letters, including one from his wife, the first received in fifteen months.--ED. [85] Birch Creek (Rivière aux Bouleaux) rises in Burnt River Mountains and flows southeast into Lewis River, in Malheur County, Oregon.--ED. [86] For Burnt River and the course of the trail through its valley see Townsend's description in our volume xxi, pp. 267, 268.--ED. [87] For Powder River see our volume xxi, p. 268, note 68. The mountains seen were the Blue; see a brief description in _ibid._, p. 273, note 71.--ED. [88] Pronounced Kiwaw or Kioose.--PALMER. _Comment by Ed._ For the Cayuse see our volume vii, p. 137, note 37. [89] For the valley of Grande Ronde see our volume xxi, p. 271, note 69. Consult on camas, _ibid._, p. 247, note 61.--ED. [90] This northern valley is the lower portion of the Grande Ronde. Frémont says: "We passed out of the Grand Rond by a fine road along the creek, which, for a short distance, runs in a kind of rocky chasm. Crossing a low point, which was a little rocky, the trail conducted into the open valley of the stream--a handsome place for farms." (_op. cit._ in note 30, p. 179.) This is now the most flourishing settlement in eastern Oregon with a railway running through the valley to Elgin.--ED. [91] Probably this was the Cayuse chief Tiloukaikt, who had early come under Dr. Whitman's influence, but nevertheless was treacherous, and unstable in his professions of Christianity. In 1841 he had insulted Dr. Whitman because of the punishment of one of his nephews by a missionary teacher. In 1843 he entered into the treaty with some reluctance, and in 1847 was one of the principals concerned in the Whitman massacre. The following year he was one of the five chiefs who gave themselves up to the civil authorities, and he paid the penalty of his murderous instincts upon the scaffold.--ED. [92] For the Nez Percés see Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 340, note 145.--ED. [93] For Whitman and Spaulding see our volume xxi, p. 352, note 125.--ED. [94] On the crossing of Blue Mountains compare our volume xxviii, p. 328, note 206.--ED. [95] For the location of these peaks see our volume vi, pp. 246, 248, notes 50 and 54 respectively. Lee's encampment was the place upon which Henry A. G. Lee had waited for the immigrants of 1844. Lee, who was a member of the train of 1843, was commissioned by Dr. Elijah White as Indian sub-agent to encounter the party of 1844 among the Cayuse and assist in the trading between Indians and immigrants, and thus protect both parties. The policy did not prove successful; see Lee's own letter on the subject in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, v, p. 300. Lee emigrated from the southwestern states, and immediately became a leader in Oregon politics. He was elected to the legislature of 1845, and was an officer in the Cayuse War of 1847-48, during which he was appointed Indian agent to succeed General Joel Palmer. The following year he resigned his office, and soon thereafter left for the California gold mines. He returned to Oregon to enter the mercantile business; but died on a voyage to New York in 1850.--ED. [96] For the Umatilla River see our volume vi, p. 338, note 141. The Indian village was probably that of Five Crows, who in 1843 was elected head-chief of the Cayuse. His baptismal name was Hezekiah, and he took no active part in the Whitman massacre (1847); nevertheless he did nothing to prevent its occurrence and secured the person of some of the prisoners, notably a Miss Bewley, whom he took as a wife. Five Crows afterwards was active in the Cayuse War (1878), in which he was severely wounded.--ED. [97] For Mrs. Whitman see our volume xxi, p. 355, note 128.--ED. [98] Mary Ann Bridger and Helen Mar Meek, half-breed children of James Bridger and Joseph Meek, were brought to the Whitmans before 1842; also a half-breed Spanish boy, David Malin. The migration of 1843 left with Mrs. Whitman two motherless English girls, Ann and Emma Hobson; while in 1844 seven children of the Sager family, both of whose parents had died en route across the plains, were adopted by the Whitmans. Of these children the two eldest Sager boys were killed during the massacre; the half-breed girls and one of the Sager girls died a few days later, from exposure and fright.--ED. [99] For the Wallawalla Indians see our volume vii, p. 137, note 37.--ED. [100] Probably Willow Creek, which drains Morrow County and affords water for stock-raising and sheep-pasturage. Late in the year, when Palmer passed, the stream was dry. The sandy margin along the Columbia from the mouth of Umatilla River to the Dalles, has always been an annoyance to traffic. Sand frequently drifts over the railway track in this region.--ED. [101] For a brief note on John Day River see our volume xxi, p. 357, note 129.--ED. [102] For this river see our volume vii, p. 133, note 32; also our volume xxviii, p. 354, note 222.--ED. [103] For the Dalles and the mission there located, consult our volumes xxi, p. 285, note 77; xxviii, pp. 355, 357, notes 223, 226.--ED. [104] Samuel Kimborough Barlow was of Scotch descent, the son of a Kentucky pioneer. Born (1795) in Nicholas County, in that state, he removed to Indiana (1818), where he married Susanna Lee of South Carolina. A further move to Fulton County, Illinois, paved the way for emigration to Oregon in 1845. Arrived in Oregon City, Christmas of that year, Barlow kept a hotel there until 1848, when he bought land in Clackamas County of Thomas McKay. Later (1852), he removed to Canemah, just above Oregon City, where he died in 1867. He was public-spirited and active in the affairs of the new commonwealth. For an account of the road constructed over the trail made in 1845, see Mary S. Barlow, "History of the Barlow Road," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, iii, pp. 71-81. H. M. Knighton was second marshal of Oregon under the provisional government, and sergeant-at-arms of the house of representatives of 1846. He lived at Oregon City, where he kept an inn. In 1848 he was settled at St. Helens.--ED. [105] Moses Harris, usually called Black Harris, was a well-known scout and trapper who came to Oregon with the emigrant train of 1844. See an amusing story concerning Harris, related by Peter H. Burnett in his "Recollections," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, iii, p. 152. While in Oregon Harris joined several exploring expeditions, notably that of Dr. Elijah White (1845) and that of Levi Scott (1846) in the attempt to find a shorter route from Lewis River to the Willamette valley. In 1846 Harris again went to the rescue of the emigrants who were trying a new route into Oregon; the following year, however, he returned to the states, dying at Independence, Missouri.--ED. [106] For other brief descriptions of the experiences of Meek's party, see H. H. Bancroft, _History of Oregon_, i, pp. 512-516, this latter being founded upon manuscript accounts, notably that of Samuel Hancock, a transcript of which is in the possession of Professor Joseph Schafer of the University of Oregon, who has kindly loaned it to the present Editor. Consult also Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1877, pp. 50-53; 1895, p. 101.--ED. [107] There had been an Indian trail through the Cascades up the fork of the Santiam River, and over what is now known as the Minto Pass. Stephen Meek, who had trapped on the headwaters of John Day River, and there met Indians from the Willamette, thought that he could find this trail; but as a matter of fact it was not discovered by whites until 1873. Dr. White (1845) and Cornelius Gilliam (1846) made essays to open a road through the eastern barrier of the valley. See John Minto, "History of the Minto Pass," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, iv, pp. 241-250.--ED. [108] This was Tygh Creek, a western affluent of Deschutes River, about thirty-five miles above its mouth.--ED. [109] Marked on the United States land commissioner's map of Oregon (1897) as an affluent of White River, a branch of the Tygh.--ED. [110] See an account of this party of cattle drivers and their adventures in "Occasional Address," by Hon. Stephen Staats, in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1877, pp. 51, 52. Staats was one of the party who reached Oregon City in thirteen days from the Dalles.--ED. [111] The Little Deschutes, rising on the slopes of Mount Hood. See reminiscences of William Barlow, son of the leader of this party, in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, iii, pp. 71-81. He speaks of the lack of good tools for opening the road, rusty saws and axes being the only implements available to the builders. They frequently reverted to firing the underbrush ahead of them.--ED. [112] The opinion heretofore entertained, that this peak could not be ascended to its summit, I found to be erroneous. I, however, did not arrive at the highest peak, but went sufficiently near to prove its practicability. I judge the diameter of this peak, at the point where the snow remains the year round, to be about three miles. At the head of many of the ravines, are perpendicular cliffs of rocks, apparently several thousand feet high; and in some places those cliffs rise so precipitately to the summit, that a passage around is impracticable. I think the southern side affords the easiest ascent. The dark strips observable from a distance, are occasioned by blackish rock, so precipitous as not to admit of the snow lying upon it. The upper strata are of gray sandstone, and seem to be of original formation. There is no doubt, but any of the snow peaks upon this range can be ascended to the summit.--PALMER. [113] This should read Big Sandy or Quicksand River. Lewis and Clark gave it the latter name. It is usually known as the Sandy, and in many branches drains the western slope of Mount Hood, flowing northwest into the Columbia, in Multinoma County.--ED. [114] For Clackamas River see our volume xxi, p. 320, note 105.--ED. [115] William H. Rector settled at Champoeg, which district he represented in the legislature of 1847. During the gold excitement the following year, he went to California, but returned to Oregon, where in 1857 he was instrumental in starting the pioneer woolen mill at Salem, of which for some time he was superintendent. In 1861 he was commissioner of Indian affairs, with headquarters at Portland. In later life, Rector was interested in railway enterprises. Popular with Oregon settlers, he was quite commonly known as "Uncle Billy."--ED. [116] William Gilbert Buffum was born in Vermont in 1804. When eleven years of age his family removed to Ashtabula County, Ohio. In 1825 Buffum went to Illinois to work in the mines, later settling in Fulton County, and removing to Missouri in 1841. His wife, Caroline Thurman, was born in Ohio in 1814. After their long journey to Oregon, the Buffums settled in Yamhill County, near Amity, where they afterwards resided, with the exception of a year spent in the California gold fields. Buffum was still living in Amity in 1898. See his reminiscences in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1889, pp. 42-44. Mrs. Miriam A. Thompson (_née_ Robinson) was born in Illinois (1826) and married the year before the migration to Oregon. After reaching the Willamette she settled in Yamhill County, thence removing to Clatsop Plains, where in 1848 her husband left her for California. There he was murdered, and in 1850 his widow married Jeremiah H. Tuller, after 1880 living in Douglas County. For her own account of her adventures, and especially this trip across the Cascade Mountains, see Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1895, pp. 87-90.--ED. [117] Jacob C. Caplinger was born in Virginia in 1815, of German descent. In 1837 he removed to Illinois, in 1841 marrying Jane Woodsides. After reaching the settlements, the Caplingers remained at Oregon City until 1847, when they purchased a farm near Salem, where they were living in 1892.--ED. [118] Matthew (not N.) Gilmore came out in 1843, settling on the Tualatin Plains, where he was chosen delegate to the provisional legislature of 1844. Gilmore was a farmer, not prominent in public life. Charles Gilmore appears to have been of the migration of 1844. Peter G. Stewart came with the Applegate party of 1843, and was one of the executive committee of three, chosen in 1844. He was a man of calm, dispassionate temper, who had been a jeweler in the states. In 1853 he was port surveyor at Pacific City.--ED. [119] According to H. H. Bancroft, _History of Oregon_, i, pp. 525, 526, these were the families of Andrew Hood and Sharp C. Senters. Rev. Theophilus Powell was born in Kentucky, left for Oregon from Missouri, and died in Marion County, Oregon, in 1861.--ED. [120] Several members of the party of 1845 bore the name of Smith; probably this was Simeon, born in Ohio in 1823, removed to Missouri in 1838, and settled in Marion County, finally making his home in Salem, where he died in 1878. See reference in Stephen Staats's address, in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1877, p. 55; also _ibid._, 1878, pp. 92, 93.--ED. [121] Colonel James Taylor was born in Pennsylvania (1809), of Scotch-Irish ancestry. In 1823 he removed to Ohio, where he was active in the state militia and connected with the Indian trade. His wife was Esther d'Armon, who came with him to Oregon. See her biography in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1897, pp. 103-105, wherein is recounted her experience in crossing the Cascades. Colonel Taylor removed in 1846 to Clatsop Plains, but at the outbreak of the Cayuse War (1847) carried his family back to Oregon City, while he served in the extempore army as assistant commissary to General Palmer. In 1849-51 Taylor was chosen first territorial treasurer. About 1850 the Taylors returned to Clatsop, removing to Astoria about 1855, where they passed the remainder of their lives, both dying in 1893.--ED. [122] Samuel McSwain, of the emigration of 1844.--ED. [123] Peter H. Hatch, who came to Oregon by sea in 1843.--ED. [124] The Clackamas Indians were a branch of the Upper Chinook, which had long inhabited the river valley called by their name. Lewis and Clark reported (1806) that there were eleven villages of this tribe, with a population of eight hundred. See Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_ (New York, 1905), iv, p. 255; vi, p. 118. The Indian agent for 1851 estimated their number at eighty-eight. The village where Palmer tarried was the one visited in 1841 by members of the Wilkes exploring expedition. A conflict for influence over this tribe was in progress at the time, between the Catholic and Methodist missionaries stationed at the Falls of the Willamette. Captain William Clark thus describes their huts: "they build their houses in the same form with those of the Columbian vally of wide split boa[r]ds and covered with the bark of the white cedar which is the entire length of one side of the roof and jut over at the eve about 18 inches."--ED. [125] For the founding of Oregon City see De Smet's _Oregon Missions_, in our volume xxix, p. 180, note 76.--ED. [126] For a sketch of Dr. John McLoughlin see our volume xxi, p. 296, note 81.--ED. [127] De Smet describes the building of the Catholic church in his _Oregon Missions_, our volume xxix, p. 167.--ED. [128] In 1842 the Wallamet Milling Company was organized and proceeded to erect both flour and grist mills on an island near the falls, in order to accommodate the settlers, who before their erection had been dependent upon the Hudson's Bay Company's mills near Vancouver. The founders of this enterprise were members of the Methodist mission. Governor George Abernethy of New York (born in 1807) came to Oregon as steward of the party of reinforcement arriving in the "Lausanne" (1840). His business capacity was appreciated by the members of the mission, and he was soon established as a merchant at Oregon City. Here he took prominent part in the organization of the provisional government, of which he was elected governor in 1845. Re-elected the following year, Abernethy continued in this office until the arrival of Governor Joseph Lane (1849), sent out as first territorial governor by the United States. During the troubles incident to the Whitman massacre, Governor Abernethy acted with discretion and promptness, and retained the good will of Oregonians during his entire term of office. After retiring from public service he continued in mercantile pursuits, dying at Portland in 1877. See his portrait in H. S. Lyman, _History of Oregon_, iii, p. 286. For Alanson Beers see Farnham's _Travels_ in our volume xxix, p. 21, note 14.--ED. [129] In 1844 the Oregon Printing Association was formed, and George Abernethy sent to New York for a press upon which was printed the first number of the _Oregon Spectator_, February 6, 1846. Its first editor was Colonel William G. T'Vault, a pioneer of 1845; he was succeeded by Henry A. G. Lee, George L. Curry, Aaron E. Wait, and Rev. Wilson Blain, successively. Although several times suspended for brief periods, the _Spectator_ was published until 1855. For an account see George H. Himes, "The History of the Press of Oregon, 1839-1850," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, iii, pp. 327-370.--ED. [130] See descriptions of this game in _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iv, p. 37; and in Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, our volume vii, pp. 291-293.--ED. [131] William Engle, of German descent, was born near Harper's Ferry, Virginia, in 1789, and served as a volunteer in the War of 1812-15. Having lived for some years in St. Clair County, Illinois, he went out with the train of 1845 for Oregon, settling first at Oregon City. The following year he took up donation land in Clackamas County, where he resided until 1866, being chosen member of the legislature of 1847, and for two years serving as county judge. Having sold his farm in Clackamas, he removed to Marion County, where he died in 1868. Engle was by trade a carpenter; his experiment as a foundryman does not appear to have been successful.--ED. [132] Lewis F. Linn was born in 1796 near Louisville, where he studied medicine and afterwards volunteered for the War of 1812-15. At its close he removed to Ste. Geneviève, Missouri, where he began active practice. In 1827 he was elected to the state senate, and in 1833 was appointed to the United States senate to fill out the term of a deceased senator. Thrice elected thereto by the Missouri legislature, he served until his own death in 1843, being known in the senate as a champion of Oregon interests. The town opposite Oregon City was known as Linn City. It consisted in December, 1844, of two log buildings and many tents, wherein the emigrants of 1844 made their headquarters. In 1861 all the buildings were swept away by a flood. It has now no separate existence.--ED. [133] Robert Moore was born in Pennsylvania in 1781, served in the War of 1812-15, and in 1822 emigrated to Ste. Geneviève, Missouri, whence he was sent to the state legislature. In 1835 he removed to Illinois, where in 1839 he joined the Peoria party for emigration to Oregon. See preface to Farnham's _Travels_, in our volume xxviii. Moore was one of the seceders who went off from Bent's Fort to Fort St. Vrain, where he spent the winter of 1839-40. Arrived in Oregon he purchased land of the Indians on the west side of the Willamette, naming his place the "Robin's Nest," being visited there by Commodore Wilkes in 1841. Moore served on a committee of the provisional government, and held a commission as justice of the peace. He died in Oregon September 1, 1857.--ED. [134] Hugh Burns was a blacksmith who came to Oregon in 1842, in the party of Medorem Crawford. The same year he was made a magistrate, and concerned himself with public affairs until his return to Missouri in 1846. For the Multinoma Indians see our volume vi, p. 247, note 53.--ED. [135] The right to establish public ferries was granted by the provisional legislature of 1844 to Robert Moore and Hugh Burns.--ED. [136] The site of Portland was unoccupied until November, 1843, when William Overton, from Tennessee, and Asa L. Lovejoy staked off claims of three hundred and twenty acres each. In 1844 Overton sold out to F. W. Pettygrove of Maine for $50, and the first log cabin was built. In 1845 the place was named and a town platted; the growth was slow, however, and by 1849 there were only about a hundred inhabitants. Two years later the town was incorporated, at that time claiming a population of a thousand. After that the growth became more rapid. In 1873 Portland suffered a disastrous conflagration. The city's success is due to its position at the head of tidewater navigation for the Columbia and Willamette valleys, and as being the terminus of eastern and southern trunk railways.--ED. [137] The Willamette is navigable in high water for small steamers as far as Eugene, a hundred and thirty-eight miles above Portland. The first steamers on the upper Willamette were the "Hoosier" and "Yamhill," built in 1851. Since railways have followed both banks of the stream, river navigation has been of minor importance.--ED. [138] The mountains of the Coast range extend at the highest from four thousand to five thousand feet above sea level, with lower levels half as great. Several passes run through from the Pacific, notably that afforded by the Yaquina and Mary's rivers, through which runs the Oregon Central Railway.--ED. [139] By this paragraph, Palmer intends to describe Tualatin River and plains. The name is derived from a local Indian word said to signify "smooth and slowly-flowing stream." The land known to the early settlers as Tualatin Plains is now embraced in Washington County--a famous fruit-and wheat-raising region. The plains are encircled by hills, giving the appearance of a large amphitheatre. The earliest settlers in this region were three independent missionaries, Harvey Clark, Alvin T. Smith, and P. B. Littlejohn, who crossed the continent in 1840, and the following spring settled at Tualatin. About the same time, several mountain men, such as Joseph L. Meek and Robert Newell, made their homes in the region. The Red River settlers who had come under the auspices of the Puget Sound Agricultural Association in 1841, being dissatisfied with lands north of the Columbia, gradually drifted south, a number settling at Dairy Creek, in the Tualatin country. For the Tualatin River see Farnham's _Travels_ in our volume xxix, p. 16, note 5.--ED. [140] This stream is usually known as the Chehalem, the significance of the name being unknown. Among the earliest settlers in this fertile valley were Ewing Young (see our volume xx, p. 23, note 2), and Sidney Smith (for whom see our volume xxviii, p. 91, note 41). Several mountain men also had farms in the region, as well as Archibald McKinley, a member of the Hudson's Bay Company.--ED. [141] Yamhill is said to be a corruption of Cheamhill, a name signifying "bald hills." Among the earliest settlers were Francis Fletcher and Amos Cook, of the Peoria party of 1839. Medorem Crawford (1842) settled near what is now Dayton for the first years of his Oregon life. General Palmer himself chose this valley for his future home, and in 1850 founded therein the town of Dayton. See preface to the present volume.--ED. [142] Rickerall (commonly Rickreall) is a corruption of La Creole, the name now usually applied to this stream, which drains Polk County and though not navigable has many mill sites and waters a fertile region.--ED. [143] Known as Polk County Hills, forming a charming background for the western view from Salem.--ED. [144] Jesse, Charles, and Lindsey Applegate were natives of Kentucky who emigrated to Oregon in 1843, and became leaders in its development. The eldest, Jesse, was a man of marked peculiarities, but accredited with much wisdom and indomitable perseverance, and a natural leader of men. His influence was considerable in forming the provisional government. In 1846 he explored for a southern route into Willamette valley, and thence led emigrants south of Klamath Lake. About 1849 he settled in the Umpqua country, near the site whence he obtained his title as "sage of Yoncalla." A disastrous business venture sent him for a time to the mountains of northern California. During the Rogue River and Modoc Indian wars his knowledge of the character of the aborigines was valuable, and several times he served as special Indian agent, dying in Douglas County in 1888. Charles Applegate was born in 1806, removed to St. Louis about 1820, migrated to Oregon in 1843, and accompanied his brother Jesse to Douglas County, where he died in 1879. Lindsey Applegate accompanied General W. H. Ashley on his Arikara campaign of 1823 (see our volume xxiii, p. 224, note 177), wherein he was taken ill. After returning to St. Louis he worked in the Illinois lead mines, and saw service in the Black Hawk War (1832). After his migration to Oregon (1843), he became only second to his eldest brother in services to the young commonwealth. He made his home in the southern part of the state, near Ashland, in Jackson County, where he was living in 1885.--ED. [145] This name should be Hembree, that of a pioneer family from Tennessee, who came out in 1843. Absalom J. Hembree was a member of the legislature from 1846 to 1855. In the latter year he raised a company for the Yakima War, in which he was killed. Many descendants of this family live near Lafayette and other Yamhill County towns.--ED. [146] These were members of the immigration of 1844, of which Cornelius Gilliam was chosen leader. He had served in both the Black Hawk and Seminole wars, and had been sheriff and member of the legislature in Missouri. His command of the emigrant train did not last through the entire trip, the party breaking into smaller companies, two of which were commanded by William Shaw and Nathaniel Ford. Gilliam was colonel of the regiment raised to avenge the Whitman massacre, and was killed by the accidental discharge of a gun. William Shaw was born (1795) near Raleigh, North Carolina. When a boy he emigrated to Tennessee and took part in Jackson's campaign before New Orleans (1814-15). About 1819 he removed to Missouri, where he married a sister of Colonel Gilliam. He was captain in the Cayuse War of 1848, and member of the territorial legislature from Marion County, ten miles above Salem, where he made his permanent home. Nathaniel Ford was a native of Virginia (1795), but was reared in Kentucky, and after coming out to Oregon settled in Polk County, where he died in 1870.--ED. [147] George Gay was an English sailor. Born in Gloucestershire (1810), he served as ship's apprentice when eleven years of age. In 1832 he reached California on the "Kitty," and there joined Ewing Young's trapping party to the mountains of northern California, returning without entering Oregon. In 1835 he formed one of a party of eight men under the leadership of John Turner, who coming overland to Oregon were attacked by the Rogue River Indians, all being wounded and two killed. Gay reached the settlements after a trip filled with great hardships, and thenceforth made Oregon his home, taking an Indian wife and settling high up on the Willamette, near the southern boundary of Yamhill County. Here he built the first brick house in the territory, and with unbounded hospitality opened it to new emigrants. Wilkes (1841) describes him as a dashing, gay "vaquero," half-Indian in his characteristics, but very useful to the new community. At one time he had considerable wealth in horses and cattle, but died poor in 1882. Daniel Matheny, of the emigration of 1843, was born in Virginia in 1793. Successive removals carried him to Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois, where he served in the War of 1812-15, and that of Black Hawk (1832). Having settled near Gay in 1844, he afterwards kept a public ferry, dying on his farm in 1872. Several of his family accompanied him to Oregon.--ED. [148] Luckiamute is the modern spelling of this name of Indian origin, derived from a branch of the Kalapuya tribe that formerly inhabited this valley. In 1851, federal commissioners made a treaty with this tribe whereby they ceded their lands, and retired soon afterwards to the Grande Ronde reservation. By Mouse River Palmer means the stream now known as Mary's River--a name given by J. C. Avery, the founder of Corvallis, in honor of his wife.--ED. [149] Mount Jefferson, Hayrick Mountain, Mount Washington, and the Three Sisters, with neighboring peaks.--ED. [150] Our author here intends the Coast (not the Cascade) range, of which Mary's Peak, between the two forks of Mary's (Mouse) River is the highest, rising about five thousand feet above sea level.--ED. [151] The Alsea, in Lincoln County, flows into a bay of that name, where small coasting steamers enter and ascend the stream some eighteen or twenty miles. The name is derived from an Indian tribe--one of the Kalapuya stock.--ED. [152] In the early days of Oregon settlement more frequently spelled Longtonguebuff (properly Lungtumler), from a branch of the Kalapuya tribe that inhabited its banks. The stream is now known simply as Long Tom River, rising in Lane County and flowing nearly north into Benton County, entering the Willamette not far above Peoria.--ED. [153] Palmer here refers to Molala River, a stream of southwestern Clackamas County, that took its name from a tribe of Indians once roaming upon its banks. Governor Lane in 1850 refers to this tribe as Mole Alley; and the liquid letters "m" and "p" being nearly interchangeable in the Indian dialect, Palmer gave it the form Pole Alley. The Molala tribe was an offshoot of the Cayuse, that had its home west of the Cascades. The early settlers testified to their superior physique and stronger qualities, compared with the degraded Chinook by whom they were surrounded. In 1851 their tribal lands were purchased, when their number was reported at 123. The remnant removed to Douglas County, and in 1888 a few calling themselves Molala were found on the Grande Ronde reservation.--ED. [154] The aboriginal name of this stream was Hanteuc. Two differing accounts are given of the origin of the present name. Elijah White (_Ten Years in Oregon_, p. 70) says a party of Hudson's Bay trappers lost their way upon this stream and were forced to kill their horses for sustenance, making pudding of the blood. Others give the derivation as "Put in"--the stream that puts in just below the early French settlement, thence degenerated to Pudding. The river rises in the foothills near the centre of Marion County, and flows nearly north, a sluggish, crooked stream from eighty to a hundred feet in width.--ED. [155] The Butte was a landmark on the upper Willamette, a high escarpment prominent from the river. Here was formerly a landing for the settlers of French Prairie, whose farms lay south and east of this point. The town of Butteville was laid out by merchants of Oregon City--Abernethy and Beers--to facilitate the commerce in wheat. F. X. Matthieu took up land here as early as 1846, and in 1850 kept a store. He still lives at Butteville, which in 1900 had a population of 483.--ED. [156] For Champoeg see De Smet's _Oregon Missions_ in our volume xxix, p. 179, note 75. The early meetings of the provisional government were held at this place, which was the centre for the old Canadian-French inhabitants of the country. Dr. Robert Newell was born in 1807 at Zanesville, Ohio. His fur-trapping experiences were under the auspices of the American Fur Company (not the Hudson's Bay Company), as companion of Joseph L. Meek. See F. T. Victor, _River of the West_ (Hartford, 1870). His first settlement (1840) after the migration to Oregon, was at Tualatin Plains; but before 1842 he removed to Champoeg, where by his influence over the settlers he became the political as well as social leader. Possibly also Newell laid out a town at this place, but he was by no means the founder of the village. Newell represented Champoeg in the provisional government for several years, and in 1846 was speaker of the lower house of the state legislature. After the Whitman massacre (1847) he was chosen one of the commissioners, with Palmer, to treat with the Indians. He also raised a company for the Indian war of 1856. In later life he was connected with railway projects and died at Lewiston, Idaho, in 1869.--ED. [157] For the early settlement of French Prairie, see De Smet's _Letters_ in our volume xxvii, p. 386, note 203; also our volume vii, p. 231, note 83. For the Chinook jargon see our volume vi, p. 240, note 40; also pp. 264-270 of the present volume.--ED. [158] For the earliest site of the Methodist mission see our volume xxi, p. 299, note 84. Matheny's Ferry is mentioned in note 147, _ante_, p. 174.--ED. [159] For Jason Lee see our volume xxi, p. 138, note 13. His first wife was Anna Maria Pitman, who came out from New York in 1837, the marriage taking place soon after her arrival in May of that year. The following spring Lee returned to the United States. Upon his journey a messenger overtook him, announcing the death of Mrs. Lee on June 26, 1838. The first interment was at the old mission, as here stated. Later the grave was removed to Salem. H. H. Bancroft, _History of Oregon_, i, p. 170, gives the inscription on the tombstone.--ED. [160] For the origin of the Willamette Institute see De Smet's _Oregon Missions_ in our volume xxix, p. 165, note 62.--ED. [161] In 1843 the Missionary Society of the Methodist Episcopal church decided that the Oregon mission, being no longer useful for the conversion of Indians, should be closed, and the charges organized into a mission conference for whites. In pursuance of this resolve, Rev. George Gary of Black River Conference, New York, was appointed to supersede Jason Lee as superintendent. Early in June, 1844, Gary settled the affairs of the mission, dismissing the lay members, who immediately bought in the mills and other property of the mission. Gary remained in Oregon until 1847, making his headquarters at Oregon City. The native name of the site at Salem--Chemekata--was interpreted by Rev. David Leslie as having the same significance as the term Salem--_i. e._, rest, or peace. The site was chosen in 1840 for the erection of mills on Mill Creek. The trustees of Oregon Institute laid out the town, which grew slowly until in 1851 it became the territorial capital. By the terms of the state constitution the capital was located by popular vote, which resulted in favor of Salem. Its population in 1900 was 4,258.--ED. [162] The Santiam River takes its name from the head chief (Sandeam) of the Kalapuya Indians, who dwelt upon its banks. April 16, 1851, the federal commissioners made a treaty with the Santiam branch of the tribe, whereby the latter ceded to the whites a large portion of their lands. Their number at this time was a hundred and fifty-five. Santiam River drains a considerable portion of Marion and Linn counties, its North Fork forming the boundary between the two. The road up this fork leads to Minto Pass; the South Fork formed the line for the Willamette and Cascade Military Road. Palmer's use of the term "Santa Anna" for this stream, in the two following paragraphs, would seem to indicate his ignorance of the Indian origin of the term, and an idea that it had been named for the Mexican general of that period.--ED. [163] Joel P. Walker was a brother of Joseph R. Walker (see note 46, _ante_, p. 70). Of Virginian birth he removed at an early age to Tennessee, whence he went out under Andrew Jackson against the Alabama Indians (1814), and later against the Florida Seminole. Some time before 1822, he removed to Missouri, where he married, and engaged in the early Santa Fé trade with Stephen Cooper (see our volume xix, p. 178, note 16). Walker removed with his family to Oregon in 1840--one of the first families of settlers who came independent of the missionary movement. Wilkes met him on the Willamette in 1841, when he expressed his dissatisfaction with the climate and the conditions. See Wilkes's _Exploring Expedition_, iv, p. 388. That same year he went overland to California, where he worked for Captain Sutter, coming back to Oregon some time before Palmer's visit, with a herd of cattle for sale. This time he remained in Oregon several years, being chosen justice of the peace for Yamhill County (about 1845). In 1848 he returned to California, where he was a member from Napa of the constitutional convention of 1849. In 1853 he removed to Sonoma County where he spent the remainder of his life, dying sometime after 1878.--ED. [164] For the Umpqua River see our volume vii, p. 231, note 82; the fort is noted in Farnham's _Travels_, our volume xxix, p. 59, note 79.--ED. [165] For Rogue River see _ibid._, p. 82, note 104. The mountains lie directly north of the river valley in Coos and Curry counties, Oregon. The first settlers in this valley came there in 1851. See William V. Colvig, "Indian Wars of Southern Oregon," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, iv, pp. 227-240.--ED. [166] By the "Klamet" Mountains, Palmer refers to the chain lying north of Klamath River valley, now usually spoken of as the Siskiyou range. Klamath River is described in Farnham's _Travels_, our volume xxix, p. 46, note 56. The trail into this region followed nearly the route of the Southern Pacific Railway.--ED. [167] The Indians of Southern Oregon had always been disposed to molest white wayfarers. Witness the troubles of Jedidiah H. Smith in 1828, the massacre of the Turner family in 1835, and the attack on a cattle train in 1837. After 1848, the passage of gold-seekers to and from California intensified the difficulty, whereupon a long series of contests ensued, resulting in open wars, in which Palmer bore an important part. The war of 1853 was terminated by a treaty (September 10) secured by Generals Lane and Palmer; that of 1855 was more serious, being participated in by regular troops as well as Oregon militia. For Palmer's relation to these wars see preface to this volume.--ED. [168] For Point Adams see our volume vi, p. 233, note 37. The term Clatsop was given for an Indian tribe--_ibid._, p. 239, note 39. Clatsop Plains were first visited in the winter of 1805-06 by members of the Lewis and Clark expedition, who erected a cairn for the making of salt, in the neighborhood of the present resort known as Seaside. The settlement of this region was begun in 1840 by members of the Methodist mission, reinforced by Solomon H. Smith and Calvin Tibbitts of the Wyeth party, who had married daughters of the Clatsop chief Cobaway (Lewis and Clark spelled it Comowool). J. W. Perry took up a farm in 1842, and several members of the immigration of 1843 settled on the Clatsop Plains. See "Pioneer Women of Clatsop County," in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1897, pp. 77-84. These plains are composed of a sandy loam well adapted for fruit and vegetables, but especially suited to grazing, so that dairying is a leading industry of this region. Cape Lookout, in Tillamook County, is a conspicuous headland. It was first sighted by Heceta in 1775, and named by Captain Meares in 1789. See our volume xxviii, p. 32, note 9; also our volume vii, p. 112, note 17. The point, however, which Palmer designates as Cape Lookout, is in reality that called by the Lewis and Clark expedition "Clark's Point of View," but now known as Tillamook Head.--ED. [169] The Necanican River, called by Lewis and Clark the Clatsop, has a roundabout course, as indicated by Palmer, and drains the southern end of Clatsop Plains.--ED. [170] Saddle Mountain, the highest point in Clatsop County, shows three peaks as viewed from the Columbia, and takes this name from its form. The aboriginal name was Swollalachost. Lewis and Clark found it covered with snow during most of the winter season of 1805-06.--ED. [171] For the Tillamook (Kilamook) Indians see our volume vi, p. 258, note 67. Mount Rainier is noted in Farnham's _Travels_, our volume xxix, p. 33, note 30.--ED. [172] On Tillamook Rock, a large boulder in the ocean, opposite Tillamook Head, a lighthouse was erected in 1879-81. It was a work of much difficulty, the engineers narrowly escaping being washed into the sea.--ED. [173] Palmer probably obtained his information of these Indian traditions from Celiast (or Helen) Smith, daughter of the Clatsop chief, whose son Silas B. Smith has furnished much material for recent historical works. This story of the wreck of the ship carrying beeswax, differs slightly from the version given in Lyman, _History of Oregon_, i, pp. 167-169. Lyman conjectures that it may have been the Spanish ship "San Jose," carrying stores (1769) to San Diego, California, which was never after heard from. Some of the cakes of wax found bore the letters I. H. S.--ED. [174] For Young's Bay see our volume vi, p. 259, note 69. Skipanon is a small creek, a branch of which Clark crossed on a log during his trip from Fort Clatsop to the seacoast. The site of Fort Clatsop was definitely determined by Olin D. Wheeler in 1899 (see his _Trail of Lewis and Clark_, ii, pp. 195, 198), and the Oregon Historical Society in 1900 (see _Proceedings_ for 1900). The plan of the fort was discovered by the present Editor among the Clark papers in 1904. See _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, pp. 268, 298. The river upon which the fort was located was known by the native name of Netul, now called Lewis and Clark River, a tributary of Young's Bay west of Young's River.--ED. [175] Young's River was called by Lewis and Clark Kilhawanackkle, and is the largest stream in Clatsop County. The falls are at the head of tidewater and flow over a black basalt cliff. The eastern tributary is the Klaskanine River. See _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iv, p. 137.--ED. [176] For the history of this place see Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, and Ross's _Oregon Settlers_ in our volume vii. The later history of Fort George is sketched in Farnham's _Travels_, our volume xxix, p. 57, note 74.--ED. [177] For Cape Disappointment and Baker's Bay see our volume vi, pp. 233, 234, notes 36, 38. Chinook Point was the site of a populous village of that tribe just west of Point Ellice, which is the southernmost promontory between Gray's and Baker's Bay. Lewis and Clark found the village deserted, but in early Astorian times it was populated--see our volumes vi, p. 240; vii, p. 87.--ED. [178] For Peter Skeen Ogden see our volume xxi, p. 314, note 99. The United States government has recently chosen this site for a fort now (1906) in process of erection, to be known as Fort Columbia.--ED. [179] Astoria, as an American town, began in 1846 with the settlement of James Welch, who defied the Hudson's Bay Company officers to drive him from the site. The post-office was begun in 1847, and a custom house two years later. In 1856 a town government was established, while twenty years later Astoria was incorporated as a city. Its population is now about ten thousand, with good prospects for a large growth in the near future.--ED. [180] For James Birnie see our volume xxi, p. 361, note 130.--ED. [181] Elbridge Trask came to Oregon in 1842, apparently a sailor on an American vessel. He lived for a time at Clatsop Plains. Probably his companion was Captain Alexander Duncan, commander of the "Dryad," and a friend of James Birnie.--ED. [182] For Tongue Point, which takes its name from its peculiar shape, see our volume vi, p. 242, note 44. Gray's Bay is noted in volume vii, p. 116, note 20.--ED. [183] By Swan Bay, Palmer intends that stretch of the river lying between Tongue and Catalamet points, which is more usually known as Catalamet Bay. The river is the John Day (aboriginal name, Kekemarke), which should not be confused with the larger stream of this name in eastern Oregon. See our volume v, p. 181, note 104.--ED. [184] For Catalamet Point see our volume vii, p. 116, note 20. The old village of the Catalamet Indians which was located near the present town of Knappa, was visited by Lewis and Clark on their outward journey (1805); see _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, p. 252. The stream was that now known as Tillasqua Creek.--ED. [185] This mill was erected by Henry Hunt, one of the emigrants of 1843, for the purpose of preparing lumber for the Pacific market, especially that of the Sandwich Islands. See letter of Tallmadge B. Wood in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, iii, pp. 394-398. Later, salmon barrels were made at this place, the men employed at the task being the only settlers between Astoria and Linnton on the Willamette; and sometimes they were summoned to serve as a sheriff's posse. See Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1890, p. 73. Hunt's Mill Point is marked on the federal land office map of 1897 as being opposite the lower end of Puget Island.--ED. [186] At Oak Point was made the first American settlement in Oregon; see our volume xxi, pp. 261, 287, notes 74, 94. The stream on the south side is the Clatskanie River, in Columbia County, Oregon, flowing southwest and entering the river opposite Wallace Island. For the origin of this word and its relation to the Klaskanine River see H. S. Lyman, "Indian Names," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, i, p. 322. The mill stream of the northern bank is Nequally Creek in Cowlitz County, Washington.--ED. [187] For a brief historical sketch of Fort Vancouver see our volume xxi, p. 297, note 82.--ED. [188] Colonel John McClure came to Oregon from New Orleans some time before 1842. In 1843 he settled at Astoria, where he had a cabin on the site of the first Astoria mill. He married a native woman, and his portion of the early town was known as McClure's Astoria. He is described as having been an old man in 1845, and he had died before 1867.--ED. [189] The British ship of war "Modesté," Captain Baillie commanding, first visited Fort Vancouver in July, 1844. Governor McLoughlin was offered no protection at this time; but the situation having grown more intense, the vessel was ordered to the Columbia in October, 1845, and remained to protect British interests until April, 1847. The officers sought to conciliate the American pioneers, but there was on the whole little intercourse between the two nationalities. Theatrical entertainments were planned and given in the winter of 1845-46, and a ball arranged by these officers was the occasion of an expression of a majority sentiment for the American cause. See Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1874, pp. 26, 27.--ED. [190] For Fraser River and Vancouver Island see Farnham's _Travels_, our volume xxix, pp. 43, 75, notes 52, 91.--ED. [191] For Puget's Sound see _ibid._, p. 90, note 108. The first road over the Cascades was built in 1853, from Olympia to Walla Walla.--ED. [192] For Gray's Harbor see our volume vi, p. 256, note 64; the Chehalis River is described in Farnham's _Travels_, our volume xxix, p. 81, note 103.--ED. [193] For the Cowlitz settlement see our volume xxvii, p. 386, note 203.--ED. [194] Much has been written on the provisional government of Oregon, which was shadowed forth in the action of 1841, and actually established July 5, 1843. Consult J. Quinn Thornton, "History of the Provisional Government," in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1874, pp. 43-96; J. Henry Brown, _Political History of Oregon_ (Portland, 1892); James R. Robertson, "Genesis of Political Authority in Oregon," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, i, pp. 1-59; and H. W. Scott, "Formation and Administration of the Provisional Government of Oregon," _ibid._, ii, pp. 95-118. Palmer's brief synopsis is a summary of the revised organic law, drafted by a committee appointed by the legislature in June, 1845, endorsed by popular vote on July 26, and put in operation August 5 (see appendix to the present volume). This government continued until February 16, 1849, when it was superseded by the territorial government provided by Congress under act approved August 14, 1848. The code of Iowa laws appears to have been adopted because of the existence of a copy of Iowa statutes in the country. See F. I. Herriott, "Transplanting Iowa's Laws to Oregon," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, v, pp. 139-150.--ED. [195] The legislature of 1843 erected four districts for the purpose of local government--_i. e._, Tualatin (read for Quality), Yamhill, Champoeg (read for Shampoic), and Clackamas. That of 1845 changed the title to counties and created four more--Clatsop, Polk, Vancouver, and Lewis. Palmer gives their location properly.--ED. [196] For the location of Spaulding's mission see our volume xxviii, p. 338, note 215. William Craig was a mountain man who came to Oregon in 1842. He married among the Nez Percés, and established a farm just east of the Lapwai mission, where he had great influence with this tribe. In 1855 his land was reserved to him by treaty, the Nez Percés "having expressed in council a desire that William Craig should continue to live with them, having uniformly shown himself their friend." In 1856 he was made lieutenant-colonel of Washington volunteers, and in 1857-59, Indian agent at Walla Walla.--ED. [197] For the beginnings of Portland see note 136, _ante_, p. 166. Francis W. Pettygrove was born in Calais, Maine, in 1812. Having engaged in mercantile business he carried a cargo of goods valued at $15,000 to Oregon by sea, establishing a store at Oregon City (1843). It was due to his wish that the newly-founded town near the mouth of the Willamette received the name of Portland. In 1848 Pettygrove sold his interest in the Portland town site, going to California, where he speculated in land at Benicia. In 1851 he was one of the founders of Port Townsend, in Washington.--ED. [198] The town of Linnton was founded in 1843 by M. M. McCarver and Peter H. Burnett, emigrants of that year, who supposed they had chosen a site that would be the head of ship navigation. They spent the first spring cutting the road to Tualatin Plains; but not finding Linnton a profitable speculation, they removed to the Plains and began farming. The town has continued to exist until the present, its population in 1900 being 384.--ED. [199] The stream is the Washougal River of Clarke County, Washington whose source is not as far north as Mount St. Helens, but near Saddle Peak in Skamania County. A number of the immigrants of 1844 stopped here and established winter quarters, going on the next year to settle at Puget Sound. Chief among these was Colonel Michael T. Simmons, this title being bestowed because he was second in command of the caravan of 1844. Born in Kentucky in 1814, he had in 1840 removed to Missouri where he built and ran a saw mill, which he sold to obtain his outfit for the Oregon journey. He explored the Puget Sound region in the spring of 1845, settling at Tumwater, where he died in 1867. Simmons is known as the father of Washington; he was sub-Indian agent for several years, and much concerned in building up the settlement.--ED. [200] For this landmark see our volume xxi, p. 346, note 120.--ED. [201] For the Cascades see our volume xxviii, p. 371, note 233.--ED. [202] This is an alternate name for Deschutes River, for which see _ante_, p. 119, note 102.--ED. [203] For this fort see our volume xxi, p. 278, note 73. The chief of the Wallawalla was Peupeumoxmox, or Yellow Serpent. He early came under missionary influence, and sent one of his sons to the Willamette to be educated under Methodist influences. This young man was christened Elijah Hedding, for a bishop of the church. He remained with the missionaries for over six years and acquired a command of English. In the autumn of 1844 a number of Cayuse, Nez Percé, and Wallawalla chiefs decided to visit the California settlements in order to trade for cattle. From Sutter's fort they made a raid into the interior, capturing some horses from a band of thieves. These animals were claimed by the Spanish and American settlers while the Indians maintained that they were their own property. In the course of the dispute Elijah was shot and killed. The Oregon Indians were greatly exasperated by this incident, threatening to raise a war-party against California, or to make reprisal upon any or all whites. The affair was quieted by the Hudson's Bay agent and the missionaries, but was undoubtedly one of the causes of the Whitman massacre. Yellow Serpent took no part in this latter event, but was active in the war of 1855, in which he perished while a hostage in the hands of the whites. John Augustus Sutter was a German-Swiss born in 1803. After serving in the Franco-Swiss guards (1823-24) he came to America (1834) and embarked in the Santa Fé trade (1835-37). In 1838 he started for California, going via Oregon, the Sandwich Islands, and Alaska. Arriving in San Francisco Bay (1839) he secured from the Mexican government a concession on the Sacramento River, where he built a fort (1842-44) and named his possessions New Helvetia. In 1841 Sutter bought the Russian establishment known as Ross (see our volume xviii, p. 283, note 121), whose materials he used in fitting up his own fort. Sutter was friendly to the American cause, and received emigrants with hospitality. He aided Frémont in the revolt against Mexican authority. In 1848 gold was discovered upon his property. He profited but little by this event, however, and became so poor that he was pensioned by the California legislature. About 1865 he went East to live, dying in Washington, D. C., in 1880. H. H. Bancroft secured from Sutter, by means of interviews, a detailed narrative of his career, and the manuscript is now in the Bancroft Library, purchased for the University of California in November 1905.--ED. [204] Ellis (or Ellice) was the son of Bloody Chief. Having been educated by the Hudson's Bay Company, he had acquired much influence with his tribe. In 1842, being then about thirty-two years old, he was, at the instigation of Dr. Elijah White, Indian sub-agent, chosen head chief of the Nez Percés, and ruled with considerable tact and wisdom, being favorable to the whites. During the Cayuse War of 1848, Ellis was reported as hunting in the buffalo country; later, it was stated that having gone with sixty braves to the mountains for elk, they all perished from an epidemic of measles. Lawyer was chosen as head-chief in Ellis's place.--ED. [205] For the location of Whitman's mission, see our volume xxviii, p. 333, note 210.--ED. [206] For the Blue Mountains see our volume xxi, p. 273, note 71. The stream was probably Touchet River, the largest affluent of the Walla Walla. Rising in the Blue Mountains in Columbia County, Washington, it flows northwest to Dayton, then turns southwest and south, debouching into the Walla Walla at the present town of Touchet.--ED. [207] For this stream see Farnham's _Travels_ in our volume xxix, p. 79, note 98.--ED. [208] See Appendix.--PALMER. [209] For the history of the printing press in use at this mission, see our volume xxviii, p. 333, note 211. The first book in the Nez Percé language was a little compilation of texts, consisting of eight pages. The translation of Matthew was printed at Lapwai; that of John was later published by the American Bible Society.--ED. [210] For this mission and its missionaries see our volume xxvii, p. 367, note 187. The farmer at Lapwai mission was Isaac N. Gilbert, who was born in New York (1818). He early emigrated to Illinois, and came to Oregon with the party of 1844. Late in 1846 he proceeded to the Willamette valley, and settled near Salem, where he was county clerk and surveyor, dying in 1879. See Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_, 1878, pp. 82, 83.--ED. [211] For these missions see De Smet's reports in our volumes xxvii, p. 365, note 184; xxix, p. 178, note 73.--ED. [212] For this landmark see our volume xxviii, p. 324, note 204.--ED. [213] For the Crow Indians see our volume v, p. 226, note 121.--ED. [214] Mike's Head is probably a popular name for the rush of the Equisetum species, known as "horsetail." The creek is known by the French form of this plant--à la Prêle; it is a tributary of the Platte, in Converse County, Wyoming.--ED. [215] Hiram Smith was born in New York, early emigrated to Ohio, and crossed the Plains with the party of 1845. Having returned with Palmer he remained in the states until 1851, coming again to Oregon with a large drove of cattle and horses. He settled at Portland, and became wealthy and influential. He crossed again to the states, returning in 1862--in all, making six journeys of this character. He died in San Francisco in 1870.--ED. [216] The Oregon immigration of 1846 was not as large as that of the previous year. Apparently reliable estimates make the number about two thousand that finally reached that territory. For a description of these emigrants see Francis Parkman, _The Oregon Trail_ (Boston, 1849, and later editions), chapters i, vi, vii. See also an itinerary of the journey by J. Quinn Thornton, _Oregon and California_ (New York, 1849). Among the California emigrants of this year were the ill-fated Donner party, many of whom perished in the Sierras.--ED. [217] Probably this was Fabritus R. Smith, a native of Rochester, New York (1819). Settling at Salem, Oregon, he was in the state legislature of 1876, and still living at Salem in 1896.--ED. [218] This unfortunate victim of the Pawnee Indians was Edward Trimble of Henry County, Iowa. See another account of his death in _Niles' Register_, lxx, p. 341.--ED. [219] On this return journey, Palmer took the St. Joseph Trail, which branched off from the usual Oregon Trail near the Little Blue, and followed the valley of the Great Nemaha through the Iowa, Sauk, and Fox reservation to the Missouri opposite St. Joseph. An excellent map of Nebraska and Kansas, presumably issued in 1854, but lacking name of place or publisher, plainly indicates this road. For the removal of these Indians to the reservation in northeast Kansas and southeast Nebraska see our volume xxviii, pp. 141, 145, notes 87, 89. The agency was known as the Great Nemaha; it was situated near the mission begun (1837) by the Presbyterians under the direction of Rev. S. M. Irvin. He crossed from Missouri with the Indians, and established his mission twenty-six miles west of St. Joseph, not far from the site of the present Highland, Doniphan County, Kansas. At the time of Palmer's visit, Irvin was being assisted by William Hamilton, and a mission school was in course of establishment.--ED. [220] For St. Joseph see our volume xxii, p. 257, note 210. This was not a mission site, but a trading post. The first church built (1845) was the Presbyterian, under the care of Rev. T. S. Reeve.--ED. [221] For a contemporary notice of Palmer's arrival in St. Louis, see _Niles' Register_, lxx, pp. 341, 416.--ED. [222] Since this letter was written, the forty-ninth parallel of north latitude has been established by treaty as the boundary line between the governments of Great Britain and the United States--except that portion of Vancouver's island south of 49°, which continues under the jurisdiction of Great Britain.--PALMER. [223] Flowers have been seen in the last winter, and winter before, from the 20th of January.--M. W. [224] The first creek is that now called Alpowa, in Asotin and Garfield counties, Washington; it is a southwestern tributary of the Lewis. Tukanon River, in Columbia County, Washington, the largest southern affluent of the Lewis west of Lewiston, was known by Lewis and Clark as the Kimooenem.--ED. [225] At present it will require one man to a thousand in the winter to protect from wolves. But Strycknine is a sure poison with which to destroy them.--M. W. [226] These rivers have all been noted in the text, _ante_. By "Rose" the author intends Rogue River.--ED. [227] Clover (native) is more abundant in June.--M. W. [228] Probably what are called species here, are in many cases only a variety of the same species.--M. W. [229] This clause was introduced into the "Organic Law" of the provisional government in order to secure the Hudson's Bay traders, and hold their allegiance to the newly-established league of order. A copy was sent to Governor McLoughlin, who having examined the document and finding "that this compact does not interfere with our duties and allegiance to our respective governments," wrote "we the officers of the Hudson's Bay Company, consent to become parties to the articles of compact." See H. H. Bancroft, _History of Oregon_, i, p. 495, note 31.--ED. [230] For note on Long, see De Smet's _Oregon Missions_ in our volume xxix, p. 280, note 174.--ED. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: - The words 'Pa-pa' and 'Papa' have very different meanings. - The words 'Yamhill' and 'Yam-hill' are used in different contexts; therefore remain unchanged. - The words 'Ya-ka' and 'Yaka' have very different meanings. 
49089	----	[Illustration: J. W. (WATT) GIBSON.] RECOLLECTIONS _of a_ PIONEER BY J. W. (WATT) GIBSON Press of Nelson-Hanne Printing Co. 107 South Third Street St. Joseph, Mo. [Illustration] FOREWORD. The following pages are entirely from memory. I kept no notes or other record of the events I have attempted to relate, but I am sure my memory has not often deceived me. My early responsibilities compelled me to give close attention to the things which transpired about me and thus fixed them permanently in my mind. In fact, most of the experiences which I have attempted to relate were of such personal consequence that I was compelled to be alert and to know what was passing. I undertook the present task at the solicitation of many friends and acquaintances who urged that my recollections of a period, now fast passing out of personal memory, ought to be preserved. It is probable that I have made a good many errors, especially, in my attempts to locate places and to give distances, but it must be remembered that we had no maps or charts with us on the plains and that but few state lines or other sub-divisions were in existence. The location of the places where events occurred with reference to present geographical lines has been my most difficult task. J. W. (WATT) GIBSON. _St. Joseph, Mo., August 15, 1912._ TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Early Days in Buchanan County. 5 II. First Trip to California. 16 III. Gold Mining in '49 and '50. 42 IV. Back Across the Plains. 58 V. Across the Plains With Cattle. 67 VI. A Bear Hunt. 75 VII. Home by way of Panama and New York. 83 VIII. Another Trip Across the Plains with Cattle. 86 IX. Sojourn in California. 98 X. Beginning of the War. 106 XI. The Battle of Lexington. 114 XII. Back to the South. 124 XIII. Home for Recruits. 132 XIV. War in Arkansas. 147 XV. Back into Missouri. 157 XVI. Worse Than War. 171 XVII. Across the Plains in Sixty-five. 190 XVIII. The Return to Missouri. 206 CHAPTER I. _Early Days in Buchanan County._ I was born in Bartow County, Georgia, on the 22nd day of January, 1829. Sometime during my infancy, and at a period too early to be remembered, my father and his family moved to East Tennessee, where we lived until I was ten years old. About this time reports concerning the Platte Purchase and its splendid farming land began to reach us. I do not now recall the exact channel through which these reports came, but I think some of our relatives had gone there and had written back urging us to come. My father finally yielded and in the spring of 1839 sold his Tennessee farm and prepared for the long journey overland. I was old enough at the time to take some note of what passed, and I remember that my father received four thousand dollars for his land in Indiana "shin plasters." I recall also the preparations that were made for the journey--the outfitting of the wagons, gathering the stock together, and most important of all, the part assigned to me. I was provided with a pony, saddle and bridle and given charge of a herd of loose cattle and horses. We had a rude camp outfit and carried along with us all the household plunder with which we expected to start life in the new country. As may be well imagined, there was not a great deal of it, although the family was large. In those days the people had to be satisfied with the barest necessities. Some idea of the extent of this part of my father's worldly property may be given by saying that the entire outfit, including camp equipment, was loaded into two wagons. I shall never forget the morning we started. Everything had been loaded the day before, except the articles necessary to the sojourn over night. We were up bright and early, had breakfast in little better than camp style, and were off before sun up. My father, mother, and the younger children took the first wagon, and one of my brothers and my sisters the second. I was upon my pony and in my glory. The wagons moved forward and I rounded up the cattle and horses and forced them along after the wagons. I was too young to feel any tender sentiment toward the old home or to appreciate the fact that I was leaving it forever, but I remember that my father and mother often looked back, and as we passed over the hill out of sight, I saw them turn and wave a long farewell. Many times since I have thought of that scene and have learned to know full well its meaning to my father and mother. I cannot recall all the particulars of this toilsome journey, and if I could, they would hardly interest the reader. I remember that I soon lost the enthusiasm of that early morning on which we started and grew very tired and longed for the end of our journey. For a great many days it seemed to me we traveled through a rugged mountain country. The hills were long and toilsome, the streams had no bridges and had to be forded, and I frequently had great difficulty in getting my cattle and horses to follow the wagons. On such occasions, the caravan would stop and the whole family would come to my aid. Of course, there were no fences along the sides of the road and my stock becoming wearied or tempted by the green herbage alongside would wander out into the woods and brush and give me much trouble. When I think of these difficulties, I do not wonder that I became wearied, but as my life was afterwards ordered, this boyish experience taught me a lesson which many times proved useful. I remember when we crossed what they said was the line into Kentucky. I could see no difference in the mountains, valleys or the rivers, but somehow I felt that there ought to be a difference and that Kentucky could not be like Tennessee, and yet it was. Here I learned, thus early in life, what so many people find it hard even in later years to appreciate, that names and distances do not make differences and that all places upon the face of the earth, no matter how they vary in physical appearance, are after all very much alike. I believe it is the realization of this fact that makes the difference between the man who knows the world and the one who does not. After a long time, as it seemed to me, we passed out of the mountains and into a beautiful rolling country improved even in that early day with many turnpikes and exhibiting every indication of prosperity. There were negroes everywhere--many more than we had in Tennessee, and I remember hearing them singing as they worked in the fields. I now know that this country was what has since been known as the "Blue Grass Region" of Kentucky, though at the time, I thought the mountains of my old home a much better place to live. For a long time, even before the journey began, I had heard a great deal about the Ohio River and knew that we must cross it, and when the people along the road began to tell us that we were nearing that stream, I became filled with curiosity to see it and to know what it would be like and to see and experience the sensation of crossing it on a ferry-boat. Finally we came to the top of a long hill and away off to the north we saw the river winding through a deep valley, and some one, my father, I think, pointed out a mere speck on the surface of the water and told us it was a ferry-boat. When we reached the bank of the river we found the boat tied alongside, and to my surprise, horses, wagons and cattle were all driven upon it. I had no idea that a ferry-boat was such a huge affair. It was run by horse-power, and it took us only a few minutes to reach the farther shore, and I was disappointed that my trip was not a longer one. The landing and unloading took but a few minutes. My father paid the man and we started immediately to climb the hill on the other side. I must not neglect to mention that somewhere on the road in the northern part of Kentucky or immediately after we crossed the river, my father exchanged the "shin plasters" for which he had sold his farm for silver, that currency being at par in that locality. He received four thousand silver dollars. I saw them with my own eyes. He put them in a strong box and loaded them into one of the wagons along with the other luggage. I do not remember at what point we crossed the Ohio River. I did not, of course, know at the time, and if my father or any member of the family ever told me the place afterwards I have forgotten it; but the event is as vivid in my mind as if it had occurred yesterday. There was little in our journey across Indiana and Illinois to impress that portion of the road upon my memory. All I recall is in a general way that I could see no familiar mountains, and over parts of the journey I remember that the country appeared to me to be monotonously level. I cannot give the length of time that was required in making this journey, but I do remember when we reached the Mississippi River. We crossed at Alton, if I am not mistaken, and in place of a horse ferry we had a steam ferry, which was to me a much more wonderful contrivance than the horse ferry on the Ohio. Then the river was so much wider. I remember wondering where all that vast body of water could come from. They told us, when we landed on the opposite shore, that we were in Missouri, and I thought my journey must be nearly ended, but I was never more mistaken. Day after day our wagons trundled along, night after night we went into camp, worn out with the day's journey, only to get up again early in the morning and repeat the same experience. We reached Tremont Township, Buchanan County, on the 29th day of May, 1839, and straightway settled upon a tract of land about a mile and a quarter southeast of what is now Garrettsburg. A house of some character was the first thing to which my father turned his attention, and it was not long before a rude log cabin was under construction. I was too small to take much part in this work, but I remember that such neighbors as we had were good to us and came and helped. The logs were cut in the woods and dragged to the site of the house and the neighbors and friends came and helped us at the "raising." The house consisted of a single room with a wide fireplace built of rough stone extending nearly across one entire end of the room. The roof was of long split boards laid upon poles or beams in such a way as to shed the water and weighted down by other beams laid on top of them. I do not think a single nail or other piece of iron entered into the construction of the building, but we thought it a great improvement upon the tent life we had experienced on our journey, and my father was quite proud of his new home. I will not attempt to describe that country as it appeared to me in that early day. In fact the changes have been so gradual that it seems to me to be still very much the same country it was when I first saw it, though when I stop to reflect, I know that this is not so. Most of it was heavy timber. A glade or skirt of prairie passed in now and then from the almost continuous prairie of what is now Clinton County. And I remember distinctly that a stretch of prairie extended from Platte River directly across from where Agency is now located in an east and south easterly direction toward Gower, and thence around to the left where it joined the main body of prairie land. There were no fences to speak of, and deer were as plentiful as in any country I have ever seen. There were few roads and no great need for them and no bridges. The county seat of the county was at old Sparta, and Robidoux's Landing was the most talked of place in the county. In 1846, my father built a brick house, the first, I think, that was ever erected in the county. It stood about a quarter of a mile south of the present residence of Thomas Barton, a respected citizen of Tremont Township. The brick were made upon the ground and I was old enough at that time to have quite an important part in the work, and it was hard work, too. I helped cut and haul wood with which the brick were burned, and I "off bore" the brick as they were moulded. I carried the brick and mortar as the house was being erected and assisted in putting on the roof, laying floors and finishing the house. It was quite a commodious structure when completed and was considered by all our neighbors and friends who still lived in their log houses as quite a mansion. Our farming operations were not very extensive. The land all had to be cleared of heavy timber, and I have seen thousands of feet of the finest white oak, walnut and hickory burned up in log heaps, but there was nothing else to be done with it. We had to have the land and there was no use to which we could put such a quantity of timber. The few rails that were needed to fence the field after it was cleared, required only a small portion of the timber that was cut away, and as all the land except the fields was allowed to remain unfenced, there could be no profit in expending time and labor in making rails to be piled up and allowed to decay. Most of our work was done on the farm with ox teams. Our plows were rude, home-made implements, and the hoe, axe and sickle, or reaping hook, all home-made, were about the only other tools we had. With these and with our slow plodding oxen, we thought we did very well to produce from our stumpy ground enough for the family to subsist on. Even the accomplishment of this small result required the efforts of almost every member of the family. My mother and sisters frequently worked in the fields, and I often saw, in those days, a woman plowing in the field, driving a single cow, using a rude harness without a collar. We cut our wheat with a sickle and our hemp with a hook. We hackled the flax by hand and spun and wove it into linen. My mother and sisters sheared the sheep, washed and picked the wool, carded, spun and wove it into blankets and clothing for the whole family. They took the raw material, green flax and wool on the sheep's back, and made it into clothing for a family of ten. They milked the cows and washed the clothing besides, and then found time to help in the fields. It must not be thought that the men were idle while this was going on. They worked just as hard, but their tools were so poor and the difficulties so great, and they could accomplish so little that even with all their efforts they sometimes fell behind the women in their tasks. As may well be imagined, there was little time for a boy or a girl under those conditions to go to school, even if the opportunity had presented itself. We had a school in the neighborhood, however, held for a time at the homes of various members of the community, and later we built a school house. The erection of this building was the first public enterprise, so far as I know or have ever heard, that was undertaken by the people of that community. I was old enough to help in it, and I remember very distinctly the meetings the neighbors had to plan the work of building, and afterwards, I recall the meeting of the men with their teams to do the work. Each man furnished two logs which he had previously cut and hewed to the proper dimensions. These he dragged to the site selected for the building which was, by the way, upon the ground now occupied by the Stamper School House. When the logs were all assembled, the men and boys came in bringing baskets of provisions and food for their oxen and all went to work. The house was "raised," as we called it, by laying the logs one upon the other in the form of a pen, the length exceeding the breadth by about ten feet. The logs were carefully notched and fitted down at the corners so as to eliminate space between them and do away with the necessity of "chinking" to as great an extent as possible. The floor was of logs split half in two and laid the flat side up. The door was of hewed timber and must have been fully two inches thick, and was hung upon wooden hinges. At a proper height from the ground, one log was sawed out the full length of the building to afford light. The roof was of clap-boards with logs laid upon them to hold them in place. The benches were puncheon--that is a long round log split half in two and hewed to a smooth surface with legs driven into auger holes beneath. The fireplace extended nearly all the way across one end of the room. It was built of rough stone as high as the mantel, and from there up the chimney was of sticks, plastered inside with clay to keep them from burning. A long puncheon was placed at the proper angle just underneath the opening which served as a window, and this constituted our writing desk. When the writing lesson was called, each pupil took his copy book and went to this rude "desk" where he stood until his lesson was finished. I cannot at this time recall the names of all the men who participated in the work of building that school-house, but among them were George Reynolds, George Jeffers, Donald McCray, Philip McCray, Henry Guinn, Ambrose McDonald, William Bledsoe, Robert Irvin, James Poteet, James Gilmore, Ransom Ridge, Bird Smith, Isaac Auxier, Tom Auxier, my father, George Gibson, and my uncle, James Gibson. Most of these names are familiar to the citizens of this county, and their descendants are still substantial citizens of that community. I had the inestimable privilege of attending school in this building as much as three terms of three months each, and this constituted my entire educational course so far as schools are concerned. The sons and daughters of the men I have named were my school mates and, at this writing, but few of them survive. The men of that day, of course, have all passed to their reward many years since. It will be easy for the reader to understand me when I say that in that day money, that is currency or specie, was very hard to procure. Fortunately for us we needed very little of it, because there was nothing to buy with it that we could not procure by a sort of trade or barter. We could raise our horses, hogs and cattle, but there was no market for them. If a neighbor happened not to have what another neighbor had beyond his own necessities, some means was devised by which a trade could be entered into and each secure thereby the things he did not previously own. I think hemp was about the only thing we could sell for money. This we took to Robidoux's landing now and then where we procured cash for it, and we then bought such few necessities as our farms did not afford. It must not be understood that the men of that day were without enterprise. When I look upon the great undertakings of the present day and then recall a venture which my father and older brothers and myself undertook in 1847, I am compelled to believe that of the two, that early enterprise required the greater business courage. I have related how my father received four thousand dollars for his Tennessee farm and how he converted this into silver on the way to Missouri. He had in addition to this quite a sum of money besides and had accumulated some money during the years of his residence here. In the spring of 1847 he began to purchase from the neighbors around about and from the men in other communities, their surplus cattle, and in this way collected a herd of five hundred. These cattle were driven overland to Iowa where a few of them were sold, thence on to Illinois and across Illinois and through Indiana and Ohio, peddling them out as we went, and into Pennsylvania, where the last of them were sold. I went along, and we had many hardships, but somehow I did not think so at the time. The trip broke the monotony of my life upon the farm and I was glad to go, even though I often grew very tired and had to endure the exposure to hot sun, wind and rain. We made some money on the cattle--quite a good deal. We got every dollar of it in silver and carried it home on horse back. In 1848, brother Isaac and I took another drove over about the same route for Peter Boyer, who lived near Easton. Our experiences on this trip were very much the same as those of the former trip, and the enterprise netted Boyer a handsome profit. CHAPTER II. _First Trip to California._ Late in the year 1848 or early in '49, we began to hear wonderful stories about gold in California. News traveled very slowly in those days, and we could depend very little upon its accuracy, but the reports that came convinced us that the discovery had actually been made and we readily pictured in our own minds the fortunes to be had in that country. Difficult as the methods of travel were in those days, we were not without information as to the route and character of the country intervening between us and California. Robert Gilmore, a neighbor of ours, had been overland to Oregon and back, and could tell us very definitely about the country out to a point beyond the Rocky Mountains. The talk of gold, and of an expedition to the country where it had been found, soon became general and it was not long until a party of men was made up to try their fortunes in California. Brother William, brother James and myself agreed to become members of the party, and we rigged up a wagon and four yoke of oxen, laid in a year's provisions, provided ourselves with guns and plenty of ammunition and joined others of a company who had made like provision. I must not neglect to mention that as an important part of our commissary we added a half barrel of good whiskey. We started on the first day of May and stopped over night at St. Joseph. The next day, everything being ready, we crossed the river on the ferry boat and pitched our tents the first night out on Peter's Creek. Our party consisted of twenty men and boys, all from Buchanan County. They were Robert Gilmore and his son Mat, James Gilmore and his son Dave, Ben Poteet, a man by the name of Spires and his son, Milt Gilmore, Lum Perkins, a man by the name of Fish, Charles McCray, Henry McCray, Liel Hulett, Mitch Hulett, old man Greenwood and his two sons, Brother William, Brother James, and myself. We had seven wagons, fifty-eight head of cattle and seven horses. Robert Gilmore was our pilot. His previous journey over the road as well as his peculiar fitness for the task made the selection of any other person out of the question. He had an accurate memory concerning every point along the road. He knew the courses of the rivers and how to cross the desert divides at the narrowest places to avoid long distances without grazing and water for our cattle. He also knew better than any of us the habits of the Indians, and his experience with them often avoided trouble and saved our property and most likely our lives. He was cool-headed and prudent and as brave a man as I ever knew. It must be remembered that we made no provision whatever to feed our cattle and horses. We expected to move slowly and allow them time to graze for subsistence. During the first part of the journey at the season of the year in which it was made, we experienced no trouble whatever, as grass was very plentiful, but later on, as I shall relate, we often felt sorry for the poor dumb beasts that we had taken from the fine pastures of Buchanan County and driven out into that arid country. Our second day's journey brought us to Wolf River. During the next few days our journey led us by gradual ascent up on to a high prairie, which must have been the water shed upon which the town of Sabetha is now situated. The whole earth was covered by abundant verdure, and I recall very distinctly the expansive view which presented itself in every direction from the crests of the ridges as we passed over them. There was not a single human habitation in sight and no evidences that human foot had ever been set upon this land, except the dim outline of the trail we were following. Only one or two companies were ahead of us and the tracks of their wagons and oxen made but little impression upon the fresh grown grass. Farther out the almost total absence of trees made the most vivid impression upon my mind, accustomed as I had been for so many years to a timbered country, and though I could see no evidences that the soil was not productive, I could hardly believe this place would ever be a fit habitation for men. We traveled some days over such country as I have described and no doubt passed over the sites of many present flourishing towns. The sixth or seventh day out, if I remember correctly, we reached the Big Blue. In our journey thus far, we had occasionally seen deer and antelope, but when we began to descend into the valley of the Big Blue we saw great numbers of these animals. On the banks of the river we found in camp a party of eastern emigrants who had left St. Joseph a few days in advance of our train. Their teams were all horses and they had camped for a time in order to lay in a supply of venison. Their horses were then in fine condition and they were riding them out on the prairies chasing the deer and antelope. We camped for the night and next morning, as usual, plodded on. Later in the day we were overtaken by these emigrants who trotted by us with their faster teams and made fun of our equipment. They told us, as they passed, that they would have the gold in California all mined out before we got there. Some of us, the younger members at least, who had had no experience on the plains, felt that they might be telling us the truth; but Gilmore assured us that we had taken the safer course and that we would reach California long in advance of those men, and that it was doubtful if they would ever get there at all. Weeks later Gilmore had the satisfaction of verifying what he had told us, for we overtook and passed these very trains. Their horses were thin and poor, starved out on the short grass, and famished for water. From Big Blue we crossed a rolling divide to Little Blue and followed that stream a long distance, then across a high prairie, that seemed to be almost perfectly level. It was on this part of the journey that we had our first disagreeable experience. Up to that time, the boys of the party at least, had looked upon crossing the plains as a great frolic. The weather had been fine. The company was congenial and the novelty of the whole thing kept us well entertained. Shortly after we broke camp one morning and started on a twenty mile drive, it began to rain and continued all day long a steady downpour. We had found no wood with which to cook dinner and had eaten cold victuals, with some relish, believing we would find plenty of firewood at night. We traveled until quite late and finally stopped at a small creek, where other emigrants had camped, but there was no wood, not a stick to be found. The only thing in sight was a tough old log which had been hacked and hewed by preceding emigrants until scarcely a splinter could be chopped from it. The buffalo chips were all wet and it was still raining. The boys were not so gay that night. They managed, after hard work, to get splinters enough off the old log to heat up the coffee and that was the only warm article of diet we had for supper. We made the best of it and after supper prepared to crawl into wet tents to sleep if we could. Bad as the prospect was, I was happy that it was not my turn to stand guard. It rained all night and next morning the boys who had been on guard were sorry-looking fellows and the cattle and horses little better. I do not remember how we managed to get breakfast, but I do recall that we started early and pushed on still through the rain. The moving warmed us up and we were much better off traveling than in camp. We reached Platte River late the same day at a point which must have been some miles above the location of the present city of Grand Island, probably about the site of the City of Kearney. The river was running bank full and the only fire wood in sight was on an island out in the stream. The stream, though wide, was not deep, and we rode our horses over and carried back wood enough to make a fire, though it was a very bad one. It stopped raining about night, but remained cloudy and cold and we passed the night with less comfort, I believe, than the night before. Next day we made only twenty miles but stopped long before night at the mouth of a little stream or gulch that descended down into Platte River which we knew as Plum Creek. The wind had blown from the north all day and had chilled us through and through in our wet clothing. The principal inducement to the halt was the canyon through which Plum Creek emptied into the river. It afforded a sheltered camping place and its sides were covered with red cedar which made splendid firewood. We pitched our tents in behind a high bluff and immediately built a blazing fire. Everybody was busy. Blankets were stretched upon poles before the fire and the wet extra clothing was hung out to dry in like manner. We cooked the best meal the stores would afford and prepared plenty of it. Before night we were all dry and warm, had had plenty to eat, and were again in a happy frame of mind. There was but one thing to prevent complete satisfaction with the situation and that was that at this very point in years gone by several vicious attacks had been made upon emigrants by the Indians. It was a fine place for the Indians to ambush the unwary traveler. Gilmore had learned the story of these attacks on his previous trip and immediately after we had supper he started the members of the company out in various directions to look for Indians. It was an hour or more until sundown, as I recollect, so we climbed to the tops of the hills and inspected the country for miles around. There was not a single sign of Indians anywhere to be seen. He told us to look particularly for smoke as we would probably not see the Indians but would discover the smoke from their fires coming up out of the valleys. The favorable report made to Gilmore did not satisfy him. Weary as we all were, he ordered a double guard that night. I stood with the boys the first half of the night. At sundown the sky had cleared of clouds and the wind had ceased to blow. The whole earth was as still as death. The only sound that broke the silence was the howl of a wolf now and then away off in the distance. The next morning the camp was astir bright and early. The oxen and horses were rounded up and hitched to the wagons and after a good breakfast we packed the camp outfit and started on our journey up Platte River, following the south bank. The clear sky and bright sunshine soon made us forget the hardships of the two previous days, and our company was again in good spirits. I have not been able to locate the exact position of Plum Creek. It was out some distance beyond the Grand Island and almost at the beginning of what we called the sand bluffs. I do not recall any incident worth mentioning on the journey up this stream except that in a few days after we left Plum Creek we passed the junction of the North and South Platte. The trail followed the South Platte and we followed the trail. About fifty miles beyond the junction we crossed the South Platte and went over a high ridge and down a steep canyon about five miles in length into the valley of the North Platte. I have never known why this early trail led up the South Platte instead of crossing the main stream at the junction and moving directly up the North Platte, as was done later by all the emigrant trains. We reached North Platte about night and found a large tribe of Indians in camp. It was no very pleasing prospect to most of us to go into camp so near the Indians, but Gilmore told us that we would not likely have any trouble as Indians were always peaceable when their squaws and pappooses were with them. I never forgot this remark by Gilmore and had occasion many times afterwards, as I shall relate, to observe the truth of his statement. We put a strong guard around the cattle. We did not fear for ourselves, but were alarmed somewhat on account of the cattle, as we expected that the Indians were probably scarce of food and might try to get one or two of them. The Indians seemed to be astir most all night and we imagined that they were watching to catch us off guard, or probably to catch a stray horse or ox that might wander away from the herd. Morning brought us great relief, and we soon packed up and moved on up the North Platte as fast as we could. Some seventy-five miles or more up the North Platte we passed those strange looking elevations which had the appearance at a distance of immense buildings in ruins and which have been mentioned by so many of the early emigrants. Two of these formations which stood side by side were especially noticeable. They both rose abruptly from the level table land to a height of two hundred feet or more. The larger and taller of the two was not so well proportioned as the smaller, but both of them easily gave the impression, viewed from the path of our trail, of great castles with wings and turrets, all tumbling down and wasting away. Gilmore told us that the earlier travelers on the Oregon trail had called these formations the "court houses." Some distance beyond these curiosities we came to Chimney Rock, which I am sure every one who passed over the trail remembers. It stood out in the valley of the Platte several hundred feet from the main bluff of the river and rose to a height of nearly three hundred feet, as we estimated. The base covered a considerable area of ground and the top was probably fifty feet across. It was a mixture of sand, clay and stones, and the action of the weather had crumbled much of the upper portions about the base. A little beyond Chimney Rock we came to Scott's Bluffs, which we reached late in the afternoon. We drove into a beautiful little valley and camped for the night. Just about dark the most terrific thunder storm I ever experienced in my life broke upon us. The whole valley seemed to be lit up in a blaze of fire and the thunder was deafening. Some three or four emigrant trains which we had overtaken were camped in this valley and next morning we counted fifteen cattle that had been killed by bolts of lightning. Fortunately none of them belonged to us. Scott's Bluffs is a single row of hills or perpendicular cliffs standing out in the valley between the main table land and the channel of the river. They are much like Chimney Rock in formation and are of various forms and moulds and present a strange appearance from the path of the trail. We passed for miles between these bluffs and the table land with the river over beyond the bluffs. Fort Laramie was our next point, some sixty miles farther on. The fort is situated on Laramie River about a mile above its union with the North Platte. Here we saw the first white man, except the emigrants who were outward bound with us, since leaving home. We were given a very hearty welcome by the soldiers and the few others who lived there. They asked us many questions and told us they had had no news from home all winter until the emigrant trains began to arrive. The Indians were constantly about them and they had to be very careful to avoid trouble with them. Their greatest difficulty was to procure firewood, which they found some considerable distance from the fort and over the river. They told us they always sent a guard of soldiers out with the wagons when they went after wood. We camped there over night and I was on picket. Next morning at daylight I saw a beautiful mound not far away, and as I was anxious to investigate everything, I walked over to it. I found it was an Indian burying ground, and was literally covered with human and animal bones which had been placed around, apparently in an effort to decorate, and human skulls seemed to be a particular favorite. Hundreds of them it seemed to me lay grinning at me. I am sure had I known this grewsome sight was so close to me I could never have been induced to stand guard all night in the darkness. I was but a boy then and this scene horrified me. I soon learned, however, not to be afraid of dead Indians. After a rest of a day or two under the protection of the Fort, we started forward, moving across a high, mountainous country which occupied the wide bend in the North Platte River. As I recall, the distance across this strip of country is probably one hundred and fifty miles or more. Many places were very rugged and we experienced much difficulty in making our way. On this portion of the road we had great difficulty also with the Indians--that is we continually feared trouble. We were not attacked at any time nor did we lose any of our horses or cattle, but we lived in continual fear both of our lives and of our property. The Crow and Sioux tribes occupied this land and they were war-like and troublesome savages. Scarcely a man in the company dared go to sleep during the whole journey from Fort Laramie to the point where we reached Platte River again, opposite the mouth of Sweetwater. It was in this very country, as I shall relate hereafter, that these Indians tried to kill and rob my brothers and myself in '51, and in '55, while my brother James and my youngest brother Robert were bringing a drove of cattle across, my brother Robert, only seventeen years old, was killed. I think all the early travelers across the plains dreaded the Indians on this portion of the road more than any other obstacle to be found on the entire journey, not excepting the alkali deserts of Utah and Nevada. When we again reached Platte River it was very high and the current very swift. It was out of the question to attempt fording it, and it looked for a time as if our progress would be retarded perhaps for many days. It would serve no purpose to attempt to find a better place to cross, for from the amount of water in the river, we felt quite certain we could find no place within one hundred miles where the wagons could be driven over. We had one satisfaction left to us and that was that we had plenty of water and plenty of grass, and if we had to stay on this side of the river any considerable time we were in no danger of losing our stock. We camped and rested a day and thought about the situation. Finally we decided to try rafting the wagons over and herding the cattle across. We cut four good sized cottonwood logs from the timber which grew near to the stream, fastened ropes to them and pushed them in the water. They were then tied firmly together and anchored to the shore. We then unloaded the wagons, took off the boxes or beds, and set one upon these logs. We then reloaded this bed and four men with long poles got upon the raft and some one on the bank untied the rope. I thought from the way this rude ship started down stream that it would reach St. Joseph in about three days if it kept up that rate of speed. The current caught it and dashed it along at a great rate and I was considerably alarmed, I remember, for a good portion of our provisions had been placed in the wagon box. The boys on the raft, however, kept their heads and though none of them were much accustomed to the water, they understood enough about it to avoid upsetting the craft. Little by little they pushed and paddled toward the middle of the stream and finally brought it up to shore probably a mile down stream. After anchoring the raft the articles loaded into the wagon bed were removed, placed upon the bank and finally the wagon bed was taken off and likewise placed on high ground. The boys then with great difficulty towed the raft along the shore up stream to a point far enough above the camp on the opposite bank to enable them to pilot it back to the desired landing place. They finally brought it up when, after anchoring it firmly, the running gears of the wagon were rolled down and pushed out upon the raft, the axles resting on the logs and the wheels extending down into the water. This cargo was ferried across in the same manner. In this way after much labor, paddling and poling this raft back and forth, our entire outfit was landed safely on the opposite side of the stream. Our belongings were, however, pretty widely scattered, because the boys always unloaded at the place they were able to land. It took much time to again rig up the wagons and collect the provisions and camp equipment and get it all together again. We had allowed our cattle to remain on the east side of the river during this operation, and after everything was ready on the opposite side we rounded them up and pushed them into the water. They swam across in fine shape, the men swimming their horses after them. It was a great relief to all of us to feel that we were safely across and to realize that we had saved a good many days, perhaps, by the effort we had made. We were especially desirous of keeping well in front of the emigrant trains that we knew to be upon the road in order that our oxen and horses might have better grazing and we felt that by the accomplishment of the task which had just been finished we had probably set ourselves in advance of many of the trains. After a good rest we moved on and soon entered the valley of Sweetwater River which we followed for many miles. Toward the head waters of this stream we passed Independence Rock, which, even in that day, was a marked natural curiosity much spoken of by travelers. There were many names cut in the smooth face of this immense boulder and we added our own to the list. A long toilsome climb after leaving Independence Rock brought us to the crest of the continental divide from which we descended into the valley of Green River. This is an extensive basin and we were a good many days passing through it, but met with no occurrences worthy of special mention. As we passed out of the valley, our road led us over a high range of mountains and I shall always remember the view which presented itself in front of us as we reached the top. The valley of Bear River lay before us for many miles. The view was obstructed only by the fact that the eye had not the power to see all that was spread before it. In all my experience in the mountains, I can at this moment recall no place that presents so striking a picture as the one which remains in my memory of this scene. I cannot locate the place upon the map, except approximately, though I have often tried to do so. In those days we had few names. There were no county lines and no towns by which to locate natural objects so they might be pointed out to others. Even the mountain ranges and many of the smaller streams had either not received names or we had not heard them. The place I have been attempting to describe was near the extreme western border of Wyoming and must have been about opposite Bear Lake in Idaho, perhaps a little north. An incident occurred at this place which served to impress it upon my mind independent of its natural beauties. Shortly before we approached the crest of the mountain we began to see emigrant wagons ahead. Finally we noticed what appeared to be an immense train stretching out in front of us. On nearer approach we discovered that some forty or fifty wagons which had fallen into the Oregon trail at various places along the line were blocked, apparently by the difficulties attending a descent of the opposite side of the mountain. We halted our teams and went forward on foot and discovered that there was but one place where the descent could be made at all and that was along a steep, rough canyon at one place in which the wagons had to be let down by hand. We approached and watched the operation for an hour or two. The teams and wagons in proper turn passed down to this abrupt place where the oxen were taken off and driven down. The wagons, rough-locked with chains, were then let down by long ropes, a great many men holding to the ropes to prevent the wagon from running away. It was very slow work and we immediately saw that a delay of three or four days at least was ahead of us if we waited to take our turn down this embankment. A conference was called as soon as our men got back to the wagons. Gilmore said he was not willing to believe that the point these emigrants had selected was the only place where the teams could get down, so he and a few more of our company started to the left of the trail to seek a new place. After about two hours, Gilmore and his men came back and said they thought they had found a place and directed the teams to move forward. A long winding drive down a spur or ridge that led off to the left of the canyon brought us to the place Gilmore had discovered. I went up and took a look and I confess that I was very much afraid we could not make it. There was not a tree, nor a log, nor anything else out of which we could make a drag to tie behind the wagons and thus retard them as they moved down the slope. I saw that Gilmore had some plan in his mind, however, and waited to see it develop. He ordered the three front yoke of oxen off the front wagon and directed that they be taken to the rear of the wagon leaving the wheel yoke hitched to the tongue. These three yoke of oxen were tied by a chain to the rear axle. The wheels were all four rough-locked with chains made fast and tight. When this was done we gathered our whips and told the oxen to move on. As the wheel yoke started forward the wagon pitched down upon them. They set their feet forward and laid back upon the tongue. When the chain tightened on the three yoke tied to the rear, they, like the yoke in front, set their feet and laid back upon the chain. Then the whole--wagon and oxen--went plowing down the mountain side more than one hundred yards before the ground became level enough to release the wheels. It was a great relief to be able to unlock the wheels and release the oxen and know that all was safe. The six other wagons repeated this experience in turn. The whole descent had required but little more than two hours and we found ourselves well down into the valley of Bear River two days ahead of time, and best of all, in the lead of those emigrants who were waiting to let their wagons down by hand over on the other road. Soda Springs on Bear River was our next point. We reached it after a two days' journey from the point where we had descended the mountain. Here I saw another wonder--to me. Water, almost boiling, spurted right up out of the ground. One spring in particular which they told us had been named Steamboat Spring was especially noticeable. Every three or four minutes it would throw a jet of water up four or five feet high, then subside. Just about the time every thing seemed to be getting settled, the water would gush out again. This continued at regular intervals night and day and may, for all I know, still be going on. There were a number of hot springs, besides several other springs, the water of which was strongly impregnated with soda. We halted a little while here to rest and to inspect this great wonder and then pushed on in a north-westerly direction toward Fort Hall, which is located on Snake River. This required about a three days' drive, as I remember. We knew at the time that this course took us considerably out of the way, but we had no information as to the barriers to be encountered by an attempt to shorten the route, so we were content to follow the beaten trail. I remember an incident which occurred at Fort Hall. We had fallen in with a train from Jackson County which was known as Hayes' train, and we all journeyed together to Fort Hall. A government fort was located there and Hayes found in the fort, a negro man who had run off from his Jackson County plantation six years before. Hayes instead of asserting ownership over this negro and compelling him to go back into servitude, made a contract with him to drive one of his teams through to California and work one year for him in California, after which the negro was to have his freedom. This seemed to suit the negro exactly and he picked up his long gad and started after the oxen. We all moved together down Snake River to the mouth of Raft River, and on this part of the journey an incident occurred which caused all of us a good deal of uneasiness. Hayes had a bright lad with him about sixteen years old who was always playing pranks. He also had a driver who was dreadfully afraid of Indians. One night after we had camped, the lad took a red blanket and slipped away from the camp around near to where the driver was standing guard. He threw the blanket over his shoulders after the fashion of the Indians and secreted himself behind an obstruction, and at the proper time, slipped out of his place of concealment and started toward the driver. The driver ran just as the boy had anticipated, but when the boy started to follow, playing Indian all the time, the driver halted long enough to put a load of shot into the boy. Fortunately the shot was not fatal, but the boy was dreadfully wounded and had to be hauled in one of the wagons clear on to California. We had little or no means of giving him attention and the poor boy suffered a great deal, but he finally got well. When we reached the mouth of Raft River, a small stream which flows into the Snake River from the south, we halted for a conference. Hayes with his train was accompanying us, but he knew no more about the country than we. It was clear that we must break away from the Oregon trail at some point in that immediate vicinity and it occurred to us that this little river would afford the most likely passage to the crest of the divide from which we could descend into the valley of the Humboldt. Accordingly our oxen were turned out of the beaten path and headed over an unknown stretch of country. We experienced very little difficulty that I now recall so long as we were able to follow the river, but by and by the stream became very small and led us into a rugged, mountainous country. After much climbing and wandering about we reached the crest of a divide which is now called the Raft River Mountains; passing down the farther slope of these mountains we encountered a dreadful alkali desert before reaching the main stem of the Humboldt River. The men, horses and cattle suffered greatly. The alkali dust raised by the moving teams parched the throat and nostrils and lack of water denied either to man or beast any relief. Fortunately for us, this did not last many days. Whether by accident or from good judgment, we soon located a good sized stream of water which eventually proved to be one of the main prongs of Humboldt River. We followed this stream probably two hundred miles or more, and while the grazing was very short, we had plenty of water and were able to get along. One night just before we reached Big Meadow, while we were camped alongside the Humboldt River, a band of Digger Indians slipped into our herd and drove two of the cattle away. Next morning after rounding up the cattle these oxen were missed and search was immediately instituted. Bob and James Gilmore, Charles McCray and brother William got on their horses and made a wide circle about the camp. They discovered tracks leading toward the mountains and followed them. After they had gone several miles and could still see nothing of the cattle, they became convinced that the Indians had taken them into the mountains, and as McCray and Gibson had gone away without their guns, McCray was sent back to get them. McCray reached camp, got the guns and started out to overtake the boys, but soon returned saying he could not find them. The company remained in camp waiting continually for their return and when, late in the afternoon, they had not returned, we began to feel quite uneasy. When night came and they had still not returned, we piled sage brush on our camp fire and kept it burning very bright to light them in. No one in the camp slept and as the hours passed, uneasiness increased. Finally, late in the night they came in, all safe, but very tired and without the cattle, and gave us the following account of their experience. They had followed the tracks of the cattle through the sand fifteen miles and traced them into a steep, rough gorge or canyon that opened into the valley from the mountain. They entered this gorge with great caution and had not gone far when they found the carcasses of the cattle warm and bleeding, but no Indians in sight. They were convinced that Indians could not be far away, and momentarily expected an attack from ambush. The Indians had evidently posted a watch on some high point on the mountain, who, when the men were seen approaching, gave the alarm, upon which the cattle were immediately killed and the Indians fled to cover. It was then nearly night. The horses were poor and weak, and neither the horses nor the men had tasted food or water throughout the day, and there was no relief except in camp. Delay was useless, so they turned immediately and started back. After reaching the plain they noticed far out in the distance a cloud of dust on the horizon and supposed at first it was a small whirlwind, as whirlwinds were very common on those sandy deserts. The dust continued to rise and apparently to approach toward them, and in a little while they were able to make out objects moving through it. They then knew that the Indians, having been warned of their approach and having seen them enter the canyon, had made a wide circle to the rear, and that their purpose was to cut them off from camp. Only a few minutes were required to reveal the fact that the Indians, about thirty in number, were coming toward them as fast as their ponies could gallop, and a brief counsel of war was held. To attempt to out-run them on the poor jaded horses was out of the question, and the situation looked rather desperate. Their lack of guns and ammunition and their inferior numbers made the result of a fight very doubtful. They had no choice but to make the best of it, and the only thing in their favor was the well known cowardice of the Indians in an open face to face fight. Each of the Gilmores had a double barrel shot gun and Gibson had his bowie knife and these were the weapons with which the fight had to be made. The boys dismounted and as the Indians came within easy view of them they stepped out in front of their horses and waited. The men with the guns held them in position to fire and Gibson drew his bowie knife and held it steadily in his hand. The Indians came on furiously, screaming and yelling, but the boys did not stir a step. The plan was to let them come and get as many of them as possible with the four loads that were in the guns, then with the knife and the guns as clubs, fight it out. The boys said that for two or three minutes there was every indication that the Indians really meant to fight. They showed no disposition to halt, but came yelling and dashing forward until they were almost in range of the guns. Even though the boys were not equal to the task they had to keep their nerve. If they had shown the least disposition to waver or to change positions the Indians would have been encouraged to come upon them. They stood as firm and steady as though they were made of stone. Not a word was spoken, except that Bob Gilmore quietly counselled the boys to stand perfectly still. This attitude was too much for the Indians. They became convinced that they really had a fight on their hands, and when within seventy-five yards they came to a sudden halt and all danger was past. The bluff had worked and the Indians were going to pretend they never had any hostile intentions. The boys continued to stand perfectly firm and wait. After a moment or two, three or four Indians came forward bowing, making every demonstration of friendship, saying, "How, How," and asking for tobacco. Gibson in return bowed to them and said "How, How." He also indicated they could have tobacco if they would approach, but the Gilmores kept their guns steadily raised in the same position. When within twenty or thirty feet, the Indians stopped and Gibson approached a little nearer to them and put on an appearance of great friendship. He had no tobacco, but the Gilmores had, so Gibson went back for it, the others remaining in position to fire, and took it from their pockets. The Indians then bowed and the boys bowed and the Indians turned and went back to their companions. The four emissaries who had come out for the tobacco mounted their ponies and the whole thirty of them rode away. The boys kept their positions until the Indians were far out on the plain. They could see them as they rode away, turn on their ponies and watch them, and they proposed to give them to understand that there was a fight ready for them if they desired it, and thus probably prevent an attack farther on in their journey to camp and after night. When the Indians were well out of the way, the party journeyed on. It was then nearly sundown and fifteen miles to camp. The boys had taken note of the natural objects along the road out, and before it grew entirely dark they located these objects with reference to certain stars that would lead them after night, and in this way managed to get along until they came to where they could see the reflection of the burning sage brush upon the sky. We were greatly rejoiced to see them, and even though they did not bring the cattle back, we felt after our hours of anxiety that the loss of the cattle was but a trivial matter. A few days' drive after our encounter with the Indians brought us to Big Meadow, a name given to a sort of oasis which was covered with abundant grass and where our cattle could get the finest water. We took a good rest here and it was a delight to see the cattle and horses, after their long drive over the sand and through the sage brush, wade belly deep in the finest of grass. During our stay at this place we cut and cured a large quantity of hay and loaded it on our wagons. We had heard that there was a desert ahead and wanted to be prepared for it. We must have spent four or five days at this place, and when we set forward both men and cattle were much refreshed. A day's journey, as I remember, brought us to the lower end of Humboldt Lake, where, so far as we could see, Humboldt River stopped, that is the river ran into this lake and there was apparently no outlet. We could see a barren country ahead, and rightly judged that we were approaching the desert we had heard of. Next morning everything was prepared for a long drive without grazing or water. We left early and all day long traveled over a hot, dry plain without once finding a drop of water, and where there was no vegetation upon which our cattle could feed. When night came a conference was held. To attempt to camp in that arid place without food or water would weaken our stock and exhaust our men, so we decided not to camp at all. Accordingly the weary oxen and horses were pushed on at increased speed. We traveled all night long and when daylight came there was still no prospect of relief. To stop, however, was more likely to bring disaster than to go on, so we kept moving. About noon we began to see some evidences of a change. Off in the distance we thought we could see that the land had a green appearance, and this raised our hopes. On nearer approach we found that our first impressions were correct and that we were really approaching food and water. In a little while we came to a prong of what I learned afterwards was Carson River, which came down from the mountains and ran in an opposite direction from the Humboldt River. The water was clear and had hardly a tinge of alkali in it. When our cattle and horses saw the water, we could not hold them and we did not try very much, for we were almost as nearly famished as they. We took the yokes off of them and let them go. They ran pell-mell down to the water and plunged into it. The men did scarcely better. Many of them jumped right into the water with their clothes on and drank and splashed by turns until they had slaked their thirst and relieved their parched throats. As soon as food could be prepared, and eaten, everybody went to sleep except those who were detailed to stand guard the first two hours. We remained there, the guard being relieved every two hours, until the following morning, when both men and cattle were sufficiently refreshed to proceed. Thenceforward our journey led us up Carson River. This was not a hard journey. The grass was fine and the water clear. There was no occasion for hurry. It was then growing toward the end of July and the worst of our journey was over. We moved only fifteen or twenty miles a day and allowed our cattle and horses to browse along and fill themselves as they went. Nearly a hundred miles up the river we came to Carson Valley, where Carson City is now situated. As I recall my whole journey, I can think of no place that so impressed me with its beauty. Six miles across this valley, we came to the mouth of Carson River Canyon where the river flows out of the mountain. Six miles farther on and after crossing the river a dozen times or more, we passed out of the canyon and found ourselves at the foot of what we named "The Two-Mile Mountain." This mountain had to be climbed. It was so steep that ten yoke of oxen were required to draw each wagon up. This made slow work, as some of the wagons had to be left at the bottom and the oxen brought back to get them. After reaching the top, we journeyed on and came to Red Lake. This was a beautiful body of water. I am not sure whether it is what is now called Lake Tahoe or not, though I feel sure it is. After passing beyond this lake, we came to the "Six-Mile Mountain." This was not so steep as the "Two-Mile Mountain," but it was a much longer pull. As we approached the top we came to snow. This was the 5th day of August, 1849. Before we reached the very crest of the range our oxen had to pass over great drifts of frozen snow which, for all we knew, may have been hundreds of feet deep. At the top of the mountain we were on the crest of the Sierra Nevada Range, and it was a great relief to start down hill. One of the men went forward and picked out a route and twelve miles down the mountain we came to Rock Creek. Beyond this we encountered a descent which was almost as abrupt as our descent into Bear River Valley, but in the present place, we had plenty of timber, so we cut large trees and tied them by chains to the rear of the wagons and allowed them to drag behind. This put a very effective brake upon the wagons and enabled them to go down safely. I remember an occurrence which took place shortly before we made this descent. Our road led along the edge of a steep declivity which seemed to be a thousand feet above the valley below. Mitch Hulett and I found it great sport to roll rocks off this precipice and watch them bound away down along the mountain-side. Sometimes we would pry a rock loose that would weigh two or three tons and watch it plunge down, tearing through the timber with frightful noise, scaring grouse, pheasants and wild animals out of the brush in great numbers. Some of the huge rocks would occasionally strike a jutting portion of the mountain and bound a hundred yards downward without striking a single obstruction. We had not noticed the lapse of time and the train got far ahead of us. By and by, we heard a great noise to the rear and in another moment a band of Indians dashed around a curve in the road and were right upon us. There was nothing we could do but run. The road ahead was down hill, and I have always thought we made a pretty good job of it. We broke away at full speed, never stopping to look back, and expecting every moment to feel the arrows in our backs or to see or hear them whiz past us. Every step gave us hope, and after a long run and when completely exhausted, we ventured to halt and look and listen, we discovered that we were not being followed at all. The Indians must have been greatly amused at our fright, but we were still unwilling to take chances and made the best haste we could to overtake the wagons. It required more than two hours, so rapidly had the time passed in our sport. That was the last time our pranks ever induced us to let the teams get so far ahead. A place which afterwards came to be called Leake Springs is the next point I remember. We camped there for the night and on subsequent journeys I grew familiar with it. Twenty miles beyond this we came to Grass Valley and emerged from the high mountains. Fifteen miles farther we came to Weaver Creek, August 12th, 1849, where we first saw the gold glitter. We thought our train was first over the trail, but somehow a few had beaten us in. When we got down to Weaver Creek, three emigrants were at work panning out the gold. We stopped and camped and watched them for a long time. That night I was taken sick with the flux. It was a bad place to be sick and I was dreadfully sick, too. They fixed me sort of a pallet under the shade of a big tree, and I lay there night and day for a week and they didn't know whether I would live or die. Trains were constantly arriving and in one of them there was a doctor. He came down to see me and told the boys they must hunt up a cow and give me fresh warm milk. They told me afterwards they found a train in which somebody had foresight enough to bring a cow along, and they got the milk and brought it to me. I drank it and soon recovered. CHAPTER III. _Gold Mining in '49 and '50._ At last we were in California. I had a rather bitter introduction, but I soon felt well again and began to look about to see what California was really like and to learn the truth of all the wonderful stories I had heard about gold. We didn't want to take up claims immediately--wanted to look about and get the best location possible. They told us about Sacramento City being down the river and we decided to go down there. Weaver Creek was a small tributary of the American River, so we went down to the main stream and moved on down in the direction of Sacramento City. We met a man who said he had just been down there. We asked him how far it was, and he said forty miles. Said it was at the mouth of the American River, that is, where the American River flowed into the Sacramento River. In two days we reached the mouth of the river, but we didn't see any city. I saw a few tents, and there was an old sail boat anchored on Sacramento River up close to the bank, but that was all. I asked a man where Sacramento City was. He said, "This is the place." We didn't expect to find much of a city, but were hardly prepared for what we found. We stretched our tent, turned our cattle out to graze and prepared for a rest. It was a delightful place. I never saw finer grass nor finer water, and we still had plenty to eat. Toward the close of the day I went down to where the sail boat was being unloaded. Four or five men were carrying provisions--flour, bacon, pickled pork, sugar, coffee, rice--in fact everything substantial to eat, out of the boat and throwing it upon the bank among the grape vines. I saw no owner. There were no police and nobody seemed to be afraid of thieves. They were not afraid either of rain, for none could be expected at that season of the year. Nor was there even any dew. Everything seemed to be safe both day and night. Our lean old cattle fattened fast and in a little while we could hardly recognize them. It was a joy to see them eat and drink and rest after the hardships they had endured. The poor things had suffered even more than the men. About the first of September we started back to the mines. Twenty miles up the American River we each took up a claim and went to work. Everything was placer mining. Each man had his pan and with it and the water of the river, he washed the gravel away from the loose gold. We worked there several weeks and so far as we could see, exhausted the gold that was in our claims. We found on estimating the result of our work that each man had averaged about sixteen dollars a day for every day he had worked. About the time our claims were exhausted, we were surprised to meet Russell Hill, a cousin of mine, who had worked his way down from Oregon to Sacramento by way of Shasta City, and learning at Sacramento that we were up the American River, had come on up to see us. He had left his home in Iowa the year before and had gone to Oregon. He told us he had stopped a few days at Shasta City and believed it to be a better mining place than the American River, and urged us to go there. Accordingly we yoked up our oxen and packed our belongings into the wagons again and started. When we reached Sacramento City this time, it was not necessary to ask where the city was. The whole valley was covered with tents and lunch stands. There must have been several thousand people there. They had come in from everywhere, off the plains by caravan, up the river from San Francisco by boat, and from every other place in the world, it seemed to me. There were as yet no houses. People, men mostly, lived in tents and the lunch counters consisted of the sideboards of the wagons laid upon poles supported by forks driven in the ground. Meals were a uniform price, $1.00, but lodging was free. Just spread your blanket down on the grass anywhere and make yourself at home. Shasta City is two hundred miles up Sacramento River and a little northwest of Sacramento City. Knight's Landing, near the mouth of Feather River, was our first stop of any consequence. We went up Feather River to where Marysville now stands and thence in a northwesterly direction back into the Sacramento Valley. This valley is about an average of twenty-five miles in width and at that time there were no towns or even camps upon it and consequently I can give little account of our progress. I only recall that about every twenty miles we came upon a ranch occupied by a few families of Spaniards. These Spaniards had made slaves of the Digger Indians who lived in mounds or huts covered with earth. The Indians raised wheat and gathered it in cane baskets. They then rubbed the wheat out of the straw and beat it into flour. These Indians went almost naked and lived, themselves, on salmon, acorns, grapes and grasshoppers. They were the most disgusting mortals I have ever seen in my life. When we passed the huts or mounds in which they lived, the pappooses would dart back into them exactly like prairie dogs. I asked an old Spaniard why he kept these filthy Indians around him, and he said they protected him from the wild Indians. The whole valley was covered by abundant vegetation and was full of wild herds of Spanish horses and thousands of wild Spanish cattle. It was also full of many savage wild animals, grizzly, brown and black bear, California lions, panthers, wolves, wild cats and badgers. There was an abundance also of elk, deer and antelope, and we never lacked for fresh venison. We reached Shasta late in September, and like Sacramento City, found everything but the city. One or two log cabins and a few tents made up the sum of all the improvements. We put in a few days looking over the situation and viewing prospects for getting gold and decided to spend the winter there. This made it necessary for us to look immediately into our stock of provisions, and upon going through it we found that we had hardly enough to last us. Nothing could be done but go back to Sacramento and secure an additional supply, and brother William and a man by the name of Gleason, from Iowa, who had made the trip with us up the river, started back with one wagon and four yoke of oxen. We stretched our tent and stored all the provisions we had in it in such a way as to protect them, and brother William and Gleason bade us good by. This trip meant four hundred miles more of hardship and danger, and we hated very much to see them leave, but nothing else could be done. The boys made the trip down without trouble, so they reported upon their return, but on the way back the rainy season set in and swelled the rivers so that they were past fording much of the time. The trip ought to have been made easily in twenty-five or thirty days, but it occupied from the latter part of September until Christmas. Hard as this trip was upon the two who made it, their sufferings were hardly to be compared to the condition of brother James and myself. We had but a small tent in which to shelter both ourselves and our provisions and such meagre equipment as we had hauled across the plains. We had been alone but a few days when brother James was taken down with the scurvy. About the 10th of October the rain set in and continued almost in a steady downpour for about three weeks. Everything was completely soaked. It was next to impossible to find fuel enough to start a fire. I had to take care of brother James and keep changing the provisions to prevent them from spoiling, had to dry the blankets and clothing three or four times a day. In all, I don't think I averaged more than two hours sleep out of the whole twenty-four during this period of continued rain. I battled along the best I could, and at the end of about three weeks it ceased to rain so hard. I shall never forget two friends who came to my rescue at this time--Charles Laffoon and Mike Cody. Both were from St. Louis and had run a dray on the wharf on the Mississippi River, they said. They had reached Shasta a few months ahead of us and had built a log cabin. On one side of this they attached a shed which they used for a cook room and the whole made a very comfortable dwelling. Lately, however, a great many people had arrived and they had arranged a bar at one end of the main cabin and fixed up some tables at the other for a poker game. Both of these enterprises proved good money makers and they were getting along fine. After it had been raining three or four weeks, Mike came up to our tent one morning. He saw the trouble we were in and said we must not stay there. I told him I knew nothing else to do. He said he would arrange that all right; that he would make room for us in his cabin. He didn't even wait for an answer, but set to work packing things up. In a little while everything we had was moved under a roof. He fixed a bunk in the shed or cook room for my brother and brought some men up and carried him down and laid him on it. We used our own blankets of course, and I cooked our meals, but Mike and his partner took care of the rest of it. Everything was very quiet in the day time when the men were out working in the diggings, but at night things were mighty lively--drinking, gambling and fighting. We didn't mind all this, for it was so much better than the leaky old tent we had put up with for so long, and no kinder men ever lived than Mike Cody and Charles Laffoon. Brother William and Gleason got back on Christmas day, worn out themselves and their teams in worse condition. It was still raining. They had had a dreadful time, high water, mud, rain and no shelter. They had to expose themselves in order to keep the provisions dry. A cabin, some distance away from the cluster of houses which was called the town, had been vacated, and we moved in, though I think Cody and Laffoon would have arranged in some way to accommodate all of us in their cabin had they thought we could do no better. The cabin was fairly comfortable. It had a good fire-place and a good roof, and these were the principal necessities. The weather was not very cold, but everything was so entirely saturated that fire was even more necessary than if the weather had been cold. We had room in the cabin for our cots and provisions, and we settled down about the first of January to spend the winter. We drove the cattle ten miles down the river to Redding's Ranch and turned them loose in his wild herd to graze until spring. About the middle of January, William took the scurvy. James had improved very little, so I now had both of them on my hands. They both lay there unable to walk a step for three months. There was but little that could be done for them, but I had a great deal on my hands doing even that and was thankful that I had been spared from the disease myself, for if I had taken down we should all have been cast upon the generosity of the wild, rough men who made up that camp. I had no fear, however, but what we would be taken care of. During the latter part of the winter, I was taken with a light attack of the same disease. I was very much afraid it would become serious, but I did not get down. I could walk flat footed on my left foot, but had to tip-toe on my right, and all through the balance of the winter I did the cooking, provided the wood, and ran the errands, hobbling along the best I could. Besides this, we were somewhat troubled by finances. Everything was going out and nothing coming in. Everybody at work making plenty of money, but we were compelled to stay in this cabin and spend what we had made. We were rich, however, in provisions. Had enough to last us a year and they were worth more than gold. I remember that flour was worth two hundred dollars a sack, and most everything else was in proportion. Late in March a doctor drifted into camp. He heard that we had sickness up at our cabin and came up. He looked my brothers over. He had no medicine and there was very little, if any, in the camp. He prescribed raw Irish potatoes sliced in vinegar. We had no potatoes. I went down to see if I could find them in camp. I hunted the place over and could not find any. I was going home discouraged when I met Mike Cody. I told him what I had been doing and he said if there was a potato in California, he would get it for me. Next morning a man brought a bushel up to our cabin and told us that was all the potatoes in that part of the country. I asked him what he wanted for them and he said they were paid for. When I asked him who paid him he said it was Mike Cody. I then asked what he got for them. He said seventy-five dollars. I took the potatoes and fixed them up as the doctor had told me and gave them to the boys. In a few days they began to mend and in two or three weeks were able to hobble about the cabin, and by the first of May they were well enough to take care of themselves nicely. I hadn't forgotten Mike Cody in the meantime. I went down one day and told Mike I wanted to settle for the potatoes and for the use of his cabin the early part of the winter. He said "You don't owe me anything for staying at the cabin and the potatoes were a present." Said if he could do anything else, just let him know. I thanked him the best I could, but he told me that he didn't want any thanks, and that I must not feel under obligation to him. He reminded me that on several occasions when he wanted to go out in town and have a good time, I had kept his bar and run his poker game for him, and said that paid for everything he had done for us. I knew that was only an excuse to keep me from feeling so much in debt to him, but I let it go at that and never lost an opportunity to show that I appreciated what he had done. I ought to mention, probably, my experiences as a bar-keeper and manager of a poker game on the few occasions when I was called upon to assume those responsible positions. The bar was a broad plank which rested upon supports and extended clear across one end of the cabin. The bottles of whiskey and bowls of gold dust were kept on this plank. Mike sold nothing and had nothing to sell but whiskey. When a man wanted a drink he would hand me over his sack of gold dust. I poured out the price of a drink in the scale pan and put it over in the bowl. I then gave him his drink and handed him back his bag of gold dust. The poker game was not very hard to manage. The players had their rules and kept their guns close by to enforce them. This made everybody very cautious about observing the rules and seeing that a fair game was played. As long as the fellows remained sober I never saw any trouble over these games. Sometimes a fellow would get drunk and try to start trouble and he usually succeeded. We generally saved the lives of such fellows by taking them immediately away and putting them to bed. About the 1st of May, Gleason, who had remained at the camp all winter, and I rigged up a couple of pack mules and went over to Trinity River, thirty miles west. There we found quite a prosperous camp where they were getting a good deal of gold. We each took up a claim and went to work, and got quite a quantity of gold. About the 1st of June, James and William, who by that time were able to ride horseback, came over and they each took a claim. By the 1st of August we had worked these claims pretty well out and decided to go on to Salmon River, forty miles farther west. While we were at Trinity River, Alfred Jack of near Camden Point, Platte County, came in and joined us. He decided to go on with us to Salmon River and we all packed up and started. The trip was without incident, except that over toward the end of our journey we came to an Indian village. We rode in toward the village and as we approached we saw the bucks all running away as fast as they could, leaving their squaws and pappooses behind. This was strange behavior and we wondered what it meant. When we got up to the village, we found a white horse which they had just shot full of arrows. This looked a little dangerous to us. We didn't know the meaning of this conduct and took it to be a sign of war. We passed on through the village, hurried after the Indians and soon overtook them. We had our guns and plenty of ammunition and were pretty well prepared for a fight with them, as against their bows and arrows, though they greatly outnumbered us. When they saw we were prepared for them and knowing as they did that we had not harmed their squaws and pappooses, they came and told us that they had run away because their dogs had run at sight of us. They didn't explain why they had shot the horse full of arrows, but I have always been of the opinion they intended to waylay and kill us if they could. We reached Salmon River late in the afternoon and camped for the night. Next morning we took our picks, shovels and pans and went out to look for gold and found it. By noon when we gathered back at the camp every man was satisfied to make permanent camp and remain a while. We were the first in this immediate section of the country. Other parties were farther up the river and still others farther down the river, but we found no evidences at all that any white men had ever been in this particular place. We seemed to have a way of getting in ahead. We were in the lead across the plains, among the first to reach Sacramento, about the first at Shasta City, and Trinity River, and actually the first on Salmon River. We were not there long, however, until others began to come in, and in a short time all the available locations for placer mining were taken. We remained some six weeks, as I recollect, on Salmon River and panned out quite a quantity of gold; enough to pay us well for the trip but hardly as much as we anticipated we would get when we left home, after hearing the reports that came to us. Still we were satisfied and now that we all had good health, had no complaint to make. Some one who came into our camp on Salmon River brought the word that our brothers were coming across the plains from Missouri, and would get in sometime in September. We decided to go back and meet them, so we broke camp and went back to Shasta City. Here we loaded our plunder into our own wagons which had been left during our absence, and after procuring our cattle from Redding's Ranch--so fat and sleek we could hardly recognize them, we set out down Sacramento River. The trip was made without incident. It was the dry season of the year. There was plenty of game, plenty for the cattle to eat, and no trouble about fording the river. While we were in camp one night at Knight's Landing, I put a sack of dried beef which we called "jerky," under the back part of my pillow to make sure the coyotes would not get it. In this I was mistaken, for sometime that night a coyote came up and helped himself and we had no jerky for breakfast. My slumbers were not disturbed in the least by the burglar. A little farther down the Sacramento River, while in camp one night, we were all awakened by an unusual noise. The camp fire was burning dimly and afforded enough light for us to see, not twenty yards away, a huge grizzly bear. He was sniffing around picking up scraps of meat and bone which we had thrown away. There was a good deal of quiet excitement in the camp over the discovery of this guest, but fortunately everybody had sense enough to keep still. The old fellow prowled about the camp for a long time. Sometimes he would get right up by the fire and then we had a good look at him. He paid no attention to us at all. Apparently didn't know we were in the neighborhood. At least if he knew it, he didn't let on. By and by, after satisfying himself that there were no more scraps, he walked slowly away and we could hear him rattling the bushes and crushing the dead limbs and sticks that lay upon the ground for a long distance. It was not until he had been out of hearing for quite a long time that anybody dared to speak, and then our first words to each other were of congratulation. We hadn't had very much experience with grizzly bears at that time and didn't know but what the old fellow might have attempted to piece out his meal on one of us. We were glad enough when he decided to go and hunt up some more bones and scraps and let us alone. We reached Sacramento City about September 20th, and from there went up to Salmon Falls on the American River, where we found our brothers, Isaac, Zach and Robert, and quite a company of our Buchanan County acquaintances--Calvin James, Charles Ramsey and his family, Perry Jones, William Glenn, James Glenn, and some others whom I do not at this moment recall. Charles Ramsey's wife was the first white woman I had seen since I left St. Joseph, May 2nd, 1849. It was a great joy to us to meet these old acquaintances and to feel that we were now not quite so lonely out in that wild country. We all remained in camp at Salmon Falls for several weeks. During this time the boys looked around to see what they had better do. Chas. Ramsey and Calvin James took up a ranch about thirty miles west of Sacramento River on Cash Creek. The five brothers of us decided that the best thing we could do was to take up a ranch also. We went over into the same neighborhood and squatted on a body of land. There was no law prescribing any amount that each man could take, and the grazing land was held largely in common. We had a good bunch of cattle and horses of our own and emigrants were continually offering their teams for sale. Isaac, Zach and Robert had brought considerable money out with them, and James, William and myself had practically all the gold we had cleaned up in mining, so we were in shape to begin the cattle business on a pretty good scale. By the first of December we had a fine herd of cattle, all branded with our particular brand, grazing on the pasture along Cash Creek. We built a cabin close to the cabin that James and Ramsey had put up, and staked out our ranch. There were five men in the James cabin and seven in ours--six Gibson brothers and Eli Wilson. The whole valley of Cash Creek as well as much of the valley of Sacramento River, was covered with wild oats. Red clover grew wild and there were many other grasses just as good for cattle. We had plenty of flour, sugar, coffee and such other common groceries as were to be had in the markets at Sacramento. It had cost quite a sum of money to get these provisions--I do not remember just how much, but it was fabulous almost, and the only consolation we got was out of the fact that we didn't have to buy meat. We had our own cattle if we wanted beef, but there was no need even for that when venison was so plentiful. It must have been sometime during the first of December that we organized a hunt for the purpose of laying in a good supply of meat for the winter. We rigged up ten pack mules, went to the mountains a few miles distant and camped. From this camp we conducted our hunting expedition and in a few days had more than enough venison to last through the winter. We killed elk, deer and antelope enough to load our train. Part of this we took down to Sacramento and traded it for other provisions. We felt that we could get meat any time when we had to have it, but might not be able to get other provisions, and that an extra supply would make us feel more comfortable. The grazing was fine all through the winter. The climate, as every one knows, is not cold and the one discomfort was the continued rain, but this had its compensations. When the rivers and sloughs filled up with water, the wild ducks and wild geese came in to feed upon the wild oats. We had little to do but look after our cattle and think about what we would like to eat. If we decided in the morning to have duck or goose, some one took the gun, went out and brought back just what we had decided upon. The rivers were full of the finest fish and they were no trouble to catch at all, so when we wanted fish, it was at hand. I have never lived at any place in my life where I felt so sure of provisions as in that cabin during that winter. We had four large greyhounds that had come across the plains with some of the emigrants and we picked them up as company. We trained them to hunt bear--that is the bear soon trained them. It was no trouble to get them to trail bear. They seemed to do this by instinct, but seemed not always to be sure of the kind of animal they were after. I judged this by watching them tackle the bear after they had overtaken it. They would dash in with as much confidence as if he were a jack rabbit or a coyote and showed plainly that they proposed to take him in and annihilate him at once. They would also show a good deal of surprise when the old bear would rise up on his hind feet and box them ten feet away. They soon learned to keep their distance and play with the bear, keeping him standing on his hind feet, watching them until we could come up close enough to get a shot. That always ended it. Sometimes the bear would take to a tree. In either case we always got him. These dogs were great company for us. If we happened not to want any bear meat, we would take the dogs and chase jack-rabbits and coyotes. They were pretty swift dogs, but it was seldom that they could pick up a jack-rabbit, and rarely ever got a coyote on a straight run, but we had as much fun and more probably than if the dogs had been able to pick them up right along. Thus passed the winter of '50 and '51--as pleasant a period as I recall during my whole life. By the spring and early summer of '51 our cattle were fat and fine and ready to be sold for beef. We peddled them out to the butchers and miners along the Sacramento and American Rivers. They brought us an average of one hundred and fifty dollars a head. By the first of July they were all gone and we began to look for emigrants' cattle to re-stock the ranch. We supposed that emigration across the plains would continue and in order to get first chance at cattle that might be for sale, we loaded up our pack mules, crossed the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and went down Carson River to Humboldt Desert. We were greatly surprised to find only a few straggling emigrant trains coming in and most of these were bent on settlement rather than mining and had brought their families. Of course, they had no cattle to sell. We waited until the latter part of July, and when we became convinced that no cattle were coming we had to determine the next best thing to do. The grazing of cattle had proved so much more to our liking than digging gold that we wanted to continue in that business, but we couldn't do it without cattle. We thought about the thousands of cattle back in Missouri that might be had for ten or fifteen dollars a head, and decided to return across the plains and during the winter gather up a herd and take it back the following summer. This plan seemed to suit best. Brother William was not in the best of health and didn't feel equal to the task of crossing the plains, so it was agreed that he and Eli Wilson would stay with the ranch and take care of things during the year and that the rest of us would go back. CHAPTER IV. _Back Across the Plains._ It was now close to the first of August, 1851. We were camped at the western side of the fifty-mile desert which gave us so much trouble on our way over. We had packed provisions and equipment sufficient only to take us across the Sierra Nevada Mountains and back. We always allowed for emergency and put in plenty. The question now was whether we were well enough equipped to start on a long journey back across the plains. We made an inventory of our stock of provisions and supplies, and decided that we could make it. Brother William and Wilson took only a small quantity of supplies with them on their return journey. They were going into a country where plenty was to be found, and if they ran low, it would make no great difference. With us it was different. We had no assurances that we could get supplies of any kind at any point on the journey, at least not until we reached the outposts near St. Joseph. As already related, we had carried our supplies from home on pack mules. We had no wagons or oxen with us and had to arrange to make the entire journey carrying our provisions and camp equipment on the mules. After getting everything ready we bade goodby to brother William and Wilson, and started early in the morning. We entered at once upon the fifty-mile desert and traveled that day and all the following night. Our mules made better progress than the ox teams, and we reached the Carson Sink a little after daylight where we found water. We also fell in with four men who said they had started to Salt Lake, but had heard from the passing emigrants that the Indians were on the war path ahead and were afraid to go any farther alone and were waiting for company. We had heard the same story, so concluded their excuse for being there was a good one and that they had no designs upon unwary emigrants. We sized them all up and decided to take them into our company. Three of them were brothers whose names were Kilgore. The fourth was a German whose name I have forgotten. They all lived in Iowa. They seemed very much frightened at the idea of going on, and suggested that we wait for further reinforcements. We told them we had no time to waste and that we were going on and they could join us if they wanted to. They finally consented, rigged up their outfit and made ready. We traveled up the Humboldt River over the old road until we reached the head waters of that stream. There were three roads open to us from this point. One to Fort Hall on Snake River, a middle road which had been blazed since we came over, called Hedgepeth's cut-off, and the South road to Salt Lake. We took the Salt Lake road, though it was new to all of us. We struck Bear River, about one hundred and fifty miles from Salt Lake, crossed it and traveled down the East side to Weaverville and then on to Ogden. Here we rested a few days and had our mules and horses shod. The day after we camped, Brigham Young paid us a visit. He asked us many questions, but we gave him little satisfaction. We had ten thousand dollars in gold with us and hadn't any confidence in the Mormons, so we kept close watch. A day or two after this, we took our mules and started to Salt Lake City. About twenty miles out on our journey we met a large vehicle drawn by eight big white horses, a driver on top, and a great many women and one man inside. I recognized the man as Brigham Young, but said nothing. A little farther on we overtook a man in the road and I asked him who the man and all the women were that we had met back on the road. He said it was Brigham Young and twenty of his wives. We made a short stop at Salt Lake. There seemed to be but one road out of the valley in which the city is situated and that led us south about ten miles, thence east through a steep, rough canyon. It was at the mouth of that canyon where the Mormons later built the wall to resist the government soldiers. The road through the canyon led us finally to the top of a high range of mountains. Passing over this and down the eastern slope, we came to Ft. Bridger on Black Fork of Green River. We followed this stream down to the main prong of Black River and went thence northeasterly to Green River, thence up a prong of that river until we reached the divide at South Pass. Here, after four hundred miles over a strange road and over wild and rugged mountains and deserts, we came again to the Oregon Trail, and found a familiar road. This portion of the road is now familiar also to the reader. It led down Sweetwater, past Independence Rock and Devil's Gate to North Platte River. Just after we crossed the North Platte, we stopped for dinner. We had eaten our meal and were resting when we saw what appeared to be a band of Indian ponies back across the river and about a mile away. We could not tell whether Indians were upon the ponies or not, but there was little doubt in our minds but that there were. We packed our mules hurriedly, saddled our horses, and started on and had made but a short distance when three Indians came running up in our rear on foot. They had dodged out from behind a boulder somewhere along the road. They appeared to be quite friendly. They said "How, How," and pointed to the good grass along the road. By these signs we understood that they wanted us to camp and were recommending the place to us. All this time the ponies were getting closer to us and all doubt that Indians were upon them was removed. When the three saw that we were not going to stop, one of them grabbed the bit of the horse ridden by one of the Kilgore boys and attempted to hold it. Kilgore threw his gun down at the Indian, who loosed his hold and ran back. One of the three during this performance dropped behind and raised a sort of flag. At this the whole band of ponies started towards us and every pony had a red-skin on his back lying close down to the pony's neck. They came galloping as fast as the ponies could carry them and in single file. As they came closer we saw that they were all painted up in war style with black feathers plaited in their hair. There must have been twenty-five or thirty of them, and there were nine of us--five Gibsons, three Kilgores, and the Dutchman. This Dutchman rode in a little cart while the rest of us were on horse-back. We had eight pack mules loaded with our camp equipment and provision, and they had to be taken care of. We put the pack mules abreast and pushed them directly ahead of us. The first Indians to reach us appeared to be very friendly, as if they could deceive anybody by that old ruse. They said "How, How," and appeared to be very anxious for our welfare. Their purpose in this, it was plain enough to see, was to allow their companions all to come up. When the last of their party caught up they all set up a great yell and made a dash to get between us and our pack mules. Every man in our company drew his navy and each man pointed at a different Indian. We had the drop on them. They had not drawn the guns which some of them had or the bows and arrows which others carried, and the first attempt to draw a weapon meant a dead Indian and they knew it, so they halted and fell back. As soon as they were out of the way we moved up and formed a ring around the pack mules, facing outward. This seemed to please them wonderfully, for they started galloping around us, yelling and going through all manner of ferocious maneuvers, but apparently never getting in a position where they could draw a weapon. As soon as we had surrounded our mules, Zach and Robert slipped off their horses and coupled all the mules together. This would keep them from scattering out. In a moment the boys were back in their saddles and back in the ring facing outward. The Dutchman in his cart was outside of our ring. He was very much agitated for a time for fear he would get cut off from us and be taken by the Indians. He managed to dash in, however, and get right close to our line and stop his horse. This gave him a chance to get out his double barrel shot gun which he carried in the cart and get ready for action. This milling and yelling, around and around, must have kept up for ten or fifteen minutes. We didn't want to kill any of them, but we didn't propose they should get any advantage of us, and every man was on guard. By and by, Robert and Zach, who faced the road ahead, put spurs to their horses and broke through the ring, Robert turning on the Indians to the right and Zach to the left, each with a navy in each hand and the bridle reins in his mouth. This caused the Indians to break up the milling and hurry to the rear in order to keep their forces together. At the moment when they started back, two of our men put whip to the mules and forced them out through the gap as fast as they could gallop. The rest of us stood firm and steady, holding our guns on the Indians. We held them in this manner until the mules were well out of the way, then turned and galloped after them. We knew all the time that we had the Indians bluffed. They couldn't get any advantage of us and they would not fight in the open. They stood completely still after we left them and continued to watch us as long as we were in sight. We made good haste that afternoon and traveled late. By 6:00 o'clock we were twenty-five miles away, and after supper we pressed forward until midnight. We counted that this put us a safe distance away, but to make still more certain of our position, we rode off from the trail about a mile to camp. At daylight we were moving again and the next day at noon reached Ft. Laramie. Perhaps this haste and forced marching were all unnecessary, but in dealing with the Indians, it is a good idea to put just as much distance as you can between yourself and them. Ft. Laramie offered us the first real security we had known since we crossed the Continental Divide. The whole territory, especially between Platte River and Ft. Laramie, was infested with the worst bands of Indians then known to emigrants, and many trains had been robbed and the members killed on this portion of the journey. We found sixty thousand Indians at Ft. Laramie to draw their pay from the government. All were camped across the river north of the Fort. As we left Ft. Laramie we rode over and stopped for our mid-day meal. They gathered around us, made signs, tried to swap ponies with us and pretended to be, and were in fact at that time, very friendly with us. I remember an amusing incident that occurred at this time. Brother Isaac had a little Spanish mule which he offered to the Indians for a pony. The Indians asked if the mule was gentle. Isaac told them it was perfectly so, and in order to prove it, he jumped upon the mule bareback and with nothing but a halter to control it by. The mule had carried a pack all the way from Sacramento, but this was a new experience. He immediately bowed his back, stuck his head down between his knees, and began bucking. In a twinkle, Isaac was rolling ten feet away in the sand. I never saw anything give as much delight as this gave the Indians. They whooped and yelled and kept it up. Now and then it would subside and then break out again. We joined the Indians and laughed as heartily as they; everybody enjoyed it but brother Isaac. It was like most funny things, no fun at all to somebody. About 2:00 o'clock we started down North Platte. The soldiers warned us to look out for scouting parties of Indians, and our own experience told us this was good advice. We met with no trouble, however, and reached the mouth of South Platte in good time. On this ride from Ft. Laramie to South Platte I think we must have seen hundreds of thousands of buffalo. They were so tame they would hardly give us the road. We had all the good buffalo beef we wanted every meal. A while before camping time, one of our party would ride ahead, pick out a good place where water and fuel could be had. He would then ride out to the closest buffalo herd, pick out a fat yearling, shoot it, and have it ready when we came up. It was short work to make a fire, make our bread, make the coffee and broil a fine buffalo steak. I have never enjoyed any meals in my life more than these. There was only one trouble about this method of getting our meat--the wolves kept us awake most of the night fighting over the carcass. In order to avoid this we usually dragged the carcass out of hearing of the camp. On the trip down from Ft. Laramie we noticed one day a great herd of buffalo far in front of us and a little to the right of the trail, which seemed to be grazing on the hillside in a circle. As we came nearer we made out the situation more clearly. Hundreds of them grazing, heads outward, formed a complete circle in which there must have been a thousand little calves all lying down. On the opposite hillside a half mile away, we saw about twenty savage wolves watching the herd. The buffalo were watching also. They knew the wolves were there and they were protecting their calves against them. When we reached Ft. Kearney we learned that the Indians on Little Blue were on the war path, so kept on down Platte River fifty or sixty miles farther, and then passed across the country where Lincoln now stands, and reached the Missouri River at old Ft. Kearney, where Nebraska City is now situated. We crossed the Missouri River into Iowa and thence down the east side of the river. About the middle of the afternoon one day, we crossed the Missouri line, journeyed on to night, and went into camp without a guard, the first in three months. We passed Jackson's Point and Oregon, in Holt County, and reached Jimtown, Andrew County, where we stopped for the night with Drury Moore, a cousin of ours, and slept in a bed, the first in three years. Next day we reached home. We rode up, driving our pack mules loaded with blankets, bread pans, frying pans, coffee pots, tin cups, and sacks of provisions; hair and beard long and unkempt and tanned as brown as Indians. Mother, sister Mary and brother Isaac's wife were the only members of the family at home and they came out on the portico of the house to watch us. They were not expecting us for two years, and of course, thought the caravan they saw belonged to strangers. When we began climbing off our horses and fastening the pack mules to the fence, they fell back into the house. We hitched, got over the fence, and walked up to the door without being recognized. In fact, we had a real hard time convincing them that we were really ourselves, and I am not very much surprised that they should not have known us. The dirt, sand, wind, sun and the grimy life we had led for more than six weeks without a shave or a hair cut was enough to disguise us. We reached home about the middle of September, 1851. It was a delightful thing to be at home once more, but in order to carry out our plans we had little time to spare during this season of the year. Prairie hay grew in great quantities on the old farm and it was now in perfect condition to be cut and cured. We rested only a day or two, then sharpened up the scythes and went to work. We cut and cured twenty or thirty tons of this hay in order that we might have something to feed the cattle on as we collected them together. After this was done, we had a good long period of rest. Christmas came and we entered into the fun with the young folks. I think I shall never forget this winter at home. About the first of January, 1852, we began buying cattle and kept it up throughout the remainder of the winter. By the first of May we had five hundred and fifty head collected upon the old farm ready to start. CHAPTER V. _Across the Plains With Cattle._ The first days of May found us on the banks of the river at the mouth of Black Snake. Most of the men went along with the first load of cattle ferried across the river. As the cattle were driven out on the farther shore, the men corralled them and held them on a sand-bar to await the slow process of bringing the whole herd across. Elwood bottom at that time was a perfect wilderness of timber with only an Indian trail leading through it out as far as Peter's Creek. After much delay, the last of the herd was ferried over and then came the wagons, oxen, horses and mules. There were twenty-five men in charge of this drove of cattle. Each man had a horse, and besides this, we had a number of mules. We took three wagon loads of provisions and had four yoke of oxen to each wagon. This comprised the outfit. The Indians occupied the land on the Kansas side of the river and they came down to see us cross. They were peaceable and harmless, and did not mean to give us any trouble. They would come up close to the trail, and stand and stare at the cattle, and this was about as bad a thing as could have been done. I don't know why it is, but cattle never liked Indians. The whole herd would pass a white man without paying any attention to him, but if an Indian stood by the wayside where the cattle could see him, he would create a great commotion, and frequently, unless the greatest care was observed, a stampede would follow. The cattle were not used to traveling, and we experienced our greatest trouble the first week out. We had not only the Indians to contend with, but we had to break the cattle to drive, and the brush and timber were so thick that every man in the company had to be on the watch to keep from losing some of the herd. The men were as green as the cattle, and with all these hindrances we made slow progress the first period of our journey. At the end of about a week or ten days, and after we had reached the high prairie, things began to settle down. The men learned their duties and the cattle had apparently been as apt as the men. They understood exactly what was before them when the start was made in the morning. One of our company always rode ahead and it was a pretty sight to see all the cattle break away from grazing and start out after this leader as soon as the men began to crack their whips and call to them. We made no haste. The grazing was good and the water plentiful, and we wanted our cattle to get in as good condition as possible before they reached the desert part of the journey. Ten or fifteen miles a day was counted a good day's drive. At this rate, there was plenty of time for grazing and rest. The new men with us were impatient to go faster, but those of us who had been over the journey knew too well the trials ahead to permit haste on this part of the road. We wanted to save our strength in order that we might make haste across the mountains and the alkali that lay between us and the end of our journey. At Little Blue we overtook a train lying in camp, and learned that Cholera had broken out, and that several deaths had occurred. An old man by the name of Frost came out to where we were and said he had been waiting for us; that he had heard we would be on the road this year, and when misfortune and sickness overtook his train, he decided to wait for us. He lived on Grand River, and his son had died of the Cholera, and we wanted to take the body back home. He said he had enough of the plains and didn't care to spend the remainder of his days amid such hardships. He had forty head of choice dairy cows and asked us to buy them. We told him we had no money for that purpose with us. He said he didn't want the money, if we would give him our note it would be good enough for him. We accordingly gave him a note for six hundred dollars and he turned his little herd over to us. Brother Isaac decided to return with Mr. Frost and wait until he heard from us, and if we succeeded in getting our cattle through without difficulty, he would bring another herd the next year. Within a week after Isaac left, brother William, who had made the trip home by way of Panama and New York, overtook us with a drove about equal in number to ours. We combined the two and all moved together, thenceforth throughout the journey. I may anticipate a little here and say that after arriving in California, we sent the money back to take up our note given for the forty cows. It reached our father and he communicated with Mr. Frost, paid him the money and took up the note. It was pretty slow business, but it was accomplished without difficulty. When the two herds of cattle and two companies of men were joined together, they made quite a caravan. A good many Buchanan County boys made the trip with us, among them were James and Russell Deakins, Joe and Sebastian Kessler, Rufus Huffman and a man by the name of Streeter, who went along as cook in brother William's company. There were many others, but I cannot now recall their names. We journeyed without incident that I now recall until we reached Plum Creek, which I have described in the account of my first trip out. Close to this place the wolves attacked our cattle one night and caught a fine cow and a heifer, and before we could relieve them tore their flanks so dreadfully that they both died. The bellowing of these two raised the whole herd and came near creating a stampede. It was a very dark night. The entire company got out upon horseback and rounded up the cattle, and kept galloping around them the remainder of the night, firing their guns to frighten away the wolves. It is a wonder we didn't have more trouble with wolves than we did. The buffalo had all gone south and had not returned, and the wolves were savagely hungry and would attack most anything that offered them a chance of securing food. We kept our course on up the Platte, taking every protection against wolves and Indians, and finally reached a point just below the junction of the two rivers. Here we decided to try a new road. We would not go up the South Platte as we had gone on our previous trip, but would cross the river and follow up the North Platte. We spent half a day sounding the bottom of the river and found we could cross by raising our wagon beds about ten inches. The banks of the stream were low, but the water was running nearly bank full. By the middle of the afternoon we had the wagon beds all raised and the banks spaded down and ready for the start. We hitched ten yoke of cattle to one wagon and drove in with five men on horseback on each side of the cattle to keep them straight. This wagon crossed over in good shape and the oxen were driven back and a second wagon taken across the same way. As the last wagon crossed, we pushed the whole drove of cattle, a thousand in all, after the wagon. The loose cattle traveled faster than the work cattle and began to bunch behind the wagon and around the oxen until we could not tell the work cattle from the loose ones, except by the yoke. The loose cattle crowded on, more and more of them gathering about the wagon until I began to think our work cattle as well as the wagon were in great danger. We took quick action to relieve the situation. I ordered fifteen or twenty of the boys to rush right in, and with their whips force the loose cattle away from the oxen. They cut and slashed, whooped and yelled, and finally got in alongside the wagon and the work cattle. They then forced the oxen as fast as they could to shore and drove them out safely on the opposite bank. This left the loose cattle without any guide as to their course across the river. The current was running swiftly and the cattle wandered off down the river, sometimes getting beyond their depth and finally when they reached the bank, it was in many places so steep they could not climb out. It was a pretty serious situation for a little while, but by and by through hard work and much racing of the horses, we got them all out on the opposite shore and rounded them up about sundown. Next morning we started on our slow journey up North Platte and moved on day by day, passed Fort Laramie, and a few miles above it struck across the mountains along the old trail most of us had twice traveled. Scenes were familiar along this route by this time--Fremont's Peak in the distance to the north, Independence Rock and Devil's Gate, and farther on South Pass, which divides the waters of the Atlantic from the Pacific. Green River was past fording. A couple of men from the east somewhere had constructed their wagon beds of sheet iron made in the shape of flat boats and had left home ahead of emigration and when they reached this river, unloaded and set their wagon beds on the river and were ready for business. They set our wagons over at five dollars per load, and we swam our horses and cattle after them. We chose the old trail over which we had gone in forty-nine, as better than the Hedgepeth cut-off, and so we passed Soda Springs and Fort Hall, thence down Snake River to mouth of Raft River, up Raft River and over the divide to the Humboldt, down the Humboldt, over the desert and across the Sierra Nevada Range, and down on the other side. Every spot seemed as familiar to me as my father's door yard, but the most vivid recollections came when I passed the old pine tree at Weaver Creek under which I lay sick for ten days in forty-nine. We crossed Sacramento River on a ferry at Sacramento City and went forty miles southwest into the Suisun Valley, nearer San Francisco Bay than our first ranch. We stopped a few days on Charles Ramsey's ranch until we could locate grazing land of our own. Ramsey was a son-in-law of Calvin James, and, as heretofore related, had brought his family with my brothers on their trip out in 1850. He built a pre-emption house in a black-haw patch where Easton, Missouri, now stands. After his arrival in California in 1850, he took up a ranch in Suisun Valley and passed the remainder of his life there. After resting a few days at Ramsey's, brother James and I went back east about ten miles to Barker Valley and located a ranch, and returned for our cattle. Our first thought was of the cattle and after they had been provided for, we thought of ourselves. We put up a substantial cabin to shelter us from the rainy season, and then built a large corral by cutting posts and setting them deep in the ground, and binding the tops together with rawhide. We then dug a deep ditch around it, after which we were sure it would hold a grizzly bear. Our ranch proved to be on land claimed by Barker, a Spaniard, who lived about ten miles away, but he gave us no trouble. He had a little village of Spaniards around him and about fifty Digger Indians who were his slaves. They were quite friendly, and we all worked together looking after the cattle. By the time all preparations had been made for winter, the season was pretty well advanced. Through it all, we had not had time to lay in a supply of venison for the winter or to enjoy a good hunt. After everything else had been done and we had rested a few days, we rigged up our pack mules and started for the mountains. I have already described the abundance of game in this country, and on this hunt we found no exception. Deer, antelope, elk and bear in plenty. We had to watch also for California lions, wolves and wildcats. They were abundant also. We were gone on this hunt about a week. Had a camp in which we assembled over night and brought in the results of our day's work. It was great fun to sit about a big camp fire and re-count the experiences of the day. We secured all the venison we could possibly need for a long period of time, and with it set off to our cabin to spend a winter very much the same as we had spent a previous winter farther up the valley. Our only diversion was with the gun and the dogs. Wild fowl was still abundant, and we had the choicest meats whenever we wanted them. I remember during this winter that a large herd of elk were driven out of the swamp by the water, and into an open valley near our cabin. The dogs sighted them and made for them. They singled out a monster buck and he took to the water to battle them. The dogs were plucky and swam in after him, but they had little chance, as the water was beyond their depth, while he could easily stand on the bottom. As the dogs would approach him, he would strike them with his front feet and plunger them under. We watched the proceedings for a few minutes and soon saw that our dogs would all be drowned if we let the buck alone, so one of our boys rode in and shot him with his revolver. We dragged him out and dressed him. He was a monster, and must have weighed as much as 800 pounds. His antlers were the largest I have ever seen. CHAPTER VI. _A Bear Hunt._ By March, our cattle were fat, and we began marketing. A bunch of dairy cows shipped across San Francisco Bay to San Francisco brought two hundred dollars a head. A month later we took over one hundred beef cattle and sold them to Miller and Lucks for one hundred dollars per head, and at various intervals throughout the spring months, we culled out the fattest cattle still on hand and took them over, receiving for all of them prices ranging from seventy-five to one hundred and fifty dollars per head. Our plan was to stay in California during this summer, and we congratulated ourselves that we were to escape the burning plains. We had very little to do, had plenty of money and plenty to eat, and I believe every man in the camp was pretty well satisfied with California. Late in the fall, as was our custom, we organized another hunt. I would not mention it but for an incident that occurred out in the mountains which may be interesting. The party consisted of my brothers, William, James and Zack, Joe and Barsh Kessler, and myself. We reached a good place to camp late one evening and pitched our tent. Some of the boys went to work about the camp, others took their guns and went out to look for camp meat and found it. One of the boys brought down a nice deer, and brought it in in time for supper. Next morning the party was up bright and early, and took off in various directions to look for game. We had not been separated a half hour until I heard the guns popping in various directions. I was crawling along the side of a gulch making my way up the mountain, and had concluded luck was against me. Shortly after I had made this reflection, I heard the sound of brother William's gun, which I knew very well, off to my right and across the canon. Then I heard a dreadful growling and howling and knew that William had wounded a bear. In a moment I heard a second shot, but the growling continued. I ran down the side of the gulch, crossed the ravine at the bottom, and started up the other side when I saw farther up the mountain a big grizzly making his way slowly along sniffing, growling and plowing through the wild oats that covered the side of the mountain. I was satisfied it was the bear that William had wounded, and I knew it was not safe for me to get very close to him. However, I was then in safe quarters, and I decided to move on to a position where I could get a shot that would bring him down, and, if I could not do this, it was my plan to keep him in sight so I could direct William, who was on horseback, how to follow him. In passing through the brush and undergrowth, however, I lost sight of the bear. I stopped and listened, but could hear nothing. I was in fairly open ground and could see some distance away, and as the bear was quite a distance ahead, I decided to move cautiously along. I really thought the bear had gone over the mountain. I moved slowly and as I approached fairly well toward the top, I noticed a thick bunch of weeds off at a distance, but it did not occur to me that the bear had stopped there. However, I continued up the mountain, intending to leave the weeds to my left. I slipped along until I got opposite the weeds, and there to my great astonishment, I saw the bear not thirty yards from me. His eyes were set upon me and his hair all turned the wrong way. I then thought for the first time how indiscreet I had been. I had only one chance, and I took that in a hurry. I dropped my gun and started down the mountain for a scrubby tree which stood about sixty yards away. When I started to run the bear took after me. I ran with all my might and as I passed under the tree, I jumped up and grabbed the lower limb and swung myself up. The bear came growling and plowing down the mountain, and raised on his hind feet, and grabbed my boot with one of his paws just as he passed under me, but the ground was so steep and his momentum was so great that it forced him on down the side of the mountain beyond me. This gave me time to go up the tree as high as I could, though it was so small that I could not feel very secure. The bear came back growling and snarling, and came up to the tree, stood up on his hind feet with his paws around the tree, and tried to reach me. I was not over five feet above him, but he could not reach me. I pulled off my hat and threw it upon the ground. He growled and fell back after it, and tore it all to pieces. This seemed to satisfy him for he did not come back to the tree any more, but stood looking around for a while and then walked away. He went on up the side of the mountain, perhaps a hundred yards, and crawled into a thicket of chapparal brush and laid down. I called William as loud as I could but got no answer. I called again and again, and finally he heard me. The first thing he said was, "Look out, there is a wounded bear up there." I called back to him and told him it was gone, but he didn't understand me. He said, "Get back, get away from there, there is a wounded bear in the weed patch right by you." I answered and told him to come on up, and he did so. He seemed surprised to see me in a tree, but I soon related my experience and pointed out the chapparal brush in which the bear was lying. I had had a pretty narrow call, but I was not willing to give up without the bear. The question was how could we get him. I would not risk getting down and walking up to the brush patch. One experience of that kind was enough. There was a tree standing a few yards from the thicket, and after looking the situation over a while, I told William to go and ride between the tree and the brush, and keep a close lookout, and I would get down, run to the tree, climb it, and go out on a limb that extended toward the brush where I thought perhaps I could see to get a shot. He said it was a little dangerous, but I told him I was willing to give the old bear a dare anyway, that he had caught me off my guard the first time. We waited quite a long time and heard nothing from the bear, so William concluded to try it. He rode around up the side of the mountain between the brush and the tree, and made considerable noise, but the bear lay still. He called me, and I climbed down, ran as hard as I could, and was soon up the other tree and out of danger. This was a large tree and gave me plenty of protection. After I was well up the tree, I pointed out where I had dropped my gun and William went and got it. He said he had hard work to find it, as it was almost covered with wild oats straw and dust which the bear had dragged over it in his chase after me. The gun was father's old Tennessee rifle and as true a weapon as I ever used. William handed the gun up to me and I examined it to see if it was all right. I then climbed high up in the tree and went out on the limb that extended toward the brush. From this point I had a good view down into the thicket and I soon located the bear. I laid my gun across a limb and drew a bead on his head. At the crack of the gun he straightened out and began to tremble and kick, and I knew the fight was over. His struggles dislodged him from his position on the steep mountain side and he tumbled over and over down the slant to the bottom of the gulch. He looked as big as an ox, but not half so dreadful to me as when I was scampering away from him an hour before. We dressed him and went to camp. The other boys were there and each had a story to tell. Ours was of big game and easily carried away the honors. We put in a week or more at this camp and had a good time and got any quantity of venison. Everything was so free, the air and water were so pure, and the wild tent life so fascinating that I often think of those days with delight. Shortly after our return from this hunt, Joe Kessler and I loaded our pack mules and started back across the Sierra Nevada Mountains to meet brother Isaac, who was about due with his drove of cattle from across the plains. We had heard nothing from him since he left us the summer before, but he had told us he expected to get a herd of cattle and come. We met him on Carson River, and as I recall now, there were a number of Buchanan County boys with him--William James, John Sweeney and John Bridgeman were three that I recall. They had some eight hundred or a thousand cattle, and had crossed the plains without any very great difficulty, except the suffering and hardship from the drouth and alkali which could always be expected. We got the cattle across the mountains and on the ranch without difficulty and turned the poor things out to rest and get fat. We remained on the ranch and in the cabin until everybody was well rested and then Bridgeman and the other boys who had come out with Isaac, began to talk about a hunt. They had heard our bear and deer stories and wanted some experience of their own. I must tell one thing that occurred on a hunt that was planned for these boys especially, although I have previously related at considerable length my hunting experiences. We had been out in the camp a day or two and had not had much luck, especially with bear; but one afternoon while we were all moving along pretty close together and somewhat contrary to our ordinary methods of hunting, we ran on to two brown bears just as they were going into a dense thicket covering about twenty acres of ground. We had no chance to get a shot before they went in. We immediately surrounded the thicket and posted men at convenient distances apart, and began an effort to dislodge them. In spite of the danger of doing so, some of the boys went into the thicket and made a great noise which drove the bears to the farther side and gave the boys on that side a fair chance for a shot, but they did not get them and the bears ran back into the thicket. The same tactics drove them from one side of the thicket to the other for an hour or more, and nobody was able to make a telling shot. By and by both got away, and everybody was deeply chagrined--especially the boys who were out for the first time. We moved away from the thicket and down the mountain side, all still much excited, and stopped to rest in a little glade that was almost completely surrounded by thick brush. There was not a loaded gun in the crowd. As we sat there talking, a grizzly bear that looked as big as an old gray mule, walked out of the brush not twenty steps away. He raised up on his hind feet with his paws hanging down to his sides, dropped his lip and showed his teeth. I don't think I ever saw a crowd of men so badly scared. They jumped and ran in every direction. The closest tree stood between where we were sitting and the bear. Sweeney made for it. He was beside himself. He tried to climb the tree but lost his hold and fell back. He tried again, but the tree had a smooth trunk and he slipped again. He slid down until he sat flat upon the ground with his arms and legs locked around the tree. Here he lost his head completely. His desire to get up the tree had evidently placed him there in his own imagination, for he called out: "Hand me my gun up here! Hand me my gun up here!" He then said, "Why in the hell don't you boys climb a tree?" I stood perfectly still and kept my eye on the bear. I soon saw there was no danger in him; that he was as badly scared as we were. He stood a moment, dropped on his four paws to the ground, wheeled and went tearing back through the brush. I told the boys he couldn't understand what they were doing and took their conduct to be preparation for a great fight, and that I didn't blame him for getting scared. If the devil himself had seen them and hadn't understood that they were scared, it would have frightened him. When we got over our scare, we loaded our guns carefully and started for camp. The boys were still excited and as we passed over the stream which flowed at the bottom of the canon, we saw where a bear had apparently, but a few minutes before been wallowing in the mud and water. The mountain sides were steep and rough and covered with brush, and our boys after their recent fright, were in almost as much terror at this evidence of nearness to a bear as they were when they could actually see him. The experienced members of the party looked into the situation for a moment and decided that we would probably get this gentleman. We climbed back up the canon, every now and then loosening a big rock and rolling it down through the brush. By and by we routed out a brown bear. He started up the mountain on the opposite side of the gulch and in plain view. I gave him a sample of what my Tennessee rifle could do and sent him rolling back to the bottom of the gulch ready to be dressed. We remained in camp a week or two on this hunt and everybody, as usual, enjoyed it. We went back to the cabin where six Gibson brothers lived together. The cattle were little trouble, and there was nothing to do most of the time but loaf, and this didn't suit us after so much activity. We soon began to plan for the succeeding year. The cattle were not much trouble and two men could easily take care of them. James, Zack, Robert and myself volunteered to return to Missouri and bring another herd out next year, leaving William and Isaac in charge while we were gone. CHAPTER VII. _Home by way of Panama and New York._ About the first of November, the four of us left the ranch for San Francisco. There we bought four tickets for New York for eight hundred dollars, and each man belted a thousand dollars in twenty-dollar gold pieces around him. Our ship was the John L. Stephens, and carried about a thousand passengers, besides a large quantity of freight. It was my first experience on the water, and as we sailed out through the golden gate and into the open sea, I had many misgivings and wished myself back upon the plains among the Indians. But in a little while I grew accustomed to life on the ship and really enjoyed the whole trip. At some point on the coast of Old Mexico the ship anchored and took on board a drove of beef cattle, and that was the only stop between San Francisco and Panama. When we reached Panama the ship anchored about a mile from shore and little black natives rowed out in small boats to carry the passengers in. When the boats reached the side of the ship, they were hoisted by ropes to a level with the deck, loaded with passengers and lowered again to the water. The natives grabbed the oars and away we went. All passengers remained in Panama over night, and next morning a train of pack mules was lined up for the overland trip. We rode twenty miles on mules to the Charges River, then down the river in boats twelve miles and then eight miles by railway to Aspinwall. The ship, George Law, was waiting for us, but it required two days to get all the passengers and baggage across the isthmus and loaded. During that time we remained in Aspinwall. It was a wonder to me that the task could be finished so quickly. There were a thousand passengers--many women and children--and the sick who had to be carried on stretchers by the natives twenty miles over the mountain to Charges River. Besides, the road was a mere pack trail through rocks and cliffs, often very steep and very rough. To make the task more difficult, the passengers of the George Law--about as many as were on the John L. Stephens--were making the trip in the opposite direction to take our ship back to California. Those were busy days for the natives. The George Law steamed right up to shore against a rock bluff and the passengers walked directly over the gang plank on to the ship. When all was ready the seamen hauled in the cables and we sailed for New York. The sea was very rough all the way--that is, it seemed so to us. We landed at Key West, but remained there only a few hours and stopped next time at New York City. As the passengers started for shore the captain told them to look out for their pocket books. We had done that back in San Francisco when we put on our belts. Our first thought on landing was clothing. We were dressed for summer time, as the climate we had been in required, but it was winter in New York, with deep snow on the ground. The afternoon after landing saw us duly provided with plenty of warm clothing and tickets by railroad and boat to St. Louis--railroad by way of Buffalo, Toledo and Chicago to Quincy, and from Quincy to St. Louis by boat. At St. Louis brother Robert was taken sick and we all remained there a week. The usual course from St. Louis home was by stage, but we met a man named Andrew Jackson from Holt County, who told us if we would pay him stage fare--twenty-five dollars each--he would buy a span of mules and a carriage and drive us through--as he needed both the mules and the carriage at home. This arrangement was made and we left St. Louis about the middle of December. The weather was very cold, snow a foot deep or more, and the roads very rough in many places. One pleasant thing about the trip was that we always had good, warm lodging places for the night along the road. Towns were close enough together to enable us usually to reach one of them and put up at the tavern, but if we failed in this, we always found good treatment at the farm houses by the way. A few miles west of Keytesville, Chariton County, we put up one night with a man named Tom Allen, who had a hundred head of steers ranging from two to four years old. They were exactly what we wanted, but were so far from our starting point that we were uncertain whether we could take them. He asked three thousand dollars for the herd. Next morning we looked them over carefully, and told him if he would keep them until the first of April we would take them. He agreed to this and we paid him a thousand dollars down and continued our journey. He was a complete stranger to us and we to him, but in those days men seemed to have more confidence in one another. No writing of any kind was entered into and we felt not the slightest uneasiness about getting the cattle. We reached home Christmas day, 1853, having made the trip in less than two months. CHAPTER VIII. _Another trip across the plains with cattle._ From Christmas until the middle of March, 1854, the time passed rapidly, with mother and father and with visits to old friends and acquaintances. On April first, according to contract, we arrived at Tom Allen's in Chariton County, and paid him the balance of two thousand dollars--in gold--and got our hundred head of cattle, all in good condition. As we passed Brunswick, we bought one hundred more and attempted to ferry the whole herd across Grand River in a flat-boat. We cut off a bunch and drove them down the bank on to the boat. They all ran to the farther end of the boat and sunk it, and the cattle went head foremost into the water. All swam back to the same shore, but one steer. He swam to the other side and ran out into the brush. We could do nothing but watch him go and gave him up for lost. A strange thing happened in regard to that steer. Just a year later, I found him on our ranch in California--the same marks and the same brand, besides my recollection of him. There could be no mistake about it. I can account for his presence there easily, for at that time many men were driving cattle across the plains. Some one found him and drove him along and, after arriving, as ranches were large and unfenced, he wandered with other cattle up into our ranch. After the unsuccessful attempt to ferry the cattle over the river we changed our plan and drove them twenty miles up the river to a point where it could be forded. Passed Carrollton where we picked up a few more cattle, and came on up to John Wilson's in Clay County, gathering a few here and there until we had three hundred head. Wilson had a herd of one hundred which we bought. These four hundred with two hundred purchased around home completed the herd. By the last day of April we had six hundred head in father's pasture at home, thirty head of horses and mules, two wagons loaded with provisions--four yoke of cattle to each wagon--and twenty men employed to go with us. As we laid the pasture fence down to let that drove of cattle out into the wide world, every man had to be on his guard. It was a timbered, brushy country and very hard to drive the cattle without losing them. There were probably fifty of our neighbors on hand to see us start--many of them on horse-back--and they gave us much assistance. By two o'clock next day we had everything across the river at St. Joe and the cattle herded on a sandbar above where Elwood now stands. After starting off the sandbar we had the same trouble in the heavy timber and with the Indians that we experienced on the first trip, but finally got out on the high plains with horses, cattle and men fairly well trained, and then considered our hard work finished, although two thousand miles of plains and mountains were ahead. Brothers James, Zack and Robert all started to accompany me on this trip, but, as it was unnecessary to have so many along, James and Robert returned after we had reached Big Blue, to gather up a herd for the following summer, and Zack and I continued the journey. I was considerably older than Zack, and the principal responsibility fell to me. The cattle were very valuable, but, in addition to that, I felt in a measure responsible for the lives of the thirty persons who accompanied the train--at least, in any conflict with Indians, I would be depended upon for counsel and guidance. I shall not attempt to give the details of this trip. The road is now familiar to the reader, and I hope also that, by this time, he can appreciate the tediousness of such a journey. He may be aided in this if I say here that we hadn't a pound of grain or hay with us, either for the horses and work cattle or for the herd, but all of them had to subsist by grazing. It was impossible, therefore, to make more than a few miles a day and it was only by determined persistence and a display of patience that I cannot describe, that we ever accomplished the journey. There are a few incidents, which, in addition to the ordinary hardships, served to make the trip still more tedious and trying, and these I will mention. One night we camped on a high, rolling prairie out beyond Little Blue. The cattle were grazing peacefully and the horses and mules--except those used by brother Zack and myself and by the guards--had been picketed out, and everybody in camp was asleep. One of the mules pulled up his picket stake and dragged it at the end of a long rope through the camp and caught the picket stake in the bow of an ox-yoke. This frightened the mule and he ran into the herd of cattle still dragging the yoke. A stampede followed. Work cattle, horses and mules--everything--and the noise sounded like an earthquake. The guards could not hold the cattle at all. Zack and I, who kept our horses saddled and bridled and tied to a wagon, were out in a moment, but we could give little assistance to the two guards in managing the crazy cattle, and the other men could not come to us for their horses had gone with the cyclone. It was very dark and our only guide to the location of the cattle was the roar of the ground. After a race of a few miles the roar ceased and we knew the cattle had checked. We rode in front of them and held them until daylight. They were badly scattered and exposed to wolves and Indians. It was twelve o'clock next day before we got them rounded up and ready to start forward. All the cattle and horses were found, but one of our mules was missing. No trace of him could be found anywhere, so we left him alone somewhere on those plains for the Indians or the wolves, or possibly, for a succeeding emigrant train. Day by day and week by week the journey continued without incident, until we reached a point high up on the North Platte. We camped one night upon the banks of a small stream that emptied into the Platte, and during the night a terrific hail storm came up. Shortly after it broke upon us, one of the guards came and said the cattle had gone with the hail storm, and the guards could do nothing with them. Several of us were on our horses and after them at once. A flash of lightning now and then helped us to find the main bunch, which we rounded up on a sand-bar in Platte River. No more sleep that night. When daylight came the hail lay two inches deep on the ground. I never experienced such a hail storm in my life, and it is my opinion that but few like it have ever visited this country. The count that morning showed thirteen cattle missing. For fear of a mistake we went forward and strung them out between us and counted again. Still thirteen short. To leave them without further effort was out of the question, so I picked five men--James and Russell Deakins, Joshua Gidlett, Buchanan County boys, and Tom Sherman and Henry Marks, two boys from Boston who joined our train at St. Joseph, and, with our guns and blankets and a small amount of provisions, started back to circle the camp and look for tracks leading away. I thought the Indians had them and told the boys we would likely have to fight, but all were willing to go. Zack was to move the train slowly forward until he heard from us. We did not search long after reaching the place where the cattle had been grazing when the storm came up, until we found tracks leading to the north, and by appearances we were able to conclude that there were just about the number we had lost in the bunch that had been driven away. We followed the tracks a few miles, looking all the time for Indian tracks and pony tracks, and could see neither, but there were numbers of what appeared to be dog tracks. This suggested wolves, and I began to look closely at the tracks made by the cattle. Going up the sides of the sand hills the cattle seemed to remain together, but going down they would separate and run, and on level ground would get together again and all circle around and wander back and forth. At such times we had great difficulty in tracing them. The movements of the cattle convinced me that wolves were after them. The tracks led us to the north about ten miles and then turned westwardly. We had followed in that direction about five miles when night came. As soon as it grew so dark we could not see the tracks, we staked out our horses, ate a lunch and spread our blankets down on the ground. We rested, but slept little. We had seen no Indians, but did not know how many had seen us, and might be following us. Two stood guard at a time while the other three lay on the ground in the darkness with their eyes wide open. At daybreak we were up, and as soon as it was light were on the trail again. Some miles on the tracks turned south, and this gave us courage, as Platte River and the emigrant road lay that way, but the wolves still had our cattle. The tracks led us on and on and finally up the side of a high range of sand hills, from the top of which we could see the valley of North Platte and the river far in the distance. We followed down the opposite side into the valley, and when within about two miles of the river I saw a bunch of cattle lying down near the bank. I was confident they were our cattle, unless other emigrants had lost a bunch in the storm, which was not probable. We hurried on and when within half a mile of the cattle found a carcass lying in the high grass and twelve or fifteen savage old wolves lying near by asleep. We pulled our navies and waked them up with bullets--killed three and wounded several others. We then rode on and found that the cattle were ours--twelve of them. A three year old heifer missing--the carcass we had found. The cattle were sore and gaunt, but otherwise unhurt. We pulled the saddles off our horses and staked them out to graze and lay down for a little rest. We had been gone from camp twenty-four hours, had had but two scanty meals and were probably twenty-five or thirty miles farther up the trail than the camp we left. Our train had not passed, as there were no fresh tracks on the trail, and we decided to endure our hunger and rest awhile before starting to meet it. In about an hour, however, I looked down the valley and saw the train moving slowly along. It reached us just about noon and all were greatly rejoiced. The noon meal was prepared and I think my tin cup of coffee was the best I ever drank. The train moved on without incident until we reached a point on North Platte some seventy-five miles above Fort Laramie, where a spur of the mountain, or rather a very high bluff, prevented us from following the river, as had been our purpose on this trip, and forced us across ten miles or more of rocky, mountainous country. When I entered my train upon that part of the journey I calculated there would be no obstruction, as no emigrants were ahead that I had heard of, and I knew no cattle trains were ahead of us. I rode in front always and the lead cattle followed close to my horse's heels. Always the same cattle, three or four in every herd, insisted on being in front, and if left in the rear as the train started out in the morning, they would crowd through the herd and be in front within an hour; then came the whole drove and then the wagons, followed by the loose horses and mules. Strung out in this fashion we started across this portion of the road, which in many places permitted only one wagon and team and not more than four cattle side by side. I led the long, winding string to the top of a mountain, and from that point I could see a line of dark objects a quarter of a mile long approaching us. I looked closely and determined it was Indians, and passed word to that effect back along the line. The men rushed to the wagons and got their guns, and by the time they had returned to their places I had made out that the Indians were moving and that we need not fear attack, as Indians never fight when the squaws and pappooses are along, but I was surprised at the little comfort I received out of that assurance. The puzzle to me was how to meet and pass them without stampeding the cattle. Cattle do not like Indians. They do not like their looks and they do not like their smell, and it is hard work to get them to pass a band of Indians on the broad prairie where they have plenty of room to shy. To pass on this narrow road was out of the question. I stopped to think and to look. Some distance ahead, but closer to us than the Indians, I saw what appeared to be a cove or basin, almost completely surrounded by high bluffs and opening upon the road. I rode hurriedly forward, beckoning the men at the same time to push the cattle after me. When I reached the mouth of the basin I stopped and turned the cattle into it. Little more than half the herd had gone in when the Indians came up. The cattle began to hoist their heads and shy, but the Indians did not stop. I rode back a few paces and met them, bowed and said "how-do" as friendly as I knew how, and made signs that I wanted them to stop. They seemed not to understand until I pointed to the cattle, still hoisting heads and tails, and when crowded forward, jumping to the side and running into the basin. When they saw this the whole train stopped. Our cattle and wagons and loose horses all came up and turned in--the men standing along the roadside to see the Indians pass in their turn. When everything was safely lodged in the receptacle, which it seemed to me Providence had designed for just such an emergency, I turned, took off my hat and bowed long and low and rode aside. The Indians bowed in return and passed on. We stood by the roadside and saw the whole caravan pass. There were probably five or six hundred of them--a tribe of the Crows. The long tent poles were tied one on each side of a pony, the ends dragging on the ground behind with a platform or base joining them, on which the tents and skins and such rude camp equipment as they had were piled. The shorter tent poles were tied one on each side of a dog, with baskets resting on the rear ends in which the pappooses were hauled or dragged along. Everything turned loose--not a halter or strap on dog or pony--all herded or driven like cattle. They were nearly an hour in passing us, and the men who were on the plains for the first time thought it an amusing experience. It required but a short time, after the movers had passed, to get our cattle out and start them on the road again, and, by night, we had passed over the mountains and were back on the river. A double guard kept watch that night, as we feared a band of the bucks that had passed us might come back and try to get some of our cattle, but the moon shone very bright, and as our whole force had stood by the roadside with guns across their saddles, they probably thought such an attempt would be useless. Our train moved on slowly, passed Independence Rock and over the continental divide and down into Green River Valley. When we reached Green River we rounded the cattle upon a sandbar and forced them all into the water at once. They got to milling around and round and going down the swift current, until we thought they would make the rest of the journey by water, but they soon found the water too cold for their enjoyment and headed for the farther shore. All got out but one. We took Hedgepeth's cut-off and reached the head waters of Humboldt without difficulty, thence down this river mile after mile, through sage brush and grease wood and alkali shoe mouth deep. As the cattle passed, a dense, black cloud rose above them, almost stifling men, horses and cattle. At night the men were black as negroes and complained of sore throat and sore lungs, but there was no escape. Big Meadows, as I have heretofore described it, afforded a delightful resting place just between the dense alkali and the sixty-mile desert. But for this oasis, I may call it, where rest and food and water could be had, it is doubtful if herds could have been taken across the plains. Certainly a different trail would have been required. With all our precautions the trip across the sixty-mile desert was a very hard one. The weather was hot. Not a drop of water nor a blade of grass for thirty hours. When the cattle caught sight of Carson River late one afternoon they went wild. No power could hold them. They ran headlong into the river and next morning five were dead. After the long march across the sand and alkali, the trip up Carson River and over the Sierre Nevada mountains was an easy one, and we made it without difficulty. Going down the opposite side we had to pass through great forests of pine timber, and the cattle, after being so long upon the treeless plains, seemed not to understand this and gave a great deal of trouble. One night we camped near Leake Springs in a heavy body of pine, quieted the cattle and had them all lying down, as we thought, for the night. Something frightened them, and away they started, right across our camp and back toward the top of the mountain. At the first sound of the stampede we jumped to our feet, whooped and yelled, threw our blankets in their faces and tried in every way to stop them, but they paid no attention and came crashing on through the brush. We were compelled to get behind trees to protect ourselves, and after the tornado of cattle had passed, gathered our horses and took after them. They were all strung out on the road, running as fast as they could, and we had to pass them by making our poor jaded horses outrun them. It was no easy task, and the leaders of the bolt for home were some fifteen miles away before we overtook and passed them. It was almost daylight when we succeeded in doing this, and it required most of next day to gather all of them up and get back to camp. Not a man had a morsel to eat until we returned to camp. We decided to keep moving slowly throughout the entire succeeding night, as the best means of preventing another stampede and in order to get out of the timbered mountains and into the valley where the cattle were not so apt to get excited. Early next day we reached the valley and stopped. Horses, men and cattle took a good rest. This stampede jaded both horses and cattle more than crossing the sixty-mile desert, hard as that was. After a day's rest we pulled on and passed through the mining district of Weaver Creek and American River, and reached Sacramento River at Sacramento City, crossed the river on a ferry and camped for the night on the farther bank. No guard out that night--the first in four months--and the boys went up to see the sights of the town. Human tongue can hardly tell the relief I felt when I could lie down and sleep without fear of Indians or wolves or stampedes. A better set of men than I had with me never crossed the plains, always ready for duty and to help me out of trouble. It was about thirty miles out to our ranch and I told the boys if they would go out with me I would board them as long as they wanted to stay. About half of them went and the others began to look about for themselves. It was an affectionate farewell that took place between us, and in all the years that have passed I have never seen many of those boys, but I shall never forget them. We reached the ranch without difficulty and turned the cattle loose. The poor things had been traveling so long and had become so accustomed to it that we had to watch them every day for nearly a month. They seemed to think they had to be moving, and after grazing awhile in the morning would string out on any road or path they could find and sometimes get miles away--the old leaders always in front--before we would discover them. After awhile we got them convinced that their journey had ended and that grass belly deep was a reality which they might actually enjoy. CHAPTER IX. _Sojourn in California._ The fall of 1854 and the winter and spring of 1855 were not unlike our previous winters in California. There was but little to do except watch the cattle to keep them from straying. Hunting was about the only diversion and game was still plentiful. Grass was abundant all through the winter and the cattle fattened rapidly. During the spring and summer months we marketed all that were in proper condition, still receiving excellent prices. About the first of August brother Zack and I rigged up our pack mules and started back to meet James and Robert who had turned back the year before to gather up another herd and bring it across the plains during the summer. We passed over the mountains and reached the sixty-mile desert, which was about two hundred and fifty miles back on the plains from our ranch. In all the year we had heard nothing from home, and the only information we had that they were on the road was the promise they made us as they left our train the year before. We camped just at the western edge of the desert and during the night a train pulled in off the desert. We inquired of them next morning whether they had seen or heard of Gibson's train. They said they had passed it somewhere on Humboldt River, but could not give the exact location. They also told us the Indians had killed one of the Gibson boys. They did not know which one--had just heard of the circumstance as they passed. This sad news was a great blow to us. We broke camp hurriedly and started across the desert, weighed down by the sad reflection that we would meet only one of our brothers--both equally dear, not only from boyhood association and ties of kindred, but from association in hardship across the dreary plains. We carried our weight of sorrow all that day and all the following night, across the barren sand, and at daylight we could barely make out Humboldt Lake in the distance. Upon closer approach we saw a large herd of cattle just being rounded up preparatory to the start across the desert. We hurried forward, hoping it was the train we were looking for, and yet fearing to know the truth of the rumor we had heard. A few moments dispelled our doubts. It was Gibson's train and Brother James was alone with his cattle and his men. Robert, our mother's baby, seventeen years old, was the victim. Brother James, with tears streaming down his sunburnt face, related to us the manner of his death at the hands of treacherous Indians, and the train halted on the threshold of the desert long enough for us to hear the story and dry the tears from our eyes. He said one day while on their journey over the mountains between Fort Laramie and the higher waters of North Platte, and while the herd was moving forward in order, he rode ahead to locate a camping place for the night and left Robert in charge. He had been gone but a short time when six Indians came up to the train and in their way inquired for the captain. One of the men told them he was in the rear. They rode back and when they reached the men in the rear turned their ponies and rode along with the train some distance. Robert, who, though only seventeen, had made four trips across the plains and understood the Indians, told the boys to watch them as he thought they were up to mischief. He feared they intended to get between the wagons, which were traveling close up behind the cattle, and loose horses and mules, which were in the extreme rear, and cut them off, so he dropped back and motioned the men who were driving the horses and mules, to close up and at the same time stopped the wagons. He had the stock driven around the wagons, thus placing them between the cattle and the wagons, leaving the wagons in the extreme rear. He then took his place alongside the cattle. All this time the Indians had said nothing, had simply followed along with the train. The show of authority was what they were waiting for. They evidently could not believe the boy they saw was in fact the captain. As soon as Robert took his place by the side of the cattle three of the Indians rode up by his side and began to jabber and make signs. The other three rode up behind him. One of the three behind had an old army musket and while the three in front engaged Robert the one with the gun rode up very close and shot him in the back. He fell from his horse and was dead in an instant. The Indians whirled and galloped away as fast as their ponies could carry them. One of the boys rode forward to notify Brother James and met him returning at full speed. He had heard the report of the gun and knew by the sound that it was an Indian's gun, and that it meant mischief of some kind. As soon as he returned to the train he mounted ten men and armed them and started after the Indians. After following about five miles he came in sight of them. About the same moment the Indians spied him and laid whip to their ponies. They were making for the mountains, but soon saw they would be overtaken and turned in the direction of the river. A hot race followed with the white men gaining all the time, but the Indians reached the river and plunged their ponies in. They had hardly reached the farther shore when James and his men were upon the bank. They fired at them but the distance was too great for the shots to take effect. The party thought it unwise to cross the river in pursuit, as it might be difficult to recross and all this time the cattle and the train were insufficiently guarded, so they turned and made their way back, conscious that had they overtaken the Indians and slain them all such an act could not have restored Robert to them, and their hearts would still have been heavy with their loss. When they returned to the train the boys had rounded up the cattle and were standing guard over them and the dead body. Nothing could be done but move on, but what was to be done with Robert's body? James said to attempt a burial where the wolves and coyotes would dig the body up was out of the question, and then he could not bear the idea of leaving him alone on those desolate mountains. So he put the body in one of the wagons and carried it forward two days journey, where they came to a trading post on the upper crossing of North Platte kept by an old Frenchman. There they procured a wagon box which they used for a coffin and buried him the best they could and protected the grave from wolves. James, learning that the Frenchman intended to go back to St. Joseph in about two months, employed him to take the body back with him and gave him an order for five hundred dollars in gold on Robert Donnell. I may as well relate here that the Frenchman kept his promise, brought the body back and got his money, and that Robert now lies buried in the old family cemetery in Tremont Township. I learned this on my return, and that mother identified the body by examining the toes, one of which Robert had lost in an accident when quite a little boy. Although the story was a sad one and our hearts were very heavy, still we could not tarry with our grief. The cattle must cross the desert and reach food and water beyond. James asked if we had had breakfast. I told him we had not--that we had traveled hard all night, but that we had a camp outfit and would prepare something after the cattle had started across the desert. When the train was under full way, we stirred the coals of their camp fire, threw on some greasewood brush and soon prepared bread and meat and coffee. The mules browsed on grease wood and we rested a couple of hours and then started after the train. All that day and all the next night--a steady drive, only now and then an hour's halt for food for ourselves and rest for the cattle. By eleven o'clock the following morning we were on Carson River, and glad we were, too. Zack and I had crossed over, taking twenty-four hours and back thirty hours--fifty-four hours without sleep or rest except two hours at the end of our first journey. In all my travels, and I look at it now after more than fifty years, with the experiences of the Civil War intervening, I have never seen a place so beautiful as Carson River and valley, not because it is more picturesque or naturally more enchanting than many places I have seen, but because it was so welcome with its cold mountain waters and fresh green vegetation after our weary journeys across the barren desert, and I never thought it more beautiful to behold than on this, my last visit. Men, cattle and horses all took a good long rest, but the train was up and many miles on the road before Zack and I awoke and followed. Two weeks more and the cattle were safe on the ranch and we were off duty once more, and as events transpired, off the plains for all time--after nearly seven years of almost constant hardship. During the fall of 1855 and the spring of 1856 we marketed off the fat cattle. Sold Graham and Henry of Georgetown five hundred head to be delivered fifty head every two weeks. Georgetown was a mining camp one hundred miles northeast of our ranch. Our cattle were scattered over our own ranch and the ranches of Phillips, Wolfscale and Barker, and were well mixed with their wild cattle and horses. It rained almost constantly. The plains were boggy and the streams full of water. We had no time to lose and were in the saddle almost day and night, if not on the road to Georgetown, then rounding up and sorting out the cattle. We delivered the first fifty head on the fifteenth day of October and the last on the first of April, and were glad when our task was over. The summer following passed without event worthy of mention. In the fall we sold Graham & Henry three hundred more cattle to be delivered in the same manner as the first, and had much the same experience, except that our work did not last so long. In the fall of fifty-seven, we sold our fat cattle and dairy cows to Miller & Lux, wholesale dealers in cattle in San Francisco. Delivery there was not so difficult. Our ranch was but twenty miles from San Francisco Bay, and after a drive to the shore of the bay the cattle were shipped across to the city. In the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-eight, Brother Isaac withdrew from the business and returned to Missouri. We gave him fourteen thousand dollars in gold and deeded him sixty acres of land in Tremont Township, Buchanan County, for his interest. We continued the business through the year 1859 as partners. Brother William remained with us, but had his own cattle and kept them on our ranch. Zack and I still had about one thousand head of stock cattle, and during the year, we bought several lots both of stock cattle and heifers. One bunch of a hundred heifers we turned over to James Glenn and Barsh Kessler, Buchanan County boys, to keep three years and breed for us, with the understanding they were to have half of the increase as pay for their trouble. Another bunch of fifty heifers was turned over to Perry Jones, another Buchanan County boy, on the same terms. Toward Christmas we heard that our mother had died. This left our old father alone on the farm with the negroes, and we decided to leave our cattle in the care of Jones, Glenn and Kessler and go back and visit him. It was too late in the season to attempt the plains. The hot, dry summer on the plains had parched and withered the scant vegetation that had grown in the spring and early summer, and the excessive cold and accumulations of snow in the higher altitudes, rendered a trip by land almost impossible in winter, so, much as we disliked the trip by water, we decided to make it. I will not attempt to relate the incidents of this trip, as they were unimportant. There was, besides, little to distinguish it from the first voyage over the same route, which I have already described. After reaching home we remained with our father until the first of May, when the start back overland must be made. It was decided that one of us must remain with father, and as Zack and I were in partnership and William was alone in his business, the choice of remaining at home lay between Zack and myself, as either of us could easily care for our cattle. I gave the choice to Zack and he decided he would go, and he and William, accordingly, rigged up our outfit and started. I took charge of the farm at home and with the help of the negroes, managed it through the season, and thus relieved father of all worry and responsibility. He had his horse and buggy and a black boy to care for it and drive him about the farm and over the neighborhood. Everything moved along in the usual way and I had a pleasant and restful summer--not so much restful from work, but restful compared with the excitement and over-exertion incident to a journey with cattle across the plains. I congratulated myself upon the choice Zack had made and was preparing for a year or two more of peace and quiet, but the death of my father the following fall left me alone with the farm and negroes. I remained with them throughout the winter, lonely and unpleasant as it was without my father, and planted and harvested most of the crop in sixty-one under many trying conditions. Stirring public events which began with the breaking out of the war interrupted my farming operations, and my part in them will furnish the material for several succeeding chapters. CHAPTER X. _Beginning of the War._ Shortly after the beginning of the war, Elijah Gates organized a company of southern boys, and most of my neighbors enlisted for six months. They wanted me to join them, but I said "no." I had been in camp for ten years and had some idea of the hardship of a soldier's life. I knew my place there on the farm would give me a far better opportunity to take the rest I felt to be so needful after my years of activity on the plains and in camp, and I could not be easily induced to leave it. Besides, I could not believe that a terrible war was upon us, and for a long time I had great faith that wise counsel would prevail and some reasonable adjustment be made of the differences between the North and the South. Gates' company and the regiment to which it had been assigned left home with a great flying of colors, but notwithstanding my expressed sympathy with the South, this did not tempt me and I remained at home with my crop. I took no part in the wild talk that could be heard on every hand and paid close attention to my own business, but I soon found that I would not be permitted to live in peace. The Southern boys had no sooner left for the front than the opposition began to pour in around me. My sentiments were well known--in fact I had never tried to conceal them, believing that a man in this country had a right to his opinions, but no man could point to a hostile word uttered by me. Notwithstanding this, those who were not willing to allow me to hold my opinions in peace began to harass and threaten me. I endured it until about the first of August, when I saddled my horse, buckled my navies around me and started alone to join the Southern army. I rode to Liberty where I expected to fall in with a company that I had heard was being organized, but it had gone. I met a man from St. Joseph by the name of Walter Scott, who was likewise disappointed at arriving too late for the company, and he and I set out together to join Price in Arkansas. We rode slowly along, stopping at night at farm houses and talked little to anyone about our plans. When within about ten miles of Springfield we stopped for the night with a man who told us that Lyon's army was at Springfield and that Price was camped at Wilson's Creek, about ten miles southwest of Springfield. I knew there was going to be a fight, and I slept little that night. It came sooner than I expected, for about sun up next morning we heard cannon off to the southwest. We sprang out of bed, and without waiting for breakfast, saddled our horses and galloped away. I knew Gates' company and my neighbors were in the fight and I wanted to help all I could. We had no trouble finding the way as the cannon and muskets were roaring like loud thunder and the smoke was boiling up out of the valley like a black cloud. We guessed right that Lyon had advanced out of Springfield and was between us and Price's army, but we hurried on expecting to take care of that situation after getting closer to the battle. When within a few miles of the battle ground the firing ceased and shortly afterwards we saw Federal soldiers coming toward us. We galloped away from the road and hid behind a cliff of rock and watched them go by. They were completely disorganized. Every man was pulling for Springfield in his own way, from five to fifty in a bunch, the bunches from one to three hundred yards apart. Some had guns, some had none. Some had hats, some were bare-headed. Every battery horse carried two and some carried three--all hurrying on. We finally grew tired, and at the first opportunity dashed across the road between squads and made our way along a by-path toward the battlefield. We had not gone far until we met wounded men trying also to make their way back to Springfield. Some would walk a short distance and get sick and lie down by the roadside and beg for water. Some would hobble on in great misery, stopping now and then to rest. Others, and the more fortunate it seemed to me, had crawled off in the brush and died. In advancing we found it would be necessary to cross the main battlefield in order to reach Price's camp which was located down on the farther side of Wilson's Creek. Here we found the dead lying so thick that we had to pick our way and then often had difficulty in going forward without riding over a dead body. We reached the camp and asked to be shown to Gates' company. All were glad to see us and made many inquiries about home and families and friends. They were just cooking breakfast. William Maupin apologized for their late breakfast by saying that "Pap" Price had called upon them very early to do a little piece of work and they had just finished it and that had delayed their breakfast. I told them what I had seen on the road down and up upon the battlefield, and asked how their company had fared. They told me that one man, George Shultz, was shot through the head the first round and that was the only loss their company had sustained. This was the tenth day of August, 1861. Next day I helped bury the dead Federal soldiers, and when this was done Price moved his army up to Springfield, as the Union army had in the meantime gone back to St. Louis. We remained there some two or three weeks. During my stay, Mrs. Phelps, the wife of Colonel Phelps, who commanded a regiment in Lyon's army at Wilson's Creek, and who had gone with the army to St. Louis, called on General Price for protection. She lived about two miles east of Springfield, and by the way, if I remember correctly, General Lyon was buried out at her place. Price sent Gates with his company, and as I had joined that company, I went along. We remained there as long as Price was camped in Springfield and took good care of her premises. Price decided to go north and this greatly pleased the boys. He had no army--just a lot of boys who furnished their own horses, guns, ammunition and blankets and most of the time their own provisions. He had little, or at least he didn't attempt to have much, discipline. We elected our own lieutenant, captain and colonel by vote, and General Price seemed entirely satisfied so long as we were all on hands when there was any fighting to be done. When we reached Little Osage River on our way north, Price went into camp and next day sent Gates out on a scout. Gates went in the direction of Fort Scott. We traveled about fifteen miles and came within a short distance of the Fort where we found two soldiers herding a drove of horses and mules on the grass. Lane was in Fort Scott with a large force, but evidently he had no idea Price was anywhere near for he had no pickets out. We made a run for the horses and mules and took them and tried to get both men, but one of them got away. We knew he would report and that would give us trouble. If we could only have secured both men we could have had the entire herd in our camp before Lane could have discovered that it was gone. We determined to do our best and get away if possible. Each horse and mule had a long rope attached to his neck which dragged along behind and this gave us much trouble and prevented fast traveling, as the horses stepped on the ropes and checked their speed. We got some four or five miles away and when on top of a high hill we looked back across the prairie and saw what appeared to be about two thousand mounted soldiers coming in hot haste after us. Gates had but five hundred men. The ground was hilly and Gates picked a few men and sent them on with the horses. He then stopped half his men just over the turn of the first hill, dismounted them and detailed every fourth man to take the horses further down the slant and hold them. The remainder lay flat down on the ground. The other half of his company he sent over beyond the next hill with directions to follow the same course. When our pursuers were a little more than half way up the hill coming toward us, we arose and fired into them. Lane dismounted his men and threw them in line of battle. By that time we were on our horses and gone. They could not see that we were gone and approached the top of the hill with great caution. This caused delay and that was what we wanted. When they found we were gone they mounted and followed. When about half way up the next hill the other half of our company gave them another round and, as they feared we intended this time to make a stand, they again dismounted and prepared to fight. They were again disappointed. This was kept up for several miles. When we first saw we were pursued a courier was sent to Price, but before Price could rally his army and reach us Lane gave up the idea of recovering his horses and went back to Fort Scott. We had one man wounded in the arm. We all returned to camp on Little Osage and next morning broke camp and started off as usual. I did not know the plan, but when Gates' company was placed in front and led off over the same road we had traveled the day before, I knew an attack on Fort Scott was in mind. When about ten miles out we came to the top of a hill overlooking a wooded valley with a small dry creek running through it. We could see a long distance across the valley into the prairie hills beyond, but could see no sign of soldiers. The whole force halted and Gates was directed to go forward across the valley and through the timber, which I judge was nearly a mile in width. We passed down the hill and went very cautiously through the woods, but neither saw nor heard anything to arouse suspicion. On reaching the farther side of the timber we stopped and got off our horses to rest and allow them to graze. The whole company was entirely off guard and the boys were talking and laughing and having a good time, when suddenly cannon and muskets began to roar behind us. We soon saw what had happened. The Federal troops lay concealed in the timber and on discovering that we were but an advance guard, allowed us to pass, guessing aright that Price, after allowing us time to pass through, would, if we were not molested, move his main force forward. Price had followed us and the guns we heard were the beginning of the attack upon him. In a moment every man was in the saddle. We dashed back through the timber and found that Lane had advanced and attacked Price in the open and while in the line of march. We could see some confusion, and it took a good while to get the men up out of the line of march and in a position to fight. Bledsoe's battery, however, was in action and Lane's men charged and captured it, wounding Bledsoe. Presently two regiments came up and recaptured the battery. By that time a second battery had come up and opened fire. We were still in the rear of Lane and in great danger from our own men. We picked a time when everybody on both sides seemed to be engaged and started around to the right of Lane and up the crest of a long ridge that led to the top of the hill. When about half way to the top a company of cavalry started up a little valley to our left to cut us off. We had the best horses and a little the advantage in distance. Besides we were going toward our own army and getting safer all the time, while the company pursuing us was all the time getting closer to danger. We hoped they would follow until a company of our men could cut in between them and their main force, but they were too cautious for that and abandoned the chase. We galloped around, reaching our forces just as the fight was over. When our whole force was brought up and placed in fighting line the situation got too severe for an army with a good shelter behind it, so Lane's men broke ranks and started for the timber. They made no attempt to rally and come again, but went directly on to Fort Scott. The road was dry and the dust fogged up through the timber like a black cloud and made a good target for our batteries. Lane lost more men and horses in the retreat through the timber than in the main fight. Price crossed to the opposite side of the valley and camped for the night. Next morning very early he sent a scouting party with directions to ascertain as far as possible the probable strength of the forces in Fort Scott. The party found the place completely evacuated and so reported. Price made no attempt to follow, but continued his journey to the north. CHAPTER XI. _The Battle of Lexington._ When within a few miles of Warrensburg, we learned that a portion of Mulligan's force was camped there. We camped for the night and next morning discovered that the detachment had gone during the night to join the main force at Lexington. Gates was ordered to follow them. We traveled all day on a forced march, and when within a short distance of Lexington were fired upon from both sides of the road from behind corn shocks. We hastily dismounted and commenced shooting at the corn shocks. The firing from behind then soon ceased and the men hurried away towards Lexington. We followed, but as we were then less than a mile from the town we thought it unwise to go too close until our main force came up. Next day Price came up and made his headquarters in the fair ground just south of town. We camped there three days picket-fighting but getting ready all the time to attack Mulligan behind his breast-works. We had to mold our bullets and make our cartridges and when sufficient ammunition had been prepared we were ready. We marched up and were met at the edge of the town where the fighting began. We marched down the sidewalks on each side of the streets with a battery in the center of the roadway. Mulligan's men fought well and kept the street full of musket balls, but when the battery would belch out its grape shot they had to go back. I well remember, that at every opportunity we would jerk the picket fences down and go in behind the brick walls to shun the bullets. When the end of the wall was reached we had to step out on the sidewalk and face the music. They made a great effort to keep us out of town before they went behind their breast-works, but they had to go. When Mulligan reached and went behind his fortifications we closed in and surrounded him except upon the side next the river. Price sent a regiment up the river and one down the river. They charged and captured those portions of the breast-works which prevented us from getting to the river front and thus in their rear. This was done late in the evening and Gates' regiment lay on the hillside behind a plank fence all night to prevent a recapture. They made several attempts during the night but failed each time. The warehouses were full of hemp bales, and next morning we got them out and rolled them up the hill in front of us--two men to the bale--both keeping well down behind it. When we got in sight of their ditches we had a long line of hemp bales two deep in front of us, and then the fight commenced in earnest. They shot small arms from their ditches and cannon balls from their batteries. Sometimes a ball would knock down one of our top bales, but it soon went back in place. We brought our battery up behind the breastworks and by taking the top bale off we made an excellent porthole for the muzzles of our guns. The fight went on some two or three hours in this way. They in their ditches and we crouched behind our hemp bales. Every time a man showed his head half a dozen took a shot at him. They soon learned to keep their heads down, but they would put their hats on gun sticks and hold them up for us to shoot at, but we soon discovered this device and wasted very few bullets afterwards. If this situation continued it looked as if the siege might last a month, so we decided to move closer. The top bales were pushed off and rolled forward with two men lying nearly flat behind each bale. When within forty yards of the trenches the front row halted and waited for the rear line of bales to come up. It took but a moment to hoist the one upon the other and thus we put our breastworks in much better position. Our batteries came up with little trouble, as we covered the opposite line so completely that no one dared to raise his head and shoot. Their batteries were posted on an exposed hill some two hundred yards away, but not a man was to be seen about them. Their gunners had all gone to the trenches. Our only suffering was when moving our hemp bales up the first time, and again when we advanced them the second time, as at these times we were too busy to return the fire, but we were well protected and lost very few men. We lay in this position for three days. Mulligan's trench must have been nearly two miles long. We had no idea what was going on at any other point, but guessed the situation was very much the same along the whole line. We could hear through the woods a single gun now and then, reminding us more of a squirrel hunt than a battle. At the end of three days Mulligan surrendered. We were glad to see the white flag, not so much because it meant victory for us as because we were hungry and tired. Mulligan marched his men out and had them stack arms. Then we marched them away from their arms and lined them up unarmed. Price took charge and put a guard around them, and then paroled them and sent them home. Some of them went back to Buchanan County where they told friends of ours that Price had no privates in his army; that they saw nobody under a lieutenant. They may have reached this conclusion from the way all left the hemp bales and went up to see the surrender. Price went back to Springfield and Gates and his company came home. Billy Bridgeman, a nephew of mine who lived near Bigelow, in Holt County, was with us and when we reached my home he wanted me to go on with him to his home. It was a dangerous trip. St. Joe, Savannah, Forest City and Oregon were full of soldiers. We left home in the morning about daylight, passed up east and north of St. Joe, crossed the Nodaway River just above its junction with the Missouri, hurried across the main road between Oregon and Forest City, where we were most apt to be discovered, and reached his home on Little Fork, about night. We remained there about three days when some zealous female patriot saw us and reported us. We learned that we had been reported and kept a close watch all day and at night, feeling sure that the Forest City company would try to capture us, we saddled our horses and rode out away from home. It was bright moonlight, and when about two miles from home we heard them coming and stopped in the shadow of some trees. When they got within forty yards of us we fired into them with our navies, and kept it up until we had emptied our six-shooters. They whirled and ran back as fast as their horses could carry them. We loaded our guns and followed. The first house they passed one man jumped off his horse and left him standing in the road. We stopped at the fence and called. A woman came out of the house. I asked her if any soldiers had passed there. She said--I use her words just as she uttered them: "Yes, they went down the road a few minutes ago like the devil was after them." Billy and I did not know we had scared them so. The fine mare Billy's father had given him hurt her foot in some way and was limping badly, so he pulled off the saddle and bridle and turned her loose. She started at once for home, and Billy saddled up the horse that had been left and we started on. It was then midnight and we had sixty miles before us. It was dangerous to ride in daylight, but more dangerous to stop anywhere on the road as we had no friends or acquaintances on the way. We could do nothing but go on and take chances. When, early in the forenoon, we reached the ford of the Nodaway on the old Hackberry road leading from Oregon to Savannah, we met a man who told us that a regiment of soldiers had left Savannah that morning for Oregon. We crossed the river and turned to the right, leaving the main road and picking our way to the bluffs of the Missouri and down along these bluffs to a point just above St. Joseph. There we left the bluffs and went across the country to Garrettsburg on Platte River and reached home just at night. I called our old black woman out of the house and asked her if she had heard of any soldiers in the neighborhood and if she thought it would be safe for us to stop for supper. She said she had heard of no soldiers and she thought there would be no danger, but that Brother Isaac and George Boyer were up at Brother James' house waiting for us, so we rode on up there. We watered and fed our tired and hungry horses and had a good supper--the first mouthful since supper the night before--and all sat down to rest and talk. The house was a large two-story frame building fronting north, built upon a plan that was very popular in those days. A wide hall into which the front door entered from a portico, separated two large rooms--one on the right and the other on the left. A long ell joined up to the west room or end and extended back to the rear. A wide porch extended along the east side of the ell and along the south side of the east room of the front or main part of the building. A door in the rear of the front hall opened upon this porch, while doors from each of the rooms in the ell also led out upon the porch. We were all in the east front room with Brother James and his family. Brother Isaac and I were talking over our business affairs. Bridgeman had lain down upon a sofa and dropped off to sleep, and Boyer and Brother James and his family were chatting pleasantly, when a company of soldiers sneaked up and stationed themselves around the house. After they were sufficiently posted the captain gave us the first notice of their presence by calling out in a loud voice, "Come out, men, and give yourselves up, you will not be hurt." We knew by that call that a good strong force was outside and that trouble was at hand. We hurriedly lowered the window shades and blew out the light and remained perfectly still. The captain called again, urging that we would be treated as prisoners of war if we would surrender. We knew too well the value of such a promise made by the captain of a self-appointed gang of would-be regulators, who did not know the duty of captors toward their prisoners, and if they had known were not to be trusted. Besides we had no notion of surrendering as long as our ammunition held out. When the captain found we were not to be coaxed out by his false and flattering promises, he began to show his real intentions. He said, "Come out! G-- d---- you, we have got you now." We still gave no answer. Then he said if we did not come out he would burn the house down over our heads. When that failed he called on us to send the women and children out so he could burn the house. We accommodated him that much and sent them out. I told them to go out at the front door and to be sure and close it after them. When the women were gone we opened the door and passed into the hall and then to the back or south door, Bridgeman in front. He opened the door just enough to peep out. He had a dragoon pistol in his right hand and a Colt's navy in his left. When the door opened a man stepped up on the porch with his bayonet fixed and told Billy to come on. Billy gave him an ounce ball and he fell back off the porch. The fight was then on and had to be finished. Just after Billy fired the shot he accidentally dropped his navy from his left hand and it fell behind the door in the dark. He stooped to feel for it and Brother Isaac asked, "Billy was that you shot?" I told him that it was. He then said, "we must get out of here now." With that, and before Billy found his gun, I jerked the door wide open and went out. Brother Isaac followed me, Boyer next and Billy last. There was no one to be seen but the dead man by the side of the porch. The others had taken shelter behind the east end of the house and the south end of the ell. I went south along the ell porch and Isaac followed close behind me. When I got to the end of the porch I jumped off and there I found about a dozen men lined up. They fired at me but the blaze went over my head. I turned my face to them and took a hand myself. By that time Brother Isaac was at my side, and, although unaccustomed to warfare, he did good service. We opened fire and they turned and ran. We followed them around the house and ran them off the premises and out into the public road. When Billy found his navy and came out, he saw men at the east end of the house firing across at us from the rear so he ran down the porch that led to that end of the house. Just as he reached the end of the porch a man stepped from behind the house and raised his gun to shoot at us. Quick as a flash Billy stuck the end of his navy within six inches of the man's face and shot him in the mouth. The man dropped down on the ground and bawled like a steer. At this the men farther around in the chimney corner broke and ran and Billy followed. They did not stop running and Billy did not stop shooting until they were well off the premises. Boyer who was the third man out of the house afterwards related his experience to me. He jumped off the porch and ran out through the back yard. He stumbled and fell over a bank of dirt that had been thrown out of a well, but Brother Isaac and I were keeping all of them so busy that no one seemed to notice him. He was up in a moment and going again. When he got to the rear of the smoke house he ran over a man who lay hid in the weeds. The fellow jumped up and ran and Boyer shot at him, but both kept on running. Boyer reached a corn field and lay hid the remainder of the night. After the fight was over Billy, Brother Isaac and I went down into the woods and sat for a long time talking it over. We had no idea how many men were in the company, but were confident that it went away somewhat smaller than when it came. They got our horses and saddles and, as we had fired all the loads out of our pistols in the fight, we had nothing but the clothes on our backs and our empty revolvers. We didn't dare go back to the house, so, late in the night, we started out first to replenish our ammunition. We stopped at Jack Elder's, a mile to the west. He gave us powder and bullets, but he had no caps. We then went over to Judge Pullins' who had a good supply and furnished us plenty of them. After loading our guns we went north to the home of Joe Evans. Evans was a lieutenant in the Southern army, and his wife, who was Nelly Auxier, was at home with her children. We had known her from childhood, so we went in and went to bed. Nelly sat up the remainder of the night and kept watch. This was the first sleep in nearly forty-eight hours. At seven she woke us for breakfast. About ten o'clock Judge Pullins, who knew where we were, brought over the morning St. Joe paper. It contained a long account of the fight, and said that Penick's men had gone down into "the hackle" the night before and killed two of the Gibson boys and captured the remainder of the "gang." This was amusing news, and about as near the truth as most reports of that kind. Although it was dangerous for us to travel by daylight, we concluded we might, with proper caution, get back over the ground and see for ourselves what had been done. We kept well in the timber and reached Brother James' house about noon. The house was considerably scratched up by bullets and blood was strewn all around it. Four men had been killed and five wounded. Harriet, our old negro woman, told us the soldiers had first stopped at father's old place and inquired for us. She started across the fields at once to notify us, but could not make the half mile on foot in time and had reached only a safe distance from the house when the fight began. We remained in the neighborhood, hidden at first one place and then another for several days. Brother Isaac, being rather too old to go in the army left home and went to Illinois for safety, as he knew there would be no peace for him after the fight, no matter how conservative he had been in the past or how well behaved he might be in the future. The unfortunate circumstance which, on account of his association with us, had compelled him to fight for his life, had rendered his efforts to remain at home out of the question. Billy and I, having lost our horses, saddles and blankets, were compelled to remain, in spite of the fact that soldiers were hunting us like hounds, until we could get properly equipped to leave. We were not long in doing this, and then we set out on horseback through a country patroled by many soldiers to join our company at Springfield. CHAPTER XII. _Back to the South._ We left in the afternoon, and, taking byroads, passed Stephen Bedford's and went on to Doc Brown's on Casteel Creek. We spent the night there. Brown kept us up until midnight, asking questions about our experiences at Wilson's Creek, Fort Scott and Lexington and about the fight with Penick's men at Brother James' house. He had heard the firing although eight miles away, and suspected that some of the Gibson boys were in the fight. We started early next morning for Clay County where my sister, Mrs. Harrison Wilson, lived. We reached her home without difficulty and remained there over night. It was about fifteen miles from her home to the Missouri River where we expected to have trouble, as soldiers were on guard at every crossing point between St. Joseph and the Mississippi. If we could not find a ferry unguarded we expected to bind cottonwood logs together, get on them and swim our horses alongside. This was disagreeable and very dangerous and was not to be thought of so long as there was any chance to cross on a ferry. We decided, therefore, to go to old Richfield and try the ferry by fair means or foul. We reached the high bluff that overlooks the town, about five o'clock in the afternoon, and looked cautiously down. The soldiers were camped just below the town and the ferry landing was a little above it. Everything was quiet--no soldiers up in town or about the ferry landing that we could see. While we were watching, the ferry boat crossed to this side and landed. We rode quietly down the hill and on to the boat. Billy asked the ferryman if he was going right back. He said no, that he made regular trips. Billy asked how long before he would start. He said thirty minutes. Billy told him we could not wait that long, and that he must go back immediately. The ferryman looked up into Billy's face and said he would wait for time. In an instant he found himself looking into the muzzle of a Colt's navy. Billy told him to stand perfectly still if he valued his life. I jumped off my horse and loosed the cable that held the boat to shore. The current carried the boat out into the river and Billy told the ferryman to take charge and set us over. He did it without a word and we rode out in safety on the other shore. In all that happened on the boat, not a loud word was spoken, and, so far as I know, the soldiers did not even suspect our presence. When we rode out on firm land on the southern side of the Missouri we felt much safer, because the task we had most dreaded was over. We passed about five miles into the country and put up for the night at a farm house where we found seven or eight southern men all on their way to the Confederate lines. Two of these were Confederate soldiers and the remainder were old men leaving home for safety. The two soldiers were John Culbertson of Buchanan County and Sol Starks of Clay County. The next morning about nine o'clock, as we rode peacefully along, two boys about twelve years of age came galloping toward us as fast as their horses could carry them. We said nothing to them and they said nothing to us, but I thought their conduct rather strange. In a few minutes they passed back, still riding very fast. Starks and I were riding in front and I told him I thought we had better stop the boys and ask them what they were up to. We galloped after them leaving the other men behind, and when we had overtaken them and inquired the cause of their fast riding, they told us there was a gang of "Jayhawkers" in the neighborhood and they (the boys) were hiding their horses. While we were talking to the boys Starks left his mule standing at the roadside and stepped aside. I also alighted from my horse. There was a short curve in the road just in front of us and while in the position I have described, Jennison's regiment came dashing around the curve and right down upon us. Starks left his mule standing in the road and ran for his life out through the timber. I jumped on my horse and took the same course. They soon overtook Starks and shot and killed him. A band of them followed me shooting and calling "halt," but I only went the faster. I had gained a little on them by the time I came to a rail fence. It looked like they had me, but I had no idea of stopping. I threw off the top rail and made my horse jump the fence into a cornfield. They were at the fence in a moment firing and calling halt. I threw myself down on my horse's side in cowboy fashion, hanging on by leg and arm and sent him at his best speed down between two rows of corn. I soon came to a road where the corn gatherers had been hauling out the corn, and finding this better traveling and thinking it might lead to an outlet from the field I took it. They were still following and shooting at me. The fence where the road entered the field was up, but I had passed over one and could pass another. I held a tight reign and forced my horse to take it. He knocked off the top rail, but landed on his feet. Outside the field a firm road led down a long slant directly away from my pursuers. This gave me an advantage and I made good use of it. The soft ground of the cornfield checked their speed and the fence halted them, I think, for I never saw them any more. When my horse reached the bottom of the slant and struck the level ground, the change of the surface threw him headlong. I went sailing in the air over beyond him carrying the bridle reins with me. Although terribly jolted I beat the horse up and was on his back the moment he could stand. I took no time to throw reins over his head, but with the rein swinging from my hand to the bit I pushed him into the brush and a half mile farther on before stopping. My poor horse was almost dead, but as I could hear no one following me it looked like he had carried me to safety. I looked and listened intently but could neither see nor hear anyone. I got off my horse that he might get a better rest, as I did not know how soon he might have to run again, and after the first few breaths of freedom, began to think of my companions. As the main body of the regiment kept the traveled road and only a detachment followed me, it was certain that Billy and Culbertson and the old men would meet them. I feared for the result--especially to the old men. Billy and Culbertson I thought could likely take care of themselves. The point where I had stopped was at the head of a long ravine, and while standing there I saw a man approaching on horseback. I watched a moment and discovered that it was Bridgeman. We were rejoiced to see each other. Billy asked about Starks and I told him his fate. I asked how his party had fared. He said when they saw the soldiers coming he and Culbertson were in front. They fired at the soldiers and took to the brush. He had seen none of his companions since. By chance Billy had taken the same general direction that I had gone and that is how we happened to meet. We thought it almost providential. I heard afterwards, but I cannot say as to the truth of the report, that the old gray haired men who were with us were all captured and killed. Whatever may have been their fate, we could do nothing for them against a regiment and counted ourselves more lucky than wise that we escaped with our own lives. Billy and I remained in seclusion most of the day and then, hearing nothing of Culbertson and the old men, started on our journey. We rode leisurely along and reached Springfield without further difficulty. There we found Culbertson, waiting and looking for us. He was sly as a red fox and as hard to catch. He had gotten away from Jennison and had made better time to Springfield than we, and, as he knew our destination, waited our coming as proof that we had not been caught. General Price was in winter quarters. We remained with our company a few weeks, and just before Christmas Billy and Jim Combs, his brother-in-law, and I got permission to spend the holidays at Granby with Jeff Whitney, Comb's step-father, who had formerly lived in Holt County. While on this visit Whitney, who was a man of considerable wealth, concluded he would move farther south in order to secure better protection for his family and property, and asked us to accompany him across the mountains as a guard. We consented to do it and made the trip with him over land to Fort Smith, where Whitney, after going just across the Arkansas line, erected a cabin in the Cherokee Nation. We remained with him about a week assisting him to get settled, when we got a letter from Colonel Gates informing us that a strong army was approaching from St. Louis and calling us back to our places in his company. We set out for Springfield immediately and met our army as it retreated to join Van Dorn at Fayetteville. I shall always remember our meeting with this army. The ox teams were in front, four yoke to each wagon, a long string of them, winding slowly down the road. Then the mule teams, six mules to each wagon, many of them the same mules we had captured at Fort Scott. Next a regiment of soldiers, then General Price and his body guard, then the main body of the army with Gates in the rear. The pursuing army was making forced marches in an effort to bring on a general engagement before Price united his forces with Van Dorn. We had hardly joined our company, when the enemy, seeing that another day's march would place Price very close to Van Dorn, sent two regiments of cavalry to attack our rear. The first regiment came dashing upon us without warning, yelling and shooting. Gates ordered his men to dismount and take to the brush. They obeyed in an instant, leaving their horses in the road. The horses, frightened by the attack from the rear, stampeded and dashed forward upon the infantry. The attacking regiment followed, and before they realized their peril were far in between two lines of hidden Confederates who, protected by the brush, piled horses and soldiers thick along the road. There were but few left to tell the tale. The second regiment on discovering the situation of the first, failed to follow. Price, on discovering that the attack had been made sent a regiment of infantry back to support us, but when it arrived the work had been done. We came out of the brush and followed the infantry, still protecting the rear until our horses were sent back. That was the last day of the retreat. Price took a stand at Cross Hollow where Van Dorn joined him. The Union army stopped at Pea Ridge. Both armies rested three days. On the night of the third day Price broke camp and traveled all night. By daylight he was in the road behind the enemy, and at sun up moved south toward their camp. We had not gone far when we met fifteen or twenty government teams going on a forage. They were greatly surprised, but grinned and said nothing. Price put a guard over them and moved on. When he got in position on the rear he fired a cannon as a signal to Van Dorn that all was ready. The engagement soon opened front and rear. Price was successful on his side, but Van Dorn was defeated. In less than an hour not a gun could be heard along the whole south side of the army. The whole force then turned upon Price and he was compelled to retreat. He went north until he came to a road leading across the mountains to White River. The Union forces did not follow and the retreat was made with little difficulty. We had no baggage except the artillery and the teams captured early in the morning. The roads, however, were very rough and our progress was very slow. On the following morning while we were toiling over the mountains, General Price rode by with his arm in a sling. The boys cheered him until the mountains resounded for miles. In a few days we were beyond danger of pursuit and made our way in safety to Fort Smith. From Fort Smith Price was ordered to Memphis. He started at once over land to Des Arc on White River. From there we went to Memphis by boat. After a short stay in Memphis, Brother James, who had returned from California and joined the army, was sent back to Missouri as a recruiting officer. Billy Bridgeman and I got leave to accompany him and we all came together back as far as Des Arc. There Billy decided to return to Memphis and go on with Price, while Brother James and I came home on horse back. This is the last time I ever saw Bridgeman. CHAPTER XIII. _Home for Recruits._ I do not recall the incidents of the trip home. I do not remember the road or how we crossed the river or anything about it, though I have tried very hard to recall them. I only know that we went from Des Arc to Dover, Arkansas, and that somewhere on the road Henry Gibson and Harold Shultz joined us and that we all reached home together. Henry Gibson is dead. Schultz is insane and confined at State Hospital No. 2 at St. Joseph, and Brother James is in Idaho, so I have no way of refreshing my memory, and as the trip, although it covered nearly four hundred miles, was made forty-eight years ago, my foot steps have grown cold. It is more than probable that a single hint would rescue the entire journey and its incidents. I recall events after we reached home with perfect distinctness. We remained out in the brush most of the time. Brother James, at such times as he could, met all those who wanted to join the army. Besides the boys on the east side of Platte River, he enlisted John and Wash Lynch, two of the Greenwood boys, Jack Smedley, Jim Reeves, William and John Reynolds and Richard Miller from the west side. In all there were some twenty-five or thirty. We secured a tent and pitched it in a secret place in what was then and now sometimes called "the hackle," about a mile east of Garrettsburg. We had scant provisions, some flour, sugar, coffee and bacon which we kept hanging in a tree. During the day we managed to partly satisfy our hunger on this diet, but at night we went out to see the girls and get good meals. In spite of the constant fear of discovery, we had a good time. During all this time the boys were collecting guns and ammunition. These they got wherever they could. Most often from friends who gave or loaned them, but sometimes from a straggling soldier or militia man who was caught away from camp. Everything was ready and the night fixed for our departure. Doc Watson had informed us that there was a company of militia camped in his yard about three miles distant from our camp, cooking, eating and sleeping on his blue grass. Our plan was to march up near them during the night and wake them at daybreak and bid them goodby. During the entire time our camp remained there, we took no pains to conceal it from the negroes, for the most of them--and we thought all--could be trusted as far as our white friends. We made a mistake in one of them. He turned traitor and told the company at Doc Watson's that about two hundred "bush-whackers" were camped in the Hackle. They informed the authorities at St. Joe and the night before we proposed to execute our plans they marched two regiments--one infantry and one cavalry--down close to our camp and next morning surprised us by calling about sun up. It was clear they had a guide for they followed the trail through the thick woods directly to the tent. The tent was stretched in a little valley and over beyond a deep gulch, so that it was impossible to approach nearer than fifty yards of it on horseback. This was too close to be comfortable to the eight men who were in it sound asleep. Without a moment's warning they fired into it. The aim was high and not a man was hit. They jumped and ran for their lives and all escaped. It was our good fortune that more of the boys were not in the tent. As it was to be the last night at home, most of the boys had gone to bid their friends goodby and had remained with them for the night. Brother James and I had gone home with Charley Pullins, who had joined our company, and, in place of returning to the tent, we all took our blankets and slept in his rye field. Early next morning we were awakened by the barking of Pullins' dog. We jumped up and looked and listened. A regiment of infantry was passing along the road. They had a six gun battery with them and I could not mistake the creaking of the old truck-wheels. We picked up our blankets and ran to the house and threw them in at the back window, and then stepped around in front to watch them go by, some two hundred yards distant. We had no idea they were after us with all this equipment, but supposed they were simply marching from Easton to St. Joe and had probably missed the road. We knew nothing of the attack upon the tent, nor did we know that at that moment the cavalry regiment had divided into squads and was galloping from house to house all over the neighborhood, looking for the Gibson boys. While we stood watching the procession pass we heard a rumbling noise behind us, and back of the house. I turned and saw the cavalry coming under lash. We ran for the front gate which led away from the infantry that was passing. A few rods beyond the gate lay a heavy body of timber and we made for it. As I went out I passed my fine saddle mare grazing in the yard, and I threw the yard gate wide open. By this time the soldiers had galloped around both sides of the house and commenced firing at us. At the first shot my mare threw up her head and tail and made for the gate. She was safe in the timber almost as soon as we were. When we reached the timber bullets were flying after us pretty thick, but I stopped and threw my double barrel shot gun to my shoulder. Brother James called to me to save my loads, but as we each had two six shooters and a double barrel shot gun, I thought I could spare one load so I gave it to them. They, like all soldiers at that time, were dreadfully afraid of the brush, and, whether it was my shot or the fact that we had reached the timber, they stopped firing and started around to the farther side of the woods. I lost sight of Pullins and James, and when I saw the soldiers start around the timber I ran back towards the house and into a cornfield on the opposite side. When I reached the fence at the farther side of the cornfield, I ran directly upon two of the infantry soldiers who had apparently become lost from the regiment. They were as much, if not more surprised than I was, for I had presence of mind enough to use the remaining load in my shot gun and they tore through the brush like wild deer. I went up to the tent expecting to find the boys there. Instead, I found the tent riddled with bullets and several old guns which the soldiers had destroyed by hammering the barrels around a tree. I was, of course, greatly surprised, but after looking over the situation I was gratified at finding no evidence that any of our men had been killed. I learned afterwards that but one man had been killed in the whole raid. That man was George Reynolds. After the attack upon the tent the soldiers rode over to Reynold's house and found him, an old gray haired man, carrying a basket of corn to his hogs. They shot him where he stood and rode off and left him for the women of his family to bury, as the men in the community didn't dare come out of the brush to their assistance. One man, Rich Miller, who knew of his death, ventured out and helped bury him. The raid scattered our little band of volunteers and all hope of gathering them together was abandoned. On the evening after the raid my saddle mare--the one I had let out through the gate at Pullins', after remaining in the woods all day, came up to the gate at the old home, as though she knew--and I believe she did--that it was not safe for her to be seen on the road in daylight. During the night that followed I located Brother James and he, Pullins and I decided to go back into the Confederate lines. Within a day or two we left expecting, as upon our preceding trip, to cross the river at Richfield. We passed through old Haynesville on the line between Clinton and Clay Counties, which was then a thriving village, but which I am told is now abandoned as a town, and then on directly toward the river. There was considerable Union sentiment about Haynesville and some one there must have suspected our purpose and informed a company of militia that happened to be in the neighborhood. We rode leisurely along, not suspecting that we were being followed, and, when we reached the home of Reuben J. Eastin, some six miles south of Haynesville, stopped for dinner. Eastin was related to Pullins and the family were all glad to see us, and invited us into the house and the old gentleman directed his son to take our horses to the barn and feed them. I told him we had better go to the brush and feed our horses and have our meals sent to us. He said there was no danger as there were no soldiers in the community. We all pulled off our belts and threw them, with the navies in them on a bed and prepared for dinner. As I stepped across the room to a looking glass to comb my hair, I glanced out the door and saw a company of militia coming up the road from the north under whip. Brother and I sprang for our navies and buckled them around us and ran out at the back door and into a corn field, which was on the south side of the house. Pullins, who was not accustomed to warfare, was so frightened that he forgot his guns. It was August and the weather was very hot. We ran down between two rows of corn as fast as we could, Pullins in front, Brother James behind him and I in the rear. I got hot and called to them not to run so fast, but they did not hear me and kept going. I stopped and sat down. I could then hear the horses galloping around to the farther or south side of the field, so I turned and ran east toward the main road which ran in front of the house, and along the east side of the field. When I got to the fence I looked both directions and saw no soldiers. They had evidently anticipated that we would all make for the heavy timber which lay south and west of the field, and had undertaken to head us off in that direction. There was a woods pasture just across the road, with only large trees in it, but I saw beyond the timber a thicket which seemed to skirt a draw or gully and I made up my mind to cross the road and take my chances. I remember thinking that if I should be discovered while crossing the open pasture there would probably be no more than four or five men in the squad and that I could get behind a big tree and wait until they came close to me, when with my skill in the use of the navy, I could protect myself against them. I jumped over the fence and made good speed, taking no time to look back, until I reached the thicket. Not a man of them saw me. They had left a gap open, and I was out of the trap. I followed the brushy ravine some distance and came to another cornfield. In passing through this field I came upon a water melon patch, completely surrounded by the corn. I decided this would be a good place to stop and wait for developments. I took a big ripe melon out into the corn and proceeded to supply as much as possible the dinner the soldiers had caused me to lose. I knew I was safe, but I was not so sure about my companions. In a few minutes I heard two pistol shots. They were from Brother James' navy. I had heard the report too many times to be mistaken. This assured me that he had not at that moment been captured. In about five minutes I heard two musket shots, and this alarmed me. I felt perfectly sure if they had fired at Brother James they had not harmed him and he had escaped without returning the fire, but I could not be so sure about Pullins as I knew he had no weapons with him. No further shots were fired. I remained in the corn field until nearly night and then started for the home of my sister, Mrs. Wilson, who lived about three miles north and east. I reached her house about nine o'clock at night, but did not go in. She brought food to me in the timber near by and remained with me waiting and watching for Brother James and Pullins. We were both very uneasy and greatly feared they had been captured. We knew either or both of them, if alive and not captured, would come to her house to find me before attempting to go on to the south. About midnight Brother James came in. He knew nothing of Pullins. We watched for him all night but he never came. Next morning Mrs. Wilson saddled her horse and rode over to Eastin's to see if she could hear of him. When she returned she told us they had captured Pullins and taken him to Liberty. The last word Pullins' young wife had said to me as we left home, was, "Take good care of Charley." There was little that could be done for him now, but in the hope that we might be able to do something, or that, as he was a perfectly innocent boy, making his way south for safety, he would be paroled and released and allowed to return to his home. We remained in the brush a week waiting for him. During this time Brother James gave me a full account of his escape. He said when he and Pullins reached the south side of the corn field they could hear the horses coming and decided it would not be safe to attempt to get out into the timber, so they put back into the field and became separated. In a short time men were all around the field and in the field riding through the tall corn. When James discovered that men were in the field he crouched down beneath a bush and remained perfectly quiet in order that he might hear the approach of the horses through the rattling corn. He had remained in this position but a short time when he saw a single horseman coming toward him. He drew his navy and lay still. When the man got very close he arose and shot him in the leg. He then shot his horse and ran. He could easily have killed the man, but did not want to do it. At the sound of these guns all the pursuers started in the direction of the supposed fight. James heard them coming and decided to go back toward the house in the hope of finding it unguarded. In that case he would secure his horse. When he got to the fence near the barn he set his foot upon a rail and raised his body to look. At that moment he saw two soldiers on guard and they saw him. They raised their guns to fire, but James threw up his hands and said, "Don't shoot." They thought he had surrendered and dropped their guns. In the twinkle of an eye he fell back off of the fence and put back into the heavy corn. The soldiers both fired at him but he had the fence as a shield and their shots were harmless. The guards then yelled, "Here he is," and the remainder of the soldiers in the field and out supposing the musket shots had killed one or more of us, all galloped for the barn. James heard them going from all directions and kept close watch that none who were in the field might come near enough to see him. When they were all well on toward the barn he made quick time back through the field and into the woods beyond. He had not gone far in the timber when he heard them coming again, and, as he was almost worn out and feared he would not be able to get out of reach of them he climbed a tree that had thick foliage upon it and remained there the whole afternoon. He could hear the soldiers riding around the field and through the corn and in the timber near him. When night came they gave up the search, and James climbed down and made his way to Mrs. Wilson's. By the end of a week we had the full story of Pullins' fate. They had taken him to Liberty and there pretended to try him, found him guilty, but of what crime no record will ever show and no man will ever know, sent him back to old man Eastin's, where he was shot by twelve men. They then plundered Eastin's house, took his horses, harness and wagons, bedding and table ware, provisions and everything movable and moved him, a blind and helpless cripple, out of his house and under the trees of his orchard, set fire to his house and burned it to the ground. We could do nothing but go on, so with sad hearts and without horses or blankets, with nothing but our trusted navies and plenty of ammunition, we skulked our way to old Richfield again, some fifteen miles from Mrs. Wilson's. We reached the river just about dark and lay in the bluffs all night, without food or shelter. Early in the morning we ventured down to a house and asked for breakfast. We knew by the way we were received that he was a southern man, but we were too cautious to make our wishes known at once. By the time breakfast was over we decided we could trust him, so we asked him if he knew of any way we could get across the river. He told us there was a man on the other side of the river who had a skiff and made a business of setting southern men across, but he was very cautious and would not come to this side except upon a signal. We then asked him if he would assist us and he said he would, but we must be very careful to evade the northern soldiers on guard and not let them see him as if they suspected him they would probably kill him and burn his home. We assured him that we were discreet, so he went with us. He took us a short distance above Richfield and into a timbered bottom, and when we got to the road which paralleled the river he told us to stop and wait for him. He passed across the road and out into the willows that grew between the road and the water. While we stood waiting a man and woman approached through the timber from the west singing Dixie at the top of their voices. We knew this was a ruse to deceive just such men as ourselves. Federal soldiers were so near that no sincere southern person would sing Dixie at the top of his voice within their hearing. We ran back into the timber and lay down behind a log. The couple passed, still singing, and went on toward the town. In a few minutes our man came back. We left our hiding place and followed him to the river. The man was there with his boat waiting for us. We jumped in. Our friend shoved the boat from shore and put back into the willows. Our boatman told us that soldiers both above and below the town had been trying to get him to come across all morning, but they did not know his signal and he would not come. Our man in crossing towards us had taken a course which kept his boat out of view, and as he went back he kept behind an island until well toward his own shore and out of range. As the boat passed out from behind the island they discovered us and commenced shooting, but we were too far away to fear their bullets. We landed safely and then, having passed over what was considered our greatest difficulty, began to think about other troubles still ahead. Independence was full of Federal soldiers. Lone Jack and Pleasant Hill were no better. Roving bands of foragers and scouts kept the country between closely patroled. We had but one hope and that was that we might chance to fall in with Quantrell on one of his raids. William Hill, a cousin of ours, lived near Pleasant Hill, and if we could reach him, we felt sure he could tell us when Quantrell might be expected in that locality. We left the river and walked cautiously through timber and fields, stopping at farm houses for food only after night, sleeping on the ground without blankets and finally reached Hill's place. He was at heart a strong southern man, but had managed to deceive the Union soldiers and his Union neighbors. We asked about Quantrell. He informed us that some of his neighbors belonged to Quantrell's band, and that Quantrell was at that time in camp about three miles away. We did not know Quantrell nor any of his men and asked Hill to go with us to the camp. He objected. Said that he had acted the part of a northern man so completely that Quantrell had threatened him, believing him to be in earnest. We told him if he went with us he would have nothing to fear. He seemed not to understand how this could be if we knew neither Quantrell nor his men. We then explained that Jesse and Frank James were with Quantrell and that they lived in Clay County near the home of our sister, and were well acquainted with us by reputation. Hill finally consented and saddled horses for all and took us to the camp. He introduced us to Quantrell and then in turn we met Frank and Jesse James, Cole Younger and his brothers and other leaders of the company. We explained Hill's relation to us; that we had known him from his birth in Tennessee and that he was with us at heart. They told him to go home and fear nothing from them. Hill took his horses and left well satisfied. The whole company remained in camp some days, and during the time one of Hill's neighbors gave Brother James a fine mare, bridle and saddle. I have always thought that Hill furnished the money for this equipment and gave it in the name of a trusted neighbor. It was not long until a fine outfit was presented to me. I took it and said nothing. I liked the horse, but did not like the saddle. It was an old dragoon government saddle with brass mounted horns both before and behind. About this time a detachment of Shelby's men came north on a scout. Quantrell joined them and attacked Pleasant Hill and drove the Union forces to Lone Jack. He followed and defeated them at Lone Jack and drove them out of that section of the country. We returned to Pleasant Hill and were received with great cordiality by the people. The women baked cakes and pies and sent them into camp, which were fully appreciated. At the pay office which had been maintained by the Federal officers we found large quantities of greenbacks of small denominations lying on desks and tables and scattered upon the floor. It was counted of little value at that time and in that community. One dollar of Confederate money was worth five of the governments' greenbacks. After a rest, the scouting parties that had joined Quantrell in the attack upon Pleasant Hill and Lone Jack, started south. Quantrell traveled with us about three days, and I seriously contemplated joining that band and remaining in Missouri. I mentioned the matter to Brother James and he discouraged the idea. He said winter was coming on and the camp equipment was inadequate, besides he preferred that I should go into the regular service. I took his advice, and have since had many reasons to be thankful to him for it. We finally reached a place in Arkansas called Horsehead, where winter quarters had been established. At that time I did not belong to the army, as my term of enlistment had expired, but at Horsehead I enlisted for three years, or during the war. My horse, saddle and bridle belonged to me, hence my enlistment was in the cavalry. During the early part of the winter the officers decided that as horse feed was so scarce, the horses should be sent into Texas to graze through the winter, promising that each man's horse should be restored to him in the spring. I parted with my horse reluctantly, but of course, after enlistment had to obey orders. I never saw him again and when spring came I was compelled to enter the infantry. Brother James and many others were in the same condition. We were assigned to a company of Missouri troops. Our captain's name was Miller. His home was in northeast Missouri. Our first lieutenant's name was Miller also, and his home was in Burr Oak Bottom, Kansas. The first business in the spring was the guarding of the line across Arkansas from Fort Smith to Helena. We had our portion and did our work. Later General Holmes was given command and marched us across the state and, I have always thought, very foolishly attacked the fortifications at Helena. The river was full of gunboats and if he had been successful he could not have held the place. He was repulsed, however, and his troops badly cut up. The Missouri troops declared they would serve no longer under Holmes. Whether for this or some other reason, he was removed and command given to General Drayton. I do not remember that Drayton did anything but keep us lying in camp, drilling every day, with now and then a dress parade, with all the women and children in the country invited to come and see us. This was very distasteful to us. We felt that we were not there to be raced around over the hot sand in the hot sun just to be looked at. Aside from this we had a pretty good time cock-fighting, horse racing and playing seven-up for tobacco. General Price came back to us about Christmas and the Missouri boys planned a great celebration. Christmas day about five hundred took their guns and marched around to the headquarters of each colonel and made him treat or take a bumping against a tree. We then marched up to General Drayton's headquarters. His negro cooks and waiters were getting supper. They were soon cleared away and the general was called out. He backed up against a tree as though he expected to be shot, but he soon found we were only bent upon a little fun. The boys produced their fiddles and set to playing. Then they sang and danced and now and then we fired a volley just to make the woods ring. The General seemed to enjoy the fun and told the boys to play on the bones. One quickly replied that we had been playing on bones all winter and pretty dry bones, too. The General saw the joke and smiled good-naturedly. We next moved up and took possession of a six-gun battery. The muskets were not noisy enough. The first round brought Drayton. He ordered us to stop, but we told him it was Christmas and paid no attention to him. He sent for General Price, and as the General and his body guard rode up we ceased firing and set to waving hats and cheering. "Pap," as we called General Price, told us we could have our Christmas fun but we must not disturb the battery. That was enough. We always did what "Pap" told us to do. If he said fight we fought, and when he said run we ran. It was too early to stop the fun, so we decided to go over and see the Arkansas boys who were camped about two miles away. We found on arriving that the boys who wore straps on their shoulders had organized a dance in a big tent and invited the girls for miles around. The dance was in full swing. The guards around the tent halted us and asked if we had a pass. We said "Yes, this is Christmas," and passed on. We made no noise or disturbance, but walked quietly up around the tent, and each man cut himself a window so he could look in on the scene. The shoulder straps were furious and came swarming out like hornets. We laughed at them and told them to go on with the dance, but they would not do it and sent for General Price. We learned this and started back, and met the General going toward the Arkansas camp and cheered him wildly. He passed on and said nothing, though I am sure he knew we were the boys he was after. We went into camp and nothing was ever said about our frolic. CHAPTER XIV. _War in Arkansas._ Some time early in the year 1863, Price moved his forces to Little Rock. The Federal forces under General Steele approached from Springfield, and Price began preparations to receive them. His army was much inferior to the attacking force and every precaution was taken to give us the advantage. We crossed to the north side of the river from Little Rock and dug a trench in the shape of a rainbow touching the river above and below the town and more than a mile in length. The enemy approached within two miles of our trench and halted and remained in that position nearly a week. We had little rest during that time. The drum tapped every morning at four o'clock and we had to crawl out and fall into our ditch, where we remained until the danger of an early morning attack was over and then got out for breakfast. On the seventh day, if I remember correctly, the Federals broke camp and marched ten miles down the river and commenced building a pontoon bridge. Price sent his cavalry and artillery down to visit them, but the fire was not heavy enough and the bridge was built in spite of their best efforts. We were called out of our trenches in the meantime and taken across the river on a foot bridge built upon small boats. When we reached Little Rock I was surprised to find everything gone. Ox teams and mule teams were strung out for miles hauling our freight and army supplies. We marched behind with orders to protect the train and I thought we would certainly be attacked, but we were not. Steele made Little Rock his headquarters for the summer. About fifty miles south of Little Rock we went into camp. At that time I belonged to Clark's brigade. Mercer was our Colonel, Gaines our major and Miller our captain. Clark's division was ordered to go down on the Mississippi River below the mouth of the Arkansas and destroy steam boats that were carrying supplies from St. Louis to Vicksburg. The siege was going on at that time, and the Federal troops were being supplied with provision largely by way of the river. There were two regiments in the division and we had with us a six gun battery. We reached the river and concealed ourselves at a point where the current approached close to the west bank, judging, by the low stage of the river, that the boats would be compelled to follow the current. We had not been in hiding very long until we saw seven boats steaming their way down the river with a small gunboat trailing along behind as guard or convoy. When the foremost boat reached a point near the shore and directly opposite us, it was halted and ordered ashore. There were soldiers on the boat and they ran out on deck and fired at us. We returned the fire and cleared the deck the first round. The next round was from our battery. The range was easy and one ball struck her boilers. The hot water and steam flew in every direction. She headed for the farther shore and drifted on a sand bar. The soldiers leaped from the boat and swam for their lives. The six other boats received very much the same treatment. They were all disabled and sunk or drifted helplessly down the river. The little gunboat was helpless also. When the attack began it was under a bank and had to steam back up the river before it could get in range to shoot at us. When the little bull dog got back in range it threw shot and shell into the timber like a hail storm, but our work had been done and we were out and gone. The volley fired from the deck of the first boat wounded one man, John Harper, in the knee. That was our only damage. We then went some fifteen miles farther down and from the levee crippled two more transports. From there we followed the levee until we could hear the big guns at Vicksburg. That was July 3d, 1863. Next day about noon the heavy artillery ceased and we soon learned that Pemberton had surrendered. On July 5th cavalry sent across the river from Vicksburg were scouring the Arkansas side of the river, looking for "bushwhackers who had cannon with them." We fled back into the pine knobs and escaped easily. I have been unable to recall further active service in 1863. We remained inactive and in camp most of the time and the monotonous life failed to impress its small events upon my memory. Active operations in 1864 began, as well as I recall, about the first of March, when Steele left his station at Little Rock and started for Shreveport. We understood that his army numbered forty thousand men. It was certainly much larger than Price's army. As soon as it was learned that Steele had started south Price broke camp and set out to meet him, not with the idea of entering into an engagement, but for the purpose of harassing and delaying him. I do not remember where the two armies first came in contact with each other, but I recall distinctly the weeks of scouting, marching here and there, skirmishing now and then with detachments of Steele's army, and retreating when reinforcements appeared. The infantry kept always in front, resisting progress at every point, while the cavalry under Marmaduke and Shelby went to the rear and threatened the long train of supplies. They made dashing attacks upon the line at every available point, fighting only long enough to force Steele to prepare for battle and then rapidly retreating. In this way Steele's men were kept on the run, forward to fight the infantry and backward to resist the cavalry. At night our men would frequently push a battery up near his camp and throw shells in upon him all night. I do not know how fast Steele traveled, but he must have considered five miles a day good progress. During this time Banks was approaching Shreveport up Red River with sixty thousand men, and the object was to prevent a union of these forces. Eight gunboats were also making their way up the river. General Dick Taylor had about ten thousand Texas and Louisiana troops and he was resisting the approach of Banks. As I remember it, Taylor had risked several engagements with Banks, but had been compelled to fall back each time. Finally he sent to Price for help. Price decided to employ his cavalry upon Steele so he sent his infantry, about five thousand, to Taylor. That included me, as my horse had never been brought back from pasture in Texas. We made a forced march of one hundred and fifty miles to Shreveport, and then hurried down Red River to Sabine Cross Roads. We joined Taylor and on the eighth day of April attacked Banks and defeated him. He retreated to Pleasant Hill. After the battle we took a few hours' rest, and when night came Taylor ordered us to cook one day's rations ahead. About nine o'clock we were ordered out and placed like blood hounds upon Banks' tracks. They were easy to follow. The tracks were fresh, blood was plentiful and dead and wounded negroes lay now and then alongside the road. We marched all night and until twelve o'clock next day. About that hour we came to a small stream about two miles from Pleasant Hill. There we stopped and had a drink and ate a lunch. About two o'clock in the afternoon we were thrown into battle line and ordered to march on to Pleasant Hill. Banks had received reinforcements and was waiting for us. We passed through a body of timber and there encountered the Zouaves who were hid behind trees. One of them shot and killed our cook, Al St. John, who was from Platte County, Missouri. This was a bad start for us, but we routed the Zouaves and marched on through the timber to an open cotton field which lay between us and Pleasant Hill. When we passed out of the timber we could see the town and Banks' army lying in gullies and behind fences waiting for us. When we got within range firing began. I do not remember which side opened, but I know the fight was open and in earnest. Our line was about a mile long and for a time each side stood firm. Directly I heard a yell up at the north end of our line. It was too indistinct to be understood and for a time I did not comprehend it, but it came closer and closer by regiments one after the other until our regiment was ordered to charge. Then we took up the yell and dashed forward. The yell passed on down the line until our whole force was on the move. We routed the enemy and drove them back into the city where some of them crept under old out houses to escape the bayonet. Then our line came to a stop. Their reinforcements came in from the rear with a yell and went after us. It looked like the whole sixty thousand had suddenly sprung from the earth. We thought we had gained a great victory when really we had only driven in the pickets. As they came the yell went up on the other side. We stood right there and tried to whip the whole army. We stopped the yell but had to go. As we turned to go back I saw a battery horse running across the battle ground with his harness on and his entrails dragging the ground. Several other horses were running with saddles on their sides, showing their riders had been shot and in falling had turned the saddles. Those horses were all killed by bullets from one side or the other before they got off the battlefield. We fell back about two hundred yards and rallied and made a second attack. By that time Banks was moving away from us. When the guns ceased sufficiently to enable me to hear the report of my own gun, I could hear also Banks' baggage and trap wagons rattling and banging out of Pleasant Hill. They went like a cyclone and that ended the bloody battle. We marched back two miles to the little creek where we had stopped at noon for lunch and camped for the night. Next morning Taylor's cavalry started in pursuit and saw Banks safely back to New Orleans. There Banks lost his job. At the same time the cavalry started in pursuit of Banks, the infantry began a forced march to Shreveport to meet Price and Steele. When we reached Shreveport neither Price nor Steele had arrived and we did not halt, but continued on toward Little Rock. About forty miles back on the road we came upon Price camped by the roadside, with Steele penned up in Camden, a town on the Ouachita River. Steele had gone into an evacuated Confederate fort to allow his army to rest, and Price had surrounded him except upon the side next the river. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when our forces joined Price. The boys were all well and in fine spirits and had many things to tell us and were greatly interested in our experience on the Mississippi and at Pleasant Hill. About five o'clock in the afternoon Price rolled two guns up on a hill and fired a few shots into Steele's camp, but got no answer. He ceased firing and nothing more was done that night. Next morning Steele and his whole army were gone, and the bridge across the river was burned. A temporary bridge was hurriedly built and the infantry crossed and started in pursuit. We followed all day and all night and overtook them about ten o'clock the following morning. I understood that our cavalry had followed by forced marches also and had gone ahead of Steele. At any rate, Steele, in place of following the main road, switched off and went about three miles down into the Saline River bottom. The river was very high and all the sloughs and ditches were full of water. When we came up Steele was throwing his pontoon bridge over the river and his forces were digging ditches and felling trees to keep us back until they could get across. Marmaduke made the first attack, as I remember, and charged the rude breast-works. He drove the troops behind them back into the level bottom and there the Arkansas infantry was set to work. They forced the line gradually back toward the river, and after an hour's fighting we were sent to relieve them. Our attack began about twelve o'clock in a pouring rain. They would make desperate stands behind rail fences and in clumps of timber and we sometimes had hard work to dislodge them. When driven from one point they would immediately take up another. This would force us to maneuver through the mud and water to get at them again. The last strong resistance was made about four o'clock in the afternoon. The forces fighting us had managed to get into a body of timber on the north side of an open cotton field. A high rail fence separated the field from the timber and this fence made excellent breast works. In charging we were compelled to cross the field exposed to their fire. We made a run and when about half across the bullets came so thick we could go no further. We were ordered to lie down. Every man dropped on his face with his head toward the enemy. Lying in this position we fired upon them and turned upon our backs to reload. We fought in this fashion until Taylor's infantry relieved us. When Taylor's fresh troops dashed over us with a yell the forces behind the fence wavered and finally ran, but it was then about time for them to run. They had held us until most of the army had crossed the river. They then made their escape and cut the pontoon bridge behind them. We secured most of their heavy guns as they had to keep them back to use on us. The battle was ended and I was glad of it. I never passed a more dreadful day. With rain pouring down from above, with sloughs waist deep to wade, and with mud ankle deep over the whole battle field our condition may be easily imagined. Besides this we were black as negroes when we went into camp. In biting off the ends of our paper cartridges the loose powder would stick to our wet faces and become smeared over them. Our gun sticks were black with exploded powder, and in handling them with wet hands we became completely covered with grime. I shall never forget the sorry looking, miserable, muddy, rain soaked and bedraggled soldiers that came into camp that night. We were not the only men who suffered that day. While we were lying on the field, Price ordered a battery to our assistance. The captain pulled his battery down the road and ran into a negro regiment concealed in the timber. The battery boys dismounted and were getting ready for business when the negroes charged and captured the battery. About half the company swam a slough and got away. The other half were taken prisoners. They had no sooner laid down their arms than the negroes shot and killed them all. As we lay upon the field we could see and hear but little, but this massacre occurred in plain view from where we lay. As soon as we were relieved a portion of our forces immediately attacked the negro regiment and without mercy killed and wounded about half of them and recaptured the guns; but the negroes had shot the horses and that rendered the guns useless. Next day I was detailed to help bury the dead. Several large wagons were provided with six mules and a driver to each wagon. Four men to each wagon loaded the bodies in. The end gate was taken out of the bed. Two men stood on each side of a body. One on each side held an arm and one each side a leg. The second swing the body went in head foremost. When the wagon was full it was driven off to where another squad had prepared a long trench into which the bodies were thrown and covered up. It required most of the day to complete our work. The wounded were removed from the field and cared for temporarily as they fell. The flight of the Federal forces made it impossible for them to care for their wounded immediately, so they were taken up by our men and given such attention as we could give them. Next day was the doctors' day. I was ordered to go along and assist. Three doctors went together, and over each wounded man they held a consultation. If two of them said amputate, it was done at once. When they came to a man with a wound on his head they would smile and say, "We had better not amputate in this case." It seemed to me they made many useless amputations. One doctor carried a knife with a long thin blade. He would draw this around the limb and cut the flesh to the bone. The second had a saw with which he sawed the bone. The third had a pair of forceps with which he clasped the blood vessels, and a needle with which he sewed the skin over the wound. The first man I saw them work upon was a Union soldier. All three said his leg must come off. They began administering chloroform, but he was a very hard subject and fought it bitterly. They asked me to hold his head, and I did so. As soon as he was quiet they went to work on him. When I saw how they cut and slashed I let his head loose. I thought if he wanted to wake up and fight them he should have a fair chance. I told the doctors that I did not go to war to hold men while they butchered them; that I had done all to that man that my contract called for and that I thought he was well paid for his trip. I was in real earnest about it, but the doctors laughed at me and said they would soon teach me to be a surgeon. CHAPTER XV. _Back Into Missouri._ I have no distinct recollection of leaving the camp on Saline River, nor do I recall the military operations that followed the battle I have just described. I know that Steele went on south and that Price did not follow him. Steele and Banks were both well out of the country, and it is probable that we passed a few weeks of idleness and inactivity. At all events, my memory, upon which I depend entirely, fails to account for the events immediately following the experience I have related, and my next vivid recollection begins at White River, where we were swimming our horses across on our march back into Missouri. Price, Shelby and Marmaduke were all together. We passed through Dover, a little town where John H. Bennett, a cousin of mine, who was captain of one of our companies, lived and thence on to Ironton. There we found about two thousand government troops, well fortified just north of town, in a little valley at the foot of a mountain. They came out and met us two miles from Ironton where we had a skirmish and they went back into their den. We marched into town and camped. It was reported among the soldiers that Price was having ladders made with which to scale the walls, but I did not believe it. Such an attack would have been successful in all probability, but it would have cost Price many men and I was sure he had none to spare. Toward night he had two field pieces rolled up on top of the mountain by hand and began to drop shells into their camp. They had neglected to fortify the heavens above them and Price was taking advantage of their neglect. When a shell dropped into camp you could see them running away in every direction looking for a place to hide. Some time in the night they broke through our picket line and marched ten miles to a railroad station where they were loaded upon flat cars and taken to St. Louis. Price continued on toward St. Louis and greatly alarmed that city. Troops were hurried from east and west to its defense, but Price had no such plan. His sole idea was to threaten and draw troops from other places to its protection. On the way up from Ironton we captured two or three hundred militia at every county seat. For all that could be guessed from his actions, Price intended to march directly into Jefferson City, but shortly before he reached there he turned to the west and went to Boonville. There he captured quite a large force of Federal troops and a steam ferry boat. Marmaduke with his brigade crossed the river and marched up the north side toward Glasgow, while Price and Shelby kept to the south side. Price put a guard on the boat and compelled the crew to run it up the river in conjunction with his forces. At Glasgow we captured something like a thousand troops. Marmaduke then recrossed the river and joined Price. At Glasgow Lieutenant Evans got permission for himself and twenty-five men to return to Buchanan County to see their friends. I was one of the twenty-five. From Glasgow we went to Keytesville where we met Bill Anderson, the noted "Bushwhacker," with about one hundred men. Anderson and his men accompanied us to Brunswick, where we learned that there were about three hundred militia at Carrollton. Anderson said they were dreadfully afraid of "bushwhackers," and that he believed the twenty-five of us could run them out of town, but he sent fifteen of his men with us. We left Brunswick in the night and at four o'clock next morning were a mile north of Carrollton. There we stopped to wait for daylight. When it began to grow light we all rode together until we encountered the pickets. As soon as they saw us they turned and galloped into town as fast as their horses could carry them without firing a shot. This enabled us to get into the town before any alarm was given, as our horses were as fast as those ridden by the pickets. We rode in with a whoop and a yell, dismounted and got behind a fence. The fifteen bushwhackers ran around to the west side of town in plain view of the militia camp and commenced firing. Lieutenant Evans sent a man asking them to surrender. The colonel asked who the attacking force was. The man told him it was Jo Shelby. The colonel sent word back that he would surrender in one hour. Evans returned the messenger with directions to the Colonel that if he did not surrender in five minutes he would open the artillery upon him. The colonel decided to surrender and marched his men out into an open place and had them stack arms and march away to a safe distance. We closed in and immediately took possession of the arms and marched the Federals into the court house and locked them up. They had surrendered believing we were merely the detachment detailed to come and receive the surrender and were greatly chagrined when they found that we constituted the entire force that had attacked them. It was all over by six o'clock in the morning. We cooked our breakfast upon their fires and out of their provisions. The town took a holiday, as it was strongly southern in sentiment, and so did we. In the afternoon we engaged all the barbers in town, and as we were coming back home to see our girls we had considerable shopping to do. The ferry boat, still under order of General Price, had come up the river and we sent a messenger down to stop it, and late in the evening marched our prisoners down and loaded them on. We also hauled along all the provisions, guns and equipment and sent the whole across to Price. Anderson's men left us and returned to Brunswick, and we camped for the night on Waukenda Creek, two miles west of Carrollton. Early next morning we moved on and by noon were in the hills north of Richmond and at night were in camp at Watkins' woolen mills in Clay County, two miles east of the home of my sister, whom I have frequently mentioned. Watkins gave us a cordial welcome, dressed a shoat and a sheep and brought them out to us and otherwise showed us many kindnesses. Next day we visited Mrs. Wilson and the following day completed our journey and camped in the brush in Tremont Township. Everything seemed quiet, but we observed great discretion and did not venture from camp in the daytime. After remaining on the east side of Platte for about ten days without being molested, we crossed the river and camped in the hills along Pigeon Creek. Wall Brinton, Harvey and Bennett Reece, George Berryhill, and Joe, Bill and John Evans, boys in our party, all lived on that side of the river. Our camp remained there some two weeks without being molested. During the time we captured three soldiers a few miles west of Agency. They were on picket, sent out from St. Joseph, and in patroling the road came very close to our camp. As we did not need any pickets we took them in. One of them volunteered to join us, and as we knew him we allowed him to do so and to keep his gun. The other two were kept prisoners and their guns given to Bennett Reece and Harvey McCanse, two recruits, who had joined us. Shortly after this our camp was moved back to the east side of the Platte and located in the bluffs near the home of Joab Shultz. Here we remained in seclusion, keeping the captured pickets as prisoners to prevent them from returning to St. Joseph and disclosing that we were in the country. We had little difficulty in keeping our presence from the knowledge of Penick and his men, as most of the residents of the community were our friends. Bad luck, however, befell us. John Utz and Billy Jones, hearing that we were at home and desiring to go south with us on our return, came to my old home to ascertain our whereabouts. My sister, who lived on the place, would tell them nothing but referred them to James Jeffreys. Instead of going to James Jeffreys, they went to George Jeffreys, a strong Union man, and asked him if he knew where Gibson and Brinton were. Jeffreys replied that he did not know they were in the country. Jones said, "Yes, they are here with twenty-five or thirty men." Failing to learn of us from Jeffreys they returned to the home of my sister, where, during their absence, Cousin Margaret Gibson had arrived, and as she knew Utz and Jones, told them how to find us. George Jeffreys, that "good Union man," lost no time in communicating with Penick, for next day all roads were full of soldiers. Cousin Margaret Gibson came running to our camp and told us the soldiers were looking for us. We released our prisoners and started. When well out on the road we agreed upon a meeting place and separated, thus leaving each man to look out for himself and at the same time taking responsibility for any one else off of each man. This was thought to be wise, as our little band was no match for the enemy, but the enemy were not acquainted with the by paths through the woods and brush, and by going singly we were at liberty to dodge to better advantage. Jones and Utz came to join us shortly after we broke camp, and undertook to follow. Penick's men caught them and made them prisoners. Every man showed up at the meeting place a mile below Agency. There we crossed to the west side of the river and stopped for a hasty lunch and to see if we were being followed. Seeing nothing of the enemy we concluded they had taken another course and that we were safe in remaining in the neighborhood over night. In the afternoon we procured flour and bacon from Jim Patee, where we were all given a square meal, after which we went to old man Reece's for the night in order that the Reece boys might say farewell to their father and mother. In the morning early we started, crossing the Pigeon Creek hills and making our way south. At Isaac Farris' blacksmith shop we stopped and got horse-shoe nails and a shoeing hammer. I shall never forget also that Mr. Farris brought out a stack of pies which seemed to me to be a foot high. Although I had been at home a month where I had feasted bountifully, pies still tasted good. I had lived on hard tack or worse so long that I felt I could never again satisfy my appetite with good things to eat. We next stopped at the home of Pleas Yates, where we found Captain Reynolds, an officer in Penick's regiment. He had left his company and was visiting his family. He had been very active against the southern people in the community and, as we believed, justly deserved their censure, if the word hatred would not better describe their sentiments. As we rode up Reynolds came to the door, the ivory shining on the pistols in his belt. He seemed to think we were his own men. Lieutenant Evans ordered four men, myself and three others, to go in and arrest him. Reynolds remained in the door until he saw us dismount. He seemed to step behind the door, but in fact he made a dash for the back door to make his escape. I saw him pass out and gave the alarm. Evans ordered the men to follow and commanded them not to take him alive. I threw the gate open and the boys galloped into the yard. It seemed to me that Yates had ten acres of land fenced off into small lots about his place, but they delayed us only a short time. The first man to reach the fence would jump from his horse and throw it down, the remainder would ride forward. All this time the boys were shooting at the running captain as fast as they could discharge their guns and reload them. We had with us a tall, swarthy Kentuckian, with black hair and long black whiskers, whose name I have forgotten, and who looked, in his rough soldier clothing, more like a bear than a man. He was the first to reach Reynolds. As he came up Reynolds pulled a silver mounted navy from his belt, but the Kentuckian was too quick for him and had a holster pointed at his head. In an instant Reynolds dropped to his knees, threw up his hands and began to beg. The Kentuckian disobeyed orders and took him prisoner. He said if Reynolds had continued to show fight he would have killed him, but he could not shoot a man who was begging for his life. He brought the Captain back and, as he was then our prisoner, his life was safe, for no man with whom I ever served ever mistreated a prisoner. When we reached the house Reynolds' wife and the Yates family came out begging and crying pitifully for his life. We had no time to stay and argue or explain. We feared the reports of our guns had reached the ears of Reynold's company and that they would come upon us at any moment. Wall Brinton told the Captain he must go with us, and ordered him to get behind him on his horse. The captain did so amid the wailing and crying of the women and we started away. Reynolds' wife said she would go too, but I told her she could not do so, as we rode through thick brush, and that she could do no good by going. As we rode along Reynolds said he feared we were Bill Childs and his band of bushwhackers, and that if Childs had found him he would not have been permitted to surrender. He expressed the fear also that his life would not be safe even as our prisoner, if Childs should fall in with us. I assured him that Childs was not as bad as he thought him to be, and that he need have no fear. But even this did not satisfy him. On further inquiry, I learned that Child's wife had been taken by the Union forces and placed in jail, and that Childs charged Reynolds with responsibility for this act. Reynolds' terror of Childs made me believe, without knowing the facts, that the charge was probably well founded. Evans and I rode along with Brinton and Reynolds and allowed the remainder of the boys to get considerably ahead of us and completely out of sight. When the proper time came we turned out of the road into the thick woods and stopped. Evans then told Reynolds if he would go to St. Joseph and have John Utz and Billy Jones released from prison and resign his office and go back to his family and stay there and behave himself we would turn him loose. The Captain was more than willing to do all this. Evans then asked him to hold up his hand and be sworn. I told Evans that was not necessary, as I would vouch for the good conduct of the prisoner. Evans then set him free and I never saw a more grateful man in my life. We parted good friends and I learned after the war was over that Reynolds kept his promise, except that he was unable to secure the release of Utz and Jones, as that was out of his power. In all other things he was faithful. I have heard that he often said to those who wanted him to return to the service that Watt Gibson had saved his life, and that but for him both his company and his family would have been without his services; and that he did not propose to break the promise to which he owed his life. When we overtook the boys and they found we had released Reynolds, it required hard work to keep them from going back after him, but we finally prevailed and the whole squad moved on into Platte County. We camped about two miles east of Camden Point and remained a few days. Mose Cunningham and a man by the name of Linville joined us as recruits. During our stay there some of the boys went over to New Market and spent a portion of the time. The day before we expected to leave, Brinton and I went over to Alfred Jack's, as I wanted to see his daughter, Mollie, before I left. We rode up to the yard fence and there in front of the house lay a dead man--a Federal soldier. We called Mr. Jack and asked him how the man came to be there. He said that some hours before a party of Union militia and a few men that he took to be Confederates had passed his house shooting at each other, but that he did not know anyone had been killed. This was the first news we had that the Federals were in the community. The skirmish was between some of our men and a scouting party from the other side. Mr. Jack was greatly disturbed and feared that he would be accused of the man's death, and thought of leaving home. I told him not to do that. He was entirely innocent and the soldiers knew the man had been killed in the skirmish. We helped him carry the body into his yard and started for camp. I knew the news of the fight would soon stir up all the Federals in the community, and, though I missed seeing the young lady, I was glad I learned of the trouble in time to get back to camp. By noon the roads everywhere west of us were full of soldiers. We got glimpses of them now and then from the hill on which we were camped. We prepared our small camp equipment for traveling, saddled our horses and crossed to the east side of the Platte. Here we selected a good place to be attacked and waited two or three hours. Either they could not find us or did not want to find us, for they did not appear. Late in the afternoon we resumed our journey to the south, and passed out of Platte and through Clay County without difficulty. The Missouri River was again the great obstacle, as there were a number of us on this trip. Richfield, the point where we had previously crossed, was passed by, and we reached the river bottom some miles below that place, just at night. We cooked and ate supper, and about eight o'clock started for the river, not knowing how we would get across. As we passed through a paw-paw thicket an amusing incident occurred. A man called "halt." As our horses were making a great deal of noise we did not hear either his first or second call. He called again in a loud voice, "Halt, third and last time!" We stopped at once. He said, "Who are you?" Our lieutenant answered, "Shelby's men. Who are you?" "I am a bushwhacker, by G--." He then asked if any man in our company lived near this place. Our lieutenant answered that a man with us by the name of Hill lived at Richmond. "Tell him to come forward and meet me half way." Then the bushwhacker began calling to his men to fall in line. Hill went forward and met an old acquaintance. Hill asked how many men he had. He said he had none; that he was alone, and was just running a bluff on us. When Hill and the bushwhacker came back to us we all had a jolly laugh. We learned from him that Bill Anderson, with whom he belonged, was crossing the river with his band of bushwhackers about a mile below, and had sent him out as a picket. He went down with us and assured Anderson that we were his friends. The night was very dark. Anderson had forty-five men and one small skiff. Two men besides the oarsman got into the boat, each holding the bridle of his horse. The horses were then forced in, one on each side, and the skiff put off. It was a long swim for the horses and a long wait for the skiff's return, but it was better than drifting on cottonwood logs, as we had expected to do. With the boat we could all land at the same place. Anderson's men had been crossing since early in the evening and by midnight all were over and the skiff delivered to us. The last of our company reached the southern shore just at sun up, and our long journey seemed almost over with the river behind us. Anderson, after crossing, learned that a Federal regiment was in camp at Sibley. He took his forty-five men and surprised them. They charged through the whole regiment, yelling and shooting, and killed, wounded and ran over about twenty of them without losing a man. Not satisfied with this they charged back, and by that time, the soldiers had collected their senses and their guns. Anderson was killed and three of his men wounded. I have always believed that Anderson and most of his men were half drunk that morning. The wounded men were placed in a tent in the thick willows and left to the care of sympathizing women. Anderson's death left his men without a leader. Forty-one remained able to go forward and they joined with our thirty. This made a pretty strong squad and we traveled the public roads in day light. After two days our provisions gave out and we separated into little companies of from four to six in order to get provisions and horse feed from the residents of the country along the road, arranging in advance to unite at a given place. I recall an incident of this trip which afforded us great amusement. It happened near the north bank of the Osage River. Our straggling parties had united in order to be together at the fording of the river, and as we passed down toward the river we met a squad of about ten militia. Neither party appeared to be suspicious of the other, and the militia really thought we were a part of their own forces. We rode directly up to them and spoke very politely. Asked them where they were going and they told us they were going home. Said they had been after Price and had driven the d----d old Rebel out of Missouri once more and were just getting home. We then told them we were a part of Price's forces that had not been driven out, and drew our navies on them. It was pitiful to see the expressions of terror that came over their faces. We made them dismount and disarm themselves. They did so with the greatest apparent willingness. We destroyed their arms as we had no use for them, and made them swear a dreadful oath and promise they would never molest Price or any of his men again. When they did this they were ordered to move on, and seemed greatly rejoiced that their lives had been spared. The many bitter experiences I had during the war led me to doubt seriously whether we would have been as well treated had we been caught by our enemies at as great a disadvantage as we had them. And some of our men had long been with Bill Anderson, about whom the most dreadful stories of cruelty have been written--by men I presume who never dared to come out of hiding and who wrote the terrors of their own cowardly souls rather than anything real or true. It must be understood that I am not attempting a defense of Anderson or his men further than to relate what their conduct was while I was with them. It was by chance only, in the manner I have related, that I was thrown with these men on this trip southward, and though we met a number of returning squads of militia in the same way and always had the advantage of them, not a man of them was mistreated other than to be disarmed, if that may be called mistreatment. The situation may and probably was different when these men were attacked or when the enemy was campaigning against them. I have heard it said that, under such circumstances, men who encountered Anderson's men had to fight, run or die. With more or less difficulty and with many hardships, but without any incident worth mentioning, we made our way to the Arkansas River about twenty miles below Fort Smith. The river was running pretty full and there was no hope of finding a ferry without encountering Federal troops, so we constructed a rude raft of cottonwood logs, got on it and swam our horses alongside. This occasioned considerable delay, but we got safely over and made our way to Red River, where we had much the same experience. We reached Price at Clarksville, Texas, and remained with him there until January. At this time Price's army was all cavalry--just as it came off of the raid into Missouri--and consisted of about five thousand men. Early in January he moved down on Red River about fifty miles distant in order to get feed for his horses. Horse feed was scarce about Clarksville, but in Red River bottom the cane was abundant and the move was made that the horses might be grazed upon the cane. Price remained there until spring and was still there when Lee surrendered. Price and his staff prepared to go to Mexico and seven of us--Buchanan and Platte County neighbor boys--saddled our horses, bade him goodby and started for home. CHAPTER XVI. _Worse Than War_. The members of our party were Bill and Jack Evans, Curly Smith, Mose Cunningham of Camden Point, and one of his neighbors, whose name I do not now recall, Wall Brinton and myself. Our horses were in good condition, and, though the war was over, we supplied ourselves well with arms and ammunition and it was well we did, for in all my experiences, I never suffered such hardships or came so near losing my life as on this journey home after the war was over. We traveled a long distance, as it seemed then, and met with no difficulty except lack of food. Homes in that country were few and far between and when we chanced upon a house no one was at home but half starved, ragged women and children. They had little to offer us and lived themselves by taking their dogs to the woods and chasing game or wild hogs which had gone through the winter and were unfit for food. They always offered to divide, but we did not have the heart to accept their offer, and lived on such game as we could kill as we traveled along. We always gave these women such encouragement as we could, told them the war was over and they might soon expect their husbands and sons to return to them. We did not say if they were still alive, but we and they sadly understood always that such a condition might well have been added. I do not recall how we got across the Arkansas River, but I do remember that in the heavy timber on this side we came upon nine men in camp who claimed to be "bushwhackers." They invited us to join them and as we were tired and hungry we did so. We rested the remainder of the day and at night they told us there was to be a dance--frolic--in the neighborhood and invited us to go. We did so and witnessed a dance in truly Arkansas style. I took no part, but enjoyed looking on at the others. When we reached camp late in the night we all spread our blankets down around the fire and slept, feeling the greatest security. Next morning three of their men and three of our horses were gone. We said nothing, but cooked and ate our breakfasts and went back to the cane-brake to make further search for the horses. We hunted until noon, but could not find them. We returned to the camp where the six remaining members of the party were and got dinner. After dinner at a given signal we drew our navies and made them disarm, which they did with much more haste than "bushwhackers" would have done. We then asked them to tell where our horses were. Three of the six proved to be really our friends and knew nothing about the horses. The other three were in with the men who had gone. The missing horses belonged to Mose Cunningham, Wall Brinton and myself. They told us various stories. One said that my horse had been taken by the son of a widow woman who lived seven miles east. Others said the horses had been taken to Fort Smith, twenty miles west. We settled the matter by saddling three of their horses and riding away. We rode the remainder of the day and until two o'clock in the night without anything to eat. About this hour we came upon a house and roused the inmates and told them we must have provisions. We got a ham, some flour, sugar and coffee and started on. By nine o'clock next morning we had gotten far up into the rugged, mountainous country where it seemed safe to stop. We dismounted and cooked breakfast, but took the precaution to send two men back on the mountain to keep watch. I had eaten my breakfast, saddled my horse and was ready to go. The other boys were taking more time. I reminded them that we might be followed and that they had better make haste. I had scarcely uttered the words when the boys on the lookout came running down the mountain and before they reached the camp a company of soldiers appeared at the crest. They commenced throwing hot lead down at us, and we returned it and kept it up until the boys got into camp and grabbed up a handful of provisions. I made a breastworks of my horse and stood and shot across my saddle until the horse fell at my feet. By that time our guns were empty, and without time to reload we ran to the mountains, leaving everything but our guns and the clothes upon our backs. It was disheartening to think that, tired and hungry as we were, we could not have peace long enough to cook and eat the poor provisions secured at the farm house the night before, and it was still more disheartening to reflect upon where the next meal was to be found. In spite of this we still had much to be thankful for. Although left on foot and without provisions, we still had our lives and plenty of powder and lead, and, in those days when human life was so cheap, these were our greatest concern. The party attacking did not follow us into the brush on the mountain side. We had all the advantage there and were desperate enough to have used it to any extent and without much conscience, had occasion required. Our little party was scattered, each man taking care of himself. Some kept moving up the mountain while some crouched like hunted quails in what appeared to be safe hiding places. In a little while our pursuers gathered up our horses and the fragments of provisions we had left and started away. After a long wait the boys began to signal each other and shortly we were united. It was a long and weary trudge to Fayetteville. We were compelled to keep near the main traveled road, (which was little better than a bridle path), because the country was so rough and the timber so heavy that we feared we might lose our way. Our only food was the game we killed--squirrels and wild turkey and now and then a deer. This we dressed and broiled over a camp fire and ate without bread or salt. Hard as this method of subsistence was, it had at least one advantage over an army march--we had plenty of time. The bare ground had been our resting place so long that we were quite accustomed to it, and even, without the luxury of a blanket, we slept and rested much. At Fayetteville we got the first square meal since leaving the camp on the Arkansas River, and, as it was by no means safe to remain there, we secured such provisions as we could carry, and started on, still on foot. Above Fayetteville the country became less mountainous and, although we always slept in the timber, we found little trouble in securing food. We crossed Cowskin River and made our way to Granby, where the lead mines were located. In a little valley shortly out of Granby we found a drove of poor, thin horses. They had fared badly during the winter, but looked as though they might be able to help us along somewhat, so we peeled hickory bark and made halters and each man caught himself a horse. We had not gone far when we discovered that riding barebacked on the skeleton of a horse was a poor substitute for walking, so we turned our horses loose and continued the journey on foot. Johnstown, a small town in Bates County, is the next point, I remember distinctly. A company of militia was stationed there and all the people in the country round-about were colonized in and near the town. Although we knew the militia were there, we took our chances on going quite near the town, for we were compelled to have food. Late in the afternoon we stopped at a house in the outskirts of the town and found the man and his family at home. The man belonged to the militia company, so we held him until the family cooked supper for us. After we had eaten we started on, taking the man with us to prevent him from reporting on us, advising his family at the same time that if we were pursued it would be because some of them had informed on us and in that event the man would never return. They were glad enough to promise anything that would give them hope of his return, and we felt quite sure we would not be discovered from that source. We left the house between five and six o'clock and had not gone far when we saw three militia men who had been out on a scout, riding toward us. When they came within a hundred yards or so the leader called on us to halt. He asked, "Who are you?" Wall Brinton replied, but I do not recall what he said. The leader evidently did not believe him for he replied by telling us to consider ourselves under arrest. This was, under our circumstances, equivalent to opening hostilities, so we replied with our navies. One horse fell with the man on him. The other two hastily assisted the rider to mount behind one of them. They galloped back and took another road toward the town. We hurried on to a thick grove of timber some distance ahead where we could secure protection against the attack that we felt sure would later be made upon us. As the news of our presence had now gone back to headquarters, our prisoner could be of no more service, so we turned him loose. We reached the timber and waited and watched, but, for some reason, no attempt was made to capture us. Darkness soon came on and we lost no time in making our escape. At daylight next morning we were at Little Grand River, fifteen miles north. Shortly after we left our hiding place in the timber near Johnstown, it began to rain and rained on us all night long as we journeyed. Little Grand River was running nearly bank full, but we had to cross. We made a raft by binding logs together with hickory bark, placed the guns and clothing upon it and pushed out, each man holding on at the rear, swimming and pushing. We were soon across and as it seemed to be a wild, uninhabited spot, we built a fire and warmed ourselves and dried our clothing, and all got a little sleep, one man always standing guard. About ten o'clock I grew restless and uneasy and awakened the boys and told them we had better move on, as that company of militia might start early in the morning to follow us and, if they did so, they might be expected to appear at any time. Wall Brinton, our captain, agreed to this and we made another start, although some of the boys opposed it and said we had as well be killed as run ourselves to death. We traveled westwardly, up the river, about two miles and then north to the bluffs where we found what appeared to be sufficient protection in the timber and hills to warrant a stop for further rest. It was a beautiful day after the rain the night before and we lay in the warm sunshine and slept as well as hungry men could sleep. We peeled slippery elm bark and ate it, but it did little to satisfy our hunger. Late in the afternoon, Curly Smith, Wall Brinton and I were chewing upon our elm bark and six of our boys were fast asleep, when a company of soldiers rode up in twenty yards of us before we saw them. Smith saw them first and said to me, "Who is that?" I sprang to my feet, turning around as I did so. I knew them at a glance and knew also that we were in trouble. There was no time to plan--no time even to run--and six of the nine of us fast asleep. My first thought was to wake the boys so I called out at the top of my voice, "Who are you?" They gave no answer, but opened fire upon us. Brinton, Smith and I each took a tree and let them come on. It was a desperate situation and every load in the brace of six-shooters we carried must be made to count. When they were close enough for our work to be effective, we began on them. From the way they dropped out of their saddles I am sure very few of our bullets went astray. The captain kept urging his men on, calling "Give them hell, boys!" and we kept busy. The captain himself galloped up within two rods of me, threw his saber around his head and ordered me to surrender. I had, as I thought, just one shot left. I put it through his heart. I saw it twist, as it seemed, through his coat, and I shall never forget the writhing of his body and the dreadful frown as he fell from his horse. Most of them who were left had now exhausted the loads in their guns, and when they saw their captain fall retreated. We whirled and ran with all our might. The boys who had been asleep were gone. They had awakened and started at the first volley. A short run brought us in sight of the other boys who were at the moment trying to pass around a long, narrow slough, which lay between them and timber on the other side. Brinton's right arm was broken between the wrist and elbow. He had received the wound as he threw his arm from behind the tree to shoot. It was bleeding badly, but we kept running and calling to our companions to turn and fight. They paid no attention to us, but kept on around the slough. During this time the men who attacked us had rallied and were riding down upon us. Brinton kept calling and urging the boys to turn and fight, and finally as our pursuers drew closer they turned and fired, and this checked the men who were after us for a moment. By this time poor Wall had grown weak and sick from loss of blood and could go no farther. We had been running side by side. The last words he said to me were, "I am sick, I can't go on. I will have to surrender. Make your escape if you can." Such a thing seemed impossible at the moment, but I feared nothing so much as the "mercy" of the men who were after us. Wall threw up his well arm and I ran as fast as I could toward the slough or lake and plunged right in. The brush and vines on the other side were my only hope, aside from the discovery I made as I ran that I had one more load in my navy. Our enemies, except one man, took after the boys who were running around the lake. As I waded in water nearly waist deep the man who had followed me rode up to the edge of the lake and ordered me to halt. I paid no attention to him but waded on, watching him all the time. He rode out into the water, raised his gun as if to shoot and called the second time. I stopped and turned and leveled the muzzle of my navy at his belt and fired. He fell off his horse into the water. When I got across I looked back and saw him struggling to keep his head out of the water. I do not know what became of him. I foresaw when he came up and rode into the lake that he or I would be doing that very thing, and I felt that the chance load left in my navy was, as it proved to be, my only protection against it. The fight was still going on up the lake. I looked and saw Jack Evans down in the water and heard him calling for help. The other boys were just wading out. I ran to them and as I came up I saw blood streaming from the leg of one of the men. He had been shot in the thigh, but was still able to walk. We soon got out of sight in the thick brush and they did not follow us. Including the man who remained with us, four of our men had been wounded in the fight. Three of them, Wall Brinton, Jack Evans and one of the Platte County boys, were compelled to surrender, and we learned that all of them, wounded prisoners though they were, were shot in cold blood. We never knew how many of their men were killed and wounded. We hurried on through the brush back toward the river, and when we reached it we found a log for our wounded man and all swam across to the south side. After traveling a few miles down the river we crossed in the same manner and made directly north. Just before dark we came to an abandoned log house and stopped. We were in a pitiable condition. No food since the night before, tired and wet, depressed in spirits by the loss of our comrades, whom we knew had already been killed, and with a wounded man upon our hands. To remain there so close to the men who were after us meant that we would be captured and killed. We talked the matter over. The wounded man, whose name I do not recall, in company with his brother, fell in with us at the Arkansas River. He was so weak and was suffering so much that he could go no farther, so he and his brother decided to remain at the cabin through the night and trust to the mercy of some one whom they might find next day to give them assistance and shield them from the soldiers who had pursued us from Johnstown. They agreed that the four of us who were uninjured would not be so apt to secure sympathy and that we had better move on. It was a sad farewell that we bade our wounded companion and his brother that night, and it was, for me at least, a farewell indeed, for I have never seen or heard from them since, but it seemed the best and only thing that could be done. As soon as it was dark we started and traveled all night, though very slowly, and until late in the afternoon of the day following. At that time we came near a small place, the name of which I do not now remember. We went up close to the town and stopped at a house. Two men in blue clothes were there with the family and we immediately took charge of them and ordered supper. They prepared a splendid meal for us and we ate it as only men can eat who have gone forty-eight hours without food. It was a cool evening and they had a small fire in an old-fashioned fire-place. After supper we asked them to spread some bed clothes before the fire and three of us lay down and slept while the fourth stood guard over the men. We took turns standing guard through the night and next morning ordered an early breakfast and left as soon as it was daylight. We started north, and as soon as we got out of sight of the house turned east a short distance and then went back south about a mile to a high knoll covered with black jack. We lay there all day and watched the maneuvers of the blue coats. They scoured the country to the north far and near, but never approached the knoll on which we were hidden. We had a fine rest after our two good meals, and we needed it following the events of the past two days. When night came and everything got still we came down and went to the same house for supper. The men had not returned from hunting us, and the women were much surprised to see us. They gave us a good supper and we bade them goodby and started north, listening all the time for approaching horses from either direction. We had no difficulty, and by morning were well out of the way. The next place I remember was in Jackson County near Independence. As we were worn out, ragged and almost barefooted, and as the war was over, we decided to see the provost marshal and get a pass on which we could travel on to our homes in safety. I went to a good Union man's house and told him what I wanted. He promised to see the marshal for me, and I directed him where to find us. Upon his return he said the pass would be provided. Next morning they sent a small company of soldiers out and we saw that we had been deceived. They looked us over carefully and talked pretty saucy, but did not harm us. We looked so shabby that they evidently thought we did not amount to much. They put us in a two-horse wagon and took us to Warrensburg, forty miles farther from home. There we were placed in a guard-house where we were kept two or three days, without telling us what their plans were. One morning a guard came and took one of our men--a mere boy--down to headquarters and quizzed him to find out if he knew anything about the fight on Little Grand River. He denied it. Then they came and got one of the other boys, but he managed also to convince them that we had been together--just the four of us--since we left the south. This seemed to satisfy them for they did not call on me, but we were not released. The day following a guard came and marched us out to the edge of town and set us to work hoeing in a garden, with a negro woman for a boss. I called her "aunty," and cut up as many beans and peas as I did weeds. I kept my "boss" busy showing me how, and she got precious little work out of me. I began to suspect they were trying to connect us with the Grand River affair, and feared they might get some one who would identify us or pretend to do so, and I did not like the prospect, so I made up my mind I would leave them some how and go home without a pass. The guard-house was a brick building that had been a dwelling. A water tank stood out in the yard and the prisoners all went there for water. Four men stood guard day and night, and it was customary at six o'clock to turn the men in and lock them up. On the evening that I decided to escape I managed to hide in a pile of lumber that lay in the yard near the water tank, and when the guards put the men in and locked the doors they did not miss me. I lay very still until late at night. I could hear the guard pass on his beat and by the time required to pass me and return I could judge the length of his beat. When I thought it safe to make my dash I watched and after he had passed south, I waited until he had gone, as well as I could estimate, to the end of his beat, then I leaped across his path so quickly that he did not have time to think, much less shoot. I ran down a dark alley and had no trouble in reaching the outskirts of the town. I took across the fields, not knowing where I was going, nor caring much, just so I was getting away. I had been gone but a little while when I heard the town bell ring and knew the alarm had been turned in. Then I heard horses galloping out, as I supposed, on every road from town. I heard the horses gallop across a bridge some distance from town, and concluded I would cross no bridges that night. I moved cautiously on, and by and by came to a creek somewhat in the direction I had heard horses cross the bridge. I followed the creek, watching all the time for bridges and after a while came to a foot-log. I crossed and made my way out of the thick brush and stopped to get my bearings. It was a starlight night. I located the north star and took it for my guide and traveled all night. When daylight came I found myself in a creek bottom and in a body of very large timber. I found a large, hollow sycamore with a hole in the side reaching down to the ground large enough to admit me. I sat back into that tree to get a little rest and possibly a little sleep. I watched and listened. A good while after sun up I saw a man going with a yoke of cattle toward a field, which I could see through the timber, to plow. Two big, savage looking dogs were following him. The dogs raised their heads and came toward me as though they scented me and I made sure I would be discovered, but they turned in another direction before they got very near and did not disturb me. I sat there all day and, in spite of my hunger, slept and rested. When night came I made another start as soon as I could see the north star. I traveled all night and when morning came I still had but little idea where I was. I went up on a high hill which was covered with brush and from which I could see all about me. Everything was quiet, so I lay down and slept. I awoke about ten o'clock and saw a stage-coach loaded with passengers passing along a road below me. This was the first information I had that I was near a public road. I remained in the brush awhile and then decided to move along cautiously by daylight. I saw a house now and then and, though terribly hungry, I did not dare approach it and ask for food. Toward night I reached the rugged hills, from which I judged I must be near the Missouri River. Just before dark I found an empty tobacco barn and crawled into it and remained throughout the night. This was the third night with two days intervening--sixty hours--in which I had not tasted food, and I was worn out with my long tramp besides. I did not sleep well that night. My accommodations were very poor and my gnawing appetite, made me wakeful. I had one comfort, however, I was well hidden, and this reflection rewarded me for much of my suffering. Since this trip home I have had a warm sympathy for all hunted beasts. When day began to dawn I commenced observing my situation without. I saw a house near by and watched it for an hour. I could only see two women, and from the way they attended the work outside as well as in the house, I concluded there were no men about the place and that it would be safe for me to venture up and ask for something to eat, and, if I got into trouble, trust my legs, the only weapons I had, to get me out. I went up cautiously and found what I could not discover from my hiding place, that one was an old lady and the other a girl just grown. I spoke to the old lady and told her my famished condition. She said she was sorry for me, but she had orders to feed nobody on either side and that she could not disobey them without getting into trouble herself. I told her the war was over and that I was trying to get home. I had tried to quit fighting when I left Price on Red River, but had had greater difficulty in keeping myself from being killed since I quit fighting than before. She still refused to give me anything. Finally, my entreaties won the girl. She spoke up and said, "Mother, I have made no promises. You have kept your promise and have refused him food. I will give him something to eat." With that she told me to draw my chair to the table and she began to set such a meal before me as I had not tasted in years, it seemed. Cold boiled ham, light bread, milk and butter, preserves, honey, cake and pie--plenty of all, and rations I had not heard of in months. I will not attempt to describe how ravenously I ate. I was probably as shabby looking a mortal as ever sat down to a meal at a civilized table. My hair and beard were long and had not been combed for days. I had not washed my face since I escaped from the guard-house. My clothes--what was left of them--were, with walking through mud and rain, wading lakes and sloughs and swimming rivers, soiled and grimy beyond description. When I had finished eating the girl asked me if I would take a lunch along with me. Of course I told her I would, and that I would always be grateful to her, and I have kept my promise. I have many times remembered that kindness and thanked that young lady over and over a thousand times in my heart. I took my package and bade the girl and her mother goodby and started for the woods. I soon reached level ground and heavy timber and knew I was in the river bottom. I went cautiously along until I saw the river in the distance. Then I selected a good shade and lay down and had a fine rest after my good meal. I awoke some time along in the afternoon. Everything was quiet--no sound of human foot or voice. I ate my lunch and went down to the river bank to select a good crossing place. I found a place that suited me. Then I prepared three logs and brought them to the water's edge and tied them firmly together with hickory bark which I peeled from the saplings near by. I found in a drift close at hand a clap-board suitable for an oar, and my craft was ready to sail. I might have made the crossing in daylight without being molested, but, not knowing what I might encounter on the other shore, I decided to wait for night. As soon as it began to grow dark I went down and pushed my raft into the water and tied it to the root of a tree. I then got astride of it with feet and legs up to the knees in the water to see if it would bear my weight. It appeared to be sufficiently strong, so with my clap-board in my hand I cut loose. The current caught me and took me rapidly down stream, but I was sure if I kept using my paddle it would have sufficient effect to land me on the other side some time. It soon grew very dark, so that I could not see the shore on either side, and I could not tell I was moving except by the water running past my feet and legs. After what seemed a very long time, and after I had grown very tired both with my labor and my position on the raft, I felt my feet strike the sand. I got up and towed the raft to shore and pulled it up on dry land. Then I took a rest and planned. I might be on an island and in that case I would have further need for my raft. I could only ascertain my position by investigating, so when sufficiently rested I started on across the land, breaking the top of a bush every few steps to guide me back in case I should find myself upon an island. I soon came to a slough which I waded without difficulty and passed on. A little farther on I came to another slough, which I also waded. The ground under my feet seemed to grow firmer as I walked away from this slough. I passed into a body of good sized timber and finally I came to a wagon road, and I knew then that I was on the main land and the Missouri River which had given me so much trouble during the four preceding years was again behind me. My little raft might rest and I should have no need to retrace my steps by the broken bushes. I had no idea what time of night it was. I was tired and wet, but with all that, felt much better than on the preceding night when so hungry. I thought it must be twenty miles or more to where my sister lived in the northeast portion of Clay County, so I again took the north star for my guide and set out, bearing west somewhat when I found traveling that way agreeable, but never east. I paid no attention to roads unless they led in my direction. When daylight came I was at a loss to know where I was. I saw a house in the distance and went up near it. No one was up, so I sat down to wait. In a little while a girl came out to a wood pile and began picking up chips. I went up and asked her how far it was to Greenville. She said one mile. I asked her which direction and she pointed east. I thanked her and started in the direction she pointed. I was no sooner out of sight than I turned my course due north, for I was then in less than two miles of my sister's home. I arrived shortly after sun up, and as I went into her house and sat down to a good breakfast, I felt that my troubles ought to be fairly over, now that the war had closed; but my terrible experiences on the way home caused me to doubt whether I could go back and live in peace, even if there was no war. I remained with my sister a day or two, never showing myself in daylight, for I learned from her that now since fear of southern soldiers was over, all those who were too cowardly to go to the front but had remained at home and robbed and harassed old men and women and children, were giving the community more trouble than at any time during the war. They were all very brave then and organized companies and marched and drilled and galloped over the roads, seeking all manner of pretenses to rob and kill those who had sympathized with the south. Returning Confederate soldiers, were, in those first days after the close of the war, in greater danger than when in the front of battle, as my own recent experience had shown, and I was not alone, for my sister told me of a number of soldiers who had returned from the south only to be killed after reaching home. I was sure I would find much the same condition in Buchanan County that I had encountered all along my route home, and I did not like the prospect that lay before me. I learned from my sister that Trav. Turner, a neighbor of hers, was at St. Joseph fitting up a freight train for Salt Lake. I knew Turner well. He had carried food to Brother James and me while we lay in the brush waiting to hear the fate of Charley Pullins who was captured when we were all overtaken at the home of Reuben Eastin in that neighborhood, and I knew, if I could reach him, I would have no difficulty in getting away from the country. Something had to be done. If I should be discovered at the home of my sister it would give the "yard dogs," as those brave murderers of that community were called, a pretext for robbing her and probably for killing her husband or some of her family. We decided upon a plan. I shaved very clean and parted my long hair in the middle, put on one of my sister's dresses and both of us put on sunbonnets. We got in a buggy and started for Saint Joseph. We passed right through old Haynesville, the center of all the patriotic parading of the "yard dogs," on through Plattsburg and reached the home of Jack Elder, a half mile from my old home, where we stayed all night. Next morning we drove on to Saint Joseph and took dinner with my brother, Isaac. I remember this incident particularly for the family had company for dinner. I was introduced as a Clay County friend of Mrs. Wilson's and sat down at the same table, and the visitors did not suspect me through my disguise. After dinner we drove to the ferry at the foot of Francis Street and drove on. The boat was crowded and they had to place our buggy in line in order to make room for others. Two men took hold of the buggy to lift it around. My sister said, "Wait and we will get out." The men said, "No, sit still _ladies_, we can lift it with you in it." We sat still, and crossed over. On reaching the other side we drove out through the woods and found Turner's camp. Passing on beyond and out of sight, I removed my disguise, after which we returned to the camp and I bade my sister goodby. CHAPTER XVII. _Across the Plains in Sixty-five_. I was perfectly at home in Turner's camp, not only on account of my acquaintance with him, but on account of my old familiarity with plainsmen's ways. There were nineteen men in the train, and but three of them, Turner, Cap. Hughes, the wagon boss, and James Curl, of Rushville, knew me. They were all discreet and kept their knowledge to themselves. I went by the name of John Allen. Just before we were ready to start my brother-in-law, James Reynolds, sent me a mule, bridle and saddle and a small amount of money. We pulled out early one morning, sixteen wagons, four yoke of oxen to each wagon, and forty hundred in each load. Some time was required to get the men and cattle accustomed to traveling, and for a while our progress was slow. At Fort Kearney the soldiers stopped our train. They told us the Indians were on the warpath ahead and the authorities refused to permit any train to pass on without fifty men. This forced us to wait until another train came up. During this time we were required to organize ourselves into a company of soldiers, elect a captain and drill several hours every day. The captain ordered me out to drill with the boys. I told him I knew as much about drilling as I wanted to know and refused to go. Turner thought he had to obey the authorities and had all his men drill very industriously. I told him he had better stop that foolishness and pull out or he would not reach Salt Lake before Christmas. He said he did not know how to get away from the orders given him by the soldiers. I told him to turn the matter over to me and I would show him. He did as I requested and gave orders that until further notice I should be obeyed. The following morning I was out before daylight. I quietly aroused the men and ordered them to prepare to move. Everything was soon ready and before sun up we were on the road. I made twenty-five miles that day, which put us so far ahead that we never again heard of soldiers or of the trains that expected to accompany us. Turner wanted me to remain in charge of the train, but I told him I could not do it, as I had had trouble enough the past four years, but that I would give him all the assistance in my power. The train moved along slowly over the old road up the Platte which was so familiar to me, until it reached the upper crossing at South Platte, where I crossed in forty-nine. From that point we continued up South Platte over a road with which I was not familiar. When we reached the mouth of the Cache le Poudre River we crossed and left the Platte and followed the Cache le Poudre up about 75 miles, as I remember it. There we left the river and passed over a high plateau, or divide as we called it, and down into a beautiful valley, the head waters of Laramie River. After crossing this valley we passed through a very rough country that lay between the Laramie and the North Platte. On this stretch of the road and at a point I do not now remember, we passed a government fort. There I saw Gillispie Poteet, with whom I had gone to school as a boy. He was a private in the Federal service. I do not know whether he recognized me or not. I passed him without speaking or making myself known. My experiences in the war had made me doubtful of even my old school mates when I saw them in such company as I found him. After crossing North Platte, which was but a small stream at that point, we passed into the worst alkali country I ever saw in my life. It extended from the North Platte to the Colorado River--a distance of one hundred and fifty miles or more. We had a hundred and twenty-five head of cattle and about one-fifth of them gave out before we were half way across the desert and had to be herded behind the train. In this state of affairs, which seemed about as bad as it could well be, Turner was taken sick. He and Captain Hughes had been having trouble with the men, and Turner was greatly worried, and I thought at first that he was homesick. The second day after Turner was taken sick he came to me and asked me to take charge of the train and let him go on by stage to Salt Lake City where he could rest and see a doctor. I had been thinking for several days that I would like to leave the train and go on by stage myself, but did not like to leave Turner while he was in trouble. So when he proposed to go on I suggested that he leave the train with Captain Hughes and that I go along with him to care for him. He said he could not consent to go on unless I remained with the train; that if we both went the men would abandon the train on the desert. I then told him I would do my best; that he had stood by me when I was in trouble, had carried food to me in the brush when, if he had been discovered, it would have cost him his life, and that I was ready to do everything I could for him. I saw Captain Hughes and found it was agreeable to him that I take charge. We had then been nearly three months on the road. The cattle were poor and worn out and there was little food for them upon the desert. The men were tired and had been inclined to rebel against Turner and Hughes, and many times it was all that all of us could do to keep them from abandoning the train. Under these trying conditions, I took charge, much against my inclination, but out of a sense of duty to Turner. Turner took the stage and left us. I immediately gave the men to understand that I would have no foolishness and that I intended to push the train on in good order and as rapidly as conditions would permit. The men seemed to believe I could do what I said I could do and became very well satisfied. I had trouble with only one man--a negro that Curl had picked up at Fort Kearney, and placed in charge of one of his teams. He weighed about 180 pounds, and had just been discharged from the Union army. He felt very important, and still wore his blue uniform. The trouble arose in this way: At night we placed the wagons so as to form a large corral, leaving a gap on one side. In the morning the cattle would be rounded up and driven into the corral to be yoked. This negro would not go out in the roundup, but would remain at the camp until the cattle came up, then in place of waiting until the cattle were safely in the corral, he would pick up his yoke and start for his cattle directly in front of the drove. Many of the cattle would frighten at this and run away and have to be rounded up again. The boys had scolded him frequently, but he paid no attention to them, and when I went in charge they complained to me. I spoke to the negro firmly but kindly and told him to wait until the cattle were all driven in before attempting to yoke his cattle. He paid no attention to me, and as usual frightened the cattle back. I said nothing more to him. The next morning I took one of the long bull whips, the stock of which was of seasoned hickory and eight or ten feet long, and took my stand at the side of the gap as though I intended to assist in driving the cattle in. When the front cattle came up the negro started for his oxen with the yoke in his hands. Quick as a flash I changed ends on the whip-stock and with the butt of it I gave him such a rap on the side of the head that he dropped his yoke and staggered out of the way. That was the last trouble I had with that negro. He was as obliging and obedient to me after that as I could ask a negro to be. I got the train to the Colorado River where there was plenty of water and grass, and rested three days. I crossed the river and moved on up Black Fork about forty miles to Fort Bridger. There I met Turner who had returned from Salt Lake to see how we got along. I drove the train up close to the fort and stopped on a stream. The cattle were unyoked and I had gone with them to the stream to see that they all got water. It was a beautiful place to camp, and with the fort so close at hand I thought we could all lie down and rest without fear of Indians. While I was at the creek three men with yellow stripes on their shoulders rode up and asked me where the owner of the train was. I directed them to Turner, who was at the camp. They rode off and I followed and reached the camp in time to hear them tell Turner that he must move on; that he could not camp in five miles of the fort; that they were saving the grass for hay. Turner asked me what he should do. I told him there was but one thing to do--move on. That the fort was placed there for the purpose of protecting emigrants, and freighters, but that did not matter. Those gentlemen in blue clothes and yellow stripes must be protected or they could not draw their salaries. The dead line they had drawn was five miles beyond, and it was nearly night and our cattle were hungry and we were foot-sore and worn out, and all the Indians on the plains could rob and scalp us that distance away from the fort and not a gentleman in blue clothes and yellow stripes be disturbed by it, but we had to move. I was rebellious again--more so I believe than at any moment during the war, which had just closed--and but for my recent efforts and my dismal failure, I should have felt much like challenging the whole regiment with my twenty cowboys. We were not the only sufferers. An emigrant train of about twenty families, men, women and children from near Rushville, Buchanan County, in which were Joe Hart and Tom Hill, who I remember had fallen in with us and were traveling close behind, they, too, had to pack up and start. It was late at night when we reached a safe distance from the fort under escort of the gentlemen in blue clothes and yellow stripes, and we stopped on a desert so barren that we had to corral the cattle and hold the poor hungry things all night. In the morning we moved on some miles farther and found grass and water and stopped the remainder of the day. A little less than a week later we pulled into Salt Lake, seventy miles west of Fort Bridger, with the merchandise in good condition, but with the cattle pretty well played out. I remained with Turner until his wagons were all unloaded. When that was finished my free boarding house was closed. My mule was so poor that he was almost worthless. I had but little money, and my friends were all preparing to start back. I could not think of going with them and I felt the necessity for stirring about and finding something to do. In a few days a large train pulled in from the west. I went to the boss and asked him what his plans were. He told me he was hauling flour from Salt Lake City to Helena, Montana. I asked him about the Montana country, and where and how he wintered his cattle. He said he grazed them on Boulder Creek near Helena, and that there was no better range in the west. I learned farther that he would start on his last trip before winter in about a week. I did not tell him that I thought of applying for a job driving an ox team. Next day Turner, having disposed of his goods, asked me what he owed me. I told him he owed me nothing; that he had paid me long ago by protecting me in time of war, and had brought me away from danger free of charge. Turner said he would not have it that way; that if I had not been along his train would be back upon the alkali desert, and that he proposed to pay me. I then told him of my plan to drive an ox team on to Montana, as I was a pretty good bull-whacker and had to have some place to go. In reply to this he said I must do no such thing; that if I would name the place I wanted to go he would see that I had a way to get there without driving a team. I told him I had no place in particular in mind, but would be satisfied anywhere among the mountains and Indians--just so I could get away from the old war troubles back in civilization. In a few days Turner came back and told me his cattle were so poor that he could not sell them, and proposed that I buy them and take them along with me. I replied that I had no money, besides I was alone and felt that I could not handle the cattle. He said I did not need any money, that he would take my note and as to the other matters he would fix them. He then made me a present of a fine mare, a gun and a hundred dollars in money. He also gave me a wagon loaded with provisions. With this equipment, it began to look as though I could take the cattle, and that the plan he had made for me was much better than any I could have made for myself. Jim Curl, a Buchanan County boy, had sixteen head of cattle which he added to mine. He loaded a wagon with provisions and each of us hired a man to drive our team, and with this arrangement made we were ready to start. We remained at Salt Lake until Turner had finished his business. His entire outfit at St. Joseph cost him about seven thousand dollars. He paid about two thousand dollars in wages to the men who assisted him. He received twenty-five thousand six hundred dollars for his cargo. I saw him get the money and put it in a bank. I realized then what a loss it would have been to him had he failed to get his train across, and he often told me if I had not been along he might never have succeeded. I gave Turner my note for four thousand dollars for the cattle and he took the stage for home. The next day Curl and I left for Boulder Valley. For seventy-five miles or more out of Salt Lake we had to pass through the Mormon settlements and we had great difficulty in keeping the cattle out of the fields and gardens. We crossed Bear River just above the point where it empties into Salt Lake and, after crossing a range of mountains, found Hedgepeth's cut-off, a road I had traveled in 1854. A short distance farther on, and from the top of a high divide, I could see Snake River valley near Fort Hall, my old trail in 1849. When we got down to the river and crossed the deep worn trail, the scene was quite familiar to me, although it had been a good many years since I had viewed it the last time. After crossing Snake River we set out across the mountains for our destination. I can't remember the names of many points on this trip. In fact the road was comparatively new and but few places had names. I remember passing over a broad, sandy desert, where our cattle nearly famished for water, and then down a long grade over almost solid rock. Near the bottom of this grade I saw a small stream some distance away, and rode down to see if I could find a way by which the cattle could reach water. I recall this distinctly because while hunting a path to the water I saw two queer looking animals, the like of which I had never seen before. I learned afterwards that they were lynx. Next day we passed into a beautiful valley where we had plenty of water and grass, but it snowed most of the day--a wet snow that soon melted and did not interfere much with grazing. Passing on we reached Black Tail Creek, (so named after the black tail deer), which we followed down to Nelson River. After crossing Nelson River we passed over a low range of mountains and down into Boulder Valley, the place we set out to reach. In spite of the high recommendation given this valley as a place to winter cattle, I did not like it, and we moved on up the river about fifty miles, and reached a place where the grass was abundant, but the frost had killed it. Curl thought this was the place to stop, but I was not satisfied. I saw no bunch grass, and my experience with cattle in California told me that we would not be safe unless we found a place where bunch grass grew on the mountain sides. However, we camped at this point and remained a few days to look about. Just above our camp a small creek, which seemed to come down from a big mountain in the distance, put into Boulder River. Curl and I passed up this creek toward the mountain, which was covered with snow. Some miles up we found the finest bunch grass I ever saw growing upon the low hills which surrounded the high peak. We spent the whole day looking over the place and went so far as to select the site for our cabin. Returning to camp, entirely satisfied with our day's work, we planned for the winter. Next morning early we were on our way to the mountain home we had selected. The grade was steep, our wagons were heavy and there was no road. We had to circle about the hills and wind and twist in order to get along at all. It was nearly night when we arrived at the spot selected. I had expected, from reports given me, to find a white settlement in Boulder Valley, but there was none, and if there was a white person within fifty miles of our camp that night we did not know it. Virginia City and Helena were mining towns about a hundred miles apart, and we were half way between them. I could hardly have found a place in the whole western country where the chance of meeting a white man was so small. It was, by good fortune, the very spot I set out to find when I left Missouri. I told my friends when I left that I was going out among the savage Indians for protection against the "yard dog" militia, who had not been in the war, and who only commenced fighting after the war was over and returning Confederate soldiers were at their mercy. A hurried camp, such as we were accustomed to make when traveling, was all we did the night of our arrival. Next morning we were up bright and early and, after attention to the cattle to see that none of them had strayed, we began building our winter home. We had but one axe and one shovel--one implement for each of us. Abundance of pine and cedar grew near. I took the axe and began cutting the logs while Curl with the shovel leveled the earth upon the site selected for the cabin. Curl's task was soon done, but not until I had a number of logs ready to be taken in. The oxen were then yoked and as fast as the logs were cut they were dragged in. When we decided logs enough were upon the ground, building began. It was slow work and hard work. Each log had to be raised and laid in its place and notched carefully so that it would hold firm and leave as little space as possible to be "chinked." When the proper height for the eaves had been reached, we elevated one side by adding logs to give slant to the roof. Stout poles were then laid side by side, over which we spread a thick layer of cedar branches and covered the whole with gravel. We chinked the spaces between the logs and plastered over the chinking with mortar made of mud. We then cut out a door, over which we hung a heavy blanket, and with such stones as we could select, suitable to be used, built a fire-place, laying the stones in the same kind of mortar used in the chinking. Thus we had a house without a nail or a piece of iron about it. Before I left Salt Lake, I bought two fine greyhounds. I trained them to sleep just inside our door. I told Curl they must serve as a lock to our door. They were faithful and obedient and I knew no Indian could get near us without warning. I felt more secure when I lay down to sleep with those dogs by my door than if I had had a puncheon door, barred and locked. We moved into our cabin late in October, and I felt for the first time in more than four years that I was at home. I was glad also to get a rest. I had left Red River, fifty miles above Shreveport, in April, walked the seven hundred miles to Buchanan County, fighting, running and hiding--much of the time without food, as I have related; then twelve hundred miles to Salt Lake, with a week's rest, then six hundred miles to Boulder Valley--six months of trial and hardship which few men are called upon to endure. In view of this I looked upon my winter in the cabin, in spite of its loneliness, with a good deal of pleasure. There was an abundance of game all about us. Elk, deer, antelope, bear, moose, and smaller game, grouse, pheasants and sage hens plentiful. Elk was my favorite meat, and, while we had great variety, I always kept as much as one hind quarter of elk hanging upon the corner of our cabin. Any day I chose I could take my gun and go out upon the mountain side among the cattle and bring back just such meat as my appetite fancied. We lived thus until near the first of the year 1866, without once seeing a human face--either white man or Indian. One morning about the time mentioned, Curl and I went out to get our ponies when we saw a dozen buck Indians chasing an antelope down the valley. Some were on foot and some on ponies. We hurriedly climbed up the side of a mountain which gave us an extended view of the whole plain, and to our astonishment we saw, about three miles away, a perfect village of wigwams. We were no longer without neighbors. Curl was considerably alarmed, but I told him we had nothing to fear, except that our game would not be so plentiful and so easily procured. He asked me how I knew we were in no danger. I pointed to the squaws, and pappooses which we could see about the village, and told him that my experience with Indians was that they were always peaceable when they had their families along. I told him, however, that we must be discreet and make friends with them, and assured him that I knew how to do that and that he must follow my advice. Out of extra caution we went back to the cabin and immediately put all our guns in good condition. We had hardly finished our task, when about noon, two Indians ran upon our cabin, to their utter astonishment. They stopped and looked in consternation. Our dogs went after them and I had hard work to make the dogs understand that they must not harm them. When the dogs were quiet I went up to them, showing my friendliness in every way I could. They answered me with signs showing that they too were friendly. When I had convinced them I meant no harm, I had them come into the cabin, and there I tried to find out what their plans were in the valley. I could understand but little they said, but I felt perfectly sure that by proper cultivation we should soon become quite friendly. I then set food before them. I had a kettle of thoroughly cooked navy beans simmering over our fire. I filled a couple of pans from the kettle, set them out and provided bread and meat. They went in on the beans and ate them ravenously. I tried to induce them to eat bread and meat, but not a morsel would they touch, but kept calling for beans. I told Curl we must find some way to stop them if possible, as so many beans in their starved stomachs might make them sick and the tribe would think we had poisoned them. We both then began to make all manner of signs toward the bread and meat, but it was useless. The two ate the entire kettle of beans and looked around for more. When they saw the beans were gone, they ate large quantities of bread and meat, and made signs that they were much pleased with their meal. When they left they made us understand that we were invited to see them. They pointed to their camp and said "wakee up." We made them understand that we would come and when they were gone I told Curl we must keep our promise. Next day we saddled our horses, buckled our navies on the outside of our clothes and each with a rifle in front across the horn of the saddle, rode down. The dogs followed us. When we rode up the squaws and pappooses ran for the tents like chickens that have seen a hawk in the air. But few bucks were in camp, the majority of them being out hunting. Fortunately for us one of the bucks who had dined with us so heartily on beans the day before was lying in his tent (perfectly well, to our surprise), and when the alarm was given he came out and recognized us. He came up and bade us welcome, and invited us into his tent. I was surprised to see how comfortably he was fixed. The poles of his tent were probably twenty feet long and tied together at the top. The lower ends of the poles were set in a wide circle, making a room twelve or fourteen feet across. It was a cold, winter day and a small stick fire was burning in the center directly beneath an opening at the top of the tent. The draft was such that the smoke all arose and escaped from the tent. They had gathered pine needles and packed them upon the floor around the fire and over them had spread dressed buffalo robes, making as fine a carpet as I ever set foot upon. We sat down by the fire and talked as much as we could to our host, making him understand that we were entirely friendly. Our dogs, seeing the good feeling between the Indians and ourselves, accepted the situation and throughout the entire winter made no hostile demonstrations toward them except when they came about the cabin. From this visit the whole tribe became aware that we were friendly, and within a very short time the very best feeling prevailed. Their only means of subsistence was the game they killed, and as they had no weapons but bows and arrows it required almost constant effort upon the part of the bucks to keep the tribe supplied with food. They were very clever in their methods and would bring in game when white men under such circumstances would have failed entirely. One of their favorite plans was this: Fifty or more would mount their ponies and make a wide circle, driving always toward Cottonwood Creek. The banks of this stream were very steep and there were but few crossing places. The antelope on becoming alarmed would start for these crossings, and as they passed down the narrow gulches, other Indians with bows and arrows waylaid them from behind rocks and brush, and shot them down. They did wonders with their bows and arrows, but many antelope passed through without being touched. Others, though wounded, escaped. We soon began to join in these hunts, and I have from my station behind a rock at one of these crossings killed as many as fifteen antelope in a single hunt. I was an expert with the navy in those days and rarely missed a shot. I always gave them every one to the Indians, as neither Curl nor I cared for antelope meat, and they were, of course, greatly pleased and regarded us both with our skill and navies as fortunate acquisitions, and we lost nothing by our kindness to them. We had a hundred and sixteen head of cattle and four horses. The Indians had about two hundred ponies. All herded and grazed together in that valley for four months. When the Indians left in the spring we rounded up our cattle and found every one of them. About the first of May, 1866, we moved our cattle over on Indian Creek, about forty miles north. There was a little mining town near and we set up a butcher shop, furnishing our own beeves to it. The town was not large enough to enable us to do much business and, after two months, we moved to Helena, another mining town, but larger than the first. At that time Virginia City was the capital of the territory. By the first of September we had disposed of all our cattle one way or another and were ready for something else. While we were deciding what next to do, Brother William and his family arrived in Helena. I had not seen him for six years--since he and Brother Zack left me at home in 1860 to care for father while they went back to California to look after the cattle. I had heard little from our ranch and our cattle in California, but was hardly prepared to learn that war times had been so bad there. From William I learned that great lawlessness prevailed in California and that our cattle had been shot and driven away and that long before the war was over William and Zack had nothing left but their families. They went to Idaho and mined a while, and then on to Montana. While in Idaho, Brother James, who had escaped from prison in St. Louis--and a death sentence also--had managed to join them with his family. James and Zack had bought a drove of cattle and had them in another portion of Montana, so William, Curl and I decided to come home. CHAPTER XVIII. _The Return to Missouri._ It was too late in the fall when this decision was reached to make the trip by land, and we began to look about for an opportunity to go by the river. Two men were fitting up a flat boat at Fort Benton, a hundred miles down the river from Helena. We all--William, his wife and little daughter, Curl and myself got in William's two-horse wagon and made our way over to Fort Benton. There were no white people living between the two places, and we were told that it was not safe to attempt the journey, as the Indians had killed and robbed many persons on that road. We were too well acquainted with Indians to be much afraid of them, so we decided to go. We saw no Indians, but I was robbed one night. William and his family slept in the wagon, Curl and I under it. One night a coyote slipped up and stole a sack of venison from under the back part of my pillow. That was the second experience of that kind. The other, which I think I have related, happened years before in California. When I left with Turner at St. Joseph I was on the west side of the Missouri River. When I reached Fort Benton I was on the east side, and that was the first time I had seen the river since I had left it at St. Joseph. I had gone entirely around it. The boat that was being rigged out was a curious affair. It had no steam, no sails and no oars--just a flat bottomed scow with a rudder--designed to float with the current. The only equipment for navigation besides the rudder was a number of long poles to be used in aiding the boat off of sand bars. About two-thirds of the floor space of the boat was housed in by stretching dry raw hides two deep over a heavy frame work, leaving port holes at convenient places through which our guns could be directed at the Indians in case of attack. The boat was built by Sloan and Parcell, two men from Iowa, and they were very proud of their craft. When everything was ready, fifty passengers got aboard, including two families, and the cable was cut. The current was swift and we went down at a gait so rapid that it was almost alarming, but we soon grew accustomed to it. While in the mountains we frequently came to shoals and riffles over which the boat dashed at a speed that turned us dizzy, but we had to stay with it and trust to the man at the rudder to keep her straight ahead. At the mouth of the Yellowstone, we passed a tribe of Indians in camp. The boat drifted around a little curve and up within forty yards of the bank on which the camp was situated before we noticed them. They were more surprised, I think, than we, for they stood looking until we passed entirely out of sight. It snowed all that day, and next morning we were drifting through mushy ice which sometimes threatened to squeeze our boat. We were in constant fear of a gorge and tried several times to reach the shore and land, but could not get through the ice. Had our boat encountered a gorge it is probable that the whole crew would have been drowned. Late in the afternoon a south wind began to blow and in a few hours the river was nearly clear. This was a great relief. We had calculated on reaching St. Joseph in a month and had laid in provisions accordingly. When we struck the Bad Lands the current of the river became so sluggish that we could scarcely perceive that we were traveling. We had plenty of flour, but no meat, so every now and then, slow as we were going, we had to tie up and get out and kill a deer or an antelope. Sometimes this required a good deal of time, as our luck in hunting was bad. The current got so slow and the prospects of getting into swifter water looked so bad, that we rigged up a set of oars out of long cottonwood poles cut on the banks and flattened. With these we set the men at work by turns, two to each oar, night and day and made much better progress. I think if we had waited for the current we should not have reached home before June of the next year. When we reached Yankton we got additional supplies and finally reached Sioux City, where we found an opportunity to take the stage to Omaha, and did so. At Omaha we got a steamboat to St. Joseph, and reached home late in October, two months and a half out of Fort Benton. I found conditions in Missouri much better than when I left. The war was really over. The militia had all been discharged and there was now no longer any excuse for killing and robbing men. After such a long period of lawlessness it required some time, of course, to reduce everything to order and to secure a rigid enforcement of the law, but I was surprised and gratified at the progress that had been made. I passed a very pleasant winter with relatives and friends, and it began to look like I would be able to settle down and live in peace. There were those in the community who were disappointed with the results of the war to themselves because they had expected to get possession of the land belonging to Confederate soldiers. In fact, our negroes told me during the war that certain men had said the Gibson boys could never come back to this country, and they intended to get their land. Of course, my presence at home with every prospect of remaining naturally displeased those who had designs upon my land and that which belonged to my brothers, and I could hardly hope to remain unmolested--especially as all the public officials were ready to give willing ear to every report against me. About the first of March, after I had lived publicly and peaceably in my home community and in St. Joseph all winter, a man named Joe Lemons, who was the tool of other men whom I knew, swore out a warrant charging me with stealing his horse during the war. As soon as I heard the warrant was out my blood went up to the old war heat, but I said nothing. I made no attempt to escape or to conceal myself, but went about my business. A few days later I had business in St. Joseph and went up as usual, determined to have no trouble if I could avoid it. I was standing in front of Nave and McCord's wholesale grocery house, talking to my brother Isaac, when Phelps, a deputy sheriff, came up and asked me if my name was Jim Gibson. I told him my name was John Gibson. He then said, "I guess I have got a writ for you." I said, "Have you? Let's hear it." He had a heavy shawl or blanket around his shoulders, such as men wore in those days. His hands were both concealed beneath the shawl, and when I asked to hear the writ he drew his left hand with the writ in it from under his shawl and in so doing moved the shawl from over his right hand and I saw that he held a six-shooter with that hand. I did not move or make any attempt to resist him, but stood until he, trembling like a leaf, had read the writ. When he had finished, I waited for him to say what should be done next, but he stood some moments greatly embarrassed, and said nothing. Finally I said, "Well, what about it?" His courage then came to him sufficiently for him to say: "You will have to go to the court house with me." I said, "all right," and turned and asked brother Isaac to go along with me. We started to the court house and just then old Fish, the sheriff, came galloping up with his big spurs on his heels and jumped off his horse. He blustered up and slapped me on the shoulder and said, "you d----d horse thief----give up your arms." I put my hand on his breast and shoved him off the sidewalk, and in stepping off the curbstone he fell. He got up and he and Phelps stood looking at me. I did not say "what about it" any more, but started on toward the court house. When I had got about ten steps away Fish said to Phelps, "Why don't you shoot him?" Phelps said he did not want to kill anybody and Fish then said, "Give me the gun, I will shoot him." With that he snatched the gun from Phelps and pointed it at me. I jerked my gun from my side and leveled it at him. He lowered his gun instantly and I turned and walked on. Fish then began to yell, "Catch him! Catch him!" keeping all the time a good, safe distance behind. He followed me to Edmond Street, all the time keeping up his yell and by that time he had raised half the town, it seemed to me. Everybody, policemen and all, ran out to see what was the trouble with old Fish. I passed on up Edmond Street and came to a man with a stick of wood in his hand. He raised it and told me to stop. I told him to drop his stick and not to bother me. He obeyed and I walked on. I turned on Fourth Street and went into a feed stable, and through it to an alley, and then around to the south side of the stable. No one was near me and I stopped. I had stood but an instant when a brother of Phelps, the deputy sheriff, came running toward me. I drew my gun and asked him what he wanted. He turned and ran. There was a board fence about five feet high in front of him. He sprang up on it on his breast and turned a somersault over it into the alley and struck the ground flat on his back. I had to laugh at the frightened fool and that put me in a better humor. I went to Fourth Street and went into the back door of a barber shop. The front door was closed, but there was a great throng standing outside and Fish was still yelling. The crowd was quiet and orderly. I had been in the shop a few minutes when I heard some one say, "Don't go in there, that man will shoot you!" Another man said, "If you will go in I will go with you?" At that time I did not intend to hurt anyone and if Fish had let me alone I would have been at the court house, for I knew there was no case against me. But just as the conversation I have related took place Fish and his man jumped in at the back door, Fish with his navy cocked and pointed at my breast. He called out in a loud voice, "Now, you d----d horse thief----give up your arms!" That was too much for me to take a second time. The last word was not out of his mouth until the muzzle of my six-shooter was against his neck and hell was blazing inside of me. I pulled the trigger, the cap burst with loud noise but the gun, for the first time in my experience with it, failed to go. Fish thought he was shot and fell backward out at the door. Three policemen entering by the front door came up behind and grabbed me and took my guns away from me. By this time Fish had come to himself and jumped back in the back door and shot at me. I knocked the muzzle of the gun up and the ball went into the ceiling. My little finger hit the end of the gun just as it was discharged and the ball grazed the flesh off down to the bone. A policeman caught Fish and pushed him back and said, "Nobody but a d----d coward would shoot a prisoner." Fish and his brave deputies then formed a procession and started me off to the court house. Phelps, to whom I had really surrendered on the reading of the writ, and who I think understood all along that there would have been no trouble but for Fish's insulting bluster, led me by the arm. Fish walked behind with my two navies--one in each hand, and one other deputy loaded down with guns rode Fish's horse by my side. Another deputy, whose name I will not mention, an old school mate of mine, remained far behind, thinking, I suppose, that I had not seen him. I had met him on Felix Street a half hour before Phelps presented the writ to me and as soon as Phelps came up I knew where he had received information that I was in town. This deputy knew that I would not resist arrest if treated with anything like decency, and might have had me go with him to the court house upon his request even without a writ, but this method did not suit the bragging, make-believe methods of the men who were vainly trying to convince the community of their bravery. As the procession moved with the desperate man up Fifth Street, attracting the attention of everybody, greatly to the satisfaction of the brave fellows who had made the capture, I said to Phelps, that he need not hold my arm as I would not attempt to run. Fish, who heard the remark, said to Phelps, "Turn him loose and let him run." I halted and turned to Fish and said, "If you will give me one of my navies I will run!" I would have done exactly what I said, and Fish knew it, I think, for he would not give me the gun. I had no idea he would accept my challenge, but I stopped his pretense at bravery and showed him to be exactly the coward that he was. When we reached the office, Fish, who was an old-timer at the business, went through my pockets. He knew just where to lay his hand to get my money and took from my inside vest pocket eighty dollars in greenbacks, but before he did this he made my brother leave the office so he could not see how much money he took from me. After getting my money he turned me into the jail and locked me in a cold cell without fire or blankets. I lay on the cold rocks and shivered all night with my finger bleeding on me. Next day was a busy one for Fish. My friends came in by the dozen to see me and Fish would not let them talk to me through the hole in the wall out of his presence, so they kept him standing by most of the day to hear what was said. My old friend Curl came in. He asked me if I wanted to get out. I told him I thought I would get out in a short time. Curl said, "If you want out today I will go and get enough men to take you out." Fish did not open his mouth, but I told Curl I thought I had better wait and give bond. Shortly after that Judge Parker, who stood in with Fish, fixed my bond at twenty thousand dollars, thinking, I suppose, that I could not give it and that I would have to lie in jail until my trial came off. They were mistaken in this. I gave the twenty thousand bond--and could have given a hundred thousand as well--and was released. I walked down town and presently met Fish. He ran up and shook hands with me as though he was greatly pleased to see me, and said, "I thought you had gone." I said, "No, this is my home and I intend to remain here." I never saw Fish after that that he did not go out of his way to speak to me and shake hands with me. I knew his object was to make fair weather with me, but he had nothing to fear. I was over my anger and would not have harmed a hair of his head so long as he did not provoke me as he had done on the day of my arrest. After meeting Fish I went on, and on Third Street I met two policemen. They asked me to go into a saloon and have a drink. I went in and took a toddy and while there one of them slipped a Colt's navy in my hand and told me to protect myself. I felt much safer with such and old acquaintance with me, for I did not know when some of my old war enemies might undertake to make trouble for me. Two indictments were pending against me--one for horse stealing and one for an assault upon Fish with intent to kill. I went about my affairs until court convened. On the morning the case was called Fish and Lemons were both present. I went in and sat down very close to them and where I could look directly in their faces. Neither of them would look at me, but kept their eyes upon the floor or wandering about the court room. My counsel, Judge Tutt, took a change of venue and the cases were sent to Platte City. Judge Parker gave me an order upon Fish for my money and my guns. Brother William, who had returned from the west, went with me to get them. We got the money and one gun. Fish said the other gun had been taken to Easton by one of his deputies and that he would get it for us later. In a few days William and I went back for the other gun and on our way to the court house met Fish, hurrying away to catch a train, so he said. When we asked him about the gun he said he would not stop to talk to us as he was in a great hurry. William told him he would stop, that he came for that gun and intended to have it. Fish insisted that he did not have time to get it for us. William said, "time or no time, we will have that gun and have it now!" So we turned him round and marched him to the court house and got the navy and told him he might then go to his train. Court convened in Platte City in May. I felt sure that neither Fish nor Lemons would appear against me. Fish had said that he had found a man that would shoot and that he had taken desperate chances in attempting to arrest me. I knew he was afraid of his shadow and that Platte County was the scene of many of his misdeeds during the war. As for Lemons, and the horse stealing charge, I felt equally sure there would be no prosecution, but on the day court convened I went down prepared for trial. I reached Platte City the day before the case was to be called. I met the sheriff of that county and told him about my case. He asked me who the sheriff of Buchanan County was, and when I told him he said Fish would never come to Platte County; that he had done too much mischief there during the war, hanging and robbing gray-haired men. Next morning when court opened I walked inside the bar and directly in front of the judge. No one knew me. The judge opened his docket and commenced calling over the cases. In a few moments he called my case and no one answered. He called the second time and I arose and said, "the defendant is present and ready for trial." "Where is he?" asked the judge. "I am the man," said I. The judge then asked where my counsel was. I told him I had none; that Judge Tutt of St. Joseph had promised to look after my cases, but he had not yet arrived. The judge then told the sheriff to go to the front door and call the prosecuting witnesses three times. The sheriff did so but no one answered. The cases were dismissed and I was released from my heavy bonds and went out of the court room a free man, much to the satisfaction of my good friends, Matt Evans, Bennett Reece, Ham Ray, Tom Finch and others who had gone along as witnesses. The cases were dismissed in May, 1867. I came home from Platte City and from that day to this have never heard of them. Lemons said his horse was taken from the stable at twelve o'clock, broad daylight. The truth is that at ten o'clock the night before he claimed his horse was taken, and while I was not in the country, that same man, with others, led away from my place eleven head of horses and mules and no member of my family ever saw them again. I never thought of calling them to account for it. It was war times, and, after the war was over, I felt too thankful to have escaped with my life ever to attempt to hold the conduct of any man during that period against him. I went to work at whatever I could find to do to make an honest living. All my toil and hardship on the plains, by which I had accumulated a comfortable fortune before the war, had been spent in vain, and I had to begin anew and under very trying conditions. I asked nothing but to be let alone, and it now looked as if this wish of my heart might be gratified. In a short time my prospects were much improved, and on the 25th day of August, 1868, I was married. Since that time I have, aside from a few months spent in Colorado during the early eighties, farmed and dealt in cattle in Missouri and Nebraska. I own the farm on which I live, have reared my children to maturity, and educated them as best I could, and, though often lonely when I think of my brothers and companions of earlier years, I am, in spite of my eighty-three years, enjoying good health and the added blessing of many friends. THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes The Table of Contents was not in the original book but has been added for convenience. Minor punctuation typos have been silently corrected. Retained some spelling and hyphenation variations such as Zach/Zack and breast-works/breastworks. Page 59: Changed "Hedgepath's" to "Hedgepeth's." (Orig: called Hedgepath's cut-off, and the South road to Salt Lake) Page 69: "we" may be a typo for "he." (Orig: and we wanted to take the body back home.) Page 95: "Sierre" may be a typo for "Sierra." (Orig: up Carson River and over the Sierre Nevada mountains) Page 159: Changed "surrnder" to "surrender." (Orig: detachment detailed to come and receive the surrnder) Page 160: Changed "fequently" to "frequently." (Orig: my sister, whom I have fequently mentioned.) Page 162: Changed "bue" to "but." (Orig: bue the enemy were not acquainted with the by paths) Page 188: Changed "capturned" to "captured." (Orig: the fate of Charley Pullins who was capturned) Page 206: Changed "vension" to "venison." (Orig: a coyote slipped up and stole a sack of vension) 
45238	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals. On page 227, [)a] represents "a" with breve. * * * * * Early Western Travels 1748-1846 Volume XXI Early Western Travels 1748-1846 A Series of Annotated Reprints of some of the best and rarest contemporary volumes of travel, descriptive of the Aborigines and Social and Economic Conditions in the Middle and Far West, during the Period of Early American Settlement Edited with Notes, Introductions, Index, etc., by Reuben Gold Thwaites, LL.D. Editor of "The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents," "Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition," "Hennepin's New Discovery," etc. Volume XXI Wyeth's Oregon, or a Short History of a Long Journey, 1832; and Townsend's Narrative of a Journey across the Rocky Mountains, 1834 [Illustration: logo] Cleveland, Ohio The Arthur H. Clark Company 1905 COPYRIGHT 1905, BY THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Lakeside Press R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY CHICAGO CONTENTS OF VOLUME XXI PREFACE. _The Editor_ 9 I OREGON; OR A SHORT HISTORY OF A LONG JOURNEY FROM THE ATLANTIC OCEAN TO THE REGION OF THE PACIFIC, BY LAND; drawn up from the notes and oral information of ... one of the party who left Mr. Nathaniel J. Wyeth, July 28th, 1832, four days' march beyond the Ridge of the Rocky Mountains, and the only one who has returned to New England. _John B. Wyeth._ Author's Motto 20 Text 21 II NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, TO THE COLUMBIA RIVER. _John K. Townsend._ Copyright Clause 112 Publisher's Advertisement 113 Author's Table of Contents 115 Text 121 ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOLUME XXI Facsimile of title-page to Wyeth's _Oregon_ 19 "Hunting the Buffalo." From the London edition (1840) of Townsend's _Narrative_ 110 Facsimile of title-page to Townsend's _Narrative_ 111 "Spearing the Salmon." From the London edition (1840) of Townsend's _Narrative_ 259 PREFACE TO VOLUME XXI With the present volume our series reverts to the far Northwest, and takes up the story of the Oregon country during the fourth decade of the nineteenth century. After the failure of the Astorian enterprise (1811-13), recounted with so much detail in the narratives of Franchère and Ross (reprinted in our volumes vi and vii), the Northwest Coast fell into the hands of the British fur-trade companies, who ruled the forest regions with a sway as absolute as that of a czar. The "Nor'westers" first occupied the field, sent out their daring "bourgeois" in all directions, and reaped a rich harvest of pelts. But upon the consolidation of the rival corporations (1821), the Hudson's Bay Company's men succeeded them, and for the first time law and order were enforced by the chief factors, and the denizens of the Northwest, white and red, soon learned to obey and revere their new masters. Prominent among the factors was Dr. John McLoughlin, the benevolent despot of Fort Vancouver, whose will was law not only for savages and fur-trade employés, but for all overland emigrants, British and American, who now began swarming to the banks of the Columbia. For twenty years he governed a province larger than France, and friend and foe alike testify to his probity and kindness, from which Americans profited quite as fully as those from his own land. To the world at large, during this long period, the land beyond the mountains remained unknown and almost unknowable. Occasionally a New England skipper ventured to the mouth of the Columbia, exchanging goods from Hawaii and the South Seas for the salmon and furs of the Northwest Coast; but the inhabitants of the interior of our country long found the Rockies and their outlying deserts insurmountable barriers to Western passage. Fur-traders finally led the way into the heart of the mountains. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company, under General William Ashley, began in 1822 that series of explorations and excursions that opened the highland fastnesses to the men of the West, and paved the way for the tracing of the Oregon Trail. But it was bona-fide settlers, not fur-traders or trappers, that captured Oregon for the United States. Among the earliest of these were members of the company escorted by Captain Nathaniel Jarvis Wyeth, whose home was in the shades of academic learning at Cambridge, Massachusetts. Wyeth, however, owed the inception of the enterprise to another New Englander, his quondam fellow-townsman, Hall J. Kelley. An enterprising schoolmaster, the narratives of Lewis and Clark and of the Astorian participants fired his imagination with a desire to behold the Far West, while the joint-occupancy treaty with Great Britain (1818) aroused in him a patriotic desire that the region watered by the Columbia might be possessed by his native land. Throughout more than a decade he published pamphlets and articles for the local press, glowing with praise of Oregon, and succeeded in organizing the Oregon Colonization Society, from among whose members he hoped to lead an expedition to the far-away land of promise. Among those who hearkened to him was the young Cambridgian, Wyeth, whose mind, more practical than Kelley's, but as yet uninformed as to the real difficulties of the enterprise, conceived the project of a great commercial enterprise to the Northwest. In the winter of 1831-32, Wyeth formed his party of pioneers and formulated his plans. With the opening of the spring a vessel laden with supplies was to start around Cape Horn, to meet the overland adventurers at the mouth of the Columbia. Wyeth, meanwhile, was to lead a company of hale young men across the continent, who should hunt and trap on the way, and be ready on arrival to provide a cargo of furs for the vessel, and later to develop the products of the Oregon country. Wyeth's original plan for the land party included forty companions, but he finally set forth from Baltimore with an enrollment of but twenty-four. Arrived in St. Louis, he learned for the first time of the vast operations that Western fur-traders were already carrying on among the mountains--men to whom the experience of a life-time had taught the conditions and the methods of trade beyond the frontier. Nothing daunted, however, young Wyeth joined the yearly caravan of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, and under its protection proceeded to that company's rendezvous at Pierre's Hole. There the majority of his men, finding the hazard greater than they had anticipated, turned back; but the leader, with a handful of followers, pressed on, only to learn in the Oregon country that his vessel had been wrecked on a Pacific reef, and his cargo of supplies lost. Received at Fort Vancouver with hospitable courtesy on the part of the Hudson's Bay people, Wyeth passed the winter in exploring the region and learning its resources. He became more than ever eager to exploit the great possibilities lying before him, and returned across the continent to Boston, making en route the famous journey--commemorated by Washington Irving in his _Scenes in the Rocky Mountains_--down the Bighorn and Yellowstone in a bull-boat. While still among the mountain men, Wyeth confidently entered into a contract with Milton Sublette and the latter's partner, Thomas Fitzpatrick, to carry out to them their yearly supplies the following season. Intent on this and other projects, our adventurer hastened on to Boston, organized the Columbia River Fishing and Trading Company, and secured another vessel to proceed to Oregon by sea. This time Wyeth's party was trebled, and with a following of over seventy he started from St. Louis on March 7, 1834. Among his companions were the naturalists Nuttall and Townsend, and the missionaries Jason and Daniel Lee, all of whom were seeking the Oregon country on errands of their own. The fate of Wyeth's second expedition need not here be recounted, further than to state that the contract being repudiated by the Rocky Mountain men, Wyeth established a trading post in eastern Idaho, which he later (1837) sold to the Hudson's Bay Company and proceeded on to Oregon. After indefatigable efforts, and fatigues seldom paralleled, Wyeth finally (1836) abandoned the country and his ambitious project, and settled down to the humdrum role of ice-merchant in Cambridge, amassing a moderate fortune in shipping that useful commodity to the West Indies. In recent years the journals and correspondence of Nathaniel J. Wyeth, recounting the experience of his two expeditions, have come to light and been published by the Oregon Historical Society. These documents, however, furnish but terse and bald statements of events, whereas detailed narratives appeared in works published many years before. The historian of the first expedition was a kinsman of its leader--John B. Wyeth, a young man of eighteen summers, who had previously been to sea and acquired a taste for adventure. After the long journey into the mountains, young Wyeth became dissatisfied with the hardships and ill prospects of the venture, and joined those malcontents at Pierre's Hole who voted for return, thus abandoning his leader before the journey was more than two-thirds completed. Upon arrival at Cambridge, the narrative of the younger Wyeth's adventures sped around the circle of his acquaintances, and reached the ear of Dr. Benjamin Waterhouse, a well-known local physician and scientist. Waterhouse desired to discourage the prevalent wild schemes of Western emigration, and published Wyeth's experiences as a useful warning against such projects. The little book as issued from the press bore the title: _Oregon; or a Short History of a Long Journey from the Atlantic Ocean to the Region of the Pacific by Land, drawn up from the notes and oral information of John B. Wyeth_ (Cambridge, 1833). It is not difficult for the reader to distinguish the work of the young traveller from that of the older scientist--the literary finish, the allusions, the moralizing and animadversions, of this composite book, are certainly the elder's; the racy adventures, the off-hand descriptions, surely those of the younger collaborator.[1] [1] In Harvard University Library, the book is catalogued under Waterhouse as author. John B. Wyeth's publication was distinctly annoying and hurtful to the plans of his cousin, and caused the latter to characterize it as "full of white lies." It is in the animus rather than the words themselves that the deceit is to be found; but disregarding its injudicious criticisms and comments, Wyeth's book is a readable work of travel, written in the full flush of health and spirits experienced by a vigorous youngster on a journey taken more as an escapade than with serious purpose. How far this motive carried him, is witnessed by the recitation of practical jokes in Cincinnati, and by the disasters of the home journey, when, abandoned by his companions, he was turned adrift in plague-stricken New Orleans to shift for himself. As a picture of early life on the plains and in the mountains, the account is graphic and attractive, as exampled by the descriptions of the scene at the rendezvous--also that at the conference between the Blackfoot chiefs and the envoys of the whites, previous to the battle of Pierre's Hole. Vivid pictures of the fur-trade leaders, and swift glimpses of friendly and hostile tribesmen, jostle the description of what was in effect a New England town-meeting in Pierre's Hole, and the report of an Indian battle famous in the annals of the West. The Wyeth narrative was printed privately, for circulation among friends, and therefore in a small edition. Examples are consequently now extremely rare, and it is believed that its reprint in the present series will be welcomed by students of early Western exploration. Nathaniel J. Wyeth's second expedition was even more fortunate in its historian. John K. Townsend, a well-known Philadelphia physician and naturalist, had long been desirous of exploring the far western country in the interests of science. Hearing from his friend, Thomas Nuttall, then botanist at Harvard College, that he was preparing to join an expedition across the continent, Townsend made arrangements to accompany him, and obtained from the American Philosophical Society and the Academy of Natural Sciences at Philadelphia a commission to search for birds on their behalf. The two scientists joined Wyeth at Boonville, Missouri, after a pedestrian journey from St. Louis to that point. The adventurers left Independence on April 28, 1834, in company with the annual fur-trading caravan for the Far West, and late in June arrived at the famous Green River rendezvous. Thence the Wyeth party proceeded to the Columbia, where a hearty welcome from Hudson's Bay officials awaited them both at Walla Walla and Vancouver. Townsend remained in the Oregon district for nearly two years. In the winter of 1834-35 he spent several months in the Sandwich Islands, returning in Wyeth's vessel, the "May Dacre," in March, 1835. The next year he was employed by the Hudson's Bay Company as physician at Fort Vancouver, of which duties he was relieved by the coming of one of their own surgeons from the North (March, 1836). Still the ornithologist lingered in the country, anxious to complete his collection of native birds. He journeyed up the Columbia to Walla Walla, made a short excursion into the Blue Mountains, explored the river's mouth, visited the ruins of Lewis and Clark's Fort Clatsop, and finally embarked for home, by way of Cape Horn, on November 30, 1836. Three months were passed in Hawaii, en route; his stay in Chili was prolonged by illness; but at last, after a tedious voyage, he arrived off Cape Henlopen November 13, 1837, having been absent three years and eight months. Townsend's account of his travels appeared at Philadelphia in 1839, entitled: _Narrative of a Journey across the Rocky Mountains to the Columbia River, and a Visit to the Sandwich Islands, Chili, &c., with a Scientific Appendix._ A London edition followed in 1840, bearing the title, _Sporting Excursions to the Rocky Mountains including a Journey to the Columbia River and a Visit to the Sandwich Islands, Chili, etc._ This contains a few insignificant changes. Our reprint is from the original Philadelphia version, omitting both the now unessential appendix, and that portion of the narrative which deals with Hawaii and South America, these being outside the field of our present interest. Townsend wrote in an easy, flowing style, and a large share of his pages bear evidence of closely following his daily journals. Unlike Wyeth's kinsman, Townsend had much admiration for the ability and resource of his leader--for his "most indefatigable perseverance and industry"--and could only attribute his failure to the mysterious dealings of Providence. From the commercial and economic standpoint, Wyeth's enterprise was a failure; from the historian's point of view, it was eminently successful. Not only did he conduct considerable parties of Americans across the continent, but some of these became permanent settlers in the Oregon country; and his enterprise awakened the country to the dangers of joint political occupancy. Lewis and Clark's journals, as paraphrased by Nicholas Biddle in 1814, had first called popular attention to the region. John B. Wyeth's book, in 1833, was the first American publication on the subject, after the records of the initial exploration, and aroused a fresh interest in at least a limited group of influential readers; the spark was further kindled by the appearance, in 1836, of Washington Irving's classic _Astoria_; and then appeared, three years later, Townsend's admirable narrative, giving to the world some detailed knowledge of the resources of the Far Northwest. In the same year with Townsend's publication, Wyeth himself presented to Congress his "Memoir on Oregon,"[2] which was freighted with information concerning the worth of the new region. These several works were important influences in forcing the Oregon question upon the attention of Congress, and thus paving the way for the final acquisition of that country by the United States under the Oregon Treaty of 1846.[3] [2] _House Ex. Reports_, 25 Cong., 3 sess., 101, app. 1. [3] See Caleb B. Cushing "Discovery beyond the Rocky Mountains" in _North American Review_, 1 (1840), pp. 75-144. In the preparation of the present volume for the press, the Editor has had, throughout, the active assistance of Louise Phelps Kellogg, Ph.D. R. G. T. MADISON, WIS., October, 1905. [Illustration: title page Oregon] WYETH'S OREGON, OR A SHORT HISTORY OF A LONG JOURNEY Reprint of original edition: Cambridge, 1833 OREGON; OR A SHORT HISTORY OF A LONG JOURNEY FROM THE ATLANTIC OCEAN TO THE REGION OF THE PACIFIC. BY LAND. DRAWN UP FROM THE NOTES AND ORAL INFORMATION OF JOHN B WYETH ONE OF THE PARTY WHO LEFT MR NATHANIEL J WYETH, JULY 28TH, 1832, FOUR DAYS MARCH BEYOND THE RIDGE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, AND THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS RETURNED TO NEW ENGLAND. CAMBRIDGE PRINTED FOR JOHN B. WYETH. 1833. A contented mind is a continual feast; but _entire satisfaction_ has never been procured by wealth however enormous, or ambition however successful. True happiness is to no place confin'd, But still is found in a _contented_ mind. OREGON EXPEDITION In order to understand this Oregon Expedition, it is necessary to say, that thirty years ago (1803), PRESIDENT JEFFERSON recommended to Congress to authorize competent officers to explore the river _Missouri_ from its mouth to its source, and by crossing the mountains to seek the best water communication thence to the _Pacific_ Ocean. This arduous task was undertaken by Captain M. Lewis and Lieutenant W. Clarke of the first regiment of infantry. They were accompanied by a select party of soldiers, and arrived at the Missouri in May, 1804, and persisted in their novel and difficult task into the year 1806, and with such success as to draw from President Jefferson the following testimonial of their heroic services, viz. "The expedition of Messrs. LEWIS & CLARKE, for exploring the river Missouri, and the best communication from that to the _Pacific Ocean_, has had all the success which could be expected; and for which arduous service they deserve well of their country."[4] [4] Quoted from Jefferson's annual message, December 2, 1806. See James D. Richardson (ed.), _Messages and Papers of the Presidents_ (Washington, 1896), i, p. 408.--ED. The object of this enterprise was to confer in a friendly manner with the Indian Nations throughout their whole journey, with a view to establish a friendly and equitable commerce with them, on {2} principles emulating those that marked and dignified the settlement of Pennsylvania by _William Penn_. It was beyond doubt that the President and Congress sincerely desired to treat the Indians with kindness and justice, and to establish peace, order, and good neighbourhood with all the savage tribes with whom they came in contact, and not to carry war or violence among any of them who appeared peaceably disposed. A few years before the period of which we have spoken, our government had acquired by purchase the vast and valuable Territory of Louisiana from the renowned NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, at that time the Chief of the French Nation. Considering his previous intentions, and actual preparations under his famous General _Bernadotte_,[5] nothing could be more fortunate for these United States than this purchase. Our possession of Louisiana was so grievous a sore to the very jealous Spaniards, that they have, till lately, done all in their power to debar and mislead us from pursuing discoveries in that quarter, or in the Arkansas, Missouri, or _Oregon_. Yet few or none of them probably believed that we should, during the present generation, or the next, attempt the exploration of the distant _Oregon_ Territory, which extends from the _Rocky Mountains_ to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, or in other words, from the Missouri and Yellow Stone rivers to that of the river Columbia or Oregon which pours into the Ocean by a wide mouth at the immense distance from us of about four thousand miles; yet one and twenty men, chiefly farmers and a few mechanics, had the hardihood to undertake it, and that too with deliberation and sober calculation. But what will not a New-England {3} man undertake when honor and interest are the objects before him? Have not the people of that sand-bank, Nantucket, redeemed it from the ocean, and sailed round Cape Horn in pursuit of whales for their oil, and seals for their skins? A score of our farmers seeing that Nantucket and New Bedford had acquired riches and independence by traversing the sea to the distant shores of the Pacific, determined to do something like it _by land_. Their ardor seemed to have hidden from their eyes the mighty difference between the facility of passing in a ship with the aid of sails, progressing day and night, by skilfully managing the winds and the helm, and that of a complicated wagon upon wheels, their journey to be over mountains and rivers, and through hostile tribes of savages who dreaded and hated the sight of a white man. [5] Referring probably to the fact that Bernadotte had in January, 1803, been chosen minister to the United States, and tarried in France during the negotiations for the purchase of Louisiana. After these were concluded, Bernadotte's services being required in the impending war with England, his projected mission to America was abandoned. Wyeth has probably confused Bernadotte's mission with the preparation in Holland of the armament which was, under command of General Victor, intended to take possession of Louisiana.--ED. This novel expedition was not however the original or spontaneous notion of Mr. Nathaniel J. Wyeth,[6] nor was it entirely owing to the publications of Lewis & Clarke or Mackenzie.[7] Nor was it entirely owing to the enterprise of Messrs. Barrell, Hatch, and Bulfinch, who fitted out two vessels that sailed from Boston in 1787, commanded by Captains Kendrick and Gray, which vessels arrived at Nootka in September, 1788.[8] They were roused to it by the writings of Mr. Hall J. Kelly, who had read all the books he could get on the voyages and travels in Asia, Africa, Europe, and America, until he had heated his mind to a degree little short of the valorous Knight of La Mancha, that is to say, he believed all he read, and was firm in the opinion that an Englishman and an American, or either, by himself, could endure and achieve any thing {4} that any man could do with the same help, and farther, that a New-England man or "Yankee," could with less.[9] That vast region, which stretches from between the east of the Mississippi, and south of the Lakes _Superior_, _Huron_, _Michigan_, _Erie_, and _Ontario_, was too narrow a space for the enterprise of men born and bred within a mile or two of the oldest University in the United States.[10] Whatever be the true character of the natives of New England, one thing must be allowed them, that of great and expansive ideas,--beyond, far beyond the generality of the inhabitants of the small Island of Britain. I say small, for if that Island should be placed in the midst of these United States, it would hardly form more than a single member of our extended republic. That vast rivers, enormous mountains, tremendous cataracts, with an extent corresponding to the hugeness of the features of America, naturally inspire men with boundless ideas, few will doubt. This adventurous disposition, at the same time, will as naturally banish from the mind what the _new-light_ doctrine of Phrenology calls the disposition bump of _Inhabitiveness_, or an inclination to stay at home, and in its place give rise to a roaming, wandering inclination, which, some how or other, may so affect the organs of vision, and of hearing, as to debar a person from perceiving what others may see, the innumerable difficulties in the way. Mr. Hall J. Kelly's writings operated like a match applied to the combustible matter accumulated in the mind of the energetic Nathaniel J. Wyeth, which reflected and multiplied the flattering glass held up to view by the ingenious and well-disposed schoolmaster. [6] Nathaniel Jarvis Wyeth belonged to one of the oldest families of Cambridge, Massachusetts, his ancestor settling there in 1645, on a place held by his descendants for over two centuries. Nathaniel's grandfather, Ebenezer, in 1751, purchased an estate embracing part of the present Mount Auburn, and extending to Fresh Pond. There Nathaniel's father, Jacob (1764-1856), built a summer resort known as Fresh Pond Hotel. Nathaniel, the fourth son, was born January 29, 1802, and was intended for Harvard College, of which his father and eldest brother were graduates; his ambitious spirit, however, made him impatient to begin commercial life, and to his subsequent regret the college course was abandoned. He first aided his father in the management of the hotel, but soon entered the ice trade, in which he remained until his expedition of 1832-36. In 1824 marrying his cousin Elizabeth Jarvis Stone, he shortly before the first expedition moved into a new house on the family estate, in which he resided until his death in 1856. For the Oregon expeditions, see the preface of the present volume. Returning to Cambridge in 1836, he re-entered the ice traffic, and after 1840 was the head of the concern. His highly accentuated qualities of activity and enterprise, added to his strong personality, caused him to be esteemed by his contemporaries.--ED. [7] In the centennial years of the Lewis and Clark expedition, their original journals were for the first time printed as written--Thwaites (ed.), _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_ (New York, 1904-05). For an account of the earlier edition of their journals, edited by Nicholas Biddle, see Introduction to the work just cited. On Mackenzie, consult Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 185, note 4.--ED. [8] On the expedition of Captains Kendrick and Gray, consult Franchère's _Narrative_, in our volume vi, p. 183, note 1.--ED. [9] Hall J. Kelley may properly be called the father of the Oregon emigration movement. Born in New Hampshire in 1790, he left home at the age of sixteen and engaged in teaching at Hallowell, Maine. In 1814 he was graduated from Middlebury College, and the following year removed to Boston, where he was occupied as teacher and philanthropist, assisting in founding the Boston Young Men's Education Society, the Penitent Female Refuge Society, and the first Sunday School in New England. He was also a surveyor and engineer, and in 1828 invested his entire patrimony in a canal project at Three Rivers (later, Palmer), Massachusetts, whither he removed in 1829. This enterprise proved a failure, and his investment a total loss. For many years he had been interested in the Oregon country, and soon after the publication of Biddle's version of the journals of the Lewis and Clark expedition (1814), Kelley began an agitation for the American occupation of the district. He tried to interest Congress, and the first Oregon bills (1820) bear the impress of his thought--see F. F. Victor, "Hall J. Kelley," in _Oregon Historical Quarterly_, ii, pp. 381-400. Finding his frequent petitions of no avail, he formed a company in 1829 (incorporated in 1831) known as the "American Society for encouraging the settlement of Oregon territory." The winter of 1831-32 was spent in preparation for an emigration movement. Wyeth was a member of this organization, and at first proposed to accompany Kelley; but finding the latter's plans impracticable, organized his own party. Kelley set out in the spring of 1832 with a small company, who all abandoned him at New Orleans. Proceeding alone to Vera Cruz, his goods were confiscated by the Mexican government; but although now penniless, he worked his way through to California. There, in the spring of 1834, he met Ewing Young (see our volume xx, p. 23, note 2), whom he persuaded to accompany him overland to Oregon. Kelley was ill, but was treated with slight respect by the British authorities at Fort Vancouver, and lived without the fort during the winter, exploring the country in the intervals of his fever. In the following spring (1835) he shipped for Hawaii, and returned to Boston, determined, notwithstanding his misfortunes, to further Oregon emigration--see report to Congress, _House Reports_, 26 Cong., 3 sess., i, 101. Kelley's health became undermined by the hardships which he had endured, his eyesight was impaired, and he passed his latter years in Palmer, Massachusetts, in poverty and obscurity, dying there in 1874.--ED. [10] Harvard College was established by act of the general court of Massachusetts in 1636.--ED. Mr. Nathaniel J. Wyeth had listened with peculiar {5} delight to all the flattering accounts from the Western regions, and that at a time when he was surrounded with apparent advantages, and even enviable circumstances. He was born and bred near the borders of a beautiful small Lake, as it would be called in Great Britain; but what we in this country call a large Pond; because we generally give the name of Lakes only to our vast inland seas, some of which almost rival in size the Caspian and Euxine in the old world. It seems that he gave entire credit to the stories of the wonderful fertility of the soil on the borders of the Ohio, Missouri, the river Platte, and the Oregon, with the equally wonderful healthfulness of the climate. We need not wonder that a mind naturally ardent and enterprising should become too enthusiastic to pursue the laborious routine of breaking up and harrowing the hard and stubborn soil of Massachusetts within four miles of the sea, where the shores are bounded and fortified by stones and rocks, which extend inland, lying just below the surface of the ground, while the regions of the West were represented as standing in need of very little laborious culture, such was the native vigor of its black soil. The spot where our adventurer was born and grew up, had many peculiar and desirable advantages over most others in the county of Middlesex. Besides rich pasturage, numerous dairies, and profitable orchards, and other fruit trees, it possessed the luxuries of well cultivated gardens of all sorts of culinary vegetables, and all within three miles of the Boston Market-House, and two miles of the largest live-cattle market in New England. All this, and more too, had not sufficient attractions to retain Mr. Wyeth in his native town and county. {6} Besides these blessings, I shall add another. The Lake I spoke of, commonly called _Fresh Pond_, is a body of delightful water, which seems to be the natural head or source of all the numerous underground rivers running between it and the National Navy Yard at Charlestown, which is so near to the city of Boston as to be connected to it by a bridge; for wherever you sink a well, between the body of water just mentioned, you strike a pelucid vein of it at from nineteen to twenty-two feet depth from the surface. With the aforesaid Lake or Pond is connected another not quite so large, but equally beautiful. Around these bodies of inosculating waters, are well cultivated farms and a number of gentlemen's country-seats, forming a picture of rural beauty and plenty not easily surpassed in Spring, Summer, and Autumn; and when winter has frozen the lakes and all the rivers, this spot has another and singular advantage; for our adventurer sold the _water_ of this pond; which was sent to the West-Indian Islands, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and other places south of this; which is so much of a singularity as to require explanation. In our very coldest weather, January and February, the body of water we spoke of is almost every year frozen to the thickness of from eighteen inches to two feet,--sometimes less, and very rarely more. It is then sawed into cubes of the size just mentioned, and deposited in large store-houses, and carted thence every month in the year, even through the dog-days, in heavy teams drawn by oxen and horses to the wharves in Boston, and put on board large and properly constructed vessels, and carried into the hot climates already {7} mentioned. The heavy teams five, or six, or more, close following each other, day and night, and even through the hottest months, would appear incredible to a stranger. Here was a traffic without any drawback, attended with no other charge than the labor of cutting and transporting the article; for the pond belonged to no man, any more than the air which hung above it. Both belonged to mankind. No one claimed any personal property in it, or control over it from border to border. A clearer profit can hardly be imagined. While the farmer was ploughing his ground, manuring and planting it, securing his well-tended crop by fencing, and yet after all his labor, the Hessian-fly, the canker or slug worm, or some other destructive insect, or some untimely frost, as was the case last winter, might lay waste all his pains and cut off all his expectations. The only risk to which the Ice-merchant was liable was a blessing to most of the community; I mean the mildness of a winter that should prevent his native lake from freezing a foot or two thick. Our fishermen have a great advantage over the farmer in being exempt from fencing, walling, manuring, taxation, and dry seasons; and only need the expence of a boat, line, and hook, and the risk of life and health; but from all these the Ice-man is in a manner entirely exempted; and yet the Captain of this Oregon Expedition seemed to say, All this availeth me nothing, so long as I read books in which I find, that by only going about _four thousand miles_, over land, from the shore of our _Atlantic_ to the shore of the _Pacific_, after we have there entrapped and killed the beavers and otters, we shall be able, after building vessels for {8} the purpose, to carry our most valuable peltry to China and Cochin China, our seal-skins to Japan, and our superfluous grain to various Asiatic ports, and lumber to the Spanish settlements on the Pacific; and to become rich by underworking and underselling the people of Hindostan; and, to crown all, to extend far and wide the traffic in oil by killing tame whales on the spot, instead of sailing round the stormy region of Cape Horn. All these advantages and more too were suggested to divers discontented and impatient young men. Talk to them of the great labor, toil, and risk, and they would turn a deaf ear to you: argue with them, and you might as well reason with a snow-storm. Enterprising young men run away with the idea that _the farther they go from home, the surer they will be of making a fortune_. The original projector of this golden vision first talked himself into the visionary scheme, and then talked twenty others into the same notion.[11] Some of their neighbours and well-wishers thought differently from them; and some of the oldest, and most thoughtful, and prudent endeavoured to dissuade them from so very ardous and hazardous an expedition. But young and single men are for tempting the untried scene; and when either sex has got a notion of that sort, the more you try to dissuade them, the more intent they are on their object. Nor is this bent of mind always to be censured, or wondered at. Were every man to be contented to remain in the town in which he was born, and to follow the trade of his father, there would be an end to improvement, and a serious impediment to spreading population. It is difficult to draw the exact line between contentment, and that inactivity {9} which approaches laziness. The disposition either way seems stamped upon us by _nature_, and therefore innate. This is certainly the case with birds and beasts;--the wild geese emigrate late in the Autumn to a southern climate, and return again in the Spring to a northern one, while the owl and several other birds remain all their lives near where they were hatched; whereas man is not so much confined by a natural bias to his native home. He can live in all climates from the equator to very near the dreary poles, which is not the case with other animals; and it would seem that nature intended he should live anywhere;--for whereas other animals are restricted in their articles of food, some living wholly on flesh, and others wholly on vegetables, man is capable of feeding upon every thing that is eatable by any creature, and of mixing every article together, and varying them by his knowledge and art of cookery,--a knowledge and skill belonging to man alone. Hence it appears that _Providence_, who directs everything for the best, intended that man should wander over the globe, inhabit every region, and dwell wherever the sun could shine upon him, and where water could be obtained for his use. [11] For partial lists of members of this party, consult H. S. Lyman, _History of Oregon_ (New York, 1903), iii, pp. 101, 108, 254; see also _post_.--ED. So far from deriding the disposition to explore unknown regions, we should consider judicious travellers as so many benefactors of mankind. It is most commonly a propensity that marks a vigorous intellect, and a benevolent heart. The conduct of the Spaniards, when they conquered Mexico and Peru with the sole view of robbing them of their gold and silver, and of forcing them to abandon their native religion, has cast an odium on those first adventurers upon this continent and their first {10} enterprises in India have stigmatized the Dutch and the English; nor were our own forefathers, who left England to enjoy religious freedom, entirely free from the stain of injustice and cruelty towards the native Indians.--Let us therefore in charity, nay, in justice, speak cautiously of what may seem to us censurable in the first explorers of uncivilized countries; and if we should err in judgment, let it be on the side of commendation. Mr. Wyeth, or as we shall hereafter call him, _Captain_ Wyeth, as being leader of the Band of the Oregon adventurers, after having inspired twenty-one persons with his own high hopes and expectations (among whom was his own brother, Dr. Jacob Wyeth,[12] and a gun-smith, a blacksmith, two carpenters, and two fishermen, the rest being farmers and laborers, brought up to no particular trade) was ready, with his companions, to start off to the Pacific Ocean, the first of March, 1832, to go from Boston to the mouth of Columbia river by land. [12] Dr. Jacob Wyeth, eldest brother of Nathaniel, was born February 10, 1779, at Cambridge, Massachusetts. After being graduated from Harvard (1820), he studied medicine both in Boston and Baltimore, and settled in New Jersey, whence he set out to join his brother's expedition. After returning from Pierre's Hole--as narrated _post_--Dr. Wyeth settled in the lead-mine region of northwest Illinois, and married into a prominent family. He died in his adopted state.--ED. I was the youngest of the company, not having attained my twentieth year; but, in the plentitude of health and spirits, I hoped every thing, believed every thing my kinsman, the Captain, believed and said, and all doubts and fears were banished. The Captain used to convene us every Saturday night at his house for many months previous to our departure, to arrange and settle the plan of our future movements, and to make every needful preparation; and such were his thoughtfulness and vigilance, that it seemed to us nothing was forgotten and every thing necessary provided. Our three vehicles, or wagons, if we may call by that name a _unique_ contrivance, half boat, and half carriage, may be mentioned as an instance of our Captain's {11} talents for snug contrivance. It was a boat of about thirteen feet long, and four feet wide, of a shape partly of a canoe, and partly of a gondola. It was not calked with tarred oakum, and payed with pitch, lest the rays of the sun should injure it while upon wheels; but it was nicely jointed, and dovetailed. The boat part was firmly connected with the lower, or axletree, or wheel part;--the whole was so constructed that the four wheels of it were to be taken off when we came to a river, and placed in the wagon, while the tongue or shaft was to be towed across by a rope. Every thing was as light as could be consistent with safety. Some of the Cambridge wags said it was a boat begot upon a wagon,--a sort of mule, neither horse nor ass,--a mongrel, or as one of the collegians said it was a thing _amphibious_, anatomically constructed like some equivocal animals, allowing it to crawl upon the land, or to swim on the water; and he therefore thought it ought to be denominated an _amphibium_. This would have gone off very well, and to the credit of the learned collegian, had not one of the gang, who could hardly write his own name, demurred at it; because he said that it reflected not back the honor due to the ingenious contriver of the commodious and truly original vehicle; and for his part, he thought that if they meant to give it a particular name, that should redound to the glory of the inventor, it ought to be called a _Nat-wye-thium_; and this was instantaneously agreed to by acclamation! Be that as it may, the vehicle did not disgrace the inventive genius of New England. This good-humored raillery, shows the opinion of indifferent people, merely lookers-on. The fact was, the generality {12} of the people in Cambridge considered it a hazardous enterprise, and considerably notional. About this time there appeared some well written essays in the Boston newspapers, to show the difficulty and impracticability of the scheme, purporting to doubt the assertions of Mr. Hall J. Kelly respecting the value and pleasantness of the Oregon territory. The three vehicles contained a gross of axes, a variety of articles, or "_goods_" so called, calculated for the Indian market, among which vermilion and other paints were not forgotten, glass beads, small looking-glasses, and a number of tawdry trinkets, cheap knives, buttons, nails, hammers, and a deal of those articles, on which young Indians of both sexes set a high value, and white men little or none. Such is the spirit of trade and traffic, from the London and Amsterdam merchant, down to an Indian trader and a yankee tin-ware man in his jingling go-cart; in which he travels through Virginia and the Carolinas to vend his wares, and cheat the Southerners, and bring home laughable anecdotes of their simplicity and ignorance, to the temporary disgrace of the common people of the Northern and Eastern part of the Union, where a travelling tin-man dare hardly show himself,--and yet is held up in the South as the real New-England character, and this by certain white people who know the use of letters! The company were uniform in their dress. Each one wore a coarse woollen jacket and pantaloons, a striped cotton shirt, and cowhide boots: every man had a musket, most of them rifles, all of them bayonets in a broad belt, together with a large clasped knife for eating and common purposes. The Captain and one or two more added pistols; but {13} every one had in his belt a small axe. This uniformity had a pleasing effect, which, together with their curious wagons, was noticed with commendation in the Baltimore newspapers, as a striking contrast with the family emigrants of husband, wife, and children, who have for thirty years and more passed on to the Ohio, Kentucky, and other territories. The whole bore an aspect of energy, good contrivance, and competent means. I forgot to mention that we carried tents, camp-kettles, and the common utensils for cooking victuals, as our plan was to live like soldiers, and to avoid, as much as possible, inns and taverns. The real and avowed object of this hardy-looking enterprise was to go to the river Columbia, otherwise called the river _Oregon_, or river of the _West_,[13] which empties by a very wide mouth into the Pacific Ocean, and there and thereabouts commence a fur trade by trafficking with the Indians, as well as beaver and other hunting by ourselves. We went upon shares, and each one paid down so much; and our association was to last during five years. Each man paid our Leader forty dollars. Captain Wyeth was our Treasurer, as well as Commander; and all the expenses of our travelling on wheels, and by water in steam-boats, were defrayed by our Leader, to whom we all promised fidelity and obedience. For twenty free-born New-England men, brought up in a sort of Indian freedom, to be bound together to obey a leader in all things reasonable, without something like _articles of war_, was, to say the least of it, a hazardous experiment. The Captain and crew of a Nantucket whaling ship came nearest to such an association; for in this case each man runs that great risk of his life, {14} in voluntarily attacking and killing a whale, which could not be expected from men hired by the day, like soldiers; so much stronger does association for gain operate, than ordinary wages. As fighting Indians from behind trees and rocks is next, in point of courage, to attacking a whale, the monarch of the main, in his own element, a common partnership is the only scheme for achieving and securing such dangerous purposes. [13] For the origin of the word Oregon, see Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, in our volume vii, p. 36, note 4.--ED. We left the city of Boston, 1st of March, 1832, and encamped on one of the numerous islands in its picturesque harbour, where we remained ten days, by way of inuring ourselves to the tented field; and on the 11th of the same month we hoisted sail for Baltimore, where we arrived after a passage of fifteen days,[14] not without experiencing a snow-storm, severe cold, and what the landsmen considered a hard gale, at which I, who had been one voyage to sea, did not wonder. It made every man on board look serious; and glad were we to be set on shore at the fair city of Baltimore, in which are to be found a great number of merchants, traders, and mechanics from different parts of New England, and where of course there are none, or very few, of those ridiculous prejudices against what they call Yankees, that are observable in Virginia and the Carolinas. [14] For further accounts of the preparation and voyage to Baltimore on the brig "Ida," consult F. G. Young, "Correspondence and Journals of Captain Nathaniel J. Wyeth, 1831-36," in _Sources of the History of Oregon_ (Eugene, Oregon, 1899), pp. 42-50. _Niles' Register_ xlii, p. 82 (March 31, 1832), notes their arrival and departure with twenty-two men and all necessary equipment.--ED. At Baltimore our amphibious carriages excited great attention, and I may add, our whole company was an object of no small curiosity and respect. This, said they, is "_Yankee all over!_"--bold enterprise, neatness, and good contrivance. As we carefully avoided the expense of inns and taverns, we marched two miles out of Baltimore, and there encamped during four days; and then we put {15} our wagons into the _cars_ on the rail-road; which extends from thence sixty miles, which brought us to the foot of the Alleghany mountains.[15] Quitting the rail-road at the foot of the Alleghany, we encountered that mountain. Here we experienced a degree of inhospitality not met with among the savages. The Innkeepers, when they found that we came from New England, betrayed an unwillingness to accommodate Yankees, from a ridiculous idea, that the common people, so nicknamed, were too shrewd at a bargain and trading, for a slow and straight-forward Dutchman; for the inhabitants of this mountainous region, were generally sons and grandsons of the Dutch and German first settlers; and it cannot be denied and concealed, that the New England land-jobbers were in their bargains too hard for the torpid Dutchman, who, it is true, loved money as much as any people, yet when they, or their fathers had been the sufferers from a set of roving sharpers, it is no wonder that an hereditary prejudice should descend with exaggeration and aggravation from father to son, and that their resentment should visit their innocent sons to the third and fourth generation. No one pretends to mention any fact or deed, in which those Dutch foreigners were defrauded of their rights and dues; and all that can be, with truth, said, was, that the land-speculators from Connecticut and Massachusetts were to New-England what Yorkshire men are thought to be to the rest of the people of England, a race more sharp and quick-sighted than their neighbours,--and with a sort of constitutional good humor, called _fun_, they could twist that uneducated progeny of a German stock around their fingers;--hence their reluctance {16} to have any thing to do with men, whose grand-fathers were too knowing for them. You never hear the French or the English complaining of the over-shrewdness of the New-England people. They accord very well together, and very frequently intermarry. No, it is the Dutch, and the descendants of transported convicts, who sneer at those they call Yankees, whom their fathers feared, and of course hated. [15] The line of the Baltimore and Ohio railway was first opened for traffic December 1, 1831, when the road extended as far as Frederick, sixty-one miles from Baltimore. On April 1, 1832, it was extended to Point of Rocks, some forty miles beyond; but by that time the expedition had passed farther west.--ED. At one public house on the mountains near which we halted, the master of it, learning that we came from Boston, refused us any refreshment and lodging. He locked up his bar-room, put the key in his pocket, went out, and came back with four or five of his neighbours, when the disagreement ran so high, that the tavern-keeper and the Yankee Captain each seized his rifle. The latter pointing to the other's _sign_ before his door, demanded both lodging and refreshment, as the legal condition of his tavern-license;[16] and the dispute ended in our Captain's sleeping in the house with three of his party, well armed, determined to defend their persons, and to insist on their rights as peaceable and unoffending travellers, while the rest of the company bivouacked near their wagons, and reposed themselves, like veteran soldiers, in their tents and wagons. [16] Taverners are by law to be provided with suitable bedding for travellers, and stables and provisions for horses and cattle. Brownsville is a flourishing town situated on the point, where the great Cumberland road strikes the head of navigation of the Monongahela, and has long been a place of embarkation for emigrants for the West.--WYETH. We gladly departed from the inhospitable Alleghany or Apalachian mountains, which extend from the river St. Lawrence to the confines of Georgia, {17} and which run nearly parallel to the sea-shore from sixty to one hundred and thirty miles from it, and dividing the rivers, which flow into the Atlantic on the east, from those that run into the lakes and into the Mississippi on the west. The part we passed was in the state of Pennsylvania. Our next stretch was for the river Monongahela, where we took the steamboat for _Pittsburg_.[17] This town has grown in size and wealth, in a few years, surprisingly. It is two hundred and thirty miles from Baltimore; three hundred from Philadelphia. It is built on a point of land jutting out towards the river Ohio, and washed on each side by the Alleghany and Monongahela, which rivers uniting are lost in the noble Ohio. It was originally a fortress built by the French, called _Fort du Quesne_ being afterwards taken by the English in 1759, it was called fort _Pitt_, in honor of the famous _William Pitt_, afterwards Earl of Chatham, under whose administration it was taken from the French, together with all Canada.[18] On this spot a city has been reared by the Americans, bearing the name of _Pittsburg_ which has thriven in a surprising manner by its numerous manufactories in glass, as well as in all the metals in common use. To call it the Birmingham of America is to underrate its various industry; and to call the English Birmingham Pittsburg, would be to confer upon that town additional honor; not but what the British Birmingham is by far the most pleasant place to live in. Pittsburg is the region of iron and fossil coal, of furnaces, glass-works, and a variety of such like manufactures. This town has somewhat the color of a coal-pit, or of a black-smith's shop. The wonder is, that any gentleman {18} of property should ever think of building a costly dwelling-house, with corresponding furniture, in the coal region of the western world; but there is no disputing _de gustibus_--_Chacun á son gout_. The rivers and the surrounding country are delightful, and the more so from the contrast between them and that hornet's nest of bustle and dirt, the rich capital. Thousands of miserable culprits are doomed to delve in deep mines of silver, gold, and quicksilver among the Spaniards for their crimes; but here they are all freemen, who choose to breathe smoke, and swallow dirt, for the sake of clean dollars and shining eagles. Hence it is that the Pittsburgh workmen appear, when their faces are washed, with the ruddiness of high health, the plenitude of good spirits, and the confidence of freemen. [17] The expedition proceeded by way of Brownsville, and arrived at Pittsburg on April 8, 1832. Pittsburg, as the point of departure for the West, is described by most early travelers. In particular, consult Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, pp. 242-255.--ED. [18] For Fort Duquesne, see F. A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 156, note 20; for Fort Pitt, Post's _Journals_, in our volume i, p. 281, note 107, and A. Michaux's _Travels_, volume iii, p. 32, note 11.--ED. From the busy city of thriving Pittsburg our next important movement was down the Ohio. We accordingly embarked in a very large steam-boat called The Freedom; and soon found ourselves, bag and baggage very much at our ease and satisfaction, on board a truly wonderful floating inn, hotel, or tavern, for such are our steam-boats. Nothing of the kind can surpass the beauty of this winding river, with its fine back-ground of hills of all shapes and colors, according to the advancement of vegetation from the shrubs to the tallest trees. But the romantic scenery on both sides of the Ohio is so various and so captivating to a stranger, that it requires the talents of a painter to give even a faint idea of the picture; and the effect on my mind was, not to estimate them as I ought, but to feed my deluded imagination with the belief that we should find on the {19} Missouri, and on the Rocky Mountains, and Columbia river, object as much finer than the Ohio afforded, as this matchless river exceeded our Merrimac or Kennebeck: and so it is with the youth of both sexes; not satisfied with the present gifts of nature, they pant after _the untried scene_, which imagination is continually bodying forth, and time as constantly dissipating. The distance from Pittsburg to the Mississippi is about one thousand miles. Hutchins estimated it at one thousand one hundred and eighty-eight,--Dr. Drake at only nine hundred and forty-nine.[19] Wheeling is a town of some importance. Here the great national road into the interior from the city of Washington, meets that of Zanesville, Chillicothè, Columbus, and Cincinnati.[20] It is the best point to aim at in very low stages of the water, and from thence boats may go at all seasons of the year. We passed Marietta, distinguished for its remarkable remains of mounds, and works, resembling modern fortifications, but doubtless the labor of the ancient aboriginals, of whom there is now no existing account; but by these works, and articles found near them, they must have belonged to a race of men farther advanced in arts and civilization than the present Indian in that region,[21]--a people who, we may well suppose, were the ancestors of the Mexicans. Yet we see at this time little more than log-houses belonging to miserable tenants of white people. All the sugar used by the people here is obtained from the maple tree. Fossil coal is found along the banks. There is a creek pouring forth _Petroleum_, about one hundred miles from Pittsburg on the Alleghany, called _Oil_ Creek, which will blaze on the application of a {20} match. This is not uncommon in countries abounding in bituminous coal. Nitre is found wherever there are suitable caves and caverns for its collection. The people here are rather boisterous in their manners, and intemperate in their habits, by what we saw and heard, more so than on the other side of the river where slavery is prohibited. Indeed slavery carries a black moral mark with it visible on those whose skins are naturally of a different color; and Mr. Jefferson's opinion of the influence of slavery on the whites, justifies our remark.[22] [19] Thomas Hutchins (1730-89), born in New Jersey, entered the British army at an early age. He served in the French and Indian War, and later as assistant engineer under Bouquet (1764), for whom he prepared a map. In 1779 he was arrested in London, on a charge of sympathizing with the American cause. Escaping to Paris, he finally joined the continental army at Charleston, South Carolina, and was made geographer general by General Greene. The estimate here referred to is in his _Topographical Description of Virginia, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and North Carolina_ (London, 1778), p. 5. For Dr. Daniel Drake, see Flint's _Letters_ in our volume ix, p. 121, note 61. The length of the Ohio from Pittsburg is estimated by the map of the U. S. corps of engineers, published in 1881, as 967 miles.--ED. [20] For Wheeling and the National Road, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 33, note 15, and Flint's _Letters_, in our volume ix, p. 105, notes 51, 52.--ED. [21] For a more extended description of Marietta and its antiquities, consult Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, pp. 123-125. The mounds are now believed to be the work of North American Indians; consult Cyrus Thomas, "Mound Explorations," in U. S. Bureau of Ethnology _Report_, 1890-91.--ED. [22] Referring to Jefferson's account of the degradation of masters under the régime of slavery, in _Notes on Virginia_ (original edition, 1784), pp. 298-301.--ED. We stopped one day and night at the flourishing town of _Cincinnati_, the largest city in the Western country, although laid out so recently as 1788.[23] It is twenty miles above the mouth of the Great Miami, and four hundred and sixty-five miles below Pittsburg. It appears to great advantage from the river, the ground inclining gradually to the water. Three of us had an evidence of that by a mischievous trick for which we deserved punishment. We were staring about the fine city that has risen up with a sort of rapid, mushroom growth, surprising to every one who sees it, and who considers that it is not more than forty years old. In the evening we went into a public house, where we treated ourselves with that sort of refreshment which inspires fun, frolic, and mischief. We remained on shore till so late an hour that every body appeared to have gone to bed, when we set out to return to our steam-boat. In our way to it we passed by a store, in the front of which stood three barrels of lamp-oil, at the head of a fine sloping street. The evil spirit of mischief put it into our heads to set them a rolling down the inclined plane to the river. No sooner hinted, than executed. {21} We set all three a running, and we ran after them; and what may have been lucky for us, they were recovered next day whole. Had there been legal inquisition made for them, we had determined to plead _character_, that we were from Boston, the land of steady habits and good principles, and that it must have been some gentlemen Southerners, with whose characters for nightly frolics, we, who lived within sound of the bell of the University of Cambridge were well acquainted. The owners of the oil came down to the steam-boat, and carried back their property without making a rigid examination for the offenders; without suspecting that prudent New-England young men would indulge in a wanton piece of fun, where so much was at stake. But John Bull and Jonathan are queer fellows. [23] For the early history of this city, see Cuming's _Tour_, our volume iv, p. 256, note 166.--ED. From Cincinnati to St. Louis, we experienced some of those disagreeable occurrences, that usually happen to democratical adventurers. Our Captain, to lessen the expenses of the expedition, had bargained with the Captain of the steam-boat, that we of his band should assist in taking on board wood from the shore, to keep our boilers from cooling. Although every one saw the absolute necessity of the thing, for our common benefit and safety, yet some were for demurring at it, as not previously specified and agreed upon. Idleness engenders mutiny oftener than want. In scarcity and in danger men cling together like gregarious animals; but as soon as an enterprising gang can sit down, as in a steam-boat, with nothing to do but to find fault, they are sure to become discontented, and discontent indulged leads to mutiny. Whatever I thought then, I do not think now that Captain Wyeth was {22} to blame for directing his followers to aid in _wooding_; nor should the men have grumbled at it. I now am of opinion that our aiding in wooding the steam-boat was right, reasonable, and proper. Every man of us, except the surgeon of the company, Dr. Jacob Wyeth, ought, on every principle of justice and generosity, to have given that assistance. Our navigation from Cincinnati to St. Louis was attended with circumstances new, interesting, and very often alarming. Passing the rapids of the Ohio, or _falls_ as they are called, between the Indiana territory and Kentucky, was sufficiently appalling to silence all grumbling. These falls, or rapids are in the vicinity of Louisville, Jeffersonville, Clarksville, and Shipping-port, and are really terrific to an inexperienced farmer or mechanic.[24] Our Hell-gate in Long-Island Sound is a common brook compared with them; and when we had passed through them into the Mississippi, the assemblage of trees in the river, constituting snags and sawyers, offered themselves as a species of risk and danger, which none of us had ever calculated on or dreamt of. We knew that there was danger in great storms, of huge trees blowing down on one's head; and that those who took shelter under them in a thunder-storm, risked their lives from lightning; but to meet destruction from trees in an immense river, seemed to us a danger of life, which we had not bargained for, and entirely out of our agreement and calculation. We had braced ourselves up only against the danger of hostile Indians, and enraged beasts, which we meant to war against. Beyond that, all was smooth water to us. The truth of the matter is,--the {23} men whom Captain Wyeth had collected were not the sort of men for such an expedition. They were too much on an equality to be under strict orders like soldiers. Lewis & Clarke were very fortunate in the men they had under them. Major Long's company was, in a great degree, military, and yet three of his soldiers deserted him at one time, and a fourth soon after.[25] [24] Wyeth somewhat exaggerates the difficulties of the navigation of the Falls of the Ohio. See our volume i, p. 136, note 106; also Thwaites, _On the Storied Ohio_ (Chicago, 1903), pp. 218-222. For Jeffersonville, see Flint's _Letters_, in our volume ix, p. 160, note 80; for Clarksville and Shippingsport, Cuming's _Tour_, our volume iv, pp. 259, 260, notes 170, 171.--ED. [25] See our volumes xiv-xvii for James's _Long's Expedition_.--ED. On the 18th of April, 1832, we arrived at St. Louis. As we had looked forward to this town, as a temporary resting-place, we entered it in high spirits, and pleased ourselves with a notion that the rest of our way till we should come to the Rocky Mountains would be, if not down hill, at least on a level: but we counted without our host. _St. Louis_ was founded by a Frenchman named _Peter la Clade_ in 1764, eighty-four years after the establishment of Fort Crève-coeur on the Illinois river; and inhabited entirely by Frenchmen and the descendants of Frenchmen, who had carried on for the most part a friendly and lucrative trade with the Indians.[26] But since the vast Western country has been transferred to the United States, its population has been rapidly increased by numerous individuals and families from different parts of the Union; and its business extended by enterprising mechanics and merchants from the New-England States; and its wealth greatly augmented. The old part of St. Louis has a very different aspect from that of Cincinnati, where every thing appears neat, and new, and tasteful; as their public buildings, their theatre, and spacious hotels, not forgetting Madam Trollope's bazar, or, as it is commonly called, "Trollope's Folly,"[27] as well as its spacious streets, numerous coaches, and other {24} marks of rapid wealth, and growing luxury. As St. Louis has advanced in wealth, magnitude, and importance, it has gradually changed the French language and manners, and assumed the American. It however contains, I am told, many of the old stock that are very respectable for their literary acquirements and polished manners. [26] For the foundation of St. Louis, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 71, note 138. Fort Crêvecoeur was La Salle's Illinois stockade, built in 1680. See Ogden's _Letters_ in our volume xix, p. 46, note 34.--ED. [27] Frances Milton Trollope (1780-1863), an Englishwoman of note, came to the United States in 1827 with Frances Wright. She established herself at Cincinnati, and attempted to recuperate the family fortunes by the opening of a bazaar for the sale of small fancy articles. The experiment failed, and the Trollope family returned to England (1831), where Mrs. Trollope issued _Domestic Manners of Americans_ (London, 1832), a criticism of our national customs that gave great umbrage to our forebears in the West. She later became a novelist of note, dying in Florence in 1863. Her sons were Anthony and Adolphus Trollope, well-known English authors.--ED. We shall avoid, as we have avowed, any thing like censure of Captain Wyeth's scheme during his absence; but when we arrived at St. Louis, we could not but lament his want of information, respecting the best means of obtaining the great objects of our enterprise. Here we were constrained to sell our complicated wagons for less than half what they originally cost. We were convinced that they were not calculated for the rough roads, and rapid streams and eddies of some of the rivers we must necessarily pass. We here thought of the proverb, "that men never do a thing right the first time." Captain Wyeth might have learned at St. Louis, that there were two wealthy gentlemen who resided at or near that place, who had long since established a regular trade with the Indians, Mr. M----, and a young person, Mr. S----, and that a stranger could hardly compete with such established traders. The turbulent tribe, called the _Black-foot_ tribe, had long been supplied with fire arms and ammunition, beads, vermilion and other paints, tobacco and scarlet cloth, from two or three capital traders at, or near, St. Louis, and every article most saleable with the Indians. Both parties knew each other, and had confidence in each other; and having this advantage over our band of adventurers, it does not appear that Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. Sublet felt any apprehensions or jealousy {25} of the new comers from Boston; but treated them with friendship, and the latter with confidence and cordiality; the former gentleman being, in a manner, retired from business, except through numerous agents.[28] He owns a small steam-boat called the Yellow Stone, the name of one of the branches of the Missouri river.[29] Through such means the Indians are supplied with all they want; and they appeared not to wish to have any thing to do with any one else, especially the adventurous Yankees. These old established traders enjoy a friendly influence, or prudent command, over those savages, that seems to operate to the exclusion of every one else; and this appeared from the manner in which they treated us, which was void of every thing like jealousy, or fear of rivalship. Their policy was to incorporate us with their own troop. [28] Kenneth McKenzie was born in Rossshire, Scotland, in 1801, of a good family, relatives of Sir Alexander Mackenzie the explorer. Coming to America at an early age, young McKenzie entered the service of the North West Company; but upon its consolidation with the Hudson's Bay Company (1821), he entered the fur-trade on his own account. Going to New York in 1822, he secured an outfit on credit, and for some time traded on the upper Mississippi. Later he formed a partnership with Joseph Renville in the establishment of the Columbia Fur Company. This concern was bought out by its rival, the American Fur Company in 1827, whereupon McKenzie was taken into the latter corporation. He was soon placed in command of what was known as the "Upper Missouri Outfit," and built Fort Union at the mouth of the Yellowstone, where for several years he ruled almost regally. Among his earliest successes--to which Wyeth here refers--was his acquisition of the Blackfoot trade. This tribe, influenced by British traders, had long been hostile to Americans; McKenzie had, however, been known to them in the North West Company, and through one of their interpreters, Berger, he secured a treaty with them and built (1831-32) a post in their country. McKenzie lost the good-will of the American Fur Company, by erecting a distillery at Fort Union, in defiance of United States laws. In 1834 he came down the river, and visited Europe; but at intervals he re-ascended to his old post, until in 1839 he disposed of his stock in the company. He then made his home in St. Louis, until his death in 1861. It does not appear that he had considered retirement as early as Wyeth's visit in 1832, for he was then in the full tide of success. He lived magnificently at Fort Union, ruling over a wide territory, an American example of the "bourgeois of the old Northwest." For William Sublette, see our volume xix, Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_, p. 221, note 55.--ED. [29] The "Yellowstone" was the first steamboat to visit the upper Missouri. McKenzie and Pierre Chouteau, Jr., convinced of the utility to the fur-trade of such a craft, persuaded the American Fur Company to secure a steamer. She was built at Louisville, Kentucky, in the winter of 1830-31, departing from St. Louis on her first voyage, April 16, 1831, with Captain B. Young as master. This season she ascended to Fort Tecumseh (near Pierre), and the following year made her initial trip to the mouth of the Yellowstone River. She had left St. Louis about a month before the arrival of Wyeth's party.--ED. We put our goods, and other baggage on board the steam-boat Otter, and proceeded two hundred and sixty miles up the Missouri river, which is as far as the white people have any settlements. We were obliged to proceed very slowly and carefully on account of the numerous _snags_ and _sawyers_ with which this river abounds. They are trees that have been loosened, and washed away from the soft banks of the river. They are detained by sandbanks, or by other trees, that have floated down some time before. Those of them whose sharp branches point opposite the stream are the _snags_, against which boats are often impelled, as they are not visible above water, and many are sunk by the wounds these make in their bows. The _sawyers_ are also held fast by their roots, while the body of the tree whips up and down, alternately visible and concealed beneath the surface. These {26} are the chief terrors of the Missouri and the Mississippi rivers. As to crocodiles they are little regarded, being more afraid of man than he of them. On account of these snags and sawyers, boatmen avoid passing in the night, and are obliged to keep a sharp look out in the day-time. The sawyers when forced to the bottom or near it by a strong current, or by eddies, rise again with such force that few boats can withstand the shock. The course of the boat was so tediously slow, that many of us concluded to get out and walk on the banks of the river. This, while it gave us agreeable exercise, was of some service in lightening our boat, for with other passengers from St. Louis, we amounted to a considerable crew. The ground was level, and free from underwood. We passed plenty of deer, wild turkeys, and some other wild fowl unknown to us, and expected to find it so all the way. We arrived at a town or settlement called _Independence_.[30] This is the last white settlement on our route to the Oregon, and this circumstance gave a different cast to our peregrination, and operated not a little on our hopes, and our fears, and our imaginations. Some of our company began to ask each other some serious questions; such as, Where are we going? and what are we going for? and sundry other questions, which would have been wiser had we asked them before we left Cambridge, and ruminated well on the answers. But _Westward ho_! was our watchword, and checked all doubts, and silenced all expressions of fear. [30] For Independence, see Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_, in our volume xix, p. 189, note 34.--ED. Just before we started from this place, a company of sixty-two in number arrived from St. Louis, under the command of _William Sublet, Esq._, an experienced Indian trader, bound, like ourselves, {27} to the American Alps, the Rocky Mountains, and we joined company with him, and it was very lucky that we did. Our minds were not entirely easy. We were about to leave our peaceable country-men, from whom we had received many attentions and much kindness, to go into a dark region of savages, of whose customs, manners, and language, we were entirely ignorant,--to go we knew not whither,--to encounter we knew not what. We had already sacrificed our amphibious wagons, the result of so much pains and cost. Here two of our company left us, named Kilham and Weeks. Whether they had any real cause of dissatisfaction with our Captain, or whether they only made that an excuse to quit the expedition and return home early, it is not for me to say. I suspect the abandonment of our travelling vehicles cooled their courage. We rested at Independence ten days; and purchased, by Captain Sublet's advice, two yoke of oxen, and fifteen sheep, as we learnt that we ought not to rely entirely upon transient game from our fire-arms for sustenance, especially as we were now going among a savage people who would regard us with suspicion and dread, and treat us accordingly. From this place we travelled about twenty-five miles a day. Nothing occurred worth recording, till we arrived at the first Indian settlement, which was about seventy miles from Independence.[31] They appeared to us a harmless people, and not averse to our passing through their country. Their persons were rather under size, and their complexion dark. As they lived near the frontier of the whites, they were not unacquainted with their usages and customs. They have cultivated spots or little farms, {28} on which they raise corn and pumpkins. They generally go out once a year to hunt, accompanied by their women; and on killing the Buffalo, or Bison, what they do not use on the spot, they dry to eat through the winter. To prevent a famine, however, it is their custom to keep a large number of dogs; and they eat them as we do mutton and lamb. This tribe have imitated the white people in having fixed and stationary houses. They stick poles in the ground in a circular form, and cover them with buffalo-skins, and put earth over the whole, leaving at the top an aperture for the smoke, but small enough to be covered with a buffalo-skin in case of rain or snow.--We found here little game; but honey-bees in abundance. [31] This appears to have been an insignificant village of somewhat sedentary Indians, probably of the Kansa tribe, near the northwestern corner of what is now Douglas County, Kansas. Joel Palmer notes it in 1845; see our volume xxx.--ED. We travelled on about a hundred miles farther, when we came to a large _prairie_, which name the French have given to extensive tracts of land, mostly level, destitute of trees, and covered with tall, coarse grass. They are generally dreary plains, void of water, and rendered more arid by the Indian custom of setting fire to the high grass once or twice a year to start the game that has taken shelter there, which occasions a hard crust unfavorable to any vegetable more substantial than grass. At this unpromising spot, three more of our company took French leave of us, there being, it seems, dissatisfaction on both sides; for each complained of the other. The names of the seceders were Livermore, Bell, Griswell.[32] In sixteen days more we reached the River _La Platte_, the water of which is foul and muddy.[33] We were nine days passing this dreary _prairie_. We were seven and twenty days winding our way along the borders of the La Platte, which river we could not leave on {29} account of the scarcity of water in the dry and comfortless plains. Here we slaughtered the last of our live stock, and at night we came to that region where buffaloes are often to be found; but we suffered some sharp gnawings of hunger before we obtained one, and experienced some foretaste of difficulties to come. [32] Thomas Livermore was a cousin of Nathaniel Wyeth, whose home was in Milford, New Hampshire. He was a minor, and his father's consent was essential that he might join the party. Bell appears to have been insubordinate from the start, and upon his return to the East, published letters injurious to Wyeth's reputation; consult Wyeth, _Oregon Expeditions_, index.--ED. [33] For the River Platte, see our volume xiv, p. 219, note 170. The Oregon Trail from Independence led westward, south of the Kansas, crossing the latter stream near the present site of Topeka; thence up the Big and Little Blue rivers, and across country to the Platte, coming in near Grand Island.--ED. The Missouri Territory[34] is a vast wilderness, consisting of immense plains, destitute of wood and of water, except on the edges of streams that are found near the turbid La Platte. This river owes its source to the Rocky mountains, and runs pretty much through the territory, without enlivening or fructifying this desert. Some opinion may be formed of it by saying that for the space of six hundred miles, we may be said to have been deprived of the benefits of two of the elements, _fire_ and _water_. Here were, to be sure, buffaloes, but after we had killed them we had no wood or vegetables of any kind wherewith to kindle a fire for cooking. We were absolutely compelled to dry the dung of the buffalo as the best article we could procure for cooking our coarse beef. That grumbling, discontent, and dejection should spring up amongst us, was what no one can be surprised at learning. We were at times very miserable, and our commander could be no less so; but we had put our hands to the plough, and most of us were too stuffy to flinch, and sneak off for home without reaching the Rocky Mountains; still hunger is hunger, and the young and the strong feel the greatest call for food. Every one who goes to sea may lay his account for coming to short allowance, from violent storms, head winds, damaged vessel, and the like; but for a band of New-England {30} men to come to short allowance upon land, with guns, powder, and shot, was a new idea to our Oregon adventurers, who had not prepared for it in the article of hard bread, or flour, or potatoes, or that snug and wholesome article, _salt fish_, so plenty at Marblehead and Cape Ann, and so convenient to carry. When the second company shall march from the seat of science, Cambridge, we would advise them to pack up a few quintals of salt fish, and a few pounds of ground sago, and salep, as a teaspoonful of it mixed with boiling water will make three pints of good gruel, and also a competent supply of portable soup. [34] The Territory of Missouri was formed in 1812 of all the Louisiana Purchase outside the limits of the newly-erected state of Louisiana. In 1819 Arkansas Territory was cut out, and the following year the state of Missouri. The remaining region was left with no definite organization; but by an act of 1830 it was defined as Indian Territory--south of a line drawn from Missouri River at the mouth of the Ponca, and west to the Rocky Mountains. This vast unorganized region was indefinitely called Missouri Territory, Indian Territory, Western Territory, and even (on one map of the period) Oregon Territory--although the latter name was usually confined to the region west of the Rockies, and north of Mexican bounds.--ED. Buffaloes were plenty enough. We saw them in frightful droves, as far as the eye could reach, appearing at a distance as if the ground itself was moving like the sea. Such large armies of them have no fear of man. They will travel over him and make nothing of him. Our company after killing ten or twelve of them, never enjoyed the benefit of more than two of them, the rest being carried off by the wolves before morning. Beside the scarcity of meat, we suffered for want of good and wholesome water. The La Platte is warm and muddy; and the use of it occasioned a diarrhoea in several of our company. Dr. Jacob Wyeth, brother of the Captain, suffered not a little from this cause.--Should the reader wonder how we proceeded so rapidly on our way without stopping to inquire, he must bear in mind that we were still under the guidance of Captain Sublet, who knew every step of the way, and had actually resided four years in different green valleys that are here and there in the Rocky Mountains. To me it seems that we must have perished for want of {31} sustenance in the deserts of Missouri, had we been by ourselves. It may have been good policy in Sublet, to attach us to him. He probably saw our rawness in an adventure so ill provided for as ours actually was. But for him we should hardly have provided ourselves with live stock; and but for him we should probably never have reached the American Alps. By this time every man began to think for himself. We travelled six days on the south branch of the La Platte, and then crossed over to the north branch, and on this branch of it, we travelled eighteen days.[35] But the first three days we could not find sufficient articles of food; and what added to our distress was the sickness of several of our company. We noticed many trails of the savages, but no Indians. The nearer we approached the range of the mountains the thicker were the trees. After travelling twelve days longer we came to the Black Hills. They are so called from their thick growth of cedar. Here is the region of rattle snakes, and the largest and fiercest bears,--a very formidable animal, which it is not prudent for a man to attack alone. I have known some of the best hunters of Sublet's company to fire five and six balls at one before he fell. We were four days in crossing these dismal looking hills. They would be called mountains, were they not in the neighborhood of the Rocky Mountains, whose peaks overtop every thing, and elevate themselves into the region of everlasting frost and snow. Our sick suffered extremely in ascending these hills, some of them slipped off the horses and mules they rode on, from sheer weakness, brought on by the bowel complaint already mentioned; among these was Dr. {32} Wyeth, our Captain's brother, who never had a constitution fit to encounter such an expedition. And yet we could not leave them under the care of a man, or two or three men, and pass on without them, to follow us, when they were able. It was to me particularly grievous to think that he, who was to take care of the health of the company, was the first who was disabled from helping himself or others, and this one a blood relation. It required a man of a firmer make than Dr. Jacob Wyeth to go through such a mountainous region as the one we were in: a man seldom does a thing right the first time. [35] The Oregon trail touched the North Platte at Ash Creek, now an important railway junction in Deuel County, Nebraska.--ED. From the north branch we crossed over to what was called Sweet-water Creek.[36] This water being cool, clear, and pleasant, proved a good remedy for our sick, as their bowel complaints were brought on and aggravated by the warm, muddy waters of the Missouri territory we had passed through. We came to a huge rock in the shape of a bowl upside down. It bore the name of Independence, from, it is said, being the resting-place of Lewis and Clarke on the 4th of July; but according to the printed journal of those meritorious travellers, they had not reached, or entered, the American Alps on the day of that memorable epoch.[37] Whether we are to consider the rock Independence as fairly in the Rocky Mountains, let others determine. We had now certainly begun our ascent to those lofty regions, previous to which we had to pass the chief branch of the river La Platte; but we had no boat whatever for the purpose; and had we not been in the company of Captain Sublet, it is hard to say what we should have done short of going a great way round. Here I, and others were entirely {33} convinced that we were engaged in an expedition without being provided with the means to accomplish it. Our boats and wagons we had disposed of at St. Louis, and here we were on the banks of a river without even a canoe. Captain Clarke brought his canoes to the foot of the range of mountains and there left them. The reader will understand that not only the Missouri river, but the Yellowstone river, the La Platte, and many other smaller ones commence by small beginnings in the Black Hills, and in the Rocky Mountains, and increase in size and depth as they proceed down to join the Arkansa, or the Canadian river, and finally the Mississippi, and so run into the vast salt ocean. Whether it was Captain Sublet's own invention, or an invention of the Indians, we know not, but the contrivance we used is worth mentioning. They called it a _Bull-boat_. They first cut a number of willows (which grow every where near the banks of all the rivers we had travelled by from St. Louis), of about an inch and a half diameter at the butt end, and fixed them in the ground at proper distances from each other, and as they approached nearer one end they brought them nearer together, so as to form something like the bow. The ends of the whole were brought and bound firmly together, like the ribs of a great basket; and then they took other twigs of willow and wove them into those stuck in the ground so as to make a sort of firm, huge basket of twelve or fourteen feet long. After this was completed, they sewed together a number of buffalo-skins, and with them covered the whole; and after the different parts had been trimmed off smooth, a slow fire was made under the Bull-boat, taking care to dry the skins moderately; and as {34} they gradually dried, and acquired a due degree of warmth, they rubbed buffalo-tallow all over the outside of it, so as to allow it to enter into all the seams of the boat, now no longer a willow-basket. As the melted tallow ran down into every seam, hole, and crevice, it cooled into a firm body capable of resisting the water, and bearing a considerable blow without damaging it. Then the willow-ribbed, buffalo-skin, tallowed vehicle was carefully pulled up from the ground, and behold a boat capable of transporting man, horse, and goods over a pretty strong current. At the sight of it, we Yankees all burst out into a loud laugh, whether from surprise, or pleasure, or both, I know not. It certainly was not from ridicule; for we all acknowledged the contrivance would have done credit to _old_ New-England. [36] Sweetwater River, a western affluent of the North Platte, rises in the Wind River Mountains, and for over a hundred miles flows almost directly east. The name is supposed to be derived from the loss at an early day of a pack-mule laden with sugar. Wyeth speaks of "crossing over" to this stream, because the trail abandoned the North Platte, which here flows through a formidable cañon, and reached the Sweetwater some miles above its mouth.--ED. [37] Lewis and Clark did not pass within hundreds of miles of Independence Rock, having ascended the Missouri to its source. Independence Rock is a well-known landmark on the Oregon Trail--an isolated mass covering twenty-seven acres, and towering 155 feet above Sweetwater River. On it were marked the names of travelers, so that it became the "register of the desert." Frémont in 1843 says, "Many a name famous in the history of this country, and some well known to science are to be found mixed with those of the traders and of travelers for pleasure and curiosity, and of missionaries to the savages."--ED. While Captain Sublet and his company were binding the gunwale of the boat with buffalo-sinews, to give it strength and due hardness, our Captain was by no means idle. He accordingly undertook to make a raft to transport our own goods across the river. Sublet expressed his opinion that it would not answer where the current was strong; but Captain Wyeth is a man not easily to be diverted from any of his notions, or liable to be influenced by the advice of others; so that while Sublet's men were employed on their Bull-boat, Wyeth and a chosen few were making a raft. When finished, we first placed our blacksmith's shop upon it, that is to say, our anvil, and large vice, and other valuable articles belonging to black-smithery, bar-iron, and steel traps, and alas! a cask of powder, and a number of smaller, but valuable articles. We fixed a rope to our raft, and with some difficulty got {35} the other end of it across the river to the opposite bank by a man swimming with a rope in his mouth, from some distance above the spot he aimed to reach. We took a turn of it round a tree. Captain Sublet gave it as his opinion that the line would not be sufficient to command the raft. But our Leader was confident that it would; but when they had pulled about half way over, the rope broke, and the raft caught under the limbs of a partly submerged tree, and tipped it on one side so that we lost our iron articles, and damaged our goods and a number of percussion caps. This was a very serious calamity and absolutely irreparable. Almost every disaster has some benefit growing out of it. It was even so here. Two thirds of our company were sick, and that without any particular disorder that we can name, but from fatigue, bad water, scanty food, and eating flesh half raw. Add to this, worry of mind, and serious apprehensions of our fate when the worthy Captain Sublet should leave us; for he was, under Providence, the instrument of our preservation. Our own individual sufferings were enough for us to bear; but Captain Wyeth had to bear the like, and more beside, as the responsibility lay heavy upon him. Most men would have sunk under it. At this point of our journey we were sadly tormented by musquetoes, that prevented our sleep after the fatigues of the day. This little contemptible insect, which they call here a gnat, disturbed us more than bears, or wolves, or snakes. The next day after we started from this unlucky place, we descried a number of men on horseback, approaching us at full speed. Various were our conjectures. Captain Sublet had an apprehension that they might be hostile Indians who fight on {36} horseback; he therefore ordered every man to make fast his horse as quick as possible, and prepare for battle on foot. But on their near approach, we found them a body of white men called _trappers_, whose occupation is to entrap the beaver and other animals that have valuable furs. Captain Sublet has, for several years, had about two hundred of these trappers in his pay, in and around the Rocky Mountains, and this troop was a party of them. His place of rendezvous for them is at _Pierre's Hole_, by which name they call one of those deep and verdant valleys which are to be found in the Rocky Mountains from the eastern boundary of them to their extreme edge in the west, where the Oregon or Columbia river commences under the name of Clark's river, some branches of which inosculate with the mighty Missouri on the east. It is to _Pierre's_ valley or _Hole_, that his trappers resort to meet their employer every summer. It is here they bring their peltry and receive their pay; and this traffic has been kept up between them a number of years with good faith on both sides, and to mutual satisfaction and encouragement. When Sublet leaves St. Louis, he brings up tobacco, coffee, rice, powder, shot, paint, beads, handkerchiefs and all those articles of finery that please both Indian women and men; and having established that sort of traffic with his friends, the Indians on and in the vicinity of the Rocky Mountains, what chance was there that any small band from Boston, or even Cambridge, could supplant him in the friendship and confidence of his old acquaintance, the Shoshonees, the Black-feet, or any other tribe? He must have seen this at once, and been convinced that nothing like rivalship could {37} rise up between him and the New-England adventurers. He therefore caressed them, and, in a manner, incorporated them with his troop. This gentleman was born in America of French parents,[38] and partakes largely of those good-humored, polite, and accommodating manners which distinguish the nation he sprang from. The old French war, and wars on this continent since then, amply prove how much better Frenchmen conciliate the natives than the English. The English and the Americans, when they come in contact with the untutored savage, most commonly fight. But not so the French. They please and flatter the Indian, give him powder, and balls, and flints, and guns, and make a Catholic of him, and make out to live in friendship with the red man and woman of the wilderness. It is strange that such extremes of character should meet. Some have said that they are not so very far distant as others have imagined,--that the refined French people love war, and the women paint their faces, grease their hair, and wear East India blankets, called shawls.--Captain Sublet possesses, doubtless, that conciliating disposition so characteristic of the French, and not so frequently found among the English or Americans; for the descendants of both nations bear strong marks of the stock they came from. The French have always had a stronger hold of the affections of the Indians than any other people. [38] Captain William Sublette was born in Kentucky. His maternal grandfather was Captain Whitby, a noted pioneer of Irish ancestry. The Sublettes were also of Kentucky stock; and if French originally, came early to America. See our volume xix, p. 221, note 55 (Gregg).--ED. The trappers kept company with us till we came to Pierre's Hole, or valley, which is twelve miles from the spot where we first met them. Three or four days after, we were fired on by the Indians about ten o'clock at night. They had assembled to about the number of three hundred. They stole {38} five horses from us, and three from Sublet's company.[39] About the first of July we crossed the highest part or ridge of the mountains.[40] In addition to the mountain composed of earth, sand, and stone, including common rocks, there were certain peaks resembling a loaf of sugar, from a hundred to two hundred feet high; and some appeared much higher; I cannot guess their height. They were to us surprising. Their sides deviated but little from perpendicular. They looked at a distance like some light-houses of a conical form, or like our Cambridge glass manufactories; but how they acquired that form is wonderful. Subsiding waters may have left them so, after washing away sandy materials. But nature is altogether wonderful, in her large works as well as small. How little do we know of the first cause of any thing! We had to creep round the base of these steep edifices of nature. We now more clearly understand and relish the question of one of our Indians who was carried to England as a show, who, on being shown that elegant pile of stone, the cathedral of St. Paul, after viewing it in silent admiration, asked his interpreter _whether it was made by men's hands, or whether it grew there_. We might ask the same question respecting these conical mountains. Had the scaffolding of St. Paul's remained, the surprise and wonder of the sensible savage had been less. [39] This attack was attributed to the same band of Blackfeet with whom the Battle of Pierre's Hole occurred some days later. See Wyeth, _Oregon Expeditions_, p. 158; Irving, _Rocky Mountains_, i, p. 75.--ED. [40] This is South Pass, so named in contradistinction to the northern passes undertaken by Lewis and Clark. It is not known by whom this mountain passage was discovered, but probably by some of Ashley's parties in 1823. The ascent is so gradual that, although 7,500 feet above sea-level, its elevation is not perceived, and in 1843 Frémont could with difficulty tell just where he crossed the highest point of the divide.--ED. It was difficult to keep our feet on these highest parts of the mountains; some of the pack-horses slipped and rolled over and over, and yet were taken up alive. Those that did not fall were sadly bruised and lamed in their feet and joints. Mules are best calculated, as we experienced, for such difficult travelling. They seem to think, and to judge {39} of the path before them, and will sometimes put their fore feet together and slip down without stepping. They are as sagacious in crossing a river, where there is a current. They will not attempt to go straight over, but will breast the tide by passing obliquely upwards. One of our horses was killed by a fall down one of these precipices, and it was surprising that more of them did not share the like fate. Buffaloes were so scarce here, that we were obliged to feed on our dried meat, and this scarcity continued till after we had gained the head sources of the Columbia river. For the last five days we have had to travel on the Colorado of the West, which is a very long river, and empties into the gulph of California.[41] [41] The upper waters of the Colorado River are now usually termed Green River, from the "Rio Verte" of the Spaniards. This great stream rises on the western slopes of the Wind River Mountains; flowing nearly south, gathering many mountain streams, it next turns abruptly east into the northwest corner of Colorado, and having rounded the Uintah range trends to the south-southwest through Utah, until joined by Grand River, when it becomes the Colorado proper. The first attempt to navigate this formidable waterway was made by Ashley's party in 1825, although Becknell is known to have visited it the previous year. Consult Chittenden's _Fur-Trade_, ii, pp. 509, 778-781, and F. S. Dellenbaugh, _Romance of the Colorado River_ (New York, 1902).--ED. On the 4th of July, 1832, we arrived at Lewis's fork, one of the largest rivers in these rocky mountains.[42] It took us all day to cross it. It is half a mile wide, deep, and rapid. The way we managed was this: one man unloaded his horse, and swam across with him, leading two loaded ones, and unloading the two, brought them back, for two more, and as Sublet's company and our own made over a hundred and fifty, we were all day in passing the river. In returning, my mule, by treading on a round stone, stumbled and threw me off, and the current was so strong, that a bush which I caught hold of only saved me from drowning. [42] From Green River the caravan crossed the divide between the Colorado and Columbia systems, and came upon a branch of Lewis (or Snake) River, probably Hoback's River. They did not reach the main Lewis until July 6, arriving at the rendezvous on the morning of July 8, after crossing Teton Pass. Consult Wyeth, _Oregon Expeditions_, pp. 158, 159.--ED. This being Independence-Day, we drank the health of our friends in Massachusetts, in good clear water, as that was the only liquor we had to drink in remembrance of our homes and dear connexions. If I may judge by my own feelings and by the looks of my companions, there was more of melancholy than joy amongst us. We were almost {40} four thousand miles from Boston, and in saying Boston we mean at the same time our native spot Cambridge, as they are separated by a wooden bridge only. From the north fork of Lewis's river we passed on to an eminence called Teton mountain, where we spent the night. The next day was pleasant, and serene. Captain Sublet came in the evening to inquire how many of our company were sick, as they must ride, it being impossible for them to go on foot any farther. His kindness and attention I never can forget. Dr. Jacob Wyeth, the Captain's brother, George More, and Stephen Burdit[43] were too weak to walk. To accommodate them with horses, Captain Wyeth was obliged to dig a hole in the earth, and therein bury the goods which had been hitherto carried on horseback. In the language of the Trappers this hiding of goods was called _cacher_ or hidden treasure, being the French term for 'to hide.' When they dig these hiding-holes they carefully carry the earth on a buffalo-skin to a distance, so as to leave no marks or traces of the ground being dug up or disturbed: and this was done to secure the _caché_ from being stolen by the Indians or the white men. The goods so hidden are wrapt up in buffalo-skins to keep them dry, before the earth is put over them. Nor is this all; they make a fire over the spot, and all this to prevent the Indians from suspecting that treasure is caché, or hidden there, while the owner of it takes care to mark the bearing of the spot on some tree, or rock, or some other object that may lead him to recognise the place again. But I have my doubts whether they who hid the goods will ever return that way to dig up their hidden treasure. We did not meddle with it on our return with Captain Sublet. [43] More was killed by Indians; see _post_. Captain Wyeth found his powder flask at Fort Union upon his return in the summer of 1833. Burdett went on to Oregon, where he resided for some years.--ED. {41} On the 5th of July we started afresh rather low-spirited. We looked with sadness on the way before us. The mountain was here pretty thickly timbered down its slopes, and wherever the ground is level. The pines and hemlock trees were generally about eighteen inches through. It had snowed, and we were now at a height where the snow commonly lies all the year round. Which ever way we looked, the region presented a dreary aspect. No one could wonder that even some of us who were in health, were, at times, somewhat homesick. If this was the case with us, what must have been the feelings of our three sick fellow travellers. We passed through a snow bank three feet deep. We well ones passed on with Captain Sublet to the top of the mountain, and there waited until our sick men came up with us. George More fell from his horse through weakness. He might have maintained his seat on level ground, but ascending and descending required more exertion than he could call forth; and this was the case also with Dr. Wyeth. Burdit made out a little better. When we encamped at night, we endured a snow storm. Sublet's company encamped about two miles from us; for at best we could hardly keep up with his veteran company. They were old and experienced trappers, and we, compared with them, young and inexperienced soldiers, little imagining that we should ever have to encounter such hardships, in realizing our dreams of making a fortune. Ignorance of the future is not always to be considered among the calamities of man. Captain Sublet's grand rendezvous, or Head Quarters, was about twelve miles from our encampment.[44] He had there about two hundred {42} trappers, or beaver-hunters; or more properly speaking, _skinners_ of entrapped animals; or _peltry_-hunters, for they chased but few of the captured beasts. To these were added about five hundred Indians, of the rank of warriors, all engaged in the same pursuit and traffic of the fur-trade. They were principally the _Flat-heads_,[45] so called from their flattening the heads of their young children, by forcing them to wear a piece of wood, like a bit of board, so as to cause the skull to grow flat, which they consider a mark of beauty even among the females. They are otherwise dandies and belles in their dress and ornaments. This large body of horse made a fine appearance, especially their long hair; for, as there was a pleasant breeze of wind, their hair blew out straight all in one direction, which had the appearance of so many black streamers. When we met they halted and fired three rounds by way of salute, which we returned; and then followed such friendly greetings as were natural and proper between such high contracting powers and great and good allies. This parade was doubtless made by Sublet for the sake of effect. It was showing us, Yankee barbarians, _their Elephants_;--like General and Lord Howe's military display to our commissioners of Congress on Staten Island, when the British Brothers proposed that celebrated interview; and when Dr. Franklin, Mr. Adams, and some others of the deputation, whose names I do not now recollect, assumed all that careless indifference, very common with the Indians on meeting a white embassy; for the express purpose of conveying an idea, that we, though the weakest in discipline and numbers, are not awe-struck by your fine dress, glittering arms, and full-fed persons. [44] Pierre's Hole, known more recently as Teton Basin, is a grassy valley trending northwest and southeast, thirty miles long, and from five to fifteen wide, in eastern Idaho, just across the Wyoming border. Pierre (or Teton) River flows through it gathering affluents on the way. The valley was a well-known rendezvous, taking its name from Pierre, an Iroquois employé of the Hudson's Bay Company, who was here murdered by the Blackfeet. The Astorian overland expedition passed through this valley both going and returning (1811, 1812). The most notable event in its history was the battle which Wyeth recounts. It was not on the regular Oregon trail; see Townsend's _Narrative_, _post._--ED. [45] For the Flatheads, see Franchère's _Narrative_, in our volume vi, p. 340, note 145.--ED. {43} It was now the 6th of July,[46] 1832, being sixty-four days since we left the settlements of the white people. Captain Sublet encamped his forces; and then pointed out to Captain Wyeth the ground which he thought would be most proper for us; and altogether we looked like a little army. Not but what we felt small compared with our great and powerful allies. [46] According to Nathaniel Wyeth's journal, it was July 8 before his party arrived in Pierre's Hole. They found that Drips, the American Fur Company agent, had, with many independent trappers, reached there before them.--ED. We were overjoyed to think that we had got to a resting-place, where we could repose our weary limbs, and recruit the lost strength of our sick. While Sublet was finishing his business with his Indian trappers, they delivering their peltry, and he remunerating them in his way with cloth, powder, ball, beads, knives, handkerchiefs, and all that gawdy trumpery which Indians admire, together with coffee, rice, and corn, also leather, and other articles,--we, being idle, had time to think, to reflect, and to be uneasy. We had been dissatisfied for some time, but we had not leisure to communicate it and systematize our grievances. I, with others, had spoken with Captain Sublet, and him we found conversable and communicative. Myself and some others requested Captain Wyeth to call a meeting of his followers, to ask information, and to know what we were now to expect, seeing we had passed over as we supposed the greatest difficulties, and were now nearly four thousand miles from the _Atlantic_, and within four hundred miles of the _Pacific Ocean_, the end and aim of our laborious expedition, the field where we expected to reap our promised harvest. We wished to have what we had been used to at home,--a town meeting,--or a parish meeting, where every freeman has an equal right to speak his sentiments, and to vote thereon. {44} But Captain Wyeth was by no means inclined to this democratical procedure. The most he seemed inclined to, was a _caucus_ with a select few; of whom neither his own brother, though older than himself, nor myself, was to be of the number. After considerable altercation, he concluded to call a meeting of the whole, on business interesting and applicable to all. We accordingly met, Captain Wyeth in the chair, or on the stump, I forget which. Instead of every man speaking his own mind, or asking such questions as related to matters that lay heaviest on his mind, the Captain commenced the business by ordering the roll to be called; and as the names were called, the clerk asked the person if he would go on. The first name was Nathaniel J. Wyeth, whom we had dubbed _Captain_, who answered--"I shall go on."--The next was William Nud, who, before he answered, wished to know what the Captain's plan and intentions were, whether to try to commence a small colony, or to trap and trade for beaver? To which Captain Wyeth replied, that _that_ was none of our business. Then Mr. Nud said, "I shall not go on;" and as the names of the rest were called, there appeared _seven_ persons out of the _twenty-one_, who were determined to return home. Of the number so determined was, besides myself, Dr. Jacob Wyeth, the Captain's brother, whose strength had never been equal to such a journey. His constitution forbade it. He was brought up at College. Here were discontents on both sides; criminations and recriminations. A commander of a band of associated adventurers has a very hard task. The commanded, whether in a school, or in a regiment, or company, naturally combine in feeling against {45} their leader; and this is so natural that armies are obliged to make very strict rules, and to pursue rigid discipline. It is so also on ship-board. Our merchant ships cannot sail in safety without exacting prompt obedience; and disobedience in the common seamen is mutiny, and mutiny is a high crime, and approximates to piracy. It is pretty much so in these long and distant exploring expeditions. The Captain cannot always with safety satisfy all the questions put to him by those under his command; and it would lead to great inconvenience to entrust any, even a brother, with any information concealed from the rest. There must be secrecy, and there must be confidence. We had travelled through a dreary wilderness, an infinitely worse country than Palestine; yet Moses himself could not have kept together the Israelites without the aid of miracles; and the history we have given of our boat-like arks, and the wreck of our raft, and the loss of our heaviest articles may lead most readers to suspect that our Leader to his Land of Promise was not an inspired man. In saying this, we censure no one, we only lament our common frailty. Reflect a moment, considerate reader! on our humble means, for an expedition of FOUR THOUSAND _miles_, compared with the ample means, rich and complete out-fit, letters of credit, and every thing deemed needful, given to _Captains Lewis_ and _Clarke_, under the orders of the government of the United States; and yet they several times came very near starving for the want of food, and of _fuel_, even in the _Oregon_ territory! In all books of voyages and travels, who ever heard of the utmost distress for want of wood, leaves, roots, coal, or turf to cook {46} with? Yet all through the dreary wilderness of Missouri, we were obliged to use the dung of buffaloes, or eat raw flesh. The reader will scarcely believe that this was the case even at mouth of the Oregon river. Clarke and Lewis had to buy wood of the Indians, who had hardly enough for themselves. To be deprived of solid food soon ends in death; but we were often deprived of the two elements out of four, _fire_ and _water_, and when on the Rocky mountains, of a _third_, I mean _earth_; for everything beneath our feet and around us was stone. We had, be sure, _air_ enough, and too much too, sometimes enough almost to blow our hair off. But to return to our dismal list of grievances. Almost every one of the company wished to go no farther; but they found themselves too feeble and exhausted to think of encountering the risk of a march on foot of three thousand five hundred miles through such a country as we came. We asked Captain Wyeth to let us have our muskets and a sufficiency of ammunition, which request he refused. Afterwards, he collected all the guns, and after selecting such as he and his companions preferred, he gave us the refuse; many of which were unfit for use. There were two tents belonging to the company, of which he gave us one; which we pitched about a quarter of a mile from his. George More expressed his determination of returning home, and asked for a horse, which after considerable difficulty he obtained. This was July 10th. The Captain likewise supplied his brother with a horse and a hundred dollars. On the 12th of July, Captain Wyeth, after moving his tent half a mile farther from ours, put himself under the command of Mr. Milton Sublet,[47] {47} brother of Captain William Sublet so often mentioned. This Captain Milton Sublet had about twenty men under his command, all trappers; so that hereafter as far as I know, it was Wyeth, Sublet and Co.; so that the reader will understand, that Dr. Jacob Wyeth, Palmer, Law, Batch, and myself concluded to retrace our steps to St. Louis in company with Captain William Sublet, while Captain Nathaniel J. Wyeth remained with Milton Sublet, and his twenty men. I have been unreasonably blamed for leaving my kinsman beyond the Rocky Mountains with only eleven of his company, and that too when we were within about four hundred miles of the mouth of the Columbia, _alias_ Oregon river, where it pours into the _boisterous_ Pacific Ocean, for such Lewis and Clarke found it to their cost. [47] Milton G. Sublette was a younger brother of William L.--for whom, see our volume xix, p. 221, note 55 (Gregg). He was a partner in the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, and an able trader; but disease in one of his legs obliged him to abandon the expedition of 1834. See Townsend's _Narrative_, _post_. The ailing leg was twice amputated, but to no avail, and he died at Fort Laramie, December 19, 1836.--ED. The spot where we now were, is a valley, between two mountains, about ten miles wide, so lofty that their tops are covered with snow, while it was warm and pleasant where we pitched our tent. This agreeable valley is called by the trappers _Pierre's-Hole_, as if it were a dismal residence; and was the most western point that I visited, being about, we conjectured, four hundred miles short of the mouth of the Oregon river, whence the territory derives its name, which Mr. Hall J. Kelly has described as another paradise! O! the magic of sounds and inflated words! Whether Captain Wyeth's expedition was wise or imprudent we are not prepared to say; but under existing circumstances, half of his company having left him, and among them his own brother, the surgeon of the expedition, we cannot see what better he could have done than to ally himself to an experienced band of hunters, as a step necessary {48} to his own preservation. He was three thousand and five hundred miles from the Atlantic Ocean, with only eleven men, and half his goods lost or expended, and no resource of supply short of St. Louis, nineteen hundred miles from them. Had not the Sublets been with them from that place through the wilderness of Missouri and La Platte, it is hardly probable they would have ever reached the west side of the Rocky Mountains. In passing judgment on this strange expedition, we must take in, beside facts, probabilities and casualties. On the 17th of July, Captain Wyeth and Captain Milton Sublet set out westward with their respective men to go to Salmon river to winter.[48] The former had eleven beside himself: that river they computed at two hundred miles distance. Wyeth accordingly purchased twenty-five horses from the Indians, who had a great number, and those very fine, and high-spirited. Indeed the Western region seems the native and congenial country for horses. They were, however, delayed till the next day. But when they were about moving, they perceived a drove of something, whether buffaloes or men they could not determine with the naked eye; but when aided by the glass, they recognized them for a body of the _Black-foot_ tribe of Indians, a powerful and warlike nation. As this movement was evidently hostile, Captain Milton Sublet dispatched two men to call on his brother, who was about eight miles off, for assistance; when Captain William Sublet ordered every man to get ready immediately. We had about five hundred friendly Indian warriors with us, who expressed their willingness to join in our defence. [48] The Salmon is entirely an Idaho River--one of the largest and most important affluents of the Lewis (or Snake). Its sources are in the central part of the state, nearly one hundred and fifty miles west of Wyeth's present position. It flows north, then directly west, and again makes a long northward sweep before losing itself in Lewis River. It is a mountainous stream, not navigable for any great distance. Lewis and Clark (1805) first saw Columbian waters upon the Lemhi--an eastern affluent of the Salmon. Later, Captain Clark made a reconnaissance some fifty miles down the Salmon, hoping to find the way thence to the Columbia; but he was turned back by the rocky cañons and rapids, and the expedition thenceforth took its way by land across the mountains. On the return journey (1806) a party of Lewis and Clark's men advanced to the lower Salmon in search of provisions. The river has since been of note in fur-trading and trapping annals.--ED. {49} As soon as we left Captain Wyeth we joined Captain Sublet, as he said that no white man should be there unless he was to be under his command; and his reason for it was that in case they had to fight the Indians, no one should flinch or sneak out of the battle. It seems that when the Black-foot Indians saw us moving in battle array, they appeared to hesitate; and at length they displayed a white flag as an ensign of peace; but Sublet knew their treacherous character. The chief of the friendly Flat-heads and Antoine[49] rode together, and concerted this savage arrangement; to ride up and accost them in a friendly manner; and when the Black-foot chief should take hold of the Flat-head chief's hand in token of friendship, then the other was to shoot him, which was instantly done! and at that moment the Flat-head chief pulled off the Black-foot's scarlet robe, and returned with the Captain to our party unhurt. As soon as the Black-foot Indians recovered from their surprise, they displayed a _red_ flag, and the battle began. This was _Joab_ with a vengeance,--_Art thou in health, my brother?_ [49] Antoine Godin was a half-breed whose father, of Iroquois origin, had been killed by Blackfeet upon a creek bearing his name. Antoine went out with Wyeth's company, that built Fort Hall in 1834; while in camp there, he was enticed across the river, and treacherously shot (see Townsend's _Narrative_, _post_).--ED. The Black-foot chief was a man of consequence in his nation. He not only wore on this occasion a robe of scarlet cloth, probably obtained from a Christian source, but was decorated with beads valued there at sixty dollars. The battle commenced on the Prairie. As soon as the firing began on both sides, the squaws belonging to the Black-foot forces, retreated about fifty yards into a small thicket of wood, and there threw up a ridge of earth by way of entrenchment, having first piled up a number of logs cob-fashion, to which the men at length fell back, and from {50} which they fired upon us, while some of their party with the women were occupied in deepening the trench. Shallow as it was, it afforded a considerable security to an Indian, who will often shoot a man from behind a tree near to its root, while the white man is looking to see his head pop out at man's height. This has taught the United States troops, to load their muskets while lying on their backs, and firing in an almost supine posture. When the Duke of Saxe-Weimer was in Cambridge,[50] he noticed this, to him, novel mode of firing, which he had never before seen; and this was in a volunteer company of militia.--I do not mean to say that the Indians fired only in a supine posture; when they had loaded they most commonly rose up and fired, and then down on the ground again to re-load.--In this action with the formidable Black-foot tribe, Captain Nathaniel J. Wyeth's party had no concern. He himself was in it a very short time, but retired from the contest doubtless for good reasons. After contesting the matter with the warlike tribe about six hours, Captain Sublet found it of little avail to fight them in this way. He therefore determined to charge them at once, which was accordingly done. He led, and ordered his men to follow him, and this proved effectual. Six beside himself first met the savages hand to hand; of these seven, four were wounded, and one killed. The Captain was wounded in his arm and shoulder-blade. The Indians did not, however, retreat entirely, so that we kept up a random fire until dark; the ball and the arrows were striking the trees after we could see the effects of one and of the other. There was something terrific to our men in their arrows. The idea of a barbed arrow sticking {51} in a man's body, as we had observed it in the deer and other animals, was appalling to us all, and it is no wonder that some of our men recoiled at it. They regarded a leaden bullet much less. We may judge from this the terror of the savages on being met the first time by fire arms,--a sort of thunder and lightning followed by death without seeing the fatal shot. [50] Carl Bernhard, duke of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach (1792-1862), visited America, and published _Travels in North America in the years 1825 and 1826_ (Philadelphia, 1828).--ED. In this battle with the Indians, not one of those who had belonged to Captain Wyeth's company received any injury. There were, however, seven white men of Sublet's company killed, and thirteen wounded. Twenty-five of our Indians were killed and thirty-five wounded. The next morning a number of us went back to the Indian fort, so called, where we found one dead man and two women, and also twenty-five dead horses, a proof that the Black-foot were brave men.[51] The number of them was uncertain. We calculated that they amounted to about three hundred. We guessed that the reason the three dead bodies were left at the entrenchment was, that they had not enough left to carry off their dead and wounded. This affair delayed Captain Wyeth three days, and Captain Sublet ten days. The names of those who left Captain Wyeth to return home, were Dr. Jacob Wyeth, John B. Wyeth, his cousin, William Nud, Theophilus Beach, R. L. Wakefield, Hamilton Law, George More, ---- Lane, and Walter Palmer.[52] The names of those who remained attached to Captain Wyeth, and who went on with him to Salmon river, are J. Woodman, Smith, G. Sargent, ---- Abbot, W. Breck, S. Burditt, ---- Ball, St. Clair, C. Tibbits, G. Trumbull, and ---- Whittier.[53] [51] According to Irving (_Rocky Mountains_, i, p. 85), who had conversed with several of the participants, the Blackfeet left ten dead in the fort, and reported their loss as twenty-six. Irving also makes the number of dead and wounded whites and allied Indians smaller than Wyeth's estimate.--ED. [52] Of this company William Nudd and George More were afterwards killed in the mountains; the others reached the settlements.--ED. [53] Three of this number--Solomon Howard Smith, John Ball, and Calvin Tibbitts--became prominent in Oregon life. Trumbull died at Fort Vancouver during the winter of 1832-33. Wiggin Abbot accompanied Nathaniel Wyeth on his return (1833) and aided in preparing for the latter's second expedition. He was later murdered by the Bannock--see Townsend's _Narrative_, _post_. Solomon H. Smith, from New Hampshire, was employed as school-teacher at Fort Vancouver, and afterwards settled in the Willamette Valley. Having married Celiast, daughter of a Clatsop chief, he made his home at Clatsop Plains with the missionaries, and there lived until his death. His son, Silas B. Smith, was an attorney at Warrenton, Oregon. John Ball came from Troy, New York, and remained in Oregon until the autumn of 1833, teaching at Fort Vancouver, and raising grain on the Willamette. After returning to the United States, he contributed an article on the geology and geography of the region, through which he had travelled, to _Silliman's Journal_, xxviii, pp. 1-16. Ball left Troy in 1836, and removed to Grand Rapids, Michigan. See his letter in Montana Historical Society _Collections_, i, (1876), pp. 111, 112. Calvin Tibbitts was a stone-cutter from Maine. He settled at Chemyway and later removed to Clatsop Plains, where he lived with a native wife, and aided missionary enterprise. He made two successful journeys to California for cattle, and later was the judge of Clatsop County.--ED. When they had gone three days journey from us, {52} as they were riding securely in the middle of the afternoon, about thirty of the Black-foot Indians, who lay in ambush about twenty yards from them, suddenly sprang up and fired. The surprise occasioned the horses to wheel about, which threw off George More, and mortally wounded one of the men, Alfred K. Stevens.[54] As the Indians knew that More could not get away from them, they passed him, and about twenty Indians were coming up the hill where they were. Eight or ten Indians followed up while only five trappers had gained the hill. They were considering how to save George More, when one of them shot him through the head, which was a better fate than if they had taken him alive, as they would have tortured him to death. [54] Alfred K. Stephens had participated in the Santa Fé trade, and had in the summer of 1831 led a party of twenty-one men in a free trapping excursion along the Laramie River. Discouraged by ill success, he made an agreement with Fitzpatrick to serve under the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. After this attack in Jackson's Hole, Stephens returned to Pierre's Hole, and rejoined Sublette, only to fall victim to his wound, dying July 30, 1832. It would appear from John Wyeth's narrative at this point, that he remained with William Sublette at Pierre's Hole, while More and those more eager to set forth had gone on under the leadership of Alfred Stephens.--ED. We have said that Captain Wyeth and the few who had concluded to go on with him, were ready to begin their march for Salmon river. On this occasion Captain Milton Sublet escorted them about one hundred miles, so as to protect them from the enraged Black-feet, and then left them to take care of themselves for the winter; and this is the last tidings we have had of Captain Nathaniel J. Wyeth, and his reduced band of adventurers.[55] If we have been rightly informed, their chief hope was residing on a pleasant river where there was plenty of salmon, and probably elk and deer, and water-fowl; and we hope fuel, for to our surprise, we learnt that wood for firing was among their great wants. I have since been well-informed that in the valley of Oregon, so much extolled for its fertility and pleasantness, wood to cook with is one among their scarcest and very dear articles of necessity. From all accounts, except those given {53} to the public by Mr. Kelly, there is not a district at the mouth of any large river more unproductive than that of the _Columbia_, and it seems that this is pretty much the case from the tide water of that river to where it empties into the ocean. [55] Nathaniel Wyeth crossed to the Columbia, arriving at the Hudson's Bay Company post of Walla Walla, October 14, and at Fort Vancouver later in the same month. Here the remainder of his men left his service.--ED. The Flat-head Indians are a brave and we had reason to believe a sincere people. We had many instances of their honesty and humanity. They do not lie, steal, nor rob any one, unless when driven too near to starvation; and then any man black, white, or red will seize any thing to save himself from an agonizing death. The Flat-heads were well dressed. They wore buck-skin frocks and pantaloons, and moccasins, with seldom any thing on their heads. They draw a piece of fresh buffalo hide on their feet, and at night sleep with their feet not far from the fire, and in the morning find their shoes sitting as snug to their feet as if they had been measured by the first shoe-maker in Boston. It is probable that no people have so little shoe-pinching as these savages. I never heard any one complain of corns, or kibed-heels, severe as the weather is in winter. The women wear moccasins also, but whether made in the same extempore method as those of the men, I know not. I suspect they must experience some shoe-pinching. They wear a petticoat, and a frock of some sort of leather, according to fancy, but all decent and comfortable. In rainy weather, or when very cold, they throw a buffalo-skin over their shoulders, with the fur inside. They have no stationary wigwams; but have a sort of tent, which they fix down or remove with facility. In Major Long's book may be seen an engraved representation of them.[56] Their mode of cooking is by roasting and boiling. They {54} will pick a goose, or a brant, and run a stick through its body and so roast it, without taking out its entrails. They are, according to our notions, very nasty cooks. [56] The reference is to James's _Long's Expedition_, reprinted as volumes xiv-xvii of our series. The illustration here referred to is in our volume xvi, p. 107.--ED. I know not what to say of their religion. I saw nothing like images, or any objects of worship whatever, and yet they appeared to keep a sabbath; for there is a day on which they do not hunt nor gamble, but sit moping all day and look like fools. There certainly appeared among them an honor, or conscience, and sense of justice. They would do what they promised, and return our strayed horses, and lost articles. Now and then, but rarely, we found a pilferer, but not oftener than among the frontier white people. The Indians of all tribes are disposed to give you something to eat. It is a fact that we never found an Indian of any tribe disposed to treat us with that degree of inhospitality that we experienced in crossing the Alleghany Mountains, in the State of Pennsylvania. The Black-foot tribe are the tallest and stoutest men of any we have seen, nearly or quite six feet in stature, and of a lighter complexion than the rest. The Indian warriors carry muskets, bows, and arrows, the last in a quiver. The bows are made of walnut, about three feet long, and the string of the sinews of the buffalo, all calculated for great elasticity, and will reach an object at a surprising distance. It was to us a much more terrific weapon of war than a musket. We had one man wounded in the thigh by an arrow; he was obliged to ford a river in his hasty retreat, and probably took a chill, which occasioned a mortification, of {55} which he died. The arrows are headed with flint as sharp as broken glass; the other end of the arrow is furnished with an eagle's feather to steady its flight. Some of these aboriginals, as we learn from Lewis, Clarke, and Major Long, especially the last, have shields or targets; some so long as to reach from the head to the ancle. Now the question is how came our North American Indians with bows and arrows? It is not likely that they invented them, seeing they so exactly resemble the bows and arrows of the old world, the Greeks and Romans. They are the same weapon to a feather. This is a fresh proof that our savage tribes of this continent emigrated from the old one; and I have learned from a friend to whom I am indebted for several ideas, which no one could suppose to have originated with myself, that the Indian's bow goes a great way to settle a disputed point respecting what part of the old world the ancestors of our Indians came from,--whether Asia or Europe. Now the Asiatic bow and our Indian bow are of a different form. The first has a straight piece in the middle, like the crossbow, being such an one as is commonly depicted in the hands of Cupid; whereas our Indian bow is a section of a circle, while the Persian or Asiatic bow has two wings extending from a straight piece in the middle. Hence we have reason to conclude that the first comers from the old world to the new, came not from those regions renowned for their cultivation of the arts and sciences. The idea that our North American Indians came over from Scythia, that is, the northern part, so called, of Europe and Asia, whether it is correct to call them Scythians, Tartars, or Russians, I leave others to determine. We {56} have many evidences that our Northern Indians have a striking resemblance in countenance, color, and person to the most northern tribes of Tartars, who inhabit Siberia, or Asiatic Russia. The Black-foot Indians who inhabit small rivers that empty into the Missouri, resemble in mode of living, manners, and character, the Calmuc Tartars. Both fight on horseback, both are very brave, and both inured to what we should consider a very hard life as it regards food. Both avoid as much as they can stationary dwellings, and use tents made with skins. On this subject we ought not to omit mentioning that the Indians on all sides of the Rocky mountains have several customs both among men and the _women_, which might lead some to conclude that our Northern and Western Indians descended from the Israelites; and this similarity is certainly very remarkable; yet there is one very strong fact against that hypothesis, namely, there is not the least trace amongst our Indians of the _eight-day rite_ of the Jewish males, which sore, and, to us, strange ceremony would hardly have been forgotten, had it been practiced by our Indians. If our idea be well-founded on this subject, the custom could have originated only in warm and redundant climates, so that had Moses marched first from the shores of the Baltic, as did the Goths, instead of the shores of the Red sea, the Jews never would have been subjected to the operation of circumcision. After all, it is very likely that the Persians came from a different stock from that which peopled the Western and Northern parts of America,--I mean from the warmer regions of Asia. They seem possessed of more delicate marks of person and of mind {57} than the fighting savages of the North. There appears to be a strong line of separation between them, as far as our information goes. To return to our own story. After the battle at Pierre's Valley, I had an opportunity of seeing a specimen of Indian surgery in treating a wound. An Indian squaw first sucked the wound perfectly dry, so that it appeared white as chalk; and then she bound it up with a piece of dry buck-skin as soft as woollen cloth, and by this treatment the wound began to heal, and soon closed up, and the part became sound again. The sucking of it so effectually may have been from an apprehension of a poisoned arrow. But who taught the savage Indian that a person may take poison into his mouth without any risk, as the poison of a rattlesnake without harm, provided there be no scratch or wound in the mouth, so as to admit it into the blood? Three of the men that left Captain Wyeth when I did, enlisted with Captain Sublet to follow the trapping business for the period of one year, namely, Wakefield, Nud, and Lane, leaving Dr. Jacob Wyeth, H. Law, T. Beach, W. Palmer, and myself. We accordingly set out on the twenty-eighth day of July, 1832, with Captain William Sublet, for home; and thus ended all my fine prospects and flattering expectations of acquiring fortune, independence, and ease, and all my hopes that the time had now come in the order of Providence, when that uncultivated tract, denominated the _Oregon Territory_, was to be changed into a fruitful field, and the haunt of savages and wild beasts made the happy abode of refined and dignified man.--Mr. Hall J. Kelly published about two {58} years since a most inflated and extravagant account of that western tract which extends from the Rocky Mountains to the shore of the Pacific Ocean.[57] He says of it that no portion of the globe presents a more fruitful soil, or a milder climate, or equal facilities for carrying into effect the great purposes of a free and enlightened nation;--that a country so full of those natural means which best contribute to the comforts and conveniences of life, is worthy the occupancy of a people disposed to support a free representative government, and to establish civil, scientific, and religious institutions,--and all this and much more to the same effect after Lewis and Clarke's history of their expedition had been published, and very generally read;[58] yet this extravagant and fallacious account of the Oregon was read and believed by some people not destitute of a general information of things, nor unused to reading; but there were circles of people, chiefly among young farmers and journeymen mechanics, who were so thoroughly imbued with these extravagant notions of making a fortune by only going over land to the other side of the globe, to the Pacific Ocean, that a person who expressed a doubt of it was in danger of being either affronted, or, at least, accused of being moved by envious feelings. After a score of people had been enlisted in this Oregon expedition, they met together to feed and to magnify each other's hopes and visionary notions, which were wrought up to a high degree of extravagance, so that it was hardly safe to advise or give an opinion adverse to the scheme. When young people are so affected, it is in vain to reason with them; and when such sanguine persons are determined to fight, or to marry, it is dangerous to {59} attempt to part them; and when they have their own way and get their belly full of fight, and of matrimony, there comes a time of cool reflection. The first stage of our reflection began at St. Louis, when we parted with our amphibious wagons, in which we all more or less took a pride. Every one there praised the ingenuity of the contrivance and construction of them for roads and rivers such as at Cambridge, and other places near to Boston; but we were assured at St. Louis, that they were by no means calculated for our far distant journey. We were reminded that Lewis and Clarke carried canoes almost to the foot of the Rocky Mountains, by the route of Missouri river, but were obliged to leave them there, and ascend mountains so very steep, that sometimes their loaded horses slipped and rolled over and over, down into lower ground sixty or seventy feet. This may serve to show, among other things, how ill-informed Captain Wyeth and his company were of the true condition of the country through which they had to pass. We expected to support ourselves with game by our firearms, and therefore powder and shot were the articles we took the most care to be provided with. Nor were we followers undeceived before we were informed at St. Louis, that it would be necessary to take oxen and sheep to be slaughtered on the route for our support. We also found it advisable to sell at that place the large number of axes, great and small, with which we had encumbered our wagons. All these occurrences, following close after one another, operated to damp our ardor; and it was this probably that operated so powerfully on W. Bell, Livermore, and Griswold, that they _cut_ {60} and ran away before we entered upon the difficulties and hardships of our expedition. [57] Referring to Kelley's _Geographical Sketch of that part of North America called Oregon_ (Boston, 1830). Subsequent information has justified most of Kelley's statements, here derided by Wyeth.--ED. [58] What is known as the Biddle version of the Lewis and Clark journals was issued at Philadelphia in 1814. For the history of this version consult Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_ (New York, 1904-05), i, introduction.--ED. Nothing of importance occurred for the first ten days after we left Pierre's Valley. Our huntsmen were abroad in pursuit of buffaloes, when they were alarmed at the sight of a large body of the Black-foot tribe who had been watching our movements. Captain Sublet was not a little alarmed, for he had with him his whole stock of furs, very large in quantity and valuable in quality, which we were told would be worth eighty thousand dollars in St. Louis. But all the world exaggerates; nor even were we of the Oregon expedition entirely free from it, although not to be compared with Hall Jackson Kelly, who never stops short of superlatives, if we may judge by his publications. But he says, by way of apology, that it is needful that the friends of the contemplated Oregon colony should possess a little of the active and vital principle of enthusiasm, that shields against disappointments, and against the presumptious opinions and insults of others. Now the fact is, the sanguine and enthusiastic Mr. Kelly was never in that country, nor nearer to it than Boston; and his zeal in the colonization of that dreary territory led him to believe what he wished, and to disbelieve every thing adverse to his favorite enterprise. He had a right to enjoy his opinion; but when he took unweary pains to make ignorant people believe as he did, he was the remote cause of much misery and lasting regret in more than half the adventurers from Cambridge. If the blind lead the blind, we know what will be the consequence. But our business is not to censure from a disposition to find fault, {61} but to warn others from falling into the errors and difficulties which attended me and my companions, and chiefly through the misinformation of persons who never saw the country. Each man, when he left St. Louis, was allowed to carry but ten pounds' weight of his own private baggage, and not every one to encumber his march with whatever he chose; and we adhered to that order on our return. We were ten days in passing over the Rocky Mountains in going, and nine in returning; and I repeat it as my fixed opinion, that we never should have reached the western foot of the mountains had we not been under the guard and guidance of Captain Sublet, and his experienced company. He was acquainted with the best way, and the best mode of travelling. He knew the Indian chiefs and they knew him, and each confided in the other. An anecdote will illustrate this. There was a hunters' fort or temporary place of defence occupied by about a dozen white beaver-trappers from St. Louis, where were deposited furs, and goods belonging to the troop of trappers, and that to a considerable amount. One day this small garrison was alarmed at the sight of about six hundred warriors approaching on horseback. Upon this they barred their gate, and closed every door and window against the Indians, but with faint hopes of repelling such a powerful host of well-armed savages; for they had no other idea but that they had come for their destruction. But when the Indians saw them shutting themselves up, they displayed the white flag, and made signs to the white men to open their fort, for they came to trade and not to fight. And the little garrison thought it better to trust to Indian honor {62} than risk savage slaughter or captivity; and accordingly they unbarred their doors and let the chiefs in with every expression of cordiality and confidence. After remaining nine days, they departed in peace. And what ought to be recorded to their honor, the white people did not miss a single article, although axes, and utensils, and many other things were lying about, desirable to Indians. The savages did not consider, as white men too often do,--that "_might is right_." When I expressed my surprise at it, one of the white trappers replied, "Why, the word of these trading Indians is _as good as the Bible_." We were surprised to find the Indians in the vicinity of the mountains, and all round Pierre's Valley, and the Black-foot tribe, and the Shoshonees, or Snake-tribe, so well provided with muskets, powder and ball, woollen cloth, and many other articles, until we were informed that Mr. Mackenzie, an established and wealthy Indian trader, had long supplied them with every article they desired. Had the Captain of our band been acquainted with this fact, and also been informed of the trading connexion between the Indians and the two brothers, William and Milton Sublet, before he started from home, we should have avoided a great deal of trouble, and he escaped a great deal of expense, and for aught I know, suffering; for the last we heard of him, he was to pass the winter at the Salmon river. From all I could learn, St. Louis was the depot, or headquarters of the commerce with the Indians. Mackenzie, I was informed has a steam-boat called the Yellow-stone, by which he keeps up a trade with the natives inhabiting the region watered by {63} the river of that name. The _Yellow-stone_ is a noble river, being eight hundred and thirty-seven miles from the point where Captain Clarke reached it to the Missouri, and is so far navigable for batteaux; and eight hundred and fifty feet wide at its confluence with the river just named. By all accounts, the superiority of the Yellow-stone river over the Columbia, or Oregon, for a settlement of New-England adventurers, in point of fertility, climate, and pleasantness, is such as to impress one with regret that ever we extended our views beyond it; for the lamentable fact is, that the trade with the Indians all round the Rocky Mountains, and beyond it to the Oregon territory and Columbia river, is actually forestalled, or pre-occupied by wealthy, established, and experienced traders residing at, or near St. Louis, while we are more than twelve hundred miles in their rear, and very far behind them in time. Besides all these considerations, we may add another of great importance; I mean the fact, that Mackenzie's and Sublet's white trappers, or hunters, are a sort of half Indians in their manners and habits, and could assimilate with them, while we are strangers to the savages, and they to us, with all the dislikes natural to both sides. Captain Sublet, who appears to be a worthy character, and of sound judgment, perceived this, and must have seen, at once, that he had nothing to fear from us, and therefore he paid us great attention, conciliated and made use of us, and while he aided us, he benefited his own concern, and all without the least spice of jealousy, well knowing the impossibility, under existing circumstances, that we could supplant him in the affection of the red men of Missouri and Oregon. {64} The white traders, and the Indians have, if we may so term it, an annual _Fair_, that has been found by experience profitable to both sides.[59] It is true the white trader barters a tawdry bauble of a few cents' value, for a skin worth fifty of it. And so have we in our India shawls, and, a few years since, in Leghorn hats, in which we were taxed as high as the white merchant taxes the equally silly Indian. Coffee was sold at two dollars a pound, and so was tobacco. Indeed some of us gave that price to Mr. Nathaniel J. Wyeth for the latter article, a luxury more coveted by men in our situation, anxious and fatigued as we were, than whisky or brandy. This was the case under Lewis and Clarke. When deprived of tobacco, they cut up the old handles of tomahawks, which had been used as pipes, and chewed the wood for the sake of its smell and smack. It is not a singular case. It has been experienced among sailors at sea. They have pined more for the lulling effects of that nauseous weed than for ardent spirits; and it has been known that men will mutiny sooner when deprived of their tobacco, than when deprived of their usual food and rum. There was no small grumbling on being obliged to buy tobacco out of what we thought common stock, at the rate above mentioned, being, as we thought, all members of a commonwealth. [59] This was the well-known mountain rendezvous instituted to take the place of established forts, by General Ashley of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Each year a caravan went up from St. Louis, carrying articles for trade, while parties of trappers and their Indian allies gathered at the appointed place. The first of these gatherings was in 1824; the institution flourished only for about a decade.--ED. The following may serve to show the knowledge or instinct of horses. When marching on our return home in the troop of Captain Sublet, not far from the eastern declivity of the Rocky Mountains, we were met by a large body of Indians on horseback. Sublet generally kept seven videts about two miles ahead {65} of his main body. The horses of this advance guard suddenly refused to go on, and turned round, and appeared alarmed, but the riders knew not the cause of it. Captain Sublet rode up, and said, that he knew by the behaviour of the horses that there was an enemy ahead. He said there was a valley several miles off where he apprehended we might be attacked. He therefore ordered every man to examine his arms, and be ready for action. After riding a few miles we discovered a large moving body of a living something. Some of us thought it was a drove of buffaloes; but the Captain said no, because they were of different colors, whereas bisons, or buffaloes appear all of one color. After viewing them through his glass, he said they were a body of the Black-foot tribe, who had on their war dresses, with their faces painted, bare heads, and other signs of hostility. Their appearance was very singular, and, to some of us, terrible. There was a pretty fresh breeze of wind, so as to blow the long manes and tails of their horses out straight. Nor was this all: the wind had the same effect on the long black hair of the warriors, which gave them not only a grotesque but a terrific appearance. Added to all this, they kept up a most horrid yell or war-hoop. They rode up and completely surrounded us; and then all was silent. Captain Sublet rode up to the chief, and expressed his hope that all was peace. The savage replied that there should be peace on their part, on condition that Sublet should give them _twenty-five pounds of tobacco_, which was soon complied with, when the Indian army remounted their horses, and rode off at full speed as they came on: and we {66} pushed off with like speed, lest they should repent their bargain and return upon us to mend it. Who will say that this gallant body of cavalry were not wiser than the common run of white soldiers, to make peace for a _quid_? and thereby save their horses and their own skins? Out of what book did this corps of savage dragoons learn that discretion was the better part of valor?--We answer, From out of that book of Nature which taught the videts' horses that an enemy was in the wind. The horse is the dumbest of all beasts. He is silent under torture. He never groans but once, and that is his _last_. Did they roar like bulls, or squeal like hogs, they would be useless in an army. That noble animal suffers from man a shameful weight of cruel usage in town and country. The wild horses are a great curiosity. They traverse the country, and stroll about in droves from a dozen to twenty or thirty; and always appear to have a leader, like a gander to a flock of geese. When our own horses were feeding fettered around our encampments, the wild horses would come down to them, and seem to examine them, as if counting them; and would sometimes come quite up to them if we kept out of sight; but when they discovered us, they would one and all give a jump off and fly like the wind. There is a method of catching a wild horse, that may appear to many "a traveller's story." It is called _creasing_ a horse. The meaning of the term is unknown to me.[60] It consists in shooting a {67} horse in the neck with a single ball so as to graze his neck bone, and not to cut the pith of it. This stuns the horse and he falls to the ground, but he recovers again, and is as well as ever, all but a little soreness in the neck, which soon gets well. But in his short state of stupefaction, the hunter runs up, and twists a noose around the skin of his nose, and then secures him with a thong of buffalo-hide. I do not give it merely as a story related; but I believe it, however improbable it may appear, because I saw it done. I saw an admirable marksman, young Andrew Sublet,[61] fire at a fine horse, and after he fell, treat him in the way I have mentioned; and he brought the horse into camp, and it turned out to be a very fine one. The marvel of the story is, that the dextrous marksman shall shoot so precisely as only to graze the vital part; and yet those who know these matters better than I do, say, that they conceive it possible. [60] _Creasing_ may be derived from _craze_, or the French _ecraser_, or the Teutonic _krossa_, or the English _crush_, to bruise, overwhelm, or subdue without killing. It may be Spanish; for it is said that the modern South Americans practice the same device. It would seem as if it jarred the vertebræ, or bony channel of the neck, without cutting any important vessel or nerve. But let the fact be established before we reason upon it.--WYETH. [61] Andrew Sublette, younger brother of William and Milton, was born in Kentucky, but early removed to the frontier. After the discovery of gold he emigrated to California, settling finally near Los Angeles, where he died from wounds received in an encounter with grizzly bears.--ED. After we had made peace with the large body of the Black-foot Indians, for, as we may say, a _quid_ of tobacco, nothing occurred worth relating until we arrived at the town of Independence, being the first white settlement in our way homewards. I would, however, here remark, that the warlike body just mentioned, though of the fierce Black-foot tribe, hunted and fought independently of that troop with which we had a battle in the Rocky Mountains; and were most probably ignorant of that affair, in which a chief was treacherously shot by one Antoine, who was half Indian and half French, when bearing a white flag, and with which {68} nefarious deed I believe Captain Sublet had no concern. But of all this I cannot speak with certainty, as I myself was half a mile distant, when the Black-foot chief was shot, and his scarlet robe torn off of him by the mongrel Indian, as a trophy instead of his scalp; for the Indians returned their fire so promptly, and continued fighting so long, even after dark, that there was no time nor opportunity of his securing that evidence of his savage blood and mode of warfare. When we arrived at the town of Independence, Dr. Jacob Wyeth, Palmer, Styles, and myself bought a canoe, being tired of travelling by land, and impatient to get on, and this was the last of my money except a single six-cent piece. A thick fog prevented our early departure, as it would be dangerous to proceed on account of the snags and sawyers in the river. To pass away the tedious time, I strolled out around the town, and lost my direct way back. At length the fog cleared off, and after my companions had waited for me an hour, they pushed off and left me behind! They, be sure, left word that they would wait for me at the next town, Boonsville,[62] twenty miles' distance. I hurried, however, as fast I could five miles down the banks of the river; when, finding that I could not overtake them, and being fatigued by running, I gave over the chase in despair. I was sadly perplexed, and vexed, at what I conceived worse than savage usage. In this state of mind, I saw a small skiff, with a pair of oars, when an heroic idea came into my half-crazed brain, and feeling my absolute necessities, I acted like certain ancient and some modern heroes, and jumped into the boat, cast off her painter, and pulled away for dear life down the stream. {69} The owner of the boat discovered me when not much more than a quarter of a mile on my way. He and another man got into a canoe and rowed after me, and gained upon me; on perceiving which, I laid out all my strength, and although two to one, I distanced them, and they soon saw they could not overtake me. When I started it was twelve o'clock, and I got to the next town, Boonsville, the sun half an hour high,--the distance about twenty miles. When my skiff struck the shore my pursuers were about twenty rods behind me. I ran into the first barn of a tavern I could reach. They soon raised the neighbors, and placed a watch around the barn, one side of which opened into a cornfield. In searching for me they more than once trod over me, but the thickness of the hay prevented them from feeling me. I knew the severe effects of their laws, by which those who were too poor to pay the fine were to atone for their poverty by stripes, which were reckoned to be worth a dollar a stripe in that cheap country; and hence I lay snug in the hay two nights and one day without any thing to eat. Hunger at length forced me from my hiding-place, when I went into the tavern, where I found Dr. Jacob Wyeth, Walter Palmer, and Styles. I told the landlord I was starving for want of food, and he gave me supper; and then I went back into the barn again, where I slept that night. [62] Boonville was the successor of Franklin as the metropolis of central Missouri. The site was first settled by the Cole family in 1810, laid out as a town in 1817, and made the seat of Cooper County upon the latter's erection in 1818. Its period of greatest prosperity was before the building of the railroad (1830-40), when it was the shipping point for northern Arkansas and southwest Missouri. It had a population in 1900 of 4,377.--ED. The next morning I went into the tavern again, and there I found my pursuers, and they found their prisoner, whom they soon put under the custody of two constables, who ordered me breakfast, which having eaten with a good relish, I watched my opportunity, while they were standing thick {70} around the bar, and crept unobserved out of the back-door into the extensive cornfield, and thence into the barn window out of which they threw manure, and regained my snug hiding-hole, where I remained one day and one night more. I now and then could see the constables and their _posse_ prowling about the barn, through a crevice in the boards. In the midst of my fears, I was amused with the solemn, and concernful phizes of the two constables, and one or two others. In the morning very early, I ventured out again, and ran down to the river; and there spying a boat, and feeling heroic, I jumped into her and pushed across the river, and landed on the opposite bank, so as to elude the pursuit of the authorities, who I knew would be after me on the right bank of the river, while I marched on the left. When I came to the ferry near St. Louis, I had only a six-cent piece, which the ferryman took for his full fare which was twelve cents, and so I got safe to St. Louis, but with scarcely clothing enough for decency, not to mention comfort: and yet I kept up a good heart, and never once despaired. My companions arrived a day before me; they on Thursday, I on Friday, at four o'clock in the afternoon; they in the steam-boat, like gentlemen, while I, the youngest in the whole Oregon company, like a runaway. But I do not regret the difference, seeing I have a story worth telling, and worth hearing. Where to get a lodging that night I did not know, nor where to obtain a morsel of bread. I went up to a large tavern, and asked permission of the keeper to lodge in his barn that night, but he sternly refused. I then went to the other tavern, and made the like request, when the landlord {71} granted it, saying that he never refused a man sleeping in his barn who was too poor to pay for a lodging in his house. I wish I knew his name. I turned in and had a very good night's rest. Should any one enquire how I came to leave my old companions, and they me, I need only say that I had a very serious quarrel with one of them, even to blows; and with that one too who ought to have been the last to treat me with neglect; "and further the deponent saith not." The next morning I went round in search of work, but no one seemed disposed to hire me; nor do I much wonder at it; for in truth I was so ragged and dirty, that I had nothing to recommend me; and I suffered more depression of spirits during the following six days of my sojourn at St. Louis, than in any part of my route. The steam-boats refused me and Dr. Wyeth started off for New Orleans before I could see him. Palmer let himself by the month on board a steam-boat running between St. Louis and Independence, while I was left alone at the former place six days without employ, victuals, or decent clothing. I could not bear to go to people's doors to beg; but I went on board steam-boats and begged for food. I was such a picture of wretchedness that I did not wonder they refused to hire me. My dress was buck-skin moccasins, and pantaloons; the remains of a shirt I put on in the Rocky Mountains, the remnants of a kersey waistcoat which I had worn ever since I left Cambridge, and a hat I had worn all the time from Boston, but without any coat whatever, or socks, or stockings; and to add to the wretchedness of my appearance, I was very dirty, and I could not help it. My looks drew the attention of a great many spectators. I thought {72} very hard of it then, but I have since reflected, and must say that when people saw a strong young man of eighteen in high health, and yet so miserable in appearance, it was natural in them to conclude that he must be some criminal escaped from justice, or some vagabond suffering under the just effects of his own crimes. At length, wearied out by my ill fortune, I plucked up courage, and went to the Constitution steam-boat, Captain Tufts, of Charlestown, near Boston, and told him my name and family; and detailed to him my sufferings, and said that he _must_ give me a passage, and I would work for it. To my great joy he consented, and he gave me shirt, pantaloons, &c.; and I acted at a _fireman_, or one who feeds the fire with pine wood under the steam-boilers. I forbear narrating the particulars of my sufferings for want of food during the six days I tarried at St. Louis. Suffice it to say, that I was in a condition of starvation, and all owing to my wretched appearance. When I at times went on board the steam-boats, I was glad to scrape up any thing after the sailors and firemen had done eating. At length I obtained employ in the steam-boat Constitution, and a passage to New-Orleans, on the condition of acting as one of the firemen, there being twelve in all, with five men as sailors, and two hundred and forty passengers, party emigrants, but chiefly men belonging to the settlements on the Mississippi, going down to Natchez, and to New-Orleans to work. We tarried one night at the Natchez; but soon after we left it the _cholera_ broke out among the passengers, eighty of whom died before we reached New-Orleans, and two of our own firemen. A most shocking scene followed. {73} I felt discouraged. My miseries seemed endless. After trying day after day in vain to get a passage in a steam-boat, I was made happy in procuring one, though I paid for it, by working as a fireman, the hardest and most disagreeable occupation on board; still I was contented, as I had victuals enough to eat; and yet, after all, I saw men perishing every minute about me, and thrown into the river like so many dead hogs. It is an unexaggerated fact that I witnessed more misery in the space of eight months than most old men experience in a long life. On arriving at New-Orleans, Captain Tufts sent off every man of the passengers, leaving those only who belonged to the boat. He gave me shirts and other clothing, and offered me twenty dollars a month, if I would go back to St. Louis with him. I remained on board about a week; and so desirous was I to get home, that I preferred going ashore, although I knew that the yellow fever and black vomit, as well as cholera were committing great havoc in the city. The shops, stores, taverns, and even the _gambling-houses_, were shut up, and people were dying in-doors, and out of doors, much faster than they could be buried. More white people were seized with it than black; but when the latter were attacked, more died than the former. The negroes sunk under the disorder at once. When a negro gets very sick, he loses all his spirits, and refuses all remedies. He wishes to die, and it is no wonder, if he believes that he shall go into a pleasant country where there are no white men or women. I soon got full employ as a grave-digger, at two dollars a day, and could have got twice that sum had I been informed of the true state of things. In {74} the first three days we dug a separate grave for each person; but we soon found that we could not clear the hearses and carts. I counted eighty-seven dead bodies uninterred on the ground. Yet where I worked, was only one of the three grave-yards belonging to the city, and the other two were larger. We therefore began on a new plan. There were twenty-five of us grave-diggers. We dug a trench fifty-seven feet long, eight feet wide, and four feet deep, and laid them as compactly as we could, and filled up the vacant spaces with children. It was an awful piece of business. In this large trench we buried about, perhaps, three hundred; and this business we carried on about a month. During this time, you might traverse the streets of New-Orleans, without meeting a single person, except those belonging to the hearses, and carts, loaded with the dead. Men were picked up in the morning who died after dark before they could reach their own houses. If you ask me if they died with yellow fever, or cholera, I must answer that I cannot tell. Some said the one, and some the other. Every thing was confusion. If a negro was sent by his master to a carpenter, for what they called a coffin, which was only a rough board box, he was commonly robbed of it before he got home. I myself saw an assault of this kind, when the poor black slave was knocked down and the rude coffin taken from him. New-Orleans is a dreadful place in the eyes of a New-England man. They keep Sunday as we in Boston keep the 4th of July, or any other day of merriment and frolic. It is also a training day every other Sunday for their military companies. I was in part witness to a shocking sight at the marine hospital, where had been many patients {75} with the yellow fever. When the doctors, and those who had the care of that establishment had deserted the house, between twenty-five and thirty dead bodies were left in it; and these were so offensive from putrefaction, that when the city corporation heard of it, they ordered the house, together with the bodies to be burnt up; but this was not strictly complied with. A number of negro slaves were employed to remove the bodies, which being covered with wood and other combustibles, were all consumed together. At length I was attacked myself with symptoms of the yellow fever,--violent pain in my head, back, and stomach. I lived at that time in the family of a Frenchman, who, among his various occupations, pretended to skill in physic. He fed me on castor oil. I took in one day four wineglasses of it, which required as much resolution as I was master of: but my doctor assured me that he had repeatedly scared away the yellow fever at the beginning of it, by large and often repeated doses of that medicine. Its operation was not one way, but every way. I thought I should have no insides left to go home with. Yet it is a fact, and I record it with pleasure, that it carried off all my dreadful symptoms, and in a very few days, I had nothing to complain of but weakness, which a good appetite soon cured. I therefore recommend a man in the first stage of yellow fever to take down a gill of castor oil, made as hot as he can swallow it; and repeat the dose in eight hours. I remained nine weeks in New-Orleans, a city so unlike Boston, in point of neatness, order, and good government, that I do not wonder at its character for unhealthiness. Stagnant water remains in the streets as {76} green as grass, with a steam rising out of it that may be smelt at the distance of half a mile. Besides this, their population is so mixed, that they appear running against each other in the streets, every one having a different object and a different complexion. In one thing they seem to be agreed, and to concur in the same object, namely, _gaming_. In that delirous pursuit, they all speak the same language, and appear to run down the same road to ruin. I am glad that it is in my power to support what I have said respecting the Marine Hospital, by the following public testimony, published by authority, taken from one of their newspapers. "NEW-ORLEANS.--The following report from a committee appointed to examine one of the hospitals, will account, in some degree, for the unprecedented mortality which has afflicted New-Orleans. The report is addressed to the mayor. "The undersigned, standing committee named by the city council during the prevalence of the epidemic now desolating the city, have the honor to report, that, in consequence of information given by sundry respectable persons, relative to the condition of the hospital kept by Dr. M'Farlane, they repaired to-day, at half-past one o'clock, to said hospital; that in all the apartments they found the most disgusting filth; that all the night _vessels_ were full, and that the patients have all declared that for a long time they had received no kind of succour; that in many of the apartments of the building they found corpses, several of which had been a number of days in putrefaction; that thence they repaired to a chamber adjoining the kitchen, where they found the body of a negro, which had been a long time dead, in a most offensive state. They finally went to another apartment opposite the kitchen, {77} which was equally filthy with the other rooms, and that they there found many corpses of persons a long time dead; that in a bed, between others, they found a man dying, stretched upon the body of a man many days dead. "Finally, they declare that it is impossible for one to form an idea of what they have witnessed, without he had himself seen it; that it is indispensably necessary for the patients to evacuate this hospital, and above all, to watch lest the corpses in a state of putrefaction occasion pestilence in that quarter, and perhaps in the whole city. "_November 7._ The standing committee has the honor to present the following additional report. "In one of the apartments where were many living and dead bodies, they found under a bed a dead body partly eaten, whose belly and entrails lay upon the floor. It exhaled a most pestiferous odor. In a little closet upon the gallery there were two dead bodies, one of which lay flat upon the floor, and the other had his feet upon the floor and his back upon the bed forming a curve; the belly prodigiously swelled and the thighs green. Under a shed in the yard was the dead body of a negro, off which a fowl was picking worms. The number of corpses amounted to twelve or fourteen. "Signed, E. A. CANNON, _Chairman_. FELIX LABATUT, _Alderman_, _Second Ward_. CHARLES LEE, _Alderman_, _First Ward_." I took passage in the ship Henry Thomson, Captain Williams, and arrived in Boston, January 2d, 1833, after an absence of ten months, having experienced in that time a variety of hardships. {78} CONCLUDING REFLECTIONS The lesson to be collected from this short history is the great danger in _making haste to be rich_, instead of relying upon patient industry, which never fails to give a man his just deserts. Making haste to become rich is the most fruitful source of the calamities of life; for here cunning, contrivance, and circumvention, take the place of diligence. After the schemer's plans have all failed, there seems only one tempting means left to obtain riches in a hurry, and that is by gaming, the most prosperous invention ever devised by the arch enemy of mankind; and when that fails, the next downward step to destruction, excepting drunkenness, is robbery, many instances of which we find recorded in the annals of Newgate and the records of the Old Bailey in London. Such atrocities have never, or very rarely, occurred in our own country, and never will so long as we are wisely contented with the fruits of patient industry, and so long as we believe that the diligent hand maketh rich. These reflections refer to extreme cases, and are not applicable, or meant to be personally applicable, to the unfortunate expedition in which we have been concerned. It is not meant to reprehend those enormous vices and crimes which are known in the old countries, but only to correct a spirit of discontent in men well situated and circumstanced. "_If you stand well, stand still_," says the Italian proverb. Some may say this doctrine, if put in practice, would check all enterprise. Not entirely so, provided the means and the end were cautiously adjusted. Christopher Columbus ran a great risk; {79} yet he knew, from the reasonings of his capacious mind, that there must be "another and a better world" than that he was born in; and under that strong and irrestistible impression he tempted the trackless ocean and found it. But what shall we say of our Oregon adventurers, who set out to pass over the Rocky Mountains, and thence down the Columbia river to the Pacific ocean, in boats upon wheels? and that too with a heavy load of goods, and those chiefly of iron. What renders the project more surprising is, that they should take with them the most ponderous articles of a blacksmith's shop,--anvils, and a large vice. It is more than probable that the old and long established wholesale Indian traders at St. Louis laughed in their sleeves, when they saw such a cargo fresh from the city of "_notions_," paraded with all the characteristic confidence of the unwavering Yankee spirit. After assuring them that their ingenious and well-constructed amphibious vehicles would not answer for travelling in such a rough country as they must go through, they purchased all three of them, and advised our leader to buy sheep and oxen to live on between the white settlements and the country of the savages, and not to trust to their guns for food. This turned out very wholesome advice, as they must have starved without that provision. The party under Captains Lewis and Clarke, sent out by the government of the United States, consisted of nine young men from Kentucky, fourteen soldiers of the United States army who volunteered their services, two French watermen,--an interpreter and hunter,--and a black servant belonging to Captain Clarke. All these, except the last, were enlisted to serve as privates during the expedition, {80} and three sergeants were appointed from amongst them by the captains. In addition to these, were engaged a corporal and six soldiers, and nine watermen, to accompany the expedition as far as the Mandan nation, in order to assist in carrying the stores, or repelling an attack, which was most to be apprehended between Wood river and that tribe. This select party embarked on board three boats. One was a keel-boat fifty-five feet long, drawing three feet of water, with a large square sail, and twenty-two oars, with a forecastle and cabin, while the middle was covered by lockers, which might be raised so as to form a breast-work. There were beside two _periogues_, or open boats of seven oars each. They had two horses, for any purpose, which they led along the banks; and fourteen bales of goods, with a variety of clothing, working utensils, locks, flints, ammunition, and richly-laced coats, and other gay dresses, and a variety of ornaments suited to the taste of the Indians, together with knives, flags, tomahawks, and medals.[63] Yet all these articles were exhausted, without any accident or particular loss. The party was led by two experienced military officers, and the men were under military regulations; which was not the case with the Cambridge adventurers, who were upon shares, and all on a level. [63] These statements in regard to the Lewis and Clark expedition are taken verbatim from the published edition (Biddle's, 1814) of the journals. For recent light on the personnel of the party, consult O. D. Wheeler, _On the Trail of Lewis and Clark_ (New York, 1904).--ED. We are unwilling that our readers should rely entirely on our opinion of the inadequacy of the outfits for such a formidable undertaking as that of going from the Atlantic shore of New-England to the shore of the Pacific by land. We shall therefore subjoin the opinion of a sensible gentleman, who had spent some time in the Missouri territory, and traversed its dreary prairies, where no tree {81} appears, and where there is, during the greater part of the year, no fuel for cooking, nor water fit to drink. He says: "Do the Oregon emigrants seek a fine country on the Oregon river? They will pass through lands [to get to it] of which they may buy two hundred acres for less than the farther expenses of their journey."[64] He tells us that a gentleman (Mr. Kelly) has been employing his leisure in advising schemes to better the condition of his fellow countrymen, and has issued advertisements, inviting the good people of New-England to leave their homes, their connexions, and the comforts of civilized society, and follow him across the continent to the shores of the Pacific. He tells those who may reach St. Louis, that they will find there many who have been to Oregon, and found no temptation to remain there;--that they may possibly charter a steamboat from St. Louis to the mouth of the river Platte, but no farther, as that stream is not navigable for steamboats unless during freshets. And after they reach the mouth of the Platte, they will have a _thousand_ miles to go before they reach the Rocky Mountains; and the country through which the adventurers must pass is a level plain, where the eye seeks in vain for a tree or a shrub,--that in some places they must travel days and nights without finding wood or water, for that the streams only are scantily fringed with wood. Our Cambridge emigrants actually found this to be the case, as they had no other fuel for cooking their live stock than buffalo-dung. The writer says, (and he had been there), that the ground is covered with {82} herbage for a few weeks in the year only, and that this is owing to the Indians burning the Prairies regularly twice a year, which occasions them to be as bare of vegetation as the deserts of Arabia. The same experienced traveller assures them that they could not take provisions with them sufficient for their wants, and that a dependence on their guns for support was fallacious, and the same uncertainty as to the buffaloes;--that sometimes those animals were plenty enough, and sometimes more than enough, so as to be dangerous. When they trot smartly off, ten thousand and more in a drove, they are as irresistible as a mountain-torrent, and would tread into nothing a larger body than the Cambridge fortune-hunters. Their flesh is coarse beef, and the grisly bear's, coarse pork; but this kind of bear, called the _horrible_ from his strength and ferocity, is a most terrific beast, and more disposed and able to feed on the hunter than the huntsman upon him. We can assure the emigrants, says the writer already quoted, from our own experience, that not one horse in five can perform a journey of a thousand miles, without a constant supply of something better than prairie-grass. [64] See New-England Magazine for February and April, 1832, under the signature of W. J. S.--WYETH. _Comment by Ed._ The _New England Magazine_ was published monthly (1831-35) by J. T. and E. Buckingham, Boston. The journal of Lewis and Clarke to the Pacific ocean, over the Rocky Mountains, was a popular book in the hands of every body; and the Expedition of Major Long and company was as much read; and both of these works detail events and facts enough, one would suppose, to deter men from such an arduous enterprise; not to mention the hostile tribes of Indians through which they must pass. It seems strange, but it is true, that a theoretical man need not despair of making the multitude believe any thing but truth. They believed the enthusiastic {83} Mr. Hall J. Kelley, who had never been in the Oregon territory, or seen the Rocky Mountains, or a prairie-dog, or a drove of buffaloes, and who in fact knew nothing of the country beyond some guess-work maps; yet they would not read, consider, or trust to the faithful records of those officers who had been sent by the government to explore the country and make report of it. There is a passage in the essay written by W. J. S. which we shall insert here on his authority, as it cannot be supposed that we, at this distance, should be so well acquainted with the affairs in Missouri, as one who had resided on the spot. We assume not to keep pace with the professed eulogist of Oregon, of its river, and its territory, its mild climate, its exuberant soil, and its boisterous Pacific, so inviting to the distressed poor in the neighbourhood of Boston; who are exhorted by him to pluck up stakes and courage, and march over the Rocky Mountains to wealth, ease, and independence. The passage we allude to reads thus:--"About twelve years since, it was discovered by a public-spirited citizen of St. Louis, that the supply of furs was not equal to the demand. To remedy this evil, he raised a corps of sharp-shooters, equipped them with guns, ammunition, steel-traps, and horses, and sent them into the wilderness to teach the Indians that their right was only a right of occupancy. They did the savages irreparable injury. They frightened the buffaloes from their usual haunts,--destroyed the fur-clad animals, and did more mischief than we have room to relate." He adds, sarcastically, that "the Indians were wont to hunt in a slovenly manner, leaving a few animals yearly for breeding. But that the white hunters were more thorough-spirited, {84} and made root-and-branch work of it. When they settled on a district, they destroyed the old and young alike; and when they left it, they left no living thing behind them. The first party proving successful, more were fitted out, and every successive year has seen several armed and mounted bands of hunters, from twenty to a hundred men and more in each, pouring into the Indian hunting grounds; and _all this has been done in open and direct violation of a law of the United States, which expressly forbids trapping and hunting on Indian lands_. The consequence has been that there are now few fur-clad animals this side the mountains." Lewis and Clarke, and some other travellers, speak of friendly Indians,--of their kindness and hospitality, and expatiate on their amiable disposition, and relate instances of it. Yet after all, this Indian friendship is very like the affection of the negroes in the Southern States for their masters and mistresses, and for their children,--the offspring merely of fear. There can be no friendship where there is such a disparity of condition. As to their presents, an Indian gift is proverbial. They never give without expecting double in return. What right have we to fit out armed expeditions, and enter the long occupied country of the natives, to destroy their game, not for subsistence, but for their skins? They are a contented people, and do not want our aid to make them happier. We prate of civilizing and Christianizing the savages. What have we done for their benefit? We have carried among them _rum_, _powder_ and _ball_, small-pox, starvation, and misery. What is the reason that Congress,--the great council of the nation,--the collected wisdom of these United States, has turned a deaf {85} ear to all applications for establishing a colony on the Oregon river? Some of the members of that honorable house of legislation know that the district in question is a boisterous and inclement region, with less to eat, less to warm the traveller, and to cook with, than at the mouth of any other known river in the United States. We deem the mouth of the river St. Lawrence as eligible a spot for a settlement of peltry merchants as the mouth of the Columbia. When Lewis and Clarke were on that river, they had not a single fair day in two months. They were drenched with rain day and night; and what added to their comfortless condition was the incessant high winds, which drove the waves furiously into the Columbia river with the tide; and on its ebb, raised such commotion, and such a chopping sea, that the travellers dared not venture upon it in their boats; yet the Indians did, and managed their canoes with a dexterity which the explorers greatly admired, but could not imitate. The boisterous Pacific was among the new discoveries of our American adventurers. Had their expedition been to the warm climate of Africa, or to South America, they would have been sure of plenty to eat; but in the western region, between the Rocky Mountains and the great river of the West, the case is far otherwise. It is devoutly to be wished that truth may prevail respecting those distant regions. Indeed the sacred cause of humanity calls loudly on its votaries to disabuse the people dwelling on these Atlantic shores respecting the Oregon paradise, lest our farmers' sons and young mechanics should, in every sense of the phrase, stray from home, and go they know not whither,--to seek they know not what. {86} Or must Truth wait on the Rocky Mountains until some Indian historian,--some future _Clavigero_[65] shall publish his annals, and separate facts from fiction? We esteem the "_History of the Expedition under the command of Captains Lewis and Clarke to the Sources of the Missouri, thence across the Rocky Mountains, and down to the Pacific Ocean_," substantially correct. Their conduct towards the Indians was marked throughout with justice and humanity; and the journal of that expedition will be a lasting monument of their judicious perseverance, and of the wisdom of the government of the United States. [65] The Abbé Clavigero, a native of Vera Cruz, who resided forty years in the Provinces of New Spain, spoke the language of the natives, and has written the History of Mexico.--WYETH. Reader! The book you have in your hands is not written for your amusement merely, or to fill up an idle hour, but for your instruction,--particularly to warn young farmers and mechanics not to leave a certainty for an uncertainty, and straggle away over a sixth part of the globe in search of what they leave behind them at home. It is hoped that it may correct that too common opinion that the farther you go from home the surer you are of making your fortune. Agriculture gives to the industrious farmer the riches which he can call his own; while the indefatigable mechanic is sure to acquire a sufficiency, provided he "build not his house too high." Industry conducted by Prudence is a virtue of so diffusive a nature that it mixes with all our concerns. No business can be managed and accomplished without it. Whatever be a man's calling or way of life, he must, to be happy, be actuated by {87} a spirit of industry, and that will keep him from want, from dishonesty, and from the vice of gambling and lottery-dealing, and its long train of miseries. The first and most common deviation from sober industry is a desire to roam abroad, or in one word, a feeling of _discontent_,--a making haste to be rich, without the patient means of it. These are reflections general and not particular, as it regards all such high hopes and expectations, as lead to our Oregon expedition and to its disappointments. The most that we shall say of it is,--that it was an injudicious scheme arising from want of due information, and the whole conducted by means inadequate to the end in view. Oh happy--if he knew his happy state, The man, who, free from turmoil and debate, Receives his wholesome food from Nature's hand, The just return of _cultivated_ land. THE END TOWNSEND'S NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, TO THE COLUMBIA RIVER Reprint of pp. 1-186, 217-264, of original edition: Philadelphia, 1839. "A Visit to the Sandwich Islands, Chili, &c., with a Scientific Appendix," also contained in this edition, is here omitted as irrelevant to the scope of the present series. [Illustration: Hunting the Buffalo] [Illustration: title page] NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, TO THE COLUMBIA RIVER, AND A VISIT TO THE SANDWICH ISLANDS, CHILI, &c. WITH A SCIENTIFIC APPENDIX. BY JOHN K. TOWNSEND, Member of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia. PHILADELPHIA: HENRY PERKINS, 134 CHESTNUT STREET. BOSTON: PERKINS & MARVIN. 1839. ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1839, by JOHN K. TOWNSEND, in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. ADVERTISEMENT The Columbia River Fishing and Trading Company was formed in 1834, by several individuals in New York and Boston. Capt. WYETH, having an interest in the enterprise, collected a party of men to cross the continent to the Pacific, with the purpose chiefly of establishing trading posts beyond the Rocky Mountains and on the coast. The idea of making one of Capt. Wyeth's party was suggested to the author by the eminent botanist, Mr. NUTTALL, who had himself determined to join the expedition across the North American wilderness. Being fond of Natural History, particularly the science of Ornithology, the temptation to visit a country hitherto unexplored by naturalists was irresistible; and the following pages, originally penned for the family-circle, and without the slightest thought of publication, will furnish some account of his travels. CONTENTS CHAPTER I Arrival at St. Louis--Preparations for the journey--Sâque Indians--Their appearance, dress, and manners--Squaws-- Commencement of a pedestrian tour--Sandhill cranes-- Prairie settlers--Their hospitality--Wild pigeons, golden plovers and prairie hens--Mr. P. and his daughters--An abundant repast--Simplicity of the prairie maidens--A deer and turkey hunt--Loutre Lick hotel--A colored charon--Comfortable quarters--Young men of the west--Reflections on leaving home--Loquacity of the inhabitants--Gray squirrels--Boonville--Parroquets-- Embarkation in a steamboat--Large catfish--Accident on board the boat--Arrival at Independence--Description of the town--Encampment of the Rocky Mountain company-- Character of the men--Preparation for departure--Requisites of a leader--Backwoods familiarity--Milton Sublette and his band--Rev. Jason Lee, the missionary--A letter from home-- Mormonites--Military discipline and its consequences, 121 CHAPTER II Departure of the caravan--A storm on the prairie--Arrangement of the camp--Kanzas Indians--Kanzas river--Indian lodges-- Passage of the river--Buffalo canoes--Kanzas chief--Upper Kaw village--their wigwams--Catfish and ravens--Return of Mr. Sublette--Pawnee trace--Desertion of three men-- Difficulties occasioned by losing the trail--Intelligence of Mr. Sublette's party--Escape of the band of horses--Visit of three Otto Indians--Anecdote of Richardson, the chief hunter--his appearance and character--White wolves and antelopes--Buffalo bones--Sublette's deserted camps--Lurking wolves, 141 CHAPTER III Arrival at the Platte river--Wolves and antelopes--Anxiety of the men to see buffalo--Visit of two spies from the Grand Pawnees--Forced march--A herd of buffalo--Elk--Singular conduct of the horses--Killing a buffalo--Indian mode of procuring buffalo--Great herd--Adventure with an Indian in the tent--Indian feat with bow and arrow--Notice of the Pawnee tribes--Disappearance of the buffalo from the plains of the Platte--A hunting adventure--Killing a buffalo-- Butchering of a bull--Shameful destruction of the game-- Hunters' mode of quenching thirst, 157 CHAPTER IV Change in the face of the country--Unpleasant visitation--N. fork of the Platte--A day's journey over the hills--Poor pasture--Marmots--Rattlesnake and gopher--Naturalist's success and sacrifices--A sand storm--Wild horses--Killing of a doe antelope--Bluffs--The Chimney--"Zip Koon," the young antelope--Birds--Feelings and cogitations of a naturalist--Laramie's fork--Departure of two "free trappers" on a summer "hunt"--Black hills--Red butes--Sweet-water river, and Rock Independence--Avocets--Wind river mountains-- Rocky Mountain sheep--Adventure with a grizzly bear-- Rattlesnakes--Toilsome march, and arrival at Sandy river-- Suffering of the horses--Anticipated delights of the rendezvous, 173 CHAPTER V Arrival at the Colorado--The author in difficulty--Loss of a journal, and advice to travelling tyros--The rendezvous-- Motley groups infesting it--Rum drinking, swearing, and other accomplishments in vogue--Description of the camp-- Trout--Abundance of game--Cock of the plains--{vi} Leave the rendezvous--An accession to the band--A renegado Blackfoot chief--Captain Stewart and Mr. Ashworth--Muddy creek--More carousing--Abundance of trout--Bear river--A hard day's march--Volcanic country--White-clay pits and "Beer spring"--Rare birds and common birds--Mr. Thomas McKay--Captain Bonneville's party--Captains Stewart and Wyeth's visit to the lodge of the "bald chief"--Blackfoot river--Adventure with a grizzly bear--Death of "Zip Koon"-- Young grizzly bears and buffalo calves--A Blackfoot Indian-- Dangerous experiment of McKay--the three "Tetons"--Large trout--Shoshoné river--Site of "Fort Hall"--Preparations for a buffalo hunt, 189 CHAPTER VI Departure of the hunting camp--A false alarm--Blackfeet Indians--Requisites of a mountain-man--Good fare, and good appetites--An experiment--Grizzly bears--Nez Percé Indian--Adventure with a grizzly bear--Hunters' anecdotes--Homeward bound--Arrival at "Fort Hall"--A salute--Emaciation from low diet--Mr. McKay's company-- Buffalo lodges--Effects of judicious training--Indian worship--A "Camp Meeting"--Mr. Jason Lee, a favorite--A fatal accident and a burial, 212 CHAPTER VII Departure of McKay's party, Captain Stewart, and the missionaries--Debauch at the fort--Departure of the company--Poor provision--Blackfeet hunting ground-- Sufferings from thirst--Goddin's creek--Antoine Goddin, the trapper--Scarcity of game--A buffalo--Rugged mountains--More game--Unusual economy--Habits of the white wolf--"Thornburg's pass"--Difficult travelling-- The captain in jeopardy among the snow--A countermarch-- Deserted Banneck camp--Toilsome and dangerous passage of the mountain--Mallade river--Beaver dams, and beaver--A party of Snake Indians--Another Banneck camp--"Kamas prairie"--Indian mode of preparing the kamas--Racine blanc, or biscuit root--Loss of horses by fatigue--Boisée or Big-wood river--Salmon--Choke-cherries, &c. 230 CHAPTER VIII A substitute for game, and a luxurious breakfast--Expectations of a repast, and a disappointment--Visit of a Snake chief-- his abhorrence of horse meat--A band of Snake Indians--Their chief--Trade with Indians for salmon--Mr. Ashworth's adventure--An Indian horse-thief--Visit to the Snake camp-- A Banneck camp--Supercilious conduct of the Indians--Snake river--Equipment of a trapping party--Indian mode of catching salmon--Loss of a favorite horse--Powder river--Cut rocks-- Grand Ronde--Captain Bonneville--Kayouse and Nez Percé Indians--An Indian beauty--Blue mountains--A feline visit, 250 CHAPTER IX Passage of the Blue mountains--Sufferings from thirst--Utalla river--A transformation--A novel meal--Columbia river and Fort Walla-walla--A dinner with the missionaries-- Anecdote of Mr. Lee--Brief notice of the Fort--Departure of the missionaries--Notice of the Walla-walla Indians-- Departure for Fort Vancouver--Wild ducks--Indian graves--Visits from Indians--Ophthalmia, a prevalent disease--A company of Chinook Indians--The Dalles--The party joined by Captain Wyeth--Embarkation in canoes--A heavy gale--Dangerous navigation--Pusillanimous conduct of an Indian helmsman--A zealous botanist--Departure of Captain Wyeth with five men--Cascades--A portage--Meeting with the missionaries--Loss of a canoe--A toilsome duty-- Arrival at Fort Vancouver--Dr. John McLoughlin, the chief factor--Domiciliation of the travellers at Fort Vancouver, 275 CHAPTER X Fort Vancouver--Agricultural and other improvements--Vancouver "camp"--Expedition to the Wallammet--The falls--A village of {vii} Klikatat Indians--Manner of flattening the head--A Flathead infant--Brig "May Dacre"--Preparations for a settlement--Success of the naturalists--Chinook Indians-- their appearance and costume--Ague and fever--Desertion of the Sandwich Islanders--Embarkation for a trip to the Islands--George, the Indian pilot--Mount Coffin--A visit to the tombs--Superstition--Visit to an Indian house--Fort George--Site of Astoria--A blind Indian boy--Cruel and unfeeling conduct of the savages--Their moral character--Baker's Bay--Cape Disappointment--Dangerous bar at the entrance of the river--The sea beach--Visit of Mr. Ogden--Passage across the bar, 297 CHAPTER XII ... Arrival at the Columbia, 317 CHAPTER XIII Passage up the Columbia--Birds--A trip to the Wallammet-- Methodist missionaries--their prospects--Fort William-- Band-tail pigeons--Wretched condition of the Indians at the falls--A Kallapooyah village--Indian cemetery-- Superstitions--Treatment of diseases--Method of steaming--"Making medicine"--Indian sorcerers--Death of Thornburg--An inquest--Verdict of the jury--Inordinate appetite for ardent spirits--Eight men drowned--Murder of two trappers by the Banneck Indians--Arrival of Captain Thing--His meeting and skirmish with the Blackfeet Indians-- Massacre--A narrow escape, 318 CHAPTER XIV Indians of the Columbia--Departure of Mr. Nuttall and Dr. Gairdner--Arrival of the Rev. Samuel Parker--his object-- Departure of the American brig--Swans--Indian mode of taking them--A large wolf--A night adventure--A discovery, and restoration of stolen property--Fraternal tenderness of an Indian--Indian vengeance--Death of Waskéma, the Indian girl--"Busy-body," the little chief--A village of Kowalitsk Indians--Ceremony of "making medicine"--Exposure of an impostor--Success of legitimate medicines--Departure from Fort Vancouver for a visit to the interior--Arrival of a stranger--"Cape Horn"--Tilki, the Indian chief--Indian villages {viii}--Arrival at Fort Walla-walla--Sharp-tailed grouse--Commencement of a journey to the Blue mountains, 332 CHAPTER XV A village of Kayouse Indians--Appearance and dresses of the women--family worship--Visit to the Blue mountains--Dusky grouse--Return to Walla-walla--Arrival of Mr. McLeod, and the missionaries--Letters from home--Death of Antoine Goddin--A renegado white man--Assault by the Walla-walla Indians--Passage down the Columbia--Rapids--A dog for supper--Prairies on fire--Fishing Indians--Their romantic appearance--Salmon huts--The shoots--Dangerous navigation-- Death of Tilki--Seals--Indian stoicism and contempt of pain--Skookoom, the strong chief--his death--Maiming, an evidence of grief--Arrival at Fort Vancouver--A visit to Fort George--Indian cemeteries--Lewis and Clarke's house--A medal--Visit to Chinook--Hospitality of the Indians-- Chinamus' home--The idol--Canine inmates, 349 CHAPTER XVI Northern excursion--Salmon--Indian mode of catching them-- Flathead children--A storm on the bay--Pintail ducks-- Simple mode of killing salmon--Return to Chinook--Indian garrulity--Return to Fort George--Preparations for a second trip to the Sandwich Islands--Detention within the cape, 365 NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, &c. CHAPTER I Arrival at St. Louis--Preparations for the journey--Sâque Indians--Their appearance, dress, and manners--Squaws--Commencement of a pedestrian tour--Sandhill cranes--Prairie settlers--Their hospitality--Wild pigeons, golden plovers and prairie hens--Mr. P. and his daughters--An abundant repast--Simplicity of the prairie maidens--A deer and turkey hunt--Loutre Lick hotel--Unwelcome bed-fellows--A colored Charon--Comfortable quarters--Young men of the west--Reflections on leaving home--Loquacity of the inhabitants--Gray squirrels--Boonville--Parroquets--Embarkation in a steamboat--Large catfish--Accident on board the boat--Arrival at Independence--Description of the town--Procure a supply of horses--Encampment of the Rocky Mountain company--Character of the men--Preparation for departure--Requisites of a leader--Backwoods familiarity--Milton Sublette and his band--Rev. Jason Lee, the missionary--A letter from home--Mormonites--Military discipline and its consequences. On the evening of the 24th of March, 1834, Mr. NUTTALL[66] and myself arrived at St. Louis, in the steamboat Boston, from Pittsburg. [66] For sketch of Thomas Nuttall, see preface to Nuttall's _Journal_, our volume xiii.--ED. On landing, we had the satisfaction to learn that Captain WYETH was already there, and on the afternoon of the next day we called upon him, and consulted him in reference to the outfit which it would be necessary to purchase for the journey. He accompanied us to a store in the town, and selected a number of articles for us, among which were several pairs of leathern {10} pantaloons, enormous overcoats, made of green blankets, and white wool hats, with round crowns, fitting tightly to the head, brims five inches wide, and almost hard enough to resist a rifle ball. The day following we saw about one hundred Indians of the Sâque tribe, who had left their native forests for the purpose of treating for the sale of some land at the Jefferson barracks.[67] They were dressed and decorated in the true primitive style; their heads shaved closely, and painted with alternate stripes of fiery red and deep black, leaving only the long scalping tuft, in which was interwoven a quantity of elk hair and eagle's feathers. Each man was furnished with a good blanket, and some had an under dress of calico, but the greater number were entirely naked to the waist. The faces and bodies of the men were, almost without an exception, fantastically painted, the predominant color being deep red, with occasionally a few stripes of dull clay white around the eyes and mouth. I observed one whose body was smeared with light colored clay, interspersed with black streaks. They were unarmed, with the exception of tomahawks and knives. The chief of the band, (who is said to be Black Hawk's father-in-law,[68]) was a large dignified looking man, of perhaps fifty-five years of age, distinguished from the rest, by his richer habiliments, a more profuse display of trinkets in his ears, (which were cut and gashed in a frightful manner to receive them,) and above all, by a huge necklace made of the claws of the grizzly bear. The squaws, of whom there were about twenty, were dressed very much like the men, and at a little distance could scarcely be distinguished from them. Among them was an old, superannuated crone, who, soon after her arrival, had been presented with a broken umbrella. The only use that she made of it was to wrench the plated ends from the whalebones, string them on a piece of wire, take her knife from her belt, with which she deliberately cut a slit of an inch in length {11} along the upper rim of her ear, and insert them in it. I saw her soon after this operation had been performed; her cheeks were covered with blood, and she was standing with a vast deal of assumed dignity among her tawny sisters, who evidently envied her the possession of the worthless baubles. [67] For the early history of the Sauk Indians, see J. Long's _Voyages_, in our volume ii, p. 185, note 85. By the treaty of 1804 they ceded a large portion of their lands (in the present Wisconsin, Iowa, and Illinois) to the United States. Upon removing to the west of the Mississippi, as per agreement with the federal government, they broke into several well-defined and often quarrelsome bands. This division was intensified by the War of 1812-15, when part of the tribe aided the British against the American border. The so-called Missouri band, dwelling north of that river in the present state of the name, in 1815 made with the United States a treaty of friendship, which was kept with fidelity. In 1830 a second land cession was made by the Sauk, and after the Black Hawk War (1832), in which the Missouri band took no part, they were desirous of moving to some permanent home south of the Missouri River. It was in pursuit of this intention, doubtless, that the visit recorded by Townsend was made. The final treaty therefor was not drawn until 1836. Jefferson Barracks, just south of St. Louis on the Mississippi River, were built for the federal government (1826) on a site secured from the village of Carondolet (1824). General Henry Atkinson was in charge of the erection of the fort to which the garrison was (August, 1826) transferred from Bellefontaine on the Missouri. The post has been in continuous occupation since its erection.--ED. [68] Black Hawk whose Indian name was Makataineshekiakiah (black sparrow-hawk) was born among the Sauk in 1767. A chief neither by heredity nor election, he became by superior ability leader of the so-called British band, with headquarters at Saukenak, near Rock Island, Illinois. He participated in Tecumseh's battle (1811), and those about Detroit in the War of 1812-15, and made many raids upon the American settlements, until 1816 when a treaty of amity was signed with the United States. The chief event of his career was the war of 1832, known by his name. Consult on this subject, Thwaites, "Black Hawk War," in _How George Rogers Clark won the Northwest_ (Chicago, 1903). At its conclusion this picturesque savage leader was captured, sent a prisoner to Jefferson Barracks, and later confined at Fortress Monroe, Virginia. After an extended tour of the Eastern states, Black Hawk returned to Iowa, where he was placed under the guardianship of his rival Keokuk, and where in 1838 he died. His wife was Asshawequa (Singing Bird), who died in Kansas (1846).--ED. _28th._--Mr. N. and myself propose starting to-morrow on foot towards the upper settlements, a distance of about three hundred miles. We intend to pursue our journey leisurely, as we have plenty of time before us, and if we become tired, we can enter the stage which will probably overtake us. _29th._--This morning our Indians returned from the barracks, where I understand they transacted their business satisfactorily. I went on board the boat again to see them. I feel very much interested in them, as they are the first Indians I have ever seen who appear to be in a state of uncultivated nature, and who retain the savage garb and manners of their people. They had engaged the entire covered deck for their especial use, and were lolling about in groups, wrapped in their blankets. Some were occupied in conversation, others seemed more contemplative, and appeared to be thinking deeply, probably of the business which brought them amongst us. Here and there two might be seen playing a Spanish game with cards, and some were busily employed in rendering themselves more hideous with paint. To perform this operation, the dry paint is folded in a thin muslin or gauze cloth, tied tightly and beaten against the face, and a small looking-glass is held in the other hand to direct them where to apply it. Two middle-aged squaws were frying beef, which they distributed around to the company in wooden bowls, and several half loaves of bread were circulating rapidly amongst them, by being tossed from one to another, each taking a huge bite of it. There were among the company, several younger females, but they were all so _hard favored_ that I could not feel much sympathy with them, and was therefore not anxious to cultivate {12} their acquaintance. There was another circumstance, too, that was not a very attractive one; I allude to the custom so universal amongst Indians, of seeking for vermin in each other's heads, and then _eating_ them. The fair damsels were engaged in this way during most of the time that I remained on board, only suspending their delectable occupation to take their bites of bread as it passed them in rotation. The effect upon my person was what an Irishman would call the attraction of repulsion, as I found myself almost unconsciously edging away until I halted at a most respectable distance from the scene of slaughter. At noon, Mr. N. and myself started on our pedestrian tour, Captain Wyeth offering to accompany us a few miles on the way. I was glad to get clear of St. Louis, as I felt uncomfortable in many respects while there, and the bustle and restraint of a town was any thing but agreeable to me. We proceeded over a road generally good, a low dry prairie, mostly heavily timbered, the soil underlaid with horizontal strata of limestone, abounding in organic remains, shells, coralines, &c., and arrived in the evening at Florisant, where we spent the night.[69] The next day Captain Wyeth left us for St. Louis, and my companion and myself proceeded on our route. We observed great numbers of the brown, or sandhill crane, (_Grus canadensis_,) flying over us; some flocks were so high as to be entirely beyond the reach of vision, while their harsh, grating voices were very distinctly heard. We saw several flocks of the same cranes while ascending the Mississippi, several days since. At about noon, we crossed the river on a boat worked by horses, and stopped at a little town called St. Charles.[70] [69] Florissant is an old Spanish town not far from St. Louis, founded soon after the latter. At first it was a trading post and Jesuit mission station, whence it acquired the name of San Fernando, which still applies to the township. Later it was made the country residence of the Spanish governors, and in 1793 was by their authority incorporated and granted five thousand arpents of land for a common. The titles were confirmed by the United States in 1812. In 1823 there was established at Florissant a Jesuit novitiate, among whose founders was Father Pierre de Smet, who was buried there in 1873. Florissant had (1900) a population of 732.-- ED. [70] For St. Charles, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in volume v of our series, p. 39, note 9.--ED. We find it necessary, both for our comfort and convenience, to travel very slowly, as our feet are already becoming tender, and that we may have an opportunity of observing the country, and collecting interesting specimens. Unfortunately for the pursuits of my companion, the plants (of which he finds a {13} number that are rare and curious) are not yet in flower, and therefore of little use to him. The birds are in considerable numbers, among the principal of which is the large pileated woodpecker, (_Picus pileatus._) Mr. N. and myself are both in high spirits. We travel slowly, and without much fatigue, and when we arrive at a house, stop and rest, take a drink of milk, and chat with those we see. We have been uniformly well treated; the living is good, and very cheap, and at any house at which we stop the inhabitants are sure to welcome us to their hospitality and good cheer. They live comfortably, and without much labor; possess a fruitful and easily tilled soil, for which they pay the trifling sum of one dollar and a quarter per acre; they raise an abundance of good Indian corn, potatoes, and other vegetables; have excellent beef and pork, and, in short, every thing necessary for good, wholesome living. _31st._--The road to-day was muddy and slippery, rendered so by a heavy rain which fell last night. This morning, we observed large flocks of wild pigeons passing over, and on the bare prairies were thousands of golden plovers; the ground was often literally covered with them for acres. I killed a considerable number. They were very fat, and we made an excellent meal of them in the evening. The prairie hen, or pinnated grouse, is also very numerous, but in these situations is shy, and difficult to be procured. Towards evening we were overtaken by a bluff, jolly looking man, on horseback, who, as is usual, stopped, and entered into conversation with us. I saw immediately that he was superior to those we had been accustomed to meet. He did not ply us with questions so eagerly as most, and when he heard that we were naturalists, and were travelling in that capacity, he seemed to take considerable interest in us. He invited us to stop at his house, which was only a mile beyond, and as night was almost {14} upon us, we accepted the invitation with cheerfulness. Upon arriving at his mansion, our good host threw wide his hospitable doors, and then with a formal, and rather ultra-dignified politeness, making us a low bow, said, "Gentlemen, my name is P., and I am very happy of your company." We seated ourselves in a large, and well-furnished parlor. Mr. P. excused himself for a few minutes, and soon returned, bringing in three fine looking girls, whom he introduced as his daughters. I took a particular fancy to one of them, from a strong resemblance which she bore to one of my female friends at home. These girls were certainly very superior to most that I had seen in Missouri, although somewhat touched with the awkward bashfulness and prudery which generally characterizes the prairie maidens. They had lost their mother when young, and having no companions out of the domestic circle, and consequently no opportunity of aping the manners of the world, were perfect children of nature. Their father, however, had given them a good, plain education, and they had made some proficiency in needle work, as was evinced by numerous neatly worked _samplers_ hanging in wooden frames around the room. Anon, supper was brought in. It consisted of pork chops, ham, eggs, Indian bread and butter, tea, coffee, milk, potatoes, _preserved ginger_, and though last, certainly not least in value, an enormous tin dish of plovers, (the contents of my game-bag,) _fricaseed_. Here was certainly a most abundant repast, and we did ample justice to it. I endeavored to do the agreeable to the fair ones in the evening, and Mr. N. was monopolized by the father, who took a great interest in plants, and was evidently much gratified by the information my companion gave him on the subject. The next morning when we rose, it was raining, and much had evidently fallen during the night, making the roads wet and muddy, and therefore unpleasant for pedestrians. I confess {15} I was not sorry for this, for I felt myself very comfortably situated, and had no wish to take to the road. Mr. P. urged the propriety of our stopping at least another day, and the motion being seconded by his fair daughter, (my favorite,) it was irresistible. On the following morning the sun was shining brightly, the air was fresh and elastic, and the roads tolerably dry, so that there was no longer any excuse for tarrying, and we prepared for our departure. Our good host, grasping our hands, said that he had been much pleased with our visit, and hoped to see us again, and when I bid good bye to the pretty Miss P., I told her that if I ever visited Missouri again, I would go many miles out of my way to see her and her sisters. Her reply was unsophisticated enough. "Do come again, and come in May or June, for then there are plenty of prairie hens, and you can shoot as many as you want, and you must stay a long while with us, and we'll have nice times; good bye; I'm so sorry you're going." _April 4th._--I rose this morning at daybreak, and left Mr. N. dreaming of weeds, in a little house at which we stopped last night, and in company with a long, lanky boy, (a son of the poor widow, our hostess,) set to moulding bullets in an old iron spoon, and preparing for deer hunting. The boy shouldered a rusty rifle, that looked almost antediluvian, and off we plodded to a thicket, two miles from the house. We soon saw about a dozen fine deer, and the boy, clapping his old fire-lock to his shoulder, brought down a beautiful doe at the distance of a full hundred yards. Away sprang the rest of the herd, and I crept round the thicket to meet them. They soon came up, and I fired my piece at a large buck, and wounded the poor creature in the leg; he went limping away, unable to overtake his companions; I felt very sorry, but consoled myself with the reflection that he would soon get well again. {16} We then gave up the pursuit, and turned our attention to the turkies, which were rather numerous in the thicket. They were shy, as usual, and, when started from their lurking places, ran away like deer, and hid themselves in the underwood. Occasionally, however, they would perch on the high limbs of the trees, and then we had some shots at them. In the course of an hour we killed four, and returned to the house, where, as I expected, Mr. N. was in a fever at my absence, and after a late, and very good breakfast, proceeded on our journey. We find in this part of the country less timber in the same space than we have yet seen, and when a small belt appears, it is a great relief, as the monotony of a bare prairie becomes tiresome. Towards evening we arrived at Loutre Lick.[71] Here there is a place called a _Hotel_. A Hotel, forsooth! a pig-stye would be a more appropriate name. Every thing about it was most exceedingly filthy and disagreeable, but no better lodging was to be had, for it might not be proper to apply for accommodation at a private house in the immediate vicinity of a public one. They gave us a wretched supper, not half so good as we had been accustomed to, and we were fain to spend the evening in a comfortless, unfurnished, nasty bar-room, that smelt intolerably of rum and whiskey, to listen to the profane conversation of three or four uncouth individuals, (among whom were the host and his brother,) and to hear long and disagreeably minute discussions upon horse-racing, gambling, and other vices equally unpleasant to us. [71] Loutre Lick appears to be the hamlet now known as Big Spring, on Loutre Creek, in Loutre Township, Montgomery County. The settlement was made between 1808 and 1810, and was on the highway between St. Charles and Côte sans Dessein.--ED. The host's brother had been to the Rocky Mountains, and soon learning _our_ destination, gave us much unsought for advice regarding our method of journeying; painted in strong colors the many dangers and difficulties which we must encounter, and concluded by advising us to give up the expedition. My fast ebbing patience was completely exhausted. I told him that {17} nothing that he could say would discourage us,--that we went to that house in order to seek repose, and it was unfair to intrude conversation upon us unasked. The ruffian made some grumbling reply, and left us in quiet and undisturbed possession of our bench. We had a miserable time that night. The only spare bed in the house was so intolerably filthy that we dared not undress, and we had hardly closed our eyes before we were assailed by swarms of a vile insect, (the very name of which is offensive,) whose effluvia we had plainly perceived immediately as we entered the room. It is almost needless to say, that very early on the following morning, after paying our reckoning, and refusing the landlord's polite invitation to "_liquorize_," we marched from the house, shook the dust from our feet, and went elsewhere to seek a breakfast. Soon after leaving, we came to a deep and wide creek, and strained our lungs for half an hour in vain endeavors to waken a negro boy who lived in a hut on the opposite bank, and who, we were told, would ferry us over. He came out of his den at last, half naked and rubbing his eyes to see who had disturbed his slumbers so early in the _marning_. We told him to hurry over, or we'd endeavor to assist him, and he came at last, with a miserable leaky little skiff that wet our feet completely. We gave him a _pickayune_ for his trouble, and went on. We soon came to a neat little secluded cottage in the very heart of a thick forest, where we found a fine looking young man, with an interesting wife, and a very pretty child about six months old. Upon being told that we wanted some breakfast, the woman tucked up her sleeves, gave the child to her husband, and went to work in good earnest. In a very short time a capital meal was smoking on the board, and while we were partaking of the good cheer, we found our vexation rapidly evaporating. We complimented the handsome young hostess, {18} patted the chubby cheeks of the child, and were in a good humor with every body. _6th._--Soon after we started this morning, we were overtaken by a stage which was going to Fulton, seven miles distant, and as the roads were somewhat heavy, we concluded to make use of this convenience. The only passengers were three young men from the far west, who had been to the eastward purchasing goods, and were then travelling homeward. Two of them evidently possessed a large share of what is called _mother wit_, and so we had jokes without number. Some of them were not very refined, and perhaps did not suit the day very well, (it being the Sabbath,) yet none of them were really offensive, but seemed to proceed entirely from an exuberance of animal spirits. In about an hour and a half we arrived at Fulton, a pretty little town, and saw the villagers in their holiday clothes parading along to church.[72] The bell at that moment sounded, and the peal gave rise to many reflections. It might be long ere I should hear the sound of the "church-going bell" again. I was on my way to a far, far country, and I did not know that I should ever be permitted to revisit my own. I felt that I was leaving the scenes of my childhood; the spot which had witnessed all the happiness I ever knew, the home where all my affections were centered. I was entering a land of strangers, and would be compelled hereafter to mingle with those who might look upon me with indifference, or treat me with neglect. [72] Fulton is the seat of Callaway County, laid out in 1825, and originally christened Volney; but its appellation was soon changed in honor of Robert Fulton, inventor of the steamboat. The first settler and proprietor was George Nichols. In 1832 the population was about two hundred; by 1900 it had increased to nearly five thousand.--ED. These reflections were soon checked, however. We took a light lunch at the tavern where we stopped. I shouldered my gun, Mr. N. his stick and bundle, and off we trudged again, westward, ho! We soon lost sight of the prairie entirely, and our way lay through a country thickly covered with heavy timber, the roads very rough and stony, and we had frequently to ford {19} the creeks on our route, the late freshets having carried away the bridges. Our accommodation at the farm houses has generally been good and comfortable, and the inhabitants obliging, and anxious to please. They are, however, exceedingly inquisitive, propounding question after question, in such quick succession as scarcely to allow you breathing time between them. This kind of catechising was at first very annoying to us, but we have now become accustomed to it, and have hit upon an expedient to avoid it in a measure. The first question generally asked, is, "where do you come from, gentlemen?" We frame our answer somewhat in the style of Dr. Franklin. "We come from Pennsylvania; our names, Nuttall and Townsend; we are travelling to Independence on foot, for the purpose of seeing the country to advantage, and we intend to proceed from thence across the mountains to the Pacific. Have you any mules to sell?" The last clause generally changes the conversation, and saves us trouble. To a stranger, and one not accustomed to the manners of the western people, this kind of interrogating seems to imply a lack of modesty and common decency, but it is certainly not so intended, each one appearing to think himself entitled to gain as much intelligence regarding the private affairs of a stranger, as a very free use of his lingual organ can procure for him. We found the common gray squirrel very abundant in some places, particularly in the low bottoms along water courses; in some situations we saw them skipping on almost every tree. On last Christmas day, at a squirrel hunt in this neighborhood, about thirty persons killed the astonishing number of _twelve hundred_, between the rising and setting of the sun. This may seem like useless barbarity, but it is justified by the consideration that all the crops of corn in the country are frequently {20} destroyed by these animals. This extensive extermination is carried on every year, and yet it is said that their numbers do not appear to be much diminished. About mid-day on the 7th, we passed through a small town called Columbia, and stopped in the evening at Rocheport, a little village on the Missouri river.[73] We were anxious to find a steam-boat bound for Independence, as we feared we might linger too long upon the road to make the necessary preparations for our contemplated journey. [73] Columbia, seat of Boone County and of the Missouri State University, was organized first as Smithton. Later (1820), when made the county seat, the name was changed, and a period of prosperity began. The location of the university was secured in 1839. In 1900 the population was 5,651. Rocheport, on the Missouri River, at the mouth of Moniteau Creek, was laid out in 1832 on land obtained on a New Madrid certificate. At one time the place rivaled Columbia. Its present population is about six hundred.--ED. On the following day, we crossed the Missouri, opposite Rocheport, in a small skiff. The road here, for several miles, winds along the bank of the river, amid fine groves of sycamore and Athenian poplars, then stretches off for about three miles, and does not again approach it until you arrive at Boonville. It is by far the most hilly road that we have seen, and I was frequently reminded, while travelling on it, of our Chester county. We entered the town of Boonville early in the afternoon, and took lodgings in a very clean, and respectably kept hotel. I was much pleased with Boonville. It is the prettiest town I have seen in Missouri; situated on the bank of the river, on an elevated and beautiful spot, and overlooks a large extent of lovely country. The town contains two good hotels, (but no _grog shops_, properly so called,) several well-furnished stores, and five hundred inhabitants. It was laid out thirty years ago by the celebrated western pioneer, whose name it bears.[74] [74] For Boonville, see note 59, p. 89, _ante_. Townsend is in error in attributing its founding to Daniel Boone, although named in his honor.--ED. We saw here vast numbers of the beautiful parrot of this country, (the _Psittacus carolinensis_.) They flew around us in flocks, keeping a constant and loud screaming, as though they would chide us for invading their territory; and the splendid green and red of their plumage glancing in the sunshine, as they whirled and circled within a few feet of us, had a most magnificent appearance. They seem entirely unsuspicious of danger, and after being fired at, only huddle closer together, as if to obtain protection {21} from each other, and as their companions are falling around them, they curve down their necks, and look at them fluttering upon the ground, as though perfectly at a loss to account for so unusual an occurrence. It is a most inglorious sort of shooting; down right, cold-blooded murder.[75] [75] For the appearance of paroquets in this latitude, see Cuming's _Tour_ in our volume iv, p. 161, note 108.--ED. On the afternoon of the 9th, a steamboat arrived, on board of which we were surprised and pleased to find Captain Wyeth, and our "_plunder_." We embarked immediately, and soon after, were puffing along the Missouri, at the rate of seven miles an hour. When we stopped in the afternoon to "wood," we were gratified by a sight of one of the enormous catfish of this river and the Mississippi, weighing full sixty pounds. It is said, however, that they are sometimes caught of at least double this weight. They are excellent eating, coarser, but quite as good as the common small catfish of our rivers. There is nothing in the scenery of the river banks to interest the traveller particularly. The country is generally level and sandy, relieved only by an occasional hill, and some small rocky acclivities. A shocking accident happened on board during this trip. A fine looking black boy (a slave of one of the deck passengers) was standing on the platform near the fly-wheel. The steam had just been stopped off, and the wheel was moving slowly by the impetus it had acquired. The poor boy unwittingly thrust his head between the spokes; a portion of the steam was at that moment let on, and his head and shoulders were torn to fragments. We buried him on shore the same day; the poor woman, his mistress, weeping and lamenting over him as for her own child. She told me she had brought him up from an infant; he had been as an affectionate son to her, and for years her only support. _March 20th._--On the morning of the 14th, we arrived at Independence landing, and shortly afterwards, Mr. N. and {22} myself walked to the town, three miles distant. The country here is very hilly and rocky, thickly covered with timber, and no prairie within several miles. The site of the town is beautiful, and very well selected, standing on a high point of land, and overlooking the surrounding country, but the town itself is very indifferent;[76] the houses, (about fifty,) are very much scattered, composed of logs and clay, and are low and inconvenient. There are six or eight stores here, two taverns, and a few tipling houses. As we did not fancy the town, nor the society that we saw there, we concluded to take up our residence at the house on the landing until the time of starting on our journey. We were very much disappointed in not being able to purchase any mules here, all the salable ones having been bought by the Santa Fee traders, several weeks since. Horses, also, are rather scarce, and are sold at higher prices than we had been taught to expect, the demand for them at this time being greater than usual. Mr. N. and myself have, however, been so fortunate as to find five excellent animals amongst the hundreds of wretched ones offered for sale, and have also engaged a man to attend to packing our loads, and perform the various duties of our camp. [76] For Independence, see our volume xix, p. 189, note 34 (Gregg).--ED. The men of the party, to the number of about fifty, are encamped on the bank of the river, and their tents whiten the plain for the distance of half a mile. I have often enjoyed the view on a fine moonlight evening from the door of the house, or perched upon a high hill immediately over the spot. The beautiful white tents, with a light gleaming from each, the smouldering fires around them, the incessant hum of the men, and occasionally the lively notes of a bacchanalian song, softened and rendered sweeter by distance. I probably contemplate these and similar scenes with the more interest, as they exhibit the manner in which the next five months of my life are to be spent. {23} We have amongst our men, a great variety of dispositions. Some who have not been accustomed to the kind of life they are to lead in future, look forward to it with eager delight, and talk of stirring incidents and hair-breadth 'scapes. Others who are more experienced seem to be as easy and unconcerned about it as a citizen would be in contemplating a drive of a few miles into the country. Some have evidently been reared in the shade, and not accustomed to hardships, but the majority are strong, able-bodied men, and many are almost as rough as the grizzly bears, of their feats upon which they are fond of boasting. During the day the captain keeps all his men employed in arranging and packing a vast variety of goods for carriage. In addition to the necessary clothing for the company, arms, ammunition, &c., there are thousands of trinkets of various kinds, beads, paint, bells, rings, and such trumpery, intended as presents for the Indians, as well as objects of trade with them. The bales are usually made to weigh about eighty pounds, of which a horse carries two. I am very much pleased with the manner in which Captain W. manages his men. He appears admirably calculated to gain the good will, and ensure the obedience of such a company, and adopts the only possible mode of accomplishing his end. They are men who have been accustomed to act independently; they possess a strong and indomitable spirit which will never succumb to authority, and will only be conciliated by kindness and familiarity. I confess I admire this spirit. It is noble; it is free and characteristic, but for myself, I have not been accustomed to seeing it exercised, and when a rough fellow comes up without warning, and slaps me on the shoulder, with, "stranger what for a gun is that you carry?" I start, and am on the point of making an angry reply, but I remember where I am, check the feeling instantly, and submit the weapon to his inspection. Captain W. {24} may frequently be seen sitting on the ground, surrounded by a knot of his independents, consulting them as to his present arrangements and future movements, and paying the utmost deference to the opinion of the least among them. We were joined here by Mr. Milton Sublette, a trader and trapper of some ten or twelve years' standing. It is his intention to travel with us to the mountains, and we are very glad of his company, both on account of his intimate acquaintance with the country, and the accession to our band of about twenty trained hunters, "true as the steel of their tried blades," who have more than once followed their brave and sagacious leader over the very track which we intend to pursue. He appears to be a man of strong sense and courteous manners, and his men are enthusiastically attached to him.[77] [77] For Milton Sublette, see note 44, p. 67, _ante_.--ED. Five missionaries, who intend to travel under our escort, have also just arrived. The principal of these is a Mr. Jason Lee, (a tall and powerful man, who looks as though he were well calculated to buffet difficulties in a wild country,) his nephew, Mr. Daniel Lee, and three younger men of respectable standing in society, who have arrayed themselves under the missionary banner, chiefly for the gratification of seeing a new country, and participating in strange adventures.[78] [78] The establishment of the Oregon mission was due to the appeal published in the East, of a deputation (1831) of Flathead chiefs to General William Clark at St. Louis for the purpose of gaining religious instruction. The leaders of the Methodist church, thus aroused, chose (1833) Jason Lee to found the mission to the Western Indians, and made an appropriation for the purpose. Jason Lee was born in Canada (1803), of American parents; he had already taught Indians in his native village, and attended Wesleyan Seminary at Wilbraham, Massachusetts. After several efforts to arrange the journey to Oregon, he heard of Wyeth's return, and requested permission to join his outgoing party. Arrived at Vancouver, he determined to establish his mission station in the Willamette valley, where he labored for ten years, building a colony as well as a mission. Once he returned to the United States (1838-40) for money and reinforcements. In 1844, while visiting Honolulu, he learned that he had been superseded in the charge of the mission, and returned to the United States to die the following year, near his birthplace in Lower Canada. Daniel Lee, who accompanied his uncle, seconded the latter's efforts in the mission establishment. In 1835 he voyaged to Hawaii for his health, and in 1838 established the Dalles mission, where he labored until his return to the United States in 1843. The other missionaries were Cyrus Shepard, a lay helper and teacher--who died at the Willamette mission, January 1, 1840--C. M. Walker, and A. L. Edwards, who joined the party in Missouri.--ED. My favorites, the birds, are very numerous in this vicinity, and I am therefore in my element. Parroquets are plentiful in the bottom lands, the two species of squirrel are abundant, and rabbits, turkies, and deer are often killed by our people. I was truly rejoiced to receive yesterday a letter from my family. I went to the office immediately on my arrival here, confidently expecting to find one lying there for me; I was told there was none, and I could not believe it, or would not; I took all the letters in my hand, and examined each of them myself, and I suppose that during the process my expressions of disappointment were "loud and deep," as I observed the eyes of a number {25} of persons in the store directed towards me with manifest curiosity and surprise. The obtuse creatures could not appreciate my feelings. I was most anxious to receive intelligence from home, as some of the members of the family were indisposed when I left, and in a few days more I should be traversing the uncultivated prairie and the dark forest, and perhaps never hear from my home again. The letter came at last, however, and was an inexpressible consolation to me. The little town of Independence has within a few weeks been the scene of a brawl, which at one time threatened to be attended with serious consequences, but which was happily settled without bloodshed. It had been for a considerable time the stronghold of a sect of fanatics, called Mormons, or Mormonites, who, as their numbers increased, and they obtained power, showed an inclination to lord it over the less assuming inhabitants of the town. This was a source of irritation which they determined to rid themselves of in a summary manner, and accordingly the whole town rose, _en masse_, and the poor followers of the prophet were forcibly ejected from the community. They took refuge in the little town of Liberty, on the opposite side of the river, and the villagers here are now in a constant state of feverish alarm. Reports have been circulated that the Mormons are preparing to attack the town, and put the inhabitants to the sword, and they have therefore stationed sentries along the river for several miles, to prevent the landing of the enemy.[79] The troops parade and study military tactics every day, and seem determined to repel, with spirit, the threatened invasion. The probability is, that the report respecting the attack, is, as John Bull says, "all humbug," and this training and marching has already been a source of no little annoyance to us, as the miserable little skeleton of a saddler who is engaged to work for our party, has neglected his business, and must go a soldiering in stead. A day or two ago, I tried to convince the little man that he was of no use to the army, {26} for if a Mormon were to say _pooh_ at him, it would blow him away beyond the reach of danger or of glory; but he thought not, and no doubt concluded that he was a "marvellous proper man," so we were put to great inconvenience waiting for our saddles. [79] For these Mormon troubles, see Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_, in our volume xx, pp. 93-99.--ED. {27} CHAPTER II Departure of the caravan--A storm on the prairie--Arrangement of the camp--The cook's desertion--Kanzas Indians--Kanzas river--Indian lodges--Passage of the river--Buffalo canoes--Kanzas chief--Costume of the Indians--Upper Kaw village--Their wigwams--Catfish and ravens--Return of Mr. Sublette--Pawnee trace--Desertion of three men--Difficulties occasioned by losing the trail--Intelligence of Mr. Sublette's party--Escape of the band of horses--Visit of three Otto Indians--Anecdote of Richardson, the chief hunter--His appearance and character--White wolves and antelopes--Buffalo bones--Sublette's deserted camp--Lurking wolves. On the 28th of April, at 10 o'clock in the morning, our caravan, consisting of seventy men, and two hundred and fifty horses, began its march; Captain Wyeth and Milton Sublette took the lead, Mr. N. and myself rode beside them; then the men in double file, each leading, with a line, two horses heavily laden, and Captain Thing (Captain W.'s assistant) brought up the rear. The band of missionaries, with their horned cattle, rode along the flanks. I frequently sallied out from my station to look at and admire the appearance of the cavalcade, and as we rode out from the encampment, our horses prancing, and neighing, and pawing the ground, it was altogether so exciting that I could scarcely contain myself. Every man in the company seemed to feel a portion of the same kind of enthusiasm; uproarious bursts of merriment, and gay and lively songs, were constantly echoing along the line. We were certainly a most merry and happy company. What cared we for the future? We had reason to expect that ere long difficulties and dangers, in various shapes, {28} would assail us, but no anticipation of reverses could check the happy exuberance of our spirits. Our road lay over a vast rolling prairie, with occasional small spots of timber at the distance of several miles apart, and this will no doubt be the complexion of the track for some weeks. In the afternoon we crossed the _Big Blue_ river at a shallow ford.[80] Here we saw a number of beautiful yellow-headed troopials, (_Icterus zanthrocephalus_,) feeding upon the prairie in company with large flocks of black birds, and like these, they often alight upon the backs of our horses. [80] Townsend is here in error. It would be impossible to reach the Big Blue River the first day out from Independence, and before crossing the Kansas. The former stream is a northern tributary of the latter, over a hundred miles from its mouth. The Oregon Trail led along its banks for some distance, crossing at the entrance of the Little Blue.--ED. _29th._--A heavy rain fell all the morning, which had the effect of calming our transports in a great measure, and in the afternoon it was succeeded by a tremendous hail storm. During the rain, our party left the road, and proceeded about a hundred yards from it to a range of bushes, near a stream of water, for the purpose of encamping. We had just arrived here, and had not yet dismounted, when the hail storm commenced. It came on very suddenly, and the stones, as large as musket balls, dashing upon our horses, created such a panic among them, that they plunged, and kicked, and many of them threw their loads, and fled wildly over the plain. They were all overtaken, however, and as the storm was not of long duration, they were soon appeased, and _staked_ for the night. To stake or fasten a horse for the night, he is provided with a strong leathern halter, with an iron ring attached to the chin strap. To this ring, a rope of hemp or plaited leather, twenty-two feet in length, is attached, and the opposite end of the line made fast with several clove hitches around an oak or hickory pin, two and a half feet long. The top of this pin or stake is ringed with iron to prevent its being bruised, and it is then driven to the head in the ground. For greater security, hopples made of stout leather are buckled around the fore legs; and then, {29} if the tackling is good, it is almost impossible for a horse to escape. Care is always taken to stake him in a spot where he may eat grass all night. The animals are placed sufficiently far apart to prevent them interfering with each other. Camping out to-night is not so agreeable as it might be, in consequence of the ground being very wet and muddy, and our blankets (our only bedding) thoroughly soaked; but we expect to encounter greater difficulties than these ere long, and we do not murmur. A description of the formation of our camp may, perhaps, not be amiss here. The party is divided into messes of eight men, and each mess is allowed a separate tent. The captain of a mess, (who is generally an "old hand," _i. e._ an experienced forester, hunter, or trapper,) receives each morning the rations of pork, flour, &c. for his people, and they choose one of their body as cook for the whole. Our camp now consists of nine messes, of which Captain W.'s forms one, although it only contains four persons besides the cook. When we arrive in the evening at a suitable spot for an encampment, Captain W. rides round a space which he considers large enough to accommodate it, and directs where each mess shall pitch its tent. The men immediately unload their horses, and place their bales of goods in the direction indicated, and in such manner, as in case of need, to form a sort of fortification and defence. When all the messes are arranged in this way, the camp forms a hollow square, in the centre of which the horses are placed and staked firmly to the ground. The guard consists of from six to eight men, and is relieved three times each night, and so arranged that each gang may serve alternate nights. The captain of a guard (who is generally also the captain of a mess) collects his people at the appointed hour, and posts them around outside the camp in such situations that they may command {30} a view of the environs, and be ready to give the alarm in case of danger. The captain cries the hour regularly by a watch, and _all's well_, every fifteen minutes, and each man of the guard is required to repeat this call in rotation, which if any one should fail to do, it is fair to conclude that he is asleep, and he is then immediately visited and stirred up. In case of defection of this kind, our laws adjudge to the delinquent the hard sentence of walking three days. As yet none of our poor fellows have incurred this penalty, and the probability is, that it would not at this time be enforced, as we are yet in a country where little molestation is to be apprehended; but in the course of another week's travel, when thieving and ill-designing Indians will be outlying on our trail, it will be necessary that the strictest watch be kept, and, for the preservation of our persons and property, that our laws shall be rigidly enforced. _May 1st._--On rising this morning, and inquiring about our prospects of a breakfast, we discovered that the cook of our mess (a little, low-browed, ill-conditioned Yankee) had decamped in the night, and left our service to seek for a better. He probably thought the duties too hard for him, but as he was a miserable cook, we should not have much regretted his departure, had he not thought proper to take with him an excellent rifle, powder-horn, shot-pouch, and other matters that did not belong to him. It is only surprising that he did not select one of our best horses to carry him; but as he had the grace to take his departure on foot, and we have enough men without him, we can wish him God speed, and a fair run to the settlements. We encamped this evening on a small branch of the Kanzas river. As we approached our stopping place, we were joined by a band of Kanzas Indians, (commonly called _Kaw_ Indians.)[81] They are encamped in a neighboring copse, where they have {31} six lodges. This party is a small division of a portion of this tribe, who are constantly wandering; but although their journeys are sometimes pretty extensive, they seldom approach nearer to the settlements than they are at present. They are very friendly, are not so tawdrily decorated as those we saw below, and use little or no paint. This may, however, be accounted for by their not having the customary ornaments, &c., as their ears are filled with trinkets of various kinds, and are horribly gashed in the usual manner. The dress of most that we have seen, has consisted of ordinary woollen pantaloons received from the whites, and their only covering, from the waist up, is a blanket or buffalo robe. The head is shaved somewhat in the manner of the Sâques and Foxes, leaving the well known scalping tuft; but unlike the Indians just mentioned, the hair is allowed to grow upon the middle of the head, and extends backwards in a longitudinal ridge to the occiput. It is here gathered into a kind of queue, plaited, and suffered to hang down the back. There were amongst them several squaws, with young children tied to their backs, and a number of larger urchins ran about our camp wholly naked. [81] For the first stretches of the Oregon Trail and the crossing of the Kansas, see note 30, p. 49, _ante_. The Kansa Indians are noticed in Bradbury's _Travels_, our volume v, p. 67, note 37.--ED. The whole of the following day we remained in camp, trading buffalo robes, _apishemeaus_,[82] &c., of the Indians. These people became at length somewhat troublesome to us who were not traders, by a very free exercise of their begging propensities. They appear to be exceedingly poor and needy, and take the liberty of asking unhesitatingly, and without apparent fear of refusal, for any articles that happen to take their fancy. [82] These are mats made of rushes, used for building wigwams, carpets, beds, and coverings of all sorts. The early Algonquian term was "apaquois;" see _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, xvi, index. "Apichement" is the usual form of the word.--ED. I have observed, that among the Indians now with us, none but the chief uses the pipe. He smokes the article called _kanikanik_,--a mixture of tobacco and the dried leaves of the poke plant, (_Phytolacca decandra_.) I was amused last evening by the old chief asking me in his impressive manner, (first by pointing with his finger towards the sunset, and then raising his {32} hands high over his head,) if I was going to the mountains. On answering him in the affirmative, he depressed his hands, and passed them around his head in both directions, then turned quickly away from me, with a very solemn and significant _ugh_! He meant, doubtless, that my brain was turned; in plain language, that I was a fool. This may be attributed to his horror of the Blackfeet Indians, with whom a portion of his tribe was formerly at war. The poor Kaws are said to have suffered dreadfully in these savage conflicts, and were finally forced to abandon the country to their hereditary foes. We were on the move early the next morning, and at noon arrived at the Kanzas river, a branch of the Missouri.[83] This is a broad and not very deep stream, with the water dark and turbid, like that of the former. As we approached it, we saw a number of Indian lodges, made of saplings driven into the ground, bent over and tied at top, and covered with bark and buffalo skins. These lodges, or wigwams, are numerous on both sides of the river. As we passed them, the inhabitants, men, women, and children, flocked out to see us, and almost prevented our progress by their eager greetings. Our party stopped on the bank of the river, and the horses were unloaded and driven into the water. They swam beautifully, and with great regularity, and arrived safely on the opposite shore, where they were confined in a large lot, enclosed with a fence. After some difficulty, and considerable detention, we succeeded in procuring a large flat bottomed boat, embarked ourselves and goods in it, and landed on the opposite side near our horse pen, where we encamped. The lodges are numerous here, and there are also some good frame houses inhabited by a few white men and women, who subsist chiefly by raising cattle, which they drive to the settlements below. They, as well as the Indians, raise an abundance of good corn; potatoes and other vegetables are also plentiful, and they can therefore live sufficiently well. [83] For the Kansas River, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, p. 174, note 140.--ED. {33} The canoes used by the Indians are mostly made of buffalo skins, stretched, while recent, over a light frame work of wood, the seams sewed with sinews, and so closely, as to be wholly impervious to water. These light vessels are remarkably buoyant, and capable of sustaining very heavy burthens.[84] [84] For these skin canoes, see illustration in Maximilian's _Travels_, atlas, our volume xxv.--ED. In the evening the principal Kanzas chief paid us a visit in our tent. He is a young man about twenty-five years of age, straight as a poplar, and with a noble countenance and bearing, but he appeared to me to be marvellously deficient in most of the requisites which go to make the character of a _real_ Indian chief, at least of such Indian chiefs as we read of in our popular books. I begin to suspect, in truth, that these lofty and dignified attributes are more apt to exist in the fertile brain of the novelist, than in reality. Be this as it may, _our_ chief is a very lively, laughing, and rather playful personage; perhaps he may put on his dignity, like a glove, when it suits his convenience. We remained in camp the whole of next day, and traded with the Indians for a considerable number of robes, _apishemeaus_, and halter ropes of hide. Our fat bacon and tobacco were in great demand for these useful commodities. The Kaws living here appear to be much more wealthy than those who joined our camp on the prairie below. They are in better condition, more richly dressed, cleaner, and more comfortable than their wandering brothers. The men have generally fine countenances, but all the women that I have seen are homely. I cannot admire them. Their dress consists, universally of deer skin leggings, belted around the loins, and over the upper part of the body a buffalo robe or blanket. On the 20th in the morning, we packed our horses and rode out of the Kaw settlement, leaving the river immediately, and making a N. W. by W. course--and the next day came to another village of the same tribe, consisting of about thirty lodges, and situated in the midst of a beautiful level prairie. {34} The Indians stopped our caravan almost by force, and evinced so much anxiety to trade with us, that we could not well avoid gratifying them. We remained with them about two hours, and bought corn, moccasins and leggings in abundance. The lodges here are constructed very differently from those of the lower village. They are made of large and strong timbers, a ridge pole runs along the top, and the different pieces are fastened together by leathern thongs. The roofs,--which are single, making but one angle,--are of stout poplar bark, and form an excellent defence, both against rain and the rays of the sun, which must be intense during midsummer in this region. These prairies are often visited by heavy gales of wind, which would probably demolish the huts, were they built of frail materials like those below. We encamped in the evening on a small stream called Little Vermillion creek,[85] where we found an abundance of excellent catfish, exactly similar to those of the Schuylkill river. Our people caught them in great numbers. Here we first saw the large ravens, (_Corvus corax_.) They hopped about the ground all around our camp; and as we left it, they came in, pell-mell, croaking, fighting, and scrambling for the few fragments that remained. [85] Now usually known as the Red Vermilion, a northern tributary of Kansas River in Pottawatomie County, Kansas.--ED. _8th._--This morning Mr. Sublette left us to return to the settlements. He has been suffering for a considerable time with a fungus in one of his legs, and it has become so much worse since we started, in consequence of irritation caused by riding, that he finds it impossible to proceed. His departure has thrown a gloom over the whole camp. We all admired him for his amiable qualities, and his kind and obliging disposition. For myself, I had become so much attached to him, that I feel quite melancholy about his leaving us.[86] [86] I have since learned that his limb was twice amputated; but notwithstanding this, the disease lingered in the system, and about a year ago, terminated his life.--TOWNSEND. {35} The weather is now very warm, and there has been a dead calm all day, which renders travelling most uncomfortable. We have frequently been favored with fresh breezes, which make it very agreeable, but the moment these fail us we are almost suffocated with intense heat. Our rate of travelling is about twenty miles per day, which, in this warm weather, and with heavily packed horses, is as much as we can accomplish with comfort to ourselves and animals. On the afternoon of the next day, we crossed a broad Indian trail, bearing northerly, supposed to be about five days old, and to have been made by a war party of Pawnees. We are now in the country traversed by these Indians, and are daily expecting to see them, but Captain W. seems very desirous to avoid them, on account of their well known thieving propensities, and quarrelsome disposition. These Indians go every year to the plains of the Platte, where they spend some weeks in hunting the buffalo, jerking their meat, and preparing their skins for robes; they then push on to the Black Hills, and look out for the parties of Blackfeet, which are also bound to the Platte river plains. When the opposing parties come in collision, (which frequently happens,) the most cruel and sanguinary conflicts ensue. In the evening, three of our men deserted. Like our quondam cook, they all took rifles, &c., that did not belong to them, and one of these happened to be a favorite piece of Captain W.'s, which had done him good service in his journey across this country two years ago. He was very much attached to the gun, and in spite of his calm and cool philosophy in all vexatious matters, he cannot altogether conceal his chagrin. The little streams of this part of the country are fringed with a thick growth of pretty trees and bushes, and the buds are now swelling, and the leaves expanding, to "welcome back the spring." The birds, too, sing joyously amongst them, grosbeaks, thrushes, and buntings, a merry and musical band. I am particularly {36} fond of sallying out early in the morning, and strolling around the camp. The light breeze just bends the tall tops of the grass on the boundless prairie, the birds are commencing their matin carollings, and all nature looks fresh and beautiful. The horses of the camp are lying comfortably on their sides, and seem, by the glances which they give me in passing, to know that their hour of toil is approaching, and the patient kine are ruminating in happy unconsciousness. _11th._--We encountered some rather serious difficulties to-day in fording several wide and deep creeks, having muddy and miry bottoms. Many of our horses, (and particularly those that were packed,) fell into the water, and it was with the greatest difficulty and labor that they were extricated. Some of the scenes presented were rather ludicrous to those who were not actors in them. The floundering, kicking, and falling of horses in the heavy slough, man and beast rolling over together, and _squattering_ amongst the black mud, and the wo-begone looks of horse, rider, and horse-furniture, often excited a smile, even while we pitied their begrimed and miserable plight. All these troubles are owing to our having lost the trail yesterday, and we have been travelling to-day as nearly in the proper course as our compass indicated, and hope soon to find it. _12th._--Our scouts came in this morning with the intelligence that they had found a large trail of white men, bearing N. W. We have no doubt that this is Wm. Sublette's party, and that it passed us last evening.[87] They must have travelled very rapidly to overtake us so soon, and no doubt had men ahead watching our motions. It seems rather unfriendly, perhaps, to run by us in this furtive way, without even stopping to say good morning, but Sublette is attached to a rival company, and all stratagems are deemed allowable when interest is concerned. It is a matter of some moment to be the first at the mountain rendezvous, {37} in order to obtain the furs brought every summer by the trappers. [87] For biographical sketch of William Sublette, see our volume xix, p. 221 note 55 (Gregg). His haste to reach the rendezvous in the mountains before the arrival of Wyeth's party, was connected with the arrangements for supplies; see preface to the present volume.--ED. Last night, while I was serving on guard, I observed an unusual commotion among our band of horses, a wild neighing, snorting, and plunging, for which I was unable to account. I directed several of my men to go in and appease them, and endeavor to ascertain the cause. They had scarcely started, however, when about half of the band broke their fastenings, snapped the hopples on their legs, and went dashing right through the midst of the camp. Down went several of the tents, the rampart of goods was cleared in gallant style, and away went the frightened animals at full speed over the plain. The whole camp was instantly aroused. The horses that remained, were bridled as quickly as possible; we mounted them without saddles, and set off in hard pursuit after the fugitives. The night was pitch dark, but we needed no light to point out the way, as the clattering of hoofs ahead on the hard ground of the prairie, sounded like thunder. After riding half an hour, we overtook about forty of them, and surrounding them with difficulty, succeeded in driving them back, and securing them as before. Twenty men were then immediately despatched to scour the country, and bring in the remainder. This party was headed by Mr. Lee, our missionary, (who, with his usual promptitude, volunteered his services,) and they returned early this morning, bringing nearly sixty more. We find, however, upon counting the horses in our possession, that there are yet three missing. While we were at breakfast, three Indians of the Otto tribe, came to our camp to see, and smoke with us.[88] These were men of rather short stature, but strong and firmly built. Their countenances resemble in general expression those of the Kanzas, and their dresses are very similar. We are all of opinion, that it is to these Indians we owe our difficulties of last night, and we have no doubt that the three missing horses are now in their {38} possession, but as we cannot prove it upon them, and cannot even converse with them, (having no interpreters,) we are compelled to submit to our loss in silence. Perhaps we should even be thankful that we have not lost more. [88] For the Oto, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 74, note 42.--ED. While these people were smoking the pipe of peace with us, after breakfast, I observed that Richardson, our chief hunter, (an experienced man in this country, of a tall and iron frame, and almost child-like simplicity of character, in fact an exact counterpart of _Hawk-eye_ in his younger days,) stood aloof, and refused to sit in the circle, in which it was always the custom of the _old hands_ to join. Feeling some curiosity to ascertain the cause of this unusual diffidence, I occasionally allowed my eyes to wander to the spot where our sturdy hunter stood looking moodily upon us, as the calamet passed from hand to hand around the circle, and I thought I perceived him now and then cast a furtive glance at one of the Indians who sat opposite to me, and sometimes his countenance would assume an expression almost demoniacal, as though the most fierce and deadly passions were raging in his bosom. I felt certain that hereby hung a tale, and I watched for a corresponding expression, or at least a look of consciousness, in the face of my opposite neighbor, but expression there was none. His large features were settled in a tranquillity which nothing could disturb, and as he puffed the smoke in huge volumes from his mouth, and the fragrant vapor wreathed and curled around his head, he seemed the embodied spirit of meekness and taciturnity. The camp moved soon after, and I lost no time in overhauling Richardson, and asking an explanation of his singular conduct. "Why," said he, "that _Injen_ that sat opposite to you, is my bitterest enemy. I was once going down alone from the rendezvous with letters for St. Louis, and when I arrived on the lower {39} part of the Platte river, (just a short distance beyond us here,) I fell in with about a dozen Ottos. They were known to be a friendly tribe, and I therefore felt no fear of them. I dismounted from my horse and sat with them upon the ground. It was in the depth of winter; the ground was covered with snow, and the river was frozen solid. While I was thinking of nothing but my dinner, which I was then about preparing, four or five of the cowards jumped on me, mastered my rifle, and held my arms fast, while they took from me my knife and tomahawk, my flint and steel, and all my ammunition. They then loosed me, and told me to be off. I begged them, for the love of God, to give me my rifle and a few loads of ammunition, or I should starve before I could reach the settlements. No--I should have nothing, and if I did not start off immediately, they would throw me under the ice of the river. And," continued the excited hunter,--while he ground his teeth with bitter, and uncontrollable rage,--"that man that sat opposite to you was the chief of them. He recognised me, and knew very well the reason why I would not smoke with him. I tell you, sir, if ever I meet that man in any other situation than that in which I saw him this morning, I'll shoot him with as little hesitation as I would shoot a deer. Several years have passed since the perpetration of this outrage, but it is still as fresh in my memory as ever, and I again declare, that if ever an opportunity offers, I will kill that man." "But, Richardson, did they take your horse also?" "To be sure they did, and my blankets, and every thing I had, except my clothes." "But how did you subsist until you reached the settlements? You had a long journey before you." "Why, set to _trappin'_ prairie squirrels with little nooses made out of the hairs of my head." I should remark that his hair was so long, that it fell in heavy masses on his shoulders. "But squirrels in winter, Richardson, I never heard of squirrels in winter." "Well but there was plenty of them, though; little white ones, that lived among the {40} snow." "Well, really, this was an unpleasant sort of adventure enough, but let me suggest that you do very wrong to remember it with such blood-thirsty feelings." He shook his head with a dogged and determined air, and rode off as if anxious to escape a lecture. A little sketch of our hunter may perhaps not be uninteresting, as he will figure somewhat in the following pages, being one of the principal persons of the party, the chief hunter, and a man upon whose sagacity and knowledge of the country we all in a great measure depended. In height he is several inches over six feet, of a spare but remarkably strong and vigorous frame, and a countenance of almost infantile simplicity and openness. In disposition he is mild and affable, but when roused to indignation, his keen eyes glitter and flash, the muscles of his large mouth work convulsively, and he looks the very impersonation of the spirit of evil. He is implacable in anger, and bitter in revenge; never forgetting a kindness, but remembering an injury with equal tenacity. Such is the character of our hunter, and none who have known him as I have, will accuse me of delineating from fancy. His native place is Connecticut, which he left about twelve years ago, and has ever since been engaged in roaming through the boundless plains and rugged mountains of the west, often enduring the extremity of famine and fatigue, exposed to dangers and vicissitudes of every kind, all for the paltry, and often uncertain pittance of a Rocky Mountain hunter. He says he is now tired of this wandering and precarious life, and when he shall be enabled to save enough from his earnings to buy a farm in Connecticut, he intends to settle down a quiet tiller of the soil, and enjoy the sweets of domestic felicity. But this day will probably never arrive. Even should he succeed in realizing a little fortune, and the farm should be taken, the monotony and tameness of the scene will weary his free spirit; he will often sigh for a habitation {41} on the broad prairie, or a ramble over the dreary mountains where his lot has so long been cast. _15th._--We saw to-day several large white wolves, and two herds of antelopes. The latter is one of the most beautiful animals I ever saw. When full grown, it is nearly as large as a deer. The horns are rather short, with a single prong near the top, and an abrupt backward curve at the summit like a hook. The ears are very delicate, almost as thin as paper, and hooked at the tip like the horns. The legs are remarkably light and beautifully formed, and as it bounds over the plain, it seems scarcely to touch the ground, so exceedingly light and agile are its motions. This animal is the _Antelope furcifer_ of zoologists, and inhabits the western prairies of North America exclusively. The ground here is strewn with great quantities of buffalo bones; the skulls of many of them in great perfection. I often thought of my friend Doctor M. and his _golgotha_, while we were kicking these fine specimens about the ground. We are now travelling along the banks of the Blue river,--a small fork of the Kanzas. The grass is very luxuriant and good, and we have excellent and beautiful camps every night. This morning a man was sent ahead to see W. Sublette's camp, and bear a message to him, who returned in the evening with the information that the company is only one day's journey beyond, and consists of about thirty-five men. We see his deserted camps every day, and, in some cases, the fires are not yet extinguished. It is sometimes amusing to see the wolves lurking like guilty things around these camps seeking for the fragments that may be left; as our party approaches, they sneak away with a mean, hang-dog air which often coaxes a whistling bullet out of the rifle of the wayfarer. {42} CHAPTER III Arrival at the Platte river--Wolves and antelopes--Saline efflorescences--Anxiety of the men to see buffalo--Visit of two spies from the Grand Pawnees--Forced march--A herd of buffalo--Elk--Singular conduct of the horses--Killing a buffalo--Indian mode of procuring buffalo--Great herd--Intention of the men to desert--Adventure with an Indian in the tent--Circumspection necessary--Indian feat with bow and arrow--Notice of the Pawnee tribes--Disappearance of the buffalo from the plains of the Platte--A hunting adventure--Killing a buffalo--Butchering of a bull--Shameful destruction of the game--Hunters' mode of quenching thirst. On the 18th of May we arrived at the Platte river. It is from one and a half to two miles in width, very shoal; large sand flats, and small, verdant islands appearing in every part. Wolves and antelopes were in great abundance here, and the latter were frequently killed by our men. We saw, also, the sandhill crane, great heron, (_Ardea heroidas_,) and the long-billed curlew, stalking about through the shallow water, and searching for their aquatic food. The prairie is here as level as a race course, not the slightest undulation appearing throughout the whole extent of vision, in a north and westerly direction; but to the eastward of the river, and about eight miles from it, is seen a range of high bluffs or sand banks, stretching away to the south-east until they are lost in the far distance. The ground here is in many places encrusted with an impure salt, which by the taste appears to be a combination of the sulphate and muriate of soda; there are also a number of little pools, of only a few inches in depth, scattered over the plain, the water of which is so bitter and pungent, that it seems to penetrate {43} into the tongue, and almost to produce decortication of the mouth. We are now within about three days' journey of the usual haunts of the buffalo, and our men (particularly the uninitiated) look forward to our arrival amongst them with considerable anxiety. They have listened to the garrulous hunter's details of "_approaching_," and "_running_," and "_quartering_," until they fancy themselves the very actors in the scenes related, and are fretting and fuming with impatience to draw their maiden triggers upon the unoffending rangers of the plain. The next morning, we perceived two men on horseback, at a great distance; and upon looking at them with our telescope, discovered them to be Indians, and that they were approaching us. When they arrived within three or four hundred yards, they halted, and appeared to wish to communicate with us, but feared to approach too nearly. Captain W. rode out alone and joined them, while the party proceeded slowly on its way. In about fifteen minutes he returned with the information that they were of the tribe called Grand Pawnees.[89] They told him that a war party of their people, consisting of fifteen hundred warriors, was encamped about thirty miles below; and the captain inferred that these men had been sent to watch our motions, and ascertain our place of encampment; he was therefore careful to impress upon them that we intended to go but a few miles further, and pitch our tents upon a little stream near the main river. When we were satisfied that the messengers were out of sight of us, on their return to their camp, our whole caravan was urged into a brisk trot, and we determined to steal a march upon our neighbors. The little stream was soon passed, and we went on, and on, without slackening our pace, until 12 o'clock at night. We then called a halt on the bank of the river, made a hasty meal, threw ourselves down in our blankets, without pitching the tents, and slept soundly for three hours. We were {44} then aroused, and off we went again, travelling steadily the whole day, making about thirty-five miles, and so got quite clear of the Grand Pawnees. [89] On the different branches of Pawnee, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, p. 233, note 179.--ED. The antelopes are very numerous here. There is not half an hour during the day in which they are not seen, and they frequently permit the party to approach very near them. This afternoon, two beautiful does came bounding after us, bleating precisely like sheep. The men imitated the call, and they came up to within fifty yards of us, and stood still; two of the hunters fired, and both the poor creatures fell dead. We can now procure as many of these animals as we wish, but their flesh is not equal to common venison, and is frequently rejected by our people. A number are, however, slaughtered every day, from mere wantonness and love of killing, the greenhorns glorying in the sport, like our striplings of the city, in their annual murdering of robins and sparrows. _20th._--This afternoon, we came in sight of a large _gang_ of the long-coveted buffalo. They were grazing on the opposite side of the Platte, quietly as domestic cattle, but as we neared them, the foremost _winded_ us, and started back, and the whole herd followed in the wildest confusion, and were soon out of sight. There must have been many thousands of them. Towards evening, a large band of elk came towards us at full gallop, and passed very near the party. The appearance of these animals produced a singular effect upon our horses, all of which became restive, and about half the loose ones broke away, and scoured over the plain in full chase after the elk. Captain W. and several of his men went immediately in pursuit of them, and returned late at night, bringing the greater number. Two have, however, been lost irrecoverably. Our observed latitude, yesterday, was 40° 31', and our computed distance from the Missouri settlements, about 360 miles. {45} The day following, we saw several small herds of buffalo on our side of the river. Two of our hunters started out after a huge bull that had separated himself from his companions, and gave him chase on fleet horses. Away went the buffalo, and away went the men, hard as they could dash; now the hunters gained upon him, and pressed him hard; again the enormous creature had the advantage, plunging with all his might, his terrific horns often ploughing up the earth as he spurned it under him. Sometimes he would double, and rush so near the horses as almost to gore them with his horns, and in an instant would be off in a tangent, and throw his pursuers from the track. At length the poor animal came to bay, and made some unequivocal demonstrations of combat; raising and tossing his head furiously, and tearing up the ground with his feet. At this moment a shot was fired. The victim trembled like an aspen, and fell to his knees, but recovering himself in an instant, started again as fast as before. Again the determined hunters dashed after him, but the poor bull was nearly exhausted, he proceeded but a short distance and stopped again. The hunters approached, rode slowly by him, and shot two balls through his body with the most perfect coolness and precision. During the race,--the whole of which occurred in full view of the party,--the men seemed wild with the excitement which it occasioned; and when the animal fell, a shout rent the air, which startled the antelopes by dozens from the bluffs, and sent the wolves howling like demons from their lairs. This is the most common mode of killing the buffalo, and is practised very generally by the travelling hunters; many are also destroyed by approaching them on foot, when, if the bushes are sufficiently dense, or the grass high enough to afford concealment, the hunter,--by keeping carefully to leeward of his game,--may sometimes approach so near as almost to touch {46} the animal. If on a plain, without grass or bushes, it is necessary to be very circumspect; to approach so slowly as not to excite alarm, and, when observed by the animal, to imitate dexterously, the clumsy motions of a young bear, or assume the sneaking, prowling attitude of a wolf, in order to lull suspicion. The Indians resort to another stratagem, which is, perhaps, even more successful. The skin of a calf is properly dressed, with the head and legs left attached to it. The Indian envelopes himself in this, and with his short bow and a brace of arrows, ambles off into the very midst of a herd. When he has selected such an animal as suits his fancy, he comes close alongside of it, and without noise, passes an arrow through its heart. One arrow is always sufficient, and it is generally delivered with such force, that at least half the shaft appears through the opposite side. The creature totters, and is about to fall, when the Indian glides around, and draws the arrow from the wound lest it should be broken. A single Indian is said to kill a great number of buffaloes in this way, before any alarm is communicated to the herd. Towards evening, on rising a hill, we were suddenly greeted by a sight which seemed to astonish even the oldest amongst us. The whole plain, as far as the eye could discern, was covered by one enormous mass of buffalo. Our vision, at the very least computation, would certainly extend ten miles, and in the whole of this great space, including about eight miles in width from the bluffs to the river bank, there was apparently no vista in the incalculable multitude. It was truly a sight that would have excited even the dullest mind to enthusiasm. Our party rode up to within a few hundred yards of the edge of the herd, before any alarm was communicated; then the bulls,--which are always stationed around as sentinels,--began pawing the ground, and {47} throwing the earth over their heads; in a few moments they started in a slow, clumsy canter; but as we neared them, they quickened their pace to an astonishingly rapid gallop, and in a few minutes were entirely beyond the reach of our guns, but were still so near that their enormous horns, and long shaggy beards, were very distinctly seen. Shortly after we encamped, our hunters brought in the choice parts of five that they had killed. For the space of several days past, we have observed an inclination in five or six of our men to leave our service. Immediately as we encamp, we see them draw together in some secluded spot, and engage in close and earnest conversation. This has occurred several times, and as we are determined, if possible, to keep our horses, &c., for our own use, we have stationed a sentry near their tent, whose orders are peremptory to stop them at any hazard in case of an attempt on their part, to appropriate our horses. The men we are willing to lose, as they are of very little service, and we can do without them; but horses here are valuable, and we cannot afford to part with them without a sufficient compensation. _22d._--On walking into our tent last night at eleven o'clock, after the expiration of the first watch, (in which I had served as supernumerary, to prevent the desertion of the men,) and stooping to lay my gun in its usual situation near the head of my pallet, I was startled by seeing a pair of eyes, wild and bright as those of a tiger, gleaming from a dark corner of the lodge, and evidently directed upon me. My first impression, was that a wolf had been lurking around the camp, and had entered the tent in the prospect of finding meat. My gun was at my shoulder instinctively, my aim was directed between the eyes, and my finger pressed the trigger. At that moment a tall Indian sprang before me with a loud _wah_! seized the gun, and elevated the muzzle above my head; in another instant, a second Indian was by my side, and I saw his keen knife glitter as it left the {48} scabbard. I had not time for thought, and was struggling with all my might with the first savage for the recovery of my weapon, when Captain W., and the other inmates of the tent were aroused, and the whole matter was explained, and set at rest in a moment. The Indians were chiefs of the tribe of Pawnee Loups,[90] who had come with their young men to shoot buffalo: they had paid an evening visit to the captain, and as an act of courtesy had been invited to sleep in the tent. I had not known of their arrival, nor did I even suspect that Indians were in our neighborhood, so could not control the alarm which their sudden appearance occasioned me. [90] For the Pawnee Loup (Wolf) Indians, consult Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 78, note 44.--ED. As I laid myself down, and drew my blanket around me, Captain W. touched me lightly with his finger, and pointed significantly to his own person, which I perceived,--by the fire light at the mouth of the tent,--to be garnished with his knife and pistols; I observed also that the muzzle of his rifle laid across his breast, and that the breech was firmly grasped by one of his legs. I took the hint; tightened my belt, drew my gun closely to my side, and composed myself to sleep. But the excitement of the scene through which I had just passed, effectually banished repose. I frequently directed my eyes towards the dark corner, and in the midst of the shapeless mass which occupied it, I could occasionally see the glittering orbs of our guest shining amidst the surrounding obscurity. At length fatigue conquered watchfulness, and I sank to sleep, dreaming of Indians, guns, daggers, and buffalo. Upon rising the next morning, all had left the tent: the men were busied in cooking their morning meal; kettles were hanging upon the rude cranes, great ribs of meat were roasting before the fires, and loading the air with fragrance, and my dreams and midnight reveries, and apprehensions of evil, fled upon the wings of the bright morning, and nought remained but a feeling of surprise that the untoward events of the night should have disturbed my equanimity. {49} While these thoughts were passing in my mind, my eye suddenly encountered the two Indians. They were squatting upon the ground near one of the fires, and appeared to be surveying, with the keenness of morning appetite, the fine "_hump ribs_" which were roasting before them. The moment they perceived me, I received from them a quick glance of recognition: the taller one,--my opponent of the previous night,--rose to his feet, walked towards me, and gave me his hand with great cordiality; then pointed into the tent, made the motions of raising a gun to his shoulder, taking aim, and in short repeated the entire pantomime with great fidelity, and no little humor, laughing the whole time as though he thought it a capital joke. Poor fellow! it was near proving a dear joke for him, and I almost trembled as I recollected the eager haste with which I sought to take the life of a fellow creature. The Indian evidently felt no ill will towards me, and as a proof of it, proposed an exchange of knives, to which I willingly acceded. He deposited mine,--which had my name engraved upon the handle,--in the sheath at his side, and walked away to his _hump ribs_ with the air of a man who is conscious of having done a good action. As he left me, one of our old trappers took occasion to say, that in consequence of this little act of savage courtesy, the Indian became my firm friend; and that if I ever met him again, I should be entitled to share his hospitality, or claim his protection. While the men were packing the horses, after breakfast, I was again engaged with my Indian friend. I took his bow and arrows in my hand, and remarked that the latter were smeared with blood throughout: upon my expressing surprise at this he told me, by signs, that they had passed through the body of the buffalo. I assumed a look of incredulity; the countenance of the savage brightened, and his peculiar and strange eyes actually flashed with eagerness, as he pointed to a dead antelope lying upon the ground about forty feet from us, and which one of {50} the guard had shot near the camp in the morning. The animal lay upon its side with the breast towards us: the bow was drawn slightly, without any apparent effort, and the arrow flew through the body of the antelope, and skimmed to a great distance over the plain. These Indians were the finest looking of any I have seen. Their persons were tall, straight, and finely formed; their noses slightly aqualine, and the whole countenance expressive of high and daring intrepidity. The face of the taller one was particularly admirable; and Gall or Spurzheim, at a single glance at his magnificent head, would have invested him with all the noblest qualities of the species.[91] I know not what a physiognomist would have said of his eyes, but they were certainly the most wonderful eyes I ever looked into; glittering and scintillating constantly, like the mirror-glasses in a lamp frame, and rolling and dancing in their orbits as though possessed of abstract volition. [91] Noted German phrenologists. Franz Joseph Gall (1758-1828) was founder of the school of phrenology; his chief work was _Anatomie et Physiologie du système nerveux_ (1810-20). Kasper Spurzheim (1776-1832) was a disciple of Gall's, publishing _Physiognomical System of Drs. Gall and Spurzheim_ (1815). He died in Boston.--ED. The tribe to which these Indians belong, is a division of the great Pawnee nation. There are four of these divisions or tribes, known by the names of Grand Pawnees, Pawnee Loups, Pawnee Republicans, and Pawnee Picts. They are all independent of each other, governed exclusively by chiefs chosen from among their own people, and although they have always been on terms of intimacy and friendship, never intermarry, nor have other intercourse than that of trade, or a conjunction of their forces to attack the common enemy. In their dealings with the whites, they are arbitrary and overbearing, chaffering about the price of a horse, or a beaver skin, with true huckster-like eagerness and mendacity, and seizing with avidity every unfair advantage, which circumstances or their own craft may put in their power. The buffalo still continue immensely numerous in every direction around, and our men kill great numbers, so that we are in truth living upon the fat of the land, and better feeding need {51} no man wish. The savory buffalo hump has suffered no depreciation since the "man without a cross" vaunted of its good qualities to "the stranger;" and in this, as in many other particulars, we have realized the truth and fidelity of Cooper's admirable descriptions. _23d._--When we rose this morning, not a single buffalo, of the many thousands that yesterday strewed the plain, was to be seen. It seemed like magic. Where could they have gone? I asked myself this question again and again, but in vain. At length I applied to Richardson, who stated that they had gone to the bluffs, but for what reason he could not tell; he, however, had observed their tracks bearing towards the bluffs, and was certain that they would be found there. He and Sandsbury (another hunter) were then about starting on a hunt to supply the camp, and I concluded to accompany them; Mr. Lee, the missionary, also joined us, and we all rode off together. The party got under way about the same time, and proceeded along the bank of the river, while we struck off south to look for the buffalo. About one hour's brisk trotting carried us to the bluffs, and we entered amongst large conical hills of yellow clay, intermixed with strata of limestone, but without the slightest vegetation of any kind. On the plains which we had left, the grass was in great luxuriance, but here not a blade of it was to be seen, and yet, as Richardson had predicted, here were the buffalo. We had not ridden a mile before we entered upon a plain of sand of great extent, and observed ahead vast clouds of dust rising and circling in the air as though a tornado or a whirlwind were sweeping over the earth. "Ha!" said Richardson, "there they are; now let us take the wind of them, and you shall see some sport." We accordingly went around to leeward, and, upon approaching nearer, saw the huge animals rolling over and over in the sand with astonishing agility enveloping themselves by the exercise in a perfect atmosphere of dust; occasionally two of the bulls would {52} spring from the ground and attack each other with amazing address and fury, retreating for ten or twelve feet, and then rushing suddenly forward, and dashing their enormous fronts together with a shock that seemed annihilating. In these rencontres, one of the combatants was often thrown back upon his haunches, and tumbled sprawling upon the ground; in which case, the victor, with true prize-fighting generosity, refrained from persecuting his fallen adversary, contenting himself with a hearty resumption of his rolling fit, and kicking up the dust with more than his former vigor, as if to celebrate his victory. This appeared to be a good situation to approach and kill the buffalo, as, by reason of the plentiful distribution of the little clay hills, an opportunity would be afforded of successful concealment; we separated, therefore, each taking his own course. In a very few minutes I heard the crack of a rifle in the direction in which Richardson had gone, and immediately after saw the frightened animals flying from the spot. The sound reverberated among the hills, and as it died away the herd halted to watch and listen for its repetition. For myself, I strolled on for nearly an hour, leading my horse, and peering over every hill, in the hope of finding a buffalo within range, but not one could I see that was sufficiently near; and when I attempted the stealthy approach which I had seen Richardson practise with so much success, I felt compelled to acknowledge my utter insufficiency. I had determined to kill a buffalo, and as I had seen it several times done with so much apparent ease, I considered it a mere moonshine matter, and thought I could compass it without difficulty; but now I had attempted it, and was grievously mistaken in my estimate of the required skill. I had several times heard the guns of the hunters, and felt satisfied that we should not go to camp without meat, and was on the point of altering my course to join them, when, as I wound around the base of a little hill, I saw about twenty buffalo lying quietly on the ground within {53} thirty yards of me. Now was my time. I took my picket from my saddle, and fastened my horse to the ground as quietly as possible, but with hands that almost failed to do their office, from my excessive eagerness and trembling anxiety. When this was completed, I crawled around the hill again, almost suspending my breath from fear of alarming my intended victims, until I came again in full view of the unsuspecting herd. There were so many fine animals that I was at a loss which to select; those nearest me appeared small and poor, and I therefore settled my aim upon a huge bull on the outside. Just then I was attacked with the "_bull fever_" so dreadfully, that for several minutes I could not shoot. At length, however, I became firm and steady, and pulled my trigger at exactly the right instant. Up sprang the herd like lightning, and away they scoured, and my bull with them. I was vexed, angry, and discontented; I concluded that I could never kill a buffalo, and was about to mount my horse and ride off in despair, when I observed that one of the animals had stopped in the midst of his career. I rode towards him, and sure enough, there was my great bull trembling and swaying from side to side, and the clotted gore hanging like icicles from his nostrils. In a few minutes after, he fell heavily upon his side, and I dismounted and surveyed the unwieldy brute, as he panted and struggled in the death agony. When the first ebullition of my triumph had subsided, I perceived that my prize was so excessively lean as to be worth nothing, and while I was exerting my whole strength in a vain endeavor to raise the head from the ground for the purpose of removing the tongue, the two hunters joined me, and laughed heartily at my achievement. Like all inexperienced hunters, I had been particular to select the largest bull in the gang, supposing it to be the best, (and it proved, as usual, the poorest,) while more than a dozen fat cows were nearer me, either of which I might have killed with as little trouble. {54} As I had supposed, my companions had killed several animals, but they had taken the meat of only one, and we had, therefore, to be diligent, or the camp might suffer for provisions. It was now past mid-day; the weather was very warm, and the atmosphere was charged with minute particles of sand, which produced a dryness and stiffness of the mouth and tongue, that was exceedingly painful and distressing. Water was now the desideratum, but where was it to be found? The arid country in which we then were, produced none, and the Platte was twelve or fourteen miles from us, and no buffalo in that direction, so that we could not afford time for so trifling a matter. I found that Mr. Lee was suffering as much as myself, although he had not spoken of it, and I perceived that Richardson was masticating a leaden bullet, to excite the salivary glands. Soon afterwards, a bull was killed, and we all assembled around the carcass to assist in the manipulations. The animal was first raised from his side where he had lain, and supported upon his knees, with his hoofs turned under him; a longitudinal incision was then made from the nape, or anterior base of the hump, and continued backward to the loins, and a large portion of the skin from each side removed; these pieces of skin were placed upon the ground, with the under surface uppermost, and the _fleeces_, or masses of meat, taken from along the back, were laid upon them. These fleeces, from a large animal, will weigh, perhaps, a hundred pounds each, and comprise the whole of the hump on each side of the vertical processes, (commonly called the _hump ribs_,) which are attached to the vertebra. The fleeces are considered the choice parts of the buffalo, and here, where the game is so abundant, nothing else is taken, if we except the tongue, and an occasional marrow bone. This, it must be confessed, appears like a useless and unwarrantable waste of the goods of Providence; but when are men economical, unless compelled to be so by necessity? Here are {55} more than a thousand pounds of delicious and savory flesh, which would delight the eyes and gladden the heart of any epicure in Christendom, left neglected where it fell, to feed the ravenous maw of the wild prairie wolf, and minister to the excesses of the unclean birds of the wilderness. But I have seen worse waste and havoc than this, and I feel my indignation rise at the recollection. I have seen dozens of buffalo slaughtered merely for the tongues, or for practice with the rifle; and I have also lived to see the very perpetrators of these deeds, lean and lank with famine, when the meanest and most worthless parts of the poor animals they had so inhumanly slaughtered, would have been received and eaten with humble thankfulness. But to return to ourselves. We were all suffering from excessive thirst, and so intolerable had it at length become, that Mr. Lee and myself proposed a gallop over to the Platte river, in order to appease it; but Richardson advised us not to go, as he had just thought of a means of relieving us, which he immediately proceeded to put in practice. He tumbled our mangled buffalo over upon his side, and with his knife opened the body, so as to expose to view the great stomach, and still crawling and twisting entrails. The good missionary and myself stood gaping with astonishment, and no little loathing, as we saw our hunter plunge his knife into the distended paunch, from which gushed the green and gelatinous juices, and then insinuate his tin pan into the opening, and by depressing its edge, strain off the water which was mingled with its contents. Richardson always valued himself upon his politeness, and the cup was therefore first offered to Mr. Lee and myself, but it is almost needless to say that we declined the proffer, and our features probably expressed the strong disgust which we felt, for our companion laughed heartily before he applied the cup to his own mouth. He then drank it to the dregs, smacking his lips, and drawing a long breath after it, with the satisfaction of a man {56} taking his wine after dinner. Sansbury, the other hunter, was not slow in following the example set before him, and we, the audience, turned our backs upon the actors. Before we left the spot, however, Richardson induced me to taste the blood which was still fluid in the heart, and immediately as it touched my lips, my burning thirst, aggravated by hunger, (for I had eaten nothing that day,) got the better of my abhorrence; I plunged my head into the reeking ventricles, and drank until forced to stop for breath. I felt somewhat ashamed of assimilating myself so nearly to the brutes, and turned my ensanguined countenance towards the missionary who stood by, but I saw no approval there: the good man was evidently attempting to control his risibility, and so I smiled to put him in countenance; the roar could no longer be restrained, and the missionary laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. I did not think, until afterwards, of the horrible ghastliness which must have characterized my smile at that particular moment. When we arrived at the camp in the evening, and I enjoyed the luxury of a hearty draft of water, the effect upon my stomach was that of a powerful emetic: the blood was violently ejected without nausea, and I felt heartily glad to be rid of the disgusting encumbrance. I never drank blood from that day. {57} CHAPTER IV Change in the face of the country--Unpleasant visitation--its effects--North fork of the Platte--A day's journey over the hills--Wormwood bushes, and poor pasture--Marmots--Rattlesnake and gopher--Naturalist's success and sacrifices--A sand storm--Wild horses--Killing of a doe antelope--Bluffs of the Platte--The chimney--"Zip Koon," the young antelope--Birds--Feelings and cogitations of a naturalist--Arrival at Laramie's fork--Departure of two "free trappers" on a summer "hunt"--Black Hills--Rough travelling--Red butes--Sweet-water river, and Rock Independence--Avocets--Wind river mountains--Rocky Mountain sheep--Adventure of one of the men with a grizzly bear--Rattlesnakes--Toilsome march, and arrival at Sandy river--Suffering of the horses--Anticipated delights of the rendezvous. On the morning of the 24th of May we forded the Platte river, or rather its south fork, along which we had been travelling during the previous week.[92] On the northern side, we found the country totally different in its aspect. Instead of the extensive and apparently interminable green plains, the monotony of which had become so wearisome to the eye, here was a great sandy waste, without a single green thing to vary and enliven the dreary scene. It was a change, however, and we were therefore enjoying it, and remarking to each other how particularly agreeable it was, when we were suddenly assailed by vast swarms of most ferocious little black gnats; the whole atmosphere seemed crowded with them, and they dashed into our faces, assaulted our eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouths, as though they were determined to bar our passage through their territory. These little creatures were so exceedingly minute that, singly, they were scarcely visible; and yet their sting caused such excessive pain, that for {58} the rest of the day our men and horses were rendered almost frantic, the former bitterly imprecating, and the latter stamping, and kicking, and rolling in the sand, in tremendous, yet vain, efforts to rid themselves of their pertinacious little foes. It was rather amusing to see the whole company with their handkerchiefs, shirts, and coats, thrown over their heads, stemming the animated torrent, and to hear the greenhorns cursing their tormenters, the country, and themselves, for their foolhardiness in venturing on the journey. When we encamped in the evening, we built fires at the mouths of the tents, the smoke from which kept our enemies at a distance, and we passed a night of tolerable comfort, after a day of most peculiar misery. [92] There were two fords to the South Platte, both of which led toward the North Platte at Ash Creek. Wyeth's party took the lower ford, eight miles above the forks.--ED. The next morning I observed that the faces of all the men were more or less swollen, some of them very severely, and poor Captain W. was totally blind for two days afterwards. _25th._--We made a noon camp to-day on the north branch or fork of the river, and in the afternoon travelled along the bank of the stream.[93] In about an hour's march, we came to rocks, precipices, and cedar trees, and although we anticipated some difficulty and toil in the passage of the heights, we felt glad to exchange them for the vast and wearisome prairies we had left behind. Soon after we commenced the ascent, we struck into an Indian path very much worn, occasionally mounting over rugged masses of rock, and leaping wide fissures in the soil, and sometimes picking our way over the jutting crags, directly above the river. On the top of one of the stunted and broad spreading cedars, a bald eagle had built its enormous nest; and as we descended the mountain, we saw the callow young lying within it, while the anxious parents hovered over our heads, screaming their alarm. [93] See note 32 (Wyeth), _ante_, p. 52.--ED. In the evening we arrived upon the plain again; it was thickly covered with ragged and gnarled bushes of a species of wormwood, (_Artemesia_,) which perfumed the air, and at first was {59} rather agreeable. The soil was poor and sandy, and the straggling blades of grass which found their way to the surface were brown and withered. Here was a poor prospect for our horses; a sad contrast indeed to the rich and luxuriant prairies we had left. On the edges of the little streams, however, we found some tolerable pasture, and we frequently stopped during the day to bait our poor animals in these pleasant places. We observed here several species of small marmots, (_Arctomys_,) which burrowed in the sand, and were constantly skipping about the ground in front of our party. The short rattlesnake of the prairies was also abundant, and no doubt derived its chief subsistence from foraging among its playful little neighbors. Shortly before we halted this evening, being a considerable distance in advance of the caravan, I observed a dead gopher, (_Diplostoma_,)--a small animal about the size of a rat, with large external cheek pouches,--lying upon the ground; and near it a full grown rattlesnake, also dead. The gopher was yet warm and pliant, and had evidently been killed but a few minutes previously; the snake also gave evidence of very recent death, by a muscular twitching of the tail, which occurs in most serpents, soon after life is extinct. It was a matter of interest to me to ascertain the mode by which these animals were deprived of life. I therefore dismounted from my horse, and examined them carefully, but could perceive nothing to furnish even a clue. Neither of them had any external or perceptible wound. The snake had doubtless killed the quadruped, but what had killed the snake? There being no wound upon its body was sufficient proof that the gopher had not used his teeth, and in no other way could he cause death. I was unable to solve the problem to my satisfaction, so I pocketed the animal to prepare its skin, and rode on to the camp. The birds thus far have been very abundant. There is a considerable {60} variety, and many of them have not before been seen by naturalists. As to the plants, there seems to be no end to them, and Mr. N. is finding dozens of new species daily. In the other branches of science, our success has not been so great, partly on account of the rapidity and steadiness with which we travel, but chiefly from the difficulty, and almost impossibility, of carrying the subjects. Already we have cast away all our useless and superfluous clothing, and have been content to mortify our natural pride, to make room for our specimens. Such things as spare waistcoats, shaving boxes, soap, and stockings, have been ejected from our trunks, and we are content to dress, as we live, in a style of primitive simplicity. In fact, the whole appearance of our party is sufficiently primitive; many of the men are dressed entirely in deerskins, without a single article of civilized manufacture about them; the old trappers and hunters wear their hair flowing on their shoulders, and their large grizzled beards would scarcely disgrace a Bedouin of the desert. The next morning the whole camp was suddenly aroused by the falling of all the tents. A tremendous blast swept as from a funnel over the sandy plain, and in an instant precipitated our frail habitations like webs of gossamer. The men crawled out from under the ruins, rubbing their eyes, and, as usual, muttering imprecations against the country and all that therein was; it was unusually early for a start, but we did not choose to pitch the tents again, and to sleep without them here was next to impossible; so we took our breakfast in the open air, devouring our well sanded provisions as quickly as possible, and immediately took to the road. During the whole day a most terrific gale was blowing directly in our faces, clouds of sand were driving and hurtling by us, often with such violence as nearly to stop our progress; and when we halted in the evening, we could scarcely recognise each other's faces beneath their odious mask of dust and dirt. {61} There have been no buffalo upon the plain to-day, all the game that we have seen, being a few elk and antelopes; but these of course we did not attempt to kill, as our whole and undivided attention was required to assist our progress. _28th._--We fell in with a new species of game to-day;--a large band of wild horses. They were very shy, scarcely permitting us to approach within rifle distance, and yet they kept within sight of us for some hours. Several of us gave them chase, in the hope of at least being able to approach sufficiently near to examine them closely, but we might as well have pursued the wind; they scoured away from us with astonishing velocity, their long manes and tails standing out almost horizontally, as they sprang along before us. Occasionally they would pause in their career, turn and look at us as we approached them, and then, with a neigh that rang loud and high above the clattering of the hoofs, dart their light heels into the air, and fly from us as before. We soon abandoned this wild chase, and contented ourselves with admiring their sleek beauty at a distance. In the afternoon, I committed an act of cruelty and wantonness, which distressed and troubled me beyond measure, and which I have ever since recollected with sorrow and compunction. A beautiful doe antelope came running and bleating after us, as though she wished to overtake the party: she continued following us for nearly an hour, at times approaching within thirty or forty yards, and standing to gaze at us as we moved slowly on our way. I several times raised my gun to fire at her, but my better nature as often gained the ascendency, and I at last rode into the midst of the party to escape the temptation. Still the doe followed us, and I finally fell into the rear, but without intending it, and again looked at her as she trotted behind us. At that moment, my evil genius and love of sport triumphed; I slid down from my horse, aimed at the poor antelope, and shot a ball through her side. Under other circumstances, {62} there would have been no cruelty in this; but here, where better meat was so abundant, and the camp was so plentifully supplied, it was unfeeling, heartless murder. It was under the influence of this too late impression, that I approached my poor victim. She was writhing in agony upon the ground, and exerting herself in vain efforts to draw her mangled body farther from her destroyer; and as I stood over her, and saw her cast her large, soft, black eyes upon me with an expression of the most touching sadness, while the great tears rolled over her face, I felt myself the meanest and most abhorrent thing in creation. But now a finishing blow would be mercy to her, and I threw my arm around her neck, averted my face, and drove my long knife through her bosom to the heart. I did not trust myself to look upon her afterwards, but mounted my horse, and galloped off to the party, with feelings such as I hope never to experience again. For several days the poor antelope haunted me, and I shall never forget its last look of pain and upbraiding. The bluffs on the southern shore of the Platte, are, at this point, exceedingly rugged, and often quite picturesque; the formation appears to be simple clay, intermixed, occasionally, with a stratum of limestone, and one part of the bluff bears a striking and almost startling resemblance to a dilapidated feudal castle. There is also a kind of obelisk, standing at a considerable distance from the bluffs, on a wide plain, towering to the height of about two hundred feet, and tapering to a small point at the top. This pillar is known to the hunters and trappers who traverse these regions, by the name of the "_chimney_." Here we diverged from the usual course, leaving the bank of the river, and entered a large and deep ravine between the enormous bluffs.[94] [94] These are called "Scott's Bluffs;" so named from an unfortunate trader, who perished here from disease and hunger, many years ago. He was deserted by his companions; and the year following, his crumbling bones were found in this spot.--TOWNSEND. _Comment by Ed._ See this story in detail in Irving, _Rocky Mountains_, i, pp. 45, 46. {63} The road was very uneven and difficult, winding from amongst innumerable mounds six to eight feet in height, the space between them frequently so narrow as scarcely to admit our horses, and some of the men rode for upwards of a mile kneeling upon their saddles. These mounds were of hard yellow clay, without a particle of rock of any kind, and along their bases, and in the narrow passages, flowers of every hue were growing. It was a most enchanting sight; even the men noticed it, and more than one of our matter-of-fact people exclaimed, _beautiful, beautiful_! Mr. N. was here in his glory. He rode on ahead of the company, and cleared the passages with a trembling and eager hand, looking anxiously back at the approaching party, as though he feared it would come ere he had finished, and tread his lovely prizes under foot. The distance through the ravine is about three miles. We then crossed several beautiful grassy knolls, and descending to the plain, struck the Platte again, and travelled along its bank. Here one of our men caught a young antelope, which he brought to the camp upon his saddle. It was a beautiful and most delicate little creature, and in a few days became so tame as to remain with the camp without being tied, and to drink, from a tin cup, the milk which our good missionaries spared from their own scanty meals. The men christened it "_Zip Coon_," and it soon became familiar with its name, running to them when called, and exhibiting many evidences of affection and attachment. It became a great favorite with every one. A little pannier of willows was made for it, which was packed on the back of a mule, and when the camp moved in the mornings, little _Zip_ ran to his station beside his long-eared hack, bleating with impatience until some one came to assist him in mounting. On the afternoon of the 31st, we came to green trees and bushes again, and the sight of them was more cheering than can {64} be conceived, except by persons who have travelled for weeks without beholding a green thing, save the grass under their feet. We encamped in the evening in a beautiful grove of cottonwood trees, along the edge of which ran the Platte, dotted as usual with numerous islands. In the morning, Mr. N. and myself were up before the dawn, strolling through the umbrageous forest, inhaling the fresh, bracing air, and making the echoes ring with the report of our gun, as the lovely tenants of the grove flew by dozens before us. I think I never before saw so great a variety of birds within the same space. All were beautiful, and many of them quite new to me; and after we had spent an hour amongst them, and my game bag was teeming with its precious freight, I was still loath to leave the place, lest I should not have procured specimens of the whole. None but a naturalist can appreciate a naturalist's feelings--his delight amounting to ecstacy--when a specimen such as he has never before seen, meets his eye, and the sorrow and grief which he feels when he is compelled to tear himself from a spot abounding with all that he has anxiously and unremittingly sought for. This was peculiarly my case upon this occasion. We had been long travelling over a sterile and barren tract, where the lovely denizens of the forest could not exist, and I had been daily scanning the great extent of the desert, for some little _oasis_ such as I had now found; here was my wish at length gratified, and yet the caravan would not halt for me; I must turn my back upon the _El Dorado_ of my fond anticipations, and hurry forward over the dreary wilderness which lay beyond. What valuable and highly interesting accessions to science might not be made by a party, composed exclusively of naturalists, on a journey through this rich and unexplored region! The botanist, the geologist, the mamalogist, the ornithologist, and {65} the entomologist, would find a rich and almost inexhaustible field for the prosecution of their inquiries, and the result of such an expedition would be to add most materially to our knowledge of the wealth and resources of our country, to furnish us with new and important facts relative to its structure, organization, and natural productions, and to complete the fine native collections in our already extensive museums. On the 1st of June, we arrived at Laramie's fork of the Platte, and crossed it without much difficulty.[95] [95] Wyeth relates in his journal that he found thirteen of Sublette's men building a fort at this place. Such was the origin of the famous Fort Laramie, first known as Fort William, then Fort John, and in 1846, removed a mile farther up the stream, and re-christened Fort Laramie. It became a government post in 1849.--ED. Here two of our "free trappers" left us for a summer "hunt" in the rugged Black Hills. These men joined our party at Independence, and have been travelling to this point with us for the benefit of our escort. Trading companies usually encourage these free trappers to join them, both for the strength which they add to the band, and that they may have the benefit of their generally good hunting qualities. Thus are both parties accommodated, and no obligation is felt on either side. I confess I felt somewhat sad when I reflected upon the possible fate of the two adventurous men who had left us in the midst of a savage wilderness, to depend entirely upon their unassisted strength and hardihood, to procure the means of subsistence and repel the aggression of the Indian. Their expedition will be fraught with stirring scenes, with peril and with strange adventure; but they think not of this, and they care not for it. They are only two of the many scores who annually subject themselves to the same difficulties and dangers; they see their friends return unscathed, and laden with rich and valuable furs, and if one or two should have perished by Indian rapacity, or fallen victims to their own daring and fool-hardy spirit, they mourn the loss of their brethren who have not returned, and are only the more anxious to pursue the same track in order to avenge them. On the 2d, we struck a range of high and stony mountains, {66} called the Black Hills. The general aspect here, was dreary and forbidding; the soil was intersected by deep and craggy fissures; rock jutted over rock, and precipice frowned over precipice in frightful, and apparently endless, succession. Soon after we commenced the ascent, we experienced a change in the temperature of the air; and towards mid-day, when we had arrived near the summit, our large blanket _capeaus_,--which in the morning had been discarded as uncomfortable,--were drawn tightly around us, and every man was shivering in his saddle as though he had an ague fit. The soil here is of a deep reddish or ferruginous hue, intermixed with green sand; and on the heights, pebbles of chalcedony and agate are abundant. We crossed, in the afternoon, the last and steepest spur of this chain, winding around rough and stony precipices, and along the extreme verges of tremendous ravines, so dangerous looking that we were compelled to dismount and lead our horses. On descending to the plain, we saw again the north fork of the Platte, and were glad of an opportunity of encamping. Our march to-day has been an unusually wearisome one, and many of our loose horses are bruised and lame. _7th._--The country has now become more level, but the prairie is barren and inhospitable looking to the last degree. The twisted, aromatic wormwood covers and extracts the strength from the burnt and arid soil. The grass is dry and brown, and our horses are suffering extremely for want of food. Occasionally, however, a spot of lovely green appears, and here we allow our poor jaded friends to halt, and roam without their riders, and their satisfaction and pleasure is expressed by many a joyous neigh, and many a heart-felt roll upon the verdant sward. In the afternoon, we arrived at the "Red Butes," two or three brown-red cliffs, about two thousand feet in height.[96] This is a remarkable point in the mountain route. One of these cliffs terminates a long, lofty, wooded ridge, which has bounded our {67} southern view for the past two days. The summits of the cliffs are covered with patches of snow, and the contrast of the dazzling white and brick-red produces a very pretty effect. [96] The trail continued along the North Platte until it reached Red Buttes, described by Townsend. They form the western end of what is known as Caspar range, in Natrona County, Wyoming.--ED. The next day, we left the Platte river, and crossed a wide, sandy desert, dry and desolate; and on the 9th, encamped at noon on the banks of the Sweet-water. Here we found a large rounded mass of granite, about fifty feet high, called Rock Independence.[97] Like the Red Butes, this rock is also a rather remarkable point in the route. On its smooth, perpendicular sides, we see carved the names of most of the mountain _bourgeois_,[98] with the dates of their arrival. We observed those of the two Sublette's, Captains Bonneville, Serre, Fontinelle, &c.,[99] and after leaving our own, and taking a hearty, but hasty lunch in the shade of a rock, and a draught from the pure and limpid stream at its base, we pursued our journey. [97] For Sweetwater River and Independence Rock, see notes 33, 34 (Wyeth), _ante_, p. 53.--ED. [98] In fur-trade parlance the _bourgeois_ was the leader or commander of an expedition or a trading post. See J. Long's _Voyages_ in our volume ii, p. 75, note 35.--ED. [99] For Captain Bonneville, see Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_, in our volume xx, p. 267, note 167. Michael Lamie Cerré belonged to a French family of note in the annals of the West. His grandfather, Gabriel, was an early merchant at Kaskaskia, and acquired a fortune in the fur-trade. Later he removed to St. Louis, where one of his daughters married Auguste Chouteau. Pascal Cerré, father of Michael, was also a fur-trader of note. The son had been employed in the Santa Fé trade, and was persuaded to act as Bonneville's business agent in his expeditions of 1832-35. For Lucien Fontenelle, see our volume xiv, p. 275, note 196.--ED. The river is here very narrow, often only twelve or fifteen feet wide, shallow, and winding so much, that during our march, to-day, we crossed it several times, in order to pursue a straight course. The banks of the stream are clothed with the most luxuriant pasture, and our invaluable dumb friends appear perfectly happy. We saw here great numbers of a beautiful brown and white avocet, (the _Recurvirostra americana_ of ornithologists.) These fine birds were so tame as to allow a very near approach, running slowly before our party, and scarcely taking wing at the report of a gun. They frequent the marshy plains in the neighborhood of the river, and breed here. On the 10th, about ninety miles to the west, we had a striking view of the Wind-river mountains. They are almost wholly of a dazzling whiteness, being covered thickly with snow, and the lofty peaks seem to blend themselves with the dark clouds which hang over them.[100] This chain gives rise to the sources of the Missouri, the Colorado of the west, and Lewis' river of the {68} Columbia, and is the highest land on the continent of North America. [100] The Wind River Mountains, in Fremont County, Wyoming, trend nearly north from South Pass to the Yellowstone. They are covered with snow during all the year, and were credited by the early explorers with being the highest chain of the Rockies. In 1843 Frémont ascended the peak named for him, which has an altitude of 13,790 feet.--ED. We saw, to-day, a small flock of the hairy sheep of the Rocky Mountains, the big horn of the hunters, (_Ovis montana_.) We exerted ourselves in vain to shoot them. They darted from us, and hid themselves amongst the inaccessible cliffs, so that none but a chamois hunter might pretend to reach them. Richardson says that he has frequently killed them, but he admits that it is dangerous and wearisome sport; and when good beef is to be found upon the plains, men are not anxious to risk their necks for a meal of mutton. In the afternoon, one of our men had a somewhat perilous adventure with a grizzly bear. He saw the animal crouching his huge frame in some willows which skirted the river, and approaching on horseback to within twenty yards, fired upon him. The bear was only slightly wounded by the shot, and with a fierce growl of angry malignity, rushed from his cover, and gave chase. The horse happened to be a slow one, and for the distance of half a mile, the race was hard contested; the bear frequently approaching so near the terrified animal as to snap at his heels, while the equally terrified rider,--who had lost his hat at the start,--used whip and spur with the most frantic diligence, frequently looking behind, from an influence which he could not resist, at his rugged and determined foe, and shrieking in an agony of fear, "shoot him, shoot him?" The man, who was one of the greenhorns, happened to be about a mile behind the main body, either from the indolence of his horse, or his own carelessness; but as he approached the party in his desperate flight, and his lugubrious cries reached the ears of the men in front, about a dozen of them rode to his assistance, and soon succeeded in diverting the attention of his pertinacious foe. After he had received the contents of all the guns, he fell, and was soon dispatched. The man rode in among his fellows, pale and {69} haggard from overwrought feelings, and was probably effectually cured of a propensity for meddling with grizzly bears. A small striped rattlesnake is abundant on these plains:--it is a different species from our common one at home, but is equally malignant and venomous. The horses are often startled by them, and dart aside with intuitive fear when their note of warning is sounded in the path. _12th._--The plains of the Sweet-water at this point,--latitude 43° 6', longitude 110° 30',--are covered with little salt pools, the edges of which are encrusted with alkaline efflorescences, looking like borders of snow. The rocks in the vicinity are a loose, fine-grained sandstone, the strata nearly horizontal, and no organic remains have been discovered. We have still a view of the lofty Wind-river mountains on our right hand, and they have for some days served as a guide to determine our course. On the plain, we passed several huge rhomboidal masses of rock, standing alone, and looking, at a little distance, like houses with chimneys. The freaks of nature, as they are called, have often astonished us since we have been journeying in the wilderness. We have seen, modeled without art, representations of almost all the most stupendous works of man; and how do the loftiest and most perfect creations of his wisdom and ingenuity sink into insignificance by the comparison. Noble castles, with turrets, embrazures, and loop holes, with the drawbridge in front, and the moat surrounding it: behind, the humble cottages of the subservient peasantry, and all the varied concomitants of such a scene, are so strikingly evident to the view, that it requires but little stretch of fancy to imagine that a race of antediluvian giants may here have swayed their iron sceptre, and left behind the crumbling palace and the tower, to tell of their departed glory. On the 14th, we left the Sweet-water, and proceeded in a south-westerly direction to Sandy river, a branch of the Colorado of the west.[101] We arrived here at about 9 o'clock in the evening, {70} after a hard and most toilsome march for both man and beast. We found no water on the route, and not a single blade of grass for our horses. Many of the poor animals stopped before night, and resolutely refused to proceed; and others with the remarkable sagacity, peculiar to them, left the track in defiance of those who drove and guided them, sought and found water, and spent the night in its vicinity. The band of missionaries, with their horses and horned cattle, halted by the way, and only about half the men of the party accompanied us to our encampment on Sandy. We were thus scattered along the route for several miles; and if a predatory band of Indians had then found us, we should have fallen an easy prey. [101] Sandy River is a northern affluent of the Green, rising just beyond South Pass and flowing southwest into the main stream, through Fremont and Sweetwater counties, Wyoming. The Little Sandy was the first stream beyond the divide, but eight miles from the pass. The trail followed the Big Sandy almost its entire length.--ED. The next morning by about 10 o'clock all our men and horses had joined us, and, in spite of the fatigues of the previous day, we were all tolerably refreshed, and in good spirits. Towards noon we got under way, and proceeded seven or eight miles down the river to a spot where we found a little poor pasture for our horses. Here we remained until the next morning, to recruit. I found here a beautiful new species of mocking bird,[102] which I shot and prepared. Birds are, however, generally scarce, and there is here very little of interest in any department of natural history. We are also beginning to suffer somewhat for food: buffalo are rarely seen, the antelopes are unusually shy, and the life of our little favorite, "Zip," has been several times menaced. I believe, however, that his keeper, from sheer fondness, would witness much greater suffering in the camp, ere he would consent to the sacrifice of his playful little friend. [102] This is the mountain mocking bird, (_Orpheus montanus_), described in the Appendix [not included in our reprint].--TOWNSEND. _16th._--We observed a hoar frost and some thin ice, this morning at sunrise; but at mid-day, the thermometer stood at 82°. We halted at noon, after making about fifteen miles, and dined. Saw large herds of buffalo on the plains of Sandy river, {71} grazing in every direction on the short and dry grass. Domestic cattle would certainly starve here, and yet the bison exists, and even becomes fat; a striking instance of the wonderful adaptation of Providence. _17th._--We had yesterday a cold rain, the first which has fallen in our track for several weeks. Our vicinity to the high mountains of Wind river will perhaps account for it. To-day at noon, the mercury stood at 92° in the shade, but there being a strong breeze, we did not suffer from heat. Our course was still down the Sandy river, and we are now looking forward with no little pleasure to a rest of two or more weeks at the mountain rendezvous on the Colorado. Here we expect to meet all the mountain companies who left the States last spring, and also the trappers who come in from various parts, with the furs collected by them during the previous year. All will be mirth and jollity, no doubt, but the grand desideratum with some of us, is to allow our horses to rest their tired limbs and exhausted strength on the rich and verdant plains of the Siskadee. At our camp this evening, our poor horses were compelled to fast as heretofore, there being absolutely nothing for them to eat. Some of the famished animals attempted to allay their insatiable cravings, by cropping the dry and bitter tops of the wormwood with which the plain is strewed. We look forward to brighter days for them ere long; soon shall they sport in the green pastures, and rest and plenty shall compensate for their toils and privations. {72} CHAPTER V Arrival at the Colorado--The author in difficulty--Loss of a journal, and advice to travelling tyros--The rendezvous--Motley groups infesting it--Rum drinking, swearing, and other accomplishments in vogue--Description of the camp--Trout and grayling--Abundance of game--Cock of the plains--Departure from the rendezvous--An accession to the band--A renegado Blackfoot chief--Captain Stewart and Mr. Ashworth--Muddy creek--More carousing--Abundance of trout--Bear river--A hard day's march--Volcanic country--White clay pits and "Beer spring"--Rare birds and common birds--Mr. Thomas McKay--Rough and arid country--Meeting with Captain Bonneville's party--Captains Stewart and Wyeth's visit to the lodge of the "bald chief"--Blackfoot river--Adventure with a grizzly bear--Death of "Zip Koon"--Young grizzly bears and buffalo calves--A Blackfoot Indian--Dangerous experiment of McKay--the three "Tetons"--Large trout--Departure of our Indian companions--Shoshoné river--Site of "Fort Hall"--Preparations for a buffalo hunt. _June 19th._--We arrived to-day on the Green river, Siskadee[103] or Colorado of the west,--a beautiful, clear, deep, and rapid stream, which receives the waters of Sandy,--and encamped upon its eastern bank. After making a hasty meal, as it was yet early in the day, I sallied forth with my gun, and roamed about the neighborhood for several hours in quest of birds. On returning, towards evening, I found that the whole company had left the spot, the place being occupied only by a few hungry wolves, ravens, and magpies, the invariable gleaners of a forsaken camp. [103] For this river see note 38 (Wyeth), _ante_, p. 60. The term "Siskadee" signified Prairie Hen River.--ED. I could not at first understand the meaning of all I saw. I thought the desertion strange, and was preparing to make the best of it, when a quick and joyful neigh sounded in the bushes near me, and I recognized the voice of my favorite horse. I found him carefully tied, with the saddle, &c., lying near him. I had not the least idea where the company had gone, but I knew that on the rich, alluvial banks of the river, the trail of the horses would be distinct enough, and I determined to place my dependence, in a great measure, upon the sagacity of my excellent dumb friend, satisfied that he would take me the right course. I accordingly mounted, and off we went at a speed which I found some difficulty in restraining. About half an hour's hard riding brought us to the edge of a large branch of the stream, and I observed that the horses had here entered. I noticed other tracks lower down, but supposed them to have been made by the wanderings of the loose animals. Here then seemed the proper fording place, and with some little hesitation, I allowed my nag to enter the water; we had proceeded but a few yards, however, when down he went off a steep bank, far beyond his depth. This was somewhat disconcerting; but there was but one thing to be done, so I turned my horse's head against the swift current, and we went snorting and blowing for the opposite shore. We arrived at length, though in a sadly wet and damaged state, and in a few minutes after, came in view of the new camp. Captain W. explained to me that he had heard of good pasture here, and had concluded to move immediately, on account of the horses; he informed me, also, that he had crossed the stream about fifty yards below the point where I had entered, and had found an excellent ford. I did not regret my adventure, however, and was congratulating myself upon my good fortune in arriving so seasonably, when, upon looking to my saddle, I discovered that my coat was missing. I had felt uncomfortably warm when I mounted, and had removed the coat and attached it carelessly to the saddle; the rapidity of the current had disengaged it, and it was lost forever. The coat itself was not of much consequence after the hard service it had seen, but it contained the {74} second volume of my journal, a pocket compass, and other articles of essential value to me. I would gladly have relinquished every thing the garment held, if I could have recovered the book; and although I returned to the river, and searched assiduously until night, and offered large rewards to the men, it could not be found. The journal commenced with our arrival at the Black Hills, and contained some observations upon the natural productions of the country, which to me, at least, were of some importance; as well as descriptions of several new species of birds, and notes regarding their habits, &c., which cannot be replaced. I would advise all tourists, who journey by land, never to carry their itineraries upon their persons; or if they do, let them be attached by a cord to the neck, and worn under the clothing. A convenient and safe plan would probably be, to have the book deposited in a close pocket of leather, made on the inner side of the saddle-wing; it would thus be always at hand, and if a deep stream were to be passed the trouble of drying the leaves would not be a very serious matter. In consequence of remaining several hours in wet clothes, after being heated by exercise, I rose the next morning with so much pain, and stiffness of the joints, that I could scarcely move. But notwithstanding this, I was compelled to mount my horse with the others, and to ride steadily and rapidly for eight hours. I suffered intensely during this ride; every step of my horse seemed to increase it, and induced constant sickness and retching. When we halted, I was so completely exhausted, as to require assistance in dismounting, and shortly after, sank into a state of insensibility from which I did not recover for several hours. Then a violent fever commenced, alternating for two whole days, with sickness and pain. I think I never was more unwell in my {75} life; and if I had been at home, lying on a feather bed instead of the cold ground, I should probably have fancied myself an invalid for weeks.[104] [104] I am indebted to the kindness of my companion and friend, Professor Nuttall, for supplying, in a great measure, the deficiency occasioned by the loss of my journal.--TOWNSEND. _22d._--We are now lying at the rendezvous. W. Sublette, Captains Serre, Fitzpatrick, and other leaders, with their companies, are encamped about a mile from us, on the same plain, and our own camp is crowded with a heterogeneous assemblage of visitors.[105] The principal of these are Indians, of the Nez Percé, Banneck and Shoshoné tribes, who come with the furs and peltries which they have been collecting at the risk of their lives during the past winter and spring, to trade for ammunition, trinkets, and "fire water."[106] There is, in addition to these, a great variety of personages amongst us; most of them calling themselves white men, French-Canadians, half-breeds, &c., their color nearly as dark, and their manners wholly as wild, as the Indians with whom they constantly associate. These people, with their obstreperous mirth, their whooping, and howling, and quarrelling, added to the mounted Indians, who are constantly dashing into and through our camp, yelling like fiends, the barking and baying of savage wolf-dogs, and the incessant cracking of rifles and carbines, render our camp a perfect bedlam. A more unpleasant situation for an invalid could scarcely be conceived. I am confined closely to the tent with illness, and am compelled all day to listen to the hiccoughing jargon of drunken traders, the _sacré_ and _foutre_ of Frenchmen run wild, and the swearing and screaming of our own men, who are scarcely less savage than the rest, being heated by the detestable liquor which circulates freely among them. [105] The rendezvous for 1834 changed sites several times; see Wyeth's _Oregon Expeditions_, p. 225. The Rocky Mountain men were first met on Green River; the twentieth, they moved over to Ham's Fork, which was on the twenty-seventh again ascended a short distance for forage. Thomas Fitzpatrick was one of the partners in the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, whose daring exploits and explorations of the mountains filled the thoughts of the men of his day. He was known to the Indians as "Broken Hand," from having shattered one of those members. He joined Ashley on his early expeditions, and was in the Arikara campaign of 1823; but his chief operations were between 1830 and 1836. In 1831, he went out on the Santa Fé trail, barely escaping when Jedidiah S. Smith was killed. From 1832 to 1835, he conducted the trade at the mountain rendezvous, once (1832) being lost some days in the mountains. In 1833 he was robbed by the Crows, probably at the instigation of a rival fur company. Upon the decline of the fur-trade, he continued to dwell on the frontier, acting as guide for government exploring expeditions, being commissioned captain, and later major. In 1850 he was agent for all the upper region of the Platte, and of great use in Indian negotiations.--ED. [106] For the Shoshoni, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 227, note 123; for the Nez Percés, Franchère's _Narrative_, vi, p. 340, note 145. The Bannock are a Shoshonean tribe, whose habitat was midway between that of the Shoshoni proper and the Comanche, about the upper Lewis River and Great Salt Lake. They had the reputation of being fierce and treacherous, and next to the Blackfeet, were dreaded by white travelers. Lying athwart both the California and Oregon trails, they occasionally were formidable, although usually on trading terms with the trappers. They are now concentrated on the Fort Hall and Lemhi reservations in Idaho, intermingled with Shoshoni.--ED. It is very much to be regretted that at times like the present, there should be a positive necessity to allow the men as much rum as they can drink, but this course has been sanctioned and {76} practised by all leaders of parties who have hitherto visited these regions, and reform cannot be thought of now. The principal liquor in use here is alcohol diluted with water. It is sold to the men at _three dollars_ the pint! Tobacco, of very inferior quality, such as could be purchased in Philadelphia at about ten cents per pound, here brings two dollars! and everything else in proportion. There is no coin in circulation, and these articles are therefore paid for by the independent mountain-men, in beaver skins, buffalo robes, &c.; and those who are hired to the companies, have them charged against their wages. I was somewhat amused to-day by observing one of our newly hired men enter the tent, and order, with the air of a man who knew he would not be refused, _twenty dollars' worth of rum, and ten dollars worth of sugar_, to treat two of his companions who were about leaving the rendezvous! _30th._--Our camp here is a most lovely one in every respect, and as several days have elapsed since we came, and I am convalescent, I can roam about the country a little and enjoy it. The pasture is rich and very abundant, and it does our hearts good to witness the satisfaction and comfort of our poor jaded horses. Our tents are pitched in a pretty little valley or indentation in the plain, surrounded on all sides by low bluffs of yellow clay. Near us flows the clear deep water of the Siskadee, and beyond, on every side, is a wide and level prairie, interrupted only by some gigantic peaks of mountains and conical _butes_ in the distance. The river, here, contains a great number of large trout, some grayling, and a small narrow-mouthed white fish, resembling a herring. They are all frequently taken with the hook, and, the trout particularly, afford excellent sport to the lovers of angling. Old Izaac Walton would be in his glory here, and the precautionary measures which he so strongly recommends in approaching a trout stream, he would not need to practise, as the fish is not {77} shy, and bites quickly and eagerly at a grasshopper or minnow. Buffalo, antelopes, and elk are abundant in the vicinity, and we are therefore living well. We have seen also another kind of game, a beautiful bird, the size of a half grown turkey, called the cock of the plains, (_Tetrao urophasianus_.) We first met with this noble bird on the plains, about two days' journey east of Green river, in flocks, or _packs_, of fifteen or twenty, and so exceedingly tame as to allow an approach to within a few feet, running before our horses like domestic fowls, and not unfrequently hopping under their bellies, while the men amused themselves by striking out their feathers with their riding whips. When we first saw them, the temptation to shoot was irresistible; the guns were cracking all around us, and the poor grouse falling in every direction; but what was our disappointment, when, upon roasting them nicely before the fire, we found them so strong and bitter as not to be eatable. From this time the cock of the plains was allowed to roam free and unmolested, and as he has failed to please our palates, we are content to admire the beauty of his plumage, and the grace and spirit of his attitudes. _July 2d._--We bade adieu to the rendezvous this morning; packed up our moveables, and journied along the bank of the river. Our horses are very much recruited by the long rest and good pasture which they have enjoyed, and, like their masters, are in excellent spirits. During our stay at the rendezvous, many of us looked anxiously for letters from our families, which we expected by the later caravans, but we were all disappointed. For myself, I have received but one since I left my home, but this has been my solace through many a long and dreary journey. Many a time, while pacing my solitary round as night-guard in the wilderness, have I {78} sat myself down, and stirring up the dying embers of the camp fire, taken the precious little memento from my bosom, undrawn the string of the leathern sack which contained it, and poured over the dear characters, till my eyes would swim with sweet, but sad recollections, then kissing the inanimate paper, return it to its sanctuary, tighten up my pistol belt, shoulder my gun, and with a quivering voice, swelling the "_all's well_" upon the night breeze, resume my slow and noiseless tramp around my sleeping companions. Many of our men have left us, and joined the returning companies, but we have had an accession to our party of about thirty Indians; Flat-heads, Nez Percés, &c., with their wives, children, and dogs. Without these our camp would be small; they will probably travel with us until we arrive on Snake river, and pass over the country where the most danger is to be apprehended from their enemies, the Black-feet. Some of the women in this party, particularly those of the Nez Percé nation, are rather handsome, and their persons are decked off in truly savage taste. Their dresses of deer skin are profusely ornamented with beads and porcupine quills; huge strings of beads are hung around their necks, and their saddles are garnished with dozens of little hawk's bells, which jingle and make music for them as they travel along. Several of these women have little children tied to their backs, sewed up papoose fashion, only the head being seen; as they jolt along the road, we not unfrequently hear their voices ringing loud and shrill above the music of the bells. Other little fellows who have ceased to require the maternal contributions, are tied securely on other horses, and all their care seems to be to sleep, which they do most pertinaciously in spite of jolting, noise, and clamor. There is among this party, a Blackfoot chief, a renegado from his tribe, who sometime since killed the principal chief of his nation, and was {79} in consequence under the necessity of absconding. He has now joined the party of his hereditary foes, and is prepared to fight against his own people and kindred. He is a fine, warlike looking fellow, and although he takes part in all the war-songs, and sham-battles of his adopted brothers, and whoops, and howls as loud as the best of them, yet it is plain to perceive that he is distrusted and disliked. All men, whether, civilized or savage, honorable, or otherwise, detest and scorn a traitor! We were joined at the rendezvous by a Captain Stewart, an English gentleman of noble family, who is travelling for amusement, and in search of adventure. He has already been a year in the mountains, and is now desirous of visiting the lower country, from which he may probably take passage to England by sea. Another Englishman, a young man, named Ashworth, also attached himself to our party, for the same purpose.[107] [107] Sir William Drummond Stuart, Bart., of Perthshire, Scotland, who was rumored to have served under Wellington, came to the United States (1833) to hunt big game in the Rockies. He sustained his share of the caravan's work, mounting guard and serving in the skirmishes against the Indians, and was highly respected by the mountain men. He went as far as the Columbia, on this expedition. See also Elliott Coues, _Forty Years a Fur-Trader on the Upper Missouri_ (New York, 1898), index. Townsend is, so far as we are aware, the only contemporary traveller who mentions Ashworth in a published work.--ED. Our course lay along the bank of Ham's fork, through a hilly and stony, but not a rocky country; the willow flourished on the margin of the stream, and occasionally the eye was relieved, on scanning the plain, by a pretty clump of cottonwood or poplar trees. The cock of the plains is very abundant here, and our pretty little summer yellow bird, (_Sylvia æstiva_,) one of our most common birds at home, is our constant companion. How natural sounds his little monotonous stave, and how it seems to carry us back to the dear scenes which we have exchanged for the wild and pathless wilderness! _4th._--We left Ham's fork this morning,--now diminished to a little purling brook,--and passed across the hills in a north-westerly direction for about twenty miles, when we struck Muddy creek.[108] This is a branch of Bear river, which empties into the Salt lake, or "lake Bonneville," as it has been lately named, for what reason I know not. Our camp here, is a beautiful and most delightful one. A large plain, like a meadow, of rich, waving {80} grass, with a lovely little stream running through the midst, high hills, capped with shapely cedars on two sides, and on the others an immense plain, with snow clad mountains in the distance. This being a memorable day, the liquor kegs were opened, and the men allowed an abundance. We, therefore, soon had a renewal of the coarse and brutal scenes of the rendezvous. Some of the bacchanals called for a volley in honor of the day, and in obedience to the order, some twenty or thirty "happy" ones reeled into line with their muzzles directed to every point of the compass, and when the word "fire" was given, we who were not "happy" had to lie flat upon the ground to avoid the bullets which were careering through the camp. [108] Ham's Fork is a western affluent of Black Fork of Green River, in south-western Wyoming. It was an important stream on the Oregon Trail, which later bent southward from this point to Fort Bridger, going by Muddy Creek, another affluent of the Green. The Muddy Creek of Townsend, however, is a different stream, flowing into Bear River; it is not now known by this name. The Oregon Short Line railway, which follows Ham's Fork and crosses to the Bear, approximating Townsend's route, follows the valley of Rock Creek to the latter river.--ED. In this little stream, the trout are more abundant than we have yet seen them. One of our _sober_ men took, this afternoon, upwards of thirty pounds. These fish would probably average fifteen or sixteen inches in length, and weigh three-quarters of a pound; occasionally, however, a much larger one is seen. _5th._--We travelled about twenty miles this day, over a country abounding in lofty hills, and early in the afternoon arrived on Bear river, and encamped. This is a fine stream of about one hundred and fifty feet in width, with a moveable sandy bottom. The grass is dry and poor, the willow abounds along the banks, and at a distance marks the course of the stream, which meanders through an alluvial plain of four to six miles in width. At the distance of about one hundred miles from this point, the Bear river enters the Salt lake, a large body of salt water, without outlet, in which there is so large an island as to afford streams of fresh water for goats and other animals living upon it.[109] [109] Bear River rises in the Uintah Mountains of northeastern Utah, and flows north and slightly northwest along the borders of Utah, Wyoming, and Idaho; until in Idaho, it takes a sudden bend southwest and south, and after a course of more than a hundred miles, enters Great Salt Lake. The trail struck this river near the southeastern corner of Idaho, following its course northwest to its bend--almost the identical route of the present Oregon Short Line railway. Great Salt Lake had probably been seen by white men before the explorations of Ashley's party; but no authentic account of its discovery has been found before that of James Bridger, who in the winter of 1824-25 followed Bear River to its outlet. Finding the water salt he concluded it to be an arm of the ocean; but the following spring some of the party explored its coast line in skin-boats, finding no outlet. Captain Bonneville gave it his own name, but this is applied only to the geological area occupied by the lake in the quaternary era.--ED. On the next day we crossed the river, which we immediately left, to avoid a great bend, and passed over some lofty ranges of hills and through rugged and stony valleys between them; the wind was blowing a gale right ahead, and clouds of dust were flying in our faces, so that at the end of the day, our countenances {81} were disguised as they were on the plains of the Platte. The march to-day has been a most laborious and fatiguing one both for man and beast; we have travelled steadily from morning till night, not stopping at noon; our poor horses' feet are becoming very much worn and sore, and when at length we struck Bear river again and encamped, the wearied animals refused to eat, stretching themselves upon the ground and falling asleep from very exhaustion. Trout, grayling, and a kind of char are very abundant here--the first very large. The next day we travelled but twelve miles, it being impossible to urge our worn-out horses farther. Near our camp this evening we found some large gooseberries and currants, and made a hearty meal upon them. They were to us peculiarly delicious. We have lately been living entirely upon dried buffalo, without vegetables or bread; even this is now failing us, and we are upon short allowance. Game is very scarce, our hunters cannot find any, and our Indians have killed but two buffalo for several days. Of this small stock they would not spare us a mouthful, so it is probable we shall soon be hungry. The alluvial plain here presents many unequivocal evidences of volcanic action, being thickly covered with masses of lava, and high walls and regular columns of basalt appear in many places. The surrounding country is composed, as usual, of high hills and narrow, stony valleys between them; the hills are thickly covered with a growth of small cedars, but on the plain, nothing flourishes but the everlasting wormwood, or _sage_ as it is here called. Our encampment on the 8th, was near what are called the "White-clay pits," still on Bear river. The soil is soft chalk, white and tenacious; and in the vicinity are several springs of strong supercarbonated water, which bubble up with all the activity of artificial fountains. The taste was very agreeable {82} and refreshing, resembling Saratoga water, but not so saline.[110] The whole plain to the hills, is covered with little mounds formed of calcareous sinter, having depressions on their summits, from which once issued streams of water. The extent of these eruptions, at some former period, must have been very great. At about half a mile distant, is an eruptive thermal spring of the temperature of 90°, and near this is an opening in the earth from which a stream of gas issues without water. [110] This is what is now known as Soda Springs, at the upper bend of Bear River. Irving describes it (_Rocky Mountains_, ii, p. 31) as an area of half a mile, with a dazzling surface of white clay, on which the springs have built up their mounds It is, in miniature, what is found on a large scale in Yellowstone Park. One geyser exists in the form that Townsend describes. See Palmer's account, in our volume xxx.--ED. In a thicket of common red cedars, near our camp, I found, and procured several specimens of two beautiful and rare birds which I had never before seen--the Lewis' woodpecker and Clark's crow, (_Picus torquatus_ and _Corvus columbianus_.) We remained the whole of the following day in camp to recruit our horses, and a good opportunity was thus afforded me of inspecting all the curiosities of this wonderful region, and of procuring some rare and valuable specimens of birds. Three of our hunters sallied forth in pursuit of several buffalo whose tracks had been observed by some of the men, and we were overjoyed to see them return in the evening loaded with the meat and marrow bones of two animals which they had killed. We saw here the whooping crane, and white pelican, numerous; and in the small streams near the bases of the hills, the common canvass-back duck, shoveller, and black duck, (_Anas obscura_,) were feeding their young. We were this evening visited by Mr. Thomas McKay,[111] an Indian trader of some note in the mountains. He is a step-son of Dr. McLaughlin, the chief factor at Fort Vancouver, on the {83} Columbia, and the leader of a party of Canadians and Indians, now on a hunt in the vicinity. This party is at present in our rear, and Mr. McKay has come ahead in order to join us, and keep us company until we reach Portneuf river, where we intend building a fort. [111] This is the son of Mr. Alexander McKay, who was massacred by the Indians of the N. W. Coast on board the ship "Tonquin," an account of which is given in Irving's "Astoria." I have often heard McKay speak of the tragical fate of his parent, and with the bitter animosity and love of revenge inherited from his Indian mother, I have heard him declare that he will yet be known on the coast as the avenger of blood.--TOWNSEND. _Comment by Ed._ For Alexander McKay, consult Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 186, note 9. Thomas McKay was born at Sault Ste. Marie, and when a lad (1811) came with his father to Oregon. After the failure of the Astoria enterprise, he entered the North West Company, and fought under their banner in the battle on Red River in 1816. Returning to Oregon, he became an important agent of the Hudson's Bay Company, under his step-father's management, usually in charge of the Snake River brigade. He was brave, dashing, a sure shot, and the idol of the half-breeds. He had a farm in Multnomah valley, and became a United States citizen, raising a company of militia which did active service in the Cayuse War of 1848. _10th._--We were moving early this morning: our horses were very much recruited, and seemed as eager as their masters to travel on. It is astonishing how soon a horse revives, and overcomes the lassitude consequent upon fatigue, when he is allowed a day's rest upon tolerable pasture. Towards noon, however, after encountering the rough lava-strewn plain for a few hours, they became sufficiently sobered to desist from all unnecessary curvetting and prancing, and settled down into a very matter-of-fact trudge, better suited to the country and to the work which they have yet to do. Soon after we left, we crossed one of the high and stony hills by which our late camp is surrounded; then making a gentle descent, we came to a beautiful and very fertile plain. This is, however, very different from the general face of the country; in a short time, after passing over the rich prairie, the same dry aridity and depauperation prevailed, which is almost universal west of the mountains. On the wide plain, we observed large sunken spots, some of them of great extent, surrounded by walls of lava, indicating the existence, at some very ancient date, of active craters. These eruptions have probably been antediluvian, or have existed at a period long anterior to the present order of creation. On the side of the hills are high walls of lava and basaltic dykes, and many large and dark caves are formed by the juxtaposition of the enormous masses. Early in the afternoon we passed a large party of white men, encamped on the lava plain near one of the small streams. Horses were tethered all around, and men were lolling about playing games of cards, and loitering through the camp, as {84} though at a loss for employment. We soon ascertained it to be Captain Bonneville's company resting after the fatigues of a long march.[112] Mr. Wyeth and Captain Stewart visited the lodge of the "bald chief," and our party proceeded on its march. The difficulties of the route seemed to increase as we progressed, until at length we found ourselves wedged in among huge blocks of lava and columns of basalt, and were forced, most reluctantly, to retrace our steps for several miles, over the impediments which we had hoped we were leaving forever behind us. We had nearly reached Bonneville's camp again, when Captains Wyeth and Stewart joined us, and we struck into another path which proved more tolerable. Wyeth gave us a rather amusing account of his visit to the worthy captain. He and Captain Stewart were received very kindly by the veteran, and every delicacy that the lodge afforded was brought forth to do them honor. Among the rest, was some _metheglen_ or diluted alcohol sweetened with honey, which the good host had concocted; this dainty beverage was set before them, and the thirsty guests were not slow in taking advantage of the invitation so obligingly given. Draught after draught of the precious liquor disappeared down the throats of the visitors, until the anxious, but still complaisant captain, began to grow uneasy. [112] Compare Irving's account of this meeting, in _Rocky Mountains_, ii, pp. 175-182.--ED. "I beg you will help yourselves, gentlemen," said the host, with a smile which he intended to express the utmost urbanity, but which, in spite of himself, had a certain ghastliness about it. "Thank you, sir, we will do so freely," replied the two worthies, and away went the metheglen as before. Cup after cup was drained, until the hollow sound of the keg indicated that its contents were nearly exhausted, when the company rose, and thanking the kind host for his noble entertainment, were bowed out of the tent with all the polite formality which the accomplished captain knows so well how to assume. Towards evening, we struck Blackfoot river, a small, sluggish, {85} stagnant stream, heading with the waters of a rapid rivulet passed yesterday, which empties into the Bear river.[113] This stream passes in a north-westerly direction through a valley of about six miles in width, covered with quagmires, through which we had great difficulty in making our way. As we approached our encampment, near a small grove of willows, on the margin of the river, a tremendous grizzly bear rushed out upon us. Our horses ran wildly in every direction, snorting with terror, and became nearly unmanageable. Several balls were instantly fired into him, but they only seemed to increase his fury. After spending a moment in rending each wound, (their invariable practice,) he selected the person who happened to be nearest, and darted after him, but before he proceeded far, he was sure to be stopped again by a ball from another quarter. In this way he was driven about amongst us for perhaps fifteen minutes, at times so near some of the horses, that he received several severe kicks from them. One of the pack horses was fairly fastened upon by the terrific claws of the brute, and in the terrified animal's efforts to escape the dreaded gripe, the pack and saddle were broken to pieces and disengaged. One of our mules also lent him a kick in the head while pursuing it up an adjacent hill, which sent him rolling to the bottom. Here he was finally brought to a stand. [113] Blackfoot River is an eastern affluent of Lewis (or Snake) River, next above Portneuf. Its general course is northwest, entering the main river at Blackfoot, Idaho. Wyeth passed only along its upper reaches.--ED. The poor animal was so completely surrounded by enemies that he became bewildered. He raised himself upon his hind feet, standing almost erect, his mouth partly open, and from his protruding tongue the blood fell fast in drops. While in this position, he received about six more balls, each of which made him reel. At last, as in complete desperation, he dashed into the water, and swam several yards with astonishing strength and agility, the guns cracking at him constantly; but he was not to proceed far. Just then, Richardson, who had been absent, rode up, and fixing his deadly aim upon him, fired a ball into the back {86} of his head, which killed him instantly. The strength of four men was required to drag the ferocious brute from the water, and upon examining his body, he was found completely riddled; there did not appear to be four inches of his shaggy person, from the hips upward, that had not received a ball. There must have been at least thirty shots made at him, and probably few missed him; yet such was his tenacity of life, that I have no doubt he would have succeeded in crossing the river, but for the last shot in the brain. He would probably weigh, at the least, six hundred pounds, and was about the height of an ordinary steer. The spread of the foot, laterally, was ten inches, and the claws measured seven inches in length. This animal was remarkably lean; when in good condition, he would, doubtless, much exceed in weight the estimate I have given. Richardson, and two other hunters, in company, killed two in the course of the afternoon, and saw several others. This evening, our pet antelope, poor little "Zip Koon," met with a serious accident. The mule on which he rode, got her feet fastened in some lava blocks, and, in the struggle to extricate herself, fell violently on the pointed fragments. One of the delicate legs of our favorite was broken, and he was otherwise so bruised and hurt, that, from sheer mercy, we ordered him killed. We had hoped to be able to take him to the fort which we intend building on the Portneuf river, where he could have been comfortably cared for. This is the only pet we have had in the camp, which continued with us for more than a few days. We have sometimes taken young grizzly bears, but these little fellows, even when not larger than puppies, are so cross and snappish, that it is dangerous to handle them, and we could never become attached to any animal so ungentle, and therefore young "_Ephraim_," (to give him his mountain cognomen,) generally meets with but little mercy from us when his evil genius throws him in our way. The young buffalo calf is also very {87} often taken, and if removed from the mother, and out of sight of the herd, he will follow the camp as steadily as a dog; but his propensity for keeping close to the horse's heels often gets him into trouble, as he meets with more kicks than caresses from them. He is considered an interloper, and treated accordingly. The bull calf of a month or two old, is sometimes rather difficult to manage; he shows no inclination to follow the camp like the younger ones, and requires to be dragged along by main force. At such times, he watches for a good opportunity, and before his captor is aware of what is going on, he receives a _butt_ from the clumsy head of the intractable little brute, which, in most cases, lays him sprawling upon the ground. I had an adventure of this sort a few days before we arrived at the rendezvous. I captured a large bull calf, and with considerable difficulty, managed to drag him into the camp, by means of a rope noosed around his neck, and made fast to the high pommel of my saddle. Here I attached him firmly by a cord to a stake driven into the ground, and considered him secure. In a few minutes, however, he succeeded in breaking his fastenings, and away he scoured out of the camp. I lost no time in giving chase, and although I fell flat into a ditch, and afforded no little amusement to our people thereby, I soon overtook him, and was about seizing the stranded rope, which was still around his neck, when, to my surprise, the little animal showed fight; he came at me with all his force, and dashing his head into my breast, bore me to the ground in a twinkling. I, however, finally succeeded in recapturing him, and led and pushed him back into the camp; but I could make nothing of him; his stubbornness would neither yield to severity or kindness, and the next morning I loosed him and let him go. _11th._--On ascending a hill this morning, Captain Wyeth, who was at the head of the company, suddenly espied an Indian stealing cautiously along the summit, and evidently endeavoring {88} to conceal himself. Captain W. directed the attention of McKay to the crouching figure, who, the moment he caught a glimpse of him, exclaimed, in tones of joyful astonishment, "a Blackfoot, by ----!" and clapping spurs to his horse, tore up the hill with the most frantic eagerness, with his rifle poised in his hand ready for a shot. The Indian disappeared over the hill like a lightning flash, and in another second, McKay was also out of sight, and we could hear the rapid clatter of his horse's hoofs, in hot pursuit after the fugitive. Several of the men, with myself, followed after at a rapid gait, with, however, a very different object. Mine was simply curiosity, mingled with some anxiety, lest the wily Indian should lead our impetuous friend into an ambushment, and his life thus fall a sacrifice to his temerity. When we arrived at the hill-top, McKay was gone, but we saw the track of his horse passing down the side of it, and we traced him into a dense thicket about a quarter of a mile distant. Several of our hardy fellows entered this thicket, and beat about for some time in various directions, but nothing could they see either of McKay or the Indian. In the mean time, the party passed on, and my apprehensions were fast settling into a certainty that our bold companion had found the death he had so rashly courted, when I was inexpressibly relieved by hearing the crackling of the bushes near, which was immediately followed by the appearance of the missing man himself. He was in an excessively bad humor, and grumbled audibly about the "Blackfoot rascal getting off in that cowardly fashion," without at all heeding the congratulations which I was showering upon him for his almost miraculous escape. He was evidently not aware of having been peculiarly exposed, and was regretting, like the hunter who loses his game by a sudden shift of wind, that his human prey had escaped him. The appearance of this Indian is a proof that others are lurking near; and if the party happens to be large, they may give us {89} some trouble. We are now in a part of the country which is almost constantly infested by the Blackfeet; we have seen for several mornings past, the tracks of moccasins around our camp, and not unfrequently the prints of unshod horses, so that we know we are narrowly watched; and the slumbering of one of the guard, or the slightest appearance of carelessness in the conduct of the camp, may bring the savages whooping upon us like demons. Our encampment this evening is on one of the head branches of the Blackfoot river, from which we can see the three remarkable conic summits known by the name of the "_Three Butes_" or "_Tetons_." Near these flows the Portneuf, or south branch of Snake or Lewis' river.[114] Here is to be another place of rest, and we look forward to it with pleasure both on our own account and on that of our wearied horses. [114] Townsend probably refers to the Three Buttes of the Lewis River plain, about forty miles west of their camp. The Three Tetons--a magnificent group of snow-clad mountains--were sixty miles northeast, in the present Teton Forest Reservation, Wyoming. Portneuf is an eastern affluent of Lewis River, and a well-known halting pace on the Oregon Trail.--ED. _12th._--In the afternoon we made a camp on Ross's creek, a small branch of Snake river.[115] The pasture is better than we have had for two weeks, and the stream contains an abundance of excellent trout. Some of these are enormous, and very fine eating. They bite eagerly at a grasshopper or minnow, but the largest fish are shy, and the sportsman requires to be carefully concealed in order to take them. We have here none of the fine tackle, jointed rods, reels, and silkworm gut of the accomplished city sportsman; we have only a piece of common cord, and a hook seized on with half-hitches, with a willow rod cut on the banks of the stream; but with this rough equipment we take as many trout as we wish, and who could do more, even with all the curious contrivances of old Izaac Walton or Christopher North? [115] Ross's Creek is in reality an affluent of Portneuf. The usual route from Soda Springs, on Bear River, was by way of the Portneuf; the route by Blackfoot and Ross's Creek was somewhat shorter, although rougher.--ED. The band of Indians which kept company with us from the rendezvous, left us yesterday, and fell back to join Captain Bonneville's party, which is travelling on behind. We do not regret their absence; for although they added strength to our band, and {90} would have been useful in case of an attack from Blackfeet, yet they added very materially to our cares, and gave us some trouble by their noise, confusion, and singing at night. On the 14th, we travelled but about six miles, when a halt was called, and we pitched our tents upon the banks of the noble Shoshoné or Snake river. It seems now, as though we were really nearing the western extremity of our vast continent. We are now on a stream which pours its waters directly into the Columbia, and we can form some idea of the great Oregon river by the beauty and magnitude of its tributary. Soon after we stopped, Captain W., Richardson, and two others left us to seek for a suitable spot for building a fort, and in the evening they returned with the information that an excellent and convenient place had been pitched upon, about five miles from our present encampment. On their route, they killed a buffalo, which they left at the site of the fort, suitably protected from wolves, &c. This is very pleasing intelligence to us, as our stock of dried meat is almost exhausted, and for several days past we have been depending almost exclusively upon fish. The next morning we moved early, and soon arrived at our destined camp. This is a fine large plain on the south side of the Portneuf, with an abundance of excellent grass and rich soil. The opposite side of the river is thickly covered with large timber of the cottonwood and willow, with a dense undergrowth of the same, intermixed with service-berry and currant bushes.[116] [116] This statement concerning the site of Fort Hall does not agree with that of later writers; possibly the fort was removed later, for Frémont in 1844 describes it as being nine miles above the mouth of Portneuf, on the narrow plain between that and Lewis River. The fort was named for Henry Hall, senior member of the firm furnishing Wyeth's financial backing. Wyeth sold this fort to the Hudson's Bay Company in 1836. The present Fort Hall, a government post, is forty miles northeast of the old fort, on Lincoln Creek, an affluent of Blackfoot River. It was built in May, 1870, and there, since that time, a garrison has been maintained.--ED. Most of the men were immediately put to work, felling trees, making horse-pens, and preparing the various requisite materials for the building, while others were ordered to get themselves in readiness for a start on the back track, in order to make a hunt, and procure meat for the camp. To this party I have attached myself, and all my leisure time to-day is employed in preparing for it. Our number will be twelve, and each man will lead a mule with {91} a pack-saddle, in order to bring in the meat that we may kill. Richardson is the principal of this party, and Mr. Ashworth has also consented to join us, so that I hope we shall have an agreeable trip. There will be but little hard work to perform; our men are mostly of the best, and no rum or cards are allowed. {92} CHAPTER VI Departure of the hunting camp--A false alarm--Blackfeet Indians--their ferocity--Requisites of a mountain-man--Good fare, and good appetites--An experiment--Grizzly bears--Visit of a Nez Percé Indian--Adventure with a grizzly bear--Hunter's anecdotes--Homeward bound--Accident from gunpowder--Arrival at "Fort Hall"--A salute--Emaciation of some of the party from low diet--Mr. McKay's company--Buffalo lodges--Progress of the building--Effects of judicious training--Indian worship--A "Camp Meeting"--Mr. Jason Lee, a favorite--A fatal accident and a burial. _July 16th._--Our little hunting party of twelve men, rode out of the encampment this morning, at a brisk trot, which gait was continued until we arrived at our late encampment on Ross' creek, having gone about thirty miles. Here we came to a halt, and made a hearty meal on a buffalo which we had just killed. While we were eating, a little Welshman, whom we had stationed outside our camp to watch the horses, came running to us out of breath, crying in a terrified falsetto, "_Indians, Indians!_" In a moment every man was on his feet, and his gun in his hand; the horses were instantly surrounded, by Richardson's direction, and driven into the bushes, and we were preparing ourselves for the coming struggle, when our hunter, peering out of the thick copse to mark the approach of the enemy, burst at once into a loud laugh, and muttering something about a Welsh coward, stepped boldly from his place of concealment, and told us to follow him. When we had done so, we perceived the band approaching steadily, and it seemed warily, along the path directly in our front. Richardson said something to them in an unknown tongue, which immediately brought several of the strangers towards {93} us at full gallop. One of these was a Canadian, as his peculiar physiognomy, scarlet sash, and hat ribbons of gaudy colors, clearly proved, and the two who accompanied him, were Indians. These people greeted us with great cordiality, the more so, perhaps, as they had supposed, on seeing the smoke from our fire, that we were a band of Blackfeet, and that, therefore, there was no alternative for them but to fight. While we were conversing, the whole party, of about thirty, came up, and it needed but a glance at the motley group of tawdrily dressed hybrid boys, and blanketted Indians, to convince us that this was McKay's company travelling on to join him at Fort Hall. They inquired anxiously about their leader, and seemed pleased on being informed that he was so near; the prospect of a few days' rest at the fort, and the _regale_ by which their arrival was sure to be commemorated, acted upon the spirits of the mercurial young half-breeds, like the potent liquor which they expected soon to quaff in company with the kindred souls who were waiting to receive them. They all seemed hungry, and none required a second invitation to join us at our half finished meal. The huge masses of savoury fleece meat, hump-ribs, and side-ribs disappeared, and were polished with wonderful dispatch; the Canadians ate like half famished wolves, and the sombre Indians, although slower and more sedate in their movements, were very little behind their companions in the agreeable process of mastication. The next day we rode thirty-four miles, and encamped on a pretty little stream, fringed with willows, running through the midst of a large plain. Within a few miles, we saw a small herd of buffalo, and six of our company left the camp for a hunt. In an hour two of them returned, bringing the meat of one animal. We all commenced work immediately, cutting it in thin slices, and hanging it on the bushes to dry. By sundown, our work was finished, and soon after dark, the remaining hunters {94} came in, bringing the best parts of three more. This will give us abundance of work for to-morrow, when the hunters will go out again. Richardson and Salisbury mention having seen several Blackfeet Indians to-day, who, on observing them, ran rapidly away, and, as usual, concealed themselves in the bushes. We are now certain that our worst enemies are around us, and that they are only waiting for a favorable time and opportunity to make an attack. They are not here for nothing, and have probably been dogging us, and reconnoitering our outposts, so that the greatest caution and watchfulness will be required to prevent a surprise. We are but a small company, and there may be at this very moment hundreds within hearing of our voices. The Blackfoot is a sworn and determined foe to all white men, and he has often been heard to declare that he would rather hang the scalp of a "pale face" to his girdle, than kill a buffalo to prevent his starving. The hostility of this dreaded tribe is, and has for years been, proverbial. They are, perhaps, the only Indians who do not fear the power, and who refuse to acknowledge the superiority of the white man; and though so often beaten in conflicts with them, even by their own mode of warfare, and generally with numbers vastly inferior, their indomitable courage and perseverance still urges them on to renewed attempts; and if a single scalp is taken, it is considered equal to a great victory, and is hailed as a presage of future and more extensive triumphs. It must be acknowledged, however, that this determined hostility does not originate solely in savage malignity, or an abstract thirst for the blood of white men; it is fomented and kept alive from year to year by incessant provocatives on the part of white hunters, trappers, and traders, who are at best but intruders on the rightful domains of the red man of the wilderness. {95} Many a night have I sat at the camp-fire, and listened to the recital of bloody and ferocious scenes, in which the narrators were the actors, and the poor Indians the victims, and I have felt my blood tingle with shame, and boil with indignation, to hear the diabolical acts applauded by those for whose amusement they were related. Many a precious villain, and merciless marauder, was made by these midnight tales of rapine, murder, and robbery; many a stripling, in whose tender mind the seeds of virtue and honesty had never germinated, burned for an opportunity of loading his pack-horse with the beaver skins of some solitary Blackfoot trapper, who was to be murdered and despoiled of the property he had acquired by weeks, and perhaps months, of toil and danger. Acts of this kind are by no means unfrequent, and the subjects of this sort of atrocity are not always the poor and despised Indians: white men themselves often fall by the hands of their companions, when by good fortune and industry they have succeeded in loading their horses with fur. The fortunate trapper is treacherously murdered by one who has eaten from the same dish and drank from the same cup, and the homicide returns triumphantly to his camp with his ill gotten property. If his companion be inquired for, the answer is that some days ago they parted company, and he will probably soon join them. The poor man never returns--no one goes to search for him--he is soon forgotten, or is only remembered by one more steadfast than the rest, who seizes with avidity the first opportunity which is afforded, of murdering an unoffending Indian in revenge for the death of his friend. On the 20th, we moved our camp to a spot about twelve miles distant, where Richardson, with two other hunters, stopped yesterday and spent the night. They had killed several buffalo here, and were busily engaged in preparing the meat when we joined them. They gave us a meal of excellent cow's flesh, and {96} I thought I never had eaten anything so delicious. Hitherto we have had only the bulls which are at this season poor and rather unsavory, but now we are feasting upon the _best food in the world_. It is true we have nothing but meat and good cold water, but this is all we desire: we have excellent appetites, no dyspepsia, clear heads, sharp ears, and high spirits, and what more does a man require to make him happy? We rise in the morning with the sun, stir up our fires, and _roast_ our breakfast, eating usually from one to two pounds of meat at a morning meal. At ten o'clock we lunch, dine at two, sup at five, and lunch at eight, and during the night-watch commonly provide ourselves with two or three "hump-ribs" and a marrow bone, to furnish employment and keep the drowsy god at a distance. Our present camp is a beautiful one. A rich and open plain of luxuriant grass, dotted with buffalo in all directions, a high picturesque hill in front, and a lovely stream of cold mountain water flowing at our feet. On the borders of this stream, as usual, is a dense belt of willows, and under the shade of these we sit and work by day, and sleep soundly at night. Our meat is now dried upon scaffolds constructed of old timber which we find in great abundance upon the neighboring hill. We keep a fire going constantly, and when the meat is sufficiently dried, it is piled on the ground, preparatory to being baled. _21st._--The buffalo appear even more numerous than when we came, and much less suspicious than common. The bulls frequently pass slowly along within a hundred yards of us, and toss their shaggy and frightful looking heads as though to warn us against attacking or approaching them. Towards evening, to-day, I walked out with my gun, in the direction of one of these prowling monsters, and the ground in his vicinity being covered densely with bushes, I determined to {97} approach as near him as possible, in order to try the efficacy of a ball planted directly in the centre of the forehead. I had heard of this experiment having been tried without success and I wished to ascertain the truth for myself. "Taking the wind" of the animal, as it is called, (that is, keeping to leeward, so that my approach could not be perceived by communicating a taint to the air,) I crawled on my hands and knees with the utmost caution towards my victim. The unwieldy brute was quietly and unsuspiciously cropping the herbage, and I had arrived to within feet of him, when a sudden flashing of the eye, and an impatient motion, told me that I was observed. He raised his enormous head, and looked around him, and so truly terrible and grand did he appear, that I must confess, (in your ear,) I felt awed, almost frightened, at the task I had undertaken. But I had gone too far to retreat; so, raising my gun, I took deliberate aim at the bushy centre of the forehead, and fired. The monster shook his head, pawed up the earth with his hoofs, and making a sudden spring, accompanied by a terrific roar, turned to make his escape. At that instant, the ball from the second barrel penetrated his vitals, and he measured his huge length upon the ground. In a few seconds he was dead. Upon examining the head, and cutting away the enormous mass of matted hair and skin which enveloped the skull, my large bullet of twenty to the pound, was found completely flattened against the bone, having carried with it, through the interposing integument, a considerable portion of the coarse hair, but without producing the smallest fracture. I was satisfied; and taking the tongue, (the hunter's perquisite,) I returned to my companions. This evening the roaring of the bulls in the _gang_ near us is terrific, and these sounds are mingled with the howling of large packs of wolves, which regularly attend upon them, and the hoarse screaming of hundreds of ravens flying over head. The dreaded {98} grizzly bear is also quite common in this neighborhood; two have just been seen in some bushes near, and they visit our camp almost every night, attracted by the piles of meat which are heaped all around us. The first intimation we have of his approach is a great _grunt_ or _snort_, unlike any sound I ever heard, but much more querulous than fierce; then we hear the scraping and tramping of his huge feet, and the snuffing of his nostrils, as the savory scent of the meat is wafted to them. He approaches nearer and nearer, with a stealthy and fearful pace, but just as he is about to accomplish the object of his visit, he suddenly stops short; the snuffing is repeated at long and trembling intervals, and if the slightest motion is then made by one of the party, away goes "_Ephraim_," like a cowardly burglar as he is, and we hear no more of him that night. On the 23d a Nez Percé Indian, belonging to Mr. McKay's company visited us. He is one of several hundred who have been sent from the fort on the same errand as ourselves. This was a middle aged man, with a countenance in which shrewdness or cunning, and complaisance, appeared singularly blended. But his person was a perfect wonder, and would have served admirably for the study of a sculptor. The form was perfection itself. The lower limbs were entirely naked, and the upper part of the person was only covered by a short checked shirt. His blanket lay by his side as he sat with us, and was used only while moving. I could not but admire the ease with which the man squatted on his haunches immediately as he alighted, and the position both of body and limbs was one that, probably, no white man unaccustomed to it, could have endured for many minutes together. The attitude, and indeed the whole figure was graceful and easy in the extreme; and on criticising his person, one was forcibly reminded of the Apollo Belvidere of Canova. His only weapons were a short bow and half a dozen arrows, a scalping knife and tomahawk; with these, however, weak and inefficient {99} as they seemed, he had done good service, every arrow being smeared with blood to the feathers. He told Richardson that he and his three or four companions had killed about sixty buffalo, and that now, having meat enough, they intended to return to their camp to-morrow. This afternoon I observed a large flock of wild geese passing over; and upon watching them, perceived that they alighted about a mile and a half from us, where I knew there was a lake. Concluding that a little change of diet might be agreeable, I sallied forth with my gun across the plain in quest of the birds. I soon arrived at a thick copse of willow and currant bushes, which skirted the water, and was about entering, when I heard a sort of angry growl or grunt directly before me--and instantly after, saw a grizzly bear of the largest kind erect himself upon his hind feet within a dozen yards of me, his savage eyes glaring with horrible malignity, his mouth wide open, and his tremendous paws raised as though ready to descend upon me. For a moment, I thought my hour had come, and that I was fated to die an inglorious death away from my friends and my kindred; but after waiting a moment in agonizing suspense, and the bear showing no inclination to advance, my lagging courage returned, and cocking both barrels of my gun, and presenting it as steadily as my nerves would allow, full at the shaggy breast of the creature, I retreated slowly backwards. Bruin evidently had no notion of braving gunpowder, but I did not know whether, like a dog, if the enemy retreated he would not yet give me a chase; so when I had placed about a hundred yards between us, I wheeled about and flew, rather than ran, across the plain towards the camp. Several times during this run for life, (as I considered it,) did I fancy that I heard the bear at my heels; and not daring to look over my shoulder to ascertain the fact, I only increased my speed, until the camp was nearly gained, when, from sheer exhaustion I relaxed my efforts, fell flat upon the ground, and {100} looked behind me. The whole space between me and the copse was untenanted, and I was forced to acknowledge, with a feeling strongly allied to shame, that my fears alone had represented the bear in chase of me. When I arrived in camp, and told my break-neck adventure to the men, our young companion, Mr. Ashworth, expressed a wish to go and kill the bear, and requested the loan of my double-barrelled gun for this purpose. This I at first peremptorily refused, and the men, several of whom were experienced hunters, joined me in urging him not to attempt the rash adventure. At length, however, finding him determined on going, and that rather than remain, he would trust to his own single gun, I was finally induced to offer him mine, with a request, (which I had hoped would check his daring spirit,) that he would leave the weapon in a situation where I could readily find it; for after he had made one shot, he would never use a gun again. He seemed to heed our caution and advice but little, and, with a dogged and determined air, took the way across the plain to the bushes, which we could see in the distance. I watched him for some time, until I saw him enter them, and then, with a sigh that one so young and talented should be lost from amongst us, and a regret that we did not forcibly prevent his going, I sat myself down, distressed and melancholy. We all listened anxiously to hear the report of the gun; but no sound reaching our ears, we began to hope that he had failed in finding the animal, and in about fifteen minutes, to my inexpressible relief, we saw him emerge from the copse, and bend his steps slowly towards us. When he came in, he seemed disappointed, and somewhat angry. He said he had searched the bushes in every direction, and although he had found numerous footprints, no bear was to be seen. It is probable that when I commenced my retreat in one direction, bruin made off in the other, and that although he was willing to dispute the ground with me, and prevent my {101} passing his lair, he was equally willing to back out of an engagement in which his fears suggested that he might come off the loser. This evening, as we sat around the camp fire, cozily wrapped in our blankets, some of our old hunters became garrulous, and we had several good "_yarns_," as a sailor would say. One told of his having been shot by a Blackfoot Indian, who was disguised in the skin of an elk, and exhibited, with some little pride, a great cicatrix which disfigured his neck. Another gave us an interesting account of an attack made by the Comanche Indians upon a party of Santa-Fee traders, to which he had been attached. The white men, as is usual in general engagements with Indians, gained a signal victory, not, however, without the loss of several of their best hunters; and the old man who told the story,--"uncle John," as he was usually called,--shed tears at the recollection of the death of his friends; and during that part of his narrative, was several times so much affected as to be unable to speak.[117] [117] I have repeatedly observed these exhibitions of feeling in some of our people upon particular occasions, and I have been pleased with them, as they seemed to furnish an evidence, that amid all the mental sterility, and absence of moral rectitude, which is so deplorably prevalent, there yet lingers some kindliness of heart, some sentiments which are not wholly depraved.--TOWNSEND. The best story, however, was one told by Richardson, of a meeting he once had with three Blackfeet Indians. He had been out alone hunting buffalo, and towards the end of the day was returning to the camp with his meat, when he heard the clattering of hoofs in the rear, and, upon looking back, observed three Indians in hot pursuit of him. He immediately _discharged his cargo_ of meat to lighten his horse, and then urged the animal to his utmost speed, in an attempt to distance his pursuers. He soon discovered, however, that the enemy was rapidly gaining upon him, and that in a few {102} minutes more, he would be completely at their mercy, when he hit upon an expedient, as singular as it was bold and courageous. Drawing his long scalping knife from the sheath at his side, he plunged the keen weapon through his horse's neck, and severed the spine. The animal dropped instantly dead, and the determined hunter, throwing himself behind the fallen carcass, waited calmly the approach of his sanguinary pursuers. In a few moments, one Indian was within range of the fatal rifle, and at its report, his horse galloped riderless over the plain. The remaining two then thought to take him at advantage by approaching simultaneously on both sides of his rampart; but one of them, happening to venture too near in order to be sure of his aim, was shot to the heart by the long pistol of the white man, at the very instant that the ball from the Indian's gun whistled harmlessly by. The third savage, being wearied of the dangerous game, applied the whip vigorously to the flanks of his horse, and was soon out of sight, while Richardson set about collecting the trophies of his singular victory. He caught the two Indians' horses; mounted one, and loaded the other with the meat which he had discarded, and returned to his camp with two spare rifles, and a good stock of ammunition. On the morning of the 25th, we commenced baling up our meat in buffalo skins dried for the purpose. Each bale contains about a hundred pounds, of which a mule carries two; and when we had finished, our twelve long-eared friends were loaded. Our limited term of absence is now nearly expired, and we are anxious to return to the fort in order to prepare for the journey to the lower country. At about 10 o'clock, we left our pleasant encampment, and bade adieu to the cold spring, the fat buffalo, and grizzly bears, and urging our mules into their fastest walk, we jolted along with our _provant_ towards the fort. {103} In about an hour after, an unpleasant accident happened to one of our men, named McCarey. He had been running a buffalo, and was about reloading the gun, which he had just discharged, when the powder in his horn was ignited by a burning wad remaining in the barrel; the horn was burst to fragments, the poor man dashed from his horse, and his face, neck, and hands, burnt in a shocking manner. We applied, immediately, the simple remedies which our situation and the place afforded, and in the course of an hour he was somewhat relieved, and travelled on with us, though in considerable suffering. His eyes were entirely closed, the lids very much swollen, and his long, flowing hair, patriarchal beard and eye-brows, had all vanished in smoke. It will be long ere he gets another such crop. The weather here is generally uncomfortably warm, so much so, that we discard, while travelling, all such encumbrances as coats, neckcloths, &c., but the nights are excessively cold, ice often forming in the camp kettles, of the thickness of half an inch, or more. My custom has generally been to roll myself in my blanket at night, and use my large coat as a pillow; but here the coat must be worn, and my saddle has to serve the purpose to which the coat is usually applied. We travelled, this day, thirty miles, and the next afternoon, at 4 o'clock, arrived at the fort. On the route we met three hunters, whom Captain W. had sent to kill game for the camp. They informed us that all hands have been for several days on short allowance, and were very anxious for our return. When we came in sight of the fort, we gave them a mountain salute, each man firing his gun in quick succession. They did not expect us until to-morrow, and the firing aroused them instantly. In a very few minutes, a score of men were armed and mounted, and dashing out to give battle to the advancing Indians, as they thought us. The general supposition was, that {104} their little hunting party had been attacked by a band of roving Blackfeet, and they made themselves ready for the rescue in a space of time that did them great credit. It was perhaps "_bad medicine_," (to use the mountain phrase,) to fire a salute at all, inasmuch as it excited some unnecessary alarm, but it had the good effect to remind them that danger might be near when they least expected it, and afforded them an opportunity of showing the promptness and alacrity with which they could meet and brave it. Our people were all delighted to see us arrive, and I could perceive many a longing and eager gaze cast upon the well filled bales, as our mules swung their little bodies through the camp. My companion, Mr. N., had become so exceedingly thin that I should scarcely have known him; and upon my expressing surprise at the great change in his appearance, he heaved a sigh of inanity, and remarked that I "would have been as thin as he if I had lived on old _Ephraim_ for two weeks, and short allowance of that." I found, in truth, that the whole camp had been subsisting, during our absence, on little else than two or three grizzly bears which had been killed in the neighborhood; and with a complacent glance at my own rotund and _cow-fed_ person, I wished my _poor_ friend better luck for the future. We found Mr. McKay's company encamped on the bank of the river within a few hundred yards of our tents. It consists of thirty men, thirteen of whom are Indians, Nez Percés, Chinooks and Kayouse,[118] with a few squaws. The remainder are French-Canadians, and half-breeds. Their lodges,--of which there are several,--are of a conical form, composed of ten long poles, the lower ends of which are pointed and driven into the ground; the upper blunt, and drawn together at the top by thongs. Around these poles, several dressed buffalo skins, sewed together, are stretched, a hole being left on one side for entrance. [118] For the Chinook, see Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 240, note 40; for the Cayuse, Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, our volume vii, p. 137, note 37.--ED. These are the kind of lodges universally used by the mountain {105} Indians while travelling: they are very comfortable and commodious, and a squaw accustomed to it, will erect and prepare one for the reception of her husband, while he is removing the trapping, from his horse. I have seen an expert Indian woman stretch a lodge in half the time that was required by four white men to perform the same operation with another in the neighborhood. At the fort, affairs look prosperous: the stockade is finished; two bastions have been erected, and the work is singularly good, considering the scarcity of proper building tools. The house will now soon be habitable, and the structure can then be completed at leisure by men who will be left here in charge, while the party travels on to its destination, the Columbia. On the evening of the 26th, Captain W., Mr. Nuttall and myself supped with Mr. McKay in his lodge. I am much pleased with this gentleman: he unites the free, frank and open manners of the mountain man, with the grace and affability of the Frenchman. But above all, I admire the order, decorum, and strict subordination which exists among his men, so different from what I have been accustomed to see in parties composed of Americans. Mr. McKay assures me that he had considerable difficulty in bringing his men to the state in which they now are. The free and fearless Indian was particularly difficult to subdue; but steady, determined perseverance, and bold measures, aided by a rigid self-example, made them as clay in his hand, and has finally reduced them to their present admirable condition. If they misbehaved, a commensurate punishment is sure to follow: in extreme cases, flagellation is resorted to, but it is inflicted only by the hand of the Captain; were any other appointed to perform this office _on an Indian_, the indignity would be deemed so great, that nothing less than the blood of the individual could appease the wounded feelings of the savage. {106} After supper was concluded, we sat ourselves down on a buffalo robe at the entrance of the lodge, to see the Indians at their devotions. The whole thirteen were soon collected at the call of one whom they had chosen for their chief, and seated with sober, sedate countenances around a large fire. After remaining in perfect silence for perhaps fifteen minutes, the chief commenced an harangue in a solemn and impressive tone, reminding them of the object for which they were thus assembled, that of worshipping the "Great Spirit who made the light and the darkness, the fire and the water," and assured them that if they offered up their prayers to him with but "one tongue," they would certainly be accepted. He then rose from his squatting position to his knees, and his example was followed by all the others. In this situation he commenced a prayer, consisting of short sentences uttered rapidly but with great apparent fervor, his hands clasped upon his breast, and his eyes cast upwards with a beseeching look towards heaven. At the conclusion of each sentence, a choral response of a few words was made, accompanied frequently by low moaning. The prayer lasted about twenty minutes. After its conclusion, the chief, still maintaining the same position of his body and hands, but with his head bent to his breast, commenced a kind of psalm or sacred song, in which the whole company presently joined. The song was a simple expression of a few sounds, no intelligible words being uttered. It resembled the words, _Ho-h[)a]-ho-h[)a]-ho-h[)a]-hã-ã_, commencing in a low tone, and gradually swelling to a full, round, and beautifully modulated chorus. During the song, the clasped hands of the worshippers were moved rapidly across the breast, and their bodies swung with great energy to the time of the music. The chief ended the song that he had commenced, by a kind of swelling groan, which was echoed in chorus. It was then taken up by another, and the same routine was gone {107} through. The whole ceremony occupied perhaps, one and a half hours; a short silence then succeeded, after which each Indian rose from the ground, and disappeared in the darkness with a step noiseless as that of a spectre. I think I never was more gratified by any exhibition in my life. The humble, subdued, and beseeching looks of the poor untutored beings who were calling upon their heavenly father to forgive their sins, and continue his mercies to them, and the evident and heart-felt sincerity which characterized the whole scene, was truly affecting, and very impressive. The next day being the Sabbath, our good missionary, Mr. Jason Lee, was requested to hold a meeting, with which he obligingly complied. A convenient, shady spot was selected in the forest adjacent, and the greater part of our men, as well as the whole of Mr. McKay's company, including the Indians, attended. The usual forms of the Methodist service, (to which Mr. L. is attached,) were gone through, and were followed by a brief, but excellent and appropriate exhortation by that gentleman. The people were remarkably quiet and attentive, and the Indians sat upon the ground like statues. Although not one of them could understand a word that was said, they nevertheless maintained the most strict and decorous silence, kneeling when the preacher kneeled, and rising when he rose, evidently with a view of paying him and us a suitable respect, however much their own notions as to the proper and most acceptable forms of worship, might have been opposed to ours. A meeting for worship in the Rocky mountains is almost as unusual as the appearance of a herd of buffalo in the settlements. A sermon was perhaps never preached here before; but for myself, I really enjoyed the whole scene; it possessed the charm {108} of novelty, to say nothing of the salutary effect which I sincerely hope it may produce. Mr. Lee is a great favorite with the men, deservedly so, and there are probably few persons to whose preaching they would have listened with so much complaisance. I have often been amused and pleased by Mr. L.'s manner of reproving them for the coarseness and profanity of expression which is so universal amongst them. The reproof, although decided, clear, and strong, is always characterized by the mildness and affectionate manner peculiar to the man; and although the good effect of the advice may not be discernible, yet it is always treated with respect, and its utility acknowledged. In the evening, a fatal accident happened to a Canadian belonging to Mr. McKay's party. He was running his horse, in company with another, when the animals were met in full career by a third rider, and horses and men were thrown with great force to the ground. The Canadian was taken up completely senseless, and brought to Mr. McKay's lodge, where we were all taking supper. I perceived at once that there was little chance of his life being saved. He had received an injury of the head which had evidently caused concussion of the brain. He was bled copiously, and various local remedies were applied, but without success; the poor man died early next morning. He was about forty years of age, healthy, active, and shrewd, and very much valued by Mr. McKay as a leader in his absence, and as an interpreter among the Indians of the Columbia. At noon the body was interred. It was wrapped in a piece of coarse linen, over which was sewed a buffalo robe. The spot selected, was about a hundred yards south of the fort, and the funeral was attended by the greater part of the men of both camps. Mr. Lee officiated in performing the ordinary church {109} ceremony, after which a hymn for the repose of the soul of the departed, was sung by the Canadians present. The grave is surrounded by a neat palisade of willows, with a black cross erected at the head, on which is carved the name "_Casseau_."[119] [119] According to Wyeth's journal his name was Kanseau, and the services were Protestant, Catholic, and Indian--"as he had an Indian family; he at least was well buried."--ED. {110} CHAPTER VII Departure of Mr. McKay's party, Captain Stewart, and the missionaries--Debauch at the fort--Departure of the company--Poor provision--Blackfeet hunting ground--A toilsome journey, and sufferings from thirst--Goddin's creek--Antoine Goddin, the trapper--Scarcity of game--A buffalo--Rugged mountains--Comforting reflections of the traveller--More game--Unusual economy--Habits of the white wolf--"Thornburg's pass"--Difficult travelling--The captain in jeopardy among the snow--A countermarch--Deserted Banneck camp--Toilsome and dangerous passage of the mountain--Mallade river--Beaver dams, and beaver--A party of Snake Indians--Scarcity of pasture--Another Banneck camp--"Kamas prairie"--Indian mode of preparing the kamas--Racine blanc, or biscuit root--Travelling over the hills--Loss of horses by fatigue--Boisée or Big-wood river--Salmon--Choke-cherries, &c. On the 30th of July, Mr. McKay and his party left us for Fort Vancouver, Captain Stewart and our band of missionaries accompanying them. The object of the latter in leaving us, is, that they may have an opportunity of travelling more slowly than we should do, on account, and for the benefit of the horned cattle which they are driving to the lower country. We feel quite sad in the prospect of parting from those with whom we have endured some toil and danger, and who have been to some of us as brothers, throughout our tedious journey; but, if no unforeseen accident occurs, we hope to meet them all again at Walla-Walla, the upper fort on the Columbia. As the party rode off, we fired three rounds, which were promptly answered, and three times three cheers wished the travellers success. _August 5th._--At sunrise this morning, the "star-spangled banner" was raised on the flag-staff at the fort, and a salute {111} fired by the men, who, according to orders, assembled around it. All in camp were then allowed the free and uncontrolled use of liquor, and, as usual, the consequence was a scene of rioting, noise, and fighting, during the whole day; some became so drunk that their senses fled them entirely, and they were therefore harmless; but by far the greater number were just sufficiently under the influence of the vile trash, to render them in their conduct disgusting and tiger-like. We had "gouging," biting, fisticuffing, and "stamping" in the most "scientific" perfection; some even fired guns and pistols at each other, but these weapons were mostly harmless in the unsteady hands which employed them. Such scenes I hope never to witness again; they are absolutely sickening, and cause us to look upon our species with abhorrence and loathing. Night at last came, and cast her mantle over our besotted camp; the revel was over, and the men retired to their pallets peaceably, but not a few of them will bear palpable evidence of the debauch of the 5th of August. The next morning we commenced packing, and at 11 o'clock bade adieu to "Fort Hall."[120] Our company now consists of but thirty men, several Indian women, and one hundred and sixteen horses. We crossed the main Snake or Shoshoné river, at a point about three miles from the fort. It is here as wide as the Missouri at Independence, but, beyond comparison, clearer and more beautiful. [120] Upon leaving Fort Hall, the usual trail followed the valley of the Lewis (or Snake) to Fort Boise. Wyeth, however, struck directly northwest across the Snake River Desert, past the Three Buttes. Godin's Creek was what is now known as Lost River, from having no outlet.--ED. Immediately on crossing the river, we entered upon a wide, sandy plain, thickly covered with wormwood, and early in the afternoon, encamped at the head of a delightful spring, about ten miles from our starting place. On the route, our hunters killed a young grizzly bear, which, with a few grouse, made us an excellent dinner. Fresh meat is now very grateful to our palates, as we have been living for weeks past on nothing but poor, dried buffalo, the better, and {112} far the larger part, having been deposited in the fort for the subsistence of the men who remain. We have no flour, nor vegetables of any kind, and our meat may be aptly compared to dry chips, breaking short off in our fingers; and when boiled to soften it a little, and render it fit for mastication, not a star appears in the pot. It seems astonishing that life can be sustained upon such miserable fare, and yet our men (except when under the influence of liquor) have never murmured, but have always eaten their crusty meal, and drunk their cold water with light and excellent spirits. We hope soon to fall in with the buffalo, and we shall then endeavor to prepare some good provision to serve until we reach the salmon region. We shall now, for about ten days, be travelling through the most dangerous country west of the mountains, the regular hunting ground of the Blackfeet Indians, who are said to be often seen here in parties of hundreds, or even thousands, scouring the plains in pursuit of the buffalo. Traders, therefore, seldom travel this route without meeting them, and being compelled to prove their valor upon them; the white men are, however, generally the victors, although their numbers are always vastly inferior. _7th._--We were moving this morning with the dawn, and travelled steadily the whole day, over one of the most arid plains we have seen, covered thickly with jagged masses of lava, and twisted wormwood bushes. Both horses and men were jaded to the last degree; the former from the rough, and at times almost impassable nature of the track, and the latter from excessive heat and parching thirst. We saw not a drop of water during the day, and our only food was the dried meat before spoken of, which we carried, and chewed like biscuits as we travelled. There are two reasons by which the extreme thirst which the way-farer suffers in these regions, may be accounted {113} for; first, the intense heat of the sun upon the open and exposed plains; and secondly, the desiccation to which every thing here is subject. The air feels like the breath of a sirocco, the tongue becomes parched and horny, and the mouth, nose, and eyes are incessantly assailed by the fine pulverized lava, which rises from the ground with the least breath of air. Bullets, pebbles of chalcedony, and pieces of smooth obsidian, were in great requisition to-day; almost every man was mumbling some of these substances, in an endeavor to assuage his burning thirst. The camp trailed along in a lagging and desponding line over the plain for a mile or more, the poor horses' heads hanging low, their tongues protruding to their utmost extent, and their riders scarcely less drooping and spiritless. We were a sad and most forlorn looking company, certainly; not a man of us had any thing to say, and none cared to be interrupted in his blissful dream of cool rivers and streams. Occasionally we would pass a ravine or gorge in the hills, by which one side of the plain was bounded, and up this some of the men would steer, leaping over blocks of lava, and breaking a path through the dense bushes; but the poor searcher soon returned, disheartened and wo-begone, and those who had waited anxiously to hear his cheering call, announcing success, passed onward without a word. One of our men, a mulatto, after failing in a forage of this sort, cast himself resolutely from his horse to the ground, and declared that he would lie there till he died; "there was no water in the cursed country and he might as well die here as go farther." Some of us tried to infuse a little courage into him, but it proved of no avail, and each was too much occupied with his own particular grief to use his tongue much in persuasion; so we left him to his fate. Soon after night-fall, some signs of water were seen in a small valley to our left, and, upon ascending it, the foremost of the party found a delightful little cold spring; but they soon exhausted {114} it, and then commenced, with axes and knives, to dig it out and enlarge it. By the time that Mr. N., and myself arrived, they had excavated a large space which was filled to overflowing with muddy water. We did not wait for it to settle, however, but throwing ourselves flat upon the ground, drank until we were ready to burst. The tales which I had read of suffering travellers in the Arabian deserts, then recurred with some force to my recollection, and I thought I could,--though in a very small measure,--appreciate their sufferings by deprivation, and their unmingled delight and satisfaction in the opportunity of assuaging them. Poor Jim, the mulatto man, was found by one of the people, who went back in search of him, lying where he had first fallen, and either in a real or pretended swoon, still obstinate about dying, and scarcely heeding the assurances of the other that water was within a mile of him. He was, however, at length dragged and carried into camp, and soused head foremost into the mud puddle, where he guzzled and guzzled until his eyes seemed ready to burst from his head, and he was lifted out and laid dripping and flaccid upon the ground. The next morning we made an early start towards a range of willows which we could distinctly see, at the distance of fifteen or twenty miles, and which we knew indicated Goddin's creek, so called from a Canadian of that name who was killed in this vicinity by the Blackfeet. Goddin's son, a half-breed, is now with us as a trapper; he is a fine sturdy fellow, and of such strength of limb and wind, that he is said to be able to run down a buffalo on foot, and kill him with arrows. Goddin's creek was at length gained, and after travelling a few miles along its bank we encamped in some excellent pasture. Our poor horses seemed inclined to make up for lost time here, as yesterday their only food was the straggling blades of a little {115} dry and parched grass growing among the wormwood on the hills. We have been considerably disappointed in not seeing any buffalo to-day, and their absence here has occasioned some fear that we may not meet with them on our route. Should this be the case, we shall have to depend upon such small game, hares, grouse, &c., as may happen to lie in our path. In a short time, however, even this resource will fail; and if we do not happen to see Indians on the upper waters of the Columbia, from whom we can purchase dried salmon, we shall be under the necessity of killing our horses for food. We perhaps derive one advantage, however, from the absence of game here,--that of there being less probability of lurking Blackfeet in the vicinity; but this circumstance, convenient as it is, does not compensate for empty stomachs, and I believe the men would rather fight for the privilege of obtaining food, than live without it. The next morning we left Goddin's creek, and travelled for ten miles over a plain, covered as usual with wormwood bushes and lava. Early in the day, the welcome cry of "a buffalo! a buffalo!" was heard from the head of the company, and was echoed joyfully along the whole line. At the moment, a fine large bull was seen to bound from the bushes in our front, and tear off with all his speed over the plain. Several hunters gave him chase immediately, and in a few minutes we heard the guns that proclaimed his death. The killing of this animal is a most fortunate circumstance for us: his meat will probably sustain us for three or four days, and by that time we are sanguine of procuring other provision. The appearance of this buffalo is not considered indicative of the vicinity of others: he is probably a straggler from a travelling band, and has been unable to proceed with it, in consequence of sickness or wounds. {116} On leaving the plain this morning, we struck into a defile between some of the highest mountains we have yet seen. In a short time we commenced ascending, and continued passing over them, until late in the afternoon, when we reached a plain about a mile in width, covered with excellent grass, and a delightful cool stream flowing through the middle of it. Here we encamped, having travelled twenty-seven miles. Our journey, to-day, has been particularly laborious. We were engaged for several hours, constantly in ascending and descending enormous rocky hills, with scarcely the sign of a valley between them; and some of them so steep, that our horses were frequently in great danger of falling, by making a mis-step on the loose, rolling stones. I thought the Black Hills, on the Platte, rugged and difficult of passage, but they sink into insignificance when compared with these.[121] [121] These mountains--in Custer County, Idaho, between the different branches of Lost River--have apparently no local name that has been cartographically recorded; they lie between the Sawtooth and Lost River ranges.--ED. We observed, on these mountains, large masses of green-stone, and beautiful pebbles of chalcedony and fine agate; the summits of the highest are covered with snow. In the mountain passes, we found an abundance of large, yellow currants, rather acid, but exceedingly palatable to men who have been long living on animal food exclusively. We all ate heartily of them; indeed, some of our people became so much attached to the bushes, that we had considerable difficulty to induce them to travel again. _10th_.--We commenced our march at seven this morning, proceeding up a narrow valley, bordering our encampment in a north-easterly direction. The ravine soon widened, until it became a broad, level plain, covered by the eternal "sage" bushes, but was much less stony than usual. About mid-day, we left the plain, and shaped our course over a spur of one of the large mountains; then taking a ravine, in about an hour we came to the level land, and struck Goddin's creek again, late in the afternoon. Our provision was all exhausted at breakfast, this morning, {117} (most of our bull meat having been given to a band of ten trappers, who left us yesterday,) we had seen no game on our route, and we were therefore preparing ourselves to retire supperless to our pallets, when Richardson and Sansbury were descried approaching the camp and, to our great comfort, we observed that they had meat on their saddles. When they arrived, however, we were somewhat disappointed to find that they had only killed a calf, but they had brought the entire little animal with them, the time for picking and choosing of choice pieces having passed with us; and after making a hearty meal, we wrapped ourselves in our blankets and slept soundly. Although but a scant breakfast was left for us in the morning, and we knew not if any dinner would fall in our way, yet "none of these things moved us;" we lived altogether upon the present, and heeded not the future. We had always been provided for; often, when we had despaired of procuring sustenance, and when the pangs of hunger had soured our temper, and made us quarrelsome, when we thought there was no prospect before us but to sacrifice our valuable horses, or die of starvation, have the means been provided for our relief. A buffalo, an elk, or an antelope, has appeared like the goat provided for the faithful Abraham, to save a more valuable life, and I hope that some of us have been willing, reverently to acknowledge from whom these benefits and blessings have been received. On the day following, Richardson killed two buffalo, and brought his horse heavily laden with meat to the camp. Our good hunter walked himself, that the animal might be able to bear the greater burthen. After depositing the meat in the camp, he took a fresh horse, and accompanied by three men, returned to the spot where the game had been killed, (about four miles distant,) and in the evening, brought in every pound of it, leaving only the heavier bones. The wolves will be disappointed this evening; they are accustomed to dainty picking when they {118} glean after the hunters, but we have now abandoned the "wasty ways" which so disgraced us when game was abundant; the despised leg bone, which was wont to be thrown aside with such contempt, is now polished of every tendon of its covering, and the savory hump is used as a kind of _dessert_ after a meal of coarser meat. Speaking of wolves, I have often been surprised at the perseverance and tenacity with which these animals will sometimes follow the hunter for a whole day, to feed upon the carcass he may leave behind him. When an animal is killed, they seem to mark the operation, and stand still at a most respectful distance, with drooping tail and ears, as though perfectly indifferent to the matter in progress. Thus will they stand until the game is butchered, the meat placed upon the saddle, and the hunter is mounted and on his way; then, if he glances behind him, he will see the wily forager stealthily crawling and prowling along towards the smoking remains, and pouncing upon it, and tearing it with tooth and nail, immediately as he gets out of reach. During the day, the wolves are shy, and rarely permit an approach to within gun-shot; but at night, (where game is abundant,) they are so fearless as to come quite within the purlieus of the camp, and there sit, a dozen together, and howl hideously for hours. This kind of serenading, it may be supposed, is not the most agreeable; and many a time when on guard, have I observed the unquiet tossing of the bundles of blankets near me, and heard issue from them, the low, husky voice of some disturbed sleeper, denouncing heavy anathemas on the unseasonable music. _12th._--We shaped our course, this morning, towards what appeared to us a gap in a high and rugged mountain, about twenty miles ahead. After proceeding eight or ten miles, the character of the country underwent a remarkable and sudden change. Instead of the luxuriant sage bushes, by which the {119} whole plains have hitherto been covered, and the compact and dense growth of willows which has uniformly fringed every stream and rivulet, the ground was completely denuded; not a single shrub was to be seen, nor the smallest appearance of vegetation, except in small patches near the water. The mountains, also, which had generally been rocky, and covered with low, tangled bushes, here abound in beautiful and shapely pine trees. Some of the higher peaks are, however, completely bare, and capped with enormous masses of snow. After we had travelled about twelve miles, we entered a defile between the mountains, about five hundred yards wide, covered, like the surrounding country, with pines; and, as we proceeded, the timber grew so closely, added to a thick undergrowth of bushes, that it appeared almost impossible to proceed with our horses. The farther we advanced, the more our difficulties seemed to increase; obstacles of various kinds impeded our progress;--fallen trees, their branches tangled and matted together, large rocks and deep ravines, holes in the ground, into which our animals would be precipitated without the possibility of avoiding them, and an hundred other difficulties which beggar description. We travelled for six miles through such a region as I have attempted to describe, and at 2 o'clock encamped in a clear spot of ground, where we found excellent grass, and a cold, rapid stream. Soon after we stopped, Captain W. and Richardson left us, to look for a pass through the mountains, or for a spot where it would be possible to cross them. Strange as it may appear, yet in this desolate and almost impassable region we have observed, to-day, the tracks of a buffalo which must have passed here last night, or this morning; at least so our hunters say, and they are rarely deceived in such matters. Captain W. and Richardson returned early next morning, with the mortifying intelligence that no practicable pass through the {120} mountain could be found. They ascended to the very summit of one of the highest peaks, above the snow and the reach of vegetation, and the only prospect which they had beyond, was a confused mass of huge angular rocks, over which even a wild goat could scarcely have made his way. Although they utterly failed in the object of their exploration, yet they were so fortunate as to kill a buffalo, (_the_ buffalo,) the meat of which they brought on their horses. Wyeth told us of a narrow escape he had while travelling on foot near the summit of one of the peaks. He was walking on a ridge which sloped from the top at an angle of about forty degrees, and terminated, at its lower part, in a perpendicular precipice of a thousand or twelve hundred feet. He was moving along in the snow cautiously, near the lower edge, in order to attain a more level spot beyond, when his feet slipped and he fell. Before he could attempt to fix himself firmly, he slid down the declivity till within a few feet of the frightful precipice. At the instant of his fall, he had the presence of mind to plant the rifle which he held in one hand, and his knife which he drew from the scabbard with the other, into the snow, and as he almost tottered on the verge, he succeeded in checking himself, and holding his body perfectly still. He then gradually moved, first the rifle and then the knife, backward up the slanting hill behind him, and fixing them firmly, drew up his body parallel to them. In this way he moved slowly and surely until he had gained his former station, when, without further difficulty, he succeeded in reaching the more level land. After a good breakfast, we packed our horses, and struck back on our trail of yesterday, in order to try another valley which we observed bearing parallel with this, at about three miles distant, and which we conclude must of course furnish a path through the mountain. Although our difficulties in returning by the same wretched route were very considerable, yet they were {121} somewhat diminished by the road having been partially broken, and we were enabled also to avoid many of the sloughs and pitfalls which had before so much incommoded us. We have named this rugged valley, "Thornburg's _pass_," after one of our men of this name, (a tailor,) whom we have to thank for leading us into all these troubles. Thornburg crossed this mountain two years ago, and might therefore be expected to know something of the route, and as he was the only man in the company who had been here, Captain W. acted by his advice, in opposition to his own judgment, which had suggested the other valley as affording a more probable chance of success. As we are probably the only white men who have ever penetrated into this most vile and abominable region, we conclude that the name we have given it must stand, from priority.[122] [122] The expedition apparently followed the east fork of Lost River, into a maze of mountains known locally as the "Devil's Bedstead."--ED. In the bushes, along the stream in this valley, the black-tailed deer (_Cervus macrourus_) is abundant. The beautiful creatures frequently bounded from their cover within a few yards of us, and trotted on before us like domestic animals; "they are so unacquainted with man" and his cruel arts, that they seem not to fear him. We at length arrived on the open plain again, and in our route towards the other valley, we came to a large, recent Indian encampment, probably of Bannecks,[123] who are travelling down to {122} the fisheries on Snake river. We here took their trail which led up the valley to which we had been steering. The entrance was very similar in appearance to that of Thornburg's pass, and it is therefore not very surprising that our guide should have been deceived. We travelled rapidly along the level land at the base of the mountain, for about three miles; we then began to ascend, and our progress was necessarily slow and tedious. The commencement of the Alpine path was, however, far better than we had expected, and we entertained the hope that the passage could be made without difficulty or much toil, but the farther we progressed, the more laborious the travelling became. Sometimes we mounted steep banks of intermingled flinty rock, and friable slate, where our horses could scarcely obtain a footing, frequently sliding down several feet on the loose, broken stones:--again we passed along the extreme verge of tremendous precipices at a giddy height, whereat almost every step the stones and earth would roll from under our horses' feet, and we could hear them strike with a dull, leaden sound on the craggy rocks below. The whole journey, to-day, from the time we arrived at the heights, until we had crossed the mountain, has been a most fearful one. For myself, I might have diminished the danger very considerably, by adopting the plan pursued by the rest of the company, that of walking, and leading my horse over the most dangerous places, but I have been suffering for several days with a lame foot, and am wholly incapable of such exertion. I soon discovered that an attempt to guide my horse over the most rugged and steepest ranges was worse than useless, so I dropped the rein upon the animal's neck, and allowed him to take his own course, closing my eyes, and keeping as quiet as possible in the saddle. But I could not forbear {123} starting occasionally, when the feet of my horse would slip on a stone, and one side of him would slide rapidly towards the edge of the precipice, but I always recovered myself by a desperate effort, and it was fortunate for me that I did so. [123] We afterwards learned, that only three days before our arrival, a hard contested, and most sanguinary battle, had been fought on this spot, between the Bannecks and Blackfeet, in which the former gained a signal and most complete victory, killing upwards of forty of their adversaries, and taking about three dozen scalps. The Blackfeet, although much the larger party, were on foot, but the Bannecks, being all well mounted, had a very decided advantage; and the contest occurring on an open plain, where there was no chance of cover, the Blackfeet were run down with horses, and, without being able to load their guns, were trampled to death, or killed with salmon spears and axes. This was not the first time that we narrowly escaped a contest with this savage and most dreaded tribe. If we had passed there but a few days earlier, there is every probability to suppose that we should have been attacked, as our party at that time consisted of but twenty-six men.--TOWNSEND. Late in the afternoon, we completed the passage across the mountain, and with thankful hearts, again trod the level land. We entered here a fine rich valley or plain, of about half a mile in width, between two ranges of the mountain. It was profusely covered with willow, and through the middle of it, ran a rapid and turbulent mountain torrent, called Mallade river.[124] It contains a great abundance of beaver, their recent dams being seen in great numbers, and in the night, when all was quiet, we could hear the playful animals at their gambols, diving from the shore into the water, and striking the surface with their broad tails. The sound, altogether, was not unlike that of children at play, and the animated description of a somewhat similar scene, in the "Mohicans," recurred to my recollection, where the single-minded Gamut is contemplating with feelings of strong reprobation, the wayward freaks of what he supposes to be a bevy of young savages. [124] According to Wyeth's account, the expedition retraced their steps to the forks of the river, then followed the south branch, passing over the mountains which form the boundary between Custer and Blaine counties, Idaho, and emerging on Trail Creek, the affluent of the Malade, which joins the main stream at Ketchum, the present terminus of the Wood River branch of the Oregon Short Line railway.--ED. 14th.--We travelled down the Mallade river,[125] and followed the Indian trail through the valley. The path frequently passed along near the base of the mountain, and then wound its way a considerable distance up it, to avoid rocky impediments and thick tangled bushes below, so that we had some climbing to do; but the difficulties and perils of the route of yesterday are still so fresh in our memory, that all minor things are disregarded, at least by _us_. Our poor horses, however, no doubt feel differently, as they are very tired and foot sore. [125] Malade (or Wood) River is a northern tributary of Lewis in Blaine County, Idaho. The mining town of Hailey is upon its banks. It was named Rivière des Malades (Sick Men's River) by Alexander Ross, who trapped upon it in 1824, and whose men fell ill from eating beaver that had fed upon a poisonous root. See Ross, _Fur Hunters_ (London, 1855), ii, pp. 114-116.--ED. The next day we came to a close and almost impenetrable thicket of tangled willows, through which we had great difficulty in urging our horses. The breadth of the thicket was {124} about one hundred yards, and a full hour was consumed in passing through it. We then entered immediately a rich and beautiful valley, covered profusely with a splendid blue Lupin. The mountains on either side are of much less height than those we have passed, and entirely bare, the pine trees which generally cover and ornament them, having disappeared. During the morning, we ascended and descended several high and stony hills, and early in the afternoon, emerged upon a large, level prairie, and struck a branch of Mallade river, where we encamped. While we were unloading, we observed a number of Indians ahead, and not being aware of their character, stood with our horses saddled, while Captain W. and Richardson rode out to reconnoitre. In about half an hour they returned, and informed us that they were _Snakes_ who were returning from the fisheries, and travelling towards the buffalo on the "big river," (Shoshoné.) We therefore unsaddled our poor jaded horses and turned them out to feed upon the luxuriant pasture around the camp, while we, almost equally jaded, threw ourselves down in our blankets to seek a little repose and quiet after the toils and fatigues of a long day's march. Soon after we encamped, the Snake chief and two of his young men visited us. We formed a circle around our lodge and smoked the pipe of peace with them, after which we made them each a present of a yard of scarlet cloth for leggings, some balls and powder, a knife, and a looking glass. Captain W. then asked them a number of questions, through an interpreter, relative to the route, the fishery, &c. &c.,--and finally bought of them a small quantity of dried salmon, and a little fermented kamas or _quamash_ root. The Indians remained with us until dark, and then left us quietly for their own camp. There are two lodges of them, in all about twenty persons, but none of them presumed to come near us, with the exception of the three men, two {125} squaws, and a few children. The chief is a man about fifty years of age, tall, and dignified looking, with large, strong aqualine features. His manners were cordial and agreeable, perhaps remarkably so, and he exhibited very little of that stoical indifference to surrounding objects which is so characteristic of an Indian. His dress consisted of plain leggings of deer skin, fringed at the sides, unembroidered moccasins, and a _marro_ or waist-covering of antelope skin dressed without removing the hair. The upper part of his person was simply covered with a small blanket, and his ears were profusely ornamented with brass rings and beads. The men and squaws who accompanied him, were entirely naked, except that the latter had marros of deer skin covering the loins. The next morning we steered west across the wide prairie, crossing within every mile or two, a branch of the tortuous Mallade, near each of which good pasture was seen; but on the main prairie scarcely a blade of grass could be found, it having lately been fired by the Indians to improve the crops of next year. We have seen to-day some lava and basalt again on the sides of the hills, and on the mounds in the plain, but the level land was entirely free from it. At noon on the 17th, we passed a deserted Indian camp, probably of the same people whose trail we have been following. There were many evident signs of the Indians having but recently left it, among which was that of several white wolves lurking around in the hope of finding remnants of meat, but, as a Scotchman would say, "I doubt they were mistaken," for meat is scarce here, and the frugal Indians rarely leave enough behind them to excite even the famished stomach of the lank and hungry wolf. The encampment here has been but a temporary one, occupying a little valley densely overgrown with willows, the tops of which have been bent over, and tied so as to form a sort of lodge; over these, they have probably stretched deer {126} skins or blankets, to exclude the rays of the sun. Of these lodges there are about forty in the valley, so that the party must have been a large one. In the afternoon we arrived at "_Kamas prairie_," so called from a vast abundance of this esculent root which it produces, (the _Kamassa esculenta_, of Nuttall.)[126] The plain is a beautiful level one of about a mile over, hemmed in by low, rocky hills, and in spring, the pretty blue flowers of the Kamas are said to give it a peculiar, and very pleasing appearance. At this season, the flowers do not appear, the vegetable being indicated only by little dry stems which protrude all over the ground among the grass. [126] After crossing the Malade, the expedition moved along one of its several western branches until reaching Camas Prairie, in Elmore County. Camas (quamash) is a bulbous root much used for food by the Indians of the Columbia. Its Shoshoni name is passheco. For further description consult Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, p. 78.--ED. We encamped here, near a small branch of Mallade river; and soon after, all hands took their kettles and scattered over the prairie to dig a mess of kamas. We were, of course, eminently successful, and were furnished thereby with an excellent and wholesome meal. When boiled, this little root is palatable, and somewhat resembles the taste of the common potato; the Indian mode of preparing it, is, however, the best--that of fermenting it in pits under ground, into which hot stones have been placed. It is suffered to remain in these pits for several days; and when removed, is of a dark brown color, about the consistence of softened glue, and sweet, like molasses. It is then often made into large cakes, by being mashed, and pressed together, and slightly baked in the sun. There are several other kinds of bulbous and tuberous roots, growing in these plains, which are eaten by the Indians, after undergoing a certain process of fermentation or baking. Among these, that which is most esteemed, is the white or biscuit root, the _Racine blanc_ of the Canadians,--(_Eulophus ambiguus_, of Nuttall.) This is dried, pulverized with stones, and after being moistened with water, is made into cakes and baked in the sun. The taste is not unlike that of a stale {127} biscuit, and to a hungry man, or one who has long subsisted without vegetables of any kind, is rather palatable.[127] [127] This root is probably the one usually spoken of by the French-Canadian trappers as "white-apple" (_pomme blanche_), or "swan-apple," and well known to scientists as _Psoralea esculenta_.--ED. On the morning of the 18th, we commenced ascending the hills again, and had a laborious and toilsome day's march. One of our poor wearied horses gave up, and stopped; kicking, and cuffing, and beating had no effect to make him move; the poor animal laid himself down with his load, and after this was detached and shifted to the back of another, we left him where he fell, to recruit, and fall into the hands of the Indians, or die among the arid hills. This is the first horse we have lost in this manner; but we have great fears that many others will soon fail, as their riders and drivers are compelled to use the whip constantly, to make them walk at the slowest gait. We comfort ourselves, however, by supposing that we have now nearly passed the most rugged country on the route, and hope, before many days, to reach the valley of the Shoshoné, where the country will be level, and the pasture good. We are anxious, also, to fall in with the Snake Indians, in order to get a supply of salmon, as we have been living for several days on a short allowance of wretched, dry meat, and this poor pittance is now almost exhausted. _19th._--This morning was cold, the thermometer stood at 28°, and a thick skim of ice was in the camp kettles at sunrise. Another hard day's travel over the hills, during which we lost two of our largest and stoutest horses. Towards evening, we descended to a fine large plain, and struck _Boisée_, or Big Wood river, on the borders of which we encamped.[128] This is a beautiful stream, about one hundred yards in width, clear as crystal, and, in some parts, probably twenty feet deep. It is literally _crowded_ with salmon, which are springing from the water almost constantly. Our mouths are watering most abundantly for some of them, but we are not provided with suitable implements for {128} taking any, and must therefore depend for a supply on the Indians, whom we hope soon to meet. We found, in the mountain passes, to-day, a considerable quantity of a small fruit called the choke-cherry, a species of prunus, growing on low bushes. When ripe, they are tolerable eating, somewhat astringent, however, producing upon the mouth the same effect, though in a less degree, as the unripe persimmon. They are now generally green, or we should feast luxuriantly upon them, and render more tolerable our miserable provision. We have seen, also, large patches of service bushes, but no fruit. It seems to have failed this year, although ordinarily so abundant that it constitutes a large portion of the vegetable food of both Indians and white trappers who visit these regions. [128] Boise River is an important eastern affluent of Lewis, rising in the mountains of Blaine County, through which Townsend had just passed; it flows nearly west for about a hundred miles. Boise, the capital of Idaho, is upon its banks. Of the two forks which unite to form the main stream, Wyeth's expedition encountered the southern.--ED. {129} CHAPTER VIII A substitute for game, and a luxurious breakfast--Expectations of a repast, and a disappointment--Visit of a Snake chief--his abhorrence of horse meat--A band of Snake Indians--their chief--Trade with Indians for salmon--Mr. Ashworth's adventure--An Indian horse-thief--Visit to the Snake camp--its filthiness--A Banneck camp--Supercilious conduct of the Indians--Arrival at Snake river--Equipment of a trapping party--Indian mode of catching salmon--Loss of a favorite horse--Powder river--Cut rocks--Recovery of the lost trail--Grand Ronde--Captain Bonneville--his fondness for a roving life--Kayouse and Nez Percé Indians--their appearance--An Indian Beauty--Blue mountains--A feline visit. _August 20th._--At about daylight this morning, having charge of the last guard of the night, I observed a beautiful, sleek little _colt_, of about four months old, trot into the camp, whinnying with great apparent pleasure, and dancing and curvetting gaily amongst our sober and sedate band. I had no doubt that he had strayed from Indians, who were probably in the neighborhood; but as here, every animal that comes near us is fair game, and as we were hungry, not having eaten any thing of consequence since yesterday morning, I thought the little stranger would make a good breakfast for us. Concluding, however, that it would be best to act advisedly in the matter, I put my head into Captain W.'s tent, and telling him the news, made the proposition which had occurred to me. The captain's reply was encouraging enough,--"Down with him, if you please, Mr. T., it is the Lord's doing; let us have him for breakfast." In five minutes afterwards, a bullet sealed the fate of the unfortunate visitor, and my men were set to work making fires, and rummaging {130} out the long-neglected stew-pans, while I engaged myself in flaying the little animal, and cutting up his body in readiness for the pots. When the camp was aroused, about an hour after, the savory steam of the cookery was rising and saluting the nostrils of our hungry people with its fragrance, who, rubbing their hands with delight, sat themselves down upon the ground, waiting with what patience they might, for the unexpected repast which was preparing for them. It was to me almost equal to a good breakfast, to witness the pleasure and satisfaction which I had been the means of diffusing through the camp. The repast was ready at length, and we did full justice to it; every man ate until he was filled, and all pronounced it one of the most delicious meals they had ever assisted in demolishing. When our breakfast was concluded, but little of the colt remained; that little was, however, carefully packed up, and deposited on one of the horses, to furnish, at least, a portion of another meal. The route, this morning, lay along Boisée. For an hour, the travelling was toilsome and difficult, the Indian trail, leading along the high bank of the river, steep and rocky, making our progress very slow and laborious. We then came to a wide plain, interrupted only by occasional high banks of earth, some of them of considerable extent, across which ran the path. Towards mid-day, we lost sight of these banks, the whole country appearing level, with the exception of some distant hills in the south-west, which we suppose indicate the vicinity of some part of Snake river. We have all been disappointed in the distance to this river, and the length of time required to reach it. Not a man in our camp has ever travelled this route before, and all we have known about it has been the general course. {131} In the afternoon, we observed a number of Indians on the opposite side of the river, engaged in fishing for salmon. Captain W. and two men immediately crossed over to them, carrying with them a few small articles to exchange for fish. We congratulated ourselves upon our good fortune in seeing these Indians, and were anticipating a plentiful meal, when Captain W. and his companions returned, bringing only _three_ small salmon. The Indians had been unsuccessful in fishing, not having caught enough for themselves, and even the offer of exorbitant sums was not sufficient to induce them to part with more. In the afternoon, a grouse and a beaver were killed, which, added to the remains of the colt, and our three little salmon, made us a tolerable supper. While we were eating, we were visited by a Snake chief, a large and powerful man, of a peculiarly dignified aspect and manner. He was naked, with the exception of a small blanket which covered his shoulders, and descended to the middle of the back, being fastened around the neck with a silver skewer. As it was pudding time with us, our visitor was of course invited to sit and eat; and he, nothing loath, deposited himself at once upon the ground, and made a remarkably vigorous assault upon the mixed contents of the dish. He had not eaten long, however, before we perceived a sudden and inexplicable change in his countenance, which was instantly followed by a violent ejectment of a huge mouthful of our luxurious fare. The man rose slowly, and with great dignity, to his feet, and pronouncing the single word "_shekum_," (horse,) in a tone of mingled anger and disgust, stalked rapidly out of the camp, not even wishing us a good evening. It struck me as a singular instance of accuracy and discrimination in the organs of taste. We had been eating of the multifarious compound without being able to recognize, by the taste, a single ingredient which it contained; a stranger came amongst us, who did not know, when he {132} commenced eating, that the dish was formed of more than one item, and yet in less than five minutes he discovered one of the very least of its component parts. It would seem from this circumstance that the Indians, or it may be the particular tribe to which this man belongs, are opposed to the eating of horse flesh, and yet, the natural supposition would be, that in the gameless country inhabited by them they would often be reduced to such shifts, and thus readily conquer any natural reluctance which they might feel to partake of such food. I did not think until after he left us, that if the chief knew how the horse meat he so much detested was procured, and where, he might probably have expressed even more indignation, for it is not at all unlikely that the colt had strayed from his own band. _21st._--The timber along the river banks is plentiful, and often attains a large size. It is chiefly of the species called balsam poplar, (_Populus balsamifera_.) Towards noon to-day, we observed ahead several groups of Indians, perhaps twenty in each, and on the appearance of our cavalcade, they manifested their joy at seeing us, by the most extravagant and grotesque gestures, dancing and capering most ludicrously. Every individual of them was perfectly naked, with the exception of a small thong around the waist, to which was attached a square piece of flannel, skin, or canvass, depending half way to the knees. Their stature was rather below the middle height, but they were strongly built and very muscular. Each man carried his salmon spear, and these, with the knives stuck in their girdles, appeared to be their only weapons, not one of them having a gun. As we neared them, the first group ran towards us, crying "Shoshoné, Shoshoné," and caused some delay by their eagerness to grasp our hands and examine our garments. After one group had become satisfied with fingering {133} us, we rode on and suffered the same process by the next, and so on until we had passed the whole, every Indian crying with a loud voice, "_Tabiboo sant, tabiboo sant!_" (white man is good, white man is good.) In a short time the chief joined us, and our party stopped for an hour, and had a "talk" with him. He told us, in answer to our questions, that his people had fish, and would give them for our goods if we would sleep one night near their camp, and smoke with them. No trade, of consequence, can ever be effected with Indians, unless the pipe be first smoked, and the matter calmly and seriously deliberated upon. An Indian chief would think his dignity seriously compromised if he were expected to do _any thing_ in a hurry, much less so serious a matter as a salmon or beaver trade; and if we had refused his offered terms, he would probably have allowed us to pass on, and denied himself the darling rings, bells, and paint, rather than infringe a custom so long religiously practised by his people. We were therefore inclined to humor our Snake friend, and accordingly came to a halt, on the bank of the river. The chief and several of his favored young braves sat with us on the bank, and we smoked with them, the other Indians forming a large circle around. The chief is a man rather above the ordinary height, with a fine, noble countenance, and remarkably large, prominent eyes. His person, instead of being naked, as is usual, is clothed in a robe made of the skin of the mountain sheep; a broad band made of large blue beads, is fastened to the top of his head, and hangs over on his cheeks, and around his neck is suspended the foot of a huge grizzly bear. The possession of this uncouth ornament is considered among them, a great honor, since none but those whose prowess has enabled them to kill the animal, are allowed to wear it, and with their weak and inefficient weapons, {134} the destruction of so fierce and terrible a brute, is a feat that may well entitle them to some distinction. We remained two hours at the spot where we halted, and then passed on about four miles, accompanied by the chief and his people, to their camp, where we pitched our tents for the night. In a short time the Indians came to us in great numbers, with bundles of dried salmon in their arms, and a few recent ones. We commenced our trading immediately, giving them in exchange, fish-hooks, beads, knives, paint, &c., and before evening, had procured sufficient provision for the consumption of our party until we arrive at the falls of Snake river, where we are told we shall meet the Bannecks, from whom we can doubtless trade a supply, which will serve us until we reach Walla-walla. While we were pursuing our trade, Richardson and Mr. Ashworth rode into the camp, and I observed by the countenance of the latter, that something unusual had occurred. I felt very certain that no ordinary matter would be capable of ruffling this calm, intrepid, and almost fool-hardy young man; so it was with no little interest that I drew near, to listen to the tale which he told Captain W. with a face flushed with unusual anger, while his whole person seemed to swell with pride and disdain. He said that while riding about five miles behind the party, (not being able to keep up with it on account of his having a worn out horse,) he was attacked by about fifty of the Indians whom we passed earlier in the day, dragged forcibly from his horse and thrown upon the ground. Here, some held their knives to his throat to prevent his rising, and others robbed him of his saddle bags, and all that they contained. While he was yet in this unpleasant situation, Richardson came suddenly upon them, and the cowardly Indians released their captive instantly, throwing the saddle bags and every thing else upon the ground and flying like frightened antelopes over the plain. The only real damage that Mr. Ashworth sustained, was the total loss of his {135} saddle bags, which were cut to pieces by the knives of the Indians, in order to abstract the contents. These, however, we think he deserves to lose, inasmuch, as with all our persuasion, we have never been able to induce him to carry a gun since we left the country infested by the Blackfeet; and to-day, the very show of such a weapon would undoubtedly have prevented the attack of which he complains. Richardson gives an amusing account of the deportment of our young English friend while he was lying under the knives of his captors. The heavy whip of buffalo hide, which was his only weapon, was applied with great energy to the naked backs and shoulders of the Indians, who winced and stamped under the infliction, but still feared to use their knives, except to prevent his rising. Richardson says, that until he approached closely, the blows were descending in rapid succession, and our hunter was in some danger of losing his characteristic dignity in his efforts to repress a loud and hearty laugh at the extreme ludicrousness of the whole scene. Captain W., when the circumstances of the assault were stated to him, gave an immediate order for the suspension of business, and calling the chief to him, told him seriously, that if an attempt were again made to interrupt any of his party on their march, the offenders should be tied to a tree and whipped severely. He enforced his language by gestures so expressive that none could misunderstand him, and he was answered by a low groan from the Indians present, and a submissive bowing of their heads. The chief appeared very much troubled, and harangued his people for considerable time on the subject, repeating what the captain had said, with some additional remarks of his own, implying that even a worse fate than whipping would be the lot of future delinquents. _22d._--Last night during the second guard, while on my walk {136} around the camp, I observed one of my men squatted on the ground, intently surveying some object which appeared to be moving among the horses. At his request, I stooped also, and could distinctly perceive something near us which was certainly not a horse, and yet was as certainly a living object. I supposed it to be either a bear or a wolf, and at the earnest solicitation of the man, I gave the word "fire." The trigger was instantly pulled, the sparks flew from the flint, but the rifle was not exploded. At the sound, an Indian sprang from the grass where he had been crouching, and darted away towards the Snake camp. His object certainly was to appropriate one of our horses, and very fortunate for him was it that the gun missed fire, for the man was an unerring marksman. This little warning will probably check other similar attempts by these people. Early in the morning I strolled into the Snake camp. It consists of about thirty lodges or wigwams, formed generally of branches of trees tied together in a conic summit, and covered with buffalo, deer, or elk skins. Men and little children were lolling about the ground all around the wigwams, together with a heterogeneous assemblance of dogs, cats, some tamed prairie wolves, and other "_varmints_." The dogs growled and snapped when I approached, the wolves cowered and looked cross, and the cats ran away and hid themselves in dark corners. They had not been accustomed to the face of a white man, and all the quadrupeds seemed to regard me as some monstrous production, more to be feared than loved or courted. This dislike, however, did not appear to extend to the bipeds, for many of every age and sex gathered around me, and seemed to be examining me critically in all directions. The men looked complacently at me, the women, the dear creatures, smiled upon me, and the little naked, pot-bellied children crawled around my feet, examining the fashion of my hard shoes, and playing with the {137} long fringes of my leathern inexpressibles. But I scarcely know how to commence a description of the _tout en semble_ of the camp, or to frame a sentence which will give an adequate idea of the extreme filth, and most horrific nastiness of the whole vicinity. I shall therefore but transiently glance at it, omitting many of the most disgusting and abominable features. [Illustration: Spearing the Salmon] Immediately as I entered the village, my olfactories were assailed by the most vile and mephitic odors, which I found to proceed chiefly from great piles of salmon entrails and garbage which were lying festering and rotting in the sun, around the very doors of the habitations. Fish, recent and half dried, were scattered all over the ground, under the feet of the dogs, wolves and Indian children; and others which had been split, were hanging on rude platforms erected within the precincts of the camp. Some of the women were making their breakfast of the great red salmon eggs as large as peas, and using a wooden spoon to convey them to their mouths. Occasionally, also, by way of varying the repast, they would take a huge pinch of a drying fish which was lying on the ground near them. Many of the children were similarly employed, and the little imps would also have hard contests with the dogs for a favorite morsel, the former roaring and blubbering, the latter yelping and snarling, and both rolling over and over together upon the savory soil. The whole economy of the lodges, and the inside and outside appearance, was of a piece with every thing else about them--filthy beyond description--the very skins which covered the wigwams were black and stiff with rancid salmon fat, and the dresses (if dresses they may be called) of the women, were of the same color and consistence, from the same cause. These _dresses_ are little square pieces of deer skin, fastened with a thong around the loins, and reaching about half way to the knees; the rest of the person is entirely naked. Some of the women had little children clinging like bullfrogs to their backs, without being fastened, and in that situation {138} extracting their lactiferous sustenance from the breast, which was thrown over the shoulders. It is almost needless to say, that I did not remain long in the Snake camp; for although I had been a considerable time estranged from the abodes of luxury, and had become somewhat accustomed to, at least, a partial assimilation to a state of nature, yet I was not prepared for what I saw here. I never had fancied any thing so utterly abominable, and was glad to escape to a purer and more wholesome atmosphere. When I returned to our camp, the trading was going on as briskly as yesterday. A large number of Indians were assembled around, all of whom had bundles of fish, which they were anxious to dispose of. The price of a dried salmon is a straight awl, and a small fish hook, value about one cent; ten fish are given for a common butcher knife that costs eight cents. Some, however, will prefer beads, paint, &c., and of these articles, about an equal amount in value is given. A beaver skin can be had for a variety of little matters, which cost about twelve and a half cents; value, in Boston, from eight to ten dollars! Early in the afternoon, we repacked our bales of goods and rode out of the encampment, the Indians yelling an adieu to us as we passed them. We observed that one had wrapped a buffalo robe around him, taken a bow and arrows in his hand, and joined us as we went off. Although we travelled rapidly during the afternoon, the man kept with us without apparent over-exertion or fatigue, trotting along constantly for miles together. He is probably on a visit to a village of his people who are encamped on the "Big river." _23d._--Towards noon, to-day, we fell in with a village, consisting of thirty willow lodges of Bannecks. The Indians flocked out to us by hundreds, leaving their fishing, and every other employment, to visit the strangers. The chief soon made himself known to us, and gave us a pressing invitation to stop a {139} short time with them, for the purpose of trade. Although we had a good supply of fish on hand, and did not expect soon to suffer from want, yet we knew not but we might be disappointed in procuring provision lower in the country, and concluded, therefore, to halt for half an hour, and make a small increase to our stock. We were in some haste, and anxious to travel on as quickly as possible, to Snake river. Captain W., therefore, urged the chief to have the fish brought immediately, as he intended soon to leave them. The only reply he could obtain to this request, was "_te sant_," (it is good,) accompanied by signs, that he wished to smoke. A pipe was provided, and he, with about a dozen of his young men, formed a circle near, and continued smoking, with great tranquillity, for half an hour. Our patience became almost exhausted, and they were told that if their fish were not soon produced, we should leave them empty as we came; to this, the only answer of the chief was a sign to us to remain still, while he deliberated yet farther upon the subject. We sat a short time longer in silent expectation, and were then preparing to mount our horses and be off, when several squaws were despatched to one of the lodges. They returned in a few minutes, bringing about a dozen dried fish. These were laid in small piles on the ground, and when the usual price was offered for them, they refused it scornfully, making the most exorbitant demands. As our articles of trade were running low, and we were not in immediate want, we purchased only a sufficiency for one day, and prepared for our departure, leaving the ground strewn with the neglected salmon. The Indians were evidently very much irritated, as we could perceive by their angry countenances, and loud words of menace. Some loosed the bows from their shoulders, and shook them at us with violent gestures of rage, and a boy, of seventeen or eighteen years of age, who stood near me, struck my horse on the head with a {140} stick, which he held in his hand. This provoked me not a little; and spurring the animal a few steps forward, I brought my heavy whip several times over his naked shoulders, and sent him screeching into the midst of his people. Several bows were drawn at me for this act, and glad would the savages have been to have had me for a short time at their mercy, but as it was, they feared to let slip their arrows, and soon dropped their points, contenting themselves with vaporing away in all the impotence of childish rage. As we rode off, they greeted us, not with the usual gay yell, but with a scornful, taunting laugh, that sounded like the rejoicings of an infernal jubilee. Had these people been provided with efficient arms, and the requisite amount of courage to use them, they might have given us some inconvenience. Towards evening, we arrived on Snake river, crossed it at a ford, and encamped near a number of lodges along the shore. Shortly afterwards, Captain W., with three men, visited the Indians, carrying with them some small articles, to trade for fish. In about half an hour they returned, bringing only about ten salmon. They observed, among the Indians, the same disinclination to traffic that the others had manifested; or rather, like the first, they placed a higher value than usual upon the commodity, and wanted, in exchange, articles which we were not willing to spare them. They treated Captain W. with the same insolence and contempt which was so irritating from those of the other village. This kind of conduct is said to be unusual among this tribe, but it is probably now occasioned by their having recently purchased a supply of small articles from Captain Bonneville, who, they inform us, has visited them within a few days. Being desirous to escape from the immediate vicinity of the village, we moved our camp about four miles further, and stopped for the night. {141} _24th._--The sudden and entire change from flesh exclusively, to fish, ditto, has affected us all more or less, with diarrhoea and pain in the abdomen; several of the men have been so extremely sick, as scarcely to be able to travel; we shall, however, no doubt, become accustomed to it in a few days. We passed, this morning, over a flat country, very similar to that along the Platte, abounding in wormwood bushes, the pulpy-leaved thorn, and others, and deep with sand, and at noon stopped on a small stream called _Malheur's creek_.[129] [129] Malheur River rises in a lake of that name in Harney County, Oregon, and flows east and northeast into the Lewis, being one of the latter's important western tributaries.--ED. Here a party of nine men was equipped, and despatched up the river, and across the country, on a trapping expedition, with orders to join us early in the ensuing winter, at the fort on the Columbia. Richardson was the chief of this party, and when I grasped the hand of our worthy hunter, and bade him farewell, I felt as though I were taking leave of a friend. I had become particularly attached to him, from the great simplicity and kindness of his heart, and his universally correct and proper deportment. I had been accustomed to depend upon his knowledge and sagacity in every thing connected with the wild and roving life which I had led for some months past, and I felt that his absence would be a real loss, as well to myself, as to the whole camp, which had profited so much by his dexterity and skill. Our party will now consist of only seventeen men, but the number is amply sufficient, as we have passed over the country where danger is to be apprehended from Indians. We followed the course of the creek during the afternoon, and in the evening encamped on Snake river, into which Malheur empties. The river is here nearly a mile wide, but deep and clear, and for a considerable distance, perfectly navigable for steamboats, or even larger craft, and it would seem not improbable, that at some distant day, these facilities, added to the excellence of the alluvial soil, should induce the stout and hardy adventurers of our country to make permanent settlements here. {142} I have not observed that the Indians often attempt fishing in the "big river," where it is wide and deep; they generally prefer the slues, creeks, &c. Across these, a net of closely woven willows is stretched, placed vertically, and extending from the bottom to several feet above the surface. A number of Indians enter the water about a hundred yards above the net, and, walking closely, drive the fish in a body against the wicker work. Here they frequently become entangled, and are always checked; the spear is then used dexterously, and they are thrown out, one by one, upon the shore. With industry, a vast number of salmon might be taken in this manner; but the Indians are generally so indolent and careless of the future, that it is rare to find an individual with provision enough to supply his lodge for a week. _25th._--Early in the day the country assumed a more hilly aspect. The rich plains were gone. Instead of a dense growth of willow and the balsam poplar, low bushes of wormwood, &c., predominated, intermixed with the tall, rank prairie grass. Towards noon, we fell in with about ten lodges of Indians, (Snakes and Bannecks,) from whom we purchased eighty salmon. This has put us in excellent spirits. We feared that we had lost sight of the natives, and as we had not reserved half the requisite quantity of provisions for our support to the Columbia, (most of our stock having been given to Richardson's trapping party,) the prospect of several days abstinence seemed very clear before us. In the afternoon, we deviated a little from our general course, to cut off a bend in the river, and crossed a short, high hill, a part of an extensive range which we have seen for two days ahead, and which we suppose to be in the vicinity of Powder river, and {143} in the evening encamped in a narrow valley, on the borders of the Shoshoné.[130] [130] Lewis River here makes a considerable bend to the east, hence the short cut across country. The mountains are apparently the Burnt River Range, with Powder River beyond. Wyeth identifies this as the same place at which he encamped two years previous--near the point where the Oregon Short Line railway crosses Lewis River.--ED. _26th._--Last night I had the misfortune to lose my favorite, and latterly my only riding horse, the other having been left at Fort Hall, in consequence of a sudden lameness, with which he became afflicted only the night before our departure.[131] The animal was turned out as usual, with the others, in the evening, and as I have never known him to stray in a single instance, I conclude that some lurking Indian has stolen him. It was the fattest and handsomest horse in the band, and was no doubt carefully selected, as there was probably but a single Indian, who was unable to take more, for fear of alarming the guard. This is the most serious loss I have met with. The animal was particularly valuable to me, and no consideration would have induced me to part with it here. It is, however, a kind of accident that we are always more or less liable to in this country, and as a search would certainly be fruitless, must be submitted to with as good a grace as possible. Captain W. has kindly offered me the use of horses until we arrive at Columbia. [131] I afterwards ascertained that this lameness of my "buffalo horse," was intentionally caused by one of the hopeful gentry left in charge of the fort, for the purpose of rendering the animal unable to travel, and as a consequence, confining him to the fort at the time of our departure. The good qualities of the horse as a buffalo racer, were universally known and appreciated, and I had repeatedly refused large sums for him, from those who desired him for this purpose.--TOWNSEND. We commenced our march early, travelling up a broad, rich valley, in which we encamped last night, and at the head of it, on a creek called Brulé, we found one family, consisting of five Snake Indians, one man, two women, and two children.[132] They had evidently but very recently arrived, probably only last night, and as they must certainly have passed our camp, we feel little hesitation in believing that my lost horse is in their possession. It is, however, impossible to prove the theft upon them in {144} any way, and time is not allowed us to search the premises. We cannot even question them concerning it, as our interpreter, McCarey, left us with the trapping party. [132] Burnt (Brulé) River rises in Strawberry Mountains of eastern Oregon, and flows northeast, then southeast, through Baker County into Lewis River. The Oregon Trail left the latter river at the mouth of Burnt River, and advanced up that valley to its northern bend.--ED. We bought, of this family, a considerable quantity of dried choke-cherries, these being the only article of commerce which they possessed. This fruit they prepare by pounding it with stones, and drying it in masses in the sun. It is then good tasted, and somewhat nutritive, and it loses, by the process, the whole of the astringency which is so disagreeable in the recent fruit. Leaving the valley, we proceeded over some high and stony hills, keeping pretty nearly the course of the creek. The travelling was, as usual in such places, difficult and laborious, and our progress necessarily slow and tedious. Throughout the day, there was no change in the character of the country, and the consequence was, that three of our poor horses gave up and stopped. _27th._--This morning, two men were left at the camp, for the purpose of collecting and bringing on, moderately, the horses left yesterday, and others that may hereafter fail. We were obliged to leave with them a stock of provision greater in proportion than our own rather limited allowance, and have thus somewhat diminished our chance of performing the remainder of the journey with satisfied appetites, but there is some small game to be found on the route, grouse, ducks, &c., and occasionally a beaver may be taken, if our necessities are pressing. We made a noon camp on Brulé, and stopped at night in a narrow valley, between the hills. _28th._--Towards noon to-day, we lost the trail among the hills, and although considerable search was made, we were not able to find it again. We then directed our course due north, and at 2 o'clock struck Powder river, a narrow and shallow stream, plentifully fringed with willows. We passed down this {145} river for about five miles and encamped.[133] Captain W. immediately left us to look for the lost trail, and returned in about two hours, with the information that no trace of it could be found. He therefore concludes that it is up stream, and to-morrow we travel back to search for it in that direction. Our men killed, in the afternoon, an antelope and a deer fawn, which were particularly acceptable to us; we had been on an allowance of one dried salmon per day, and we had begun to fear that even this poor pittance would fail before we could obtain other provision. Game has been exceedingly scarce, with the exception of a few grouse, pigeons, &c. We have not seen a deer, antelope, or any other quadruped larger than a hare, since we left the confines of the buffalo country. Early this morning, one of our men, named Hubbard, left us to hunt, and as he has not joined us this evening, we fear he is lost, and feel some anxiety about him, as he has not been accustomed to finding his way through the pathless wilds. He is a good marksman, however, and will not suffer much for food; and as he knows the general course, he will probably join us at Walla-walla, if we should not see him earlier. [133] Powder River rises in the Blue Mountains and flows first east, then north, then abruptly southeast into the Lewis; the trail followed its north-bearing course. These western affluents of the Lewis (or Snake) were explored (1819) and probably named by Donald McKenzie, then of the North West Company.--ED. _29th._--We commenced our march early this morning, following the river to a point about six miles above where we struck it yesterday. We then took to the hills, steering N. N. W.,--it being impossible, from the broken state of the country, to keep the river bank. Soon after we commenced the ascent, we met with difficulties in the shape of high, steep, banks, and deep ravines, the ground being thickly strewed with sharp, angular masses of lava and basalt. As we proceeded, these difficulties increased to such a degree, as to occasion a fear that our horses could never proceed. The hills at length became like a consolidated mass of irregular rock, and the small strips of earthy matter that occasionally appeared, were burst into wide fissures by the desiccation to which {146} the country at this season is subject. Sometimes, as we approached the verges of the cliffs, we could see the river winding its devious course many hundred feet below, rushing and foaming in eddies and whirlpools, and fretting against the steep sides of the rocks, which hemmed it in. These are what are called the cut-rocks, the sides of which are in many places as smooth and regular as though they had been worked with the chisel, and the opening between them, through which the river flows, is frequently so narrow that a biscuit might be thrown across it. We travelled over these rocks until 1 o'clock in the day, when we stopped to rest in a small ravine, where we found a little water, and pasture for our horses. At 3, we were again on the move, making across the hills towards the river, and after a long, circuitous march, we arrived on its banks, considerably wearied, and every horse in our band lamed and completely exhausted. We have not yet found any clue to the trail for which we have been searching so anxiously; indeed it would be impossible for a distinguishable trace to be left over these rugged, stony hills, and the difficulty of finding it, or determining its direction is not a little increased by a dense fog which constantly envelopes these regions, obscuring the sun, and rendering it impossible to see an object many hundred yards in advance. The next day we were still travelling over the high and steep hills, which, fortunately for our poor horses, were far less stony than hitherto. At about noon we descended to the plain, and struck the river in the midst of a large level prairie. We proceeded up stream for an hour, and to our great joy suddenly came in sight of a broad, open trail stretching away to the S. W. We felt, in some degree, the pleasure of a sailor who has found the port of which he has been long and anxiously in search. We made a noon camp here, at which we remained two hours, and then travelled on in fine spirits over a beautiful, level, and unobstructed country. Our horses seemed to participate in our {147} feelings, and trotted on briskly, as though they too rejoiced in the opportunity of escaping the dreaded hills and rocks. Towards evening we crossed a single range of low hills and came to a small round prairie, with good water and excellent pasture. Here we found a family of _Kayouse_ Indians, and encamped within sight of them. Two squaws from this family, visited us soon after, bringing some large kamas cakes and fermented roots, which we purchased of them. _31st._--Our route this morning, was over a country generally level and free from rocks; we crossed, however, one short, and very steep mountain range, thickly covered with tall and heavy pine trees, and came to a large and beautiful prairie, called the _Grand ronde_.[134] Here we found Captain Bonneville's company, which has been lying here several days, waiting the arrival of its trapping parties. We made a noon camp near it, and were visited by Captain Bonneville. This was the first time I had seen this gentleman. His manners were affable and pleasing, and he seemed possessed of a large share of bold, adventurous, and to a certain extent, romantic spirit, without which no man can expect to thrive as a mountain leader. He stated that he preferred the "free and easy" life of a mountain hunter and trapper, to the comfortable and luxurious indolence of a dweller in civilized lands, and would not exchange his homely, but wholesome mountain fare, and his buffalo lodge, for the most piquant dishes of the French _artiste_, and the finest palace in the land.[135] This came well from him, and I was pleased with it, although I could not altogether agree with him in sentiment, for I confess I had become somewhat weary of rough travelling and rough fare, and looked forward with no little pleasure to a long rest under a Christian roof, and a general participation in Christian living. [134] Grande Ronde, a noted halting place on the Oregon Trail, was so called from its apparently circular shape, as the traveller wound down the precipitous road into its level basin; it really is an oval twenty miles long, containing three hundred thousand acres of rich land. It is in the present Union County, and Grande Ronde River flows northeasterly through it.--ED. [135] For a brief sketch of Bonneville consult Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_ in our volume xx, p. 267, note 167.--ED. With the captain, came a whole troop of Indians, Kayouse, {148} Nez Percés, &c. They were very friendly towards us, each of the chiefs taking us by the hand with great cordiality, appearing pleased to see us, and anxious to point out to us the easiest and most expeditious route to the lower country. These Indians are, almost universally, fine looking, robust men, with strong aqualine features, and a much more cheerful cast of countenance than is usual amongst the race. Some of the women might almost be called beautiful, and none that I have seen are homely. Their dresses are generally of thin deer or antelope skin, with occasionally a bodice of some linen stuffs, purchased from the whites, and their whole appearance is neat and cleanly, forming a very striking contrast to the greasy, filthy, and disgusting Snake females. I observed one young and very pretty looking woman, dressed in a great superabundance of finery, glittering with rings and beads, and flaunting in broad bands of scarlet cloth. She was mounted astride,--Indian fashion,--upon a fine bay horse, whose head and tail were decorated with scarlet and blue ribbons, and the saddle, upon which the fair one sat, was ornamented all over with beads and little hawk's bells. This damsel did not do us the honor to dismount, but seemed to keep warily aloof, as though she feared that some of us might be inordinately fascinated by her fine person and splendid equipments, and her whole deportment proved to us, pretty satisfactorily, that she was no common beauty, but the favored companion of one high in office, who was jealous of her slightest movement. After making a hasty meal, and bidding adieu to the captain, and our friendly Indian visitors, we mounted our horses, and rode off. About half an hour's brisk trotting brought us to the foot of a steep and high mountain, called the _Blue_. This is said to be the most extensive chain west of the dividing ridge, and, with one exception perhaps the most difficult of passage.[136] The whole mountain is densely covered with tall pine trees, with {149} an undergrowth of service bushes and other shrubs, and the path is strewed, to a very inconvenient degree, with volcanic rocks. In some of the ravines we find small springs of water; they are, however, rather rare, and the grass has been lately consumed, and many of the trees blasted by the ravaging fires of the Indians. These fires are yet smouldering, and the smoke from them effectually prevents our viewing the surrounding country, and completely obscures the beams of the sun. We travelled this evening until after dark, and encamped on a small stream in a gorge, where we found a plot of grass that had escaped the burning. [136] Blue Mountains are a continuation of the chains of western Idaho, trending southwest, then west, toward the centre of the state of Oregon, forming a watershed between the Lewis and Columbia systems. Frémont suggests that their name arises from the dark-blue appearance given to then by the pines with which they are covered. The trail led northwest from Union into Umatilla County, following the present railway route, only less circuitous.--ED. _September 1st._--Last evening, as we were about retiring to our beds, we heard, distinctly, as we thought, a loud halloo, several times repeated, and in a tone like that of a man in great distress. Supposing it to be a person who had lost his way in the darkness, and was searching for us, we fired several guns at regular intervals, but as they elicited no reply, after waiting a considerable time, we built a large fire, as a guide, and lay down to sleep. Early this morning, a large panther was seen prowling around our camp, and the hallooing of last night was explained. It was the dismal, distressing yell by which this animal entices its prey, until pity or curiosity induces it to approach to its destruction. The panther is said to inhabit these forests in considerable numbers, and has not unfrequently been known to kill the horses of a camp. He has seldom the temerity to attack a man, unless sorely pressed by hunger, or infuriated by wounds. {150} CHAPTER IX Passage of the Blue Mountains--Sufferings from thirst--Utalla river--A transformation--A novel meal--Walla-walla river--Columbia river and Fort Walla-walla--A dinner with the missionaries--Anecdote of Mr. Lee--A noble repast--Brief notice of the Fort--Departure of the missionaries--Notice of the Walla-walla Indians--Departure for Fort Vancouver--Wild ducks--Indian graves--Indian horses--Visits from Indians--Ophthalmia, a prevalent disease--Rough travelling--A company of Chinook Indians--The Dalles--The party joined by Captain Wyeth--Embarkation in canoes--A heavy gale--Dangerous navigation--Pusillanimous conduct of an Indian helmsman--A zealous botanist--Departure of Captain Wyeth with five men--Cascades--A portage--Meeting with the missionaries--Loss of a canoe--A toilsome duty--Arrival at Fort Vancouver--reflections suggested by it--Dr. John McLoughlin, the chief factor--Domiciliation of the travellers at Fort Vancouver. _September 1st._--The path through the valley, in which we encamped last night, was level and smooth for about a mile; we then mounted a short steep hill and began immediately to descend. The road down the mountain wound constantly, and we travelled in short, zig-zag lines, in order to avoid the extremely abrupt declivities; but occasionally, we were compelled to descend in places that made us pause before making the attempt: they were, some of them, almost perpendicular, and our horses would frequently slide several yards, before they could recover. To this must be added enormous jagged masses of rock, obstructing the road in many places, and pine trees projecting their horizontal branches across the path. The road continued, as I have described it, to the valley in the plain, and a full hour was consumed before we reached it. {151} The country then became comparatively level again to the next range, where a mountain was to be ascended of the same height as the last. Here we dismounted and led our horses, it being impracticable, in their present state, to ride them. It was the most toilsome march I ever made, and we were all so much fatigued, when we arrived at the summit, that rest was as indispensable to us as to our poor jaded horses. Here we made a noon camp, with a handful of grass and no water. This last article appears very scarce, the ravines affording none, and our dried salmon and kamas bread were eaten unmoistened. The route, in the afternoon, was over the top of the mountain, the road tolerably level, but crowded with stones. Towards evening, we commenced descending again, and in every ravine and gulley we cast our anxious eyes in search of water; we even explored several of them, where there appeared to exist any probability of success, but not one drop did we find. Night at length came on, dark and pitchy, without a moon or a single star to give us a ray of light; but still we proceeded, depending solely upon the vision and sagacity of our horses to keep the track. We travelled steadily until 9 o'clock, when we saw ahead the dark outline of a high mountain, and soon after heard the men who rode in front, cry out, joyously, at the top of their voices, "_water! water!_" It was truly a cheering sound, and the words were echoed loudly by every man in the company. We had not tasted water since morning, and both horses and men have been suffering considerably for the want of it. _2d._--Captain W. and two men, left us early this morning for Walla-walla, where they expect to arrive this evening, and send us some provision, of which we shall be in need, to-morrow. Our camp moved soon after, under the direction of Captain Thing, and in about four miles reached _Utalla river_, where it stopped, and remained until 12 o'clock.[137] [137] Umatilla River, whose earlier name appears to have been Utalla. Consult Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 338.--ED. As we were approaching so near the abode of those in whose {152} eyes we wished to appear like fellow Christians, we concluded that there would be a propriety in attempting to remove at least one of the heathenish badges which we had worn throughout the journey; so Mr. N.'s razor was fished out from its hiding place in the bottom of his trunk, and in a few minutes our encumbered chins lost their long-cherished ornaments; we performed our ablutions in the river, arrayed ourselves in clean linen, trimmed our long hair, and then arranged our toilet before a mirror, with great self-complacence and satisfaction. I admired my own appearance considerably, (and this is, probably, an acknowledgement that few would make,) but I could not refrain from laughing at the strange, party-colored appearance of my physiognomy, the lower portion being fair, like a woman's, and the upper, brown and swarthy as an Indian. Having nothing prepared for dinner to-day, I strolled along the stream above the camp, and made a meal on rose buds, of which I collected an abundance; and on returning, I was surprised to find Mr. N. and Captain T. picking the last bones of a bird which they had cooked. Upon inquiry, I ascertained that the subject was an unfortunate owl which I had killed in the morning, and had intended to preserve, as a specimen. The temptation was too great to be resisted by the hungry Captain and naturalist, and the bird of wisdom lost the immortality which he might otherwise have acquired. In the afternoon, soon after leaving the Utalla, we ascended a high and very steep hill, and came immediately in view of a beautiful, and regularly undulating country of great extent. We have now probably done with high, rugged mountains; the sun shines clear, the air is bracing and elastic, and we are all in fine spirits. The next day, the road being generally level, and tolerably free from stones, we were enabled to keep our horses at the swiftest gait to which we dare urge them. We have been somewhat {153} disappointed in not receiving the expected supplies from Walla-walla, but have not suffered for provision, as the grouse and hares are very abundant here, and we have shot as many as we wished. At about noon we struck the Walla-walla river, a very pretty stream of fifty or sixty yards in width, fringed with tall willows, and containing a number of salmon, which we can see frequently leaping from the water. The pasture here, being good, we allowed our horses an hour's rest to feed, and then travelled on over the plain, until near dark, when, on rising a sandy hill, the noble Columbia burst at once upon our view. I could scarcely repress a loud exclamation of delight and pleasure, as I gazed upon the magnificent river, flowing silently and majestically on, and reflected that I had actually crossed the vast American continent, and now stood upon a stream that poured its waters directly into the Pacific. This, then, was the great Oregon, the first appearance of which gave Lewis and Clark so many emotions of joy and pleasure, and on this stream our indefatigable countrymen wintered, after the toils and privations of a long, and protracted journey through the wilderness. My reverie was suddenly interrupted by one of the men exclaiming from his position in advance, "there is the fort." We had, in truth approached very near, without being conscious of it.[138] There stood the fort on the bank of the river; horses and horned cattle were roaming about the vicinity, and on the borders of the little Walla-walla, we recognized the white tent of our long lost missionaries. These we soon joined, and were met and received by them like brethren. Mr. N. and myself were invited to sup with them upon a dish of stewed hares which they had just prepared, and it is almost needless to say that we did full justice to the good men's cookery. They told us that they had travelled comfortably from Fort Hall, without any unusual fatigue, and like ourselves, had no particularly stirring adventures. Their {154} route, although somewhat longer, was a much less toilsome and difficult one, and they suffered but little for food, being well provided with dried buffalo meat, which had been prepared near Fort Hall. [138] Fort Walla Walla (or Nez Percés) was built by Alexander Ross of the North West Company in July, 1818--see Ross, _Fur Hunters_, i, p. 171, for description and representation. It passed into the possession of the Hudson's Bay Company upon the consolidation of the corporations, and being rebuilt of adobé after its destruction by fire, was maintained until 1855-56, when it was abandoned during an Indian war. It was near the sight of the present Wallula, Washington, on the left bank of the Columbia, about half a mile above Walla Walla River.--ED. Mr. Walker, (a young gentleman attached to the band,) related an anecdote of Mr. Lee, the principal, which I thought eminently characteristic. The missionaries were, on one occasion, at a considerable distance behind the main body, and had stopped for a few moments to regale themselves on a cup of milk from a cow which they were driving. Mr. L. had unstrapped the tin pan from his saddle, and was about applying himself to the task, when a band of a dozen Indians was descried at a distance, approaching the little party at full gallop. There was but little time for consideration. The rifles were looked to, the horses were mounted in eager haste, and all were ready for a long run, except Mr. Lee himself, who declared that nothing should deprive him of his cup of milk, and that he meant to "lighten the old cow before he moved." He accordingly proceeded coolly to fill his tin pan, and, after a hearty drink, grasped his rifle, and mounted his horse, at the very moment that the Indians had arrived to within speaking distance. To the great relief of most of the party, these proved to be of the friendly Nez Percé tribe, and after a cordial greeting, they travelled on together. The missionaries informed us that they had engaged a large barge to convey themselves and baggage to Fort Vancouver, and that Captain Stewart and Mr. Ashworth were to be of the party. Mr. N. and myself were very anxious to take a seat with them, but to our disappointment, were told that the boat would scarcely accommodate those already engaged. We had therefore to relinquish it, and prepare for a journey on horseback to the _Dalles_, about eighty miles below, to which place Captain W. would {155} precede us in the barge, and engage canoes to convey us to the lower fort. This evening, we purchased a large bag of Indian meal, of which we made a kettle of mush, and mixed with it a considerable quantity of horse tallow and salt. This was, I think, one of the best meals I ever made. We all ate heartily of it, and pronounced it princely food. We had been long without bread stuff of any kind, and the coarsest farinaceous substance, with a proper allowance of grease, would have been highly prized. The next morning, we visited Walla-walla Fort, and were introduced, by Captain W., to Lieutenant Pierre S. Pambrun, the superintendent.[139] Wyeth and Mr. Pambrun had met before, and were well acquainted; they had, therefore, many reminiscences of by-gone days to recount, and long conversations, relative to the variety of incidents which had occurred to each, since last they parted. [139] Lieutenant Pierre Chrysologue Pambrun was born near Quebec in 1792. In the War of 1812-15, he was an officer in the Canadian light troops, and soon after peace was declared entered the employ of the Hudson's Bay Company. At the Red River disturbances (1816) he was taken prisoner, but soon released. Later he served at several far Western fur-trade posts, and coming to the Columbia was placed in charge at Fort Walla Walla (1832). He showed many courtesies to the overland emigrants, but refused supplies to Captain Bonneville as being a rival trader; he appears, however, to have had no such feeling with regard to Captain Wyeth. Pambrun was severely hurt by a fall from his horse (1840), and died of the injury at Walla Walla.--ED. The fort is built of drift logs, and surrounded by a stoccade of the same, with two bastions, and a gallery around the inside. It stands about a hundred yards from the river, on the south bank, in a bleak and unprotected situation, surrounded on every side by a great, sandy plain, which supports little vegetation, except the wormwood and thorn-bushes. On the banks of the little river, however, there are narrow strips of rich soil, and here Mr. Pambrun raises the few garden vegetables necessary for the support of his family. Potatoes, turnips, carrots, &c., thrive well, and Indian corn produces eighty bushels to the acre. At about 10 o'clock, the barge got under way, and soon after, our company with its baggage, crossed the river in canoes, and encamped on the opposite shore. There is a considerable number of Indians resident here, Kayouse's and a collateral band of the same tribe, called Walla-wallas.[140] {156} They live along the bank of the river, in shantys or wigwams of drift wood, covered with buffalo or deer skins. They are a miserable, squalid looking people, are constantly lolling around and in the fort, and annoy visitors by the importunate manner in which they endeavor to force them into some petty trade for a pipe, a hare, or a grouse. All the industrious and enterprising men of this tribe are away trading salmon, kamas root, &c. to the mountain companies. [140] For the Walla Walla Indians, see Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, in our volume vii, p. 137, note 37.--ED. Notwithstanding the truly wretched plight in which these poor people live, and the privations which they must necessarily have to suffer, they are said to be remarkably honest and upright in their dealings, and generally correct in their moral deportment. Although they doubtless have the acquisitive qualities so characteristic of the race, they are rarely known to violate the principles of common honesty. A man may leave his tent unguarded, and richly stored with every thing which ordinarily excites the cupidity of the Indian, yet, on returning after a long absence, he may find all safe. What a commentary is this on the habits and conduct of our _Christian_ communities! The river is here about three-fourths of a mile in width,--a clear, deep, and rapid stream, the current being generally from three to four miles an hour. It is the noblest looking river I have seen since leaving our Delaware. The banks are in many places high and rocky, occasionally interrupted by broad, level sandy beaches. The only vegetation along the margin, is the wormwood, and other low, arid plants, but some of the bottoms are covered with heavy, rank grass, affording excellent pasture for horses. _5th._--This morning we commenced our march down the Columbia. We have no provision with us except flour and horse tallow, but we have little doubt of meeting Indians daily, with whom we can trade for fish. Our road will now be a rather monotonous one {157} along the bank of the river, tolerably level, but often rocky, so that very rapid travelling is inadmissible. The mallard duck, the widgeon, and the green-winged teal are tolerably abundant in the little estuaries of the river. Our men have killed several, but they are poor, and not good. _6th._--We have observed to-day several high, conical stacks of drift-wood near the river. These are the graves of the Indians. Some of these cemeteries are of considerable extent, and probably contain a great number of bodies. I had the curiosity to peep into several of them, and even to remove some of the coverings, but found nothing to compensate for the trouble. We bought some salmon from Indians whom we met to-day, which, with our flour and tallow, enable us to live very comfortably. _7th._--We frequently fall in with large bands of Indian horses. There are among them some very beautiful animals, but they are generally almost as wild as deer, seldom permitting an approach to within a hundred yards or more. They generally have owners, as we observe upon many of them strange hieroglyphic looking characters, but there are no doubt some that have never known the bit, and will probably always roam the prairie uncontrolled. When the Indians wish to catch a horse from one of these bands, they adopt the same plan pursued by the South Americans for taking the wild animal. _8th._--Our road to-day has been less monotonous, and much more hilly than hitherto. Along the bank of the river, are high mountains, composed of basaltic rock and sand, and along their bases enormous drifts of the latter material. Large, rocky promontories connected with these mountains extend into the river to considerable distances, and numerous islands of the same dot its surface. We are visited frequently as we travel along, by Indians of {158} the Walla-walla and other tribes, whose wigwams we see on the opposite side of the river. As we approach these rude huts, the inhabitants are seen to come forth in a body; a canoe is immediately launched, the light bark skims the water like a bird, and in an incredibly short time its inmates are with us. Sometimes a few salmon are brought to barter for our tobacco, paint, &c., but more frequently they seem impelled to the visit by mere curiosity. To-day a considerable number have visited us, and among them some very handsome young girls. I could not but admire the gaiety and cheerfulness which seemed to animate them. They were in high spirits, and evidently very much pleased with the unusual privilege which they were enjoying. At our camp in the evening, eight Walla-walla's came to see us. The chief was a remarkably fine looking man, but he, as well as several of his party, was suffering from a severe purulent ophthalmia which had almost deprived him of sight. He pointed to his eyes, and contorting his features to indicate the pain he suffered, asked me by signs to give him medicine to cure him. I was very sorry that my small stock of simples did not contain anything suited to his complaint, and I endeavored to tell him so. I have observed that this disease is rather prevalent among the Indians residing on the river, and I understood from the chief's signs that most of the Indians towards the lower country were similarly affected. _9th._--The character of the country has changed considerably since we left Walla-walla. The river has become gradually more narrow, until it is now but about two hundred yards in width, and completely hemmed in by enormous rocks on both sides. Many of these extend for considerable distances into the stream in perpendicular columns, and the water dashes and breaks against them until all around is foam. The current is here very swift, probably six or seven miles to the hour; and the {159} Indian canoes in passing down, seem literally to _fly_ along its surface. The road to-day has been rugged to the very last degree. We have passed over continuous masses of sharp rock for hours together, sometimes picking our way along the very edge of the river, several hundred feet above it; again, gaining the back land, by passing through any casual chasm or opening in the rocks, where we were compelled to dismount, and lead our horses. This evening, we are surrounded by a large company of Chinook Indians, of both sexes, whose temporary wigwams are on the bank of the river. Many of the squaws have young children sewed up in the usual Indian fashion, wrapped in a skin, and tied firmly to a board, so that nothing but the head of the little individual is seen.[141] [141] This must have been a roving party, far from their base, for the Chinook were rarely found so high up the Columbia.--ED. These Indians are very peaceable and friendly. They have no weapons except bows, and these are used more for amusement and exercise, than as a means of procuring them sustenance, their sole dependence being fish and beaver, with perhaps a few hares and grouse, which are taken in traps. We traded with these people for a few fish and beaver skins, and some roots, and before we retired for the night, arranged the men in a circle, and gave them a smoke in token of our friendship. _10th._--This afternoon we reached the _Dalles_.[142] The entire water of the river here flows through channels of about fifteen feet in width, and between high, perpendicular rocks; there are several of these channels at distances of from half a mile to a mile apart, and the water foams and boils through them like an enormous cauldron. [142] The first obstruction in the Columbia on descending from Walla Walla consists of the Falls and Long and Short Narrows frequently called the Dalles. See descriptions in _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, pp. 146-173; Franchère's _Narrative_, in our volume vi, p. 337; and Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, our volume vii, pp. 128-133.--ED. On the opposite side of the river there is a large Indian village, belonging to a chief named Tilki, and containing probably five hundred wigwams. As we approached, the natives swarmed like bees to the shore, launched their canoes, and joined us in a few {160} minutes. We were disappointed in not seeing Captain W. here, as this was the spot where we expected to meet him; the chief, however, told us that we should find him about twelve miles below, at the next village. We were accordingly soon on the move again, and urging our horses to their fastest gait, we arrived about sunset. The captain, the chief of the village, and several other Indians, came out to meet us and make us welcome. Captain W. has been here two days, and we were pleased to learn that he had completed all the necessary arrangements for transporting ourselves and baggage to Vancouver in canoes. The route by land is said to be a very tedious and difficult one, and, in some places, almost impassable, but even were it otherwise, I believe we should all much prefer the water conveyance, as we have become very tired of riding. Since leaving the upper village this afternoon, we have been followed by scores of Indians on foot and on horseback; some of the animals carrying three at a time; and although we travelled rapidly, the pedestrians were seldom far behind us. We have concluded to leave our horses here, in charge of the chief of the village, who has promised to attend to them during the winter, and deliver them to our order in the spring. Captain W. having been acquainted with this man before, is willing to trust him. _11th._--Early this morning, we launched our three canoes, and each being provided with an Indian, as helmsman, we applied ourselves to our paddles, and were soon moving briskly down the river. In about an hour after, the wind came out dead ahead, and although the current was in favor, our progress was sensibly checked. As we proceeded, the wind rose to a heavy gale, and the waves ran to a prodigious height. At one moment our frail bark danced upon the crest of a wave, and at the next, fell with a surge into the trough of the sea, and as we looked at the swell before us, it seemed that in an instant we {161} must inevitably be engulphed. At such times, the canoe ahead of us was entirely hidden from view, but she was observed to rise again like a seagull, and hurry on into the same danger. The Indian in my canoe soon became completely frightened; he frequently hid his face with his hands, and sang, in a low melancholy voice, a prayer which we had often heard from his people, while at their evening devotions. As our dangers were every moment increasing, the man became at length absolutely childish, and with all our persuasion and threats, we could not induce him to lay his paddle into the water. We were all soon compelled to put in shore, which we did without sustaining any damage; the boats were hauled up high and dry, and we concluded to remain in our quarters until to-morrow, or until there was a cessation of wind. In about an hour it lulled a little, and Captain W. ordered the boats to be again launched, in the hope of being able to weather a point about five miles below, before the gale again commenced, where we could lie by until it should be safe to proceed. The calm proved, as some of us had suspected, a treacherous one; in a very few minutes after we got under way, we were contending with the same difficulties as before, and again our cowardly helmsman laid by his paddle and began mumbling his prayer. It was too irritating to be borne. Our canoe had swung round broad side to the surge, and was shipping gallons of water at every dash. At this time it was absolutely necessary that every man on board should exert himself to the utmost to head up the canoe and make the shore as soon as possible. Our Indian, however, still sat with his eyes covered, the most abject and contemptible looking thing I ever saw. We took him by the shoulders and threatened to throw him overboard, if he did not immediately lend his assistance: we might as well have spoken to a stone. He was finally aroused, however, by our presenting a loaded gun at his breast; he dashed the muzzle away, seized his paddle {162} again, and worked with a kind of desperate and wild energy, until he sank back in the canoe completely exhausted. In the mean time the boat had become half full of water, shipping a part of every surf that struck her, and as we gained the shallows every man sprang overboard, breast deep, and began hauling the canoe to shore. This was even a more difficult task than that of propelling her with the oars; the water still broke over her, and the bottom was a deep kind of quicksand, in which we sank almost to the knees at every step, the surf at the same time dashing against us with such violence as to throw us repeatedly upon our faces. We at length reached the shore, and hauled the canoe up out of reach of the breakers. She was then unloaded as soon as possible, and turned bottom upwards. The goods had suffered considerably by the wetting; they were all unbaled and dried by a large fire, which we built on the shore. We were soon visited by several men from the other boats, which were ahead, and learned that their situation had been almost precisely similar to our own, except that their Indians had not evinced, to so great a degree, the same unmanly terror which had rendered ours so inefficient and useless. They were, however, considerably frightened, much more so than the white men. It would seem strange that Indians, who have been born, and have lived during their whole lives, upon the edge of the water, who have been accustomed, from infancy, to the management of a canoe, and in whose childish sports and manly pastimes these frail barks have always been employed, should exhibit, on occasions like this, such craven and womanly fears; but the probability is, as their business is seldom of a very urgent nature, that they refrain from making excursions of any considerable extent in situations known to be dangerous, except during calm weather; it is possible, also, that such gales may be rare, and they have not been accustomed to them. Immediately after we landed, our redoubtable helmsman broke away from us, {163} and ran at full speed back towards the village. We have doubtless lost him entirely, but we do not much regret his departure, as he proved himself so entirely unequal to the task he had undertaken.[143] [143] On this matter consult _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, pp. 166-210, 217, 221, 256, where the Indians are represented as venturing forth into rough water that no white man dared breast.--ED. _12th._--The gale continues with the same violence as yesterday, and we do not therefore think it expedient to leave our camp. Mr. N.'s large and beautiful collection of new and rare plants was considerably injured by the wetting it received; he has been constantly engaged since we landed yesterday, in opening and drying them. In this task he exhibits a degree of patience and perseverance which is truly astonishing; sitting on the ground, and steaming over the enormous fire, for hours together, drying the papers, and re-arranging the whole collection, specimen by specimen, while the great drops of perspiration roll unheeded from his brow. Throughout the whole of our long journey, I have had constantly to admire the ardor and perfect indefatigability with which he has devoted himself to the grand object of his tour. No difficulty, no danger, no fatigue has ever daunted him, and he finds his rich reward in the addition of nearly _a thousand_ new species of American plants, which he has been enabled to make to the already teeming flora of our vast continent. My bale of birds, which was equally exposed to the action of the water, escaped without any material injury. In the afternoon, the gale not having abated, Captain W. became impatient to proceed, as he feared his business at Vancouver would suffer by delay; he accordingly proposed taking one canoe, and braving the fury of the elements, saying that he wished five men, who were not afraid of water, to accompany him. A dozen of our fearless fellows volunteered in a moment, and the captain selecting such as he thought would best suit his purpose, lost no time in launching his canoe, and away she went over the foaming waters, dashing the spray from her bows, and laboring through the heavy swells until she was lost to our view. {164} The more sedate amongst us did not much approve of this somewhat hasty measure of our principal; it appeared like a useless and daring exposure of human life, not warranted by the exigencies of the case. Mr. N. remarked that he would rather lose all his plants than venture his life in that canoe. On the 13th the wind shifted to due north, and was blowing somewhat less furiously than on the previous day. At about noon we loaded our canoes, and embarked; our progress, however, during the afternoon, was slow; the current was not rapid, and the wind was setting up stream so strongly that we could not make much headway against it; we had, also, as before, to contend with turbulent waves, but we found we could weather them with much less difficulty, since the change of the wind. _14th._--Before sunrise, a light rain commenced, which increased towards mid-day to a heavy shower, and continued steadily during the afternoon and night. There was, in the morning, a dead calm, the water was perfectly smooth, and disturbed only by the light rain pattering upon its surface. We made an early start, and proceeded on very expeditiously until about noon, when we arrived at the "cascades," and came to a halt above them, near a small Indian village. These cascades, or cataracts are formed by a collection of large rocks, in the bed of the river, which extend, for perhaps half a mile. The current for a short distance above them, is exceedingly rapid, and there is said to be a gradual fall, or declivity of the river, of about twenty feet in the mile. Over these rocks, and across the whole river, the water dashes and foams most furiously, and with a roar which we heard distinctly at the distance of several miles.[144] [144] The cascades are the last obstructions on the Lower Columbia. Consult _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, pp. 179-185; Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 336; and Ross's _Oregon Settlers_ in our volume vii, pp. 121-125.--ED. It is wholly impossible for any craft to make its way through these difficulties, and our light canoes would not live an instant in them. It is, therefore, necessary to make a portage, either by carrying the canoes over land to the opposite side of the cataracts, or by wading in the water near the shore, where the surges are {165} lightest, and dragging the unloaded boat through them by a cable. Our people chose the latter method, as the canoes felt very heavy and cumbersome, being saturated with the rain which was still falling rapidly. They were accordingly immediately unloaded, the baggage placed on the shore, and the men entered the water to their necks, headed by Captain Thing, and addressed themselves to the troublesome and laborious task. In the meantime, Mr. N., and myself were sent ahead to take the best care of ourselves that our situation and the surrounding circumstances permitted. We found a small Indian trail on the river bank, which we followed in all its devious windings, up and down hills, over enormous piles of rough flinty rocks, through brier bushes, and pools of water, &c. &c., for about a mile, and descending near the edge of the river, we observed a number of white men who had just succeeded in forcing a large barge through the torrent, and were then warping her into still water near the shore. Upon approaching them more closely, we recognised, to our astonishment, our old friend Captain Stewart, with the good missionaries, and all the rest who left us at Walla-walla on the 4th. Poor fellows! Every man of them had been over breast deep in water, and the rain, which was still falling in torrents, was more than sufficient to drench what the waves did not cover, so that they were most abundantly soaked and bedraggled. I felt sadly inclined to laugh heartily at them, but a single glance at the sorry appearance of myself and my companion was sufficient to check the feeling. We joined them, and aided in kindling a fire to warm and dry ourselves a little, as there was not a dry rag on us, and we were all in an ague with cold. After a very considerable time, we succeeded in igniting the wet timber, and had a tolerably large fire. We all seated ourselves on the ground around it, and related our adventures. They had, like ourselves, suffered somewhat from the head-wind and heavy swells, but unlike us they had a craft that would weather it easily; even they, however, {166} shipped some water, and made very little progress for the last two days. They informed us that Captain W.'s canoe had been dashed to pieces on the rocks above, and that he and all his crew were thrown into the water, and forced to swim for their lives. They all escaped, and proceeded down the river, this morning, in a canoe, hired of the Indians here, one of whom accompanied them, as pilot. After a hasty meal of fish, purchased on the spot, our friends reloaded their boat and got under way, hoping to reach Vancouver by next morning. Mr. N. and myself remained some time longer here, expecting intelligence from our people behind; we had begun to feel a little uneasy about them, and thought of returning to look into their situation, when Captain T. came in haste towards us, with the mortifying intelligence that one canoe had been stove upon the rocks, and the other so badly split, that he feared she would not float; the latter was, however, brought on by the men, and moored where we had stopped. A man was then despatched to an Indian village, about five miles below, to endeavor to procure one or two canoes and a pilot. In the mean time, we had all to walk back along the circuitous and almost impassable Indian trail, and carry our wet and heavy baggage from the spot where the boats had been unloaded. The distance, as I have stated, was a full mile, and the road so rough and encumbered as to be scarcely passable. In walking over many of the large and steep rocks, it was often necessary that the hands should be used to raise and support the body; this, with a load, was inconvenient. Again, in ascending and descending the steep and slippery hills, a single mis-step was certain to throw us in the mud, and bruise us upon the sharp rocks which were planted all around. This accident occurred several times with us all. Over this most miserable of all roads, with the cold rain dashing and pelting upon us during the whole time, until we felt as {167} though we were frozen to the very marrow, did we all have to travel and return four separate times, before our baggage was properly deposited. It was by far the most fatiguing, cheerless, and uncomfortable business in which I was ever engaged, and truly glad was I to lie down at night on the cold, wet ground, wrapped in my blankets, out of which I had just wrung the water, and I think I never slept more soundly or comfortably than that night.[145] [145] I could not but recollect at that time, the last injunction of my dear old grandmother, not to sleep in damp beds!!--TOWNSEND. I arose the next morning rested and refreshed, though somewhat sore from sundry bruises received on the hills to which I have alluded. _15th._--The rain still continued falling, but lightly, the weather calm and cool. The water immediately below the cascades foams and boils in a thousand eddies, forming little whirlpools, which, however insignificant they may appear, are exceedingly dangerous for light canoes, whirling their bows around to the current, and capsising them in an instant. Near the shore, at the foot of the cataract, there is a strong backward tow, through which it is necessary to drag the canoe, by a line, for the distance of a hundred yards; here it feels the force of the opposite current, and is carried on at the rate of seven or eight miles to the hour. The man whom we sent yesterday to the village, returned this morning; he stated that one canoe only could be had, but that three Indians, accustomed to the navigation, would accompany us; that they would soon be with us, and endeavor to repair our damaged boat. In an hour they came, and after the necessary clamping and caulking of our leaky vessel, we loaded, and were soon moving rapidly down the river. The rain ceased about noon, but the sun did not appear during the day. {168} _16th._--The day was a delightful one; the sky was robed in a large flaky cumulus, the glorious sun occasionally bursting through among the clouds, with dazzling splendor. We rose in the morning in fine spirits, our Indians assuring us that "King George," as they called the fort, was but a short distance from us. At about 11 o'clock, we arrived, and stepped on shore at the _end of our journey_. It is now three days over six months since I left my beloved home. I, as well as the rest, have been in some situations of danger, of trial, and of difficulty, but I have passed through them all unharmed, with a constitution strengthened, and invigorated by healthful exercise, and a heart which I trust can feel deeply, sincerely thankful to that kind and overruling Providence who has watched over and protected me. We have passed for months through a country swarming with Indians who thirsted for our blood, and whose greatest pride and glory consisted in securing the scalp of a white man. Enemies, sworn, determined enemies to all, both white and red, who intrude upon his hunting grounds, the Blackfoot roams the prairie like a wolf seeking his prey, and springing upon it when unprepared, and at the moment when it supposes itself most secure. To those who have always enjoyed the comforts and security of civilized life, it may seem strange that persons who know themselves to be constantly exposed to such dangers--who never lie down at night without the weapons of death firmly grasped in their hands, and who are in hourly expectation of hearing the terrific war whoop of the savage, should yet sleep soundly and refreshingly, and feel themselves at ease; such however is the fact. I never in my life enjoyed rest more than when travelling through the country of which I speak. I had become accustomed to it: I felt constant apprehension certainly, but not to such an extent as to deprive me of any of the few comforts which I could command in such an uncomfortable country. The {169} guard might pass our tent, and cry "all's well," in his loudest key, without disturbing my slumbers: but if the slightest _unusual_ noise occurred, I was awake in an instant, and listening painfully for a repetition of it. On the beach in front of the fort, we were met by Mr. Lee, the missionary, and Dr. John McLoughlin, the chief factor, and Governor of the Hudson's Bay posts in this vicinity. The Dr. is a large, dignified and very noble looking man, with a fine expressive countenance, and remarkably bland and pleasing manners. The missionary introduced Mr. N. and myself in due form, and we were greeted and received with a frank and unassuming politeness which was most peculiarly grateful to our feelings. He requested us to consider his house our home, provided a separate room for our use, a servant to wait upon us, and furnished us with every convenience which we could possibly wish for. I shall never cease to feel grateful to him for his disinterested kindness to the poor houseless and travel-worn strangers.[146] [146] Dr. John McLoughlin, born near Quebec, October 19, 1784, was educated as a physician, and for a time studied in Paris. Early in the nineteenth century he entered the North West Company's employ, and was stationed at Fort William, on Lake Superior, where he knew Sir Alexander Mackenzie and other frontier celebrities. In 1818 he married Margaret, widow of Alexander McKay, who perished in the "Tonquin" (1811). In 1824 McLoughlin was transferred to the Columbia, as chief factor for the Hudson's Bay Company in all the transmontane region. Making his headquarters at Fort Vancouver, he for upwards of twenty years ruled with a firm but mild justice this vast forest empire. On the great American emigration to Oregon, McLoughlin's humanity and kindness of heart led him to succor the weary homeseekers, for which cause he was reprimanded by the company and thereupon resigned (1846). The remainder of his life was passed at Oregon City, and was somewhat embittered by land controversies. He became a naturalized American citizen, and after his death (September 7, 1857) the Oregon legislature made to his heirs restitution of his lands, in recognition of the great service of the "Father of Oregon." Brief sketches from his life are included in E. E. Dye, _McLoughlin and Old Oregon, a Chronicle_ (Chicago, 1900).--ED. {170} CHAPTER X Fort Vancouver--Agricultural and other improvements--Vancouver "camp"--Approach of the rainy season--Expedition to the Wallammet--The falls--A village of Klikatat Indians--Manner of flattening the head--A Flathead infant--Brig "May Dacre"--Preparations for a settlement--Success of the naturalists--Chinook Indians--their appearance and costume--Ague and fever--Superstitious dread of the Indians--Desertion of the Sandwich Islanders from Captain Wyeth's party--Embarkation for a trip to the Islands--George, the Indian pilot--Mount Coffin--A visit to the tombs--Superstition--Visit to an Indian house--Fort George--Site of Astoria--A blind Indian boy--Cruel and unfeeling conduct of the savages--their moral character--Baker's Bay--Cape Disappointment--Dangerous bar at the entrance of the river--The sea beach--Visit of Mr. Ogden--Passage across the bar.... Fort Vancouver is situated on the north bank of the Columbia on a large level plain, about a quarter of a mile from the shore.[147] The space comprised within the stoccade is an oblong square, of about one hundred, by two hundred and fifty feet. The houses built of logs and frame-work, to the number of ten or twelve, are ranged around in a quadrangular form, the one occupied by the doctor being in the middle. In front, and enclosed on three sides by the buildings, is a large open space, where all the in-door work of the establishment is done. Here the Indians assemble with their multifarious articles of trade, beaver, otter, venison, and various other game, and here, once a week, several scores of Canadians are employed, beating the furs which have been collected, in order to free them from dust and vermin. [147] Fort Vancouver was the centre of the Hudson's Bay Company's operations in Oregon, and the most important post in that country. Built in 1824-25 under the supervision of Dr. John McLoughlin, who decided to transfer thither his headquarters from Fort George (Astoria), its site was on the north bank of the Columbia, a hundred and fourteen miles from the mouth of the river, and six miles above that of the Willamette. It was not a formidable enclosure, for the Indians thereabout were in general peaceful, and a large farm and an agricultural settlement were attached to the post. After McLoughlin resigned (1846), James Douglas was chief factor until the American possession. In 1849 General Harney took charge, and by orders from Washington destroyed part of the trading post, and established a United States military post now known as Vancouver Barracks.--ED. {171} Mr. N. and myself walked over the farm with the doctor, to inspect the various improvements which he has made. He has already several hundred acres fenced in, and under cultivation, and like our own western prairie land, it produces abundant crops, particularly of grain, without requiring any manure. Wheat thrives astonishingly; I never saw better in any country, and the various culinary vegetables, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, &c., are in great profusion, and of the first quality. Indian corn does not flourish so well as at Walla-walla, the soil not being so well adapted to it; melons are well flavored, but small; the greatest curiosity, however, is the apples, which grow on small trees, the branches of which would be broken without the support of props. So profuse is the quantity of fruit that the limbs are covered with it, and it is actually _packed_ together precisely in the same manner that onions are attached to ropes when they are exposed for sale in our markets. On the farm is a grist mill, a threshing mill, and a saw mill, the two first, by horse, and the last, by water power; besides many minor improvements in agricultural and other matters, which cannot but astonish the stranger from a civilized land, and which reflect great credit upon the liberal and enlightened chief factor. In the propagation of domestic cattle, the doctor has been particularly successful. Ten years ago a few head of neat cattle were brought to the fort by some fur traders from California; these have now increased to near seven hundred. They are a large framed, long horned breed, inferior in their milch qualities to those of the United States, but the beef is excellent, and in consequence of the mildness of the climate, it is never necessary to provide them with fodder during the winter, an abundant supply of excellent pasture being always found. On the farm, in the vicinity of the fort, are thirty or forty log huts, which are occupied by the Canadians, and others attached {172} to the establishment. These huts are placed in rows, with broad lanes or streets between them, and the whole looks like a very neat and beautiful village. The most fastidious cleanliness appears to be observed; the women may be seen sweeping the streets and scrubbing the door-sills as regularly as in our own proverbially cleanly city.[148] [148] I have given this notice of the suburbs of the fort, as I find it in my journal written at the time; I had reason, subsequently, to change my opinion with regard to the scrupulous cleanliness of the Canadians' Indian wives, and particularly after inspecting the internal economy of the dwellings. What at first struck me as neat and clean, by an involuntary comparison of it with the extreme filthiness to which I had been accustomed amongst the Indians, soon revealed itself in its proper light, and I can freely confess that my first estimate was too high.--TOWNSEND. _Sunday, September 25th._--Divine service was performed in the fort this morning by Mr. Jason Lee. This gentleman and his nephew had been absent some days in search of a suitable place to establish themselves, in order to fulfil the object of their mission. They returned yesterday, and intend leaving us to-morrow with their suite for the station selected, which is upon the Wallammet river, about sixty miles south of the fort.[149] [149] Jason Lee had intended to settle among the Flatheads; but upon the advice of McLoughlin, reinforced by his own observations, the missionary decided to establish his first station in the fertile Willamette valley. He proceeded to the small settlement of French Canadian ex-servants of the company and built his house on the east side of the river, at Chemyway, in Marion County.--ED. In the evening we were gratified by the arrival of Captain Wyeth from below, who informed us that the brig from Boston, which was sent out by the company to which Wyeth is attached, had entered the river, and was anchored about twenty miles below, at a spot called Warrior's point, near the western entrance of the Wallammet.[150] [150] Warriors' Point is at the lower end of Wappato (or Sauvie) Island, the eastern boundary of the lower Willamette mouth. Probably it received its name from a party of Indians who in 1816 fired upon a trading party from Fort George and drove them back from the Willamette; see Alexander Ross, _Fur Hunters_, i, pp. 100, 101.--ED. Captain W. mentioned his intention to visit the Wallammet country, and seek out a convenient location for a fort which he wishes to establish without delay, and Mr. N. and myself accepted an invitation to accompany him in the morning. He has brought with him one of the brig's boats, and eight oarsmen, five of whom are Sandwich Islanders. We have experienced for several days past, gloomy, lowering, and showery weather; indeed the sun has scarcely been seen for {173} a week past. This is said to indicate the near approach of the rainy season, which usually sets in about the middle of October, or even earlier. After this time, until December, there is very little clear weather, showers or heavy clouds almost constantly prevailing. On the 29th, Captain Wyeth, Mr. N., and myself, embarked in the ship's boat for our exploring excursion. We had a good crew of fine robust sailors, and the copper-colored islanders,--or _Kanakas_, as they are called,--did their duty with great alacrity and good will. At about five miles below the fort, we entered the upper mouth of the Wallammet. This river is here about half the width of the Columbia, a clear and beautiful stream, and navigable for large vessels to the distance of twenty-five miles. It is covered with numerous islands, the largest of which is that called _Wappatoo Island_, about twenty miles in length.[151] The vegetation on the main land is good, the timber generally pine and post oak, and the river is margined in many places with a beautiful species of willow with large ob-lanceolate leaves like those of the peach, and white on their under surface. The timber on the islands is chiefly oak, no pine growing there. At about 10 o'clock we overtook three men whom Captain W. had sent ahead in a canoe and we all landed soon after on the beach and dined on a mess of salmon and peas which we had provided. We were under way again in the afternoon, and encamped at about sunset. We have as yet seen no suitable place for an establishment, and to-morrow we proceed to the falls of the river, about fifteen miles further. Almost all the land in the vicinity is excellent and well calculated for cultivation, and several spots which we have visited, would be admirably adapted to the captain's views, but that there is not a sufficient extent unincumbered, or which could be fitted for the purposes of tillage in a space of time short enough {174} to be serviceable; others are at some seasons inundated, which is an insurmountable objection. [151] This large island across the mouth of the Willamette valley was by Lewis and Clark named Image-Canoe, later Wappato Island. It is now known as Sauvie for Jean Baptiste Sauvé, who was for many years a faithful servant of the Hudson's Bay Company, and maintained the dairy farm on this island.--ED. We embarked early the next morning, and at 11 o'clock arrived at the falls, after encountering some difficulties from rapids, through which we had to warp our boat.[152] There are here three falls on a line of rocks extending across the river, which forms the bed of the upper channel. The water is precipitated through deep abrazed gorges, and falls perhaps forty feet at an angle of about twenty degrees. It was a beautiful sight when viewed from a distance, but it became grand and almost sublime as we approached it nearer. I mounted the rocks and stood over the highest fall, and although the roar of the cataract was almost deafening, and the rays of the bright sun reflected from the white and glittering foam threatened to deprive me of sight, yet I became so absorbed in the contemplation of the scene, and the reflections which were involuntarily excited, as to forget every thing else for the time, and was only aroused by Captain W. tapping me on the shoulder, and telling me that every thing was arranged for our return. While I visited the falls, the captain and his men had found what they sought for; and the object of our voyage being accomplished, we got on board immediately and shaped our course down the river with a fair wind, and the current in favor. [152] The falls of Willamette were not discovered by Lewis and Clark, who explored that river only to the site of Portland. Probably the first white men to visit them were a party led by Franchère and William Henry in 1814; see Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 313. McLoughlin staked out a claim around these falls in 1829, and made some improvements. Later (1840) his claims were contested, but in 1842 the land was laid off in lots and entitled Oregon City. The falls are now passed by locks, in order to facilitate navigation on the upper Willamette.--ED. About two miles below the cataract is a small village of Klikatat Indians.[153] Their situation does not appear different from what we have been accustomed to see in the neighborhood of the fort. They live in the same sort of miserable loose hovels, and are the same wretched, squalid looking people. Although enjoying far more advantages, and having in a much greater degree the means of rendering themselves comfortable, yet their mode of living, their garments, their wigwams, and every thing connected with them, is not much better than the Snakes and {175} Bannecks, and very far inferior to that fine, noble-looking race, the Kayouse, whom we met on the _Grand ronde_. [153] The Klikitat were a Shahaptian tribe, near kin to the Yakima. Their habitat was on both sides of the Cascade Range, north of the Columbia. Early in the nineteenth century they made a futile attempt to settle in the Willamette valley. They were probably the Wahhowpums of Lewis and Clark.--ED. A custom prevalent, and almost universal amongst these Indians, is that of flattening, or mashing in the whole front of the skull, from the superciliary ridge to the crown. The appearance produced by this unnatural operation is almost hideous, and one would suppose that the intellect would be materially affected by it. This, however, does not appear to be the case, as I have never seen, (with a single exception, the Kayouse,) a race of people who appeared more shrewd and intelligent. I had a conversation on this subject, a few days since, with a chief who speaks the English language. He said that he had exerted himself to abolish the practice in his own tribe, but although his people would listen patiently to his talk on most subjects, their ears were firmly closed when this was mentioned; "they would leave the council fire, one by one, until none but a few squaws and children were left to drink in the words of the chief." It is even considered among them a degradation to possess a round head, and one whose _caput_ has happened to be neglected in his infancy, can never become even a subordinate chief in his tribe, and is treated with indifference and disdain, as one who is unworthy a place amongst them. The flattening of the head is practiced by at least ten or twelve distinct tribes of the lower country, the Klikatats, Kalapooyahs, and Multnomahs, of the Wallammet, and its vicinity;[154] the Chinooks, Klatsaps, Klatstonis, Kowalitsks, Katlammets, Killemooks, and Chekalis of the lower Columbia and its tributaries, and probably by others both north and south.[155] The tribe called Flatheads, or _Salish_, who reside near the sources of the Oregon, have long since abolished this custom.[156] [154] For the Kalapuya and Multnomah tribes of the Willamette valley, consult Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, in our volume vii, p. 230, note 80, and Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 247, note 53, respectively.--ED. [155] Consult Franchère's _Narrative_, notes 39, 40, 49, 65, 67, and Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, pp. 102, 103, note 13.--ED. [156] For the use of Flathead as a generic term, consult Franchère's _Narrative_, p. 340, note 145. Lewis and Clark noted that instances of the custom of flattening the forehead by pressure diminished in frequency from the coast east: among the tribes of eastern Oregon and Washington, only an occasional female appeared with flattened head, while among the coast tribes the custom was universal for both sexes.--ED. The mode by which the flattening is effected, varies considerably with the different tribes. The Wallammet Indians place the infant, soon after birth, upon a board, to the edges of which {176} are attached little loops of hempen cord or leather, and other similar cords are passed across and back, in a zig-zag manner, through these loops, enclosing the child, and binding it firmly down. To the upper edge of this board, in which is a depression to receive the back part of the head, another smaller one is attached by hinges of leather, and made to lie obliquely upon the forehead, the force of the pressure being regulated by several strings attached to its edge, which are passed through holes in the board upon which the infant is lying, and secured there. The mode of the Chinooks, and others near the sea, differs widely from that of the upper Indians, and appears somewhat less barbarous and cruel. A sort of cradle is formed by excavating a pine log to the depth of eight or ten inches. The child is placed in it on a bed of little grass mats, and bound down in the manner above described. A little boss of tightly plaited and woven grass is then applied to the forehead, and secured by a cord to the loops at the side. The infant is thus suffered to remain from four to eight months, or until the sutures of the skull have in some measure united, and the bone become solid and firm. It is seldom or never taken from the cradle, except in case of severe illness, until the flattening process is completed.[157] [157] See illustration in _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iv, p. 10.--ED. I saw, to-day, a young child from whose head the board had just been removed. It was, without exception, the most frightful and disgusting looking object that I ever beheld. The whole front of the head was completely flattened, and the mass of brain being forced back, caused an enormous projection there. The poor little creature's eyes protruded to the distance of half an inch, and looked inflamed and discolored, as did all the surrounding parts. Although I felt a kind of chill creep over me from the contemplation of such dire deformity, yet there was something so stark-staring, and absolutely queer in the physiognomy, that I could not repress a smile; and when the mother amused the little object and made it laugh, it looked so irresistibly, {177} so _terribly_ ludicrous, that I and those who were with me, burst into a simultaneous roar, which frightened it and made it cry, in which predicament it looked much less horrible than before. On the 1st of November we arrived at the brig. She was moored, head and stern, to a large rock near the lower mouth of the Wallammet. Captain Lambert with his ship's company, and our own mountain men, were all actively engaged at various employments; carpenters, smiths, coopers, and other artisans were busy in their several vocations; domestic animals, pigs, sheep, goats, poultry, &c., were roaming about as if perfectly at home, and the whole scene looked so like the entrance to a country village, that it was difficult to fancy oneself in a howling wilderness inhabited only by the wild and improvident Indian, and his scarcely more free and fearless neighbors, the bear and the wolf.[158] An excellent temporary storehouse of twigs, thatched with grass, has been erected, in which has been deposited the extensive assortment of goods necessary for the settlement, as well as a number of smaller ones, in which the men reside. It is intended as soon as practicable, to build a large and permanent dwelling of logs, which will also include the store and trading establishment, and form the groundwork for an _American fort_ on the river Columbia. [158] The brig was the "May Dacre;" Captain Lambert had been in command of Wyeth's earlier vessel, the "Sultana," which was wrecked on a South Pacific reef. He later made many voyages in command of various vessels, the last of which sailed from Hawaii to New Bedford, Massachusetts. He died at "Sailor's Snug Harbor" on Staten Island. See F. H. Victor, "Flotsom and Jetsom of the Pacific," in _Oregon Historical Society Quarterly_, ii, pp. 36-54.--ED. _5th._--Mr. N. and myself are now residing on board the brig, and pursuing with considerable success our scientific researches through the neighborhood. I have shot and prepared here several new species of birds, and two or three undescribed quadrupeds, besides procuring a considerable number, which, though known to naturalists, are rare, and therefore valuable. My companion is of course in his element; the forest, the plain, the rocky hill, and the mossy bank yield him a rich and most abundant supply. {178} We are visited daily by considerable numbers of Chinook and Klikatat Indians, many of whom bring us provisions of various kinds, salmon, deer, ducks, &c., and receive in return, powder and shot, knives, paint, and _Indian rum_, i. e. rum and water in the proportion of one part of the former to two of the latter. Some of these Indians would be handsome were it not for the abominable practice, which, as I have said, is almost universal amongst them, of destroying the form of the head. The features of many are regular, though often devoid of expression, and the persons of the men generally are rather symmetrical; their stature is low, with light sinewy limbs, and remarkably small delicate hands. The women are usually more rotund, and, in some instances, even approach obesity. The principal clothing worn by them is a sort of short petticoat made of strands of pine bark or twisted hempen strings, tied around the loins like a marro. This article they call a _kalaquarté_; and is often their only dress; some, however, cover the shoulders with a blanket, or robe made of muskrat or hare skins sewed together.[159] [159] See _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, pp. 239-242.--ED. A disease of a very fatal character is prevalent among these Indians; many of them have died of it; even some of those in the neighborhood of the fort, where medical assistance was always at hand. The symptoms are a general coldness, soreness and stiffness of the limbs and body, with violent tertian ague. Its fatal termination is attributable to its tendency to attack the liver, which is generally affected in a few days after the first symptoms are developed. Several of the white people attached to the fort have been ill with it, but no deaths have occurred amongst them, the disease in their case having yielded to the simple tonic remedies usually employed at home. This I have no doubt would be equally the case with the Indians, were they {179} willing to submit to proper restrictions during the time of administering medicine. Captain Lambert informs me that on his first landing here the Indians studiously avoided his vessel, and all kind of intercourse with his crew, from the supposition, (which they have since acknowledged) that the malady which they dread so much was thus conveyed. As in a short time it became desirable, on account of procuring supplies of provision, to remove this impression, some pains were taken to convince the Indians of their error, and they soon visited the ship without fear. Mr. N. and myself have been anxious to escape the wet and disagreeable winter of this region, and visit some other portion of the country, where the inclemency of the season will not interfere with the prosecution of our respective pursuits. After some reflection and consultation, we concluded to take passage in the brig, which will sail in a few weeks for the Sandwich Islands. We shall remain there about three months, and return to the river in time to commence our peregrinations in the spring. _23d._--At Fort Vancouver. A letter was received yesterday by Dr. McLoughlin, from Captain Wyeth, dated Walla-walla, stating that the twelve Sandwich Islanders whom he took with him a week since for a journey to Fort Hall, had deserted, each taking a horse. They had no doubt heard from some of their countrymen, whom they met at the fort, of the difficulties of the route before them, which were probably very much exaggerated. Captain W. is on the alert to find them, and is sending men on their trail in every direction, but it is more than probable that they will not be overtaken, and the consequence will then be, that the expedition must be abandoned, and the captain return to the fort to spend the winter. _December 3d._--Yesterday Mr. N. and myself went down the river to the brig, and this morning early the vessel left her {180} moorings, and with her sails unloosed stood out into the channel way. The weather was overcast, and we had but little wind, so that our progress during the morning was necessarily slow. In the afternoon we ran aground in one and a half fathoms water, but as the tide was low, we were enabled to get her clear in the evening. The navigation of this river is particularly difficult in consequence of numerous shoals and sand bars, and good pilots are scarce, the Indians alone officiating in that capacity. Towards noon the next day, a Kowalitsk Indian with but one eye, who said his name was _George_, boarded us, and showed a letter which he carried, written by Captain McNeall, in the Hudson's Bay service, recommending said George as a capable and experienced pilot. We accepted his services gladly, and made a bargain with him to take us into Baker's bay near the cape, for four bottles of rum; with the understanding, however, that every time the brig ran aground, one bottle of the precious liquor was to be forfeited.[160] George agreed to the terms, and taking his station at the bow, gave his orders to the man at the wheel like one having authority, pointing with his finger when he wished a deviation from the common course, and pronouncing in a loud voice the single word _ookook_, (here.) [160] For Baker's Bay, and the origin of its name, see Franchère's _Narrative_, our volume vi, p. 234, note 38.--ED. On the afternoon of the 4th, we passed along a bold precipitous shore, near which we observed a large isolated rock, and on it a great number of canoes, deposited above the reach of the tides. This spot is called _Mount Coffin_, and the canoes contain the dead bodies of Indians. They are carefully wrapped in blankets, and all the personal property of the deceased, bows and arrows, guns, salmon spears, ornaments, &c., are placed within, and around his canoe. The vicinity of this, and all other cemeteries, is held so sacred by the Indians, that they never approach it, except to make similar deposites; they will often even travel a considerable distance out of their course, in order to avoid intruding upon the sanctuary of their dead.[161] [161] For Mount Coffin see both Franchère and Ross, volume vi, p. 244, and volume vii, pp. 117, 118, respectively.--ED. {181} We came to anchor near this rock in the evening, and Captain Lambert, Mr. N., and myself visited the tombs. We were especially careful not to touch or disarrange any of the fabrics, and it was well we were so, for as we turned to leave the place, we found that we had been narrowly watched by about twenty Indians, whom we had not seen when we landed from our boat. After we embarked, we observed an old withered crone with a long stick or wand in her hand, who approached, and walked over the ground which we had defiled with our sacrilegious tread, waving her enchanted rod over the mouldering bones, as if to purify the atmosphere around, and exorcise the evil spirits which we had called up. I have been very anxious to procure the skulls of some of these Indians, and should have been willing, so far as I alone was concerned, to encounter some risk to effect my object, but I have refrained on account of the difficulty in which the ship and crew would be involved, if the sacrilege should be discovered; a prejudice might thus be excited against our little colony which would not soon be overcome, and might prove a serious injury. _6th._--The weather is almost constantly rainy and squally, making it unpleasant to be on deck; we are therefore confined closely to the cabin, and are anxious to get out to sea as soon as possible, if only to escape this. In the afternoon, the captain and myself went ashore in the long-boat, and visited several Indian houses upon the beach. These are built of roughly hewn boards and logs, usually covered with pine bark, or matting of their own manufacture, and open at the top, to allow the smoke to escape. In one of these houses we found men, women, and children, to the number of fifty-two, seated as usual, upon the ground, around numerous fires, the smoke from which filled every cranny of the building, and to us was almost stifling, although the Indians did not appear to suffer {182} any inconvenience from it. Although living in a state of the most abject poverty, deprived of most of the absolute necessaries of life, and frequently enduring the pangs of protracted starvation, yet these poor people appear happy and contented. They are scarcely qualified to enjoy the common comforts of life, even if their indolence did not prevent the attempt to procure them. On the afternoon of the 8th, we anchored off _Fort George_, as it is called, although perhaps it scarcely deserves the name of a fort, being composed of but one principal house of hewn boards, and a number of small Indian huts surrounding it, presenting the appearance, from a distance, of an ordinary small farm house with its appropriate outbuildings. There is but one white man residing here, the superintendent of the fort; but there is probably no necessity for more, as the business done is not very considerable, most of the furs being taken by the Indians to Vancouver. The establishment is, however, of importance, independent of its utility as a trading post, as it is situated within view of the dangerous cape, and intelligence of the arrival of vessels can be communicated to the authorities at Vancouver in time for them to render adequate assistance to such vessels by supplying them with pilots, &c. This is the spot where once stood the fort established by the direction of our honored countryman, John Jacob Astor. One of the chimneys of old Fort Astoria is still standing, a melancholy monument of American enterprise and domestic misrule. The spot where once the fine parterre overlooked the river, and the bold stoccade enclosed the neat and substantial fort, is now overgrown with weeds and bushes, and can scarce be distinguished from the primeval forest which surrounds it on every side.[162] [162] Compare Franchère's _Narrative_, in our volume vi, p. 241, note 42, and Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, our volume vii, pp. 243-247, 250. The fort had been abandoned in 1824, but later was restored as a post of observation.--ED. Captain Lambert, Mr. N. and myself visited the Indian houses in the neighborhood. In one of them we saw a poor little boy about three years of age who had been blind from his birth. He {183} was sitting on the ground near the fire, surrounded by a quantity of fish bones which he had been picking. Our sympathy was very much excited for the poor little unfortunate, particularly as he was made a subject for the taunting jibes and laughter of a number of men and women, squatting around, and his mother sat by with the most cruel apathy and unconcern, and only smiled at the commiseration which we expressed for her innocent and peculiarly unhappy offspring. It seems difficult to believe that those who possess the form and countenance of human creatures, should so debase the natural good feelings which God has implanted in them: but these ignorant and gross wretches seemed to take credit to themselves in rendering this afflicted being unhappy, and smiled and looked at each other when we endeavored to infuse a little pity into them. The child had evidently been very much neglected, and almost starved, and the little articles which we presented it, (in the hope, that the Indians on seeing us manifest an interest in it, would treat it more tenderly,) it put to its mouth eagerly, but finding them not eatable, threw them aside in disgust. Oh! how I wished at that moment for a morsel of bread to give this little famished and neglected creature. We soon left the place, and returned to the brig, but I could think of nothing during the remainder of the evening but the little blind child, and at night I dreamed I saw it, and it raised its dim and sightless orbs, and stretched out its little emaciated arms towards me, as if begging for a crumb to prevent its starving. These people, as I have already said, do not appear to possess a particle of natural good feeling, and in their moral character, they are little better than brutes. In the case of the blind boy, they seemed to take pride in tormenting it, and rendering it miserable, and vied with each other in the skill and dexterity with which they applied to it the most degrading and insulting epithets. These circumstances, with others, in regard to their {184} moral character, which I shall not even mention, have tended very considerably to lower the estimation in which I have always held the red man of the forest, and serve to strengthen the opinion which I had long since formed, that nothing but the introduction of civilization, with its good and wholesome laws, can ever render the Indian of service to himself, or raise him from the state of wretchedness which has so long characterized his expiring race. The next morning, we ran down into Baker's bay, and anchored within gunshot of the cape, when Captain Lambert and myself went on shore in the boat, to examine the channel, and decide upon the prospect of getting out to sea. This passage is a very dangerous one, and is with reason dreaded by mariners. A wide bar of sand extends from Cape Disappointment to the opposite shore,--called Point Adams,--and with the exception of a space, comprehending about half a mile, the sea at all times breaks furiously, the surges dashing to the height of the mast head of a ship, and with the most terrific roaring.[163] Sometimes the water in the channel is agitated equally with that which covers the whole length of the bar, and it is then a matter of imminent risk to attempt a passage. Vessels have occasionally been compelled to lie in under the cape for several weeks, in momentary expectation of the subsidence of the dangerous breakers, and they have not unfrequently been required to stand off shore, from without, until the crews have suffered extremely for food and water. This circumstance must ever form a barrier to a permanent settlement here; the sands, which compose the bar, are constantly shifting, and changing the course and depth of the channel, so that none but the small coasting vessels in the service of the company can, with much safety, pass back and forth. [163] For Cape Disappointment, and Point Adams, consult Franchère's _Narrative_, in our volume vi, p. 233, notes 36, 37.--ED. Mr. N. and myself visited the sea beach, outside the cape, in the hope of finding peculiar marine shells, but although we {185} searched assiduously during the morning, we had but little success. We saw several deer in the thick forest on the side of the cape, and a great number of black shags, or cormorants, flying over the breakers, and resting upon the surf-washed rocks. On the morning of the 11th, Mr. Hanson, the mate, returned from the shore, and reported that the channel was smooth; it was therefore deemed safe to attempt the passage immediately. While we were weighing our anchor, we descried a brig steering towards us, which soon crossed the bar, and ran up to within speaking distance. It was one of the Hudson's Bay Company's coasters, and, as we were getting under way, a boat put off from her, and we were boarded by Mr. Ogden, a chief factor from one of the Company's forts on the coast.[164] He informed us that the brig left Naas about the first of October, but had been delayed by contrary winds, and rough, boisterous weather.[165] Thus the voyage which usually requires but about eight days for its performance, occupied upwards of _two months_. They had been on an allowance of a pint of water per day, and had suffered considerably for fresh provision. Mr. Ogden remained with us but a short time, and we stood out past the cape. [164] Peter Skeen Ogden was the son of Isaac, chief justice of the Province of Quebec--originally a loyalist from New York. Early entering the fur-trade, young Ogden was sent out to Astoria, arriving after its transference to the British. He thereupon entered the North West Company, and spent his life in the Oregon country. A successful trapper and trader, he led for many years parties into the interior, where he explored the Yellowstone and Lewis River countries, and Utah, giving his name to Ogden's Hole and the Utah city therein. In 1825 he had a disastrous encounter with Ashley, and from that time onward competition with American traders was keen. He followed Jedidiah S. Smith west to California, trapping on the upper Sacramento and discovering Ogden River--which Frémont renamed Humboldt. In 1835 Ogden was appointed chief factor of New Caledonia, and made his headquarters at Fort St. James, on Stuart Lake. Ogden married Julia, daughter of a Flathead chief, and her intrepidity and understanding of Indian nature aided her husband's undertakings. He died at Oregon City in 1854, aged about sixty years.--ED. [165] Nass Bay and Harbor, in upper British Columbia, near the Alaska boundary.--ED. When we entered the channel, the water which had before been so smooth, became suddenly very much agitated, swelling, and roaring, and foaming around us, as if the surges were upheaved from the very bottom, and as [if] our vessel would fall in the trough of the sea, pitching down like a huge leviathan seeking its native depths, I could not but feel positive, that the enormous wave, which hung like a judgment over our heads, would inevitably engulph us; but the good ship, like a creature instinct with life, as though she knew her danger, gallantly rose upon it, and but dipped her bows into its crest, as if in scorn of its mighty and irresistible power. This is my first sea voyage, and every thing upon the great deep is of course novel and interesting to me. During the scene which I have just described, although I was {186} aware of our imminent peril, and the tales that I had frequently heard of vessels perishing in this very spot, and in precisely such a sea, recurred to my mind with some force, yet I could not but feel a kind of secret and wild joy at finding myself in a situation of such awful and magnificent grandeur. I thought of the lines of Shelley, and repeated them to myself in a kind of ecstasy. "And see'st thou, and hear'st thou, And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou, And ride we not free O'er the terrible sea, I and thou?" In about twenty minutes we had escaped all the danger, and found ourselves riding easily in a beautiful placid sea. We set the sails, which had been shortened on the bar, and the gallant vessel feeling the impulse of the wind, rushed ahead as if exulting in the victory she had achieved. CHAPTER XII ... Arrival at the Columbia. {217} On the 15th,[166] the wind, which had for several days been light, began steadily to increase, until we were running ten knots by the log. In the afternoon, the atmosphere became thick and hazy, indicating our approach to the shores of the continent. In a short time, a number of the small Auks,--of which we saw a few immediately after leaving the Columbia,--were observed sporting in the waves, close under our bows; then several gulls of the species common on the river, and soon after large flocks of geese and canvass-back ducks. [166] This date is April 15, 1835. The interval between this and December 11, 1834 (the part omitted) was spent in a visit to the Hawaiian Islands. Townsend returned on Wyeth's vessel, the "May Dacre."--ED. The sea gradually lost its legitimate deep blue color, and assumed a dirty, green appearance, indicating soundings. Upon heaving the lead here, we got only eleven fathoms, and found that we had approached nearer than was prudent, having been misled by the haze. Wore ship immediately, and soon saw land, bearing east, which we ascertained to be south of Cape Disappointment. Stood off during the night, and the next morning at 4 o'clock, the wind favoring us, we bore up for the cape, and at 7 crossed the dangerous bar safely, and ran direct for the river. {218} CHAPTER XIII Passage up the Columbia--Birds--A trip to the Wallammet--Methodist missionaries--their prospects--Fort William--Band-tail pigeons--Wretched condition of the Indians at the falls--A Kallapooyah village--Indian cemetery--Superstitions--Treatment of diseases--Method of steaming--"Making medicine"--Indian sorcerers--An interruption of festivities--Death of Thornburg--An inquest--Verdict of the jury--Inordinate appetite for ardent spirits--Misfortunes of the American Company--Eight men drowned--Murder of two trappers by the Banneck Indians--Arrival of Captain Thing--His meeting and skirmish with the Blackfeet Indians--Massacre--A narrow escape. On the 16th, we anchored abreast of Oak point.[167] Our decks were almost immediately crowded with Indians to welcome us, and among them we recognised many faces with which we were familiar. _Chinamus_, the Chinook chief, was the principal of these, who, with his wife, _Aillapust_, or _Sally_, as she is called at the fort, paid us an early visit, and brought us red deer and sturgeon to regale upon after our voyage. [167] For a brief account of Oak Point, see Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 261, note 74.--ED. On the afternoon of the next day, we ran up to Warrior's point, the brig's old mooring ground. The people here had been anxious to see us; extensive preparations had been made to prosecute the salmon fishery, and the coopers have been engaged the whole winter in making barrels to accommodate them. Mr. Walker, the missionaries' quondam associate, was in charge of the post, and he informed us that Captain Wyeth had returned only a few weeks since from the upper country, where he had been spending the winter, engaged in the arduous business of {219} trapping, in the prosecution of which he had endured great and various hardships.[168] [168] Captain Wyeth returned to Fort Vancouver February 12, 1835. The journal of his hardships during this trapping expedition is in his _Oregon Expeditions_, pp. 234-250.--ED. _May 12th._--The rainy season is not yet over; we have had almost constant showers since we arrived, but now the weather appears settled. Birds are numerous, particularly the warblers, (_Sylvia_.) Many of these are migratory, remaining but a few weeks: others breed here, and reside during the greater part of the summer. I have already procured several new species. _20th._--Mr. Wyeth, came down from Walla-walla yesterday, and this morning I embarked with him in a large canoe, manned by Kanakas, for a trip to the Wallammet falls in order to procure salmon. We visited fort William, (Wyeth's new settlement upon Wappatoo island,) which is about fifteen miles from the lower mouth of the Wallammet.[169] We found here the missionaries, Messrs. Lee and Edwards, who arrived to-day from their station, sixty miles above. They give flattering accounts of their prospects here; they are surrounded by a considerable number of Indians who are friendly to the introduction of civilization and religious light, and who treat them with the greatest hospitality and kindness. They have built several comfortable log houses, and the soil in their vicinity they represent as unusually rich and productive. They have, I think, a good prospect of being serviceable to this miserable and degraded people; and if they commence their operations judiciously, and pursue a steady, unwavering course, the Indians in this section of country may yet be redeemed from the thraldom of vice, superstition, and indolence, to which they have so long submitted, and above which their energies have not enabled them to rise. [169] According to Wyeth's statements, Fort William was eight miles from Vancouver, on the southwest side of the island. Built in the spring of 1835, it was upon Wyeth's return to the United States (1836) left in charge of C. M. Walker, who came out with Jason Lee. Walker was given instructions to lease the place, but no tenant offering, it was soon abandoned, and the Hudson's Bay Company established a dairy farm near the site.--ED. The spot chosen by Captain W. for his fort is on a high piece of land, which will probably not be overflown by the periodical freshets, and the soil is the rich black loam so plentifully distributed through this section of country. The men now live in tents and temporary huts, but several log houses are constructing {220} which, when finished, will vie in durability and comfort with Vancouver itself. _21st._--The large band-tail pigeon (_Colomba fasciata_) is very abundant near the river, found in flocks of from fifty to sixty, and perching upon the dead trees along the margin of the stream. They are feeding upon the buds of the balsam poplar; are very fat, and excellent eating. In the course of the morning, and without leaving the canoe, I killed enough to supply our people with provision for two days. _24th._-We visited the falls to-day, and while Captain W. was inspecting the vicinity to decide upon the practicability of drawing his seine here, I strolled into the Indian lodges on the bank of the river. The poor creatures were all living miserably, and some appeared to be suffering absolute want. Those who were the best supplied, had nothing more than the fragments of a few sturgeons and lamprey eels, kamas bread, &c. To the roofs of the lodges were hung a number of crooked bladders, filled with rancid seal oil, used as a sort of condiment with the dry and unsavory sturgeon. On the Klakamas river,[170] about a mile below, we found a few lodges belonging to Indians of the Kalapooyah tribe. We addressed them in Chinook, (the language spoken by all those inhabiting the Columbia below the cascades,)[171] but they evidently did not comprehend a word, answering in a peculiarly harsh and gutteral language, with which we were entirely unacquainted. However, we easily made them understand by signs that we wanted salmon, and being assured in the same significant manner that they had none to sell, we decamped as soon as possible, to escape the fleas and other vermin with which the interior of their wretched habitations were plentifully supplied. We saw here a large Indian cemetery. The bodies had been buried under the ground, and each tomb had a board at its head, upon which was rudely painted some strange, uncouth figure. The {221} pans, kettles, clothing, &c., of the deceased, were all suspended upon sticks, driven into the ground near the head board. [170] Clackamas River rises in the Cascade Range, between Mounts Hood and Jefferson, and flows northwest through a county of the same name into the Willamette, at the present Oregon City.--ED. [171] On the Chinook jargon--the medium of communication between the whites and Indians of the Northwest coast--see Franchère's _Narrative_ in our volume vi, p. 240, note 40.--ED. _June 6th._--The Indians frequently bring us salmon, and we observe that, invariably, before they part with them, they are careful to remove the hearts. This superstition, is religiously adhered to by all the Chinook tribe. Before the fish is split and prepared for eating, a small hole is made in the breast, the heart taken out, roasted, and eaten in silence, and with great gravity. This practice is continued only during the first month in which the salmon make their appearance, and is intended as a kind of propitiation to the particular deity or spirit who presides over the finny tribes. Superstition in all its absurd and most revolting aspects is rife among this people. They believe in "black spirits, and white, blue spirits, and grey," and to each grizzly monster some peculiar virtue or ghastly terror is attributed. When a chief goes on a hunting or fishing excursion, he puts himself under the care of one of these good spirits, and if his expedition is unsuccessful, he affirms that the antagonist evil principle has gained the victory; but this belief does not prevent his making another, and another attempt, in the hope, each time, that his guardian genius will have the ascendency. In their treatment of diseases, they employ but few remedies, and these are generally simple and inefficacious. Wounds are treated with an application of green leaves, and bound with strips of pine bark, and in some febrile cases, a sweat is administered. This is effected by digging a hole two or three feet deep in the ground, and placing within it some hemlock or spruce boughs moistened with water; hot stones are then thrown in, and a frame work of twigs is erected over the opening, and covered closely with blankets to prevent the escape of the steam. Under this contrivance, the patient is placed; and after remaining {222} fifteen or twenty minutes, he is removed, and plunged into cold water. Their mode of "_making medicine_," to use their own term, is, however, very different from this. The sick man is laid upon a bed of mats and blankets, elevated from the ground, and surrounded by a raised frame work of hewn boards. Upon this frame two "medicine men" (sorcerers) place themselves, and commence chaunting, in a low voice, a kind of long drawn, sighing song. Each holds a stout stick, of about four feet long, in his hand, with which he beats upon the frame work, and keeps accurate time with the music. After a few minutes, the song begins to increase in loudness and quickness, (a corresponding force and celerity being given to the stick,) until in a short time the noise becomes almost deafening, and may well serve, in many instances, to accelerate the exit of him whom it is their intention to benefit. During the administration of the medicine, the relations and friends of the patient are often employed in their usual avocations in the same house with him, and by his bedside; the women making mats, moccasins, baskets, &c., and the men lolling around, smoking or conversing upon general subjects. No appearance of sorrow or concern is manifested for the brother, husband, or father, expiring beside them, and but for the presence and ear-astounding din of the medicine men, you would not know that anything unusual had occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the family circle. These medicine men are, of course, all impostors, their object being simply the acquisition of property; and in case of the recovery of the patient, they make the most exorbitant demands of his relations; but when the sick man dies, they are often compelled to fly, in order to escape the vengeance of the survivors, who generally attribute the fatal termination to the evil influence of the practitioner. {223} _July 4th._--This morning was ushered in by the firing of cannon on board our brig, and we had made preparations for spending the day in festivity, when, at about 9 o'clock, a letter was received from Mr. Walker, who has charge of the fort on Wappatoo island, stating that the tailor, Thornburg, had been killed this morning by Hubbard, the gunsmith, and requesting our presence immediately, to investigate the case, and direct him how to act. Our boat was manned without loss of time, and Captain L. and myself repaired to the fort, where we found every thing in confusion. Poor Thornburg, whom I had seen but two days previously, full of health and vigor, was now a lifeless corpse; and Hubbard, who was more to be pitied, was walking up and down the beach, with a countenance pale and haggard, from the feelings at war within. We held an inquest over the body, and examined all the men of the fort severally, for the purpose of eliciting the facts of the case, and, if warranted by the evidence, to exculpate Hubbard from blame in the commission of the act. It appeared that, several weeks since, a dispute arose between Hubbard and Thornburg, and the latter menaced the life of the former, and had since been frequently heard to declare that he would carry the threat into effect on the first favorable opportunity. This morning, before daylight, he entered the apartment of Hubbard, armed with a loaded gun, and a large knife, and after making the most deliberate preparations for an instant departure from the room, as soon as the deed should be committed, cocked his gun, and prepared to shoot at his victim. Hubbard, who was awakened by the noise of Thornburg's entrance, and was therefore on the alert, waited quietly until this crisis, when cocking his pistol, without noise, he took deliberate aim at the assassin, and fired. Thornburg staggered back, his gun fell from his grasp, and the two combatants struggled hand to hand. The tailor, being wounded, {224} was easily overcome, and was thrown violently out of the house, when he fell to the ground, and died in a few minutes. Upon examining the body, we found that the two balls from the pistol had entered the arm below the shoulder, and escaping the bone, had passed into the cavity of the chest. The verdict of the jury was "justifiable homicide," and a properly attested certificate, containing a full account of the proceedings, was given to Hubbard, as well for his satisfaction, as to prevent future difficulty, if the subject should ever be investigated by a judicial tribunal. This Thornburg was an unusually bold and determined man, fruitful in inventing mischief, as he was reckless and daring in its prosecution. His appetite for ardent spirits was of the most inordinate kind. During the journey across the country, I constantly carried a large two-gallon bottle of whiskey, in which I deposited various kinds of lizards and serpents and when we arrived at the Columbia the vessel was almost full of these crawling creatures. I left the bottle on board the brig when I paid my first visit to the Wallammet falls, and on my return found that Thornburg had decanted the liquor from the precious reptiles which I had destined for immortality, and he and one of his pot companions had been "happy" upon it for a whole day. This appeared to me almost as bad as the "tapping of the Admiral," practised with such success by the British seamen; but unlike their commander, I did not discover the theft until too late to save my specimens, which were in consequence all destroyed. _11th._--Mr. Nuttall, who has just returned from the dalles, where he has been spending some weeks, brings distressing intelligence from above. It really seems that the "Columbia River Fishing and Trading Company" is devoted to destruction; disasters meet them at every turn, and as yet none of their schemes have prospered. This has not been for want of energy or exertion. Captain W. has pursued the plans which seemed {225} to him best adapted for insuring success, with the most indefatigable perseverance and industry, and has endured hardships without murmuring, which would have prostrated many a more robust man; nevertheless, he has not succeeded in making the business of fishing and trapping productive, and as we cannot divine the cause, we must attribute it to the Providence that rules the destinies of men and controls all human enterprises. Two evenings since, eight Sandwich Islanders, a white man and an Indian woman, left the cascades in a large canoe laden with salmon, for the brig. The river was as usual rough and tempestuous, the wind blew a heavy gale, the canoe was capsized, and eight out of the ten sank to rise no more. The two who escaped, islanders, have taken refuge among the Indians at the village below, and will probably join us in a few days. Intelligence has also been received of the murder of one of Wyeth's principal trappers, named Abbot, and another white man who accompanied him, by the Banneck Indians. The two men were on their way to the Columbia with a large load of beaver, and had stopped at the lodge of the Banneck chief, by whom they had been hospitably entertained. After they left, the chief, with several of his young men, concealed themselves in a thicket, near which the unsuspicious trappers passed, and shot and scalped them both. These Indians have been heretofore harmless, and have always appeared to wish to cultivate the friendship of the white people. The only reason that can be conceived for this change in their sentiments, is that some of their number may lately have received injury from the white traders, and, with true Indian animosity, they determined to wreak their vengeance upon the whole race. Thus it is always unsafe to travel among Indians, as no one {226} knows at what moment a tribe which has always been friendly, may receive ill treatment from thoughtless, or evil-designing men, and the innocent suffer for the deeds of the guilty. _August 19th._--This morning, Captain Thing (Wyeth's partner) arrived from the interior. Poor man! he looks very much worn by fatigue and hardships, and seven years older than when I last saw him. He passed through the Snake country from Fort Hall, without knowing of the hostile disposition of the Bannecks, but, luckily for him, only met small parties of them, who feared to attack his camp. He remarked symptoms of distrust and coolness in their manner, for which he was, at the time, unable to account. As I have yet been only an hour in his company, and as a large portion of this time was consumed in his business affairs, I have not been able to obtain a very particular account of his meeting and skirmish with the Blackfeet last spring, a rumor of which we heard several weeks since. From what I have been enabled to gather, amid the hurry and bustle consequent upon his arrival, the circumstances appear to be briefly these. He had made a camp on Salmon river, and, as usual, piled up his goods in front of it, and put his horses in a pen erected temporarily for the purpose, when, at about daybreak, one of his sentries heard a gun discharged near. He went immediately to Captain T.'s tent to inform him of it, and at that instant a yell sounded from an adjacent thicket, and about five hundred Indians,--three hundred horse and two hundred foot,--rushed out into the open space in front. The mounted savages were dashing to and fro across the line of the camp, discharging their pieces with frightful rapidity, while those who had not horses, crawled around to take them in the rear. Notwithstanding the galling fire which the Indians were constantly pouring into them, Captain T. succeeded in driving his horses into the thicket behind, and securing them there, placing over them a guard of three men as a check to the savages who {227} were approaching from that quarter. He then threw himself with the remainder of his little band, behind the bales of goods, and returned the fire of the enemy. He states that occasionally he was gratified by the sight of an Indian tumbling from his horse, and at such times a dismal, savage yell was uttered by the rest, who then always fell back a little, but returned immediately to the charge with more than their former fury. At length the Indians, apparently wearied by their unsuccessful attempts to dislodge the white men, changed their mode of attack, and rode upon the slight fortification, rapidly and steadily. Although they lost a man or two by this (for them) unusually bold proceeding, yet they succeeded in driving the brave little band of whites to the cover of the bushes. They then took possession of the goods, &c., which had been used as a defence, and retired to a considerable distance, where they were soon joined by their comrades on foot, who had utterly failed in their attempt to obtain the horses. In a short time, a man was seen advancing from the main body of Indians towards the scene of combat, holding up his hand as a sign of amity, and an intimation of the suspension of hostilities, and requested a "talk" with the white people. Captain T., with difficulty repressing his inclination to shoot the savage herald down, was induced, in consideration of the safety of his party, to dispatch an interpreter towards him. The only information that the Blackfeet wished to communicate was, that having obtained all the goods of the white people, they were now willing that they should continue their journey in peace, and that they should not again be molested. The Indians then departed, and the white men struck back on their trail, towards Fort Hall. Captain Thing lost every thing he had with him, all his clothing, papers, journals, &c. But he should probably be thankful that he escaped with his life, for {228} it is known to be very unusual for these hostile Indians to spare the lives of white men, when in their power, the acquisition of property being generally with them only a secondary consideration. Captain T. had two men severely, but not mortally, wounded. The Indians had seven killed, and a considerable number wounded. _20th._--Several days since a poor man came here in a most deplorable condition, having been gashed, stabbed, and bruised in a manner truly frightful. He had been travelling on foot constantly for fifteen days, exposed to the broiling sun, with nothing to eat during the whole of this time, except the very few roots which he had been able to find. He was immediately put in the hospital here, and furnished with every thing necessary for his comfort, as well as surgical attendance. He states that he left Monterey, in California, in the spring, in company with seven men, for the purpose of coming to the Wallammet to join Mr. Young, an American, who is now settled in that country.[172] They met with no accident until they arrived at a village of _Potámeos_ Indians,[173] about ten days journey south of this. Not knowing the character of these Indians, they were not on their guard, allowing them to enter their camp, and finally to obtain possession of their weapons.[174] The Indians then fell upon the defenceless little band with their tomahawks and knives, (having no fire arms themselves, and not knowing the use of those they had taken,) and, ere the white men had recovered from the panic which the sudden and unexpected attack occasioned, killed four of them. The remaining four fought with their knives as long as they were able, but were finally overpowered, and this poor fellow left upon the ground, covered with wounds, and in a state {229} of insensibility. How long he remained in this situation, he has no means of ascertaining; but upon recovering, the place was vacated by all the actors in the bloody scene, except his three dead companions, who were lying stark and stiff where they fell. By considerable exertion, he was enabled to drag himself into a thicket near, for the purpose of concealment, as he rightly conjectured that their captors would soon return to secure the trophies of their treacherous victory, and bury the corpses. This happened almost immediately after; the scalps were torn from the heads of the slain, and the mangled bodies removed for interment. After the most dreadful and excruciating sufferings, as we can well believe, the poor man arrived here, and is doing well under the excellent and skilful care of Doctor Gairdner.[175] I examined most of his wounds yesterday. He is literally covered with them, but one upon the lower part of his face is the most frightful. It was made by a single blow of a tomahawk, the point of which entered the upper lip, just below the nose, cutting entirely through both the upper and lower jaws and chin, and passing deep into the side of the neck, narrowly missing the large jugular vein. He says he perfectly recollects receiving this wound. It was inflicted by a powerful savage, who at the same time tripped him with his foot, accelerating his fall. He also remembers distinctly feeling the Indian's long knife pass five separate times into his body; of what occurred after this he knows nothing. This is certainly by far the most horrible looking wound I ever saw, rendered so, however, by injudicious treatment and entire want of care in the proper apposition of the sundered parts; he simply bound it up as well as he could with his handkerchief, and his extreme anguish caused him to forget the necessity of accuracy in this respect. The consequence is, that the lower part of his face is dreadfully contorted, one side being considerably lower than the other. A union by the {230} first intention has been formed, and the ill-arranged parts are uniting. [172] This was a party arranged by John Turner, who had previously visited Oregon with Jedidiah S. Smith. For Ewing Young, see our volume xx, p. 23, note 2. The wounded man was Dr. William J. Bailey, an Englishman who, after being educated for a physician, enlisted as a sailor, and after much roving had been a year or two in California. On recovering from his wounds, he settled in Willamette valley, married Margaret Smith, a mission teacher, and had a large farm and an important practice. Bailey became a man of note in early Oregon history, was a member of the executive committee of the provisional government in 1844, and died at Champoeg in 1876.--ED. [173] Called by the inhabitants of this country, the "_rascally Indians_," from their uniformly evil disposition, and hostility to white people.--TOWNSEND. [174] The Loloten or Tototen tribe of Klamath Indians. From their hostile and thievish disposition, their habitat was styled Rogue River, and they are usually spoken of as Rogue River Indians. The river is in southwestern Oregon, and the tribe related to those of northern California. Trouble arose between this tribe and the miners, lasting from 1850 to 1854, in which several battles were fought. There were in 1903 but fifty-two survivors, on Grande Ronde Reservation, in western Oregon.--ED. [175] Dr. Gairdner was a young English physician and scientist who had studied with Ehrenberg, in Germany, and Sir William Hooker, in Scotland. Under the patronage of the latter he had come as physician to Fort Vancouver. He died in Hawaii, whither he had gone for his health. His name is perpetuated in that of one of the Columbia salmon.--ED. This case has produced considerable excitement in our little circle. The Potámeos have more than once been guilty of acts of this kind, and some of the gentlemen of the fort have proposed fitting out an expedition to destroy the whole nation, but this scheme will probably not be carried into effect. {231} CHAPTER XIV Indians of the Columbia--their melancholy condition--Departure of Mr. Nuttall and Dr. Gairdner--A new vocation--Arrival of the Rev. Samuel Parker--his object--Departure of the American brig--Swans--Indian mode of taking them--A large wolf--An Indian mummy--A night adventure--A discovery, and restoration of stolen property--Fraternal tenderness of an Indian--Indian vengeance--Death of Waskéma, the Indian girl--"Busybody," the little chief--A village of Kowalitsk Indians--Ceremony of "making medicine"--Exposure of an impostor--Success of legitimate medicines--Departure from Fort Vancouver for a visit to the interior--Arrival of a stranger--"Cape Horn"--Tilki, the Indian chief--Indian villages--Arrival at Fort Walla-walla--Sharp-tailed grouse--Commencement of a journey to the Blue mountains. The Indians of the Columbia were once a numerous and powerful people; the shore of the river, for scores of miles, was lined with their villages; the council fire was frequently lighted, the pipe passed round, and the destinies of the nation deliberated upon. War was declared against neighboring tribes; the deadly tomahawk was lifted, and not buried until it was red with the blood of the savage; the bounding deer was hunted, killed, and his antlers ornamented the wigwam of the red man; the scalps of his enemies hung drying in the smoke of his lodge, and the Indian was happy. Now, alas! where is he?--gone;--gathered to his fathers and to his happy hunting grounds; his place knows him no more. The spot where once stood the thickly peopled village, the smoke curling and wreathing above the closely packed lodges, the lively children playing in the front, and their indolent {232} parents lounging on their mats, is now only indicated by a heap of undistinguishable ruins. The depopulation here has been truly fearful. A gentleman told me, that only four years ago, as he wandered near what had formerly been a thickly peopled village, he counted no less than sixteen dead, men and women, lying unburied and festering in the sun in front of their habitations. Within the houses all were sick; not one had escaped the contagion; upwards of a hundred individuals, men, women, and children, were writhing in agony on the floors of the houses, with no one to render them any assistance. Some were in the dying struggle, and clenching with the convulsive grasp of death their disease-worn companions, shrieked and howled in the last sharp agony. Probably there does not now exist one, where, five years ago, there were a hundred Indians; and in sailing up the river, from the cape to the cascades, the only evidence of the existence of the Indian, is an occasional miserable wigwam, with a few wretched, half-starved occupants. In some other places they are rather more numerous; but the thoughtful observer cannot avoid perceiving that in a very few years the race must, in the nature of things, become extinct; and the time is probably not far distant, when the little trinkets and toys of this people will be picked up by the curious, and valued as mementoes of a nation passed away for ever from the face of the earth. The aspect of things is very melancholy. It seems as if the fiat of the Creator had gone forth, that these poor denizens of the forest and the stream should go hence, and be seen of men no more.[176] [176] When Lewis and Clark visited the Columbia (1805-06), they noted signs of a declining population, and thought it due to an epidemic of small-pox that a few years before had decimated the native population. In 1829, shortly after the ground had been broken for a farm at Fort Vancouver, a form of intermittent fever broke out among both white men and Indians. To the latter it proved deadly, and for three years raged without abatement. This epidemic had occasioned the desolation noted by Townsend.--ED. In former years, when the Indians were numerous, long after the establishment of this fort, it was not safe for the white men attached to it to venture beyond the protection of its guns without being fully armed. Such was the jealousy of the natives towards them, that various deep laid schemes were practised to obtain possession of the post, and massacre all whom it had harbored; {233} now, however, they are as submissive as children. Some have even entered into the services of the whites, and when once the natural and persevering indolence of the man is worn off, he will work well and make himself useful. About two hundred miles southward, the Indians are said to be in a much more flourishing condition, and their hostility to the white people to be most deadly. They believe that we brought with us the fatal fever which has ravaged this portion of the country, and the consequence is, that they kill without mercy every white man who trusts himself amongst them. _October 1st._--Doctor Gairdner, the surgeon of Fort Vancouver, took passage a few days ago to the Sandwich Islands, in one of the Company's vessels. He has been suffering for several months, with a pulmonary affection, and is anxious to escape to a milder and more salubrious climate. In his absence, the charge of the hospital will devolve on me, and my time will thus be employed through the coming winter. There are at present but few cases of sickness, mostly ague and fever, so prevalent at this season. My companion, Mr. Nuttall, was also a passenger in the same vessel. From the islands, he will probably visit California, and either return to the Columbia by the next ship, and take the route across the mountains, or double Cape Horn to reach his home. _16th._--Several days since, the Rev. Samuel Parker, of Ithaca, N. York, arrived at the fort. He left his home last May, travelled to the rendezvous on the Colorado, with the fur company of Mr. Fontinelle, and performed the remainder of the journey with the Nez Percé or Cheaptin Indians. His object is to examine the country in respect to its agricultural and other facilities, with a view to the establishment of missions among the Indians.[177] He will probably return to the States next spring, and report the {234} result of his observations to the board of commissioners, by whose advice his pioneer journey has been undertaken.[178] [177] Reverend Samuel Parker was born in New Hampshire (1779); educated at Williams and Andover, he settled at Ithaca, where he died in 1866. At the meeting of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (1834), the subject of an Oregon mission was discussed and Parker appointed to make investigations. Arriving at St. Louis too late for the annual brigade, he returned home, only to come out the succeeding year in company with Marcus Whitman. At the Green River rendezvous, Whitman went back for reinforcements, but Parker pushed on, with Nez Percés as his sole companions, as far as Fort Walla Walla, where he arrived October 6, 1835. He remained in Oregon until June, 1836, then embarked for Hawaii, reaching home in May, 1837.--ED. [178] Mr. Parker has since published an account of this tour, to which the reader is referred, for much valuable information, relative to the condition of the Indians on our western frontier.--TOWNSEND. _Comment by Ed. The Journal of an Exploring Tour beyond the Rocky Mountains_ (Ithaca, 1838). Five American editions and one English appeared. The popularity of the work was considerable, and it spread information concerning the Oregon country. On the 17th, I embarked with this gentleman in a canoe, for a visit to the lower part of the river. We arrived at the American brig in the afternoon, on board of which we quartered for the night, and the next morning early, the vessel cast off from the shore. She has her cargo of furs and salmon on board, and is bound to Boston, via the Sandwich and Society Islands. Mr. Parker took passage in her to Fort George, and in the afternoon I returned in my canoe to Vancouver.[179] [179] This was Wyeth's vessel, the "May Dacre."--ED. _December 1st._--The weather is now unusually fine. Instead of the drenching rains which generally prevail during the winter months, it has been for some weeks clear and cool, the thermometer ranging from 35° to 45°. The ducks and geese, which have swarmed throughout the country during the latter part of the autumn, are leaving us, and the swans are arriving in great numbers. These are here, as in all other places, very shy; it is difficult to approach them without cover; but the Indians have adopted a mode of killing them which is very successful; that of drifting upon the flocks at night, in a canoe, in the bow of which a large fire of pitch pine has been kindled. The swans are dazzled, and apparently stupefied by the bright light, and fall easy victims to the craft of the sportsman. _20th._--Yesterday one of the Canadians took an enormous wolf in a beaver-trap. It is probably a distinct species from the common one, (_lupus_,) much larger and stronger, and of a yellowish cinereous color.[180] The man states that he found considerable difficulty in capturing him, even after the trap had been fastened on {235} his foot. Unlike the lupus, (which is cowardly and cringing when made prisoner,) he showed fight, and seizing the pole in his teeth, with which the man attempted to despatch him, with one backward jerk, threw his assailant to the ground, and darted at him, until checked by the trap chain. He was finally shot, and I obtained his skin, which I have preserved. [180] Probably an individual of what Lewis and Clark call the large brown wolf of the wooded regions of the Columbia (_canis lupus occidentalis_).--ED. I have just had a visit from an old and intelligent Indian chief, who lives near. It is now almost midnight, but for the last hour I have heard the old man wandering about like an unquiet spirit, in the neighborhood of my little mansion, and singing snatches of the wild, but sweetly musical songs of his tribe. It is a bitter night, and supposing the old man might be cold, I invited him to a seat by my comfortable fire. He says, "eighty snows have chilled the earth since _Maniquon_ was born." Maniquon has been a great warrior; he has himself taken twenty scalps between the rising and setting of the sun. Like most old people, he is garrulous, and, like all Indians, fond of boasting of his warlike deeds. I can sit for hours and hear old Maniquon relate the particulars of his numerous campaigns, his ambushes, and his "scrimmages," as old Hawk-eye would say. When he once gets into the spirit of it, he springs upon his feet, his old, sunken eyes sparkle like diamonds set in bronze, and he whirls his shrunken and naked arm around his head, as though it still held the deadly tomahawk. But in the midst of his excitement, seeming suddenly to recollect his fallen state, he sinks into his chair. "Maniquon is not a warrior now--he will never raise his axe again--his young men have deserted his lodge--his sons will go down to their graves, and the squaws will not sing of their great deeds." I have several times heard him speak the substance of these words in his own language, and in one instance he concluded thus: {236} "And who made my people what they are?" This question was put in a low voice, almost a whisper, and was accompanied by a look so savage and malignant, that I almost quailed before the imbecile old creature. I, however, answered quickly, without giving him time to reply to his own question. "The Great Spirit, Maniquon," pointing with my finger impressively upwards. "Yes, yes--it _was_ the Great Spirit; it was not the _white man_!" I could have been almost angry with the old Indian for the look of deadly hostility with which he uttered these last words, but that I sympathized with his wounded pride, and pitied his sorrows too much to harbor any other feeling than commiseration for his manifold wrongs. _February 3d, 1836._--During a visit to Fort William, last week, I saw, as I wandered through the forest, about three miles from the house, a canoe, deposited, as is usual, in the branches of a tree, some fourteen feet from the ground. Knowing that it contained the body of an Indian, I ascended to it for the purpose of abstracting the skull; but upon examination, what was my surprise to find a perfect, embalmed body of a young female, in a state of preservation equal to any which I had seen from the catacombs of Thebes. I determined to obtain possession of it, but as this was not the proper time to carry it away, I returned to the fort, and said nothing of the discovery which I had made. That night, at the witching hour of twelve, I furnished myself with a rope, and launched a small canoe, which I paddled up against the current to a point opposite the mummy tree. Here I ran my canoe ashore, and removing my shoes and stockings, proceeded to the tree, which was about a hundred yards from the river. I ascended, and making the rope fast around the body, lowered it gently to the ground; then arranging the fabric which had been displaced, as neatly as the darkness allowed, I descended, and taking the body upon my shoulders, bore it to my {237} canoe, and pushed off into the stream. On arriving at the fort, I deposited my prize in the store house, and sewed around it a large Indian mat, to give it the appearance of a bale of guns. Being on a visit to the fort, with Indians whom I had engaged to paddle my canoe, I thought it unsafe to take the mummy on board when I returned to Vancouver the next day, but left directions with Mr. Walker to stow it away under the hatches of a little schooner, which was running twice a week between the two forts. On the arrival of this vessel, several days after, I received, instead of the body, a note from Mr. Walker, stating that an Indian had called at the fort, and demanded the corpse. He was the brother of the deceased, and had been in the habit of visiting the tomb of his sister every year. He had now come for that purpose, from his residence near the "_tum-water_," (cascades,) and his keen eye had detected the intrusion of a stranger on the spot hallowed to him by many successive pilgrimages. The canoe of his sister was tenantless, and he knew the spoiler to have been a white man, by the tracks upon the beach, which did not incline inward like those of an Indian. The case was so clearly made out, that Mr. W. could not deny the fact of the body being in the house, and it was accordingly delivered to him, with a present of several blankets, to prevent the circumstance from operating upon his mind to the prejudice of the white people. The poor Indian took the body of his sister upon his shoulders, and as he walked away, grief got the better of his stoicism, and the sound of his weeping was heard long after he had entered the forest. _25th._--Several weeks ago the only son of Ke-ez-a-no, the principal chief of the Chinooks, died.[181] The father was almost distracted with grief, and during the first paroxysm attempted to take the life of the boy's mother, supposing that she had exerted an evil influence over him which had caused his death. She {238} was compelled to fly in consequence, and put herself under the protection of Dr. McLoughlin, who found means to send her to her people below. Disappointed in this scheme of vengeance, the chief determined to sacrifice all whom he thought had ever wronged his son, or treated him with indignity; and the first victim whom he selected was a very pretty and accomplished Chinook girl, named Waskéma, who was remarkable for the exceeding beauty of her long black hair. Waskéma had been solicited by the boy in marriage, but had refused him, and the matter had been long forgotten, until it was revived in the recollection of the father by the death of his son. Ke-ez-a-no despatched two of his slaves to Fort William, (where the girl was at that time engaged in making moccasins for Mr. W. and where I had seen her a short time previously,) who hid themselves in the neighborhood until the poor creature had embarked in her canoe alone to return to her people, when they suddenly rushed upon her from the forest which skirted the river, and shot two balls through her bosom. The body was then thrown into the water, and the canoe broken to pieces on the beach. [181] This appears to be the chief mentioned by Franchère in our volume vi, p. 246, and by Ross in our volume vii, p. 118.--ED. Tapeo the brother of Waskéma delivered to me a letter from Mr. W. detailing these circumstances, and amid an abundance of tears which he shed for the loss of his only and beloved sister, he denounced the heaviest vengeance upon her murderer. These threats, however, I did not regard, as I knew the man would never dare to raise his hand against his chief, but as expression relieves the overcharged heart, I did not check his bursts of grief and indignation. A few days after this, Ke-ez-a-no himself stalked into my room. After sitting a short time in silence, he asked if I believed him guilty of the murder of Waskéma. I replied that I did, and that if the deed had been committed in my country, he would be hanged. He denied all agency in the matter, and placing one hand upon his bosom, and pointing upwards with the other, called {239} God to witness that he was innocent. For the moment I almost believed his asseverations; but calling to mind the strong and undeniable evidence against him, with a feeling of horror and repugnance, I opened the door and bowed him out of the house. _March 1st._--There is an amusing little Indian living in this neighborhood, who calls himself, "_tanas tie_," (little chief,) and he is so probably in every sense of the term. In person, he stands about four feet six, in his moccasins; but no exquisite in the fashionable world, no tinselled dandy in high life, can strut and stamp, and fume with more dignity and self consequence. His name, he says, is Quâlaskin; but in the fort, he is known by the cognomen of "_busy body_," from his restless anxiety to pry into every body's business, and his curiosity to know the English name of every article he sees; _ikata ookook?_--_ikata ookook?_ (what is this?--what is this?) _kahtah pasiooks yahhalle?_ (what is its English name?) are expressions which he is dinning in your ears, whenever he enters a room in the fort. If you answer him, he attempts the pronunciation after you, and it is often not a little ludicrous. He is evidently proud of the name the white people have given him, not understanding its import, but supposing it to be a title of great honor and dignity. If he is asked his Indian name, he answers very modestly, Quâlaskin, (muddy river,) but if his _pasiooks yahhalle_ is required, he puffs up his little person to its utmost dimensions, and tells you with a simper of pride and self complacency, that it is "_mizzy moddy_." _16th._--Doctor W. F. Tolmie, one of the surgeons of the Hudson's Bay Company, has just arrived from Fort Langley, on the coast, and has relieved me of the charge of the hospital, which will afford me the opportunity of peregrinating again in pursuit of specimens.[182] The spring is just opening, the birds are arriving, the plants are starting from the ground, and in a few weeks, the wide prairies of the Columbia will appear like the richest flower gardens. [182] Dr. William Fraser Tolmie was born in Inverness, educated at Glasgow, and joined (1832) the Hudson's Bay Company as a physician. The following spring he arrived at Vancouver by way of Cape Horn, and was sent north to the Puget Sound region with a party engaged in planting a new post. There he remained until the return noted by Townsend. He lived at Fort Vancouver and vicinity until 1841. A visit to England (1841-43) was made in the interest of the Puget Sound Agricultural Company, of which Tolmie was superintendent at Fort Nisqually (1843-59). Upon the final cession of all the territory to the United States Dr. Tolmie removed to Victoria, British Columbia, where he was still living in 1878. Fort Langley was founded in 1827 upon the left bank of the Fraser River, about thirty miles above its mouth.--ED. {240} _May 13th._--Two days ago I left the fort, and am now encamped on a plain below Warrior's point. Near me are several large lodges of Kowalitsk Indians;[183] in all probably one hundred persons. As usual, they give me some trouble by coming around and lolling about my tent, and importuning me for the various little articles that they see. My camp-keeper, however, (a Klikatat,) is an excellent fellow, and has no great love for Kowalitsk Indians, so that the moment he sees them becoming troublesome, he clears the coast, _sans ceremonie_. There is in one of the lodges a very pretty little girl, sick with intermittent fever; and to-day the "medicine man" has been exercising his functions upon the poor little patient; pressing upon its stomach with his brawny hands until it shrieked with the pain, singing and muttering his incantations, whispering in its ears, and exhorting the evil spirit to pass out by the door, &c. These exhibitions would be laughable did they not involve such serious consequences, and for myself I always feel so much indignation against the unfeeling impostor who operates, and pity for the deluded creatures who submit to it, that any emotions but those of risibility are excited. [183] For the habitat of this tribe, see Franchère's _Narrative_, in our volume vi, p. 245, note 49.--ED. I had a serious conversation with the father of this child, in which I attempted to prove to him, and to some twenty or thirty Indians who were squatted about the ground near, that the "medicine man" was a vile impostor, that he was a fool and a liar, and that his manipulations were calculated to increase the sufferings of the patient instead of relieving them. They all listened in silence, and with great attention to my remarks, and the wily conjurer himself had the full benefit of them: he stood by during the whole time, assuming an expression of callous indifference which not even my warmest vituperations could affect. Finally I offered to exhibit the strongest proof of the truth of what I had been saying, by pledging myself to cure the child in three days, provided the "medicine man" was dismissed without delay. This, the father told me, required some consideration {241} and consultation with his people, and I immediately left the lodge and took the way to my camp, to allow them an opportunity of discussing the matter alone. Early next morning the Indian visited me, with the information that the "medicine man" had departed, and he was now anxious that I should make trial of my skill. I immediately administered to the child an active cathartic, followed by sulphate of quinine, which checked the disease, and in two days the patient was perfectly restored. In consequence of my success in this case, I had an application to administer medicine to two other children similarly affected. My stock of quinine being exhausted, I determined to substitute an extract of the bark of the dogwood, (_Cornus Nuttalli_,) and taking one of the parents into the wood with his blanket, I soon chipped off a plentiful supply, returned, boiled it in his own kettle, and completed the preparation in his lodge, with most of the Indians standing by, and staring at me, to comprehend the process. This was exactly what I wished; and as I proceeded, I took some pains to explain the whole matter to them, in order that they might at a future time be enabled to make use of a really valuable medicine, which grows abundantly every where throughout the country. I have often thought it strange that the sagacity of the Indians should not long ago have made them acquainted with this remedy; and I believe, if they had used it, they would not have had to mourn the loss of hundreds, or even thousands of their people who have been swept away by the demon of ague and fever. I administered to each of the children about a scruple of the extract per day. The second day they escaped the paroxysm, and on the third were entirely well. _June 26th._--I left Vancouver yesterday, with the summer brigade, for a visit to Walla-walla, and its vicinity. The gentlemen {242} of the party are, Peter Ogden, Esq., chief factor, bound to New Caledonia, Archibald McDonald, Esq., for Colville, and Samuel Black, Esq., for Thompson's river, and the brigade consists of sixty men, with nine boats.[184] [184] Archibald McDonald was a Hudson's Bay officer who had been in charge of forts in the Thompson River district (1822-26), when he became chief factor for Kamloops. In 1828 he was chosen to accompany Sir George Simpson in a transmontane tour, and his diary thereof was published as _Peace River: A Canoe Voyage from Hudson Bay to the Pacific_ (Ottawa, 1872). On this expedition he was left in charge of the newly-built Fort Langley, where he remained about eight years, constructing Fort Nisqually on Puget Sound (1833). In 1836 he was appointed to Fort Colville, where he remained for many years. This post was on the upper Columbia, not far from Kettle Falls, in the present state of Washington; built in 1825, it was maintained by the Hudson's Bay Company until the discovery of gold in that region (1858), whereupon the stockade was removed across the border into British Columbia, to avoid United States customs duties. Samuel Black had been a North West Company trader; but later was placed in charge of Hudson's Bay posts at Fort Dunveyan (1823) and at Walla Walla (1828). He commanded at Fort Kamloops (see our volume vii, p. 199, note 64), on Thompson's River for some years, before his murder (1841) by a neighboring native.--ED. _27th._--We arrived yesterday at the upper cascades, and made in the course of the day three portages. As is usual in this place, it rained almost constantly, and the poor men engaged in carrying the goods, were completely drenched. A considerable number of Indians are employed here in fishing, and they supply us with an abundance of salmon. Among them I recognise many of my old friends from below. _29th._--This morning the Indian wife of one of the men gave birth to a little girl. The tent in which she was lying was within a few feet of the one which I occupied, and we had no intimation of the matter being in progress until we heard the crying of the infant. It is truly astonishing with what ease the parturition of these women is performed; they generally require no assistance in delivery, being fully competent to manage the whole paraphernalia themselves. In about half an hour after this event we got under way, and the woman walked to the boat, carrying her new born infant on her back, embarked, laughed, and talked as usual, and appeared in every respect as well as if nothing had happened. This woman is a most noble specimen of bone and muscle, and so masculine in appearance, that were she to cast the petticoat, and don the breeches, the cheat would never be discovered, and but few of the _lords of the creation_ would be willing to face the Amazon. She is particularly useful to her husband. As he is becoming rather infirm, she can protect him most admirably. If he wishes to cross a stream in travelling without horses or boats, she plunges in without hesitation, takes him upon her back, and lands him safely and expeditiously upon the opposite bank. She can also kill and dress an elk, run down and shoot a buffalo, {243} or spear a salmon for her husband's breakfast in the morning, as well as any man-servant he could employ. Added to all this, she has, in several instances, saved his life in skirmishes with Indians, at the imminent risk of her own, so that he has some reason to be proud of her. In the afternoon, we passed the bold, basaltic point, known to the _voyageurs_ by the name of "Cape Horn."[185] The wind here blew a perfect hurricane, and but for the consummate skill of those who managed our boats, we must have had no little difficulty. [185] Cape Horn is a high basaltic cliff towering two thousand five hundred feet above the river bank, not far above Vancouver, in Skamania County, Washington. It was so named because boats were frequently wind-bound in passing this point.--ED. _30th._--We were engaged almost the whole of this day in making portages, and I had, in consequence, some opportunity of prosecuting my researches on the land. We have now passed the range of vegetation; there are no trees or even shrubs; nothing but huge, jagged rocks of basalt, and interminable sand heaps. I found here a large and beautiful species of marmot, (the _Arctomys Richardsonii_,) several of which I shot. Encamped in the evening at the village of the Indian chief, _Tilki_. I had often heard of this man, but I now saw him for the first time. His person is rather below the middle size, but his features are good, with a Roman cast, and his eye is deep black, and unusually fine. He appears to be remarkably intelligent, and half a century before the generality of his people in civilization. _July 3d._--This morning we came to the open prairies, covered with wormwood bushes. The appearance, and strong odor of these, forcibly remind me of my journey across the mountains, when we frequently saw no vegetation for weeks, except this dry and barren looking shrub. The Indians here are numerous, and are now engaged in catching salmon, lamprey eels, &c. They take thousands of the latter, and they are seen hanging in great numbers in their lodges to dry in the smoke. As soon as the Indians see us approach, they leave their wigwams, and run out towards us, {244} frequently wading to their breasts in the water, to get near the boats. Their constant cry is _pi-pi, pi-pi_, (tobacco, tobacco,) and they bring a great variety of matters to trade for this desirable article; fish, living birds of various kinds, young wolves, foxes, minks, &c. On the evening of the 6th, we arrived at Walla-walla or Nez Percés fort, where I was kindly received by Mr. Pambrun, the superintendent. The next day the brigade left us for the interior, and I shouldered my gun for an excursion through the neighborhood. On the west side of the little Walla-walla river, I saw, during a walk of two miles, at least thirty rattlesnakes, and killed five that would not get out of my way. They all seemed willing to dispute the ground with me, shaking their rattles, coiling and darting at me with great fury. I returned to the fort in the afternoon with twenty-two sharp-tailed grouse, (_Tetrao phasianellus_,) the product of my day's shooting. _25th._--I mounted my horse this morning for a journey to the Blue mountains. I am accompanied by a young half breed named Baptiste Dorion,[186] who acts as guide, groom, interpreter, &c., and I have a pack horse to carry my little _nick-nackeries_. We shaped our course about N. E. over the sandy prairie, and in the evening encamped on the Morro river,[187] having made about thirty miles. On our way, we met two Walla-walla Indians driving down a large band of horses. They inform us that the Snakes have crossed the mountain to commence their annual thieving of horses, and they are taking them away to have them secure. I shall need to keep a good look out to my own small caravan, or I shall be under the necessity of turning pedestrian. [186] This is the son of old Pierre Dorion, who makes such a conspicuous figure in Irving's "Astoria."--TOWNSEND. _Comment by Ed._ Consult Bradbury's _Travels_ in our volume v, p. 38, note 7; also Ross's _Oregon Settlers_, our volume vii, pp. 265-269, wherein the murder of the elder Dorion and the escape of his wife and children are related. [187] The direction appears to be wrong, as a northeast course would be directly away from the Blue Mountains; moreover it would necessitate crossing Walla Walla River before reaching Umatilla. It should therefore, obviously, be read "S. E. over the sandy prairie." Morro River must be an upper affluent of Walla Walla (or Umatilla).--ED. {245} CHAPTER XV A village of Kayouse Indians--their occupation--appearance and dresses of the women--family worship--its good effects--Visit to the Blue mountains--Dusky grouse--Return to Walla-walla--Arrival of Mr. McLeod, and the missionaries--Letters from home--Death of Antoine Goddin, the trapper--A renegado white man--Assault by the Walla-walla Indians--Missionary duties--Passage down the Columbia--Rapids--A dog for supper--Prairies on fire--A nocturnal visit--Fishing Indians--Their romantic appearance--Salmon huts--The shoots--Dangerous navigation--Death of Tilki--Seals--Indian stoicism and contempt of pain--Skookoom, the strong chief--his death--Maiming, an evidence of grief--Arrival at Fort Vancouver--A visit to Fort George--Indian cemeteries--Lewis and Clarke's house--A medal--Visit to Chinook--Hospitality of the Indians--Chinamus' house--The idol--Canine inmates. _July 26th._--At noon, to-day, we arrived at the Utalla, or Emmitilly river, where we found a large village of Kayouse Indians, engaged in preparing kamas. Large quantities of this root were strewed about on mats and buffalo robes; some in a crude state, and a vast quantity pounded, to be made into cakes for winter store. There are of the Indians, about twelve or fifteen lodges. A very large one, about sixty feet long by fifteen broad, is occupied by the chief, and his immediate family. This man I saw when I arrived at Walla-walla, and I have accepted an invitation to make my home in his lodge while I remain here. The house is really a very comfortable one; the rays of the sun are completely excluded, and the ground is covered with buffalo robes. There are in the chief's lodge about twenty women, all busy as usual; some pounding kamas, others making {246} leathern dresses, moccasins, &c. Several of the younger of these are very good looking,--I might almost say handsome. Their heads are of the natural form,--not flattened and contorted in the horrible manner of the Chinooks;--their faces are inclining to oval, and their eyes have a peculiarly sleepy and languishing appearance. They seem as if naturally inclined to lasciviousness, but if this feeling exists, it is effectually checked by their self-enacted laws, which are very severe in this respect, and in every instance rigidly enforced. The dresses of the women, (unlike the Chinooks, they all _have_ dresses,) are of deer or antelope skin, more or less ornamented with beads and _hyquâs_.[188] It consists of one piece, but the part covering the bust, projects over the lower portion of the garment, and its edges are cut into strings, to which a quantity of blue beads are generally attached. [188] A long white shell, of the genus _Dentalium_, found on the coast.--TOWNSEND. In the evening all the Indians belonging to the village assembled in our lodge, and, with the chief for minister, performed divine service, or family worship. This, I learn, is their invariable practice twice every twenty-four hours, at sunrise in the morning, and after supper in the evening. When all the people had gathered, our large lodge was filled. On entering, every person squatted on the ground, and the _clerk_ (a sort of sub-chief) gave notice that the Deity would now be addressed. Immediately the whole audience rose to their knees, and the chief supplicated for about ten minutes in a very solemn, but low tone of voice, at the conclusion of which an amen was pronounced by the whole company, in a loud, swelling sort of groan. Three hymns were then sung, several of the individuals present leading in rotation, and at the conclusion of each, another amen. The chief then pronounced a short exhortation, occupying about fifteen minutes, which was repeated by the clerk at his elbow in a voice loud enough to be heard by the whole assembly. At the {247} conclusion of this, each person rose, and walked to one of the doors of the lodge, where, making a low inclination of his body, and pronouncing the words "_tots sekan_," (good night,) to the chief, he departed to his home. I shall hear this ceremony every night and morning while I remain, and so far from being irksome, it is agreeable to me. It is pleasant to see these poor degraded creatures performing a religious service; for to say nothing of the good influence which it will exert in improving their present condition, it will probably soften and harmonize their feelings, and render them fitter subjects for the properly qualified religious instruction which it is desirable they may some day receive. The next morning, my friend the chief furnished me with fresh horses, and I and my attendant, with two Indian guides, started for a trip to the mountain. We passed up one of the narrow valleys or gorges which here run at right angles from the alpine land, and as we ascended, the scenery became more and more wild, and the ground rough and difficult of passage, but I had under me one of the finest horses I ever rode; he seemed perfectly acquainted with the country; I had but to give him his head, and not attempt to direct him, and he carried me triumphantly through every difficulty. Immediately as we reached the upper land, and the pine trees, we saw large flocks of the dusky grouse, (_Tetrao obscurus_,) a number of which we killed. Other birds were, however, very scarce. I am at least two months too late, and I cannot too much regret the circumstance. Here is a rich field for the ornithologist at the proper season. We returned to our lodge in the evening loaded with grouse, but with very few specimens to increase my collection. _29th._--Early this morning our Indians struck their lodges, and commenced making all their numerous movables into bales for packing on the horses. I admired the facility and despatch with which this was done; the women alone worked at it, the {248} men lolling around, smoking and talking, and not even once directing their fair partners in their task. The whole camp travelled with me to Walla-walla, where we arrived the next day. _Sept. 1st._--Mr. John M'Leod, a chief trader of the Hudson's Bay Company, arrived this morning from the rendezvous, with a small trading party.[189] I had been anxiously expecting this gentleman for several weeks, as I intended to return with him to Vancouver. He is accompanied by several Presbyterian missionaries, the Rev. Mr. Spalding and Doctor Whitman,[190] with their wives, and Mr. Gray, teacher.[191] Doctor Whitman presented me with a large pacquet of letters from my beloved friends at home. I need not speak of the emotions excited by their reception, nor of the trembling anxiety with which I tore open the envelope and devoured the contents. This is the first intelligence which I have received from them since I left the state of Missouri, and was as unexpected as it was delightful.[192] [189] John McLeod had for some years been with the Hudson's Bay Company. He was in charge at Kamloops from 1822 to 1826, and in the latter year built Norway House. In 1832 he founded, in conjunction with Michel La Framboise, Fort Umpqua, the only establishment of the company south of the Columbia. At the time Townsend met him he appears to have headed the Snake country brigade.--ED. [190] Henry H. Spalding was born in Bath County, New York, in 1803. He studied at Western Reserve, and afterwards at Lane Theological Seminary, which latter school he left to join Dr. Whitman (1836) in a mission to Oregon. Settled at Lapwai, in western Idaho, among the Nez Percés, he maintained the mission at that place until the Whitman massacre in 1847. Narrowly escaping therefrom, he accepted in 1850, at the solicitation of the missionary board, the position of United States Indian agent, and served also as commissioner of schools (1850-55). In 1862 he returned to Lapwai to re-commence mission work, and died among the Nez Percés in 1874. Dr. Marcus Whitman was born in Rushville, New York, in 1802. Graduating as a physician he was appointed to the Oregon mission in 1834, actually reaching his station in September, 1836, as Townsend narrates--see note 112, p. 335, _ante_. He established his mission at Waiilatpu among the Cayuse, and there labored until 1842, when news from the mission board, advising abandonment of his station, caused his return to the United States. This was the journey regarding which so much controversy has arisen. According to some writers, Whitman's object was to awaken the United States authorities to the necessity of occupying Oregon, and how "Marcus Whitman saved Oregon" to the United States has been much discussed. Recently exceptions have been taken to this view, and eminent historical scholars have minimized Whitman's national services. The first stage of the controversy began about 1883. See Myron Eells, _Marcus Whitman, M. D., Proofs of his work in Saving Oregon to the United States_ (Portland, 1883). Later Professor Edward G. Bourne took up the subject and presented a paper at the American Historical Association meeting of 1900 (published in _American Historical Review_, vii, pp. 276-300); this has been expanded into "The Legend of Marcus Whitman" in _Essays in Historical Criticism_ (New York, 1901). William I. Marshall of Chicago, discussed Professor Bourne's paper (see American Historical Association _Report_ for 1900, i, pp. 219-236) offering additional evidence. Marshall has since published _History vs. the Whitman Saved Oregon Story_ (Chicago, 1904). Myron Eells also issued _A Reply to Professor Bourne's "The Whitman Legend"_ (Walla Walla, 1902). William A. Mowry essays a defense in _Marcus Whitman and the early days of Oregon_ (New York, 1901) which contains a good bibliography. See also additional evidence in articles by William E. Griffis and others, contributed to the _Sunday School Times_, Philadelphia, August 9, November 1, 8, 15, 22, 29, December 3, 1902; January 10, 29, 1903. Whitman returned to his mission, and despite threatening aspects, remained at Waiilatpu until 1847, when suddenly in October the Cayuse arose and massacred most of the members of the mission, including both Dr. Whitman and his wife.--ED. [191] William H. Gray (born in Utica, New York, in 1810) joined Dr. Whitman as business manager and agent of the expedition. In 1837 he went East for reinforcements, and married Mary Augusta Dix, with whom he returned to Oregon in September, 1838. They labored at Lapwai and Waiilatpu until 1842, when Gray resigned and retired to the Willamette, where he was instrumental in establishing the provisional government. In 1849 Gray went to California during the gold excitement, but returned to Oregon, settling first at Clatsop Plains, and later in Astoria, where he died in 1889. His _History of Oregon_ (Portland, San Francisco, and New York, 1870) is a main source for the early decades.--ED. [192] See reference to this fact and to the meeting with Townsend, in Mrs. Whitman's "Journal," published in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_ (1891), pp. 57, 63.--ED. Mr. M'Leod informed me of the murder of Antoine Goddin, the half-breed trapper, by the Blackfeet Indians, at Fort Hall.--A band of these Indians appeared on the shore of the Portneuf river, opposite the fort, headed by a white man named Bird.--This man requested Goddin, whom he saw on the opposite side of the river, to cross to him with a canoe, as he had beaver which he wished to trade. The poor man accordingly embarked alone, and landing near the Indians, joined the circle which they had made, and _smoked the pipe of peace with them_. While Goddin was smoking in his turn, Bird gave a sign to the Indians, and a volley was fired into his back. While he was yet living, Bird himself tore the scalp from the poor fellow's head, and deliberately cut Captain Wyeth's initials, N. J. W. in large letters upon his forehead. He then hallooed to the fort people, telling them to bury the carcass if they wished, and immediately went off with his party. {249} This Bird was formerly attached to the Hudson's Bay Company, and was made prisoner by the Blackfeet, in a skirmish several years ago. He has since remained with them, and has become a great chief, and leader of their war parties. He is said to be a man of good education, and to possess the most unbounded influence over the savage people among whom he dwells. He was known to be a personal enemy of Goddin, whom he had sworn to destroy on the first opportunity. We also hear, that three of Captain Wyeth's men who lately visited us, had been assaulted on their way to Fort Hall, by a band of Walla-walla Indians, who, after beating them severely, took from them all their horses, traps, ammunition, and clothing. They were, however, finally induced to return them each a horse and gun, in order that they might proceed to the interior, to get fresh supplies. This was a matter of policy on the part of the Indians, for if the white men had been compelled to travel on foot, they would have come immediately here to procure fresh horses, &c., and thus exposed the plunderers. Mr. Pambrun is acquainted with the ringleader of this band of marauders, and intends to take the first opportunity of inflicting upon him due punishment, as well as to compel him to make ample restitution for the stolen property, and broken heads of the unoffending trappers. I have had this evening, some interesting conversation with our guests, the missionaries. They appear admirably qualified for the arduous duty to which they have devoted themselves, their minds being fully alive to the mortifications and trials incident to a residence among wild Indians; but they do not shrink from the task, believing it to be their religious duty to engage in this work. The ladies have borne the journey astonishingly; they look robust and healthy.[193] [193] Mrs. Narcissa Prentice Whitman was a native of Pittsburgh, Steuben County, New York, and married Dr. Whitman just before his journey across the plains (1836). She was of much assistance to him in the mission work, and perished in the massacre of 1847. See her letters and "Journal" in Oregon Pioneer Association _Transactions_ (1891). She and Mrs. Spalding were the first white women to cross the plains to Oregon. Mrs. Spalding (_née_ Eliza Hart) was born in Connecticut (1807) and reared in Ontario County, New York. She was less strong than Mrs. Whitman, and her journey at first fatigued her so greatly that it was feared she would not reach its end. Her health improved after passing the mountains, and she was an efficient aid in the mission, learning the Indian languages with great aptitude. After the Whitman massacre she never recovered from the shock, and died in 1851.--ED. _3d._--Mr. M'Leod and myself embarked in a large batteau, with six men, and bidding farewell to Mr. Pambrun and the missionaries, were soon gliding down the river. We ran, to-day, {250} several rapids, and in the evening encamped about fifteen miles below the mouth of the Utalla river. This running of rapids appears rather a dangerous business to those unaccustomed to it, and it is in reality sufficiently hazardous, except when performed by old and skilful hands. Every thing depends upon the men who manage the bow and stern of the boat. The moment she enters the rapid, the two guides lay aside their oars taking in their stead paddles, such as are used in the management of a canoe. The middle-men ply their oars; the guides brace themselves against the gunwale of the boat, placing their paddles edgewise down her sides, and away she goes over the curling, foaming, and hissing waters, like a race horse. We passed to-day several large lodges of Indians, from whom we wished to have purchased fish, but they had none, or were not willing to spare any, so that we were compelled to purchase a _dog_ for supper. I have said _we_, but I beg leave to correct myself, as I was utterly averse to the proceeding; not, however, from any particular dislike to the quality of the food, (I have eaten it repeatedly, and relished it.) but I am always unwilling, unless when suffering absolute want to take the life of so noble and faithful an animal. Our hungry oarsmen, however, appeared to have no such scruples. The Indian called his dog, and he came to him, _wagging his tail_! He sold his companion for ten balls and powder! One of our men approached the poor animal with an axe. I turned away my head to avoid the sight, but I heard the dull, _sodden_ sound of the blow. The tried friend and faithful companion lay quivering in the agonies of death at its master's feet. We are enjoying a most magnificent sight at our camp this evening. On the opposite side of the river, the Indians have fired the prairie, and the whole country for miles around is most brilliantly illuminated. Here am I sitting cross-legged on the {251} ground, scribbling by the light of the vast conflagration with as much ease as if I had a ton of oil burning by my side; but my eyes are every moment involuntarily wandering from the paper before me, to contemplate and admire the grandeur of the distant scene. The very heavens themselves appear ignited, and the fragments of ashes and burning grass-blades, ascending and careering about through the glowing firmament, look like brilliant and glorious birds let loose to roam and revel amid this splendid scene. It is past midnight: every one in the camp is asleep, and I am this moment visited by half a dozen Indian fishermen, who are peering over my shoulders, and soliciting a smoke, so that I shall have to stop, and fill my calamet. _5th._--The Indians are numerous along the river, and all engaged in fishing; as we pass along, we frequently see them posted upon the rocks overhanging the water, surveying the boiling and roaring flood below, for the passing salmon. In most instances, an Indian is seen entirely alone in these situations, often standing for half an hour perfectly still, his eyes rivetted upon the torrent, and his long fish spear poised above his head. The appearance of a solitary and naked savage thus perched like an eagle upon a cliff, is sometimes,--when taken in connexion with the wild and rugged river scenery,--very picturesque. The spear is a pole about twelve feet in length, at the end of which a long wooden fork is made fast, and between the tines is fixed a barbed iron point. They also, in some situations, use a hand scoopnet, and stand upon scaffolds ingeniously constructed over the rapid water. Their winter store of dried fish is stowed away in little huts of mats and branches, closely interlaced, and also in _caches_ under ground. It is often amusing to see the hungry ravens tearing and tugging at the strong twigs of the houses, in a vain attempt to reach the savory food within. In the afternoon, we passed John Day's river,[194] and encamped about sunset at the "shoots." Here is a very large village of {252} Indians, (the same that I noticed in my journal, on the passage down,) and we are this evening surrounded by some scores of them. [194] For the pioneer in whose honor this river was named, see Bradbury's _Travels_ in our volume v, p. 181, note 104. The John Day River rises in the Blue Mountains and flows west and northwest, entering the Columbia a few miles above the falls. It is an important stream for central Oregon, forming the boundary, in part, of several counties.--ED. _6th._--We made the portage of the shoots this morning by carrying our boat and baggage across the land, and in half an hour, arrived at one of the upper _dalles_. Here Mr. M'Leod and myself debarked, and the men ran the dall. We walked on ahead to the most dangerous part, and stood upon the rocks about a hundred feet above to observe them. It really seemed exceedingly dangerous to see the boat dashing ahead like lightning through the foaming and roaring waters, sometimes raised high above the enormous swells, and dashed down again as if she were seeking the bottom with her bows, and at others whirled around and nearly sucked under by the whirlpools constantly forming around her. But she stemmed every thing gallantly, under the direction of our experienced guides, and we soon embarked again, and proceeded to the lower dalles. Here it is utterly impossible, in the present state of the water, to pass, so that the boat and baggage had to be carried across the whole portage. This occupied the remainder of the day, and we encamped in the evening at a short distance from the lower villages. The Indians told us with sorrowful faces of the recent death of their principal chief, Tilki. Well, thought I, the white man has lost a friend, and long will it be before we see his like again! The poor fellow was unwell when I last saw him, with a complaint of his breast, which I suspected to be pulmonary. I gave him a few simple medicines, and told him I should soon see him again. Well do I remember the look of despondency with which he bade me farewell, and begged me to return soon and give him more medicine. About two weeks since he ruptured a blood vessel, and died in a short time. We see great numbers of seals as we pass along. Immediately {253} below the Dalles they are particularly abundant, being attracted thither by the vast shoals of salmon which seek the turbulent water of the river. We occasionally shoot one of them as he raises his dog-like head above the surface, but we make no use of them; they are only valuable for the large quantity of oil which they yield. We observe on the breasts and bellies of many of the Indians here, a number of large red marks, mostly of an oval form, sometimes twenty or thirty grouped together. These are wounds made by their own hands, to display to their people the unwavering and stoical resolution with which they can endure pain. A large fold of the skin is taken up with the fingers, and sliced off with a knife; the surrounding fibre then retreats, and a large and ghastly looking wound remains. Many that I saw to-day are yet scarcely cicatrized. There is a chief here who obtained the dignity which he now enjoys, solely by his numerous and hardy feats of this kind. He was originally a common man, and possessed but one wife; he has now _six_, and any of the tribe would think themselves honored by his alliance. He is a most gigantic fellow, about six feet four inches in height, and remarkably stout and powerful. The whole front of his person is covered with the red marks of which I have spoken, and he displays with considerable pride the two scars of a bullet, which entered the left breast, and passed out below the shoulder blade. This wound he also made with his own hand, by placing the muzzle of his gun against his breast, and pressing the trigger with his toe; and by this last, and most daring act, he was raised to the chief command of all the Indians on the north side of the river. Now that Tilki is no more, he will probably be chosen chief of all the country from the cascades to Walla-walla. I asked him if he felt no fear of death from the wound in his chest, at the time it was inflicted. He said, no; that his heart was strong, and that a bullet could never kill him. He told me that he was entirely {254} well in a week after this occurrence, but that for two days he vomited blood constantly. He is named by the Indians "_Skookoom_," (the strong.) About six weeks after, Mr. M'Leod, who again returned from a visit to Walla-walla, informed me that the strong chief was dead. A bullet, (or rather two of them,) killed him at last, in spite of his supposed invulnerability. He was shot by one of his people in a fit of jealousy. _Skookoom_ had assisted Mr. M'Leod with his boats across the portage, and, being a chief, he of course received more for the service than a common man. This wretch, who was but a serf in the tribe, chose to be offended by it, and vented his rage by murdering his superior. He fired a ball from his own gun into his breast, which brought him to the ground, and then despatched him with a second, which he seized from another. So poor Skookoom has passed away, and such is the frail tenure upon which an Indian chief holds his authority and his life. The murderer will no doubt soon die by the hand of some friend or relative of the deceased; he in his turn will be killed by another, and as usual, the bloody business will go on indefinitely, and may even tend to produce an open war between the rival parties. I saw an old man here, apparently eighty years of age, who had given himself three enormous longitudinal gashes in his leg, to evince his grief for the loss of Tilki. From the sluggishness of the circulation in the body of the poor old creature, combined with a morbid habit, these wounds show no disposition to heal. I dressed his limb, and gave him a strict charge to have it kept clean, but knowing the universal carelessness of Indians in this respect, I fear my directions will not be attended to, and the consequence will probably be, that the old man will die miserably. I spoke to him of the folly of such inflictions, and took this opportunity of delivering a short lecture upon the same subject to the others assembled in his lodge. {255} At 11 o'clock next day we arrived at the cascades, where we made the long portage, and at nine in the evening encamped in an ash grove, six miles above _Prairie de Thé_. On the 8th, reached Vancouver, where we found two vessels which had just arrived from England. On the 24th, I embarked in a canoe with Indians for Fort George, and arrived in two days. Here I was kindly received by the superintendent, Mr. James Birnie,[195] and promised every assistance in forwarding my views. [195] James Birnie was a native of Aberdeen, Scotland. Coming early to America he entered the North West Company's employ and was on the Columbia before 1820, when he was in charge of the post at the Dalles. He was then retained by the Hudson's Bay Company, and given command at Fort George (Astoria) where he remained many years. Later he became a naturalized American, and resided at Cathlamet.--ED. _30th._--I visited to-day some cemeteries in the neighborhood of the fort, and obtained the skulls of four Indians. Some of the bodies were simply deposited in canoes, raised five or six feet from the ground, either in the forks of trees, or supported on stakes driven into the earth. In these instances it was not difficult to procure the skulls without disarranging the fabric; but more frequently, they were nailed in boxes, or covered by a small canoe, which was turned bottom upwards, and placed in a larger one, and the whole covered by strips of bark, carefully arranged over them. It was then necessary to use the utmost caution in removing the covering, and also to be careful to leave every thing in the same state in which it was found. I thought several times to-day, as I have often done in similar situations before:--Now suppose an Indian were to step in here, and see me groping among the bones of his fathers, and laying unhallowed hands upon the mouldering remains of his people, what should I say?--I know well what the Indian would _do_. He would instantly shoot me, unless I took the most effectual measures to prevent it; but could I have time allowed me to temporize a little, I could easily disarm his hostility and ensure his silence, by the offer of a shirt or a blanket; but the difficulty in most cases would be, that in a paroxysm of rage he would put a bullet through your head, and then good bye to temporizing. Luckily for my pursuits in this way, there are at present but few Indians here, and I do not therefore incur {256} much risk; were it otherwise, there would be no little danger in these aggressions. The corpses of the several different tribes which are buried here, are known by the difference in the structure of their canoes; and the _sarcophagi_ of the chiefs from those of the common people, by the greater care which has been manifested in the arrangement of the tomb. _October 14th._--I walked to-day around the beach to the foot of Young's bay,[196] a distance of about ten miles, to see the remains of the house in which Lewis and Clark's party resided during the winter which they spent here. The logs of which it is composed, are still perfect, but the roof of bark has disappeared, and the whole vicinity is overgrown with thorn and wild currant bushes.[197] [196] For Young's Bay, see Franchére's _Narrative_, our volume vi, p. 259, note 69.--ED. [197] This is an interesting description of the place, seen thirty years later, where the explorers passed the dismal winter months of 1805-06. For a ground plan of the fort, known as Fort Clatsop, see Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iii, pp. 282, 283, 298.--ED. One of Mr. Birnie's children found, a few days since, a large silver medal, which had been brought here by Lewis and Clark, and had probably been presented to some chief, who lost it. On one side was a head, with the name "Th. Jefferson, President of the United States, 1801." On the other, two hands interlocked, surmounted by a pipe and tomahawk; and above the words, "Peace and Friendship."[198] [198] A close description of the medals carried by the expedition. See engraving in O. D. Wheeler, _On the Trail of Lewis and Clark_ (New York, 1904), ii, pp. 123, 124.--ED. _15th._--This afternoon I embarked in a canoe with _Chinamus_, and went with him to his residence at Chinook.[199] The chief welcomed me to his house in a style which would do no discredit to a more civilized person. His two wives were ordered to make a bed for me, which they did by piling up about a dozen of their soft mats, and placing my blankets upon them, and a better bed I should never wish for. I was regaled, before I retired, with sturgeon, salmon, wappatoos, cranberries, and every thing else that the mansion afforded, and was requested to ask for any thing I wanted, and it should be furnished me. Whatever may be said derogatory to these people, I can testify that inhospitality is not among the number of their failings. I never went into the {257} house of an Indian in my life, in any part of the country, without being most cordially received and welcomed. [199] The site of this Chinook village opposite Astoria, was probably that of the present Fort Columbia, built to protect the entrance to the river.--ED. The chief's house is built in the usual way, of logs and hewn boards, with a roof of cedar bark, and lined inside with mats. The floor is boarded and matted, and there is a depression in the ground about a foot in depth and four feet in width, extending the whole length of the building in the middle, where the fires are made. In this, as in almost every house, there is a large figure, or idol, rudely carved and painted upon a board, and occupying a conspicuous place. To this figure many of the Indians ascribe supernatural powers. Chinamus says that if he is in any kind of danger, and particularly, if he is under the influence of an evil spell, he has only to place himself against the image, and the difficulty, of whatever kind, vanishes at once. This certainly savors of idolatry, although I believe they never address the uncouth figure as a deity. Like all other Indians, they acknowledge a great and invisible spirit, who governs and controls, and to whom all adoration is due. Attached to this establishment, are three other houses, similarly constructed, inhabited by about thirty Indians, and at least that number of dogs. These, although very useful animals in their place, are here a great nuisance. They are of no possible service to the Indians, except to eat their provisions, and fill their houses with fleas, and a stranger approaching the lodges, is in constant danger of being throttled by a legion of fierce brutes, who are not half as hospitable as their masters. I remained here several days, making excursions through the neighborhood, and each time when I returned to the lodge, the dogs growled and darted at me. I had no notion of being bitten, so I gave the Indians warning, that unless the snarling beasts were tied up when I came near, I would shoot every one of them. The threat had the effect desired, and after this, whenever {258} I approached the lodges, there was a universal stir among the people, and the words, "_iskam kahmooks, iskam kahmooks, kalak'alah tie chahko_," (take up your dogs, take up your dogs, the _bird chief_ is coming,) echoed through the little village, and was followed by the yelping and snarling of dozens of wolf-dogs, and "curs of low degree," all of which were gathered in haste to the cover and protection of one of the houses. {259} CHAPTER XVI Northern excursion--Large shoals of salmon--Indian mode of catching them--House near the beach--Flathead children--A storm on the bay--Loss of provision--Pintail ducks--Simple mode of killing salmon--Return to Chinook--Indian garrulity--Return to Fort George--Preparations for a second trip to the Sandwich Islands--Detention within the cape.... _October 17th._--I left Chinook this morning in a canoe with Chinamus, his two wives, and a slave, to procure shell-fish, which are said to be found in great abundance towards the north. We passed through a number of narrow _slues_ which connect the numerous bays in this part of the country, and at noon debarked, left our canoe, took our blankets on our shoulders, and struck through the midst of a deep pine forest. After walking about two miles, we came to another branch, where we found a canoe which had been left there for us yesterday, and embarking in this, we arrived in the evening at an Indian house, near the seaside, where we spent the night. In our passage through some of the narrow channels to-day, we saw vast shoals of salmon, which were leaping and curvetting {260} about in every direction, and not unfrequently dashing their noses against our canoe, in their headlong course. We met here a number of Indians engaged in fishing. Their mode of taking the salmon is a very simple one. The whole of the tackle consists of a pole about twelve feet long, with a large iron hook attached to the end. This machine they keep constantly trailing in the water, and when the fish approaches the surface, by a quick and dexterous jerk, they fasten the iron into his side, and shake him off into the canoe. They say they take so many fish that it is necessary for them to land about three times a day to deposit them. The house in which we sleep to-night is not near so comfortable as the one we have left. It stinks intolerably of salmon, which are hanging by scores to the roof, to dry in the smoke, and our bed being on the dead level, we shall probably suffer somewhat from fleas, not to mention another unmentionable insect which is apt to inhabit these dormitories in considerable profusion. There are here several young children; beautiful, flat-headed, broad-faced, little individuals. One of the little dears has taken something of a fancy to me, and is now hanging over me, and staring at my book with its great goggle eyes. It is somewhat strange, perhaps, but I have become so accustomed to this universal deformity, that I now scarcely notice it. I have often been evilly disposed enough to wish, that if in the course of events one of these little beings should die, I could get possession of it. I should like to plump the small carcass into a keg of spirits, and send it home for the observation of the curious. _18th._--Last night the wind rose to a gale, and this morning it is blowing most furiously, making the usually calm water of these bays so turbulent as to be dangerous for our light craft. Notwithstanding this disadvantage, the Indians were in favor of starting for the sea, which we accordingly did at an early hour. Soon after we left, in crossing one of the bays, about three-quarters {261} of a mile in width, the water suddenly became so agitated as at first nearly to upset our canoe. A perfect hurricane was blowing right ahead, cold as ice, and the water was dashing over us, and into our little bark, in a manner to frighten even the experienced chief who was acting as helmsman. In a few minutes we were sitting nearly up to our waistbands in water, although one of the women and myself were constantly bailing it out, employing for the purpose the only two hats belonging to the party, my own and that of the chief. We arrived at the shore at length in safety, although there was scarcely a dry thread on us, and built a tremendous fire with the drift-wood which we found on the beach. We then dried our clothes and blankets as well as we could, cooked some ducks that we killed yesterday, and made a hearty breakfast. My stock of bread, sugar, and tea, is completely spoiled by the salt water, so that until I return to Fort George, I must live simply; but I think this no hardship: what has been done once can be done again. In the afternoon the women collected for me a considerable number of shells, several species of _Cardium_, _Citherea_, _Ostrea_, &c., all edible, and the last very good, though small. The common pintail duck, (_Anas acuta_,) is found here in vast flocks. The chief and myself killed _twenty-six_ to-day, by a simultaneous discharge of our guns. They are exceedingly fat and most excellent eating; indeed all the game of this lower country is far superior to that found in the neighborhood of Vancouver. The ducks feed upon a small submerged vegetable which grows in great abundance upon the reedy islands in this vicinity. The next day we embarked early, to return to Chinook. The wind was still blowing a gale, but by running along close to the shore of the stormy bay, we were enabled, by adding greatly to our distance, to escape the difficulties against which we contended {262} yesterday, and regained the slues with tolerably dry garments. At about 10 o'clock, we arrived at the portage, and struck into the wood, shouldering our baggage as before. We soon came to a beautiful little stream of fresh water, where we halted, and prepared our breakfast. In this stream, (not exceeding nine feet at the widest part,) I was surprised to observe a great number of large salmon. Beautiful fellows, of from fifteen to twenty-five pounds weight, darting and playing about in the crystal water, and often exposing three-fourths of their bodies in making their way through the shallows. I had before no idea that these noble fish were ever found in such insignificant streams, but the Indians say that they always come into the rivulets at this season, and return to the sea on the approach of winter. Our slave killed seven of these beautiful fish, while we made our hasty breakfast, his only weapon being a light cedar paddle. We reached Chinook in the evening, and as we sat around the fires in the lodge, I was amused by the vivid description given to the attentive inhabitants by Chinamus and his wives, of the perils of our passage across the stormy bay. They all spoke at once, and described most minutely every circumstance that occurred, the auditors continually evincing their attention to the relation by a pithy and sympathizing _hugh_. They often appealed to me for the truth of what they were saying, and, as in duty bound, I gave an assenting nod, although at times I fancied they were yielding to a propensity, not uncommon among those of Christian lands, and which is known by the phrase, "drawing a long bow." _21st._--The wind yesterday was so high, that I did not consider it safe to attempt the passage to Fort George. This morning it was more calm, and we put off in a large canoe at sunrise. When we had reached the middle of Young's bay, the wind again rose, and the water was dashing over us in fine style, so that we {263} were compelled to make for the shore and wait until it subsided. We lay by about an hour, when, the water becoming more smooth, we again got under way, and arrived at Fort George about noon. On the 5th of November, I returned to Vancouver, and immediately commenced packing my baggage, collection, &c., for a passage to the Sandwich Islands, in the barque Columbia, which is now preparing to sail for England. This is a fine vessel, of three hundred tons, commanded by Captain Royal; we shall have eight passengers in the cabin; Captain Darby, formerly of this vessel, R. Cowie, chief trader, and others. On the 21st, we dropped down the river, and in two days anchored off the cape. We have but little prospect of being able to cross the bar; the sea breaks over the channel with a roar like thunder, and the surf dashes and frets against the rocky cape and drives its foam far up into the bay. I long to see blue water again. I am fond of the sea; it suits both my disposition and constitution; and then the reflection, that now every foot I advance will carry me nearer to my beloved home, is in itself a most powerful inducement to urge me on. But much as I desire again to see home, much as I long to embrace those to whom I am attached by the strongest ties, I have nevertheless felt something very like regret at leaving Vancouver and its kind and agreeable residents. I took leave of Doctor McLoughlin with feelings akin to those with which I should bid adieu to an affectionate parent; and to his fervent, "God bless you, sir, and may you have a happy meeting with your friends," I could only reply by a look of the sincerest gratitude. Words are inadequate to express my deep sense of the obligations which I feel under to this truly generous and excellent man, and I fear I can only repay them by the sincerity with which I shall always cherish the recollection of his kindness, and the ardent prayers I shall breathe for his prosperity and happiness. {264} _30th._--At daylight this morning, the wind being fair, and the bar more smooth, we weighed anchor and stood out. At about 9 o'clock we crossed the bar, and in a few minutes were hurrying along on the open sea before a six-knot breeze. We are now out, and so good bye to Cape Disappointment and the Columbia, and now for _home_, dear home again! * * * * * Transcriber's note: The section "NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, TO THE COLUMBIA RIVER" does not include a chapter XI in the table of contents on page 115, or in the book itself. There are numbers within the text represented like {27}. These are page references to the original manuscripts. In the book these are enclosed in square brackets [27] rather than curly brackets. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain. 
40467	----	Indian and Scout A Tale of the Gold Rush to California BY CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON Author of "The Great Aeroplane" "A Hero of Sedan" "John Bargreave's Gold" "How Canada was Won" "Roughriders of the Pampas" &c. _ILLUSTRATED BY CYRUS CUNEO_ H. M. CALDWELL COMPANY NEW YORK BOSTON _Printed in Great Britain_ [Illustration: "JACK SWUNG HIS HEAD ROUND"] Contents CHAP. PAGE I. TUSKER JOE 9 II. JACK KINGSLEY'S DILEMMA 21 III. A RUDE AWAKENING 35 IV. THE ROAD TO CALIFORNIA 52 V. ON THE RAILWAY 65 VI. A HOLD-UP 80 VII. FRIENDS AND HUNTERS 94 VIII. OUT ON THE PRAIRIE 109 IX. ONLY A YOUNGSTER 128 X. A BUFFALO HUNT 146 XI. SURROUNDED BY INDIANS 165 XII. A TIGHT CORNER 179 XIII. DODGING THE ENEMY 192 XIV. AN ATTACK IN FORCE 205 XV. GIVING 'EM PEPPER 220 XVI. THE BASHFUL JACOB 239 XVII. BLACK BILL TO THE RESCUE 258 XVIII. THE GOLD RUSH 275 XIX. TOM MAKES A FIND 288 XX. AN AMBUSCADE 301 XXI. THE OUTWITTING OF TUSKER 314 XXII. A DOUBLE RECOGNITION 327 XXIII. STEVE LEADS THE WAY 341 XXIV. A GREAT ACQUITTAL 360 Illustrations Page "JACK SWUNG HIS HEAD ROUND" _Frontispiece_ 154 TUSKER JOE'S CHALLENGE 10 "HE SAW THE RASCAL CRUMPLE INTO A HEAP" 89 "THE INDIAN CHIEF THREW UP HIS ARMS" 212 RUNNING A RISK 271 JACK FETCHES THE RIFLES 324 CHAPTER I Tusker Joe "Ef there was a man here as was a man, guess it'd be some use waitin' and talkin'. But as thar ain't sich a thing handy, why, I'll git. Once and fer all, aer thar a one here as don't think I did it fair? Eh?" The man who spoke swept his eyes round the narrow, ugly room, and pulled the brim of his wideawake hat down over his eyes just a trifle lower; whether to hide the scowl in them, or the fear which lurked in his dilated pupils, it would be difficult to say. Tusker Joe was not anxious that his companions in the room, which went by the name of saloon, should guess that he was anything but self-composed and full of courage. But to give the bare truth, Tusker Joe was by no means easy in his mind. Even the smoking revolver in his hand, in which four unused cartridges yet remained, failed to reassure him. It was not only fear for his own wretched life that haunted him. Tusker Joe had a conscience at this day, and it smote him just then harder than all else. Even as he swept his eyes round the room he was struggling hard to drown that ready conscience, to still the voice which whispered persistently in his ear: "Murderer, murderer!" "Yer don't speak," he went on, after a minute's awkward silence, raising his voice till he almost shouted the words, as if the sounds helped to encourage him and drown that still, small whisper. "Then I takes it that ye're all in agreement. It was fair done. Me alone against them two, and they quarrelsome. I'd stop and face the sheriff hisself with that. But what's the use? A man has ter work nowadays, and a sheriff wastes time. Yer can jest give him the facts for yerselves; but, at the same time, yer can jest mind. Tusker Joe ain't a playsome girl. He ain't a weaklin', likely ter take sauce from no one. And lies he don't have at no price, not at all. Ef there's a man here as feels at this second as he don't agree that it war all fair and square, jest let him speak up. That's what I say. Let him open his mouth, here and now, before what's left of us." The man's voice was truculent now. His words deafened those within the saloon, and there was no excuse for not hearing them. But no answer came. Not one of the three men seated at a table at one end ventured to open his lips. Instead, all, as if by common arrangement, kept their eyes fixed on the wall opposite them, as if intent on counting the planks which helped to make it, while their open palms lay exposed on the table. [Illustration: TUSKER JOE'S CHALLENGE] Right opposite Tusker Joe a solitary individual sat awkwardly on a rough bench. He was a man of some thirty years of age, with red hair and beard, and a weak expression. The long, pointed chin, the narrow eyes switching restlessly from side to side, even the diminutive proportions of this fellow, spoke of indecision, of one accustomed to follow and not to lead, of one inclined at all times to shirk difficulties. Red Sam, for that was the name he went by in this mining camp, was not even his own master. He was a hired labourer, who had come to the mining camps not to test his own luck, and to risk all he had in the hope that hard work and a strenuous fight with Dame Fortune would bring him the riches which many a man had won. Sam had not the courage for such a venture. He preferred good wages, and a certainty, to any risk. He was not quarrelsome, nor over-talkative, and he did not frequent the drinking saloon at Salem Falls more often than others. He was just an average miner, content with his lot so far, and indistinguishable from the others who worked at the camp save in respect to his beard. He wore the same gaudy shirt and neckerchief, high boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a belt big enough to circle a horse, in the holster of which was a revolver. Tusker's eyes, which during the last few moments had been searching the cracked mirror opposite him, at the back of the bar on which he leaned, suddenly lit upon Sam--Red Sam, the weakling--whom all in that camp knew to be harmless and the reverse of dangerous. And as they did so, that still, small voice whispered with even greater persistence in Tusker's ear: "Murderer, murderer!" till the man became savage. He swung round again, his eyes flashing, his pistol pointed. "What's that?" he demanded menacingly. "Yer didn't speak, I know, but yer looked what yer thought. Draw!" Sam was utterly disconcerted. Had he been able, he would have straightway sunk beneath the rough boards which formed the floor of the saloon. To retreat, to get away from such a terrible man and such an ugly encounter, was all that he desired. But that pointed pistol held him rooted to the spot. "Me?" he stuttered, gripping the bench with both hands. "Me think anything! Why----" He stared at Tusker with wide-open mouth, and eyes which were dilated with terror. "Yer looked it," retorted Tusker, his face scowling horribly. "Ef I thought for one moment as yer'd forget, I'd put daylight clean through yer now. Clean through yer, Sam." The very idea of such a terrible happening almost caused Red Sam to faint. He positively shivered, and when his shifting eyes happened to pass to the far end of the saloon, where were the men whom Tusker had already fired upon, the shiver became a tremble. His fingers twitched as he endeavoured to clutch the bench, his hair stood erect beneath the wide-brimmed hat, which gave this modest fellow such a desperate appearance at ordinary times, while the end of his beard shook. "Clean through yer," repeated Tusker grimly: the sight of this harmless and trembling individual seeming to appease the bully for the moment. "Through yer and any others as dares ter think--think, mind yer--that all warn't fair and square. For the last time, aer thar a man here as has got a word ter say agin it." Tall and broad, his face and neck and arms burned to a brick red by exposure to the sun, Tusker Joe would have at ordinary times been pronounced a handsome fellow. His long, curling, black moustache set off features which, though never pleasant, were regular and distinctly prepossessing. His red mining shirt, corduroy breeches, and high boots made up, with the brilliant handkerchief round his throat and the draggled and untidy hat upon his head, an appearance which was picturesque, if nothing more; while the breadth of his shoulders, and the size of his limbs, told of a man used to labour, of a strong fellow, able to look well to himself. Unfortunately, however, there was something about the face which detracted from the general air of picturesqueness. Tusker Joe's features were marked by heavy lines, some across a somewhat narrow forehead, and others about the corners of the eyes and the mouth. Even at rest the features wore an air the reverse of frank and straightforward. The eyes were shifty, even more so than those of the weak Red Sam. And now, when his passions were stirred, the face which looked out from beneath the pulled-down brim of his hat was seamed with other lines--lines which told of hate, of avarice, of fear, of a thousand passions flitting through the man's mind. Bluff and brag at his best, Tusker Joe was in those days too young a man to carry off such a situation with absolute tranquillity. True, he had been in saloon brawls before, and had shot men; but he had never murdered. In those rough days, down at the diggings, when men spent a goodly part of their gains in the saloons, quarrels were of frequent occurrence, and revolvers came readily to the hand. Bullies arose, too, and for a while terrorized even these lawless, gambling men. But sheer murder was hardly attempted, for then even the miners arose in anger, and when that was the case lynch law was the order--a short shrift was given to the guilty party, and either he was riddled with bullets or, if a rope happened to be handy, he was strung to the nearest tree. Often enough there was no suitable tree, and then the bullets of the miners finished the matter. Tusker Joe had turned from Red Sam by now, and for one brief moment cast his eyes to that far end where lay the men at whom he had fired. Even he shuddered ever so little, and from contemplating them turned to the rough bar again and leaned one arm upon it. Then his eyes sought the cracked mirror which was nailed to the boarded wall behind the bar, reflecting from its golden-circled frame the whole of the saloon. In the glass he could see the three men seated at the table, their palms still prominently exposed. Not one had moved so much as a finger. They sat riveted to their chairs, their eyes fixed on the plank wall as before, knowing that Tusker Joe's eyes were upon them, and that to carry a hand to a pocket meant a shot from his revolver in an instant. "Cowed! Jest don't dare ter move a finger, the skunks," growled the murderer beneath his breath. "And thar ain't one of 'em as don't know Tusker well enough ter guess what'll follow if they get ter blabbin'. Blabbin'! What's that I said? Thar ain't no need ter fear that. It was fair and square. Lord Tom had no need fer ter call me a liar and a thief. He knew that a man don't take sich words hereabouts, and that bullets git flyin' when names are called. He asked fer trouble, and, by thunder, he's had it! As fer Jim, he'd a hand at his shooter, and ef he's gone under, reckon it's his own fault. Yer don't catch me waitin' fer a man ter shoot." For some two minutes he stood at the bar, his unseeing eyes fixed upon the reflecting mirror, while his busy brain invented excuse after excuse for the act of which he had just been guilty. But, strive as he might to gloss over this shooting affray, and to paint his own side of the squabble in rosy colours, that still, small voice returned with persistence. "Murderer! murderer!" It echoed even louder in his ears, till the man was distracted and desperate. "Here! fill it up, will yer?" he shouted, thrusting forward an empty glass, and menacing the frightened negro behind the bar with his revolver. "To the brim, and slippy with it! Hur! Now, again! Hur! Thar's the price fer it. Keep the change." Gulping down two glasses of spirit within a few seconds, he threw the glass to the floor, where it smashed into a hundred pieces, and then tossed a dollar on to the bar. By now a haunted look had come into the man's face. The fingers which pulled the expended cartridges from his weapon and replenished the chambers trembled obviously. The man was become desperate. His conscience was driving him hard. But with it all he was cunning. He kept his eyes on the men at the table, and then swung round to confront Red Sam, causing that miserable individual to shiver more than ever. Then, with never a glance to the far end of the room, he backed to the door of the saloon, pulled it open with his foot, and backed out. The door slammed to, and Tusker was gone. Those who crossed to the window to watch him saw the miner running down the street for his life, and, conscious now that they were safe themselves, they shook their fists at his retreating figure, and swore beneath their breath. "I knew as it would come from him," exclaimed one of them, proceeding to fill a pipe. "Tusker Joe is bound ter break out somewhares, and become camp bully and murderer. Up to date he ain't dared attempt anything over much, but ter-day he's done it. He won't never look back. Mark my words, mate, he'll get wusser and wusser. He's the sort that goes on from one thing ter another, and don't stop till the sheriff's got him, or his mates has took the law up themselves, and has strung him six foot up. It war all a plant." "It war," agreed a second. "Tusker had made up his mind fer a ruction, and Lord Tom war a fool to help him. Ef he hadn't been green, as green as grass, he'd have known what'd happen when he got ter callin' names. He war too free with 'em, and had got no use fer his own shooter. But I'm surprised at Jim. He's been out this way nigh most of his life, and he must have known. Seems he was took by surprise; fer he could shoot, he could." They nodded their heads at one another, and slowly filled and lit their pipes, while they held their eyes to the window, fearful that Tusker Joe might yet return. Not that he would have terrorized them altogether. When a man finds another holding a revolver levelled at his head, and knows that the slightest movement or protest will bring a bullet in his direction, he by force of circumstances keeps very still. Even if he happens to be a courageous man--and many of these miners were undoubtedly that--common sense teaches him not so much as to lift a finger. He swallows his chagrin, and registers the vow to live for another day, when matters may be more equal. Tusker Joe had got the drop on his comrades in the saloon, to use a mining expression. He had drawn his revolver at the very beginning of the quarrel, and all knew that he was a dead shot. But now he could have no advantage, and had he appeared again, he would undoubtedly have met with strenuous opposition. "He's cleared, yer bet," said the third man after a while. "Tusker knows as thar won't be no livin' fer him here after this, and he's bound ter git. Suppose it's a case fer the sheriff?" "Yep; thar ain't nothin' more ter do. Guess the verdict'll be murder. Thar's bound to be a howl in Salem Falls, and men'll get ter swear that they'll shoot Tusker on sight. Then it'll blow over. Tusker won't be fool enough ter show up this side of the grave, and things'll be forgotten. Suppose we git a move on." The three stepped towards the door, Red Sam rising at the same time and joining them, evidently with the idea of obtaining some sort of protection from their company. He lifted the latch, and was about to emerge, when a sound came from the far end of the room, bringing the four facing round in that direction. And this is what they saw. Close to the far wall was a second table--a long affair composed of rough boards, with a bench perched just behind it, between the table and the wall. On this bench a man was seated, with his hands sprawled out on the table top, and his head resting on his hands. He might have been asleep for all one could tell, as his posture was the most natural one possible. Certainly one would never have imagined that he was the victim of a shooting affray. But Lord Tom was dead, without any doubt. Closer inspection of his body showed a hole in his forehead, now reclining on his hands, while an ugly dark pool was spreading out between his fingers. At his feet lay a man as dead apparently as he. His feet were pointed towards the centre of the saloon, while his head and shoulders lay beneath the bench, almost directly under his dead comrade. It seemed that he had been holding a paper when the affray started, for he had dragged that to the ground with him, and it now covered his face and chest, while one arm peeped from beneath it, exposing the hand to view, with a revolver gripped in the latter. A moment before Jim had lain an inert mass. Now, at the sound of departure of the others, he stirred and called gently to them. Then the hand which gripped the revolver loosed its hold, and gently drew the paper from his face. "Jest pull me out from under this here consarn," he asked in the coolest possible voice. "Now set me up on the table. Gently, boys! That ere chap's broken my arm. Now, Peter, something wet ter drink, quick as yer can." They lifted him on to the table very gently; for these miners, when all was said and done, were exceedingly good and kind to one another when in distress. And there they supported him, while the negro behind the bar mixed some spirit and water and brought it. "Huh! that'll make me wake up," said Jim, still cool and collected. "So Lord Tom's dead? I guessed it'd come ter that when he got ter flingin' names about. And Tusker's gone. Wall, there ain't nothin' more ter do now but ter git well and started in again at the diggin'. Guess he's took all. A fine pardner he's been, to be sure! He's seen me and Tom slavin' every day and guess he's jest chuckled. He's bided his time, and got clean off with all the stuff. Boys, we'd cleaned up the claim only yesterday, and thar was enough to take every mother's son of us back to New York, with something in hand ter start up business with. And Tusker's got it all, and has rubbed poor Tom out." He looked round at the miners, and each in turn nodded his agreement. "Rubbed him clean out, yer bet," said one. "It don't take twice lookin' ter tell that. Tom's dead, and we'd a notion yer was the same. Yer lay that still." "And yer didn't move over sprightly," came from the wounded man dryly. "I saw every little bit of the theatricals, and thar wasn't a man as dared ter show fight, small blame to yer. For me, he'd got the drop before I'd a hand on my shooter, and jest sent his lead through my arm. I wasn't askin' fer more. I knew a move meant death, sure. And so I did same as you. Lay still as a mouse, with the paper over my face, and jest a small tear in it through which I could watch what was happening. Mates, I'll tell yer somethin'. I've been diggin' and minin' this five years. I've met bad men and good, rough and honest, and downright ruffians. But Tusker's jest a murderer. I gives him notice, here and now, that I shoot on sight at the next meetin'. If only for Lord Tom's sake, I shoot on sight. Tusker's a thief and a murderer." When the whole matter came to be discussed, it was the decision of the inmates of the camp at Salem Falls that Tusker Joe was indeed a thief and a murderer. It cropped up in the evidence offered to the sheriff, who duly made an enquiry, that this man, some thirty years of age only, had twice before entered into partnership with other miners, and, having waited till the claims panned out well, and earnings were collected, disappeared with all that he could lay his hands on. And on this occasion it was his intention to do the same. But Lord Tom, a man of a different stamp to the miners, had detected his intention, and in an unwary moment had taxed him with the crime, and had not hesitated to call him a thief. Then it was that Tusker had deliberately shot his partner down, and done the same for Jim. It was a clear case of murder. A warrant was issued for the arrest of the man, and in a little while the event was forgotten. But Jim did not forget, while in course of time the news of Lord Tom's death filtered through to New York State, where his widow was living. Mary Kingsley did not forget. She mourned her husband for many a long day, and then, like the sensible woman she was, set herself to think of her son. And that son, Jack Kingsley, is the lad who is the hero of this story. CHAPTER II Jack Kingsley's Dilemma Mary Kingsley may be described as an eminently unfortunate woman. Married at an early age, it was not long before her husband fell out of employment, and found himself hard put to it to make a living. That was in or about the year 1848; and presently, when a fever for gold digging in California spread over the United States of America, Tom Kingsley became badly bitten with the desire to try his own fortune. A town-bred man, he fared but ill at first; but in a little while his fortunes mended, so that he was able to send money to his wife. Then had come a partnership, bringing great profit at first, and later on the disaster with which the reader is acquainted. Five years after the death of Tom Kingsley, Mary married again--a man of uncertain temper, who quickly began to look upon his stepson Jack as an encumbrance. There were quarrels between himself and his wife with regard to the boy, and very soon Jack himself came in for ill-feeling and frequent chastisement. "I don't think I shall put up with it much longer, Mother," said Jack one day when there had been an unusually stormy scene. "I learned last year that when I was away from home, on a visit up the Hudson, you and Father got on well together; but immediately I returned there were quarrels, of which I was the cause. I think he's jealous of your care for me." "It seems so," admitted Mary with tears in her eyes. "I've noticed the same, Jack. Phineas is a good and kind husband when things do not disturb him, but when he's upset, matters are--well, unpleasant for all. If he had had a son of his own perhaps things would have been different; but he hasn't, and so one has to look facts in the face. You know, boy, that your mother would not have you leave. But----" "Just so, Mother," interrupted Jack. "There is always a but in these affairs. I've talked it over with Uncle up the Hudson, and he thinks I should cut from home and strike out for myself. I'm old enough. I'm seventeen and a half." "And big enough, bless you!" cried Mary. "Ah, if only the question had never arisen! But I'm not a fool anyway, Jack, and I'm looking facts in the face. I see clearly that it would be better for you, better for me, and happier altogether. Though I shall miss you, boy. How I shall you do not know. What'll you do?" Jack thought for a moment; and while he stands there, his hands sunk deep in his pockets, let us take a good look at him. Jack Kingsley was of that peculiarly fair complexion which is generally, and too often wrongly, associated with a hasty and hot temper. His hair was distinctly red, not the lank red hair one often meets with, but crisp red curls that clung closely to his head. Indeed the colour suited his general complexion remarkably well, and Jack was by no means a bad-looking fellow. For the rest, he was a typical American; well grown for his age, in fact quite tall, though a little lanky, for he was too young to have filled out yet. Still Jack was well covered with muscle, light and active on his feet, with his head well set back on a pair of stout shoulders. There was a deep white scar on his cheek, which seemed to set off the good lines of his face as a patch sets off that of a lady. That scar was the result of a determined struggle with an old school enemy, whom Jack had fought three times in succession, suffering defeat on the first two occasions. Eyes which looked at you frankly and steadily, a firm chin and expressive lips, hiding a set of excellent teeth, made up an appearance which was as decidedly attractive and confidence--inspiring as Tusker Joe's had been the opposite. "Yes, I'm old enough and big enough," said Jack, with that easy assurance so common to young Americans. "And I ain't afraid of work." "A good thing too," echoed his mother. "Because you will have to look to yourself. Your father hasn't enough to be making you allowances, and you've nothing else to look to. I'm not sorry either. A young man should look at the world for himself. The fact that he has to make his way should give him greater determination. If Tom had lived it might have been different. But that rogue who murdered him stole all he possessed, including his papers. But there--I'll not bother you with the tale. What will you do?" "I've talked it over twenty times, Mother, and Uncle has advised me to go west, down to the camps." "To dig! Gold prospecting!" exclaimed Mary Kingsley with horror in her voice; for she thought of her first husband. "Perhaps. But only if other things fail. I'm told that a smith is always wanted down there. There are spades and picks to mend, ironwork to prepare, and, in fact, lots of jobs for a handy man." "But you don't----" Mary threw her hands up in consternation. She knew that Jack had but recently left school, and had as yet no knowledge of any trade. He had done a great deal of amateur joinery at home; but then that was not smith's work. "I've tried it," said Jack sturdily. "Uncle sent me to the forge near his house, and last holidays I did a month on end. I can use a hammer now, and in a few months shall be able to do ordinary jobs, as well as shoeing horses. The older I get the stronger I shall become, no doubt; and strength is what is wanted, once one has the training and knowledge." "But for the moment you are useless to all intents and purposes," exclaimed Mary. "I can earn my bread and butter and a trifle for spending in leisure times," said George. "I stopped at Hopeville as I came through from up the Hudson, and James Orring, the smith, will take me at a dollar a week, with board and lodging thrown in. If you're willing I'll go at once." It may be imagined that Mary was thrown into a condition of unhappiness at her son's news. True, she had begun to realize more and more that the best thing for the boy was to leave home and strike out a career for himself. But she had put the evil day as far from her as possible, satisfied in her unselfishness to put up with her husband's tempers if her son could be near her. And now to hear that he was prepared to go at once, that the day was actually at hand for him to cut adrift from the nest which had held him all these years, was a bitter blow. She shed tears, and then, like the sensible woman she was, encouraged Jack to carry out his determination. She busied herself for the next two days with his clothes, and then bade farewell to him bravely. So, in due course, our hero reached Hopeville, and took up his residence with James Orring. "You'll have to fetch and carry besides smithing," said James, a blunt, kind-hearted fellow. "Labour's hard to get hereabouts. Mighty hard, I tell you, and a chap who wants wages has to earn them. But I'll not be stingy. Show us that you're a willing fellow, and the money'll be good and plenty." For a month Jack laboured steadily in the forge, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his leathern apron round his waist. And, little by little, James allowed him to undertake work at the anvil. "He's shapin' well," he told his wife, "and since that's the case I'm giving him jobs. It'll help to make him know his powers, besides giving a body time for a smoke in his own parlour. He ain't no trouble, that lad." Three months later Jack had become so good at the work that James was able to enjoy even more leisure. He began to take a holiday every now and again, and left the little township with his wife in order to visit friends. He felt he was justified in doing so, for his apprentice was wonderfully steady, and easily earned the four dollars a week he was now receiving. "We're off for the day and night," he said when he came to the forge in the early morning, his white cuffs and collar showing that he did not intend to work. "You can manage any ordinary job that comes in. But if it's something big, and you don't fancy tackling it, why, it'll wait till to-morrow. Me and the missus is off to see her sisters, way back of the forest, and we'll be here again by noon to-morrow." Jack nodded, and stopped hammering for a moment. "There are plenty of small jobs to keep me going to-day," he said. "I'll look to things. Go and enjoy yourself." Some two hours later he was disturbed at his work by the arrival of a buggy. It was driven up to the door of the forge, and a man whose clothing showed that he came from a town descended briskly. "Mornin'," he said. "Busy?" "Moderate," answered Jack, for he was not anxious to lose a job. "Got time ter do a little bit for me?" "Depends what it is," said Jack. "If it ain't big, reckon I'll tackle it. But not now. I've a heap to get on with." "Special money fer special work," exclaimed the stranger. "See here, I've broke the key of my front door, and blest if I know how I'm ter git in again. I could break a window, fer sure, but then that's more expensive than getting another key. The puzzle is that the business end is broken off in the lock, and I ain't got it." He held up the shank of a big key, one which might have belonged to the lock of a large front door, and handed it to Jack. The stem was broken and twisted halfway up, and the most important item was missing. Jack shook his head. "I could forge an end to it easy," he said. "But then, what'd be the use? It wouldn't open the lock unless you knew all about the wards. It would be waste of money." "So it would, so it would, siree," agreed the stranger, a man of some thirty-five years of age, to whom, somehow or other, Jack took an instant dislike. "But I ain't sich a fool as I look. I can give yer a plan." "Exact?" asked Jack. "To a T; a wax impression. Thar's care for you! I'm fond of a bit of modelling in wax, and sometimes try my hand at amateur sculpture. Guess it was one of the first things I did ter take a wax impression of that 'ere key. And it's comin' in useful. I'd forgot it almost, and then remembered it was in the drawer." He stopped suddenly and looked keenly at Jack; for this individual had overstepped himself. If he had broken the key of his own front door, and so locked himself out, how had he been able to get the impression from the drawer? Jack was no duffer, to be sure, but he had at the same time no cause for suspecting anyone who came to offer work. Moreover, he was pondering with all his youthful keenness how to set about the task. "It's a longish job," he said, scratching his head. "How much?" demanded the man quickly. "I don't know for sure. Depends on how long it takes. Besides, I've other work, which can't be left." "Ten dollars if it's ready in two hours," came from the stranger, making Jack open his eyes. "Right!" he said promptly. "I'll do it. Leave the shank and the impression. I'll get at the job at once." As a matter of fact it took our hero rather less than two hours to complete the task, for he was a quick workman, and this was a straightforward matter. In a very little while he had welded a piece of iron on to the broken shank, and had shaped it roughly to form the wards of the key. Then he placed it in the vice, and used a hack saw and file till all was completed. "And I wonder why he's in such a hurry, and ready to pay such a figure for it," he wondered, as he put the finishing strokes. "Ten dollars would pay for more than window and key, and--jimminy!" He gave vent to a shrill whistle, and stood looking out of the smoke-grimed window, his hand supported on a file. He was thinking of the stranger, and for the first time felt suspicious. What his suspicions were he could not say for the life of him. They were entirely intangible. But why did the man need that key? Was it actually for his front door, and, if so, how did he obtain the wax impression? Jack picked up the piece of wax and examined it. "Certainly not old," he said emphatically. "This was moulded perhaps yesterday, or the day before. I wonder if----" "Got it ready, youngster?" came a voice from the door, and looking there Jack saw the stranger. He had not come in his buggy on this occasion, but afoot; and as he spoke was gingerly stepping round the puddle and soft mud which existed near the door. "Ready, sure," exclaimed Jack, reddening. "And I hope it'll do. You said it was for the front door?" "Yes. Ye're right in one guess. It's the front door. That's a good job, lad. Let's see if it'll stand the pressure." Placing the wards in the vice, the stranger tested the strength of the key by twisting with all his might. "A strong job too," he exclaimed. "Here's the ten dollars. Four in notes, and the rest cash. Good day!" He was gone almost before Jack had finished counting the money, and, having stepped again gingerly across the mud, disappeared along the road which led through the town. He left our hero staring after him, and unconsciously examining the wax impression which he still held in his hand. "It's queer," he said. "Wish James was back home to discuss the matter. Now, if I was older, or had more experience, I suppose I should get to thinking that that fellow wanted the key for some other purpose. That it was not his own front door he wished to open with it. He told me a fib, I'm sure. He made a mistake when he talked about the impression being in his drawer. Well, there's the money, and James will be glad." At six o'clock our hero shut the forge, took his tea in the house closely adjacent, and, having washed himself and put on a suit of respectable clothes, he went down into the town and out to the other side. He was fond of a sharp walk after being cooped up in the forge all day long, and often went off into the country. It was dark when he had covered six miles, and by then he was almost in the wilderness. The road had almost ceased to exist, while there was forest land on every side. On the left, however, as he faced home again, the country was divided by the Hudson River, beside which the road wound, but elevated from its surface. Indeed, it stood three hundred feet above the water. "A fine place for a house," thought our hero, as his eyes were attracted by lights ahead and to the left. "The man who selected that site had an eye to beauty. They say he started without a dollar, and made all he has by hard work. I wonder if I shall ever be able to do anything like that. It doesn't seem possible, and yet I dare say he thought the same. It would be grand to have a big house overlooking the Hudson, and give mother a home there." Jack was not above the building of castles in the air, and as he trudged along, his busy brain conjured up a future for himself, a future in which hard work and care would bring him riches and a rise in the world. For America was the home of numbers and numbers of men who had made wealth from nothing, aided by a strong arm, a firm purpose, and continuous application. Why should he, Jack Kingsley, not be able to follow in their footsteps? What if he were to own a big forge one of these days, and, leaving it to a manager, opened others elsewhere. That would be doing business. That would be rising in the world, and, if the thing were managed properly, money would be gained and would accumulate. Jack was so entirely lost in the brilliant scenes he was conjuring up that he was barely conscious of his surroundings. He had strayed from the road now, and was traversing a strip of moorland which ran between it and the river. Then of a sudden something attracted his attention. It was a dusky outline right ahead, which presently took on the shape of a buggy. Jack halted when he was within ten paces of the cart and listened. He was no sneak at any time, but a familiar note caught his ear. Someone was speaking, and, since he could not settle the doubt in his mind at that distance, he stepped even closer, making not a sound as his feet trod the soft green carpet beneath them. "Jest ten o'clock," he heard the voice say, while someone on the far side of the buggy struck a match, shielded it with his hand, and evidently examined his watch with the aid of the flame. "Jest ten, and Jem Bowen's away down in New York city. That's good." "Fer us. Guess it ain't fer him," responded someone else. "'Cos, seeing as he ain't here, and don't have need fer certain things, we'll make free with 'em. Did yer get the key?" "Yer bet," and Jack instantly recognized that this was undoubtedly the voice of the man who had accosted him at the forge. "I ain't lived a while fer nothing. I've been down here for two weeks past lordin' it in Hopeville, and getting ter know the ropes. Thar's a young chap down at James Orring's forge as is a good workman, and soft." Jack flushed in the darkness at this allusion to himself, and stood undecided how to act. His idea of common fairness bade him decamp at once, and no doubt he would have done so had not the words he had already heard, and others which followed immediately, persuaded him that he ought to stay. "Soft?" queried the other man with a giggle which roused Jack's indignation. "Perhaps he's made a mistake." "No fear of that. He's more simple than soft. That's jest what I meant. He's jest mighty keen on his work, and don't give a thought to other matters. I guessed he was the man fer us, so I cleared old man James out with a call from his wife's sisters. Then I went down ter the forge, and the young chap asked no questions. I jest stuffed him with a yarn, and he swallowed it. At any rate, thar's the key. A fine job." "And it's like the impression?" An oath escaped the first man. He remembered now for the first time that he had left the wax model behind him. "'Tain't no matter after all," he said after a while. "The model ain't no use to him, and ten to one he's tossed it into the fire. At any rate I compared the thing he made with the model, and I guess it was exact. Thar ain't a doubt but what it'll fit." "Then thar's no use in waitin'. The lights yonder has been out fer the last three hours, save in the servants' quarters, and we know the old man who's in charge is as deaf as any adder. The sooner we break the place the better chance of getting clear. How's that?" "Sense! Nothing more and nothing less. Let's git right now. Thar ain't no need ter exert ourselves. We'll drive pretty close, and walk right in." The two figures appeared from the far side of the buggy, while Jack slid to the ground and crouched behind a bush. He caught the whiff of someone's pipe, and saw the red end of the barrel. Then the men sprang to their places, the whip cracked, and in a moment the buggy was moving away. "Ought he to follow? Should he cling to the back of the buggy and give the alarm when they reached the house? Should he leave the matter? It was no affair of his." The questions raced through Jack's mind, and for a few seconds he was undecided. Care for his own safety prompted him to pursue the easier course, to let matters drift, and not interfere himself. Then his duty--the common duty we owe one another--pulled him in the other direction. He would go and give the alarm. But those few seconds of indecision had altered the complexion of affairs. The buggy was already some yards away, and, though Jack ran, it rapidly increased its distance from him. Then the house to be burgled by these rascals was a good mile and a half away, and before he could arrive their purpose might be carried out. "Not if I can stop them," said Jack stubbornly. "It's clearly for me to do something. I'll put a spoke in their wheel." He took to his heels at once and cut straight across towards the house, at that moment hidden from him by a rise in the land. However, he soon sighted the light which had been referred to, and within a little while was at the gates which shut in the surroundings of the park attached to the mansion. They were open, and the buggy stood just within, the reins being secured to the ironwork. Jack stepped boldly through into the park, and ran along on the grass border. In a little while he reached the drive, and, skirting that--for to have stepped into it would have been to make a noise--he presently came to the large front door. It was open. "And the thieves have gone in. I'll follow, and then kick up a rumpus," he said. "They shall not get away with any booty if I can avoid it." He stepped across the threshold, and was within the mansion immediately. Listening for a moment, he heard sounds in the distance, and set off in that direction. "Better catch them red-handed than not," he thought. "Guess this'll be a surprise for 'em." CHAPTER III A Rude Awakening "Guess this'll be a surprise for 'em." His heart throbbing a little faster than it was wont to do, and his pulses beating tumultuously, Jack crept along a passage, and presently came to a large door which stood ajar. There was someone within the room without a doubt; for he heard whispering voices, while, though the place was not lighted, every now and again a ray swept past the door, and penetrated through the chink beneath it, as if one of the burglars had a lamp and were flashing it to and fro. Then he heard the chink of metal. "Silver!" he heard someone exclaim. "H--h--ush! You'll wake the house, booby! Silver it is, and plenty of it. Easier ter take Jem Bowen's glint than dig for gold in Californy. Put 'em in the sack. Never mind bending the things. They'll all come out the same in the melting-pot. Here, leave the job ter me and get to the other cabinet." The dulled sound of footsteps came to Jack's ear, and every now and again a metallic sound, as the silver articles were dropped into the sack. As for himself, he had made no sound as he came along the passage, for it was luxuriously carpeted. He stood at the door, hesitating again, eager to enter and face the men, and yet doubting whether the right moment had yet arrived. And our hero was to discover again to his cost that indecision does not always pay. In fact, that the man who can make up his mind on the spur of the moment, in a flash as it were, and act upon it inflexibly, without doubts, without a second's delay, is the man who more often succeeds in this life than he who is dilatory. But expedition in such matters is not to be expected from a lad of Jack's age. It was only natural that he should hesitate. After all, he was suddenly face to face with a dilemma which might well have tried the discretion and courage and steadiness of an elder man. He hesitated. "If I go now they will get clean away with that silver. If I wait till they are fully engaged, and then wake someone in the house, then they may well be captured. Guess I'll wait. Helloo!" Another dull footfall had come to his ears, and he swung round to see who had caused it. A big man was stealing up to him along the corridor, a man dressed in nightshirt and trousers, bearing a small lantern, and armed with a club. Jack was thoroughly startled, and, to be honest, lost his head. He was between two fires, and was likely to be singed by both. "S-s-s-sh!" he whispered, holding up his finger. "In there. In there." He pointed to the room at the door of which he stood, and again held up his finger for silence. But the man who was creeping down that passage had but one idea in his mind. He had been awakened by a sound, and from his position in one wing of the mansion had caught the flash of a light in one of the living rooms. The instant he saw Jack he took him for a burglar, and, now that he was within striking distance, he disregarded our hero's signs, and, suddenly dashing in, brought his club down with a furious swish. Fortunately for Jack it missed the mark. But in another moment they were locked in one another's arms, the newcomer endeavouring to use his club, while Jack gripped his arm with all his might. They fell to the ground during the struggle, and continued the contest there. "Leave go!" shouted Jack at the top of his voice. "Can't you tell I'm on the same errand as you are. There are two men in there. Burglars! I've tracked them." Crash! The club, seized in the man's other hand, came with a resounding bang against his head, and in a second our hero was unconscious. At the same moment the door of the room was torn open, and the lamp, which had rolled to the floor of the passage, but which was not extinguished, showed the two whom Jack had followed. "Hands up!" shouted the fellow who had so unexpectedly appeared upon the scene, and who had made such a stupid error with respect to our hero. "Yer won't! Then take the consequences!" He was a sturdy fighter, this caretaker of the mansion and in one brief half-second had broken the arm of one of the men. Then he attacked the second, and no doubt would have done him a like injury with his formidable weapon had not the fellow drawn back. Something bright glinted in his hand; there was a sharp report, which went echoing down the corridor, and instantly his attacker fell to the ground. "Wall! If that don't beat everything! Dead, is he?" The one with the broken arm bent over, supporting his injured limb with the other, and looked at the man who had been shot. "As mutton," he said curtly; "and serve him right. He's broken my arm." "Who's the other? Seems he must have been following us, and this old fool took him for one of our gang. Turn him over." Together they rolled Jack over on to his back and inspected his face. "Gee!" cried the leader, the one who had come to the forge that morning; "ef it ain't the youngster who made the key for me. And I thought he was soft. Phew! Wall, he's brought it on hisself. Get the sack, mate, and let's be moving. We know the old man was alone in the house, so thar's no hurry. But it won't do ter wait. Someone else might be in the game. Get the sack, and we'll drive." Without a thought for the man they had shot, or for poor Jack, they decamped from the mansion, leaving the two victims lying on the floor. Ten minutes later their buggy was whirling them away, so that no trace was left of them when the morning came. And it was not till then that the crime was discovered. A gardener found the door open, and, being unable to make the caretaker hear, entered the mansion. An hour later Hopeville's solitary policeman was there. "Hm! A burglary," he said knowingly; "and the old man came in at the right moment. Is he dead?" "Left for dead, but still breathing ever so gently," answered the gardener. "I've sent for the doctor." "And t'other fellow?" "Head pretty nigh bashed in. Insensible, and likely to remain so for a day," was the report. "Reckon Davy caught him nicely. What'll you do?" "Note the surroundings first. Then, when the doctor arrives, get 'em to bed. Reckon the thief couldn't be moved yet awhile." It was an hour before surgical aid arrived, and very soon afterwards Jack was put into a bed in one of the attics, with a groom to watch him, and make sure that he did not escape. As for Davy, he was carried to a sofa, the movement nearly shaking the slender thread of life still remaining out of his body. He rallied slightly, opened his eyes, and in a feeble voice gave an account of the burglary. Then he closed his eyes, and died within ten minutes. "Which makes the case worse for that young blackguard upstairs," said the man of law. "To think that James Orring's man should take to such ways. I've sent along for him, so as to ask a few questions. Guess he'll be mighty put about. It was only yesterday that he passed me on the road, and got to talking about young Jack Kingsley. It'll be a case of----" He jerked his head back, and indicated a hanging. "Y-e-e-es," agreed the other doubtfully, "ef it's proved. In the States a man ain't guilty, and don't hang in consequence, till he's proved to have done murder." "Proved! It's a clear case," exclaimed the policeman. "Clear as daylight. Here's the young blackguard discovered on the premises, knocked silly by Davy's club, and Davy himself dyin'. Ef that ain't clear, what is?" His familiarity with the law, the necessity for showing greater knowledge than the gardener, caused the policeman to sniff with indignation. To his legal mind Jack was not only guilty of the offence, but was already condemned. Indeed, looking at the evidence clearly, things wore a black aspect for him. Now that Davy was dead there was no one to give evidence but himself, and the poor fellow who had so recently died had definitely stated that Jack was one of the burglars, believing that to be the case himself. Let the reader imagine our hero's feelings when at length he regained consciousness, and was taken to the station-house. "Taken for one of the burglars, just because that poor, stupid fellow made the mistake! Surely not," he groaned. "That would be too cruel! I can prove that I was not. I can describe what happened--how I met them on the heath and followed. I can speak about the key, and----" He broke off with a groan, for as he reviewed the matter he realized that he could but make a statement of what had happened, but that there was no one to bear it out. After all, facts were glaringly against him. Indeed he realized that to the full when he was brought up before the sheriff and judges. "The prisoner states that he was at work in the forge when a man entered and desired to have a key made," counsel for the prosecution announced, when summing up the case. "That may or may not be the case, though we can believe that it happened, for there were footmarks in the mud outside the smithy which correspond with others on the lawn outside the mansion. But we maintain that those marks were those of an accomplice. The prisoner made the key to match a wax impression supplied by this accomplice, and carelessly left the impression in the smithy. Now let us follow the prisoner's movements. He shuts the smithy and goes off in the evening, as he has done many times before. But let us bear in mind an important item of evidence. On ordinary days he would have to be back by nine o'clock at the latest. But on this particular evening he owns that he walked so far that a return at that hour was impossible. With that we place the fact that James Orring and his wife were lured away from Hopeville for the night. Is that not very suggestive of prisoner's complicity in this crime? He lures his patron away, so that his absence shall not be detected. And why should he walk farther on this particular occasion? To meet the buggy with his two accomplices. The tracks on the heather are clear enough to show that three men were about the buggy. It stands to reason that one man could not have been spying, for he would certainly have been detected. "And now we come to the mansion. Davy declares that this man was one of the miscreants, though he did not say who fired the shot. That is his dying deposition. Is it probable that he would have thrown himself upon a defenceless youth? Highly improbable. Unbelievable. Contrary to common sense. And had he done so, is it possible that he could still have persevered in his error? No, a thousand times no! Davy, at death's door, gave us his honest conviction." Terribly black was the evidence, and it may be imagined with what a sinking heart our unfortunate hero listened to it all. There was no one to speak for him, save honest James Orring, who sturdily maintained that his apprentice was innocent. "Find the weapon with which he shot the man Davy," he asked savagely, "and then talk of the lad's guilt. A steadier boy never worked in a forge. Him a burglar! Not much! And ef he was, do yer think I shouldn't have spotted it, with him under my eyes day and night?" Jack's case stirred the countryside, and filled the columns of the paper. Discussion as to his guilt or innocence waxed loud and furious, and was responsible for many incidents. People took up the cudgels for him in the saloons, and often enough that led to angry words and to broken heads. Even the jury wavered. Looking at Jack in the dock they were bound to confess that a franker face never before was seen. The prisoner faced his terrible position with a courage and fortitude which were commendable, while his answers were so direct, so evidently spontaneous and sincere, that even with that damning evidence before them the most experienced of the jury felt a qualm, hesitated a little, and was inclined to give some benefit to the prisoner. "It'll be manslaughter," said James dolefully, "as he discussed the matter with his wife. They'll never hang Jack, even though the evidence is so black against him. He'll be given ten years, ten long years, in prison." Mrs. Orring wept, and was joined by Jack's mother, who had come to stay with them during the trial. "Ten long years," she moaned. "He'll be an old man by then. To think that a bonny fellow such as he must be shut up for the finest years of his life, must be treated like a wild beast. Oh, it is horrible!" "He shan't! I tell yer he shan't!" cried James, banging his fist on the parlour table till the whole floor shook. "Even though I war the victim of a hoax that cleared me away for the time being, I ain't never had ought but a friendly feelin' for young Jack, and I'm dead sartin that he's as innocent as a babe. If them skunks who were in it had the pluck of sparrows, they'd come forward and declare theirselves. But they won't--trust 'em! And they'll see this young chap nigh hanged and put in prison, while they're free ter burglar other places. Jack's up against it hot and strong, and I'm his friend. I say again, he shan't go to prison." His vehemence was remarkable, and stirred his listeners. "Not go to prison! You won't----" commenced Mrs. Orring. "Silence, woman!" thundered James, his brows knit close together, his eyes staring at the opposite wall. "Ye've heard what I've had to say. Then silence! Not another word! Don't breathe a syllable to a soul. Good night!" The usually pleasant and easy-going smith got up and left the room abruptly, while the two women stared at one another, half-laughing and half-weeping. "This is how I look at it," said James, when he was well away from the house. "I can't get to think in there with women round me, but here a man can see things clearer. Jack's done. If he ain't hanged, he'll be put away fer ten solid years. And how's he ter prove his innocence when he's cooped up within four walls? He can't, and thar's no one else to do it fer him. And supposin' he goes fer the ten years, he's branded as a felon, and won't have the spirit or the energy ter try to clear himself when at last he gets free. I don't, as a rule, get advisin' a man as is innocent ter skip before his trial's finished. It makes things all the blacker agin him. But here's a case where no good can come with waitin'. He's branded, sure, and he'll stay branded if he goes to prison. I'll go and see Pete." Pete was an old friend of James's, and because of help he had had at a critical time, from the owner of the smithy, he always had an indulgent ear for James. "Ef yer could get ter chat along with the policeman, maybe I'd be able ter take a look at Jack," said James, accosting his friend, and passing him a wink. "Not yet awhile, though, 'cos I'm busy. But after tea. Jest about sevin o'clock." Pete looked up quickly, and a sharp glance shot from his eyes. He was a man of sixty-five, perhaps, though he looked older, and was already as white as snow as to his hair and beard. But he was no fool, was Pete, and his glance showed that he half-understood James. "You aer thinkin' that boy's innocent?" he asked, as he sucked at his pipe. "Dead sartin," replied James. "Sit down and have a smoke. Try mine." He handed out his tobacco skin, and Pete filled from it gratefully. "Up!" he remarked, as he pulled at the pipe; "and you was thinkin' maybe that Jack----" "Yer know what I was thinkin', Pete," exclaimed James bluntly. "Look ye here. Have yer ever been dead down on yer luck, right clean hard up agin it?" Pete nodded, his ferrety little eyes watching the smoke curl up from the bowl, and his whole expression denoting satisfaction. "I've been dead down on the rocks, with the pinnacles comin' clear through," he admitted, as if the recollection caused him enjoyment. "I've had fortune play me so scurvily that I couldn't see a crust anywheres, and hadn't but one friend ter turn to. Yes, James, I've knowd what it is ter be clean up agin it." "And yer didn't want help?" "Ye've struck it wrong. Every man wants help some day. It may be only when he's old and tottery, like me----" he stopped to smile, and watch the smoke again--"jest like me," he repeated. "Sometimes he don't want it even then. But there's others want it, soon and plenty, when they're just cuttin' their teeth. Guess Jack's one of 'em." "And he's jest got one friend," said James slowly. "That's me." "Then you've struck it wrong agin. Jack's got two. Jack's friend is my friend. I don't forget the time when I was up agin it." The shrewd, sharp look came again from the old man, and James noted it. Taking his courage in both hands he blurted out his news. "I'm goin' to fetch him out of that ere jug of a prison," he said curtly. "Help me with the policeman, and--and----" "Why, bless us! what am I doin'," cried Pete, suddenly taking his pipe from his mouth. "It's five o'clock now, and I must be goin'. I've got a 'pointment with the constable at sivin, jest to do a bit of talkin'. So long, James." "And bless you," thought the owner of the smithy, as Pete departed. "Now ef I don't fix it, my name ain't James Orring. First thing's an aliby." He stood thinking for a few moments, and then hastened back home. Tea was ready, and after that, and a smoke, it wanted only a quarter to seven. "Missus," said James suddenly, "I'm agoin' to bed. I've a headache. Jest come in and put the light out, will yer." Mrs. Orring was not gifted with a brilliant wit, and stood for a while regarding her husband with questioning eyes. For James certainly did not look to have a headache. If ever a man looked in robust and absolute health it was he. But Jack's mother saved the situation. "I think I should go and do as he says in a few moments, dear," she whispered. "You see, to-morrow you will be able to tell the people that James went to bed, and that you left him there, sick with a headache." It dawned upon Mrs. Orring that this manoeuvre of her husband's might have something to do with Jack, and promptly she carried out his wishes. "And jest sit right there in the front parlour," said James, as the light was put out. "Then I shan't be disturbed with the talking. Yer can come in and see how my head's doin' when I call. Not before, 'cos I shall likely be sleepin'." He yawned, turned over, and drew the clothes well across him, as if disposing himself for sleep. But within a minute of Mrs. Orring's departure, James was out of bed. To open the window and leap out was the work of a moment. Then he went straight to the smithy, procured a file and a hammer, and, covering his face with a scarf, set off towards the prison, choosing a path at the back of the houses. "Better see as Pete's got the constable in tow," he said to himself as he went. "Now's the time to work a liberation, 'cos this jail ain't by noways strong. But after the trial's over, and the verdict's given, guess Jack'll be taken to a place as strong as could be wanted. Now what in thunder aer we ter do with him when he's out." The difficulty almost floored James, and for a time he sat pondering. "Got it!" he cried at last. "Thar's bound ter be a hue and cry, and a dickens of a fuss; and the country-side'll be searched high and low. Guess I'll help ter put 'em off the tracks." Some ten minutes later he was close to the prison, and had safely hidden himself in the angle of a house from which he could watch the street. Hopeville boasted of a town hall and a jail, both perched at the edge of a square, which, now that the township was a dozen years old, had become the fashionable promenade of the inhabitants. It was lighted by some half-dozen swaying oil lamps, and was provided with a few benches. On one of these, some distance from the tiny prison, Pete was seated as James looked, smoking quietly, and engaged in earnest conversation with the only constable that Hopeville possessed. And if that conversation could have been overheard, it would have appeared at once that the artful Pete was playing on the constable's vanity. "Good for me! Good for Jack!" thought James. "Now, I won't lose no time about it, and I'll go at it like a man." Being the only smith in the place, he was thoroughly acquainted with the ins and outs of the prison, and knew the solitary cell it boasted. James was no believer in half-measures. He clambered on to a wall at the back of the prison, made his way along it, and gained a roof. The grilled window of the cell looked on to this, and in a twinkling James was at it. "Hist!" he called through the bars. "That you, Jack!" He had to repeat the summons before our hero put in an appearance. "What is it?" he asked sleepily. "You! James!" "Fer sure. Look here, Jack! Ye're innocent, and we knows it." Our hero nodded curtly. He had heard the same tale from James before, and had blessed him for his support. But the iron of this terrible time had seared his mind; his feelings were dulled; he felt that he was already branded a thief and a murderer. "And I've made up me mind ter give yer a chance. Look here, lad! Ef yer go to prison it'll be fer ten solid years, and thar'll be no one ter clear you." "Well," asked Jack, his eyes brightening a little. "Ef yer bolts, people can't say more than they have done. Yer ain't more guilty than yer wur afore, but yer have a chance ter get hold of that chap and make him clear yer. Savvy? Wall, yer can take yer liberty or leave it. It's right here, outside the windy. Will yer have it?" Jack thought for a moment. He realized that to leave was practically to declare his guilt. Then he looked at the other side, the prison side: the impossibility of being able to show his innocence--the hopelessness of his future life. Rightly or wrongly he chose liberty. "I'll take it," he said breathlessly. "How'll you manage the bars? I'll leave 'em to you, while I scribble a note." He went across to the far side of the cell, where light entered the place in a thin stream from a candle placed in a niche in the corridor outside. Pulling out a pocket-book, he wrote boldly and in large letters: "This is to declare solemnly, on my word of honour, that I am entirely innocent, and that every word I have uttered is true. I have to face death or imprisonment under the brand of a felon, and without hope of justice reaching me. On the far side of my prison bars I see liberty: if I can gain it, the chance to clear my good name and bring the right men to justice. I choose the last, whether it stamps me guilty or not. I will return when the time arrives, and will deliver myself up again to the law." He scrawled his name boldly beneath the words, and left the sheet of paper on the tiny table. Meanwhile James had stripped off his coat, had wrapped it into a thick buffer, and, placing this against the bars, had broken them with a few lusty blows from his hammer. In a minute Jack was free, shaking himself like a dog just emerged from the water. "And now?" he asked. "Jest come along with me, and doggo aer the order. Do yer remember the store of scrap, back of the smithy? Then ye're goin' thar. Thar's a place pretty well built all ready for yer. I'll look after things when ye're hid, and send 'em off on the wrong scent. But doggo it's got ter be. Yer must lie as quiet as any mouse." James led him swiftly from the broken cell and took him to the smithy. At the back, in the open, was a mass of odds and ends of iron. Axletrees, plough-irons, swingle-bars, rods and hoops, and old horseshoes galore. The heap was piled high, and leaned against the side of the smithy. But James was a tidy man, and for a long while had insisted on piling his old horseshoes wall-fashion, and in course of time quite a big wall had been formed. "Thar's room and plenty for yer," he whispered to Jack, indicating the heap. "Get along in, while I sling a few bars up agin it. And not a word till I give the signal, not even if you're starvin'." Jack crept into the hole, which, by the way, he had never noticed before in the scrap heap, and James threw a number of bars and hoops up against the opening. "Ter-morrow there'll be shoes and sichlike to sling," he said. "So long, and don't forget it, it's doggo." Running as fast as possible, James made for the river, and in ten minutes had beaten in the boards of an old dinghy which had once been Pete's, and which was now old and useless. He cut the painter and let the wreck drift. "It'll be down ten foot and more in a jiffy," he said, "and in a while it'll reach the bottom, or get broken up and float away. Anyway, it'll give 'em a scent. They'll turn to the river, or the far shore." Satisfied with his labours he retreated to his house, clambered in through the window of the bedroom, and presently called loudly for his wife. "Wuss," he said as she entered, sitting up and treating her to a broad wink. "It's wuss, that head of mine. Feels like a swollen pertater. Can't think. Can't even sleep. What's the clock?" "The time? Why, ten," answered Mrs. Orring. "You've been asleep, sure." "That's likely. I thought it war somewhere's in the neighbourhood of sevin. Good night!" James threw himself flat again, and grunted, while Mrs. Orring retired. "He's been fast asleep all this while, I do believe," she said, addressing Jack's mother, and nodding significantly. "Poor dear, I've left him to it!" Having safely established his alibi, James Orring fell into a deep slumber, and indeed was still snoring heavily when the constable appeared and insisted on searching the premises. CHAPTER IV The Road to California Jack Kingsley's escape from the jail at Hopeville caused a huge sensation, and the hue and cry raised by the constable and by the officials in charge of the case extended into the country on every side. It was clear that he had been aided by some outside individual, and, as was perfectly natural, suspicion fell upon James Orring. "He's been the one all through that's stuck up for the prisoner," reported the constable, at his wits' end to provide a tale which would clear himself from blame, "and I can't help thinking he's done it. But he's too clever." "How?" demanded the official who was interrogating him. "Just this way. James has witnesses to swear he was at home from after tea till I went round to inspect and search the premises. I went to his house the instant I learned that the prisoner had escaped, and found James fast asleep." "Or kidding," suggested the official. "No; right down fast asleep, and no mistake. And Mrs. Orring, whom I've known all my life, declared he'd gone to bed with a baddish headache soon after tea, and had been there ever since. He'd wakened once, and had called her." "Is there anyone else whom you suspect of complicity in the escape?" he was asked. "Nary one. Jack Kingsley was a stranger, so ter speak, and hadn't any friends. That's why I'll stake my davy James was in it." "Well? And have you any news as to the direction he took?" "Down stream," answered the constable emphatically. "I searched James Orring's yard thoroughly, yer bet, and then someone told me that a boat was missing. Later on it was reported stranded on the far shore, with the planks kicked in. So the prisoner is at large over thar." "Where we shall lay our hands on him," said the official. "I will send his description to all the stations." But a week passed and still there was no trace of the prisoner. "Yer must jest lie low and doggo a little longer," said James one early morning, standing at the door of the smithy, and speaking apparently to the air. "Find it comfortable in thar?" "Been in a worse spot," sang out Jack cheerily, for he was still ensconced behind James's scrap heap. "It's a little cramping to the legs, that's all." "And had enough to eat?" "Heaps, thanks!" "Then stick it out a bit longer. That 'ere Simpkins, the constable, can't get it outer his mind that I war the one to free yer. He's got a sorter idea you're here, and he comes slinking round most times of the day. So don't yer show so much as a finger." Jack, fortunately for him, obeyed these instructions to the letter, never emerging from his retreat even at night-time. For one evening the constable put in an unexpected appearance, coming from the back of the houses. He found James Orring washing before a bucket placed in the yard standing between the smithy and the house, and his wife holding a towel in readiness for him. "Why, it aer the constable!" said James in surprise, as his face emerged from the pail and he stretched out for the towel. "What in thunder aer he come along fer? Say, Simpkins, will yer come and have a bit of tea with us? I knows ye've been a trifle put out over this affair, and have got it stuck into yer head that I'm the man that's done it. Jest try to get the idea put clean aside, and let bygones be bygones. Come and have a bit of tea and a smoke afterwards." But Simpkins was not to be beguiled. He strode into the smithy, and afterwards carefully searched every corner of the yard, climbing on to the top of the scrap heap. Evidently he disbelieved James, and thought he was being hoaxed. His attitude vexed Mrs. Orring till her patience gave out. "Look ye here, young man," she called out at last, "ef yer want to come searching round here most hours of the day and night, yer'd better by half come and take up yer quarters here altogether, so as to save trouble. Trade's not been that good that we'd sniff at a lodger, and we'd make yer comfortable. Then yer could sit right at the smithy door, and count the people what comes during the day. Or yer could sit right thar in the parlour, and make sure as sure that we ain't feedin' young Jack. More shame to yer to hound after him so! A wee, young chap such as he." James Orring laughed heartily, while Simpkins looked confused, and reddened. He had a very great idea of his own importance, and banter irritated him. Moreover, cases in Hopeville being few and far between, he had made the utmost of this one of burglary and murder. He had been so energetic, in fact, that he had won the commendation of the sheriff. And now the escape of his prisoner at the eleventh hour had brought ridicule down on his head. People joked him in the street, and his wounded dignity was ready to blaze out at anything. If Mrs. Orring had been alone he would have given her a piece of his mind. But James was there, looking particularly formidable, and laughing heartily, thereby showing he cared not a fig for the constable. "If I was you I'd jest git," said James. "This here smithy ain't a healthy place for sech as you. Don't yer take my missus serious. She don't want you ter stop up here; not at all." "I'm open to lay anything that you helped the prisoner to escape," blustered Simpkins; "and I believe that if I searched high and low I'd find him." "Then why not get to at it?" asked James with a bantering smile. "One would have thought yer had already done it pretty thoroughly." "Then I haven't. I'd like to pull the smithy down and see what's behind those bellows, or up in the loft Besides, there's that heap of scrap. Fer all I know you've hidden him there." James Orring went off into a peal of gruff laughter while his wife turned away to hide her dismay. As for Simpkins, he walked to the tumbled heap of iron rusting against the smithy, and began to pull portions of it away. "Say, constable, you'll be the death of me," gasped James, doubling up with laughing. "Why, if that ain't Seth and Piggy Harten! Say, boys, what do yer think's the latest? This here Simpkins guesses as Jack Kingsley's hidden up somewhars here, and he wants a man or two ter pull the smithy about, tear down the bellows and sichlike, and cart away that heap of scrap. He's jest took on that heap. He believes as Jack's lyin' there at the bottom." It happened that Seth was not on the best of terms with the constable, and at James's words he giggled audibly, and turned a scornful face to Simpkins. "You're jest about right," he cried. "Jack's 'way down below that heap o' iron scrap, and yer'd best get a horse or so to pull it about. Reckon he'll be no use as a prisoner though." Simpkins turned an enquiring look upon him. He was a stubborn fellow, this constable, and all the banter only made him more determined. "Why no use?" he asked. "'Cos he'll jest be as flat as a pancake. Jest like a sheet, you bet. There's three ton o' iron there, man, and it'd squeeze the life out of even a constable." Seth went off laughing, while the constable again reddened. Turning on his heel, he gave James one quick, vindictive look, and then departed. "He means mischief," said Mrs. Orring. "That man suspects something, and he'll not be satisfied till he's rummaged the smithy and every corner. Jack'll be found." "Ef he's here," answered James cunningly; "ef he's here, missus. Jest yer hop right in and tell Mrs. Kingsley as her son'll be at the back door a bit after sevin. He'll be sayin' goodbye. Ef she's got a trifle for him, she'd better have it ready." It was already getting dusk, so that there was little fear of being disturbed. James went promptly to Jack's hiding place and dragged away the odds and ends of iron he had thrown against the heap so as to hide the opening. "Yer can hop out right now," he said. "Now, ye've got ter git, and precious slippy, else Simpkins'll have yer. How aer yer off for brass?" "I've saved fifty-eight dollars," answered Jack promptly. "And here's another fifty. On loan, lad. Yer can pay me back some o' these days when things have shaped a little differently. Now, what aer yer going ter do?" Jack had been thinking it over during his enforced idleness in his retreat, and answered promptly. "I'll make west to California," he said. "Once there I shall be perfectly safe. It's the getting there that will be difficult. There's this red head of mine to tell tales everywhere." "To be sure there is. But yer ain't no need ter fear. Mrs. Orring and me thought of that. We've sent down river for a bottle of hair dye, and guess it'll change yer nicely. Come along into the smithy, and we'll try it right now. So you'll make for Californy? And how?" "By road. If I tried the rail I should certainly be detected. I'll make down by road somehow. Perhaps I'll get a job on the way. If not, I'll walk at night and hide up during the day." "That's a cute idea; and say, youngster, when you gets there jest send a line. We've took your mother's address, and we can post on to her. Don't give no proper address, and don't sign a name. Savvy? Now fer the hair." An hour later our hero was well outside the township of Hopeville, on the road to California, hundreds and hundreds of miles to the west. He was glad now to have said farewell to his friends and to be alone; for he felt that he could think better, that he could shape his actions for the future, and decide what course to follow. Uppermost in his mind, swamping all other considerations, was the overwhelming desire to prove his innocence. That was a task which he would never neglect nor forget. But for the moment he must get clear away from Hopeville, and be lost, as it were. "In a year or so I'll be able to grow a beard," he said to himself. "By then this matter will have been forgotten, and so long as I do not come to Hopeville I shall be secure. Yes, I must get away, and wait till my appearance is changed. For the present I have a long walk before me." All that night he trudged on in a westerly direction, traversing a road which was hardly deserving of the name. It was little better than a cart track. And the following night found him some thirty miles from his starting-point. He had met no one, and so far as he knew no one had seen him. As the evening of the third day from Hopeville closed in he ate the remainder of his provisions and took the road again; for he had slept during the day hidden in a small wood. "To-morrow I shall have to show myself," he said. "I must buy food, or I shall be unable to stand the walking. I'll try some farm. That will be better than going to a town." It was, indeed, the only sensible course to pursue under the circumstances, for, had he but known of it, the constable at Hopeville had supplied a description of the runaway to all towns within a hundred miles, while so greatly had the trial preyed upon Jack that, in spite of the change in his complexion, he felt nervous of discovery, as if the first woman or child who met him would recognize him at once. It was a horrible feeling, and not to be conquered till time had elapsed. Jack had covered some five miles of his tramp that night when his ear detected sounds in the distance. He moved forward cautiously, and presently discovered a cart and horse halted in the roadway. A man was walking to and fro beside the cart, talking to himself excitedly, and kicking the ground as if he were in a temper. Our hero took as close a look at him as possible, for now and again the stranger crossed before the beam of light thrown out from a solitary lantern. He was ridiculously short, and ludicrously dressed. On his head was a black wideawake, from beneath the brim of which rolls of hair descended till they trailed on to his shoulders. He wore a short frockcoat, the tails of which came little lower than his waist, and served to accentuate his lack of stature, while a massive chain flashed across a rather ample waistcoat. The face was neither ugly nor handsome, while at the same time, in spite of the temper in which this individual undoubtedly was, it gave promise of kindliness. Jack took his courage in both hands. "Goody!" he said, striding up. "Anything amiss?" The stranger started back at first, and looked not a little frightened. Then he took the lamp and inspected our hero carefully, while it was as much as the latter could do to return his glances. That odious accusation, the fact that he was an escaping criminal, had almost robbed his youthful face of its refreshing frankness. "My word! Thought you was that villain George at first," said the stranger. "Jest see here. I hired him out to look after the hosses and act the professional man. He took good wages too. And he's jest bolted. Said as he'd follow, and hasn't. Met him on the road?" Jack shook his head. "Seen no one," he said. "Wall, that jest proves it. He's done a bolt, and my tin box has gone with him. Guess it's lucky I cleared the cash last night. What might you be doin'?" "Travelling west," said Jack. "Business?" asked the stranger. "N-n-no. Just travelling west," answered Jack. "I'm making for the diggings." "Oh!" exclaimed the little man. "Likely enough you're goin' to meet friends there." "I haven't any," said Jack, shaking his head, and thinking rather bitterly of his position. "Then you ain't in a hurry, and you ain't fixed for a job. P'raps you've no need fer one." Again Jack shook his head. He was not going to be communicative to this little man, and yet at the same time he could not afford to throw away a chance of help. If this stranger needed a man, why should he, Jack, not accept the post? "I'm ready for a job when I find one," he said quietly. "But I'm bound for the west." "And so am I, and I need someone to accompany me. See here," cried the little man, "you're a fair height, and would make up splendidly. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you ten dollars a week and your food to come with me. You'll have to feed and mind the horses, and clean out the van. Then, when we set up shop at the towns, you'll have to dress up fine and come on the stage." "Stage!" exclaimed Jack, somewhat bewildered. "Jest so. I'll explain. I'm a travelling conjuror and mesmerist. I have to have help. Wall, to be candid, there are tricks that can't be worked without a second man. You'll have a beard and moustache, and will dress in a frockcoat, and all that, to look professional, and you'll hang about till I call for one of the audience to come on the stage. That'll be your chance. You'll hop up, and the trick will go like fire. And for the job, ten dollars a week, your grub, and lodging in the van. It's as snug as any house." It was a tempting offer, and Jack decided to accept it at once. But he asked another question. "How about California? I'm bound there, and must go. I warn you I could not stay very long in your service." "And no need. I'm makin' west, and you and me'll be strangers wherever we go. Leastwise, you will, for I've been along the route before. Wall, now, you'll get known, and ef on the return run the same man appears, and walks up on the stage, the people would spot something wrong and funny. You can leave at the end of the trip, and I'll pick up another man." "Then I accept," said Jack. He had been thinking keenly all the while, and saw in the offer now made him an excellent opportunity of obtaining work and a disguise at the same time. One thing, however, he did not like entirely. He asked himself whether he was to be a dupe, whether the post he had accepted would entail behaviour likely to gull the public. If that were so, he decided offhand that he would leave this little man promptly; for, though his position was critical, and arrest stared him in the face at any moment, Jack was not the one to lend himself to dishonesty. "I'm innocent, Heaven knows," he thought, somewhat bitterly, "and I have to clear myself of that crime for which I was about to be condemned. But I will not begin the task I have set myself by acting dishonestly in any way." "What name, please?" he asked. "Amos Shirley, at your service from right now." In the feeble light given by the solitary lamp the little man pulled off his huge hat with a theatrical gesture, and bobbed in Jack's direction. Indeed, looking at him there, he was, without doubt, a comical little man, full of his own importance, with plenty of humour and kindliness, and, if the truth be told, given not a little to pomposity. "Amos Shirley, conjuror, clairvoyant, mesmerist, known up and down the country. And you?" "Tom Starling," answered Jack, reddening under Amos's gaze, a fact which the little man noted, for he coughed significantly. "And I wish to say that I reserve the right of giving a week's notice at any time, and also that while I will help you willingly, and to the best of my ability, I will not lend myself to any underhand tricks, any sort of subterfuge, likely to gull your public." Amos Shirley gave vent to a shrill whistle. "Then the job's off," he said promptly, watching our hero closely. For this conjuring business was no easy one to manipulate, particularly with the intelligent people to be met with in America. Amos had before now discovered that an audience of miners, for instance, not wholly convinced of the genuineness of a trick, were apt to insist on embarrassing conditions, and were not above pelting the conjuror, or even perforating the stage with their bullets. He had, indeed, found before now that miners and cowboys required clever humouring; and while they were ready to pay liberally, and, indeed, to throw dollar notes on the stage if pleased in some particular, that they were at the same time a merry, high-spirited lot, apt now and again to become playfully reckless, and attempt a counter attraction, which chiefly took the form of showing how easily they could shoot the front lights of the stage away, or puncture the broad-brimmed hat of the conjuror with their bullets without doing any real harm. "I'm sorry," replied Jack. "Goody!" "Hold on. Say now," said Amos, feeling that he was about to lose a chance. "Who said there was any gulling?" "No one," answered our hero. "At the same time I gathered there might be some sort of wish on your part. I'll help in every way when it's a case of conjuring, for we all know that sleight of hand is required, and general smartness. But in mesmerism, or anything of that sort, I'll not take a hand." "Gee! That's straight. Say now," cried Amos, "I'll take you on those terms. You're a queer fish, you are, sticking out about such a trifle. But we won't quarrel. You will learn what's expected, and I've sufficient good tricks to play without overstepping your decision. Let's git along. Had any food?" For five weeks in succession our hero travelled west with Amos, and the two became excellent friends. He found the work to his liking, and the post an excellent passport. No one, unless well acquainted with Jack, could have detected in Amos's helper the escaped prisoner from Hopeville. The hair die disguised him well, while the beard and moustache he donned, as soon as the stage was erected before the travelling wagon, made him even more secure. But it is always the unforeseen that happens. One evening, when he had stepped on to the stage, dressed in top hat, frockcoat, beard, and moustache, to help his employer in some conjuring trick, his eyes, roaming over the faces of the collected audience, met one which was familiar. It was Simpkins, the constable from Hopeville, sharp and alert, closely inspecting his neighbours in the audience, and every person within his vision. CHAPTER V On the Railway As the constable's eyes travelled round the audience watching Amos Shirley's conjuring performance, and finally alighted on the stage, Jack felt as if he would have given anything if the rough boards beneath his feet would open. He sat in a chair, holding in his hand a handkerchief, in which his employer had, a moment or so before, wrapped a silver dollar, before the eyes of the gazer. "You are sure it is there, ain't yer, friends?" said the little man, stepping to the front of the stage, and wagging his head in a peculiar way he had. "Did I hear someone say it was not there? Yes, I guess so. Then will you please to open the handkerchief, sir, and show the audience whether it contains something or nothing." He tripped up to Jack, tapped the handkerchief with his wand, and displayed to the eyes of all the dollar he had placed there. "And now to proceed with the feat," he cried, in his most pompous manner. "We wrap the coin so, and thar ain't no mistake about it. That dollar's thar solid. Yer can hear the tap of the wand. It's thar, and in a moment I'll transfer it to the audience. Now, one, two, three. There she goes." He waved the wand again, and then caught the handkerchief from Jack's fingers. "Say, did yer feel it fly?" he asked. Simpkins's eyes were now on our hero, and for the moment the latter felt as if the constable were a snake whose gaze fascinated him. Jack was almost trembling. In his mind's eye he saw the cell from which he had so recently escaped, that sombre court in which the trial had proceeded, and in the near distance the prison to which he would be sent to spend ten solitary, hopeless years of his life. He could only shake his head to the question. "Yer didn't feel it fly. But it's gone. Ye're sure of that?" Jack nodded his head vigorously, while for one brief second he looked squarely into Simpkins's eyes. Did he see suspicion there? Or was that only a morbid fancy? The doubt was terrifying, and to speak the truth Jack Kingsley was at that moment as near to acting foolishly as ever in his life. The impulse was with him to leap to his feet, to jump from the platform, and race away for his life. For there was suspicion in Simpkins's eyes. Every man he regarded while on this special journey upon which the officials had sent him was a suspect, the prisoner who had escaped from Hopeville. Even the same man with the black beard and moustaches who had clambered on to the stage at the call of the conjuror might be the man he was searching for. And in consequence the constable regarded him with a fixed stare, and struck by something, the height perhaps, or some unconscious pose of Jack's, moved a trifle closer. A moment later a movement on the part of Amos arrested further advance. "Ah, there is no mistake, my friends! That coin is gone, flown, as I said it would. And already I can see it. Pardon me, sir, but you have it." The wand pointed direct at Simpkins, much to the latter's annoyance. He attempted to move away, but the crowd wedged him in, and, moreover, all eyes were on him. A chorus of laughter greeted his attempt. "He never made a dollar easier in all his life," cried one of the audience. "Stop him! That ain't his money." The sally drew another roar from the crowd, and set Simpkins scowling. Amos, with all his showman's instincts, made the most of the occasion. "Say, sir," he called out, "if I may trouble yer. That money ain't yours altogether, though yer happen to have it on you. Would you jest mind stepping along this way and handin' it over? I wouldn't trouble yer, but then, if I was to come down myself, the gentlemen here might think there was some faking, and that I'd jest dropped the coin right where it is. Jest a moment, sir, and thank ye." Simpkins could not draw back, and, finding that his scowls only made merriment for the crowd, he came forward unwillingly, shaking his head all the while. "Ye're mistook," he called out. "There's not a stray dollar about me. Yer can hunt if yer like." He mounted to the platform, and stood there awkwardly, within three feet of Jack, and directly facing him. Would he stretch out his hand and take the prisoner? Did he actually recognize the young man sitting there apparently so cool, and yet in reality quaking? "Excuse me," said Amos. "Yer said you hadn't got that 'ere dollar, and I call the audience to witness as yer added that yer hadn't a stray dollar anywheres. But if that ain't a silver dollar, why----" "Good fer you! He's got it," came the same voice from the crowd. "Didn't I say he was fer walkin' off. Hold on to it, siree. We're all able to swear as it's yours." The reader can imagine the confusion of the constable, as Amos, standing on tiptoe, reached for his hat, and, having removed it from Simpkins's head, showed a dollar resting in it. And still more so, when, as if not yet satisfied, the conjuror discovered a second in the lining of the hat, a third in his handkerchief, and others elsewhere, not to mention a variety of objects from his pockets, such as silk neckcloths, a toy gun, and last of all a live rabbit. Then indeed was the constable overcome. He dashed from the stage and away from the audience, followed by their shouts of merriment. But he left his mark behind. Never before had Amos found his assistant so unsympathetic. His carelessness was remarkable, and more than one trick was almost spoiled. For our unfortunate young hero was more than perturbed. The chilling influence of the law was on him, and, do what he could, he failed to drive from his mind that ever-present dread that his disguise was discovered. "I shall have to bolt again," he thought, as he sat in the chair facing the audience. "There is nothing else for it. Simpkins will be asking questions all round, and the instant he hears from Amos that I met him back east on the road, he'll know that I'm his man. I must go the instant this business is over." It seemed an eternity before the performance was ended, and he was able to retire to the wagon. Then, at once, he accosted his employer. "I want to say something," he said quietly, "and I hope you won't think badly of me. But I must leave you at once. Never mind the reason. I must go right now without another minute's delay. I know it will put you out a little, for you will want someone else. But I am willing to hand back half the wages you have paid me." Amos regarded his young helper with an expression of surprise and concern. He had come to like his right-hand man very much, and indeed treated him now more as if he were his son. "Gee!" he cried. "What's this? Leave right now, but----" "I am sorry. It must be, though," said Jack. "Here's the money. Half of what I have earned. Shake hands and let me go." There was a moment's pause while Amos regarded him critically and with a kindly eye. "Ye've acted straight and willing by me all through, yer have, Tom," he said at last, "and if yer must go, why yer must. But you'd better by half trust a man who's to be trusted. I ain't a fool. I've seen all through that yer had something hard on yer mind, and I've often felt sorry for yer. It does a chap good sometimes to find a real friend who won't give him away, and who'll be right alongside to lend him some advice. What's it all about, lad? Yer can trust me as you could yer own mother. What's the trouble? If it's bad I may be able to advise, fer after all these years I'm a knowing old bird. In any case I'm sound. Your secret stays with me safe as if it was locked up in a bank." He held out a friendly hand, and Jack gripped it, gulping hard all the while at the lump which filled his throat. He, too, had become much attached to Amos. Indeed, they had been more like father and son. And in his employer he had long since discovered a man who lived on no bed of roses, but who had to work hard for a living. But with it all he was a good fellow, by no means grasping, ready always to lend a helping hand. More than that, too, he was trustworthy, and sufficiently a man of the world to be able to look at two sides of a question. "I'm an escaped prisoner," he said suddenly, blurting out the words. "I was taken at Hopeville, and broke out of my cell. The charge was one of burglary in which a murder was concerned." "Wall?" asked Amos coolly, still gripping his hand. "I can't tell the whole tale here. I haven't time." "And no need, neither," came the answer. "I've seen it in the papers, and all about the escape. What else?" "I swear I am innocent. As you know the whole story, you will remember how I was taken. I swear that I had followed those men to warn the people of the house. James was the only one to believe me--James Orring of the smithy at Hopeville. I hadn't another friend, save his wife and my mother. So I made up my mind to bolt, for outside a prison I have a chance of finding those men and of clearing myself." "Guess you have," came the reply. "Guess, too, that yer did right, and Jim Orring aer a good man to help yer." There was a smile on his face now, and it increased as Jack regarded him with a startled expression. "Yer see," he explained, "Jim and me aer friends, and have been since we were nippers together at Hopeville. That 'ere place is where I war born, and reckon I know every man, woman, and child thar. But I've been away a heap, and have seen so many people that I begin to forget. For instance, I didn't quite fix that 'ere Simpkins when first I set eyes on him. Jim Orring aer an old friend, and now that you tell me he's yours too, and that he was one of few to believe in you, I ain't surprised he helped yer to break out. Yer needn't get startled," he continued, for Jack showed his concern at the last statement, for he was anxious that no harm should come to the smith. "I've jest guessed the last part, and reckon I'm dead right. It's the sort of handsome thing Jim would get to doin'. But you haven't any need to admit that he helped yer. Don't say a word. Wall, now, I suppose it is Simpkins that's disturbed you?" Jack nodded. He was so taken up with thoughts of his escape that he could scarcely speak, and, in spite of Amos's kindness, was anxious to flee. "I recognized him after a bit," went on Amos, "but I didn't connect him with you. I thought perhaps that he meant trouble with me, for six months ago, back there close to Hopeville, there was a ruction round my stand one night. A rough in the audience wouldn't give me a fair show to get on with my performance. Wall, it came to blows, and jest when I saw Simpkins I thought he was here on that concern. Seems he ain't; but I took the pluck out of him anyway. Now, let's think. He's a nasty fellow is Simpkins, suspicious, and all that; and, as sure as eggs are eggs, he'll be round here asking me where I've been, who's my man, and where I got him; for of course he knows I always have a man to help in the show. Yes, Tom, guess ye've got to git slippy. I won't stop yer. Yer hop right off, and jest put that money back in yer pocket. I'll get another man easy, and no bother. Jest remember this, ef you're in any trouble, Amos is the one to call on. He's alongside of Jim. He believes that you're as innocent of that 'ere crime as any baby." He gave Jack's hand a firm and kindly squeeze, and put courage into him. Indeed, those few seconds did a great deal for our hero. The fact that another man believed in him put heart into the lad, braced him for the work before him, and lifted a load from his mind. He seemed at once to be able to look more clearly and resolutely into the future. "Thank you, sir," he answered gratefully. "Then I'll go, and go all the happier for what you've said." "And how'll yer move?" asked Amos curiously. "I don't know one bit. I want to get out of the town, and then I can think." "Wall, I ain't going to ask more, but a nod's as good as a wink they say. Supposin' you was to make fer the station. We ain't at the end of the rail yet. It runs on another hundred miles easy. Wall, supposin', I say, yer was to make for the station, and found a train likely to leave for the west. It ain't difficult to climb aboard when she's under weigh. That means yer havn't booked, and no one here'll be the wiser, specially Simpkins. Twenty miles out you get down and buy a ticket. To-morrer you'll be as safe as a house. Goodbye, lad, I've been pleased to meet yer." There were tears in Jack's eyes as he bade farewell to his employer and sped from the wagon. Somehow or other the fear of arrest, the consciousness, ever present with him, that he was under the ban of the law, that he was a criminal at large, had undermined his natural resolution and courage. The feeling was so strange to him, and in course of time had so mastered the lad, that he began almost to feel as if he were actually guilty. But a few moments' conversation with Amos had done wonders. Jack's head was set well back on his shoulders again. As he left the wagon he walked like a man conscious of his own uprightness, ready and willing to face the world frankly and courageously. "I'll take his hint," he thought, as he threaded his way through the streets. "But let me take one last look to see that I am not followed." He cast his eyes down the road, and saw at the end the wagon which sheltered Amos. A man was walking towards it from the far distance, and our hero watched as he stopped at the wagon and finally entered. It was Simpkins, the constable. "And likely to hear a tale which will put him off the scent," said Jack, now by no means dismayed. "Here's the station. I'll get into a corner and wait till it's dark." There were a number of men lounging about the place, for the station was a sort of no-man's land where the idlers and curious gathered. There was no platform to be seen. Only a wooden flooring under a barnlike roof, while the train lying in the station was composed of rough carriages, which bore no resemblance to the magnificent vehicles now plying to and fro on American railways. At the tail of the train was an open truck with deep sides. Jack looked at it longingly. "When does she start?" he asked one of the idlers. "Sevin, sharp," was the curt answer. "Goin' west." "Then she'll suit me," thought Jack. "I'll go along the line and look out for a spot from which I can board her." It was already getting dusk, and by the time he had walked half a mile it was almost dark. He had traversed a level stretch of rail till now, but was delighted to find that he had reached a steep up gradient. "It is a heavy train," he thought, "and will be sure to slow down here. I must manage to get aboard." He sat down and waited patiently, wondering the while what Amos was doing, and what had happened during his interview with Simpkins. If only he had known it, that interview had been more than humorous. For the astute little showman had been suddenly afflicted with forgetfulness. He could hardly even remember Simpkins, much less the fact that he was a constable. As to his man, well, he might be wandering in the town. In any case Simpkins might see him when he cared to call. Yes, he was a good young chap, had been with the van quite a time, but how long he wasn't altogether certain. In fact, Amos threw abundance of dust in the eyes of the constable. But he did not smother his natural suspicions. "I believe the old hound knows a heap more than he will say," growled Simpkins as he walked away. "And I can't help thinking that thar was something about that man on the stage which struck me as being sort of familiar. Ef it was young Jack Kingsley, whew!" He whistled loudly, for he realized that re-arrest of the prisoner would mean commendation for the constable, and promotion to a certainty. The very thought stimulated him in his efforts. He went straight off to the station, and was just in time to inspect the train about to leave, from the engine right back to the truck trailing at the end. "Not here," he said as he walked away, having seen the train run out of the station. "He'll be in the town, I expect. Now that I come to think about it, that fellow on the stage was jest about the right size for the prisoner, and, in spite of the beard he wore, about the same age. Gee!" There was something else which struck him, something again to do with the pose of the man he had in his mind's eye. And now he remembered that he had often and often watched Jack as he sat in the court under trial. His pose there was precisely that of the man he had so lately seen on the conjurer's stage. In a flash it occurred to him that this must be the prisoner he sought, and he went off at a run to speak again with Amos. Meanwhile the train had run from the town at a smart pace, which, however, dropped as it ascended the rise. "It will be a job to clamber aboard, all the same," thought Jack, as he saw it coming. "I suppose it is doing seventeen miles an hour. But I have got to get aboard somehow, if I have to dive for it." He stood back from the rails, so that the engine lamps should not show him to the drivers. But the instant it thundered past he stepped briskly forward. Yes, the long line of heavy vehicles was pounding along at a smart pace, and, more than that, their height above the rails was greater than he had reckoned for. He watched the carriages like a cat, seeking for a handy rail. But one after another they swung past till the last was near at hand. It was a species of conductor's van, and the step descended close to the ground. There was a strong rail beside it, and to this Jack clutched as it came level with him. In spite of the fact that he had begun to run with the train, he was jerked off his feet; for the vehicles were gathering pace every second. But Jack was not to be easily beaten. He clung desperately with one hand to the rail, while he gripped the step with his other. Then he managed to swing his body till it leaned on the step, and, later, to lift himself clean on to it. "So far so good," he thought. "Now I make back for the truck behind. I'll wait till I have gained my breath, for there is no hurry, and no bridges likely to strike me. The train does not stop for twenty miles, and, as it has to ascend a long gradient, it takes a time to do the work and cover the distance. Gee! That dragging knocked my boots about." Five minutes later he felt able to undertake the remainder of the task before him, by no means an easy one, namely to clamber along the outside of the coach, and cross to the truck trailing behind the train. It was getting chilly on the step, and he felt that if he did not move soon he would perhaps become too cramped. Clambering to his feet, he gripped the rail overhead, which ran horizontally to the back of the coach, and felt his way along the footboard with his toes. Presently he discovered that, whereas the rail continued to the end, the boards did not. They were cut off abruptly. "Which makes it a trifle more difficult," he thought. "I shall have to swing my way along." But to cling to a rail and swing one's way along it when a train is tearing away at thirty-five miles an hour, and swaying horribly, is no easy matter; for the wind tears and grips at one dangerously. Jack found it required all his strength to maintain a grip, and presently drew his legs up and felt desperately for some foothold. "I'm still a couple of yards from the end," he thought grimly, casting his eyes over his shoulder, "and I'm dead sure I can't hold on like this all the way. I must try--ah, here's something!" His toes lit upon a beading of the carriage work, and the support he thus obtained helped him wonderfully. Then, in the gloom above, he discerned a second rail, and reaching up with one hand managed to grasp it and haul himself a little higher, with his toes still on the bead. And now his head was on a level with the windows of the coach. "Three men," he said to himself, withdrawing his head, for a hasty glance told him that the coach was occupied. "No, four. Whew!" A second glance told him that there was a fourth person; and once he had seen him our hero dropped down again, and gave vent to a low whistle. Surprises seemed to be ever in store for him. The fourth individual he had seen was huddled in a corner of the coach, and the glimpse Jack had caught of him showed that he was bound hand and foot. "Gee! Now what on earth is the meaning of that?" he asked himself. "Three men sitting at the far end, with a lantern at their feet, and the fourth a prisoner!" It was not the most comfortable place in the world in which to puzzle about such a knotty question, and, think as he might, our hero could come no nearer a solution. Obviously he must reach some point of safety and then cogitate. "I'll get along this beading somehow," he thought, "and then take a look round. There's queer doings in that coach." Inch by inch he wormed his way along the coach, his feet on the beading and his hands on the rail; and in course of time he gained the end. Swinging round it, as the vehicle gave a tremendous lurch, almost tearing his grip away, he found himself close to the buffers. A moment later he was seated on an iron step secured to the coach. "So far so good," he said to himself. "Now, up I go. There's a lantern on top, and through it I'll be able to see what's happening." It required very little energy to reach the roof of the coach, so that in a couple of minutes he was spread out on it, the air sweeping past him in a perfect hurricane. But he had a firm hold of the lantern, while his face was pressed closely to it. And once more the shrill, low whistle escaped him. For one of the three men below had moved. He had dragged the individual who was bound, into a sitting position, and had placed the lamp so that it threw its light full upon him. As our hero stared down into the interior of the coach, the man pulled a revolver from his belt and levelled it at the head of the prisoner, while his two comrades approached nearer, and, taking up their stands close at hand, began to question the unfortunate man they had bound. Jack ran his fingers over the lantern, and pulled gently at the framing nearest him. It moved noiselessly, though a little sound made no difference, for the roar of the train drowned anything. Little by little he contrived to open the lantern, till the window provided in it was standing at right angles from the main framework. Then he dragged himself forward, and slowly inserted his head. In two minutes he was in such a position that he could see the interior of the coach clearly, while he was directly above the four men. More than that, once his head was through the window the roar of the wind ceased entirely, while the rumble of the train was no greater than those below had to contend with. They were shouting at the prisoner, and Jack opened his ears wide to listen. CHAPTER VI A Hold-up As Jack looked down into the coach with his head thrust through the window of the lantern, the view he was able to obtain of the contents was infinitely clearer than that he had had when a dirty pane of glass intervened between him and the interior. Almost directly beneath him was the man holding his revolver levelled, while a little to the left, his back propped against the side of the coach, was the prisoner. He was heavily-moustached, and his clothes bore witness to the fact that he was a railway employee. Farther off were the other two, young men to look at, and from their general appearance hardly the class of individuals to lend themselves to violence. But good looks are not always a criterion of good manners. It was very clear that both were unscrupulous ruffians. "Now yer can jest listen here, conductor," one of them was saying in loud tones, so that the roar of the train should not drown his words, and with a menace in his voice which there was no mistaking; "ye've got ter weaken right now, and without any more bobbery, or----" He wagged his head at the revolver, while the rascal who held the weapon squinted along the sights. "Or what?" demanded the prisoner, his voice calm, his courage unshaken. "Or get what yer deserve. Yer've heard tell of us before, I guess; but if yer ain't, why, we're Bill Buster's band, and that'll tell yer what to look out for. Now all we want is an answer to a little question. Whar's the strong box? Even if yer don't tell us, and we have to put lead into your carcass, it won't make much difference, 'cos, we'll have the whole train easy, and then it ain't hard to find the box. By tellin' us, yer jest make the thing easier and quicker. Now, whar is it? Number three coach? Eh?" "Go and find fer yerselves," came the bold answer. "I ain't goin' to say. Look for yerselves." Sturdily the prisoner faced his captors, and it seemed that he would remain stubborn. But a revolver held at the head of a defenceless man has a way of persuading; for the threat these rascals had made was no idle one. It was clear they would shoot the conductor without the smallest compunction. "Wall, a man has only one life, and so you'd better have the answer," said the conductor at last, after a painful pause. "Number four's the wagon." "Good! Thought you wasn't a fool," said the spokesman for the bandits. "Now for the amount. It war clearin' day back thar, and the bank has sent all the stuff it could spare. How much?" "Guess it's not far short of twenty-five thousand dollars," said the conductor grudgingly. "But thar ain't nothin' definite on the way-bills. One jest gets ter kind of hear." "Twenty-five thousand," cried the leader of the men below, a note of triumph in his voice. "And thar's fifty-six passengers in all. Take 'em at ten dollars a head, which is a small allowance; that means quite five hundred dollars more. But they'll have a heap, some of 'em. They're goin' down to buy farms, and stock, and sich like. Now look ye here, conductor. Ye're a sensible man, as yer've proved, and we ain't got no grudge agin yer, so long as yer don't get up ter no tricks. Ef yer do, my mate here'll have a talk with yer slippy." "Yer ain't got any cause ter bother," came the answer. "Do I look as if I could do anything?" The conductor cast his eyes down at the cords which bound him hand and foot, and then laughed harshly. "Reckon it'll mean a lost job to me," he said. "But give me a smoke. One of yer may happen ter have a weed." One of the conspirators produced a cigar promptly, bit off the end, and, having placed it in the conductor's mouth, held a light to the weed. "What I call a sensible man," said the leader of the ruffians. "Now we can git ter thinking serious of this affair. Number four's the wagon. Jim, ye'll make along fer that, and stand up at the far end. Tom here'll drop to the rails and run to the engine. I'll be with Jim before the train's stopped. She'll begin to go steadier soon, fer we're about at the foot of the long draw-up, and the incline soon tells upon her. When she's going slower you two can slip on to the footboards and make along to the first coach. I'll jest bring her up with the screw brake. That's clear? Then best have a look to see how the boards lie." From the manner in which the rascals set about their work of raiding the train it was clear that they were old hands. The two told off to go forward did not trouble to wait till the pace had diminished. They threw open the door of the coach and swung themselves out on to the footboards. Then they moved along them with an ease which put Jack's efforts to shame, and, having reached the second coach, sat down on the boards. By then the train was well on the incline, and the pace was getting less. Half a mile farther on she was making only twenty miles an hour. "Jest the moment fer me," said the man who had remained in the coach. "I'll give her the brake. Now mind it that yer don't interfere, conductor. Ef yer do, it'll mean a case of shootin'." As cool as an icicle the man stepped across to the big wheel which controlled the tail brake of the train, and swung it round till it was hard on. Instantly the screech of the slippers on the wheels could be heard, while a line of fire sprang from the surface of the rails. "That'll do it in five minutes or less," said the man, thrusting his head out of the open door. "No engine will be able ter pull agin it. So long! and don't git interferin'." He, too, swung himself out of the coach, leaving the prisoner alone, with Jack still staring in through the lantern. And let the reader imagine for a moment the struggle going on in our hero's mind. Once before, but a short while ago, he had endeavoured to thwart a crime, to come between robbers and their prey; and he himself had been accused of the crime he was attempting to put a stop to. The bitterness of that bitter experience was still with him. It had clouded his young life, till he could think of little else. And here he was face to face with a similar experience, a crime about to be committed, and he alone to stand between the passengers on the train and the ruffians about to rob them. It was, indeed, a struggle. Jack was not naturally indecisive. He could make up his mind when he liked, and quickly too. But it must be owned that he hesitated. Fear of another terrible misunderstanding haunted him. Then he thought of the passengers, of the man below, and of his responsibility. In a moment he was clambering in through the window in the lantern, and a second later dropped down into the coach. "My! What, another!" The conductor had taken him for one of the gang, and looked at him with scowling face. "No," cried Jack emphatically. "I heard all they said, and I've come to help you. There!" He drew his knife and cut the cords, setting the man free. "Now," he said, "I've taken the first step. I'm willing to do what you may suggest." "But--but how on airth did yer get thar, up in the lantern?" asked the conductor. "Aer you a passenger?" "Yes and no," answered our hero boldly. "I climbed aboard when the train was going, and got on the back of this coach. But I'd seen you tied up when I looked in through the window. I thought I'd help." "And so ye've risked bein' shot by those villains. Lad, ye've grit in you. Shake a paw. Now, what's ter be done? The train's almost stopping. Ah, swing that wheel back! My hands and arms are too numbed to do it. That'll let the pace git up agin, and possibly leave one of the men behind. Next thing is to make along to the other coaches. Pull that er drawer open. Thar's a couple of shooters thar, and they're ready loaded." Jack followed the man's orders swiftly, and felt the train gathering way already. Then he brought the revolvers. "Get a grip of one yerself," said the conductor. "Now jest rub these arms of mine. That's the way. There's a bit more feelin' in 'em already. In a little I'll have a grip, and then we'll give them rascals sauce. Aer yer afraid?" "No, I don't reckon I am," answered Jack. "I'll help you." "Then come along. Stick the shooter in your pocket and grip the rail. But I forgot, yer've had experience jest lately. One warnin' though before we move. Ef yer get a sight of those fellers, shoot! Don't wait. Shoot!" Our hero nodded, and made up his mind to do as he was told. He waited for the conductor to get on to the footboard, and followed promptly. Very soon they had gained the next coach. "Next's Number four," shouted the conductor. "Let's get on the roof. We can make along there easier, and reach 'em better. Did yer hear that? They're at it." The sharp sound of a pistol shot came to the ears of the two, and after it a shrill cry. They scrambled to the top of the coach as quickly as possible, and then went on hands and knees, and made their way along it. At the far end they descended by means of the iron steps and rails, and again took to the footboards. "Now get ready fer shootin'," shouted the conductor. "Thar'll be a man posted at this end, and I'm going to fire through the window at him. Jest be prepared to hop right in and take a shot at the others." Jack hung to the step, closely hugging the coach, and watched the figure of the conductor as he scrambled farther along. He saw him stand to his full height and peer in through a window. His revolver was raised swiftly, and then there came a sharp crack from the inside of the coach. The conductor dropped from the footboards without a sound, and Jack caught a fleeting glimpse of his body bounding over the side track. He was alone now, and the safety or otherwise of the passengers depended upon him. "I'll do it," he said to himself, his blood afire, and all hesitation gone. "If I break in through the door I shall be dropped for a certainty. And if I attempt to shoot through the window I shall meet with the conductor's fate. I'll try the roof again." He went scrambling up, and within a minute had reached one of the round lanterns through which the lamps were dropped. Lifting the lid, he found he had a fair view of the interior, for there was no lamp in this lantern, and in those days the apertures were very large when compared with modern fittings. Directly below him he detected a carpeted floor and one end of a seat, while a pair of legs stretched over the carpet. They evidently belonged to some unfortunate individual who had been shot. "Likely enough the one whose call we heard," thought Jack. "Now, let me think. From his position he fell on to his back. He didn't tumble face downwards and then roll over. That means that the man who shot him is somewhere underneath me. I'll lean over and get a better view." He was in the act of thrusting his head into the wide lantern, when sounds at the side of the track caught his attention. Even in spite of the roar of the train he heard shouts, while an instant later the darkness was punctuated by red flashes. At the same time he became aware of the disagreeable fact that the spluttering, hissing sounds round about him were caused by bullets. Then he grasped the significance of the situation. "Gee!" he cried. "Then they are the friends of those three rascals who boarded the cars. Now I see through the whole business. They were to tie up the conductor, and then put the brakes on. That would bring the train to a halt on the incline, and those men out there would ride up and support the robbery. Ah! They're done nicely! We've run through them. We shall see what's going to happen." If Jack was elated one cannot blame him. But if he thought he was going to master the difficult situation without further trouble he was much mistaken. He thrust his head into the lantern and took a careful survey of the interior of the coach. Now he could see the complete figure of the man lying on his back, and saw that he was dead. There were four other persons near him, crouching on the seat, and two were ladies. Just a little farther back, almost beneath where his own feet lay, a man stood with arms folded. He was tall, sunburned--for that Jack could see, since he was bareheaded--and had a pair of fine flowing moustaches. His arms were crossed on his breast, and his whole attitude was one of resolution. A further effort on our hero's part showed him the muzzle of a revolver, held within six inches of the tall man's head, and finally of the figure of one of the robbers. Should he fire now? Was he to shoot the man down in cold blood as it were, though to speak the truth Jack's pulses were tingling. Was that fair play? Who will blame the young American that he hesitated to take life? He waited a second, and that wait nearly proved his undoing. The robber caught a glimpse of him, and at once sent a stream of bullets through the roof. They tore through the boards on every side, sending the splinters flying, and drumming against the ironwork of the lantern, and by the merest chance they missed Jack. "But he'll have me if I ain't extra smart," thought our hero, determined more than ever now to get the best of the man. "Ah, here's something to give me a hold! I'll try through the window." He gripped a short smokestack which projected through the roof, and holding firmly with one hand leaned over the side of the car. A window was directly beneath, and well within his reach. Jack broke it with the butt of his revolver without the smallest hesitation. Then, quick as lightning, he returned to the lantern on top. One glance told him that the man inside was standing prepared to fire, either through the window or through the lantern. "I'll make him think of the lantern," thought Jack. "It's my only chance now." Stretched full length on the roof, with his head depending downwards, he once more gripped the smokestack, and leaned over the edge of the car. Then he deliberately kicked the lantern with his feet, and continued to drum his toes against it. Now was the time. He stretched over till he could obtain a clear view of the interior of the coach through the window, and at once caught sight of the robber standing in the same position as before, his eye half-fixed on the lantern, and half on the tall man standing so close to him. Up went Jack's revolver, though aiming was out of the question considering his inverted position. His finger went to the trigger just as the rascal within caught sight of him. And then Jack pressed unconsciously, while at the same instant the cracked glass to his right was shivered into thousands of fragments and a cloud of cutting dust was blown into his face. "Gee! Got him! But I do believe he's managed to hit me. Seems mighty like it. Ugh! My shoulder!" [Illustration: "HE SAW THE RASCAL CRUMPLE INTO A HEAP"] As if in a dream he saw the rascal within the coach crumple into a heap, and watched the tall man dart forward and bend over him. Then a sharp, burning pain shot through his own shoulder, and for one brief instant made him feel faint. But it was no safe place in which to encourage weakness, and with an effort Jack braced himself to the task still before him. He scrambled back on to the roof, slid to the end, and descended the swaying steps. Then he clutched his way along the footboard, and gained the door of the coach. It was opened by the man he had seen standing with his arms so resolutely folded. "Come right in! come right in!" he cried, extending a hand. "Now, where are the others?" Jack was winded with his exertions, but managed to answer. "One was to have gone forward to the engine," he said quickly, "and one was to make for this coach, where the third would join him. Where they are now I don't know. The conductor was tied hand and foot, but I released him. But he was hit, and dropped from the train. I think we ran through the men who were waiting to help them." "Then we've had a fine escape," came the answer. "But we've got to take those men, and the sooner the better. Get a pull on that cord, and then be ready to shoot. They'll drop from the coaches the first chance they have, and git for their lives." Jack tugged at the alarm fitted just outside the window, and presently the brakes began to grind and the train to slow down. As it did so two figures dropped from it and raced away, Jack and his companion firing at them, while a number of passengers in other coaches did the same. Then lamps were brought, and an inspection made. "Guess we're lucky, down right lucky!" exclaimed the man whom Jack had spoken to. "Thar's one man killed in this coach. He swung round when this rascal entered, and put his hand to his shooter. That was quite enough to bring a bullet his way. Reckon there wasn't a move left in the rest of us. The fellow had it all his own way. A chap can't grope for his shootin' iron when a revolver's grinnin' at him. What's the news elsewhere?" "Much the same as yourn," came from a passenger. "We were kind er dozing, and I'd jest begun ter wonder why in thunder the chap behind had put on his brakes so hard, specially when we were on a sharp incline, when the door bursts open, and a young chap climbs in smart. 'Hands up!' he says, just as quiet as may be, and 'hands up!' it had ter be. We was cornered. That young chap was Bill Buster, as he'd got to be called hereabouts, one of the expertest leaders of railway breakers and thieves that's ever been. What's the driver say?" "I ain't heard nothing," came from the latter, who stood inside the coach rubbing his dirty hands with a piece of waste. "I wondered why the conductor had put on his brakes, 'cos it ain't too easy a job to pull out over the rise, particular when thar's a heavy train like this. But he took 'em off quick, and so we was able to pull along. Seems thar's been shootin'." "Shootin'! Rather! And it ain't the fault of the rascals as came aboard that thar wasn't more," said the tall man. "We owe it to this here young stranger that things ain't worse. How'd it all come about? Didn't see you climb aboard way back there." "Because I climbed aboard down the road," answered Jack boldly, the old frankness in his eyes, his face flushed with delight and triumph. For success had at last come his way. Though he hesitated to interfere at first, frightened by the cruel disappointment of that other experience, he had in the end undertaken what was clearly his duty, as it would have been the duty of any other person similarly placed. And success had come his way, though in gaining it he had incurred danger. His head was well set back on his shoulders, his eyes flashed, and Jack Kingsley looked his old, bonny self as he answered: "I got aboard after she'd started, and managed to reach the conductor's coach. When I took a peep inside, there he was, tied up like a sack, with three men sitting over him. That's one of the fellows." He nodded towards the body lying on the floor, and wondered vaguely whether it was his bullet which had struck him, and, if so, where. Then, leaning against the woodwork of the coach, he continued: "So I climbed to the roof," he said, "and managed to hear what was going on. You see, there's a large lantern back there, and it has a window in it. I learned all about the attack, and saw the robbers separate while the last put on the brakes hard. Then I slipped in quick." "Yes," came eagerly from the assembled passengers. "There ain't much more," said Jack lamely. "The conductor led the way along to coach Number four, and I followed. He was shot. Guess he's way back there on the track, and needs our help. I climbed right up on to the roof, and--and the gentlemen here knows the rest." "Gee! I do. This young chap never'll have a nearer shave. There's many a grown man who would have funked it," exclaimed the tall man, "funked it, I say. But he bamboozled that fellow. How'd yer manage?" Jack explained, lamely, that he had gripped the smokestack and kicked the lantern with his feet. "Smart! real smart!" exclaimed the tall passenger, while a chorus of approval came from the others. "Say, siree, who may yer be, and where aer yer goin'? Yer ain't fer the plains?" "I'm a smith," answered Jack limply, for his wound was very painful, and the carriage excessively hot. "A smith, and--here, what's the matter with the lad? Let him sit down. Did the rascal wing yer?" The big man gripped our hero in his arms as if he were a child, and laid him on the seat. Then he bent over him and spoke softly. "Whar's the hit?" he asked. "Ah, thar ain't no more need ter ask!" Suddenly his eyes had detected the dark stain trailing down Jack's sleeve, while he noticed how limply the arm hung. Then his whole attention was attracted to our hero, for Jack marked the occasion of this success of his by fainting. He fell back heavily on the seat, and lay there as deathly pale as the man from whom he had received the bullet. CHAPTER VII Friends and Hunters "My, now, you've given us quite a fright! Feel a bit queerish? Eh?" As if in a dream, Jack heard the words and struggled to answer. But for some reason or other, which his disordered mind could not fathom, and which distressed him greatly, the words would not come to his lips. Moreover, he could not concentrate his wandering thoughts on any one matter. Now he was in court, under trial for robbery, and a moment later he was on the stage with Amos, helping in some conjuring feat which drew roars of applause from the assembled audience. His thoughts even swept back to that eventful ride on the railway; but they never reached finality. The train ran on and on, while he clung to the rail and the footboard, immovable, desperate, unable to creep forward or back. "Say, now, yer ain't feelin' quite so bad? A bit shook up and so on? But better, ain't yer?" Jack opened his eyes, and saw a bearded face leaning over him. He shut them again promptly, as if the sight had been too much for him, as well it might, for the individual who had stared so closely at our hero was not prepossessing, to say the least of it. He was gently pushed aside by another individual, and a woman's gentle voice spoke. "Leave him to me a little," she said. "He is still very weak, and not fully conscious. Leave him, please. In a little while he will be better." Jack felt a warm pressure on his hand, and sank once more into oblivion. But it was a pleasant unconsciousness on this occasion. No longer was he distressed with views of the court, with counsel for the prosecution standing before the jury and encouraging them to find this young fellow guilty. No longer did he cling desperately to the rail of the train. He sank into a dreamless, comforting oblivion, which held him securely in its tender grip for another half-hour. And then he suddenly opened his eyes. "Well, now," he exclaimed, somewhat feebly, for his tongue seemed to be heavily loaded, "where on earth am I? And what has been happening? Coming, sir, coming." Back wandered his mind to Amos, and he fancied he heard the conjurer calling to him. "Lie still and you'll feel better. Sip this," said someone, and at once, obedient to the command, too weak to be over curious as to why it was given or by whom, our hero sipped at the glass placed to his lips. And the spirit there revived him wonderfully. It was as if a spur were needed to stimulate his flagging energies. The cordial given him seemed to have acted as a strong fillip, and in a minute he was sitting up, pushing aside an arm which endeavoured to hold him down. "Here, what's this?" he asked indignantly. "I'm not a baby! I--halloo! Where am I?" "Still in the train, recovering from the wound you received," said the same gentle voice. "Now lie down again." But Jack was stubborn, and had a horror of illness or of any show of weakness. He let his legs slide from the long seat on which he had been lying, and sat bolt upright. He looked round in a dazed fashion, and then gave a cry of recognition. "Ah, the train!" he said. "Guess this is where that robber lay. What happened?" "A heap," said someone standing near at hand, and, looking at him, our hero discovered the man who had stood with folded arms whilst the robber's revolver was pointed at him. "Jest a heap, young sir. But there ain't no further call to fear the robber. Guess he's rubbed out clean." He pointed to the far end of the coach, where, under a piece of sailcloth, rested something which had the form of a body. Jack shuddered and turned away. "And no need to blame yourself neither," came from the man. "It was done in fair fight, and thar warn't no favour. 'Sides, he managed to wing you. How's the arm?" "I had forgotten it," answered Jack, looking down and discovering that his arm rested in a sling made from a scarf. "It hurts just a little, but nothing to what it did at first. Is the wound severe?" "Enough to cripple yer for a time, I guess, but not so baddish. A young chap like you'll be able to swing the arm within three weeks, and work with it in six. The bullet jest went a bit high. Or low, was it, seeing as you was kinder upside down? It clipped the bone, I reckon, but thar ain't a break. Ye'll do nicely. Now, if yer feel up to it, jest tell us how it all happened." Jack felt wonderfully better already, though a little bashful, for the coach was half-filled with passengers, all of whom were looking at him and listening eagerly. He stared back at them for a time, for the men here were in many cases of a different class to those he was accustomed to. They were sunburned, with but a few exceptions, and these latter were obviously commercial men, travelling for some trade. The others looked more like settlers, or cowboys, or even miners. They wore rough, highly coloured shirts, broad belts, and riding-boots and breeches. Each one carried a revolver, and some a hunting-knife. "Kinder surprised at the look of us, eh?" smiled the tall man with the big moustaches. "Wall, we're ordinary enough out this way. Yer don't get folks out in this part dressin' as if they was in New York, not much. We're ranchers, or miners, almost to a man. Now fer that 'ere yarn." Very quietly and modestly Jack told how he had boarded the train, and recounted his subsequent actions. "Reckon it was the only thing I could do," he wound up lamely. "They'd have shot me as well as anyone else." "I dunno," came hotly from one of the passengers. "I dunno so much. Excuse me, young stranger, but I'll ax a question. Yer was right aft thar, close to the truck, warn't you? And yer could have boarded that as easy as possible? Eh?" Jack nodded, colouring visibly, for he began to wonder whether he would have to declare to all present that that was actually his intention. "Then them skunks wouldn't have found you. They was huntin' for the car what carries the gold. Yer hadn't no call to enter the conductor's crib, none at all, siree, and yet yer did. Yer cut him loose, and then come along the footboard. There war something else you could ha' done. Yer could ha' layed there snug, and not cared a jot. Reckon ye've saved a pile for the owners of that 'ere money." There was a loud chorus of approval, and immediately afterwards the tall man with the fine moustaches stepped forward. "That isn't all," he said slowly. "Ladies and gentlemen, many of you know me. I'm Tom Horsfall, from down Colorado way, and I've made this trip many a time, and scores of others. I've been through the Indian country, and have seen fighting. Then every mother's son of us has used his gun to save the outfit we've been along with, and to keep our own scalps. Reckon we hadn't a show here. Those varmint were on to us too quick, and a man has to weaken sometimes when he hasn't had time to lift his gun. This young stranger didn't save the gold alone. Guess he saved a goodish few of us." Once more there was a chorus of approval. "Ye've put it neat and handy, Tom," sang out the one who had spoken earlier. "He's saved lives as well as money." "And as a mark of our appreciation the passengers on the train, as well as the staff, have made a collection. I have much pleasure in handing you three hundred dollars." The big man smiled--a comprehensive smile, which took in all the company present, and Jack in particular. He stepped up to our hero, and handed him a skin purse which was heavy with dollars. "Ye've earned it fair and handsome," he said. "Take it, my lad." To say that Jack was delighted and somewhat overcome would be to describe his condition incorrectly. Tears were in his eyes as he took the money, and he attempted vainly to return thanks. But the big man helped him out. "Yer ain't no call to say a word," he said kindly. "We all understand, and we don't want thanks. Now, stranger, jest yer lie down again and sleep. We'll talk later on." "But the conductor?" asked Jack, suddenly remembering the man he had released, and who had fallen from the train. "He's jest as comfortable as may be," came the reassuring answer. "The bullet that ruffian fired went slick through his wrist and made him let go. He's a bit shook, and no wonder; but thar ain't anything worse with him than a hole in his wrist, and that'll mend as soon as your wound. Now, git down and rest." The order was peremptory now, and Jack obeyed it. A delicious sense of comfort and security came over him, and, better than all, the feeling that he had friends. A while ago he was a hunted criminal, with none to look to for help. Now, in the pocket of his jacket, he had solid evidence of good friendship; for the dollars chinked loudly when he moved, while all who looked at him smiled or patted his hand. Meanwhile the train was proceeding, and when in the course of seven hours Jack awoke, he found houses about him, and lights flickering through the morning mist. The passengers were descending from the cars, gripping their luggage, and everything pointed to the fact that the end of the journey was reached. "The rails don't go any farther," said Tom Horsfall, coming and sitting beside him. "From here those who live farther afield have to go by caravan, and there they are, hurrying away, as if they hadn't a moment to lose. Where are you going, lad?" Jack sat up suddenly and looked at his questioner. From the very first he had taken a liking to Tom, and knew intuitively that he was one who could be trusted. Still, he reflected, he must not say too much. The constable might even now be following. "To California," he answered steadily. "To dig?" Jack nodded his head. "Partly that, partly to earn money at the forge. I've done a course of smith's work, and am fairly handy." An exclamation of pleasure escaped Tom promptly. "Do yer want a job?" he asked swiftly. "'Cos I've one ter offer." To do Jack full justice, he hesitated to accept the post, and felt troubled. For common sense told him that the place was offered because of what he had done. It was, in a measure, a reward for his services. But there was another aspect of the matter. When he had accepted Amos's offer it was at a moment when he was sorely pressed, and when, because of his haste, he had little time to consider other matters. But Jack was honest to the core, and he had made up his mind to work for himself at his trade rather than to accept a post and leave his employer ignorant of his past history. And here he was face to face with the dilemma. He must either refuse what might turn out to be just the thing for him, or he must declare himself and hold nothing back. "Yer ain't got no cause to fret about the arm," said Tom, noticing his hesitation, "'cos we've a long march before us. It'll be three months before we reach Nevada, and another before we hit upon a spot at which ter dig. Long before then ye'll be fit again, and it's when we're at the diggin's that ye'll come in handy. We've been lookin' out fer a smith, and, yer see, we're off to Californy like you, so the thing seems kinder ter fit." "It isn't that," exclaimed Jack quickly. "I want to say something. You don't know anything about me. I might be anything at all." "Now, look ye here," cried Tom hotly, "don't yer jest take me fer a fool. No one out here knows what his mates are, nor cares either. 'Tain't no business of no one's. Reckon out thar at the diggin's and on the plains yer kin meet men as was dukes in Europe, others that's thieves, and crowds that has as shady a history as yer could well think of. That ain't no one's concern. But you!--with that honest face and frank look--don't yer try ter get telling me that you've got a history marked up against yer. Yer may have met trouble, but I reckon it come from someone else's fault; or it was a monkey trick that any lad'll get up to. Don't tell me. I've been out these ways boy and man, and I ain't easily took in." "Listen a moment," said Jack quietly. "I am an escaped prisoner, under trial quite recently for burglary, and under suspicion of having killed a man." If our hero expected Tom to give vent to a whistle of astonishment, and to make some sort of demonstration, he was disappointed. Tom sat down coolly, pulled out a cigar, and bit the end off. "Jest you fire ahead with the yarn, young 'un," he said, between the puffs, as he held a match to the weed. "Tell me jest as much as yer like, and jest as little. I ain't no policeman, I'm a plain man; and where I've worked, though thar's been a sheriff, he's mostly lived a hundred or more miles away. Consequence is, we've jedged matters fer ourselves. Reckon we don't make many mistakes, neither. If a man's a horse thief or a train robber, or something of that sort, he has a fair show to clear himself. Ef he can't, he's shot. What's the row been about?" Jack told him frankly what his trouble was, and how he had fled from the prison. Then he described his work with Amos, and finally his dash for the train. Tom listened coolly, taking deep pulls at his weed, and filling the carriage with smoke. Not an observation escaped him. But his brows were wrinkled, and his eyes almost closed, seeming to point to the fact that he was thinking deeply. He rose and went to the window to toss the ash from his weed, and sauntered back again. "Do yer smoke, young 'un?" he asked curtly but not unkindly. Then, as Jack shook his head, he went on. "Ah, more's the pity jest now, for a smoke kinder helps a man. He gets something between his teeth, and grips tight at it. Ef he's got a plaguey business on hand, somehow or other the thing between his teeth, and the smoke bubbling up into the air, lets him get down to the bottom of that 'ere business. Jest tell me. Could you recognize that 'ere chap as came to the forge for the key?" "Anywhere!" exclaimed Jack emphatically. "Then yer ain't no cause ter worry. And I'll tell yer why. All the train robbers and sich like that works out east has to make tracks sooner or later. Things gets too hot for 'em, and they have to move or be nabbed. Wall, this here fellow has made things hot. A murder's a murder, and it don't help matters even if the papers tell him that someone else is standing his trial for the crime. The truth will out some day, and that some day may be sooner rather than later; so the chap clears from the east. And whar does he make for?" Tom looked steadily at Jack, and, seeing that he shook his head, went on promptly. "I'll tell yer. He goes slick west, to the diggin's, whar thar's miners to swindle, and gold trains ter hold up. That's whar the ruffians get to; and seeing that that's the case, ye're like ter meet this fellow out Californy way sooner than in New York direction. That's a good solid reason for yer to come west yerself, and though yer may have thought, and rightly too, to throw off pursuit quicker in that direction, ye've chosen at the same time the one place in all the world whar you're likely ter get evidence that'll clear yer. Do I believe you did it?" Tom looked at Jack as he asked the question, and then burst into a loud guffaw. "Shucks!" he cried; "thar ain't no sense in the noddles of them stay-at-homes. Anyone could see with half an eye that sarcumstances was dead against yer, and that before jedgment was given, your age, your past life, everything should be taken into consideration. But that jedge and jury seemed ter have made up their minds, without even setting to work to learn if other men had been handy, if a cart had been hired, or other burglaries committed in them parts by two men. Reckon that friend of yours you call James did well ter advise yer ter skip. Once ye'd put your nose into a prison, ye'd have been done. Ye'd never have cleared yourself. Now ye've a goodish chance, and I'll help yer. That job's still open, youngster. And, by the way, what's the name?" "Jack Kingsley. Tom Starling when I boarded the train." "Then Jack let it be. Thar ain't no call ter have a second name. One's good enough, and heaps. Will yer come?" "Rather! and ever so many thanks for helping me," cried Jack, his lip a trifle tremulous, for such kindness moved him. "I ain't done nothing," came the prompt answer, "nothing compared with what you've managed fer me. Reckon that rascal near let lead into me. Jest remember this, lad. Ye're as good as any hereabouts, and no call to hang your head. And thar ain't no fear of arrest. Thar ain't a soul as'll know yer, save the villain that did that burglary and left yer to face the trial. Ef yer meet him ye'll have ter act, and afore yer get to the diggin's ye'll have learned how. Now jest a word about myself. I've been everything--cowboy, rancher with my own ranch, storekeeper, and miner. I ain't no wife nor chicks, and so a wandering life suits me. And I've been lucky. Two years ago come Christmas time I struck it rich and plenty way west in Californy, and me and my mate cleared out with a handsome banking account. We agreed to separate till this time, and then ter go partners again ef both of us wished ter have another turn. Wall, we're both for the diggin's again, and we're going to do it big this time. We've each put three thousand dollars into the thing, and I've with me on the train an outfit that'll wash gold of itself. It'll want a bit of fixin', and now and again a little repair, without a doubt. A smith's the man for that, and so you're jest rightly fitted. Yer ain't got no tools, perhaps?" "None," Jack admitted, and then with a smile, "you see, I left so hurriedly. There wasn't time to bring much away, and an anvil is rather heavy." "And perlicemen have a way of skipping along precious quick," laughed Tom. "But we'll fix the whole matter. My mate meets me here at the rail head, and we buy a wagon and some mules or hosses. Then we set off across the plains, choosing some convoy to go with, ef that's possible. Ef not, we'll have to risk the Indians. In any case we shall have a long trail before us, and ef you're fond of shootin' and huntin' thar'll be heaps of both for yer. Why, ef that ain't Steve!" A short, spare man entered the car at this moment, and stepped lightly towards Tom. There was the merest smile of recognition on his face, while the eyes lit up for a moment. They gripped hands for an instant, and then Steve crossed to the window, and looked out sharply, craning his head so as to see in either direction. Tom laughed heartily. "Steve's the silentest man I ever chummed with," he said. "And he can't get that 'ere backwoods trick out of his mind. Don't matter where he is, he's lookin' round, p'raps for enemies, p'raps for somethin' ter eat. Lookin' round's become a sorter habit with him. Howdy, Steve?" he shouted out. "Jest come and larn to know our new hand. This here's Jack, smith to our outfit." The little man strode from the window, faced Jack openly, and gripped his hand till our hero could have shouted. He liked the look of Steve. He was the very image of those hunters and scouts he had so often read about; the silent, lean hunter who went his way into the wilderness, and whose every hour called for courage and determination. "Howdy, stranger?" said Steve. "Kin yer shoot?" "None," answered Jack promptly. "Nor ride?" "A very little." "Then ye'll do. Most every tenderfoot that comes this way is clean off the finest shot and the best ter sit a horse that was ever seen. They git to teachin' the old hands. Ef yer ain't used to neither, reckon ye'll shape mighty soon. I ain't one who holds with side. Deeds is worth a hull wagon load of boastin'." "And words ain't much in your line," laughed Tom. "I never heard Steve make a longer speech. He's took well to yer, Jack. Now then, listen here, mate. This Jack's begun his shootin' already. We got held up back thar down the line, and he cleared us proper. Jest cast yer eye up there at the roof." Steve strode beneath the lantern, and rapidly surveyed the punctures which the robber's bullets had made. In a flash his eye took in the general disorder, the broken window, the stained carpet, and the long form lying beneath the sailcloth. "It war warm while it lasted," he said, returning. "Whar was you?" Jack pointed aloft. "On the roof," he said quietly. "He'd have had me there I expect. So I held on to a smokestack, and shot him through the window." Steve strode to the side of the car, and once more surveyed the surroundings. He leaped to the ground, and they saw him clambering along the footboard. Then he returned as suddenly as he had gone. "Ever pulled a trigger afore?" he asked bluntly. "Never." "And yer was upside down, so ter speak?" "That's so," admitted Jack. "I'm glad ye're comin'." Steve was a character. He was as taciturn and as silent as a man might well be. But honest to the core. A stanch friend, a bitter enemy, for his had been a rough life; and a man so sharp that nothing escaped him. His last words were high commendation indeed, and Jack, realizing that, reddened. "We'll be startin' right away," said Steve, addressing Tom. "A town ain't no fit place fer a scout. One can't kinder breathe, with all the smoke and the houses. I've palled with six boys as is goin' west." The news was excellent, especially when Tom had persuaded his partner to be a little more explicit. The boys turned out to be old hunter friends of Steve's, accustomed to the plains, and their addition to the party would make it possible for Tom and Steve and Jack to push on promptly, and not wait for a larger party. For in those days the wide tracts of plain separating the east from California were infested by cut-throat Indians, and many was the massacre for which they were responsible. Indeed, hundreds of unfortunate men and women, making their way across to the goldfields, fell foul of these red demons, and were slaughtered and scalped unmercifully. "Then to-morrow we'll move," said Tom. "It won't take more'n two hours ter buy up an anvil and sich like things. Hosses ain't no difficulty. Thar's always plenty of 'em. Now, Jack, let's be movin'. Ye'll come right along with us to the camp, and start in as our man from this moment." CHAPTER VIII Out on the Prairie Shouldering their baggage, Tom and Steve led the way from the station, and, having traversed some few hundred yards, came to a single wagon, halted by the roadside. It was a large affair, covered with a big canvas tilt, and mounted on four strong wheels. A single shaft protruded in front, to which the wheelers of the team of horses could be attached. In fact, beyond a few minor particulars which followed the custom in vogue in this part of America, the wagon was very similar to those huge conveyances, sometimes called the "ships of the veldt", which are to be found in South Africa. "A tidy weight it is, too," said Tom, as Jack remarked on the wagon when approaching. "But it's jest the thing for the plains. Yer see, ter do any good way over in Californy a man wants a heap of tools and sich like. Wall, they're to be had from San Francisco, or Sacramento; but, gee! ain't the prices tall! It pays handsome ter buy a wagon back here and fill it with stuff. That's what we're doin'. Me and Steve's put a sight of earnin's and savin's into the matter, and we'll have ter strike it rich way over thar to git the money back. Thar's something else. Ef bad weather comes on, we kin shelter of a night under the tilt--leastwise, we kin at first. After a bit thar won't be the chance. Them skunks of Indians'll make us look out fer trouble, and any man as has a care fer the haar on his head don't get sleepin' too heavy once he's come into their country. Guess them's our mates. Scouts Steve called 'em." By now they were close to the wagon, and Jack noticed that quite a little camp had been formed round it. At a little distance some ten horses were grazing, while one man mounted guard over them. Close at hand a dozen more were tethered to pegs, and nibbled the grass in a circle round their pegs. A fire was burning just outside the wagon, and over it a pot was suspended on an iron tripod. Steve gave a shout, and promptly five men, who were seated near the fire, rose and lounged forward. "Gee, now! Ef that ain't Seth, Tricky Seth, as we called him," shouted out Tom, waving his hat above his head. "Howdy, Seth? Didn't know yer was this way. When last I set eyes on yer it was way down in New Mexico. What's brought yer here?" A short, heavily built man stepped forward from amongst his comrades. He was so tanned by wind and exposure that one might have been excused the mistake if one had taken him for an Indian. His eyes were a steely grey, his chin and upper lip covered with thick, bushy hair, while the backs of his hands, and his arms, which were exposed to the elbows, were also thickly clad with the same material. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, which decidedly had seen better days, a shirt which had once been red, but which frequent washings and much exposure to a hot sun had bleached to a mottled brown, while his nether limbs were clad in cowboy overalls fringed with leather tassels. A picturesque fellow he looked, and something more. His keen eyes, the resolute set of his features, hardly needed the addition of the huge belt he wore, in which reposed a big Colt, to tell a stranger that Seth--"Tricky Seth", as Tom had called him--was something more than picturesque. He came forward with sparkling eyes and with hand outstretched. "Why, so it war," he cried, speaking with a very pronounced twang; "so it war. And I jest reckon I was as s'prised as you to find myself up this way. But New Mexico's that full of horse thieves and Injun skunks that an honest man can't live. Fact is, I got into a muss with a gang of robbers. I come up against 'em accidental at first, and that got their danders up agin me. They was fer shootin' right off whenever they seed me." "And that ain't healthy fer any man," burst in Tom, "though I guess as Seth ain't easy ter frighten." "Not as a general thing; but this here case were special. I stood it fer a while, yer bet, and by keepin' out in the plains and mountains, trappin' and huntin' managed ter hold 'em clear fer a bit. But it got precious onreasonable ter have bullets flyin' whenever I went into town ter sell the skins I'd been collectin'. What with one meetin' and another I got a matter of three holes drilled through me, and that warn't pleasant. I give 'em snuff in return, I jest did, but that don't help ter mend holes in a fellow's carcass. So I comed away. Then I struck along o' Steve, and hearin' yer was goin' partners, and was off to Californy, why, me and my mates here agreed ter go. We was thinkin' of earning a bit by acting as sort of escort to other convoys makin' across to the diggin's. But, bless yer, the crowds that's goin' don't think of danger; they thinks of gold only." "And believes they'll find it in handfuls, the poor fools," cried Tom. "Thar's many a hundred as has lost their scalps crossin' the plains." "And many more'll meet with the same," agreed Seth. "But they don't reckon to meet nothin'. It's goin' ter be a picnic all the way across, that's what they say and think, and so they don't want no escort. Me and my mates fixed then that we'd try a little diggin' ourselves, and as yer was goin', why, it seemed jest the chance to make across together. Who's the stranger?" Tom introduced Jack to Seth promptly, and then handed him over to the latter, who made him acquainted with his comrades. Nor was it long before all became familiar with the story of his behaviour on the train. "For a fust shot it war good, precious good," declared Seth. "I've let off a gun in most positions, but never upside down, as I reckon you was. So, without offence, youngster, I should say as how that 'ere shot weren't altogether of yer own doin'. There was a bit of flukin, in it. Howsomever, that ain't the point. Yer had the grit to lean over and hold fast to the gun. That's whar you came in. Yer held fast, and drew trigger jest at the right moment. Reckon the gun did the rest. And he managed to wing yer?" Jack nodded. "He put a ball through my shoulder," he said. "It hurt a bit, but someone seems to have bandaged it, and it's quite easy now." "Then yer ain't no cause to blush and 'low folks to say as you're a green 'un," laughed Seth. "Reckon a chap as has had daylight put through him has seen something. But yer'll have to set to at shootin'. My advice is to buy a hull heap of ammunition. Me and my mates most always jest carry a dozen rounds. That's heaps under ordinary sarcumstances; but when yer get to shootin' with a revolver, the ammunition melts away, as it war. And a man ain't nothin' of a shot till he's fired thousands of rounds. So buy up a supply, and set to in earnest when we gets clear of the town." Jack made a mental note of the advice given him, and decided to invest some of his savings in a thoroughly good revolver and gun and the necessary ammunition. Nor had he any reason to fear the expenditure, for he had saved a good deal when in Amos's employ, and had hardly touched the money he had brought away from Hopeville. In addition, that same evening, when Tom and his friends were making their final preparations for leaving camp at an early hour on the following day, two officials of the bank to which the money on board the train was consigned approached, and handed our hero no less than fifteen hundred dollars. "As a reward for saving our consignment," they said. "We had a very much larger sum on board the train than was supposed, and had those robbers succeeded in mastering all the passengers, and in stopping the coaches, our loss would have been a very severe one." They left the camp within a few minutes, expressing the hope that Jack would soon recover from his wound. But that young fellow was almost too elated to recollect the fact that his shoulder was damaged. He was more than delighted at the gift, and at once fell to wondering what he would do with such riches. "I shall return James and Mother the sums they lent me," he said, "and for the rest I suppose I'd better bank it. I'll ask Tom." "Yer can jest do one o' two things," replied the latter, when Jack had spoken to him. "Ef yer bank it here the money'll be safe, and yer can arrange to have a draft on a bank way over near Sacramento. Then, once we get to Californy, and yer've had time to look round, yer can set up some sort of business for yerself. Buy a plot in one of the towns that's springing up like mushrooms, and set up as a smith. That'd bring in dollars quick, for there ain't many smiths handy, and ironwork aer well paid. Five hundred dollars should see yer started, with the rest and your savings while working fer us safe in the bank in case of illness or failure. Not that yer want ter think of failure. That are a word no young man should allow has a place in the language. Seems to me ef a youngster jest kind of pins 'success' up in front of him, and sets to to gain it by steady, hard work, he's bound, sooner or later--and the steadier he is the sooner it'll be--to find he's got to the thing he's aimed at. But I was sayin' there's two things yer could do with that money. I've mentioned one." "And the other?" asked Jack eagerly. "The other aer a proposition of my own--mine and Steve's; and mind yer, ef it don't seem right and likely to you, jest refuse, 'cos no offence'll be given. We've put jest three thousand dollars apiece into this scheme of ours, me and Steve have, and a goodish part of the money has gone to buy the wagon and outfit. Still, thar's a tidy few dollars left, and that'll be workin' capital for when we reach the diggin's. Wall, now, more workin' capital are always useful. Yer can buy up appliances that'll make the diggin' and windin' easier, besides employing more hands, and so gettin' down to the gold quicker. Ef yer like the proposition yer kin buy a share in this consarn of ours, and come in as a partner instead of a hired man. Yer'll stand to lose along with us; but ef we strike it rich, why, ye'll gain, jest as we shall, in proportion to the amount ye've put into the partnership. Now, jest yer get away by yerself fer a while, or talk it over with Seth and his mates. They're straight, and ef the consarn ain't worth it, or the proposition ain't a fair one to you, they'll say so for sure. Come back agin in an hour's time. I'm goin' into the town jest to finish a little buying." Jack needed very little time for consideration, for he had already practically made up his mind. There was something transparently honest and straightforward about Tom and Steve, and he felt he could not do better than throw in his lot with them. To be sure, if their efforts to discover gold were not successful, he would lose all the money he subscribed. But then, they might meet with good fortune. "I'll do it," he said to himself, and that, too, without discussing the matter with Seth and his friends. "I'll send along the money I borrowed from Mother and James Orring, pay a thousand dollars to this partnership, and bank the rest against a rainy day. Who knows, I may be glad to have the use of it later on." His determination to become a partner in the little firm of gold diggers delayed the departure of the party for a few hours. "Things has to be done fair and square," said Tom, when Jack announced his decision. "We'll get into town, as soon as it's light, and rouse up a lawyer. It'll take him an hour to prepare a draft same as Steve and I have. Then the sheriff'll have to sign it, and me and Steve too. When the document's ready, you'd best hand it over to the bank, and give 'em instructions to transfer it to their branch at Sacramento. They'll send it _via_ New York and Panama, and thar ain't a doubt but that it'll reach. The lawyer'll make a second copy, so that in any case you'll be able to refer to the agreement if you want to." "And we'd best put something into the draft that'll fix it right ef one of us partners wants to clear," exclaimed Steve, who, though a silent man as a rule, was not backward in making suggestions when his experience told him they were needed. "Seems to me it might happen as one of us would want to leave fer New York or somewheares else. Wall, his money's in the firm, but he don't work no longer. And, sense work aer the thing that's mainly wanted, why, ef he leaves, he ain't no longer of any use." "Agreed," cried Tom instantly. "I'm ready to stand by that." "And I also," added Jack. "We might put in a clause giving the remaining partners the right to buy up the share of the one leaving, and to do that they might sell it to an outsider if they hadn't the money themselves." "Which'd be better than givin' the retirin' partner the right of bringin' in someone as was his friend, and who mightn't hit it off with t'others," said Tom. "Now, that's a fair and square proposal, and ef we're all willin', why, it won't take more'n a few minutes longer fer the lawyer feller ter stick in them extry clauses. While he's doin' the thing, we'll get to the doctor's and have thet shoulder seen to, young 'un. When you was took bad in the train, and lay thar as if you was dead, this doctor man fixed the wound nicely for you. Lucky he jest happened to be aboard. Wall, ter-morrer he'll take another look, and we'll get him to fix us up with bandages and sich like. Now it's time to be turning in." Jack Kingsley lay awake for some time on this his first night with his new comrades. His surroundings were so entirely different from those he was accustomed to, while even the accent and the language of the scouts was so strange, that his brain was too full to allow of sleep. The stamp of the horses outside, and the gentle whisper of the breeze as it blew against the canvas tilt, all served to keep him awake. Then, too, his wound became distinctly painful, while he himself felt burning hot and icy cold in turns. However, at length he fell into a troubled sleep which lasted till the early morning. "How aer yer?" asked Tom, who lay in a bunk on the other side of the wagon. "Fit as ever, youngster?" Jack rose from his blanket couch and shook himself. After such a night he was not at all sure whether he did feel as fit as he should do. But within ten minutes he was laughing and joking merrily; the keen morning air, the brilliant light of the rising sun, and the appetizing smell wafted from the steaming kettle all serving to rouse his spirits. "Ye'll do, yer will," cried Tom some few minutes later, as he watched our hero. "Guess yer hadn't the best o' nights. I sleeps light always, 'cos where I've lived my days a man has to be easy waked, and ready at a moment fer action. I heard yer a-heavin' and a-tossin' in yer blankets, and I reckoned as the shoulder war a trifle troublesome. But ye've took to yer breakfast. I never seed a fellow eat heartier. Seems as ef the air hereabouts agreed with yer." "And as ef bein' shot war a thing as give him an appetite," laughed Steve. "But we'd best be movin' slippy into the town. I knows these lawyer fellers. They're all jaw, and thar ain't no makin' them hurry. Let's skip in thar right now, and the sooner we reach the chap, the sooner we'll be able ter git altogether." Leaving Seth and his mates to clear the camp and make all preparations for their march, Tom and Steve and Jack walked briskly into the town. A call was made at once on a lawyer, and, having given him the necessary particulars, they left him to prepare the agreement which would make Jack a partner in the firm. "And now fer an outfit fer you, youngster," said Tom. "Ye're wantin' a rifle and a revolver. Wall, ef yer go to a proper gunsmith, he'll fix yer up with anythin', but it'll cost money. Thar's fellers in these towns as buy weapons from hunters who aer in want of money, or from miners returning east. They're the men to go to." He led the way past the better part of the town, and dived into a smaller street built at right angles to the one they had just left. Then he stopped at a little shop, in the tiny window of which were displayed an assortment of articles. "Jest leave the tradin' to me," he said. "Likely enough, ef yer was to try and fix the deal, the fellow would ask double his price, for these men aer wonderful cute at spottin' newcomers. Leave it ter me; I've bought off him afore." Tom indeed made an excellent bargainer, for within half an hour Jack found himself possessed of a fine rifle, and a revolver which appeared never to have been used. Also, Tom bought for him a large quantity of ammunition. "The whole dirt cheap at a hundred dollars," he said as they issued from the shop. "Now, all we've got ter buy is an anvil and sich tools as ye'll want, 'cos that'll be your work in the partnership, besides diggin'. In a firm like ours each of the partners'll do what he kin, and as much as he kin, to get things going and to make dollars. Steve, thar, has the best eye fer locatin' a likely corner fer gold as ever I came upon. But he ain't no good with the pick and spade; he's built too light. Last time we was partners, 'way in Californy, guess me an a hired man did most all the diggin'. But Steve did more'n his equal share of work for the firm, 'cos it was he who went nosin' round till he finally hit upon the spot that panned out rich and gave us gold in plenty. Ha! here's the general stores. They'll likely enough have all we want." They had, in fact, no difficulty in purchasing all the tools Jack was likely to require, and arranged with the storekeeper to have them sent to their camp at once. An anvil of moderate size, a bag of fuel, the necessary tools, and a small portable forge were bought; and, that done, the trio returned to the lawyer's. "Ready, gentlemen," he said, meeting them with a smile. "I know how impatient you scouts and miners are, and I made a special effort to press on with the document. It is here, and we can go across to the sheriff right away. There the document can be duly signed and sealed, the money can be paid over, and the exchange duly witnessed." Within an hour Jack found himself a member of the firm, with Tom Horsfall and Steve as his partners, and, as he left the sheriff's office, could not refrain from silently contrasting his position then with what it had been a few weeks formerly. Then everything seemed to be against him, while a long imprisonment stared him in the face. But two days ago he was a hunted criminal, seeking to make good his escape; and now--so stimulating was the effect of the success his bold action on the train had met with, and the few kind words with which he had been greeted--he feared to face no man, no, not even Constable Simpkins. "I feel for the first time as if I had taken a step in the right direction," he said to himself, "the direction which will lead to the discovery of that ruffian for whom I have suffered so much. I have met with a stroke of amazing fortune, and have earned enough money to give me a start. Well, I'll do my utmost to turn it to good account. I'll slave to make this partnership a success, and if it prove to be that, then I'll use what money I gain in tracking that criminal. For clear my name from this slur I will, even if it costs me every dollar I possess, and takes years and years to accomplish." A visit to the doctor was made on the way back to camp, and having had his shoulder dressed, and careful instructions given for the future care of the wound, Jack returned to the camp with his friends. "We didn't rightly know when you'd be returning," said Seth, "and so we didn't hook in the beasts. But everything else is ready packed, and in ten minutes we'll be movin'. That youngster had better climb into the wagon. It won't do that shoulder of his'n any good jolting on a mustang." Let the reader imagine the party as they marched from the town. In front of the wagon rode three horsemen, such horsemen as are not to be met with in any other country; for these hunters had the free-and-easy seat which comes from long custom. They rode, in fact, like others in different countries who use their legs so seldom that walking is a labour, and who climb into a saddle, even if they only wish to pass from one tent to another. A fine picture Tom and Seth and Steve made as they led the march. After them came the wagon, its team blowing, for they were soft after a long rest and plenty of feeding, while beside the beasts walked a negro, wielding a long whip, which cracked like a pistol shot when he flicked it. On the front sat Jack, radiantly happy, while in rear rode five more scouts, alert and watchful even here; for such is the force of habit. And so they turned their faces from the towns and moved off into the plains--those long flats of country which stretched, with a break here and there, right away to the mountains of Nevada. "And by the time we reaches 'em yer'll be a scout same as we are," said Tom, riding his horse close beside the wagon. "As soon as that 'ere shoulder aer better yer'll be able to mount and ride same as us, and then Steve'll set to with yer. Thar ain't another in Americky like him to larn a youngster all the ways o' huntin', and how to track and follow a trail. Yer've jest to sit thar tight and get well, and out here on the plains, whar the air's pure, a fellow mends in no time." This proved to be the case. The air of the plains is notoriously healthy, and very soon Jack was able to use his arm. In three weeks he was mounted, and then his real enjoyment of the trip began. Long before that he had become bosom friends with his mates, and found them more than kindly. Tom alone knew his secret, but the remainder guessed that their new mate was a fugitive from justice. "And why?" asked one of them with a laugh, as they sat round the camp fire one evening. "'Cos Jack aer changed his colour. When he comed along to the camp his haar war as black as a coal. Now it's carrots. If that don't point ter something, my name ain't Jacob." There was a hearty laugh, and then the conversation was turned; for in those parts no man enquired too closely into the past history of his mates. A man was judged for himself. If he was a good and true friend that was enough. So Jack settled down amongst them, and quickly answered to the name of "Carrots". As to his companions on this long and venturesome journey across the plains which stretched between the point of their departure and California, they were without a shadow of doubt far more interesting than those one usually met. Already the group of hunters had come upon parties of would-be miners journeying to the land of gold, and Jack was forced to confess--it was brought home to him accidentally as it were, but forcibly for all that--that the men they had met were poor specimens for the most part. Often enough the bands were composed of clerks from the cities, of storekeepers who had lost their all in their venture at trading, and sometimes, mixed up with these men of the towns, who, to say the best of them, were by their previous lives and experience wholly unsuited to the new career at which they aimed, were men from a higher sphere--dentists, doctors, soldiers, sailors, and even an actor or two. Poorly developed for the most part, the glaring sun beneath which they marched, and the open-air life which their journey forced them to lead, had given them a colour to which many no doubt had been strangers before. But no amount of exposure could give them experience of the plains--that experience which could be learned only after years of travelling, and which was so essential to them. "It makes a man ache, so it do," said Seth, after they had bade farewell to one of these bands, which was hopelessly delayed by the loss of their draught horses. "Them poor critters would be better off back in the towns instead of coming out here. In course they're delayed. Chances are thar's some of 'em never had ter do with a hoss till now, and they ain't a notion when ter feed and water him, when ter work him fer all he's worth, and when ter give him a rest. In course out here a hoss mostly feeds hisself. The grass is that good he'd get fat ef he warn't worked, and worked hard too. But thar's sech a thing as resting the critters in the heat of the day, of grooming them occasionally, and of giving 'em a feed of corn when thar's a settlement handy. Them men we've jest left ain't no more notion of a hoss than they have of an Injun, and the wust of it are fer them that in the fust place the delay aren't all they've got ter suffer, while in the second it are generally a case of bein' clean and regular wiped out. Huh!" Jack could not help but contrast his friends with these unhappy and inexperienced men the party had come upon. He looked about him as he jogged along, and was fain to confess that there was essentially a business air about his mates--an air of the plains, an atmosphere which spoke of independence, of courage, of that resource without which no hunter or scout in those days could have survived for long. Ahead of him rode the burly Tom, the first man to befriend him. Jack could catch a view of the tips of his long, flowing fair moustache blowing back at either side of his cheeks. What a seat the man had! He seemed to be a part of the animal he rode, and yet there was no effort about his horsemanship. To look at him he simply lounged in his saddle. Yet, as many an incident had proved, Tom was not to be easily shaken from his seat. A sudden start of his animal, a plunge, a trip over some hidden hole produced the same result. The burly Tom sat still at ease, the picture of contentment. And beside him jogged Steve, the wiry little man who has already been introduced to the reader. Taciturn and silent as a general rule, this little man, so fine drawn and lean, could on occasion be almost garrulous. But his features seldom wore other than a serious look. His keen eye was always watchful. "Jest as I told yer," remarked Tom one day. "Steve aer always lookin' round. He aer always expecting something, and fer that reason thar ain't a scout as I'd sooner ride with. Ef you're dull and sleepy yerself, thar's Steve to watch fer yer." Let the reader glance at those others who had banded themselves with Jack and his mates. Seth, Tricky Seth, a picture of good health and manliness: sunburned to the last degree, scarred across the forehead as the result of a toss from a horse when much younger, bearded and moustached, and as handsome a man as one could meet in a week's march. Yet how simple the man was! In spite of his good looks, of his obvious power, of a frame which was magnificently put together, this Seth was like an overgrown boy--jolly the day long, friendly with all, however humble, and ready to lend a hand to the first who needed help. There were no airs and graces about this scout. Then turn to Jacob. Heavy and dull of feature, more taciturn than Steve even, if that were possible, this silent scout seemed to be permanently occupied with his thoughts. Of huge proportions, he moved as a general rule with a sluggishness and a want of celerity which were in distinct contrast with the sprightliness and alertness of Steve. But the man knew the plains by heart. He had been born, one might say, with a gun in his hand; and where horses were concerned there was not another to be found who could teach him. "He aer got the appearance of a parson or a teacher," laughed Tom, "but Jacob ain't always thinkin'. Reckon he kin be lively when he likes; and ef he took to runnin' yer or me for a mile, guess we'd come in last by a goodish bit. And yer should jest see him when he's got a grip of the ribbons. I've seen a hull heap of men runnin' teams, and sometimes it's mules, and t'others it's hosses. Wall, it don't make no sorter difference ter Jacob what the beasts aer. Reckon ef they was buffalo he'd fix 'em jest the same. It aer a treat to see him steering a team across bad country, and when we comes ter settlements, and he aer conducting the outfit, why, guess it makes them city folks open their eyes. Jacob aer a man fer hosses." Then there was Black Bill, laughing and full of fun, but a thorough man of the plains for all that. Dusky of complexion, of medium height, Bill could hold his own with anyone when it came to the management of cattle, for he had spent some years in the stockyards. And it was reported that even Steve himself had seen no more of the Indians. Bill had experienced a deal of fighting. Of Tom Langham and David there is little to report. The one was as lean as Steve, but lankier, and amongst his friends was a reputed yarner. There were few who could tell a fireside tale as Tom Langham could. David was more of Jacob's stamp, with little to make him distinctive. And yet, put all these men together, with our hero Jack accompanying them, and even a novice in those parts, a city man, would have found something to hold his attention. It was that subtle air of business which these scouts carried with them wherever they went, the air which warned ruffians of the road to leave them severely alone, and made Indians cautious of attacking them. No wonder that Jack considered himself lucky. He was in the very best of hands, and if only his journey to California turned out as favourably as the beginning augured, then he promised himself success. Who could say? Perhaps in that country of glorious skies, of sunrises and sunsets, he would discover more than gold. It might even happen, unlikely though it seemed, that there amidst the miners he might come upon that evidence for which he sought, that man whose word alone could clear his character, could make of him once again a respected citizen of that town from which he had so lately fled. CHAPTER IX Only a Youngster "We've a longish day before us," said Tom one afternoon, just after the sun had mounted to its central position, and the heat was at its height. "Them pals of ours has gone off huntin', fer it stands to reason we must have fresh meat to keep us in good health. But, as I was sayin', we're here, you and I, in charge of the team and the wagon; and sense we dursent sleep, for there ain't never no sayin' when something won't turn up, why we'd best settle down fer a jaw. I was thinking of that business of ours in the train, when yer climbed on ter the roof. I wonder what made yer think of that?" Our hero was troubled by the question. When he came to review his movements on that eventful evening, and this particular one more especially, he found it hard to say why he had clambered to the roof of the railway coach. "I suppose I saw in a flash that that man would shoot me if I went along the footboards," he said. "I had seen the conductor wounded and forced to let go, so I suppose, without thinking, I realized that the roof was the only place." "Jest as I thought," remarked Tom, nodding his head, and busying himself with his whip, which he seemed to crack on every spare occasion. "That 'ere fight reminds me of a time same as this, when I was jest a slip of a youngster. It was down Mexico way, not in California, whar we're goin', and thar was gold in the question, same as thar was with you the other day. Yer see, my uncle owned a team of beasts. In fact, he owned several teams, and made a fine living by carting stores down to the Mexican mines, and returning with gold. He'd been extry lucky, too, and hadn't been held up more than once. Then my father died, and Uncle Jim took me under his wing. I used to march alongside the team, help feed and water the beasts, and lend a hand at anything that war wanted. I war jest about thirteen years of age, I reckon." "Young," remarked Jack. "But I suppose many boys are to be found with the mule teams as young as that?" "Sometimes they're regular kids," came the laughing rejoinder. "I mind one kid as war jest twelve, and he'd already had a turn agin the Injuns. Boys in this country don't get so much schoolin' as they might elsewhere--in England, fer instance--though I've no doubt, when America's settled, the youngsters will get all the schoolin' they want, and more besides. And so it ain't nothin' outer the ordinary to meet kids out on the plains. Wall, I was a regular kid, and Uncle Jim and I did many a march together. We'd been down to a mine located well in the south, though I can't get hold of the name at this moment. We'd dropped all our goods thar--hard tack, picks, and spades, and what not, and had filled chuck-full with gold. Reckon there was twenty-thousand dollars worth of dust on board--a fortune that wanted taking care of! And take good care of it we did, Uncle sleeping by day, while I drove the team. At night he'd fix his pipe in between his teeth, and keep watch wherever we were camped, while I turned into my blankets. It war jolly while it lasted, and yer may bet that I war a proud kid, takin' care of that 'ere team and all the gold by my solitary self durin' the day." "And then?" asked Jack eagerly. "You were held up by a gang of robbers?" "Hold hard," sang out Tom. "We ain't got thar yet. Things was goin' smoothly enough, when Uncle took ill. He war mighty queer. To this day I ain't sure what ailed him. But I've a notion he'd got a kind of heat stroke. Anyways, he war as hot as fire, and fer a time wanderin' in his head. I remember it war somewhere's about this time of the day when he went queer, and, sense I couldn't drive the team and look to him at the same time, I formed camp jest beside the bank of a river, whar the road ran down to the ford. I watered the beasts, pegged them out to feed, and then set to work putting cold cloths, wrung out of river water, on Uncle's head. Reckon I kept at it all that day, and right into the night, till I was that weary I was falling asleep the instant I set down in the wagon. And in the end I went right fast off beside Uncle, and lay there snorin' till the sun was up, and it war nigh ten o'clock. It war a shout that waked me." Tom looked over his shoulder to see that Jack was listening, and then threw the tail of his whip lightly over his leaders, sending his team bounding forward. "A shout," repeated Jack. "Yes." "From over the water," said Tom. "I lifted the tilt of the wagon, and looked across the river. There was four men, mounted, wavin' their arms. "'Whar's the ford start?' one of them sang out, when he seed me come clamberin' outer the wagon. 'Does it run straight over thar from whar we're standin', or whar in thunder does it begin?' "Wall, I war that green I was jest on the point of singing out that it cut clear down stream from whar our wagon was located till you was in line with a tree on the far side, and a kind of little bay on ours. Thar was shallow water on top of a ledge running to that point. Perhaps it war deep enough to come to the floor of the wagon, and in bad weather it might be an inch or two deeper. But it warn't never more that I ever knowed. On either side the ledge shelved off gradually, and in course the water got deeper and deeper. From the point I jest mentioned one had to swing the team right across stream, drive 'em fer ten yards or so, and then swing their heads up stream again. It war the stiffest ford as ever I crossed, and I can't make no shape to guess how it war first located. But thar it was, I'd been over it a dozen times, and was game to take the team myself, with the load of gold dust, Uncle, and all. I war sayin', I war jest on the point of singing out directions to the strangers over the far side, when Uncle jest pops the tip of his nose outer the wagon. "'Hold on, Tom,' he says. 'Who aer they?' "I didn't know one bit. They was travellers I supposed. But Uncle had been on that road for seven years, and guess he knew everyone for miles up and down. "'There's four of them,' I said. 'Guess they're going down to the mines.' "'Guess they're bound for gold anyway,' he says. 'Sing out as there's another ford six miles up stream,' he says. 'That'll give us a breather. Don't tell them on any account that they kin cross here.' "You may reckon I got wondering whether Uncle were still wandering, and off his head. I looked at him precious hard, and axed him ef he meant it. 'They kin guess there's a ford here, and we know it,' I said, 'else we shouldn't be camped by the entrance.' "'Let 'em guess it, then,' he kind of snapped. 'Better they should think we was fools than we should tell 'em the ford and have 'em takin' every dollar we've got on board. Sonny, those four strangers aer a gang that's been watchin' fer me more than once. I've give them the slip three times already, and I'll do it agin this time ef I'm able. Ah, thunder! I can't even stand.' "He'd climbed to his feet inside the wagon, holding on to the tilt, and jest as I looked across the river again I heard him fall with a bang. Then the man who'd shouted from the far side sang out again: 'We're making south,' he hailed. 'We've been directed to this here ford, and sence you're meaning to cross yer must know it. We was told it war tricky. Whar does it start, and whar does one have to turn?' "'Bluff 'em,' calls Uncle from the wagon. 'Ef yer don't, it'll be a case with both of us, youngster.' "Wall, I war only a kid," said Tom, gathering his reins in a bunch, "and I don't mind agreein' that I war in a mortal funk. I'd heard of Uncle's escapes, in course, and I knew that thar war men out on the road who'd take every dollar we had, and shoot us into the bargain. In my fright I was nearly telling them the ford. But Uncle war at the tilt again, glaring at me, and calling to me not ter be a fool. And I reckon I war more afraid of Uncle when he was in a rage than I war of any other man under the sun. I warn't fer telling a lie anyhow, but I 'low as all aer fair in love and war, and thet was a case of war. So I plucked up some sorter courage and called back to the men: 'Uncle's ill,' I shouted. 'He's too ill to come out and show the ford. But thar's another, six miles higher up. Yer can't miss it when you get thar. It's easier than this one.' "Wall, that didn't please 'em. I could see the critters putting their heads together, and perhaps they guessed that Uncle could ha' told me, even if he war too ill to shout to them. So they tried to scare me into telling them. "'This here's a case of life and death,' sings out the rascal as had shouted before. 'We're going south ter see our mother. She's thet bad she ain't expected ter last over long. So we're pushing down as fast as we can. Ax yer uncle ter tell you the road.' "'Ax him the name of his mother,' growls Uncle from the wagon. "Wall, thet did it," said Tom with a grin, looking into Jack's face. "In course they seed that they was being bluffed, and one of 'em made up his mind to find the ford for himself. He rid down the bank, spurred his horse on into the water, and was ten feet out in no time. By then the water was jest washin' his boots. Reckon he war on the ledge that carried the ford on the far side. "'You kin come along, mates,' he sang out. 'Ef that imp don't care ter ax his uncle, or ef his uncle's foxin' ill, and won't say, why we'll get across all the same, and make south all the sooner.' "Guess he thought he was safely over," laughed Tom; "but he warn't. One of his mates joined him, while the other two rode jest behind. Then suddenly, afore you could have expected it, the two who were leading, plunged into deep water. In course their horses started swimmin', but the jerk, and being unused to thet sort of thing perhaps, upset their riders, and reckon them two had a fine sousing. They turned back to the bank, and went climbing outer the water, shoutin' and cussin', and sayin' what they'd do ter me ef they could only get across. Then they turned their hosses' heads and rid like mad fer the other ford! "'Get them mules in quick,' sings out Uncle, squintin' outer the wagon from beneath the tilt. 'Them critters'll be here afore yer kin look round, and ef we ain't slippy they'll have us. Cut the ropes, lad, and let yer blankets and sich things lie as they are. Ef we're alive we kin come back fer 'em. Ef we're dead, guess we shan't want 'em. Quick aer the word!' "Yer could see as he war anxious, and in course I set to ter fix the team into the wagon jest as slippy as I could. But I war a boy, yer must remember, and it aer a man's work ter tie a hull team into their places. Then, what with thinkin' of them critters, and the funk I war in, every trace I touched got hooked to the wrong bar. There was Uncle, too, squintin' at me from under the tilt, his face a fiery red, and his dander burnin'. I wonder now thet I war able to fix 'em all. But at last the mules were tied in and we was ready. "'I'm to drive 'em over?" I axed the old man. 'Clean slick across?' "'You aer soft!" he sings out in a kind of shriek. 'That's what they want you to do. It's jest what we ain't meanin' ter carry out. Kin yer guess why?' "I couldn't," said Tom, making a grimace. "I war a thick-headed kid, and the bustle had scared away all the sense I ever had. "''Cos them critters'll have divided,' shouted Uncle. 'They know that I'm queer, and they guess a kid ain't much ter be afraid of. Ef they'd happened to have known this ford they would have ridden clean across, took the gold, and riddled us with bullets. As it aer, two of 'em will cross, the other two's hid up thar over the far side of the river. They reckon they're bound ter have us either way. Boy, aer you game ter fight 'em?' "'I'll try,' I says. 'What am I ter do?' "'Send yer team into the water, and cut out along the ford. When you've reached the point whar, in the ordinary course, you'd swing 'em up stream, jest pull 'em in. It ain't over deep thar, and sense it's hot these days the mules won't mind it. Hold the critters thar till you see how things aer workin'. Ef the two men who have crossed ride out to us, we must try and shoot 'em. Ef the others come riding out to join them, then we've two things we kin do. One is ter send the team along the road fer the other bank and chance the shootin'. T'other is to drive 'em into deep water till the cart is out of reach, cut the traces, and leave the mules to swim ashore.' "Wall, that fairly staggered me," said Tom. "'Drive the wagon into deep water, Uncle?' I axed, and I reckon my eyes was nearly starting from my head. "'Yer've got it,' he answers, as if thar warn't nothing outer the way in the order. 'This cart's heavy. It are got enough dust aboard to keep it on the bottom till the whole of the tilt is covered with water. I'd sooner sink the hull thing, and myself too, ef that war necessary, than see them critters get the gold. But we ain't goin' ter do that. Drive the wagon off the road till the mules are off their feet and swimmin'. By then we shall be deep enough. Then cut 'em free and wait fer them critters. Yer've got to shoot, young un.' "We was in a bad muss anyway," said Tom, his face assuming for the moment a stern aspect; "and what with the bustle of puttin' in the mules, and headin' them for the ford, I kind of forgot my fears. I was that busy I hadn't time to think what might happen when those villains reached us. So, somehow or other, I grew out of the funk that had set my teeth chatterin' and my fingers shakin', and, rememberin' that the team was in my hands entirely, I made up my mind to bring 'em through. The leaders was enterin' the water before yer could think, and before five minutes had passed, we were well out in the centre. "'Now pull 'em in,' says Uncle. 'Them critters'll be here in ten minutes, and by then the mules will be wantin' to move on. Yer'll have ter hold 'em tight, lad. Jest remember that you are in charge of yer old uncle and of the gold. Ef yer pull us through it'll be the making of yer.' "From being in a funk I got quite lively, and as proud as a peacock, and sat there at the front of the wagon, same as I am here, holding the reins, and fingering my shooter every now and again. I'd never let one off before that, except sometimes Uncle would give me a shot when we were well out on the plains. But I 'lowed as I could try, and by the time them critters turned up I'd fixed it that I would shoot every man of 'em sooner than lose the wagon and Uncle. "Wall, in course of time two of the men that we'd first seen on the far side of the river came galloping up along the bank we'd jest left. Reckon they and their mates had been lying hid, waiting fer us ter get across, and they set to howlin' when it war clear that we had taken to the river ter get protection. The two who had stayed up on the other bank came over a hill some four hundred yards away, and thar ain't a doubt but that they had been watchin'. Anyway, they knew the route we'd taken. There warn't, neither, any more doubt as to what their business was. One of the critters let his shooter loose, and in a second, flick! goes a bullet through the tilt of the wagon close behind my ear. "'That ain't nothin',' sings out Uncle. 'A bullet don't hurt till it hits, and the range are long for 'em. Hold them critters steady, lad, and ef I tell yer, whip 'em up and swing 'em fer the far shore. Thar's this in our favour: we've only two a side to deal with. When they was on the far bank there were four. Now we kin be more even.' "The two on our side rode their horses right down into the water, and then we larned that we wasn't to have it altogether our own way. Uncle had forgotten that two of the critters had been watchin', and these two stood with their hosses' feet in the water and called across to their friends, giving them directions how to move so as to follow the ford. They meant business, there warn't a doubt, fer in two seconds the men on our side were edging their beasts slowly into the stream, kinder feelin' the ridge beneath them, and making out to where we were stood. It began to look ticklish, and a lot wuss when the two varmint on the far side rid their mounts farther into the river, and, as ef they'd guessed that the ledge must make in a line to whar we were, began to push on towards us. "'It aer a case of facin' the hull crowd or of sinking the cargo,' sings out Uncle. "Ef he'd been strong enough ter get to his feet I reckon he would have faced the crowd alone, fer he had fine courage; but he war as weak as a child, and could only lie there raging at his helplessness. "Kin you tackle the lot alone, Tom?' he asked after a bit, when them critters was close handy. "I suppose I looked what I thought. There warn't a chance that I could manage the team and fight them four. "'Then whip 'em up and run her into deep water,' cries the old man. 'Ef the cart sinks fer good, then at any rate they won't have had the gold. Ef she holds the bottom we'll be able to get a rope on to her later on, and an extry team will pull her out. Swing 'em over, lad, and get ready to cut the critters loose. It wouldn't do to leave them tied by the traces. They'd drown like rats in a trap." "Yer should ha' heard the row them fellers made when the cart got moving suddenly," said Tom, laughing loudly at the recollection. "I war a boy, yer must recollect, and thim shouts fairly scared me fer a moment, and kind of driv all my courage outer my elbows. I mind the fact that, fer months after, when I happened to dream a little, it war always about those men, and the shout they gave used ter set me awake, sitting up in my blankets and quaking. But thar was Uncle close handy, and, though he was helpless, I feared him a goodish deal more than the robbers who were riding out into the stream. Also, and yer kin believe it, seeing as you're young, I had a sort of feeling that kept me going. I knew that I was responsible fer the safety of Uncle and the gold. There wasn't another soul handy to help me, and ef I went down through funk then everything was lost. I may be right--Gee! I'm sure I am--when a young chap knows that others are relying on him, that he has a sort of duty before him, why it's in his nature, it's human nature ef yer like, fer him to buckle to, ter get savage and stubborn, and ter swear to hisself that he's going ter get through with the job and win out whatever happens. Anyway, that's how I felt. I didn't give a how of chips for the thought that I might be drowned. I jest picked up the reins hard, flicked my whip-end over the leaders, and sent 'em forward. In two yards I should ha' swung them to the right ef I wanted to follow the ford. Ef I swung 'em to the left they would drag the cart into deep water, and pretty sudden too, fer the ledge carrying the road over the river broke off on that side rather abruptly, and thar was ten foot of depth within six yards of whar we were standing. "'Git at it, lad!' sings out Uncle. And git at it I did. I drove the mules clear to the left, and in a few seconds the leaders was swimming. I made sure that in another moment or two I should be in water up to my neck. But jest then one of the robbers sent a bullet in our direction. It missed me by a hair, and, flying on, struck one of the wheelers. And thet 'ere bullet seemed to finish the case fer us. It sent the mule it struck plunging right and left, and scared the other beasts. Instead of pulling the cart out into deep water, the leader of our team swum round fer the place they knew would give 'em footing. And once they had got it, there they stood, sweating in spite of the water, ready to break away at any moment, and refusing to answer to the reins. It war a fix. Thar war the cart in deeper water, to be sure, but still on the ledge, and easily get-at-able by them robbers. "'Give 'em the whip. Swing 'em over, Tom,' shouts Uncle. 'Them critters will get us here. Push the team on!' "It war easy ter order, but hard ter carry out the work. The mules were that scared they wouldn't budge one way or the other. They jest stood thar, with the water washing all round them, their ears thrown back, ready ter do something extry silly the next second, but refusing blank ter do what war expected of them. And all the while thar was them four robbers riding out, feelin' their way carefully, and gettin' nearer. In fact, they was at that moment within twenty paces, close enough to make fair shooting. I know that, 'cos one of the varmint lifted his shooter, took a careful aim at me sittin' there on the box, and let off his gun. It war lucky that them leaders give a jerk just then. It made me swing over to the right, while the bullet ripped past my shoulder and cut a neat little hole in the tilt. "'We're done,' I heard Uncle groan. Then the corner of the tilt that he had been holding up, so as to be able to look out, fell back into place, and by the bump I heard I reckoned he'd fallen back in a faint. Thar war I left all alone ter face them critters." The very recollection of such a position made Tom hot. He drew a huge, red handkerchief from his hat, where he was in the habit of carrying it, and mopped his forehead. "It war a teaser," he said. "It was," admitted Jack. "What happened?" "I expected to be shot any second. I gave a slash at my leaders again, and did my best to move them. But they wouldn't budge. Then one of them villains let off his gun so close that I reckon the smoke and the flash scared me, though why the bullet didn't hit me is a puzzle I ain't going to try ter explain. I war scared right enough, and the start I gave caused me to roll from the seat where I was sitting splosh into the water. Yer should ha' heard them critters yell again. Guess they took it fer granted that the trouble was over, and that the gold and the cart was theirs. But it warn't. I had got something more to say in the business." "How?" asked Jack, who was more than interested. "You fell from your seat into the water." "I did that. The cart war left on the edge of the ledge, as I've already said, and the river was jest about washing the floor boards. I floundered under the surface for a bit, and then got my feet safe on ter the ledge. But when I lifted my head to take a breath it came bump up agin the floor boards. I war clear under the wagon, and, as luck would have it, there was jest enough space there to allow me to breathe. Guess them four critters thought I was drownded, fer they rid up to the wagon laughing fit ter bust. "'That 'ere shot cleared him out fine,' I heard one of them shout. 'Git to their heads, mate, and take them along the ford. We ain't out of this muss yet. Joe, ride ahead, and make sure ye're on the ledge. Now that we've got the gold it won't do ter lose it. I'll keep close handy to the cart. The old man'll want shootin'.' "That's the sort of ruffians they was," explained Tom. "They didn't think no more of shootin' a man then I think of eatin' dinner. And it didn't make no difference to them whether it war a boy their bullets hit, or a man. But I war under the wagon, and though I had been scared I warn't done with, not by a heap. Yer must understand that gold dust are heavy stuff to carry, but it don't take up a heap of room, so thar was plenty o' space left fer us in the wagon. Then, same as we have here, some of the boards was kept loose on purpose. Yer see, out on the plains, when ye've a load, yer often want to carry odds and ends slung to the wagon. Thar's a pail fer watering the mules, a cooking pot, and sich like things. Sometimes they're jest slung to hooks screwed into the bottom boards. But Uncle had his own ideas of comfort and of doin' things, and I reckon he ought to know what was right, seem' he'd been on the road so long. His idea was to have a tray slung under the centre of the wagon by means of four short lengths of chain, and the bottom boards above carried loose, so as you could haul up anything you wanted from the tray. Wall now, in course, seeing that we had to cross the river, I had removed every stick from that tray. It come bump up agin me as I crouched below the wagon, and, as those men moved the team along, I jest climbed on to the tray and rose my head through the boards of the wagon. It war as good as a play. There were them critters thinkin' that I was floatin' down the river. And there was me, half in the wagon, extry lively, wonderin' hard what ter do. It war Uncle's shooter that decided the matter. He was lying close handy to the opening, as pale as death, with his revolver on the boards beside him. "'Yer own's drenched by the river,' I said to myself, feeling for the shooter I carried in my belt. 'His is all right. Take it, and go fer them critters.' Wall, I hopped clean into the wagon then, waited a bit till we were getting close to the far bank, fer the robbers war guiding the team all the while, and war going forward as slow as ef it war to a funeral. Then I lifted the edge of the tilt, took aim at the chap riding nearest, and pulled the trigger. Reckon he war killed outright. Anyway, he plumped into the water, and none of us saw him agin. But you kin guess that thar war a ruction. Them fellers thought that they had the thing all to themselves, and then, all of a sudden, one of their number was wiped out. They wasn't cowards, to say the best of them, and the three who war left gave up minding the mules and came ridin' their hosses back to the wagon, sending a bullet or so to show that they war coming. Yer don't think I waited for 'em, do yer?" Tom asked the question with a knowing wag of his head. "Not much," he proceeded, as Jack showed his doubt. "I knew ef I stayed in the wagon they'd riddle me before I could wink: same as you guessed that thet fellow in the railway carriage would shoot yer ef yer rose your head above the window. Thar was Uncle, too. Ef I got shot where I was, he was certain ter be found and an end made of him. I kinder guessed the whole thing in a flash, and then dived through the boards of the wagon, on to the tray below, and then into the river. There was eight inches or more of air space beneath the boards by then, fer the ledge was rising, and ef a man had stood in the river and stooped, so as to get a view, he could have seen me fer certain. But them critters was on horseback, and I reckon they never gave a thought to the under part of the wagon. Anyway, they rode up with every intention of pulling the tilt aside and shooting me the moment they could clap eyes on my figure. And I disappointed 'em. I jest waded to the edge of the wagon, fixed myself inside one of the wheels, and when they was within five feet of me let go with my pistol. It fixed 'em sure. They wasn't expecting anything from underneath the wagon, same as that critter in the train warn't expecting nothing from the roof. My bullet must have struck one of the hosses, and the mad plunging of the beast didn't help matters for them. Then a second bullet winged one of the men, and in a moment they went flying. Gee! It makes me laugh now to think of the muss they got into. The bank war on our left, and a short cut to it took yer into deep water. They war properly scared, and, like people in a similar condition, they made fer safety by what seemed ter be the quickest route. In two seconds their hosses was swimming, and before they managed to reach the bank one at least of the villains had had a narrow squeak fer his life. As fer me, I climbed on to the box, took up the reins, and sent the mules flyin' to the bank. But I didn't stay there. I turned 'em, and came back over the water. Yer see, the three robbers was left on the far side, and ef they wanted to attack again they had to cross the ford there in full view, or had to gallop up to the other ford. In any case it would give me time to fix matters up a little, and pay some attention to Uncle." "You saved him," said Jack enthusiastically. "He must have been proud of you. You were only a boy, I must remember." "He war a peppery feller," laughed Tom. "He came to his senses five minutes later, and fer a time I guess he thought the cart and the gold were taken. Then he reckoned he'd had a baddish dream. It warn't till the following day thet I told him." "And then?" asked Jack. "He war a regular father to me. He's an old man now, living in New York State; but his home's mine, and his money too ef I wanted it." CHAPTER X A Buffalo Hunt "Them's buffalo without a shadow o' doubt," said Steve, one afternoon, six weeks after the little party had set out on their long journey to California. "Ef yer shade yer eyes and look close yer can see a dark line that ain't never still. Them's buffalo." The little hunter spoke with an assurance born of long experience, and sat his horse with one hand above his eyes, and the brim of his hat pulled low. Jack followed suit; but though he could distinguish the dark line away on the plain, he could make nothing more of it. "There is a line, right enough, Steve," he admitted, "and as you say it's buffalo I'm bound to believe you; but I can't see a single animal." "No more yer would ef yer was to stare for half a day," came the answer, "'cos they're packed as tight as herrings in a barrel. But the cloud above the line tells a hunter the right tale. That aer dust, and them beasts is moving pretty rapid. How'd yer like ter try a shot at 'em?" Jack was all eagerness at once, for he had been practising diligently with his weapons during the days which had passed, and wished now to show of what he was capable. Indeed, the injury to his shoulder had in a measure been for his good; for in place of mounting a rough horse immediately on joining the party, and thereby risking perhaps a heavy fall, he had been obliged to take a mount which was known to be quiet and well trained. And from the back of this animal he had been able to use his weapons without fear of a sudden movement which would have unseated him. "I'd much rather have taken my chances like any other newcomer," he had said to Tom one day, as they jogged along; "but I'm bound to admit that this steady practice in the saddle, and using my rifle and revolver, have done much for me." "Yer bet," was the answer. "Thar's a sight of green 'uns comes out this way, and thinks they're goin' to show the boys right off how to ride. Wall, that leads to falls in general, sometimes to broken necks. Thar are some, I 'low, as comes through fine, and shows heaps of grit. But others weakens, while not a few gets broken up, legs or arms smashed, or somethin' of that sort. From what I knows of yer, young 'un, it's natural yer'd ha' liked to show yer grit like those others. But that shoulder aren't to be played with. Yer've got ter take it easy, and take care not to risk a fall. But yer've got one big advantage." "And what is that?" asked Jack, wondering. "I'll tell yer. Most every man larns to shoot when on his legs. There ain't nothin' to prevent yer doin' the same. But with that quiet horse yer kin set to with the guns on the trace, and there ain't nothin' like the man as can shoot as quick and as straight when on a movin' horse. 'Sides, you can practise both hands. 'Twon't hurt the shoulder." And so, thanks to constant practice, Jack was now by no means a duffer with rifle and revolver, while he could shoot with the latter equally well with either hand. "Them buffalo are making east," said Steve, as he watched the distant line, "and sense the wind's from that quarter thar ain't nothin' to prevent us comin' up behind 'em. Mind yer, none but a downright fool would ever attempt to head 'em, 'cos thar ain't no stoppin' buffalo on the move. Ef you was to build a wall in front of 'em, they'd push it over. Thar's thousands as a rule in the herds, and them as is in the back lines don't know what's happenin' away in front. And so they goes on pushin' and shovin', and squeezin' the ones up in the front, till they're bound ter move forward. Hundreds and hundreds of the beasts have been known ter go head over ears over a cliff before their mates behind got to reckon what was happenin'. Guess we'll cut dead across. That'll bring us near level with the last of the herd, and then it'll be a poor day ef we don't manage to cut one of 'em out." Slinging his rifle at Steve's bidding, Jack shook up his horse, a more spirited one now than the animal he had at first ridden, and cantered along beside the huntsman. "A gun aer no use fer this job," sang out Steve. "Thar ain't no fetchin' a buffalo down unless he's hit heavy, and to do that yer've got ter ride in close. The Injuns kill 'em with arrows, and I've seen their hunters ride up behind a herd and stand on the back of the beast they've chosen. Then, with an arrow drawn to the head, the chances are it'll go clean through the buffalo's heart. A shooter are the weapon for 'em, and when yer fire, aim just behind the shoulder." A sharp canter took them rapidly closer to the herd, and very soon the dark line resolved itself into a mass of moving beasts, over whom hung a cloud of yellow dust. Steve turned his horse a little, and cantered on till the tail of the herd was passing. "Now's the time," he sang out. "Keep along beside me till we're well behind 'em. Then ride forward till ye're almost in the crowd. That'll allow yer to select a beast and shoot him. Don't fire at more than one. Guess two beasts altogether will keep us in food fer a month. And jest one more warnin'. Keep clear of their horns. They're the ugliest things fer diggin' I ever hit across." Gripping his reins firmly in his left hand, Jack followed Steve until they were right behind the centre of the herd. The beasts seemed to have scented their enemies; for the pace of those behind increased of a sudden, while those in front, pressed on in spite of themselves, soon broke into a fast gallop, which taxed the fleetness of the horses. Watching the mass of struggling beasts, our hero soon picked out a huge animal, floundering along in rear, and when Steve shouted, he turned his horse and rode him up beside the buffalo he had selected. And it seemed at once as if the beast realized his intentions, for it increased its pace, and, shouldering its way amongst its fellows, soon placed a couple of rows of buffalo between it and Jack. "I've chosen him, and I'm going to bag him, whatever happens," thought our hero, as he raced along. "I'll follow in after the beast." Pressing his horse with both knees, and urging him forward with voice and spur, he managed to wedge himself in the last line of moving buffalo. Another effort and he passed right through it, and was almost within shot of the animal he wanted. Then he heard a sharp report on his right, followed by a shout, and, turning, saw Steve riding hard towards him. "Yer've got to be careful in thar," shouted the hunter. "Mind their horns, and jest see that when he falls the others don't come tumbling on ter yer. Now, let him have it." Steve was within a few feet of Jack now, for the hunter felt anxious for the safety of his young friend. "I never seed a new 'un with more grit," he was saying to himself. "The most of 'em would be content to ride up behind, and fire from a little distance. But Carrots ain't like that. I've noticed he's a way of doin' a thing proper or not at all. He's bound on making a point-blank shot." That, in fact, was Jack's intention, and, careless of the tossing heads about him, of the horns turning this way and that, and of the angry bellows, he pressed his horse still more forward, till he was right up against the beast he had selected. And there, jammed in the press, and going hard all the while, our hero stood up in his stirrups, watched for the right moment, and fired his weapon, aiming just behind the moving shoulder. "Pull out!" shouted Steve, "Pull out or they'll carry yer along." To retire from the position he had taken up was not an easy task, as Jack soon found; for behind him a solid wall of buffalo swung along, while the animal he had fired at still galloped forward as if it had received no wound. It seemed, indeed, as if our hero had failed. But he was not the lad to give in easily. Food was wanted for the camp, and this was the very first opportunity he had had of showing his prowess. Once more he spurred up beside the beast and sent a second bullet crashing into his body. And then there was a sudden change in the situation. The buffalo dropped like a log, while the animal immediately behind tripped, fell on his nose, and in doing so knocked the legs of Jack's mount from under him. In an instant there was a scene of dire confusion. Jack went flying far ahead, over the ears of his horse, while Steve, who was riding just behind him by then, came a terrible cropper. Clouds of dust were thrown into the air, and dimly seen through it were struggling beasts, feet lashing here and there, and frightened eyes. Never had Jack heard such a bellowing. It seemed as if all the buffalo in that country were round him, and then, as suddenly, they were gone. The beasts who had fallen got to their feet and charged madly by him, leaving him alone with the one he had shot, stretched just a foot away from it, while farther behind was his horse, looking at him, as if the poor beast still wondered what had happened. As for Steve, he lay very still, one boot remaining in his stirrup, while his well-trained beast stood close beside him, grazing, as if buffalo had never existed, and as if such a thing as a catastrophe had never occurred. Jack clambered to his feet and ran to Steve, to find him conscious, and lying with eyes wide open. "Jest lift my foot out of the stirrup," he said cheerfully, but in a voice little above a whisper. "We was goin' fast, I guess? and I wasn't lookin' for a fall. Reckon my back's badly shook, 'cos I ain't got no power over my legs. Pain? No. I ain't any, but it's queer fer me to be lying here unable ter move." Jack gently disengaged his foot from the stirrup, and made his friend comfortable. Then he turned to look about him, and at once an exclamation escaped him. "Look!" he cried. "They're returning. Something seems to have caused the herd to swing round, and they're chargin' back this way." A flush came to the hunter's face as he heard the news, and with an obvious effort he managed to turn his head. Then he called to Jack, and spoke quietly. "Yer'd best be going," he said earnestly. "That mob's less than half a mile away, and ef they're coming along as they was a few minutes ago, they'll be here afore yer can look round. Ef they find yer still on this spot yer best friend won't know yer when they're gone. Best git, slippy. So long!" "And you?" asked Jack, casting another glance towards the herd, which, for some unexplained reason had undoubtedly turned, and was charging back over the ground it had so recently covered. "And what about you, Steve?" he asked. "Would your best friend be able to recognize you any better than mine would be?" "Shucks! Ye're talkin', and wastin' valuable time," growled Steve. "Yer kin see it's a case with me. I'm done fer, and I don't mind if no one can recognize me. Ye git, and precious slippy. Yer ain't got too much time ter clear even now." "And desert you, the man who has been so friendly to me," said Jack. "Never! I'll do my best to carry him off. Can you hold anything, Steve?" he asked, kneeling beside the helpless hunter. "Yer bet. Give us yer hand. Thar. So long!" Steve gripped Jack's hand firmly, and then thrust him away. "Didn't I tell yer to be goin'?" he cried angrily. "The chances aer ye'll not do it even now. Them beasts is coming quicker'n yer kin gallop. Aer yer a fool?" "Get a hold round my neck," cried Jack, bending lower over him. "Quickly! You're only wasting my time and yours by hesitating. There! Grip hard. I'm going to get into my saddle." "Yer ain't! Git as quick as yer kin, and leave me to it. Ain't I warned yer? Jest quit foolin'?" Steve blazed out at Jack as the latter again bent over him, and with an emphatic shake of his head refused to do as our hero suggested. For the little scout knew what he was talking about. Already it was doubtful whether either of them could escape that rushing herd, even if well mounted. But if he in his unselfishness was determined not to ruin Jack's chances of escape, the latter was equally determined not to leave Steve to be trampled into the dust by the charging buffalo. He could never face his other friends if he returned with such a tale of cowardice, and in spite of Steve's obstinacy he made up his mind there and then that he would save him, or stand and face the beasts by his side. "Quit foolin' and git off!" shouted Steve again. "Yer ain't got a moment to lose." "And you won't take a grip of my neck and let me lift you?" asked Jack. "I won't. I ain't goin' ter spoil the chances of one fer the sake of savin' myself. Git, and have done with the talkin'." "Then you've yourself to thank. I'll do as I know to be proper." Jack stooped once more over the little hunter, and with one big heave threw him over his shoulder. Then he hurried with him to his horse, placed the injured man in front of the saddle, and with a bound was up behind him. Leaving Steve's mount to follow as it liked, he dug his spurs into his own beast and sent it galloping forward. Then began a desperate race, for already the herd was within a hundred yards, sweeping along over the plain in one dense mass, which stretched for a quarter of a mile on either side. Indeed, it might have been more; for in those days, before railways had come, and the march of civilization had driven the animals away, herds of twenty and more thousand buffalo were often to be encountered. Whatever its proportions, this particular herd came thundering along, a dense mass of dust flying in the air above it, while the earth beneath trembled with the thud of so many hoofs. It was as much as a horse could do to keep in front of the maddened animals, and very soon Jack found his own mount flagging. "We're bound to go down before them if I can't find my way to one side," he thought. "Let me see how much ahead of them I am." Gripping Steve firmly, so that he could not be shaken off, and digging his knees into his mount, Jack swung his head round and looked behind him. There was a sea of tossing manes, of flashing eyes and terrible horns, within twenty yards, and the thunder the animals made would have drowned the ordinary voice. And on either side the line stretched till it seemed to be interminable. Then Jack looked ahead, and, seeing some trees growing on a rising knoll away on the right, he swung his horse in that direction, and applied his spurs again, calling upon the noble animal to make one last effort. As for Steve, our hero could feel him wriggling, and even heard his voice as he endeavoured to expostulate with his saviour. But the words came jerkily. The movement of the horse shook the breath out of the little hunter's body. "We'll do it! Stick to the game!" shouted Jack, stretching out one hand to pat his horse's neck. "Now, a little more, and we shall be there." But safety was not yet accomplished, and for some minutes it seemed as if both he and Steve must go down before the mob and be trampled to death, when of a sudden there was another movement amongst the herd. Imperceptibly at first, and then with a swing, the leaders faced away from the rising knoll for which Jack had been aiming, and, pressing their fellows on the left farther to that side, galloped off on a line at a tangent to that which had previously been followed. This unforeseen movement at once gave the fugitives an advantage, for those beasts directly behind them and farther to the right were placed even farther behind. "Forward!" shouted Jack, applying his spurs again. "We've just a chance still." But it proved, before the matter was ended, to be a close escape for both of them, for before the right-hand margin of the herd was reached many of the animals were thundering along immediately in rear, while on the very outskirts of the crowd some of the buffalo had actually passed ahead of Jack. He watched his opportunity and then suddenly swung his horse well to one side, pulling him in a minute later amongst the trees for which he had been aiming. And there, as he dismounted and lifted Steve to the ground, he watched as the whole herd rushed past him, watched for five minutes as the thunder of their hoofs drummed on his ear. Then he sat down to rest and wipe his forehead. "That aer the nearest thing yer'll ever have, nor me either," said Steve suddenly, when the noise had died down. "Jack, jest pull in that critter and place him well behind the bushes. There ain't a chance of our bein' seen, for ye've chose a proper little hollow, and no one could easily see us from outside on the plain. Gee! That war a near thing, and I ain't so sure that there ain't more to follow." Despite his helplessness the little scout managed to prop himself up against a tree, and lay there staring out into the plain, while Jack followed out his instructions. Taking the horse, he led him amidst the trees to a spot where a dense mass of bushes grew, and left him there to blow and regain his wind. As for Steve's mount, he had fled for those trees at the very first, and, being unencumbered by a rider, had reached them well in advance. Jack slipped his reins over the fork of a tree and returned to Steve. "I war sayin' we was mighty lucky," exclaimed the scout, "and I war advisin' yer to keep well down and hide the horses. Do yer know the reason?" Jack shook his head. He was beginning to wonder if the fall had in some manner upset Steve's reason as well as damaging his back. "Wall, I'll tell yer. What sent them varmints back on their trail so onexpectedly?" he asked. "Yer don't know, and can't guess. But I had a notion from the very fust, and I reckoned that ef we got clear of the herd we'd have somethin' else to face. It was Injuns, Jack. Buffalo don't face about fer nothin'. I've seen twenty and more hunters trying to turn a pack of 'em smaller than this here by a heap. They've fired their revolvers into the face of the herd, and shouted, and rid across. But it ain't done nothin'. The beasts has come along solid all the same. But when thar's a hundred painted Injun varmints a-shriekin' in front and shootin' their arrows, why, even buffalo'll turn then." "But----" exclaimed Jack, his eyes wide open with amazement. "Yer didn't see any of 'em," cried Steve. "No more yer did, nor me neither at first. The dust covered everything. But jest you look thar." He pointed after the herd, and, following that direction, Jack's eyes fell upon a number of horsemen who must have swept by the spot where he and Steve lay, directly in wake of the buffalo. "Indians!" he cried in amazement. "Them's the red-skinned varmints, and a fine time they'll give us ef we drop into their hands. Aer yer sure ye've hid up them hosses?" "Certain. I couldn't make out what you meant by giving such directions, and began to wonder whether you were all right in your head. But I hid the horses right enough. No one would see them from outside." "Then we're right fer the moment," said Steve, "but it'll be only fer the moment. Them varmint'll see the beasts we killed, and'll know in a minute as white men ha' done it, 'cos they're shot with bullets. That'll tell 'em we were behind the herd before it turned. They'll be proper bothered after that, 'cos there ain't a trace left now to follow. Every mark has been stamped out of the ground. But that won't beat 'em. They'll send out parties to ride round till they strike our tracks, and a glance'll tell 'em whether we were goin' or comin'. Wall, they'll see, in course, that we ain't rid away. Then they'll set to ter find us. And as far as I can see thar ain't another likely spot, barrin' these trees." The outlook did indeed appear to be anything but rosy; for, as Jack kneeled amidst the trees beside his injured friend and looked out into the plain, he could distinguish fully fifty Indians, all mounted, and slowly returning from following the buffalo. Had he but known the men were part of a tribe which had camped three miles away in a hollow which hid them completely, and, having ridden from a direction the opposite of that from which Jack and his friends were making, neither party had seen the other. It was the maddened herd of buffalo which had first disturbed the Indians, and, finding it probable that they would charge right across their own camping-ground, they had turned out in force, and by dint of much shouting had contrived to stem the rush, and in the end to cause the whole herd to face about. And up to now they were still ignorant of the presence of white people. A minute later, however, there was a shout out on the plain, and a batch of the Indians galloped across to the buffalo which Jack had shot. "In course they seed it. I knew they would," growled Steve. "It ain't likely that an Injun could miss a beast like that. And ain't they jest talkin'! Guess they'll know in less than a minute that they ain't the only people hereabouts, and that thar's scalps within distance that's worth the taking." At any other time Jack could have watched with interest as the Indians gathered round the fallen buffalo and inspected the carcass. For their movements were picturesque, to say the least of it. But he had heard enough already to prove to him that these bands still roving the plains were just as implacable enemies of the white men as their fathers had ever been, while he knew it to be a fact that scores of unhappy people making across the plains for California had been ruthlessly slaughtered by the red man. If he had any doubt of the Indians he was watching it was dispelled in an instant. A fierce shout suddenly broke the silence. "Didn't I say so?" cried Steve, a grim look on his face. "Them varmint aer hit upon the truth, and they know well that white men has been after them buffalo within this last hour. Thar they go in two parties, while that chap ridin' away by hisself is goin' to the camp to bring along the others. Seems to me we shall have the hull crowd of 'em about us afore many minutes. Lad, seems almost a pity you troubled to bring me out." The little scout smiled at Jack, and held out a hand. "Yer ain't no tenderfoot," he said huskily. "I've been round about the plains boy and man, and I've seen a sight of gallant actions, but they was mostly the work of experienced men, not of young chaps new from the towns. Jack, I've marked it up fer yer. Ef we squeeze out of this, t'others shall know, and Steve won't forget what he's owing. Now, lad, jest roll me over and pull off my shirt. Thar's a bit of beef in my saddle bag, and ef yer cut a hunk of fat from it it'll do to rub into the back. Seems the spine's a bit shook up, and is already better. Gee, ef I can't move a toe now!" He smiled grimly as he pointed to one boot, and showed our hero that he could move it. Then he lay back against the tree and watched the enemy eagerly. As for Jack, he rubbed Steve's back vigorously till the scout declared that he was better. Then, seizing his gun, he lay down to watch, wondering how long it would take the Indians to find them, and whether, in that event, he and Steve could hope to escape. Nor was it long before his mind was filled with misgiving. As the shades of evening drew in, a party of Indians came to a halt a mile from their hiding place, and pointed eagerly in their direction. "Didn't I say so," growled Steve, kneeling up, for his strength was fast returning. "Them varmints are hit on our trail, and'll be along in half a jiffy. Jack, thar ain't no use denyin' it, you and me ain't got half a show. Them critters is bound to take us." Let the reader place himself for one brief moment in the position in which our hero so suddenly and unexpectedly found himself. There he was, young, full of life and vigour, with his outlook upon the world rendered wonderfully more attractive by the friendship and companionship of Steve and his brother scouts, face to face with a danger which the experienced Indian fighter beside him assured him was great--so great that death must almost inevitably follow. The announcement was enough to blanch the cheek of a man, let alone a young fellow of his age. It was enough to unnerve the boldest. Yet Jack did not quake, though, to speak the truth, his heart set to work hammering at his ribs as it never seemed to have done before. He even feared that that rat-a-tat-tat in his ears, the thud of his heart drumming so loudly within his breast, would be heard by the enemy, would reach the Indians and hasten the end at which Steve so bluntly hinted. "Bound to take us," he repeated, whispering the words. "Ay, bound to. That is, as fer as I can see. I've been in many a ruction with the critters, and I don't say as I ain't never been as badly up agin it as I am now. But, yer see, sarcumstances is that bad. It ain't as if this here wood was a big one, and we could slip away through the trees, giving them varmint their work to follow. It ain't big. It's small, and, 'sides, thar's these legs of mine. Gee! I've never felt the same before. It ain't often Steve ain't able to get about and lift his shooter. It seems queer too. Here's me, used all my life to carryin' a gun, and findin' as it's saved my life many a time. Wall, here I am, and I guess an Injun kid could come right in and scalp me. It aer enough to make a man swear." "I will protect you. You have forgotten that I am here." Suddenly, it seemed to Jack, the thumping of his heart stopped. A moment or two before the drumming in his ears had been annoying, to say the least of it. But now the trouble was gone. He looked steadily at Steve, gripped his rifle, and then turned his attention to the enemy. "My!" Steve gave vent to the exclamation gently. In the excitement of the moment, with his eyes fixed on the deadly Indian enemy out on the plain, Jack's recent heroism had escaped his memory. He forgot for the moment that the lad had shown unusual grit, and looked upon him as a city lad, brave perhaps, but as helpless as he himself in such a dilemma. Then he suddenly stole a sideways look at Jack, to find the lad watching the enemy coolly, critically, noting every movement. His face was sunburned and held a healthy colour. There was no trace of nervousness about him, and, to Steve's wonder, there was an entire absence of excitement. Jack was cool, and wore a determined appearance, a set of his chin which was strange to him and to Steve. "My!" exclaimed the hunter again. "Ef I don't believe as ye're ready to tackle all them varmint single-handed. Wall, it do do an old hunter like me good ter see sech grit. I've knowed green 'uns face fire for the fust time and seem ter like it. I've knowed old hands get that fidgety when the bullets got whistling that they wasn't able to set or to stand still. And agin I've seed old 'uns and new 'uns get a sudden fit of funks, and then their chances ain't worth buyin'. Reckon, Jack, yer ain't the one to go under without a struggle. Ef them critters want to give yer knocks, you aer goin' ter return 'em." The idea tickled the humour of the little hunter, and in spite of the dangerous proximity of the Indians, in spite of the death which was so perilously near, he grinned, and once more gave expression to his amazement. "My!" he whispered. "Ef that don't take it!" "H-h-h-ush! They're moving. What are they going to do?" Jack held out a hand and touched Steve, drawing his attention to the enemy. And then, for five minutes, the two lay as still as mice. Right before their eyes were the Indians, and during those long minutes Jack had an opportunity of inspecting them thoroughly, of watching their behaviour in their natural haunts, for as yet the band of men was unconscious of his and of Steve's presence. At any other time he would have been filled with admiration and with wonder, for before him were men who, in their own particular way, were as fine, even finer, horsemen than were the hunters. True, time was when a horse was unknown to the Indian of the plain, when he looked upon it as some fearful beast to be carefully avoided. But once the animal had been imported to the country he had been quick to realize its utility. And now he rode, barebacked for the most part, sitting his mount with that easy swing of the body which shows a born horseman. It was fine to see the band of redskins grouped about one another, to watch as the younger men occasionally galloped from the group, only to bring their mounts to the rightabout with amazing swiftness. And then their ease of mounting, the swiftness with which they slipped from the backs of their horses and vaulted again to their seats was a revelation not to be experienced even on a ranch. "The critters!" exclaimed Steve. "Ef they could shoot jest as well as they kin ride, then thar wouldn't always be so much chance fer us. But this ain't ter be a case of shootin'. It's tracking that's wanted, and whar that's the case thar ain't no one to touch an Injun varmint I tell yer, Jack, we're clear up agin it. We ain't got half a show. As I looks at it, we can't get away from this wood, while them critters can't manage to miss us. Wall, that means jest one thing. They're jest bound ter take us." CHAPTER XI Surrounded by Indians Jack and Steve lay in the narrow belt of trees for another half-hour before either opened their lips again. For the hunter had lifted a warning finger, and had enjoined silence upon his companion. And as they lay there, the band of Indians they had seen collected outside on the plain was increased by the addition of some two dozen more, who rode up from another quarter. "Guess they're a trifle bothered," said Steve at last, making an effort and managing to kneel; for up till then his lower limbs had been practically powerless. "Yer see, the varmint they've sent riding round has picked up our traces from the point where we left the wagon this mornin', and they've followed 'em right away to the point whar we struck the herd of buffalo. They ain't seen no marks goin' back agin, and so they concludes that we're hid up in this here belt of trees. Wall, now, they ain't sartin." "And why?" asked Jack, his voice lowered to a whisper, while his eyes were glued upon the Indians. For he was still a novice where these wild men of the plains were concerned, and what he knew already had been picked up by listening to the scouts' tales at night, as they sat round the fire. "'Cos them buffalo aer done us a right down good turn," said Steve. "Them skunks out thar has theirselves to thank fer that, for they turned the herd and sent it flying into our faces. And them buffalo fairly smashed out every trace we made coming into these trees. Wall, now, supposin' we was still with the herd. Supposin' our horses happened to have been extry fresh, and not tired after a day of it, they'd likely as not have managed to keep ahead of them chargin' beasts, and, ef they did, we should be miles away by now, and still leadin' 'em. That aer the difficulty. I 'low as it's a small one, and won't take over long fixin'. But thar it is, and them critters has to come right in here afore they're sartin what's happened. That aer a movement clear agin their principles." "Why?" asked Jack, wondering at the statement; for it seemed hardly probable that, when there were at least thirty of the enemy to each one of themselves, they would hesitate to rush the belt of trees and kill those lying within. "Why, I'll tell yer. Them varmint out thar aer the cruellest and bravest men as ever stepped the airth. Their trainin' teaches 'em to kill an enemy, and never to go down theirselves ef they can help it. Ef a man's killed, wall, guess to them redskins it's 'cos he's a fool, and ain't been cute enough. That's why yer don't git an Injun creepin' to a place like this when he may likely enough get his skull cracked afore he's seen so much as a haar of the enemy. See?" Jack did, and for a while pondered the matter. Somehow or other, in spite of his knowledge that he and Steve stood in very imminent danger of losing their lives, he felt no trepidation, no fear for himself, but only a great longing to beat the enemy out there on the plain. As long as the white man fills his present position in the world, and retains his wonderful independence, he will, without doubt, face odds with determination and even some amount of pleasure. A strong fight has always appealed to men of the British race, and to those of America, for the truth of which statement one hardly need turn to the roll of history compiled by each of them. There are examples of heroic struggles, where few were opposed to many, all through the years that have passed, and some are so notorious that one always carries them in one's memory. With that fine record to stimulate him, Jack, too, looked to the coming contest not with fear, but with a certain amount of pleasure. His pulses were beating fast, all his senses were keenly alert, and as he stared out at the Indians his wits were working quickly in the endeavour to discover some scheme whereby he and Steve might outwit them. "Ef these plaguey legs of mine'll only continue to improve we'll put up a fight that'll astonish them varmint," growled Steve at last. "Yer kin see, they're havin' a palaver, and in a bit, no doubt, the chiefs'll call upon the venturesome young men to investigate this here place. It'll be nigh dark then, which should give us a bit of a chance. Aer yer got yer knife, lad?" Jack's hand dropped on it, for since he had joined the scouts he had carried the same weapons as themselves. And a large hunting-knife was part of his outfit "It's here," he said. "Right in my belt." "Wall, ye'll want it. Them critters as comes has got ter be silenced without so much as a sound, and ef yer've any love fer yer own scalp ye'll put away all sorts of skeary notions yer may have had. A man sarcumstanced same as we aer ain't got a look in ef he's too thin-skinned to fight fer his life as best he kin. To live through to-night and keep our haar we've got to kill some of them critters. And a huntin'-knife aer the only weapon. Ef we was to use a revolver, shucks! it'd give the show away. They'd be on to us in a moment Jest look at them young bloods!" Out in the open there was a good deal of commotion at this moment, and voices, which before had been inaudible, came to the ears of the two hiding amidst the trees and underwood. It seemed that there was an altercation amongst the Indians, for there was shouting, while some of the men urged their horses into the centre of the circle which had been formed, and brandished their weapons. "Didn't I say as much?" whispered Steve. "Them's the young men of the tribe, and sense they ain't accounted much till they've took a hull heap of scalps, and has done something extry brave, why, in course they're fer rushin' this place agin the advice of the older and cautious ones. Ye'll see as they'll allow two or three to try their hands." "But why give them a chance?" asked Jack suddenly. "While they're discussing the matter we might get on to the horses and make a dash in the opposite direction." Steve's grim face showed for a moment a grin of contempt. Then the lines softened as he regarded our hero. "Ye've got grit right enough, Carrots," he said, "but yer ain't seen much of them varmint. Do yer think as they ain't thought of a dash? Reckon an Injun don't forget nothin'. There's men posted all round this belt of trees, and mounted on the best hosses. 'Sides, ef it did come to a rush, our mounts are that tired they'd break up afore we'd galloped five miles. Then, too, ye're forgettin' my condition. I've never had sich a thing happen to me afore, though I've seen a sight of men thrown heavily, and unable to move for weeks. Yes, and some of 'em never got back the use of their legs. With me it's jest temporary. Reckon the jerk threw something outer gear for a while. But it's mendin' fast, and in a few hours, perhaps, I'll be able to mount and ride." The same grim look came over the injured scout's face, as much as to say that when those few hours had passed circumstances would make further use of his limbs out of the question. For Steve had not the smallest doubt that nothing but a miracle could save them. He became silent for some few moments, while his weather-beaten face crinkled in all directions, showing big lines across the forehead, which indicated the fact that he was thinking deeply. Meanwhile the excitement amongst the Indians grew even greater. To Jack, as he watched them, it seemed at first as if they would come to blows, and that they were quarrelling seriously. Then the noise died down a little, while five men slipped from their ponies. "Them's the lads as has been chosen to investigate this here place," said Steve grimly, "and it won't be long afore they're sticking their ugly, painted faces in amongst the trees. Look ye here, Jack, I've been thinkin' somethin'. Yer was rash to stay back there and haul me away from the front of that 'ere herd of buffalo, 'cos ef ye'd rid fer it ye'd have got clear yerself, without a doubt, and could have reached our mates with the start ye'd have had. It war a brave act, and I don't say as I ain't grateful. I am precious grateful, but I'm vexed to think as my poor life are been saved jest fer a few minutes at the expense of yours. Jack, you aer young. The world's dead ahead of yer, and, ef I ain't makin' an error, ye've somethin' real serious to live fer. But fer me, life ain't that rosy. I don't say as I ain't grateful to Him as give it to me; but I've had my day, and am ready to go when the call comes. Yer see, I've lost wife and childer, and when that's the case a man don't kinder stick so fast to this world. But I war sayin' as ye've got somethin' real good to live fer. And I are been thinkin' about them 'ere red-skinned varmints. There aer jest a chance as yer might escape. Ef them critters was all engaged in watchin' the young bloods creepin' in here, I 'low that a man on a fair horse might manage to steal through the fellers hanging around outside, and gallop to his friends. Now, my horse ain't had the doin' that yours has. Yer jest wait a bit, and when I tell yer, creep back and mount. When them young critters aer close handy to these here trees, yer slip out t'other side. It'll be dark then, and the chance aer worth takin'." For the usually silent Steve the speech was an extraordinarily long one, and once he had finished he let his head drop back against the tree trunk with a sigh of relief. For, after all, even though a man's outlook on life may have faded a little, he still clings to it. And to urge a comrade to escape, and leave one to certain death at the hands of such miscreants, needed not a little fortitude. Even as Steve faced the consequences of his advice to Jack, he shuddered just a little. Somehow or other it required greater courage to face a lonely death, with no comrade at hand to bear him company. "Ain't yer got ready?" he asked, a minute later, hearing no movement from Jack. "Them varmint aer creepin' nearer, and the night aer fallin' fast. Reckon ye'd best be movin'." Then, as he turned his head to look at his comrade, a gasp of surprise escaped the hunter. For Jack had not moved an inch. He lay there, hidden from the enemy, behind a tree, his hunting-knife gripped firmly in his hand. Even there, in the gloom cast by the branches, it was possible to observe his face, and Steve noticed for the first time in his life a look of dogged determination. For till that day Jack had shown his new comrades, with the exception of Tom, his lighter side, his merry, good-hearted nature. He was whistling or laughing or singing the day long, and at night listening to their hunter yarns with an interest there was no denying. Suddenly, as it were, he had developed from a boy into a stern man. There was no mistaking his expression. "Why!" gasped Steve. "Yer ain't moved. Jack, ef yer don't get away to them hosses there won't be any ridin' at all. Jest git, lad, and make no bones about the matter." "And leave you? Not much!" answered our hero doggedly, just as he had done earlier on when Steve ordered him to ride and leave him to be crushed by the buffalo. "Look ye here, Steve, when I rode from camp with you this mornin', reckon you was in command, 'cos I ain't no great idea of huntin'. But you're hurt. You ain't no longer able to command, so I guess I have to take the job over. I ain't goin' to move away. You can take that as final." "Yer ain't goin'----!" "H-h-hush! They'll hear us. Lie quiet!" commanded Jack sternly. "Jest give us a fist, lad. I ain't angry. A man knows when he meets a real man, and I ain't quarrelin' with yer for it. My! Ef we get outer this thar'll be somethin' to tell the boys!" Something suspiciously like a sob of relief escaped Steve as he lay back against the tree, and none but the most heartless would have scoffed at him. This grim, courageous little hunter, who had lived his life out on the plains or in the forests, and had become innured to privation and exposure, was, after all, just like any other man possessed of energy and determination. The feeling that he was useless, the very strangeness of being in such a condition, caused the most abject depression of spirits, while the relief of finding that he had a true comrade beside him was almost too much for him. But the determination of the little man soon conquered any passing weakness, and in a few moments he was himself again, the crafty scout, who had fought the Indian enemy many a time. "Gee! Ef I could get these here legs o' mine to move sensible like," he whispered. "But look ye here, Jack; get on yer knees behind the tree and wait for 'em. Don't so much as move an eyelid till them varmint is close. Then strike. It aer their lives or ourn." It was indeed a case of self-defence, of taking life to save life, and though our hero's natural gentleness caused him to shrink from the ordeal before him, yet the fact that he found himself suddenly called upon to defend a helpless comrade made him brace himself for the contest, and set his lips firmly together, while a quiet determination came over him to protect Steve, and to come out of the conflict alive. No man likes to be beaten. Jack did not differ from the average individual. "Separatin'," whispered Steve after a few moments. "They reckon as they've got ter investigate every corner of the place, so they're each of 'em taking a plot. That'll suit us better than ef they came all together. Five of the varmints. Ef I war fit and able to use these here legs, and thar warn't a tarnal heap of their brothers I'd tackle that lot single-handed, and afore breakfast too. It ud jest kinder give me an appetite." As the moment for action arrived the little scout's spirits revived wonderfully. He was a man who had come through many a fight with the Indians, and had learned never to give up the contest until he was actually beaten. And now, with such a stanch comrade as Jack beside him, he began to look upon their chances as perhaps not altogether hopeless. "I've knowed wonderful escapes," he said to himself. "And I reckon a chap like this here Carrots ain't goin' under so easy. After showin' grit same as he has done, he desarves to pull through, and, by the 'tarnal, I'll help him." Stretched full length on the ground, with the branches of trees overhanging them, and brushwood thickly scattered about, Jack and his friend watched the approach of the five young Indians in a grim silence. Where they lay it was now almost dark, so that they could barely see one another. But outside, in the open, it was still possible to perceive objects, though the band of Indians had now become blotted out by the falling gloom. In the gathering dusk five figures could be seen advancing on hands and knees, their eyes fixed on the trees in front of them. Ten yards divided each man from his comrade, and as they came nearer this distance was increased. At length they reached the very edge of the trees, and so that all should enter at the same moment, the one who arrived first lay on his face and signalled to the others. "Yer hear the critters?" asked Steve in a tense whisper, putting his lips to Jack's ears. "That 'ere aer the bark of a fox, and it tells 'em all that they can push on into the trees. Jest lie as ef yer was dead. That chap out thar'll pass us to one side." Dimly seen, some ten feet to the right, was one of the Indians; but though Jack listened with all his ears he heard no sound as the stealthy figure crept into the underwood. For the first time he had an illustration of that cunning and cleverness of which he had read and heard, and for which the Red Indian was famous. Though he himself could hardly have advanced a foot without causing a branch to swish heavily, or a twig to snap, not a sound came from the several points where he knew an enemy must be. So, more convinced than ever that deathly silence was essential if he would not be pounced upon before he was ready, he kneeled there like a statue, his eyes peering eagerly into the dense underwood. Ah! A leaf rustled away to his right, and there was a feeble sound, almost indistinguishable, which told of a branch being set gently aside. And then silence, a deadly, nerve-racking silence, which continued for nearly five minutes. Five minutes! It felt like five hours to Jack. And then a hand caught him by the shoulder. "H-h-h-ush!" Steve hardly whispered the word. "Jest to the right!" The hand on his shoulder gripped him firmly and turned Jack a little. Without needing to move his legs, he twisted his body, and found himself looking in a different direction. Then his ears caught a faint sound. A mouse might have made more; a human being could hardly have been expected to make so little. It seemed impossible. A branch dangling just before his face swayed in his direction, and the leaves rustled against his forehead. Then they began to press upon him, gently at first, and then more and more firmly. Someone was trying to push the branch aside and advance. Jack's fingers closed on the haft of his hunting-knife like a vice. He braced his muscles for the encounter, while he held his breath lest the miscreant should hear him, and so gain an advantage. The moment for action was imminent. It was with difficulty that he could restrain himself; but for the hand still gripping his shoulder, telling him that Steve was there, advising him still to remain motionless, Jack would have thrown further caution to the winds, and would have flung himself upon the Indian. Crash! Away in the centre of the little wood a branch broke with the crisp sound of a pistol shot, and instantly there came that familiar signal, the bark of a fox. It was answered to right and left, and then from a point but three feet from our hero. Instantly the pressure on the branch pushing into his face was relaxed. Those faint, stealthy sounds reached his ear again, and presently subsided. "Good fer yer," whispered Steve, placing his lips close to Jack's ear again. "I felt yer kinder draw yerself together fer the ruction, and I 'low it takes a heap of grit to lay still when thar's one of them varmint close handy. They've found the hosses, and by the way they're palaverin' it seems to me as if they took it fer granted that we'd slipped from the wood. Do yer hear them calls? They're signalling to the men placed outside." From the small wood in which they lay, and a little later from the plain outside, came those mysterious barkings, as if a regiment of foxes had suddenly appeared upon the scene. Then voices were heard, as the Indians called openly to one another. "I think they've gone," said Jack at last, having heard more sounds of breaking branches. "We shall be able to leave perhaps in a little while." "P'raps," agreed Steve grudgingly. "But ef I know them varmint they won't take their eyes off this place even ef they think we've given 'em the slip. They'll watch it like lynxes all night long, and in the morning they'll know for sure, 'cos there won't be no tracks. Guess they're leadin' away our hosses." Listening intently, the dull sounds which came to their ears told them without room for doubt that the two horses were being taken from the wood. There were then a few more calls out on the plain, and afterwards silence again settled down. "S-s-s-h!" whispered Steve, as Jack attempted to move, for his limbs were a little cramped. "I'm thinkin' there's a bit of a trick bein' played. Lie still fer yer life, for I thought I heerd someone movin' not three yards away." He whispered ever so gently in Jack's ear, and again his restraining hand fell upon our hero's shoulder. An instant later it was dragged forcibly away, for someone had gripped Jack by the arm, and with a sudden jerk he was hauled in the opposite direction. A man closed with him, grasping his hair with one hand, while the other held a knife poised in the air. And, luckily for Jack, his fingers closed upon the wrist ere a second had passed, while his free hand sought for and finally fell upon the man's neck. He gripped it as a terrier takes a rat between his teeth, and then made frantic efforts to upset his opponent, who lay above him. And all the while, as the two struggled desperately in the darkness of the undergrowth, there was silence; neither uttered so much as a sigh, and the only sound to be detected was the snap of breaking twigs and the hiss of their laboured breathing. For Jack was in the grip of one of the deadly Indians, and the struggle between them could end only with the last breath of one or other of them. CHAPTER XII A Tight Corner "Jack, Jack. Aer yer there? aer yer there?" The words came from Steve in an eager whisper, and, though repeated time and again, received no answer. Instead, the disabled hunter heard only the dull sound of blows, the hiss of sharply-indrawn breaths, and the snap of breaking twigs. He ground his teeth in his vexation and anxiety, but as he could not rise to his feet and walk, for his legs still refused to carry him, the gallant little fellow rolled on to his side and dragged himself towards the combatants. Very soon his eager fingers fell upon one of them. "Injun!" he exclaimed, running his hand down the man's back and discovering the shoulders bare. "Then it are time I lent a hand." Swiftly his fingers sought for his own hunting-knife, for Steve realized that the Indian was kneeling upon Jack, who lay beneath him, and argued from that fact that our hero was getting the worst of the conflict. Dragging his weapon from its sheath, he raised himself on one elbow, and made ready to strike. And to make sure that he had made no error, and that his blade was thrust in the right direction, he again groped for the shoulders he had felt a moment before. There they were, lean and muscular, and at once up went the knife, while Steve braced himself for the stroke. But he never delivered it; for of a sudden the straining muscles beneath his finger tips relaxed, the heaving, sinuous movements of the Indian's shoulders ceased, while the man seemed to become in one instant limp and helpless. He subsided on to his opponent, and then rolled heavily to the ground. The silence which followed was broken by the laboured breathing of one man only. "Jack, Jack," whispered Steve again, his note more eager and anxious than before. "Here," came the answer. "Here, safe and sound." "Yer killed him?" "Yes," gasped Jack. "Gee! How?" Jack sat beside his comrade for a minute and more before he ventured upon an answer. All the while he breathed deeply, in jerky spasms, as a man does who has been sorely tried, and who has striven to the last point of endurance. His whole frame was trembling with the intensity of the struggle, while his fingers were crooked and rigid with the strain of prolonged gripping. Then, getting his breath again, and the use of his fingers by gentle movements, he crept closer to Steve and whispered his answer. "I had luck," he said. "He took me by surprise at first, and I wonder he didn't send his knife through me. But he missed his stroke, and before he could make another I had a grip of his wrist. At the same time my other hand got a hold on to his neck." "Gee!" The scout gave vent to a low exclamation. "Yes?" he asked. "I knew that was my only chance, so I hung on like a bull dog. He's dead, the life choked out of him." "Sure? Sartin' he ain't foxin'. There never was any ter play possum like an Injun. Ye're dead sure he's done?" Jack moved from the side of the hunter for one moment, and ran his hand over his late antagonist. There was not a doubt but that he was dead. The chest was motionless, and not a breath left the lips. "He'll never fight again," he said sternly, creeping back to Steve. "Do you think they'll come to find him?" There was a low growl from the hunter. "Think!" he whispered scornfully. "In course they will. But his absence'll make 'em mighty careful. I've told yer an Injun don't like to get beat. His game's always to kill, and go scot free himself. But they'll search this here group of trees till they find him, and then----" He ended suddenly, and propped himself up to listen; for there was no need to explain what would happen. Even to Jack's inexperienced mind the ending was only too obvious. The horses had been found, and now themselves. Of that the Indians would have not the smallest doubt once their comrade failed to return, and failed also to answer their signals. "Huh! There they go barkin' As ef any fool couldn't tell as it warn't a fox. That'll tell 'em right enough that something's happened," whispered Steve, "It ain't o' no use fer me to send 'em back the call, 'cos I can tell yer no white man can manage it proper. Them Injuns get practising when they're no higher than a dozen dollars piled one on t'other, and there ain't a one as tries it later on as kin git quite at the right sound. H-h-hish! Ain't that someone movin'?" Intense silence fell upon them again, while Jack raised himself on his knees, so as to prepare for a second struggle. Yes, somewhere directly in front of him, and perhaps four yards away, a twig had stirred, while the gentle rustle of a leaf had reached him. He stooped, pressed Steve's hand to show him that he was ready, and then silently gripped a rifle which lay beside the hunter. To raise himself to his feet was the work of half a minute, for deathly silence was essential. But once upon them, he stood in a tense attitude, bending slightly, both hands gripping the barrel of his weapon, while the stock was raised above his head. Click! The tip of a brier, or of one of the smaller branches of a bush, swished as it was released by some unseen hand. In that intense silence it sounded to our hero almost as loud as the report of a pistol. And it told him as clearly as possible that this new antagonist stealing up towards him was directly in front, and already somewhat nearer. He held his breath, and waited, his eyes staring into the darkness. Click! The sound was repeated. And then, for one brief second, an uncanny sensation came over him. For something touched his boot, and that something ran nimbly up to his knees. Was it a forest mouse, scared by the intruder creeping towards Jack with murderous intent? Or was it the man himself? Quick as a flash Jack decided the matter. A few weeks before he would have waited a little longer to make sure. But he had already had more than one lesson teaching him that indecision is often fatal. Besides, he knew now what he had never guessed before. He had already, this very evening, had an object lesson of the craft and stealth of the Indian, and realized that where a silent and unexpected attack was necessary their skill was phenomenal. Knowing that, Jack struck with all his strength. He struck blindly at the darkness, till the heavy butt of his rifle was stayed in its course by some unseen obstacle. Then he swung it up again, and sent it crashing through the air till once more its course was arrested. "Gee! That are a blow. H-h-hist!" It was Steve's voice, low and cautious, and with just the faintest trace of exultation in the note. For Steve was no craven, and even if he were powerless to defend himself, he could yet appreciate that power in others. And the hunter had been in so many engagements and had come successfully out of them, that now that the tables seemed turning a little in their favour, and the outlook did not appear quite so bad as it had done a little while ago, he could not help a feeling of exultation. "Ef he ain't the boy, this here Carrots!" he murmured to himself, as he peered up in the direction in which he knew Jack stood. "Ef he ain't showing an old hand how these here things should be done. He jest cotched that feller an almighty whack on the head, and guess that's an end of him. Jack," he said a little louder. "Well," came back the laconic answer. "How'd yer come out of that 'ere business? Yer ketched him a whop? Eh?" "Dead," said Jack curtly. "I felt his fingers on my leg. He didn't know exactly where I was till then. I struck out with the rifle, and----" "Gee! Ef you ain't fine! But hist a moment. Them varmint'll be somewhares about." It seemed indeed more than likely that the Indians who had entered the trees, and of whom three still remained, would endeavour to follow their comrades. Although Jack's rifle butt had slain the second man in absolute silence, his struggle with the first had produced sufficient noise to attract attention, and without a doubt the enemy were fully aware of the fact that the men they sought were amongst the trees. No doubt they were still uncertain of their exact position. But that was a difficulty which these crafty men would soon overcome. "They'll send more of the young chaps in," whispered Steve, "and this time they'll hunt in couples. Jack, lad, ye've got ter do a bit more fightin' ef yer want ter keep yer haar." "You think they will soon find us, now they know we are in the wood?" asked our hero suddenly, kneeling close to his comrade. "Think!" At any other time Jack would have roared with laughing, for the little hunter's tones were full of indignation and contempt. "It don't want no thinkin'. A baby could tell yer that them critters would find us, and quick, too. That ain't what's worryin'. It's the fact that they'll come along in a bunch, and sence there's you alone to fight, why, in course, it don't leave us a dog's chance." "And supposing they don't come along?" asked our hero. "Supposing they decide to leave the matter for a while." "'Tain't likely. But ef they do, the end's jest the same. They'll set a close watch right round the place, and not one of them varmint'll close an eyelid till the light comes. Droppin' asleep when he's watchin' is a thing an Injun can't do. It's clean right up agin his nature." "Then, that being the case, we'll not wait here either for them to attack us in a bunch or for them to find us in the morning." Jack spoke quietly, and cautiously raised himself on to his feet. "I'm going to carry you to the edge of the trees, Steve," he whispered. "I tell you, if they're bound to find us in any case, so long as we stay where we are, why, I ain't going to stay to be butchered, and I ain't going to leave you, either. Just take a grip round my neck, and hold tight if we meet anything. That'll leave me with my hands free. Now." Steve gaped at the words, and more at the tone of them than anything. Little by little as the moments had passed he had seen something in our hero which he had never detected before. He was wont to look upon Jack as a lad who, by accident perhaps, had been enabled to come between a band of train robbers and their victims. He did not deny that he had shown pluck. But that this young fellow was a fire eater, that he could on occasion become a stern, commanding man, and could coolly face a difficulty such as this one, had never occurred to him. More than that, Steve, with all his age and experience, had always been the one to lead and to guide, to give hints as to the manner of doing this, and timely warnings and advice as to the methods to be employed in some other sudden difficulty. Now, suddenly to find the position reversed, to know that Jack was giving orders, and was about to act as seemed best to himself, wholly regardless of his own inexperience, why, it took Steve's breath away. "Gee! Ef he don't beat everything!" he murmured. "He jest treats me as ef I war a kid, and--and----" "Hold fast, and don't worry if I have to drop you suddenly. I'll stand by you whatever happens. There! Up you come." It was all done without hesitation, and in absolute silence. No one could have admonished Jack for lack of caution. His orders were whispered into Steve's ear, and every movement was slow and gradual. He stood, at length, to his full height, Steve gripping him round the neck, while with one arm he held the scout's useless legs suspended. The other hand gripped the haft of his formidable hunting-knife. Then he began a slow and stealthy progress towards the edge of the wood. "Take yer time, take yer time," whispered Steve. "It would be fatal ter make so much as a sound." Advancing inches only at a time, placing each foot cautiously in front of the other, and carefully avoiding branches which grew in the way, our hero at length reached the very edge of the trees. Once there he set down his burden for a few minutes, while he lay at full length, and placing his ear to the ground listened for sounds made by the enemy. "Hist! Did yer hear that?" asked Steve, when some minutes had passed. "Them chaps is startin' in at the far side of the wood, and I should reckon as thar's a heap of 'em. Do yer hear 'em?" Jack fancied he had heard some sounds, but was not at all certain. But to Steve there was not the smallest doubt. "They're over yonder," he whispered, a note of conviction in his voice, "and I tell yer there's a good twenty of 'em, else there wouldn't be so much noise. It stands to reason that an Injun kin creep through a wood same as this silenter than a snake. But ef he's got a crowd of comrades with him, some of 'em's bound to be less careful. Yer kin take it from me, them critters has got it fixed in their minds that we're trying to make out over in that direction." "Then all the better. Let 'em continue to think that," whispered Jack hoarsely. "We ain't going in that direction, but just clear out here in front of us, and if we meet one of their men, well----" He came to an abrupt halt, leaving Steve to guess his meaning. But if ever determination were conveyed by the tones of a whisper, why, Jack's showed without a shadow of doubt that he was resolute. Indeed, those two death struggles in the wood had hardened him. A little while ago his thoughts had been entirely engaged with the task of escaping the enemy and rescuing his comrade. Now, however, added to that endeavour was a stubborn resolution to punish these men who had wantonly attacked him. He argued that if he with a number of friends had come upon a couple of harmless Indians, he would have shown them kindness, and would not have instantly sought their lives. Why, therefore, should these natives of the plain so diligently seek to kill him and Steve? What right had they to interfere with them? As they had dared to do so, why, they must be made to pay the penalty. In one brief hour, in fact, Jack, who hitherto had had no great dislike of the Indians, for the simple reason that he had never come across them, was possessed of an intense hatred for them, a burning animosity, a desire to come to hand grips with them, and a fierce determination to fight any who crossed his path. Nor in that was he different to the old hunters of the plains, men like Steve and Tom. "I can see what they mean now," he thought, as he and Steve lay on the outskirts of the wood. "They've told me time and again how the people crossing over to California, to the diggin's, have scoffed at all fear of Indians, have imagined that they would become friendly with them without meeting with unusual difficulties. But those who have lived to reach the diggings have done so with a different understanding of the Indian. They know him by then to be a fierce and relentless enemy, a man who will butcher for the sake of butchering, and who will spare neither a sick white man nor a woman nor a child." "Jest listen to 'em!" suddenly whispered Steve, interrupting Jack's thoughts. "Ef I ain't right I'll eat me boots. Them critters think we're makin' for the far side. They heard the ruction you had with them two varmint, and though they guess that something bad's happened to 'em, they aer wondering whether the noises ain't caused by us. Yer see, it's right up agin Injun nature and cunnin' ter make a sound. So, ef them noises wasn't caused by fightin', they was caused by us. Reckon a mouse couldn't get through on the far side." "But a man can on this. Get a grip of my neck again," commanded Jack. "Now, I'm going to strike clear away into the open. If you hear or see anything, jest give my neck a squeeze. That'll stop me, and give me a warning." It was lucky for our hero that he had such a crafty fellow as the little hunter with him, even if he happened to be helpless. But for Steve Jack would have blundered into one of the Indian sentries. As it was, Steve arrested him with a gentle squeeze of his arms within five minutes of their setting out. "S-s-sh!" he whispered. "I seed something direct ahead, standin' up agin the white fringe of the clouds. It's an Injun, sure. He'll be shoutin' in a jiffy." "Then we will turn and make along till we can pass him," suggested Jack. "Yer might," came the cautious answer. "But I think as you'd be sartin to run up agin another of the varmint. Twenty yards is as much space as they'd dare allow between each man on a night same as this, and ef yer tried to pass between them it means you'd be within ten yards or so. That ain't enough. They'd be sartin ter spot yer. Let's lie down a spell. There ain't no sayin' what the critters aer doin'." Jack took his advice promptly, for there was not a doubt but that the utmost caution was necessary. Steve might or might not have seen one of the Indian sentries, but it would be madness to attempt a forward movement till they were certain that the road was clear. So for a long quarter of an hour the two lay stretched side by side, the cunning little hunter with his ear glued to the ground, while Jack peered into the darkness ahead. Then, suddenly, a commotion was heard from the direction of the wood. A shrill call awoke the echoes, while instantly following it came that well-known signal, crisp and clearly, now from the centre of the wood, later from one end, and immediately afterwards from the far side. "Them critters has lit upon the men as attacked you," said Steve hoarsely. "Reckon when the hull lot gets to know that two of their pals is dead there'll be a bit of a bother. It'll make 'em downright mad. But they ain't goin' ter take us, Jack. Somehow, after all that's happened, I feel as ef we was bound to come through, ef only to give me a chance of talkin' ter the boys. But it ain't goin' ter be done easy. Ye've got ter--hist!--That 'ere chap's movin'." Keen and ever watchful, Steve detected a movement in front instantly, and in a moment he had gripped Jack by the arm, and was directing his attention in that direction. "He's riding this way. See him? Gee! ef he ain't comin' right on top of us." "Lie still. Leave him to me," said Jack, peering ahead of him. "Do you think he'll see us easy as we lie here?" "Might--mightn't," came the curt answer. "Jest depends. Ef he's listenin' to them critters over thar in the wood, why, maybe his eyes'll not happen to spot us. But, as a gineral rule, there ain't no sayin' what an Injun won't see. A needle ain't much too small for the varmint. Ef he comes close, what'll you do?" "S-s-sh! He's coming quick. Lie still." Pressing the hunter down with one hand, Jack lay himself full length, his body squeezed as close to the ground as possible, and in that position he had no difficulty in detecting a figure riding towards him. The man was urging his horse on, for there came the dull sound of a moccasined heel applied to the side of the animal. And then followed the muffled thud of the footfalls. Yes, the Indian was riding in a line which would take him almost over the bodies of those he sought, and in that event, even if he himself failed to detect the two figures prone in the grass, the animal would not miss them. Jack braced himself on hands and knees, his feet drawn up beneath him as a panther gathers its limbs preparatory to a spring, and there, hardly daring to breathe, he waited, while the footfalls came nearer. A moment or two later the animal was almost over him. Then it suddenly drew to one side, shying so unexpectedly that the rider was almost thrown. But, gripping the saddle with his knees, the Indian retained his seat, and at the same moment pulled at his reins, for he as yet had seen nothing. It was an opportunity not to be missed, and promptly Jack launched himself at the man. With one bound he was beside him, then, quick as lightning, he gripped him by arm and leg, and, tearing him from his seat, threw him heavily to the ground. CHAPTER XIII Dodging the Enemy There was an intense silence immediately after Jack had thrown the Indian, broken only by his own deep breathing. "Dead?" asked Steve huskily, for the stress of the fighting and their difficulties were beginning to tell upon the little hunter. "Ye've killed him--eh? I never knew an Injun downed so easy." "Stunned, I think," whispered Jack sternly. "He's still breathing a little." "Foxin'? You're dead sartin he ain't foxin'? I've knowed one of the critters lie as if he was as dead as meat, and then get his knife into the man as thought he'd downed him. Aer yer sure? 'Cos if you ain't----" "Certain," came Jack's emphatic answer. "He fell on his head with a terrible bang, and he'll not recover for a time. Jest take a grip round my neck. We're going to move." They had spoken in low whispers only, for neither had forgotten that in all probability there were Indian sentries on either side of them. However, it did seem now that fortune was to be kind to them; for at this very moment the outcry which had broken out some few minutes earlier from the direction of the wood was again heard. Shrill, angry calls came through the darkness, and were answered from a dozen different directions. Then, immediately to the right of them there came a muffled thump, followed by the dull sounds of a horse's footfalls. "Warn't I right?" asked Steve. "Another of the critters thar, and a second 'way to the left. Now's your time, young 'un. Let's git as slippy as we can." Jack needed no second invitation. He too had heard the sounds on the right and those calls from the wood; and, realizing that, though the distraction had come just at the critical moment, and would call off the attention of the circle of watchers from themselves, yet it indicated probably a full discovery of that struggle which had taken place amongst the trees, and with it a knowledge that the fugitives had fled, he gripped Steve firmly in his arms and swung him up on to the back of the Indian pony; for the well-trained beast had remained beside its fallen master. To sling his rifle and leap up behind the hunter was the work of a moment, and straightway he set the animal in motion. But almost instantly he was faced by another difficulty. "Where away?" he asked, for the darkness confused him. "Dead straight ahead fer a while," came the whispered answer; "then slick ter the right, whar our camp lies. Likely as not some of the boys is riding over ter meet us, for they'll have reckoned by this that things aer queer. Gently does it, Carrots. There ain't no use hurryin'." At a gentle walk, therefore, they rode away from the small collection of trees which had proved their salvation, and at the same time had very nearly seen their ending. When the pony had covered a quarter of a mile, or thereabouts, Jack turned it to the right, and, setting the plucky little beast at a trot, went on into the night. "They'll follow?" he asked, after a while; for the cries which they had heard for some time had ceased now for the past five minutes. "I suppose they found those two men and then had a palaver, as you call it?" "Yer kin put it like that. Them critters has had a hard nut to crack, 'cos, don't yer see, the trees and the darkness bothered 'em. Yes, they found them two critters you downed in the wood, and, in course, they made sartin we was still there, in hidin', but shifted from the old quarters. So they sent their best men in ter ferret around, and in a while they found not a soul save their own comrades." "That is when we heard their cries, I suppose?" said Jack. "Right agin. That aer when they began ter shriek. That ain't much like Injuns, and jest shows that their dander's been properly up. They sets to, then, to have a palaver, and----Gee! That aer bad!" Once more a chorus of shouts came from behind them, and told Jack and his comrades that something more had occurred to disturb the enemy and raise their anger. "It aer as clear as daylight," said Steve shortly. "Them varmint was bothered when they found the wood empty, and set to to cast all round, and question the critters placed there to watch. They've jest dropped on the feller as you pulled off this here hoss, and--wall, even on a dark night an Injun'll follow a trail." "How?" Jack was a practical fellow, and this night's adventure had made him critical. He failed to see how even the most astute tracker could follow a trail in the darkness. But Steve soon enlightened him. "'Twont take 'em many minutes," he said, a note of conviction in his voice. "Yer see, it don't matter to them ef we get to know as they're follerin'. They has it fer sure that we're gettin' away on one of their ponies, and that he's got ter carry double weight. That tells 'em plain that they can easily catch us up once they're on the trail. So they ain't likely to make no bones about the matter. They'll strip the bark off some of them pines and make torches. That'll light the way, and show 'em what line we've took. Now, how aer we to get top side of 'em?" The little hunter lapsed into silence, while Jack dug his heels into the pony and set him at a fast canter. But it was clear that the animal could not keep up the pace for long. He was not a big pony, indeed was hardly up to Jack's weight. With Steve added he was decidedly overweighted, and the next quarter of an hour proved that fact without the shadow of doubt. The Indian horse was blowing heavily by then, and going slower. "It stands ter reason he can't last," cried Steve suddenly. "Now I'll tell yer what we'll do. This last ten minutes we've been riding down a slope, and there's a rise behind us which hides them Injuns. We can't say as they're on the trail yet, 'cos we can't see. Likely enough they've got their torches by now, and are skirmishing round fer the trail. If that's so, they'll be after us afore two minutes. But that 'ere rise hides us jest the same, and it'll give us one more chance. Jack, aer yer willing ter do what I suggest?" "Perfectly. Anything but leave you. I've taken you in charge, and I don't leave you behind for anything." There was a ring in Jack's voice, a manly, elated tone, which told the little hunter that his companion was anything but disheartened. There was a suspicion of raillery in the voice, and the tone tickled Steve immensely. He leaned back against our hero and laughed heartily, a laugh which shook him, but which, with all his native caution, was as silent as a gentle whisper. "Yer do fetch the band!" he smiled. "Ef I ain't beat holler, and thet by a townsman. But 'tain't a time ter play, leastwise not yet. Them varmint ain't done with us by a long way. Now jest yer listen. A friend of mine, an old hunter, war once up agin a difficulty same almost as this. And he jest played a trick that cleared the Injuns. It aer our one chance, and we'll take it. The wind's in our faces, though I ain't so sartain that it'll stay thar. Ef it don't, the trap we set'll catch us instead of the Injuns. Jack, jest hop right down and get a bunch of that 'ere grass." Quick as lightning Jack slipped to the ground, and did as Steve suggested. "Now, set it afire, and slippy with it. When it's blazin' properly, jest run along with it and fire the grass in as many places as yer can. Don't wait a second longer than you're obleeged ter." There was a note of tense excitement in the hunter's voice, and he watched eagerly as Jack struck a match and fired a bundle of grass. Then he chuckled as a spout of flame burst from each patch of the long prairie growth he touched. "Ef anything'll save us, it's that," he said to himself; "save us or cook us. That 'ere fire ain't ten yards wide now, but you wait. In ten minutes it'll have spread to a mile if the wind holds. Get at it, Jack. Hop along as fer as yer like. The farther the better." Long before this Jack had grasped Steve's meaning, and had realized that in proposing to fire the grass he hoped to stretch a curtain of flame between them and the Indians. But never in all his life had he been so utterly astounded at the result of his action. For it was at the end of the hot weather, and the long rank grass which just there covered the plains was as dry as tinder. Indeed, more than once lately they had observed prairie fires; but some irregularity of the ground, a river, or some hilly and broken ground had in every case limited the conflagration. But even those glimpses of fires had given our hero no idea of their tremendous spread, of the fearful rate at which the line of fire progressed, for distance had diminished everything. Now, however, the thing was at his elbow, and he was struck with awe. As if eager for the flames, the grass caught in every direction, and then surged away with a seething hissing sound, casting up but little smoke. It raced from him on every hand. Patches which he had ignited ten yards from one another were joined hand in hand before he could think, so that in an incredibly short space of time a wall of fire lay before him. He was terrified at his handiwork. But Steve was jubilant. "Hop on, and let's git," he said easily, as Jack returned to him. "Ef the wind don't change there'll be a wall of fire round which them Injuns'll have to ride, and they won't fancy the business over much. 'Sides, they'll have to divide. There won't be any knowing whether we've gone dead straight on or have turned to one or other side. Gee! Ef this ain't a doin'." "Supposing the wind does turn?" asked Jack, digging his heels into the horse and setting it at a slow canter. "Yer won't have much longer need ter worry. This here trouble that you've got tucked out er sight at the back of yer mind'll be done with, 'cos there won't be no escapin'. This hoss couldn't do it, onless he had only one to carry, and I've got the idea as you ain't goin' ter quit with me till things aer quieted down a bit." Jack heard the little scout chuckling as if it were a good joke, and then felt his bony, strong fingers suddenly fall upon his hand. "I ain't pokin' fun at yer, lad," said Steve seriously, a little jerk in his voice. "But I aer fair amused ter think that a townsman aer done it, and aer been able to show Steve somethin'. It jest fetches the wind out o' my sails, as the mariners say. Yer see, bein' an old scout, I kinder took you by the hand ter show yer a thing or two. And kinder reckoned ef we got into a muss, as ain't so unlikely hereabouts, I'd be able to protect yer. But, gee! ef this ain't jist the opposite. Reckon ye've saved my life ten times over, Jack. Ye've a right to feel proud of yerself, for ye've done it cold. Do yer foller?" Jack did not, and intimated that fact. "All the same, there's no need to say another word," he exclaimed grumpily, though his face was flushed with pleasure, and he was tingling from head to foot. "But there aer. Every need. Yer ain't goin' ter bully me as ef I war a kid. Ye've ordered me about till I don't know as I'm right in me head. There are need ter say more. Yer did it cold. I mean out thar by the buffalo, when yer was warmed with the chase, yer played a right plucky game, and it took some grit, that did; but in thar between the trees, when we was waitin' and watchin' fer the enemy, it war cold shivery work, the kind of stuff that sets men's knees knockin' tergether and their teeth chatterin'. I ain't exaggeratin'. I've knowed brave men in sech a fix get shiverin' all over. It aer their nerves, I suppose, and it's a skeary feelin' that makes a brave man a coward. Now ye've got the hang of what I mean. Yer played that other game dead cold. I don't forget that I owe yer my life, and that it war downright pluck as did it. So thar!" Having said his say, Steve, who had become quite garrulous when with Jack, lapsed into silence, and presently lay back against his young protector as if he were utterly worn out. And so for an hour the horse cantered on, bearing them in the direction of their friends. As for the fire, it quickly assumed gigantic proportions, and long before the hour had passed a broad line of fire extended on either hand rushing in the opposite direction. And instead of the wind changing round, it got up as the night advanced, and blew still harder, fanning those terrible flames. Half an hour later, when their horse was almost exhausted, and his pace had descended to a walk, Steve suddenly sat up and shook himself as if he had but just awakened. "I seed somethin' over thar!" he exclaimed, pointing to the right. "And I guess as it ain't Injuns. Likely enough it'll be Tom and the boys. Let's give 'em a halloo." But, before he could call out, a sharp hail came through the darkness. "Stand thar!" someone shouted. "Ef yer move we'll put lead into yer----Jest sing out and say whar yer come from, and what's yer business." "It aer Tom sure enough," cried Steve. "Hi, Tom!" he called back at the top of his voice. In less than a minute Tom and Jacob rode up, and at once dismounted. "A fine scare ye've given us!" exclaimed Tom, striding to the side of the horse. "When it fell night and yer didn't turn up, we didn't make so much of it. 'Cos we'd heard shots, and thought ye'd most likely been gettin' meat. But when it got later and later, and there warn't a sound, why, me and Jacob saddled up and come back on the trail. What's kept yer?" A few words sufficed to tell them. "Yer can take it for sartin as we've got ter fight it out," said Steve in his cool voice. "Them critters has had a knock as they can't forgit, and won't forgive. Two of their young braves has been downed by this here Jack, and a third aer got a headache that'll last him past the mornin'. Wall, what'll yer do? Yer kin put me on one side. I kin lie up in the wagon, and I kin shoot. But I ain't no good fer riding." It was obviously a case where conjunction of forces was necessary, and at once Tom took Steve up in front of his saddle, while Jack climbed up behind Jacob. Then, leaving the Indian horse, they spurred away across the plain, and within an hour had found the camp and their friends. "They'll be here with the mornin' light, them critters," said Tom, addressing all hands. "And ef we've got an ounce of sense we'll be makin' ready fer 'em. Now it seems to me as we'd better carry on a runnin' fight. 'Cos ef we stay, and fix up a bit of a fort, them varmint'll sit down to starve us out, ef it takes 'em a month." "That aer sense," agreed Jacob. "There never was a critter ter sit down and wait like an Injun. He's got the patience, yer see, and doin' nothin' kinder suits him. He aer an idle dog when he's not fightin' and takin' scalps. Wall, how's it ter be done, Tom?" "Jest like this. I war in a muss same as this once before, though there warn't so many of the varmint. We fought 'em runnin', same as they do at sea when thar's a naval battle. Guess that wagon aer big enough to take the hull crowd, and, that being the case, we'll pile into it. Jacob here'll drive the hosses. Our mounts'll be tied up along by the wheelers, so as we kin get at 'em slippy ef we want. Then we'll make a kind of cover under the tilt, something that'll keep out their arrows and bullets, and the same forward and aft. Ef we can't make a handsome fight of it then, why we ain't fit ter get through. Let's have a light. David and Jacob here kin get to at the cover. Jest take some of them 'ere empty sacks and nail 'em to the bottom boards. Then string 'em up to the tilt hoops. When ye've kind of made a long sack yer can fill it with grass. Ef it's stuffed in well it'll stop a bullet, and the weight won't be anythin' ter speak of. Make it jest a nice height ter cover a kneeling man. Jack, you kin jist sit down along of Steve and get to at some food. Ye'll want it badly by this. I'll make back along the track a little and keep a watch, while ye other boys kin hitch the hosses in, get the guns ready, and lay out ammunition. Thar ain't no use in movin' yet. Better wait till daylight, ef them critters'll allow us." There was calmness and order and method about these experienced scouts, and at once each man occupied himself with the task allotted by Tom. As for Jack, he was ravenous, and at once began to forage for food for himself and Steve. "You kin jist give my back another rub when we've filled up inside," said Steve, as Jack laid him down at the tail of the wagon. "I kin move a hull foot now, and bend the knee a little. That shows the works is gettin' in gear again. But they've had a mighty shakin', they have, and seems to me it war near bein' a bad business altogether." Four hours later, when the dawn began to break, the little band of scouts was marching slowly and steadily across the plain, Jacob plying the whip from the front of the wagon, where a breastwork of boxes had been built to protect him. On either hand rode Tom and Seth and the others, their eyes searching the plain for a sight of the enemy. But for a while nothing was seen of them. Away behind them a black pall of smoke covered the countryside as far as the eye could see, and beyond, no eye could penetrate. "But they're there, the skunks!" exclaimed Tom, as he rode knee to knee with Jack. "Steve's had a sight more experience on the plains than any man of us, and he allows as thar ain't a chance but that they'll follow. As fer me, I feel sure as they won't dare to sit down and take their lickin' humble. Yer see, it's a case of what their people'll say when they returns home. Ef they come with a tale of defeat they'll never hear the end of it, and the squaws will jeer at them. They're dead bound to go on with the chase, and they won't give it up till they've got our scalps, or till we've given 'em a proper hidin'. Say, Carrots, Steve aer talkin' a heap. Aer it all true what he says? I know he ain't the one to make a thing bigger than it aer, but he's had a bad shake, and maybe he's a bit wandering. Aer it true as you stood beside him through thick and thin?" Jack modestly acknowledged that he had refused to desert his comrade, and for a while he had to listen to the praise of the man who had first befriended him. Then, too, the other hunters rode their horses up--for Steve had called them one by one to the wagon, where he lay at full length--and eagerly shook Jack's hand. "Yer ain't no longer a tenderfoot," said one of them. "I allow as a youngster can do a brave thing once, and save an old hunter's life. But it ain't often a youngster from the towns gets his teeth into it, so to speak, and when there's a chance of skipping from a hull heap of Injuns, refuses point-blank, but sticks to his partner. And Steve says as you got quite uppish. Treated him like a kid, and that ef you hadn't done so both of you'd have gone under. Shake, Jack, I'm glad I am along with the party." It may be imagined that our hero was covered with confusion; for there was no conceit about Jack, and he had no desire to receive thanks or praise from anyone. Still, all the same, his senses tingled, and it was a happy young fellow who rode beside Tom. For Jack felt within himself that he had acted as a man should. He felt now, more than ever, that he could hold his head up and scoff at those who had accused him of that crime for which he would have been convicted had he stayed at Hopeville. More than that, so helpful are kind words from those who surround us, he began to look to the future hopefully. He felt as if the tide of misfortune had turned, and that somewhere, sooner or later, he would be successful in his search for that miscreant who had gone off like a craven, and had left no word, not even a wish, to clear the young fellow accused of the crime which he himself had committed. "Thar they aer, ridin' strong!" cried Tom, suddenly pointing across to the left. "They've rid round the edge of the fire, and by the way their cattle is goin' they've had a longish way to come. Boys, it aer time to get into the wagon. Jest get yer barrels filled, and then lay doggo. There'll be time and enough to fire. What we want is to coax them critters ter come within easy distance, and then we'll give 'em pepper. 'Tain't no use to play with 'em. We've got ter handle them roughish, and, when they starts in shootin', jest remember we've got ter give 'em pepper." CHAPTER XIV An Attack in Force The light was strong, and the pink tinge in the sky away to the east was already giving place to a golden hue, the forerunner of a scorching sun, as the Indians came in sight. Turning in his saddle, Jack could see them riding in a cluster, and coming at a sharp canter. "Likely as not they've seed us ten minutes ago," said Tom, taking a close view of the pursuers. "They're right up agin that cloud of smoke, so that it aer not so easy fer us to see them. But we're clear out on the plain, and anyone could spot the tilt of the wagon miles away. Wall, youngster, aer yer skeared?" Jack laughed. Somehow, for no reason at all, so far as he was aware, the thought of the coming conflict gave him not so much as a qualm. Had the same thing been about to occur three days ago he would perhaps not have been so cheerful; for it is uncertainties which try men, doubt as to the future, and, where blows are to be expected, a vague wondering as to how they will bear themselves. But Jack had met danger already, and met it manfully. In his heart he knew well that he had earned the esteem of these hardened scouts, and at the thought he threw up his head and laughed again. "Jest like that, aer it?" smiled Tom. "Wall, I knows how yer feel, and I ain't surprised. Yer ain't got no call to fear any ruction in the future, 'cos ye've had an innings, and that teaches a chap a heap. But it aer time to climb into the wagon." By now all the friends were gathered close beside the huge vehicle save Jacob, who gripped the reins, and Steve, who lay on the boards within. Not one of the men appeared anything but absolutely cool. Indeed they displayed a certain amount of cheerfulness which would have helped to keep up the courage of any weakling, had there been one amongst them. Slipping from their saddles, they unbuckled girths and carried the saddles to the back of the wagon, where one of their number built them into a breastwork. The others at the same time made the bridles fast to the headstall of the wheelers drawing the wagon. Then, at a call from Tom, they came clambering into the wagon. "And jest you watch them legs of mine," sang out Steve cheerily. "This here Jack's saved 'em fer me with a bit of trouble, and it aer cost them varmint back thar a hull heap, not ter speak of a bad headache that one of 'em's got. Wall, jest keep yer big boots off me. I don't want ter discourage a youngster, and I jest want ter show Jack thar that them legs is goin' ter get useful yet." They placed the smiling little scout at the forward end of the wagon, and at his urgent request piled a heap of ammunition at his head. A biscuit box propped up one elbow, while the sacking, with its thick padding of grass, was pulled down a few inches. "So that I kin see ter shoot over," growled Steve, "I ain't fergot as them varmint aer had a bit of fun outer me. Wall, I never did like owin'. I'm agoin' ter pay back prompt, and I'll give 'em full measure ef I can work it." By now the enemy were within three hundred yards of the wagon, and, looking out, Jack saw that they were riding slowly, while a number were bunched close together, and were carrying on a heated conversation. Behind them rode the younger men, and it was clear from the manner in which they broke from the throng ever and again, and reluctantly rejoined it, that they were eager to begin the attack. "In course they'll divide," said Tom coolly. "And some of their best men'll be told off to ride in and shoot the hosses, or hamstring 'em if they kin get close enough. Wall, Steve and me'll see to that, and two of the others kin help. Jacob'll shake up the hosses every time the critters make a rush, so as to give 'em harder work ter do. You others'll get in a shot whenever yer kin. It don't need tellin' that yer might jest as well not shoot as miss. Ye've got ter kill every time, or damage a man so bad as he can't move." "They're dividing," sang out Jack a moment later. "And by the look of 'em they're goin' ter play some new kind of game. Keep yer eyes skinned, boys, and whatever happens don't let the critters get too near to the hosses. The guns they has ain't much good over a hundred yards. Jest keep 'em that far off, and we shan't come to any hurt." Five minutes later it was apparent that this body of Indians was led by a crafty individual; for, having divided, instead of dashing forward and attacking the wagon on either side, the two bands, some thirty strong in each case, cantered past the wagon till they were well ahead. Then, to Jack's amazement, they spread themselves out on either side of the track which the wagon would take if it continued the course it was then following. "They've set their mark on the hosses, boys," sang out Tom at once. "Their game are as clear as daylight. They're jest waitin' fer us to trail on between them, when every man'll let fly with his popgun. Ef they bring down the hosses we're stranded, and they kin then set to work to tackle the wagon. Say, Jacob, bring yer team up smart towards 'em, and, when yer judges you're jest outer shot, wheel 'em sharp to the left, and again to the right when you've run a couple of hundred yards. That'll put all the varmint on one side. Not a shot, boys, till I shout. Them critters ain't got no notion what sort of guns we've got. We want to coax 'em nearer, so as we kin give 'em pepper." With the huge odds against them it was obvious that it would be to the advantage of the little party of hunters to inflict a severe lesson on the Indians at the very onset of the conflict. And all realized that Tom's scheme was best calculated to bring that about. Kneeling behind the breastwork formed all round the wagon, the scouts peered out from beneath the tilt, their weapons ready to their hands. Jacob, sitting high on the box, wielded the reins with a master hand. Leaning forward so as to give his whip arm free play, he sent the long lash cracking and swishing over the team. Then, having brought them to a canter, he steered them direct for the open space left between the two lines of Indian horsemen. There was a howl of rage as he swung the team to the left, and a great galloping to and fro as he swung to the right again, so placing the wagon to the left of the Indians, but just out of gunshot. "Them fellers is jest cryin' with rage," laughed Steve as he peered out. "Guess they'll give up all thought of the hosses in a little. It's clear agin Injun nature ter trouble with hossflesh when there's white folks about and scalps to be taken. But jest watch it, Tom. Some of 'em will try a rush in, so as to put a bullet into the team." Indeed, in less than a minute one of the young braves accompanying the enemy suddenly started from their ranks and galloped madly towards the wagon. His reins lay on the horse's neck, while already his gun was at his shoulder. Tom instantly threw his own weapon into position, paused for a moment, and then drew the trigger. "Jest the right height, I reckon," cried Steve. "Yer hit him plumb, Tom, and it aer a lesson. But watch it. There'll be more of 'em axing ter be killed." It was not likely that an old Indian fighter like Steve would be mistaken, and indeed the next few minutes proved that, for other braves dashed from the ranks, singly or in twos and threes. And on each occasion Tom and his comrades defeated their object. None of their bullets went astray. The men who were firing were no hotheads, no untrained recruits. They aimed steadily and coolly, and never missed. "That aer checked them fer a little," said Tom, as the Indians drew away and rode on a level with the wagon, but some three hundred yards to the right. "They'll get to and have a palaver fer a bit, and then they'll try a rush. That aer what we've got ter fear. Thar's a good fifty of the critters left, and ef they can get all round us, why, some of 'em'll do fer the team while we're busy with the others. Then there won't be no stoppin' them. Yer know the game to play, Jacob?" The big hunter, perched high on his box, looked round and grinned at Tom. "Yer bet," he answered. "It's ter be a circus. Yer kin calkilate on me ter do the right thing at the right moment. I'll give the team an easy time till them critters gets frisky agin." For more than half an hour the little party proceeded on their way, the team walking, while the Indians rode their horses still at the same distance from the wagon. For a while they had stopped, and there had been a palaver. Then they had followed at a trot, and as soon as they were level with the wagon had begun to walk their animals. "Yer kin see their new game," cried Tom after a while. "Thar's roughish ground ahead. Yer kin see rocks rising in the grass, and they calkilates ter charge when we're fixed up amongst the boulders. Thar wouldn't be the same chance of manoeuvring then, and things wouldn't be so favourable by a heap. What do yer think, Steve?" "It don't want no thinkin'. Ef we push on into that ere rough ground, we're doin' jest what them Injun varmint aer axin' us ter do. That ain't reasonable, and ain't the way of men sich as we aer. We're in fer a muss with them critters, either here or down among the rocks. Wall, do it want decidin' what we aer ter do?" "Pull the team round, Jacob," sang out Tom promptly, "and get yer irons ready, boys. Thar'll be a bit of shouting. Gee! It fair makes me grin to think how them critters'll be swearin'." Once more Jacob's whip cracked over the team and set them in rapid motion, a pace which the enemy rapidly adopted. Indeed, it seemed as if the party at whose capture or death they aimed was actually hastening to its own destruction. But the Indians had as crafty a set of men to deal with as themselves. A howl presently escaped them as Jacob swung his team in a complete circle, and sent them heading back over the wheelmarks they had just made. "Jest watch it, boys," sang out Tom. "Human natur can't stand that 'ere sort of thing, and Injun natur in partic'ler. They've jest been bamboozled, and ef there aer a thing that's sartin ter raise the dander of them varmint, it aer bein' bamboozled. Jest keep yer eyes skinned, and start in with the shootin' as soon as they aer within easy range. Yer kin keep yer shooters till they're up ter the wagon." For five minutes perhaps the Indians rode beside the wagon, keeping pace with it--for the team had again dropped to a walk--and maintaining the same distance from it. Then Steve suddenly drew the attention of his comrades to a remarkable fact. "Ain't they cute!" he cried. "They're givin' the idea that they're jest ridin' along at the same distance. But ef yer watch carefully, them critters is edgin' in all the while. In a bit they'll be near enough to make a rush. Jest sit tight, boys, while I put in a sorter warnin' shot." He leaned well over his sights and squinted along the barrel, aiming at an Indian who, by his gestures, and the manner in which the others followed him, was undoubtedly the leader. Then the interior of the wagon was filled with blinding smoke, while a thundering detonation deafened the little party of white men. Instantly the Indian chief threw up his arms, fell back on the quarters of his horse, and slid to the ground. And at once there arose such a babel of shouts and shrill yells of anger that anyone might well have been alarmed. For it was contrary to Indian habit to give way so openly to wrath. It seemed, indeed, as if the conflict they had entered upon with these whites had tried the temper of the enemy more than usual, and if Jack had only known it his own unexpected success against them, the manner in which he had slain two of their most cunning young braves, had maddened the others. They felt as if their reputation, even their bravery, had received a sore check. Now, on top of that, this solitary wagon was being manoeuvred in a manner which outgeneralled all their schemes, for the parties of diggers making across the plains upon whom the Indians were wont to make attacks fell too easy victims to their craft and cunning as a general rule. "That aer the end of it," said Tom, turning to see that all was ready. "Flesh and blood can't stand no more of sich knocks, and them critters'll be coming." The words had hardly left his lips when the whole band of Indians swept their horses round to face the wagon, and, digging their heels into the flanks of the animals, spurred them forward at a mad gallop. What a picture they made too! In more or less close formation, their feathered headdress flying in the breeze, and the trimmings of their overalls and moccasins fluttering, they raced towards the wagon with eyes staring and arms brandished over their heads. A perfect tumult of noise proceeded from their ranks, while they had hardly covered ten yards before their guns spoke out, sending bullets hissing across the space which divided them from the white men. [Illustration: "THE INDIAN CHIEF THREW UP HIS ARMS"] "Shake 'em up, Jacob!" cried Tom at the pitch of his voice. But the big, cool man handling the reins needed no instructions. Already he was bending forward, while the crack of his long lash broke the silence before the Indian guns spoke. He called to the horses as only a practised teamster could do, and at once the wagon swayed and rocked and jerked. Then it gathered momentum, and long ere the enemy had approached within a hundred and fifty yards the big, lumbering contrivance was well under way, dashing over the prairie at a pace which caused the Indians at once to swing their horses forward and gallop harder so as to come within reach In fact, it was this sudden movement which proved the safeguard of the little party of hunters. For otherwise, had they been stationary, they would have had fifty or more of the enemy about them at the same moment, and so quickly, too, that there would have been little time for the rifles to make an impression. As it was, they had some breathing space, and much use did they make of it. "Leaders always, mates!" sang out Tom. "It aer always the best. It throws the others into a fix and delays 'em." Short, sharp, and precise the shots rang out from the wagon, while the interior was presently filled with thick, sulphurous smoke. But that made no difference to the defenders, for the pace at which they were moving constantly cleared the atmosphere. It was Steve who first opened the duel. His weapon cracked sharply, and at once one of the leading Indian horses fell with a crash, throwing his rider. The animal following managed to leap over his fallen comrade, but a second tripped, and after him a third came to grief, leaving a pile of struggling men and lashing hoofs on the grass. But such an incident could not stop such large numbers. Spreading a little, they came racing in towards the wagon, while the heavy thuds outside told that bullets were flying. But missiles were also passing in the opposite direction, true to their mark, for each one of the scouts was a master hand with a rifle. Even Jack made good use of his weapon, and brought more than one of the enemy rolling, while the negro who accompanied the party, to tend to the team and cook, helped gallantly in the defence. "Shooters!" shouted Tom at length, when the enemy were within ten yards. "Me and Seth'll see that they don't get nigh to the hosses. Ye other boys make time with 'em at the sides, and jest see that the critters don't climb in behind. Jack, post yerself thar, and give 'em fits ef they try it." Dropping their empty weapons, each one of the defenders gripped his revolver, and in some instances they had two. As for Jack, he crawled to the back of the wagon, and, leaning over the saddles, waited for the time for action. And it was not long in coming. With a heave and a roll the wagon swung sharply to the left, for Jacob was a cunning hand. And the sudden change of direction threw the aim of the enemy out. A moment or two before several had been within easy reach of the wheelers of the team and had drawn their tomahawks; but the swerve left them behind, while in the case of one man on the far side, the wagon bumped into him with terrific force, and threw him and his mount to the ground. With a shout the others galloped up behind, and in a second there was a sea of faces, of bobbing heads, and of tossing manes presented to our hero. "Take 'em cool!" shouted Tom, who seemed to have an eye for everything and everyone. Jack levelled his weapon steadily, aimed at the foremost man, and sent a bullet crashing into his head. At the same instant he was almost blinded by a spurt of flame, while something hissed past his head, and, passing through the length of the wagon, buried itself in the box on which Jacob sat. "Bully fer ye, Jack!" shouted Seth, springing to our hero's side. "Yer bagged him fine, and he near plugged yer. Get in at 'em." It was short, sharp work at the back of the wagon on that occasion, and when it was ended Jack remembered nothing beyond that first shot, the fall of the Indian, and the ball which had hissed past his own cheek. Yet, there he was, standing beside the breastwork of saddles, holding an empty and smoking revolver in his hand, while directly in rear was a bunch of fallen men, with their patient horses standing beside them. And all the while he had a dim perception that shots were echoing all round him. From either side of the wagon a stream of bullets had hurtled, and even now men were being added to that bunch upon which his eye was fixed. "Yer kin take it slow and cool," sang out Tom at last, his voice startling our hero. "Them critters has had their pepper, and ef they're wise they'll sheer clear off. Anyone the wuss?" "Wuss. Yer don't call that wuss, do yer?" asked Seth indignantly, displaying a wrist from which a stream of red ran. "That ain't nothin'. Jest a pip what happened to come my way, and kinder seemed ter like me. Boys, I aer been in many a muss, and gee! I ain't the one as likes to come out without somethin' to remind me of it. That aer a pinprick." He coolly rammed cartridges into his empty revolver, reloaded his gun, and then with the help of a fine set of teeth and a neckerchief quickly bound up the wound. Meanwhile Jack had looked carefully about him, for the smoke had again cleared from the interior of the wagon. One thing struck him with amazement. The white tilt of the wagon, which had been rolled up so that the defenders could see from beneath it, was no longer the neat, nicely hung thing it had been. The curtain was punctured in numerous places, while there was more than one long slit. "Jest ter remind us!" laughed Steve, seeing Jack's attention was attracted to the rents. "Them critters came close, and would ha' got to the hosses ef it hadn't been that Jacob had the ribbons. But yer can see how close they war. Reckon this here padding aer saved some of us." It was clear, indeed, that but for the timely preparations of the scouts they would have fared badly, for the enemy had actually battered the outside of the wagon with their tomahawks, and had their weapons been loaded when they arrived at such close quarters no doubt they would have poured bullets into the interior. But they had expended their shots on the way, trusting to their terrible tomahawks for close hand-to-hand work, an opportunity for which had never been allowed them. "It aer been a lesson," said Tom, after a while. "These here bits of padding ha' saved our lives no end, while the game of a runnin' fight aer bothered them critters more than anything. Boys, the time aer come to give 'em more pepper. It don't stand to reason that we should sit in here and see 'em palaverin', and makin' ready for more devilry. So I'm fer advising that Jacob swings the beauties round agin, and takes us in amongst them varmint. Ef we goes on, we shows we aer afraid. Ef we turns in amongst them, we lets 'em see we're axin' fer more. Get yer irons loaded." For a few moments only the ring of ramrods was to be heard, and the click of revolver locks. "Guess we're ready," said Seth shortly, a wide grin on his face. "Ef thar's a one here as don't fancy the business, he'd best get down now. Thar aer room out thar on the prairie." A chorus of laughter greeted this sally, but was silenced by Tom. "Ef Seth thar, Tricky Seth as we calls him, ain't specially careful," he sang out, "we'll hang him out in front as a scarecrow fer them varmint ter shoot at. Jack, jest you come forward. It does a young 'un like yer good to have a bit of experience. Jest come along with me and keep a watch on the hosses. Now, Jacob, boy, you kin fetch 'em round and give 'em their heads; and don't ferget to swing them ef the muss gets too thick. That last turn of yours jest bamboozled the critters more than anythin'." Swinging the team round, Jacob set them towards the Indians at a smart pace, while a shout came from the scouts. "Jest to tell 'em we're perky," smiled Tom. "Gee! They're goin' ter stand up to it, so it'll be a fight. Boys, you kin get in with the shootin' when ye're ready." A short, sharp and extremely savage conflict followed, during which the Indians crowded round the wagon, while Jacob manoeuvred his team in such a manner that they could never actually obtain a grip of the huge conveyance. And all the while Tom and his comrades emptied their weapons into the enemy, knocking numbers out of their saddles. Indeed, never before, in all probability, had this particular tribe been so severely handled, and, unable to face the punishment, they turned swiftly and fled, leaving many of their comrades dotting the plain, while no fewer than seventeen horses stood cropping the grass. "Which shows that the varmint aer properly scared," said Tom exultingly, when the enemy had broken and fled. "An Injun likes to get away with his dead and wounded ef he kin. Ef he kin't, and leaves, it's a sure sign he's been mauled. Boys, thar are hosses out thar that'll pay to keep. Let's get into our saddles." Jacob pulled in his team with a jerk, while the hunters leaped from the wagon. Saddles were swiftly thrown on the backs of the horses they had secured to their own wheelers, and in a trice they were riding away. It took but ten minutes to round up the Indian ponies, which were secured together by passing the reins of one through those of another, and so on, till all were secured. "We can move along now," sang out Tom at length. "Them critters is away over thar watchin', and they'll be back to tend to their men as soon as we're gone. We ain't got nothin' more to fear from 'em. We've give 'em real pepper." CHAPTER XV Giving 'em Pepper It was a jovial party which sat round the camp fire on the evening following the defeat of the Indians, for even the old and tried hunters could not help a feeling of elation. "It makes yer feel jest like a kid," said Steve, as he blinked in the firelight, and looked across at Jack, who was tending the buffalo steaks hissing over the embers. "It ain't so many hours ago as me and Carrots was, as yer might say, fair up agin it. I didn't look to come out clear. And yet, here we aer, and I'm watchin' thim steaks pretty close, which seems to show as thar ain't nothing much wrong." "And the back, mate?" asked Tom, striding across towards him, and looking particularly big. "Jest as well as ever," came the hearty answer. "I'm that young and skittish, seems I could kick the carrots off Jack's head. Hand over one of them steaks, young 'un. A man same as me don't oughter be kept waitin'." "We was talkin' of pepper," began Jacob, one of the hunters, when the meal was ended, and all were smoking their pipes. "That 'ere word minds me of a time when we give them red devils pepper same as we did to-day, only 'twarn't in these here parts, and we wasn't fer makin' gold in Californy." "You kin get to at the yarn," sang out Seth promptly. "Thar ain't one of us as feels he aer got any use for a blanket yet awhile, and seem' it's fine and pleasant, why jest wet yer throat, and then let's have it from the beginnin'." He leaned across to the hunter and handed him a brimming pannikin, which he had just replenished from the keg of spirit the party carried, and from the water bag in which the precious fluid was stored. Jacob let his head fall back promptly, raised the pannikin, and for the moment the silence which had fallen on the camp was broken by the gurgle of the fluid. "Thanks, mate," gasped Jacob, getting his breath. "We was talkin' of pepper." "We war," admitted Steve, edging a trifle closer to the fire. "And we aer fair greedy fer the story," smiled Tom. "You ain't got no call ter look up ter the sky. The yarn ain't thar. Ye've got it stowed in yer head. Give it a shake and out with it. Ef not, I'll send Carrots here ter see whether a little hammerin' won't help you any." There was a hearty laugh as Tom spoke, but the words made not the smallest difference to Jacob. He sat back on his elbows staring up at the sky, as if endeavouring to collect memories of past times. Jack took a look at the big hunter, wondered whether he himself would ever present such a decidedly manly appearance, and then fell to admiring the heavens too. For they were on the verge of California, and overhead hung a cloudless vault, speckled with such bright, twinkling stars that even the moon rays were paled. "It war a night same as this," began Jacob at length, "jest fer all the world same as this. The stars and moon that bright and clear yer could see to read easy. Wall, I ain't here ter tell of the stars and sichlike. I'm mindin' the time when I was workin' the cattle fer a boss a goodish way south of this, in a country that's even now more Injun than anythin'. He was rough, war that 'ere boss, and we ended a long day amongst the beasts with sharp and bitter words. I 'low as a man as hires me has a right ter git the value of his dollars outer me. But I don't cotton to no bossin'. I don't see that 'cos a man employs a hand he has a right ter bully him, ter shout names at him, and rile him every hour of the day. That ain't in reason." He looked round the assembled scouts, as if to gather their views on the matter. "Git on with it," shouted Steve shortly. "Them's my views in a nutshell," cried Tom. "No man ain't goin' ter be bullied." "So I thought," continued Jacob. "And though it war evenin', and dark to be expected precious soon, I jest give the boss back some of the lip he'd been throwin' at me, and at the same time told him I war quittin'. We squared up the wages right off, and then I climbed into my saddle and rid away from the farm. I war mighty angry and hot." "And likely as not didn't take no partic'lar direction," sang out one of the listeners. "Ye've got it right and early. I was that mad with the boss I jest kicked the flanks of my hoss and rid right off like a whirlwind. But a man finds a gallop across the grass kinder clears his brain, and takes the anger out of him. I soon got to rememberin' that I hadn't touched a crust sense breakfast, and that war early with the sun risin'. "Ye're a fool, Jacob," I says to myself. "Ye've rid off hot and hasty, like a child, and now ye've got ter suffer. Whar's best to go?" "The hoss could tell yer," cried Tom. "Right agin!" agreed Jacob. "That hoss knew better than me whar I was likely to find food. I've seed the same thing many a time out on the plains. Ef a man's lost, and don't know from Adam whar he aer, it's better to give a free rein and leave it to the mount. Suppose he scents somethin'. Anyway he generally knows whar he's likely to get a feed for himself and a drop of water. I jest give my critter his head, and somewhar's about eleven that night we come to a shanty with a wooden stockade right round it." "Same as settlers has in an Injun country," remarked Steve. "The very same, and seems they need them 'ere stockades. Wall, thar the shanty was, outlined clear in the light, lookin' that peaceful yer wouldn't ha' thought a fly could ha' come to harm. But I hadn't got within seventy yards when thar was a flash from the house, high up under the roof, and then a loud report." "Injuns in already," ventured one of Jacob's companions. "Wrong, fer sure," growled Steve. "Ef Injuns had been thar, they'd have burned the place within a few minutes. A white's house aer pison to an Injun. It makes him fair mad. He can't keep his hands off it, nor fire away from the roofin'." "That comes of havin' Injun experience," said Jacob, resuming, and sending a nod in Steve's direction. "It warn't Injuns. All the same, when thar's bullets flyin', reckon one don't sit still thinkin'. I was off my hoss in a jiffy, gettin' cover under the stockade. Then I put my hands to my mouth and sent the folks in the house, whoever they might be, the shout we was used to give in them parts. Heard it?" He did not wait for an answer, but put his hands at once to his lips, and sent forth a halloo which awoke the echoes. "Thar ain't no mistake about a call like that," said Jacob, decision in his tones, "and the folks in that shanty couldn't help but know that it was a white man outside, one as was friendly." "And so the shootin' stopped," suggested Tom. "Wrong. A bit of a bullet kicked a stone at my feet and sent me howlin'. Reckon a flint can hurt most same as a bullet. Anyway, that 'ere stone give me a blow that staggered me. And after it half a dozen shots rang out from the shanty." "What in thunder did it all mean?" asked one of the men. "And then there was a shout, an answerin' shout." "Yes," said Steve, edging a trifle closer, "an answerin' shout." "A woman's shout. A shrill sort of a scream. A thing you couldn't call a shout, but there ain't no other name as I knows of." Jacob looked round at his audience questioningly, while each one of the party wore a different expression on his face. "Reckon you was wishin' you hadn't row'd with the boss," grinned Tom. "P'raps you had falled asleep on your hoss," cried Seth, "and was sorter dreamin'." Jacob snorted with indignation. "As ef that war likely," he cried. "Didn't I say as I howled with pain when the flint struck me? No. You're guessin'. The shanty war there, standin' black in the moonlight, and them shouts were real. They were shrill, and come from a woman. They kind of scared me fer a minute." "Yer bolted again?" asked Steve. "I jest hooked the reins over the corner of a post standin' outside the stockade, and clambered over." "More bullets," suggested one of the men. "Shots, yes, but not in my direction. Thar was shoutin', a man's and a woman's, and then shootin'. Then the door of the shanty war opened and I ran in." Jacob stopped for a moment at the most critical point in his narrative, causing all his comrades to sit up expectantly. "Wall?" demanded Tom irritably, stuffing his pipe with his finger. "It was Injuns," asserted one of the men. "Yer was taken by a bit of foolin'." "It warn't," answered Jacob shortly and curtly. "It war a madman." "A madman! A madman!" The words were bandied from one to another. The listeners looked askance at one another, for madness out on the plains was in those days exceptional, and in nearly every case ended in a terrible tragedy. "Man or woman?" asked Seth. "Seems either's likely." "It war the man," said Jacob slowly. "It war the man, a white man, same as you and me. Seems he'd gone suddenly crazy at sight of me, and set to at shootin'. It war his wife's voice I'd heard, her's and her two boys. When I got in to the sorter parlour place in the centre of the shanty, thar she war, with the two young 'uns, holdin' on to the man fer their lives." "Gee, that war strange!" muttered Steve. "P'raps something outer the ordinary had scared him." "Or he'd been thinkin' so long about Injuns, and likely attacks, that the thing had kind of got on his mind and unhinged it. I've heard tell of a similar thing afore. A man gets fidgety, specially ef he ain't used to Injuns and the plains, and ain't been brought up to the life. His nerves git shook up, and one fine day, when there ain't no real danger, he takes his own shadow for an enemy, and blazes off with his gun. Often enough it's someone he's most fond of that he shoots." Tom delivered himself of the statement calmly and slowly. Then he carefully refilled his pipe, while his comrades looked round at one another. Jacob, the slow, ponderous Jacob, who so seldom launched into a tale, had provided the camp with a subject, a riddle, and all struggled to come to a solution. "It war that, or near it," agreed Tricky Seth. "Or he'd been ill, and was jumpin' mad in his delirium," suggested another. "I dunno as you're right or wrong," came slowly from Jacob. "Reckon he war ill, ill with grief and anxiety, and reckon his nerves was fair shook up. He war mad, stark, starin' crazy without a doubt, and we had to make him fast so as he shouldn't do anyone a mischief." "Yer ain't told us why," cried one of the men. "What had come along to upset this here man so? Somethin' outer the ordinary." "Yer kin guess so. It war somethin' outer the ordinary, and sense I started this here yarn by sayin' that I knew of a time when we'd given the critters real pepper, you can 'low as it war Injuns as war the cause. Injuns had come along and upset this man till he was worried clean off his head. Now I'll tell yer how it happened. Allen Rivers war a new settler out in them parts, a brave man fer all his madness. He'd been warned time and agin to beware of the Injuns, specially of Hawk Eye, a critter that was chief of a tribe huntin' in that neighbourhood. And yer must understand that although trouble with the redskins war as a general thing to be expected, yet thar war times when powder and lead and sichlike articles was runnin' short in the wigwams, and the critters had need to come in to the white man's settlements and be friendly. Allen Rivers had set up a sorter store. He'd had visits from the Injuns, and he'd done smart business with Hawk Eye. The chief had been that smilin' that Allen had taken him into the stockade, and once into the house, and the Injun had been able to get a good look round. Wall, Allen had two boys--the youngsters that met me on the doorstep--twelve and fourteen years of age, and proper plucked 'uns too; thar war his wife, as brave a woman as you could meet in a week's march, and besides them three, a baby, a gal. Wall, now----" Jacob coughed. He was one of those slow men who take a deal of rousing, and who seldom indulge in a yarn, but, when once induced to speak, do so at their own pace and leisure. The burly scout was exasperatingly slow in his utterance. "Ye've got to the pith of it," sang out Steve. "Thar war a baby." "Thar war. A baby gal, and Injuns has a strange sorter likin' fer baby gals as is the children of white people. They thinks they bring 'em good luck; and it seemed as Hawk Eye's own wife hadn't got no children. No doubt the chief got to tellin' her of Allen Rivers's shanty, of his wife and kids, and set her wishin' fer the gal. Anyway, Hawk Eye had done trade with Allen jest two days before I come there, and seemed to have ridden back to his own place. But that very mornin' the child was taken, taken from its bark crib, which Mrs. Allen had jest set down outside the door of the shanty. And though every one of 'em searched fer all he could, and though Allen climbed on to his horse and rid round and round, thar warn't a trace of the kid, not a trace. But one of the boys picked up a feather, and then they knew as it war Hawk Eye and his people that had done it." "I've knowed a similar thing," said Steve, interrupting. "Them critters looks upon a white kid as likely to bring 'em victory in their fightin', and fortune in their huntin'. You aer made no error. Push on with it, Jacob." "Allen guessed that ef they'd taken the kid they might be up to more mischief, and, bein' a nervous, jerky sort of feller, blest ef he didn't go off his head. That's whar we get to when I arrived. Allen warn't no more good. He war, instead, a worry. Thar war me and the two boys and Mrs. Rivers." "With Injuns round about?" "With the critters on the far side of the stockade," agreed Jacob. "Seems I had missed 'em by a chance. I was jest a quarter of an hour too early for 'em. But I hadn't been in the shanty more'n a few minutes, and had made Allen fast, when I seed a figure clamberin' over the gate of the stockade. Remember, it war a bright night, same as this, and dead agin the Injun's chances. But they reckoned to take the place easy, and wasn't over cautious." "Yer give that feller pepper?" asked Seth. Jacob nodded. "I dropped him same as a bird, and that set 'em howlin'. The shot took 'em all by surprise. They looked to have the gate of the stockade open and to be in the shanty afore Allen and his wife war properly awake. The critters set up a howl that was enough to scare one, and then three of 'em came clamberin' after the man I'd shot. "'Jest get to them other windows, boys,' I sang out; fer there were loopholes in the corners of the shutters on all four sides of the shanty. 'Shoot down any man as yer kin see, and ef ye're bothered, jest sing out. I'll be with yer in a jiffy.' "Countin' Mrs. Rivers thar was just four of us, and for ten minutes we was kept precious busy. But them lads could shoot, and their mother like 'em, so that, presently, the critters crept off from the stockade, leavin' seven of their braves chewin' the grass inside. Yer see, they'd stood out clear and easy as they climbed, and, the range bein' a short one, thar warn't no missin'. "'Gone?' asks Mrs. Rivers, when there wasn't no more of 'em to be seen. "'Don't yer believe it, ma'am,' I answered. 'Thim critters has got their eyes on the goods in this store, and fer that reason they ain't likely to give up the business. And now there's those braves down thar. We've killed seven of 'em, and the others won't dare to go back to their wigwams with sich a tale, and with nary a scalp to show. They're bound to come agin, and we've got to look precious lively. Thar ain't no sayin' whar they'll come, but come they will, yer kin take my davy. Ef I wasn't sure that the critters was outside, I'd suggest that one of the youngsters tried to leg it away from the shanty so as to fetch help. But they're outside, the skunks, and on a night same as this the lad wouldn't stand a ghostly.' "Wall, mates, we got back to our loopholes, and kept a pretty close watch fer a couple of hours without seein' a sight of them Injuns. But they was thar, close outside. I heard 'em callin' to one another. Then suddenly I cottoned to what the artful critters was doin'. The moon was sinkin', but as bright as ever, and them Injuns reckoned that one of the walls of the stockade was castin' a biggish shadow on the yard inside. They war busy diggin' their way in under it." There was a murmur from the hunters assembled round the fire. "Jest like the critters," growled Steve. "I've knowed 'em do the same in similar cases. And the wust of the business aer this: yer kin feel sure as that aer their game, and sense the shadow's deepest in one partic'lar spot, yer kin reckon to a foot or two whar they're diggin'. But yer can't stop the varmint. Ef yer put an eyelid over the stockade, there's a man ready with an arrow, and ef you think to blaze at 'em through the woodwork, why, it aer like loosin' off a gun into the air. Even ef you hit a man, the others jest lie quiet, so yer don't know what's happened. But maybe one of the critters gets to the hole ye've made in the stockade, and then it's your turn to look out fer bullets." "Jest so. That's how we war situated," agreed Jacob. "It war one of them tarnation bothers that tries a man's nerves. I'd been in more than one ruction with the redskins afore that day, and I knew somethin' about the critters. It war as clear as daylight that when they war ready they'd let the earth on our side fall in, and then the varmint would come rushin' fer the shanty. It war an almighty fix. It jest made me give up thinkin'. I got lookin' fer the first of them critters to come clamberin' in, and listenin' all the while to Mrs. Rivers prayin'. Then one of them bright lads come out with a suggestion." "Ah! That's like Carrots," ventured Tom. "'Tain't always the old hand that kin manage a fix of that sort. What war his partic'lar idea? Blest ef I ain't mighty bothered." "I'll tell yer. It war a case with him of kill or cure, as you'll agree as I get on with the story. And he didn't come straight to me to ask what I thought of the business. Joe war his name, and a kid chuck-full of larnin'. Wall, seems he got rummagin' in the place whar his father stored the stuff he traded with the Injuns, and then slips outer the door. "'Joe's gone out ter see what he kin do with 'em,' says Hal, his brother, comin' across the shanty to where I was watchin'. 'Jest see you don't shoot him.' "Yer kin guess I was mighty surprised. 'Gone outside!' I cried. 'Why, they'll shoot him quicker than ever I shall. What for? What's he doin'?'" "Hal hadn't a notion, and so, seein' as something precious bad might come of it, I slipped out of the shanty to join him. And when I came to the edge of the stockade whar we reckoned the Injuns was diggin', there warn't a doubt that they was there, on the far side of the woodwork, precious near ready to break through and finish the matter. Joe war there, lyin' on his face, and sense I knew they'd hear me ef I even whispered, I laid down beside him and learned what he was doin'. He was diggin' fast with his fingers, tearin' the turf and soil away bit by bit, and makin' not so much as a sound to give the enemy a warnin'. Within four feet of him, perhaps, there was Injuns workin' at the same game, cuttin' the earth away with their knives and tomahawks, and ef I was asked to guess their true position, I should say as they were closer even than that, and in a little while would be carving their way into the hole which Joe war making. "Two foot ahead of Joe there war a dark object, and when I crept across to feel around it, and see what it was, you kin guess I jest started. It war a powder keg, same as we carry, already opened, and ready for firin'." There was excitement now on the faces of the men gathered round the camp fire. Excitement and some curiosity. For difficulty and danger were everyday affairs to these scouts, and a tale which demonstrated the cunning of the Indians, and the bravery and resource of those who were opposed to this deadly enemy, was always sure of an attentive hearing. Tom drew in a deep breath, while Steve grunted. "Powder," he said, as if he were thinking deeply. "That war a kill-or-cure remedy sure! Seems to me that ef you could be sartin of gettin' the hull crowd of the Injuns close together, yer might kill a heap and scare the rest so badly as to make 'em ride away. But ef yer failed, why, it stands to reason yer would blow a hole through your stockade big enough to allow a hull tribe of the critters to pass, and might jest as well be askin' fer a funeral. Get along, Jacob. Yer make a man want to be tellin' the story hisself, instead of waitin' fer you." "It war a case of kill or cure," agreed the burly scout, ignoring Steve's remarks, "but Joe warn't the boy to spoil his plan for a bit of waitin'. He finished that hole while I lay thar, and popped in his keg extry careful. Then he rammed the earth round it with his fists, laid his fuse, and sat listenin'. "'We'll wait till one of them strikes the keg with his knife,' he whispered, fer the Injuns happened to be making a tidy heap of noise, and so there warn't no fear of their hearin'. 'That'll be the time ter fire it.' "And jest yer remember to lie as flat as yer kin when yer put down the match,' I answered. 'The explosion of that powder will smash the stockade to pieces, and I ain't so sure as it won't wreck the shanty.' "Wall, to come to the end of it, Joe waited there listenin' like a terrier till there war the sharp click of a knife falling on the keg, and a grunt from one of the Indians. That war enough for us. Joe and I crept away from the place as quickly as we could, yer may guess, and lay down agin at the far end of the trail, which was jest outside the shanty. Then Joe lifted his pistol, laid the muzzle along the train, and drew his trigger as steady as if he warn't shootin' nothin' in partic'lar. Them critters was smashed to pieces. That is, eight or nine of them was killed by the explosion." A chorus of exclamations came from the assembled hunters. There was a sparkle about their eyes which showed that they had listened to the narrative with more than usual attention. "Gee! That war a brave kid!" cried Seth. "A right down plucked 'un! What happened? The hull stockade war blown to matchwood, one would guess, and perhaps the shanty with it? Git on! Fer a slow 'un ye're as bad as any I've ever met." Jacob grinned. He was slow, and he knew it. At the same time he was far too cool and burly an individual to be intimidated. "I never was a hustler," he said, "and I'm too old now to begin. Ef Seth, thar, Tricky Seth, as he's ginerally known, aer in a hurry, why, I'll quit talkin', and he kin take the field. I'm always game to listen." "Get in at it, Jacob, man!" shouted Tom, shaking his fist at the hunter. "That 'ere kid fired the trail with his pistol, and the keg of powder blew the Injun varmint to pieces. Wall--" "Wall, someone's asked about the stockade. It war broke into tiny pieces. Joe and me was hoisted pretty nigh on to the roof of the shanty, while the door of the place was shook clear off its hinges. Old man Rivers, as was as mad as any hatter a minute before, was blowed back to his proper senses. Leastwise, all I knows is that he was crazy afore the explosion, and afterwards, when me and young Joe had picked ourselves up, and had kinder cleared the dust and dirt away--fer we was properly covered--Allen war smilin' all over, and talkin' to his wife as ef he hadn't never been mad. And warn't he proud of that ere kid!" "What about the Injuns?" demanded one of the listeners eagerly; for, after all, the whole point in the narrative depended upon them. Scouts, one and all, could appreciate a gallant if desperate action, fer they were brave men themselves; but their interest, once the tale of daring and courage on the part of their own race was told, was centred in the common enemy, the Red Indian warrior, the fierce man of the plains who had waged such ceaseless warfare with the white invaders of his hunting-grounds, who had caused them such cruel losses, and who, because of his terrible cruelty--because he killed not men alone, but women and children--was detested by hunters and prospectors throughout the country. It was the attackers Seth and his comrades longed to hear about. "They was blowed to pieces," said Steve. "Wall, what become of the rest? There was more than eight or nine of the varmint." "There was fifty, as we reckoned," said Jacob solemnly, "and they was scared pretty nigh outer their lives. Hawk Eye, him that had caused the whole ruction, rid off as ef there was powder kegs exploding under his horse's heels all the way; and reckon they got back to the wigwams fewer than when they left, and with a yarn to give that would make the squaws howl at 'em. They was beat, mates, badly beat, and a slip of a boy did it. Old man Rivers had come back to his senses properly, and guess he set to at once to rig up his stockade again, and make all ready against another attack. And ef he was a wise man--and I heard tell as his madness didn't ever occur agin--he never afterwards made the mistake of lettin' a red-skinned varmint look into his store. Them critters is never to be trusted. Ef they find ye're rich, ye've kinder asked them to come in the first time thar's an opportunity, and take yer scalp and everything that's yours. Keep the varmint at arm's length is my motto; or, better still, keep 'em always well ahead of your gun, and see as ye've powder and ball handy." The burly hunter subsided into silence, reached for the pannikin, and poured himself out a helping of spirit. He filled up with water, tossed his head back into characteristic position, and again the gurgle of fluid was heard. For scouts were rough men; their manners were not of the nicest. As for his listeners, they began a very animated discussion as to the merits of the yarn just narrated, and the incident of which Jacob had been a witness recalled many another incident, totally unlike that recorded by him, but nevertheless showing the courage and resource of the white man and the determination of the common enemy. Then Steve imposed silence upon the group by stirring the fire vigorously with his boot and causing the sparks to fly upwards. "Mates," he said in his dry-as-dust style, "mates, this here Jacob ha' given us a yarn that kinder stirs a man, and we aer glad to hear as he had a hand in beatin' them varmint. He was caught in a muss, so to say, and, seein' he had rowed with his boss, and got lost on the plains, why, seems he had hisself to blame. Still, ef he hadn't arrived at old man Rivers's shanty, them critters would ha' broke in, fer Jacob shot down the first as climbed the stockade. He came out of the muss nicely, and now that he ha' told us, he has gone silent agin, same as he is generally. But he ain't finished, not by a bit." All looked across at the burly hunter. Jacob was filling his pipe in a dogged sort of manner, and scowled at Steve as he finished speaking. "Thar ain't no more," he growled; "leastwise, none that I'm goin' ter tell. Besides, it's husky work talkin'. I've finished. Reckon it's time we took to our blankets." "Yer ain't said never a word about that 'ere kid that Hawk Eye stole from the Rivers's," accused Steve, pointing a finger at Jacob. "And I ain't goin' ter," came the short, sturdy answer. "I've done talkin' fer the night. Time we was turnin' in." There was a scowl on his face, and something more. The big scout, usually so stolid and so transparently straightforward, looked confused and almost ashamed of himself. He made a grimace at Steve, and commenced to rise from his seat. But Tom put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Steve aer the lad fer spottin' things," he laughed. "Let's have the rest of the yarn." "I ain't goin' ter talk no more," came the surly answer. "Then I'll give the yarn, mates." It was Bill Huskins who spoke, "Black Bill", as he was known, because of his dark complexion. He was short and wiry, like Steve, a merry enough fellow, but given to taciturnity and silence, as was customary with scouts. He grinned across at Jacob, ignored his threatening gestures, and then put himself into a position of ease, as if determined to tell his tale, whatever happened. "I war along with that 'ere boss as had the words with Jacob," he announced, "and seein' as Jacob thar', ain't able ter speak, why, I'll get in with the yarn. Thar's more to tell. A hull heap more. That 'ere kid was took right off to Hawk Eye's wigwams, and it stands to reason white folks wasn't goin' ter sit down and put up with sich a thing. 'Sides, Mrs. Rivers swore as she'd ride there all alone herself, ef there wasn't a man ter do it. So in course we went, and here's what happened." CHAPTER XVI The Bashful Jacob It was useless for the burly Jacob to frown and scowl, and shake a threatening fist at Black Bill. The latter took not the slightest notice, save that the reflection from the camp fire, falling upon his dusky features, showed a certain twinkling of the eye which was somewhat unusual. "You, Bill Huskins, yer ain't no friend of mine ef yer get to talkin'," growled Jacob at last, seeing that grimaces made no difference, and had no effect upon his comrade. "I gives yer fair warnin' that that tale ain't to be repeated. These here mates of ours ain't got no interest in it. 'Sides, it's time we war in our blankets." "I dunno," exclaimed Tom warmly, holding his fingers to the blaze. "I dunno so much about that, Jacob. There's men here as would be glad to listen. It might come to you or ter me ter marry one of these here days, and then ef a kid of ours was snatched by the red-skinned varmint, we'd get to and remember a yarn, and maybe find something in it to help us. Jest you sit still and chew a plug of 'bacca. Bill, fire away. It aer only Jacob's 'tarnal bashfulness." "My, you should ha' seen him when he rid up with young Joe Rivers beside him," said Bill, nothing loath to tell the story, and grinning widely at the irate Jacob. "Jest put yerselves in his place fer a few seconds. Here was Jacob, not so old as he aer now by a goodish bit, riding back to join an outfit he'd left jest a few hours afore, and left too with words hot and fiery agin the boss. There's only two ways of lookin' at a thing like that. It aer right down cheek, or it aer murder that brings a man back. I've seen men as was fired from an outfit, and went away peaceful. But they got to thinkin' that they war injured. They sat broodin' over the matter, till their danders was properly up, and then they rode back to face that 'ere boss and have it out with him. Guess it looked as ef Jacob thar had rid back fer a ruction, and old man Staples as was our boss must have thought the same. Any way, he sees Jacob comin', and then gets his hand down close to his shooter. I war ridin' in from the opposite direction, and when I caught a sight of Jacob, I slipped outer my saddle and got round the end of the shanty. Bullets gets flyin' on sich an occasion, and a man ain't no use when he gets in their way. He can't easily stop 'em. They has a way of layin' him out." There was a chorus of approval from the assembled hunters, and even Jacob gave a nod. Indeed, his growling and his grimaces had all been a part of his dissembling. To the looker-on it seemed that there must be something about this part of the yarn with which he disagreed, something perhaps likely to lead to his own embarrassment. But he could enjoy the recollection of his action with regard to the boss with whom he had exchanged heated words. "It war cheek," he agreed. "Gee! Now that I comes to think of it, he'd have been in the right ef he had shot me down without a word and without waitin'." "He wasn't sich a bad feller," continued Bill. "Old man Staples had a softish heart under as rough a skin as ever I saw. He dropped his hand to the butt of his gun, as I've said already, and kinder worked his way along till he stood behind one of the big corner posts of the stockade. Then he took a close look at Jacob and at the boy. Yer should ha' seen our mate over thar. He climbs outer his saddle extry slow. Guess he was wonderin' how he was to get to at the matter. Then he walked straight up to Staples. "'Yer ain't got no cause to fear me, boss,' he says. 'I ain't here to quarrel. As man to man I tell you that you're over rough with your tongue, and that there's few but blacks that could stand it. I'm here to ask fer help.' "That took Staples' breath away. 'Help!' he calls out, as ef he was puzzled. 'A few hours ago you rid away as hot as anything, and then I was the last man, according to your own words, that you'd come to for anything in the way of help. What's it mean?' "'It isn't fer me I want it,' says Jacob. 'It's fer the kid's mother and father.' "Wall, when the matter were put before old man Staples and the boys, yer may reckon there wasn't much jawin'." Bill looked round the circle, and there came an emphatic nod from each of the men. "I'll give 'em all due credit," admitted Jacob warmly. "Old man Staples and every one of the outfit was hot to get to at Hawk Eye. Yer don't have to ask hunters and cattlemen twice when thar's a rescue to be tried, specially when it's a kid that's been taken, and the Injun critters has something ter do with the matter. Reckon the chance of a fight with them varmint would draw any man from the ranches." "'Yer kin count on every man jack of us,' sings out Staples; 'and, Jacob, you and I'll agree to be friends fer the time being. Shake hands,'" continued Bill. "'Thar's seventeen of us here, and we'll call in at Romney's ranch on the way across to Rivers's shanty, and pick up his crowd. He's sure to have some twenty to thirty, so we'll be nearly fifty when we're ready. Now, boys, get to and pack grub and ammunition. We'll be off in ten minutes.' "It war quick work, mates," said Bill, looking round for the approval of his fellows. "But men of an outfit same as that aer pretty nigh always ready fer something. Thar was enough dried flesh in the camp to feed fifty men fer more than a week, and of course we had heaps of powder and lead. Men don't take to ranching in an Indian country onless they have good guns, and plenty of the proper stuff to put in 'em. And so, within a quarter of an hour we war ridin' away, nineteen of us in all, counting Jacob and Joe, and with our mate thar and the boss he'd rowed with so lately riding ahead, chattin' as ef thar'd never been a word between them. That's how chaps of our sort act when thar's trouble in the air, and someone is askin' fer help." The dark-featured scout looked into the fire for a while, and took a breathing spell, while his mates nodded their approval. They knew thoroughly well the truth of Bill's statement. Out on the wide plains of America men quarrelled just as they did in the cities. Indeed their quarrels were rather more frequent than amongst men working under different surroundings, and often enough resulted in severe wounding, or in the death of one of the contestants. But they could and did sink the most pressing personal quarrels when duty called, and to these rough men, inured to every sort of hardship, there was no duty that appealed so forcibly as one where the rescue of a fellow white was concerned. A woman sought for their help. That in itself was sufficient. That call was so strong that there was not a man in the plains who could ignore it, and not one, who, if he were coward enough to be deaf to such a call, could continue to live in friendship with the hunters and cattlemen. He would be branded as a craven, and forced to ride from the country. Remember, in considering this, that these hunters of whom we write were the descendants of men who had fought for and won America, and that their sons to-day form a part of that nation which is the wonder and envy of the world. "At Romneys we was extry lucky," said Bill. "It happened that he'd fitted out a big outfit, and there war thirty-three men, counting Romney himself and one son. At Rivers's shanty we picked up the other boy, leaving Allen hisself to ride back ter Romney's with his wife, for it warn't safe for them to remain behind in a ruined stockade. Then we set to ter follow Hawk Eye, and Jacob thar warn't long in lickin' up the trace. My, this talkin' do tell on a feller. Just get to at it fer a bit, Jacob boy. Yer ain't no need ter fear. I'll take on agin when ye've got right into the business." It was a clever manoeuvre on Bill's part. As he was telling his yarn he had kept an eye on the burly scout, and noticed, with a grin of delight, that Jacob could not restrain his own interest. Indeed it was only natural that the narration of deeds which he had himself helped to carry out should rouse any hunter, nor was it wonderful that Jacob, forgetting his former behaviour, and surliness, should at once comply with Bill's request. "He's put it right, yer may take it, mates," he said in his slow manner. "It warn't long afore we dropped on Hawk Eye's traces, and then we set out to follow slowly. In a general sorter way we knew that the varmint had his camp thirty miles west of Rivers's shanty, but, in course, he war often moving. An Injun don't stay long in one country. As soon as beasts begin to get few he moves, onless thar's other attractions." "Sich as scalps," interrupted Steve. "Or men and women to be murdered without a chance of gettin' hurt yourself," added Jacob bitterly. "That's what makes us chaps hate them critters wuss than pisen. Ef they fought us alone, and with all their cunning, we shouldn't want ter grumble, 'cos all's square and fair in this sorter warfare; but when they gits to killing women and children, then it makes a man's blood boil. I reckon it aer bound to be warfare between white and red man to the bitter end, till the red varmint aer cleared outer existence. Wall, I was sayin', we picked up Hawk Eye's trace, and rid after him easy. Fer we knew he'd have moved. It stood to reason that he would expect ter be followed, fer wheniver thim critters has stolen a child before, us hunters and scouts has never rested. It ain't likely neither." "It ain't, yer bet," came emphatically from Tom. "The bosses on the ranches has a hard time ter get men when thar's sich a case. A chap kin camp out on the plains with his mates, and spend not a dollar. He don't need ter work fer a time, and kin shoot all his food. So, when them Injuns has done a thing same as this, the boys give up work. They settle down to life in the open, and they turn to huntin' the critters till they're wiped out. Git on with it." Jacob glared at Tom. He realized that he was slow, but here was an excuse. Tom had deliberately interrupted him. "He warn't thar when we came to his camp," he said deliberately. "And his ashes was stone cold, showing that the squaws had stamped them out the instant he arrived back. They may have left at once, thar warn't no sayin', sence the ashes war cold. But me and old man Staples put our heads together, and come to the conclusion that they hadn't hustled. Yer see, Hawk Eye had rid thirty miles hard, and his hosses must have been done. Then it takes a time to pack up an Injun village. Them critters don't leave their squaws and children behind, same as we would ef we was fightin' against white people. They know that their own red brothers would slaughter the lot ef the fighting happened to be against them. And they ain't never given us whites a chance to show what we're made of. They can't believe that we would leave women and children alone, and even feed them ef need be. Howsomever, he warn't there, so the next business was to find out whar he'd gone to." "Yer may put it down fer sure it's the mountains," said Staples, who'd seen a heap of Injun fightin'. "Thar's other red tribes up thar in the gullies, and ef Hawk Eye can set up a friendship with them, or make 'em believe that we're comin' to attack the hull lot, then in course we have got a precious lot of work before us. What do you say?" "I said I was with him. But we couldn't afford ter make a mistake, and so we divided, thirty of us ridin' slow towards the mountains, while twelve followed Hawk Eye's trail across the prairie. It ran clear from the village away from the mountains." "It did," interrupted Bill, agreeing emphatically. "I war one of them twelve, and I'll tell yer what happened to us. We rid fifteen miles straight off over the plain till we came ter a river. It war jest a bit of a thing, twenty feet wide, and pretty shallow. On the far side yer could see whar the Injuns had climbed out of the water, fer the grass was all beaten down. Guess they war travelling with all their horses, and the wigwam poles war slung in their usual way, trailing behind. Wall, there war the marks of the poles on the ground. They ran on for a mile, then stopped altogether." There was a chuckle from more than one of the scouts. The trick played by the Indians was so simple that none of them could possibly have been taken in. Each one knew that it was an old Indian custom, when travelling, to sling the wigwam poles to the horses, letting the ends trail on the ground behind, and loading their belongings, including their women and children, on the poles, converting them, in fact, into a species of wheelless cart. "They jest hooked up the poles, turned, and came back to the river in course," said Tom with a significant look. "They did that. The hull crowd of the critters rid their horses fer five miles up the stream. Then they took to the grass again, and their trail cut clear up fer the mountains. We didn't need to follow too closely. We knew that Jacob and his crowd would hit upon the tracks higher up, and, sure enough, when we come up with 'em that evenin' they was camped beside the trace. Next day we rid on up a gully, still followin' the tracks, and that second evenin' hit upon the spot Hawk Eye had chosen. He war an artful cuss. Ef ever thar war one, it war him. He warn't cornered, don't yer think it. But he war thar, almost within shoutin' distance. Now, Jacob, yer kin come in agin." "Yer kin guess whar they was," said the latter shortly. "Hawk Eye and his women and children had taken to a cliff that was as steep as a wall, and higher than any yer ever saw. He knew, in course, that we would follow, though, accordin' to his nature, he'd played every sort of cunning trick to throw us off the trace. And when we got thar, he sat up on the face of his cliff grinnin' at us. Guess he thought he war dead safe. Along with him he had his women and children--the hull tribe, in fact. Yer could jest see the tips of their wigwams laid out back of a flat place near the top of the cliff. Above them thar was jest red rock, with a broken edge at the top. But don't get thinkin' we could come at them from that direction. There was a hull crowd of the critters on the sky line, letting us take a square look, jest to kind of remind us that they war ready in case we war inclined ter do a bit of climbing ourselves." "It war a tarnation tough job, it war," admitted Jacob, scrubbing his bristly chin with the back of a hand which was huge, to say the least of it, and burned, by the sun and exposure, to a dirty-brown colour. "Yer was beat fer the moment, so to say," suggested Steve, stirring himself and stretching his legs. "But yer wasn't fer givin' in." "We warn't," came stolidly from Jacob. "It stands to reason we wasn't goin' back to the ranches with the kid still in the Hawk Eye's wigwams. We'd kinder sworn to get done with the job, and in course we war fer stayin'. But there warn't a single sarcumstance as seemed likely to help us. Yer could look round that 'ere gully, and thar you was same as before. Jest the plains runnin' away from under your feet right out into the open, a bit of a rocky hill to the right standin' all alone, and then the cliff, the face of a mighty big mountain. Yer might say as we could ha' ridden round, mounted from the far side, and then come along ter the Injun camp. But Hawk Eye knew what he was doin'. "Thar ain't no use thinkin' of the far side,' said old man Staples when we asked him. 'It's too rough fer hosses, and if we was to go afoot we should be dropped upon by other tribes of the varmint. That 'ere Hawk Eye climbed up that cliff. That's what we've got to do, so the sooner we sets to work to find the path he followed the nearer we aer ter rescuing the kid.' "Wall, it war a teaser, and no mistake. Yer couldn't get near enough to Hawk Eye's post to take a clear look but yer was fired at by his critters, and, sence they had guns in plenty, it war precious warm work, so warm that old man Staples called us off. "'Best form a camp and get to watchin' the varmint,' he said. 'My idea is that we take up a post on this here hill. It'll show Hawk Eye that we ain't fer leavin', and I've a sorter notion that when we git higher we shall have a chance of seein' more, and perhaps of gettin' a sight of the path used by the Indians.' "It war sound advice, and in course we followed it. We rid our hosses to the hill that stood all alone by itself, within five hundred yards of the cliff, and then me and Bill thar was sent ahead to locate a path easy fer the hosses. We found it after a goodish bit, and went up. It was steep, in course, too steep fer hosses as a general rule. But them critters we rode out on the ranches was as clever as cats, and hills didn't frighten 'em. This one war a goodish deal higher than ye'd have thought, lookin' at it from below; and when we war on top thar was Hawk Eye's camp as plain as possible. Thar was grass, too, fer our hosses, and a spring throwing water into a hollow, from which it trickled down the side of the hill. "'Jest the likeliest place that ever was,' says Bill thar. 'I'll go down and call up the others.' "It war nigh sundown before we was all located in the camp, and in course we warn't able to eat and smoke and sleep as ef we war in a friendly country. There ain't never no knowing what an Injun'll be up to, and so old man Staples war right when he posted ten of us as a lookout, with ten more to relieve in two hours' time, and so on, through the night. As to Hawk Eye, he and his critters didn't seem to take no notice of our movements. They let their fires die down soon after sunset, and then thar warn't a sound from 'em. But they wasn't sleepin'." "Yer bet!" came sharply from Tom. "I've lived in this here country, man and boy, and most times thar's been Injuns around. Wall, it aer pretty near always war to the knife between them and whites. It ain't that we don't want ter live peaceful with them. We do. But they can't kinder see a white man anywhar but they want to take his scalp. Seems we're nateral enemies. Anyway, I guess that that 'ere Hawk Eye and his braves wasn't fer bein' so quiet and harmless as they seemed. We ain't forgot that Joe, with Jacob to help him, had blowed some ten of them to pieces. Yer ain't goin' ter kid me that Injuns could forgit or forgive that." There was an exclamation from most of the scouts. It was an obvious point to them, one and all. Their close acquaintance with Indians and their methods told them, without shadow of doubt, that Hawk Eye would neither forgive nor forget the injury he had suffered, but would strive to the utmost of his power to retaliate. "They was jest laughin' in their sleeves," proceeded Jacob. "Seems that they was hopin' we would camp somewhars near at hand, 'cos Hawk Eye and his braves had been pretty busy. Back away over the top of the mountain thar was a hollow which was big enough ter shelter a hull nation of Injuns, and, ef only we could ha' seen the critters, it war thar that Hawk Eye and his braves was on the night we climbed ter the top of our hill. Thar was a mighty palaver, it seems, and when we woke in the mornin', and the light allowed us to look out, thar was the result of all their talkin'. Thar was three hundred red varmint skirmishin' about round the hill, and Hawk Eye and his men scrambling down their cliff, whilst their womenfolk was dancing a kinder war dance on the top. It war a fair surprise. It jest took our breath away." "Gee! That war serious," interjected Steve. "Hawk Eye had patched up his quarrels with the other tribes, I suppose, and had persuaded them to come in to wipe the hull party of whites out. Wall, seein' as you and Bill aer here, yer wasn't wiped out. Yer managed to slip between the fingers of the critters. But it war a tight fix. Injuns aer that cunnin', and they never want sleep when thar's a scalp to be taken. Yer was flummoxed, Jacob." "We war. We got extry silent eatin' breakfast, and jest waited ter see what they would be doin'. But we wasn't going ter be taken easy. Old man Staples war a fine fellow, though I say it, and he soon fixed us up with boulders and tree stumps, so that we had a stockade all round us. Then we set to work to hunt fer likely places where a man could climb, and filled 'em with the biggest boulders we could find. "'That ain't enough,' said Staples, when we'd done. 'An Injun could crawl over them, and most likely he'd have his knife into one of our boys before he knew it. We'll lay a trap for them.'" "A trap! A kind of ambush?" asked Seth. "Ef yer likes ter call it that, yes. Reckon Staples had got the idea from young Joe, and thought he'd give Hawk Eye and his critters a second turn of powder ef they was fools enough ter come and take it. So he sets us ter work jest as dusk war fallin', and right behind each one of the barriers we'd formed on the paths up the side of our hill we dug a hole with our knives, or formed it with rocks. Then we put in a goodish charge of powder--perhaps four handfuls in each hole--for Romney's men had brought along a spare keg. Thar was canes growing on that hill of ours, and it war Bill's idea about the train. We let one of the canes down into the centre of the hole with its charge of powder, and filled in rocks all round, stamping them down. Then it warn't difficult to fill the centre of the canes with powder, and take a train from thar, under cover of leaves, to where it was wanted. Last of all, we fixed a shooter at each place, tied firm ter pegs driven into the ground, and rigged twine across whar the critters was likely to come, fixin' the ends to the triggers of the shooters. It war a proper idea. "Gee! It war," admitted Steve, his praise unstinted. "I'm jest burnin' to hear what happened. That old man Staples were shrewd." "He war," admitted Jacob warmly, a fact to be commented on, considering the fact that the two had had a bitter quarrel. "That dodge of his saved us a heap of worryin', 'cos, though we set guards, in course, they hadn't need to be extry careful, for them mines we'd laid was pretty sure to keep out the Injuns." "They attacked that night?" asked Tom. "Wrong! They set to and had another palaver. Them critters always makes me think of the time I war a boy, and war sent to the settlement for some eddication. In course I was often rowin' with other boys, same as most lads do. Wall, ef my memory ain't serving me a bad trick, we didn't so often get to with our fists right away at the commencement of the ruction. Thar was ginerally a deal of jawin'. 'Touch-me-agin-and-I'll-knock-yer-down' sort of thing. Then, when our blood was hot enough, we'd set to at one another, and, gee! warn't them scuffles warm!" Jacob sat back at the recollection, opened an enormous mouth, and laughed--a laugh which was a bellow, and which exposed a set of big strong teeth, blackened by much smoking. A kick from Bill brought him to his senses. "We ain't talkin' of schools," he reminded Jacob. "Git in at the business. Them critters had a palaver. Gee! Ef you ain't slow enough fer a funeral. It's enough ter make the boys swear." There was indignation on Jacob's face for the moment. Then his mouth broadened out into another smile. "Yer do git impatient," he said in his sleepy way; "but I ain't fer tantalizing anyone. Them critters had another palaver. Reckon they smoked the pipe of peace between themselves, arranged what was to be done with the scalps they war going to take, and then dug up the hatchet. They was round us as thick as bees on the following morning, and we could see them climbing down from Hawk Eye's camp on the cliff ledge. Then, since it's dead clean up agin Injun nature to begin an attack of that sort without a bit of talking, they sent Hawk Eye and three other chiefs to parley with us. "'You kin clear out, safe and sound, and without us touchin' a haar of yer heads,' he says, 'so long as yer leave the one as fired that train down at the shanty. We don't want no struggling, so you'll hand over all guns and knives too.'" There was a giggle from the circle of scouts, and a derisive laugh from Seth. "My!" he cried gaily, "them varmint do take the white man fer a fool! Yer agreed to them terms, in course?" "We warn't wantin' to have our scalps raised jest then," came Jacob's slow and satirical reply. "An Injun aer that ontrustworthy that it wouldn't ha' done to take Hawk Eye's word at all. 'Sides, there war Mrs. Rivers. Ef we left the camp and returned to our ranches without the boy, and without the gal as Hawk Eye had stolen, thar was the mother to face; and, I give you my word, thar warn't one of us in that crowd as wouldn't have been dead ashamed ter do so. In course we refused. Old man Staples, as knew the Injuns like a book, answered Hawk Eye with the same sorter blarney. "'You git right back to yer camp,' he says, 'and bring along the kid. Then, ef she ain't been harmed, and ef all them braves of yours down below has gone off quietly to their wigwams, we'll git back to our homes without hurtin' yer; but, ef thar's been damage done, and ef yer ain't slippy about quittin', we'll make yer feel sorry all your lives that yer was ever born.' "That war Staples's style of talkin', and it fair tickled the Injuns. It war the sort of thing they'd have said theirselves, and so they could relish it. But it didn't bring them no nearer to our scalps, and, sence sittin' down below wouldn't help neither, they made up their minds to have a turn at the job that very night. Wall, reckon forty of the critters came creepin' up somewhares about half-past two in the early mornin', and you kin guess what happened. One of the parties found our barrier before the others reached the boulders blocking the path they was following. Them strings worked as ef they was part of a machine, and, I tell yer, the sparks flew. The explosion didn't give Hawk Eye and his chiefs any chance of larnin' what had happened, 'cos the critters that came up agin the mine wasn't left to be axed any questions. "In course it made 'em even more careful, and when another of the mines had exploded, and cleared out a second party, the braves was called back, and them chiefs got to at another palaver. And next mornin' the terms they offered us was a little easier. We could go, so long as we left only our shooters and knives. They'd dropped wantin' the boy, yer see; fer in course it war Joe who had fired the train down at his father's shanty. But Staples let 'em see that we was even more determined than before. 'You kin get back to yer friends,' he says, 'and tell 'em this: We want the gal you stole, and we want a brave and a squaw from each tribe. We'll take good care of them; but they'll be like hostages. Ye'll have 'em back, safe and sound, once we've reached the ranches.' "That fairly roused the Injuns, mates, and within an hour of Hawk Eye leaving us after the palaver the best part of three hundred of the critters galloped up to the hill, and started climbing it as fast as they was able. And this time the daylight helped them, fer they knew we'd laid mines, and was on the lookout for the strings. Still, one or two of 'em was careless, and got blowed sky high. The rest came on with a rush, and for a time it war warmish. We was bunched together behind our barricades, and, as I said right away at the beginnin' of the yarn, we give them proper pepper. But they was too many, and it soon come to hand-to-hand fightin'. Wall, we beat the critters, and, jest to finish the yarn without more talkin', we got that kid, and took her safe back to the mother. Blow'd if I ain't sleepy. Time we was turned in. Good night, mates, I'm goin'." The ponderous Jacob showed astonishing celerity. It was the first time that any had seen him rise so quickly under similar circumstances, though, to be sure, the burly fellow could move quickly enough when needed, as he had already proved that day. "Hold hard, sonny!" cried Tom, detaining him with a firm hand. "That's too short an ending. Yer was surrounded. That's whar we got to. Let's have the rest quietly, and not thrown in all in a hurry." "I ain't goin' ter say no more. I'm off ter my blanket," came the stolid answer. "And that's jest whar I come in," cried Bill suddenly. "Yer remember Jacob lad was fer moving earlier on. That's when I began to help him. This time he's clean shut up, so I'll have to take the yarn to the very end. Jacob thar says it war hand-to-hand fightin'. In course, when the business was over, and we had time to take a look round, there was a goodish few of us as had been wounded. Two of our chaps was killed, while I guess we'd laid out thirty of the Injuns. But that ain't all. It war gettin' dusk when them critters was driven off, and you kin guess as it took a while to decide how many of our mates had been hurt, and to tend to those that needed it. It warn't fer half an hour, perhaps, that old man Staples sings out fer Jacob. "'Whar is the man!' he asks, kind of anxious, fer he seemed to have taken a sudden and violent fancy to him. 'Whar is he?' "And when we come to search high and low there wasn't a sign of the critter. He war clean gone." "Gone!" exclaimed one of the men. "Whar? What fer?" "Ha! That's what I'm a-comin' to," grinned Bill. "It aer that part of the yarn as wild hosses couldn't drag from Jacob. But he has got to hear it. Jest sit right down on him, Tom, and hold him. Gee! Ef his bashfulness don't beat me altogether." CHAPTER XVII Black Bill to the Rescue "You kin fire away as soon as yer like. We've got a hold of him, and ef he kicks we'll show who's strongest." Tom shouted the words, and at the same time sat himself down heavily beside Jacob, while Seth placed himself on the other side. The manoeuvre, coupled with the frowns and grimaces of the stolid hunter, caused a roar of laughter from those assembled round the fire. Black Bill grinned, a grin of huge enjoyment, while Steve increased the hilarity of the proceedings by beckoning to Jack. "Jest draw yer shooter" he said with a dry smile. "He knows as yer ain't over practised, and ef he sees you fingerin' the trigger pretty close to his head he'll lay quiet, same as he's ordered. Now, the party's ready; yer kin git in at it, mate." Thus bidden, Bill at once proceeded with his yarn. "Old Jacob war clean gone," he said, "and no amount of hunting would find him. So we guessed that some of them Injun varmint had collared him and dragged him off in the scrimmage. 'All the same, mates,' said old man Staples, 'we'll be extry careful when we're shootin' to-night. Ef Jacob aer been hauled away he may be able to give 'em the slip before they kin kill him.' "It war lucky he gave that warning. Somewhares about midnight Jacob thar crawls back into the camp, and precious nigh gets a bullet in him. In course the hull crowd of us was anxious to know why he'd gone, and how he come to be able to git back. But ye've seen fer yerselves what a critter he is fer keepin' his mouth shut when he's axed questions, and blessed ef he'd say a word about his doin's. 'I want a man,' he says, squatting down beside the fire, 'a man as ain't too fond of this life. Who'll come?' Wall, I happened to be right next to him," explained Bill, looking round at the circle of friends apologetically, as if he were mentioning something he had need to be ashamed of. "In course I said I war his man. I warn't over tired of life, and not now, neither, but I kinder wanted to see what he was up to. It war sheer curiosity." There was a murmur from the scouts, and a general shaking of heads. All knew very well that the words were prompted by Bill's modesty. "You was like the rest," said Tom deliberately, in a manner there was no correcting. "Every one of them boys was game to go. Yer knew the business was likely ter be warmish, fer Jacob had as good as said so. It warn't curiosity--it war duty. Git on." Bill would have gladly remonstrated with him. The words were actually on his lips. Then he changed his mind. It was obvious to him that his comrades had already formed their own conclusions. "Wall, curiosity or not, I war next him, and the fust ter get a chance of speaking. It aer curious; though there war some fifty boys in the crowd, and all had heard Jacob sing out fer a man who wasn't too fond of his life, every man jack of the crowd found he war in that position. They shouted to be his man. They was too late, as I've told yer; fer, sense I war the first ter offer, in course I was the one ter go. "'We'll take knives and shooters, and enough grub ter last us a couple of days,' says Jacob, when the shouting was done with; 'and then we'll wait for them critters ter come along. They'll be here agin by two in the mornin', and when we've let 'em see that we're lively, and askin' for a ruction, why, they'll clear back ter their wigwams. That'll be our time, Bill. We'll move away with them. You, mates, can look to see us back most at any time. All depends on sarcumstances.' "That was all we could get outer him that night," went on Bill. "He jest sat silent, eatin' his supper, and thinking. Then he turns into his blanket and sleeps. But at two in the mornin' he war up and lively like the rest, and seems he was right about the Injuns. They came creeping like snakes up the hill, and it warn't till one of our mines went off, and gave the alarm, that we guessed that they were near. Then we took to shooting, and precious soon sent them critters down to the plain agin. "'Now's our time,' says Jacob. 'Aer yer ready, Bill?' "'You bet,' I says. 'What thin?' "'Got yer grub and thet shooter?' "I jest nodded. "'Then slip these over yer boots, or, better still, take 'em off and put on these moccasins,' says Jacob, handin' over a pair he'd likely enough taken from one of the Injuns we'd wiped out 'Now. Ready?' "Wall, thar ain't over much talkin' from Jacob thar, as ye've seen fer yerselves," went on Bill. "But blessed ef I didn't feel inclined ter shake him before very long. Did he talk to our mates afore we left the hill? Not much! Did he open that 'ere huge mouth of his once we was off? Nary a word could I git from him, till I began ter get savage. 'Look ye here, Jacob lad,' I says; 'you and I are pards on this here excursion, and seems to me as things ain't equal. I'm your man, whatever happens, but thar's maybe sarcumstances as I should understand. Yer might get wiped out, and then whar should I be?' "I could kinder hear the critter grinnin' to hisself in the darkness, some hundred yards from our camp," said Bill, looking round at his audience; "and, I tell yer, I felt jest like kickin' him. But Jacob aer a trifle too big fer me. 'Sides, he owned up as I war in the right. "'I'll tell yer, curious!' he said, grinnin' still. 'We're off to Hawk Eye's camp, to that ledge whar his wigwams aer pitched, and in course yer don't want to ask fer what we're goin'. Thar's that kid ter be rescued. I axed fer a man as was kinder done with his life, 'cos I didn't see much chance of gettin' outer the business. Still, I've been thar, and got back. Two may do the same.' "'You?' I asked, under my breath, fer yer must remember we had to be specially quiet. 'You've been up thar on the ledge?' "Wall, the critter allowed as he had. He'd followed them Injuns out of our stockade after their first attack, had kinder mixed hisself up with them, and had coolly climbed with the varmint up to the ledge. Then he'd laid doggo in some hole he'd come across, had seen all there was ter be seen, and had heard 'em plotting the attack which had jest taken place. "'What we're up to now,' he says, 'is to climb up thar agin, and wait fer a second business same as to-night. That'll be our time to snatch the kid and come away. In course ye'll be wonderin' why I didn't manage that whilst I war thar. But thar's a critter on guard at the top of the track, and a second down below. I knew I shouldn't have no chance ter get away with the kid with them thar; fer I was bound ter raise a ruction in their camp when I went fer the kid, and by the time I got ter the track those two Injun varmint would have others ter help 'em. So I says to myself that I would git back to our camp, call fer a man as was a man, and then return to the ledge. Even with two the job'll be a skeary one. It ain't likely to be all milk and cream.'" Bill looked round his listening circle reflectively for a few moments. No doubt he was passing in review those incidents which had occurred now some years ago, and, if the truth were only known, was recalling his own impressions, his own feelings as the risk of the undertaking became plainly apparent to him. His audience regarded him closely with interest, and perhaps a little impatience. Then Tom broke the silence, and gave him encouragement. "Gee! It war a teaser," he said. "Thar's some men as I've met who would ha' backed out. Jacob thar was kinder asking yer to a funeral." Bill laughed. "It war ticklish," he admitted. "As ter the funeral a man don't think of them 'ere things when he's warmed up. I was dead keen on gettin' the kid. There warn't no more ter be said, so Jacob led the way fer the cliff. In course there was Injuns about, but it was dark, as I've said, and, 'sides, we'd come away with our blankets, the same sort of thing as used by the Injuns. With them over our heads, and the moccasins on our feet, there wasn't much chance of being spotted. In addition, it began ter rain, and when it rains even an Injun critter likes ter have a covering. So guess they made tracks fer their wigwams, and tried ter sleep off the licking we had given them. Jacob and me found the cliff path, and scrambled up it. It war steep, steeper than a wall in parts, whar they had fixed poles and cross pieces ter help them, sorter ladders, which leaned right out, making yer climb like a fly. But we didn't mind the steepness so long as the enemy wasn't anywhar's about. And after a bit we reached the top. Even thar thar wasn't a critter, fer I guess the rain had driven him in. "'Them's the wigwams,' says Jacob, pointin' to somethin' that might have been one, or may have been a piece of rock. Anyway, I took his word for it. 'We're right on the edge of the ledge,' he whispers, 'and the hole I located is dead straight back, as dead straight as yer kin go. Jest remember that, ef you have ter make a run for it. Now let's get under cover.' "It was an old bear hole he'd found," explained Bill, "a deep cleft in the rocks, twistin' and turnin' as it went, and runnin' into the cliff for perhaps fifty feet. Leastwise that's what I guessed by creepin' round and feelin' with my fingers. Jacob jest went in as far as he was able, and then rolled himself in his blanket. "'Reckon a man don't want to set a watch,' he said. 'Thar's never an Injun as will dare to come in here. Most likely they think it's haunted by a spirit, and, ef not, then thar'll be a bear, though that ain't likely. Take a sleep, Bill, and ter-morrer we'll be fresh and lively.' "It war a queer place ter rest in, and I don't mind admitting ter you mates here as I was skeared. I couldn't make up my mind ter sleep fer quite a bit, but kept creeping to the opening ter look out. And most times thar was nothing to see. Not a star even, not a sight of the critters as would have torn us bit by bit ter pieces ef they only could ha' known that we was thar. But near to morning the clouds were swept aside, and then one could see the outline of the wigwams, not forty feet from us, with the dead ashes of the fires they had been cookin' at the evening before jest in front of their skin shanties. While not so far away, seeming quite close in that 'ere sorter light, was our camp, on top of the hill, whar our pals lay. Precious little use they could ha' been ter us ef there had been a call. It war skeary work!" Bill passed his hand across his forehead, as if even the recollection of his daring made him hot, while Steve and his comrades drew in a succession of deep breaths. "It war the riskiest thing as ever I heard of," said the former slowly and seriously. "I 'low now that any man called upon fer sich a job had a right ter back out. It were downright the darndest bit of foolery as ever I come across. Yer was kinder puttin' yer heads into the open mouth of a hungry lion, and I'm fair surprised to see yer here. It don't seem possible that them critters could ha' missed yer, and yet--wall, I've knowed pretty nigh as wonderful cases," he admitted after a few moments' thought. "Them critters is queer folk. They're superstitious, ef that's the right word fer it, and I've known 'em back away from bear holes, not because they was afeard of the beast, but because they thought they would be meddlin' with some spirit. Gee! I 'low as this here fix war a teaser." "It war," came from many quarters. "But this here big lump of a Jacob didn't seem to think nothink of it," proceeded Bill, pointing a condemning finger at the huge scout, whereat the burly fellow flushed a dusky red and fidgeted as if he had cause to feel ashamed. "I war jest jumpin' with nerves when the morning came, and them braves began ter sneak out from their wigwams. It war warm and fine, and there they stood, jest without a move, staring down at our camp on the hill, while their women bustled ter find dry wood, ter light the fires, and ter cook the grub for their masters. "'It makes yer hungry,' says Jacob thar. 'Jest fetch out that 'ere dried meat of ours, and we'll have a square meal. Them critters ain't fer talkin' till they have had their fill.' "We sat in that 'ere cave all day long, outer sight of any of the braves, staring at them through a chink that opened on their camp. And it gave me a better idea, so to speak, of their ways of livin' and eatin' and speakin' than ever I had had before, or sence, fer the matter of that. And we warn't long in seeing that they was fairly mad with our pals. They sat thar on the ledge, fifty of the chiefs of the various tribes, chewin' the ends of their pipes, and fairly glarin' sparks at our camp. And one by one the chiefs got up on their hind legs and palavered. One wanted ter get ter work right away, another advised an attack in force that night, a sudden retreat as ef they was scared, and then a return to the business. Hawk Eye war cautious. Yer see, he'd been having a fair gruelling, and he warn't so keen ter be hit harder. 'The white man is strong,' he says, when he gets to his feet, jest as ef we hadn't proved that already, 'but he can be beaten by craft together with force. And when he are beaten, there are his farms, his wives, and his children, all fer our taking.' "Yer see," commented Bill, "Hawk Eye war an artful critter. He could see as he had let the other tribes into a hot business, and so he told 'em first of all of the things they would gain, not forgetting the scalps. And in course, jest like all Injuns, the very talk of scalps made 'em forget most everything else. Them critters has sich hate fer white men that the mention of one aer like a red rag to 'em. Anyway, they said they were ready to follow him, and he warn't long in coming out with his plan. "'We are many,' he says, 'and they are few. Yet they are so strongly posted that my brothers are likely to suffer heavily if we attack again. Let us lure them into the open. Consider; what are they here for? To rescue an infant whom we have taken, and whom the squaw, who is my wife, will cling to as if it were her own. They sit yonder on the hill waiting, knowing that the child is here. Let us move from this post. Let us leave a sufficient guard to hold the path to this ledge, and then, as to-morrow morning breaks, we will muster on the plain, with men dressed to appear as squaws, or boys will serve that purpose, with wigwam poles slung, and appearing in every way as if we were leaving this spot for another. Consider now, my brothers, what will happen. It is the child these white men seek. They will follow us, thinking the infant is with us. We will appear to ride away, as if in fear. But once they are far enough from the hill yonder we will turn, and then----' "I give yer my word," said Bill impressively, "it fairly made a man's blood curdle to hear the grunts them critters give and the way their eyes flashed. In course they was fer Hawk Eye's scheme right away, and for the next few hours they sat talkin' it over, sharpenin' their tomahawks, or simply looking down at our camp, doin' nothing, not movin' so much as an eyelid, same as only Injuns kin do. "'It aer a case of ter-night or never,' says Jacob, as evening came along. 'That wigwam thar,' and he pointed to the nearest, 'aer Hawk Eye's, and though we ain't never seen the kid, yet it stands ter reason she's thar. We aer got to snatch it once it's really dark, and then one of us has got ter get through. Bill, ye'll take the kid, I'll follow close with my shooter. We may have the luck ter get clear of the ledge without being discovered and afore they've found that the kid's gone. Ef we do, then all depends on her. She may howl. That would be enough ter finish us.' "Believe it or not, mates, jest before it got too dark ter see, when the light from the fires was beginning to get helpful, a squaw come out of the wigwam that was Hawk Eye's, carryin' a kid. It war the white gal. We was sure then that she was thar. Then the squaw walks up and down a bit, and at last goes back to the wigwam. But she didn't stay in long. In five minutes she war outside, tending the fire burning on the edge of the ledge. "'It aer the time,' says Jacob. 'Jest sit right here and wait. Ef I'm seen, and thar ain't a chance fer me to get away, I'll chuck the kid ter you; yer can make a run fer it.' "He war gone afore I knew it, and I seed him creeping along beside the rock. Reckon he reached the wigwam without a soul being the wiser, and after that, jest when I was expecting to hear a hullabaloo, he turns up at my elbow. "'Here's the kid,' he says. 'Let's be gittin'. Take it, Bill.' "It warn't the time fer talkin'. Me and Jacob thar gets our blankets over our heads and moves out, the kid kinder tucked under one of my arms. And outside that cleft it war plaguey light. I knew right off that an Injun could see jest then as well almost as he would in broad day, so it wasn't altogether a question of whether the kid made a noise or not. And, in any case, we wasn't long afore we come bang up agin trouble. Thar was a critter standing guard at the top of the path leading down from the ledge." A series of sounds, almost of groans, came from the scouts. Their sympathy was deeply centred in the fortunes of the two comrades seated with them, and in that of the comrades who were helping them to rescue a child and help a distracted mother. "There was a critter thar, war there?" growled Tom, kicking the ground. "Yer didn't 'low----" "I ain't never seed the varmint as could stop me ef I was minded ter move on," declared Bill sturdily, a flush on his dark skin. "I give that 'ere critter what for. He turned as we come up ter him, looked at us close, and then whipped out his tomahawk. Afore he could shout I give him one with my fist full in the face." "Ah!" There came an exclamation of relief from his mates. "He didn't stop fallin', I reckon, till he got to the bottom of the cliff, and when he reached ground agin, guess he warn't no more use to Hawk Eye. But he jest made the critters down below extry lively." "Thar was more down thar then?" asked Steve. "Thar was a round dozen. They heard us comin', in course, but couldn't rightly say who we was or what had happened. Yer see, their mate might have come by an accident, and fallen from the ledge in the darkness. They wouldn't never have known till we dropped amongst 'em ef it hadn't been fer the kid. She yowled." Again there came a chorus of growls from the hunters. They realized thoroughly what that meant. If the rescued child called out, the cry would awaken every Indian within hearing, while the chance of Bill and Jacob reaching their friends again was almost destroyed. "She yowled," repeated Bill solemnly, "while someone up above us on the ledge set to shoutin'. It war a woman's voice, and we knew, in course, that it must be Hawk Eye's squaw. Wall, within the minute the hull lot of the critters was dancing, and we could hear 'em coming down the path above. "'Git behind me,' says Jacob thar, as ef he war boss of the business. 'When we're a few steps lower, jest feel about with yer feet. Thar's a branch in the road bearin' to the left and leadin' out on to smooth grass. Yer make along it. I'll go by the other, and give yer a start. There it aer. Move.' "He aer a plaguey feller, he's that short-winded," grumbled Bill. "He jest pushed me and the kid on ter the second path and then went straight on; fer we was near to the bottom of the cliff thar, and the road was nearly level. And then what do yer think he did?" "Set to at them varmint," suggested Seth fiercely. "Run back and broke up them that was following," came from another. "I aer seed his game. Yer git on with it, lad," said Steve. "It war a brave thing. No, Jacob, lad, you ain't got no call ter shake yer fist, and look as ef you'd like ter kill me. It war a brave thing. Ye'd have done it fer nothing, though, ef the kid had given tongue again." "He would," came warmly from Bill. "Ye've hit it fust time, Steve. Jacob goes down the path, makin' as much clatter with his feet as he war able, and every second or so calling out in a squeaky voice, same as ef he war the kid. And in course it drawed every one of the critters in them parts on ter him. I heard his shooter going in less than a minute. It war warm work while it lasted, and I tell yer it aer luck that he come through alive." "Luck!" shouted Jacob, suddenly rousing himself and turning upon Bill like a tiger. Indeed it seemed as if he were eager to draw the attention of his comrades from himself to the dark-skinned scout who had been yarning. "It warn't luck," he shouted, pointing at Bill. "It war him--Bill, Black Bill, him as had the kid. Do yer think he did as I told him? He war always a stubborn, stiff-necked sorter feller. He didn't run. He risked the child that we'd waited and watched fer, slings her somehow over his shoulder in his blanket, and comes right back to help me. It warn't luck that made me get off from them critters. It war Bill." [Illustration: RUNNING A RISK] Had the listeners not been so full of the yarn they would have shouted with laughter; for the two scouts, Bill and Jacob, glared at one another for some few seconds as if they were mortal enemies. Then Bill grinned, kicked the fire vigorously, sending a column of sparks flying into the air, and lay back with an air of resignation. "Gee, how he do talk!" he cried. "Ter hear Jacob, yer would think as he war telling the yarn. Ef yer don't mind, mate, I'll get through with it. It war luck as saved him. I 'low as I went back to help him, 'cos no partner could slink off and leave a mate ter them red varmint. Thar warn't nothing in it but common duty, same as every man owes ter his mate. With Jacob thar it warn't the same. He'd no call ter take all the risks on his own shoulders. But, howsomever, we was both in the thick of it, them critters coming at us all the while, and me and Jacob hopping from rock to rock, keeping our faces to the braves, and setting our shooters barking at them. Thar was a dozen of the Injuns down thar, and precious soon we thinned their numbers. Then Jacob shouted out fer me ter run with him, and sence it warn't no longer a case of leaving a pal, why, in course I runned." "Yer got back ter the camp without more fighting?" asked Steve. "None worth talkin' about," came the short answer. "Thar was critters here and thar, doing their best ter cut us off. But the darkness helped us, and what with that and our shooters we came through ter the bottom of the hill. And thar was Staples, with some of the boys, ter help us. My! You should ha' seen that old man shaking Jacob's hands! Them enemies! Gee! I'd like to see the man as would ha' dared to mention it. They was like brothers." "And the Indians?" asked one of the hunters. "They tried their little game in the morning? They did their best to draw yer out into the plains?" "Not they," came quickly from Bill. "They was flummoxed by the loss of the kid. It seemed to have turned their luck. They waited, I reckon, fer the next day." "And then?" "We wasn't thar ter help 'em," grinned Bill. "Old man Staples was worth a better trick. We kept our fires going precious late that night, and when everything in and about the Injun camp war quiet, we slipped down the hill and out on ter the plain. It warn't till two hours after dawn as they twigged what had happened, and then every man of them rushed fer the hosses." "Wall?" asked Steve. "They wasn't so nigh and handy as Hawk Eye and his men imagined. Jacob aer an artful feller. He and a dozen of the others had rid round the end of the gully where we reckoned the critters kept their ponies. They was so sure that we was kept in our camp on top of the hill that they hadn't put more than ten of the braves to guard them. Reckon Jacob and his mates went in with their shooters, and before you could wink they had them ponies runnin'." "Then you got back to the ranches?" asked Tom, with something like a sigh of relief. "You may put it like that. Gee, how it did make Jacob thar blush when Mrs. Rivers kissed him fer handing back the kid! Mate, you ain't got no call ter look thunder and wuss at me. This yarn aer true. You was axing, Tom, ef there was more business with thim Injun critters. There war. Hawk Eye and his men war that mad at the trick we'd played 'em that they followed in full strength, and fer a time it war nearly a case with us. Thar was seventy whites in all; fer we had called up the other ranches, while Hawk Eye rode with four hundred Injuns. But some of thim had had a maulin', and we didn't sit down and let 'em forget it. We sent 'em to the rightabout, and though I was four years longer in thim parts, thar was never any further trouble from the varmint." "In fact, you gave them a thumping," suggested Steve. "It war pepper," answered Bill, smiling. "Wuss almost than we give the Injuns to-day. Pepper aer the only word fer it." Sleepy after their day's exciting adventure, it was not long before silence reigned round the camp fire where Jacob and Bill had been yarning. On the following day they pursued their way unmolested, and presently climbed the mountain slopes of the Nevada range. Thence they descended into California and reached at last the goal for which they had been making. By then Seth's wound was healed, while Steve was as active as ever. "And here we begins ter think about minin'," he said. "Thar ain't no more Injuns to disturb us, so it's gold from this very instant. See here, Jack, I'll teach yer how ter look and keep yer eyes skinned, so as ter light on likely places." CHAPTER XVIII The Gold Rush The gold rush to California was no new thing when Jack and his friends crossed the craggy heights of Nevada, and reached the green valleys to the west. Indeed it was already some years since the first of that long stream of eager individuals had pushed across the plains with the object of discovering gold. Some had made huge fortunes, many had made simply a living, while not a few had failed miserably. "And a tidy sight of the poor things has left their bones out on them plains," said Tom, when discussing the matter. "I mind the time when America went mad about this here gold rush. Everyone was fer throwin' up a good and steady job, and ample wages, ter get over to Californy and try his luck. And in the minin' camps yer could meet the hard-working navvy, the store clerk, the doctor, the lawyer, and a host of others. There war men who had lost their all way back east, and fer whom the finding of gold meant everything. Mostly they was disappointed, 'cos gold diggin' aer a gamble, and gamblin' aer a game that ain't never safe ter play unless yer kin afford ter lose. Even then it ain't good. A man was meant ter take up a settled job, and put his back into it. Gamblers hope ter make a pile and live easy on it fer a time without troublin' to work. Wall, that ain't right. Men like that ain't much good ter their country." "Hear, hear!" called out Steve. "Yer see," went on Tom, "me and Steve was hunters first, and huntin' ain't a steady job, as it war. It includes makin' money as best we could, and it so happened that him and me was Californy way at the very right moment. We struck up pals, and went into partnership, and thar yer are. Wall, as I was sayin', yer could meet most any sort of man at the diggin's. The cut-throat and robber, as wasn't much good ter no one. The foreigner, the English gentleman, sailors and soldiers. Some came across the plains. A tidy few crossed Panama, and took ship ter 'Frisco. And thar they war, diggin' fer their lives, lookin' cross-eyed at their neighbours, lest they should strike a pile fust. This here Californy's chock-full of minin' camps that's been abandoned and worked out. All them diggers settled on the easiest and most likely spots, and yer may take it that they've cleared the gold most everywhar whar it war easy ter get at. It ain't no longer any use comin' along and stakin' claims and workin' 'em. Ye've got ter prospect a heap, and then set up a plant bigger than any of them first diggers had." "And ye've got ter settle down ter hard work," burst in Jacob. "Ye have that," agreed Tom. "What do yer boys thar think of doin'? Me and Steve and Jack thar aer partners, as yer all know. We've lumped in a goodish sight of money, and we've got sufficient plant ter tackle any job. But we shall be wantin' labour." "And six men ain't too many," said Steve quickly, lookin' across at Jacob. Tom and Steve and Jack had talked the matter over on the previous day, and it had been agreed amongst them that they should invite the six scouts who had accompanied them across the plains to become their partners. "Yer see," said Steve, when broaching the matter to Tom and our hero, "tain't like takin' on men as we don't know. Jacob and the other boys has proved themselves real pals, and we kin trust 'em. It would pay us all ter go on as we aer." "Look here, boys," cried Tom, facing the six men, "me and my mates has been having a jaw, and we decided we'd get to and ax yer ter come in along with us. We want help, willing help, and guess yer want work. Wall, now, there's seventeen Indian hosses, and away here in Californy horse flesh is mighty scarce jest now, and hard ter get. Ef we sold 'em we should make a fine lot of dollars, 'specially ef we didn't do a deal in too great a hurry. I mean, we could sell one here, another thar, and so on, gettin' good prices all the time. Then, once we've located a spot as seems likely, we kin get to and sell some of the team. Our saddle hosses kin pull the cart later on, if it aer needed ter get moved. Yer share of them seventeen hosses would give yer a little bit to put into the partnership. We'd pay yer so much wages ef yer didn't like that arrangement. But seems to me yer could each buy an interest. Then we all work fer the common good. Ef it pans out rich, we share according to the interest each man has. Ef we strike a bad egg, wall----" "Yer try and try agin," laughed Jacob. "Now, look ye here, Tom, and you, Steve, and that 'ere Carrots. We've took to yer proper. There ain't been a sore word among us these past months. Wall, nat'ral like, we've been wonderin' what we'd do once we struck Californy. We aer here fer diggin', and sence ye're the same, why, we kinder estimated as ye'd be axin' us this question. We aer ready ter come in on these terms, and we think the offer handsome. Rightly, sence this here outfit aer yourn, them hosses we took from the Injuns aer yourn also. But sence you'll divide square, why, that aer a good sign that we'll get on friendly in this new venture. Me and my mates'll stand in ter win or lose. Seems ter me, seein' as we have some dollars ter work on, and needn't therefore rush at the job, as we stand an uncommon good chance." It took but a little time to complete the arrangements, and accordingly the little party halted outside the first town they came to, where a lawyer drew up the proper agreements. Meanwhile a purchaser had been found for the Indian horses, which fetched a good price, and the share that Jacob and his five friends obtained allowed of their buying quite a respectable interest in the firm, though they would not, of course, have such a large interest as was held by Tom and Steve and Jack. A couple of days later they shook the dust of the town from their feet, and, with their cart replenished with sugar, flour, and other simple necessaries, took to the road again. "There aer a gulch as me and Tom spotted last time we was over here," said Steve that evening. "We allowed as we'd make fer it when we came here agin, fer it promises somethin'. It aer been clean worked out in the flats by diggers." "But that don't say as there ain't gold left," added Tom. "You, mates, haven't no experience of diggin', it seems, and so I'll tell yer a bit about it. Reckon gold aer been washin' outer the rocks of the mountains hereabouts fer centuries. It has got floated along in the streams, and where they run swift it hasn't settled. But as soon as ever it has reached a spot where the ground is flat, them 'ere specks of gold has come down to the bottom. In course of ages, what with dirt and gravel and sichlike, the bed of the river aer got filled bung up, and the water aer made a different course. Diggers has staked claims whar thar's been some old river bed, and have dug the gold from the gravel. They've took pretty well every ounce by now from sich sort of places; but they ain't by a long chalk got all the dust thar is in this country. Steve and me struck a gulch that seemed likely, and we're goin' thar to prospect." It took the party another three weeks to find and reach the gulch of which Steve had spoken, and, once arrived, they set about prospecting in earnest for gold. "Yer can see whar the old diggers came and dug their claims," explained Steve to Jack. "Everywhar down in the flats thar's holes and heaps of dirt. But none of them seed what Tom and me did. This gulch is narrow and flat; the sides come in suddenly, and rise to somewheres about four hundred feet. And up thar there's a big kind of tableland that runs back fer miles. Wall, now, the stream that come into the gulch back in them early times aer moved, else the miners wouldn't have been able ter stake their claims. Yer can't see it now, but ef yer ride ten miles up the gulch ye'll find it pouring over a cliff and crashin' down ter the bottom. Do yer see what I'm drivin' at?" Jack thought he did. "I suppose your idea is to find the old stream, or the place where it once entered the gulch. I should say that if the land up there is flat, and the river shifted years and years ago to some other place, it must be because the bed up there got filled with gravel and stuff, and so deflected the course of the water." "Right! That aer the thing that happened, I guess. Wall, now, we've got ter find the spot whar that 'ere stream tumbled over the cliff, and ter do that we don't need ter ride clear up the gulch and search all along. Them old miners are done that. Their diggin's don't go more than three miles up from here, and, as ye've seen fer yerself, there ain't any down lower. So I reckon that stream came over the cliff somewhars along these three miles. It may have been down here, or mebbe it war up thar. Thar ain't no sayin', and it ain't of no use ter go by the fall of the land. Thar's been earthquakes and queer ructions here in past days, and the land aer altered." It took a week's patient and careful scrutiny of the gulch to discover the point where the stream must have flowed into the gulch in past ages, and when the place was found, to the amazement of all it was almost precisely where they had made their temporary camp. "Which aer a good omen," observed Jacob. "Thet water must have been comin' over fer a sight of years," said Tom, as he clambered with Jack up the steep face of the cliff. "A chap might hunt and hunt, and never have no notion that it war here it come over. But a spade helps a deal in these matters, and here we have a solid stretch of gravel, sixty yards across, roughly, wedged in between a couple of rocky walls. Do yer foller what happened?" "I think I see clearly," said Jack. "There must have been a deep slit in the rocks years ago, and the water flowed along it and emptied into this gulch. I suppose the water drained from mountains right over there?" "That aer so," agreed Tom. "Thar's a big watershed back away at the top of the cliff, and thar must have been a flood coming along this channel." "Slowly, I think," said Jack, "else the channel would have been continually washed clean. But it has filled and filled, till, in the course of ages, the whole thing has become blocked and the water has found a new channel for itself." "And aer left us here a pile of gravel, which may or may not hold gold. Reckon, seein' that thim diggin's down thar is extensive and deep dug, that the miners in this camp made something of it. So thar's every chance that gold did come down. Ef it did, thar's a sight of it in this gravel. Not here, perhaps, for the stream would quicken a bit, just whar it was goin' ter fall; but a few yards back. Anyway, we'll set to and test it." That afternoon picks and spades were hard at work on the wedge of gravel between its rocky walls. A cradle made of sheet iron was filled and taken down to the stream which passed the camp down below, and water was allowed to flow into it while Steve and Tom rocked it. Thar were anxious faces peering into the depths of the cradle, when at length the contents had been sufficiently washed. The water was allowed to drain away, big pieces of rock and stone were carefully removed, and finally a layer of sand was come upon. It glistened in the sun. "Hooroo!" shouted Tom. "That aer gold. Not a heap of it, but gold; and tidy rich, I should say, seein' it comes from the face of the gravel. Now we'll take another sample." They worked till night fell, and again on the following day. Choosing the very centre of the wedge of gravel, they burrowed some three yards into it, testing samples from time to time, and finding a richer deposit of gold dust in the cradle the deeper they went. Then, with a shout of satisfaction, Jacob unearthed a nugget the size of a bean. "There ain't no need ter go farther," said Tom, when the night had fallen, and they were seated round the camp fire. "Thar aer work here fer the crowd of us ter take us a hull year. Now we has to engineer the business properly, fer it stands ter reason nine men, nor ninety, can't dig all that stuff away. It would take years. We have ter make some other sorter arrangement, and fer that we've the apparatus in the cart. What we'll do is this. We'll tap the river 'way up thar. Me and Steve measured it up yesterday: it aer jest twenty-eight yards from the edge, and out of line of the old stream. Perhaps it was formed only lately; but it carries heaps of water and will give us all we want. We'll lead it down through a wooden sluice, take the water ter an iron nozzle, and wash the dirt out into a wooden trough below. Now, mates, we want wood first of all, and some of us'll have ter get off ter the nearest sawmill ter buy and fetch it. T'others can fix the camp while they're gone, and get ter work diggin' the new channel up thar." The whole plan of operations was quickly agreed upon, and promptly, on the following morning, Jacob and three of his mates unloaded the wagon, and went off with a full team to the sawmill, some twenty miles away. The others clambered to the top of the cliff, and for three days laboured at digging a trench three feet wide and as many deep. They brought it from the bank of the stream mentioned by Tom which ran across the height above within reach of the edge, to the point where one of the rocky walls that had once enclosed the stream cropped into the open. Then they searched for a bed of clay, and finding some, puddled it with water till it was thin enough for their purpose, when they smeared it over the sides and bottom of the channel they had dug. "It'll dry hard by to-morrow," said Tom; "then we'll give it another coat. It'll keep the water from washin' stones down into the nozzle and blockin' it. Jack, reckon the time's come fer yer anvil." For the week following Jack found his hands filled. Up at cockcrow in the morning, he donned his leathern apron, and set his fire going. Then his hammer fell and clinked musically as he forged stout iron bands, which were to support the wooden framing his friends were constructing. It cost a great deal of hard labour to bring all their arrangements to a satisfactory completion; but when the task was finished they had a channel completed above, with a sluice by means of which they could allow water to enter at will. Another blocked the stream which they were tapping, just below their channel, thus giving them an ample head of water. The other end of the channel, where it ended at the edge of the cliff, was completely boxed in with boards, held together with heavy forgings, and from this point the water poured down a long, square wooden pipe, strengthened in the same manner. At the very end the stream was led into a huge iron pipe, which got smaller and smaller, till it eventually presented a six-inch orifice, while the last six feet were capable of some amount of movement, whereby the course of the jet could be deflected. "A man couldn't stand before it," said Tom, surveying the jet when all was ready. "The force of water'll be sich that ef we was ter close the jet it'd bust the wooden pipe above. As it is, thar'll be a stream comin' from that 'ere nozzle that'll eat into the gravel quicker than the hull lot of us, and it'll wash piles of dirt down into the catches we have made. Ter-morrer we start in right away at the real business." It had been no easy matter to arrange their catches below the point where the water was to play upon the cliff and gravel. But Steve was a knowing fellow, and had insisted that the jet should be brought as low as possible. "So as ter undermine the rest of the stuff," he explained. "Then it'll fall in easy." A wooden channel was erected below the spot where the jet was to play, the width of which, great at first narrowed steadily, while the channel itself descended at a sharp angle. Every ten feet along it bulkheads were erected across, in wedge-shape pattern, the apex of the wedge being presented upward. Finally the channel ended in a basin, with an overflow to take the water off. "It's down below we shall get the dust," said Tom, surveying the whole plant with no little pride. "Them iron washing troughs will soon collect it for us, and with much less diggin' than we should ha' had to do. Up here, whar the channel's steeper, and nearer the jet, we aer likely ter get nuggets. Reckon it'll pay us ter go steady. We'll play the jet first thing in the morning, till the channel and the partitions in it aer pretty full. Then we'll shut off the water, and get to at washing. There's a trough fer each of us, and one man can do a heap, considerin' the arrangements we have made." The whole plant was, in fact, splendidly engineered. In order to save labour, they had not only pressed the water from the stream above into their service, with the idea of making it dig by its force, and bring the gravel away from between its rocky walls; but they had so contrived matters that they could open a sluice at the bottom of the huge wooden pipe which fed the water to the jet, and could pass the contents down a narrow channel, running beside the one constructed, to catch the dirt. Suspended in this, one opposite each bulkhead, was a long wooden trough, either end faced with a plate of iron, in which Jack had bored numerous holes, small at the bottom, and getting bigger towards the top. "They're jest like the washing troughs used by diggers," explained Tom, "and me and Steve's rocked 'em day in and day out. Yer see, the stuff one shovels into them gets broken up by the rocking, while the water carries the grit away. One pitches the big stuff out with one's hands, while the sand and the gold settles. Gee, ef after all this here preparation, we don't make a pile, why, bust me, I'll take ter scoutin' agin!" Let the reader imagine the excitement amongst this little party on the following morning. Tom lit his pipe to show his coolness and his utter disregard of results, and clambered to the top of the cliff. But it was not the same cool Tom who had commanded the movements of the band when attacked by Indians. His hand was trembling as he manoeuvred the sluice gate above, while his anxiety to see the water shoot from the jet was that of a little boy. "Gee-whiz! Did you ever!" he exclaimed as the water spurted from the jet, and, hitting the face of the gravel, began to dig a path into it. "Ef that ain't better than diggin'! Though it has cost a sight of labour ter get it all ready. Look how the dirt comes down. Reckon it won't be long afore we have ter pipe farther along, so as ter follow the grit." That afternoon, when the bulkheads and the channel in which they were placed were crammed with fallen gravel, the sluice at the bottom of the wooden pipe was opened, and the spurt of water from the jet ceased. Then the various individuals of the party set to work with their shovels, and, each selecting one of the troughs, threw the stuff which had been washed down into it, and rocked vigorously, while the stream played through the holes at the head of the trough, washed the dirt, and trickled out at the farther end. The most exciting time of all had arrived. Each one of the party wondered if, when he had laboured for a while, and had at length cleared away the débris, he would find the bottom of his trough filled with common sand, or whether amidst the yellow particles there would be others, gleaming bright in the sunshine, the gold for which he laboured and on which he had set his heart. CHAPTER XIX Tom makes a Find "Gee! Come here, boys!" It was a shout from Tom that broke the trying silence that had fallen upon Jack and his comrades at their several troughs, and at the sound they flung down their spades, or ceased rocking the cradles, and hastened to the side of the hunter. Tom's face was flushed a brick red, which extended under his sunburn down over neck and chest and arms. The pipe gripped between his teeth was wabbling and trembling strangely, while this habitually cool man was actually shivering with excitement. "Boys," he said in a thin voice, as if he were dazed, "didn't we come here fer gold, ter find somethin' to pay us fer all them weeks of travel, fer fightin' with the Injuns, and fer all the labour we've put in here? Say, ain't thet it?" "Guess so," answered Steve laconically, while the others nodded, some briskly, with a smile of expectation, others with a grin; for Tom's obvious excitement was catching, while others again jerked their heads in a curiously spasmodic manner, and stood looking at the scout awkwardly, as if ashamed to show too much interest, and yet disclosing by the brightness of their eyes the undoubted fact that they were eager for his news. "Wall!" asked Jacob. "You've struck it, eh? I ain't had time ter look into my little lot, but others may have done." "And I ain't had time to get searchin' in amongst all the stuff that's left in my cradle," cried Tom, blurting the words out rapidly. "But yer kin see whar I am. Top of the lot of yer, jest whar all the heavy stuff is sure ter lie. Yer see, the fall is thet sharp that light stuff and grit gets washed over the catch jest here. Only big stones and sichlike gets caught. Wall, aer that a stone?" His face was all wrinkled with smiles, as Tom flung out the hand which up till that moment he had held behind him. In the open palm a dirty, discoloured object of irregular shape was lying, and at a rough guess it was nearly as large as a cricket ball. The scout turned it over, and then moved his hand in a half-circle, bringing the object beneath the eyes of each one of his partners in turn. Then Steve stepped forward, and, taking the mass, as if it were actually only a common stone, threw it up some few inches into the air, and repeated the process. Passing it to his mouth he then tried his teeth on the surface, and finally, with a quick stride, stepping to the side of the little stream which delivered water to the washing troughs, he dipped the object in it, rinsed it thoroughly, and then brought it into the strong sunlight again. And now it had changed its character. The mass was no longer soiled and discoloured. It was of a dull, golden colour, deeply scored here and there where the shape was most irregular, and displaying a perfectly smooth, rounded surface in other parts. In the very centre of this rounded part, emerging half an inch from the golden mass was a splinter of flint, firmly embedded in the metal. "Boys," said Steve coolly, though the little scout's eyes were strangely bright, "I 'low as this aer the evenin' when we kin have a picnic in the camp. We ha' worked hard, and travelled far, and it aer gold we've come fer. Wall, thar it is. Thar's a nugget, ef ever I saw one, and it's tidy sartin it ain't the only one as we shall drop upon. Ef thet's the case, me and you, mates, will have somethin' ter take back with us ter repay us fer all the labour. Thet bein' so, it aer clear thet it aer Jacob's duty ter bring out thet bottle of spirits ter-night. Abe, too, might get to pretty soon and cook us a meal that'll lick anythin' we've touched this many a month." There was a roar of applause as the little scout finished, and then all crowded round to examine the nugget which Tom had discovered. "It war the fust thing my fingers hit upon when I got to search in the trough," said Tom, "and I wouldn't be surprised ef I found more. Mates, supposin' we gets back ter the business. That 'ere nugget ain't enough in itself ter pay us back fer all the outlay we've put into the plant, sayin' nothin' of the labour." It was with a feeling of eager expectation that all went back to their troughs, and recommenced throwing dirt into them and rocking. At the end of three hours, when they ceased work for the night, it was found that Tom's bulkhead had indeed caught the richest harvest. There were a dozen nuggets to be seen, though not of the same size as that which he had first discovered. Three more, about the size of a bean, were unearthed from the next two troughs, while the washings of the troughs below were without nuggets. But the harvest of gold dust was plentiful, so good, indeed, that it became obvious at once that if only such fortune could continue for a week, the party would pay all outgoings, the expenses of their return to New York, if need be, and still leave a sum in reserve which, when divided, would give each member of the firm a handsome sum to bank. "But we ain't goin' ter leave in a week," said Tom with a grin of exultation, as he sat hugging the camp fire that night and nursing a pannikin of spirits. "There's dirt enough between them cliffs ter keep us going fer a year, and I looks at it this way: Ef it's rich out here, at the end of the stream, so to speak, it'll be richer still the farther in we goes; 'cos the stream will have been more sluggish. That will have allowed the gold ter settle, and whar thar's been big rocks and boulders, with holes and pockets in 'em, the chances aer we shall hit upon more nuggets. Of course we shan't get all the gold thar is, by a heap. Some'll be washed through the troughs, and the catch tank we've made won't hold it all. But, ef it's thar, as I ain't a doubt, why, we'll get enough and ter spare of it." As the days went on it became evident that the little party had become possessed of a veritable gold mine, for their takings at the end of each day were greater than those on the first occasion. But they were not all the while engaged in rocking the cradles. There was much hard work to be accomplished, and in this Jack took a fair share. Indeed, he worked for hours at his anvil, forging new iron bands to bind extensions of their wooden waterway, or making various fittings for other parts of the plant. There were spades and picks to be repaired now and again, though not so often as would have been the case had they not pressed water into their service. When he had a few idle moments, nothing delighted him more than to clamber towards the point where the gigantic nozzle was secured in its wooden cradle, to watch the jet of water surging from it, and to see the stream splay out as it leaped into the open, and then dash itself into thousands and thousands of the minutest drops as it struck the trembling gravel. There was something wonderfully fascinating about the iridescent colours which played to and fro in the spray, as the sun's rays flickered and poured upon it. There was a note which was almost musical coming from the very lip of the nozzle, while without cessation there was the slither of loosened stones and dirt, the thud of heavier pieces and of boulders, and, on occasion, when the jet had undermined the gravel to some great extent, a mighty, awe-inspiring commotion, as tons upon tons of material came thundering down. If he tired of the neighbourhood of the jet, of that fascinating gush and gurgle of water, and of the rainbow colours which played about the spray so long as the sun's rays fell, he had merely to step down a few paces, and there was more to interest him. For, from the point where the water played, a surging stream tumbled and roared downhill in the huge channel prepared for it--a yellow, dirty flood, as if the water came from a river after heavy falls of rain. Who would have thought to look at that yellow stream that it contained riches, riches long hidden in the gravel, scoured from the rocks of past ages, and lying for many a century undisturbed in the river bed? Riches, too, which man's industry and courage and astuteness were now bringing to light, and separating from its grosser surroundings. "Though I don't know as it aer always fer the best," soliloquized Steve one day, as he stood watching the scene with Jack beside him. "This here hunt fer gold don't always lead ter goodness. Thar's a sight of bad blood made over it, either here, at the diggin's, or way back in the settlements. In the first place, it seems ter me that the scum of the earth collects whar the men aer at work, lookin' ter make their fortunes--thieves, and gamblers, and sichlike--hangin' about like a set of jackals, ter take the stuff from the men who find it. Thar's murders been committed, Jack." "I know, to my cost," answered our hero after a while; for up till now he had never ventured to tell his comrades that his own father had lost his life at the diggings. "A--a relative of mine was shot in one of the saloons out in California. He was murdered." There was silence between them for a while, and then Steve spoke. "Ah!" he said, as if he had been thinking deeply and looking back into the distance; "them murders was frequent some ten years ago. Out here in Californy thar was the biggest set of blackguards round the camps that was ever ter be met with. They ran saloons, and robbed the men as went thar, robbed 'em not only by providin' spirits that were so bad that they pisoned a fellow, while the price was that big it frightened yer, but robbed them at cards and games of chance. Then thar was bands that held up the gold trains makin' fer Sacramento and other cities, to bank the riches thar. And thar was scoundrels that looked like ordinary miners, and acted the part, but all the while they was ready fer murder, so long as they could steal the gold which others had made. I could tell yer a yarn about one of that sort, only jest now it wouldn't kinder suit this here place, it's that peaceful; and when I get to think of that 'ere ruffian, and tell of his treachery, why, it brings a bad taste inter the mouth, and one seems ter see quite different. One of these days I'll tell yer about him, and, ef yer like, yer can give me your yarn." The very mention of such a matter sent Jack's thoughts back to the time when he was but a little fellow. He could remember his mother's grief when his father left for the diggings, and the great hope which he and his wife had that the trip he was about to make would prove successful and help them out of their troubles. He could cast his mind back, too, to that fatal day when the news came that Tom Kingsley had been killed in a brawl with his partner; that he had, in fact, been murdered. But he was too young at the time to feel the loss so greatly, though the tale had never escaped his memory. And then his thoughts wandered to his own troubles. "They seem as far off almost as Father's death," he said to himself. "I never thought, when I stood in the prisoner's dock at Hopeville, that I should ever be happy again. Yet I have had a thoroughly jolly time, and I feel somehow as if the future would be clear, as if I should get to the bottom of the matter." To look at our hero no one would for a moment have thought him capable of any criminal act. A tall, stout, sunburned young fellow he looked, and as he stood beside the stream there, his sleeves rolled to his elbow, his wide-brimmed hat tilted back till his red hair shone in the sun, one could not but admit that he looked happy, that he carried himself as every young fellow should, with that appearance of self-assurance and happiness which is common to youth, and with a steady look in his blue eyes and a fine poise of his head which spoke of resolution, of a conscience clear of all guilt. When he took himself to his anvil, and made the sparks fly, why, even Tom would come along and watch him. "Gee!" he had exclaimed more than once. "He's as mild-lookin' as milk. Who would ha' thought as that 'ere young chap could ha' took Steve in hand! But Steve says himself as he felt like a chicken, and had ter do as he war bid. That jest goes ter show that it ain't always wise to judge by appearances. I mind a young chap, with stoopy shoulders and a bit of fluff on his lips, as looked as ef he couldn't do more than say 'boo!' to a goose. But when one of the rough chaps we has now and agin out on the plains set in ter play larks with him, why, that 'ere young fellow kinder shook off his soft looks and went in and hammered the chap as was playin' larks. Jack's one of them sort, only he don't never look soft. And, gee! he can work, kin thet young feller." Our hero did indeed earn a fair share of the reward the party was gaining, and, being a jovial fellow, ready to listen to all the yarns that were going, and not anxious to pose as being better than his comrades, it followed that he was immensely popular, particularly when Steve, a well-known scout, had spoken so warmly as to his grit and courage. "There's jest one thing that ain't right about that 'ere young Carrots," he had observed more than once in his hard, dry-as-dust manner. "Jack aer got something up agin him, and it has made a heap of play on his mind. Reckon he got into a muss 'way back in the settlements, and couldn't clear hisself. But he will. That chap sticks to things he takes up, and ef he wants ter clear hisself of that muss, why, guess he'll do it. Tom, jest pass along that 'ere keg of 'bacca. Yer ain't the only one as smokes." Good friends they all were, though not often given to much conversation. They worked at the cradles or at repairing their plant from sunrise in the morning, and only broke off at evening, save for a few moments which were devoted to meals. It was when they had eaten their supper, and pipes were going, that the natural silence and taciturnity of the scout was broken before the warmth of the camp fire. Then, as the darkness got deeper, first Tom perhaps, then Steve, or Jacob, or Abe, or one of the others, would tell some tale of their experiences--experiences which dealt for the most part with Indians, with thieves, or with some hunting expedition. "Boys," said Tom one evening, having puffed clouds of smoke from his lips, "we ha' been at this here place jest a couple of months, and me and Steve has been thinkin'. It aer time we weighed up that 'ere gold, and sent it down to the town. Yer see, one never knows when thieves won't come along, and, though they ain't likely ter touch sich a strong party as we aer, still they might get the stuff by a bit of cheek and daring. What say, Jacob?" "I'm with you, Tom. The bank's the best place fer the gold, and the sooner we send it thar the better. Supposin' we weigh out now." It required a full hour to weigh carefully their gains, and when the work was completed Jack understood, to his amazement, that a sum was due to him which would enable him to live in comfort for a dozen years. The share of Jacob and the other hunters was less: but it was by no means an inconsiderable sum, for the mine had proved most rich. "Now we have another proposition," said Tom, grinning at the circle around him. "Thar's heaps of gold fer us all in this here place. I believe that we ain't yet a while struck the richest spot, so thar's likely enough more ter come. Now me and Steve and Carrots thar ha' had another jaw. We aer prepared ter let you six chaps buy up even shares with us. Jack'll have to pay something, fer he ain't got quite an equal share with us, and in course yer will have ter pay a heap more. But ye've the stuff here, and when ye've paid thar'll be still a goodish pile fer each man to bank. How do yer look at the proposition?" It required no discussion to induce the six scouts to do as Tom had proposed. Indeed, the proposition was extremely handsome. And when the terms were finally fixed, Jack found himself with still more to his credit. "Now we'll fix about taking the stuff," said Tom. "Steve here'll boss the party; and, sence we ain't got no need fer an anvil jest now, why, Carrots had best go with him. Reckon two more had better volunteer, and that'll be sufficient." The following day the gold was divided up and placed in sacks, which were lashed across the backs of two of the horses. Then the party set out from the camp, and turned their faces towards the nearest town. "Now we've got ter fix up some sort of arrangement as ter watchin'," said Steve, once the mine was left behind. "Thar's me, and Jack, and Abe, and old Tom ter do the work; and though I don't fear that anyone'll attempt ter take this stuff from us, still they ain't all gentlemen in these here parts, and it aer jest as well ter be careful. See?" "You bet!" exclaimed Abe. "When I was down in the settlements last week, buying pork and flour and sichlike, thar war a tale that a band of light-fingered gentry was out and had held up more'n one convoy with gold. That was up Sacramento way. But them thieves shift their ground when things get warm, and always when they hear that a party aer gettin' gold." "Which they ain't done in our case," asserted Steve. "Thar's not a one of us as has blabbed about the gold; and though men has come along and watched us fer a time, they aer gone away again every time thinkin' us fools fer our pains most likely. Still, there ain't never no sayin'. Someone may have been watchin' and spyin'." Had the little band of friends but known it, this was a method employed by a party of rascals who had infested the goldfields for some little while. Separating, and each dressed as a miner, the members of this band had kept watch at the various diggings; and whenever information had reached one that a convoy of gold was to leave the particular place he was observing, a message brought together all his comrades, and in many cases a seizure of the gold resulted. One such individual had for the past week lain at the top of the cliff, keeping watch on Tom and his comrades; and though he had never been sure that they were gathering gold from the dirt washed out of the cliff, still their obvious cheerfulness, their untiring industry and labour, more than half convinced him. And at length the preparations for Steve's departure carried conviction to his mind. "That's gold, sure, in them sacks they're putting on the hosses," he said to himself. "Time I was movin'." He retreated from the cliff stealthily, gained a spot some two miles away, where he had secured his horse beneath a tree, and, mounting rapidly, galloped off to take the news to his comrades. "You kin never be sure," repeated Steve; "and, thet bein' the case, we'll march as ef we was in the enemy's country, as ef Injun varmint was skirmishin' round us. Jack and Tom'll ride beside the hosses, while me and Abe'll scout about." "While I suggest something likely to help," cried Jack. "We've got three horses with us, two of which carry the gold, while the third has our grub and blankets strapped to his back. Now, if we change the loads, and make the grub and blankets look as if they were the gold, then, in case of a surprise, we might still manage to beat any who happened to attack us." "Gee! That aer a bright idea!" cried Steve. "Carrots, fer all yer quietness, you ha' got somethin' in yer. In course we can swap the things around, and sence it don't make no odds ef gold dust aer put in bags or in blankets, supposin' we pack it in the blankets and fill the bags that aer got the gold now with grub and other things." The precaution was one which might be useful in case of an attack, and in consequence a halt was made and the change effected. Then they pressed on, Jack and Tom riding beside the loaded animals, while the horse which from outward appearance carried their swags--by which term miners generally understood their personal belongings and food was meant--bore in fact the wealth of gold gathered from the mine. Nor was it long before Jack and his friends had cause to congratulate themselves on their foresight; for they were to meet with trouble before they completed their journey. CHAPTER XX An Ambuscade Four days had elapsed since Jack and his comrades had left the mine before anything happened to disturb the even course of the journey. They had marched at a footpace all the way, Steve and Abe riding well ahead, as a rule, though at times they scouted out on the flanks. Jack and Tom, one of the scouts who had joined them at the very first, rode beside the horses, their rifles loaded and held in readiness. Then suddenly, on the fourth day, just as the light was getting a little uncertain, and the shades of evening were drawing in, Steve came galloping back to the little convoy, and Abe after him. "What's amiss?" asked Jack, for it was a most unusual movement on the part of the scout. "That's jest what I'm axin' myself," came the curt answer. "I happened to be ridin' way up thar on the spur of that 'ere hill, when I seed somethin' down in the valley whar this road leads. The sun war jest right bang in my eyes, so I couldn't make head nor tail of it; but out here it's as well ter be careful, and ef ye've gold travellin' along a road, and see something that aer strange, why, a chap hops back ter the convoy quick. Do yer see anything, Abe?" "Nary a thing. Thar's a spur that hides the road. Thar ain't no need to be scared, even if thar's a party comin' along; but I 'low as it aer wise ter be careful. Ef folks want ter disturb us, they'll see as we're ready, and thet goes a long way when thar's villains about." A quarter of an hour later the little convoy rounded the spur of the hill which shut out the view of the road ahead of them. By now they were riding in close order, Abe and Steve watching the hills on either side with lynx-like eyes, for the road ran through a somewhat narrow defile, and if an enemy were hidden amongst the rocks he would be so near that his bullets would reach the convoy while a rush would have been possible. "Jest one of them ugly places," growled Steve, casting his eyes restlessly from side to side. "Jest the sort of plant that'd be fixed on by a set of ruffians ef they wanted ter hold up a convoy. Now, I tell yer all, ef thar's a shot fired, don't wait to reply ter it. Jest put yer spurs in hard, and ride. Waitin'll jest play into the hands of the varmint. Mind, I don't suggest as thar's ter be trouble, but somehow or other I've got a kinder feelin' as we're up agin somethin'. Why, ef thar ain't a cart 'way ahead!" The road in advance was now visible, and some four hundred yards ahead a solitary cart was to be seen, a four-wheeled affair, which, from the cant it had to one side, had evidently met with some disaster. Beside it lounged a figure, above whose head hung a blue cloud of smoke, indicating that he was taking his ease, and was puffing at his pipe. "And nary a hoss in sight," exclaimed Steve. "Wall, that aer ter be explained by the fact that his chums has gone ahead ter fetch help. Boys, I 'low as thar ain't anythin' here ter scare us; but jest you bear in mind what I've said already. Thar ain't never no trusting no one when ye've gold about. Ef ye're axed the question, jest answer that we're bound fer the settlements ter fill up with pork and flour and sichlike. Wall, stranger, what's amiss?" he asked bluntly, as the cavalcade came level with the stranded cart. "I see as ye've smashed a wheel." "That's so. And a big nuisance it aer," came the answer, while the figure they had seen lounging beside the wagon rose nonchalantly to his feet, pulled the pipe from his mouth, and strolled towards them. The man was tall, wiry, and sunburned to the last degree. A ragged and unkempt beard almost entirely hid his features, while his clothing was far from new, and seemed to indicate that he had been travelling for a considerable period. "Jest a big nuisance," he repeated, placing his pipe back between his lips so as to indulge in another draw. "And I don't mind tellin' yer why," he went on, glancing first at Steve, then at Abe, and afterwards at Jack and Tom in turn. Indeed, a pair of sharp eyes, almost hidden beneath bushy brows, seemed to take in particulars of the party within a second, while Jack caught the stranger's glances directed upon the horses and their loads. "I'll tell yer why," he proceeded, "and I see as thar ain't no harm in doin' so. It ain't every sort of man travellin' in this country that a chap can give his confidence to; but with you, gentlemen, one kin see as things aer safe. That 'ere cart aer stuffed nigh full with gold. Yer wouldn't think it, now, would yer? 'Cos, as a gineral rule, gold aer sent on hossback, same as ye're doin'. This lot is piled into the cart so as to blind any of them light-fingered gents as sometimes takes to the road. Cartin' aer my business, and I don't object to sich a valuable cargo so long as I ain't delayed; but I 'low that this here broken wheel has made me a trifle fidgety. My mates has taken the hosses on to the nearest settlement to buy up a new wheel, and, ef it ain't axin too much, I'd be obleeged if yer could stand by me till they come back agin. It aer too late fer you to ride on far, for the light aer nearly gone. And this here spot aer pretty pleasant." Jack stared hard at the man, and, though his mind was full of suspicions, considering Steve's warnings, he was bound to admit that the tale was a plausible one; that, despite the roughness of this stranger's appearance, he seemed honest, perfectly frank, and at his ease. Then, too, the admission he had made that his cart contained gold was sufficient of itself to disarm all thought of treachery. The man was in a quandary, and in those rough days in California, despite the scoundrels to be found in every part, there were still, amongst the hundred-thousand and more of miners, huge numbers who showed the utmost kindness to one another. Indeed, the rough, blunt-spoken miner was always ready to dip his hand into his pocket when a subscription was required for a sick comrade, for a widow, or for some other urgent cause. Jack was therefore not surprised when Steve slipped from his saddle and gripped the stranger's hand. "Ef that's the case, why, in course, we'll help," he sang out cheerily. "It ain't hard ter see as ye're in a fix, and sence it aer always a case out here of one man helpin' another, why, here we stay till your pards return. But I 'low as it ain't the sort of camp I should ha' chosen. Them hills is too near fer my likin'. How long is it sence your chums left fer the settlement?" "Six or seven hours, I reckon. As thar ain't nothin' ter detain them, they ought to be back right here in another four; but thar ain't never no sayin'. Them boys ain't seen a settlement fer the last three months, and it stands to reason that they'll be tempted ter put in a time in one or more of the saloons. But they won't forget. Thar's this here gold ter remind 'em. Reckon they'll fetch back here somewhere about the early mornin'. Got much dust yerself?" The ragged individual jerked his head towards the horses which Tom and Jack were unloading at that moment. Remembering Steve's caution, they took the swags from the one horse and tossed them carelessly into a heap, as if the blankets contained nothing of value, while the bags which had hitherto contained gold, and which were now crammed with food, with spare shirts and socks, and other articles, were taken from the horses with great care and stacked in a heap aside. Nor did the stranger fail to notice the removal. "Got much over thar?" he asked casually. "A tidy bit. Nothin' onusual," answered Steve warily, for this experienced little scout was always cautious. Jack had learned long since that it took time to break through the ice with which Steve surrounded himself, and that, for some reason or other, it was a long while before he gave his confidences to anybody. "A tidy bit," he repeated in a confidential whisper. "Jack," he sang out, "jest pile them bags a little closer together, so as we kin see 'em. We should be in a proper hole ef we was to lose that stuff. And what sort of a load have yer got, mate?" he asked in his turn, facing the stranger just as casually as the latter had done, and commencing to fill his pipe. "Jest about double that lot. Look thar." The tall, ungainly figure of the man was elevated from the boulder on which he had been seated, and, strolling towards the cart, he pulled the back boards down, disclosing a pile of bags within. "Ef you and me and your pals here was ter divide, reckon we wouldn't want ter work after this," he said with a grin. "But duty aer duty. That 'ere stuff aer in my charge, and I see as you aer gentlemen." "You kin put it like that," smiled Steve. "Now, seems to me, as your pals is due almost any time, it ain't no use fer us to unpack the swags. Perhaps you've got a bit of food ter spare, and a glass and a bottle?" The cautious Steve wished to avoid unpacking his own store, for the very obvious reason that the food was packed within the bags which appeared to contain gold. And, for the very same reason, Jack and Tom, once they had removed their belongings from the horses, had made no effort to disturb them. "Why, sure," came the hearty answer, "I'm jest obleeged to you fer standin' by me, and it so happens as I've a fine store, and good things with it." There was a bustle in the little camp for the next hour, for the stranger threw wood on the fire and soon had it blazing merrily, while within a short while a savoury steam arising from the kettle suspended over it tickled the palates of the travellers. Then reared up on a couple of low boulders placed directly against the flames were a couple of ramrods, and on these sizzled two enormous buffalo steaks, toasting nicely in the heat, and now and again sending the flames leaping skyward as they dripped grease into the fire. "It does a man good ter smell that," cried Steve, glancing towards the fire, "and in ten minutes or less reckon things'll be ready. Say, stranger, whar do yer fetch the water from? I jest think I'll take a wash afore I sit down." "Over thar." The man pointed to a spot some forty yards away, now almost hidden in the darkness. "Then, ef you're comin', Jack, why come along." Steve strolled off into the gloom, followed by our hero, for he seemed to gather from some subtle note in Steve's voice that the hunter desired him to do so. They walked side by side to the stream, Steve whistling loudly and cheerily. Then the little man kneeled and splashed water over his face. "Kin yer see the fire?" he asked in a low voice. "And that 'ere scaramouch beside it?" Jack, answered again in the affirmative. "Wall, now, jest you listen ter me. Jack, this thing ain't as right as it seems. Reckon thar's something queer about that feller down thar, and I've more than a notion that ef we was ter ax him ter 'low us ter look into his bags, it's not gold they aer holding. Savvy?" To be perfectly frank, Jack was astonished. To his unsuspicious mind everything about the stranger down below seemed to be open and above-board. His nonchalance and apparent frankness had impressed our hero, while the open display of the gold bags, the broken wheel, and the whole tale seemed so very likely and real that he could find no room for doubt. But Jack was as yet, with all his harsh misfortune with regard to the robbery, but a child in experience, while Steve was a man who had been in every part of America, who had doubtless encountered many a rogue, and whose outlook on life was broader by a great deal, and far more acute than was our hero's. "Yer don't. You've took that man fer a white man, one as is in distress," grinned Steve, laughing almost inaudibly. "Wall, when I was about your age I'd have done the same, and taken my davy as he war honest. And mind yer, I don't say now right off that he's a scamp. I ain't dead sartin, but I'm sure enough ter jest give you the wink, and to tell you ter pass it on to the others, though I expect as Abe ha' got hold of the same notion as me." "But why? What is wrong?" asked Jack, somewhat bewildered, for even now he could distinguish nothing wrong, no false line in the tale told by the stranger. "Why! Wall, look you here. It wouldn't do ter ax him to 'low us to see his gold, 'cos then, ef he's square and above-board, he'd get ter suspecting us. And ef he ain't, as seems nearly sartin, why, it stands to reason that he wants ter take us by surprise when his mates comes along. That bein' so, we wants to have a surprise fer them tucked up our sleeves. How do I see anythin' wrong? Wall, look at the springs of that 'ere wagon. They ain't down by near as much as they would be ef them bags was filled with gold. They're chuck-full, thar ain't a doubt, but the stuff in 'em ain't gold, or else the weight would be so big it would sink the springs, and bring the frame of the cart down on to the axles. Then, look at the broken wheel. Thar ain't a rut hereabouts ter break it. Thar ain't weight in the cart sufficient ter account fer a smash, so one has ter take it that it was done of purpose. Savvy?" Jack did. Now that the matter was put so concisely and clearly before him he could see that there was a bad smudge across the story told by this stranger. His coolness and apparent honesty would have passed his tale with the ordinary miner, for often enough he came from the settlements. But with a scout it was a different matter. Steve had not lived his life for nothing. The habit of close inspection, of constant care to guard against danger and the ambushes of the enemy, had made him discover a flaw in what appeared to be a straightforward matter. "Then you think we are to be attacked?" asked Jack, his heart beating a little faster. "I'm nigh dead sartin. That's why I brought you off here. Ye've got ter act up to that man. Pretend yer ain't smelt a rat, and let him think ye're as soft as may be. But keep yer eyes open, and yer fist mighty near yer shooter. Tell Tom the same, and be ready." A few minutes later they sauntered back to the camp, where the stranger announced that supper was ready. "Hot soup and a cut from them steaks won't do none of us any harm!" he cried pleasantly. "By the time we've had a smoke it'll be time ter turn in. Reckon my mates aer likely ter stay a bit, and ought ter be here about mornin'." They seated themselves about the fire, and were soon engaged in eating as good a meal as Jack had seen for many a long day; for at the mine they were, as a rule, too busy to leave the place to seek for fresh meat. They subsisted for the most part on corned beef and on salted food. Then pipes were produced, and for an hour the party chatted. "My name's Ted," announced the stranger, "and I 'low as you have treated me handsome. Now, sence I've had a rest here, and ye've been on the road all day, I'm willin' ter take the watch to-night, fer, in course, someone must see that things aer right. Ef you don't like that suggestion, why we'll draw lots." "Wall, I'm about dead beat," sang out Steve promptly, beginning to yawn loudly. "Fact is, me and my mates here has been hard at it at the mines for a long while, and then we've been coming along steadily. Ef ye're willing ter take the watch first, I'll turn in, and yer kin be relieved after midnight. Then I'll come on, and Abe here'll take it till the light comes." The firelight flickering on the face of the stranger showed no sign there of annoyance. It was the same to him whether he took the night or the morning watch; and for the life of him Jack could not help but think that Steve was mistaken in his suspicions. "The man seems absolutely honest," he said to himself, "but still there is something in what Steve says. If that cart were really loaded with bags of gold, the springs would certainly be down. As it is, the load might consist of feathers. Yes, it will be as well to keep a sharp eye open." Borrowing the blankets of the men who, Ted, the stranger, said, had left with the horses to obtain a spare wheel, Steve and his friends threw themselves down on the ground near their own belongings. Near at hand their horses were picketed to pegs driven deeply into the earth, while their own heads reclined on the blankets which contained their store of gold. The bags full of their other belongings lay at a little distance, and the firelight playing upon them showed that they were secure. But it did not show the eyes of the stranger, nor the fact that that individual had fixed them upon the bags greedily. "Listen here, mates," whispered Steve, as he lay down, having first heard the man Ted stroll a little from the camp. "Jack aer probably told yer that things don't look square. Wall, I'll take a sleep now, and Jack kin watch. Tom'll follow with a spell, then Abe, and finally I'll take a turn. That'll bring us ter the mornin'. It's then that the trouble'll come. And, boys, ef thar's a rush, yer kin leave our loads to theirselves. This chap Ted has had his eyes on the bags, and don't cotton that there's been a bit of a change. Them bags of ours aer heavy enough to mislead 'em, and ef they rush, why, they're welcome to the swags. Good night!" He rolled over on his side, tucked the blanket well around him, and was fast asleep in less than five minutes. Long habit had inured the scout to thoughts of danger. He could sleep as well and as soundly, knowing that blows would be struck on the morrow, as he could when no danger was to be apprehended, provided always that he was sure that he had friends to aid him, who would remain watchful whilst he slept. And by now Steve was assured of that. The long trip over the plains had proved the reliability of Abe and Tom and Jack. Then the deep breathing of Abe and Tom told that they too had fallen into a peaceful slumber, leaving Jack to guard them. Our hero lay with his face on his hand, his head propped up a little, and his eyes only half-opened, for the reflection of the fire might have been seen in them had Ted happened to look his way. He heard the steps of the solitary sentry now and again, and watched him as he strolled round the stranded cart. Occasionally he approached the fire, and, lifting a smouldering stick, lit his pipe with it. It was two hours later before he ventured farther. Listening intently, he slid across the ground which intervened between the cart and Jack and his friends, bent over them for some few seconds, and then walked to the heap of sacks. Jack watched him stealthily as he inspected the piled-up bags, and then turned his head to follow his further movements as he retreated once more to the cart. Then Ted did a curious thing. Jack saw him fumbling with something for the space of a few seconds, he stepped towards the smouldering embers, and the flickering light showed that his arm was suspended over the heat. It seemed as if he were warming his fingers. But no. An instant later a tongue of brilliant flame shot up into the darkness, and as suddenly melted into smoke. "A signal, without doubt," thought Jack. "Ah!" From somewhere in the distance a faint echo came to his ear--a faint, eerie whistle. The signal had been answered. There was no longer room for doubt that this Ted was acting a part, that the broken-down cart was merely an adjunct to a plot destined, if he and his friends were not very careful, to wipe them out of existence, and take from them all their hardly won gold. "Gee," exclaimed Jack to himself, "if that isn't something! Time I woke Steve and the others. Time we made some sort of an arrangement to meet the danger." CHAPTER XXI The Outwitting of Tusker "Lie low, whatever yer do! Now let's have the yarn," whispered Steve as Jack awoke him with a gentle dig in the ribs. "What aer it all about? Yer seem a bit excited." Our hero was, indeed, somewhat disturbed by what had so recently happened, but not frightened. To do him but justice, Jack had passed through such dangers already that his nerves were hardened, and his courage had been tried. However the thought of what was before them, the cunning of this man Ted, served to thrill him more than was usual, to stir his pulses. So it was in a quiet and steady whisper that he imparted his news to the hunter. "Jest as I thought," answered Steve when he had finished. "I kinder reckoned we'd got into a nest of scorpions. This here feller was too free and easy, when he oughter have been kind of stand-offish, considering the gold he's supposed ter have, and that we aer four ter his one. Jest kick Tom and Abe gently." "What'll yer do?" asked the former hoarsely, when Jack had roused him, stretching his neck so as to place his mouth close to Steve's ear. "Seems to me as we might easily walk right away now. Thar's only this man Ted to stop us, and reckon we could soon fix him." "Ef he was alone, which he ain't," came cautiously from Steve. "Thar ain't a doubt but what we're cornered. The men who aer in with this man here are 'way up there on the hillside. Likely enough they've been thar ever since we reached the spot, and aer jest waitin' fer the time ter attack us." "But," argued Abe, "ef that's the case, why have they waited? The risk fer them'll be the same now as earlier in the evening, or, fer the matter of that, the same as it'll be when the light comes." "With jest this difference," urged Steve, still in the same cautious whisper, "last evenin' they might have been disturbed, for this road has a goodish number of travellers on it. In the early dawn thar ain't likely to be anyone, so they'll be able ter make their attack and get away without a soul save us seeing them. And they reckon ter wipe the hull crowd of us out, so as dead men'll tell no tales. Gee, this aer a fix!" There was silence for some little while, as each one of the party considered the matter. As they lay there, with wide-open eyes, though they took care to make no movement, they could see the bright gleam from Ted's pipe every now and again, as that worthy leaned against the side of the cart. That he had friends near at hand was certain, since Jack had heard that whistle, and it was equally sure that while Ted remained awake any attempt on their part to steal away from the camp would immediately be detected, and the aid of those comrades called in. "It aer clear that we're in a hole, and has ter fight it out with them critters," said Steve at last after a long silence; "and, sence that's the case, the thing aer ter fix up some way in which ter meet 'em. Thar'll be eight or nine of the varmint. These bands always run ter that number, 'cos then they aer able ter break up opposition, and, 'sides, it keeps people from following. Folks get ter know that it aer useless to go after these bands of robbers onless there's plenty of boys ter help; and sence men aer mostly busy at the diggin's, why, it follows that it aer generally hard ter get the right number. It's only when a band becomes that bad, and has murdered a hull heap of miners and carters, that the sheriff can get a strong enough force together, and by then fellers like this has managed ter divide up the plunder and ter ride ter some other part of the fields. This aer a tarnation fix." "Supposing," suggested Jack, "we were to----" He came to a sudden halt, for Ted had turned to look at the supposed sleepers, as if he had detected a noise. "Yer was supposin'," whispered Abe hoarsely, some minutes later, when the stranger turned away again. "Jest let's have it, Carrots," added Steve. "Ye've took me through a fix before now. You aer bright enough ter find a way out of this." "Not out of it. I can suggest a way in which we can get cover and best the men when they come," answered Jack. "There's the cart." "Ay, thar's the cart," came from Steve wonderingly, for he could see nothing useful there. "Wall?" demanded Abe. "Ye've forgot that it's bung full of sacks," whispered Tom, "and, besides, one wheel's broken." "He ain't forgot nothin'," said Steve sharply. "Carrots don't make mistakes like that. Out with it, youngster." "There is the cart," repeated Jack. "The sacks in it are likely enough filled with grass, considering how light they evidently are. As for the wheel, it is an advantage that it happens to be broken. I thought we would wait till we are about to be attacked. Or, better still, seeing that the attack is bound to come, I propose that we wait only till the light gets stronger. Then we'll make for the cart, while the man there will take to his heels. His shouts will bring the others down upon us at a run, but that will be better than having them ride up openly, as if returning from the settlements with a new wheel. That, of course, is their game. They think we shall have swallowed their story, and that all they have to do now is to ride into the camp and shoot us down easily." "Put in a nutshell. That 'ere Carrots has his haar on right enough," growled Steve. "Wall, thar's the cart," reminded Tom. "We make use of it much as we did of the other when the Indians attacked us. The bags will form good protection, while the cart is within nice range of our gold. If we four can't manage then to----" A low chuckle burst from Steve, while Jack felt Abe's strong fingers close firmly round his wrist. "H-h-h-hush! That critter's lookin'. Ef he so much as moves a toe I'll put lead into him." It was Tom's excited whisper, while that individual went rigid to his finger tips, as the man who watched by the cart turned and stared at the sleepers. Jack felt the scout's arm steal stealthily over him, and heard the gentle click of his firelock, as his strong thumb drew it back into cocking position. And there the arm rested, while all four lay as if dead, as if turned to stone, motionless, almost without breathing. But whatever suspicions Ted may have had, he quickly became reassured; for, to speak the truth, Steve and his friends had played their parts admirably. Though warned from the first of Steve's suspicions, they had treated the stranger with frankness equal to his own, and had entirely disarmed his suspicions. He imagined that the party of four for whom the trap had been set so craftily had been entirely taken in, and that they would fall an easy prey. He turned away from the sleepers, and, no doubt in accordance with a prearranged plan, once more strolled to the embers, dropped some powder into them, and sent his signal flashing into the sky. Then, for the second time, from a closer point it seemed on this occasion, a distant whistle echoed along the road. "The critters!" Jack heard the little scout exclaim. "Wall, mates, it'll be light in two hours or less, so we shan't have long to wait; and sence that skunk thar ain't axed ter be relieved yet, why, we'll let him stay on watch. Time enough to clear him out when the mornin' light comes." To the little scout those two hours may have passed easily enough, for his sangfroid was wonderful, and his accustomed coolness not easily to be disturbed. Abe seemed to find comfort in a cube of strong and particularly evil-smelling tobacco, which he thrust between his strong brown teeth and chewed slowly, and with evident relish. As for Tom, he was one of that large band of Anglo-Saxons to whom fighting comes naturally, to whom the crack of weapons and the hiss of bullets is better music than even the latest instrument can supply. He lay awake longing for the hour for movement, his lynx-like eyes fixed on the watcher by the wagon. But Jack, despite the excitement of the moment, was neither elated nor expectant. He was just an ordinary young fellow, subject to the common weaknesses of mankind. And like them, too, he was possessed of the same needs. He had been keeping watch for long now, and, finding others to help him, soon began to drowse. His eyes closed, his head dropped back on his hand, and in a little while he was fast asleep. Thus he remained for more than two hours, till the light in the eastern sky was already sweeping the gloom and darkness from the land, and until the road in front and behind the little camp was commencing to become visible. It was a sharp kick from Steve and an exclamation from Tom which aroused him. He sprang to his feet a few seconds after the others, and at once became conscious of the fact that horses were approaching at a gallop. "To the cart, boys!" shouted Steve, leading the way. "That ere skunk slipped away so sudden that I didn't notice, and ef it hadn't been fer Abe hearin' the hosses, we might be lying thar still. In we go." There was little time for preparation, for Ted, the rascal who had told his crafty story, had stolen a march on the watchers. They had seen him leaning against the cart as if half-asleep. Then he had sauntered to and fro, as if becoming weary of his vigil. At last the cunning rascal had stepped behind the cart, and, once out of sight, had stolen off along the grass track at the side of the road. Within five minutes, before Steve or Abe had guessed that the man was gone, the rat-a-tat-tat of galloping hoofs had come to their ears. "Pile the bags up on all sides. Don't pitch them out," commanded Steve quickly, his voice hardly raised above a whisper. "Quick, boys, fer we ain't got too much time. Now, git down and stay thar till they're right in the camp. Then, I guess, we'll be doin' some talkin'. Jack, that ere red nob of yours'll be spotted precious quick. Jest keep down below the bags." Quick as a flash the four leaped into the stranded cart, to find that it was by no means filled full with bags as it appeared to be. They were piled at the back and round the two sides, and, as Jack had guessed, were stuffed with grass. It wanted, therefore, very little work on the part of the little band of four to erect their defences. Indeed, the task was already done for them. Promptly they dropped to the floor of the wagon, while within a few seconds ten mounted men burst from the misty cloud which still clung to the earth and enveloped the surroundings of the wagon, and galloped down upon it like a whirlwind. A minute later they drew rein where Steve and his friends had been sleeping, while exclamations of amazement, of dismay, and of anger burst from them. Jack, squeezing into a corner of the cart, obtained a view of the robbers through a crevice between the boards, and noticed that all were well mounted, that their leader and two others wore black masks across their faces, and that Ted, the rascal who had asked for aid on the previous evening, rode beside the leader. "Not here! Why, what's happened?" he heard the latter exclaim in angry tones. "There were four, and now----" "A minute ago they lay there, dead asleep, I could ha' sworn. Now ef that don't beat everything!" cried Ted. "Blessed ef I can understand it. Unless. Hi, boys!" he shouted at the top of his voice, "They've took ter the wagon." At once the horses were swung round, while the leader of the band swung his arm up, as if about to protect his face. But there was a weapon in the hand, and an instant later a sharp report awakened the echoes of the valley, while the missile struck the tailboard of the wagon, perforated it as if it were made of paper, and encountering the bags of grass, passed right through the nearest, and was only arrested when it had penetrated the second as far as the far layer of canvas. Jack felt the blow, for his hand rested against the bag, and a second later his finger tips came in contact with the rounded form arrested by the obstacle. "Three of you load up the gold bags," shouted the leader, in a voice which seemed to come familiarly to Jack's ear. "The rest surround the wagon. Thar ain't no need ter parley. We know our business. Shoot every one of them down." He swung the arm up again, as if about to send a second bullet crashing into the cart. But the action was arrested by the sudden interposition of Steve. A low growl had come from the little scout as he heard the commands of the brigand outside, and, to the astonishment of his friends, he was seen to stand to his full height, in view of the enemy. Then his weapon cracked, and within the same instant the man wearing the mask, who was evidently the leader, toppled from his saddle and fell to the ground. "Joe Templeton, as I live. Joe Templeton at last!" shouted Steve, as if he had suddenly lost his senses. "I warned yer last time we met, and yer knew well what ter expect. Scum like you has ter come ter the mark sooner or later, and come yer have. Joe Templeton, you aer up agin Steve this time, Steve the hunter and scout, Steve the miner, whom you robbed." There was a pause in the affray, while attackers and attacked stared at Steve as if they could not believe their senses, and then at the leader of the band, who lay grovelling upon the road. Then, with a sharp cry Ted, the stranger who had watched in the camp all night, swung himself from his horse and rushed towards the wagon. "Down!" cried Jack, seizing Steve, who seemed to be filled with some unusual excitement. "Down! They are coming." But the little miner hardly seemed to hear him. Gripping one of the bags with his left hand, he leaned against the pile, his eye fixed upon the enemy. And then such a stream of bullets shot from his weapon that the rascals recoiled. "See here!" shouted Steve, as if careless of the bullets. "Now that that man Joe aer down, and Ted with him, there ain't no call fer others to be hurt. Quit touchin' those bags and git. I'll give yer one chance. Ef yer don't take it, I swear we'll hunt every mother's son of yer down." Crack! From a point just behind where the enemy had gathered there came the snap of a revolver, and Steve's left arm dropped helpless to his side. But he never winced or showed that he was hurt. Instead his fingers wrapped themselves round the butt of his second revolver, and the man who had just fired measured his length on the road before Jack could follow what was happening. Then began a fusillade which rivalled an Indian attack for fierceness. Maddened by the sudden and unlooked-for change in their fortunes the brigands poured their shots into the wagon, and would undoubtedly have slain Steve, had Abe not dragged him down behind the shelter of the bags. "Aer yer crazy, Steve?" he growled. "Aer yer gone suddenly stark starin' mad. Git down, and stay thar. Boys, jest lift a bag above yer heads, and fire from under it." But for that precaution there is no doubt that Jack and his friends would have suffered heavily. But the bags protected them wonderfully, and so sharp was their own shooting that presently the six men who now remained alive retired from the wagon. "But they ain't gone," said Steve, cool and calm again after his unusual excitement. "Ef they had rifles with 'em they'd make it that hot this cart wouldn't hold us. Lucky they ain't spotted the guns we left amongst the blankets. Gee! ef we had 'em here we'd make 'em hop." "Then we'll have 'em." Jack was no laggard when brave acts were required, as he had proved to the satisfaction of his comrades. At Steve's words, he once more showed the stuff of which he was made. The brigands had retired some hundred yards, but still remained within long pistol-shot. Careless of that, our hero leaped from the cart, walked across to the blankets that marked the spot where he and his comrades had slept, and sauntered back with their rifles, a storm of bullets whistling about his ears as he did so. [Illustration: JACK FETCHES THE RIFLES] "Now, ef that ain't madness!" cried Steve angrily. "Ef that ain't askin' fer a bullet!" "And copyin' bad examples set by them as is old enough and ugly enough ter know better," growled Abe. "It's jest the answer ter yer own doin's, Steve, and Jack aer earned the thanks of all. Gee! As ef yer didn't ought ter know better." He turned scornfully upon the little scout. Then a smile stole across his features, and stretching out a hand he gripped Steve's. "Reckon ye'd some special call," he said simply. There was a grim look on the little man's face as he took Abe's hand, a look which seemed to betoken that the cause for his sudden excitement and for his rashness was something beyond him, something he could hardly dare to think about. "'Cause!" he said, in hollow tones, moistening his lips with his tongue, as if the words dried them. "'Cause----But this ain't the time to tell of Joe and his doin's. Reckon Jack aer done a fine thing ter help us. Jest get to with them rifles. Ah, them critters is tryin' another rush!" The news was true. From the place to which they had retired the band of brigands suddenly broke into single elements, and came galloping towards the cart. As they came they sent a storm of bullets seething about it, chipping and perforating the woodwork, thudding into the bags, and hissing harmlessly overhead. Two minutes later they were within easy shot, when Jack and his comrades returned their fire, protecting their heads in the same manner; and so careful was their aim that two more of the enemy measured their full length on the ground. There were shouts of anger from those who remained. One galloped his horse recklessly right up to the cart, and was there shot dead by Jack's pistol, then the remainder turned tail and galloped away for their lives. And as they went another accompanied them. Unnoticed in the turmoil, the leader, who had fallen to Steve's shot, and who was undoubtedly sorely wounded, scrambled painfully to his feet and caught a horse belonging to a fallen comrade. He clambered unsteadily into the saddle, his mask falling from his face as he did so; and then, mustering all his failing strength, he stood up in his stirrups and shook his fist at the cart just as his comrades turned to fly. "Steve," he shouted, "this is to warn you! I will kill you when the time comes." Turning his horse, he clapped spurs to the flanks and galloped away. As he went a cry came from one of the inmates of the wagon. Jack rose to his feet shaking with excitement. He seemed to have caught it from Steve, so closely did it follow upon the attack which the little scout had displayed. Bending over the bags, shaking his fist furiously, he followed the movements of the escaping leader with staring eyes. "The robber!" he shouted, tears almost in his voice. "The man for whom I have suffered. The robber! Stop him! I must take him back to Hopeville to tell his tale! It is he who should have been tried for that burglary!" CHAPTER XXII A Double Recognition Utterly oblivious of his surroundings, of the friends who crowded in the cart at his side, Jack stood pressing forward against the bulwark of grass-stuffed sacks, his fingers clutching at the canvas, his attitude and expression betokening the greatest excitement. He was pale to the lips, save that a bright, hectic spot burned in each cheek, while, strangest thing of all, tears coursed from his eyes and dribbled down on his chin. "Come back!" he shouted. "Come back! We will not fire! Come back and act like a man, if it be for the very last time." But he might have shouted his words to the winds, for all the effect they may have had. Joe, the rascally leader of the brigands--for that seemed to be his name, since Steve had so called him--paid no attention to the calls. Crouched low in the saddle, wobbling dangerously from side to side on account of his weakness, he struck his mount savagely with the spur, and went tearing away after his comrades. "And nothin'll stop the varmint till we put hand on him, and then he'll be up to tricks till the sheriff and his men has placed a rope about his neck and has swung him," growled Steve. "Come, lad," he went on in soothing tones, laying a restraining hand on Jack's shoulder. "Seems to me that you, too, ha' had cause ter hate that thar varmint. Wall, I thought as how I'd finished with him, same as he thought ter have done fer me, this many a year gone by. But I ain't sorry that the bullet didn't kill him, for by what you've said ye're in want of Joe's evidence. But don't count too much on it, Carrots. That 'ere man aer the cussedest, the wickedest, that ever lived in these parts, and that's the true thought of every man as has come ter really know him. Sit down. Let's have a smoke. Time enough ter git followin'. Tusker Joe aer hard hit, and reckon we'll take him." "Tusker Joe! Tusker Joe!" Jack searched his memory. At the back of a mind, fully engaged with his own particular troubles, there loomed a certain recollection of that name. "Tusker Joe!" "Ah!" In a flash it all came back to him. "You called him that?" he asked, turning on Steve and facing him eagerly. "Tell me, was he ever a miner? Did he work in these parts some few years ago, and was he notorious for anything in particular?" "Jest get a grip of that 'ere pipe and pull at it," said Steve soothingly, coolly filling Jack's pipe and placing it between his lips. "Thar's the coal ter light it," he went on, stooping over the fire, and snatching a glowing ember with his fingers. "Now, boys, thar's hosses round about, and bags of gold. Let's get things tidied up, then we'll talk. Meanwhile me and Jack'll sit down. Me, because I'm wantin' a little bandagin', and Tom here'll do it fer me; and Carrots, 'cos he's shook up badly about some matter, and a man don't get the better of such troubles when he's all of a shake. We're jest agoin' ter have a dram apiece from the keg, and reckon, when you're finished clearin' things up, him and me'll be ready to talk, and fix what's to happen in the future." As cool as any icicle, the little scout calmly filled and lit his own pipe, and then went for the small keg in which the party kept their supply of spirit. For, though abstemious himself, and conscious of the fact that Jack touched nothing of an alcoholic nature, Steve saw that something was necessary at the moment to help to pull his young comrade together. Jack, indeed, was far more agitated than he had ever been in his whole life. Not even when first accused of that burglary, and weighed down with the desperate feeling of his own innocence and helplessness, had he shown so much emotion. But it is often a fact that while a man can face danger and difficulty, can endure hardship, wrongful accusation, and even unmerited imprisonment and punishment, with a certain amount of stoicism, yet, when relief suddenly comes in sight, when there suddenly and unexpectedly appears upon the scene that something for which he has longed--oh, so much and so continuously!--his stoicism and fortitude evaporate, the revulsion of feeling overwhelms him, and in a moment he is changed from a strong man, nobly supporting his burdens, to a child, helplessly weak. So it was with our hero. A cloud seemed to have risen suddenly in front of his eyes, a cloud which upset his vision, which turned him giddy, and mastered every fibre in his active body. He sat down trembling, obediently drank the contents of the pannikin which Steve offered him, and then mechanically sucked at his pipe. As for Steve, he doled out a dram for himself, and, having drained the tin, lay down to rest and watch his young friend. Meanwhile Tom and Abe collected five horses left by the brigands, laid the bodies of those killed side by side, and inspected their own belongings. "It tots up handsome," exclaimed Abe at length, rejoining Steve and Jack. "We started in with our own hosses and the animals. Now we've got five fresh mounts that'll fetch a nice sum; six revolvers that belonged ter them varmint; and, as if that warn't enough, thar's two bags of real gold dust in thar amongst them bags stuffed with grass. Reckon they was laid thar to open and show, in case you was too suspicious." Steve went off into a roar of laughter at the news, for he was wonderfully light-hearted now that his excitement had died down. "I never knew a band of rascals so taken in and knocked about," he cried. "And ter think as they've left us gold dust ter add to our own, instead of takin' ours! Wall, I did think ter ax that 'ere Ted ef it was real gold as he had in them bags, and ef he'd mind my squinting at it. But then, when I come to think it out, I seed that ter do that would be ter raise suspicions. He'd get thinking that I wasn't satisfied with his yarn. That would ha' made him more wideawake, instead of so cocksure that all was panning out as he wished. Then, guess we shouldn't have managed ter get ter that cart, and----" "We should ha' been thar," said Tom grimly, pointing to the bodies laid reverently side by side. "And now we've got ter fix what ter do," cried Steve, becoming matter of fact. "Thar's the gold to be thought of, thar's the chaps as has gone down, and in course there's bound ter be an enquiry. And, last of all, thar's them as got away. Wall?" He turned to Abe, as if seeking an inspiration from him. The big, bony scout, reddened with exposure to the sun, and looking the strong, courageous man he was, spoke out without hesitation. His life, like that of his comrades, allowed of no hesitation. Decisions had to be come to on the spot, without delay; for often enough a life was concerned. "Huh! There ain't two ways about it," he exclaimed gruffly. "The nearest settlement is jest three hours' ride from here, and sense ye're wounded ye'll be the one ter sit right here and keep guard. Me and Tom and Carrots'll push on quick, and place the gold in the bank. We'll warn the sheriff, too, and by evenin' we'll be back along with yer, bringing a tidy few of the boys that we'll pick up. It stands to reason that others has suffered from these varmint wuss than we have, and when they hear that the band has had a knock, they'll be out ter make an end of 'em. Wall, then, we'll get on their tracks by evenin', and ter-morrow night those of 'em as is wounded, and I've a notion that aer the case with all that's left, will ha' been surrounded and took. That's whar you and Jack comes in." There was common sense in the arrangement, and at once preparations for departure were made. Tom set to work to prepare breakfast, for none had touched food so far, and as soon as that was finished the three friends would leave Steve behind and make for the settlements. "And afore yer go we've got ter discuss this other matter," said Steve, nursing his wounded arm, which Jack had bandaged for him. "Thar aer this feller Tusker Joe. Now, I don't want ter ax fer any confidences, but Carrots here ha' said enough ter let us know somethin' of what's been on his mind. I've said afore now that thar was a man somewhars in America as would shoot me on sight, and fer whom I'd do the same ef I catched him. Wall, seems that that same man aer the one fer whom Jack ha' been searching. That so?" He turned bluntly to our hero with his question. "You have hit the right nail on the head," he answered simply. "That man, Tusker Joe, has indeed had a great deal to do with my life. I will tell you all about it. But first let us have Steve's tale." It was an eager trio which bent towards the little scout to listen, and sorely was their patience tried as Steve filled his pipe nonchalantly, and, staring at the ground, took ample time to refresh his memory. "Wall, you shall have it," he said, "and short and to the point. It's a dozen years ago, maybe a little more, when I came over the mountains ter try my luck in the diggin's. And luck came my way right from the beginnin'. I struck it rich, and seemed ter have a fortune in my hand, when a fever took me, and what with nussing, and sichlike, what I'd earned precious near went altogether. But thar was enough ter make a second start, and soon I was peggin' a claim down in another gully that had got a reputation fer richness. Thar was five hundred miners thar, and one of 'em was Tusker Joe. He'd come fresh that way, so he said, was lookin' fer a partner, and, havin' a bit of gold with him, was ready and willin' ter pay fer a share." "The same tale!" cried Jack, interrupting the little scout. "But go along, Steve, I have heard the tale before. Tusker Joe practised the very same method in another part. I can almost tell you what happened." "Then you can tell of the most ruffianly thing as ever a man did. Mates, if a man pals up with another, and they become partners, it don't say as thar won't be quarrels. Rows do occur. I've seen 'em, and seen shootin' follow. But partners don't murder one another. They don't go behind the back of a man whose hand they've shook friendly an hour before, and let off a gun right at 'em. That are the work of an utter scoundrel." There was indignation in Steve's voice, and the words he uttered brought sympathetic grunts of agreement from Tom and Abe. "Reckon a chap like that aer one of the worst men that's ter be found," cried Abe. "This Tusker Joe, he war the man? Eh? He did the shootin'?" Steve nodded curtly. "We'd struck it rich. Leastwise, I had, fer he pretended ter be ill, and didn't work. Thar was a store of gold dust that was worth the havin'. Wall, this here critter, all friendly as one would think, stepped down to our claim one evenin' when it war almost dark, and when all the other miners had gone back to their shanties. "How's luck?" he asks, setting down. "Same as afore," I answered. "This here claim's rich. It'll pan out handsome fer us, and then it'll sell when we're tired of it." "'Good,'" he says, "and then, all of a sudden, I knew nothing more." "Shot?" demanded Tom in a whisper. "From behind," answered Steve, flicking the ash from the bowl of his pipe. "See thar. That's where the bullet caught me." He turned his head and pointed to a long, white streak behind the right ear. "Enough ter kill a man," he proceeded, "but Steve aer a hard nut." The very thought made the little scout chuckle. "A hard nut," he repeated. "Tusker reckoned he'd wiped me out, but he hadn't, and, what's more, he didn't have another chance, fer some miners happened ter be passing. But he cleared from that 'ere camp with every ounce of dust we'd gained, and with my bag of dollars into the bargain. Gentlemen, when a man gets treated like that he takes an oath, and when the time comes round, as come it must, he 'lows as he has a sorter right ter shoot on sight the ruffian what's left him fer dead. Ter kinder execute him. That aer the long and the short of the story." The pipe went to the mouth, the cheeks caved in a little as he sucked, and then a cloud of smoke emerged from the hunter's lips. "I aer acted up ter that oath," he said quietly. "Reckon no one can blame me." "Not the sheriff hisself," growled Abe. "Even ef this Tusker chap hadn't been one of the band as attacked us, and ye'd hit up face ter face with him in the settlements, yer had a right, accordin' ter minin' law, ter shoot him down without warnin'. Steve, it aer clear that it war meant fer you ter get the best of this here Tusker. Reckon his chances of gettin' off ain't worth a how of chips." "I will follow him till my horse drops, or until he shoots me." It was Jack who had spoken, and as his three comrades turned to look at him, they saw on the face of the young fellow who had worked so well and so cheerily with them such decision and determination that all but Steve were astonished. "You ain't seen Carrots like that afore," explained Steve, "but I have. I mind the time when he treated me as ef I war a kid, and started in with his orders. Jack aer got some better reason than I have fer following Tusker. Out with it, lad." "Then listen." Briefly, bluntly, Jack told the tale of his own father's death, how a man named Tusker Joe had entered into partnership with him at the mines, had picked a quarrel with him when gold dust in considerable quantity had been obtained, and, having shot him down in a saloon after the pretence of a quarrel, had decamped with all the gold. "Then you ha' got good reason fer following this here scoundrel of a Tusker," cried Abe. "Reckon when a man's father aer shot down like that, the son has got ter have a say with his murderer. I ain't one as believes in revenge. Thar's One above"--the sunburned scout swept his hat from his head for a moment and paused--"thar's One above as sees ter sech matters as that as a general rule. But ef a father's killed in cold blood, it aer plainly the duty of his son ter find the murderer and hand him over to justice. Jack, give us yer fist. I'm proud ter know as ye've been a good son." Each in turn gripped his hand, for rough scouts such as these were could and did appreciate fine qualities in other people. Already Jack's willingness to work, his unfailing good temper and his common sense, had won their esteem, while the tale of his behaviour when Steve was incapacitated had not failed to leave its impression on them. Believing that he had come to California with one object in view, and that to discover his father's murderer, they felt he was a man they could honour, though in years he had not reached man's estate. But Jack quickly undeceived them. "Stop!" he cried peremptorily. "You are mistaken. I did not come to California to discover my father's murderer. It was another man I was thinking of. I came this way to escape the law; for, my friends, I am a runaway prisoner." In a few words he told them of the misfortune which had befallen him, how he had been put on his trial, and how, despairing of obtaining evidence which would acquit him, he had bolted from the prison, with the object first of making himself secure from the officers of the law, and, when that was securely accomplished, with the firm determination of hunting for that man who had come to the smithy in Hopeville, and for whom he had forged that fatal key. "Gentlemen," he cried, "that is the man I have been searching for, with the feeling all this while that some day or other I should drop across him. It was to clear myself from the accusation wrongly put upon me that I came to California, and at last I have seen the man. Strange though it may seem to you--almost unbelievable--yet it is the truth indeed. That ruffian who murdered my father is the identical man who, a few years later, induced me to forge a key, and for whose crime I was placed in the dock. I have double reason to follow and take him." "Thunder!" shouted Steve. "Ef that don't walk right away with the prize!" growled Abe, his teeth closing with a sharp click on the stem of his pipe. "And ye've got as good cause, better still, ter shoot the ruffian when next yer set eyes on him," exclaimed Tom. "Jack, it aer clear as it aer fer you ter deal with this here Tusker Joe. Steve has a call, and he's already had an innings. Reckon it aer fer him ter stand back a while and let yer have a turn." "No. I would not harm a hair of his head," responded Jack solemnly. "Listen here, mates. If I got to shooting this man, where, then, should I be able to obtain evidence of my own innocence? I should destroy it myself, and with that evidence goes all hope of my ever clearing myself, or of my being able at any time to return to Hopeville and the State of New York." "Right! Right to a 'T'," cried Steve. "The lad aer dead on it when he says that, and I'll tell yer. Ef we meets that man, or any of the others yer hope ter bring back with yer from the settlements, then thar ain't ter be any shootin'. He's got ter be taken alive. And afore any sheriff kin hang him he aer got ter come out with a confession. Mates, in these parts it's lynch law. Ef a man robs another way back in settled parts he gets imprisonment. Ef he does the same in Californy, amongst the diggin's, or away on the plains, he gets short shrift--trial out in the open, jedgment by the sheriff, ef there happens ter be one, and ef thar don't, then by his mates; and in the last case, ef he's declared guilty, he's shot out of hand or strung up ter a tree. That's what'll happen ter Tusker. But, first of all, he's got ter make that confession." "And the sooner we follow him and his mates the better," cried Abe. "Let's git. So long, Steve! we'll be back aginst evenin'." They strapped their bags of gold on the horses, and, leading the captured animals, set off at a brisk trot, leaving Steve comfortably seated before the fire. Some three hours later they reached the township for which they had been aiming, and promptly proceeded to the bank, where the gold was carefully weighed out before their eyes, its value appraised, and a receipt given for it. Then Abe led the way to the sheriff's residence. "We've come on business," he said in his blunt, direct fashion. "We come up agin Tusker Joe and his band last night, and nigh dropped into a muss. They'd set a trap for us, and thought ter take us nicely. But they hadn't ter do with miners only on this occasion. We're all hunters and scouts, leastwise with the exception of Jack here. We seed thar was something queer, and when they opened with their game we was ready, so it's Tusker and his men as fell inter the muss. Thar's five killed, and t'others is hurt I should say. Tusker's nigh killed." "Then you have broken up the band. Gee! That aer good," said the sheriff, who had been a miner before he attained to his present position. "That Tusker's been the terror of the camps fer the last three months. They'd heard of him before out in these parts, and, ef tales aer true, he ought to ha' been had up fer murder. But once he reached the diggin's, whether he was wanted fer murder or not, he soon got wanted fer other crimes. He and his gang has held up a sight of gold convoys, and they have killed a goodish few men. Whar have they gone?" "That's a question thar ain't no answering, boss," said Abe promptly; "but we're game ter follow, and I'll tell yer why." Promptly he proceeded to tell the sheriff of Steve's acquaintance with Tusker Joe, of the murder of Jack's father, and, finally, of the burglary which the rascal had committed, and for which our hero had very nearly suffered condemnation to a long term of imprisonment. "It aer clear that the man has ter be caught," added Abe, "and that fer the sake of Jack here he has got ter be taken alive." "Jest hop in and take a cup of coffee, gentlemen," said the sheriff. "The news you bring is the best I have had for many a long day, for this Tusker has been the terror of the roads. I'll go and see a few of my friends, and I think I shall be able to persuade some of them to ride with us." An hour later no fewer than fifteen men set off from the township with Jack and his friends, the sheriff and Abe riding at their head. The delay in the departure had enabled Tom to find a buyer for the horses, so that, beyond Steve's injury, the little party was substantially better off after their affray with the brigands than they were before. That evening, as the shades were lengthening, they rode up to the stranded cart, to discover Steve smoking his pipe placidly and warming himself in front of the fire. "Not a soul has passed the camp all day," he reported, "so I set to ter get on the tracks of them 'ere fellers. Ef it's the same to you all, gentlemen, we'll have a feed and then push on. The moon'll be up by nine, and thar ain't any reason why we shouldn't make the most of the light. Tusker won't be expecting such haste, most like, and so thar'll be a better chance of taking him." Accordingly the party slipped from their saddles, slackened their girths, and, having watered the horses, sat down to a substantial meal. Two hours later they mounted again, and, led by Steve, who carried his injured arm in a sling, they trotted beneath the rays of the moon down the straggling road, and, some three miles along it, turned on to the grass border, and struck across towards the mountains which cut across the skyline. "Somewhars up thar you'll find Tusker Joe, the murderer, and his mates," said Steve solemnly, pointing to the mountains. CHAPTER XXIII Steve Leads the Way Weirdly strange were the shadows cast by the moonlight upon the earth as the party of miners and hunters turned from the road towards the mountains. The huge gleaming and silvery orb hung in a cloudless sky, typical of gorgeous California, and cast her beams from a point behind the party, so that the shadows of the horses danced in front of the men, thin, and angular, and misshapen, and stretching so far in advance that the lines of the horses they rode, actually so pleasant to look upon, were transfigured and made hideous and absurd. Above these same shadows were those of the men, jogging this way and that, topped by a sombrero, and often enough by a sharp-cut shadow, denoting the rifle the man carried. "The gun that's got ter do with Tusker," said Steve as Jack trotted along beside him. "I believe ef it warn't fer men of his breed, and fer the saloons and the bad spirit that's sold in 'em, thar wouldn't be no need fer weapons out here, save, in course, fer use agin them Injun varmints. Fer California ain't free of them altogether, and ef it war, and we was unarmed, the critters would be pourin' over the ranges in their thousands, huntin' fer scalps. Boys, jest take a word o' warnin' from one as has been on games same as this afore. Don't ride in a bunch. Scatter, and spread yerselves out. Then, ef there's a man 'way up thar with his gun ter his shoulder, the chances aer he'll miss. Savvy?" The men did savvy. The band who were riding out to capture the last of the gang of ruffians who had terrorized that part of the goldfields, and between them had committed many murders, was composed of individuals with an abundance of experience. For, as Steve had said earlier on, California was infested by brigands and ruffians of the worst description, who preyed upon the miners, and against whom the strictest measures were necessary. There were constant alarms, gold convoys were often held up, and not infrequently the sheriff was compelled to call upon the citizens of some little place to ride with him with the object of exterminating some of the ruffians. So it happened that there were always men to be found who had accompanied such expeditions, and who, therefore, knew what precautions to take, and how necessary it was to use cunning and care when approaching the enemy. "Jest wait a bit," cried Steve after a while, when the party had traversed some three miles of the grass-grown plain and were already on the foothills. "It ain't so easy ter slide from yer saddle when ye've an arm in a sling. But I kin do it if the hoss aer still. Now then, mates, ef one of yer'll lead that hoss I'll shift along on foot and follow the trail. Thar ain't no difficulty hereabouts, fer a child could see their marks. But we're comin' ter rocky parts, and then it'll be a conundrum." Half an hour later the climb had become steeper, though not too much so for the horses. But what Steve had mentioned had already occurred. They were on rocky ground, though some herbage appeared amidst the boulders. But as yet the little scout, his eye fixed upon the trail, went steadily upward and onward, never hesitating for the particle of a second. "They know as well as I do thet any chap could follow so far," he said after a while. "Thar ain't no finding a road free of grass and soft places hereabouts. But up thar it'll be different. Then we shall have ter nose round a bit, and even then we're pretty safe ter be bothered." It was not until they had traversed another mile, and were approaching very steep ground, that Steve raised his hand, and brought the whole party to a halt. "Jest as I expected," he cried, dropping on hands and knees, and managing to scramble along in spite of his damaged arm. "Them artful critters rode this far, and then halted ter look around and choose a safe line. There ain't a blade of grass above us, and, in course, they've gone right on. But they may ha' turned ter the right or ter the left, and this here mountain aer long enough ter give 'em shelter and a hidin' place whichever way they go. Mates, jest stand fer a bit. Thar may be a trace, and it'd be best not ter override it. Abe, slip outer yer saddle and take a look round." It was ten minutes before either of the scouts ventured to speak, meanwhile the remainder of the party dismounted, and, hitching their reins over their shoulders, filled their pipes and lit them. Steve and Abe, often on hands and knees, covered the ground in circles, and seemed as if they would continue in the same occupation, till of a sudden a cry came from Abe. "Helloo!" he shouted. "Jest hop along up here. Here's somethin'." It proved to be a dark stain on a patch of whitish pebbles, and both he and Steve pronounced it without a moment's hesitation to be a blood stain. "That 'ere Tusker," declared Steve with a grunt. "He was feelin' queerish, most like, and called a halt. He rolled out of his saddle and lay jest here till one of his mates come and picked him up. Yer can see thar was more than one. Them stones is kicked about. This aer a find! I 'low as I war bothered back thar. Them critters seemed ter have clean slipped off into air." "Reckon they took this line ter the right," answered Abe, "and I've a sorter notion that we'll be able ter follow, fer seems ter me as there's more of them stains. Maybe one of the hosses is hurt, and aer leavin' a trail as he goes." In a little while Jack and his friends did indeed have displayed before them an example which many might take to heart. He and the little band of pursuers had arrived at a part where, if the enemy were cunning, as they undoubtedly were, they ought to be able to disappear without leaving so much as a track, a broken blade of grass, or a hoof-print to guide those who followed. Yet, with all their caution, a clear trail was left, though they knew nothing of it. For one of the horses, shot in the leg perhaps, imprinted a blood-stained hoof every yard of the way they had followed, making pursuit to men like Steve and Abe a simple matter. It was an indication of the fact that, while circumstances may for a while be favourable to evil-doers, sooner or later there comes some unforeseen event which trips them up. "I've know'd a thing same as this afore," said Steve. "It war after one of them Injun raids 'way over them mountains, when the critters had come out on the warpath without so much as a warnin'. Wall, they killed and scalped every man, woman, and child as they could drop on, and fired the settlers' farms over fifty miles. George Trueman, he war a settler, and it seems he'd been 'way over the border ter see a man as was lookin' ter buy cattle. He comed back ter find the farm a mass of blackened cinders, his cattle gone, and the box as he kept his dollars in taken clear away. Trueman war wild. He war fixed up ter get married, and though he could put up with the burnin' of the farm, the loss of the money would pretty nigh ruin him. Yer kin guess what happened." "Followed the critters, I suppose," suggested Abe. "Sure. Got a band o' men together, same as we aer, and sets off. Wall, I war one of the band, and pretty soon I gets on ter a trail like this, made by a hoss that war wounded, but not so bad as he couldn't go. That trail ran on fer thirty mile, till you'd have thought the hoss would ha' fallen dead, and in the end we dropped into them critters, and George recovered the money." "While this time we recover the man," laughed Abe. "Jest you hop into yer saddle agin, Steve. Ye'll ride easy thar, and it don't do that arm no good walkin' in these rough places. Reckon I kin follow the trail." Thanks to the spots of blood, sometimes scattered sparsely on the stones, and at others imprinted in the form of a hoof Abe was able to stride along without a halt. For an hour he led the party without turning aside. Then suddenly he faced up the mountain, and began to clamber. "Them critters brought their hosses up," he cried over his shoulder, "so guess yer kin do the same. But the goin' aer bad, and ye'd best be skeary, and look out fer holes." The place was, in fact, difficult for horses, and it needed much care on the part of the riders to take them up such a steep and rough place. However, it was not long before the ground sloped a little less steeply, and then became almost flat. Abe led the way across this without a falter, and very soon Jack became aware of the fact that he and his friends were actually descending. "A kinder hollow," explained Steve. "Precious soon things'll be happenin'." Scarcely five minutes had elapsed, in fact, before the nerves of these hardy miners and hunters were somewhat startled by a loud report. A single shot rang out from some point in advance, and high up above them, while one of the horses squealed, plunged heavily, and then stood shivering and shaking. "Wall, of all the critters!" cried one of the miners, slipping from the injured animal's back. "I didn't think as a man could see us down here in the hollow, let alone train a gun on us. Reckon it war lucky we war all spread out. Gently, lass. Yer ain't badly hurt. This here aer no wuss than a pinprick. The ball catched her two inches from her withers, on the very edge of the neck. It ain't worth mentionin', old gal." He patted his mount soothingly, and soon had her in a happier frame of mind. Then, dropping the reins on her neck, he left her to herself, and within less than half a minute she was seeking for grass tufts amongst the boulders. Meanwhile the other men had dismounted, while Steve and Abe discussed matters with the sheriff. Bang! From a point some seventy yards above the heads of the party, and a considerable distance away, there rang out another report, while a splotch of flame leaped from the mountain side. But it was gone in a moment; and when Jack fixed his eyes in that direction it was to see merely brown rocks and boulders tumbled haphazard on the mountain side, and all bathed in the rays of the moon, rays which gave a ghostly, eerie appearance to the surroundings. As for the bullet which had been discharged, it hummed through the air, striking a rock at our hero's feet with a resounding clang, and afterwards glissading off into space, where the ricochetting object set up a piercing scream that added to the uncanny effect produced by the moonbeams. "And no one hurt. That's luck!" sang out the sheriff. "Now, gentlemen, it aer clear that them fellers way up thar ha' got the drop on us. Down here the moon throws our shadows, and, even ef they can't see us, a shadow is close enough ter aim at, and is bound to bring a bullet precious near before long. Leave the hosses and make fer the hill. Thar ain't no use waitin'." "None," agreed Steve promptly. "Ef we stay down here, sooner or later, as Mr. Sheriff says, some of us'll be gettin' in the way of a bullet, and that ain't sense. But, seems to me, we might spare three or four who aer good shots ter lie down amongst these boulders and give them critters a shot whenever they show whar they aer located. Thet'll keep 'em from payin' us too much attention." The trusty little scout was not the one to neglect or to forget a precaution at such a moment, and his advice was hailed with eagerness. It was dangerous work this pursuit of criminals, and more often than not men were killed; for the rascals who infested the goldfields knew what capture meant. It ended, in nearly every instance, in a hasty trial and summary execution. Consequently there was no thought of giving in. The contest was always one almost to the death. "Supposin' Steve stays right here," sang out Abe. "He ain't no good fer climbing with that arm of his, and, sence it's his left, he'll be able ter hold a gun with his right and rest it on a boulder. Lively does it, mates. Ef we stay jawin', them critters'll soon be gettin' the range of some of us." As he finished speaking, as if to impress his words upon the band of pursuers, four shots rang out from the mountain side above them, and again was heard the thud of bullets, while splinters of stone were scattered broadcast. "Wall, get to it, Steve," called out the sheriff, "and you too, Bill Hendy and Frank Gorman. Let 'em see as you know how ter pepper 'em with lead, and keep at it with your guns till we're pretty close and handy. Thar ain't any fear of your shootin' into us, 'cos the moon's that bright yer can see easy. So long! Make it hot for them scoundrels." Promptly Steve and the two men detailed for the work dropped on their faces amidst the boulders, and, each selecting a large rock which was high enough to give him shelter from bullets fired from above, proceeded to unsling his rifle. Nor was it long before the opportunity came to them to fire. Once more the same red splotch of flame spurted from the mountain side. It was answered almost instantly by three shots from below, and within the space of half a minute by an echoing scream from above. Then a dark, ill-defined figure started up from the mountain side, and for a moment a man stood erect, his shadow cast on the brown earth and rocks behind him. One arm was raised above his head, and the rays of the moon showed that the hand gripped a rifle. Thus he stood for a few seconds, as if staring down into the hollow where Steve and his mates lay. Then, pitching forward suddenly, he fell headlong, bringing an avalanche of smaller stones and boulders chasing after him. "Fetched him," said Steve coolly. "Thar ain't no sayin' whose shot it war. Reckon me and these two mates of mine ha' had occasion to fire in similar sarcumstances afore. I give him a range jest a foot below the flame of his rifle, and I guess it fetched him. Ah! There's another of them." One after another the shots rang out from the mountain side, while Steve and his friends replied as rapidly as they could. While they did so, Jack and the others raced from the hollow and, using hands and feet, clambered up the steep slope. Not a sound came from their ranks, for all their breath was required for the task before them. They never paused to look above them, nor noticed when the defenders of the position stood out from their lair and discharged their rifles at them. They clambered steadily and quickly upward, leaving the three friends below to look to their defence, and to pour in such a fire that the rascals would not dare to expose themselves. "There they are! Close in on them!" In his eagerness to come upon the ruffianly Tusker Joe, and capture him, Jack forged ahead of the others. He was younger than they and more agile, and, without being aware of the fact, had rapidly outstripped them. And now he suddenly came upon the lurking place of the enemy. Clambering round a boulder of unusual proportions, he came to a level spot, a narrow pathway which ran on either hand till it was lost on the face of the steep slope. Here, some six yards to his left, four men were crouching, one of them being in the act of firing down at the hollow as he looked. "Rush them! Down with them!" Jack shouted. "But don't shoot Tusker." Careless of the consequences, blinded to his own danger by the excitement of the moment, and urged to strenuous exertion by the ever-present thought that here, almost in his own hands, was the evidence for which he sought, Jack raced along the ledge, dashed into the centre of the group of men, and became engaged at once in a desperate struggle. A man seemed to rise up before him, and in a moment they were locked together in an embrace which nothing but the death or disablement of one or other would terminate. They stood on the very edge of the ledge, the steep slope running away precipitously below them, and swayed to and fro, swayed so far over the edge that it looked as if they must lose their footing and fall. As they staggered this way and that, others of the gang of desperadoes clubbed their rifles and made every effort to bring the butts crashing on to Jack's head. But always some frantic twist or turn of the combatants, some violent change of position on his part, upset their aim and caused them to fail in their object. Meanwhile Steve and his two friends below had ceased firing, and stood watching the contest with staring eyes. For the little scout the moments dragged heavily. The struggle he witnessed up there on the mountain side was more than momentous. It stirred him to the deepest depths, for he had more than a friendly feeling for our hero. "Back him up!" he bellowed, placing his hands to his mouth. "Can't yer see we can't help him. Git to and rush them, or they'll kill him. Gosh! Ef only I war there. I'd----" He came to a sudden stop and stood rooted to the spot, his heart in his mouth, a sudden and unusual feeling of depression about him. For help had not yet reached our hero. The brilliant rays of the moon showed the other members of the band of pursuers almost within reach of the ledge, but not quite there. It showed also the figures of five men struggling furiously on the mountain side, and one of those from his height and build was undoubtedly our hero. The mob of men seemed to be thrusting him from the ledge, and as Steve stared he saw Jack striking out valiantly with his fists, for the man who had gripped him had suddenly let go his hold. Then there was a shout, and one of the rascals attacking him leaped forward and wound his arms round Jack's body. Steve shut his eyes and shuddered. "Gone," he thought. "They'll throw him down." But no. When he looked again the position of affairs had not altered. Jack was there, on the very edge of the ledge, staggering to and fro in the arms of the ruffian who had gripped him. While the others had of a sudden turned their attention to the pursuers who were now within striking distance. There came on a sudden the sharp, distinctive snap of a pistol, and then a shout from Steve which awoke the echoes. For Jack had disappeared. A second before he and his antagonist had been poised on the edge of the ledge. Now they were gone, there came only the clatter and rattle of boulders and stones which came rolling and leaping down the mountain side. "Killed!" groaned Steve. "Thar ain't a doubt but that they've done for him." "Not they. Jest let's go and look for him," sang out Bill Hendy. "I've knowed a man fall heavier and farther by far than that, and have nary a scratch ter show fer it. 'Sides, he's young, and young bones take a deal of breakin'. He warn't shot, that I'll swear. It war the sheriff's shot as ended the struggle." His mind full of doubt and misgiving, and yet, with his accustomed courage, still hopeful that Jack would prove to have escaped, Steve led the way up the mountain side till he reached a spot some forty feet below the ledge on which the brigands had taken refuge. And there they found our hero, wedged in between two boulders, breathing very shallowly, and quite unconscious. Beneath him lay the body of the man who had held him so firmly in his embrace. "Dead?" asked Steve, hardly daring to ask or to touch our hero. "No more nor you nor me," came the hearty answer. "Jest knocked silly, which ain't ter be wondered at, seein' as he's fell nigh fifty feet. Reckon this here fellow saved the fall for him. He's dead. Dead as mutton." "Not a bone broken, or I am much mistaken," exclaimed Steve, running his hands over Jack's limbs, for in his eagerness and anxiety the little scout had slipped his wounded arm from the sling. "Stunned. Then he'll take no harm. He'll sleep well to-night, and to-morrow he'll eat as good a breakfast as ever he did. Wall, mates, what's the tale?" The contest was entirely over by now, and, within five feet of the spot where Jack lay, one of the miners was seated on a rock stolidly smoking, while a companion bandaged up an ugly wound in his thigh. "Jest a snap shot, like," he explained pleasantly to Steve as he sucked at his pipe. "Thought he was downed and done fer. But he warn't, the critter! He sits up sudden and let's fly, then dropped back as dead as t'others." "Then you finished 'em?" asked Steve. "There was five beside Tusker Joe," explained the sheriff, coming up at the moment. "I got in a shot at the man who had collared young Jack, and I dessay you saw 'em both come tumbling. Then two more was shot and wounded afore yer could count the seconds. But they got clear away in the scuffle. A fourth fell to a ball fired from one of you three as we was mounting the hill, while the fifth got hit by a ricochet. Anyway, when we arrived, there he war lyin' insensible beside Tusker." "And him? He's dead too?" asked Steve, anxiety in his voice. "Jest livin'. Played out after ridin' so far after sich a wound. He'll go ef we ain't careful." "And with his life all chance of Jack gettin' his evidence," cried Steve. "See here, Sheriff, it means a hull lot fer this young friend of mine, and seein' what's happened I feel I kin count on you and the other mates ter help. We'll send along fer a surgeon, and meanwhile rig up a cover fer Tusker and the other man. Ef tryin'll do it, we'll save the man who killed Jack's father and then led the young chap hisself into sech a scrape. I can kinder count on you?" "Yer kin," was the emphatic answer. "You and your special mates have saved us a hull heap. Tusker and his gang were a real terror, and we and other folks are grateful. In course we'll stay. As soon as the mornin' comes we'll fix up a shanty, and meanwhile I'll send one of the men back to the settlement." They were a practical lot, those miners and scouts, and in a little while one of them was speeding from the spot mounted on the best horse and leading another. Meanwhile Jack was laid on some piled-up blankets, where he quickly recovered consciousness, for he was merely stunned by the fall. "You aer jest ter lie thar as ef you was properly dead," smiled Steve. "That'll bring yer round sooner than anything. Thar's some coffee in my haversack, and in a while, when thar's been time to get a fire goin', we'll brew some of it extry strong. It'll clear yer head. A good sound sleep after that aer all that's wanted." The little scout had picked up a fund of information in a practical school. His was the class of knowledge which, combined with a vast amount of experience and with common sense beyond the ordinary, is of real service in such cases as Jack's. It was not with him a little dangerous knowledge, as is sometimes the case. "We aer got ter be particular careful with this here Tusker," he said, when Jack was securely tucked in his blanket. "His life are more valuable I guess than even Jack's, and thet's sayin' something, fer the lad thar aer a bright one. Let's jest have a look at the man." They carried the wounded and unconscious robber into the shadow cast by a rock, and there Steve carefully inspected his wound. "Plumb in the chest," he said, as he opened the shirt, and rolled Tusker over. "It aer clear that the bullet has broke through into the lung, and as fer as I can see it don't make much odds whether it's gone right through or remained inside. But we'll make sure." By dint of the greatest care he and the man who was helping him rolled Tusker over still farther, only to discover that the ball which had struck him in the chest had wounded the lung, but had failed to emerge. It seemed, indeed, at first sight, as if there was little left for such inexperienced surgeons to do save to place the man in a comfortable position, shield him from the sun, and await his return to consciousness. But Steve was a knowing little fellow. "I tell yer his life's extry valuable," he said, standing up beside his patient, "and we are got to move ef we want to save it. Not that he aer likely ter pull through. Reckon this aer Tusker's last call. Now, mate, lend a hand. We'll put some sort of a dressing on the wound, and then, seeing as he's still losing blood, we'll have ter make shift ter stop it. Yer see, it ain't the bleeding from the outside wound that matters. It's what's coming from the lung." This important fact had not escaped Steve and his comrade. There was a deathly pallor about the robber chief which showed that he was desperately hurt, and that the hæmorrhage had already been severe. Then, too, the corners of his mouth were discoloured, while a few red drops hung on his chin. "It stands ter reason," said Steve, speaking as if he were arguing the matter out with himself, "that nature aer doing her best ter help Tusker. He aer scarcely breathing, fer the simple reason thet ef he was moving his chest same as you and me, and with it his lung, why the movement of the one that's wounded would make the loss of blood even wuss. Thet bein' so, we'll take a lesson from nature. Lend a hand. Reckon we'll roll him on ter the side that's damaged. The weight of his body will hold the ribs still, and so rest the wounded lung." Very carefully and tenderly did they set to work. An old but clean piece of linen was folded to form a dressing, and was saturated with clean, cold water. This was firmly secured to the wound in the chest by another strip of linen. Then a long pad was made with the help of a handkerchief, and some soft grass, and, having laid their pad over the dressing and its bandage, and round the chest, Steve cleverly passed a saddle girth under his patient, brought it round over the pad, and pulled it taut, till it seemed that he would arrest all movement of the ribs. Then the patient was gently rolled on to his wounded side again. "Thet aer takin' a lesson from Mother Nature," said Steve, surveying Tusker with some satisfaction. "He is still losing blood from the lung, as you kin see from what's coming from his lips. But that 'ere girth, and layin' him on his side, will quieten the movements of his chest, and jest give him a chance. Gee! I never worked harder to save a man. I feel as anxious about him as ef he war my father, and, I kin tell yer, it means a hull heap ter young Jack thar ef Tusker pulls round." No two nurses could have tended a patient with greater care and devotion than Steve and his fellow worker showed. They sat down in turn beside Tusker Joe, moistening his lips with water every now and again, whisking the flies away when they would have settled on his face, and holding themselves always in readiness to turn him if the position in which he was placed should appear to be harmful. But it quickly became apparent that Steve's common sense and his most valuable habit of close observation were to be rewarded. Nature, indeed, responded to the treatment, and before long it was clear that Tusker's condition, though still desperate, was slightly improved. The pallor of his face was not now so marked, while there was little if any bleeding from the lung. "He ain't likely ter die of loss of blood now, I reckon," said Steve, surveying him critically. "It aer the shock of the wound that's going ter kill Tusker. Jest set down beside him, mate, while I have a look at Jack." Late that evening the man who had ridden off to the settlement with a note from the sheriff returned, and with him a young surgeon. By then Jack had awakened, and, but for a slight headache and a good deal of stiffness, was himself again. Therefore there was no need for him to have attention. The surgeon at once went to Tusker's side, and for half an hour devoted all his skill to him. "If he lives I shall be surprised," he said at last, when he had done all that was possible. "I calculate that the ball was travelling in such a direction that it must have perforated the upper part of the lung--a part, in fact, of vital importance, seeing the size of the vessels there. In any case, the man who looked to him at first and bandaged him deserves a medal. It was the only treatment to adopt. I couldn't have done more myself. You can see for yourselves that, beyond replacing the dressing with one of suitable material, I have made no alteration." Steve went red at such commendation. "Yer don't live out on the plains fer nothing, mister," he growled. "Still, I'm glad we did the right thing." "You can take my word for it that you did," was the hearty answer. "All that I can suggest now refers to nourishment and covering." The night which followed was an anxious one in the camp. Jack could scarcely sleep for worrying, while Steve was on his feet continually, hovering about the wounded man; for it was by no means certain that Tusker would live even long enough to regain consciousness, and, if he were to regain his senses, who could say whether he could or would provide that evidence which was of such vital importance to Jack, and alone could clear him of the accusation for which he had been tried, and so nearly imprisoned. It was yet to be seen if our hero would ever clear his name, or be able to return to Hopeville in safety, and there prove, beyond a question of doubt, that he was entirely guiltless. CHAPTER XXIV A Great Acquittal Let the reader imagine with what anxiety Jack and his friends watched the struggle between life and death taking place in the case of Tusker Joe. There were days and days when the man lay an inert mass, unconscious, and too weak to move. Days when it appeared as if each minute would prove his last. Then, when all seemed lost, the brigand's extraordinary vitality gave him strength to rally. He turned the corner, mended slowly, and was at length strong enough to speak. "And now we kin move him ter the settlement," said the sheriff, who had been in almost daily attendance. He had, in fact, been a stanch friend to Jack and his mates, and had sent tents and provisions to them. "Once we have him and his comrade in the settlement, we'll get a couple of lawyers to come along with us, and we'll hold a sorter court, with witnesses ter take note of everything. In course he may refuse to speak. But Tusker aer on the long road. He's mended so far, but that hurt aer goin' ter prove fatal." That, indeed, had been the opinion of the surgeon, who also had made more than one trip out to the temporary camp beside the mountain, where the last of the brigands had been run to earth. "Shot through the chest," he declared grimly, "and may or may not make a recovery; but in any case it will be but temporary. My experience teaches me that the man's days are numbered." However, Tusker improved to such an extent that it became possible to move him. He was taken in a cart to the settlement, his wounded mate riding with him. As for the latter, he was even more grievously hurt, and his life still hung in the balance. "We might wait here a month and he be still the same," said the surgeon. "We will risk moving him. There is no other alternative." All this while Jack had been careful to keep away from the injured men. He had ridden back to the mine to report to Tom and the others what had happened, and had found them industriously delving and washing dirt in the cradles. They declared to him that the yield was, if anything, improving, and that there seemed to be a wealth of the shining metal still to be regained. "There ain't a doubt but what we've hit it rich," declared Tom the evening Jack arrived, "and ef we get the stuff ter the bank without meeting with any of the gentry as tried ter waylay you, we'll all have fortunes to our name. So you've got that man at last, Carrots? Don't you be downhearted. That Tusker will out with his evidence, and ye'll be cleared. They'll shout themselves hoarse when yer get back to Hopeville. Meanwhile me and the mates go on, and shares are divided same as before, so you, and Steve, and Tom, and Abe'll lose nothing. That's doin' things fair and square, same as we've always done." When Jack got back to the settlement, where Tusker was being cared for, Steve greeted him eagerly. "He'll talk, he will!" he cried. "I've been in ter see the man, and, I tell yer, he's changed. He reckons he's got the last call, and ain't much longer fer this world. He jest begged me ter overlook old days, and forgive him for what he's done. That bein' his mood, seems ter me as you'd best see him." That very evening, in fact, the surgeon having been consulted, Jack was ushered into the little wooden shanty where the wounded brigand lay. He was propped up in bed, and our hero was shocked at his appearance. The man was desperately thin and cadaverous, while there were heavy lines under his eyes. "Tusker," said Steve solemnly, "I've brought a young friend of mine ter see you, and afore yer take a look at him, or git talkin', I'd like to give you his history. Aer you game ter listen?" The wounded man motioned Steve to a chair, and scarcely looked at our hero. "Speak!" he said in a voice little above a whisper. "I will listen." "Then, here's the yarn. Jack Kingsley aer the son of a man called Tom--Tom Kingsley, from New York State--known in the minin' camps a dozen years ago as 'Lord Tom'. He war shot in a saloon by one called----" "Stop!" Tusker Joe's voice rose almost to a scream. "I know--I know the tale only too well. Believe me, mates, I would give the whole of my past life if I could undo what I have done. The memory of those crimes haunts me. And this is the son? I beg of him, I--I----" "That's done with, mate," said Steve kindly. "Thar comes a day when every man, as he looks back, sees things as he might ha' done better, things that shame him and make him wince. Ef ye've turned, as I believe yer have, why, then, I reckon your sorrow aer downright genuine. Yer can't give Lord Tom's life back to his son, so we'll let the matter be a bygone. But thar's more to tell, Tusker; more as has ter do with your actions. Listen for a spell." The little scout moistened his lips, and looked from Jack to the sick man. At any other time he would have despised himself for tormenting a poor wretch with such a tale, for torment the words he had uttered had been to Tusker. The man's drawn face showed it. It was cruel to persevere with the story, yet here, on this man's slender life, lay the success or failure of Jack's existence. "Wall, you've got ter hear it," said the little hunter, as gently as he could, "fer Jack here ain't never done nothin' ter harm you. He's as clean and straight and plucky a young fellow as ever I met, and ef ye're true to yerself, Tusker, he'll be able ter go back home ter his friends, and hold his head up before the world. Tusker, thar was a man same as you came to a town called Hopeville, this many months back, and got a young smith ter forge a key, stuffin' him with some simple yarn. That young chap war Jack here. He got suspicious, and happened by chance ter discover that the man fer whom he'd made the key were about ter attempt a burglary with a mate. He followed them, got right inter the house, and then war set upon by a caretaker who took him fer one of the burglars. Jack here war floored, and then the caretaker war shot by the burglars, who got clear away. Wall, when the officer came, the man as war hurt declared that Jack war one of the gang, and then died right off. Thar warn't no one to clear Jack, no one ter prove as he wasn't one of the gang, and he war put up fer trial. He'd have had ten years' imprisonment ef he hadn't bolted, and ef he ever goes back east he's sure to be taken. Tusker, the man who come fer that key war you. You're the only one as kin clear Jack and set him on his legs agin." It was a long speech. Steve had probably never before made such a lengthy one, and at the end he drew his hand across his forehead to wipe the perspiration away. Jack stepped into the centre of the room, where the light fell full upon him, while the sick man sat upright and stared eagerly into his face. Then he fell back wearily. "Everywhar the tale is the same," he groaned. "I have indeed done miserably with my life. I acknowledge that I was that man. Show me how I kin help ter right the wrong I have done." Waiting outside were the surgeon, the sheriff and two lawyers, besides a couple of independent witnesses, and Steve promptly ushered them in. "He'll speak," he said. "He acknowledges all." "Then we will get to business. See here, Tusker," said the sheriff kindly, taking the sick man's hand, "ye've got a real good chance ter do a good turn ter one ye've harmed. We've witnesses here. Tell us the tale of this burglary. Describe the place, the house, the rooms you entered, everything, in fact, that happened. Then, when the evidence is sent to Hopeville, thar won't be a shadow of doubt but that you war the man." It took more than an hour to take down the evidence, and true to his word Tusker gave every detail. Sketches were drawn of the house from his directions, the name and address of the owner of the cart he had hired were forthcoming, while he was even able to give the name of the man who had received the goods he had stolen. "And now," he said, more cheerfully, as if his action had taken some of the load from his mind, "I've heard that James Benson war the only other man of the gang caught alive, and that, like me, he ain't much longer fer this world. Wall, I said I'd do all I can. James war in that burglary too. Ef you want corroboration of the evidence, see him. Tell him I've spoken. Take his evidence separately. Thar won't, then, be a shadow of doubt." The other man, who alone with Tusker had lived to be captured, promptly agreed to tell his story when he heard what his chief had done. And, as may be imagined, the sheriff and his witnesses very carefully entered every particular, getting the man to sign his confession just as Tusker had done. "That's enough to clear a judge," said the sheriff, delight in his voice, when they had retired from the house. "Now, there's jest one more thing as the lawyers advise, and I agree with them that it would be well ef it war done. We'll call in two more sheriffs from the nearest townships, read this evidence over before them, and before Tusker and the man James, and then get them to attach their signatures and official seals. The expense will be trifling, and I'm sure havin' everythin' so up to date and orderly will prevent any little hitch arising. In course, ef it war possible, I'd say: Take Tusker and the other man right east with you to Hopeville. But that ain't ter be thought of. The journey would kill them." A week later our hero set out for San Francisco, Steve and one of the lawyers accompanying him. "It aer worth the expense," said Steve, when it was first suggested that a lawyer should be taken. "He'll be able ter prove the papers and the seals, and kin act as defence for yer. In course ye'll have ter surrender ter justice, and then apply fer bail. We'll draw some of our gains before movin'." Two months later they arrived in Hopeville, and Jack nearly startled the kindly James Orring out of his senses when he suddenly appeared at the forge. James stared at him as if he were a ghost, gripped his hand, and then, sinking his voice, and looking hastily over his shoulder, drew his late apprentice into the back of the smithy. "Glad, right glad to see yer, Jack," he said heartily; "but this aer rank foolishness. Thar's never a day passes but what Simpkins the constable gits nosing round here, as ef he expected ter suddenly find yer. He ain't been to-day. Guess he'll be about afore very long. Wall, what aer it? Short of money, lad?" Jack laughed, and, dipping his hand into his pocket, pulled out a roll of dollar bills. "Thanks, no," he said, still smiling. "I've come to hand myself over to the constable, please. Will you send for him?" It was a day of excitement for Hopeville, and for James and his wife in particular. Quick as a flash the news spread that the young smith who had made such a sensational escape from prison, and was being tried for burglary, had suddenly returned to face the justices. The rumour brought the pompous Simpkins bouncing along, and in a trice he had apprehended Jack. "At last!" he cried in triumph. "Back you come to the jail." "Stop, constable, I am a lawyer. I hold in this bag certain evidence of Mr. Jack Kingsley's innocence," exclaimed the lawyer, stepping forward. "My client hands himself over to the authorities of his own free will. We will walk to the office quietly, if you please." The lawyer's air of authority, and Jack's obvious elation, cooled the ardour of the constable, and, seeing that recourse to harsh measures might lead him into trouble, he surlily agreed to accompany them to the station. Once there, Jack was placed in the dock, for the justices happened to be sitting; and within an hour he was set at liberty, on bail. There is no need to describe how he was again put on his trial, and how, within two days of its commencement, he was acquitted, and discharged, amid the cheers of the populace. Indeed, he was become a hero, for Steve's tongue had been wagging more than it had ever done before. The people of Hopeville knew now that the young smith was not only entirely innocent, but that he was a lad after the real heart of an American, and one of whom they ought to be proud. Moreover, he was rich. Yes, Jack was rich, and proved it; for when he set his face again for California he left James Orring and his wife comfortably housed in a place of their own, with a goodly sum to keep them, and a man installed in the smithy to help with the work. His mother and other friends had also tasted of his generosity, while the constable and he had buried the hatchet, and were become fast friends. Jack returned with Steve to the mine in California, and, when it was sold, went back to New York State. But he did not idle his time away. He set up a number of smithies throughout the country, and managed them ably. When he was not travelling between one and another, he devoted all his time and energies to a special hobby. Recollecting his own strange and anxious experience, Jack studied the records of all criminal cases where the evidence had been contradictory and there seemed a possibility that an innocent man had been convicted. Expert lawyers and detectives advised him, and though he was not often successful, yet it is pleasant to have to relate that, now and again, in the course of years, he was able to bring relief to some poor fellow. Thus did he make good use of the gold he and Tom and the others had obtained in California. He married in due course, and lived to a fine old age. To-day there is no name held in higher esteem or remembered more kindly than that of Jack Kingsley. * * * * * BY CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON The Great Aeroplane. A Thrilling Tale of Adventure. Indian and Scout. A Tale of the Gold Rush to California. A Hero of Sedan. A Tale of the Franco-Prussian War. How Canada was Won. A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec. With Wolseley to Kumasi. A Story of the First Ashanti War. Roger the Bold. A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico. A Knight of St. John. A Tale of the Siege of Malta. With the Dyaks of Borneo. A Tale of the Head Hunters. Foes of the Red Cockade. A Story of the French Revolution. John Bargreave's Gold. A Tale of Adventure in the Caribbean. Roughriders of the Pampas. A Tale of Ranch Life in South America. Jones of the 64th. A Tale of the Battles of Assaye and Laswaree. With Roberts to Candahar. A Tale of the Third Afghan War. A Hero of Lucknow. A Tale of the Indian Mutiny. A Soldier of Japan. A Tale of the Russo-Japanese War. In the Grip of the Mullah. A Tale of Adventure in Somaliland. Under the Spangled Banner. A Tale of the Spanish-American War. In the King's Service. A Tale of Cromwell's Invasion of Ireland. A Gallant Grenadier. A Story of the Crimean War. With Rifle and Bayonet. A Story of the Boer War. One of the Fighting Scouts. A Tale of Guerrilla Warfare in South Africa. The Dragon of Pekin. A Story of the Boxer Revolt. With Shield and Assegai. A Tale of the Zulu War. 
48142	----	Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 48142-h.htm or 48142-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/48142/48142-h/48142-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/48142/48142-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/adventuresoftwoa00crum Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ALABAMA BOYS [Illustration: W. B. CRUMPTON H. J. CRUMPTON "The Boys" as they looked then] THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ALABAMA BOYS In Three Sections by H. J. and W. B. CRUMPTON Part One The Adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton, of Piedmont, California, in his efforts to reach the Gold Fields in 1849 Part Two The Adventures of Rev. W. B. Crumpton, going to and returning from California, including his Lecture, "The Original Tramp, or How a Boy Got through the Lines to the Confederacy" Part Three To California and Back after a Lapse of Forty Years Montgomery, Ala. The Paragon Press 1912 Copyright 1912 by W. B. Crumpton Printed at the Paragon Press Dedication We dedicate the little booklet to our children. Maybe others will be interested also. We are certain there are important lessons here for young people, who are in earnest. For the frivolous and thoughtless there is nothing. "_The Boys._" Foreword. THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ALABAMA BOYS was prepared some years ago with the view of putting it in book form; but "The Boys" have been so very busy the publication has been delayed. SECTION ONE contains the adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton, a native of Wilcox county, but since '49 a citizen of California, now residing on a beautiful spot in Piedmont, a suburb of the city of Oakland. These incidents which he relates, his baby brother, the writer of these lines, heard when he was a scrap of a boy. They made a profound impression on his youthful mind, and he has ever cherished the hope that some day he might see them in print. They were prepared at my earnest solicitation. I feel sure it was no easy task to dig up from memory almost forgotten incidents and put them in shape for the reader. At this writing, though he is advanced in years, past eighty-four, the good wife writes: "He is smart and active as ever--walks fifteen miles and it doesn't feaze him." One of the most noted buildings in San Francisco is that of the Society of California Pioneers, of which Society he is an honored member and a Vice-President. His opinion of politics one can discover by a letter to the writer. He says: "I am forced to the conclusion, after serving in the Legislature of my adopted State several terms and in a local municipality, that politics is a filthy pool." An opinion shared by a good many others. Some are said to be born politicians; but I am sure none were born in the Crumpton family. Every one of the name I have ever known, felt great interest in all public questions and had opinions about them, but office seeking has not been to their liking. A family trait is, an undying love for the old haunts. This caused the old Forty Niner, when he possessed the means to do so, to purchase the old farm of his father, fulfilling in part, no doubt, a dream of his youthful days. Though in the land of the enemy he was loyal to the South during the war between the States, proving his faith by his works when he invested much of his means in Confederate Bonds. The Confederacy failing, of course this was a clear loss to him. Just at the breaking out of the Civil War, he returned to California to look after his interests there and to see what had become of me. If the reader will turn to my letters which follow, he will get the connection. He failed to tell a most interesting event in his history: When a miner, he often took on his knee a wee-bit of a girl, Mattie by name, the daughter of William Jack, a sturdy old Scotch-Irishman, from Beloit, Wis. She called him "sweetheart," and he often took her pledge to be his wife some day. Sure enough, the old bachelor waited, and little Mattie has been for many years the mistress of his home. In one of the most cozy cottages of Sausalito, nestling against the mountain, with the Bay and the City of San Francisco at its front, it was my pleasure to visit the little family some years ago. It had been forty years since I had seen my brother. In her father's home in 1862, near Beloit, I had spent two months delightfully, while stealthily preparing to make my way through the lines to the Confederacy. I know it was in his heart to tell of his wife and his charming daughter, Clara, the light and joy of the home; but the burden of writing was too much, and abruptly he gave up the job. I am glad indeed the Adventures begin with something of the family history. He is the only member of the family remaining who knows anything about it (there are only two of us now). I am mortified that I failed to find out some of the facts from my father, who was so long with me in his old age. My brother, after his adventurous life in the mines, served his adopted State in the Legislature and later settled down, after graduation, to the practice of medicine, a profession he seemed to have a liking for from his boyhood. At this writing he is a citizen of Piedmont, California. He is hale and hearty and says that in 1915, when the Panama Canal is opened, he is going to visit the States again and bring his wife. Every foot of the route across the Isthmus will be familiar, as he crossed it several times, one time partly on foot, before the railroad was completed. W. B. CRUMPTON. Montgomery, Ala. Part One By H. J. Crumpton The Adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton of Piedmont, California, in his efforts to reach the Gold Fields in 1849 Recollections of the family life; Arrival in Alabama; Moves to town; Changes vocation; Becomes a printer; The Mexican War; Starts on his wanderings; The gold excitement; Starts for the Far West; New acquaintances; Another start West; Strikes out all alone; A plunge in the overflow; Falls in with the military; Strikes hands with old friends; Food scarce; Confronted by Indians; Alone again; Reaches California; Loses his oxen; In God's country at last; Gets a job; Takes sail; Hears sad tidings; No pay for services; At Oro City; In the mines; At rough-and-ready; Starts back home; In a wreck; On the Panama; In New Orleans; Finds his brother; Detained in Mobile; Business complications; Back to the mines; Returns to Alabama; Opinion about slavery. [Illustration: decoration] Part One MY DEAR Brother Wash: You asked me to prepare some notes on the wanderings of an Alabama Boy. To do this from memory after such a lapse of time will be somewhat inaccurate and prosy, I fear. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE FAMILY LIFE. Our parents were married about 1816. Mother was Miss Matilda Smith Bryan and father Henry T. Crumpton. Both sprang from honorable, well-to-do people from revolutionary sires, who were soldiers of distinction under General Francis Marion. Our maternal grandfather was Rev. Richard Bryan, a Methodist preacher. Our parents started married life in Walterboro, Colleton District, S. C., where were born to them Mary, Richard Alexander, Maranda Ann, Henry Thomas, Hezekiah John, (myself, born Sept. 18, 1828), and William Zachariah; the balance of the ten children, afterwards born in Alabama were James Henderson, Martha Matilda, Jane Eliza, and Washington Bryan, yourself, the baby. All have now passed into the life beyond except you and me. In Walterboro our father developed into something of a plunger in the financial world; made several successful deals, later formed a partnership--the other fellow furnishing experience, our progenitor the "dough." They invested in the purchase and driving of cattle to supply the Charleston beef market. They succeeded well, always re-investing original capital and profit in another and bigger lot, finally meeting a calamity by the drowning of the whole herd in attempting to cross a swollen stream, Broad River, perhaps at its mouth and perhaps from not knowing of the ebb and flow of the tide, though living within forty miles of the coast. With a feeling of disgust, following this financial collapse, our father sought new environment, and by the aid of kins folk loaded up family and household belongings in 1832 and struck out through the wilderness for Alabama, across Georgia through the Chickasaw and Choctaw nations, before the removal of those and other friendly tribes was completed to the territory now forming part of the State of Oklahoma. ARRIVAL IN ALABAMA. After a dreary trip, we safely landed at the delightful home of grandmother Bryan near "Fort Rascal," now Pleasant Hill, Dallas Co. We afterwards moved to old Cahaba, where our father succeeded well in business. The arrival of a steamboat was quite an event, occurring maybe once a month; everybody turned out. They had a crude way of loading cotton. A bale was carelessly turned loose and rolled over our brother Henry, who sustained injuries from which he died. This was such a shock for poor mother, it was determined best to have a change of scenes. Our family removed from old Cahaba to Farmersville, a little hamlet in Lowndes county. One thing about our stay there is vividly remembered. A dear, good old soul, named Ingram, was my school teacher in the log-cabin school house. He didn't know much and didn't try to fool anybody; but he was a great stickler for what he called "etiket"--was bent on teaching his children good manners. Just about all of Friday was devoted to this stunt. It was quite a relief, after we got rid of our bashfulness. The previous four days, twelve hours each, with our prosy studies, put us in good shape for a change on Friday. The dear old fellow managed to work in more or less change of program from time to time; but one inflexible feature was to send one of the girls out of one of the side doors, then detail some boy to go out the other, to escort her back and introduce her to each one of the whole school, an ordeal to which every boy and girl had to be subjected. Some regarded this as a hardship, but to this degenerate son of Adam 'twas always a roaring farce and as good as a circus! Our family about this time came into possession of quite an inheritance, which was added to the proceeds from sale of the effects at Cahaba, and invested in a fine body of land, about the junction of Grindstone and Bear Creeks, in Wilcox county. Our charming new home was built on high ground on Dogwood Level, a little way from the farm, where we had a spring of fine water and plenty of good air. By this time three of us boys were big enough to work and strong, willing workers we were. With no experience and not always guided in our farming, we got along better than neighbors to the manner born, and were learning and doing fairly well. It was perhaps the mistake of a lifetime to accept an offer to sell the whole outfit, at figures far in advance of cost or apparent present value, to people who knew a good thing when they saw it--the Maxwells--a noble acquisition to that then border settlement. MOVED TO TOWN. We moved to the county seat, Barbersville, now Camden, and went into the hotel business. We furnished a good table, clean house, clean beds, was popular and crowded from the start--lots of old family friends from far and near, called for entertaining whom it would have been an outrage on Southern hospitality to tender, or accept compensation. In this way all profits were "chawed up"--a mighty poor way to run a hotel. But we older boys were pretty good hustlers, earned enough to help along, tiding over and in the education of the younger children. _My first stunt_ in that direction was starting an express and stage line. Carried passengers and freight between our town and Bridgeport, nearest landing on the Alabama River. My outfit was a one-horse affair with a highly prized annex--an undersized black cur, "Beaver,"--worthless in the estimation of everyone, other than his affectionate owner. About this time, two enterprising young men from New England started a general store at the landing. On a return trip from the East to buy goods, one of them brought with him a large Newfoundland dog--the first one in those parts, which he "sicked" onto Beaver. Owing to the difference in size, results were quick and one-sided. Seeing me crying in affectionate, helpless distress, the fellow had the heartless bad taste to exultingly ask: "What do you think of that, young man?" My response between sobs was: "You, a big man, made a big dog lick a little boy's little dog. By and by, I will be as big as you and will then do to you what has been done today to my Beaver." Years afterwards, when, perhaps, as the first successful Californian to return, the people of dear old Camden tendered me quite an ovation, he of the dog fight, among them, was loud in expressing welcome and personal admiration, which made it deucedly bad taste in me to allude to the old thing, by saying: "If now the attempt was made to execute the promised retaliation, it would show a malicious, revengeful spirit, without in any way changing what occurred in the long ago, so please consider the incident closed," and so it was with a snap. CHANGE OF VOCATION. Maybe the dog fight prompted a change of vocation to that of mail carrier, on horse back or mule back, the route extending from Cahaba down the river by Cambridge[A] to Prairie Bluff, across the river and up by old Canton, to Camden, Bells Landing, Claiborne, thence to Stockton, in Baldwin county, and serving intervening post offices. It required six days to make a round trip with the seventh day off, Thursday, either at Stockton or the other end. At Stockton, as a government attaché one had the privilege to go on the mail boat to Mobile and return after a stay of five hours--quite a treat for a country boy. Whereas, a day off at the other end involved an extra ride of ten miles to Selma and return, because the contractor lived there, and thus saved the keep of boy and horse in Cahaba. [A] The post office at Cambridge was in the home of a planter, C. M. Cochran, H. J. C. carried the mail into that home many a time, about the time the other Alabama boy was born. Into that home the latter entered in 1870 and took the baby daughter of the old post master to be his wife. The post office has been long known as Crumptonia.--W. B. C. With an ambition to do faithful and efficient service, reckless risks were some times taken. I once got into Flat Creek, when the old worn-out mule was unable to stem the stiff current. We were carried down stream toward the river not far away. A friendly overhanging grape-vine gave me a stopping place and not far below the mule lodged in a submerged tree-top. My lusty yells brought the good Samaritan. When about to swim out to rescue me, he was disgusted when told to first save the mule and mail. This he did in good shape; meantime, I did my own swimming. The water was emptied out of the mail bag, the bag thrown across the saddle, the mule mounted, and away we went for a bridge several miles up the stream. Maybe it was not the same old mule which about a year afterwards laid down and died suddenly, some eight miles from our terminal point, Cahaba. Slinging saddle, bridle, and mail bag over my shoulder, the balance of the trip was made on foot and the mail delivered on time. When next pay day came around, the old contractor placed his own value on the mule and took same out of my wages. My job was thrown up immediately and suit commenced for the amount due, but tiring of the law's delay, the case was allowed to lapse, and the wretch allowed the comfort of having beaten a boy out of hard earned wages. Doubtless he has long since passed to the beyond. He was outwardly a devout and sanctimonious man; if one were sure he is now enjoying a state of heavenly bliss, it would more than justify a belief in universal salvation. BECOMES A PRINTER. My next work was an apprentice in a printing office--a fine school for a boy with an ambition to learn. Those capable of judging soon began to credit me with quick, accurate work. 'Twas a misfortune perhaps, and entailed following hardships to have an early ambition for something beyond--commenced "reading medicine"--generally in hours stolen from sleep or out-door exercise and sunshine. MEXICAN WAR. When the war with Mexico commenced, brothers William and Richard went as volunteers, the latter on a very short enlistment, and afterwards wrote he had declined further service in the ranks, having secured employment more lucrative in the quartermaster's employment. Although not exactly fair thus to leave the old folks alone with a number of younger children, I left for Memphis, Tenn., soon after the other boys went to Mexico and matriculated as a student in a medical college. I paid my way by working between times in a printing office. There I remained for two years and made fine progress. I was still under age, and on some account I concluded there would be but little honor in attaining a degree from that school, so I determined for a time to suspend further efforts in that direction. I was growing up thin and cadaverous looking, longing for out-door life, so I left Memphis with a view of joining brother Richard on the Rio Grande frontier. Upon my arrival at New Orleans, May 1848, peace was declared with Mexico. Concluding that our brothers and all other American troops would come home soon, I returned to our home in Camden. William came before a great while, but Richard wrote he had joined a Major Graham's party soon to leave the Rio Grande frontier to take possession of this recently acquired territory, California, as a part of the rich spoils of war. Upon learning this, my purpose was at once declared to join him as soon as possible, though having next to nothing financially to go on. This was before the finding of gold there had been announced to us. A man, Kilpatrick by name, from Clark county, had been quite sick in Camden, under treatment of Dr. Bryant. More as a nurse than a half-baked doctor, he had been cared for by me also, for which there was quite a sum due. Announcing to him my purpose, and asking payment for amount due, he, like others, was shocked at so desperate an undertaking, but said my claim would be paid as soon as he could obtain money from home. This emergency was soon bridged over by his giving me a check on his folks for the amount. STARTS ON HIS WANDERINGS. So I packed my belongings into a pair of old saddle-bags, which was sent down the river to Mobile. I collected every cent due me in Camden and struck out across country for Kilpatrick's home in Clark county on foot. In those days it was rare to see a decent appearing white chap thus traveling. White folks looked askance and suspicious, and the darkies wondered. It was a comfort to hear a darky say to her companions: "Yander boy haint no po' white trash." She didn't know how scantily filled was my purse. The Kilpatricks treated me like a prince, paid me liberally for services to afflicted relative, urged me to stay with them longer, and bade me Godspeed in my desperate undertaking. Resuming my tramp, it was not far to the Tombigbee, where a steamboat picked me up and in due time landed me in Mobile, where my first care was to hunt up my old saddle-bags. I forgot to pay the consignee, who perhaps thought me a rich planter's son, whose cotton crop he hoped to handle later on. THE GOLD EXCITEMENT. By this time the great gold discoveries were known the world over. At New Orleans I saw a circular sent out from Fort Smith, Ark., "Ho, for California Gold Mines!" It went on to say that an expedition was fitting out at that point, soon to start overland. After some mistakes enroute, I reached Ft. Smith, perhaps in Oct. 1848, to be informed that the expedition was only in its incipiency, not to leave there until the following spring, which was just as well for me, as most of my scanty funds had been used up. I was fortunate indeed in finding work. I was never idle a day, so that within six months, I accumulated quite a little sum. I suppose I had the appearance of being an undersized country boy; but everybody soon saw a quick willingness to do diligently any task given me. 'Twas soon my good fortune to fall in with John F. Wheeler, an old Georgian, who had married a Cherokee--an intelligent, educated woman. They had a number of children, mostly girls, all well behaved. He owned the Fort Smith Herald, put me to work, took me into his family, a delightful, cheerful home. When spring opened, mostly through him, terms were made for my transportation with dear old Charley Hudspeth, who showed the affection of a father for his son. STARTS FOR THE FAR WEST. We left Fort Smith April 12th, 1849, traveled westerly up the Canadian river through the territory of the Choctaws and other of those friendly tribes, who had been moved from Georgia, Alabama and other Southern States. Thence our route of travel was westerly up that river through the present territory of Oklahoma, up onto broad open plains to Sante Fe, Albuquerque, thence down the Rio Grande to near El Paso, thence to Tucson, to the Pimo villages, down the Gila to the Colorado, where Fort Yuma now is, thence across the Great American Desert, and so through arable California to Los Angeles, to San Pedro, thence by Barque Hector, by sea, to San Francisco. Some little distance from Ft. Smith, our route of travel was mostly through low valley lands with a number of rather large streams, with considerable rain, hence our progress was rather slow. After going about 150 miles, my leg became seriously injured from a horse floundering in the mud. This injury in such surroundings grew rapidly more serious. Two reputable medical men in the train gave me kind treatment and rather gloomy prognostications, hinting at the possibilities of amputation. Though they knew no more than this half-baked doctor, everything tended to make me despondent. Just then a young man, whose wealthy father lived in Ft. Smith, and who knew of the friendship of old John Wheeler and family for me, said: "Young fellow, you are in a bad fix. You had better return and let those Wheeler girls and their mother take care of you and you'll soon be as good as new--don't say you can't stand the trip--you can ride horse-back. There is one of my best horses, saddle, bridle and lariat; take them and deliver them to my father at Ft. Smith." Others thought well of this scheme, which rekindled a tender feeling for one of the half-breed Cherokee girls and made me feel homesick. So it did not take much persuasion to start me on the back out trip, dear old Charlie Hudspeth having refunded all I had paid him. Soon afterwards I was taken in for the night by a Choctaw family. Though full blooded Indians, they were intelligent, well-to-do people, who treated me with royal hospitality. I made myself solid with them by saying my people knew their's well and were always on friendly terms with them before removal from Southern States. When they were told of my having lived with the Wheeler family, though the latter were Cherokees, they made me feel very much at home. There was a continuous rain and they prevailed on me to remain until its subsidence--which was not for several days--and had the effect to overflow a large stream nearby. Remembering some of my bad luck in high water when a mail carrier, I determined not to take any chances now--happy indeed in having so good a stopping place. Cleanliness and rest worked wonders in my injured leg within the few days thus waterbound. NEW ACQUAINTANCES. There came along a pack train bound for California and camped on the opposite side of the stream. Tired waiting the subsidence of the flood they hired the Indians to help them across. The Indians constructed a rude raft, on which the trappings and cargoes of the mules and their owners were placed and drawn with ropes across. The Indians, almost naked, were in the water steering the mules across--doing the job in splendid way. This pack train turned out to be a part of a large wagon train, several days in advance of them, whom, from the description, I knew were traveling near my old party. When it came to paying the Indians for their arduous ferry job, the packers did not have ready money enough and, like so many others when dealing with Indians, did not know the importance of being civil. The Indians were very indignant and did not believe that they were short of the ready. Things began to look serious. ANOTHER START WEST. My own physical condition was changing so rapidly for the better, my old enthusiasm for the westward trip only required a little to change my course in that direction; so, to relieve these fellows of their dilemma, I offered to advance the balance due the Indians and go along with them until we overtook their wagon train, when the amount due me should be refunded. This was readily agreed to and the Indians' claim amicably adjusted. The family with whom I had been stopping would accept no compensation for their kindness to me, so I bade them an affectionate adieu and departed. In due time, traveling with the packers, we overtook their wagon train; the amount due me was promptly repaid. My own old party was reported several days ahead. We were then beyond low, swampy land, onto broad, open plains on the border of the Kiowas, Comanches, and other warlike tribes of Indians. We were at a point where most of the teams had crossed from the South to the North side of the Canadian river. STRIKES OUT ALL ALONE. I chose to follow the track of the lesser number, who continued up on the southerly side of that great stream. I passed a number of detached small parties, but soon found myself beyond all in sight, and alone on broad, treeless plains, with now and then a clump of willows or a lone cotton tree, showing where the river was. Thus passed two anxious days. During the afternoon of the third day, several shallow ponds of water were crossed, some a quarter of a mile in extent, but only a few inches deep. A little after dark, I found quite a beaten track, showing a large number of wagons had recently passed; felt somewhat relieved, hoping soon to fall in with some one. A PLUNGE IN THE OVERFLOW. Perhaps about nine o'clock, I came to a body of water, which I mistook for another shallow pond, such as had been previously encountered, but in a little time I was in swimming water, in a strong, rapid current. The horse, as badly panic stricken as the rider, could not, or would not swim and was soon rolling down the current like a barrel. For some time I could not detach my feet from the little yankee stirrups. When released, I swam until able to stand a moment with head above water. The horse was out in the current and neighed pitifully for help. Swimming out to him and catching the bridle, we successfully landed on the same side we started in. Although it was a cool evening, instead of having my only coat on, it hung carelessly on the horn of the saddle, and my Alabama saddle bags and a pair of blankets were thrown loosely across the saddle with some provisions. All these floated down the river. With the lariat, which had fortunately been saved, the horse was picketed on the leeside of a bunch of willows. Covered with the wet saddle blanket, he fared fairly well in the luxuriant grass. To save myself from freezing, I cut with my big jack-knife a lot of willow twigs, and piled them in a heap. Wiggling myself into the center of this, I found a perfect shield from the raw wind and never had a more comfortable, sound sleep all night. I was disgusted with myself in the morning to discover this was the crossing place of the Canadian river of the emigrants who had been traveling up the North side and that when striking their road the night before, 'twas my fate to take the wrong end and was on the back track to Fort Smith, when entering the river. FELL IN WITH THE MILITARY. I resumed a westerly course next morning. After traveling all day, badly scared by plenty of signs of hostile Indians, was overjoyed to see friendly camp-fires ahead, which proved to be a military escort which accompanied us to Santa Fe. They treated me hospitably, after hearing my tale of woe. Up to the time I got into the river, although I had some provisions, I had no relish for them, owing, I suppose, to my fear of Indians, and the uncertainty about the route of travel. I was well prepared now to fill up with the ample lay-out presented by my military entertainers. The incident was mentioned in their report to the Government of Captain Mercey's Santa Fe expedition from Fort Smith Spring of 1849. STRIKES HANDS WITH OLD FRIENDS. I rejoined my old party the next afternoon; was received with surprise and great enthusiasm. The horse and outfit was returned to his owner and dear old Charlie Hudspeth treated me as a returned lost son, sound and well every way, and fully reinstated me as one of the party. I was a general chore boy, looking up camping sites, starting fires, procuring wood and water, driving team, or looking out for stock; most of the time traveled on foot. While a mail carrier, I had learned to ride and stay on most any kind of a "critter." So while enroute, I rode everything placed in my charge, steer, cow, mule or bronco, thus I had many a lift when tired of tramping. We passed through safely the many warlike tribes before reaching New Mexico. By the time we reached Santa Fe, we realized it would take a much longer time to make the trip clear across than at first anticipated and that provisions would be short. FOOD SCARCE. We were disappointed, too, in not being able to replenish by purchase from the Mexicans--only in stinted quantities. We were disappointed also in seeing but few buffaloes, from which source we had expected to get all the additional meat we might require. At that time there were still millions roaming the plains. Their habit was to start from Canada at the approach of winter, feeding Southward, wintering in Northern Texas, Mexico and Indian Territory, starting Northward, as spring approached, back to their Northern feeding grounds. In traveling down the Great Rio Grande Valley, a very rich country from Albuquerque to near El Paso, we were some times able to buy beans. Further on we found an abundance of muskeet--a wild locust which bore a sort of bean, fine food for man or beast. But we had to live on restricted rations for a long time. _It was an unwritten law that women and children should eat all they wanted._ Being a stunted, undersized boy, just taking on new growth, consequently requiring more than a fully developed man, it was a particular hardship not to be let in as a juvenile with the women. All of us soured. We grew crabbed and cross, forgetting what the Good Book says: "A soft answer turneth away wrath." There were bickerings and quarrels and bloodshed. Presuming on our escape from Indian depredations, we began to grow careless. After leaving the Rio Grande Valley, we camped one night without water,--disappointed in not reaching the Rio Mimbles. Next morning we started early without breakfast. Nearly every one on horse-back shoved out ahead. Soon there was a line of timber in sight, where we felt sure there was water. Having a small band of cattle under my charge, one of them was mounted, and the band crowded ahead. In a little while I was some distance ahead of the train of wagons when, as if springing out of the ground, three Apache Indians, splendidly mounted, confronted me. ALONE CONFRONTED BY INDIANS. My feelings might have found utterance as follows: "Well, boy, there is one chance in a thousand for you to get out of this alive--that one chance consists in concealing from them that you are scared nearly to death." Having picked up considerable Spanish during the short contact with the Mexicans, which the border tribes all speak fluently, they were invited to go into camp with me, that we had some nice presents for them, naming such things as were thought most acceptable to them. In the meantime I had dismounted from my steed and advanced to the one supposed to be the leader and offered to shake hands with him. After a little conversation with his fellows, he seized my hand, not so as to give me pain, but with a grip it would have been useless to pull away from had he willed it otherwise. Being right over me on his horse, he looked at me so piercingly that the effect was transmitted to the region of the stomach, where there was a death-like chilliness. My weight being less, perhaps, than 100 pounds, my uppermost thought was, how easy for him to lift me across his saddle and, with his comrades, fly away to the mountains and have a war dance while burning me at the stake. All this while he was telling how good he thought me. To my surprise the invitation was accepted, and we took up the line of march for camp, one of the yellow devils in the rear and one on each side of the little band of cattle and the badly scared boy who kept jabbering away, afraid to stop lest his knees would give way. They acted on my suggestion to go out and get some horses and mules and bring them in, as we wanted some and would give good prices. ALONE AGAIN. Being left alone by them, I was glad to pile down on the side of the road and wait for the wagon train and go to camp with them. No matter what their original purpose, these Indians never returned to our camp. Another and bigger band had just returned into the same mountain and doubtless were joined by my entertainers with a drove of stock stolen from the Mexicans; but a band of our troops followed and recovered the stock after a sharp fight. These border tribes had for all time gone on such forays according to their own sweet will and got away with the spoils before the poor Mexicans got ready to hit back. Through our late acquisition of territory, these Mexicans received protection from our troops. This the Indians resented, regarding the border settlements as their special preserves, the engagement referred to being the commencement of an interminable war. Our party escaped without trouble, but those behind us and poor Mexicans by the score were destroyed before the almost annihilation of all these border tribes. REACHES CALIFORNIA. After considerable privation, we finally reached California by crossing the Colorado river, where Fort Yuma now is, into the Great American Desert, where we found things more tolerable than anticipated. A large area of the so-called desert is far below the sea-level and there had been a vast inflow of fresh water the past season from the great Colorado river. A rank growth of green grass and other vegetation awaited our coming and deep pools furnished an abundance of pure, cool water. We at last reached settlements where we could replenish our stores and where there was plenty of game. LOST HIS OXEN. Soon after reaching the first settlement, a loose yoke of oxen was lost through my carelessness and I stopped behind to hunt them. I found them after looking thirty-six hours, just at dark the second night, and started with them, on foot, to overtake my party. I had nothing to eat during the time, traveled all night, and next morning at eight o'clock met two of my comrades starting back to hunt me. They had killed a fine, fat deer, and had a four quart bucket full of stewed venison with dumplings made of unbolted flour, a repast fit to set before a king. That layout was set before me and the void from a forty-eight hours' fast was soon filled. The boys stared at the almost empty pail, being told 'twas the first eaten since we parted two days before. IN GOD'S COUNTRY AT LAST. One was justified in feeling, under the circumstances, that at last he had found "God's Country." We now leisurely moved along and reached Los Angeles in due time, where our party broke up. Some sold off their stock; others drove on, or packed through to the southern gold fields; others took shipping for San Francisco. Having nothing to go farther on, it was necessary for me to find work. My employer was old Abel Stearnes, an old settler, a Scotchman, who had married into a noble Castilian family. He was well-to-do, a merchant. When asked what I could do, I replied: "O, anything." "Which means you are trained to nothing!" was his reply. I said: "Not exactly, I am a doctor." With a grunt he mumbled out "You are a h---- of a looking doctor!" GOT A JOB. Agreeing with him on that proposition, I replied: "Well, I don't expect to doctor you, but surely you can use me some way to your benefit and to mine." After thus tantalizing me and taking my measure, he called a peon, whom I found to be an easy boss, and I was placed beside himself digging and shoveling, took his gait, which was much more easy than the Southern darkey. Later on the old man came out and said: "Come in now, we are going to have dinner." This first invitation for a square meal within six months was embarrassing. In my thread-bare, unkempt condition, I felt myself unfit to dine with an elegant family. The old Don took in the situation and walked away, to reappear after perhaps an hour, renewing his invitation, as I supposed, to dine with the servants; but there was a retinue of them to wait on me, no one else at the table. 'Twas a magnificent spread, fit to set before royalty. Knowing very little about liquor of any sort, I did not understand the Don, when he said in setting a well-filled decanter before me: "Here is some fine old dry Sherry; help yourself, it won't hurt you." To verify his last assertion, he poured out a goblet full and tossed it down, smacked his lips, then poured out another for me, which was disposed of as per his request, to discover that there was nothing dry about the transaction except the half-starved immigrant. The servants were amazed, and in a quiet way, had fun among themselves to see the amount of provender absorbed, washed down by the _dry_ liquid condiment. The wit of their party, a bright Indian girl, said in Spanish: "He is little and long with big room inside." They had their own fun, assuming my ignorance of the language, as they spoke in Spanish. This was the commencement of a pleasant stay with the family, as one of them. After a good clean-up and fresh raiment obtained, I did not shovel and pick with the peon any more. I was placed apparently on waiting orders at fair wages while apparently the old Don sized me up. Later on he was taken aback when he found that my purpose was to reach San Francisco as soon as possible. I hoped by being there to be sooner placed in communication with Brother Richard. He then told me he had purposed placing me in his large mercantile establishment, believing the young immigrant to be a trustworthy and competent employe, he wanted me to abandon all thought of San Francisco and the mines, by remaining with him, as more likely to trace our Brother from that point. When told that it was too late, that passage for San Francisco had already been secured on the Barque Hector, then at San Pedro, some twenty miles from Los Angeles, he paid me liberally for my services, gave me a fine pair of Mexican blankets and provisions for the trip. TO TAKE SAIL. Before declaring my plans and purposes to Don Abel, I had met in Los Angeles the owner of the barque, who offered to take me up to San Francisco on credit for part or all of the passage money. At the port of San Pedro, there were so many wanting to go that it was beyond the legal limit. All had to sign papers securing the owner against prosecution for violating the law. The owner turned out to be Capt. Alex Bell, brother to Col. Minter's wife, then living on Mush Creek, near Pleasant Hill, in Alabama. HEARS SAD TIDINGS. In signing my name, he asked: "Are you one of the Alabama Crumptons?" "Yes," was the reply. "Was Dick your brother?" "Yes." "He's dead, poor fellow; died with cholera at Camargo when about to start with Major Graham's party for the Coast." Seeing my distress and shock from such intelligence, he said: "Be of good cheer, my dear boy; Dick was a noble friend to me, I'll be a brother to you." Of course this was comforting. Bell, besides cleaning up quite a lot of money by his passengers, had bought a lot of produce on speculation, jerked beef, dried grapes and corn in the ear. Upon arrival in San Francisco and discharging the passengers, he bought two corn shellers, the only such machines on the coast, and put me to work with others shelling the corn. We did good work and were fed well, an important item for us who had been so long on short rations. The crew of the ship cleared out for the mines. A ship at anchor in port requires considerable work and attention to keep everything in shipshape, work landmen knew nothing about, but we consented to do as best we knew. It wasn't long, however, before the officers of the ship got overbearing and abusive. "D--n your eyes! Avast there!" etc. We struck and went ashore. NO PAY FOR SERVICES. There was quite a sum due me beyond payment of my passage money. This Bell refused to pay, except on condition that there was a return to the ship and the job finished. Refusing to do this, the balance was lost, although he promised to be a brother by proxy. Others sued and got their money. Three others and myself found a job burning charcoal and chopping cord wood from the scrub oaks on the adjacent hills. I remarked to my comrades that I knew nothing about such work. They said it was all right and they would give me a full show and do most of the hard work. It was a standoff, by my cooking and doing other camp duties and marketing our products. Thus we earned enough to get an outfit for the mines. AT ORO CITY. We went on a little sloop to Sacramento and from there up the river to where a man had laid out what he called Oro City. He hired us to clear out snags and sawyers, so as to make Bear river navigable down to its mouth into the Feather river, perhaps two miles below. He offered us $12.00 a day without keep, or $8.00 a day and keep, and a place to sleep in our blankets. To make a dead sure thing we accepted the $8.00 per day and keep. The old man had a nice family, a good, motherly wife and two grown daughters, who made it pleasant for us. We got along and gave satisfaction. We noticed, however, frequent half and sometimes whole days off when we were idle. Notwithstanding such loss of time, we did not complain at first, but grew restive and determined to resume our tramp to the mines. When coming to a settlement we fell far short of getting what we thought justly due. For Sunday we were charged $4.00 for a day's board and the same for each day laid off during the week and $2.00 for each half day that the old fellow failed to furnish work. After accepting these harsh terms, the wise guy of our party vouchsafed the following: "Well, old Rooster, although masquerading as an honest old Missouri farmer, in thus tricking us boys, had we stayed much longer, we'd have been in your debt. In this transaction you have out-yanked the shrewdest Yankee we have thus far met." IN THE MINES. We struck the mines at the mouth of Deer creek, where it empties in the Yuba river, and worked along the banks, finally settling in a comfortable camp where the splendid little mountain city, Nevada, has since grown up. We were lucky in soon having good returns for our work, beyond what the Oro City man had promised us, and so continued until the spring of 1850. Then we secured a promising layout on the upper South Yuba river, perhaps thirty miles away, and commenced active operations to turn the river as soon as the snow water subsided. Results were not satisfactory, blowing into the Yuba Dam all our previous earnings. I returned to Sacramento, lured thither by a $200.00 per month job offered me on my way up to the mines. But the immigration of 1850 was arriving, and Sacramento was full of idle men, glad to work on any terms offered, so my traps were shouldered for a start back for the mines, where a new location was made. AT ROUGH-AND-READY. Met with good success during the following winter, in the spring of 1851 another change was made, to Auburn, then called Woods' Dry Diggings. Here I staid with good success until the fall of 1853. I determined to visit the old folks at home and to finish my medical studies at New Orleans. Accompanying me was my dear old mining partner, Tom Dixon, of Marengo county. STARTS BACK HOME. We started from our California home, Auburn, so as to have several days in San Francisco before the sailing of the Panama steamer. He found a Dr. A. S. Wright, who advertised himself as "Banker and Assayer," who offered Dix a bigger price than anyone else would give for his gold dust, provided he would take draft on New Orleans, payable in sixty days after sight. Besides the $3,000.00 thus disposed of, he had quite a little reserve, which he persisted in "toting" on his person--a source of worry and nervous anxiety, contributing to the general breakdown that followed. IN A WRECK. We left San Francisco in the crack steamship _Winfield Scott_ with an opposition steamer racing us from the start via Nicaragua. At midnight, the second day out, our ship struck a rock and sank. There was a calm sea and plenty of time to save all hands and land them on an adjacent island, Aracapa, with a limited amount of provisions, which were doled out stintedly twice a day. There was rarely enough given out to go around. Out of 500 souls, perhaps as many as twenty-five would get nothing. Tom was nearly always one of them. My little allowance was always shared with him. When reproved for not rushing in with me to secure his share, he replied: "O, Kiah, I don't like to crowd." When assured he would have to go hungry, as I wouldn't divide any longer, he got a move on him and got there with the foremost. There was no water on the island, but the tanks of fresh water on the steamer remained intact and were brought on shore in boats. One day, when assisting in this work and undertaking to help myself to a drink, the cup was knocked from my lips by one of the crew, who said: "Let that water alone until I tell you to drink, you ----." After the fellow was pretty badly used up, the cup was refilled and drank with gusto, with no further molestation. One usually makes friends when showing pluck to resent such an outrage, and this fellow slunk like a whipped cur. When the affray was over, Dick was hard by gritting his teeth, with fists doubled up, just ready for war. ON TO PANAMA. After a ten days stay, we sailed pleasantly to Panama. We had hard experiences in crossing the Isthmus. The railroad had been completed but a few miles at its eastern terminus. As a large number of our comrades had determined to cross on foot, instead of paying a fabulous price for mule hire, we determined to be of the number. Much of my stuff was thrown away to make my pack as light as possible, but Dick was in love with all he had, which he wanted to take home as souvenirs, besides the gold dust strapped to his person. With his heavy load, he soon began to lag; first one article and then another was transferred from his shoulders to mine. He was almost heart broken when we were forced to lighten cargo from time to time, abandoning different things on the march, in order to keep up with our comrades. Upon my releasing him from his incubus of gold dust, he stepped rather spryly for a time. I kept him in front and pushed him along, bullied and scared him by fear of robbers, who we heard of attacking, robbing and some times killing others. Poor fellow, he was used up and collapsed upon reaching the steamer. He was abed most of the time until we reached New Orleans. IN NEW ORLEANS. Upon presentation of his $3,000.00 check, not on a bank, but on a respectable mercantile house, we were told that they knew nothing of the San Francisco Banker and Assayer. As the check was not due for sixty days, they explained the funds might be received with which to pay it. We passed over to Mobile after Dick rested a few days, where, fortunately, we found an old friend of his. It was a great relief to me, as poor Dick had been a burden. Besides the terrible ordeal of other vicissitudes through which we had just passed, was the worry of the probable loss of his $3,000.00 cheap-john check. He was in a state of mental as well as physical collapse. As soon as able to travel, his friends kindly escorted Dixon to his home, up the Tombigbee to Demopolis. FINDS HIS BROTHER. I found brother William in Mobile, where he had a fine position in business and stood well socially. A returned successful Californian was something of a show, a rather annoying feature of my stay in Mobile, which prompted an early exit for Camden and out to Pine Apple where our people lived. After a nice visit, finding the old folks up in pretty good shape, I started for New Orleans, with a view of resuming my medical studies. Upon my arrival at Mobile, I found poor brother William down with pneumonia. DETAINED IN MOBILE. Although under the care of two of the most eminent doctors of that city, my trip to New Orleans was abandoned to remain with him as nurse. After a long siege they gave him up as beyond recovery. This being known, brought what was intended as a farewell greeting from a host of old friends who comforted him on his being resigned and prepared for the change. Although having little hope myself, I tried to dispel from his mind the idea that a fatal ending was inevitable, and partially succeeded. Although they abandoned the case, the doctors were asked to give him a little champagne. They flippantly responded: "Give him all he wants." Two quart bottles were obtained and the poor fellow smacked his lips after having a small wine glass full. This I kept up every hour. The effect was marvelous. He was so revived that I felt justified in leaving him to take a little rest and sleep, after stupidly repeating the Doctor's words: "give him all he wants," to those left in charge. They had seen the cautious small doses given and at intervals of an hour. After more than an hour's refreshing slumber, I found the poor fellow in great distress, retching and vomiting, hovering near life's end. After being snatched from the jaws of death by the judicious use of an agent, he was almost gone by the injudicious overdosing with the same. Though no more than an inexperienced, half-baked doctor, no other was called and no more chances taken of his being killed through kindness, not to say innate stupidity. After this episode, the invalid progressed rapidly to full recovery and we went to Camden within a month; there he was soon fully restored. He abandoned a fine position and prospects in Mobile and remained in Wilcox and in the fall was elected to office by the largest majority ever given in the county. In this position, he was exposed a good deal to vicissitudes of weather and in time had another attack of pneumonia, which took him off--a noble, true man. Business complications of my old friend Dixon demanded IMMEDIATE ATTENTION IN CALIFORNIA, and he prevailed on me to return and act as his agent. The poor fellow turned the collection of his $3,000.00 protested check over to me, as business agent, whose knowledge of business was almost as limited as his own. I was fortunate, however, in seeking assistance in proper quarters. The check, having been presented when due, but not paid, went to protest. Upon calling at the New Orleans house on my way to California they predicted Wright would not be found on my arrival. Added to the wear and tear of nursing brother William and other, perhaps, unnecessary exposures, after two weeks stay on the Isthmus, I was attacked with Panama fever before the steamer reached Acapulco; but in cooler weather, by the time we had reached San Francisco, I was in fairly good shape. Upon my arrival, I was fortunate enough to be placed in contact with two of the biggest banking houses in town, who, after some fun with me, as the victim of the agent, gave me all the aid possible in recovering the money. Old Wright was badly scared and humiliated at the exposure, which came sooner than he anticipated. He fillibustered, quibbled, said he had forwarded the money and knew it had been paid at the other end of the line, but he was outgeneraled on every turn and finally refunded every dollar, which, less a small sum for incidentals, was sent to Dixon in a check on a Mobile bank. Within a short time, Wright and the old bankers who helped hold him up, all went to the wall. BACK TO THE MINES AGAIN. After getting the Dixon matter settled, I left San Francisco for my old haunts in the mines at Auburn. Not a great while afterwards, heard from a dear old mining partner, who some time previous left for the north, when I left Rough-and-Ready for Auburn. He wrote me he had a valuable discovery at what is now Yreka, near the Oregon line, requesting me to join and share with him all there was in it. Usually rather reserved about exposing my plans for the future, my intended prospects to join Tom Ward got to be known among others, by an enterprising thief, who went through my effects one night and stole most of my ready means on the eve of my departure. With plenty of help, he was captured and my money recovered. The necessary law's delay to appear against him knocked out my contemplated trip. The fellow was finally tried, convicted, and served a term in the penitentiary. While waiting for this, I bought into the old Rough-and-Ready mine at Forest Hill, first one share, one-eighth interest--had but little to do with it, but, as others got discouraged, secured additional interests, struggled hard, lived stintedly, and when at last the mine began to yield fair returns, owned five-eighths interest. I closed out in five years with more money than sense, and RETURNED TO ALABAMA, purposing to first finish my studies in medicine, then to buy a plantation and the darkies thereon. My original purpose was to enter Tulane University, New Orleans, but the Medical Department of the State University in Mobile was chosen. Scores of people knew me and I was soon a social lion, a bad predicament for a student anxious to cram and learn all possible in a given time. At the end of the term I felt too green to submit to an examination, which made it necessary to attend another term to secure the degree. This I did at another Institution, and later an honored professional standing was attained. HIS OPINION ABOUT SLAVERY. Following close on the term in Mobile, the spring and part of the summer were spent in Wilcox and Dallas, visiting among relatives and old friends of our family. Perhaps it was to our cousin, Ulma Crumpton, my views on the negro question were expressed about thus: "Well, my purpose in leaving California was to finally settle down on a plantation with the ownership of as many darkies as my means would buy, but after being away from the institution so long and seeing the harrassing cares and annoyances connected with managing and providing for the creatures, my sympathies are with those of you who are responsible to God and man for their humane treatment. The darkey has the best of it. I would not swap places with you. I wouldn't accept as a gift the best plantation and darkies thereon and be forced to continue as such owner." [Illustration: HOME OF DR. H. J. CRUMPTON, PIEDMONT, CALIFORNIA] Part Two By W. B. Crumpton The Adventures of W. B. Crumpton, going to and returning from California, including his Lecture, "The Original Tramp, or How a Boy Got through the Lines to the Confederacy" [Illustration: Decoration] HOW I BEGAN TO LECTURE. THE following is about the way I tell it: The story I am to tell relates my own personal adventures, which I often told around the fire-side, with no dream of its ever assuming the shape of a lecture. My old friend, Col. J. T. Murfee, President of Howard College, insisted that I should turn it into a lecture. My reply was: "Some day, when I have time, I may sit down and write it out, dressing it up with beautiful language, weaving in some poetry, and then branch out as a full fledged lecturer." I suppose the leisure time never would have come and probably the lecture never been delivered but for a fool-hardy spell that possessed me on one occasion when I was in Mt. Sterling, Ky. A brother said: "Our Baptist young people want you to deliver a lecture. You are going to be here several days. Could you not do so?" And I promptly said "Yes." The next question was: "What is the name of the lecture?" I had never thought of that before, but I blurted out: "How a boy got through the Lines to the Confederacy." "How much do you charge?" That was a new question too, but I ventured to say: "About one-half." So it was arranged and a dodger was gotten out by the preacher and printer headed: "War, War, War." It was the time of the Spanish-American war and it ran about this way: "Dr. W. B. Crumpton, of Georgetown, Ky., being in our city for a few days has kindly consented to deliver his _famous lecture_ at the Court House tonight at 7:30 o'clock for the benefit of the Baptist Young People's Union. It is a rare opportunity our citizens have to hear this _distinguished_ lecturer. Come one, come all. A treat awaits you. _Admission Ten Cents_." The old people concluded, as long as the price was so small, that it was only a funny story I was going to relate to the young people and they were conspicuous by their absence. After spending a nervous afternoon, I went out to the Court House and found about a hundred and fifty young people and children gathered. I said to myself: "You have made yourself a fool now. These children will all be asleep in about ten minutes, and you will be ashamed of yourself the balance of your life for attempting to lecture." When I was through with the story, only two very small kids were asleep, so I took it as a good indication that I had something worth while. I returned to my home, taking with me some of the fine circulars for the amusement of my family, and concluded to make a further test by giving a free lecture in the College Chapel. It was well advertised and probably five hundred people were present, many old veterans and a large number of students. When I was through, parties congratulated me, and I concluded that I could afford to continue spinning the yarn. So I have delivered the lecture in a great many places, wherever the young people or women would get up an audience. The lecture was called the "Original Tramp; or How a boy got through the lines to the Confederacy." One pious old sister who heard it suggested that the name be changed to: "How the Lord took care of a boy while going through the lines," and I cheerfully accept the amended form. It is not a religious lecture. The boy I am to tell about was not working at religion much, though a member of the church. But I hope there will be discovered the marks of an over-ruling Providence running like a silver thread through all the story. He has believed, for many years, the Lord had him in hand, though he knew it not, preparing him for the task that has been his for many years. If some reader shall come to believe in the Guiding Hand in his or her own life, I shall be happy. The lecture began with my return from California; but I have concluded to give the whole narrative, beginning with my first start to California, and let the reader pick out where the "Famous Lecture" begins. Chapter I A boy's best friend; A boy without ambition; "A sucker ready to bite at any bait"; Remembers his brother's counsel; Off to sea; Completely transformed. I once heard a blind man sing--I remember one line of the chorus: "A BOY'S BEST FRIEND IS HIS MOTHER." How true is that and the poor boy doesn't realize it until the mother is taken from him. After she is gone out of the home, the world is never again what it was to him. My home was broken up by the death of my mother when I was only thirteen. I became a wanderer. Sometimes I worked on a farm, sometimes I went to school, after a fashion. When my brother, an "old forty-niner," as the first gold-hunters in California were called, visited relatives at Pleasant Hill in Dallas county, he found me in school. He thought that travel would be the best schooling for me. So he asked me one day how I would like to go to California. My answer in the negative amazed him. I was perfectly content to remain where I was. I was honest about it. I had been to Montgomery, Selma, Cahaba and Prattville, and had frequently seen steam boats on the Alabama--had actually ridden on one--had but one desire as to travel ungratified. I wanted some day to go to Mobile and then to East Mississippi to see my kin. I had determined to make that trip _if I lived to be grown_; beyond that I had no ambition to see the world. This satisfied condition indicated to my brother that I WAS WITHOUT AMBITION. This distressed him no little. Through another party he approached me next time. I was asked if I would be willing to go to California to look after some business for my brother; then to return if I desired. To this proposition, I readily consented. It seems ludicrous, indeed, now to think of sending an ignorant boy on such a journey, to "look after business;" but I fell into the scheme and felt my importance as never before. My brother was wise and knew the ways of the world and was kind enough to accompany me as far as he could. First he took me down the Alabama to Mobile, then sent me alone up the M. & O. (the first railroad I ever saw) to Enterprise, Miss., to visit my relatives beyond there in Jasper county. I hired a horse and buggy from a Mr. Edmonson and drove out twenty-four miles to my brother-in-law's home. Returning, he accompanied me to Montgomery by boat, thence by rail to Savannah, Charleston, Wilmington, Richmond, Baltimore, Washington, Philadelphia and finally to New York, two days before the time for the steamer to sail. We lay over a day at most of the cities mentioned to give me a chance to learn some of the ways of the world. I was a "SUCKER, READY TO BITE AT ANY BAIT." I doubt if ever a boy started on so long a trip as green as I. One incident will show my ignorance. While in New York, one afternoon, I saw a great commotion on the streets. Going out I saw my first fire engine. The engine was of the old kind, with long ropes attached, pulled by men. There the poor fellows were toiling over the rough streets, tugging at the ropes and frantically appealing to the crowds of people who lined the sidewalks to come to their aid. I had read of great fires destroying large cities and turning multitudes out as homeless wanderers, and I made sure that just such a thing was about to happen to New York. I was paralyzed at the utter indifference of the people who gazed unmoved at the heroic firemen and turned a deaf ear to their appeals. I could stand it no longer, so I leaped out into the street and seized the rope. I was a tall, slim, awkward lad, about eighteen years old, thin as a match, pale as a ghost and had on a long Jim Swinger. The crowd cheered, but I didn't know what it was about. The firemen encouraged me, of course. "Go it, my laddie, brave boy; now we'll save the town," were some of the cheering remarks the firemen spoke as I tugged away with all my might on the rope. "Stand up, my son," was another, as I slipped on the cobble stones. The fire reached, I was put in position with the others to pump the machine. I knew nothing of what was going on, for I was intent on trying to save the town. After awhile, by the awkwardness of some fellow who held the nozzle (of course it was all accidental) the stream struck me full in the breast and I was nearly drowned. A great shout went up from the crowd, and I realized that the eyes of several thousand spectators, who had been drawn to the fire, were centered on me. I guessed afterward that the fire, which I never saw, had been subdued, and they were having a little sport at my expense. I turned loose the pump as though I had been shot, drew my overcoat tight about me, for it was very cold, and darted through the crowd, going I knew not whither. Fortunately MY BROTHER'S COUNSEL CAME TO MY AID: "If you ever get lost in a city, don't try to find your way back, but hail the first hack you see, and tell the driver to take you to your hotel." This I did, and as the carriage rumbled over the streets across several blocks, I was wishing and praying that I might get to my room without being seen by my brother. He was not in the lobby of the hotel, and I was congratulating myself, as I wearily toiled up the stairs, that I had missed him, and he would never know of my misfortune; but I was doomed to disappointment. Opening the door, there he was in the room! As I stood before him, bedraggled with mud and water, his eyes opened wide and he took me in. "Where have you been?" he exclaimed. I gasped out: "To the fire!" He was not a prayer-meeting man, and I will not repeat his language. As he rolled on the bed, yelling like a Comanche Indian, I was utterly disgusted with him. I saw nothing to laugh about. I have never helped at a fire since then, and when I hear the fire alarm and see the engine in its mad rush, I am inclined to want to go in the other direction. OFF TO SEA is a beautiful thing to read about, but it has a serious side. I didn't mind separating with my brother so much. He had introduced me to the captain and purser of the steamer, besides these, I knew not a soul. I was much interested, for the hour or two before nightfall, watching the shipping. Everything was new to me, but darkness came down upon us before we were out of the harbor. I shall never forget the sensation when the vessel struck the first billow of the rolling ocean. As the old vessel lurched forward, and her timbers began to creak, some one said: "That's pretty strong for a starter." Another said: "Shouldn't wonder if we didn't have a rough voyage." And yet another: "It is always dangerous at sea in March." For the first time I began to get alarmed. I watched the swinging lamps, the supper tables that looked as if they were going over and spill all the dishes; the sick passengers as they flew either to their staterooms or to the upper deck. Only a little while elapsed before I was in bed myself, wishing for my brother and abusing myself for ever undertaking the trip. Oh! the desolation and loneliness of that horrid night as I rolled with every motion of the vessel! I never slept a wink. Next morning I looked out of the port-hole and saw the mad waves of the ocean. To my surprise the sun was shining; but it looked to me like a storm was raging. I learned afterwards that the Atlantic is always rough and that I was the only one on board who was much alarmed. Three days and nights I kept my bed from sheer fright and home-sickness. I know it was not sea-sickness, for I tested myself, time and time again, afterwards and never had the first symptom. I had about made up my mind that I would never see the home folks again, but would die in a few days and be buried in the ocean. The third day the old Captain came in on his rounds of inspection. When he found that I was not sick, he shouted: "Pshaw, boy, get out of this and be a man; get on deck and get a sniff of the salt air and you will be all right in two minutes and as hungry as a wolf. Out, out with you; be a man." In less time than it takes to write it I WAS COMPLETELY TRANSFORMED. All my fears were gone and I found the Captain's words true. As I looked at the hundreds of people on the open deck, there were eight hundred passengers, all happy and cheerful, I felt disgraced to have been such a coward. There was the boundless ocean on every side. No sign of land anywhere and, strange to say, I was not a bit afraid. The reassuring words of the Captain had saved me. _Many a poor fellow has given up and gone down in the battle of life, who might have been saved if someone had only spoken the cheering words in time._ Down through the tropical islands to Aspinwall, now called Colon, across the Isthmus of Darien, where the Panama Canal is now being constructed, on the railroad to the ancient city of Panama and up the beautiful Pacific into the lovely harbor of Acapulco, Mexico, where we stopped a day for coal, and finally through the Golden Gate; we dropped anchor in the Bay of San Francisco, just twenty-four days from New York. Not a soul in all the great city did I know; but I was soon in the hands of the friends of my brother. I felt like Mrs. Partington when she struck land after being to sea, she exclaimed: "Thank the Lord for _terra cotta_," and I promised myself never again to get on an ocean steamer. Chapter Two Looking for a job; A hostler; In San Francisco; Packing gold through the streets; Moves to Oakland; Impulse to shout "Hurrah for Jeff Davis." IN THE diggings, among the miners, I spent three months, "keeping bach," with a genteel old Scotchman, in my brother's cabin on the mountain side. From the little stoop in front of my cabin, I could see villages of Digger Indians, Chinese and Greasers, and people from every nation of the earth. Later I was introduced to a Bostonian who was sheriff of Placer county. He had been told I was LOOKING FOR A JOB. He turned his cold, grey eyes on me and said: "I knew old Crump--he was never afraid of work; but Southern boys generally feel themselves above it. I wonder if you are that way. I want somebody to be here about the court house and jail all the time to keep things cleaned up and to feed and curry my four horses. Can you curry horses? Are you ashamed of it? Suppose sometime when you were with your overalls on, currying horses, a pretty girl comes along the street, guess you'd run up in the loft and hide, eh? Now, for that sort of work for a boy about your age, I have fifty dollars a month and grub. What do you say?" My! how he did fire the questions at me and how his grey eyes did snap and pierce me through! Fifty dollars a month was a big thing in my eyes. I was a little on my mettle to show the Boston Yankee what a Southern boy could do if he tried. So I became A HOSTLER for nine months. I was used to all kinds of work on the farm, but never had any occasion to become an expert--with the curry comb. I was privileged to belt a pistol about me and guard a prisoner while he did the work, if I liked; but generally I preferred doing the work myself. For the benefit of my own boys and others who may chance to read these lines, I want to record it: the three months roughing it in the miner's cabin, and the nine months currying Sheriff Bullock's horses, made a year of most valuable training for me. I learned more that twelve months than in any of my life, except the years later in the Civil War. I was always fond of the girls. I was never in any place long before I was well acquainted with a number of the nicest in the town. Instead of running up in the loft to hide when they came along, many a pleasant chat did I have, standing before the stable door with my overalls on and my sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My brother, returning from the States, took me TO SAN FRANCISCO and put me in school. Some of my leisure time he expected me to look after his business. My ignorance of business methods is well illustrated by the following incident: He went away, leaving a note of something over three thousand dollars. It was in the hands of a lawyer friend and was not due. He told me he would send me a draft to pay that note. I didn't know what a draft was; but it finally came in the mail by the steamer which came once a month. I could hardly sleep that night for fear somebody would steal it. I felt sure something was going to happen to me before I got the note paid. I had read of hold-ups at night, and even in day time parties had been enticed into dark alleys and robbed. Next morning it looked as if the bank would never open its doors. I passed and repassed, afraid to stop and look in, for fear some one would suspect I had some money and would lay a trap for me. Finally the door opened and I was the first to enter. I presented the draft. It was the proudest act of my life. The fellow looked at it, and then at me, turned it over, looked on a book, cut his eye at me again, then looked at his watch, asked me some more questions, then went in a back room and was gone, oh! so long. "Surely," I began to think, "maybe he will slip out of the back door and I will never see my draft anymore." But finally he returned with another man. I can't recall it all now, but after a while it was arranged and the man asked: "What do you want for this?" "Want gold," was my reply. I had heard of bank notes that were not good--there were no green backs then. I was determined to be on the safe side. Nothing but gold would satisfy me. "Mighty heavy for you to pack," he said, but I knew of no other way. Two sacks were given me. My! how my eyes opened as the money was counted into the sacks in $20 gold pieces. I had never seen so much money before. TAKING A SACK IN EACH HAND, I TRUDGED AWAY UP THE STREET. Block after block was passed and finally I went up the stairway and stood almost breathless in the lawyer's office. Depositing my treasure on a chair, I said: "Mr. Anderson, that note is due today and I have come to pay it." "All right, my boy, you could have waited three days longer if you wished," was the lawyer's kind reply. I had been impressed with the exact date and thought it so fortunate that the steamer arrived just the day before the note fell due. I thought something awful would happen if it was not promptly settled, when due. I knew nothing of days of grace. "But what have you in those sacks," queried the lawyer in a kindly tone. "That's the money," I replied. Of course the laugh was on me. There I got my first lesson in banking. The draft endorsed by me, would have suited him much better than the two sacks of gold coin. So I was a "gold bug" when William Jennings Bryan was a kid, and I have never changed my platform. I chanced one Saturday to go TO OAKLAND, quite a nice town then--now a great city. My brother had told me of an old friend of his over there, Judge McKee, and I called on him. I found him to be an intense Southerner. His wife was a Miss Davis, from Mississippi, a kinswoman of Jeff Davis, afterwards President of the Confederacy. It so happened that there was to be a gathering of young people at his house that night and they were all Southern people. Of course I was not slow to accept an invitation to remain over. Such a company of fire-eating Southerners I had no idea could be gotten together in California. All the talk was about secession. All the songs were of the South. I heard Dixie for the first time. I had been boarding with a New Bedford Yankee--an abolitionist, a South hater. It required only a hint on the part of my new friends to make a great change in my living. I went to Oakland College, selected a room, and two days later I was out of the great city and over the bay where every week I could visit my Southern friends and talk "secesh." The more we talked, of course, the madder I got and when the war broke out a few weeks later, the spirit of rebellion was hot within me. It was a time of great excitement and great danger. On a Friday night I went over to the city. The next morning as I was dressing, I thought I heard an unusual tone in the voices of the newsboys and I heard excited voices on the street and in the hotel. When I reached the sidewalk I heard the cry: "Here's the Morning Call! All about the great battle of Bull Run." "_Federal troops falling back on Washington, pursued by the Rebel army. Rebel army marching on the Capital._" My first impulse was to shout: "HURRAH FOR JEFF DAVIS!" Had I done so, I would have been torn to pieces by crowds surging through the streets. All business was suspended, the streets were jammed. I bought a paper and got out of the crowd as quickly as possible. I hardly stirred out of the office of my friend all day, so fearful was he that my mouth would get me into trouble. The next day I attended Dr. Scott's church (Presbyterian) where I frequently went because he was from New Orleans. His and the Methodist Church, South, were the only churches which did not have flag staffs on them. A mob gathered on Saturday night and burned the old doctor in effigy and wrapped the lamp posts and the front of the church in American flags. In the streets Sunday morning was a wild mob of several thousand. The house was packed with an immense audience of men--only two ladies present, one the wife of the preacher. The sermon was a plain gospel sermon, with no reference whatever to the surroundings. After the service a large company of police fought their way through the crowd at the head of the carriage which conveyed the preacher and his family. On the next steamer, the good man sailed for New York, where I afterwards learned, he was pastor of a Presbyterian church during the four years of the war. It is impossible for one who was not there, to conceive of the excitement. Dr. Scott had said nothing to provoke this outbreak, except at the meeting of his Presbytery, he protested against the custom then prevailing of putting flag staffs on the church buildings. Though I was a Baptist, I did not affiliate much with the people of my faith because they had gone into politics--the preacher's prayers and sermons being leveled against the South. O. P. Fitzgerald, now a Bishop in Nashville, was pastor of the little Methodist Church, South, in the city. He had regular appointments at Oakland in the afternoons. I became very fond of him and he knew me right well. When the Southern Baptist Convention met in Nashville some years ago, the aged Bishop was introduced to the body. After the close of the session I approached him with the remarks: "You never saw me before?" Instantly he replied: "Yes, sir, this is Crumpton. I knew you by your voice." It had been thirty years since we had met. In such an atmosphere as we breathed in California in those days, it is not strange that Southern sympathizers began laying plans and schemes for getting back South. Chapter Three A firm resolve broken; A layover at Pittsburg; At Beloit, Wis.; The fall of Fort Donelson. COMPANIES were secretly organized and meeting places agreed upon far out on the eastern border. Some of these companies were butchered by the Indians; others overtaken and captured by the Federal cavalry. My brother, suspecting my state of mind, came out and we held a conference. He had large interests there and some in Alabama. He proposed to leave me there to look after his affairs while he came through the lines; but that was not my mind at all. I announced my purpose to go. He was opposed to my attempting the trip across the plains no matter how strong the company that accompanied me. He wanted me to run no risks. He planned the trip--back over the same route to New York, thence to Wisconsin to the home of an old friend, to remain until spring--meantime, corresponding with Col. U. S. Grant, the military commander at Cairo, Ill., to get a pass, if possible, on some pretext or other, through the lines. MY FIRM RESOLVE against ever again going on an ocean steamer had to be broken. I was in a condition of mind which would have made me willing to attempt the trip in a balloon. On November 30, 1861, I took the steamer. On January 1st, I reached my destination at Beloit, Wis. The trip was full of interesting incidents, but I mention only two. I made the acquaintance on the steamer of a Marylander, who had been in California for many years. His destination was Baltimore. He expected to get through the lines and join the Confederate cavalry. When we reached New York, he gave me a little four barrel Sharp's pistol with one hundred cartridges. He expected to equip himself with something more formidable. This, the only pistol I ever owned, was one of the most harmless weapons I ever saw. I mention it now only to introduce it later. Reaching Panama and boarding the Isthmus train, I observed a frail young fellow in the uniform of a lieutenant of U. S. Navy passing through the train frequently, viewing with some care the passengers. He seemed to let his gaze rest upon me each time, in a way to make me a little uncomfortable. Was it possible, I thought, that somebody had found out my secret and had sent this chap aboard to look me out and arrest me when I reached Aspinwall? In the few hours ride across the Isthmus, I worked myself up to a very unhappy state of mind. It was after dark when we got aboard the steamer _North Star_, the same I had gone out in, which the Government afterwards purchased and turned into a gunboat. While the passengers were all in line approaching the office to have their rooms assigned, I was approached by the young officer who asked to see me. My heart flew up in my throat. All my fears were about to be realized. I felt sure I'd be on a man-of-war and in irons in a few minutes. I controlled myself enough to protest that if I should leave the line I would lose my place and have to drop back to the foot. "I want to see you about that very thing," he said. "I have a room for you." My eyes, I know were nearly as big as saucers, and I must have been pale as a sheet. I made some reply and remained in line. "Come," he said in a very earnest, tender tone, "I have seen the captain and he has given me a room and permitted me to choose my own room-mate, and I have picked you out." I felt reassured, and followed him to the identical berth I had suffered tortures in nearly two years before. In a little while he had discovered that I was Southern and he turned out to be a Virginian, who was playing sick and was off on a furlough. "There is nothing the matter with me," he said, "I expect to be in the Confederate Navy in thirty days." But in spite of this remark, his uniform scared me and I gave him no intimations of my intentions. My old Maryland friend and I tied on to each other. Neither of us sought acquaintances with others of the passengers. On the way from Jersey City to Chicago, I was left while at dinner at Altoona, Pa. My baggage of course went on. THIS REQUIRED A LAY-OVER AT PITTSBURG, where my belongings had been stopped. The day happened to be Sunday. Growing tired of the hotel, I thought to walk about the city some after dinner. Picking up the city directory I glanced through it curiously and chanced to see the name "Crumpton." Over the river, in Alleghaney City, there seemed to be quite a family of them. I took the number of the street and went in quest of kins folk, not dreaming of trouble. Finding the place, I rang the bell and found the family at dinner. I was ushered into the parlor and left alone. Glancing around the room, I saw American flags everywhere and the pictures of Lincoln and Hamlin, the President and Vice-President. "What a fool I am," I thought. My curiosity had gotten me into trouble; but I must get out somehow. To slip out of the house, while the family were yet at dinner would never do. I determined to face the difficulty. I never knew why I was named Washington unless it was because the father of his country was born on February 22nd and I on the 24th. However, you must remember there were several years intervening between the birthdays of these two distinguished men. I was very unlike my illustrious namesake. He never could tell a lie, I had been successful in the attempt several times; but I could not _hide a lie_. If any one looked straight at me I would betray myself. On this occasion, I stuck as near the truth as I could and I guess the story was plausible; at least it was not questioned. I learned from the two young men, who met me in the parlor, that their father was an Episcopal clergyman, out of the city that day; that he had several sons in the Union army, and these were getting ready to go. I was pressed earnestly to remain over night and see the father, but I was _pressed_ for time and turned a deaf ear to all their appeals and, as soon as possible, excused myself and returned to the hotel. I was afraid of my new found kin; but they were hard to shake off. One of the young men accompanied me to the hotel and that night returned with an earnest invitation from the father, who had returned, to visit him before I left the city. A great weight was lifted when he left me and I boarded the train for Chicago. At Altoona and Pittsburg, in the hotel lobbies, I was compelled to hear war talk of the most offensive character by the crowds of loafers who thronged there to hear the news. It was only a few miles to the West Virginia line. The war was on everybody's lips. There I sat in the midst of the talkers, one lone Southerner, with a secret purpose in my mind which would have brought me into trouble if it has been suspected. My lips were sealed of course, but sometimes it was very hard to keep silent. AT BELOIT, WISCONSIN, or rather, four miles in the country, I met a warm welcome from my brother's old friends. He had met them in California in the early days. I learned also that there was a match brewing between him and the oldest daughter, which was afterwards consummated. How the snow did pile up soon after I reached Wisconsin! I had never seen the like before. My friends, knowing that I was a Southerner and unused to such severe weather, were as tender of me as if I had been a baby; but in a few days I did not at all mind it. Winter time is the time for visiting in the North, and so I was on the go with the family much of the time. Another way I spent my time was to go out in the deep snow in the fields. Sometimes a rabbit, frightened at my crushing through the crust of the snow, would jump out of his hole ten feet away and sit for a moment, loath to run away in the cold. Many a time I emptied my pistol at him and would then throw the gun at him before he would run away. That gun will be heard from again. Without any talk about it, I secured a large map of the "Seat of the war in the West." This I put on the wall in the dining room. It gave all the public roads. With the study of the map, I read diligently the _Chicago Daily Times_, which gave the movements of troops along the route I might choose. I picked out two routes; one through Southeast Missouri, the other through Kentucky and Tennessee, both branching out from Southern Illinois. My brother hoped I would become satisfied to remain in this lovely Northern home and go to school, but I was bent on going to the war. I did as he suggested, however; I corresponded with Col. U. S. Grant, commandant of the post at Cairo, Ill., afterwards the great General and twice President, asking for a pass-port south, and received a very kind letter in reply, but denying the request. I might have remained in Wisconsin until spring, when I could have had better weather and more money, but for an incident I will presently relate. THE FALL OF FT. DONELSON, in Tennessee, was a fearful blow to me. Of course there was great exultation everywhere up North. I saw and heard it all, but could say nothing. One day while in Beloit, I saw a great crowd on the sidewalk. Drawing near I discovered the attraction. It was a butternut jeans jacket, which had been taken off a dead Confederate at Ft. Donelson. It was shot through and was saturated with blood. On it was a large placard with these words: "_Taken from the dead body of Private Turner of the Mississippi Rifles on the battlefield of Fort Donelson._" I gazed at it for a moment and heard the exultant laugh and jeers from the toughs who gathered about it. I turned away with clenched teeth, determined to go South at all hazards and at once I announced to my friends that evening that I was going to Chicago, a hundred miles away, next morning to see the Fort Donelson prisoners who were confined in Camp Douglas. Chapter Four Gets a pass into Camp Douglas; Learns first lesson in "Shut-mouth"; Starts afoot out of Chicago; Frogs in the throat; Pawns his pistol; Rides with Federal soldiers; Across the Mississippi. I HAD only a little money. I could have gotten more from my friends if I had asked for it, but I thought possibly I might be captured and traced back to their home and get them in trouble. I wanted them to have the privilege of saying they knew nothing at all about my plans and for the same reason, I did not care for them to know of my intentions. Lest I should create some suspicion, I took no satchel with me. On the 6th of March, 1862, I started. With a shawl securely strapped, in which I had slipped a shirt, with every scratch of pen or pencil, by which I might be identified, destroyed, I bade farewell to my friends, with no expectation of returning again. I shall say now and then that things "happened," but I do not believe that things happen. I think they are all a part of the chain of God's great plan. It so happened that I put up at the Madison House in passing through Chicago, and so I naturally went back to the same place in returning to the city, and this _happened_ to be the headquarters of Col. Mulligan, the Commandant of Camp Douglas. Arriving there in the middle of the afternoon, I got aboard a street car and went out to the Camp. Looking through the open gate, I saw for the first time Confederate soldiers. They were all dressed in butternut jeans. In the beginning, the Confederates did not wear the grey, because they did not have it. The cloth made all over the country by the mothers and sisters was jeans, the color of butternut. Returning to the hotel, after supper I wrote the very best note I could to Col. Mulligan and sent it up to his rooms. Expecting every moment to be called up into his office, it seemed that minutes were hours. I am sure, if my fears had been realized, it would have taken only about two questions to have tangled me. What would have happened then, I have no idea, but I guess I would have been arrested and probably thrown into prison as a Southern sympathizer. But to my great delight, the servant returned with a silver waiter and on it was a nice little card, saying: "LET MR. W. B. CRUMPTON INTO THE CAMP TOMORROW." As soon as I could get my breakfast the next morning I was on my way to the Camp. On entering the open gate, I saw the barracks of an Alabama regiment. The Barracks, were long, low buildings. The Camp was laid off like a city, with streets and alleys. I entered the building at once and in a moment was surrounded by a large number of men. I said: "You are Alabamians, and so am I. I have been to California. I am on my way back. I expect to start tomorrow morning from this City, to go through the lines and join the Confederate army." I rattled off the words very rapidly, never realizing for a moment the danger I might be in. When I reached the end of the sentence, I looked into their faces, and they looked like boards, not a feature indicated any sympathy for what I said. It was paralyzing; but fortunately a Mississippian _happened_ to be in the crowd. Why he was there I never did know, but when I had finished my speech, he said: "Did you say your name was Crumpton?" I said "yes." "And do your father and sisters live in Mississippi?" I said "yes." "And did you visit them before you went to California?" I replied "yes, two years ago." "Well," he said, "I belong to a Company right from their neighborhood. I did not see you, but I heard the people speaking about your visit. Come with me and I will introduce you to the boys who can tell you about your people." He took me to his barracks, several hundred yards from where I was, carried me into a back, dark corner, and said in a low tone: "You are in great danger. You must keep your mouth shut. I am not surprised at your being carried away at meeting those Alabamians, but there is a rumor out among us that they have agreed to go West and fight the Indians and relieve the Regulars there, who will be sent to the front and we all believe it." [In all my travels in Alabama, I have never told the name of that regiment, lest I should find his surmise correct.] "I know you must have observed the indifference that they manifested when you were talking. It is more than probable that some of them will betray you today before you get out. You stay with us and late this evening, I will see if I can't get you out through another gate. It is hardly probable that they would know where my quarters are, as I am a perfect stranger to them. It was only an accident that I was present when you came in." THIS IS THE FIRST LESSON I HAD IN "SHUT-MOUTH" and it has served me all my days. You may be sure I did not need a second invitation to remain with them. Numbers of the boys talked with me, and we had a pleasant day. Late in the afternoon, my friend conducted me in sight of another gate. I divided my money with him and left. Going back to the hotel, I satisfied myself about the way the Illinois Central R. R. ran out from the city, because that was the route I expected to take. It didn't make any difference then with me about lower or upper berths. The next morning, Sunday, the 9th of March, with my shawl wrapped up in a hand-strap, and my overcoat and rubbers on, I STARTED OUT AFOOT DOWN THE RAILROAD. Fifteen miles below was the town of Calumet, now a part of the city; I reached there about the middle of the afternoon, and went into the eating house by the railroad. There was a large number of men gathered around the stove, talking about the war. About six o'clock they broke up and went to their homes for supper, and I was left alone with the proprietor, who was also the railroad agent. I had made it up with my friends at Camp Douglass, if I should be captured I would claim my name was Hardy, one of their comrades, who had been left somewhere, and they would recognize me as Hardy. In that way, later on, I would be exchanged and get through. It was a poor put up story, but that was the understanding, so I did not expect to be Crumpton any more. The proprietor said: "You seem to be traveling." I said "yes." "Afoot?" "Yes." "Where are you from?" "Beloit, Wisconsin." "What is your name?" I said "Crumpton." Immediately he took my breath by saying: "You are lately from California, aren't you?" FORTY FROGS SEEMED TO JUMP INTO MY THROAT. I choked them down the best I could and finally said: "Yes, sir but how did you know it?" He said: "Do you know Safford in California?" I said "yes, one of the best friends I ever had." "Well," he replied, "Safford and I were reared down in Cairo. It has been years since I was there, but last Christmas I went to visit the old scenes and, among others, called on his brother. He showed me a letter from the California brother, in which he said a young man by the name of Crumpton had gone to Beloit, Wis., and he had sent some Japanese and Chinese curiosities by him." I said, "yes, I am the boy. I sent the curios by express a month ago, and I expect to see the Saffords on this trip." I did not deserve anything for telling the truth; my intention was to tell a lie. Suppose I had said my name was Hardy. The next question would have been: "Do you know a young fellow by the name of Crumpton, lately from California?" Then I would have been into it. Resuming the conversation, he said: "How is it that you are afoot?" My reply was: "My brother promised to send me money and when he did not do it, I became impatient and determined to go without it." "Where are you going?" I said: "To Vienna." It was a place I had picked out on the map, about twenty miles East of Anna Station. I guess it was a very insignificant place. Anna Station was the Camp of Instruction for the Federal Army, about twenty miles North of Cairo. I had chosen that as my point of destination, as no one would suspect me if I should be going where the Federal soldiers were. My friend said: "Young man, you are surely not acquainted with the prairie and the winter weather. It is pleasant for this time of the year, but in a few days snow storms and blizzards will be the order and any man, taking the trip you propose afoot, would freeze to death. It is out of the question for you to think of such a thing, it is near three hundred miles." I said: "Well, I will go until the storm breaks out." He said, "you remain with me tonight. It shan't cost you anything, and in the morning I will see if I can't get you a ticket to Anna Station." I said: "I like to settle things in my mind; think I can sleep better. I have a little pistol here which was given me by a friend. It is hardly of any value to anybody except me, but if you will take it in pawn, for two weeks, for a ticket to Anna Station, I will take the ticket; otherwise I will pursue my journey afoot." He finally agreed to do as I proposed and I turned over the pistol to him. It was the only pistol I ever possessed. Really it was a relief to get rid of it, for I had been uneasy every minute I had it in my pocket. The next morning I TOOK THE TRAIN, WHICH WAS LOADED DOWN WITH FEDERAL SOLDIERS, going to Anna Station. They were nearly all young men, in blue uniforms and had large, well filled knapsacks. I don't think I spoke a word to anybody that day. If anybody asked me a question, I answered only in monosyllables. I saw those boys take new Bibles out of their knapsacks and begin to read them. Nearly every one of them had a Bible. I did not understand it until, a few weeks later, when my own sister presented me with a Bible, as I started to the army, with the injunction that I should read it. A little before day I reached Anna Station; AT DAYLIGHT I STARTED WEST TO THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER, instead of East to Vienna. Taking dinner with a farmer, who was evidently in sympathy with the Southern people, he said: "How are you going to get across the river?" I said: "Is there no ferry there?" "No, there is a place where the ferry was, but all the boats from St. Louis to Cairo have been destroyed by the Federals, except one belonging to a fisherman, four miles above the old ferry; but he is a Union man and would see you dead before he would put you over." About the middle of the afternoon I reached the abandoned ferry. I suppose the Mississippi River was lower than it had ever been at that time of the year, and probably ever has been since. Large sand bars extended out into the river and the stream was very narrow where it swept around the bar. I went up to the head of the sand bar and found driftwood of every imaginable kind. I picked out some timbers and expected to come back and attempt to make a raft on which I might pole or paddle myself across, if I should fail in getting across in the fisherman's boat. As I approached the house of the fisherman, I saw on the other side of the river, in the village a very large number of men. Evidently they were having a lot of sport; I guessed they had much liquor aboard. I got the woman to call her husband over. I saw him and a companion coming down the river bank on the other side. I discovered at once that they were intoxicated. As they came up, the owner of the boat said: "Who are you?" "I am a young fellow from Beloit, Wis., going to Greenville, Mo." "Well, how do you know you are going?" I said: "I don't know it. I suppose it depends on you, but I am very anxious to get across." He said: "Well, old fellow, are you loyal?" "I am sworn not to put anybody across here except loyal men, and I would get into a world of trouble if I should put a rebel across." I said: "How can a man be otherwise than loyal when he comes from Beloit, Wis.? I was in Chicago just day before yesterday and I expect, just as soon as I get back home, to join the army." So after a good deal of parley, he said: "Well, it will take one dollar in advance," which I readily paid, that left me one dollar in my pocket. I was anxious to make a good impression on him as to my loyalty, so I said, as we were crossing: "Is there any danger of my falling into the hands of the rebels on the other side of the river?" He said: "I should say, and if they run up on you they will kill you sure." I said: "That would be awful. I think maybe I can walk two miles before night; tell me the name of some loyal man out a little piece, where I could stay all night and be safe." He said: "All right I'll just take you up to the man and introduce you, he will take care of you." I saw at once I had spoken one word too many. I didn't want to be introduced to anybody by that man, especially not to a loyal man. How was I going to get out of it was the question. Just as the boat landed there came a number of men down the bank, cursing and swearing at these fellows. Evidently they had formed a conspiracy to whip them when they got back. They commenced fighting and rolled into the edge of the river before I left. When I got to the top of the bank, I saw all the people of the town coming my way, evidently, bent on seeing the fight. I did not care to meet them, so I took a path running right down by the river bank and walked off just as if I lived down that way. I have no idea that there was a man in the crowd that could have remembered seeing me, if he had been sworn; they were so intent on seeing that fight they had no eyes for anything else. Chapter Five Gets his pistol back; Road full of Yankees; Goes forty miles one day; Such a man as I have never seen; Not a prayer meeting man; Reaches old Uncle McCullough's; Like one in a dream; You people who don't believe in prayer; Mind made up not to remain. I STAYED that night with a man who lived on the bank of the river, and found out that he had been with Jeff Thompson, the Confederate Cavalry General, but had been caught and made to take the oath of allegience. Such men, I afterwards discovered, were called "galvanized" men. Before I left the house next morning I was treated to the sight of a steamboat, loaded with Federal soldiers, going down the river. They were cheered lustily by the negroes, but the white man and I observed them in silence. Of course, I told him nothing about my intentions, except that I was going to Greenville, Mo. Thinking it possible that it might be difficult to get a letter back to my friends later on, I wanted to find a suitable place to write. This I discovered by questioning an old negro. He said he belonged to "Marse John Oliver. Young Marse John was with Jeff Thompson and Miss Mary was at home." I concluded I could confide in the mother after that information, so I approached the house and introduced myself to the lady, telling her that I was going South and wanted to write some letters back to my friends. She kindly showed me to a back room and gave me stationery. I wrote to my friends in Wisconsin, begging their pardon for deceiving them, and asking them to redeem my pistol, so that the man at Calumet might not lose anything. This they did and THREE YEARS AFTER THEY SENT THE PISTOL TO ME, and I have it now as a souvenir of those days. The lady said: "I would be very glad for you to spend the afternoon and night with us, so that my husband might see you; but it would be dangerous for you and for us. The Home Guards are roaming through the country all the time, and if you should be found here, they might have my husband arrested and carried off to prison, on the charge of harboring a rebel, or they might burn our property down. There is no telling what they would do. I am very uneasy for you, lest they shall meet you and kill you." These Home Guards, as I afterwards found out, were irresponsible soldiers, most of them Germans, who were but little more than marauders, and I afterwards found that we had some of the same sort among the Confederates. I had but little apprehension of trouble, as I was to go to places where there were Federal garrisons. I went through the first town late in the afternoon with a "galvanized" man whom I happened to meet just before reaching the village. I saw the soldiers all around on the streets, drinking and carousing. A little further along, I spent the night in a home where an old gentleman and his family were living, taking care of the plantation and slaves belonging to a young man who was with Jeff Thompson. Of course they told me very much about the war, but I said nothing to them further than that I was going to Greenville. The next morning when I came down stairs, I found the girls on the back veranda. Being of a confiding disposition, especially with pretty girls, I told them in a few words that I was going South to the Confederate Army. Just then breakfast was announced. I sat down to the table with my back towards the front door, and the girls sat on the opposite side of the table, in full view of the front door and the public road. As I was chatting with them, casting sheep's eyes the while, I noticed one of them suddenly change color, as she gazed intently towards the front door, and she remarked: "THE ROAD IS FULL OF YANKEES." Immediately the frogs leaped into my throat, and I was wondering what I would say to the fellows when they came in. One girl bounded towards the door and stood in it. It was the days of the hoop-skirt and she just about filled the door, so that nobody might see past her. The other girl begged me to run up stairs and hide, which I was not at all inclined to do. The old people were paralyzed, because they did not understand it at all. I hastily informed them of what I had told the girls. That is one time I didn't know what I ate for breakfast. It might have been knives and forks and salt-cellars for all I knew, but I kept eating. The girl in the door turned her head and said: "They are going into the lot." The old gentleman said: "I don't reckon they are coming in the house at all; they left some wounded horses with me several weeks ago and told me yesterday they were going to send after them." It was a great relief to hear that, but I could not understand why a whole regiment should have to come after a few horses. Presently the girl said: "They are going off," and I felt a pressure removed, equal to five hundred bales of cotton. I felt as light as a feather and if I had had wings, I certainly would have used them. Each of these two nights, I spent twenty-five cents, and that carried with it a lunch for the next day. As speedily as possible I got away and WENT FORTY-FIVE MILES THAT DAY. Mind you, I did not say I walked it; when I was dead sure nobody saw me, I ran. I saw very few people that day. The Home Guards had done their work well, as the burned houses indicated on every side. Late that afternoon I was told that I was approaching another village, but I need not go by the village if I did not wish to; I could turn to the left and cross the creek lower down, and both roads led to Greenville. I had no business in the town, so I took the left hand. Just before night I came to a deep, narrow, ugly looking little stream that had no bridge across it. Nobody had been fording it. I looked in vain for a log on which to cross. I didn't want to go up the stream, for that would carry me up into the town. I found a pole, that probably nothing but a squirrel had ever crossed on, but I ventured to straddle it, and then I inched myself across. A kodak could have gotten a picture worth while then. Getting on the other side, I went up to the most desolate looking home I had ever seen. Not a sign of life, except now and then the cackle of a chicken flying to the roost. I knocked at the front door but no response coming, like a tramp, I went around to the kitchen. There was an old lady, standing before a great, old-fashioned fire place cooking supper. It seemed to me I never smelt the frying of bacon that was so delicious in my life. I said: "I am traveling and am very tired; I want to stay all night with you, please ma'am." She invited me in saying: "Sit down by the fire here; when my son comes, maybe he will let you stay. I don't know whether he will or not, he is mighty curios." The kitchen had a dirt floor. She put corn bread and fried meat on the table and invited me to put my stool up to the table and eat, which I was not slow to do. Just as I began eating, THERE CAME IN SUCH A MAN AS I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE OR SINCE I judge he was about twenty-one or twenty-two years old, with immense jaw bones, high cheek bones, just a little space between his eyebrows and hair, overhanging eyebrows and way-back little beady eyes. He scowled at me, then said to the old lady: "Who's this you've got here?" I looked up and said: "Good evening sir, your mother was kind enough to invite me in. I want to stay all night with you and I hope you can accommodate me." He took his old slouch hat off, threw it on the floor, sat down and went to eating. Not a word passed. That is another time I don't know what I ate. I eyed him and he eyed me, but I mostly eyed the grub. He got through before I did, picked up his hat and shot out the door without a word. He had been gone not ten minutes when the biggest rain I ever heard, began to fall and I judge it fell through the whole night. The old lady showed me to a bed and I retired, wondering whether I would wake up dead or alive, feeling pretty certain that I would wake up dead, for I was sure that boy was bent on mischief. Next morning, I had my breakfast by candle-light, paid the old lady a quarter, and said to her: "I am completely broken down, my feet are blistered and swollen, I could hardly get my shoes on this morning, I have no money. Is there anybody living near here, on whom it would not be an imposition, who might let me rest until Monday morning?" The reply was: "I have a son about three miles down the road. He is plenty able to do it if he would, but he is _curioser_ than that boy you saw here last night." When I got out the front gate, I looked down on that insignificant little old creek, and there was a stream of water big enough to float the navy of the United States. It did not dawn on me then, but later I felt sure that boy crossed the creek and went to town to report me to the Yankees and that rain and overflow prevented his designs from being carried out. Doubtless the stream remained up the greater part of the day. I trudged along, dragging my feet as best I could, and after so long a time, reached the home of this "_curioser_" son. He came out and stood on the stoop to listen to my yarn about going to Greenville. HE WAS NOT A PRAYER-MEETING MAN I judged from his language. He said: "Do you think I am a fool? You are nothing but a little old rebel or some little old boy going to the rebels. I hope to God the Home Guards will find you today and kill you. If I see any of them I am going to put them on your track." Of course I had no further argument with that man. I went off a few hundred yards, felt of my knees to see if there were any joints there or not, for up to that time I had not discovered them that day. How mad I did get! I gritted my teeth, shook my fist, bowed my neck, and shot out, going thirty-five miles. I never saw a soul all day. The remains of burned homes I could see; now and then a place was spared and evidently the people were about, but out of sight. I was almost in despair of reaching a place to spend the night, when just before dark, I looked down and saw one of the most beautiful sights I ever beheld. It was an old country home, the doors wide open, good fires burning, the negro quarters stretching out and fires burning brightly in the cabins. I heard the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the cackling of poultry, all indicating a place of plenty. I found it to be an old lady's home, whose son and grand son had been with Jeff Thompson captured and galvanized. They were so outspoken, I made bold that night to tell them who I was and where I was going. They said: "It is impossible for you to go any further until Caster river goes down. As the road runs, it crosses the river three times. There is a possibility of your going far up the river and getting a "galvanized" man to put you across in a boat, and at another place getting a widow woman to send you across on horseback and then REACHING OLD 'UNCLE McCULLOUGH'S,' but you ought not to undertake it. Stay with us until Monday morning at least." The old lady did not hear this conversation. The boys were off early the next morning to their work, confident that I was going to remain. I concluded the mother ought to be consulted, and so I ventured to say, as she was washing the dishes: "The boys said that it would be all right for me to remain and rest here until Monday morning. I suppose it will be all right with you?" She said "y-e-s, I reckin so." I saw at once that I was not welcome. I thought about it a little while and presently returned and said: "I believe, on reflection, if you will fix me up a lunch, I will go on." She did so without any protest. "How much do I owe you?" I asked. "Half a dollar," was the reply. It was the first time anybody suggested a price like that and I had only a quarter left. I took out the quarter and said: "This is as near as I can come to paying it." I fully expected the old soul to say "keep it," but, bless your life, she took it, saying: "That's lots better than a heap of them do; they come here and bring their horses and spend a week and don't say turkey about money." So I made the trip, after many adventures, falling into the overflow a time or two, and reached "Uncle McCullough's" just at night fall. Providence was leading me, I believe. Had I carried out my plans to remain until Monday morning, that stream at the village would have gone down and the Yankees doubtless would have found me there, then I would have been done for. So much for my antipathy to staying where I am not welcome. It served me in good turn on that occasion as it has on many another. "Uncle McCullough" was an uncle of Gen. Ben McCullough, who was distinguishing himself at this time as a Confederate General. As I stood in the door and looked at the old patriarch, standing before a large fire, in an old-fashioned fireplace, I FELT LIKE ONE IN A DREAM. He was the same height and same complexion as my own uncle, Richard Bryan, with whom I had lived when a boy at Pleasant Hill in Dallas county. The similarity of the house, the cedar trees in front and the further coincidence of both being class-leaders in the Methodist church--I was almost dazed that night as I thought about it. I said to the old gentleman: "I am traveling, I have no money, and I want to stay all night, please sir." The response from his old warm heart came immediately: "Why come in, my son, of course you can stay all night, money don't make any difference here. You seem to be wet, you must have some dry clothes," with that he took me into another room and dressed me up in his best, wrung out my clothes and hung them before the fire to dry. He took me into a kitchen, with a dirt floor, identical with "Uncle Dick's" home when I was a boy, and introduced me to a dear old soul who was the very image of old "Aunt Nancy." After supper I opened my heart to him: "I have been saying I was going to Greenville. I don't know anything about Greenville, or care anything about it; I want to go South and join the Confederate army." The old man said: "Well, my son, you are dangerously near Greenville, only twelve miles; the Yankees were out here today and may be out here tonight. I don't know what I will do with you. It is too cold for you to go out to the fodder-loft, so I am going to put you in bed and pray the Lord to protect you." YOU PEOPLE, WHO DON'T BELIEVE IN PRAYER: The boy I am telling you about was not very religious, but when the old patriarch told him he was going to pray for him, when he lay down on that bed, he felt as secure as if an army of soldiers had been around him. We ate breakfast by candle-light, and just about sun-up we were climbing the hill back of his garden. When I reached the top, I saw stretched out for miles Caster river bottom, overflowing everything. The old man said: "Now, my son, you will see nobody today. You will find no road, except this path. You follow this trail right down this ridge and you will come to Ira Abernathy's. There you will have to stop. It is folly to try to go any further until the overflow goes down. Nobody will ever find you there. Ira is a good Methodist; he has been _galvanized_. You tell him that Uncle McCullough sent you there and said for him to take care of you until the river goes down, it will be all right." I sauntered along that day, one of the prettiest Sundays I ever saw. Deer, turkeys and squirrels were seen on every side. Late in the afternoon, I reached the end of my journey and delivered "Uncle McCullough's" message. When I was through, I saw a face that reminded me exactly of the faces of those Alabamians in Chicago at Camp Douglas. I saw through it instantly. Ira had conscientious regard for his oath. If he kept me there and it was found out, it would go hard with him. Before I went to bed, my MIND WAS MADE UP NOT TO REMAIN. I found out from him it was fourteen miles to Bloomfield where the Confederates were, about nine miles was overflowed, that the depth would not be above my waist, except at the last. Duck Creek was deep and dangerous, that I would pass only one house and that was just before I reached Duck creek. So next morning I started, and in five minutes I was knee deep in water. I could tell the way the road ran by watching the trees, so I kept just on the outside of the edge in the woods. Before a great while I came to a slough which seemed to be dangerous, and on sounding it I found that here was one place that my friend had certainly forgotten; it was very much over my head. I turned to find a log to cross it, which I successfully walked, but on going out on the other side on a limb, the limb broke and I fell into the water. Remember this was March, and it was in Missouri, and you can imagine that I was not very comfortable. You can see something of the happy-go-lucky boy, when I tell you that out there, half a mile from the road, wet as a drowned rat and water all around me, I took out my knife and stood for half an hour by the side of a smooth beech tree, and carved my name: "W. B. Crumpton, Pleasant Hill, Ala." It is there to this day, if the forests have not been destroyed. I waded along throughout the day and late that afternoon I passed the house on my right, the only dry land I had seen. Beyond the house a slough ran up from the overflow into a corn field. The fence was built up to each end of a log across the slough and rails were stuck in above the logs as a sort of water fence. Behind these rails on the log I was making my way across, when I heard a corn stalk crack over in the field. Looking in that direction I saw a Yankee, in full uniform, with a gun on his shoulder. How those frogs did leap into my throat. What was I to do? I did not dare to dodge; in that case, I could never have explained it if he had seen me. If I should go on the road, he would probably see me, so I eased myself off the end of the log and _walked straight away from him into the overflow_. I had no idea where I was going, only I knew I was going away from him. I was feeling for bullets in my back all the time, but I am sure that he did not see me. If he had, he would have killed me and have thrown my body in the creek. Now see how Providence leads! If I had followed the road and escaped his eye, I would have come to the creek, with no possible chance of crossing. Naturally I would have turned up the creek, never would have dreamed of going down into the overflow. As it turned out, I came to a raft just in the creek. It had broken loose, I suppose, from a mill above and had lodged there. By wading in, waist deep, I climbed on it, but found I was still some distance from the bank on the other side. I had not looked around since I left the Yankee, so standing on the raft I eased myself around and saw no one. When I measured the water on the other side I found it too deep for me to wade and I couldn't swim a lick. I reached around in the water, got hold of a loose sassafras pole, floated it around, stuck it in the bank on the other side, and undertook to walk it and it partially under water. Of course it wobbled; I went down head and ears. Coming up fortunately I grasped my bundle in one hand and my cap in the other, and found myself chin deep in the water. I waded out on the other side, which seemed to me "the bank of sweet deliverance." I had been told that I would be on the side of the Confederates when I got there. I walked briskly up to the top of the hill and looked around to see if there were any signs of camp-fires anywhere, indicating the presence of the Yankee forces. I supposed that the man I saw in the bottom was on picket. Seeing no signs of camp, I shot down the hill as fast as I could run. An old man seeing me shouted: "Hello, there." I replied: "Hello, yourself." He said: "Stop and give me the news." I said: "I have no news." He yelled again: "Have you seed any soldiers." I replied: "Yes, I saw one back there in the river bottom." He said: "Yes, that's Ike Reader, I heard he was home 'tother day; but stop and give me some news." I said: "No, I haven't time," and on I rushed. I won't say I went the remaining five miles in three-quarters of an hour, but I went it in a very short time. The idea of being caught almost within sight of the rebel lines possessed me and it put wings on my feet. When I reached the borders of the village just about night fall, there was a man standing, as if he were waiting for me, and when I told him my story, he said: "Come right along up to Capt. Miller's home, and you will be welcome." I found that the Captain owned a steamboat on the St. Francis river, and I guess I could have gotten passage if I had asked for it, but I never thought of it. I was given dry clothes, treated most tenderly, and the next morning at breakfast was told that the rebel scouts were in town. Chapter Six Released on parole; On the lookout; Reaches Helena, Ark.; Aboard the steamer; Black coffee; Reaches Vicksburg; Finds one man who believes him; In ten miles of Newton; On the Mobile and Ohio; More trouble; Reaches home. THAT was the best news I had ever heard. The Captain accompanied me to the front door and said: "You can go out of the front gate there, or you can take this path and go through the grove." I looked down the path and saw the scouts passing the gap, and just as I got to the gap all of them had passed except one. I said to him: "I saw a Yankee in the river bottom yesterday." He said: "Do you know who he was?" I said: "No, but I might know the name, if I heard it." He said: "Was it Ike Reader?" I said: "Yes, that was the name I heard a man call." So he put spurs to his horse and went to the head of the column shouting as he went: "Old Ike Reader is at home." I judge they had heard that he was home on furlough and were going after him. Twenty-four miles wasn't much of a walk so I sauntered along through the day and just at dark came up to the pickets. They were raw recruits, whom I suppose had never known duty before. They had stacked their guns and built a fire and were out in the woods gathering wood to burn through the night. They were frightened nearly to death. I could have captured them without any difficulty. I told them they were the fellows I was hunting for and that I wanted to surrender. Three of them took me back about a mile and let me go to bed, while they sat up and watched me all night. RELEASED ON PAROLE. Next morning they carried me back several miles to the company of Capt. Hunter. I found him to be an old veteran of Mexican war. He had recruited a company and was up there in Stoddard County drilling them and enlisting other men before going South. When I told him my story, he said: "I will release you on parole of honor, that you will not leave the camp. You will be safer with us than traveling alone. In a little while we will go down the river to Helena, Ark. That will be right on your road. I will take you in my mess and you will be treated right." Such kindness on the part of a perfect stranger, under the circumstances, was unusual and greatly encouraging to me. The next afternoon the scouts came along with their man. They had found him at home. He was there on a furlough. I saw their Captain and ours talking very animatedly for probably thirty minutes and as he rode off, he said: "He is mine by rights, and I am going to have him." When he was gone the Captain took me into his tent and asked me if I had met those scouts. I related to him the circumstance of my going through the grove at Bloomfield, rather than through the front gate, which would have caused me to meet the head of the column. I did it only from convenience, not from any fears that I had. He replied: "You certainly were fortunate in going through that grove. The Captain of that Company is nothing more than a marauder, although he wears the Confederate uniform. It is his custom, when he meets a civilian anywhere, to kill him, but he will take a Federal soldier prisoner. I will not ask you to enlist with us, but you be just as one of our soldiers. Have you a gun ready at hand with ammunition and whenever you see those scouts, don't expose yourself. We will pass and repass them on the trip south, no doubt, and he is mean enough to shoot you down. We are going to protect you." That the Captain was not mistaken in the man, I soon discovered. We saw a suttler pass our camp one day, and just a little later saw this Captain with his scouts going in the same direction. It was not a great while before we heard pistol shots and presently they came back and our men learned from them that the Captain had taken the suttler out into the woods and shot him, leaving his wagon standing in the road. He was a harmless fellow who was gathering up chickens and eggs and butter, and selling them wherever he could, sometime to the Federals and sometimes to the Confederates. ON THE LOOKOUT. You may be sure I was on the lookout. The number of Yankees that they had as prisoners increased to probably twenty-five. When the companies assembled to start South under General Thompson, sometimes these scouts were ahead and sometimes in the rear. They passed and repassed us. Word went down the line whenever they were approaching, "Crump, look-out" and I was always ready. The old Yankee soon found out that I was the man who had told on him and learned my name and he would shout when he came in sight of me, "Hello, Crump," and I would reply, "Hello, Ike." The first service I did after joining the Confederate army at Columbus, Miss., was to guard the Federal prisoners, and who should I find there but old Ike Reader. REACHES HELENA, ARK. It was several weeks before we reached Helena, Ark. There I ate breakfast with the boys, the morning before they went up the river. I could have secured rations if I had thought of it. I learned afterwards a soldier was satisfied so long as his stomach was full. I went to see Gen. Thompson, however, and got from him a paper, stating that I had come to them up in Missouri, that I was on my way to my friends in Mississippi, and commending me to people wherever I went. I could have gotten transportation from him if I had thought of it, but never dreamed that I could be hungry again or ever have need to ride anymore. I remained all that day and night, sleeping on the wharf boat, and the next day, without anything to eat. I did not have the courage to beg. That was the only quality of the tramp that I had not learned. BOARDED THE STEAMER. About 2 o'clock I went to the hotel intending to ask for dinner. While I was sitting there, trying to work up courage enough to approach the clerk, I heard a boat coming down and hastened away and boarded the steamer, H. D. Mears. As she was pulling off, I approached the Captain and showed him my paper from Gen. Thompson. He made the atmosphere blue with profanity. He said it was simply absurd, that I had forged that paper, that Gen. Thompson would not have given me that paper without giving me transportation too, he almost made me believe he was right. It did seem absurd. Then I asked him to credit me with my transportation to Vicksburg, to give me the address of some one to whom I might send the money. He replied, "I would not credit my grand-mammy." The river was high and boats could not approach land. Seeing a skiff coming over from the Arkansas side, from where a landing was supposed to be, thinking that he was going to put me off, I approached him and asked that he put me off on the Mississippi side, as I was afoot. His reply was, "I am not going to put you off; you can ride as far as you want to ride, to ---- if you want to." I felt that he was very much more likely to go there than I. I told him I had asked for nothing except the privilege to ride. TAKES FEVER. He replied: "How are you going to get any grub?" I answered that I did not know. I was too independent to let him know that I needed some just at that time. Being exposed to the weather and drinking Mississippi water and doing without food brought on fever, which I had all the night. The next morning I was in a desperate condition. The desire for food had given place to a feeling that I'd as soon die as not. Late in the afternoon, I began to feel a delirium stealing over me. It seemed all like a dream to me; could not tell where I was. I knew it was for the want of something to eat. I had sense enough left to know that the kitchen was the place to find relief, so I found my way to the door, and stood there looking into the face of the old negro man, a perfect giant in appearance. I said: "Uncle, I am on this boat without a cent of money, and haven't had anything to eat for three days; I am sick and about to die." He looked me all over from head to foot, then put a stool up to the table and said in a commanding tone: "Set down there." BLACK COFFEE. I wasn't used to being ordered about by negroes that way, but I took no offense on that occasion. He filled a quart cup with the blackest coffee I ever saw, put three tablespoonsful of sugar into it, stirred it and sat it before me and said: "Drink that." I guess he must have seen cases like mine before. I commenced to sip the coffee, for it was too hot to drink. I shall never forget that cup of coffee while I live. The very first sip seemed to go to the ends of my fingers and toes; it thrilled me through and through. As I drank I could not restrain my tears. When I was through, in about half an hour, I was in a profuse perspiration. I looked at the three large pieces of steak, as big as my hand and four hot rolls, and said: "Uncle, if I should eat that meat, I am sure I would die in half an hour. If you have no objections, I will put it in my overcoat pocket and eat it at my leisure." He said: "That is just the thing for you to do." Thanking him, I departed, and commenced reaching in my pocket, pulling off pieces of steak, chewing it and swallowing the juice. I "chawed" all night, in my waking moments. When I went to sleep, I was chewing that meat. At sun rise the next morning, I found myself at Vicksburg, with no fever and as hungry as a wolf. I went out like Pat, "in quest of a breakfast, for me appetite." I was determined never to speak to another man. I was like that fellow who said, "the more he knew about men, the better he liked dogs." So many of them did not believe my story and took it out in cursing that I was thoroughly disgusted with them. Seeing the sign: "Mrs. Roebecker, Private Boarding," I took a seat in an old store nearby and watched the door until all the boarders came out. How like a tramp! I approached the door and was received very graciously by the kind lady, who gave me a good breakfast. When she asked me how I was going to get home, I replied, "I am going to walk." She protested, "No, don't do anything of the kind. Go up and see Mr. ----, the superintendent of the railroad. He is a kind, nice gentleman, and I am sure he will help you on your way." I plucked up courage enough to speak to the Superintendent, and found him just as the lady said, a perfect gentleman. FINDS ONE MAN WHO BELIEVED HIM. He said: "Of course, my son; I will give you a ticket, sign this due bill, and we will send it over to our agent, Dr. Watts at Newton Station, and your people can pay it after you get home." I shall never forget his kindly expression, and the effect it had on me. My tears are not usually very shallow, but kindness always humbled me and brought out the tears. I got aboard the train and in a little while fell asleep. I slept all the afternoon. Don't remember passing Brandon or Jackson or any place. IN TEN MILES OF NEWTON. About ten o'clock at night some soldiers came on the crowded train. One took a seat in the aisle on his knap-sack right by me. I said, "How far is it to Newton?" He said, "Ten miles." After a while I heard the brakeman call out "Chunky Station." I said: "How far is it from Newton now?" He said, "Why, fellow, it is twenty miles, you have passed Newton." By the time I got myself together, the train was under way again, so I remained seated until I got to Meridian. I remembered that Meridian was just above Enterprise, and there I knew one man. Seeing a train on the M. & O. just ready to start for Mobile, I made a rush and got aboard and took my seat among a lot of soldiers. Presently the conductor came in with his lantern, calling, "tickets," and MY TROUBLES BEGAN AGAIN. I showed him my paper from General Thompson, and said to him: "You know Mr. Edmondson, who keeps the hotel at Enterprise, I hired a horse and buggy from him two years ago to go out to Garlandsville. I am sure I can get the money and leave it anywhere you say, if you will let me pass on." He was another man that did not attend prayer meeting. He said, "No, sir, Edmondson is dead, you are lying anyhow and now get off at the wood station." There was a Sergeant on board, in charge of some soldiers, who took an interest in me. He said: "Captain, I have more transportation than I have men; let this man go on my transportation." He said: "No sir, he has got to get off. He is spinning a yarn. Who ever heard of a man coming back from California without money." So I got off, and when the train started, I stepped up on the back-platform. It was only a little while before we reached Enterprise. I saw the conductor standing on the platform, with his lantern, and I walked boldly by him. He easily detected me, as I had on a fur cap, very uncommon in the South, He said: "Are you ready to pay me, sir?" I replied: "No." He said: "If you are a gentleman, you will do as you said you would do. Leave that money here with Mr. Jackson, who keeps the eating house." I said: "I am not a gentleman now since you made me steal a ride, gentlemen don't do that way." THEN HE COMMENCED CURSING. I threw myself back with my thumbs under my arms and said: "Now, blaze away and when you think you have cursed out the value of your ticket, let me know and I will pass on." That was about one o'clock in the morning. Presently the engineer rang his bell and the Captain jumped on, shaking his fist at me as the train pulled out. I responded by shaking both my fists at him. That is my way of keeping out of a row with a conductor, wait until he gets off. Of course I was very mad while he was cursing, but I was in no condition to fight. * * * * * I went to the hotel and registered my name like a gentleman: "W. B. Crumpton, San Francisco, Cal." When I awoke the next morning, and looked into a glass, for the first time in six weeks, I was like Pat, when he said: "Pat, is this you, or is it somebody else?" I had been over the camp-fires and my face was smoked and greasy, and I looked more like a negro than a white man. By diligent use of soap and water, I got myself clean down to my collar. I had an old woolen comforter, that I had worn around my neck. I turned it wrong side out, pinned it close around my throat, spread it over the front of my dirty shirt, buttoned my coat and, imagine I made a right decent appearance. I took my seat at the table, crowded with people. I have no recollection when anybody got up. I came to myself after a while, when I asked for another biscuit, I looked at the negroes, whose eyes were almost popping out, and I realized that I was the only one at the table. I looked at the astonished lady at the end of the room and stammered out: "Is this Mrs. Edmondson? Excuse me please, I am nearly starved." She insisted on my eating more, but I didn't have the face to do it. I said: "Mrs. Edmondson, do you remember a boy coming here two years ago and hiring a horse and buggy to go out to Garlandsville?" She said: "Yes, I remember you well." I told her my story, and asked her to credit me until my people could send her the money, to which she readily consented. REACHES HOME. I journeyed on for twenty-four miles and late that afternoon came to my brother-in-law's home. They were all looking for me. I had separated at Panama with a man by the name of Simpson, who had been a commission merchant in Mobile, and I had given him a letter. He went across to Aspenwall, thence to Havana, and ran the blockade into Mobile. I had discussed doing that with my brother before I left San Francisco, but he advised very much against it. I started from Beloit the 6th of March and reached home on the 23rd of April, traveling probably a thousand or twelve hundred miles, much of it on foot. As I spun my yarn that night around the fire-side, my sister said, "Brother, why didn't you ask Mrs. Edmondson to send you out in a buggy?" I said, "Bless my life, I never thought of it until you mentioned it." I had gotten so used to traveling afoot, it made no difference. It was not long before I found a recruiting officer, Lieutenant John McIntosh, and gave him my name. At the appointed time, I took the train at Newton for Columbus, Miss., where on May 1862, I joined Company H., of the 37th Mississippi Infantry. I had a mind to join an Alabama regiment, but my people insisted on my enlisting in a Mississippi Regiment, so that they might more easily hear from me. The Lieutenant promised me a thirty days furlough to visit my Alabama kin as soon as I was enlisted at Columbus. After I had signed my name, he said, "Wash, do you want your furlough now?" I said, "No, you might get in a battle while I was gone, or the war might be over before I returned, so I will not take it." That furlough never came, except on two or three occasions afterwards, when I was wounded. Some day I may take the time to write out another story about, "What the boy saw after he got through the lines to the Confederacy," you may depend upon it, he saw sights. I was one of two or three in my regiment who could sing. Many a night, sitting around the Camp Fires, the weary hours were passed by singing Camp songs. Only two of these do I remember now. "GOOBER PEAS" was one of the most popular. It ran about this way: "GOOBER PEAS." Sitting by the roadside on a pleasant day Chatting with my mess-mates, whiling time away Chatting with my mess-mates wholly at my ease Good gracious! how delicious; eating Gooberpeas. When a horseman passes, the Soldiers have a rule To cry out at their loudest: "Mister, here's your mule," But another pleasure enchantinger than these Is wearing out your jaw-teeth eating Gooberpeas. Just before a battle the General has a row, He says: "The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now." He looks around in wonder and what do you think he sees? The Gorga-i Milish-i eating Gooberpeas. Now my story's ended, it's lasted long enough The story's interesting, but the rhymes are rather rough. When this war is over and we are free from grays and fleas We'll kiss our wives and sweethearts and grabble Gooberpeas. [Illustration: DR. H. J. CRUMPTON REV. W. B. CRUMPTON "The Boys" after forty years] Part Three By W. B. Crumpton To California and Back after a Lapse of Forty Years Introduction IN HISTORY few things are of greater interest than biography and in biography few things are of greater interest than travel. A good strong man who has covered much of the surface of the earth, with his eyes and ears open, and tells of it intelligently and charmingly to others is a real benefactor to his friends. Every acquaintance of the author of this volume will be grateful for what he has written herein. He needs no introduction and it is almost wholly formal even to call his name. Who in Alabama does not know him, and among us all, whose life has not been touched to some extent by the influence of his? The observant reader will recognize at once the well known style, the vein of seriousness and the vein of pleasantry running side by side, and the high, distinctive purpose. The author has theories, as any one can see, elevated and generous theories, but here above all else is the practical man, the man of affairs, taking life as it comes, with its ups and downs, entering into its very currents, becoming of it a part, laying his hand upon it and utilizing it for the glory of God and the good of his fellow-men. In these letters the youthful reader will find interest and entertainment as he looks through anticipation at the real problems of life; the person in middle years will discover confirmation for his strength and hope as he actually struggles with these problems, while many sentiments will minister comfort and peace to him who is in the afternoon of life and ere long expects to look out into the winter of age. CHARLES A. STAKELY. Montgomery, Ala. Preface to Letters of the Second Trip It has been a number of years since these letters appeared in the Alabama Baptist. As I have traveled, many have been the kind words said to me about them. Parents have expressed the wish that I put them in book form so that their children could read them. Some old people and the "shut-ins," who by reason of their age or affliction can never hope to travel, have expressed the same wish. In the hope that its reading may entertain, instruct and encourage, I send the little booklet out.-- W. B. C. [Illustration: Decoration] Chapter I A second trip to California after forty years; My home in Marion; Begins the trip; The dry dock; Not another berth; The Sunset Limited; The Great Salt Mine; Beaumont; San Antonio; The Alamo; He expects it of me; Out on the boundless prairies; Nears the Del Rio; The Seminole Cave Canon; Breakfast at El Paso; The Rio Grande; Consumptives' paradise; At Lordsburg; At San Simons; Tucson; People go to Europe. OFF ON SECOND TRIP TO CALIFORNIA AFTER FORTY YEARS. Dear Bro. Barnett: WHEN I promised weeks ago to write something of my trip for the Alabama Baptist, I thought it an easy task but I discover my mistake. "Trip Notes" in Alabama, which I have been writing for twenty years, are not hard to prepare. If it is not convenient to write them on the spot, one can carry in his mind the points worthy of mention and write them at leisure; but not so with a trip like this. There is so much to see during the day you do not want to be writing, lest you miss something of interest; if you put off the writing, you are sure to leave out much which would interest the reader. So here I am far out on the sandy plains of New Mexico, where the scenery seems to be unchanged for many miles. I am trying to put together the points I have scored down for my friends in Alabama. We have just passed the 1,200th mile post, just about half the way from New Orleans to San Francisco. It was very kind of the brethren of the State Board of Missions to give me this month off. Probably, ten years ago, I was given my first vacation of one month. It was a new experience to me. Brethren who had been used to such things volunteered to advise me where to spend it. "Go to Monteagle," said one, "Go to the coast," said another; but I went to MY HOME IN MARION, the best spot on earth for me to rest. I thought. Every day my mail was sent me and after a rest of one day, I went to writing letters and in a little while, I found myself planning campaigns and arranging my plans of work for months ahead. The month was soon gone and I returned to the office but little benefitted. I have determined that shall not occur again. I hope I will not receive a business letter for a month. Don't get it into your mind, kind reader, that I am sick or broken down. I am all right--never felt better than I do this morning of January 15th; but I am sure I will be better and stronger after this month's rest. BUT LET ME BEGIN WITH MY TRIP. George Ely, of Montgomery, the Traveling Passenger Agent of the Southern Pacific, is one of the cleverest railroad men in all the South. I have been telling him of this trip for years: "All right, when you get ready, let me know, and I will load you up," said he, after every talk. Sure enough he did. "Through Story Land to Sunset Skies," is the striking name of a book he gave me. A couple of old travelers who are supposed to have passed this way years ago before there was any thought of a railroad, takes a girl and her papa into their party and start for San Francisco on the Limited. First one and then the other talks. In those far-off days, they must have camped for months at every point, for they know the history of every section and places of interest. Their "Limited" seems to have been an unlimited, as to time, for the narrative takes you leisurely from point to point. It is invaluable to the party who takes the trip and I am the only one who seems to possess one in the car. "Where are we?" "Wonder what there is here?" "I declare it is the driest dullest trip I ever took." These are some of the expressions I have heard. I haven't time to tell them about things. I wish I had, for it is such a pity for people to take the long trip and get so little out of it. One old sister, I fear, will worry herself sick. The great DRY DOCK lately built by the government and brought by sea from New York to New Orleans, was all the talk. "What sort of a looking thing is a dry dock?" I asked one of my friends. "We'll go out tomorrow and see it," was the reply. It's wonderful to think of a machine like that with power to lift the man-of-war, "Illinois," the biggest vessel in the navy, clear out of the water. "The biggest dry dock in the world," said my friend. It is wonderful how many "biggest things in the world" one meets in traveling. I have passed near "the biggest salt mines," "the biggest hunting and fishing ground," "the biggest bridge in the world," "the biggest sugar refinery." I don't know how many "biggest things in the world" there are ahead of me, but that dry dock and the battleship Illinois, are big things, for sure. "NOT ANOTHER BERTH on the Limited Monday," was the unpleasant news I got at the ticket office two days before I was ready to go. It was a great disappointment. The Limited is made up entirely of Pullman sleepers with a dining car attached. "Seventy-three hours from New Orleans to San Francisco," are the words which I have thought about for three months. Here is a description which charmed me: "Sunset Limited traverses the New Coast Line between Los Angeles and San Francisco, the grandest trip in the United States." EQUIPMENT OF "SUNSET LIMITED." COMPOSITE CAR, "EL INDIA." "A place where men smoke, read and rest. The first car of the train: It contains buffet, baths, barber shop, desk, bookcases, books and stationery. Here one may view the peculiar scenery through wide plate-glass windows, tell yarns and enjoy full comfort of an up-to-date equipment. A conveyance worthy of any man's admiration." Then it goes on to describe in the same style each car: The ladies' parlor car, the sleeping car, the dining car. But I missed it by not engaging a place beforehand. Never mind, next time I'll know better. I lose a day thereby and pay double for a sleeper. Poor comfort, but the best at hand, "an upper berth only to Los Angeles on the regular train is all that is left--nothing to San Francisco," and I jumped at it. An hour later and I would have had to go in the day coach and _nod_ it out. It looks like everybody has taken a notion to travel at the same time; but I learn it is always this way on this road in winter. Through the low lands and swamps and magnificent sugar plantations, the train speeds on its western course. The Teche country through which we go is called the "Sugar Bowl of Louisiana." I wonder that it wasn't put down as the "biggest thing of its kind in the world." Before we leave Louisiana, it will be interesting to some I am sure, to hear something of the GREAT SALT MINE which for several years furnished the most of the salt used in the Confederacy, in our civil war. The mine is on "Avery's Island," on the Gulf coast. Many years ago a boy returning from a successful hunt, threw the deer he had killed into the fork of a tree while he sought to slake his thirst at a beautiful spring. The water was so salty he could not drink it. On telling his mother about it, she had water brought from the spring and boiled and secured a good deposit of salt. Gradually the spring came to be used. After a while, farming interests absorbed the attention of the owner of the island, who by the way was a Yankee from New Jersey, who fled South with his negro slaves, when it became inevitable that the negroes North were going to be freed. How the South has been cursed about slavery: The facts of history show that Northern people are responsible. Not Southerners, but Northerners, stole the negroes from Africa and introduced slavery in the United States. When they found the institution didn't pay, they brought the slaves South and sold them to our fathers. Later they drenched the nation in blood to free the slaves their daddies had sold to us. Some few did as Col. Avery did: moved South with their negro slaves. (But to return to the Salt Industry.) Gradually the salt springs were abandoned until our civil war, when salt began to bring $11.00 a barrel in New Orleans. The son of the planter asked his father for permission to run a kettle in boiling, to this was added other kettles, and so the mine developed. When the springs would not supply the water fast enough, a well was dug. Sixteen feet from the surface, what seemed to be the stump of an old tree was struck, covering the bottom of the well. Close examination proved it to be solid rock salt. The owner, Col. Avery, leased a part of the mine to the Confederate Government. It is said at the close of the war, he found himself the fortunate possessor of $3,000,000 of worthless Confederate money; besides this, he lost 2,000 bales of cotton, which the government had paid him for, worth in the market after the surrender from twenty-five to fifty cents per pound. The mines were captured by the Federals in 1863, but work was resumed after they left. The mining goes on now on an extensive scale and great tunnels run through it many feet below the surface. The supply is practically inexhaustible. It has been explored by boring 1,200 feet down and the bottom of the salt bed is still below. How is that for a salty story! We passed BEAUMONT at night, much to my regret, but I learned the oil fields, which I hoped to catch a sight of, were five miles away. However, I felt the breeze, as every passenger who got aboard for a hundred miles in either direction was talking oil. I imagined I could almost smell and taste kerosene. You may be sure I heard of the "biggest" oil well. A little later I struck a cow-man. I don't know whether he was a "Cattle King" or not, but he could talk cows. I was glad to have him in the same section with me for he knew the country and could answer all my questions. Houston was passed in the night. We breakfasted at SAN ANTONIO and found the town rejoicing over the breaking of a five month's drought by the rain which was then falling. One of the natives said: "You can't tell anything about rains here. They may stop in fifteen minutes or they may pour down for a week." We found it so, for in a few minutes after leaving San Antonio, the clouds began to break and soon the bright sun appeared, but the rain had extended far to the west which was fortunate for the travelers. I was so impressed with what I read of the battle of the Alamo which took place near San Antonio. I will quote it. Some have read it before, but the most of your readers have not: THE ALAMO "If deeds of daring sanctify the soil that witnessed them, that should be to every American, one of the sacred places of the land. We soon alighted in front of the old church and entered its broad portal. A hundred and seventy-five years have elapsed since its foundations were begun. Its early history would be filled with the interest of tradition were it not for the fact that one glorious deed of sacrifice dwarfs all that went before. Here on March 6, 1836, one hundred and eighty-one citizen soldiers, untrained to war, fought more than twenty times their number and scorning retreat deliberately chose to die. The fight began February 23rd, when the Mexican army under Santa Anna began the assault. The attack was continued day and night, and each time the Mexican column was hurled back with frightful loss. Each day witnessed supreme examples of heroism on the part of the beleaguered men. One of the most inspiring of them was the sacrifice of James Butler Bonham, a native of South Carolina, and the friend of Col. Travis, who commanded the Alamo forces. He had been sent to Fannin with appeals for aid, which were unavailing. On March 2nd, he reached, on his return, a hill overlooking the scene of the seige, accompanied by two companions. Realizing the situation, these associates saw no necessity for further progress and demanded of Bonham that they retire. The reply of Bonham immortalized him. He said: "I will report the result of my mission to Colonel Travis. HE EXPECTS IT OF ME. I have to tell him there is no prospect of reinforcements, that he has but to die in defending his cause and that I came to die with him." Then bidding farewell to his companions, mounted on a cream colored horse, through the lines of the enemy and amid showers of bullets, this gallant son of South Carolina rode to his death. The gates of the fortress opened to receive him and he presented himself to his chief. This is the noblest incident in history of stern adherence to solemn duty without regard to personal danger. On the morning of March 6th, a general assault took place. Slowly the noble Texans were driven back until inside the church they made their last stand. No quarter was asked, none granted. Each Texan died desperately in hand-to-hand conflict with overpowering numbers. Col. Jas. Bowie, sick and unable to rise, was bayoneted in bed. Col. David Crocket died amid a circle of slaughtered foes. Travis fell upon the wall when he was giving inspiration to his men. When the last Texan died, the floor was nearly ankle deep in blood and ghastly corpses were heaped everywhere. By order of Santa Anna, the bodies were piled in heaps and burned. On the monument to these immortal dead, Texas writes an inscription so great it makes the heart stand still: "_Thermopylae had its messenger of defeat--the Alamo had none._" "I am sorry for you for THE NEXT TWO DAYS. "IT IS THE DRIEST, DULLEST RIDE I EVER TOOK." A lady, with whom I became acquainted said that to me on quitting the train at San Antonio. Folks are so unlike. What was to her dull and uninteresting, I found to be of the greatest interest to me. True there were not many people to be seen, but the boundless prairies with here and there herds of cattle or horses grazing and occasionally a Greaser village with mountains now and then appearing in the distance, had a charm about it for me which I have never experienced before. OUT IN THE BOUNDLESS PRAIRIE. Mesquite bushes cover thinly the land and remind one constantly of an old neglected orchard where the sprouts have been allowed to grow up from the roots of the trees. The railroad has a four-wire fence on each side of the track, which gives the land the appearance of being fenced and you are all the time on the lookout for the farm house, just beyond the _orchard_, but it never appears. Occasionally right in the midst of the Mesquite you see a forty or eighty acre tract broken in a square, showing the soil as black as one's hat. Occasionally is seen a cotton field, but the crop failed because of the drought. All the laborers on the railroad seem to be Mexicans and I learn they give general satisfaction, but my! what shabby hovels they live in! Sometimes only straw or brush covered with straw, but more frequently built of "doby," sun dried brick. As we near the Texas border, the soil becomes thinner and more rocky. We pass towns with no sign of gardens or orchards. We have passed the dry beds of immense streams, some of them called rivers, I presume. AS WE NEAR THE DEL RIO, some running streams are seen and signs of irrigation. Here is the Rio Grande which for thirteen miles of its length forms the boundary between the United States and Mexico. The railroad skirts along the river bank at the base of a great cliff to the right and on the other side of the river the bare Mexican mountains frown down upon us. Devil's river is crossed, a beautiful stream which refuses for miles, to mix its clear waters with the muddy Rio Grande. THE SEMINOLE CAVE CANON-- pronounced "kanyon," as the gorges between the mountains are called, is so grand one regrets that the railroad does not go through it. Only a glimpse is had of its mouth as it opens on Devil's river. Up, up the rocky steeps we go until the open plains are reached. The Spanish dagger, some scrubby bushes, and a species of grass, resembling bear grass is all there is in the way of vegetation. The Pecos river is crossed by the "highest bridge in the world," the boy said who tried to sell the pictures: "No it ain't," said a gentleman, "the one across Kentucky river near Lexington, is the highest," and the man by my side said he knew of two that were higher than either one. Anyway, as I looked down into the river, 320 feet below, I thought it was high enough. They say that the atmosphere is so clear here that your eyes deceive you. At one point, the Santa Rosa mountains in Mexico, seventy miles away, can be clearly seen, but they look to be only five miles off. Much of the finest scenery we missed at night. Paisaino Pass, summit of the Sunset Route, we did not see. Its altitude is 5,082 feet. WE BREAKFASTED AT EL PASO --two full days from New Orleans. What horrible tales are told of Mexican and Indian cruelties in the days of long ago, but my Texas friend tells me that everything like ruffianism in all this section is passed; that hunters can, with perfect safety, camp miles away on these plains without fear of molestation. But looking at some of the specimens of men hereabouts, I'd rather do my hunting further East, if sport was what I was after. In spite of the dry climate some people are farming about El Paso. Of course it is done by irrigation, the Rio Grande furnishing the water. Here is where we change time. By our watches it was 8:30 only a little after daylight. They said the only thing perplexing about El Paso is the time. It has four brands of time and the citizen takes his choice. "They used to have four or five other varieties, but so many people became insane in the attempt to keep their watches right and meet appointments, that now they have only four." Between New Orleans and El Paso, Central time is adhered to, Pacific time from there West. The difference is two hours; so if you arrive at El Paso at 11:15 a.m. and wait there an hour and three quarters, you still get away at 11 a.m., and experience no delay. Then there is local or sun time and Mexican time besides. "Wonder if all the boys who read these lines understand about the change from sun time to railroad time?" The 12 o'clock mark, when I was a boy, was what we blew the dinner horn by and we got along first-rate; but now the railroads have taken us in hand and changed all that. Here at El Paso, they seem to have done their worst on old time--cheating him out of two hours when going West, or maybe they only borrow the two hours and pay it back on the trip East. THE RIO GRANDE The water is very low and muddy. We are now in New Mexico running across its southwestern border for two hundred and fifty miles. There was a white frost on this morning, a rare thing here. The poor Mexicans were huddled on the sunny-side of their dugouts and dobys, wrapped in their blankets. I can't see where they get wood to burn, the country is so barren. My friend told me yesterday that these are typical Mexican homes. A poor little pony, a long-nosed pig or two, a mangy cur, and a few chickens are all they possess in the way of live stock, with these they seem perfectly contented. Some one said El Paso was the CONSUMPTIVE'S PARADISE but from stories I heard about other places, I am sure it has rivals. One man asserted that one winter he heard there were 37,000 consumptives in and around San Antonio and El Paso. Of course it was not so; but that yarn is spun by the great family of "They Say." On our train there were several poor fellows on their way West for their health. How they did cough! It was distressing. One said, "I have bronchitis which bothers me some. My lungs are not at all affected." How strange the hopeful tone of all consumptives! May be it is well that they are so. "When you get into Arizona, it will be so dusty you can hardly see out of the windows," said the porter. That is the case here in New Mexico and if the wind was blowing it would be blinding. A vast sandy plain in every direction with bare mountains, sometimes sand, sometimes rock, in the far distance, is all we see. As we near Deming, we begin to see wind mills, which indicates the presence of water at not a great depth. Here is a nice town, some large stores, a court house and public school building, all of brick; but what on earth keeps up the town? Possibly there may be grazing land in the region and maybe some mining; but to a stranger all is desert. AT LORDSBURG we pass into Arizona. Drummers are everywhere present. They crowd on with their grips and sample cases at every station. The saloon is everywhere present also. At one place, besides the depot building, I saw no business house except a combined saloon and barber shop. The "Tennessee Saloon" was in one place; "This here is a saloon," was the sign on another. After we left San Antonio, the tramps disappear. Up to that point, I could see them looking wistfully at the flying train in day time and at night I could see their camp fires beside the track; but the stations are too far apart and the picking too poor beyond San Antonio for these enterprising travelers. Though the country seems so dry and barren, there are evidences that sometimes they have fearful rain falls. I noticed at several points in Arizona vast areas, covering probably thousands of acres, where at times there are lakes or inland seas. Now the surface is dry and cracked, with not the least sign of water except at one spot where the depression is deepest and there is congregated a great herd of poverty-stricken cattle. The wire fence on either side of the road keeps me company. It makes one think the land is fenced to keep the cattle in and you are expecting to see a great herd every minute; but the fence belongs to the railroad and is intended to keep cattle off the track. Think of a double line of wire fence three thousand miles long; yes, longer than that, for the Southern Pacific goes right on to Portland, Oregon, nearly eight hundred miles north and to Ogden, nearly a thousand miles east of San Francisco and the fences go with it. AT SAN SIMONS, in Arizona, they say there is fine grazing for cattle, one company alone owning 75,000 head. I was on the lookout for the face of the Apache chief, called "Cochise's Head." It is far to the southwest on the mountain top. I fancied I saw it time and again, but when it came in sight, there was no mistaking it. The outline of the face with its great Roman nose looking towards the heavens, is very distinct; for three hours it was in full view of the train. The Apache Indians, who once roamed these plains, called that mountain after the name of their greatest chieftain TUCSON, pronounced "Tuson," said to be one of the quaintest towns in all the West and next to the oldest place in the United States, I saw only by its electric lights. Phoenix, the capital, is thirty-four miles from our route on a branch road. I was so charmed with descriptions of the country thereabouts, I copy for your readers some interesting matter: "All this country was settled by an earlier race than any of the present Indians. The cliffs all through these Arizona mountains are covered with hieroglyphics and pictographs. The Salt and Gila (Hela) river valleys are full of old ruins of early occupancy. There are artificial mounds, hundreds of feet long, extensive canals for irrigating purposes, and vast debris--all, a class of work the present races are unfamiliar with. The most wonderful, or at least the best known of all these ruins--lies three hours of stage north of the station of Casa Grande. Father Niza, who, in 1539, visited the country, heard of these ruins which were then regarded with awe and veneration by the native tribes. Coronado's people visited them in 1540, and since then many explorers have come and gone, and left descriptions to tell us what they were and are. As they exist today, they still show the towering adobe walls that are believed to have been seven stories in height. "Some of the rooms were thirty and forty feet long. Archaeologists and ethnologists have puzzled over these ruins for ages. Today, with their remains of great irrigating ditches all about them, they present a hard nut for scientists to crack. However, we must stand amazed at the extent of these ruins. One of the great canals tapped the Salt river on the south side near the mouth of the Verde. For three and a half miles it passes through an artificial gorge in the Superstition mountains, cut out of solid rock to a depth of a hundred feet. After passing the mountains, it divides into four branches whose aggregate length is 120 miles independent of the distributing ditches. This system of canals irrigated 1,600 square miles of country. The engineering is perfect. There is not even a tradition to be found of these people. We only know that at a period fixed by scientists as 2,000 years ago, the Bradshaw mountains were active volcanoes, and the lava, making its way through Black Canon flowed into these canals. Still later, a great deluge flowed over McDowell Mountains, segregating their granite sides and depositing their wash over the upper valley and the canals to a depth of from three to five feet. This gives us testimony as to the age of these vast works, and tells us nothing of the millions of people who must once have lived here in a high state of civilization. PEOPLE GO TO EUROPE to find ancient civilizations, when they can get them right here at home. There isn't anything in history more fascinating than the story of the conquest of this very region we are traveling through. There is a dramatic recital of Spanish occupancy reaching back 280 years beyond the Guadalupe-Hidalgo treaty of '46. The gold and silver hungry Madrid government was pretty nearly pushed out by the Indian outbreak of 1802, the Mexican revolution twenty years later, and the Apache uprising of 1827. The country became a wilderness almost until from 1845 to 1860, hardy settlers forced their way into the rich valleys, established homes and began developing again the resources of the country. Then our war came on, protection was withdrawn, the Apaches swooped down, and it took ten years to undo their work and begin again the building of a commonwealth. Now, here's an empire as large as the six New England States with New York thrown in. Its climate and scenery are so varied that they appeal to every interest. All the semi-tropical plants grow in the southern valleys, while the peaks of its northern mountains are clad in perpetual snow. Here is the awe-inspiring canon of the Colorado, the greatest and most marvelous cleft in the mountains of the world. You can see a petrified forest here, with the trees congealed into stone, rearing their rugged trunks fifty and seventy feet in the air. What else does man want than that which he can find in Arizona? It is rich in mines, in timber, grazing land, soil for fruit culture, the best climate to be found anywhere. The wealth of the territory is worth more than a hundred million dollars, and is increasing with wonderful rapidity as people are coming to know its limitless resources. "It used to be that the consumptive had Phoenix all to himself. He went there and the climate gave him life and health, but of late years the agriculturist, the fruit raiser and bee keeper have crowded him pretty closely, so that now you find the thrifty modern city set down among groves of oranges, lemon, plum, apricot and peach trees that make a paradise out of all that beautiful valley, so that men find there not only health, but wealth. It is the center of some of the greatest irrigation schemes that have been undertaken in our age." Chapter II In Southern California; Plowing machine; In the oil country; San Francisco; The Union Ferry Depot; Fort Alkatras; Sausalito; Seal rocks; The Golden Gate; Sutro baths and museum; China Town; The United States Mint; James Lick; The Stanford University; The climate. AFTER days of travel over the dreary desert waste, it was refreshing to look out in the early morning on the orchards of oranges, lemons, limes, and I know not how many other kinds of fruit. We are now IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. There are yet miles on miles of desert country, but it is frequently broken by the orchards of tropical fruits. Some one said as we traversed New Mexico and Arizona deserts: "This country was made only to tie the lands which are fit for something together." I fell in with the balance in that opinion; but I am far from believing that now. Wherever water can be had for irrigation, these sandy plains and knobs can be made to blossom as the rose. It is demonstrated beyond all question here and in some of the parks about San Francisco. We passed in the night old Fort Yuma and the Colorado river, which separates Arizona from California and empties into the Gulf of California. From Riverside, Pomona and Los Angeles to San Francisco, over the Coast Line, the country is as the garden of the Lord, except when the great cattle ranches and wheat farms occupy the territory. Farming is made profitable only by irrigation. This is usually the rainy season when the irrigating ditches are not much in use, but no rain has fallen and the farmers are busy preparing the ground and planting wheat. In many places they were flooding the ground in order to bring up the wheat, already sown. I saw only a few places where the crop was showing. What would Alabama farmers think of running a plow with six and eight horses attached? It was not one plow, but a PLOWING MACHINE having several large breakers. I saw from six to ten horses pulling harrows. Horse flesh seems to be abundant. In size, the horses are simply immense. The Eucalyptus tree is a disappointment: where it stands alone it grows to a great height, having a few scattering branches; but in groves and clusters along avenues and on the mountain sides, it is charming. Its growth is rapid, and as an absorbent of malaria it is noted above all plants. I am surprised that it is not grown around Mobile and New Orleans. The Coast Line from Los Angeles has been open only a few weeks, and now trains run into San Francisco for the first time. Many roads centre here, but the Southern Pacific is the first to take its train into the city. All others have their terminals over the Bay at different points, or trains are brought over by steamers. From San Buena Ventura for many miles, our train runs by the side of the Ocean. It is a glorious sight to one unused to the Sea. There are numerous large towns and the lands in many places seem to be fertile almost to the beach. California is becoming NOTED FOR ITS OIL. At one point on the coast there must have been three hundred derricks, many of them on wharves extending far out into the ocean, the wells being only a few feet apart. Back in the mountains and foot-hills there must be many more, as I can see hundreds of great tanks along the beach. Owing to the high price for coal, it will not be a great while before oil will run most of the machinery on the Pacific Coast. The most of the coal used comes from Australia and is very high. The wildest, grandest scenery of the whole trip is where the road pierces the Coast Range at San Louis Obispo. I would not dare undertake its description. And now I am in SAN FRANCISCO after an absence of forty years. Of course I recognize nothing--all is changed; hills have been leveled and their sands emptied into the Bay. Front Street is now separated from the Bay front by blocks of magnificent buildings. My brother and his wife met me. How they have changed! I never would have known them. They were impolite enough to accuse me of growing old, too. THE UNION FERRY DEPOT, from which our boat started on its six mile trip across the Bay, is a wonderful structure, and is built on a mud foundation where the Bay has been filled in. It is 659 feet long with a clock tower rising 245 feet. The second story contains a hall the whole length of the building, 48 feet wide and 42 feet high. The building belongs to the State and is used for waiting rooms for some of the great railroads and for the many large ferry boats which cross the Bay to Oakland, Alameda, Berkeley, Sausalito and many other points. The Bay is filled with shipping of every description and from all parts of the world. FORT ALKATRAS is on an island. If the prison there could talk, it could tell many a tale of suffering during the civil war, the only offense being, the occupant sympathized with the Confederacy. Yonder is Goat Island, in whose shadow a number of boys and I, years ago, in our own beautiful sail boat, on a Saturday morning, made a fine beginning for a day's fishing, but the wretched fellows soon took a notion to return to Oakland--meantime the wind had sprung up and the Bay was lashed into great billows. I was hopelessly in the minority, and reluctantly took my place and steered the little craft over the mad waves. In a few minutes every fellow except myself was deathly sick, and I was left to manage sails and helm alone. It was my first lesson in navigation. Time and again I was sure we were lost, but the Lord must have interposed, though none of us were much given to a religious life. When we got safely ashore my interest in the boat was quickly disposed of to my fool-hardy companions. Through all these years I have fondly hoped I might some day finish that fish, so unceremoniously broken into. SAUSALITO is the end of my journey. My brother lives here in a lovely home built in a niche of the mountain and fronting the Bay, which is not twenty steps from his gate. San Francisco is plainly in view directly in front, and Oakland and other cities by the Bay, are to the left. This is the terminus of a railroad which runs back in Marin county through a beautiful country. People who live here and on back for miles to San Rafael, mostly have business in the city. They are conveyed to and from their homes by cars and boats which run every half hour. It is said there are two thousand people in this burg; but I can't see where they are. In nooks and corners of the mountains they are stuck away so that it looks more like a thickly settled country community than a town. The streets run around the mountains on easy grades so that before one is aware of it he is on a high elevation. Exercise! You can get all you want here. The back entrance to my brother's home is some four hundred feet above his house and is reached by a flight of steps almost as steep as a ladder. I have always counted myself a good walker, but I am not in it with these Californians. Both men and women are great walkers. Remarking on the great number of ruddy-faced girls and women I saw, the quick explanation was: "We have so much open weather and the air is so bracing, our people are so much out of doors; hence the ruddy cheeks." I am a POOR HAND AT SIGHT-SEEING. Probably it comes from a sort of tired feeling which I have had since my birth; anyway, I don't like to start out in the business of seeing things, but I just had to. These people believe they have something worth seeing and they leave their affairs behind and give themselves to showing the tourists the sights. And they are worth seeing, too. You can write almost anything extravagant about California and it will not be far from the truth. I was glad I was not left to myself, but how helpless I am when it comes to writing about the sights. I can command only a few adjectives and they soon become commonplace. "Immense" is one of my favorites. "Wonderful" is another. Then comes "great" and a lot of little ones until I grow tired and only grunt as my guide raves over what we are looking at. If I could only rave over things! I will never have a better opportunity than now, but the thing is impossible for me. "The City of Atlanta" is the name of the Observation Car which makes several trips daily to the Cliff House and return. The conductor is a good talker and knows his business thoroughly. While the car moves along at a good speed, he announces to the travelers the places of interest. We pass the great power house where is generated the electricity which runs the many miles of electric car line; the Mission Dolores, an old adobe building erected in 1776; Golden Gate Park, covering more than one thousand acres; the Affiliate Colleges, three great buildings situated on a mountain side overlooking the city and bay, and finally the Cliff House on the point on the Pacific. Out there two hundred yards away are the SEAL ROCKS. A great herd of seals live there, protected by the authorities for the pleasure of the travelers who flock here by the thousands. In the afternoon they look like a flock of sheep resting in the shadows of the rock; but in the morning they are playing in the waters. At one time they sound like a pack of hounds far in the distance; at another, like a herd of hungry cattle. This, with the roar of the ocean against the rocks, makes a sound one never can forget. It is said that here, on the broad piazzas of the Cliff House, is the only spot in all the world where such a sight can be enjoyed. I was told that some years ago after a storm, a large sea-lion, killed by the storm, was washed ashore, and its weight was twenty-seven hundred pounds. I do not doubt it, judging by the appearance of one immense old fellow, which they have named "Ben Butler," after "Beast Butler," I suppose, of New Orleans fame. The quickest way out of my troubles at this point is to allow other writers to tell of the things that I saw there. "The entrance through THE GOLDEN GATE cannot be surpassed. On the right can be seen the Cliff House and Sutro Heights; on the left, Point Bonita Lighthouse. Passing these, you enter what might be called the vestibule of the Golden Gate, which narrows to the distance of one and one-eighth miles between Fort Point and Lime Point, with a depth of water of three hundred and ninety feet. The bay is so land-locked that the early voyagers kept sailing right by its narrow opening, and it was not until November 7, 1769, that it was discovered; but it was not entered and made known to the world until 1775. The Bay covers 450 square miles. It can accommodate the navies of the entire world without crowding them. SUTRO BATHS AND MUSEUM is where an immense rock basin catches the water from the ocean twice a day at high tide. The baths, with a capacity of nearly two millions of gallons, can be filled within an hour. The length of the building is 500 feet. It has seating capacity for 3,700 and swimming accommodations for 2,000 bathers. Tons of iron and thousands of feet of glass, 3,000,000 feet of lumber and over 300,000 feet of concrete were used in its construction. The bathers are here all times of the year. I can't tell of Golden Gate Park, with its beautiful drives, its statuary, museum, its herds of buffaloes and deer; of the Presidio, the Government reservation of over 1,500 acres, which has been beautified until it may be included among the parks of San Francisco. CHINATOWN, covering twelve squares of the city, where nobody lives but Chinese, is a place of great interest. Many visitors employ guides and take in the town at night, which, I am told, is the best time to see it at its worst. Horrid tales are told of underground opium dens, where victims of the drug, of all colors, congregate; of the gambling hells, and the Chinese lotteries. Two Chinese landed in 1848; in 1850 there were 450; in 1852 10,000 landed in one month. They were welcomed at first. They are the best of laborers, but they soon began to supplant white labor. It was discovered also that they did not come with their families, to make this country their home. They keep what they make and return with it to China--they even send the bones of their dead back to the Celestial Empire. By law, they have been prohibited from coming to this country for some years. The years of the first Exclusion Act are now about out, and one of the biggest questions, in the minds of Californians is, the new Exclusion Law. The Labor party is very strong in the State, and the politicians dare not antagonize it. It is a serious problem. If the Chinese would come like the people of other nations and bring their families and settle in the country, their enemies would be robbed of their strongest argument. No exclusion laws are thought of against the people of other nations, even though they supplant, in many lines, the American laboring man. THE UNITED STATES MINT. "The biggest mint in the world," the fellow said, is a place where one can feel mighty rich for a little while. Visitors are received at regular hours, bunched and put in charge of a guide who shows them through. One can see the money in every process of manufacture. I was impressed with the fact that two dies stamp $40,000 in $20 gold pieces in ten minutes and that the coinage is about $30,000,000 a year. I saw only one greenback and one copper while I was in San Francisco. Only gold and silver are used. JAMES LICK was an old pioneer--a machinist and a bachelor. He used his immense wealth in beautifying the city and benefiting his fellow men. The Pioneers' Building he gave, leaving it richly endowed. Here are gathered all the curios of the early times and from the fund is supported old and disabled pioneers. He gave to the city a great bath house, where any one can bathe without cost; $400,000 of his money went into the California Academy of Science. The Lick Observatory, near San Jose, crowning the summit of Mount Hamilton, 4,250 feet above sea level, his greatest benefaction, I could only read about. The bequest amounted to $7,000,000, and the telescope alone cost $55,000. This is indeed the biggest telescope in the world. THE STANFORD UNIVERSITY at Palo Alto, only a few miles away from San Francisco on the Coast Line, I could easily have seen in passing, but it escaped me. It is named for Leland Stanford, Jr., for whom it will be a perpetual monument. He was the only child, and the parents devoted the whole of their princely fortune to the erection and endowment of this great school. I saw the palatial home of the widow in San Francisco. This school and the State University at Berkeley, certainly offer great advantages to the young men and women of California--they are both co-educational. The great wealth of this country is simply marvelous. The taxable property of San Francisco amounts to nearly $400,000,000, with $120,000,000 hoarded in savings banks, or $343 per capita, but notwithstanding all this there is a great army of very poor people. THE CLIMATE about San Francisco is peculiar. The average maximum temperature for twenty-two years has been 62 and the minimum 51 degrees, a variation of only eleven degrees. The January temperature, for those years, has been 50 and for June 59 degrees. The last and the first three months of each year are the rainiest--only about 67 rainy days in the year. The people wear the same outer garments the year round. Ice and snow are seldom seen. The fogs make it an undesirable place for people with pulmonary troubles. I have missed many things of great interest. Back of my brother's house, upon Mount Tamalpais, is the "crookedest railroad in the world." It doubles back on itself five times, forming a double bow knot. But for the fogs, I should have enjoyed the trip where the finest view in all the country may be had. Chapter Three Los Angeles; "Seeing Los Angeles"; The return; The pit; The Mirage; Old Fort Yuma; Religious matters; Baptists; An interesting occurrence; The pastors' conference; California College; One serious question. ONE who travels and observes could write letters indefinitely about what he sees and hears, but the question is: "How long will the readers stand it?" Just what to write about and when to stop, are perplexing questions, but I must close with this letter. Besides a day in Oakland and Berkeley, where the State University is located, and a short run on a railroad to San Quinten, all my sight-seeing was done in San Francisco. There are over half a million people in and around that city. Probably 350,000 in San Francisco; Oakland Alameda, Berkeley and several other towns across the bay, practically one city, have over one hundred thousand more. Just two weeks was the length of my stay thereabouts. Everybody was very kind to give advice to the traveler, some of which he took--if he had taken it all, he would have been gone a year or more. Before I left, on the way, and about San Francisco, I was told I must not return without seeing LOS ANGELES. I gave two days returning, one of them Sunday, to this surpassingly beautiful city. "You must see Pasadena, Long Beach, Riverside and Mount Lowe," a friend said and another suggested a trip to San Diego and I know not how many other places, but the line had to be drawn somewhere and this is the last place for me on this trip. "There is nothing in a name," but here is one I found, there is something in: "Pueblo de la Reina de los Angelise." That was the original Spanish name: the meaning was: "Town of the Queen of the Angels." It must have been a beautiful place in those far off days, 1781. It was rather damp, raw weather while I was there and I saw but little. The display of fruits and farm products and natural resources of Southern California, at the Chamber of Commerce is simply marvelous. The immense hotels of the city are full all through the winters. I was told there were 60,000 tourists in the city the day I was there. These great hotels are not run for fun either, as I happen to know from what I paid for one night's lodging. At all the suburban cities, I learned, the hotels flourish as they do here. In Florida it is said: "the people live on gophers in the summer and on Yankees in the winter." These people certainly have a fine chance at the Yankees in winter. Southern people, too, find their way here and many have made it their home. Mrs. Scarboro, a Judson girl, into whose home I was received with an old fashioned southern welcome, told me there were four Judson girls and several Howard College boys there. The Daughters of the Confederacy have two chapters, and I think the old Confederates have an organization, too. Her old friends in Alabama will be glad to know that Miss Sue Daniel makes this her home and that she is well and happy. How many people she knows in Alabama and how they do love her! She loves the Lord and His work here as she did in Marion. "SEEING LOS ANGELES." is the name of the observation car which will give you a two or three hours ride through the city for a small sum. I can't begin to tell of all we saw. There are hundreds of palatial homes here in the midst of grounds surrounded by the rarest of plants. I can't understand why they do not have the orange as an ornamental tree, for it grows beautifully all around. It is a lovely tree and when loaded with fruit, it surpasses anything I have seen. I was never tired of eating oranges until now. I shall never forget the acres on acres I saw, covered with trees laden with the luscious fruit. The growth of the population in this Southern California city is something marvelous. In 1860 there were 4,500; in 1870, 11,000; in 1880, 50,000; in 1897, more than 100,000, and at this time, probably 150,000. What is the attraction? the reader asks. The climate is the first thing, of course. It is only 293 feet above the level of the sea, the air is dry and entirely free from malarial influences. There is not much need of fire in the homes, so spring-like is the weather most of the time. The ocean is only a short distance away on one side, and the mountains, on the other side, are only a few minutes ride. Besides all this, the rich lands abound. Oil wells are abundant in the southern part of the city. Many persons mortgaged delightful homes to develop wells in their front and back yards and afterwards lost all. Some of the wisest feel that the discovery of oil was a calamity to the city. The conductor on our observation car, in his excellent description of things, as we went along, would occasionally venture to perpetrate a piece of wit at which there was the faintest sort of a smile on the faces of some of his passengers, on others, it was entirely lost, but he made one happy hit, which brought down the house. "On the left you see many hundreds of derricks, showing that Los Angeles has among her many other resources, oil to burn. You will observe that the oil wells come to an abrupt termination at the fence of the old cemetery. Many people insisted that so much valuable territory should not be given up to the dead since the occupants had either gone to where they did not need oil, or to where fuel was furnished them free." THE RETURN Was by the same route I went. If I had to make the trip again, I should go one way and return another. I am not at all displeased with the Southern Pacific. It was as good as I wanted and I guess the equal of any others. I counted myself fortunate to get a place on the Limited returning! Beyond the saving of a day, I discovered but little advantage over a place on the sleeper on the regular train. Everything was nice and convenient of course, and, if I had plenty of money and loved to smoke and drink, I think I would put great store on the Limited; but a lower berth on a sleeper on the regular train, is good enough for me. I saw many points of interest, returning, which I passed in the night, going. "THE PIT" Is a depression in Southern California through which the road runs which reaches at Salton, _two hundred and sixty-three feet below the level of the sea_. Only a few miles away, across the mountain range, is the Pacific ocean and here at Salton they have great salt works, where the waters of the Salt Springs, found in the neighborhood, are evaporated. All this region was once covered by the ocean, no doubt, and the probabilities are that it will be again some day. Here, they say, in this atmosphere, is the place for consumptives and there are very many to be seen. At Indio, twenty feet below sea level, there is a good hotel and neat little cottages, fitted up especially for the accommodation of invalids. THE MIRAGE. I thought I saw it going out, but was mistaken. I am not prepared yet to say it was not a lake of water or mud, for they say the Salt Springs and the Volcanic Springs of mud are hereabouts. One dares not approach too near the latter. It spreads itself out over many acres and maybe many miles. If it is dangerous to explore, who knows but the so-called mirage is a real lake of mud and water! But there it is out a few miles from the railroad, and for miles you can see it. You see distinctly the shadows from the other bank and little knolls and islands, all through it, cast their shadows distinctly on the face of the water. Yet they say it is all a delusion, there is no water there! Maybe so, but I am a skeptic. In a former letter I spoke of the four wire fences on either side of the road and suggested that it was more than 3,000 miles long; but I discovered in the Colorado desert, which I passed at night while going, there is no fence for hundreds of miles, nothing but bare sand, and of course, there are no cattle to get on the track. OLD FORT YUMA Is a historic spot on the Colorado river. This was the crossing place in the early days of all the thousands of gold hunters from the East. If its history could be written what stories of adventure and suffering would it contain! It was here my brother, in 1849, caught the first glimpse of California after a long and perilous trip across the plains from Ft. Smith in Arkansas. If he would write the story of his ups and downs before and after getting to California it would make mighty interesting reading. The town of Yuma is not far from the Gulf of California--I saw two little steamboats tied up there. If anyone has been trying to do anything in the way of teaching and evangelizing the Yuma Indians, a company of whom we saw, they certainly have reason to be discouraged. I have seen nowhere more wretched specimens of humanity. The government policy of continuing the Indians as "Wards of the Nation," supplying them with a living without any effort on their part, and the efforts of the Catholics to Christianize them, have been, alike failures. Now my trip is ended. I have traveled 205 miles in Alabama, 63 in Mississippi, 300 in Louisiana, 947 in Texas, 249 in New Mexico, 414 in Arizona, 728 in California, making in all 2,906 miles. It has been a great pleasure for me to write these letters. I doubt not they seemed very commonplace to many who are used to travel. I haven't had that class in mind at all. I have thought of the many hundreds who were "Shut-Ins" by reason of circumstances, and will in all probability never make this trip or anything like it. I will be glad if the letters have proven helpful to any. It is proper that these letters of travel should close with something about RELIGIOUS MATTERS. The earliest religion to be planted in all this western country was Roman Catholic. In Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California, you will hear of "The Missions," by which they mean some ancient cathedral or monastery, built more than a century ago, but now in ruins. The tumble-down walls are of great interest to the traveler, and are regarded with superstitious reverence by many persons. Enthusiastic orators and writers often rave over the noble self-sacrifice of the Spanish priests who founded these Missions. Doubtless there were some pure, good men among them, inflamed with a zeal for soul saving. But if we study the history of the Missions, there is little to admire. There was a deliberate trade between the Spanish Government and these Spanish Fathers. They received every encouragement from the government and carried on their building and trading under government protection. The Indians, whom they came to Christianize, became practically their slaves. The labor required to quarry and dress the stones, burn the brick and prepare and transport the timbers for the buildings, was immense, and it was all done by the Indians under the direction of the Fathers. The income from the Missions, established by one of the Societies, became $2,000,000 annually. They were in possession of their properties for more than half a century. After the Missions were secularized by the Mexican government, to replete its exhausted treasures, the Fathers gave up their places, the Missions crumbled into ruins and their converts went back into their savage state. There is now no trace of anything permanent about their work, except where the Indians intermarried with the Spanish soldiers; their decendants are still Catholics. But the Catholics are strong on the Pacific Coast, as they are everywhere in Coast cities. Probably the Episcopalians come next, though of this I am not certain. From all that I could see, most of the people are working at most anything else than religion. I was constantly reminded of the couplet in the old hymn: "Where every prospect pleases And only man is vile." If a lovely country, delightful climate, bountiful harvests and general prosperity, make people religious, the Californians certainly ought to be devout; but I fear they take these things as matters of course, and forget the Giver of all good. I was told at Sausalito that men did not go to preaching in California. From what I saw in the Episcopal church in that little city, at a night service, it looked as if it were true; but I worshipped with the First Baptist Church in San Francisco on two Sunday mornings and was much pleased to find fully one-half the worshippers males. BAPTISTS in San Francisco are few in numbers. I had the privilege of preaching for the First Church people one morning. Dr. Wood, the pastor, is a strong preacher, and seems to have an aggressive church. My membership was here when I was a boy. But I was not a very loyal member, as the reader later will find how I attended the services of Dr. Scott on account of my Southern proclivities. A Southern preacher in California is a rarity, I judge, but he meets with a hearty welcome. Old Southerners, of course, greet him with a style he is used to, and the Yankees crowd about him as if he were a curiosity. "I knew you were from the South," said one: "Why?" I asked. "Are you a Southern man?" "No, but I was down in that country on the other side from you in the war." From the handshake he gave me, one would not have guessed that we had at one time been enemies. "Reckon" is a good word peculiar to the South and so is "Tote." These are the two words, the use of which anywhere in the North, will betray the speaker as a Southern man. The words they use to express the same ideas are "Guess" and "Pack." I submit these are no improvement on ours. In my sermon I had occasion to say, "You reckon"--instantly the face of every Northerner was lit up with a smile. I was greatly pleased with the heartiness with which most everyone in the congregation entered into the singing. An instrument was used, but a leader stood on the platform and led the congregation. The pastor explained to me, rather apologetically, that since their building was destroyed a few years ago, with their fine organ, a choir had not been organized. I thought: "The Lord be praised for a fire if it gives us such singing as that in place of the music of the average city choir." AN INTERESTING OCCURRENCE. Before the service began, the pastor begged the indulgence of the congregation while he stated the case of a gentleman who was present. He came from El Dorado county, where there was no Baptist church nearer than forty miles of him. He had been converted for some time, and being in the city on business, he concluded to remain over Sunday and state his case to the church here and ask for baptism. It was the custom of the church to hear such cases on Wednesday night, at the prayer meeting, but the brother was to return to his home next day, so the matter came up at the morning service on Sunday. The brother made his statement, some questions were asked, and he was received for baptism, which was to take place that night. There was present a gentleman who had been so circumstanced he had not witnessed, for many years, the reception of a member in a Baptist church. On leaving the church he said: "I haven't seen that way of the whole congregation voting on the reception of a member for a long time. It seems to me that is the thing to do." As an object lesson it is worth everything to the Baptists, and ought to be witnessed by as large a number as possible. But the tendency, in our cities, is to thrust it aside lest it weary the Sunday congregation. The congregational form of church government is destined to sweep America and every democracy-loving people on the globe. Everybody ought to know we stand for it. I met with the PASTOR'S CONFERENCE, composed of all the Baptist preachers in and around the city. It alternates its meetings between San Francisco and Oakland. All told, I suppose they have about twenty-five members. One morning the hour was given me to tell about mission work in the South. They were especially curious to know something about the negroes. They fired many questions at me, which I answered satisfactorily, I suppose, as they gave me a vote of thanks, with a round of applause and sent greetings to the Baptists of Alabama. I guess Oakland is the center of Baptist strength for Northern California, as Los Angeles is for Southern California--there being four or five churches in the city. It is the seat of CALIFORNIA COLLEGE, the Baptist college of the State. I did not visit it, but from the statement I heard before the Conference from its President, I judge, it is in a precarious condition. It does seem to me, if Mr. Rockefeller wants to help the Baptists where they are most needy, he has a great opportunity in California. From all I can learn, the cause is suffering most, for the want of pastors who will stick to the State. Those they have are from many different States and from England. I judge they are good men and true; but unless the minds of a considerable number of them are made up to remain in the State, the cause of the Baptist must continue to be a great struggle. A floating ministry, in any State, cannot give permanency to the work. Every State needs and must have a good, large element of natives in the ministry. This, California, is almost wholly deficient in, I suppose. It was my privilege to hear at Los Angeles, Dr. Frost, long a resident of California, and said to be the strongest man on the Coast. He is strong and rugged, a King Saul among his brethren in stature, and his sermon was full of the strong meat of the Gospel. Rev. Joseph Smale, pastor of the First Church, I heard at night. It was a plain, gospel sermon, delivered in an earnest, impressive manner. His church is probably the largest and richest on the Coast. The pastor and his assistant are both Englishmen. I met with the Pastors' Conference. The Baptists hereabouts seem to be numerous and influential. They have a vigorous, aggressive ministry, who speak hopefully of the prospects. I was assured that the religious element was quite strong and pronounced in all Southern California. ONE SERIOUS QUESTION agitating the brethren on the Pacific Coast I found to be: The multiplicity of agents to represent the various denominational interests. This gave especial interest to my talk before the Pastors' Conference at Oakland. It seemed to be a new thing with them that one man should represent all the mission interests in one State, as we do in Alabama. The Missionary Union (their Foreign Mission Board), the Home Mission Society, The American Baptist Publication Society, each have a man to represent their interests, and besides these I think the two Woman's Societies have special agents also. The Northern Anniversaries, with which the churches on the Pacific Coast affiliate, have appointed committees on co-operation, but the jealousies existing between the societies stand in the way of their accomplishing anything toward consolidation. There is no question in the minds of any, North or South, but that our Convention plan is better to bring about concert of action. I should have been delighted to have studied closer the Baptist situation and cultivated the brethren in California, but my time was too short. They are struggling with unsolved problems on that side as we are on this side. May Heaven help them and us with that wisdom that comes from above. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. Mismatched quotation marks were not corrected if it was not sufficiently clear where the missing quotation mark should be placed. 
6077	----	HISTORY OF THE DONNER PARTY A TRAGEDY OF THE SIERRA By C. F. McGlashan Truckee, Cal. To Mrs. Elizabeth A. Keiser, One of the Pioneer Mothers of California, This Book is Respectfully Dedicated by the Author. Preface. The delirium preceding death by starvation, is full of strange phantasies. Visions of plenty, of comfort, of elegance, flit ever before the fast-dimming eyes. The final twilight of death is a brief semi-consciousness in which the dying one frequently repeats his weird dreams. Half rising from his snowy couch, pointing upward, one of the death-stricken at Donner Lake may have said, with tremulous voice: "Look! there, just above us, is a beautiful house. It is of costliest walnut, inlaid with laurel and ebony, and is resplendent with burnished silver. Magnificent in all its apartments, it is furnished like a palace. It is rich with costly cushions, elegant tapestries, dazzling mirrors; its floor is covered with Oriental carpets, its ceiling with artistic frescoings; downy cushions invite the weary to repose. It is filled with people who are chatting, laughing, and singing, joyous and care-free. There is an abundance of warmth, and rare viands, and sparkling wines. Suspended among the storm-clouds, it is flying along the face of the precipice at a marvelous speed. Flying? no! it has wheels and is gliding along on a smooth, steel pathway. It is sheltered from the wind and snow by large beams and huge posts, which are bolted to the cliffs with heavy, iron rods. The avalanches, with their burden of earth and rocks and crushed pines, sweep harmlessly above this beautiful house and its happy inmates. It is drawn by neither oxen nor horses, but by a fiery, hot-breathed monster, with iron limbs and thews of, steel. The mountain trembles beneath his tread, and the rocks for miles re-echo his roar." If such a vision was related, it but indicates, prophetically, the progress of a few years. California's history is replete with tragic, startling events. These events are the landmarks by which its advancement is traced. One of the most mournful of these is recorded in this work--a work intended as a contribution, not to the literature, but to the history of the State. More thrilling than romance, more terrible than fiction, the sufferings of the Donner Party form a bold contrast to the joys of pleasure-seekers who to-day look down upon the lake from the windows of silver palace cars. The scenes of horror and despair which transpired in the snowy Sierra in the winter of 1846-7, need no exaggeration, no embellishment. From all the works heretofore published, from over one thousand letters received from the survivors, from ample manuscript, and from personal interviews with the most important actors in the tragedy, the facts have been carefully compiled. Neither time, pains, nor expense have been spared in ferreting out the truth. New and fragmentary versions of the sad story have appeared almost every year since the unfortunate occurrence. To forever supplant these distorted and fabulous reports--which have usually been sensational new articles--the survivors have deemed it wise to contribute the truth. The truth is sufficiently terrible. Where conflicting accounts of particular scenes or occurrences have been contributed, every effort has been made to render them harmonious and reconcilable. With justice, with impartiality, and with strict adherence to what appeared truthful and reliable, the book has been written. It is an honest effort--toward the truth, and as such is given to the world. C. F. McGlashan. Truckee, Cal., June 30, 1879. Contents. Chapter I. Donner Lake A Famous Tourist Resort Building the Central Pacific California's Skating Park The Pioneers The Organization of the Donner Party Ho! for California! A Mammoth Train The Dangers by the Way False Accounts of the Sufferings Endured Complete Roll of the Company Impostors Claiming to Belong to the Party Killed by the Pawnees An Alarmed Camp Resin Indians A Mother's Death Chapter II. Mrs. Donner's Letters Life on the Plains An Interesting Sketch The Outfit Required The Platte River Botanizing Five Hundred and Eighteen Wagons for California Burning "Buffalo Chips" The Fourth of July at Fort Laramie Indian Discipline Sioux Attempt to Purchase Mary Graves George Donner Elected Captain Letter of Stanton Dissension One Company Split up into Five The Fatal Hastings Cut-off Lowering Wagons over a Precipice The First View of Great Salt Lake Chapter III. A Grave of Salt Members of the Mystic Tie Twenty Wells A Desolate Alkaline Waste Abandoned on the Desert A Night of Horror A Steer Maddened by Thirst The Mirage Yoking an Ox and a Cow "Cacheing" Goods The Emigrants' Silent Logic A Cry for Relief Two Heroic Volunteers A Perilous journey Letters to Captain Sutter Chapter IV. Gravelly Ford The Character of James F. Reed Causes which Led to the Reed-Snyder Tragedy John Snyder's Popularity The Fatal Altercation Conflicting Statements of Survivors Snyder's Death A Brave Girl A Primitive Trial A Court of Final Resort Verdict of Banishment A Sad Separation George and Jacob Donner Ahead at the Time Finding Letters in Split Sticks Danger of Starvation Chapter V. Great Hardships The Sink of the Humboldt Indians Stealing Cattle An Entire Company Compelled to Walk Abandoned to Die Wolfinger Murdered Rhinehart's Confession Arrival of C. T. Stanton A Temporary Relief A Fatal Accident The Sierra Nevada Mountains Imprisoned in Snow Struggles for Freedom A Hopeless Situation Digging for Cattle in Snow How the Breen Cabin Happened to be Built A Thrilling Sketch of a Solitary Winter Putting up Shelters The Donners Have Nothing but Tents Fishing for Trout. Chapter VI. Endeavors to Cross the Mountains Discouraging Failures Eddy Kills a Bear Making Snow-Shoes Who composed the "Forlorn Hope" Mary A. Graves An Irishman A Generous Act Six Days' Rations Mary Graves' Account Snow-Blind C. T. Stanton's Death "I Am Coming Soon" Sketch of Stanton's Early Life His Charity and Self-sacrifice The Diamond Breastpin Stanton's Last Poem Chapter VII. A Wife's Devotion The Smoky Gorge Caught in a Storm Casting Lots to See Who Should Die A Hidden River The Delirium of Starvation Franklin Ward Graves His Dying Advice A Frontiersman's Plan The Camp of Death A Dread Resort A Sister's Agony The Indians Refuse to Eat Lewis and Salvador Flee for Their Lives Killing a Deer Tracks Marked by Blood Nine Days without Food Chapter VIII. Starvation at Donner Lake Preparing Rawhide for Food Eating the Firerug Shoveling Snow off the Beds Playing they were Tea-cups of Custard A Starving Baby Pleading with Silent Eloquence Patrick Breen's Diary Jacob Donner's Death A Child's Vow A Christmas Dinner Lost on the Summits A Stump Twenty-two Feet High Seven Nursing Babes at Donner Lake A Devout Father A Dying Boy Sorrow and Suffering at the Cabins Chapter IX. The Last Resort Two Reports of a Gun Only Temporary Relief Weary Traveling The Snow Bridges Human Tracks! An Indian Rancherie Acorn Bread Starving Five Times! Carried Six Miles Bravery of John Rhodes A Thirty-two Days' Journey Organizing the First Relief Party Alcalde Sinclair's Address Capt. R. P. Tucker's Companions. Chapter X. A Lost Age in California History The Change Wrought by the Discovery of Gold The Start from Johnson's Ranch A Bucking Horse A Night Ride Lost in the Mountains A Terrible Night A Flooded Camp Crossing a Mountain Torrent Mule Springs A Crazy Companion Howlings of Gray Wolves A Deer Rendezvous A Midnight Thief Frightening Indians The Diary of the First Relief Party Chapter XI. Hardships of Reed and Herron Generosity of Captain Sutter Attempts to Cross the Mountains with Provisions Curtis' Dog Compelled to Turn Back Hostilities with Mexico Memorial to Gov. Stockton Yerba Buena's Generosity Johnson's Liberality Pitiful Scenes at Donner Lake Noble Mothers Dying rather than Eat Human Flesh A Mother's Prayer Tears of Joy Eating the Shoestrings Chapter XII. A Wife's Devotion Tamsen Donner's Early Life The Early Settlers of Sangamon County An Incident in School Teaching and Knitting School Discipline Capt. George Donner's Appearance Parting Scenes at Alder Creek Starting over the Mountains A Baby's Death A Mason's Vow Crossing the Snow Barrier More Precious than Gold or Diamonds Elitha Donner's Kindness Chapter XIII. Death of Ada Keseberg Denton Discovering Gold A Poem Composed while Dying The Caches of Provisions Robbed by Fishers The Sequel to the Reed-Snyder Tragedy Death from Overeating The Agony of Frozen Feet An Interrupted Prayer Stanton, after Death, Guides the Relief Party! The Second Relief Party Arrives A Solitary Indian Patty Reed and Her Father Starving Children Lying in Bed Mrs. Graves' Money still Buried at Donner Lake Chapter XIV. Leaving Three Men in the Mountains The Emigrants Quite Helpless Bear Tracks in the Snow The Clumps of Tamarack Wounding a Bear Blood Stains upon the Snow A Weary Chase A Momentous Day Stone and Cady Leave the Sufferers A Mother Offering Five Hundred Dollars Mrs. Donner Parting from her Children "God will Take Care of You" Buried in Snow without Food or Fire Pines Uprooted by the Storm A Grave Cut in the Snow The Cub's Cave Firing at Random A Desperate Undertaking Preparing for a Hand-to-hand Battle Precipitated into the Cave Seizing the Bear Mrs. Elizabeth Donner's Death Clarke and Baptiste Attempt to Escape A Death more Cruel than Starvation Chapter XV. A Mountain Storm Provisions Exhausted Battling the Storm Fiends Black Despair Icy Coldness A Picture of Desolation The Sleep of Death A Piteous Farewell Falling into the Fire-well Isaac Donner's Death Living upon Snow Water Excruciating Pain A Vision of Angels "Patty is Dying!" The Thumb of a Mitten A Child's Treasures The "Dolly" of the Donner Party Chapter XVI. A Mother at Starved Camp Repeating the Litany Hoping in Despair Wasting Away The Precious Lump of Sugar "James is Dying" Restoring a Life Relentless Hunger The Silent Night Vigils The Sight of Earth Descending the Snow Pit The Flesh of the Dead Refusing to Eat The Morning Star The Mercy of God The Mutilated Forms The Dizziness of Delirium Faith Rewarded "There is Mrs. Breen." Chapter XVII. The Rescue California Aroused A Yerba Buena Newspaper Tidings of Woe A Cry of Distress Noble Generosity Subscriptions for the Donner Party The First and Second Reliefs Organization of the Third The Dilemma Voting to Abandon a Family The Fatal Ayes John Stark's Bravery Carrying the Starved Children A Plea for the Relief Party Chapter XVIII. Arrival of the Third Relief The Living and the Dead Captain George Donner Dying Mrs. Murphy's Words Foster and Eddy at the Lake Tamsen Donner and Her Children A Fearful Struggle The Husband's Wishes Walking Fourteen Miles Wifely Devotion Choosing Death The Night Journey An Unparalleled Ordeal An Honored Name Three Little Waifs "And Our Parents are Dead." Chapter XIX. False Ideas about the Donner Party Accused of Six Murders Interviews with Lewis Keseberg His Statement An Educated German A Predestined Fate Keseberg's Lameness Slanderous Reports Covered with Snow "Loathsome, Insipid, and Disgusting" Longings toward Suicide Tamsen Donner's Death Going to Get the Treasure Suspended over a Hidden Stream "Where is Donner's Money?" Extorting a Confession Chapter XX. Dates of the Rescues Arrival of the Fourth Relief A Scene Beggaring Description The Wealth of the Donners An Appeal to the Highest Court A Dreadful Shock Saved from a Grizzly Bear A Trial for Slander Keseberg Vindicated Two Kettles of Human Blood The Enmity of the Relief Party "Born under an Evil Star" "Stone Him! Stone Him!" Fire and Flood Keseberg's Reputation for Honesty A Prisoner in His Own House The Most Miserable of Men Chapter XXI. Sketch of Gen. John A. Sutter The Donner Party's Benefactor The Least and Most that Earth Can Bestow The Survivors' Request His Birth and Parentage Efforts to Reach California New Helvetia A Puny Army Uninviting Isolation Ross and Bodega Unbounded Generosity Sutter's Wealth Effect of the Gold Fever Wholesale Robbery The Sobrante Decision A "Genuine and Meritorious" Grant Utter Ruin Hock Farm Gen. Sutter's Death Mrs. E. P. Houghton's Tribute Chapter XXII. The Death List The Forty-two Who Perished Names of Those Saved Forty-eight Survivors Traversing Snow-belt Five Times Burying the Dead An Appalling Spectacle Tamsen Donner's Last Act of Devotion A Remarkable Proposal Twenty-six Present Survivors McCutchen Keseberg The Graves Family The Murphys Naming Marysville The Reeds The Breens Chapter XXIII. The Orphan Children of George and Tamsen Donner Sutter, the Philanthropist "If Mother Would Only Come" Christian and Mary Brunner An Enchanting Home "Can't You Keep Both of Us?" Eliza Donner Crossing the Torrent Earning a Silver Dollar The Gold Excitement Getting an Education Elitha C. Donner Leanna C. Donner Frances E. Donner Georgia A. Donner Eliza P Donner Chapter XXIV. Yerba Buena's Gift to George and Mary Donner An Alcalde's Negligence Mary Donner's Land Regranted Squatters Jump George Donner's Land A Characteristic Land Law-suit Vexatious Litigation Twice Appealed to Supreme Court, and once to United States Supreme Court A Well-taken Law Point Mutilating Records A Palpable Erasure Relics of the Donner Party Five Hundred Articles Buried Thirty-two Years Knives, Forks, Spoons Pretty Porcelain Identifying Chinaware Beads and Arrow-heads A Quaint Bridle-bit Remarkable Action of Rust A Flint-Lock Pistol A Baby's Shoe The Resting Place of the Dead Vanishing Land-marks Chapter I. Donner Lake A Famous Tourist Resort Building the Central Pacific California's Skating Park The Pioneers The Organization of the Donner Party Ho! for California! A Mammoth Train The Dangers by the Way False Accounts of the Sufferings Endured Complete Roll of the Company Impostors Claiming to Belong to the Party Killed by the Pawnees An Alarmed Camp Resin Indians A Mother's Death. Three miles from Truckee, Nevada County, California, lies one of the fairest and most picturesque lakes in all the Sierra. Above, and on either side, are lofty mountains, with castellated granite crests, while below, at the mouth of the lake, a grassy, meadowy valley widens out and extends almost to Truckee. The body of water is three miles long, one and a half miles wide, and four hundred and eighty-three feet in depth. Tourists and picnic parties annually flock to its shores, and Bierstadt has made it the subject of one of his finest, grandest paintings. In summer, its willowy thickets, its groves of tamarack and forests of pine, are the favorite haunts and nesting places of the quail and grouse. Beautiful, speckled mountain trout plentifully abound in its crystalline waters. A rippling breeze usually wimples and dimples its laughing surface, but in calmer moods it reflects, as in a polished mirror, the lofty, overhanging mountains, with every stately pine, bounding rivulet; blossoming shrub, waving fern, and--high above all, on the right--the clinging, thread-like line of the snow-sheds of the Central Pacific. When the railroad was being constructed, three thousand people dwelt on its shores; the surrounding forests resounded with the music of axes and saws, and the terrific blasts exploded in the lofty, o'ershadowing cliffs, filled the canyons with reverberating thunders, and hurled huge bowlders high in the air over the lake's quivering bosom. In winter it is almost as popular a pleasure resort as during the summer. The jingling of sleighbells, and the shouts and laughter of skating parties, can be heard almost constantly. The lake forms the grandest skating park on the Pacific Coast. Yet this same Donner Lake was the scene of one of the most thrilling, heart-rending tragedies ever recorded in California history. Interwoven with the very name of the lake are memories of a tale of destitution, loneliness, and despair, which borders on the incredible. It is a tale that has been repeated in many a miner's cabin, by many a hunter's campfire, and in many a frontiersman's home, and everywhere it has been listened to with bated breath. The pioneers of a new country are deserving of a niche in the country's history. The pioneers who became martyrs to the cause of the development of an almost unknown land, deserve to have a place in the hearts of its inhabitants. The far-famed Donner Party were, in a peculiar sense, pioneer martyrs of California. Before the discovery of gold, before the highway across the continent was fairly marked out, while untold dangers lurked by the wayside, and unnumbered foes awaited the emigrants, the Donner Party started for California. None but the brave and venturesome, none but the energetic and courageous, could undertake such a journey. In 1846, comparatively few had dared attempt to cross the almost unexplored plains which lay between the Mississippi and the fair young land called California. Hence it is that a certain grandeur, a certain heroism seems to cling about the men and women composing this party, even from the day they began their perilous journey across the plains. California, with her golden harvests, her beautiful homes, her dazzling wealth, and her marvelous commercial facilities, may well enshrine the memory of these noble-hearted pioneers, pathfinders, martyrs. The States along the Mississippi were but sparsely settled in 1846, yet the fame of the fruitfulness, the healthfulness, and the almost tropical beauty of the land bordering the Pacific, tempted the members of the Donner Party to leave their homes. These homes were situated in Illinois, Iowa, Tennessee, Missouri, and Ohio. Families from each of these States joined the train and participated in its terrible fate; yet the party proper was organized in Sangamon County, Illinois, by George and Jacob Donner and James F. Reed. Early in April, 1846, the party set out from Springfield, Illinois, and by the first week in May reached Independence, Missouri. Here the party was increased by additional members, and the train comprised about one hundred persons. Independence was on the frontier in those days, and every care was taken to have ample provisions laid in and all necessary preparations made for the long journey. Ay, it was a long journey for many in the party! Great as was the enthusiasm and eagerness with which these noble-hearted pioneers caught up the cry of the times, "Ho! for California!" it is doubtful if presentiments of the fate to be encountered were not occasionally entertained. The road was difficult, and in places almost unbroken; warlike Indians guarded the way, and death, in a thousand forms, hovered about their march through the great wilderness. In the party were aged fathers with their trusting families about them, mothers whose very lives were wrapped up in their children, men in the prime and vigor of manhood, maidens in all the sweetness and freshness of budding womanhood, children full of glee and mirthfulness, and babes nestling on maternal breasts. Lovers there were, to whom the journey was tinged with rainbow hues of joy and happiness, and strong, manly hearts whose constant support and encouragement was the memory of dear ones left behind in home-land. The cloud of gloom which finally settled down in a death-pall over their heads was not yet perceptible, though, as we shall soon see, its mists began to collect almost at the outset, in the delays which marked the journey. The wonderment which all experience in viewing the scenery along the line of the old emigrant road was peculiarly vivid to these people. Few descriptions had been given of the route, and all was novel and unexpected. In later years the road was broadly and deeply marked, and good camping grounds were distinctly indicated. The bleaching bones of cattle that had perished, or the broken fragments of wagons or cast-away articles, were thickly strewn on either side of the highway. But in 1846 the way was through almost trackless valleys waving with grass, along rivers where few paths were visible, save those made by the feet of buffaloes and antelope, and over mountains and plains where little more than the westward course of the sun guided the travelers. Trading-posts were stationed at only a few widely distant points, and rarely did the party meet with any human beings, save wandering bands of Indians. Yet these first days are spoken of by all of the survivors as being crowned with peaceful enjoyment and pleasant anticipations. There were beautiful flowers by the roadside, an abundance of game in the meadows and mountains, and at night there were singing, dancing, and innocent plays. Several musical instruments, and many excellent voices, were in the party, and the kindliest feeling and good-fellowship prevailed among the members. The formation of the company known as the Donner Party was purely accidental. The union of so many emigrants into one train was not occasioned by any preconcerted arrangement. Many composing the Donner Party were not aware, at the outset, that such a tide of emigration was sweeping to California. In many instances small parties would hear of the mammoth train just ahead of them or just behind them, and by hastening their pace, or halting for a few days, joined themselves to the party. Many were with the train during a portion of the journey, but from some cause or other became parted from the Donner company before reaching Donner Lake. Soon after the train left Independence it contained between two and three hundred wagons, and when in motion was two miles in length. With much bitterness and severity it is alleged by some of the survivors of the dreadful tragedy that certain impostors and falsifiers claim to have been members of the Donner Party, and as such have written untruthful and exaggerated accounts of the sufferings of the party. While this is unquestionably true, it is barely possible that some who assert membership found their claim upon the fact that during a portion of the journey they were really in the Donner Party. Bearing this in mind, there is less difficulty in reconciling the conflicting statements of different narrators. The members of the party proper numbered ninety, and were as follows: George Donner, Tamsen Donner (his wife), Elitha C. Donner, Leanna C. Donner, Frances E. Donner, Georgia A. Donner and Eliza P. Donner. The last three were children of George and Tamsen Donner; Elitha and Leanna were children of George Donner by a former wife. Jacob Donner, Elizabeth Donner (his wife), Solomon Hook, William Hook, George Donner, Jr., Mary M. Donner, Isaac Donner, Lewis Donner and Samuel Donner. Jacob Donner was a brother of George; Solomon and William Hook were sons of Elizabeth Donner by a former husband. James Frazier Reed, Margaret W. Reed (his wife), Virginia E. Reed, Martha F. (Patty) Reed, James F. Reed, Jr., Thomas K. Reed, and Mrs. Sarah Keyes, the mother of Mrs. Reed. The two Donner families and the Reeds were from Springfield, Illinois. From the same place were Baylis Williams and his half-sister Eliza Williams, John Denton, Milton Elliott, James Smith, Walter Herron and Noah James. From Marshall County, Illinois, came Franklin Ward Graves, Elizabeth Graves (his wife), Mary A. Graves, William C. Graves, Eleanor Graves, Lovina Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B. Graves, F. W. Graves, Jr., Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Jay Fosdick and Mrs. Sarah Fosdick (nee Graves). With this family came John Snyder. From Keokuk, Lee County, Iowa, came Patrick Breen, Mrs. Margaret Breen, John Breen, Edward J. Breen, Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon P. Breen, James F. Breen, Peter Breen, and Isabella M. Breen. Patrick Dolan also came from Keokuk. William H. Eddy, Mrs. Eleanor Eddy, James P. Eddy, and Margaret Eddy came from Belleville, Illinois. From Tennessee came Mrs. Lavina Murphy, a widow, and her family, John Landrum Murphy, Mary M. Murphy, Lemuel B. Murphy, William G. Murphy, Simon P. Murphy, William M. Pike, Mrs. Harriet F. Pike (nee Murphy), Naomi L. Pike, and Catherine Pike. Another son-in-law of Mrs. Murphy, William M. Foster, with his wife, Mrs. Sarah A. C. Foster, and infant boy George Foster, came from St. Louis, Missouri. William McCutchen, Mrs. W. McCutchen, and Harriet McCutchen were from Jackson County, Missouri. Lewis Keseberg, Mrs. Phillipine Keseberg, Ada Keseberg, and L. Keseberg, Jr., Mr. and Mrs. Wolfinger, Joseph Rhinehart, Augustus Spitzer, and Charles Burger, came from Germany. Samuel Shoemaker came from Springfield, Ohio, Charles T. Stanton from Chicago, Illinois, Luke Halloran from St. Joseph, Missouri, Mr. Hardcoop from Antwerp, in Belgium, Antoine from New Mexico. John Baptiste was a Spaniard, who joined the train near the Santa Fe trail, and Lewis and Salvador were two Indians, who were sent out from California by Captain Sutter. The Breens joined the company at Independence, Missouri, and the Graves family overtook the train one hundred miles west of Fort Bridger. Each family, prior to its consolidation with the train, had its individual incidents. William Trimble, who was traveling with the Graves family, was slain by the Pawnee Indians about fifty miles east of Scott's Bluff. Trimble left a wife and two or three children. The wife and some of her relatives were so disheartened by this sad bereavement, and by the fact that many of their cattle were stolen by the Indians, that they gave up the journey to California, and turned back to the homes whence they had started. An amusing incident is related in the Healdsburg (Cal.) Flag, by Mr. W. C. Graves, of Calistoga, which occurred soon after his party left St. Joseph, Missouri. It was on the fourth night out, and Mr. Graves and four or five others were detailed to stand guard. The constant terror of the emigrants in those days was Indians. Both the Pawnees, the Sioux, and the Snakes were warlike and powerful, and were jealous, revengeful, and merciless toward the whites. That night a fire somehow started in the prairie grass about half a mile from camp. The west wind, blowing fierce and strong, carried the flames in great surging gusts through the tall prairie grass. A resin weed grows in bunches in this part of the country, generally attaining the height of four or five feet. The night being very dark, these weeds could be seen standing between the fire and the guards. As the flames swayed past the weeds, the impression was very naturally produced upon the mind of a timid beholder that the weeds were moving in the opposite direction. This optical illusion caused some of the guards to believe that the Indians had set fire to the grass, and were moving in immense numbers between them and the fire with intent to surround them, stampede the cattle, and massacre the entire party. The watcher next to Mr. Graves discovered the enemy, and rushed breathlessly to his comrade to impart the intelligence. Scarcely had Mr. Graves quieted him before it was evident that a general alarm had been spread in the camp. Two other guards had seen the Indians, and the aroused camp, armed to the teeth, marched out to give battle to the imaginary foe. It was a rich joke, and it was some time before those who were scared heard the last of the resin Indians. Only once, before reaching Salt Lake, did death invade the joyous Donner company. It was near the present site of Manhattan, Kansas, and Mrs. Sarah Keyes was the victim. This estimable lady was the mother of Mrs. J. F. Reed, and had reached her four score and ten years. Her aged frame and feeble health were not equal to the fatigues and exposure of the trip, and on the thirtieth of May they laid her tenderly to rest. She was buried in a coffin carefully fashioned from the trunk of a cottonwood tree, and on the brow of a beautiful knoll overlooking the valley. A grand old oak, still standing, guards the lonely grave of the dear old mother who was spared the sight of the misery in store for her loved ones. Could those who performed the last sad rites have caught a vision of the horrors awaiting the party, they would have known how good was the God who in mercy took her to Himself. Chapter II. Mrs. Donner's Letters Life on the Plains An Interesting Sketch The Outfit Required The Platte River Botanizing Five Hundred and Eighteen Wagons for California Burning "Buffalo Chips" The Fourth of July at Fort Laramie Indian Discipline Sioux Attempt to Purchase Mary Graves George Donner Elected Captain Letter of Stanton Dissension One Company Split up into Five The Fatal Hastings Cut-off Lowering Wagons over the Precipice The First View of Great Salt Lake. Presenting, as they do, an interesting glimpse of the first portion of the journey, the following letters are here introduced. They were written by Mrs. Tamsen Donner, and were published in the Springfield (Illinois) Journal. Thanks for copies of these letters are due to Mrs. Eliza P. Houghton of San Jose, Mrs. Donner's youngest daughter. Allusions are made in these letters to botanical researches. Mrs. Donner, C. T. Stanton, and perhaps one or two others who were prominent actors in the later history, were particularly fond of botany. Mrs. Donner made valuable collections of rare flowers and plants. Her journal, and a full description of the contents of her botanical portfolios, were to have been published upon her arrival in California. Though bearing the same date, the letters here presented were written at different times. The following appeared in the Springfield Journal, July 23, 1846: Near the Junction of the North and South Platte, June 16, 1846. My Old Friend: We are now on the Platte, two hundred miles from Fort Laramie. Our journey so far has been pleasant, the roads have been good, and food plentiful. The water for part of the way has been indifferent, but at no time have our cattle suffered for it. Wood is now very scarce, but "buffalo chips" are excellent; they kindle quickly and retain heat surprisingly. We had this morning buffalo steaks broiled upon them that had the same flavor they would have had upon hickory coals. We feel no fear of Indians, our cattle graze quietly around our encampment unmolested. Two or three men will go hunting twenty miles from camp; and last night two of our men lay out in the wilderness rather than ride their horses after a hard chase. Indeed, if I do not experience something far worse than I have yet done, I shall say the trouble is all in getting started. Our wagons have not needed much repair, and I can not yet tell in what respects they could be improved. Certain it is, they can not be too strong. Our preparations for the journey might have been in some respects bettered. Bread has been the principal article of food in our camp. We laid in 150 pounds of flour and 75 pounds of meat for each individual, and I fear bread will be scarce. Meat is abundant. Rice and beans are good articles on the road; cornmeal, too, is acceptable. Linsey dresses are the most suitable for children. Indeed, if I had one, it would be acceptable. There is so cool a breeze at all times on the plains that the sun does not feel so hot as one would suppose. We are now four hundred and fifty miles from Independence. Our route at first was rough, and through a timbered country, which appeared to be fertile. After striking the prairie, we found a first-rate road, and the only difficulty we have had, has been in crossing the creeks. In that, however, there has been no danger. I never could have believed we could have traveled so far with so little difficulty. The prairie between the Blue and the Platte rivers is beautiful beyond description. Never have I seen so varied a country, so suitable for cultivation. Everything was new and pleasing; the Indians frequently come to see us, and the chiefs of a tribe breakfasted at our tent this morning. All are so friendly that I can not help feeling sympathy and friendship for them. But on one sheet what can I say? Since we have been on the Platte, we have had the river on one side and the ever varying mounds on the other, and have traveled through the bottom lands from one to two miles wide, with little or no timber. The soil is sandy, and last year, on account of the dry season, the emigrants found grass here scarce. Our cattle are in good order, and when proper care has been taken, none have been lost. Our milch cows have been of great service, indeed. They have been of more advantage than our meat. We have plenty of butter and milk. We are commanded by Captain Russell, an amiable man. George Donner is himself yet. He crows in the morning and shouts out, "Chain up, boys--chain up," with as much authority as though he was "something in particular." John Denton is still with us. We find him useful in the camp. Hiram Miller and Noah James are in good health and doing well. We have of the best people in our company, and some, too, that are not so good. Buffaloes show themselves frequently. We have found the wild tulip, the primrose, the lupine, the eardrop, the larkspur, and creeping hollyhock, and a beautiful flower resembling the bloom of the beech tree, but in bunches as large as a small sugar-loaf, and of every variety of shade, to red and green. I botanize, and read some, but cook "heaps" more. There are four hundred and twenty wagons, as far as we have heard, on the road between here and Oregon and California. Give our love to all inquiring friends. God bless them. Yours, truly, Mrs. George Donner. The following letter was published in the journal of July 30, 1846: South Fork of the Nebraska, Ten Miles from the Crossing, Tuesday, June 16, 1846. Dear Friend: To-day, at nooning, there passed, going to the States, seven men from Oregon, who went out last year. One of them was well acquainted with Messrs. Ide and Cadden Keyes, the latter of whom, he says, went to California. They met the advance Oregon caravan about 150 miles west of Fort Laramie, and counted in all, for Oregon and California (excepting ours), 478 wagons. There are in our company over 40 wagons, making 518 in all, and there are said to be yet 20 behind. To-morrow we cross the river, and, by reckoning, will be over 200 miles from Fort Laramie, where we intend to stop and repair our wagon wheels. They are nearly all loose, and I am afraid we will have to stop sooner, if there can be found wood suitable to heat the tires. There is no wood here, and our women and children are out now gathering "buffalo chips" to burn, in order to do the cooking. These chips burn well. Mrs. George Donner. At Fort Laramie a portion of the Donner Party celebrated the Fourth of July, 1846. Arriving there on the evening of the third, they pitched camp somewhat earlier than usual, and prepared a grand dinner for the Fourth. At the Fort were a large party of Sioux who were on the war-path against the Snakes or Pawnees. The Sioux were, perhaps, the most warlike Indian nation on the great prairies, and when dressed in their war paint and mounted on their fleet ponies, presented a truly imposing appearance. The utmost friendliness prevailed, and there was a mutual interchange of gifts and genial courtesies. When the Donner Party pursued their march, and had journeyed half a day from the Fort, they were overtaken and convoyed quite a distance by about three hundred young warriors. The escort rode in pairs alongside the train in true military fashion. Finally halting, they opened ranks; and as the wagons passed, each warrior held in his mouth a green twig or leaf, which was said to be emblematic of peacefulness and good feeling. The train was never seriously molested by the Sioux. On one occasion, about fifty warriors on horseback surrounded a portion of the train, in which was the Graves family. While generally friendly, a few of the baser sort persisted in attempting to steal, or take by force, trivial articles which struck their fancy. The main body of Indians were encamped about half a mile away, and when the annoyances became too exasperating, W. C. Graves mounted a horse, rode to the encampment, and notified the Chief of the action of his followers. Seizing an old-fashioned single-barreled shotgun, the Chief sprang upon his horse and fairly flew over the plain toward the emigrant wagons. When within about a hundred yards of the train he attracted attention by giving an Indian whoop, which was so full of rage and imprecation that the startled warriors forthwith desisted from their petty persecutions and scattered in every direction like frightened quail. One of the would-be marauders was a little tardy in mounting his pony, and as soon as the Chief got within range, the shotgun was leveled and discharged full at the unruly subject. Three of the buckshot entered the pony's side and one grazed the warrior's leg. As if satisfied that his orders to treat the emigrants in a friendly manner would not be again disregarded, the Chief wheeled his horse about, and in the most grave and stately manner rode back to his encampment. On another occasion, Mary Graves, who was a very beautiful young lady, was riding on horseback accompanied by her brother. They were a little in the rear of the train, and a band of Sioux Indians, becoming enamored with the maiden, offered to purchase her. They made very handsome offers, but the brother not being disposed to accept, one of the Indians seized the bridle of the girl's horse and attempted to carry her away captive. Perhaps the attempt was made in half jest. At all events the bridle was promptly dropped when the brother leveled his rifle at the savage. On the twentieth of July, 1846, George Donner was elected Captain of the train at the Little Sandy River. From that time forward it was known as the Donner Party. One incident, not at all unusual to a trip across the plains, is pointedly described in a letter written by C. T. Stanton to his brother, Sidney Stanton, now of Cazenovia, New York. The incident alluded to is the unfriendliness and want of harmony so liable to exist between different companies, and between members of the same company. From one of Mr. Stanton's letters the following extract is made: "At noon we passed Boggs' company on the Sweetwater; a mile further up the river, Dunlavy's; a mile further, West's; and about two miles beyond that, was Dunbar's. We encamped about half way between the two latter. Thus, within five miles were encamped five companies. At Indian Creek, twenty miles from Independence, these five companies all constituted one, but owing to dissensions and quarreling they became broken into fragments. Now, by accident, we all again once more meet and grasp the cordial hand; old enmities are forgot, and nothing but good feeling prevails. * * * * * The next morning we got rather a late start, owing to a difference of opinion arising in our company as to whether we should lie by or go ahead. Those wishing to lie by were principally young men who wished to have a day's hunting among the buffaloes, and there were also a few families out of meat who wished to lay in a supply before they left the buffalo country. A further reason was urged that the cattle were nearly fagged out by hard travel, and that they would not stand the journey unless we stopped and gave them rest. On the other side it was contended that if we stopped here the other companies would all get ahead, the grass would all he eaten off by their thousand head of cattle, and that consequently, when we came along, our cattle would starve. The go-ahead party finally ruled and we rolled out." As will presently be seen, the dissension existing in the company, and the petty differences of opinion and interest, were the fundamental causes of the calamities which befell the Donner Party. When the company was near Fort Bridger, Edward Breen's leg was broken by a fall from a horse. His mother refused to permit amputation, or rather left the question to Edward's decision, and of course, boy-like, he refused to have the operation performed. Contrary to expectation, the bone knitted, and in a month he walked without a crutch. At Fort Bridger, which was at this time a mere camp or trading post, the party heard much commendation bestowed upon a new route via Salt Lake. This route passed along the southern shore of the Lake, and rejoined the old Fort Hall emigrant road on the Humboldt. It was said to shorten the distance three hundred miles. The new route was known as the Hastings Cut-off, and was named after the famous Lansford W. Hastings, who was even then piloting a small company over the cut-off. The large trains delayed for three or four days at Fort Bridger, debating as to the best course to pursue. It is claimed that but for the earnest advice and solicitation of Bridger and Vasquez, who had charge of the fort, the entire party would have continued by the accustomed route. These men had a direct interest in the Hastings Cut-off, as they furnished the emigrants with supplies, and had employed Hastings to pilot the first company over the road to Salt Lake. After mature deliberation, the party divided, the greater portion going by Fort Hall and reaching California in safety. With the large train, which journeyed the old road, this narrative is no longer interested. Eighty-seven persons, however, took the Hastings Cut-off. Their names are included in the ninety mentioned in the preceding chapter, it being remembered that Mrs. Sarah Keyes had died, and that Lewis and Salvador were not yet members of the party. For several days the party traveled without much difficulty. They reached Weber River near the head of the well-known Weber Canyon. At the first crossing of this river, on the third of August, they found a letter from Hastings stuck in the split of a stick, informing them that the road down the Weber Canyon was in a terrible condition, and that it was doubtful if the sixty-six wagons which L. W. Hastings was then piloting through the canyon would ever succeed in reaching the plain. In the letter, Hastings advised all emigrants to avoid the canyon road, and pursue over the mountains a course which he faintly outlined. In order to obtain further information, and, if possible, to induce Hastings to return and act as guide, Messrs. Reed, Stanton, and Pike were sent forward to overtake the advance company. This was accomplished after a fatiguing trip, which so exhausted the horses of Stanton and Pike that these gentlemen were unable to return to the Donner Party. Hastings was overtaken at a point near the southern end of Great Salt Lake, and came back with Reed to the foot of the bluffs overlooking the present city of Salt Lake. Here he declared that he must return to the company he was piloting, and despite the urgent entreaties of Reed, decided that it was his duty to start back the next morning. He finally consented, however, to ascend to the summit of the Wahsatch Mountains, from which he endeavored, as best he could, to point out the direction in which the wagons must travel from the head of Weber Canyon. Reed proceeded alone on the route indicated, taking notes of the country and occasionally blazing trees to assist him in retracing the course. Wm. G. Murphy (now of Marysville, Cal.) says that the wagons remained in the meadows at the head of Weber Canyon until Reed's return. They then learned that the train which preceded them had been compelled to travel very slowly down the Weber River, filling in many irregular places with brush and dirt; that at last they had reached a place where vast perpendicular pillars of rock approached so closely on either side that the river had barely space to flow between, and just here the water plunged over a precipice. To lower the wagons down this precipice had been a dreadful task. The Donner Party unanimously decided to travel across the mountains in a more direct line toward Salt Lake. They soon found rolling highlands and small summit valleys on the divide between Weber River and Salt Lake. Following down one of the small streams, they found a varying, irregular canyon, down which they passed, filling its small stream with brush and rocks, crossing and recrossing it, making roads, breaking and mending wagons, until three weeks' time had expired. The entire country was heavily covered with timber and underbrush. When the party arrived at the outlet of this stream into Salt Lake Valley, they found it utterly impassable. It was exceedingly narrow, and was filled with huge rocks from the cliffs on either side. Almost all the oxen in the train were necessary in drawing each wagon out of the canyon and up the steep overhanging mountain. While in this canyon, Stanton and Pike came up to the company. These gentlemen encountered great hardships after their horses gave out, and were almost starved to death when they reached the train. Instead of reaching Salt Lake in a week, as had been promised, the party were over thirty days in making the trip. No words can describe what they endured on this Hastings Cut-off. The terrible delay was rendering imminent the dangers which awaited them on the Sierra Nevada. At last, upon ascending the steep rugged mountain before mentioned, the vision of Great Salt Lake, and the extensive plains surrounding it, burst upon their enraptured gaze. All were wild with joy and gratitude for their deliverance from the terrible struggle through which they had just passed, and all hoped for a prosperous, peaceful journey over pleasant roads throughout the remainder of the trip to California. Alas! there were trials in the way compared with which their recent struggles were insignificant. But for the fatal delay caused by the Hastings Cut-off, all would have been well, but now the summer was passed, their teams and themselves were well-nigh exhausted, and their slender stock of provisions nearly consumed. Chapter III. A Grave of Salt Members of the Mystic Tie Twenty Wells A Desolate Alkaline Waste Abandoned on the Desert A Night of Horror A Steer Maddened by Thirst The Mirage Yoking an Ox and a Cow "Cacheing" Goods The Emigrant's Silent Logic A Cry for Relief Two Heroic Volunteers A Perilous Journey Letters to Capt. Sutter. Near the southern shore of great Salt Lake the Donner Party encamped on the third or fourth of September, 1846. The summer had vanished, and autumn had commenced tinting, with crimson and gold, the foliage on the Wahsatch Mountains. While encamped here, the party buried the second victim claimed by death. This time it was a poor consumptive named Luke Halloran. Without friend or kinsman, Halloran had joined the train, and was traveling to California in hopes that a change of climate might effect a cure. Alas! for the poor Irishman, when the leaves began to fall from the trees his spirit winged its flight to the better land. He died in the wagon of Captain George Donner, his head resting in Mrs. Tamsen Donner's lap. It was at sundown. The wagons had just halted for the night. The train had driven up slowly, out of respect to the dying emigrant. Looking up into Mrs. Donner's face, he said: "I die happy." Almost while speaking, he died. In return for the many kindnesses he had received during the journey, he left Mr. Donner such property as he possessed, including about fifteen hundred dollars in coin. Hon. Jas. F. Breen, of South San Juan, writes: "Halloran's body was buried in a bed of almost pure salt, beside the grave of one who had perished in the preceding train. It was said at the time that bodies thus deposited would not decompose, on account of the preservative properties of the salt. Soon after his burial, his trunk was opened, and Masonic papers and regalia bore witness to the fact that Mr. Halloran was a member of the Masonic Order. James F. Reed, Milton Elliott, and perhaps one or two others in the train, also belonged to the mystic tie." On the sixth day of September they reached a meadow in a valley called "Twenty Wells," as there were that number of wells of various sizes, from six inches to several feet in diameter. The water in these wells rose even with the surface of the ground, and when it was drawn out the wells soon refilled. The water was cold and pure, and peculiarly welcome after the saline plains and alkaline pools they had just passed. Wells similar to these were found during the entire journey of the following day, and the country through which they were passing abounded in luxuriant grass. Reaching the confines of the Salt Lake Desert, which lies southwest of the lake, they laid in, as they supposed, an ample supply of water and grass. This desert had been represented by Bridger and Vasquez as being only about fifty miles wide. Instead, for a distance of seventy-five miles there was neither water nor grass, but everywhere a dreary, desolate, alkaline waste. Verily, it was "A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount Appears to refresh the aching eye, But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon round and round Spread, void of living sight or sound." When the company had been on the desert two nights and one day, Mr. Reed volunteered to go forward, and, if possible, to discover water. His hired teamsters were attending to his teams and wagons during his absence. At a distance of perhaps twenty miles he found the desired water, and hastened to return to the train. Meantime there was intense suffering in the party. Cattle were giving out and lying down helplessly on the burning sand, or frenzied with thirst were straying away into the desert. Having made preparations for only fifty miles of desert, several persons came near perishing of thirst, and cattle were utterly powerless to draw the heavy wagons. Reed was gone some twenty hours. During this time his teamsters had done the wisest thing possible, unhitched the oxen and started to drive them ahead until water was reached. It was their intention, of course, to return and get the three wagons and the family, which they had necessarily abandoned on the desert. Reed passed his teamsters during the night, and hastened to the relief of his deserted family. One of his teamster's horses gave out before morning and lay down, and while the man's companions were attempting to raise him, the oxen, rendered unmanageable by their great thirst, disappeared in the desert. There were eighteen of these oxen. It is probable they scented water, and with the instincts of their nature started out to search for it. They never were found, and Reed and his family, consisting of nine persons, were left destitute in the midst of the desert, eight hundred miles from California. Near morning, entirely ignorant of the calamity which had befallen him in the loss of his cattle, he reached his family. All day long they looked and waited in vain for the returning teamsters. All the rest of the company had driven ahead, and the majority had reached water. Toward night the situation grew desperate. The scanty supply of water left with the family was almost gone, and another day on the desert would mean death to all he held dear. Their only way left was to set out on foot. He took his youngest child in his arms, and the family started to walk the twenty miles. During this dreadful night some of the younger children became so exhausted that, regardless of scoldings or encouragements, they lay down on the bleak sands. Even rest, however, seemed denied the little sufferers, for a chilling wind began sweeping over the desert, and despite their weariness and anguish, they were forced to move forward. At one time during the night the horror of the situation was changed to intense fright. Through the darkness came a swift-rushing animal, which Reed soon recognized as one of his young steers. It was crazed and frenzied with thirst, and for some moments seemed bent upon dashing into the frightened group. Finally, however, it plunged madly away into the night, and was seen no more. Reed suspected the calamity which had prevented the return of the teamsters, but at the moment, the imminent peril surrounding his wife and children banished all thought of worrying about anything but their present situation. God knows what would have become of them had they not, soon after daylight, discovered the wagon of Jacob Donner. They were received kindly by his family, and conveyed to where the other members of the party were camped. For six or eight days the entire company remained at this spot. Every effort was made to find Reed's lost cattle. Almost every man in the train was out in the desert, searching in all directions. This task was attended with both difficulty and danger; for when the sun shone, the atmosphere appeared to distort and magnify objects so that at the distance of a mile every stone or bush would appear the size of an ox. Several of the men came near dying for want of water during this search. The desert mirage disclosed against the horizon, clear, distinct, and perfectly outlined rocks, mountain peaks, and tempting lakelets. Each jagged cliff, or pointed rock, or sharply-curved hill-top, hung suspended in air as perfect and complete as if photographed on the sky. Deceived, deluded by these mirages, in spite of their better judgment, several members of the company were led far out into the pathless depths of the desert. The outlook for Reed was gloomy enough. One cow and one ox were the only stock he had remaining. The company were getting exceedingly impatient over the long delay, yet be it said to their honor, they encamped on the western verge of the desert until every hope of finding Reed's cattle was abandoned. Finally, F. W. Graves and Patrick Breen each lent an ox to Mr. Reeds and by yoking up his remaining cow and ox, he had two yoke of cattle. "Cacheing," or concealing such of his property on the desert, as could not be placed in one wagon, he hitched the two yoke of cattle to this wagon and proceeded on the journey. The word cache occurs so frequently in this history that a brief definition of the interesting process of cacheing might not be amiss. The cache of goods or valuables was generally made in a wagon bed, if one, as in the present instance, was to be abandoned. A square hole, say six feet in depth, was dug in the earth, and in the bottom of this the box or wagon bed containing the articles was placed. Sand, soil, or clay of the proper stratum was filled in upon this, so as to just cover the box from sight. The ground was then tightly packed or trampled, to make it resemble, as much as possible, the earth in its natural state. Into the remaining hole would be placed such useless articles as could be spared, such as old tins, cast-off clothing, broken furniture, etc., and upon these the earth was thrown until the surface of the ground was again level. These precautions were taken to prevent the Indians from discovering and appropriating the articles cached. It was argued that the Indians, when digging down, would come to the useless articles, and not thinking there was treasure further down would abandon the task. "But," says Hon. James F. Breen, in speaking on this subject, "I have been told by parties who have crossed the plains, that in no case has the Indian been deceived by the emigrant's silent logic." The Indians would leave nothing underground, not even the dead bodies buried from time to time. One of the trains in advance of the Donner Party buried two men in one grave, and succeeding parties found each of the bodies unearthed, and were compelled to repeat the last sad rites of burial. Before the Donner Party started from the Desert camp, an inventory of the provisions on hand was accurately taken, and an estimate was made of the quantity required for each family, and it was found that there was not enough to carry the emigrants through to California. As if to render more emphatic the terrible situation of the party, a storm came during their last night at the camp, and in the morning the hill-tops were white with snow. It was a dreadful reminder of the lateness of the season, and the bravest hearts quailed before the horrors they knew must await them. A solemn council was held. It was decided that some one must leave the train, press eagerly forward to California, and obtaining a supply of provisions, return and meet the party as far back on the route as possible. It was a difficult undertaking, and perilous in the extreme. A call was made for volunteers, and after a little reflection two men offered their services. One was Wm. McCutchen, who had joined the train from Missouri, and the other was C. T. Stanton, of Chicago, a man who afterwards proved himself possessed of the sublimest heroism. Taking each a horse, they received the tearful, prayerful farewells of the doomed company, and set out upon their solitary journey. Would they return? If they reached the peaceful, golden valleys of California, would they turn back to meet danger, and storms, and death, in order to bring succor to those on the dreary desert? McCutchen might come, because he left dear ones with the train, but would Stanton return? Stanton was young and unmarried. There were no ties or obligations to prompt his return, save his plighted word and the dictates of honor and humanity. They bore letters from the Donner Party to Captain Sutter, who was in charge at Sutter's Fort. These letters were prayers for relief, and it was believed would secure assistance from the generous old Captain. Every eye followed Stanton and McCutchen until they disappeared in the west. Soon afterward the train resumed its toilsome march. Chapter IV. Gravelly Ford The Character of James F. Reed Causes Which Led to the Reed-Snyder Tragedy John Snyder's Popularity The Fatal Altercation Conflicting Statements of Survivors Snyder's Death A Brave Girl A Primitive Trial A Court of Final Resort Verdict of Banishment A Sad Separation George and Jacob Donner Ahead at the Time Finding Letters in Split Sticks Danger of Starvation. Gravelly ford, on the Humboldt River, witnessed a tragedy which greatly agitated the company. Its results, as will be seen, materially affected the lives not only of the participants, but of several members of the party during the days of horror on the mountains, by bringing relief which would otherwise have been lacking. The parties to the tragedy were James F. Reed and John Snyder. Reed was a man who was tender, generous, heroic, and whose qualities of true nobility shone brilliantly throughout a long life of usefulness. His name is intimately interwoven with the history of the Donner Party, from first to last. Indeed, in the Illinois papers of 1846-7 the company was always termed the "Reed and Donner Party." This title was justly conferred at the time, because he was one of the leading spirits in the organization of the enterprise. In order to understand the tragedy which produced the death of John Snyder, and the circumstances resulting therefrom, the reader must become better acquainted with the character of Mr. Reed. The following brief extract is from "Powers' Early Settlers of Sangamon County:" "James Frazier Reed was born November 14, 1800, in County Armagh, Ireland. His ancestors were of noble Polish birth, who chose exile rather than submission to the Russian power, and settled in the north of Ireland. The family name was originally Reednoski, but in process of time the Polish termination of the name was dropped, and the family was called Reed. James F. Reed's mother's name was Frazier, whose ancestors belonged to Clan Frazier, of Scottish history. Mrs. Reed and her son, James F., came to America when he was a youth, and settled in Virginia. He remained there until he was twenty, when he left for the lead mines of Illinois, and was engaged in mining until 1831, when he came to Springfield, Sangamon County, Illinois." Among the papers of Mr. Reed is a copy of the muster roll of a company which enlisted in the Blackhawk war, and in this roll are the names of Abraham Lincoln, Stephen A. Douglas, and James F. Reed. At the termination of this war, Mr. Reed returned to Springfield, engaged in the manufacture of cabinet furniture, and amassed a considerable fortune. He was married in 1835 to Mrs. Margaret Backenstoe, whose maiden name was Keyes. The death of his wife's mother, Mrs. Sarah Keyes, has already been mentioned as occurring on the Big Blue River, near Manhattan, Kansas. During the progress of the train, Mr. Reed was always a prominent, active member. Full of life and enthusiasm, fearless of danger, he was ready at all times to risk his life for the company's welfare. On the desert, we have seen that his lonely expedition in search of water cost him his valuable oxen, and left him and his family almost destitute. The deplorable affair about to be narrated was only the natural outgrowth of the trying circumstances in which the company were placed. The reader must bear in mind that many petty causes combined to produce discord and dissension among the members of the Donner Party. Coming from so many different States, being of different nationalities and modes of thought, delayed on the road much longer than was expected, rendered irritable by the difficulties encountered on the journey, annoyed by losses of stock, fearful of unknown disasters on the Sierra, and already placed on short allowances of provisions, the emigrants were decidedly inharmonious. The action of the company, moreover, was doubtless influenced in a greater or less degree by Snyder's popularity. A young man, not over twenty-three years old, he was tall, straight, and of erect, manly carriage, and his habits of life as a frontiersman had developed him into a muscular, athletic being. He excelled and led in all the out-door sports most in favor with Western men, such as jumping, running, and wrestling. His manner was gentle, retired, and timid to a degree verging on bashfulness, until roused by the influence of passion. The lion in the man was dormant until evoked by the fiercer emotions. His complexion was dark, but as you studied his face you could not repress the suspicion that Nature had marked him for a blonde, and that constant exposure to the wind and sun and rain of the great plains of the West had wrought the color change, and the conviction was strong that the change was an improvement on Nature. His features were cast in a mold of great beauty--such beauty as we seldom look for in a man. He was never moody, despondent, or cast down, and at all times, and under all circumstances, possessed the faculty of amusing himself and entertaining others. In the evening camp, when other amusements failed, or when anticipated troubles depressed the spirits of the travelers, it was his custom to remove the "hindgate" of his wagon, lay it on the ground, and thereon perform the "clog dance," "Irish jigs," the "pigeon wing," and other fantastic steps. Many an evening the Donner Party were prevented from brooding over their troubles by the boyish antics of the light-hearted youth. As stated above, the train had reached Gravelly Ford. Already the members of the company were beginning to scan eagerly the western plain in hopes of discovering the relief which it was believed Stanton and McCutchen would bring from Sutter's Fort. Of course there were the usual accidents and incidents peculiar to a journey across the plains. Occasionally a wagon would need repairing. Occasionally there would be a brief halt to rest and recruit the jaded cattle. The Indians had stolen two of Mr. Graves' oxen, and a couple of days later had stolen one of the horses. In traveling, the Donner Party observed this rule: If a wagon drove in the lead one day, it should pass back to the rear on the succeeding day. This system of alternating allowed each his turn in leading the train. On this fifth of October, 1846, F. W. Graves was ahead, Jay Fosdick second, John Snyder third, and the team of J. F. Reed fourth. Milton Elliott was driving Reed's team. Arriving at the foot of a steep, sandy hill, the party was obliged to "double teams," that is, to hitch five or six yoke of oxen to one wagon. Elliott and Snyder interchanged hot words over some difficulty about the oxen. Fosdick had attached his team to Graves' and had drawn Graves' wagon up the hill. Snyder, being nettled at something Elliott had said, declared that his team could pull up alone. During the excitement Snyder made use of very bad language, and was beating his cattle over the head with his whip-stock. One account says that Reed's team and Snyder's became tangled. At all events, Snyder was very much enraged. Reed had been off hunting on horseback, and arriving at this moment, remonstrated with Snyder for beating the cattle, and at the same time offered him the assistance of his team. Snyder refused the proffered aid, and used abusive language toward both Reed and Elliott. Reed attempted to calm the enraged man. Both men were of fiery, passionate dispositions, and words began to multiply rapidly. When Reed saw that trouble was likely to occur, he said something about waiting until they got up the hill and settling this matter afterwards. Snyder evidently construed this to be a threat, and with an oath replied, "We will settle it now." As Snyder uttered these words, he struck Reed a blow on the head with the butt-end of his heavy whip-stock. This blow was followed in rapid succession by a second, and a third. As the third stroke descended, Mrs. Reed ran between her husband and the furious man, hoping to prevent the blow. Each time the whip-stock descended on Reed's head it cut deep gashes. He was blinded with the blood which streamed from his wounds, and dazed and stunned by the terrific force of the blows. He saw the cruel whip-stock uplifted, and knew that his wife was in danger, but had only time to cry "John! John!" when down came the stroke full upon Mrs. Reed's head and shoulders. The next instant John Snyder was staggering, speechless and death-stricken. Reed's hunting-knife had pierced his left breast, severing the first and second ribs and entering the left lung. No other portion of the History of the Donner Party, as contributed by the survivors, has been so variously stated as this Reed-Snyder affair. Five members of the party, now living, claim to have been eyewitnesses. The version of two of these, Mrs. J. M. Murphy and Mrs. Frank Lewis, is the one here published. In the theory of self-defense they are corroborated by all the early published accounts. This theory was first advanced in Judge J. Quinn Thornton's work in 1849, and has never been disputed publicly until within the last two or three years. Due deference to the valuable assistance rendered by Wm. G. Murphy, of Marysville, and W. C. Graves, of Calistoga, demands mention of the fact that their accounts differ in important respects from the one given above. This is not surprising in view of the thirty-three years which have elapsed since the occurrence. The history of criminal jurisprudence justifies the assertion that eye-witnesses of any fatal difficulty differ materially in regard to important particulars, even when their testimony is taken immediately after the difficulty. It is not strange, therefore, that after the lapse of an ordinary life-time a dozen different versions should have been contributed by the survivors concerning this unfortunate tragedy. James F. Reed, after nearly a quarter of a century of active public life in California, died honored and respected. During his life-time this incident appeared several times in print, and was always substantially as given in this chapter. With the single exception of a series of articles contributed to the Healdsburg Flag by W. C. Graves, two or three years ago, no different account has ever been published. This explanatory digression from the narrative is deemed necessary out of respect to the two gentlemen who conscientiously disagree with Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Lewis. On all other important subjects the survivors are harmonious or reconcilable. W. C. Graves, now of Calistoga, caught the dying man in his arms, and in a few minutes he was carried a little way up the hill and laid upon the ground. Reed immediately regretted the act and threw the knife from him. His wife and daughters gathered about him and began to stanch the blood that flowed from the gashes on his head. He gently pushed them aside and went to the assistance of the dying man. He and Snyder had always been firm friends, and Snyder had been most active in securing a team for Reed after the latter had lost his cattle in the desert. Snyder expired in about fifteen minutes, and Reed remained by his side until the last. Patrick Breen came up, and Snyder said, "Uncle Patrick, I am dead." It is not certain that he spoke again, though Reed's friends claim that he said to Reed, "I am to blame." Snyder's death fell like a thunderbolt upon the Donner Party. Camp was immediately pitched, the Reed family being a little removed down the hill from the main body of emigrants. Reed felt that he had only acted in defense of his own life and in defense of the wife he adored. Nevertheless, it was evident that trouble was brewing in the main camp where Snyder's body was lying. The Reed family were in a sad situation. They commenced the journey with a more costly and complete outfit than the other emigrants, and thereby had incurred the envy of some of their less fortunate companions. They had a fine race horse and good stock, and Virginia had a beautiful pony of her own, and was fond of accompanying her father on his horseback excursions. From these and other circumstances the Reeds had acquired the name of being "aristocratic." Ordinarily, this is a term which would excite a smile, but on this dreadful day it had its weight in inflaming the minds of the excited emigrants. On the desert Reed had cached many valuable articles, but all his provisions had been distributed among his companions. This, however, was forgotten in the turbulent camp, and the destitute, desolate family could plainly catch the sound of voices clamoring for Reed's death. Meantime, Virginia Reed was dressing the wounds on her father's head. Mrs. Reed was overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, and the father came to Virginia for assistance. This brave little woman was only twelve years old, yet in this and all other acts of which there is a record she displayed a nerve and skillfulness which would have done credit to a mature woman. The cuts in Reed's scalp were wide and deep. Indeed, the scars remained to his dying day. In San Jose, long years afterwards, as James F. Reed lay dead, the gentle breeze from an open window softly lifted and caressed his gray hair, disclosing plainly the scars left by these ugly wounds. Reed entertained none but the friendliest sentiments toward Snyder. Anxious to do what he could for the dead, he offered the boards of his wagon-bed from which to make a coffin for Snyder. This offer, made with the kindliest, most delicate feeling, was rejected by the emigrants. At the funeral, Reed stood sorrowfully by the grave until the last clod was placed above the man who had been one of his best friends. A council was held by the members of the company. A council to decide upon Reed's fate. It was in the nature of a court, all-powerful, from whose decision there was no appeal. Breathlessly the fond wife and affectionate children awaited the verdict. The father was idolized by the mother and the little ones, and was their only stay and support. The friendship of the Donner Party for John Snyder, the conflicting and distorted accounts of the tragedy, and the personal enmity of certain members of the company toward Reed, resulted in a decree that he should be banished from the train. The feeling ran so high that at one time the end of a wagon-tongue was propped up with an ox-yoke by some of the emigrants with the intention of hanging Reed thereon, but calmer counsel prevailed. When the announcement was communicated to Reed that he was to be banished, he refused to comply with the decree. Conscious that he had only obeyed the sacred law of self-defense, he refused to accede to an unjust punishment. Then came the wife's pleadings! Long and earnestly Mrs. Reed reasoned and begged and prayed with her husband. All was of no avail until she urged him to remember the want and destitution in which they and the entire company were already participants. If he remained and escaped violence at the hands of his enemies, he might nevertheless see his children starve before his eyes, and be helpless to aid them. But if he would go forward, if he would reach California, he could return with provisions, and meet them on the mountains at that point on the route where they would be in greatest need. It was a fearful struggle, but finally the mother's counsels prevailed. Prior to setting out upon his gloomy journey, Mr. Reed made the company promise to care for his family. At the time of the Snyder tragedy, George and Jacob Donner, with their wagons and families, were two days in advance of the main train. Walter Herron was with them, and, when Reed came up, Herron concluded to accompany him to California. It was contemplated that Reed should go out into the wilderness alone, and with neither food nor ammunition. Happily this part of the programme was thwarted. The faithful Virginia, in company with Milton Elliott, followed Mr. Reed after he had started, and carried him his gun and ammunition. The affectionate girl also managed to carry some crackers to him, although she and all the company were even then on short allowance. The sad parting between Reed and his family, and the second parting with the devoted Virginia, we pass over in silence. James F. Reed, Jr., only five years old, declared that he would go with his father, and assist him in obtaining food during the long journey. Even the baby, only two and a half years old, would fret and worry every time the family sat down to their meals, lest father should find nothing to eat on his difficult way. Every day the mother and daughters would eagerly search for the letter Mr. Reed was sure to leave in the top of some bush, or in a split stick by the wayside. When he succeeded in killing geese or ducks, as he frequently did along the Humboldt and Truckee, he would scatter the feathers about his camping-ground, that his family might see that he was supplied with food. It is hardly necessary to mention that Mrs. Reed and the children regarded the father's camping-places as hallowed ground, and as often as possible kindled their evening fires in the same spot where his had been kindled. But a day came when they found no more letters, no further traces of the father. Was he dead? Had the Indians killed him? Had he starved by the way? No one could answer, and the mother's cheek grew paler and her dear eyes grew sadder and more hopeless, until Virginia and Patty both feared that she, too, was going to leave them. Anxious, grief-stricken, filled with the belief that her husband was dead, poor Mrs. Reed was fast dying of a broken heart. But suddenly all her life, and energy, and determination were again aroused into being by a danger that would have crushed a nature less noble. A danger that is the most terrible, horrible, that ever tortured human breast; a danger--that her children, her babes, must starve to death! Chapter V. Great Hardships The Sink of the Humboldt Indians Stealing Cattle An Entire Company Compelled to Walk Abandoned to Die Wolfinger Murdered Rhinehart's Confession Arrival of C. T. Stanton A Temporary Relief A Fatal Accident The Sierra Nevada Mountains Imprisoned in Snow Struggles for Freedom A Hopeless Situation Digging for Cattle in Snow How the Breen Cabin Happened to be Built A Thrilling Sketch of a Solitary Winter Putting up Shelters The Donners have Nothing but Tents Fishing for Trout. Starvation now stared the emigrants in the face. The shortest allowance capable of supporting life was all that was portioned to any member of the company. At times, some were forced to do without food for a day or more, until game was procured. The poor cattle were also in a pitiable condition. Owing to the lateness of the season, the grass was exceedingly scanty and of a poor quality. Frequently the water was bad, and filled with alkali and other poisonous deposits. George Donner, Jacob Donner, Wolfinger, and others, lost cattle at various points along the Humboldt. Mr. Breen lost a fine mare. The Indians were constantly hovering around the doomed train, ready to steal cattle, but too cowardly to make any open hostile attack. Arrows were shot into several of the oxen by Indians who slipped up near them during the night-time. At midnight, on the twelfth of October, the party reached the sink of the Humboldt. The cattle, closely guarded, were turned out to graze and recruit their wasted strength. About dawn on the morning of the thirteenth the guard came into camp to breakfast. During the night nothing had occurred to cause the least apprehension, and no indications of Indians had been observed. Imagine the consternation in camp when it was discovered that during the temporary absence of the guard twenty-one head of cattle had been stolen by the redskins. This left the company in terribly destitute circumstances. All had to walk who were able. Men, women, and children were forced to travel on foot all day long, and in many cases were compelled to carry heavy burdens in order to lessen the loads drawn by the weary cattle. Wm. G. Murphy remembers distinctly seeing his brother carrying a copper camp-kettle upon his head. The Graves family, the Breens, the Donners, the Murphys, the Reeds, all walked beside the wagons until overpowered with fatigue. The men became exhausted much sooner, as a rule, than the women. Only the sick, the little children, and the utterly exhausted, were ever allowed to ride. Eddy and his wife had lost all their cattle, and each carried one of their children and such personal effects as they were able. Many in the train were without shoes, and had to travel barefooted over the weary sands, and flinty, sharp-edged stones. On the ninth of October a death had resulted from this necessity of having to walk. It was a case of desertion, which, under other circumstances, would have been unpardonably heartless. An old man named Hardcoop was traveling with Keseberg. He was a cutler by trade, and had a son and daughter in the city of Antwerp, in Belgium. It is said he owned a farm near Cincinnati, Ohio, and intended, after visiting California to dispose of this farm, and with the proceeds return to Antwerp, for the purpose of spending his declining years with his children. He was a man of nearly three-score years, and the hardships of the journey had weakened his trembling limbs and broken down his health. Sick, feeble, helpless as he was, this old man was compelled to walk with the others. At last, when his strength gave way, he was forced to lie down by the roadside to perish of cold and hunger. Who can picture the agony, the horror, the dreary desolation of such a death? The poor old man walked until his feet actually burst!--walked until he sank utterly exhausted by the roadside! It was a terrible death! To see the train disappear in the distance; to know he was abandoned to die of exposure and starvation; to think that the wolves would devour his flesh and gnaw his bones; to lie down on the great desert, hungry, famished, and completely prostrated by fatigue--to meet death thus is too dreadful to contemplate. No one made any attempt to return and find the poor old fellow. This, however, is partially excused by the overwhelming dangers which now threatened the entire company. Each hour's delay rendered death in the Sierra Nevada Mountains more imminent. About the fourteenth of October, beyond the present site of Wadsworth, another tragedy occurred. Wolfinger, who was supposed to be quite wealthy, was in the rear of the train, traveling with Keseberg. At nightfall, neither of the Germans made his appearance. It happened that both their wives had walked ahead, and were with the emigrants. Considering it suspicious that the men did not arrive, and fearing some evil had befallen them, a party returned to ascertain the cause of the delay. Before proceeding far, however, Keseberg was met traveling leisurely along. He assured them that Wolfinger was only a little way behind, and would be along in a few moments. Reassured by this information, the party returned with Keseberg to camp and awaited the arrival of Wolfinger. The night passed, and the missing man had not appeared. Mrs. Wolfinger was nearly frantic. She was a tall, queenly-looking lady, of good birth and much refinement. She was recently from Germany, and understood but little English, yet she was evidently a wellbred lady. Nearly all the survivors remember the elegant dresses and costly jewelry she wore during the first part of the journey. Her grief at her husband's disappearance was so heart-rending that three young men at last consented to start back in the morning and endeavor to find Wolfinger. W. C. Graves, from whom this information is obtained, was one of the three who returned. Five miles back the wagon was found standing in the road. The oxen had been unhitched, but were still chained together, and were quietly grazing at a little distance. There were no signs of Indians, but Wolfinger was not to be found. At the time it was strongly conjectured that Keseberg had murdered Wolfinger for his money, and had concealed the body. This was doubtless unjust, for when Joseph Rhinehart was dying, some weeks later, in George Donner's tent, he confessed that he (Rhinehart) had something to do with the murder of Wolfinger. The men hitched the oxen to the wagon, and drove on until they overtook the emigrants, who, owing to the dangers by which they were encompassed, felt compelled to pursue their onward journey. The team was given to Mrs. Wolfinger, and she employed a German by the name of Charles Burger to drive it thereafter. Little was said about the affair at the time. Mrs. Wolfinger supposed the Indians had killed her husband. On the nineteenth of October, C. T. Stanton was met returning with provisions. The company was near the present town of Wadsworth, Nevada. A great rejoicing was held over the brave man's return. McCutchen had been severely ill, and was unable to return with Stanton. But the latter, true to his word, recrossed the Sierra, and met the emigrants at a time when they were on the verge of starvation. He had brought seven mules, five of which were loaded with flour and dried beef. Captain Sutter had furnished these mules and the provisions, together with two Indian vaqueros, without the slightest compensation or security. The Indians, Lewis and Salvador, would assist in caring for the pack-animals, and would also be efficient guides. Without Stanton's aid the entire party would have been lost; not a single soul would have escaped. The provisions, though scant, were sufficient to entirely alter the situation of affairs. Had the party pressed immediately forward, they could have passed the summits before the storms began. For some cause, however, it was concluded to rest the cattle for a few days near the present site of Reno, preparatory to attempting to ascend the difficult Sierra. Three or four days' time was lost. This loss was fatal. The storms on the mountains generally set in about Thanksgiving, or during the latter days of November. The emigrants trusted that the storm season of 1846 would not begin earlier than usual. Alas! the terrible consequences of this mistaken trust! After the arrival of Stanton, it was still deemed necessary to take further steps for the relief of the train. The generosity of Captain Sutter, as shown to Stanton, warranted them in believing that he would send still further supplies to the needy emigrants. Accordingly, two brothers-in-law, William Foster and William Pike, both brave and daring spirits, volunteered to go on ahead, cross the summits, and return with provisions as Stanton had done. Both men had families, and both were highly esteemed in the company. At the encampment near Reno, Nevada, while they were busily preparing to start, the two men were cleaning or loading a pistol. It was an old-fashioned "pepper-box." It happened, while they were examining it, that wood was called for to replenish the fire. One of the men offered to procure it, and in order to do so, handed the pistol to the other. Everybody knows that the "pepper-box" is a very uncertain weapon. Somehow, in the transfer, the pistol was discharged. William Pike was fatally wounded, and died in about twenty minutes. Mrs. Pike was left a widow, with two small children. The youngest, Catherine, was a babe of only a few months old, and Naomi was only three years of age. The sadness and distress occasioned by this mournful accident, cast a gloom over the entire company, and seemed an omen of the terrible fate which overshadowed the Donner Party. Generally, the ascent of the Sierra brought joy and gladness to weary overland emigrants. To the Donner Party it brought terror and dismay. The company had hardly obtained a glimpse of the mountains, ere the winter storm clouds began to assemble their hosts around the loftier crests. Every day the weather appeared more ominous and threatening. The delay at the Truckee Meadows had been brief, but every day ultimately cost a dozen lives. On the twenty-third of October, they became thoroughly alarmed at the angry heralds of the gathering storm, and with all haste resumed the journey. It was too late! At Prosser Creek, three miles below Truckee, they found themselves encompassed with six inches of snow. On the summits, the snow was from two to five feet in depth. This was October 28, 1846. Almost a month earlier than usual, the Sierra had donned its mantle of and snow. The party were prisoners. All was consternation. The wildest confusion prevailed. In their eagerness, many, went far in advance of the main train. There was little concert of action or harmony of plan. All did not arrive at Donner Lake the same day. Some wagons and families did not reach the lake until the thirty-first day of October, some never went further than Prosser Creek, while others, on the evening of the twenty-ninth, struggled through the snow, and reached the foot of the precipitous cliffs between the summit and the upper end of the lake. Here, baffled, wearied, disheartened, they turned back to the foot of the lake. Several times during the days which succeeded, parties attempted to cross the mountain barrier. W. C. Graves says the old emigrant road followed up Cold Stream, and so crossed the dividing ridge. Some wagons were drawn up this old road, almost to the top of the pass, others were taken along the north side of Donner Lake, and far up toward the summit. Some of these wagons never were returned to the lake, but were left imbedded in the snow. These efforts to cross the Sierra were quite desultory and irregular, and there was great lack of harmony and system. Each family or each little group of emigrants acted independently. At last, one day, a determined and systematic attempt was made to cross the summit. Nearly the entire train was engaged in the work. The road, of course, was entirely obliterated by the snow. Guided only by the general contour of the country, all hands pressed resolutely forward. Here, large bowlders and irregular jutting cliffs would intercept the way; there, dizzy precipices, yawning chasms, and deep, irregular canyons would interpose, and anon a bold, impassable mountain of rock would rear its menacing front directly across their path. All day long the men and animals floundered through the snow, and attempted to break and trample a road. Just before nightfall they reached the abrupt precipice where the present wagon-road intercepts the snow-sheds of the Central Pacific. Here the poor mules and oxen had been utterly unable to find a foothold on the slippery, snow-covered rocks. All that day it had been raining slightly--a dismal, drizzling, discouraging rain. Most of the wagons had been left at the lake, and the mules and oxen had been packed with provisions and necessary articles. Even at this day some of the survivors are unable to repress a ripple of merriment as they recall the manner in which the oxen bucked and bellowed when the unaccustomed packs were strapped upon their backs. Stanton had stoutly insisted upon taking the mules over the mountains. Perhaps he did not wish to return to Capt. Sutter without the property which he had borrowed. Many in the train dissented from this proposition, and endeavored to induce the Indians, Lewis and Salvador, to leave Stanton, and guide them over the summits. The Indians realized the imminent danger of each hour's delay, and would probably have yielded to the solicitations of these disaffected parties, had not Stanton made them believe that Capt. Sutter would hang them if they returned to the Fort without the mules. This incident is mentioned to illustrate the great differences of opinion and interest which prevailed. Never, from the moment the party encountered the first difficulties on the Hastings Cut-off until this fatal night in November, did the members of the company ever agree upon any important proposition. This night all decided upon a plan for the morrow. The great and overwhelming danger made them forget their petty animosities, and united them in one harmonious resolve. On the morrow the mules and cattle were all to be slain, and the meat was to be stored away for future emergency. The wagons, with their contents, were to be left at the lake, and the entire party were to cross the summits on foot. Stanton had become perfectly satisfied that the mules could not reach the mountain-top, and readily consented to the proposed plan. Returning to the lake they sought their weary couches, comforted with the thought that tomorrow should see all the Donner Party safely over the summit. That night a heavy snow fell at the lake. It was a night of untold terror! The emigrants suffered a thousand deaths. The pitiless snow came down in large, steady masses. All understood that the storm meant death. One of the Indians silently wrapped his blanket about him and in deepest dejection seated himself beside a tall pine. In this position he passed the entire night, only moving occasionally to keep from being covered with snow. Mrs. Reed spread down a shawl, placed her four children, Virginia, Patty, James, and Thomas, thereon, and putting another shawl over them, sat by the side of her babies during all the long hours of darkness. Every little while she was compelled to lift the upper shawl and shake off the rapidly accumulating snow. With slight interruptions, the storm continued several days. The mules and oxen that had always hovered about camp were blinded and bewildered by the storm, and straying away were literally buried alive in the drifts. What pen can describe the horror of the position in which the emigrants found themselves! It was impossible to move through the deep, soft snow without the greatest effort. The mules were gone, and were never found. Most of the cattle had perished, and were wholly hidden from sight. The few oxen which were found were slaughtered for beef. All were not killed during any one day, but the emigrants gave this business their immediate attention, because aside from the beef and a few slight provisions, the entire party were completely destitute. Mrs. Breen was compelled to attend personally to the slaughtering of their cattle, because her husband was an invalid. This family had by far the largest stock of meat. Too great praise can not be ascribed to Mrs. Breen for the care and forethought with which she stored up this food for her children. The meat was simply laid away in piles, like cordwood, and by the action of the frost was kept fresh until consumed. Mrs. Reed had no cattle to kill. She succeeded, however, in purchasing two beeves from Mr. Graves, and two from Mr. Breen, pledging herself to pay when the journey was ended. Mr. Eddy also purchased one ox of Mr. Graves. The flesh of many of the cattle which strayed away, and were buried several feet under the snow, was nevertheless recovered by their owners. It was soon ascertained that the cattle had endeavored to seek shelter from the fury of the storm by getting under the branches of the bushiest trees. Going to these trees, the emigrants would thrust down long poles with sharpened nails in the ends of them. By thus probing about in the snow, the whereabouts of a number of cattle was discovered, and the bodies were speedily dug out of the drifts. Realizing that the winter must be passed in the mountains, the emigrants made such preparations as they could for shelter. One cabin was already constructed. It was located about a quarter of a mile below the foot of the lake. It had been built in November, 1844, by Moses Schallenberger, Joseph Foster, and Allen Montgomery. Moses Schallenberger now resides three and a half miles from San Jose, and when recently interviewed by Mrs. S. O. Houghton, nee Eliza P. Donner, gave a very complete and interesting account of the building of this cabin, and the sufferings endured by his party. This cabin, known as the Breen cabin, is so intimately connected and interwoven with future chapters in the History of the Donner Party, that the following items, taken from Mr. Schallenberger's narration, can not prove uninteresting: "Mr. Schallenberger's party reached Donner Lake about the middle of November, 1844, having with them a large quantity of goods for California. Their cattle being very poor, and much fatigued by the journey, the party decided to remain here long enough to build a cabin in which to store their goods until spring. They also decided to leave some one to look after their stores, while the main portion of the party would push on to the settlement. Foster, Montgomery, and Schallenberger built the cabin. Two days were spent in its construction. It was built of pine saplings, and roofed with pine brush and rawhides. It was twelve by fourteen feet, and seven or eight feet high, with a chimney in one end, built "western style." One opening, through which light, air, and the occupants passed, served as a window and door. A heavy fall of snow began the day after the cabin was completed and continued for a number of days. Schallenberger, who was only seventeen years old, volunteered to remain with Foster and Montgomery. The party passed on, leaving very little provisions for the encamped. The flesh of one miserably poor cow was their main dependence, yet the young men were not discouraged. They were accustomed to frontier life, and felt sure they could provide for themselves. Bear and deer seemed abundant in the surrounding mountains. Time passed; the snow continued falling, until it was from ten to fifteen feet deep. The cow was more than half consumed, and the game had been driven out of the mountains by the storms. "The sojourners in that lonely camp became alarmed at the prospect of the terrible fate which seemed to threaten them, and they determined to find their way across the mountains. They started and reached the summit the first night after leaving their camp. Here, young Schallenberger was taken ill with severe cramps. The following day he was unable to proceed more than a few feet without falling to the ground. It was evident to his companions that he could go no farther. They did not like to leave him, nor did they wish to remain where death seemed to await them. Finally Schallenberger told them if they would take him back to the cabin he would remain there and they could go on. This they did, and after making him as comfortable as possible, they bade him good-by, and he was left alone in that mountain wild. A strong will and an unflinching determination to live through all the threatening dangers, soon raised him from his bed and nerved him to action. He found some steel traps among the goods stored, and with them caught foxes, which constituted his chief or only article of food, until rescued by the returning party, March 1, 1845." The Breen family moved into the Schallenberger cabin. Against the west side of this cabin, Keseberg built a sort of half shed, into which he and his family entered. The Murphys erected a cabin nearer the lake. The site of this cabin is plainly marked by a large stone about ten or twelve feet high, one side of which rises almost perpendicularly from the ground. Against this perpendicular side the Murphys erected the building which was to shelter them during the winter. It was about three hundred yards from the shore of Donner Lake, and near the wide marshy outlet. The Breen and Murphy cabins were distant from each other about one hundred and fifty yards. The Graves family built a house close by Donner Creek, and half or three quarters of a mile further down the stream. Adjoining this, forming a double cabin, the Reeds built. The Donner brothers, Jacob and George, together with their families, camped in Alder Creek Valley, six or seven miles from Donner Lake. They were, if possible, in a worse condition than the others, for they had only brush sheds and their tents to shield them from the wintry weather. Mrs. John App (Leanna C. Donner), of Jamestown, Tuolumne County, writes: "We had no time to build a cabin. The snow came on so suddenly that we had barely time to pitch our tent, and put up a brush shed, as it were, one side of which was open. This brush shed was covered with pine boughs, and then covered with rubber coats, quilts, etc. My uncle, Jacob Donner, and family, also had a tent, and camped near us." Crowded in their ill-prepared dwellings, the emigrants could not feel otherwise than gloomy and despondent. The small quantity of provisions became so nearly exhausted that it is correct to say they were compelled to live on meat alone, without so much as salt to give it a relish. There was an abundance of beautiful trout in the lake, but no one could catch them. W. C. Graves tells how he went fishing two or three different times, but without success. The lake was not frozen over at first, and fish were frequently seen; but they were too coy and wary to approach such bait as was offered. Soon thick ice covered the water, and after that no one attempted to fish. In fact, the entire party seemed dazed by the terrible calamity which had overtaken them. Chapter VI. Endeavors to Cross the Mountains Discouraging Failures Eddy Kills a Bear Making SnowShoes Who Composed the "Forlorn Hope" Mary A. Graves An Irishman A Generous Act Six Days' Rations Mary Graves Account Snow-Blind C. T. Stanton's Death "I am Coming Soon" Sketch of Stanton's Early Life His Charity and Self-Sacrifice The Diamond Breastpin Stanton's Last Poem. All knew that death speedily awaited the entire company unless some could cross over the mountain barrier and hasten back relief parties. Out of the list of ninety persons mentioned in the first chapter, only Mrs. Sarah Keyes, Halloran, Snyder, Hardcoop, Wolfinger, and Pike had perished, and only three, Messrs. Reed, Herron, and McCutchen, had reached California. This left eighty-one persons at the mountain camps. It was resolved that at the earliest possible moment the strongest and ablest of the party should endeavor to cross the summits and reach the settlements. Accordingly, on the twelfth of November, a party of twelve or fifteen persons set out from the cabins. It was found impossible, however, to make any considerable headway in the soft, deep snow, and at midnight they returned to the cabins. They had not succeeded in getting more than a mile above the head of the lake. In this party were Mr. F. W. Graves and his two daughters, Mary A. Graves, and Mrs. Sarah Fosdick. The rest, with the exception of Jay Fosdick and Wm. H. Eddy, were young, unmarried men, as, for instance, Stanton, Smith, Spitzer, Elliott, Antoine, John Baptiste, and the two Indians. It was comparatively a trifling effort, but it seemed to have the effect of utterly depressing the hopes of several of these men. With no one in the camps dependent upon them, without any ties of relationship, or bonds of affection, these young men were be first to attempt to escape from their prison walls of snow. Failing in this, many of them never again rallied or made a struggle for existence. Not so, however, with those who were heads of families. A gun was owned by William Foster, and with it, on the fourteenth of November, three miles north of Truckee, near the present Alder Creek Mill, Mr. Eddy succeeded in killing a bear. This event inspired many hearts with courage; but, alas it was short-lived. No other game could be found except two or three wild ducks. What were these among eighty-one people! Mr. F. W. Graves was a native of Vermont, and his boyhood days had been spent in sight of the Green Mountains. Somewhat accustomed to snow, and to pioneer customs, Mr. Graves was the only member of the party who understood how to construct snow-shoes. The unsuccessful attempt made by the first party proved that no human being could walk upon the loose snow without some artificial assistance. By carefully sawing the ox-bows into strips, so as to preserve their curved form, Mr. Graves, by means of rawhide thongs, prepared very serviceable snow-shoes. Fourteen pair of shoes were made in this manner. It was certain death for all to remain in camp, and yet the first attempt had shown that it was almost equally certain death to attempt to reach the settlements. There was not food for all, and yet the ones who undertook to cross the mountains were undoubtedly sacrificing their lives for those who remained in camp. If some should go, those who were left behind might be able to preserve life until spring, or until relief came. The stoutest hearts quailed before the thought of battling with the deep drifts, the storms, and the unknown dangers which lurked on the summits. The bravest shuddered at the idea of leaving the cabins and venturing out into the drear and dismal wilderness of snow. Yet they could count upon their fingers the days that would elapse before the provisions would be exhausted, and starvation would ensue, if none left the camps. Day after day, with aching hearts and throbbing brows, the poor imprisoned wretches gazed into each other's faces in blank despair. Who should be sacrificed? Who would go out and seek a grave 'neath the crashing avalanche, the treacherous drifts, or in the dreary famished wilderness, that those left behind might live? Who would be the forlorn hope of the perishing emigrants? Once, Messrs. Patrick Breen, Patrick Dolan, Lewis Keseberg, and W. H. Eddy, are said to have attempted to reach the summit. On another occasion these same parties, with Mrs. Reed and family, Mr. Stanton and the two Indians, made an unsuccessful attempt. Still another time, a large party, among whom were Mrs. Murphy and the older members of her family, made the effort, and even succeeded in crossing the topmost ridge and reaching Summit Valley, one and a half miles west of the summit. But all these parties were forced to return to the cabins, and each failure confirmed the belief that no living being could cross the mountains. In this manner time dragged wearily along until the tenth, or, as some say, the sixteenth of December. The mere matter of the date is of trifling importance. At all events a forlorn hope was organized. Seventeen names were enrolled as volunteers. Of these, Charles Burger went only a short distance, turning back weary and exhausted. Wm. G. Murphy, who is described as a most brave and resolute boy of eleven years of age, accompanied the party as far as the head of Donner Lake. He and his brother Lemuel were without snowshoes. It was expected they would step in the beaten tracks of those who had shoes, but this was soon proven to be utterly impracticable. The party made snow-shoes for Lemuel on the first night, out of the aparajos which had been brought by Stanton from Sutter's Fort. Wm. G. Murphy saved his life by returning to the cabins. No human being could have endured the trip without snow-shoes. Fifteen remained in the party, and these pressed forward without so much as daring to look back to the dear ones whose lives depended upon this terrible venture. Without forgetting William G. Murphy and Charles Burger, who started with this little band, the first party who crossed the Sierra will in future be termed the fifteen. Who composed this party? Mothers, whose babes would starve unless the mothers went; fathers, whose wives and children would perish if the fathers did not go; children, whose aged parents could not survive unless the children, by leaving, increased the parents' share of food. Each were included in the forlorn hope. It was time for some one to leave the cabins. During the days that had elapsed, no word had been received from the Donner brothers at Alder Creek, nor from the emigrants who camped with them. Alder Creek is a branch of Prosser Creek, and the Donners encamped on the former stream about a mile and a half above the junction. On the ninth of December, Milton Elliott and Noah James started back to learn some tidings of these people. Soon after they left the camps at the lake, a terrific storm came down from the mountains, and as nothing had been heard from them, it was considered certain they had perished. About this time, starvation and exposure had so preyed upon one of the company, Augustus Spitzer, that one day he came reeling and staggering into the Breen cabin and fell prostrate and helpless upon the floor. Poor fellow, he never rallied, although by careful nursing and kindest attentions he lingered along for some weeks. The emigrants were no longer on short allowance, they were actually starving! Oh! the horror! the dread alarm which prevailed among the company! C. T. Stanton, ever brave, courageous, lion-hearted, said, "I will bring help to these famishing people or lay down my life." F. W. Graves, who was one of the noblest men who ever breathed the breath of life, was next to volunteer. Mr. and Mrs. Graves had nine children, the youngest being only nine months old. Generously had they parted with the cattle which they brought to the lake, dividing equally with those families who had no food. Mary A. Graves and her elder sister, Mrs. Sarah Fosdick, determined to accompany their father, and as will presently be seen, their hearts failed not during trials which crushed strong men. Mary Graves was about nineteen years old. She was a very beautiful girl, of tall and slender build, and exceptionally graceful carriage. Her features, in their regularity, were of classic Grecian mold. Her eyes were dark, bright, and expressive. A fine mouth and perfect set of teeth, added to a luxuriant growth of dark, rebelliously wavy hair, completed an almost perfect picture of lovely girlhood. Jay Fosdick resolved to share with his wife the perils of the way. Mrs. Murphy offered to take care of the infant children of her married daughters, Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Pike, if they would join the party. The dear, good mother argued that what the daughters would eat would keep her and the little ones from starving. It was nobly said, yet who can doubt but that, with clearer vision, the mother saw that only by urging them to go, could she save her daughters' lives. With what anguish did Mrs. Harriet F. Pike enroll her name among those of the "Forlorn Hope," and bid good-by to her little two-year-old Naomi and her nursing babe, Catherine! What bitter tears were shed by Mr. and Mrs. Foster when they kissed their beautiful baby boy farewell! Alas! though they knew it not, it was a long, long farewell. Mrs. Eddy was too feeble to attempt the journey, and the family were so poorly provided with food that Mr. Eddy was compelled to leave her and the two little children in the cabins, and go with the party. Mrs. McCutchen also had an infant babe, and Mrs. Graves employed the same reasoning with her that Mrs. Murphy had so effectively used with Mrs. Pike and Mrs. Foster. That these three young mothers left their infant children, their nursing babes, with others, and started to find relief, is proof stronger than words, of the desperate condition of the starving emigrants. The Mexican Antoine, the two Indians Lewis and Salvador, and an Irishman named Patrick Dolan, completed the fifteen. This Patrick Dolan deserves more than a passing word. He had owned a farm in Keokuk, Iowa, and selling it, had taken as the price, a wagon, four oxen, and two cows. With these he joined the Donner Party, and on reaching the lake had killed his cattle and stored them away with those killed by the Breens. Dolan was a bachelor, and about forty years of age. He was possessed of two or three hundred dollars in coin, but instead of being miserly or selfish, was characterized by generous openheartedness. "When it became apparent that there was to be suffering and starvation" (this quotation is from the manuscript of Hon. James F. Breen), "Dolan determined to lighten the burden at the camps, and leave with the party that was to attempt the passage of the summit, so that there should be less to consume the scant supply of provisions. Previous to his departure, he asked my father (Patrick Breen) to attend to the wants of Reed's family, and to give of his (Dolan's) meat to Reed's family as long as possible." Accordingly, Mrs. Reed and her children were taken into Breen's cabin, where, as mentioned above, Dolan's meat was stored. Was ever a more generous act recorded? Patrick Dolan had no relative in the Donner Party, and no friends, save those whose friendship had been formed upon the plains. With the cattle which belonged to him he could have selfishly subsisted until relief came, but, whole-souled Irishman that he was, he gave food to the mothers and the children and went out into the waste of snow to perish of starvation! How many who live to-day owe their existence to Patrick Dolan's self-sacrifice! This blue-eyed, brown haired Irishman is described as being of a jovial disposition, and inclined to look upon the bright side of things. Remembering how he gave his life for strangers, how readily can we appreciate Mr. Breen's tender tribute: "He was a favorite with children, and would romp and play with a child." As a token of appreciation for his kindness, Mrs. Reed gave Patrick Dolan a gold watch and a Masonic emblem belonging to her husband, bidding him to keep them until he was rewarded for his generosity. The good mother's word had a significance she wot not of. When Mrs. Reed reached Sutter's Fort she found these valuables awaiting her. They had been brought in by Indians. Patrick Dolan had kept them until his death--until the angels came and bore him away to his reward. This party of fifteen had taken provisions to last only six days. At the end of this time they hoped to reach Bear Valley, so they said, but it is more than probable they dared not take more food from their dear ones at the cabins. Six days' rations! This means enough of the poor, shriveled beef to allow each person, three times a day, a piece the size of one's two fingers. With a little coffee and a little loaf sugar, this was all. They had matches, Foster's gun, a hatchet, and each a thin blanket. With this outfit they started to cross the Sierra. No person, unaccustomed to snow-shoes, can form an idea of the difficulty which is experienced during one's first attempt to walk with them. Their shoes would sink deep into the loose, light snow, and it was with great effort they made any progress. They had been at Donner Lake from forty-two to forty-six days, and on this first night of their journey had left it four miles behind them. After a dreadful day's work they encamped, in full sight of the lake and of the cabins. This was harder for the aching hearts of the mothers than even the terrible parting from their little ones. To see the smoke of the cabins, to awake from their troubled dreams, thinking they heard the cry of their starving babes, to stifle the maternal yearnings which prompted them to turn back and perish with their darlings clasped to their breasts, were trials almost unbearable. The next day they traveled six miles. They crossed the summit, and the camps were no longer visible. They were in the solemn fastnesses of the snow-mantled Sierra. Lonely, desolate, forsaken apparently by God and man, their situation was painfully, distressingly terrible. The snow was, wrapped about cliff and forest and gorge. It varied in depth from twelve to sixty feet. Mrs. M. A. Clarke (Mary Graves), now of White River, Tulare County, speaking of this second day, says: "We had a very slavish day's travel, climbing the divide. Nothing of interest occurred until reaching the summit. The scenery was too grand for me to pass without notice, the changes being so great; walking now on loose snow, and now stepping on a hard, slick rock a number of hundred yards in length. Being a little in the rear of the party, I had a chance to observe the company ahead, trudging along with packs on their backs. It reminded me of some Norwegian fur company among the icebergs. My shoes were ox-bows, split in two, and rawhide strings woven in, something in form of the old-fashioned, split-bottomed chairs. Our clothes were of the bloomer costume, and generally were made of flannel. Well do I remember a remark one of the company made here, that we were about as near heaven as we could get. We camped a little on the west side of the summit the second night." Here they gathered a few boughs, kindled a fire upon the surface of the snow, boiled their coffee, and ate their pitiful allowance of beef; then wrapping their toil-worn bodies in their blankets, lay down upon the snow. As W. C. Graves remarks, it was a bed that was soft, and white, and beautiful, and yet it was a terrible bed--a bed of death. The third day they walked five miles. Starting almost at dawn, they struggled wearily through the deep drifts, and when the night shadows crept over crag and pine and mountain vale, they were but five miles on their journey. They did not speak during the day, except when speech was absolutely necessary. All traveled silently, and with downcast eyes. The task was beginning to tell upon the frames of even the strongest and most resolute. The hunger that continually gnawed at their vitals, the excessive labor of moving the heavy, clumsy snow-shoes through the soft, yielding snow, was too much for human endurance. They could no longer keep together and aid each other with words of hope. They struggled along, sometimes at great distances apart. The fatigue and dazzling sunlight rendered some of them snowblind. One of these was the noble-hearted Stanton. On this third day he was too blind and weak to keep up with the rest, and staggered into the camp long after the others had finished their pitiful supper. Poor, brave, generous Stanton! He said little, but in his inner heart he knew that the end of his journey was almost at hand. Who was this heroic being who left the beautiful valleys of the Sacramento to die for strangers? See him wearily toiling onward during the long hours of the fourth day. The agony and blindness of his eyes wring no cry from his lips, no murmur, no word of complaint. With patient courage and heroic fortitude he strives to keep pace with his companions, but finds it impossible. Early in the morning he drops to the rear, and is soon lost to sight. At night he drags his weary limbs into camp long after his comrades are sleeping 'neath the silent stars. It must be remembered that they had been accustomed to short allowance of food for months, while he had been used to having an abundance. Their bodies had been schooled to endure famine, privations, and long, weary walks. For many days before reaching the mountains, they had been used to walking every day, in order to lighten the burdens of the perishing oxen. Fatigues which exhausted them crushed Stanton. The weather was clear and pleasant, but the glare of the sun during the day had been like molten fire to their aching eyes. On the morning of the fifth day Stanton was sitting smoking by the smoldering fire when the company resumed its journey. Mary Graves, who had a tender heart for the suffering of others, went kindly up to him, and asked him if he were coming. "Yes," he replied, "I am coming soon." Was he answering her, or the unseen spirits that even then were beckoning him to the unknown world? "Yes, I am coming soon!" These were his last words. His companions were too near death's door to return when they found he came not, and so he perished. He had begged them piteously to lead him, during the first days of his blindness, but seeming to realize that they were unable to render assistance, he ceased to importune, and heroically met his fate. He did not blame his comrades. They were weak, exhausted, and ready to die of starvation. With food nearly gone, strength failing, hope lost, and nothing left but the last, blind, clinging instinct of life, it was impossible that the perishing company should have aided the perishing Stanton. He was a hero of the highest, noblest, grandest stamp. No words can ever express a fitting tribute to his memory. He gave his life for strangers who had not the slightest claim to the sacrifice. He left the valleys where friends, happiness, and abundance prevailed, to perish amidst chilling snow-drifts--famished and abandoned. The act of returning to save the starving emigrants is as full of heroic grandeur as his death is replete with mournful desolation. In May, 1847, W. C. Graves, in company with a relief party, found the remains of C. T. Stanton near the spot where he had been left by his companions. The wild animals had partially devoured his body, but the remains were easily identified by means of his clothing and pistols. The following sketch of this hero is kindly furnished by his brother, Sidney Stanton, of Cazenovia, New York: "Charles Tyler Stanton was born at Pompey, Onondaga County, New York, March 11, 1811. He was five feet five inches in height. He had brown eyes and brown hair. He possessed a robust constitution, and although rather slender during his youth, at the age of fifteen he became strong and hearty, and could endure as great hardships as any of his brothers. He had five brothers and four sisters, and was the seventh child. His grandparents, on his father's side, were well off at the close of the revolutionary war, but sold their large farms, and took Continental money in payment. Soon afterward this money became worthless, and they lost all. They were at the time living in Berkshire, Massachusetts, but soon after removed west to the county where C. T. Stanton was born. There were in his father's family fourteen children--seven sons and seven daughters." In his younger days Stanton was engaged as a clerk in a store. He was honest, industrious, and greatly beloved by those with whom he came in contact. His early education was limited, but during his employment as clerk he used every possible endeavor to improve his mind. During his journey across the plains, he was regarded as somewhat of a savant, on account of his knowledge of botany, geology, and other branches of natural science. His disposition was generous to a fault. He never was happier than when bestowing assistance upon needy friends. His widowed mother, for whom he entertained the most devoted affection, was kindly cared for by him until her death in 1835. After this sad event he removed to Chicago. At Chicago he made money rapidly for a time, and his hand was ever ready to give aid to those about him. Charity and heroic self-sacrifice appear to have been his predominant characteristics. They stand out in bold relief, not only in his early history, but during his connection with the Donner Party. While in the mountains he had no money to give, but instead he gave his strength, his energy, his love, his all, his very life, for his companions. That he had a premonition of the gloomy fate which overtook him in the Sierra, or at least that he fully realized the perils to which he was exposing his life, is indicated by the following incident: When he set out from Sutter's Fort to return to the Donner train with provisions, he left a vest with Captain Sutter. In one of the pockets of this vest was subsequently found a package directed to the Captain with the following memorandum: "Captain Sutter will send the within, in the event of my death, to Sidney Stanton, Syracuse, New York." The package contained a diamond breastpin. Mr. Sidney Stanton writes as follows concerning this keepsake: "I will give you a short history or account of the pin which was left for me at Sutter's Fort, which Mr. McKinstry forwarded to me. This was an event so peculiar at the time. He visited me here at Syracuse, while he was prospering in Chicago. He was on his way to New York, and wanted a sum of money, which I advanced. Before leaving he fastened this pin on the dress of my wife, remarking that she must consider it as a present from him. Nothing more was thought of this event until he again wanted money. Misfortune had overtaken him, and this event gave him much pain, not so much on his own account as because he could not relieve the distress of dear friends when asked for aid. I sent him a little more money; I had not much to spare, and in talking the matter over with my wife, she asked, 'Why not send him the pin? It is valuable, and in time of need he might dispose of it for his comfort.' In saying this she took the ground that it was left with her as a pledge, not as a gift. I therefore handed it to my sister to send to him for this purpose. But it appears by his keeping it and sending it back in the way he did, that he did consider it a gift, and hence he would not and did not dispose of it for necessary things for his own comfort. This pin was the only thing of value which he had at the time of his death." Stanton was an excellent writer. His descriptions of his travels from Chicago to the South would make a good-sized and a very interesting book. His last composition is given below. It is an appropriate ending to this brief outline of the history of one who should be regarded as one of the noblest of California's pioneer heroes: "To My Mother In Heaven." "Oh, how that word my soul inspires With holy, fond, and pure desires! Maternal love, how bright the flame! For wealth of worlds I'd not profane Nor idly breathe thy sacred name, My mother." "Thy sainted spirit dwells on high. How oft I weep, how oft I sigh Whene'er I think of bygone time, Thy smile of love, which once was mine, That look so heavenly and divine, My mother." "Thy warning voice in prayers of love, Ascending to the throne above With tones of eloquence so rife, Hath turned my thoughts from worldly strife, And cheered me through my wayward life, My mother." "When death shall close my sad career, And I before my God appear There to receive His last decree My only prayer there will be Forever to remain with thee, My mother." Chapter VII. A Wife's Devotion The Smoky Gorge Caught in a Storm Casting Lots to See Who should Die A Hidden River The Delirium of Starvation Franklin Ward Graves His Dying Advice A Frontiersman's Plan The Camp of Death A Dread Resort A Sister's Agony The Indians Refuse to Eat Lewis and Salvador Flee for Their Lives Killing a Deer Tracks Marked by Blood Nine Days without Food. Let no one censure Stanton's companions for abandoning their brave comrade. In less than twenty-four hours all were without food, unless, indeed, it was Mr. Eddy, who, in his narration published by Judge Thornton, states that on the day of Stanton's death he found half a pound of bear's meat which had been secreted in a little bag by his wife. Attached to this meat was a paper, upon which his wife had written in pencil a note signed, "Your own dear Eleanor." Mr. Eddy had not discovered this meat until the sorest hour of need, and the hope expressed in Mrs. Eddy's note, that it would be the means of saving his life, was literally fulfilled. There is something extremely touching in the thought that this devoted wife, who, as will presently be seen, was starving to death in the cabins, saved her husband's life by clandestinely concealing about his person a portion of the food which should have sustained herself and her infant children. In the account given by Mary Graves, is mentioned the following incident in the fourth day's travel: "Observing by the way a deep gorge at the right, having the appearance of being full of smoke, I wanted very much to go to it, but the Indians said no, that was not the way. I prevailed on the men to fire the gun, but there was no answer. Every time we neared the gorge I would halloo at the top of my voice, but we received no answer." On this day the horror of the situation was increased by the commencement of a snow-storm. As the flakes fell thick and fast, the party sat down in the snow utterly discouraged and heartsick. Mary Graves says: "What to do we did not know. We held a consultation, whether to go ahead without provisions, or go back to the cabins, where we must undoubtedly starve. Some of those who had children and families wished to go back, but the two Indians said they would go on to Captain Sutter's. I told them I would go too, for to go back and hear the cries of hunger from my little brothers and sisters was more than I could stand. I would go as far as I could, let the consequences be what they might." There, in the deep, pitiless storm, surrounded on all sides by desolate wastes of snow, the idea was first advanced that life might be sustained if some one were to perish. Since leaving the cabins, they had at no time allowed themselves more than one ounce of meat per meal, and for two entire days they had not tasted food. The terrible pangs of hunger must be speedily allayed or death was inevitable. Some one proposed that lots be cast to see who should die. The terrible proposition met with opposition from Foster and others, but slips of paper were actually prepared by some of the men, and he who drew the longest--the fatal slip--was Patrick Dolan. Who should take Dolan's life? Who was to be the executioner of the man who had so generously given up the food which might have sustained his life, and joined the forlorn hope that others might live? With one accord they rose to their feet and staggered forward. As if to banish from their minds the horrid thought of taking Dolan's life, they attempted to pursue their journey. With the greatest exertion and suffering they managed to crawl, and stagger, and flounder along until they attained a distance of two or three miles. Here they camped, and passed a most wretched, desolate night. The morning dawned; it was dreary, rainy, and discouraging. The little party set out as usual, but were too weak and lifeless to travel. The soft snow clung to their feet in heavy lumps like snow-balls. Instead of making a fire in a new place, Mary Graves says they crawled back to the camp-fire of the night previous. Here they remained until night came on--a night full of horrors. The wind howled through the shrieking forests like troops of demons. The rain had continued all day, but finally changed to snow and sleet, which cut their pinched faces, and made them shiver with cold. All the forces of nature seemed to combine for their destruction. At one time during the night, in attempting to kindle a fire, the ax or hatchet which they had carried was lost in the loose snow. A huge fire was kindled at last, with the greatest difficulty, and in order to obtain more warmth, all assisted in piling fuel upon the flames. Along in the night, Mr. Foster thinks it was near midnight, the heat of the flames and the dropping coals and embers thawed the snow underneath the fire until a deep, well-like cavity was formed about the fire. Suddenly, as if to intensify the dreadful horrors of the situation, the bottom of this well gave way, and the fire disappeared! The camp and the fire had been built over a stream of water, and the fire had melted through the overlying snow until it had fallen into the stream! Those who peered over the brink of the dark opening about which they were gathered, could hear, far down in the gloom, during the lull of the storm, the sound of running waters. If there is anything lacking in this picture of despair, it is furnished in the groans and cries of the shivering, dying outcasts, and the demoniacal shrieks and ravings of Patrick Dolan, who was in the delirium which precedes death. It was not necessary that life should be taken by the members of the company. Death was busily at work, and before the wild winter night was ended, his ghastly victims were deaf to wind or storm. When the fire disappeared, it became apparent that the entire forlorn hope would perish before morning if exposed to the cold and storm. W. H. Eddy says the wind increased until it was a perfect tornado. About midnight, Antoine overcome by starvation, fatigue, and the bitter cold, ceased to breathe. Mr. F. W. Graves was dying. There was a point beyond which an iron nerve and a powerful constitution were unable to sustain a man. This point had been reached, and Mr. Graves was fast passing away. He was conscious, and calling his weeping, grief-stricken daughters to his side, exhorted them to use every means in their power to prolong their lives. He reminded them of their mother, of their little brothers and sisters in the cabin at the lake. He reminded Mrs. Pike of her poor babies. Unless these daughters succeeded in reaching Sutter's Fort, and were able to send back relief, all at the lake must certainly die. Instances had been cited in history, where, under less provocation, human flesh had been eaten, yet Mr. Graves well knew that his daughters had said they would never touch the loathsome food. Was there not something noble and grand in the dying advice of this father? Was he not heroic when he counseled that all false delicacy be laid aside and that his body be sacrificed to support those that were to relieve his wife and children? Earnestly pleading that these afflicted children rise superior to their prejudices and natural instincts--Franklin Ward Graves died. A sublimer death seldom is witnessed. In the solemn darkness, in the tempestuous storm, on the deep, frozen snow-drifts, overcome by pain and exposure, with the pangs of famine gnawing away his life, this unselfish father, with his latest breath urged that his flesh be used to prolong the lives of his companions. Truly, a soul that could prompt such utterances had no need, after death, for its mortal tenement--it had a better dwelling-place on high. With two of their little number in the icy embraces of death, some plan to obtain warmth for the living was immediately necessary. W. H. Eddy proposed a frontiersman's method. It was for all to huddle closely together in a circle, lie down on a blanket with their heads outward, and be covered with a second blanket. Mr. Eddy arranged his companions, spread the blanket over them, and creeping under the coverlid, completed the circle. The wind swept the drifting snow in dense clouds over their heads. The chilling air, already white with falling snowflakes, became dense with the drifting masses. In a little while the devoted band were completely hidden from wind, or storm, or piercing cold, by a deep covering of snow. The warmth of their bodies, confined between the blankets, under the depth of snow, soon rendered them comfortably warm. Their only precaution now was to keep from being buried alive. Occasionally some member of the party would shake the rapidly accumulating snow from off their coverlid. They no longer were in danger of freezing. But while the elements were vainly waging fierce war above their heads, hunger was rapidly sapping the fountains of life, and claiming them for its victims. When, for a moment, sleep would steal away their reason, in famished dreams they would seize with their teeth the hand or arm of a companion. The delirium of death had attacked one or two, and the pitiful wails and cries of these death-stricken maniacs were heart-rending. The dead, the dying, the situation, were enough to drive one crazy. The next day was ushered in by one of the most furious storms ever witnessed on the Sierra. All the day long, drifts and the fast-falling snow circled above them under the force of the fierce gale. The air was a frozen fog of swift-darting ice-lances. The fine particles of snow and sleet, hurled by maddened storm-fiends, would cut and sting so that one's eyes could not be opened in the storm, and the rushing gale would hurl one prostrate on the snow. Once or twice the demented Dolan escaped from his companions and disappeared in the blinding storm. Each time he returned or was caught and dragged 'neath the covering, but the fatal exposure chilled the little life remaining in his pulses. During the afternoon he ceased to shriek, or struggle, or moan. Patrick Dolan, the warm-hearted Irishman, was starved to death. Mr. Eddy states, in Thornton's work, that they entered this Camp of Death, Friday, December 25, Christmas. According to his version they started from the cabins on the sixteenth day of December, with scanty rations for six days. On the twenty-second they consumed the last morsel of their provisions. Not until Sunday noon, December 27, did the storm break away. They had been over four days without food, and two days and a half without fire. They were almost dead. Is there a mind so narrow, so uncharitable, that it can censure these poor dying people for the acts of this terrible day? With their loved ones perishing at Donner Lake, with the horror of a lingering death staring them in the face, can the most unfeeling heart condemn them? Emerging from the dreary prison-house, they attempted to kindle a fire. Their matches were wet and useless. Their flint-lock gun would give forth a spark, but without some dry material that would readily ignite, it was of no avail. On this morning of the twenty-seventh Eddy says that he blew up a powder-horn in an effort to strike fire under the blankets. His face and hands were much burned. Mrs. McCutchen and Mrs. Foster were also burned, but not seriously. For some time all efforts to obtain a fire proved fruitless. Their garments were drenched by the storm. Mrs. Pike had a mantle that was lined with cotton. The lining of this was cut open, and the driest portion of the cotton was exposed to the sun's rays, in the hope that it could be made to catch the spark from the flint. At last they were successful. A fire was kindled in a dead tree, and the flames soon leaped up to the loftiest branches. The famished, shivering wretches gathered round the burning tree. So weak and lifeless were they that when the great pine limbs burned off and fell crashing about them, neither man nor woman moved or attempted to escape the threatening danger. All felt that sudden death would be welcome. They were stunned and horrified by the dreadful alternative which it was evident they must accept. The men finally mustered up courage to approach the dead. With averted eyes and trembling hand, pieces of flesh were severed from the inanimate forms and laid upon the coals. It was the very refinement of torture to taste such food, yet those who tasted lived. One could not eat. Lemuel Murphy was past relief. A boy about thirteen years old, Lemuel was dearly loved by his sisters, and, full of courage, had endeavored to accompany them on the fearful journey. He was feeble when he started from the cabins, and the overwhelming sufferings of the fatal trip had destroyed his remaining strength. Starvation is agony during the first three days, apathy and inanition during the fourth and perhaps the fifth, and delirium from that time until the struggle ceases. When the delirium commences, hope ends. Lemuel was delirious Sunday morning, and when food was placed to his lips he either could not eat or was too near death to revive. All day Mrs. Foster held her brother's head in her lap, and by every means in her power sought to soothe his death agonies. The sunlight faded from the surrounding summits. Darkness slowly emerged from the canyons and enfolded forest and hill-slope in her silent embrace. The glittering stars appeared in the heavens, and the bright, full moon rose over the eastern mountain crests. The silence, the profound solitude, the ever-present wastes of snow, the weird moonlight, and above all the hollow moans of the dying boy in her lap, rendered this night the most impressive in the life of Mrs. Foster. She says she never beholds a bright moonlight without recurring with a shudder to this night on the Sierra. At two o'clock in the morning Lemuel Murphy ceased to breathe. The warm tears and kisses of the afflicted sisters were showered upon lips that would never more quiver with pain. Until the twenty-ninth of December they remained at the "Camp of Death." Would you know more of the shuddering details? Does the truth require the narration of the sickening minutiae of the terrible transactions of these days? Human beings were never called upon to undergo more trying ordeals. Dividing into groups, the members of each family were spared the pain of touching their own kindred. Days and perhaps weeks of starvation were awaiting them in the future, and they dare not neglect to provide as best they might. Each of the four bodies was divested of its flesh, and the flesh was dried. Although no person partook of kindred flesh, sights were often witnessed that were blood-curdling. Mrs. Foster, as we have seen, fairly worshiped her brother Lemuel. Has human pen power to express the shock of horror this sister received when she saw her brother's heart thrust through with a stick, and broiling upon the coals? No man can record or read such an occurrence without a cry of agony! What, then, did she endure who saw this cruel sight? These are facts. They are given just as they came from the lips of Mrs. Foster, a noble woman, who would have died of horror and a broken heart but for her starving babe, her mother, and her little brothers and sisters who were at Donner Lake. Mary Graves corroborates Mrs. Foster, and W. H. Eddy gave a similar version to Judge Thornton. The Indian guides, Lewis and Salvador, would not eat this revolting food. They built a fire away from the company, and with true Indian stoicism endured the agonies of starvation without so much as beholding the occurrences at the other camp-fire. Starved bodies possess little flesh, and starving people could carry but light burdens through such snow-drifts. On these accounts, the provision which the Almighty seemed to have provided to save their lives, lasted only until the thirty-first On New Year's morning they ate their moccasins and the strings of their snow-shoes. On the night before, Lewis and Salvador caught the sound of ominous words, or perceived glances that were filled with dreadful import, and during the darkness they fled. For several days past the party had been lost. The Indians could not recognize the country when it was hidden from thirty to fifty feet in snow. Blindly struggling forward, they gradually separated into three parties. On the fourth, W. H. Eddy and Mary Graves were in advance with the gun. A starved deer crossed their path and providentially was slain. Drinking its warm blood and feasting upon its flesh, this couple waited for the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Foster, Mrs. McCutchen, and Mrs. Pike, who were some distance behind. Night came and passed and they did not arrive. Indeed, Foster was dying for lack of nourishment. Behind this party were Mr. and Mrs. Jay Fosdick. During the night, Mr. Fosdick perished, and the faithful wife, after remaining with him until morning, struggled forward and met Mrs. Foster and a companion. Mrs. Fosdick related the death of her husband, and upon being informed of Foster's condition, consented that her husband's body be converted into food. It was done. This was the first time that women's hands had used the knife, but by the act a life was saved. Mrs. Fosdick, although dying, would not touch the food, and but for the venison would not have lived to see the setting of the sun. But what was one small deer among so many famished people? Hide, head, feet, entrails, all were eaten. On the sixth, the last morsel was consumed. They were now without hope. Their journey was apparently interminable. Wearied, foot-sore, freezing at night and tortured by hunger during the day, life could not last many hours. Some one must die; else none could live and reach the long-talked-of relief. Would it be Eddy, whose wife and two children were behind? Would it be Mrs. Pike, who left two babes? Mrs. McCutchen, who left one? Mr. or Mrs. Foster, whose baby boy was at the cabin? Or would it be Mary Graves or Mrs. Fosdick, who had left mother and family? On the night of the seventh, they lay down upon the snow without having tasted a mouthful of food during the day. Continued famine and exhaustion had so weakened their frames that they could not survive another day. Yet, on the morning of the seventh, they arose and staggered onward. Soon they halted and gathered about some freshly made tracks. Tracks marked by blood! Tracks that they knew had been made by Lewis and Salvador, whose bare feet were sore and bleeding from cuts and bruises inflicted by the cruel, jagged rocks, the frozen snow, and flinty ice. These Indians had eaten nothing for nine days, and had been without fire or blankets for four days. They could not be far ahead. Chapter VIII. Starvation at Donner Lake Preparing Rawhide for Food Eating the Firerug Shoveling Snow off the Beds Playing they were Tea-cups of Custard A Starving Baby Pleading with Silent Eloquence Patrick Breen's Diary Jacob Donner's Death A Child's Vow A Christmas Dinner Lost on the Summits A Stump Twenty-two Feet High Seven Nursing Babes at Donner Lake A Devout Father A Dying Boy Sorrow and Suffering at the Cabins. How fared it with those left at Donner Lake? About the time the fifteen began their terrible journey, Baylis Williams starved to death. Such food as the rest had was freely given to him, but it did not is satisfy the demands of his nature. Quietly, uncomplainingly, he had borne the pangs of famine, and when the company first realized his dreadful condition, he was in the delirium which preceded death. What words can portray the emotions of the starving emigrants, when they saw one of their number actually perish of hunger before their eyes! Williams died in the Graves cabin, and was buried near the house by W. C. Graves and John Denton. All the Donner Party were starving. When the cattle were killed the hides had been spread over the cabins in lieu of shingles. These were now taken down and eaten. All the survivors describe the method of preparing this miserable substitute for food. The narration by Mrs. J. M. Murphy (Virginia E. Reed), of San Jose, is among the most vivid. She says the green rawhides were cut into strips and laid upon the coals, or held in the flames until the hair was completely singed off. Either side of the piece of hide was then scraped with a knife until comparatively clean, and was placed in a kettle and boiled until soft and pulpy. There was no salt, and only a little pepper, and yet this substance was all that was between them and starvation. When cold, the boiled hides and the water in which they were cooked, became jellied and exactly resembled glue. The tender stomachs of many of the little children revolted at this disagreeable diet, and the loathing they acquired for the sight of this substance still exists in the minds of some of the survivors. To this day, Thomas K. Reed, of San Jose, who was then a tiny three-year-old, can not endure the sight of calf's-foot jelly, or of similar dishes, because of its resemblance to the loathed food which was all his mother could give him in the cabins at Donner Lake. William G. Murphy describes how they gathered up the old, castaway bones of the cattle-bones from which all the flesh had been previously picked-and boiled, and boiled, and boiled them until they actually would crumble between the teeth, and were eaten. The little children, playing upon the fire-rug in his mother's cabin, used to cut off little pieces of the rug, toast them crisp upon the coals, and then eat them. In this manner, before any one was fairly aware of the fact, the fire-rug was entirely consumed. The Donner families, at Prosser Creek, were, if possible, in even a sadder condition. In order to give a glimpse of the suffering endured in these two tents, the following is quoted from a letter written by Mrs. W. A. Babcock (Georgia A. Donner, now residing at Mountain View, Santa Clara County): "The families shared with one another as long as they had anything to share. Each one's portion was very small. The hides were boiled, and the bones were burned brown and eaten. We tried to eat a decayed buffalo robe, but it was too tough, and there was no nourishment in it. Some of the few mice that came into camp were caught and eaten. Some days we could not keep a fire, and many times, during both days and nights, snow was shoveled from off our tent, and from around it, that we might not be buried alive. Mother remarked one day that it had been two weeks that our beds and the clothing upon our bodies had been wet. Two of my sisters and myself spent some days at Keseberg's cabin. The first morning we were there they shoveled the snow from our bed before we could get up. Very few can believe it possible for human beings to live and suffer the exposure and hardships endured there." Oh! how long and dreary the days were to the hungry children! Even their very plays and pastimes were pathetic, because of their piteous silent allusion to the pangs of starvation. Mrs. Frank Lewis (Patty Reed), of San Jose, relates that the poor, little, famishing girls used to fill the pretty porcelain tea-cups with freshly fallen snow, daintily dip it out with teaspoons and eat it, playing it was custard. Dear Mrs. Murphy had the most sacred and pitiful charge. It was the wee nursing babe, Catherine Pike, whose mother had gone with the "Forlorn Hope," to try, if possible, to procure relief. All there was to give the tiny sufferer, was a little gruel made from snow water, containing a slight sprinkling of coarse flour. This flour was simply ground wheat, unbolted. Day after day the sweet little darling would lie helplessly upon its grandmother's lap, and seem with its large, sad eyes to be pleading for nourishment. Mrs. Murphy carefully kept the little handful of flour concealed--there was only a handful at the very beginning--lest some of the starving children might get possession of the treasure. Each day she gave Catherine a few teaspoonfuls of the gruel. Strangely enough, this poor little martyr did not often cry with hunger, but with tremulous, quivering mouth, and a low, subdued sob or moan, would appear to be begging for something to eat. The poor, dumb lips, if gifted with speech, could not have uttered a prayer half so eloquent, so touching. Could the mother, Mrs. Pike, have been present, it would have broken her heart to see her patient babe dying slowly, little by little. Starvation had dried the maternal breasts long before Mrs. Pike went away, so that no one can censure her for leaving her baby. She could only have done as Mrs. Murphy did, give it the plain, coarse gruel, and watch it die, day by day, upon her lap. Up to this time, but little has been said of Patrick Breen. He was an invalid during the winter of 1846 and '47. A man of more than ordinary intelligence, a devout Catholic, a faithful and devoted father, his life furnishes a rare type of the pioneer Californian. To Mr. Breen we are indebted for the most faithful and authentic record of the days spent at the cabins. This record is in the form of a diary, in which the events of the day were briefly noted in the order of their occurrence. Lewis Keseberg kept a similar diary, but it was subsequently accidentally destroyed. Mrs. Tamsen Donner kept a journal, but this, with her paintings and botanical collections, disappeared at the fatal tent on Alder Creek. Mr. Breen's diary alone was preserved. He gave it into Col. McKinstry's possession in the spring of 1847, and on the fourth of September of that year it was published in the Nashville (Tenn.) Whig. A copy of the Whig of that date is furnished by Wm. G. Murphy, of Marysville. Other papers have published garbled extracts from this diary, but none have been reliable. The future history of the events which transpired at the cabins will be narrated in connection with this diary. It must be remembered that the lake had always been known as "Truckee Lake," it having been named after an old Indian guide who had rendered much assistance to the Schallenberger party in 1844. The record appears without the slightest alteration. Even the orthography of the name of the lake is printed as it was written, "Truckey." The diary commences as follows: "Truckey's Lake, November 20, 1846." "Came to this place on the thirty-first of last month; went into the pass; the snow so deep we were unable to find the road, and when within three miles from the summit, turned back to this shanty on Truckey's Lake; Stanton came up one day after we arrived here; we again took our teams and wagons, and made another unsuccessful attempt to cross in company with Stanton; we returned to this shanty; it continued to snow all the time. We now have killed most part of our cattle, having to remain here until next spring, and live on lean beef, without bread or salt. It snowed during the space of eight days, with little intermission, after our arrival, though now clear and pleasant, freezing at night; the snow nearly gone from the valleys." "November 21. Fine morning; wind northwest; twenty-two of our company about starting to cross the mountains this day, including Stanton and his Indians." "Nov. 22. Froze last night; fine and clear to-day; no account from those on the mountains." "Nov. 23. Same weather; wind west; the expedition cross the mountains returned after an unsuccessful attempt." "Nov. 25. Cloudy; looks like the eve of a snow-storm; our mountaineers are to make another trial to-morrow, if fair; froze hard last night." "Nov. 26. Began to snow last evening; now rains or sleets; the party do not start to-day." "Nov. 27. Still snowing; now about three feet deep; wind west; killed my last oxen to-day; gave another yoke to Foster; wood hard to be got." "Nov. 30. Snowing fast; looks as likely to continue as when it commenced; no living thing without wings can get about." "Dec. 1. Still snowing; wind west; snow about six or seven and a half feet deep; very difficult to get wood, and we are completely housed up; our cattle all killed but two or three, and these, with the horses and Stanton's mules, all supposed to be lost in the snow; no hopes of finding them alive." "Dec. 3. Ceases snowing; cloudy all day; warm enough to thaw." "Dec. 5. Beautiful sunshine; thawing a little; looks delightful after the long storm; snow seven or eight feet deep." "Dec. 6. The morning fine and clear; Stanton and Graves manufacturing snow-shoes for another mountain scrabble; no account of mules." "Dec. 8. Fine weather; froze hard last night; wind south-west; hard work to find wood sufficient to keep us warm or cook our beef." "Dec. 9. Commenced snowing about eleven o'clock; wind northwest; took in Spitzer yesterday, so weak that he can not rise without help; caused by starvation. Some have scanty supply of beef; Stanton trying to get some for him self and Indians; not likely to get much." "Dec. 10. Snowed fast all night, with heavy squalls of wind; continues to snow; now about seven feet in depth." "Dec. 14. Snows faster than any previous day; Stanton and Graves, with several others, making preparations to cross the mountains on snow-shoes; snow eight feet on a level." "Dec. 16. Fair and pleasant; froze hard last night; the company started on snow-shoes to cross the mountains; wind southeast." "Dec. 17. Pleasant; William Murphy returned from the mountain party last evening; Baylis Williams died night before last; Milton and Noah started for Donner's eight days ago; not returned yet; think they are lost in the snow." "Dec. 19. Snowed last night; thawing to-day; wind northwest; a little singular for a thaw." "Dec. 20. Clear and pleasant; Mrs. Reed here; no account from Milton yet. Charles Burger started for Donner's; turned back; unable to proceed; tough times, but not discouraged. Our hope is in God. Amen." "Dec. 21. Milton got back last night from Donner's camp. Sad news; Jacob Donner, Samuel Shoemaker, Rhinehart, and Smith are dead; the rest of them in a low situation; snowed all night, with a strong southwest wind." Jacob Donner was the first to die at Prosser Creek. He expired while sitting at the table in his tent, with his head bowed upon his hands, as if in deep meditation. The following terse account is from the gifted pen of Mrs. S. O. Houghton (Eliza P. Donner), of San Jose: "Jacob Donner was a slight man, of delicate constitution, and was in poor health when we left Springfield, Illinois. The trials of the journey reduced his strength and exhausted his energy. When we reached the place of encampment in the mountains he was discouraged and gave up in despair. Not even the needs of his family could rouse him to action. He was utterly dejected and made no effort, but tranquilly awaited death." "Dec. 23. Clear to-day; Milton took some of his meat away; all well at their camp. Began this day to read the 'Thirty Days' Prayers;' Almighty God, grant the requests of unworthy sinners! "Dec. 24. Rained all night, and still continues; poor prospect for any kind of comfort, spiritual or temporal." As will be seen by various references throughout this diary, Mr. Breen was a devout Catholic. During the darkest hour of trial the prayers were regularly read. That this might be done during the long weary evenings, as well as by day, pieces of pitch pine were split and laid carefully in one corner of the cabin, which would be lighted at the fire, and would serve as a substitute for candles. Those of the survivors who are living often speak of the times when they held these sticks while Mr. Breen read the prayers. So impressive were these religious observances that one girl, a bright, beautiful child, Virginia E. Reed, made a solemn vow that if God would hear these prayers, and deliver her family from the dangers surrounding them, she would become a Catholic. God did save her family, and she kept her vow. She is to-day a fervent Catholic. "Dec. 25. Began to snow yesterday, snowed all night, and snows yet rapidly; extremely difficult to find wood; uttered our prayers to God this Christmas morning; the prospect is appalling, but we trust in Him." What a desolate Christmas morning that was for the snow-bound victims! All were starving. Something to eat, something to satisfy the terrible cravings of appetite, was the constant wish of all. Sometimes the wishes were expressed aloud, but more frequently a gloomy silence prevailed. When anything was audibly wished for, it was invariably something whose size was proportional to their hunger. They never wished for a meal, or a mouthful, but for a barrel full, a wagon load, a house full, or a storehouse full. On Christmas eve the children spoke in low, subdued tones, of the visits Santa Claus used to make them in their beautiful homes, before they started across the plains. Now they knew that no Santa Claus could find them in the pathless depths of snow. One family, the Reeds, were in a peculiarly distressing situation. They knew not whether the father was living or dead. No tidings had reached them since his letters ceased to be found by the wayside. The meat they had obtained from the Breen and Graves families was now gone, and on Christmas morning their breakfast was a "pot of glue," as the boiled rawhide was termed. But Mrs. Reed, the dear, tender-hearted mother, had a surprise in store for her children this day. When the last ox had been purchased, Mrs. Reed had placed the frozen meat in one corner of the cabin, so that pieces could be chipped off with a knife or hatchet. The tripe, however, she cleaned carefully and hung on the outside of the cabin, on the end of a log, close to the ground. She knew that the snow would soon conceal this from view. She also laid away secretly, one teacupful of white beans, about half that quantity of rice, the same measure of dried apples, and a piece of bacon two inches square. She knew that if Christmas found them alive, they would be in a terribly destitute condition. She therefore resolved to lay these articles away, and give them to her starving children for a Christmas dinner. This was done. The joy and gladness of these poor little children knew no bounds when they saw the treasures unearthed and cooking on the fire. They were, just this one meal, to have all they could eat! They laughed, and danced, and cried by turns. They eagerly watched the dinner as it boiled. The pork and tripe had been cut in dice like pieces. Occasionally one of these pieces would boil up to the surface of the water for an instant, then a bean would take a peep at them from the boiling kettle, then a piece of apple, or a grain of rice. The appearance of each tiny bit was hailed by the children with shouts of glee. The mother, whose eyes were brimming with tears, watched her famished darlings with emotions that can be imagined. It seemed too sad that innocent children should be brought to such destitution that the very sight of food should so affect them! When the dinner was prepared, the mother's constant injunction was, "Children, eat slowly, there is plenty for all." When they thought of the starvation of to-morrow, they could not repress a shade of sadness, and when the name of papa was mentioned all burst into tears. Dear, brave papa! Was he struggling to relieve his starving family, or lying stark and dead 'neath the snows of the Sierra? This question was constantly uppermost in the mother's mind. "Dec. 27. Cleared off yesterday, and continues clear; snow nine feet deep; wood growing scarce; a tree, when felled, sinks into the snow, and is hard to be got at." "Dec. 30. Fine clear morning; froze hard last night. Charles Burger died last evening about 10 o'clock." "Dec. 31. Last of the year. May we, with the help of God, spend the coming year better than we have the past, which we propose to do if it is the will of the Almighty to deliver us from our present dreadful situation. Amen. Morning fair, but cloudy; wind east by south; looks like another snow-storm. Snow-storms are dreadful to us. The snow at present is very deep." "Jan. 1, 1847. We pray the God of mercy to deliver us from our present calamity, if it be His holy will. Commenced snowing last night, and snows a little yet. Provisions getting very scanty; dug up a hide from under the snow yesterday; have not commenced on it yet." "Jan. 3. Fair during the day, freezing at night. Mrs. Reed talks of crossing the mountains with her children." "Jan. 4. Fine morning; looks like spring. Mrs. Reed and Virginia, Milton Elliott, and Eliza Williams started a short time ago with the hope of crossing the mountains; left the children here. It was difficult for Mrs. Reed to part with them." This expedition was only one of many that the emigrants attempted. The suffering that was endured at these times was indescribable. The broken, volcanic nature of the summits rendered it extremely difficult to keep from getting lost. The white, snowy cliffs were everywhere the same. This party became bewildered and lost near the beautiful Lake Angeline, which is close to the present "Summit Station" of the Central Pacific. Had they attempted to proceed, all would undoubtedly have perished. Within half a mile of the wagon road which now extends from Donner Lake to the Summit are places where rocks and cliffs are mingled in wildest confusion. Even in summertime it is difficult to find one's way among the broken, distorted mountain tops. In the mighty upheaval which produced the Sierra Nevada, these vast mounds or mountains of frowning granite were grouped into weird, fantastic labyrinths. Time has wrought little effect upon their hold precipitous sides, and made slight impress upon their lofty and almost inaccessible crests. Between these fragmentary mountains, in shapely, symmetrical bowls which have been delved by the fingers of the water nymphs and Undines, lie beautiful lakelets. Angeline is but one of a dozen which sparkle like a chain of gems between Donner Lake and the snowy, overhanging peaks of Mount Stanford. The clefts and fissures of the towering granite cliffs are filled, in summer, with dainty ferns, clinging mosses, and the loveliest of mountain wild flowers, and the rims of the lakelets are bordered with grasses, shrubbery, and a wealth of wild blossoms. But in winter this region exhibits the very grandeur of desolation. No verdure is visible save the dwarfed and shattered pines whose crushed branches mark the path of the rushing avalanche. The furious winds in their wild sport toss and tumble the snow-drifts here and there, baring the sterile peaks, and heaping the white masses a hundred feet deep into chasm and gorge. The pure, clear lakes, as if in very fear, hide their faces from the turbulent elements in mantles of ice. The sun is darkened by dense clouds, and the icy, shivering, shrieking stormfiends hold undisturbed their ghastly revels. On every side are lofty battlements of rock, whose trembling burden of snow seems ever ready to slide from its glassy foundations of ice, and entomb the bewildered traveler. Into this interminable maze of rocks and cliffs and frozen lakelets, the little party wandered. Elliott had a compass, but it soon proved worthless, and only added to their perplexed and uncertain state of mind. They were out five days. Virginia's feet became so badly frozen that she could not walk. This occurrence saved the party. Reluctantly they turned back toward the cabins, convinced that it was madness to attempt to go forward. They reached shelter just as one of the most terrible storms of all that dreadful winter broke over their heads. Had they delayed their return a few hours, the path they made in ascending the mountains, and by means of which they retraced their steps, would have been concealed, and death would have been certain. "Jan. 6. Eliza came back yesterday evening from the mountains, unable to proceed; the others kept ahead." "Jan. 8. Mrs. Reed and the others came back; could not find their way on the other side of the mountains. They have nothing but hides to live on." "Jan. 10. Began to snow last night; still continues; wind west-north-west." "Jan. 13. Snowing fast; snow higher than the shanty; it must be thirteen feet deep. Can not get wood this morning; it is a dreadful sight for us to look upon." One of the stumps near the Graves-Reed cabin, cut while the snow was at its deepest, was found, by actual measurement, to be twenty-two feet in height. Part of this stump is standing to-day. "Jan. 14. Cleared off yesterday. The sun, shining brilliantly, renovates our spirits. Praise be to the God of heaven." "Jan. 15. Clear to-day again. Mrs. Murphy blind; Landrum not able to get wood; has but one ax between him and Keseberg. It looks like another storm; expecting some account from Sutter's soon." "Jan. 17. Eliza Williams came here this morning; Landrum crazy last night; provisions scarce; hides our main subsistence. May the Almighty send us help." "Jan. 21. Fine morning; John Baptiste and Mr. Denton came this morning with Eliza; she will not eat hides. Mrs.--sent her back to live or die on them." The blanks which occasionally occur were in the original diary. The delicacy which prompted Patrick Breen to omit these names can not fail to be appreciated. What, if there was sometimes a shade of selfishness, or an act of harshness? What if some families had more than their destitute neighbors? The best provided had little. All were in reality strangely generous. All divided with their afflicted companions. The Reeds had almost nothing to eat when they arrived at the cabins, yet this family is the only one which reached the settlements without some one member having to partake of human flesh. "Jan. 22. Began to snow after sunrise; likely to continue; wind north." "Jan. 23. Blew hard and snowed all night; the most severe storm we have experienced this winter; wind west." "Jan. 26. Cleared up yesterday; to-day fine and pleasant: wind south; in hopes we are done with snow-storms. Those who went to Sutter's not yet returned; provisions getting scant; people growing weak, living on a small allowance of hides." "Jan. 27. Commenced snowing yesterday; still continues to-day. Lewis Keseberg, Jr., died three days ago; food growing scarce; don't have fire enough to cook our hides." "Jan. 30. Fair and pleasant; wind west; thawing in the sun. John and Edward Breen went to Graves' this morning. Mrs.--seized on Mrs. � 's goods until they would be paid; they also took the hides which herself and family subsisted upon. She regained two pieces only, the balance they have taken. You may judge from this what our fare is in camp. There is nothing to be had by hunting, yet perhaps there soon will be." "Jan. 31. The sun does not shine out brilliant this morning; froze hard last night; wind northwest. Landrum Murphy died last night about ten o'clock; Mrs. Reed went to Graves' this morning to look after goods." Landrum Murphy was a large and somewhat overgrown young man. The hides and burnt bones did not contain sufficient nourishment to keep him alive. For some hours before he died, he lay in a semi-delirious state, breathing heavily and seemingly in little or no pain. Mrs. Murphy went to the Breen camp, and asked Mrs. Breen for a piece of meat to save her starving boy. Mrs. Breen gave her the meat, but it was too late, Landrum could not eat. Finally he sank into a gentle slumber. His breathing grew less and less distinct, and ere they were fairly aware of it life was extinct. "Feb. 4. Snowed hard until twelve o'clock last night; many uneasy for fear we shall all perish with hunger; we have but little meat left, and only three hides; Mrs. Reed has nothing but one hide, and that is on Graves' house; Milton lives there, and likely will keep that. Eddy's child died last night." "Feb. 5. It snowed faster last night and to-day than it has done this winter before; still continues without intermission; wind south-west. Murphy's folks and Keseberg say they can not eat hides. I wish we had enough of them. Mrs. Eddy is very weak." "Feb. 7. Ceased to snow at last; to-day it is quite pleasant. McCutchen's child died on the second of this month." This child died and was buried in the Graves cabin. Mr. W. C. Graves helped dig the grave near one side of the cabin, and laid the little one to rest. One of the most heart-rending features of this Donner tragedy is the number of infants that suffered. Mrs. Breen, Pike, Foster, McCutchen, Eddy, Keseberg, and Graves each had nursing babes when the fatal camp was pitched at Donner Lake. "Feb. 8. Fine, clear morning. Spitzer died last night, and we will bury him in the snow; Mrs. Eddy died on the night of the seventh." "Feb. 9. Mrs. Pike's child all but dead; Milton is at Murphy's, not able to get out of bed; Mrs. Eddy and child were buried to-day; wind south-east." Feb. 10. Beautiful morning; thawing in the sun; Milton Elliott died last night at Murphy's cabin, and Mrs. Reed went there this morning to see about his effects. John Denton trying to borrow meat for Graves; had none to give; they had nothing but hides; all are entirely out of meat, but a little we have; our hides are nearly all eat up, but with God's help spring will soon smile upon us." "Feb. 12. Warm, thawy morning." "Feb. 14. Fine morning, but cold. Buried Milton in the snow; John Denton not well." "Feb. 15. Morning cloudy until nine o'clock, then cleared off warm. Mrs. ---- refused to give Mrs. ---- any hides. Put Sutter's pack hides on her shanty, and would not let her have them." "Feb. 16. Commenced to rain last evening, and turned to snow during the night, and continued until morning; weather changeable, sunshine and then light showers of hail, and wind at times. We all feel unwell. The snow is not getting much less at present." Chapter IX. The Last Resort Two Reports of a Gun Only Temporary Relief Weary Traveling The Snow Bridges Human Tracks! An Indian Rancherie Acorn Bread Starving Five Times! Carried Six Miles Bravery of John Rhodes A Thirty-two Days Journey Organizing the First Relief Party Alcalde Sinclair's Address Captain R. P. Tucker's Companions. It is recorded of Lewis and Salvador that they came willingly to the relief of the emigrants. Two of Sutter's best trained vaqueros, faithful, honest, reliable, they seemed rather proud when chosen to assist Stanton in driving the mules laden with provisions for the starving train. Now they were dying! Horrified at the sight of human beings eating the flesh of their comrades, they withdrew from the whites at the "Camp of Death." After that they always camped apart, but continued to act as guides until they became certain that their own lives were in danger. Then they fled. Starving, exhausted, with frozen and bleeding feet, the poor wretches dragged their weary bodies onward until they reached a little streamlet, and here they lay down to die. Nine days, with no other food than they could find in the snow, was too much even for their hardy natures. They were unable to move when the famished "Seven" passed. Yes, passed! for the starving emigrants went on by the poor fellows, unable to deprive them of the little spark of life left in their wasted bodies. Traveling was now slow work for the dying whites. They only went about two hundred yards. In a few more hours, perhaps that very night, they would die of starvation. Already the terrible phantasies of delirium were beginning to dance before their sunken eyes. Ere the Indians would cease breathing some of the Seven would be past relief. There were two men and five women. William Foster could see that his wife--the woman who was all the world to him--was fast yielding to the deadly grasp of the fiends of starvation. For the sake of his life she had stifled the most sacred instincts of her womanly nature, and procured him food from Fosdick's body. Should he see her die the most terrible of deaths without attempting to rescue her? Reader, put yourself in this man's place. Brave, generous, heroic, full of lion-like nobility, William Foster could not stoop to a base action. Contemplate his position! Lying there prostrate upon the snow was Mrs. Pike, the woman whom, accidentally, he had rendered a widow. Her babes were dying in the cabins. His own boy was at the cabins. His comrades, his wife, were in the last stages of starvation. He, also, was dying. Eddy had not nerve enough, the women could not, and William Foster must-what! Was it murder? No! Every law book, every precept of that higher law, self-preservation, every dictate of right, reason or humanity, demanded the deed. The Indians were past all hope of aid. They could not lift their heads from their pillow of snow. It was not simply justifiable--it was duty; it was a necessity. He told them, when he got back, that he was compelled to take their lives. They did not moan or struggle, or appear to regret that their lingering pain was to cease. The five women and Eddy heard two reports of a gun. The "Forlorn Hope" might yet save those who were dying at Donner Lake. Even this relief was but temporary. Taking the wasted flesh from the bones, drying it, and staggering forward, the little band speedily realized that they were not yet saved. It was food for only a few days. Then they again felt their strength failing. Once more they endured the excruciating torments which precede starvation. In the very complete account of this trip, which is kindly furnished by Mary Graves, are many interesting particulars concerning the suffering of these days. "Our only chance for camp-fire for the night," she says, "was to hunt a dead tree of some description, and set fire to it. The hemlock being the best and generally much the largest timber, it was our custom to select the driest we could find without leaving our course. When the fire would reach the top of the tree, the falling limbs would fall all around us and bury themselves in the snow, but we heeded them not. Sometimes the falling, blazing limbs would brush our clothes, but they never hit us; that would have been too lucky a hit. We would sit or lie on the snow, and rest our weary frames. We would sleep, only to dream of something nice to eat, and awake again to disappointment. Such was our sad fate! Even the reindeer's wretched lot was not worse! 'His dinner and his bed were snow, and supper he had not.' Our fare was the same! We would strike fire by means of the flintlock gun which we had with us. This had to be carried by turns, as it was considered the only hope left in case we might find game which we could kill. We traveled over a ridge of mountains, and then descended a deep canyon, where one could scarcely see the bottom. Down, down we would go, or rather slide, for it is very slavish work going down hill, and in many cases we were compelled to slide on our shoes as sleds. On reaching the bottom we would plunge into the snow, so that it was difficult getting out, with the shoes tied to our feet, our packs lashed to our backs, and ourselves head and ears under the snow. But we managed to get out some way, and one by one reached the bottom of the canyon. When this was accomplished we had to ascend a hill as steep as the one we had descended. We would drive the toes of our shoes into the loose snow, to make a sort of step, and one by one, as if ascending stair-steps, we climbed up. It took us an entire day to reach the top of the mountain. Each time we attained the summit of a mountain, we hoped we should be able to see something like a valley, but each time came disappointment, for far ahead was always another and higher mountain. We found some springs, or, as we called them, wells, from five to twenty feet under ground, as you might say, for they were under the snow on which we walked. The water was so warm that it melted the snow, and from some of these springs were large streams of running water. We crossed numbers of these streams on bridges of snow, which would sometimes form upon a blade of grass hanging over the water; and from so small a foundation would grow a bridge from ten to twenty-five feet high, and from a foot and a half to three feet across the top. It would make you dizzy to look down at the water, and it was with much difficulty we could place our clumsy ox-bow snow-shoes one ahead of the other without falling. Our feet had been frozen and thawed so many times that they were bleeding and sore. When we stopped at night we would take off our shoes, which by this time were so badly rotted by constant wetting in snow, that there was very little left of them. In the morning we would push our shoes on, bruising and numbing the feet so badly that they would ache and ache with walking and the cold, until night would come again. Oh! the pain! It seemed to make the pangs of hunger more excruciating." Thus the party traveled on day after day, until absolute starvation again stared them in the face. The snow had gradually grown less deep, until finally it disappeared or lay only in patches. Their strength was well-nigh exhausted, when one day Mary Graves says: "Some one called out, 'Here are tracks!' Some one asked, 'What kind of tracks human?' 'Yes, human!' Can any one imagine the joy these footprints gave us? We ran as fast as our strength would carry us." Turning a chaparral point, they came in full view of an Indian rancherie. The uncivilized savages were amazed. Never had they seen such forlorn, wretched, pitiable human beings, as the tattered, disheveled, skeleton creatures who stood stretching out their arms for assistance. At first, they all ran and hid, but soon they returned to the aid of these dying wretches. It is said that the Indian women and children cried, and wailed with grief at the affecting spectacle of starved men and women. Such food as they had was speedily offered. It was bread made of acorns. This was eagerly eaten. It was at least a substitute for food. Every person in the rancherie, from the toddling papooses to the aged chief, endeavored to aid them. After what had recently happened, could anything be more touching than these acts of kindness of the Indians? After briefly resting, they pressed forward. The Indians accompanied and even led them, and constantly supplied them with food. With food? No, it was not such food as their weakened, debilitated systems craved. The acorn bread was not sufficient to sustain lives already so attenuated by repeated starvations. All that the starved experience in the way of pain and torture before they die, had been experienced by these people at least four different times. To their horror, they now discovered that despite the acorn bread, they must die of hunger and exhaustion a fifth and last time. So sick and weak did they become, that they were compelled to lie down and rest every hundred yards. Finally, after being with the Indians seven days, they lay down, and felt that they never should have strength to take another step. Before them, in all its beauty and loveliness, spread the broad valley of the Sacramento. Behind them were the ever-pleading faces of their starving dear ones. Yet neither hope nor affection could give them further strength. They were dying in full view of the long-desired haven of rest. One of the number was hardly so near death's door as his companions. It was W. H. Eddy. As a last resort, their, faithful allies, the Indians, took him upon either side, and fairly carried him along. His feet moved, but they were frozen, and blistered, and cracked, and bleeding. Left alone, he would have fallen helplessly to the earth. It was as terrible a journey as ever mortal man performed. How far he traveled, he knew not. During the last six miles his path was marked by blood-stains from his swollen feet. By making abridgments from valuable manuscript contributed by George W. Tucker, of Calistoga, this narrative may be appropriately continued. Mr. Tucker's father and relatives had reached Johnson's Ranch on the twenty-fifth of October, 1846. They had been with the Donner Party until Fort Bridger was reached, and then took the Fort Hall road. Their journey had been full of dangers and difficulties, and reaching Johnson's Ranch, the first settlement on the west side of the Sierra, they determined to remain during the winter. One evening, about the last of January, Mr. Tucker says a man was seen coming down Bear River, accompanied by an Indian. His haggard, forlorn look showed he was in great distress. When he reached us, he said he was of the Donner Party. He told briefly how the train had been caught in the snow east of the mountains, and was unable to get back or forward. He told how the fifteen had started, and that six beside himself were still alive. That the six were back in the mountains, almost starved. R. P. Tucker and three other men started at once with provisions, the Indian acting as guide. They reached them, fifteen miles back, some time during the night, and brought them in the next day. The names of the seven were W. H. Eddy, William Foster, Mrs. S. A. C. Foster, Mrs. H. F. Pike, Mrs. William McCutchen, Mrs. Sarah Fosdick, and Mary Graves. It had been thirty-two days since they left Donner Lake! At Johnson's Ranch there were only three or four families of poor emigrants. Nothing could be done toward relieving those at Donner Lake until help could arrive from Sutter's Fort. A rainy winter had flooded Bear River, and rendered the Sacramento plains a vast quagmire. Yet one man volunteered to go to Sacramento with the tale of horror, and get men and provisions. This man was John Rhodes. Lashing two pine logs together with rawhides, and forming a raft, John Rhodes was ferried over Bear River. Taking his shoes in his hands, and rolling his pants up above his knees, he started on foot through water that frequently was from one to three feet deep. Some time during the night he reached the Fort. A train in the mountains! Men, women, and children starving! It was enough to make one's blood curdle to think of it! Captain Sutter, generous old soul, and Alcalde Sinclair, who lived at Norris' Ranch two and a half miles from the Fort, offered provisions, and five or six men volunteered to carry them over the mountains. In about a week, six men, fully provided with supplies, reached Johnson's Ranch. Meantime the Tuckers and their neighbors had slaughtered five or six fat cattle, and had dried or "jerked" the meat. The country was scoured for horses and mules, and for saddles and pack-saddles, but at last, in ten or twelve days, they were ready to start. Alcalde Sinclair had come up from the Fort, and when all were ready to begin their march, he made them a thrilling little address. They were, he said, starting out upon a hazardous journey. Nothing could justify them in attempting so perilous an undertaking except the obligations due to their suffering fellow-men. He urged them to do all in their power, without sacrificing their lives, to save the perishing emigrants from starvation and death. He then appointed Reasin P. Tucker, the father of our informant, captain of the company. With a pencil he carefully wrote down the name of each man in the relief party. The names were John Rhodes, Daniel Rhodes, Aquilla Glover, R. S. Mootrey, Joseph Foster, Edward Coffeemire, M. D. Ritchie, James Curtis, William H. Eddy, William Coon, R. P. Tucker, George W. Tucker, and Adolph Brueheim. Thus the first relief party started. Chapter X. A Lost Age in California History The Change Wrought by the Discovery of Gold The Start from Johnson's Ranch A Bucking Horse A Night Ride Lost in the Mountains A Terrible Night A Flooded Camp Crossing a Mountain Torrent Mule Springs A Crazy Companion Howlings of Gray Wolves A Deer Rendezvous A Midnight Thief Frightening Indians The Diary of the First Relief Party. California, at this time, was sparsely settled, and it was a fearful undertaking to cross the snowy mountains to the relief of the storm-bound emigrants. A better idea of the difficulties to be encountered by the various relief parties can not be presented than by quoting from the manuscript of George W. Tucker. This gentleman was sixteen years old at the time of the occurrences narrated, and his account is vouched for as perfectly truthful and reliable. This sketch, like the remainder of this book, treats of an epoch in California history which has been almost forgotten. The scene of his adventures is laid in a region familiar to thousands of miners and early Californians. Along the route over which he passed with so much difficulty, scores of mining camps sprung up soon after the discovery of gold, and every flat, ravine, and hill-slope echoed to pick, and shovel, and pan, and to voices of legions of men. Truly, his narration relates to a lost, an almost unremembered era in the history of the famous mining counties, Placer and Nevada. In speaking of the first relief party, he says: "We mounted our horses and started. The ground was very soft among the foothills, but we got along very well for two or three miles after leaving Johnson's ranch. Finally, one of our packhorses broke through the crust, and down he went to his sides in the mud. He floundered and plunged until the pack turned underneath his body. He then came out of the mud, bucking and kicking; and he bucked and kicked, and kicked and bucked, till he cleared himself of the pack, pack-saddle and all, and away he went back to the ranch. We gathered up the pack, put it upon the horse Eddy was riding, and the party traveled on. Eddy and myself were to go back to the ranch, catch the horse, and returning, overtake them. We failed to find the horse that day, but the next morning an Indian got on my horse, and, about nine o'clock, succeeded in finding the missing animal. My horse, however, was pretty well run down when he got back. Eddy and myself started about ten o'clock. We had to travel in one day what the company had traveled in two days. About the time we started it commenced clouding up, and we saw we were going to have a storm. We went on until about one o'clock, when my horse gave out. It commenced raining and was very cold. Eddy said he would ride on and overtake the company, if possible, and have them stop. He did not overtake them until about dark, after they had camped. "My horse could only go in a slow walk, so I walked and led him to keep from freezing. The rain continued to increase in volume, and by dark it was coming down in torrents. It was very cold. The little stream began to rise, but I waded through, though sometimes it came up to my armpits. It was very dark, but I kept going on in hopes I would come in sight of the camp-fire. But the darkness increased, and it was very difficult to find the road. I would get down on my knees and feel for the road with my hands. Finally, about nine o'clock, it became so dark that I could not see a tree until I would run against it, and I was almost exhausted dragging my horse after me. I had lost the road several times, but found it by feeling for the wagon-ruts. At last I came to where the road made a short turn around the point of a hill, and I went straight ahead until I got forty or fifty yards from the road. I crawled around for some time on my knees, but could not find it. I knew if the storm was raging in the morning as it was then, if I got very far from the road, I could not tell which was east, west, north, or south, I might get lost and perish before the storm ceased, so I concluded to stay right there until morning. I had no blanket, and nothing on me but a very light coat and pair of pants. I tied my horse to a little pine tree, and sitting down, leaned against the tree. The rain came down in sheets. The wind blew, and the old pine trees clashed their limbs together. It seemed to me that a second deluge had come. I would get so cold that I would get up and walk around for a while. It seemed to me I should surely freeze. Toward morning I began to get numb, and felt more comfortable, but that was the longest and hardest night I ever experienced. "In the morning, when it became light enough so that I could see two or three rods, I got up, but my legs were so numb that I could not walk. I rolled around until I got up a circulation, and could stand on my feet. Leaving my horse tied to the tree, I found the road, went about a hundred yards around the point of a hill, and saw the camp-fire up in a little flat about a quarter of a mile from where I had spent the night. Going up to camp, I found the men all standing around a fire they had made, where two large pines had fallen across each other. They had laid down pine bark and pieces of wood to keep them out of the water. They had stood up all night. The water was running two or three inches deep all through the camp. When I got to the fire, and began to get warm, my legs and arms began to swell so that I could hardly move or get my hands to my face. "It never ceased raining all that day nor the next night, and we were obliged to stand around the fire. Everything we had was wet. They had stacked up our dried beef and flour in a pile, and put the saddles and pack saddles over it as well as they could, but still it got more or less wet. The third morning it stopped raining about daylight, and the sun came out clear and warm. We made scaffolds and spread our meat all out, hung up our blankets and clothing on lines, and by keeping up fires and with the help of the sun, we managed to get everything dry by night. The next morning we packed up and started on until we came to a little valley, where we found some grass for our horses. We stayed there that night. The next day we got to Steep Hollow Creek, one of the branches of Bear River. This stream was not more than a hundred feet wide, but it was about twenty feet deep, and the current was very swift. We felled a large pine tree across it, but the center swayed down so that the water ran over it about a foot deep. We tied ropes together and stretched them across to make a kind of hand railing, and succeeded in carrying over all our things. We undertook to make our horses swim the creek, and finally forced two of them into the stream, but as soon as they struck the current they were carried down faster than we could run. One of them at last reached the bank and got ashore, but the other went down under the tree we had cut, and the first we saw of him he came up about twenty yards below, heels upward. He finally struck a drift about a hundred yards below, and we succeeded in getting him out almost drowned. We then tied ropes together, part of the men went over, and tying a rope to each horse, those on one side would force him into the water, and the others would draw him across. We lost a half day at this place. That night we climbed a high mountain, and came to snow. Camped that night without any feed for our horses. The next day, about noon, we reached Mule Springs. The snow was from three to four feet deep, and it was impossible to go any farther with the horses. Unpacking the animals, Joe Varro and Wm. Eddy started back with them to Johnson's Ranch. The rest of us went to work and built a brush tent in which to keep our provisions. We set forks into the ground, laid poles across, and covered them with cedar boughs. We finished them that evening, and the next morning ten of the men fixed up their packs, consisting of dried beef and flour, and started on foot, each one carrying about seventy-five pounds. They left Billy Coon and myself to watch the provisions until they returned. I have never been in that country since, but I think Mule Springs is on the opposite side of Bear River from Dutch Flat. "After the men had all gone, I amused myself the first day by getting wood and cutting cedar limbs to finish our camp with. My companion, Billy Coon, was partially insane, and was no company at all. He would get up in the morning, eat his food, and then lie down and sleep for two or three hours. He would only talk when he was spoken to; and all he knew was to sleep and eat. I got very lonesome, and would sit for hours thinking of our situation. Sixty miles from any human habitation! Surrounded with wild Indians and wild beasts! Then, when I would look away at the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra, and think that my father and the rest of the men where there, toiling under the heavy loads which they carried, I became still more gloomy. When night would come, the big gray wolves that had collected on the mountains facing to the south, where the snow had melted off, would set up their howlings. This, with the dismal sound of the wind roaring through the tall pine trees, was almost unendurable. To this day, when I am in pine timber, and hear the wind sighing through the tree-tops, I always think of the Donner Party and of those lonely days in the mountains. "The third day after the men left I became so lonesome that I took the gun and went down in the direction in which I had heard the wolves howling. When I got down out of the snow, I found the deer had collected there by the hundreds. I killed two deer; went up and got Billy Coon, and we carried them up to camp. We hung one on each corner of our brush tent, not more than six feet from our bed, and not more than four feet from the fire. Next morning one of the deer was gone! I supposed the Indians had found us out and stolen it; but when I looked for tracks I found the thief had been a California lion. I tracked him two or three hundred yards, but he had walked off with the deer so easily, I thought he might keep it. That afternoon I went down to kill another deer, but when I reached a point from which I could see down to the river, I saw the smoke of an Indian camp. I was afraid to shoot for fear the Indians would hear the gun, and finding out we were there, would come up and give us trouble. I started back, and when in sight of camp I sat down on a log to rest. While sitting there I saw three Indians coming up the hill. I sat still to see what they would do. They came up to within sight of the camp, and all crawled up behind a large sugar-pine tree, and sat there watching the camp. I did not like their movements, so thought I would give them a scare. I leveled the old gun at the tree, about six feet above their heads, and fired away. They got away from there faster than they came, and I never saw them afterwards." "On the fifth day after the men left, three of them came back to the camp. They informed me they had been three days in traveling from Mule Springs to Bear Valley, a distance of twelve miles. These three had found it impossible to stand the journey, but the other seven had started on from Bear Valley. It was thought they could never get over to Truckee Lake, for the snow was so soft it was impossible to carry their heavy loads through from ten to thirty feet of it." M. D. Ritchie and R. P. Tucker kept a diary of the journey of the first relief party, which, thanks to Patty Reed, now Mrs. Frank Lewis, is before us. It is brief, concise, pointed, and completes the narration of Mr. George W. Tucker. Mr. Ritchie's diary reads: "Feb. 5, 1847. First day traveled ten miles. Bad roads; often miring down horses and mules. On the sixth and seventh traveled fifteen miles. Road continued bad; commenced raining before we got to camp, and continued to rain all that day and night very severe. Lay by here on the eighth to dry our provisions and clothing." "Feb. 9. Traveled fifteen miles. Swam the animals over one creek, and carried the provisions over on a log." "Feb. 10. Traveled four miles; came to the snow; continued about four miles further. Animals floundering in snow, and camped at the Mule Springs." "Feb. 11. Mr. Eddy started back with the animals; left William Coon and George Tucker to guard what provisions were left in camp; the other ten men, each taking about fifty pounds, except Mr. Curtis, who took about twenty-five pounds. Traveled on through the snow, having a very severe day's travel over mountains, making about six miles. Camped on Bear River, near a cluster of large pines." "Feb. 12. Moved camp about two miles, and stopped to make snow-shoes; tried them on and found them of no benefit; cast them away." "Feb. 13. Made Bear Valley. Upon digging for Curtis' wagon, found the snow ten feet deep, and the provisions destroyed by the bears. Rain and snow fell on us all night." By Curtis' wagon is meant a cache made by Reed and McCutchen, which will be described in the next chapter. "Feb. 14. Fine weather." From this time forward, the journal was kept by Reasin P. Tucker. "Feb. 15. Fine day. Three of our men decline going any further--W. D. Ritchie, A. Brueheim, and James Curtis. Only seven men being left, the party was somewhat discouraged. We consulted together, and under existing circumstances I took it upon myself to insure every man who persevered to the end, five dollars per day from the time they entered the snow. We determined to go ahead, and camped to-night on Yuba River, after traveling fifteen miles." "Feb. 16. Traveling very bad, and snowing. Made but five miles, and camped in snow fifteen feet deep." "Feb. 17. Traveled five miles." "Feb. 18. Traveled eight miles, and camped on the head of the Yuba; on the pass we suppose the snow to be thirty feet deep." The "pass" was the Summit. Relief was close at hand. Would it find the emigrants? Chapter XI. Hardships of Reed and Herron Generosity of Captain Sutter Attempts to Cross the Mountains with Provisions Curtis' Dog Compelled to Turn Back Hostilities with Mexico Memorial to Gov. Stockton Yerba Buena's Generosity Johnson's Liberality Pitiful Scenes at Donner Lake Noble Mothers Dying rather than Eat Human Flesh A Mother's Prayer Tears of Joy Eating the Shoestrings. James F. Reed encountered the most disheartening trials after leaving the Donner Party. He and Walter Herron were reduced to the utmost verge of starvation while on the Sierra Nevada. At one time they discovered five beans in the road, one after the other, and at another time they ate of the rancid tallow which was found in a tar bucket under an old wagon. Mr. Reed has told the rest in an article contributed by him to the Rural Press. It explains so well the difficulties of getting relief to the emigrants, that it is copied: "When I arrived at Captain Sutter's, making known my situation to him, asking if he would furnish me horses and saddles to bring the women and children out of the mountains (I expected to meet them at the head of Bear Valley by the time I could return there), he at once complied with the request, also saying that he would do everything possible for me and the company. On the evening of my arrival at the Captain's, I found Messrs. Bryant, Lippencott, Grayson, and Jacobs, some of the early voyagers in the Russel Company, they having left that company at Fort Laramie, most of them coming on horseback. "During the evening a meeting was held, in which I participated, adopting a memorial to the commander of Sutter's Fort, to raise one or more companies of volunteers, to proceed to Los Angeles, we being at war with Mexico at this time. The companies were to be officered by the petitioners. Being requested to take command of one of the companies, I declined, stating that it would be necessary for the captain to stay with the company; also that I had to return to the mountains for the emigrants, but that I would take a lieutenancy. This was agreed to, and I was on my return to the emigrants to enlist all the men I could between there and Bear Valley. On my way up I enlisted twelve or thirteen. "The second night after my arrival at Captain Sutter's, we had a light rain; next morning we could see snow on the mountains. The Captain stated that it was low down and heavy for the first fall of the season. The next day I started on my return with what horses and saddles Captain Sutter had to spare. He furnished us all the flour needed, and a hind quarter of beef, giving us an order for more horses and saddles at Mr. Cordway's, near where Marysville is located. In the mean time, Mr. McCutchen joined us, he being prevented from returning with Mr. Stanton on account of sickness. After leaving Mr. Johnson's ranch we had thirty horses, one mule, and two Indians to help drive. "Nothing happened until the evening before reaching the head of Bear Valley, when there commenced a heavy rain and sleet, continuing all night. We drove on until a late hour before halting. We secured the flour and horses, the rain preventing us from kindling a fire. Next morning, proceeding up the valley to where we were to take the mountain, we found a tent containing a Mr. Curtis and wife. They hailed us as angels sent for their delivery, stating that they would have perished had it not been for our arrival. Mrs. Curtis stated that they had killed their dog, and at the time of our arrival had the last piece in the Dutch oven baking. We told them not to be alarmed about anything to eat, for we had plenty, both of flour and beef, and that they were welcome to all they needed. Our appetites were rather keen, not having eaten anything from the morning previous. Mr. Curtis remarked that in the oven was a piece of the dog and we could have it. Raising the lid of the oven, we found the dog well baked, and having a fine savory smell. I cut out a rib, smelling and tasting, found it to be good, and handed it over to McCutchen, who, after smelling it some time, tasted it and pronounced it very good dog. We partook of Curtis' dog. Mrs. Curtis immediately commenced making bread, and in a short time had supper for all. "At the lower end of the valley, where we entered, the snow was eighteen inches in depth, and when we arrived at the tent, it was two feet. Curtis stated that his oxen had taken the back track, and that he had followed them by the trail through the snow. In the morning, before leaving, Mrs. Curtis got us to promise to take them into the settlement when on our return with the women and children. Before leaving, we gave them flour and beef sufficient to keep them until our return, expecting to do so in a few days." "We started, following the trail made by the oxen, and camped a number of miles up the mountain. In the night, hearing some of the horses going down the trail, we went to where the Indians had lain down, and found them gone. McCutchen mounted his horse and rode down to Curtis' camp, and found that the Indians had been there, stopped and warmed themselves, and then started down the valley. He returned to camp about the middle of the night. "Next morning we started, still on the trail of the oxen, but unfortunately, the trail turned off to the left from our direction. We proceeded on, the snow deepening rapidly, our horses struggling to get through; we pushed them on until they would rear upon their hind feet to breast the snow, and when they would alight they would sink in it until nothing was seen of them but the nose and a portion of the head. Here we found that it was utterly impossible to proceed further with the horses. Leaving them, we proceeded further on foot, thinking that we could get in to the people, but found that impossible, the snow being soft and deep." "I may here state that neither of us knew anything about snow-shoes, having always lived in a country where they never were used." "With sorrowful hearts, we arrived that night at the camp of Mr. Curtis, telling them to make their arrangements for leaving with us in the morning. Securing our flour in the wagon of Mr. Curtis, so that we could get it on our return, we packed one horse with articles belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and started down the valley to where the snow was light, and where there was considerable underbrush, so that our famished animals could browse, they not having eaten anything for several days." "After packing Mr. Curtis' horse for him the next morning, we started; in a short time, Mr. and Mrs. Curtis proceeded ahead, leaving the pack-horse behind for us to drive, instead of his leading him; we having our hands full in driving the loose ones, they scattering in all directions. The pack turned on the horse. Mr. Curtis was requested to return and help repack and lead his horse, but he paid no attention to us. We stood this for some time; finally, McCutchen became angry, started after him, determined to bring him back; when he got with him he paid no attention to McCutchen's request to return; Mac becoming more exasperated, hit him several times over the shoulders with his riatta. This brought him to his senses. He said that if Mac would not kill him, he would come back and take care of the pack animal, and he did." "As soon as we arrived at Captain Sutter's, I made a statement of all the circumstances attending our attempt to get into the mountains. He was no way surprised at our defeat. I also gave the Captain the number of head of cattle the company had when I left them. He made an estimate, and stated that if the emigrants would kill the cattle, and place the meat in the snow for preservation, there was no fear of starvation until relief could reach them. He further stated that there were no able-bodied men in that vicinity, all having gone down the country with and after Fremont to fight the Mexicans. He advised me to proceed to Yerba Buena, now San Francisco, and make my case known to the naval officer in command." "I left Captain Sutter's, by the way of San Jose, for San Francisco, being unable to come by water. When I arrived at San Jose, I found the San Francisco side of the bay was occupied by the Mexicans. Here I remained, and was attached to a company of volunteers, commanded by Captain Webber, until after the fight at Santa Clara." "The road now being clear, I proceeded to San Francisco with a petition from some of the prominent citizens of San Jose, asking the commander of the navy to grant aid to enable me to return to the mountains." It is proper, perhaps, to interrupt the narrative in the Rural Press for the purpose of introducing the memorial referred to by Mr. Reed. The copy of the original document was recently found among his papers by his daughter, Patty Reed. "To his Excellency, R. F. Stockton, Governor and Commander-in-Chief, by sea and land, of the United States Territory of California: We, the undersigned citizens and residents of the Territory of California, beg leave respectfully to present to your Excellency the following memorial, viz.: That, whereas, the last detachment of emigrants from the United States to California have been unable, from unavoidable causes, to reach the frontier settlements, and are now in the California mountains, seventy-five or one hundred miles east from the Sacramento Valley, surrounded by snow, most probably twenty feet deep, and being about eighty souls in number, a large proportion of whom are women and children, who must shortly be in a famishing condition from scarcity of provisions, therefore, the undersigned most earnestly beseech your Excellency to take into consideration the propriety of fitting out an expedition to proceed on snowshoes immediately to the relief of the sufferers. Your memorialists beg leave to subscribe themselves, very respectfully, yours, etc." "January, 1847." The article in the Rural Press continues: "Arriving at San Francisco, I presented my petition to Commodore Hull, also making a statement of the condition of the people in the mountains as far as I knew, the number of them, and what would be needed in provisions and help to get them out. He made an estimate of the expense, and said that he would do anything within reason to further the object, but was afraid that the department at Washington would not sustain him if he made the general outfit. His sympathy was that of a man and a gentleman. "I also conferred with several of the citizens of Yerba Buena; their advice was not to trouble the Commodore further; that they would call a meeting of the citizens and see what could be done. At the meeting, the situation of the people was made known, and committees were appointed to collect money. Over a thousand dollars was raised in the town, and the sailors of the fleet gave over three hundred dollars. At the meeting, Midshipman Woodworth volunteered to go into the mountains. Commodore Hull gave me authority to raise as many men, with horses, as would be required. The citizens purchased all the supplies necessary for the outfit, and placed them on board the schooner, for Hardy's Ranch, mouth of Feather River. Midshipman Woodworth took charge of the schooner, and was the financial agent of the government." "I left in a boat for Napa by way of Sonoma, to procure men and horses, and when I arrived at Mr. Gordon's, on Cache Creek, I had all the men and horses needed. From here I proceeded to the mouth of Feather River for the purpose of meeting Mr. Woodworth with the provisions. When we reached the river the boat had not arrived. The water was very high in the river, the tule lands being overflowed. From here I sent a man to a point on the Sacramento River opposite Sutter's Fort, to obtain information of the boat with our provisions; he returned and reported the arrival of the boat at the Fort." "Before leaving Yerba Buena, news came of a party of fifteen persons having started from the emigrant encampment, and only seven getting to Johnson's. I was here placed in a quandary--no boat to take us across the river, and no provisions for our party to take into the mountains. We camped a short distance back from the river, where we killed a number of elk for the purpose of using the skins in covering a skeleton boat. Early next morning we started for the river, and to our delight saw a small schooner, belonging to Perry McCan, which had arrived during the night. We immediately crossed, McCutchen and myself, to the opposite bank of the river. I directed the men to cross and follow us to Johnson's Ranch. We arrived there early that day. Making known our situation, he drove his cattle up to the house, saying, 'There are the cattle, take as many as you need.' We shot down five head, staid up all night, and with the help of Mr. Johnson and his Indians, by the time the men arrived the next morning, we had the meat fire-dried and ready to be placed in bags. Mr. Johnson had a party of Indians making flour by hand mills, they making, during the night, nearly two hundred pounds." "We packed up immediately and started. After reaching the snow, the meat and flour was divided into suitable packs for us to carry, we leaving the horses here. At Johnson's I learned that a relief party had passed in a few days previous, being sent by Captain Sutter and Mr. Sinclair." This was the party commanded by Captain Reasin P. Tucker, whose journey over the mountains as far as the summit was described in the last chapter. Reed was faithful and energetic in endeavoring to recross the mountains. Mr. McCutchen, also, did all in his power to reach the wife and baby he left behind. The snow belt is about four times as wide on the west side of the summit as it is on the east side. It was almost impossible for relief parties to cross the mountains. Captain Tucker's party was composed of men of great nerve and hardihood, yet, as will be seen, the trip was almost as much as their lives were worth. On the morning of the nineteenth of February, 1847, the relief party of Captain R. P. Tucker began the descent of the gorge leading to Donner Lake. Let us glance ahead at the picture soon to be unfolded to their gaze. The mid-winter snows had almost concealed the cabins. The inmates lived subterranean lives. Steps cut in the icy snow led up from the doorways to the surface. Deep despair had settled upon all hearts. The dead were lying all around, some even unburied, and nearly all with only a covering of snow. So weak and powerless had the emigrants become, that it was hardly possible for them to lift the dead bodies up the steps out of the cabins. All were reduced to mere skeletons. They had lived on pieces of rawhide, or on old, castaway bones, which were boiled or burned until capable of being eaten. They were so reduced that it seemed as if only a dry, shriveled skin covered their emaciated frames. The eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, and had a fierce, ghastly, demoniacal look. The faces were haggard, woe-begone, and sepulchral. One seldom heard the sound of a voice, and when heard, it was weak, tremulous, pitiful. Sometimes a child would moan and sob for a mouthful of food, and the poor, helpless mothers, with breaking hearts, would have to soothe them, as best they could, with kind words and tender caresses. Food, there was none. Oh! what words can fitly frame a tribute for those noble mothers! When strong men gave up, and passively awaited the delirium of death, the mothers were actively administering to the wants of the dying, and striving to cheer and comfort the living. Marble monuments never bore more heroic names than those of Margaret W. Reed, Lavina Murphy, Elizabeth Graves, Margaret Breen, Tamsen Donner, and Elizabeth Donner. Their charity, fortitude, and self-sacrifice failed not in the darkest hour. Death came so often now, that little notice was taken of his approach, save by these mothers. A dreadful want of consciousness precedes starvation. The actual death is not so terrible. The delirious would rave of feasts, and rich viands, and bountiful stores of food. As the shadows of death more closely enveloped the poor creatures, the mutterings grew unintelligible, and were interrupted, now and then, by startled cries of frenzy, which gradually grew fainter, until the victims finally slumbered. From this slumber there was no awakening. The breathing became feebler and more irregular, and finally ceased. It was not so terrible to the unconscious dying, as to the weeping mother who watched by the sufferer's side. It was always dark and gloomy enough in the snow-covered cabins, but during the fierce, wild storms, the desolation became almost unendurable. The rushing gale, the furious storm, the lashing of storm-rent pine boughs, or the crash of giant trees overthrown by the hurricane, filled the souls of the imprisoned emigrants with nameless dread. Sometimes the silent darkness of the night would shudder with the howl of the great gray wolves which in those days infested the mountains. Too well did they know that these gaunt beasts were howling for the bodies of the living as well as of the dead. Wood grew plentifully at short distances from the cabins, but for these weak, starving creatures to obtain it was a herculean task. To go out when the storms were raging, would be almost impossible for a well, strong man. To struggle through the deep, loose drifts, reaching frequently to the waist, required, at any time, fearful exertion. The numb, fleshless fingers could hardly guide, or even wield the ax. Near the site of the Breen cabin, to-day, stands a silent witness of the almost superhuman exertions that were made to procure fuel. On the side of a pine tree are old seams and gashes, which, by their irregular position, were evidently made by hands too weak to cut down a tree. Hundreds of blows, however, were struck, and the marks of the ax-blade extend up and down the side of the tree for a foot and a half. Bark seared with age has partly covered portions of the cuts, but in one place the incision is some inches deep. At the foot of this pine was found a short, decayed ax-handle, and a broad-bladed, old-fashioned ax-head. The mute story of these witnesses is unmistakable. The poor starved being who undertook the task, never succeeded. Trees felled, frequently buried themselves out of sight in the loose snow, or at best, only the uppermost branches could be obtained. Without fire, without food, without proper shelter from the dampness occasioned by the melting snows, in the bitter, biting wintry weather, the men, women, and children were huddled together, the living and the dead. When Milton Elliott died, there were no men to assist in removing the body from the deep pit. Mrs. Reed and her daughter, Virginia, bravely undertook the task. Tugging, pushing, lifting as best they could, the corpse was raised up the icy steps. He died in the Murphy cabin by the rock. A few days before he died, he crawled over to the Breen cabin, where were Mrs. Reed and her children. For years he had been one of the members of this family, he worked for Mr. Reed in the mill and furniture establishment owned by the latter in Jamestown, Illinois. He drove the same yoke of oxen, "Bully" and "George," who were the wheel-oxen of Reed's family team on the plains. When Mr. Reed proposed crossing the plains, his wife and children refused to go, unless Milt. could be induced to drive. He was a kind, careful man, and after Mr. Reed had been driven away from the company, Elliott always provided for them as best he was able. Now that he was going to die, he wanted to see "Ma" and the children once more. "Ma" was the term he always used in addressing Mrs. Reed. None realized better than he the sorrowful position in which she was placed by having no husband upon whom to lean in this time of great need. Poor Elliott! he knew that he was starving! starving! "Ma, I am not going to starve to death, I am going to eat of the bodies of the dead." This is what he told Mrs. Reed, yet when he attempted to do so, his heart revolted at the thought. Mrs. Reed accompanied him a portion of the way back to the Murphy cabin, and before leaving him, knelt on the snow and prayed as only a mother can, that the Good Father would help them in this hour of distress. It was a starving Christian mother praying that relief might come to her starving children, and especially to this, her starving boy. From the granite rocks, the solemn forests, and the snow-mantled mountains of Donner Lake, a more fervent prayer never ascended heavenward. Could Elliott have heard, in his dying moments, that this prayer was soon to be answered, so far as Mrs. Reed and her little ones were concerned, he would have welcomed death joyfully. As time wore wearily on, another and more severe trial awaited Mrs. Reed. Her daughter Virginia was dying. The innutritious rawhide was not sufficient to sustain life in the poor, famished body of the delicate child. Indeed, toward the last, her system became so debilitated that she found it impossible to eat the loathsome, glue-like preparation which formed their only food. Silently she had endured her sufferings, until she was at the very portals of death. This beautiful girl was a great favorite of Mrs. Breen's. Oftentimes during the days of horror and despair, this good Irish mother had managed, unobserved, to slip an extra piece of meat or morsel of food to Virginia. Mrs. Breen was the first to discover that the mark of death was visible upon the girl's brow. In order to break the news to Mrs. Reed, without giving those in the cabin a shock which might prove fatal, Mrs. Breen asked the mother up out of the cabin on the crisp, white snow. It was the evening of the nineteenth of February, 1847. The sun was setting, and his rays, in long, lance-like lines, sifted through the darkening forests. Far to the eastward, the summits of the Washoe mountains lay bathed in golden sunlight, while the deep gorges at their feet were purpling into night. The gentle breeze which crept over the bosom of the ice-bound lake, softly wafted from the tree-tops a muffled dirge for the dying girl. Ere another day dawned over the expanse of snow, her spirit would pass to a haven of peace where the demons of famine could never enter. In the desolate cabin, all was silence. Living under the snow, passing an underground life, as it were, seldom visiting each other, or leaving the cabins, these poor prisoners learned to listen rather than look for relief. During the first days they watched hour after hour the upper end of the lake where the "fifteen" had disappeared. With aching eyes and weary hearts, they always turned back to their subterranean abodes disappointed. Hope finally deserted the strongest hearts. The brave mothers had constantly encouraged the despondent by speaking of the promised relief, yet this was prompted more by the necessities of the situation than from any belief that help would arrive. It was human nature, however, to glance toward the towering summits whenever they ascended to the surface of the snow, and to listen at all times for an unfamiliar sound or footstep. So delicate became their sense of hearing, that every noise of the wind, every visitor's tread, every sound that ordinarily occurred above their heads, was known and instantly detected. On this evening, as the two women were sobbing despairingly upon the snow, the silence of the twilight was broken by a shout from near Donner Lake! In an instant every person forgot weakness and infirmity, and clambered up the stairway! It was a strange voice, and in the distance the discovered strange forms approaching. The Reed and the Breen children thought, at first, that it was a band of Indians, but Patrick Breen, the good old father, soon declared that the strangers were white men. Captain Tucker and his men had found the wide expanse of snow covering forest and lake, and had shouted to attract attention, if any of the emigrants yet survived. Oh! what joy! There were tears in other eyes than those of the little children. The strong men of the relief party sat down on the snow and wept with the rest. It is related of one or two mothers, and can readily be believed, that their first act was to fall upon their knees, and with faces turned to God, to pour out their gratitude to Him for having brought assistance to their dying children. Virginia Reed did not die. Captain Reasin P. Tucker, who had been acquainted with the Graves family on the plains before the Donner Party took the Hastings Cut-off, was anxious to meet them. They lived in the lower cabin, half a mile further down Donner Creek. When he came close enough to observe the smoke issuing from the hole in the snow which marked their abode, he shouted, as he had done at the upper cabins. The effect was as electrical as in the former instance. All came up to the surface, and the same unrestrained gladness was manifested by the famished prisoners. Famished they were. Mrs. Graves is especially praised by the survivors for her unstinted charity. Instead of selfishly hoarding her stores and feeding only her own children, she was generous to a fault, and no person ever asked at her door for food who did not receive as good as she and her little ones had to eat. Dear Mrs. Graves! How earnestly she asked about her husband and daughters! Did all reach the valley? Captain Tucker felt his heart rise in his throat. How could he tell this weak, starved woman of the terrible fate which had be fallen her husband and her son-in-law! He could not! He answered with assumed cheerfulness in the affirmative. So, too, they deceived Mrs. Murphy regarding her dear boy Lemuel. It was best. Had the dreadful truth been told, not one of all this company would ever have had courage to attempt the dangerous journey. Little sleep was there in the Donner cabins that night. The relief party were to start back in a couple of days, and such as were strong enough were to accompany them. Mrs. Graves had four little children, and told her son William C. Graves that he must remain with her to cut wood to keep the little ones from freezing. But William was anxious to go and help send back provisions to his mother. So earnestly did he work during the next two days, that he had two cords of wood piled up near the cabin. This was to last until he could return. His task was less difficult because this cabin was built in a dense grove of tamarack. Food had been given in small quantities to the sufferers. Many of the snow-bound prisoners were so near death's door that a hearty meal would have proven fatal. The remnant of provisions brought by the relief party was carefully guarded lest some of the famished wretches should obtain more than was allotted them. This was rendered easier from the fact that the members of the relief party were unable to endure the scenes of misery and destitution in the cabins, and so camped outside upon the snow. So hungry were the poor people that some of them ate the strings of the snowshoes which part of the relief company had brought along. On the twentieth of February, John Rhodes, R. S. Mootry, and R. P. Tucker visited the Donner tents on Alder Creek, seven miles from the cabins. Only one ox-hide remained to these destitute beings. Here, as well as at the cabins, the all-important question was, who should go with the relief party and who remain. In each family there were little children who could not go unless carried. Few of the Donner Party had more than enough strength to travel unencumbered across the deep snows. Should a storm occur on, the mountains, it was doubtful if even the members of the relief party could escape death. It was hopefully urged that other relief parties would soon arrive from California, and that these would bring over those who remained. In determining who should go and who stay, examples of heroism and devotion were furnished which were never surpassed in the history of man. Could their vision have penetrated the veil which interposed between them and the sad occurrences about to ensue, they would have known that almost every family, whose members separated, was bidding good-by to some member forever. Chapter XII. A Wife's Devotion Tamsen Donner's Early Life The Early Settlers of Sangamon County An Incident in School Teaching and Knitting School Discipline Captain George Donner's Appearance Parting Scenes at Alder Creek Starting over the Mountains A Baby's Death A Mason's Vow Crossing the Snow Barrier More Precious than Gold or Diamonds Elitha Donner's Kindness. Mrs. Tamsen Donner was well and comparatively strong, and could easily have crossed the mountains in safety with this party. Her husband, however, was suffering from a serious swelling on one of his hands. Some time before reaching the mountains he had accidentally hurt this hand while handling a wagon. After encamping at Alder Creek he was anxious to assist in the arrangements and preparations for winter, and while thus working the old wound reopened. Taking cold in the hand, it became greatly swollen and inflamed, and he was rendered entirely helpless. Mrs. Donner was urged to go with the relief party, but resolutely determined to heed the promptings of wifely devotion and remain by her husband. No one will ever read the history of the Donner Party without greatly loving and reverencing the character of this faithful wife. The saddest, most tear-stained page of the tragedy, relates to her life and death in the mountains. A better acquaintance with the Donner family, and especially with Mrs. Tamsen Donner, can not fail to be desirable in view of succeeding chapters. Thanks to Mr. Allen Francis, the present United States Consul at Victoria, British Columbia, very complete, authentic, and interesting information upon this subject has been furnished. Mr. Francis was publisher of the Springfield (Illinois) Journal in 1846, and a warm personal friend of the family. The Donners were among the first settlers of Sangamon County, Ill. They were North Carolinians, immigrants to Kentucky in 1818, subsequently to the State of Indiana, and from thence to what was known as the Sangamon Country, in the year 1828. George Donner, at the time of leaving Springfield, Ill., was a large, fine-looking man, fully six feet in height, with merry black eyes, and the blackest of hair, lined with an occasional silver thread. He possessed a cheerful disposition, an easy temperament, industrious habits, sound judgment, and much general information. By his associates and neighbors he was called "Uncle George." To him they went for instructions relating to the management of their farms, and usually they returned feeling they had been properly advised. Twice had death bequeathed him a group of motherless children, and Tamsen was his third wife. Her parents, William and Tamsen Eustis, were respected and well to do residents of Newburyport, Mass., where she was born in November, 1801. Her love of books made her a student at an early age; almost as soon as the baby-dimples left her cheeks, she sought the school-room, which afforded her great enjoyment. Her mother's death occurred before she attained her seventh year, and for a time her childish hopes and desires were overshadowed with sadness by this, her first real sorrow. But the sympathy of friends soothed her grief, and her thirst for knowledge led her back to the schoolroom, where she pursued her studies with greater eagerness than before. Her father married again, and little Tamsen's life was rendered happier by this event; for in her step-mother she found a friend who tenderly directed her thoughts and encouraged her work. At fifteen years of age she finished the course of study, and her proficiency in mathematics, geometry, philosophy, etc., called forth the highest praise of her teachers and learned friends. She, like many daughters of New England, felt that talents are intrusted to be used, and that each life is created for some definite purpose. She therefore resolved to devote herself to the instruction of the young, and after teaching at Newburyport for a short time, she accepted a call to fill a vacancy in the academy at Elizabeth City, N. C., where she continued an earnest and appreciated teacher for a number of years. She became a fluent French scholar while at that institution, and her leisure hours were devoted to the fine arts. Her paintings and drawings were much admired for their correctness in outline, subdued coloring, and delicacy in shading. In Elizabeth City she met Mr. Dozier, a young man of education and good family, and they were married. He was not a man of means, but her forethought enabled them to live comfortably. For a few brief years she enjoyed all the happiness which wedded bliss and maternal love could confer, then death came, and in a few short weeks her husband and two babes were snatched from her arms. In her desolation and bereavement she thought of her old home, and longed for the sympathy of her childhood's friends. She returned to Newburyport, where she spent three years in retirement and rest. In 1836, she received a letter from her brother in Illinois, urging her to come to his afflicted household, and teach his motherless children. She remained with them one winter, but her field of action had been too wide to permit her to settle quietly on a farm. Besides, she had heard much of the manner in which country schools were conducted, and became desirous of testing her ability in controlling and teaching such a school. She obtained one in Auburn, and soon became the friend of her pupils. All agreed that Mrs. Dozier was a faithful teacher until the following little incident occurred. The worthy Board of School Trustees heard that Mrs. Dozier was in the habit of knitting during school hours. "Surely, she could not knit and instruct her pupils properly; therefore, she must either give up her knitting or her school." When Mrs. Dozier heard their resolution, she smiled, and said: "Before those gentlemen deny my ability to impart knowledge and work with my fingers at the same time, I would like them to visit my school, and judge me by the result of their observation." A knock at the school-room door, a week later, startled the children, and a committee of trustees entered. Mrs. Dozier received them in the most ladylike manner, and after they were seated, she called each class at its appointed time. The recitations were heard, and lessons explained, yet no one seemed disturbed by the faint, but regular, click of knitting needles. For hours those gentlemen sat in silence, deeply interested in all that transpired. When the time for closing school arrived, the teacher invited the trustees to address her pupils, after which she dismissed school, thanked her visitor for their kind attention, and went home without learning their opinion. The next morning she was informed that the Board of Trustees had met the previous evening, and after hearing the report of the visiting committee, had unanimously agreed that Mrs. Dozier might continue her school and her knitting also. This little triumph was much enjoyed by her friends. The following year she was urged to take the school on Sugar Creek, where the children were older and further advanced than those at Auburn. Her connection with this school marked a new era for many of its attendants. Mr. J. Miller used to relate an incident which occurred a few days after she took charge of those unruly boys who had been in the habit of managing the teacher and school to suit themselves. "I will never forget," said Mr. Miller, "how Mrs. Dozier took her place at the table that morning, tapped for order, and in a kind, but firm, tone said: 'Young gentlemen and young ladies, as a teacher only, I can not criticise the propriety of your writing notes to each other when out of school; but as your teacher, with full authority in school, I desire and request you neither to write nor send notes to any one during school hours. I was surprised at your conduct yesterday, and should my wish be disregarded in the future, will be obliged to chastise the offender.' She called the first class, and school began in earnest. I looked at her quiet face and diminutive form, and thought how easy it would be for me to pick up two or three such little bodies as she, and set them outside of the door! I wrote a note and threw it to the pupil in front of me, just to try Mrs. Dozier. When the recitation was finished, she stepped to the side of her table, and looked at me with such a grieved expression on her face, then said: 'Mr. Miller, I regret that my eldest scholar should be the first to violate my rule. Please step forward.' I quailed beneath her eye. I marched up to where she stood. The stillness of that room was oppressive. I held out my hand at the demand of that little woman, and took the punishment I deserved, and returned to my seat deeply humiliated, but fully determined to behave myself in the future, and make the other boys do likewise. Well, she had no more trouble while she was our teacher. Her pluck had won our admiration, and her quiet dignity held our respect, and we soon ceased wondering at the ease with which she overturned our plans and made us eager to adopt hers; for no teacher ever taught on Sugar Creek who won the affections or ruled pupils more easily or happily than she. We were expected to come right up to the mark; but if we got into trouble, she was always ready to help us out, and could do it in the quietest way imaginable." She taught several young men the art of surveying, and had a wonderful faculty of interesting her pupils in the study of botany. She sought by creek and over plain for specimens with which to illustrate their lessons. It was while engaged in this place that Mrs. Dozier met George Donner, who at that time resided about two and a half miles from Springfield field. Their acquaintance resulted in marriage. Her pupils always called her their "little teacher," for she was but five feet in height, and her usual weight ninety-six pounds. She had grayish-blue eyes, brown hair, and a face full of character and intelligence. She was gifted with fine conversational powers, and was an excellent reader. Her voice would hold in perfect silence, for hours, the circle of neighbors and friends who would assemble during the long winter evenings to hear her read. Even those who did not fail to criticise her ignorance of farm and dairy work, were often charmed by her voice and absence of display; for while her dress was always of rich material, it was remarkable for its Quaker simplicity. Mr. Francis says: "Mrs. George Donner was a perfect type of an eastern lady, kind, sociable, and exemplary, ever ready to assist neighbors, and even the stranger in distress. Whenever she could spare time, she wielded a ready pen on various topics. She frequently contributed gems in prose and poetry to the columns of the journal, that awakened an interest among its readers to know their author. Herself and husband were faithful members of the German Prairie Christian Church, situated a little north of their residence. Here they lived happily, and highly respected by all who knew them, until the spring of 1846, when they started for California." Having said this much of the Donners, and especially of the noble woman who refused to leave her suffering husband, let us glance at the parting scenes at Alder Creek. It had been determined that the two eldest daughters of George Donner should accompany Captain Tucker's party. George Donner, Jr., and William Hook, two of Jacob Donner's Sons, Mrs. Wolfinger, and Noah James were also to join the company. This made six from the Donner tents. Mrs. Elizabeth Donner was quite able to have crossed the mountains, but preferred to remain with her two little children, Lewis and Samuel, until another and larger relief party should arrive. These two boys were not large enough to walk, Mrs. Donner was not strong enough to carry them, and the members of Captain Tucker's party had already agreed to take as many little ones as they could carry. Leanna C. Donner, now Mrs. John App, of Jamestown, Tuolumne County, Cal., gives a vivid description of the trip from George Donner's tent to the cabins at Donner Lake Miss Rebecca E. App, acting as her mother's amanuensis, writes: "Mother says: Never shall I forget the day when my sister Elitha and myself left our tent. Elitha was strong and in good health, while I was so poor and emaciated that I could scarcely walk. All we took with us were the clothes on our backs and one thin blanket, fastened with a string around our necks, answering the purpose of a shawl in the day-time, and which was all we had to cover us at night. We started early in the morning, and many a good cry I had before we reached the cabins, a distance of about eight miles. Many a time I sat down in the snow to die, and would have perished there if my sister had not urged me on, saying, 'The cabins are just over the hill.' Passing over the hill, and not seeing the cabins, I would give up, again sit down and have another cry, but my sister continued to help and encourage me until I saw the smoke rising from the cabins; then I took courage, and moved along as fast as I could. When we reached the Graves cabin it was all I could do to step down the snow-steps into the cabin. Such pain and misery as I endured that day is beyond description." In Patrick Breen's diary are found the following entries, which allude to Captain Tucker's relief party: "Feb. 19. Froze hard last night. Seven men arrived from California yesterday with provisions, but left the greater part on the way. To-day it is clear and warm for this region; some of the men have gone to Donner's camp; they will start back on Monday." "Feb. 22. The Californians started this morning, twenty-three in number, some in a very weak state. Mrs. Keseberg started with them, and left Keseberg here, unable to go. Buried Pike's child this morning in the snow; died two days ago." Poor little Catherine Pike lingered until this time! It will be remembered that this little nursing babe had nothing to eat except a little coarse flour mixed in snow water. Its mother crossed the mountains with the "Forlorn Hope," and from the sixteenth of December to the twentieth of February it lived upon the miserable gruel made from unbolted flour. How it makes the heart ache to think of this little sufferer, wasting away, moaning with hunger, and sobbing for something to eat. The teaspoonful of snow water would contain only a few particles of the flour, yet how eagerly the dying child would reach for the pitiful food. The tiny hands grew thinner, the sad, pleading eyes sank deeper in their fleshless sockets, the face became hollow, and the wee voice became fainter, yet, day after day, little Catherine Pike continued to breathe, up to the very arrival of the relief party. Patrick Breen says twenty-three started across the mountains. Their names were: Mrs. Margaret W. Reed and her children--Virginia E. Reed, Patty Reed, Thomas Reed, and James F. Reed, Jr.; Elitha C. Donner, Leanna C. Donner, Wm. Hook, and George Donner, Jr.; Wm. G. Murphy, Mary M. Murphy, and Naomi L. Pike; Wm. C. Graves, Eleanor Graves, and Lovina Graves; Mrs. Phillipine Keseberg, and Ada Keseberg; Edward J. and Simon P. Breen, Eliza Williams, John Denton, Noah James, and Mrs. Wolfinger. In starting from the camps at Donner Lake, Mrs. Keseberg's child and Naomi L. Pike were carried by the relief party. In a beautiful letter received from Naomi L. Pike (now Mrs. Schenck, of the Dalles, Oregon), she says: "I owe my life to the kind heart of John Rhodes, whose sympathies were aroused for my mother. He felt that she was deserving of some relic of all she had left behind when she started with the first party in search of relief, and he carried me to her in a blanket." We have before spoken of this noble man's bravery in bearing the news of the condition of the "Forlorn Hope" and of the Donner Party to Sutter's Fort. Here we find him again exhibiting the nobility of his nature by saving this little girl from starvation by carrying her on his back over forty miles of wintry snow. Before the party had proceeded two miles, a most sad occurrence took place. It became evident that Patty and Thomas Reed were unable to stand the fatigue of the journey. Already they exhibited signs of great weakness and weariness, and it was not safe to allow them to proceed. Mr. Aquila Glover informed Mrs. Reed that it was necessary that these two children go back. Who can portray the emotions of this fond mother? What power of language can indicate the struggle which took place in the minds of this stricken family? Mr. Glover promised to return as soon as he arrived at Bear Valley, and himself bring Patty and Thomas over the mountains. This promise, however, was but a slight consolation for the agonized mother or weeping children, until finally a hopeful thought occurred to Mrs. Reed. She turned suddenly to Mr. Glover, and asked, "Are you a Mason?" He replied, "I am." "Do you promise me," she said, "upon the word of a Mason, that when you arrive at Bear Valley, you will come back and get my children?" Mr. Glover made the promise, and the children were by him taken back to the cabins. The mother had remembered, in this gloomiest moment of life, that the father of her little ones was a Mason, and that he deeply reverenced the order. If her children must be left behind in the terrible snows, she would trust the promise of this Mason to return and save them. It was a beautiful trust in a secret order by a Mason's wife in deep distress. Rebecca E. App, writing for her mother, gives a vivid description of this journey across the summits, from which is taken the following brief extract: "It was a bright Sunday morning when we left the cabins. Some were in good health, while others were so poor and emaciated that they could scarcely walk. I was one of the weakest in the party, and not one in the train thought I would get to the top of the first hill. We were a sad spectacle to look upon as we left the cabins. We marched along in single file, the leader wearing snow-shoes, and the others following after, all stepping in the leader's tracks. I think my sister and myself were about the rear of the train, as the strongest were put in front. My sister Elitha and I were alone with strangers, as it were, having neither father, mother, nor brothers, to give us a helping hand or a word of courage to cheer us onward. We were placed on short allowance of food from the start, and each day this allowance was cut shorter and shorter, until we received each for our evening and morning meal two small pieces of jerked beef, about the size of the index finger of the hand. Finally, the last ration was issued in the evening. This was intended for that evening and the next morning, but I was so famished I could not resist the temptation to eat all I had--the two meals at one time. Next morning, of course, I had nothing for breakfast. Now occurred an incident which I shall never forget. While I sat looking at the others eating their morsels of meat, which were more precious than gold or diamonds, my sister saw my distress, and divided her piece with me. How long we went without food after that, I do not know. I think we were near the first station." Chapter XIII. Death of Ada Keseberg Denton Discovering Gold A Poem Composed While Dying The Caches of Provisions Robbed by Fishers The Sequel to the Reed-Snyder Tragedy Death from Over-eating The Agony of Frozen Feet An Interrupted Prayer Stanton, after Death, Guides the Relief Party The Second Relief Party Arrives A Solitary Indian Patty Reed and her Father Starving Children Lying in Bed Mrs. Graves' Money Still Buried at Donner Lake. Peasin P. Tucker's relief party had twenty-one emigrants with them after Patty and Thomas Reed returned to the desolate cabins. On the evening of the first day, one of the twenty-one died. It was the baby child of Lewis Keseberg. The mother had fairly worshiped her girl. They buried the little one in the snow. It was all they could do for the pallid form of the starved little girl. Mrs. Keseberg was heart-broken over her baby's death. At the very outset she had offered everything she possessed--twenty-five dollars and a gold watch-to any one who would carry her child over the mountains. After the starved band resumed their weary march next morning, it is doubtful if many thought of the niche hollowed out of the white snow, or of the pulseless heart laid therein. Death had become fearfully common, and his victims were little heeded by the perishing company. The young German mother, however, was inconsolable. Her only boy had starved to death at the cabins, and now she was childless. The next day the company reached Summit Valley. An incident of this day's travel illustrates the exhausted condition of the members of the Donner Party. John Denton, an Englishman, was missed when camp was pitched, and John Rhodes returned and found him fast asleep upon the snow. He had become so weary that he yielded to a slumber that would soon have proven fatal. With much labor and exertion he was aroused and brought to camp. Denton appreciated the kindness, but at the same time declared that it would be impossible for him to travel another day. Sure enough, after journeying a little way on the following morning, his strength utterly gave way. His companions built a fire for him, gave him such food as they were able, and at his earnest request continued their sorrowful march. If another relief came soon, he would, perhaps, be rescued. Denton was well educated and of good family, was a gunsmith by trade, and was skilled in metals. It is related, that while in the Reed cabin, he discovered in the earth, ashes, and burnt stones in the fireplace, some small pieces of yellowish metal, which he declared to be gold. These he made into a small lump, which he carefully preserved until he left the lake, and it was doubtless lost on the mountains at his death. This was in the spring of 1847, before the discovery of gold in California. The strange little metallic lump was exhibited to several who are yet living, and who think there is reason for believing it was really gold. A few years before the construction of the Central Pacific, Knoxville, about ten miles south of Donner Lake, and Elizabethtown, some six miles from Truckee, were famous mining camps. Gold never has been found on the very shore of Donner Lake, but should the discovery be made, and especially should gold be found in the rocks or earth near the Reed cabin, there would be reason to believe that this poor unfortunate man was in reality the first discoverer of the precious metal in California. Left alone in the snow-mantled forests of the Sierra, what were this man's emotions? In the California Star of 1847, a bound volume of which is in the State Library in Sacramento, appears the following poem. The second relief party found it written on the leaf of a memorandum book by the side of Denton's lifeless body. The pencil with which it was written lay also by the side of the unfortunate man. Ere the lethargy of death stole away his senses, John Denton's thoughts had been of his boyhood's beautiful home in merry England. These thoughts were woven into verse. Are they not strangely pathetic and beautiful? Judge Thornton, in 1849, published them with the following prefatory words: "When the circumstances are considered in connection with the calamities in which the unhappy Denton was involved, the whole compass of American and English poetry may be challenged to furnish a more exquisitely beautiful, a more touching and pathetic piece. Simple and intimate to the last degree, yet coming from the heart, it goes to the heart. Its lines are the last plaintive notes which wintry winds have wakened from an Lolian harp, the strings of which rude hands have sundered. Bring before your mind the picture of an amiable young man who has wandered far from the paternal roof, is stricken by famine, and left by his almost equally unhappy companions to perish among the terrible snows of the great Sierra Nevada. He knows that his last, most solemn hour is near. Reason still maintains her empire, and memory, faithful to the last, performs her functions. On every side extends a boundless waste of trackless snow. He reclines against a bank of it, to rise no more, and busy memory brings before him a thousand images of past beauty and pleasure, and of scenes he will never revisit. A mother's image presents itself to his mind, tender recollections crowd upon his heart, and the scenes of his boyhood and youth pass in review before him with an unwonted vividness. The hymns of praise and thanksgiving that in harmony swelled from the domestic circle around the family altar are remembered, and soothe the sorrows of the dying man, and finally, just before he expires, he writes:" "Oh! after many roving years, How sweet it is to come Back to the dwelling-place of youth, Our first and dearest home; To turn away our wearied eyes From proud ambition's towers, And wander in those summer fields, The scenes of boyhood's hours." "But I am changed since last I gazed Upon that tranquil scene, And sat beneath the old witch elm That shades the village green; And watched my boat upon the brook It was a regal galley And sighed not for a joy on earth, Beyond the happy valley." "I wish I could once more recall That bright and blissful joy, And summon to my weary heart-- The feelings of a boy. But now on scenes of past delight I look, and feel no pleasure, As misers on the bed of death Gaze coldly on their treasure." When Captain Tucker's relief party were going to Donner Lake, they left a portion of their provisions in Summit Valley, tied up in a tree. They had found these provisions difficult to carry, and besides, it was best to have something provided for their return, in case the famished emigrants ate all they carried over the summit. It was indeed true that all was eaten which they carried over. All the scanty allowances were, one after another, consumed. When the relief party, and those they were rescuing, reached the place where the provisions had been cached, they were in great need of the reserve store which they expected to find. To their horror and dismay, they found that wild animals had gnawed the ropes by which the cache had been suspended, and had destroyed every vestige of these provisions! Death stared them in the face, and the strongest men trembled at the prospect. Here comes the sequel to the Reed-Snyder tragedy. Had it not been for Reed's banishment, there is every reason to believe that these people would have died for want of food. It will be remembered, however, that the relief party organized by Reed was only a few days behind Captain Tucker's. On the twenty-seventh of February, just as the horror and despair of their dreadful situation began to be realized, Tucker, and those with him, were relieved by the second relief party. In order to better understand these events, let us return and follow the motions of Reed and the members of the second relief party. In the article quoted in a former chapter from the Rural Press, Reed traced their progress as far as Johnson's ranch. Patty Reed (Mrs. Frank Lewis) has in her possession the original diary kept by her father during this journey. This diary shows that on the very morning Capt. Tucker, and the company with him, left Donner Lake to return to the valleys, Reed and the second relief party started from Johnson's ranch to go to Donner Lake. All that subsequently occurred, is briefly and pointedly narrated in the diary. "February 22, 1847. All last night I kept fire under the beef which I had drying on the scaffolds, and Johnson's Indians were grinding flour in a small hand-mill. By sunrise this morning I had about two hundred pounds of beef dried and placed in bags. We packed our horses and started with our supplies. Including the meat Greenwood had dried, we had seven hundred pounds of flour, and five beeves. Mr. Greenwood had three men, including himself. Traveled this day about ten miles." "Feb. 23. Left camp early this morning, and pushed ahead, but camped early on account of grass. To-morrow we will reach the snow." "Feb. 24. Encamped at Mule Springs this evening. Made arrangements to take to the snow in the morning, having left in camp our saddles, bridles, etc." "Feb. 25. Started with eleven horses and mules lightly packed, each having about eighty pounds. Traveled two miles, and left one mule and his pack. Made to-day, with hard labor for the horses, in the snow, about six miles. Our start was late." "Feb. 26. Left our encampment, Cady thinking the snow would bear the horses. Proceeded two hundred yards with difficulty, when we were compelled to unpack the horses and take the provisions on our backs. Usually the men had kept in the best of spirits, but here, for a few moments, there was silence. When the packs were ready to be strung upon their backs, however, the hilarity and good feeling again commenced. Made the head of Bear Valley, a distance of fifteen miles. We met in the valley, about three miles below the camp, Messrs. Glover and Rhodes, belonging to the party that went to the lake. They informed me they had started with twenty-one persons, two of whom had died, John Denton, of Springfield, Ill., and a child of Mr. and Mrs. Keseberg. Mr. Glover sent two men back to the party with fresh provisions. They are in a starving condition, and all have nearly given out. I have lightened our packs with a sufficient quantity of provisions to do the people when they shall arrive at this place. "Feb. 27. I sent back two men to our camp of night before last, to bring forward provisions. They will return to-morrow. I also left one man to prepare for the people who were expected today. Left camp on a fine, hard snow, and proceeded about four miles, when we met the poor, unfortunate, starved people. As I met them scattered along the snowtrail, I distributed some bread that I had baked last night. I gave in small quantities to each. Here I met my wife and two of my little children. Two of my children are still in the mountains. I can not describe the deathlike look all these people had. 'Bread!' 'Bread!' 'Bread!' 'Bread!' was the begging cry of every child and grown person. I gave all I dared to them, and set out for the scene of desolation at the lake. I am now camped within twenty-five miles of the place, which I hope to reach by traveling to-night and tomorrow. We had to camp early this evening, on account of the softness of the snow, the men sinking in to their waists, The party who passed us to-day were overjoyed when we told them there was plenty of provision at camp. I made a cache, to-day, after we had traveled about twelve miles, and encamped three miles further eastward, on the Yuba. Snow about fifteen feet deep." The meeting between Reed and his family can better be imagined than described. For months they had been separated. While the father was battling with fate in endeavoring to reach California and return with assistance, the mother had been using every exertion to obtain food for her starving children. Now they met in the mountains, in the deep snows, amid pathless forests, at a time when the mother and children, and all with them, were out of provisions and ready to perish. Meantime, the first relief; with their little company, now reduced to nineteen, passed forward toward the settlements. At Bear Valley, another cache of provisions had been made, and this was found unmolested. Camping at this place, the utmost precaution was taken to prevent the poor starved people from overeating. After a sufficient quantity of food had been distributed, the remainder of the provisions was hung up in a tree. Of course, the small portion distributed to each did not satisfy the cravings of hunger. Some time during the night, Wm. Hook quietly crept to the tree, climbed up to the food, and ate until his hunger was appeased. Poor boy, it was a fatal act. Toward morning it was discovered that he was dying. All that the company could do to relieve his sufferings was done, but it was of no avail. Finding that the poor boy was past relief; most of the emigrants moved on toward the settlements. Wm. G. Murphy's feet had been badly frozen, and he was suffering such excruciating agony that he could not travel and keep up with the others. At his request, his sister Mary had cut his shoes open, in order to get them off; and his feet thereupon swelled up as if they had been scalded. Because he could not walk, the company left him with William Hook. A camp-keeper also remained. This boy's death is thus described by Mr. Murphy, who writes: "William Hook went out on the snow and rested on his knees and elbows. The camp-keeper called to him to come in. He then told me to make him come into camp. I went and put my hand on him, speaking his name, and he fell over, being already dead. He did not die in great agony, as is usually alleged. No groan, nor signs of dying, were manifested to us. The camp-keeper and myself took the biscuits and jerked beef from his pockets, and buried him just barely under the ground, near a tree which had been fired, and from around which the snow had melted." Those who were in the company thought Wm. G. Murphy could not possibly walk, but when all had gone, and Hook was dead, and no alternative remained but to walk or die, he did walk. It took him two days to go barefooted over the snow to Mule Springs, a journey which the others had made in one day. The agony which he endured during that trip can better be imagined than described. Nothing but an indomitable will could have sustained him during those two days. All the members of this relief party suffered greatly, and several came near perishing. Little James F. Reed, Jr., was too small to step in the tracks made by the older members of the party. In order to travel with the rest he had to partly use his knees in walking. When one foot was in a track he would place the other knee on the untrodden snow, and was thus enabled to put his foot in the next track. John Denton was left with a good fire, and when last seen was reclining smoking, on a bed of freshly gathered pine boughs. He looked so comfortable that the little timid boy James begged hard to be allowed to remain with him. Mrs. Reed had hard work to coax him to come. Among other things, she promised that when he reached California he should have a horse "all for himself," and that he should never have to walk any more. This promise was literally fulfilled. James F. Reed, Jr., since reaching California, has always had a horse of his own. No matter what vicissitudes of fortune have overtaken him, he has always kept a saddle horse. Sad scenes were occurring at the cabin at Donner Lake and the tents at Alder Creek. Starvation was fast claiming its victims. The poor sufferers tried to be brave and trust God, but sometimes hope well-nigh disappeared. The evening prayers were always read in Patrick Breen's cabin, and all the inmates knelt and joined in the responses. Once when they were thus praying, they heard the cries of wild geese flying over the cabin. With one accord all raised their heads and listened for a moment to the soul-inspiring sound. "Thank God, the spring is coming," was all Patrick Breen said, and again bowing their heads, the prayer was resumed. Charles L. Cady, writing from Calistoga, says that Commodore Stockton employed Greenwood and Turner to guide the second relief party over the mountains to Donner Lake. Cady, Stone, and Clark, being young, vigorous men, left their companions, or were sent forward by Reed, and reached the cabins some hours in advance of the party. At one time, near the present station of Summit Valley, Cady and Stone became bewildered, thought they were lost, and wanted to return. Mr. Clark, however, prevailed upon them to press forward, agreeing that if they did not catch some glimpse of Donner Lake when they reached a certain mountain top in the distance, he would give up and return with them. Had they reached the mountain top they could not have seen the lake, and so would have turned back, but while they were ascending, they came to the lifeless body of C. T. Stanton sitting upright against a tree. There was no longer room for doubting that they were going in the right direction to reach Donner Lake. Poor Stanton! even in death he pointed out to the relief party the way to the starving emigrants, to save whom he had sacrificed his life. Reed's diary continues: "Feb. 28. Left camp about twelve o'clock at night, but was compelled to camp about two o'clock, the snow still being soft. Left again about four o'clock, all hands, and made this day fourteen miles. Encamped early; snow very soft. The snow here is thirty feet deep. Three of my men, Cady, Clark, and Stone, kept on during the night to within two miles of the cabins, where they halted, and remained without fire during the night, on account of having seen ten Indians. The boys did not have any arms, and supposed these Indians had taken the cabins and destroyed the people. In the morning they started, and reached the cabins. All were alive in the houses. They gave provisions to Keseberg, Breen, Graves, and Mrs. Murphy, and the two then left for Donner's, a distance of seven miles, which they made by the middle of the day." "March 1. I came up with the remainder of my party, and told the people that all who were able should start day after to-morrow. Made soup for the infirm, washed and clothed afresh Eddy's and Foster's children, and rendered every assistance in my power. I left Mr. Stone with Keseberg's people to cook, and to watch the eating of Mrs. Murphy, Keseberg, and three children." In Patrick Breen's diary is found the following: "Feb. 23. Froze hard last night. To-day pleasant and thawy; has the appearance of spring, all but the deep snow. Wind south-south-east. Shot a dog to-day and dressed his flesh." "Feb. 25. To-day Mrs. Murphy says the wolves are about to dig up the dead bodies around her shanty, and the nights are too cold to watch them, but we hear them howl." "Feb. 26. Hungry times in camp; plenty of hides, but the folks will not eat them; we eat them with tolerably good appetite, thanks to the Almighty God. Mrs. Murphy said here yesterday that she thought she would commence on Milton and eat him. I do not think she has done so yet; it is distressing. The Donners told the California folks four days ago that they would commence on the dead people if they did not succeed that day or the next in finding their cattle, then ten or twelve feet under the snow, and they did not know the spot or near it; they have done it ere this." "Feb. 28. One solitary Indian passed by yesterday; came from the lake; had a heavy pack on his back; gave me five, or six roots resembling onions in shape; tasted some like a sweet potato; full of tough little fibers." "March 1. Ten men arrived this morning from Bear Valley, with provisions. We are to start in two or three days, and cache our goods here. They say the snow will remain until June." This closes Patrick Breen's diary. Its record has always been considered reliable. None of the statements made in this diary have ever been controverted. The Indian spoken of refused to be interviewed. To quote the language of Mr. John Breen, "he did not seem to be at all curious as to how or why there was a white man alone (as it must have seemed to him) in the wilderness of snow." The Indian was trudging along with a heavy pack on his back. As soon as he saw Mr. Breen, he halted and warned him with a gesture not to approach. Taking from the pack a few of the fibrous roots, he laid them on the snow, still cautioning with his hand not to approach until he was well out of reach. As soon as the Indian was gone, Mr. Breen went out and got the roots, which were very palatable. It is probable that this was one of the band of Indians seen by Clark, Cady, and Stone. When Patty and Thomas Reed had been returned to the cabins by Aquila Glover, they had been received by the Breen family, where they remained all the time until their father came. The Breen cabin was the first one at which Mr. Reed arrived. His meeting with his daughter is thus described by Mr. Eddy, in Thornton's work: "At this camp Mr. Reed saw his daughter Patty sitting on the top of the snow with which the cabin was covered. Patty saw her father at some distance, and immediately started to run and meet him, but such was her weakness that she fell. Her father took her up, and the affectionate girl, bathed in tears, embraced and kissed him, exclaiming: 'Oh, papa! I never expected to see you again when the cruel people drove you out of camp. But I knew that God was good, and would do what was best. Is dear mamma living? Is Mr. Glover living? Did you know that he was a Mason? Oh, my dear papa, I am so happy to see you. Masons must be good men. Is Mr. Glover the same sort of Mason we had in Springfield? He promised mamma upon the word of a Mason that he would bring me and Tommy out of the mountains.' Mr. Reed told Patty that Masons were everywhere the same, and that he had met her mother and Mr. Glover, and had relieved him from his pledge, and that he himself had come to her and little Tommy to redeem that pledge and to take out all that were able to travel." The greatest precaution was taken to keep the suffering emigrants from overeating. Cady, Stone, and Clark had distributed a small portion of food to each of the famished beings. Patty Reed was intrusted with the task of giving to each person a single biscuit. Taking the biscuits in her apron she went in turn to each member of the company. Who shall describe the rejoicings that were held over those biscuits? Several of the survivors, in speaking of the subject, say that to their hungry eyes these small pieces of bread assumed gigantic proportions. Never did the largest loaves of bread look half so large. Patty Reed says that some of the little girls cut their portions into thin slices, so as to eat them slowly and enjoy them more completely. The names of the members of this second relief party were James F. Reed, Charles Cady, Charles Stone, Nicholas Clark, Joseph Jondro, Mathew Dofar, John Turner, Hiram Miller, Wm. McCutchen, and Brit. Greenwood. A portion of the party went to the Donner tents, and the remainder assisted the emigrants in preparing to start over the mountains. The distress and suffering at each camp was extreme. Even after the children had received as much food as was prudent, it is said they would stretch out their little arms and with cries and tears beg for something to eat. Mrs. Murphy informed Mr. Reed that some of the children had been confined to their beds for fourteen days. It was clearly to be seen that very few of the sufferers could cross the Sierra without being almost carried. They were too weak and helpless to walk. The threatening appearance of the weather and the short supply of provisions urged the party to hasten their departure, and it was quickly decided who should go, and who remain. Those who started from Donner Lake on the third of March with Mr. Reed and his party were Patrick Breen, Mrs. Margaret Breen, John Breen, Patrick Breen, Jr., James F. Breen, Peter Breen, and Isabella M. Breen, Patty Reed and Thomas Reed, Isaac Donner and Mary M. Donner, Solomon Hook, Mrs. Elizabeth Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan Graves, Franklin Graves, and Elizabeth Graves, Jr. Many of the younger members of this party had to be carried. All were very much weakened and emaciated, and it was evident that the journey over the mountains would be slow and painful. In case a storm should occur on the summits, it was fearfully apparent that the trip would be exceedingly perilous. Reed's party encamped the first night near the upper end of Donner Lake. They had scarcely traveled three miles. Upon starting from the Graves cabin, Mrs. Graves had taken with her a considerable sum of money. This money, Mr. McCutchen says, had been ingeniously concealed in auger holes bored in cleats nailed to the bed of the wagon. These cleats, as W. C. Graves informs us, were ostensibly placed in the wagon-bed to support a table carried in the back part of the wagon. On the under side of these cleats, however, were the auger-holes, carefully filled with coin. The sum is variously stated at from three to five hundred dollars. At the camping-ground, near the upper end of Donner Lake, one of the relief party jokingly proposed to another to play a game of euchre to see who should have Mrs. Graves' money. The next morning, Mrs. Graves remained behind when the party started, and concealed her money. All that is known is, that she buried it behind a large rock on the north side of Donner Lake. So far as is known, this money has never been recovered, but still lies hidden where it was placed by Mrs. Graves. Chapter XIV. Leaving Three Men in the Mountains The Emigrants Quite Helpless Bear Tracks in the Snow The Clumps of Tamarack Wounding a Bear Bloodstains upon the Snow A Weary Chase A Momentous Day Stone and Cady Leave the Sufferers A Mother Offering Five Hundred Dollars Mrs. Donner Parting from her Children "God will Take Care of You" Buried in the Snow, without Food or Fire Pines Uprooted by the Storm A Grave Cut in the Snow The Cub's Cave Firing at Random A Desperate Undertaking Preparing for a Hand-to-Hand Battle Precipitated into the Cave Seizing the Bear Mrs. Elizabeth Donner's Death Clark and Baptiste Attempt to Escape A Death more Cruel than Starvation. Before Reed's party started to return, a consultation was held, and it was decided that Clark, Cady, and Stone should remain at the mountain camps. It was intended that these men should attend to procuring wood, and perform such other acts as would assist the almost helpless sufferers. It was thought that a third relief party could be sent out in a few days to get all the emigrants who remained. Nicholas Clark, who now resides in Honey Lake Valley, Lassen County, California, says that as he and Cady were going to the Donner tents, they saw the fresh tracks of a bear and cub crossing the road. In those days, there were several little clumps of tamarack along Alder Creek, just below the Donner tents, and as the tracks led towards these, Mr. Clark procured a gun and started for an evening's hunt among the tamaracks. He found the bear and her cub within sight of the tents, and succeeded in severely wounding the old bear. She was a black bear, of medium size. For a long distance, over the snow and through the forests, Clark followed the wounded animal and her cub. The approach of darkness at last warned him to desist, and returning to the tents, he passed the night. Early next morning, Clark again set out in pursuit of the bear, following her readily by the blood-stains upon the snow. It was another windy, cloudy, threatening day, and there was every indication that a severe storm was approaching. Eagerly intent upon securing his game, Mr. Clark gave little heed to weather, or time, or distance. The endurance of the wounded animal was too great, however, and late in the afternoon he realized that it was necessary for him to give up the weary chase, and retrace his steps. He arrived at the tents hungry, tired, and footsore, long after dark. That day, however, had been a momentous one at the Donner tents. Stone had come over early in the morning, and he and Cady concluded that it was sheer madness for them to remain in the mountains. That a terrible storm was fast coming on, could not be doubted. The provisions were almost exhausted, and if they remained, it would only be to perish with the poor emigrants. They therefore concluded to attempt to follow and overtake Reed and his companions. Mrs. Tamsen Donner was able to have crossed the mountains with her children with either Tucker's or Reed's party. On account of her husband's illness, however, she had firmly refused all entreaties, and had resolutely determined to remain by his bedside. She was extremely anxious, however, that her children should reach California; and Hiram Miller relates that she offered five hundred dollars to any one in the second relief party, who would take them in safety across the mountains. When Cady and Stone decided to go, Mrs. Donner induced them to attempt the rescue of these children, Frances, Georgia, and Eliza. They took the children as far the cabins at the lake, and left them. Probably they became aware of the impossibility of escaping the storm, and knew that it would be sure death, for both themselves and the children, should they take them any farther. In view of the terrible calamity which befell Reed's party on account of this storm, and the fact that Cady and Stone had a terrible struggle for life, every one must justify these men in leaving the children at the cabins. The parting between the devoted mother and her little ones is thus briefly described by Georgia Donner, now Mrs. Babcock: "The men came. I listened to their talking as they made their agreement. Then they took us, three little girls, up the stone steps, and stood us on the bank. Mother came, put on our hoods and cloaks, saying, as if she was talking more to herself than to us: 'I may never see you again, but God will take care of you.' After traveling a few miles, they left us on the snow, went ahead a short distance, talked one to another, then came back, took us as far as Keseberg's cabin, and left us." Mr. Cady recalls the incident of leaving the children on the snow, but says the party saw a coyote, and were attempting to get a shot at the animal. When Nicholas Clark awoke on the morning of the third day, the tent was literally buried in freshly fallen snow. He was in what is known as Jacob Donner's tent. Its only occupants besides himself were Mrs. Elizabeth Donner, her son Lewis, and the Spanish boy, John Baptiste. George Donner and wife were in their own tent, and with them was Mrs. Elizabeth Donner's youngest child, Samuel. Mr. Clark says he can not remember how long the storm lasted, but it seems as if it must have been at least a week. The snow was so deep that it was impossible to procure wood, and during all those terrible days and nights there was no fire in either of the tents. The food gave out the first day, and the dreadful cold was rendered more intense by the pangs of hunger. Sometimes the wind would blow like a hurricane, and they could plainly hear the great pines crashing on the mountain side above them, as the wind uprooted them and hurled them to the ground. Sometimes the weather would seem to moderate, and the snow would melt and trickle in under the sides of the tent, wetting their clothes and bedding, and increasing the misery of their situation. When the storm cleared away, Clark found himself starving like the rest. He had really become one of the Donner Party, and was as certain to perish as were the unfortunates about him. It would necessarily be several days before relief could possibly arrive, and utter despair seemed to surround them. Just as the storm was closing, Lewis Donner died, and the poor mother was well-nigh frantic with grief. As soon as she could make her way to the other tent, she carried her dead babe over and laid it in Mrs. George Donner's lap. With Clark's assistance, they finally laid the child away in a grave cut out of the solid snow. In going to a tamarack grove to get some wood, Mr. Clark was surprised to find the fresh track of the bear cub, which had recrossed Alder Creek and ascended the mountain behind the tents. It was doubtless the same one whose mother he had wounded. The mother had probably died, and after the storm the cub had returned. Mr. Clark at once followed it, tracking it far up the mountain side to a cliff of rocks, and losing the trail at the mouth of a small, dark cave. He says that all hope deserted him when he found that the cub had gone into the cave. He sat down upon the snow in utter despair. It was useless to return to the tents without food; he might as well perish upon the mountain side. After reflecting for some time upon the gloomy situation, he concluded to fire his gun into the cave, and see if the report might not frighten out the cub. He placed the muzzle of the gun as far down into the cave as he could, and fired. When the hollow reverberation died away among the cliffs, no sound disturbed the brooding silence. The experiment had failed. He seriously meditated whether he could not watch the cave day and night until the cub should be driven out by starvation. But suddenly a new idea occurred to him. Judging from the track, and from the size of the cub he had seen, Mr. Clark concluded that it was possible he might be able to enter the cave and kill the cub in a hand-to-hand fight. It was a desperate undertaking, but it was preferable to death from starvation. He approached the narrow opening, and tried again to peer into the cave and ascertain its depth. As he was thus engaged the snow suddenly gave way, and he was precipitated bodily into the cave. He partly fell, partly slid to the very bottom of the hole in the rocks. In endeavoring to regain an erect posture, his hand struck against some furry animal. Instinctively recoiling, he waited for a moment to see what it would do. Coming from the dazzling sunlight into the darkness, he could see nothing whatever. Presently he put out his foot and again touched the animal. Finding that it did not move, he seized hold of it and found that it was the cub-dead! His random shot had pierced its brain, and it had died without a struggle. The cave or opening in the rocks was not very deep, and after a long time he succeeded in dragging his prize to the surface. There was food in the Donner tents from this time forward. It came too late, however, to save Mrs. Elizabeth Donner or her son Samuel. This mother was quite able to have crossed the mountains with either of the two relief parties; but, as Mrs. E. P. Houghton writes: "Her little boys were too young to walk through the deep snows, she was not able to carry them, and the relief parties were too small to meet such emergencies. She stayed with them, hoping some way would be provided for their rescue. Grief, hunger, and disappointed hopes crushed her spirit, and so debilitated her that death came before the required help reached her or her children. For some days before her death she was so weak that Mrs. George Donner and the others had to feed her as if she had been a child. At last, one evening, as the sun went down, she closed her eyes and awoke no more. Her life had been sacrificed for her children. Could words be framed to express a more fitting tribute to her memory! Does not the simple story of this mother's love wreathe a chaplet of glory about her brow far holier than could be fashioned by human hands!" Samuel Donner lingered but a few days longer. Despite the tenderest care and attention, he grew weaker day by day, until he slept by the side of his mother and brother in their snowy grave. All this time Mrs. Tamsen Donner was tortured with fear and dread, lest her children had perished in the dreadful storm on the summits. At last Clark yielded to her importunities, and decided to visit the cabins at Donner Lake, and see if there was any news from beyond the Sierra. Clark found the children at Keseberg's cabin, and witnessed such scenes of horror and suffering that he determined at once to attempt to reach California. Returning to Alder Creek, he told Mrs. Donner of the situation of her children, and says he informed her that he believed their lives were in danger of a death more violent than starvation. He informed her of his resolution to leave the mountains, and taking a portion of the little meat that was left, he at once started upon his journey. John Baptiste accompanied him. The cub would have weighed about seventy pounds when killed; and now that its flesh was nearly gone, there was really very little hope for any one unless relief came speedily. In attempting to make their way across the mountains, Clark and Baptiste did the wisest thing possible, yet they well knew that they would perish by the way unless they met relief. Mrs. Tamsen Donner did not dare to leave her husband alone during the night, but told Clark and Baptiste that she should endeavor to make the journey to the cabins on the following day. It was a long, weary walk over the pitiless snow, but she had before her yearning eyes not only the picture of her starving children, but the fear that they were in danger of a more cruel death than starvation. Chapter XV. A Mountain Storm Provisions Exhausted Battling the Storm-Fiends Black Despair Icy Coldness A Picture of Desolation The Sleep of Death A Piteous Farewell Falling into the Firewell Isaac Donner's Death Living upon Snow-water Excruciating Pain A Vision of Angels "Patty is Dying" The Thumb of a Mitten A Child's Treasures The "Dolly" of the Donner Party. On the evening of the second day after leaving Donner Lake, Reed's party and the little band of famished emigrants found themselves in a cold, bleak, uncomfortable hollow, somewhere near the lower end of Summit Valley. Here the storm broke in all its fury upon the doomed company. In addition to the cold, sleet-like snow, a fierce, penetrating wind seemed to freeze the very marrow in their bones. The relief party had urged the tired, hungry, enfeebled emigrants forward at the greatest possible speed all day, in order to get as near the settlements as they could before the storm should burst upon them. Besides, their provisions were exhausted, and they were anxious to reach certain caches of supplies which they had made while going to the cabins. Fearing that the storm would prevent the party from reaching these caches, Mr. Reed sent Joseph Jondro, Matthew Dofar, and Hiram Turner forward to the first cache, with instructions to get the provisions and return to the suffering emigrants. That very night the storm came, and the three men had not been heard from. The camp was in a most inhospitable spot. Exposed to the fury of the wind and storm, shelterless, supperless, overwhelmed with discouragements, the entire party sank down exhausted upon the snow. The entire party? No! There was one man who never ceased to work. When a fire had been kindled, and nearly every one had given up, this one man, unaided, continued to strive to erect some sort of shelter to protect the defenseless women and children. Planting large pine boughs in the snow, he banked up the snow on either side of them so as to form a wall. Hour after hour, in the darkness and raging storm, he toiled on alone, building the sheltering breastwork which was to ward off death from the party who by this time had crept shiveringly under its protection. But for this shelter, all would have perished before morning. At midnight the man was still at work. The darting snow particles seemed to cut his eye-balls, and the glare of the fire and the great physical exhaustion under which he was laboring, gradually rendered him blind. Like his companions, he had borne a child in his arms all day over the soft, yielding snow. Like them, he was drenched to the skin, and his clothing was frozen stiff and hard with ice. Yet he kept up the fire, built a great sheltering wall about the sufferers, and went here and there amongst the wailing and dying. With unabated violence the storm continued its relentless fury. The survivors say it was the coldest night they ever experienced. There is a limit to human endurance. The man was getting stone-blind. Had he attempted to speak, his tongue would have cloven to the roof of his mouth. His senses were chilled, blunted, dead. Sleep had stilled the plaintive cries of those about him. All was silent save the storm. Without knowing it, this heroic man was yielding to a sleep more powerful than that which had overcome his companions. While trying to save those who were weaker than himself, he had been literally freezing. Sightless, benumbed, moving half unconsciously about his work, he staggered, staggered, staggered, and finally sank in the snow. All slept! As he put no more fuel upon the fire, the flames died down. The logs upon which the fire had rested gave way, and most of the coals fell upon the snow. They were in almost total darkness. Presently some one awoke. It was Mrs. Breen, whose motherly watchfulness prevented more than a few consecutive moments' sleep. The camp was quickly aroused. All were nearly frozen. Hiram Miller's hands were so cold and frosted that the skin on the fingers cracked open when he tried to split some kindlings. At last the fire was somehow renewed. Meantime they had discovered their leader--he who had been working throughout the night-lying cold, speechless, and apparently dead upon the snow. Hiram Miller and Wm. McCutchen carried the man to the fire, chafed his hands and limbs, rubbed his body vigorously, and worked with him as hard as they could for two hours before he showed signs of returning consciousness. Redoubling their exertions, they kept at work until the cold, gray morning dawned, ere the man was fully restored. Would you know the name of this man, this hero? It was James Frazier Reed. From this time forward, all the toil, all the responsibility devolved upon Wm. McCutchen and Hiram Miller. Jondro, Dofar, and Turner were caught in the drifts ahead. The fishers or other wild animals had almost completely devoured the first cache of provisions, and while these men were trying to reach the second cache, the storm imprisoned them. They could neither go forward nor return. Cady and Stone were between Donner Lake and Starved Camp, and were in a like helpless condition. McCutchen and Miller were the only ones able to do anything toward saving the poor creatures who were huddled together at the miserable camp. All the other men were completely disheartened by the fearful calamity which had overtaken them. But for the untiring exertions of these two men, death to all would have been certain. McCutchen had on four shirts, and yet he became so chilled while trying to kindle the fire, that in getting warm he burned the back out of his shirts. He only discovered the mishap by the scorching and burning of his flesh. What a picture of desolation was presented to the inmates of Starved Camp during the next three days! It stormed incessantly. One who has not witnessed a storm on the Sierra can not imagine the situation. A quotation from Bret Harte's "Gabriel Conroy" will afford the best idea of the situation: "Snow. Everywhere. As far as the eye could reach fifty miles, looking southward from the highest white peak. Filling ravines and gulches, and dropping from the walls of canyons in white shroud-like drifts, fashioning the dividing ridge into the likeness of a monstrous grave, hiding the bases of giant pines, and completely covering young trees and larches, rimming with porcelain the bowl-like edges of still, cold lakes, and undulating in motionless white billows to the edge of the distant horizon. Snow lying everywhere on the California Sierra, and still falling. It had been snowing in finely granulated powder, in damp, spongy flakes, in thin, feathery plumes; snowing from a leaden sky steadily, snowing fiercely, shaken out of purple-black clouds in white flocculent masses, or dropping in long level lines like white lances from the tumbled and broken heavens. But always silently! The woods were so choked with it, it had so cushioned and muffled the ringing rocks and echoing hills, that all sound was deadened. The strongest gust, the fiercest blast, awoke no sigh or complaint from the snow-packed, rigid files of forest. There was no cracking of bough nor crackle of underbrush; the overladen branches of pine and fir yielded and gave away without a sound. The silence was vast, measureless, complete!" In alluding to these terrible days, in his diary, Mr. Reed says, under date of March 6: "With the snow there is a perfect hurricane. In the night there is a great crying among the children, and even with the parents there is praying, crying, and lamentation on account of the cold and the dread of death from hunger and the howling storm. The men up nearly all night making fires. Some of the men began praying. Several of them became blind. I could not see the light of the fire blazing before me, nor tell when it was burning. The light of heaven is, as it were, shut out from us. The snow blows so thick and fast that we can not see twenty feet looking against the wind. I dread the coming night. Three of my men only, able to get wood. The rest have given out for the present. It is still snowing, and very cold. So cold that the few men employed in cutting the dry trees down, have to come and, warm about every ten minutes. 'Hungry!' 'Hungry!' is the cry with the children, and nothing to give them. 'Freezing!' is the cry of the mothers who have nothing for their little, starving, freezing children. Night closing fast, and with it the hurricane increases. "Mar. 7. Thank God day has once more appeared, although darkened by the storm. Snowing as fast as ever, and the hurricane has never ceased for ten minutes at a time during one of the most dismal nights I have ever witnessed. I hope I shall never witness another such in a similar situation. Of all the praying and crying I ever heard, nothing ever equaled it. Several times I expected to see the people perish of the extreme cold. At one time our fire was nearly gone, and had it not been for McCutchen's exertions it would have entirely disappeared. If the fire had been lost, two thirds of the camp would have been out of their misery before morning; but, as God would have it, we soon had it blazing comfortably, and the sufferings of the people became less for a time. Hope began to animate the bosoms of many, young and old, when the cheering blaze rose through the dry pine logs we had piled together. One would say, 'Thank God for the fire!' Another, 'How good it is!' The poor, little, half-starved, half-frozen children would say, 'I'm glad, I'm glad we have got some fire! Oh, how good it feels! It is good our fire didn't go out!' At times the storm would burst forth with such fury that I felt alarmed for the safety of the people on account of the tall timber that surrounded us." Death entered the camp on the first night. He came to claim one who was a true, faithful mother. One who merits greater praise than language can convey. Though comparatively little has been told concerning her life by the survivors, doubt not that Mrs. Elizabeth Graves was one of the noblest of the mothers of the Donner Party. Her charity is kindly remembered by all who have spoken her name. To her companions in misfortune she always gave such food as she possessed; for her children she now gave her life. The last morsels of food, the last grain of flour, she had placed in the mouths of her babes, though she was dying of starvation. Mrs. Farnham, who talked personally with Mrs. Breen, gives the following description of that terrible night: "Mrs. Breen told me that she had her husband and five children together, lying with their feet to the fire, and their heads under shelter of the snow breast-work. She sat by them, with only moccasins on her feet, and a blanket drawn over her shoulders and head, within which, and a shawl she constantly wore, she nursed her poor baby on her knees. Her milk had been gone several days, and the child was so emaciated and lifeless that she scarcely expected at any time on opening the covering to find it alive. Mrs. Graves lay with her babe and three or four older children at the other side of the fire. The storm was very violent all night, and she watched through it, dozing occasionally for a few minutes, and then rousing herself to brush the snow and flying sparks from the covering of the sleepers. Toward morning she heard one of the young girls opposite call to her mother to cover her. The call was repeated several times impatiently, when she spoke to the child, reminding her of the exhaustion and fatigue her mother suffered in nursing and carrying the baby, and bidding her cover herself, and let her mother rest. Presently she heard the mother speak, in a quiet, unnatural tone, and she called to one of the men near her to go and speak to her. He arose after a few minutes and found the poor sufferer almost past speaking. He took her infant, and after shaking the snow from her blanket, covered her as well as might be. Shortly after, Mrs. Breen observed her to turn herself slightly, and throw one arm feebly up, as if to go to sleep. She waited a little while, and seeing her remain quite still, she walked around to her. She was already cold in death. Her poor starving child wailed and moaned piteously in the arms of its young sister, but the mother's heart could no more warm or nourish it." The members of the second relief party realized that they were themselves in imminent danger of death. They were powerless to carry the starving children over the deep, soft, treacherous snow, and it was doubtful if they would be able to reach the settlements unencumbered. Isaac Donner, one of the sons of Jacob and Elizabeth Donner, perished during one of the stormy nights. He was lying on the bed of pine boughs between his sister Mary and Patty Reed, and died so quietly that neither of the sleeping girls awoke. The relief party determined to set out over the snow, hasten to the settlements, and send back relief. Solomon Hook, Jacob Donner's oldest boy, insisted that he was able to walk, and therefore joined the party. Hiram Miller, an old friend of the Reed family, took little Thomas Reed in his arms, and set out with the others. Patty Reed, full of hope and courage, refused to be carried by her father, and started on foot. With what emotions did the poor sufferers in Starved Camp watch the party as it disappeared among the pines! There was no food in camp, and death had already selected two of their number. What a pitiable group it was! Could a situation more desolate or deplorable be imagined? Mr. Breen, as has been heretofore mentioned, was feeble, sickly, and almost as helpless as the children. Upon Mrs. Breen devolved the care, not only of her husband, but of all who remained in the fatal camp, for all others were children. John Breen, their eldest son, was the strongest and most vigorous in the family, yet the following incident shows how near he was to death's door. It must have occurred the morning the relief party left. The heat of the fire had melted a deep, round hole in the snow. At the bottom of the pit was the fire. The men were able to descend the sides of this cavity, and frequently did so to attend to the fire. At one time, while William McCutchen was down by the fire, John Breen was sitting on the end of one of the logs on which the fire had originally been kindled. Several logs had been laid side by side, and the fire had been built in the middle of the floor thus constructed. While the central logs had burned out and let the fire descend, the outer logs remained with their ends on the firm snow. On one of these logs John Breen was sitting. Suddenly overcome by fatigue and hunger, he fainted and dropped headlong into the fire-pit. Fortunately, Mr. McCutchen caught the falling boy, and thus saved him from a horrible death. It was some time before the boy was fully restored to consciousness. Mrs. Breen had a small quantity of sugar, and a little was placed between his clenched teeth. This seemed to revive him, and he not only survived, but is living to-day, the head of a large family, in San Benito County. Mrs. Breen's younger children, Patrick, James, Peter, and the nursing babe, Isabella, were completely helpless and dependent. Not less helpless were the orphan children of Mr. and Mrs. Graves. Nancy was only about nine years old, and upon her devolved the task of caring for the babe, Elizabeth. Nancy Graves is now the wife of the earnest and eloquent divine, Rev. R. W. Williamson, of Los Gatos, Santa Clara County. To her lasting honor be it said, that although she was dying of hunger in Starved Camp, yet she faithfully tended, cared for, and saved her baby sister. Aside from occasional bits of sugar, this baby and Mrs. Breen's had nothing for an entire week, save snow-water. Besides Nancy and Elizabeth, there were of the Graves children, Jonathan, aged seven, and Franklin, aged five years. Franklin soon perished. Starvation and exposure had so reduced his tiny frame, that he could not endure these days of continual fasting. Mary M. Donner, whom all mention as one of the most lovely girls in the Donner Party, met with a cruel accident the night before the relief party left Starved Camp. Her feet had become frozen and insensible to pain. Happening to lie too near the fire, one of her feet became dreadfully burned. She suffered excruciating agony, yet evinced remarkable fortitude. She ultimately lost four toes from her left foot, on account of this sad occurrence. Seven of the Breens, Mary Donner, and the three children of Mr. and Mrs. Graves, made the eleven now waiting for relief at Starved Camp. Mrs. Graves, her child Franklin, and the boy, Isaac Donner, who lay stark in death upon the snow, completed the fourteen who were left by the relief party. Meantime, how fared it with those who were pressing forward toward the settlements? At each step they sank two or three feet into the snow. Of course those who were ahead broke the path, and the others, as far as possible, stepped in their tracks. This, Patty Reed could not do, because she was too small. So determined was she, however, that despite the extra exertion she was compelled to undergo, she would not admit being either cold or fatigued. Patty Reed has been mentioned as only eight years old. Many of the survivors speak of her, however, in much the same terms as John Breen, who says: "I was under the impression that she was older. She had a wonderful mind for one of her age. She had, I have often thought, as much sense as a grown person." Over Patty's large, dark eyes, on this morning, gradually crept a film. Previous starvation had greatly attenuated her system, and she was far too weak to endure the hardship she had undertaken. Gradually the snow-mantled forests, the forbidding mountains, the deep, dark canyon of Bear River, and even the forms of her companions, faded from view. In their stead came a picture of such glory and brightness as seldom comes to human eyes. It was a vision of angels and of brilliant stars. She commenced calling her father, and those with him, and began talking about the radiant forms that hovered over her. Her wan, pale face was illumined with smiles, and with an ecstasy of joy she talked of the angels and stars, and of the happiness she experienced. "Why, Reed," exclaimed McCutchen, "Patty is dying!" And it was too true. For a few moments the party forgot their own sufferings and trials, and ministered to the wants of the spiritual child, whose entrance into the dark valley had been heralded by troops of white-winged angels. At Starved Camp, Reed had taken the hard, frozen sacks in which the provisions had been carried, and by holding them to the fire had thawed out the seams, and scraped therefrom about a teaspoonful of crumbs. These he had placed in the thumb of his woolen mitten to be used in case of emergency. Little did he suppose that the emergency would come so soon. Warming and moistening these crumbs between his own lips, the father placed them in his child's mouth. Meantime they had wrapped a blanket around her chilled form, and were busily chafing her hands and feet. Her first return to consciousness was signaled by the regrets she expressed at having been awakened from her beautiful dream. To this day she cherishes the memory of that vision as the dearest, most enchanting of all her life. After this, some of the kindhearted Frenchmen in the party took turns with Reed in carrying Patty upon their backs. Past-midshipman S. E. Woodworth is a name that in most published accounts figures conspicuously among the relief parties organized to rescue the Donner Party. At the time Reed and his companions were suffering untold horrors on the mountains, and those left at Starved Camp were perishing of starvation, Woodworth, with an abundance of supplies, was lying idle in camp at Bear Valley. This was the part that Selim E. Woodworth took in the relief of the sufferers. The three men who had been sent forward to the caches, left the remnant of the provisions which had not been destroyed, where it could easily be seen by Reed and his companions. Hurrying forward, they reached Woodworth's camp, and two men, John Stark and Howard Oakley, returned and met Reed's party. It was quite time. With frozen feet and exhausted bodies, the members of the second relief were in a sad plight. They left the settlements strong, hearty men. They returned in a half-dead condition. Several lost some of their toes on account of having them frozen, and one or two were crippled for life. They had been three days on the way from Starved Camp to Woodworth's. Cady and Stone overtook Reed and his companions on the second day after leaving Starved Camp. On the night of the third day, they arrived at Woodworth's. When Patty Reed reached Woodworth's and had been provided with suitable food, an incident occurred which fully illustrates the tenderness and womanliness of her nature. Knowing that her mother and dear ones were safe, knowing that relief would speedily return to those on the mountains, realizing that for her there was to be no more hunger, or snow, and that she would no longer be separated from her father, her feelings may well be imagined. In her quiet joy she was not wholly alone. Hidden away in her bosom, during all the suffering and agony of the journey over the mountains, were a number of childish treasures. First, there was a lock of silvery gray hair which her own hand had cut from the head of her Grandmother Keyes way back on the Big Blue River. Patty had always been a favorite with her grandma, and when the latter died, Patty secured this lock of hair. She tied it up in a little piece of old-fashioned lawn, dotted with wee blue flowers, and always carried it in her bosom. But this was not all. She had a dainty little glass salt-cellar, scarcely larger than the inside of a humming-bird's nest, and, what was more precious than this, a tiny, wooden doll. This doll had been her constant companion. It had black eyes and hair, and was indeed very pretty. At Woodworth's camp, Patty told "Dolly" all her joy and gladness, and who can not pardon the little girl for thinking her dolly looked happy as she listened? Patty Reed is now Mrs. Frank Lewis, of San Jose, Cal. She has a pleasant home and a beautiful family of children. Yet oftentimes the mother, the grown-up daughters, and the younger members of the family, gather with tear-dimmed eyes about a little sacred box. In this box is the lock of hair in the piece of lawn, the tiny salt-cellar, the much loved "Dolly," and an old woolen mitten, in the thumb of which are yet the traces of fine crumbs. Chapter XVI. A Mother at Starved Camp Repeating the Litany Hoping in Despair Wasting Away The Precious Lump of Sugar "James is Dying" Restoring a Life Relentless Hunger The Silent Night-Vigils The Sight of Earth Descending the Snow-Pit The Flesh of the Dead Refusing to Eat The Morning Star The Mercy of God The Mutilated Forms The Dizziness of Delirium Faith Rewarded "There is Mrs. Breen!" Very noble was the part which Mrs. Margaret Breen performed in this Donner tragedy, and very beautifully has that part been recorded by a woman's hand. It is written so tenderly, so delicately, and with so much reverence for the maternal love which alone sustained Mrs. Breen, that it can hardly be improved. This account was published by its author, Mrs. Farnham, in 1849, and is made the basis of the following sketch. With alterations here and there, made for the sake of brevity, the article is as it was written: There was no food in Starved Camp. There was nothing to eat save a few seeds, tied in bits of cloth, that had been brought along by some one, and the precious lump of sugar. There were also a few teaspoonfuls of tea. They sat and lay by the fire most of the day, with what heavy hearts, who shall know! They were upon about thirty feet of snow. The dead lay before them, a ghastlier sight in the sunshine that succeeded the storm, than when the dark clouds overhung them. They had no words of cheer to speak to each other, no courage or hope to share, but those which pointed to a life where hunger and cold could never come, and their benumbed faculties were scarcely able to seize upon a consolation so remote from the thoughts and wants that absorbed their whole being. A situation like this will not awaken in common natures religious trust. Under such protracted suffering, the animal outgrows the spiritual in frightful disproportion. Yet the mother's sublime faith, which had brought her thus far through her agonies, with a heart still warm toward those who shared them, did not fail her now. She spoke gently to one and another; asked her husband to repeat the litany, and the children to join her in the responses; and endeavored to fix their minds upon the time when the relief would probably come. Nature, as unerringly as philosophy could have done, taught her that the only hope of sustaining those about her, was to set before them a termination to their sufferings. What days and nights were those that went by while they waited! Life waning visibly in those about her; not a morsel of food to offer them; her own infant--and the little one that had been cherished and saved through all by the mother now dead-wasting hourly into the more perfect image of death; her husband worn to a skeleton; it needed the fullest measure of exalted faith, of womanly tenderness and self-sacrifice, to sustain her through such a season. She watched by night as well as by day. She gathered wood to keep them warm. She boiled the handful of tea and dispensed it to them, and when she found one sunken and speechless, she broke with her teeth a morsel of the precious sugar, and put it in his lips. She fed her babe freely on snow-water, and scanty as was the wardrobe she had, she managed to get fresh clothing next to its skin two or three times a week. Where, one asks in wonder and reverence, did she get the strength and courage for all this? She sat all night by her family, her elbows on her knees, brooding over the meek little victim that lay there, watching those who slept, and occasionally dozing with a fearful consciousness of their terrible condition always upon her. The sense of peril never slumbered. Many times during the night she went to the sleepers to ascertain if they all still breathed. She put her hand under their blankets, and held it before the mouth. In this way she assured herself that they were yet alive. But once her blood curdled to find, on approaching her hand to the lips of one of her own children, there was no warm breath upon it. She tried to open his mouth, and found the jaws set. She roused her husband, "Oh! Patrick, man! arise and help me! James is dying!" "Let him die!" said the miserable father, "he will be better off than any of us." She was terribly shocked by this reply. In her own expressive language, her heart stood still when she heard it. She was bewildered, and knew not where to set her weary hands to work, but she recovered in a few moments and began to chafe the breast and hands of the perishing boy. She broke a bit of sugar, and with considerable effort forced it between his teeth with a few drops of snow-water. She saw him swallow, then a slight convulsive motion stirred his features, he stretched his limbs feebly, and in a moment more opened his eyes and looked upon her. How fervent were her thanks to the Great Father, whom she forgot not day or night. Thus she went on. The tea leaves were eaten, the seeds chewed, the sugar all dispensed. The days were bright, and compared with the nights, comfortable. Occasionally, when the sun shone, their voices were heard, though generally they sat or lay in a kind of stupor from which she often found it alarmingly difficult to arouse them. When the gray evening twilight drew its deepening curtain over the cold glittering heavens and the icy waste, and when the famishing bodies had been covered from the frost that pinched them with but little less keenness than the unrelenting hunger, the solitude seemed to rend her very brain. Her own powers faltered. But she said her prayers over many times in the darkness as well as the light, and always with renewed trust in Him who had not yet forsaken her, and thus she sat out her weary watch. After the turning of the night she always sat watching for the morning star, which seemed every time she saw it rise clear in the cold eastern sky, to renew the promise, "As thy day is, so shall thy strength be." Their fire had melted the snow to a considerable depth, and they were lying on the bank above. Thus they had less of its heat than they needed, and found some difficulty in getting the fuel she gathered placed so it would burn. One morning after she had hailed her messenger of promise, and the light had increased so as to render objects visible in the distance, she looked as usual over the white expanse that lay to the south-west, to see if any dark moving specks were visible upon its surface. Only the tree-tops, which she had scanned so often as to be quite familiar with their appearance, were to be seen. With a heavy heart she brought herself back from that distant hope to consider what was immediately about her. The fire had sunk so far away that they had felt but little of its warmth the last two nights, and casting her eyes down into the snow-pit, whence it sent forth only a dull glow, she thought she saw the welcome face of beloved mother Earth. It was such a renewing sight after their long, freezing separation from it She immediately aroused her eldest son, John, and with a great deal of difficulty, and repeating words of cheer and encouragement, brought him to understand that she wished him to descend by one of the tree-tops which had fallen in so as to make a sort of ladder, and see if they could reach the naked earth, and if it were possible for them all to go down. She trembled with fear at the vacant silence in which he at first gazed at her, but at length, after she had told him a great many times, he said "Yes, mother," and went. He reached the bottom safely, and presently spoke to her. There was naked, dry earth under his feet; it was warm, and he wished her to come down. She laid her baby beside some of the sleepers, and descended. Immediately she determined upon taking them all down. How good, she thought, as she descended the boughs, was the God whom she trusted. By perseverance, by entreaty, by encouragement, and with her own aid, she got them into this snug shelter. Relief came not, and as starvation crept closer and closer to himself and those about him, Patrick Breen determined that it was his duty to employ the means of sustaining life which God seemed to have placed before them. The lives of all might be saved by resorting to such food as others, in like circumstances, had subsisted upon. Mrs. Breen, however, declared that she would die, and see her children die, before her life or theirs should be preserved by such means. If ever the father gave to the dying children, it was without her consent or knowledge. She never tasted, nor knew of her children partaking. Mrs. Farnham says that when Patrick Breen ascended to obtain the dreadful repast, his wife, frozen with horror, hid her face in her hands, and could not look up. She was conscious of his return, and of something going on about the fire, but she could not bring herself to uncover her eyes till all had subsided again into silence. Her husband remarked that perhaps they were wrong in rejecting a means of sustaining life of which others had availed themselves, but she put away the suggestion so fearfully that it was never renewed, nor acted upon by any of her family. She and her children were now, indeed, reaching the utmost verge of life. A little more battle with the grim enemies that had pursued them so relentlessly, twenty-four, or at most forty-eight hours of such warfare, and all would be ended. The infants still breathed, but were so wasted they could only be moved by raising them bodily with the hands. It seemed as if even their light weight would have dragged the limbs from their bodies. Occasionally, through the day, she ascended the tree to look out. It was an incident now, and seemed to kindle more life than when it only required a turn of the head or a glance of the eye to tell that there was no living thing near them. She could no longer walk on the snow, but she had still strength enough to crawl from tree to tree to gather a few boughs, which she threw along before her to the pit, and piled them in to renew the fire. The eighth day was passed. On the ninth morning she ascended to watch for her star of mercy. Clear and bright it stood over against her beseeching gaze, set in the light liquid blue that overflows the pathway of the opening day. She prayed earnestly as she gazed, for she knew that there were but few hours of life in those dearest to her. If human aid came not that day, some eyes, that would soon look imploringly into hers, would be closed in death before that star would rise again. Would she herself, with all her endurance and resisting love, live to see it? Were they at length to perish? Great God! should it be permitted that they, who had been preserved through so much, should die at last so miserably? Her eyes were dim, and her sight wavering. She could not distinguish trees from men on the snow, but had they been near, she could have heard them, for her ear had grown so sensitive that the slightest unaccustomed noise arrested her attention. She went below with a heavier heart than ever before. She had not a word of hope to answer the languid, inquiring countenances that were turned to her face, and she was conscious that it told the story of her despair. Yet she strove with some half-insane words to suggest that somebody would surely come to them that day. Another would be too late, and the pity of men's hearts and the mercy of God would surely bring them. The pallor of death seemed already to be stealing over the sunken countenances that surrounded her, and, weak as she was, she could remain below but a few minutes together. She felt she could have died had she let go her resolution at any time within the last forty-eight hours. They repeated the Litany. The responses came so feebly that they were scarcely audible, and the protracted utterances seemed wearisome. At last it was over, and they rested in silence. The sun mounted high and higher in the heavens, and when the day was three or four hours old she placed her trembling feet again upon the ladder to look out once more. The corpses of the dead lay always before her as she reached the top-the mother and her son, and the little boy, whose remains she could not even glance at since they had been mutilated. The blanket that covered them could not shut out the horror of the sight. The rays of the sun fell on her with a friendly warmth, but she could not look into the light that flooded the white expanse. Her eyes lacked strength and steadiness, and she rested herself against a tree and endeavored to gather her wandering faculties in vain. The enfeebled will could no longer hold rule over them. She had broken perceptions, fragments of visions, contradictory and mixed-former mingled with latter times. Recollections of plenty and rural peace came up from her clear, tranquil childhood, which seemed to have been another state of existence; flashes of her latter life-its comfort and abundance-gleams of maternal pride in her children who had been growing up about her to ease and independence. She lived through all the phases which her simple life had ever worn, in the few moments of repose after the dizzy effort of ascending; as the thin blood left her whirling brain and returned to its shrunken channels, she grew more clearly conscious of the terrible present, and remembered the weary quest upon which she came. It was not the memory of thought, it was that of love, the old tugging at the heart that had never relaxed long enough to say, "Now I am done; I can bear no more!" The miserable ones down there--for them her wavering life came back; at thought of them she turned her face listlessly the way it had so often gazed. But this time something caused it to flush as if the blood, thin and cold as it was, would burst its vessels! What was it? Nothing that she saw, for her eyes were quite dimmed by the sudden access of excitement! It was the sound of voices! By a superhuman effort she kept herself from falling! Was it reality or delusion? She must at least live to know the truth. It came again and again. She grew calmer as she became more assured, and the first distinct words she heard uttered were, "There is Mrs. Breen alive yet, anyhow!" Three men were advancing toward her. She knew that now there would be no more starving. Death was repelled for this time from the precious little flock he had so long threatened, and she might offer up thanksgiving unchecked by the dreads and fears that had so long frozen her. Chapter XVII. The Rescue California Aroused A Yerba Buena Newspaper Tidings of Woe A Cry of Distress Noble Generosity Subscriptions for the Donner Party The First and Second Reliefs Organization of the Third The Dilemma Voting to Abandon a Family The Fatal Ayes John Stark's Bravery Carrying the Starved Children A Plea for the Relief Party. Foster and Eddy, it will be remembered, were of the fifteen who composed the "Forlorn Hope." Foster was a man of strong, generous impulses, and great determination. His boy was at Donner Lake, and his wife's mother and brother. He hardly took time to rest and recruit his wasted strength before he began organizing a party to go to their rescue. His efforts were ably seconded by W. H. Eddy, whose wife and daughter had perished, but whose boy was still alive at the cabins. California was thoroughly aroused over tidings which had come from the mountains. It was difficult to get volunteers to undertake the journey over the Sierra, but horses, mules, provisions, and good wages were allowed all who would venture the perilous trip. The trouble with Mexico had caused many of the able-bodied citizens of California to enlist in the service. Hence it was that it was so difficult to organize relief parties. The following extracts are made from the California Star, a newspaper published at "Yerba Buena," as San Francisco was then called. They do justice to the sentiment of the people of California, and indicate something of the willingness of the pioneers to aid the Donner Party. From the Star of January 16, 1847, is taken the following article, which appeared as an editorial: "Emigrants on the Mountains." "It is probably not generally known to the people that there is now in the California mountains, in a most distressing situation, a party of emigrants from the United States, who were prevented from crossing the mountains by an early, heavy fall of snow. The party consists of about sixty persons--men, women, and children. They were almost entirely out of provisions when they reached the foot of the mountains, and but for the timely succor afforded them by Capt. J. A. Sutter, one of the most humane and liberal men in California, they must have all perished in a few days. Capt. Sutter, as soon as he ascertained their situation, sent five mules loaded with provisions to them. A second party was dispatched with provisions for them, but they found the mountains impassable in consequence of the snow. We hope that our citizens will do something for the relief of these unfortunate people." From the same source, under date of February 6, 1847, is taken the following: "Public Meeting." "It will be recollected that in a previous number of our paper, we called the attention of our citizens to the situation of a company of unfortunate emigrants now in the California mountains. For the purpose of making their situation more fully known to the people, and of adopting measures for their relief, a public meeting was called by the Honorable Washington A. Bartlett, alcalde of the town, on Wednesday evening last. The citizens generally attended, and in a very short time the sum of $800 was subscribed to purchase provisions, clothing, horses, and mules to bring the emigrants in. Committees were appointed to call on those who could not attend the meeting, and there is no doubt but that $500 or $600 more will be raised. This speaks well for Yerba Buena." One other extract is quoted from the Star of February 13, 1847: "Company Left." "A company of twenty men left here on Sunday last for the California mountains, with provisions, clothing, etc., for the suffering emigrants now there. The citizens of this place subscribed about $1,500 for their relief, which was expended for such articles as the emigrants would be most likely to need. Mr. Greenwood, an old mountaineer, went with the company as pilot. If it is possible to cross the mountains, they will get to the emigrants in time to save them." These three articles may aid the reader in better understanding what has heretofore been said about the organization of the relief parties. It will be remembered that James F. Reed and William McCutchen first procured animals and provisions from Capt. Sutter, attempted to cross the mountains, found the snow impassable, cached their provisions, and returned to the valleys. Reed, as described in his letter to the Rural Press, went to San Jose, Cal., and thence to Yerba Buena. McCutchen went to Napa and Sonoma, and awakened such an interest that a subscription of over $500 was subscribed for the emigrants, besides a number of horses and mules. Lieut. W. L. Maury and M. G. Vallejo headed this subscription, and $500 was promised to Greenwood if he succeeded in raising a company, and in piloting them over the mountains. In order to get men, Greenwood and McCutchen went to Yerba Buena, arriving there almost at the same time with Reed. The above notices chronicle the events which succeeded the announcement of their mission. The funds and supplies contributed were placed in charge of Lieut. Woodworth. This party set out immediately, and their journey has been described. They form the second relief party, because immediately upon the arrival of the seven who survived of the "Forlorn Hope," Capt. Tucker's party had been organized at Johnson's and Sutter's, and had reached Dormer Lake first. When Foster and Eddy attempted to form a relief party, they found the same difficulty in securing volunteers which others had encountered. It was such a terrible undertaking, that no man cared to risk his life in the expedition. Captain J. B. Hull, of the United States navy, and Commander of the Northern District of California, furnished Foster and Eddy with horses and provisions. Setting out from Johnson's ranch, they arrived at Woodworth's camp in the afternoon. During that very night two of Reed's men came to the camp, and brought news that Reed and a portion of his party were a short distance back in the mountains. When Reed and his companions were brought into camp, and it was ascertained that fourteen people had been left in the snow, without food, the third relief party was at once organized. The great danger and suffering endured by those who had composed the first and second relief parties, prevented men from volunteering. On this account greater honor is due those who determined to peril their lives to save the emigrants. Hiram Miller, although weak and exhausted with the fatigues and starvation he had just undergone in the second relief party, joined Messrs. Foster and Eddy. These three, with Wm. Thompson, John Stark, Howard Oakley, and Charles Stone, set out from Woodworth's camp the next morning after Reed's arrival. It was agreed that Stark, Oakley, and Stone were to remain with the sufferers at Starved Camp, supply them with food, and conduct them to Woodworth's camp. Foster, Eddy, Thompson, and Miller were to press forward to the relief of those at Donner Lake. The three men, therefore, whose voices reached Mrs. Breen, were Stark, Oakley, and Stone. When these members of the third relief party reached the deep, well-like cavity in which were the seven Breens, the three Graves children, and Mary Donner, a serious question arose. None of the eleven, except Mrs. Breen and John Breen, were able to walk. A storm appeared to be gathering upon the mountains, and the supply of provisions was very limited. The lonely situation, the weird, desolate surroundings, the appalling scenes at the camp, and above all, the danger of being overtaken by a snow-storm, filled the minds of Oakley and Stone with terror. When it was found that nine out of the eleven people must be carried over the snow, it is hardly to be wondered at that a proposition was made to leave a portion of the sufferers. It was proposed to take the three Graves children and Mary Donner. These four children would be quite a sufficient burden for the three men, considering the snow over which they must travel. The Breens, or at least such of them as could not walk, were to be abandoned. This was equivalent to leaving the father, mother, and five children, because the mother would not abandon any member of her family, and John, who alone could travel, was in a semi-lifeless condition. The members of the third relief party are said to have taken a vote upon the question. This scene is described in the manuscript of Hon. James F. Breen: "Those who were in favor of returning to the settlements, and leaving the Breens for a future relief party (which, under the circumstances, was equivalent to the death penalty), were to answer 'aye.' The question was put to each man by name, and as the names were called, the dreadful 'aye' responded. John Stark's name was the last one called, because he had, during the discussion of the question, strongly opposed the proposition for abandonment, and it was naturally supposed that when he found himself in so hopeless a minority he would surrender. When his name was called, he made no answer until some one said to him: 'Stark, won't you vote?' Stark, during all this proceeding of calling the roll, had stood apart from his companions with bowed head and folded arms. When he was thus directly appealed to, he answered quickly and decidedly: "No, gentlemen, I will not abandon these people. I am here on a mission of mercy, and I will not half do the work. You can all go if you want to, but I shall stay by these people while they and I live." It was nobly said. If the Breens had been left at Starved Camp, even until the return of Foster, Eddy, Miller, and Thompson from the lake, none would have ever reached the settlements. In continuation of the above narration, the following is taken from the manuscript of John Breen: "Stark was finally left alone. To his great bodily strength, and unexcelled courage, myself and others owe our lives. There was probably no other man in California at that time, who had the intelligence, determination, and what was absolutely necessary in that emergency, the immense physical powers of John Stark. He was as strong as two ordinary men. On his broad shoulders, he carried the provisions, most of the blankets, and most of the time some of the weaker children. In regard to this, he would laughingly say that he could carry them all, if there was room on his back, because they were so light from starvation." By every means in his power, Stark would cheer and encourage the poor sufferers. Frequently he would carry one or two ahead a little way, put them down, and return for the others. James F. Breen says: "I distinctly remember that myself and Jonathan Graves were both carried by Stark, on his back, the greater part of the journey." Others speak similarly. Regarding this brave man, Dr. J. C. Leonard has contributed much valuable information, from which is selected the following: "John Stark was born in 1817, in Wayne County, Indiana. His father, William Stark, came from Virginia, and was one of the first settlers of Kentucky, arriving there about the same time as Daniel Boone. He married a cousin of Daniel Boone, and they had a family of eight children. T. J. Stark, the oldest son, now lives at French Corral, Nevada County, California. John Stark, the younger brother, started from Monmouth County, Illinois, in the spring of 1846, but taking the Fort Hall road, reached California in safety. He was a powerfully built man, weighing two hundred and twenty pounds. He was sheriff of Napa County for six years, and in 1852 represented that county in the State Legislature. He died near Calistoga, in 1875, of heart disease. His death was instantaneous, and occurred while pitching hay from a wagon. He was the father of eleven children, six of whom, with his wife, are now living." Each one of the persons who were taken from Starved Camp by this man and his two companions, reached Sutter's Fort in safety. James F. Breen had his feet badly frozen, and afterwards burned while at the camp. No one had any hope that they could be saved, and when the party reached the fort, a doctor was sought to amputate them. None could be found, and kind nature effected a cure which a physician would have pronounced impossible. In concluding this chapter, it is quite appropriate to quote the following, written by J. F. Breen: "No one can attach blame to those who voted to leave part of the emigrants. It was a desperate case. Their idea was to save as many as possible, and they honestly believed that by attempting to save all, all would be lost. But this consideration--and the further one that Stark was an entire stranger to every one in the camps, not bound to them by any tie of blood or kindred, nor having any hope of reward, except the grand consciousness of doing a noble act--makes his conduct shine more lustrously in the eyes of every person who admires nature's true and only nobility." Chapter XVIII. Arrival of the Third Relief The Living and the Dead Captain George Donner Dying Mrs. Murphy's Words Foster and Eddy at the Lake Tamsen Donner and her Children A Fearful Struggle The Husband's Wishes Walking Fourteen Miles Wifely Devotion Choosing Death The Night Journey An Unparalleled Ordeal An Honored Name Three Little Waifs "And Our Parents are Dead." Eddy, Foster, Thompson, and Miller passed Nicholas Clark and John Baptiste near the head of Donner Lake. These starving fugitives had journeyed thus far in their desperate effort to cross the mountains. Of all those encamped at Alder Creek the sole survivors now were George Donner, the captain of the Donner Party, and his faithful wife, Tamsen Donner. Under the snowdrifts which covered the valley, lay Jacob Donner, Elizabeth Donner, Lewis Donner, Samuel Donner, Samuel Shoemaker, Joseph Rhinehart, and James Smith. One more was soon to be added to the number. It was the man whose name had been given to the company; the only one who died of a lingering, painful disease. The injury of George Donner's hand had grown into a feverish, virulent ulceration, which must have partaken of the nature of erysipelas. At all events, mortification had set in, and when the third relief party arrived it had reached his shoulder. In a few hours at most he must die. Foster's party found that much suffering had occurred at Donner Lake during the tearful days which elapsed between Reed's departure and their own arrival. Mrs. Lavina Murphy had charge of her son, Simon Murphy, her grandchild, George Foster, of the child James Eddy, and of the three little Donner girls, Frances, Georgia, and Eliza. All dwelt in the same cabin, and with them was Lewis Keseberg. Foster and Eddy found all there, save their own children. They were both dead. Keseberg has generally been accused of the murder of little George Foster. Except Mrs. Murphy, the oldest of those who were with Keseberg was only nine years of age. All that the children know is that Keseberg took the child to bed with him one night, and that it was dead next morning. One of the little ones who survived--one whose memory has proven exceedingly truthful upon all points wherein her evidence could be possibly substantiated--and who is now Mrs. Georgia A. Babcock--gives the mildest version of this sad affair which has ever appeared in print. She denies the story, so often reiterated, that Keseberg took the child to bed with him and ate it up before morning; but writes the following: "In the morning the child was dead. Mrs. Murphy took it, sat down near the bed where my sister and myself were lying, laid the little one on her lap, and made remarks to other persons, accusing Keseberg of killing it. After a while he came, took it from her, and hung it up in sight, inside the cabin, on the wall." Foster, Eddy, Thompson, and Miller remained but a little while at the mountain camp. During this time Mr. Foster had no opportunity to talk with Mrs. Murphy save in Keseberg's presence. Afterwards, when the children told him of the suspicions expressed in their presence by Mrs. Murphy, Foster deeply regretted that he had not sought a private interview with her, for the purpose of learning the reasons for her belief. In the morning the relief party was to start back to the settlements. Eddy was to carry Georgia Donner; Thompson, Frances Donner; Miller, Eliza Donner; and Foster was to carry Simon Murphy. John Baptiste and Nicholas Clark remained at the head of Donner Lake, and were to accompany the party. This left Mr. and Mrs. Donner at Alder Creek, and Keseberg and Mrs. Murphy at the cabins. Mrs. Murphy had cared for her children and her grandchildren, and ministered to the wants of those around her, until she was sick, exhausted, and utterly helpless. She could not walk. She could scarcely rise from her bed. With all the tenderness of a son, Mr. Foster gave her such provisions as he could leave, procured her wood, and did whatever he was able to do to render her comfortable. He also promised to return speedily, and with such assistance that he could carry her over the summits to her children. The very afternoon that the third relief party reached the cabins, Simon Murphy discovered a woman wandering about in the snow as if lost. It proved to be Mrs. Tamsen Donner. She had wearily traveled over the deep snows from Alder Creek, as narrated in a previous chapter, to see her children, and, if necessary, to protect their lives. Oh! the joy and the pain of the meeting of those little ones and their mother. As they wound their arms about her neck, kissed her lips, laughed in her eyes, and twined their fingers in her hair, what a struggle must have been taking place in her soul. As the pleading, upturned faces of her babies begged her not to leave them, her very heart-strings must have been rent with agony. Well may the voice quiver or the hand tremble that attempts to portray the anguish of this mother during that farewell interview. From the very first moment, her resolution to return to her husband remained unshaken. The members of the relief party entreated her to go with her, children and save her own life. They urged that there could only be a few hours of life left in George Donner. This was so true that she once ventured the request that they remain until she could return to Alder Creek, and see if he were yet alive. The gathering storm-clouds, which had hovered over the summit for days, compelled them to refuse this request. An hour's delay might be fatal to all. George Donner knew that he was dying, and had frequently urged his wife to leave him, cross the mountains, and take care of her children. As she held her darlings in her arms, it required no prophetic vision to disclose pictures of sadness, of lonely childhood, of longing girlhood, of pillows wet with tears, if these three little waifs were left to wander friendless in California. She never expressed a belief that she would see that land of promise beyond the Sierra. Often had her calm, earnest voice told them of the future which awaited them, and so far as possible had she prepared them to meet that future without the counsel or sympathy of father or mother. The night-shadows, creeping through the shivering pines, warned her of the long, dreary way over which her tired feet must pass ere she reached her dying husband's side. She is said to have appeared strangely composed. The struggle was silent. The poor, bleeding heart brought not a single moan to the lips. It was a choice between life, hope, and her clinging babes, or a lonely vigil by a dying husband, and an unknown, shroudless death in the wintry mountains. Her husband was sixty-three; he was well stricken in years, and his life was fast ebbing away. If she returned through the frosty night-winds, over the crisp, freezing snow, she would travel fourteen miles that day. The strong, healthy men composing the relief parties frequently could travel but five or six miles in a day. If she made the journey, and found her husband was dead, she could have no hope of returning on the morrow. She had suffered too long from hunger and privation to hope to be able to return and overtake the relief party. It was certain life or certain death. On the side of the former was maternal love; on the side of the latter, wifely devotion. The whole wide range of history can not produce a parallel example of adherence to duty, and to the dictates of conjugal fidelity. With quick, convulsive pressure of her little ones to her heart; with a hasty, soul-throbbing kiss upon the lips of each; with a prayer that was stifled with a sob of agony, Tamsen Donner hurried away to her husband. Through the gathering darkness, past the shadowy sentinels of the forest, they watched with tearful eyes her retreating form. As if she dared not trust another sight of the little faces--as if to escape the pitiful wail of her darlings--she ran straight forward until out of sight and hearing. She never once looked back. There are mental struggles which so absorb the being and soul that physical terrors or tortures are unnoticed. Tamsen Donner's mind was passing through such an ordeal. The fires of Moloch, the dreadful suttee, were sacrifices which long religious education sanctioned, and in which the devotees perished amidst the plaudits of admiring multitudes. This woman had chosen a death of solitude, of hunger, of bitter cold, of pain-racked exhaustion, and was actuated by only the pure principles of wifely love. Already the death-damp was gathering on George Donner's brow. At the utmost, she could hope to do no more than smooth the pillow of the dying, tenderly clasp the fast-chilling hand, press farewell kisses upon the whitening lips, and finally close the dear, tired eyes. For this, only this, she was yielding life, the world, and her darling babes. Fitted by culture and refinement to be an ornament to society, qualified by education to rear her daughters to lives of honor and usefulness, how it must have wrung her heart to allow her little ones to go unprotected into a wilderness of strangers. But she could not leave her husband to die alone. Rather solitude, better death, than desert the father of her children. O, Land of the Sunset! let the memory of this wife's devotion be ever enshrined in the hearts of your faithful daughters! In tablets thus pure, engrave the name of Tamsen Donner. When the June sunshine gladdened the Sacramento Valley, three little barefooted girls walked here and there among the houses and tents of Sutter's Fort. They were scantily clothed, and one carried a thin blanket. At night they said their prayers, lay down in whatever tent they happened to be, and, folding the blanket about them, fell asleep in each other's arms. When they were hungry, they asked food of whomsoever they met. If any one inquired who they were, they answered as their mother had taught them: "We are the children of Mr. and Mrs. George Donner." But they added something they had learned since. It was, "And our parents are dead." Chapter XIX. False Ideas about the Donner Party Accused of Six Murders Interviews with Lewis Keseberg His Statement An Educated German A Predestined Fate Keseberg's Lameness Slanderous Reports Covered with Snow "Loathsome, Insipid, and Disgusting" Longings toward Suicide Tamsen Donner's Death Going to Get the Treasure Suspended over a Hidden Stream "Where is Donner's Money?" Extorting a Confession. Keseberg is one of the leading characters in the Donner Party. Usually, his part in the tragedy has been considered the entire story. Comparatively few people have understood that any except this one man ate human flesh, or was a witness of any scene of horror. He has been loathed, execrated, abhorred as a cannibal, a murderer, and a heartless fiend. In the various published sketches which have from time to time been given to the world, Lewis Keseberg has been charged with no less than six murders. His cannibalism has been denounced as arising from choice, as growing out of a depraved and perverted appetite, instead of being the result of necessity. On the fourth of April, 1879, this strange man granted an interview to the author, and in this and succeeding interviews he reluctantly made a statement which was reduced to writing. "What is the use," he would urge, "of my making a statement? People incline to believe the most horrible reports concerning a man, and they will not credit what I say in my own defense. My conscience is clear. I am an old man, and am calmly awaiting my death. God is my judge, and it long ago ceased to trouble me that people shunned and slandered me." Keseberg is six feet in height, is well proportioned, and weighs from one hundred and seventy-five to one hundred and eighty pounds. He is active, vigorous, and of an erect, manly carriage, despite his years and his many afflictions. He has clear blue eyes, regular features, light hair and beard, a distinct, rapid mode of enunciation, a loud voice, and a somewhat excited manner of speech. In conversing he looks one squarely and steadily in the eye, and appears like an honest, intelligent German. He speaks and writes German, French, Spanish, and English, and his selection of words proves him a scholar. His face generally wears a determined, almost fierce expression, but one is impressed with the thought that this appearance is caused by his habitually standing on the defensive as against his fellow-men. Since he has never before had an opportunity of speaking in his own defense, it is perhaps fitting that his statement should be given in his own language: "My name is Lewis Keseberg. I was born in the city of Berleburg, Province of Westphalia, in the Kingdom of Prussia, on the twenty-second of May, 1814. I am therefore almost sixty-three years of age. I was married June 22, 1842, came to the United States May 22, 1844, and emigrated to California in 1846 with the Donner Party. I never have made a statement concerning my connection with that Party to any one connected with the press. It is with the utmost horror that I revert to the scenes of suffering and unutterable misery endured during that journey. I have always endeavored to put away from me all thoughts or recollections of those terrible events. Time is the best physician, and would, I trusted, heal the wounds produced by those days of torture; yet my mind to-day recoils with undiminished horror as I endeavor to speak of this dreadful subject. Heretofore I have never attempted to refute the villainous slanders which have been circulated and published about me. I feel it my duty to make this statement, however, because I am convinced of your willingness to do justice to all who were concerned in that dreadful affair, and heretofore I have been treated with gross injustice. "If I believe in God Almighty having anything to do with the affairs of men, I believe that the misfortune which overtook the Donner Party, and the terrible part I was compelled to take in the great tragedy, were predestined. On the Hastings Cut-off we were twenty-eight days in going twenty-one miles. Difficulty and disaster hovered about us from the time we entered upon this cut-off." "One day, while we were traveling on Goose Creek, we saw so many wild geese that I took my shotgun and went hunting. Ordinarily I am not superstitious, but on this morning I felt an overwhelming sense of impending calamity. I mentioned my premonitions to Mrs. Murphy before starting on the hunt. Becoming excited with the sport, and eagerly watching the game, I stepped down a steep bank. Some willows had been burned off, and the short, sharp stubs were sticking up just where I stepped. I had on buckskin moccasins, and one of these stubs ran into the ball of my foot, between the bones and the toes. From this time, until we arrived at Donner Lake, I was unable to walk, or even to put my foot to the ground. The foot became greatly swollen and inflamed, and was exceedingly painful. One day, at Donner Lake, one of my companions, at my earnest request, lanced my foot on the top. It discharged freely, and some days afterwards, in washing it, I found a hard substance protruding from the wound, and obtaining a pair of forceps, succeeded in extracting a piece of the willow stub, one and a half inches in length. It had literally worked up through my foot. I mention this particularly, because I have been frequently accused of remaining at the Donner cabins from selfish or sinister motives, when in fact I was utterly unable to join the relief parties." It is proper to mention, in corroboration of Keseberg's statement regarding his lameness, that several of the survivors remembered, and had related the circumstance prior to the interview. It is a well-authenticated fact that he was very lame, and could not walk, yet, as a specimen of the abuse which has been heaped upon the man, a quotation is introduced from Thornton's "Oregon and California." In speaking of the departure of Foster and Eddy, Thornton says: "There were in camp Mrs. Murphy, Mr. and Mrs. Gorge Donner, and Keseberg--the latter, it was believed, having far more strength to travel than others who had arrived in the settlements. But he would not travel, for the reason, as was suspected, that he wished to remain behind for the purpose of obtaining the property and money of the dead." Keseberg's statement continues: "When we reached the lake, we lost our road, and owing to the depth of the snow on the mountains; were compelled to abandon our wagons, and pack our goods upon oxen. The cattle, unused to such burdens, caused great delay by 'bucking' and wallowing in the snow. There was also much confusion as to what articles should be taken and what abandoned. One wanted a box of tobacco carried along; another, a bale of calico, and some thing and some another. But for this delay we would have passed the summit and pressed forward to California. Owing to my lameness, I was placed on horseback, and my foot was tied up to the saddle in a sort of sling. Near evening we were close to the top of the dividing ridge. It was cold and chilly, and everybody was tired with the severe exertions of the day. Some of the emigrants sat down to rest, and declared they could go no further. I begged them for God's sake to get over the ridge before halting. Some one, however, set fire to a pitchy pine tree, and the flames soon ascended to its topmost branches. The women and children gathered about this fire to warm themselves. Meantime the oxen were rubbing off their packs against the trees. The weather looked very threatening, and I exhorted them to go on until the summit was reached. I foresaw the danger plainly and unmistakably. Only the strongest men, however, could go ahead and break the road, and it would have taken a determined man to induce the party to leave the fire. Had I been well, and been able to push ahead over the ridge, some, if not all, would have followed. As it was, all lay down on the snow, and from exhaustion were soon asleep. In the night, I felt something impeding my breath. A heavy weight seemed to be resting upon me. Springing up to a sitting posture, I found myself covered with freshly-fallen snow. The camp, the cattle, my companions, had all disappeared. All I could see was snow everywhere. I shouted at the top of my voice. Suddenly, here and there, all about me, heads popped up through the snow. The scene was not unlike what one might imagine at the resurrection, when people rise up out of the earth. The terror amounted to a panic. The mules were lost, the cattle strayed away, and our further progress rendered impossible. The rest you probably know. We returned to the lake, and prepared, as best we could, for the winter. I was unable to build a cabin, because of my lameness, and so erected a sort of brush shed against one side of Breen's cabin. "When Reed's relief party left the cabins, Mr. Reed left me a half teacupful of flour, and about half a pound of jerked beef. It was all he could give. Mrs. Murphy, who was left with me, because too weak and emaciated to walk, had no larger portion. Reed had no animosity toward me. He found me too weak to move. He washed me, combed my hair, and treated me kindly. Indeed, he had no cause to do otherwise. Some of my portion of the flour brought by Stanton from Sutter's Fort I gave to Reed's children, and thus saved their lives. When he left me, he promised to return in two weeks and carry me over the mountains. When this party left, I was not able to stand, much less to walk." "A heavy storm came on in a few days after the last relief party left. Mrs. George Donner had remained with her sick husband in their camp, six or seven miles away. Mrs. Murphy lived about a week after we were left alone. When my provisions gave out, I remained four days before I could taste human flesh. There was no other resort--it was that or death. My wife and child had gone on with the first relief party. I knew not whether they were living or dead. They were penniless and friendless in a strange land. For their sakes I must live, if not for my own. Mrs. Murphy was too weak to revive. The flesh of starved beings contains little nutriment. It is like feeding straw to horses. I can not describe the unutterable repugnance with which I tasted the first mouthful of flesh. There is an instinct in our nature that revolts at the thought of touching, much less eating, a corpse. It makes my blood curdle to think of it! It has been told that I boasted of my shame--said that I enjoyed this horrid food, and that I remarked that human flesh was more palatable than California beef. This is a falsehood. It is a horrible, revolting falsehood. This food was never otherwise than loathsome, insipid, and disgusting. For nearly two months I was alone in that dismal cabin. No one knows what occurred but myself--no living being ever before was told of the occurrences. Life was a burden. The horrors of one day succeeded those of the preceding. Five of my companions had died in my cabin, and their stark and ghastly bodies lay there day and night, seemingly gazing at me with their glazed and staring eyes. I was too weak to move them had I tried. The relief parties had not removed them. These parties had been too hurried, too horror-stricken at the sight, too fearful lest an hour's delay might cause them to share the same fate. I endured a thousand deaths. To have one's suffering prolonged inch by inch, to be deserted, forsaken, hopeless; to see that loathsome food ever before my eyes, was almost too much for human endurance. I am conversant with four different languages. I speak and write them with equal fluency; yet in all four I do not find words enough to express the horror I experienced during those two months, or what I still feel when memory reverts to the scene. Suicide would have been a relief, a happiness, a godsend! Many a time I had the muzzle of my pistol in my mouth and my finger on the trigger, but the faces of my helpless, dependent wife and child would rise up before me, and my hand would fall powerless. I was not the cause of my misfortunes, and God Almighty had provided only this one horrible way for me to subsist." Did you boil the flesh? "Yes! But to go into details--to relate the minutiae--is too agonizing! I can not do it! Imagination can supply these. The necessary mutilation of the bodies of those who had been my friends, rendered the ghastliness of my situation more frightful. When I could crawl about and my lame foot was partially recovered, I was chopping some wood one day and the ax glanced and cut off my heel. The piece of flesh grew back in time, but not in its former position, and my foot is maimed to this day. "A man, before he judges me, should be placed in a similar situation; but if he were, it is a thousand to one he would perish. A constitution of steel alone could endure the deprivation and misery. At this time I was living in the log-cabin with the fireplace. One night I was awakened by a scratching sound over my head. I started up in terror, and listened intently for the noise to be repeated. It came again. It was the wolves trying to get into the cabin to eat me and the dead bodies." "At midnight, one cold, bitter night, Mrs. George Donner came to my door. It was about two weeks after Reed had gone, and my loneliness was beginning to be unendurable. I was most happy to her the sound of a human voice. Her coming was like that of an angel from heaven. But she had not come to bear me company. Her husband had died in her arms. She had remained by his side until death came, and then had laid him out and hurried away. He died at nightfall, and she had traveled over the snow alone to my cabin. She was going, alone, across the mountains. She was going to start without food or guide. She kept saying, 'My children! I must see my children!' She feared he would not survive, and told me she had some money in her tent. It was too heavy for her to carry. She said, 'Mr. Keseberg, I confide this to your care.' She made me promise sacredly that I would get the money and take it to her children in case she perished and I survived. She declared she would start over the mountains in the morning. She said, 'I am bound to go to my children.' She seemed very cold, and her clothes were like ice. I think she had got in the creek in coming. She said she was very hungry, but refused the only food I could offer. She had never eaten the loathsome flesh. She finally lay down, and I spread a feather-bed and some blankets over her. In the morning she was dead. I think the hunger, the mental suffering, and the icy chill of the preceding night, caused her death. I have often been accused of taking her life. Before my God, I swear this is untrue! Do you think a man would be such a miscreant, such a damnable fiend, such a caricature on humanity, as to kill this lone woman? There were plenty of corpses lying around. He would only add one more corpse to the many!" "Oh! the days and weeks of horror which I passed in that camp! I had no hope of help or of being rescued, until I saw the green grass coming up by the spring on the hillside, and the wild geese coming to nibble it. The birds were coming back to their breeding grounds, and I felt that I could kill them for food. I had plenty of guns and ammunition in camp. I also had plenty of tobacco and a good meerschaum pipe, and almost the only solace I enjoyed was smoking. In my weak condition it took me two or three hours every day to get sufficient wood to keep my fire going." "Some time after Mrs. Donner's death, I thought I had gained sufficient strength to redeem the pledge I had made her before her death. I started to go to the camps at Alder Creek to get the money. I had a very difficult journey. The wagons of the Donners were loaded with tobacco, powder, caps, shoes, school-books, and dry-goods. This stock was very valuable, and had it reached California, would have been a fortune to the Donners. I searched carefully among the bales and bundles of goods, and found five-hundred and thirty-one dollars. Part of this sum was silver, part gold. The silver I buried at the foot of a pine tree, a little way from the camp. One of the lower branches of another tree reached down close to the ground, and appeared to point to the spot. I put the gold in my pocket, and started to return to my cabin. I had spent one night at the Donner tents. On my return I became lost. When it was nearly dark, in crossing a little flat, the snow suddenly gave way under my feet, and I sank down almost to my armpits. By means of the crust on top of the snow, I kept myself suspended by throwing out my arms. A stream of water flowed underneath the place over which I had been walking, and the snow had melted on the underside until it was not strong enough to support my weight. I could not touch bottom with my feet, and so could form no idea of the depth of the stream. By long and careful exertion I managed to draw myself backward and up on the snow. I then went around on the hillside, and continued my journey. At last, just at dark, completely exhausted and almost dead, I came in sight of the Graves cabin. I shall never forget my joy at sight of that log-cabin. I felt that I was no longer lost, and would at least have shelter. Some time after dark I reached my own cabin. My clothes were wet by getting in the creek, and the night was so cold that my garments were frozen into sheets of ice. I was so weary, and chilled, and numbed, that I did not build up a fire, or attempt to get anything to eat, but rolled myself up in the bed-clothes and tried to get warm. Nearly all night I lay there shivering with cold; and when I finally slept, I slept very soundly. I did not wake up until quite late the next morning. To my utter astonishment my camp was in the most inexplicable confusion. My trunks were broken open, and their contents were scattered everywhere. Everything about the cabin was torn up and thrown about the floor. My wife's jewelry, my cloak, my pistol and ammunition were missing. I supposed Indians had robbed my camp during my absence. Suddenly I was startled by the sound of human voices. I hurried up to the surface of the snow, and saw white men coming toward the cabin. I was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude at the prospect of my deliverance. I had suffered so much, and for so long a time, that I could scarcely believe my senses. Imagine my astonishment upon their arrival to be greeted, not with a 'good morning' or a kind word, but with the gruff, insolent demand, 'Where is Donner's money?'" "I told them they ought to give me something to eat, and that I would talk with them afterwards, but no, they insisted that I should tell them about Donner's money. I asked them who they were, and where they came from, but they replied by threatening to kill me if I did not give up the money. They threatened to hang or shoot me, and at last I told them I had promised Mrs. Donner that I would carry her money to her children, and I proposed to do so, unless shown some authority by which they had a better claim. This so exasperated them, that they acted as though they were going to kill me. I offered to let them bind me as a prisoner, and take me before the alcalde at Sutter's Fort, and I promised that I would then tell all I knew about the money. They would listen to nothing, however, and finally I told them where they would find the silver buried, and gave them the gold. After I had done this, they showed me a document from Alcalde Sinclair, by which they were to receive a certain proportion of all moneys and property which they rescued." The men spoken of by Keseberg, were the fourth relief party. Their names were, Captain Fallon, William M. Foster, John Rhodes, J. Foster, R. P. Tucker, E. Coffeemire, and--Keyser. William M. Foster had recrossed the mountains the second time, hoping to rescue his wife's mother, Mrs. Murphy. Alas! he found only her mutilated remains. Chapter XX. Dates of the Rescues Arrival of the Fourth Relief A Scene Beggaring Description The Wealth of the Donners An Appeal to the Highest Court A Dreadful Shock Saved from a Grizzly Bear A Trial for Slander Keseberg Vindicated Two Kettles of Human Blood The Enmity of the Relief Party "Born under an Evil Star" "Stone Him! Stone Him!" Fire and Flood Keseberg's Reputation for Honesty A Prisoner in his own House The Most Miserable of Men December 16, 1846, the fifteen composing the "Forlorn Hope," left Donner Lake. January 17, 1847, as they reached Johnson's ranch; and February 5th Capt. Tucker's party started to the assistance of the emigrants. This first relief arrived February 19th at the cabins; the second relief, or Reed's party, arrived March 1st; the third, or Foster's, about the middle of March; and the fourth, or Fallon's, on the seventeenth of April. Upon the arrival of Capt. Fallon's company, the sight presented at the cabins beggars all description. Capt. R. P. Tucker, now of Goleta, Santa Barbara County, Cal., endeavors, in his correspondence, to give a slight idea of the scene. Human bodies, terribly mutilated, legs, arms, skulls, and portions of remains, were scattered in every direction and strewn about the camp. Mr. Foster found Mrs. Murphy's body with one of her limbs sawed off, the saw still lying by her remains. It was such scenes as these which gave this party their first abhorrence for Keseberg. The man was nowhere to be seen, but a fresh track was discovered in the snow leading away from the cabins toward the Dormer tents. The party pressed forward to Alder Creek. Captain Tucker writes: "The dead bodies lay moldering around, being all that was left to tell the tale of sorrow. On my first trip we had cut down a large pine tree, and laid the goods of the Donners on this tree to dry in the sun. These goods lay there yet, with the exception of those which Reed's party had taken away." George Donner was wealthy. His wealth consisted not merely of goods, as many claim, but of a large amount of coin. Hiram Miller, of the relief parties, is authority for the statement that Mr. Donner owned a quarter section of land within the present city limits of Chicago. This land was sold for ten thousand dollars, shortly before Mr. Donner started for California. Mr. Allen Francis, who has been mentioned as the very best authority concerning this, family, camped with them on the evening of their first night's journey out of Springfield, Illinois, saw Mr. Donner's money, and thinks there was ten thousand dollars. Mrs. F. E. Bond, of Elk Grove, Sacramento County, California, does not remember the exact amount, but knows that Mr. Donner started with a great deal of gold, because she helped make the belts in which it was to be carried in crossing the plains. The relief parties always understood there was at Donner's camp a large sum of money, estimated at from six to fourteen thousand dollars. It is not disputed that Halloran left about fifteen hundred dollars to this family. Yet Capt. Fallon's party could find no money. It was clear to their minds that some one had robbed the Donner tents. Remaining over night, thoroughly searching in every place where the supposed money could be concealed, this party returned to Donner Lake. On their way they found the same mysterious track, also returning to the cabins. They probably discovered Keseberg in about the manner described. It is plain to be seen that they regarded him as the murderer of Mrs. Donner. In forcing him to tell what he had done with the money, they, too, claim to have choked him, to have put a rope around his neck, and to have threatened to hang him. On the other hand, if Keseberg's statement be accepted as truth, it is easy to understand why he refused to surrender the money to men who treated him from the outset as a murderer and a robber. Let the God to whom Lewis Keseberg appeals be his judge. It is not the part of this book to condemn or acquit him. Most of the fourth relief party have already gone before the bar at which Keseberg asks to be tried. Capt. Tucker is about the only available witness, and his testimony is far more lenient than the rumors and falsehoods usually published. If Keseberg be guilty of any or of all crimes, it will presently be seen that the most revengeful being on earth could not ask that another drop be added to his cup of bitterness. His statement continues: "These men treated me with the greatest unkindness. Mr. Tucker was the only one who took my part or befriended me. When they started over the mountains, each man carried two bales of goods. They had silks, calicoes, and delames from the Donners, and other articles of great value. Each man would carry one bundle a little way, lay it down, and come back and get the other bundle. In this way they passed over the snow three times. I could not keep up with them because I was so weak, but managed to come up to their camp every night. One day I was dragging myself slowly along behind the party, when I came to a place which had evidently been used as a camping-ground by some of the previous parties. Feeling very tired, I thought it would be a good place to make some coffee. Kindling a fire, I filled my coffee-pot with fresh snow and sat waiting for it to melt and get hot. Happening to cast my eyes carelessly around, I discovered a little piece of calico protruding from the snow. Half thoughtlessly, half out of idle curiosity, I caught hold of the cloth, and finding it did not come readily, I gave it a strong pull. I had in my hands the body of my dead child Ada! She had been buried in the snow, which, melting down, had disclosed a portion of her clothing. I thought I should go frantic! It was the first intimation I had of her death, and it came with such a shock!" "Just as we were getting out of the snow, I happened to be sitting in camp alone one afternoon. The men were hunting, or attending to their goods. I was congratulating myself upon my escape from the mountains, when I was startled by a snuffling, growling noise, and looking up, I saw a large grizzly bear only a few feet away. I knew I was too weak to attempt to escape, and so remained where I sat, expecting every moment he would devour me. Suddenly there was the report of a gun, and the bear fell dead. Mr. Foster had discovered the animal, and slipping up close to camp, had killed it." When the party arrived at Sutter's Fort, they took no pains to conceal their feelings toward Keseberg. Some of the men openly accused him of Mrs. Donner's murder. Keseberg, at the suggestion of Captain Sutter, brought action against Captain Fallon, Ned Coffeemire, and the others, for slander. The case was tried before Alcalde Sinclair, and the jury gave Keseberg a verdict of one dollar damages. The old alcalde records are not in existence, but some of the survivors remember the circumstance, and Mrs. Samuel Kyburz, now of Clarksville, El Dorado County, was a witness at the trial. If Keseberg was able to vindicate himself in an action for slander against the evidence of all the party, it is clear that such evidence was not adduced as has frequently appeared in books. For instance, in Captain Fallon's report of this trip, he alleges that "in the cabin with Keseberg were found two kettles of human blood, in all supposed to be over one gallon." Had this been proven, no jury would have found for Keseberg. Fresh blood could not have been obtained from starved bodies, and had the blood been found, Keseberg would have been adjudged a murderer. Speaking upon this point, Keseberg denies the assertion that any blood was discovered, calls attention to the length of time Mrs. Donner had been dead, to the readiness with which blood coagulates, and adds that not a witness testified to such a circumstance at the trial. Why should Keseberg murder Mrs. Donner? If he wanted her money, it was only necessary to allow her to go out into the mountains alone, without provisions, without any one to point out the way, and perish in the trackless snows. She could not carry any considerable portion of her money with her, and he, had only to go back to Alder Creek and secure the treasure. He bears witness that she never tasted human flesh; that she would not partake of the food he offered; how reasonable, then, the story of her death. The fourth relief party expected to find a vast sum of money. One half was to be given them for their trouble. They regarded the man Keseberg as the murderer of George Foster, because of the reports given by the little children brought out by the third relief. The father of this child was with both the third and fourth reliefs. Arriving at the cabins, they were amazed and horrified at the dreadful sights. Hastening to the tents, they found no money. Their idea that Keseberg was a thief was confirmed by his disgorging the money when threatened with death. There was much reason for their hatred of the man who crossed the mountains with them, and this was intensified by their being brought before Alcalde Sinclair and proven slanderers. Out of this hatred has grown reports which time has magnified into the hideous falsehoods which greet the ear from all directions. Keseberg may be responsible for the death of Hardcoop, but urges in his defense that all were walking, even to the women and the children. He says Hardcoop was not missed until evening, and that it was supposed the old man would catch up with the train during the night. The terrible dangers surrounding the company, the extreme lateness of the season, the weakness of the oxen, and the constant fear of lurking, hostile Indians, prevented him or any one else from going back. Keseberg may be responsible for the death of Wolfinger, of George Foster, of James Eddy, of Mrs. Murphy, and of Mrs. Tamsen Donner, but the most careful searcher for evidence can not find the slightest trace of proofs. In his own mournful language, he comes near the truth when he says: "I have been born under an evil star! Fate, misfortune, bad luck, compelled me to remain at Donner Lake. If God would decree that I should again pass through such an ordeal, I could not do otherwise than I did. My conscience is free from reproach. Yet that camp has been the one burden of my life. Wherever I have gone, people have cried, 'Stone him! stone him!' Even the little children in the streets have mocked me and thrown stones at me as I passed. Only a man conscious of his innocence, and clear in the sight of God, would not have succumbed to the terrible things which have been said of me--would not have committed suicide! Mortification, disgrace, disaster, and unheard-of misfortune have followed and overwhelmed me. I often think that the Almighty has singled me out, among all the men on the face of the earth, in order to see how much hardship, suffering, and misery a human being can bear!" "Soon after my arrival at the Fort, I took charge of the schooner Sacramento, and conveyed wheat from Sacramento to San Francisco, in payment of Capt. Sutter's purchase of the Russian possessions. I worked seven months for Sutter; but, although he was kind to me, I did not get my money. I then went to Sonoma, and worked about the same length of time for Gen. Vallejo. I had a good position and good prospects, but left for the gold mines. Soon afterward I was taken sick, and for eight months was an invalid. I then went to Sutter's Fort and started a boarding-house. I made money rapidly. After a time I built a house south of the Fort, which cost ten thousand dollars. In 1851 I purchased the Lady Adams hotel, in Sacramento. It was a valuable property, and I finally sold it at auction for a large sum of money. This money was to be paid the next day. The deeds had already passed. That night the terrible fire of 1852 occurred, and not only swept away the hotel, but ruined the purchaser, so that I could not collect one cent. I went back to Sutter's Fort and started the Phoenix Brewery. I succeeded, and acquired considerable property. I finally sold out for fifty thousand dollars. I had concluded to take this money, go back to Germany, and live quietly the rest of my days. The purchaser went to San Francisco to draw the money. The sale was effected eight days before the great flood of 1861-2. The flood came, and I lost everything." Thus, throughout his entire career, have business reverses followed Lewis Keseberg. Several times he has been wealthy and honorably situated. At one time he was a partner of Sam. Brannan, in a mammoth distillery at Calistoga; and Mr. Brannan is one among many who speak in highest terms of his honesty, integrity, and business capacity. On the thirtieth of January, 1877, Phillipine Keseberg, his faithful wife, died. This was the severest loss of all, as will presently be seen. Eleven children were born to them, and four are now living. One of these, Lillie, now lives in Sacramento with her husband. Another, Paulina, a widow, resides in San Rafael. Bertha and Augusta live with the father at Brighton, Sacramento County. Both these children are hopelessly idiotic. Bertha is twenty-six years of age, and has never uttered an intelligible word. Augusta is fifteen years old, weighs two hundred and five pounds, and possesses only slight traces of intelligence. Teething spasms, occurring when they were about two years old, is the cause of their idiocy. Both are subject to frequent and violent spasms or epileptic fits. They need constant care and attention. Should Bertha's hand fall into the fire, she has not sufficient intelligence to withdraw it from the flames. Both are helpless as children. The State provides for insane, but not for idiots. Keseberg says a bill setting aside a ward in the State Asylum for his two children, passed the Legislature, but received a pocket veto by the Governor. Sacramento County gives them eighteen dollars a month. Their helplessness and violence render it impossible to keep any nurse in charge of them longer than a few days. Keseberg is very poor. He has employment for perhaps three months during the year. While his wife lived, she took care of these children; but now he has personally to watch over them and provide for their necessities. While at work, he is compelled to keep them locked in a room in the same building. They scream so loudly while going into the spasms that he can not dwell near other people. He therefore lives isolated, in a plain little house back of his brewery. Here he lives, the saddest, loneliest, most pitiable creature on the face of the earth. He traces all his misfortunes to that cabin on Donner Lake, and it is little wonder that he says: "I beg of you, insert in your book a fervent prayer to Almighty God that He will forever prevent the recurrence of a similar scene of horror." Chapter XXI. Sketch of Gen. John A. Sutter The Donner Party's Benefactor The Least and Most that Earth can Bestow The Survivors' Request His Birth and Parentage Efforts to Reach California New Helvetia A Puny Army Uninviting Isolation Ross and Bodega Unbounded Generosity Sutter's Wealth Effect of the Gold Fever Wholesale Robbery The Sobrante Decision A "Genuine and Meritorious" Grant Utter Ruin Hock Farm Gen. Sutter's Death Mrs. E. P. Houghton's Tribute. Zealous in sending supplies and relief to the suffering Donner Party, earnest in providing shelter, clothing, and food to all who were rescued, Captain John A. Sutter merits more than a passing mention in this history. From the arrival of Stanton at Sutter's Fort with the tidings that a destitute emigrant train was en route for California until the return of the fourth relief party with Lewis Keseberg, Captain Sutter's time, wealth, and influence were enlisted in behalf of the party. Actuated only by motives of benevolence and humanity, he gave Stanton and the various relief parties full and free access to whatever he possessed, whether of money, provisions, clothing, mules, cattle, or guides. With all due deference to the generosity of Yerba Buena's citizens, and to the heroic endeavors of the noble men who risked their lives in rescuing the starving emigrants, it is but just and right that this warm-hearted philanthropist should be accorded the honor of being first among the benefactors of the Donner Party. His kindness did not cease with the arrival of the half-starved survivors at Sutter's Fort, but continued until all had found places of employment, and means of subsistence. Pitiful and unworthy is the reward which history can bestow upon such a noble character, yet since he never received any remuneration for his efforts and sacrifices, the reward of a noble name is the least and the most that earth can now bestow. In view of his good deeds, the survivors of the Donner Party have almost unanimously requested that a brief biographical sketch of the man be inserted in these pages. At midnight on the twenty-eighth of February (or first of March), 1803, John A. Sutter was born in the city of Baden. He was of Swiss parentage, and his father and mother, were of the Canton Berne. Educated in Baden, we find him at the age of thirty a captain in the French army. Filled with enthusiasm, energy, and love of adventure, his eyes turned toward America as his "land of promise," and in July, 1834, he arrived in New York. Again breaking away from the restraints of civilized life, he soon made his way to the then almost unknown regions west of the Mississippi. For some years he lived near St. Charles, in Missouri. At one time he entertained the idea of establishing a Swiss colony at this point, and was only prevented by the sinking of his vessel of supplies in the Mississippi River. During this time he accompanied an exploring party into the sultry, sand-covered wastes of New Mexico. Here he met hunters and trappers from California, and listened to tales of its beauty, fertility, and grandeur which awoke irresistible longings in his breast. In March, 1838, with Captain Tripp, of the American Fur Company, he traveled westward as far as the Rocky Mountains, and thence journeying with a small party of trappers, finally reached Fort Vancouver. Finding no land route to California, he embarked in a vessel belonging to the Hudson Bay Company, which was ready for a voyage to the Sandwich Islands. From Honolulu he thought there would be little difficulty in finding passage in a trading vessel for the Coast of California. Disappointed in this, he remained at the Islands some months, and finally shipped as supercargo of a ship bound for Sitka. In returning, the vessel entered the Bay of San Francisco, but was not allowed to land, and Monterey was reached before Sutter was permitted to set foot upon California soil. From Governor Alvarado he obtained the right of settling in the Sacramento Valley. After exploring the Sacramento, Feather, and American Rivers, finally, on the sixteenth of August, 1839, he landed near the present site of Sacramento City, and determined to permanently locate. Soon afterward he began the construction of the famous Sutter's Fort. He took possession of the surrounding country, naming it New Helvetia. One of the first difficulties to be overcome was the hostility of the Indian tribes who inhabited the Sacramento and San Joaquin valleys. Kindness and humane treatment were generally sufficient to cause these Indians to become his allies, yet in more than one instance he was obliged to resort to arms. Considering the size of his army, there is a sort of grim heroism in the fact that he successfully waged at times a defensive and at times an aggressive warfare. His entire army was composed of six white men, who had been collected from different parts of the world, and eight Kanakas. Dunbar, in describing Sutter's situation, says: "This portion of upper California, though fair to look upon, was peculiarly solitary and uninviting in its isolation and remoteness from civilization. There was not even one of those cattle ranches, which dotted the coast at long intervals, nearer to Sutter's locality than Suisun and Martinez, below the mouth of the Sacramento. The Indians of the Sacramento were known as 'Diggers.' The efforts of the Jesuit Fathers, so extensive on this continent, and so beneficial to the wild Indians wherever missions were established among them, never reached the wretched aborigines of the Sacramento country. The valley of the Sacramento had not yet become the pathway of emigrants from the East, and no civilized human being lived in this primitive and solitary region, or roamed over it, if we except a few trappers of the Hudson Bay Company." Out of this solitude and isolation, Sutter, as if with a magician's wand, brought forth wealth and evolved for himself a veritable little kingdom. Near the close of the year 1839, eight white men joined his colony, and in 1840 his numbers were increased by five others. About this time the Mokelumne Indians became troublesome, and were conquered. Other tribes were forced into submission, and Sutter was practically monarch of the Sacramento and San Joaquin. The old pioneers speak with pride of the wonderful power he exerted over these Indians, teaching them the arts of civilization, forming them into military companies, drilling them in the use of firearms, teaching them to till the soil, and making them familiar with the rudiments of husbandry. The vast herds of cattle which in process of time he acquired, were tended and herded principally by these Indians, and the cannon which ultimately came into his possession were mounted upon the Fort, and in many instances were manned by these aborigines. Hides were sent to Yerba Buena, a trade in furs and supplies was established with the Hudson Bay Company, and considerable attention was given to mechanical and agricultural pursuits. In 1841, Sutter obtained grants from Governor Alvarado of the eleven leagues of land comprised in his New Helvetia, and soon afterwards negotiated a purchase of the Russian possessions known as "Ross and Bodega." By this purchase, Sutter acquired vast real and personal property, the latter including two thousand cattle, one thousand horses, fifty mules, and two thousand five hundred sheep. In 1845 Sutter acquired from Gov. Manuel Micheltorena the grant of the famous Sobrante, which comprised the surplus lands over the first eleven leagues included within the survey accompanying the Alvarado grant. As early as 1844 a great tide of emigration began flowing from the Eastern States toward California, a tide which, after the discovery of gold, became a deluge. Sutter's Fort became the great terminal point of emigration, and was far-famed for the generosity and open-heartedness of its owner. Relief and assistance were rendered so frequently and so abundantly to distressed emigrants, and aid and succor were so often sent over the Sierra to feeble or disabled trains, that Sutter's charity and generosity became proverbial. In the sunny hillslopes and smiling valleys, amidst the graceful groves and pleasant vineyards of this Golden State, it would be difficult to find localities where pioneers have not taught their children to love and bless the memory of the great benefactor of the pioneer days, John A. Sutter. With his commanding presence, his smiling face, his wealth, his power, and his liberality, he came to be regarded in those days as a very king among men. What he did for the Donner Party is but an instance of his unvarying kindness toward the needy and distressed. During this time he rendered important services to the United States, and notably in 1841, to the exploring expedition of Admiral Wilkes. The Peacock, a vessel belonging to the expedition, was lost on the Columbia bar, and a part of the expedition forces, sent overland in consequence, reached Sutter's Fort in a condition of extreme distress, and were relieved with princely hospitality. Later on he gave equally needed and equally generous relief to Colonel Fremont and his exploring party. When the war with Mexico came on, his aid and sympathy enabled Fremont to form a battalion from among those in Sutter's employ, and General Sherman's testimony is, "that to him (Sutter) more than any single person are we indebted for the conquest of California with all its treasures." In 1848, when gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill, near Coloma, quoting again from Dunbar: "We find that Captain Sutter was the undisputed possessor of almost boundless tracts of land, including the former Russian possessions of Ross and Bodega, and the site of the present city of Sacramento. He had performed all the conditions of his land grants, built his fort, and completed many costly improvements. At an expense of twenty-five thousand dollars he had cut a millrace three miles long, and nearly finished a new flouring mill. He had expended ten thousand dollars in the erection of a saw-mill near Coloma; one thousand acres of virgin soil were laid down to wheat, promising a yield of forty thousand bushels, and extensive preparations had been made for other crops. He owned eight thousand cattle, two thousand horses and mules, two thousand sheep, and one thousand swine. He was the military commander of the district, Indian agent of the territory, and Alcalde by appointment of Commodore Stockton. Respected and honored by all, he was the great man of the country." Subsequently he was a member of the Constitutional Convention at Monterey, and was appointed Major General of militia. Would that the sketch of his life might end here; but, alas! there is a sad, sad closing to the chapter. This can not be told more briefly and eloquently than in the language of the writer already mentioned: "As soon as the discovery of gold was known, he was immediately deserted by all his mechanics and laborers, white, Kanaka, and Indian. The mills were abandoned, and became a dead loss. Labor could not be hired to plant, to mature the crops, or reap and gather the grain that ripened." "At an early period subsequent to the discovery, an immense emigration from overland poured into the Sacramento Valley, making Sutter's domains their camping-ground, without the least regard for the rights of property. They occupied his cultivated fields, and squatted all over his available lands, saying these were the unappropriated domain of the United States, to which they had as good a right as any one. They stole and drove off his horses and mules, and exchanged or sold them in other parts of the country; they butchered his cattle, sheep, and hogs, and sold the meat. One party of five men, during the flood of 1849-50, when the cattle were surrounded by water, near the Sacramento river, killed and sold $60,000 worth of these--as it was estimated and left for the States. By the first of January, 1852, the so-called settlers, under pretense of pre-emption claims, had appropriated all Sutter's lands capable of settlement or appropriation, and had stolen all of his horses, mules, cattle, sheep, and hogs, except a small portion used and sold by himself." "There was no law to prevent this stupendous robbery; but when law was established, then came lawyers with it to advocate the squatters' pretensions, although there were none from any part of Christendom who had not heard of Sutter's grants, the peaceful and just possession of which he had enjoyed for ten years, and his improvements were visible to all." "Sutter's efforts to maintain his rights, and save even enough of his property to give him an economical, comfortable living, constitute a sad history, one that would of itself fill a volume of painful interest. In these efforts he became involved in continuous and expensive litigation, which was not terminated till the final decision of the Supreme Court in 1858-59, a period of ten years. When the United States Court of Land Commissioners was organized in California, Sutter's grants came up in due course for confirmation. These were the grant of eleven leagues, known as New Helvetia, and the grant of twenty-two leagues, known as the Sobrante. The land commissioners found these grants perfect. Not a flaw or defect could be discovered in either of them, and they were confirmed by the board, under the provisions of the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo." "The squatter interest then appealed to the United States District Court for the Northern District of California. This court confirmed the decision of the land commissioners. Extraordinary as it may appear, the squatter interest then appealed both cases to the Supreme Court of the United States at Washington, and still more extraordinary to relate, that court, though it confirmed the eleven-league grant, decided that of the Sobrante--twenty-two leagues--in favor of the squatters. The court acknowledged that the grant was a "genuine and meritorious" one, and then decided in favor of the squatter interest on purely technical grounds." "Sutter's ruin was complete, and its method may be thus stated: He had been subjected to a very great outlay of money in the maintenance of his title, the occupancy and the improvement of the grant of New Helvetia. From a mass of interesting documents which I have been permitted to examine, I obtained the following statement relative to the expenses incurred on that grant: Expenses in money, and services which formed the original consideration of the grant $50,000 Surveys and taxes on the same 50,000 Cost of litigation extending through ten years, including fees to eminent counsel, witness fees, traveling expenses, etc. 125,000 Amount paid out to make good the covenants of deeds upon the grant, over and above what was received from sales 100,000 ======== $325,000 "In addition, General Sutter had given titles to much of the Sobrante grant, under deeds of general warranty, which, after the decision of the supreme court of the United States in favor of the squatter interest, Sutter was obliged to make good, at an immense sacrifice, out of the New Helvetia grant; so that the confirmation of his title to this grant was comparatively of little advantage to him. Thus Sutter lost all his landed estate." "But amid the wreck and ruin that came upon him in cumulative degree, from year to year, Sutter managed to save, for a period, what is known as Hock farm, a very extensive and valuable estate on the Feather River. This estate he proposed to secure as a resting-place in his old age, and for the separate benefit of his wife and children, whom he had brought from Switzerland in 1852, having been separated from them eighteen years. Sutter's titles being generally discredited, his vast flocks and herds having dwindled to a few head, and his resources being all gone, he was no longer able to hire labor to work the farm; and as a final catastrophe, the farm mansion was totally destroyed by fire in 1865, and with it all General Sutter's valuable records of his pioneer life. As difficulties augmented, Hock farm became incumbered with mortgages, and ultimately it was swallowed up in the general ruin." For some years he received a small allowance from the State of California; but after a time this appropriation expired, and was never thereafter renewed. The later years of the pioneer's life were passed at Litiz, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and his time was devoted to endeavoring to obtain from Congress an appropriation of $50,000, as compensation for the expenditures he made for the relief of the early settlers of California. His death occurred at Washington, D. C., on the eighteenth day of June, 1880, and his remains were laid at rest in Litiz, Pennsylvania. The termination of this grand, heroic life, under circumstances of abject poverty and destitution, forms as strange and mournful a story as can be found in the annals of the present age. In concluding this chapter, it may not be inappropriate to quote from a private letter written by Mrs. S. O. Houghton, nee Eliza P. Donner, immediately after the General's death. It aptly illustrates the feeling entertained toward him by the members of the Donner Party. Writing from San Jose, she says: "I have been sad, oh! so sad, since tidings flashed across the continent telling the friends of General Sutter to mourn his loss. In tender and loving thought I have followed the remains to his home, have stood by his bier, touched his icy brow, and brushed back his snowy locks, and still it is hard for me to realize that he is dead; that he who in my childhood became my ideal of all that is generous, noble, and good; he who has ever awakened the warmest gratitude of my nature, is to be laid away in a distant land! But I must not yield to this mood longer. God has only harvested the ripe and golden grain. Nor has He left us comfortless, for recollection, memory's faithful messenger, will bring from her treasury records of deeds so noble, that the name of General Sutter will be stamped in the hearts of all people, so long as California has a history. Yes, his name will be written in letters of sunlight on Sierra's snowy mountain sides, will be traced on the clasps of gold which rivet the rocks of our State, and will be arched in transparent characters over the gate which guards our western tide. All who see this land of the sunset will read, and know, and love the name of John A. Sutter, who fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and comforted the sorrowing children of California's pioneer days." Chapter XXII. The Death List The Forty-two Who Perished Names of Those Saved Forty-eight Survivors Traversing Snow-Belt Five Times Burying the Dead An Appalling Spectacle Tamsen Donner's Last Act of Devotion A Remarkable Proposal Twenty-six Present Survivors McCutchen Keseberg The Graves Family The Murphys Naming Marysville The Reeds The Breens With the arrival of the emigrants at places of safety, this history properly closes. The members of the Donner Party were actively and intimately associated with all the early pioneer history of the State. The life of almost every one would furnish foundation for a most interesting biographical sketch. Ninety names were mentioned in the first chapter. Of these, forty-two perished. Mrs. Sarah Keyes, Halloran, John Snyder, Hardcoop, Wolfinger and William M. Pike did not live to reach the mountain camps. The first victim of starvation, Baylis Williams, died in the Reed cabin. About this time Jacob Donner, Samuel Shoemaker, Joseph Rhinehart and James Smith perished at Alder Creek. The five deaths last mentioned occurred within one week, about the middle of December. During the journey of the "Forlorn Hope," the fifteen were reduced to seven by the deaths of C. T. Stanton, F. W. Graves, Antoine, Patrick Dolan, Lemuel Murphy, Jay Fosdick, Lewis, and Salvador. Meantime, enrolled on the death-list at Donner Lake, were the names of Charles Burger, Lewis Keseberg, Jr., John Landrum Murphy, Margaret Eddy, Harriet McCutchen, Augustus Spitzer, Mrs. Eleanor Eddy, Milton Elliott, and Catherine Pike. During the journey of the first relief party Ada Keseberg, John Denton, and William Hook perished, and with the second relief party died Mrs. Elizabeth Graves, Isaac Donner, and F. W. Graves, Jr. About this time, at the tents, died Lewis Donner, Mrs. Elizabeth Donner, and Samuel Donner, George Foster and James Eddy. No deaths occurred in the party of the third relief; and no names are to be added to the fatal list save Mrs. Lavina Murphy, George Donner, and Mrs. Tamsen Donner. Out, of the Donner Party, forty-eight survived. Walter Herron reached California with James F. Reed, and did not return. Of the "Forlorn Hope," Mary A. Graves, Mrs. Sarah Fosdick, Mrs. Amanda M. McCutchen, Mrs. Harriet F. Pike, Mrs. S. A. C. Foster, William M. Foster, and W. H. Eddy lived. The two last mentioned returned and again braved the dangers which encompassed the emigrants. The first relief party rescued Mrs. Margaret W. Reed, Virginia E. Reed and James F. Reed, Jr., Elitha C. Donner, Leanna C. Donner, George Donner, Jr., Wm. G. Murphy, Mary M. Murphy, Naomi L. Pike, W. C. Graves, Eleanor Graves, Lovina Graves, Mrs. Phillipine Keseberg, Edward J. Breen, Simon P. Breen, Eliza Williams, Noah James, and Mrs. Wolfinger. The second relief succeeded in reaching the settlements with only Solomon Hook, Patty Reed, and Thomas K. Reed. With this party were its Captain, James F. Reed, and William McCutchen. Those who were brought to Starved Camp by the second relief, and saved by a portion of the third relief, were Patrick Breen, Mrs. Margaret Breen, John Breen, Patrick Breen, Jr., James F. Breen, Peter Breen, Isabella M. Breen, Nancy Graves, Jonathan Graves, Elizabeth Graves, and Mary M. Donner. The remainder of the third relief rescued Simon P. Murphy, Frances E. Donner, Georgia A. Donner, Eliza P. Donner, and John Baptiste. W. H. Eddy remained in the valleys after making this journey. Wm. M. Foster traversed the snow-belt no less than five times--once with the "Forlorn Hope," twice with the third relief, and twice with the fourth. The fourth relief rescued Lewis Keseberg. General Kearney visited the cabins at Donner Lake on the twenty-second of June, 1847. Edwin Bryant, the author of "What I Saw in California," was with General Kearney, and says: "A halt was ordered for the purpose of collecting and interring the remains. Near the principal cabins I saw two bodies entire, with the exception that the abdomens had been cut open and the entrails extracted. Their flesh had been either wasted by famine or evaporated by exposure to the dry atmosphere, and they presented the appearance of mummies. Strewn around the cabins were dislocated and broken skulls (in some instances sawed asunder with care, for the purpose of extracting the brains), human skeletons, in short, in every variety of mutilation. A more revolting and appalling spectacle I never witnessed. The remains were, by an order of General Kearney, collected and buried under the superintendence of Major Swords. They were interred in a pit which had been dug in the center of one of the cabins for a cache. These melancholy duties to the dead being performed, the cabins, by order of Major Swords, were fired, and with everything surrounding them connected with this horrid and melancholy tragedy were consumed. The body of George Donner was found at his camp, about eight or ten miles distant, wrapped in a sheet. He was buried by a party of men detailed for that purpose." To carefully lay out her husband's body, and tenderly enfold it in a winding-sheet, was the last act of devotion to her husband which was performed by Tamsen Donner. With varying incidents and episodes, the immigrants all reached Sutter's Fort. One very attractive young lady received a proposal of marriage while doing her best to manage the rebellious mule on which she was riding. The would-be lover pleaded his case well, considering the adverse circumstances, but the young lady gave not her consent. Twenty-six, and possibly twenty-eight, out of the forty-eight survivors, are living to-day. Noah James is believed to be alive, and John Baptiste was living only a short time since, at Ukiah, Mendocino County, California. Besides these two, there are twenty-six whose residences are known. William McCutchen, who came from Jackson County, Missouri, is hale and strong, and is a highly-respected resident of San Jose, California. Mr. McCutchen is a native of Nashville, Tennessee, was about thirty years old at the time of the disaster, and has a clear, correct recollection of all that transpired. Lewis Keseberg's history has been pretty fully outlined in his statement. He resides in Brighton, Sacramento County, California. In May, 1847, Mary A. Graves married Edward Pile. He was murdered by a Spaniard in 1848, and this Spaniard was the first person hanged in California under the laws of the United States. In 1851 or 1852 Mrs. Pile married J. T. Clarke. Their children are: Robert F., born in 1852, who is married and living at White River, Tulare County Cal.; Mattie, born in 1854, and now the wife of P. Bequette, Jr., of Visalia: James Thomas, born in 1857; an infant, who died soon after birth; Belle, born in 1860, and died in 1871; Alexander R., born in 1865, and Daniel M., born in 1872. Mrs. M. A. Clarke's address is White River, Tulare County, California. Eleanor Graves married William McDonnell about the first of September, 1849. Their children are: Ann, born September, 1850; Charles, born in 1852; Mary, born in 1855, married to Lester Green, January 2, 1878, and now living on the Sacramento River, about seventeen miles below the city; Lillie, born April 14, 1857, died in February, 1873; Franklin, born in 1860, died in March, 1873; Henry, born July, 1864; Eleanor, born July, 1868; Leslie, born October, 1872, died March, 1873; Louisa, born in 1878. Mrs. Eleanor McDonnell and family reside in Knights Valley, Sonoma County. Their address is Calistoga, California. Lovina Graves married John Cyrus June 5, 1856. Their children are: Henry E., born April 12, 1859; James W., born February 16, 1861; Mary A., born April 26, 1863; Sarah Grace, born December 11, 1866; and Rachel E., born January 27, 1873. Their address is Calistoga. Nancy Graves married Rev. R. W. Williamson in 1855. Their eldest, George, is an artist in Virginia City; Emily is teaching school in Knights Valley; Kate, Frederick, and Lydia Pearl are residing with their parents at Los Gatos, Santa Clara County, Cal. William C. Graves is a blacksmith, living at Calistoga. He visited Truckee this spring, examined the sites of the different cabins, and has rendered most valuable assistance in the preparation of this history. The Murphys have always been well and favorably known in the best society of California. Mrs. Harriet F. Pike was married at Sutter's Fort, in 1847, by Alcalde Sinclair, to M. C. Nye. Prior to the discovery of gold, they lived about three miles above Marysville, which, at this time, bore the name of Nye's Ranch. Mrs. Nye died in 1872, at Dalles, Oregon, and her remains were brought to Marysville and laid in the city cemetery. Naomi L. Pike was married, in 1865, to Dr. Mitchell, of Marysville, moved to Oregon, became a widow, and is now the wife of John L. Schenck. Her address is, The Dalles, Wasco County, Oregon. Mary M. Murphy was married, in 1848, to C. Covillaud, then of Nye's Ranch, Cal. In 1850 the city of Marysville was laid out, and was named in honor of Mrs. Mary Covillaud. After lives of distinguished honor, Mr. and Mrs. Covillaud died, but there are now living five of their children. Mary Ellen is married to a prominent stock dealer, of Dalles, Oregon; Charles J., a very bright and promising young man, is in the law office of his uncle, William G. Murphy; William P., Frank M., and Naomi S., are all living at Dalles, Oregon. William G. Murphy resided at Marysville until 1849, when he went east to receive an education. He graduated with high honors at the State University of Missouri. He was married in Tennessee, returned to the Pacific Coast in 1858, and in 1863 was duly admitted a member of the bar of the Supreme Court of Nevada. He resided and practiced his profession at Virginia City until in the fall of 1866, when he returned to Marysville, Cal. He now holds the position of City Attorney, and has an excellent and remunerative practice. He has a beautiful and charming home, and his family consists of himself, his wife, and seven children. His eldest, Lulie T., was born in the Territory of Nevada, and his second child, Kate Nye, was born in Nevada subsequent to its admission as a State. William G., Jr., Charles Mitchell, Ernest, Harriet F., and Leander B. were born in Marysville. Simon P. Murphy went back to Tennessee, and married at his old home. He served in the Union army. He died in 1873, leaving a wife and five children. William M. Foster gave his name to Foster's Bar, on the Yuba River. He died in 1874, of cancer. Of the children of Mr. and Mrs. Foster, there are now living, Alice, born in 1848; Georgia, born in 1850; Will, born in 1852; Minnie, born in 1855; and Hattie, born in 1858. Mrs. S. A. C. Foster has been residing in San Francisco, but her present address is, care of her brother, Wm. G. Murphy, Marysville. Mr. and Mrs. Reed settled with their family in San Jose, California. Mrs. Margaret Reed died on the twenty-fifth of November, 1861, and her husband, James F. Reed, on the twenty-fourth of July, 1874. They are buried side by side, their coffins touching. Mrs. Reed died with her entire family gathered about her bedside, and few death-bed scenes ever recorded were more peaceful. As she entered the dark waters, all about her seemed suddenly bright. She spoke of the light, and asked that the windows be darkened. The curtains were arranged by those about her, but a moment afterward she said, "Never mind; I see you can not shut out the bright light which I see." Looking up at the faces of her husband and children, she said very slowly, "I expect, when I die, I will die this way, just as if I was going to sleep. Wouldn't it be a blessing if I did?" The last words were uttered just as the soul took its flight. Thomas K. Reed and James F. Reed, Jr., reside in San Jose, Cal. The latter was married March 16, 1879, to Sarah Adams. Virginia E. Reed was married on the twenty-sixth of January, 1850, to J. M. Murphy. Their children's names are, Mary M., Lloyd M., Mattie H., John M., Virginia B., J. Ada, Dan James, Annie Mabel, and T. Stanley. Lloyd, Mattie, and Mabel are sleeping in Oak Hill Cemetery, at San Jose, Cal. Mary was married to P. McAran, June 28, 1869. Mr. McAran is one of the directors of the Hibernia Bank, and resides in San Francisco. John M. Murphy, Jr., was married April 1, 1880, to Miss Hattie E. Watkins. Martha J. (Patty) Reed was married at Santa Cruz, Cal., December 25, 1856, to Mr. Frank Lewis. They had eight children: Kate, born October 6, 1857; Margaret B., born June 6, 1860; Frank, born March 22, 1862; Mattie J., born April 6, 1864; James Frazier, born August 31, 1866; a babe, born May 30, 1868, who died in infancy; Carrie E., born September 15, 1870; and Susan A., born December 31, 1873. Mr. Lewis died June 18, 1876. Mrs. Lewis and her children reside at San Jose. Wm. H. Eddy married Mrs. F. Alfred, at Gilroy, California, in July, 1848. They had three children: Eleanor P., James P., and Alonzo H. Eleanor married S. B. Anderson, in 1871, and resides in San Jose. James married in 1875, and with his wife and two children resides in San Jose. Alonzo is a physician in Monument, Colorado. In 1854, Mr. and Mrs. Eddy separated, and in 1856 he married Miss A. M. Pardee, of St. Louis. Mr. Eddy died December 24, 1859, at, Petaluma, California. Patrick Breen removed with his family from Sutter's Fort early in 1848, and permanently settled at the Mission of San Juan Bautista, in San Benito County, California. Mr. Breen, lived to see all his children grow to maturity and become happily established in life. On the twenty-first of December, 1868, he peacefully closed his eyes to this world, surrounded by every member of his family, all of whom he preceded to the tomb. All the surviving members of the Breen family are still residing at or near San Juan. John Breen married in 1852. His family, consisting of his wife and ten children, are all living. His children's names are: Lillie M., Edward P., John J., Thomas F., Adelaide A., Kate, Isabelle, Gertrude, Charlotte, and Ellen A. Breen. Edward J. Breen married, in 1858. His wife died in 1862; leaving the following children: Eugene T., Edward J., and John Roger. Patrick Breen, Jr., married in 1865; his wife is living, and their children are Mary, William, Peter, Eugene. Simon P. Breen married in 1867; his wife is living; their children are Geneva and Mary. James F. Breen, the present Superior Judge of San Benito County, married in 1870; his wife is living; their only surviving children are Margaret and Grace. Peter Breen died, unmarried, on July 3, 1870, by accidental death. Isabella M. Breen was married in 1869, to Thomas McMahon, and with her husband resides at Hollister, San Benito County. William M. Breen, whose portrait appears in the group of the Breen family, was born in San Juan in 1848, and was not of the Donner Party. He married in 1874, leaving a widow, and one child, Mary. Margaret Breen, the heroic woman, devoted wife, and faithful mother, had the satisfaction of living to see her infant family, for whose preservation she had struggled so hard and wrought so ceaselessly, grow to manhood and womanhood. In prosperity, as in adversity, she was ever good, kind, courageous, and "affable to the congregation of the Lord." She was always, self-reliant, and equal to the most trying emergencies; and yet, at all times, she had a deep and abiding faith in God, and firmly relied on the mercy and goodness of Him to whom she prayed so ardently and confidently in the heavy hours of her tribulation. The hope of her later years was that she might not be required to witness the death of any of her children; but it was willed differently, as two of them preceded her to the grave. April 13, 1874, ripe in years, loved by the poor, honored and respected by all for her virtues and her well-spent life, she quietly and peacefully passed from the midst of her sorrowing family to the other and better shore. The following lines from the pen of Miss Marcella A. Fitzgerald, the gifted poetess of Notre Dame Convent, San Jose, were published in the San Francisco Monitor, at the time of Mrs. Breen's death: In Memoriam. Mrs. Margaret Breen. The spring's soft light, its tender, dreamy beauty Veils all the land around us, and the dome Of the blue skies is ringing with the music Of birds that come to seek their summer home. But one whose heart this beauty often gladdened No more shall see the fragrant flowers expand; For her no more of earth--but fairer portion Is hers, the beauty of the Better Land; The beauty of that land to which with yearning Her true heart turned in faith and trust each day The land whose hope a glorious bow of promise Illumed her path across life's desert way. A loving wife; a fond, devoted mother; A friend who reckoned friendship not a name; A woman who with, gentle influence brightened The hearts of all who to her presence came. A halo of good deeds her life surrounded; Her crown of years was bright with deeds of love; Hers was a gift of charity whose merits A golden treasure waiteth her above. Out of the wealth the Master gave unto her She clothed the needy and the hungry fed; The poor will mourn a true friend taken from them Above her will the orphan's tear be shed. The orphan's prayer, a prayer of power unbounded. In grateful accents shall for her ascend, And strength and consolation for her children Down from the Savior's pitying heart descend; For over death the Christian's faith doth triumph-- The crown of victory shines above the Cross; Hers is the fadeless joy and ours the sorrow-- Hers is the gain and ours the bitter loss. And while the hearts of kindred ache in sadness, And gloom rests on her once fair home to-day, As a true friend who mourns a loved one taken, This simple wreath upon her grave I lay. Chapter XXIII. The Orphan Children of George and Tamsen Donner Sutter, the Philanthropist "If Mother would Only Come!" Christian and Mary Brunner An Enchanting Home "Can't You Keep Both of Us?" Eliza Donner Crossing the Torrent Earning a Silver Dollar The Gold Excitement Getting an Education Elitha C. Donner, Leanna C. Donner, Frances E. Donner, Georgia A. Donner, Eliza P. Donner. Unusual interest attaches to the three little orphan children mentioned in a preceding chapter. Frances, Georgia, and Eliza Donner reached Sutter's Fort in April, 1847. Here they met their two elder sisters, who, in charge of the first relief party, had arrived at the Fort a few weeks earlier. The three little girls were pitiable-looking objects as they gathered around the blazing fire, answering and asking questions respecting what had taken place since they parted with their sisters at their mountain cabins. Among the first to stretch forth a helping hand to clothe the needy children was that noble philanthropist, Capt. John A. Sutter. Other newly-found friends gave food from their scanty supplies, and the children would have been comfortable for a time, had not some pilfering hand taken all that had been given them. They were again obliged to ask for food of those whom they thought would give. As the weather became warmer it had a cheering influence over them. They forgot their wish for heavier clothing; but oftener repeated the more heartfelt one--"If mother would only come!" Those who have suffered bereavement under similar circumstances can understand how fully these little girls realized their situation when they were told that their mother was dead. Not long after it became known that their parents were dead, Georgia and Eliza enlisted the sympathies of a kindhearted Swiss couple, Christian and Mary Brunner, who lived a short distance from the Fort. Mrs. Brunner brought them bread, butter, eggs, and cheese, with the kind remark to those in whose hands she placed the articles: "These are for the little girls who called me grandma; but don't give them too much at a time." A few days later, upon inquiring of them how they liked what she brought, grandma was told they had not had anything, and was so surprised that she decided to take Georgia home with her for a week. Georgia was more delicate than her younger sister. Eliza was promised that she should be treated as kindly upon Georgia's return. The week passed, and Georgia returned, looking stronger. She told such wonderful stories about the many cows! lots of chickens! two sheep that would not let her pass unless she carried a big stick in sight! about the kindness grandma, grandpa, and Jacob, his brother, had shown to her, that it seemed to Eliza the time would never come when she and grandma were to start to that enchanting home! Such a week of pleasure! Who but that little girl could describe it! Grandma's bread and milk gave strength to her limbs and color to her cheeks. She chased the chickens, and drove the cows; she brought chips for grandma, rode the horse for Jacob, and sat upon grandpa's knee so cheerfully, that they began to feel as if she belonged to them. But her week had come to an end! Grandma, all dressed for a walk to the Fort, sought the little girl, who was busy at play, and said: "Come, Eliza, I hear that Georgia is sick, and I am going to take you back, and bring her in your place." The sweet little girl looked very grave for a moment, then glancing up with her large black eyes into that dear old face, she took courage, and asked, with the earnestness of an anxious child: "Grandma, can't you keep both of us?" This simple question provided a home for both until after Hiram Miller was appointed their guardian. He was intrusted with their money, obtained from Keseberg and from other sources. The little sisters were then again separated. Frances had found a home in Mrs. Reed's family. Georgia was to go with grandpa, who was about to remove to Sonoma. Eliza went to her eldest sister, who was now married and living on the Cosumnes River. Here she remained until winter. Then, hearing that Mr. Brunner's family and Georgia desired her return, she became so homesick that her sister consented to her going to them. Fortunately, they heard of two families who were to move to Sonoma in a very short time, and Eliza was placed in their charge. This journey was marked with many incidents which seemed marvelous to her child-mind. The one which impressed itself most forcibly occurred upon their arrival at the bank of the Sonoma River. She was told that Jacob would meet her here and take her to grandma's, and was delighted that her journey was so nearly over. Imagine her disappointment at finding the recent rains had raised the river until a torrent flowed between her and her anxious friends. For days Jacob sought the slowly-decreasing flood and called across the rushing stream to cheer the eager child. Finally, an Indian, who understood Jacob's wish, offered to carry her safely over for a silver dollar. Never did silver look brighter than that which Jacob held between his fingers, above his head, that sunny morning, to satisfy the Indian that his price would be paid when he and his charge reached the other bank. What a picture this scene presents to the mind! There is the Indian leading his gray pony to the river's side! He examines him carefully, and puts the blanket on more securely! He waits for the approaching child. How small she is--not five years old! How she trembles with dread as the swift current meets her eye! Yet she is anxious to go. One pleading look in the Indian's face, and she is ready. He mounts; she is placed behind him; her little arms are stretched tightly around his dusky form! He presses his elbows to his sides to made her more secure, and, by signs, warns her against loosening her grasp, or she, like the passing branches, will be the water's prey! They enter the stream. Oh how cold the water is! They reach the middle; her grasp is tighter, and she holds her breath with fear, for they are drifting with the current past where Jacob stands! But joy comes at last. They have crossed the river. There stands the pony, shaking the water from his sides. The Indian takes his dollar with a grunt of satisfaction, and Jacob catches up the little girl, mounts his horse, and hurries off to grandpa's, where grandma, Leanna, and Georgia are waiting to give her a warm welcome. Months passed pleasantly, but gradually changes occurred. The war with Mexico ended, and gold was discovered. All the men who were able to go, hurried off to the mines to make a fortune. The little girls gave up their plays, for grandma was not able to do all the work, and grandpa and Jacob were away. They spent seven years with Mr. and Mrs. Brunner, They were kindly treated, but their education was neglected. In 1854, their eldest sister, Elitha, and her husband, came to Sonoma, and offered them a home and an opportunity of attending school. This kind offer was accepted. For six years Eliza remained in Sacramento, in the family of her sister, Elitha. To her she was indebted for the opportunity she enjoyed of attending, for one year, with her sister Frances and afterwards Georgia, St. Catherine's Academy, at Benicia, and the public schools of Sacramento. Elitha C. Donner married Perry McCoon, who was subsequently killed by a runaway horse. On the eighth of December, 1853, Mrs. McCoon was married to Benj. W. Wilder. They reside on the Cosumnes River, a few miles from Elk Grove, Sacramento County, Cal., and have six children. Leanna C. Donner was married September 26, 1852, to John App. They now reside in Jamestown, Tuolumne County, Cal., and their family consists of Rebecca E., born February 9, 1854; John Q., born January 19, 1864; and Lucy E., born August 12, 1868, who reside with their parents. Frances E. Donner was married November 24, 1858, to William R. Wilder, and now resides at Point of Timber, Contra Costa County, Cal. Their children are: Harriet, born August 24, 1859; James William, born May 30, 1863; Frances Lillian, born July 17, 1867; Asaph, born May 7, 1870; and Susan Tamsen, born September 3, 1878. Georgia A. Donner was married November 4, 1863, to W. A. Babcock. Their family consists of Henry A., born August 23, 1864; Frank B., born June 29, 1866; and Edith M., born August 24, 1868. Their address is Mountain View, Santa Clara County, Cal. Eliza P. Donner, on the tenth of October, 1861, was married to Sherman O. Houghton. Mr. Houghton was born in New York City, April 10, 1828, served in the Mexican war, was Mayor of San Jose in 1855 and 1856, represented California in the Forty-second and Forty-third Congress, and is at present a prominent member of the San Jose bar. Mr. and Mrs. Houghton have six children. The youngest living was born in Washington, D. C., at which city his family resided during the four years he served as member of Congress. Their children are: Eliza P., Sherman O., Clara H., Charles D., Francis J., and Stanley W. Their youngest born, Herbert S., died March 18, 1878, aged twenty months. Mary M. Donner, daughter of Jacob Donner, was adopted into the family of Mr. James F. Reed, in 1848. She continued a member of this family until her marriage with Hon. S. O. Houghton, of San Jose, August 23, 1859. June 21, 1860, Mrs. Mary M. Houghton died, leaving an infant daughter, Mary M., who is now a young lady, and a member of the family of Mr. and Mrs. Houghton. George Donner, Jr., son of Jacob Donner, married Miss Margaret J. Watson, June 8, 1862. Their children now living are: Mary E., Corn J., George W., John C., Betty L., and Frank M. Albert, their eldest, died in 1869, and an infant son died in 1875. George Donner, Jr., died at Sebastopol, February 17, 1874. Mrs. Donner now lives with her children on their farm near Sebastopol, Sonoma County, California. Chapter XXIV. Yerba Buena's Gift to George and Mary Donner An Alcalde's Negligence Mary Donner's Land Regranted Squatters Jump George Donner's Land A Characteristic Land Law Suit Vexatious Litigation Twice Appealed to Supreme Court, and Once to United States Supreme Court A Well taken Law Point Mutilating Records A Palpable Erasure Relics of the Donner Party Five Hundred Articles Buried Thirty-two Years Knives, Forks, Spoons Pretty Porcelain Identifying Chinaware Beads and Arrow-heads A Quaint Bridle Bit Remarkable Action of Rust A Flintlock Pistol A Baby's Shoe The Resting Place of the Dead Vanishing Landmarks. Yerba Buena's citizens, shortly after the arrival of George and Mary Donner, contributed a fund for the purpose of purchasing for each of them a town lot. It happened that these lots were being then distributed among the residents of the town. Upon the petition of James F. Reed, a grant was made to George Donner of one hundred vara lot number thirty-nine, and the adjoining lot, number thirty-eight, was granted to Mary. The price of each lot was thirty-two dollars, and both were paid for out of the fund. The grants were both entered of record by the Alcalde, George Hyde. The grant made to George was signed by the Alcalde, but that made to Mary was, through inadvertence, not signed. A successor of Hyde, as Alcalde, regranted the lot of Mary Donner to one Ward, who discovered the omission of the Alcalde's name to her grant. This omission caused her to lose the lot. In 1851, a number of persons squatted on the lot of George Donner, and in 1854 brought suit against him in the United States Circuit Court to quiet their title. This suit was subsequently abandoned under the belief that George Donner was dead. In 1856, a suit was instituted by George Donner, through his guardian, to recover possession of the lot. Down to the spring of 1860, but little progress had been made toward recovering the possession of the lot from the squatters. The attorneys who had thus far conducted the litigation on behalf of George Donner, were greatly embarrassed because of their inability to fully prove the delivery of the grant to him, or to some one for him, the courts of the State having, from the first, litigation concerning similar grants, laid down and adhered to the rule that such grants did not take effect unless the original grant was delivered to the grantee. Such proof was therefore deemed indispensable. After such proofs upon this point as were accessible had been made, the proceedings had ceased, and for several months there had been no prospect of any further progress being made. During this time, one Yonti, who had undertaken to recover possession of the lot at his own expense for a share of it, had the management of the case, and had employed an attorney to conduct the litigation. Yontz became unable, pecuniarily, to proceed further with the case, and informed Donner of the fact, whereupon the latter induced his brother-in-law, S. O. Houghton, to attempt to prosecute his claim to some final result. Mr. Houghton applied to the court to be substituted as attorney in the case, but resistance was made by the attorney of Yontz, and the application was denied. Houghton then applied to the Supreme Court for a writ of mandate to compel the judge of the court before which the suit was pending, to order his substitution as attorney of record for Donner. This writ was granted by the Supreme Court, and in January, 1861, Mr. Houghton became the attorney of record. This suit had been brought by Green McMahon, who had been appointed Donner's guardian for that purpose, and after a full examination of the case, Mr. Houghton dismissed it, and immediately commenced another in the name of George Donner, who was then of age. In the following year, February, 1862, it was brought to trial before a jury, and after a contest which lasted ten days, a verdict was rendered in favor of Donner. The squatters appealed to the Supreme Court of the State where the verdict of the jury was set aside, a new trial ordered, and the case sent back for that purpose. This new trial was procured by means of an amendment of the law, regulating trials by jury in civil cases. This amendment was passed by the Legislature, at the instance of the squatters, after the verdict had been rendered. A new trial was had in 1864, before a jury, and resulted in another verdict for Donner. The first trial had attracted much attention, and was frequently mentioned in the newspapers of San Francisco, and thus several persons who were present when the grant was made had their attention called to the controversy, and to the difficulty encountered in proving a delivery of the grant. They communicated to Donner the fact that it was delivered for him to William McDonald, the man with whom he lived at the time. They also narrated the circumstances attending the delivery of the grant. This information, however, came too late for the purposes of the trial. Prior to the second trial, the written testimony of all these witnesses was procured and in readiness for use when required, but it was never required. Mr. Houghton and the attorneys whom he had called upon to aid in the case, determined to rest its decision upon another ground. They concluded to insist that, as it was a grant issuing from the government through its instrument, the Alcalde, who was invested with authority for the purpose, no delivery of the grant was necessary, and that none was possible, as the entry on the record book of the Alcalde was the original, it bearing his official signature and being a public record of his official act. This was a bold attack upon the rule which the courts had long established to the contrary. After a full argument of the question at the second trial, the court sustained the view of the law taken by Mr. Houghton and his associates, and, on appeal, the decision was sustained by the Supreme Court of the State, and subsequently affirmed by the Supreme Court of the United States, before which the question was carried by writ of error. Donner's attorneys adopted this course because, at the first trial, the squatters had produced the copy of the grant which had actually been issued and delivered. This they had obtained possession of and mutilated, and then had surreptitiously placed it in the office of the County Clerk of San Francisco, who was the custodian of the records of the office of the Alcaldes of San Francisco. Their purpose was to make it appear that it had never been signed or issued by the Alcalde, but had been transferred with the other papers and records of that office to the office of the County Clerk. This document was written on paper having the same watermarks as numerous other grants to other persons, admitted to be genuine, made about the same time as the grant to Donner. The body of this instrument was in the handwriting of the then clerk of the Alcalde, and the certificate that the Alcalde's fees had been paid bore the genuine signature of the clerk. There was, however, no signature or name where the signature of the Alcalde should have been; but there was, instead, a plain, palpable erasure, easily seen by holding the paper to the light. George Donner lived to see his property become very valuable, but the vexatious litigation above described was not terminated until after his death. Meantime, however, he sold his interest, receiving therefor a considerable sum of money. In conclusion it may be proper to speak of the many interesting relics which have recently been found under the former sites of the cabins of the Donner Party. When the last relief party left Donner Lake, all articles of minor value were left scattered here and there about the floors and dooryards. Soon afterward the tide of emigrant travel turned principally to other routes, and the Donner Lake road was comparatively deserted. Years passed, and the loose soil, the windblown dust, the grass and fallen leaves covered the articles from sight. It was twenty years before men began to search for the sites of the cabins, and to carry away little mementos of the mournful place. Nothing at this time remained in sight save a few charred logs, and a few score of tall, unsightly stumps. Even the old pioneers had great difficulty in pointing out the location of more than one or two of the cabins. After the preparation of this history began, the author induced several of the survivors to visit Donner Lake, and to assist in definitely determining the location and boundaries of the cabins. Digging in the earth which thirty-two years ago formed the cabin floors, the most interesting relics were found. A collection of over five hundred of these articles is in the author's possession. There are spoons which are bent and rust-eaten, some of which are partially without bowls, and some destitute of handles, the missing portions being vaguely shadowed in the rust-stained earth in which they were imbedded. Knives there are whose blades are mere skeleton outlines of what they formerly were, and which in some instances appear to be only thin scales of rust. The tines of the forks are sometimes pretty well preserved, sometimes almost entirely worn away by the action of rust. Among the relics found at the Breen cabin are numerous pieces of old porcelain, and chinaware. These fragments are readily distinguished by painted flowers, or unique designs enameled in red, blue, or purple colors upon the pure white ground-surface of the china-ware. This ware is celebrated for the durability of its glaze or enamel, which can not be scratched with a knife, and is not acted upon by vegetable acids. The relics unearthed were found at a depth of from one to six inches beneath the ground which formed the floor. A fragment of this ware, together with an old-fashioned gun-flint, was sent to Hon. James F. Breen, who wrote in reply: "The relics, piece of chinaware and gun-flint, are highly appreciated. The chinaware was at once recognized by my brother. In fact, there is one piece of the china set (a cream pitcher) still in the possession of my brother. The piece sent is recognizable by the decoration figures, which correspond exactly with those on the pitcher." There is less of the "ghastly" and "horrible" among the relics thus far discovered than would be supposed. There are many, like the beads and arrow-heads, which were evidently treasured by members of the party as relics or curiosities collected while crossing the plains. There are pieces of looking-glass which reflected the sunken, starved features of the emigrants. Among the porcelain are pieces of pretty cups and saucers, and dainty, expensive plates, which in those days were greatly prized. Bits of glassware, such as tumblers, vials, and dishes, are quite numerous. Bolts, nails, screws, nuts, chains, and portions of the wagon irons, are almost unrecognizable on account of the rust. The nails are wrought, and some of them look as if they might have been hammered out by the emigrants. One of these nails is so firmly imbedded in rust alongside a screw, that the two are inseparable. Metallic buttons are found well preserved, a sewing awl is quite plainly distinguishable, and an old-fashioned, quaint-looking bridle-bit retains much of its original form. Some of the more delicate and perishable articles present the somewhat remarkable appearance of having increased in size by the accumulations of rust and earth in which they are encased. This is especially the case with a darning-needle, which has increased its circumference in places nearly one half, while in other places it is eaten away until only a mere filament of steel remains. The sharp point of a curved sewing-awl has grown with rust until it is larger than the body of the awl. Several fish-hooks have been found, all more or less rust eaten. A brass pistol, single barreled, apparently a century old, was found under the Graves cabin, and near it was an old flint-lock. In the corner of the fire-place of the Reed cabin were found several bullets and number two shot. Gun-flints, ready for use or in a crude form, were found in each of the cabins. W. C. Graves visited the site of his father's cabin on the twenty-first of April, 1879, and many articles were dug up in his presence which he readily recognized. A large number of the leading citizens of Truckee were present, and assisted in searching for the relics. Among other things was a cooper's inshave, which belonged to his father, who was a cooper by trade. An iron wagon hammer was also immediately recognized as having been used in their wagon. A small tin box, whose close-fitting cover was hermetically sealed with rust, was found, and while it was being examined, one of the gentlemen, Mr. Frank Rabel, tapped it lightly with his knife-handle. The side of the box crushed as easily as if it had been an egg-shell. The wonderful fact connected with this relic, however, is that Mr. Graves said, before the box was crushed, that his mother kept oil of hemlock in this box, and that upon examination a distinct odor of oil of hemlock was found remaining in the box. A whetstone, or what might more properly be called an oil-stone, was discovered at the Breen cabin. On this stone were the initials "J. F. R.," which had evidently been cut into its surface with a knife-blade. Mrs. V. E. Murphy and Mrs. Frank Lewis, the daughters of James F. Reed, at once remembered this whetstone as having belonged to their father, and fully identified it upon examination. A great many pins have been found, most of which are the old-fashioned round-headed ones. A strange feature in regard to these pins is that although bright and clean, they crumble and break at almost the slightest touch. The metal of which they are made appears to be entirely decomposed. One of the most touching relics, in view of the sad, sad history, is the sole of an infant's shoe. The tiny babe who wore the shoe was probably among the number who perished of starvation. The big rock against which the Murphy cabin stood is half hidden by willows and by fallen tamaracks, whose branches are interlaced so as to form a perfect net-work above the place where the cabin stood. Under the floor of this cabin the remains of the poor victims are supposed to have been buried. Nature appears to have made every effort to conceal the spot. In addition to the bushes and the fallen trees there is a rank growth of marsh grass, whose rootlets extend far down in the soil, and firmly resist either shovel or spade. Until very late in the summer this mournful spot is still further protected by being inundated by the waters of Donner Creek. It is hardly necessary to remark that no relics have ever been found under the site of the Murphy cabin. The tall stumps which surround this rock, and the site of the Graves and Reed cabin, and which are particularly numerous around the site of the Donner tents at Alder Creek, are of themselves remarkable relics. Many of them were cut by persons who stood on the top of very deep snow. They are frequently ten, fifteen, and twenty feet in height. Time and the action of the elements have caused them to decay until, in some instances, a child's hand might cause them to totter and fall. In a few years more they all will have disappeared.